Sunday in Berkeley

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St. John's. Inside the church (sorry, not such a great picture). The Bazaar. Alex and her grandma. Ashkenaz. Maggie. Marci and Alex. Mark and Julie. Adrian rockin' on the keyboards. The Jupiter.



Going to Church
Sunday morning I actually managed to get up plenty early and even put on a skirt for church. I was walking over to St. John the Baptist Orthodox Church. It is just across from the Ashby BART station, which, on Sunday mornings, is transformed into a neat kind of flea market with lots of cool, exotic stuff and then your normal boring stuff like DVDs and sneakers.

The church, like so many Orthodox churches in America, wasn’t much to look at on the outside, though they do have a lovely blue dome. But inside, it was a jeweled secret cave of gleaming gold and icons and incense, with many little altars to various saints or aspects of God (i.e. the Holy Trinity, etc.). All these altars had flowers, and many had ornate carvings. Icons were everywhere.

I arrived too early and had to wait on the steps, and when I went in and was talking with a woman, made the mistake of saying I was a choir director. This almost led to my taking over for the sick choir director or singing in the choir, but since the entire service was in Slavonic, I demurred. Turned out I knew most of the music and more of the words than I thought, but it was wonderful to just be part of the congregation.

I had come early to introduce myself so that I could take communion, and the priest, the V. Rev. Kirill Hartman, also very elderly and courteous, with square black glasses and gleaming white hair and beard said, "Of course you can."

Here I've been to and sung Orthodox liturgies for what, 15 years? Yet I found myself hypnotized by the liquid nasal sounds of the Slavonic, and humming along with the music, I was in some other weird state, unable to literally translate the service to myself, though I know much of it by heart. It was a very strange and wonderful experience, experiencing worship only partly with words. Of course, the epistle and gospel and Lord's Prayer and Creed were in English.

A few women talked to me and were very nice, especially someone named Micki, who told me she was a convert and had tried going to the suburbs for English services but found herself returning here. "I'm just not suburbs," she said.

A tiny, tiny lady with a hunchback moved mysteriously between the altars on the side, Russians in head scarfs bowed, a thin young man in baggy, gang-like jeans stood rapt, and a black deacon intoned some things in English.

I should have stayed for lunch, but I got embarassed afterwards when I put all the change I had in the donation basket, went to get lunch, and was given my change back by a Russian lady who said, "It costs four dollars." I know I should have just written a check, but it freaked me out, so I left.


My Cousins!
Arriving "home" at Susan's, I found they had saved three of Pellinore and Lindsey's wonderful oat pancakes for me! (Pellinore is Lindsey's daughter, and I cannot believe I didn't get shots of both of them! Wah!) I ate nervously, got into my jeans, and braced for meeting a whole bunch of family. Would they be creepy or stuck up or fashionistas or heavy drug users? I didn't think so, but you never know. Would they be nice and therefore hate ME?

Susan dropped me off (what a wonderful host) at Ashkenaz, (http://www.ashkenaz.com/) where my grandcousin (??) Adrian, who is 10, was playing with his rock band. I had my banjo and fiddle so that I could play some music and they would recognize me.

What a cool place. Ten-year-olds were up on stage blasting out the classic rock stuff, proud parents were filming them, other kids were tearing around, and Michael found me right away. Within about 15 minutes, everyone had gotten there, and I had met everyone. And we all seemed to just like each other instantly.

OK, here goes:

Julie: My mom's half brother's kid. Julie is a great anti-war activist and was giving a talk the next night on her father's history he wrote of the ACLU. Charles Markmann wrote many books and translations from the French.

Maggie: Julie's kid. Maggie is into motorcycles and remembers my mom with fondness!

Mark: Julie's kid. Mark has an energy business that I want to learn more about. Of course, I want to get to know all these guys more! AND he plays guitar in a band that does covers and stuff.

Marcie: Mark's wife. Marcie is a therapist, so we gave her my dad's collected works of Herr Freud. (She's not a Freudian, but she was the closest appropriate fit we could think of for the books!)

Adrian: Mark and Marcie's kid. The star of the day, Adrian and his band put away some awesome tunes with him on keyboard and vocals.

Alex (girl): Mark and Marcie's kid. Alex is a little younger than Adrian, who is ten, and just gorgeous.

OK, you guys, if I goofed this all up, email me and I'll fix it.

After the tour de force we all went over and ate and talked and then Mark had to go to band practice. (Gee, I can't relate to that.) And I played a little really bad banjo and fiddle for the rest outside the restaurant--I was nervous! And before we knew it, they were dropping me off. (The kids liked the van, even though it was pretty funky by then.)

Now they all have to come up and visit!!! It was so great to be around talkative, gregarious family that didn't scare or bore me. YEAH!

The Jupiter
I finished off the day by going over to The Jupiter with Susan. Or more like dragging her over. The Indefatigable One was finally slowing down! What a gorgeous place. It's all Christmas lights and open air with heaters (the gas ones I had to avoid), with a group of suspects playing tunes at frantic rates. As usual, everyone was ridiculously friendly, and I saw a few faces I knew! We did all AEAE tunes, so Karen Hackenberg would have been in heaven. No one knew Bruce Green stuff, surprisingly, so I led "Five Miles of Ellum Wood" and "Trouble on the Mind," the latter of which I had been trying to start for days.

Luckily, Bob called and I canceled my brave plans to camp with him and the others at Point Reyes because I really needed to do some serious catching up with work. Sigh.

Fiddle Festival

Check out the cool banjo in the bottom picture. It has a little hole in the neck for the fifth string and a guitar-like head. The man playing it made it after one he had owned for a while.

On Saturday, I was easily convinced to go to a fiddle festival about an hour and a half north of the city in Cloverdale, something like a mini Weiser with a contest and All That. I was torn between this and marching against the war in downtown SF, but I had been fighting some asthma ever since I got to the city and after the night before was in no state to brave the march. So I wimped out.

The gracious Bob came by with his jeep to take us up there. Bob plays autoharps with most of the keys removed (a la Bryan Bowers) so that he carries two or three around to play in different keys, almost like a banjo.

Unfortunately, I seemed to be reacting to his car as we drove off. It was a little scary as the asthma got worse, but when I put on my silk mask, all was well, and at the festival I cleared up. It was the usual cacophony of music, crafts, nervous contestants, and many folks just wandering around to listen to the groups jamming. After a short wander ourselves to check out the crafts, Bob and I started to play. Soon we had a group of people (including Susan) and Yours Truly even led a few tunes on the fiddle. Frightening, I know.

For some reason, no one plays in C here. I am missing my Skillet Licker and other C tunes! But there’s lots of cross tuning. I saw a bunch of people I knew at least vaguely from Fiddle Tunes, and Maria Muldair swished by in elegant black velvet and Her Divaness. I got to play an interesting banjo, eat a piece of vegetable pizza, and resist buying a big basket for the van. (As if I need more stuff in there.)

By about 4 p.m., I was wiped out from all the noise. Susan thinks I have some hearing loss anyway. I sat with some folks outside and contemplated the fact of orange trees with real oranges on them. Finally, we headed home to Berkeley, where Susan and I had a low res evening (as they say at Microsoft), and I got ready for all my Sunday adventures.

Extra Pictures: Sandi and I at La Palace, Etc.

Footman! (He didn't open the door for me.) The Lobby. Sandi at the fancy Buddhist restaurant. Fancy soup.

We had a really nice young guy waiter who tried not to laugh at my freaked out responses to all the weird stuff on the menu. Just call me Ma Kettle. (I'm reading The Egg and I, actually, thanks to Steve--brother--who gave it to me for Christmas.) Everyone who lives in Port Townsend and surrounding areas should read it, just for the history!

Big Day in the Big City (i.e. not Berkeley)

Sarah and her cat, Lynn and Karen (fiddlers), Eric in the hall of Raphael House, Bob Harrison, Sophia, the receptionist for Raphael House

Friday was my amazing adventures on BART and in the city. When I lived here in 1973-4, they were just digging up Market Street to start on BART. I worked downtown as a clerk or something for a while then, except that I kept falling asleep because I was pregnant.

Sarah’s

Here, I took the Ashby BART train to the Mission District for my first stop—to see Sarah Wilson, once a Seattleite and fiddling buddy. Sarah had to coax me more than once on the phone on directions. I think I was just overwhelmed by all the Spanish bustle of the Mission District, and the rain had started coming down in earnest. I nipped in a work clothes store and bought an umbrella, and then all was well. Sarah met me and we went into her charming apartment, especially congenial with its piles of books and CDs, two chairs drawn up for playing tunes (did I say that I was carrying my banjo?) and, of course, the ever present cat, who, like all cats, adored me. They all know I’m allergic to them, so they hunt me down, except for Sprocket, who, I have to say, has been pretty good after our initial meeting. (No, I didn’t punt him.)

Sarah had baked cookies and everything, so of course I had to have a few. But before playing we went over to see if the owls that are nesting near her in a park were there. They weren’t. Then we went over to see Lynn and Karen’s house. I would have felt weird taking pictures, but I should have at least taken a picture of the view off their deck, which is incredible. Skylights, cool art, wow colors—it all felt more like a nest than a house, high up on a hill perched in the sky. Lynn and Karen were just finishing up a fiddle session since Lynn had to leave for work.

Sarah and I headed back to her house and got into some wonderful D tunes in D tuning on the fiddle, including Tommy Jarrell’s “Cumberland Gap,” which seems to be following me around on this trip since I had just played it at Sammy’s (Foghorn Sammy for those of you who know what the heck I’m even talking about).

Raphael House

Raphael House is a shelter for families, women, and children run by the Orthodox Church of America (OCA). Since some friends from church were there and it's so cool, I wanted to see it! (For more on Raphael House, see http://www.raphaelhouse.org/)

The time kind of slipped by until Eric called wondering (in a politely annoyed way) just when I was going to make it over to Raphael House since he was leaving at 5-no-matter-what to see his fiancé, who lives across town. Not only that, he warned, but it was the last Friday of the month, when about 20,000 cyclists assemble for a big ride, and the streets were going to be, basically, hell.

So I packed up and began what, little did I know, would be a careening, tumbling, stop-and-start rollicking tour down Mission Street at about 5 mph, with occasional stops in which the driver got out to fix things. At least we never saw the cyclists. By the time I got to Sutter and Van Ness, I was ready to run, and it was about 4:45 p.m. I dashed down Van Ness, looking for the number of Raphael House, the Orthodox women and children’s shelter where Eric as well as Bob and Connie Harrison, who used to live up in Port Townsend and go to the Orthodox church there. (Connie was in the choir and has a wonderful soprano. She doesn’t always believe this, but she does.)

Well, I wasn’t finding Raphael House, so I called them, and the charming receptionist, Sophia, clued me in that duh, the house was on Sutter, not Van Ness. So I had to walk back UP HILL and then over a few blocks to Raphael House. Sophia calmed me down, but I was about to give up on Eric and leave a message when lo! He appearethed! (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) All 6 feet plus of him, he gave the weird old lady with the banjo a whirlwind tour of his room, the lobby, and a few other places. It’s kind of all mixed for me because after he left, lo, Bob Harrison appeareth as well and gave me a longer whirlwind tour that was really quite amazing, through huge kitchens and craft rooms, and I even got to see the door to His Grace Bishop Benjamin’s room! (I didn’t know he lived there!) (Did I do this right as an honorific?)

Anyway, it all used to be a Catholic hospital and has cool skylights, a chapel (in process of fixup), and a zillion nooks and crannies.

But I had to dash to meet my dear friend and fellow English instructor from my full-time Pierce College days, Sandi Sonnenfeld.

Puttin’ on the Ritz

With all these headings, I’m beginning to feel as if I’m writing for National Geographic, but without pay.

So, I called The Palace, the hotel where Sandi was staying, and they kind of helped me figure out what bus to take down there. Sarah Wilson, blessed be she, had given me bus change which I hadn’t had a chance to get, if you can call $1.50 change. So down to Market I went and after a little tearing around found Sandi’s hotel. Whoooeee, footmen, potted palms, lotsa glass in the roof, the whole schmear! (See above.)

Sandi and I had planned this. She flew in from New York City the day before for work—she’s head of PR for a huge lawyer firm. We got all shrieky and talked nonstop for about the next four hours, comparing notes and agreeing that I had the better deal living out of my van and hacking around. She had made reservations for us at a really interesting vegan restaurant, Buddhist and fancy, with all these weird vegetables and things I’d never heard of. I got some shitakes that looked like a lace tower, then this potato and some other things soup and some grilled veggies that we shared.

Sandi is a wonderful writer who has published a memoir I highly recommend: This Is How I Speak: The Diary of a Young Woman. However, currently, she’s in the bind of working too much and wondering how to get her next novel published. She’s loving being back in her home turf but struggling like most of us. We talked about all this and more and then went back to the hotel for a little dark chocolate. Instead, we wound up with a room service piece of chocolate cake that was about 9 layers and the size of a small condo. We went for it but even I, folks, could not finish it, let alone Sandi, who is slender and small and much more polite.

We hugged goodbye and wondered, where and when shall we see each other next?

BART FROM HELL!!!

Well, BART had been fine on the way over, so I didn’t think my return trip would be a problem. I just didn’t want to get home too late.

Wrong.

First off, just out of the hotel, across the street, down into the BART station, something ominous began to go on with my tummy. So, I dashed over to the guy in the booth and asked where the bathrooms were. I was stunned by his reply.

“BART doesn’t have bathrooms,” he said. “Not since 911.”

Let me tell you some other things BART doesn’t have. Decent signs in places where you need them, or maps, or very understandable conductors.

I didn’t dare sit, so I stood there, waiting, waiting, waiting, clutching my banjo and my gut. To interrupt my agony, two young girls with rasta locks and iPods smiled at me and the banjo and started talking to me about playing guitar and banjo and stuff. They were great, with big grins and lots of goofiness.

Our train finally came and I stood. The train roared and screamed along. Then it stopped. Then the conductor blurted out something about changing trains somewhere other than where Susan had told me to change and later he told us another place. Somehow, my stomach pounding, I made it, but I didn’t dare sit down.

At the next stop after the change, my rasta girls came on again. “Hey, Banjo Mama!” they cried and sat down by me. One told me she was listening to something from 1971, “before I was born,” she said.

“Way to make me feel old, “ I said.

“Oh, I was born in 1972,” she grinned. I was flabbergasted—they looked about 17 years old. Go figure. California of the Eternal Youths.

Finally made it back to Berkeley, where the magnificent Susan was waiting for me and drove me post haste to home and a blessed bathroom. Tummy was sore most of the night, but I still managed to get some pretty good zzzzz’s.

Catching Up with Berkeley

Pictures from left to right, top to bottom: Susan's House, Sprocket (her cat), Lamp Art, Susan and Sprocket, Susan and Abby on banjo, Susan, Abby, Bob, Ingrid

You may have noticed that nothing has appeared in this blog for the past few days. (Then again, you may not have noticed.) Jeanie is just recovering from her wild week in the big city and only now has time to fill you in. (I also had a really weak neighbor’s signal where I was staying, so I could only get online sporadically.)

Getting There

On Wednesday, I snuck out of Benbow Resort early—they probably wouldn’t really have appreciated a van in their park, as I’m discovering about RV spots. However, I had a gorgeous if a little bit icy drive through the rest of the redwoods down into Sonoma and then Marin County, where the rolling hills and strange green fields reminded me of my past life in a Christian commune, over 30 years ago, when my first husband and I used to come out to Marin to get a break from San Francisco. Although much of it is still rural, once you hit Santa Rosa, it’s all nasty malls and such, at least along 101.

I whooped as I drove over the gorgeous San Rafael bridge and over to Berkeley, where, amazingly, I found my friend Susan’s house without incident except some panic as I drove into some air that wasn’t so good.

You can see some pictures of Susan Sawyer’s house above. The glass thing is lamp bodies on a piece of rebar, just some of the amazing art that Susan does when she’s not interpreting for the deaf. (And she used to be a civil engineer. Yeesh.) It’s a sweet little place, and her cat is named Sprocket. Her roommate (with glasses) is Lindsey and a friend, Sue Moon, (red and brown hair) was visiting from Arcata for a mad weekend of dancing and marching against the war (YAY SUE!!!)

I called Susan and then sat on the porch, waiting and playing banjo and talking to Scott on the phone. When she got home from work, she dragged me off to the local hot tub, a sort of secret place run by some hippie philanthropist that is free to those in the know.

I said, “Great, I’ve got a swim suit!”

“Oh no you don’t!” Susan replied. “Naked only.”

Luckily, my old hippie days stood me in good stead. “No problem,” I said. It just sounded too good. (Don't worry--no pictures.)

All around us a zillion flowers were blooming, the lemon trees were gleaming with yellow fruit, and I kept asking, “What’s this? What’s that?” as we walked over. Susan didn’t know. We stepped into the hot tub yard and were surrounded by giant redwoods. Wood platforms lay around the yard for people to lie on in between soaks—it’s a very hot hot tub, about 113 degrees. We showered and slowly lowered ourselves in. There was only one other person there and only one other came the whole time. I lay in a convenient hammock between soaks and on a platform. It was fabulous, and very little chlorine either!

Home I got set up and was fed scrumptious curry. Susan, meanwhile, had made a few calls, so we had some great tunes with another Susan Philips and her husband, Tony.

However, bedtime was challenging. We didn’t really figure out electricity, so it was a little cold, and the street was so tilted that I could hardly stay on my cot. I had some definite ideas about improvements, but one of the saving graces I am taking away from here is the hot water bottle (or “hottie” as Sue Moon calls it with her inimitable Brit accent). Lasts all night if you use boiling water and wrap it in flannel pillowcases!

Working in the Hood

Thursday was a boring work day. I drove over to a pizza and basically café type place and worked on myth. When I returned, of course, there was no parking. I circled, sighed, and then found a space across the street. This time, I was smarter—I drove the van up on the curb a bit, leveling it out. This made for MUCH better sleeping!

That night Susan made more calls and we had great tunes with Abby on banjo, Bill on autoharps, and Ingrid on guitar. Bill and Ingrid and I recognized each other from Centralia, especially once they identified me as “T-Lou’s Mom.”!!! They camp in the desert a lot, so we got excited about meeting up next year at Joshua Tree. (Yes, I’m already thinking about NEXT YEAR’S BIG VAN TRIP!) They are amazing botanists and actually the caretakers for a rare species that no one could find many of. They found ‘em. (Sorry B & I, I forget what.)

Cruising Down Northern California

Here's some pictures of me and Bob-o's dog, Cuzco, out hiking around. Also, the inside of the van, which I realized I had never pictured and maybe never should have.

Heading South

Today I headed out for halfway to San Francisco through some amazing and beautiful country I hope to explore more on the way back. At Crescent City I saw a Curves, so I dashed in and worked out before moving on. It's weird to go to the same place wherever I go, a common thing these days.

I finally wanted to camp and made the mistake of trying Myers Flat, a scary town with no restaurant, no cell, and an RV park where folks were nice, but dogs barked at me and the electricity didn't work. I didn't even tell them--I just left and thought, "Get the heck outta here NOW!" Et voila, 16 miles later, the very civilized town of Garberville. I found a place with wifi and started frantically working, which, of course, was when Bob Carlin called me about the banjo workshop in May. I have to get a picture (ugh) and write a bio (ugh). So we talked about that and about what kind of workshops to do. Any ideas, you guys?

Then, looking online, I realized that this ritzy RV place down the road had wifi and that it was getting dark. So now I can get caught up with school and the blog.

The Van

This being my first night really living in my van, not just sleeping in it, I thought I'd describe the setup. Maybe it will inspire some of you.

First off, I got a nice rug at Target and actually cut part of it in half so that I can put in one seat in the back and just double up the rug on that side. Mistake: I bought a rug that was cute but is made of little bittie things that now are coming loose all over the place. Note to self: bind the edges of the rug when you get back. For Lent.

I worried way too much about cots. You just get the cheap narrow one and put foam on top of it. I hope to get some nice memory foam at Costco (pretty good deal!) to pile on top, but for now it's a really old piece plus an extra quilt doubled up. The really cool thing about the cot is all the boxs you can store under it. And it's quite comfortable to sit on, either regularly or cross-legged!

Heat: The little heater I got is working just great. Light: I really need to get one of those cool windup lanterns, but they were all out in Port Townsend since everyone was paranoid about losing power. So instead, I've just used the van's lights and, tonight, since I have electicity and am hanging in here, old Christmas lights strung in a net. I know it's a little weird, but it's what we had. A power strip for all this is good, since I also have a computer, a kettle, and a cell phone charger, not all in at once. Hope the pictures give you some idea.

It's warm and cozy with the heater coming on and going off, the Christmas lights fading when the heater goes on and brightening when it goes off, and Morgan Sexton playing on my computer. I hope to read some more of The Egg and I, which my brother Steve gave me for Christmas. It's a lot of fun, though a bit disturbing with the comments about Indians and the breezy sort of toughness.

Tomorrow, San Francisco! Ack!

Actually, I'll be staying in Berkeley with a music buddy, Susan. More soon.

Scott Has Been Busy!

While I'm away, Scott has gotten closer to his second wife...the boat. He's finally got his tent shop up, and I hear more news about stabilizing procedures every day!