We like to work

We're sitting here in fog as thick as soup but still smiling about trip last weekend to Berkeley Tuolemne Camp for their annual Memorial Day work weekend. It's a good deal: they put you up and feed you for free, you work your ass off. A few years ago I wised up and realized that helping sew camp costumes is easier and more fun that mopping the rec. hall and scrubbing bathrooms filled with mud from the winter. And I get free sewing lessons from an amazingly talented and very patient sewing genius.

Last we huddled in in jackets and hats as we sewed next to screened windows separating us from wind and rain. This year we had the most pleasant sweat shop ever.

Husband put his former professional skills to work repairing cabins. These days his most-used tool is the cell phone; I know he misses using the real ones.

We love our time in August with all our friends when camp is a frenzy of activity (most of which I do my best to avoid save cocktail hour on Lower Beach), but we also like the calm of this weekend when camp is comparatively empty and quiet.

The boards damming up the swimming hole are not yet up, so the river is higher, roaring beneath the bridge.

One of my favorite things are the flowering dogwoods throughout camp. By August, they're long gone and the favorites are the fragrant sugar pines.

On the morning the last day we always take time for a hike up to Small Falls.

We saw more spring flowers up there,

including this wild azalea, which we had been told about earlier in the weekend by a fellow camper. We almost missed it on the trail when I remarked on an amazing smell, and there it was.

As usual, Sophie hiked ahead on the trail, nimbly skipping over boulders that we hauled ourselves over with our bad knees and messed up shoulders. She was thrilled to make it to the top of Small Falls


until she realized that, having jumped down from a rock to get to where she was, she could not go back the same way. Water was deep and fast around where she was standing—she was stuck! But because of the roar of the falls, we couldn't hear her shouting to explain this to us. Husband took the line that she got herself in, she should get herself out. I have to admit, it's a strategy we've both agreed works will for raising an independent capable kid. After five long minutes, which included me near tears and begging Husband to go help her, we agreed some intervention was necessary.

Husband hiked up, saw the situation, and wedged a log from the rock on which she was standing to the bank that she could hold onto to make her way through the waist-deep water to where he was standing. In between there was much shouting, wild Italian hand gesturing, and eventually tears. When Husband was done with the rescue, he pushed the log over the falls. From where I was sitting down below, I counted to see how many second before it surface. And . . . it didn't. Imagine if. No, don't. She's fine and I think learned a valuable lesson.


Until August!

Not your average 72-year-old guy

I took a blog break over last weekend given that the trip Sophie and I took down to Orange County (a girlfriend of mine refers to this as "behind the Orange Curtain") was well documented by my dad on his blog. How many 72-year-old guys have a blog? This one does, but that's not the only reason he is not your average 72-year-old guy. Allow me to explain.

Having survived Disneyland on Friday (we got to introduce a friend of Sophie's to the Magic Kingdom for the first time!), we headed off to the beach on Saturday. The weather was great, the surf was up, and the kids were having a great time building sandcastles and messing around with my dad's bogie board in the wash. My dad gave the kids a few pointers and finally took the board out for a little action of his own. An excellent swimmer and experienced bogie boarder, he was venturing out a little farther to where the waves were breaking when a nice sized wave knocked him down. I was standing about ten feet away from him, closer in so I didn't get it as hard, when he came up from the wash with his face covered in blood. He knew he had hit his head and so instinctively put his hand to his head, although he didn't realize blood was pouring out of a large gash. I screamed at him to keep his hand on his head and press hard, and we started in. The kids ran ahead and summoned help from the lifeguard station. Within moments my dad was swarmed by earnest young men in red shorts, who before too long were joined by city paramedics (also very earnest and quite handsome).

They asked over and over "What is your name?" [George] "Where are you?" [Crystal Cove Beach] "What time is it?" [About 3:00]. Right on all accounts, except it was 3:30. The bleeding, they explained, was the least of their concerns. A few stitches would fix that, but they were concerned about the possibility of a neck or head injury. And they kept saying "Well, considering his age . . . " To which I replied to one earnest young man "This is not your average 72-year-old guy." Because he's not. He has a blog. He learned to ski at 70 and spent last winter blasting the bowls and black diamonds with the rest of us. He hikes at a good clip in altitude that leaves people half his age breathless. He goes to the gym most days for two classes (step, spin, Pilates, yoga, salsa). And he is my dad, who is not old. At least not to me. Not ever.

Nonetheless, while I was retrieving the car, the paramedics persuaded him to accept a ride to the hospital in their ambulance. Fourteen stitches, a sore neck, and a black eye later, he's fine. And we expect him back on the waves next summer.

For an excellent picture of the stitches and a clip from the local newspaper, look here. And say Hi, but don't bother suggesting he behave himself.

Happy Valentine's Day from Sophie

This one is for her teacher.



And this is for me tomorrow. Purchased by Husband and Sophie, wrapped by the latter.


I have no idea. And it's just killing me.

Ski days 12 and 13:Blue skies, nice snow, and abunch of friends at Alpine Meadows

So we did go skiing last weekend. And had an excellent time. We were joined by my dad and a whole bunch of friends. So many, in fact, that Dad ended up in the room of last resort in the house we rent.


He's of the same mind we are when it comes to ski accommodations: As long as you have a place to lie your head, you're good. Even if it's the laundry room.

He didn't mind though because we were in for two days of this.







We had family friends and school friends, some who stayed with us and some we met up with on the mountain. Here's my family, along with the kid I consider my "ski son" for the season. Sophie and he have a sort of surrogate sibling relationship. I call them The Bickersons.


The backside was open, which was a treat for us since it was closed almost all of last year and earlier this season owning to lack of snow. But warm afternoons and fairly cold nights left it pretty icy in the morning and a little slushy in the afternoon. The best snow was definitely on the front side. Alpine and Wolverine bowls off Summit Six were both groomed, and I was pretty happy to trade those much of the day.

My dad continues to improve at an astonishing rate and enjoyed his first days of skiing bowls with the rest of the group.


Sophie, a.k.a. The Pink Rocket or just Pink, blew everyone away once again. I can barely keep up with her on the groomers, and she's now skiing terrain I avoid.


Her greatest triumph was this mogul field to the right of Summit Six as it goes up. Adults were biting it all day on this, but she motored right by them.


Our only complaint was that at one point my dad accidentally followed her onto this run, and since I was behind him I felt obligated to follow him down. Not pretty, folks. He fell a couple of times, and although I stayed on my feet I really hacked my down—hardly what you'd call skiing.


But all in all, good stuff.

Happy birthday to the MIL

We celebrated my mother-in-law's 84th birthday the other night at The Dead Fish in Crockett. A ridiculously long way to drive for good food, but my MIL thinks it's the bomb, and it was her birthday and it does have very good fresh fish (that's also dead).

Here's the card Sophie made for her:

An amazing likeness, don't you think? She gets MIL's hair, one of her most striking features, just right. Here's the two girls at dinner.

Here's what Sophie had for dinner.


No longer content with a children's menu ("I would like to order a real dinner"), she opted for the fresh halibut with toy box tomatoes, zucchini, calamata olives, and garlic in a lemon caper sauce.

My MIL has had a tough year, encountering many age-related health problems, but she's faced them with humor and grace. We wish her many more years to come.

Ski days 9, 10, 11: In which we ski huge powder and Dad loses a ski, perhaps forever

We made it up, and we made it back, skillfully (not really) dodging the worst of the weather for our drives. But while I'm on the subject of driving in winter weather, may I just take a moment to congratulate myself on the splendid job I did? NOT running the car into a snow bank? NOT doing any highway donuts? It was really no problem because as I had to remind Husband, I did used to live in PENNSYLVANIA, where it very often SNOWS A LOT. He seems to forget that I didn't appear in the bay area directly from southern California. I know—it's very hard to imagine that I had another life before I met him.

Also in the good news catagory, my knee held up for three days of skiing, although today I am hobbling around my office on stiff bent legs—a good position to ski in, but I seem to be stuck there today. The brace I bought at the drugstore seemed to help. I wanted to make sure if I had a big wreck my knee wouldn't completely come apart, and I'm happy to report that it's intact and even seems improved. Maybe it was all the circulation, or maybe it's just like the rest of me: generally healed by being in the beautiful Sierras.


Anywhoo, here's how things broke down:

Saturday: Homewood. It's 10 minutes from the house we rent and a great place to avoid crowds. It also had some great terrain and is a lovely mountain. It's right on the shore of Lake Tahoe, and many of the runs looks like you're about to ski off into the lake.


The snow predicted for that day did not materialize, and we skied a gorgeous California blue bird day: lovely soft snow, beautiful blue skies. We were one happy group!




I was skiing very conservatively with the intention of having a no-fall day and barely kept up with Dad, who just flies down the groomers these days. While we busy with that, Husband, Sophie, and the rest of the gang decided that this was the day to ski the Quail Face, which was closed all last season for lack of snow. It looked hairy from below, with much of the skiing in narrow, steep chutes. At one point near the top Sophie fell and lost a ski. Husband was above her and was starting to make his way down to help her when he noticed that the snow he was sticking his pole in was sort of . . . hollow . . . as in perhaps about to avalanche. He had to decide to stay back and tell her to get herself and her ski out or go down to help her. He chose the latter, moving slowly and carefully and then getting them out of there asap. Everything was ok, but I was completely unnerved when he told me that he was actually scared. Being scared is my job!! He is almost never scared, so I know if he was then it must have been pretty bad. It still makes me feel (as Sophie would say) sort of nausy to think about it.


Here's me, the well-equipped skier: Helmet—check! Radio—check! CamelBack—check! The latter wasn't much help though since temperatures were low enough to freeze the tube.


Sunday: Squaw. We woke to a winter wonderland, the snow predicted finally arriving.


We were scheduled to ski at Alpine since Dad had a private lesson scheduled with my NASTC teacher, but we bailed when we found nearly the whole mountain shut down because of high winds and electrical problems. But it was great to see Leigh again! We've reschedule Dad's lesson for two weeks from now, handily providing him with a reason to come back up for another trip.


So after many cell phone calls and radio conversations, we reheaded our group over to Squaw for a day of powder skiing. The top half of the mountain was shut down because of the winds, but there was plenty of fun to be had on the lower half. It was Dad's first day skiing powder, and I'm not particularly good at it , but we were psyched just to be out there and were skiing better by the end of the day. We skied a lot on Red Dog, while Husband and gang skiied KT-22. Sophie had woken up in the middle of the night with a cold, so she stayed back at the house with my mom. They had a cosy day of reading reading poems and working on jigsaw puzzles.



Monday: Homewood. We woke up to nearly another foot of snow on our porch rail and gusting winds.


A few phone calls convinced us that Homewood was the place to go, with the fewest wind shut downs. But not after some serious digging out of the cars. Go, Chris, go!


Sophie was feeling better enough to not miss another powder day, and we had Mom planted in the lodge for backup in case Sophie tired. Good thing, because this was the powder day of the year so far. The snow was lighter and drier than the day before at Squaw, and the silence of gliding through the morning powder was broken only by hoots and hollers as people hit their first tracks. Absolute heaven until Dad took a face plant in some very deep powder and lost a ski. Which Husband and friend Vince help him dig for for over an hour. They finally gave up, and Dad walked down to rent skis for the rest of the day. Snaps to the people in the rental department who gave him skis to use for free once they heard his story. We've got a report filed with lost and found and are hoping the ski will give us a call in the spring once the snow melts to come up and get it. Boo hoo!


All in all, a great trip. In addition to skiing, we all enjoyed each other's company and our lovely ski house, which we rent several times a year and fill up with as many people as possible (stack 'em in like wood, I say). We had all three bedrooms filled, a family on living room floor, and our friend Vince in the laundry room. It was great to have my parents up, and they got along swimmingly with our friends.




Note: Chair on sofa to keep dog off, not because we were trashing the place, although we can be sort of a messy bunch.


We had a long drive home last night, and my little angel is still under the weather.


So she's spending a quiet day at home with my parents, which I think is good for everyone. They're playing school, and Sophie reports that Dad has finished the first essay she assigned him: Why I Really Like to Ski. Math and science will be after lunch.



But what, you ask, did we have to eat??? I know—that's very important but will have to be the subject of another post. :)

Up Hwy 5 and past Mount Shasta

to Aunt Nancy's house we went. Several families of Big S's cousin's met at his Aunt Nancy's for Thanksgiving—the family's first since Nancy's husband Bill passes away last summer. At first I wasn't sure having a house full of people was what Nancy would want, but once we were all there, it was clear being surrounded by family was the best medicine for all. Big S's family is everything anyone could want from family: a wonderful, warm, funny bunch that is almost too good to be true. Aunt Nancy lives in Salem, OR, in this lovely house:

It reminds me of houses in New England: a good-sized house but with small rooms, which leaves space to gather together around a fire, catch a football game on TV, hang out in the kitchen, or play with the kids.One thing that's nice about this family (there are many things!) is that there seems always the option to visit with others or curl up with a book by oneself.

When we arrived, Nancy had already set a beautiful table (a woman after my own heart—I always like to set the table the night before when there's no rush and I can fuss over dishes, stemware, and details. Nancy's table included hand-embroidered linen table linens that my mother-in-law's Italian in-laws brought her from Venice. The table cloth is the longest I've ever seen, but it was needed with the crowd we had and looked perfect with Aunt Nancy's china.

And Nancy was ever gracious enough to allow my daughter to add her homemade candles to the table.














And of course we had lots of wonderful food too. Here's Nancy's turkey, which we all agreed looks like it was the product of a food stylist. She covered the turkey with cheesecloth that she "cooked" in white wine and butter, basting the turkey throughout and then removing the cheesecloth when the bird was browned. It honestly tasted as good as it looked! I can't wait to try this method on my make-up turkey dinner!














We also had a little bit of butter to go with our potatoes:













THEN, the next morning, as if the Thanksgiving wasn't enough of a feast, Nancy made homemade cinnamon rolls for brunch. Check these out:














They obviously deserve a close-up:
Calories be damned. They were just amazing. Did I mention she served BACON with them? God help me.



I hope everyone else had as wonderful a Thanksgiving! Back tomorrow with a report of Saturday'sBreakfast with Santa at Around the Table in Camas, WA, where Big S's Cousin L works.