Heavenly days at Heavenly Valley

The first few flakes of snow swirled about my windshield as I began the long, winding climb -- in a rental car without chains, because I was too cheap to pay another $35 -- up out of Carson City. By the time I had crossed Spooner Pass and descended into South Lake Tahoe, about 2 p.m., the white stuff was coming down hard and sticking on the road.

Before driving to our rented cabin, I stopped at the lakeshore for a gourmet feast at Mickey D, but developed butterflies in my stomach, not entirely caused by my grilled chicken sandwich, as I watched the snow falling harder and harder and piling up deeper and deeper. Will I be unable to reach the cabin through the blizzard, I wondered, because I insisted on having a lousy sandwich?

Finishing the sandwich quickly, and tossing out most of the fries, I drove up Ski Run Blvd., near the base area on the California side of Heavenly Valley, streets and roads becoming ever more slippery and treacherous, and anxiously maneuvered my car into the cabin's driveway.

I was soon joined by the others. Relatives and friends from the Bay Area -- Sonoma, Healdsburg, and San Francisco. The word had gotten around that the Sierras were in for a major storm, and some of them prudently arrived hours earlier than they had originally planned. By 4 p.m., all nine of our group had arrived, bearing wine, food, skis and boards, and their ever present wit and enthusiasm.

That was Saturday. There was to be no skiing that day, nor any on Sunday, as the snow continued to fall. Instead, we shared that oddly cozy feeling of isolation, of being trapped even, in a warm house, with nothing to do but amuse ourselves, while the snow outside drifted ever deeper and we wondered if we would ever make it home again.

A few determined souls did find a cab driver willing to venture out to the cabin on Saturday night and haul them through the blizzard to a raucous rock show at one of the Nevada casinos. Those of us with more sense and gentility settled down to a peaceful regimen of billiards tournaments, wining and snacking, good talk, and a DVD marathon that lasted until 2:30 a.m. A magnificent trio of cinematic accomplishment: "West Side Story," "What About Bob," and "Terminator 2."

By Sunday afternoon, the snow began tapering off. Monday dawned brilliant with blue sky and sunshine. All lifts were open, all runs had been groomed overnight, and we were in, as it were, Heaven! We skied a full day, interrupted only by open air lunch and beer breaks half way up the Nevada slopes. The air was warm enough for us to deem the experience "spring skiing." Dazzling sun required dark glasses or goggles, not to mention generous application of SPF 40 sunblock. The slopes were free of excessive weekend skiers, and the lift lines were just long enough to let leg muscles rest briefly before approaching another run. The snow had that special, fresh-fallen, non-icy quality that makes you think that maybe you've always been a far better skier than you remembered.

We were happy peeps.

Back at the cabin, once Denny had bravely shoveled a foot of snow from its cover, the hot tub awaited. One by one, each of us laughed and squealed his or her barefoot way across the snowy deck and jumped, beer clutched in hand, into the super-heated water. Aching quads immersed in boiling water. T'was good.

Heaven may prove to have as many facets as it has inhabitants. If so, I'm sure there's some heavenly corner, for those of us so inclined, where you can sit immersed in bubbling, steaming water with your friends and relatives, a cold beer in hand, watching distant snow-covered mountains grow fiery in the dying sun.

Take a flying leap

Barton reminds me that we are living in a bissextile year, and that, as a result, tomorrow will be an intercalary day.

In other words, Happy Leap Year!

Why "bissextile"? "Bis" means "two" or "twice," and "sex" means, among other things, "six." In Latin, of course. What does "twice six" have to do with leap year? The Romans, like us, realized that the year was 365 1/4 years long, and that an extra day was needed every four years to keep Christmas (or rather Saturnalia) from eventually being celebrated in the summer. We tidy things up by tacking on a 29th day to February. The Romans, on the other hand, after Julius Caesar's calendar reform adopting the "Julian Calendar," simply repeated February 24th twice. But the Romans couldn't shake their fondness for an ancient and complicated system of naming their dates that derived from their misty ancient history. Rather than simply call the 24th of February "February 24," as we so cleverly do, they called it the Sixth of the Calends of March ("ante diem sextum Kalendas Martii") (abbreviated "more simply" to "a. d. VI Kal. Mar"), which translates to "the sixth day before the first day of March."

Therefore, a leap year was a year in which the Sixth of the Calends of March occurred twice. The day, on its second go-around, was called "ante diem bis sextum Kalendas Martii," meaning the Second Sixth of the Calends of March. "Bissextile." Voilá!

The second Sixth of the Calends of March in a bissextile year was an "intercalary" day -- a date inserted into the calendar. As is our February 29.

Of course, the year isn't really 365 1/4 days long, regardless of what your fifth grade teacher told you. It's actually 11 minutes shorter than that. Those minutes began adding up, so that by 1582 the calendar was 10 days out of whack. Pope Gregory XIII put a stop to all that by jumping the world ahead 10 days to synchronize the calendar with the real world again. He also fine tuned the system to avoid the same problem in the future by decreeing that century years would no longer be leap years after all, unless divisible by 400. Therefore, 2000 was a leap year, but 1900 was not, and 2100 will not be. If you were born in 1892, you didn't experience a leap year until the year you turned 8.

So y'all enjoy your intercalary day tomorrow. Me? Well, payday is the last day of the month, so for me it just means waiting one more agonizing day before I get my paycheck.

Time to Quit

Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.
--Bob Dylan

The 2008 presidential race is being analyzed to death. We all watch cable. Everyone's an expert. The kid who pulls your morning latte may well know more about the election than you do. But after last night's results in Wisconsin and Hawaii, and after watching Hillary's speech in Youngstown and Obama's speech in Houston, I need to throw in my own two cents.

Give it up, Hillary.

You're a bright woman with a lot of talent. In any other year, you'd make an excellent nominee. You may yet make an excellent nominee in 2012. But in 2008, you're struggling to swim upstream against a current that's flowing way too fast.

First of all, I don't think you can win enough delegates to win. You have to win in Ohio, Texas and Pennsylvania, and you have to win big. How are you going to do that? Nothing so far has worked for you. So now the news reports indicate that your only hope is to "drag Obama through the mud." What kind of victory will that be? Read your American political history. See what happened to Hubert Humphrey, another bright politician who would have made an excellent nominee in any year but 1968. By the time he did win the nomination, by destroying the hopes of millions of young people backing Eugene McCarthy and, before he was assassinated, Robert Kennedy, the nomination wasn't worth winning. That year -- like this year -- should have been a Democratic year. Instead, we got Richard Nixon.

More likely, you won't win the nomination. The superdelegates observe which way the wind is blowing. All you can do is spend the next few months damaging the ultimate Democratic nominee, and hurting his chances against a tough McCain candidacy.

Wisdom sometimes demands a step backward. Call a news conference. Give Barack Obama a call. Tell him that, proud as you are of your own campaign, it has become apparent that he is the choice of the party and of the voters in 2008. You have no wish to prolong a messy civil war. You and Obama have the same ideals, and the same hopes for the next four years. Announce that you are withdrawing your candidacy, and offer him your very best wishes. Tell him that you and your staff will help in any way he thinks best during the coming campaign.

Who knows, you might end up as Secretary of State, or Vice President. If not, you will be a powerful member of the Senate with an important role in advancing the Democratic legislative program. And, you are not old -- look at McCain. You have years ahead to achieve your presidential ambitions.

Let's unite as Democrats in 2008.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE (2-21-08): I thought Hillary Clinton did a nice job at the U. of Texas debate. I also thought she seemed resigned to following my advice above. I think she is giving Texas and Ohio her best shot, and planning to bow out when she loses or wins by a narrow margin in either of those states. She will go out graciously, and, if not the VP nominee, will at least be a strong supporter for Obama in the general election. Remember, you heard it here.

"The Manchurian Candidate"

I guess there are depths of political slime that, in my naiveté, I didn't suspect existed. Probably this has been true in every election, but reading about it for the first time still hurts your belief in American democracy and fair play.

It seems that waves of emails are pouring across the internet claiming that Barack Obama was raised a Muslim, studied in an Indonesian Muslim "madrassa," and may well have been "programed" to implement the goals of Islamic terrorists once elected.** The prevalence of these rumors may explain why Rush Limbaugh insists on including Obama's middle name whenever he refers to him: "Barack Hussein Obama." Rush is sophisticated enough to avoid committing libel. He doesn't need to. He just needs to feed the paranoia of his pathetic followers with the occasional code word, and allow them to draw their own bizarre conclusions.

Andrew Romano, writing in his Newsweek blog "Stumper," observes that it's not necessary that voters actually believe the entire absurd Manchurian Candidate scenario. They need only have their prejudices tweaked, to suspect that where there's smoke, there's at least an unacceptable risk of fire. He describes a conversation he had recently with a Florida school teacher:

Take Vicki Hercsky, 47, a teacher from Boca Raton, Florida. "Obama, I don't even know how he got where he is," she told me after a Rudy Giuliani event late last month. "Why do you say that?" I asked. "He's Muslim," she replied, matter-of-factly. I stammered. "Well, um, his father was raised Muslim but was an agnostic by the time Barack was born," I said. "Obama is a Christian." Hercsky wasn't swayed. "Yeah, but he has it in his blood," she said. "You can't take away what's given to you. It's given to you for a reason, and that's who you are. That's who he is."

As Romano observes, this is nonsense. But "people do stupid things when they're scared," he observes. There are people today who are as scared of the "threat" of Islamic penetration into American society as their grandparents were in the 1950's of the threat of Communist government infiltration.

Such people will always exist. They existed for John Kennedy in 1960, whispering among themselves that, as a Roman Catholic, Kennedy would move the papacy from Rome to Washington, D.C., once he was elected. Kennedy won the election, of course, and Benedict XVI remains in the Vatican, but no one doubts that these paranoid fantasies cost him votes in what was a close race. But we simply have to hope and trust that free and open debate and discussion, and our country's basic common sense, will neutralize such absurdities.

But fires can burn themselves out, or they can be fanned into new life. Rush Limbaugh might try, for once in his life, to behave like a responsible political pundit. He could clearly state to his adoring audience that, whatever his dislike for Democrats in general, and Obama in particular, the Manchurian Candidate rumor is totally absurd and not worthy of consideration by voters who are proud to call themselves Conservatives.

Don't hold your breath. I guess that's not how politics is played in this year of our Lord, 2008.

----------------------------

**Obama lived in Jakarta between the ages of 6 and 10. He attended a Roman Catholic school during first through third grades. He attended fourth grade in a predominantly Muslim public school. The school, founded by the colonial Dutch, was considered one of the best in Jakarta. Each child received two hours of religious training a week. Muslims received training in Islam; Christians received training in Christianity. The atmosphere of the school was secular.

"I was really trendy, for example, no sleeves, and miniskirts," recalled Tine Hahiyari, 78, a Protestant who was the school's headmaster from 1972 to 1989. "When I taught sports, I wore shorts."

Kim Barker, Chicago Tribune(3-25-07). From 5th grade through high school graduation, he attended the Punahou School in Honolulu, the most prestigious private school in the Islands.

A caucus goes for Obama

What IS a Caucus-race?' said Alice; not that she wanted much to know, but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that SOMEBODY ought to speak, and no one else seemed inclined to say anything.

`Why,' said the Dodo, `the best way to explain it is to do it.' (And, as you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell you how the Dodo managed it.)

You folks in other parts may choose your convention delegates by voting in primary elections. In Washington, we (at least we Democrats) do it in caucuses. What is a caucus? The Dodo's advice to Alice was wise -- the best way to explain is to do it. And so I did. Did do it. Today.

A Democratic caucus, in my state, is a meeting of the Democratic voters in a precinct. Each Seattle precinct comprises two or three city blocks of houses. The Democratic residents get together and, mainly, select precinct delegates to the district convention. The district convention elects delegates to the state convention, and the state convention elects delegates to the Democratic National Convention.

Each party determines for itself how these delegates are chosen. Our state Democratic party chooses delegates by proportional representation. My precinct was entitled to six delegates to the district convention, and those delegates were to be awarded based on the proportion of votes for each candidate. In otherwords, a vote of 45 for one candidate and 44 for another does not allow the majority to sweep all six delegates. Three delegates probably would be awarded to each candidate.

I showed up at a local elementary school, only to be told that so many voters were anticipated that five precincts caucuses, including mine, had been moved several blocks away to our neighborhood community center. I trudged over to the center, and encountered a complete mob waiting to sign up. By the time I had waited in line and signed up, a line of voters who were simply trying to get into the center stretched outside the building and far into the playground.

From my precinct alone, 144 voters showed up. No one had ever seen anything like it before.

Registrants for my precinct's caucus were sent to the center's teen game room. The room quickly became so crowded that officials had to open a bay door, allowing many of the voters to stand outside and listen through the open door.

God must love Democrats. This was the first day over 50 degrees we'd had for weeks. And it didn't rain!

Usually, caucuses not only elect delegates, but discuss platform recommendations to be sent to the district convention, have officials give talks encouraging contributions to the party, and generally whoop up party voter enthusiasm for the campaign to come. We had no time for such niceties.

The initial count showed 110 votes for Obama, 28 votes for Hillary, and six either uncommited or for Edwards or Kucinich. Everybody who wanted to talk was allowed one minute to try to persuade voters to change their votes, before the final talley was taken. Many had things to say. But everyone agreed that beating McCain was the big objective, not arguing over the relative merits of the two candidates for the nomination. Hillary voters applauded Obama speakers, and Obama voters applauded Hillary speakers. Distinctions between the two candidates related to relative experience, ability to excite Democratic voters, ability to attract new voters, and differences in personality. No one argued about differences in policy, except for one gentleman who pointed out that Obama was the only candidate in either party who had opposed the Iraq fiasco from the git-go. He was roundly applauded.

However, when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again, the Dodo suddenly called out `The race is over!' and they all crowded round it, panting, and asking, `But who has won?'

Second vote: 112 votes for Obama, 30 votes for Clinton, and two still loyal to Edwards. No change in the number of delegates awarded each candidate.

At that point, the Barack Obama voters separated to elect their five delegates, and the Hillary Clinton voters separated to select their one delegate. Did I want to be a delegate? No. Did I trust all the articulate and witty folks to whom I'd been listening to serve properly as delegates? Yes, indeed. I therefore left for home.

Do I approve of the caucus system? I certainly do, with reservations. When only five or six persons from each precinct show up at the caucus, it's all too easy for a well organized faction to seize the party organization. When entire neighborhoods of interested voters show up, however, as they did today, the system represents the best form of party government, and the selection of party candidates by self-identified Democratic Party members.

Finally, the enthusiasm of everyone, Clinton and Obama supporters alike, was overwhelming. The Bush nightmare is coming to an end. The dawn is breaking. The sun will soon be peeking over the hills on the horizon.

Oh, yeah!

----------------------

NOTE (2-10-08): As Maine goes, so goes the nation!*

*Old political saying from days when Maine voted in September, because it was too cold in November. Maine's voters had a remarkable record of predicting the national winner until FDR's landslide victory in 1936. The joke after that election was: "As Maine goes, so goes Vermont."

Can you spot the next President?

"I Like Ike" -- but not Rush and Ann

John McCain (who's doing very well in tonight's primaries, by the way) isn't really my cup of tea. What I will grant him, however, is that he's a Republican with the traditional beliefs of a Republican. Not the "borrow and spend," neo-Conservative, damn the Bill of Rights, "the poor deserve their poverty," sort of Republican we've seen in the last few years. Ironically, because he sticks to the traditional beliefs of the Republican party, McCain's been damned as a RINO (Republican in Name Only) by today's idealogues.

Tonight, I bring a guest speaker to the Northwest Corner. An older guy with a military career behind him. A lifelong, "I Like Ike" Republican, a supporter of Barry Goldwater, a guy who even voted for the "W" in 2000. He supports McCain now, and spells out just what's wrong with today's Republican party.

I might suggest that if General Eisenhower were alive in 2008, he'd be running as a Democrat. He'd have to -- today's Republican party would never nominate him.

Here's what our anonymous guest speaker had to say in the on-line edition of today's New York Times:

I am a former conservative. I knew what I wanted to conserve–strong National defense, and I made a career of active military service. I voted for Goldwater and I consider Ike to be the greatest president by far of my adult life. I voted for Bush in 2000, but now consider his administration to be hideously flawed and the worst in our history.

Now I ask, what do conservatives want to conserve. Apparently not the environment, not manufacturing jobs in the US, not the middle and working classes, nor labor unions. If they support Bush, then they don’t want to conserve the Constitution, the rule of law, respect for science, or even the English language. In my estimation, they want to conserve greed, bronze age supernatural mythology, and redneck bigotry against gays, reproductive freedom of choice, and Latino immigration. They want to conserve their disregard for the unfortunate in our society.

McCain is a National hero and was correct in condemning vermin bigots like Falwell, Robertson, and Dobson. McCain was correct in condemning the criminally inept conduct of the war by the arrogant Rumsfeld. McCain has been correct in matters that matter most to average Americans. Today’s conservatives are the remnants of the intolerant and poorly educated denizens of dixie and the Bible belt, and are not representative of concerned and aware Americans. Coulter, Limbaugh, and fox noise do not speak for true Americans.

— Posted by bigjimbo

Wine shop fantasy

SIGN IN WINDOW OF WINE SHOP:

“We ID 30 and Under"

Every day at lunch, I walk past a wine shop near my office building. Every day, I read the same sign in the window. I find the sign puzzling. My mind, being the sort of mind that idles in neutral when not sufficiently challenged, tends to spin out weird conversations that such a sign might initiate. If Dave Barry or David Sedaris were writing this post, it might be funny. The following dialogue, sadly, isn't really funny. It merely illustrates how my mind occupies itself when it has nothing better to do.

Hi, I’ll take a couple bottles of this nice pinot noir.

You bet. Can I see some ID?

You’re kidding. I really look under 21?

Nope, you look over 21 to me. But, no offense, you do look under 30. See the sign?

Well, I’m not under 30. I’m 32, actually.

No kidding? Wow. I mighta guessed 25, son, but I never woulda guessed 32. Let’s see your ID.

What? But the sign says you just need ID for guys 30 and under. Like I said, I’m 32.

But you don't look it. How am I gonna know you’re not 30 or under if I don’t see some ID?

Well, what if I show it to you, and you see I’m 32? Does that mean that …

Yup, then I have to admit you were right. And then you won’t have to show me your ID.

But I already woulda showed you my ID.

Well, yeah, but that was just to see if you had to show your ID. Is that so hard to understand? See, then you won’t have to show me your ID to buy the wine.

So if I showed my ID to prove I wasn’t 30 or under, but I was 30 or under, then I’d have to show it again to prove that I was 21 so I could buy the wine?

Well, sure, yeah, I guess so. But no one ever did that before.

But you’d already know if I was over 21.

Look, I just follow the State’s rules, ok? You didn’t show me your ID the first time to prove you were any goddam 21 years old, right? You showed it to me to just find out if you had to show your ID. Now you’d have to show it to me so I could see if you were 21.

Well then, why not just say everyone has to show an ID before he can buy wine?

Are you stupid or something? Why should some guy over 30 have to show me an ID just so he can buy a bleeping bottle of wine? I’m trying to be fair about this, mister.

But I’m a guy over 30!

Right, that's what you said. And as soon as you prove it you can buy the wine without showing your ID.

But ...

Look, I got other customers. You want me to call the cops or something? So, you gonna buy the wine or not?

[searching wallet] I guess not. I can't find my driver's license.

Ash Wednesday

Remember, man, that you are dust,and into dust you shall return.

The winter skies hang over Seattle, heavy and gray. The air is cold and damp. Rain may fall or, perhaps, drizzle may drizzle. And even when moisture doesn't fall to the ground, and down our necks, it still floats in the air, chilling us through our coats as we struggle through it. The wind blows hard against us, changing direction in gusts. The unlucky homeless huddle on the streets, their cardboard signs soggy, waiting hopelessly to be noticed.

Next week is Ash Wednesday. Not an American sort of holiday, is it? No happy families, gathered cozily about the dinner table. No decorations. No buying frenzies by crazed shoppers. No Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no displays of fireworks. Norman Rockwell never painted a family celebrating Ash Wednesday. It's a quiet day, a sober day, a day to be introspective. It is not a social observance. It's a time for us all to recall that our lives are not forever, that each of our lives had a finite beginning, and that each will have a finite end. An opportunity to consider what that unsettling fact must mean for us.

In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying.

--T. S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday

And yet, un-American as Ash Wednesday may appear, Americans of all ages will stream into their churches next week to observe this most unfestive of days. We'll stand in the damp and chill of mid-winter, remembering who we are. Remembering that, seen in the context of the centuries and millennia of human history that precede us, our lives are brief and soon over. There was an Anglo-Saxon monk, a fellow named Bede, who pondered this brevity long ago. He wrote on ancient parchment that our lives reminded him of a tiny sparrow that flies out of the cold winter night, through a window, and into a warm, cheerful, brightly-lit banquet hall -- and then swiftly flies right out again, back into the dark.

In that time in which it is indoors it is indeed not touched by the fury of the winter; but yet, this smallest space of calmness being passed almost in a flash, from winter going into winter again, it is lost to our eyes. Somewhat like this appears the life of man.

But we do not despair. Even now, even in these most depressing depths of winter, when all our world seems dead and lifeless, we note the first brave crocus buds forcing their way through the soil. The tiny crocuses, so easy to overlook, offer us hope; their appearance prefigures a new life to come. They serve as a sign to us of the approaching warmth, rebirth, growth and excitement of a new Spring.

We can certainly endure another six weeks or so of winter, can't we? In fact, if wise, we actually embrace the cold, the wet, the hardship. The sober darkness and silence we confront today, and in days to come, prepare us all the more fully for the infinite beauty of our promised Spring, in the same way as the agonizing absence of one's lover enhances the joy of the ultimate reunion.

We button our collars more securely, put our frozen hands into our pockets, and walk purposefully into the icy wind. We may crack a smile.

We may even whistle a little.