The Happy Couple

Posted on May 12, 2012 by

by cheri block

Meet Harvey and Helen, two marine iguanas (yes, marine iguanas). My professor,  Carter A. Hunt, sent me this photograph yesterday from the Galapagos Islands, along with his gracious suggestions for my latest long paper. I have been reading about the Galapagos since early April and have just finished my sixth book on the topic.

I had no idea that the Galapagos now are home to over 30,000 people, that invasive species such as feral cats, donkeys, and goats  threaten the habitat of the 13 species of giant tortoise, of penguins (yes, penguins  at the equator) and of flightless cormorants (yes, flightless).

I had no idea that the Charles Darwin Research Center and other agencies participated in a program to eradicate 130,00 feral goats from Isabella and Santiago Islands in 2005 and were successful.

I had no idea that a number of devout Christians go to the Galapagos in tour groups and somehow come away still believing in Creationism.

One only has to think about the concept of a marine iguana to understand evolution and adaptability.

My paper is not about animals, birds, or amphibians but rather concerns the tension between development and conservation in the production of shade-grown coffee, a topic that fascinates me because I had never  considered my morning cup of coffee for anything other than its taste. When I visited Peet’s or Starbuck’s Coffee, I never thought about terms like Fair Trade, organic, or shade-grown. Shame on me.

Carter A. Hunt and William Durham, my professors, tell me that even on the Galapagos Islands, a sustainable shade-grown organic coffee farm exists.

I contacted Robert A. Rice, a geographer and one of the leading proponents of Bird Friendly Coffee (R) who works at the Smithsonian Migratory Bird Center in Washington D.C. He has graciously provided me with pathways to understanding shade-grown coffee–what it is, where it is grown, who grows it, who buys it, and what it does and does not do for the environment.

These topics and more have prevented me from finishing my story about gratitude and where it went.

I do apologize.

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Call in the bloodhounds!

Posted on April 15, 2012 by

by cheri sabraw

You will remember  that I balked at spending $45.00 for a wire (gossamer light, I might add) gratitude sign that I had seen at Lily’s Coffee Shop.

At home with the joyous weekend now only a brief lighthearted memory, I returned to my  routine of emptying the dishwasher, tending to my mother’s pharmaceutical needs, weeding, and checking the expiration date on the canned goods in my pantry. In each of these activities, I tried to lift myself emotionally from the banal tasks that they are.

If only I had that gratitude sign to remind me to be grateful every moment of my life, I thought, grateful for my memory, I’d pluck each mound of dog doo on the lawn–a testimony to Dinah’s exemplary intestinal tract and to the natural dog food at $53.00 per bag that one feeds a dog with serious food allergies–and fling it joyfully into the brambles that border our property. Yep, that’s how I would view canine defecation, if only I had that gratitude sign to remind me.

I decided to buy the sign and  asked my brother (names have been changed to protect the guilty) Eric and his wife of one year, Anika, to purchase it for me while they were staying at our little house on the central coast. I neglected to tell them to take the sign home with them, as  I planned to hang it here, in my home in the Bay Area, where daily, I need to be reminded to be grateful.

Eric and Anika bought the sign which Lily gingerly wrapped in white tissue, tucking  it into a light brown gift bag. This bag, they left on the bar in my little home.

Meanwhile, my brother’s ex-wife Lenore e-mailed me to ask if her sister, Lenette and her  husband David–visiting from New York City–could stay at the little house on their way  from Los Angeles to the wine country of Napa-Sonoma.

“Sure, no problem,” I said, but thought now I need to contact Grace, my cleaning lady, to come on Monday (instead of Tuesday), since Lenette and David would arrive on the Tuesday afternoon following my brother and his new wife’s stay.

Grace cleaned, Lenette and David visited and left, and the Judge and I drove down the following weekend, with Dinah grateful to be included in the trip, wagging her tail merrily like a rear windshield wiper. I was pensive. Would a gratitude sign and the visual reminder provided by it, be enough to lift me from the selfishness I experience when asked to pick up razor blades at CVS pharmacy, stop at McIvor’s Hardware Store and buy caulking, and provide a nutritious dinner each night for a hard-working husband?

I dearly hoped so.

We arrived at the little house very late, past midnight. There on the counter were thank-you gifts (expressing gratitude) from Eric and Anika (a bottle of Absolute Vodka for the Judge) with lovely  note and a dark gorgeously labeled  bottle of Opolo wine (Sangiovese) from my ex-sister-in-law Lenore’s  sister and her husband, Lenette and David, with an accompanying little card.

Great. How sweet. But I was  looking for my gratitude sign, supposedly left in the cubbyhole by the bar, as reported by my brother and his new wife, Anika. No bag, no tissue, no nothing. My gratitude sign was nowhere to be found.

That night, long after  the Judge had retired to our bedroom (doing so after his customary vanilla ice cream aperitif)  and covering his tired eyes with a sensuous lavender eye-pillow, I–like a ferret–searched and searched through cupboards and drawers for the sign which must have been left somewhere, damn it!

Alas, the gratitude sign was gone. Who took it?

I gave up my search, like a failed old bloodhound, and crawled into the bed, next to the Judge, who would be certain– the next morning while sipping his coffee and noshing on a cinnamon roll–to render his opinion on probable whereabouts (or not) of the sign.

Did Erik and Anika actually buy the gratitude sign, for which I had already written them a $45.00 check?

What about my ex-sister-in-law Lenore?

What about her NYC sister Lenette and her suave and talented husband David?

What about Grace?

What about Gratitude?

What?

Posted in Life, Writing and Teaching | Tagged , | 57 Comments

Gratitude: Where is it?

Posted on April 9, 2012 by

by cheri sabraw

I sat down at a local coffee hang-out in a small coastal California town that we love. Lily, the barista–an older woman, who unlike me, seems to be comfortable with the aging process–had just made me my usual drink, a low-fat vanilla latte with two pumps of vanilla.

Conversation in these types of establishments where everyone can hear everyone else’s thoughts in an open-mike forum can be either rich, banal, or rich-banal.

On this day, it was rich.

“Did you hear that Evan was arrested last night outside the bar?” asked a male member of the Class of 68 who looked like the Class of 58.

“No, I’m shocked that the sheriff was in town that late,” answered a former hippie with silver hair all the way down to her low-hanging breasts.

“Well, he was, and Evan, evidently, did not go easy.”

“You’re kidding. I figured he was so drunk that he probably fell into the car and was relieved, at that. Or did he relieve himself before the sheriff pushed him into the back seat? God can you imagine the germs that live on that back seat? I don’t want to think about that. You know I have a germ phobia. At least that’s what my shrink and I have been working on for the last year. Lily, that’s why I like your shop here. You keep it clean. Here I don’t worry about germs,” said the fella from the Class of 68.

“Well, I told Evan last week at AA that I was so proud of him for walking that far to come to a meeting (you know he’s lost his driver’s license) and hiking in from five miles out says a lot about his intentions. At least I thought so but evidently not. His mistake is living with Destinee. Everyone knows that she is bad news. Did you hear me? I said bad news. He ought to be grateful he’s alive after he fell from that pine tree last year. Poor guy. Trying to trim his own trees with a chain saw. He’s lucky he didn’t cut off a leg. Yep. He ought to be grateful he’s alive,” resolved the woman with the low-hanging breasts.

I kept my sunglasses on, a habit that began years ago when one of my former students recognized me in a lingerie shop, looking at push-up bras.

I scooted my croissant around its plate and put my lips to the mug. Ahhhhh….Lily knows exactly how to make a latte. And then I saw it.

On the wall, among other wiry words like Patience, Dream, and Faith, was the word Gratitude.

Hanging from the wispy word was a tag. Wow. $45.00 in this economy is a lot to be asking for a Gratitude sign.

All good things must come to an end. My weekend was up. We drove home to the busy Bay Area. I tried to be grateful for the traffic, the fact that I could pay for gasoline at $4.55 a gallon and most important, that my mother’s caregivers had not called in sick.

That night, I wished I had bought the sign. I could place it across from our bed, so the first image I would see each morning would be a subtle reminder to take stock of what I have and not what I have lost such as  muscle tone, my father, and a number of much beloved dogs, whose names I will list here: Duchess, Duchess II, Dickens, Galaxie, Maggie, Elsa, and Udo.

Tomorrow: Gratitude is purchased.

Posted in Life | Tagged , , | 26 Comments

Andreas Kluth’s book Hannibal and Me: a review

Posted on April 7, 2012 by

by cheri sabraw

Like a skilled Navajo weaver,  author Andreas Kluth has woven the stories of history and of those people whose lives changed it, into a marvelous storyteller’s blanket, one rich with detail, color, and emotion.

His book Hannibal and Me, published in January of this year, took me a month to read. It’s not long or complicated or boring or verbose: it’s deep and each individual story–be it of Eleanor Roosevelt’s heartbreak or Ernest Shackleton’s perilous journey to Antarctica–relates to the larger one–ours–the Me in the title.

Each story offers the reader an opportunity. We can  sit in front of the sculpture Grief, as Eleanor Roosevelt did after learning of Franklin’s infidelity to her, and cry our eyes out or sit on a ice flow and do nothing, as Shackleton determined his crew must do when his ship aptly named Endurance, could go no further.

This book is not meant to be read in one long day. Doing so risks missing the nuances in each story Kluth tells.

He tells his own story, of his search for meaning, a little word he would not find working as an investment banker in a cubicle in London.

He expands the story from himself to his Uncle Lulu, former Chancellor of West Germany Ludwig Erhard, a quietly effective economist- turned- leader whose trust in others  would lead to his retreat from public office.

Kluth  offers the reader a wide variety of personalities: from author Amy Tan to psychiatrist Carl Jung and from Tiger Woods to Albert Einstein, to name just a few of the  people  just like us in many respects, people whose life strategies either enhanced or detracted from their experiences and their historical legacies.

The umbrella sheltering all of these little stories and to which they all relate (this is the genius of this book) is the big story Kluth tells, one that captivated him as a child: the story of the magnificent Carthaginian general Hannibal who crossed the Alps with elephants! Hannibal, with all of his father’s legacy and personal courage, fails. Two Roman generals of different generations–Fabius and Scipio–employ their own tactics in finishing off Hannibal for the Romans. How did this happen? Why?

Kluth, the West Coast Correspondent for the Economist Magazine, is a natural storyteller. If his aim was to bring the story of Hannibal, Fabius, and Scipio into our historical and emotional hearts and thus, link their triumphs and disasters  to our own, he has succeeded.

Posted in Education, Life, People, Writing and Teaching | Tagged , , | 15 Comments

All in a weekend

Posted on March 29, 2012 by

by cheri sabraw

Until Dinah met a skunk last Sunday night, I had planned to have a dog living with me until I was no longer living.

Even my secret recipe–the one with 1 pt. of hydrogen peroxide, 1/2 c. of baking soda, and 1 T of dish washing liquid–didn’t work. You see, the skunk and Dinah must have been square dancing and just before the allemande left part, the skunk…well…she had had enough of Dinah’s cutting corners, going crazy, and sniffing (instead of focusing on the square dance and the skunk’s cute little black and white dress)so Ms. Skunk applied more perfume to the air and to Dinah’s face.

Well!! What an insult. Stunned and stinky, Dinah ran to the only person on the property with animal sympathy–me.

So there you have it. I won’t bore you with the usual predictable details of the putrid smell, the ceremonial bath, and of her banishment from the home. Instead, I will regale you with four photos from Carmel and Pebble Beach.

We met several dogs in Carmel while visiting there last weekend.

On to Pebble Beach to visit the famous 18th hole and then for a walk by the Monterey Pines and an alluring pathway.

Posted in My photography | Tagged , , , | 15 Comments

Salwa’s Cinnamon Rolls

Posted on March 21, 2012 by

by cheri block

Salwa has a heart bigger than her cinnamon rolls.

Just thinking about Shirley enjoying one of those steamy gobs of sugar, nuts, cinnamon, and dough (oh that dough) with her morning coffee, while I chip my tooth on a hard two-day-old bagel, just fries my fritters.

How Shirley stole my cinnamon rolls last Friday, I will never know. Actually, I do know and this is the story:

First, you must meet Salwa. Let’s hear her on the phone with me last Friday.

Hi Cheri, this is Salwa. Honey, how are you? How’s the family? How’s Ron? He’s such a great guy! God-willing, you’ll have him around longer than I had poor Bill. Oh, I miss my Bill.

Salwa’s husband Bill and my father Hugh were in the same kindergarten class in 1932. Bill and Hugh are somewhere in the cosmos together, complaining about the ineptitude of city government, how they left their wonderful wives too early, and about how–had they eaten fewer of Salwa’s cinnamon rolls–they might still be here today.

Salwa comes from a long line of Lebanese cooks and Lebanese mensches.

Cheri, I want to visit your mom. How is she? She’s one of the dearest people I know. Corrine and I would like to stop by her place on Friday, I’ll bring coffee and cinnamon rolls, Ok, honey?

I met Salwa and Corrine in the lobby of my mother’s retirement home. Salwa was carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses, a Peet’s coffee thermos, and the tray of cinnamon rolls. Looking like a Lebanese Queen in a lovely green wool dress, matching black patent shoes and purse, and gold jewelry, Salwa and her entourage (Corrine and I) made our way to the elevator.

We had a charming visit at my mother’s apartment. Like a baby hamster, Joan did her best to gnaw a small divot into one of Salwa’s cinnamon rolls. I wrapped it up, telling mother that if she nibbled  a small wedge of it each morning, the cinnamon roll would last a week.

Little did I know that tucked in Salwa’s black Jaguar out in the parking lot, a cinnamony surprise was steaming up her trunk.

That batch would remain in Salwa’s trunk until later in the day when she remembered she had forgotten to give it to me.

Salwa had forgotten her little black book of phone numbers, so she called Corrine. Did I mention that Corrine’s late husband Speed and my father had been friends for 50 years? That Corrine was one of my mother’s bridge partners? That Corrine and Speed, Hugh and Joan, and Bill and Salwa had known each other a long time? With the exception of the younger Salwa–by at least 15 years–that they all would be pushing 85 by now?

Corrrine, this is Salwa. Honey, I need Cheri’s cell phone number. I forgot to give her the cinnamon rolls for Ron. You know how handsome that Ron is? He’ll love my cinnamon rolls and I want them to be hot and fresh. Well, they won’t be hot, but they will be fresh if I can get them to Cheri today. You know how busy that Cheri is, driving here and driving there.

Corrine did not hear the entire conversation. Why, I do not know. Perhaps the large mountain blocked the cell phone reception. Perhaps something was lost in translation.

Salwa called the number that Corrine gave her.  Salwa would apologetically recall later that she engaged in  a cryptic conversation with a woman who did not sound like Cheri.

Honey, let’s meet at the McDonald’s at the bottom of the hill. I have a surprise in my trunk for you and Ron, God willing.

Salwa parked her black Jaguar in the McDonald’s parking lot and waited for me to arrive. I would not arrive because I had not been called. In fact,at that time I was twisted into a knot at yoga, dressed in skinny  tights and a tight black top, wishing that I had not eaten that cinnamon roll at mom’s apartment that morning.

Another woman pulled her Cadillac next to Salwa’s Jaguar and got out. It was Shirley, the wife of the former hospital administrator, Dick, who like Bill, Hugh, and Speed, had left this earth wishing he’d eaten fewer of Salwa’s cinnamon rolls. Shirley thanked Salwa for her thoughtfulness and put out her hands. Salwa reluctantly surrendered the cinnamon rolls to a person for whom they were not made.

Hello Cheri, this is Salwa. You are not going to believe the story I have to tell you. By the way, I felt so bad that Corrine gave me the wrong number and Shirley took your cinnamon rolls, I made another batch  and left them at Ron’s mother Betty’s house just now. They are still hot, honey. Can you pick them up on your way home from yoga?

Posted in Life, People | Tagged , | 7 Comments

A missing hard-boiled egg

Posted on March 2, 2012 by

The USC School of Cinematography

by cheri block

I hard-boiled a dozen eggs on Tuesday.

One broke when I dropped it into the pot, leaving eleven. The water bubbled steadily, changing their nature from fragile to hearty and tearful to solid. Maybe I should take a hot bath too, I thought.

I showered them with cold water and left them to cool in a small silvery colander.

Eleven lovely little dollops of protein I placed side by side in a plastic container. They rolled over a bit, still slick from their hot baths but firm with conviction.

The Judge came home from work,  A Long Day’s Journey into More of the Day. He hadn’t eaten dinner.

The next afternoon, we both ended up in the same kitchen.

I do my best to guard my nest, but somehow, one egg was gone.

I didn’t notice.

“Oh, one is missing!” he teased.

The scrub brush continued its assault on a coffee pot.

Later that day, while at yoga in Pigeon Pose, the substance of the conversation returned to me in a scrambled message.

Pay attention to the details of life.

Posted in Life | Tagged , , | 43 Comments

Franz Kafka and Me

Posted on February 22, 2012 by

Sunset on the Road, Mohave Desert

by Mrs. Sabraw

Sometimes, when you are sure that your experience is unique, it helps to read the classics.

My students used to moan and roll their youthful eyes, eyes full of whim and mischief, whenever they saw a stack of classics on the front table of Room N-9, ready for distribution.

“Why can’t we read something interesting?” they complained.

“I know many of you just rolled out of bed about 15 minutes ago while others of you have been primping and preening for at least an hour, but tell me, how has your morning been? Has anything or anyone annoyed you? How about the radio? Did you hear anything on your way to school that made you wonder what in the heck is going on in this world?

“Yeah, kinda, Mrs. Sabraw,” chirped one alert sycophant in the front row. ” When I opened my locker this morning, someone had squirted some type of paste through the slats. They slimed my stuff. Then I looked down and wrapped in a Burger King napkin was a tube of Preparation H. I am totally pissed. Oh! Sorry Mrs. Sabraw, I know we’re not supposed to use the word pissed  in your classroom. But I really was pissed. Oh sorry again! “[raucous laughter from the back row of mouth breathers-- the wrestlers and football players holding up the wall with their heads]. (This student now works at Google.)

“You do know, Joe, that other people since the dawn of man have been irritated with the actions of others, right? You do know that other people have been tortured, raped, robbed, maimed, cheated, hurt, and slimed, right?

What if you found yourself accused of a crime you didn’t commit? Worse, what if you found that you had been accused of a crime that was never revealed? Or, what if you woke up one morning and instead of rolling out of bed and finding your jeans in a clump on the floor ready for your two legs, you couldn’t even roll over because you have  moving creepy legs, just like a disgusting cockroach, too many legs for a pair of 501 jeans? What if in your pondering, now that you have morphed into an insect and are stuck in your bed, it occurs to you that your family was just interested in the money you earned and not you?”

“Gosh, Mrs. Sabraw, you don’t have to be so dramatic,” tooted one small wispy dirty blond from the third row, fourth seat. “It’s a little early for those types of heinous images and depressing thoughts.” (This student would go on to study at Swarthmore College.)

“The point that I am making students is…well, Daniel, what is the point?”

” Could it be that even cave men and women got slimed?” (This student is now a psychiatrist.)

“Well, that is a good start, Daniel. Please pass out the books. You’ll note that the title of this text is The Trial and the author is Franz Kafka, one of the most amazing writers of the 20th century. But I will warn you. This is rough sledding. You may feel claustrophobic or highly frustrated. By the way, did you know that frustration is low-level anger?

Franz Kafka was a small Jewish kid in Prague with a loud overly dominant father.  If you were a Jewish kid in Prague you were not invited for toast and tea at Prague castle. In fact, if you had a locker outside of the ghetto there, it would have had more than Preparation H pushed through the slats. Franz lived in a small space with sisters and a big loud dad. He often felt claustrophobic and afraid. He found that the corners of his room were the best places to get away and…

Now, are we ready to read? “

Posted in Education, On fiction, Writing and Teaching | Tagged | 55 Comments

The task at hand in San Francisco

Posted on February 11, 2012 by

by cheri block

Tomorrow morning at the time when baby hummingbirds are first opening their teeny eyes and revving up for a day of vibration, I too will be up.

Tomorrow morning in the darkness, I will quietly take my suitcase and my trusty coffee mug, slip out to the garage, start my car and drive down our long single-lane country road at the time when skunks are still out conducting their smelly business.

Tomorrow morning, I will leave the comfortable routine of making coffee and drinking it leisurely, of showering, of writing, of listening to Dinah’s melodic snoring, and of all the other daily habitual activities one at my stage of life might enjoy.

Tomorrow morning, I will drive across the San Mateo Bridge all the way to San Francisco, way up by Sutro Tower, as the sun is just beginning to warm my back bumper , and I will park my car with the wheels turned out, so as not to roll down the very steep street.

In the window–waiting eagerly for me– will be the other grandparents whose faces will show the type of extreme gratefulness only expressed by prisoners let out of their cells by a jolly sheriff with a large iron key.

Their taxi will be waiting to whisk them to the airport and back to Oregon.

The exchange will be made.

Tomorrow morning and for the next 4 days, I will be looking after a 13 month old child in a home with steep stairs and one bathroom, two safety gates, a video monitor, a sleep machine, 102 diapers, and a refrigerator full of formula–and I hope a bottle of Chardonnay.

I am up to the task.

I am Gramma Cheri.

I am.

I.

?

Posted in Life, People | Tagged | 12 Comments

Literary Criticism at LAX

Posted on February 8, 2012 by

by cheri block

My daughter Sara (also an English major and teacher) called me to make sure I hadn’t gotten into any trouble at the airport.

“Hi Mom, how’s it going down there?”

” Ahh, Sara, the usual cast of characters is here, grossing me out by  sitting on the filthy airport floor eating chili while licking their fingers instead of using a napkin, by flaunting their two-inch butt cracks and snaky tramp stamps,  and oh! the needy women untethering their large loose fatty breasts by bouncing them around like two lost buoys, by their…”

“I get it mom, do you have to be so negative?”

“Negative? Good God, Sara, I am just reporting the truth. By the way, have you read Marilynne Robinson’s book, Gilead?”

I went on to lecture Sara about my high and mighty opinions of Gilead (the sign of an unpublished writer who has too much time on her hands and is now writing restaurant reviews for Trip Advisor).

I went on, now so loudly that the woman sitting next to me reading People Magazine would be sure to overhear me.

“Gilead won the Pulitzer in 2005.”

“Whaaattttt?” gasped Sara from Northern California. “Mom, I didn’t know they gave the Pulitzer to books written over 2000 years ago. That’s pretty cool but it didn’t help Homer’s book sales.”

“What are talking about Sara? I said Gilead. I said G-I-L-E-A-D.”

“Oh, I thought you said Iliad.“

Now I burst out in a belly laugh sure to rival the belly hanging out to my left, complete with a hairy appendix scar.

I looked over at the woman reading People Magazine-the one cracking her gum like a rodeo queen– as if she now were an intimate confidant or maybe a literary agent or maybe a famous person incognito.

“Is that hilarious? My daughter thought The Iliad won a Pulitzer!”

For some odd reason, the woman ignored me. Perhaps she’s deaf, I thought.

“Did you like Gilead, Mom?”

“Not really, Sara. I’m the only one in the class that had deep reservations about the narrator. When I asked my  classmates, including the marvelous professor, Dr. William M. Chace, if they had any concerns about the novel, all the air left the room. Shockingly, there was silence in a Stanford classroom.

“Well, Cheri, clearly this is your moment,” Dr. Chace observed, ” but we  have only 5 minutes until class is over. What say you?” (As usual, my moment had a time limit.)

“What did you say to that Mom?”

“Well, Dr. Chace, my first concern is with the narrator, the Reverend John Ames. He sounds a bit feminine in places. In my view, Marilynne Robinson is speaking.”

“Ahhhh. That’s an interesting idea. We call that  literary seepage.”

“Mom, it’s been real, as usual, but I have to pick up Nathan at pre-school. Safe travels.”

Literary seepage. I like that term very much.

I looked around LAX at the gritty modern human seepage and wished Homer were sitting next to me.

Posted in Life, On fiction, People, Writing and Teaching | Tagged , , , , , , | 27 Comments