Yes, I know. I haven’t added a new blog entry for awhile. Not just busy-ness, but finding myself pre-occupied with things that would likely be of little interest to readers.

But odd juxtapositions are always in order around these parts, and I’ve got a sweet little one here.

As I was reading the below column by David Brooks (yeah, you probably need a NYT subscription to see it), he made reference to a British urban planner named Sir Peter Hall.

The name threw me back to the fall of 1972 and my family’s time in London. It was as a 17-year-old that I first was gobsmacked by the telly show “Monty Python.” Just loved it. I made audio tapes of the show and when I got back to the states, played them for my friends. Monty Python didn’t come to US public television until 1974.

There was one skit where John Cleese was talking with a classically trained stuffed-shirt  British actor. The actor was pompously and boastfully declaring the number of words he had to memorize with different Shakespearean plays. And then said: 

“Now I don’t want you to get the idea that it is just the number of words, getting them in the right order is just as important – Sir Peter Hall used to say to me ‘Alan, here’s all the words now all we have to do is get them in the right order’

Move forward to 1980. I was in my second year of a graduate program in City and Regional Planning at UC Berkeley. We had Professor Peter Hall visiting as a guest lecturer at our school. My interactions with Prof. Hall were pretty prosaic, but I did tell him about the Monty Python line and we got a good laugh out of that.

I knew at the time that he was a pretty renowned professor, but he came across as accessible and friendly.  I now thought how cool that David Brooks is quoting him, years after he passed away.  Then I looked him up on Wikipedia, and… wow! What an accomplished life!

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Hall_(urbanist)

Turns out that my old professor did indeed earn the title “Sir” for his teachings. And it only took me 371 words to share it here.

PS: Regarding Brooks’ article…. Non-reciprocal tariffs (when we do to other nations what they do not do to us) generally are horrible foreign policy and crazy economic policy as well. They can be seen as a kind of non-physical means of declaring war, and should require, in my opinion, Congressional approval to enact.

On warm Oaxacan winter evenings, when its streets and plazas are alit with vibrant dancing, music competitively blaring from bars and cantinas, street urchins hawking their wares, singers lilting in Spanish and English classical and modern songs,  musicians bowing their violins, strumming and picking their guitars, and squeezing their accordions, parades of wedding celebrants rolling down the streets dressed in modern and ancient formalwear, lunatic clowns mesmerizing children into ecstatic frenzied laughter, jugglers and daredevils twirling and spinning with fires and knives… well, it all smacks the foreign observer like a cacophony of celebration. Shared… public… joyfulness.

Oaxaca city’s central historical district is a tourist mecca.  In every direction, sights of extraordinary architectural magnificence – 500 years of Catholic majesty preeminent and powerful. In every direction food and drink and artisans’ creations. And people. Of all ages. Mixing.

The warmness of the place is key. Great, pleasant weather. An unmistakable and genuine sense of human friendliness.  People who say good morning – buenos dias – comfortably to strangers. Good evening and good afternoon as well.

The streets and plazas are also filled with security personnel.  Federal, state and municipal police.  Well-armed.  But in place of concern and fear at the presence of these cops, as a tall white old man tourist, I very much feel that they are all there for me and my ilk. The reality of this tourist mecca is that it will thrive as long as folks like me feel safe.  And the presence of the cops provides that measure of security.

So, on one hand, the Oaxacan street is a place of energetic, even exuberant, celebration of public life. Of being together. Sure, there are some English-speaking street strollers. But for the most part, the sounds of the public spaces are fully Mexican. And I love the sing-song music of Mexican Spanish.

And yet, I wouldn’t be me, without also feeling deeply a dark side to all this cornucopia of human interaction.  Never one to enjoy the buying and selling of things, I begin to recognize a kind of index of commercial misery. A misery-commercial hierarchy so to speak.

At its base, its lowest rung, are the sorrow-filled faces and crumpled bodies of the financial beggars. These are the old, very old, and decrepit asking for your pity and a few of your pesos. They have little movement, lack energy, and lack hope really. Their effectiveness is based on exploring the passersby’s’ sense of guilt.  But no matter how much one gives, sadness remains. Guilt remains.

Some want us Gringos gone.

But there are second opinions.

A step up the misery ladder are the strolling merchants of worthless trinkets. They walk toward you, displaying with rapid-fire words and outstretched arms their wares. The same tiny bracelets, wooden animal forms, plastic jewelry that can be found in every third shop, and every second meandering street vendor you cross on these warm, crowded passageways.  Who buys these items? How can the vendors make a living?  How can they spend day after day, evening after evening, reaching out to tourists with no hope of changing their financial existence, but to only see a future of growing older and doing the same thing.

Next up are the retailers, clerking the temporary street cubicles filled with themed items.  Some of these cubicles have stuff of some value. Nicknacks to take home from Oaxaca. Simple T-shirts or shawls.  Mostly, there are things for sale that are available ubiquitously.

Street musicians are up the ladder still.  Distributing themselves in such a way that they do not interfere with each other… much.  They offer creativity in exchange for your pesos.  At times, these musicians demonstrate great talent. Often, however, they appeal to the schmaltz in their audience.  

Next step up are the street vendors selling reasonable quality merchandise. For the most part, this requires you and the merchant to negotiate; to perform a tug of war. But why demean someone – someone with creative skills – to reduce the value of their labor?

And on top of the misery-commerce index are the fancy shops.  The beautifully designed, pure wool or pure cotton or pure natural colored luxury items, sold to wealthy people when there is poverty all around you. With even these items of much less cost than would be found in the States, who is benefiting from such commercial exchanges?

How do I respond to these pleadings? From the beggars… something comes over me and from time to time, I empty my pockets of change.  Mostly I do not.  Of the mobile vendors?  I do not buy anything. What would be the point? The product would only bring me memories of sorrow. And my purchase action from the vendor?  What value would there be for him or her if any one or two or four people buy something? It would only sustain a bare-survival existence, sitting exhausted on the street with marginal merchandise.

But yet and yet and yet again, that misery-commercial analogy mostly fails the test of gestalt. For overall I did not see misery (other than my own self-imposed judgments). Overall, I saw happiness.  Even the street urchins, of any age, seemed relaxed and even energetic. Satisfied with their lots. There were plenty of smiles from the sellers, and no apparent anger at or jealousy of the tourists.

The extraordinary craft of the weaver artists.

On this Oaxacan trip, we also booked a number of tours that took us away from our city neighborhood.  We visited waterfalls and pools.  Took architectural and historical tours.  Lingered in fun and amazing museums. Prayed in over-the-top baroque churches. Traveled the countryside to artisan villages and bought clay bowls and wooden painted figurines.  We ate tacos and drank mezcal and pulque at modest venues where we were the only tourists. We took cooking classes and shopped the markets for our meals. We were hosted by a Oaxacan family, whose father was a young man we stayed with the last time we were in Oaxaca 24 years ago. And the music and smells and tastes and light and interactions with people and more people left me with a distinct conclusion to all those varied experiences.  And it is this: For its residents, Oaxacan life is rich with all that makes life rich.

I haven’t figured out a way to share my videos with everyone. So the video links below can be brought up by me, but not seen by others ( as yet). But the photos are sharable… and that’s what I’m doing here from our trip to Berkeley in November and December 2024.

On the left side is Zac, Vicky and Alden’s house. On the right is the neighbor’s Airbnb that we rented for 6 weeks.

https://photos.google.com/photo/AF1QipM1sKjehs0MCbuLE1–n8BsRERaqpbK_3Dfh0ME

Who is that mousey in the window?

https://photos.app.goo.gl/G4ma7iDGrh1FqnQa7

Grand-mere providing nourishment.

Alden’s first Farber legacy visit to Lombard Street in SF: “The Crookedest Street in the World.“

Street view

https://photos.google.com/photo/AF1QipM6Q8ZTb-kMlXyipgx2DhqWvpY68-Dx_8z6vPsj

The above is a video of what it is like to take Alden on a stroll. The below video is his joy to be in his circular jumping support thingamagig.

https://photos.google.com/photo/AF1QipMWvZMVYR38P1a-42Ml3px-T4du5dnFaLc-fXC5

At Fisherman’s Wharf with Mama.

At Fisherman’s Wharf with Father.

The world’s most expensive lemonade can be the source of all sorts of happiness.

Considering the world’s problems with cousins Shirley and Dan in San Jose.

Problems solved!

https://photos.app.goo.gl/xSySKK9uv7JcujAL9

Alden learning how to mimic sounds. “Ah uh!”

At weekly reading and play time at the Albany Library. Photo above, video below.

https://photos.app.goo.gl/dyKJ9CjYi8LkMt5U9

https://photos.app.goo.gl/GRTLyE6zSbrMoqS37

First bite of meat.

https://photos.app.goo.gl/jzvCqJNupA5AWtoU6

Climbing Mount Saba

Grand-mere is poised to take off from the top of the concrete slide at Cordornices Park. And away we go!

Apparently, Berkeley’s Cat Ladies’ support was not enough to swing the national election.

Throughout Berkeley, these Totland Playgrounds were available year round. The advantage of family-centered city planning and a fantastic year-round climate.

Zac and Vicky had a professional photographer take the upper two pictures.

In summary: such joy.

A few days ago, I started getting a cough, tiredness and some aches and pains.  They have not left me. So, after some prodding by Jean and Zac, I called up the Kaiser Advice Nurse service today to get their recommendation for over-the-counter cough medicine.

After the nurse went through the usual questions, I got that pharmaceutical recommendation.  I also asked her what she would suggest I do to protect my 8-and-a-half-month grandson from my infection.

“Most of the day I just sit down on the floor and play with him,” I start. “And his cheeks are basically irresistible. Do I really need to stay away from kissing them?”

Her response was that I should probably wear a mask. “But I totally understand,” she said with both sympathy and a healthy dose of fellow traveler. “There is nothing better in the world than playing with your grandchildren.  I have two of my own.  It makes me perfectly happy.”

And of course, she is right. Jean and I are finishing up our first month of caring for our gorgeous, fun, adorable grandson, Alden Antolept Sung Farber. Our set up is sweet.  Alden, and his parents Zac and Vicky, live literally next door.  We are renting an Airbnb house adjacent to theirs for 6 weeks. We take care of him Monday through Wednesday from 8 to 5:15, and then other times when the parents could use a break or when Daniel and Jean just miss the little fella and have to get our hugs in.  Zac and Vicky get to work full time, trading off Thursdays and Fridays between them, and we get to take side trips and other adventures with friends and family on  our “days off.”

We give those friends and family a choice.  Do you want to hang with us and Alden… then come Monday through Wednesday.  Do you want us to visit with you elsewhere? The other days of the week are available.

Pictures? You want pictures?  Of course I’m going to give you pictures. But the shots don’t capture the most powerful realities.  When Alden starts “climbing Saba (my chosen Aramaic name for Grandfather)”, he and I have staring contests with each other.  Then he starts sucking on an Alden-approved shirt zipper of mine with a red string end, and… and… I am blissed out with complete joy.

The term “innocence” doesn’t quite capture what is so special about his age. He has no guile.  He has no hidden agenda. When he is hungry, he wants to eat. He chugs down formula until he is sated.  He either likes or doesn’t like new foods (sweet potato is a big hit.) When his diaper is poopy, he wants it cleaned.  When he is tired, he gets squirrely and needs a nap.  When you make goofy faces at him, he likes to laugh. And he is relentlessly curious about everything in his world. When in a stroller, his eyes are riveted on the plants and animals and clouds and the splendors of creation that constantly evolve as we roll on.

And when we haven’t seen each other for awhile and then he sees my face and a smile breaks out.., well, there isn’t anything better. 

OK… enough of that narrative… let’s get to the real treats:

A trip to San Francisco included a visit to a craft market, lunch at the Buena Vista Restaurant with world class Irish coffee, touring the Asian Art Museum, and vistas from Fisherman’s Terminal and Fort Mason.

According to Zac, the higher up you raise him the happier he is. Here’s positive evidence.

At the Asian Art Museum where there was an exhibit on the Korean “New Wave.” They gave folks the option for a silly photo. Here are three generations of Farbers.

Babies like being boxed in!

Nothing better than being a source of nourishment.

Tot learning and play time at the Albany Library. Books to read, songs to sing, and toys to grab and chew, every Tuesday at noon.

Seriously… those cheeks are irresistable.

https://photos.google.com/photo/AF1QipOkvEN4BF2JDr9PKMdNKsO5EGQnhYDzM3eY3NDw

https://cvws.icloud-content.com/S/AYkvmykZ5T7Mz0ne0GVijBdp3DHY/VID_20241120_112221755.mp4?o=ArQ5iwmOBbD_Mt-sqgqoV0ovTaOkkWSd8jaMLSl4fVhe&v=1&z=https%3A%2F%2Fp156-content.icloud.com%3A443&x=1&a=CAogU7Gq06wFqvWNCm2g1QwIlZUW16nvxdnxOhgR-V2BfiUSZRCOr-DfvDIYjsbz5LwyIgEAUgRp3DHYaiVhf1K8llPE3dcbxj_mbQsP95M6CBrFNUlDNxLc6slqw69Cgdo2ciU3cQv3Wcg9YMWTHxQbeank7640WmyG9F4jEd0jBiZsO2GbEAWG&e=1734304654&r=f35c6f53-91f4-43f9-a7bb-10b9612ea3e2-1&s=om7efCN90A_fQub7Kz1SsPkbFhA&chrome_unique=634128172

Not sure you all can see this video link. Hope you can.

In September, my Israeli Cousins Danny and Shirley joined Jean and I for a drive from Olympia to our family reunion in San Francisco.  Halfway through the drive we stopped for an overnight in Yreka, California and ate at a lovely Thai restaurant just off the freeway and across the street from our motel.

Natalee Thai Cuisine (https://nataleethaicuisine.com/) was housed in a brand-new building, with an attractive interior decor and authentically delicious food. Our motel was comfortable as well, and adjacent to both, the city was in the process of repaving a major arterial road.  All that was only one block away from a national historic downtown district. Yreka, California’s furthermost northern town along I-5, looked on the surface to be doing pretty well.

A freshly paved arterial road in front of our motel.

Yesterday, two days before “the most important election of our lifetime,” we left Yreka again, after staying at the same motel and eating again at Natalee.  But this time, my observations took on a dark, forbidding, and deeply saddened tone. For parts of Yreka looked stressed, almost abandoned.

The main town park did have children playing on swings, yet garbage was strewn around the fields. Its award-winning masonry entry gateway – something the town once took great pride in – was falling apart.  A couple blocks away was a small public space called “Native American Heritage Park.” Its entry sign was faded and covered by tacked-on remains from flyers.  Its interpretive sign was overgrown with Himalayan blackberry vines. A sculpture of tribal warriors had a tree growing through it.  That tree must have been there for years, not weeks or months, which meant that no one, not one city staff person or anyone else in town, had bothered to remove it.

A pair of heavy gloves, shears and a bin to haul it away… no one has made the attempt in years.

Memories of warriors and their families shamed by neglect and an invasive tree.

The downtown’s only movie house was bordered up. The whole downtown could be described with a term I first heard in a 1967 history tour of a Mexican village: “decaying splendor.” Within one block of that movie house was an investment firm office and three bank branch sites. But where were the local investments? Across the street from the theater was a mural of a Yreka historic scene, but the business owner of the building where the mural was displayed had placed a commercial ad over the mural.

How about investing in your neighbhorhood?

Self-storage business wins out over historical and artistic integrity.

And then there were the mentally ill and vagrant folks I met along the way. One was lying on the sidewalk mumbling, another walked aimlessly and screamed loudly down the street. One tall middle-aged man with a long beard seemingly went out of his way to block my forward progress.  I said good morning to him as I walked off to his side. He said nothing and sped quickly on.

But not everything along the walk was neglect and indifference. 

A number of historic homes on Yreka’s residential streets retained their integrity and beauty.  Some of the nicest yards even had Harris/Walz yard signs proudly displayed. The fire house looked new. The aforementioned arterial was repaved with skill and modern conveniences like audio guidance for pedestrians crossing the street.

And it all has struck me as a classic case of positional perspective – glass half empty or half full. The juxtaposition of great wealth and great poverty, great hope and great despair just stare us in the face every time we choose to see them.

And so I return to the election.

On one side of our wretched political divide, America is broken.  It is carnage out here. Poverty, addiction, despair, violent immigrants.  The politics of fear.

On the other side, there is America as the great comeback kid.  Infrastructure investments.  Manufacturing policy. Social safety net strengthening. Dow Jones at record highs. The politics of hope and aspirations.

Is it all just positioning? Finding the right angle to wedge into voter’s hearts and minds?

I find myself, of course, somewhere in the middle.  In a place where we can acknowledge intergenerational injustice and trauma and yet know that immersing ourselves only in those sorrows does not lead to lives of purpose and joy. In a place where we can be optimistic, but not ignore the needs right in front of our faces. And in a place where each of us can do something to improve our world.

Seeing the juxtaposition of wealth and want, speaks more truth to me than either the simple positioning of fear or hope. Or for this election, like all elections, the positioning of indifference.

Then again, if I have to choose an electoral position, and we all have to choose, then I’m informed by juxtaposition to choose hope. And I hope that hope wins by a mile.

There is a group writing project of remembrance of a special time in Olympia, focused on the 1970’s, soon after the creation of The Evergreen State College. Various folks who lived here during that time are contributing their stories of that era and gathering them together on the web. The project can be found by clicking on the following: Olywa Days of Change.

I was asked by a friend to contribute to the site when he heard that I lived in a group house that had given itself “a name.” Sharing a draft of my piece with my historic friends and fellow housemates, we collectively spiced it up a bit and now present it below:

---

I was pretty sure it was Knutson’s idea.

“Have you been to Eld Inlet yet?” she asked. “Kathy, Martha, Martine and I are going to take the trail down to the water at midnight.  Want to join us?”

It was September 1976. My first class day at The Evergreen State College was to start in two days.  I was a suburban kid, having grown up in Bellevue, Washington, and I had just graduated the previous Spring from Bellevue Community College. Knutson (first name Kathy but mostly she affectionately went by her last) was living in D Dorm on campus with 4 other women.  I was down the hall with 4 other men, some of whom had yet to arrive when her midnight walking invitation was tendered.

“I don’t have a flashlight,” I responded. “Won’t it be too dark to walk.”

“Not to worry,” responded Knutson, “it will be fine.”

And so it indeed was, as I found myself several hours later walking gingerly, hand in hand with three women and another man from the college parking lot down through the dark forest to a moonlit saltwater beach at low tide. We were holding more than hands that cool autumn evening.  We were holding trust, sharing adventures, and building a youthful family network.

Over the subsequent year our connections flowed and ebbed. Living down the hall for a quarter or two, meals and conversations that went into the night were random and delightful. We stayed in touch with some folks more than others, but a year later when some of us decided to leave the dorms, five agreed to rent a house on Sherman Street, on Olympia’s Westside.

The Sherman Street house was one of several that had been purchased by TESC economics professor Chuck Nisbet. Chuck was the traditional economist in my Intro to Political Economy program (for fully explicable reasons the Marxist economist was uninterested in becoming a landlord!).  Chuck and other homeowners would rent out “group houses” to Greener students. Back then, housing prices were such that a homeowner could rent to four or five students, cover the mortgage, and the students would have cheaper housing than in the dorms.

We packed that 3-bedroom house to the gills and filled it with cheap miscellany. Brian donated a horrid grass-green shag carpet (from his Bellevue family home) for the living room, with fibers so long you could lose a Lego city and never know it was gone. Impossible to properly vacuum, it was probably home to 5 million dust mites.

We used a picnic table for dining, placing it in the living room because the Lilliputian dining nook had been closed off to create Olympia’s tiniest bedroom, home to the bohemian Martine. I set up a manual flour grinder in the stairwell leading to the basement, where we would laboriously crank out wheat, oats, and (foolishly, due to latter digestive issues) soybeans for over-the-top wholesome and gritty bread and rolls.

While damp Olympia was not famous for water shortages, the group, nevertheless, had a strict “if it’s yellow, let it mellow” policy in the bathroom, prompting Brian’s future wife to mutter under her breath during one visit when the toilet pool had become particularly odoriferous and a deep shade of egg-yolk orange, “You’re all going to die of cholera.”

We took turns cooking dinners. Mostly vegetarian, with lots of homegrown bean sprouts that were produced in jars in a kitchen cupboard. Holly Near and Bonnie Raitt LPs played almost constantly on a stereo as we ate, and most evening meals were consumed by candlelight.

It was the era of statement-making, historically meaningful, politically leftist and radical house names.  The Alexander Berkman Collective or the ABC house of course met its match with his anarchist lover’s Emma Goldman House. But while our little group were all students going to an educationally innovative and controversial college, we tended to be awkward as political revolutionaries. No group meeting resulted in a call for a house identifier.

Not all of Olympia’s house names, of course, were outwardly political.  Some were just plain silly. Nanny Noodles comes to mind. In that vein, I was noodling around the house one day when I started playing with our telephone number’s alphabet equivalence. Thus, was born the Ela Alvy (352-2589) house. 

Who was Ela? Why, an early feminist from Sheboygan, Wisconsin of course! (Remember, these were pre-Wikipedia days so no one could look her up.) She fought for equal pay in the shipyards.  She was a distant relative of Thomas Alva Edison. You know, make anything inspiring, run up the score, and see if the salmon bite on the bait.

Forty-seven years after we moved in to form that group house, not everyone remembers the name Ela Alvy.  I thought it had become iconic, but clearly, I was mistaken.

Nevertheless, despite our lack of house name cleverness, Ms. Alvy’s inhabitants did indeed go on to change the world in positive ways. Of the six members of Ela Alvy that first year, one had a career in public school teaching, two in social work, one in journalism, one in architecture and one in park planning. Children were born and nurtured.  Friends were loved and supported. Art was created and shared.

Ela would have been proud.

Children need burn time. Long stretches of obsessive play; productive tasks be damned.  Languid time. Silly time. Get away from annoying siblings time.  Get away from irritated parents time. Fantasy and dream and invent the future time. 

Clued in by my love of basketball, Dad attached a 10-foot-high regulation-sized hoop to our carport’s eave.  His obvious goal: keep me self-entertained, out of the house, but not out of sight and sound. 

The gentle slope of our freshly paved, tar-scented asphalt driveway was perfect for practicing lay ups, turn-around jumpers, and, most commonly and calmingly, free-throws.  During long, sweet summer evenings, the lure of the hoop, and the reinforcing joy of the clean swoosh 15-footer made me a kept boy.  I became addicted to practicing my free throws. Turn on the outside floodlights about 9 pm and keep focusing on the back of the hoop. Clang, swirl, chink… concentrate… concentrate… ahhhhh swoosh. There it is. Swoosh again and again.

Basketball would be my way out of dreary suburbia and into big time NBA stardom.  Focusing alone would not do, no.  This would be Zen-like obedience to the spirits of b-ball.  Practicing my 15-foot shot from the free throw line would result in a skillset beyond human.

The driveway was now center court at Madison Square Garden. The crabapple trees and rhododendron bushes my enraptured crowd.  And with every swoosh, my legend would grow.

As I went from 3 in a row, to 5, to 7, the cheers, with my exalted name intoned, both encouraged me, and increased the tension of the next toss at the hoop.

At one point, I had made 12 in a row. Then 14.  I was on fire. Would I ever miss again?

My prowess began to be known beyond my block.  Kids heard the sound of the ball softly bouncing three times before each toss, when I would then proceed to lean down weighted on my left leg, my right leg angled backward in a tight crunch. Then I would unfurl as my left arm reached out toward the hoop, releasing the ball to its parabolic fate. A moment of suspense and then… the picturesque almost orgiastic swoosh.

The assembled masses, proceeded to cheer. Screaming girls fainted with ardor. Parents crowded in as my streak, on one sweltering evening, went to 45 shots in a row.

Then came the vendors.  Ice cream trucks.  Sushi stands, with teriyaki wings. Pro scouts hounding my parents.  The insistent TV broadcasters, clamoring for the right angle.

It all became far too much.  After passionate debates with my agent, I decided to end it.  Breathing deeply, aiming in what appeared to be my now famous stance, I let out a tiny cough… and missed. 

The crowds dispersed. Murmurs of “traitor” and plots of vengeance could easily be heard. Yet, I was relieved. And free. 

The next day, I took up knitting.

It was a classic pick, slip and hit the jumper. Thrown the ball firmly on the fly by John, I faked right, dribbled once to my left around Irv’s solid pick, jumped and twisted in mid-air to face the basket at precisely the top of the key, elbows aligned vertically above my head, and proceeded to release the ball with a perfect back spinning arch, culminating orgasmically (and this from a pre-pubescent boy mind you!) with a swish as the ball went softly through the net.

Hold on. Wait.  The reader needs some context.

When I was in 7^th Grade, the Seattle Jewish Community Center basketball teams challenged the Vancouver, BC, Jewish Community Center teams. The challenge was accepted, and on a cold wet March morning, 30 bleary-eyed boys loaded onto a bus leaving downtown Seattle toward the Canadian border.  Only one problem.  The BC teams didn’t have enough players to match up in age-alignment with their US brethren.  So, for a logic apparently only Jewish sports leaders can fathom, it was decided that our 8- and 9-year-olds would play their 10 – 11-year-olds, and upward and upward the matches went through high school varsity.

At the time, in the winter of 1968, I was 5’2” in height and played small forward for our Junior High team.  But small forward would not be my position when our team went north.  When our 7^th graders played Vancouver’s Junior High varsity I became the center.  When our Junior High varsity played Vancouver’s 10^th graders, I transformed into point guard.

By this time, you must be wondering, “why is he talking about international basketball competition with a story titled “First Day of High School?” Patience, dear reader, patience. I’m getting there.

Our 7^th grade team lost, of course, to their Junior High varsity, but it was surprisingly close. 

I then took the court again to play for our Junior High varsity team.  Other than one beautiful pick-slip-and-jumper at the top of the key – yup, that’s the one in this story’s first paragraph – the game was a disaster.[1] We were, after all, competing against high school sophomores.  They were tall and smelly and very hairy.  Man were they hairy.

Move the scene forward two and a half years. Mom was taking me shopping for new school clothes at Nordstrom’s Best in Bellevue Square as I was about to start high school. (Yes, finally, the connection with this story’s title begins to emerge. Geesh, that took a while!)  Nordstrom’s Best had been our family go-to shoe place for years, as my dad and I and older sisters had gigantic feet that only the Scandinavian-based shoe store was market-sensitive enough to stock. But by 10^th grade, Nordstrom’s had shortened its name and branched out fully to apparel of all kinds. Mom thought I should look nice as I entered the highly competitive teen-emotional-survival mode. I thought looking nice wasn’t so bad an idea either.

This consciousness of worry for appearance’s sake was a new reality. First-day-of-school attire had been more my mother’s concern than mine.  But now teen angst and insecurities were pumping ungainly hormones into my amygdala – or was that vice versa?  I wanted a couple of nice sweaters, a week’s worth of shirts, and some decent pants.  For some reason I concluded that I looked fine in green (my eyes were hazel… perhaps that was the reasoning?) and pretty ok in blue.

But the shopping experience itself was a test of my independence.  I asked Mom for a favor.  If she gave me a budget, could she please leave and let me make the decision myself?  I was embarrassed to appear as a momma’s boy. Not unexpectedly, she didn’t fully comply.

“Dan, I’ll go to the other end of the store for a while, but I’ll be back before you actually put money down.”

With frustration, I agreed.

And then it happened.  I saw Shelly, the girl I had a crush on in 9^th grade, shopping with her mother. Terrifying.  Thank goodness I didn’t completely freeze as I saw her approach.  Her mother stepped away.  I feigned nonchalance. Poorly.

“Hi,” she smiled.  “Ready for school?”

“Um… uh… kinda.  I need to get a few more things.”

“Let me see what you have so far.”

I showed her a long-sleeve, tightly woven lambs-wool, paisley-style olive-green sweater, then an indigo-blue sweater-vest.

“Ooh… I like the paisley,” cooed Shelly.

“Oh… great… thanks.”

The awkwardness never quite resolved itself, as Shelly and her mom departed the scene and my mom approached.

“How’s the shopping going, Dan?”

“Fine, Mom. I think I’ve got enough.”

Ten days later, I hopped on a school bus for the first time in my life. Elementary and Junior High Schools were within walking distance.  I was wearing my olive-green paisley-style sweater, and even though I knew I wasn’t ready for all the arm-pit smells, shrieking sounds and sprouting hairiness of 10^th grade, Shelly had approved of the sweater. And that was something.

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[1] OK… it is simply not part of the core purpose of this “first day of school” writing theme, but at this point, who really cares? I’ve strayed so far off topic as to question any reader’s capacity for tolerance.  It appears I must cross a couple of “ts” and dot an “i” or so more. This is called relentless tangent hunting. Still, I proceed.

The swish shot at the top of the key needs detailing in two ways; both drilled into my memory.  The first is that after the shot, I heard a kid on the other team yell out, “somebody get on that guy!” For me, an absolute thrill.  International renown.  However, the second reality, was this:  those were the only points I scored in the entire game.