Since I have last posted, I have been to San Francisco twice, and my mother has gained back her hearing and lost it again. Oh, life is a whirlwind of giveth and taketh away.
One trip to San Francisco was to hear Wendell Berry interviewed by Michael Pollan. I am still feeding off the gentle cadence of Mr. Berry's words, still thinking and wondering and staring out my living room window. I must believe wisdom lives out across those oak-covered golden hills...I stare until the light bulb goes on. Sometimes it takes a really long time.
I shook Mr. Berry's hand, told him thank you, and he signed three of my books. Three. One is on its way to Eugene, Oregon for a certain college girl to enjoy, but the others are on the table by my side. I do love having a signed book.
Was it more of a thrill hearing Wendell Berry, or being with Carol again? Or hearing her brother sing...in ITALIAN? These are the best kinds of hard choices.
More on Wendell Berry at another time.
The other visit to the city by the bay was for last night's 49er game. If that juxtaposition of activities doesn't make you spin, something's wrong. There was nothing of the peaceful Kentucky drawl and wisdom in the loud and raucous rows of tailgaters. It was beer and football and red face paint and (no-so-)questionable smoke wafting across the rows of red and gold and loud. It was teenage boy fun, had by teenage boys and their parents, and we had a blast. We are hoarse from screaming, but they won and made every raspy voice worth it. And, Lisa, I can still taste the garlic fries. Just wanted you to know.