Monthly Archives: February 2021

Make Me a Gift of Arrow and Quiver

I came upon California quite by accident.

I was the transportation reporter for USA Today and based out of metro Washington, D.C. The paper sent me to Los Angeles to cover a NAFTA event, or conference, or duel, or orgy or something. That’s all I remember about the assignment.

What I’ll never forget is my rental car: A Chrysler Sebring convertible. And it was February, like now. And it was sunny, like now. And it was warm, like now.

I was so overcome by the glow that I remember putting the top down, hitting the first freeway out of the airport and driving, according to the freeway signs, toward the Mojave Desert.

I don’t think I reached it, but I may has well: I remember seeing an actual tumbleweed. I had only seen them in Bugs Bunny cartoons, yet there on was. Just rolling — on my side of the highway.

So I got out. And chased it in my Dockers and button-down. I don’t know why: I just needed to know it was real. And when I caught it, I brought it back and forced it into the trunk, like a hostage. I don’t know why I did that, either. But the Avis rental agent who checked me in must have been thrilled to see the mass of dry twigs in the trunk.

I knew then I was a California boy. I think the state does that to some people. For those who choose to call it home, there’s something that eclipses the vanity and humanity of the place, and there is certainly too much of both.

But there’s something to Cali that still feels American, in all the right ways, to me. There are parts of the West that still look as it must have to the settlers. Still open. Still warm. Still open to possibilities.

Like a tumbleweed.

So in honor this week of National California Day (Feb. 22), a FactSlap column, Golden Bear Edition:

  • With a population of 39.5 million people, California is the most populous US state.
  • Inventions from California include the hula hoop, the Egg McMuffin, Barbie, WD-40, California rolls (sushi), Cobb salad, the Shirley Temple (alcoholic beverage), and the nicotine patch.
  • If California were a country, it would be the fifth-largest economy in the world, larger even than the United Kingdom, France, or India.
  • California is the birthplace of the film industry, hippy counterculture, the Internet, the personal computer, fast food, and beach culture.
  • California is the third largest state, after Alaska and Texas.
  • California is about the same size as France, Spain, and Sweden combined, at 1,040 miles long and 560 miles wide.
  • There are more national parks in California than in any other state, with 9 out of the 59 parks.
  • Humans settled in California as early as 19,000 years ago

The Veteran Rookie

I’ve been around dogs all my life, but something about J.D. feels like my first dog.

Perhaps it’s that I’m retired, and raising a pup feels more like parenting — helicopter parenting — than with previous kids. Perhaps it’s the pandemic, and sequestered life has taken on new meaning. Perhaps it’s J.D. herself; what dog is not a unique blend of energy and stardust?

Regardless, I feel like I’ve come to a new awareness of bringing a youngling into the world. Namely, this realization:

Babies are assholes.

There’s no getting around it. They’re self-centered, awful listeners, and good luck trying to get them to mow the lawn, ‘cuz their rows are crooked as hell. Overall, they’re pretty useless.

And yet, it’s that very uselessness that makes their upbringing such a profound experience. Once, when Esme was a puppy and I was renting a home with a pool, I heard a splash in the backyard. She had fallen in.

I dashed to the backyard, where I found her, paddling at the deep end, unable to get her tiny paws hooked on the ledge. As I scooped to get her, we briefly made eye contact, and I knew: If I don’t get her out, she drowns. We both knew it.

I scooped her, of course, and she immediately tempted fate by returning to water’s edge. But the moment — and her look during it — is cemented in my brain pan.

I think of that moment often with J.D., because she is always seemingly dog paddling. Chewing rocks that are choking hazards. Leaping from heights she has no right scaling. Looking for a flash of daylight to sprint through, over or under my fence and into a threatening world. Her pool remains too deep; it just lacks water.

When I look back on other pooches, I think: You were a terrible parent. For years, I kept my hounds in spacious crates, filled with toys and water and snacks and everything vets and friends recommended. I’d come home from work for lunch, let them out, repeat at dinner.

That’s not parenting.

J.D. has the same amenities in her crate (I could probably rent it out in this housing crunch), but I am hardly the absentee landlord I once was. Now I use the crate sparingly; usually when I need a moment to bathe and not worry that she’s dropping my electric razor into the sink and turning on the hot water, which she did last week.

In a week, she’ll get her final round of immunization shots and she’ll be free to romp at the park. I can’t wait to see how she reacts to other dogs. She hasn’t seen one since she left the litter.

She’s not going to know what to do with all the open air. She has a wonderful backyard, where we spend hours and hours (along with this minute). But she has sprinted to every corner of my postage stamp; it’s time to gallop!

Just don’t run too far, please. I’m not ready to give up the chopper.