Güd wrtr

Everyone needs a bit of kindness
to unwrap and bite into, and someone
once said that if they ask, it shall be given,
so I give chocolate to the inflatable T-Rex

appearing at my door, along with six skeletons,
assorted princesses and ninjas, and black-clad
teen boys wearing open backpacks on their
chests, their loot winking like treasure.

Before all the hubbub began, I walked
across the street carrying three small
chocolate bars to give to a young neighbor
named Johann, who correctly identified

the common letters in both our names,
then, smiling, held up a mint green kids’
camera, politely asking, “Can I take
your picture?” And when I agreed,

he pushed the button to elicit a Polaroid’s
familiar zzzzzt. Though I was standing
in the doorway, backlit, and I knew
the exposure would be wonky,

we watched the photo develop—Johann,
his sister Hannah in their father’s arms,
and me, the old lady across the street.
“Magic,” Johann pronounced.

And, as we studied the little rectangle
that gradually revealed a pink-shirted
woman wearing a gauzy halo—
a costume I had not planned on—

I could not disagree.

It may seem ghoulish to some
to walk my neighborhood cemetery
the day before the day before
the day of the dead,

but I like to pay my respects
to the souls of the ones buried
and interred here as I walk,
trying to name all my beloved dead.

The list gets longer each year, of course,
the price of living, as I compare the ages
on so many headstones to my own
or to those who have recently died.

Too soon, I think, of the one who left recently at 79.
Good run, I think, of the one who floated into mystery
last year at 93 and almost a half.
As if it’s up to me. As if it’s up to any of us.

The little ghost hanging from a tree in the cemetery
seems a little on the nose, but really,
what better place to think of those
who haunt us mostly for the good?

“The last wall of the fort is gone.”
—Dick Schmidt, retired Bee photographer, about the demolition of
The Sacramento Bee building, 21st and Q streets, Oct. 29, 2025

•••

(For Dick Schmidt and those who spent their careers committing
acts of journalism for The Sacramento Bee—and those who still do.)

•••

On the last day that the last shell-shocked shred
of exterior wall stood like an exposed wound,
overlooking the vast area where hundreds

of people once worked around the clock to
put out a daily newspaper, I watched one
of several T-Rex-sized mouths scoop up

the detritus of weeks of demolition, clattering
into the waiting mouths of hulking dump trucks.
The next day I brought you back to take photos

of the site where for four decades you made
pictures for that paper. We stood on the corner
looking into the pit of what had been

the basement, the spot where you and many
others processed color film, a formerly dark
room now rudely exposed to sunlight.

The last wall had disappeared, adding
to the rubble being collected by machines
that had no idea what had taken place here.

Acts of journalism happened, reported
and photographed and edited and laid out
and printed and delivered by people like us

who saw the work as a calling, who believed
in the importance of delivering timely, accurate
news as part of the foundation of democracy.

Now this fortress that we imagined as
permanent, unshakable, lies in ruins. Concrete
and bricks, iron and pipes, giant balls of wiring,

even the old venetian blinds heaped like
bodies in a war zone, will be hauled away,
the three-story-deep hole filled in, smoothed

over. Something new will rise in its place.
Condos, we hear, over the ashes of an admittedly
imperfect institution run by generations of fallible

humans whose names and faces have vanished,
but whose hearts, for the most part, were in
the right place—leaving those of us who remain

to wonder whether, in the long run, how much
of it mattered, if our life’s work amounted to
any more than a hill of beans in this crazy world.

Root your feet in river soil
left by last winter’s rising,
as the languid waters
laze in autumn torpor
before what’s sure
to fall again.

Look across the liquid swath—
today muddy, tomorrow cobalt—
flowing south, and think of
where it begins, 222 miles
north of two cities that
bear its name,

its headwaters rooted in
mountains soon to melt
into white, stretching
its long self 384 miles,
snowmelt and springs
from four mountain
ranges feeding it.

We take it for granted,
this ever-moving spirit,
forget to acknowledge
this ever-flowing border
meandering between
our two cities,
our two counties,
one people.

•••

(With my deep thanks to photographer Joe Chan for his many years of sharing his stunning images.)

I’ve decided that October will go down
in my history as a Month of Infrastructure,

the unsexy, can’t-see-it-but-if-it-breaks-you’re
in-big-trouble repairs that had to happen,

in home and work spaces, while trying to
calm my galloping heart as I channel my

mother’s mantra when she didn’t have much:
“It’s only money.” That, and thanking the

gods of habitation for home equity lines.
But all this work is worthy of applause for

the men who’ve so meticulously applied
their time and talent to this old house

and the attic-like space less than 2 miles
away that I consider my office. I could offer

basement crawls for the adventurous to
admire the new pipes carrying in what needs

carrying in and carrying out what needs, well,
carrying out. And perhaps, in the loft, I could

ask Richard the handyguy to leave a corner
exposed to show off the new ceiling insulation,

along with 43 nifty new acoustical ceiling tiles,
that will, with luck, keep the writing garret

cooler in summer, warmer in winter. I like to
think I’m investing in the miracle of humanity

with all this cushioning, lining and padding
of the underpinnings, shoring up spaces

where those I care about spend time, gather
because I invited them to come sit a spell

and chat, have some tea, pick up a pen
and see what flows out of it, then share it,

if they like—surprising us all with the wonder
of words magically appearing on a page.

(for Martha Kight)

Good heavens, we’re old enough to play Juliet’s
nurse, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you have,

though, really, anyone over, say, 30 could do it,
since Juliet’s supposed to be all of—what?—13,

about to be 14 on Lammas Eve, which turns out
to be on July 31st, the day after my birthday,

the most recent of which landed me squarely
at 67. Which you are, too, I believe. You, the singer

I watched from my spot in the orchestra pit
at every high school musical. You who tucked

theater into your bag of beloveds, even if it required
a different day job. I know that it’s always been

your primary love, you who have played parts
from ingenue to grandma, whose voice I’ll happily

listen to in any role. I’m no actor, and I no longer
remember enough Shakespeare to pronounce it

trippingly on the tongue. But I’m sure that you do,
my friend, who has given so much heart to the stage.

So should you decide to give the Bard another go,
know that I’ll be one of the groundlings

applauding like mad, cheering “Brava!” for you.

(for Georgann)

I had no idea you could send a package
from your corner of forever.
I assume it was from you

because I can’t think of who else
would send me a noteless box of gifts
with items that are so you:

• a soft violet blanket with the inscription,
This blanket is a hug from me to you,

•a skinny fabric Dammit Doll
to take out frustrations on,

• a squishy sheep, presumably for squeezing,
instead of biting one’s nails, which you did,

• and a little quarter-sized piece
of silver metal that says hug on it.

I searched for a clue as to what
living person might have been so kind
to send such a gift in a month of struggle,

but since no one has come forth,
I have concluded that it had to be you,
wonderful you.

It had to be you.

(for my mother)

Not that you were a gardener.
You couldn’t keep half the plants
in the pots on your patio alive,
forgetting to water them as you did.

As a kid, I remember African violets
boldly purple in small planters on
the windowsill over the sink, which you
set there so you’d remember to fill
the small shrimp cocktail jar
you kept nearby for the flowers.

But somewhere along the line,
that stopped, as did so many things,
decade by decade, and Donna and I
took to tending and trimming the plants
when we’d come by, adding new,
replacing the dead every Mother’s Day.

Still, you liked growing things, and
if you’d’ve been here, I’d’ve sent you
this photo of a woman’s hands with
her garden’s final offerings in late
October, arranged top to bottom
in perfect chakra order—

you who loved the rainbow of
energy centers in the body—

a small aubergine as they say
in the UK, a little ball of eggplant
crowning at the top, down to
the sly smile of a red pepper
representing the root. And
in between a periwinkle,
a frilly yellow zinnia and
a beaming orange marigold.

You might have focused on
the gardener’s dirty hands or
the green tattoo on her wrist,
but Ma, the point is to admire
what emerged from a garden
at the end of its season—

all that color arranged on the palm
of the person who watched those
exquisite bits of life grow,
now plucked and dying,
but still so vibrant,

likely unaware of their approaching end,
held by the one who loves them,
who wanted to show them to strangers
so that we, too, might appreciate
their fleeting, earthy beauty.

(for the writers who come from all over
the world to write with me online)

How we chafed, stuck inside,
reduced, we fumed, to communicating
only with those in our living spaces

and faces of others we were missing
locked in tiny rectangles on this
newfangled online doorway.

How long did it take us to realize
the magic of the portal into people’s
lives? To see, if they allowed us to,

the rooms in which they sat,
their smiles, weary of confinement,
delighted to reach through

this gateway in cyberspace
and catch, often more closely
than if we were in person,

the crinkles around their eyes
when their faces blossomed
taking in our own. That we

were allowed such ingress
into the intimate spaces
of others, at such a difficult

moment, seemed miraculous,
even as we chafed under
the constraints. To continue

the opening even now, in times
when there is such distance,
real or imagined, between us,

that’s wondrous—the delight
of seeing your faces, expectant,
hopeful, watching mine,

joy swelling my cheeks as if
filled with precious nuts,
with luck, enough to last me

through winter.

(for Sue Lester)

Though my best childhood buddy next door
grew up with a rare, red, actual racing Ferrari
prized by her father in their garage,
I was nurtured to adulthood by a dad
who could tear apart a Chevy engine
and put it back together, a skill he thought
every man should possess.

While Sue’s mother made homemade sourdough
bread we considered holy because of its gaps
that leaked jelly, my mother was, at best,
a TV dinner/Sloppy Joe’s/frozen veggies
kinda gal.

Pasta made only special guest appearances
(hello, Hamburger Helper!) on our table,
but when I’d go to others’ houses where
moms served spaghetti, or, better yet,
next door to delight in Mrs. Lester’s tuna
tuna and noodles, I was sure I was
consuming heaven on a plate.

Likewise, my car knowledge runs to
the Honda/Toyota/Hyundai variety,
despite a period when my late husband’s
1958 Porsche 356 A, reposed in pieces
in the garage.

So my mind boggled the other day
as I stood next to a purple Lamborghini
in a parking lot, a small piece of my brain
half thinking that the fancy Italian name
was a type of noodle.

But no. Even I could see that this was
not related to anything good for slurping
with good marinara, that this incredible
vehicle was far too classy—and ten times
more expensive—than the nine-year-old
Elantra I inherited from my mother.

But I could peer at the deep purple gem—
a color I adore, rarely seen on four wheels—
sensing that, even at rest, this terrestrial rocket
can whisk across the land at something
approaching 200 mph. And that it
costs the earth, too.

While I admired the brilliant Italian
engineering contained in its innards—
forgive me, Mr. Lester—I realized that
I do not covet its speed or style.

I’m happy with my fettucine of a sedan
that putters along life’s roads,
carrying me, with oodles of joy,
pretty much everywhere
I want to go.