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.
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(With my deep thanks to photographer Joe Chan for his many years of sharing his stunning images.)
The Sacramento River and Tower Bridge looking toward West Sacramento / Photo: Joe Chan
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.
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.
Jan and the purple Lamborghini / Photo: Dick Schmidt
In response to the widespread web outages today, we encourage everyone to get outside and look at some birds. —National Audubon Society, 10/20/25
Why’re all those two-leggeds staring up at us? Have they lost their minds? Or have they lost the little boxes they’re forever clutching and looking into?
We’re certainly no more interesting today than we were yesterday. Same old us standing on the same old wire. Singing to you from the tree in the back yard. Doin’ what we do.
But look at ’em looking. Some with big eye extensions held to their faces bringing us in closer. Funny two-leggeds with their clodhoppin’ feet.
You know what we’re gonna do? Perch here and look right back. As we do every day, even if tomorrow you go back to the little boxes, whether or not you venture outside, think to look up and hear us singing for you.
Güd wrtr 