With Arms Wide Open

I know it's been awhile.  Although it may seem to the contrary sometimes, I generally feel that, if I have nothing worth saying, why take your time making you read something not worth reading.  Today, I have something to say.

Today was a cop funeral.  There was a funeral cortege that stretched from the Boardwalk in Santa Cruz to the HP Pavilion in San Jose.  There were flags flown from fire trucks.  Salutes from fellow officers.  There were police officers from across the country in cars and on motorcycles.  There were bagpipes.  I didn't know Butch Baker or Elizabeth Butler, officers of the Santa Cruz Police Department but I knew cops like them.  I KNOW cops like them.  I know Santa Cruz.  I know Santa Cruz Police Department.  I know their badge numbers, 172 and 105 because I DISPATCHED those badge numbers.  Those were numbers that belonged to officers I knew, people that meant something to me.

All of the publicity from the time of the horrific shooting barely more than a week ago clutched at my heart as I read Facebook posts and Twitter feeds from media and from people I know who knew them. People whose hearts were breaking.  People who didn't know them also feel that pain because they do the same job every day that those officers did, the same jobs they were doing when their lives were taken.  I also thought back to my days as dispatcher and some of the more memorable calls, all of which paled to the job those dispatchers did on that day.  What put me over the edge, what brought me out from behind a curtain of unfamiliarity was a reference on Twitter to the dispatchers. Mark Woodward, @NativeSantaCruz on Twitter tweeted: "I've listened to police scanners for years but was not prepared for what just happened".  I knew at once what he heard.  This FINAL CALL went out....the End of Watch for Sgt. Butch Baker and Detective Elizabeth Butler called by a Santa Cruz Police Dispatcher who knew them both.  I found the recording on YouTube and listened.  As she ended her call.."Santa Cruz clear....KMA233"., I cried.  I heard those FCC call letters I recited dozens of times every day.  That girl is tough. Of course she is, she's a dispatcher.  Tough.  Cool.  Calm.  I cried.  I cried for two people I didn't know.  I cried for the people who know them. I cried for the people I know who do that job every day with little respect.

I know  that, for the next week or so, the officers in Santa Cruz will receive hugs and respect and offers of coffee and lunch which, of course, they are not allowed to accept.  The citizens will go back to their lives, their jobs.  They'll go back to speeding to work and cursing the cop that gives them the ticket.  They'll go back to growing dope and teaching their children that cops are the bad guys... unless and until someone tries to rip them off  at which time, of course, they will call for help.  As for the cops?  They will have taken their black ribbon and "thin blue line" from their Facebook profiles.  The flags will once-again be raised to the tops of the flagpoles.  Life will return to patrolling their streets and taking reports and investigating crimes.  They will be even more aware than they were two weeks ago, however, of their safety.  They will be more vigilant about wearing their body armor.  Their husbands and wives will breathe even more deeply a sigh of relief when they walk through the door safely each night to kiss their family and do it again another day. To quote Sgt. Phil Esterhaus..."be careful out there."

NOTE: My titular reference was for James Durbin who sang that Creed song at the funeral.

Home is Wherever I'm With You

Dear Santa Cruz,

I have said, and will say again, that I miss you. Last year was the milestone when, I realized, I have been gone as long as I lived within your silly walls.

Yesterday morning, however, I saw a girl with VERY purple hair jogging along the roadside. This in and of itself is not unusual in Eureka although it wasn't particularly pretty purple hair which is unusual. She was running behind a young man who I believe was wearing a fox tail attached to his pants....at least I think it was just a pretend tail attached to his pants.

This morning, a man sat in the driveway of a boarded-up Jack-in-the-Box, flying a sign trolling for contributions to whatever his daily needs have become. This man wore a hat with ram horns attached....at least I think it was a hat with pretend ram horns.

So, Santa Cruz, thank you for sending your minions to make me feel at home. While I still miss running into school mates in the Alpha Beta or seeing the names of people I grew up with in my morning Sentinel, I miss it less every day and every day feels more like home in Humboldt.

Love,
Debbie

Wanna Go Back to My Hometown...

...though I know it'll never be the same.

Santa Cruz is not the same as it was when I left more than a quarter-century ago but parts of it are the same. At least in my mind those things that remain will take me back as if I've never left. Like us, our families moved from Santa Cruz years back and few friends remain, giving us little reason to return ..... except for the inevitable draw of the hometown.

When I learned of the death of Lieutenant Tom Marketello, one of my bosses from my short stint at dispatching for Santa Cruz PD and the father of a former classmate, I felt that draw. The thought of seeing co-workers I hadn't seen in more than thirty years was a little unnerving but irresistible. Law enforcement relationships are strong owing to the fact that you hold lives in your hands, those of the callers as well as those of the men and women you ride herd on each shift. It felt good to see those faces again - most of them anyway - and to remember the life of this man who was important to so many.

We spent a little time wandering the old stomps, neighborhoods and hangouts. Grabbed pastries at Gayle's Bakery in Capitola and carried them to Steamer Lane to watch some surf action then played tourists wandering the wharf, laughing at the barking sea lions. I had never, in my years growing up there, seen the "rafting" of the sea lions, together as if bound as they bobbed around the pier.

We headed north on the coast highway and made a stop we'd made many times before and I have a stack of snapshots to show for it but Pigeon Point Lighthouse is such a pretty tower of rusted metal, I had to stop yet again for a couple more shots.

After spending the night in Half Moon Bay, we headed inland, spent a few hours fighting the detours in San Francisco before deciding to save paying fifteen bucks to park so we could wander the ferry marketplace on the Embarcadero for another time. We made a brief stop at Golden Gate National Cemetery to visit with Mark's grandparents and Uncle Bud.

I leave you with this last shot: When we were in Half Moon Bay, I dragged Mark to the edge of the world to watch the sunset. We drove to the end of a road, parked at a barrier close, but not TOO close, to DO NOT PARK HERE signs and ran to the cliff, seemingly alone, to watch the sun drop into the sea. Once down, and my breath released, we hurried back to the car and found six or eight people right behind us. We had not been alone but had been surrounded by others seeking that same peaceful delivery of the sun over the horizon where she would be rising to the joy of those on the other side of the world.

Hot Town, Summer in the City

While parts of the country have been dealing with triple-digit temps and cranking up the air conditioning, we who have chosen to live where 70 is a heat wave are asked to conserve. So we dutifully live in the dark while others luxuriate in their pools or in front of the air-conditioning. I've lived in the heat and have returned to my senses, thank you very much.

I grew up in a middle class neighborhood, built mostly in the early 60's. Nothing fancy but we did have curbs. No sidewalks; those were for the rich people on the next, newer street. We also did not have swimming pools. That, too, was for the fancy people above us. We had sprinklers and we had a Water Wiggle. For those of you not fortunate enough to have owned one of these entertaining devices, the attached commercial might refresh your memory. Looking at that commercial through the litigious eyes of a person who would, say, spill hot coffee in their lap then sue the restaurant that sold them the coffee, I see dollar signs. Through the eyes of a child, it was a blast. Oh sure, there were times it would THUNK you on the head or, better yet, wrap around your ankle then continue to ensnarl you like a boa constrictor until you could free yourself. Of course, as the hose got shorter and shorter, that put that vicious little smiling head ever so close to your face. You'd reach out and grab the hose trying to prevent it from smacking your face. Now THAT is a good time cooling off.

No More Pencils....No More Books

Well folks...I did it. Thirty some odd years after graduating from Harbor High in Santa Cruz, I finally got my two-year degree. I've been calling it the "ten year plan" but I realized it only took five years. And with highest honors, no less. Associate of Science degree in what I call Random Studies, I have taken classes that help me to do my job...a little business...a little digital and assorted software...oh, and Pilates. I would be remiss if I didn't express sincere gratitude for the patience of my family. Setting a good example for the girls, getting my homework done really sucked! I was a content B student in high school because, well ... A's would have taken too much effort. Will I go on? As a co-graduate told me, "As soon as I figure out what I want to be when I grow up."

GONE FISHIN '

My last post got me thinking about fishing with my dad. First off, the guy on the jetty was wearing a ball cap; my dad had this straw affair, with hooks stuck in the band. That was HIS fishing hat. I dug out this picture which always makes me smile. It is my big sister, Carol and I at the wharf with Dad right about 1964. I'm not sure who took the picture. It may have been Mom since I'm about seven in the picture which would make Katie five and probably too young to take the shot. Maybe we asked a stranger to take the photo... Check out our string of ENORMOUS perch. And check out the fins on that car -- our 59 Fairlane NOT a 500. Even as a kid I knew the difference.

Goin' fishing with Dad meant I got to wear a ponytail. Mom didn't like the way the rubber bands tore at my hair and they didn't make the wrapped ones then. So, this was a big-girl operation of grand proportions in my mind. The picture also brings to mind a day on the wharf when we realized Dad's knotting skills were not what he thought them to be. He took Mom's red rubber bucket to the pier, tied a rope to it and lowered it into the murky depths to collect water for the legion of fish we would surely catch. I still remember hauling up the rope.....with no bucket. Dad was SO in trouble for losing that bucket.

BACK HOME FROM HOMETOWN

Mark and I had a weekend of remembering when we made a whirlwind trip to Santa Cruz for the funeral of a friend’s dad. The Carlson’s lived across the street from my family growing up in Santa Cruz. It was a new subdivision and ours was the first house. Free-standing mailboxes at the curb – no sidewalks. You had to honk to get the neighbors’ dog to move from her napping spot in the middle of the street. The Griffins were the first to have a color TV so we would all go down there to watch the Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday night. The “field” was at one end of the street where we would fly kites and collect pollywogs and could climb through the culvert to the next neighborhood. We sneaked our first smokes there in our teens. The “orchard” was at the other end where we would build tree forts, pick apples, pears and blackberries, collect walnuts. The “creek” was where we hung a rope swing. We never thought about someone owning those properties. I walked to school and rode the bus with the same kids from kindergarten through 8^th grade. Black and white snapshots surface of us all at neighborhood barbecues where the families hauled picnic tables to a central driveway and the kids played in the sprinkler in the street. Needless to say, lots have been subdivided and there are houses filling every possible piece of real estate now.

Bill Carlson passed away a couple of weeks ago and, since I hadn’t seen Linda in more than 30 years, I felt compelled to head down for the memorial. It was more of a wake and we saw SO many faces from the past while we reminisced and laughed at pictures. We’ve all grown so much into different adults than we were kids.

Mark and I decided we needed this weekend to ourselves so spent it just driving around old haunts. Remember when this was built? Or that was an empty lot? We walked a bit on Twin Lakes beach, grabbed pastries at Gayle’s and sat on the cliffs over Capitola enjoying breakfast. The world we grew up in has changed so much yet some of it still feels like home. We cruised Pleasure Point where traffic is now diverted into odd little one-way sections but there are still kids on single-speed bicycles with their boards tucked under one arm on their way to the waves. Shaggy-haired kids riding skateboards with bare feet not chunky shoes. The Boardwalk and the wharf smell the same as they did when we were kids but parking is a bitch and you have to pay for the privilege. . The waves at Steamers are still awesome so locals still stand alongside tourists to watch the surfers…as always.

I often miss Santa Cruz, but realize that the Santa Cruz we visited is no longer the home town I remember. Humboldt is so much like Santa Cruz used to be which is why I’m so comfortable here. We have the ocean here but not the same “beach” mentality of SC. It’s hard to walk or ride your beach-cruiser to the waves. Beach umbrellas and bikinis are seldom seen on our beaches. You’re far more likely to see Frisbees and sweatshirts. But it’s good. I miss Santa Cruz but this is home now.