Usually, the newspaper has a perfunctory little story on the longest day of the year. It usually starts out with, "Today is the longest day of the year," or other such witty prose. Newspapers have a habit of repeating things incessantly like little children who have just learned a new word. Another repeated annoyance is the proclamation at the start of California's fire season. "This year is predicted to be the worst fire season on record." Every year is predicted to be the worst fire season on record.
Four days before Thanksgiving it hit me. The traffic was heavier and the drivers more frantic. The left-turn signal to the Safeway had a long line of idling cars, exhaust evaporating into the chilled autumn air. The holidays are here. I don't know anyone who looks forward to that first realization. What should be the loveliest, most peaceful and introspective of seasons has become a frantic dash to the finish line.
Outside looking in. Fourth Street is dead on the Monday of a three-day weekend. There is a sterile scent of nothingness in the air. I escaped from the studio to see the world and the world stayed home. I'm just slightly out-of-sync on the tail end of a twilight-zone holiday.
It was raining peacefully on Sunday morning. The streets were washed clean by a storm that had hit the day before. The road shimmered in the weak light, twinkling with each drop from the sky. On a tempestuous Friday before the storm, I'd been hit between the eyes by a hurtful comment from a friend. It left me reeling. Sunday's gray drizzle seemed appropriate.
The fog lifted today. I could tell before I even opened my eyes. It was the garbage men that gave it away. The fog muffles the sound of the Tuesday-morning garbage truck and this morning I could hear it loud and clear. The men were shouting and the truck's hydraulics were howling. Right then at 5:00 AM I knew the fog was gone.
For over a week we've woken here to a low-lying shroud of fog. In the hazy, first moment of waking I am confused. I am fooled into thinking that I'm opening my eyes as a young boy—and discovering a silent blanket of fresh snow out my window. I think I am five again.
It all started last Christmas but I'd long forgotten about it. I'd forgotten that is, until last week when I started walking along the old rail path again. Lost in thought, about a quarter mile from home I saw it again and it made me laugh just like it did upon my first discovery.
There is this Italian caffé and bakery near our home. I'm not much for pastry, Italian or otherwise, but come Christmas I always buy a panetone. It is my firm belief that the panetone at this bakery is the best outside of Italy. It's not a traditional Milanese panatone as it is flecked with rich, dark chocolate. But the chocolate is used with good sense and I like it. Every year I look forward to eating it on Christmas morning. And I look forward to the ritual of going to the bakery and buying it.
The neighbor across the street has a plastic Santa with a light bulb inside it. I always know the holidays are here when it suddenly appears by her garage. I've never actually seen her put it out—I've come to believe that the incandescent Santa arrives on its own. It's a fickle Santa. One year it decided not to show up at all and the neighborhood was much the poorer for it. So far, this year, I am still waiting. As I write this I look out the window and into the hazy day. The neighbor's garage is sans Santa.
The entire weekend was a shroud of fog and rain, a lazy prelude to the looming holidays. It is hard to take a camera out in this weather, mostly because one would prefer a blanket and black cat to stay warm. But the mundane world is transformed into wonderland for those with the initiative to venture forth.
