The President Speaks: Opening Day

It’s a thrill for me to be throwing out the first ball today. Though I am as cold as the rest of you, we are all warmed by the promise of the new season, the hope that springs eternal in our hearts.

Baseball, more than any sport, inspires hope. I think this is because there is no time limit. No matter how far behind you are, with skill and courage and a lot of luck, you can still win. Time will never run out.

This feeling that time will never run out is part of the season. Days are getting longer then stay long. There are no worries. We feel the future will always be like this, that there will always be youth, there will always be heroes and there will always be another season to improve our talents or finally use them to their fullest.

When Fall comes we see players in a different light. Rookies look even younger. The sparkle in the veteran’s eye is one for the ages. Long shadows on the field have us dreaming of next year’s glory or cheering the end of an era.

On this bright chilly day a new year is about to begin. We step out of the shadow of winter into this beacon we call baseball season.

It is my pleasure and honor to throw out the first ball.

Cottonwoods in May

“What do you think pioneers thought about the cotton that Cottonwood trees release every year?” he asked.

“I think they worried about cholera and malaria so they did not think about it one way or the other,” I said. “If they had an allergy like I do, they probably weren’t as concerned about it because survival was so important. Something like an allergy was probably easy for them considering all they went through.

“After trees started being planted in the 1850s to replace all that had been cut down, we were leaving the pioneer stage. Then levees were built, the city raised and marshes drained. By 1857 we had grown astronomically. We were a real city.

“As we grew and we had more comforts, people began to complain about dripping sap and cotton puffs from Cottonwoods. The main reason they could complain was that trees they had planted to provide shade had grown quickly. The old part of town is on the flood plain. Soil then was fertile because of silt.

“I guess they didn’t want sap dripping on their buggies or cotton puffs blowing onto their porches and around their house. Now that survival was not as important, they could be picky. I guess the terms they would have used if they were alive today is that the dripping sap would cause their buggies to depreciate faster and cotton puffs blowing all over their porperty would bring its value down.

“But something I thought of now – their kids. The kids became adults in the seventies and eighties. Everyone knows the Pilgrims’ kids weren’t as tough as the Pilgrims. The same was true for the pioneers’ kids. They probably complained all the time of their allergy.

“A couple anti-cottonwood ordinances were passed: one in 1874, then one in 1896 as the city expanded.

“But you can bet there were people who didn’t care about sap on their buggy or cotton all over the place. They probably sat on the porch during May, whenever they had time, to watch the cotton puffs blow.

“They were grateful for having survived. They’d watch the puffs drift thinking of the floods, fires, malaria, cholera, violence and corruption they saw. Then they would dream about their kids, hoping the kids would do well and stay alive.

“There were probably days when a clump of tufts drifted all over them. They’d wait till it blew away from their eyes so they could watch more. They loved having it in their hair and all over their clothes. If the kids were still small or they had grandchildren, they’d invite the little ones over to play with the cotton and each other’s hair.

“Sometimes they’d get antsy and walk to the fence to lean on it, to watch all that white sailing into the blue. They’d gather up whoever was around to drive a little ways to lighten up and get giddy as they laid in the grass in its last little bit of green.”

“What about their allergies?” he asked.

“It’s a question of imagination,” I said. “I can accept the argument that there were so many Cottonwoods that new plantings were made illegal. In those days you could just walk a short way to the country or the river, depending on whether you lived on 12th or 4th Street. You could see Cottonwoods there.

“Sutter’s Fort had a lot of Cottonwoods. Imagine watching cotton puffs blow up against the walls and thinking just thirty years ago the fort was the center of activity in the wilderness. Imagine Sutter up at the Feather River in the Spring of 1850 watching cotton puffs drift, feeling an emptiness in his stomach that the charmed land he owned had blown away like a dream on a March cloud.

“What bothers me about people who say Cottonwoods bother their allergy is that they don’t look for the one or two days when the puffs don’t bother their nose, or at least not as much. On those days I wish they would shout for joy and say we are blessed to have these beautiful graceful things.

“You hear a lot about letting go. We’ve got to slow down when we have our allergies. We’ve got to let go for that month and deal with it, look to the sky and puffs and say it is worth it.

“The same with the dripping sap and eucalyptus bark and slippery pine needles and messy Autumn leaves.

“Every tree has its beauty and a lot of trees have their inconveniences.”

“What did the Indians do?” he asked.

“What did the Indians do?”

“Yes.”

“They danced a lot,” I said. “In February they had a dance for spring clover. In April they had a dance for spring flowers. In early Summer they danced for the first harvest. But as far as I know, they didn’t have a dance for Cottonwood puffs.

“A lot of people who like the cotton puffs think of the puffs as freee and symbols of freedom. So you could ask why people like the Indians who were so free didn’t celebrate their freedom with a religious dance to the cotton puffs.

“Indians took their freedom for granted. They probably didn’t know they had it till the pioneers took it away. It’s like us not appreciating our consumer stuff until we are broke or there is a power failure. You could ask why we don’t pray to blinking lights on radio or TV towers to thank them for the passion, inspiration, realization, love and resolve the great music of the world brings us.

“What was great about the Indians is they had a civilized life. They sat around a lot. They laughed. They talked. You can bet they spent a lot of time watching cotton puffs blow and loving every minute of it.

“When I watch cotton puffs I think of all the things I have never done, all the things I want to do, all my constructive passion I’m not releasing. I don’t think Indians had that problem.

“When I saw the film at the State Indian Museum, I loved listening to the women chant and seeing the panoramic views of our beautiful state. One of the things the narrator said was that the women sang these lovely songs while they were making baskets, that making baskets was a joy, not drudgery like factory work done by white people. Well, it would have been great to see cotton puffs drift along on the screen while the women sang and the Sierras were shot exquisitely.”

I stopped.

“You know the U.S. Bank building dowtown? The one next to the library?”

“Yes,” he said.

“There’s a set of murals in the lobby. They pay tribute to Sacramento based on the themes air, earth, fire and water. The one I love is air. It shows the confluence of the rivers with our skyline in the background. On the left are little boys blowing bubbles on a windy day. The trees are windswept. In the middle of the painting is a teenage girl leaning sensually with her back against a tree and her head and long hair thrown back where the trunk bends. She has her eyes closed dreaming while one of the boys is gawking at the big bubbles floating away.

“It’s a magical day, like the way I feel in May when wind blows cotton puffs.”

“There’s no cotton puffs in the painting,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “The painter understands Sacramento – the dreaminess and wind in April and May. Bubbles are more effective than if he used cotton puffs.

“Why did you ask me about them?”

“Because an old girl friend told me that when she was a few months pregnant she always went to the river to watch the cotton puffs.

I was afraid, she said. I’d sit with my feet in the water crying as I watched the cottony stuff drift. They scared me. They were free. I wasn’t. But they gave me hope because they were magical and beautiful.

“I didn’t know how to tell you so I mentioned the pioneers. I know you love the old days.”

“Did she love Sacramento?” I asked.

“No. She didn’t know the names of any of the trees either.”

Friday, April 27

Dear Jim,

I’m writing to you using one of my new pencils I bought at an art supply store. This one is a 3B. I also bought a 2B.

I got tired of having to sharpen my cheap shit pencils from the discount store all the time. I’d sharpen them and the lead would keep falling out. Then the sharpener would get dull and a piece of lead would break off and stick against the blade so I could not use the sharpener anymore.

Now I’m happy. I’ll use the erasers on the pencils I used to write with, then throw the pencils away. Buying the new ones was a great idea. It’s funny how long it takes to do something I should have done a long time ago.

Today was a great day. It was sunny, cold, and breezy with a few clouds when I got up. It reminded me of the East Bay in Spring or Candlestick in the evening before the fog rolled in.

Then I took a bus to the South Area. It wasn’t as sunny as my neighborhood and there were a lot of high clouds. It reminded me of the Midwest. I kept looking out the window of the bus at the clouds.

When I got to the strip mall I felt as if I was in another world as I took the long walk from the bus stop across the parking lot gawking at the sky. It was so cool and windy I had to put my ski cap on.

All day I had the hee bee gee beez. I wanted to spend a few hours outside sitting, writing to you, and reading, but I would not have been able to write in the wind and I was worried that I would catch a cold.

I took advantage of the cool day to clean the shower and refrigerator. I hadn’t planned to use the computer, but since the weather was so cool, I knew I didn’t have to worry about the computer making the apartment warmer. So I turned it on.

What gave me the hee bee gee beez was that I kept thinking of San Francisco: North Beach on a Summer evening, the tulip gardens at the windmills in Golden Gate Park, being in our cool room downstairs looking out at the trees blowing in the wind.

It’s the magical San Francisco light that shook me up today. I wasn’t physically able to immerse myself in it – to really enjoy myself. I wasn’t socially able to glory in it because I have few friends and am not in a good frame of mind.

It would have been great to stand in the wind talking with someone I like. Even if they were oblivious to the light , I would have been chomping at the bit lusting for more light and magic.

When I wrote to you about the beauty of San Francisco and all the drinking there, I said that San Franciscans drank too much because their marriage and career weren’t close to having the beauty San Francisco has. It’s a double whammy. Their marriage and career didn’t have the magic that San Francisco’s light has.

All those beautiful views. All that magical light. All those broken hearts. Bartender!

What troubled me today was thinking of memories people have of each other on a day with magical light. They recall their spouse or their kid or their grandparent or brother. ”It was a day like today. I was so happy for him.” Then his life went to hell.

I thought of the look on mom’s and dad’s faces when my life fell apart. My magic and beauty were gone and after all they went through with you.

On magical days with beautiful views, it must have killed mom and dad to be with me.

That’s it for now Jim.

Love,

Dave