What Evil Lurks in the Heart of Me

I’m not generally an aggressive person. I also have great respect for most of the creatures that roam this planet.

[Digression #1: Sure, I could do without spiders, but I know that when they’re not frenetically waggling their legs at me in nightmarish ways they serve an important purpose.* I doubt the same could be said of mosquitos or meter maids. Oh, or personal injury lawyers. Also, most of the agents at DMV counters.]

[*if “something” doesn’t happen to them first]

[Tangent from Digression #1: Look what appeared on my security camera the other night.]

Okay, back to my story. Uh, let’s see, where was I? “…that roam this earth.”

But despite my kind or at least well-intentioned nature, four days ago I became possessed with a passionate hatred: a wish for the annihilation of an entire species. If I’d had the means, its destruction would have been solely at my hand, without a moment of hesitation or regret on my part.

I’ve told you about my tiny flower garden, a 4-foot by 8-foot raised bed that has required an investment of around $200 and much labor and hope. I’ve been urging the reluctant plants along for a couple months, and finally some color has started to emerge: orange and pink California poppies, blue zinnias, white and purple bachelor buttons. One of the sunflowers had reached four feet tall, with a black seed pod an inch across.

[Editor’s note: You know this doesn’t end well.]

On the afternoon in question, Ember (who was in town for a four-day kids’ carpentry camp) called to me from the back porch: “Mama Ginna! Come look at the garden!” From her tone I figured she was eager to show me something cool that’d sprouted. I was wrong; she meant “Something’s not right.”

I peered over the railing, and what I saw burned me up. Fully half of my lovingly nurtured plants had been decimated.

Ember immediately spoke out, with understanding and thoughtfulness. “It’s okay if you say a bad word now.” But I stayed calm on the outside, except to wonder aloud a few times, “What did this?!”

Upon closer inspection I realized that not only were stalks bent, broken and flattened, but countless blossoms and buds had been decapitated, lying now in the dirt as their empty stems waved in the chilly bay breeze. Like this:

I also noticed several baseball-sized [Editor’s note: this is foreshadowing] dug-out places in the dirt among the stems. Nearby, the biggest would-be sunflower was leaning precariously but I figured I could prop it up, until I got a closer look. Its single ripening bloom had likewise been gnawed right off at the neck. There was nothing I could do but yank it out of the ground to put it out of its misery.

The identity of the perps should have been obvious to me. What other heartless animal would needlessly savage, in broad daylight, dozens of lovingly tended plants on the verge of bloom, and why? After combing through the evidence I realized it had to be the work of little Lucifer here [Editor’s note: I think that’s his name; pictured in my peach tree] or another of his persuasion, possibly abetted by a cousin with equally villainous spirit and equally piercing incisors.

They chomp everything in my backyard that I care about (flowerpots, redwood deck, and every plant I’ve ever tried to put into the ground). Their happiest tradition, summer after summer for more than 20 years, has been to detach every single nascent fruit from my struggling peach tree and drop it to the ground, one by one, so that a week later the tree is bare and the ground is strewn with rotting fruit. They may take a small nibble, but more often than not, they hit and run.

I believe they do it out of undiluted malice. This time they went too far. It was pure meanness, plain and simple, with no nutritional or other survival motive. I can’t begin to describe my emotions as I helplessly surveyed what they’d done, except to say it was an overwhelming, roiling wave of anger that was definitely Not a Good Feeling. Sure, unbridled outrage is something that’s as familiar and regular as breathing to the 45th U.S. president—as was stunningly revealed in Cassidy Hutchinson’s testimony—but not to me.

And still I didn’t swear. I wanted to, but I didn’t think Ember needed an unhinged grandma. However, when I finally trudged back up the stairs, defeated after surveying the ruins, I couldn’t help myself. “I will never try to grow anything ever again,” I muttered melodramatically as I climbed. “They win. Those bastards get me every time.”

Ember took the whole episode in stride and with compassion, staunch in my hour of need. Actually, the scene was calm and unremarkable, except in my tortured mind.

Alas, writing about it has neither alleviated my grief at the loss nor diminished my fury. Dreams of the extermination of the Sciuridae remain vivid. I’m thinking total extinction. I don’t want them to suffer, necessarily. I just want them to die. Perhaps peacefully in their sleep.

Well, maybe just a soupçon of suffering right before that.

[I’m just kidding, man.]

Aside from its roving bands of demon squirrels, the East Bay is in many ways an excellent place to live. Climate, cultural resources, setting. (We won’t talk about cost.) Maybe most of all I appreciate living among a diverse and progressive bunch of people. Here in my neighborhood it’s always reassuring to see locals’ responses to such outrages as the overturning of Roe v. Wade.

Last Sunday afternoon, Em and I heard but paid no attention to dozens of sirens (the usual American cop kind, and then those two-tone emergency signals that Bobbies blare from their cars, if British TV mysteries can be believed), a helicopter, and—what finally got our attention—a looping recorded announcement booming unintelligibly over a loudspeaker. I had no idea what it was saying but Ember got the message the first time: “Albany Hill is on fire.” And then, “Please brfmrkn vlt mrrrrf dnng stltrlmnzssss…”

When we looked off my back deck we saw it was true.

Luckily, firefighters got it under control in a couple hours. It turned out to be the work of a 31-year-old arsonist, whom they caught soon afterwards.

I’m glad there’s some good to go with all this bad. Here’s one thing that makes me happy and gives me the tiniest spark of hope: Ketanji Brown Jackson’s swearing-in to the Supreme Court on Thursday. I admire her for lots of reasons, including her experience, poise under pressure, principles, professional pioneering—

[Editor’s note: Jeez, where did that come from? I didn’t mean to do it. This post now features not only foreshadowing (coming up soon), but abounding alliteration. I’m a veritable wellspring of narrative devices.]

As I was saying about Justice KBJ… I keep thinking about how unbearably aggravating it would be to work with her six corrupt and insufferable colleagues. What patience she must have.

The only other special thing Em and I did this week was walk up to Pegasus Books for the tenth volume of her dragon series, Wings of Fire, which I read to her every night here. There was nothing I wanted for myself this time, yet out of nowhere a biography (whose recent publication Lulu had alerted me about), unexpectedly flew into my hands. I had no choice but to buy it.

If you spent any time with me during the 1980s and ’90s you are no doubt acutely aware that Rickey Henderson—native son of Oakland, star left fielder for the A’s, base-stealer extraordinaire, and all-around electrifying athlete—was the object of my affection for years.

Here Rickey and I are during one of our intimate tête à têtes:

Five-year-old Eleni immortalized our love through art.

In digging through my boxes of mementos just now, I’m surprised at the quantity of Rickey-memorabilia.

I should point out that this was not an affair of the mind, a fact that was especially apparent when I had the chance finally to meet and interview him in the late-’80s or so. My friend Kathy McAnally, longtime radio feature producer and trailblazing sports reporter (who died in 2006 and whom all her friends continue to miss) arranged the encounter, but with a warning: “My reputation is at stake,” she admonished. “Behave yourself!”

I did, throughout the whole 45 minutes I had him in a room to myself. Gazing at him in the flesh was divine. Talking with him? Well… I didn’t find a whole lot of “there there.” Just an ego even more massive than his considerable accomplishments on the field. After our conversation, he scrawled out his phone number.

“Call me,” he said. I did, a few days later. His answering machine message said, “Hi. This is Rickey. Leave a message.” (I probably have a cassette recording of it somewhere.) I left a message, but I guess he hasn’t had a chance to call me back yet.

In the early ’90s, his mother and I became fast friends for the entire 15 seconds we were near each other in the same room.

I’ll start reading Rickey as Molly and I wing eastward to see Small tomorrow. But I fear the book will bore me within ten pages. Which is too bad, because this journey could be long and nasty and I’ll need distractions. Airline experts warn of massive delays and cancellations this weekend on account of extraordinary numbers of holiday travelers, possible pilot strikes, and Covid-caused staff shortages. Oh, and our airline sent an e-mail warning of severe weather in the Northeast that will have enough impact that they’re letting people change their reservations for free. (We don’t have that flexibility, though. Our schedule is unchanged.)

You know what I wish? I wish I were easy-going, and accepting of life’s obstacles, adversities and frustrations. But no. Panicked impatience is my go-to state. I’m not proud of it, but there it is. Fingers crossed that tomorrow doesn’t suck too bad.

Before I go I’ll show you what Ember made in class this week: a spinning top, a birdhouse, and her very own homemade sanding block.

We had a great week together. It’s no secret that she and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye last semester, and by the end of school year she needed (and got) a break. And now, at least for the moment, she’s back to her affectionate, feisty, goofball self. I took the little peanut to our drop-spot in Winters this morning. I’ll miss her, but will see her again in two weeks after I return from visiting Maw in Delaware and camping in Dixie-Fire-devastated Lassen, wildfires permitting.