Clear communication is the key to precise understanding. Well, sort of. Last week at market amongst the charred redwoods that once provided a bit of a sound and visual barrier between Highway 101 and LBC parking lot, my market neighbor and I had a conversation about iPhones and their electronic relatives.
Being averse to most modern conveniences, excluding indoor plumbing and electricity, my neighbor, Lee, gently pointed out the benefits of such an apparatus. He even accepted a customer’s credit card purchase on his iPhone on behalf of a sale at my table and handed me the cash.
Still, I complained about folks that talk, read, write on their electronic devices, exhibiting symptoms of addiction. It is a fact that direct communication has suffered immensely, even between family members. It definitely has interfered with meetings where a certain city manager in Southern California frustratingly admitted that he will check around the table and often everyone is looking at their own lap, focused on little screens, not on the speaker. Hopefully they are paying attention to evacuation procedures living in blustery, tinder dry California.
Speaking of winds, evacuations and fires, this holiday season is strange and will remain so for some time, as long as friends and communities are homeless. It is odd to buy a Christmas tree when so many could purchase one, but have nowhere to place it. The burnt brush, hillsides and canyons that appear seemingly out of nowhere around a bend; the black twisted rubble still piled where people’s homes and belongings were organized and meaningful, are blunt reminders that not everyone will be home for Christmas this year.
So, with full heart and purpose to introduce a bit of lighthearted normalcy to the season, I give you two little stories.
Story one: Sarah and Renee buy a Christmas tree.
The two of us are the “Tree Committee.” We drive it home in the pickup, locate the tree stand, shove the trunk into the stand, tighten the four screws, open the house doors and carry in the tree. We give it water; affix the lights; let the granddaughters decorate it. Each year they can reach higher and higher so our ornament repositioning diminishes. Easy. Done.
Not this year. “It’s too fat, Mom,” said Sarah.
Indeed, it was. We had observed Joel Kiff over many years work with that situation and we knew what he would do. Saw. So, I sawed a bit here and there.
I don’t know if it was relevant or not, but I was careful not to remove all the bark layer, girding the tree. We had a hog that killed a giant oak early on in our farming experience simply by nibbling around the tree’s trunk for a summer. It seemed sensible to provide the conduit for water to the tree, even for a few weeks.
We kept trying to make it fit but then a different struggle presented itself — the tree stand kept falling apart and a screw that once fit into a hole now didn’t.
We contemplated waiting for help but then a bit more force, a bit more sawing and onto the tree it went — screws and all.
Story two: Precise Texting
My sister, Marty, is a multi-tasking and talented lady. She works iPhones, sewing machines, ceramic pottery wheels, bread baking, crocheting — whatever — as efficiently as can be. Recently, she took an interest in learning how to make jewelry, which involves beading. This latest email exchange had us both in hysterics.
To set the scene: Marty (the beginner) and Barbara (the instructor) are arranging a class time. They have agreed to have a beading class after their ceramics session which will run past noon and hunger will set in.
Marty has cleverly been watching a YouTube video that shows how to make a complicated spiral loop beading procedure.
The emails flow back and forth; someone’s bringing a salad which results in Marty’s email response:
“I’ll bring rolls. I’m practicing making a spiral loop. My teacher does it differently than any of the YouTube videos. Confusing me for something that seems so simple.” She hits the send key.
The response arrives: “Sounds good, Marty — I am sure they will be delicious however they are looped!”
Renee Kiff weeds and writes at her family farm in Alexander Valley.
