Unexpected guest

Alzheimer's came to my door last night, and I let her in.

She was wearing pink flowered pajamas topped by a green V-neck sweater. She was standing at the end of my driveway, after ringing the doorbell at 1:30 a.m. From a distance, her blondish page boy hair reminded me of a friend.

"Pat?" I asked from the doorway.

"No," the woman replied, turning toward me, but remaining at the end of the drive. I walked out to meet her, tugging my bathrobe close against the cold.

She was frail, much shorter than my friend Pat, maybe five-foot-two. She said she'd been driving a friend home and had gotten confused. Her car had run out of gas and she'd been walking for a while around trying to find her way home.

I said we'd figure it out and led her inside. She said her feet were cold. I looked down and saw she was barefoot. I sat her down in the family room and went to get her a pair of socks -- a pair of thick, warm woolen ones. As she slowly tugged them on, I asked if her car was nearby. She didn't know. How about her address? She couldn't tell me. Anyone we could call to help? No answer. Her name? That she could tell me, so I looked her up in the phone book and found she lived just three blocks away.

My husband and I took her out to the car and drove a few blocks, then started looking for her address. She gave no sign of recognition, no "That's my house!" I got out with a flashlight so I could read the house numbers. According to the phone book, this was her house. There was one light on inside. I tried the door. Locked. I rang the bell. No response. A car parked on the street directly in front of the house was also locked.

I went back to the car. She was still sitting quietly in the back seat. What next?

"I think we should take her to the emergency room," my husband said. It was either that or call the police.

The emergency area was quiet. I asked her to take a seat in the waiting area while I talked to the admittance clerk, who had a hard time figuring out our relationship.

"No, I'm not related," I told him. "I think she lives in my neighborhood, but never met her until she rang my doorbell about half an hour ago."

Another young man -- a nurse, a doctor? -- came out and asked her some questions. Did she know what day of the week it was? Could she give him the name of a family member to call? Did she know what year it was? No, no and no.

"How old are you?" the young man asked.

"Umm ... 28?" she responded.

"I don't think so," he said. "I think we need to admit you."

She followed him without protest into the hospital, and my husband and I drove home.

iPhone envy

Just got a call from my hubby. He's in downtown SF and apparently his car got towed. Bummer!

What next? Is there a BART station nearby? How do you find if your vehicle's been towed ... or stolen? And how do you get it back?

It just took me one Google search and a couple of clicks to find out. Called the SFPD number listed ... yup, it was towed. Got the details, called him back, told him where to go (so to speak).

But I couldn't help thinking ... if he'd had an iPhone, he could have sorted it out without my help.

Yes, I want one! I'll be so glad when my current phone contract expires!

Tags: iPhone, Google, SFPD, towed

A Grandin suprise

Reading a Philly Inquirer article about Temple Grandin this morning reminded me of my own favorite Temple Grandin story.

Grandin, who is autistic, is a professor of animal science at Colorado State University and noted livestock industry consultant. She is also the author of several books on livestock handling, animal welfare and autism, and an autism advocate. I first met Grandin in the mid-'80s, when she was beginning to become known in the livestock industry.

It was the summer of 1987, as I recall, and I working at the Livestock Industry Congress, an annual conference put on by my employer, Livestock Marketing Association. I'd helped develop the conference program and recruited most of the speakers, including Temple Grandin, who was scheduled to speak on livestock handling, and Ellen Haas, then executive director of Public Voice for Food and Health Policy, representing consumer concerns.

It was an ambitious program for its target audience of leaders in the livestock and meat industry, most of whom had little awareness of (or interest in) the budding animal welfare and consumer movements.

The late Orville Sweet, then president of the National Pork Producers Association, opened the program by bringing out two big cartons full of postcards proclaiming bacon and eggs as the "breakfast of cruelty." The postcards, all sent to the NPPA, were part of a campaign against factory farming organized by PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals). PETA had also helped organize the animal rights protest that was going on outside the conference hall that morning.

Haas and Grandin were up next, with Haas speaking first. She was interrupted almost immediately by an animal rights protester who marched up to the stage, shouting, and took over the microphone. After a couple minutes, someone thought to turn off the microphone, and an security guard asked the protester to leave. She did, and Haas resumed her talk.

Then it was Grandin's turn to speak. Instead of stepping up to the microphone, she strode over to the cartons of postcards, still sitting at the side of the stage, grabbed one and upended it while turning toward the audience. Postcards spewed in an arc across the stage, some showering over the edge to land at the feet of the people in the front row. No one moved. All eyes were on Grandin, astonished, wondering what she'd do next.

What she did was proceed to tell the group, in no uncertain terms, that they needed to clean up their act when it came to livestock handling and production -- or they could expect to see a lot more animal rights protests. I like to think that speech helped launch her career.

Afterewards, some conference attendees told me they thought we'd choreographed the whole thing just to get their attention. I didn't need to choreograph it ... not with Grandin as a speaker.

Now, Grandin's story is headed for a larger stage. HBO is making a movie about her, starring one of my favorite actresses, Claire Danes. I can't wait.

Tags: Temple Grandin, animal welfare, livestock industry, HBO, LMA

Death on wings

I saw death this morning...just a glimpse, through my kitchen window.

Picture me in my bathrobe (light blue cotton), around 8 a.m., passing through the kitchen on my way back to the sofa and my laptop. I hear three sharp cries of distress through the slightly open kitchen window. I turn and see a flash of hawk ascending from dense shrubs bordering my front yard. It is rising skyward with something clutched in its sharp talons. Then it is gone.

I figure it must have nabbed a quail.

It's been a tough month for the neighborhood coveys of California Quail. Just last week, I was sitting on my sofa when I heard a clamor of quail in the back yard, followed by a mysterious thud. I got up to investigate.

As I stepped out onto the back deck, I was startled to see a hawk take off from the deck railing. At the same time, several quail burst out of their hiding places and buzzed off to find better cover. Another dull thud. I looked around, puzzled, then realized what that sound probably was -- panicked quail smacking into the picture windows overlooking our backyard.

I walked over to the windows and looked under the shrubs that border the foundation. Sure enough, a quail lay on the ground. Dull gray-brown feathers and a small plume -- a female. It made no move to get away, so I reached down and picked it up. Its head lolled, its eyes closed, its feet gave a little twitch. Then it was still.

I set it back on the ground and looked a little further. Yes, there was another one, a juvenile, lying on the ground behind the shrub. Clearly stunned, but still alive. When it saw me, it took off, a short dash followed by an unsteady hop of a flight that took it back onto the deck. I watched and waited quietly, not wanting to scare it off again. It sat on the bench for several minutes before flying up into one of the trees beside our house.

I picked up the dead quail again, and carried it over to the deck. I laid it gently atop the railing, a kind of peace offering to hawks, before going inside. The next morning, it was still there. Maybe hawks can't see quail unless they're in motion, or maybe they don't like them already dead.

The following morning, I noticed it was gone. I hoped perhaps a hawk had carried it off, but no. When I looked, I saw it had been blown off the railing onto the ground. The ants had already found it. In a few days, nothing would be left but bones and feathers.

Leaving caution behind

Halfway to campus, something got stuck.

Bong, bong. "Caution, the doors are about to close."
Bong, bong. "Caution, the doors are about to close."

Finally, the train rolled out of Palo Alto station, with the auto voice still chanting.

Bong, bong. "Caution, the doors are about to close."
Bong, bong. "Caution, the doors are about to close."

All the way to San Jose.

A conductor rushed to the intersection between the two front cars, where the auto voice was on overload. He tinkered. He poked. No change.

Bong, bong. "Caution, the doors are about to close."
Bong, bong. "Caution, the doors are about to close."

Another conductor arrived. More tinkering. Some banging. No change.

Bong, bong. "Caution, the doors are about to close."
Bong, bong. "Caution, the doors are about to close."

Finally, they gave up.

As we rolled into San Jose Diridon Station, I think we were all ready to leave "caution" behind. Maybe even throw caution to the wind.

Graveyard humor

Earlier this summer, I visited Sydney, Nova Scotia, and toured St. Patrick's Church Museum. Built in 1828, this small stone church is the oldest Roman Catholic Church still standing on Cape Breton Island.

As I stood in the center of the church, docent John A. told me church about its founder, the Reverend Henry McKeagney. When he died, John said, the Reverend was buried in a small graveyard right behind the church. But when a small church addition was built, his grave had to be moved.

Where to, I inquired?

You're standing on him, John replied.

Eew!

John just smiled. We walked over to the small side annex. Turning, he pointed to a large square of new floorboards in the center of the church. That's how they got into the basement when they needed to install a furnace, he said.

But they found a surprise down there...several more graves that had to be relocated.

"Where?" I asked, right on cue.

John smiled at me and said, "You're standing on them."

Yeah, he got me again.

Visiting Le Jardin Botanique

If you're not into flowers, if you're not a gardener -- you might just want to stop now. This post is about my visit to le Jardin Botanique de Montreal.

I went there hoping to see some of the things I miss growing in the Bay Area, where it's not cold enough for lilacs and peonies. I don't miss winter, but I do miss some of the favorite blooms of my youth.

In turns out I also missed most of the lilacs: it was too late in the season, and too late in day for much fragrance from those few still left in bloom. But the iris and peonies were in full bloom. And, oh my, what peonies! I'd never seen yellow peonies before and these were enormous, luscious blooms, some with contrasting reddish centers. Beds and beds of peonies, in maroon, red, rose, coral, pink and white...peonies to die for!

In the rose garden, most of the hybrid teas still looked scraggly: clumps of leafed-out sticks with fat buds promising harlot blooms in another month or so. But my favorites -- the antiques and the David Austin roses -- were blooming. Austin's Mary Rose was pretty in pink, lush and fragrant, much better than she ever looked in my former garden in Tennessee, where blackspot and mildew took its toll.

After two hours of wandering through the gardens, I was footsore and weary and headed for the exit. On my way out, I asked a garden official in a passing golf cart for the location of the nearest recycling bin, so I could unload my soda bottle before heading to the Metro station. We chatted a moment, and I mentioned my disappointment at missing the lilacs. He asked if I'd seen the rhododendrons. No, I replied, they were a little too far out for me to walk to today. "I could get you there in five minutes," he said.

How could I refuse? It turned out that my "chauffeur," Pierre Paradise, is head of security at the garden. And he was right -- the rhodos were worth a trip.

A stroke of insight

My mother's brain is being eaten away by Alzheimer's. That's one reason why I found this video of brain researcher Jill Bolte Taylor so fascinating. But not the only reason.

Taylor had a massive stroke and lived to tell about it. The experience gave her new insight into how our brains function, and into that place in the brain's right hemisphere that she calls "nirvana."

The video, posted on ted.com, is titled My Stroke of Insight.

TED, which stands for Technology, Entertainment and Design, is a nonprofit foundation that works to spread great ideas.

"There is no greater force for changing the world than a powerful idea."

DASHing through San Jose

We know something's amiss when the driver of DASH shuttle #7018 makes an unscheduled stop at Third and San Carlos. Sometimes they'll pull over between stops if someone flags them down. But there was no one waiting at the corner that we could see.

The driver turns off the engine, grabs a briefcase, mumbles something about being just a minute, and gets out. He trots across the street, pausing a moment on the median strip for a couple of cars to pass, leaving us sitting in the dark. It's 5:43 p.m.

"Where's he going?" one passenger asks.

"You think he's going for a burger?" another asks, pointing to the McDonald's across the street.

"He can't be going to McDonald's, can he?"

"If he goes to the drive-up window, I'm gonna report him."

As we watch, the driver goes inside McD's.

"Maybe he's asking for the bathroom key," someone suggests.

"I can see him," says the woman in the front seat. "He's standing by the register."

"I can't believe this," another passenger says.

"We're not going to make the six 'o clock train," says a man, shaking his head.

We sat quietly in the darkened bus for a bit, then someone says, "We should report him to the VTA."

"Yeah," says another passenger, grabbing a VTA brochure from the rack behind the driver's seat. She finds the VTA's phone number, pulls out her cell phone, dials 321-2300, presses a few buttons, waits. "All I'm getting is a recording," she says.

"Here he comes!" the front seat passenger cries out.

"Look, he's got a McDonald's bag in his hand!"

"Forget it," says the phone woman, hanging up. "I'll call from the train station."

All eyes follow the driver as he crosses the McD's parking lot and pauses at the crosswalk, waiting for the "walk" signal. He's a big burly guy, top-heavy, with skinny shanks. We can tell because he's wearing shorts.

"Do you think he'll say anything?"

"What do you think we should we say?"

"Maybe we should ask him if he brought us anything."

"Let's wait and see what he says."

The light changes. The driver crosses the street, walks alongside the shuttle and opens the driver's side door. He climbs in, puts his burger bag on the dash, stows his briefcase beside his seat, starts the van and pulls out. Not a word is said. It's 5:50 p.m.

"Do you think we'll make the six-o-five train?" one brave soul asks.

"Should be there in five or six minutes," the driver mumbles.

We look at each other, shake our heads. Not likely. It's gonna be close.

We're moving fast down San Carlos; the shuttle bus rattles and shakes. We pass the next two stops, then the driver hits the brakes. A book bag slides off a seat and hits the floor with a thud.

"Oh, Almaden," the driver says. He cranks the wheel hard to the right and hits the gas. The shuttle lurches onto Almaden Boulevard.

A couple more stops, another set of lights, and we're almost at the train station. We bounce along, zipping past another DASH shuttle that's stopping at the Light Rail station at Delmas and San Fernando.

When we reach Diridon Station, our path is partially blocked by a badly parked VTA bus. Its electronic readout flashes "out of service."

Our driver grumbles. "What's wrong with them...?" He stops, backs up a bit, turns the wheel hard, and squeezes by the darkened bus. He stops the shuttle at the regular drop-off spot, and pops open the door.

It's 6 p.m. and we rush to get off. We walk quickly through the train station, some pausing to purchase or punch a ticket on the way to the platform. One train is waiting, doors open...no, that's the 6:25 Baby Bullet.

A moment later, we see a headlight approaching from the south -- it's the 6:05 train. We made it.