About a week ago, I posted this picture to PicShers, the photo-a-day family snapshots blog:
It shows the intersection of California highways 236 and 9 in Boulder Creek, and was taken on November 19th, 2000. Even last week, the 2000 price of gas looked quaintly low.
This picture was taken a couple of hours ago, from about the same spot:
The gas station has changed companies, and the price board isn't quite so bold about its contents, but if you look closer...
... you'll see that the price per gallon of regular is now three cents less than it was eight years ago.
While that's nice in an obvious way, it's also unsettling. I may just be Joe the Astronomer, not Tito the Economist, but even I can figure out that when the price of such a crucial commodity as gasoline goes through precipitous swings -- in either direction -- it's probably an indicator of a sick economy.
On the bright side, though, I filled the Jeep's tank for less than 30 bucks, and the guy across the street by Johnnie's Market was having a great time with his dog.
Update, December 6, nine days later: the price is down to $1.769. That's a decline of more than two cents a day. At this rate, clearly not sustainable, we'll be down to the magic price of 45 cents a gallon in two months. (That's a "magic price" because, at that point, gas itself is essentially free, since 45 cents per gallon here is for various taxes, so the price per gallon cannot go below that.) This isn't a price fall, it's a collapse. Weird.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Today was one of those extra-special ordinary days, one on which a number of us gathered at Adrianne and Grace's house for a Sunday get-together. The weather was a little odd, as befits some of us, but in a good way (doubling the befitting): unseasonably warm. Temperatures in the high 70's with a low sun angle at midday made for an almost dreamlike environment.
The youngest generation had a ball.
The youngest generation had a ball.
Adam was the main cook for today's gathering, having prepared his extra-special lasagne (and a pot of veggie tortellini) to heat up in Adrianne's kitchen.
A-feasting. Adam and Doug's sister Reva (at left) gave a wonderful toast that included the ones who can't be with us again except in memory. Not everyone is in this photo; a few of the guys were inside, marveling at a miracle unfolding on TV: the 49ers scoring 35 points against an actual NFL team.
"Normal" means something different than it used to for this family, but it's starting to feel okay to me now.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
(With apologies to Mojo el Jefe for appropriating his posts' title format.)
This is a big part of the reason we put up with them. Within just a few minutes this afternoon:
UPS delivers new nesting materials to Al. It looks like his nephew, Cooper, is about to push him off the bed once he gets all nice and comfy, though.
Friday, November 7, 2008
... and Most of the Players Are Still Alive.
That most of them are still above ground surprises me a little bit, since the game was played 50 years ago, on September 19, 1958.
(The illustrations in this post are smaller than usual because they are links to much larger and more detailed images in Flickr. Please click on them to see them as I intend them to be viewed. Thanks.)
Yankee Stadium, After the Game of September 19th, 1958
It was the only major-league game Dad and I ever attended together, and the first one I ever saw in person, so it holds a special place in my memory. I doubt that any of the living players remember it at all, though. It was very late in the season, both teams were insurmountably behind the White Sox for the American League title (in those days there were no "playoffs" -- you either won your league or you didn't), and they were just playing out the schedule because, well, that's what you do. But you do it fast; the game took less than two hours (today, a typical major-league game takes about three hours to complete.)
The inconsequential nature of that particular game is probably why Dad and I were able to attend. Dad hated the Yankees, so he sure as heck wasn't going to pay for his own tickets and travel all the way to New York City (which he also detested) to see them. We had a perfectly good minor-league team to go watch, too: the Binghamton Triplets*, just 40 miles down the Chenango Valley from our home outside Norwich, so why go to all that extra effort and expense, anyway? The company he worked for had a couple of season tickets to Yankees' games. The Yankees of that era were almost always in first place (a big reason why Dad didn't like them), so the corporate tickets were usually spoken for all year -- but not in '59, so Dad grabbed the languishing ones for Saturday, September 19th.
Watching Batting Practice from our Loge Perch
What I remember most clearly about the day was, oddly, our welcome at our seats. The seats were on the loge level (a narrow deck between the lower- and second-decks in old Yankee Stadium), with office-style chairs (not fixed to the floor) and a writing surface for keeping score or for resting hot dogs and drinks -- they were like desk seats. A very suave, tall, black usher greeted us at our seats, and whisked a dustcloth over the chairs. He said, "Welcome to Yankee Stadium" in a somber tone... with his palm outstretched in Dad's direction. I didn't notice that latter part, and was awed by the ceremony. I was twelve years old.
Dad was so caught up in the game in front of him that he didn't take any pictures during the action itself. This picture...
Dragging the Infield Between Innings... is as close to an action shot as I can find in his slides. Too bad -- four players saw action in that game who eventually would be inducted into the Hall of Fame. Yogi Berra and Mickey Mantle started at catcher and center field for the Yanks, Whitey Ford (whose fluid, powerful, left-handed form I still remember with snapping clarity) was their starting pitcher, and Ted Williams, at the end of his penultimate season, pinch-hit for the Sox late in the game. I don't remember that Teddy Ballgame grounded into a double play; I do remember his stroll from the dugout to the plate and the goosebumps on the back of my young neck as he approached the batter's box.
Dad took one more picture after the game was over:
Postgame fans' stroll.
After the game, fans were allowed to stroll on the field (except for the infield area, which you can see being politely guarded by red-jacketed ushers.) After posting this quartet on Flickr, and including them in a couple of NYC groups, I was astonished at the level of viewing they garnered. This shot, in particular, provoked responses from folks much younger than me. For example:
Baseball looks so much more interesting way back when. I suspect that just being able to walk on the field gave fans a connectedness to the game, the stadium and their team.
Nowadays, we have to rebuild stadiums so that rich people can have more skyboxes, security will barely let people move around and we have far too many whiny overpaid yet underperforming athletes.
... and ...
No way teams would let their fans do this anymore :( :( . . Too many security concerns, issues with messing up the grass, etc. . . . That would've been cool to do once
... and ...
Its sad that this era is gone.
I did a Yankee Stadium tour 2 weeks ago, and while we got to walk the warning track, we were not allowed to step foot on (or even touch) the grass on the field. The stadium is closed - there will never be another baseball game there, and yet STILL - a "regular guy" like me was not allowed to touch the grass. That in and of it self is contrary to what baseball used to be about. Its gone from being one of the most accessible and inclusive sports to being one that caters to the exclusive who can afford it - "access" for a price.
As "chocolatepoint" noted, the connection between the players and their fans has been broken. I don't know when it happened, precisely, but I know it was after 1964. I know that because, in April of that year, Dad and I went to see a spring training game while we were on vacation in Florida. The game was in Daytona Beach, and the teams -- "barnstorming" out of their Florida headquarters elsewhere -- were the Kansas City Athletics and the Houston Colt .45s (later the Astros.) We sat close to the plate, and chatted with the players exactly as we did with the people sitting next to us in the stands: comfortably, without any sense of separation, physically, economically, or otherwise. Two players, both near the end of stellar careers, who I remember talking to were:
Nellie Fox (closing it out with the .45s) and...
Rocky Colavito (ditto with the A's.)
Adam, my son, it was a different time, one in which the players were more like their fans. But it was the same for fathers and sons then, a game you either got or you didn't, and if you did, it was a bond that surpassed time. Really, really strange, when you think about it.
Doug, Adam, and Me at a Baseball Game, San Francisco, Summer 2001.
*I loved going to Triplets games, by the way, and followed several of their players through their careers after Binghamton. One of them was Alphonso Downing, a pitcher who later gave up Henry Aaron's Ruth-surpassing 715th home run; another was Deron Johnson, a big lug who could hit a baseball farther than you could launch it with a bazooka -- but just not very often.