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Saturday, Jul 4, 2009
At a fundraiser in Oakland, I thanked Sen. Kennedy for all of his good work. Then he looked into my eyes and promised we were going to win.
Oct 27, 2004 | The sky is so beautiful these days, full of clouds and sun, and in the trees down the street as the light fades, the persimmons are almost in full glory. Just when you need it, when the light is fading, the persimmons become as soft and lovely as Japanese lanterns, their light and warmth coming on slowly, rising from the bottom of the fruit. I have been walking to see the persimmon trees every day for a month, as if to a shrine, and this, coupled with some rising polls for Kerry, has so raised my spirits that two weeks ago I began taking $100 bets that Kerry would win next week.
Or rather, I was offering to take $100 bets. No one actually took me up on it. My friends are not a betting people. They are activist worker-bee Birkenstock types. So I decided to take another kind of chance, and take all the last-ditch money I'd planned to donate to various groups, and spend it all on a Democratic fundraising event where Ted Kennedy was to be the guest of honor.
A dear friend of mine, whom I've known for 30 years, got me to sign up for this. I can't really wrap my mind around that last sentence -- Was I even out of school 30 years ago? Was I even born? So let's just say that this nice -- and very familiar -- woman got me to pay a bundle to eat dinner at Oliveto, one of the great restaurants in the Bay Area.
I didn't have the vaguest idea what to expect. I only knew that I had a fabulous white diaphanous lace blouse that I wear to fancy gatherings, and a pair of black silk pants that would fit if I walked a little more. So I did. I took my dog Lily out every afternoon for an hour in the hills, passing the persimmon trees, tracking their changes. At first, the fruit look hard and green, but slowly, shyly, they begin to show their colors. For the longest time, you can only admire them. They are a fruit with beauty, but also severe limitations -- if you pick them too early, they are bitter -- so you have to pay attention, because they are only at their prime very briefly. Then, almost immediately, they are too ripe, gelatinous and wiggly, only edible in the steamed persimmon puddings like my English mother used to serve at Christmas when I was young.
It's not a dessert you see much anymore, and besides, many of the people in my family have gone to the great lefty cabin in heaven, where they hang out and smoke, drink Gallo Hearty Burgundy, and talk about various elections. In the old days, everyone used to gather at our house, because my parents were precinct leaders, for JFK, whom my father resembled, and for Bobby, whom we all adored. And then Teddy, too, for his civil rights and antiwar stances, and for carrying on the lineage.
I felt beautiful when I left for Oakland the night of the event.
I met up with my friend and her husband at Oliveto at about 6:30. The restaurant was exquisitely appointed, beautifully lit, elegant and relaxed and filled to bursting with exuberant, stylish old-time Democrats -- my people. The food, when it arrived, was stunning, fit for a magazine cover.
It was a nightmare.
