Author: punchwpadmin

Words by Sloane Citron

The Citron family group text was rife with stories of the T-Ball heroics of one of our youngest members, Theodore Solomon Leonard, or Teddy. Home runs of unimaginable distances, T-Ball coaches telling their players to “back up, back up” and parents beaming with pride.

Since he lives a bit of distance from me, getting to one of his games was not as easy as with my other grandkids. It had to be planned. My daughter told me that Teddy’s last game was scheduled for a Sunday in mid-November, and I put it, underlined twice, into my appointment book.

In the meantime, I was undergoing a procedure on my kidneys and was waiting patiently for the doctor to tell me when he was going to operate. Kidney stones run in our family, with one daughter and one son both needing surgery to deal with them.

Over the past few years, I’ve noticed intermittent kidney pain, a slight dull ache in my lower sides and back. But I didn’t bother with it. At my physical this year, they found some “invisible” blood in my urine. After some other testing, a CAT scan showed two large stones, a 12-centimeter one in my left kidney and a 11-centimeter one in the right kidney.

My doctor told me that if it were him, he would get them removed to avoid the problems of stones that size trying to leave my body. I went with that.

After I awoke from my operation, my doctor told me that, unfortunately, my left ureter was twisted and that while they were able to successfully remove the other stone, they had to put in a stent to straighten the tube to allow the instruments to go up into my kidney. The next surgery would be several weeks out. Frankly, the horribleness of those weeks with two stents (one was in there for the other kidney, which normally would have come out after a few days) was something I would not opt to go through again.

Finally, the clinic called and said my surgery date was on a Thursday, just two days before Teddy’s last game. I decided to just go with the flow, and I kept my airline reservation for Friday morning. I got up the next morning after the surgery and Ubered to the airport, determined to watch Teddy play ball. I made it just fine.

Finally, it was time for the last game and Teddy was ready to swing. The location was magnificent, with permanent T-Ball and coach-pitch fields, and real fences in the outfield, not that temporary stuff. Teddy’s team took the field first and then batted in the bottom of the inning. Up seventh (everyone bats) Teddy geared up and smashed a line drive that settled at the bottom of the left field fence. No home run but a great swing that cleared the bases.

The next inning, Teddy approached the plate with the goal of knocking it out of the park. Opposing coaches yelled, “Get back! Get back! He can hit it!” This alone filled me with pride. Teddy again punished the ball, but it landed at the bottom of the right field fence without going over. A minute later, the game was over. “What?” I said. “Only two innings?”

Yes, that was it, two innings and done. Teddy looked a bit dejected, but he has a good attitude, and no one said a word except “Great game!” and “Great hitting!” Of course, we didn’t care if he hit a home run or not. But after everyone had left, Teddy’s dad asked his boy if he wanted to practice hitting some balls. So, Teddy got up and crushed a few balls, again with none going over the fence.

Finally, on the last ball, Teddy smashed it high and far. All eyes were on that ball. It flew into the blue sky, and we were all urging it on. Would it make it? We held our breath, waiting. Finally, the ball started descending and landed about four feet short of the fence but then (!) bounced over. Technically, it was a ground rule double and it wasn’t even hit in an actual game. But it made no difference.

“Home run! Home run!” Teddy screamed as he went around the bases. We cheered. “I hit it out for you, Saba!” he called to me. Hand in hand, we crowded back to the car, happy faces filled with pride, and headed straight to the local ice cream shop to celebrate.

Words by Sloane Citron

Each year, I go to my hometown of Amarillo, Texas, so that I can see regular life in these United States. On my recent trip, gas was $2.79 per gallon, and if you signed up for the gas card you could get it down to $2.59. There’s a start for you.

I flew into Denver to spend the night at my brother Dan’s (he is a doctor there). Next morning, we got up early and started our road trip south, driving through Colorado Springs with the Rockies as the backdrop, then into New Mexico with its Southwest pines and rough terrain, before the final stretch into Big A. It’s an easy seven hours with a couple of stops to use the bathroom and get some bad food. We bring CDs but mostly keep the sound off so we can talk—that’s the true beauty of being on the road together.

We have a dear, lifelong family friend, Trudy Klingensmith, who has a simple, ramshackle cabin that her parents built 70 years ago in the Palo Duro Club, just south of Amarillo. The views change throughout the day but are always captivating. The club is in an offshoot of the Palo Duro Canyon, the second largest canyon in the United States, spectacular to traverse and fascinating to read about. You probably haven’t heard of it, but it’s worth the trip.

We sit on Trudy’s large porch overlooking a gently flowing creek, high above golden fields with hills beyond. We watch for green herons, turkey vultures and assorted ducks. We walk along dusty roads hunting for arrowheads and fire-cracked rocks from the Comanches and Cheyenne who roamed this canyon for thousands of years. Life takes on its own flavor here, wonderfully free from the world’s distractions.

I take a break from the cabin and spend a day with one of my oldest, dearest friends, Mike, who stayed in Amarillo to run the printing company his parents established. Mike has the beginnings of early dementia, and I wanted to reassure him that I was there for him. We always play golf, both having grown up with the sport. In Amarillo, it’s easy to belong to a country club and Mike still does.

For many years, we had been playing the “new course” at Tascosa Country Club since it’s easier to get a starting time there than at the old course. But what I really wanted was to play the original course, the one that I had played hundreds of times since I was about five years old. This time we got lucky: the night before it had rained heavily, and it was overcast when we showed up the next morning. I pleaded my case to the starter (my father was one of the original founders of the club since Amarillo Country Club did not allow Catholics, Jews or Blacks) and he got us right on.

Mike might be forgetting some names and thoughts, but he is all there on the fairways. As I like to do, we played scramble golf where we work as a team rather than against each other. The course, while still mostly as I had recalled it, had been changed.

They cut down about half the trees and made the course easier. And the fairways and greens were in much better shape than I remembered. The most significant thing was that there were now homes lining every hole, displacing the challenging rough that was once was filled with yucca plants, rocks and foot-high tumbleweeds. I felt as if I was playing down a street of some new suburban home development.

We played well, Mike outdriving me down the middle of the fairways on most holes and I putting it on the green in regulation. My putter (borrowed, of course) was on fire and I made about six putts over 15 feet. Together, we played a solid round.

After we played, we headed to the club’s fine restaurant and sat down for conversation and food. We have lots to say to each other, though much goes unsaid because neither of us are big talkers. But being side by side, like we have been since about 1968, was all that mattered. I love the guy.

Mike kept telling me how important it was that we spend the day together since he’s not been getting out with friends as often. But he’s still at it: he’s helping run the ranch he and his wife own; still doing his part at the shop; and still buying old cars (barn finds) that he encounters. He’s moving straight forward, though with changes looming.

The next day, Dan, Trudy and I enjoyed some spectacular views from the porch, with wonderful conversations about all our old Amarillo friends. (“Now didn’t his son go to UT? I believe he’s a vet in Dallas now.”) The next day, reluctantly, Dan and I packed it up and drove to Denver, back into the reality of our worlds.

Amarillo is important to me. It’s a unique, somewhat beautiful small city of 200,000 where everyone seems to be connected. I like tracing my childhood life while I am there, by way of my old schools, homes and people. There is a continuity in my old hometown. But, of course, nothing stays the same.

The golf course is changing. Mike’s changing. I’m changing. Together.

Words by Sloane Citron

Growing up in Amarillo, Texas, my family’s Hanukkah celebrations were subdued and uneventful. We would light the candles without much fanfare, and I was given one gift from my grandmother and one from my parents. Usually, my grandmother gave me something of substance, like a bicycle or a musical instrument. She was always good for something up to $75, which would be a large number in today’s money. She was a generous woman, not just with her family but with everyone, and I learned from her.

When I had my own family of four children, I felt compelled to give them the full treatment. There are several prayers and songs that accompany the lighting of the eight candles (one candle the first night leading to eight on the last night), so doing the liturgy and songs every night is the best way for children to learn them.

Besides the poetic experience of lighting the candles, I felt compelled to provide plenty of materialistic things for my children. In what would seem an effort to make up for the muted holidays of my youth, I decided to shower my kids with delight. So, I took on the responsibility of finding eight presents for each child, a total of 32 gifts.

On the face of it, this seems like a ridiculous idea. But I was committed and so I set about doing the best job that I possibly could—these were my kids after all.

The first step was to get each of them things I knew that they wanted, from a telescope to a party dress to flying lessons. Each child was unique with very different interests and desires. Finding four such presents made a good start.

But that hardly covered the goal of getting them each eight gifts. I would wander the aisles of Target and the stores at Stanford Shopping Center looking for presents I thought they might like. I would usually find a few choice things this way, narrowing down the number left to find.

Some of the gifts were truly small gestures, though not quite as bad as giving them an orange, like in days past. I would go to local bookstores and buy up a dozen books, maybe head over to Big 5 for some baseballs or hats or sunglasses. Eventually, the job got done.

Each night of Hanukkah we would summon all the kids (and often their friends) into our kitchen. We would gather around the large island where we had placed all of our Hanukkiahs (eight-branched menorahs), a collection that continually grew as we found new ones that we liked. We would place tin foil below each of them to keep the wax from spilling all over the granite surface. Then we would turn off all the lights and, in the darkness, we would find the magic of the holiday.

As the prayers and songs were recited, we slowly lit the candle the first night, adding one more each night. By the fourth day, the Hanukkiahs shone brightly, and the room was filled with the flickering light of the candles. It was wondrous to watch my children open their gifts each night, the quiet light illuminating their efforts to unwrap them.

A book didn’t get the same response as a new baseball glove, but the kids were always grateful and happy. After the gifts were opened and the wrapping paper lay strewn across our kitchen floor, we would have a delicious family dinner with latkes, applesauce and sour cream. After the meal, the kids would play dreidel with golden foil-covered chocolate coins.

Today, life is different. My children now have children of their own, blossoming into a group of 14, with more little ones expected to join our tribe in 2025. And, of course, these grown-up kids have their own homes and are eager to celebrate Hanukkah there, diligently teaching their children the prayers and songs we taught them.

There is no way to get them all eight gifts each, since that would be 112 presents. I think I’d need to hire an assistant for that chore. Instead, I do my best to find one gift for each of them.

We all get together in our family home for at least one of the nights, and it is a true joy to see the new additions singing the prayers and songs with a gusto that I certainly didn’t have at that age. And, with the lights out and the room dark, there’s happiness in my heart as I watch them, just as I had watched their parents, open their gifts against the dim light of the briskly burning candles.

Happy Christmas and Hanukkah to you and your family.

Words by Sloane Citron

I’ve learned to grab any chance at family, memories and happiness. So when my son Josh and his wife Adara asked if I could possibly pick up my grandson, Evan, from golf camp and entertain him for a few days, I jumped at the opportunity.

At five years old, Evan is the eldest of my seven grandchildren and we’re good pals. Like all the other kids, he calls me Saba, Hebrew for grandfather.
Evan had golf camp every day for a week, starting at 8:30 in the morning and ending at 12:30. My job for three consecutive days was to pick him up, feed him lunch, entertain him and get him home safely by 5:30. My little guy loves golf and for a five-year-old, he’s pretty good. Josh and I take him to play—either at the driving range or on a course—and he hangs in there.

On our first day, I picked him up at 12:30 sharp. With no real plan in mind, we headed over the hill straight for Half Moon Bay’s Main Street. We landed at Johnny’s, a friendly local restaurant, where we got egg salad sandwiches and fries. Always fries.

We wandered along the street and went into some interesting shops. In one of them, Evan found small ceramic turtles that he pined for, but I wrangled him out of the shop while promising him that I’d consider coming back for them.

Then we headed to the Pillar Point Harbor, where we wandered down the pier. Though the fishing boats were done for the day, we still meandered about, and I explained to Evan about the anchors, nets, cages and other stuff generally found on these boats. We also caught sight of several seals, and, of course, Evan wanted to feed them.

We ran into a grizzly old fisherman with unkempt hair carrying a 12-pack of beer and I stopped him. The three of us had a good conversation about the world of commercial fishing. I tried to insinuate that we would like to see his boat, but no invitation was forthcoming. I kicked myself afterward for not asking him directly, because I think he would have said yes.

Afterward, we returned to downtown Half Moon Bay to buy the small ceramic turtles that Evan had coveted (also, he insisted, for his sister Mara). It’s hard for me to say no to his sweet requests. After that, I returned him home and got back to my house, a bit worn out from our full afternoon.

The next day, we decided to have lunch at the golf course restaurant, a somewhat run-down place that has seen better times. Evan had his favorite rice with teriyaki sauce. Afterward, we headed south for 30 minutes to Hidden Villa to see what we could see. We wandered through the ramshackle place, petting goats and sheep and trying to catch lizards. We had great fun and Evan sat down on one of the benches to share some of his favorite riddles.

When he tells them with his lisp (as I, “Thloane Thitron,” once had), he’s just so darn cute. The best one was, “What is wobbly and in the sky?” I asked Evan for the answer. He quietly said, “A jellycopter” and we both laughed. He kept telling jokes until he had run out and started making up ones that made no sense. Finally, it was time to head for home, another wonderful adventure down.

Friday was our last day. Despite my efforts to convince him otherwise, he wanted to have lunch again at the golf course restaurant. We ordered a repeat of the day before, but the waitress came out and told us they were out of rice. It’s that kind of place. In exchange, the cook said that he would serve us scrambled eggs, hashbrowns and toast, which I had tried to order the day before but was refused since it was after noon. Evan is a good eater and never needs cajoling into finishing a meal. But he is not quick, so we were there a good hour while my little grandson finished off his entire plate.

From there we headed up north, following a route that only Waze could create, to the Fitzgerald Marine Preserve. Though I knew it was the wrong time to visit because the tide would be high, we still had a great time. We played in the small streams, jumped rocks, looked at far-off seals and studied shells. Evan is cautious but did great at navigating the rocks in the streams of water. “Saba, slow and steady wins the race,” he told me more than once.

We saw hiking trails, so we headed up into the forested area next to the tidepools. It was inspiring being within the canopy of the large, beautiful trees. With no one else there, it was our magic forest, and Evan kept exclaiming, “Saba, this is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.” And he might have been correct.

My three afternoons with Evan were a singular treat, adventures that we’ll remember. And they solidly met my criteria of family, memories and happiness. When I dropped Evan off after the last of our three days of hanging out, neither of us wanted it to end. Evan kept saying, “Saba, don’t leave.” But with a heart filled with joy, I climbed into my car, knowing our next playdate was just around the corner.

Words by Sloane Citron

When we started PUNCH some six years ago, the first task on my list was finding office space. We didn’t need much room, but it needed to feel bright and cheerful and be in Menlo Park, since that’s where I live. Hunting for office space—and with it, the overall thrill of a new launch—is invigorating.

I’ve had an office in Menlo Park since 1993, so I know the town well. I’m acquainted with its buildings, alleyways and office complexes. I decided that it made sense to roam the city, so I walked the downtown streets and when something looked interesting, I went inside and checked it out. By walking the halls and talking to tenants, I could get a good idea if I might be interested.

I’m picky about my office since that’s where I spend a good third of my time. While I prefer more unique spaces, most of what is available is in typical office buildings. But each space has its nuances: brightness, lighting, layout and overall vibe. The bottom line is that I wanted a space that lifted us up as we walked through its doors and made us feel inspired and creative as we spent our days there.

If something seemed interesting, I made the effort to find out who was in charge and then I rang them up to see if there was a space available, the rate and when it might become vacant. Some had “For Lease” on the side of the building, but many small spaces and offices don’t post anything.

If my memory is correct, I believe I saw the office on Craigslist, despite my hours of wandering around the town.

At the small building on El Camino Real, I met the landlord, and we walked up to the second floor to the office, which was occupied by a fledgling tech startup. Between their mess and the white walls, dirty carpet and the somewhat tired building, I had my doubts. But the layout was perfect, with a larger room in front with a giant skylight and a separate secondary space with large windows looking out over the street.

What really sold me on the office was the wonderful sycamore tree just outside the windows. It brought nature and beauty into the rooms and gave it a unique and positive feel.

Though there was no elevator (ugh, since we always have boxes of magazines to move), there was a perfect niche for storing our issues. The price was right, the location perfect and there was plenty of potential, so I made an offer.

Once the old tenants were gone, we set about making it ours. I asked my designer daughter, Arielle Citron Leonard, what to do and she told me the colors to paint the walls and trim, which carpets to get and what the furniture should look like. In a matter of weeks, it was perfect.

But one of the defining aspects of our office is the tree, what I now think of as our tree. The sycamore is a result of the efforts of a local organization that worked tirelessly to plant them throughout Menlo Park’s El Camino corridor 20+ years ago. We delight in following our tree’s journey though the course of the year. In autumn, the leaves slowly drift away until, suddenly, it is bare. Then in spring, it gradually gains its greenery back until it is once again full.

For the past eight months, there has been a small dead branch that broke off and intertwined with another limb, arresting its descent. It’s dangling by what seems like the tiniest of twigs, in defiance of gravity. Time and the laws of nature will eventually cause it to fall, but every morning we gather to see if the small limb has finally dropped. As I write this, it’s still there.

While I have many issues with the city for ignoring our tired, sad downtown, I’m grateful for the tree. Without question, Menlo Park has the most attractive stretch of El Camino on the Peninsula, all due to the efforts of the “tree people” having the vision to know how these towering gems would make a difference in our lives.

Trees speak to us in a way that man can’t. They give us a sense of comfort and permanence. A sense of protection and endurance. And our solitary tree, brushing up against our office window, swaying with wind, always reliable, comforts us. And we wonder just when that small branch will finally yield to natural forces, as all things must, and flutter to the ground.

Words by Sloane Citron

When I was three years old, my parents moved me from the small room next to their downstairs bedroom to our upstairs. There I shared a rather large room with my brother who was five years older. Danny, being a sweet, kind boy (and a sweet, kind man today) welcomed me into his room without a moment’s hesitation.

In our large Southern-style home in Amarillo, Texas, the upstairs was the province of us children, with two large bedrooms with walk-in closets, a spacious play area and a bathroom for us all to share. Our older sister Shelley had her own room, and Danny and I had the other.

The three of us got along as well then as we do now: in sincere harmony. I, of course, did drive my brother crazy at times, like when he was napping on the playroom couch, and I shot a small cap gun into his ear and scared him half to death. I remember with some clarity Danny chasing me through our home before tackling me and calling me some inhospitable names.

Remarkably, he never threw a punch, which he rightly deserved to do.
Sharing the bathroom was never an issue, partly because Danny and I spent as little time in there as possible. We had to be yelled at by our father to take a shower and we did not spend much time brushing our teeth or hair. Shelley had the bathroom mostly to herself and the drawers were filled with girl stuff. I suppose that made her glad that I wasn’t a girl though I’m sure she had hoped differently when I was born.

Our room had two beds, with carefully matching bedspreads, separated by a small wooden nightstand. Alongside the far wall were two dressers, one cabinet and a desk, all matching. Near the beds was a chaise lounge, perfect for tossing our clothes and other belongings. Next to the foot of my bed was a child’s rocking chair that stayed in place long after I’d outgrown it. Three windows brought in plenty of light and provided great views of our neighborhood.

Underneath the small nightstand was a trash can. Oval, made of metal, it featured a cowboy riding his horse with his six-shooter pulled and ready for action. Behind him were mountains, clouds, yellow turf and a red band at the bottom with western icons.

My brother and I managed to preserve most of the items in that bedroom. Dan has most of the dressers and cabinets, while the small rocking chair and the nightstand ended up with me, along with the trash can, which long ago started showing its age with some rust here and a dent there.

As it just so happens, my boys were not so different from Danny and me. When my son Josh, seven years older than his brother Coby, had the choice to have his own room in the home we were building, he asked if he could share it with his brother. So instead of two small bedrooms, we built one large one.

In that room was the little rocking chair, and the same nightstand between their beds that had separated Danny’s and my beds. And underneath that same nightstand—reminiscent of our 1960s-bedroom set-up—was the slightly beat-up cowboy trash can. I appreciated the resemblance of the room to that of my childhood, even if my sons did not.

I thought having my children at home would be a forever thing, but I was wrong—I guess happily. My boys grew up, moved away and have their own homes—their old room empty and longing. By then, the trashcan had grown a bit wearier, with more rust and more dents after another generation of Citron boys had abused it, whether as a basket for a ball game or from an accidental kicking.

One day, after the boys were long gone—though their room stayed exactly the same—I looked at the poor little trash can, and the cowboy seemed sad. Two generations had given him much enjoyment, and now he was just a lonely old ranch hand. I decided that he needed a new home. And while the nightstand and rocking chair are now in my grandson Evan’s room, I moved the trashcan to my study.

And there the slightly rusty, dented, old (vintage, now?) trashcan sits, chipped paint and all, in a prominent spot where I can see it whenever I’m in the room. With many grandchildren running through my study and with me spending a fair amount of time there, I’m happy to report that the cowboy’s spirits have been lifted considerably, his smile has broadened, and he seems ready for some new western adventures.

Words by Sloane Citron

My family has been doing the Dish for as long as I can remember. For those who don’t know, the Dish is a beautiful piece of rolling hills owned by Stanford University and named for the huge radio telescope on its upper area. While Stanford uses it for many purposes, most of us enjoy it for the superb hiking opportunities it affords. From the top, you can literally see the entire Bay. Depending on the weather, it’s an excellent way to gain a sense of where we live and how all the towns and roads intersect.

When we first discovered this treasure while my children were small, it was wild and free with no gates, no pavement, no rules or regulations. We would go up it and walk any which way we liked, exploring and discovering along the way. The kids would hunt for small animals—lizards and rabbits and toads—and find plants that they had never seen.

Stanford eventually saw that hikers were taking over the place and that they were losing control. My kids were probably to blame. Finally, much like the Joni Mitchell song, they “paved paradise and put up a parking lot” (literally).

Today, there is a peculiar parking area that requires you to back into the spots, inevitably causing traffic jams as you find a space and then clumsily pull forward and then backwards into it. On a warm spring day, finding a spot can be challenging and you have to wander around the neighborhoods to find a “legal” place to leave your car.

While I do understand that it is Stanford’s property (and I am an alumnus), I’m always sad to see the free and fun experiences in our lives disappear. Today, there is a paved path through the Dish with the understanding that you will stay on it. There is an entrance gate with a little house for a guard to sit in, to make sure dogs and bikes don’t wander through.

The place is now tame, like a lion in a zoo. Still wonderful and exotic, but caged, nonetheless. Even so, I and thousands of others are grateful to Stanford for allowing us to use this wonderful area to get some exercise, experience nature and improve our attitudes. One good loop and whatever your problems are, they become less.

The dish is not so much a walk as a hike. It’s not terribly challenging but you don’t see a lot of out-of-shape people on the paths. Last year, we tried to do it with a double stroller with two of my grandkids inside, and it was rough going. Pushing the stroller up some of the rather steep hills is a burn not easily forgotten. Finally, we had to take the kids out of the stroller and carry them as we pushed upward. It was clumsy but successful, though we did not try that again.

Recently, on one of our marvelous rainy days (atmospheric rivers, as they now call them), my son Josh, who has done the dish since he could walk, called me at work and asked me if I wanted to join him for a hike. I like being out in the elements and with my son, so I quickly said yes and an hour later we were backing into the parking lot, almost empty because of the inclement weather.

We were both bundled into raincoats with the hoods tied tightly, our faces the only unprotected areas of our bodies. The rain was intense and at times there were tiny ice pellets smacking against our raincoats, then bouncing to the ground. The wind tore ferociously against us and often we were forced to look down at the path and follow its edge. But to us, it was a perfect day.
We pushed forward, hiking the mostly empty trail. We still were able to have good conversation, much of it about the Dish itself. Josh would see the remnant of a dirt path and recall how he had run down it as a child. Like playing golf, hiking allows for real conversations and strengthening connections.

When we reached a high point, we looked up and there was the most perfect, beautiful double rainbow that either of us had ever seen. It stretched from one end of the valley to the other, and it was easy to imagine a gold pot at either end. The intense rain and winds created a different Dish, with downed trees, thousands of wild mushrooms and stunning cloud formations.

By the end of the trail, returning to the guard station and reality, our jeans, shoes and socks were completely soaked through. Perfect. It was special doing this hike with Josh. Hearing his memories of the place—and creating new ones together in memorable conditions—confirmed the Dish as a place where magic happens—forging bonds, refreshing our souls and, as always, coming out ahead, mentally and physically, from when we started a short hour before.

Words by Sloane Citron

I decided to take my oldest grandchild, Evan Citron, who is almost five, to Yom Kippur services with me this year. His parents go to a synagogue in San Mateo, but I wanted to take him to Beth Jacob in Redwood City, where we have belonged for a generation. Though it is a holiday of contemplation and no work, internet or eating, I had a special day planned.

Josh met us at the shul in the morning and handed over my little pal who was excited to join me. I put his kippah on with a special red clip, since red is his favorite color, and we headed straight inside to the children’s service out on the back patio. The chairs were mostly full, but we found a good spot to sit, the day perfect for being outside.

There, one of the rabbis led a highly animated service. About 30 to 40 children attended with their parents or grandparents. The liveliness of the stories and songs kept Evan involved, and soon his cousins (Liav, Levi and Noah), my daughter Tali and her husband Sam, showed up and joined us.

Following this brief service, I took Evan to the main sanctuary where the traditional service (a mostly all-day affair) was taking place. We went to the front to join my friend Jody, who always sits in the same spot. Almost immediately, the prayers for the United States and then Israel were recited.

For the prayer for Israel, the Rabbi asked anyone who had served or had children serve in the Israeli Defense Force to come up to the bimah to join in leading the reading. Although I wanted to honor my youngest son Coby, I was reluctant to go since I didn’t know how Evan would react, but the Rabbi urged us and so we walked up and my grandson, to his credit and my surprise, was a trouper all the way.

After a good half-hour in the adult service (without a single complaint or whimper from Evan), we went out to the adjacent play area. I met some younger people there and, as we do, we figured out who knew who and how we were connected (we are always connected). After a while, Evan was hungry and since the rules on fasting do not apply to him, we went outside to my car and there he had a fine lunch of tuna fish and chips.

Now in the early afternoon, our next stop was one of my favorite Peninsula parks: Stulsaft Park, just a few blocks from our shul. Our high holidays are a time for self-reflection, and one of my treasured activities is to perform Tashlich, the practice of symbolically casting away your sins into a moving body of water, preferably with fish in it.

Evan and I, his hand within my own, walked down the paths to the trickling creek at the bottom of the park. I have a favorite place to go, but this year, the water level was higher than normal, and though I could have made it there (crossing over various points) it was too challenging for a four-year-old, so we went about halfway until we found a lovely, shaded area on the bank of the creek.

I told Evan to think about all the good things that he could think of while I contemplated my life, both the good and the bad. It is a moment when I feel close to God, the stream running, birds chirping and the boldness of nature in front of me, not to mention this pure sweet child by my side. After a few minutes, we spotted dozens of small fish in the water and we pulled out our bag of breadcrumbs, used as physical symbols of sins for casting away.

I handed some crumbs to Evan, and he threw them into the water. We did so slowly, giving the tiny fish a chance to find them. We sat there feeling that special connection with nature. Slowly, a warm, surreal envelope encased us, a feeling of spiritual perfection, as this beautiful child and I sat together in our place next to the creek.

We spoke little and instead enjoyed the solitude. Sitting quietly, we watched the creek waters tumble and slide among the rocks, spilling, rolling along its path, the water splashing with a fine mist, dancing along from somewhere to someplace else. I asked Evan if he liked the creek. He thought for a moment, turned his head to me and said, “Yes. It’s a playground for water.”

A playground for water. I had never heard that phrase before, never considered it, never read it in a poem or heard it in a song. And yet, there it was, from a quiet boy four years old, almost five, a piece of poetic purity from his base of understanding and knowledge (his love of playgrounds) and the innocence of his youth.

We sat there then, the two of us, Evan throwing the last of the breadcrumbs toward the tiny fish, the sun slowly fading, a special bond between us. Together watching the pure, pristine water enjoy its magnificent playground.

Words by Sloane Citron

If you went into my home today, you’d believe that we’re running a day care center. There are quantities of highchairs, cribs, bouncy seats; vast numbers of dolls, stuffed animals, books for every age and situation; boxes and boxes of toys: trains, cars, bubble machines, fire trucks, dump trucks, army trucks; art materials from crayons to coloring books to markers. Our bathroom—where there is a good-sized tub for kids—has floating lights, bath toys, baby shampoo; boxes of diapers, sizes 1 through 6, are carelessly stored in closets throughout our home. The laundry room has stacks of tiny clothes, many with no apparent owner. There are single socks, odd shoes and half-eaten snacks hidden away in odd places.

Our pantry is packed with fruit roll-ups, breakfast cereal, lollipops, Bamba peanut butter puffs, baby food, and “snacks” of all kinds; our freezer holds macaroni and cheese; mini ice cream cones; push-up popsicles and more. Outside there are wagons, scooters, bikes, kinetic sand, Lego sets, baseball gloves, golf clubs, Frisbees, “floaties” and an entire container of swim toys.
My home is a minefield of children’s things. I am forever tripping over them, including the three detested car seats in our garage. Three of the most horrible, devious devices ever made; it’s like they’re taunting me every time I see them.

In the world of children’s devices, I can tell you from solid experience, there have been many improvements. Highchairs, for instance, fold neatly into smaller spaces, their trays slide and pop into action without a hitch, and they are simple to clean.

Diapers are a breeze with the best of them showing which side is front and which is back. Different sizes make for a better fit and the adhesive straps stay in place.

New, well-designed portable cribs simplify life. Press a button or two and they conveniently fold up into small, easily transported packages. And the best improvements are in strollers. They fold up easily, have cupholders and are lightweight.

But then there is my nemesis: car seats.

While the world has gone from landlines to smart phones; where you can find out in a moment why your six-month-old has red spots on his forehead; where you can call out into the air “Play Power Rangers” and (Poof!) music comes streaming from a small circular device, there is one thing that has not changed: car seats.

If it has been a while since you have dealt with one of these pitifully designed contraptions, here is an update: they have not changed in more than 30 years. They are still the frustrating, tangled mess of straps and metal bands that you dealt with when you were buckling in your children.
Okay, I’m sure the manufacturers of these tortuous devices would tell us that they are safer and better, but where it counts, they have failed us miserably.

When you buy your car seat from Target or Amazon or Walmart, the box states that the seat works for a newborn until they are applying to college—all you have to do is reconfigure them. Some even come with instructions. But unless you’re a fifth-year Stanford engineering student, it is impossible to figure out how to do this. If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to get it to work for whatever age your child is now. Forget about ever getting it to work for another age. The instructions come in 12 languages, all of them indecipherable. You are on your own.

Because I have seven grandchildren four and under, even three car seats are not enough to handle the various sizes and shapes of these little munchkins. That means that I am forever adjusting them, with not enough experience to do so easily and with each seat having its own particular way of making it bigger or tighter or smaller or looser.

And then, there are times when I need to move several seats from one car to another. For this, I need a meditation moment and a gathering of patience. Plus, a solid hour or two to fully accomplish this dreadful job. On top of all this, the straps become too tight or too loose, or tangled or twisted; it’s a bloody mess.

As someone now on his 11th small child, with more likely, I’m hoping that some brilliant mind might move their attention from creating more dumb game apps of spiders that you smash with oversized hammers and focus on something truly important: car seats. There is a bundle of money to be made. Just remember to name the first one after me.

Words by Loureen Murphy

A wave of Mitchell Sardou Klein’s magic wand unleashes dynamic tales, resonating with power and delicacy, exultation and depth. Unlike apprentice Mickey Mouse in Fantasia, the maestro of Peninsula Symphony Orchestra remains in complete control of his baton’s wizardry. Now celebrating 40 years at its podium, he shares the elements of his orchestral alchemy with bass player Jeff Wachtel harmonizing. Both men were reared in New York, trained under noted musicians and ended up in the Bay Area, making music with the Peninsula Symphony.

Surrounded by Music

Mitch grew up free of a sense of musical destiny, even though his cellist father co-founded the Claremont Quartet, and his mother was an accomplished pianist and ballet dancer. In placing a half-size cello in his four-year-old son’s hands, Irving Klein simply drew Mitch into the family milieu. Though the close connection to his dad brought him joy, the self-described nerdy 1950s kid preferred a bat and glove to a bow and strings. “Music came pretty naturally for me,” he recalls. “But I wasn’t one of those kids to practice three or four hours a day. That was just not me.”

However, young Mitch did listen to string quartets day and night as his dad’s quartet rehearsed downstairs in their New York home, while his uncle, a Budapest Quartet member, lived and rehearsed upstairs. “I got to see at a very high level, at a very young age, how a musical piece is put together by the composer and by the musicians.” Mitch calls this the “backbone” of his future career.

Still, performing as a professional cellist by his early 20s was not a dream come true. Drawn toward science, Mitch began university as a theoretical physics major and ended up majoring in political philosophy. Finding the career possibilities in those fields unappealing, he concluded, “It was going to have to be music.” Completing a music minor, Mitch then pushed on through grad school, refocused.

“It took me a long time to realize how much music was embedded in me,” Mitch observes. Daunted by assuming the same occupation in which his family had been prominent and successful, “I shied away from it for a very long time.”

He leveraged his cello mastery to take assistant conductor roles in small orchestras. Mitch explains that learning to conduct differs from honing his craft as a musician, in which practice is the key. “That doesn’t work as a conductor until you get up on the podium in front of an orchestra and fail into success, figuring out what works and what doesn’t.”

On taking up the baton, Mitch’s skill and passion for conducting only magnified, as did his reputation. Bass player Jeff, who initially met Mitch at a guest conductor gig at the Stanford Symphony Orchestra, says his impressions have not altered since first downbeat. “I played under many conductors, and Mitch stands above all the others.” Why? His deep passion for the music, extraordinary knowledge of it and the ability to command and impart immediate respect, Jeff attests.

Cover Photo and Above Photo: Courtesy of Annie Barnett

Keeping Score

A conductor’s score, with perhaps 20 staves read simultaneously, can boggle a musician’s mind. Mere brain food for Mitch. “Score study is primary because I can read it and pretty much hear the music,” he says. Scrutinizing the score raises questions. Equipped with answers, Mitch comes to the first rehearsal and every succeeding one with clarity on how to shape the piece and ensure all the players work in unity.

In a sense, he’s translating the composer’s emotional language to convey the story. Mitch notes, “Music is about artists telling something about themselves, about the composer, about life, about all the challenges and joys that we experience, to an audience.” Mitch draws the emotions from the composition as he sees them, uniting the composer, conductor and artist in three-part harmony.

With its unique manner of storytelling, “orchestras have this vast palette of colors and shapes and power that no other musical ensemble has had in the history of music,” says Mitch. Jeff affirms that performers delight in “being in the middle of all this incredible sound.”

Mitch’s amazing consistency in score interpretation elicits great trust. Jeff recalls Peninsula Symphony rehearsing a piece that, on first run-through, sounded discordant, as if they’d played the wrong notes. When Mitch asked all sections but one to play more softly, “All of a sudden, what sounded like chaos made perfect sense. It all came together,” says Jeff, adding, “He can deconstruct the most difficult passages.”

Photo: Courtesy of Jim Fung - PSO

The Secret Language

People often ask whether the conductor is really necessary. “Aren’t the musicians just looking at their music anyway?”

“It’s an exercise in nonverbal communication,” explains the maestro. “Not entirely, because at rehearsals, we talk. But the less you talk, the more efficient the rehearsal.” They develop a shared nonverbal language, a visual shorthand that is partly learned, partly intuitive.

Mitch honors those who understand that language, perceiving its layers and nuances. He also possesses an immediate way of commanding respect without harshness. “He’s deeply respectful of the musicians,” Jeff explains. In rehearsals, Mitch will compliment a soloist or section when they’re doing particularly well.

With years of conducting experience worldwide, Mitch gets instant deference wherever he directs. When jazz pianists David Benoit and Grammy-winner Taylor Eigsti came to perform with Peninsula Symphony, the musicians felt nervous, Jeff admits. “With the guest artists, we usually get two rehearsals, so we really need to be on top of things.” When Mitch came out, he had complete command and genuine relationships with the musicians, whom most had only seen on album covers. “He put everybody at ease, right from the start,” Jeff says.

Up the Scale

Almost from his start with Peninsula Symphony, Mitch has been instrumental as the director of the Irving M. Klein International String Competition in San Francisco, watching many winners go on to vibrant musical careers.

Then in 1997, Mitch co-founded the Peninsula Youth Orchestra with Sara Salsbury, and directed its Senior Orchestra for 27 years, taking teens on international tours every two years before retiring and handing off the baton this year to Brad Hogarth. The best part of his experience leading the talented youngsters? “Seeing the orchestra come away with the pride of doing their best playing in front of a European audience,” Mitch responds. These young musicians learn to contextualize music history while exploring the composers’ hometowns.

Photo: Courtesy of Annie Barnett

New Notes

Venerable reams of symphonic music could supply the symphony for the foreseeable future, yet Mitch relishes introducing artists to new composers and fresh pieces. “If you’re doing a world premiere, you really have to look so deeply into the composer’s intentions,” he describes. “Everything you do is new.” The risk? “You don’t really know until you do it how well it communicates with the audience.” For musicians like Jeff, the risk pays off in exposing the music community to works they haven’t heard before.

With variations on that theme, Peninsula Symphony’s 76th season kicked off with some original orchestrations by Menlo Park’s own Taylor Eigsti, along with Gershwin’s iconic Rhapsody in Blue. There’s also November’s annual performance with the Stanford Symphonic Chorus. “It’s always a treat,” Mitch says. The season finale will feature the 2023 Klein Competition Winner, violist Emad Zolfaghari, in Respighi’s stunning The Pines of Rome in May 2025.

The long-term synergy between maestro Mitch and his musicians—some of whom predate his time with PSO—has created its own living instrument: the orchestra itself. “What’s unusual about Peninsula Symphony is that it’s really community-based, community-connected,” he describes. “They bring a huge amount of energy and dedication to what they do. Everybody’s there just to share the joy of making music together.”

Seven Questions with Maestro Klein

Family life? Married to Patti 40-plus years, after meeting in an orchestra. We have two energetic grandsons.

Instruments played? Cello and piano

Time with Peninsula Symphony? 40 years

Favorite concert venue? Dvořák Hall in Prague

Career crescendo? Our first Peninsula Symphony concerts in October 2021 after the very difficult Covid year. Getting the orchestra together and performing for our wonderful audience was very renewing and exhilarating.

Crunchy or creamy? Definitely crunchy. Crunchy as a generalization in life is much nicer than creamy.

Skateboarding? Never tried skateboarding. I try to do a lot of walking and hiking, especially in places like Point Reyes, the San Mateo County coast and the East Bay Parks.

musical journey – peninsulasymphony.org

Curious about the life of an ex-racer? I’m Bella, a lanky three-year-old greyhound, and while I may have retired from tearing around the dog track due to a foot injury, I still can move pretty fast. These days, I satisfy my need for speed on the agility training course at Zoom Room in Belmont. With help from Barbara and Stu at the Golden State Greyhound rescue organization, I left dog racing over a year ago and moved to Redwood City, where Greg, Nicole and their son Dylan welcomed me into the family. They don’t seem to mind taking me on fast-paced walks or clearing a path for my in-house zoomies. When I’m not on the go-go-go, I’m a big snuggler. Greg and Nicole always make room for me in bed when they’re watching TV. I have to confess, I don’t much care what show is on, as long as I get to satisfy my inner lovebug. I offer up my milkshake-white tummy for a good belly rub. When I want to get off my feet, I’m happy to clamber into the car for a ride, looking all around and sniffing the air with a big smile on my face. If I’m lucky, the car will take me and my family to Half Moon Bay, where I race along the beach, jumping and frolicking in the surf.

Calling All Dogs: If you've got quirky habits or a funny tale (or tail) to share, email your story to hello@punchmonthly.com for a chance to share a page from your Diary of a Dog in PUNCH.

Words by Jennifer Jory

Bursting out of the chute into the rodeo arena, bronc rider Enzo Costantini has eight seconds to harness the mental and physical training necessary to stay on his horse. Risky? Perhaps. “There are people who box, race cars and jump out of planes,” he points out. “You pick what you are most comfortable with. I developed a comfort around horses.”

Enzo compares riding a bucking horse to syncing up with a dance partner. “The adrenaline running through you is very empowering,” he relates. “You are one with the animal and if your timing is off … that’s how you end up in the dirt.”

A self-described suit-and-tie guy by day and Wrangler jeans guy by night, Enzo strives to balance his passion for rodeo with his day job as a real estate agent, working at the Compass Woodside office. “If I can hold a listing open in the morning and there is a rodeo close by that night, then that is the best weekend I have ever had,” he says with a smile.

Growing up in the equestrian community of Woodside, Enzo enjoyed a formative outdoor life on the Peninsula. He spent summers at his father’s family farm in northern Italy. “My heritage and being involved with the animals on the farm in Italy every summer influenced me,” he says. His exposure to the rodeo life came at a young age, traveling with his family to events throughout California where his sister would sing the national anthem. Enzo remembers thinking, “I know I can find my way to the back of the chute somehow.”

The 29-year-old’s rodeo dreams became a reality this year when he competed as a semi-professional bronc rider, one of the most difficult events. “I have a window of youth here and I might as well do what I have always been curious about,” Enzo notes. Initially, he considered competing in team roping events, but soon took the plunge as a contestant in saddle bronc riding (as opposed to the bareback version of the event).

A sport that dates back to the Old West, bronc riding originated with cowboys challenging each other to see who could mount an unbroken horse, hanging on for dear life before getting bucked off its back. As part of his pre-rodeo routine, Enzo finds out what horse he is slated to ride, walks over to where it’s penned up and tries to connect with it. “I am looking at the horse and trying to get right with that animal,” he explains. “You don’t want to struggle and fight against each other.”

To stay in shape and endure the strenuous requirements of bronc riding, Enzo maintains a strict regime when it comes to diet and exercise. “You can’t hit the ground that hard after being on the couch for weeks at a time,” he observes. So he works out daily, sticks to a vegetable-centric Mediterranean diet and goes to bed early. “I got a late start in this sport,” Enzo admits. “What is going to keep me in this longer is my discipline, diet and motivation. I am Italian, so it is easy to go off the rails with meals.”

Enzo trains at the Gilroy ranch of his mentor, saddle bronc champion and financial consultant George Veater. “I have taken a lot of notes from him,” he says. ”He is a big part of my story, as it’s not typical for guys in business to also be in the rodeo.” When he’s not practicing at the Veater Ranch, Enzo trains on a barrel with springs in his backyard, gaining the repetition and muscle memory he needs. “It simulates what you need to do in the arena on horseback when your second, third and fourth instincts need to kick in,” he reveals. “It is a bit of a blur out there.”

Locally, Enzo enjoys riding with the Mounted Patrol, a Woodside horse club started during World War II when San Mateo County coastal horsemen were deputized to keep a look out for enemy warships. “I get to hear a lot of stories from guys older than me,” he reflects. “You are never going to stop learning from experienced horsemen. I recently started bringing a new, younger wave of guys to mix with the older group.”

Enzo benefits from a strong support network of family and friends who travel with him to rodeos. One of his strongest supporters is fiancée McKenna Schott, whom he plans to marry this November at Saints Peter and Paul Church in San Francisco. The couple first met while attending Woodside High and have been together ever since. While he promised to limit the number of rodeos he competes in before the wedding, Enzo looks forward to riding in the California Cowboys Professional Rodeo Association finals this autumn in Red Bluff, California.

For Enzo, the discipline of bronc riding translates into other aspects of his life. “If I am able to open myself up and be as vulnerable as I am in that arena,” he says, “there is nothing that can stop me from being successful in other parts of my life.”

Words by Dylan Lanier

Leon the Giraffe is more than a statue—to the residents of San Mateo, he’s one of their own. Internationally renowned sculptor Albert Guibara gifted Leon to the city in 1978, and this genial giraffe has brightened people’s days with his whimsical presence in Central Park ever since. To bring Leon to life, Albert constructed the 15-foot-tall, 800-pound figure out of brass, copper and steel in his Burlingame studio. He spent weeks studying giraffes at the San Francisco Zoo and gained enthusiastic permission for the project from the mayor of San Mateo.

Albert named Leon after his father, whose toy store inspired many of Albert’s pieces. The sculptor’s father turned 80 around the time Leon the Giraffe was installed, so as the statue was lowered into place at the park, local families gathered to celebrate with balloons, cake and a chorus of “Happy Birthday.” Leon became an instant icon in the San Mateo community as he watched over the park’s many activities, from playdates and rec sports to music festivals and movie nights. And while Leon rules his Central Park residence, Albert’s other sculptures can be found elsewhere in the city and around the world, nearly all of them made of bronze. Much like Leon, Albert’s other works of art are personal, imaginative and uplifting. So while the world can sometimes be a hectic place, Leon the Giraffe offers his quiet, steady presence as a reminder of the singular power of just standing still.

Neighborly real estate agent relays his property pet peeve, travel escapades and facing down a hairy purse-snatcher.

What drew you to real estate?
I was first exposed at the age of 12 when my mom started in the business. I would overhear her conversations with clients while doing my homework and had lots of questions.

As a kid, did you imagine your dream home?
I always wanted to build one—and did, with my wife, Nana.

What’s the quirkiest complaint you’ve heard about a home? Any ghosts?
Can’t kiss and tell.

What’s your biggest home-related pet peeve?
Open toilet seats … Come on, people!

What always surprises people about the home buying process?
How intricate it is. Once buyers are well informed about the difference between good and bad quality, and the nuances of what brings value, they feel relieved and empowered being in-the-know. They often start eliminating homes that they previously would have been wowed by.

If you could pick a superpower, what would it be?
Definitely to fly. I am intrigued by the squirrel wingsuits, but don’t have the nerve.

Tell us about being an exchange student in Italy?
Studying abroad for an entire school year while at UC San Diego was a life-changer for which I am forever grateful! All the buddies, both Italian and American, sobbed when it was time to go home and many are among my closest friends to this day.

What do you consider a must-do on your bucket list?
Did it! A safari in Africa. Sabi Sabi Lodge next to Kruger National Park was incredible. I went out twice a day for two weeks and was ready for more.

What’s one of the riskiest things you’ve ever done?
I contested a baboon who was stealing a woman’s purse at the Cape of Good Hope Old Lighthouse in South Africa. It ended up in a standoff with just the two of us (everyone else ran). I played it cool, but I was petrified. My wife is still mad that I initiated it. When we got home, I secretly looked up videos about baboons—only to learn it could have ripped my arm off.

What age would you choose to be again and why?
None. Every year is a blessing! That’s not to be cliché. Anyone who has experienced great loss knows what I mean, but I hate it when people complain about getting older.

What’s a song you can listen to again and again?
Maxwell’s “Sumthin’ Sumthin’.”

How did you get started mentoring young African-American men in East Palo Alto?
It has been close to 30 years since I was a Reading Buddy at Beechwood School, and the young guys and I are still in touch. The most satisfying thing is that they are great, enthusiastic dads today.

Hear, hear! I’m Finch, a seven-year-old terrier mix, and I’ll bet that you’re looking at my amazing ears. Some people are self-conscious about having big ears, but I think mine are my best feature. Can a small-eared dog hear a banana being peeled from the other side of the house? I don’t think so! And I would hate to miss out on a delicious banana. Granted, my ears are big compared to the rest of me. Even my name is a reflection of my diminutive stature. When Ben and Kitty adopted me as a puppy, they wanted to name me Atticus, after the hero in Ben’s favorite movie, To Kill a Mockingbird. But they decided that it was too big of a name for such a little fellow and opted for the character’s shorter last name. Being on the smaller side is probably why I’ve gotten so good at walking on my hind legs. Sometimes I need a higher vantage point—like when there’s a deer in the vicinity and I want to get a good long look. I also pop up on two legs so I can stand between Jim and Kitty for a group hug in our San Mateo kitchen every morning. But those aren’t my only talents! I also have a fine voice. Kitty likes to sing, and it didn’t take me long to realize that she needs backup. When she breaks into song, I throw back my head and howl along.

Calling All Dogs: If you've got quirky habits or a funny tale (or tail) to share, email your story to hello@punchmonthly.com for a chance to share a page from your Diary of a Dog in PUNCH.

The Half Moon Bay fisherman and former science teacher at Woodside Priory shares how the siren song of the sea led him to his life’s work.

How did you go from teaching science to commercial fishing?
I was on a park bench in Sausalito grading exams when I noticed herring boats. They dropped anchor after delivering their catch and were preparing for breakfast. I saw loaves of bread, bottles of wine and filets of fish. That sparked my curiosity about what they do.

Did other fishermen offer you encouragement?
They suggested that I should not become a commercial fisherman: the regulations were becoming more overarching and restrictive, and it’s difficult to be accepted by the fleet. They frown on newcomers.

What was your very first sale?
Barbara’s Fish Trap—I sold them 100 pounds of rockfish for $50. I was elated to have that cash. After that, I sold fish to Flea Street Café.

Do you have a favorite spot?
During salmon season, I travel along the coast. At night, instead of returning home, there are anchorages, areas somewhat protected from the elements. One is Fort Ross, north of Bodega Bay. Another favorite is tucked behind Pigeon Point lighthouse. It’s like ocean camping.

Can you share any advice for the next generation?
Learn the skills and experience from well-seasoned commercial fishermen. Their knowledge is not found in books or in schools.

What’s the best way to support local fisheries?
Eat more fish that are harvested using sustainable methods.

What are some things you’ve done to promote sustainability?
In 1997, I co-founded an international fishing association that advocated for using fishing methods that are not harmful to the ocean’s ecosystems, and in 2000, I was appointed to the Pew National Oceans Commission. In 2008, I was presented with an environmental achievement award by President George Bush for my work as an advocate for clean and healthy oceans.

What keeps you coming back for more?
Often, I look at the Pacific Ocean as a laboratory. It is the largest dynamic entity. My reward is having experienced this and shared the goodness of its bounty.

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?
My friend, a fellow commercial fisherman from Iceland, brought sheep testicles when he visited. You gotta try them!

Why did you decide to open a booth at farmers markets?
I grew up with that type of food shopping. When a friend suggested selling at the Palo Alto farmers market, my wife Joan and I pursued that opportunity. A couple of years after that, we started selling fish at the Menlo Park farmers market.

Favorite comment you’ve ever gotten?
“This fish is the best. What did you do to make this fish so fresh?”

Words by Margaret Koenig

Partially obscured from view by the gnarled oak trees lining its perimeter, Holy Cross Cemetery is easy to overlook. The graveyard, located at the intersection of Santa Cruz and Avy avenues in Menlo Park, has hosted the dead since the 1860s, when it was a nonsectarian burial site. Acquired by the Church of the Nativity in 1883, it was named Holy Cross and consecrated as a Roman Catholic cemetery. It was originally landscaped by Michael Lynch, known for his work on parts of Stanford University and grand homes like the Timothy Hopkins estate. By the 1950s and 1960s the graveyard had fallen into disrepair, prompting its reconstruction by John Kiefer and Monsignor Edwin Kennedy, both of whom were later buried there.

Despite the ivy-draped chain link fence that grants the grounds a modicum of seclusion, the hum of street traffic permeates the air, intermingling with the cawing of nearby crows. The burial site, which contains over 6,200 recorded tombs, includes a poignant section reserved for children. A closer look at the older plots adorned with moss-covered statues reveals some of the Bay Area’s preeminent historical figures. There’s Elena Atherton Selby, daughter of town namesake Faxon Dean Atherton, and Juana Briones de Miranda, referred to as the “Founding Mother of San Francisco” for her role in the city’s development. Other notable inhabitants include Sheriff William Phillip McEvoy, who was shot while apprehending a murderer in 1895, and Jared Lawrence Rathbone, a U.S. Consul General to Paris who also fought in the Civil War for the Union Army. In October, the Menlo Park Historical Association hosts a guided tour of Holy Cross, which remains an active cemetery. It’s estimated that its grounds contain space for at least another century of burials, as up to 100 souls are laid to rest within its tranquil confines each year.

Words by Sheri Baer

On an ascent up the north side of Mount Shasta, Andy Calvert pauses to munch down a Clif Bar at 13,000 feet. Making small talk with the U.S. Forest Service climbing rangers accompanying him, he points over to a dome at the top of the Hotlum Glacier, a formation known for its treacherous gullies and crevasses. “Someday, I want to go get a piece of that,’” he casually remarks. The response: “There’s a pretty good snow bridge, we could just do it now.”

One “steep, icy and scary” rope belay later, Andy had his sample. “I felt like I was flying,” he recalls. “It was like I was flying out to get this rock and come back.” Certainly not a typical day on the job in Silicon Valley, but as a local scientist with the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS), Andy is charged with deciphering the eruptive history of volcanoes in order to predict future threats. “I have to get a rock sample from every lava flow I can get to,” he explains. “It’s probably 50-50 whether we’ll get a non-Mount St. Helens eruption in the Western U.S. in our lifetimes, but we should still be ready for it.”

Looking back, Andy credits Mount St. Helens’ catastrophic 1980 eruption with inspiring his eventual volcanic-rock strewn path. As a seventh grader living over 200 miles away in Moscow, Idaho, he vividly remembers what went down (or rather, up) on May 18. “It was a beautiful sunny day,” he recounts, “and then this cloud started coming over and it got as dark as the darkest night.”

ABOVE: Andy shows a photo of the 1980 eruption of Mount St. Helens (Photo: Annie Barnett) / COVER IMAGE: Andy (third from left) and team spent two weeks mapping and sampling Mount Shishaldin volcano on Unimak Island, Alaska. (Photo: Courtesy of Matt Loewen - USGS)

After the eruption, half an inch of ash blanketed the city, triggering the cancellation of the last three weeks of school. “That made volcanoes even more interesting,” Andy grins. “I knew something about geology before then, but that was what really taught me that the Earth is dynamic.”

Initially eyeing medical school as a Stanford University undergrad, Andy enrolled in a geology class recommended by a friend. “The class was at 8 o’clock in the morning, and I just couldn’t wait for it,” he recalls. “It was like falling in love.” Andy signed up for another class called Rocks and Minerals. “I thought, ‘Well, that sounds really boring, so if I like that too, I’ll be a geologist.’”

Metamorphic rock—gneiss, schist and slate. Smooth. Coarse. Shiny. Opaque. Utterly captivated, Andy followed his heart.

Andy at the USGS lab at Moffett Field in Mountain View. (Photo: Annie Barnett)

After earning bachelor’s and master’s degrees from Stanford, Andy completed his doctorate at UC Santa Barbara. As he was wrapping up his studies, he caught wind of an opening for a geochronologist with the USGS volcano hazards team based in Menlo Park and got the job. “Our group looks at volcanoes in a variety of different ways,” he clarifies. “I date rocks. My specialty is time. I provide the time context for eruptive behavior.”

Here’s why time matters: Volcanoes that have been active in the last 10,000 years can potentially wreak havoc again. Andy unfurls what looks like a paint-by-numbers map of Mount Shasta. “Each one of these is a discrete eruption or a series of eruptions,” he describes, gesturing to color splashes ranging from purple (older than 350,000 years) to oranges and reds (a specific eruption 10,700 years ago) to pink (“all younger than that”).

Andy describes the eruptive history of Harrat Rahat to members of the Saudi Geological Survey after a five-year study of the seismic and volcanic hazard to the holy city of Medina, Saudi Arabia. (Photo: Courtesy of Tom Sisson - USGS

Whether it’s Shasta, St. Helens, Lassen Peak, Hood or Rainier, tracking past behavior lays the foundation for creating long-term hazard assessments. “We educate people about what the mountain is capable of,” Andy summarizes. “What can happen and whether we should worry.”

Although his geologic focus is the Western U.S., Andy estimates he’s visited over 50 volcanoes in locales like New Zealand, Guatemala, Italy and Saudi Arabia. Any given day might find him on the top of a ridge or “slogging through some really terrible places.” His professional tool kit includes ice training, mountaineering skills, glacier travel, wilderness first aid, bear deterrence and “getting in and out of helicopters in pretty gnarly spots.”

Andy calls out his field work in Alaska as especially memorable. “I love being up high on these volcanoes,” he says. “You’re dropped off and then that big, smelly, noisy helicopter goes away and you’re left with quiet.”

Andy shows a draft map of Mount Shasta, where different colors visualize deposits from volcanic eruptions over thousands of years. (Photo: Annie Barnett)

Since Andy was hired by the USGS in 2001, he and his wife, Amy McLanahan, have lived in Palo Alto, Menlo Park, San Mateo and most recently, Belmont. Raising their family here (their son and daughter are now in their 20s) offered myriad opportunities to explore the Peninsula’s own unique geology —particularly on excursions to the coast. “We’re in a pretty amazing part of the world because we can drive over to Half Moon Bay and go from one huge tectonic plate, the North American Plate, onto the largest plate, the Pacific Plate,” observes Andy. “My kids get so sick of me saying, ‘Ooop! Crossing to the Pacific Plate!’”

During his five-year term as scientist-in-charge of the California Volcano Observatory, Andy helped oversee the USGS move from Menlo Park to Moffett Field in Mountain View. He’s currently diving back into research (including Mount Shasta mapping), where he still relies on the basic tools he first learned to use at Stanford: a hammer and a hand lens. However, Andy fully appreciates Moffett’s brand new lab and state-of-the-art technology. “We have equipment we use to measure the ages of rocks that’s pretty fancy,” he affirms. And what a way to calibrate accuracy: testing rocks from the 79 AD eruption of Mount Vesuvius. Nodding to a noble gas mass spectrometer, Andy breaks into a wide, schoolboy smile. “We took crystals from that eruption and ran them on that machine there and we got the right answer!”

Majestic Memorial Church is perfectly framed by the iconic sandstone arches of Memorial Court. Joel Simon, a photography instructor at Stanford University, took this shot of the graceful campus landmark in a quiet moment. With students arriving in September for the start of fall classes, you can expect to find the courtyard much more densely populated. Besides lecturing on travel writing and photography, Joel has journeyed to over 100 countries and published articles on Spain, the Siberian Arctic and almost everywhere in between.

Image by Joel Simon / joelsimonimages.com

Calling all Shutterbugs: If you’ve captured a unique perspective of the Peninsula, we’d love to see your Perfect Shot. Email us at hello@punchmonthly.com to be considered for publication.

I’m Wrigley, the cuddly four-year-old goldendoodle. I make my home in Menlo Park with Steve and Kate and their daughter, Abby, so you might wonder why I’m named after Chicago’s Wrigley Field. I was born in Indiana back in 2020, which meant Steve had to make a June trip to O’Hare Airport to bring me to the Bay Area. I wasn’t scared, because the flight crew kindly let me stay snuggled in Steve’s arms, but he must have been pretty nervous. He was wearing a mask, gloves and goggles the whole time! My family adores my excellent self-control when it comes to my urge to chew on things. My toys stay intact and I never chomp on anything around the house, not even shoes. Tennis balls are the exception. When I see one, I have this irresistible need to destroy it in five minutes flat. Wait, did you say something about tortellini? It’s well-known that I never touch my family’s food, even when it’s within easy reach on the coffee table … but there was this one incident with a bowl of spinach tortellini and peas. When Kate went to call Abby down to dinner, the tortellini went missing, leaving only the peas behind. I wish I could help solve this case since I was the only one in the room, but I swear I didn’t see a thing. It’s a real mystery!

Calling All Dogs: If you've got quirky habits or a funny tale (or tail) to share, email your story to hello@punchmonthly.com for a chance to share a page from your Diary of a Dog in PUNCH.