Still a long way to go

The last rays of sunlight illuminated a craggy mountain in Death Valley as I steadily pedaled my bicycle toward the finish of a long ride this past weekend. At that moment, I’d ridden 120 miles, with 30 more to go.

I did a quick mental calculation. If I could finish 150 miles, it would be the same as leaving Pleasanton and riding my bike over the Bay Bridge to San Francisco, then to Napa, on to Santa Rosa, and finally arriving in Ukiah.

I knew my wife Pam had probably finished her ride of 105 miles, along with our friend Jerry Pentin. And somewhere ahead of me three other friends—Bryan Gillette, Gary Boal, and Barry Schwartz—were attempting to ride a full 200 miles in a single day.

Back for our second year, we’d driven nine hours to Death Valley to participate with some 300 riders in a sport we enjoy, to test our endurance, to test our resolve, to enjoy the stunning beauty of Death Valley, and, for the six of us, to raise money for the “We the People” competition civics teams of Pleasanton’s two comprehensive high schools, and Amador High’s Mock Trial team.

The competition civics students need to raise more than $40,000 to travel back to Washington D.C. to represent Pleasanton and California in the national competition. For three years in a row, they won the state division, and in the past two years they took second in the nationals.

At one point as my bicycle and I climbed an almost relentless 3,300 feet from below sea level up to Salsberry Pass, I thought about the team of high school students. Only a few nights earlier I’d shaken their hands at a school board meeting, proud of their commitment to learn and debate about our constitution, proud of the commitment of their advisor, Brian Ladd.

But I was also proud to know that our team of riders had gathered donations from companies and individuals to help fund that long trip to Washington.

For my long trip through Death Valley, I was now reminded how every long bike ride comes with thoughts and thoughts and thoughts. With none of life’s common distractions, and aside from the occasional chatting with fellow riders or volunteers at the aid stations, 13 hours on a bicycle provides a generous supply of time to just sit and think.

So, here is a condensed version of my thoughts over 13 hours: I hope I don’t get a flat. Can I really ride this far? When’s the next aid station? Wow that’s a beautiful mountain. That guy has a cool bike. Look at those yellow desert flowers. I wonder how my wife is doing on her ride? I wish I could tell my kids I’m fine because they were worried about Dad riding so far. I wish my brother were here riding with me. Look at that long road ahead! What time is it now? Why do people do stuff like this? I love my wife. I love my kids. Look at that incredible view. Will this hill ever end? Here comes someone going the other way which means the turnaround point can’t be far. I’m feeling pretty good. I’m not feeling so good. I’m going to sleep well tonight. I hope they have cookies at the next aid station. I’m running low on water. What time is it? Why am I doing this? At age 51 should I really be doing this? Why can’t I be home reading? I love this. I love my kids. I miss my kids. I miss my wife. I love her so much. It’s getting dark, I’ll turn on my lights. I wish I was in that car that just went by. Only 20 more miles. I really miss my wife. Thank you, God, for all the blessings in my life and for the beauty of nature. I see the rear lights of a few riders ahead. Just 10 more miles. Wow it’s really dark now. I can’t believe I’ve been riding since 6 this morning. Maybe next year I’ll try to ride the whole 200 miles. Maybe next year I’ll just ride 105 miles with my wife. Maybe next year I'll go to a movie. I can’t wait to eat a sandwich. Hey there are the lights of the finish way in the distance. Just 3 more miles. Will I finish? Yes I’ll finish. I feel tired but wow do I feel great….

And then I pulled into the finish area and was greeted by my wife and Jerry and that wonderful feeling of getting off my bike and sitting in a real chair.

And in the same way this column just sort of ends, that’s how a long bike ride ends. All of a sudden, you’re finished.

But in a way, we’re not finished, because we’re still gathering donations for the civics students, who travel to Washington in May. We’re short of our goal to raise $10,000, and every dollar helps. So send me an email if you want to make a difference in the life of a student. Donations are tax deductible.

And as much as I love the amazing fulfillment when riding my bike, it’s always nice to come home.

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All photos taken by Jerry Pentin. Thanks to the many individuals and the following sponsors for helping us raise funds: CyclePath, Big-O Tires of Pleasanton, ClubSport, UNCLE Credit Union, Spring Street Studios, and Hopyard Alehouse.

Essays tell tales

This column appeared in the Tri-Valley Herald on February 19, 2008.

One of my favorite moments teaching college English is discovering the stories of students when I read their essays. I never know what tale of woe or triumph or joy I might encounter.

Imagine turning, as I did recently, to an essay in a stack and reading this: “In 1975, the communists from North Vietnam overran the south not long after the American soldiers left. My family faced a dark future.”

The student describes her many years in and out of prison for repeated attempts to escape her country. Until I read her words, I had no idea that the quiet Asian woman in the third row of my class had endured such hardships, the threat of malaria and other diseases, or that she’d escaped by bicycle through Cambodia to Thailand.

Of course, not all essays are so dramatic. Many well-written papers describe interesting vacations or experiences falling in love or the trauma of divorce or people who made a difference in the students’ lives.

Sometimes the essays are funny, such as one that got me smiling by a young man who writes, “I’ve been breaking stuff since I can remember. Somehow, I broke all four windows in my friend’s Honda Civic by leaning on them the wrong way. He also has a beanbag couch I put a huge gash in because my keys were sticking out of my pocket. That room turn into a winter wonderland.”

Later in the essay, this writer asserts that he comes from a long line of men who were known for breaking things: “The crack in the Liberty Bell was an accident by my great-great-great grandfather.” And the leaning tower of Pisa, he claims, got that way due to “a stick of beef jerky, a goldfish, and a hot Italian chick” that one of his ancestral grandfathers was wooing. “But that’s a whole other story,” he writes.

Some essays move in unexpected directions, such as one that introduces a morning in a hospital never to be forgotten on September 11, 2001. But as the essay unfolds, the memorable moment, we discover, is not the loss of life and the destruction of the twin towers. Rather, writes the author, “I’ll always remember it as the day my life began. Some people call it a moment of clarity, others call it an epiphany. I don’t know exactly what to call it, but when I held my baby girl, I was a new man. I had a purpose. I was a father now.”

Other memorable essays involve heartbreaking or suspenseful moments, such as when one writer describes helplessly witnessing the drowning of his friend as the brute force of a river pulls him under, or another suspenseful essay that begins, “I remember the doctor telling us she could die in her sleep. I remember not really understanding what it meant that she needed surgery.” This author tells about her younger sister’s successful journeys through heart and scoliosis surgery, her visits in and out of the hospital for various conditions. “She only complained when it really hurt,” she writes. “Her attitude toward life is strong-willed.”

As a teacher, I enjoy engaging students in the process of writing. Often an artistic and therapeutic tool, writing is a healthy activity on many levels. It requires a mental focus, and prompts us to think through elements of our lives we may not have explored in much depth.

When I read the essays, I share in the lives and hopes and dreams of my students. In one essay, an 18-year-old woman shares her love of dancing, a love she’s had her whole life.

“Dancing has taught me to be determined,” she writes. “I may not become a famous dancer, but I know it will help me in whatever I decide to do. At heart, I will always be the little girl pulling on her soft pink tights and leotard in awe of the art that is dance.”














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Jazz Happens

This column appeared in the Tri-Valley Herald on February 5, 2008.

When Jim Campana first raised his conductor’s baton in 1959 at Amador Valley High in Pleasanton, the school had just 20 students enrolled in music. By the time he retired two decades years later, 300 students were signed up for band and the popular music courses.

“Friday night football and basketball games came alive thanks to the band,” said Eileen Morley Hofstadt, who was a student at Amador in the late 1960s and early 1970s. “In those days, Jim Campana was always there in his quiet way, inspiring young talent.”

Impressed with Campana’s success and reputation with students and music, the city of Pleasanton asked him to help establish a Pleasanton jazz festival.

“The city recreation department had been interested in having me put together a festival that would include bands from a variety of schools,” said Campana, who is now 81 and lives in Sonora with his wife Rosemary. “But I was so busy I kept putting them off.”

Finally, in 1975, at the Pleasanton Hotel, in what Campana calls a “moment of weakness,” he agreed. The first festival included 30 bands and was held that year at the Alameda County fairgrounds.

"We had a good first festival,” Campana said, “though it rained that day. Fortunately we were able to use the exhibition building and move the instruments and equipment inside.”

Over the years, more and more people gathered to hear the talented students perform. After Campana’s retirement in 1979, the Pleasanton jazz festival was appropriately renamed after the man who made it all possible.

Now in its 33rd year, the Campana Jazz Festival will take place at Amador Valley High School this Saturday, February 9, featuring more than 700 middle and high school students in 45 jazz ensembles from 24 schools around California. Schools from as far away as Folsom and Roseville will compete in the event.

Performances run from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., followed by a ceremony where over $7,000 in sponsorships to various jazz camps will be awarded. Wristbands for the festival may be purchased throughout the day for $6 at the Amador Theater lobby. A festival program will be included containing the complete day’s schedule.

Thanks to the vision of co-chairs Carl and Marilyn Palowitch, the festival this year is now part of a larger “Campana Jazz Weekend,” with jazz happening all around Pleasanton.

“In planning for our 2008 festival,” Carl Palowitch said, “we contacted the Pleasanton Downtown Association, the library, and the city of Pleasanton, and together we coordinated our respective jazz events to create a weekend where the public can encounter jazz all around the city.”

Kicking off the weekend this Thursday evening is the Pleasanton Downtown Association’s popular wine stroll, titled Truffles, Tidbits and Wine Tasting.

“Imagine pairing the taste of a chardonnay or cabernet to the sounds of seven jazz ensembles at venues up and down Main Street,” said Christine Salidivar, Executive Director of the association. "We’re excited to bring jazz and wine to our downtown.” Because the wine stroll events almost always sell out, contact the downtown association right away for tickets at 925-484-2199.

Following Thursday’s wine stroll, Pleasanton’s Civic Arts Presents will host on Friday saxophonist and composer Ravi Coltrane at the Amador Theater, who will also give a jazz clinic for Foothill and Amador jazz students that afternoon. Coltrane, the son of jazz legends John and Alice Coltrane, is described as a young jazz pioneer. Tickets may be purchased at the door at 8 p.m. or online at www.civicartstickets.com.

On Sunday following Saturday’s Campana Jazz Festival, the Pleasanton Library will host the Silver Moon Band at 1:30 p.m., followed by the Lee Waterman Latin Band “Jazz Caliente” at 3:30 p.m. These performances are free and open to the public.

Carl Palowitch said that for the first time vocal jazz will be a part of the festival on Saturday. He also noted that many people don’t realize the festival is more than a venue for students to perform.

“This is an educational festival,” he said, “where students come to observe and learn, to attend workshops, and to get instruction from the judges and other music educators.”

The festival each year is a collaboration of many community members, including the Amador Friends of Music, instructors Jon Grantham and Mark Aubel, the Amador Music Department, parent and student volunteers, regional music educators, music camps, local businesses, and others.

This kind of collaboration and love of music is what first brought Campana to town to teach more than 45 years ago. It’s what will bring him back this weekend to attend the festival he created.

“Pleasanton has always been a town that appreciates music,” he said. “I loved my years teaching, and I’m looking forward to coming back to see friends and hear the students perform.”

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Conversing about verse to high school sophomores

This column appeared in the Tri-Valley Herald on January 22, 2008.

I recently accepted an invitation to speak about poetry to several honors English classes at Amador Valley High School in Pleasanton. I suppose my credentials as a past poet laureate of Pleasanton and my decade of teaching writing at Las Positas College helped assure English teacher Wendy Garner that I might have something interesting to say.

It also didn’t hurt that my 15-year-old daughter, Melissa, wanted me to address not only her class, but several other classes as well. It’s not every day a teenaged girl wants her dad around when other teens are present, so I was happy to take up the challenge.

While I’m used to talking about poetry with college students, I was initially uncertain at the thought of standing in front of sophomores.

What, exactly, would I say?

Ms. Garner had asked me via email to share some of my own poetry, as well as the process I use for writing poetry. But which poems would I select? Would the students relate to my work? Would teenagers even care about the poetry of a baby boomer?

The key, I knew, was to present whatever I said with passion, high energy, humor, and yes, technology.

So when I stepped in front of the first class, I did what any wise professor would do to capture the youngsters’ attention: I clicked on a video from YouTube.

Up came an animated poem by former U.S. poet laureate Billy Collins. The students fell silent as the short video mixed visual images with Collins’ spoken poetic words. Next I showed a PowerPoint slide listing elements of good poetry. Another slide gave examples of haiku.

Then I transitioned into one of my own poems. Projected on the screen, the poem recounted the funeral after the shooting death of a young woman. The poem refers to a “dead sister” named Natalie.

Because I wrote the poem, the students assumed as I read the somber verses that I had lost my own sister to murder.

As I finished reading the poem, I noted that my sister’s name is Laurie and she lives in San Francisco "and is very much alive. This is a fictional poem.”

As the room instantly lightened, I described how poets have the ability to explore though words the common experience of what it means to be human. Even if we have not lost a sister to death, we can tap into that experience and examine it through our work.

Next I shared a lighter poem, a published sonnet I’d written about how great life would be to have an English accent.

“By the way, how many lines are in a sonnet?” I asked the kids.

The students muttered various numbers.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I expect to hear a clear answer, and it’s 14. So how many lines in a sonnet?”

“Fourteen!” the students recited back.

“Can there ever be 12?”

“No!” they said.

“So how many lines in a sonnet?” I asked again.

“Fourteen!”

Along with sharing two other poems I’d written, I recited a few famous poems I knew by heart during the 50-minute talks. I encouraged the students to memorize their favorite poems, and I pointed out that I’d recited Hamlet’s soliloquy so many times over the years that my daughter memorized the lines when she was a little girl, and knows them to this day.

As each presentation drew to a close, I encouraged the classes to consider registering for the upcoming Poetry, Prose, and Arts Festival (www.PleasantonArts.org) taking place in Pleasanton on April 5 and 6.

Now in its 7th year, the festival has been so successful that it has expanded to two days, offering workshops in poetry and prose for both adults and teens, poetry for younger kids, writing contests for all ages, book signings, performances by musical and dramatic groups, a fine arts exhibit, even a keynote address by award-winning poet and essayist Jane Hirshfield.

While I appreciated Ms. Garner’s enthusiasm and an invitation to return to the school next year, I felt I’d connected with students when a week later I received 67 handwritten notes.

While each note is wonderful, one from a young man echoed many other students' remarks, suggesting that I'd bridged the generation gap. He wrote quite simply, “I like your ink, Mr. O.”

2008 Arizona Rock 'N Roll Marathon

Seven friends from Pleasanton traveled to Arizona in January 2008 to run in the Rock N Roll Marathon. The marathon (26.2 miles) and half-marathon (13.1) started in Phoenix, and ended in Tempe, where we stayed. Pam and I ran the full 26.2 miles, and our friends ran the half-marathon.

Pam took this of me at the start of the marathon.















This is Bobby, from Colorado. I ended up running quite a few miles with him during the race. He's an ultra marathon runner, in training to run Leadville, which is a 100 mile run. This 26.2 mile marathon was just a short training run for him!

We had a great time getting away for a weekend of exercise, lots of eating (it seemed like we were always eating), and lots of relaxation -- of course, after running 13 or 26 miles, anything feels like relaxation!

Valley Humane Society teaches pets aren't toys

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald on January 8, 2008.

By the end of this year, Wendy McNelley will have stood before every second grader in Pleasanton and delivered to them a dog or a cat, along with its own carrying case.

With these pets come a profile that tells the animal’s name, age, what it eats, and some of the animal’s special traits.

Oh, it’s worth noting that the pets are plush stuffed animals.

McNelley, program director for Pleasanton’s Valley Humane Society, has already met this past December with 120 kids in their classrooms to introduce this new program, called Keeler’s Kids, that allows children to experience the level of commitment needed to care for a pet.

“It's just wonderful to have those light-bulb moments where you can see the students understand what a big responsibility it is to own a dog or cat,” McNelley said. “This is a hands-on lesson, so they take away so much more than if we just went in and lectured for 45 minutes.”

Named after Joyce Keeler, a 40-year educator in Livermore who left a significant donation to Valley Humane Society after her death in 2005, Keeler’s Kids teaches students about pet overpopulation and the importance of spaying and neutering. Then, through use of a workbook and catalogs, the children go to a pet store and to a veterinarian to learn what costs are involved.

“The kids are always shocked at the $300 to $400 price tag,” said McNelley, who shared a funny moment when the youngsters quietly totaled the expenses. One little boy finished his addition, smacked his forehead, and announced "Sheesh, this is getting expensive. And money doesn't grow on trees, you know!"

McNelley said such moments allow the children to see that pets require money, time and effort, and are not toys. In fact, when McNelley and her helper went back on a second day for another round of classes, two little girls from the previous day were carrying their pets to lunch with them.

“They didn't want to leave them at home where they would get lonely,” McNelley said. “One little girl had put a sweater on her dog because it was cold out. I loved that.”

The students are surprised to learn that in most cases they will have their animals until the children grow up and turn 26 or 27 years old. McNelley said most students are not able to fathom being that old.

Kids also learn that for every pet in this country to have a home, every person would have to adopt 15 dogs and 45 cats. This means that a home of four people would have 60 dogs and 180 cats.

“At first, the kids think this would be fun,” McNelley said, “but then we talk about all that poop. Yuck! They get the point.”

At the end of the presentation, students fill out an adoption application and contract, similar to the documents used at Valley Humane Society. At this point, if they don't think they’re ready for the responsibility, the children may choose not to adopt their animal.

“It’s a pivotal moment in the lesson when they really comprehend the amount of work ahead of them,” McNelley said.

McNelley hopes one day to expand Keeler’s Kids to other school districts, but needs to focus for now on Pleasanton. She would also like to adapt the program for high school students.

To make a donation or to learn more about Valley Humane Society and its many worthwhile programs, visit www.valleyhumane.org or call (925) 426-8656.

100 Years of Joy

This column appeared in the Tri-Valley Herald on December 27, 2007. The idea for the column and the invitation to the Rotary luncheon came from Jacquie Williams Courtright, owner of Alden Lane Nursery and current president of the Rotary Club of Livermore. Thanks Jacquie!


Imagine you are 99 years old and in a few days you’ll be turning 100. Teddy Roosevelt was president when you were born, 50 years ago you were 50, and you drove a car until you were 97.

Far-fetched? Read on.

Now you’re seated at a luncheon with tables of people who’ve gathered to make a fuss over your birthday and the birthday of another nearly 100-year-old woman.

While she’s not in attendance, you are, and in a moment you’ll be asked to stand and speak.

At nearly 100 years, what could you possibly say to sum up your life?

Keep reading to discover what Dr. Grace Devnich said to some 125 Rotarians who gathered last week to celebrate her 100 years and the 100 years of Henrietta Greer, both of Livermore.

While Greer was unable to attend, Devnich was on hand as several eloquent individuals spoke about her and Greer.

Local historian Anne Homan provided an overview of the era when the women were born, a time before television, radios, or movies. Homan touched on the lives of Devnich and Greer, which led into remarks by former Livermore mayor Dr. John Shirley who provided a wonderful introduction of Devnich, Livermore’s first woman doctor.

“Grace delivered 800 babies,” said Dr. Shirley, “and for many years she only charged $125 for prenatal care and the delivery,” he said.

Dr. Shirley said that Devnich and her husband, Henry, who was also a doctor, came to Livermore in 1948 to set up their practice. Devnich still lives in the house they bought on K Street in 1952.

Born in Colorado, Devnich first attended Union College in Nebraska, where she met Henry in 1929. In time, the couple saved enough money to attend medical school at the University of Nebraska, graduating in 1945.

The two practiced medicine for more than three decades in Livermore, made house calls that initially cost just three dollars, and touched the lives of thousands of people. Shirley reminisced about the birth of his own four children through Devnich’s caring hands.

In 1992, Devnich lost Henry to a brain aneurysm, but not before the couple spent 16 years together in retirement, traveling and enjoying their golden years.

More recently, Devnich has become an author, having written a book about her husband’s family.

Similarly, though she was absent, Henrietta Greer and her life were introduced by Bill Nebo, who said that Greer’s family first arrived in Livermore in 1936 and settled onto a dairy farm out on Patterson Pass Road. Greer met her future husband, Tom, when he reported for work at the ranch after a San Francisco employment agency had placed the former Colorado cowboy in Livermore.

Nebo told a funny story about when Tom was struggling to coax a rambunctious mare into a corral. Greer watched for a while, then suggested she might help.

“If you can get this mare into the corral,” Tom told her, “I’ll give you five bucks.”

At the time, five dollars was a lot of money, and Greer simply opened the corral gate and called, “Tessie, get in here!”

The mare quietly did as she was told. Tom never paid her the five dollars, Nebo said, but he did marry her.

Nebo, who met Greer in 1972 and calls her his adopted mother, said that Greer is a woman who knows the difference between what one wants and what one needs, a woman who values companionship and relationship, who respects people of all age groups, and who understands the need for balance between work and enjoyment.

“For a woman who mended many cattle fences over the years,” Nebo said, “Henrietta is a woman with very few fences in her life. She accepts people for who they are and sees the best in them.”

After the introduction, when it came time for Devnich to stand and address the assembled Rotarians and guests, everyone stood and applauded. Devnich slowly made her way to the lectern, and as she reached for the microphone, the moment became emotional.

“I’ve had a wonderful life,” she said, “but I just can’t speak about it or I might begin to cry.”

And with that, she returned to her seat to thunderous applause.

With those few words, Devnich summed up 100 years of giving and receiving, of births and deaths, of healing and loss, of happiness, and yes, of joyful tears.















Dr. Grace Devnich spoke only for a moment, but her words filled the Livermore Rotarians with great joy.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from the Otts!

Spare the rod and spoil the child?

When Danville resident Frank Hanna was growing up in a small Texas town, his mother used to swat him with a limb from a backyard peach tree for misbehaving.

“My mom kept a peach switch on top of the refrigerator,” said Hanna, 46, who speaks with a Texas accent. “One night after everyone fell asleep, I climbed up and broke that switch into about 500 pieces.”

Hanna was abruptly awakened the next morning by the whacking of a new peach switch his mother simply pulled from the tree.

“As she administered the punishment, she suggested I never again break her switch into pieces,” he said, smiling.

Hanna’s experiences echo the memories of many who grew up with some form of corporal punishment, whether by teachers or parents.

Wayne Yeaw of Pleasanton recalls that in the 1950s his father used a long stick, carved with little faces like a totem pole, to punish him and his siblings when they stepped out of line.

“My dad would line us up,” he said, “and if whoever was responsible for whatever happened didn’t confess, he would swat all of us.”

Whacking youngsters and even adults to encourage better behavior dates back many centuries. In the Middle Ages, corporal punishment was common in Europe and authorized by religious leaders who viewed the practice as a healthy way to discipline the wayward human body. This philosophy found its way into medieval schools, and was introduced into America with the first settlers, spawning in this country more than three centuries of discipline by such methods.

California banned corporal punishment in public schools in 1986, though only after it was made illegal in child care centers, youth authorities, and state prisons. This meant for a period of time in California a prison guard couldn’t swat a convicted felon, but a teacher could paddle a youngster. In fact, only by a narrow margin were legislators persuaded that children are unable to learn effectively when threatened by physical punishment.

Approximately half of the population in the United States believes that modest corporal punishment is an acceptable method of disciplining a child, including 22 states that allow their schools to administer some form of such punishment.

In fact, just over a decade ago in response to growing behavior problems in California schools, conservative Republican legislators in Sacramento—led by a feisty 68-year-old retired Marine from Orange County named Mickey Conroy—sponsored two bills, one to reintroduce the option of corporal punishment into the classroom with certain limitations, and a second that would allow a judge to order a parent or bailiff to paddle a juvenile graffiti vandal up to ten times with a wooden paddle.

Both bills met with strong Democratic opposition, especially the corporal punishment bill. Opponents pointed to studies showing that paddling and other forms of humiliating physical punishment create resentment and teach children that violence is acceptable. The bills were defeated.

Still, Hanna observed that his fellow high school students did benefit from the occasional whipping by his Texas football coaches, and he does credit his loving mother’s peach switch with amending his own occasional errant behavior.

In the end, though, corporal punishment only goes so far.

“When I was about 12,” Hanna said, “my mother used one of my dad’s belts to give me a whipping. Regardless of how hard she swung that belt it just didn’t hurt much.”

Hanna remembers looking at his mother when suddenly they both burst into laughter.

“We nearly died laughing as we realized whipping me was no longer going to be effective.”

When writing becomes healing

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald in November 2007.

Ten years ago, Elizabeth Martella gave birth to a girl she named Viviana. Like many new mothers, Martella held the baby in her arms for pictures, and made prints on paper from her daughter’s tiny palms and feet.

But the occasion was not happy.

“Having a stillborn baby means dealing with very hard emotions,” said Martella, who lives in Lathrop. “For months my mind raced with questions of guilt and misgivings.”

To cope with the tragedy, she turned to the love of her husband, Jorge, but she also turned to poetry.

“Writing was a way of healing for me,” she said.

In fact, Martella, 35, has tapped into the power of writing poetry to grapple with the many challenges life has thrown her way.

When she was eight, her father left his wife and children for another woman.

“I was devastated,” she said, “and I still have difficulty with this.”

Martella’s mother, who was born in Taiwan and met Martella’s father when he was a Marine overseas, moved her young family from San Francisco to Oakland to live with her sister. “My mom was a strong woman,” Martella said, noting that her mother had to work three jobs—as a waitress, a hotel housekeeper, and a late-night janitor—just to support her family.

As Martella wrestled in her pre-teen years with her father’s absence, she became the victim of sexual abuse by a cousin. This went on for many years until she turned 14, when she stood up to him and said no more.

After high school, Martella took a few classes at Merritt College and started working. “Growing up with barely any food to eat sometimes,” she said, “it was great to be able to make my own money, so I left college and began working full time.”

Martella managed a Chevron service station and one day met a young man whose family had immigrated from Buenos Aires. “I soon discovered that Jorge was my soul mate,” she said.

A kind and caring husband, Jorge understood and loved Martella like no one else ever had. Then, a few years after the loss of their first baby, they were blessed in 2001 with a baby girl they named Izabella.

Though from the outside it appeared life was settling down for the Martellas, an avalanche of unresolved inner conflict led Martella to a nervous breakdown in 2005.

She began to see a therapist, and as she made progress, she leaned heavily on her writing for support.

“The month after I started therapy,” she said, “I started compiling a collection of my poems, which led me to write even more poems.”

Martella poured her tears and sadness into her work, writing about her father, her stillborn baby, the abuse—all of her life’s experiences.

The result is a book of published poems dedicated to readers “from broken homes and dysfunctional families” and those “molested as a child.” Martella states in her dedication, “Know that there is light at the end of that tunnel.”

And part of that light for Martella became the publication of her second work, this time a children’s book. Based on a happy experience with Martella’s 6-year-old daughter, the book is titled “Izabella and her Wardrobe.”

“My daughter was my inspiration,” Martella said. “She is quite the character, especially when it comes to her clothing.”

Martella’s goal is to write a ten-book series on various topics as Izabella grows older.

Both books, available at http://www.lulu.com/, are the expression of a caring woman dedicated to sharing her experiences with others on the path to healing.

As she writes in her book of poems, "Life isn’t always perfect; it’s what you make of it that counts.”














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Saying goodbye to Kent

This column was published in November 2007 in the Tri-Valley Herald.

In 1964, when Diane Nelson was eight years old, she made friends with a 10-year-old neighbor named Kent, a boy she came to love, a man to whom one day she would have to say goodbye.

Their families lived along Mines Road, a rural area a few miles from downtown Livermore, which back then had just one grocery store and stoplight.

“He was a pudgy boy with wavy blonde hair and big white teeth,” said Diane, who still lives in Livermore. “And he had arms that would stretch out as if to announce himself to the world.”

In contrast, Diane was “a skinny little tadpole with asthma,” prompting Kent to nickname her Wheezy.

Diane said Kent came to Livermore to live with his mother after she gained custody of the boy from an abusive father.

The two new friends often played together, building forts or hiking along a creek. At times they even played with dolls, though sometimes this would send Kent running for home in tears.

“One day we’d be with Popeye on the high seas,” she said. “The next we’d spend with Mr. Spock on the starship Enterprise.” Kent was a natural comedian with a galaxy of voices and characters.

“I can still see my mom laughing as he told us about his vacation with his family and a run-in with a woman in a big yellow muumuu,” she said.

At such moments, Diane would struggle for air, pushing oxygen into her unwilling lungs to express the laughter building inside.

Older and stronger, Kent would swing his little friend in circles on a patio as she wore roller skates and clutched a rope and screamed. Other days they’d gather friends and dance as an old radio crackled out the Beatles and Rolling Stones.

Then there were horses. Kent’s horse was King, and Diane’s—a little gray pony with a sweeping tail—was Suzy.

“We’d gallop down both sides of old Mines Road,” she said. “King liked to kick Suzy, so I had to be careful not to get hit by a flying hoof.”

Through it all, Kent’s mischievous and curious presence transported Diane somewhere else, into someone else.

During their teen years, they drove an Oldsmobile—the purple bomb—owned by Kent’s stepfather. “It looked like a space ship with its pointed fins and bulging headlamps,” Diane said, “and its worn-out springs seemed to levitate us down the road.”

Sometimes, though, Kent would drive recklessly, one time reaching 100 miles an hour along Tesla Road.

When Diane was a high school freshman, Kent asked the skinny tomboy on their first date. “We hiked up a hill and used big rocks to spell out Kent + Diane so airplanes could read it,” she said.

She wore his class ring, and the two went steady. Once they even made a show of kissing when they knew Kent’s 4-year-old sister was watching.

But that’s all it really was: a show. And eventually they stopped going steady, stopped dating, because something inside Kent made it impossible to be more than friends.

At 19, Diane left home to search for life’s answers. She found herself living with Moonies in a chilly Victorian mansion in San Francisco. One day Kent showed up on her doorstep.

“He’d come to talk to me, to save me from the cult,” she said, “and though I didn’t leave right then, his visit made an impression on me, and eventually I left and made my way home.”

As years passed and she married, she heard he’d moved to San Francisco to seek his own answers. Then, in the mid-1980s, Kent’s 30 years of life was slashed apart by the knife of his boyfriend, perhaps out of anger or jealousy.

“I didn’t find out until after the funeral,” she said, her eyes deepening. “And I don’t know the details of his death.”

Still sad and angry that she didn’t get to say goodbye, if she could speak to Kent today, she would push oxygen into her lungs to express her yearning for a childhood long gone, a time when she’d knock on his door and ask in a small voice if Kent could come out and play.

“And then I’d tell him goodbye,” she said, “and to keep King and Suzy saddled, because one day we’ll gallop again together.”











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English Class

Jim Ott's English Class at Las Positas College, Fall 2007

Hail to Halloween

This column was published in the Herald the day before Halloween 2007.

When I was a boy, I took Halloween seriously.

My mom recalls that just after my eighth birthday during the first week of October, she reminded me to write thank-you notes for the gifts I received.

“I will,” I promised.

But two weeks later I hadn't written the notes, so she asked me about it.

“Oh Mom,” I said, “how can I write thank-you notes when I’m so busy planning my Halloween costume?”

What I loved about Halloween was the permission to become someone else, to try on different personalities, to dream outside my limitations and assume the profile of a monster, a hunchback, a president.

The year I dressed as Lincoln, I tried out my costume before Halloween by standing on a corner at the end of our block. With a top hat made from black construction paper, I wore my dad’s dark coat and an eye-pencil beard, and I waved to motorists who, after doing a double-take at a pint-sized Abe, waved back.

As a mummy, I wrapped myself in torn sheets, then walked stiff-legged into my sister’s room to conduct a pre-Halloween fright test.

My Frankenstein success one year led to my Dracula triumph the next. My inspiration came from Boris Karloff movies and a stack of monster magazines I adored.

Through it all I discovered my love of drama and illusion. I learned to be resourceful, to use elements of my costumes from one year to the next. And I learned that although I loved playing a selected role in the evening theater of Halloween, I was always content to wake up the next day as myself.

And by the way, not once—as I read some years ago in a letter to the editor—did the earliest origins of Halloween send a satanic spirit to whisper into my ear.

In fact, the first time I read my own words in a daily newspaper was two decades ago when I wrote a letter respectfully disagreeing with a woman who’d written to say that Halloween should be abolished because it encourages the devil and pagan rites.

What’s often overlooked is that in the seventh century, Pope Boniface IV designated November 1 as All Saints' Day to honor Christian saints and martyrs and to replace the pagan harvest celebrations. This celebration was preceded by an evening of bonfires, parades, and dressing up as saints, angels, and, yes, devils.

So our modern day Halloween is derived from an evening grounded as much in Christian celebration as in pagan ritual. For youngsters, such discussion is just grown-ups overanalyzing a fun evening.

And fun is what the children from Dublin’s Happy Talkers and School of Imagination will be having this Halloween when they don their costumes and join Dublin city staff at city hall.

“Mayor Janet Lockhart has arranged for her staff to celebrate Halloween with our children,” said Mitch Sigman, who with his wife Charlene and a team of speech pathologists, teachers, and therapists provides care for youngsters with mental, physical and developmental disabilities. “With city hall decked out for the celebration and the staff in costumes, our children will trick or treat together.”

This is what Halloween is all about—the fun and freedom of stepping beyond our limitations, of gathering and sharing candy with friends, and of becoming anyone we dream to be.

Terror in a Russian Cornfield

This column appeared in the Herald in October 2007.

When Marina Strong moved to the Tri-Valley from Russia ten years ago, she couldn’t understand a certain habit of Americans.

“Everyone was always smiling,” said Strong, her accent and blue eyes reflecting her Russian heritage. “I wasn’t used to this. It’s not that we weren’t happy in Russia. We were. Eventually I came to enjoy the smiles of Americans.”

Strong, who lives in Pleasanton with her American husband and son, recently reminisced about growing up in a beautiful region of Moscow. Among her memories is a visit from Fidel Castro to her elementary school , and the fear she shared with fellow students that Ronald Reagan might start a nuclear war.

“We made posters at school begging Mr. Reagan not to push the button,” she said. “We were all afraid.”

Another memory—one she will never forget—involves an evening when Strong was 12. She and her friends, Galina and Angelica, got up the courage to ride their bikes to secretly harvest a few ears of corn from a field just behind a forest, near the Moscow River, a place forbidden to young girls.

“Boys went there all the time,” Strong said. “So we three, we gallant three, decided to go.”
It was the last day of a summer vacation spent flying kites and riding bikes.

“That summer we three were the whole world,” she said. “We were the three princesses in The Firebird, the three who battled the witch Baba Yaga, the Troika.”

Strong described her friend Galina as “a smart and brutally honest preteen, tall with a boyish haircut and hot temper who liked to argue about little things.”

Angelica was “a romantic girl with wavy black hair and blue eyes who made the boys quiet when she walked into a room.”

And Strong? She was “the glue that held our trio together whenever misunderstanding or jealousy lurked,” she said.


The cornfield was large and the stalks were high, with a grassy-fresh smell. The corn was irregular, grown as cattle feed, so the girls would have to search for the larger, ripe ears.

They left their bikes near the road and moved deeper into the field, chatting nervously.

“I remember asking Angelica if she’d gotten a call from an older boy we’d recently met from Denmark who was going to start at our school the next day,” Strong said. “He had bubblegum—which was rare in Russia—and all girls were already dreaming about him.”

Galina was suspicious that the boy’s gum was just a lure, and told Angelica he was just leading her on.

Angelica disagreed, saying he was kind and tall, wore knit shirts, and was not rude like other boys.

“I remember dusk had fallen and I was dreaming about that handsome boy,” said Strong, “wondering why he hadn’t thought of me when, suddenly, a scream broke my fantasy.” She looked to see Galina’s hand pointing, her mouth open, the color leaving her face.

It was a body, and the girls could see his boots in the dirt.

“We gave a quick look at each other, then at the boots,” Strong said. “They were black and dirty, in an odd position.”

Without speaking, the girls knew he'd been dead for days. They dropped the corn, forgot about their bikes, and ran.

Strong’s thoughts raced along with her legs. “I thought he must have been killed for stealing the corn. It was a prohibited place, and I thought if I survived this, I’d be grounded forever.”

When she got home, she said nothing to her parents and couldn’t sleep that night. The next day, Strong met her friends at recess.

“We secretly discussed the murder scene,” she said, “and whether to notify the police.”

The girls decided to go back, and if the bikes were gone, they’d report the stolen bikes and the dead body. If they found the bikes, they'd then decide what to do next.

“After school, we took a bus to the field,” Strong said. “It was quiet. The bikes were where we left them. But what about the body?”

Strong and her friends wanted to do the right thing, to be brave, so they began to search. But they couldn’t remember where the body was. So they searched all afternoon.

“And then we saw them,” she said. “The old black boots.” But the boots were not in the dirt. They were on a full-grown man, weightless, hovering a few inches from the ground.

“We started to laugh,” said Strong, her face breaking into one of those smiles she now enjoys. “The man was just a scarecrow.”

Catching up with Hammett

This column appeared in the Herald on October 2.

Let’s try something fun in my column today.

My wife and I recently read, and enjoyed, “The Maltese Falcon,” Dashiell Hammett’s hardboiled detective novel published in 1930. Many people are reading the book thanks to a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts. Called “The Big Read,” this national initiative is designed to restore reading to the center of America culture.

So to have a little fun as I share what I’ve learned about the author and his work, I’m writing the rest of this column in the black and white prose style of Hammett. Here we go:

I stepped through the door into the television studio. The lights glared as TV30’s able cameraman adjusted chairs on the set.

Suddenly, stepping from a shadow in the corner, there she was: a brunette in lipstick and heels. She held a thumbed over copy of Hammett’s book.

“Hello Jim,” she said, removing her glasses. “Ready to tape another show?”

“Sure,” I said, holding up my own copy of Hammett’s masterpiece.

She was Kathy Cordova, a woman who’d seen the inside of scores of books and interviewed dozens of authors on “In A Word,” the show we host together on Tri-Valley Community Television Channel 30.

This day, as long as the cops didn’t bust down the doors, we’d be discussing “The Maltese Falcon.” Joining us were two guests: Mark Coggins, a Hammett expert and detective fiction writer; and Hailey Lind, author of “Brush with Death.”

Sure, I learned a lot about Hammett that day, and you’d be smart to tune in to watch the show. But

I’ve learned even more since then. Here’s just a taste:

Hammett was born on a farm in Maryland in 1894. He quit school at 14 to go to work. In 1915, he was hired on at Pinkerton’s National Detective Service, where the whittled-down prose of the reports he wrote foreshadowed his later fiction.

In 1918, he did what most all-American boys did and joined the army to fight the war to end all wars. But he never got overseas. Instead he drove an ambulance at Camp Mead, Maryland. He was discharged honorably due to a bout with tuberculosis.

After moving to Frisco in 1921, he started penning short stories at the public library. He sent one to H.L. Mencken. Sure enough, it was published, and as they say, a writer was born.

“The Maltese Falcon,” in 1930, was Hammett’s second novel.

While Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot preceded Sam Spade, Hammett gets the credit for transforming the well-mannered detective story for American audiences.

In Hammett’s hands, the detective story took on an urban toughness, uttered through a prose style of slang and grit and realism. The motivations of a detective like Spade are often questionable, since his choices seem at once both selfish and altruistic.

Hammett’s 80 short stories and five novels are part of the fabric of American literature and culture. Every novel has been made into a movie. The most famous, of course, is John Huston’s 1941 “The Maltese Falcon” starring Humphrey Bogart, the film most credited with launching the Film Noir era in Hollywood.

Now, before I pull this page from my typewriter, toss it onto my editor’s desk, and walk off into the evening in search of another column idea, I want to illuminate for you knowledge-starved readers what I learned about the term “hardboiled detective.” Popularized by that great newspaperman Damon Runyon, a detective is hardboiled when he—or she—is fundamentally a good egg, but hard on the outside.

Who knew?

For information about the many events taking place in October to commemorate “The Big Read,” visit the Pleasanton Library www.ci.pleasanton.ca.us, or drop by Towne Center Books in Pleasanton. For TV listings of “In a Word” on Comcast or via webcast, visit www.tv30.org.

Local pilot looks back at 9-11

This column was published in early September 2007 in the Tri-Valley Herald.

Six years ago on September 11, 2001, after the Twin Towers had been destroyed, after our nation’s skies had been cleared of all air traffic, Bob Tucknott skirted the main entrance of the Hayward airport and drove a little known route onto the airfield to get to his plane.

“I was immediately run down by a security guard,” Tucknott said. “I explained the situation and told him to call the tower.”

Authorized to use any runway, Tucknott lifted off from Hayward for a short flight to Oakland. From there, he flew with his daughter, Renee, on a special mission to San Diego.

“I’d gotten a call from the director of the Alameda/Contra Costa County blood bank,” said Tucknott, who reminisced recently about his unique experience on September 11. “The director asked me to fly blood samples to San Diego by 11 p.m. that night. The samples were from a large supply of blood waiting to be shipped on a C-5 cargo transport from Travis Air Force to 9-11 survivors in New York and Washington D.C.”

A volunteer with Angel Flight West, which arranges free air transportation on private aircraft in response to health care and other compelling human needs, Tucknott received the call at 3 p.m. and got busy trying to obtain flight clearance. It took him three hours, but he finally got through to the head of the FAA.

“I was given a discrete squawk code that was given to the air traffic controllers from Hayward to San Diego,” he said. Tucknott also called the various controlling agencies to let them know the type of plane he was flying and the nature of his cargo.

“What an eerie flight that was,” he said. “As we flew that evening, there was complete silence on the airways. We were the only ones talking to controllers, who were all still at their positions.”
Tucknott said it’s usually difficult to get a word in edgewise with controllers, but this evening some seemed a bit bored and chatted with him and his daughter about their mission.

When Tucknott asked if any other airplanes were in the air, he was told two F-14 fighter jets were high above him. “It wasn’t until two years later I found out those F-14’s were actually escorting me to make sure I was who I said I was. They had orders to take me out if I deviated off course.”

As Tucknott landed in San Diego at 10:30 p.m., a crew was waiting to take care of his plane and carry the blood samples to a Red Cross truck for testing. Given the late hour, the weary couriers spent the night, then flew home the next morning using the same secret code and procedures as they had used flying down to San Diego.

“The flight was just as quiet,” Tucknott said, “though I started to pick up some police helicopter traffic flying in the L.A. basin.”

Tucknott, who owns an electrical contracting firm in Pleasanton, earned his pilot’s license 32 years ago. He has volunteered with Angel Flight West for 15 years, and has flown 236 missions for the non-profit organization.

His missions have included transport of children, deaf patients, rescue dogs, campers, adult victims, burn victims, and, among other human tissue, corneas.

In fact, Tucknott and a co-pilot once transported two corneas in the span of three hours harvested from an accident victim in the Stanford area to a recipient who was prepped and waiting in San Luis Obispo.

“The controllers recognized the urgency of the situation and gave us priority handling,” Tucknott said. “God was good to us and gave us a strong tail wind going down, which got us there in record time.”

Tucknott said the entire flight and transport were conducted without signing one piece of paper.

“This seemed a little unusual in today’s world with liabilities and the value of the cargo we were carrying,” he said.

Tucknott smiled as he went on to say that by the time he and his co-pilot were finishing their lunch in San Luis Obispo, the cornea operation was complete and the patient had a new set of eyes. To support the missions of pilots like Bob Tucknott, and to learn more about Angel Flight West, visit www.angelflight.org.

Keeping up with my brother

This column was published in the Tri-Valley Herald in September 2007.

When I was kid, my older brother, Bill, knew how to do everything.

He knew the right way to throw a football, how to throw a baseball, and, in his teens, how to pole-vault.

He did his best to teach me what he could do, but at four years younger I was never able to do what he did quite as well.

I suspect many readers have older brothers or sisters just like this.

Over the years, it seemed my brother could always run faster, golf better, and dive better. And while he went on to pole-vault in college and gained a scholarship, I could barely get that pole to lift me even a few feet off the ground.

The story is similar when it comes to our careers. Although I’m proud to serve as the president of a respected regional financial institution, Bill has headed up huge divisions for Bank of America, both in the United States and Hong Kong. He was on the managing committee for BankBoston and ran their consumer lending division. He’s been second in charge of the fifth largest national bank in Australia, and he served as the interim president of Atlanta’s Federal Home Loan Bank. Currently he is president PEAC Ventures, a management consulting firm, and serves as a director of E*TRADE Bank.



I remember when it really hit home that my brother was somebody in the banking world. Many years ago, after he moved to Atlanta, but was working in Foster City for Visa USA, he was telling me he’d attended a company event and got to meet Annette Benning, Rupert Murdock, and the comedian Garry Shandling.

“Really!” I said, impressed.

“Yeah,” he replied. “In fact, here’s the program from that night.”
I looked and saw that my brother’s name was actually on the program and that he’d been introduced by Garry Shandling. Then I looked at my brother’s title.

“You’re the chief operating officer? The number two guy for Visa?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“You didn’t know that?” he said.

It is a bit odd I didn’t know this, especially since my brother and I have stayed in close touch over the years. In fact, we were so close as kids that I recall a vivid childhood dream where I was playing in our front yard, and my brother could see from the screened porch of our home an older woman—with her skeleton showing through her translucent skin—walking along up next to the houses, coming my way, her head staying level as her legs lifted over steps and bushes, me oblivious to her approach. In the dream the gray-haired woman was certain to get me, and my brother tried several times to call out a warning, but no sound came out of his mouth.

What’s odd about this isn’t so much the dream, which portrays the fear of failure in protecting a younger sibling, but that I don’t know if I had the dream or if my brother did. It seems like he would have had it, but because I remember it so clearly it feels like I had it.

Of course, who had the dream doesn’t matter any more than what our titles are, who’s the highest jumper, or who can throw a perfect spiral. What matters between me and my brother is what matters to everyone who has an older brother or sister, that every once in a while we get to speak by phone or read an email or birthday card, or see in person a smile that no matter how old we get we’ll immediately recognize as one we’ve known forever.

Running 30 miles

In late August, Pam successfully ran her first ultra-marathon, a 50 kilometer (30-mile) race through steep terrain through Redwood Park in Oakland. This was my second 30 miler. Our time was 6 hours, 33 minutes.

Always nice to see this sign after 30 miles...

A Visit to San Francisco

In August, we visited Crissy Field, saw my sister and her family's new home at the Presidio, had coffee and bagels in a cafe, saw a movie (Arctic Tale), and rode bikes and ran almost halfway across the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a spectacular day.