Claire Conger

I watched this documentary, Berkeley in the Sixties, fascinated, having spent the sixties trapped in Southern California—my only window on the world was network TV. I remember the Watts riots of ’64, me sitting snugly in a beach house in San Juan Capistrano and my mother saying, “Don’t worry, it won’t reach here.” Later I was rivetted by images of flagged-draped coffins returning from Vietnam. By 1968 I knew all hell was breaking loose right outside my teenage grasp.

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I recently finished listening to a reading of Black Like Me by John Howard Griffin. I found it alternately terrifying and fascinating and occasionally text-bookish.

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It’s been two weeks since I was mowed down by a speeding snowboarder and I’m still not back to my usual activites. I’ve been knocked down half a dozen times in as many seasons and this is the only time I’ve been hurt.

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I happened upon Carolyn Hax’s “Tell Me About It” column today in the San Diego Union-Tribune. Ms. Hax responds to “Whose $$$ Is It” about fiances’ incompatible views concerning money.

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I lie on the lawn trying to hold down the Sunday funnies on a bright, windy Santa Anna morning. I love these Santa Anna days with the air charged with electricity. I can’t read the funnies indoors: I must maximize the day and take the paper outside where I can steep myself in this glorious energy.

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