Author: Tim Berry

Are You Going to Your Ami?

When Cristin was just learning to talk, Tim was going to business trips in Miami very frequently. We were all backpacking in Yosemite, and we were reaching the end of the trip, walking the long downhill after the falls.

We were all tired, but Cristin started to worry about post backpacking life. She heard Mom and Dad talking about Miami again…

She said “Dad, please don’t go to your Ami.”

Cristin applied logic to language from an early age. For example, she referred to place and position as “bebove” and “below.”

Update: November 2007. Sabrina called, Timmy had just asked her about her trip to “your Ami,” which in this case is a trip coming in January.

Christopher’s First Soccer

I went over to Laura’s house today to pick them up and take Christopher to his soccer “practice,” a combination of babysitting and tutoring and friendly happy activity, with Christopher and three three-year-old girls and a very nice “coach” named Amy. He kicked the ball sometimes, and paid attention sometimes, and generally acted like a three-year-old kid.

It was fun. We went to Jerry’s for a hot dog afterwards.

Mom’s Garden

June 23, 2007

Note to Vange:

I’m very sorry I haven’t been more supportive and appreciative through the years. There’s no denying to anybody that our garden is your achievement, yours alone, and wow, what a beautiful garden it is. I know I don’t do any part of it, but I do really enjoy it, I am so glad it is our house, and I’m grateful to you and proud of you for how beautiful it has become.

I do remember how far it’s come too. When we arrived here in 1992, there was a scruff patch of lawn in the front, the stone wall divider was there, the hedges — hooray — were there and the apple trees that were beautiful for years but eventually caused you so much trouble. Other than that, weeds.

Chad Greenberg’s year with us was a good start. The fence in the back was vital. The extra walkway, the new paving in the back, around the side, the lights in the garden. So many years ago, but that was a big step up.

Little by little, you did it. The gardener who cared about weed much more than weeds, the parade of gardeners who didn’t cut it, getting the dirt, getting the plants. There were all those days trolling the nurseries. The days with Kyle King, and Jane whatever-her-name was, and Marcelino and Juan.

There was also the occasional fight with the neighbor below us. And the moles. Remember the summers that Megan and I spent half a day here and there trying to persuade the moles to leave? The struggles to water in the summer and the disappointments when sprinklers failed in 2003, we came back from vacation and trees had tied. The struggle with the city to protect the back hedge.

Remember also when Megan was in third grade and one of her friends’ parents came to the door, and, presumably just to be nice, and asked Megan how her family kept the lawn so nice. “A man comes who does it,” Megan answered.

Two nights ago I got home around dusk, and it was just plain amazing. What a spectacle. I got my camera and took some of the pictures here. But they were a reminder that, beautiful as the garden is, it is best with the people.

How about those beautiful garden moments, like Sabrina’s wedding and the brunch the next day, or the three Lauras’ birthday in 2000. The summer afternoons we’d spend with the deck and the barbecue. The first summer when the garden was full of yellow jackets. Megan’s birthday party on the deck. Megan and Beba in the garden on a hot summer day. Remember when Paul used to play with the slider with Megan. Remember the “mensa” story? The days Sabrina and Noah and their friends played badminton, and, more recently, Megan’s friends from Stanford when they came? How about when we filled up the wading pool on a particularly hot summer day, filling it first with water and then with baby grandsons.

Nowadays I remember the garden every day, I never take the walk down from the back where I park down the walkway to the house without breathing in the garden. I love it in when it’s warm and rich and full of color, the bright greens and Spring or summer flowers against the dark blue sky, but I also love it when it’s cold and rainy and gray, still a richness and a reminder of home as home.

And there was also the beginning, when the back yard was nothing much more than dirt divided into two levels. The stone wall was there when we got here, and the back hedge and some apple trees that are gone now, but not much else.


Back to Palo Alto

The movers left the small, dirty house full of boxes. It was a warm summer afternoon, September 8, 1982. I felt like magic happiness, one of the best days of my life, like I did as a kid on Christmas morning, like I did the first day of living in Innsbruck, like I did when we moved out of Mexico City to California. Everything was good.

We were back in Palo Alto, living at 1599 Mariposa. We wouldn’t have to drive back to Suisse Drive in San Jose ever again. [Ed note: 25 years later, we never did, never have.] As the movers drove off I stood on the front porch and looked up the street to where I could see a patch of Stanford Campus across El Camino. Palo Alto Highschool was just 200 years to my right. We were finally back.

it had been about 15 months since we left Escondido Village, on campus at Stanford, for Mexico City. At last we were back again, just half a mile from the townhouse at 100C in Escondido Village, but this time with a permanent job, and buying (although with one of the most aggressive equity sharing deals you’ll ever hear about) a house. Although there was a lot of work to do (moving, cleaning) we could also just walk out of our front door and take a walk through Palo Alto and Stanford.

The kids felt it too, as much as Vange and I did. We’d made it back. They had the same sense of relief, the end to exile. Cristin of course was still just a baby, six months old, Laura had just turned 10, Sabrina was about to turn 9 and Paul was about to turn 7. The older three were about to enter Walter Hayes Elementary School, which would be their fourth school in 15 months. They were all looking forward to it, I think, or maybe I was just projecting my feelings.

We were all looking forward to just living here, taking walks, normal life, with the feeling that we’d get back to that feeling of Escondido Village, when things were all good.

The move to Mariposa was one of my finer moments. We’d given up living in Palo Alto before buying the house in San Jose — big mistake, that — but we kept driving back for shopping, visiting my parents, whatever excuse. Drives back to Palo Alto were like drives back to paradise from exile. But it took us almost an hour to go each way in the ancient yellow VW bus we called our car. And we always had to go back. I felt like a hero because by late Spring I decided we were going to live in Palo Alto, not San Jose, and I would just plain find a way. And I did. We had seen the Mariposa house on one of our brief breaks from exile. It looked like it had to be cheap, it was older, aged wooden sideboard, and it was smaller — only 1250 square feet, 3 bedrooms and 1 bathroom, and it was right up against the commuter train tracks in the back. It was listed by Tony Domenico.

Tony said he could get us into that house. He never wavered. We had no equity and significant debt, and no down payment. But I had a good salary and with my Stanford MBA degree and all, I was marketable for one of Tony’s equity share deals. And that’s what we did: we bought the house for $190K including a $50K down payment and an amazingly expensive mortgage (1982 was a year of historic high interest rates, so our mortgage was a fixed rate 18%. The equity share deal meant that a couple of Stanford professors named Dutton put in all but $8K of the down payment, we paid the mortgage, and after four years we had to either buy them out for a profit or sell the house to pay them off. The whole assumed equity appreciation, and it worked out for us and them. We were able to move back to Palo Alto.

So the next few days took a lot of work, but the world had changed. The worst of the work was when we discovered that the built-in breakfast nook had mouse grand central station built into it as well, but we moved in.

Hello Leo

Last month, in Villas del Sol, I met Leo.

You know Leo? My grandson, Noah’s and Sabrina’s son, Timmy’s little brother? I didn’t, I discovered. I loved him but I didn’t know him. He was just a generic baby until that trip.

Now, however, I know Leo as a person, with a personality; like I know Christopher, Timmy, and Eva. I can feel him smile, I can feel him worry sometimes, at least by looking at his face. This is Leo Parsons. There we are in the picture, Leo and me, sharing a moment.

Leo and I shared moments. Several times I kept him company while he slept in the shade of the Palapa on the beach during the heat of the day. He was wrapped in a towel on one chaise and I was reading on the next chaise, both of them pushed together. Leo would wake up and I would see first curiosity in his blue eyes, and then, quite quickly, peaceful recognition. “Oh yes, I’m on the beach, and my granddad is here with me.” He would then drift back to sleep.

Leo frequently smiled in his sleep.

When I fed Leo, he used mouth motions and sparkling eyes to establish a definite line of communication with me. He engaged me as surely as the computer engages the cellphone when they synchronize over a cable. This was not just feeding, this was also communicating. He wanted to watch me smile and react when he opened the mouth to ask me for the next bite. He connects the mouth opening with the eyes sparkling, and he wanted me to see that. He was even showing off, proud of himself. He wanted me to tell him parents how good he was. I could tell that.

Leo was getting less-than-super-healthy Mexican Comercial Mexicana baby food, which he seemed to like. His eyes told me he particularly enjoyed having his own version of junk food, the short-term escape from the law of Sundance. I could tell that.

Leo liked to wander freely around the floor, crawling, standing himself up on things like couches and tables, seeking cables to chew on, and looking for mischief. He clearly liked that much better with company, though. He wanted me not just to watch him but to appreciate him, talk about what he was doing that he wasn’t supposed to be doing. He wanted me to join him in the drama.

How much of this was Sabrina’s doing, how much Noah’s? I’m intrigued with the question. They certainly made it easy to know Leo. Was that just convenience, or were they doing that on purpose? That’s hard to tell, and doesn’t really matter.

Was this quality time or quantity time? I think you need quantity to get quality.

I’m sure this same kind of thing happened with Christopher, Timmy, and Eva, because I have the same sense of love and bonding with all three. But I’m writing now, and I’m more aware of how and when and what, so this is about Leo. Hello Leo.

Visiting Paul, Eva, and Milena

June 13, 2007

Paul’s 31 and Eva just turned 1. It’s about 7 am. Paul and Eva walking along the river park happily, looking for me. She meets me happily, gives me lots of smiles, but she does keep glancing back at her daddy. He’s very reassuring. It looks like a nice day in the morning, already warm but not hot, and very blue and sunny.

First thing, we got me coffee. I didn’t get to the hotel until midnight, took until 2 to sleep, and then I woke up that morning at 6 am. The tiny beep of the cell phone receiving a txt might have had an influence, but I could have tried to go back to sleep, and didn’t want to. I have only a day with them in New York, it isn’t the time to sleep. Dement notwithstanding.

Eva loves to walk. She bounces around from place to place like the ball in a pinball machine, changing directions suddenly, looking slightly off balance. She just took her first steps a few weeks ago, but now she just loves to walk. I can see it. She takes the stroller while it’s in motion, but as soon as it stops, she wants out. She seems to be testing her new skill.

We sat for a while outside the shopping center by the Merrill Lynch World Financial Center, looking at the yacht harbor on the river. I soaked in my coffee. Eva walked about and eventually cuddled with her daddy.

We walked slowly towards the heart of Broadway and Prince, the Huffington Post offices. Slowly because Paul wanted Eva to fall asleep before we got to his office. Paul and Eva are very used to each other in the stroller. She started to fuss and he said she was going to do that for five minutes and fall asleep. She fussed for five minutes and fell asleep. She took a brief nap, but was awake again before we went up to his office.

After an office visit – nice looking offices, beautiful hardwood floors everywhere, but cramped — Eva enjoyed coffee at Balthazar’s. She walked up and down the aisles, accepting compliments. We walked back toward Battery Park, visited the apartment to say hello to Milena, then took Eva to a beautiful small park nestled between the buildings. She played in the sand. We watched our cell phones, Paul did the Blackberry, I talked to Sabrina, and Eva played happily.

Milena joined us. We had lunch together at NYSW, outside, looking at the water. Eva walked around and rediscovered a toy shop she knows, through the restaurant and down the hall, then to the left, where there is a wooden train set. She has geography figured out.

Just before dinner at Industrial Argentina. We had a respite at a park across the street, the four of us. Here’s a cute picture of Eva playing, and one of the same scene with Milena in the back. She wasn’t feeling well that evening, but she was smiling nonetheless.

It was a very good visit. I’m proud of Paul and Eva and Milena.

Be Sad


When Cristin was little Vange threatened her over I don’t remember what:

“I’m going to be really sad or really mad if …” and, like I said, I don’t remember what “if” was involved. It doesn’t change the story.

“Be sad,” Cristin answered.

Not Always Early to the Airport

You who know me, imagine this, on Monday, June 11, 2007.

I’m on the plane now, more than halfway to New York, from San Francisco.

The flight was scheduled to leave at 12:45 pm.

I stayed too long on the computer in the hotel room, looked up suddenly at 10:45 without having packed, still typing.

I wasn’t on the freeway until 11:15.

I needed gas. Megan and I had been to Monterey and Carmel and back, the tank was almost empty, Hertz charges like $6 per gallon so it seemed cavalier and wasteful to not get gas. I pulled off the freeway at Holly in San Carlos, got into the gas station at 11:25. The ATM didn’t accept my card. I gave the machine a $20 and it took it, but then I couldn’t reach the tank with the pump, had to move the car, and then the ATM machine was unhappy with me, sent me to see the cashier. I wasn’t back on the freeway with a full tank until 11:35.

I drove fast. I was at Hertz at 11:55. I handed the paperwork to a person and told them to mail the receipt. I was on the rental car train at 12:05 and into security at 12:10. I was selected for special security because I had toothpaste and sunblock in my baggage. I wasn’t out of security until 12:25.

I was almost the last person on the plane. I called Megan because I had to tell somebody.

The plane sat on the runway for 30 minutes for gate hold at New York.

Who’s That and What Are They Doing to Him?


In late Spring of 1981 we spent a weekend at my parents’ condominium in Carmel in the less spectacular hill section of the 17-mile drive.

We arrived at the Carmel Mission about five minutes after 5 pm. It was supposed to close. Vange was disappointed because she wanted to visit the church to pray, something she used to do every so often, especially on trips.

Right when we were at the door a nice priest arrived from the inside, intending to close up the shop. Vange turned on the charm. We were very Catholic, we really wanted to see the church, it was important to us, “Please Father,” she said, and she turned on both the charm and the accent and of course there we were looking like a young mother and young father with three kids.

He was charmed. “Sure,” he said, “in fact, I’ll show you the mission myself.” He was obviously happy with this turn of events.

His happiness lasted only a couple of minutes. As he walked us down the center aisle, in the middle of the main church, Paul looked up at the huge crucifixion statue silhouetted by stained glass windows in the background.

His mouth was wide open. “Who is that?” He asked, in his loud, throaty, five-year-old voice. “Why are they doing that to him?”

The priest lost his enthusiasm in that minute.

Monterey 2007

You take the opportunities you get. This one was because Megan’s last final was June 8 and I was going to New York on June 11. Vange and Cristin were set to join her for packing her room on June 12. So i rearranged to join her for a couple days, sort of on my way to New York.

I was thinking about Yosemite, but somebody recommended Monterey and Carmel, I think Sabrina. We decided on that. I reserved a Miata to make it more fun.

I picked Megan up Saturday morning at Slav-Dom. She’ll have to post on how good it feels to be entirely done with the second year at Stanford, the last final — Friday night from 7 to 10 pm — done. She certainly seems happy about it.

We drove to Monterey, top down for about 30 minutes until the novelty wore off. We stayed at Hotel Pacifico, walked around, saw the aquarium, had dinner (note Megan’s last post) at a wonderful restaurant in Pacific Grove called Passionfish.

More pictures are on Amiglia.