By McCabe Coolidge — The Buzz

While recuperating from another bout with Lyme’s , I am paddling a kayak, counter clock wise around Lake Merritt. Just passing the boat shed filled with rowing shells , a man standing along the muck and grass of the shoreline greets me, “Sir, sir! Do you want a blessing?” I pull my paddle out of the water and lay it across the bow and coast closer to shore, wondering. He smiles , his skin like smooth ebony, dressed in black keds , jeans and a black, long sleeve shirt; he holds tight to a brilliant white scarf.

My kayak is still now. I do not know how to say “Yes! How badly I want, need a blessing! ” Just now, as I am trying to recover, finding a little strength and inspiration on these waters of a small lake in the center of Oakland’s downtown district. But I do not say a word or ask for what I need. I am mute. Me, a white man, a bit elderly, but okay economically, needing anything, anything at all from a stranger?

I nod my head, signaling ‘yes. ’ I look him in the eye. He raises his hand high, high, higher and keeps it there as if intoning for the heavens to open up.

By Phil Groce — The Buzz

Sitting in the corner booth, next to the fireplace at Waterworks Pub, it was far enough away that Hannah Potter and I had privacy from the customers—regulars at the bar, and young and old and families at the tables. She would be working the bar and tables after the interview. At 24, Hannah has the flush and beauty of youth and the added health aura of a mother of a 3-month-old girl.

“My mother and I moved up here when I finished the 8th grade—I’m an only child. I have to say that moving like that with me, a kid just entering high school, is NOT the thing to do.” What do you mean? “Before, I was the social butterfly in my school, into most every activity; but when I entered high school here, I turned inward, introverted—didn’t do much except study . . . but I was an honor student.”

The invisible editor called me into his office on the top floor of the Buzz building. The view was incredible . “What do you see down there? ” he asked. “People, houses , ” I responded. “What else? ” he prompted. “Well, ” I began, “Trees , streets , cars , cats and dogs. ” I couldn’t actually see cats or dogs , but I assumed they were there.

“You see hope! ” he said firmly. “Hope” he repeated turning from the view to face me. “Hope” I echoed without much enthusiasm. I enjoy a metaphor as much as the next hack writer, but just what was he getting at? “All of that came from a seed, the people, the cats and dogs , the trees. ” “How about the houses and cars? ” I ask.

His metaphor didn’t waver, “The seed of an idea, ” he said. He reached down and from a silver tray and from the remains of his lunch he picked up an orange pip. He squeezed the seed between thumb and forefinger, holding it up to make the point. “How, ” I pressed him, “is a seed hope? ” He responded saying, “Because it embodies hope in function and design – Nothing in it imagines failure. The acorn knows it will one day be a mighty oak and dominate the forest. ” He saw my interest flag, my lunch making me drowsy. “Here is the point, ” he said pressing the orange pip into my palm.