Authors: John M. Del Vecchio
“I think you’re absolutely right.”
“You know, my position at work’s a sham.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yeah, really. We’re more an arm of the business community than a planning/regulating office. Harrison’s more interested in ‘expanding the tax base.’” Bobby looked down, shook his head. “I feel like the office curmudgeon.”
“Patient investigation and disciplined perseverance,” Sara teased.
“I want to be a force, a catalyst, for changing how people think,” Bobby said. “How they react and relate to the environment, to minorities, to different ideas.”
“Then you will be,” Sara said. They strolled between the hillside trellises with their clipped vines. Josef Andrassy I’s fine home looked down upon them.
“I could be, you know, if you’re with me.”
“I am with you.” Sara smiled.
“If you believe in me,” Bobby said.
“You can’t really believe in someone, and no one will believe in you, if you don’t believe in yourself. That’s what I tell my children. And if your self-esteem is damaged or destroyed, you won’t believe in yourself even if I believe in you.”
“Granma and Granpa always told me I could do anything I wanted, if I wanted to enough,” Bobby said. “My mother was just the opposite. She always told me I couldn’t do anything. Sometimes I have this dream of setting up a business or an institute or a community and I think I could pull it off. And then I think, What! Am I nuts? Who would listen to me?”
“I would. And I know your grandfather would. I really liked talking to him.”
“Sometimes I want to get back there. Back where people are a bit more sane. Sometimes San Martin makes me sick.”
“I know. All these little rich kids. And some of them are so poor. To them life already is the cost of their clothes.”
“Sara?”
“Um.”
“When should we get married?”
Sara smiled. “Is that a formal proposal, Mr. Wapinski?”
“No.” Bobby reached into his pocket. “This is.” He pulled out a small velvet box, opened it.
“In the spring,” Sara said.
“You know what I like about you?” Bobby stood downhill from her, looked up into her face. “You never dish out crap.”
Wedding plans moved in steps, in spurts, in rushes and rests. Bobby’s new design project, blessed by Tim Reed, moved in minute steady increments—maps, charts, graphs, outlines, breakdowns.
“The most fundamental element for success,” Bobby explained to Tim Reed, “is the public relations campaign. We’ve got to reteach the people. Change their views on energy.”
“Let me see what you’ve got.”
“Tim, before I open it up, understand it’s not just San Martin. I want to affect this entire corridor from Santa Rosa to the Golden Gate.”
“Good. Let’s see.”
“This is just the transportation end of it and it’s preliminary.” Bobby opened his large portfolio, laid a topographic map of the North Bay on Tim Reed’s desk. Overlying the map was an acetate cover with hundreds of blue arrows representing wind currents. “First, we’ve got to understand our present energy consumption,” Bobby began. From oil companies he’d obtained bulk gasoline sales records for the entire region. From county and state offices he’d gotten vehicle registration figures. From the Department of Transportation, daily, monthly and yearly traffic across the Golden Gate Bridge, including rush-hour surge figures. Step by step Bobby Wapinski explained his findings to Tim Reed. Tim found the details fascinating.
Again Bobby said, “This is preliminary. I’ve explored—”
“Skip to this one.” Tim tapped the map. “This is where you’re going, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.” It excited Bobby that Tim was enthusiastic. “These are prevailing wind patterns. The study’s got to be expanded but for some locations, like at the Nike site on North Peak, we’ve got decades of year-round data. There’s always the Pacific wind. It always comes through these passes here, here, here. A whole series of em. Tim, we can tap the wind. We could have a thousand windmills, some small, some large, on the ridges and in the saddles.”
Tim was perplexed. “And do what?”
“Use them to generate electricity.”
“For homes?”
“To electrify the third lane of Highway 101.”
“Hmm?”
“Follow me. Look.” Bobby opened up another folder.
“What—”
“It’s an electric commuter car.”
“You designed it?”
“It’s preliminary. I haven’t worked out all the details. But there are a lot of people working on electric cars.”
“Sure, but the batteries are way too heavy. They’ve got no range and—Oh!”
“See?”
“Hmm. You know, I thought you’d come up with a proposal for mass transportation ...”
“People won’t give up their cars, Tim. Americans like their independence. The freedom individual autos offer is exactly what mass transit takes away. My cars become pods in a mass transit system. This is a population corridor. Here, look.” Bobby quickly shuffled his notes. He was afraid of losing Tim Reed and Tim was critical to any future presentations. “Ninety-six percent of the people in Marin and San Martin—and seventy-eight percent in Sonoma County—live within fifteen miles of 101. That’s the advantage to
this
mass transit system. People get all the benefits of a regular car. The privacy. The freedom. The power for the lane comes from the windmills. In spots, that wind averages thirty miles per hour for
at least
four hours per day two hundred days per year. Excess power can be sold to PG and E. Our entire region essentially becomes a clean, efficient, environmentally sound power plant. And the amount of excess electricity on windy days can offset the costs of electricity needed on calm days.
“Where are you going to get all these cars?”
“Build them.”
“Come on, Bob. You mean everybody would have to go out and buy a new car?”
“Tim, this is a ten-, maybe fifteen-, year project. The average household”—again Bobby shuffled his papers—“buys four cars in that period. I don’t want this to be a revolution. It should be an evolution. By 1983, or maybe even ’93, we’ll have transformed northern California’s perspective on transportation and energy. Personal consumer habits will change. They’re going to change anyway. We can impact the direction of that change.”
“Hmm.” Tim Reed rested back in his chair. “Let me go over this for a few days. You know, PG and E might be interested. They could own the windmills and be, ah, or have a public utility branch responsible for that third lane. Hmm. Oh, by the way, can I give you this? Save me the stamp.”
“Ah ... of course.”
“Jinny and I are really happy you invited us. Jinny likes Sara.”
“You can make it?”
“To dance at your wedding! You bet your sweet ass.”
Saturday, 23 March 1974, Sonoma, California. They stood, he in front as tradition dictates, in the chapel of the San Francisco Solano Mission—the northernmost and last built of the Spanish missions along El Camino Real, the Royal Road. He was nervous yet tranquil. Others chatted quietly, smiled, nudged one another now and again, turned often. The guests stood, more than one hundred, because there were no pews, no chairs, no furniture except the two individual kneelers the couple would use. The room was small, dim, cool, with thick walls, tiny windows and a low ceiling, constructed at a time when the average man in the territory stood only five feet two inches tall and fossil-fuel heat was unknown.
On the right, facing forward, was Pewel Wapinski, clean shaven, spiffed up in a new suit, leaning, on one side, on his brass-head cane, on the other on Anthony Pisano’s arm. Tony, too, was in a suit and tie, clean, his hair pulled back, a leather thong with a carved apple-wood motorcycle-wheel slide holding his ponytail. Beside him were Miriam and Doug. Behind were Bobby’s friends; in the back Dan Coleman and Tom Houghton, officially ushers, held Josh, officially the Best Dog.
In front Bobby turned to Al Bartecchi, stammered, “The ring?”
“Right here.”
“They should be here, shouldn’t they?”
“It’s still early. Jane’s with em. They’ll be okay.”
On the left stood Josef and Eva Andrassy, Sara’s grandparents, and her brothers Tamas and Peter and their wives, Colleen and Donna, and the youngest and unwed brother, Gyorgy (George), and Aunt Karolyi, and behind them, the principal of San Martin Elementary and twenty teachers with spouses or friends, plus friends of Sara from Sonoma and Davis and Berkeley.
Finally Dan Coleman escorted Lynette, Sara’s mother, to her place at the front. Everyone turned, expectant.
The rehearsal dinner had been held the night before at La Casa, Sonoma’s classy Mexican restaurant on The Square across from the mission. Before most of the participants had arrived Sara sat alone with Miriam in the upper balcony room while Bobby, Doug and Tony stood at the downstairs bar drinking margaritas and Pewel sat near them inhaling the good feelings.
“You’ll regret the day you ever met this man,” Miriam said to Sara.
“Excuse me?” Sara said. She did not know whether to laugh or to be angry.
“I’m telling you not to marry him,” Miriam said. “You don’t have to go through with it. I’m telling you, he’s just like his father.”
“And just who is his father?” Sarah shot back. “He told me he doesn’t know his father.”
“Well ... I knew his father. He’s going to be just like him. He’ll drink. He’ll carouse. He’ll do exactly what he pleases. Eventually you’ll regret the day you met him.”
“I resent you even saying that.” Sara’s voice was firm but her hands began to quiver.
“He’ll knock you around and abuse you,” Miriam said. “Then he’ll start messing with other women. Don’t marry him.”
“How dare you!” Sara began.
“Oh,” Miriam huffed. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you? You might as well admit it so I can get ready.”
Sara stood. “I’m not pregnant.”
“Sit down. You don’t have to show me.”
Sara sat, leaned toward Miriam. “What’s your problem? What kind of mother would talk about her son like that?”
“I told Cheryl, who’s married to Brian, the same thing. And I’m telling you. Okay, you’re not pregnant. Keep it that way. It’ll make your divorce easier.”
“OH!” Sara coughed out the utterance in disgust.
Miriam stood, strode from the upper level toward the stairs that Al Bartecchi and Jane Boswell were climbing and behind them Bobby and Tony and Pewel and Doug. “Didn’t you bring me anything?” Miriam snapped at Doug.
“They’re here.” Whispered, person to person. Commotion. Then a hush falling over the chapel. Mother of the bride glancing, smiling, to the mother of the groom.
The ceremony was not simple, not short and sweet. It was built around a full Catholic mass—Bobby’s marriage to Red was not recognized by the church and thus the church sanctioned this rite—though extended by their own additions, and by the importance Bobby and Sara placed upon ceremony and tradition. Eleven flower girls and four “ring bearers,” Sara’s students all, led the procession. Then came the maid of honor and bridesmaids carrying new candles instead of bouquets and then Josef Tamas Andrassy with his daughter in white satin and lace and Sara too had an unlit candle and every guest and family member also raised a candle as the transformation of Robert Janos Wapinski and Sara Coolwater Andrassy which had begun so long and so short ago continued. Tamas Andrassy read Genesis 2:18–24 and—at the insistence of Pewel Wapinski—Tony Pisano read a letter from Paul to the Corinthians. These were followed by the reading of a gospel according to John by Father Paul Weiss, and finally by Father Paul’s homily and the lighting of the candles.
With this light, as we pass the flame from church to grandparents to parents to children, and on to all assembled to witness this blessed sacrament of marriage between Sara and Robert, we cast new light upon this couple, upon ourselves, upon each other, and upon our world. In this new light we recognize and declare a transformation of spirit, a moving from the order of the self to a higher order—to the unity of two, and perhaps in the future to yet an even higher order above the self, above this couple following their shared dreams, to a level of family—the great circle—from which this light has been passed to you to transform you to what has always been.
In the small chapel the scores of candles flickered and the light glinted from the low ceiling, refracted from the tiny windows, reflected in hundreds of eyes. It was midday and yet the ambience of a candlelight vigil enveloped all. The priest continued—changing momentarily to the earthly.
Many do not understand what love is, what it looks like. Today we are told that love is simply a supportive arrangement, a relationship of mutual, positive reinforcement. Yet the difference is not one of degree, not one of time spent together. When you truly love, you love the other the way the earth loves the sun on the first warm morning of spring, and you know this love holds the potential for arid and parched summers, for cold autumns and overcast winters, and you must have faith that spring will come again, and again relight the land.
Follow your dreams, Sara. Follow your dreams, Robert. Follow your dreams in the light of this new light.
“By gawd, you’re an old man,” Pewel, 84, said to Josef Andrassy, 87.
“And you’re still just a pup,” Josef said, and both men laughed.
The reception was held at Juanita’s in Boyd’s Hot Spring, an ancient smorgasbord resort hotel fifty years past its heyday, run by an infamous ex–San Francisco madam who had crammed and choked the pink-and-white stuccoed hotel with beads, bangles, Christmas lights, stuffed owls, old gaming tables, thousands of trinkets and treasures, now mostly chipped, broken and dusty; with live animals—monkeys, pigs, a donkey; with a huge hot table piled high with delicious (if not elegant) food; with music; and finally with her brash, outrageous, hilarious self.
“Come on.” Bobby pulled Pewel’s sleeve.
“You too.” Sara grasped Josef.
“We want a picture of the four of us,” Bobby said. Then outside by the fountain, in the bright sun, “the five of us.” He pulled Josh, and Josh was thrilled to get between him and Sara.
“Six of us,” Pewel said. “Tony, get in here.”