WhirledView

Hillary Clinton’s Hard Choices: A Must Read

By Patricia Lee Sharpe

Take the time to read Hillary Clinton’s Hard Choices.  Read it carefully and take it seriously, as many critics have not.  Instead, having salivated in anticipation of  its publication date, they swooped in, intending to gorge on juicy (but highly unlikely) revelations, then panned the actual book.  It isn’t the tell-all exposé they’d prayed for.  

Gossip’s Not the Point

For one thing—and wisely, not coyly, as some critics believe—Clinton, in these pages, limits herself to confessing she’s still weighing the pros and cons of making another run for the presidency.  Whether she’s even leaning this way or that, she doesn't tell.  And thank goodness for that!  Spring 2014 is way too early for presidential hat-tossing. Her reticence is a grace note for ordinary Americans who feel that presidential campaigns are much too long.  

Meanwhile, others sneer that Hard Choices is “merely” a campaign tool allowing Clinton to test the waters while ostensibly just signing books.  But there’s nothing wrong with that.  Nor with the fact that little or nothing on any page can hurt her much.  What kind of an idiot commits political suicide?  Should she decide to run, however, there’s much worth gleaning here.  Above all, voters would know beyond a doubt that  we’d have with her, for the first time since George H.W. Bush was on the scene, a president who understood from the get-go how the world works and how to work with it.
    
So Hard Choices is not gossipy. It's certainly not a long delayed sob story, even as Monica Lewinsky attempts to rake up the sordid sex life of the 42nd  president.   Never ever expect Hillary Clinton to spill her guts about her partnership with Bill, although she does expose her deep love for her daughter Chelsea.  Unlike the recent memoirs of Robert Gates, it’s not sprinkled with snarky put downs of erstwhile colleagues either.  Yet, for all that she avoids gratuitous personal pot shots at political opponents, Clinton does, as relevant,  acknowledge differences of opinion on policy-making.  

 What’s Wrong with Solid and Reliable?

Some would say that Clinton is simply playing it safe in Hard Choices.  I don’t think so.  The Hillary we get here is the real thing.  Intelligent.  Conscientious.  Earnest.  Hard-working.  Intense.  Straightforward.  Principled and pragmatic.  Not flamboyant.  Not bombastic.  Not vicious.  And so, maybe, a trifle boring, as serious people are often held to be.  

No, Clinton’s not a drama queen, and thank god for that.  There’s already enough drama in today’s world.    To those who think they’d prefer a more exuberant political performer at center stage, I suggest a hard look at a powerful  politician who dominates Europe without pizzaz or a wasp waist: Angela Merkel.  She doesn’t seem to have a unified grand theory of diplomacy either, but wow!  Whether or not you agree with her all the time, Merkel, these days, puts every other European politician in the shade.

What!  No Grand theory?

Hillary Clinton set out to write a book about her role in the formation (maybe not so much) and carrying out (tirelessly) of U.S. foreign policy as Secretary state in the first Obama administration, a task at which some say she failed.  The dreadful deficiency?  She never evolved a grand theory to guide the Obama administration’s encounters with the rest of the world.  The touchstone for this criteron?  Something on the order of George Kennan’s policy of containment, which worked so well during the Cold War.   

These critics don’t seem to have noticed how much simpler the world was back then.  Bipolar is the modern word for it.  Facing a credible threat of nuclear war, it fell to the U.S. to blunt the U.S.S.R.’s geographic and ideological ambitions until that sudden implosion in 1989.  To a very large extent the richer state won, although it feels much better to say that the better system won, which I can’t help thinking was no less true.  Unfortunately, today’s world is anything but  the harmonious unipolar system imagined by American triumphalists contemplating the rubble of the Berlin Wall.  For one thing, they overlooked the possibility that countries getting richer—China, Brazil, et. al.—would seek the equivalent in power and influence as well.  Worse, who dreamed that the U.S. would also have to deal with a proliferation of non-state actors whose tactics, weapons and dedication make for a serious threat? 

Dave Brubeck's Legacy: Jazz Makes an Impact

By Wendi Maxwell, Guest Contributor

Wendi Maxwell, jazz vocalist and band leader, performs regularly in Northern California with her own Tres Hot Jazz Band, singing straight-ahead jazz, up-tempo swing and vocalese, sambas and ballads. You can visit her website at www.wendimaxwell.com.

The flags were at half-mast on Dave Brubeck Way. Dave Brubeck, jazz pianist, composer, and worldwide ambassador of peace, died in mid-December, one day before his 92^nd birthday. Here in Stockton, home of the Brubeck Institute, we mourned Dave’s spirit of improvisation and innovation.

 Dave was featured in the 1950s on the cover of Time magazine. His ground-breaking album “Take Five” remains one of the best-selling jazz albums of all time. His poly-tempo, poly-rhythmic compositions caused audiences to listen to jazz in an entirely new way, leaving behind standard time signatures and rhythms, and causing new musicians of all genres to find ways to break free of the habits of centuries of Western music.

In our poverty-stricken town, Dave’s impact was more immediate and more personal. A graduate of the University of the Pacific’s Conservatory of Music, Dave endowed the university with one of the world's largest and most comprehensive collections from a contemporary musician, establishing the Brubeck Institute. The archives hold correspondence, legal and business documents, recordings, manuscripts, photographs, and printed programs. But more than papers, the Institute supports active jazz performance ranging from students to world-class professionals.

I had the opportunity to meet Dave a couple of times. He was a tall, distinguished gentleman with a ready smile and twinkling eyes. When he played on stage with young musicians, he beamed love and support their way. People who met him felt he was a personal friend, even after only a couple of sentences. Those of us in the jazz community heard “Take Five” (or sang or played “Take Five”) so many times that we joked it should be the local ringtone…

The emergence of the Brubeck Institute brought local jazz into focus. Our blue-collar town of 300,000 currently boasts jazz performances and jams five nights a week. Nowadays, when a local group looks for music for a fundraising event, jazz is often the first place they turn. For a community reeling from years of financial hardship, music is solace to everyone.

Improvisation and innovation are the hallmarks of jazz, and individuals and groups across our town find themselves in the midst of innovation and improvisation at all levels. Neighborhoods and the community as a whole are banding together in unprecedented ways. I have to believe that Dave would applaud the creativity and spontaneity that’s emerging around town as we tackle some really tough problems. Maybe having jazz as the sound track of our community life is helping us come together, trust each other, and find new ways to get along.

 

In the Keep of Yorkshire

By John Charles Dyer, UK Correspondent   

In the silence of the keep

one forgets time,

even who one is.

Romance gallops as sunlit dust swirls

in search of glory 

among the clouds.

(Left, Castle Keep. Photo by John C. Dyer)

But this was a real castle with a real history, the Neville’s Raby Castle near Durham, County Durham. One of post Conquest Britain’s early seats of great power, Raby rises with surprising majesty above Yorkshire’s bucolic rolling green fields.

 

 

 

 

(Above, left to right, Raby Castle, Stable Entrance to Gardens, Raby Castle Gardens. Below, left to right, View from a Gun, Deer in Castle Park, Raby Castle 2. All photos by John C. Dyer)

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Left, Within the Keep, photo by John C. Dyer)

We came to Raby at the request of friends from the States.    

This trip was a reunion of sorts. I had missed my college reunion.  The couple we accompanied to Raby attended the same small college modeled on Oxford.

Whitby, Love at First Bite

By John Charles Dyer, UK Correspondent

Introduction

As a wee lad I had the opportunity to tour Disney Studios. A budding artist even at four, I enjoyed observing the then-studio cartoonists at work. On a later holiday- but still while in elementary school- my family and I were privileged to have Walt Disney’s flat at the top of the Fire Station in Disneyland all to ourselves for a long weekend.  As I am sure all readers understand, the enthralled little boy in me still cherishes these memories.    

I’ve had many enchanting experiences. I watched stars glint in a pristine dark night sky above Monte Toyon in the Santa Cruz mountains. I gazed down  on the magnificent Yosemite Valley from Half Dome. I wandered the forests of mottled light that surround Patrick’s Point, seeking the Ewoks of my imagination. I held my breath watching wales breach the Pacific from Patrick's Point's sacred central rock.  I soaked up the warm, jeweled nights of Nassau.  I stood on the site of Bunker Hill in Boston.  I walked Capitol Park in the Nation’s capitol. I toured the North and South East coasts of Cornwall.

I rode the route along the Fowey River to Lerryn which was one of the routes that inspired Wind in the Willows.  I gazed  on the Talland Bay from a bench within the soul refreshing graveyard of Talland Church. I photographed England’s breath taking cathedrals in Wells, Salisbury, Bristol, Exeter. I listened to Timothy Leary expound on LSD in the Raymond College Common Room. I’ve talked with Allen Ginsberg after enjoying the poetry of Jack Kerouac. I have experienced the force of nature who was Eric Hoffer.

I remember vividly lounging in the warm light that flooded the Common Room alcove, smiling at its fountain, my first morning at Raymond College, my Hogwarts. It reminded me of my great uncle’s cabin in the then undeveloped Santa Monica Hills, the tiny but truly "burbling" creek that wandered through the ferns that covered his hillside, the steep trail that led from the Cabin in which some of the 20th Century's great theologians had debated life. 

But few experiences have been as magical as Whitby. To think, we only went to Whitby to avoid the crowds during the week of the British Open (which took place 200 yards from our home flat). 

Whitby

Whitby nestles into the North Yorkshire seaside, straddling the mouth of the Esk River.   

(Left to Right Up: Whitby & Abbey from the Esk, Whitby along the Esk.)  

 

 

 

 

(Left to Right, Whitby & Whitby Bay. Photos by John C. Dyer)

 

We stayed in a “self-catering” cottage, rented through Whitby Holiday Cottages.  

(Left, Holiday Cottage,

Cottage BedRm

By John C. Dyer)

 

Whitby has fantastic historical associations.  The earliest documented English poet, Caedmon, lived and at worked at Whitby Abbey. The Abbey in its original form pre-dates the time of King Edwin of Northumbria. Edwin's daughter, St. Helena, became its Abbess.  

Singing in a Drought's Abundant Rain in Exeter, Devon

Singing in a Drought's Abundant Rain in Exeter, Devon

By: John C. Dyer, UK Correspondent

 It was raining the morning I set out to visit Exeter.   

It has long been said Britain has weather not climate, a nod to the weather’s changeability. But a new British reality is unfeasible drought punctuated by untenable downpours, leading to floods that seem to defy all expectations that come with the word, "drought."  It is the second year of a British drought severe enough for water use restrictions in some parts of the country.  But the South West, my destination, was on flood watch due to record downpours.   (Photo left "Vintage Exeter Roof in Rain"  by John C. Dyer, May 2012)  

Incidentally, because of the weather’s changeability, traveling in the UK requires at least two essentials- an all weather coat and a sensible pair of shoes.  You can get by without an umbrella, but not the coat. The weather can change from sunshine to storm within a half hour.  Sensible shoes are critical. You may see women dressed in 5 inch heels. This custom is called “fashion.”  But for the traveller, high heels may be the truest symbol of British austerity- not austere, in fact ostentatious, but undoubtedly horribly uncomfortable, especially walking along all those hills.  Wear sensible, comfortable shoes with great arch support. Your knees will thank you in the morning. 

A Journey by Rail (with travel tips)  

I set out from St Annes. The rain formed beautiful droplets on Spring’s new blossoms, foreshadowing hope for a holiday more enjoyable than the rains might have suggested possible.  

St. Annes is a community within the community of Lytham St. Annes. While neighbours the two towns have a different feel to them.   (Photo left "Sated Tulip" by John C. Dyer, May 2012)  

This summer that feel will be busy.  Golf’s biggest professional tournament comes to the Royal Lytham Golf Course, which runs like a green belt through St. Annes.  I shop Marks and Spencer. Their St. Annes outlet is hardly larger than a US 7/11 convenience store. It is always busy, but they estimate during the tournament as many as 10,000 people will shop there each day. Whew. 

I traveled to Exeter by rail, with an overnight stop in Bristol, Somerset.     

Rail has the place in British life air travel has in California. I have often seen BBC  interview the Chancellor , the shadow Chancellor or the leader of the opposition during their routine rail commutes between their constituencies and London.  For a visitor rail presents the advantages of dependability, wide access through the country, good directions for a new user, and, in First Class, comfort.   

As an example of how user friendly it can be, when I arrived in Preston to make connections for Bristol I learned that my connection had been delayed due to a safety problem further up the track.  Even as anxiety set in, the cheerful crew at the highly visible information booth set the old codger’s mind at ease. They explained to me just how to deal with it. They permitted me to use their telephone gratis to call my wife to advise her of the expected 20 minute delay.  Although I missed the scheduled connection in Bristol as a result, I just caught the next train with the same ticket. It was all quickly sorted by the onboard ticket taker.  With trains departing every 30 minutes I didn’t really notice a difference.  

Rail’s main disadvantages are relative lack of luggage space, particularly for large items, and crowding during peak hours.  For visitors who prefer a low fat, low cholesterol diet I suggest you consider buying your own prior to the journey. You will not find your diet choice either on the train or in the stations.  If you want to avoid noisy crowds and cell phones try for the “quiet car.”  

If you travel by rail with a reserved seat you will receive two tickets, one for the trip and one for the seat.  You must hold on to both. Both will be checked, predictably just after you decide that they aren’t going to bother this time.  Expect your ticket to be checked when you first set off and as you attempt to leave the station platform area. In fact, your ticket is your exit pass from the station. Don’t lose it.    

Other than that, trust the system, sit back, and enjoy the many sights and sounds of the journey. A rail journey in the UK is in-of-itself an adventure in discovery.  

As the train departed St. Annes the loudspeaker announced destinations.  I drifted bemused and amused by the pronunciation of "Oswald Twistle," a stop further down the line.  In this reverie it finally occurred to me the British are entitled to pronounce "Oswald Twistle" as they do, without an American saying to himself “how cute” or “how quaint.”  I don’t know if this was a transformative insight or just the haze of waking at “O Dark Hundred” to begin my journey.  (Photo Above "Impulse Power, Scotty" by John C. Dyer, May 2012)  

I soon settled in, watching the beautiful green, rolling countryside with its fields dotted by free ranging cattle and sheep, listening to the symphony of dialects spoken around me.  I remember registering just before nodding off that the “ot” in “Not” in a Glasgow accent  is pronounced “oh” as in French. So Not is “No.”   

Bristol

Victoria met me in Bristol.  We stayed overnight in Bristol before leaving for Exeter. 

I described Bristol at length in a previous post. One of the UK’s most vibrant cities, it is a blend of old and new. The Queen Elizabeth Hospital Boy’s School dates back to the time of Elizabeth I. 

The new flats and shopping areas of the redeveloped docks all came after Victoria moved away 20 years ago.    

 

 (Photo Up left  "Queen Elizabeth Welcomes Thee"; Photo Left "Brisol Port Flats" By John C. Dyer, May 2012)  

 

John Cabot was one of Bristol’s heros.  Memorials to his contribution to Bristol’s glorious past dot the city, from Cabot Tower 

to a bronze statue overlooking the dockyards.   

(Photo far left "Cabot Tower Bristol"; Photo left "Cabot Bronze" by John C. Dyer, May 2012)   

This sculpture symbolizes the vibrant unity of Bristol’s past and present. Cabot’s character-filled face gazes across the new development.   

His character filled hands rest casually crossed before him. He seems to tie together Bristol’s glorious past, vibrant present, and promising future. 

(Photo far left "Cabot Surveys Bristol Channel"; Photo left "Cabot Bronze Detail" by John C. Dyer, May 2012)       

 

When is a River Not a River?

By Patricia Lee Sharpe  


I’ve been walking along a nearly dry river lately, and I’ve had lots of company, including dogs with cold noses and cyclists who startled me because I didn’t hear them approaching on the smooth new pavement.  I’ve also encountered joggers, speed walkers, assorted chums strolling and chatting, skate-boarders and people pushing baby carriages—a microcosm of the community, in fact, some in good shape, some in need of much more walking or much less eating.
 
Visitors scoff at the Santa Fe river, especially when it has the Gobi-desert-in-miniature look.  But even when the river is more or less running—in the spring, after a big rainstorm, when water is being released from the never-quite-full-enough reservoirs upstream, the scoffers aren’t impressed. “Santa Fe trickle?” they suggest, with a sneer.  “Santa Fe dribble?” 

How Much Water Is Necessary?

When is a river really really a river?  When it’s broad and deep and has a strong flow to it, unlike those poor relations dubbed streams and creeks?  When it can’t, safely, be waded across? Is it still a river when, intermittently, it’s reduced to a few stagnating pools?  Or when it masquerades as an arroyo, even as its invisible underground perennial seepage supports a verdant, jungly sort of bosque (think of the ultra-poetic English word ‘bosky’) that snakes across a landscape of sparse scrawny vegetation? 

When it's had as little recent connection with H2O as the supposed rivers on Mars?

Northern New Mexico has a few rivers that never occult themselves.  There’s the Chama flowing into O’Keefe country from Colorado, the quick-descending Nambe River transporting snowmelt from Santa Fe Baldy, the Rio en Medio with its charming waterfalls, the Pecos River descending from the Eastern side of the Sangre de Cristo mountains.  And, of course, there’s the Rio Grande which flows to the west of Santa Fe on its way to the Gulf of Mexico, performing for 1000 plus miles its task of dividing the U.S. from Mexico. 

None of these rivers can compete with the Mississippi or the Amazon or the Nile or the Rhine, or even the Ohio, but water is the stuff of life.  Wherever it appears, in whatever form, in whatever quantity, it’s cherished.  And so, the city of Santa Fe has, little by little, over the past few years, thumbed its nose at financial bad times and extended the Santa Fe River Trail. 

When I finally got around to checking out the new portion a few weeks ago, I was impressed by the amount and quality of the work that had gone into the project.  Shortly after, as usual at this time of year, the flow was turned off.  Just in time for tourists to peer into it and guffaw, “That’s a river?” 

Why does the river get turned off? 

Pure necessity.  Dams on the river impound water for non- spiritual, non-aesthetic needs.  If the reservoirs behind those dams aren’t full enough (and the other sources upon which the city depends are equally depleted), faucets won’t flow and toilets won’t flush. Good citizens hereabouts are vigilant year round water conservators, because they are denizens of the high desert. No one ever got rich farming this land.  Not the original peoples.  Not the Spanish colonials. Today New Mexico is one of the poorest states in the union.  

Insufficient rainfall is the culprit.  Even in the wettest years there’s not enough water to maintain Eastern-style green lawns, and the most conscientious limit the frequency and duration of their showers.  I’ll confess.  I’m good about the no-lawn regimen, but pretty profligate when it comes to showering during a hot spell.

Ducks and Little Girls

Although the watershed for the reservoirs in use today are off bounds to casual hikers, to protect our water supply, such as it is, anyone can walk atop the earthen remains of a late 19th century dam and see the marshy remnant of that reservoir (photo above), now home to a quackery of ducks and a colony of beavers, who are industriously at work on their own damming. 

  This a favorite place for local bird watchers, and  a mile-long path encircling the pond connects with Santa Fe’s extensive system of urban trails.  Santa Fe is a walker’s paradise, even for those who don’t fancy hiking at the higher altitudes.

The most delightful moment during my first morning on the new portion of the  Santa Fe River Trail was encountering a little girl splashing in a pool below a newly constructed rocky step down. Although the pool was not much larger than a couple of bath tubs,  to that little girl at that moment that little catchment of water was her own special place.  She flopped.  She splashed. I was tempted to shake off my sandals and wade in, but I settled for vicarious pleasure instead.  My intrusion would have destroyed her magic. 

Re-Creating a a Proper Bosque

By the time I managed to find time for another walk along the river, there was even less of it, water-wise, and the farther I walked downstream (so to speak) the drier it got. Toward the end of the new improved trail, the river bed was completely dry, which was good, actually, for me.  I could see the extent of the new stone work, the embankments to hold spring’s rush of snow melt, the placing of rock to manage the river’s descent toward the Rio Grande, the shapely channels for runoff from an occasional gullywasher of a rain storm. Without water, it was beautiful, like sculpture.  Also visible was the well-worn old path, ducking under a brand new footbridge, leading the more adventurous on toward the Rio Grande.

Unfortunately much of the newly improved mileage is shadeless and bleak.  Too many bulldozers have been at work.  However, once all the scrupulously re-introduced local vegetation takes hold and gets to thriving again in habitat from which it was displaced by ruthless alien species, the Trail will truly fulfill its ecological as well as its recreational promise.  No more salt cedar, for instance.  This giant weed has lovely plumes of delicate pink flowers, but it needs so much water that a stand of salt cedar can dry up a small stream.  Also mostly gone: the ubiquitous Chinese or Siberian elms that were imported in the 19th century and flourished because they require amazingly little water for their size.  To replace the interlopers: hundreds of cottonwoods and river willows. It may take ten years, but a new, wholly native bosque will eventually flourish here.

Meanwhile, back in the heart of Santa Fe, the river may gurgle and burble, or it may go dry, as it is right now, but if you're walking along the heavily-shaded stretch of river, you might very well be thinking, "Desert?  What desert?"

Honeymoon in America Off the Beaten Track in and about Woodland, California, Part 2

By John C. Dyer, UK Correspondent

(This is the second of a two-part photo story by John C. Dyer.  The first can be found here.) 

Davis, California

  The City of Davis is best known as the home of the University of California, Davis a world class institution. But it is also a marvelous place to visit in its own right, especially appealing to those who like a traditional city center and village atmosphere. (Photos left: "Village House" and "Detail Village Garden" by John C. Dyer, August 2011). (Photo right "City Street" by John C. Dyer, August 2011)

It is at once charmingly quaint  (Photos left: "Tea house," "Tea for Two," and  "Orange Square" by John C. Dyer, August, 2011).  

 

 

 

Davis is the home to a busy Farmer’s Market, one of the first in the modern Farmer’s Market movement, featuring entertainment as well as veggies for its many customers.  But of course, the University is never far from sight. (Photos right: "Uni student" and "Farmers Market Scene by John C. Dyer, 2011).

 You really could not make Davis up, but to the English eye it offers all that a town centre should, small local shops and restaurants, walking and biking the norm and the Unitrans double decker, vintage, iconic London Routemaster buses.  The farmers’ market is very impressive after the cholesterol loaded offerings of a much smaller market in St Annes. 

University of California, Davis

The campus of the University of California is a delight to visit.  Cork Oaks shade its central square .  Multiple sculptures intrigue the walker (Photos left: UCD campus and photos right:  Intrigue, Using Your Head and Shoe by John C. Dyer, August 2011). The campus consciously connects with England, using London buses for transport and decorating the station with an old Telephone Booth.   Putah Creek winds through campus. (Photo left: "Phone Box," by John C. Dyer, August 2011.

 UC Davis' Horticultural Heritage

The University displays its horticultural heritage with a breathtaking display of trees, plants, and flowers buzzing with bees. 

(Photos above: "Beezy," "Purple Whisps," "Pink on Pond,"by John C. Dyer, August 2011)

Photos right: "Delicacy" "Fire bush," "Redwood," "The Rose," "Trumpets," by John C. Dyer, August 2011.)

  

Labour Day saw a handful of students and very little bike action.  Two days later it was no longer safe to walk in a daydream for cyclists asserting their right to the cycle paths and young people swarming around the town and campus. We bid adieu as the students began to arrive for the Fall.

Honeymoon in America Off the Beaten Track in and about Woodland, California

By John C. Dyer, UK correspondent

(This is the first of two off-the-beaten track  photo stories by John C. Dyer.  His marriage and honeymoon took place August 2011. Several photos were taken by his wife, Victoria Buchan Dyer and are so identified.  Enjoy.)

Woodland is a long way from Lytham St. Annes, Lancashire. It is located near Sacramento in California’s huge central valley.  Probably not anyone else’s first choice for a honeymoon. But ours was delightful and rich with memory making moments. 

We chose Woodland for family. My daughter and grandchildren live there.  So does the brother of Victoria’s  American “sister.”  

I had not seen my Woodland family for some time. Victoria had never met them.  I arranged for my son to fly in from Seattle, making the occasion a family reunion.   

Victoria had not seen her “sister” (an exchange student in Victoria’s childhood home in Dorset) or her “sister’s” mother and brother in ages.

As it happened, Victoria’s brother’s daughter and my granddaughter are friends.   It was all a happy coincidence. This happy coincidence gave me the opportunity to introduce Victoria to my past haunts.

In describing our experiences to you, the toughest decisions have been what to leave out. Let’s start with my experience of trying to enter the country on a British passport.

Security

Sadly, I cannot show photos of exciting bits of our journey. Security, both at the train stations and the airports overrode our best photographic intentions.

The interesting thing was how much more cumbersome security is for a Brit entering the US than for a Yank entering Britain. I found this out by accident.  In a senior moment I thought the US Embassy had told me that I had to enter the US on my British passport.  Other way around. Before a friendly US TSA agent clarified, I had gone through an electronic Visa, 4 passport checks and 2 luggage checks. Victoria had gone through a pat down.  Coming into Britain I had just gone through one of each and no one other than Victoria touched me.  

The friendly US TSA agent also explained an unexpected benefit - as my wife, Victoria would not need a green card.   But it was not until we were safely back in Lancashire before Victoria breathed again. She kept expecting a Border Patrol agent to demand she produce a green card.  It is quite usual for a Brit entering the US to wait in line, fingers crossed hoping they will not give the wrong answer to a simple question and be immediately deported.

Sacramento 

Many tourists visit Old Sacramento, especially during Jazz Festival each May.   Old Sacramento features many fine restaurants, including the Firehouse  and the Rio City Cafe to name just two.  (Photos right "Old Sacramento" by John C. Dyer  and "Old Sacramento Exit" by Victoria Buchan Dyer, August 2011) 

We did visit Old Sacramento and ate at the Rio City Cafe, which overlooks the confluent Sacramento and American Rivers. These rivers etch Sacramento, joining just to the North of Old Sacramento.  (Photos left of "Firehouse Restaurant" and "Rio Cafe" Sacramento, CA  by Victoria Buchan Dyer, August 2011)