ALL IS QUIET on the home front. The rash of crime that we saw in Montclair and the hills, this summer, has subsided. It’s no accident. Oakland police have been working overtime shifts in the village since a mid summer crisis meeting by Montclair merchants and the MSIC (Montclair Safety and Improvement Council).And it’s working.

Sgt. Joe Seale is the guy who puts together the schedule, and he says he’s got coverage in the village several nights a week. Apparently, it’s not hard to find guys to take the shifts, although Seale admits most of the officers would rather work the Raiders or A’s games, given the chance. Still, it’s great to have the officers watching Montclair and there’s no doubt that crime is down — way down.

“It’s a shame it has to be done this way on an overtime basis,” Seale said, “but as long as the city has the funds available, we can do it.”

Good job, everybody. Let’s keep the pressure up on our city officials to get our share of police protection in the hills. The squeaky wheel gets the grease and the noise we’ve been making is finally being heard.

BOARD DUDES: Now that school is back in session, hopefully the skateboards will go back in the garage. There were a rash of complaints, this summer, about skater dudes riding illegally on Montclair sidewalks. But nothing compares to the insane act I saw, recently, in the hills. Two boarders shot out from a side street onto Shepherd Canyon Road, and one actually wiped out in front of a mini-van. The driver narrowly missed the young man and do you know what he did as he got up and ran? He flipped her off! The unmitigated gall leaves me speechless.SEX ED: They’re getting down to the birds and bees in Piedmont Pines. Reader Elaine Hoffman says the lack of fruit on neighborhood trees has forced her to pollinate her own kiwi. The details might make you blush, so I won’t get into them — but needless to say, it worked. Her next step comes this spring when she sets up her own bee hive. The queen comes “special delivery” to her door, and gets right to work recruiting a hive full of “honeys”. Talk about “sexing up the neighborhood.” By fall, every fruit tree on Ascot should be in good shape.

GREAT DAY: Congratulations to Lloyd and Nancy Coyne — who just celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary at the place where they first met — Berkeley’s Newman Center. It was reportedly quite a bash, with a 3 o’clock mass followed by a party (coordinated by hills event planner Rebecca Faiola) for 100 of their closest friends and relatives. Here’s the really interesting part. Not only did Lloyd and Nancy meet there, but their daughter, Joanne, found her husband Dan there too, in a singles grou

IT’S A TYPICAL Sunday on Skyline Boulevard. Cars share the road with a steady stream of Spandex-clad bikers and leather-suited motorcyclists. It’s a popular drive — listed on many Web sites as a destination. “Unfortunately, the thrill of speeding round those curves is not only disruptive to the neighborhood, but as we experienced last summer — can be deadly,” says Sue Piper, the community liaison for Councilwoman Jean Quan.
Neighbors near Skyline have been complaining for years about speeding motorists. They’ve witnessed countless vehicles racing along the section above Montclair that has no lights and no stop signs. “You could help,” Piper tells me, “by reminding folks that the speed limit, whether posted or not, is 25 miles per hour.”

My reminder comes with a warning. Oakland police have been parked along Skyline Boulevard in recent weeks, watching for speeders. A ticket could be a nasty way to cap off your day. It goes without saying that an accident of any kind would be worse. Let’s all try to slow down and be more cautious on this scenic stretch of roadway.

OFF-RAMP AFFECTION: Even a freeway off-ramp needs love. Just ask Tod Vedock, who has been on a mission to spruce up the Broadway Terrace exit from Highway 13. “I was tired of traveling all over the country and seeing these nicely planned communities, and then coming home to my very expensive home and seeing weeds all up and down the street,” he says. So Vedock pulled the weeds and put down a dozen bags of shredded redwood mulch to cover up the dirt. And, yes — he did it without fanfare, and at his own expense. “The city will never be Walnut Creek,” he writes, so you have to “adopt it yourself.” Thank you, Tod. It’s folks like you who remind us of the virtues of civic pride.

VILLAGE UPDATE: I’ve been sitting on a secret for a couple of months, and now I’m able to share the news. Farmstead Cheeses and Wines is opening in the village by year’s end. The smoke cleared on the deal not long after La Salle Cigars vacated the space across from the parking garage. “The plans aren’t finished yet,” says Farmstead owner and hills dweller Jeff Diamond, “but hopefully there will be room in this space for a tasting bar.”
Diamond and his wife, Carol Huntington, have been building a steady following at their Park Street store in Alameda. The Montclair store will be almost twice the size — 1,000 square feet — and will allow them to bring in even more specialty cheeses and wines, along with their popular winemaker dinners.

E-MAIL BAG: If you’re looking for a small way to make a difference, reader Donna Bersaglieri could use some help with the one-on-one reading program at Piedmont Avenue Elementary School. “It’s a nice relaxed program started by someone in the neighborhood about 11 years ago,” she says. Volunteers read with two students a week for a half hour each in the school library. “There’s so much reciprocal giving and taking — it’s really a joy” she says. If you’re interested, call Donna at 510-482-0862, and she’ll tell you more about it.

FUNKY FINDINGS: Gross is the only word to describe the nasty, fungus-encrusted stuff that’s fouling the waters of Lake Merritt. A group of volunteers went on a little fishing expedition recently to celebrate Democratic presidential candidate and U.S. Sen. Barack Obama’s birthday. Skimming the lake with nets, they pulled up slime-covered bottles and Styrofoam and “the obligatory dime bags and syringes,” says organizer Suman M Paranjape.
And they also found turtles, which Paranjape says “aren’t so yucky but are kind of sad — since they can’t survive in the lake, but people release them anyway.”
She says they’ll be doing another clean-up on Sept. 15, and anyone who’d like to volunteer can call 510-931-7477.

SOME of my favorite structures are churches. I love the way outside light fills their sanctuaries and how their arches stretch toward the heavens.

Several years ago, my neighbor, Roger Powers, was associate pastor at Montclair Presbyterian. I occasionally went there to hear his sermons, thinking the congregation was vibrant and energetic but the space in which they worshipped — not very inspiring.

That all changed when the Thornhill Drive church completed a major renovation and earthquake retrofit two weeks ago. It’s a stunning transformation, turning an old 1950s A-frame into an inviting sanctuary with soaring arches and sparkling skylights. “When we gather,” says the Rev. Karen Stokes, “there is a lot of laughter and joy in being together. We wanted our worship space to reflect that lightness.” The timing couldn’t have been better. The retrofit and remodel was completed just days before last month’s quake on the Hayward fault, with the epicenter at Joaquin Miller Park.

E-MAIL BAG: Reader Brenna Coker sends out a “thank you” for my recent piece on the mountain lion cubs that were spotted on Villanova Drive. “I was walking my dog this morning and heard a distinct growl coming from the bushes,” she writes, saying it was so alarming she immediately turned around and went home. “My back yard borders Huckleberry (Regional Preserve) and I have a new puppy that I take outside frequently. Thanks to your article I will be on the lookout and more careful.” He points out the section of Skyline (between Shepherd Canyon and Snake) which is “in desperate need of center stripes and reflectors. He sites the Montclair nature trail as another “accident waiting to happen. “On the bridge over Snake Road, there are vestigial poles (if the authorities are trying to keep out motor vehicles it makes no sense to put a barrier in the MIDDLE rather than at the entries to the path), but worse, there is a post hole studded with metal that is not visible from the bridge. Some day a biker, stroller or jogger is going to go flying with a very negative result.” In regards to my recent rant on parked cars along narrow hills streets, reader Bill Hogan says: “There are other areas of Montclair that present serious safety hazards.”

On the flip side, reader Chuck Harrison brings us some good news regarding the pitted and potholed stretch of sidewalk from Montclair Elementary School to the library. “After 30 years of woeful neglect,” he says, the walkway is being resurfaced.”This is a EUREKA event worthy of three column photographs in The Montclarion next Friday,” he enthusiastically declares. Sorry, Chuck, but sidewalk photos just don’t cut it with the Town Crier. I’ll assume this paragraph paints an adequate picture.

PROUD MOMENT: Montclair’s popular UPS driver, Jeff Acosta, had some priceless cargo in his truck the other day. He was delivering his son’s new children’s book to the Book Tree on La Salle Avenue. Jeffrey Acosta, 20, wrote and illustrated “Adventures in Colurland” with the help of four friends while attending Liberty High in Brentwood. “I’m very proud of him” says Jeff, who says his son had to overcame a form of autism to write the book and plans to study elementary education at UC Davis next fall.

ANIMAL TALES: Next time you take your hound on a trail walk, you may want to have a dolly handy. Phil Meads had to push and prod with all his might recently when his big dog collapsed near the Skyline gate of Redwood Regional Park. When he finally got his companion to the vet, they ran a battery of tests to the tune of $1,900. “We never did find out what was wrong,” says Meads, but his walks now include an exit plan.

STEP RIGHT UP and see a man twist himself into an aerial pretzel. It’s all under the “big top” at Trapeze Arts in Oakland. Stephan Gaudreau is the owner of this popular circus school and is himself a professional trapeze artist. In fact, he’s one of the only performers who can do a triple somersault high in the air on the flying trapeze. I had a chance to see his school in action the other day, and was duly impressed. Kids and teens were learning tricks on the trampoline, and there were trapeze bars and tight ropes and all kinds of other fun stuff in his indoor circus center at Ninth and Pine in West Oakland.

Trapeze Arts is coming to the Lawrence Hall of Science on Aug. 15 for a free show (with the price of admission). Catch their act and you might just catch the bug to be in the circus yourself one day.

E-MAIL BAG: A chorus of readers has chimed in on my recent column about parking problems in the hills. Laura Curtis says she notices how hard it is to get around congested streets on her way to Sibley Regional Park. She also worries about the impact the expansion of St. John’s Church might have on parking along Thornhill Drive.

Reader Charles Bret blames the high homeowners’ insurance costs, in part, on “all the cars parked on our narrow streets while garages are full of junk or illegal in-laws.” He wishes Oakland would have the guts to do what they do in San Francisco and either ticket or tow cars if they are creating a hazard.

Chuck Harrison would like the Town Crier to keep a running log of reader complaints on this subject, including problem locations and even license plate and photo identification. Chuck — I don’t mind getting in the mud, but this sounds like quicksand to me.

CAT TRACKS: Living in the hills has its hazards. Kristi Hanelt says her son, Kristian, spotted two mountain lion cubs on Villanova Drive a couple of weeks ago. If that weren’t surprising enough, one of the kitties hissed and growled at him. “One cat was on the side of the road and the other was camouflaged in the grasses,” she says, adding they were pretty big for cubs, about 18 inches tall and between 20 and 30 pounds with lots of spots on their coats. While it’s a thrill to see these cats up close, the danger, of course, is that “mom” may be nearby. Kristian realized this, got back in his car, and contacted the the East Bay Regional Park District as fast as he could. They haven’t been spotted since.

FEATHERED FIASCO: Speaking of animal tales, Lynn Orloff Jones has been having some bad luck with her bird. She’s run over it twice with her rolling desk chair. The first time it happened, the little guy had to wear a cast on his leg. The second time, she flattened part of the wing, too. Apparently the bird still adores her, but now when he enters the study, it’s on a wing and a prayer.

HER COMPLEXION was as fresh as a Georgia peach. In fact, every girl seemed to have a pinkish hue in this college town of Athens, Ga. Maybe it was the weather — hot and humid and not unlike a steam bath at the local gym. But it didn’t deter my daughter, as this week we followed her dream to tour several Southern schools.

The University of Georgia was high on the list since she wanted a big Southern football school. My teen apparently had no problem with the image of 30,000 rabid fans barking for hours during a Georgia Bulldogs game.

Athens is a young, hip, college town built snugly around the UGA campus. It’s like Berkeley without hippies, but with the funky stores and tiny sandwich shops and countless venues for live music. In fact, Athens is known for its music scene, with bands such as REM and the B 52s calling it home.

The architecture in Athens is stately Southern, with old, ivy-covered brick buildings and proud colonial mansions. Even our hotel, the Foundry Park Inn, was reminiscent of a Southern plantation with its own renowned music venue, the Melting Point, in an old foundry on its lush grounds.

I was impressed with Athens and could see my teen fitting right in, despite growing up in a culture of California smugness. But I encouraged her to keep looking, incorporating some of my own favorite towns in the mix.

Chattanooga, Tennessee has a branch of the University of Tennessee that is well regarded.

“I know it doesn’t sound cool to say

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Chattanooga,” I told my daughter, “but this town has lots to offer.”

I proceeded to take her on a tour that would impress even the most skeptical teenager.

“It’s kitschy,” I said as we drove up the side of Lookout Mountain to Rock City. A slice of Americana, the Rock City gardens were advertised on barns across several states in the years leading to and following World War II. Rock City is 75 this year and one of those comforting attractions that reminds us we can still go back in time.

Lookout Mountain has another natural wonder — Ruby Falls. We switched on lanterns for a nighttime tour of the half-mile cave that led to a glorious underground waterfall. I shuddered when I thought of the man who discovered it — crawling on his belly through a narrow crack in the earth — following the sound of water to this impossibly beautiful place. There was no belly crawling on our tour, but it was just as exciting to take the elevator shaft down to the dark, dank tunnel with its ancient rock formations.

From the World War II duck boats, we took on the Tennessee River to the riverfront aquarium and the Wilderness Drive-in Theatre in a farmer’s field (a drive-in so popular it has the world’s largest outdoor screens), Chattanooga had it all, as far as I was concerned.

But was it all about me, and my college-town expectations? Or was I supposed to let go and let her decide? I felt a twinge of guilt every time I brought it up.

As we toured our last Southern campus, the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill, my daughter said candidly: “Maybe I’ll just stay in California.”

Not wanting to put pressure on her, I said, “You have plenty of time to decide.”

Regardless of her decision, I feel good that I took time to show her schools in other parts of the country — places like Minnesota, the Dakotas, and the Bible Belt.

They are regions with cultures so different from that of the Bay Area.

Will she end up choosing a school so far away? Only time will tell.

But thinking back to that night at the country drive-in, when whole families got out of their cars to throw Frisbees under the Georgia moon, I know the trip was worth it.

MY DAD WAS driving down the highway, pumping his fists and singing “My Way” to an old Frank Sinatra tape. The champagne-brown Mercury Sable (premium edition, as he likes to point out) rolled merrily past the endless expanse of chin-high corn and long stalks of prairie grass dancing in the persistent Dakota breeze.

“Stop that crazy noise!” my mom piped up from the back seat, as she often did to get a rise out of dad. Then, turning to my teenage daughter, she added: “You’re lucky. You can tune it out with your iPod.”

“So can you,” quipped my dad. “Just turn down your hearing aids.” The idea, not a new one by any means, always got a laugh.

It was the annual summer road trip and reunion, with four intrepid travelers spanning three generations. This wasn’t for the fainthearted. In fact, my husband and son had opted out years ago. But my dad, mom and daughter found the strength, if not the joy, in continuing this American tradition.

Among the many highlights:

The revelation that two people in the car could be freezing while two others were sure they would die without the air conditioning cranked up too high.

“If you’re cold, put on a sweater,” I suggested with the best of motherly intentions. My teenager was wearing shorts and a tank top that could have been made from two dinner napkins.

“If you’re hot,” the voice from the back seat retorted, “take off something.”

“I can’t. I’m practically naked as it is,” I replied, mildly irritated at the suggestion I might be going through the midlife “change.””Eeeeewwwww!” said the teenager.

“That’s more information than I want to hear,” offered dad.

This kind of scintillating dialogue continued for days as we drove past the red barns and silos and occasional flock of pheasants eating road gravel to digest their food. At night, we took it up a notch.

“Everyone gets one towel,” announced my dad as we checked into our motel room in Jamestown, the home of western novelist Louie L’Amour. This was the Wild West, and Dad was taking charge like the new sheriff in town. He laid down the law about bedtime, too.

“Mom and I are hitting the sack right after the news,” he said firmly. That meant lights out for the teen and the “tweener.”

My daughter resisted, but I reminded her that traveling with the folks was like crossing several time zones, and we’d better try to adapt.

Another revelation: 6 a.m. comes around fast when you’re up half the night reading by flashlight. We had ignored the warning to turn in early the night before and stayed up until midnight. Now we were paying the price as mom turned on the coffee pot just inches from my left ear. Blip … gurgle … drip. It was an ancient water torture mom used to get the family moving and on schedule.

Bismarck by 10 a.m. That was her plan, and there was no wiggle room. My daughter and I shuffled down to breakfast and returned for our predetermined shifts in the bathroom. Dad packed the car with the precision of a puzzlemaker, placing each roller bag in just the right spot in the trunk. It was truly a work of art.

So was the manner in which he drove down the highway to our family reunion in Bismarck, and a second gathering in Aberdeen. Each time he stopped for gas, he calculated the mileage.

“We’re getting 31 miles to the gallon,” he would announce with the pride of a traveling salesman.

It was comments like these that used to slip past me. I’d spend much of my time reading or sleeping on the Dakota road trips of my youth.

But now, I’m keenly aware of time fading away. Each year, it gets harder for my parents to make the trip. Relatives are growing old, and towns like Eureka, my birthplace, are struggling to survive.

“This could be our last trip out here,” Dad said, matter-of-factly. I wonder if it’s true. Then I realize the laughter and the lessons we’ve learned about family love and patience will never die. The memories of these Dakota road trips will stay with us long after my dad’s Mercury Sable logs its last mile.

THE TOWN CRIER has a bone to pick about parking. It’s a meaty topic as a growing number of hills dwellers park their cars on the street.

Many folks feel it’s their right to park in front of their own home. Perhaps they’ve converted their garage into a living space or it’s simply full of stuff — too valuable to toss but not good enough to bring in the house. Is it fair, though, to block a lane of traffic with their vehicle?

On many hills streets, it’s a dangerous indulgence — a seemingly selfish act that forces motorists to go around parked cars on narrow, blind curves. It increases the rate of accidents and the blood pressure of drivers who have to maneuver around obstacles just to get home. It’s also the source of a lot of chatter, right now, on Montclair’s Yahoo listserv (you can sign up at http://www.montclairsic.org).

While many residents are clearly frustrated (especially on Florence Terrace where a number of the old homes were built without garages), it’s not an easy problem to address. How do you legislate street parking?

As the mother of a young driver told me recently, it’s a matter of safety. Her daughter’s car was hit, recently, by a motorist who was forced out of his lane by a car parked on a blind curve.

The neighbor who owned the parked vehicle felt terrible and moved the car immediately. Let’s hope it doesn’t take an accident to spur action in your neighborhood.

ON THE TOWN: The joke was on me the other night at Alameda’s Altarena Playhouse. I had invited two girlfriends (one was a new godmother to the other’s infant twins) to the opening of “Oh My Godmother!” –billed as a Cinderella story with a San Francisco twist.

“Twist” was right. Cinderella was a guy and his “godmother” was the flamboyant male owner of a costume shop. During the intermission, I spotted an older couple I knew, and asked them how they liked the show. They admitted they were as surprised as we were about the storyline. Still, they laughed heartily at the slapstick bits and hilarious dialogue. The acting, we agreed, was superb and the live orchestra added much to the enjoyment of the show. Live theatre is always a lot of fun. In this case, it was also an adventure.

DINNER WITH STRINGS: It’s always a treat to have live music with dinner, but when the instrument is a harp, it’s just heavenly. Angel Simmons (yes, that’s her real name) plays the harp two Friday nights a month at Terzetto’s Restaurant in Moraga. There’s something about soft music that makes you savor your food and drink. It lends itself to warm conversation and may even help with digestion. That’s probably why it’s striking a chord in this bedroom community.

SIPPING AND DIPPING: I discovered a whole new way to be a wine snob the other evening. A friend at the Montclair Bistro poured a fine French wine into a Vinturi aerator, which allowed it to breathe almost instantly. In the time it took to gurgle through the clear acrylic device, the wine opened up with a delightful bouquet and smooth finish. I felt so hip as I sipped my aerated wine and nibbled on an incredible antipasta plate with lightly marinated vegetables and other goodies. The Vinturi aerator — $34.95. The antipasta plate — $10.

The coolness factor — priceless.