The sticklike persimmon tree is supposed to benefit from deep watering via the PVC pipes surrounding it.

A dragonfly perched atop the persimmon tree gives a hint of the fruit's color.

The persimmon tree looks like a stick planted in the ground, and I feel a little silly watering it because it’s been sitting out there in the “back forty” for  a month and still shows no sign of life.

The fuyu-variety tree is five feet tall and clipped at the top. There are a number of nubs on it that I assume are buds waiting to emerge as graceful branches. The tree is  supposed to grow to more than 20 feet high. I envision it  casting a cooling shade over the garage, which turns into a furnace in the summer.

 The tree was billed as bare-root specimen, and I felt confident that I could get it to grow because of past success with bare-root roses. The gardening expert at Green Acres nursery in east Sacramento said I could simply plant it in the container and then cut away the cardboard. I didn’t need to build a mound in the hole and carefully drape the roots over it.

 The plant even came with the encouraging quote “Bloom where you are planted” printed on the sales slip.

Two weeks ago, on yet another trip to Green Acres for new plants, I checked out the bare-root persimmons and was encouraged to see one that had some green growth near the base. I asked one of the experts if my tree might soon emerge from the nether world. He assured me that mysteries of growth were silently unfolding behind the scenes, and I would soon be rewarded.

To give the tree a boost, he suggested deep watering the roots because persimmons like to get a strong hold on life before showing their true colors. He recommended that I insert a few pieces of PVC pipe into the ground around the root ball and then drip water into them.

I rounded up some old PVC pipe, cut it into one-foot lengths and drove the three pieces into the ground. I was amused to see a nightcrawler emerge from depths and was reminded that I had used a similar technique to rustle up worms for fishing when I was a kid. Apparently, worms don’t like to have the serenity of their homes disturbed by shock waves.

Instead of a drip system, I patiently poured water from a watering can into the pipes. I’ve been doing this for two weeks, in addition to some surface watering. I had hoped the recent heat wave would unlock the tree’s life force. I thought I saw the slightest of swellings yesterday on one bud, but I could be hallucinating.

I remain optimistic that the roots will take hold soon and get the life process unfolding. However, I was told the nursery has a one-year, money-back policy on failed plants. The clock is ticking.

Hey fella, a hair blower is for hair.

I’ve been a member of the Capital Athletic Club in Sacramento for 12 years, and it’s helped to keep my athletic life going at the intensity level I like. I can work out to my heart’s content and relieve the aches and pains in the men’s locker room on the first floor, which provides a hot tub, steam room and sauna. The TV is always on mute and reclining chairs are provided for naps.

This aging athlete could easily drift off into a meditative state if it  weren’t for the jarring sounds that periodically emanate from the wash-basin area and the showers. I will admit that I am a bit noise sensitive and find the whine of hair dryers particularly irritating. They are on a par with a dentist’s drill. But hey, this is an athletic club, not a Buddhist retreat. The lobbyists and politicos need to look their best when they leave the club, and a lot of these guys still have abundant hair on their head. I can tolerate a couple of minutes of grooming noise.

What is more difficult to take is 10 straight minutes of non-stop, ear-shattering whine brought on by a couple of members who prefer to substitute hair dryers for towels. These guys stand in front of the mirrors and apply the hair dryer’s blast of air to every crevice and orifice of their bodies. While I’m sure this activity has its sensual pleasures, I have to wonder about the mind-set of these individuals. Are they totally oblivious to the irritation they are causing, or do they simply feel entitled to gratify themselves wherever and whenever they choose?

In similar fashion,  I  ask myself why some members feel it is socially appropriate to expectorate in the shower. It’s kind of chilling to be soaking in the hot tub and hear the grating sound of someone dredging up sickening glop from the depths of his throat and spitting it out. This activity seems to occur when an offender individual is showering alone, so I assume there is some consciousness that dumping bodily fluids on the shower room is inappropriate, to say the least, and perhaps dangerous to the health of others.

What should be done about such revolting behavior? I was discussing this matter with an equally repulsed club member recently, and we found ourselves in a quandary. I suppose we could complain to club manager Rick Leonard, who requires issues reminders in the monthly club newsletter about proper decorum. Last month, he reminded members, once again, to shower before using the hot tub or pool. He regularly issues reminders to dispose of used towels in the appropriate receptacle and not leave them on the floor. These actions seem like such basic courtesies that you’d think every CAC member would have adopted them as children. But if Rick feels the need the instruct members on such basics, and it’s evident that he does, an injunction against spitting in the shower would seem to approach the level of advanced etiquette.

I suppose I could confront the offenders directly, but the ensuing discussion wouldn’t be pleasant. I’m not especially diplomatic and tend to overreact after letting annoyances build up. I ask myself how many club members I  want to avoid having contact with every time I go for a workout? I can live with the two I have on my avoid list, but I don’t want a dozen.

Maybe I should just wear earplugs in the hot tub.

Through it all, he yearned to play sports like his friends but found the door to participation generally closed. He raged at God and asked, “Why me?” But he never gave up or surrendered to despair and self-pity. When faced with difficult challenges, he chose to see them not as insurmountable barriers but as hurdles to jump over.

Today, Moran is a kinesiology professor at James Madison University in Virginia and has dedicated his life to helping kids with disabilities find opportunities to play sports. He runs camps and clinics that provide the equipment, tools and expertise to show disabled kids, and their parents, what they are capable of doing.

Moran’s story is told in an inspiring documentary titled “Why Me? Tom Moran’s Long Walk” by filmmaker Mike Grundmann, an assistant professor at the James Madison School of Media Arts and Design. Grundmann had his own struggles as a child with a facial birth defect. He incorporated his grueling ordeal with those of three other people similarly afflicted in a documentary titled “Face First” that received national attention through showings on PBS affiliates.

Mike was a copy editor at the Sacramento Bee back in the late 1980s when I was supervising the copy desk. He was a talented editor with a knack for writing clever headlines. He also compiled the celebrity-filled “People” column and was always looking for ways to test the limits of what could be run in that daily feature. I’d warn him “don’t get me in trouble” when he sought the go-ahead to depart from the Bee’s staid formula. Mike was creative enough to come up with innovations without  bringing down the wrath of higher-ups.

We were both in midcareer mode at the time, and I figured that Mike would be moving up the ladder in a journalism world that was then in a golden era of good pay and great opportunities. But he surprised me and others at the newspaper by shifting gears and pursuing a dream of being a filmmaker. He was able to get into a graduate program at Temple University in Philadelphia and came away with a master’s degree in fine arts. That gave him entree into  the worlds of filmmaking and college teaching, both which he has pursued while  keeping a hand in journalism.

I hope Mike’s  ”Why Me?” documentary gets good exposure. The film shows how much can be accomplished by one person with a mission to help others. Moran’s calling to empower  kids with disabilities through participation in sports is a hopeful story of making the most of whatever hand we are dealt in life. That’s something worth thinking about. As Moran said, you  get only one hand in life.

 ■ Now that the downtown Kings arena plan has collapsed like the house of cards it was, visions of renovating Power Balance Pavilion are emerging from the darkness.

■ City officials are shrugging off the spending of $680,000 intended to give the failed arena campaign momentum and telling us they have learned how they might dump big bucks into some other project when the mood strikes them.

The renovation idea, which was floated by the Maloof brothers as the railyard deal was collapsing, received another boost this morning from Bee sportswriter Ailene Voisin. She publicized the push by  Rann Haight, the architect for the first and second Arco arenas in Natomas, and his group, to improve Power Balance Pavilion for $100 million or so. That price tag will surely seem like a bargain compared with the $391 million estimate for a new arena, so local taxpayers best prepare for another call to subsidize the basketball millionaires.

What interested me most in the column was Haight’s comment that his group had been pursuing the renovation plan for a year and was put off by representatives of the railyard deal who claimed the arena wasn’t worthy of renovation. Once the railyard backers got the upper hand, the idea of renovation or even building a new arena in Natomas, a far more suitable location than downtown, virtually disappeared from public discussion. The Bee and local TV stations  jumped on the downtown arena bandwagon and provided almost no coverage of alternatives, to say nothing of analyzing the far-fetched financial schemes that were trotted out.

If you’re a tad cynical or maybe just a political realist, you might think that renovating Power Balance Pavilion – at public expense – was always the Maloofs’ Plan B if Mayor Kevin Johnson and his developer buddies couldn’t twist enough arms to get the downtown arena built.

Meanwhile, city officials are trying to justify their expenditure of hundreds of thousands of dollars over eight months to build momentum for the arena. It’s bad enough that the cash-strapped city made a lousy bet on the arena, but what exactly did the Barrett Sports Group, which was the city’s financial adviser and lead negotiator, do to earn $252,350?

Equally irksome was the expenditure of about $175,000 for analyses purporting to show how future city parking revenue could be leveraged. Initially, the idea was to get about $200 million in upfront money the city could dump into the arena project. Now officials are claiming the studies will be useful for assessing other possible downtown capital improvements.

Privatizing city parking revenue is risky business, as the city of Chicago has rapidly learned. I think some city staffer earning $30 an hour could have discovered that and save Sacramento from a fiasco.

The old concrete base that was hidden beneath brick level had to be removed before a tree could be replanted.

After I  finished the enlargement of the sand-and-brick back patio a couple of weeks ago, I promptly  took up a three-foot-square section to plant a smoke tree a few feet from the fence line. I liked the way the new tree broke up the open space without the clutter of a huge pot. I envisioned cutting out a few more squares for other plantings.

Yesterday, my wife reluctantly revealed that she was concerned the tree would get in the way of where she had envisioned putting patio furniture. I didn’t whine. I could see her point. We agreed that moving the tree back about four feet would satisfy her concerns while keeping my aesthetic vision intact. I figured an hour’s work would keep harmony in the household.

Alas, I was mistaken. As seems to be happening with annoying frequency on this “back forty” project, complications arose. After I removed about 30 bricks, I started digging a new hole. It took about 30 seconds for me to hit something alarmingly solid. No, it wasn’t the gas line or water pipes from the pool; it was that infernal concrete strip that had supported the old brick barbecue and four-foot-high wall.

 The 30-foot-long base was about 18 inches wide and sat four inches below ground level. I had removed some of it, but the midsection was such a chore I decided to compromise. Why kill myself when I  was just going to cover it up with brick? I had asked myself.

When I cleared away the soil and dug around the edge, I discovered a mess of brick and four-inch-thick concrete. I would have to remove close to three feet to give the tree a fighting chance at survival.

I got my 20-pound sledgehammer, raised it high over my head and struck a mighty blow. A few chips of concrete flew off and hit my leg. I bashed it three more times and was reminded why I had abandoned this project initially. I thought of renegotiating the issue, but my wife had gone off shopping with the grandkids.

 I went into the house, got a snack and pondered my manhood. Although my strength has diminished with age, my patience and perseverance have grown. I returned to the site, let loose with the sledgehammer two more times and suddenly a six-inch chunk cracked off. The fortress had been penetrated. After another 45 minutes, I had a hole worthy of my young smoke tree.

I managed to dig up the tree without losing too much of the root ball. I put the tree in its new home, mixed in some compost with the soil and filled the hole. I then saw I had planted it about two inches too high. After a spurt of self-criticism, I redid my work and got the tree planted properly.

At this very point, my wife came into the backyard and said: “Wow! That didn’t take very long at all.”

I pointed to the mound of concrete and explained the back-breaking complications. She was appropriately sympathetic. I allowed a surge of self-approval to surface. A detour had been negotiated and significant obstacle had been overcome.

On the far side of 60, life seems filled with things that don’t go quite as planned.