Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
The Day Before
Many years and much of a lifetime ago on this day, the day before Thanksgiving, I graduated from boot camp. A couple of weeks later I was off to Pensacola, Florida, for a few months of schooling. After that I went overseas and spent almost 3 years on a ship.
The night before I left for boot camp, I hit and killed a dog while driving my girlfriend and my best friend and his girlfriend back to my house. Later that same night, my girlfriend spent a couple of hours throwing up. I don't remember where we obtained the liquor that made her do that.
In Pusan, South Korea, my friend Kent and I found a bakery between wherever we'd been and our hotel. This was the day before we had to return to the ship and head back to Japan. Kent was from Indiana. He was older than I was, and he was a happy, if unstable drunk. I've never been especially stable sober, but that night he had to hold onto my arm as I led him back to the hotel. We'd bought a chocolate cake and 2 bottles of Pepsi in the bakery, but we didn't have forks or a bottle opener. So, we ate the cake with our dogtags, and used a notch in the showerhead to open the Pepsi. Then, a storm came in and we couldn't get back to the ship. We had to spend the next night at an Army base, sitting in plastic chairs in the cafeteria.
We often had a lot of free time in the Philippines. We had a lot of fun, too. I could tell your stories! Once, the day before I had to work, I got lost while making my way from Subic City and Olongapo. Olongapo was the town just outside the gates that separated the Navy from the natives. The country was under Marshall Law back then, and everyone had to be inside after midnight. Even after sunset the air was hot and humid. I remember thinking I was headed toward the main gate, that if I kept working my way through the crowd of people and jitneys, I'd easily get back to the base before curfew. I walked and walked. Finally, after what seemed to be far too long, I broke down and paid for a taxi. Thirty minutes and many miles later the driver dropped me off at the main gate. I showed the Marine my I.D. and got onto the base with minutes to spare. I learned then that sometimes a man has to break down a bit if things are going to be set right.
The night before I left for boot camp, I hit and killed a dog while driving my girlfriend and my best friend and his girlfriend back to my house. Later that same night, my girlfriend spent a couple of hours throwing up. I don't remember where we obtained the liquor that made her do that.
In Pusan, South Korea, my friend Kent and I found a bakery between wherever we'd been and our hotel. This was the day before we had to return to the ship and head back to Japan. Kent was from Indiana. He was older than I was, and he was a happy, if unstable drunk. I've never been especially stable sober, but that night he had to hold onto my arm as I led him back to the hotel. We'd bought a chocolate cake and 2 bottles of Pepsi in the bakery, but we didn't have forks or a bottle opener. So, we ate the cake with our dogtags, and used a notch in the showerhead to open the Pepsi. Then, a storm came in and we couldn't get back to the ship. We had to spend the next night at an Army base, sitting in plastic chairs in the cafeteria.
We often had a lot of free time in the Philippines. We had a lot of fun, too. I could tell your stories! Once, the day before I had to work, I got lost while making my way from Subic City and Olongapo. Olongapo was the town just outside the gates that separated the Navy from the natives. The country was under Marshall Law back then, and everyone had to be inside after midnight. Even after sunset the air was hot and humid. I remember thinking I was headed toward the main gate, that if I kept working my way through the crowd of people and jitneys, I'd easily get back to the base before curfew. I walked and walked. Finally, after what seemed to be far too long, I broke down and paid for a taxi. Thirty minutes and many miles later the driver dropped me off at the main gate. I showed the Marine my I.D. and got onto the base with minutes to spare. I learned then that sometimes a man has to break down a bit if things are going to be set right.
Monday, October 28, 2013
What Happened Here?
My father coughs and opens his
eyes. “How do you want to remember me?” he asks. He has a tube in vein in his
neck, a tube in his nose. These are just the tubes I can see. Others are hidden
by the bed sheet. The last few strands of what he once called his Donny Osmond
hair fall over his forehead, and I move them away from his eyes.
“How do I want to remember you?”
“Yeah. Do you want to remember the jerk, or the days when I was a decent man?”
“Dad,” I say. But I can tell from his breathing that he has drifted off.
Later, at home, my wife Cindy asks how things went at the hospital. “He seemed to be comfortable,” I told her. She hugs me, and pressure of her hands on my back feels nice.
We sit down for supper, and Cindy hands me a plate. “Could he talk?”
“A little,” I tell her. I compare the hot roast beef on my plate to the sandwich I’d had at the hospital cafeteria that afternoon, when I’d left my father’s room when my father’s bed and dressings were being changed. “He asked me how I want to remember him.”
“I think that’s sweet,” Cindy says.
“I didn’t know how to answer.” The kitchen and the food are warm.
“Did he want an answer?” Cindy passes the salt for my green beans.
“He fell asleep before I could say anything,” I tell her. “He was still sleeping when Phil showed up.” Phil is my older brother.
“How nice of him to visit,” Cindy says.
“He’s been pretty good, Cindy.”
“And he makes sure that everyone knows he’s going out of his way to go see his own father,” Cindy says.
“Well,” I say. Phil has never been reliable, but has been trying lately—trying to stay sober, trying to do what he can. My family story is that our men cannot hold their liquor. My father and I learned that early in life, but Phil seems to be more like our grandfathers and uncles, men who drank and didn’t care. They are legendary for how effectively and efficiently they abused anyone who crossed them. Phil and I got lucky in one way because by the time we got to junior high our father had gone sober. Some of our cousins, though, didn’t fare as well.
“When are you going back?” Cindy asks.
“Tomorrow, I think. After work. Phil told me that he’d go again in the morning.”
“You sure he’ll be there?”
“I have to be sure, don’t I? Don’t beat Phil up too much. He’s trying.” I know that Cindy never really liked Phil, and there are good reasons for that. Still, there were a lot of times when I could count on him when I couldn’t count on my father.
“So, what did you tell him?” Cindy asks.
“Phil?”
“Your father. How would you answer?”
“I don’t know,” I told her.
At work the morning Susan, my boss, calls me into her office. “How are you doing with all of this, with your father?”
“Pretty well. I’m headed back to the hospital after work.”
“You can leave early if you need to.”
Years earlier, when Susan was going through a divorce and Cindy and I were having a rough time, we’d gone to the brink of an affair. One day we were in her office, and we decided that we couldn’t go any further. We stepped back from that brink and felt good about it afterward. Susan had let her hair grow out since then, and now was letting it go gray as if challenging the aging process to take its best shot. I liked her confidence.
“Phil should be there now,” I tell her.
“Okay,” Susan says. “I just thought I’d check in with you. I know this is hard. How’s your wife?” Susan had never been able to say “Cindy,” even when their paths crossed.
“She’s fine,” I say. “Helping me get through this.”
Traffic is heavy on the way to the hospital after I leave work, and the fifteen-minute drive turns into thirty. I walk through the lobby and take the elevator to the third floor. I sign in at the counter and get a visitor’s badge. I don’t recognize the young man—maybe a nurse—behind the counter. Over the last few weeks I’ve grown accustomed to the same faces, mostly young women.
The man checks to see whom I’m visiting. “Oh,” he says, looking at me.
I can’t tell if he wants to say anything more, so I walk to my father’s room. Phil’s there, sitting in the vinyl chair that is set too close to the ground. Something’s different in the room.
“Stan,” Phil says, and he stands up and hugs me. He has always been taller.
When Phil lets go, I look at the bed. My father’s eyes are closed, but his mouth is opened slightly. The tubes are gone from his face. “Dad?” I say.
“It happened before I got here today,” Phil says. “Just a little while ago. I told the nurses you were on your way, so they said they’d be back in just a bit.”
“What happened, Phil? What happened here?” I edge by Phil and get closer to the bed so I can touch my father’s face. It is barely warm.
“Look, Stan…”
“Phil? What happened?”
“He did it himself. Pulled the tubes out right before I got here.”
What? Why didn’t somebody stop him?”
Phil points to the sign above the bed. “DNR. You knew about that. And the advance directive. Nobody was supposed to stop him.” Phil had inherited my father’s hair, and he used both hands to pull it away from his face.
I sit in one chair, and Phil sits in the other. I want to cry, but I can’t.
“He was always tough,” Phil says. “I couldn’t do that—take those tubes out of myself.” He sighs. “I wished he’d talked to me, you know? Every day I’ve been here for the past week, he hasn’t said a word.”
I can’t think of a thing to say to Phil. I slide back in the chair and stare at the bed and think about my father’s last question.
Phil sighs again. “He was tough when we were kids, too. Remember the time when we were kids, before junior high, when he chased us out of the house and told us never to come back? He was drunk and pissed.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I say.
“What? How can you not remember that? It was winter, and we were running away. Dad had a baseball bat, or something, and Mom was yelling at him from the front door. We didn’t even have boots on, and my feet were freezing in the snow. You were bawling and wouldn’t stop.”
I look at my father’s body, at its diminished form. I look at Phil, at how unkempt his hair is. “I have to say that I don’t remember anything like that,” I tell him.
Phil looks at me and seems like he wants to ask me a question.
“How do I want to remember you?”
“Yeah. Do you want to remember the jerk, or the days when I was a decent man?”
“Dad,” I say. But I can tell from his breathing that he has drifted off.
Later, at home, my wife Cindy asks how things went at the hospital. “He seemed to be comfortable,” I told her. She hugs me, and pressure of her hands on my back feels nice.
We sit down for supper, and Cindy hands me a plate. “Could he talk?”
“A little,” I tell her. I compare the hot roast beef on my plate to the sandwich I’d had at the hospital cafeteria that afternoon, when I’d left my father’s room when my father’s bed and dressings were being changed. “He asked me how I want to remember him.”
“I think that’s sweet,” Cindy says.
“I didn’t know how to answer.” The kitchen and the food are warm.
“Did he want an answer?” Cindy passes the salt for my green beans.
“He fell asleep before I could say anything,” I tell her. “He was still sleeping when Phil showed up.” Phil is my older brother.
“How nice of him to visit,” Cindy says.
“He’s been pretty good, Cindy.”
“And he makes sure that everyone knows he’s going out of his way to go see his own father,” Cindy says.
“Well,” I say. Phil has never been reliable, but has been trying lately—trying to stay sober, trying to do what he can. My family story is that our men cannot hold their liquor. My father and I learned that early in life, but Phil seems to be more like our grandfathers and uncles, men who drank and didn’t care. They are legendary for how effectively and efficiently they abused anyone who crossed them. Phil and I got lucky in one way because by the time we got to junior high our father had gone sober. Some of our cousins, though, didn’t fare as well.
“When are you going back?” Cindy asks.
“Tomorrow, I think. After work. Phil told me that he’d go again in the morning.”
“You sure he’ll be there?”
“I have to be sure, don’t I? Don’t beat Phil up too much. He’s trying.” I know that Cindy never really liked Phil, and there are good reasons for that. Still, there were a lot of times when I could count on him when I couldn’t count on my father.
“So, what did you tell him?” Cindy asks.
“Phil?”
“Your father. How would you answer?”
“I don’t know,” I told her.
At work the morning Susan, my boss, calls me into her office. “How are you doing with all of this, with your father?”
“Pretty well. I’m headed back to the hospital after work.”
“You can leave early if you need to.”
Years earlier, when Susan was going through a divorce and Cindy and I were having a rough time, we’d gone to the brink of an affair. One day we were in her office, and we decided that we couldn’t go any further. We stepped back from that brink and felt good about it afterward. Susan had let her hair grow out since then, and now was letting it go gray as if challenging the aging process to take its best shot. I liked her confidence.
“Phil should be there now,” I tell her.
“Okay,” Susan says. “I just thought I’d check in with you. I know this is hard. How’s your wife?” Susan had never been able to say “Cindy,” even when their paths crossed.
“She’s fine,” I say. “Helping me get through this.”
Traffic is heavy on the way to the hospital after I leave work, and the fifteen-minute drive turns into thirty. I walk through the lobby and take the elevator to the third floor. I sign in at the counter and get a visitor’s badge. I don’t recognize the young man—maybe a nurse—behind the counter. Over the last few weeks I’ve grown accustomed to the same faces, mostly young women.
The man checks to see whom I’m visiting. “Oh,” he says, looking at me.
I can’t tell if he wants to say anything more, so I walk to my father’s room. Phil’s there, sitting in the vinyl chair that is set too close to the ground. Something’s different in the room.
“Stan,” Phil says, and he stands up and hugs me. He has always been taller.
When Phil lets go, I look at the bed. My father’s eyes are closed, but his mouth is opened slightly. The tubes are gone from his face. “Dad?” I say.
“It happened before I got here today,” Phil says. “Just a little while ago. I told the nurses you were on your way, so they said they’d be back in just a bit.”
“What happened, Phil? What happened here?” I edge by Phil and get closer to the bed so I can touch my father’s face. It is barely warm.
“Look, Stan…”
“Phil? What happened?”
“He did it himself. Pulled the tubes out right before I got here.”
What? Why didn’t somebody stop him?”
Phil points to the sign above the bed. “DNR. You knew about that. And the advance directive. Nobody was supposed to stop him.” Phil had inherited my father’s hair, and he used both hands to pull it away from his face.
I sit in one chair, and Phil sits in the other. I want to cry, but I can’t.
“He was always tough,” Phil says. “I couldn’t do that—take those tubes out of myself.” He sighs. “I wished he’d talked to me, you know? Every day I’ve been here for the past week, he hasn’t said a word.”
I can’t think of a thing to say to Phil. I slide back in the chair and stare at the bed and think about my father’s last question.
Phil sighs again. “He was tough when we were kids, too. Remember the time when we were kids, before junior high, when he chased us out of the house and told us never to come back? He was drunk and pissed.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I say.
“What? How can you not remember that? It was winter, and we were running away. Dad had a baseball bat, or something, and Mom was yelling at him from the front door. We didn’t even have boots on, and my feet were freezing in the snow. You were bawling and wouldn’t stop.”
I look at my father’s body, at its diminished form. I look at Phil, at how unkempt his hair is. “I have to say that I don’t remember anything like that,” I tell him.
Phil looks at me and seems like he wants to ask me a question.
Friday, October 25, 2013
That Creative Feeling
Years ago some words would appear in my head, and quite often I'd imagine an entire short story: beginning, middle, and end. It was a great experience, and I'd do what I could to write everything down as soon as I could. It happened again yesterday--and it's been a long time. I was in my car listening to a couple of sportswriters reading essays on NPR, and as soon as one of the men stopped, I had an idea for a story I wanted to write. Fifteen minutes later, when I stopped my car and started to ride my bike, I had the entire story: beginning scene, middle events, characters, and final scene.
I wrote the story this morning in an hour. It's not great, maybe not good. It works around trite and over-used plot and theme, but the first draft is done. As soon as I get it formatted for HTML, I'll put it here.
Thanks, Muse.
I wrote the story this morning in an hour. It's not great, maybe not good. It works around trite and over-used plot and theme, but the first draft is done. As soon as I get it formatted for HTML, I'll put it here.
Thanks, Muse.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Notes from the Peaceful Side
I once worked with a man who often would stop by my cubicle to discuss things of a military nature. He had never actually been in the military, but he was well read on the machinery and implements of war. In several of our conversations I remarked that I am always amazed at how humans are so good at inventing ways to kill each other. He never responded or reacted to such comments.
Several of my high school classmates joined the military. One became a well-decorated marine, and another became a Navy SEAL. Both of them were--and probably still are--quite knowledgeable of how to kill people. Some people might consider these men warriors. I was in the military, too, but on the peaceful side of things. I never learned how to kill people, though I came to understand that the aircraft carrier I was on and the ships we traveled with carried enough weaponry to effectively destroy great swaths of land, large numbers of people.
I have watched the TV news and read newspapers for as long as I can remember. When we lived in Illinois, I watched Walter Kronkite, and I read the Chicago Daily News. I remember the TV news broadcasts during the Vietnam War, how the newscasters would each day announce the number of US military personnel killed in that war. When we moved to California, I probably watched different newscasters, and I read the Sacramento Bee (fairly liberal) and the Sacramento Union (very conservative). The Bee is still around, but the Union stopped publishing years ago.
I am not sure of why I went into the navy. I suppose I had nothing else to do after high school, and perhaps I'd forgotten the significance of how many people were killed in Vietnam. I had a great time while in the military, really; I got to travel a bit, to meet some good people, to develop a certain confidence when confronted by new situations that involved a certain amount of stress. Once, a photographer I knew on the ship had just returned from a helicopter ride from where he took a picture of our carrier group cruising smartly through a calm sea. He showed me the photo and said, "Makes you want to go kick some ass, doesn't it?" It did. Maybe that's how young men think.
During and for some time after the Vietnam War, people who were or had been in the military were often ridiculed. I think this was more of a reaction to the War itself and not to the people. Those men and women simply had the misfortune of being the most visible targets. Things are different now. The wars we have started and fought in the last couple of decades have, for a large portion of the population, been quite popular. So, we both literally and figuratively applaud "those who serve" in one remote region or another. Everyone in the military--the clerk and the sniper alike--is now a hero. We are encouraged to "Support the Troops,",to embrace those who "fight the enemy there so we don't have to fight them here." Some people call this "patriotism."
War, of course, has been profitable for a long time. Until relatively recently, much of California's economy flourished because of the defense industry that developed here after World War II. There is good money in new weaponry. My brother-in-law asserts that the defense industry and certain people in the government, and companies such as Haliburton, are actively finding ways to create more conflicts or at least to keep the current ones going, though I am less cynical. Or, perhaps I am still somewhat hopeful and optimistic.
I still watch the TV news, and I still read newspapers. I also read a lot of things on the Internet, and I listen to news on the radio while in my car. This means that I see and read and hear a lot about war, about various groups of people wanting to kill other groups for one reason or another. The drumbeats of war seem to be everywhere, part of our normal human existence. And I find this cacophony nearly overwhelming these days. I'm torn between staying informed about what's going on in the world and dropping into blissful ignorance.
I don't think that going into the military is necessarily a bad thing, and I don't believe that there are not times when military action is called for. But I also don't believe that going to war should be easy. As a nation, we are now considering killing people in Syria because, as some believe, the Syrian government killed some people there with chemical weapons, weapons that President Obama and others have labeled as weapons of mass destruction. Obama has made his case to Congress, which apparently has told the President that a limited use of military force is okay. The international community, however, has resisted, and I do not think this is a bad thing. The decision to kill people should be difficult, and it can be just as patriotic to say "no" as it is to say "yes."
When President George Bush and his administration wanted to beat up on Saddam Hussein in Iraq, more people should have said "no" or at least been more loud about asking "why." We went there, apparently, because Hussein's weapons of mass destruction posed an immediate threat to the world at large. Hanz Blix, a UN weapons inspector, said there were no weapons of mass destruction there, but this apparently didn't matter. Donald Rumsfeld, President Bush's Secretary of Defense, was adamant that those WMDs were there, though. And photographs of Rumsfeld being chummy with Hussein during President Reagan's tenure are not evidence that the two men were actual friends, of course. This was at a time when Iraq and Iran were engaged in fisticuffs, when Hussein was apparently using chemical weapons in the conflict. The US did not like Iran then, just as later the US wouldn't like Iraq.
As I have gotten older, in many ways I have become less conservative and less afraid. I have also become more of a pacifist, more reluctant to support this or that military conflict. And this has not been an easy transformation, for I am not so ignorant to believe there are not truly evil people in the world, and that some of these people have no qualms about ending this or that life. Those who truly support a war should be first in line to fight it, to encourage their sons and daughters to fight. The 1960s band Country Joe and the Fish sang, "be the first one on the block to have your boy come home in a box." It's a great line. Then again, maybe we should all read or re-read Johnny Got His Gun and Slaughterhouse Five and To the White Sea. Throw the bible in there, too.
All in all, I remain somewhat hopeful that things will be resolved in a way that does not involve cruise missiles and blowing people up. How hopeful? Maybe 40 percent, though that number might edge downward in the near future.
Several of my high school classmates joined the military. One became a well-decorated marine, and another became a Navy SEAL. Both of them were--and probably still are--quite knowledgeable of how to kill people. Some people might consider these men warriors. I was in the military, too, but on the peaceful side of things. I never learned how to kill people, though I came to understand that the aircraft carrier I was on and the ships we traveled with carried enough weaponry to effectively destroy great swaths of land, large numbers of people.
I have watched the TV news and read newspapers for as long as I can remember. When we lived in Illinois, I watched Walter Kronkite, and I read the Chicago Daily News. I remember the TV news broadcasts during the Vietnam War, how the newscasters would each day announce the number of US military personnel killed in that war. When we moved to California, I probably watched different newscasters, and I read the Sacramento Bee (fairly liberal) and the Sacramento Union (very conservative). The Bee is still around, but the Union stopped publishing years ago.
I am not sure of why I went into the navy. I suppose I had nothing else to do after high school, and perhaps I'd forgotten the significance of how many people were killed in Vietnam. I had a great time while in the military, really; I got to travel a bit, to meet some good people, to develop a certain confidence when confronted by new situations that involved a certain amount of stress. Once, a photographer I knew on the ship had just returned from a helicopter ride from where he took a picture of our carrier group cruising smartly through a calm sea. He showed me the photo and said, "Makes you want to go kick some ass, doesn't it?" It did. Maybe that's how young men think.
During and for some time after the Vietnam War, people who were or had been in the military were often ridiculed. I think this was more of a reaction to the War itself and not to the people. Those men and women simply had the misfortune of being the most visible targets. Things are different now. The wars we have started and fought in the last couple of decades have, for a large portion of the population, been quite popular. So, we both literally and figuratively applaud "those who serve" in one remote region or another. Everyone in the military--the clerk and the sniper alike--is now a hero. We are encouraged to "Support the Troops,",to embrace those who "fight the enemy there so we don't have to fight them here." Some people call this "patriotism."
War, of course, has been profitable for a long time. Until relatively recently, much of California's economy flourished because of the defense industry that developed here after World War II. There is good money in new weaponry. My brother-in-law asserts that the defense industry and certain people in the government, and companies such as Haliburton, are actively finding ways to create more conflicts or at least to keep the current ones going, though I am less cynical. Or, perhaps I am still somewhat hopeful and optimistic.
I still watch the TV news, and I still read newspapers. I also read a lot of things on the Internet, and I listen to news on the radio while in my car. This means that I see and read and hear a lot about war, about various groups of people wanting to kill other groups for one reason or another. The drumbeats of war seem to be everywhere, part of our normal human existence. And I find this cacophony nearly overwhelming these days. I'm torn between staying informed about what's going on in the world and dropping into blissful ignorance.
I don't think that going into the military is necessarily a bad thing, and I don't believe that there are not times when military action is called for. But I also don't believe that going to war should be easy. As a nation, we are now considering killing people in Syria because, as some believe, the Syrian government killed some people there with chemical weapons, weapons that President Obama and others have labeled as weapons of mass destruction. Obama has made his case to Congress, which apparently has told the President that a limited use of military force is okay. The international community, however, has resisted, and I do not think this is a bad thing. The decision to kill people should be difficult, and it can be just as patriotic to say "no" as it is to say "yes."
When President George Bush and his administration wanted to beat up on Saddam Hussein in Iraq, more people should have said "no" or at least been more loud about asking "why." We went there, apparently, because Hussein's weapons of mass destruction posed an immediate threat to the world at large. Hanz Blix, a UN weapons inspector, said there were no weapons of mass destruction there, but this apparently didn't matter. Donald Rumsfeld, President Bush's Secretary of Defense, was adamant that those WMDs were there, though. And photographs of Rumsfeld being chummy with Hussein during President Reagan's tenure are not evidence that the two men were actual friends, of course. This was at a time when Iraq and Iran were engaged in fisticuffs, when Hussein was apparently using chemical weapons in the conflict. The US did not like Iran then, just as later the US wouldn't like Iraq.
As I have gotten older, in many ways I have become less conservative and less afraid. I have also become more of a pacifist, more reluctant to support this or that military conflict. And this has not been an easy transformation, for I am not so ignorant to believe there are not truly evil people in the world, and that some of these people have no qualms about ending this or that life. Those who truly support a war should be first in line to fight it, to encourage their sons and daughters to fight. The 1960s band Country Joe and the Fish sang, "be the first one on the block to have your boy come home in a box." It's a great line. Then again, maybe we should all read or re-read Johnny Got His Gun and Slaughterhouse Five and To the White Sea. Throw the bible in there, too.
All in all, I remain somewhat hopeful that things will be resolved in a way that does not involve cruise missiles and blowing people up. How hopeful? Maybe 40 percent, though that number might edge downward in the near future.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#19)
The week had been long; he'd been despondent and silent again. Maybe it was the humid weather. When he finally emerged from the basement, he was dressed in nothing but skivvies, and he had the hunting knife. I found him in the kitchen just sitting in a folding chair and holding the knife. "Brian," I said. He whispered: "Dare me." I grabbed my cellphone and called 911 from the damp front lawn. They didn't even let him put pants on, and he looked thin and sad when they came outside. "I'm not suicidal," he called. They took him away anyway.
----
The wet grass felt good on my bare feet. The neighbors were watching, and if my hands had been free I would've waved. I told everyone that I wasn't going to kill myself. "I'm just despondent," I said to the woman who took my knife and put the handcuffs on me. "We're all despondent, sometimes," she said, but I think she was confusing despondence with despair. I've felt deep despair before, and I do know the difference. Despair is when everything--everything-- seems black and cold. This time, I just needed to be alone. The knife was only a prop.
----
The wet grass felt good on my bare feet. The neighbors were watching, and if my hands had been free I would've waved. I told everyone that I wasn't going to kill myself. "I'm just despondent," I said to the woman who took my knife and put the handcuffs on me. "We're all despondent, sometimes," she said, but I think she was confusing despondence with despair. I've felt deep despair before, and I do know the difference. Despair is when everything--everything-- seems black and cold. This time, I just needed to be alone. The knife was only a prop.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Random Thoughts in a Not-So-Random Location
It's early in the morning, and I am in Starbucks. I am, ostensibly, working, but because the walls here are mostly windows, I am also distracted. This has been my curse for as long as I can remember. Once, in seventh grade, I was staring out a window and saw a hawk dive into the trees that lined the creek running by our school. I have not stopped looking out windows since.
The company I work for has, for the most part, been a good one to work for over the last 4 years. I have worked in worse places, and I have worked in better. I have not quite fit in here as I would have liked, but I could say that about anything, I suppose. In a month, I might not be working at all. The severance package for those who are severed will be generous, we have been told. For the good of the company (and shareholders, of course), 4,000 people, like gangrenous arms will be severed. We have been advised that, as professionals, we should "just keep doing your work as you usually do." I have convinced myself that I will be among those 4-thousand people, and I certainly don't feel like doing my work as I usually do. Of course, I am also a professional.
A man walks into this Starbucks, gets a couple of beverages, and returns to his car. He sits behind the steering wheel and drinks from one of the cups, and 10 minutes comes back inside, uses the restroom, and leaves again. A young woman with very short shorts walks in, and she has the most well-defined thighs I have seen in quite awhile. I am envious of those thighs and wish I had nice legs. Another young woman, dressed in a tank-top and yoga pants, comes in; she has a beautiful, colorful tattoo of flowers on her left shoulder. I do not wish I had that tattoo. I should have started this paragraph with something like "Two nuns walk into a bar." That would've been the start to a joke, though, and I do not tell jokes well. I am not a funny person.
The sign on the wall just outside the window I am sitting next to reads "NO Skateboarding or Rollerblading. Violators Will Be Prosecuted." We seem to be a nation in which prosecuting nearly everyone has become part of our culture. Or, maybe it's "persecuting."
Seemingly only minutes ago I could look out the window and see the full moon just above the trees in the parking lot. Now, that moon is gone, overwhelmed, perhaps, but the sun, or maybe just blocked by those same trees.
Next week, I begin teaching a night course at a local junior college. I am not prepared. I have not finished reading the texts, and my syllabus is not complete. I will also be a student again, taking an electric guitar course at the same college.
I am enjoying the guitar lessons (acoustic) that I have one night a week. The teacher is the same person who runs the electric guitar class. I will be playing a lot of guitar. I might also sign up for a guitar course at the nearby adult education center. I will never be a good guitar player, but I will be happily out of tune and clumsy. I have been playing so much, the fingers on my left hand are calloused. I often have trouble typing because I cannot feel the keyboard very well with those fingers.
And now, I have work to do, assignments to complete, analysis to perform. No longer ostensibly, I am working.
The company I work for has, for the most part, been a good one to work for over the last 4 years. I have worked in worse places, and I have worked in better. I have not quite fit in here as I would have liked, but I could say that about anything, I suppose. In a month, I might not be working at all. The severance package for those who are severed will be generous, we have been told. For the good of the company (and shareholders, of course), 4,000 people, like gangrenous arms will be severed. We have been advised that, as professionals, we should "just keep doing your work as you usually do." I have convinced myself that I will be among those 4-thousand people, and I certainly don't feel like doing my work as I usually do. Of course, I am also a professional.
A man walks into this Starbucks, gets a couple of beverages, and returns to his car. He sits behind the steering wheel and drinks from one of the cups, and 10 minutes comes back inside, uses the restroom, and leaves again. A young woman with very short shorts walks in, and she has the most well-defined thighs I have seen in quite awhile. I am envious of those thighs and wish I had nice legs. Another young woman, dressed in a tank-top and yoga pants, comes in; she has a beautiful, colorful tattoo of flowers on her left shoulder. I do not wish I had that tattoo. I should have started this paragraph with something like "Two nuns walk into a bar." That would've been the start to a joke, though, and I do not tell jokes well. I am not a funny person.
The sign on the wall just outside the window I am sitting next to reads "NO Skateboarding or Rollerblading. Violators Will Be Prosecuted." We seem to be a nation in which prosecuting nearly everyone has become part of our culture. Or, maybe it's "persecuting."
Seemingly only minutes ago I could look out the window and see the full moon just above the trees in the parking lot. Now, that moon is gone, overwhelmed, perhaps, but the sun, or maybe just blocked by those same trees.
Next week, I begin teaching a night course at a local junior college. I am not prepared. I have not finished reading the texts, and my syllabus is not complete. I will also be a student again, taking an electric guitar course at the same college.
I am enjoying the guitar lessons (acoustic) that I have one night a week. The teacher is the same person who runs the electric guitar class. I will be playing a lot of guitar. I might also sign up for a guitar course at the nearby adult education center. I will never be a good guitar player, but I will be happily out of tune and clumsy. I have been playing so much, the fingers on my left hand are calloused. I often have trouble typing because I cannot feel the keyboard very well with those fingers.
And now, I have work to do, assignments to complete, analysis to perform. No longer ostensibly, I am working.
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
Photo of the Day
My campsite at Crater Lake, Oregon, last month. Really, how much more does a fellow need?
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Something Different
With very little true creativity left in my these days, I was surprised to come up with this poem during a couple of bike rides. The idea originated somewhere in the first ride, and then lines and images were added in a second ride. What was then typed up a week or so later is only a bit different than what's below. This one is a little tighter and succinct than the first draft. My friend Shawn gave me a suggestion for the first draft, but my stubbornness has, so far, resisted his input.
Drawing My Father
On a March evening I asked my father
how he would like to be defined, how
one day he would want his grandchildren
to know him. I sat with my sketchbook
and drew his face for my fourth-grade project
on Family. He set the Tribune on his lap.
Beneath the blue coveralls his belly rose
and fell so that the newspaper
rustled against the fabric.
I charcoaled his eyebrows and the creases
above them. When I glanced up for reference,
my father was looking at me. He raised the corner
of his mouth as if he were Elvis, and I was not sure
then if his eyes should be drawn as pained or proud.
Monday, July 1, 2013
What Being on the Road Can Teach You #3
Driving through rain most of the way from Portland, I arrive at Crater Lake late in the afternoon. There is little to see but clouds and mist as I approach the crater from the north, and after a couple of brief stops I descend to the campground on the south side, figure out how I go about getting a campsite, and then hike a bit. At one point I find what a sign says is a loop trail, but I lose the loop and backtrack to my small tent. After dinner at the cafe most of the clouds vanish and I drive back up to the crater for some early evening tourism.
There is no phone reception, so I do not know if the cubicle has called.
At dusk I get into my tent to escape the mosquitoes, and at 6 the next morning I pack, brew tea, and drive to the rim again to see if things are different at this time of day. I take some more pictures and then drive to the south entrance and out of the park. After a short drive I think that, for the direction I think I'm headed and the time of day, the sun is not where it should be in relation to my car. I find a wide spot in the road, pull out the maps, and find that, in fact, I must have missed a turn or mis-read a sign. I'm not lost, really, I'm just not where I'm supposed to be. Thankful that I can actually read a map, though, I decide to keep going since I'll eventually get to the road home. My route takes me through some beautiful country.
A couple hours later I'm on Interstate 5 again and pointed south. At a few points I check my phone for messages, but there are none. I consider the cubicle and wonder what it's thinking. But, still, there are no messages, and I keep driving and driving.
---
At home, I talk to one of my friends. "What did the two of you decide?" he asked.
"We haven't decided anything, really. At least, nothing final. Let's just say that we have an uneasy truce."
"A truce is good," my friend said.
"But there is something," I said.
"Yeah? What's that?"
"We've agreed to start seeing other people. At least, we're talking to other people. We're exploring options, I guess, trying to find out if we're even right for each other. We've actually been having problems for quite some time--longer than we let others know about."
My friend looked hopeful. "This doesn't mean it won't work out, you know. I've seen others go through a lot worse."
"Maybe," I said. "It's not that we've given up hope."
---
That many hours on the road can be good. But, like I've said, you have to be ready to listen to those voices even when you might not want to.
There is no phone reception, so I do not know if the cubicle has called.
At dusk I get into my tent to escape the mosquitoes, and at 6 the next morning I pack, brew tea, and drive to the rim again to see if things are different at this time of day. I take some more pictures and then drive to the south entrance and out of the park. After a short drive I think that, for the direction I think I'm headed and the time of day, the sun is not where it should be in relation to my car. I find a wide spot in the road, pull out the maps, and find that, in fact, I must have missed a turn or mis-read a sign. I'm not lost, really, I'm just not where I'm supposed to be. Thankful that I can actually read a map, though, I decide to keep going since I'll eventually get to the road home. My route takes me through some beautiful country.
A couple hours later I'm on Interstate 5 again and pointed south. At a few points I check my phone for messages, but there are none. I consider the cubicle and wonder what it's thinking. But, still, there are no messages, and I keep driving and driving.
---
At home, I talk to one of my friends. "What did the two of you decide?" he asked.
"We haven't decided anything, really. At least, nothing final. Let's just say that we have an uneasy truce."
"A truce is good," my friend said.
"But there is something," I said.
"Yeah? What's that?"
"We've agreed to start seeing other people. At least, we're talking to other people. We're exploring options, I guess, trying to find out if we're even right for each other. We've actually been having problems for quite some time--longer than we let others know about."
My friend looked hopeful. "This doesn't mean it won't work out, you know. I've seen others go through a lot worse."
"Maybe," I said. "It's not that we've given up hope."
---
That many hours on the road can be good. But, like I've said, you have to be ready to listen to those voices even when you might not want to.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
What Being on the Road Can Teach You #2
The first afternoon on the road takes me north on Interstate 5 to a small campground that is scenic enough though within earshot of the Interstate's traffic. But it's far enough away and pitch my tent within spitting distance of a bush of poison oak. My head aches and the glands in my throat seem to be the size of plums, but the gin and tonic tastes good nonetheless.
Toward dusk, as I brush away families of mosquitoes, something happens: the cubicle calls. I try to ignore the phone, but it keeps ringing and ringing. "We're not supposed to talk," I said. We've recently started counseling, and we were counseled to take a break from one another so that we could work on what we need to work on, alone.
"I just wanted to talk," the cubicle said in that husky voice it sometimes uses to get its way.
"About what?"
"Us. Things. Whatever comes up."
"I don't know if I have anything to say at the moment," I said.
"Well, I've been thinking of things," it said. "I really want this to work."
I sipped the gin and tonic. "I know you do," I said.
"Part of the problem, I think, is that we spend so little time together. You're seldom here, and even when you are, you're looking out the window, or something."
"I don't have to be there to be there, you know."
"That doesn't make sense."
The cubicle was right--it didn't make sense.
There was a few moments of silence. "Is there someone else?"
"No, " I said. "There's nobody else."
"Were you like this with the others? I mean, did you lose interest after a certain amount of time?"
I thought about that. "I'm not sure how to answer," I said.
"I know I'm not your first, and we always feel something special about the first one. But I've seen how you stare at others. I know I'm older and less attractive than I once was."
"You're beautiful," I said. "This has nothing to do with how you look. And I don't stare at others."
"I just wish you would tell me what you want," the cubicle said. "You have to be open about things, you know?"
I finished the drink. Above me, the sky through the pines was nearly completely dark. "I need to go," I said.
"Okay," the cubicle said.
"Okay," I said.
Later, I wondered if I'd lied during the conversation. There certainly was not someone else, at least not formally. Had I been looking at others? This was more difficult to answer precisely, but I know there had been glances if not looks. That night I slept well.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
What Being on the Road Can Teach You
Maybe you spend a lot of your time in a cubicle, something that is a choice too many of you make. Think of something: What could--would--you do if the majority of your workday were spent somewhere else?
Perhaps, like me, you might have been in many cubicles over the years, a denizen in your little den of supposed privacy. I once worked in a cubicle down in a row of many cubicles in a building full of cubicles. Because of the room's acoustics, I could hear conversations of everyone who was in the same row. Funny thing: I could hear one woman's whisper as she spoke in a whisper into her phone, as she spoke to her boyfriend of certain sexual promises. In other cubicles in other buildings I have heard people fighting with their spouses and children, arguing with bank representatives, discussing their parents' health issues. If I have learned nothing else, I have learned to be quick to fill my ears with music whenever these conversations begin.
But that's not what I want you to think about. I really want you to think of my question: What would you do if you spent your workday somewhere other than a cubicle? Would you write? or travel? or play the drums? or simply sit outside and feel the warm and wind on your skin?
Well, hell. It's a choice, really; we're not shackled to our cubicle walls. Not literally, that is. But healthcare, paid vacation and sick time, retirement plans and the such keep us chained nonetheless.
But this is more about getting on the road, something I've touched on somewhere in the bowels of this blog-type thing. And what we find out there is a bit of perspective--or maybe a retrospective of where we spend so much time. My favorite time to head out is well before dawn when the traffic is light and the sky isn't. Wind through the window seems more forgiving then, and the music sounds especially good. If you're not afraid of what's in your head, it's an excellent time. If you are afraid, well, you'll confront some interesting things. And sometimes, what you what you thought you were comfortable with will show its darker face and leave you with questions you might have trouble answering.
Tomorrow I start a road trip, the first extended time away from work since the start of the year. It should be a good journey, one with a destination toward the beginning and then some improvisation at the end. If nothing else, a trial separation from my cubicle will let us both re-evaluate some things (not the least of which is if we should continue our relationship).
I'll see what I find in the next few days, and then I'll report.
Perhaps, like me, you might have been in many cubicles over the years, a denizen in your little den of supposed privacy. I once worked in a cubicle down in a row of many cubicles in a building full of cubicles. Because of the room's acoustics, I could hear conversations of everyone who was in the same row. Funny thing: I could hear one woman's whisper as she spoke in a whisper into her phone, as she spoke to her boyfriend of certain sexual promises. In other cubicles in other buildings I have heard people fighting with their spouses and children, arguing with bank representatives, discussing their parents' health issues. If I have learned nothing else, I have learned to be quick to fill my ears with music whenever these conversations begin.
But that's not what I want you to think about. I really want you to think of my question: What would you do if you spent your workday somewhere other than a cubicle? Would you write? or travel? or play the drums? or simply sit outside and feel the warm and wind on your skin?
Well, hell. It's a choice, really; we're not shackled to our cubicle walls. Not literally, that is. But healthcare, paid vacation and sick time, retirement plans and the such keep us chained nonetheless.
But this is more about getting on the road, something I've touched on somewhere in the bowels of this blog-type thing. And what we find out there is a bit of perspective--or maybe a retrospective of where we spend so much time. My favorite time to head out is well before dawn when the traffic is light and the sky isn't. Wind through the window seems more forgiving then, and the music sounds especially good. If you're not afraid of what's in your head, it's an excellent time. If you are afraid, well, you'll confront some interesting things. And sometimes, what you what you thought you were comfortable with will show its darker face and leave you with questions you might have trouble answering.
Tomorrow I start a road trip, the first extended time away from work since the start of the year. It should be a good journey, one with a destination toward the beginning and then some improvisation at the end. If nothing else, a trial separation from my cubicle will let us both re-evaluate some things (not the least of which is if we should continue our relationship).
I'll see what I find in the next few days, and then I'll report.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Little Bits of Things
This has been a year of almost nothing creative, with nearly all of my energy dedicated to the classroom. And the daytime job demands too much....what? I don't know: effort. Not to do the work, but to care about it. I'm older and crankier every day, more prone to missing things, more prone to both causing no small amount of frustration and tolerating less foolishness.
I'm hopeful, however, that things will change over the summer. The collected "Call and Response" segments are gathering themselves into a small printed booklet. But, just as I miss things at work, I misplaced much of Kominski's sage advice and direction about how to do things. I'm on my own.
This, though, came to me during a bike ride a few days ago. It might not be the start of something, but at least it's not the end.
I'm hopeful, however, that things will change over the summer. The collected "Call and Response" segments are gathering themselves into a small printed booklet. But, just as I miss things at work, I misplaced much of Kominski's sage advice and direction about how to do things. I'm on my own.
This, though, came to me during a bike ride a few days ago. It might not be the start of something, but at least it's not the end.
You want to think there is something afterward,
that the conversation will continue after the last
word you speak.
And you have started not just to remember
things but to replay them as though somehow
you will find different meaning in that afternoon
your father tried to teach you how to fight
and later your mother whispered to choose
your moments.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#18)
They were young. Wait awhile, I thought, and then you'll see what love is really like: going to bed each night glad you didn't kill your spouse and calling that happily married. I thought about them the entire ride home, how they laughed so unselfconsciously. Maybe we were like that before the world became fast and digital. When I parked the car, I realized I'd forgotten the pasta shells. I sighed and headed back to the store. The afternoon sun was warm on my face, and I thought I'd buy a good bottle of wine for dinner, something she likes.
-----
I watched him leave the driveway. He had the top down even though snow was forecast. Some days he forgets where he is going, but he always finds his way home. Young people seem to bother him--their noise and energy. Maybe he's frightened of them; I don't know. Some nights I rub my palm against his shoulders, feeling familiar warmth there. When he is restless I leave for the sofa but always return to bed before he awakes. He's sometimes surprised to see me then. "I dreamed you were gone," he says. "I know," I tell him. "I know."
-----
I watched him leave the driveway. He had the top down even though snow was forecast. Some days he forgets where he is going, but he always finds his way home. Young people seem to bother him--their noise and energy. Maybe he's frightened of them; I don't know. Some nights I rub my palm against his shoulders, feeling familiar warmth there. When he is restless I leave for the sofa but always return to bed before he awakes. He's sometimes surprised to see me then. "I dreamed you were gone," he says. "I know," I tell him. "I know."
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#17)
The student left a bag on his desk at the end of class. "Happy Valentine's Day," she said. She was 19, three decades his junior. He looked inside: a small coffee cup and some expensive chocolates. He remembered how he had been in love with his third-grade teacher, and he wondered if this were the same thing. "Wait!" he called, and she came back into the room. "You're not supposed to give me gifts," he said, "even small things." She didn't seem fazed, and she left again. He stared at the bag and wondered if he should tell the dean.
_____
She saw it the next morning before he'd gotten out of bed: the cup and the chocolate. She was happy; the cup had "Happy Valentine's Day!" painted on it, and she was glad that he'd remembered. They'd been married long enough that their gifts to each other were small, but meaningful. When he came into the room, she hugged him. "Happy Valentine's Day, Dear!" she said happily. She raised the cup so sunlight reflected off the paint. He wasn't thinking clearly and didn't know what to say. "It's not much," he said. She smiled. "No, it's beautiful! You're so thoughtful!"
_____
She saw it the next morning before he'd gotten out of bed: the cup and the chocolate. She was happy; the cup had "Happy Valentine's Day!" painted on it, and she was glad that he'd remembered. They'd been married long enough that their gifts to each other were small, but meaningful. When he came into the room, she hugged him. "Happy Valentine's Day, Dear!" she said happily. She raised the cup so sunlight reflected off the paint. He wasn't thinking clearly and didn't know what to say. "It's not much," he said. She smiled. "No, it's beautiful! You're so thoughtful!"
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#16)
Marvin sits to my left. Recently divorced from his wife of 28 years, he is often distracted and sometimes weeps silently early in the morning when he thinks nobody is there. Beth, to my right, has a son in preschool; she occasionally leaves work early because he bites. She, too, is distracted. Charles is our manager; his distraction is his own boss, Michael, who sells himself as a corporate visionary but who cannot articulate those visions to subordinates. My distractions? sunrise through tinted windows, the soft feathers of a bird that fell from its nest near the building's entrance today.
_____
I clean the breakroom and the cubicles. I am careful not to disturb anyone's personal belongings. Some people keep their cubicles clean, and others surround themselves with family photos and their children's artwork. I know when people's lives change: photos appear or vanish, for example. I've seen births, graduations, weddings, divorces, and vacations. I complete my tasks by 5 in the morning. When there are layoffs, people and their belongings simply vanish, but when they quit, belongings disappear slowly. Sometimes as I drive to the office, I imagine these people are my children, and I want to love them all.
_____
I clean the breakroom and the cubicles. I am careful not to disturb anyone's personal belongings. Some people keep their cubicles clean, and others surround themselves with family photos and their children's artwork. I know when people's lives change: photos appear or vanish, for example. I've seen births, graduations, weddings, divorces, and vacations. I complete my tasks by 5 in the morning. When there are layoffs, people and their belongings simply vanish, but when they quit, belongings disappear slowly. Sometimes as I drive to the office, I imagine these people are my children, and I want to love them all.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
I Was Once Very Fat (chapter 1)
Author's note: This is the first very rough draft of the new novel. It is unedited, un-proofread, un-anything. It's also the only chapter that will be posted. Who do you think I am, Charles Dickens?
Chapter 1
I was once very fat. This is what I tell myself,
mantra-like, every morning when the alarm clock sounds and, usually in the
dark, I find my running clothes, lace up my shoes, and head outside.
My running route covers eight miles on a normal day, ten miles a couple of times a week. Not that many years ago I could not walk a hundred yards, which probably embarrassed my then-teenaged son as he sprinted back and forth on the football field in front of his high school. He never said anything about my size and physical limitations, but fathers are more perceptive in these matters than some people believe. Nigel, my wonderful son, has been in the army now for nearly fifteen years. The morning he left, his mother Sandy and I watched from our front porch as the recruiter drove him away in a Toyota Prius. She and I both cried, though we cried differently and in different places that day.
The wife I had then, though, is not the same wife I have today. Twenty-five years into our marriage, not long after Nigel left, Sandy said that she, too, had to move on. Of course, our life together during a couple of years before that decision were not pleasant. I had grown fat, and we had both grown quite stubborn. Nigel told me one afternoon that he understood, that he had seen enough of the world in his military career to see how even the best-planned missions sometimes fail. Now, Nigel keeps in regular touch with his mother, who is good enough to keep me informed of Nigel’s well-being. Sandy told me in an email last week, in fact, that Nigel has met someone he calls “special,” and that things are getting serious.
My running route covers eight miles on a normal day, ten miles a couple of times a week. Not that many years ago I could not walk a hundred yards, which probably embarrassed my then-teenaged son as he sprinted back and forth on the football field in front of his high school. He never said anything about my size and physical limitations, but fathers are more perceptive in these matters than some people believe. Nigel, my wonderful son, has been in the army now for nearly fifteen years. The morning he left, his mother Sandy and I watched from our front porch as the recruiter drove him away in a Toyota Prius. She and I both cried, though we cried differently and in different places that day.
The wife I had then, though, is not the same wife I have today. Twenty-five years into our marriage, not long after Nigel left, Sandy said that she, too, had to move on. Of course, our life together during a couple of years before that decision were not pleasant. I had grown fat, and we had both grown quite stubborn. Nigel told me one afternoon that he understood, that he had seen enough of the world in his military career to see how even the best-planned missions sometimes fail. Now, Nigel keeps in regular touch with his mother, who is good enough to keep me informed of Nigel’s well-being. Sandy told me in an email last week, in fact, that Nigel has met someone he calls “special,” and that things are getting serious.
I am now
married to Melodie, a beautiful woman I met when I joined the local gym. We
both enrolled in the “Get Fit Now!” series of workouts designed for people who
need an extra push to keep them motivated. Melodie was much more fit than I at
the time, but she says now that after many years of trying, she can fit into
“normal” clothes. I am Melodie’s first husband, and she told me that she cannot
foresee a day when we are not married. Sandy is still single and, from what I
can see, quite happy.
On the last day of August, a Saturday, I started earlier than usual; Melodie did not even move when I slid out of bed, got dressed, and headed outside. The morning was cold for August, but the sun was rising and I knew I would be warm soon enough. I don’t stretch my legs much before I run, which I have been told is a mistake, that I should prepare my muscles for exertion. She is probably correct, but I prefer to simply start.
As I started running, I remembered how Saturday mornings used to be: I’d sleep in late, get up and eat a large breakfast, and then watch college football or maybe spend a few hours on the computer. Sandy was a good cook, and she always liked preparing special lunches on weekends. So, most of my weekends were filled with sitting and eating. It was not a bad life by any means.
I felt good as I started moving. I can usually tell after a quarter mile or so how the run will go. My route starts through begin and safe suburbia and continues up and down gentle hills and, toward the end, through a fine stand of conifers that someone planted as a windbreak decades ago. At the end of the final mile is the tallest hill, which is bare of everything but a cellular phone tower. When I reach the top of that hill I stop and gaze over the rooftops and backyards of my neighborhood. On clear mornings I can see as far as the airport, and I sometimes pause to watch passenger jets glide in or lift off. I feel like Rocky when I am up there. Melodie does not run. Instead, she spends many hours a week at the gym, and this is evidenced in the shape and firmness of her upper arms. She is a strong woman.
I’ve wondered about the cellular phone tower, whether the signals it sends and receives are harmful. The phone company organized several public meetings before building the tower, and a tall, good-looking man in a nicely cut suit told us that hundreds of studies and pages of scientific evidence support the idea that everything is safe. I liked how he spoke; his voice was confident and well modulated. “These are not like X-rays,” he said. The phone company has plans to disguise the tower with fake boughs and branches designed to mimic the surrounding conifers.
As a neighborhood, our singular demand turned out to be that our access to the hill would not be restricted. The summit is not just popular among runners and other pedestrians, but also among families to enjoy picnics. Though I am not always the first one atop the hill in the morning, on this Saturday I was the only person. Frank McConnell, who lives on the street behind mine, had erected a small bench in memory of his wife Elaine, who had died a couple of years earlier after what he said was a “courageous battle with a pernicious form of pancreatic cancer.” Frank had built the bench himself in his own garage using slabs of an oak tree that had once dominated his backyard before a meteorological micro-cell of some sort tore through the area and felled the tree.
As I said, I feel like Rocky when I am at the top of that hill. When I first started exercising, I could not even walk from top to bottom, but I have come to enjoy how my thighs ache as I near the tower. When I sit on Elaine’s bench, I feel that I am rewarding myself for a fine effort. On this Saturday, the air seemed especially clear as I sat down and let sweat drop from my forehead to my running shoes. Melodie has mentioned that I have a great capacity for sweating.
I enjoy watching the airplanes. I imagine them filled with people excited to be going to or coming home from someplace, and the airplanes seem so graceful, if machines can indeed have grace, as they come and go. There seemed to be more airplanes on Saturday mornings, and this day was no different. I sat and sweated and watched. The planes were landing from my right to my left, and approaching from the distance I saw a plane that seemed to be rocking a bit from one wing toward the other. This plane also appeared a bit lower than the ones in front of it. I wiped sweat from my eyes, and when I focused again I saw the plane drop lower, then climb, then plummet.
On occasion in my life I have seen things that made me adjust my perception to something that does not seem quite right. As a teenager, I was walking home from high school one afternoon and watched a car, a blue Ford Pinto, skid through a red light just as a black Chevy pick-up started through the intersection. “Black and blue,” is what I thought at the time, “like a bruise.” As I watched, I kept hoping that the two vehicles would not collide. Physics and bad driving, however, won out over hope, and the Chevy broadsided the Pinto. Glass and noise were everywhere.
I felt the same hope as I watched the plane. “It’s going to lift up,” I said aloud, but it did not. The plane seemed to fly directly into the ground, collapsing in on itself like a Slinky. I kept waiting to hear the sound of the impact just as I’d heard the Chevy and Ford, but things seemed even more unreal because there was no sound. There was a small fireball, and then much smoke.
I have read somewhere that what witnesses are, more often than not, incorrect when they describe what they have seen. People who study memory have written that we in fact create memories over time, often as a way to force events to fit into our unique perceptions and beliefs. As I watched the smoke rise and drift, I had to force myself that I had actually seen something, and I replayed my version of things over and over in my own thoughts.
The air suddenly felt colder. I was still sitting on the bench, the polished oak smooth against the backs of my thighs. “I should tell someone,” I said aloud, but immediately knew that “someone” already knew. Standing, I looked around the summit to see if anyone had joined me. There was nobody. I heard the sound of the impact then—not loud, really, just a dampened noise that at some point might have been impressive and frightening. “Oh, Christ,” I said, and I sprinted down the hill toward home.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Thinking Through Winter
I have a strong affection for winter, for its short days and low sun. I do not like the Central California summer, which is relentless.
During the week this time of year, I am at the office well before sunrise. The building is quiet, and if the lights are still on from the day before, I switch off all that I can before sitting in my cubicle.
A couple of weeks ago I spent two nights in a tent in Yosemite Valley's Camp 4. I set my tent on the snow, rigged up a warm mattress constructed of an old sleeping bag and a leaky Thermarest. For a couple of days I hiked around the Valley and enjoyed fresh air, tired legs, and the post-Christmas respite from all things ordinary. I got to see a wild bobcat for the first time, as well as a healthy coyote and several deer. The last time I was in Yosemite was in September, when I sometimes enjoyed a strenuous backpacking trip that, a few days in, found me unable to either eat or sleep enough to maintain a normal level of energy.
The day before yesterday I drove up to the mountains and spent several hours of skiing in the backcountry. I encountered nobody, and I had the trees to myself. At several points I stopped to enjoy the falling snow.
For about the last month I have had my evenings and weekends to do pretty much as I please: no classes to teach or take, no students to call, no papers to grade. In a couple of weeks I once again start teaching: two nights a week, two hours a night. I am trying to gird my mental self for the increased activity, but the thought of 30 students staring up from their seats causes me no small amount of anxiety.
I will also be taking a guitar class, basically the same course I took last semester but am allowed to repeat at least a few times. I am not a good guitar player, nor will I ever be. But I am better than I once was, and being a student again will help me (I hope) be a better teacher. Many of my students are afraid of writing, really, just as I am afraid of playing my guitar in class. I am hopeful that I am developing a bit of empathy for those who truly do fear having to write. For one Christmas when I was a kid, I asked for a guitar, and what showed up on Christmas morning was a cheap plastic thing that I treasured. Mike, an older neighbor who would end up having quite the dark side, once offered to sell me his electric guitar for $100. I balked, one of many decisions that I have regretted. If I'd started playing then, even with this fat, meaty hands I'd be a much better player than I am.
For Christmas this year I asked for and received a box of Blackwing 602 pencils and a new Rhodia notebook, requests that befuddled more than one person. With these pencils and in this notebook I have begun writing the newest tome (mentioned in in a not-so-old blog post), an exercise in futility and creativity that I'm hopeful to make habitual.
I have told my students for many years that they, too, must practice their writing, that it will get easier and they will get better if they just stick with it, no matter how fat and meaty their hands are.
During the week this time of year, I am at the office well before sunrise. The building is quiet, and if the lights are still on from the day before, I switch off all that I can before sitting in my cubicle.
A couple of weeks ago I spent two nights in a tent in Yosemite Valley's Camp 4. I set my tent on the snow, rigged up a warm mattress constructed of an old sleeping bag and a leaky Thermarest. For a couple of days I hiked around the Valley and enjoyed fresh air, tired legs, and the post-Christmas respite from all things ordinary. I got to see a wild bobcat for the first time, as well as a healthy coyote and several deer. The last time I was in Yosemite was in September, when I sometimes enjoyed a strenuous backpacking trip that, a few days in, found me unable to either eat or sleep enough to maintain a normal level of energy.
The day before yesterday I drove up to the mountains and spent several hours of skiing in the backcountry. I encountered nobody, and I had the trees to myself. At several points I stopped to enjoy the falling snow.
For about the last month I have had my evenings and weekends to do pretty much as I please: no classes to teach or take, no students to call, no papers to grade. In a couple of weeks I once again start teaching: two nights a week, two hours a night. I am trying to gird my mental self for the increased activity, but the thought of 30 students staring up from their seats causes me no small amount of anxiety.
I will also be taking a guitar class, basically the same course I took last semester but am allowed to repeat at least a few times. I am not a good guitar player, nor will I ever be. But I am better than I once was, and being a student again will help me (I hope) be a better teacher. Many of my students are afraid of writing, really, just as I am afraid of playing my guitar in class. I am hopeful that I am developing a bit of empathy for those who truly do fear having to write. For one Christmas when I was a kid, I asked for a guitar, and what showed up on Christmas morning was a cheap plastic thing that I treasured. Mike, an older neighbor who would end up having quite the dark side, once offered to sell me his electric guitar for $100. I balked, one of many decisions that I have regretted. If I'd started playing then, even with this fat, meaty hands I'd be a much better player than I am.
For Christmas this year I asked for and received a box of Blackwing 602 pencils and a new Rhodia notebook, requests that befuddled more than one person. With these pencils and in this notebook I have begun writing the newest tome (mentioned in in a not-so-old blog post), an exercise in futility and creativity that I'm hopeful to make habitual.
I have told my students for many years that they, too, must practice their writing, that it will get easier and they will get better if they just stick with it, no matter how fat and meaty their hands are.
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