Memory Lane

Metaphor became reality for yours truly the last two days as I returned to a place where I spent high school through young adulthood. (Okay, I'm asking you, dear readers, to accept without close examination the premise that I've actually become an adult. Please, just walk with me.)

I flew to San Jose to attend a family funeral, and spent the evening before with a wonderful friend of forty years and her daughter and her daughter's  best buddies. The into-the-wee-hours talk about where we were, where we are now and how we each got here was a blizzard of old remembrances, dawning understanding and nodding gap-filling. This meeting became a soul-fulfilling, thrilling adventure at the confluence of "where did you go" and "you've always been right here." It was truly remarkable and life affirming.

The next day found me attending the funeral of a family member whose affect on my life was sometimes positive, sometimes less so, but always profound. Leaving my GPS forgotten on the kitchen counter at home made me a last-minute arrival and allowed me to sit in the very last row and I unintentionally but thankfully assumed the role of observer. It was revealing and frequently wrenching to listen to the accounts of folks who knew a person much different from the one I knew. In the end, a life is defined by an amalgam of partially obscured views and the best path is simply to allow each their own legend according to the memories they hold.

Neither of these meetings is the raison d'etre for this blog entry, although without the framing perspective provided by loving reconnection on the one hand and ambivalent goodbye on the other, there would have been little reason to write today.

It was on the drive from Soquel to Morgan Hill that I found myself assailed by a flood of disparate memories. Bouyed by the unabashed joy at a friendship confirmed and the dread anticipation of a relationship that could now never truly be resolved, my mind was opened to the past in a way that was quite unexpected. I found my psyche flooding with acknowledgements of formative events that until now I hadn't realized were so.

I wouldn't have thought a 20-odd mile drive along a long-familiar, twisting mountain highway would be so cathartic. But as I drove along, the road became the thread linking old memories to the me I've become. I've travelled these curves with girlfriends and buddies, on the way to work and relaxation. I have driven this route possibly hundreds but at least many scores of times.

There's Cat's where I spent so many hours watching Lindy sing and across from which Dave's mom died one careless night. And Mountain Charlie's where my buddy Dan won the World's Belly Bucking Championship and where I was spotted by my friend Joe and called to the stage to sing Lazy Bones with him and then sang Lush Life for reasons I didn't understand at the time and then walked out through a silent crowd who somehow sensed that this would be the last time I'd ever sing Vala's anthem. Or the Wine Cellar where Bill and I pretended to be lounge singers (ahem!).

The esses remind me of the eternal argument over which is THE Dead Man's Curve. And driving to Pat's wedding where I would share the best man slot with a six foot blow up Gumby and a moth eaten, stuffed lion named Kippy. And to lots of places but nowhere in particular on Steve's last night before going off to join the Air Force. And to Summit to watch the show Sherree and Tom directed with the kids of Loma Prieta.

I rode shotgun with the careful Anne and the terror-inducing Bill. And then again with Bill the day before his wedding when what he needed most was a friend who would shut up and drive. This road took me to the camp the Ee-girls had set up at Sunset and the overnight solitude and white noise of Red, White and Blue.

The Alameda overpass that I can't pass under without wondering what was the last disappointment that led the guy to pull himself out of his wheelchair to topple to momentary but anonymous fame as the suicide of the day. And the perc ponds where people would raced radio controlled model boats. And Lake Vasona, where Dave and I went unintentionally sailing in the Volvo.

The tilt-up industrial park where I worked after the Navy is still there, as is the brooding Lexington and the turnoff to Roaring Camp. And of course the way to Highway 9, where I went with Sherree for an ill-advised hike without supplies on a hot day that led to heat exhaustion and a mad dash to find something, anything to drink and all the time frantic in the knowledge that I had broken Tom Young's younger daughter but more immediately, had failed in my boyfriend duty to protect the last person in the world I'd want to hurt.

I remember the drive back to my Mare Island base when I bet Steve five bucks I could open the bottle of soda without a church key before we reached the 101 overpass and at the last moment tossing it over the side and proclaiming, "Well, it's open now!" And seeing the Lost World dinosaurs and wondering but never bothering to go look, becoming one of thousands who thus consigned it to financial ruin.

Santa's Village is still there - sort of and as something else. As are the memories of innumerable friendships. Sort of and now, perhaps something else. And there was the awful, solitary drive the night that I realized she was with someone else now and that it was time to think about moving on. I did that drive twice, years apart and in response to rejection from two different women. It hurt both times and it helped both times. The highway was my confidante and mentor in ways I guess I never understood until just now. And maybe not now.

And the time my agent decided it would be a hoot to tell me she'd wangled a dinner invitation at my favorite sci-fi writer's home in Bonny Doon and driving there wondering what to say and finally practicing opening remarks until I was confident and the confidence flooding out through my toes when the woman of the house made clear there was no dinner party planned for that evening and "What did you say your name was?" and then the bewildered acceptance that I'd been had and the desire to turn and flee until the smirking woman asked "Did Elizabeth put you up to this?" and I knew and wondered which way to turn until this God-sent woman said well, I was there and I might as well come in for a bite  and later that night, getting home and realizing I could not recall so much as a word of a two-hour conversation or a yard of my drive back along 17.

17. It was a road and a destination and the freedom to have no destination in mind.

This highway connected me to so much and the memories of it to much more. Memories distorted by time and hopes, triumphs and disappointments. Memories that may or may not be factual but are nonetheless perfectly true. I wonder who that boy-man was who drove those twenty-odd miles all those times.

I may never really know.

The Christmas Lady

My folks are long gone from this life and I think of each of them under certain conditions or at particular times of year. I think of my Dad at work a lot, because the work ethic is something I think I inherited from him. I also think of him when I'm fixing something around the house. He had the home repair skills of an aardvark, but he tried. He would have been proud to see me hanging drywall, sweating copper or rewiring circuits.

I also inherited from him a curiosity about the things around me. When we'd be driving the highways and byways on our annual road trips, Dad always needed to understand the story behind the things we'd drive past. You couldn't get him to stop to pee until your eyes were actually yellow, but he couldn't pass the World's Largest Open Pit Mine without stopping to take the tour. He loved touring work sites and learning things and what he'd learned on trips would become part of his patter later on. He was also sort of the keeper of the McDermott family legend, alongside his sister, my Aunt Mary. I think of him a lot during my family or business travels. To the extent that I'm able to spin a yarn, I owe that skill to my Dad.

At Christmas, thoughts invariably turn to Mom. She was indeed the Christmas Lady. When we were small, I remember the assembly and decorating of the tree as a multi-day event. Before a single ornament found its way aboard, every branch was tied up to the trunk with green string, lest they droop once loaded. Then, she'd apply the strings of lights, patiently winding around and around to achieve a homogenous look throughout. That consumed the first evening.

The next evening, we'd put on the ornaments. Each child had one ball with their name spelled out in glitter and only that child was allowed to hang that particular ball. Mom was a hard taskmaster when it came to the overall look of the tree. Hanging too many balls on the lower branches unsettled her sense of balance, bringing timely and specific correction. Too many to one side or the other was also dealt with lovingly but firmly.

After we'd gone to bed - and only after we'd gone safely to bed - Mom would go back over the tree, moving, adjusting, trimming and tying as necessary to yield the overall look she found presentable. Only then would she consider the tree ready for the piece de resistance - tinseling.

Tinsel was the crowning glory of Mom's tree decorating approach. Doing it well was considered a sign of intelligence and a deeply caring soul. Doing it poorly was tantamount to a high crime. Woe betide the child or Dad who put too much on one branch ("You're clumping it!") or draped it in any orientation but straight up and down ("Have you ever seen an icicle grow sideways?").

This probably sounds very compulsive and even overbearing but it wasn't. Not really. We all went along because we knew that when we were done, we'd be looking at a thing of beauty. And year after year, that's precisely what came to pass.

  Mom's compulsion about Christmas perfection also extended to wrapping technique. When decorating  a gift, the paper had to lay perfectly flat with better-than-hospital corners and tape perfectly applied, exactly parallel to the edge of the paper. Bows were largely homemade from the ribbon we bought in econo spools. By the time we were ten, each of us could wrap a present to military specifications, including curling the ends of the ribbon using the thumb-against-scissor-edge method.

Gifts were something else. The best Christmases were those that involved handmade gifts from "Santa." Like the Matchbox scale whole city my brother and I played with for several years until Godzilla (our cat who likely wasn't aware of the role in which she'd been cast) chewed off the ends of all the telephone poles and batted the fake bushes to smithereens. Or the clothing she sewed for my sisters' dolls, the best-dressed little pseudo humans in Lake Hills.

Santa did misstep once or twice. Like the time "he" brought me a complete football outfit. My parents were confused when they found out I'd given away the whole uniform to a friend who actually liked football except for the helmet, which my brother and I used as a stand-in for an astronaut's headgear. But it was easy to forgive these occasional fauxs pas when you'd show up with an unexpected friend for dinner and magically, a perfectly appropriate gift - wrapped and labeled - would be presented to the unannounced guest as though it was nothing out of the ordinary. I never quite figured out how she pulled that off but she did, again and again.

My mom died years ago. But before she passed away, she passed on a certain reverence for approaching Christmas as a crusade. We don't follow all her edicts - our tree is "fake," in a nod to my allergy to spider mites. And the Bellevue McDermotts have established our own tradition of hanging and filling Chirstmas stockings, which was never part of Mom's game plan.

Even so, she's right here with us at least once each year. In the perfectly wrapped gifts and the big late-afternoon feast. In many of the decorations that have found their way onto our shelves and tables. In the tradition of buying gifts for a needy family from one of the "sharing trees" at the local mall, we respect Mom's determination that come hell or high water, every kid gets a gift at Christmas.

I suppose much of this seems fairly passe. Many families share most of these traditions and I'd guess lots of you look on your own mothers as a Christmas original. And of course, we're all right.

For me, Christmas came each year in the person of my Mom. So, you'll excuse me if for this one day, she's the most important person in my world.

Happy Holidays to each and all of you from Marion's baby boy!

Christmas list

Things your daughters give you when everyone knows this might be the last "family Christmas" for awhile:

·         A truly wonderful picture collage

·         A secret note describing what you mean to them

·         Really special ornaments that only you and they know how special

·         Software to convert all the years of VHS to DVD (score!!!)

·         Unabashed smiles

Things your wife gives you after (going on) twenty-five years of wedded bliss:

·         A pill sorter

·         A soap caddy

·         A pot clip to hold the mixing spoon

·         A box of Bandaids (seriously, Bandaids!)

·         A knowing smirk

Trust me, I could not have made this up.

Happiness list

Happiness is…

1.       …walking through a mall behind your adult daughters and they’re holding hands.

2.       …dogs worn out from the cold weather so they spend most of their time inside sleeping.

3.       …the salespeople who were canvassing our neighborhood as we drove up turned out to have already stopped at our house and they didn’t come back.

4.       …Christmas lights!!!!!

5.       …two weeks of leave.

6.       …when your doctor demands you lose some weight and the number she prescribes is WA-A-A-A-A-AY less than you’d already figured you needed to lose.

7.       …new neighbor has been there several weeks and does not appear to have any annoying neighbor characteristics (cross fingers).

8.       …between business travel and daughters coming home, I’ve managed to see zero sports or political news for over a week.

9.       …Daughter One introducing me to Big Bang Theory; I think I have a new show!

10.   …KAYAKING!!!!

11.   …hangin’ wit’ me baby!

Cycle of life

Okay, so my last post (phrases including Eugene) was a bit of an inside joke with Daughter Two. I'd apologize to the rest of you if it hadn't been so much darn fun to torture the daughter. Which brings us to the topic de jour.

There are definite phases in the life cycle of a Dad. Somewhere between clueless first time parent and clueless, frumpy old geezer, we go through stages in our development. And they all revolve around either the parent or the child being made to appear or feel like a dufus.

When the children first arrive, they have but to lay there to convert otherwise witty, urbane adults into doting parents (read: dufae or would the plural be dufum?). I know that I thought spit bubbles were cute when extruded from the innocent lips of baby mine. I saw a wino producing precisely the same bubbles and in far more interesting colors this afternoon and 'cute' was nowhere to be seen in my thought balloon.

Mary and I thrilled to each new achievement by our babies, even those that are embarrassing to admit today. I can't imagine what led us to believe a blown out diaper was an object of amusement. Also can't imagine what synapses were misfiring in the old noggin to make me find mirth in strained pea garp.

But time goes by and the parents recover some modicum of dignity only to shift the mantle of dufusness to the kids long about kindergarten time. Kids at that age will wear the dufusest , most outlandish colors or pattern of colors. I have proof, I have photos. They'll even do it to themselves, concocting hairdos - frequently with the aid of a licking dog - that make our parental guts explode trying to hold back the guffaws.

There's a pause during the middle school years when the kids struggle to be cool and the parents struggle just to keep them from imploding. Most middle school kids are pretty sure they're the biggest dufuses in history and tragically, many of them are at least in serious contention for the title . It's a brutal in-between time.  But you know life will get better eventually and mostly, you concentrate on convincing them of that life fact.

Just when you think the whole family might walk off a cliff together, along comes high school! Parents no longer care about being cool to their own PTA friends. No-o-o-o! For some reason known but to Yoda, parents of high-schoolers struggle to be cool to their children's friends!!! It would be tragic if it wasn't so damn comical. The duficity meter goes off the scale as parents pretend to understand sagging jeans and coal miner eyeliner. We totally ignore the fact that the minivan that made us the cool parent who always chaperoned field trips in grade school, that very conveyance now marks us as irretrievably, insufferably, painfully, stupefyingly uncool. Prisoners in dufusdom.

The college / first real job years represent a truce as both sides hold their collective breaths. Then...wait for it...

Yes, the former kids become first time parents and the cycle begins anew. Which is really bad news for the now-grandparents, who can only make room in the dufe-cycle for their newborn grandkids by themselves vacating the playing field, sliding off the merry-go-round into the dreaded zone of geezerdom.

I am still in the slide zone. Okay, I'm hanging on with bleeding nails, but still there. Neither Daughter One nor Daughter Two has produced offspring so I hang on to my position on the field of honor. The Daughters and I battle over who's the current holder of the Dufus Cup. My absolute lack of ego when it comes to doing things embarrassing in public give me a slight edge.

Anyway, I don't blow bubbles yet.

I think.

A list for all you Eugene-lovers out there

or, Eleven More Ways to Torture Daughter Two

Words found using "Eugene" in a Google search:

1) ..., OR

2) ... software

3) ... Mirman

4) ... Pilcher

5) ... Register-Guard

6) ... Cernan

7) ... Schmeigel of the MIT Schmeigels

8) ... O'Neill

9) ...Swim and Tennis Club

10) Actors' Cabaret of...

11) ...Folklore Society

A totally unbiased theatrical review

Mary and I went to Daughter One’s last Red Curtain Revue at college last night and I saw a completely new person in many ways.  She was a dancing, singing, emoting entertainment machine and I loved watching her. But I always love watching her. She’s my kid and she’s very talented.

But aside from her on-stage performance, there was this new persona, something I’d suspected was there but hadn’t actually seen: Daughter One as director. She staged several of the numbers and they were the numbers that showed the most inventiveness in the show. She chose the right people and played to their strengths, providing the sold out audience with truly a peak experience.

The Whipped Into Shape number was just something to behold and when she had the whole cast to work with, her production number of Freak Flag was tour-ready.  I didn’t know Be My Friend from “Edges” before last night and Daughter One’s rendition has made it a new favorite number.

Perhaps you’ll see my daughter perform some day. If you’d seen her work product last night, you’d hope for that day to come soon.  When she says “Let me entertain you,” she delivers on that promise.  

I know, proud Dad crowing about his daughter. And you’ve no reason not to suspect that I’m being a bit more hyperbolic than the performance deserved. And you’d be wrong.

I’ve always been honest with my daughter about her performing because it’s a tough road she’s chosen, not one that you want your beloved daughter to walk down unprepared for reality. I’ve told her when I was less than blown away, when she needed to tweak this or that or choose a better number. She’s come to expect honesty from me and my reviews have not always been easy to provide or to receive. So she knows that when I say the following, I mean it:

Angela, you’re so ready. So, go give the world what you have to offer.

Apologia

On an average day, I am accosted by three or four beggars who apparently believe that some portion of any monies I might have about my person can reasonably be classified as “extra.” As in, do I have extra change? Yeah, that’s why I work every day – to keep a surfeit of “extra” money, in case I’m asked.

Yesterday, I faced a new wrinkle. One of the “Occupy Seattle” denizens actually asked me if I had “funds for the cause.”  I declined making a donation and hurried past, not being entirely certain I could make the 5:06 and not wanting to stand in the rain waiting for the next limo – er, bus! I mean, bus!

The Saviour of Society who’d requested a grant apparently found my response too abrupt and decided I needed to be brought down a peg in front of all my fellow just-got-off-work-and-in-a-hurry-to-get-home-out-of-the-weather-ites. In a voice loud enough to carry from Pike to Pine and back again, she asked, “Don’t you care about humanity? Human rights? We’re the 99!”

I didn’t turn around but I continued to hear her exhortations as I crossed Pine and turned West toward the bus stop. Several of the folks who witnessed the exchange broke out in chortles and one lady said, “Ooh, I think you might have upset her!”

I went on my way and hadn’t thought about the encounter until I saw an article about one of the Occupy X groups today. And I thought, perhaps I really should have been more receptive to her plea. Perhaps I owe her an apology. And everyone knows the best apology is a public apology, so here goes.

Dear young 99 percent lady:

I apologize for being too abrupt in my refusal to contribute to your cause last week. I must have been distracted by the freezing rain and the fact that I’d just put in nine hours working as an advocate for persons living with disabilities and I failed to take the time to give you money to support your more important pursuits. I don’t know how I could have been so unfeeling.

I truly am sorry that you felt ignored. For the fact that you and your compatriots have not been able to make any headway in changing the world, I am also sorry.

I regret that most of us have to make a living and thus have utterly failed to pay you the attention you so obviously feel you deserve.  For being less than receptive to your yelling and drum-beating, I apologize.

I am sorry that the world is not fair and I accept my share of the responsibility for having failed thus far to right all of society’s wrongs.

For the imbalance of trade, I am penitent. I take the blame for plague, crop failure and fat people in stretch pants.

Sad-eyed doggies are almost entirely my fault, as are drought in Africa, tsunamis and the duck-billed lips that have of late befallen so many aging celebrities.

For lying politicians and the decline of serious journalism, I ask your forgiveness. Also for tornadoes, floods and teenagers wearing pants that don’t cover their butts.

I am burdened by the knowledge that I’ve utterly failed to eradicate cellulite, crabgrass or computer dialers. And I lie awake nights tortured by guilt over the proliferation of ’reality’ television programming focused on pawn shops, bounty hunters or brain-stunted idiots named Snookie.

Had I only paused to think, I might have offered my abject apologies for global warming, corporate greed and the fact that sometimes, crooks get away with, well, being crooks.

For these and so many, many other failures of civilization, let me offer my official mea maxima culpa. Truly, would that I could right the world’s wrongs. I can’t do that and really, I. Am. So. Sorry.

But there is this one thing…

After much soul searching, I do have to admit that I really don’t feel inclined to accept blame for the fact that you’re a shrill, self-important, unrepentant leech whose view of the world is limited to platitudes that will fit on your cardboard sign and whose approach to effecting change involves camping out in designer camping gear, pausing for hourly lattes, and screaming at people who are sincerely trying to make a difference in ways that have a chance of actually working.

That one’s on you.

Being prepared

I was looking at the Lake this morning and thinking about putting the kayaks in the water while Daughter Two is home for the holidays. Accordingly, I put together this “must take” list. Did I mention I like lists?

Anyhoo, herewith my list of items the well-prepared kayaker takes along for outings with the daughter during the winter months:

1.       Primary paddle

2.       Standby paddle

3.       PFD (life jacket to you  lubbers)

4.       Hand pump

5.       Sponge

6.       Paddle float

7.       Pogies

8.       Paddle gloves

9.       Paddle jacket

10.   Wet suit

11.   Whistle

12.   Waterproof flares

13.   Line throw bag

14.   Booties

15.   Extra wool socks

16.   Extra wicking shirts

17.   Knit cap

18.   Sunglasses

19.   Floppy hat

20.   Water bottles

21.   Snacks in dry bag

22.   Lunch in dry bag

23.   Camera in dry bag

24.   Headlamp

25.   Beach towel

26.   Extra dry bag for keys and wallet

(NOTE: When you start making lists of stuff for which you’ve long since ceased to need lists, it’s possible there’s another reason. Like, say….CAN’T WAIT FOR DAUGHTER TWO TO COME HOME!)

David and Dominic

Not all of my teachers have had fancy degrees. David and Dominic were two of the greatest teachers I’ve ever met. They weren’t really teachers in any formal sense but they sure taught me.

I was managing a small plant making plastic bottles and filling them with glue. When the bottles came out of the molding machine, random lots of 100 or so would be set aside for close inspection. The sample bottles had extra plastic called tabs that had to be removed manually, then the bottles would be candled. That is, they’d be held up to a light to search for pinholes. The last thing you wanted in a bottle that would be filled with glue was a pinhole. We called this whole process “de-tabbing.”

We had trouble keeping employees de-tabbing because it was boring, thankless, repetitive work. Everyone thought the work was beneath them, that is, everyone but David and Dominic. David and Dominic had intellectual disabilities and they thought a job that allowed them to sit and shoot the bull inside out of the weather was just fine.  They’d set their chairs and bins and lamps up just inside the roll-up door and they’d talk and laugh and greet everyone arriving for work and watch the trucks unload and meanwhile, their hands never stopped moving.

One day as I walked by on my way to the warehouse, Dominic ducked my gaze while David beckoned me over with his face screwed up in a show of great urgency. I had a meeting to get to and I knew from experience that any time David wanted to have a little fun at my expense, I was going to burn at least five minutes or so. And anytime Dominic wouldn’t meet my gaze, I just knew I was in for it. These two were inveterate practical jokers. Still…

“Yeah, David, what can I do for you?”

David pulled out a bottle, tore off the excess plastic and eyeballed it over the candling lamp and tossed it into the ‘accept’ bin. Then, he looked up at me with the expression that I knew meant he thought he was about to ask me a trick question, trick questions being sort of a staple of David’s sense of humor.

“Why are we doing this?”

Trying to keep my exasperation from showing, I started to explain for about the nth time that when the machine formed the bottles, some extra plastic was caught and squeezed between the mold cavity and the blow pin…

“No, Mr. Mike!” he cried out his frustration. “Why do we do this?” and he popped the tab off another bottle as Dominic, hands still and head cocked, strained to catch every word. I thought I detected a giggle but I let it pass.

I counted to ten slowly before starting again. I’d been told that David had the mental capacity of a five-year-old so I tried to find a simpler way of explaining that would allow me to go on my way and get some work done. “You see, David, the hot plastic comes out in a tube and the clamp closes the mold around it, and…”

“Mr. Mike! I KNOW all that!” David gave me a look that left no doubt as to which of us he thought was the dumb guy. “What I mean is, why do we do this…” he tore off yet another tab…”when we could just do this?”  And with that, David grabbed a handful of bottles and flung them full force onto the floor, scattering them from the loading dock to the first high stack of finished goods. People on the other side of the production floor stopped their work to see how I would respond.

I was wondering whatever possessed him to make such a mess but David just smirked at me and pointed to the floor while Dominic collapsed in giggles behind him. Looking where David pointed, this time I saw more than the mess. Scattered around me were bottles and tabs but no bottle-and-tabs. Every tab had been wrenched lose by the impact. When I looked up again, David and Dominic were both laughing and so was I.

By the time the crew reported the next morning, we’d jury-rigged an air cannon and a metal screen and were blasting the tabs from hundreds of bottles at a time. We still had David and Dominic candle our sample lots but the dreariest and most time-consuming job in the plant was now accomplished by these same two guys using an air cannon in their free time between sample candling lots.

David received a big bonus for his idea that year. And I received a bonus, too. I learned something about listening to the idea before judging the person and that not all smart ideas come from people we think of as smart. I learned that I didn’t have a corner on the smarts market and mostly, I learned that a person who thinks outside the box can never really be put in one.

Altar boys

I was just reading an online article regarding the controversy currently raging over the refusal of some diocese of the Roman Catholic Church to allow females to act as altar servers. It seems that some priests and bishops have decided that altar service should be limited to males.

The Catholic Church has a long history of treating women as second-class citizens. I don’t agree with the attitude of the church toward women but then, I also don’t understand why any girl would want to be an altar server. Or any boy, for that matter, but that’s not where I’m going.

I was an altar boy back in the days of solemn high Latin masses. I can still rattle off a mean Suscipiat at lightning speed. I remember all the choreographed dance steps as though I’d last performed them yesterday.  

I went through my initial training under Father LaVelle, staying late afternoons after school to learn the Latin and the moves and the order of things. I picked it all up quickly and was soon awarded a special wooden cross to wear around my neck on a string. It was supposed to be an honor of sorts for those of us who were on the altar boy fast track.

I found myself assigned to Father Holland’s Sunday crew, on the 7:00am and 12:15 pm mass shifts, and on call for special masses. I altar-boyed for a lot of weddings and funerals.  Some assignments were better than others. We used to vie to work funerals with Fr. Holland, because he would always take us out for burgers and fries afterward.  After a Mass of the Angels, he’d take us for a swim at the neighborhood pool. He didn’t want our young psyches damaged through exposure to such sad events as the funeral of a child. He was a good guy with a huge heart and of course, we played him shamelessly. Looking off into space after a particularly sad funeral was usually good for onion rings.

When we worked weddings, we would make bets on the probability that one of the wedding party would faint during the service. There was usually a box of Jujy Fruits hanging in the balance. With stakes like that, arguments in the changing room behind the sacristy would rage. Nodders didn’t count, but what about leaners? If the first usher caught the best man, who then came around before going completely comatose, did that count?

A kid who went down in the pews was out of bounds. Stumblers didn’t count, although a really good one would make us bite our collective lips. As fun a guy as Fr. Holland was, even he frowned on laughing at stumblers.  And a dancer was highly entertaining but scored no points unless the noggin hit the carpet.

The bride and her women in waiting didn’t count. Which is not to say they never went down. But women were considered more likely to swoon, and therefore too obvious to bet on.  Only males earned points. The irony is that although women were exempted due to their assumed frailty, I can tell you from long experience that more groomsmen end up kissing the kneeler than bridesmaids. We should have doubled up bets on the fair flowers hitting the floor.

We weren’t totally heartless in our calculations. A fainter who also upchucked earned our sympathy and therefore, was outside our calculations. And bets were off for any service involving the use of incense, long regarded as the bane of potential passer outers.

Betting on syncope was not our only entertainment. One priest who frequently worked our room had two peculiarities that played right into our hands. Fr. X had a thing about always consecrating all the wine we brought him. This meant he had to drink it, this being before the days of pass-the-chalice. This particular cleric also had trouble holding his vino. So naturally, when the prep boy saw the poor chump’s name on the schedule, he would make sure to set out the largest wine cruets, filled to the  spout with the novitiate’s finest.

This poor guy would bravely drink down all the wine, and within a few minutes, would be struggling visibly and painfully to avoid burping into the microphone. And after mass, he would politely but firmly remind us to use the small wine cruets and next mass, we’d super-size him again. Great fun!

You know, come to think of it, we really were little monsters. Mothers, don’t let your sons – or daughters - grow up to be altar servers. It’s a bad crowd.

It’s list time again!

My thanks-giving list:

1.       None of my family were in the accident I saw tonight.

2.       The folks who were involved had a dozen responders on the scene within about four minutes, with all sorts of equipment.

3.       Daughter Two has a good friend with whom to spend the holiday.

4.       We were born in a place / time in which we’re able to live lives free from want. And when we can talk to Daughter Two in real time when she can’t come home for the holiday.

5.       Mary

6.       Family

7.       Old friends

8.       My turkey roaster

9.       The book I’m reading (Blind Your Ponies by Stanley Gordon West)

10.   The dogs, except sometimes.

11.   Writing

And a really special one: Mary and I are so fortunate that our daughters have had opportunities and have capitalized on those opportunities to establish their lives in wonderful directions, that they’re both smart and courageous enough to make course corrections when needed, and that they have each other.

Dear readers, I hope this finds each of you with uncountable reasons to be thankful.

Dogs

Today was a dog day. First thing this morning, the canines who allow us to share their house were upstairs urging us to come down stairs and feed them. Of course Odin The Horse paused at the door to Daughter Two’s bedroom, staring at her bed in the false hope that she would be where she belonged  at last. Failing to find her there, he came into our room looking for his morning pat on the head.

Mary and I really enjoy when Odin comes to my side of the bed because once I’ve scratched his ears, he has to back out, being too long to make a U turn between the bed and the set of shelves. This morning, he was further confused when I made those boop-boop sounds that trucks make when backing up.  

Of course, Zooey The Small And Annoying had already interrupted Mary’s sleep earlier to demand a trip to the backyard for her morning peering session. She goes out on the back stoop and peers at the backyard, as though she’s legitimately on watch for prowlers and such. Of course, she’s a major wuss, so the peering impresses no one. Not even the rabbits and squirrels.

Both the dogs eventually ended up outside at the same time. They wore themselves out with playing hard in the frost-cold yard most of the day so that now, they’re both zonked on their dog beds, where they will remain more or less inert until we go to bed, signaling time for them to need our attention once again.

We had dinner at the neighbors’ and their dog Ynez needed her share of loving. She is a Golden Retriever and had just been shampooed, so her coat was absolutely silky. It was great.

I went to the store for milk this evening. This woman with a service dog just barely missed the bus so I drove them home. The dog rested its head on my knee while I drove. It was a sweetheart and I’d like to think it was thankful to me for not making it and the woman wait in the cold for the next bus.

Lots of my good days involve dogs.

Indifferent beauty

The Fall colors are out in their riotous glory!

They don’t know. They don’t care.  They just are.

It would be easy to personify the trees and impute some intent on their part. I know that’s ridiculous. Trees only think in Oz and Hogwarts. But I can wish it weren’t so.

I could believe that the trees are crying out against the impending loss of their foliage, their incipient nakedness. Or perhaps giving the world the arboreal version of the finger – see what I can do when I try? Take that!

The truth is more pedestrian, I suppose. The trees aren’t doing this of their own volition.

They don’t know. They don’t care. The colors just come.

And I get to watch!

Extended family

I’m looking at pictures hung on the wall of our family room and one in particular has awakened my imagination. It’s one of those posed shots of everyone who happened to attend this particular family gathering - my cousin Sue’s wedding. We’re standing in careful ranks so that all the smiling faces are exposed to the camera.

I know all these people. I played with some of them as a kid and some of them played with my daughters when they were kids. The common thread runs through one person. Everyone in the photo is descended from my grandmother.

She was quite a presence in my young life. All of the cousins in my rung of the family have strong memories of pot lucks out on her patio, breakfast in the little yellow room off the kitchen, sleeping in the room off the porch, giggling at private jokes while the adults played cards in the dining room.

Many of my childhood memories revolve around the relationships represented in this one photo. And a foot away from it is a similar photo of Mary’s extended family, spreading across the lawn to left and right of their family matriarch. I suppose most families have a photo like this.

Some don’t, of course.

I won’t go back into the whole nature vs. nurture argument. But it does seem to me that a great deal of who I am now can be divined from studying this photo. As is true of Mary and the folks in her family team photo.

I feel a great deal of sympathy for folks who don’t have one of these photos on their family room wall. Growing up in a family that chooses to continue to come together over the years to mark the way posts of our collective lives must have something to do with the sense of belonging and self-worth that got me through down times.

Every child deserves to grow up in a family like this. Which is not to say that small families and single-child homes can’t produce wonderful human beings. Or that all large families produce only Nobel Prize winners.  But I’m thankful for the family in which I grew up – brother and sisters, my parents, uncles and aunts and of course, Grandma K.

Mary Fitzgerald Kersting was not a scientist or a politician or an entertainer. Few people outside our family would likely recall her today. But for me, my grandmother and the other folks descended from her formed the framework of my life.

She is long gone but certainly not forgotten. Not by me and not by anyone in that picture.

More about Fall

It’s blowing and raining today. Truly nasty. But yesterday was one of those days when nothing at all is moving.

Sometimes a cliché is the perfect descriptor: riding across the lake was like skating across a 22 mile long, three mile wide mirror. I could see two volcanos, one upright and the other upside down, two islands, two of each tree and house and dock along the shoreline.

There was one boat on the lake and it had been in the same place for some time, because there wasn’t so much as a ripple on the lake.  I could have spent an hour on the bridge, just taking in the view.

I wish a really good artist had been on hand to paint the scene. It helped me get to sleep last night.

Boot camp

I’m sitting on the concourse at Lindbergh Field in San Diego. Right across the field, clearly visible from where I sit is the Marine Corps Recruit Depot. Driving here from the hotel, we went right past the site of the old Naval Recruit Training Center, where I took Navy boot camp. It was adjacent to MCRD, and while it’s mostly gone now, there are reminders still to be had.

TDE-1, the U.S.S. Recruit, still sails the concrete sea where we trained for shipboard emergencies. And we drove right past the bridge where it’s alleged that a certain recruit company threw the bridge guard over the rail into the estuary the day we crossed over from “Worm Island.”

Speaking of Worm Island, the barracks I lived in for the first three weeks was right there, no more than a hundred yards from the road we were driving on. The windows are all knocked out. I’m told it’s used now as a training facility for local firefighters. Frankly, I’m surprised it’s still standing at all.

Through the open (missing, actually) window, I could see right where my bunk stood. And the concrete tables where we scrubbed our grundies was in plain sight.

Memory is indeed selective. I couldn’t tell you with any certainty the layout of half of the places I lived while I was a bachelor. I have to really concentrate to bring forth my mental floor plan of the first house Mary and I owned.

Boot camp was different. If not for the damage wrought by practicing firefighters, I could walk blind-folded through that barracks and give you a guided tour. Part of it is the “first home away” effect I suppose. But more than that, it seems that the boot camp experience has a particular hold on my memories. I have to say, the memories are not entirely negative.

I wasn’t fond of the incessant marching and I could have lived without the obstacle course, where I dropped my lunch one afternoon in front of my seventy-man company. But I did enjoy the experience overall.

A large group of guys from all regions and walks of life came together and worked in close concert. For nine weeks, our fortunes rose and fell as a group. Even as a family of sorts. After those nine weeks, I remained friends with a few but even with them, I gradually lost contact over time. Still, I’ll never forget them.

I wouldn’t go back through boot camp for a million dollars. But neither, for the same amount, would I be willing to give up the memory.

Mixed tape

It was common in the days when tape players ruled the musical world to make a gift of what we used to call a “mixed tape”. I was never a big fan of them as a young man, since I had my own musical tastes which were sufficiently eclectic as to make it nigh onto impossible for even a good friend to make a mixed tape from their own music to which I’d enjoy listening.

Or so, I thought.

I’ve listened to several mixed tapes of late. One was put together by my brother years ago and was heavy on Credence Clearwater, Jackson Browne and other artists he used to love, with some Warren Zevon thrown in to provide the recommended daily allowance of headless Thompson gunners.  One that I can’t find and wish I could was by Vala Cupp, my then-girlfriend. Cab Calloway, Billie Holliday, Tom Waits and Manhattan Transfer – now, there was a mix! Vala died a few years back and I really wish I’d kept this momento.

My friend Lance Hamilton used to come up with really cool mixes and I wish I had some of them now. The ones he made during the Electric Light Orchestra years would be fun to have. And I REALLY wish I still had the one a friend of mine made that included the only known recording of me singing bass in the quartet for Music Man.

As I write this, I’m on a flight from Seattle to San Diego and the folks seated behind me are holding forth non-stop at full volume about topics only a computer wonk would care about. In self-defense, I pulled out the old iPod and - tired of both Beethoven and the Oak Ridge Boys - I went surfing and came across a mixed set labeled “Swerdloves.” It turns out to be just what I needed. It’s truly a “mixed” playlist, with new twists on old favorites interspersed with cuts I’d never have chosen for myself but that feel like home within the first 32 bars. The Il Divo cut is to die for. What’s really cool is that I haven’t listened to this set for a while, so it feels new.

I guess there’s probably not likely to be a resurgence of mixed tape gifting on the near horizon. Too bad. Listening to music chosen for you by a dear friend you don’t see often is one of the treats of life. It’s a bit like enjoying Thanksgiving dinner at someone else’s house. The meal’s not prepared precisely the way you’ve always done it at home, but while it will never supplant your own traditions, it’s nevertheless homey and familiar. And sometimes a little surprising.

Thanks, Swerdlove people! I can’t imagine why I never much liked mixed tapes thirty years ago. What was I thinking?

Geezer Q & A

Q: How you know when you’re approaching geezerdom:

A: Your barber starts asking if you’d like  her to “trim those ears” and “do something about those eyebrows.”

Q: How you know when you’re a full-blown geezer:
A: She stops asking and just does the work.

More about stuff

I took apart Daughter Two’s desk the other day. She won’t need it when she’s only home for occasional holidays and it’s in good shape, so we’ll find someone else to use it. I can’t bear to throw it out. And we’ll gain about another 25 sqft in the process. Woo-hoo! The rec room moves one notch closer to its new identity.

After discussion with Two, I set about going through all the stuff in, on and around the desk. I approached the chore as drudgery. By the time I finished, I felt a bit closer to my daughter.

There were so many little nick-nacks and mementoes, it took me twice as long as I’d planned. I looked over each one before deciding where it went.  I recognized a few but mostly, I came to realize how little I really knew about what she chose to keep.

I couldn’t tell you why most of the items are special to Daughter Two. And I’m not going to ask her. These are her private special things and the fact that she ran out of cleaning time in the rush to leave for college makes them no less private.

So I put them in bins and boxes, separating old school stuff from keepsakes from awards from office supplies from obvious trash. I felt guilty that I’d never gotten around to fixing her rolling keyboard tray. But for the most part, I just wondered about the things passing through my hands.

And I thought about my own special things. I still have a number of them around here somewhere. I have  the “Little Grabber” folder clip and my Nixon button (I was young!) and my old notebooks and my horn made from a horn from Balloftwinetour and my Mardi Gras beads and an early letter from Mary.

I’d never seen most of Two’s stuff but I recognized every piece of it. These are the things that you collect over the years for reasons you might not even be able to articulate. This one is from a special friend, that one you made yourself and the one over there you just like, for no special reason.

It was an afternoon spent finding out how like me and how uniquely different my daughter is. It was a special time for me that I enjoyed immensely.

Next up – the bookcases.

Nouveau bus riders

There’s a lot of road construction going on in Seattle just now, including the demolition of the Alaskan Way Viaduct section of Hwy 99, one of the two major North-South highways through the city. It’s settling badly and located on land fill just behind a crumbling seawall. Can you say, “liquefaction zone?”

So, during the nine days that the jackhammers will be pounding away, about a quarter of the people who work downtown have to find an alternate route. And since we have a great bus system, guess where a lot of them are ending up?

Everyone should ride transit. It’s cheaper than operating a car and you can read or look at the sights the whole way home. But it’s not for everyone. Some folks are uncomfortable with giving up their rolling privacy palaces. I understand that.

What I don’t understand is why some of them look sideways at me and the other denizens of the coach. Anyone who doesn’t have to feed coins or bills is identified as one of the poor souls who actually ride the bus even when there are other choices.  The pass hanging from a lanyard around my neck is somehow a mark of shame.

They don’t want to sit too close. Okay by me, more room for my ample caboose. But I have to wonder what sort of ooze they think will rub off on them. It’s not like I didn’t shower this week. Wadda they think I do on Saturday nights?

You know, this might be an opportunity for some fun. After all, I am on my sixth whoopee cushion since I got married. I wonder how the temporary riders will react to a little concert.  Or I may feel a sudden need to talk to myself. Or perhaps rock out to my earphones that are connected to nothing!

I’ll definitely wear one of my special hats. Oh, yeah!

This will be a good week!

Still crazy after all these years

Writing is the most grueling chore with the most rewarding outcome (excepting family stuff) that I do.  In blogging, the pain comes when I forget the perfect idea I had on the bus but neglected to write down. Once I get going, the words basically flow out of the ends of my fingers. At least the fingers on my left hand. My right hand tends to stumble, but that’s a story for another day.  With blogging,  getting started in the first place can be a challenge.

Years ago, I wrote a lot of song lyrics, which was fun but ultimately not so fulfilling. I did a song for each Sunday’s communion service, a few here and there for gigs, and others just for fun, such as when one of the residents would give me a good story idea while singing at the rest home.

I wrote a book once and let me tell you, THAT was a painful experience. Four hundred pages of first draft, multiple pre-submission edits, and then multiple edits at the suggestion of my agent or various editors who held the carrot ju-u-u-ust out of reach. And all in the wee hours on a Smith-Coronomatic manual-electric with neither memory nor auto-correction. I still have the final paper copy somewhere around here. Three hundred, thirty-nine pages. I finally decided that By Other Means was never going to be published. And I got on with my life. (Incidentally, I re-read it a couple of years ago. Lack of publication turns out to have been merciful but we need not go into that.)

Since then, I’ve written overblown columns in tiny market college papers, letters to the editor, newsletters, and shopping lists ad nauseum. Presentations, lesson plans and articles for trade mags. And of course, this blog.

When I started The View From the Briarpatch, my intent was simply to exercise the muscles without taking on a major project. Turns out writing is a bit like smoking. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been away, one blog or two and you’re off and running. I got bit again.

You may have noticed I’ve taken a break recently from my usual four-times-or-so-per-week blogging. I wasn’t ignoring my writing, I promise. And I was indeed extremely busy with matters both personal and professional. But the truth is, I didn’t have time for a very selfish reason. I was planning a manuscript. The story I’ve had rattling around in my brain bucket for some years has finally and fatally seized control of many of my waking hours.

So, here I go again. It’s insane to take up writing again at my age but then, my friend Michael has done so quite nicely. And Sindy and Larry still have ideas flowing. Why not me? I can keep this blog going for fun and pressure release and still spend a few hours several times a week with my masterwork.

So, though I promise I won’t completely neglect this conversation with friends I won’t be blogging every night. I’ll be spending more time with a cast of characters to whom I owe my attention. You see, having thought them up, I can’t really walk away from them. They can’t become who they are meant to be without me. And most of them have already become friends. Except one in particular but of course, that would be telling…

So please do check in every now and then and I’ll try to make it worth your while. I won’t walk away from this family of friends – I just have another circle requiring my parental attention.

Ahem….It was a dark and stormy night…