A long walk home

First of all, no, this is not about the Montgomery bus boycott or even the movie. It’s about an incident in my childhood that I thought I would share.

Gawd knows why, but anyway…

In the woods near our house was a storm drain into which the substantial rain and occasional snow runoff would flow, conveying said fluids out to the main storm sewer and thence to Kelsey Creek and eventually to Lake Washington. Well actually, it drained that way when the neighborhood boys (of which I was one) refrained from blocking the huge drain grate in what we poetically named The Big Ditch, located as it was in a ditch which was, you know, big.

The reason we blocked it was… Well okay, the first reason was just because we could. We had that in common with the dogs that always followed us around, now that I think about it. But the main reason was that when you blocked that big ol’ drain, which we quickly became expert at accomplishing, the whole bottom section of the woods would flood to between a foot and three feet deep. This in turn caused assorted fallen logs and the occasional kid-built raft to rise up off the forest floor and float free. We would use stripped branches as poles as we made like gondoliers. That is, if gondoliers were given to ramming each other in hopes of making the other guy or the occasional girl take a header into the drink.

This thing is, the neighborhood moms quickly discovered the correlation between gondolier wars and little boys coming home soaking wet and muddy from head to toe. So of course they forbade us ever again to go rafting in Lake Big Ditch. A prohibition that we naturally ignored. With the predictable result that one of us at some point was going to be the test subject who would determine just how serious our mothers were about the no-more-pole-rafting rule.

You’ve figured out by this point just where this is going. One of my strongest early memories is of trudging toward home in squishy sneakers and soaked, thigh chafing corduroys, trying to decide in my devious little boy mind which story would land me in the most trouble:

Door One – I waited too long and wet myself. Quite impressively, I might add, since I was soaked almost to my chin.

Door Two – I forgot what you said and went poling and fell in – oops, sorry.

That was one long walk home, lemme tell you!

Oh, by the bye, there was a third big reason why we enjoyed flooding an acre or so of woods. There was a family who lived across the street whose father was easily the most despised dad in the neighborhood. He was just not a pleasant fella. And as it turned out, his yard was drained by the same pipes that performed that service for the Big Ditch. So when the drain got (somehow, he types innocently) clogged, not only the woods but his yard and basement flooded. And ol’ Mr. Nasty would come unhinged and we found that highly entertaining. I don’t want you to think we were juvenile delinquents, so I won’t share the part about how we developed our technique for making the clogging of the drain look like an act of Gawd.

It was great being a kid in the fifties!

Grief

Some of you have expressed concern about how my family is coping with recent troubles. I appreciate your concern, even though I’m not entirely sure how to respond to the queries. An honest answer would differ with each response, depending on the day, hour, minute of the asking.

We find many emotions present including anger, regret, wonder, hope, hopelessness, triumph, grief, love, annoyance, curiosity, pride, hate - the list grows every time one or more of us faces a new aspect, remembers, considers.

We have our daughter back and of course, that trumps all.

I have in mind today another set of parents whose loss is complete and final. Their loved one was a person of whom I have only troubling memories. I recall him as a user, an abuser, a person whose weakness trumped his strengths and who hurt my daughter and my family. That is my view and my blinders allow only a narrow focus on my personal memories of this person, when I was called upon to take action and he reacted badly.

But I’m a dad. And as a dad it is my duty to try to view things from my daughter’s perspective. Hers is quite different from mine, including all the positives that brought him into her life and the thread of hope that she held out for him to overcome his demons. I, too have faced the self-inflicted demise of an ex whose bright spots are as much a part of the cycle of memories as are the reasons that it ended. And so, I understand how this hurts her. And on her behalf, I have to hope for him finally to have found, at last and at least, peace.

I understand his parents are hurting though I cannot comprehend the breadth and depth of their sorrow. My child came back. Theirs is gone and no amount of wishing or what-ifs will change that soul-crushing fact. And so although I don’t know them, I can’t help but feel for them.

My child came back. And for that, I will forever be grateful.

Wishes

At my age (62, what of it? Okay, and a half – sheesh!) it’s sort of unavoidable to look back from time to time and think about the things you wish you’d done or wish you’d not done or wish you’d done differently. Should I have held out for college after high school or at least gone into the Coast Guard rather than the Navy? Or perhaps I should have gone ahead and done the Navy thing and then right through college. Or should I have followed the original plan and gone into the seminary – NOT!

Should I have stuck with and devoted myself to singing or more seriously pursued writing back when I wrote the first (unsold) book?

Which girlfriend should I have treated better or just differently or walked away from earlier?

Yeah, these are the sort of things I suppose we all think about from time to time. But the truth is, if I had a Wayback Machine, I wouldn’t want to make any changes that interfered with my ending up where I now find myself – Mary and Daughters One and also Two, a few cherished friends, a job that matters.

So, what if I could change not the events or people in my life but rather, what I learned and when. Now THAT is mebbe worth thinking about. Off the cuff, a terribly incomplete list might include:

1)      I wish I’d understood at sixteen or seventeen that THEY (girls) were as scared of not being asked as WE (boys) were of asking. I wonder how much that’s changed.

2)      Continuing along the same thread, I wish I’d understood mu-u-uch earlier that most of the guys who talk about their exploits haven’t had them and ALL of the guys who talk about their exploits are jerks.

3)      I wish I’d known at a younger age that my sense of what is right was usually fairly spot on…

4)      …and my sense of what joke would be appropriate for a given situation was usually not. Truth be told, this continues to be a problem from time to time.

5)      I wish I’d had the slightest inkling of a fashion sense. Not that I wanted to be Mr. GQ but when I look at old pics…damn! What was I thinking?

6)      I wish I’d put more thought into my choices of reading matter. Reading stupid books were never going to make me more educated, thoughtful or human but I read what I found easy and entertaining for so many years – well, I wouldn’t mind a do over on that one. I might be able to go back and change this and still meet Mary when we were both ready – think?

7)      I wish I had treated some people better and that I’d demanded better treatment for myself from others. I don’t suppose that makes me unique.

8)      I wish I’d understood at an earlier age that no one deserves more than they are willing to put out.

9)      I wish I had studied harder, earlier in some areas and that I’d understood the value learning, earlier.

10)   I wish I’d understood that being cool and acting cool aren’t the same thing…

11)   …and the same goes for being intelligent and being smart.

12)   I wish I’d understood the importance of just shutting up and listening.

13)   I wish I’d spent more time noticing. A body can never do too much noticing.

But if I had it to do over again, and if I had to choose between being wiser and being kinder, I hope I’d choose kinder. In the end, I think that would also be the wise choice.

Facebook, shmacebook

Deactivated my FB page for now. I was spending too much time on it and it was interfering with my writing and, you know, actually living. And other reasons. Dunno if I'll go back - depends on if I miss it.

Meanwhile, at the suggestion of a dear and sage friend of many (MANY!!!) years, I'm going to spend my synaptic time and energy writing, here and elsewhere. I hope to hear from those of you who care, once in a blue moon.

Why

Why?

This is such an easy word to pronounce – it’s one of the first words children learn, as any frustrated parent will avow – and one of the simplest and most direct questions to ask.

Why?

Do you mean why easy or why one of the most direct?

Why?

Because in order to answer your question, I need to understand your information need.

Why?

Because if I don’t understand what you’re looking for, I might give the wrong answer.

(Sound of fingers drumming…)

There’s a technique in the world of process improvement (where I spend a great deal of my paid time) called 5-Whys or more to the point, Ask ‘Why’ Five Times. It’s a tricky tool to teach because you can easily give surface answers to each succeeding question and end up never getting to the Root Cause of the problem at hand, which is of course the pot o’ gold you’re seeking.

It’s also dangerous to use because the respondent might well give an answer that is to him or her Truth but to the thinking world logically flawed, or as we like to say in formal ethics, a bunch of hooey. Examples of this sort of response abound and nowhere more often than at the intersection of politics and religion.

Example: Query - Why can’t people exercise these constitutionally guaranteed rights?

Response - Because God said it’s bad.

See what I mean? There are myriad valid ways you can knock the logical stilts out from under this response but none of them will work for a simple reason – the answer is based on a belief system that is in no way tethered to provable concepts. The answerer is perfectly willing to provide nonsense answers and actually quite smug concerning their use of theology as their authority for doing so. And to be clear, I’m not saying your god belief is nonsense, that’s completely up to you and after all, what do I know? But using it as your authority for making a judgment about people’s rights in a pluralistic society is completely bonkers. Particularly just now, when we have half the countries of the world clearly demonstrating on a daily basis the dangers of letting religion drive a society.

Wanna know how to whinny down the vast field of candidates for public office?

Step one: Ask a question about disputed rights.

Step two: When they give the answer, ask ‘why’ and then listen to determine if their answer is based on constitutionally valid principles or just ‘beliefs.’

Moral: Beliefs only work as underpinnings for a position if the debate is undertaken solely within a group of folks among whom the belief system is common. That does not describe this country.

Sorry.

 

Time for different

It’s a Saturday morning. I sit here in my workout clothes because the gym is the next item on my day’s agenda and watch through the window as the wind moves the branches and makes the leaves appear to be quaking. And I think, what’s next?

Not in terms of minutes and hours, those will be spent grunting on the elliptical machine and picking up chicken wire at the hardware store and my shirts from the cleaner and then making room in the garage to move Daughter One’s stuff in next weekend.

But seriously, what’s next?

At a flash fiction writing event on Thursday last I found myself among a group of people who love writing as do I but whose take on what that means is entirely different from my own. Not alien, but decidedly different. And I found myself really liking and responding to different.

And then I came back and looked at this blog and realized it needs to be something different. But which different should it be?

I’m thinking of mebbe posting short fiction or perhaps a thought for each day (naw, done too much already by people who are good at it) or perhaps more socially driven topical essays. Or, or, or…

I dunno what this thing is going to become except for this – In November 2010, I posted:

               “This is my first entry as a newly minted bloggerboy…Now to think of something worthy to say…Maybe later.”

Methinks ‘later’ has caught up to me.

Please keep watching.

Flash fiction

Athletes practice their sports; I write to random prompts. I’ve been doing this more of late as I prepare for my first flash fiction meetup later this week. So, the other day the following prompt appeared on one of the sites I frequent: “Seventeenth century pirates pass through a time portal and find themselves nearby a modern cruise ship. Tell us what happens next.” I had 1,000 words to spend and allowed myself an hour before I needed to get back to my “real writing.” I hope you enjoy my take on this prompt.

The Apparition (or Captain Cooper’s Close Call)

Captain Angus Cooper threw off the covers, rewarding the slow dog with a sideways kick in his rush to the cabin door as the blast of sound continued to assault his eardrums. “What in the name of heaven and hell is that noise?” It came from nowhere and everywhere at once and then it stopped abruptly.

“Hard a-port!” The shout came from Pritchett, the former British Navy sailing master who had chosen The Code over being set adrift in a small boat with the other officers of the King’s Sloop Chrysalis and now served as her quartermaster and de facto second in command under the flag of the Jolly Roger.

Two men strained to turn the vessel, facing but not seeing each other as they muscled the great wheel around. The sailor facing the stern hesitated as he glanced up in horror, earning him a cuff from Pritchett.

Turning about, the Captain could not immediately discern what had caused Pritchett to order the abrupt turn or the helmsman to lose his composure. Then, as the intervening fog bank moved in the slight breeze he thought he caught a glimpse of a cresting wave. He ran to the taffrail, leaning out as far as prudence and a death grip on the log box allowed and straining his eyes to determine what the errant wave signaled.

As the shifting rudder made itself felt and his own ship began to heel in response he turned to shout over his shoulder, “I’ll have the crew on deck if you please, Mr. Pritchett!”

Turning back, he was struck speechless even as the ship’s boy ran to roust the crew. The wave had grown to rail height as it rushed toward him, already halving the distance between Chrysalis and…

‘By the saints in heaven,’ he thought as he beheld what seemed to be a great white cliff, no less imposing than those at Dover and the more dangerous as it moved past his single-masted command at a rate never before seen on sea or land. He realized the present danger was from the wave which was quickly bearing down on the starboard quarter. 

“Ease your rudder!” he shouted and then, “Hang on if you’d see another dawn!”

 The sloop hung drunkenly for a moment before starting back to vertical and had almost gained an even keel when the immense curling and churning wave overtook them, lifting and bludgeoning the stern, buckling the knees of several men just making the deck from below. Cooper reeled sideways and hugged the rail as the white water breaking over the stern threatened to carry him away.

Shouts and a few screams mixed with the sounds of crashing water and groaning lashings as the wave engulfed them, loose gear clattering and thudding until the breaker passed overboard ahead. The ship wrenched down by the bow and then the stern as the body of the wave passed underneath. Regaining his feet, Cooper saw the masthead whip forward then back, lines straining and blocks swinging crazily.  

The Captain was heartened to see the bo’sun urging men to the pumps, the rocker arm already seesawing as sailors alternated riding the handles down and the first gouts of bilge bubbled up across the deck and out the scuppers. Satisfied that his crew had the immediate emergency well in hand, he returned his gaze to the cause of the near calamity, studying the behemoth as the shifting fog revealed it to his disbelieving eyes.

The momentary view only served to increase his confusion. A ship it could only be but of this size? As the expanse of freeboard passed ahead and the stern came into view, he read off the name Pacific Empress and the homeport New Orleans, LA.  He recognized no such ship or port and what yard could have spawned this monster whose first weather deck sat higher than the Chrysalis’ masthead and with tiers of open-railed decks above seeming to rise to the sky?

He continued to watch as the fog closed around it and peeled his eyes to catch brief glimpses as the breeze tried and failed to clear the mist. Now a rushing sound ended his reverie and he returned his attention to the sea, noticing for the first time the churning wake that now made the sloop corkscrew sickeningly with the combined effects of the moving sea and the burden of seawater below that had come with the bow wave and that the pumps had not yet cleared.

For the next hour captain and crew labored to return the ship to normalcy, pumping bilges and snugging stretched lines, hanging clothing to dry and restoring equipment that had gone adrift. Entering his cabin to change, Cooper found the windows smashed and called in the boy to accomplish the task of hanging soggy charts to dry. He moved in a cloud hanging his own clothing, stunned by what the men were calling The Apparition.

Some time passed before a knock at the half-sprung door announced a messenger.

“Mr. Pritchett’s regards, Cap’n and the bilges are inspected, dry and tight. All men present and we’ve returned to track. No sign of the…er…”

“Very well, carry on.” Cooper went to close the door and found himself standing in the open frame, squinting past the men on watch in the direction IT had disappeared, wondering.

 

In the bows, two men worked with needles and bone shuttles to repair the torn bowsprit net. The younger looked over his shoulder and shook his head in disgust.

“What?” asked the older man.

“Seems to me we let go a whopping prize, is what we done.”

The wizened seaman laughed. “Son, we’re buccaneers, not fools. We make our fortune by the prizes we take; we keep our heads by the ones we let go by.”

The young man stared off after the lost prize until his partner punched his shoulder. He shook his head, grinned and returned to the task at hand. 

Things I do whilst home sick

              Yeah, I called in sick today. I think I finally got tagged by the flu that felled both Mary and Daughter One in the last week and today I just wasn’t quite recovered enough to ride the bus. And frankly, I can’t complain, having received a decidedly less catastrophic dose of the grunge than did loved ones mine.

              The thing is, unless I’m actually writhing in pain or doubled over plumbing, it’s not easy for me to just stay in bed. So ten o’clock found me stumbling around the manse dressed in my oddly stretched sleep shirt, shapeless sleep shorts and big ugly slippers, an ensemble that has remained on me all day and into the eve. Thus adorned, I found myself engaged in the following activities:

·       Watching the Cake Boss marathon

·       Sorting stuff into keep / donate / toss piles

·       Doing the dishes

·       Patting the dogs

·       Working on the book editing

·       Calling my sister

·       Thinking about how to torture Daughter Two’s boyfriend when he comes for Christmas with her

·       Patting the dogs

·       Whining

·       Reading James Fahey’s memoire

·       Watching a fly

·       Patting the dogs

·       Writing this

Okay, so I never said I do exciting stuff when I don’t feel great. I think you can see a theme here.

As One says, whatevs…