People you see at the DMV

              I finally gave in to the demands of the fascists among us and went in the get my driver’s license ‘enhanced.’ Which entails proving my citizenship by proffering my passport and answering a series of questions that felt distinctly invasive. Ostensibly, this is all for our protection from terrorists. Which of course seems specious when one considers the number of terrorists currently residing in Congress.

              After wending my way through the entrance line and once I had received my ‘number,’ I decided to cease my reflection on the indignity of the situation that brought me there and began watching people. I love people-watching as a recreational activity and as I often do I pulled out my ever-present notebook and started taking notes.

              So, what did I see?

              First, I have to say the Washington Department of Licensing has really improved the customer service experience. While I was there, on a very busy Saturday morning, the system was efficient, the workers competent and friendly. This is NOT my father’s DMV.

              The folks in the long line when the door opened were mostly patient and polite. I say mostly because the guy in front of me clearly thought he’d pulled a fast one when his girlfriend cut the line, although they arrived in separate cars and she showed up some time after he did. What are you going to do?

              The oblivious texter was well represented, including an immaculately coifed and expensively dressed woman who was clearly not impressed with the replies from the person on the other end.

              Children with electronic games added to the background noise. One little boy stomped about, fascinated with the little light that flashed on his sneakers in time with his footfalls. He drew quite an audience.

              Boyfriends and girlfriends – not sure why this would be seen as a dating opportunity. You don’t see older husbands and wives coming together to renew a license. Must be a young thing. And of course, I’m making assumptions as to the relationships involved.

              So many teenagers getting their first licenses, proud and worried and impatient. And several proud younger sibs, “My (brother/sister) is getting a driver’s license today!”

              The guy with the yard-long dreads and multiple piercings. I don’t get it. Don’t mind, really, but don’t get it. In much the same way I don’t get sagging, stretch pants or dressing up like furry animals. And that’s okay – they probably don’t get me, either.

              One guy was online and on his phone, purchasing a used set of wheels while he waited to apply for his driver’s license. Now, that’s confidence!

              If you’ll excuse me a bit of profiling, it seemed to me that the most patient customers were recent immigrants. I guess they’re accustomed to being inconvenienced by bureaucracy. I’m glad to report that they were treated with respect.

              One mother / daughter pair cracked me up, the daughter leaning almost out of her chair every time the lady at the take-your-photo-and-pick-up-your-temp-license window called out a new group of names. The daughter was on toes and chair front for each new list of names, only to sag back deflated upon not hearing her name, making her mom laugh each time this sequence played out. I was sitting next to them and we got to chatting. Turns out they had been watching me watching people and the mother bet the daughter I was a writer of some sort taking notes on the people I watched. Then they mentioned they were listening so intently for the name to be called because they have a French surname - the mother having grown up in the Alps - that is frequently mangled by English-speakers. Just then the daughter's name was finally called and as we wished each other well, I told the Mom to say hello to Jean Claude Killy. Turns out, the mother is Killy’s daughter’s friend. Small world.

              I got a lot of noticing done this morning. The DMV turns out to be a rich well for a writer.

              Who knew? 

Trust

This question: Who do you trust most in this world and why?

Mary. My wife and best friend and life partner.

I suppose this seems a bit too Hallmark for some of you. Fair enough. But it’s true, nevertheless.

She is the one person in this world of whom I can say without reservation that I would trust her with my self-image. Oh, I know the standard measure is a person you would trust with your life but for me, there are too many of those. My siblings, several close friends, my daughters, perhaps a few others.

Self-image is another thing entirely. Wholly personal and closely held.

Although you might not know it from my posts here, I am a very private person. Perhaps to extremes. And I learned early and have confirmed again and again over the years that Mary is the person I can trust with my most private thoughts.

We’ve been married going on thirty years and there has never been a time when I was unsure she had my emotional back. Which is not to say we haven’t had our fair share of brouhahas, we have. But through all of it, the thick and the thin, long and short and in between, Mary has been my go-to person for feeling secure.

She is trustworthy. And that is – has to be – the foundation of a good marriage.

I learned the hard way when and whom to trust. And of course, in meeting Mary I was lucky. 

What do you say?

What do you say to your daughter who has just been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis?

‘Everything’s going to be all right?’

Probably not. Because the thing is, it won’t. It will be what it will be.

Over the last few weeks she has dealt with an episode of paralysis, blood tests, scans, pokes and prods and through it all, uncertainty.

And of course, expressions of hope and love from folks who mean well but don’t get it. Because they can’t.

I can’t know what it’s like to be a twenty-seven year old woman absorbing this diagnosis because I’ve never been a twenty-seven year old woman absorbing this diagnosis.

Believe me, being the father of the twenty-seven year old woman sucks enough.

MS is a bully that we can’t have kicked out of school. It is a condition of life that will now become part of my daughter’s normal.

She has us on her side. Mary and me and her sister and a large family. We will never step away from her, never abandon her, will always be with her.

Still, the fight is hers. And for this reason I am thankful today that she is who she is.

Angela will find her new way of being. She will adjust, she will fight, she will persevere.

Because she is Angela. It’s a hard thing but my daughter has dealt with hard things before.

I am, of course, frightened on her behalf.

I’m also proud beyond belief. Because she’s Angela.

What do you say? You say, ‘I love you and I’m here, no matter what.’ 

Organized

My ‘organized’ probably looks different from yours.

Many of the folks in our office keep their desks so neat and tidy I’m tempted to be jealous. Which is not to say my work desk is a pig sty, it’s not. But there are stacks, if you know what I mean.

My writing room at home is an unused bedroom, small by bedroom standards but for a writing room, bordering on palatial. Okay, perhaps palatial is a bit over the top but certainly plenty big for the purpose.

Most of the things I use on a semi-regular basis are within arm’s reach of where I sit and I can grab my Webster’s or Roget’s without turning to look. But that’s not to say the space is all orderly spic ‘n span.

For me, it’s all about comfort, about feeling at ease in the space where I need to be able to let my mind go on flights of fancy without feeling adrift.

The shelving immediately above the desk space is largely taken up with what Two would call my Whimsy Corner. Lots of doodads and keepsakes from times I enjoyed and people I love. Items related to my daughters predominate. A wreath-decorated tin box still holds the index cards that comprised my parents’ Christmas list. A clock shaped like a drum set looks just like the set I played for years.

My guitar sits in a corner and on the wall, the crew photo of USS Columbus from 1947, with my dad grinning out from the back row. As I said, lots of ‘me’ stuff in that room.

I don’t know how many hundreds (thousands?) of hours I’ve spent sitting in that chair, the scene of our backyard beyond the window and all my stuff arrayed around me. I love working here.

It’s a great work space. But organized? Maybe not by your measures. But it works for me. 

Prokofiev

Sick as a dog with a nasty bug and trying to balance getting enough rest with preparing for my next business trip (I fly again tomorrow), here I sit in my writing room answering emails, sorting last week’s ‘go’ materials from those for the coming week, and just generally making sure that my fog brain won’t cause me to leave behind anything I’ll really need.

I love to listen to music while I work, especially on days like today when my concentration is so easily broken. The background music de jour is the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra’s presentation of Peter and the Wolf with Bramwell Tovey performing double duty as conductor and narrator. He’s fantastic, by the way.

I won’t pretend to be much of a musicologist. In fact, the reason I started listening to Prokofiev is that a flautist upon whom I had a short-lived and utterly unrequited crush in tenth grade expressed her love for his music.  And while I will listen to several of his works today, I readily confess that Peter and the Wolf appeals to me in large part for the same reason it’s so frequently used as the vehicle for bringing your children to concert music – it’s accessible. It tells a story on several levels so it speaks to an assortment of learning styles. And – let’s face it – it’s fun.

The arts – or at least, funding for them – are under attack of late. I won’t get into that except to say I truly hope we prove to have the convictions and the fortitude to continue to encourage future Prokofievs to develop and bring forth their work.

I would hate to try to work on a sick day without a Prokofiev to keep me company. 

Friends

I had a wonderful day today.

Took part in good series of meetings that were collegial and productive. 

Met up with a dear friend and her wife who I’ve not seen together since their wedding. Living where they do (Texas), their freedom just to love each other became a bit less assured of late and it was wonderful for this one evening to see them having a nice dinner with a crowd of people who valued their smiles more highly than their differences.

I sat with another friend who was one of the first people to make me feel welcome in this company and who embodies the best of what we do. She’s one of the people we need in this world.

Okay, I’m coming down with a cold but in the grand scheme of things…yeah, so?

My daughters are fantastic people who belie their upbringing. Or perhaps (I’d like to think) validate it.

And before I hit the sack, I get to say good night and love you to a woman I’m still not convinced I deserve.

I know we’re going through some stuff right now. But I wanted to remind myself and share with you that life isn’t all bad.