Nest-making

So, tonight Daughter Two is going to make her decision as to which residences to prioritize in the freshman campus housing scramble. There are choices involving type of building, size of room, tradeoffs in amenities such as a lounge or a larger bathroom, number of roommates or suitemates, walking distance to the academic buildings, theme vs non-theme, pet-friendly or not...

It was much easier for me when I first moved out of my parents’ house. When one joins the Navy, the choices of residence become somewhat restricted. In the barracks during training, the choice was basically how close you wanted to be to the head. Trust me when I confide that on Saturday nights when you have the duty and just four hours to sleep before you have to report in, you want to be as far from the head as possible.

Aboard ship, you want to be in a cul-de-sac if you can. On the Long Beach, I racked in the ‘Dirty Dozen,’ which was twelve of the mid-level watch leaders, mostly second- class petty officers, in the farthest corner of the Upper B&M Berthing, as distant from noisy ladders and steamy shower stalls as one could get, and with no through traffic. We valued our sleep and John Denver  and Association tapes and wanted to be as far as possible from the younger guys (yeah, I was all of twenty, so what?) who liked their music metallic and loud. Willy D had a really nice TEAC reel-to-reel and a good set of speakers, and we saved it for times when the noisiest youngsters were out of the compartment. We wanted to actually listen to our music. Refined tastes, doncha know.

I used to assign myself to the mid-watch, midnight to 0400 and then the forenoon watch, 0800 to noon.  People thought I was crazy – as the keeper of the Watch, Quarter and Station Bill for the seventy guys in B Division, I could have assigned myself to any watch rotation I wanted.  Most guys in my position would have taken a 4-on, 8-off set with one of the 8-offs being at night. But not me.

The thing is, I loved midwatch. I’d get a mid-rats snack at 2300, then stand my watch in the propulsion plant, getting off at 0400. I’d catch a quick shower (after four hours in a steam plant, one takes on a glow, so to speak) and head up to the mess decks for an early breakfast. Full and clean, I’d hit the rail in time to watch the sun rise out of the depths, then head down to my rack to read or to the cranny behind the blast screen for the #2 Terrier missile  launcher to play guitar and sing some songs without kibitzers. 0730 would see me back in the plant “getting the picture” for my forenoon watch.

I’d usually do my work maintaining equipment or teach onboard firefighting for a couple of hours after watch, then hit my rack for uninterrupted sleep until time to start the cycle over again. It was my underway routine, into which I settled comfortably over time. I got to the point that I could roll over and sit up abruptly just as the Messenger Of The Watch was about to shake me awake, scaring the bejeesus out of more than one Fireman Apprentice.

After all these years, although I’ve forgotten most of the faces and names, my personal routine remains etched in my mind. It was a routine that I defined for myself for the first time in my life. Other than being on time for watch and keeping up with my work, my schedule was my own and I made it just that – my own.

I never had the university experience. Neither did Mary. Daughter One is a senior at university but close enough to home to lean on us occasionally (and us on her, if we’re honest). Each year, she’s changed from dorm to apartment to house and each year, she’s had to re-set her routine so that it served her, rather than the other way around.

But Daughter Two will be across the country and will not have the option of coming home to decompress some weekends. As was the case for me aboard ship, she’ll have to define and settle into a living routine that works for her on the long haul. She may struggle at first, but it will come. By the time she’s there a month, the university will have become her new ‘here.’  Our home will become one of many ‘theres.’

And I suppose that’s the way it should be.  

Time Marches On

Daughter Two is up in her bedroom addressing high school graduation announcements and choosing which dorms she wants to request for college.  Wasn’t it just this afternoon that she was decorating the kitchen wall with marinara sauce from her perch in the high chair?

Daughter One is moving out of her apartment preparatory to a performance tour in Europe, after which she’ll head off to work at Disney for the summer. Surely, it was no more than three days ago that I studied for my accounting series sitting in the hallway outside her bedroom so she wouldn’t worry about the monsters outside her window.

I’m not feeling very profound at the moment. I’m just missing the little girls that used to live in our house. Of course, I love and respect the women who’ve replaced them.  I can’t wait to peek around the next corner of their futures. But at the same time, can’t it all just slow down, just a little?

Uh-oh!

Try as I might, I've yet to notice the absence of anyone holy.

I'm beginning to wonder if perchance the Rapture did indeed come off, but NONE of us made it. Anyone recall what's supposed to happen next? Something about horsemen, isn't it?

My List of Lists

I just realized I haven’t compiled a list in awhile. I like lists. Lists are how I keep my life organized. In fact, every time I sort through a drawer, I find old lists – things to do, things to get, places to go.

Of course, it’s a rare occurrence when I actually cross the last item off a list. But that’s okay, it’s all about the list itself.

So, herewith, my latest list of the lists I’d like to make:

·         People who make me laugh, even when they’re not trying

·         People I would love to see run for office just for the entertainment value because I would never vote for any of them

·         A dozen places I want to kayak

·         Or hike

·         Or just visit

·         Movies I’d like to see

·         Food I could eat at every sitting

·         Food I won’t eat even under pain of death, starting with broccoli

·         Six reasons not to visit Antarctica

·         Languages I don’t speak fluently

·         Colors / patterns one should not wear if one is shaped like me

·         Jokes that are still funny after all these years

·         8 places one should never scratch, even if one re-e-e-eally needs to

·         3,268 politicians who annoy me, rank ordered

·         Injuries that make me cringe

·         Favorite fair foods

·         Ways to torture my daughters’ dates

·         Other ways to piss off my daughters

·         Projects I’ll get around to, sometime

·         Bones I’ve never broken

·         25 uses for mustard that have nothing to do with eating

·         Words I always read wrong and then feel foolish when I go to look them up

·         Odin’s 10 dumbest doggie expressions

·         The first three things I want to do after the nest goes empty

·         Topics I should write about

First Jobs

Daughter Two got hired for her first real job today. Oh, she’s worked in a zillion volunteer slots, but this one pays money. And it’s a big deal for her.

I remember my first real job. I mean, I had several paper routes and mowed lawns and swept hair for the local barber who by the bye, is the father of my current barbers, brother and sister.  But my first real job at fifteen was as a busboy in a restaurant. I went there after school and bussed tables in the coffee shop and then waited around until two in the morning so I could clean up the hors d’ouvre trays and steam table in the bar after the alcohol was all sealed up.

Between high school and waiting to go into the Navy and about the first year post-Navy while I made my first attempt at college, I worked in a lot of non-career positions: slinging burgers, hooking (not the kind you just thought), running a silk-screen machine and a donkey press, driving a forklift, driving an ambulance before ambulance drivers had to actually know anything more sophisticated than scoop-and-run.  I’ve sung for my supper, performed for weddings and put glue into bottles. I even printed the bottles and tubes for naughty sexual lubricants. Now, that was a high point.

I don’t recall all that much about many of the filler jobs I’ve had, but I do recall the faces of the people I worked with on that first one. Lonnie the sous chef taught me to make good stock pot. Barbara the aging waitress showed me the ropes and made sure I didn’t get shorted on my share of the tips. The owner, a big guy with the huge nose and florid face of a regular drinker was an unapproachable presence, constantly talking soto voce with the prissy sommelier, a slimy guy with way too much hair grease who I suspected was shtumping the main dining room hostess.

I remember the pride I took in clearing, cleaning and setting up a table efficiently so my waitresses would have a good turn rate and thus make more money. Making my own shakes for my dinner break and being treated to Lonnie’s special concoction of the day. I remember the times I had to fill in at scullery and wondering how any human being could cycle pots and dishes and silverware from dirty to clean fast enough to avoid a wall of mess forming on the breakdown table.

I recall the night I came home at 3:00am after cleaning the bar setup and was pulled over by a cop who decided I fit the description of the child molester / murderer they were looking for and how warm the pavement was under my scraped cheek after he decided he didn’t like my answer to his first question. I felt bad and certainly less cheeky when I found out why they’d stopped me and even today, whenever I pass Harwood Road, I wonder about that little girl.

My first real job. It wasn’t anything special; in fact I suppose it was menial. But it meant I was part of the world, known to someone other than my family and friends and my biology teacher. It meant I was part of the world.

Daughter Two will be selling shoes and I suppose that’s not so exalted, either. But it’s a real, honest-to-George job and she’s thrilled and we’re proud of her.

I don’t guess she’ll be expected to scrub pots. But then, I didn’t have to handle people’s feet.

An Old Friend Is Coming Home

I checked on my guitar today. She’s been in the guitar hospital for six weeks, having some middle-age work done. You know, pick guard, re-set her neck, new frets / bridge / nut (Is nut replacement an option for…never mind…).  Sean, the luthier tells me she’s out of danger and in recovery and I can’t wait to bring her home.

I’ve had a number of guitars over the years: Louise the FG-180 that I bought from my bro-in-law and kept with me through the Navy, the gorgeous – and riotously expensive - classical that my ‘buddy’ Ed took off with back in 1979, the 12-string that sounded so-o-o sweet when finger-picked, a couple of others that I picked up and put down over the years. But this guitar is my guitar.

This gitfiddle has been with me since 1976. Thirty-five years now. Through singing for my supper first with Vala and then with Bill and then solo. Through times when I felt loved and times when I didn’t. She’s the one I was picking when T.J. taught me bluegrass rhythm and the one I used to play at the old folks’ homes with Mike. And I had her in hand when Mark Harville taught me to play Classical Gas.

She’s accompanied me singing folk, a little cool jazz, some 12-bar blues, a lot of country rock and even show tunes. She’s helped me make friends with Tom Paxton, Mimi Farina, Pete Seeger, Janice Ian, Bob Dylan, Gordon Lightfoot, the Dillards, Judy Collins, PP&M, Harry Chapin, and perhaps most of all, myself. She’s been with me singing Disney and Yiddish folk songs and Happy Birthday to You.

Without this guitar I never could have sung the hundreds of church services, including many for which I wrote original songs. We’ve been together at too many weddings too count – including my sister’s and my own – and at two funerals.  By now, I believe she could play Wedding Song or Since You’ve Asked by herself. And for three months once, we co-habited a 1973 Toyota.

Speaking of original songs, this guitar has seen the noodling and searching that resulted in almost all the songs I’ve written - most of which I lost years ago when a freshly ex-girlfriend decided to treat herself to a bonfire, using my notebooks as kindling.

She was with me the time that I swear my Aunt Suzy’s spirit helped me write a song for a wedding mass in the last possible twenty minutes and the time Vala and I went through dozens of spur-of-the-moment wildly inappropriate verses of Lazy Bones, neither willing to be the first to give up. Yes, yes, Vala won, what of it?

I haven’t played my guitar as much as I should have while Mary and I raised our daughters, and not really at all since I smashed my hand a few years ago. It turns out that breaking the head off a metacarpal and dislocating all the major knuckles in one hand does not enhance one’s fingering chops.  She sat patiently in her case in the corner of the office and occasionally I’d take her out and force my creaky digits through a few rounds. But it was never very satisfying for either of us.

Then while I was giving one of my daughters a lesson recently, I realized the pick guard was pulling up and knew it was time to make a decision. Fix her or sell her. We could use the money from a sale – this is an original Martin D-18, after all – and I was feeling that I needed to take one for the family finances.

Mary made the decision. For my birthday, she told me to take my beloved friend to a really good luthier and have her given some TLC. I didn’t take much convincing. And now, it’s almost time to bring her home and I have to say I can’t stop thinking about the big moment.

There won’t be any fireworks and this is not going to be a Chet Atkins moment. I’m not that great a player. Truth be told, I’m not nearly the player she deserves. But I can’t wait to get reacquainted. After all, she’s my guitar.

Noticing The Missing

Okay, so now that the big day is come and  gone, I’ve been noticing who’s missing and therefore, one presumes, among the Raptured. I thought I’d post a list against which you all could compare your lists and thereby determine who took the Ride of the Righteous.

The problem is, I haven’t noticed not noticing anyone yet.

I’ll keep noticing.  

The Remainders

I really didn’t think there was any point to blogging again, since we were all going to be sucked up bodily by the Great Hoover in the Sky. I mean, what’s the point of such contemplations if we’re all going to have The Answer so soon?  I figured I’d just wait until we could all meet for coffee in the Great Beyond.

Imagine my surprise at waking up this morning! Displaying amazing force of character I held my upset in check, since it was entirely possible that there’d been a simple misunderstanding as to exact timing – after all, which time zone is in effect at the Pearly Gates?

Now, though, as more and more time zones move past the appropriate date, I can only assume that one of two things is true:  either a) humankind is more screwed up than I’d surmised and very few people were taken for the Holy Ride, or b) the Rapture never happened. And since all the signs were in place according to the ancient prophesies, I have to go with Option A.

Since it now appears that most of us failed to make the grade, an examination of our lives in order, don’t you think? I mean, we need to clean up our acts so that we’re ready in case Gawd decides to accommodate a second sitting. There’s no sinners like reformed sinners I always say, right?

Yeah, that’ll happen! We got where we are by living the lives we’ve chosen to live and I say we should wallow  in our own spiritual stinkiness.

So, Dear Reader – and please don’t feel that I’m casting any aspersions here – I wonder if I might prevail upon you to join me in a bit of introspection. I mean, we’re friends, right? So as friends, let’s form a self-help group, what?  We could call it Rapture Remainders.

What do you think?

We could have all sorts of fun together in our failure association. Just think of all the activities we could organize:

·         Sinner Sock Hops

·         Dinners For the Damned

·         Loser Lotteries

·         New Years for the Naughty

I think our first get-together should center on repentance revocation. I mean, since our last-minute so-sorrys obviously failed to yield forgiveness, why should we maintain the façade of regretting the way we’ve lived our lives? I suggest we all get together and share with each other the bad things we’ve done to be excluded from the Nice List. I mean, if we’re going to burn anyway, we may as well have some fun first. And I really look forward to sharing; I’d hate to miss out on any forms of fun I haven’t yet thought of.  

If each of us makes a list of our sins and we pass them around, we can all try the best of the worst while we’re still here! Here, I’ll start:

·         I have friends who are (dare I say it?) homosexual, Black, Asian, and Hispanic – although not all at the same time, necessarily.

·         I occasionally cuss – ‘occasionally’ meaning basically if I’m awake and breathing.

·         I’ve made rude jokes about the Religious Right.

·         I had Congress With Women before I was married.

·         I’ve voted for non-Republicans.

I don’t drink alcohol, smoke cigarettes or dance nude in public. But for those things I HAVE done that I couldn’t square with scripture, I am heartily sorry…sort of.  

So, rather than sit around steaming in our collective rejectability, let’s start a club, shall we? The membership won’t be very exclusive, but perhaps that’s not such a bad thing, after all.

Please, share your worst transgressions! Don’t be shy. After all, what’re they going to do, cast you out of Paradise?

Nyah-ah-ah!

There’s Kayaking and Then There’s Kayaking

It seems like no matter how good you get at something, there’s always someone else who’s enough better to be in a position to point and laugh. I’m getting to where I’m not bothered by this essential truth.

Take kayaking. I’ve been chortling at my bro-in-laws for years about the punkiness of what they refer to as kayaking. Apparently, they feel that sitting on a flat plastic sled without so much as a wayward ripple on waters that average 80 degrees qualifies as kayaking. One of them even has little duck-flipper propellers - the cheek!

I’m reading a book on kayaking adventures, one of many that line my home shelves. This one is about coastal paddling north of Vancouver, B.C.  Admittedly, some of the kayaking venues described in the book would scare the bejeesus out of yours truly. Such as when they’re talking about the great sights and then nonchalantly drop the news that “while paddling most of the inlet is relaxing, several kayakers get torn to shreds each year in the narrows.”  Or my favorite, “usually placid, a south wind can turn this bay into a churning mix master from hell.”

So, I’m thinking the woman who wrote this part of the book would probably point and laugh at what I call kayaking. And that’s okay. Because while I’m not bothered by cold water (we wear wet suits), rain (that’s what stupid looking hats are for), light chop or reasonable wakes, I draw the line at what might be termed gonzo paddling. You probably won’t find me crossing the English Channel any time soon.

Ditto, as to Class V rapids.  I know, looks like fun.  It also looks like a good way to separate body from soul. Daughter Two wants to take whitewater lessons.  Guess I can’t stop her… Plus, she’s a better paddler than her old man. It’s a sure bet  I won’t be taking that trip with her any time soon.

I’ll probably continue to smirk at the bro-in-laws just as the woman who wrote that book might tsk at me. And that’s okay all around. We each find our comfort level at which we can be fearless on the water, enjoying the sights and sounds of sites and Sounds.  It’s all good.

But really – sit-on-tops? (Smirk!)

River’s Up

The city of Idaho Falls, Idaho is aptly named for the beautiful step-down falls it surrounds. So the other day, when I found myself with an extra hour before heading back to the airport, I went down to the river walk to stroll along and enjoy the view.  I’m so glad I did.

This stretch of the Snake River holds a special place in my heart. I was stationed here for Navy training all those years ago; it was a hard winter. I used to love watching the water flow through and around and over and even under while the ice formed a cracked crust over a crazy quilt filling of boulders. That was a tough time in my life, as I went through my first breakup, followed closely by the particularly bloody suicide of a friend in front of me. And all this against the background of some fairly difficult academics and a weird, rotating shift schedule.

Being back here after all these years brought the memories flooding back. It was poignant and a little strange. I sat on a park bench not fifteen feet from the flood-stage Snake and it tumbled by, just as it has done for every second of every day of each of the (is it thirty-eight?) years since I’d last been this close to the great river. I’m humbled by this river and yet, it feels somehow like home.

The last time I sat here I was going through tough times and it was calming to listen to the moving water. People leave you alone here, probably in tacit recognition of its status as a communal private place.

It’s the same today. People walk past and nod or smile but don’t interrupt. We all draw something from the river. Or maybe, understanding that we’ve all come here for the same sort of reassurance, we draw something from each other without the need for spoken language.

Real Class

I frequently find myself disconcerted by some of the differences between kids now and kids back when I fit that description. They don’t finish sentences, they text while you’re talking to them, they believe Wikipedia is a legitimate source…you know the rant.

Fortunately for my peace of mind and the future of the human race, I occasionally see signs that the youngsters are more socially adept than I might have thought. I saw an example last night or actually, photos and film of an example. Daughter Two was asked to prom by a young guy with real class.

He knew of course that Daughter Two had been a leader of her robotics team and that she’s off to MIT in the fall to study engineering. So he made five cardboard robots, each of which held up a sign that collectively asked her to the prom. The guy himself was holding the last sign – “ME” – and a bouquet of flowers.

The really cool part was that he set all this up in the lobby of the performing arts complex and stood there waiting for Daughter Two to come out of rehearsal and see the proposal. Which of course meant that in addition to the several friends who helped him set up and who stood by to make the photographic record, he had to bear the looks of everyone who walked by and of course, the entire cast of Pippin, with no guarantee that things would go his way.

It took real class. In my day, you asked the girl over the telephone after weeks of indecision, skulking on the upstairs phone so no one else could hear in case the girl for any of a thousand reasons that played through your mind as you listened to the rings and wondered if it was still too late to just hang up but didn’t because you couldn’t decide if you were more afraid of her picking up as you hung up and knowing somehow it was you or  of her actually answering or even worse, one of her parents answering and asking what this is regarding but then she’s there on the phone and you croak out a facsimile of the Big Question, and then can’t remember the rest of the call after she says yes.

I would NEVER have asked a girl the Big Question in person, much less in front of people, much less with cameras rolling.

So, hats off to Cody and all the other guys with more cojones than moi. There’s hope for the future.

Bloggus Interruptus

While I'm not able to blog the next few days, I want you to know that I haven't deserted my responsibilities - I'm simply not going to have connectivity for a few days. But, as Arnold is fond of saying, "I'll be back!"

Keepsakes

Everyone likes keepsakes. At least, everyone I know likes them. They remind us of people we care about or of our own past lives or just of times gone by.

I have my mother’s mixing bowl. It’s big and yellow and would be nondescript to anyone but me and my siblings. We can all remember the countless times Mom filled it with potato  salad for our forays to Lake Sammamish or just a barbecue at home. I live in fear I’ll drop and break it but I can’t bear to put it away. It’s a working bowl that needs to be used. And I don’t think I’ve ever touched it without thinking of Mom.

My grandmother’s breakfast bowls are put away in a safe place because the family would collectively arrange my demise if anything happened to them. We used to visit for about a month each summer, staying at her house in Glendale and playing with a never-ending supply of cousins. The bowls are clear glass with fluted edges, all of which have been worn away in varying degrees by thousands of uses.  One has almost no flutes left at all. They were the bowls from which we’d all eat cereal in the little breakfast room in Grandma K’s house on summer mornings while Mom and her mom and sisters talked and just enjoyed their time together. I wonder how many little fingers and spoon clanks were required to remove those flutes.

I have a teacup and saucer from my great-grandmother and one from Great-great-(great?)-aunt Lottie. They’re on the curio shelf in our family room, right next to Aunt Suzie’s porcelain ballerina.

The popsicle-stick wishing well was the product of one of my Cub Scout projects. It  was a Mother’s Day present for Mom, and at some point, she decorated it with a porcelain bird and some fake ivy. Don’t know why. It's hideous and I wouldn’t trade it for two cat’s eyes and a steely.

The commemorative drinking glasses from the Seattle World’s Fair bring to mind a summer with innumerable visitors, most of them relatives and at least one set of impostors. Yeah, one family showed up claiming a close connection to my mother’s sister. They were the worst guests ever, totally taking advantage of us but Mom and Dad didn’t want to embarrass my aunt… It wasn’t until later in the summer that we all figured out these freeloaders were just that and didn’t really know anyone in the family well enough to justify a week of free room and board.

The little Starrett square was my Uncle Bud’s. I was at the house after he passed and Aunt Kitty told me to take one thing as a keepsake. The square was both well-worn and sitting out on the bench. It may have been the last tool he used.

Speaking of tools, I have a full set of braces and bits from my grandfather. Sometimes, hand-powered tools will go where power can’t and besides, they're fun to use. My relationship with Ol’ Vernon was strained, but we both took pride in fine woodwork. And these were his drills.

I do all my writing on computers these days, but perched on top of the bookcase behind me is a 100-year-old typewriter that still works, if I could find a ribbon.  And on a lower shelf, within arm’s reach are doodads our daughters made in school or Girl Scouts.

I really like photos and old movies and the like. But the best memories reside in things the people used as they went about their lives.

Those who would sacrifice freedom for security deserve neither

Franklin was right when he spoke those words.

So I wonder: why do we (yes, I’m guilty, too!) put up with the insanely invasive ministrations of TSA folks at the airports? I’m totally on board with passing through detectors and having my luggage searched. But letting a stranger in a booth look at my naked image? Subjecting myself to being touched all over by a stranger in front of dozens of other strangers?

I can’t refuse – they’ll just put me on a no-fly list and cost me the means of supporting my family. And we do have to protect ourselves to a reasonable extent. The question is what’s reasonable?

Not sure I have an answer to this one. But whenever I pass through security these days, I think about how you boil a frog.  History is unfortunately full of instances of populations losing their rights by degrees because at no point was the new transgression enough to compel them to yell, “Enough!”

Things I Notice While Waiting For or Riding the Bus

·         There are lots of folks in my neighborhood I’ve never met and some of them ride the bus.

·         When the kids get off at the high school is the perfect time to grab a good seat.

·         It’s May and my breath is still visible in the morning.

·         Walking down hill is easier but more jarring than walking uphill.

·         Some people are really rude.

·         Most people go out of their way to be polite and helpful.

·         Mercer Slough is wide open – they must have cut back the foliage.

·         The women coming out of the overnight YWCA with all their belongings somehow make me sadder than the men coming out of the Gospel Shelter with all their belongings.

·         My teeth don’t clench when I don’t have to deal with commute traffic.

·         The front face-forward seats have a pitch too short to easily accommodate my femurs.

·          There are lots of interesting things to look at when you’re not the driver.

·         You shouldn’t read a book during the run up 4^th Ave. The road is not so smooth and the shaking text will give you a headache.

·         Getting off early and walking the last quarter mile or so is refreshing.

·         Getting off at the wrong stop and walking the same quarter mile unintentionally is annoying.

·         An iPod is all about not having to listen to the lady behind you argue with her kids over her cell phone.

·         People on cell phones frequently have really foul mouths.  Even when talking to their kids.

·         The kneeling bus with the extendable wheelchair lift is really a cool piece of equipment.

·         Getting on a bus with only a book in hand for twenty minutes of uninterrupted reading is the perfect segue from workday to home life.

Clear Water

There’s a place where the freeway passes over the river just at the point at which it empties into Lake Easton.  It’s on the way to and from Daughter One’s college and I always chuckle a bit as I cross that little bridge.

It’s a beautiful place from the road or from lake level and I can’t wait to get back to this little bit of heaven in the Cascades. The water is crystal clear and cold as the snow that it was but hours before. It moves quickly enough not to serve as a mosquito hatchery and slowly enough for a leisurely paddle. Even the muted sound of the cars and trucks passing by on the freeway overhead somehow seem to add rather than detract from the scenery.

I love this place, but not solely because of the serene, natural beauty.

You see, it was at this spot two years ago that I failed to back paddle in a timely manner and so watched helplessly, frantically trying to set down the water cannon and grab up my paddle in time to avoid catastrophe. It wasn’t to be.

Before I could react effectively, my kayak rode up and over Pat’s starboard quarter, transecting his afterdeck and hooking under his left arm but over his off-side paddle.  This juxtaposition of my prow and his paddle made a quick-slap-and-high-brace recovery entirely out of the question.  His kayak translated clockwise about the longitudinal axis until he was inverted, at which point he pulled the grab loop of his spray skirt, executed a wet exit and bobbed to the surface.

Yes, I blindsided him and knocked his ass out of his sled.

Into the water.

The 45 degree (or thereabouts) snow melt runoff water.

I apologized sincerely and profusely and Pat was magnanimous about the whole thing, even turning the accident into an opportunity to practice a paddle float re-entry. I really felt badly about the fact that he had to spend the ensuing hour sitting in a puddle with a soaked shirt and squooshing paddle booties.

It was not an intentional dunking and I would never seek to repeat the performance. On the other hand, it was me, the chubby brother knocking Pat, the buff athlete brother clean out of his kayak.

It’s a lovely place. And I just can’t help chuckling just a bit every time I pass over it.

The Fight Against Terror

So, the architect of so much suffering is dead. Justice is served. We can and should congratulate and thank the few brave souls who carried out the execution.  And I hope that no one – not the legitimate press, not a wayward blogger and not the cretins at WikiLeaks – will be so careless as to publically identify the SEALs and CIA operatives and aircrews who most directly brought about this victory.

The world has been told that if you attack us, we will never give up, we will find you and we will visit our wrath upon you. We have drawn a line in the figurative sand.

The trouble is, this zealot isn’t the last we’ll see. There are plenty more where he came from. And as long as the next one can find volunteers for immortality, we’ll remain exposed.

I’m proud of the (mostly young) Americans who daily put themselves on the line to protect us from the threat. But unless we identify and remove root causes, these heroes will only be fighting an interminable holding action.

Without volunteers for martyrdom, these people will never be able to pull off another 9/11.  Because, it’s important to note, those “leaders” don’t generally fly the planes or strap on the explosives. They cloak themselves in religious double-speak and stoke the fires of historic hatreds. And they rely on the fact that the poorest of the poor are tragically easy marks for gurus of revenge.

We have no choice but to maintain a strong military stance to keep the hounds at bay while we work out solutions. But the solutions themselves won’t depend on superior firepower. The way to win the war is to deprive the despots of the destitute.  

We need to launch campaigns of education and public health – calibrated to the local culture and sensitivities – that will help people across the world to believe in their own future. We need to help the poor of the Middle East and the Congo and Malaysia to see a future for themselves. We need to apply the same ingenuity that builds electric cars and composite airplane wings to work solving problems such as providing abundant clean water, growing sustainable crops, and harnessing natural energy resources for responsible uses.

It may be true that the world is flat – now we need to make it level. The consequences of failing to do so will be expressed in the blood of those young volunteers who struggle in faraway lands to keep the wolves at bay. And as we’ve learned, the battles will no longer be fought entirely on distant shores.

It’s just too easy to sell martyrdom to a young person who feels no investment in tomorrow.

Taming the Wilds

One downside of having a large lot is that it must be maintained. That means weeding, raking and worst, mowing the lawns. And in this corner of the world, unruly grass is as certain as death and taxes. Of course, taxes you deal with only annually and death but once, unless you live near an accordion player. Grass must be hacked back weekly if we’re to avoid reversion to impenetrable wilderness.

Of late, I’ve been dealing with healing my rotator cuff and with two nice long bouts with the cold from hell. And while I’ve been temporarily laid low, the grass surrounding our manse has been steadily growing. I swear I could hear it taunting me each morning as I headed off for work. “See ya, fat boy! Have a nice day; we’ll be right here growing…and growing…”

The rain hasn’t helped. It’s been unseasonably wet hereabouts. Which had the duel effects of encouraging grass growth and discouraging grass mowing, even by my relatively healthy, anal retentive  neighbors.

It was growing while I worked, while I slept and while I lay on the couch coughing up my lungs. It had reached my ankles before I left for Idaho Falls and covered them by the time Daughter Two and I returned from California. By last week, it had completely obscured the windfall branches from the last two storms. Mostly, it just waited for me, silent, mocking. And growing, always growing.

Today was my day. My lungs were clear and the sky was blue. The grass was only a little damp and the mower started on the first pull. I did the manly suburbanite thing and cut the lawn to a reasonable height. Of course, it fought back every step of the way and the process took twice as long as usual and I still have to finish the back yard tomorrow, but the front lawn, at long last, has been humbled. 

Or so I thought. As I rolled the mower into the back yard and set the lock on the gate, I could swear I heard the rustle of growing grass.

Wait!

 SSHH!

Was that..  a chuckle?

We, The People

Sometimes the yo-yos get just too annoying not to respond.

Pres. Obama has now released his birth certificate for the scrutiny of all, and I regret he did that. By doing so, he lent a small bit of credence to the ill-mannered louts who’ve been dogging him all this time about this non-issue. Taking the high road would have meant answering the question once (he did so in 2008) and then moving on. But as he said this week, the situation has been dominating the news, so he felt compelled to respond in order to redirect our collective attention back to legitimate matters.

When you’re being pursued by a yapping pack of mangy curs, it’s seldom profitable to stop and engage them. They have no rightful claim to your attention and the confrontation they demand will not be bound by the rules of logic, much less probity. They chase you not to bring benefit to themselves but to bring injury to you. The smart money is on just speeding up and leaving the howling pack behind. So, I think Ol’ Barack stubbed his toe on this one.

But now, it seems the precedent has been established for an Oz-like examination of who might be missing which critical artifacts. And it got me to wondering how the song might have gone if some of our contemporaries had been among the characters thinking about what they might ask the Wizard to provide for them.  Hm-m-m, think, think, think ….(Swirling dissolve to collage of characters singing their wishes for largesse from the Man In Green)

Donald Trump: …if I only had a soul (or for that matter, a better comb-over, a less slappable face, etc.)

Michelle Balkin: …if I only knew my history.

Jane Fonda: …if I only had some shame.

Sarah Palin: ...if I only had a brain (some lyrics can’t be improved upon).

Howard Stern:…if I only understood limits.

I could go on and in fact, it might be fun if any of you wish to add your own lyric tag lines.

Meanwhile, back to the point: it’s okay in a representative democracy that we disagree with each other and it’s critical that we air those disagreements. That’s how we fine tune the system when it gets creaky.

But what has been happening with this whole birth certificate foofarah has nothing to do with legitimate issues or policy differences. It has nothing to do with legitimacy. It has everything to do with exclusion.

If President Obama had pink cheeks and was named Axelrod, and had been born in New Hampshire to an American mother and an Icelandic father, there never would have been a question about his citizenship. So I have to ask which of those differences prompted self-important penis-enviers like The Donald to question Obama’s standing as a natural-born citizen.

Was it the color of his skin, his name, his state of birth or his father’s country of origin that makes folks question this President’s eligibility? Perhaps we should take the responsibility for vetting of potential candidates away from their nominating parties and hand it over to the KKK.  Blacks in this country were long considered –constitutionally so – as only part of a human. Now it seems, there are still folks who resent them trying to join the conversation in the big house. And too many of these chowderheads have microphones, and printing presses, and websites.

We have serious issues to confront today that will determine who we are as a people in the next century. The insidious insertion of hate-driven polemic and racist innuendo into our political discourse challenges us to decide if there really is such an entity as ‘we, the people,’ or whether we really are just competing packs of snarling curs.

Easter Candy

I am NOT gorging on candy! I am in fact, consuming just the Reese’s eggs because neither Mary nor Daughter Two care for them and I don’t want Daughter One to eat them stale when she comes home next time.

It’s a Good Samaritan kind of thing. Taking one for the famille, doncha know!

Just so we have it straight!

An Inaccurate Reputation

Some  folks of my acquaintance have developed a view of me that is totally inaccurate.  It seems certain people (who shall remain nameless, except for Karen and Joel and Sheila and my Dear Wife and Johnnie Sullivan’s mom) don’t believe I am capable of finding my way around. I assure you this is the farthest thing from the truth.

I insist that I have never been lost – not in a car, on the water or in the woods, although to paraphrase Crockett, I have been “a mite bewildered” on occasion. Not with a rake, not behind a snake…wait, that’s another story. I was a boy scout and a paper boy, for Pete’s sake, and given sunlight or stars, I can find my way unerringly between Points A and B, thank you very much!

The truth notwithstanding, the aforementioned friends – and perhaps one or two others – miss no chance to claim I am directionally challenged. This misconception is apparently based on a few unfortunate but entirely unrepresentative incidents that I will now explain:

I was NOT lost that time when I was home on leave and told my girlfriend I knew a shortcut to Villa Montalvo. I really intended to take the long way from Campbell to Santa Cruz, via Pulgas. I thought it would be romantic!

When Joel came to Seattle, I wasn’t lost trying to find a place to eat, I just couldn’t decide. There were SO many choices! And it’s not like Joel couldn’t have spoken up.

Karen, for the record, it is one of our ingrained instincts to circle before alighting. The fact that we drove around the Lincoln Memorial seven times – seven, NOT eight – was just a response to a primordial urge and had nothing to do with any inability on my part to find the entrance to the parking lot.

Sheila, I know you always drive. it’s not that I don’t know my way around, I just don’t want to usurp your position of power by insisting I take the wheel. You are woman! Roar!

Pat, next time, wake up and read the damn map! I was busy driving, bro!

Mary, my darling, I know I’ve driven past the overpass on-ramp three hundred, six times. Next chance I’ll make it three hundred, seven. I LIKE the slower route. It relaxes my mind. And the time I drove thirty miles in precisely the wrong direction in West Virginia, you could have spoken up any time, dearie!

I shouldn’t have to explain that it was the fact that I hadn’t yet studied physics that led me and Johnnie Sullivan at age four to take off in pursuit of the ice cream truck, leaving us a mile from home with no idea in which direction home might actually lie. With no physics under our belt, we knew nothing of Doppler and could thus not divine that the ice cream truck’s siren song was steadily leaving us behind.  On a side note, I’m pretty sure that was the first spanking I actually still remember. Mrs. Sullivan knew nothing about Dopplers but turned out to be an expert at fanny tanning.

So, there you are, reasonable explanations that should easily put to rest these uncharitable assertions about my navigational prowess. And besides, all of the above are in the rapidly receding past. (Don’t say it, Mary!)

Easter Sunday

Easter Sunday has always been a special time for our little table of four. We observe the Easter Bunny version, not being particular adherents to any of the standard religious superstitions. At least not collectively – any family member is free to believe as they will, subject to the hoots and hollers of non-believers.  We’re an opinionated clan, if nothing else. And since the Daughters were little girls, we’ve been building our own traditions.

Mary puts together Easter baskets using a combination of heirloom and Fred Meyer examples to hold all the treats and the small gifts that comprise the year’s haul.  I wake the girls with my standard gambit that starts with “Okay, here’s the deal…” and winds its way through a succession of ever more annoying suggestions as to the chores that should be completed before we head downstairs.

Mary and I record movies and stills as jelly bean- and coin-filled plastic eggs (said eggs with origins in  our own mothers’ Easter arsenals) are searched out from our fiendishly clever hiding places.  The dogs bark encouragement and parents watch closely to make sure we don’t have any unfortunate the-dog-ate-chocolate incidents.

Easter dinner is usually ham and cheesy potatoes, yams, green beans (French cut, of course, but don’t ask me why it matters), rolls, etc. We tend to watch a movie together while the food cooks; this year, it’s Eat, Pray, Love.  Yeah, a major chick flick that needed much more editing, but the chice of movie isn’t the point.

This is the first major holiday (“major” defined as one for which we’ve developed our own traditions of observance – Arbor Day doesn’t count) that we may be observing together for the last time as a family unit.  Either of Daughter Two’s last two college choice finalists is a plane ride away and both colleges tend to schedule their spring breaks well before this particular holiday rolls around.  Daughter One will be working in Orlando after graduation and is unlikely to choose this as the holiday for which she flies home.

And I’m realizing that the traditions to which we’ve clung so steadfastly have started falling away.

And that’s okay. Perhaps the dispersal of ‘family’ is a rite to celebrate in and of itself.

The traditions have always been just the trappings that formed around the core practice – being together at certain times of year intentionally to celebrate the fact of ‘us’ as an entity. It’s about family after all and not just this little family of four.  The stories we’ve told of how our parents used to play Santa or the way an older sibling would do this or that on Thanksgiving  will gradually give way to a new round of remembrances that the Daughters will recall at odd reflective moments for their friends, significant others, children, neighbors and PTA buddies.

Easter and Christmas and Thanksgiving pass on in the hearts and minds of those who choose to remember family, because regardless of marriage or not, kids or not, religion or not, it’s that sense of family that passes from one generation to the next. And I hope that continues.

Another Blogger Holiday

I'm going out of town on a college visit with Daughter Two and we're throwing caution to the wind by leaving our confusers at home. No confuser, no blog - get it?

I know there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth at the prospect of my hiatus but, well...there it is.

I read a really interesting article today on the subject of standardized testing in schools. The article was in Quality Digest (yes, I'm a nerd) and was ostensibly about methods for removing unwanted variation. But it didn't take a brilliant reader to divine that the author was really talking about what we do to kids when we try to force fit them all into the same educational mold.

Okay, I guess you can divine for yourselves where I might go with this one. So during my absence, if you'd like to share your thoughts on this subject via the comment post below, I'd be thrilled to hear what you have to say. And warm up the reading glasses; I'll be back next week.

Easter Bunnies

Daughter Two was right on when she commented that our front yard is becoming reminiscent of Watership Down.  There are more bunnies around this year than I can ever remember.  Brown bunnies are constantly hopping around the yard, freezing at the sight or sound of humans, taking off at light speed at the approach of dogs.

We love watching the bunnies and the occasional deer. Some of our neighbors are less enthralled at sharing their real estate with animals that love to eat the vegetables and flowering plants they cultivate in their yards.

I can’t imagine Bruno and Brigritte were thrilled when Mary put out sectioned apples the other day. And they probably don’t approve of the neighbor down the street who maintains a salt lick for the neighborhood deer population. Different strokes, I guess.

Mary and I have talked about starting a vegetable garden on the side between the garage and the shed.  I wonder if we’ll still enjoy watching the bunnies when it’s our carrots they’re after. Fair’s fair, after all.

My Old Nemesis

It had been grey most of the day and where I live, grey without rain is fairly common. So even when it started spitting intermittently, I didn’t worry.  I went ahead and got the groceries for dinner and headed on home. And although I was out of the car twice between work and home, I didn’t even think to open up the back and get out my rain jacket.

What was I thinking? Any of you who’ve followed this blog will know that my old nemesis gravity is constantly alert for opportunities to mess with me. And today was no different. Just as I pulled in the driveway, the downpour commenced. It soaked me as I got out the groceries and walked up the steps to the front door. And then as I thumbed the door latch, it stopped.

Laugh all you want, call me superstitious but I know the truth.

Gravity hates me.

Where I Live

I went to dinner this evening with a colleague from out of town.  Since he didn’t have much experience with Seattle, I wanted to give him more than the standard Space Needle tour. So we went across Elliott Bay to Salty’s on Alki.  While we ate some great food and talked about our kids, we watched ferries and tugs and towboats.

The mountain was out and the tide was at low slack, just about to turn. Sea lions hauled out on the camel next to a work barge howled to announce their presence. Several cormorants trolled around seemingly randomly. There was a bonfire on the beach and you could see forever up the throat of the main channel of the Sound.

I know we might not be here forever. Eventually, we’ll have to make a decision based on fiscal reality and where our children settle.  It’s just that I can’t imagine ever voluntarily leaving this place.

Blogger Holiday

Between Daughter Two's college visits and my two dinner meetings this week, this is the only evening we have in a two week period to hang as a family.
If you can call back-to-back episodes of Little House On The Prairie hanging with the family.
When it comes to daughters, I have no shame.

Caught in the Headlights

So, another interesting morning.

I’m driving down the street after having my teeth cleaned and it occurs to me that a large café mocha might be just the thing. And sure enough, I see a barista stand just ahead.

I pull in at the drive-through window and as I’m putting the car in park and pulling my wallet from its accustomed ride beneath my ample caboose, I hear a charming young female voice asking how she can help me.

As I turned to face her, I believe what actually came out of my mouth was something on the order of, “I’d like your largest YE-E-E-O-O-O-OW-W-W!"  It’s possible I did spinal damage as I whipped my head around, trying my best to look in any direction except toward, well, THEM.

Dear reader, you’ll have deduced by now that this was no run of the mill barista. Even with that brief unintended look, I could tell two things: that she had the kind of body all of us wish we had and that the body in question was inadequately covered. I may be old fashioned, but I don’t consider a fishnet body stocking and pasties to be appropriate retail attire.

It turned out okay, I suppose. She laughed, I laughed, she made the coffee and I cringed and tried to find something appropriately neutral to say. Parking my eyes firmly on hers, we actually proceeded to have a polite and friendly, if brief conversation.

Of course, the real conversation played out between Guy Michael on one shoulder and Dad Michael on the other.

“Oh, yeah! Lovely NAKED girl!”

“Oh, yuck! Lovely naked GIRL!”

Dad Michael won. She was my daughter’s age. Ew!

It must be a primary sign of encroaching geezerdom when, provided unexpectedly with an unrestricted view of a nearly-naked, beautiful young woman, my overriding reaction is, “Ew!”  

A Day That Will Live In Infamy

It happened while I was walking back from the store with my lunch. I was about to step up on the curb when the pigeon made its bombing run.

I didn’t think at first I’d been hit. Further inspection revealed that I had indeed been tagged here…and here…yes, and here.  I thought I’d located and wiped all the spots and was therefore out of danger until I sat down and put my hand on my knee.

Yu-u-u-uck!

I’ve showered twice in the seven hours since my dignity was so unceremoniously  assaulted. I still keep feeling the urge to take sandpaper to several patches of skin.  

It’s not that I’m squeamish, particularly. But being shat upon just wasn’t in my plan for today. I’d figured to eat my soup and drink my water at my desk. I was working on a project that really interests me and looking forward to seeing where it would take me.  Not to be.

Lennon was right.

Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.

A Greek Tragedy

So, I get up this morning at the insistence of Small Dog and as I go to gather my nice warm robe around my substantial but freezing girth, I find the sash missing. It hasn’t just come out of the loop, it’s most sincerely missing. And it isn’t laying on the floor or tangled in the bedclothes.

Small dog not being in a particularly patient soul, I stumble downstairs, gripping the robe to me with one hand while portioning out kibble with the other. I then let the dogs out. And even start the coffee.  And of course, I let the dogs back in.

Only then do I wander the house, assuming one of the canines has taken the sash for a good chew. I look in the dogs’ kill zone in the family room, in the laundry room, under my bed. No sash.

Daughter Two is just getting moving and asks what I’m looking for.

“The sash from my heavy robe.”

“Sorry, I have it.” Handing it out with one hand around the edge of her door, she explains, “I needed it to dress up as Thucydides.”

Is it only in my family that her answer could have made perfect sense?

Jeopardy question

Dumbass moves for 200: Burning your thumb by grabbing the 425 degree oven rack with the mitt from which Small Dog had removed the thumb.

Q: What's a lame but accurate reason for not blogging tonight?

Dogwatch

So, I’m sitting here thinking about a topic for tonight and my eye is drawn to motion. Over the horizon of my computer desk, I see Small Dog’s butt and wagging tail. She’s motionless except for her wag muscles, totally satisfied just to be here next to me.

Large Dog is laying on the far side of the couch, oblivious to my presence in the room. Unless, of course, I should move to another room.   In which case, after waiting a decent interval to be sure I wasn’t planning to return (Large Dog does NOT believe in wasted motion), he would move back into my  proximity, close but not too close.

Small Dog likes to be in eye contact. Large Dog just likes to know where I am.

They really are furry people, aren’t they?

I’ll write something cool tomorrow night. Right now, I have to go play fetch with a little furry person.