tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9162997506887710392024-02-07T22:52:22.912-07:00Splashes on the pondMeanderings and musings of a pollyfrog.Splashes on the pondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02066836035928875059noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916299750688771039.post-75377306711122101742021-09-17T14:12:00.000-06:002021-09-17T14:12:09.721-06:00Breathing In the Redwoods<p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #eeeeee;">I’ve looked for the poem—the one that haunts me with what was raining down in the ashes after the Lightning Complex Fire of 2020, the fire that consumed Big Basin State Park. But I haven’t found it—through the haze of my mind, and the enormity of the internet. When you see what is familiar—hear the voice of someone closer to the flames—know this is after that.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-15ec6e99-7fff-4c87-8b85-c6a067be5278"><span style="color: #eeeeee;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">It may have been 33-years to the day—give or take a few—that my footsteps last pressed into Big Basin’s fallen nests of needles—kicking up a mist of pine and trail-dust into the midday rays. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Placards at the trailhead professed the age of this great forest pre-dated the Roman Empire. Humans accompanied these animals, and birds, and trees going back more than 10,000-years. The Cotoni and Quiroste Tribes were stewards of the land and used fire to promote growth of useful plants, long before Spanish expeditioners arrived.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With this, I imagined into the words and wars ingrained within each of the rings of these giants, as I listened for wisps of history breathed through the pines and falls, and dirt around us. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My brothers and I braided the trail like challah—jockeying to be in front, with our friend David; occasionally falling to the back, in the ebb and flow of reconnection.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I still hear David’s wheezing—walking on his tip-toes, as if the air two inches higher, would be richer, easier to breathe. His head occasionally snapped back with guttural laughter bubbling up through his esophagus, like he was gargling it before blessing it into the world. His arms hinged, thumbs pushed forward in the straps of his back-pack—owning that hike, like we were in his backyard.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">David stopped to identify a banana slug—"it has no known predators,” he said, pointing to the swaying wet lump that resembled a jaundiced penis with four antennae wriggling toward the sky.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Ewww,” I responded, staring for a pregnant moment—chortling before moving on.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We walked amidst a chorus of the red crested, Acorn Woodpecker contributing trills of scratchy “waka—waka-waka,” like a metal rake dragged over leaves; the push-push, pull-pull of the Brown Creepers quadruple-syllabic shrill; and the pygmy nuthatch answering with its rhythmic chirp of tchuu—tchuu, tchuu, tchuu. Furry percussionists tambourined through brush, pushing us to imagine the menagerie burrowing tunnels under the soil. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were present that day—together in the life of friendship, in the life of the forest, until the sun grew tired and gifted us long shadows in the golden hour. </span></p><p style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nearly 800-miles, and thirty-three years later, the skies of the Salt Lake Valley filled with hazy carbon—the ash of many a forest’s inhabitants. Memories of that hike in 1987 flood my chest—heavy with the weight of mourning. The ash of burnt fur and feathers, pine needle nests, and the bark of those great giants absorbed into the cells of my own body. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There’s a rabbit in me, a buck in me, a wild coyote in me—and my body carries the last fear and determination and instinct for survival that stayed with them, to the last mile they ran, to the last river they sought, to the last hurried, burrowing feat until they laid down and let the fire consume them; until they were lifted into the skies and traveled east to me, on the winds of the jet stream.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wonder—if I am a great sequoia, or ponderosa, or redwood giant, do I drop my needles in fear, or hold them tight in resistance to contributing them to the kindling? Do I hold my breathe in my core while fire takes up residence on my skin, burning away layers of life for months on end?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At the start of the pandemic, before we humans scurried into hibernation, I stood in the presence of a quorum of giants at Mariposa Grove in Yosemite. I walked under a tree with arms stretched like a candelabra, the same way it stood when flames walked through the corridors below, countless times over centuries. There is evidence of flames that licked the knees of its brothers and sisters, hollowed out their cores, and yet, many of them are still standing. <br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nearby, a placard explained their resilience, and the necessity of flames—that serotinous cones are naturally glued together and require fire to melt the resin to release their seeds. These forests need fire to propagate. </span></p></span><span style="color: #eeeeee;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I imagine these brave giants, meditating through those tumultuous flames. I hear them say, “There is heat. There is sadness. There is fear,” and I imagine them reaching deep into their roots and bringing forward, “there is growth happening.”</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNw6fs51ukVX5yXf8Lxjqat7zG_XJYgzd-SAFZrb05Ex78VOUQEzjBdYVdONoWdOpAaxMN6qrDCsHL_kN8tFJwDP153w1hOhyphenhyphenf1Zp6NoEgK2LnmZgH6dpohWDqOzrP8pZSdSDy4tNbhNY/s1809/IMG_5183.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1809" data-original-width="1357" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNw6fs51ukVX5yXf8Lxjqat7zG_XJYgzd-SAFZrb05Ex78VOUQEzjBdYVdONoWdOpAaxMN6qrDCsHL_kN8tFJwDP153w1hOhyphenhyphenf1Zp6NoEgK2LnmZgH6dpohWDqOzrP8pZSdSDy4tNbhNY/w150-h200/IMG_5183.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVkb2ZqI-DZbVU3JAljW9yvtDzjLcheoMu5kb2IV_pvjOuun0vdQJe5vUfuVuY-lMu_krdK_icCHV1t941GzTXhQDqtMIx4LbxYe7PybJMviLb6JH9ndkGfgG7SKE-snUjfJr3RVT5cM/s2048/IMG_7360.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUVkb2ZqI-DZbVU3JAljW9yvtDzjLcheoMu5kb2IV_pvjOuun0vdQJe5vUfuVuY-lMu_krdK_icCHV1t941GzTXhQDqtMIx4LbxYe7PybJMviLb6JH9ndkGfgG7SKE-snUjfJr3RVT5cM/w150-h200/IMG_7360.HEIC" width="150" /></a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5QDDRVYNm10HQ7EWvReNlHRWQCmUTZLl5PKfzqP8LE8YiVI2Q31WcZszBmvqhyphenhyphen6UIbuln0w6azVOr3Vp5yeTTYm9n8cTnk2D4qdhJIysfrDppkrTvg9f_5uGhiGc-6kgSN522hFK8k8E/s2048/IMG_5278.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5QDDRVYNm10HQ7EWvReNlHRWQCmUTZLl5PKfzqP8LE8YiVI2Q31WcZszBmvqhyphenhyphen6UIbuln0w6azVOr3Vp5yeTTYm9n8cTnk2D4qdhJIysfrDppkrTvg9f_5uGhiGc-6kgSN522hFK8k8E/w150-h200/IMG_5278.HEIC" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBa5XPtTkQF_Z-G8BGJSiGAleyCZ96LZ7YfOSmGIS-IDrIEY0UK-iOI1f0DewzSAKcBjGqyxswGNMbLMjJR9WE1IgUALFu5_GWLMS7sJ4j7VgZK4zHOIV0QzuEZPmYIaYOvdCBXurbdhw/s2048/IMG_5290.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBa5XPtTkQF_Z-G8BGJSiGAleyCZ96LZ7YfOSmGIS-IDrIEY0UK-iOI1f0DewzSAKcBjGqyxswGNMbLMjJR9WE1IgUALFu5_GWLMS7sJ4j7VgZK4zHOIV0QzuEZPmYIaYOvdCBXurbdhw/w150-h200/IMG_5290.HEIC" width="150" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p></span></span></div>Splashes on the pondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02066836035928875059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916299750688771039.post-26013850386967934602018-01-09T10:25:00.000-07:002018-01-09T10:27:01.144-07:00The Noise of Ludicrous Happiness<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOuCGZO-3nexMbnh10VsOXufkyC7b-VhQ4mmWz-TsESO-_fjvUFNVDWNQi_x1OyIdT7aAdIbjUH1GL3OAI5lGuO7X09Gwd_-DkIdEDVhnYGemUZnWNHnXpD754sCpSu3yW5DJUbCsU6-M/s1600/Capture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="606" data-original-width="674" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOuCGZO-3nexMbnh10VsOXufkyC7b-VhQ4mmWz-TsESO-_fjvUFNVDWNQi_x1OyIdT7aAdIbjUH1GL3OAI5lGuO7X09Gwd_-DkIdEDVhnYGemUZnWNHnXpD754sCpSu3yW5DJUbCsU6-M/s320/Capture.JPG" width="320" /></a>Be Alert. Make Noise. There is no guarantee of your safety in bear country.</div>
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What is this admonition? Can you hear the noise of my
ludicrous happiness? <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve stood in a pinafore dress on Central Beach. Riptides
licking my ankles. Salt-spray kissing my cheeks. Waves washing me in the depths
of an ocean below. Alert to golden flecks floating around me below the blue and
white sky above. I’ve made the noise of sputtering and squawking water from my
lungs, clawing my way back to the shore.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I still explore beaches, and waters, and sandbars.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve shared an unabashed duet of Mirror in the Bathroom with
English Beat in the confines of a red Nissan Sentra on the corner of 20<sup>st</sup>
and Broadway. A would-be car-jacker emphatically pounded the glass of my passenger
side-door. Alert to the shopkeeper jumping on the pavement, waving his arms a
block away, giving warning to my surroundings. I leaned on the horn and
squealed tires in response. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I still delight in the anonymity of urban cities.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve jumped on the hood of a stranger’s car while jogging in
the suburbs of Oakland. Alert to the stillness of the neighborhood,
instinctively barking back at a pit bull. “Fuck you, dog! Fuck you!” I screamed
into the 6:00 am air.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I still wander streets at any hour of the morning and night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve grown humans from seed within my hara. Delivered them
into existence through my pelvis. Alert to the scent of bodily fluids and
sterile gloves. Panting and growling in between commands to push up to 9 lbs 14
oz under my pelvic bone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I did this not once, not twice, not thrice, but four
separate times.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve loved deeply. Alert to the crack of my own heart and
the collapse of my own lungs in mourning. Howling each time. Sliding down an
apartment wall. On the stoop of my front
doorstep. In the hallways of a hospital.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I still hold space for lost loves in my heart, and breathe
new love into my lungs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Have truer, more obvious words been written? “There is no
guarantee of your safety.” And yet, do you hear the noise of my ludicrous happiness? </div>
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Splashes on the pondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02066836035928875059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916299750688771039.post-13314626226906201402016-10-04T00:13:00.001-06:002016-10-04T01:52:50.055-06:00Securely stuck<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXOKpLuwrttj56a-87IwNhhWIePLPUynci9sfBZ8HI9pRvbf9jd3LocwJ2ULUNkf6vJdl2nXoKyiADp7mSK6blkL76LuM9xQMIa81KBWlMvosSytRMXf6cvC96yGzIKH-iPq0GeubmfCI/s1600/breathe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXOKpLuwrttj56a-87IwNhhWIePLPUynci9sfBZ8HI9pRvbf9jd3LocwJ2ULUNkf6vJdl2nXoKyiADp7mSK6blkL76LuM9xQMIa81KBWlMvosSytRMXf6cvC96yGzIKH-iPq0GeubmfCI/s320/breathe.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">There’s a steel beam anchored to the edge of my fourth rib,
just beneath my left breast.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Pushing up, it demands more space.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Jutting through my throat, bluntly pressing against my occipital nerve.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Pulling down, desperate for the ground.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Ankles securely anchored in gravy-thick silt, </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">I sink deeper in the struggle to find balance.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">And then my head tips back, forty-five degrees, where the air begs to be
swallowed.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">I look up through aqua white distortions.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">And I remember to breathe.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><br />
Photo credit Jason deCaires Taylor, The Silent Evolution http://www.underwatersculpture.com/sculptures/the-silent-
evolution/</span></i></div>
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Splashes on the pondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02066836035928875059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916299750688771039.post-63534748784070207452016-09-30T00:23:00.002-06:002016-09-30T00:51:24.127-06:00Wise Words: "Why's everyone gotta be in such a hurry that they can't even let a good person be good?"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Jeremy has been homeless since he was 23. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">He was perched
casually on the sand colored brick wall at the foot of Walmart on Parley’s Way
holding a typical cardboard sign, which I didn’t take time to read. I chose to
read his face instead. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Friendly. He seemed friendly.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDo006ZnL0IkSLtsO6qxHoW9X8raq8s_YZsSL5JdNhi_s0aMtIBLlAogppsbuUdsicauWIljCIJ_vGhO0Hba5ynTcYpmbe1i46rbZTt1o6ej4AEJN7_9L9eUSYpgg5bjIuEEgMjBe0LVo/s1600/wall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDo006ZnL0IkSLtsO6qxHoW9X8raq8s_YZsSL5JdNhi_s0aMtIBLlAogppsbuUdsicauWIljCIJ_vGhO0Hba5ynTcYpmbe1i46rbZTt1o6ej4AEJN7_9L9eUSYpgg5bjIuEEgMjBe0LVo/s320/wall.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Mr. Cheeks and I approached, out of breath. Cheeks was
insistent that he had walked enough, so I’d been carrying him for a few blocks
now—my eight pound, short-legged companion. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">I’ve been traveling for work a lot lately, and was feeling a
sense of isolation, even though I had been home since the previous evening. And
here was a person whom I imagined might be feeling a little isolated as well.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">I asked Jeremy if I could join him and he offered a corner
of his sleeping bag to pad the unforgiving surface of my new found seat. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“How’s it going?” I asked.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Pretty good,” he said. “Just tryin’ to get a few coins
together—they add up ya know.”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Soft blue eyes looked back at me, with a few stripes of gold
pointing toward his pupils. They were curious and cautious eyes, like the eyes
of a kitten not ready to trust the string held in front of him.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Short hair peeked out from under a ball cap. I don’t recall
the color of his hat—maybe white with a black and red logo—but I’m not really
sure. I did notice the sandy curls that lapped around the edges though, and
they made me think of my own boy, whom I assumed would be close to the same
age. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Where are you from?” I asked, hoping he’d indulge me with
his story.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Colorado,” he said at first. And with an embarrassed
snicker he corrected himself. “Nah—actually that’s where I’m tryin’ to go,” he
said. “I’m from Oregon. That’s where my family is. But I left and went to
Colorado because pot’s legal there, ya know; and then I went back to Oregon,
and now I’m tryin’ to get back to Colorado, cuz I know people there, and have
friends there and shit. So I’m hitchin’ rides and askin’ for coins cuz they add
up, and they don’t mean anything to the good people that give them to me. Like
you. You gave me some and you’re a good person. You must be a good person, cuz
you do good things. And there ain’t very many good people, ya know? Like maybe
one in a thousand or somethin'. But you’re a good person. So don’t you forget
it. Cuz there’s more bad people out there than good. And they can’t do good
because they’re bad. People are either good or bad. Because they either do good
or bad.”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">An older-model mini-van pulled up, clicking and
wheezing—pistons struggling to keep the engine alive. The light had turned red,
and the woman within the van was fidgeting with a slightly tattered clutch,
pulling a bill out while simultaneously trying to get Jeremy’s attention.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">He continued talking as he sauntered to the driver’s side
door. “Thanks, mam,” he said, just as a horn blared from the German car behind.
I glanced at the light, which was now green, and I looked back at the offending
car. An exasperated man—buttoned up tight and proper with a nice looking tie—gestured,
both hands in the air, and slammed them down on the steering wheel as the van
in front of him rolled on.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Fifteen seconds,” Jeremy said as he returned to the wall.
“Fifteen seconds and that guy has to be an asshole. Whys everyone gotta be in
such a hurry that they can’t even let a good person be good?”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"> “I study the Bible,” he continued. “I’ve read it twice
all the way through. There are lots of people that think they’re good because
they go to church, but they’ve never even read the Bible.”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Look,” he said, raising his left hand off the wall. A
pentagram with precisely spaced numerals—666— was freshly scratched into
the curve of his hand between his thumb and first finger. Graphite shavings
smudged over the incision finished a self-administered tattoo.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“They say it’s the sign of the Devil,” he said, “but it’s
not. How can it be? It’s in the Bible,” he said. “And God created the Bible and
he created the Devil, so really it’s a sign of God.”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">I wondered if he could sense my uneasiness with the concept.
And I wondered if his unorthodox perceptions were a symptom of mental illness,
or simply a skewed interpretation of the ancient book. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">I couldn't say. I've never read it cover to cover.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Jeremy was still talking. Still sharing his deeply held
beliefs. He referenced Lazarus and Job. He spoke of Adam and Eve, the
Immaculate Conception, of Jesus and the Cross. He knew the stories, or at least
his perception of them.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">He didn’t really pause, but I managed to ask him where he
learned so much about the Bible and he told me. He read it straight through—not
once, but twice. In a jail cell.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">Which made me wonder if he thought of himself as good,
incapable of bad; or did he think of himself as bad, incapable of good?</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">And then he asked, "You know why I don’t like jail
much? I missed my family. I couldn’t see my family when I was in jail.”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Where’s your family now?” I asked.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“In Oregon.” He mused on, “I miss my sisters. It’s crazy how
fast time goes. How fast it goes and they’re all grown up. I spent 15-years
with them, and now they’re all grown up,” he said. “I miss my brother too.”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“When was the last time you talked with them?” I asked.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Ah, a couple weeks ago, I guess,” he said. “I talked to my
mom a couple weeks ago, I think.”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“I’ve got four kids,” I shared. “I’d go nuts if I didn’t
know where they were for two weeks. Do you want to call your mom?”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Yeah? You’d let me use your phone?” he asked.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Sure, why not?” I said as I unlocked the screen. “Give your
mom a call.”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">He continued rambling about good and bad, God and the Devil,
as the phone rang on the other end.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Hi. I’m in Salt Lake City,” he said. “Some people are nice
enough. Like this lady here. She just let me call you. Yeah. I’m alright. Just
gettin' rides…”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">I set the dog down and took a few steps away to offer some
privacy. The call was brief, but Jeremy seemed more at ease—more in his body
and less in his head—as he handed the phone back to me.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Thanks,” he said. “That was good. I miss my family.”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">We both looked down, and in a way, I think he knew I was sending up a silent prayer for him and his family.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">“Well, I should probably head home,” I said, looking back up
and extending my hand to shake his, instantly wishing I had offered a hug
instead. “Good luck and safe travels, Jeremy. I appreciated the conversation.”</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;">And as I walked away, I hoped he felt less alone. I definitely
did.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Splashes on the pondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02066836035928875059noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916299750688771039.post-79284358938328219712015-12-27T20:39:00.000-07:002015-12-27T21:41:14.313-07:00Cathartic Construction<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHBruyZoRNINu5bUFoZKyqKZiMUE37vohu0cyQbia-i7ykvZYFbhonB8SSRb5JU_pLbBs7qIxspFw84k5GpoVT3x0W0ThBhyXDz_ifYF27jEKbGWFJFvQy0vGXO-RmzKQ_rfro8zJA4U/s1600/family.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRHBruyZoRNINu5bUFoZKyqKZiMUE37vohu0cyQbia-i7ykvZYFbhonB8SSRb5JU_pLbBs7qIxspFw84k5GpoVT3x0W0ThBhyXDz_ifYF27jEKbGWFJFvQy0vGXO-RmzKQ_rfro8zJA4U/s320/family.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Left: Joe & Mom, 2000 </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Right: Rob & Christjen, his son, 1996</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The walls in my mother’s house have moved again.
I’d like to say that’s merely a metaphor, but the frequency at which she tears
down and reconstructs the walls within her home has been a barometer of her
strength and resilience since 1999.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I was a child, paper and rubber
threads of overzealous erasing littered our dining room table fairly regularly.
After reconciling an empty bank account, or waiting on something baking, or while the little kids were playing in
a bedroom or the backyard, my mother would sit at the table, pencil in hand. Some days she wrote. Other days she drew. But her mind was always occupied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One particular Sunday afternoon in what may have been 1982, I found her at the table while something savory was simmering
in the kitchen behind her. She had a look of deliberation as she drew a
reconfigured landscape that in her mind, and on the paper, was situated around
the house my Aunt Lois owned, which my grandfather built in 1948.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The house on Benson was just under 900 square
feet and sat deep on the lot. In front, there was a long narrow driveway that
led to a shed, which I always imagined housed black widows and gardening tools. In the front yard, there
was also a plum tree, generous with fruit; which often fell to the ground in
the summer heat, spoiling the birds and bees in the area.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">From the front porch, the door opened directly
into a family room, and the house was divided into six unequal sections. Most
notably, there were no hallways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At the back of the family room, you could
continue straight into the kitchen, or turn left into the master, which doubled
as a pass-through to the kids’ room at the front, and a bathroom at back of the
house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If you went into the kitchen, you’d find a
mud-room that opened into the alley-way and led to my grandparent’s house. We used this door most often, and the boundaries between the two homes often
seemed blurred.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This was the house my mother was drafting that day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When asked what she was doing, she told me about visions of pouring
a shapely driveway. She imagined a full garage replacing the shed, and a
pergola and water fountain replacing the plum tree. She also envisioned a black
wrought-iron fence replacing the chain link.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Her ability to convey her vision on paper was
impressive; but more so, I was taken with the softness of her eyes and the
upturned corners of her lips, and the elegance of her hands as she sweepingly
described what each shape on the grid-lines represented.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She told me about how her father built the house
with a handsaw and a hammer—no power tools. And how he was fortunate to have
used real wood. She recounted that building materials were sparsely available in the 1940s, and
most of the neighbors built their homes out of clapboards reclaimed from fruit
boxes that nearby canneries had discarded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It didn’t matter that this was her sister’s
home, or that it was in a run-down neighborhood, or that she had no income to
speak of to purchase it, let alone enact the changes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I asked her why she was drawing it as though it was her own, she said, “If I imagine it, it will happen. God will
provide—maybe not this house—but he has something in mind. I just have to
envision it and then ask.” And she meant it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mom asked without abandon. Not just about
housing, but everything. She asked with an embarrassing amount of faith,
entitlement, and confidence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And he did. Her God provided. Every. Single. Time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On May 31<sup>st</sup>, 1999, my brother Robert
was promoted to Executive Chef. As a high
school drop-out who found passion and success in the culinary arts, to him, it
meant a future. After an evening of excessive celebrating, Rob went to bed. And
then he was gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I won’t try to describe the devastation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Pain shifts time and memory. I don’t recall if
Mom purchased the home on Benson right before, or right after this happened;
but I do know the walls started moving almost immediately after Rob’s death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then, on August 10, 2000, my brother Joe was
killed by a drunk driver. And the walls went up and down even faster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At one point, Mom hired an unemployed neighbor
who worked for a few dollars here and there; but she was never satisfied, and
she redid most of it. Over and over again. On any given day, a new drawing
could be found on a random beam or piece of scrap wood, depicting her new
vision for the space. And a month, or a week, or a day after it was completed, the cycle
would repeat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Mom was capable of anything. She sought advice
from the “do-it-yourself” advocates at the local big box store, and she
learned from trying, and trying again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some days the only place to wash your hands was
the kitchen sink. Other days, the kitchen was dismantled and dishes had to be
washed in the bathroom. By the end, and somewhere between the third and
thirtieth iteration, a hallway had taken form, and the kitchen moved from its
original southeast corner of the house to the opposite side of the
structure—plumbing, electrical, and all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The changes only stopped when she listed the
house; and she was fortunate to sell it at the top of the market in 2006,
before the housing bubble burst. Shortly thereafter, she purchased her current
home in Utah, and it wasn’t long before her catharsis continued.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It’s been nine more years of construction, and
with each cycle of tearing down and rebuilding, she says it is the last.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My mother turned 70 in September, and plans to
retire from her career as a high school English teacher this year. When I
arrived at her house Tuesday evening, somehow I allowed myself to be surprised
that another wall had been taken down. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And then w</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">e talked about her health. And I was devastated
to learn that this cycle really may be her last.</span><br />
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<br />
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p><br /></div>
Splashes on the pondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02066836035928875059noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916299750688771039.post-69800716750897452902015-12-10T20:39:00.002-07:002015-12-10T20:47:04.814-07:00Table Talk<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I had dinner with my youngest daughter today. At the kitchen
table. Grilled cheese and tomato soup—the nasty kind from a Campbell’s Soup
can. It’s something we don’t do often—sitting at a table, that is. (Sadly, the
grilled cheese and Campbell’s Soup are a staple.) I was grateful to have taken
a few minutes to sit down, because it reminded me yet again how full she is of quirks
and curiosities in the most pleasantly peculiar way. <br />
<br />
At the age of two, she put puzzles together “brown-side” up
and sorted Legos by color and size. She would line them up, end-to-end. It was
a serious process for her. When she was tired, she would sit near her crib,
blanket in hand, and quietly wait for someone to notice. She’s a brilliant kid.
And not the least bit socially awkward. (At least not from my perspective.) And
then she shared this:<br />
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So,
a strange thing happened in my psychology class today. I didn’t know it was a
thing. That this thing I’ve done all my life was weird. It has a name.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I laughed. What? I asked. What do
you do that’s so weird?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
I eat paper.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Seriously? Hmmm. Just the frayed
edges of spiral-bound? Or, all paper?</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No.
Corners mostly. And Dum-Dum lollypop sticks. They’re the best. It’s a texture
thing. It feels good in my mouth. And I’ve always done it. I just didn’t know
it was weird.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt 0.5in;">
Really?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mmmhmm.
It’s called Pica. It’s an eating disorder. People who have it eat things with
no nutritional content. My psych teacher told me there are two teachers at
school who have it too. One eats chalk. My Spanish teacher. I’ve seen her do
it. The other one eats sucker sticks—the paper kind. And while he was talking
about it, everyone was like, “Ewww! What? Really?” And the more we talked about
it, I realized they didn’t think that was a normal thing. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt 0.5in;">
My mother does it. I grinned. The
frayed edges of spiral paper, napkins, and sucker sticks. I’ve seen her do it
for years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt 0.5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I
wonder if it’s hereditary—Pica. And since we talked about it, I’ve been craving it all day. The texture. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
So I looked it up. And while I didn’t find out if it was
hereditary, I did learn Pica is a Latin word and it means Magpie. And I laughed
again at the irony of names and how fitting they are at times. Her middle name
is Margaret and we called my daughter Maggie Moo for years. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
She graduates this year, and I’m hungry for a few more
nights with her at the table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
*No children were harmed in the publishing of this post. Explicit permission was provided by Maggie Moo herself.</div>
</span>Splashes on the pondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02066836035928875059noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916299750688771039.post-55631791710348271202015-12-08T21:50:00.003-07:002015-12-10T20:44:37.310-07:001979, Cousins & Cobbler<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">On the east
facing wall, cups and bowls tip sideways in the cabinets and are ready to
spread a rainbow of mix-matched Tupperware durability across the cluttered,
honey-comb tiled countertop at any given time.</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">On the opposite wall,
legs of wiry spaghetti stand upright in the stock pot for a time, as
a Mason jar of home-canned tomato sauce sprinkles the range. The percolator, the salt and pepper
shakers, and an aluminum canister holding a generation of lard never leave
their station; sending false promises of bacon into the air anytime the
oven heats up. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And today, a sticky
gravy of cinnamon and peaches licks past a lattice crust sending smoky </span>saccharinity
through the 800 square foot farm-style house.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Looking out the
window above the sink, past the trinkets and the up-cycled jelly jar that holds an
accidental collection of twist-ties and brightly colored plastic barrettes, her
mind is busy but she doesn’t share what it’s busy with. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And a cloud of black
cherry Flavor-aid plumes as tap water hits the bottom of the pitcher.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">It’s 4:00 and the sun is still hours
away from setting. In exchange for a tidy kitchen tonight, she’ll offer a
round of pop-bottles to the girls tomorrow, whether they want the job or not. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Lala, come help Gramma set this
table!” Aunt Lois calls into the yard. “Julie, Dawna, you too!” That's the adult table she's referring to. The one for all the aunts and Grandma. Whether here, or across the ally at his house, Uncle Danny takes his meals in front of the television, most often alternating between Grease, Alien, and a George Strait special which he plays on the Betamax. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“1, 2, 3…” we hear,
all the way to 20. “Olly olly oxen free!” And then squeals emerge from hidden
corners of the four-lot property. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">My breath is damp as I hold my shirt
over my mouth, still hiding behind the garage and the grape vines. </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And then the shouts, “Aaaahhhhh, don't
catch me!” </span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">“Run, Nita! Run!” Followed by laughter. A brief argument ensues between the boys and the girls about what’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> “home base.” But it’s cut short
by my grandmother's pronouncement, “Dinner!” </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And with that, fifteen pairs of dirty
bare feet pound toward the back door. Each jockeying for position in a
single-file line that tends to break rank bulging three wide, here and there. A few tears are
shed, as the less favored fall to the outer edges, and others claim someone’s
butting.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Another six
mouths are already at the “little kid table” on the back porch. Two tucked into
old-style high chairs--the type with metal trays. The others are boosted up via an eclectic
collection of a worn out Webster’s Dictionary, two sets of Yellow Pages, and a
stack of last week’s subscription to the Sacramento Bee.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Within minutes, everyone is served and sets of best-friends
have scattered around the yard. Some are on swings, others in the half-built
tree-house. Some have even climbed on top of the chicken coop. My crew and I? We are the tame ones, sitting on the back stoop, gushing about boys, and hairstyles, and sleep-overs.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At nine, </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">life is good, especially when you're living commune style for the summer. Because half a cup of
noodles with a splash of color and a slice of toasted Wonder bread is enough
when you’re with cousins. Especially when there's a promise of peach cobbler for
dessert.</span></span></div>
Splashes on the pondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02066836035928875059noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-916299750688771039.post-35260409380007414432015-12-08T03:02:00.002-07:002015-12-10T20:56:41.213-07:00Prayer of thanks to the journalism room<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Inspired by Brian Doyle’s “A Book of Uncommon Prayer”<o:p></o:p><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"></span><br />Prayer of thanks to the journalism room. My haven. My sanctuary between early morning seminary and the first bell.<br /><br /> Prayer of thanks to the journalism room. For the red lights amidst darkness that hid tears of break-ups and hurt feelings. For the scent of developer that overpowered any indication of nervous pheromones.<br /><br /> Prayer of thanks for Mr. Moore, who whispered when he “had enough” of rowdy boys who played air guitar. Who whispered when lessons had to be repeated, and when students arrived late. Who whispered anytime anybody else would have lost his shit.<br /><br /> Prayer of thanks for the one day I heard him raise his voice in response to hearing me say, “I hate my father.” A statement to which he refused to stay silent.<br /><br /> Prayer of thanks to the journalism room and its lifeline. When cell phones weren’t yet imagined and private calls were hard to carry-on at home.<br /><br /> Prayer of thanks to the journalism room. For the color darkroom—where forbidden kisses were at times given freely, and other times stolen.</span></span></div>
Splashes on the pondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02066836035928875059noreply@blogger.com0