I was standing on gravel beach by Hale Passage yesterday afternoon having some photos taken for use in a publicity campaign. It was uncommonly warm for February 2, around 52 degrees. The water was still and the sun shone brightly through partly cloudy skies. Looming darkly in the background was Lummi Island. Even a few friendly dogs, hoping to be in the picture, or more likely, hoping I would throw their sodden stick for them until darkness set it, came by to say hello. My multi-talented friend Jeffrey B. Stiglitz was behind the camera. My job was to try to make a good face for radio seem to be a good face for a book jacket too. Needless to say I had lots of time on my hands.
With that time I reflected on my friends and acquaintances, on their many talents and how far flung they are worldwide. Among this group are attorneys and car salesmen, real estate agents and photographers, ministers of the gospel and internet gurus. I number among my friends physicians, printers, social workers, retailers, wholesalers and chefs. I rub elbows from time to time with artists, film makers, movie stars and gardeners. I know jewelry makers and jewelry sellers, writers, publishers, editors, agents and interior designers. I count as dear friends cops (and probably a robber or two) and fly fishers. I could go on, but you get the point.
Many of these people volunteer for and donate to multiple charities. They think pink for breast cancer, donate for earthquake relief in Haiti--or go there by their own means to lend a hand. They collect warm coats for the homeless in the winter and help abused children and women and do a thousand other things of which I'm not even aware. And yet, with all that happening, from around the globe and across the street they still manage to visit my blog when I post something new. They take a moment to send me an encouraging email while becoming fans of my Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/pages/R-L-Paces-Rising-Son-Trilogy-Island-Dawn-Book-One/259112635667?ref=ts). They ask when my book 'Island Dawn' is due out (summer 2010) and how they can get it.
A few have taken the time to labor through early manuscripts and make cogent suggestions on how to improve the work. Now, publishing contract in hand, I stand here on a beach on a mild winter day having pictures taken. One of these photos will end up on the dust cover of my book. I'm having a little contest on Facebook to have fans choose which one they like the best. If you would like to vote, click on the link above and by all means do so.
The point of all this is how amazed I am by my friends. And how appreciative I am that they care about me as much as I care about them. Scattered around the world in Great Britain, Malta, Hawaii, Japan, Austria, Vietnam, New Zealand, India and beyond are the brightest, most industrious people in their fields. Winners of Oscars and Pulitzer Prizes and Humanitarian Awards find the time to say hello.
I'll steal a phrase from the nineteenth century and observe that the sun never sets on the talented circle of friends and aquaintances I have around the world.
That is something about which I am truly grateful. Thanks and love to you all.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Mr. Brown Goes to Washington
A naive young man is appointed to fill the unexpired term of a U.S. Senator by a corrupt Governor because party leaders think he will be easy to manage to their liking. The young man goes to Washington where he quickly learns that what is best for the country isn't always best for the Senate, and his efforts to pass a bill to help young people is met with resistance. When he pursues this bill anyway, the state party boss resorts to a malicious and untrue scandal to undermine the young idealist. The penultimate scene is a filibuster with an impassioned plea on the floor of the Senate to return to what's best for the country and not just cozy for the politicians. They are swayed by the earnest young man and promise to reform. The country is better for it thereafter.
That, in a nutshell, is a synopsis of the Oscar-winning Frank Capra 1939 film, "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington." James Stewart plays Smith, and Claude Rains the senior Senator with the epiphany. It's a great movie with a fabulous screenplay and terrific acting. It could not happen today. Mr. Smith might go to Washington, but the Senate would never let the filibuster play out on the floor.
Why, you may ask, is this so? And while we're at it, why does it take 60 votes in the Senate to pass anything when 51 constitutes a majority? Both good questions, and both answered the same way. Senate rules.
A couple of decades or so ago most of the old white men that run the Senate concluded that real filibusters (the ones where members were required to stay on the floor, and the speaker held the floor by reading cookbooks and magazines into the Congessional Record) were inconvenient to their social lives, made fundraising more difficult and kept them up past their bedtimes. So they changed the rules for a filibuster. Now all that is required is for a Senator to state that he or she will do so and the Senate automatically moves to cloture (the move to shut off a filibuster, 60 votes being required). No messy late nights. No tedious actual lawmaking. Dinner plans are intact and lobbyist's hours are not unduly imposed upon. Very tidy. Also lethal to progress for the American People.
Why, you may ask, doesn't the party with the majority simply change the rules? They have that right, indeed, the power players routinely change rules to suit them when they achieve the majority. But not this rule. This rule stands, and will continue to stand for one very simple reason: The party in power will not always be so. Therefore a gentleman's agreement was reached wherein neither party will change this particular rule for fear of retribution from other members when the inevitable fall from the grace of the voters occurs.
Like what happened in the 2008 election. Democrats took commanding control of the Senate and the House. Republicans in the Senate need only write the word filibuster on a slip of paper and hand it to the Clerk and now 60 votes are needed to sneeze or take a potty break. Bear in mind, this is not what the American People or the Constitution had in mind, but the Senate has its rules.
Herein lies the irony of Mr. Smith of Mass. going to D.C. He was elected because Democrats exhibited that most enduring party trait; internal meltdown. The Dems managed to present to the voters an unappealing candidate so sure of her election she barely bothered to campaign until polls showed that defeat was imminent. My liberal friends have asked me from time to time why I won't move to the Democratic Party, and instead choose to remain Independent. In a phrase, it's party discipline. However wrongheaded the Republicans are at this moment--and trust me on this one, they are way off the reservation--they at least know how to maintain a coherent (if inaccurate) message. Dems on the other hand show an unfailing ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. It's a wonder any of them can walk given how many times they have shot themselves in the foot.
So, Mr. Brown will go to Washington and will become a majority of one. One man, one slip of paper and the wheels of government grind to a halt. Ridiculous concessions will be made, laws will be written not for good governance, but to appease the ego of a single Senator to get that crucial vote. It won't even be good sausage.
I think they ought to bring back the real deal. If you want to filibuster, fine. Bring in the cots, haul out the cookbooks and magazines and settle in for a few days of butt busting legislative work. Talk till your voice is raw, wear a diaper so you don't have to relinquish the floor, get yourself and 99 other old men and women dead tired and wanting to go home. Then start doing what you should be doing anyway. Start making decent law and reasonable compromises. Start thinking about country first and party second, or maybe third. Ignore lobbyists for a change. Do the right thing.
It'll never happen of course, but I can dream, can't I?
That, in a nutshell, is a synopsis of the Oscar-winning Frank Capra 1939 film, "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington." James Stewart plays Smith, and Claude Rains the senior Senator with the epiphany. It's a great movie with a fabulous screenplay and terrific acting. It could not happen today. Mr. Smith might go to Washington, but the Senate would never let the filibuster play out on the floor.
Why, you may ask, is this so? And while we're at it, why does it take 60 votes in the Senate to pass anything when 51 constitutes a majority? Both good questions, and both answered the same way. Senate rules.
A couple of decades or so ago most of the old white men that run the Senate concluded that real filibusters (the ones where members were required to stay on the floor, and the speaker held the floor by reading cookbooks and magazines into the Congessional Record) were inconvenient to their social lives, made fundraising more difficult and kept them up past their bedtimes. So they changed the rules for a filibuster. Now all that is required is for a Senator to state that he or she will do so and the Senate automatically moves to cloture (the move to shut off a filibuster, 60 votes being required). No messy late nights. No tedious actual lawmaking. Dinner plans are intact and lobbyist's hours are not unduly imposed upon. Very tidy. Also lethal to progress for the American People.
Why, you may ask, doesn't the party with the majority simply change the rules? They have that right, indeed, the power players routinely change rules to suit them when they achieve the majority. But not this rule. This rule stands, and will continue to stand for one very simple reason: The party in power will not always be so. Therefore a gentleman's agreement was reached wherein neither party will change this particular rule for fear of retribution from other members when the inevitable fall from the grace of the voters occurs.
Like what happened in the 2008 election. Democrats took commanding control of the Senate and the House. Republicans in the Senate need only write the word filibuster on a slip of paper and hand it to the Clerk and now 60 votes are needed to sneeze or take a potty break. Bear in mind, this is not what the American People or the Constitution had in mind, but the Senate has its rules.
Herein lies the irony of Mr. Smith of Mass. going to D.C. He was elected because Democrats exhibited that most enduring party trait; internal meltdown. The Dems managed to present to the voters an unappealing candidate so sure of her election she barely bothered to campaign until polls showed that defeat was imminent. My liberal friends have asked me from time to time why I won't move to the Democratic Party, and instead choose to remain Independent. In a phrase, it's party discipline. However wrongheaded the Republicans are at this moment--and trust me on this one, they are way off the reservation--they at least know how to maintain a coherent (if inaccurate) message. Dems on the other hand show an unfailing ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. It's a wonder any of them can walk given how many times they have shot themselves in the foot.
So, Mr. Brown will go to Washington and will become a majority of one. One man, one slip of paper and the wheels of government grind to a halt. Ridiculous concessions will be made, laws will be written not for good governance, but to appease the ego of a single Senator to get that crucial vote. It won't even be good sausage.
I think they ought to bring back the real deal. If you want to filibuster, fine. Bring in the cots, haul out the cookbooks and magazines and settle in for a few days of butt busting legislative work. Talk till your voice is raw, wear a diaper so you don't have to relinquish the floor, get yourself and 99 other old men and women dead tired and wanting to go home. Then start doing what you should be doing anyway. Start making decent law and reasonable compromises. Start thinking about country first and party second, or maybe third. Ignore lobbyists for a change. Do the right thing.
It'll never happen of course, but I can dream, can't I?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
An Open Letter to the United States Senate
I'm an ordinary person, capable of extraordinary things. I work with my hands, my brain the strength of my back and the flat of my feet. I am strong in times of weakness and weep openly and unashamed in moments of great triumph. I am weary to my bones but I carry on with a strength that resides deep in my soul. I persevere in the face of despair. I exult in my neighbor's blessings and help them carry their heaviest burdens.
I am vain, petty, cowardly, envious and pessimistic. And yet still, mostly hopeful. I am all these things and more; resilient, moldable ambitious, willing. I am a citizen of the United States of America. I am you and you are me, joined as we.
Together as we, let us once more do great things. Find us the tools then get out of the way. We are the sturdy people that forged a tiny, fragile country by defeating the most powerful military force on the planet. We did it on the strength of an idea. We are the country that invented the light bulb and found a thousand uses for the humble peanut through the vision and persistence of brilliant individuals. We are the country that saved a world at war for democracy twice in a single century through dogged determination and shared sacrifice as a nation. We went to the moon using nothing more sophisticated that a slide rule and vacuum tubes, and watched it, in color, on the TV we invented. We defeated Communism and we showed the world what the future of human relations looks like. It looks like you. It looks like me. It looks like us.
We have an uncanny ability to elevate one among us to great leadership at pivotal moments in our history, and we hope and believe we have done so once again. Make no mistake the challenges are great, as they always are. Save the planet, alleviate poverty, heal the sick, educate the illiterate, seek peace and justice and defend the defenseless. We are ready, eager even, as we always have been, to sacrifice tirelessly for our children's and grandchildren's futures, to scrimp pennies and tackle intolerance. Watch the world be amazed and inspired by how we succeed. Please, give us impossible tasks.
I am vain, petty, cowardly, envious and pessimistic. And yet still, mostly hopeful. I am all these things and more; resilient, moldable ambitious, willing. I am a citizen of the United States of America. I am you and you are me, joined as we.
Together as we, let us once more do great things. Find us the tools then get out of the way. We are the sturdy people that forged a tiny, fragile country by defeating the most powerful military force on the planet. We did it on the strength of an idea. We are the country that invented the light bulb and found a thousand uses for the humble peanut through the vision and persistence of brilliant individuals. We are the country that saved a world at war for democracy twice in a single century through dogged determination and shared sacrifice as a nation. We went to the moon using nothing more sophisticated that a slide rule and vacuum tubes, and watched it, in color, on the TV we invented. We defeated Communism and we showed the world what the future of human relations looks like. It looks like you. It looks like me. It looks like us.
We have an uncanny ability to elevate one among us to great leadership at pivotal moments in our history, and we hope and believe we have done so once again. Make no mistake the challenges are great, as they always are. Save the planet, alleviate poverty, heal the sick, educate the illiterate, seek peace and justice and defend the defenseless. We are ready, eager even, as we always have been, to sacrifice tirelessly for our children's and grandchildren's futures, to scrimp pennies and tackle intolerance. Watch the world be amazed and inspired by how we succeed. Please, give us impossible tasks.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Fallen Brothers
On Halloween night a Seattle police officer was gunned down and his trainee partner wounded by an assailant whose purpose was unknown. The trainee officer managed to get off a round or two at the fleeing vehicle. The alleged killer was wounded and is now in police custody awaiting court proceedings.
November 29th four police officers were assassinated at point blank range at 7:43 a.m. as they sat in a coffeehouse in Lakewood, Washington. They were preparing for their patrol shifts and reviewing the latest Department information on their laptop computers. One officer managed to return fire, wounding the murderer before succumbing to his own wounds. About sixty six hours later a police officer shot and killed the suspect as he reached for a weapon in his waistband. That weapon turned out to be a service pistol taken from one of the dead officers.
Impromptu memorials spontaneously appeared. Hearses carrying flag draped coffins along with mournful processions of hundreds of emergency vehicles followed routes lined with stunned citizens waving flags. Tears streamed down onlookers faces, newscasters choked up and couldn't speak. Emotionally draining memorial services were held in cavernous stadiums filled to capacity with officers from all over the country and the world.
The thin blue line seemed a bit thinner to many, but officers will close ranks and if the line is a bit thinner, its tensile strength is up by an order of magnitude.
I know a bit about cop culture. My father was a charter member of the Idaho State Police. My grandfather on my mother's side was a county Sheriff in Idaho. I have an Administration of Justice certification from Monterey Peninsula College. I've worn a badge. I've even been shot at a couple of times. I don't know by whom on either occasion, but I do know they missed--but not by much. My grandfather retired. Like a lot of Sheriffs in rural areas, he also was a farmer and later a shopkeeper. Law enforcement didn't pay very well, which is why my dad left the force. He just couldn't make ends meet on patrolman's pay with a growing family. The fact that he was the only State Policeman assigned to an area about the size of Delaware may have had a bearing on his decision as well.
My career in law enforcement was truncated by a California initiative. Proposition 13, more commonly known as "The Taxpayers Revolt" rolled back property taxes and caused widespread panic among public budgeteers. Departments froze hiring and laid off new hires (guys like me) until the dust had settled and people realized it wasn't quite the crisis it appeared to be. In the meantime, I, like my father, had to make a living and never did get back to law enforcement.
What did my grandfather, my father and myself have in common with the five officers killed in the last month and half? We all shared the desire for service; the calling to help. We are part of the community; parents, kids, neighbors, friends.
Cops run toward the gunfire so citizens won't have too. Firefighters charge into burning buildings to save those who cannot flee by themselves. They do so willingly, sometimes tragically, to help; to serve.
Mostly, we don't know why we do these things. Some call it altruism, some call it patriotism and some call it lunacy. But for whatever reason the thin blue line is what stands between the darkness and the light. If you hide in the shadows of darkness, beware; my active brothers will work tirelessly to expose you, apprehend you and make the streets safer. If you live in the light, the next time a cop pulls you over, do what he says. And after you've signed the ticket, thank him for his service. For you, you've just paid with a wallet, for us sometimes we pay with our lives.
And from generations past, and those yet to come, I can tell you: We would do it all again.
November 29th four police officers were assassinated at point blank range at 7:43 a.m. as they sat in a coffeehouse in Lakewood, Washington. They were preparing for their patrol shifts and reviewing the latest Department information on their laptop computers. One officer managed to return fire, wounding the murderer before succumbing to his own wounds. About sixty six hours later a police officer shot and killed the suspect as he reached for a weapon in his waistband. That weapon turned out to be a service pistol taken from one of the dead officers.
Impromptu memorials spontaneously appeared. Hearses carrying flag draped coffins along with mournful processions of hundreds of emergency vehicles followed routes lined with stunned citizens waving flags. Tears streamed down onlookers faces, newscasters choked up and couldn't speak. Emotionally draining memorial services were held in cavernous stadiums filled to capacity with officers from all over the country and the world.
The thin blue line seemed a bit thinner to many, but officers will close ranks and if the line is a bit thinner, its tensile strength is up by an order of magnitude.
I know a bit about cop culture. My father was a charter member of the Idaho State Police. My grandfather on my mother's side was a county Sheriff in Idaho. I have an Administration of Justice certification from Monterey Peninsula College. I've worn a badge. I've even been shot at a couple of times. I don't know by whom on either occasion, but I do know they missed--but not by much. My grandfather retired. Like a lot of Sheriffs in rural areas, he also was a farmer and later a shopkeeper. Law enforcement didn't pay very well, which is why my dad left the force. He just couldn't make ends meet on patrolman's pay with a growing family. The fact that he was the only State Policeman assigned to an area about the size of Delaware may have had a bearing on his decision as well.
My career in law enforcement was truncated by a California initiative. Proposition 13, more commonly known as "The Taxpayers Revolt" rolled back property taxes and caused widespread panic among public budgeteers. Departments froze hiring and laid off new hires (guys like me) until the dust had settled and people realized it wasn't quite the crisis it appeared to be. In the meantime, I, like my father, had to make a living and never did get back to law enforcement.
What did my grandfather, my father and myself have in common with the five officers killed in the last month and half? We all shared the desire for service; the calling to help. We are part of the community; parents, kids, neighbors, friends.
Cops run toward the gunfire so citizens won't have too. Firefighters charge into burning buildings to save those who cannot flee by themselves. They do so willingly, sometimes tragically, to help; to serve.
Mostly, we don't know why we do these things. Some call it altruism, some call it patriotism and some call it lunacy. But for whatever reason the thin blue line is what stands between the darkness and the light. If you hide in the shadows of darkness, beware; my active brothers will work tirelessly to expose you, apprehend you and make the streets safer. If you live in the light, the next time a cop pulls you over, do what he says. And after you've signed the ticket, thank him for his service. For you, you've just paid with a wallet, for us sometimes we pay with our lives.
And from generations past, and those yet to come, I can tell you: We would do it all again.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Out of service
Just in case anyone was wondering, I haven't run out of ideas for posts, but my computer is wonkered right now, so I won't be making any entries until it is fixed. Here are some of the things I'm working on at the moment:
Incarcerationville, U.S.A.
Restaurant Reviewing & the Art of the Good Meal
The Substitution Principle
Thanks to all of you who regularly read my posts, I'll be getting back at it when I'm on my own computer with my own resources at hand. Here's a little teaser for you though, I'm working on putting together podcasts of my posts, which will link to a website and my Face Book page. But that is in the new year, and probably a few hours of tech help down the road.
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a joy filled New Year to you all.
Incarcerationville, U.S.A.
Restaurant Reviewing & the Art of the Good Meal
The Substitution Principle
Thanks to all of you who regularly read my posts, I'll be getting back at it when I'm on my own computer with my own resources at hand. Here's a little teaser for you though, I'm working on putting together podcasts of my posts, which will link to a website and my Face Book page. But that is in the new year, and probably a few hours of tech help down the road.
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and a joy filled New Year to you all.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Its in the Genes-Redux
Faithful readers of this blog may recall a post (It's in the Jeans) where I waxed nostalgic about my family and revealed that I was adopted. You should know that there is not a moment in my life when I wasn't aware of my adopted status. My parents thought it was fair for me to know from the beginning. No secrets, no whispered conversations, no big deal. Just a fact shared by millions of adoptees around the world. It was just one of those abstract bits that clog the neural network, like remembering the words to an old song, or recognizing a photo of a long departed movie star.
My adoptive parents loved me, sacrificed for me, worried, fretted, helped and cared deeply. I loved them, cared for them, handled their final affairs and was at their bedside in their last days and grieve for them still in my own way. Their family has always been my family. My childhood recollections are of tolerant grandfathers (both my grandmothers had passed by the time I was born), fishing and hunting trips, family holiday gatherings and never a whiff or suggestion that somehow I didn't belong. I have older sisters. Their kids are my nieces and nephews, and their kids kids are grand nieces and nephews, and one of them adopted. All cherished, all family--my family. So it was completely natural for me that when I married I 'adopted' this new set of relationships, enfolding all the love, heartache, challenges and joys that come with the shared human condition into my life experience.
But in some ways, I've been living a double life. I knew the names of my birth parents and that I had a sister, and as I grew older a few details were fleshed out by my parents. Not much really; in truth after the adoption, there wasn't any contact between the families. Its the way adoption was in the early '50's. No 'visitations' or open adoptions, especially of infants. It explains why my adoptive parents are shown on the birth certificate as my parents. I was a done deal before I was born. A mother in a distressed circumstance needed a home for a baby on the way. There was a hint of scandal in the air regarding my natural father (more on this perhaps, in a later post). My mother's father was a County Sheriff, my father a charter member of the Idaho State Police. They had lost a young child only two years earlier. Fate, kismet, call it what you will; arrangements were made in the way of small, rural towns far out west and I was born Robert Louis Pace. A member of the Pace/nee Davis family from the start, in every way but genetically. But occasionally, there was that moment of daydreaming when I wondered about that other family. That family that shared my genes, that maybe looked like me.
None of those daydreams every consumed a very big part of my thinking. I don't recall ever wondering if my life had been different if I had stayed with my genetic family, because the answer was self-evident. Of course it would; in the same way a left turn will take you someplace different than a right turn. It may be better or worse, but once embarked upon, the alternate will forever be unknown. My life was simply what it was and what I made of it. I had no burning passion to find my missing kin. I was busy living the moment before me, meeting the challenges of the day and reveling (when moments for reflection presented themselves) on the successes of the past. And yes, probably pissing and moaning about the mistakes as well.
My adoptive parents loved me, sacrificed for me, worried, fretted, helped and cared deeply. I loved them, cared for them, handled their final affairs and was at their bedside in their last days and grieve for them still in my own way. Their family has always been my family. My childhood recollections are of tolerant grandfathers (both my grandmothers had passed by the time I was born), fishing and hunting trips, family holiday gatherings and never a whiff or suggestion that somehow I didn't belong. I have older sisters. Their kids are my nieces and nephews, and their kids kids are grand nieces and nephews, and one of them adopted. All cherished, all family--my family. So it was completely natural for me that when I married I 'adopted' this new set of relationships, enfolding all the love, heartache, challenges and joys that come with the shared human condition into my life experience.
But in some ways, I've been living a double life. I knew the names of my birth parents and that I had a sister, and as I grew older a few details were fleshed out by my parents. Not much really; in truth after the adoption, there wasn't any contact between the families. Its the way adoption was in the early '50's. No 'visitations' or open adoptions, especially of infants. It explains why my adoptive parents are shown on the birth certificate as my parents. I was a done deal before I was born. A mother in a distressed circumstance needed a home for a baby on the way. There was a hint of scandal in the air regarding my natural father (more on this perhaps, in a later post). My mother's father was a County Sheriff, my father a charter member of the Idaho State Police. They had lost a young child only two years earlier. Fate, kismet, call it what you will; arrangements were made in the way of small, rural towns far out west and I was born Robert Louis Pace. A member of the Pace/nee Davis family from the start, in every way but genetically. But occasionally, there was that moment of daydreaming when I wondered about that other family. That family that shared my genes, that maybe looked like me.
None of those daydreams every consumed a very big part of my thinking. I don't recall ever wondering if my life had been different if I had stayed with my genetic family, because the answer was self-evident. Of course it would; in the same way a left turn will take you someplace different than a right turn. It may be better or worse, but once embarked upon, the alternate will forever be unknown. My life was simply what it was and what I made of it. I had no burning passion to find my missing kin. I was busy living the moment before me, meeting the challenges of the day and reveling (when moments for reflection presented themselves) on the successes of the past. And yes, probably pissing and moaning about the mistakes as well.
My wife, to whom I have be married nearly half my days and who is more precious to me than the very breath of life, could not, however, imagine how I could have another family out there somewhere in the shrubbery and not be clamoring for more information about them. Early on she accepted that in the twilight of my parents life, I wished to spare them the spectacle of some tearful reunion which might leave them with some degree of angst or regret. They deserved my respect and gratitude for a job well done under difficult circumstances, and I aimed to give it to them.
As years passed, though, little tidbits would find their way into a file. A vacation trip through Idaho to show her my roots turned up puzzle pieces. We spent an hour or so in the tiny village where I was born looking for the hospital. Turns out, I was born in what is now the produce department of a Safeway store. The old hospital had been demolished, a shiny new one had replaced it and suddenly a sense of sand through the hourglass intruded upon my conciousness. A few more years passed as did my parents--and my excuses with them.
Still, I was happy with my family. Those other folks were probably nice enough. But they were just names on a page. Well, names and one photo. My Idaho trip had yielded a photo of my natural father taken a few weeks before I was born. While sharp and detailed, it was clearly not taken on one of his best days. I searched that face for traces of my own. My wife saw them, I couldn't see the forest for the trees, but I've always been bad at that sort of thing. The upshot is that while I understood these names were my family, they weren't really my living family. There were no memories of shared moments, no babysitting nieces, no baseball or football games. No connections. They were strangers, with whom I had nothing in common.
When I posted It's in the Jeans my wife came to me to tell me she had done a little research when I wasn't looking. Spouses can be sneaky that way. I had only been blogging for a little over a month, and had reluctanly opened a Facebook page only a week or so later. Social networking was something my grandkids did. As was texting, Tweeting, My Spacing, 12 Seconding and however many other killer apps about which I know or care nothing. My wife had done a little research: My father had an unusual family first name, my sister's was equally novel; this was information known to me already. Still, I had nothing in common with any of these people.
Until now. Two weeks before my son's wedding I received this response to an email I had sent a day earlier: "Yes Robert I am the W------ that is your sister. I have thought about you all my life, but never tried to find you as I didn't know if you wanted it. This is such a wonderful surprise. Our father's name was C------ and our mother's name is W-----. Please keep in contact." So much information in so few words. My natural father had passed. My natural mother was still living. My sister is out there, somewhere in the shrubbery. Except now she has email, and a Facebook page and reads my blog. Just by reading my blog she knows more about me that I about her. We are strangers still, but somewhere, somehow a starting point must be found, and for me it's still all about the adaptation to adoption. This time I try to adopt my genetic family. It remains to be seen if they are ready to adopt me. Time will tell if I can close this circle in my life, but for now, I suppose it's best to begin at the beginning.
Hi, sis. It's me, your brother Bob.
Friday, November 20, 2009
When Harry met Sully
In truth, this post should have been made before the election. Washington State voters, to their credit, became the only state where civil unions among gays and lesbians were upheld when placed before the voters. Take note of the words 'civil unions', or as it is better known here, the 'everything but marriage' law. It gives domestic partners legal rights and protections which cannot be denied in this state simply because some yokel thinks "this just ain't right".
For once, legislators got it mostly right; but as is more common, for the wrong reason. When Congress sent the Defense Of Marriage Act to Bill Clinton's desk he should have sent it back with a Post-It that said "Bubba sez no", even knowing his veto would have been overridden.
Here's why: At its root, marriage has always been a ritual steeped in tribal culture. Over time with the advance of organized society it became a religious ceremony, culminating in the variants we see today. With the advent of written law and codification of legal obligations it morphed again into something with real-life implications for everyone living in modern society.
Therein lies the rub, and the opportunity. Imagine for a moment that civilization could turn back the clock to that point where religion and law began to go their separate ways: The rules and customs of the church(s) governed the behavior of the faithful; civil law recognized and governed a larger populace that didn't necessarily agree on religious tenets. At that moment the logical thing would have been to leave marriage as a religious ceremony, with rights and responsibilities within the church; and let a secular government establish rules for civil unions that allowed for two consenting adults to enter into a contractual arrangement that spoke to the needs of modern lawmaking in a constitutionally secular legal system.
Okay, fine. How would that help us now? Among other things it would have rendered DOMA irrelevant. States would be obligated to recognize contracts entered into by parties from other states as required by Article IV, Sections 1 & 2 of the U.S. Constitution (which, in my humble and decidedly unscholarly opinion, renders DOMA unconstitutional). Gays, lesbians, muffin bakers, candlestick makers, zoo keepers and even internet posters could create boilerplate legal contracts to protect their rights. Go to the courthouse, get the contract form, sign it in the presence of witnesses and bingo, on with your lives together.
You want to shout Hellfire and Damnation from the Pulpit? Knock yourself out, but understand you have no legal authority to intervene. Another faith wants to enfold these couples--no problem--have your marriage ceremony with the understanding that it carries no legal authority outside the church.
This is where we fell short. We let the wisdom of the Founders...well, founder. We have allowed religious doctrine to infiltrate what should be straightforward secular governance. We have created angry schisms instead of reaching back for guidance. It was clear from the beginning that running a government for disparate peoples couldn't work from the dictates of the church--any church--and current events prove it still.
The increasing radicalization of the right by fear mongers, opportunists and outright liars is creating a pitchforks and shotguns mob mentality of the ill-informed set to storm the castle. History shows time and again that the tactics of the Glen Becks, Michelle Malkins and Rush Limbaughs of the world enjoy short term success in uncertain and worrisome times but ultimately the fall from grace is spectacular, and well deserved. Look no further than Lou 'all our problems come from illegal aliens' Dobbs.
Those of us on the Right that actually think about what our Constitution intends (you might want to read my first post, '52 Words), recognize that perfecting the Union takes real work. Equality is still just a phantom for far too many citizens and that means we need to roll up our sleeves and get back to work. How about a new party? I think I'll call it the Rational Republic Party and adopt the Mobius strip as our political symbol. What do you think? Wanna join?
For once, legislators got it mostly right; but as is more common, for the wrong reason. When Congress sent the Defense Of Marriage Act to Bill Clinton's desk he should have sent it back with a Post-It that said "Bubba sez no", even knowing his veto would have been overridden.
Here's why: At its root, marriage has always been a ritual steeped in tribal culture. Over time with the advance of organized society it became a religious ceremony, culminating in the variants we see today. With the advent of written law and codification of legal obligations it morphed again into something with real-life implications for everyone living in modern society.
Therein lies the rub, and the opportunity. Imagine for a moment that civilization could turn back the clock to that point where religion and law began to go their separate ways: The rules and customs of the church(s) governed the behavior of the faithful; civil law recognized and governed a larger populace that didn't necessarily agree on religious tenets. At that moment the logical thing would have been to leave marriage as a religious ceremony, with rights and responsibilities within the church; and let a secular government establish rules for civil unions that allowed for two consenting adults to enter into a contractual arrangement that spoke to the needs of modern lawmaking in a constitutionally secular legal system.
Okay, fine. How would that help us now? Among other things it would have rendered DOMA irrelevant. States would be obligated to recognize contracts entered into by parties from other states as required by Article IV, Sections 1 & 2 of the U.S. Constitution (which, in my humble and decidedly unscholarly opinion, renders DOMA unconstitutional). Gays, lesbians, muffin bakers, candlestick makers, zoo keepers and even internet posters could create boilerplate legal contracts to protect their rights. Go to the courthouse, get the contract form, sign it in the presence of witnesses and bingo, on with your lives together.
You want to shout Hellfire and Damnation from the Pulpit? Knock yourself out, but understand you have no legal authority to intervene. Another faith wants to enfold these couples--no problem--have your marriage ceremony with the understanding that it carries no legal authority outside the church.
This is where we fell short. We let the wisdom of the Founders...well, founder. We have allowed religious doctrine to infiltrate what should be straightforward secular governance. We have created angry schisms instead of reaching back for guidance. It was clear from the beginning that running a government for disparate peoples couldn't work from the dictates of the church--any church--and current events prove it still.
The increasing radicalization of the right by fear mongers, opportunists and outright liars is creating a pitchforks and shotguns mob mentality of the ill-informed set to storm the castle. History shows time and again that the tactics of the Glen Becks, Michelle Malkins and Rush Limbaughs of the world enjoy short term success in uncertain and worrisome times but ultimately the fall from grace is spectacular, and well deserved. Look no further than Lou 'all our problems come from illegal aliens' Dobbs.
Those of us on the Right that actually think about what our Constitution intends (you might want to read my first post, '52 Words), recognize that perfecting the Union takes real work. Equality is still just a phantom for far too many citizens and that means we need to roll up our sleeves and get back to work. How about a new party? I think I'll call it the Rational Republic Party and adopt the Mobius strip as our political symbol. What do you think? Wanna join?
Thursday, November 12, 2009
I've been a little busy...
Marrying off my eldest son to a wonderful woman, showing friends from London around our neck of the woods and a few other errands irrelevant even to Fbook. Fear not, though, soon I will have something to say about a few things political rattling around in my skull, and other thoughts as well. In the mean time, here's a little piece to tide you over from my short story archives.
The Tower
It was a perfect plan. Discussed at length, examined from every angle. It accounted for each contingency and even had a complete back-up plan just to be thorough. Supplies had been quietly acquired over the last year and training sessions conducted. Three dry-runs had been initiated and successfully executed. It was a perfect plan and tomorrow was launch day.
In study hall students in the loop exchanged smug glances, secure in the knowledge that a Senior Prank that would achieve immortality was only hours away.
I gazed out the window idly studying the trees unfolding shiny new sets of bright green leaves. It was a warm late-May day and I was distant and disconnected from the classroom in the way only a high school senior days away from graduation can be. Without conscious thought, I was confident in the role my particular skills would play in tonight’s effort.
Springtime in the Magic Valley of southern Idaho is a busy time. The fertile volcanic soil is released from its winter freeze and manipulated by busy tractors planting sugar beets and potatoes, corn and dry beans, alfalfa and Timothy hay. A little later in the year, watermelons and cantaloupe would ripen to sweet perfection in the sun-drenched Hagerman valley of the Snake River.
Actually, it was all this activity that lent itself to our plan. Farmers and farmhands alike rose early and stayed home in the evenings. Not many would be in our town’s three bars this time of year, and the town deputy would be sleeping in his patrol car at Gary’s Gas & Go where Main Street and Highway 30 crossed. This intersection sported the only traffic light within five miles, flashing red for Main Street traffic and yellow for Highway 30. Walter was as regular as a twenty dollar railroad watch and could be counted on to be snoring loudly by ten-thirty. Everyone in town knew this and if his services were ever needed, someone would go rouse him. He was rarely disturbed.
Overnight Tuesday into Wednesday had been chosen. Too many family obligations on Sunday what with church and all, and Monday to Tuesday left us open to retaliation by the school board. After Tuesday though, we seniors had fulfilled our last obligatory day to the state and the printed diplomas would have arrived. We were home free Wednesday morning.
Virtually everyone knew the open secret that Wednesday was Senior Sneak anyway, and some of us had been planning this since we were sophomores.
The last bell rang for the final tedious time and I sauntered out of the school and walked the block and a half to my Dad’s tavern. Kip walked with me—he was my best friend—and my assistant for the night.
“Hi, Dad,” I said as I breezed through the door. “What’s new?”
“Think I’ll close early tonight,” he replied.
I took a quick survey; Donnie was at the bar on his regular stool, clearly having had an early start today. He would stagger home by nine o’clock for sure. A middle-aged couple, probably at least in their late twenties, sat at a table near the front window nursing a couple of beers and chatting while a few uneaten slices of congealed pizza curled up on the serving tray. They would be gone in twenty minutes.
“Yeah, what time you think?” I asked.
“Probably about ten, I called Ernie and Red and they’re both dead too.”
It was an unwritten code in this three block town (each block with its own bar) that if one decided to close early everybody closed at the same time. It seemed only fair and it kept any one owner from having to manage all the town drunks single-handedly. You’d be surprised how many drunks one small farm town could produce. Well, maybe you wouldn’t.
“Kip & I thought we’d go plink some jack rabbits then maybe go fishin’ down where Rock Creek comes into the river. Probably camp overnight.” This was an altogether common practice for Kip and I, so Dad thought nothing of it.
“Sneak tomorrow?” He winked.
“Just a rumor, Dad, just a rumor.”
“You guys want something to eat before your go?”
“Sure!” I said enthusiastically. I had just turned eighteen and food was second only to sex at the forefront of my cerebral cortex, “Kip?”
Kip thought for a moment then said, “mushroom, beef & onion pizza.”
“One track mind,” I jibed. “I’ve know you three years and it’s the only thing you’ve ever had here.”
“Consistency,” he countered, “is the hallmark of an organized mind.”
“Or one with the needle stuck in the groove,” I retorted, “Ham & Swiss on rye and a bowl of chili, Dad.”
Kip and I walked past the end of the bar, around the corner through the dance lounge, and into the storeroom where a rather commodious space had been allowed for my work bench. After four days of pulling rogues from bean fields three years ago, and a spasmodic effort at picking potatoes one autumn, I had befriended an art teacher. He painted signs for extra money and I had studiously apprenticed him. I made a lot more money and it was a damn sight less strenuous than working the fields. It wasn’t that I was lazy, just that I was smart. Well, a little lazy too, I suppose.
There between the cases of beer and chili and behind the twenty five pound bags of popping corn and five gallon cans of popcorn oil was my sign shop.
Over the last week I had moved the brushes & rollers I would need for tonight. All that remained was to take the pounce patterns and I would be ready.
Kip and I unrolled the huge banner and gazed at the perforated outline of letters and a picture.
“Are they big enough?” Kip wondered aloud.
“Seven foot caps, five foot lower case. Easily read from at least two miles, maybe more,” I replied. Dad came into the store room as I was rolling the last banner.
“Your food is ready.” He glanced at the enormous roll of paper.
“Johnson Lumber,” I lied smoothly. “Saturday and Sunday probably, I was showing Kip before I put them in the truck.”
“Oh, well eat your food while it’s still hot.”
“Right there, Dad,” I replied.
“Wow,” Kip intoned. “That was close!”
“Naw, Dads' seen dozens of these by now, he could care less. C’mon, let’s eat.” We voraciously pounded down the proffered food like only teenage boys can then we gathered up what we needed for the night and headed out to the truck.
“What are you gonna shoot?” Dad asked.
“I’m taking the Winchester pump,” I said. That was a 15 shot .22 caliber genuine Model 1894 pump action rifle with a checkered walnut stock and slide action, and a trigger pull as smooth as glass. “Kips’ gonna use his over/under and his pistol.” My friend had an unusual firearm. A two barreled affair with a .22 caliber rifle on top and a 410 gauge shotgun below. He also had an eight shot .22 caliber Ruger pistol. He was a great shot at moving targets, easily nailing everything at which he shot . However, standing still, right in front of his gun was the safest place on the planet a critter could be. That was my area of expertise and between us no creature in reasonable range was safe.
There wasn’t anywhere in particular to be for the next few hours so Kip and I actually went to Rock Creek and did a little fishing. We snagged a few squawfish suckers and tossed them up the bank for the magpies, but caught nothing worth keeping so about half an hour before sunset we headed back toward town.
We met some of our classmates at the warehouse of Steve’s father’s painting business; Industrial Painting and Coatings. Over the last two years Steve had been accumulating the required supplies in a dusty backwater of the huge building. Under the old tarpaulin was nearly three hundred gallons of industrial enamel paint; nearly two tons worth. Steve was on a forklift loading the pallets of paint onto one of the three trucks we would be using that night. Fred and George, both of whom worked for Steve’s dad after school and in the summers, were loading slings, harnesses and belts onto the pressure truck along with the four power lifts that would be used to transport all these supplies to their final destination. I tossed my patterns and other equipment in the back of the one of the trucks and ambled over to Steve.
“How long will it take to get set-up once we get there?”
Steve stopped loading for a moment, “About an hour if we don’t attract any unwanted attention.” We had not been what you might call friendly during our high school careers, but this was a unifying moment for everyone, so petty differences were temporarily held in abeyance. Besides, school was over, and after tonight the only time I had to revisit these losers was graduation day.
“Don’t forget to shoot my areas first, and don’t forget to add the drier. As it is, I’ll be the last one up there in the middle of the night,” I reminded him.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get your precious spots painted first, and I’ve already mixed the drier in the paint. It should be fully workable in two hours. You’re not painting the Mona Lisa up there, yah know. Just whip it out and get down as fast as you can.”
“Nonetheless, I do take a certain pride in my work,” I countered, slightly miffed.
“So do we butt wipe.” The forklift swung back into action as Kip and I left the warehouse headed for the next rendezvous point.
Tanya had the life most of us wanted. Her father was the town doctor and lived in the biggest house with the biggest lawn and the longest Cadillac. They actually went on real vacations to places where they stayed in motels, not with relatives. In other words, they were rich, rich, rich. Most of the girls from the class were there and a few of the boys who lacked technical skills, or even coordination for that matter, and were therefore considered a danger to themselves and others for this project. We breezed in with the update.
“Steve says about an hour to move the stuff, another hour for rigging and set-up, so about ten before anything really starts. Kip and me can’t really get to our part probably until about two a.m. I’m not worried about us though, the real coverage will be most important till about one I think. After that everybody should be asleep. I just hope nobody hears all the equipment and racket from tearing down the set-ups.”
“What about setting up” Tanya asked, “won’t people be more likely to hear that?”
“Yeah, but that’s the beauty of the plan. Everybody knows the I P C trucks. They’re around setting up jobsites all the time. No one will give it a second thought, especially with Steve’s dad out of town unexpectedly.”
“Yes, that was a bit of good luck,” Tanya agreed.
“Hey, where are your parents, Tanya.” Melanie was seldom heard from. She was shy and unattractive. With mousey hair and a sharply pointed nose to go along with pimply skin and an overbite with a weak chin, she was the unofficial spokesman of the female Outcasts. Every class has such a group, one for the girls and one for the boys. That she and her friends were here at all was evidence of the importance of the event at hand.
“Bridge night in Twin, they won’t be back before midnight. Besides, they think we will all be gone on sneak anyway. They won’t worry about me.”
“I wish I could be gone all night,” Melanie whined. “My parents would have the Sheriff dredging the river for my body if I weren’t home by eleven.”
“That’s good though, tonight,” I said. “It’s important that at least some of us appear to have a completely normal night; really important to all of us.”
“Thanks Bob. Nice try.”
“No, really, it’s an important thing.”
“Okay, I suppose.”
“Beside,” Tanya observed, “after about three a.m. you sneak out anyway and head for the City of Rocks.”
“Well, let’s review our assignments and get going.” Alan was the nerdiest of all the seniors, and perhaps all of humankind. He actually understood calculus. He actually carried a small slide rule in his pocket and knew how to use it; his pocket protector protected a pocket filled with pens and mechanical pencils. “And let’s not travel around like a herd of buffalo either, that would seem very unnatural.” As the consensus deep thinker of the class we did precisely as he directed and after having reviewed our assignments and wholly unnecessarily synchronizing our respective watches we drifted out to our stations to bide our time.
It was useful that the target of our work was located away from any residences in what passed for the industrial part of our tiny village. By ten Steve and his crew were fully set up and had begun the frantic work that would consume them for most of the night. Kip and I helped where we could, mostly keeping sprayers loaded with paint and yards of hoses untangled. About 1 a.m. my special materials were hoisted skyward and secured to the railing and Kip and I began the long ladder ascent to our goal.
By a little after two we had the pounce pattern in place and the two of us dusted the blue chalk on the perforations that would leave an outline for us to follow when the pattern was removed. Next we set up the paint and while I painted the edgework my partner followed along with a roller to fill in the outline. It took a little longer than I expected and Steve was completely unrigged and had left the site by the time we put on the finishing touches.
The first streaks of daylight were appearing in the eastern horizon as we lowered first our equipment and then ourselves back to ground level. We were cutting it much closer than I had expected—or wanted—as farm traffic was already beginning to stir. By now someone had almost certainly seen our handiwork, so we crammed our stuff in the pickup and left down the alley and out the back way from town. We got to the City of Rocks about an hour later, had a couple of beers with our friends and promptly fell fast asleep.
It was a busy few days before graduation. The school board had a special session. So did the City Council. Then they met together, which wasn’t too difficult since about half the members were on both bodies. In the end, after lots of head scratching and hand wringing the conclusion was that there wasn’t much to be done, so that’s what they did, nothing.
Graduation day dawned gloriously in our little community. About noon all the graduating seniors had donned robes and mortarboards and were sitting on folding chairs on the football field facing friends and family in the bleachers just across the track. One by one our names were called into the tinny P A system and we marched across to receive our diplomas, sneaking a peek at our handiwork which served as the backdrop to the proceedings and the real focal point of the audience this year.
Towering one hundred twenty feet over the city was a now shocking pink water tower, complete with blinking red light on top. Emblazoned on both sides in Chinese red were AMBERLY, then, Class of ’70 and the school mascot bulldog.
It had been the considered opinion of the relevant boards that the water tower had needed painting and while pink wouldn’t have been the first choice it was well done and the signage was. . . .well, professional, so they left it. Ten years later at our first reunion it was still that way and had earned the nickname we had all so earnestly hoped for. Amberly was the proud home of the Titty Tank.
The Tower
It was a perfect plan. Discussed at length, examined from every angle. It accounted for each contingency and even had a complete back-up plan just to be thorough. Supplies had been quietly acquired over the last year and training sessions conducted. Three dry-runs had been initiated and successfully executed. It was a perfect plan and tomorrow was launch day.
In study hall students in the loop exchanged smug glances, secure in the knowledge that a Senior Prank that would achieve immortality was only hours away.
I gazed out the window idly studying the trees unfolding shiny new sets of bright green leaves. It was a warm late-May day and I was distant and disconnected from the classroom in the way only a high school senior days away from graduation can be. Without conscious thought, I was confident in the role my particular skills would play in tonight’s effort.
Springtime in the Magic Valley of southern Idaho is a busy time. The fertile volcanic soil is released from its winter freeze and manipulated by busy tractors planting sugar beets and potatoes, corn and dry beans, alfalfa and Timothy hay. A little later in the year, watermelons and cantaloupe would ripen to sweet perfection in the sun-drenched Hagerman valley of the Snake River.
Actually, it was all this activity that lent itself to our plan. Farmers and farmhands alike rose early and stayed home in the evenings. Not many would be in our town’s three bars this time of year, and the town deputy would be sleeping in his patrol car at Gary’s Gas & Go where Main Street and Highway 30 crossed. This intersection sported the only traffic light within five miles, flashing red for Main Street traffic and yellow for Highway 30. Walter was as regular as a twenty dollar railroad watch and could be counted on to be snoring loudly by ten-thirty. Everyone in town knew this and if his services were ever needed, someone would go rouse him. He was rarely disturbed.
Overnight Tuesday into Wednesday had been chosen. Too many family obligations on Sunday what with church and all, and Monday to Tuesday left us open to retaliation by the school board. After Tuesday though, we seniors had fulfilled our last obligatory day to the state and the printed diplomas would have arrived. We were home free Wednesday morning.
Virtually everyone knew the open secret that Wednesday was Senior Sneak anyway, and some of us had been planning this since we were sophomores.
The last bell rang for the final tedious time and I sauntered out of the school and walked the block and a half to my Dad’s tavern. Kip walked with me—he was my best friend—and my assistant for the night.
“Hi, Dad,” I said as I breezed through the door. “What’s new?”
“Think I’ll close early tonight,” he replied.
I took a quick survey; Donnie was at the bar on his regular stool, clearly having had an early start today. He would stagger home by nine o’clock for sure. A middle-aged couple, probably at least in their late twenties, sat at a table near the front window nursing a couple of beers and chatting while a few uneaten slices of congealed pizza curled up on the serving tray. They would be gone in twenty minutes.
“Yeah, what time you think?” I asked.
“Probably about ten, I called Ernie and Red and they’re both dead too.”
It was an unwritten code in this three block town (each block with its own bar) that if one decided to close early everybody closed at the same time. It seemed only fair and it kept any one owner from having to manage all the town drunks single-handedly. You’d be surprised how many drunks one small farm town could produce. Well, maybe you wouldn’t.
“Kip & I thought we’d go plink some jack rabbits then maybe go fishin’ down where Rock Creek comes into the river. Probably camp overnight.” This was an altogether common practice for Kip and I, so Dad thought nothing of it.
“Sneak tomorrow?” He winked.
“Just a rumor, Dad, just a rumor.”
“You guys want something to eat before your go?”
“Sure!” I said enthusiastically. I had just turned eighteen and food was second only to sex at the forefront of my cerebral cortex, “Kip?”
Kip thought for a moment then said, “mushroom, beef & onion pizza.”
“One track mind,” I jibed. “I’ve know you three years and it’s the only thing you’ve ever had here.”
“Consistency,” he countered, “is the hallmark of an organized mind.”
“Or one with the needle stuck in the groove,” I retorted, “Ham & Swiss on rye and a bowl of chili, Dad.”
Kip and I walked past the end of the bar, around the corner through the dance lounge, and into the storeroom where a rather commodious space had been allowed for my work bench. After four days of pulling rogues from bean fields three years ago, and a spasmodic effort at picking potatoes one autumn, I had befriended an art teacher. He painted signs for extra money and I had studiously apprenticed him. I made a lot more money and it was a damn sight less strenuous than working the fields. It wasn’t that I was lazy, just that I was smart. Well, a little lazy too, I suppose.
There between the cases of beer and chili and behind the twenty five pound bags of popping corn and five gallon cans of popcorn oil was my sign shop.
Over the last week I had moved the brushes & rollers I would need for tonight. All that remained was to take the pounce patterns and I would be ready.
Kip and I unrolled the huge banner and gazed at the perforated outline of letters and a picture.
“Are they big enough?” Kip wondered aloud.
“Seven foot caps, five foot lower case. Easily read from at least two miles, maybe more,” I replied. Dad came into the store room as I was rolling the last banner.
“Your food is ready.” He glanced at the enormous roll of paper.
“Johnson Lumber,” I lied smoothly. “Saturday and Sunday probably, I was showing Kip before I put them in the truck.”
“Oh, well eat your food while it’s still hot.”
“Right there, Dad,” I replied.
“Wow,” Kip intoned. “That was close!”
“Naw, Dads' seen dozens of these by now, he could care less. C’mon, let’s eat.” We voraciously pounded down the proffered food like only teenage boys can then we gathered up what we needed for the night and headed out to the truck.
“What are you gonna shoot?” Dad asked.
“I’m taking the Winchester pump,” I said. That was a 15 shot .22 caliber genuine Model 1894 pump action rifle with a checkered walnut stock and slide action, and a trigger pull as smooth as glass. “Kips’ gonna use his over/under and his pistol.” My friend had an unusual firearm. A two barreled affair with a .22 caliber rifle on top and a 410 gauge shotgun below. He also had an eight shot .22 caliber Ruger pistol. He was a great shot at moving targets, easily nailing everything at which he shot . However, standing still, right in front of his gun was the safest place on the planet a critter could be. That was my area of expertise and between us no creature in reasonable range was safe.
There wasn’t anywhere in particular to be for the next few hours so Kip and I actually went to Rock Creek and did a little fishing. We snagged a few squawfish suckers and tossed them up the bank for the magpies, but caught nothing worth keeping so about half an hour before sunset we headed back toward town.
We met some of our classmates at the warehouse of Steve’s father’s painting business; Industrial Painting and Coatings. Over the last two years Steve had been accumulating the required supplies in a dusty backwater of the huge building. Under the old tarpaulin was nearly three hundred gallons of industrial enamel paint; nearly two tons worth. Steve was on a forklift loading the pallets of paint onto one of the three trucks we would be using that night. Fred and George, both of whom worked for Steve’s dad after school and in the summers, were loading slings, harnesses and belts onto the pressure truck along with the four power lifts that would be used to transport all these supplies to their final destination. I tossed my patterns and other equipment in the back of the one of the trucks and ambled over to Steve.
“How long will it take to get set-up once we get there?”
Steve stopped loading for a moment, “About an hour if we don’t attract any unwanted attention.” We had not been what you might call friendly during our high school careers, but this was a unifying moment for everyone, so petty differences were temporarily held in abeyance. Besides, school was over, and after tonight the only time I had to revisit these losers was graduation day.
“Don’t forget to shoot my areas first, and don’t forget to add the drier. As it is, I’ll be the last one up there in the middle of the night,” I reminded him.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get your precious spots painted first, and I’ve already mixed the drier in the paint. It should be fully workable in two hours. You’re not painting the Mona Lisa up there, yah know. Just whip it out and get down as fast as you can.”
“Nonetheless, I do take a certain pride in my work,” I countered, slightly miffed.
“So do we butt wipe.” The forklift swung back into action as Kip and I left the warehouse headed for the next rendezvous point.
Tanya had the life most of us wanted. Her father was the town doctor and lived in the biggest house with the biggest lawn and the longest Cadillac. They actually went on real vacations to places where they stayed in motels, not with relatives. In other words, they were rich, rich, rich. Most of the girls from the class were there and a few of the boys who lacked technical skills, or even coordination for that matter, and were therefore considered a danger to themselves and others for this project. We breezed in with the update.
“Steve says about an hour to move the stuff, another hour for rigging and set-up, so about ten before anything really starts. Kip and me can’t really get to our part probably until about two a.m. I’m not worried about us though, the real coverage will be most important till about one I think. After that everybody should be asleep. I just hope nobody hears all the equipment and racket from tearing down the set-ups.”
“What about setting up” Tanya asked, “won’t people be more likely to hear that?”
“Yeah, but that’s the beauty of the plan. Everybody knows the I P C trucks. They’re around setting up jobsites all the time. No one will give it a second thought, especially with Steve’s dad out of town unexpectedly.”
“Yes, that was a bit of good luck,” Tanya agreed.
“Hey, where are your parents, Tanya.” Melanie was seldom heard from. She was shy and unattractive. With mousey hair and a sharply pointed nose to go along with pimply skin and an overbite with a weak chin, she was the unofficial spokesman of the female Outcasts. Every class has such a group, one for the girls and one for the boys. That she and her friends were here at all was evidence of the importance of the event at hand.
“Bridge night in Twin, they won’t be back before midnight. Besides, they think we will all be gone on sneak anyway. They won’t worry about me.”
“I wish I could be gone all night,” Melanie whined. “My parents would have the Sheriff dredging the river for my body if I weren’t home by eleven.”
“That’s good though, tonight,” I said. “It’s important that at least some of us appear to have a completely normal night; really important to all of us.”
“Thanks Bob. Nice try.”
“No, really, it’s an important thing.”
“Okay, I suppose.”
“Beside,” Tanya observed, “after about three a.m. you sneak out anyway and head for the City of Rocks.”
“Well, let’s review our assignments and get going.” Alan was the nerdiest of all the seniors, and perhaps all of humankind. He actually understood calculus. He actually carried a small slide rule in his pocket and knew how to use it; his pocket protector protected a pocket filled with pens and mechanical pencils. “And let’s not travel around like a herd of buffalo either, that would seem very unnatural.” As the consensus deep thinker of the class we did precisely as he directed and after having reviewed our assignments and wholly unnecessarily synchronizing our respective watches we drifted out to our stations to bide our time.
It was useful that the target of our work was located away from any residences in what passed for the industrial part of our tiny village. By ten Steve and his crew were fully set up and had begun the frantic work that would consume them for most of the night. Kip and I helped where we could, mostly keeping sprayers loaded with paint and yards of hoses untangled. About 1 a.m. my special materials were hoisted skyward and secured to the railing and Kip and I began the long ladder ascent to our goal.
By a little after two we had the pounce pattern in place and the two of us dusted the blue chalk on the perforations that would leave an outline for us to follow when the pattern was removed. Next we set up the paint and while I painted the edgework my partner followed along with a roller to fill in the outline. It took a little longer than I expected and Steve was completely unrigged and had left the site by the time we put on the finishing touches.
The first streaks of daylight were appearing in the eastern horizon as we lowered first our equipment and then ourselves back to ground level. We were cutting it much closer than I had expected—or wanted—as farm traffic was already beginning to stir. By now someone had almost certainly seen our handiwork, so we crammed our stuff in the pickup and left down the alley and out the back way from town. We got to the City of Rocks about an hour later, had a couple of beers with our friends and promptly fell fast asleep.
It was a busy few days before graduation. The school board had a special session. So did the City Council. Then they met together, which wasn’t too difficult since about half the members were on both bodies. In the end, after lots of head scratching and hand wringing the conclusion was that there wasn’t much to be done, so that’s what they did, nothing.
Graduation day dawned gloriously in our little community. About noon all the graduating seniors had donned robes and mortarboards and were sitting on folding chairs on the football field facing friends and family in the bleachers just across the track. One by one our names were called into the tinny P A system and we marched across to receive our diplomas, sneaking a peek at our handiwork which served as the backdrop to the proceedings and the real focal point of the audience this year.
Towering one hundred twenty feet over the city was a now shocking pink water tower, complete with blinking red light on top. Emblazoned on both sides in Chinese red were AMBERLY, then, Class of ’70 and the school mascot bulldog.
It had been the considered opinion of the relevant boards that the water tower had needed painting and while pink wouldn’t have been the first choice it was well done and the signage was. . . .well, professional, so they left it. Ten years later at our first reunion it was still that way and had earned the nickname we had all so earnestly hoped for. Amberly was the proud home of the Titty Tank.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Back by Popular Demand
Owing to the overwhelming demand for another short story, here y'all go.
Another Late Night
“I didn’t hear you come in last night, Fred.”
“Damn right you didn’t, Lady. I still have skills.”
“Another night skulking around town?” she asked.
“Yeah, found a great new bistro. Not too far away, fabulous food. Dining alfresco is wonderful in the summer: And the girls; oh my, the girls.” Fred slicked his hair back behind his ear.
“You get any action?”
“That’s a rather indiscreet question, don’t you think?”
“Well, I don’t get out much anymore. I sort of live vicariously through you.”
“Yes, since the operation…” Fred let the sentence trail off, then he sauntered over and whispered in her ear, “but since you ask, I’ll say this; it was a hot night and some screaming was heard in the neighborhood.”
“Yeah,” she replied dreamily. “I remember a few nights like that out with the boys myself.”
“What about them?” Fred asked, nodding toward the bed.
“Nothing much, he snores, she goes to the bathroom every hour.”
“Still with the huge stomach?”
“Yep, I don’t know what’s up with that. They never tell us a damn thing. I think she should have a doctor look at that.”
“Relax, girl. If it were serious we would know. She’s a big girl; she can take care of herself.” Fred arched his back in a stretch and a yawn. “Well, I’m gonna hit the sack. I need my strength for tomorrow night.”
I suppose you’re right, good night, Fred.”
“G’nite, kiddo.” Fred hopped up onto the bed and found a nice warm spot in the small of the back of the sleeping woman.
She roused slightly, threw her arm back and scratched Fred behind the ears. “Stupid cat,” she murmured, “been out all night again?” Fred purred loudly.
Lady circled three times in her bed on the floor then curled up and went back to sleep.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
It's in the Jeans
Married life is much like white-water rafting. In the beginning there is uncertainty mixed with great expectations. Toss in a dash of trepidation and a generous pinch of exhilaration and the stage is set. Then you get in the boat and begin the journey. You start in fairly calm waters, then a few ripples rock the boat and pretty soon, great founts of water are crashing over you as you slam headlong into rocks and swirl around in eddy traps. Most times you float into placid waters again, life settles down and the business of simply getting through the rough patches and enjoying the scenery when you can, proceeds at the pace of the river.
Sometimes the raft is overturned. You find yourself in over your head, gasping for breath, flailing for something to cling to to survive. When you are very lucky someone grabs your hand and saves you. Your are luckier still if that hand belongs to your spouse. I'm the luckiest man alive, and I have the family to prove it.
Recently I have had reason to reflect on family life. The precipitating occasions for this introspection are two-fold. First is the passing of the torch from one generation to the next, and with it, all the memorabilia and family treasures reaching back more than a century. The second is the imminent nuptials of my eldest son.
In the first case, the care needs of the nearby Patriarch and Matriarch precipitated a change in their living circumstances to allow for more care and less room. This in turn created a need to begin the difficult process of winnowing the accumulated treasures packed carefully away in boxes and bins, files and folders, and sometimes just piles and pillboxes. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of photos to sort.
We all have them. Shoeboxes of snapshots, racks of slides, old albums with black and white Box Brownie snaps of people in front of old houses and old cars. People we don't recognize, places we don't remember, events erased from our memories, or just faded, like the photos. Moments frozen in time, collected for a posterity that will not want or understand them.
Many of these photos, along with newspaper clippings and old yearbooks, antimacassars and doilies, and favored dollies and souvenirs are deeply meaningful to our elders. The old cars and houses weren't old when they were photographed. The elders remember riding in the autos and running through the screen doors into kitchens smelling of freshly baked bread. They recall sitting in the chair protected with the antimacassar and the vase with the doily underneath. These were the homes and family of their youth, more vivid in their memory now than last night's supper. When they are gone that link will be broken, so while they are still with us we work to get a name attached to a face and a date and with great effort sometimes even an address. Someday, we assure ourselves, we will put together a proper record. Someday is so easy, and so distant and so comfortable; and so it goes that the demands of everyday life overtake us until someday we will be the Elders, needing less space and more care. We will be the ones struggling to put names to faces and places. We will be living vividly in our past.
Which brings me to the second case; imminent nuptials. I remember well excoriating a teacher on behalf of my eldest son when she casually and wholly erroneously charged him with a grievous scholarly sin. I remember playing a role in a movie he was making with a friend. I remember the birth of my first grandchild. I rub the scars of fixing cars and the more recent scabs of porches and railings. I look at photos of all these events and I am glad to be a thread in the life we all weave together.
It was a patient explanation my youngest son gave me when he was six. The roly-poly bugs were cold outside and needed a warm place to stay. This shoe box under the bed, he opined would be just right. His indignation was righteous when his good deed was underappreciated as the sow bugs made an abrupt departure to the garden. To this day his heart is moved by the plight of misfortune and injustice. He strives to make a difference as an educator and a thoughtful human being. Another life, another thread and there I am, part of the warp and weft.
My daughter wants to fix broken things; mostly broken hearts. She wants to rescue every puppy that needs a home, feed every hungry cat in the neighborhood and find a quiet place in a sunny window of her brain into which she can retreat. She has told me things which troubled her that she hasn't told another soul because she knows she can trust me. I cannot begin to explain what a gift that is and how valuable beyond measure it is to me. I am incapable of betraying such trust, yet I weave it still into the cloth.
My wife and I belong to what has been labeled the 'sandwich' generation. We care for the elders while managing our own lives and helping where we can with our children and grandchildren. We share the joys and shoulder the burdens willingly, knowing that each generation gets it's own turn as the filling of the sandwich. It is the richness of the fabric of family. We get tired and discouraged; we're only human, after all. But we carry on looking forward to better days and times and gazing backward to happy memories and preparing to introduce a bright new thread at the wedding.
Family and friends will gather from near and far, tears will be shed, joy will be shared, children will be embarrassed by old stories, bread will be broken and glasses raised in salute. I will be with my beautiful bride and her parents, my children and grandchildren, and our friends and our children's friends. Together we will weave just a bit more of this tapestry we call family.
It is particularly fitting for me personally; I was adopted as a child, never to know my birth family. So too was I adopted by this family; taken in, loved and embraced without so much as a single shared gene. Despite what you see in the movies, I'm pleased as punch to be a stepdad.
Sometimes the raft is overturned. You find yourself in over your head, gasping for breath, flailing for something to cling to to survive. When you are very lucky someone grabs your hand and saves you. Your are luckier still if that hand belongs to your spouse. I'm the luckiest man alive, and I have the family to prove it.
Recently I have had reason to reflect on family life. The precipitating occasions for this introspection are two-fold. First is the passing of the torch from one generation to the next, and with it, all the memorabilia and family treasures reaching back more than a century. The second is the imminent nuptials of my eldest son.
In the first case, the care needs of the nearby Patriarch and Matriarch precipitated a change in their living circumstances to allow for more care and less room. This in turn created a need to begin the difficult process of winnowing the accumulated treasures packed carefully away in boxes and bins, files and folders, and sometimes just piles and pillboxes. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of photos to sort.
We all have them. Shoeboxes of snapshots, racks of slides, old albums with black and white Box Brownie snaps of people in front of old houses and old cars. People we don't recognize, places we don't remember, events erased from our memories, or just faded, like the photos. Moments frozen in time, collected for a posterity that will not want or understand them.
Many of these photos, along with newspaper clippings and old yearbooks, antimacassars and doilies, and favored dollies and souvenirs are deeply meaningful to our elders. The old cars and houses weren't old when they were photographed. The elders remember riding in the autos and running through the screen doors into kitchens smelling of freshly baked bread. They recall sitting in the chair protected with the antimacassar and the vase with the doily underneath. These were the homes and family of their youth, more vivid in their memory now than last night's supper. When they are gone that link will be broken, so while they are still with us we work to get a name attached to a face and a date and with great effort sometimes even an address. Someday, we assure ourselves, we will put together a proper record. Someday is so easy, and so distant and so comfortable; and so it goes that the demands of everyday life overtake us until someday we will be the Elders, needing less space and more care. We will be the ones struggling to put names to faces and places. We will be living vividly in our past.
Which brings me to the second case; imminent nuptials. I remember well excoriating a teacher on behalf of my eldest son when she casually and wholly erroneously charged him with a grievous scholarly sin. I remember playing a role in a movie he was making with a friend. I remember the birth of my first grandchild. I rub the scars of fixing cars and the more recent scabs of porches and railings. I look at photos of all these events and I am glad to be a thread in the life we all weave together.
It was a patient explanation my youngest son gave me when he was six. The roly-poly bugs were cold outside and needed a warm place to stay. This shoe box under the bed, he opined would be just right. His indignation was righteous when his good deed was underappreciated as the sow bugs made an abrupt departure to the garden. To this day his heart is moved by the plight of misfortune and injustice. He strives to make a difference as an educator and a thoughtful human being. Another life, another thread and there I am, part of the warp and weft.
My daughter wants to fix broken things; mostly broken hearts. She wants to rescue every puppy that needs a home, feed every hungry cat in the neighborhood and find a quiet place in a sunny window of her brain into which she can retreat. She has told me things which troubled her that she hasn't told another soul because she knows she can trust me. I cannot begin to explain what a gift that is and how valuable beyond measure it is to me. I am incapable of betraying such trust, yet I weave it still into the cloth.
My wife and I belong to what has been labeled the 'sandwich' generation. We care for the elders while managing our own lives and helping where we can with our children and grandchildren. We share the joys and shoulder the burdens willingly, knowing that each generation gets it's own turn as the filling of the sandwich. It is the richness of the fabric of family. We get tired and discouraged; we're only human, after all. But we carry on looking forward to better days and times and gazing backward to happy memories and preparing to introduce a bright new thread at the wedding.
Family and friends will gather from near and far, tears will be shed, joy will be shared, children will be embarrassed by old stories, bread will be broken and glasses raised in salute. I will be with my beautiful bride and her parents, my children and grandchildren, and our friends and our children's friends. Together we will weave just a bit more of this tapestry we call family.
It is particularly fitting for me personally; I was adopted as a child, never to know my birth family. So too was I adopted by this family; taken in, loved and embraced without so much as a single shared gene. Despite what you see in the movies, I'm pleased as punch to be a stepdad.
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