Dear You,
Christmas is coming, and with it the memory that bubbles to the surface each year at this time. The statute of limitations is behind me now, and the Ben Franklin store on Main Street gone these many years, so I guess I can 'fess up.
I was a paperboy then, peddling the Toledo Blade on Sundays and my local paper the other six days -- I'd been able to save up for a nice bike and had money to spend for Christmas. But I was also young enough to Test Limits and not old enough to understand Consequences -- okay, I really don't remember who and what I was; I'm reaching for Cause/Effect here, I guess. But, to come clean: I stole the Christmas presents that year.
It's true -- my mother, my father, my two brothers, and even my best friend all got gifts from me that they thought I'd paid for. But all I did was walk into the store with my partly empty canvas news bag, slip one or two items inside, buy some Pez or FanTan gum and walk out. I can almost recall the thrill of "getting away with something." And in my defense, I have not taken anything from a store since.
I didn't get away with it -- not really. For of all those early Christmases in Ohio when I was a boy, I remember only that one, and it gives me no pleasure at all.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
Zen and the Art of Raking Leaves
Dear You,
The sun must be shining, even if it's just a little. That's quite necessary. And it is even better if the air is moving a bit -- perhaps a gentle breeze, but nothing more.
Dress warmly, but not overly so. A light jacket should do it, something that when the time comes can be easily removed and hung nearby. Wear a cap.
Do you have portable music? In my case, it's a little MP3 player. Load it with soothing music -- not Rock, oh, goodness no. You'll be worked up enough without all that blood-pumping sound going through your head. I like Rod Stewart, Linda Ronstadt, and Cher singing those old romantic songs -- "Cry Me a River" and "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" and "As Time Goes By." Yearning and pathos, yes?
By all means use nothing that plugs into an outlet or requires gasoline. That should be obvious. Above the music all you want to hear is the sounds of cars passing by and the rasping of the rake. Don't move too quickly. Rake leaves into a mound, spread the tarp nearby, rake the leaves onto it, drag it to the curb.
Repeat. "Do it again, yes, do it again" sings Linda. And don't worry if more leaves are falling onto the areas you are clearing. It is what it is.
The sun must be shining, even if it's just a little. That's quite necessary. And it is even better if the air is moving a bit -- perhaps a gentle breeze, but nothing more.
Dress warmly, but not overly so. A light jacket should do it, something that when the time comes can be easily removed and hung nearby. Wear a cap.
Do you have portable music? In my case, it's a little MP3 player. Load it with soothing music -- not Rock, oh, goodness no. You'll be worked up enough without all that blood-pumping sound going through your head. I like Rod Stewart, Linda Ronstadt, and Cher singing those old romantic songs -- "Cry Me a River" and "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" and "As Time Goes By." Yearning and pathos, yes?
By all means use nothing that plugs into an outlet or requires gasoline. That should be obvious. Above the music all you want to hear is the sounds of cars passing by and the rasping of the rake. Don't move too quickly. Rake leaves into a mound, spread the tarp nearby, rake the leaves onto it, drag it to the curb.
Repeat. "Do it again, yes, do it again" sings Linda. And don't worry if more leaves are falling onto the areas you are clearing. It is what it is.
Carpe Diem indeed
Dear You,
Have you noticed an increase in the hustle-bustle these days? It's not just the end-of-year rush that explains it all, I think. These are the days of instant everything, and it seems to have raised everyone's expectations in unpleasant ways.
A daughter-in-law observed with wonder that all she had to do was insert her credit card into Redbox, press a couple of buttons, and out would pop a DVD movie to take home with her groceries. While watching another d-in-l working on the computer last evening, I noted her frustration when screens wouldn't shift fast enough to suit her. And today I caught myself wondering why a neighbor in Florida had not yet responded to my email . . . that I sent two days ago.
In the taxi recently, the driver's story kept being interrupted by his cell phone. Today the piano tuner stopped his work because his cell phone rang. The electrician who fixed a shorted wire last week made several calls on his cell phone. And in church yesterday, a purse nearby quietly interrupted the service by starting to ring. In short, we all have a sort of electronic leash with us now, and communication is supposed to be instantaneous.
Get it now. Just give us your credit card number. Now. While some of these changes in modern life are just great, I think we're starting to miss some of the value of taking more time. And I'm especially unhappy about the increase of drivers who want to push me out of the way in their rush to get to . . . where? McDonald's, for instant food?
Have you noticed an increase in the hustle-bustle these days? It's not just the end-of-year rush that explains it all, I think. These are the days of instant everything, and it seems to have raised everyone's expectations in unpleasant ways.
A daughter-in-law observed with wonder that all she had to do was insert her credit card into Redbox, press a couple of buttons, and out would pop a DVD movie to take home with her groceries. While watching another d-in-l working on the computer last evening, I noted her frustration when screens wouldn't shift fast enough to suit her. And today I caught myself wondering why a neighbor in Florida had not yet responded to my email . . . that I sent two days ago.
In the taxi recently, the driver's story kept being interrupted by his cell phone. Today the piano tuner stopped his work because his cell phone rang. The electrician who fixed a shorted wire last week made several calls on his cell phone. And in church yesterday, a purse nearby quietly interrupted the service by starting to ring. In short, we all have a sort of electronic leash with us now, and communication is supposed to be instantaneous.
Get it now. Just give us your credit card number. Now. While some of these changes in modern life are just great, I think we're starting to miss some of the value of taking more time. And I'm especially unhappy about the increase of drivers who want to push me out of the way in their rush to get to . . . where? McDonald's, for instant food?
Friday, November 16, 2007
Foreign Climes
Dear You,
On my return from three weeks in the South, my muse suggested that it seemed I "had been in a foreign country." Judging by my senses this morning, I had.
When I stepped outside to fetch the newspaper, tiny ice pellets struck my glasses. The sky was shades of gray and leaves completely obscured my lawn and the flower beds. On the patio the four burning bushes had turned their greens to the red that named them. Later, at the grocery store, everyone was dressed in layers, and we all leaned into the wind as we walked the lot toward the entrance. Rosy cheeks indeed.
How different it was 1500 miles away and -- was it really just yesterday? Shorts and a tee shirt, palms tossing their heads gently to the sides against that blue-blue sky, long-legged birds wading at the side of the lake in search of their breakfasts, folks waving from their golf carts on the way to the course.
For one reason and another I have missed crossing oceans, and only the border to Canada has ever interrupted my travels. No stamps in my passport. How odd, then, that after all those years of being a stay-at-home I find myself going from one foreign place to another.
On my return from three weeks in the South, my muse suggested that it seemed I "had been in a foreign country." Judging by my senses this morning, I had.
When I stepped outside to fetch the newspaper, tiny ice pellets struck my glasses. The sky was shades of gray and leaves completely obscured my lawn and the flower beds. On the patio the four burning bushes had turned their greens to the red that named them. Later, at the grocery store, everyone was dressed in layers, and we all leaned into the wind as we walked the lot toward the entrance. Rosy cheeks indeed.
How different it was 1500 miles away and -- was it really just yesterday? Shorts and a tee shirt, palms tossing their heads gently to the sides against that blue-blue sky, long-legged birds wading at the side of the lake in search of their breakfasts, folks waving from their golf carts on the way to the course.
For one reason and another I have missed crossing oceans, and only the border to Canada has ever interrupted my travels. No stamps in my passport. How odd, then, that after all those years of being a stay-at-home I find myself going from one foreign place to another.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Feeding Frenzy
Dear You,
Several years ago my brother David invited me to join him to fish the Niagara River. Long ago I gave up fishing, but I went for the companionship and brought a camera. We climbed down the gorge and clambered among the rocks -- David and his son Justin attaching lures and casting into the river, me snapping picture after picture, my brother and nephew pulling fish after fish from the water. David explained that the fish were heading upstream to spawn and die -- they weren't at all hungry, but they instinctively bit at anything that looked like food.
Yesterday I thought of all that as I watched people go in and out of garage, yard, and estate sales on the streets near my Florida house. Around here, most people have reached the age when getting rid of stuff is more likely than acquiring more . . . yet, they marched in the houses and -- arms loaded with bargains -- marched back out, to their golf carts (a primary mode of transport here) and minivans (much desired for their ability to haul visiting grandchildren to Disney World).
Who can resist what looks like food, even when there is no real hunger and when the lure is just plastic and feathers? Even on this trip upstream toward the inevitable end of our journeys, we still snap at any old lure that is cast in our way.
Several years ago my brother David invited me to join him to fish the Niagara River. Long ago I gave up fishing, but I went for the companionship and brought a camera. We climbed down the gorge and clambered among the rocks -- David and his son Justin attaching lures and casting into the river, me snapping picture after picture, my brother and nephew pulling fish after fish from the water. David explained that the fish were heading upstream to spawn and die -- they weren't at all hungry, but they instinctively bit at anything that looked like food.
Yesterday I thought of all that as I watched people go in and out of garage, yard, and estate sales on the streets near my Florida house. Around here, most people have reached the age when getting rid of stuff is more likely than acquiring more . . . yet, they marched in the houses and -- arms loaded with bargains -- marched back out, to their golf carts (a primary mode of transport here) and minivans (much desired for their ability to haul visiting grandchildren to Disney World).
Who can resist what looks like food, even when there is no real hunger and when the lure is just plastic and feathers? Even on this trip upstream toward the inevitable end of our journeys, we still snap at any old lure that is cast in our way.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Less Stately Mansions
Dear You,
Since I had no intention to buy anything at the estate sale, I Sherlocked through the rooms, picking up conclusions. The mistress had died -- no clothes remained in her half of the closet, and the bathroom held only male accessories. The master was shedding most of the possesions, retaining only what would fit in his new, smaller abode-to-be (this bed is for sale; that one is not).
Doubtless they met in college -- a little place in Missouri, judging by the memorabilia on the bookselves. One of them wrote papers on a manual Smith-Corona portable typewriter (still in its case, the ribbon worn through to useless). She was an English major, and later taught the subject in high school (why did she hang on to that collection of Cliff's Notes?); he studied something more technical, and when computers came into vogue, tried to keep up with the changes, even buying a couple of the Dummies series.
They wore out a Monopoly game with the grandchildren, who visited them in this over-55 community, and no doubt took them out on the pontoon boat moored off the dock behind the house ("Taking bids until Saturday at noon!!!") Fishing tackle was still nicely organized on one wall of the garage. She liked to play bridge; poker was his game. They once traveled to Haiti.
In "The Chambered Nautilus" Holmes wrote: "Build more stately mansions, oh, my soul!" Here, however, the little lake-side house was giving way to a smaller space, and somewhere, someone in a bigger home will be downsizing to this one. And probably will be having a garage sale before the moving van arrives.
Since I had no intention to buy anything at the estate sale, I Sherlocked through the rooms, picking up conclusions. The mistress had died -- no clothes remained in her half of the closet, and the bathroom held only male accessories. The master was shedding most of the possesions, retaining only what would fit in his new, smaller abode-to-be (this bed is for sale; that one is not).
Doubtless they met in college -- a little place in Missouri, judging by the memorabilia on the bookselves. One of them wrote papers on a manual Smith-Corona portable typewriter (still in its case, the ribbon worn through to useless). She was an English major, and later taught the subject in high school (why did she hang on to that collection of Cliff's Notes?); he studied something more technical, and when computers came into vogue, tried to keep up with the changes, even buying a couple of the Dummies series.
They wore out a Monopoly game with the grandchildren, who visited them in this over-55 community, and no doubt took them out on the pontoon boat moored off the dock behind the house ("Taking bids until Saturday at noon!!!") Fishing tackle was still nicely organized on one wall of the garage. She liked to play bridge; poker was his game. They once traveled to Haiti.
In "The Chambered Nautilus" Holmes wrote: "Build more stately mansions, oh, my soul!" Here, however, the little lake-side house was giving way to a smaller space, and somewhere, someone in a bigger home will be downsizing to this one. And probably will be having a garage sale before the moving van arrives.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Lame Brain
Dear You,
Okay, the hype got to me. Instead of turning off the TV and opening my novel, I watched the whole two hours of CSI/Without A Trace. After all, I thought, there might not be new shows for awhile, since the Hollywood writers have gone on strike.
So I watched the bodies pile up: a closeup of the pretty girl, whose brains were bashed in as she was taking a bath (candles burned while she sipped the last of her wine before hearing the door creak open) -- a closeup of the pretty wife, brains bashed in and stuffed into the trunk of her old, dust-covered car (she worked hard for a living and didn't deserve to die) -- closeup photos of three other pretty victims, showing the jewelry the killer had retained as gifts to his (pretty) sister, who Didn't Have a Clue . . . don't serial killers ever bash in the brains of ugly women?
Meanwhile, the head of the crime lab and the head of the FBI pop in and out of each other's shows, jetting between Las Vegas and New York City and exchanging Meaningful Looks; at the same time, their minions do a lot of talking, and to cover the banality of what they say, they peer closely at The Evidence with little flashlights and take close-up photos of candy wrappers with big cameras and long lenses.
And why all this carnage? (a) the killer was misunderstood by his father, and (b) the killer loves and yearns for his cute, blond son. Oh . . . I don't want to drag out the suspense any longer: at the end he apologizes to his sister (whom he did NOT kill), and blows his brains out with a gun that everyone knew he had hidden under his arm.
As I thought about the show later, the question which lingered was this: what difference does it make if writers such as the one(s) for this show are . . . or are not . . . on strike? Well, not the only question -- I wondered why I had not put in another two hours with my novel.
Okay, the hype got to me. Instead of turning off the TV and opening my novel, I watched the whole two hours of CSI/Without A Trace. After all, I thought, there might not be new shows for awhile, since the Hollywood writers have gone on strike.
So I watched the bodies pile up: a closeup of the pretty girl, whose brains were bashed in as she was taking a bath (candles burned while she sipped the last of her wine before hearing the door creak open) -- a closeup of the pretty wife, brains bashed in and stuffed into the trunk of her old, dust-covered car (she worked hard for a living and didn't deserve to die) -- closeup photos of three other pretty victims, showing the jewelry the killer had retained as gifts to his (pretty) sister, who Didn't Have a Clue . . . don't serial killers ever bash in the brains of ugly women?
Meanwhile, the head of the crime lab and the head of the FBI pop in and out of each other's shows, jetting between Las Vegas and New York City and exchanging Meaningful Looks; at the same time, their minions do a lot of talking, and to cover the banality of what they say, they peer closely at The Evidence with little flashlights and take close-up photos of candy wrappers with big cameras and long lenses.
And why all this carnage? (a) the killer was misunderstood by his father, and (b) the killer loves and yearns for his cute, blond son. Oh . . . I don't want to drag out the suspense any longer: at the end he apologizes to his sister (whom he did NOT kill), and blows his brains out with a gun that everyone knew he had hidden under his arm.
As I thought about the show later, the question which lingered was this: what difference does it make if writers such as the one(s) for this show are . . . or are not . . . on strike? Well, not the only question -- I wondered why I had not put in another two hours with my novel.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Damn Yanking
Dear You,
As occupations go, scarcely any I recommend less enthusiastically than weeding. While I recognize some of the pleasures of gardening (the world benefits from, and is the more beautiful for, flowers; and I know several people who actually enjoy growing some of their own food) agriculture is impossible without the regular extirpation of weeds.
I seldom approach this task, however necessary, reluctantly if not humbly on my knees, a vicious-looking little hand rake nearby. This tool, however, is rarely needed, since as if to know they are unwanted the weeds root shallowly, and they yield easily to the tugging. The pile grows beside me, these unnamed dead. I do not bother learning their names -- genus: weeds. Enough said.
It is a thankless task. The fruits of all my labor end ignominiously in a trashbin, tomorrow to be hauled away to the landfill -- a sort of vegetative Potter's Field. I wash my hands of the entire matter.
As occupations go, scarcely any I recommend less enthusiastically than weeding. While I recognize some of the pleasures of gardening (the world benefits from, and is the more beautiful for, flowers; and I know several people who actually enjoy growing some of their own food) agriculture is impossible without the regular extirpation of weeds.
I seldom approach this task, however necessary, reluctantly if not humbly on my knees, a vicious-looking little hand rake nearby. This tool, however, is rarely needed, since as if to know they are unwanted the weeds root shallowly, and they yield easily to the tugging. The pile grows beside me, these unnamed dead. I do not bother learning their names -- genus: weeds. Enough said.
It is a thankless task. The fruits of all my labor end ignominiously in a trashbin, tomorrow to be hauled away to the landfill -- a sort of vegetative Potter's Field. I wash my hands of the entire matter.
Left Behind
Dear You,
When I studied psychology it was called approach-avoidance. The term was used to describe a condition that both attracts and repels -- a child's ambivalance towards a brutal father, for example. It is how I think about attending a high school reunion.
There is much to attract, and driving the hundreds of miles to reach that small Ohio town is an exercise in whetting an appetite. Will my pals all be there? How about that girl I spent my afternoons dreaming about all those years ago? (I watched from an upstairs window on Kilbourne Street as she passed on the sidewalk, her red ponytail swaying in time with her skirt.) Even the building itself -- what memories will it evoke, just standing at that imposing entrance?
The reality of a reunion, of course, never can match the expectation. It's not just the forcible reminders that we are on the downward slope of life and that so many (more each year!) are already dead, reminders of one's own mortality. Nor is it even the dreary surroundings -- the threadbare hall, the bland food, the over-loud background music with all those silly '50s songs. It's really that there is nothing more to say.
Classmates who left town are the most interesting; those left behind seem . . . well, rather dull by comparison. On the drive home I keep thinking that I didn't so much leave there as I somehow managed to escape. And I wonder why I will probably come to the next gathering.
When I studied psychology it was called approach-avoidance. The term was used to describe a condition that both attracts and repels -- a child's ambivalance towards a brutal father, for example. It is how I think about attending a high school reunion.
There is much to attract, and driving the hundreds of miles to reach that small Ohio town is an exercise in whetting an appetite. Will my pals all be there? How about that girl I spent my afternoons dreaming about all those years ago? (I watched from an upstairs window on Kilbourne Street as she passed on the sidewalk, her red ponytail swaying in time with her skirt.) Even the building itself -- what memories will it evoke, just standing at that imposing entrance?
The reality of a reunion, of course, never can match the expectation. It's not just the forcible reminders that we are on the downward slope of life and that so many (more each year!) are already dead, reminders of one's own mortality. Nor is it even the dreary surroundings -- the threadbare hall, the bland food, the over-loud background music with all those silly '50s songs. It's really that there is nothing more to say.
Classmates who left town are the most interesting; those left behind seem . . . well, rather dull by comparison. On the drive home I keep thinking that I didn't so much leave there as I somehow managed to escape. And I wonder why I will probably come to the next gathering.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Sweating the big stuff
Dear You,
She seemed impossibly small, and her heavy boots, leather gloves, and wide-brimmed hat made her all but disappear. She was the crew chief for the roofers who arrived this morning, and apparently the only one who spoke any English.
All day long she was on my roof. In the morning, she helped the four men she brought with her in the truck remove my old, worn-out shingles. Except for accepting my offer for more water and some ice for the cooler, she never stopped. Her crew worked steadily, talking little, wonderfully efficient.
I do not know if they ever stopped for lunch. I never saw them sitting around with cigarettes or sandwiches or even cups of water. In the hot, Florida sun they bent their backs and they stripped off that roof.
In the afternoon they put down the new underlayment and stacked bundle after bundle of new shingles, readying the job for tomorrow, when they will return to finish the contract. As the sun went lower in the sky and the breeze picked up, they scavanged the lawn for debris, even running a wheeled apparatus with a bar magnet to pick up any stray nails. The team leader was always there, quietly directing the various tasks, and she drove away at the wheel of that big truck. When I thanked her, she smiled beautifully.
I am amazed by those people who say we should close our borders to those -- like the ones I met today -- who will come to our country to do such arduous tasks as I watched today. I couldn't do it. Would you want to?
She seemed impossibly small, and her heavy boots, leather gloves, and wide-brimmed hat made her all but disappear. She was the crew chief for the roofers who arrived this morning, and apparently the only one who spoke any English.
All day long she was on my roof. In the morning, she helped the four men she brought with her in the truck remove my old, worn-out shingles. Except for accepting my offer for more water and some ice for the cooler, she never stopped. Her crew worked steadily, talking little, wonderfully efficient.
I do not know if they ever stopped for lunch. I never saw them sitting around with cigarettes or sandwiches or even cups of water. In the hot, Florida sun they bent their backs and they stripped off that roof.
In the afternoon they put down the new underlayment and stacked bundle after bundle of new shingles, readying the job for tomorrow, when they will return to finish the contract. As the sun went lower in the sky and the breeze picked up, they scavanged the lawn for debris, even running a wheeled apparatus with a bar magnet to pick up any stray nails. The team leader was always there, quietly directing the various tasks, and she drove away at the wheel of that big truck. When I thanked her, she smiled beautifully.
I am amazed by those people who say we should close our borders to those -- like the ones I met today -- who will come to our country to do such arduous tasks as I watched today. I couldn't do it. Would you want to?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)