It's About Time

I don’t tend to spend much time looking back at a past year. Nor do I make new year’s resolutions. It doesn’t usually work for me. Instead, I tell myself to do better and be happier. However, I do feel it’s vital to celebrate the passing of a year. Birthdays are like that for me as well. It’s important to mark time and look at where you’ve been and where you may be going, and then just get on with life.

2009 has been an especially tumultuous year. Everyone knows and feels that. A new president. High unemployment. Health care debates. The fight for gay marriage. Environmental disintegration. The continuing war in Afghanistan. Etc., etc., etc. It’s a lot to deal with. My own personal list includes more than a year out of work, uprooting to my home town, and just generally shaking up life.

I think it’s safe to say that 2009 sucked the proverbial big one. I sent out an email holiday greeting this season which started by simply saying “Abominable 2009?” The response was a whole hearted yes! I have observed the aimlessness of friends. Floating along in a purgatory of not knowing which way to go and afraid to make a move—a collective unconscious of stagnation. But I believe that many people have hope for 2010. Everyone wants to just move on. To work and get life back on track. Enjoy ourselves. That may be the trick. To just decide that our lives will be better and go with it. But we have to move on in a different way. The world is changing in leaps and bounds. We have to figure out a way to grab on and go with it or be left behind.

Everyone is probably now familiar with 2012. The Mayans had an interesting belief that the world will end when their calendar did (December 21 to be exact). If you saw the movie then you may think it all ends in one big spectacular special effects disaster. But I would like to think that it will be a shift in consciousness. I’m hoping for that. As the world speeds up. As natural disasters continue to pile up. As weather systems go wacky and social upheaval builds, there has to be a breaking point. After all, how much Jon and Kate can we stomach—or care about? Do we need to know how many women Tiger has slept with? The earth can only take so much. A population can only take so much. A shift is necessary.

I question myself almost daily. Where do I want to be? What do I want to do? Maybe it’s just too much thinking. I’m overloading myself with self-imposed self-examination. I realize, though, that I am not in the boat alone and we’re all heading en masse to some sort of solution. But then the question is, how can I make the world better? I think it’s more than just recycling ones cans and newspapers or buying a fuel efficient car or light bulb. We have to recycle our thinking towards a more sustainable viewpoint.

I was in Paris last September and attended a small dinner party. The party was populated by an Italian, a German, a Brazilian, an Australian, and of course, American and French. The inevitable subject of health care came up. All were perplexed and appalled by the fact that a person could be denied care in the US. They (with the exception of the dumbfounded Americans) just didn’t get it. Time and again during the health care town hall meetings over the summer, I heard that people didn’t feel that they should be responsible for one another. This was my answer to this diverse dinner group. Americans don’t want to help their neighbors. They all looked at me in blank wonder. I was embarrassed for my country. Still am sometimes. I have a hard time comprehending when someone tells me they don’t believe in climate change. Didn’t they notice a chunk of the polar ice cap recently broke off and floated into oblivion? Didn’t they notice that their flowers bloom just a little bit earlier every spring or that plant and animal species are disappearing? Haven’t they heard that melanoma is rampant? No? Really?

What are people thinking? Or are they not thinking at all? I find the self absorption astounding. I just don’t get it. How long can this go on before it all goes to hell? I sometimes think we are there or are just steps away. But we still have just under 3 years until the world ends. It could happen. Maybe, hopefully we will wake up by then or we’ll just keep shopping 'til extinction. Either by choice or by force something’s going to happen.

If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that everything is constantly changing. Thoughts, decisions, emotions, and economies never remain the same. Geography wears away and cities can't stop growing. Nothing is permanent. And now the calendar is about to change once again, thank god. 2010 is almost here and I find myself looking back more than I ever do. Will I celebrate this year? Damn right. Even though January 1st will essentially be the same as December 31st, I expect a tiny conscious shift and we will be one day closer to our destination. I will raise my glass and say goodbye to this challenging, exhausting year. As the clock strikes 12 and the champagne touches my lips, I will take a step forward into a new year and just get on with it.

Happy New Year!

Roasting On An Open Fire

When my sister, Sherri, was in elementary school in the late 1950’s, she was on the Art Linkletter Show. For those of you too young to know Linkletter, he had a daytime talk show which included interviewing 4 little kids so they would respond with something cutesy and embarrassing in a segment called “Kids Say the Darndest Things.” For some reason, he chose little tykes from ultra-suburban Troutdale Elementary including Sherri in the bunch. During his questioning, Art asked her what her father did for a living. She said that he “drank beer.” My parents were horrified, fearful that visiting relatives would be appalled, but, most importantly, she got a big laugh. I’m guessing that if Sherri had said that in present day she would have ended up in a foster home.

The kids received gifts for being on the show and the big one that my sister got was a trampoline. Lots of fun was had with that trampoline. Dad would assemble the pipe frame and set it up in the front yard in the summertime. Sister, brother and I all would spend many warm, school-less summer days bouncing for hours flipping, spinning, and somersaulting pretending to be Chinese acrobats. Our elbows and knees would be burned from the course, heavy canvas. Eventually, my sister and brother grew out of their bouncing exploits. Being the baby though, I continued on. One day after years of much bouncing, and as I endlessly sprang up and down in front of the house, one foot went through the tired old canvas and landed on the grass beneath with a painful thud. End of trampoline.

My dad was a very handy man. He was always working on cars or fiberglassing a boat, gutting a sturgeon he caught himself or building an addition on to the house. He was crafty at using whatever was laying around at the time. So after the demise of the trampoline, he was was left with an extensive supply of steel piping waiting to be put to good use. Then years later, dad got out his metal saw and soldering iron, and created an electric fan-blown fireplace heater. It consisted of a series of those pipes jutting from a steel box at the front of the fireplace that gathered the blowing air from the fan. The pipes ran across the fireplace floor, curved up the back, then curved out again at the top so that the pipe openings faced out. One would build a fire on top of the metal tubes which would heat the air inside and, once the fan was switched on, blow hot air into the room. The living room always seemed to be a cozy 95 degrees.

One particular Christmas day in the mid 70’s had the usual family suspects. Grandma and Grandpa Allen from my mother’s side and dad’s mom, Grandma Holman. I don’t think Sherri was there for that Christmas being married and living in San Diego at the time. My brother Gary was there somewhere – probably hiding out in the basement until he absolutely had to make an appearance. It was a cool, gray late December Oregon day and dad had built a fire on top of his electric fan-blown fireplace heater. The day progressed predictably with Grandma H expounding on the usual happy holiday topics of corrupt politics, ill-health, and local crime with Grandpa Allen. Mom was in the kitchen whipping up dinner. The New Christy Minstrels Christmas album playing on the stereo. Eventually, the fireplace was filled with marshmallow roasting, perfect orange hot coals and my father decided it was time to throw on a Duraflame.

Now, if you’ve never used a Duraflame let me give you some advice. Follow the directions on the packaging. Use the log all by itself. Light each end and stare at it for 3 hours. Don’t touch it and for gods sake don’t put anything else in there with it. The fake timber is a bunch of wood chips compressed in wax and who knows what else. I guess my father didn’t read the instructions or didn’t think it mattered because he put the Duraflame onto the marshmallow perfect embers. The fire erupted. There was flaming bigger than Liberace. Then the house began to roar. The chimney was on fire. We all stood up in an overheated panic and began running around the room not doing anything in particular. I would like to think that there were hands waving and hysterical screaming but I doubt it. We’re not that kind of family. Someone called the fire department. Not sure who. We were all in high anxiety mode. I’m not even sure where my mom’s parents ran to or where Gary was for that matter (obliviously in the basement, I'm guessing). At some point, Grandma H first grabbed her purse — beige leather with a gold clasp that matched her suit and shoes — and second, grabbed me (I don’t remember what I had on. I’m sure it was holiday appropriate.). She moved through the kitchen past mom faster than I had ever seen her and beelined for the garage. We stood there together in the gasoline fumes coming from our Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon and watched flames shoot out of the top of the house. Good thing the fumes didn’t reach that far.

Quickly, the firemen arrived and soon the fire was out. Grandma pulled her purse and me back into the house. We all slowly calmed down, racing heart beats returned to normal accompanied by uncomfortable chuckling. Not sure what dad was feeling at that moment. He never seemed embarrassed or sheepish. Never usually did. My mother, though, never left the house. She stayed in her tiny kitchen preparing Christmas dinner with a frantic sense of urgency and speed. Maybe she wanted to get that damned dinner finished before the house burned down.

During the commotion, I thought it was a good idea to turn off the electric fan-blown fireplace heater. Not sure why. I was running on instinct and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe I thought it would prevent flames from being air blown into the living room and igniting the Christmas tree. Who knows? But dad turned it back on feeling that the pipes would melt if he didn’t. So it was still blowing hot air after the firemen left. The room now was at kiln level and we all sat flushed with heat and excitement, and got on with Christmas day.

Funny how one thing can produce several completely disparate experiences. That trampoline provided entertainment on hot summer days and heat on cold winter days. Not to mention Sherri’s stint on national television. But Art Linkletter will never know how he contributed to fun on warm school-free days or a particular fiery Christmas memory. Sadly though, bouncing all day is no longer an option and the electric fan-blown fireplace heater is long gone. Guess I’ll just drink a beer instead.

Good Grief

When I was a kid, mostly in my single digits, I had a somewhat obsessive fondness for the Peanuts gang. I had books of the comic strip, read it in the Sunday funny papers every week, slept on stiff character sheets, and had a stuffed toy Snoopy. I even won a Snoopy drawing contest that was held by the after school cartoon kiddie show in Portland, “Ramblin’ Rod.” My prize was a ticket to a particular broadcast that I would be introduced on. I didn’t get to go. No one would take me. I was quite devastated and spent the afternoon bawling on the bathroom floor. I didn’t get my 15 minutes (sigh). And of course, always, and I mean always, watched “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” and “A Charlie Brown Christmas.” It wasn’t Halloween and Christmas without parking myself on the floor in front of the TV. Still isn’t.

I like all the diverse characters and personalities, especially Snoopy. He’s smart, worldly, resourceful and very cute. I wanted one of my own growing up but settled for the toy version instead. I love the groovy, sophisticated jazz score by Vince Guaraldi. I related to Charlie Brown the most though. Like Charlie, I was made fun of, was the misfit, felt out of place, and was afraid of almost everything. But in spite of it all Charlie was kind, introspective, and tried hard to be liked. By shows end he seemed to stand up for himself, let all the negative stuff roll off, and move on. I later learned that Charles Schulz related to Charlie as well. Mr. Schulz was shy, imaginative, and loved his dog. Even throughout a globally successful career he didn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

I still ogle those holiday specials every season. Although I’m not that into Halloween, “Great Pumpkin” makes me feel a bit like a participant. And it isn’t Christmas unless I catch “A Charlie Brown Christmas” and listen to that fantastic soundtrack. Seeing it always makes me feel like the kid that got so excited when dad brought home the Christmas tree and mom got the decorations stored in Kirby vacuum cleaner boxes down from the attic. Lights went up on the house and glowed that warm glow that only comes from xmas lights. Packages multiplied under the tree and mom’s candy making (divinity, toffee with chocolate on BOTH sides, hand painted chocolate cups with a minty chocolate mousse inside) turned the kitchen into a factory of confection (I can still taste them). But I feel a little sad as I watch, though, because I’m not that kid anymore. Not that I want to be.

Now, when I look at Charlie Brown I no longer relate to him though. I egg him on. The other Peanuts, except for Linus maybe, were so mean to him. Watching “Great Pumpkin” recently as Charlie kept getting rocks in his trick-or-treat bag, I thought he’s the one that brings a gun to school — who could blame him? I gripe at the TV wanting Charlie to kick Lucy’s ass, bitch slap Violet and punch Schroeder in the nuts. He doesn’t deserve all that meanness. It makes me mad. But that’s not Charlie. He’s a good, sensitive kid.

Wanting Charlie to be a fighter says a lot about how I’ve changed. No longer will I put up with name calling and I’m happy not to fit in. I wish I could pat Charlie on the back and tell him to hang in there. Don’t take any crap. Stick with Snoopy, he’s (Joe) cool and knows what’s going on. Stay close to Peppermint Patty because she calls you “Chuck” (and just might be a lesbian which is way interesting). Always be friends with Linus because he’s intelligent, loyal, and gives good advice — as long as you leave his blanket alone. I like to think CB would grow up to be a talented, successful, creative soul who made a difference in life. Be a good boyfriend or husband. Maybe a dad. And, in the end, would never know what all the fuss was about.

Purgatory, I Wonder

It’s hard to describe what is happening. It’s a time of tremendous change which makes for digging the depths. I’ve uprooted myself and returned to my roots. I’m very out of wack. Thrust back into the town and family I spent my first 23 years of life with, I’m feeling out of place. I lived as many years away as I did growing up. I live in my mother’s home but I’m a guest. Although, she treats me like an adult she makes me high-carb dinners and fantastic cookies, and lets me drive her car. I like this though. It’s a good thing and I’m enjoying this time. I am the baby, after all. But she’s moving very slowly. The stairs are difficult. She bows her head and rubs her temples as if she is weary of it all. I feel her aging with my own. Family relations are distant and different, awkward and perplexing. I fight the tendency to revert. I sometimes think I’m speaking like an uneasy, fearful 6 year old. Those ties are no longer what they were in those early years, however. I’m someone else. A stranger in a familiar land. 20+ years in New York will do that I suppose. I wonder what I have done. If I’ve royally screwed up. But then I wonder what will be. What new adventures are waiting for me to show up. I’m anxious and going a little crazy. In both my early life and my recent life, I can’t return to what was. I miss people and places, and wonder if I’ve lost them and if I am forgotten. It’s a purgatory of sorts. I don’t fit here and don’t fit there. So I’m adrift on the current. I’m giving in to let it carry me and drop me off at the next stop. There has to be a new life. There is no other direction but onward. I sense it coming.

This is where I am right now.

As I sit on this train chugging north, I wonder where I’m going and who is guiding me there. Am I dashing towards love? Hurtling towards prosperity? Careening to a wet cardboard box under an overpass? I hate not knowing but the movement makes me feel better. It’s when I’m sitting still that I get weirded out. I’m trying to be patient. Really I am. I swear. But I sense the loss. I left so much behind — I had to. It was time. A decision had to be made. Things needed a good shaking up. Relationships will be different. Work will be different. Living will be different. Maybe more on my own terms instead of following along. So I try to look forward and be ready. Problem is, at 48, I don’t know what I want to be anymore. A writer? Designer? Underwear model? Ski bum? Burger flipper? Dog shampooer? There’s so much I can do but time and age are tapping me on the shoulder. Urgency is at hand.

I'm really alright though. Really. You just have to let me lose my mind for a moment, please.

Maybe I should just keep going. Stay on this train and ride back and forth. Zig zag the country and watch the world go by and change. Stare out the window and dream of what could be and what was. I wonder if Amtrak sells lifelong passes...