PICNIC

Sharing food is the second most intimate act that people can fulfill, at least that’s my understanding. That’s what we did the other day, a hand full of us from a high school class, long, long graduated, careered and for most of us, retired. On a windy day, under sunny skys, we took cover in a shelter house, rubbed elbows, held eye contact and rejoined a universal journey. 

On my computer accounts I am required to update security questions. Last year, one of the questions was, “Who is your oldest, childhood friend?” I typed in, “Carl.” From the 3rd or 4th grade, far flung and many years, I have always considered Carl my friend. He was there with his wife. While the girls chatted, we stood arms folded like wizened sages and discussed a wide range of issues and current events. Our beliefs and ideals play out in opposite directions but we were not there to champion a cause or find fault. We met at the core of our experience, family and friends. We share the same concerns about being prepared for old age. My dad told me when he was 87, “Long life is better than dying young but you lose your friends and then need help zipping up your pants.” That used to be out on the horizon but now it’s just a stone’s throw. 

In Alaska, salmon start out as smolt, juvenile fish no bigger than your thumb. They swim down stream and out to sea where they earn a living. Many are lost to predators and fishermen. After 4 or 5 years, survivors find their way back to the streams they were hatched in and return to complete the life cycle. For days, weeks, hundreds of thousands of fish congregate in Cook Inlet, just outside the mouth of the Kenai River. They are waiting for some signal that it’s time to go home. We’re not much different than the fish. Some get the call sooner, others go home later. So we rub elbows, share food and wonder about the ones who didn’t show up. Our voices and mannerisms hadn't changed enough to notice and that long-seasoned familiarity was comforting. Shared memory and good will are a magical pairing. We hug and shake hands, drive off in different directions with all good intentions of meeting up again, someday soon.

SOLSTICE 2014

People, collectively, 7 billion of us and multiplying; we have a pretty high opinion of ourselves. Most of us believe that we have been chosen by a higher power, to rule the earth. Some simply believe that we are passengers on a bus that takes a year to complete its loop around the neighborhood. In their opinion we are not only, not rulers, but like the pilgrim from the old, Eagles classic, Hotel California,      “. . . you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” They have a much broader view of creation, where possibility trumps tradition. I am one of those passenger types. But I certainly take liberties. I hang out the windows trying to snag leaves off trees, the wind in my face, mouth open, not knowing if I’ll experience a thrill or just swallow bugs. I’d climb on top if I could.

Summer Solstice is today. Nine years ago today I celebrated Winter Solstice in Ushuaia, Argentina; it depends on which end of the earth you find yourself. Today, in the north, the sun rises earlier and sets later than any other day; the longest day of the year. Primitive, ancient people understood this and incorporated it into their religion. There was something very special about the way things cycle, from the arc of the sun to phases of the moon, time to plant and time to harvest, life itself. In human terms, it took a very long time for us to evolve to our present form and the same elements that drew our ancestors to Pagan beliefs still pull against our science and western religion. I feel the pull today. 

An old biological theory is that of Recapitulation, paraphrased; Ontogeny Recapitulates Phylogeny. That meant that during gestation, we went from little mollusks to arthropods, then through reptiles and so on until we acquired human form and function. The theory had been discredited but still, it opens another window. Mystics, as well as other credible minds believe there is a universal knowledge that we can all access. Just how that works is beyond me but still, speculation leads me to the possibility it may be inherent in nucleotide and codon, DNA.  It suggests that we have a real, tangible link to the star dust from whence we came. It might cast light on why the turning of the tides, the way migratory birds navigate, the last glimmer of the setting sun and solstice, why they move me like they do. I’ll find a high point this evening and hope for a clear sky, watch the sun sink out of sight and marvel at how privileged and how insignificant I can be, all in the same breath. 

VROOM-VROOM

My son took me to the races last night. I used to take him, his brothers and sister when they were little. We would sit up high, at the end of the 4th turn where you can see the whole field and you’re right there, at the dash to the finish line. In the 70’s, down by the Indiana border, corn was everybody’s business but come Saturday night, everybody went to the races. I had a friend who built and drove his own race car, an old coupe with open wheels that ran in the “Modified” class. You didn’t have to pay extra to go into the pits before the race so we did that. Paul would let my kids sit in his car and turn the steering wheel, make the vroom-vroom sound, making believe it was them sliding high into the corners and coming out like a sling shot. By night’s end, the air was full of dust and the smell of fuel alcohol, my kids were caked with grit and mustard stains where mustard aught not go. Nobody was in a hurry to get home. The pits would open up again and we could go down to see racers and mechanics checking for broken parts and making little fixes. My boys would pull little chunks of mud off a roll bar or a tire and slip them in their pockets: treasures. 

The ride home was about 45 minutes and they would be asleep long before we pulled in the drive. Too late for a bath, we peeled the boy’s clothes off and hosed them down in the driveway, a bath could wait until morning. Sarah was her mother’s baby and she got to clean up inside before bed. It was my job to empty pockets and shake dirt off clothes before they went in the hamper. They were all asleep before their heads hit the pillow but not before their favorite, match box race cars were in hand or stowed within reach. Kids grow up fast, or maybe they just get big. 

Last night our roles were reversed. I went and did what I was told. It’s more business and less an event now. You can’t take any food or drink inside the track. Whatever you eat or drink, you have to buy there and a pit pass is expensive. So we sat in the cheap seats, but they were up high up, at the end of the 4th turn. I kept the mustard off my face but couldn’t keep the grit out of my hair. Twenty six monsters, all belching over 700 horse power make noise we couldn't imagine in the 70’s. Last time I went to the races, my ears hurt for days after. I said, “When I go again, I’ll have ear protection.” I now have a high tech set of shooter's, ear protectors; look like gorilla ear muffs, got ‘em just for going to the races. You can still hear the vroom-vroom but the pain of a bazillion decibles going straight into your brain is just a memory. You have to read lips during the race but then, not much talking. It’s all body language, wide eyes and big grins. Maybe I was right when I was just trying to sound clever, maybe we just get bigger.