NO REGRETS

I was at Home Depot yesterday buying boards. I couldn’t find the tongue & grove location so a robust, sixty-ish guy walked me back to where they were. All he needed to do was tell me which isle but I think they do that either because it is Depot policy or they knew what I learned long ago; if you are walking with a purpose, nobody bothers you. 8 ft tongue & grove boards were stacked on their ends in a vertical slot next to trim and baseboards. I picked the ones I liked and he nodded his approval, helping me stack them neatly on the cart. Warped and split boards went back in the bin, we found enough straight, clean pieces and headed up to the check out. 

He had been a contractor, spent so much time in the store they offered him a job when he retired. He liked the lumber smell, sawdust and all; said he’d rather be around it getting paid than hanging out at home. His wife still worked and didn’t want him trashing things at home either. I took it to mean his working was her decision. Told him I didn’t have that problem. I need things to do but lived by a schedule long enough and nobody’s going to offer me a job - come to work whenever you feel like it. Before I went in the Army I took a ‘Grunt’ job at a hamburger drive-in. I interviewed in the morning and started at 5:00 p.m. At 10:00 I got a break, ate a burger, looked in the boss’s office and saw my application still on his desk. No questions, no regrets; I figured my 5 hours work would more than cover the burger and shake. I took the application, left my little white hat in its place and never looked back. Thirty four years teaching, I followed policy and arrived on time. But I’m back where I began; no questions, no regrets. 

I have a friend, retired Economics professor who thinks we are both valuable resources but under utilized. We don’t require much compensation, no benefits, are flexible and our skill sets are unmatchable. So why aren’t institutions knocking down doors trying to get us back in the loop? I said it was about policy and authority; they want control over underlings more than they want what we have to offer. All we’re good for is grunt work and they can bully youngsters who need the job. He didn’t like that; wanted an argument where everybody prospered but then he’s a high minded professor and I’m a mongrel, looking for a door ajar so I can go dig holes in the yard. 

FLOTSAM

Keeping a personal journal is a lot like dumpster diving or rummaging through yesterday’s trash. Whatever it was that you remember gets a second, last chance. By day’s end the memory will have lost its way. Even if it surfaces later, reconstructed it will have a ‘Made In China’ caveat; consume at your own risk. It’s not like leaping tall buildings again and again; more like stumbling over cracks in the sidewalk. I write because I can; anybody can. When there’s nothing to write about, you make it up. Imagination helps though, and just because it feels good with the writing doesn’t mean it will be worth the reading. 

You can keep a journal with the illusion that someday, someone will want to read it. You learn by the end of the first year that journals really aren’t for publishing or reading, they are for the writing. In early morning and dark of night, I plunge through life at 60 seconds per minute, every minute, every day and it’s the ride of a lifetime. I don’t need to be remembered but I want to leave a trail, like Hansel & Gretel leaving crumbs along the path. I lose track of ups and downs, of turns in the road but my trail of crumbs is evidence; I was there. If I browse the pages and see my own words again, it’s like looking in the mirror. I hear myself change, and sometimes grow, even realize how wrong I could be and ironically, how good it felt. I want to revise stuff that is decades old. It’s not at all what I would write today. I’m not satisfied with either syntax or context but it is what it was and I dare not change a thing. 

This is a new day. Morning is a pleasure because you anticipate both its passing and its possibility. Today will be cool for a change. For the past week my most important function has been to water flowers and vegetables. I’ve been creating storage space in my garage, cutting boards and putting them up against the wall, making shelves, new space for stuff I should probably throw away. The irony is, when friends and family see my creations they like them, think I’m a regular engineer. In fact I spend long stretches of time wondering when the next flash of insight will come. I don’t have a plan, no idea. I start with a piece of wood, find a place where it will fit and begin. When I get one piece of wood fixed in place, I start thinking about the next. What should it look like? How will it go together? Do I need nails, screws, glue, brackets, hangers? Exploration versus preparation; it’s the story of my life. 

Most of this life is hum-drum. Unremarkable experiences go by like telephone poles and mile markers. Most of them aren’t worth remembering but I want to make that decision and I need help. I keep this journal. It gives me the same feeling maybe that moved James Taylor to write; “There’s a song that they sing when they take to the highway; a song when they take to the sea; a song that they sing of their home in the sky; maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep. The singing works just fine for me.”

RANT

I tend to think before I speak, pick the words before I write and that can make for dull reading. Then, you can lose control of an idea and it runs amok, painfully boring. I know I run that risk but I’ll try to do better. 

“Populism” is so named because it appeals to the “Common man” as opposed to the “Elite.” In this case, 'elite' has an intellectual connotation rather than wealth. Populism appeals to people who  rely on feelings rather than an informed, broadly qualified reality. From cultural collisions in the past I remember the quip; “I know what I believe: don’t confuse me with truth.”  Then, there are demagogues; political leaders who lean hard on “Populism” fueling emotions with fears, prejudices and popular desires. So, to be seen as a Populist is not a compliment and demagogues go there with rhetoric to rally the masses, in their own interests. 

This is the 21st Century; an election year. Our populist demagogue is a filthy rich, real estate tycoon who stirs fears and turns common people against each other. His strategy is to confuse and confound rather than make compelling arguments. In his adult life he has never tried to advance the best interests of anyone but himself. He blames immigrants and foreigners for every problem. He promises to make this country great again but the underlying, coded message really says, “We’re going to make this country White again.” As much as he appeals to frustrated people who he has never identified with, who struggle to make ends meet; they can’t resist the feeling - "Somebody is poking it to the establishment." Donald F#@king-trump believes and practices the same tyranny as robber barons before him, Vanderbilt and Rockefeller. The working poor serve industry better than slavery ever did. With the poor, you don’t have to care for them when they are sick or there isn’t enough work to keep them busy. They have to solicit a master who will treat them with more contempt than slave owners their slaves, who were irrevocably invested in human property. 

In large part, F#@king-trump appeals to people who had high paying jobs that went away during the recession; middle age, white males. He doesn’t appeal to main stream Republicans but they are stuck with him. In the end they have to vote for him because Hillary is such a liberal bitch. The “Liberal” part implies the 1%, even the 15% should pay more so the poor can feed their children and everybody gets basic medical care. The “Bitch” part is common man-talk, reserved for any woman who fights back. If she can hold her ground and win out over male competitors, then she is a “F#@king Bitch.” Nobody gets to the top of national politics without leaving a trail of broken opponents and guarded secrets. I am not a Hillary fan but she has a history of helping women, minorities and the working class as well as her own best interests. In her scheme the rich pay a price for that privilege but still feed at the trough first. I realize that F#@king-trump’s supporters would paint a different profile but whatever the reason, they want America ‘White’ again. They want to ride that privilege like they rode it in the past or, they would rather break the toy than let someone else play with it.

          I wasn’t a Bernie fan either; he was a populist of sorts. But his appeal was to  liberal idealogues who don’t really want to do the math either. This life has been really good to me and I can’t complain. I worked hard enough, smart enough but I was mostly lucky. I’m not a populist patriot, not willing to die for a cause, not particularly proud or even talk that kind of hyperbole. I’m just lucky to have been a white, American male when that was the key to 2n and 3rd and 4th chances at success. If Jesus came back in November and you think he would vote for 'The Donald', you are Nucking Futs. Neither would he defend the 2nd amendment, dictate man’s sovereignty over any woman’s uterus or torture political prisoners. The promise of second coming makes for miraculous religion but it serves us best when he stays away; self righteous is the rule and God Bless America. Just saying!

SHADY IN THE GARAGE

I am not one to complain about the weather. It is what it is and that’s just what it is. But it’s hot and things slow down when it’s hot. I just got back from Michigan and it’s hot there too but 90 is hot there. When I was a kid; when my kids were kids - we didn’t have air conditioning. I know, I know; we walked everywhere and it was uphill in every direction but when you got where you were going there was no air conditioning there either. We went to the beach or played in the water. My kids rode their bicycles through the over-spray from irrigation systems that spilled out of corn fields onto the road. Neither am I one to glorify the good old days. We were young, that’s all; and you don’t get to go back. Making believe it was better then is an age related indulgence we take for granted. 

For those of us old enough to remember the 20th Century, the new century milks the last drop of everything for its commercial value. Everything is news worthy. News channels run 24-7 and the weather is prime time. Nobody bothers with temperature, it’s the heat index. We need someone to tell us how comfortable we will be and bigger numbers make you feel special. Nobody cares about the index when it’s 75 outside. They have time slots to fill and when there is no weather to speak of, the crisp, young forecaster describes blue sky, but they had a cloud over Iowa this morning and the wind is out of the east in Southern Illinois. Being young has its advantages, you don’t notice grown up crap or business-doing-business. I haven’t made Kool-Ade popsicles in a long time.

I’ll buy some lumber today for a storage project in the garage. I threw a bunch of stuff away but I won’t let that space go vacant, you know how nature hates a vacuum. Picture framing-mat cutting equipment stored in my office and guest room will get a new home. Then I can throw other stuff away and buy more lumber. It should cool off in September but with the heat index and the east wind, you never know. It’s shady in the garage and I can plug in a fan. 

PINKY PROMISE

Today is Father’s Day. This time last year I wrote about it. I’ve let go pride and tradition that runs-a-muck on national holidays. Patriotism has devolved into overcooked narcissism and religion is just politics. Mother’s and Father’s Day are nice departures. Reverence is an independent experience that has been conscripted by religion. It’s not about God unless you chose to take it there. Reverence begins with feelings of awe. I am in awe when I peer down into the meandering courses of the Grand Canyon and try to imagine the process. My best efforts are terribly inadequate. Awe is the precursor. When the intellect and the ego unfold together, if you have any integrity at all, you realize that what you know is no more significant than any grain of sand, on any beach, anywhere. In our finest hour, our greatest accomplishment is just to breathe in, breathe out. If we are honest, open enough, something moves us to feel gratitude. When you strive after and get what you think you deserve, gratitude is not what you feel. Gratitude is the good feeling when you get better than you deserve, feeling both helpless and satiated; all you can do is concede to something beyond your comprehension. Today is the day we reflect on good memories that Moms and Dads left with us. Most of us got better than we deserved and it’s time we concede to that good feeling. Awe . . . Gratitude . . . Reverence; from Mom & Dad’s sacrifices to the breathing out and breathing in. 

I spent the morning yesterday in a high meadow, wading through tall grass, soaked with dew, taking photographs where I’ve taken so many before. It wasn’t about more photographs, it was about being there, transcending reverence with awe for the abundance of life and gratitude for the one that moves in me. I’m no mystic, not a flower child with arrested development, no agenda at all. In the movie, ‘Grumpy Old Men’ 90+ Burgess Meredith tells 60+ Jack Lemon, “When you die, all you get to take with you is your experience.” I don’t want mine to be about patriotism or religion, about regrets or dollar bills. I’d prefer ferns and wild flowers, butterfly kisses and a pinky promise. 

. . .AS TO BE UNDERSTOOD

         “I write to understand as much as to be understood.” In Grand Rapids; where Covell Ave. crosses Lake Michigan Dr., there is a little strip mall where Big Apple Bagels brews really good coffee. When in GR, this is my office. Today I have business to do and people to see. I’ve finished my breakfast sandwich but still working on the hazelnut/decaf refill. It’s gray outside; rained last night but forecast is for cool and clear this afternoon. While I wait, I have time to reflect and ruminate on things that hang around in the back of my mind. It’s like noticing a felt tip marker or a pair of gloves that are out in plain sight on a table or counter top, needing to be put away. So I feel the need to put some things away.

           I drop in on conversations that have passionate points of view but usually they involve friends where we share the same beliefs and it’s preaching to the choir rather than actually weighing and measuring. The other kind of encounters are infrequent and almost always unanticipated. Last night a friend opened the door to where we seldom go, to confrontation. He is ultra conservative and obviously, to no one’s surprise, I am not. He was upset with the alternative high school in the district where he works. Doug believes it’s all a waste of money and the students are molly-coddled to the extent, when they transition into the real world, they have been set up to fail. He advocates treating all children like adults. Treating troubled, often abused and neglected children the same way we treat experienced adults is his idea of ‘School of Hard Knocks.’ Conform, obey, make good decisions instead of bad ones or else you fail and you’re on your own. Everybody gets the same chance to do right or do wrong and it’s on them. That’s how the real world works. 

           I responded: All they have is their experience and that’s what they bring to school. If it hasn’t prepared them to recognize, much less make good decisions then they don’t have the same chance. I couldn’t speak to his school in particular but I have strong experience with inner-city and alternative schools. We treat kids different than we do adults; they get second and third chances to re-do and get better, 4th and 5th chances. Nobody fails intentionally at what they think they need. At the root of every personality is the need to pursue what is good, even if you don't know what that is. I reminded Doug, if you keep doing what you’ve been doing, then you keep getting what you’ve got. As an educator, if your students, any of them, fail because they either can’t or don’t flourish in the system, you can keep doing what you’ve been doing or you can change the way you approach the problem. That’s what educators do. Pounding square pegs into runs holes is not our job. Certainly you have to hold people accountable for their behavior and for the  work but the old authoritarian, punish first-console later model is what didn’t work in the first place. Changing long entrenched behaviors is no easy task and expecting a dysfunctional teenager to remedy his own dysfunction is simply passing the buck. Lawyers do it all the time; blame the victim. If doing what they had been told to do had led them to succeed in the first place, they wouldn’t be failing now. If a child doesn’t trust or believe the system or the authority in place, why would they conform now? If it were easy, everyone would want to work in an alternative school. 

           Oncologists work with cancer patients, many of whom will die regardless. But they don’t tell patients to make better decisions, that they chose to abuse their bodies with alcohol or tobacco and now it’s come back on them. People who need help are treated differently, according to their need rather than some iron clad morality. Doug thought that medical parallels were not good analogies but I think they are. Behavior is after all regulated by a particular set of body functions. I went on to note that as a culture we don’t kick kids out into the work force simply because they don’t fit or they have failed in the traditional school setting. Our responsibility to provide education for all children, regardless of their complications is understood and accepted universally. For people who truly believe that there is one right way, that every other way to deliver education is wrong; blame the victim. He believes there is something inherent in everyone that recognizes right and wrong, good and bad. It’s the same right and wrong, good and bad that he learned and those who chose a wrong/bad path are simply guilty of their sins. I don’t know how to make them understand, much less change their mind. 

           Doug thinks attrition is natural like back in the old days when dropouts could work on the farm. They should suffer the burden of ignorance and flawed reality because they had their chance and failed. We are still friends. What we share is too important to poison with ideology. But the conversation made me think about defending a reasonable position, you’d better be able to reconnect the dots without struggling inside the argument. If it’s true that we are what we eat, then we are also the collective of our experience and more succinctly, the meaning we attribute to that mosaic. Nobody experiences the world exactly the same way as someone else. For me it all boils down to the feeling that the real world is either, Us versus Them or, there is no ‘Them.’  We’re all in this together. 

DICHOTOMY

I still have $ 72 dollars that I wouldn’t have, had I slept in a bed at Holiday Inn Express last night, Bloomington, Illinois. I slept in their parking lot with the windows open and my feet across the console. I picked the Holiday Inn lot because it was small, concrete; not such a heat engine as the big asphalt slab over at Wally-World. The thunder-lightning show was great at 2:00 a.m. and the cool breeze was better than motel air conditioning. Walmart, across the street has campers every night in their lot who rise early to brush teeth and use the necessary room. Parking lot campers are hybrids where you come as you are - sort of identify with homeless who do the same but sleep in cardboard boxes, under  bridges. As long as you be nice, everyone else be nice too. I had my chores all done by 6:00 a.m. and went for a walk before getting back on the road. 

5:00 p.m. - eleven hours later I’m at my desk: it’s the corner table at Coffee Grounds Coffee Shop in Grand Haven, MI. I’m here several days in a row, several times a year and they remember me. I’m the toasted ‘Everything Bagel’ with butter and medium size decaf. It’s summer. Sidewalks are lazy, short shorts, kids on skate boards and young moms with babes in strollers. Locals and day trippers: this is absolutely white privilege, lake shore middle class. It would never occur to these folks to sleep in the car and keep the cash; sort of having your cake and eating it. I’m betting none of them have ever slept under a bridge either, much less pan-handled. Joseph Campbell said, “We can’t cure the world of sorrows but we can chose to live with joy.” This is a place I come to for joy. I’ll head down to the beach and take photos when the sun gets a little lower. I need some joy and this is a good place. The rest of the world is upside down with craziness, violence, you name it. I’ve not had to pan-handle but I’ve slept places nobody would believe.  Campbell also said, “The question is, whether you are going to be willing to say a healthy ”Yes” to your adventure?” I hope I can. That’s my plan. 

WHO & THAT

My birds (as if they were mine; the ones who/that frequent my feeder, and more importantly, water at the bird bath,) they have fresh water today. I’ll probably change it out again this afternoon. I had decided not to feed them this summer as their natural food supply is plentiful. They don’t need me loading up the feeder but it’s hot and they still need water. But I take comfort seeing them at the feeder so I streamlined it for summer and I'm back to watching them from the window. Watching a robin undress and bathe in chest deep water, if you haven't, it should be on your bucket list. Way back when; before standardized tests and ‘No Child Left Behind,’ I stole a week every year, 10 or 15 minutes at a time, assigned homework that had nothing to do with curriculum objectives and my biology class did an Ornithology unit. We covered anatomy, flight, field markings, songs. We went bird watching before and after school and everybody had to keep a log of the birds they identified. Personally, I think it was the best teaching I ever did. I had a reluctant, know-it-all boy who/that was bored to death with it. On a required trip to the woods he came running up with that wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression that teachers love to see. He was out of breath but managed, “Mr. Stevens, Mr. Stevens; we just saw a Bobolink.” I said, “In these woods?” “No.” he said, “in the field between here and the road. Black body, white back and a yellow head; what else could it be?” I said, “In the field, yes; and I suppose you want extra credit.” He grinned, I nodded and we had a convert. Birds, you’ve got to love ‘em. 

This brings me around to the Who & That thing. I wouldn’t call it a pet peeve but I always notice. If a dirt boy who/that learned to read in the army knows the difference, so should everyone who/that speaks the language. It was a long stretch with the birds and all but here we are. Who and That can be used as pronouns but ‘Who’ is usually reserved for people. ‘That’ on the other hand is used with things. (The woman who sang had hair that curled.) The common error, - The woman that sang . . .  The kid that answered the door . . . I don’t need to scream but I’d like to throw something. 

You know how important it is to be right! You look really foolish when you throw your truth out there for everyone to hear and find out you were wrong. So I went back to the grammar, for my own sake. I was right. But being right sometimes is like nailing jello to the wall. 600 years ago, Chaucer used ‘That’ as a pronoun with people as a way to downgrade their character or diminish their status. Now, generally, the rule is clear but creative as writers tend to be and dynamic as language has always been, it’s up to the writer. But it’s not a free pass. If you don't know, if you’re not wrong on purpose you're just wrong. Ignorance is in the not knowing. My writing style is casual and informal but I pay attention to the Who’s and That’s. I can be foolish with little or no effort, in any number of ways and I’m ignorant for sure. I stumble over other’s pet peeves so I beg mercy and welcome critique. 

If it’s an insult to say, ‘The man that,” would it be an upgrade to say, “The birds who.” My birds, the ones who socialize at my bird bath like Romans around the hot tub; they are making the best of a hot afternoon. You need several billion neurons with nothing better to do than format language if you want to discriminate between good grammar and low brow vernacular. We like to anthropomorphize; attribute human traits to our favorite animals. They don’t have enough spare neurons to love us the way we love them but it’s nice to pretend. I know better and bird brains are even smaller than dog’s but I’m taking the bait. The Blackbirds splashing in the water; I know they are thinking thankful thoughts. They know for a fact I drew their bath. The look on their faces tells me enough; they are special and I know they love me. 

FIRST STRAWBERRY

Memories, the good ones, the ones that glow; when you get old enough, they are the icing on whatever else is good. I remember when my son lived with me in the late 90’s, on 60th Ave. in Allendale, Michigan. We lived in a duplex with nice yards that our landlords kept freshly mowed. Our landlords were Dutch and what they did best was to keep things clean, neat and orderly. They did the mowing because they wanted it done exactly on time and to their standards. We couldn’t plant flowers, shrubs, vegetables, anything in the yard; nothing to complicate the lawn mowing. There was a small flower bed between the front porch and walk but it was full before you could spend $10 on it. There was a small slab patio in the back with one rule: Keep it neat. 

On that patio we planted everbearing strawberry plants in a dozen 12 gallon containers. From spring through summer and into the fall we had fresh berries. They were for grazing, 2 or 3 at a time, nearly every day. Sometimes you had to devour a hand full. Late in October on a warm weekend, I had no reason to be on the patio but there I was, checking out fall color and just being outside; hadn’t seen any fresh berries for several weeks. Don’t know why I bothered but I bent over and moved leaves around just to see. In the last pot I discovered a single, ripe strawberry not much bigger than a big acorn. I plucked it, slid it, stem, hull and all into my mouth. It was perfect. I crushed it against the roof of my mouth with my tongue and the taste went off like fireworks. That kind of memory lasts forever 

Nearly 20 years later, I’m not so fussy about my yard but then I’m not Dutch either. I created a vegetable garden along the fence and of course you know there would have to be strawberries. Maybe it was just latent, dèjá vu, patio berries that influenced me but I put them in containers. So I’m checking them every day now. In the ground about six weeks, they are making berries. Today I plucked the first ripe berry. It only took two bites and it was gone; no explosion in my mouth, not any better than the Mexican berries you get at Farmers Market. But it was the first of many (I trust) that will find their way to my strawberry crusher. There is a really good salad with kale, strawberries & feta cheese. I’ll make some soon if I can’t find it on a menu somewhere. But if I need berries for a recipe I’ll go to the market as my grazers are just that; to be grazed in the moment. Some memories are just too sweet to let go. I’ll remember often and recreate if I’m lucky. It can happen any month; the unexpected burst of flavor and endorphin rush is always a possibility.