HARNESS UP

Last night I dreamed a dream; I do that a lot. When I was younger; in my 60’s, sleeping well was taken for granted. If I dreamt at all it didn’t wake me and when I awoke I couldn’t remember anything, just that I had a dream. Now I close my eyes wondering what is playing on the dream-screen tonight. I have friends, one in particular who puts great stock in dreams and what they mean; spends hours trying to deconstruct them. I lend a willing ear but don’t try that myself; was it Twain who more or less said, “Keep quiet and people think you’re crazy. Speak up and confirm their suspicions.” But waking up with a disturbing dream is more the norm in my 70’s than sleeping through. Disturbing doesn’t mean bad, just that I go from spectator to participant and start asking questions. 

Last night’s dream had me with other people hiking along an unfamiliar trail. Long story short, the man in front of me was barefooted. A rattle snake came out of the brush and went after him, all stretched out, mouth open like a thin torpedo. Immediately I disengaged, defaulting to logic. “Snakes don’t do that, can’t do that. They have to undulate to move at all (I know, I know - some snakes creep straight ahead with unobservable, wave like rib walking but this one was catching up to the barefoot who was running hard.) Neither do they stretch out with mouth open like cows stretching their necks through the fence for greener grass.” My eyes were still closed but I was conscious. I thought I would fall asleep in time to catch the second feature but along the way I thought of a cat we had when I was a kid. Who knows how that works? Calico was a black, white & rusty-red spotted barn cat, a good mouser and my mother’s favorite. What made her remarkable were three extra toes on both front feet. When she had kittens we were anxious to know if any of those little fur-balls had extra toes. 

I wasn’t asleep yet, just drifting but I know about extra toes. They occur not frequently but not uncommon either. Then the brain shifts gears and I’m clear eyed; amazing how it makes course corrections without warning or permission. Trying to remember; was it D. Lieberman or E.O. Wilson who used cat’s toes as an example of gene mutations? Mutations that occur in body cells can not be passed on but in the DNA of reproductive cells they can. Once done it becomes the norm for that critter and is available to its descendants. Lieberman and Wilson are world class scientist/researchers. One, a leading evolutionary biologist while the other is the world’s leading authority on ants, and other social insects. Their work overlaps, not on purpose but when you are reading them simultaneously you can not, not notice. 

So then I’m thinking about the overlap. Adaptation is about being more/better equipped at reproduction than your competitors. When times get hard, endangered species hard, having a reproductive advantage is the difference between your DNA making it on to succeeding generations or not. I don’t think cats with extra toes have an advantage but then neither are they a handicap. As long as the species enjoys stable growth and sufficient resources it doesn’t matter. If and when it becomes a limiting factor, the advantage of 5 or 8 toes, whichever; the other will, over time, be culled out of the gene pool. I’m wishing I could just wipe my curious conscious clean and go back to sleep but not remembering if it was Lieberman or Wilson won’t let me. 

A couple or more distractions and mental leap frogs drag me off in new directions and I stop resisting. You can’t remember the moment you fall sleep. If you are conscious enough to remember, you are too alert to drop off; duh. So I can’t say how it went from there except that the radio woke me at 6:00 a.m. I identify with stories from when fire engines were horse drawn. At the end of their career, those horses were retired with benefits but any time the alarm went off, they jumped to the fore, ready to harness up and charge out the gate. I like getting up in the morning, even when I’d rather go back to sleep. I may put it off for a few minutes but I don’t need another bell to get me going. Dreams can be good and slumber is its own reward but I prefer a sense of purpose that comes with coffee and a task. Making the leap from old fire horses to me waking up is a stretch but so was the barefoot guy and the snake. 

INEVITABLE

 

Some things are unavoidable but you don’t go around grieving bad news that hasn’t arrived yet. Then there are little precursors that remind us; it’s out there and we do whatever it is we do with that revelation. When I got my car it had 6.4 miles on the odometer. It smelled new and I had to learn all the new features; back up camera, blue tooth telephone, GPS and more. There must be a dozen different lights on the dash that inform me of one issue or another, like low tire pressure and low fuel. Somehow it knows when it needs an oil change and a little, yellow light comes on up on the left side under the gauges. It’s not that I don't think about the oil but when the light comes on, I think ‘Wow, already that time again.’ 

Three years and thousands of miles later it’s the same except I do the math. Cars last longer if you take care of them but ultimately it costs more to keep them running than they are worth and you change cars. At oil change time I think about my car and its prognosis. When the lady I gave my keys to finds me in the waiting area, I get the diagnosis. Tires, brakes, windshield wipers, filters, computer updates; everything is great or we need something and we decide how much to spend. Driving off the lot I remember its great performance and all the miles we've logged exploring, coast to coast but I also remember there were many cars before this one. 

‘Wow, already that time again.’ This time I’m in my kitchen, looking at two empty pill caddies; one for mornings and the other for evening. They hold all the pills I take, enough for seven days. I need to reload, two yellows and two reds in each compartment for the morning regime and the same plus a little pink pill for the evening. The pink one is a low dose prescription for cholesterol, the others are supplements. Lutein for my eyes and Omega 3, good for about everything are both prescribed but don’t need prescriptions. So I take them every day. When I pick them up I shake them; if there is no rattle I catch myself; ‘Wow, already that time again.’ Every week like clockwork it’s a reality check. My warranty has expired and I need weekly maintenance. I don’t burn high octane fuel any more and we cruise below the speed limit, avoid bumps and low pressure is better now instead of worse. I’m an antique, a classic. If I want to stay road worthy I can’t take anything for granted. 

With the car, new oil and filters and we’re set for 5,000 miles but I’m only good for a week at best but that’s good enough. You shorten your time frame, not because you’re worried about longevity but because every new day simply gets more and more important. 

CLACKETY CLACK

Waking up warm and safe, alone in the dark, you wonder what time it may be. That’s how Amigo woke up on this particular morning. No reason to fret, he just wondered if he should try to go back to sleep or get up and explore the morning, whatever time it might be. He could usually tell if it was early or late but sometimes not. To open the eyes would be a commitment. Turn the head and try to focus on a clock face across the room; it would be too late to retreat back into dream world. The smell of wet streets and grass signaled rain, that he had slept soundly. Undoing the wakeup was no longer an option. 

Amigo is an old man if you go by the numbers. His friends and family either ignore or dismiss big numbers but he knows exactly where he’s been and how long he’s been moving his feet. When his high school class mates started dying he noticed. When their passing became a pattern, the cliche “There are no guarantees” took on a new urgency. Every morning, every wakeup; he takes inventory. “What is important; what is not?” Illusions become unsustainable, replaced by unthinkable alternatives. So he gets out of bed, not knowing the hour, not bothering to check the clock. 

Looking back on three-quarters of a century plus, at the world and its people, swarming like ants on peach seed; Amigo has learned to want what he has and take comfort in his own good company. The seam between what he knows and what he believes is a murky mess, better left for someone else to qualify. He’s old enough to see the conflict of interest that taints accuracy of knowing anything. But that doesn’t register until you run out of bullets, left with only a dull, blunt blade. 

The night before, he went with a few friends to a pizza & beer, micro brewery. A lady there took it on herself to educate him to the finer points of beer, a beer snob if you will. Before it was over, she shared frustrations with parenting teenagers. Amigo tried to share Khalil Gibran’s view on children only to realize, from his frame of reference, she was a child herself. He was pointing her in a good direction but she lived in her own generation and he couldn’t go there any more than she could accompany her kids on their journey. All you can do is what feels right in the moment and when the time comes, let them go. All he could do in that moment was be a good ear. She asked, “What is the single, most important thing you can teach your kids?” A question like that requires a response. Amigo thought for a short minute and said, “Do unto others . . .” That surprised her; she wanted more. “If someone asks you to start counting, you begin with 1, and go as far as need be. We are social creatures; we need each other and civility begins with, “Do unto others. . .”

On Main Street, as he approached the railroad crossing, the lights started flashing as the barricades came down. Coal trains come through town day and night. The sound of the horn and the clanging were familiar and to some extent comforting. The flash of car lights on the other side, blinking in the gaps between coal cars was like meter to the music of the rumbling. The exotic, malty-hoppy-dark-heavy beer had been a disappointment and the convoluted conversation left a lot to be desired. But then people; we need each other even when we don’t get what we want. As the last coal car rolled by and its clackety clack gave way to tires thumping over the tracks, the old man was wondering what a new day might bring.

PALM SUNDAY

Palm Sunday; I was in the Quarter at 9;00 and the line outside Cafe Du Monde was already down the street and around the corner. If you like deep fried donuts smothered in confectioners sugar, it’s the place to be. I like the coffee but not so much the beignets. I tried one once and I leave them alone. I had been sampling pralines at the candy store. They set generous samples out and they’re too rich to have more than 4 or 5 bites, maybe 7 or 9. A dozen praline samples is enough to make a full grown praline and they cost $2.69 so I probably only owe them $5 for this time. I’ve been going there since 1993. So passing on the beignets hasn’t kept me out of the sweets. 

Today was the 4th day of French Quarter Festival. There were a dozen or more stages set up in the streets and music was great. Lots of regional funk and dixieland-brass. Some of the local buskers were working street corners with their horns, guitars and keyboards. A 10 piece street band was blowing funk on Decatur Street at Latrobe Park. They were mostly teenagers and the sound was very good. Nashville is famous for unemployed musicians on street corners but NOLA never slowed down for pickup trucks and grandpa’s moon shine and I like where they’re taking it here. 

More people in the Quarter today than I can remember. It’s normal for the police to set up barricades in the afternoon but pedestrians had taken over the streets by noon and cars were marooned in the crowd. I have favorite places but I walk a lot, all the way from French Market to Canal St., zigging and zagging 3 or 4 blocks deep into the Quarter and back. You listen to a band for a while and move along. Just about the time you get out of earshot the next band up the road starts coming in. 

I bought some Cafe Du Monde coffee, a couple of coin purses and a tee shirt. Parking is expensive. I got in early, got a good spot in the shade. As I was walking up to the truck to leave a guy in an SUV called out; was I leaving? I nodded that I was and it was understood. He would help wall off traffic so I could get out and his wife would sit on the spot until he could pull in. Once backed out into the street, waiting on the cars ahead of me the man came up and asked if I still had my receipt (you leave it on the dash - if you don’t have one they boot your car and it cost $90 to get the boot taken off) He was going to give me some money for it. It’s against the rules; not supposed to do that. I still had it, gave it to him. When you feed the kiosk you have to include your license number. My Michigan number was on the receipt but he didn’t seem to care. I hope they had a great day and no bad news when they headed home. I’ll be driving all day tomorrow, listening to CD’s, singing along. “You know I’ve always been a dreamer, spent my life runnin’ round. And it’s so hard to change, can’t seem to settle down. - So put me on the highway, show me a sign. And take it to the limit, one more time.”

ASDF

I took typing when I was a sophomore in high school. Our machines were old Underwood and Royal manuals. You had to strike each key physically with just the right force. Too soft and the type would be too weak to read, too hard and you have a bold, dark letter with smudges. Naturally, your index and bird fingers are stronger than ring finger and pinkie was weak. It took a while to develop a touch and over time the exercise made for strong fingers and good dexterity. You’re not supposed to look at the key board while you type. You learn the key locations like a pianist learns the piano keys and look at the text of whatever it is that you are typing. It’s sort of like playing guitar. You may sneak a peek once in a while but you have to play by feel. 

Typing class was dominated by girls where shop was more for boys but sometimes at the end of the alphabet, you have to take what’s available. You didn’t have to pay for materials in typing and that was fine with me. So we learned the home row; a, s, d, f, with the left hand and j, k, l, ; with the right. When you put your hands on the keyboard your fingers find those keys without thinking about it. Then you start learning to reach for the other keys without moving your hands. I was alright but never good. The girls all made their machines buzz like shuffling cards while mine sounded like a lethargic wood pecker. We were graded on timed writings; 60 words per minute was the goal and most of the girls could do that. I was consistent in the mid 30’s. 

We had to erase and correct our mistakes. If you had a heavy, dark letter or word to correct you might eat a hole through the paper before you got it clean. If you were typing with carbon paper you had to erase twice and hope the pages lined up when you started typing again. I knew I’d never do this for a living. I was happy with a “C”. The next year when the girls would take Office Practice with its shorthand and book keeping, I’d be in an Art or Shop class. Now, how many years after the fact, I can still type. My grand daughter was talking to me as I typed. I turned to answer but I didn’t stop typing and she was stunned. “What are you doing? How do you do that?” I was typing without looking at the keyboard. I laughed, knowing they don’t teach typing any more. They have keyboard classes in elementary or middle school but not enough to master the skill; hunt and peck is the rule. If you want to be an administrative assistant (they don’t have secretaries any more) you have to figure out a method and get up to speed or you’ll never get a promotion. 

I write. When computers came in it was like Xmas. I could correct with a few key strokes and go on. I can cut and paste with a sweep of the cursor and a key stroke. Carbon paper, wow: carbon paper went the way of small pox and nobody wants to see it ever come back. You just print as many copies as you need. It’s been 16 years since I worked in a classroom and computers were fully integrated then. I know people who lament the demise of cursive writing and I have some feelings there as well but I can promise you, teachers don’t miss trying to decipher kid’s scribbling or stylized calligraphy. As a low-middle achiever, I knew that unreadable scribbling was a great distraction when you were guessing. Sometimes they give partial credit for even a bogus attempt. To that extent nothing has changed. 

In the early 1950’s General Douglas McArthur got himself fired as Commander of Forces in Korea by then President, Harry Truman. It was a big deal at the time. He was old and his political aspirations seemed to have ebbed. In his farewell address he made a now, famous quote. “Old soldiers never die, they just fade away.” In this case I would rephrase that feeling; “Old typists never die, they just go to the old home row.”