THERE YOU ARE

This morning started like any other, the dream dissolved like a TV screen going to commercial and conscious thought scrolled up my mind. The thought was, actually more of an impulse; do I go along with it or steal away, back to dream land? Shortly; serviced, dressed and committed to a new day I stood at my coffee pot weighing my options. Hungry or not, I think it’s good to eat sooner than later but what to eat! I’m a grown up, old man . . . with a credit card and car keys. I can have whatever I want. But my body takes better care of me when I take care of my body so I operate on the rule of moderation. They still have buffets, serve yourself, second’s, third’s, forth’s, even fifth’s; as many reloads as you like. If they advertise, “All You Can Eat” then by all means, you should eat all you can. That used to make perfect sense but look around. My body used to scream, “Lets go parachute from a plane or leap off a 40 ft. cliff into the river.” We did that and it was exciting but 'Exciting' grew up and ain’t what it used to be. Now my body cautions me, “Take good care of me.” and I listen. 

When I fix my own breakfast it could be leftovers but usually an egg & sausage or fruit & cereal. With special days or an irresistible urge I can dress a pancake with a thin layer of orange marmalade but that is a rare day. My dad liked his eggs hard boiled. Still warm, out from the boil through a cold water bath, he pealed two eggs, shook salt & pepper on his plate and carefully tapped the small end of the egg in the spice. Working his way to the big end, alternating bites of bacon, he set the model. Naturally I followed suit. Now I’m the Alpha Male, even if I’m the only one at the table. I sprinkle shredded cheese, cut it all up and nuke the cheese, add some Cajun seasoning and “Voilà”, there you are.

         My mother liked her eggs poached, on toast. She had a poaching tray with a lid for her skillet that accommodated 3 eggs, just right for 3 sons. We didn’t have a toaster but the stove’s broiler could handle 4 slices at a time. She had to turn them to get both sides but she had it to a science and we thought it was the latest, most-best toast system ever. With our own cow, everything tasted better with butter and we didn’t skimp on our poached eggs on toast. This morning, fitting the coffee filter into the pot I thought about her poached eggs. I don’t have a poacher but remember camping on a gravel bar, poaching eggs in a naked kettle. Slide them into boiling water, one at a time. In a few minutes, spoon out the poached egg. You can do as many eggs as space allows. You lose some of the thin, runny egg white but camping on the river bank, it just adds nuance. So I poached an egg, gravel bar style. With a pinch of cheese and a small sausage patty my body got a great start on the new day. Nostalgia, ain’t it great! 
         Dad used to cut our hair with scissors and a small set of hand shears. We sat on a board, on top of the arms of my little brother’s high chair with a tea towel pinned around the neck. Hair cutting wasn’t as carefree as breakfast. If you twitched when you shouldn’t, like a knee jerk reflex came a scathing rebuke. “God damn it,” would be followed by a command, if not a warning, not to move. As nostalgic as that memory may be, poached eggs are one thing but I don’t think I’ll sit on a board for someone with hand clippers to recreate that experience. 

A THIN SLICE

Viewing the world (or anything else for that matter) through a straw is a metaphor for narrow minded, tunnel vision. Most of what I understand and believe has been clarified largely by metaphors, like hooks on the wall where I hang my many hats. The straw metaphor is such a visual thing that I can’t resist it. It pops up on my radar concerning everything of moral import, especially government and religion. 

It’s un-human to challenge your own beliefs or question what feels right; our brain must surely be able to multitask, unscrambling moral dilemmas in a way that keeps us above the fray. As much as we like to believe that we are multitaskers, we can only concentrate on one thing at a time. What feels like multitasking is simply, rapid-fire, channel surfing. Technology allows us to split images on our monitors but they can’t run different movies on the same frequency. Neither does the brain consciously process different ideas simultaneously; it’s a one channel brain. 

Back when Garrison Keillor was a respected writer and radio personality, before his misogynist indiscretions caught up with him, he wrote and I paraphrase; “I always feared I would live a normal life and I wanted a spectacular life. But what we get is less than spectacular and that’s good enough.” That idea, “it’s what we get” rings true when it funnels into my brain. Boot-strap logic sounds good and we have to live as if it were true but in the end, we get what life puts in front of us. We seem to have some say in how we react but that’s a proposition for another day. Evolution gave us all a straw to peer through. On our best day, that’s what we get. We want to believe we get a sweeping panorama of everything that is important but the world we experience is too big, too complex for even our big brains. We have to chew on little morsels, one by one, and there just isn't enough time. The text of one’s experience and the meaning they assign to it is simply too small, too incomplete to address a reality that is incomprehensible. Reality is like Keillor’s revelation, too much to hope for but that’s alright. All we get is a thin slice but it feels like we ate the whole thing. Each person’s less than spectacular experience is unique and we don’t get the luxury of knowing for sure how it came to pass or what it means. We must leave the cause/effect analysis to historians who are yet to be born. 

If the view through my straw overlaps with yours, then we have that in common. If we pan or tilt in concert like cameras on a movie set, we might vote the same ticket and express our spirituality in the same way. But if you tilt while I pan, we’ll never be on the same page. Whichever culture we imprint, transcending from rookie to veteran, that’s the one we’re stuck with. Pushing back is possible but painfully difficult, extremely unlikely; unless what seems to work for everybody else simply doesn’t work for you. Rejecting our tribe and its traditions would make us humanity’s ugly ducklings. Still, even if we reverse everything, the old-us is indestructible, idling in a neutral gear, ready to take over at a moment’s notice like a bad tattoo that you keep covered but can never erase. 

At quick glance, I count at least 15 metaphors so far; they embellish an entangled reality by providing simple if not child like imagery. That’s how I assimilate my ‘Through a straw’ life. Tribal protocol may require us to compete but we don’t have to win, just act as if we did; not bad for high functioning monkeys. 

PART SWEAT, PART DUST

When I was a little kid we got a horse. What I didn’t know at the time was, he was too old to work on the farm, too expensive to keep and his only prospect was a one way trip to the rendering plant to become dog food, glue and fertilizer. The saying goes, “You can take the boy off the farm but you can’t . . . “ that was my dad. We lived on a plot too small to farm but big enough for a barn and several acres of fenced pasture. Dad worked a day job in the city but I grew up barefoot with chores, barb wire and bales of hay. We had a milk cow, a few chickens and sometimes a pig to finish out before butchering in the fall. The horse took retirement gracefully at our place, named him ‘Scout’ and turned him out with the cow. 

Our new-old horse was gentle and he didn’t mind giving us a ride but he was passive-aggressive with the saddle and bridle. It took my dad to get him ready. The saddle was way too cumbersome for me to manage. If I could get it over his back I couldn’t get the cinch tight and all he had to do was hold his head up high to avoid the bit. After several failed attempts I conceded, if I didn’t have an adult to get him ready, I couldn’t ride. Maybe this is where I learned, if you can’t have what you want then make do with what you have: lower your expectations. I coaxed him into his stall with some grain, snapped the lead rope onto his halter, climbed up the side of his stall and onto his back. Once he finished the grain in his feed box he took us outside. With just a lead rope on the halter I could only turn his head one way. We made lots of circles. I would make the universal, checking sound that translates to the horse, “Let’s go” and we went. Getting him to cooperate meant, take turns being in charge, a middle way. On a warm, sunny day it was natural to turn around, lay forward with arms folded on his rump and take a nap. At the back of the lot, beyond the barn, we were out of sight, out of earshot from the house. The slow rocking action as he grazed was all it took for me to fall asleep and that was fine with me. 

J.Q. is a former student and a friend, currently a veterinarian he specializes in large mammals, horses, cattle and such. His growing up was on a real-deal farm with 80 acre fields and dark, deep woods. They kept prize winning, Belgian draft horses that worked through the week and showed off at fairs and competitions on weekends. Tractors are great and you can’t pull a 12 bottom plow without one but they don’t make good pets or follow you to the gate. Working the horses made work into fun. A few years ago I had Sunday brunch with J.Q., spent the afternoon with him at the farm. We walked and talked, ending in the pasture next to the house where the horses were enjoying a lazy afternoon. They came over to see if we had carrots or sugar cubes. Even if we disappointed them on that end they waited patiently for kind words and some hands on affection. 

I hadn’t been around horses since Scout but it’s like riding a bicycle, it comes back. There was an apple tree outside the fence, just out of his reach and he loved apples. They were never good enough for Mom to feed us so when they started falling I kicked them under the fence or scooped up hands full and rationed them out, one at a time. They were small and hard with a tart/sour taste, even as they ripened in the fall. Standing by as he munched, cheek to neck with one arm looped up under his jaw, his mane hung in my face and it must be like mothers with their babies, you don’t need instructions or practice, you stroke and pat and say in your kindest, firm but gentle voice, “Good boy”. 

People go to great length to scrub away or sanitize their body odor. Even so, we recognize that subtle scent and sometimes, it it’s the right person, that aromatic signature is just right. Everyone is unique, a little different than someone else, maybe genetics, diet, environment but the human scent is unmistakable. Horses are no different. Part sweat, part dust, part earth hues of grass and pollen, whatever comes up with them after they roll; it is unmistakable, wonderful. I am not possessed with a pseudo-civilized aversion to body odor, not that I sniff out humans but then again I don’t find it repulsive, not usually. But the scent of a horse is always agreeable. 

Standing there beside a 2,000 pound Belgian with an arm curled up under her jaw, cheek to neck, no apples or carrots but she let me stroke and pat as long as I liked. In my best tone I assured her, “Good girl.” For a fleeting moment I might have been eyes closed, napping with my arms folded on Scout’s rump, my nose filled with the essence of “Horse.” 

SISTER-SISTER SPAT

Don’t you know: I grumble about March-Bluster and we get it with both barrels. After several days of hard freeze and snow comes a warm wind and everything goes to slush. The ground is frozen so all it does is pool and refreeze. The only escape is to escape, make a run for it. Another month and spring will start making overtures. If you can’t get away then you wait. I went with ‘Getaway’. Once you have Chicago in the rear view mirror, things lighten up. But the drive down I-55 is through a radio wasteland. Bumping up the dial one station at a time I counted 9 preachers and 2 talk shows, either saving souls or doing ‘Glory, Glory’. Some were ranting brimstone and scare tactics, others spooning up Jesus-syrup but they didn’t disappoint, the end game was the address to send your check. I have a sleeve full of CD’s under the visor assembled if for no other reason than as a tonic for radio wastelands. I gave up on the FM dial and booted up the Eagles, “ . . . . runnin’ down the road tryin’ to loosen my load . . . . one says she’s a friend of mine.”

The evening before, my host/amigo and I were at the kitchen window. I showed him the photo I took of deer in the drive and he laughed. We went to the barn and scooped up a bucket of shelled corn. “It’s bedtime for birds and squirrels.” he said “but it’s breakfast time for deer.” It was no accident I had seen deer there earlier in the week. He dumped corn on the ground under the bird feeder. Inside with lights out we waited at the window. In those last few minutes of waning light a big doe, then another big doe, then several yearlings; they came around the end of the greenhouse, follow the leader. Altogether, 11 deer were there to browse on corn. They were so close, if the window wasn’t dark they would have kept their distance but they were right up in the yard, taking turns at the corn. I don’t know where the dogs were but it was quiet, so quiet you heard were nails and boards in the walls and ceiling, giving in to push and pull of gravity and time. 

It wold have been easy to let it go at that, deer feeding just a stone’s throw away but noting is that simple. The big doe, the leader, she nosed her way into the huddle around the corn and pushed another doe out of the group and up into the yard. The other doe tried to get back to the corn but the big one got testy, kicked her and stayed between her and the corn. I don’t know if she thought the other had had enough and the babies get the rest or if she just didn’t like her sister. Odds are they were all related and sister-sister spats can boil over in any species. It was raining: I slipped out the door and got a smart-phone photo before they bolted. Off they went, you know who was out in front and they disappeared in the dark. “They’ll be back.” Duane said. “They won’t leave any corn on the ground and you spooked them before they were finished.” I guess I do that but again, I got a better photo than I thought I could with my telephone. Duane will no doubt dump another bucket of shelled corn again tonight but I’m south, far south of the Lake Michigan shore so I’ll make do with my photographs.

NEVER CROSS MY MIND

I love dogs but I’m not a dog lover. We had dogs when I was a kid and we had dogs when my kids were kids but my part in the scheme was always from a distance. They came when I called them and appreciated my massaging around ears and under jaws but they loved someone else. I was alright with that, never made the man/dog bond. All of my family keeps pets now, dog or cat or both and I make it a point to be sociable, show affection, share food and must say I take some pleasure in that regard. But when I go home it never, ever occurs to me that I could have a dog of my own.

When in Michigan I hang my hat with my Outlaw/Back-Door family at Watsonville, a 40 acre patch of woods with a 15 acre blueberry patch. My room is at the end of the hall, my truck sleeps in the second space from the barn door. Watsonville has its own dog population, they know me well. If they are outside when I pull in they parade around my feet, hoping for some attention; if inside they ignore me all together. Depending on the season and the weather, they may or may not have carpet privileges, sometimes confined to the kitchen. Keller, a big, brown Labradoodle has cataracts, can’t see well enough to find food on the floor but dodges through trees without mishap. He is subordinate to Sanford, the Chihuahua/Terrier that thinks he is a grizzly bear. Sanford spends his time on patrol, you can hear him barking from any direction, any time; inside he either asleep on a mat by the kitchen door or perched in the bay window, guarding the fort and the berry patch against squirrels or raccoons, whatever strays across his line of sight. Birds at the feeder don’t trip his trigger but if a squirrel spooks them, he goes off like a machine gun. Anything, anybody; strangers need to be challenged and friendlies get a vocal welcome. Keller barks along, just because, even though he can’t see past the porch. They go to the door, anxious and eager to squirt through the gap out into the fray.

Last night I was by myself in the kitchen, the sun was down but still light in the west. Sanford starts barking, really excited. Keller chimes in; they have a way of knowing the other’s song and dance and this one was a big deal. My first motion, shifting my weight forward to pull my char back was their signal to charge the door. But I got up for a look outside, not about to turn them out for a romp in the snow; who knows when or in what condition they would want back inside. When I didn’t go to the door their noise went up 10-20 decibels and the look Sanford gave me was all daggers and arrows. 

Looking back outside, everything was either black or shades of gray but something was moving in the drive, several somethings. The deer I had been hearing about were on the move. They heard the barking and stopped. They know that dogs behind closed windows are no threat but they still wait and watch. I picked up my smart phone and reached for the door, making growling sounds and threatening body language that kept the dogs back. Creeping to the corner of the deck for a photo, the deer heard me open the door and were moving away. Not a great photo but if you don’t try, you don’t know. Back inside, Sanford was back in the bay window , still barking and Keller was curled up on the sofa. 

That little herd of 4 or 5 does and their yearlings had been passing through every evening for several weeks. Sanford is a warrior at a distance and, like Don Quixote, leads his faithful side-kick Sancho Panza (Keller) off through the woods after a windmill he really doesn’t want to catch. When I head out in a few days I’ll think about my canine buddies back at Watsonville, about our near-deer encounter and feel like I’ve cheated them somehow. For a dog, what would be more fun than chasing Bambi through the snow, into the woods? But I won’t be feeling guilt, the carpet won’t be dirty on my account and the thought of me getting a dog of my own will never cross my mind.

WHO WILL NEED A WINDOW

I’m home in Michigan this week, was home in Missouri before that and home in Louisiana the week before that. ‘Where You From’ is a tribal thing left over from the stone age, not so far removed from animals sniffing behinds; who’s your mamma. But we have language so we just ask, ‘Where you from’. If it’s someplace far away or exotic then it’s a kick-start to conversation. I mention it because I’m home again, whatever that means. But if I could only have one home, this would be the one. I walked into the old piano factory in Grand Haven this morning, where Coffee Grounds Coffee Shop used to be; it isn’t anymore. New owners have stripped out the coffee shop, the men’s wear place beside it and the pottery shop next door. In the new space there's a Star Wars style coffee shop that spills out into an area still under construction, with garage doors out to the sidewalk. I think it will be a late night venue; whatever its fate I don’t think they were thinking of me.

I understand that change is the nature of nature. Old people generally don't like change but I’ve never been burdened with that. I like the idea. The 70's weren't all that great, glad things have changed, and I’m not complaining, just wasn’t ready for sawdust and a strange face to  pour my decaf. It didn’t take long to discover Jumpin’ Java, 3 blocks up on Washington St. with leaping green frogs on the door and window. It’s a deep/narrow store front more busy with a younger feel. If I can’t make pit stops at the predictable, old, comfortable Coffee Grounds then Jumpin’ Java will be easy getting used to. The Wifi password is programmed into my laptop now and the toaster is self service where I can tweak my own bagel. 

Driving into town this morning was nice. Windy all day yesterday with low clouds and blowing snow. So clear sky and no breeze today makes for easy driving with a cushion of snow to smooth out washboards on the back roads. I’ll be going into Grand Rapids to visit friends this afternoon and evening. Folks on the lake shore are not put off by cold weather in March. Everybody is ready for warm days but I don’t hear anyone grumbling. I always said that there are 5 seasons here. Winter is separated from Spring by Bluster, a month or so of gray, wet, gusty stuff coming in off the lake. By early May the weather will have changed overnight like Cinderella’s pumpkin. Snow and cold will go away, nobody cares enough to bid it good riddance. Reminds me of a song from long ago; “Mañana”. The last verse goes; "The window it is broken and the rain is comin’ in. If someone doesn’t fix it I’ll be soakin’ to my skin. But if we wait a day or two the rain will go away; and who will need a window, on such a sunny day."

TALK THE TALK

The 1998 movie, “Saving Private Ryan” begins with D-Day in World War II on the beaches of France. The realism and feeling of peril is so powerfully portrayed I was swept up in it. How does that work; to lose oneself in a movie, to find yourself only to be pulled down that hole again and again? It is the only time a movie has ever done that to me. 

On a farm in the midwest a mother learns that three of her four sons have been killed in action. The 4th son, Private Ryan was part of the D-Day invasion. The Army decided that his family had sacrificed enough and ordered him to be withdrawn and sent home. The plot follows a squad of soldiers assigned to find him in the chaos of D-Day. I think it’s safe to say, the violence and inhumanity of war has never been replicated in a movie so convincingly, never. 

Afterwards, many of us simply sat in our seats and tried to decompress as the credits rolled. Two scenes at the end of the story put it all in perspective. After a skirmish, Private Ryan has been located and pulled out of action. The squad leader who saved him is shot by a sniper, he sits dying on the roadside but ministers to the young private, telling him that a great sacrifice has been suffered in order for him to survive the war. His brothers have been killed, several men in the squad who searched him out had died in the process. The squad leader puts a great burden of responsibility on the private. In so many words; “You must live a a worthy life. It has been paid for at a very high price. Now you must earn it!” Not worn out, patriotic talk but soldiers with names, the when and where of their fates; it brought all that weight to bear on one set of shoulders. 

Shortly, the movie leaps forward 50 years. As an old farmer, Private Ryan returns with his family to Normandy, to the cemetery where Capt. Miller, the man who charged him with that great responsibility lies buried. At the Captain’s grave the old Private Ryan breaks down, collapses and cries. He recounts the story of that day and begs his wife and sons, “Did I earn it?” He was looking for some kind of redemption, for a life that he might not have deserved, maybe not earned. I choke up thinking about that part of the movie.

My military experience came 15 years after D-Day, in the lull between Korea and Viet Nam but it was enough to appreciate the prospect of dying far from home, for a reason you did not own, may not even understood. I was never put in Harm’s Way, never engaged with an enemy. When my tour was up, I choose to go home. Some see war as a noble service to one’s country, others see it as pointless mayhem with no winners. I fell somewhere in between. 

In the young Private Ryan construct I don’t know how I would have reacted to war. I don’t know anyone who can know themselves that well. Now, age wise equal to the old Private Ryan I reflect on my life and wonder if I’ve earned it, the good life I enjoy. We are tribal animals and that need to belong, to identify and to protect our peers; it is hard wired into our nature. American culture requires of us that we live by a Puritan Ethic. It is sinful to enjoy benefits that you do not deserve. We put a lot of meaning and value onto what we deem, is or is not deserved. 

Tribalism is largely responsible for the rise of our species but I don’t think it is particularly beneficial in the present or for the future. I try to rise above it, identify first as a global citizen. Self serving competition is a double edge blade, maybe our worst nightmare. Still, I find myself begging the same question that haunted Private Ryan; do I deserve my good fortune, my good health, my network of precious friends and family? It still feels important to ruminate on that kind of emotional baggage but reason and logic tell me that it really doesn’t matter. If there is something to be learned from history it is that collectively, people talk the talk but don’t learn much from history.