NOTHING IS EVER SIMPLE

This life, mine anyway, it unwinds like line off the spool on a fishing reel, not in a straight, smooth, linear fashion bur rather with coiled loops with kinks down through the rod’s line guides, out into space and down to the water. Sometimes, fishing, I let the bait sink for a while before I start the retrieve. It’s not until I make a turn or two on the crank that the line straightens, goes taught and I can feel resistance from the baited end. Who knows, that force may come from a hooked fish or it may be no more than fluid friction against the worm. That is a fair analogy for the way my life goes; cast, let the bait sink, retrieve, only then figure out what is going on at the hook end of my line. It’s not until after you eliminate coils and kinks that you know how to proceed. At any given moment, I have dozens of lines in the water but I can only tend to one at a time. Nothing is easy, nothing is ever simple, not if you look close enough and ask all of the relevant questions. 

Recently, several days ago, I took a break while driving Interstate I-35. I remember the location exactly: it was at mile #1 Visitors Center just north of the Texas/Oklahoma border. With my small popup camper in tow, I turned into the (cars only) entrance, knowing there would be no suitable space for my rig’s long foot print but I didn’t want to walk all the way from where big trucks were parked and I’ve never followed directions all that well, so I parked parallel to the curb, covering 5 angled parking spaces. I would use the restroom and study an Oklahoma map. There was only one car parked between me and the building as I started up the sidewalk and I wasn’t paying attention. There was a voice but it didn’t register. Then I heard it again. Someone in that parked car was trying to get my attention. I glanced that way and the voice came a little louder on its 3rd try. “Sir! Excuse me sir!” This is the part where I concede there is something tugging on the end of my line. Stepping closer, the woman leaned toward her open window and began her story. “I’m sorry to bother you but I have to get to Ardmore and I need help: can you help me?” I felt like the victim in a prank where they video people unawares. My mind kicked in with an observation that it’s only 20 or so miles up the road, just keep going north but the words never took shape in my mouth. The woman was heavy but not fat, with gray streaks in her short hair. She must have been 60 with glasses too big and a generic, fabric coat. After a pause she tried again: “If you could only help me make it to Ardmore I would so appreciate it.” 

The car was a dark coppery/orange color hatchback sedan, fairly late model but the front end had recent collision damage and something was leaking up front. I apologized. “I’m sorry,” I said, “what I think you mean is, you need some money.” The little dog on the passenger seat was unhappy with me and she calmed it with her far hand as she leaned my way. “I only need 7$ and I can make it to Ardmore.” The rest of the car was a shamble. There was a cardboard box full of papers and notebooks, a heap of wadded up clothes and a table lamp, lamp shade and all. My first thought was, she has only a short head start on the police who must be in pursuit or she had no time at all to pack, fleeing a desperate criminal who would surely kill her. 

Why does my mind go calm-logical when the moment requires something much more animated? What can you get for 7$ that will make Ardmore a doable destination? I was still trying to get my head around the moment. I needed to pee and there I was in the parking area, trying to calculate the probability that a damaged, leaking car could get a 7$ fix. I had already pulled my wallet out and she sensed that I would in fact, help. I glanced up again as she took her far hand off the dog and moved it to the top of the steering wheel. I didn’t have 7$ but I did have a 10$ bill, weighing if I really wanted to exceed her expectations. A column of blue smoke curled over the steering wheel toward her open window. In her hand on top of the wheel she held a cigar. She was smoking a cigar, a big, long, thick cigar. The ash must have ben over an inch long and it looked like it could have stayed intact indefinitely. The lady began blubbering thank you’s as I pulled the 10$ out. I bid her Good Luck and moved around the front of her car. 

I had no regrets about the money. I seldom if ever throw money at panhandlers on street corners but this one felt right. The fact that I needed to pee may have influenced my timely forthcoming but it wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. Back in the 90’s I was at Kansas City’s airport after a long weekend in New Orleans. In the terminal I encountered a couple who had cash but were unable to rent a car because neither could produce a valid credit card. Their predicament became a spectacle and I could not, not notice. I offered them a ride to wherever they needed to go and they accepted. An obvious June-December match, he was a well worn 80 and she a cool 40-something. They met in Las Vegas a few nights earlier, got married and he was bringing her home to Kansas City. They both seemed nice enough, I didn’t know their story other than they couldn’t put their hands on any of the credentials or documents they needed. After half a day chauffeuring them from one bank to another, to his former friends homes and to his old employers he was able get a temporary pass into his condo in Independence, MO. They invited me up for a drink but I declined, trying to calculate the odds against their long term bliss. I was reminded, nothing is simple and after all, there is no fool like an old fool but then again, what do I know! 

There was nothing special about the woman’s cigar in Oklahoma other than it was the catalyst for the whole experience. Up to that point I was still trying to do the math. Tracing the column of blue smoke back to her cigar’s long ash I got what I needed, an Ah-Ha moment. Some things will never make sense but they all have a trajectory and other than random charity, I would have no significant role in that arc. The less I knew about what goes on in Ardmore the better. When I came back from the Visitor Center all I had to work with was a pool of antifreeze where she had been parked. 

A PLACE FOR THEM IN HELL

January has almost spent itself. With only a few days left I can’t imagine what she might do that we might remember better; something different, something profound, maybe even something spectacular. The last thing she wants is to fade away without a trace; nobody wants to be forgotten. I went to Texas as if her bite would be eased by warm breezes and sunny skies but not the case. We got dense, cold fog and mosquitoes by the flocks. After a time the sky did clear and we enjoyed ourselves. But holidays unwind and for the better or the worse, you go back to where you came from. 

Last night, after a dozen hours  behind the wheel, I was north bound on Missouri, I-49. Before it became an Interstate it was U.S. 71, the main line from Kansas City to Joplin. I don’t need a map. I know all the little towns that used to dot the highway, now bypassed, lucky if they have an exit they don’t have to share with some other little town. Sheldon is one of those. Remnants of the old highway still parallel the train tracks through town but potholes go unpatched and clumps of grass grow in cracks that see mostly kids on bicycles and farm machinery. Where the tracks cross main street it’s nearly a mile out to the highway. The place reminds me of the movie set from Fried Green Tomatoes, Jessica Tandy’s little hamlet of Whistle Stop. 

As I passed the Sheldon exit, lights were burning around town and it gave off its own little glow but the sleepy little place was done for the day. My dad was born there, grew up there, clinging to the lowest rung on an unforgiving ladder. His parents abandoned him, left him with a dirt-poor family, a temporary arrangement that turned out to be permanent, one short step from landing in the county orphanage. My dad grew up with a Napoleon complex, a little guy who had to be in a fight every day, win or lose, to prove he was nobody’s pushover. He grew up, moved to the city, learned a skilled trade, married and raised a family. During WW2 and through the 1950’s we made regular trips to the little farm west of Sheldon, caring for my surrogate grandparents, Sally, Ida and Forrest Cole, the sibling children of Sam Cole, the old man who made room for one more. 

The Great Depression had left them paupers. They still lived at the house but were too old to work the land. They leased it to another farmer so there was a small income but not enough to sustain. My dad made good money as a tool & die maker but we never enjoyed the trappings of prosperity. Later I learned that we were all there was between them and the poor house; they still had places for the indigent and helpless that were more prison than charity. The Coles were afraid the bank would take the farm and send them to the poor house, a consuming fear that they took to their graves. The Stevens family made sure there was food in the pantry and coal in the chute, that taxes were paid and if legal help was needed it was provided. In my little bubble we lived well enough but without the luxuries my peers took for granted.

In 1950 just before Sally died she was distraught on the verge of panic until she saw the ‘Paid’ receipt for her care, that she wasn’t going to die in the poor house. Dad sold the 40 acres and rented a tiny house on another farm. I was in high school by then. Over a decade of road trips and caring for them I learned to associate the strong, human scent and the smell of coal smoke with everything that made family strong and love so sweet. Ida cooked and Forrest kept the fire going. He was 88 when he passed and Ida followed a few years later at 93. My parents were on vacation in Alaska so it was up to me to represent family at Ida’s funeral. It was in July before our first born arrived in September. The two of us sat on folding chairs beside her casket. Maybe eight or nine others came. It is common for small town funeral directors to have paid mourners when low attendance is foreseen and that was the case I’m sure. But there were familiar names and faces from stories I knew by heart. My little family was her family but there were others as well, out of respect for my dad I suspect. They knew how hard life had been for the Coles, how Ida had been the strong one when the others could not. They knew that pride is the knot one hangs onto at the end of poverty's rope. If you have nothing at all, all you can do is to stand tall and hold your head up. And when arrogant bastards mock your distress you dare to return the insult; “You God damn son of a bitch, there’s a place in Hell for you too.” 

The glow over Sheldon slipped out of sight and I knew the next exit would lead to gravel roads west and Bickett Cemetery; the Coles are buried there. I’ve been there a number of times, when we buried Ida, to help with maintenance and spring clean up and some just to pay respect. I’ve heard it said, for as long as someone remembers your name and some of your story then your life hasn’t completely run its course. I take it on myself to go there, to do that. I live in a time when American culture mocks the poor and blames victims for their own plight. There is no pride left for the weak or the disenfranchised, only shame. I find it lonely here with them after all, they are the people I identify with. I have a good education, I succeeded at a career and I don’t need help but they are my people and when they suffer, I suffer as well. I understand that you get a life but sometimes you don’t have it, it has you. It’s really difficult to undo experiences that shape one’s character. Maybe I was 6, I remember Forrest telling my dad, “Republican bankers, God damn sons a’ bitches, ever’ one of them.” If I am suspicious of Republican bankers it comes honestly. And if  I give well-healed, self righteous bigots little or no sympathy, it's because they confuse liberty with license, Heaven forbid their profits flag below expectations, it should not come as a surprise that I don't care. There’s a place in Hell for them too. 

RIO GUADALUPE

Bulverde is a little Texas town just off US 281, up the road from San Antonio. We took shelter here last week after fleeing fog, wind and mosquitoes down on the gulf coast. Yesterday was sunny with forecast for rain today so we did a day trip to Guadalupe River State Park, about a half hour up the road. Being outside was a treat and the river with walking/hiking trails let us exercise as much as we liked. I was surprised. The river looked more like something you would encounter in north Arkansas. No slow, murky, flatland river but woods above on a limestone bluff and clear water with a current and rocky bottom. 

I took photographs but wintertime river scenery, even in Texas, lacks color and for a photo dude that’s like music without a song. Trees along the water’s edge told a harrowing story. High up limbs were choreographed down stream from obviously, many high water events that had roared down through the hill country. Then there were roots that wound and twisted like a ship’s lines anchoring the tree to the bank. Looking through the lens, sooner or later, you realize from where you are standing, high water was no stranger to tree tops and that was 15’-20’ feet above your head. This would be no place to be then. We saw a little brown bat sunning itself on a broken snag not 10’ overhead. When the wind blew it ducked into shelter but kept coming back to the sunny side. 

We have been somewhat like the bat, making the most out of marginal weather. With all the miles I’ve logged I am a newbie at running away from the cold. If sitting in the sun is more about sitting warm and less about meaningful motion then, I may never get it. My Texas excursion is about spent and the thought of 40 degrees latitude in February is not so bad. It will unfold as it should, trees to prune and rather than taking things for granted, some genuine appreciation for a warm, sunny day. 

THE DAY COMETH

You can go south in wintertime and you can imagine how much better it feels than up on the frosty summit but January is January. The only time I’ve ever been wrong about the January-July thing was in 2005 in Patagonia. If you want a memorable January-thing, when you cross the border you need to keep on crossing borders. When it is shady on the south side of the house you have gone far enough. I made a token effort this year and the result has been less than rewarding. South Texas is warmer than Southern Illinois but Padre and Mustang Islands have been cloaked in dense, cold fog and that just comes up short no matter how the ice is freezing on Lake Michigan. Point to be taken; if all you have to grumble about is cold weather then it would follow that your life must be pretty good. I’m not truly grumbling just reporting that plans for anything, not unlike the lottery, have their own center mass and follow their own compass. 

My little pop-up camper has done its best to keep us dry. Condensation accumulates and drips from the overhead. Unlike rain it doesn’t need a leaky seam or an open window. In the past I’ve camped by myself and space available has been adequate but certainly not abundant. With two of us, in January, nothing rests in the same place twice except for the two of us. When it goes dark and quiet in the camper it resembles ‘Once-upon-a-time’ the inside of my kid’s toy box after their mom made them put things away before bedtime cookies and milk. Last night we couldn’t find silverware and had to eat our salad with a small set of tongs. 

From the State Park on the beach to an RV Park 3 hours up the road retreat is running away, not something you want to admit. Still, our escape finds us warm and dry in the clubhouse. The shower this morning was with hotter than tepid water and we didn’t have to keep pressing the button to keep it running. I remember in November trying to anticipate this adventure, how far off it seemed. But I knew well enough that time flies and the day comes. When you pull out the driveway the day has cometh. So I’m sitting in a warm, dry place anticipating the day when I can make new sawdust in my wood shop; and that day will cometh in its own time. 

IN SELF DEFENSE

Happy New Year! We are still in the blush of a new year. I’ve celebrated as much and as often as I dare and January has set in against my druthers. Cold weather isn’t so bad of itself but the trappings of winter wear thin even as I try to put my best foot forward. The new year means it’s time to collect and organize all of my tax records. I don’t mind paying taxes but the idea of some pencil-neck associate bureaucrat chomping at the bit; it’s actually a computer but I tend to personalize the culprit. My Michigan forms go to my Michigan address and Missouri stuff to the Missouri one. In that juggling act it’s not unusual for one or more necessary things to be lost or go AWOL. I’ve never been late or penalized but still, I hate the wait for each institution and bureau to locate me. I have a lady C.P.A. in Byron Center, Michigan who crunches numbers and it’s simple enough that she does the short form so I don’t worry about errors on the page. But I don’t think about it until January rolls around. 

By the time February sets in there will be winter buds on the trees and that’s reliable evidence, the promise of Solstice will be fulfilled. Spring will be stationed in the wings, waiting patiently for the ground to warm up and at this stage I have plenty of time. I can wait for April showers. With time in mind, I did some of my own number crunching. As an octogenarian, I have opened my eyes to a new day roughly 29,500 times. It may seem like a big number but it’s not. Life, human life is short, even if you live long. Twenty nine thousand dollars can purchase a new car but only a low end, plane Jane run-about. No self respecting car thief would take a Korean sedan when there are plenty of 50-60 thousand dollar SUV’s and pickup trucks parked at the curb. I bought a house once for twenty-some thousand dollars but you can’t get an empty lot for that now. Eighty years, 29,500 wake-ups; if you’re lucky you still have some of your own teeth, you can shuffle across the street and hop up on the curb. At 29,000 miles your car is still a teenager. Numbers, just numbers. But you realize each new wake up is special and none of them are guaranteed. 

I keep this journal in self defense, proof that I can still throw words at the page and flesh out an idea. Very soon, only a few wake ups and January will be half spent. I would have preferred an exciting, even an interesting story but this little ramble will have to do. It’s a new year and I can ride it like a rodeo bull rider or like an old dude in his recliner but that’s about karma, what you encounter coming back around. Camping on the beach is in the cards, tomorrow, for the next ten days or so. I’ve never been enamored with Texas "Bravado" but warm January weather on the Gulf Coast can defuse a lot of otherwise undesirable culture. My daughter recently encountered a local shop keeper who choked up with emotion when she confessed, she just didn't know how anybody, how anybody could vote for a Democrat. That said, it occurred to me there was a lot more that she didn't know. I default back to my Mother's wisdom (I do that a lot) when she asked me, "Would you rater die by a fast bullet or a slow rope?" It's no secret that one's political orientation is driven by an emotionally charged, reptilian brain with little or no real, rational thought process and that feeling good is preferable to weighing an argument that might turn against you.  The "Feeling" side of the brain has hard-wired veto power over the cerebrum and its critical process, regardless of how we like to think we think.