A GOOD PLACE TO STOP

  I am reminded how much my writing works to process and correlate information for my own sake, to better understand rather than to be understood. Whether or not someone reads it doesn’t really matter but going public does serve as another layer for me to consider. I spent several hours, over 2,000 words in the past two days trying to connect three dots and all I’ve done is muddy the water. So I am starting over. 
1st dot: Drawing the line between knowing and believing is incredibly difficult. One requires proof (compelling, objective, reliable evidence) while the other gets by on good looks and a good measure of blind faith. Sadly, most of us can’t tell for sure where knowing ends and believing begins. 
2nd dot: Those who think their proof is both credible and reliable (trust worthy) are often mistaken. Proof is a high hurdle to clear. Most of us (human beings) take the low road (opinion) when it comes to establishing cause & effect, especially when a moral principle is at stake. 
3rd. dot: The brain is literally two brains working in tandem, often competing for control of the mind. One (the midbrain) is undisciplined, short sighted and inaccessible. It wants what it wants and it wants it now. It doesn’t care about unexpected, unintended consequence. The other is not only curious and patient but it is the accessible, conscious part. It would rather suffer bad but correct news about an unpleasant truth than feel good in the moment with fiction. But it isn't the patient part that gets the last word. Decisions are finalized in the end by the subconscious, undisciplined midbrain. It doesn't mean that we cannot make rational, reasonable, good decisions but that's another story, another hour and a thousand words. I am not making this up, it’s how the brain works.
Here comes the crunch. Say, 15,000 years ago when people began crossing the Bering land bridge from Siberia into present day Alaska, life was short and incredibly dangerous. Fear and reaction to danger needed to be swift and instinctive for them to both survive and prevail. Not enough time; you could be killed before considering all the possibilities. A short fused, selfish mind served them well. But with the advent of civilization and technology, a more disciplined, rational, patient mind is more in line with meeting modern day demands. The problem is that biologically (brain wise) we haven’t evolved beyond the hunter-gatherer’s impatient, intolerant mind.
Evolution doesn’t just happen. It needs a driver, something that interferes with reproduction. Only then, when an evolving trait gives some individuals a reproductive advantage but not others, the species evolves. Those without the advantageous trait lose ground and get culled out of the population. Trait genes that get culled out can no longer be passed on. Then the new trait is the only one available. Not common knowledge but that’s how evolution works. 
Humans would benefit greatly from a genetic shift away from the dominant (impatient, inconsiderate) midbrain to a recessive, if you will, (patient, disciplined, curious) cortex. But in the past 3,000 years when civilization has taken great leaps forward there has been no significant threat to human populations. Without an extreme, dangerous die-off (there are 7.8 billion people currently; unprecedented) the biology of disciplined, critical thinkers has no advantage in the race to procreate.
So, it should be no surprise that a significant, high percentage of modern people are easily influenced by emotional appeals. Traditional, old-world, right & wrong values are exploited. No surprise that conspiracy theories and unrealistic fears are used by leaders and followers as well to gain not only power and material gain but also the deeply rewarding satisfaction of feeling good and right (righteous). That kind of mental posturing can be unbelievably empowering. I have a niece who graduated high school and works in a medical office. She knows more-better about Covid and vaccines than the WHO and the CDC combined. She also knows for a fact that Hillary Clinton runs a human trafficking ring. She knows somebody who knows somebody else who knows for sure. It makes her feel really, really good. I am at 650 words now and it seems like a good place to stop. 

EXPECT IT

  By way of the weather forecast the sun came up nearly half an hour ago but no sunbeams yet. My house is tucked in between two hills and the hills have lots of big, tall trees so that delayed sunshine is anticipated. It is Xmas morning and Santa has come and gone. On the 23rd, two nights back I watched the movie The Polar Express. It is part of my holiday package every year and you might think that a bit repetitious but just the other way. I have other movie-favorites I reboot regularly, stories I know by heart but want to watch again. But Polar Express is new again every time. It works at several levels and there is so much in the marvelous animation and subtle detail, you notice something again every time, like the first time. 
It is about balancing expectations between doubts and faith. Adults can think it a metaphor for Big B Belief while kids (of all ages) are quite comfortable with flying reindeer and jolly old Santa. The Boy Hero gets the 1st Christmas gift, a magic sleigh bell that rings only for those who believe in the magic of the moment. The omniscient narrator throws us a curve at the end when he observes that years later after the kids were grown up they couldn’t get the bell to ring. But in that precious moment and forever after they captured it in memory, it was very, very real. For those few hours I let myself believe along with them. The grownup in me knows all too well that magic is an illusion and that up the calendar in a few days it will be a sweet but benign reflection. Still, we allow it. I do it with a clear conscience and a happy heart. 
Sustaining Joy and Good Will, will be a tall task with Covid surging again. I will be hanging close to home, actually at home. We got all of our family and friends addressed before the midnight hour and I am making merry by myself. Living alone for so long, I’ve learned to take comfort in my own good company. I have decided to add another movie to my Christmas itinerary. A Christmas Story is set in 1983 with 9 year-old Ralphie Parker wanting nothing more and nothing less than a Red Rider BB gun. The plot unfolds with a series of minor crises that play parent’s hopes for a peaceful, happy holiday against their children’s relentless pursuit of Santa’s magic. Mr. Parker tries his best to balance the two and somehow they make it to the closing credits with a happy resolution.
For what it’s worth; in October I was at Costco and saw this wonderful, red and tan, plaid, flannel shirt. At the time I thought it would be the perfect shirt to wear at our family Christmas gathering on the 23rd. The shirt has hung in my closet all these weeks. It was clean to begin with so I didn’t wash it but I did tumble it on high heat for a few minutes to help it relax. On the night before, my granddaughter came down with (what we now know was) Type A Influenza with similar symptoms to Covid. So the party at their house was canceled with no other options. That was too bad but then (as an old friend used to say) “When you least expect it, expect it.” So I got up this Christmas morning with almost nothing on my schedule for the day, looked in my closet and saw the red & tan, flannel shirt. If nothing else, I could wear my holiday uniform on Christmas day. With a quick check for fit I caught my thumb on something that turned out to be a hand warming pocket concealed by the side seams. OMG, it has hand pockets. I got a surprise on Christmas morning after all. So there is an up side to my friend’s wannabe wisdom: when you least expect it, expect it. Christmas has  been merry so far and sunrise tomorrow will be delayed at my house just like today. Next weekend will begin a new year and I am hoping for more pleasant surprises. 

AND THE DAY AFTER THAT

I have been observing Winter Solstice for the past twenty five years and actively celebrating the event for the last dozen or so years. This is old stuff by now for people who know me and maybe I should move on with something current. I observe and celebrate Christmas as well but that story is an exploited misappropriation of Winter Solstice. With that I should post a disclaimer: I have no agenda or dispute with religion (Christian or otherwise), with Baby Jesus or his devout followers. So said, celebrating Winter Solstice is one of several pagan (nature based) traditions that bring meaning to my insignificant, little life. With a few friends, a warming fire and a full moon, we did that last night. No secret, pairing chocolate and brandy with a Lakota Sioux prayer upgrades holy communion from a sober expression of Faith to a festive appreciation for the unbroken linkage of one life to another, to another. It goes life to life, mother to child and cycles again, life to life. Festive gratitude is our expression of interconnection and of our place in time. It simply is wha it is. 
As I remember Easter was supposed to be the high point in our religious calendar. I could do the math but I never came away with a sanctified, righteous aftermath. By now, Solstice is the spiritual high point of my year. It swings on how the moon and stars line up, like they have for tens of thousands of years. The seasons come and go in a predictable fashion. No need for a miracle or an explanation to feel the plenty of harvest and the warmth of autumn give way to winter. Things change and we make the most of what we get. I like all religion when the people who practice it remember to put first the fundamental premise of all formal religion: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. That is how truly righteous people begin and end every action and reaction: and everybody said, “Mitakuye Oyasin” All my relations - we are all related - everything is connected. Today the sun will arc just a fraction of a degree higher in the sky than it did yesterday; another fraction of a degree the day after that, and the day after that. 

AND I SAY, IT'S ALRIGHT

  I dropped the last bundle of outbound Holiday Greetings at the post office the other day. I always leave someone out and some come back undelivered but the work is done. I remember when people sent an update for the year and either included it with a card or in lieu of one. I don’t see much of that nowadays but then postage and the cards themselves are very expensive. I understand, a long mailing list can be cost prohibitive. But I remember a long time back when I was coming out, identifying as a writer; I didn’t want to labor friends and family with a chronological list of high and low points from my year. I appreciated the thought as well as the news but, not really good reading. So I started writing Christmas poems and sending them instead.
The word Narrative is a sophisticated way of saying Story. But it is more than that. It is the difference between Bird and Pelican. By a single word a living creature is reduced to nothing more than a feathered, flying animal. A different word and it unfolds with character and imagery. Pelican is more than just a bird, it is big, with a fleshy pouch under its huge beak. It is the bird with long, flared wings that skims low across the shallows, gliding effortlessly on a cushion of offshore breeze. They dive deep into the water at a steep angle, mouth open like a dip net; the fish doesn’t have a chance. To make that revelation just use a different word. That is the difference between Narrative and Story. When I send a holiday greeting I want it to be a good read, its message requires more than information, it needs the narrative.
Over time the poems gave way to timely vignettes about family or my adventures that captured the spirit of the season. My subtle, underlying holiday message is the same every year; “Something interesting happened and I want to tell you. Oh, and by the way, I remember you, I care about you, I am always happy to see you and when I miss you, I miss you. If we can’t sit together and drink coffee then take care and be happy. It is a choice.” 
I spent about 90 envelopes and stamps this year, added a few yesterday that I had overlooked or new to the list. I think of the project as a gift from me to myself. Every time I sign my name, stuff the envelope, lick and stick I give that person my undivided attention and it feels good. I will celebrate Christmas but Jingle Bells & The First Noel are just one of many reasons to proclaim the season. In my end-of-the-year celebrating I usually pay more attention to Thanksgiving and Solstice. Christmas was hijacked by early Christians to coincide with Solstice, (Baby Jesus was born in the spring after all) that way converted pagans could keep a familiar holiday under a new pretense. They neither canceled nor changed the date, just substituted a new story. 
Thanksgiving, on the other hand, began with rituals to celebrate fertility and the harvest season and they predate The First Noel by several thousand years. How can you not love Thanksgiving, thank you.  Solstice reaches even farther back into antiquity. They saw it coming, watching the shadows change as the sun’s arc dipped lower and lower in the southern sky. On that day when shadows were the longest and daylight hours their shortest, they celebrated. They knew from experience that the sun’s arc would begin to rise again. The sun left those cold people with a promise. “It is going to get even colder and times will be painfully hard but I will be back, and I’ll bring summer with me.” For tens of thousands of years the sun has never, not come back. 
I will have company, we will be outside at Dark-O’Clock on 12/21 with a fire and music that exalts the sun and sunshine; George Harrison, John Denver, Sheryl Crow and others. (Here comes the sun and I say, it’s alright) There might even be some sing-along, shuffling of feet and dance a little dance. The fire will stay lit but after the singing and dancing we can come inside, watch the flames from the kitchen window. There will be a pot of green chili and sopapillas to seal the deal and a communal toast with dark chocolate and sipping brandy. 

3 BALLS IN THE AIR

  December is such a busy month it would be easy to just pick up your feet and let it take you wherever it will. I have kids (grown ups) coming in from out of state for the week before and Xmas day (as well as their local siblings) and it feels a lot like juggling. I learned to juggle, taught myself with a set of juggling scarfs. The scarfs (3) were napkin size and sheer, light weight fabric that move so slowly through the air that you can’t throw them, they don’t go anywhere. So you just lift one across your body as high as you can reach and let go. Release with your right hand, let it fall and catch with the left hand. Reach across & lift, release, catch, reach across the other hand & lift. . . left and right, you can keep all three scarfs in the air. Once that is mastered the transition to bean bags or tennis balls comes easy. All you need to juggle more than 3 items is lots of practice. The surprise is that catching is the easy part. The trick is tossing the ball so it falls into the waiting hand on the other side. But then you need to make the same precise toss with both hands, alternating, simultaneously (muscle memory) again and again. Even if you think yourself a skilled athlete, keeping 3 balls in the air is an incredibly satisfying accomplishment, even better than a base hit or a stolen base. 
I am juggling holiday dates, places, people and whatever else there is that I need to take care of. If I’m luckyI will keep all of the balls in the air and catch them all cleanly at the end. Even the best string of juggled balls is spoiled if you have to bend down and chase one across the floor to get them all back in your hands. I am writing early this morning, still dark:30. I am dressed, coffee’s in the mug without any spills and when I am finished here I won’t get back before it gets dark again. 
Working with wood used to be a slam-bam thing with nails and screws but that has all changed. Now I use really good, really strong glue that takes time (hours) to dry. The caveat is, while the glue is wet it is also slippery. Even if you clamp the new-glued pieces in place, pressure from the clamps can make them slip & slide out of alignment. I’m not going into how you prevent that but it is a brave new world down in the wood shop. If you don’t get it perfect there is no re-do and you either do major, time consuming surgery that may yield only fire wood or, start over; saw new boards, sand, fit, glue, clamp again and wait. I tend to keep several projects going so I always have a task at hand, sort of like the dentist shuffling patient to patient rather than wait for chemistry to fizz or, what else, for glue to dry. 
So my time at the keyboard today is limited. There are just a couple of slurps left in my cup. Christmas is not my favorite holiday, not by any means but it certainly requires more time consuming preparation than any other. I have less than two weeks to come up with a white elephant gift (draw numbers and pick a package.) There is a $20 limit but get this; it can be something cool and useful or it can be a gag-gift. Really, I don’t really do gag-gifts but I am the grandpa and I can’t veto the plan like when I was the dad. Gag-gifts suit people who have been conditioned to laugh at anything that combines the right timing with the right tone. Humor is basically a lost art form in the 21st century. When I grumble they tell me to re-gift it to someone else next Christmas. I’m not doing that either, don’t have space and can’t keep track of good stuff now. My coffee cup is down to one slurp. 
No time to edit or revise this morning. The Blog will just have to sink or swim by itself. By the time I finish in the wood shop, stores will be open. Yesterday’s dirty dishes are still in the sink but I feel the need to throw money at some of Santa’s helpers. Coffee’s all gone and so am I.

SINKER CYPRESS & THE OLD DAYS

  I woke up this morning after a 12 hour nap. I was tucked away in my bed when sunlight made its way in between the blinds, across the headboard next to my face. I turned away 3 hours earlier when I shut the alarm off knowing daylight would not be far behind. But even then, sunshine on the bedpost was enough to upset my slumber. It is really hard to sleep while squinting. I know it sounds childish but I love my bed. I had a Sleep Number bed for nearly 20 years and loved it too but it lost its magic and I replaced it with a new Sleep Number. It was like trading in my ’95 Toyota back in 2013. I loved that Toyota but the new Mazda had a dashboard that talked to me and a gage that showed how many miles I could go before the gas ran out. Not unlike Neil Young’s song, Long May You Run; about an old Buick he had back in 1962, we both had gone the limit with the old and were due to move on with something that was even more better.
Maybe the best part about waking up today was knowing there is money in my bank account that would have otherwise been charged to my credit card. Leaving late in the afternoon from Lake Pontchartrain, Louisiana I drove all night save for a short sleep in Memphis, TN. Every neon signboard for every motel chain, I drove by without a second thought. Overnighting in the truck cab came easy in younger years but a couple of hours is about all I can manage now. Not to mention, I love it when I arrive on time and the inn keeper goes to the bank without my dollar. The two hour snooze in Memphis was enough to bridge the darkness until the sun came up on the mountains of North Arkansas. I was wide awake when that same sun was high and I took I-49 Exit 178, just a mile from my driveway. I forget how much I leave behind that needs to be tended to on my return. I keep telling myself I’ll not do that again but then (again) happens again and so do I. 
It seems every December the sun’s arc dips deeper in the southern sky and races from horizon to horizon with less daylight than the year before. I know better. I am the one whose calendar is running short of daylight. But if one is to move on with a happy heart it takes a clear eye and an unvarnished view of what long life allows. 
I met Darryl Monse in Robert, Louisiana, a tiny town east of Hammond, LA. He owns a sawmill there. We talked about sinker cypress and we talked about the old days. He had to sit because of bad knees and bad back issues, said he turned 70 in the summer and couldn’t stand for long or do the heavy work anymore. He was not fat but he was large. When we shook hands my hand disappeared into his. What we shared was a genuine love of trees, the wood itself and for making sawdust. He confirmed my suspicions, that my source for buying cypress boards up in Mississippi was much better, far cheaper than anything I would find in Louisiana. He cuts mostly white pine logs, 8’ to 12’ in length, up to 30” in diameter. They were stacked five or six logs high on three sides of his house. The sawmill itself filled the front yard, its tin roof and old fashioned round, flat, vertical, 6’ blade spoke to another century. The big, modern, diesel engine spoke to his sons who do the heavy lifting now. They had obviously transitioned into the new century. 
I chose not to tell Darryl my age, 12 years his senior. I would be hand loading my F-150 with a full load of cypress boards later and then driving all night while he did his best to shuffle from one chair to the next. There was no point. Neither politics nor religion or anything that could be argued came up. No doubt a stone would have been turned that would be better left alone. Then again, nobody has ever mistaken me for a red-neck bigot. I don’t have to say anything, they just seem to know. I understand that I am sometimes misinformed and that nobody can be so reprehensible as I think they tend to be. Still, I am willing to be wrong and to change my thinking but I need convincing. So far all I’ve heard is the same old me-me-me, the bible says, and the way they were raised rhetoric. So maybe there is something I can’t hide that gives me away. But in any case, Darryl and I parted on good terms. He even offered his name as a reference when talking to other sawmill operators and lumber dealers. 
All the new boards are spaced and stacked, high and dry in my basement, waiting for projects still to be determined. They were kiln dried but need several more months of flat, dry storage before they get the finish milling. Today I must go get new filters and upgrade my sawdust collecting system in the shop. Then there are unfinished projects I walked away from. With so much to do after nearly three weeks of road tripping, the next 12 hour nap won’t find an open date until a month or two into the new year.