TICK TOCK

Waking up this morning, can’t be sure if it was a dream or low level consciousness. Maybe it started out one and stretched into the other but I was aware enough to wonder what time it was. The mantle clock began it’s hourly report as if it knew I was listening. Seven chimes and I knew, it was a good time to get up. 

I got the clock nine years ago, at an antique shop in Ludington, Michigan. It was  over a hundred years old, in great shape and everything worked. When I got it home I discovered that it only worked for a day or two, then stopped. After some searching I discovered “Bryant’s Clock Restoration”. John Bryant is a relatively young man in a traditionally, old man’s trade. He restores old, “Tick-Tock” clocks. He’s old enough to have experience and young enough you would think he’ll be around another twenty years. His shop is in Kansas City's north end. It used to be known as “Little Italy” but Columbus Circle is now home to Asian and Haitian families as well. The place screams of ethnicity but the faces and the architecture just don’t seem to go together. 

I took my new, antique, intermittently working clock to John. He told me he had a six month back log and then treated me to a short course on clock repair. With old clocks, cheap short cuts yield temporary results and then you have the same dilemma all over again. So I left my clock with him. Just over six months and $400 later, I got my clock back. All of the shafts were nested in new, oversized bushings; in newly drilled holes, with new springs and rebalanced gears. I’ve got it tweaked so it only needs a reset about every other week; and then only a few minutes. 

So, 7:00 and I’m up for the day. But I’m far, far away from any bed that I would normally sleep in. My clock and I are in Dayton, Ohio to celebrate the wedding of my son Pete and his delightful, darling Betsy. The clock has been with me long enough that I can bear to let it go. I want to give them something that suggests a tangible and enduring legacy. My mantle clock is the best I can do. 

We take time for granted, but it’s a human construct. Everything about us, all of our experiences are qualified within that framework. Was it last year, or has it only been ten minutes? How long can I hold my breath? When will you call? Time! Somehow, the ticking clock gives measure to experience and centers us in the moment. In fact, time is nothing more nor less than a way to order experience. We are stuck in the present, able to remember and to anticipate but only able to act in the moment.  

The clock is real, with a practical purpose and a story of its own. Whose home moved to its rhythm a hundred years ago? Who woke up to its chime? The hand that turned the key, wound the spring; we are without a clue but that doesn’t alter its story. At most, it’s just not for us to know. For the past nine years, this striking mantle clock has been on my dresser, reassuring me in the middle of the night and reminding me from the other end of the house. Life is moving on, with memories in its wake and a thin veneer of possibility for its future. We will celebrate a wedding this evening; in another seven hours or so. 

POW WOW

I’m not a “Tribal” kind of guy but when the whole clan is present at the same table, it’s time to Pow Wow. Sarah, in from Soldotna, Alaska; Pete & Betsy in from Dayton, Ohio and we celebrated Sarah’s birthday a couple of days early, just because we could. Jon & Jay, with their families, their mother and myself; we ate too much, played with grandchildren, told lies, tall tales, and tried to not miss a thing.

“Bedlam” is defined as, the condition of wild uproar and confusion. I remember all too well, in the 70’s & 80‘s the six of us at the same table and it was bedlam. But now they hang on each other’s words and laugh at when they made each other cry. Grandkids are well, and doing well. We must have done something right. About kids, Gibran said, “. . . you can house their bodies but not their souls. Their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow and we can’t go there; not even in our dreams.” But I get to peak in the window, the house of tomorrow, the tomorrow after that and they look like good places to be. If I was still faster than a speeding bullet and leaping tall buildings in a single bound, this growing old thing wouldn’t be bad at all. But I’ve slowed down some and my best days are watching my kids and grandkids reinvent the world.

Pete & Betsy are actually getting married next week, 12/21/12, in Dayton, OH. These two have been working on this for almost three years; trying to get their jobs in the same town and only one house between them. Looking good; I’ll be there. 

L to R - Front {Jon & Stacy's Little girls.} Cecilia, 6 and Mahala, 8 

Big girls - Stacy, Betsy, Sarah, {J.D.’s - Alexa, 12} & Granny Odis

Back row - Pete, {J.D.’s - Bailey, 16}  Jon, J.D., and me, the Poohbah.

R.H.S. CHRISTMAS PARTY

On the 1st Saturday of December, for the past eight years, old Eagles from Ruskin High School, Kansas City, classes from the 50’s & 60’s get together for a holiday party. I learned about it last year, was the only person there from my class. I saw a few people I knew and met some people who said they knew me. 

The party is paid for by anonymous alumnus: great ribs, sausage, potato salad, baked beans, finger food and beer. So we’re all going around, squinting at hard to read name tags, making jokes about growing old, trying to remember fifty year old history. The paramedics only had to come take care of one person.

This year there were four of us from '57 and it was really good to see them, find out how they are doing. Carl {on left} and I go back to the 3rd or 4th grade. Mary and Janet {next to me} back to the 9th grade. There was plenty of hoot and hollering when the classes checked in and some big “Party” talk. But by 9:00, everybody was partied out and I’m home in time to write and watch the news. We’re hoping we can get enough class mates next year to fill up a table. I can see it in my mind: dancing on the table tops and food fights until we fall asleep, or 9:00, whichever comes first. If Santa's watching, all he'll see are good little boys and girls. 

2012 THANKSGIVING

Oh my . . . my kitchen is a mess; but the food was worth it. As long as I take food somewhere else to eat, I can get away with it. When folks come to my house to eat, I have to clean up behind myself and it’s not easy. I tend to be, either - or: create or clean up, but not both at the same time. So my sink is full of dirty stuff and counter tops are cluttered with other stuff that made it only that far. I don’t mind cleaning up but it can take a while before the urge moves me.  

I’m not a traditionalist. Usually, when friends or family want to conform to tradition, because it’s tradition, I jump out of line and be something different. My mother was a great cook but holiday meals were special because of who you sat by and the great stories that were created in the process. So abandoning the Turkey tradition is easy for me. I’ve spent the last two decades rubbing shoulder and breaking bread with Cajun cooks, from New Orleans to the back waters of the Atchafalaya Basin. In the process, I paid attention and now have a few “Killer” recipes committed to memory. I wouldn’t call it tradition, more like “Just do the very best you know how.” 

There is something about cranberries, pecans, honey and orange zest that stands alone, has nothing to do with tradition; so I made cranberry sauce. Caramelize thin sliced onions and brussel sprouts in butter for a green vegetable and mixed up a little apple salad; it was coming together. I know; it’s Thanksgiving and you need a main dish that everything else can rally around. Gumbo is always a good choice but today I chose Shrimp & Grits. Recently, since I’ve been back in the mid-west, when I mention Shrimp & Grits someone is bound to tell me about South Carolina Shrimp & Grits. Down there, they serve creamy grits; which is O.K., I suppose. I prefer baked, cheese grits and there is no comparison. Throw in ‘dem shrimps with a little Cajun Trinity {onion, celery & bell pepper}, cook ‘em down, juicy with as much cayenne pepper, paprika and garlic as you can stand. 

Sipped on a glass of Pinot Noir and fed my face. Now I”m full and there’s pie in the refrigerator that will have to wait. This life sure is good and I’m Thankful as I can be, every day. I don’t eat like this every day but I am thankful every day: hope Y’all are havin’ a wonderful holiday.

BELLA NAPOLI

Bella Napoli is a bonafide, Italian Coffee Shop, Deli, Restaurant in the Brookside neighborhood of Kansas City, MO. Depending on the time of day, table trappings evolve from coffee cups and muffins to panini’s in styrofoam boxes and then linen napkins and a pedigree wine list. I hang out there with a morning coffee klatch that has been meeting every day, except Sunday, for a very long time. I was allowed to sit and join in a couple of years ago. They are used to me disappearing for weeks or months at a time so when I return, it’s a happy, fun time. 

Attendance generally runs 6 to 8 through the morning but then some days it gets crowded, like today, there were thirteen of us. I think the record is seventeen. We have an understanding with management to put chairs back and go away by 11:00. Good friends are treasures and these characters are the real deal. This round table is missed when I’m on the road; not enough to keep me in the zip code but I do miss the good conversation, the wide range of interests and expertise. It’s difficult to be in house and not learn something new. 

Swimming is going well. I get my laps in early now and write later but the day unwinds about the same. I still have to discipline myself to do guitar work in the evening but it will come. It’s harder to do work when you have friends who want to play. This life is getting tougher all the time.

WATSONVILLE

After driving a while and then a mile or so on gravel you come to the mail box at 6082 Rollenhagen Rd., off the beaten track between Grand Rapids and Muskegon, Michigan. A left turn puts you on a two track drive with a 15 acre meadow on the left, and a deep gully full of maples and hemlock on the right. A hundred yards farther you can see the tan paint of the barn through a maze of more trees and a red pickup truck or a tractor, or small bull dozer parked there. As you close in on the place, through trees on the right, the two story, tan house with a gambrel roof begins to take shape. I call the place, Watsonville.

For all legal and official purposes, this is where I live. Most of the time I’m somewhere else and the people who own the property come and go without fanfare. Duane and Laura Watson have the upstairs, back bedroom. Other Watson’s, son Ben and brother Doug, dwell in the basement. Now that daughters Kelly and Jaime are married it leaves three bedrooms unoccupied. One of those rooms is mine. It isn’t always the same room but I merit a closet and haven’t had to sleep on the sofa yet. When visiting family or friends beat me to my regular room, I just bump down one room across the hall. 

Days begin early here. Duane, a teacher, is usually up by 4:00 a.m. and covers the 12 miles to school by 5:00. Laura is an administrative assistant at the same school but doesn’t leave so early. Bedtime comes early too. I’m usually the only one up when I drag in at 9:00 or 10:00 p.m. I sleep until 6:30 and am the only one in the house when the sun comes up. Wait; that’s not altogether true. Helix, the calico cat usually follows me into the bathroom, jumps up on the counter top and waits for me to turn on the water. I make the faucet trickle as he prefers running water. After he drinks his fill, he jumps down and I can take care of my morning chores. His name derives from DNA structure; yeah, biology teachers. 

I have to remember to close my door every time. Oliver, the long hair, tan cat learned years ago that the latch on my door doesn’t catch every time and if he leans against it, sometimes it opens. He likes to sleep on the pillow as he sheds. He’s named for Charles Dickens’ character Oliver Twist. He’s the only cat that will crawl up in your lap and solicit affection. Mango is the old, yellow & white, battle worn, veteran, barn cat with scars to prove it. He’s earned his place in the house and is old enough I don’t know the origin of his name. 

While we’re on animals, Sanford is the most recent critter: a 2-yr. old Chiwawa-Terrier mix. He thinks he’s 10 ft. tall and bullet proof and he is a good watch dog. He covers the front yard and meadow from his perch in the bay window and he can hear a crumb hit the kitchen floor from outside on the deck. We have a new generation of chickens in the coop. Last spring’s raccoon invasion resulted in the loss of all 14, free range, laying hens and 9 raccoons paid the ultimate price for that indiscretion. We are beginning again with a redesigned, coon-proof chicken house. The new pullets stopped peeping and started clucking a couple of weeks ago and should start laying soon.

The house is heated with a high tech wood furnace, located out by the barn. A thermostat controls the fire box which heats water to 170 degrees, fed underground into the house. It goes through a heat exchanger in the traditional, forced air furnace and heats the house, then recycled back to the fire box. With another heat exchanger in the hot water tank, we use 170 degree water to heat well water to 105 degrees. 

The meadow is planted in either rye or oats for the deer in winter and the wood pile needs to be replenished regularly. So there’s always something to do on Rollenhagen Rd. Sometimes I cook. Sometimes I help with outside chores. Sometimes they just like having me around. When people want to know where I’m from, I don’t know what to say. I usually say something about all of us coming from Africa, a long time ago. But if they need coordinates, Watsonville. is what I tell them. 

JUST ONE MORE

I don’t know how many times I’ve photographed this light house, too many to count. It’s always the Grand Haven pier, but then it’s always new. The only constants are the pier, light house and the catwalk. The sky can have any combination of clouds or blues, and water color, waves and beach always different than last time. Birds come in and out of the frame and direct or indirect, high or low angle; light is always changing. Today the wind was strong, out of the northwest. Low clouds were lined up all the way to the horizon with little, narrow gaps between them. I wanted low angle sun light on the red light house and I had to wait. Being focused and ready when one of those narrow little windows opened and the sun came through, was a waiting game. You might get a minute and it might only last 5 seconds. My fingers ached from the cold and it was difficult holding the camera steady in the wind. But something always complicates the process and you have to work around the inconvenience. You have so many elements working, it’s like juggling 5 or 6 balls, waiting for them to be in a perfect alignment and being ready on the shutter the moment they get there. I took 88 frames this morning; after edits and deletes I had it cut down to 6.
Day before yesterday the remnants of Hurricane Sandy were curling around and down through Ontario, stirring up Lake Michigan. There were 20 ft. waves crashing over the pier and on the beach. The catwalk question didn’t need an answer. It was obvious why, in the old days, they needed a raised steel walkway, with hand rails and a life line from shore out to the light house. This morning the wind still has a cold edge and there are 6 to 8 ft. swells feeding into the channel but the lake has settled down. I decided to stop taking photos when my hands were too cold to feel the on/off switch on the camera. I figured there were a few good shots in there and it would be more rewarding to write and edit with hot coffee and a bagel than to keep leaning into that wind, working for a better photograph. But it’s like picking mushrooms or stones up off the beach. You have 6 in hand and decide to stop after just one more. Then you find #7 and it wasn’t enough after all and you keep looking. You begin to question your own intelligence after you collect #15, the one you promised yourself would be the last one, but it wasn't quite good enough to be the last one. 
I had turned my back to the wind, putting my camera back into its bag. For all practical purposes, I was finished taking photos. Then, for the same reason I suppose that alcoholics take another drink, I reached into the bag and took out a different lens and swapped out my mid range for the big baby. We were close enough we didn’t need the magnification but the “Big Baby”  has an anti-vibration feature that senses and corrects any minor motion, as you trip the shutter. I thought about the cold but it wasn’t going to get any colder, still the sun was getting higher and I might not have this chance again for a very long time. So I took more photos. I caught up with coffee and bagel a little later, exactly what I needed and my hands warmed up just like I knew they would. My hair has a bad case of “Bed-Head” and the runny nose will slow down soon. But I’m exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I want to be doing.