PICNIC

Sharing food is the second most intimate act that people can fulfill, at least that’s my understanding. That’s what we did the other day, a hand full of us from a high school class, long, long graduated, careered and for most of us, retired. On a windy day, under sunny skys, we took cover in a shelter house, rubbed elbows, held eye contact and rejoined a universal journey. 

On my computer accounts I am required to update security questions. Last year, one of the questions was, “Who is your oldest, childhood friend?” I typed in, “Carl.” From the 3rd or 4th grade, far flung and many years, I have always considered Carl my friend. He was there with his wife. While the girls chatted, we stood arms folded like wizened sages and discussed a wide range of issues and current events. Our beliefs and ideals play out in opposite directions but we were not there to champion a cause or find fault. We met at the core of our experience, family and friends. We share the same concerns about being prepared for old age. My dad told me when he was 87, “Long life is better than dying young but you lose your friends and then need help zipping up your pants.” That used to be out on the horizon but now it’s just a stone’s throw. 

In Alaska, salmon start out as smolt, juvenile fish no bigger than your thumb. They swim down stream and out to sea where they earn a living. Many are lost to predators and fishermen. After 4 or 5 years, survivors find their way back to the streams they were hatched in and return to complete the life cycle. For days, weeks, hundreds of thousands of fish congregate in Cook Inlet, just outside the mouth of the Kenai River. They are waiting for some signal that it’s time to go home. We’re not much different than the fish. Some get the call sooner, others go home later. So we rub elbows, share food and wonder about the ones who didn’t show up. Our voices and mannerisms hadn't changed enough to notice and that long-seasoned familiarity was comforting. Shared memory and good will are a magical pairing. We hug and shake hands, drive off in different directions with all good intentions of meeting up again, someday soon.

SOLSTICE 2014

People, collectively, 7 billion of us and multiplying; we have a pretty high opinion of ourselves. Most of us believe that we have been chosen by a higher power, to rule the earth. Some simply believe that we are passengers on a bus that takes a year to complete its loop around the neighborhood. In their opinion we are not only, not rulers, but like the pilgrim from the old, Eagles classic, Hotel California,      “. . . you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” They have a much broader view of creation, where possibility trumps tradition. I am one of those passenger types. But I certainly take liberties. I hang out the windows trying to snag leaves off trees, the wind in my face, mouth open, not knowing if I’ll experience a thrill or just swallow bugs. I’d climb on top if I could.

Summer Solstice is today. Nine years ago today I celebrated Winter Solstice in Ushuaia, Argentina; it depends on which end of the earth you find yourself. Today, in the north, the sun rises earlier and sets later than any other day; the longest day of the year. Primitive, ancient people understood this and incorporated it into their religion. There was something very special about the way things cycle, from the arc of the sun to phases of the moon, time to plant and time to harvest, life itself. In human terms, it took a very long time for us to evolve to our present form and the same elements that drew our ancestors to Pagan beliefs still pull against our science and western religion. I feel the pull today. 

An old biological theory is that of Recapitulation, paraphrased; Ontogeny Recapitulates Phylogeny. That meant that during gestation, we went from little mollusks to arthropods, then through reptiles and so on until we acquired human form and function. The theory had been discredited but still, it opens another window. Mystics, as well as other credible minds believe there is a universal knowledge that we can all access. Just how that works is beyond me but still, speculation leads me to the possibility it may be inherent in nucleotide and codon, DNA.  It suggests that we have a real, tangible link to the star dust from whence we came. It might cast light on why the turning of the tides, the way migratory birds navigate, the last glimmer of the setting sun and solstice, why they move me like they do. I’ll find a high point this evening and hope for a clear sky, watch the sun sink out of sight and marvel at how privileged and how insignificant I can be, all in the same breath. 

VROOM-VROOM

My son took me to the races last night. I used to take him, his brothers and sister when they were little. We would sit up high, at the end of the 4th turn where you can see the whole field and you’re right there, at the dash to the finish line. In the 70’s, down by the Indiana border, corn was everybody’s business but come Saturday night, everybody went to the races. I had a friend who built and drove his own race car, an old coupe with open wheels that ran in the “Modified” class. You didn’t have to pay extra to go into the pits before the race so we did that. Paul would let my kids sit in his car and turn the steering wheel, make the vroom-vroom sound, making believe it was them sliding high into the corners and coming out like a sling shot. By night’s end, the air was full of dust and the smell of fuel alcohol, my kids were caked with grit and mustard stains where mustard aught not go. Nobody was in a hurry to get home. The pits would open up again and we could go down to see racers and mechanics checking for broken parts and making little fixes. My boys would pull little chunks of mud off a roll bar or a tire and slip them in their pockets: treasures. 

The ride home was about 45 minutes and they would be asleep long before we pulled in the drive. Too late for a bath, we peeled the boy’s clothes off and hosed them down in the driveway, a bath could wait until morning. Sarah was her mother’s baby and she got to clean up inside before bed. It was my job to empty pockets and shake dirt off clothes before they went in the hamper. They were all asleep before their heads hit the pillow but not before their favorite, match box race cars were in hand or stowed within reach. Kids grow up fast, or maybe they just get big. 

Last night our roles were reversed. I went and did what I was told. It’s more business and less an event now. You can’t take any food or drink inside the track. Whatever you eat or drink, you have to buy there and a pit pass is expensive. So we sat in the cheap seats, but they were up high up, at the end of the 4th turn. I kept the mustard off my face but couldn’t keep the grit out of my hair. Twenty six monsters, all belching over 700 horse power make noise we couldn't imagine in the 70’s. Last time I went to the races, my ears hurt for days after. I said, “When I go again, I’ll have ear protection.” I now have a high tech set of shooter's, ear protectors; look like gorilla ear muffs, got ‘em just for going to the races. You can still hear the vroom-vroom but the pain of a bazillion decibles going straight into your brain is just a memory. You have to read lips during the race but then, not much talking. It’s all body language, wide eyes and big grins. Maybe I was right when I was just trying to sound clever, maybe we just get bigger. 

OFF THE ROAD

A closet full of clothes, unpaid bills and a yard that needs mowed, that’s what you get when you come back home. The closet part isn’t so bad, you reacquaint yourself with stuff you forgot you had. Living out of a suitcase and back pack does simplify choices. Finding the balance between clean and dirty is never complicated. But one has to rediscover an appetite for common, day to day routines. I have a stack of bills that I’ll get around to, maybe tomorrow; and the house gets dirty whether I’m home or not. Thunder and lightning remind me that tornado season runs concurrently with graduation parties so you do both, hoping for the best. Once the jet stream and cool air stay up north, we will settle into warm nights and grilling on the patio. 

This last trip to South Korea and New Zealand has dumped some of the wind out of my sails. That’s lots of hours at 35,000 ft. and many meals I’d just as soon have fixed for myself. I’ll never complain about being on the road; something about being in motion that cures what ails me. But it’s also nice to know the car is just a few steps away and my telephone works again. When I got back from Argentina & Chile in 2005, my daughter Sarah picked me up at the airport. The photo she took says a lot. Last Sunday the scene was much the same except it was my son Jon doing the duty. Getting off the last airplane, knowing you don’t have to scurry to make the next connection or find a temporary bed is a well earned relief and I can pass a couple of months in domestic tranquility before I loop back into road culture. 

My granddaughter graduates from high school tonight. I taught school for 34 years and graduation was both a duty and a celebration. ‘School’s out, school’s out; teacher let the monkeys out.” Still, by the end of summer it has a way losing its luster, little more than history and life doesn’t look back. Something new will fill the void. Best friends will go their own ways, little siblings will inherit better rooms but endure closer scrutiny from parents. College or a full time job, September will offer new challenges to both graduates and their families. I’m out of that loop too. But come September I bet I’ll be on the road again, anticipating the way home and my own bed again. 

APPLES & PEANUT BUTTER

Music is as much a part of my experience as food. If I’m out of earshot, the DJ inside my head kicks in, synthesizing rhythms and melodies that I know by heart. I never got to be in a school band or study music theory. Sheet music is like Morse Code to me, easy concept but just never took the time. It’s always been the stories; 2 to 4 minute, syncopated stories that begin and end, dance with a melody like Gene Kelly, “Singing In The Rain.” Without a story to know where you’re going and where you’ve been, it’s little more than satisfying noise. So when I’m on the road, I do the best I can. My computer is full of great music and I usually fall asleep, sinking into my I-Tunes library. Head phones and ear buds let you do that, even in a crowded air terminal. 

I’ve dabbled with guitars enough that I know which chords work together and how to transition from one key to another. My singing leaves a lot to be desired but then I sing for my own satisfaction. If I know the words and can shape chords to fit the melody, I can entertain myself for hours. If nothing else, I can retire from the real world and let that DJ in my mind do his thing. I’ve been into love songs lately, making a list of my favorites. The list is only five songs deep but that may be enough. Then I hear a great blues piece and can’t get it out of my head. In 2012, the Kennedy Center Awards honored, among others, Buddy Guy. On that stage, Jimmy Vaughn & Gary Clark Jr. performed together, “Things I Used To Do.” With YouTube available; no reason for anybody not to have seen this, several times. Then, if it’s not Marcia Ball or Kermit Ruffins, you never lose with Barbara Streisand or Neil Young. 

The road is winding down. Waiting at airline gates and double checking flight status are more the business than the places I didn’t get to see. I’m leaning more on my music and less on road maps. For all the great food I encounter, my universal pantry is stocked in my suit case, enough to get me home; apples and peanut butter. Don’t leave home without them. I’m listening to Don McLean in my head; maybe the best love sone ever: “And I love you so, people ask me how; how I’ve lived till now, I tell them I don’t know.”

HOSTEL

Everybody knows hotels and motels but hostels are cut from different cloth. People on the road need a place to shut down and unwind. Inn keepers around the world host them, meet that need, for a price. On the other hand, hostels are similar but it’s a communal process where strangers share a dormitory space, sleep in bunks, end around the room. Genderless bathrooms with doored shower stalls and toilets accommodate travelers who prefer the collective rather than privacy. Cooking in common kitchens and gathering around a big screen T.V., watching programs subtitled in English or German, for those who don’t speak Japanese or Italian; that’s what you get at a hostel. Of course, the price makes travel affordable for students and wanderers who long to see the world before it passes them by. American comedian, Jonathan Winters once said, “I couldn’t wait for success so I went on without it.” He would have stayed in hostels. I can hostel in Auckland, New Zealand or Mendoza, Argentina for a week on the money it would take for one night in a hotel or motel there. 

I remember a rainy day in Valdivia, Chile; back in 2005. When my bus arrived in the middle of the day, I took the cheapest dorm room, threw my stuff on one of five beds, put on my rain coat and took off to see the town. A few miles down stream, the river emptied into the Pacific Ocean. Bull seals were stationed stream side along the pilings at the fish market. They knew exactly where fish mongers would throw the next fish head and were there to snap it up. When I got back to the hostel, someone was rolled up in a blanket on another bed. I saw eyes peering out at me and I asked in my best English, “And, who might you be.?” I didn’t expect to be understood. Not much English spoken down there. Her name was Esra Moogle, a Turkish Jew in her 40’s, just sold her business in Istanbul and traveling. Fluent in 9 languages, she informed me (after a brief introduction and conversation) that we would travel together for a few days. The next night we were at a hostel in Puerto Varas, Chile, hanging out with two young women, one European the other a mestiza, both lawyers from Buenos Aries. There was a young, particle physicist from San Paulo who loved the blues and his beautiful companion. They were married but not to each other. That’s how it has to work in South America where the church forbids divorce. If you can afford to get away, you steal away cross the border and  take your forbidden fruit with you. I cooked, Esra translated, we all sang and told stories. The next day the lawyers went south with us, into Argentina and the lovers headed north. Something about hostels that overcomes modesty and makes everyone equal. 

In Auckland, NZ, Nomad’s Hostel is just off Queen Street, a couple of blocks from the harbor. It’s an old, 5-story building nested down between tall, glass and steel towers in the country’s largest city. There is a bar on the top floor with an open ceiling, like sports stadiums in the States except this open dome didn’t have a closable roof. When it rained, the dance floor got rained on and you had to walk around the room to get to the bar. Up and outside, the lights from office buildings modeled starlight with a pseudo Grand Canyon feel. Most of the backpackers were young, looking for whatever they look for. I talked with an old timer, probably not as old as me but certainly more weathered who thought everything was going to hell. He said, “We used to go alone and met everybody, learn about everything. Now they come and go in two’s and three’s, with their smart phones. They watch the t.v. and text their girl or boy friends back in Germany, or Skype their mothers back in Israel. They have more money and it’s all about them. Nobody talks, it’s like zombie land compared to the 80’s and 90’s.” I couldn’t speak to the 90’s but just ten years ago, technology in Chile and Argentina was a blurry, old, 14” computer at an internet cafe for $1.50 and check your email.  

I didn’t stick around. He was right and if you didn’t bring along your own companion, you might as well be on an iceberg somewhere. I went to a guitar jam at the Thirsty Dog, on Karangahape Street. When I arrived, I knew one person. I met Tony at the Unitarian Church the day before. He is a 70-something, Irish transplant. He doesn’t play guitar but he sings. The guitars find his key and slip in under him. He promised someone would loan me a guitar and I could get my turns at the mic. Closing time we had made a lot of music and I was invited back. I did St. James Infirmary Blues and Over The Rainbow. Then when my turn came around again, I asked for help, in the key of E. I laid down a 12-bar blues rhythm and they all took turns noodling blues licks and riffs. It was a great evening and Tony drove me back down town, to Nomad’s. In the lounge, there were 20 or so young people laying all over the furniture and beanbag pillows on the floor, watching Arnold Schwarzenegger on the t.v., venting destruction with a rocket launcher in one hand and a flame thrower in the other. Except, some of them had dozed off and others were texting their boy or girls friends across town or across an ocean. I showered and went to bed. The music from the club under our window, down on the street was loud but that’s what you get. If you don’t like it, you can throw down $140 and take a cab over to the Best Western President Hotel. They will guarantee your privacy.

ALL IT TAKES

At the end of the day, Wanganui, NZ was clean, orderly and welcoming. By the time I checked into the hostel, unpacked what I needed and ate something, it was bedtime. The next morning, low clouds and rain greeted me as I checked out. In reflection, it’s amazing how many little things become strung together, like beads on a string, in the dot to dot passage through a day. Connecting the dots is what I have been doing and all it takes is for an insignificant little dot to turn the world around, even if for only a day. That said, it was the fact that my hostel charged too much for wifi and I put my internet work off until the morning, when I could get a free connection at McDonald’s. After a breakfast sandwich, I went to work on the computer but was in no hurry. The rain had put a damper on my plans for the morning. I wanted to see the Tasman Sea but studying the map and satellite photos, between the road and the weather my trip to the beach got shelved. 

Then my connection cut me off. Seems McD’s free wifi was free as advertised but only for half an hour. Too many kids downloading games and videos so they put a limit on it, just enough to get you through your meal. I learned, the library has free wifi and no time limit. I got there at 9:05, just after they opened and the wifi area was already full. Only one spot remained at the last carrel table. I set to work, but not without noticing the young woman on my left. She was working. You can tell when someone is really working on a computer, something about the quick tempo and frequent pauses to think and check notes, then rethink and push on. She was working. My 120-240 volt adapter was too big to fit between other plugs on the power strip and she offered her spot on the end; said her battery was full strength and she could work off of that. Something amazing about eye contact. There may be nothing there but then it may be an invitation to frame a question that leads to more questions and into a conversation. At either end, the framer chooses not to let it end just yet. 

Sarah Tocker is a trim, thirty-ish lady with a healthy sense of curiosity and willingness to share. In two sentences, we let our work go and were talking about what we do and why. She is a partner in business with her mother; consultants, facilitators and implementers in leadership training. Turns out, we share a great deal relating to educational, environmental and social issues. Interesting, in NZ as well as Canada, libraries allow conversations; none of the hush-hush, pin-drop silence that is enforced in the USA. Had we been in Grand Rapids or Kansas City, the conversation could have never taken place; only an approving nod and back to work. 

Wanganui is a coastal city of about 40,000 on the west coast of the North Island. Just over midway down, between the two main cities, Auckland and Wellington, her work calls for a lot of travel. Then she concedes that if not for her ‘house-husband’ Aneurin, she couldn’t get it done. She is the bread winner and he manages the house and kids. It works and everyone is comfortable with it. The fire alarm goes off and even though it’s only a drill, we walk away from our work and go outside with all the other people. Fire trucks and first responders all over the place and they want us all to move up the street. The rain had stopped and continued our conversation; went up into a small park area were many knee high, white crosses were carefully arranged in rows. ANZAC Friday is a holiday observed in NZ in late April to honor service members who lost their lives in wars, serving their homeland. Early in the morning in every community, people turn out for a somber ceremony of remembrance. Each town remembers its own defenders by name, all the way back to when NZ was a new nation. Each cross had a local name on it and in the early hours of that Friday morning, that’s all that is going on in communities all over the land. Businesses remain closed until 1:00 p.m. It’s a very important holiday for Kiwis. ANZAC Friday: the ceremony was scheduled for the next morning. 

Back inside, we got to our work. Outside, the sun came out and blue replaced the clouds. Sarah had a lunch date at 1:00. As she was getting ready to leave, she said, “It will be beautiful now down at South Beach.” I admitted I had already decided to go there. Then she gave me a piece of paper with an address written on it. “If you’re still in town, we’re having dinner at 5:30 and we’d love to have you join us.” How often does that happen? I couldn’t do anything but accept. I got back online and rescheduled my reservations for the night; drove back to the hostel and checked in for another night in Wanganui. 

The drive out to the beach went past the airport and turned into a sandy two-track that wound around through sand dunes and pools of standing water. I stopped where other cars were parked and ventured on foot through the gap, over a crest and down onto a wide, sandy stretch, full of drift wood and chunks of pumice, all the way down to where the tide was coming in, off the Tasman Sea. The sand was a blend of brown, gray and darker gray and it was so fine even the lightest breeze rippled it out on the leeward side of every piece of wood, flotsam and even the smallest, sandy deposit. I walked, took photographs and met more German students on holiday. They had their surf boards but the waves weren’t quite big enough to take a ride. A teenage girl with her Border Collie was their guide for the afternoon. Straight out, if you could only see so far, we imagined the Great Barrier Reef. 

Dinner time, I found the address and was met at the door by a huge Kiwi with a full, grizzly beard. He had a little, blond girl on one arm and another one hanging on his leg. Aneurin introduced himself and I asked him to spell his name but at best, with the accent, I was still at a loss. The house was a simple, one story cottage with a small yard in a neighborhood of other similar, clean, well kept homes. The floor was strewn with doll houses and toys. Olivia is 6 with fine features and straight blond hair. Sylvia is almost 3, with cheeky, Shirley Temple dimples and curls. I had my hands full. We worked at conversation in between toys, games and puzzles. Aneurin is a surfer and my knowledge there is quite thin. I did know about surfing in Alaska, off the coast near Yakutat. He checked it on his I-pad and was impressed. I felt good to have contributed something, anything. 

The girls helped arrange the place settings and we sat down to fish, peas and a salad. The meal was awesome and the company was grand. For desert we had a local fruit that looked something like an avocado but with tart, white flesh. Sarah had baked it like sliced apples and it couldn’t have been better. We talked while the girls broke out new toys and tried to entice us into the living room. I begged off but promised we would blow bubbles when I finished my desert. Then I ate slow as we continued to talk. Sarah and Aneurin chose to live in a smaller city, out of the mainstream and when they meet people they find interesting, they invite them to dinner and the chance for the girls to broaden their experience as well. I took that as a great compliment.

Bubble blowing was outrageous. Olivia had it down pat to begin with and Sylvia came along fast. I coaxed them to blow the bubbles up in the air and count them on the way down. I had as much fun as they did. Later, I shared some photographs on my computer and the evening wound down gracefully. Getting ready to leave, Olivia friended me on a piece of blue paper with drawings and my name. She also slipped a bubble blower into my back pack to remember her by. I told her I would keep it in my guitar case, with other treasures; can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed an evening more. All it takes is for one unexpected, unprovoked, seemingly irrelevant dot to line up with another and you let the magic run its course. What if it hadn’t rained or I got my work done at McDonald’s? What if there hadn’t been a fire drill or my adapter had fit in the first place? But it did and I didn’t; there was and it didn’t fit. It doesn’t matter now because I sensed I was just a piece of the puzzle and it was coming together nicely.