Cats & Dogs...

Never a cross word between them, each sister loves the other first and foremost, more than life itself.

OK, I’m lying. I mean they’re sisters for Pete’s sake.

(An Aside: Who is Pete? Google says the use is a euphemistic variant of “for Christ's sake”, invoking Saint Peter.)

Anyway, you get my point.

Both girls have now grown into strong, independent, women, successful in most ways that matter, but very different people.Same DNA, same environment growing up, but as opposite as cats and dogs. Other parents tell me the same thing, I hear it all the time. It’s curious how that happens so frequently.

No matter how close the kids are or aren’t, some degree of sibling rivalry is inherent and unavoidable though.

When I used to mount that bazooka of a VHS Camcorder on my shoulder to film them on Christmas mornings, I captured hours of film that is reminiscent of the stories vets tell me about their Vietnam experiences. Long hours of total boredom, interrupted by flashes of frenzied insanity. Those old tapes, since converted to CD’s, hold some of the most excruciating, mind-numbing video of nothing going on, ever filmed, occasionally interrupted by brief sparks of incriminating dirt worth watching.

Ruth would be all sweetness and smiles, totally sucking up to the camera and hogging the spotlight. Hannah is five years younger and in those days wanted to do everything her big sister did. So she would come toddling over to get in some camera time with sissy. Ruth smiled broadly into the lens, giving it her saccharine best, waiting for the slightest diversion to unceremoniously push Hannah down and out of the frame. Hannah was unable to pronounce the first letter of her words back then so in background you can hear a hurt whine, objecting to her sister’s nastiness: “Ditter, Ditter!” incredulous that she would be so brutally discarded.

Fast forward ten or eleven years when Ruth left the house to go see her friends. The front door closing after her was like a starting gun at the races for Hannah. She would break into her sister’s locked bedroom and ransack her closet. Ruth always liked clothes and Hannah liked a bargain, free was best. I don’t believe Ruth ever did find out what happened to those tall suede boots of hers.

A few years later after Carla and I moved to a new house, and the girls took over the old one, housemates. Hannah was a nightmare of independence that observed no house rules, hours, private property, or any expectation of “normal” civil behavior.

Ruth is like me, quiet, orderly, and somewhat predictable. Hannah like her mom, out of the box, spontaneous, with no embarrassment button or governor on her speed.

Spending time with Ruth is soothing, quiet, intelligent and rejuvenating. I’ve always said that spending time with Hannah is like being sealed in a jar with a beautiful hornet.

These days, Hannah is miffed that Ruth follows other yogis on Instagram, but doesn’t even follow her own sister. Hannah sees it as a lack of support. Ruth is tired of people asking: “Oh, are you hannahgypsyon’s sister?” Ruth wants to be known as Ruth.

When it comes to siblings though, we all have our cross to bear. When I went to my 25th High School reunion, (26 years ago TYVM), I was frequently asked by my own classmates: “Wow, are you Kenny Haller’s brother?” Kenny and I were like Ruth and Hannah. He was a bit of a wild-man, well known by the guys, girls, and the police. Mr. Excitement, I studied fruit flies in my bedroom.

So I didn’t make a splash, and he did, but still, when my own classmates asked if I was Kenny Haller’s brother like I may have some kind of a celebrity connection, was bad. It was the only thing that may prevent them from immediately turning away and going to the bar. 

Pretty depressing, I understand, Ruth.

At the end of the day (another over-used cliché) Kenny and I are blood. Ruth and Hannah are too.

I just hope they both remember that when we all share a B&B for a week next month in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.

I want to feel safe when I eat food in the house or walk to the bathroom in the dark. No ex-lax cookies, no toilets covered with Saran wrap. They’ve outgrown that kind of thing, right?

My hope is that Ruth’s shoes all go back home with Ruth, in her own suitcase, and no one asks if she is hannahgypsyons sister, and that when Hannah is spotted doing handstands on the top spire of the Cathedral, Ruth applauds along with everyone else.

My prayer is that we all just laugh and have a great time, even if we have to pretend to be close and like each other.

We need to keep up appearances, the way all nice families should.

Rape or drunken consensual? She was 15 and he was older. The law calls it rape regardless of the circumstances. One more of the “me too” crowd, chiming in 15 years after the fact. Somebody’s daughter, some daddy’s little girl.

This one happened to be mine.

Hannah is 30 now, living an exceptional life of teaching and travel. Acroyoga workshops around the globe. But it’s her Instagram following that allows her the freedom she has always taken, one way or another. Sponsors pay her to wear their clothes, stay at their resort, maybe sit on their couch, now her couch. Just mention it in a video, and with internet speed, hundreds of thousands of her followers see the product. It’s a powerful new face of advertising that reaches huge target markets, relatively inexpensively. Most of her followers are female, 15 to 45. Lots of videos of “flying” with her “base”, yes, but perhaps more impactful, are her words.

Writing to her base, observations, conclusions, stream-of-consciousness revelations, answers and questions to the crowd…Hannah touches many lives in some very positive ways.

Here’s one from last night. It’s uncomfortable for me to read; I never knew about it. On one hand I’m a little hurt that she didn’t confide in me 15 years ago. On the other, it may have been for the best. As her dad, I would have felt the need to “do” something about it. Fuck up the guy in some way or blow the whistle to the cops. Either one would have only served to give me some satisfaction at the expense of prolonging the hurt to her, simultaneously inviting public shaming and humiliation to surround her travels in this town. Maybe it’s best I didn’t know.

She gets many hundreds of responses to these things. I’m appalled at how many of her peeps have said “me too”. Same experience when I was 14, 15, they say. 

Hannah has already given me permission to repost anything she puts up. 

This is pretty raw and made me think twice about reposting it, but she has already shared it with a half million people, guess a handful more is just one very small step forward, in the right direction.

I could feel her body relax, releasing all connection to the conscious world, immediately after she slipped into her side of the bed. Sliding up behind her, fitting like two interlocking puzzle pieces, I let go too. Although I had been about to get up and start my day, savoring the moment held me back. 

Lying with her there in the dark, as I have for more than 40 years, still filled me with an almost giddy excitement. It’s always been the thing I loved most, just having her with me, next to me, in our bed, together.

Everything else takes a back seat. Dog water that needed to changed, the call I have to make first thing: “Hi, Greta, I want to adjust my auto insurance and the deduction.” The never ending “to do” list that insists on a front row seat in the light of day, tugging at my shirt, demanding attention, all of it  melting away in that moment of hushed intoxication as we lay safe under the armor of flannel sheets and a tattered blue bedspread.

10, 9, 8, 7, 6...

When we found that the SpaceX rocket was scheduled to launch yesterday morning, Pablo and I were both excited to go see it up close.

And no, Pablo doesn’t speak Spanish. His name is Paul. Apparently his mother called him Pablo for some reason and it stuck. He’s a bit of a tech-geek, a former “Remote Cross Platform Mobile Application Developer” whateverthatmeans and unless you have many extra hours to spend, never, I mean never ever, ask him about bitcoin. A very bright, sweet guy who develops content with Hannah for her massive Instagram following and acts as her “base” in their Acroyoga practice and workshops. Not easy. She’s a self-admitted “bossy flier”. But No Habla Espanol, mainly Habla bitcoin, and tech stuff.

On the drive down for the 10:36am lift off, Google told us that admission to the Kennedy Space Center was $50 per adult, although you get $4.00 off if you are old and creepy. Carla isn’t either of those things but since I double up on both, it would have been $192. for the four of us. The promo said that we should count on spending several days there to really take it all in. Carla had to work last night, Hannah and Pablo had a workshop to teach, and I need to be all diapered up and in bed by 7:30, so we decided to pass.

The second best spot to watch the show, other than the Kennedy Space Center itself, is at Space View Park. It’s on the shore of the Indian River, immediately opposite the launch pads, so that’s where we landed.

Pablo was bummed that he wasn’t close enough to be shaken, rattled and rolled and have his hair all singed off, but was a good sport about it anyway.

We had a perfect viewing spot, the day sunny, mostly clear, and hot enough in the direct sunlight that I lingered back under the shade of a large oak until just before liftoff.

The excitement was palatable in the crowd as the countdown began, everyone chanting along: T minus 20, 19, 18, 17…

No dummy, I had already asked some local dude which of the platforms we could see silhouetted against the sky was #40, where the SpaceX rocket was, so I knew exactly where to focus.

Standing behind a shady military monument with my eyes fixed on pad #40, the entire crowd started to cheer at liftoff…but I couldn't see shit. It turns out the local guy didn’t know his head from a tater so I had positioned myself in exactly the wrong place, with my view of the awesome fires of liftoff entirely blocked by the military monument. I was looking one way while the crowd was oohing and aahing looking in an entirely different direction… the right way. Sharp guy that I am, when the rocket started to visibly clear the monument and I saw fire in the sky, the rocket mostly traveled straight up behind the flagpole immediately centered behind the monument base. It was like watching a flagpole eclipse, the tall black shadow of the flagpole silhouetted by rocket flames shooting out from both sides. That was cool, but I couldn’t see the damn rocket itself and the people around me were too tightly packed for me to move. With the flagpole shadow centered on my face only, completely blocking my view, I made appreciative sounds along with the crowd, just to fit in.

The real show for me though was the SpaceX return and soft landing five minutes later. The resulting sonic boom was deafening. I didn’t have to light any of the cherry bombs I had brought for back-up if it failed to impress.

Seeing the rocked descend and land like that was the real-life, Technicolor version of the cheesy black and white science fiction movies I so loved as a kid. Buster Crabbe (Google it, youngsters) would have been proud.

Experienced camera guy that I am, I captured it all on my iPhone, but for some reason it looks like a close up of the back of some guy’s head.

Here’s the real deal, shot by someone in the crowd with us at Space View Park yesterday. Their photo doesn’t look like the back of some guy’s head though. 

They must have had a much better camera than I do.

Avoiding A Facade Lifestyle...

Urban sprawl kept pushing us farther away from the city, necessitating a one-hour commute to my office in downtown D.C.

Five days a week, I became just another tight collar in a Lemming hoard circling the Beltway, chasing our tails, down and back.

By 1984, when we moved in, that old log cabin was riddled with small gaps in the chinking. Any strong wind could blow out a candle burning inside. Built as a poor man’s house on land that had been a grant from Lord Fairfax, it hadn’t improved on its ability to hold the heat in wintertime since the day that farmer first hung a door on his new home, 260 years prior.

Both feet flirting with the kerosene heater while doing my best to keep Ruth warm, I was in love with the place. Our choice had been between a modern townhouse or this old cabin where the water pipes froze solid each winter and keeping warm was a challenge to our ingenuity that we gladly accepted.

I was tired of apartment living, way too much like overpopulated gerbil cages stacked atop one another. Tired of rush hour parking lots that had the audacity to call themselves streets. There was no rush about it.

Leaving my button down, chrome and glass office on “K” Street every weekday afternoon was pure joy, like being sprung from jail, and motoring directly back home to Camp, Waywayonda.

That cabin, and the Civil War era farm house built onto it, sat in a clearing surrounded by woods that had belonged to the Loudoun Timber company since the late 1800’s. There had been no logging, no activity, and we had no neighbors.

All that came to an end as the area was snatched up to make way for a huge master community, hundreds of McMansions built side by side. Monolith tract homes offered towering three story foyers that opened up to grand staircases, all intended to impress. Vacuous form over function. For me, the impressive part was in the sheer volume of the genetic duplicates and the willingness of customers with an extra million or so, happy to buy into that facade lifestyle.

The Catholic Church made us the proverbial offer we couldn’t refuse. With everything natural being stripped away around us, we took the money and moved farther West.

An elaborate Rectory sits on the spot where the church plowed the protected property under in the dark of night.

That cabin may be long gone, but my memory of snuggling with Ruth while daring a smelly kerosene heater to light my outstretched feet on fire, is very much still burning, alive and well.

Be The Change...

The first time I heard the phrase “Be the change you want to see in the world”, it was from my daughter, Ruth. She walks the walk, putting in many hours every week, trying to help in places where hope is hard to come by.

It’s been over a year now since Ruth took on a new challenge, taking on an unpopular social need with a Syrian family. They couldn’t navigate the maze of American culture and legal demands without a strong and dedicated advocate. They, and she, have walked a gauntlet of virtual abuse, experiencing first-hand the hate and prejudice that our current administration seems to champion. They’ve also seen the flip side, the welcoming love and support that is inherent in our DNA as Americans.

I couldn’t be more proud, not just because she is my daughter, but because she is one of the many in this country who still believe in the words of a different lady who has championed countless millions of immigrants who also needed a helping hand.

"Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”

This is a look at Ruth’s most recent visit with her Syrian friends…

A few weeks ago I was hanging out with my Syrian friends, and one of the little boys, age 8, was trying to tell me about something he had eaten recently. The English word for it was on the tip of his tongue. In one years’ time, their English is astonishingly good, and it’s endearing when they forget a word, and struggle to find it. “Muffin... toast.... DOUGHNUT!! That’s it! I had a doughnut! Mmmm, it was so good!” He went on and on about a first for him, eating a doughnut.

Tonight I came armed with two dozen assorted Krispy Kreme doughnuts. We all sat on the floor, kneecap to kneecap, and shared a huge home cooked meal, as per usual (to them “No thank you, I’m not hungry” means a 4 course meal instead of a 6 course) and swapped jokes and stories. The kids proudly showed me their most recent tests, they are all thriving in school, all happy and well adjusted, and although I can take zero credit for it, I am overwhelmingly proud of them. The love in their family is palpable.

After dinner, we stuffed ourselves with doughnuts. And then, they brought out a small cake they had made. “Happy birthday!” little Fasial, age 6, shouted. “But it’s not my birthday!” I laughed. The older girl, age 15 explained, “We don’t really know what to call it, but it’s one year since we met you, and we love you so we wanted to celebrate it.”

And, as I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, for once it was me that struggled to find words.

Merica...

NO MORE STRAY MUTTS!
Trump announces plan to clip the feet off of all non-pedigree puppies. Says: “They won’t roam out of their own barrio and mate with the purebreds anymore!”

TRUMP TO HONOR NATIVE AMERICANS! 
Says the Dutch West India Company paid the Lenape Indian tribe too little for Manhattan Island in 1626. “It’s worth at least twice the 60 Guilders they were paid!” In a very public gesture of good faith, Trump says he wants to make amends. “As a businessman (the best businessman) I will make it right!” Promises to pay last remaining Lenape elder with a “large bowl of wampum” and season tickets to his tennis courts at Mar a Lago. “He seemed like a nice old injun.” Trump was quoted as saying. The president even wheeled the 96-year-old Lenape around the Trump owned geriatric home where he is currently living out his last days.

TRUMP BACKS BILL TO PUT HORSE & CARRIAGE MANUFACTURERS BACK TO WORK!
Says “These good people have suffered under Obama’s restrictions too long. We’ll get them back to their big, beautiful jobs!”

No unemployed horse & carriage factory workers could be located for comment on the new proposal.

Nothing to see here, folks...just another day in Merica...

To Everything, There Is A Season...

We sat quietly in the front seats of my car, basking in the early morning sun that cut through the windshield like a laser, taking the chill out of the transition from dawn to day. Sweaty from the gym, it was good to simply be still for a moment.

Carla and I both noticed the older couple sitting on the open back gate of their station wagon at the far side of the parking lot. An old grey head between them on a blanket that all three shared. It was obvious how much they loved their dog, and he loved them as he alternated his kisses, her hand then his.

As we sat there, appreciating the moment, the lady stood up and crossed the far corner of the lot, heading over to the McDonalds on the corner. “She’s going for breakfast, a tailgate picnic.” I ventured. Sure enough, after a few minutes, she came walking back, white bag and drink in hand. That old grey muzzle lifted, nose twitching, as his mom approached with her bounty. I could see his tail wagging behind him, even though he didn’t stand.

Plopping back down in her spot on the tailgate, we were surprised to see that the egg McMuffin she pulled from the bag was for their old dog, and the drink was water for him to wash it down. He may have been old, but three bites were all it took to make that sandwich disappear. Then mom pulled out one more, crumpling the empty bag and showing the dog that there were no more left…as she handed him the last one.

As “dog people” we were touched by the dog picnic the elderly couple gave their buddy.

Deciding to say hello and show our own support for their display of dog love, I swung the car over in their direction as we started to drive out and head for home.

Pulling up next to their tailgate, it was obvious they had both been crying. Embarrassed, we mumbled something about how cool it was to see them give their dog a special breakfast. They mumbled back that it was his last.

They were on their way to the vet to end the life of their best friend, whose grey head was now resting so comfortably on his mom’s leg.

Driving away through my own tears, wasn’t so easy. We know that loss all too well.

With no words between us, deep in thought and almost home, I turned onto the main street to our house.

A young woman was walking along the sidewalk there, her backdrop a green and brown salt marsh, new grasses waving with each puff of wind off the Inter-coastal. She herded a small tan puppy in front of her, no more than a few months old. Running in spurts, falling, rolling, oblivious to everything but the errant leaf that had certainty been out of line. The pup chased that leaf with everything he had as it tumbled in the wind in front of him, just out of reach.

Tree branches overhead were heavy with new leaves, spreading their wings, eager for their first taste of the sun.

And so it goes.

Kisses

I love my wife dearly, but I wouldn’t let her kiss me if I regularly saw her eat other people’s poop.

Now I’m holding the dogs to that same high standard.

I’ve hardened in my old age.

Till Death Do Us Part…

It was almost a little early for Carla to come to bed this morning. 3:17. She works a graveyard shift and usually stays up all night even when she is off, always has.

I could feel her body relax, releasing all connection to the conscious world as she slipped in on her side of the bed. Sliding up behind her, fitting like two interlocking puzzle pieces, I let go too. Although I had been about to get up and start my day, savoring the moment held me back. Lying with her there in the dark as I have for more than 40 years, still filled me with an almost giddy excitement.

It’s always been the thing I loved most, just having her with me, next to me, in our bed, together. Everything else takes a back seat. Dog water that I remembered I forgot to change, the call I have to make first thing: “Hi, Greta, I need to change my insurance and the deduction.” The never ending “to do” list that insists on a front row seat in the light of day, tugging at my shirt, demanding attention, melted away in that moment of hushed intoxication as we lay safe under the armor of flannel sheets and a tattered blue bedspread.

We couldn’t be more different, she and I. Logic dominates and controls my every step, Carla lives a stream of consciousness life without the clutter of forethought or planning,

It wasn’t always that way. My first marriage was to a college friend just like me. Same background, same balanced approach. It was my mistake to think the relationship to be more than what it was. 

Didn’t everyone get married after college when they didn’t know what else to do with their life? We agreed on most things, but had zero chemistry. It wasn’t until years later that I realized how much I needed a girl who would prance through my thought balloons and gleefully pop them with a magic pin when they got too big, overly full of my own hot air. Frustrating, alluring, necessary. Attracted to each other like the opposite poles of a magnet.

I guess the second time really is a charm.

But I knew almost immediately that I had made a mistake that first time. I was appreciative of the fact that her Mom was going to plan the wedding, as most mothers of the bride do. I only asked that it not be a big church wedding and that I have some input on the music.

We had a huge church wedding and the music at the reception was by three guys who had grown too old for the Lawrence Welk Band and now did weddings only when they were allowed out of the geriatric home.

It didn’t help that while I was waiting in the wings for the ceremony to begin, one of the bridesmaids walked past me, all red hair and freckled breasts trying to pop out of the top of her too tight dress. I felt like a starving prisoner in his cell looking out through the bars as the prison cook pushes a freshly roasted turkey with all the trimmings on a cart down the hall to the warden’s suite, now filled with Thanksgiving guests.

A natural introvert, the thought of all those eyes on me, saying those horrific “till death do us part” words, petrified me… and upset my stomach. Those were Maalox days for me anyway, even in normal times, but that afternoon I was popping antacids like candy corn.

On cue, I entered as I was told, facing the cross like a firing squad, acid reflux painting my lips with multiple cracked layers of liquefied white chalk, retching and swallowing.

It was all downhill from there.

Seven years later, most of them spent in a reclaimed bachelorhood, Carla and I eloped. Married in the front room of a Justice of the Peace whose name we can’t recall. Street clothes and one polaroid picture that never did turn out. Happily, we did.

One saving grace at my first wedding was having my good friends there, Eric and Orlando, are in this shot with me.

Other than for funerals, I don’t believe I’ve been in a church, or a tuxedo again since my first wedding day.

Somehow that seems appropriate now.

Moon Shadows...

Screaming moon, cloudless sky. 

Ten legs swish, kissing their black doppelgangers where concrete meets flesh. Fourteen feet, sole to sole, pouring outlines drawn on the inky canvas, a liquid sharpie in the hand of a furious moon. 

Streetlights wink off, and back on again, unclear as to the time of day. Our own black shadows race ahead and fall behind, growing long and short, fun-house mirror images in mercurial tar flow around us, as dogs, eager for a treat, pull me in the direction of home.

hmh

Welcome To Our Church!

The last words that any of my friends would expect to hear from me are: “I went to church last week”. Hell, it’s about the last thing I would expect to come out of my mouth too.

Inside and out, the building I went to sure looked like a church. The congregation got up a few times and sang songs out of a book that looked like a hymnal. There was a call and response that reinforced their commonly held beliefs. We had a guest speaker give a sermon-like talk from a pulpit area at the front, and yes, the plate was passed for donations.

Never forget the passing of the plate.

I had to hold onto my chair to not indulge the screaming voice inside me yelling, run! run for the door! Save yourself!

Needless to say, church and I have a long standing adversarial relationship. That’s due in no small part to my early involvement, starting at age 7. That’s when I joined the choir of our hometown Episcopal church. We rehearsed three nights a week and sang one or two Sunday services. It was a great choir, one of the best in the US that sang in the English tradition of men and boys.

Thankfully, no castrati.

I learned a lot about discipline and working as part of a group. It was my first paying job, actually. We got an envelope every two weeks with about $12.00 in it. No small change for a kid back then. We made a few albums, toured the great cathedrals of England, and then I was done, off to college.

The down side was listening to a man wearing an overly tight white collar, turn beet red and pontificate for 30 minutes at each service. If you are what you eat, he was martinis and steak, and was perpetually angry at his congregation. People didn’t give enough money in their Sunday donations. Everyone needed to ramp it up, dammit. The good reverend looked like he was going to blow a fuse in his overly tight collar, and was generally overly tight himself. Too much left over communion wine, intentionally over-poured and chugged down after everyone was back in their pews.

I was contemptuous of the parade of housewives in their finery, vying for seats in the front rows where they could be seen and envied. It was more about the social hour than anything else.

A string of priests came and went, men who struck me as weak, flawed, corrupt, and inept. Unable to make it in the real world. Sorry, but that’s how it all struck me.

In a one-on-one class, I asked the priest about the wine and wafer deal. You know, transubstantiation. “The change of substance by which the bread and wine offered in the sacrifice of the sacrament of the Eucharist during the Mass, become, in reality, the body and blood of Jesus.”

Whoa, hold on there! The wine and wafer REPRESENT the body and blood, right? The priest said no, they become the actual body and blood of Christ. So I’m thinking: Do I really look that stupid? I think I know what you put in my mouth. It was a dry, tasteless wafer and a sip of red wine about three turns of the chalice from where that sweet little piece of ass, Sue Defoe, just had her lips. And when I swallowed, it was still wine and wafer. If it had actually turned into blood and flesh, I would be blowing chunks all over this communion rail right now.

From the very beginning, I found all of the hard-to-believe stories, hard-to-believe.

None of it got any better with age.

When Carla and I planned to marry, we wanted to humor her mother, a devout Catholic lady, and get the approval of the Catholic Church. I had been divorced, ending a five-minute marriage to my college girlfriend. That hadn’t been my finest hour. She had already graduated when I called to propose marriage because I lost a game of Ping Pong to Howard and was just too damn bored to sit still and wait for my turn to come back up. I didn’t know what to do with myself for ten minutes or after my own graduation. Don’t most people get married after college? I wasn’t ready, dumb move.

So anyway, the Catholic Church assured me that Carla and I could marry, eventually, after all payments were made. Payments? Yup. No counseling, no one-on-one talks, all they wanted was to set up a payment plan. After all 12 monthly payments had been made, we would have the blessing of the Holy Catholic Church. No wonder they’re the third largest land holder in the world and one of the richest extortion groups out there. The Mafia learned their lessons from the Catholic Church.

I diplomatically suggested that the priest demanding payment should go have intercourse with himself. Jesus would approve.

Did you know that centuries ago Catholic priests were allowed to marry? The problem arose when the priests died and left their possessions to their families. The church knew that wouldn’t do. So the great CC declared that from then on, no girls allowed. Like Spanky and Alfalfa’s  “He-man woman haters club”. Priests would have to go without and only marry Jesus. The guys thought that would be a tough one, but the upside was the promise of masturbation booths. They’re called confessionals. The priests can ask any teen age cutie just exactly what she did in private on her date last week with the sweaty boy who has terrible acne, sitting in the pew three rows back right now. Be specific. Take your time. Say that last part again? 

Why do you think those guys are always carrying around a silk handkerchief?

Religion is crowd control; church is a business. Almost 100% of the people who follow a religion, follow the one they were born into. Early childhood indoctrination locks them in. It’s why we wear the clothes we wear, eat the foods, follow the sports, and embrace the traditions of the culture we’re born into. Early childhood indoctrination seals the deal. We think we’re right and we’re willing to fight over the name of god.

If I am bitter about organized religion and the church, why did I go to church last week you ask? Well, my friend was the guest speaker. A 30 year Methodist minister who now sees things…differently. He spoke of the metaphor of it all. The teachings, the stories, all metaphor. Many great lessons to be learned there. The trouble starts when we take it too literally. Often, on one side of the fence, everything is taken literally. The wine and wafer actually turn into blood and flesh. Jesus was born of a virgin and arose from the dead. All of it. On the opposite side of the fence, the cynics point at the first group and mock them for their stupidity. How can they believe that stuff, they wonder? Both sides are so busy trading barbs and put-downs, all of them miss the metaphor entirely. That’s a shame.

Last Sunday I attended a service at the church of the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. Atheist, Agnostic, Jew, Buddhist, gay, straight, black, white, all are welcome. They say their mission is “to bring together individuals of diverse backgrounds and to encourage them in their search for truth and meaning.” Works for me, I thought.

In the past, people have suggested that I was too much of a loner. Maybe I should join a group, become a Moose, Elk or Eagle, especially since church just doesn't feel right to me. Celebrating my veteran status, I did go to a VFW club one time, in the middle of the day. There were a bunch of creepy old guys (who looked like me) sitting around a bar telling lies and getting drunk. Not for me, I quickly decided as I drove home to sit around the house and get drunk, telling lies on Facebook.

But I was never a good fraternity boy, Boy Scout, Real Estate group member, whatever. I get hives from all that stuff. At the morning Realtor meetings when it was time to hug your neighbor, I made a beeline for the coffee machine and hung out there until all that squashing of the flesh was over. 

Something similar happened last Sunday too. Nice people, great values, liberal and easy going. But I got good cheer overload and passed on the mixer afterward and doubt I’ll go back next Sunday.

Maybe I’ll look into a different way to be a real part of something spiritual. It couldn't be in a church building though and it would be best if no humans were involved either. They tend to screw things up.

For now, I'll just sit here, pondering the question in a padded Adirondack, a light breeze carrying the scent of shellfish off the lake below. Both dogs flank me, prostrate in worship. Brilliant sunshine, intermittently successful, runs a gauntlet through the oak canopy to nip at my forehead, a welcome sting.

No tricky wine or wafer jerky, my home church is multicolored, a rounded steeple of branches, arms intertwined.

No collection plate, no pontificating. Just the company of two dogs who will love me endlessly whether I give them the offering of a treat, or not.

hmh

.

Throwback Thursday...

In the late 1990’s and early 2000’s, I started and ran a Real Estate publication that featured new construction. Development was booming here in N. Florida, and I wanted to hitch my wagon to that growth. Within a year or two, one of our advertisers made me the proverbial “offer I couldn’t refuse”, so I got my Real Estate license and started selling new homes for that builder.

My partner in new home sales didn’t care for the daily meet & greet of new prospects, laying the groundwork and establishing credibility, explaining contract language, or handling problems as they arose, so that was mostly my role. She didn’t want to do much of the sales part. For me, selling was and is simply speaking with new people and having fun getting to know them, while answering questions along the way. But I break out in hives if forced to do paperwork and didn’t know squat about working floorplans and custom changes, whereas my partner was a pro. We made a good team.

At one point we found ourselves in a temporary office, a mobile home parked in a cow field slated for development. Packed shoulder to shoulder with customers like Times Square revelers on New Year’s eve when we opened up for pre sales. Townhouses, three hundred and thirty-six were planned. Buyers were shouting over each other “I’ll take one”, all sight unseen.

Often working as much as 30 to 40 days straight, writing contracts, we sold all 336 in less than two years. Subsequent monthly commission checks sometimes equaled what I had made in an entire year prior to going into Real Estate.

Carla and I invested in a few houses to use as rentals, just prior to the market crashing around us. Genius Realtor that I am, I bought high and sold low. The market tanked, my company declared bankruptcy and I lost my job. The substantial nest egg we had built up in profit sharing got flushed away along with our investment houses. In fear of Guido showing up at my door to break my fingers for non-payment of my own mortgage, we left the big house and moved into our smallest rental.

Now, more than ten years later, I see the whole experience as one of the best things that ever happened to us. We had been locked in the belly of the beast. More, bigger, faster.

Along with a huge serving of humble pie, my priorities shifted. No longer did I feel a need for a showplace home, a new car, an extra wide screen TV, or anything found in a sharper Image catalogue.

Currently, I work part time for a builder I’m proud to represent. The neighborhood I sell in is four minutes South of our house. Carla’s work is five minutes North. Publix, our bank and our favorite restaurant, Ned’s Southside Kitchen, are all in between. The beach is a fifteen-minute drive; historic downtown St Augustine is twenty minutes the other way.

We love our little house, now customized to fit us perfectly. It looks down on a lake surrounded by transient waterfowl that come in all shapes, sizes and colors. Ospreys scream overhead, tucking their wings as they pierce the water like spears thrown down by the gods. Easily mistaken for skinny bald eagles, the Ospreys tear into fresh fish on their favorite perch just above our deck. We dine together.

Our biggest problem these days is deciding where we want to go for dinner, there are so many good restaurants to choose from. Our normal routine is to discuss the possibilities for a half hour or so, this place or that, the pros and cons, and then we go to Ned’s.

It’s been a crazy ride since we moved to Florida 26 years ago, but if I could go back and change anything, I wouldn’t. It all brought us to where we are right now,concerned about things that matter: family, friends, good health... living the good life...all within a ten-mile radius.

What may be boring to some, is a little slice of heaven to us.

Lighthouse...

For many years, the light from this tall neighbor swept the night sky above our house. A horizontal light saber, just beyond the reach of the tallest oaks. By day, looking like a red hatted, black & white striped soldier, it stood ready, at attention. Head and shoulders above, surveying a canopy of green.

We had been running errands that took us onto Anastasia Island, and into our old neighborhood. I just happened to look up. There it was again, stoic and reassuring. The same sentential that had watched over us so faithfully, 16 years ago. This old friend, unexpected and familiar in its steadfast continuity.

Tonight, once again, that huge old Fresnel lens will focus its beam, cutting through the dark, above the oaks and rooftops, shooting twenty miles out to sea. There it will slice through the thin membrane between the rolling sea and tar black sky, happy to wink at shrimp boats, bobbing like corks, elbows bent outward, dripping with nets.

A welcome sight to the shrimpers, feeling the ancient connection to the light, as it circles back repeatedly, whispering of home.

ME TOO

Me too.

It sounds innocuous enough, a throwaway acknowledgement. But when it comes in the form of a Tsunami, the power of those two words can’t be denied or ignored. The scars of the physical and emotional abuse are always there, like old tattoos that lose their definition over time, morphing into ugly stigmata. Shame worn like a birthmark, perhaps unseen to others but always with the wearer, haunting.

More recent events parallel that emotional and physical hurt. Hurricanes in Texas, Florida and Puerto Rico, extreme flooding, tornados. The fires in California, drunken molesters, unrestrained, devastating property and lives.

We look to callus leaders, narcissistic, too infatuated with their own image to function beyond a five-foot perimeter. We condemn Harvey Weinstein, whose admitted actions spawned so many to say: “me too”, but elect a president with an even more despicable resume of abuse.

Often we get the God, and the leaders, we deserve.

Are devastating hurricanes and floods the new normal? Are they the harbinger of a dying earth? As our greed dumps its toxic waste in the oceans and turns living rainforests into dead acres of mud, are there repercussions? Should the wealthy few make a profit equivalent to the combined incomes of the tens of thousands who bought their development homes in floodplains? Have we so altered forested areas of California with the kindling of new homes that natural wildfires inevitably turn into inferno spewing monsters that can’t be contained?

Has our society relegated the safety of the weak to the authority of the twisted strong?

My own abuse came at the hands of a camp counselor and at the YMCA, both assumed to be safety zones for kids. Young women experience abuse and mistreatment in a society that allows the abusers to be in charge. How often will white males judge themselves, and how unbiased the outcome if they do?

In the big picture, these things are all related, part of an illness that infects our society and our attempts to enslave nature itself. It’s a suicidal path we walk.

There is hope. We must acknowledge climate change and fight the greed that spawns it. Women and minorities must unify to become an unstoppable majority that demands and expects true equality. They must overwhelm the old guard with a multicolored flood of support for a new normal, in a place where when we say: “All men are created equal” we must mean all humans, all races, all genders. We can no longer allow the 1% to profit at the detriment of the 99% and we must elect leaders who lead by example, understanding that they work for us, not the other way around.

We find ourselves in a place where our collective apathy has put us. We can end the cycle of damage and self-cannibalization if we combine in a common goal to do so.

Fred Rogers said it best from his hood of every man: When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

Whatever we look for and think about, we will probably find.

Look for the good. Talk about it, praise it, emulate it. That is our single hope for salvation in a new model. We can no longer give away our power to others. If we don’t unify in a common goal of good health for our society and our planet, if we don’t say “enough is enough” and work together as a species and as guests on this earth, if we keep doing what we’ve been doing, we can expect more of the same, but worse.

Is it too late? I look for the good,the unheralded and unsung, people doing the right thing, the heroic thing, because that too is part of our our nature, built into the DNA of our species. It causes me to believe: No, it is not too late for us to save ourselves.

Now is the time for all of us to say:

Me too

Dawn Rebirth

A Nor’easter stormed in two days ago, turning off Summer as if it had reached in and flipped the switch. Windows and doors now open wide for the first time in months, letting winds blow through from back to front. The house breathes deeply of the fresh air off the salt marsh. Breezes dance down the hallway chasing their tails and causing picture frames to rattle out their Morse Code.

Nature knows the exact second when the celebration of Summer ends and hands off the baton to Fall’s runner. The ancient and timeless dance, unwavering.

We lie on our bed, Chicca against my feet, the French doors open to the deck, watching the sun begin to illuminate the clouds as it still waits bashfully in the wings.

Yes, there are many “bad” things that happen in this world. The Gazelle grazing on a sun-drenched savanna is a thing of beauty, yet its struggling, bloody death in the mouth of a Cheetah may seem less so. That’s our own conditioning. Cultural programming. Nature sees beauty in both. The Vegas shooter is an aberration, an extreme end on a Bell Curve. As a society it behooves us to address it and do what we can to prevent a reoccurrence, but neither the Cheetah nor the shooter are outside of the natural order of things. Likewise, neither killer tarnishes the luster of a new day and all of its potential for beauty and wonder.

It is said that you can never go back again, but of course that is not true. We are given the opportunity with rebirth in each new day.

Crawl, walk, run. Dawn marks the gift of life, gifted once again if we are lucky. It is a miracle to be cherished and appreciated beyond measure.

And fresh coffee. That too.

I’m going to take my cup out to the deck.

A Beach Walk

Carla and I enjoyed a breezy stroll down the beach this afternoon.

Both mutts always love it too, but Chicca REALLY enjoys her time there. She runs 100mph after the little sandpipers, looking up, keeping them on her radar, oblivious to the low arc they make when they circle out over the water. The waves quickly put a very wet stop to her chase. Then she’ll get a new burst of adrenaline and race ASAP after a pile of seaweed and trash she spots 500 yards down the beach, convinced that it is the enemy and must be dealt with immediately. Pausing momentarily when the trash turns out to be just trash and not the defiant beach squirrel she suspected it to be, she looks around, suddenly unsure of where she is.

Momentarily frozen as she scans the horizon for clues, Chicca sees my profile in the distance. Then she knows. Suddenly launching herself like a jet catapulted off the deck of a carrier, she’s screaming my way. “Oh my God, it’s him! I love that guy! He’s the best person on the planet!” She couldn’t run at me any faster.

Chicca “rediscovered” me like that 7 or 8 times while we were there. Each time was pure speed and elation for her. She couldn’t be any happier or more excited to find me.

I told Carla that she should take a tip from Chicca’s behavior and treat me the same way, but she was absorbed with more important things, biting at a cuticle and poking a broken shell with her big toe, tuning me out.

That woman has an advanced degree in “Not hearing husband babble”

Carla is a professional..

Rufus Gets His Revenge...

The dogs love our nigh walks as much as I do. Morning really, 4:15 AM this time.. The world is ours, no one else walking, only an occasional car rolling in the distance. Even two hours earlier makes a difference. At 2:15AM, you can still catch the sounds of Kawasaki crotch rockets screaming full-throttle, just blocks away, boys fueled on alcohol and testosterone feeling bulletproof. Good old boys roar their four-wheelers in response, maybe go off road onto the golf course to spin deep ruts and generate a few lines of outrage in our pathetic little paper, The Shores Observer. But by 4AM? Nada. Even the boys are in bed.

The humid night air is heavy with the smell of freshly cut pine and oak. Entire trees, sliced and diced, piled on the swales and crouching next to the path that dissects the park behind our house. They hunker down like sleeping mastodons, all a byproduct of a hurricane that no longer exists.

The Big Dipper and Orion’s belt surround themselves with their buddies overhead, pulsing, vibrating, especially bright tonight. Drawn to the park like tornados to mobile homes, they love the dark roll of open fields, avoiding streetlights like Kryptonite to Superman.

The dogs and I love it too. I’m in black pants and shirt, both dogs are black, so except for the occasional rattle of a collar at the leash, we are invisible.

At one of the darker spots, next to an old shuffleboard court where the kids have put up a makeshift basketball hoop, Rufus veered off the path. The last time we walked by there, on a hot afternoon three days ago, Rufus got hit with an overthrown basketball. He jumped like he had been shot and harbors bad feelings towards the boys in general. This time though, in the cool anonymous dark, he wandered off to the full length of his retractable leash, 15 feet. I know his habits well. He’s a private pooper, he looks for just the right spot, next to something else, so he’s not too isolated and exposed. His line became totally still, then active again as he kicked backwards to cover his scat and announce his manliness to the world. Stepping in his direction, I could just make out the shape of whatever it was he had backed up to. With the light of my iPhone, I saw that he had carefully placed a chocolate soft serve on top of their ball, a statement and a present for those boys at their next pick-up game.

Sorry guys, at least it is supposed to rain later this morning. 

(High-five Rufus! You the man!)

Dust Magnets & Wrens

My friend, Carol, posted a picture of the beautiful view looking out from her kitchen window. It faces her back yard, full of colorful birdhouses, hanging up close, alive with aerial activity.

She then posed the question, asking what ours looks out on...

Our own kitchen window looks into the addition we built on when we kicked out the renter and decided to move here ourselves. I can see a (gas) woodstove, some paintings, plates from Carls’s china collections, the TV with a tattoo guy applying flash to the leg of his canvas, and shelves stuffed with dust magnets. If I lean forward on my toes, I can see the top of Carla's head. Once in a while she shifts her position but otherwise, the view is static all summer. 

When it's cool enough to turn off the AC and open the house up though, we usually get a Wren or two that come inside to nest somewhere in the shelving. I do see them fly by occasionally, followed below by Chicca running furiously, looking up, leaping and biting at the air, like a breaching shark. The Wrens never get overly concerned and are quite brave around me as well. We get some tiny amounts of bird crap on things but Wrens are no bigger than a computer mouse, so it’s insignificant. That’s a small price to pay for these temporary borders, their chatter and aerial acrobatics. If I close the doors too early at night, they raise hell outside until I open up again and then they expect me to open the doors again at sunup as well.

I keep their nests from previous seasons, but the Wrens like new housing and build fresh nests when they return in the Fall and Spring.

Werewolves All...

Quiet moments, still half asleep, eyes crusty from the night.

The girls vying for lap space, squirming, clutching fat blue rabbits and pink pony’s.

Let’s just talk softly for a few moments, sipping our time together, while the sun still waits in the wings.

Soon enough I’ll clean up, don my armor and striped tie to go slay the dragon, bracing for the chaos of our rock n roll ride down to the train station. You kids eager for the show.

But don’t wake up Mommy up just yet.

We’ll watch that beast roll in on steel rails like a bursting thundercloud, screaming at us, trying to intimidate.

Did it flatten your pennies? Fuse them together?

Show me when I get home tonight.

Carla will be late, always late in her stream-of-consciousness lifestyle. I’ll stand in a corner of the old brick station after the train leaves and all the other riders have gone home, cold wind gusting, pulling at my suit, trying to get inside.

Walk a block to the liquor store and another block to the bridge, a vodka crossing. Brown wingtips well-polished, prepped to navigate the varied landscapes of escalator grids and street slush.

Shaking off the homogenized world of artificial lights, canned air and office chairs, bending headlong into the wind. One hand tight on the handle of my metal briefcase, the other paw holding my collar closed, a fist with a brown paper bag sticking from one end. The dark river below, a black abyss. I can hear the deep rushing water beneath me, smell it. Hyperaware with each soggy step out in the elements, almost giddy, more excited to be alive than I’ve felt all day. Raw and real.

Distant sounds float over the top of the wind, Warren Zevon and his Werewolves approaching. 

Headlights silhouette my victory walk, shadowed against the rusting iron beams of the narrow bridge. The cab bouncing, bright with little girls, howling werewolves themselves, pink skin zipped up in flannel bunny suits. Carla driving, smelling of lavender from the bath all three had shared, equally excited, the biggest kid on board.

Warren howls on, “his hair was perfect”, he sings.

Yes, I agreed, perfect.

My Vision of Hell

As a card carrying introvert, the very last thing I want to do is get on a cruise ship, unless, of course, I can get right back off again. The biggest ships are four football fields long with almost 7,000 guests and 2,000 crew. That’s a lot of bodies. The average human produces about a pound of poop per day. That’s 9,000 pounds of excrement every 24 hours. Remember though, 7,000 of these folks are under 24-7 all-you-can-eat-get your-money’s-worth pressure, so it’s probably close to double that amount of sphincter sausage.

Your average cruise ship produces between 140,000 to 210,000 gallons of sewage per week.

I can’t help but think of all those people, 98.6 degree food processors, working on a daily average of 8,260 cups of coffee, 5,000 eggs for breakfast, 2,000 steaks, 1,000 baked potatoes, and 1,150 pounds of bananas Those are just some basics. God knows the endless cheese and appetizer buffets and the all-day fruit and rum drinks don’t help any of it.

The goal is to eat and drink until you drop.

Most cruise ships come equipped with a morgue, which, in light of that, is a pretty good idea.

So anyway, all I see when I look at these floating sardine cities, is too many bodies in way too small a space, everyone in a feeding frenzy as if they will never have a chance to eat again. Each day, they produce new mountains from yesterday’s semi-digested buffet offerings.

All those people make me really love dogs.

Obviously many people don’t share my cruise line aversion. They see fun in the sun with a Coppertone glaze, drinks crowded with fruit, umbrellas, and cherries that can’t even begin to remember if they ever actually grew on a tree, all of it rolling blissfully to a Jimmy Buffett soundtrack.

It’s not like I haven’t tried. Carla won a free cruse at her work as a travel agent many years ago. I went along because she made me. Hugging the ballroom bar at night like a kid with his bankie, I was happy enough to try to blend in and look like just another bar-stool as I watched the dancing. It was an older ship, still featuring a mirror ball hanging from the center of the room. The MC, looking like an overweight John Travolta in a suit that hadn’t visited the dry cleaner since his Staying Alive days, worked the room. He whipped the housewives into a frenzy, spinning like dervishes under a mirror ball spell. Reflected lights did their own mini dance moves on pancake makeup applied with a trowel in cabins below deck. Rooms now strewn with the contents of exploded suitcases.

All of it pure cornball, I thought, but I was happy enough to watch, drinking undisturbed.

Then Mr. Travolta got personal. He made the mistake of coming over to me and trying to pull me into the revelry. I turned down his advances the first time and made sure he understood my adamant refusal. When he started in my direction a second time, I told the bartender that if Travolta put his hands on me again, I was going to break his nose. Luckily, even though the bartender really perked up when I told him my plan, the bartender waved Travolta off. Certainly, watching that guy night after night had caused the bartender to share my fantasy.

There is no universe in which I would willingly do the Macarena, group or solo. That’s not going to happen.

It’s not just cruise ships that send me running in the opposite direction though, all crowds do. I’ve always had strong concert avoidance systems as well. Eric Clapton and Jackson Browne managed to lure me out years ago but I still carry the trauma of caught-in-a-crowd claustrophobic nightmares from both of those lapses. Jostling bodies passing gas and smelling of sweat, gingivitis and FDS? I have to pass. 

You see, it’s not only about my introversion, it’s also the down side of being around living, human beings with functioning systems that take in energy and give off waste.

So I’ve always been happiest at home, in the woods, maybe out walking the dogs at night. You know, not around people. As we’ve already established, they smell bad. Me too. I stink, but I can’t escape it. My dear wife? Carla and I don’t even share a bathroom. His and hers works for us. I choose to believe that she doesn’t poop at all., I don’t want to know.

She always smells great.

I’m not a robot though, there are plenty of times when I’m pretty damn happy for her to crowd me. That’s a crowd of two I can get behind…and no comments from the peanut gallery about that last part, please.

Oh, and if I win free cruse or concert tickets? You can have mine. I’ll pass.