What is Tomorrow?

Kira has her lasers locked on, urging me to catch her stare. She knows that I’m boiling chicken thighs for her dinner. Thighs, chard, brown rice. After being lazy for a week and dishing out food from a can of mixed contents that even give a dog pause, all four misfits are more than ready for a real meal. So I locked on with the big dog and said: “Yes Kira, I’m making you a nice dinner.” She looked relieved and happy. She knew about longing, and waiting. She just needed reassurance that all was as it should be. I was making her something good. Although when I finally did put her dish down I still have a bit of a problem with the fact that she just engulfs it in seconds and never even says: “Dad, that was fucking delicious!” I don’t get that satisfaction. But then, she did ask for more, and looked at the pot on the stove. She knew there was a whole batch, sitting right there. I told her: “ No girl, that’s for tomorrow.” She asked me: “ What is tomorrow?”... I had no answer for her.




 

My Brother from Another Mother…

I had never met Rich or Mary until I flew into San Francisco last week to do just that. He picked me up at the airport and took me straight to their house on the side of a hill. I could have been any generic serial killer, fully stocked with the requisite ropes and trash bags for body parts in my overhead carry-on. The knives would have to come from their own kitchen. But fearlessly into the house on the side of a hill we went, like old friends. Of course pretty much everything is on the side of a hill there. Looking up at so many colorful houses sitting in the sun and shifting half shades made me think of similar hillsides in Greece or Italy. Very European. I was given the grand tour of their nest. This is us. Filled with family antiques and inviting warmth, it was a perfect reflection of who I thought they were. We went down into the basement, a real basement. We don’t have any of those here in Florida. His video room where he escapes to decompress and get creative, Mary’s art room, filled with 1,000 little boxes holding sequins and paints and anything else she may need to create a masterpiece. A huge furnace sat next to the washer and dryer under the insulated ductwork that shot off in sharp angles as it clung to the ceiling. We looked into the rec room set up for their 15 y/o daughter, Kali, and her peeps. Rich and Mary don’t need to say: “why don’t you and your friends go downstairs” It’s a haven for teens to chatter and share secrets for their ears only, and it’s the perfect place for them to escape from…Rich and Mary.

We uncovered common ground on their dining room table, heaped with family pictures and stiff old black and white photos of ancestors who had known hard times as they migrated West. Some had settled into a hole they dug out on the open plains, shelter until a real home could be built a few years later. It was interesting to hear that Grandparents never mentioned those dark, hard times. Too many bad memories there. We spoke of my own ancestors, fighting Indians in San Antonio before the Alamo put that town on the map. The big overstuffed couch in their living room hugged me with easy familiarity and invited me to stay…right…there.

Several years ago I met Rich on Facebook. You know, friend of a friend. Like most of us, I scroll through the reposts, the picture of a little bald girl who won’t get chemo unless she gets 1,000,000 “likes”, the challenges to repost various causes…“I think I know which of my friends will and who won‘t…” Too many posts with nothing to say. But Rich stood out. From the beginning, it was obvious that he was an articulate guy who didn’t wallow in fluff. A caring person who pulls for the underdog and what’s right. But not right, right, more left actually. I liked that. Back and forth for a few years, private messages to elaborate on this or that. His friends call Rich a “pot stirrer”. he won’t just go along with the status quo if it doesn’t fit. So we talked about god, or the apparent human need to invent one, politics, hidden agendas, power and corruption. We spoke of his whip-smart daughter, Kali, and her innate calling to shine on the stage of life itself. I understood, I have a daughter like that too. She’s ten years older though so I tried to provide a bit of insight as to what to expect when you have a true force of nature living in your house and anticipate her move out into the world. Beautiful Mary is queen of the castle and like most women of substance and character, I suspect she has a backbone of steel.

Rich and Mary know I’m a “foodie” so they took me to Yank Sing for dim sum. They don’t know, however, about my need to sit with my back to the wall and I didn’t make an issue of it. So when we sat down and 17 small Oriental ladies came rushing at my back offering steamer baskets filled with bite-sized dumplings packed with heavenly bits, I had all systems on full alert. With a fork tucked discretely into my palm I figured that at least I had some small chance of survival if one of them turned out to be the assassin. I knew that a quick plunge of a chopstick into my right ear would not give me much of an opportunity to retaliate, but it gave me comfort to hold that fork anyway. Richard and Mary know me pretty well by now, but sometimes there are disturbing psychological issues that are best kept from even your very closest friends.

With such a quick hit-and-run afternoon in San Francisco, we barely had time to visit a few of the “must see” sights. Barefoot 20 something’s hung out at the intersection of Haight and Ashbury, dreadlocks stuffed up into multicolored Rastafarian caps. I don’t think Jerry Garcia and the boys knew anything about dreads back in the daze but I’m sure it feels right now for those kids loitering under that famous cross-street sign. We went up and down lots of city streets flanked by townhouses built of real brick and stone, punctuated by huge Victorian homes heavy with decorative twists and turns. Of course we had to drive down to the waterfront for a few obligatory pictures of Alcatraz Island. I stood back and took pictures of Rich taking pictures of the Golden Gate Bridge while the people behind me took pictures of me taking pictures.

And suddenly, five hours after arrival, I was back at the airport sharing a hurried good-by with the brother that I had just met. Unlike my real brother though, I didn’t worry that Rich was going to get me down into a headlock and make me say: “Iggie wiggie, I’m a piggy” before he would let me back up. Thanks for that too, Rich. Great seeing you and Mary. Come to Florida and we’ll eat some Alligator tail or cooter. But if you want to sit with your back to the wall, we’ll have to sit next to each other and be willing to sacrifice Carla and Mary as our first line of defense against the assassins.

Night Moves

Carla was out late last night running all over town with the dogs, as usual. She “makes her rounds”… helps out at the food pantry, visits homeless haunts. She may squeeze in some dumpster diving or Goodwill hunting. Certainly there’s plenty of couch time at Barnes & Noble, and more time spent parked in their lot after they close so that she can jump onto their WiFi. She sits in her car, laptop in lap, windows half down to dilute the methane coming from the four dogs in the back seat. Cops pull up along side of her car to see why someone is sitting in an empty parking lot in a darkened car. Most of them know her and move on. She may go to Steak & Shake to sit and talk with a group of young people who gather there in the wee hours before she works her way back home by way of the Flagler Hospital. She checks to see if any of her homeless peeps are there and if they are alright. And I never know what to expect when I get up. This morning I found a T-Shirt that says I‘m “Accepted & Forgiven” so I feel pretty good about that, a pair of board shorts with tinsel hanging from one pocket, a Western belt buckle in the shape of a big silver star (which I immediately mounted on the frame of a large mirror over a table by the kitchen…you can see it toward the top left here), 8 chocolate éclairs, a blue stoneware vase with an opening in the shape of a flower, a tin roasting pan filled with leftovers from the community meal (food for the dogs), 9 tall, thin apothecary bottles with corks, and 4 very large cabbages. Carla, and the four dogs, are out cold, and I’m off to work…

Joan

Joan was sitting in her car, letting it idle in the parking lot of Ketterlinus Elementary School when I first met her. Carla had already gotten together with Joan several times at various food coops and thrift stores. They shared common interests in organic produce, alternative health care, proactive wellness choices, and, of course, the girls. Ellie and Hannah were about to shoot out of the main school doors like seeds from a squeezed tomato, running anxiously toward the street where Garry the crossing guard would stop them and escort the whole group across, mama duck style. We were both there to pick them up. Joan was afraid to turn off her car, it had a starting problem, and when I leaned into the driver side window to say hello, I could see the gravel of the parking lot through the hole in the floorboard between Joan’s feet. I liked her instantly. Smart, quick to laugh, I immediately sensed a kinship, a similarity of lifestyle, that Carla had already picked-up on. She liked Joan too. Hannah and Ellie went on to become best friends, spending endless hours at Joan’s house in North city or at our place in the Shores. Later on, it was their house on Vilano where the girls so loved their long days filled with beach time and time to just hang out with Joan. We all did. The kids played, while those of us masquerading as adults put on new music that we cared about, and drank a beer, or four (OK, maybe five, but certainly no more than that…unless you have video tape proving me wrong…) Hannah and Ellie spent 90% of their time, two or three summers in a row, at the bottom of the pool behind our Anastasia Island house. Joan taxied, we taxied. And there was always welcome time to visit on either end of our driving duties. Joan transformed a barren desert of a back yard at her Vilano house into a tropical nursery and gave me hints on how to turn my thumb green. Mostly they didn’t work, my thumb seems to be defective. Joan had a touch though, with plants, animals, photography, and most of all, with people. She reminded me of my own Grandmother in that way, calm, selfless, wise…Joan seemed to me to be one of the most grounded and balanced people I ever knew. A rock. Eventually, Ellie went on to become a sorority girl, a nurse, and her Mom’s housemate. Hannah became a gypsy and traveled the world. But whenever Hannah came back into town, a visit with Joan was at the top of her “to do” list. She wanted to see Ellie, to catch up on their very different lives, compare notes. But she needed to see Joan. For Hannah, time spent with Joan, was how it may well be for a young Karate student visiting with the master…this is how it’s done, this is what matters. Life lessons. It was like that for me too. Joan was the life master in her own unassuming, warm way. One of the good guys, among the very best. Thanks for that, Joan, and thanks for the memories…

　

　

Follow Your Bliss…

Follow Your Bliss…

Well, that was Joseph Campbell’s advice anyway. And I liked it. I guess he was basically saying that the best way to approach life is to do what turns you on. Follow your passion. So when I look at various peers my age and see numerous and impressive accomplishments from people I admire and who are now at the top of their various fields…I get a bit defensive. OK, I kid that I “never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up…and I still don’t” ha ha…but I‘m too quick to equate that uncertainty with a lack of traditional “success“. In general, we all understand it to mean something …less. I settled, or maybe I did well in something that I never really cared about. But either way, there remains the inference that I need to justify my existence. My old roommate, Eric, designs one of a kind equipment for leveling and laying sod on major sports fields for name teams and colleges. Where did he get that? I guess he followed his bliss for making a better mousetrap and it brought him to the top of his field. Alex is a successful and sought after artist. Clyde is president of the Days Inn chain. Howard went from being an introvert heading out in his little boat to get away form people, stoned, fishing off of the coast of New England…to being the largest supplier of Golden Crab on the East coast. He flies his catch to New York City for shipment to China. They love the stuff and pay top dollar. Brooke came from money and made more. He’s got the picket fence house in Pennsylvania, the house at the Jersey shore, and a condo in Florida. Fucking perfect.

Me? I’ve got a modular home in a middle income development and an unimpressive resume. If someone asks me what I do, they’re asking me to give them a yardstick with which to judge me. If I tell them that I’m a realtor, that is often the end of it. Boring. When I say: “I’m a writer.” the inevitable next question is to ask if I’m published, as if to imply that there is no value in what I do if the answer is “no”. Too often we do judge a book by its cover.

But here’s the thing. The perspective of old age is helping me to erase my own guilt, my lack of having some kind of “thing” or pinnacle that I can point to and say: “I did that.” So now I look at my two daughters, both very successful as people in this world, and take some partial credit: “I did that”. Carla and I just celebrated 35 years together…we did that. Each step along the way, every old picture, releases a flood of great memories that cause me realize that I’ve been following my bliss all along. My passion for my life itself has been my life’s work. I’ve tried to make every day a great day, to celebrate the moment, to stay in balance…and generally, I have. From my perspective, I’ve lived an enviable and sensuous life…from the smell and feel of fat baby feet, dancing in the air when I would gleefully nip at a toe, the wind driven rain in my face trying to shove a cold hand down my flapping jacket collar, a dog that smells…like a dog, doing her eager best to give me a deep French kiss. These things. An intimate moment with a stranger, sharing an insight sparked by similar experiences, Carla’s hand on mine. These things, a lifetime filled with a million of these things. That’s what I wanted all along…and I’ll happily point to this life and say” “I did that”.

A Litle Slice of Heaven...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We went to the AYCE oyster roast at Crescent Beach last night. What a sweet deal that is, every Saturday night. They hold it on a property that sticks its nose out into the Intercoastal so you’re surrounded by water and a bright sky full of stars. A raging bonfire next to water as flat as glass splashes bright paints across the surface, reflecting the dancing flames. Everyone bellies up to long tables, waist high, mounded with piles of steaming oysters, hot sauce, shucking knives, gloves. The beer and soda is iced down in chests the size of steamer trunks… help yourself. Homemade chowder, grits, brownies for dessert. Stuff yourself with oysters, sit around the fire with a beer and a bunch of people, mostly local, that if you don’t know them personally, you certainly have many friends in common. Other than the bonfire, there are no lights by the water so the stars hang low, engulfing. Conversation is peppered with the splashing sounds of fish jumping; the fresh salt air scented with burning oak. It’s probably as close to heaven as this guy is ever going to get...

3am

Waking up abruptly, I stare wide eyed at the clock on top of the armoire. It’s 2:55. My hours are 8pm to 3am so I‘m right on time.. Although I appreciate the comfort of the bed, as soon as my eyes open it feels more like a cell, confinement. There’s a laundry list of things to do waving for attention in my head like the human signs who dance on the side of the road, bullying other, more serene thoughts. The TV is spewing in the great room, ignored by Carla as she taps away on her keyboard, occasionally laughing at posts from her musher friend in Alaska. Then she’s singing off key to Johnathan Edwards and the Seldom Scene vocals on “Blue Ridge”. She’s in her big chair, curled up like a cat on soft pillows with matching cable knit Afghans. Strong coffee, fresh ground, calls to me. My favorite time of day. Carla tapping her fingers with the occasional glance up at a Gorilla gently showing off her baby on the Geographic channel, I have the kitchen to myself. Peering down into the great room from the window over the sink, all I can see of Carla is her knees. Dogs sleep around her as if they had been tranquilized and thrown up into the air to land in seemingly torturous positions that oddly encourage deep sleep punctuated by flailing legs and low growls for assorted villains in their dreams. Juicing oranges from our tree, frying powdered cakes of crab, shrimp, and fish, Pandora plays classic country tunes; old friends. Merle sings of “livin right and being free…” as I prepare a small plate for Carla. Her appreciation is high on my list. “How do you like the crab cakes? I added diced green onions this time. Paula Dean has a recipe that uses them.” Coffee in hand, I’ll go nest with Carla in the big chair. We talk, share time, warmth, agreement. But ultimately I can’t sit still and have to go into another room to tap my own fingers on my own keyboard. By 6am I suggest: “You look sleepy, don’t you want to go into the bed?” She vehemently denies any need for sleep. Five minutes later she’s out cold. Turning off all the electronics and darkening down the room as the sun just begins to color the sky, I head back to my computer to catch up and start my day. At these times, everything is in balance. Appreciation of that fact reminds me of what I recently told a young friend of their new baby: “Cherish every minute, it all happens at lighting speed.” and I make a mental note to take my own advice.