Door Knocker

It's said that you can never go back again, but in dreams and memories, we do it all the time.

When I look at this old door knocker, I become that six-year-old boy, looking up at the massive front door of my Grandparents cavernous Victorian home. I strain to get up on my toes high enough to lift that heavy clapper and let it fall. 

Again and again.

Their street was lined with mature Sycamore trees, the bark mottled, flaking off in irregular patches like the skin of my ancient Aunt Jeedie, absent mindlessly scratching her legs at the old people's palace, in a room heavy with the dank smell of dirty laundry. But those trees were still youthful and strong, shading the street from all but the most persistent sunlight that managed to run the gauntlet from the overhead canopy, to the ground, Once there, it would do a celebratory dance on the well-manicured lawns, like a thousand flashes of light from a brilliant mirror-ball suspended above.

Many years before that time, my Grandfather had worked in India for the Standard Oil Company. That's where my Mother was born and that's where the door knocker originated. It was more than just a way to announce visitors, it guarded the house with a grotesque grimace, daring people to knock. But I simply liked to flip it and wait for Grandma to open the door to a house that felt like the background of an old Basil Rathbone movie. A cornucopia of wonders spilled out from every room throughout that voluminous old place.

Just inside, guarding the front door, stretched out flat on the hallway floor, was the pelt of an adult Bengal Tiger that Grandpa had shot on a hunting expedition. The whispered backstory was that he hadn't actually shot it himself, one of the guides had, but in those days, the bragging rights were part of the package for the " Great White Hunter" to take home.The skull had been removed, cleaned, and inserted back into the head, forever threatening, caught in mid-attack, mouth open wide, deadly fangs ready to grab anything that moved. Bright glass eyes followed me in the door, waiting for just the right moment.

I immediately flopped down, pointing my Keds in the opposite direction and kissed his nose, rubbing the stiff bristle of whiskers that no longer moved on their own. “Hello Tiger” I cooed lovingly as if to my best buddy, Roxie, the fat beagle who was probably asleep right now on the forbidden living room couch waiting for me to return home.

Roxie was stuffed too, but it was with food scraps and dog treats, and she never even once tried to look scary.

Basking in the Sun...

For many of us who like to eat on a regular basis, we have to get up in the morning, walk the dogs, shower, dress, and go to work. Others refuse to follow that conventional path and think that if they just stand there, doing little more than basking in the sun, breakfast will show up at their feet…and it often does.

No one ever said life was fair.

I’m reminded of the homeless guy on St George Street. That’s the main thoroughfare for tourists visiting St Augustine. He has claimed his own spot on the cobblestone path, propped up against an old coquina wall.

He spends his days there relaxing in the sunshine.

Carla and I had just left a nearby restaurant and as is typical for me, I had filled up on soup, bread, and salad before the entrée ever hit the table. So I was carrying my shrimp dinner, packed away, untouched, in a Styrofoam box. Seeing that man’s familiar slouch and his sunburned beef-jerky face looking up at the passing crowd, I felt compassion. The image of that poor guy lying there as the parade of overfed visitors marched past, oblivious, holding bags of Pralines and sucking on super-sized sodas, pushed me to offer him the box.

A real meal.

“Would you like a nice shrimp dinner from Harry’s? I haven’t touched it.” I offered. I thought that was going to make his day.

Eyes only on the Styrofoam box, as if skeptical of my gift, he asked: “How was the shrimp prepared?”

A bit taken back, I told him it was Alfredo.

Without ever looking up at me, he responded: “I’ll pass”.

Should he be jealous of me and my life? Should I be jealous of him and his? None of it is mutually exclusive, we all have our own path.

But now, when I think of that guy, I no longer see only that tattered, dried out apple doll of a man leaning up against the coquina wall.

I also see a Great Blue Heron in his element, basking in the sun, waiting for a meal to show up at his feet.

9/11

I’ll probably get a lot of flak about this, but so be it.

The fact is, we are all family, more alike than different. As such, we may love our family but still find it necessary to ask the tough questions and adjust our path for the best possible outcome going forward.

The same holds true for our country itself.

Yes, of course we should remember and honor those innocent victims who died on 9/11. It was a terrifying and totally unexpected tragedy. And talk about heroes! That sucker punch spawned endless stories of incredible heroism. Selfless and intentional. Police, firefighters and civilians knowingly put themselves in harm’s way as they chose to risk their own lives to help others, mostly people they had never even met before. We can, and should be, very proud of that behavior.

Certainly the attack was a wake-up call for America. We all watched in horror, and realized it can happen to us too. Right here in the good ole USA.

All true, but the one thing, the most important thing, we didn’t do in the middle of all that lust for revenge, was to question why. Why did this happen? What could we have done to make someone want to hurt us like this?

We don’t want to ask the uncomfortable questions. We shy away from the hard work of honest self-evaluation. It’s always so much easier to start with a given that we are the good guys, unfairly attacked by some very bad people, and react to that.

But haven’t we been bombing other countries and breeding terrorists around the world for a very long time? Of course we have. What are the repercussions to that behavior? Does it make sense that we automatically point fingers of blame, without ever stopping to consider that we may somehow be complicit? Did our past behavior on the world stage light this fire? We’re so quick to act when we are the victims for a change, as with 911, and it doesn’t even matter if we fail to identify the actual terrorists responsible. Any Middle Easterners will do. We start wars just to appease our need for revenge. “We’ll show them who’s boss! “Toby Keith sings “we’ll put up boot up their ass it’s the American way“ Sadly true, and it feels so good to do it that we are not all that particular which ass we put our boot up.

We do it because we can.

I know without question that if someone came into my town, dropped a bomb on my house and murdered my family, I would dedicate the remainder of my life to getting revenge. I would want to get them back with no regard for who gets hurt. Women, children, whatever.

That’s how hate works.

Wouldn’t you?

The same is true for our country that is true for us as individuals: the good news and bad news is that the person(s) most responsible for the course of our lives, is the man in the mirror.

There are repercussions for the murder and destruction we routinely dish out around the world, perhaps it’s time that we adjust our path going forward.

Today, 9/11, I hope we will all give honor and respect to those who died by looking inward for the answers to: “Why did this happen?” and “What can we do to prevent it from happening again?”

Here’s a list of US/Bombing campaigns since 1945
China 1945-46, Korea 1950-53, China 1950-53, Guatemala 1954, Indonesia 1958, Cuba 1959-60
Guatemala 1960, Belgian Congo 1964, Guatemala 1964, Dominican Republic 1965-66, Peru 1965
Laos 1964-73, Vietnam 1961-73, Cambodia 1969-70, Guatemala 1967-69, Lebanon 1982-84
Grenada 1983-84, Libya 1986, El Salvador 1981-92, Nicaragua 1981-90, Iran 1987-88
Libya 1989, Panama 1989-90, Iraq 1991, Kuwait 1991, Somalia 1992-94, Bosnia 1995, Iran 1998
Sudan 1998, Afghanistan 1998, Yugoslavia – Serbia 1999, Afghanistan 2001, Libya 2011

Post 2011: Syria, The Philippines, Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, Yemen, Pakistan, Libya

hmh

Reflections...

Every day, I am reminded of how at odds I feel with much of the culture we live in. Don't offer me tickets to the Magic Kingdom, I'm not going. Most things Disney, Kardashian, Vegas, mainstream TV, crowds large and small...cause me to feel bad...about all of us. The things we aspire to; the things we wait in line for. I have no “Midnight Madness Sale” bug nor any interest in the contents of the local mall. My eyes glaze over when you start talking about the big game. Politicians won't see me at any of their rallys, nor will I be in the congregation of any priest, reverend or guru claiming insider information while passing the plate. For me, Eddie Arnold, handed down the boring gene to George Straight who gave it to Allen Jackson who helped spawn the majority of the country pop artists on any mainstream radio today. Most of it a big yawn. Put on some Steve Earle or Lucinda Williams for me. Something with a bite. Please don't make me live in a “planned community” where my McMansion is a clone of every other house on the block and to which I sadly tie my identity, even though it is actually owned by Bank of America.

Misplaced priorities and the pursuit of mediocrity rule too routinely.

Yet we are more alike than different. We strut our uniqueness while embracing the sameness. It’s one color instead of another, this undisguisable from that, beyond the thinnest veneer.

As I think about such things, I remember the Carl Jung quote Carla mentioned to me which I’m unable to shake: “Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.”

I wish I could hide from its truth and escape my own harsh judgements in the mirror.

Show & Tell...

Show & Tell…
Today for show & tell I brought this little painting…

It’s a portrait miniature that hung on the wall next to my Grandmother’s bedroom dresser for as long as I can remember. Watercolor on Ivory. That’s my Grandma, Ruth, holding my mother, Newell. Painted about 100 years ago by one of the Onderdonk family, most likely Eleanor Rogers Onderdonk (1886-1986) who specialized in miniatures. Her brother, Julian was more famous, known for his Bluebonnet landscapes, three of which hung in the Oval Office when George Bush was the man. Several have sold for well over $1,000,000.

The Onderdonks were a prominent San Antonio family around the turn of the last century, as were both of my Grandparents families the Newell’s, and the Maverick’s.

Grandma’s dad, Oliver Stribling Newell, was a railroad man. A friend of then president of Mexico, Porfirio Diaz. That Great Grandpa helped build the railroad system throughout Mexico in the late 1900’s. He owned his own railroad car. Railroad building was one of the most important goals of the Díaz administration and by 1910, Mexico could boast 10,000 miles of track, uniting the country, providing secure ways to get goods to market, and enabling rural residents to leave the farm for city jobs. Great Grandfather Newell was largely responsible for that.

The Mavericks, of course, were one of the most prominent families in San Antonio, going back to Samuel Augustus Maverick (1803 – 1870) who was a Texas lawyer, politician, land baron and signer of the Texas Declaration of Independence from Mexico. His name is the source of the term "maverick" first cited in 1867, which means "independently minded". Apparently he had been paid a debt in cattle and, not being a cattle man, he didn’t brand them. Unbranded cattle which were not part of the herd came to be labeled "mavericks".

I have a picture of Sam Maverick’s home in Alamo Square, not very long after the infamous slaughter of some 200 “Texicans” at the Battle of the Alamo. Remember that?

This painting is 3” wide and 4” tall but the detail, even close up, is remarkable, especially on the lace around Grandma’s right arm. The thin sheet of ivory is permanently sealed in a case of brass and glass so unfortunately; I can’t look at the back of it to see if anything is written there.

These days, the painting hangs on the wall over my bed stand, and one day, I assume, it will probably hang over daughter Ruth’s as well.

Aside from its history, this little painting is a time machine. One glance never fails to take me back 50 years to Grandma’s and Grandpa’s house, deep in their Charlottesville woods. I spent a lot of time there as a kid; some of my favorite memories are from that time in my life. I can smell the house, the chicken Mandy was frying down in the kitchen, the dampness of the woods after a brief rain, wet dogs and antique furniture that stood like dark monoliths around the dining room table. I hear cicadas screaming with lust, pulsing waves of sound on a humid Summer day. Grandma herself, the scent of Rose water, Grandpa with his Wall Street Journal neatly folded in his lap, snoozing in his huge brown leather chair at the back of his office.

I glance at this watercolor quickly as I dress for the day, and all of that comes flooding back to me in a heartbeat, which it really was, and still is today…the beat of my heart.

Instagram Army...

May God help the man who incurs the wrath of 600,000 plus enraged young women…

As most of my FB friends know, our younger daughter, Hannah, teaches AcroYoga all over the globe. Along with her partner, Pablo, they’re currently on a tour throughout the Northeast, setting up workshops in advance before they hit the destination du jour. They sell out every stop and are greeted as mini-stars. After getting rid of almost everything they owned back in Austin, they hit the road in her little white Prius, packed with all of their remaining stuff, Hannah, Pablo, and their dog/child, Nalu. He’s a Golden Retriever whose job it is to hang out the back window, jowls flapping, trying to spot any body of water for a nice swim.

Puddle or ocean, he’s not too particular.

They spend most nights with whoever is nice enough to “host” them along the way.

It’s not that they can’t afford to pay for lodging, they always take their hosts out to a nice dinner as a “thank you” present, but it’s also a great way to connect with followers.

In the Instagram world, it’s not only about how many followers you have but also about “engagement”. As of this morning, Hannah has 623,000 followers. To put that in perspective though, Selena Gomez is the most-followed person on Instagram with more than 135.5 million followers. Here’s the difference. Most of the people who follow Selena Gomez do so simply because they know of her through TV, videos, music, and other media. So they click on “follow”. Most know nothing about her other than whatever her media handlers put out there.

“Engagement” is key. That’s what advertisers look for. How many followers interact, comment, and really know a great deal about their Instagram “influencers”?

Hannah films and posts her life, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Her followers know her, and interact online, and in person through the workshops, by playing hosts, and by spotting them out and about being real people living real lives…just like them.

Her following is mostly female, ages 14-44. They’re a passionate and fiercely loyal bunch. One of the main reasons for that is the daily “Insta stories” Hannah posts. After having lived on her own since age 15 and traveled the world for 8 years, Hannah is wise beyond her chronological age of 30. She shares her observations and life advice with her peeps. There have been many occasions when the mother of a teen girl has come up to Hannah and thanked her for the positive role model she is and the solid advice she has given their child. The yoga then helps mother and daughter bond as well. it's common ground.

So along with a large, devoted, occasionally rabid, following of young women, comes a great deal of clout. Advertisers want it and provide free stuff for the exposure…lodging, food, clothing, furniture, whatever they need, seeking the attention of that demographic.

You’ve got to play nice though, with an army like that, it’s just plain stupid to piss off the queen.

That’s exactly what one unthinking young man did. Because her account is largely female, and given the fact that Pablo is very prominent in many shots, Hannah sees little in the way of male harassment. Sure, she’s good looking and always wearing Yoga outfits, but that’s for the lifestyle, not to intentionally attract the wrong kind of attention. That’s exactly what happened with one guy in his late 20’s though. He messaged Hannah and said something to the effect of: “I would bend you over like a pretzel and f..k you silly.”

Nice talk, right?

You’re poking the wrong bear, Dude.

Hannah immediately took a screenshot of his message and posted it on her Instagram. I knew there would be young women lighting torches and running through the streets with their Lorena Bobbitt knives in no time.

The best part in shaming the young man so broadly came from a couple of girls who know him. One was the ex-roommate of the guy’s current girlfriend. She took a screenshot of his message to Hannah and showed it to her friend “so she will know what kind of man she’s dating”. Ouch!

The funniest one was from the girl who said: “I know his mom and am sending a screenshot to her. Let her see what her son is up to.”

Wow, she told his mommy on him! Sweet revenge. I couldn’t stop laughing.

I guess the moral of the story is something most men over the age of 5 already know: do not piss of women, of any age, or you WILL be sorry. When you magnify that by 623,000 rabid young women who have torches and Lorena Bobbitt knives at the ready…may God help you… or at the very least, bless your body as it is laid to rest, shamed and dick-less.

folders, flipers, automatics...

Although I’ve collected knives for most of my adult life, I didn’t get serious about it until the 1990’s.

That’s when I started to concentrate on tactical folders, with an emphasis on automatics and flippers. Custom made were the rage in those days, as manufacturing had yet to catch up to the kind of precise fittings and finish that were unique to customs back then.  

Those custom knives usually started in the $400. range and went up from there depending on materials used. Stainless Damascus, petrified bone, jeweled art pieces, all competed for shelf space on the connoisseur’s display table. But I never cared about the ornamentation, I was chasing functionality. 

These days, exacting factory tolerances have changed the knife world. Computer guided lasers make for unbeatable fit & finish at prices that are half or a quarter of what their custom counterparts were.

But sometimes, beauty and functionality are simple and hard to improve upon. Lately, my carry preference has been this Chris Reeve titanium beauty. It doesn’t mind salt water or abuse. Reeve was one of the first to introduce a frame lock instead of the liner locks that had been, and still are, so popular.

Liner locks can fail. I used to wrap my open blades in a t-shirt and try to make the locks “fail”, that is, “break” the lock, make it fold. That was possible with even a high-end custom like an all titanium Crawford liner lock I still own. It’s a $500. Knife with an unreliable lock up. Not a good thing if you were in a jam, deployed quickly, and hope to come out of a situation with all five fingers intact.

This Chris Reeve is solid as a rock; the titanium frame wouldn’t fold without being subject to more pressure than any human is capable of producing. It sits well against the body with a flat profile, the titanium is inert, unfazed by salty skin, and the grooves on the scales are deep and sharp edged, perfect for establishing an iron grip. A super hard stainless blade is among the best of the new steels available today.

In many ways, my newer, manufactured knives, hog the spotlight. They’re affordable race cars that deliver both high-end functionality and affordability, with an extreme cool factor.

That said, I’ve been carrying this Chris Reeve beauty for a few weeks now. The frame lock system it employs and the steel used have been copied for years, but this original? 

It’s simply the best at what it does.