Aula Bdul

When I suggested that we take some pictures, Hannah immediately piped up with: “I’m Aula Bdul!” She dropped the first letter of most words in those days and Ruth had to translate. “She says she’s Paula Abdul, Dad”, Ruth offered with a tolerant sigh. Ruth is five years older, which made a huge difference when they were young, but she knew her sister’s hard-headedness better than anyone. We didn’t question it. But I went a bit too far when I asked Ruth: “OK, Ruth, she’s Paula Abdul, so who are you?” With another deep exhalation at having to put up with the terminally stupid that seemed to surround her, she replied as if to a slow child: “I’m Ruth, Dad. You know that.” — with Hannah GypsyOn and Ruth Haller Grubb.

House Wren

Around this time every year, when doors and windows spend more time open than closed, a House Wren comes inside to nest. She’s tiny, unafraid of us or the dogs, and hard to spot other than in flight. Apparently she has money, because she owns at least four nests that I’m aware of.  Is she in the lap of the stuffed monkey? Ducking down in the overhead light? Behind the piggy bank one of the girls made in school? Maybe she’s up in the engine of the wooden train that runs the rails over the sliding glass doors? Wherever she calls home, within our home, we’re happy to share, as she is happy to share with us.

Throwback-1987, 31 years ago @ a Haller family reunion…

That’s brother Kenny and his wife, Vickey, top left. She probably saved him from himself. They live an idyllic life outside of Athens, Ohio. She’s a nurse and a gardener with at least two green thumbs. He plays poker with his buddies in his renovated barn where, as is true in Vegas, the house controls the play. He wins.

To their left are siblings Dan, Andy, and Jen. All of them live in California. Dan is an attorney who loved to read Erma Bombeck stuff when he was a little boy, and now vehemently denies it. Andy is a cool cat musician. His sister, the always beautiful Jennifer, a Mom to three equally beautiful children and wife to a guy who either showed good judgement in avoiding this reunion or those two weren’t together yet. They live among majestic redwoods.

Their parents, sister Sue and Hubby, Barry, are seated in front of them. No longer together but both are close to the kids and grandkids and both lead happy fulfilling lives. My sister Sue is the most sensible and balanced person I know.

My oldest sister, Judy, is standing with David, radiant in her blue dress. She’s a talented painter who makes me laugh like no one else can. Well, Sam Kinison used to make me laugh to the point of gagging too, but he’s gone now so Judy has no competition. Judy and David have been married for 107 years and are still going strong in Augusta, Ga.

Below Judy and David, their son Jim, is in his Navy blues. Always a stand-up guy, Jim leads by example with his awesome wife, Karen. They do crazy triathlons, run barefoot across oceans and continents, and then chase around three exceptional kids at home. Both are contenders for the coveted “Best Parents on the Planet” award.

In the front row, relegated to rug duty, sits Tim, Ken and Vickeys son. He’s a computer expert who makes wheelbarrows full of money and is husband to a wonderful lady who frequently has to remind him that he’s an adult now and needs to act like it for the sake of his two very accomplished daughters.

Daughter Ruth works full-time with a screenwriter, volunteers at the local dog shelter, often sends me pictures of dogs that I would adopt if we lived in San Diego, sponsors a wonderful Syrian family, and takes Sociology coursework in college. Carla and I love her hubby, Andrew. Always the most consistently upbeat guy in any room.

Debbie, Jim’s little sister is a busy teacher and Mom who we rarely see because she doesn’t waste her time with Facebook and actually lives a real life, free of social media. Incredible. All I hear are good things.

Debbie is holding Hannah, who was probably not wearing diapers or anything else under her pretty dress, the same one she was wearing at an outdoor party a few months later when she climbed up on the picnic table, squatted in the middle as everyone commented about how cute she was in her pretty dress, and took a dump. In a video I filmed, you can see happy faces circling the table, talking and laughing, and then turn to horror and disgust. Lots of rapid movement backward after she dropped that centerpiece. Like Dawn dish soap on an oil slick.  

Hannah was, and still is, a fearless gypsy, who has certainly dropped steamers in rural fields all over the world.

Hannah and Ruth are, without question, my closest friends.

Carla and I are in our 41^st year now. She lives a stream-of-consciousness lifestyle as I fill her pockets with pebbles so she doesn’t float away with the wind. She works in patient care, two, three jobs at a time. Crazy, brutal hours.

By the time this picture was taken, I had served 4 years in college, 4 in the Air Force, and 8 years at a high-end air courier company. Working my way up from a graveyard shift customer service guy to VP and GM of a large spin-off messenger service in Washington, DC, and NYC. For a while there I flew the Eastern Shuttle back and forth several times a week. High pressure & lots of commuting. I ran distance in those days, that helped alleviate the stress.

Mom & Dad are both gone now. Good people who walked the walk. She led a life of privilege, outliving Dad by 18 years.  After he had exited stage left and she was in her mid-80’s, she called me to ask if it was OK with me if she remarried. “Of course, Mom. That’s awesome!” The caveat? She said: “But he’s an older man.” Clay was a wonderful guy, about 4 years older than Mom. They traveled the world together, Antarctica, the Galapagos Islands, Europe… and held hands like young kids everywhere they went.

Love is a true fountain of youth.

All in all, a nice family. No bad behavior sufficiently extreme to make the news. No jail time, no severe drug, alcohol, or mental issues. (I mean, everyone is crazy, it’s a question of degree. Right?) No early deaths, no tragedies. Just a big group of good people living productive lives under the radar and making more people in their image.

My point being, that we all hear so much negative stuff, you know “The world is going to Hell” kind of thing. But I don’t see it in my family. I don’t see it in the families of most of our friends. I see happy grateful humans and a younger generation that is as bright, educated and involved as any generation before.

I believe we are, and will continue to be just fine, even in another 31 years from now.

2:27AM

2:27 AM.

I’m not up late, I’ve slept. 7PM to 2AM gives me 7 hours’ sleep, an hour more than I need. Normal hours for me. I think Lee gets disgusted when I fail to attend his plays at night. He doesn’t believe the excuse that I lose all connection with the conscious world at a time when most people are just getting started. But it works for me. Carla has a night shift at the hospital, so she’s not here anyway.

Sleeping through the early evening allows me to avoid the frenzy that so many eagerly dive into. That way I get several hours of quiet time before the first rumblings of service and delivery trucks demand attention. The 3AM freight train noisily snorts up the rails through town, a comforting kind of white noise in the distance, the engineer in sync with my own hours. By the time his last graffiti splashed car approaches the North end of the city, a pervasive quiet rolls back in, carrying its own identity. It isn’t so much the absence of clutter as it is a brief connection with an alternate reality. Like floating in space, an astronaut with no tether, a sleep deprivation chamber that covers everything, a giant cone of silence.

I own it all, the other daytime players are down. Humans, dogs, frogs, bees, birds… deep in a REM coma. It’s as if a crop duster sprayed a cloud of KO gas, an incapacitating agent, over the land. At least briefly, I’m immune. Only the plants and trees silently flex their muscles.

The dogs and I harness each other up, taking a long walk around the loop. A curving asphalt trail leads us to the rear of the Cold Cow Ice Cream store. Dumpsters vomit out what their stomachs can’t hold, spotlighted under security lights that appropriately paint the area jaundice yellow. Holding my breath in protest, we hurry past, breaking into a trot as the dark woods extend their arms to welcome us back into the natural world.

Home again, an early breakfast of pineapple with sausage, washed down by a brew of scalding black Columbian, jump starts my daylight hours, a transition of sorts.

Sunrise

 

Our bedroom, deck and patio face East, so they catch the first light of dawn. 

The weather here in Northeast Florida over the last few weeks has been exceptional, as nice as any I remember. That statement requires way more than a grain of salt, however, more like an entire salt lick. My memory is like a dirty windshield, cleaned by wipers every time I blink.

Playful breezes cool skin that’s been fired- up by a slight pinch from unfiltered sunshine.

Days like these remind me to mentally stand and applaud. As with everything, we get the other side as well. I need to remember these days when the next hurricane rattles our doors and angry gangs of black clouds rumble overhead. During those weather tantrums, I give the dogs large marrow bones, rubbed, baked and cooled to room temperature as a distraction so they don’t cling to me and shiver. I drink vodka, turn the volume on my stereo up to “Wow”, throw a one finger salute skyward and dare the electricity to go out.

That’s when we appreciate the candles and batteries, the slowly thawing steaks, a reliable propane stove, and memories of days like today.

Amaryllis

I wished for her a thousand fresh flowers.

Claiming ownership over a sea of chromatic brilliance, we strolled along a shoreline, 

thick with Amaryllis.

In a broad sweep, I gifted her the wild hoards of color.

"these are for you"

hmh

More Alike than Different...

We are all more alike than different. 

Don’t we all want to raise our families in a safe environment with enough to eat and a decent place to live? Isn’t the opportunity to work hard and improve our situation the basis of hope?

Are the words on our most famous statue still relevant? Do we still mean it?
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

In this country, we are all immigrants. Only the indigenous people have the right to say: “Enough. No more!”

Does the dream end for others because we got ours? Who are we to decide that?

I’ve lived in a beach town for 30 years, an immigrant here. The complaints of “too much growth, too many people” have been a constant. Others want the sand, surf and warm weather too. Who can blame them? Do we now blockade the roads? Build walls? Call them animals?

We are all more alike than different.

When we reach out with an offer of help and understanding, when we see ourselves in the eyes of others, when we work together, we are all stronger for it. I benefit when you benefit.

But what of the others? they asked.

The answer came back: There are no others