Wandered into my workshop two days ago with an unspoken, undefined need to build something. Gathered up various pieces of leftover lumber and glued and fastened them into usable boards, and built a simple, but interesting box, 12 inches by 20, with a lid. I used a pair of leftover hinges to attach said lid, which doesn't quite close, because the wood used to make it was a bit warped, so there's a slight gap between the lid and the front of the box. Doesn't matter to me because I have no intention of locking it. I used two types of wood, mostly pine but darker oak accents, so it's sort of attractive, if I do say so myself. I won't put any stain or varnish on it because it's not going to be out in the elements and my inner urge turns out to demand a rustic unfinished look. It's going to sit quietly and unostentatiously in a corner of my living space. Once the box was completed, I had to wander into my subconscious to decode the next step of the project. I realized my purpose is to use it to hold print copies of my various writings, as many as I can gather. I understood that having them all in cyberspace is unsatisfactory -- first, because if something were to suddenly happen to me (more and more likely as time goes by) the stuff might be forever adrift in the ether, because passwords change and the people who I have entrusted with them might lose them or otherwise not have access (presuming they had any desire to do so). Even though I know in my heart that all human accomplishments are transitory at best, I still want these assemblages of my time and thought and sweat to be accessible and to last at least a while longer than I. The more solid reason for building the the box and filling it with paper is a rewarding and concrete one -- I like the smell and feel and heft of the box and the texture of the paper, and I like seeing the writing down on said paper, not to mention the satisfaction of watching the pile get bigger as I find and print more and more of it. Finally, there's a sort of romantic feeling about it all, the idea that my survivors going through my stuff and finding will find the box tucked away in a corner, open it with a sense of curiosity, and (ideally for me) rummage through it all with a growing sense of, "hey, some of this stuff is pretty good." There's not much more a low-key writer like myself can ask for, since it's increasingly unlikely I will be getting any of this stuff into a formal format. Simply gives me a feeling of accomplishment and promise and, again ideally, maybe some motivation to get back to writing again. In the meantime, if you'll excuse me, I have to get my clunky printer moving and convert a lot of stuff into real readable print; including some, but not all, of my blog posts.
My lovebird and I have a complicated relationship. I often let him out while I'm home alone, and he, wings unclipped, flies to his perch, then does little preening and looking around, and once he determines that I'm the only member of his flock who's around, he ultimately,usually, settles on my shoulders as I write, studying me and the room, lost in his own thoughts (or lack thereof). Sort of like Poe's Raven, but in a good way. Calming and sometimes inspirational, a sort of feathered muse. And like Poe's raven, he speaks, sometimes in very loud manner, sometimes a quiet affectionate chirring sound, or simply clicking his beak. Mostly, then, we get along, and value each other's company. But he definitely has a mind of his own. Sometimes he wants attention, a demand I usually fulfill by talking with him, saying anything, calling him names and so on. Sometimes he wants more, and will nibble at my ear or walk down my arm and nip at my hand, cocking his head and chirping at me until I focus solely on him. Fortunately I rarely use a pen or pencil, because he has been known to grab said writing instrument and drop it on the floor. Yesterday, though, he took his performance to a new height -- or depth. Me being lost in thought and writing, he decided he had enough. He dropped onto the keyboard and, using his Swiss-army-knife of a hooked bill beak, he pried the "ecks" button (you know, that letter that looks like a cross on its side) and pulled it off, then flew away with it. I yelled, he dropped it, and settled on the kitchen faucet. From there he looked at me, not remorseful, simply waiting for me to calm down so he could return to my shoulder, knowing that I realize it's useless to hold a grudge against him. He simply is what he is. But I can't get the letter back in place, though I have learned to make it work by simply pushing down on the white bump where the key was. xxxxx. Not nearly so smooth an operation as pressing a key. I'm just glad he didn't go for the "e" but settled for a much more rarely used letter. BTW, he is on my shoulder as I type this, quiet as the proverbial mouse, with his back to the keyboard, either lost in thought or planning some other shenanigan.
As I mentioned in the "That Moment" thread, I've reached a point of existential crisis or perhaps opportunity, the realization that we not only have a lot of choices to make, we in fact are condemned to make choices, because we have no other options. In my life, to this point, I have made choices, right or wrong, good or bad, effective or wasteful, always in the shadow of the idea there is a "right" way to act. But I no longer think that's the case. One can live according to religious tenets, but that means one makes the choice to follow that religion, on the unverifiable assumption that there is some truth to that religion. I spent a bit of time two years back in Vienna Austria and saw a monument to Jewish survivors of the Holocaust -- it is a statute of a bearded old man down on his hands and knees with a scrub brush in his hand. Old Jewish men were condemned to spend days outside scrubbing the tiles of the town square, being harrassed and heckled by the passing crowd. The tour guide said it had taken years to get the city to acknowledge what had happened during those times, noting that the prevailing sentiment was, "What else could we have done but cooperate with the Nazis? We were powerless to resist them." No doubt whatsoever that the choice to refuse to cooperate with the Nazis would have been a perilous choice, albeit one that a few people did make. The others, by not acting, chose to not act or even chose to cooperate. Everyone chose, and I, not a Jew, have serious qualms about what I would have done. There may be, there are, general and theoretical guidelines that make the choice "obvious" in theory -- but when it came down to the nitty-gritty consequences of incurring State wrath and punishments, and consequences to one's family, the choice became far harder. I condemn no one. That's the most drastic situation, obviously. What about simpler things, like finding bundle of cash on the street -- turn it in or pocket it? Working for a company that dumps dirty water into the nearby stream. Filing income taxes with an opportunity to claim a shady deduction -- or refusing even to look at shady deductions, Taking the time to listen to your lonely elderly neighbor tell you the same story over and over. Driving around a crowded parking lot late to a court appearance, and seeing an unoccupied disabled parking spot when you are not disabled. Again and ultimately, it seems we are back to the choice of choosing. Endorse something unverifiable and try to absolve oneself of options, sorry still a choice. Settle a divorce by agreeing to terms provided under state law, but obviously unfair to the spouse -- still choosing to make the better choice for yourself under the aegis of man's law; or give up terms so that your spouse is treated morally better, still a choice, that may make you feel better, but has no ultimate reward, unless you follow some aforementioned religion or pattern of thought. And it's not really a "what if" question, because it's more of a "when" question, as long as we are alive we choose.
. . . is the rarest and most precious of social accomplishments." R. Austin Freeman. All I can add is ". . . . ."
We have a lovebird with unclipped wings, though they were clipped when we got him. Letting the flight feathers grow back was a conscious choice. It was nice when he stayed where we put him, perched on a finger or riding around on a shoulder, and he didn't seem to much mind it. But as the feathers began taking form again, he tried harder and harder to fly and soon made short flights to the floor and beyond. It seemed he missed flying but could adapt to the clipping. Clipped wings are certainly safer. No risk of flying into a ceiling fan or being perched on a door that someone closes. And of course there is always the risk of him flying out an open door into a Midwestern world he isn't designed for, not the least of which being freezing winters. No place for a bird bred for a warm sub-Saharan African climate. And yet. Clipped birds are more susceptible to pneumonia because they don't exercise enough. Less fit generally, too, But the real reason we let the wings grow back was psychological, for him and us. It's so powerful to watch him climb out of his cage when the door is open and fly across the room to his perch. He sits there a moment, fluffing his feathers and gazing sort of regally around. He then darts to the hallway and toward the bedrooms and office, or toward the family and living rooms, hoping to find members of his "flock." I hear his searching call, then the almost loving soft chirping when he finds someone to settle on. Almost inevitably I will hear the call of "come get Billie." So I walk over and extend my finger to him, and and rides with me back to the kitchen where we keep his cage. When I'm home alone, writing, he often sits quietly on my shoulder; sometimes he takes flight and searches the empty house. I often forget he's out until I hear a sudden rush of wind and he darts around the corner and settles on my shoulder or the laptop screen. After an hour or so I put him back in his cage, rewarding his cooperation with a peanut. We risk losing him earlier than if we clipped his wings again and left him more in his cage, but I don't see any true upside in that. I don't want to measure his life in length of years and neither I think does he. There's risk of catastrophe or lingering injury, but -- and this may be my projecting -- sense an air of confidence, dare I say happiness, perhaps contentedness in him when he takes flight. We, he and I, will measure his life in adventures and flights of daring, in his being fully what he was meant to be. I hope I remember to do the same for myself.
A year ago I was wondering if it would ever snow or even get consistently below freezing. Today, it's firmly below zero and the ground is firmly covered in white, glistening in a bright cold sun. Birds are flicking to and from the feeder, and squirrels are rooting around underneath, their tails fluffed and curled back over their heads, trying to keep reasonably warm. In the early pre-dawn hour (thanks to the end of DST I was up) I saw a rabbit making his winter rounds, though I couldn't tell if it was my friend with the damaged hind leg; I hope so, since he's nearing the end of his expected life. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be a cottontail rabbit, raised in a makeshift nest by an absentee mother who shows up only for feeding time (ostensibly to keep from tipping off predators). Knowing instinctively that every carnivore is out to get you. Cautiously moving out into the open, always on the alert. That's why I feel sort of honored when one of them will take food from my hand, even stand next to me and wash his face, and, rarely, plop down onto the ground and stretch out in relaxation, the ultimate wild rabbit compliment. The birds at the feeder are fascinating, too, their squabbles and obvious hierarchy based on size and willingness to fight. Fascinating to me, but life-and-death to them, especially on days like this on which most food is unseasonably buried in white and ice. Reminds of that quotation by Plutarch, "Boys throw stones at frogs for fun, but the frogs don't die for 'fun', but in sober earnest." It's so easy to forget just how serious all these creatures are outside as they go about their daily rounds. Not everyone will survive for long, perhaps one or more will not see the end of the day, will not be around as this bright white light fades into gray, into deep dark, their lives might end with the setting sun. While I . . . while I what? I was going to say while I go on to another day, but then I realized I don't know that. Soon enough my bright white will fade or be suddenly blacked out, and I'll find that my seemingly reasonably easy middle-class American life is actually its own soberly earnest struggle for survival. Right now I'm like the rabbit lounging in the summer sun, not knowing when or if the hawk of reality will swoop down from nowhere.
Youngest daughter, graduating college next month, has accumulated a wealth of paper over the years, much (most) of which is stored in boxes in our basement. We've asked her to go through it so we can recycle it and clear space. A task she has begun to undertake, sorting "keeps" from "can-gos". I'm the trashman here, since her mother, theoretically the mastermind of the project, would have trouble letting anything go. And it is hard, We come across papers from her earliest school years. Turning those pages I find even then the an obvious spark of literate perception, the unrounded edges of profound thoughts, touching, sometimes mawkish sentiments, even occasional gripes or expressions of fear, hurt, sadness, and frustration. So much there, so much of her I'd forgotten or never knew. I move through middle school and high school and college, English literature and creative writing, also the more down-to-earth classes in science and mathematics and history and face the dawning realization that there's always been an inner world of this fine young lady that is hers alone, the understanding that she is more than the cumulation of the little girl we knew, she is another and wondrous manifestation of life and awareness, one of so many, but also unique in her own way. I turn and sort pages until I can't do it anymore, and set the task aside for another day. Physically but moreso emotionally tired. Understanding that her graduation from college, settling into an apartment, all of this, which triggers memories for me, is but the opening of a new chapter in her life. I feel privileged to have been part of it, to have rediscovered parts of it, and vow, not for the first time, to step aside and accept the unfolding of her personhood. Part of me would give anything to go back to those earlier days, both to re-experience the wonder - and also to try to do better. Of course I can't, and it wouldn't be fair to her, for me to unilaterally undo parts of what has become her. And I know that's for the best. I've sometimes referred to my daughter as "Weed" and by that I mean she has taken firm root and risen through sometimes rocky soil, always seeking the sun in her way, creating her own view, needing to unfold and flower in her way, and I admire her for it. I am so proud of and for her. But it also hurts to realize that I am only part of that story, and as she turns the pages of her life, I recede more and more into a backstory. I hope that the character I play in her story is fully developed and, on balance, a good one. That she understands I meant well.
Interesting idiom, "pay attention." Doesn't work literally. I don't think I have a bank of attention that I can draw from when things get confusing. Turns out that the "pay" doesn't mean hand over something, it more or less means to provide or offer. As this in Quora, "The word pay is from Middle English paien and is derived from the Latin pacare and the Old French paiier, meaning to appease." I find that when I do pay attention in the idiomatic sense, I discover there is a lot more to the world around me than I realized. I remember years ago I was walking through a forest and heard a screaming up in a tree -- looked around and saw a raccoon with his head in a hole, either tormenting or being tormented by something in there. The point being had I not bothered to go for that walk, and look around me, to pay attention to the wild things, I never would have seen or heard that. But it must go on all the time, without me. Once I was sitting quietly by a small stream on a summer morning, when the water seemed to begin to boil -- a moment later a large snapping turtle surfaced. If I'd not invested part of my life in being there, I would never have seen such a thing. Or recently I put a nightlight by a doorway in the basement, a door I often go through. But when I turned on the light and it shone directly up, it illuminated a nest of cobwebs I'd never noticed; no doubt there are lots more things lurking in that basement, life's relentless efforts to intrude into what we constantly strive to keep as an orderly life. The first several years after we moved into this house, we essentially neglected our screened back porch and more or less relegated the backyard to occasional use. When I finally got around to restoring the porch, and put in bird feeders, the backyard became a thriving nest of nature, with squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks, chickadees, bluejays, cardinals, finches, woodpeckers, and juncoes, with the rare hawk dropping in. All that was out there before, but because I didn't pay attention, I didn't see any of it. Since I have been working with stones in my yard, I cannot walk past a bed of river rock without looking more closely at the individual rocks, and finding wondrous things -- patterns and colors that tell a history of times long past, lava flows and times of immense immeasurable heat and pressure, stories that may never otherwise be told. It's a wide wild mysterious and wonderful world, if one simply bothers to appease the inner need to calmly observe.
The other day I made a bit of extra cash editing a story for a law journal. I took the money and and bought myself . . . a leaf-blower. An electric one, so it's not quite as loud as the gas ones. Nonetheless, I had always been dead set against them, deeming them noisy and environmentally unfriendly things that simply blew the problem onto someone else's lawn or, worse yet, into the street where they would wash into our lakes and feed the algae. And anyway I liked raking leaves, the smells, the crisp feel of the fall air, the birds, and so on. But as I watched the neighbor use his, and quickly blow the leaves into a pile and onto a tarp, which he then dragged to the curb for city pickup, I noticed how quickly he was finished, and how efficient it seemed. And, I must admit, my back sometimes hurts after a couple hours of raking, time that I could spend doing other things like, well, writing. Or, truth be told, watching one of the local football teams on TV. I was just outside with my new purchase a couple hours ago, and truth is I love it. I wait anxiously as the leaves slowly drift down, waiting for them to form a bright yellow and red carpet I can clear away. I used to look up at the trees as I raked, noticing with anxiety just how many leaves were yet to fall. Now I look up at the trees and wish they would let go so I can get to work. I'm the same way with my snowblower. I used to love being up in the pre-dawn darkness, working my way through the new-fallen snow, feeling snug in my winter coveralls and gloves, my breath clouding about me. Restful, peaceful, beautiful. I even resented it when my well-intentioned neighbor would fire up his machine and "help" me out. But again, shoveling took a lot of time and, though I try to exercise regularly, the motion of tossing heavy heaps of snow to one side gets old and one's back gets sore. Now I do in 20 minutes what used to take me at least an hour, sometimes much more -- and since I get up early I'm usually finished before my neighbor has had his morning coffee, and sometimes I'll do his sidewalk just to get even. I wonder what really changed, did I get smarter or lazier -- or just older? And whether it really matters.
I've reached the point in my life at which I seriously think about my bucket list but, at the moment, I find it devoid of dreams under my control. That is, I'd love to have my autistic son break free, and I'd love for the world to be a better place and safe for all. I'd love to somehow keep the squirrels out of my bird feeder. But I have no power over those things. A few weeks ago, on impulse, I set out to climb a small mountain that had always been in the back of my mind, somewhere I had always meant to go, a dream I meant to conquer. So I did it. A couple years back I went sky-diving, something I'd never expected to do. After it was over the instructor asked me what else was on my bucket list, and at that moment I couldn't think of anything. Can't now, either. I know it's not travel. I've walked the Great Wall and climbed the Eiffel Tower, seen the Grand Canyon and Mt Rushmore, the Tower of London, wandered the Rocky Mountains and the Smokies, explored Afghanistan before it went to Hell, been to South America and eastern Europe. Not that there aren't places I've never seen, but no place that lures me. The closest in that sense would be the furthest, e.g. Australia and New Zealand - and Alaska. But I don't feel it in my gut. Maybe I'll get a motorcycle, but that seems a bit on the dangerous and expensive side. Maybe a biplane ride, or a guided fishing expedition. None that really trips my trigger. Even the idea of publishing a book no longer grips me. And you know what? For that I am extremely grateful. My health is good, and in a world full of chaos and killing, I can sit in my quiet kitchen and write this, and I can glance out my window and watch a blue jay and a downy woodpecker gathering seeds from my feeders, and I can ponder what I want to do next. No boss anymore, except my better half, who's at work. In a way it seems I've done a full circle. Back in my misplaced youth I once tried to live on nothing, and more or less succeeded -- found an apartment rent-free in exchange for minimal maintenance, got food stamps and unemployment money. And got so bored I went back to school and day-to-day America and more or less "made something of myself." Now I've gone through all that and have a chance to do nothing again. Maybe that's all I'll do. As Janis Joplin sang, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." I'm free because I have nothing, all of nothing, at my disposal. And that's a lot.
Today is one of those that makes a midwestern autumn day so wonderful. Chilly enough to need a jacket or sweatshirt, cool sunshine, gray clouds, yellow and green leaves still clinging to the trees, despite the soft winds that play at the edges. I’m refilling the bird bath with a garden hose, spraying out the old leaves and muck, refilling it, all while an irritated chickadee peers down on me, commenting on my slowness. The sunlight sparkles in the spray, patches of rainbow flicker about. I realize how fortunate I am to be alive, to be a sentient being at large in world of color, sound, and feeling. I’m trillions of interlinked cells somehow mobile, electrical impulses that come together in miraculous ways, light patterns on the back of my eyeballs making images my mind makes into comprehensible pictures. I am blessed indeed. I know that it’s not a wonderful world out there. I’m in a place that’s worth being, though I know so many, many people in the world are not. I sometimes feel guilty about that, but I also realize that my guilt does nothing to fix anything. And if there’s a God, He has a rationale that’s beyond understanding and beyond my ability to have any effect. And if He doesn’t exist, well, it’s a world that is as it is, and I somehow have the ability to appreciate and react to it. There is beauty, and I get to experience it. More fundamentally, as the years have gone by I have come to understand how temporary this is. People I know have gone over and never come back. The first was my first childhood friend, who died when we were seven or so. The latest, I guess, was an aunt who died last year, leaving my mother as the only one left of her generation in our family. I think about my father, gone for more than 20 years, and of the walks and talks we shared; they were real, and now they are gone. He felt the sunshine and wind, and now he’s gone. And so soon will I be. Gone to that long dirt nap from which none return. But not yet. Today the birds are at the feeder, the sun still shines, and I feel the breeze sharp against my face. And whatever else awaits, I’m grateful for having been here.
What does one do with a three-day weekend? How about driving 1800 miles round-trip to take a two-hour 4.5 mile climb? That’s what I did. I should explain. Forty years ago I worked as general news reporter for a weekly paper in far western Nebraska, in ranch country, in a part of the state permeated with wild buttes and ravines, sage and sand, tumbleweeds, jackrabbits, rattlesnakes, and pronghorn antelope. And cattle. Lots of cattle at home on the range. On Thursdays (the day after the paper came out) I would go wandering with my dog. To Scotts Bluff, a rugged promontory and national monument that marked the final resting place of Hiram Scott, an early trader and trapper; I climbed that frequently and wandered around it. Also Chimney Rock, perhaps the most well-known landmark on the Oregon Trail; and a ways further to Courthouse Rock, so-named because it reminded emigrants of the courthouse back in St. Louis, where most of them started out from; and Jail Rock, the smaller prominence behind it, so named because every courthouse should have a jail behind it. I climbed them all. Further south another ridge of buttes loomed, among them Hogback Mountain, the highest prominence in Nebraska. I always meant to climb it, but never got around to it. Eventually I moved back east, and Hogback receded into memory, albeit with a checkbox on my bucket list. This past weekend, for personal reasons, I needed to get away. I had three days to fill, which I didn’t want to do by hanging around town. So I threw stuff into a bag, grabbed my hiking boots, climbed into our 16-year-old Mazda, and drove 600 miles, to Kearney Nebraska, at the far edge of the great plains. I watched the flat middle of Nebraska roll past, sympathizing with the folks who drive to Colorado and bitch about the boring sameness. Having grown up there, I felt differently; watching the distant water towers pop up like mushrooms reminded me of my childhood, and just felt right. At Kearney, too tired to keep going, I took a motel room. Next morning I drove the final 300 miles, from farm country to ranch country, where the flat land following the Platte River began to rise, bordered by sandy mounds and a distant rim of sharp buttes and ravines. Towns grew scarce and the radio signals became mostly country-western music and preachers. Except when I stumbled onto the area’s public radio station, which faded in and out. In my haste to depart I had forgotten to bring many CDs, so I spent a lot of time scanning the radio. Fortunately my two CDs were Tom Petty’s greatest hits and George Harrison’s “Let it Roll.” So I had soulmates along. I checked the map, and, almost to Wyoming, turned north off the interstate, onto a surprisingly well-maintained but almost deserted state highway that shot arrow straight through rolling sandy hills, toward the heart of buttes. I began to wonder what the Hell I was doing, what had caused me to give in to such a sudden impulse, the sort thoughts that arise when one has been driving for what seemed like forever, and heading, in Tom Petty’s words, to “God knows where.” I also began to wonder what would happen if my car conked out; I had my cell-phone but who would I call? AAA might have a connection out there, but it would take hours to get help, and I doubt it would be worth fixing the car. If parts were available. I’d probably have to simply abandon the car, sell it for whatever salvage value it might have in this buyers’ market, and rent or buy a car to get home. The weather, too, was questionable, seasonably cool but gray and threatening showers. I’d somehow forgotten about the wind that blows constantly out there. Fortunately I’d brought a windbreaker and sweatshirt, so I’d be okay as long as the rain held off. Again the question, what was I doing? I decided to honor my impulse and whatever inner voice had invited me to do this; not the least of which had been the simple question of, at 69 years old, how many chances, how much time, would I have to do this? And I felt a surge of strength, meaning, and calm. I’d follow this road to where I was meant to go. Eventually I hit the turnoff for County Road 40, which I knew led to the base of Hogback. The road was not all that inviting, a narrow graveled stretch with a “Dead End” sign at the start, and I rumbled across a cattle guard a ways down the road, which. I followed until it ended, at a house beside a corral. A stocky,wind-wizened guy was standing in the yard. I knew it was “Arch,” the man who rented the house (I’d done some research on Peakbagger, a site that catalogs the highest peaks in each state and discusses them). I told Arch what I wanted and asked if that was Hogback. He said it was. I asked if he had any problems with me leaving my car there and climbing it, He said no, just open yonder gate, which went through a barbed wire fence, and to follow the vague trails through the pastures and down and across the draws, and gradually up the “mountain.” He said I wasn’t the first to come along, and he didn’t care if I went up there. “Of course,” he added, “once you go through that gate you’re on someone else’s land.” “Does he care if I’m on his land?” “Doubt it. I trespass there all the time.” “What about cattle?” I asked, careful not to make the greenhorn mistake of calling them “cows,” “You probably won’t see any. If you do, don’t bother them and they won’t bother you.” So off I went, following the slightly muddy ruts through the grass and spiky yucca and prickly pear cactus, past frequent fairly fresh reminders that cattle had been there in the not too distant past. In the distance I saw the cliff faces of more buttes, but in front of me the pasture simply rose gradually toward the edge of Hogback, whose top kept receding into the distance. The trail led steeply down into wooded draws and up again, sometimes almost slick with mud. The landscape, especially the draws, was dotted with thick patches of cedars, which the wind pushed through with a sort of soft moan. I’d previously used the word “soughed” to describe wind in the trees, but realized I’d never really heard it before. Almost spooky, lonely, as though the landscape were breathing, and I was an intruder. In other words, just the perfect word. The wind soughed in the trees. I knew that distances deceived the eye out here, and that nothing was as close as it seemed. Every prominence I climbed revealed a higher one behind it, and things got steep, the ground littered with, sometimes slippery with, pieces of limestone that had weathered out of the buttes. More than once I sort of leaned backward without meaning to, and almost lost my balance. I realized that I was alone out here, and that Arch would not likely worry about me till maybe the next morning, after I had perhaps been nibbled to death by coyotes or badgers. I had my cell phone but reception was poor. I thought of the old movie “Little Big Man,” in which the title character, as an old man, lay down in spot much like this, closed his eyes, and said, “it is a good day to die.” But in the movie it began to rain lightly, and the old man got up. So did this old man. Fortunately for me, the rain held off and the peak was drawing near. The climb got steeper, occasionally up limestone cliffs and again I nearly fell backward. I wondered again what I was doing but decided I had come this far and may never come again. So ever onward. I saw a pair of antelope bound upward in the not so far distance, while crows circled and argued below. Finally I had nowhere higher to go, and found myself on wide, flat, edifice. The landscape fell away on all sides, and I could see in all directions. I’d half-expected to experience a sense of disappointment, a sort of “is this all there is?” But instead I felt a calm sense of accomplishment. I’d done what I’d set out to do. I picked up a souvenier rock, and stuck it in my pocket. All that remained was going back down without falling or getting lost. Since I’m now home and writing this, it should be obvious I neither fell nor got seriously lost, though at times both seemed reasonable possibilities. When I reached the bottom, careful to close the gate behind, Arch was nowhere to be seen. I pondered going to his door, but I doubted he cared much. And I wondered if some sort of guard dog lay in wait somewhere in the debris and detritus that fronted his house. So I took a few last photos and headed back out, back to my day to day life, with one more item checked off the bucket list. Nine-hundred more miles of driving with truck stop coffee and fast food. And, without a doubt, I can say it was all worth doing.
I’ve mentioned before that when Carl Jung was still finding his way, at one point he began working with rocks -- building a stone city, investing his spiritual and psycholigical self in a project that was, pardon the pun, concrete. I find myself doing the same thing as my life moves through a turbulent passage. I’ve been gathering stones and doing some landscaping, trying to live in the moment with things of timeless age. Almost like I’m moved to do it, from some inner voice. Looking out the window at a garden patch in the backyard, I realized what it needed, and the image arose in my mind. So I went off to the hardware store and bought some bags of “river rock” -- stones scooped from some quarry and sifted to be about one inch in diameter. These were not tagged as “decorative rock”, those cost more and I guess are selected for perceived beauty. The stones I bought come out of the bag brown and dusty (or muddy), plain and boring. But as time goes by and the rains come, the inner beauty of these small rocks begins to show, and they turn out to be a panoply of colors and shapes and patterns. Kind of symbolic of people or even the universe at large. There’s beauty everywhere, if one has time and patience and opportunity to look. Things ignored by us all may in fact hold wonder and beauty. In several places in the Bible mention is made of the stones that were rejected ultimately become the capstones. Or as William Blake said, “to see infinity in a grain of sand.” Be that as it may, I dumped the rock around the edge of the flower bed, behind the circle of brick that I laid out a couple years back. I then added some larger stones, salvaged from construction sites or places where dirt is dumped. These rocks, too, rarely show themselves until the accumulated dirt of centuries is washed off during their return to the surface. Like the huge rock in my front yard, salvaged from utility workers who were putting in gas lines and had to drag it out; I asked for it and they dumped it on my lawn, a big tan lump. Which washed out to gray, which in turn began to show patterns and even to sparkle with micaceous crystals. After of these are the end point of a long journey that began in higher ground as the rains and weather -- or glaciers in the Ice Age -- wore down (“weathered”) the mountains and other high points, and stones from all sources were pushed together and jumbled in tumultuous torrents. Hard eges mostly worn off, surfaces glazed and polished, and so on. So they could end up as lawn decorations. As if they cared or if it mattered in the long run. It doesn’t; my life and all its accoutrements are but the merest mite of wink in the time of a stone. Long after I’m gone the stones will survive. But no matter. Working with infinity helps keep me focused in the moment. Since it will all be taken from me soon enough anyway.
A little bit of literary drivel with none of the angst or deep thoughts that most bloggers here present. Just a bit of animal tomfoolery. I bought a cheap bag of wild-bird seed, called "Country Bird Mix," but it turned out to be primarily cracked corn and millet, with only a few of the real seeds mixed in. Not what I wanted for the bird feeder, but I quickly realized it would be perfect for the "outsiders" -- the chipmunks and squirrels and sparrows. So I poured a rather large pile onto the back patio. My daughter showed up, and, with me, watched what she later termed the chaos. One chipmunk emerged after a few minutes and made a bee-line for the pile. He all but rolled in it, the way Scrooge McDuck used to roll in his money in the Donald Duck cartoons. He spread himself over it, and began stuffing it into his cheeks. Soon another chipmunk came, and the two had a sort of posturing contest, each trying to intimidate the other. But soon both turned to the corn. A few minutes later a third chipmunk emerged, not as laid back as the other two, and he charged with apparent serious intent. The first chipmunk took off with the newcomer fast pursuit, reminding me of the old Chip and Dale cartoons featuring a pair of chipmunks - the squealing and squeaking was reminiscent of "Alving and the Chipmunks"-- and vanished into the flower bed. The attacker came back to the pile, and the second chipmunk backed off for a bit, then edged his way back in. A few minutes later our resident cottontail rabbit appeared, and both chipmunks moved off a bit. The chipmunk who had been chased into the flower bed ventured back, only to be chased off again; apparently he is at the bottom of the totem pole. Meanwhile the braver of the chipmunks made a fast dash to the pile behind the rabbit's back; the rabbit, catching a glimpse of something moving fast just out of his peripheral vision, jumped straight up into the air and spun around. Realizing it was one of the chipmunks, he settled back into place. Soon, though, all three chipmunks were at the edge of the pile furthest from rabbit. Until one of the squirrels ventured onto the scene, and chased the rabbit off. The squirrel left a few minutes later, and all three chipmunks returned, soon joined by a fourth and fifth (who knew so many chipmunks in our backyard, unless word was spreading through a chipmunk grapevine.) All was good, chipmunkwise, until a pair of mourning doves fluttered down. Doves may symbolize peace, but these were not peaceful doves. In manner I never would have thought them capable of, they spread their wings, lowered their heads, and charged. The chipmunks backed off. When the doves had eaten their fill, the took off again, and the chipmunks quietly resumed their feast. Well, not really quietly. There was a lot of squabbling and chasing as they jockeyed for position, but always staying close. Until the rabbit returned and it all started up again. So what's the point of this little tale? Not really much of one, more of a writing exercise and, more importantly, a reminder that Mother Nature doesn't really foster the idyllic life of fairy tales and cheap poetry. And all this among the herbivores; just think what chaos would have ensued had a dog or cat or fox wandered in, or a hawk had circled overhead. But at least it's a good and entertaining way to unload a bunch of crappy bird seed. Crappy for my purposes, perhaps, but obviously beauty is in the mouths and pouches of these beholders.
I think I've written before that I have an autistic son. No, I should say my 22-year-old son has autism. Anyway, he is or does. He's a bright, mostly-happy young man who does not quite get what the larger social world is all about. He tries his best to accept it, but has no real desire to "fit in" beyond the part-time jobs he has (and would just as soon not have). He loves numbers and data -- ask him about any element and he can tell you its number and atomic weight, ask him to name the presidents, ask him how many days till Christmas -- but simply has no interest in translating into something "useful." He is a classic case of living in the moment but talking of the past. He has a good sense of humor, but he takes awhile to process things. So he refrains from regularly joining in conversations, because he simply can't keep up, can't frame his responses quickly enough. So when he and I talk -- other than the few times one of us is sharing current personal issues like bed-time or piano practice -- we usually make the same jokes over and over, but with different iterations. Or sometimes we will re-visit a previous conversation, and go over it almost word for word, This is especially the case as we stand outside the garage waiting for the van to take him to work. He leans against me and puts his hand in my pocket or his arm around my back or holds onto my hand -- this man who doesn't usually care much for physical contact -- and we re-discuss really mundane things, like why one should never stand under a tree during thunderstorm, what elements do what or who discovered them (I have learned so much, just to keep up), whether "one" is or is not a prime number, why the Milwaukee Brewers are a frustrating team to follow, how many days till Christmas, or even what is the best season. Things we talk about every day, the same way, same words, reaching the same conclusions. In one sense it's a safe way to pass the time, but I think it's more than that. It's making good use of the time. Many years ago, during summer vacation, I would accompany my traveling-salesman-dad on his "route." We would spend 4 or 5 days on the road, staying in small town hotels (such things thrived in those days). On some of those longer rides time would hang heavily (this was central Nebraska after all, mostly flat and filled with cornfields). Invariably at those moments we would drop back into some old conversation, about things that happened years before, or that our family had done, or things like re-visiting games played (and usually won) by the then-might Cornhusker college football team. We weren't saying anything new, the purpose was affirming common ground. I picture those conversations as river rocks, subject matter rounded by the tumble of time, jagged edges worn off, safe to pick up and put down as needed. I loved those talks with my dad as we waited to see the next town's water tower. I love these talks with my son as we wait for the van to roll into our driveway. I think my son does too. In fact, I know he does.
