Monthly Archives: June 2016

A Pocket of Resistance: Late in Summer

i wrote this in another age with a beautiful woman long gone in mind. i think about how many things i did not know and how many things i did know and how it created me then and now. As Bob Seger sang in “Against the Wind,”  “i wish i didn’t know now what i didn’t know then.”

i think about New England in 1968 and 1969, especially Newport before the world made it and a whole bunch of other places vanilla and marketing new tech of old, old. Ahh, it was a lovely world for a fresh launched Naval officer in a land so different than the  small town South from whence he came and planets and ages apart from today, not better, not worse, but oh so different. But it was also beautiful. This poem was generated by that difference and that beauty on a solitary drive from Newport to Boston.

Late in Summer

palsied pink fingers: looming autumn clouds
gently tap
the horizon awake;
an infinite gray ribbon of highway
slashes through
green phosphorescent hills.

non-think
embraces the drive;
his mind wanders
to pines and someone
far away.

cool solitude,
impervious to the immediate objective
excites brute loneliness:
thoughts of someone
gather as a gray storm
tumbles like a cascading stream
in his mind.

palsied pink fingers
curl to a fist;
enlightening rain
spits on the windshield
while far away
sweltering rays silhouette the pines

A Pocket of Resistance: Ghost Riders

i have seen those ghost riders rolling across the sky
chasing herds of herefords and long horns
through the gray, gray heavens flecked with white clouds.

“oh,” the folks say, “you are just an old man
“imagining, dreaming foolishly.”

and

they are right

but

they have never heard the hoofs pounding
the cattle braying
the steeds neighing
the riders screaming

in the bleak blackness of night.

A Pocket of Resistance: Dark night

The day began as promising prospect.

i awoke, did some work on organizing, had yet another wonderful breakfast courtesy of Maureen while sitting at my Great Aunt Ida’s – what a wonderful term for a relative – oak breakfast room table while reading the newspaper and watching a few hummingbirds feed off the sage in front of our window. i gathered myself and headed to Salt Creek, a wonderful golf course with terribly bad bunkers, for a round with my friends.

When i arrived, one of my golf partners informed me one of our foursome had suffered a heart attack. i will not name the golfer because knowing him, he would like to keep this as quiet as possible, but suffice it to say he is one of my closer friends in the Southwest corner. As i write, it appears he has missed the fated scythe, and will be going home in a couple of days.

i called another friend to inform him of our mutual buddy’s situation. He was shocked and then informed me his sister, a huge success and a wonderful, caring woman, was diagnosed with breast cancer, the extent of which has yet to be determined. She, i’m guessing, would also not care to have this published, so she too will remain anonymous.

i take this all in stride on the surface and look for ways to help, either by doing something or staying the hell out of their business. But inside, i broil.

In the late afternoon and with more information about my two friends, i walked out into the “work area” of my garage, which in the new world terminology is my “man cave.” i do not like the term, but it is probably accurate in this case.

i sat on the love seat i had purchased with my ex-wife for almost nothing in an auction outside of Watertown, New York  damned near forty years ago. I had kept it through five moves, most cross-country relocations, refinished it and repaired the broken leg, and done my first upholstery job including springs for the seat shortly after my divorce. In the subsequent moves, it was mostly kept in storage, and when Maureen saw the fabric i had chosen for the covering, it was apparent it would never be part of our interior decor. i had taken it down from the garage’s makeshift attic with the intent of a new upholstery and possibly getting into our house. By the way, that is not going to happen.

But i sat there rather than getting to about one thousand well-intentioned tasks on that old frayed, cat-attacked, upholstery across the rug my parents had in their back entry from my father-in-law’s work bench i had rescued from his garage in the house in Lemon Grove where his family lived for forty years.

It all seemed surreal. i sat there just not thinking.

My world continues to change. It was meant to be that way, but quite frankly, i’m not handling this kind of shit very well. My parents lived into their late nineties. They watched nearly all of their generation of family and friends go before them. They handled it with grace and understanding, and even though they had us and many other family and friends, they were eventually alone.

The alone i can stand. Dealing with those close to me hurting from the invariable infirmities and  disease of aging and losing those who don’t make it through such problems sucks, quite frankly.

So i sat there in the silence of a garage on an old love seat by myself. i asked why. There was, and will probably never be an adequate answer, unless it is by someone convinced they know more than me for themselves, for themselves.

My parents in their last years wondered why they were still around. We kept telling them they were a joy for their children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and hordes of friends in a lovely small town where they lived for all of their lives.

They didn’t buy it.

My answer is to keep on living well, doing what i think is right, treating everyone – and i mean everyone – as a valuable human being for as long as i can. My parents did that without thinking about it.

But man, this is one hell of a long, not very enjoyable  trip through time.

A Pocket of Resistance: An atypical Sunday

It actually started Thursday when Regina Gonzalez, our next door neighbor, invited us to dinner tonight with Luis, her husband.

Then yesterday, when i confirmed and asked if we could bring anything, Luis invited me to kayak this morning.

It was a beautiful morning

otay_lake-2Just before seven, i helped Luis load up the instrument of torture on top of Luis’ car, and we drove a little less than fifteen minutes to Otay Lake. The lake was formed as a reservoir by damming the Otay River in 1897. In 1916, a rainmaker supposedly was too successful, and the ensuing downpour washed away the dam creating a wall of water between twenty and one hundred feet high, which killed fourteen people and washed away many farms and homes.

The dam was rebuilt and the reservoir is pretty much the same as it was then, but now it is a lake, a recreational area, and the past home of an Olympic training center. The Olympic rowing teams still train there. Their lane floats run almost the entire length of the race.

the_kayakWe unloaded and Luis installed the soft seats into the shell. Two of his friends and fellow kayakers pulled into the unloading area with their, surf ski’s, Starfighter versions of a kayak. Luis told them we would go ahead as the monster we had was slow but stable.

We loaded and pushed off the shoreline for our trek. The last time we did this was the first in the orange burden of workout because i had proven incapable of balance on Luis  surf ski. We had rowed for about a half hour on that junket. But this time, we were going for it.

This morning, there were no Olympic teams, about a dozen folks fished the shore, there were even less fishing boats, including the inner tube variety. There was just this really good kayaker (Luis) and the neophyte who for some strange reason, could not help but slide down in his seat. It meant more work with my arms and upper body, but less with my abs. Still, we covered about five miles in somewhere around an hour and a half.

luis-vera_cruz-1-2
Luis (right) and his two friends from Vera Cruz, whose names i cannot recall (a sadly common event for me).

As we started, there was some discussion about me trying one of the star fighters after our trip. But as we neared the shore, i realized i was too tired and trying the less stable boats would be a catastrophe, i begged off.

So the four of us sat on the decaying picnic table. Luis prepared breakfast. His bunsen burner hot plate was filled with tortillas, which in turn were filled with  a wonderful mushroom concoction topped with a delicious Mexican cheese. Luis served them with a spicy hot green salsa

and limes. We told jokes and got to know each other. To be honest, i was a bit ashamed as always as all three spoke passable, if not good English, and my Spanish remains non-existent although i keep trying to get better. Still, we had a good time.

Luis with his friend and the old nut he keeps trying to teach to kayak.
Luis with his friend and the old nut he keeps trying to teach to kayak.

i will do it again, thanks to Luis.

When i arrived home, i had planned to repair stucco on various places, primarily on the fence that borders our two property lines. I had kept finding excuses to not take this on for several reasons: i had not done any stucco for twenty-five years and was concerned i might not do it right; more immediate priorities kept popping up like naps and golf; there were bougainvillea around the areas needing repair, and i did not want to harm them or the other plants; and at the top of the list, although i would never tell Maureen, it was hard work.

So i took a nap. When waking, i decided it would be more prudent to just do one of the areas with the most damage, where i could see through the exposed chicken wire into the black of the interior.

Not wishing to upset Maureen, i dressed as she requested and even slathered myself with sunscreen. The job took about forty-five minutes. i was immensely proud of getting started and proving to myself  i could do it. i assessed the process and decided i could repair all the damages on the fence and a few around the house in about two full days. That meant it would have to wait until we get back from our Independence Day trip to Sonoma to celebrate with Alan and Maren Hicks for the third straight year, a mini-tradition.

safety-firsti showed Maureen and although she was positive, i think she was a bit disappointed i had not done more. We went inside and i attempted a conversation about something serious (or at least as serious as i can get). But she looked at me, giggled that timid giggle she has when i have done something stupid, and said, “I can’t have a serious discussion with anyone dressed like that.”

i was crestfallen. Over half of what i had on, i had done for her, to keep her from worrying about me getting blinded by stucco (what?), bitten by some ground monster hiding beneath the fence, losing my hand to a stucco float, frying my head in the sun.

i showered and dressed in something else. The serious discussion never occurred and we went next door to a wonderful lobster dinner with Luis and Regina, followed by espresso and a game of Petanc (Luis and Maureen beat Regina and me in a close match).

When we got home, i  went through email and Facebook posts. i was tired.

i slept well.

 

A Pocket of Resistance: The Mac Is Back

i am almost whole again. At least, i am almost as whole as I’ve always been, which is still several bricks shy of a load to steal an old saying from Roy Blount, Jr.

About three weeks ago, i managed to spill about ten inches of water from my glass onto the top of my Mac Air.

i kept my presence internetly (i made that term up in case you wonder) alive by my return to an old PC laptop. It was difficult to go back to Windows, and of course, i couldn’t get into a bunch of sites because my passwords were on the old computer. But i did make some entries on Facebook, and of course, i had to write my columns.

i thought it was going to cost me a gazillion dollars and twenty years of hard labor to get back to operating on my Mac Air with all of my data and programs and passwords and whatever the computer tech gods demanded. Then the Navy, of all things, came from a suggestion by Bob Schoultz, a golfing buddy, and the Navy Exchange computer repair and maintenance folks in the back of the store on 32nd Street (Old sailors, who have seen about seven hundred title changes of Naval Station, San Diego, still call it 32nd Street), they miraculously brought my computer back to life for a pittance of what the governing lords of Apple were going to charge me.

So i’m now back on my game, at least as much as i could be back on my game.

During my quasi-downtime, i’ve thought a lot about moving forward on this writing thing of mine. i don’t know if i will actually do anything, but i’ve thought about it.

i also piddled a lot. My piddling has a purpose much like my purpose in thinking about writing. i’m getting ready to do some major home projects, big work involving multiple skill sets in hardscape, electricity, chain saws, radial arm saws, picks and shovels, and all of that kind of stuff. My piddling in all of the above will get me prepared to start on these major, wonderful projects in, oh say, about 2044. i’ll be 100 if i live that long. And i won’t take any bets on that.

 

15th tee at Sea 'n Air Golf Course, Naval Air Station, North Island
15th tee at Sea ‘n Air Golf Course, Naval Air Station, North Island

And of course, i played golf. Poorly. Yesterday, i concluded three straight days of walking golf courses. Coupled with my Monday walk-run, i pedded, i.e. moved across the ground using my feet, for over twenty miles. It’s been a while since i did that. So i’m proud of that even if my golf scores were rather pitiful. And the courses and the camaraderie after the rounds (coupled with a couple of beers) was the best.

 

 

Drake, hen, and six ducklings in 2nd green water hazard. Sea 'n Air
Drake, hen, and six ducklings in 2nd green water hazard. Sea ‘n Air

And the rounds themselves, however horrible, give one time to pause and see nature in the middle of a big city…well, maybe not actually in the middle.

And now, on this Saturday, June 25, 2016, i begin again. To catch up, i thought i would post an annotated historical pictorial of my down time. Some may be repeats when i dipped back into the web world during my layoff. For that i apologize, but this morning with several of those piddling jobs begging to be wrapped up and the pressure of the cleaning ladies coming early (Maureen demands i clean up my mess before the cleaning ladies come, which i sort of understand but not really), i’m just flat too lazy to look them up.

sam-presentThese two gifts in the photo have a place of honor on my desk. They are going-away presents from my grandson who gave me the gift with a hug and said, “I love you, Papa.” Pretty well takes the starch out of my sails every time i look at them. This was on the next-to-last day of our trip to Austin in May, one of the best trips i’ve ever made anywhere, anytime. Son-in-law, daughters, and one Mr. Samuel James Jewell Gander are settled in for the foreseeable future so our trips there will continue. We would move there. Austin is a vibrant city with all sorts of things for all sorts of people, not to mention an incredible kaleidoscope of cuisine. But the traffic is worse than San Diego, and it’s just too damn hot. Still i remain tempted. i thrive on gifts like these.

Hmm, it seems i’ve become too misdirected on this post. i mean i start something with an idea and it expands into damn near a book and i want to add photos and then each one seems like it should have a life of its own, and i ponder until it’s too late and the thoughts are bouncing around inside like the steel ball in an old pinball machine with no levers with payouts on the odds built up by adding nickels. The only way to direct the ball was to properly whack the front or sides of the machine without a “tilt.”

Charles Hon was the best at this. Legend has it he paid for his room and board at Vanderbilt from his pinball winnings.

i was never very good at pinball, and the idea balls intended for this post are caroming inside my head. If i tried to control it with taps, undoubtedly  i would laurer it (Okay, Charlie, how do you spell that?).

backyard-contemplationBut then on a Sunday morning without my Mac Air, Maureen and i had post breakfast coffee in our backyard sitting area. i brought out the CD player and played Julian Bream pieces. The next morning, i went out by myself, put on Handel’s “Water Music,” and wrote on a lined paper pad.

Somehow everything then seemed just fine.

i may get around to posting some pictorial essays about that time, but for now:

This is what you get.