Monthly Archives: March 2017

A Moment of Silence

It is official…or as official as it can be at this juncture.

i have just made reservations for a studio apartment in mid-June for twelve days in Flagstaff, Arizona in mid-June. For me. Just me. It will be my moment of silence.

The purpose is to find out if i am really serious about this writing stuff. The plan is stay in this studio and write with breaks only for workouts/walks, meditation, and reading. i have a project to work on, and if all goes as i hope, i will continue to work on it after i return home.

i picked Flagstaff because i really don’t know anyone there, and because it’s a one-day drive from San Diego. I have been through there twice, stopping for a day once a long time ago. i liked it. But the principal reason for choosing this place is i felt it would be conducive to my writing.

It’s rather timely in that my last regular weekly column for The Democrat, Tuesday, June 13 will be by 500th, sayonara time (if i counted correctly: Jared, the Democrat editor and i have a different count; i suspect he is a better counter than me). It is time for me to finally, finally decide for real, i mean for real, if i am ever going to write something more permanent than “posts,” poems, or columns, something longer than a poem, something more meaningful to me. i’m still not sure if i will publish the result or anything else for that matter. i am now old enough to be writing for me. i don’t know why. Sure, i would like to be acknowledged as a decent writer. Sure, i would like to make a little more money, to give us a bit more breathing room financially, to help out our  young’uns just a bit more when they need it. But this is for me to determine if i really have what i have always thought i had in me, deep within me, committed.

If i don’t, i won’t worry about it anymore. Oh, i may write another poem (or whatever it is you should call my stuff approximating poetry), and i will probably keep writing a post or so when it moves me, but writing will be behind me. Writing has long been this bear (since at least my senior year in high school), the bear with the tangled paw that left the print for Ike McCaslin in Faulkner’s “The Bear” that loomed larger than life in the antediluvian woods of Mississippi, looming over me while i shunned it, ignored it to go on making a living, trying to piece the writing together with being responsible, but having enough sense to realize the two just didn’t jive together. And i had a life to live. i mean i think it’s time for me to — excuse me gentle people for my language — to shit or get off the pot.

Now mind you, i ain’t complaining. i’ve had a hell of a good life, a whole lot of it by accident and circumstance. i’ve done a lot of things most people don’t get to do; seen a lot of places and things most people don’t get to see (or can’t anymore); and done a lot of things most people will never do or understand. i have done almost all in good faith. i have a few people who think i might have done better, but that’s their problem, not mine. And now after my moment of silence, i will be able to live the rest of my life relatively comfortably in a place that begs to be enjoyed, and believe you me, i will enjoy. i have been good at that all of my life.

But i gots to get this bug out of me before i can enjoy it.

If this 12 days of Christmas in June in Flagstaff proves to me what i hope, then my life will change. i will know in my heart i can write something worthwhile and have around ten projects in mind, to which i will pursue with an unbridled diligence. If i assess i ain’t got it in me, i will keep on, put it behind me, and enjoy my remaining days.

So i’m just warning you, sometime around the disappearance of “June Gloom” in the Southwest corner, i’m gonna be me. i just don’t know who the hell that exactly will be.

Birthday Dinner

Typical of Maureen, she wished to be low key on her birthday. She went to yoga, a new location as the athletic club closest to us has begun cutting back. From there, she spent most of the day escorting her sister to a doctor’s appointment and the follow-on pharmacy pickup.

i had planned to take her out to a nice dinner. i suggested an excellent French restaurant, Et Voila (you wouldn’t have known it was French if i didn’t tell you, would you?). It’ a place we love both for the cuisine and the atmosphere. i gave her that choice with some other of our favorites. She considered some new ones she was researching before she agreed Et Voila was the best choice.

By three o’clock, i realized she had a demanding day. i called and said i could pick up Thai food for tonight, and we could go out another night to celebrate her birthday. She seemed thankful. When she started home from her sister’s place in Santee, about 20 miles north of here but tough in the commute traffic, she called. i revised my suggestion, giving her the choice of Romesco’s.

Romesco’s is one of our go to places. Its subtitle once was “Mediterranean Bistro,” but has since been revised to “Mexiterranean Bistro.” Good change. It originated in Tijuana and is still a thriving restaurant. A son of the original owners started this one just down the hill from where we live. It has gained notoriety for its wonderful dining and even more so for its tapas bar in the back. Almost since the beginning, Maureen and i take refuge at the well appointed bar in the restaurant. The tapas bar is party town with about five flat screens showing disco videos and a motif featuring Spanish bullfighting. The restaurant bar is quieter and the music is usually jazz. We share two or three tapas and drink a glass of wine or two.

Tonight, we shared salmon carpaccio, excellent with fried capers; a roadside ahi tuna tostada, and cochinita pibil Yucateca. They seemed even better than usual. We always have a glass of Ergo tempranillo. Tonight, Maureen tried a new one, a cabernet, tempranillo blend. She liked it. i’ll stick to my Ergo.

It all went well until i mentioned four San Diego high school baseball teams would be playing a double header in the Padre’s Petco Park in late April. She liked the idea of attending. Then i wondered how thrilled i would have been if my Castle Heights Tigers team had played in Sulphur Dell.

“What is Sulphur Dell?” she marveled.

“It was the oldest professional baseball park in the country at that time,” i explained. “The Nashville Vols, now defunct, played there in the Double A Southern League,” i continued, “i went there quite a bit.”

“Cy Fraser, Billy Parsons, Alan Hicks, and a lot of others went there when we were at Vanderbilt. My father took me there several times.” i was on a roll.

“i went there with several kid groups,” expanding, “In the sixth grade at McClain Elementary, they took the school patrol to Nashville to thank us for holding the traffic flags. We were supposed to go to the state penitentiary and to a wrestling match.

“The wrestling match was cancelled or something, so we went to the Vols’ game that night,” i should have stopped there…but i didn’t.

“We did get a tour of the penitentiary. That’s when i bought the miniature electric chair.”

Maureen stopped and looked at me accusingly, “Please tell me you are kidding.”

“Nah, i’m not kidding,” i foolishly went on, “They sold them in the little prison shop. They were wood. No electricity. The prisoners made them.”

It finally dawned on me this conversation was not going well. i shut up.

We enjoyed the rest of our tapas, paid our tab, and went next door to Baskin Robbins, one of Maureen’s favorite places in the world because they have jamocha almond fudge. Feeling guilty, i punished myself by not having some black walnut.

We came home. i’m still trying to figure out what happened to miniature electric chair. Perhaps i gave it to someone. Man, it was cool.

Birthday Woman

i have loved quite a few women. i still love a bunch of them.

Some have loved me, for a while, or from a distance.

The one woman. The one woman i also love and also loves me has been with me for longer than i could have ever hoped for. She turns 66 today.

She has been beautiful all of her life.

And it seems like we have always had fun together from the beginning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We married late. i was 39. She was 32. Yet it’s been almost 34 years ago. When we were married by my brother Joe, God bless him, the vows we made spoke volumes:

…Their love began as a friendship and grew far beyond what either had dreamed possible…The light of love…has also revealed a depth of emotion that defies any explanation of extent. It has cast the light of clarity on relations with other people important in their lives, redefining and deepening those relationships…

And we have tried to do just that, deepening relationships with friends and family. My friends, her friends, my family, her family. All of them ours. Together.

But there is something else. i chose to ask Maureen to marry me because i saw and felt a kindred spirit. i knew she loved me and i loved her and that would sustain us through hard times and even disagreements — and oh yes, we have had our share.

Reflecting on my life, i realize Maureen is the only woman who could still love me through all my shenanigans, my missteps, my hurts, and a thousand other things which would drive other women bonkers and away eventually, if not sooner.

Yes, i love my birthday woman. She is my refuge in a storm, my counselor in dark times. She has put up with listening to my rants, pontifications, declarations, disappointments.

She has been true.

And i have been true, true because i love her. i’m not sure i have been as wonderful in that love because i had to simply put up with her while she had to put up with me. i win on that one.

And you know what? i’m deliriously happy i will be living with her, loving with her, for the next millennium of her birthdays.

She’s a keeper.

Happy 66th Birthday, my love.

 

 

Call me…?

I went to bed early tonight after realizing i was writing gibberish for my Tuesday Democrat column. i had finished a wonderful historical novel earlier, hoping concluding it would inspire me to write well. It didn’t.

As i was readying for an early bedtime, i checked my email and Facebook page to see if anything interesting had popped up or if someone had asked for a response. On Facebook, i found a post from a dear friend. She is super intelligent, well-thought, wonderful fun, and passionate about equality.

The post bothered me. i woke up after about an hour and couldn’t go back to sleep because i kept thinking about the post. So here i am, after midnight, puzzling.

It was a video of a woman telling of being insulted in a bar because she was called “pretty” and “girl” by a bunch of guys at the bar who, in my experience, are nearly always clumsy and inappropriate when trying to meet people of the other sex in that environment. Many are just downright rude and on the make. So i could understand why she might be repulsed.

i must confess i did not watch the entire video. So i may be jumping the gun here, but i just couldn’t make myself listen to this…er, person complaining about what people called her. Apparently, being told you are pretty is an insult, and it’s even worse to be called a girl.

My friend surprised me as her comment on the video was to the effect being called “lady” is an insult.

The exchange took me back to the early 1990’s and Detroit. i had been selected to be a facilitator for a marketing blitz for a new line of Chrysler cars. We had gone through each session of the two-day program and had begun what in the Navy we called “murder boarding,” i.e. a facilitator would present the session to his or her peers and afterwards be critiqued. The idea was to catch mistakes and lessen the chance of those mistakes happening with any of the group.

The group consisted of twenty-four of the distaff population and three men…er, persons of masculine gender. One of these came from Spokane, Washington; another was a super car salesman…er, salesperson from Los Angeles, and then there was me. i wasn’t quite ready for what occurred next. i had already become aghast earlier when a colleague with my Navy background insisted we could not call those easel pads “flip charts” as it was an insult to Filipinos. i told him i didn’t believe it, that he was just looking for insults, and i didn’t give a flip.

This person from Spokane did a pretty nice job. The critiques from the group pretty much confirmed his performance when a very fit young person of opposite gender (she ran survival leadership training for executives out of Seattle) stood up for her comments. i later was told this critiquer (sorry, but i’m trying to not offend anyone), complimented the presenter, but then added, “But you made one terrible mistake.”

“What was that,” this critiquer was asked.

“Several times, you addressed your audience as ‘ladies and gents.’ It is an insult to call me ‘lady.’ You are just asking for trouble.”

A smaller person raised her hand. “Excuse me, but i like being called a lady. I take it as a compliment.”

Another person responded, “You can call me ‘lady’ but don’t ever call me ‘woman.'”

And so it began. These twenty-four people all had a different idea of what was appropriate or insulting and none appeared to agree. The raising of hands ceased. The voices became louder and shriller. Soon, there were individuals, red in the face, shouting vehemently at each other. Not one of these people seemed to agree on what they should be called. It was not pretty.

The person being critiqued backed up against the front wall in attempt to make himself invisible. i slid down in my seat trying to disappear. i looked over and the usually bellicose super salesperson was also sliding down low, out of target line.

After what seemed like several days to the three other non-participants but was likely not more than ten minutes, the lead trainer returned. This person was a rather large person of the same gender as those arguing.

“What’s going on,” the lead demanded. It took a few minutes to quieten the group down and get a response. The three of the other gender knew better than to provide any explanation.

When the cause was determined, the lead said, “This is crazy. If you unintentionally insult someone, you can always tell them you are sorry. Now, let’s get on with it.”

Now fifteen years later, i’m being told i can’t call those of the opposite sex anything. i have always called women for whom i have the utmost respect “Ladies.” It was my highest compliment…i thought. Now, i find out it’s an insult. I also am required to not call any female (are “woman” and “female” acceptable?) “girl.” i quite frequently use this term as one of encouragement as in “you go, girl.” i use it for all ages with the intent of being friendly and positive.

Groups keep telling me what i can’t call them. Often they use the terms among themselves but it is insulting if someone outside the group calls them such.

Most people who know me agree that i am for total equality. i was a champion of the Navy’s women-at-sea program when i was executive officer of one of the first ships with women as part of the crew. i believe that indigenous tribal people, many of whom are family and close friends, should be treated respectfully, equally and have their property rights accepted without encroachment, private or government. i strive in my own way to acknowledge people of other ethnicity, religion, or sexual preference as equal.

i hate biased, racist, bigoted, narrow-minded idiots.

But i am getting tired of people telling me i can’t use words.

i am or have been called paleface, cowboy, redneck, honky, rube, shorty, goober, SOB, asshole, twerp, goofball, dweeb, junior jock, mister, master, monkey, turkey, jackass, all Navy officer ranks up to commander, and a whole bunch of other things.  i don’t think i’ve every been called “lord,” but i have been called “gentleman,” and “gent.”

i do not object.

i will take those names in stride as i will assume the person calling me one of those names has no ill intent. If they do have ill intent, then i will confront them and deal with them personally, privately. If people are out of line in their name calling of other folks, i will step in and correct it if possible.

i have been lumped together with people because of the way i look, the way i talk, and whatever group with whom i am classified. That is wrong. Flat wrong.

The sad thing is so many people, so many movements, get so wrapped up and upset with words, even with no idea what the person mouthing those words really meant. As the Virginian said to Trampas in Owen Wister’s novel when the the villain called him “son of a bitch:”  “When you say that, smile!”

But for now, i guess i’m just going to have to start calling everyone “Hey, you.”

Now, i am going back to bed. i have a column deadline midday tomorrow, but now i am tired.

Zooed

The Allie troop made a decision to return to the zoo today. We did not see all that Allie had wished to see on our first foray on Tuesday, and the other possibilities just seemed not quite as inviting. So zoo today, Safari Park tomorrow (after all, they have the butterfly exhibit open).

i had many ideas to add here, but i am too pooped to pop. i’ll just say between the two days, we covered all of the zoo. Even with about 1/8 of the zoo area under construction for a new exhibit, this is quite an accomplishment. Today, we chose to rent a stroller for Allie. The first day was tough.

When we got home, Maureen took Allie to Hans and Harry’s Bakery, a destination to many all over San Diego, but just down the hill from us. Maureen got some kind of French pastry for her and Martha’s…er, Happy’s desert with strawberries and cream tonight. And Allie picked out a cookie, not a gingerbread cookie, but better. This was a highlight of the day, along with the polar bears, panda bears, hippos, and tigers.