You've Come A Long Way, Baby!

I have this image set as my desktop. I downloaded from NASA a picture taken in the International Space Station. The woman in the photo is Tracy Dyson, a NASA astronaut. The photo was taken in the cupola of the station. From what I understand, this is the most popular place in space, and I believe it.

As I looked at this young woman, after I got over my jealousy, I could not help but think: thirty-some years ago a mother and a father held a tiny girl child in their arms. Perhaps they were in awe over the miracle of life they had created. Maybe they were concerned with the responsibility a new child imposes on a family.

Her father may have looked down at this swaddled infant and for a moment wondered, "Where will you go, Little One? What adventures await you there?"

Could he.....did he.......even for a moment, imagine his beautiful daughter floating weightless in space, a hundred miles above the Blue Planet, gazing serenely out the window. perhaps amazed herself at just how far she had come?

Where will my children go? Where will yours?

The Big Difference

Aging is so strange.

I feel like I am looking out of a window, and outside that window I see many things that have changed. Or I guess I should say the things of man have changed. The cars have changed, although they are not the wheel-less, gravity defying wonders that some of my favorite authors had predicted. Other technological change is evident everywhere, and we can freely marvel at what man has wrought.

If you can see past all that, take the time to look at God’s world. It is changing too, but for the most part the change there is slow. I and all that I know or will ever see or do is less than the blink of an eye on that scale.

If I draw my personal window close enough, (imagine me standing inside my own eyeball, leaning forward against the curve of my eye, hands grasping the edge of my iris, and peering through the circular window of my pupil) then my current body becomes something outside myself, and I am free to examine it for the curiosity it is.

I look at my hands and wonder to whom they belong. The strong, supple hands of youth have given way to the ‘experienced’ hands of today. Each scar a memorial to some faded page in time, the weathered skin a testimony to years so quickly disappearing in the rear-view mirror of life.

The collection of experience that is my body rejoices with every new dawn, still each morning the payments due are tallied against accounts received, the black or red ink perhaps defining the day. Eyes that once were clear now dim little by little, needing a bit more aid each passing year.

The ‘me’ inside looking out is still 16 years old, healthy, happy and full of wonder, still wanting to inhale the world like a dog with its nose in the wind out the window (wind door) of a speeding car. I am amazed by the promise of the sunrise and comforted with the reward of a glorious sunset. The smell of the ocean shore and feel of the damp sand between my toes take all my worries, and the immensity of the starry night seen from the top of a tall mountain still reduces me to my just insignificance.

My heart, the one that loves, and yearns, and longs, not the one that merely beats……. my heart still is ready and willing to embrace life, to love and be loved, to ache and fill to bursting with passion. That heart is ready to write checks my body cannot honor, and yet even that sure knowledge is not enough to still its desires.

I am jealous of the very youth of the young, and yet if offered the chance to return to those tumultuous times, I’m not quite sure what my answer would be.

I would like to believe I am wiser today than I was yesterday, but I doubt that is true. I know a lot more than I did then, but knowledge doesn’t necessarily translate to wisdom.

The single biggest thing that really makes a difference to me now, is the fact that contrary to the belief of youth that time stretches ahead infinitely, I realize all too well that my remaining time is not infinite, whether measured in years or minutes, and I am determined to appreciate every person, every moment and every thing to the fullest.

Amen

I think it will always hurt

I am angry, and I don't know what to do with my anger and my hurt, so I'll write about it.

A while back, on a Saturday night, a man killed my eighteen year old cousin.

I am angry at him.

He had been drinking, as apparently was his habit.

I am angry at alcohol and alcoholism.

This man had been picked up in a bar by my cousin's mom several weeks earlier. She brought him to her house and laid him, a one night stand.

I am angry at her.

He came back for seconds but my Aunt wasn't home, so thought he'd try to score with my cousin. She let him in, but refused his advances.

I am angry with her for letting him inside the house.

When she turned him down, he beat her, knocked her down, and shot her twice in the back. Shot her in the back as she lay helpless on the floor of her own home, killing her, a college freshman with her entire life ahead of her.

She was happy, healthy, pretty and smart.

The police caught him, thanks to another man with a conscience who had heard the killer bragging about the score he was going to make with this freshman girl, coupled with the killer's own gross stupidity in covering his tracks.

He was sentenced to 30 years in prison for this cold-blooded murder. I am aware of two appeals he made. Each time, his appeal was based alleged procedural errors on the part of the investigators and the court, and violations of his 'rights'.

His rights....Where is her chance to appeal her death sentence? What about her rights?

I am angry.

Each time, his appeal was rejected, his conviction and sentence confirmed. He did not appeal his conviction by claiming his innocence. He wanted out on a technicality. Thank God for no-nonsense Southern Justice.

This occurred more than thirty years ago. An anniversary of her death is little more than a week away. It hurts today every bit as much as it did when it happened. I hope he died in prison and rots in hell.

Perhaps you can tell, I am still angry.

Draining the Swamp

Jim and I decided to go fishing one Saturday. We often fished together from the rocks on the rugged California coast. Our equipment was simple, but so were the fish and we usually fooled a few into biting on our hooks.

This day was different though. Today we were hitting the big time. We had access to a boat with a motor, and we were sure that all we needed to do was get out there a ways, and man, were we gonna catch some beauties!

The boat was, well......marginal would be high praise, and the motor was just...wait. I'm getting ahead of myself. The boat was an ancient rowboat, about 14 feet long, and had been well on it's way to total decomposition years before, but it had been 'rescued' that year through the ill advised efforts of the entire school. We essentially took a rotten hulk with zero physical integrity, barely enough to hold its  own shape, and fibre-glassed the crap out of it inside and out. This involved layer upon layer of woven glass cloth covering the entire hull, bonded with a two part plastic resin that must be mixed in the correct proportions to set properly.

We learned several things doing that project. If you don't combine the ingredients in the right amounts, the resin either will never set, or set incredibly quickly, and incidentally get amazingly hot and then cure to a really brittle solid, in the can in which you mixed it. To make up for the lack of  structural strength in the rotted wooden hull, we used lots of fibre-glass. When complete, it was a thing of beauty. The hull was painted a brilliant white, with bright red stripes outlining the profile of the boat, and another red stripe running diagonally down from stem to stern.

Fibre-glass is heavy. Our boat could float, but it wasn't a happy ship. It only floated because physics demanded that it float. The darn thing was lighter than the amount of water it displaced, but only barely. And the shoddy workmanship of the fibre-glass crew ensured that the hull was not entirely water tight.

No worries. It didn't leak that much, and we had a coffee can to bail with. and at 14 we were pretty much invincible anyway.

Now we get to the motor, which proved to be quite sufficient to start, and get us out of the cove and well into the current running dawn the coast from North to South. The plan was fool-proof, we motored out to a position well North of the mouth of the cove and killed the motor. We would drift South with the current, fishing along the way, and when we wanted to head back up the coast, why, we would just start that little motor and putt back up stream.

I don't know what I expected, but the coastal cliffs looked much smaller from the ocean. The swells lifted, then dropped us on a regular basis. The wind, which sculpted the low-growing trees along the coast into a dense mat, blew constantly from North to South along with the current, hastening our drift. Because we were outside the surf line, we couldn't actually see the white foamy breaking waves, but we could sure hear them between us and dry land.

The first part of the plan worked to perfection. Out into the current. Kill the motor. Bail just a little. Bait up and cast our lines out. No takers in the first drift, time to head back up hill. This is where the plan began to unravel. That poor little ole motor had pretty much given us everything it had getting us into this predicament. We were drifting directly towards a rock they we called 'Spray.' It got that name because of what happened to the ocean waves when they dashed themselves against the flat vertical surface of the rock that faced the oncoming surf.

We had oars, so I began to row us back up current as Jim yanked repeatedly on the starter handle. Rowing takes on a different aspect when you are propelling a half submerged boat that drifts back a little bit farther than you managed to row it in the first place every time you stop to bail with a coffee can that moves so little water out compared to the amount that is now filling the boat.

Jim and I took turns rowing, bailing and pulling that damned starter cable, for what seemed like hours. First pulling away from the rocks and then drifting back towards them, time and again. The wind had picked up and some spray was blowing into the boat as well. We were both getting soaked, cold and tired. I could only imagine what would happen to us if we couldn't stay off of 'Spray.'

Every once in a while the motor would pretend to start, only to stutter a die again. We had to go quite a bit North before we could try to enter the cove because there were many rugged rocks with lots of waves breaking over them between us and the safety of the cove.

As I fought alternately with the oars and the rising water in the boat, I thought about the fact that we had not actually told anyone what we had planned to do, not that it would have made any difference. There was no other boat for miles; our fate was solely in our young hands.

After almost an hour, we were finally far enough North to began to head into the mouth of the cove. As soon as we pulled even with the surrounding cliffs, the wind, which had been conspiring with the current to drive us on to the rocks, was blocked. The calm was palpable. The constant bobbing of the boat had ceased and we began to be able to actually feel the warmth of the sun. Of course, that is when the motor decided to rejoin the party, when we needed it the very least.

We calmly motored the rest of the way to the rocky beach, got out and pulled the boat above the high water mark, then felt the giddy release of those who suddenly realize just how close they came to disaster. Oh, yeah, during that last hour, our focus had shifted a wee bit. We had no fish, but I now understood the fullness of the saying, "When you are up to your ass in alligators, it's hard to remember that you came to drain the swamp."

Once you arrive, there you are!

Ok.

I've arrived.

Today I got run off.

I'm standing there minding my own business, when I hear someone shout, "Hey!"

Which of course, I ignore.

Then again, louder, "Hey!!"

I look up, and a rather large man in a yellow vest is waving his arms. "Hey, you! Completely off the property!"

He is still 50' away, so I feel no immediate threat, but I have just clicked my shutter, and I think the shot is a good one, so I smile, wave, and say , "Sure, no worries," and slooowly wander back to my truck.

Really? Really, Mister? The freight train was barely moving, and although it was on the tracks I was in-between (and betwixt), I was only on 'his' property by three feet or so, and if I stepped back four feet, I'd have been in eminent danger of being run down by a big yellow (Wow, yellow is getting plenty of play today!), a big yellow school bus. Sure, I know they are Supposed to Stop at all railXroad crossings, but the bus was doing 40 and the train was doing 2. I'll take my chances with the train, thank you very much!

I figure he was just selfish. Not only would he not let anyone play with his trains, he didn't even want to let someone take a picture of them.


I felt so 'Paparazzi.' Now I am wondering if I could have actually gotten him to chase me, maybe just a little ways? I'm sure that would have gotten the adrenaline flowing! I could have been like a streaker, only with clothes.......

What a rebel.

So, once you arrive, there you are!

Who Are You? Who who...Who who...?

A couple of days ago I was reading my horoscope and it mentioned reflecting on the person I used to be, and the danger of seeing that person through the flattering lens of time. The danger, of course, is failing to enjoy today while longing for yesterday

It got me thinking about whether or not I have changed. I guess I could say that everybody changes, and it is certainly true that my body has changed, but at some level do we really ever change? If I am an ass, am I destined to always be an ass? Or if I am a push-over, will I always have round heels? If I am an Angel, will I never screw up? I'm pretty sure that if you are good, you will still make mistakes and if you are rotten, you will occasionally do something nice, even if it is only accidentally.

Someone much smarter than I once told me, if you squeeze an orange, you always get orange juice. It doesn't matter how you squeeze it, or within limits even when you squeeze it, what comes out under pressure is still orange juice. I guess what I am saying is that we can change our behavior if we are motivated to do so, but I'm not sure that we can change who we really are on a fundamental level.

So then are we our behavior? That is what people see. In fact that really all they can see. Maybe you've seen these people? You know the ones I mean...the mom talking to another mom in the market...all smiles and happy faces...until their child does something that gets moms goat, and in a heartbeat, eyes flash, teeth are bared, and threats are delivered in a harsh whisper. Then a quick turn back to the friend and a quick turn back into the pleasant woman who disappeared so quickly just a moment before. Who is that mom? Is she the gay social butterfly or the wicked  mother jerking the choke collar tight? I don't know. Maybe we are the person who we are most of the time. Or maybe we default to the very best or worst we have ever been. Is your glass half empty or half full?

I do know that sometimes I surprise myself with my behavior. Sometimes my response seems all out of alignment with the situation I'm responding to, and I wonder who I am. I think I know who I want to be, and I believe that agrees pretty well with who I really am, whoever that is today. But still there are times when I look back and wish I had responded differently in a given situation. I've actually stopped and said to myself, "Wait, that's not me!" Once, when I was taking my young son to a hockey game, a guard offered to let us in through a side door at a steep discount. What went through my mind was the fact that I had almost zero disposable income in those days and his offer meant that I could buy popcorn and a soda (at the hideously inflated prices - but that is another blog) for me and my son. I accepted his offer. Almost immediately, I was overwhelmed with guilt, and sat there wondering what sort of a dad I was, setting such a terrible example for my son. So who am I? The low-life who conspired with a crooked authority? Or the guilt-ridden dad concerned for the well being of his child? I believe the latter, and I know I learned an important lesson that day.  My son? He has grown into a fine and honest man of whom I am deservedly proud.

Can we define a situation that is an environment in which we can be positive that the person we are in that situation is 'who we really are'? The best one I can think of is 'What do you do when you believe that no one will ever find out what you are doing'. That's kinda the same as 'What do you do when no one is looking?', although today that may not exist, and might not ever exist again. I saw a T-shirt last summer that said, "What happens in Vegas stays on You Tube and Facebook forever." True that!

A question came up a while back. If you do something while you are drunk that you wouldn't do sober, is it the drink's fault, or did the alcohol simply lower your inhibitions and allow you do behave as you really wanted to all along? The phrase 'In vino veritas'(In wine there is truth) has its complements across languages, centuries and cultures, however this phrase specifically references spoken words as opposed to actions. Surely secrets are more likely to slip through wine lubricated lips, but does this beg the question? Are we really only who we are when we are drunk? Personally, I think not.We are who we really are drunk or not...just a lot stupider when drunk....

I was a conservative in my youth because my father was a conservative. I became a liberal in college because the girls I wanted to sleep with were liberals. At some point I realized that my belief system included the notion that I should be rewarded in measure equal to the effort I was willing to expend. This seemed to fit conservative philosophy better than liberalism, so I switched back. While we are on the subject, have you ever noticed that the people who work the hardest often are rewarded the least? The man or woman who sweats in the sun, digging a ditch for our sewer, or picking food from a field for our tables...really back breaking work...these folks are among the poorest paid members of our society. And at the same time a man who plays a professional sport for 2 or 3 hours a day, four months out of the year, may make more money in a single year than a whole field full of pickers will earn in their lifetimes. Yeah, yeah, I know...the 'best of the best'..yadda yadda...what about the best of the best tomato picker? Guess he picked the wrong job, right? Go figure.....

Anyway, I do believe I am still the same person I used to be and for the most part I am happy with who that person is. The body is a little(?) worse for wear. I have learned a lot through the years. The moments I treasure have changed, the things that are important to me have changed. The way I see the world around me has changed. Does this mean I am a different person?

I used to drink to excess every day. Was I the person who drank too much? Or was my drinking masking the real me?  Maybe the real me is different every day. Perhaps 'me' is one thing, and "me + alcohol' = something else entirely.

Do you respond differently depending on who you are with? Are you one person when you are with your parents and another person when with your kids? Maybe you are someone else at work or at school? Ever try different behaviors? I always wondered about actors...if they are so good at portraying others, how can you ever know who they really are? I do think that who I am around has a strong influence on which parts of me I want to take out and live. I also believe that what I choose to feed my mind makes a difference. The phrase 'Garbage in, Garbage out' may have been coined for the computer age, but it has never been more important than in relation to our minds and spirits.

Another question came to mind. I asked myself  why I was blogging in the first place. What is my goal?
I decided that I blog because I like writing, because it helps me to organize my thoughts and feelings, and because I find something quite cathartic in seeing my ideas in black and white. Oh...yeah...and because I feel like I don't communicate very well verbally. This gives me the chance to take as many Mulligans as I need to beat the words into submission before I click 'Post.' Wait....that means I have no excuse for poor writing...Crap!