Saturday, January 14, 2012
Why Do I Do What I Do?
Back in my drinking days, I didn't have to think a lot, which was a good thing, because I wasn't awfully good at it. What I was pretty good at was being a victim. In fact I was a specialist.
I was a victim of people and I was a victim of my alcoholism. I believe that many people not only live in their victimhood (is this a word?), but they are more than comfortable there.
The great appeal of victim status for me was that I had a built in excuse. It it was always someone or something else's fault. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted and blame my behavior on my alcoholism. I would whine about my situation, but how could I change if everything was someone else's fault?
In fact, this became a major hurdle to my sobriety. I had to acknowledge the truth of my dependence on my victimage (there I go, making up words again!), and come to terms with life without this particular crutch. I didn't cross that bar willingly. There is a lot to accept; a lot to relearn, and it didn't happen overnight.
The biggest step was coming to terms with my own personal responsibility. Understanding that my behavior is my choice.....and my responsibility. That doesn't limit what I do, but it does mean that I have to do it with my eyes wide open. That is the best way to live life in any case, so it works out.
The other side of the coin is just as important to me. When I was a victim, I was a victim. I know that sounds stupid, but think about it. A victim is someone that stuff happens to. The victim of a car crash or a disease, the victims of a natural disaster or victims of the economic downturn; all are people that things happen to. Things that are beyond their control. If an alcoholic loses a job or trashes her car in a drunken stupor, she is a victim of her alcoholism, and as long as that condition persists she is unable to do anything about it. She is without control over the situation.
Give up the alcoholism and the victim status that goes with it, and you gain the ability to make it different...the ability to change...you get your life back. Maybe you don't get your job, or your car back, but you get the chance to make changes in the things you do have control over.
That's where I'm at today. I'm not always sure where I am going, but I don't do things I don't want to do, and the things I do, I do with my eyes wide open, and I understand that I am responsible for doing them.
I don't know what life will bring, but I intend to live and love every minute of it, and I hope I am completely used up and worn out out the end. After all, wouldn't it be a shame to park it for the last time with 30,000 miles left on the tires?
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Words Actually Mean Something
Words actually mean something.
You are saying, "Duh....Of course they do!", but what I challenge you to do is think with me about how powerful and meaningful they really are. Our words define us, and often define where we can go and what we can achieve is this world. Our use of words tells the world where we come from, where we have been, sometimes our ethnicity, almost always our age, and how much education we have had. How we use our words can indicate with whom we hang out, and can serve as an entre to groups and situations or a barrier as solid as brick wall.
Many occupations have special words or acronyms and if you don't know them you are D.O.A. Try listening to a group of teachers these days. Hopeless......
An anonymous friend left a very kind comment recently about word pictures. I love to try and paint a picture with my words - sometimes with more success, sometimes with less, but it is always fun to try and imagine different ways of saying a thing, perhaps picturing an event from an unusual perspective for emphasis. I attempt to do similar things in my photography, to share my perspective of the world.
If I had to guess, I would think that the first use of words, indeed the first use of language itself, was probably for naming people, places and things, soon followed by words for actions.
Words can be used to illuminate, but just as frequently they are unwilling participants in serious obfuscation. We are so used to being manipulated by politicians and advertisers that maybe we don't even notice anymore. I recently tried to read an Assembly Bill. There were over 1600 pages of legalese. I think no-one really knows what is in these things, and they are written in such a way that elephants can be hidden amongst the paragraphs and nobody the wiser until it is too late. If a law cannot be defined in three typed single-spaced pages, it is too complicated. Throw it out and try again.
Sometimes what we are promised hides what the real effect will be. California passed a law 30 or so years ago that made legal a State run Lottery. When the law was proposed, the single biggest selling point was that profits from lottery sales would be used for education. We were enchanted. Our schools would never want for anything again. Their cups would runneth over. The type, scale and scope of the lottery games was well defined. The law was made so and everyone was happy. In stepped our State Legislature. Since there was obviously plenty of money from the Lottery, State funding from other sources was cut. Our schools, which we believed would be in great financial condition are struggling, the lottery has expanded time after time, without voter approval, incidentally, and the State has recently embarked on a half-hearted advertising campaign to dissuade teens from buying "scratchers." Wait, wasn't this to help the kids? Instead they are becoming addicted to gambling? I read somewhere that the Lottery was a tax on people who don't understand math......True that...
The places where the words should be held most sacred, and I speak here of the media, are the worst of all. You can graduate today with a four year degree in Mass Communication and Journalism and not have a clue how or when to use to, two and too. The spoken word as used by the average TV reporter is as mangled and miss-used as is humanly possible. I recently was watching a news story about a local 'drive-by' shooting. A young man had been nicked by a passing bullet and was shown with his arm bandaged and in a sling as he stood in front of the family home. The reporter then proceeded to explain that the young man had "Almost escaped death that afternoon." Really? Really? Really?
I used to play a game with my kids. We would take a sentence, for example, "I didn't say he stole the money." I would have them say the sentence seven times, each time placing the stress on a different word. Of course, the meaning of the sentence changes every time. Most of us learn this through osmosis. but like so many things leaned in context we often don't understand the intricacies of our knowledge.
The devil is in the details. The Large Print Giveth, but the small print taketh away. Ever buy a house? Did you read the loan documents? If so, good on you! Do you have a clue what they said? If you know what they said, do you know what they meant? But most importantly, does it matter?
We are so anxious to believe what we want the words to mean that we don't read or listen to what they are saying. Think of that commercial selling you 24 carat solid gold clad coins. "Why with the price of gold at over $1400 an ounce, we can only guarantee our price for 10 days." I did the math. The value of the gold cladding is almost 7 cents. When gold doubles, we'll be sitting pretty, sure enough!
What a thing means to me may or may not mean the same to you, if you know what I mean....
And lookie here, we haven't even touched on plain old lying yet! Words used in the worst way, words held as shields to cheat, words whispered to steal the precious gems of the heart, words sharpened and hurled to injure and maim, words waved to fan flames, words slammed down to crush dreams, words carelessly dropped that cut souls like shards of glass.
Recall the oath one swears when called to testify? To tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Sure, as long as the lawyers ask the right questions, right? And speaking of lawyers, ever notice they are never sworn? Lawyers are not required to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Interesting, no? And these, my friend, are some of the cleverest wordsmiths on the planet.
The words I enjoy the most are those shared in the quiet times of intimacy between lovers. Words whispered for their ears alone in the small hours and quiet spaces.
You are saying, "Duh....Of course they do!", but what I challenge you to do is think with me about how powerful and meaningful they really are. Our words define us, and often define where we can go and what we can achieve is this world. Our use of words tells the world where we come from, where we have been, sometimes our ethnicity, almost always our age, and how much education we have had. How we use our words can indicate with whom we hang out, and can serve as an entre to groups and situations or a barrier as solid as brick wall.
Many occupations have special words or acronyms and if you don't know them you are D.O.A. Try listening to a group of teachers these days. Hopeless......
An anonymous friend left a very kind comment recently about word pictures. I love to try and paint a picture with my words - sometimes with more success, sometimes with less, but it is always fun to try and imagine different ways of saying a thing, perhaps picturing an event from an unusual perspective for emphasis. I attempt to do similar things in my photography, to share my perspective of the world.
If I had to guess, I would think that the first use of words, indeed the first use of language itself, was probably for naming people, places and things, soon followed by words for actions.
Words can be used to illuminate, but just as frequently they are unwilling participants in serious obfuscation. We are so used to being manipulated by politicians and advertisers that maybe we don't even notice anymore. I recently tried to read an Assembly Bill. There were over 1600 pages of legalese. I think no-one really knows what is in these things, and they are written in such a way that elephants can be hidden amongst the paragraphs and nobody the wiser until it is too late. If a law cannot be defined in three typed single-spaced pages, it is too complicated. Throw it out and try again.
Sometimes what we are promised hides what the real effect will be. California passed a law 30 or so years ago that made legal a State run Lottery. When the law was proposed, the single biggest selling point was that profits from lottery sales would be used for education. We were enchanted. Our schools would never want for anything again. Their cups would runneth over. The type, scale and scope of the lottery games was well defined. The law was made so and everyone was happy. In stepped our State Legislature. Since there was obviously plenty of money from the Lottery, State funding from other sources was cut. Our schools, which we believed would be in great financial condition are struggling, the lottery has expanded time after time, without voter approval, incidentally, and the State has recently embarked on a half-hearted advertising campaign to dissuade teens from buying "scratchers." Wait, wasn't this to help the kids? Instead they are becoming addicted to gambling? I read somewhere that the Lottery was a tax on people who don't understand math......True that...
The places where the words should be held most sacred, and I speak here of the media, are the worst of all. You can graduate today with a four year degree in Mass Communication and Journalism and not have a clue how or when to use to, two and too. The spoken word as used by the average TV reporter is as mangled and miss-used as is humanly possible. I recently was watching a news story about a local 'drive-by' shooting. A young man had been nicked by a passing bullet and was shown with his arm bandaged and in a sling as he stood in front of the family home. The reporter then proceeded to explain that the young man had "Almost escaped death that afternoon." Really? Really? Really?
I used to play a game with my kids. We would take a sentence, for example, "I didn't say he stole the money." I would have them say the sentence seven times, each time placing the stress on a different word. Of course, the meaning of the sentence changes every time. Most of us learn this through osmosis. but like so many things leaned in context we often don't understand the intricacies of our knowledge.
The devil is in the details. The Large Print Giveth, but the small print taketh away. Ever buy a house? Did you read the loan documents? If so, good on you! Do you have a clue what they said? If you know what they said, do you know what they meant? But most importantly, does it matter?
We are so anxious to believe what we want the words to mean that we don't read or listen to what they are saying. Think of that commercial selling you 24 carat solid gold clad coins. "Why with the price of gold at over $1400 an ounce, we can only guarantee our price for 10 days." I did the math. The value of the gold cladding is almost 7 cents. When gold doubles, we'll be sitting pretty, sure enough!
What a thing means to me may or may not mean the same to you, if you know what I mean....
And lookie here, we haven't even touched on plain old lying yet! Words used in the worst way, words held as shields to cheat, words whispered to steal the precious gems of the heart, words sharpened and hurled to injure and maim, words waved to fan flames, words slammed down to crush dreams, words carelessly dropped that cut souls like shards of glass.
Recall the oath one swears when called to testify? To tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Sure, as long as the lawyers ask the right questions, right? And speaking of lawyers, ever notice they are never sworn? Lawyers are not required to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Interesting, no? And these, my friend, are some of the cleverest wordsmiths on the planet.
The words I enjoy the most are those shared in the quiet times of intimacy between lovers. Words whispered for their ears alone in the small hours and quiet spaces.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Happy 2012
A new year has begun.
I really do not understand why we start counting all over again in the middle of winter. Did we pass a big 'Go' square in our orbit around the sun? It's not aligned with Winter solstice. There is nothing special on the church calendar that day, so why?
I thought maybe we figured it had been too long since the last party, but for many, the run from late October through December is all party anyway, so that's not it. Then I thought maybe it is supposed to be the last big party before we all tighten our belts and get down to the real work, but it seems like everyone just goes back to sleep to await Spring.
Spring. Now that would be a wonderful time to Start the New Year. The time of new beginnings. Critters are being born, or coming out of their winter lairs. Snow is melting to freshen streams and rivers. Green things are shouldering their way out of the ground to begin worshiping the sun. Flowers are busy getting ready for the bee/honey & hummingbird season. Perfect time to begin a year. Perfect.
Let's vote on it! All in favor?
I, for one, am looking forward to the coming year. I recall the ancient Chinese curse - May You Live in Interesting Times. We will definitely live in Interesting Times for the foreseeable future. But no matter how interesting the times get, there are always people that brighten my day with their joy and love, and that I cherish.
May your year be filled with love and the company of a few good friends.
I really do not understand why we start counting all over again in the middle of winter. Did we pass a big 'Go' square in our orbit around the sun? It's not aligned with Winter solstice. There is nothing special on the church calendar that day, so why?
I thought maybe we figured it had been too long since the last party, but for many, the run from late October through December is all party anyway, so that's not it. Then I thought maybe it is supposed to be the last big party before we all tighten our belts and get down to the real work, but it seems like everyone just goes back to sleep to await Spring.
Spring. Now that would be a wonderful time to Start the New Year. The time of new beginnings. Critters are being born, or coming out of their winter lairs. Snow is melting to freshen streams and rivers. Green things are shouldering their way out of the ground to begin worshiping the sun. Flowers are busy getting ready for the bee/honey & hummingbird season. Perfect time to begin a year. Perfect.
Let's vote on it! All in favor?
I, for one, am looking forward to the coming year. I recall the ancient Chinese curse - May You Live in Interesting Times. We will definitely live in Interesting Times for the foreseeable future. But no matter how interesting the times get, there are always people that brighten my day with their joy and love, and that I cherish.
May your year be filled with love and the company of a few good friends.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Long Ago and Far Away
I seem to be stuck in past.
Mayhaps it's the New Year channeling ghosts of days gone by.
Return with me the Summer of 1967. Lake Tahoe, North Shore, near Tahoe City. A roommate from college has hooked me up with a summer job. I'm working for a company that builds A-Frame cabins in the area. The crew are all near my age, some on summer vacation, some just hangin' out.
The company has rented two houses for the summer, and rents rooms to us...eight to ten guys in each house. No supervision except for our self control and (cough, cough) discipline. I feel so badly for the people who lived or stayed nearby that summer. We were atrocious.
One of the houses backed up to a campground, and a couple of the guys had watched way too much Yogi Bear as children. They would actually raid unguarded picnic baskets if the opportunity arose. The other house had a chest freezer, locked with a padlock. As we all know locks only keep out honest people. I doubt the rent covered the freezer contents.....
Then there was the stereo. Ours only had one setting for the volume control...wide open. Any complaints were greeted with not only trying to get even more volume, but playing the most obnoxious music we had available, usually Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. I'm sure we ruined at least a portion of many a citizens' holiday. If any of my readers were on the other side of the fence back then...I am truly sorry.
The story I want to tell is set against this backdrop. It's Friday or Saturday night, doesn't really matter which. A gaggle of us want to go to Stateline and see if we can find some fun. There are enough of us to require two cars maybe three. We fool around for a while, but none of us are old enough to gamble. One of the guys says he knows a cool place.
We pile into the cars and head back towards Tahoe City. Before we have gone too far, the lead car turns off the highway to the left and heads down a driveway towards the lake. We pull into a parking area, stop and get out.
We are parked in a cul-de-sac in front of a house. The house is completely dark and all is quiet. Our 'Guy' leads us along a path beside the house, past the back yard and up to a sort of cliff made of granite boulders. Following the others I discover that the cliff is honeycombed with passages. Climbing through and under these large boulders, in several minutes we are all on top of the cliff behind the house and probably 50' above the ground. We all sit down along the edge of the cliff; our feet dangle over the edge.
The night is clear and cool. My light jacket is good enough tonight. A half moon provides ample light. I can clearly see the house below and wonder who lives there and how our man knew about this place. Would the owner return soon?
I hear some talk down the line, and someone seems to busy at something down there. I'm not sure why we sitting here, but everyone else seems content to wait so I am too. At the end of the line, a match flares in the darkness. Someone has lit a smoke. I see the glow of the ember on the end of the smoke. It brightens briefly, I hear a sharp intake of breath, then the glowing ember moves closer to me. This sequence is repeated a few more times and then it is my turn. I take a drag, and immediately exhale. The guy next to me says in a funny, kinda choked whisper,trying to conserve what he has just inhaled, " No. You gotta hold it in!" I do better next time.
Several more joints are rolled, lit and passed. My friend explains that I may not even feel the high the first time. I don't know what to expect, and have no clue if I am gettin' high or not.
Don't know if we smoked all he brought, or if somebody decided we were good, but the smoking part was done. Everybody got up, me extra carefully, we were on the edge of a friggin cliff, ya know! We began to go back through the rocky labyrinth again. I seemed to hear guys everywhere. I thought they we all ahead of me, but now I hear some behind me as well. Soon I am confused and a bit lost. This concerns me more than a little...what if I can't find my out...what if no one can?
Guys are laughing and hooting. Must not be their first time..... they seems to be feeling it just fine. I keep heading down every chance I get. Suddenly I find myself at the bottom of the cliff. Glad to have escaped with my life, I work my way along the path to the front of the house, sure I'll find at least a couple of my buddies at the cars. Nobody. Ok. I'll wait.
I can see the cliff behind the house. And an occasional flash of light from a flashlight or two the guys had as they climb around and through the rocks. And then it hits me.... the noise! They are laughing and hollerin' like crazy, makin' a ton of noise. Somebody is bound to notice, and the Sheriff will soon be on his way. Shit! I call up, "Hey! Guys! Hold it down! We're gonna get busted!" Nothing...if anything it gets louder.
Houston, We have a Problem! They aren't paying attention and don't realize just how freakin' loud they are. Seriously. I am concerned someone is gonna get hurt up there, and I know the cops have to be on their way.
Who really knows where strokes of brilliance come from? Not me, but I do recognize one when it strikes me. Suddenly I KNOW how to get them down.
I cup my hands to my mouth and bellow in the general direction of the cliff, " You men up there! This is the Police! Come down with your hands in the air!"
Dead silence from above. Then whispered calls amongst the guys, "What was that? Did you hear something?"
Again, "You! Up on the cliff! Come down! We have you surrounded!"
From the cliff, "Shit what do we do now?"
This is working soooo well, I get into it a little deeper. I begin to shout instructions to my posse, "Bill, take the dogs around the back! Joe, don't let 'em get by you on the right! This is your last chance! Come down with your hands in the air!"
Then, much to my amazement, I see them walking down the trail, hands high over their heads, looking dazed and confused. They walked up to me and said, "Where are they?"
Where are who?
Mayhaps it's the New Year channeling ghosts of days gone by.
Return with me the Summer of 1967. Lake Tahoe, North Shore, near Tahoe City. A roommate from college has hooked me up with a summer job. I'm working for a company that builds A-Frame cabins in the area. The crew are all near my age, some on summer vacation, some just hangin' out.
The company has rented two houses for the summer, and rents rooms to us...eight to ten guys in each house. No supervision except for our self control and (cough, cough) discipline. I feel so badly for the people who lived or stayed nearby that summer. We were atrocious.
One of the houses backed up to a campground, and a couple of the guys had watched way too much Yogi Bear as children. They would actually raid unguarded picnic baskets if the opportunity arose. The other house had a chest freezer, locked with a padlock. As we all know locks only keep out honest people. I doubt the rent covered the freezer contents.....
Then there was the stereo. Ours only had one setting for the volume control...wide open. Any complaints were greeted with not only trying to get even more volume, but playing the most obnoxious music we had available, usually Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. I'm sure we ruined at least a portion of many a citizens' holiday. If any of my readers were on the other side of the fence back then...I am truly sorry.
The story I want to tell is set against this backdrop. It's Friday or Saturday night, doesn't really matter which. A gaggle of us want to go to Stateline and see if we can find some fun. There are enough of us to require two cars maybe three. We fool around for a while, but none of us are old enough to gamble. One of the guys says he knows a cool place.
We pile into the cars and head back towards Tahoe City. Before we have gone too far, the lead car turns off the highway to the left and heads down a driveway towards the lake. We pull into a parking area, stop and get out.
We are parked in a cul-de-sac in front of a house. The house is completely dark and all is quiet. Our 'Guy' leads us along a path beside the house, past the back yard and up to a sort of cliff made of granite boulders. Following the others I discover that the cliff is honeycombed with passages. Climbing through and under these large boulders, in several minutes we are all on top of the cliff behind the house and probably 50' above the ground. We all sit down along the edge of the cliff; our feet dangle over the edge.
The night is clear and cool. My light jacket is good enough tonight. A half moon provides ample light. I can clearly see the house below and wonder who lives there and how our man knew about this place. Would the owner return soon?
I hear some talk down the line, and someone seems to busy at something down there. I'm not sure why we sitting here, but everyone else seems content to wait so I am too. At the end of the line, a match flares in the darkness. Someone has lit a smoke. I see the glow of the ember on the end of the smoke. It brightens briefly, I hear a sharp intake of breath, then the glowing ember moves closer to me. This sequence is repeated a few more times and then it is my turn. I take a drag, and immediately exhale. The guy next to me says in a funny, kinda choked whisper,trying to conserve what he has just inhaled, " No. You gotta hold it in!" I do better next time.
Several more joints are rolled, lit and passed. My friend explains that I may not even feel the high the first time. I don't know what to expect, and have no clue if I am gettin' high or not.
Don't know if we smoked all he brought, or if somebody decided we were good, but the smoking part was done. Everybody got up, me extra carefully, we were on the edge of a friggin cliff, ya know! We began to go back through the rocky labyrinth again. I seemed to hear guys everywhere. I thought they we all ahead of me, but now I hear some behind me as well. Soon I am confused and a bit lost. This concerns me more than a little...what if I can't find my out...what if no one can?
Guys are laughing and hooting. Must not be their first time..... they seems to be feeling it just fine. I keep heading down every chance I get. Suddenly I find myself at the bottom of the cliff. Glad to have escaped with my life, I work my way along the path to the front of the house, sure I'll find at least a couple of my buddies at the cars. Nobody. Ok. I'll wait.
I can see the cliff behind the house. And an occasional flash of light from a flashlight or two the guys had as they climb around and through the rocks. And then it hits me.... the noise! They are laughing and hollerin' like crazy, makin' a ton of noise. Somebody is bound to notice, and the Sheriff will soon be on his way. Shit! I call up, "Hey! Guys! Hold it down! We're gonna get busted!" Nothing...if anything it gets louder.
Houston, We have a Problem! They aren't paying attention and don't realize just how freakin' loud they are. Seriously. I am concerned someone is gonna get hurt up there, and I know the cops have to be on their way.
Who really knows where strokes of brilliance come from? Not me, but I do recognize one when it strikes me. Suddenly I KNOW how to get them down.
I cup my hands to my mouth and bellow in the general direction of the cliff, " You men up there! This is the Police! Come down with your hands in the air!"
Dead silence from above. Then whispered calls amongst the guys, "What was that? Did you hear something?"
Again, "You! Up on the cliff! Come down! We have you surrounded!"
From the cliff, "Shit what do we do now?"
This is working soooo well, I get into it a little deeper. I begin to shout instructions to my posse, "Bill, take the dogs around the back! Joe, don't let 'em get by you on the right! This is your last chance! Come down with your hands in the air!"
Then, much to my amazement, I see them walking down the trail, hands high over their heads, looking dazed and confused. They walked up to me and said, "Where are they?"
Where are who?
Saturday, December 31, 2011
The Long March
They've left me. The truck was parked right here, and now it's gone.
It's almost summer in 1963, and Stumptown Days have had the town hoppin' and explain my presence in the first place. Admittedly, this a local celebration in a very small town, and I live almost 30 miles outside even this action, but I hunger for excitement and this is my big chance.
We brought the flat bed Chevy with the stake sides. Room for three in the cab, and the rest of us piled in back. How many? I don't know. Ten, twelve, maybe a few more. Enough so that a less than careful count wouldn't reveal a short load. Didn't reveal a short load.
The night had been filled with typical rural teenage pursuits, gawking at girls, playing eight-ball and walking around trying to look a lot tougher than we were, but the small towns roll up the carpet pretty early. I had gone to the can one last time, and when I came out, there was a big space where the truck had been. Crap! I had spent all my money, and cell phones wont be available for about twenty five years.
I said 30 miles. That's plus or minus. The terrain doesn't lend itself to measurement. It's about 11 miles to the Pacific Ocean following the River Road. A kid in a orange Chevy Pick-up truck sans bed stopped for my thumb. He was only going to the next little town, but decided to take me all the way to the coast anyway. Thanks, fella, whoever and where ever you are today.
The Russian River does its bit to fill the Pacific Ocean in Jenner, California. River Road dead ends at the infamous Highway 1. Highway 1 roughly follows the Pacific Coast from top to bottom of these United States, and the section north of the Russian River is as convoluted as it ever gets. If you have the chance to drive this road, you will be amazed that the road could have been built at all. Some sections in Southern California were actually built from barges on the ocean because there was no other way to get there. There are permanent gates to make closing the road easier when, not if, there is a landslide.
I am standing smack-dab in the middle of greater downtown Jenner, in the middle of the night, and all three buildings are completely dark. Nothing moves. Up River Road, my benefactors taillights dwindle then disappear. Oh, well. It's only seventeen miles, right? I can wait here and hope to catch a ride with the next car that goes by, but waiting isn't really my style in 1963, so I walk.
The first mile is flat to gently sloping, then a climb on a long switchback to begin tracking the coastal cliffs in earnest. The Coast Highway here begins close to sea level and between here and home hugs the side of the cliffs, climbing as high as 600 feet above the ocean, up and down, around and around, never straight. The land isn't really suitable for farming, so ranching or selling stuff to tourists and fishermen are about the only ways to make a living.
Along the cliffs, which are too steep for cattle, it's sheep, Their trails carve fishnet patterns on the steep hillsides. I soon learn something. At night the paved road holds heat longer than the surrounding ground. That's why the sheep are sleeping on the road, and they seem to be used to the idea...sleeping on the road that is. I've gone about five miles, seen nothing but sleeping sheep and heard nothing except the faint crashing of the surf on the rocks below. I get tired and take a break, laying on the road like a sheep. It is warmer.
Where ever the road jumps up to the top of the cliffs for a bit, flatter places where cattle can graze, a fence line will cross the road with a cattle guard. Ever seen one of those? Looks like railroad tracks placed about six inches apart for a distance of three feet or so straight across the road. The hoofed critters don't like 'em too much because their hoofs tend to slip off into the spaces between the rails. Then somebody figured out that cows aren't really all that smart and you could pretty much fool 'em by just painting lines across the road that looked like a cattle guard. I can almost hear it...."Hey! Hold up a minute Bessie. We can't go this way. They've gone and painted those damned lines across the road. We'll slip into the dark spaces! Moooove it!"
It's dark and a cool breeze chills a kid dressed for a night on the town, not a hike on the coast. Eight miles past the top of the switchback the worst of the cliff hugging road is behind me, and the road drops into Fort Ross, a State Historical Monument at the location of the first Russian settlement in California. It is now a State Park, complete with entrance fees and docents, but this is 1963 and the Coast Highway run straight through the middle of it. I walk through in darkness, past the house where my Spanish teacher lives. Her husband is the keeper of the Fort. The house is dark and I do not stop. I don't know exactly what time it is, and I don't want to let her know I walked back by myself.
Two miles and another switchback later, I come to Timber Cove. This was a shipping point for lumber cut from the Redwood forests that so richly smothered the coastal hills, and in 1963 there are still some remnants of the logging camp that gave the place a name. Another mile and to the left I see the Timber Cove Inn, where Bufano's obelisk 'Peace' stands 90' tall and proud. My dad was a huge Bufano fan. The obelisk today stands between the Inn and the ocean. My 1963 mind remembers it near the road? I dined there in 2005. Ordered the Steak and Lobster (market price). My waiter raised his eyebrows, "My, my! We're really treating ourselves, tonight, aren't we? Hmmmm?" Wait a minute. Just how well am I treating myself??? Turns out that 'market price' tonight is USD60. WTF? The ocean is right there! Are they bringing this crustacean up from The City in a limo? No we are not treating ourselves or the lobster. I hope they still have it there. They probably want USD120 for it now.
Anyway, I'm only 2 miles from home, and a mile past the Inn, I pass the old Russian Graveyard. It is unmarked, and hidden behind a row of coast Juniper. It local knowledge only, untended and overgrown. Close by, someone has been building a house in the most unusual place. A tall rocky outcrop, fifty feet above the ocean is in the process of being pinched off from the mainland by the action of the ocean making small coves on either side. The only access is across a very narrow (18" wide at the top) land bridge. They've built a wider foot bridge and hand carried the building materials to the top of the knob. This place will have the most fantastic view of the big Tsunami.
I can almost see home now. It is less than a mile away. There has been no traffic. Not a single car has passed me going in either direction since I left Jenner. I see the beams of the headlights in the sky above me as a car comes up from the south. Soon I can hear the engine, then see the lights. I'm almost home, and tired. And cold. I stick out my thumb and the young couple stop, let me in and give me a two minute ride to the front gate.
It's a short walk to the Bunkhouse. I undress in the darkness and gratefully climb into bed. No one ever knows, except me...and now you.
It's almost summer in 1963, and Stumptown Days have had the town hoppin' and explain my presence in the first place. Admittedly, this a local celebration in a very small town, and I live almost 30 miles outside even this action, but I hunger for excitement and this is my big chance.
We brought the flat bed Chevy with the stake sides. Room for three in the cab, and the rest of us piled in back. How many? I don't know. Ten, twelve, maybe a few more. Enough so that a less than careful count wouldn't reveal a short load. Didn't reveal a short load.
The night had been filled with typical rural teenage pursuits, gawking at girls, playing eight-ball and walking around trying to look a lot tougher than we were, but the small towns roll up the carpet pretty early. I had gone to the can one last time, and when I came out, there was a big space where the truck had been. Crap! I had spent all my money, and cell phones wont be available for about twenty five years.
I said 30 miles. That's plus or minus. The terrain doesn't lend itself to measurement. It's about 11 miles to the Pacific Ocean following the River Road. A kid in a orange Chevy Pick-up truck sans bed stopped for my thumb. He was only going to the next little town, but decided to take me all the way to the coast anyway. Thanks, fella, whoever and where ever you are today.
The Russian River does its bit to fill the Pacific Ocean in Jenner, California. River Road dead ends at the infamous Highway 1. Highway 1 roughly follows the Pacific Coast from top to bottom of these United States, and the section north of the Russian River is as convoluted as it ever gets. If you have the chance to drive this road, you will be amazed that the road could have been built at all. Some sections in Southern California were actually built from barges on the ocean because there was no other way to get there. There are permanent gates to make closing the road easier when, not if, there is a landslide.
I am standing smack-dab in the middle of greater downtown Jenner, in the middle of the night, and all three buildings are completely dark. Nothing moves. Up River Road, my benefactors taillights dwindle then disappear. Oh, well. It's only seventeen miles, right? I can wait here and hope to catch a ride with the next car that goes by, but waiting isn't really my style in 1963, so I walk.
The first mile is flat to gently sloping, then a climb on a long switchback to begin tracking the coastal cliffs in earnest. The Coast Highway here begins close to sea level and between here and home hugs the side of the cliffs, climbing as high as 600 feet above the ocean, up and down, around and around, never straight. The land isn't really suitable for farming, so ranching or selling stuff to tourists and fishermen are about the only ways to make a living.
Along the cliffs, which are too steep for cattle, it's sheep, Their trails carve fishnet patterns on the steep hillsides. I soon learn something. At night the paved road holds heat longer than the surrounding ground. That's why the sheep are sleeping on the road, and they seem to be used to the idea...sleeping on the road that is. I've gone about five miles, seen nothing but sleeping sheep and heard nothing except the faint crashing of the surf on the rocks below. I get tired and take a break, laying on the road like a sheep. It is warmer.
Where ever the road jumps up to the top of the cliffs for a bit, flatter places where cattle can graze, a fence line will cross the road with a cattle guard. Ever seen one of those? Looks like railroad tracks placed about six inches apart for a distance of three feet or so straight across the road. The hoofed critters don't like 'em too much because their hoofs tend to slip off into the spaces between the rails. Then somebody figured out that cows aren't really all that smart and you could pretty much fool 'em by just painting lines across the road that looked like a cattle guard. I can almost hear it...."Hey! Hold up a minute Bessie. We can't go this way. They've gone and painted those damned lines across the road. We'll slip into the dark spaces! Moooove it!"
It's dark and a cool breeze chills a kid dressed for a night on the town, not a hike on the coast. Eight miles past the top of the switchback the worst of the cliff hugging road is behind me, and the road drops into Fort Ross, a State Historical Monument at the location of the first Russian settlement in California. It is now a State Park, complete with entrance fees and docents, but this is 1963 and the Coast Highway run straight through the middle of it. I walk through in darkness, past the house where my Spanish teacher lives. Her husband is the keeper of the Fort. The house is dark and I do not stop. I don't know exactly what time it is, and I don't want to let her know I walked back by myself.
Two miles and another switchback later, I come to Timber Cove. This was a shipping point for lumber cut from the Redwood forests that so richly smothered the coastal hills, and in 1963 there are still some remnants of the logging camp that gave the place a name. Another mile and to the left I see the Timber Cove Inn, where Bufano's obelisk 'Peace' stands 90' tall and proud. My dad was a huge Bufano fan. The obelisk today stands between the Inn and the ocean. My 1963 mind remembers it near the road? I dined there in 2005. Ordered the Steak and Lobster (market price). My waiter raised his eyebrows, "My, my! We're really treating ourselves, tonight, aren't we? Hmmmm?" Wait a minute. Just how well am I treating myself??? Turns out that 'market price' tonight is USD60. WTF? The ocean is right there! Are they bringing this crustacean up from The City in a limo? No we are not treating ourselves or the lobster. I hope they still have it there. They probably want USD120 for it now.
Anyway, I'm only 2 miles from home, and a mile past the Inn, I pass the old Russian Graveyard. It is unmarked, and hidden behind a row of coast Juniper. It local knowledge only, untended and overgrown. Close by, someone has been building a house in the most unusual place. A tall rocky outcrop, fifty feet above the ocean is in the process of being pinched off from the mainland by the action of the ocean making small coves on either side. The only access is across a very narrow (18" wide at the top) land bridge. They've built a wider foot bridge and hand carried the building materials to the top of the knob. This place will have the most fantastic view of the big Tsunami.
I can almost see home now. It is less than a mile away. There has been no traffic. Not a single car has passed me going in either direction since I left Jenner. I see the beams of the headlights in the sky above me as a car comes up from the south. Soon I can hear the engine, then see the lights. I'm almost home, and tired. And cold. I stick out my thumb and the young couple stop, let me in and give me a two minute ride to the front gate.
It's a short walk to the Bunkhouse. I undress in the darkness and gratefully climb into bed. No one ever knows, except me...and now you.
It's A Matter of Balance
We do it every day. And we can do it all day long, no problem. In fact we can do it for weeks or months with no issues what-so-ever.
This simple, easy thing is the act of standing up without falling over.
Most of us have dialed this one in long before we hit our first birthday, but, change just one little thing, and all of a sudden the task can seem almost impossible.
There is a current TV commercial in which a young woman climbs to the top of a spire and stands up on a patch of rock barely larger that her own shoes, surrounded by a lot of air and not much else. What is it about that situation that changes everything? Gravity still pulls in exactly the same direction, so assuming our semi-circular canals are functioning, we should be able to stand there all day. Yet the term 'dizzying heights' came from somewhere, and most of us would be so rattled by the change of perspective that we would probably fall off sooner rather that later(An ex-SO said she would be compelled to jump!?!). The lack of nearby familiar references, the comforting closeness of the floor for example, or a nearby wall make all the difference in the world. The hall stairway that looks so benign becomes sinister with the simple removal of the bannister. Take away our anchors, physical or emotional and we may be in trouble.
The same effect can happen to our emotional sense of balance. We live in comfortable emotional 'rooms' with solid 'floors' and 'ceilings' and 'walls' that define our perceptions. When we try on new ideas or find ourselves tugged in mutually exclusive directions the effects can be dizzying indeed. It really doesn't matter whether the challenges are tangible or ephemeral.
My personal paradigm has been shifted, and I feel a taste dizzy at the moment and reaching for an anchor. I think I'll go play my guitar. Happy New Year.
This simple, easy thing is the act of standing up without falling over.
Most of us have dialed this one in long before we hit our first birthday, but, change just one little thing, and all of a sudden the task can seem almost impossible.
There is a current TV commercial in which a young woman climbs to the top of a spire and stands up on a patch of rock barely larger that her own shoes, surrounded by a lot of air and not much else. What is it about that situation that changes everything? Gravity still pulls in exactly the same direction, so assuming our semi-circular canals are functioning, we should be able to stand there all day. Yet the term 'dizzying heights' came from somewhere, and most of us would be so rattled by the change of perspective that we would probably fall off sooner rather that later(An ex-SO said she would be compelled to jump!?!). The lack of nearby familiar references, the comforting closeness of the floor for example, or a nearby wall make all the difference in the world. The hall stairway that looks so benign becomes sinister with the simple removal of the bannister. Take away our anchors, physical or emotional and we may be in trouble.
The same effect can happen to our emotional sense of balance. We live in comfortable emotional 'rooms' with solid 'floors' and 'ceilings' and 'walls' that define our perceptions. When we try on new ideas or find ourselves tugged in mutually exclusive directions the effects can be dizzying indeed. It really doesn't matter whether the challenges are tangible or ephemeral.
My personal paradigm has been shifted, and I feel a taste dizzy at the moment and reaching for an anchor. I think I'll go play my guitar. Happy New Year.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Oh Me of Little Patience
I know. It is another character flaw. Will they never cease?
I would like to be a patient person, or at least I'm willing to say I'd like that, and I guess that sometimes I am, but all too often I'm just not.
If only everyone would just do what I want them to do when I want them to do it, there would be no problem at all, and I'm sure the world would be a much better place.
Today I was driving to work and approached a four way stop. Those of you who know me have heard similar rants before and may advance your token directly to go. Anyway, from 100 yards away, I could see that two other drivers were already fully stopped at the intersection. There was enough time for each of them to execute a complete Chinese Fire Drill(this is where everyone exits the vehicle, runs completely around it and re-enters from whence they exited), and have still taken their allotted turns and gone on their respective merry ways before I got there.
But nooooooo......
They both just sat there and waited until I completed my approach and came to a full and distinctly complete, utter and final un-disputable, un-contestable stop.
Did I mention total?
Once I had arrived at the limit line, The opposing driver, having obviously arrived at some prior agreement with the other driver camped at the intersection, slowly made his way through. I'm thinking, "Aha.....now we are getting somewhere!" foolishly expecting driver 2 to smartly cross my bow and be on his way....but, alas, what is this? He is not moving! It is clearly his big moment, he is to my right, and he has been waiting since the flood, but he i.s. n.o.t. m.o.v.i.n.g!
I glance up, and through the light fog I see headlights slowly approaching.
Now I get it! This....person.....is waiting for the new arrival, who still appears to be in the next county, mind you, this..... person(substitute your favorite pejorative).... is now waiting for the new car to come to a COMPLETE STOP BEFORE HE CROSSES THE INTERSECTION!
He may still be there.
I honestly don't know.
I am not there any more, and yes I went out of turn, and no I did not wait for the oncoming car to stop.
I would like to be a patient person, or at least I'm willing to say I'd like that, and I guess that sometimes I am, but all too often I'm just not.
If only everyone would just do what I want them to do when I want them to do it, there would be no problem at all, and I'm sure the world would be a much better place.
Today I was driving to work and approached a four way stop. Those of you who know me have heard similar rants before and may advance your token directly to go. Anyway, from 100 yards away, I could see that two other drivers were already fully stopped at the intersection. There was enough time for each of them to execute a complete Chinese Fire Drill(this is where everyone exits the vehicle, runs completely around it and re-enters from whence they exited), and have still taken their allotted turns and gone on their respective merry ways before I got there.
But nooooooo......
They both just sat there and waited until I completed my approach and came to a full and distinctly complete, utter and final un-disputable, un-contestable stop.
Did I mention total?
Once I had arrived at the limit line, The opposing driver, having obviously arrived at some prior agreement with the other driver camped at the intersection, slowly made his way through. I'm thinking, "Aha.....now we are getting somewhere!" foolishly expecting driver 2 to smartly cross my bow and be on his way....but, alas, what is this? He is not moving! It is clearly his big moment, he is to my right, and he has been waiting since the flood, but he i.s. n.o.t. m.o.v.i.n.g!
I glance up, and through the light fog I see headlights slowly approaching.
Now I get it! This....person.....is waiting for the new arrival, who still appears to be in the next county, mind you, this..... person(substitute your favorite pejorative).... is now waiting for the new car to come to a COMPLETE STOP BEFORE HE CROSSES THE INTERSECTION!
He may still be there.
I honestly don't know.
I am not there any more, and yes I went out of turn, and no I did not wait for the oncoming car to stop.
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