Tag: memories

The Memory

Billy got hit by a truck, he says.

He thinks, a truck hit Billy, but he doesn’t say anything. The other is still speaking in slow, backwoods twangs and drawls.

Boy, do I remember that day. We were standing on one side of the road, by the school entrance. Billy was on the other side. He saw us and got this big grin. One of them big-ass coal trucks was hauling ass toward us, but Billy started running across the road. It was all so fast, I didn’t even have time to shout or think. The truck driver slammed on his brakes. The tires locked up in screaming smoke, and the brakes were grinding and squealing in what seemed like forever. I swear to God, I saw Billy turn and look at the truck at the last second, like he’d just realized it was there. Then the truck took Billy down the road.

His shoe flew off. I saw it fly away, like a damn bird. It landed off the side of the road. Then the truck was stopped, and it was all quiet for, I don’t know, it seemed like forever, but it wasn’t. Then someone shouted, Billy, and we all started running for the truck.

His blue eyes get still and wide, staring far off across time and space. Man, I remember that day like it was yesterday, he says.

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Thursday’s Theme Music

Today’s theme music is a courtesy of Don Henley and Mike Campbell. The song is, “The Boys of Summer.”

This song, with lyrics like, “I saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac,” about looking back and change, and coping with it. I’m a person that looks back a great deal. I’m not obsessed with it, but looking back helps me re-imagine where I’m going. It’s one of those arrows of time. Looking back helps me keep straight.

A little voice inside my head said, “Don’t look back. You can never look back.”
I thought I knew what love was,
What did I know?
Those days are gone forever,
I should just let them go, but-

Today’s technology encourages looking back. I can watch movies that star actors that died, leading me to wonder, are they still alive? I can check a friend’s post, even though he died a few years ago, and replay movies, television shows, and interviews from the past, and pretend that past is today, or yesterday, although it was created decades ago.

It’s nostalgia, isn’t it? It is for me. Television, pop and rock music, and movies were part of my scenes as I grew up. Songs come on and take me back to a happier moment, as do smells, and touches. I like going back there; I like feeling happy.

There are fewer happier moments today. Experiences temper my expectations, and I’ve become jaded.  It could be from looking back, or simply being cursed with too much ability to recall times and events. It’s part of who I am, so I don’t decry it.

Well, maybe I decry it a little, because that’s who I am, as well.

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Wrote That Scene

Wrote one of those scenes. You know what they’re like. You’re casting for something inside yourself and discover something hidden, so you drag it out and use it.

In this instance, I used a memory from when I was young. I’d seen a creepy movie that burned anxiety into me just in time for bed. Despite that, sleep managed to find me.

Awakening, though, I kept completely still in an all-embracing darkness. Even now, remembering, my blood pressure rises and my pulse thumps faster. In that darkness, I’d heard a noise while I was asleep —

Or did I?

Was it real or imagined? I listened and listened without daring to move, barely breathing to help me hear and minimize my presence. Just when I’d begun to accept the hypothesis I’d imagined it, I heard another sound. It sounded like slithering….

Snake, I thought.

A snake is in the room.

I couldn’t move. If I left the bed, I might step on the snake. It might be coiled on the floor, waiting to strike.

But I couldn’t remain in bed, because the snake might crawl up into the bed. Which was worse, waiting in bed, or stepping down and getting bitten?

It was a rush of words to write, but it fit the novel like a found puzzle piece. As for the young boy who feared what might be in the dark, he carefully stood up in bed. Balancing himself and profusely sweating, he leaped across the yawning gulf where the snake might be waiting, and threw on the lights.

Time to go write like crazy, at least one more time.

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Pickin’ and Grinnin’

Why would you have sex with a chain-link fence? 

I didn’t understand it. I couldn’t see how a man would do it, and I didn’t understand the attraction. I later learned the man was drunk, and thought the sex was a female.

That’s the thing with picking fruit: you have time to think.

blackberries

h/t to Fables and Flora for the photo

Information was exchanged yesterday that the blackberries were looking good, and there were a lot. We were welcome to come and pick. We took up the offer this morning, driving the short distance to the property on the border between Talent and Phoenix.

As mornings go, it was normal, and glorious with sunshine, blue skies, and budding clouds. Summer’s heat had withdrawn to re-organize and energize, so the air was a comfortable seventy degrees. Most of the area’s wildfire smoke had hitched a ride out of the valley on the wind.

I’d heard about the sex with the chain-link fence on the radio during the drive. Neighbors had it on video. Seeing the video isn’t on my bucket list.

Starting out your berry picking is about looking around to find a ripe offering, sampling them to confirm your visual assessment, and then embracing the mechanics. Like blueberries, the key is color, and its easy release. If the berry is ready to be picked there’s no effort. Just a slight tug, and it rolls off the bush and into your hand. If they don’t come off like this, the product is likely to be sour.

Differences arise between blackberries and blueberries. While I enjoy their sweet juiciness, the largest difference from a picking point of view is that blackberries are in thorny brambles. There are many gorgeous gems hanging there, but getting to them is challenging without sacrificing some blood. Unlike my wife, I’m not a person willing to reach for a berry too far. That’s probably why she’s a better picker than me, collecting about one hundred and fifty percent of the produce that I acquire in the same period.

I’m not jealous; she’s just a better picker. Besides, once we get home, they belong to us, and are shared.

Shouting, “You’ll never take me alive, picking man,” the blackberries sometimes leap to freedom as I approached. The blueberries do it the same, so I don’t take it personally.

Unfortunately, some strange streams empty into this vacant space of thoughts. We had three television stations in southern West Virginia, where I went to high school for my final three years. All three stations featured a show called “Hee Haw.” It may be my imagination, but “Hee Haw” seemed to be on thirty hours a day.

“Hee Haw” was a syndicated variety show that featured country and western music, buxom women, and corny puns and jokes. Roy Clark and Buck Owens were the show’s hosts. One segment was called, “Pickin’ and Grinnin’.” Naturally, out there, my mind invited the segment in: “I’m a pickin’,” Roy or Buck would say, and the other would reply, “And I’m a grinnin’.” Then they’d play some music, stopping for a joke before resuming. They’d do this three or four times.

My mind mercifully cut the stream off after a while. Thereafter, I turned resources toward scenes I was contemplating, character development, and pacing and plotting.

It was a short pick, about an hour. We ended up with twelve pints. Of course, it was the year’s second pick, so we’ll freeze them, and be set for at least a few months.

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Coffee Snob

Yes, I confess: I’m a coffee snob.

I can’t abide most American mass produced ground coffee, like Folger’s, Maxwell House, and Hill Bros. Worse of the worse is Sanka instant.

No, worse of the worse could be the Folger’s Instant Coffee Crystals. Instant coffees taste off to me, as though the coffee has been recycled.

I have friends who swear by Dunkin’ Donut’s coffee. Not me. Dunkin’ Donut cofffee provides a taste that I imagine comes from a dirty tee shirt being soaked in coffee and then wrung out in a cup. Just below it are the foul offerings provided at McDonald’s, Burger King and other fast food establishments. I haven’t had coffee from any of those places in decades. Haven’t eaten at them since around 1992, when I returned to America from Germany.

I became such a snob, as with many things, when I was exposed to offerings in other places. Being stationed in Germany was the changing point for my appreciation of not just beer, but coffee, pastries, asparagus and French fries. German coffee seemed so very strong and clear that I was instantly drawn to it. I started buying different Italian coffees available in Germany, examining flavors the way others do with wines.

The same process was followed with wines, and then beers, along with cigars, ports, whiskeys, fruits, chocolate, cheese, fish, oils, vegetables and meats. I learned that an experienced palate will be drawn toward fresher, clearer flavors. Becoming more mindful among the differences in flavors, I became more mindful as I consumed food and beverages. Fresher and more refined foods offered unique flavors on my tongue.

Of course, it ruined me. Returning from Germany and settling into the Bay area, I drove by a KFC. KFC chicken! I remembered eating it as a child. A sudden nostalgic flame consumed me. I ordered a chicken dinner. The eating experience ruined my memories of KFC and made a skeptic of me about all my American favorites.

So, I’m a coffee snob, but I’m also a beer, wine, chocolate, pie, cheese, fruit, vegetable, meat and pastry snob. I’ll eat things because they’re sustenance, and it’s my nature to accept that food is fuel. But I now know that some foods don’t work nearly as well as fuel.

Something about the eating and drinking experience also affected my reading,  news reporting and movie watching. Overall, I became a snob, more watchful, more critical, more mindful. Part of me often wishes that I wasn’t a snob, that I can just turn on the television and be titillated by the latest number one show like so many others, or that I don’t need to research and vet news headlines and reports for the truth and accuracy, or that I can just trot on down to a fast food place for a meal.

With that, time for breakfast, locally sourced and organic, featuring berries and fruit we picked and froze ourselves, and a cup of coffee. It’ll be Major Dickinson today, from Peet’s.

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Personal Windows

Friends, prompted by curious, started grilling me about some of my past life the other night. Those were my super-secret military days.

Since their questioning, I’ve drifted along currents of wonder about living amidst change and how small our windows of knowledge truly seem. Change is fast and constant. The military commands I worked in thirty years ago no longer exist; the weapons systems introduced during my career are being retired. Bases have been shuttered. They’re trying to retire the nukes I once controlled (a good thing, in my mind). God knows what’s going on in space.

I ended up in a medical start-up after my military career, first in sales operations, running customer service and spewing out reports about sales trends. We were part of a nascent business, per-cutaneous transvascular coronary angioplasty, moving into stent delivering systems for coronary applications and radiation therapy to cope with re-stenosis. After that, I moved on to another company in search of ways to cope with chronic total occlusions.

Life found me in Internet and computer security in my next phase, and then onto analytics. Whatever. I drifted through choices, jumping through windows when the opportunities arose, and was fortunate to have someone on the other side of those windows to pull me in and show me around.

The windows in our lives are always so small. They open and close so quickly. Technology accelerates the speed with which the windows open and close. For examples, consider how we now conduct war versus how it was conducted in decades and centuries past. Consider how we make, experience and enjoy music, and how we entertain ourselves. Yet, each window and moment is treated as though this is a permanent solution. Consider the plight of the coal industry, for example. They think it can be legislated back but technology and market forces have moved past them.

We, as humans, can only see and understand so far, and we argue and debate about what we see, what it means and what we need to do about it. Yet, each person’s life is defined by their personal windows. These are shaped by their culture, heritage, education, genetics and personal experiences, yes, but they’re also shaped by much larger forces. We often barely glimpse the shadow of such forces.

Sometimes – no, hell, often – I think we’re going around understanding the world backward; we believe reality shapes us, and we investigate how we shape it.

Maybe we shape reality. Maybe there is no past or future, there is only the window into Now.

Jump through it and keep on going.

 

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The Question

The Question has arisen, raised by my wife.

It was innocent enough, oh, it’s always innocent enough. But knowing her…I was expecting, even anticipating, The Question.

It came today after I put on my coat. I call it vintage. She, however, said, “Honestly, honey, I know you love that coat, but don’t you think you should give it to charity? It’s worn and faded. You’ve had it for twenty-five years.”

Old and faded? “No, I love it.” And she was exaggerating. “For your information, I’ve only had it twenty-two years. I bought it on sale at Macy’s in the Sunnyvale Town Center when we were stationed at Onizuka in 1994.”

“Okay, twenty-two years. It’s still really faded.”

“Its worn fabric provides it with vintage character.”

Her eyebrows went up as she broke into a questioning grin. “Vintage character?”

“Yes.”

I stand by my declaration. I don’t plan to give it up. I don’t easily give up my goods. Underwear, sweatshirts, shoes, shirts, coats, pants, I wear them until  they’re clearly too small or begin disintegrating.

And I’m serious: they disintegrate. I was once wearing a pair of shorts, put something in my pocket, and torn the pocket. The cloth just ripped. I was so depressed. I’d only had the shorts twelve years. I looked for replacement shorts but never found a pair just like them.

My wife is clearly the arbiter of these matters for me. Not too long ago, she held up a pair of boxer shorts and sniffed. “Do you really want to keep these?”

I was affronted. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Really? The colors are faded, the elastic band just came off in my hands, the seam is coming apart at the crotch, and you have a hole in the rear.” She held them up higher. “They’re so worn, I can see through them. They’re like sheer curtains.”

I doubted her. I’d just worn those boxers in the last several days. “Let me see.”

She was absolutely correct, of course. All those small details she’d noticed about these old Hanes boxer shorts were true. (I believe they’re Hanes, but the label was gone.)  I’d noticed them, as well. I knew that these boxers would start dropping down my legs when I walked after I put them on. I laughed every time I saw their dilapidated condition.

I sighed, cringed and swallowed, bracing myself to issue the answer to The Question: “Yes, you can throw them away.”

Grabbing them from my hand, she hustled away. “I’m going to get rid of these now, before you change your mind.”

She didn’t even give me time to say good-bye.

This is not an economic practice on my part. Nor is that I love these things. They’re familiar and comfortable, like an enjoyable book, a favorite food or wonderful friends. These things are woven into my fabric of my memories and the essence of my being. I like remembering the past, not to hold onto it, but to understand it and myself, and measure the future. It’s only by looking at the past and understanding what didn’t go as planned that I can change things so they’ll be better in the future.

Elaborate rationalization? Sure, it could be. These goods I don’t give up might just be emotional crutches to remind me of glory days and better times. It could be that what you’re thinking and what I’m claiming are all correct, that it’s necessary to hold these competing ideas in our minds and accept, both are right.

All I know is, this was but round one. The Question will arise again.

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Friday the Thirteenth: The Sequel

You read it here first: it’s Friday the thirteenth.

There will be two this year, a trend that will continue until 2020.

You probably read it somewhere else first. It’s ‘always’ news.

I’m not superstitious. Friday the 13th doesn’t bother me. I believe a zillion people are affected to some degree. They were probably preparing to cope with the date. I only knew today was Friday the thirteenth because I read it somewhere.

I reacted when I read it. It’s Friday? Already? The thirteenth?  Is is still January and 2017? Man, this year is just flying past me.

I used to fly with some pilots who were terribly superstitious. Their nervousness over their superstitions shredded my patience. One of them always avoided flights on Friday the thirteenth if it could be done, and no joking about Friday the thirteenth or their superstitions could be tolerated. No, no, no, don’t joke about that. Then there was the order of processes for preparing for flight, lucky pens…maddening. None of it could be joked about, either.

Dealing with a nervous pilot isn’t fun.

You have some folks who are full-on, one hundred percent superstitious. I’m more like two percent. I have some idiosyncrasies, like not having my back to the door, but that came from the military drumming it into me through recurring anti-terrorism training.

“DON’T SIT WITH YOUR BACK TO THE DOOR. POSITION YOURSELF WHERE YOU CAN SEE ALL THE ROOM. ALWAYS SCAN YOUR ENVIRONMENT. AVOID SITTING IN CORNERS. ALWAYS KNOW THE LOCATIONS OF YOUR PRIMARY AND SECONDARY EXITS. TRY TO HAVE A THIRD ONE AVAILABLE. DO NOT FOLLOW PATTERNS. DON’T TAKE THE SAME ROUTE TO WORK. DO NOT FOLLOW A RECURRING, PREDICTABLE TIME-TABLE. ALWAYS EAT ALL OF YOUR VEGETABLES. BE SURE TO CLEAN YOUR PLATE. ALWAYS WEAR CLEAN UNDERWEAR. IS IT COLD OUT? MAYBE YOU SHOULD WEAR A JACKET.”

Sorry, I transitioned from hearing the military voice to hearing Mom’s voice. They often sound alike in tone and nature.

I wasn’t aware of how much I’d embraced the whole back to the door thing. It was my wife that noticed. She always acquiesced to my seating preference and I never gave it deliberate thought. Then, years after returning to America and leaving the military, we went to a restaurant. She casually mentioned, “I know you can’t see the door from there. I’ll watch it for you.”

I was affronted, indignant, outraged, I tell you. She laughed at my response. “You always have to see the door.”

“I do?”

I’ve been working on it since then. Here at the coffee shop, I make a huge effort to sit with my back to the door. Writing about it right now awakens my awareness. I feel extremely uncomfortable and a little vulnerable.

Fortunately, I can see the door reflected in my laptop’s screen.

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In the Night

my hands, my hands

your curves, your curves

your hands, your hands

my curves, my curves

our lips, our lips

past forgotten and remembered

brought up and pushed back

flaming and inflamed

in the night

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Today’s Theme Music

You call,

they call,

memories,

family,

friends,

keeping you up,

holding you back,

they won’t let go. 

Thinking of a new year and all your plans, one cannot help but remember the past. That’s what’s today’s song is about. And it has a good beat, easy to dance to and sing as you surf the wave of the day.

Here is Elle King with ‘Ex’s & Oh’s, 2015.

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