Old school

I don't have a single contemporary hot wireless device and somehow I am happy.

Some folks just don't get that. How could I possibly be happy and not be hip at the same time?

Well, let's see what I don't have and then we'll look at what I do. I don't have a smart phone. What I have is a fairly dumb phone with a battery that is failing. It takes photos, sends texts, probably has other functions but I never use them. I don't  have a personal computer of any kind although I do wish and dream about Apple products and hope to someday graduate to a really nice desktop model. I currently do not do much in the way of social media but know all about Twittering, Face Booking and the like. I don't download books or transfer stuff to a devices so I can listen to them every where I go. I don't do digital movies, which, for me, is a travesty anyway.

I don't have a lot of things that seemingly make life worth living, least ways by contemporary standards. But the funny thing is that I really think all those devices and the lifestyles and conveniences attached to them are really great and I am happy for those that have them, use them and make their lives more fulfilling because of them. That is, until someone's cell phone goes off at a concert. Or a tablet lights up in the middle of a movie. Or when someone comes up to the desk and talks and talks and talks to someone other than me on the phone all the while expecting me to serve them as if I am Redbox kiosk.

I think that someday I will move on past this old school way of thinking and get some of those new cool toys but then again, perhaps not, well, least ways, not right away.  I still like to spin my music on a turntable, watch my tunes unspool on my reel to reel. I still thrill to iron oxide tape and buy cassettes and VHS tapes whenever I see a title I don't own on disk. I still cook from scratch and avoid most convenience foods like the plague. I love to line dry sheets, I love to take public transit whenever I can. I still think reading a newspaper in it's paper and ink format to be one of the best reading experiences going. I love to get someplace slow, like on a train or on a bike or on foot. I love to explore someones mind with real letters, share thoughts over the phone or talk face to face. Emails are dandy but there is nothing quite the thrill of opening up a letter from someone you cherish.

I think that certain things, things not necessarily hip, are vital and real. I think of the things my grandmother taught me, manners and courtesies, "yes sir" and "yes ma'am", things that sometimes irk people because they worry that the things you say a reflection of their age and not one of respect. I think of tolerance, of discipline, etiquette, knowing that eating properly at a table, opening doors, of offering someone your seat, those marks of being well brought up, those gentlemanly arts, never go out of style.

I think of my Esteemed Companion in the midst of all this talk of old school courtesies and know that when she gets to sample them from me she knows that they are from the heart, that they are there to show her that she is worthy of that respect and care that goes along with those things that others might eschew to be too slow, clunky or old fashioned.

Whenever she thinks of me I hope she'll be able to say, "now there's a man who has the sense to be courteous, a man who knows how to hold his mud, how to open a car door, how to write a decent love letter, who knows when and where to ask the right questions, to be open and when to hold back. He is a gentleman through and through and after they were done making him they broke the mold".

I know that having all the cool toys and being hip and ironic are the hallmarks of a new age man., but baby, if I get to have a choice know that I will be old school till the day I take leave of this lovely place.

Care to take a stroll and leave those cell phones behind, anyone?

Salud!

Thankful for the small things

Sometimes, when you look at it through scratched lenses, you think, "man, it's a tough life". My prayers are rarely answered, and my requests aren't necessarily honored; my wishes aren't always fulfilled, and my dreams, well, let's say that that most of the time they remain unfinished only because the dawn comes and I wake from my slumber.

But really, that's so much nonsense. Life is hard sometimes, sure, what's life without a bit of rain? Without the rain you have no rainbows. Same for spiders, bogey men and unsolicited phone calls. Spiders make webs and eat pesky insects and leave their webs behind for me to groove on on misty fall days. Bogey men give a reason to cuddle close during scary movies or cling to my sweetheart on walks through the night streets. Unsolicited phone calls are a drag but when you are feeling a bit mean and a bit cranky they're just what the doctor ordered. Give back a bit of what you get.

My prayers. Whoa. What do I pray for anymore these days? A small parcel of happiness? Not one wrapped in bows or paid for on credit. Not a big slug of it, either. Small doses here and there, thanks. A sincere smile. A quarter on the sidewalk. A long sought for record in the ten cent cassette bin. Good news on the phone. My children, healthy, strong, happy. My health. Those things are prayers answered enough.

I suppose I don't make too many requests these days either. Quiet in the late hours. A bit of meaningful work at the branch. That the toilet is flushed and that beds are made. Someone else washing the dishes would be nice once in a while, too. But in requesting we must remember to only ask for so much. And to honor those requests made of you.

Wishes. Ah, wishes. I remember when they were aided by shooting stars, or petals on a flower. When I would think really hard and believe that those things I wished for would come true. Wishes have grown up quite a bit since then. I can wish for world peace, for an election to play out favorably. I can wish for a beautiful sunset, or a long morning in a warm bed. I can wish for a few extra dollars to play with on payday, or even wish for something like love to be as beautiful as I think it should be. I wish for many things: my children's happiness, for peaceful resolutions, for hearts to heal. Those kinds of wishes are not necessarily easy to fulfill, but they are wonderful behold when they are.

But my dreams. Now there I excel. I dream of many things, not too much unlike Rip Van Winkle did before he ran into that strange bowling game up in the hollow and got his priorities straightened out. Mind you, I'm not out flying kites or napping under trees when there's work to be done, but I can relate to the desire to while away the hours, to play with my kids, to see rainbows on the horizon instead of storm clouds. I dream that my life will be a positive note in the lives of my children, that whoever I end up with as a partner cherishes me as much as I cherish her. I dream of a good life..not necessarily well appointed, but comfortable. I dream of happiness, but again, of the small "h" variety. Little dreams. A nice garden. Walls painted in pleasing colors. Of a trip now and then. Of a pantry full and a stove burgeoning with delights for family and friends alike.

Small things.

I suppose those prayers and requests and wishes and dreams are answered and fullfilled everyday in small ways. For that I can be thankful for, and I am.

Salud!

Storytellers guild

We are getting ready to wrap up our summer reading program here on the coast and so far it has been a mighty good one. I came onto this post last year with a program in place and it was not quite what I was used to, but, hey, it wasn't mine to control just to monitor. Programs were attended, prizes given out, treats eaten. Attendance is everything. This year it's been a bit different, a bit more like what I am used to: reading logs, gauges of measurement on the walls, programs reaching far and wide and an ice cream social coming up on the heels of it all.

But I was able, in the midst of all the children's librarian planning, to slip in a couple things I felt were important to do. I did fit in a moderately well used Farmer's Market Bingo program. I like what they around the county and what they represent and wanted a tool to somehow get kids down to the market, interact with the growers, the vendors, all that.With the program theme revolving around food I felt it was a good match. But my big wrap up for the summer, since the idea of outdoor "drive in" style movies didn't really fly well here on the cool in the evenings coast, was to push for storytelling in the park. The park across the street from the branch, in the end, was booked but I managed, here at press time, to secure two tellers who promised to share their art with family and kids here at the branch later on in August. I am beyond pleased as it is bringing back to me a bit of my early library career history. Once a storyteller, always a storyteller.

I have been fascinated with the art going a long time back. Maybe it was the sea stories I heard back in my days with the fleet. Maybe it was all the tales my parents and grandparents told of 1940's LA and of Pancho Villa and growing up in Mexico during the Revolution. Maybe it was my penchant for cinema, for good stories, for a tale well told. No matter, I was sent off to workshops right at the beginning of my time doing children's work and thought to myself, man, I could do that, too. And so I did. Gathered up tales by Lang and the Grimm Brothers, learned a few good paper folding stories, picked up a few magic tricks and songs and I was ready to share my tales, too.

It was a happy time, that first librarian assignment. I had a great manager who believed in the power of good programming, was game to let me do whatever I conjured up, so long as it reflected well with the branch and brought up our monthly statistics. I kicked around the idea of a guild with colleagues and friends, and after a few months of fits and starts, got together the first incarnation of the South Coast Storytellers Guild at the Costa Mesa Branch Library. Those first few months felt as if we wasn't going to launch but by our final show in August Susan, Nancy and Jim and I were able to drag in a full house which pleased me and my manager immensely.

I took that talent on the road and performed all around the region, worked good times with Make a Wish, with church groups, at birthday parties. Went up north to Oregon and started another guild, the Jefferson State Storytellers with the Ashland Branch children's librarian. Did storytelling in the park, a llama backpacking trip, told tales in a staff gather for the State Librarian, hung out with magicians and built up a crew who went on to do great things. By the time I got to the Puget Sound I was almost ready to stop awhile as the competition was heavy and storytelling began it's shift from an small regional, ethnically tinged, locally cultural art form into a major source of entertainment, bucks and egos. Did a bit of telling with Everett and then, years later, after disillusionment and much too long of a sabbatical, began to tell tales to my kids. Back to the roots of it all, a blazing fire, good mood lighting and a fist full of tales to share with wonder filled children.

The idea of the guild came about mainly from my connection with the regional Renaissance Faire but it eventually took off and went it's own way. I looked them up this morning and was happy to see that they are still associated with Costa Mesa and are still performing and conducting workshops regularly in Orange County. And while it has been years since I have stood in front of an audience and wove a tale I have to admit that this latest effort to gather tellers at the library to tell stories to family and friends sounds like a mighty good time, but more a possibility to possibly enter into the art once again.

Once a teller, always a teller, indeed!

Salud!

A bit of contemporary South Coast Storytellers Guild scheduling:

http://www.storyguild.org/2.html

Old posts amidst the new words

"What's with all the old posts, Accumulate Man?"

I was sifting through my blog posts the other day, looking for things to share with my Esteemed Companion, who is now an avid reader of this wild and wacky blog and thought, goodness, there are over 600 drafts in my files, why do I have so much stuff in there? Why hide it when I have a new reader eager to see what my life was like five or so years ago?

Yes, it was a bit of slog at first, dredging up all those old worlds that were so cleverly illuminated by those tired old words. Those posts brought up days that were truly hard, tough times, filled with too much change, too much sorrow, too much, too much, but then, when all is said and done, is the basis of what I am all about now, today. We cannot change in a world filled with same old, same old, it requires a down right revolution at times, times filled with paradigm shifts, hard decisions and a ton of self cleansing unloading. Hold onto too much and your craft goes down with you in it. Create a lighter craft, get more buoyancy and learn to sail further, safer, longer, faster.

I found that these old words still work as they are filled with mental imagery and times that I almost forgot about, times that I happily shelved and stopped thinking about. It's good to remember old times, but better, to place those freshly reviewed times into a sort of working memory file and then keep on moving forward.

My Esteemed Companion is welcome to review these things as she can see where I have been and better understand where I am coming from. The rest of the world, too, can weigh in and see if this wild and wacky Accumulate Man is worth following.

You have so far. Stick around, read awhile and know that only better things are up ahead and around the bend!

Salud!

A good pie settles everything

Standing under the stars last night I was given a gift of grace and I'll be forever thankful for it.

We've had an interesting time of it lately, my dear Esteemed Companion and I. We had been entrenched in a long slugging match with others, something not of our choosing, a truly fruitless event, a much too time consuming slice of  what I've come to call The Covelo Crisis, one that, for a moment it seemed, was out to wreck our wee fragile craft. But being that our  hearts are young, that our vision is set, like good lovers should be, on the future and not on the past, we were able to dispel the shadows that have been lurking about and instead do fantastic things with a day. Berries were picked, a library was run, supper was barbequed, Legos were played with, ice cream runs and pies and laughter were shared, all of it, happiness and joy and silliness, were all brought back into the room, set up and played with as if those things, our hallmarks, had never left.

But it was under the stars later on, after the pie and the chat and a bit of sweetness, that made me realize how wonderful and mysterious the ways of the world are.We were standing under timeless skies, under stars and planets and moons and suns that had seen everything and remembered nothing and now there we were, throwing our mere mortals selves into the mix. Would we pass beneath those celestial bodies, like so many others, unheralded, or would we somehow find the way to have our story told and remembered? I couldn't quite get out what I was trying to say that night but I think that being remembered, having our tale told, was what I trying to find my way to.And what better way to have that story told is to show the world that what we have...shining, bright, filled with happiness and joy, something unmatched and unseen in this neck of the woods in a long, long time....is worth commenting on, remembering, sharing, talking about.

We are more than mere public servants, more than parents, more than children of our people, more than just folks out and about in our communities. We are purveyors of an important message and that message is that if you are sincere and approach life with joy, respect, passion and grace your gifts to the world will be reciprocated. And luck, if one's luck holds and finds its way through the thickets of all that its normal and wild and strange in this world, is finding that one singular person who recognizes this prized self that we hold so dear, that finds that connection, that balance, to all the things that are worth cherishing in this world.

Ah, to this grand kind of luck! Thank god for it for we seemed to have found in the other someone who is willing to share in kind, piece by piece, word by word, these quiet and excited exchanges of equity, selflessness and wonder that we thought were lost to us.

Grace is in the little things, the unbidden blessings, the ones that sneak in under the stars and answer the question, Why Me? with more than mere declarations of love, but more declarations of recognition, of acceptance, of belief in the other.

In the midst of the grand silliness we were dealing with it was easy to set aside the simple things that filled us with joy and instead concentrate on all the things that were true ship wreckers. Pie, a bit of play, fewer words, a lot of quiet, somehow restored all that was missing, supplied us with the kind of grace we needed to move comfortably once again in the world.

Here's to gifts of grace found only under the stars on a practically moonless night in a grove deep in the heart of Covelo. Here's to those things that make life, this one and only pass of ours under the stars, truly worth living.

Salud!

The old pirate's trading card!

Not everyday that Topps passes up an opportunity like this. Maybe they'll wake up and smell the book paste before it's too late.

I know that Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron and Mickey Mantle all have their respective values as far as baseball cards are concerned, their ball playing histories aside. I know, too, that the Disneyland bubblegum cards that I collected as a boy are mighty precious to Disneyania collectors these days as well. Heck, there's not a commercially minded individual out there worth his or her salt without a trading card contract these days. Face it, trading cards are good clean fun, help promote destinations and sports and hobbies, and helps to keep the chicle gatherers of the world in business, too.

So instead of lamenting that my image can't be swapped at the local card store I decided to do the next best thing: make my own trading card. Sure, it's not wrapped up in fancy metallic paper, and those that need it are not going to get that hard stick of noxious flavored bubble gum along with it. But you are going to get a thrill, that much I'll grant you. "How's that, Accumulate Man? What kind of thrill are you talking about?" you may ask.

Well, to make the trading card splash even bigger I joined up with the powerhouse Flickr group Librarian Trading Cards. Hot bunch of folks, let me tell you. Better than a bus load of ball players. Heavy hitters. Techno folks, first amendment rights advocates, brainiacs and book geeks and wild cats all around. Who could resist trading cards of such a motley group? Not me, buddy. I posted my card right away.

No home run info, no stats, heck, no clues to where to buy a great pizza or what my favorite color is. The information posted is consciously vacant of hard particulars and is made purposefully vague. But it's the image, sport's fans, that matters. The old pirate is finally unmasked! Contact Interpol, the FBI. Post it around town when you put up those missing dog posters. Hide it from the kids as it will promote nightmares. It's there to admire or villify, but no matter, because now when you see out and about in town you can say "Hi there, Accumulate Man! Loved that snazzy suit!"

Salud!

Cooking with Jane: Don't piss off the cook!

It was a cornucopia kind of cooking weekend. Food fairly flowed out of that kitchen of mine. Chalk that up to one cancelled trip, a couple nice grocery runs, a wealth of wine in the basement and bunch of cookbooks dying to be used. The weather helped quite a bit, that's for certain, for rain and wind and uncertainty made being inside a cozy and practical thing to do.

Not that The Boy and I didn't get in our walks or our errands. There was just enough sunshine and just enough cash flow to make that part of our weekend easy, fun and necessary. But eating well is necessary, too, especially when your heart is heavy, your mind is preoccupied and cooking becomes the only way to banish the demons from the house.

Worked out pretty much okay. The demons were pretty much held at bay right up until dinner time Tuesday night. That's when they rose up and snapped at The Boy for lollygagging. Too bad for him. He now is in charge of dinner dishes for life. But I am getting ahead of myself.

It seemed that the whole weekend was about groceries or shopping or cooking. Friday after work was a major store run, and in ended with a nice run in with a big pan of pork chops. Saturday, chock loaded with meaningful runs out in town to banish the ghosts of road trips not taken, started off with homemade french fries with garlic and parmesan and Cajun spices. Our travels took us out and about but brought us back home in time to whip up not just one but two extra large homemade pizzas.

Sunday was a better day, no shadows or misdeeds coloring our good fortune, just a good walk, a bit of yardwork well done, and nice round of Mexican food pulled off with aplomb. Monday seemed to be more of the same...a high level of enthusiasm getting work done, for curry and for pulling off a wet, late afternoon walk. There was even energy left over to pull off a poundcake recipe found in Donna Hay's The New Cook cookbook. Yup, thank goodness for Hershey's kisses. Who needs frosting when you can let the cake do the melting for you?

Monday. Ah, Monday. Coffee in the morning, a nice antipasto for lunch. A nice bit of experimentation with roasted herbs and chilies that resulted in a firey adobo sauce. A bit more time and patience resulted in a grand pot of Boston Baked Beans and a even bigger pan of scalloped potatoes for dinner. A quickly simmered pot of peas rounded out the menu. Nice supper to be had all the way around.

But tired was a word that was going round and round in my head that needed to be fully examined and experienced. There had been too many other words spread around that weekend about weekend drives not taken, too many talks about cats not purchased, too much worry about money. Too many nights in a row where waking and reading and movies took the place of sleep. Too much disappointment about not even seeing a bit of your shadow about. So what did I do when The Boy failed to answer the dinner call? I fumed, pouted and went upstairs to read and listen to music. Left him to eat his supper alone. Then came downstairs and came down on him hard for blowing off his one basic duty: the dishes. Pure silliness, but there you go.

So, I ate a bit humble pie with my coffee for breakfast this morning. That and a big bowl of leftover curry and rice. Love that homemade curry powder. Love that whole homemade thing. So lunch, what do want to eat for lunch? Maybe pork chops marinated in adobo sauce? Maybe a nice reprise of last night's dinner? Maybe I should just quit wearing myself out in the kitchen and try my hand at "boily" bags and microwaving for awhile? Only kidding there, Jane, only kidding!

Salud!

Resources:

Donna Hay, The New Cook: Pound Cake

Reed Hearon, La Parilla: Adobo Sauce

Betty Fussell: I Hear America Cooking: Bean Town Beans

James McNair: The New Pizza Book: ideas

Sunset Magazine, October 2008: Petco Field Fries

Let's all slow down a bit, shall we?

I had a great things to do list going for the day: sweep and mop out the kitchen, scrub the bathtub, do a bit of cooking, take on the back house in order to get that pigsty into shape before spring break. I knew that I wanted to get in a bit of baking, as I've had a half a pound of butter sitting out for a day getting soft. I also knew that I had to crank out a loaf of bread or two, as I've been pretty low on cash and figured that kneading a loaf of bread would reduce my need for bread at the dinner table tonight.

But wouldn't you know it! The sun came out today and that completely and totally blew up any and all initiative to get things done, least ways, for the time being. It wasn't quite a "go out and fly a kite" kind of moment, but that sunshine did tell me that I was way behind on one of my annual things to do list points, and that was to go walking as often as possible. I figured a good brisk trot down to St Vinnies to check out the day old bread scene would qualify, so off I went. That is, after a presspot of coffee, and a small breakfast, and a chat on the phone with The Painter. Priorities are important.

But it was good thing, that walk. I love that my car is down, and I love that I have no cashflow at the moment. I truly am glad for that credit card moratorium, and I infinitely happy that The Boy has a weekend off in Boise so that I can have a weekend to myself. When he is here I feel a distinct obligation to get out and about and do something as not to squander our time together. Today I felt all those old "selfish" muscles were being stretched. I didn't mind that all too much, but it did remind me of that very long year I had last year that I got to know myself again. And that was one year, while instructive, that I am not too keen on reliving again any time soon.

So I took my walk and realized that the little trot that I had planned was not going to be enough. Somehow I have let my walking jones atrophy, and I knew that I needed to break it in again with a longer walk in the sun. I took in the sights at St Vinnies, and wrestled for a moment with a Vita-mix commercial mixer for a hundred bucks. I can picture what it goes for new but then I knew that I had to come to terms with the fact that I had no way of paying for it or no way of getting it home. Thank goodness for both of those things. But I must admit I did do some psychic jujitsu on a mom and her kids over a Tupperware popsicle maker. They hemmed and hawed over it and finally put it down and walked away. It was all of a quarter and pretty much new. I can see them now in the summer time, arguing over which flavor popsicles to get on a shopping run at Safeway. Too bad for them. I figure I will send it along to my kids in Boise next week. It's too cold at the moment to appreciate it, but come summer it will be a godsend.

The sun drew me out of the store and down the highway and up towards Goodwill. I had a buck and two quarters left to spend for the day. Amazing what you can find to buy with that kind jingle burning a hole in your pocket. I didn't really care for hauling much home, so I spent it on cassettes, which of course I have precious few of. Twelve tapes, a buck thirty. I felt good and took that bag filled with a popsicle maker and loose tapes up over the highway, past the high school and down the road towards home.

What I loved more than anything about that walk was how cozy it made this little town feel. Sure, it's a small town to begin with, both in size and population, but when you work close to home, spend your money close to home and keep a lot of your activities near by as well, well, you tend to run into folks that you know on a pretty regular basis. I ran into Ross, my local used book merchant, and Ernie, my old barber and Rod, a landlord and former owner of a downtown pawnshop. I saw my United Way handler, Jo, pass me by on the highway, waved at a number of shopkeepers as I passed, said hello to clerks here and there, and checked out the pulse of the local economy as I walked.

I found out that that new juice bar and vegetarian restaurant is now open on Bay Street, that Pedro's Sombrero Taqueria is now serving an all you can eat buffet, and that the local cutlery shop is going out of business. I got to walk in the sun and feel the heat, check out the lay of the land and appreciate the gleam of sunlight on the water. It was a good walk and has helped make for a mighty good day.

Sometimes those things that we think are true hassles turn out to be one mighty fine gift. I may not have had a car to drive or a bank account to exercise this weekend, but my heart is a lot happier and my soul a bit lighter for the lack of it. All well and good. Hope your day was swell as well.

Salud!

"It's bad times"

"Everything must go". A true sign of the times.

I will have to think twice about dickering at a garage sale these days. For years it was the staple event of our summer weekends, that is until I started working for systems that plugged me into Saturdays on a regular basis. I have to admit that was a good thing for someone to do to me. The whole summer went by this year and I never once stopped at a garage sale.

But maybe, right now, I should. I know don't have much cash to spare these days but maybe it's time to spread a bit of that wealth around. Maybe my gas bill will show up a week late, or maybe my grocer will feel me tighten up at the register, but I know that if I don't drop some real cash around town somebody in my neighborhood might feel that pinch a bit deeper than I, or the grocer, or the gas man ever will .

Reading the article posted below gave me my own California foreclosure flashback. I lived through a big boom back there in the early nineties, one that had housing prices skyrocketing out of sight and folks scrambling to secure loans in order to get in on the next "big thing". I was no different. I had a GI Bill loan burning a hole in my pocket, I had a chance to buy a nice old house in a quaint neighborhood, and to top it all off, I had no sense at all about the realities of monthly household finances. Some things never change, or sometimes they change for the better. With the purchase of that house I learned a very hard financial lesson, yes indeed.

In those days I was somewhat young, fairly stupid, flush with hubris, and very puffed up with myself. I just having secured my MLS from UCLA and had just married my latest wife, one with a degree and a nice paycheck to boot. The house we were renting in Santa Ana was poised and ready to go on the market. It was a charmer, an old 1920's bungalow, recently remodeled, freshly painted and very nicely landscaped. A real beaut, but a very pricey beaut. I still remember thinking how cool it was to be able to buy a house and not have to put a down payment on it. All I had to do was show that I was working, plonk down that GI Bill guarantee that five years worth of service bought me, and viola! instant home ownership! I never really looked at what that house was going to cost me on a month to month basis. I was too enamored with my success and what thought I had. I was looking at rainbows and ignoring the rain. IN the end what I had was a dream resting on shifting sands but no amount of convincing would get me to see it.

An old house is an old house, no matter how pretty it might seem from the outside. The porch pillars had dry rot, the furnace had a gas leak. The bathroom was too small, thermostat didn't work come winter, the pvc piping and the pop-up sprinkler heads didn't cooperate in the summer, and the closet space, which seemed so ample when we were renters, just didn't take us very far once we were owners. The bloom was off the rose almost from the start. Too bad, as it was a mighty cute house.

But the biggest problem was the not so much the size of the house but the size of the payment. I know that 1800 dollars a month is a lot of money to blow on rent today, but it was a mountain of cash back then. And it was even more once my relationship fell apart, when I was saddled with that monstrous payment alone. No amount of garage sales could have staved off defeat back in those days. One month went to the bills, one month went to the mortgage, the next month went directly into panic and by the time I made the house payment again I knew that all was lost, and so was the house.

I have to wonder if I had started putting everything I owned out the door if it would have mattered. I know that whoever bought the house that year got a better deal than I did, especially if they got it through an auction. But I know, too, that whoever bought it lost money on that thing. Housing prices in the Southland were way too high in those days, and the market tanked hard. It recovered about five years later and is once again doing what it did to me and countless thousands of others seventeen years ago. It's falling out of the sky like a burning Zeppelin and taking down the "American dream".

I suppose I'm lucky. I have a house I bought on the cheap. I put it back together and refinanced when the rates were right. My "rent" is low and I can afford it. You would think after all I went through I would have learned some sort of valuable lesson. I didn't then but I sure am now. I still wonder what could happen to my house if things went suddenly south again, the way they did in SoCal. Because of those days I play everything close to my chest and close to home.

Experience has shown me that it's only one short hop from success to "everything must go". Yeah, I know all too well. I've been there.

Salud!

The garage sales of Manteca:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/25/us/25garage.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin

"The lives of the dead"

We're already talking about Dia de los Muertos at work, kicking around the idea of setting up a display with all our cool celebratory skulls and paper cutouts and masks and all. I think it's great to bring our patrons into that very sacred and yet very public celebration. It's important not only for cross cultural purposes, but to help those that are afraid of, for whatever reason, the Halloween/All Souls/All Saints Day festivals to live alittle, celebrate life for the moment and celebrate the lives of those people that came before them.

I still remember the night being alive with the scent of five foot josh sticks when I was day tripping in Singapore years ago. My ship pulled in during the Hungry Ghost Festival and the world was alive with the spirits of the dead. I know that when I put up an altar in my home for All Souls Day that I feel the house become alittle bit more alive with the ghosts of my parents and abuelos and all the wild Mexicans and border crossing Indians and Southern fools out of my past. The house becomes damn near crowded with the drunkenwhoops and etheral nortenos and wails of remorse. But I like it that way. Fill my life with meaning, show me the way through your mistakes, your joys, your discontents, your pleasures. Let me show you a good time, don't let that enchilada plate go cold, don't let that Budwieser get too warm. Eat, while I spin big band and CCR and mariachi and burn incense and candles and the midnight hour in your memory.

So I read with interest the last chapter of The Things They Carried. It was a paean the dead, a remembrance, a love letter. It was a moment of celebration, celebrating love and life and loss. Unless those who came before us were monsters and without a shread of redemptive qualities about them, how can it not be a bittersweet moment when we set up those photos and candles and momentos? Those things are as important, but not as important as the stories we tell about our people, for without the stories, without having someone to pass the stories down to, those photographs become as meaningless as tombstones in an abandoned graveyard. Someone stumbling on those photographs someday might ask "Who those people? What ever became of them? What kinds of lives did they lead? Were they good? Kind? Wicked? Or were they alittle bit of all of that?"

Tim O'Brien put stories about the dead this way:

"But this too is true: stories can save us....in a story, which is a kind of dreaming, the dead sometimes smile and sit up and return to the world....The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way the memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in the head. There is the illusion of aliveness" from The Things They Carried

I am ready once again for October to come, to celebrate my people. In the meantime I want to do something even more important, and that is I want to celebrate life.

As Tim O'Brien and his comrades would say, there it is.

Salud!