"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
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Saturday, August 3, 2013
"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!
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!
An appreciation for whistling
"I really believe that if there's any kind of God, he wouldn't be in any one of us -- not you, not me, but just this space in between. If there's some magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone else, sharing something. Even if it's almost impossible to succeed, but who cares, the answer must be in the attempt." Before Sunrise“You know you don't have to act with me, Steve. You don't have to say anything, and you don't have to do anything. Not a thing. Oh, maybe just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and... blow.” To Have and Have Not
Two nights, two different films, two completely satisfying moments of pure cinematic delight. Last night was a crisp, clean copy of To Have and Have Not, tonight was a pan and scan but fresh VHS copy of Before Sunset. If there ever were two movies to bookend a Valentine's Day Weekend film fest, it would be these two. One film filled with classic lines, rejoinders and double entendres, the other a wish fulfillment that arrived in real time on the streets of Paris and finally answered the "what if?" question left behind in the recently viewed Before Sunrise.
Once again I thrilled to the "you know how to whistle, don't you Steve?" moment between that young, fresh and feisty Lauren Bacall and a lovestruck, wizened, chuckling Humphrey Bogart, but even more important was listening to the Celine character in Before Sunset sing her waltz tempo love song to the long lost Jessie, a song filled with heart, soul and not just a little bit of longing. Certainly one thing those two movies share, incredible moments of song. Bacall's "How Little We Know" duet with Hoagy Carmichael is a complete and total knockout!
Two timeless films that speak to the optimist in all of us. Laugh, cry, thrill to the joy of wonderful film making and know that in movies like these time is meaningless when it comes to fulfilling fated love. How grand! When can we un-spool them again?
Salud!
A word about To Have and Have Not:
http://www.allmovie.com/cg/avg.dll?p=avg&sql=1:50157
A bit about Before Sunset:
http://www.allmovie.com/cg/avg.dll?p=avg&sql=1:303145
"Bird Show"
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Two years ago Punkin and I ran down to Portland to catch the Saturday Evening Bird Show. "Bird show". That was her term, but funny how apt it was, and what an event it turned out to be.I had only heard about it only a few days earlier at the Kitsap Audubon monthly meeting. It was at the beginning of the meeting, that part where folks could share their latest birding events or sightings. One of the officers had just come back from a weekend in Portland with his wife. His wife handled the shopping part, he handled all the birding events. But that whole vortex thing the Vaux Swifts went through really spurred on my interest. I had to see this flock going down the chimney drain thing for myself.
Well, not by myself. I had to take Punkin. She was, at that time, all in love with her Papa and anything, as far as outings were concerned, was good with her. We fit in a stop at Goodwill for a bag full of books, a quick stop at Krispy Kreme for a bag full of fresh glazed donuts and then played innumerable games of sugar induced I-Spy as we sped down the road towards Portland.
We got there with plenty of time to spare. The Chapman elementary school site is right up against a city park, so playground time was in order. The school is set the middle of a somewhat toney neighborhood, nicely nestled up against a hillside, providing a somewhat expansive theater type viewing arrangement, so all city view seats in the field were good ones. What struck me most was the grand cross section of Portland's citizenry that turned out for the gig. Sure, for them it's an every night extravanza in September, but for those of us new to the deal it was a pretty far out way to blow a Saturday night.
The hillside was covered with picnic blankets, families out with friends, wild packs of punks with their hair all spiked up, hillside sliders with cardboard sheets, wagons and snow sleds. It was full carnival effect, a wild city fair with Mother Nature the star of the show. Meanwhile, the sun headed towards the west and I had to wonder what the hubbub was all about. The occasion siting of a Vaux Swift would send the crowd into rapturous applause, but as we got closer to that down-the=drain moment the birds began to gather in mass. First close in to the school, then winging their way out over the river, to return and depart over and over again, gaining in numbers, bringing in hawks, upping the cheers and commotion in the crowd to near pandemonium.
But it was that moment when the swifts started to go down the chimney where the crowd went completely and totally wild. You would think that those bird were practiced performers out to please a crowd the way they gathered and joined together in sky, Busby Berkley style, for their final dance of the evening. They gathered together and swirled and within moments nearly all had disappeared down the old brick chimney, a genie bottle in reverse. A few hawks darted about trying for snacks, and more than a handful of swifts had to flit off and find lodging elsewhere, but it was a performance and a half and the crowd roared as the swifts finished up and retired for the night.
Punkin still refers to that night as one of her "most special" moments and asks fairly regularly to go back to watch it all over again. I recently read about a couple of sites here in Washington that favor largely in the Swift's annual migration story, but what was even more exciting was to read about a school in Monroe that has a big "bird show" happening, only because Monroe is much closer to me than Portland. I don't mind the two and a half hour run to Portland only because I like to drop into Powell's Books to pick up some some quality used titles and I like to grab some pizza at Rocco's for that long drive home. But when time and money and gas prices are working in the favor of a shorter trip, who am I to argue?
This go 'round I will be taking The Boy, who I think, after hearing about his sister's adventures forever now, is game to go along and experience the event for himself. It's a happening that everyone, not just birders, should witness at least once in their lives. So, see you in Monroe. Maybe we can even do a stop at Krispy Kreme, too, just for old time's sake.
Salud!
Chapman School, Portland: Home of the real deal "bird show":
http://audubonportland.org/local-birding/swiftwatch/swifts
Washington Vaux Swift page:
http://vauxhappening.org/Vauxs_Happening/Vauxs_Happening_Home.html
The Seattle Times article that rekindled my interest:
http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2008189290_swifts19m0.html
David Carmack Lewis' page: What incredible paintings, including the one posted above:
http://davidcarmacklewis.com/portfolio/
Soft grey rain
Looking out through the window today I have to wonder where that weather pattern went to, the one that shed rain and cancelled my big porch project so easily on Saturday. I woke and heard the rain falling softly on the roof, and came downstairs aching for more sleep but knowing I had things to do. Taking a look out the window confirmed that "doing" that day was going to be different than what was on my things to do list. I was pleased and not in a small way.Rainy day activities such as movie watching or reading are part of the "standard operating procedure" thing here in the Northwest, but it wasn't in the forecast for the weekend last week. I had a raft of things to accomplish, all of which were outdoor related. I had to scrape and primer and repaint the porch, the one that was so nicely done only a year a go. But then there was a handful of other tasks, mostly revolving around those pesky plants and vines and trees that were trimmed back only a month or so ago. I suppose we haven't hit fall yet and trimming is just one part of the deal of home ownership. I had things to put away and berries to pick and wood to haul and stack from a friends house. Yep, a ton of stuff. A good two days worth. Then the rains came. And all that was put aside for another time.
Not that it rained all weekend, just that Saturday, but it was enough to put me in the long run fall/winter/spring mindset. Seems like months since I've been there, in that "where's my couch, where's my novel, where's the comforter hiding?" kind of mindset that seems so darn natural around here nine months out of the year. So, that's what I did with the meat of my day, after I helped my boy with his science homework and sent off a handful of bills. I grabbed an older William Gibson novel, Pattern Recognition, a large mug of water and a comfy cotton throw. Plopped myself on the couch. Read. Napped. Got up to pull together two distinct and fully wonderful meals: green chili enchiladas/sopa de arroz/black beans and later on, a pasta dish with loaded with vegis and meat and nice cheesy cream sauce. Not much more than an ample slice of peace, quiet and nap induced serenity. How nice is that?
Let me tell you, pretty darned nice.
Salud!
The joy of sick days
Well, make that "sick day", singular. Let's also add to that that one of our volunteers called me "Andromeda Strain" for coming in and dragging along my healthy virus after me during last weekend's working party. I should have looked him straight in the eye and corrected that. "That's MISTER Andromeda Strain to you, buddy!". Or something like that. All I could do was laugh. Laugh and then cough up a handful of lung.
At that point I knew it was time to go home. But going home in the middle of the work day is tricky. You must display some sort of "sign". that you need to go. It could have been that "serious face" that my colleague pointed out, or maybe that "flush" that my boss spied, that did it. But no matter. I said "to hell with it" and went home to bed.
Sort of.
I had to hit up the market for citrus fruit and assorted grocery items first. Then I had to step into Goodwill next door and due to that timely stepping found music and movies for my "convalescence". Some bed rest. By the time I got home and sorted everything out, including a snack, it was damn near time for The Boy to come for his lunch. Which I ate along side him. Starve a cold, feed a fever. Or it is starve a fever, feed a cold? No matter, it was leftovers and we both grooved. Especially him. He got the rest of that afternoon off at home.
So, what did this sick boy do the rest of the day? Stayed in bed and rested. Made a big difference. Finished up The Hacienda by Lisa Teran. Started The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Chabon. Popped in Stripes with Bill Murray. Funny how many comedies Ivan Reitman has made that I've seen. Seen recently. But finished up with a film that was meant to warm up my system. The Punisher, another great Marvel comic to the screen gun fest. "What? No cookbooks?" you might ask. Not last night. Saved myself for Thursday and the bibliography I generated for the upcoming food program we're going to have at the library. Attached it to Cookstalk! More than made up for my lack of cookbooks on Wednesday.
Ooops. That was a lie. Found a risotto cookbook yesterday, too, and dived into that as well. Risotto. Looks easy peasy to an old pilaf maker. Add that arborio rice to the ol' shopping list.
So that sick day, rather, sick afternoon, served me well. I just felt that after ten days straight labor that my body, which has had that hitchhiking virus along for well over a week now, needed a bit of down time to rest it up for the upcoming weekend. We all need our strength for the weekends, eh?
Salud!
At that point I knew it was time to go home. But going home in the middle of the work day is tricky. You must display some sort of "sign". that you need to go. It could have been that "serious face" that my colleague pointed out, or maybe that "flush" that my boss spied, that did it. But no matter. I said "to hell with it" and went home to bed.
Sort of.
I had to hit up the market for citrus fruit and assorted grocery items first. Then I had to step into Goodwill next door and due to that timely stepping found music and movies for my "convalescence". Some bed rest. By the time I got home and sorted everything out, including a snack, it was damn near time for The Boy to come for his lunch. Which I ate along side him. Starve a cold, feed a fever. Or it is starve a fever, feed a cold? No matter, it was leftovers and we both grooved. Especially him. He got the rest of that afternoon off at home.
So, what did this sick boy do the rest of the day? Stayed in bed and rested. Made a big difference. Finished up The Hacienda by Lisa Teran. Started The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Chabon. Popped in Stripes with Bill Murray. Funny how many comedies Ivan Reitman has made that I've seen. Seen recently. But finished up with a film that was meant to warm up my system. The Punisher, another great Marvel comic to the screen gun fest. "What? No cookbooks?" you might ask. Not last night. Saved myself for Thursday and the bibliography I generated for the upcoming food program we're going to have at the library. Attached it to Cookstalk! More than made up for my lack of cookbooks on Wednesday.
Ooops. That was a lie. Found a risotto cookbook yesterday, too, and dived into that as well. Risotto. Looks easy peasy to an old pilaf maker. Add that arborio rice to the ol' shopping list.
So that sick day, rather, sick afternoon, served me well. I just felt that after ten days straight labor that my body, which has had that hitchhiking virus along for well over a week now, needed a bit of down time to rest it up for the upcoming weekend. We all need our strength for the weekends, eh?
Salud!
Dia de los Muertos
I know that Halloween is coming, if anything, from the candy displays and costume sales at the local supermarkets and discount emporiums. Freddies had a Halloween themed corner by the front door this last Sunday at 40 percent off filled with ticky tacky things to place in the home to help celebrate the season. The second hands this month were filled with all the same kinds of junk folks bought at Freddies last year and the year before that to help fill up their doorways and tables and such to help make them more "scary", to help put people in the mood to unload scads of candy and don rubber masks and mangle pumpkins. It's a jolly time of year and I love it so, not only for the sacred right to scare children witless but because I love the colors of the season, the scary movie rite of passage that I put my children through, and the peaceful melding of the pagan and the Catholic issues that seem to battle within me all year long.
Bringing the Dia de los Muertos celebration into my home is a relatively new thing for me. I know that we didn't give that celebration a nod when I was a boy. It was enough just to do all the "traditional" Anglo things that went along with our suburban lives. My mom shed her Mexican-ness long before I ever had any inkling that she was one, and so my connection to all those kinds of things only came to me sideways when I went to visit my grandparents. I can still picture an altar of sorts set up in my grandparents' bedrooms, with votives burning year round and a multitude of saints adorned by their various charms and flowers. But in my house it was enough, it seemed, to do tamales once a year at Christmastime and to embrace the foods of my ancestors. Yep, that's as far as it went. Celebrating the dead just wasn't done and it certainly wasn't hip.
But Dia de los Muertos is, that for certain. And by doing it I'm not trying to take the "hip" road, that's for certain. No, the reason why I break out the photos and get out my calaveras and things is because I want to do right by those that came before me. I like to set up that altar because, love them or not, somebody's got to give them their due.
Mind you, Halloween is still a big deal in my house. The Boy and I will certainly be doing the candy thing, don costumes, set up that nasty cobweb stuff. I have a plastic cauldron filled with carnival type toys and chocolate Kisses and such to hand out. We'll set up some sort of freaky deaky thing on the porch, not enough to scare kids to the core but enough to make the younger ones who make the climb quake a bit. That part of it should be there, it's the scaring season.
But inside the house, on a cabinet by the kitchen, I will set up my altar for the year. Old photos will be dragged out and set up. One of the old plaster saints from my grandfather's collection will be brought out. I'll be sure to cut the last flowers from the garden and set them up just so, and cook a meal with some favorite items to set out as well. I'm sure that I have beer or two in the fridge for Senior, as well as a pack of Marlboros, and I'll be sure to place some chocolate and some sunflower seeds out for my mom, too (maybe she can get back to smoking whereever she's at these days, who knows). Maybe I'll get in the mood and bake something that looks like those skulls I've seen photos of, the kind that they make down in Mexico, or maybe not, but at the very least I'll try my hand at some paper cutting. It is a celebration, you know.
It'll be simple, but with one thing apparent: those folks, my mom, my dad, all the elders that have passed before me, they will be thought of, talked about and celebrated. And believe me, The Boy will know all about them through this celebration. Yeah, it's through the remembering that the dead stay alive. And, baby, there's nothing scary in that at all.
Salud!
Bringing the Dia de los Muertos celebration into my home is a relatively new thing for me. I know that we didn't give that celebration a nod when I was a boy. It was enough just to do all the "traditional" Anglo things that went along with our suburban lives. My mom shed her Mexican-ness long before I ever had any inkling that she was one, and so my connection to all those kinds of things only came to me sideways when I went to visit my grandparents. I can still picture an altar of sorts set up in my grandparents' bedrooms, with votives burning year round and a multitude of saints adorned by their various charms and flowers. But in my house it was enough, it seemed, to do tamales once a year at Christmastime and to embrace the foods of my ancestors. Yep, that's as far as it went. Celebrating the dead just wasn't done and it certainly wasn't hip.
But Dia de los Muertos is, that for certain. And by doing it I'm not trying to take the "hip" road, that's for certain. No, the reason why I break out the photos and get out my calaveras and things is because I want to do right by those that came before me. I like to set up that altar because, love them or not, somebody's got to give them their due.
Mind you, Halloween is still a big deal in my house. The Boy and I will certainly be doing the candy thing, don costumes, set up that nasty cobweb stuff. I have a plastic cauldron filled with carnival type toys and chocolate Kisses and such to hand out. We'll set up some sort of freaky deaky thing on the porch, not enough to scare kids to the core but enough to make the younger ones who make the climb quake a bit. That part of it should be there, it's the scaring season.
But inside the house, on a cabinet by the kitchen, I will set up my altar for the year. Old photos will be dragged out and set up. One of the old plaster saints from my grandfather's collection will be brought out. I'll be sure to cut the last flowers from the garden and set them up just so, and cook a meal with some favorite items to set out as well. I'm sure that I have beer or two in the fridge for Senior, as well as a pack of Marlboros, and I'll be sure to place some chocolate and some sunflower seeds out for my mom, too (maybe she can get back to smoking whereever she's at these days, who knows). Maybe I'll get in the mood and bake something that looks like those skulls I've seen photos of, the kind that they make down in Mexico, or maybe not, but at the very least I'll try my hand at some paper cutting. It is a celebration, you know.
It'll be simple, but with one thing apparent: those folks, my mom, my dad, all the elders that have passed before me, they will be thought of, talked about and celebrated. And believe me, The Boy will know all about them through this celebration. Yeah, it's through the remembering that the dead stay alive. And, baby, there's nothing scary in that at all.
Salud!
Conscious decision
Walking is overrated as a form of transportation. Least ways, that's what I was lead to believe when I was a young man out and about in the wilds of Southern California. It was my understanding that if I didn't have a car I was a loser, a joke of some sort, a blight on the lives of the car lucky, a lesser strain of man. Funny how that goes, though. Without a car I still managed to have a great social life, hold down jobs, be a regular consumer, get a degree and grab a couple wives out of the deal. I have come to believe that those periods of my life when I went without a car were more fulfilling, more jam packed with life than those times when I've had four wheels to take me around town.
I'm still without a car. I went through my cash reserves and overspent on groceries and such. Decided once again that the starter for the Honda was not going to happen this week. Or next week for that matter. The Boy won't be here for a month yet, so, with three block commute and groceries a couple miles away, what's the hurry to fix those wheels? I still manage to make meetings, socialize with colleagues, grab provisions and find really great second hand finds. Unless I'm talking furniture, which I don't need, or a run to the airport, which I can't see happening any time soon, what do I need a car for?
Today I took a walk with a shoulder bag and a debit card with a balance. I found time to get a haircut at Ernie's Barber down on Bay Street. His shop is always busy but today I went in and got a haircut almost right away. I checked out movie times at The Orchard Theater, found a nice Croatian cookbook to pass along at St Vinnie's, took to the hills by the high school and found my way to Save A Lot. I did a massive amount of grocery shopping last night, but who can pass up ten limes for a buck? How can you turn you nose down at two avocados for a dollar? Not me, baby, not me.
So, what's a man to do but saunter over to the Goodwill when it's on his route back home? I had intentions of buying that starter at the beginning of the day, but I was having too much fun being on foot. I passed two patrons walking about on my way to the market, saw one of the deputy directors driving by on her way to an errand, and, in the end, had a blast walking home in the sunshine hauling home my treasures. And what did I find today, you might ask? Oh, let's see. How about a...
..a shrink wrapped VHS copy of Orson Welles' Macbeth? Or a clean digital print of Lord of the Flies? I also came across Short Cuts, Goldfinger, Godard's Sympathy for the Devil, and Lewis/Martin's Scared Stiff. Left behind Horse Feathers and Dr. No. Maybe I'll swing by there tomorrow and see if they're still around.
..copy of the San Francisco's Junior League cookbook, circa 1987? Or a copy of Beard Award winning Jamison's Born to Grill? Or even this strange British paperback publication on How to Make Good Curries? I even found an oversized copy of the latest version of The Little Engine That Could for my youngest. Cool.
..great condition cd copy of Led Zeppelin IV? A handful of tapes including Beck's Gold and Green Day's Dookie and Smashing Pumpkins' Siamese Dream?
..a really nice deal on a long handled, two gallon industrial sized brass pot for seven bucks? That was my big WOW of the day, hand's down.
So, I've had a grand day out. I got a good walk in. I caught a matinee of The Wrestler and managed to come out of the theater into a sunny afternoon. I passed along that cookbook to my colleague and she loved it. Some things are not meant to be bought and put on a shelf but passed along to those who would really appreciate them. She did. How nice for both of us.
So, there's a snapshot of a day of a man without a car. Sure, location, location, location. But still. It's a matter of mindset and desire and knowing what you can and what you can't do without a set of wheels. Right now I feel I can live without a car. Things will change and then we'll get that car on the road. Just not at the moment.
But as far as living without a cat? 'Nother matter altogether.
Here, kitty, kitty, kitty...
Salud!
I'm still without a car. I went through my cash reserves and overspent on groceries and such. Decided once again that the starter for the Honda was not going to happen this week. Or next week for that matter. The Boy won't be here for a month yet, so, with three block commute and groceries a couple miles away, what's the hurry to fix those wheels? I still manage to make meetings, socialize with colleagues, grab provisions and find really great second hand finds. Unless I'm talking furniture, which I don't need, or a run to the airport, which I can't see happening any time soon, what do I need a car for?
Today I took a walk with a shoulder bag and a debit card with a balance. I found time to get a haircut at Ernie's Barber down on Bay Street. His shop is always busy but today I went in and got a haircut almost right away. I checked out movie times at The Orchard Theater, found a nice Croatian cookbook to pass along at St Vinnie's, took to the hills by the high school and found my way to Save A Lot. I did a massive amount of grocery shopping last night, but who can pass up ten limes for a buck? How can you turn you nose down at two avocados for a dollar? Not me, baby, not me.
So, what's a man to do but saunter over to the Goodwill when it's on his route back home? I had intentions of buying that starter at the beginning of the day, but I was having too much fun being on foot. I passed two patrons walking about on my way to the market, saw one of the deputy directors driving by on her way to an errand, and, in the end, had a blast walking home in the sunshine hauling home my treasures. And what did I find today, you might ask? Oh, let's see. How about a...
..a shrink wrapped VHS copy of Orson Welles' Macbeth? Or a clean digital print of Lord of the Flies? I also came across Short Cuts, Goldfinger, Godard's Sympathy for the Devil, and Lewis/Martin's Scared Stiff. Left behind Horse Feathers and Dr. No. Maybe I'll swing by there tomorrow and see if they're still around.
..copy of the San Francisco's Junior League cookbook, circa 1987? Or a copy of Beard Award winning Jamison's Born to Grill? Or even this strange British paperback publication on How to Make Good Curries? I even found an oversized copy of the latest version of The Little Engine That Could for my youngest. Cool.
..great condition cd copy of Led Zeppelin IV? A handful of tapes including Beck's Gold and Green Day's Dookie and Smashing Pumpkins' Siamese Dream?
..a really nice deal on a long handled, two gallon industrial sized brass pot for seven bucks? That was my big WOW of the day, hand's down.
So, I've had a grand day out. I got a good walk in. I caught a matinee of The Wrestler and managed to come out of the theater into a sunny afternoon. I passed along that cookbook to my colleague and she loved it. Some things are not meant to be bought and put on a shelf but passed along to those who would really appreciate them. She did. How nice for both of us.
So, there's a snapshot of a day of a man without a car. Sure, location, location, location. But still. It's a matter of mindset and desire and knowing what you can and what you can't do without a set of wheels. Right now I feel I can live without a car. Things will change and then we'll get that car on the road. Just not at the moment.
But as far as living without a cat? 'Nother matter altogether.
Here, kitty, kitty, kitty...
Salud!
Dead battery woes
I've been heading to this crossroad for days. The cold weather could not be ignored a moment longer, for it finally took it's toll. I went out to fetch my car after supper in order to get back to work on time. I had a box of books that needed to be loaded up for a program at the local J high tomorrow morning. One quick trip down the street, but alas, it not meant to be. A slight and subtle turn over, then nada. Zip. A few lights to let me know that battery had a bit of juice but not enough to turn the beast over.
Just when I thought that my extra tour of duty was going be cancelled my boss came to my rescue: she'd supply the truck, all I had to do was get there. Not a problem. Now I can get myself over to Sears, exchange that wonky car battery of mine and get my act on the road. Good thing The Boy has already come and gone to Boise. No pressing engagements outside of entertaining a bunch of 7th, 8th and 9th graders in the morning. Regail them with tales of graduate school madness. Make them salivate at the thought of being an underpaid and underappreciated professional.
Don't get me wrong. I love my work. But when it comes down to compensation I have to wonder what I was thinking when I signed up for that librarian degree. But, really, what does money matter when you love what you do?
Besides, it's been great for my private life. Almost all my friends, wives and lovers over the last twenty five years have come into my life due to my choice of work. Libraries. Who needs to hang out in bars when you can wow friends with books and hand puppets and such?
So, the back to the battery. Haven't had a car die on me in a long time. Fuel pump issues, sure, but that was last summer. I suppose that's when the battery got worn down. Did I have some sort of sense throw at me somewhere between now and then? Nope. Instead of buying bags of groceries or dvds you'd think, especially after the snows of December, that a battery would have been high on my wish list. I couldn't fit it in. Too busy. Not enough time. Not on the things to do list.
Not until it failed, that is.
I have a five minute walk to work. I have a full larder. I am pretty much spent out this paycheck. In a world where there was just me to answer to I'd let weeds grow up and around that car of mine. As much as I love that beater of a car, I wouldn't mind having a car free life for awhile. Walk to the market, spend more time around the house, find a way of making my neighborhood work for me.
Hmmm. I don't think "fibbing" was on my list of 51.
So I won't do it. Fib anymore.
Okay, face it, I'm a road warrior. I love my car and the freedom it brings. I love to get around and I love the fact I don't have a car payment. I like my low insurance fees and I love my little itty bitty tag fees. I love everything about my car.
Except for moments like these, when it decides to abandon me in the midst of winter.
So next time I do Goodwill, instead of looking around for stereo speakers or Mexican masks or for things the kids will enjoy maybe I'll see if someone's unloaded a battery charger instead. At the very least, maybe I'll just join AAA.
As for now: cables, anyone?
Salud!
Just when I thought that my extra tour of duty was going be cancelled my boss came to my rescue: she'd supply the truck, all I had to do was get there. Not a problem. Now I can get myself over to Sears, exchange that wonky car battery of mine and get my act on the road. Good thing The Boy has already come and gone to Boise. No pressing engagements outside of entertaining a bunch of 7th, 8th and 9th graders in the morning. Regail them with tales of graduate school madness. Make them salivate at the thought of being an underpaid and underappreciated professional.
Don't get me wrong. I love my work. But when it comes down to compensation I have to wonder what I was thinking when I signed up for that librarian degree. But, really, what does money matter when you love what you do?
Besides, it's been great for my private life. Almost all my friends, wives and lovers over the last twenty five years have come into my life due to my choice of work. Libraries. Who needs to hang out in bars when you can wow friends with books and hand puppets and such?
So, the back to the battery. Haven't had a car die on me in a long time. Fuel pump issues, sure, but that was last summer. I suppose that's when the battery got worn down. Did I have some sort of sense throw at me somewhere between now and then? Nope. Instead of buying bags of groceries or dvds you'd think, especially after the snows of December, that a battery would have been high on my wish list. I couldn't fit it in. Too busy. Not enough time. Not on the things to do list.
Not until it failed, that is.
I have a five minute walk to work. I have a full larder. I am pretty much spent out this paycheck. In a world where there was just me to answer to I'd let weeds grow up and around that car of mine. As much as I love that beater of a car, I wouldn't mind having a car free life for awhile. Walk to the market, spend more time around the house, find a way of making my neighborhood work for me.
Hmmm. I don't think "fibbing" was on my list of 51.
So I won't do it. Fib anymore.
Okay, face it, I'm a road warrior. I love my car and the freedom it brings. I love to get around and I love the fact I don't have a car payment. I like my low insurance fees and I love my little itty bitty tag fees. I love everything about my car.
Except for moments like these, when it decides to abandon me in the midst of winter.
So next time I do Goodwill, instead of looking around for stereo speakers or Mexican masks or for things the kids will enjoy maybe I'll see if someone's unloaded a battery charger instead. At the very least, maybe I'll just join AAA.
As for now: cables, anyone?
Salud!
Denizens
Woke early, messed about. Pulled together a sponge for bread, washed last night's dishes, padded about with a pot of hot coffee in hand. Goofed around the house until the last minute. Thank goodness for bus schedules! Caught the 10:30 foot ferry to Bremerton and started the day's adventures.
The water in the sound was awash with light, the air dense with fog. I found myself talking to one of my branch "regulars" on the way over. One of those folks who come and go, fill up our time, take up all too many word moments, fill the air with need. So it feels from the other side of the desk when they come in waves and all of them want something.
Today I found myself out and about and in the midst of my public. I am public librarian, as you must know by now. I serve all those that come in the door, well heeled or mad, clean or the great unwashed. We make no distinctions about our patrons, we only ask that they are kind, and if not kind, at least courteous. Today I found that my people were all about me in the world, a world I have chosen to stay and live in, to work in. For that I was glad.
When you drive you see things all around you, but primarily you look straight ahead to help maintain that subtle balance of sanity on the road. Once you leave a car behind and take to the streets on foot or with public transit, all those niceties and barriers disappear. I found myself on the wrong bus across town first thing and was reminded by several of my fellow passengers when I went to pull the stop alert cord that there were no stops, least ways, not until we hit the East side transit center. Wow. Suddenly my day of adventures was filled with choices. Just like life. Turn a corner and find either circuses or car bombs. Today I found that I could go to the mall or back again to the transit center again. So I disembarked and started my trip from the beginning.
Men love to get lost, or so it seems. To women it must seem maddening, but for men it's a return to boyhood. We love to wander, find secret places, turn over rocks. My bus trip was like that. I saw three or four of my "regulars" while on that bus route, either outside walking on the streets outside my bus window or riding along with me. I sat in the back where all the wild ones tend to congregate. I sat with an old stripper and a meat cutter, a couple or three folks that were deeply crazed and marginalized by society, almost all plugged into music players of one kind or another. The meat cutter was deep into a loud public chat, and he engaged us all. By the end of voyage we all wishing him well in finding a new gal, since his fiancee broke up with him recently and he couldn't find anyone new to sit next to him on the bus.
I know that by walking about in the community that I serve that I expose myself to new avenues of approach, not only by making myself more approachable at the desk, but by making myself more visible in their lives. I saw my black spiritualist riding along in the bus with me..it was all I could do to go up to him and ask if he had any further insights about God. I saw my cowboy hatted homeless gal ride across from me..we smiled as she continued with her knitting. One gal I had seen before asked me if I was a bus driver.. I told her, "no, I'm a librarian"..she said, "oh, that's why I recognize you". Others reflected immediately on our service, one told me that we were a godsend, as her husband was always out to sea and she needed to do things with her youngster outside of the house. Unlike other WestPac widows I have known, at least she was filling up her time with books and craft shows instead of stray men.
So, know that I am one with my community. I walked back to the ferry terminal from the east side of town, a good two or three miles, with bags of groceries and movies and such hanging from my hands. It was a sunny day, pleasant and somewhat warm. I had made a few life decisions by the time I finished that walk, caught the ferry, then helped my friend Ross with his book store windows, and by the time I hit home figured in a few more critical decisions as well.
As The Painter just told me on the phone, the fact that The Boy is still gone this weekend is a sign, a sign that those things that I feel so strongly about, strong enough to move on them, that God, or, at least, a sign from one of his lesser minions, is taking an interest in my behalf. I'm not sure about God but I do know that my little saints tend to look out after me. I think that this is one more little footnote that they are interested, that they are somehow riding herd, and instead of watching the whole pack of cattle of my life go over the cliff, this time they'll go off and find those cows a new patch of grass to whittle down.
Right now I am tired, happy and filling up on a bottle of inexpensive Syrah from Grocery Outlet. I have a pot of pork broth and pot of pintos on the stovetop, and a couple loaves of sourdough bread ready to pop in the oven. I have new music on the deck, new movies to watch later this evening and a couple plans to put into action. All is well in the world for the moment.
Know that I am thankful for the actions of my little saints, for that gorgeous sunshine, strong hands and a heart, that despite all I've thrown at it, manages to keep on ticking.
Salud!
The water in the sound was awash with light, the air dense with fog. I found myself talking to one of my branch "regulars" on the way over. One of those folks who come and go, fill up our time, take up all too many word moments, fill the air with need. So it feels from the other side of the desk when they come in waves and all of them want something.
Today I found myself out and about and in the midst of my public. I am public librarian, as you must know by now. I serve all those that come in the door, well heeled or mad, clean or the great unwashed. We make no distinctions about our patrons, we only ask that they are kind, and if not kind, at least courteous. Today I found that my people were all about me in the world, a world I have chosen to stay and live in, to work in. For that I was glad.
When you drive you see things all around you, but primarily you look straight ahead to help maintain that subtle balance of sanity on the road. Once you leave a car behind and take to the streets on foot or with public transit, all those niceties and barriers disappear. I found myself on the wrong bus across town first thing and was reminded by several of my fellow passengers when I went to pull the stop alert cord that there were no stops, least ways, not until we hit the East side transit center. Wow. Suddenly my day of adventures was filled with choices. Just like life. Turn a corner and find either circuses or car bombs. Today I found that I could go to the mall or back again to the transit center again. So I disembarked and started my trip from the beginning.
Men love to get lost, or so it seems. To women it must seem maddening, but for men it's a return to boyhood. We love to wander, find secret places, turn over rocks. My bus trip was like that. I saw three or four of my "regulars" while on that bus route, either outside walking on the streets outside my bus window or riding along with me. I sat in the back where all the wild ones tend to congregate. I sat with an old stripper and a meat cutter, a couple or three folks that were deeply crazed and marginalized by society, almost all plugged into music players of one kind or another. The meat cutter was deep into a loud public chat, and he engaged us all. By the end of voyage we all wishing him well in finding a new gal, since his fiancee broke up with him recently and he couldn't find anyone new to sit next to him on the bus.
I know that by walking about in the community that I serve that I expose myself to new avenues of approach, not only by making myself more approachable at the desk, but by making myself more visible in their lives. I saw my black spiritualist riding along in the bus with me..it was all I could do to go up to him and ask if he had any further insights about God. I saw my cowboy hatted homeless gal ride across from me..we smiled as she continued with her knitting. One gal I had seen before asked me if I was a bus driver.. I told her, "no, I'm a librarian"..she said, "oh, that's why I recognize you". Others reflected immediately on our service, one told me that we were a godsend, as her husband was always out to sea and she needed to do things with her youngster outside of the house. Unlike other WestPac widows I have known, at least she was filling up her time with books and craft shows instead of stray men.
So, know that I am one with my community. I walked back to the ferry terminal from the east side of town, a good two or three miles, with bags of groceries and movies and such hanging from my hands. It was a sunny day, pleasant and somewhat warm. I had made a few life decisions by the time I finished that walk, caught the ferry, then helped my friend Ross with his book store windows, and by the time I hit home figured in a few more critical decisions as well.
As The Painter just told me on the phone, the fact that The Boy is still gone this weekend is a sign, a sign that those things that I feel so strongly about, strong enough to move on them, that God, or, at least, a sign from one of his lesser minions, is taking an interest in my behalf. I'm not sure about God but I do know that my little saints tend to look out after me. I think that this is one more little footnote that they are interested, that they are somehow riding herd, and instead of watching the whole pack of cattle of my life go over the cliff, this time they'll go off and find those cows a new patch of grass to whittle down.
Right now I am tired, happy and filling up on a bottle of inexpensive Syrah from Grocery Outlet. I have a pot of pork broth and pot of pintos on the stovetop, and a couple loaves of sourdough bread ready to pop in the oven. I have new music on the deck, new movies to watch later this evening and a couple plans to put into action. All is well in the world for the moment.
Know that I am thankful for the actions of my little saints, for that gorgeous sunshine, strong hands and a heart, that despite all I've thrown at it, manages to keep on ticking.
Salud!
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