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I celebrated the incoming year by being unconscious. I do not have a hangover this morning. I had a glass of wine, perhaps two, and fell asleep watching Zahi Hawas unveil secrets of the Egyptians. They have a lot of them and Zahi parcels them out one by one. I love his accent.
This morning I am celebrating the incoming year as the only conscious citizen of the house. Walker and one of his friends are determinedly sleeping in the family room. The dogs are doing their level best to disturb them. Never underestimate the ability of a teenage boy to sleep on, sleep on brother! My ritual, of course, involves coffee.
This afternoon we celebrate the last installment of the Divorced Family Christmas, on New Year's Day. Forgive me if it seems like the first item on the New Year's Day agenda is "old business." I'm not really doing anything else. Someone will give me a present. It's no skin off me. It just seems that every year we beat Santa almost to death, crossing the line between celebration and obligation long before the season is thankfully over.
We are compelled to mark passages, and there are a number to mark. We're going to have to fight harder for things we believe in this year. Bob Van Der Plaats will be trying to whip up hatred and bile in order to impeach the Supreme Court Judges who unanimously upheld the equal rights of gay and lesbian couples in Iowa. This man with muppet wig has been running for governor every four years (is that the interval here?) since he had real muppet hair. He thinks he can ride the anti-gay "ew-factor" defense of marriage horse to some sort of prominence. I believe that Iowans will not stand for this, but we may have to sit up and bark about it. Nationally, the rubes who have been stalling everything finally have to fish or cut bait, having come back to some semblance of power via the blatant pursuit of it, above all else. I think it's good that they've elected a bunch of wackos because no one will take them seriously. Of course, I thought Reagan was a wacko and never dreamed anyone would elect him president. I also thought cassette tapes were a fad, and hung on to my eight-track tapes longer than was technologically necessary. What do I know?
It looks like any other morning to me, folks. After we get home from Christmas number three, I'm going to try to scare up some red beans and some rice. I was telling Robyn that this is the good luck meal for the coming year and she pointed out that we haven't been having it recently on New Year's day. Her luck hasn't been so hot lately and she's lining up for beans.
Me, I'm lucky. Job: good. Family: good. I can walk and talk and take care of myself. In fact, I can cross country ski on fine old woodies, play a little guitar, a bit of bad basketball, and raise a ruckus when necessary or desirable. I've got some very fine friends and on most days a sense of purpose, or what passes for one.
A couple days ago, I was invited to contribute to a relatively new blog called Dirt & Seeds. I'm excited to do this. Nathan Bell, a very old musical friend from "the days" in Iowa City hooked me up. It's a little more public, a LOT more public, than I'm used to, and exciting.
http://www.dirtandseeds.com
I'll continue to post here as well. More room to be self-referential and self-indulgent, two of my better things.
I'm not sure why we get so involved in keeping score of how things are going this time of year. It might be a thing to do more frequently, really. I used to work for a woman who talked about "being intentional" about how we do things. Perhaps we should review how things are going on a semi-monthly basis. We could choose to get drunk, or not.
I was scrounging about for a memory card for Robyn's new camera when I found this one, full of pictures from 2007. Three years ago, not long, really. My son is still small with round cheeks, my daughter is piling her hair impossibly high for prom or homecoming. There is a Christmas tree, probably the most beautiful yet. It always is.
I thought I would sit down and try to explain how it is those three years seems like such a long span of time to me, but I'm not sure I can. Over this hiccup in time I turned 50, nearly killed myself, watched a friend die, mourned a friend who died by his own fickle hand, watched my mother diminish, brain cell by brain cell. Over this increment, I remembered to be patient (because I had no choice), to grateful (for not having to be so god-damned patient), watched my wife and children with new eyes, learned that I am not invincible, but that I can endure . . . and overcome.
In 2007 I was taller, younger, stronger, and somehow less aware. Had I known what the next three years would hold, I suppose I would have to choose to experience them again, since I am what I've become and the journey has made me thus.
The good thing about the future is that we're ignorant of it. Not knowing what comes next, we begin each day. I think I'll go put some socks on.
It is Christmas Eve and I am sitting pretty. My mother is in a a very well run nursing home. She is dry and warm, comfortable and oblivious. She is the best she can be. She can no longer remember. She cannot count the cost. For this we are thankful.
She is warm and safe.
Robyn and her mother Donna are upstairs wrapping presents. Caitlin is home from school. Soon Walker will be home from work. The dogs are asleep: Maggie on the sofa, Tye on the carpet. Snow falls outside, big as feathers. Caitlin's friend has decided to spend the night here, rather than brave the road to Burlington.
Tonight I notice that I am not in pain, that my movement is not restricted, that I can move about at will. Tonight I notice that the people I love most, my son, my daughter, my wife, are safe and warm. Tonight I notice that peace falls around us, feathered snow, soft, sweet and constant.
Peace be upon you, kind stranger.
We are stardust, we are golden, we are caught in the Devil's bargain, and we've got to get ourselves back to the garden. Merry Christmas.
This picture makes me dizzy.
My clients are conspiring to feel well and cancel appointments in favor of other, more positive activities. Since I'm not worrying about how much I bill, I can relax about it and take advantage of a whole Saturday. Sessions on a Saturday morning are really a pleasure. That said, every touchy feely needs a day off once in a while. Families tend to prioritize therapy out this way because they like the security of working with me. At the same time, things are really going well and so wouldn't you really rather watch football than address conflict? Works for me.
I always try to do a "discharge" meeting, though. It's good to get folks to state clearly what they think is working. We all have little signals we send our selves when we start to feel stress and begin to act they way we inevitably act when we begin to lose balance. It's good to clearly state how we think we'll know this is happening. Then, because folks want to be "fixed" and there's no such thing, we rename the discharge a "consultation phase." This makes it fair to check in, ask for a "booster" session. Thus we make room for the next fascinating conundrum, and Sam is endlessly entertained.
I mean this with all respect. There is little in this world more fascinating and inspiring than the therapeutic process. It's a real privilege to get to do it, and when I'm fascinated and absorbed in the process I'm entertained.
How about these shots? I call this series "Cedar Rapids for the Iowa Citian." My take on what denizens of the Athens of the Midwest think when they ponder my fair city.
One of my co-workers pulled me aside and shared a concern yesterday. During our staff meeting I had waxed expansive regarding an incoming corps member who was overcoming difficulties and I gave away more information to my co-workers than was necessary. Allison very discreetly pointed this out, and I thanked her for it. I joke about how many ethics credits I have but ethics is a tricky think. Ethics are a tricky things.
I didn't identify anyone by name, and a case could be made that the details I disclosed would help our empathetic co-workers to better appreciate what some of our incoming corps members are facing. It wasn't my information, though and I shouldn't have shared it in such a way that my co-workers could figure out who was whom. Who. Thus each and every day, just when we need it, we get to dance the "Tighten Up." That really was a dance and there was a song that went with it. I could stand to do the Tighten Up on a regular basis.
It's a good thing when a younger colleague calls you out appropriately. It's a good thing to acknowledge a legitimate concern and adjust one's modus operandi. Operandus. In such ways is trust built.
As I got up to serve my primary function in life, to facilitate the ingress and/or egress of dogs, I noticed a hairy frost in the early morning light. I put on some shoes and joined the dogs out in the snowy yard. It's looking like a pretty good day.
This is what Cedar Rapids looks like to me this morning. Enjoy the frost and the light.
My daughter is home from her first semester of college. Caitlin is the Holiday Enforcer. Christmas will now begin. If it doesn't, someone's ass is going to get kicked.
I spend a lot of time thinking about the natural development of families, particularly those families that include children who are my childrens' age. Caitlin going away to live and returning home for the holidays marks a change, the first of some pretty serious structural adjustments we're bound to make in the next few years. Walker's a Junior, giving us one more year of something like the status quo before things get a good deal quieter around here.
More than just the launching, which is good and right, there is something of a generational nature going on. Someone is "coming home" to our house.
Robyn and I come from families that are in many ways very different from one another. For that matter, Robyn's families are very different from each other. I could write a book on this subject, and may some day.
My family of origin is punctuated by distance, physical and emotional. I have four aunts and uncles living nearby and only have contact with one of them. I have a large number of cousins and we're friendly and glad to see one another when we do, but we're just not regularly involved in each others' lives. My mother left her family and never really returned. My Dad had a very strained and difficult relationship, particularly with his mother, and trips to visit his family were tense, filled with anxiety and unresolved sadness. Perhaps this is why we always celebrated Christmas at home.
Robyn's parents divorced when she was young. Her mother is warm and supportive, rather a nut, loves a good scotch, and is very much a part of our family. She can be counted on to make us an odd meal, let the dogs out, get a kid from school, go to a Christmas concert. My mother and I used to describe parents like Donna as "over-involved." Our implication was that it's the natural course of things for family members to grow up and move AWAY. Donna has taught me that families hang together, support each other in all kinds of practical ways. It's not over-involvement. This is involvement.
LeRoy is really a child of the Great Depression. He was raised to work hard and scrap for everything he got. Sports and the arts were frivolities as far as his father was concerned. LeRoy's dad had the contract for county road maintenance in Benton County and if LeRoy had extra energy there was gravel to throw. He's a very accomplished man, very bright, very active. Connecting with LeRoy really requires a project to work on, however, an idea to be analyzed. Let him use that big brain and deliberately think his way through a problem and he's at his best. He has what could charitably be described as great difficulty with emotional connection. Hug him and you can feel his ass pucker. It's hard to get him to hold still and talk to you about anything real. He plays favorites sometimes, has lost contact with one of his (best) children, tends to give with one hand and take a little back with the other. LeRoy's a hell of a lot kinder and gentler than his father was. I think he's doing the best he can.
Christmas has been structured around these two divorced families for years. Years. Donna get's Christmas Eve, LeRoy get's Christmas day, sometimes the following Saturday. As Donna's gotten older and her house had gotten smaller, the large Christmas eve gathering moved to my brother and sister in law's home. The pattern didn't really change, though.
This year Robyn proposed that we have a Christmas Day open house and stay home. Anyone can come visit who wants to. This caused some rumbling in the jungle. It seems to me everyone is pretty tired of the old pattern but no one feels comfortable shaking it up. My gal did it. This year we get to spend Christmas Eve in our own home. We will spend some of Christmas Day at LeRoy's. Couldn't get a consensus on that one, mostly because the step-sister was still locked into divorce era thinking: "He never gets to have us on the real holiday." She's in her late 40's, and well, as my Southern friends say "bless her heart." LeRoy, at 80, has wisely decided just to give us all some money and let us do our own shopping, which is a big change from his perspective. The whole sitting around a circle watching a lot of people open an endless number of presents until we lose the will to live ritual will be a thing of the past.
Tomorrow, perhaps in the morning, we'll go out to the tree farm and take down a small pine to decorate. Christmas Eve is open to whoever wants to share it with us. Now our kids will be coming home to our house. As the year goes by I have some wishes:
I hope that my children look forward to coming to visit us. I want them to come when they'd like to come and feel comfortable when they're here. When they have children (a long time from now, please, God!) I want them to stay home with them when that makes sense. I want to be involved, on terms that make sense for my kids, and for their kids.
I'm no Christian. I can and probably will rant about how many awful things have been done in the name of someone's "truth." I'm not even really a theist. If God's running this he/she has a wicked sense of humor. At the very least, The Plan is much too complicated for me or any other human to understand. What this holiday means to me is not about virgin birth (yikes!). It's not about family traditions that no longer serve anyone. This holiday is about connecting, giving, taking and spending time.
I will be playing the part of the parent no one dreads seeing.
God, he was a moody fucker, a human mood swing. Will posed something yesterday which reminded me that Cam killed himself this time last year.
I'm not angry with him now. He was the son of an escape artist, a man who abandoned his family, who Cam almost met, who left a space that could not be filled, and of an undetermined shape.
Cam found a scene from the Steve McQueen movie Bullitt in which Steve and an actress talk in a smoky jazz bar. The man playing the guitar, Cam tells me, is his father. Apparently the director liked the music well enough that what you hear in the movie is actually Cam's Dad playing.
In the scene, we can make out the man's silhouette, but not his face. He sings some scat over the guitar and it's very beatnik and 1960s. A man in those days would perhaps run from Clear Lake, Iowa, from a wife and two kids, heading off to California. . . .
You can hang around this one pump station
I'm going to take myself a lifetime vacation
Next time you see me take a long last look
There'll be one less name in the telephone book
Cam wrote beautifully about images that possessed him. I think his most evocative lyrics are the ballads. Songs about lonely highways, big moons, about being somehow outside things, driving by, hoping someone will burn a candle for him. The boy knew how to write a hook, and in his humorous songs, could certainly twist it. He wrote a song about my first marriage, Bessie's Gone, that still cracks me up. And he took the time to write a song about me. Who does that? Wrote a hell of a good one about our friend Al, too.
Cam's passing taught us another important lesson: Facebook is immortal. Cam's site is still up and people are still posting, although Cam, of course is not. For a while, Cam's site was a pretty strange place. His wife was posting and in a lot of pain, people were reacting to the news, it was raw, even a little creepy. I went there this morning just before I started writing this. It's quieter now. People are still posting, but we've all had some time to get used to this.
Steve Earle wrote "I Ain't Ever Satisfied." The song was about Cam. It was about that part in all of us that whispers to us that our successes aren't real, our better qualities are evanescent, that we are frauds about to be found out. There was no pleasing him sometimes. There was no pleasing himself. I'm not sure if this made it fair. One could safely say that Cam suffered from his moods more than anyone else. That didn't make him any easier to live with. At one point in my life, I backed away from Cam, determining that I could not ride with him, could only step back and watch him go. He was tough on wives, because of the darkness in him at times, but also because he was a very sweet, generous, expansive guy a good deal of the time, and that was real, too.
When Cam died, I wasn't that far from cheating clumsy middle aged death myself. I was watching my mother fight death brain cell by brain cell. The idea that Cam would just step off, take a lot of pills and die, left me grasping. . . .
Here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to take a crack at a really good, difficult book. I'm going to work up a few songs to the point they're worth doing. I'm going to work on laughing and encouraging and being generous of spirit. I can do that.
My Dad was a different sort of cat, too, Cam, but mine stuck around. I knew that whatever I did, he was proud of me and loved me. Because of him, there are times, just some times, but times nonetheless, when I feel full, happy, thankful and at peace. I mutter to my father that I'm sorry and he sighs and says he guesses it will be okay.
I wish he'd called me, called somebody, old Camster. He was, I guess, too much apart from us, from all of us, that night. There was about Cam often a sense that he was present but also was thinking of something else, some next thing. It meant we connected but did not stay connected.
I look out the window, and see you standing in the road.
Will posted a picture a while back that I just love. I think Dan took it. It shows Will and Joe and I sitting on John Keane's porch in Athens, Georgia, taking a break from recording our last, Visiting Normaltown. I tried to paste the picture in here, but it didn't transfer well. Today you get Asters.
At the moment the picture was taken, we were recording in the best studio we'd ever used in our lives, surrounded by beautiful equipment, gold records on the wall, attended to by John, a quiet man with a dry sense of humor, who cut his teeth recording all the early stuff with REM. Locals, including a former member of the band Sea Level, dropped by to listen as we laid down tracks. We played a local watering hole and lots of enthusiastic locals came by to hear this band the Andy Carlson was producing. We got up and did a hot two or three songs and one slightly drunk man came up and grabbed me by the shoulders, got into my face and said: "You are one singin' mother-fuckah!" We laid down all our tracks the third week of December, or maybe it was the second, but it was close to Christmas, and then Andy stayed there (his family live there) and mixed our work with John.
I think at this point Big Wooden Radio was at the top of our game, in our incarnation as a six piece band. We had several other points where we were in similar fettle, once when our first CD came out, again when we added Paul on percussion and went to Telluride.
Soon life intervened, as it will tend to do. We ran into our own limitations. Could we really travel enough to support life at the "next level?" Would one person continue to do the vast majority of the booking (along with tearing down, the most thankless part of playing gigs)? Would years and years of focusing on putting on a show rather than addressing issues between us wear on us? When you're bringing original material, arrangements, and ideas that you care deeply about to a group of peers you care deeply about, a certain degree of emotional turmoil is to be expected. There's a reason most bands break up, often with acrimony.
Merle Haggard, or somebody equally cool, commented "Anyone can be gracious on the way up." After that photo was taken, we learned a lot about our limitations. We did therapy together, for God's sake! Over the coming years, the number of gigs we played diminished. Our lives and band process really did not permit taking the time and making the commitment to make another recording and work together to play gigs and sell it. Much of being a band is working to retain the illusion of some sort of momentum. It helps to be the band that is going someplace. One really has no control over this. What does one do in order to be prom king year after year? Popularity is evanescent. There's even a band by this name, of course, chosen, I hope, with irony.
We continued to make good music together, perhaps not at the level of practice and attention to detail that we brought to our game during the Athens days, or by the end of a summer playing more than 50 gigs, but solid, honest music. We worked as a quartet, the way we started. This was probably our most interesting formation. This isn't a reflection on the other fine musicians we've included in the band. It's just that we were most surprising when we looked like a quaint little bluegrass band, but then played an amazing array of songs. It was great fun to play eight songs in a row, all unlike each other, and watch the audience figure out "what kind of band we are."
I miss playing music in public. So far, I don't miss it enough to book any gigs. I have a standing offer from one of my favorite bar owners at my favorite bar, and on this very computer I have a song list to work on when I pick up a guitar. Playing even two hours in a bar requires arranging at least 40 songs. All my old arrangements have spaces in them for Will or Joe or Andy or Greg or Al to play instrumental solos. My list needs to be rearranged now so that I can do something on the guitar, or scat sing, or tap dance and fart, to fill that space. Because of my association with these fine musicians, I know I can't just fill that space. I need to make it matter, make it my own. I pick up my guitar, not regularly enough, and work through arrangements. One of these days I'll book that gig, providing enough pressure for me to finish the arrangements and learn them satisfactorily.
I don't know who it was, maybe Paul, who introduced the term "clams," to our vocabulary. Making an error in our highly arranged material became known as "dropping a clam." Paul taught us a lot about rhythm and arranging. He also taught us not to make faces when we "dropped clams." "You guys have to learn to smile when your pants are full." He was right. It was not permissible to make a face. It was permissible to turn to one's partner, off mike, and say "this is a real chowder-fest!"
A solo artist is responsible for his own arrangement. He or she can take more liberties with arranging, since changing direction mid-song doesn't cause any trouble for any partners. We're also lonelier. When times are bad, a good band becomes a closed committee. "They sure hate us. Let's crank this out and get out of here!" A solo artist bombing is lonely. He can only rely on the audience or on himself for strength. His clams are his own and he must stand in them. (Standing the Clams! There's a song.) I miss the good gigs. I also remember bombing slowly, a musician on a slow rotisserie, basted with audience disregard.
I'm happy with where we turned out. I'm grateful for those times on the porch, times when our hard work and discipline paid off, when opportunities seemed unlimited, when we found ourselves playing out of our league and doing well. That, my friends, is a really fine feeling.
I celebrated the incoming year by being unconscious. I do not have a hangover this morning. I had a glass of wine, perhaps two, and fell asleep watching Zahi Hawas unveil secrets of the Egyptians. They have a lot of them and Zahi parcels them out one by one. I love his accent.
