Eve Eve

This is a valley in Wisconsin that I like to look at as I drive to Mt. Horeb, just this side of Madison. More in my collection of landscape vistas! At least it isn't a picture of a flower, Walker!

It it New Year's Eve Eve. It is quiet and cold here and Walker is on the sofa recovering from a bug that has been working its way through his digestive tract with predictable and familiar results. I don't get these bugs because I'm old and have already suffered from most bugs twice. Even the most legthargic immune system catches on sooner or later. Caitlin and Robyn have gone up ahead of us, intent on shopping. I appreciate Walker for having the good sense to get sick. I hate shopping, unless it's for something specific that I want. For me. No detours!

How many bloggers do you think are waxing this way or that about the New Year? What subset of these waxers mentions resolutions? How about hangover cures?

I grew up very suspicious of ceremony. A therapist I saw once suggesgted that this might be due to my family's frequent withdrawal from normal obligatory social activity. There would be a funeral, or an office party or something with friends and Dad would begin to get enormously worried about it and pretty soon we'd decide it didn't really matter and we wouldn't go. It really didn't matter. We didn't explain that Dad was schizophrenic and so struggled with casual social interaction. He could never decide what to dwell upon and what to let go. He didn't want anyone to know that he was mentally ill because they would judge him. He didn't understand that they judged him anyway. So we didn't show up and we didn't explain.

The result of this ethic for me was to decide that ceremonies and holidays were suspect. Funerals could not represent the worth and existance of the departed. Graduations were canned ceremonies put on by rich regents. Weddings were seldom about the couple. Non-participation in middle class ceremony was a virtue, really. I'll be damned if I'll make a resolution!



This is the same field, just a little to the right. I couldn't get the whole vista in one shot.

Resolutions are fine, really. I just don't want to be obligated by an arbitrary date to make one. I can't say that I am not looking back at the year, at my life, and thinking about the changes I see. I am just not doing this on schedule.

So what are some things to feel good about?

Raquetball! I actually got my big self into a raquetball court and am almost to the point where I don't have to stuff my lungs back into my chest cavity after 20 minutes. My partner commented that he is no longer waiting for my to have a seizure. So maybe I'm really celebrating stamina.

Blood pressure! After skiing, raquetball, a whole lot of shoveling, and at least a gesture at a somewhat more active lifestyle, my blood pressure this week twice measured around 95/68. This is a very low blood pressure for a very big boy. Perhaps I will also become smaller (in places I want to be smaller).

Family and friends: They have taught me to show up and (almost) like it. I now often go to people's events and sometimes even participate.

At my father's funeral, I was amazed and grateful at all the people who came to pay respects. I had wondered if anyone would come to my poor (secret) Dad's event. He certainly hadn't come to theirs. But they showed, and we cried, and I didn't feel as alone as I thought I would.

I am still highly suspicious of events. People don't change all at once, or entirely.

Forgiveness: It is to cut my resentments loose. I am grateful for anyone who given up their resentments toward me. I wrote a note on my recently deceased ex-wife's "guest book" in the Tribune, and signed it "Sam Thompson (and family)." Later I thought that the "(and family") might have been over the top. "Hey, I have a family! I'm still married and my kids aren't messed up!"

I really just meant we were all thinking about them. I wondered how much forgiveness they might have for me, how much resentment remained.

Survival: I don't mean that the world is a jungle or anything, just that we are inevitably lucky to survive. Each uneventful day passed in peace and quiet serves as contrast for whatever takes us down, does us in. I'm sorry those other folks passed away. Let's have a glass of wine or something and discuss their virtues. We're still here.


More beautiful Wisconsin landscape. It was a beautiful day that day.

I'm glad you're still here. Thanks for sharing some of my life. It's a pleasure to breathe air that you exhale. Thanks for putting up with me. I hope you'll let me hang around another year or so. I'll try to improve, but I don't guarantee anything.

And, if you happen to follow the same calendar as I do: Happy New Year!

Wierd Flipping Yule

This is a "sample picture" Windows thoughtfully put on my computer. I couldn't resist it. Fake blue trees!

Okay, let's quit kidding ourselves. It's a strange Holiday season. I thought things would settle down at middle age, but the truth is that things just get more complicated.

Christmases are anniversaries. If anything has changed, particularly for the worse, in our lives, we measure that decline during the holidays. Christmas becomes about loss and no amount of presents in the Universe can change that.

My mother confessed the other day she had completely forgotten about my father's history of paranoia and dangerous behaviors. I suspect she has the right idea there, but of course this is not an idea. Her sense of history is fading like the signal from a radio station as we drive away from it. Dementia meets denial at the dusty crossroad.

My sister in law Michelle decided to take all of my father in law LeRoy's photos and sort them by categories. Of course, she got to choose the categories. I should do a whole blog about people who actually have time to sort other people's pictures. In the "Robyn and Family" section, Michelle put pictures from our wedding. There was a picture of my mother, immaculately dressed, smiling broadly and competently, looking absolutely bullet-proof, frozen in time on one of our happiest days. Wow. And do you know what? She would have been about my current age. Happy Holidays!

My ex-wife just died and her mother called an old friend to make sure I knew. I don't have the slightest idea how I feel about Nancy dying. Some friends have offered condolences, although I took pains not to be a part of her life after divorcing her. My loss was a long time ago and everyone who knew me got to enjoy it with me. It would be a bit specious to mourn now. My oldest friends just shake their heads, remembering how difficult it all was. I'm guessing Nancy's family is having a real humdinger of a holiday.

I googled Nancy's ex-husband and found him on a fitness web site out of Palatine, Illinois, looking faintly like Jack LaLaine. Bill is apparently still a personal trainer. Now this is a perfectly respectable way to make a living, really. Snore. Unfortunately, he was reportedly less boring in person, at least when she divorced him, apparently engaging in scary gunplay. Apparently, I was the nice ex-husband. Who'd have thought it?

My dear friends Diana and Kevin are coping with her cancer. All Diana wants for Christmas is an end to nausea and disability. That doesn't seem like much to ask. I don't think they did a lot of shopping. We all agree that this qualifies as the worst way to spend the holidays: puking. Most people save this for New Year's Day and do it on purpose. It's good to have options.

Part of having an English degree is having read things that most people don't read, but should have read. Cocktail party guests who have read Ulysses outrank those who haven't. (The correct answer to the mention of French author Marcel Proust is: "Ah . . . Proust," by the way. This might indicate you have read him, or it might not.)

The only Proust I've actually read is Swan's Way from Rememberance of Things Past. The premise of Rememberance is that each moment in time is filtered by all the intervening moments that have occurred, between that first moment and the present one. Each experience filters memory.

I wonder if there ever was a simple Christmas, for anyone.

Every day most of us get up and try our best. We try to be happy and productive, and often what we settle for is getting through, getting past, getting by. On Holidays, we confront ourselves, our memories, our expectations, our guilty feelings, our obligation to make merry.

When we used to visit my Grandmother and Grandad Thompson in Southern Illinois, Grandmother used to arrange to have folks stop by and see Dad. Dad hated this. He was often very uncomfortable being there and did not appreciate being on display. Grandmother would plan events and doggedly insist:

"We're going to have a good time."

Yule

It's Christmas morning in our home. One family gathering down and one to go. Mom came over and drank fake wine and we opened presents, then went to my brother and sister in law's for Christmas eve. Today we go to my father-in-law's for round two.

I think Christmas spirit is harder to muster these days. I spent a good deal of time thinking about helping my mother manage the noise and chaos (and keeping her from ingesting too much real wine). That part came off pretty well, actually. I can't help thinking about the mother I used to have, though, before dementia.

So, maudlin man, what do you have to feel grateful for?

Healthy, vital children. A great wife. A good dog. A mortgage which is not sub-prime. A faltering Republican Party. Raquetball. Cross country skiing on 8 inches of new snow. A green guitar. In laws who are good at managing fake wine. The house is clean already. A good job. A band I like playing in. Friends who know me and are still my friends. Cameras. Birds. Warm socks. Books. Leftovers. Cars that start on cold mornings. Songs to sing along with.

Happiness is best when it is allowed to happen. In seasons when it must be made manifest on demand, it can seem strained. It is better to count blessings than it is to count gifts. Peace be with you and yours.

Rest in peace

I got a call yesterday from my old friend Ann, with whom I seldom speak anymore. There was a time when she was a very dear friend of my first wife, Nancy, and I. When we divorced, Ann remained a good friend to Nancy. I drifted away, as friends sometimes do. My former mother-in-law, Shirley, wanted me to know and so called Ann, because Ann could track me down.



Ann related that Nancy died the day before yesterday in the home she shared with her parents and her 13 year old daughter. Ann said that Nancy was very depressed after her sister Annette died of MS earlier this year and had been in poor health with a blood clot on her leg. It was not clear whether her death was due to poor health of if she took her own life.



I made the decision years ago that my anger about our relationship was unresolved in many ways, at least between us, and that it wasn't going to work for Nancy and I to be friends. Because of this, I didn't hear much about her life. I knew that Nancy married Bill Phan, a mutual friend, and that they had two children: Adam, 17, and Audrey, 13 (might have Adam's age wrong. . . I just remember him at our graduation party, and Robyn and I were only just married, so I think he'd be a year older than Caitlin).



According to Ann, what I did no hear was that Bill and Nancy divorced with spectacular misery. Their relationship turned violent and Bill became dangerous and at one point held the children hostage at gunpoint. I really don't have the whole story and I don't intend to turn this into gossip, but this detail colors how difficult it must have been for them. As a therapist, I work with families in which violence occurs and I understand the damage it does to those involved, particularly to children, who learn things about danger and intimacy which bitterly flavors their future relationships and steals from their childhoods.



Nancy was difficult and complicated, capable of great honesty and monumental self-deception. She could be very kind and open hearted, and a good friend to those she allowed close enough to know her. We said many things to each other in anger and our relationship was not good for my self-esteem (or hers, probably), but she was, deep down, a good person. She did not deserve her troubles.

Those of you whom I have bored with tidbits from my English degree, have probably heard me rant about the definition of "tradgedy." By definition, it is not a tragedy when an old woman is hit by a train, or a baby dies at birth. In order for a story to be a tragedy, the characters involved in the plot must carry into it the seeds of their own destruction.

I remember when Nancy and Bill began to become romantically involved. I remember Nancy denying that anything was "going on," and thinking to myslef that this was interesting because I had not asked. I remember that Bill was suicidal months before he became Nancy's room-mate and was calling friends at night in despair. I remember thinking that this match was not, perhaps, prudent. Our friend Kathy wore black to their wedding in order to make that point.

There was a period of time when Nancy and I tried to have a child. For reasons known only to the mythical supreme being, we did not succeed. When my children asked me about what happened to Nancy, I told them she married a friend of mine and they had two children and lived in Chicago. I told my kids that, just as I had found some happiness and had raised a family, Nancy had settled down as well. While I wondered how the two of them, Nancy and Bill, had worked it out, it did not occur to me that they were experiencing such misery. Neurosis, perhaps, but not misery.

I left a note on the "guest book" of the Chicago Tribune, where you can find the death notice for Nancy G. Zielinski, and comments from friends and relatives, including a sweet note from her little brother Gary, a truly nice guy. It was hard to come up with something to say.

I wanted them to know I noticed and that I care. I feel relieved and a little guilty for escaping the life I made with Nancy, which was so hard on the two of us.

I guess that's survivor guilt, eh?

Ice, baby.

It rained and it froze for a whole day this week, covering everything in a clear wrapping of ice. We hid in our homes and avoided going out. When it finished our world was crystaline. I went out and took some pictures, of course.

Here's the clothes lines we hide in our back yard (it's not allowed in the covenant we all seem to ignore. Neither are big dogs, apparently, but we think of Tye as slender).

At the end of the day it warmed and the rain seeped under the ice and made it possible to pry it off the concrete with only a little effort. Those of us veteran Iowans who are equipped got out our heavy iron ice scrapers and broke it up. Then we got out our metal shovels and pushed it toward the edge of the driveway. Then we used our bent handled, back-saving scoop shovels to heave the ice into piles in our yards. Those of us who still do not own snow blowers felt virtuous and independent, knowing that the snow blower people likely had inadequate ice removal equipment, due to over dependence on mechanization, and could only salt and sand the ice, which, by definition, will not "blow."

I cleared the drive and sidewalk but the ice remains on everything else and today everything is covered with a dusting of snow.

Yesterday when the sun come out I drove around marveling and the shiny glistening shape of familiar trees, enjoying the sparkle. Of course some folks suffered downed power lines. My worksite was shut down early in the afternoon when a transformer blew. That was okay. We were done.

No one needs counseling during an ice storm. On the heirarchy of needs, being able to stand up when going outside trumps angst and ennui. I hope I spelled ennui right. It isn't a word you get to use all that often Ennui is like those sexual terms which one knows but seldom finds occasion to speak out loud, like cunnilingus. I used to think the word misled was pronounced "my-zeld." It's not all about sex.

I drove to Des Moines on Thursday to hear a presentation from a big man in charge of mental health at the Department of Human Services. He is big in stature, fairly defining the word portly (I believe his picture is in Webster's as an illistration), and is making big changes in mental health here. He says. We'll see. I drove west on highway 30 and then down through the heart of our corn belt from Marshalltown to Bondurant and into Des Moines. It's a great drive with ice all over everything. Frozen rural whiteness with crystal glazing. I am fairly sure that no one on that stretch of road was thinking about ennui or cunnilingus.

Today we make the final push toward Christmas, figuring out what we have not bought yet, wrapping things, getting the tree together.

This tree, by the way is vicious. Caitlin picked it out. There were a bunch of fluffy fir trees with soft needles and symmetrical branches, easily cut and lifted to the roof of the car. Caitlin decided that there has always been a rule (huh? always?) that the tree has to be taller than she is in order to be acceptable. The cuddly easily managed fir trees were not taller than Caitlin.

The tree she chose is enormous, the same shape as the portly director of mental health for the Iowa Department of Human Services. It has razor sharp needles packed onto denselfy grown branches.

Clearly, this tree did not want to die. The farmer who sold us the tree said his wife had really been wanting him to leave this tree and let it grow, but he said "we just won't tell her." I suspect this was a ploy, that guests to the tidy farm have been razored and slashed by this aggressive conifer, and that this was his chance to unload this feral tannenbaum on unsuspecting city folk.

We got it bungied to the top of the car and crept home, hoping it wouldn't fall off our car and puncture someone. At home, we sawed off more lower branches so we could get it into our stand.

It took us about 30 minutes and a short marital spat (also traditional) to get the tree straight. We used serious gloves.We tightened it down. We walked away. It fell over.

We picked it up. We had another 30 minute straightening/marital encounter session. We sighed with relief. We got the tree to stand up.

Robyn went into the living room by the tree to study. It fell on her. She sustained scratches and abrasions. We picked up the tree, freeing Robyn. Then we had more marital encounter, straigtening, tightening. This time I wired the tree to the wall. I wanted to drive screws into the tree but could not get close enough without severe pain.

We gingerly decorated the tree. It is truly beautiful and . . . portly.

It is a strange and beautiful world, and however fair or unfair it is being toward you these days, peace to you and to yours.

Composition issues

I'm trying to figure out why I can't put spaces between paragraphs all of a sudden. It works in the composer, but when I publish all the lines disappear. I like spaces between my paragraphs and have been doing this since I began blogging back in 1949.

Now, when I hit the publish button the preceding space should Still exist! I don't think that's a lot to ask.

My friends, Kevin and Diana returned from the hospital finally. Diana was the patient but Kevin lived there, too, and Trooley, their noble dog, spent a significant amount of time in the car in the UI Hospitals Parking Lot. That way he felt like he was doing something. They're at home snoozing and eating food they like. They are having long periods of sleep uninterrupted by occuaptional therapists or medical students, or occupational therapy students.

I am protesting this revolting lack of spaces after paragraphs by writing this in Courier, which is much less attractive type. But enough about this, really.

I was in Iowa City last night and we cancelled practice because it was surely going to snow and the fellas didn't want me to get into trouble going home. I didn't really snow, to speak of; it was just dust on the driveway. We rescheduled for tomorrow night. It's supposed to snow.

We are performing at the Mill Friday night. Friday nights are not my best night to play because about 10 p.m. all I really want to do is sit on the sofa. It's pitiful. When I was a young man we played two four hour nights there about every sixth weekend. Once I played there, when I was playing with John Swinton, and I saw Keith's calendar. Greg Brown was booked for 40 dollars that Saturday, and I think we got paid 30, and drinks -- lots of drinks.

The Mill was full of graduate students and old hippie geezers and poets and lots of noisy drama students, and generations of musicians. For 40 years, the Mill spawned hundreds of musicians, all of whom could swill drinks and eat good suppers, and hide out. Keith would tell you what you were worth as a musician if you asked, and he was brutal, and often right. The first time I auditioned for him, he changed the channel on his television set during my song.

Now the Mill is a nice club, but it isn't run by Keith Dempster or booked by Pam. The food still comes late, but it doesn't taste as good. We'll play and listen to each other (becuase we have to -- insufficient practice)and make that familiar and comforting music. Somebody in a Press Citizen editorial blog said that most Iowa City musicians believe we are full of ourselves. I personally don't think most Iowa City musicians agree. But we are full of ourselves sometimes. It's a pleasure to be in a band that works and I, at least, don't believe I'll probably ever been in one this good again. When I play, it fills me up, and so sometimes I'm full of it, and that's that.

Well I'll be damned! My spaces are back! Cool.

Tacotown

Tacotown

Lyrics by Sam Thompson

It's raining

And all of the people

Have boarded their windows

And gone home

No one

Not even the Sisters

Noticed a thing until it was done

And it's raining all over town

She lived back of McDonald's

Just off of Waco

In Tacotown

He was

Pitching for pennies

Waiting for something to come down

And it's raining all over town

It didn't look too good

Staying out late at night

But it didn't hurt too bad

And no one will be the wiser for its

raining

It's raining

And all of the people

Who leave for the winter

Have packed and gone

Something's

Better than no one

Until something better comes along

And it's raining all over town

I wrote Tacotown a long time ago, probably in 1979. I was new to Iowa and trying to capture something of the neighborhood I grew up in. I have always thought a lot about the people I grew up with and those who didn't leave. I think I was really writing about myself in this song, but was too young to know it.

This thing is still not accepting spaces, which really messes with my peferred layout style. Not sure what happened. Pissing me off.

Lyric

Small Pieces

lyrics - Sam Thompson

It depends on whether or not you're wrong,

it depends on whether or not you want to know,

after all the visitors have gone,

standing by the picture window

throwing stones.

It's all broken into small pieces.

They've all fallen on the ground.

I'm so sorry,

Sweet Jesus,

how can you carry your burden around?

How will I remember when you're gone?

How'm I s'posed to wake up when that morning comes?

After all your memories have passed,

running out like water from your fallen glass.

Where you goin'?

I've been standing here waiting for you to come.

I've been callin',

can't you hear me from where in the world you are?

Where in the world you are. . . .

All broken into small pieces,

they've all fallen on the ground.

I'm so sorry, Sweet Jesus,

can you carry your burden around?

For some reason, Google will not let me put spaces between paragraphs tonight, so I have experimented with form to try to help the reader distinguish between verse sections. Did what I could do. Sorry

Digital Sunday

The advent of the digital camera has allowed teens to take endless pictures of themselves without serious repercussions. I remember, in my Polaroid/Kodak generation, we were forced to stand in front of the mirror for hours, wondering what we truly looked like, what we would look like in the future, how others thought we looked. Now I think this function has been served by digital images.

I just got through Thanksgiving, the first of the "don't worry, be happy" holidays that no sentient adult can really live up to. We had two Thanksgivings, thanks to a traumatic divorce during my wife's childhood. The first was at our house, and pretty enjoyable, all in all. (See yesterday's post, which my cousin Paul claims tempted him to relapse.) The second was at my father in law's home.



My father in law is a remarkable man, very bright, self-made, capable, a little clueless about relationships, particularly with women, and 80 years old. He has done right by me and mine and I have no complaints, and am willing to come to his home for all the "second holidays" he provides: Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter. Also at his home are the children of his second marriage, and this year the relatives of his 2nd ex wife. The tradition here involves dry turkey, small talk, long afternoons snoozing in front of football games (which I couldn't give a rat's ass about), and, eventually the traditional draggin out of ultra conservative, Fox-flavored, Limbaugh tainted conservative positions delivered with a pride which denies the possibility of conscious thought. At this point, I usually drag my liberal butt to the car and escape, muttering.

When I have to move, or my wife goes to the hospital, or my kids have an event, many of these people show up to help, check in, or applaud. Not the 2nd ex brother in law, but most of them. So I eat dry turkey three times a year and mutter.



I wonder who my son thinks he is. He's that age when he no longer tells everything he thinks. His view of his mother and I is more critical, measuring us against the things we told him, things his friends told him, things he learned in school and at the mall. He catches my inconsistencies and jams them up my nose. He is brilliant, capable, witty, busy, obsessive and relentless. He understands relationships pretty well for a 13 year old, and is a good friend. In many ways, I'm already finished raising him. I know who he is intimately but none of us know who he'll be.



My grandfather descended into madness at age 40. My father fought with the madness and broke even. I seem to have avoided madness, which was my earthly generational mission. My son has not pondered whether he will become mad, wondering if he'll be a sports-writer, athlete, architect, lover and father. I don't think he fears madness as I did. That's an accomplishment my father would be proud of.



It's Sunday. Time to put up Christmas lights, to get some winter clothes for my mother, to get ready for another busy week.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. . . and we'll look up in a while and again the world will have morphed. It's a hell of a ride.

Thanks

Over the river and through the woods . . . and this is as close I can come to a Thanksgiving picture. Thanksgiving is complicated for us. On one hand, we had a great supper with family last night, turkey and prime rib and home-made pies, Caitlin's cranberry relish and a spirited game of scattergories, scotch and wine and tryptophan.

On the other hand, my mother has no short term memory and drinking wine is an issue for her, since she can't count the glasses. Halloween she passed out in a chair, or nearly, and I had to force feed her lasagne and carefully guide her back to her room so she could lie, rather than fall, down. Last Sunday, we tried our hand at gentle deception, pouring non-alcoholic wine into different bottle and serving mom. When she went back for more, I offered faint protest and she had a glass anyway. This was rehearsal for Thanksgiving.

I'm happy to say that our ruse worked very well. Mom polished off two thirds of the bottle of wine and seemed not to notice that she wasn't smashed. She was charming and social and seemed to enjoy the turmoil of the cousins, the company, and of course the food. It was almost like having my mother come to Thanksgiving, except, increasingly she is less than my mother, less and less of the strong, brilliant, witty, complex and complicated woman she was.

Still, there are tidbits and moments that carry us along. Mom and I were talking about Dad and she told me that after he died she went through the house screaming her anger, at him, at life. We agreed it was good that she lived in a big house and not an apartment.

On yet another hand, my friends Kevin and Diana are getting the worst end of Diana's cancer over this alleged holiday. A brain tumor has complicated her recovery from lung cancer and left her with vertigo symptoms that would drop a moose, and a waiting period for emergency surgery at the U of I Hospitals and clinics. They are more than strong, these two. They are consistent in their care of each other and of us, their good friends and family. They approach this with intelligence, assertiveness, wit and the endurance we seldome see except those whose long relationships have understandings and overtones not heard by most humans. For this grace, I am thankful, even in this dire strait.

For my mother, my in-laws, my beautiful wife and children, for a morning reading and drinking coffee in a quiet house, for the uneventful, for grace and love, warm socks and cold beer, for friends who know us and whom we know, for small miracles, I am thankful today.

I hope for the safety of those I love, for meaning in the face of the meaningless, for understanding from time to time, for music and love.

At ease, disease.

When my friends first took me to Decorah, we stopped at a park overlooking Eldorado, Iowa. It sits at the edge of where the land drops off precipitously and begins to be hilly and more wooded. This is an are of Iowa not touched by glaciers, apparently. I stopped and took this photo of the small town in the distance and what lies beyond. When I was younger, it used to be a more spectacular view, but the parks folk have let some trees grow up and the vista isn't as wide as it used to be. Of course, it could be age. The world does not always seem as limitless as it used to. My son woke up this morning brimming with optimism and excitement for the day, what's on t.v., and whatever else he is encountering. It's almost overwhelming.


On the other hand, it's a crisp day, and we're going to Iowa City to watch a basketball game we didn't pay for. The house is warm and almost clean, my wife hasn't left me yet, and the dog has all his shots. I no longer spend lots of time thinking of the limitless possibilities of who I'll be. I spend more time pondering how to cope with who I am. That's not good or bad -- just inevitable, I think.


I interviewed a 13 year old girl on Monday who offered to knock her mother's teeth out in the lobby. She meant it. She was sexually abused at the age of 5 or 7. She is not sure which age.


Her ex-boyfriend recently beat her up. She has bruises on her arms and probably elsewhere to prove it. She was at a house with older kids who like to drink and snort ground up pharmaceuticals. She's sexually active and has unprotected sex and didn't go to school last week because she has a venereal infection of some sort. Until recently she was able to blackmail her mother because her step-father is an addict and she finds needles in the home. One time recently she walked in on her stepfather in the bathroom, shooting up. Step-dad is in jail now and has to stay clean for the time being so the jig is up.


I signed her commitment papers on Thursday. I go to her hearing on Monday. She told me all this stuff during our first meeting, and clearly wants to begin to deal with things, but has so far refused to change. Change must seem pretty overwhelming to a 13 year old girl in these circumstances. Her mother knows. Mom used to be a hooker and has a similar history.


This kid is pretty, in a tough, bruised sort of way. She has a good deal of insight, which is rare for a 13 year old in a lot of cases, and certainly rare for a person who has experienced the degree of trauma inferred by her history. She may make it. I know I did my job and blew the whistle, as I have done dozens of time before.

My Dad, a former Marine, used to lean back and sigh and say: "At ease, disease. There's fungus among us."


My son, a future character, keeps asking my why I always take pictures of flowers and landscapes.


I get enough action at work.

Lying on my back, looking up at the sky.

Lying on my back, lookng up at the sky.

I think they used to do that in the comic Bloom C0unty, back before Burke Breathed became insufferable and self-referential and then thankfully disappeared.

My friends in Da Woods could certainly take a lot of shots like this. I was just wanting to lie in the soft grass and rest and the shot was irresistable. I like that it shows what I saw. Sometimes that is a struggle, getting the camera to see what the mind's eye sees.

Tonight, I go to the agency annual dinner. It's a banquet and we have to pay for the meal. We also have to make a display, on a theme, to describe our program. This morning, while I waited for the guy from Direct TV to come, I finished my display. It was "loose." Most of the "cool" displays were done by scrap-book types with phots and 3-D effects and what not. Mine was construction paper, sharpies, ball point pen and yarn. I am a highly paid administrator, but this morning I was doing my last minute Science Fair display all over again. I was thinking: "The agency is worried about quality and revenue, and here I am doing a bullshit display out of cardboard and construction paper instead of healing young minds and taking care of business."

I can see that my administrative future may be limited. I tried to delegate the thing, but the guy I delegated to came down with poison oak and scabies, the same week that his 16 month old son came down with a urinary tract infection. He trumped me.

In the end, this sort of white noise is exactly why we stop, regress, and do nothing, intentionally. And this is a good thing. We need to do nothing in a focused way. We need to do this regularly. In fact, tonight at the banquet, I am going to paste a jovial smile on my face and have a scotch, cash bar, and enjoy the dynamics of the moment.

We have a number of rich ladies and gentlemen who we involve in our work. No mistake, we make demands on them and get a lot of work out of them, and they need to spend time with us "regular folk" who do the work in the trenches, and feel good that they are giving us money and time and expertise. I get that. I'll be nice.

And I'm going to be lying on my back, looking at the sky.

Among sacred places

Last weekend I spent with my old friends in Decorah, Iowa, at Fish's cabin. My behavior was not exemplary, examplary behavior is not required, really.

It was late Autumn in Decorah and most of the leaves were off the trees, but warm weather left things green where green was possible. I wandered around, fueled by my first martini, and took photos, trying to capture what I love about this place.

We come here to relax, to kayak, to fish, to give each other fine rations of grief, along themes developed over years and years. Fish invited us free of charge for years, but now we pay our way, given that we can, and it contributes to upkeep.

Clear sky and warm sun filtered through the leafless wood surrounding the cabin as I walked around, feeling lucky to be playing hookey from work. In spring, this wood pops with morels, up and down the south facing slope. Now the water is high and springs trickle down the hillside and feed the hidden falls that make this property particularly pleasant.

Fish and his dad, Mel, moved the cabin onto the property, rebuilding it on a concrete foundation, chinking the logs with concrete mortar. Mel used to come out and putter around, having a beer with us and hosting us a little. Mel has passed on, but we think about him fondly and appreciate his foresight, putting this place together so thoughtfully. Mel's spirit watches our antics tolerantly, knowing that aging men need pretend to be young and dumb, even into middle age.

Above the falls, are grassy tent pads, mowed and ready for occupants. You can fall asleep in your tent, listening to the running water. Of course, in the middle of the night when Nature calls, the running water adds to the sense of urgency.

Fish keeps a bar of soap up in the rocks and if it's a hot day you can shower in the falling water. In winter, the falls freeze and create a beautiful ice wall from top to bottom. Crazed visitors used to try to climb it in younger days. These days, not so much. Fish has dug a graded path so that we no longer have to rappel down the hill to the bottom of the falls. This is a relief to the less-than-lithe.

As night fell, folks began to gather, sitting around the fire in the gathering dusk and talking about our lives, our plans for tomorrow (kayak the Upper Iowa River). Soon we had a quorum, a critical mass. The sun set in the valley and I, personally, should have eaten supper rather than push on into the evening, which ended early and with less dignity than perhaps I should have displayed. It's hard not to feel bullet-proof surrounded by old friends, peaceful woods, and good spirits. We'll meet again this spring, or maybe sneak away when the snow falls. We always come back.

Scenery

I found an alternative route back from Des Moines yesterday, up 65 to 330 from Altoona, then over on 30 through the rolling mostly harvested hills to Tama and home. It was good to look at something different and get away from the parade of semis and SUVs all in a hurry. Actually, the semis don't seem to be in a hurry, but the other traffic on 80 is often very rude and seem to view tailgating as mandatory. When one is driving a hockey puck sized sedan (albeit zippy) one begins to appreciate a little space between one and those laws-of-physics-defying maniacs.

I took this picture when Mom and the kids and I made our epic journey to Southern Illinois. The good thing about rivers is that they always change scenery and you just have to sit still. I used to love watching barges go by, seeing the men working through lighted doorways, or walking along the long decks purposefully. Once in a while a guy would take a leak over the rail into the river, as though we on the bank were just scenery, after all. No harm done. It's a wide river.

We pass, most of us, without giving much thought to the other. The pickup in front of me is mostly an impediment to me reaching my preferred speed. The farmer harvesting is a diversion to me, and I'm irrelevant to him, preoccupied as he is in quantifying his year's work in bushels. The trucker is thinking about his wife, the couple in the SUV are preoccupied with ignoring global warming.

Today I'll drive back and forth, to and from Iowa City. Maybe I'll take 218. Maybe I'll stop at a rest stop and have a meaniful conversation with someone. On the other hand, I could get busted for making an ill advised foot tap in the potty. Better mind my own business and hurry along.

Girth

I went to the doctor yesterday ready to celebrate my relatively normal blood pressure but the conversation turned fairly rapidly to my girth. I am enjoying doctor visits less these days. When one has a regular physician, she tends to keep track of things one says one will do. I said I'd increase my excercise and lose weight about three months ago, and apparently she wrote it down. Damn!

The staff refer to our doctor as "the Boss," and she's a good egg. She got me to do something about the low grade depression I carried around after years of deteriorating parents wore me down. She takes good care of my mother. Yesterday, she offered me Meridia, which is supposed to diminish appetite. Just what I need: a pill to do what I won't do. If the pill made me get off my ass and walk the dog every day, I might take it. The Boss mutters about risk for diabetes.

I have been battling issues of weight since I was a child. When I was six, I had a pre-cursor to an ulcer, an irritation of my stomach lining, and was hospitalized and put on a soft food diet. My mother felt very guilty about my ulcer, thinking as folks did in those days that it was the result of stress. We had plenty of that, but ulcers are actually caused by bacteria that can survive in stomach acid. I tell my mother that sometimes and she is immensely relieved, but then forgets. I get to ease her mind over and over again.

Anyway, at fifteen I went on my first diet. It was sponsored by the American Heart Association and was laden with milk and cheese and protein. Dieting makes one's body hungrier, and actually messes with one's "set point," the point at which we feel full. Over the years, I have lost enough weight to start a whole other human, and have gained that weight back. Girth embraces me like an old friend. In the end, I decided that the best route is to be more active, but I find excercise for it's own sake very tedious. (The Boss says "suck it up.") I like basketball and raquetball and cross-country skiing. Treadmills are awful. I used to like to run, but getting to the point where that is fun is pretty tough on one. I have started running a few times recently and find reasons not to.

I have a friend who is critical and almost anorexic in his monitoring of his own weight. "I've gained three pounds, I have to work out!" He worries about me in less than helpful ways. Last time I lost a bunch of weight, he was very happy for me and said he'd worried about it but didn't know what to say. "How can you tell your friend he's getting to be a fat fuck?"

What he doesn't realize is that girth stays inside us, whether it is visible or not. My inner fat fuck was offended.

I will walk the dog and play more ball and cultivate a local raquetball partner and be more active, because it really does make me feel better. I turn fifty this year and will feel better about it if I stay active. It would be fun to be one of those lean older men, jogging with ease along the highway and breaking a mild sweat. Maybe if I take Meridia college coeds will begin to fantasize about being mentored by me. Maybe my audience will stop cringing when I sing "I am lying naked in the garden."

But I'll be damned if I'll take another pill. C'mon Tye. Let's take a stroll.

Thanks, coach!

This is the Wapsie river valley, early in the morning. There's a river in there somewhere.

I created a little stir over the weekend by inadequately proofing a letter to the parents of an Iowa City junior high school. It was supposed to introduce our services to families, but it included a phrase expressing pleasure that they had chosen to seek our services. Ooops. My agency, and the school, recieved numerous calls on this and I'm lucky we have a good relationship with school staff. I used to have the same problem with BWR emails. Sometimes I just get "in a hurry."

My driver's education teacher was the High School baseball coach. He was a nice man, easily mimicked. He had sage advice for new drivers, as well as for life. It is as follows:

Don't be in a HURRY! I obviously don't always recall this one. Coach Hendershot always said that most problems, on the road, an elsewhere occur because people are in a hurry and if we weren't in a hurry we'd have fewer problems.

Don't be a HORN TOOTER! Coach insisted that folks who were going around horn tooting should have been paying attention to their own selves rather than running around tooting when they should be paying attention.

Yesterday, because I got in a hurry on Friday, we had to deal with a lot of horn tooters.

So it goes. Mea Culpa. I now have written a nice letter of apology for the school newsletter. I'm going to have someone proof my proof. Toot-toot!

Time out from entropy

The corn is mostly in here. On the way to Mt. Horeb, Wisconsin a week ago I stopped to look at this field with its big cylinders of silage scattered as if by a big hand. I may have to make this one black and white and see what happens.

It rained, and rained and rained during the last couple days and we all took shelter. Last night I went to my mother's and helped her with the infernal cat box and had a glass of wine with her. Thanks to the miracles of medication which competes with alcohol for the same receptors, my mother can again have a glass of wine without doing a face plant on the bathroom floor. For a while it was a wonderful conversation, talking about therapy and what it means to me, and to my mom, who ran a classroom of the most disturbed kids in Wichita for 12 years. It was based on Glasser, and involved group therapy every day with the kids. Mom was amazing with those kids, and some of them were still stopping by, as adults to check on her or ask advice, when she finally had to move. Those that arent' in prison, that is.

For an hour, Mom and I had a great conversation that didn't involve Alzheimer's Disease, the elephant in the room. Then, as though to remind us, Mom's ideas and thoughts began to repeat themselves. The interlude was over too soon.

When I don't wish for other fates for her, which I have tried to train myself not to do, I am grateful for these interludes, which still allow us to enjoy each other. I am grateful that Mom can still enjoy a glass or two of wine and feel normal. I am grateful that she remembers us and can still excercise that enormous mind. I'm grateful that she doesn't, for a while, feel any different than she ever did. She still gives great hugs, too.

Boys

It has been raining since four in the morning. The rain is steady and constant, pouring down my front window. I got up early and read an article in Harper's while I waited for "my girlfriend," the paper delivery woman, to bring me my sunday paper, drinking strong coffee in the dark.

We went to the state middle school cross country meet yesterday, as I mentioned. Yesterday it was misting and cool, a perfect day to run. The course at Saydel High School in metro Des Moines, is pretty visible and allowed us to enjoy more of the race than usual. We know these boys pretty well, since Walker participates in a lot of sports, and there are always the "usual suspects." Here the suspects are forming a semi-human pyramid, working off nervous energy while the coach looks on, hoping they are not injured prior to the action.

Walker is in the striped hat.

The course was wet, and the path through the woods had roots and rocks, marked with orange paint, but rocks and roots nonetheless. The boys in 8th grade are allowed to wear spikes. Very vicious.
Walker got trapped in the back of the pack and didn't get off to a good start. He ran well, though, starting in a field of 150 with only about 4 boys behind him and finishing 70th. It was not enough to contribute to the team score, but he did the best he could with what he had, and the boys have to get used to running in such a crowd.

Jacob Aune, a kid Walker is on a lot of teams with, is third in the picture above. He has just thrown an elbow to get in front of the kid behind him. Just missed the elbow, dammit. Aune is very cocky but pretty talented. There is such a thing as too much self-esteem.


Walker's friend Jamison lost his shoe early, but kept running, placing in the top 15 with a "flat tire." He has a big crush on Caitlin and kept lookng at her when she cheered for him.




















Walker kept passing people right until the end. Here he comes up the big hill before going down into the woods. His father would have long since been vomiting in a bush. As you know from yesterday's post, puking is a very honored form of expression in cross country. Then the hit the snack table and gobble "puppy chow.

I work with unhappy people (my clients, I mean). It's good to enjoy thing and hang out with kids and families who, ostensibly, seem to work well together. Our young men are growing up, their voices are changing and their bodies are taking on angles and lines they once did not have. The tent smelled like boy funk and tennis shoes after the race and they all gathered around to celebrate their win (first place 8th grade 4A).

They crowded around a game boy and passed the time until the awards ceremony. Some things don't change.

Puke?

This morning I took Walker to the bus so he could travel with his cross-country team to Des Moines for the state meet. We will follow, soon. Walker played baseball but did not run the drills he was supposed to run this summer for cross-country, so he is just now getting into top shape. Yesterday he claims he came in first at practice.

State meet is fun because you can actually see a lot of the competition. At many meets, what the fans see is the boys taking off, then about 15 minutes later, boys coming across the finish line and puking.

Never underestimate the importance of puking in the culture of middle school boy's cross country. "Did you puke?" Gasp. "Yeah, you?" It's a badge of courage, effort, and gross boyness. Since I used to be a nursing assistant and parented young children, I'm used to puke, and enjoy the rest. I'll try and get some pictures and will put in a full report of Prairie Hawk glory later this weekend.

Wisconsin light show

You never really know what will happen when you take a picture, in the dark, with a relatively new camera.

I don't know what this is, but it happened at Barnapalooza, last weekend, in Wisconsin. I like it. I'm willing to send a fresh pack of gum to the person who comes up with the best interpretation of this photo. Something profound would be good.

I have to shower and hustle off to a community meeting frought with political import. There will be intense interagency and county politics in the next few days and it feels strange to be involved, as I generally let others at my job take on this sort of thing. Actually, I generally am not invited by my agency to participate in this way. I must be learning to keep quiet at meetings. I usually put myself on the "every third comment" program at meetings, censoring two of three potential utterances. These days, I'm employing the "one in six" principle.

My quiet friends will not appreciate how difficult this actually is. My old friends may not believe I self-censor at all. Believe what you will. It's Friday, and after the meeting, I get to go to my cozy office and finish things, then see a very sweet young client who worries too much. She's a good kid and just needs some affirmation. That's a nice way to end the week.

The leaves are predicted to explode in the next week or ten days. Don't forget to look around.

No need to apologize

It's the middle of October and I just realized I forgot my Dad's birthday. It was September 23rd, 1930.

I actually forgot it a few times while he was alive. Dad would posture that it was "just another day," but woe betide us if we forgot. He liked birthdays and holidays more than he let on. So, while I don't feel guilty, I stopped for a moment this morning and gave him a long thought.

Because he died so slowly, our relationship diminished over a decade, but I'll always remember our intense letters back and forth, the phone calls, particularly as I separated and divorced from my miserably unhappy first wife, his brutal, intense honesty, loyalty, and forgiveness.

Dad forgave me anything. It used to drive my first wife nuts, because no matter how foolish or arrogant or tactless I was, Dad was on my side. As illness diminished and isolated him, I found myself pulling away from him, angry at how his needs consumed my mother, isolated my parents, and deprived my children of a set of grandparents. Consumed by the ever increasing maintenance of his own body and by fear of total, inevitable loss of control, he seemed not to notice my anger. He seemed preoccupied with tracking my mother and reminding her of things she needed to do.

Finally, I realized that Mom was losing her memory and that Dad was obsessing, holding things together, keeping things running from inside the prison his body had become. Shortly before he died, when we knew his death was imminent, I went to Dad in his big metal bed and told him "I know what's happening with Mom. I promise I'll take care of her." We hugged, and he told me again that he loved me.

I left for Iowa and my busy family, and he passed away quietly about a week later, at home. I had talked with Mom a day before he died, and she passed on a message: "Dad says 'Semper Fi.'" I knew I was forgiven again.

Showing up

My friend Doug didn't start playing guitar until he was 30 or so, starting out as an "earnest strummer." He has worked hard and learned a good deal and now is fronting his first band, the Feral Cats. I went up to see him this weekend and thoroughly enjoyed this music scene, dubbed Barnapalooza. This is a silouette of the barn as the sun went down. Many of my pictures from the evening were somewhat unsteady. Go figure.

I wish I had some pictures of Doug and the Feral Cats performing. Reference the unsteady pictures comment above. Performing is an interesting thing, in that there is a competetive aspect to it, if you're not careful. When I worked at the Youth Center, teaching guitar, the young men I worked with were a little like gunslingers, working on their chops and sizing each other up. There was a definite pecking order.

There was a band that played at the end of the night that turned in to a wall of sound, several guitars, piano, a strange woman with a banjo strung like a guitar, quite a menagerie. One person invited me up but it didn't make much sense for me to get involved so late. At the end of the row was a skinny older man with no chin, greying hair and glasses, who had been going with the flow for quite a while. He had a 72 telecaster with a bigsby tremolo bar (the big metal one that faintly resembles an old Buick front end), and an old Fender tweed studio amp. He had no pedals or effects, just the guitar and the amp. Finally, it was his "turn" and he stepped up. It was as though someone flipped a switch and he tore into "My Woman She Left Me ('Cause I Wouldn't Put the Guitar Down)" and took a lead break that was at once melodic, bendy, and rockabilly. He worked the Fender using only tone and volume knobs with a familiarity born of years on the road with the same axe.

I talked to him a little after the show, and he was as gracious as he was talented. We agreed that wherever you go, there are fine musicians working it out, contributing to the local scene. No matter how long you play, if you play, you are working on a song, a phrase, a riff you can't get right, and the process is the same, whether you're starting out, or have been at it for 40 years. If you're ever in the Madison area and get a chance to hear a band called The Westerners, you might want to take a gander. The man can flat play. Didn't remember his name, either. It was a great party.

Keith Dempster told me one time, between long monologues about Mexico, that "90% of performing is about showing up." Doug and the Ferals Cats practiced, developed a sound, and were able to show up and execute. That's as good as that gets.

It was a beautiful Saturday, and I spent some more time stopping along 151 to collect photos. I have a bunch, so I'll not squander them all now. Just one or two. The leaves are about to change, and there's finally the scent of Autumn in the morning air. Peace be with you, and remember to show up.

Autolalia

My friend Diana paid a lovely automotive homage to her father, Shorty Paulina in her blog yesterday. A Dearborn native, Diana captured how the cars we owned defined us, a container for our memories of childhood and beyond.

After the 1953 Ford, my Dad got adventurous and bought an English Ford Anglia. It was black with a red interior and a four speed transmission. It was not fast or safe, with a metal dashboard and bucket seats which tipped forward on hinges at the front, and with no latch to hold them down. My mother, to this day, puts her hands across the other front seat passenger's chest at any hard stop.

No one else had a car like this, and we kept it from 1963 until 1971. People would ask Dad if it was a sports car and he would reply that it was "a poor man's sports car." I had a theory that normal families drove Chevy's and Buicks (particularly Buicks). Once we drove it from southern Ohio to Kansas in the heat of summer (no air conditioning in this baby) with my grandmother and a tranquilized cat in the back seat. We probably should have shared the tranquilizers with Grandmother as well. I can still feel the sweat and cat hair.

I shared my Buick theory of normalcy with a client who had suffered horrific abuse as a child and he paled and shook his head. "My family always drove Buicks," he said. Thus perished another of my theories of order in the universe.

Making a father proud

It was "costume day" at Prairie High on Thursday, and Caitlin went as a drag queen. As promised, here is a picture of her in preparation. Note corset, false eyelashes, shadow (eye and 5 o'clock). Of course no self-respecting drag queen would actually allow 5 o'cloc shadow to show, but we're proud anyway.

It was a wild night last night here in the "vinyl hood," where kids hyped from the football game attempted to party down in the street outside our house. I became the mean old man next door and told them to "shut up and go inside." They muttered things I don't want to hear.

No one egged the house or keyed my car, but I'll probably get some Republican yard signs or something.

Tye is still feeling poorly, or at least peeing poorly. We take him in for a urine culture and x-rays on Monday to see if he has a bladder stone. He's a sport, waking us up at night when he has to go out.

Walker and pals readied themselves for the Middle School bleachers by working on their hair and attitudes. The "middies" are relegated to their own section and are not allowed to associate with older, more normal people. We think they don't mind.

Walker called and asked if he could stay at Dalton's and "run around the neighborhood." Being the mean neighbor, I said "no." Come home.


Walker called again and asked if he could spend the night at Dalton's. Hmmmm. Maybe stay there and run around the neighborhood? Could it be. . .hmmmm. . .SATAN? He must think he has a mentally challenged father. Martini aside, I was not that challenged.

This morning I stepped outside to take some shots of our purple aster, which, like all asters, is going off. These are indiginous (sp?) (and also grow wild) here in Iowa. You can see them on the roadsides alongside ragweed and sunflowers.

Walker commented that here I go taking pictures of flowers again. "Why don't you take pictures of people?" Why can't he have a normal dad? Sigh.

Holding still

This is a picture I would like to blow up to "wall size." I used it the other day when I posted about Su, but I thought it merited enlarging.

One of my very classy therapists set up an office at work with everything kids and adults needed in order to make prayer flags, a Buddhist and Native American tradition. Our receptionist wrote a thoughtful poem. Last night a little girl, whom Su always had to watch to keep her from getting into things, came in and we talked a little about Su's passing. Then I set her up to make a flag, and once again, Su was keeping her busy.

Today was "costume day" at Prairie High School and Caitlin went as a "drag queen." She wore masses of eye shadow, false lashes, big hair and a corset, with special black makeup to simulate 5 o'clock shadow. She makes her father proud. I'm sure her uncles would be, as well.

I am sitting in my living room, waiting for the man from Novak's to finish repairing our air conditioning. It is a beautiful autumn day, and of course, now that he's here, we don't need air conditioning. We needed it last week. I like the forced leisure of waiting on the Novak's man. I can't go to the office yet. Bummer. Holding still is good. I don't do enough of it. There's always some reason to rush off and accomplish something. Sometimes it is holding still that we need to accomplish. We take a guilty moment to breathe deeply, stealing a little time from our routine. Soon I'll drag myself out of this pleasant chair and go hose myself off, donning my therapist/manager outfit, and head off to dance with dysfuncion.

For now, I relish my immobility, toes deep in my mother's Persian carpet, slightly chilly from the open screen door. I wish you all such a moment.

In pursuit of the mundane

I think this is a picture of ragweed, which goes to show that even things which annoy a good many people can be beautiful. I was lured into my back yard last night by a lovely sunset. The beans have all dried out, as beans will do, as we walk toward Autumn through this perfect Indian Summer. It was hazy and the sun was setting, big and red.

One time Walker commented "You always talk about the sunset. There's one every day, Dad. Get used to it." Or something to that effect. I offered that I would not apologize for pointing out something positive. We rode along and he allowed "That one is pretty good, but sometimes they're just normal." That's fine with me. A normal sunset is still pretty good.

My children have perhaps less appreciation for the mundane than I. Appreciation of a normal, peaceful day comes with experience.

When I was in college I used to get bored out of my wits and go downtown in search of adventure (women?). I wanted things to happen. We went downtown and got drunk and sometimes things did happen, but most of the time nothing did.

I really love Saturday mornings. I get up around 7 a.m. and make coffee, read the entire paper, do the bills.

Flash: Tye is peeing indoors. Oh no! We have called the vet because Tye (dog, for the unitiated) is a noble animal and feels great shame about this. They suggested we try and collect a urine sample. Picture me following the dog, diving under him with a specimen container as he lifts his leg. Get real. Now that's an adventure! Tye would think I'd lost my mind. Or we could squeeze him. Geez.

Today, after I get the dog some antibiotics, I shall be a homebody, a taxi, a housekeeper, gardener, perhaps a confidante to my kids.

I will help Jeff haul drywall into his basement and maybe mow the grass (mine, not his).I shall run errands and cook out, sipping a late afternoon martini as the sun goes down.

I shall exclaim at the beauty of the sunset over the dry bean field, yet another time. Just another reason for my son to roll his eyes.