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.