WanderingDan’s Weblog

9/15/08

I approach the bus stop a little after 7 with my forty pound pack…ten of those being my laptop!  A lot of people are waiting for the same bus.  No surprise, since it’s rush hour in Los Angeles on a Monday morning.  The bus arrives, and the crabby driver yells at the commuters to move to the back so more people can get on.  Most of the riders are stoic, either lost in the world of their i-pod, or detailing other commuters like birds of prey.  I transfer buses at UCLA’s campus, and am pleasantly surprised by how pleasant the driver and passengers are on the second bus.  Even the bus itself is of a higher caliber.  What a difference between Santa Monica’s and L.A.’s bus systems!

After walking a mile and a half from where the second bus let me off, I make it to the school’s office.  Several people are already there, waiting, looking over books and other paperwork.  Most of them are around my age, a couple are older.  I check in, and re-experience the deficiency of customer service I endured last week.  Only this time it’s not from the receptionist, but the owner!  Whatever…I am determined to have a good experience learning to sail…I’ve been wanting to learn for years now.  I join the loitering group of men waiting for our instructor, chit-chatting a bit, but mostly just observing.  Soon Bob arrives, introducing himself as our instructor.  I don’t know what to think at first.  He is old…72 I will come to find out later.  Soon I can tell he is an endearing old man, not a salty crab-ass like my first bus driver this morning.  I take a liking to him right away.

I step onto a sailboat for the first time in my life.  We begin our sailing course going over basics terminology.  There are six of us in the class, which seems like a lot for one boat, but….whatever. Forrest and Steve are older…40’s and or 50’s, and Adam, Felix, Robert and I are in our 20’s and 30’s.  Bob is thorough, teaching us what the ASA requires, then what he thinks we really need to know.  Very pragmatic, and with 40 years of sailing experience, mostly here in Santa Monica Bay, I am all ears.  Asking Bob questions is difficult, since he is so hard of hearing.  You really have to yell.  It is a gorgeous day today, in the 80’s, sunny, light winds.  After going over some boat handling drills in the harbor, we head out to the ocean.  The winds pick up, and it is even a little chilly!  I have a grin glued to my face…this is soooo awesome!!!  I am at the helm of a 35 foot sailboat on a sunny day in southern California!  Wow!  We get back to the harbor, practice docking, stow the sails, clean up…day one is over.

Adam, the 27 year old firefighter from Seattle, and I go to happy hour at a place called Mercedes Cafe. Their enchiladas are incredible, up there with the best I’ve ever had.  We cruise down the boardwalk of Venice beach, which are stewn with tattoo parlors, beachwear and t-shirt vendors, and the smell of pot every few minutes.  One lady is standing mid-boardwalk with a clipboard trying to get us to go upstairs of an adjacent building and get our state medical marijuana card…we decline.  The sunset is gorgeous…I love California!

Adam continues to Santa Monica, but I decide to head back.  The combo on boat’s lock doesn’t work!  What?  For ten minutes I try to get the damn thing open…and start getting frustrated.  Finally I decide to crawl through the hatch we left cracked open, and into the dark cabin of the boat.  When I get inside, and finally figure how to turn the lights on, I look at the paperwork, and realize Bob gave us the wrong combo…he was one number off, mistaking a 7 for a 1.  I have to climb up back up and out of the boat and back around to the cockpit to open the lock…it opens…what a relief…now I don’t have to dismantle the entire locking mechanism!

8/19/08

Pete has been our instructor for the last two days of the first two courses.  His style is way different from Bob’s, and he filled in the gaps of questions that Bob couldn’t answer.  After taking and passing both ASA 101 & 103 tests, we go out for an afternoon sail.  As we approach the breakwater, we see big ground swells, bigger than anything we’ve sailed all week.  The boat feels like a floating rubber duckie in a rambunctious toddler’s bathtub as soon as we hit open sea.  With the wind pushing 15 knots and sailing on a beam reach (wind perpendicular to the boat), we are heeled over (tilting of ‘da boat to one side) quite a bit as well…close to 20 degrees! It is a wild ride!

8/20/08

The most amazing part of our trip out to Catalina was sailing through a pod of dolphins…at least a hundred of them.  They swam all around and underneath the boat, jumping playfully along side us…what an incredible sight!  No sooner does our new 104 class pull the Benettaeu 38′ into ‘Cat’ Harbor on the west side of Catalina Island do we start drinking.  I guess it’s sailor training as well?  Jason, our 32 year old teacher, tells us after our five hour motor-sailing trip from Marina del Rey, we deserve a beer…which turns into two…three for most everyone else.  I abstain, not that I’m opposed to states of inebriation, but just not a big fan of beer.  We finish off the drinks and take trips in the dinghy to bring everyone to shore.  Isthmus harbor is an unusual place for being only 30 miles off the coast of Los Angeles.  Harbors on either side are the parking lots…only a couple cars, but mostly people just walk to their destination.  Admittedly there aren’t really many destinations here…a restaurant, scuba rental shack, general store, a few homes, hiking trails, and a road leading up to Avalon, Catalina’s only ‘real’ town.  Perhaps it is this state of relative simplicity that lends Isthmus its peaceful serenity…sort of like a YMCA or boy scout camp for grown-ups.  The lone restaurant and bar is packed.  We opt to sit in the bar area, because it’s open to the outside and less stuffy.  A dozen or so people are dancing to a DJ when we arrive.  By the time the six of us put away our first drink and the food starts arriving, that number doubles…and keeps growing until the dance area is packed.  The DJ is pretty good, playing a nice variety of songs you can actually dance to.  After three drinks…five if you include the two beers on the boat, I’m getting a little happy.  Normally I don’t get up and dance if I don’t know anybody, but as soon as the DJ plays ‘In the Mood’, I make a bee line for the dance floor, and find the first lady who looks like she wants a dance partner.  Once upon a time I knew how to swing dance to some relative degree of proficiency, but not so much anymore.  A few basic moves, further inhibited by alcohol-impaired coordination, and I am no more than a happy, bumbling soul awkwardly spinning Julie (so she says her name is) around the dance floor.  I’m not exactly Rico Suave here tonight, sunburnt face, ragged hippie clothes, with a bandana.  Yeah baby!  Given what must be my scary appearance, Julie ditches me after a couple dances back to her group of friends celebrating one of their birthdays.  I stagger back to my seat, and before long realize someone is ordering me another drink…okay.

We thought it was a bunch of crap that the office put 6 guys in a 38 foot boat for the weekend. Being somewhat claustrophobic, I opt to sleep outside on the deck, under the boom.  Fortunately my sleeping bag is sufficiently warm, and the stars are incredible!  I haven’t seen the Milky Way this clearly in years.  It is like camping…on a boat!

8/21/08

Jason split us up into two groups after breakfast, taking turns going to shore and getting a thorough class on the boat’s systems.  Adam, Mark, and I are in the first class, while Klaus and Alfie go ashore.  We spend a couple hours learning about the plumbing systems, diesel engine, blah blah blah.  We finish a bit early, and decide to motor offshore 3 miles to dump our holding tanks, because apparently whoever chartered the boat before failed to do so, and we didn’t know it was literally full of decaying excrement until after pulling into Catalina last night.  On the way out of the harbor we see a middle aged couple in a dinghy right next to what looks like an overturned catamaran…wait… that’s not a catamaran, it’s a 40 foot power boat that is just about done sinking into the harbor!  Holy crap!  The bow pulpit is barely poking up…oh man, that really sucks!  Mark says he remembers seeing it last night when we were coming in, and admiring its aesthetics.  Whoa, how often do you see something like that happening.  After this incident, we all start buggin’ when on the way out to empty the tanks the engine starts getting very hot.  Jason looks concerned that the temp is pushing 210 degrees.  On the way back after dumping the tanks the engine temperature alarm goes off…a constant high-pitched squeel.  I can see Jason is freaking out a bit.  There is no wind today, and our engine is ready to crap out.  We are all crossing our fingers the boat will make it back to the harbor.  Before arriving we have already…okay, more Jason than we…started trouble shooting what is wrong.  First suspect is a bad impeller in the raw water cooling system.  We take it apart, expecting a gnarly, corroded blade, and are surprised to find it is brand new.  I am closest to the engine compartment, so Jason has me check the raw water filter…looks clean.  My next task was to take off the hose from the filter to the valve at the through-hull.  I finally get the damn thing off, fighting both a hose clamp and a bunch of silicone adhesive.  Inside the hose is full of seaweed…mystery solved!  After handing Jason a handful of seaweed, I start trying to get the rest out of the valve area.  I use a bent coat-hanger wire…helps a little, but not enough.  I recommend clearing it from the outside of the boat.  Jason digs around a little while and comes to the same conclusion.  “Okay” Jason says “who wants to volunteer to dive under the boat and clear the blockage?”  Understand, last night before we went to bed there were talks about sharks patrolling these waters (at night), and sea lions which can be nasty as well.  “I’ll do it!” says I…always up for an adventure.  We don’t have a mask on board, so Adam gets in the dinghy and sees if one of the neighboring boats does.  In the meantime I have changed into my swim shorts and try doing it first without the mask.  The water is not cold like Oregon water, but not super warm either…maybe 70 degrees.  I try, but can’t see much opening my eyes under the water.  Adam comes back with a mask…unfortunately they are prescription goggles!  Oh well, I put them on and dive back under the boat…this time finding the seaweed filled hole and successfully clearing it.  There is much rejoicing.  We laugh at the irony of this experience of troubleshooting a real engine problem on the day we are scheduled to learn all about the diesel engine.

8/22/08

Aside from dodging huge freight ships in the shipping lanes, the return trip from Catalina was pretty uneventful.  I am back in Van Nuys now…and it feels kind of strange.  Being on the water the last 8 days felt so natural, and now being on solid land is a little foreign.  When I sit down the room sways back and forth.  There is a serenity to the sea that can’t be duplicated.  I want to go back.  I want to keep sailing.

I have always been told the older you get, the more burdens you have to shoulder…the more responsibilities to hold you down.  This has not been the case for me.   Most days of late I find myself doing heavy labor around the property, mostly “constructive” landscaping…but it doesn’t feel like work.  It is more like playtime, seriously.  Mentally and emotionally, this Van Nuys docking station is providing incredible therapy.  I am decompressing years of amassed stress, enjoying and embracing the plethora of free time I have to contemplate the successes and failures of my life until now, and figuring out how I want to live the rest of it…or at least the next chapter…which could in fact be the rest of it…if these damn black widows keep crawling up my leg.  But that’s another story…

 8/13/08

The shovel sinks two inches into the ground…then bends!  What the hell?   I thought this was sandy soil? Oh my god, this is solid, dry clay.  It’s like digging into an adobe brick.  Will anything be able to grow here?  Angela, my dad, and grandpa Dave (actually he’s my great uncle…but everyone else here calls him grandpa Dave, so I started to as well) are all telling me Angelo used to have a garden here…in this same area, with tomatoes, mint, and other lovely plants, and it thrived!  However, this was close to 40 years ago…hmmm.  I need to get creative.  The top two inches of adobe brick loosen up on what I plan to make the strawberry bed.  Dave mentions that some people here soak the clay to make digging easier.  I give it a whirl.  Wow, this clay makes perfect mud.  I mean PERFECT mud!  Smooth, slick, and ideal for playing.  As I look at the two large bean shaped sections I have marked off to be the garden’s interior, a mischievous smile spreads across my face.

8/20/08

It’s been a week since I first began planning ‘mudfest 08′.  I spent several days out in 110 degree Cathedral City visiting Angela and the gang.  Now I’m back, and ready for more fun.  It is still cool out this morning, around 65 degrees, with clouds.  But I’m sure they will burn off like clockwork in about an hour, inviting a 90 degree sunny, southern California summer day of paradise.  I dig up more adobe clay soil…it takes me a couple hours of digging to finally get both pits six inches deep.  Then I fill them with water and break up the clay underneath.  Ohhhhhh baby!  This mud is AWESOME!!!  By now Donovan has joined me in the digging and mud making.  The consistency finally becomes perfect in one of the pits…completely smooth, and ready for occupancy.  It is not long before I am rolling around like swine in the lovely filth, joined in succession by Donovan and grandpa Dave.  It is relaxing and hypnotic…all we want to do is lay here, submerged in this slick ooze, content to let the world go about its business.  “Hey” I say to the boys, “we should build a permanent mud pit out here!”  Approving nods confirm my ambition, which prompts my usual entrepreneurial follow-up comment  “we could advertise this in the neighborhood and charge admission!”  This spawns a short, but lively ‘business-plan’ discussion about how we would draw in customers and make a small fortune.  Then we return to the silent reverie of mud-soaking, completely at peace, content, and carefree.

8/?/08

Everyone has heard the age-old adage: use the proper tools for the job.  Well…what do you do when you don’t have to proper tools?  Some people will wait until they can acquire them.  Some people will just abandon the project or find someone else to do it.  And then there are those of us who creatively improvise…or maybe that is just a nice way to say we just punish ourselves in bouts of impetuous fervor.  So what tools would you use to remove and cut up a tree stump a foot and a half in diameter at the base, embedded in dry clay which resembles concrete more than dirt?  Would you do it with weathered shovels, half-dull hand saws, a multi-purpose hacking kitchen knife, and a six-foot iron bar?  Armed with such tools, raw energy, and idealism sufficient to look past our short-sightedness, Donovan and I take on the stump.  Many hours, blisters, exhaustion, flesh wounds, and sun burn later, the stump finally falls.  Looking at the fallen beast, we smile with satisfaction, raise up our half-ass weapons, and let out a war cry of victory…then look at each other: red, greasy, filthy, bleeding…and we just start laughing.  What the hell fun would this have been if we had the right tools!?

The next task to apply our skills of ‘Scottish style’ demolition is the freezer shed in back.  Once again, our arsenal of tools is unorthodox and crude.  We sport the same iron bar used on the stump, a short aluminum softball bat, and large granite rocks.  That’s it!  Again, our greatest assets in this project are short-sided ambition, youthful vigor, and a love of destroying things.  We carefully remove the random collection of age-old knick-knacks, tools, and empty bottles from the shed, watching closely for black widows.  Donovan only finds one, surprisingly, since this past week we have been seeing them everywhere!  Once cleared out, the granite rock starts flying.  The forty pound iron bar cannot be swung with great speed, but causes incredible damage even at a low velocity.  The aluminum bat is light and quick, a perfect finishing tool for stubborn wood and stucco! It is really hot today, the sun is beating down on our pale skin, and now after an hour we are drenched in sweat, caked in dust, grease, and wood chips.  Breathing hard, every throw and swing becomes labored.  Barely able to stand up straight, we resign to take a lunch break… Another hour of pounding on this cement-covered shed and it finally falls.  The next five hours of breaking up the damn thing just about kill us.  The late August sun is relentless.  The concrete foundation, held together by rebar can only be chipped apart by thrusting the iron bar down on it over and over and over and over again.  We take turns, having to switch off when we can no longer lift the bar, or when it becomes obvious the pounding is yielding little result.  Finally it is all broken apart and sifted into piles of wood, cement, and shingles.  Gathering what little energy we have left, and finding extra stores somewhere within, we decide to finish the days work by breaking up the lumber into burnable pieces.  Since we have no axe, we prop up pieces of wood against the old, dead freezer now lying in the middle of the back yard, and use the granite rocks to crush them to pieces …caveman deconstruction at its finest!  Throw after throw after throw, we stagger to pick up the shards of wood and stack them by the back fence, to be later used for campfire barbeques.  Every muscle in my hands, arms, shoulders, and back aches.  I am dizzy and have a headache from dehydration.  I smell atrocious, and must look so too…yet all I can do is smile with satisfaction.

8/26/08

It was last Thursday or Friday when grandpa Dave asked me out of the blue if I liked John Fogerty. “Hell yeah! I grew up on CCR!”. Today we are driving to Antelope Valley to see him perform at the fair. John Fogerty performing live…I am stoked!  We pick up David around 1pm, and head north. It’s about an hour drive, so we take a partial scenic detour on the way since the fair doesn’t technically open until 4. It sort of looks like Pendleton in eastern Oregon, but smells like 29 Palms…memories begin surfacing.  We find the fairgrounds in Lancaster around 3.  They let us in, and the place is completely dead.  Although we really only came to see Fogerty, the concert doesn’t start until 7:30ish…that gives us about four hours to kill.

The three of us wander to the livestock areas…and I feel like a foreigner traveling in a strange land.  What is this world of showing off your pigs and goats and sheep and cows?  Both fascinated and repulsed by the display, I walk from aisle to aisle watching the animals, locking gazes with the goats…mesmerized by their creepy but fascinating eyes.  David wanders off somewhere in the livestock walk, so grandpa Dave and I head over to the freak show animal strip.  Signs of the world’s largest pig, world’s smallest horse, and giant alligator are put up to lure passers by to pay 50 cents or a dollar to see nature’s freaks.  Who can resist the impulse to see the world’s largest pig?  We can’t.  50 cents later we get a look at the most grotesque looking chunk of bacon I’ve ever seen.  Wilbur, an 1,100 pound, 7 year old tank of a pig with gnarly growths over I don’t know what the hell part of his body, is a disturbing memory I will not soon forget.  Next is ‘Tiny Tim’, a self-conscious midget horse.  I can’t look at him long, because I get the distinct feeling he doesn’t like to be stared at.  Poor beast.  We leave him there licking a block of salt, feeling the depressed energy he is emanating.  The last animal is a 14 foot alligator, 65 years old, who looks utterly bored.

Normally I wouldn’t sit down to listen to a polka band, but comparing its entertainment value to what I have experienced thus far, I welcome the change.  Their songs are pretty funny, and mostly about beer.  One song they perform is a remake of ‘Do, Re, Mi’ from ‘The Sound of Music’.  The lyrics go something like this (you have to sort of sing the tune along in your head):

Do….what you need….to buy some beer.

Re….a golden drop of beer.

Mi….the person….I buy beer for.

Fa….a long way to the store.

So…I think I’ll have another beeeeeeeer.

La…lalalalalalaaaaaaaa

Ti….no thanks, I’ll have a beer

and that brings us back to Do, Do, Do, Do

All this sung by a group of middle-aged men, one with a strong Austrian accent (real or not I’m not sure), jamming on accordians, flutes, and other instruments.  It is quite entertaining.  After getting our polka fix, the two of us set out for the pig races.  While the actual event is less than enteraining, the guy in charge is hilarious and quick-witted, making the races an odd, but alluring attraction.

We finally hook back up with David right before heading to the concert, after drinking a couple of ridiculously priced beers.  We make it to the bleachers as the sun starts to set and the summer high-desert breeze kicks in.  Ahhhhhhh.  The breeze, mountain back drop, emerging stars, and falling sun make this a breathtaking scene.  Ofcourse by now the fair is no longer dead, just the opposite actually, as hundreds of people scurry to the bleachers to score a good seat for the concert.  Around 8pm the band takes the stage.  No cover band, and free seats (aside from fair admission anyways)…Fogerty opens with ‘Travelin Band’, one of my favorite CCR songs!  With the warm evening breeze and a bag of kettle corn, I am in heaven.  The concert lasts for two hours.  When it concludes half of the crowd is either drunk or buzzed, myself included, and everyone is completely stoked…John Fogerty live…good times baby!  I feel a lot of people tonight reliving their 60’s and 70’s youthful memories.  Walking away from the concert area with Grandpa Dave is a cool experience in itself.  At least a dozen people approach us with ‘cool man’ nods, and ‘hey man’ dialogues.  Hippie magnetism I guess.

7/24/08 

It is what I imagine an out-of-body experience to be like.  You know, the ones you see in movies and hear about on talk radio?  Where you look down and see your own body surrounded by a crowd of people, and feel genuinely peaceful and detached from the entire situation…an objective observer content to drift away.  Work feels like that right now.  The normal problems are cropping up, with Bob or MB or Steve frantic about a fryer that should have been in two days ago, an oven that got nailed by a forklift from the freight company (or our warehouse), trying to get a large order together for a delivery next Monday…the usual frenetic chaos associated with a restaurant equipment dealership.  I am normally in the middle of this menagerie, on the phone with factories, company reps, putting out fires and creating solutions to problems.  But not now.  Carolyn has jumped into the pilot seat of this high-speed combat mission, and is anxiously engaged in learning and doing the job.  Leaning against the back of the sales counter, I see this ant hill of organized chaos in action…and feel completely detached.  Everyone knows it.  It’s 2:30, and I have an hour and a half to go before being officially unemployed.  My mind is trying to grasp what it is really going to feel like not having to wake up at 5:45 every day and drag my ass out of bed to spend the best hours of my day in an office.  A big grin creeps up on my face.  Jon walks by, sees me, and smiles back, slightly shaking his head.  He knows what’s going through my mind.  

Tai and I make it to Mint820 a few minutes after 5.  Janie is already there.  It’s a reunion; the last time Janie saw Tai was back in ‘05, at that chance meeting on the street corner when Tai and I were moving into the studio on Park and Salmon…sometimes of late I stop and think to myself: wow, I was married for 5 years!  It’s been almost a year now since we parted, and I feel as if I’m leading a completely different life.  Okay, I guess I am.  Fair enough.  Digression is status quo for a wandering mind such as mine…where was I?   My first order is the avocado daquiri, ofcourse!  It is truly sensational.  We start talking about emails and blogs, and after professing ignorance to the world of blogging, Janie brings out her laptop and starts setting up this blog site for me.  Wow…proactive!  The three of us start thinking of possible blog names, and Tai spits out ‘wanderingdan’.  That’s as far as the brainstorming went.  It fit perfectly: simple, accurate, and catchy.   Now I have a blog…cool!  Trevor and Jon show up after a while, in succession, and the five of us have a great time chatting about our lives, circumstances, happenings, and dreams, all the while sampling eachothers’ drinks and munching on sweet potato fries and some funky raw fish salad Trevor ordered.   Tai and Janie leave around 6:30, right about the time Katelyn pops in.  The four of us keep the party going, and I unfortunately have to stop it at 8, in order to make it home in time to pack and head to the airport.  The crew doesn’t let me pay for anything, even though I insist on at least covering part.  Friends, gotta love ‘em! 

Gemma and I pull up to Linda’s house in Bend around 1:30ish.  It would’ve been a bit sooner, but Elise’s directions were slightly hard to follow…Gemma called Jazmine to do a mapquest for us, which worked great.  Most everyone is already asleep, so we try to be as quiet as possible.  Evidence of a bachelorette party are scattered about the kitchen and living room…bottles of Vodka and Rum on the kitchen island, next to a phallic cake, mostly untouched…except for the tip.  I haven’t seen Elise since ‘99; now she is a college graduate, school teacher, and getting married in 2 days.  Like always, she has a genuinely kind and cheerful smile. 

7/25/08

Bailey, Linda’s dog, licks my face at 5am.  I don’t get much sleep after, dozing here and there, but that is all.  Getting up I realize I have no responsibilties!  It is a little strange…I like it!  Despite Gemma’s assurance that my attendance was welcomed, I still feel awkwardly like a tag-a-long.  A living room full of blonde bridesmaids, scattered on couches, the floor, in sleeping bags and under blankets, begin to emerge one by one.  I haven’t shaved in three weeks, am wearing a black bandana, and have the haggard facial features of a man who was drinking the night before, then drove 4 hours in the dark, and slept horribly…not the most visually reputable of characters.  Oh well.  I try to be as smiley, inquisitive, and social as possible, attempting to break any tension that might exist as to who I am and why I’m there.  It seems to work…I think?  After everyone showers, half of them taking cold showers, we head out.  I took a quick rinse the night before, forseeing the inevitability of a depleted hot water tank.

We arrive at the wedding site, Mike & Glenda’s farm, mid-morning.  Fields of ripened hay lie at the back of a farmhouse at the end of a gravel driveway.  Across the street is a field of what looks like dill, but come to find out are carrots grown and harvested for seed.  It looks like a typical modern rural farm: large equipment sheds/barns near the house, silos, fuel tanks, various tractor attachments and vehicles, and a small fire of something burning, attended by two farmhands.  I love it!  Peaceful, productive, and visually stimulating, especially the gorgeous view of Mt. Bachelor (I think) beyond the carrot field.  People start showing up, and I feel like the uninvited guest again.  Fortunately there are a lot of preparations to be made, so my willingness and ability to help out allow me to get over my own insecurities of intruding.  Carol, Elise’s mom, puts me to work assembling Chinese lanterns…or maybe it was Glenda…I don’t remember exactly.  I do my best to figure out how it works, not quite sure if I got it right or not, since in the process I broke one of the pieces…oops!  While inquiring if my presumptions were correct, Kelly (Glenda’s daughter-in-law) commends me on my creativity, and proceeds to show me how it actually goes together.  It is very sweet of her to be so genteel.  The rest of Friday afternoon consists of a mix of various preparations, down time, eating, and socializing.  The most fun project of the day has to be rearranging Glenda and Mike’s refrigerator with Tiffany, to accommodate all of the food.  Apparently the food was supposed to arrive after the portable cooling unit…not so.  We play some serious Tetris with that fridge, and after a few trials and errors, cram that thing to the max in as organized a fashion possible.  You would think being as tentative as I am about intruding I would have asked Glenda first if we could wreak havoc on her appliances…but I didn’t.  Impetuous me.  There was a problem, and we found a solution.  To my surprise, Glenda compliments me later on such a good rearranging job; I make sure to mention it was a team effort.   

7/26/08

My first good nights sleep in a while.  In fact, last night was the first time I’d slept in a real bed in months.  Since everyone has breakfast plans and errands to run in town, I have the whole house to myself!  Wow, what trust!  I’ve known these good people for one day, and they trust me to run around their house freely.  Truly touched, I no longer feel like a self-invited guest…although technically I still am.  No sooner do I finish the lovely egg scramble I made for breakfast, am I again working, this time designing and manufacturing boutenirs and corsages with Linda, and James, her son.  Other tasks follow throughout the morning and afternoon.  Donovan and I have a lot of fun with Scott, Glenda and Mike’s eldest son, packing coolers full of beer, water and Dr. Pepper, and driving around pounding signs into compressed dirt and gravel.  Honestly, I don’t feel like I’m doing an extraordinary amount of work.  I mean seriously…seriously, if I did any less I would feel like a dead weight, which is why I am so surprised by the enormous gratitude and compliments directed towards me for my assistance…so many it makes me kind of uncomfortable.   While getting dressed, I watch members of the wedding party shuffle from room to room, bathroom to bathroom, prepping and primping, as energy escalates for the big event.  I am totally caught off guard when people emerge from the woodwork, and I find the house full of beautiful women dressed to the nines.  There is little time to ponder the scene as I am put to work once again.  This time I’ve been put in charge of pinning flower arrangements onto dress shirts and dresses.  Since Linda and James are still off-site getting ready, I am the official “licensed” pinner.  Unfortunately, I have never done this before…so despite being the proclaimed resident “pro”, I hesitantly take my list of names, a tray of boutenirs, and act like I know what I’m doing…hoping I don’t stick the exceptionally long pins into anyones chest.  Starting with the boutenirs was smart, because they are smaller than the corsages, and shirts are much easier to pin than dresses.  Besides, if you slip and stick a guy with a pin, his macho facade won’t allow him to fuss.  Fortunately I don’t stick anyone…except myself, once, while pinning a corsage onto a strapless dress.  I jam that pin a quarter inch into my thumb.  Ouch! 

The ceremony is sweet, a mix of casual and formal, and quite endearing.  Watching Elise and Matt tie the knot helps restore my faith in the viability of functional, long-term relationships.  Little time is wasted rearranging the tent into a reception area.  Many chiefs bark orders to eager, but confused indians.  Being one of the indians, I do my best to set up tables amidst contradicting orders.  The chaotic energy gets to me after a while and I look for some other way to be of service…ahhh….I can help bring out food.  Soon the party is under way.  One beer turns into two…followed by champagne for the toast.  Unfortunately it is flat by the time toasting is done.  No good, so I get some more…ahhh, much better.   I dance my ass off, mostly alone, because I prance all over the place like a court jester.  But who can resist rocking out with Larry and Donovan to Thriller?  I mean, seriously!   At some point I accidentally hit some poor girl square on the head with a water bottle…okay, it wasn’t just some poor girl…it was the best man’s wife! =0  I say stupid things.  I sneak a fresh bottle of champagne from the back refrigerator and share it with the bridesmaids…Molly seems especially anxious for a fresh glass of bubbly.  Tiffany and Molly inquire about my life…specifically about my previous marriage and religious beliefs.  The can of worms has been opened!  Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately being intoxicated leads to semi-coherent answers.  My answer to their question concerning my current theology is especially vague.  I explain I am on a personal spiritual journey…Donovan concurs.  If I was sober I would have sufficient focus and clarity to explain my views much more succinctly; namely, that ’love’ is my religion.  All great spiritual or religious movements, stripped of their procedures, hierarchies, doctrines, formalities, cultural adoptions, and agendas, are rooted in the precept of love: pure, simple, beautiful love.  So whether people worship Jesus Christ, Buddha, Allah, Ganesh, ancestral spirits, or Papa Smurf, what really matters is the condition and application of their heart.  My religion is love.  If I can one day review my life and say with confidence that I have let the virtue of compassion permeate every aspect of my life, become the driving force of my thoughts, emotions, words, and actions, and by so doing be of benefit and service to humankind, showing reverence to all forms of life…then I will be able to say my life was well-lived and worth living.  So….Tiffany and Molly, if you end up reading this blog, I hope this explanation better answers your original question.  =)   It appears I have gone off on a tangent…where was I?  Oh yes, the party!  It winds down around 11 as tables start being cleared.  Almost instantly the dance party turns into a clean up party.  I participate as much as possible, although still rather tipsy my help is marginal at best.  Finally I go inside to grab my backpack and find Angele’s voicemail about Grandpa Earl.  Instantly I sober up.  She says he is not expected to make it through the night… 

7/27/08

After dropping Gemma off at the airport, I make a quick stop to Starbucks to pick up uncle Philip’s complicated latte request.  When we spoke previously, I knew I wouldn’t remember and had him text the order.  I’m glad, because there is no way I would have gotten it right….skinny this, dolce that, lots of Splenda.   I show up to Grandpa and Joan’s home around noon.  I am prepared for the scene…but realize nothing really prepares you to see loved ones, who only a week earlier had their humor and wits about them, breathing in gargles, unconscious, and rapidly declining.  A few of Joan’s family members were there, along with Teri, Dave and Jeremy.  They had been there all night, and show signs of fatigue, both physical and emotional.  I sit down and take grandpa’s hand, unable to let go of it for the next two hours.  Philip comes back after a few minutes and is happy to see his favorite latte sitting on the bedside table.  Happy to see me too.  He really looks tired and worn out.  In the next few hours more people come and go.  I am one of them.  Realizing I haven’t showered in nearly two days, and anticipating a long night, I go home to shower and change, then head back.  The scene hasn’t changed much when I return.  Jenny and Sabrina stop by for awhile.  I have a nice chat with Jenny.  It has been a long time since…actually, we never really had a good conversation before.  I really have been socially detached from a lot of my family for a long time.  Chastity shows up after a while too, and now the house is full of people; the ambient noise level approaches my threshold.  The noise is bothering Philip too.  We both sit back down in the two chairs along side grandpa’s hospice bed, me running my hands over grandpa’s hair, and Philip holding his hand.  We look at eachother, both slightly annoyed at how loud the women are talking in the room of a dying man.  Eventually everyone leaves except for the night crew, consisting of Teri, Steve, myself, and ofcourse Joan.  Curling up on the loveseat, I successfully capture vignettes of sleep throughout the night.  At some point Steve pops his head out from the guest room, and then goes back to bed.  Teri stays up for most of the night, finally surrendering to the sandman on Joan’s upholstered rocker.  Realizing it is 4:30, I get up to look at his logbook to see when grandpa’s last dose of morphine was given.  Nearly three hours!  I squeeze half of the dropper into his mouth, the same dose as given last time, and sit down next to him in the quiet of pre-dawn.  Eventually I doze off again…I never was able to pull off all-nighters.  When I reawake Philip has come back, coffee is made, and another day of attending and waiting is before us.  I leave to run a couple of errands, and go for a run to clear my mind, arriving back around noon.  The hospice nurse had attended to grandpa in my absence, upping his morphine to a full dose, along with some other pain killer.  He said it was only a matter of time…could be a couple hours, could be a couple days.  Another hospice nurse was scheduled to come at 3, but shows up a half hour early.  Startled by her early arrival, Bonnie rushes to give grandpa another morphine dose before the nurse cleans and changes him.  A little too rushed, she spills the bottle and is trying to suck it back up with the dropper.  Jeremy and Teri are having some kind of communication breakdown regarding the other medicine, and Joan and the nurse jump in to see what’s going on.  This is too much for me.  I decide to take a seat in the back yard until the hospice nurse finishes her job and hopefully everything else calms down.  About 20 minutes go by.  I know the nurse is waiting for the morphine to kick in before doing anything with grandpa.  Occassionally looking up, I focus my attention to the book of short stories in my hand.  I am halfway through a story about a boy who is hit by a car and slowly drifting deeper into a coma, when Jeremy comes to the back door and ushers me in.  I hop up and he tells me in a voice masking all emotion that grandpa is gone.  Joan and Teri are crying.  The nurse looks a little uncomfortable, and wants to finish dressing him before anyone else arrives after hearing the news.  Teri and Joan are in the backroom making phone calls, so a couple of us help out the nurse.  Grandpa looks both vacant and peaceful.  More on the peaceful side after the nurse and I grab a small sofa pillow to support his mouth in a closed position.  Two emotions fill the house: relief and sorrow.  He is gone.

 8/10/08

Since I crashed at 2:30am…this morning, it is no surprise to me I don’t gain a semi-functional consciousness until around 10:30, and probably only because my bladder is screaming bloody murder. I take my time doing everything. No hurries, no worries, no schedule until the memorial service, and absolutely no pressure. It almost feels criminal to be so carefree…apparently the hectic, over-scheduled, frenetic lifestyle of the status-quo still exerts influence on my psyche. Waking up alone in Philip & Judy’s house is a nice respite. Even though the house is half empty of furniture and slightly disheveled due to final packing, I feel at peace. I slept on a real bed again…several nights in a row now. I am getting spoiled. Enough of this and I may develop an aversion to my sleeping pad…nah! I love that thing. As I walk down the stairs of this empty house with vaulted ceilings, late morning sun pours through the eastern windows at the back of the living room. What to do first? Who cares…plenty of time for everything. I move from one task to another, working only in the order in which I recall what needs to be done: move some small furniture down for Philip, change the porch lightbulbs, make and eat brunch, shower, laundry, gather and pack up belongings, and clean up the evidence of my temporary residence.

It is quarter after three when I arrive at Grandpa and Joan’s church. Not long after arriving I notice within myself a social awkwardness as I interact with family in this setting. I really don’t feel like engaging in endless small-talk today, so after being greeted by Mark & Susan, and saying a quick hello to Barbara, Bruce, & Renee, I fruitlessly scan the crowd for Angele’s face. Not here yet I guess. I take a 2nd row seat behind Jeremy and his family, glance at the program the girl handed me on the way in, and notice grandpa’s birthday is wrong…he was born in 1932, not 1922.

A few minutes before the service begins I see Angele and the kids breaking away from a conversation with Philip and flag her down. I must have cooties, because Ariel sits half in the chair next to me, and half in the next chair over. Everyone is ushered in, about 150 to 200 people in all I reckon, and the memorial starts. Across the aisle to my left are seated Mark, Philip, Teri & Dave, with Mark the closest. He is wearing his emotions unmistakably…understandably.

The first pastor gives a humorous, but endearing biography of grandpa’s life: boyhood on the share-cropping farm, military service, family, character. I had forgotten he was born with an extra thumb on each hand…my mom had told me long ago, but, well, that was long ago. I didn’t know he earned the boyhood nickname “Tuffy” after unknowingly drinking copious amounts of moonshine his older brothers gave him, more than they thought he could handle, and still being able to function. I also didn’t know grandpa worked two full time jobs to pay for grandma’s cancer treatment and to support their four kids. Why is it I am only learning about these things at his funeral?

Teri and Philip take the stage and start singing ‘It is Well With My Soul’. Their voices are beautiful, and peaceful. Instantly I am transported to mom and grandma Janet’s funerals 13 years ago, and only a week apart from each other…it was the last time I heard my aunt and uncles sing. I remember trying hard not to cry while wearing my dress blues…didn’t work. Snapping back to the present…

The second pastor follows the singing. He is very smiley….why so smiley? It is one of those manufactured smiles, like the ones you see in beauty pagaents and parades, unnaturally held in position while they do their equally ridiculous wrist to elbow wave. Oops, digressed again, where was I? His candor just seems out of place for a funeral…not that he should put on a Johnny-sad-sack face…but perhaps a more neutral expression, so as not to confuse a memorial service with a revival? I ponder this thought longer than it’s worth, and start tuning in to what he is saying. It isn’t long before I tune back out. I have no qualms with a Christian service, really…especially since grandpa was a very devout Christian, and I greatly respect how he let the positive aspects of Christianity guide his ethical core. What I have an issue with is hearing ‘Jesus’ 30 times in such a short speech. I am hearing Jesus this and Jesus that…seriously, there has never been a figurehead in the history of this entire world with more aliases than the man know as Jesus: Son, Savior, Christ, Redeemer, Lord, God, Jehovah, Eternal, I Am, the list goes on and on. Looking at this scenario from a purely verbal aesthetic, for a church leader to communicate a message deemed so important as to affect the eternal well-being of the listeners, wouldn’t you want to keep their attention by having the most effective literary speech prepared? You know? For example, how does this sound (for comparative value): I like fruit. Fruit is sweet and good. I eat fruit everday, because fruit is so fruity. Fruit is healthy too. Have you eaten any fruit today. Do you know how good fruit is? Don’t you want to eat fruit everyday too? Come over and we can eat a good fruit salad, maybe a fruit smoothy, or even be daring and have a double-fruity cobbler. …..okay, the horse is dead, I can stop kicking it now. Please don’t misunderstand my intent of sharing this opinion. I have nothing against the pastor speaking; although the fill-in-the-blank feel of the memorial is a bit disheartening.

Aiden is getting very restless, which is a nice diversion for my attention. The speech winds to a conclusion, and we commence singing 2 hymns. The audience is having a difficult time singing along with the pastor, who is leading with only his voice, and is not keeping an even meter, sort of like those remake songs I hear on the radio. The ones where it is obvious the artists want to distinguish their version from the original, and hold certain notes longer and whatnot. I am not presuming the pastor to be doing this, but for whatever reason, his singing is extremely difficult to match…even for the pianist.  Singing is done, and now another prayer.  Then…it’s over. Really? Over already… Something just didn’t seem right about this whole arrangement…something was missing…but what do I know?  Whatever it is continues to plague my mind as I socialize with family afterwards.  I can’t pinpoint it, but something is just wrong…it shouldn’t feel like this. I can feel my own awkwardness as I converse with everyone to both catch up on the latest as well as say my goodbyes. I am bad at saying goodbyes too, which contributes to the weirdness factor.

Walking out of the church and towards my car, I relish a breath of fresh air. I guess now it’s time to move forward. I have seen and experienced a variety of ends and beginnings these past couple of weeks: work, wedding, funeral; all of which have reinforced my understanding of life’s constant flux, and the necessity of recognizing and embracing change in all its facets. I am now fully ready to embrace and create a new chapter in this crazy realm I call my life…next stop: California…