Those we leave behind

My grandmother is dying. Have I told you that?

Don't worry. I've made my peace with it. She is old, turned 90 this year. She has had a good life; she'd tell you that herself. Her father died when she was only a small child; she lived through the depression; and she literally nursed her husband through fifteen years of deteriorating health and dialysis after he suffered complete kidney failure. But she was happy. I seldom recall her without a twinkle in her eye and a song in her voice. And now her own health has been declining. She is weak, can hardly hear, and her mind is... what is the term... going? She's scarcely been cognizant of the realities of the outside world for at least two years. My memories of my father's mother are of a robust and opinionated woman who loved God, her family, and her home. She was simple, faithful, strong. This... shell... this mortal coil that remains is not my grandmother. It is not even a shadow of her; I do not recognize it. She deserves better than this shallow existence, confined to a bed, undressing herself in the middle of a crowded living room on the rare occasions when she rises, and she, the most prudish person I've ever known. She used to stitch extra lace or a bit of fabric into the necks of her dresses to avoid showing skin below the chin. That proud and happy woman has been gone for some time, and I have mourned her already. I honestly pray daily for her release.

But recently her worsening condition required my father, sister, and I to travel down to the farm house in northeastern Mississippi to make some arrangements with my aunt and clean up a few things. It felt weird going back. I haven't lived in the South for six years, haven't set foot in it at all for nearly two, and haven't been to the farm in over three. Those who read this blog know how much that farm means to me, but I am a stranger to it now. I once thought I would always be Southern no matter where I lived, no matter who else I became, but I confess I had almost forgotten what it was like. Living amongst the palm trees of California, it is Boston that my heart longs for. The South had been relegated to the past along with other ephemeral dreams of boyhood.

But oh, how the smell of the place stirred the echoes, like summer's cast off leaves caught in autumn's chill winds, dead but still resplendent, moving and palpable, their vibrant colors belying their lack of vitality. I expected the trip would allow me to take my leave of the farm, say goodbye to my grandmother and my childhood, but I found myself again and again searching for signs of my grandfather about the place, pushing through the accumulation of decades to find an article of clothing, his handwriting in a Bible. He is the one the farm conjures for me most vividly, despite the intervening years since his death, and I realized as we drove back to Tennessee listening to my father's tales of his childhood that it is for my grandfather I have wept when I have seen the utter disrepair of the place. It is because of my grandfather that I have refused to relinquish my hold on it... or it on me. He died in September of1985, but even after twenty three years, it is my grandfather I have not ceased to mourn.

He was an extraordinary person. I know many people believe this about their parents or grandparents, and I certainly know he had his fault, like any man. But my grandfather has always been a sort of hero to me. I have always wished to be more like him. He was quiet for the most part, seldom speaking, but speaking with authority and assurance when he spoke. He was smart and prudent, always making the right moves to keep the farm prosperous. He was firm with his rules, but kind in his consequences. He guided and taught with a light hand and never minded when we made mistakes. And best of all, we never knew exactly when his boyish penchant for mischief would break out from his dour countenance with a sly grin as we passed him in the hallway or on the front porch. Then would come the sudden lurch, a pinched buttock, a child's gleeful squirm and wriggle of escape, and then a rapid return in the hopes that we would be seized again. When I was a child, people said I looked like him, and with a boy's vanity, I was overly pleased with the observation. At his funeral, people packed the small country church sanctuary, spilled out to fill the hallway outside, and covered the sidewalk beyond the building's front doors. My grandfather in his quiet way loved deeply and encouraged an abiding love in others.

Of course, I didn't think of all this at the time. It seemed natural that being on the farm would make me think of him... would make all of us think of him. It was only upon returning to California that it hit me. It was my grandfather I was letting go of when I bid farewell to my grandmother and her home... my home, the home of my family for generations beyond memory. Its people and landscape have been my ties to him for my entire life, distant but comforting in their solidity.

Goodbye, Granddaddy. We will miss you. I... miss you.

Of Finances, Friends, and Formation of the Mind

It would be a gross understatement to claim that I have been busy. Of course, we are all busy, and at any rate, I am always busy. But I must say that I have been particularly busy of late.*

Darling Wife and I entertained house guests for the better part of last week, and I have been nearly o'rwhelmed with school work since their departure. We are also expecting another guest this weekend. None of these circumstances has been or will be lamented. Quite the contrary, most of it has been and, I hope, will continue to be highly enjoyable. But it does rather tax one's energies and stretch one's budget.

Speaking of which, it being the end of one month and the beginning of another, I have been cooking the books, as the saying goes. Things in that quadrant are not as bleak as in times past. They are steadily improving. But I must confess that all of this focus on dollars and cents, pennies and pounds tires me something awful. I try to live by the maxim of Mr. Micawber: "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery." But we are not talking about twenty pounds with an odd six pence on either side. It is alarming to consider the thousands that come in and out of a modestly small household like ours in the course of a single month so that even when the expenditure doesn't exceed the income, just dealing with it all runs one perilously close to misery. I can't help but think that there have to be ways to simplify matters without going to the extreme of living in an old bus in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness.

*I have also been watching the HBO series "John Adams" on DVD, and it may have affected my syntax a touch. :)

A Screeching Halt

I just caused an accident... I think.

I was out for my afternoon bike ride, moving at a fairly quick clip, loose and enjoying myself in the mild afternoon sun. I had finished my exercise and had nearly reached home when I came up behind three undergraduate girls with long blond hair, wearing sun dresses and giant round-lensed sunglasses, carrying enormous "bags" (purses, not school bags), and riding side-by-side. One of them was talking on her cell phone, and the other two were keeping pace with her. They were all three creeping along on their big ole cruisers, blocking the entire bike path.

I followed behind them a short distance until they reached a section of the path with clearly marked lanes. I thought perhaps they would fall into line and stay in the right lane, as they are supposed to do. But the girls continued to pedal along at their extremely slow pace, staring around like they hadn't a brain among the three of them. So, I rang my little bike bell and said, "Excuse me. On your left," as I pulled up to pass them. The girl farthest to the left jerked her head around with surprise clearly marking every feature of her face and drove right into the side of the girl next to her. Their bikes became entangled, and they both went down in a jumble of fenders and chains.

All three girls immediately began swearing, not at me exactly, but at the universe, as if it had somehow betrayed them, and then they started looking over their bodies and clothes for damage. One girl had a pretty bad scrape on her knee, but she seemed more concerned about her dress than about her injury or the fact that she was sitting in the middle of the bike path with her knees drawn up and her legs spread, underwear clearly visible.

I stopped, got off my bike, and helped her to stand up. Then I righted their bikes and, with the help of another guy who stopped as well, straightened crooked handlebars and bent fenders. Meanwhile, the girls continued to swear and tug at their clothing. They didn't acknowledge any fault or assistance on my part or the other guy's, nor did they seem aware of what to do.

After a few awkward moments of standing there, unsure what to say or how to act, I got back on my bike and rode home. At this moment, I'm not exactly sure who was more at fault or who is more to be pitied.

Time and Tide

Time plays tricks with memory. We all know that. Memory makes a treasured space out of a horrible apartment you once had when you were a young student, fresh to the city from some provincial existence. Nostalgia reworks the bored hours of childhood into an adult's longed-for moments of innocent freedom.

But once in a while, we experience something that time cannot embellish. These experiences encompass more than the places where they occurred, more than the activities we were engaged in, and it is curious how we can live outside of them and inside of them at precisely the same instant. It is as if these experiences defy the laws of temporality and physics to allow a person to exist in two places... two moments... at the same time. Even if medical science can explain this phenomenon some day, will it matter? Will knowing the exact cause of the sorcery render it any less potent? I think not.

When reading a book the other day, I briefly touched such a blurring. The book is a decent tale by a moderately talented author, nothing profound or all that moving. But the novel's setting called forth a mental time capsule like something from a Wordsworth poem.

I stood again on a stretch of road that was in itself unremarkable. Cars sped along it, occupants busy trying to reach other destinations. I could feel the ocean breeze on my hair and smell the tang of salt and seaweed on the air. On either side, water pulsed and quivered, the narrow stretch of the Vineyard Sound on my left, Vineyard Haven Lagoon on my right. The roadway covered a tiny strip of land, little more than a jetty, and I could see jellyfish gliding easily in the depths below. Had I been on a bridge or a boat, the experience would not have been the same. This space was truly liminal, not quite land nor sea. Ahead lay Edgartown, the island's chief town, and behind lay Vineyard Haven. But this space, this strip of road, was outside of both. It belonged to nowhere and nothing... except to the journey between places, between worlds.

And now, it resides in my mind, not quite real, but not imagined either... undefined, unnamed, unbounded.

Short-term commitments

Have you ever heard the term "serial monogamist"? It refers to a person who is faithful to one other person while he or she is dating/married/sleeping with that person, presenting every appearance of maintaining a permanent situation. And in truth, sometimes these relationships can go on for years. But eventually, the serialist will sever the attachment, only to become embroiled in another one after a short time. Serial monogamists can be great partners if one is only looking for temporary stability and trust, but one can't base any long-term plans on them, despite all evidence to the contrary. For whatever reason, serial monogamists will eventually move on to different, albeit it not necessarily greener, pastures.

I was never a serial monogamist in the romantic sense. Oh sure, I dated various women for extended periods to the exclusion of other women, but until I met Darling Wife, I never gave any impression of a serious long-term relationship with any of them. Besides, I would often date many different women for years between these longer connections, and I went for long periods dating no one. Nope. Before I met DW, I considered myself a life-long bachelor, not a serial dater.

However, I confess that I have a track record of lengthy short-term commitments in most other aspects of my life. Three years is about average for me. Almost every job I ever held, with a couple of notable exceptions, lasted for approximately three years, give or take a few months. And every place I ever lived...? Yep... three years. You can measure out the phases of my life in three-year increments. I always thought this was because it took me a year to get used to something, another year to weary of it, and another year to find a way to change it. But whatever the reason for the cycle, each time I set up housekeeping with all of the appearances of permanent residence right up until the day I left.

After years of living this way, though, I long for a little more permanence. I want to plant a tree and watch it grown. I want to buy furniture without the thought of how I will move it a year later. I want to make an investment in a community and build lasting friendships.

Yet, the three-year itch is not easily shaken off. DW and I have lived here in CA for almost exactly three years now. As you all know, we haven't liked it beyond the first six months, but we stayed for various reasons. Now we have one more year... actually nine or ten more months. That's all. That isn't very long. But the three year period has passed, and like the mysterious migrational instincts of birds, I am struggling to stay put. Every sense within me tells me that we've been here too long. It's time to go.

We recently reworked our budget to start saving money for the move. We've also been examining potential communities in more detail. We even made arrangements to visit a few when we are back east for Christmas. All of these preparations should make me feel better, but suddenly a year seems like such a long time. You see, it's not just a year. It's a year beyond the three. And that, my friends, makes all the difference.

Civil Disobeisance

It turned cooler (mid-80s) here for about two days, but now it is nearly 100 degrees again. The lakes are lower than I've ever seen them, some are practically ponds now, and the creeks are all stagnant. Most of the plants in my garden are dying despite my daily watering, and the grass is disappearing from my backyard faster than wedding dresses at the Filene's Basement annual bridal sale.

In addition, I'm on jury duty. I was called and appeared on Tuesday as my civic duty demanded, and I was chosen as an alternate juror on a criminal trial that is expected to continue for the rest of the week. I've never been involved in proceedings like this before; I've only experienced the television version of them. It's very interesting, and I would probably be enjoying myself except... I spent all last weekend catching up on school work, and being in court all day is putting me behind again. I feel the stress starting to build with each day that passes.

And of course, that's not all. I could go on with the litany of petty annoyances, but I don't care to rehash them. The point is, I'm annoyed and cranky, which makes me more annoyed and cranky. Do you ever just get tired of being angry?

Through the Hour Glass

Then just as quickly, those moments of respite are gone, and we are faced once again with the dust heap. It lies in our garages, in our e-mail in-boxes, in our hall closets. Only while we looked away, it has grown greater, taller, wider. It is a veritable mountain of senseless minutiae. How did it get so big... so quickly?

One is left to ponder, not how we manage to cope with it, but why.

Is it any mystery that countless numbers of today's youths prefer to be jacked into mp3 players and video games? Why drug abuse is rampant in our society? They seek drama and excitement, anything to quicken them and allow them to ignore the triviality of the heap.

But I don't long for that sort of escape. Instead, I hear the voice of Thoreau, "Simplify, simplify, simplify," it says. The word sounds in the midst of the refuse like the sharp call of a bird whose shape I know, but name I've forgotten. Thoreau wrote, "Most of the luxuries and many of the so-called comforts of life are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind."

I am weary of being hindered. If only I had the courage to be elevated.

Love is all you need

And then, there are those stolen moments with someone you love that sweep all the trash away.

Or perhaps, the trash is still there, but you are able to see again how insignificant it truly is.

If only those moments weren't so difficult to come by. But then I guess they wouldn't be worth as much.

It's the little things

They come at you, all the time, piling up like garbage at a landfill. Each one by itself is insignificant, and you know that in time, they will not matter.

Perhaps that is what makes them so hard to deal with. They are so trivial; what is the point? Why exert yourself?

But if you do not, they soon bury you. So you work them out, clean them up, handle each one in turn... over, and over, and over again... until you are exhausted.

But you can't really complain because... after all... they are trivial. Right?

Will You Not Shed a Tear?

I named my PC "Glorfindel." To those steeped in the lore of Tolkien, this name may not be unfamiliar to your eyes. But to those who have never ventured into the complex worlds of this master dreamweaver, let me assure you that this is a name to conjure with. Glorfindel was an elf lord of the Eldar who returned to Middle Earth from the Undying Lands, a journey never undertaken by other being, to help Frodo escape from the Nazgul and come within the protecting sway of the elves of Rivendell in Fellowship of the Ring. (This role was usurped by Arwen Undomiel in the film.) Glorfindel is powerful and good, and I had hope that bestowing this name upon my mechanical servant would render it some manner of protection.

But alas, some two days ago, a friend reached across cyberspace and time to send me a video file. This file contained a music video filmed in his new soundstage in my old hometown, and he desired my opinion of it. Glorfindel informed me that I needed a certain codec to view the file, and I went speedily in pursuit of it. In my haste and poor judgment, I discovered what I believed to be the sought after element and gave it to Glorfindel.

Woe and destruction followed, for the thing I had unearthed was not the codec I mistook it for but a foul fiend of the abyss. Harken unto me, friends, and harken well. Know you that this fiend is called Antispyware 2008, and it is a most fell beast. Test it not. Touch it not. But avoid it with all your might unless you long for a life of peril and death.

This grievous foe latched onto Glorfindel with the swiftness of birds in flight and the strength of a cave troll. Like a guard asleep at the castle gates, my virus-protection software recognized it not until it was well beyond the reach of the defenses, wreaking horrible damage upon all that crossed its path.

I hastily procured the services of a mercenary by the name of Antimalware, available at Malwarebytes.org, and he succeeded in utterly destroying the enemy. But it was too late. Glorfindel has suffered a mortal wound that is beyond my powers to heal.

Fortunately, he was able to hold himself together long enough to allow me to save the precious cargo he carries, but his memory must be wiped and his operating system reinstalled. He will no longer be recognizable as the companion of my recent years. I am most cast down. A moment of indiscretion and folly has brought the ruin of all that he and I had built together.

It is a gray day, my friends. Please, lament with us.