This visit to Capistrano Beach has been wonderfully formative as well as restful for me, and through it I have come to the conclusion that I would love to eventually settle in this area fr part of each year. California – especially its beach towns – offers opportunities for the use of my primary skills (music, art and writing) that I have been on the hunt for.
The trip was an interesting blend of intensely focused inquiry into future prospects and a very deliberate blurring of all things pressing so that I could try to get a peek into the larger scheme of things. In both I was partially successful.
In the latter, the beaches, 'specially Capistrano, are always favorite spots. It is easier to look uncertainties in the face when standing with the enormity of the ocean on one side and the comfortable mass of continent on the other.
Our soggy-sandy pilgrimages to the beach were mostly Adam, Timms and I starting at the stretch of Capo Beach closest to Gram and Gramp's house and walk slowly southward along its pebble-streaked sanctuary, each picking and pocketing the treasures that appeal to us (bright pebbles, seaweed, shells and bits of white-or-brown-or-green-or-cobalt), until we are tired. About a mile. Then we walk purposefully back toward reality and home.
Every so far along the beach that day, I paused and wrote with my toe in the sand verses about what the boys were doing. As soon as I had written, I would move along to catch up with them.
As we headed back toward home only one verse of probably a dozen had been spared by the waves:
Standing on a rock
In between the waves
Itself only temporarily unmoved
The boys had found a little slab of rock just large enough for them both to perch with their toes on its edge and just far enough up the shore that the incoming tide only swirled about their ankles and splashed their knees.
Adam stood in the front facing the sea and Timms stood behind peeking around him but ducking and hanging on when the waves struck. They both laughed and called out as they played in the foam and that was when noticed they were changing and realized I was watching something very precious and as fleeting as my words in the sand.
I would not see them play very many more times. They are growing fast; Adam is almost as tall as I am, and I am certain Timms won't be as forthcoming with hugs and secret-sharing smiles the next time I see him.
So I kept a little distance and just enjoyed them as they chased and were in turn chased by the waves. I picked up a grape-size pebble - a sea-smoothed piece of nearly transparent quartz – and put it in my pocket for a remembrance.
SPM
Friday, December 23, 2005
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
A Sparkle In My Day...
I heard, and then saw, children. There were about twenty of them, with three adults, all tromping past the art gallery after the fashion of a victory parade with whoops and giggles aplenty. Faces brightened with more joy than would seem proper to most folks. One little girl had the skipping, leaning, running walk of a colt or a calf that is too busy looking about it to adopt a more dignified gait. One boy paused in front of the window and looked at a large pointillist painting of a wood with the kind of wonder usually reserved for Christmas morning; he is one of the very few in this world aside from the artist who will feel that kind of joy, and that kind of awe and exhiliration while standing before that painting. Asian, Mexican, black and white - here one moment and trundled into a bus the next - they are all separately alight and, yet, singularly alike. I only had the time to actually see two of the children, but they were all marvelously complete and are - each and every - what we have all at least once referred to as "retarded." Funny, they seem to share all of the best portions in life with us and fewer of the poor.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Column for the Bay City Times: May, Mabel, Doug and Me
I spent a good part of Mother’s Day at the Bay City Players for the second weekend of “Meet Me in St. Louis”. Susan Meade was there - lovely as ever – in her crinkly gold silk blouse, distressed-and-deconstructed-pearl-and-lace-encrusted jeans, and unfaltering smile.
We sat behind a Queen-Anne-Legged offering season tickets to anyone who glanced our way and chatting with a rather formidable older lady who knew both Susan and me but whom I could not remember.
Into our triangle drifted an apricot-coated Little lady with white hair being led past by her daughter.
They paused in their passing and Little said to Formidable in the slightly tremulous voice that is proof of a full life, “Did you know me?”
Without waiting for any reply beyond our politely interested facial expressions, Little answered herself with a slow and quietly certain smile and, “You knew me,” directed at Formidable. Formidable said looking into Little’s eyes with a similar smile, “Yes.”
As the daughter led her away, Little said with an urgency that made me listen very carefully: “My name is May.”
Then she was gone, but my day was altered and I was minded of other little ladies. Other mothers. Other children. Other urgencies. And Mabel.
Mabel was a ninety-something-year-old woman who lived at the same nursing home as my Great Uncle Sol (a cousin, actually) in South Dakota. The main difference between she and he was that, while my family were there to visit him, no one came to visit Mabel.
I passed her in the hall as I set out on a passing-the-time exploration and – for some reason known only to her Alzheimer’s and herself – I was recognized as, and assumed to be, a boy named Doug.
I never found out if Doug was a nephew, son or grandson, but I did learn a great deal about him as Mabel reminded me of things any self-respecting Doug should have known.
Doug and I apparently had the same ready laugh. Doug played baseball and the piano. Doug loved chasing fireflies and climbing trees. But, most of all, Doug was deeply, wholly unforgettably, unreasonably and lastingly loved of a woman named Mabel who seemed to remember very little beyond that love. For some reason not to be found, I was where he should’ve been, and – for a while – I was alright being a boy named Doug.
I stopped to chew on this for a bit backstage and realized that May, Mabel, Doug and me were linked by time, sympathy, empathy and humanity.
Everything that lives will age, fade, falter and eventually be forgotten, but old is not dead. We cheat ourselves as well as our aging loved ones when we forget this.
Our old are touchstones to the past, proof of continuity, and a source of hope because they have gone through life before us and survived. I am inclined to think that a general disconnect between the rising and passing generations may have something to do with the bewilderment and lack of focus now common among the twenty-somethings of today.
When I am paused between choices in my life, I am grateful for the aged voices in my head reminding me that I am not the first in such a quandary. I go on grateful that my life was overlapped by others, and am soberly aware that my life just might - in turn - overlap those that follow me. So, don’t forget the old; you might be lucky enough to be one of them someday. They are the keepers of our stories and it is their hands that are most suited to guide the next generation; they made and survived our mistakes before us, after all.
(Originally published in the Bay City Times, 2005, SPM)
We sat behind a Queen-Anne-Legged offering season tickets to anyone who glanced our way and chatting with a rather formidable older lady who knew both Susan and me but whom I could not remember.
Into our triangle drifted an apricot-coated Little lady with white hair being led past by her daughter.
They paused in their passing and Little said to Formidable in the slightly tremulous voice that is proof of a full life, “Did you know me?”
Without waiting for any reply beyond our politely interested facial expressions, Little answered herself with a slow and quietly certain smile and, “You knew me,” directed at Formidable. Formidable said looking into Little’s eyes with a similar smile, “Yes.”
As the daughter led her away, Little said with an urgency that made me listen very carefully: “My name is May.”
Then she was gone, but my day was altered and I was minded of other little ladies. Other mothers. Other children. Other urgencies. And Mabel.
Mabel was a ninety-something-year-old woman who lived at the same nursing home as my Great Uncle Sol (a cousin, actually) in South Dakota. The main difference between she and he was that, while my family were there to visit him, no one came to visit Mabel.
I passed her in the hall as I set out on a passing-the-time exploration and – for some reason known only to her Alzheimer’s and herself – I was recognized as, and assumed to be, a boy named Doug.
I never found out if Doug was a nephew, son or grandson, but I did learn a great deal about him as Mabel reminded me of things any self-respecting Doug should have known.
Doug and I apparently had the same ready laugh. Doug played baseball and the piano. Doug loved chasing fireflies and climbing trees. But, most of all, Doug was deeply, wholly unforgettably, unreasonably and lastingly loved of a woman named Mabel who seemed to remember very little beyond that love. For some reason not to be found, I was where he should’ve been, and – for a while – I was alright being a boy named Doug.
I stopped to chew on this for a bit backstage and realized that May, Mabel, Doug and me were linked by time, sympathy, empathy and humanity.
Everything that lives will age, fade, falter and eventually be forgotten, but old is not dead. We cheat ourselves as well as our aging loved ones when we forget this.
Our old are touchstones to the past, proof of continuity, and a source of hope because they have gone through life before us and survived. I am inclined to think that a general disconnect between the rising and passing generations may have something to do with the bewilderment and lack of focus now common among the twenty-somethings of today.
When I am paused between choices in my life, I am grateful for the aged voices in my head reminding me that I am not the first in such a quandary. I go on grateful that my life was overlapped by others, and am soberly aware that my life just might - in turn - overlap those that follow me. So, don’t forget the old; you might be lucky enough to be one of them someday. They are the keepers of our stories and it is their hands that are most suited to guide the next generation; they made and survived our mistakes before us, after all.
(Originally published in the Bay City Times, 2005, SPM)
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
All Things Wonky
Thursday evening brought sushi on Saginaw Street with friends. The group included Gimpy and Companion, Irritable Bowel and Confidant, Happy Hilfigher, and myself.
(Before crossing the street from the Coffee House to Fusion 1, Happy Hilfigher shot Irritable Bowel in the gut with a fierce looking pellet gun of the semi-automatic kind. Perhaps this is a sign of hospitality on his island. Interesting, No?) Whenever I and my associates arrive at Fusion 1 for the "All You Can Eat Thursday Night Sushi Extravaganza," the proprietor and his assistant flash a knowing smile.
They know us well. We are not the average, mineral-water-swilling, necktie-wearing, decent sort of sushi eaters that Chefs Craig and Co. usually get. The only thing we have in common with them is the swilling bit. And we are not terribly picky about what we swill, either. We arrive famished. We leave gluttonously satisfied. Period.
Craig started the evening off with an assortment of pickled and sauteed delights topped with Japanese barbecued beef that melted in the mouth. These were followed by a Miso soup made from a chicken stock base liberally sprinkled with cubes of tofu, scallions and chopped seaweed. Then came the sushi . . . . 164 pieces of assorted goodness rolled to order and devoured with many a rapid chopstick click and nary the bat of an eye.
I am always surprised into eye-watering laughter by something that Irritable Bowel or Confidant begin discussing or doing. ("Do Mennonites have pockets?") This time out it was a doing: Gimpy launched a bit of wit at Irritable Bowel, and - by way of return - Irritable Bowel launched a bright orange constellation of smelt roe from the top of a Cali Roll at Gimpy. (The rapid scoop-and-delivery would leave the average primate agape with envy, and left Gimpy just plain agape.) And then - to add insult to injury - Irritable Bowel said ever so casually to Gimpy, "I think you have something on your face."
I have friends who discuss everything because nothing is sacred; I think Irritable Bowel and Confidant discuss everything because, somehow, they are instinctually aware that everything is sacred, and so to be savoured. For all the ragging I give them, I am always secretly astounded by their innocence and amazed by their intimacy. I admire their brashness. And I envy them when they are not looking.
SPM
(Before crossing the street from the Coffee House to Fusion 1, Happy Hilfigher shot Irritable Bowel in the gut with a fierce looking pellet gun of the semi-automatic kind. Perhaps this is a sign of hospitality on his island. Interesting, No?) Whenever I and my associates arrive at Fusion 1 for the "All You Can Eat Thursday Night Sushi Extravaganza," the proprietor and his assistant flash a knowing smile.
They know us well. We are not the average, mineral-water-swilling, necktie-wearing, decent sort of sushi eaters that Chefs Craig and Co. usually get. The only thing we have in common with them is the swilling bit. And we are not terribly picky about what we swill, either. We arrive famished. We leave gluttonously satisfied. Period.
Craig started the evening off with an assortment of pickled and sauteed delights topped with Japanese barbecued beef that melted in the mouth. These were followed by a Miso soup made from a chicken stock base liberally sprinkled with cubes of tofu, scallions and chopped seaweed. Then came the sushi . . . . 164 pieces of assorted goodness rolled to order and devoured with many a rapid chopstick click and nary the bat of an eye.
I am always surprised into eye-watering laughter by something that Irritable Bowel or Confidant begin discussing or doing. ("Do Mennonites have pockets?") This time out it was a doing: Gimpy launched a bit of wit at Irritable Bowel, and - by way of return - Irritable Bowel launched a bright orange constellation of smelt roe from the top of a Cali Roll at Gimpy. (The rapid scoop-and-delivery would leave the average primate agape with envy, and left Gimpy just plain agape.) And then - to add insult to injury - Irritable Bowel said ever so casually to Gimpy, "I think you have something on your face."
I have friends who discuss everything because nothing is sacred; I think Irritable Bowel and Confidant discuss everything because, somehow, they are instinctually aware that everything is sacred, and so to be savoured. For all the ragging I give them, I am always secretly astounded by their innocence and amazed by their intimacy. I admire their brashness. And I envy them when they are not looking.
SPM
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