A month or so ago I was alone in my Visalia home,
My wife away, assisting her father after a medical problem.
And at some point in time I found myself speeding north.
I missed my wife, just wanted to see her I guess.
When I arrived she hugged me and said,
"You didn't have to come."
My response was spontaneous
and surprised us both:
We are Harfst's; we are Richardson's
Neither saints nor sinners
But we take care of our own.
English teachers (and former ones like myself) would call this "Found" poetry. An accidental grouping of words, profound though unintentional.
But in the last few months, as I've witnessed my father-in-law's setbacks and determined come backs, I want to add a fourth, intentional line:
We are Harfst's; We are Richardson's
Neither saints nor sinners
But we take care of our own
We'll endure.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Who Are We?
A month or so ago I was alone in my Visalia home,
My wife away, assisting her father after a medical problem.
And at some point in time I found myself speeding north.
I missed my wife, just wanted to see her I guess.
When I arrived she hugged me and said,
"You didn't have to come."
My response was spontaneous
and surprised us both:
We are Harfst's; we are Richardson's
Neither saints nor sinners
But we take care of our own.
English teachers (and former ones like myself) would call this "Found" poetry. An accidental grouping of words, profound though unintentional.
But in the last few months, as I've witnessed my father-in-law's setbacks and determined come backs, I want to add a fourth, intentional line:
We are Harfst's; We are Richardson's
Neither saints nor sinners
But we take care of our own
We'll endure.
My wife away, assisting her father after a medical problem.
And at some point in time I found myself speeding north.
I missed my wife, just wanted to see her I guess.
When I arrived she hugged me and said,
"You didn't have to come."
My response was spontaneous
and surprised us both:
We are Harfst's; we are Richardson's
Neither saints nor sinners
But we take care of our own.
English teachers (and former ones like myself) would call this "Found" poetry. An accidental grouping of words, profound though unintentional.
But in the last few months, as I've witnessed my father-in-law's setbacks and determined come backs, I want to add a fourth, intentional line:
We are Harfst's; We are Richardson's
Neither saints nor sinners
But we take care of our own
We'll endure.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Territoriiality, Part Three
I didn't get my head (or my pack) together until noon the next day.
I felt lazy and bought a sandwich from the corner store on my way out.
It was predictably over priced and under filled, but I was already nibbling on it as I rolled north across the Little Pico bridge.
I worried vaguely about the geezer I had potentially stranded yesterday. What if he and his shiny red pickup were still there?
No way, I told myself. Anybody able to withstand afternoon gales while extolling the virtues of elephant seals could certainly find his way out of a shallow slot canyon. Right?
Worst case (and boy am I good at that kind of thinking!) what might have happened to him in the interim?
Well, first of all he would be extremely hungry. I wrapped up my sandwich and put it down on the passenger seat.
He would also be extremely pissed off, maybe a little imbalanced. Near death experiences sometimes does that to people.
I considered my dilemma during the next five miles. What to do?
Then it came to me. Stand on the cliff and get geezer's attention.
"Hey you dumb-assed docent!"
Next, throw down my sandwich.
When he went for it, I would toss out my rope. Then run like hell back to my car, deliberately unlocked and keys in the ignition.
The plan had its disadvantages, of course. He would no doubt keep my rope out of spite.
But a small price to pay, I thought, when you consider a life might be at stake.
I tried not to think about such unlikely events, while I focused on the jade--to-royal blue ocean passing on the left. Random groups of Mr. Hearst's painted ponies loitered on my right. Everything was good until my car rounded a bend and I saw red.
A red pickup to be exact. I went by it slowly enough to a see the Toyota logo and a license starting with "7". My heart thudded with a "this is bad, real bad" feeling. I could barely drive. A few seconds later realized the truck was on the wrong side of the road and a half mile south of yesterday's drop point.
Crisis non-existent, I concluded, and pursued my original plan to drop down a steeper and much longer ravine.
Before long I was down, resting on the sand and comfortable. My Jack Reacher novel was in hand during a perfect surf, a warm afternoon, and pages that turned quickly.
Paulie, an enormous steroid freak, was beating the bejesus out of Jack. Things looked real bad for the retired Major Reacher.
Then a disturbing thought. What if the blue blazered docent guy drove by and recognized my car? He could follow my trail, shimmy down my rope, and convey his unhappiness about my pulling up the rope yesterday.
Now that would be annoying...
Worse (but equally unlikely) one or both of us might get so mad that a verbal altercation became physical.
Funny thought. For a while I couldn't remember the last time I was in a fist fight.
Oh yeah, high school, junior year during spring training. We had our helmets off at the end of practice and were lining up for windsprints. Mark Parker, a senior and my main competitor for the position of right guard, pushed me out of line not once, but twice.
Enough of this, I thought, and hit him blindside with one of the defensive moves we'd been learning.
I knocked him on his ass!
The last thing I remember as I stood in that line, was Mark out of corner of my eye. He sprung off the ground with a combination of momentum and cocked fist and splattered my nose.
And though I lived through the 60's, that was easily the most psychedelic moment of my life. My best friend told me later I hit him back but that's the kind of thing best friends, no memory of it.
I do remember coach Stoney standing between us and saying something like, "You two stop this shit!"
Then he started to walk away, but stopped. H looked back at me with a grin.
"So, Richardson, guess you want to be on this team after all."
My competition with Mark continued during future practices in a less pugilistic fashion.
He got the first string position, no surprise there, being a senior with more experience and better skills.
We avoided each other in locker rooms and hallways. Our spat obviously wasn't his first dance, and now both of us knew that fists, in the absence of helmet and gear, hurt like hell.
Then I remembered Mr. Docent landing on the beach. About my age and no less out of shape. It would take only a couple of connected blows until both of us would lose interest.
I went back to my book, read another twenty minutes or so. Now Jack was in a worse jam.
Another thug named Harley, had gotten the drop on him and pushing a P14 (pistol, Canadian made) against the very teeth loosened during his fight with Paulie.
But what if that chilly night on beach left Mr. Docent so deranged that he down a weapon?
That would be a problem. I tossed a few recently collected agates toward some mark on the cliff. Reasonably grouped though nowhere near the accuracy that inspired fear in lump headed neighborhood boys.
But not so fast as a speeding bullet...
I put my mind back into the book. Reacher took care of Harley with something unexpected--he always does. The book was good and getting better. I read for another twenty minutes.
Then a real flash of adrenaline, and not just some random idea to decorate a blog entry. I put the book down quickly and jogged up the beach with all the casual grace of a 62 year old.
Would the rope still be there? Nice. What if I arrived at the drop off point just in time to see my rope drawn up from above and heard high pitched laughter keening down from overhead cliffs?
Now wouldn't that be the pits? No, not the "pit" as in the pendulum. But the "cask" as in another Poe story, "The Cask of Amontillado"! I still remember a few lines:
I plastered it up.
Better than rapier or bullet Montresor, the narrator, devised a revenge through masonry: withdraw fellowship and food, the two essentials of Fortunato's existence.
Like withdrawing my rope!
I arrived at the drop point out of breath and enormously pleased that the rope still was still there.
Well there you go, I told myself, and this is exactly what happens when you violate the morning one cup of coffee rule.
I returned to my pack, laughing at my own crazy thoughts. But, before long I was shouldering my backpack. The afternoon was a little too hot and the kelp flies intolerable.
I was half way up the rope. A rock gave way under my left foot. My right couldn't find purchase on a slick vertical slope. For a moment I dangled like snot in the wind.
Headline: GEEZER FALLS FROM CLIFF DOING SOMETHING STUPID AND AGE INAPPROPRIATE!
Worse was the vision that came to me next, arriving like a flaming sun emerging from its eclipse--the PERFECT PAYBACK. Pull out the anchor-spike, but only partially. Half way up the sheerest and straightest drop, with the stress of your full weight, it gives.
And afterwards, a blue blazered docent would brush the dirt from his hands and walk across a field to a red pickup. No fingerprints, no footprints. Taking his time while driving south until a pocket of cell phone coverage, he would eventually punch in 911.
"Yes, at the bottom of a high cliff. Looked unconscious, or worse...no idea who he is, never met him. Poor guy, hope he's okay.
What? Oh, sorry, my phone's breaking up, no coverage here--"
Click.
Well, good thing I called. Just looking out for the other guy...
And while I hung there like snot in the wind, I decided way I'm going out like that. There's always something you can do...
Third period PE, La Colina Junior High, and I was the rope climb king. A thick rope, knotted by intervals, extending to the high vault of the gym ceiling. Using legs or feet strictly forbidden. I was the spider closing on its prey. And for one whole week, with most of the student body recovering from a flu epidemic, I was unbeatable.
So forget about your feet!
Use what's left of your upper body strength. Pull yourself to a foothold--go all the way to the top.
And a few sweaty moments later, I was standing on the cliff. No malevolent docent hovered nearby.
Good thing for him, too. I might've punched him in the nose.
Well, there you go.
Karma bites you in the ass every time,
Either with its teeth--or your imagination.
I felt lazy and bought a sandwich from the corner store on my way out.
It was predictably over priced and under filled, but I was already nibbling on it as I rolled north across the Little Pico bridge.
I worried vaguely about the geezer I had potentially stranded yesterday. What if he and his shiny red pickup were still there?
No way, I told myself. Anybody able to withstand afternoon gales while extolling the virtues of elephant seals could certainly find his way out of a shallow slot canyon. Right?
Worst case (and boy am I good at that kind of thinking!) what might have happened to him in the interim?
Well, first of all he would be extremely hungry. I wrapped up my sandwich and put it down on the passenger seat.
He would also be extremely pissed off, maybe a little imbalanced. Near death experiences sometimes does that to people.
I considered my dilemma during the next five miles. What to do?
Then it came to me. Stand on the cliff and get geezer's attention.
"Hey you dumb-assed docent!"
Next, throw down my sandwich.
When he went for it, I would toss out my rope. Then run like hell back to my car, deliberately unlocked and keys in the ignition.
The plan had its disadvantages, of course. He would no doubt keep my rope out of spite.
But a small price to pay, I thought, when you consider a life might be at stake.
I tried not to think about such unlikely events, while I focused on the jade--to-royal blue ocean passing on the left. Random groups of Mr. Hearst's painted ponies loitered on my right. Everything was good until my car rounded a bend and I saw red.
A red pickup to be exact. I went by it slowly enough to a see the Toyota logo and a license starting with "7". My heart thudded with a "this is bad, real bad" feeling. I could barely drive. A few seconds later realized the truck was on the wrong side of the road and a half mile south of yesterday's drop point.
Crisis non-existent, I concluded, and pursued my original plan to drop down a steeper and much longer ravine.
Before long I was down, resting on the sand and comfortable. My Jack Reacher novel was in hand during a perfect surf, a warm afternoon, and pages that turned quickly.
Paulie, an enormous steroid freak, was beating the bejesus out of Jack. Things looked real bad for the retired Major Reacher.
Then a disturbing thought. What if the blue blazered docent guy drove by and recognized my car? He could follow my trail, shimmy down my rope, and convey his unhappiness about my pulling up the rope yesterday.
Now that would be annoying...
Worse (but equally unlikely) one or both of us might get so mad that a verbal altercation became physical.
Funny thought. For a while I couldn't remember the last time I was in a fist fight.
Oh yeah, high school, junior year during spring training. We had our helmets off at the end of practice and were lining up for windsprints. Mark Parker, a senior and my main competitor for the position of right guard, pushed me out of line not once, but twice.
Enough of this, I thought, and hit him blindside with one of the defensive moves we'd been learning.
I knocked him on his ass!
The last thing I remember as I stood in that line, was Mark out of corner of my eye. He sprung off the ground with a combination of momentum and cocked fist and splattered my nose.
And though I lived through the 60's, that was easily the most psychedelic moment of my life. My best friend told me later I hit him back but that's the kind of thing best friends, no memory of it.
I do remember coach Stoney standing between us and saying something like, "You two stop this shit!"
Then he started to walk away, but stopped. H looked back at me with a grin.
"So, Richardson, guess you want to be on this team after all."
My competition with Mark continued during future practices in a less pugilistic fashion.
He got the first string position, no surprise there, being a senior with more experience and better skills.
We avoided each other in locker rooms and hallways. Our spat obviously wasn't his first dance, and now both of us knew that fists, in the absence of helmet and gear, hurt like hell.
Then I remembered Mr. Docent landing on the beach. About my age and no less out of shape. It would take only a couple of connected blows until both of us would lose interest.
I went back to my book, read another twenty minutes or so. Now Jack was in a worse jam.
Another thug named Harley, had gotten the drop on him and pushing a P14 (pistol, Canadian made) against the very teeth loosened during his fight with Paulie.
But what if that chilly night on beach left Mr. Docent so deranged that he down a weapon?
That would be a problem. I tossed a few recently collected agates toward some mark on the cliff. Reasonably grouped though nowhere near the accuracy that inspired fear in lump headed neighborhood boys.
But not so fast as a speeding bullet...
I put my mind back into the book. Reacher took care of Harley with something unexpected--he always does. The book was good and getting better. I read for another twenty minutes.
Then a real flash of adrenaline, and not just some random idea to decorate a blog entry. I put the book down quickly and jogged up the beach with all the casual grace of a 62 year old.
Would the rope still be there? Nice. What if I arrived at the drop off point just in time to see my rope drawn up from above and heard high pitched laughter keening down from overhead cliffs?
Now wouldn't that be the pits? No, not the "pit" as in the pendulum. But the "cask" as in another Poe story, "The Cask of Amontillado"! I still remember a few lines:
I would be avenged...
[and?] forced the last stone into
its position; I plastered it up.
Better than rapier or bullet Montresor, the narrator, devised a revenge through masonry: withdraw fellowship and food, the two essentials of Fortunato's existence.
Like withdrawing my rope!
I arrived at the drop point out of breath and enormously pleased that the rope still was still there.
Well there you go, I told myself, and this is exactly what happens when you violate the morning one cup of coffee rule.
I returned to my pack, laughing at my own crazy thoughts. But, before long I was shouldering my backpack. The afternoon was a little too hot and the kelp flies intolerable.
I was half way up the rope. A rock gave way under my left foot. My right couldn't find purchase on a slick vertical slope. For a moment I dangled like snot in the wind.
Headline: GEEZER FALLS FROM CLIFF DOING SOMETHING STUPID AND AGE INAPPROPRIATE!
Worse was the vision that came to me next, arriving like a flaming sun emerging from its eclipse--the PERFECT PAYBACK. Pull out the anchor-spike, but only partially. Half way up the sheerest and straightest drop, with the stress of your full weight, it gives.
And afterwards, a blue blazered docent would brush the dirt from his hands and walk across a field to a red pickup. No fingerprints, no footprints. Taking his time while driving south until a pocket of cell phone coverage, he would eventually punch in 911.
"Yes, at the bottom of a high cliff. Looked unconscious, or worse...no idea who he is, never met him. Poor guy, hope he's okay.
What? Oh, sorry, my phone's breaking up, no coverage here--"
Click.
Well, good thing I called. Just looking out for the other guy...
And while I hung there like snot in the wind, I decided way I'm going out like that. There's always something you can do...
Third period PE, La Colina Junior High, and I was the rope climb king. A thick rope, knotted by intervals, extending to the high vault of the gym ceiling. Using legs or feet strictly forbidden. I was the spider closing on its prey. And for one whole week, with most of the student body recovering from a flu epidemic, I was unbeatable.
So forget about your feet!
Use what's left of your upper body strength. Pull yourself to a foothold--go all the way to the top.
And a few sweaty moments later, I was standing on the cliff. No malevolent docent hovered nearby.
Good thing for him, too. I might've punched him in the nose.
Well, there you go.
Karma bites you in the ass every time,
Either with its teeth--or your imagination.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Territoriality, Part Two
Skies suddenly cleared and in twenty-five minutes, sand was underneath my feet.
I planned to finish my Jack Reacher novel. But the sun was warm, my mind distracted.
A blog entry entitled "Stains" was rough and unpublished. I didn't like the ending, dark and depressing, a mood apart from my usual self.
Lying there, I came up with an alternate ending, lighter because of its references to popular culture.
Well, I thought in my head (which houses my most defective organ), why not provide both endings, let the reader make a choice? Brilliant!
And all was good. I returned the unopened novel to my pack and headed out.
Twenty yards before I get to my rope, an unpleasant surprise. Some geezer landed awkwardly on the beach, huffing and puffing.
I noticed his vest, blue, short and bedazzled. He's about my age, poor guy, and judging from his bad fashion choices, is an elephant seal docent looking for something else to rant about.
Not that I've got a particular grudge against volunteers. God knows, I've spent hundreds of unpaid hours in that thankless activity, though mostly in a national park setting. But to stand like this guy must in cold and constant wind--without even a port-potty to piss in--all because you're A Friend of the Elephant Seals? Well, I just don't get it.
I mean, how can you wax enthusiastically about a behemoth male creature that does little else but lounge and hump? And how about the females? They give birth, immediately hump some more, then abandon their offspring. Sorreeee! Watching elephant seal behavior is too much like interspecies voyeurism. I bet internet porn portrays better values.
Nonetheless, facing this stranger upon my beach, I brought my happy muscles to play and attempted a smile.
"Hi" we said in disturbing unison.
"How you doing?"
"How's it going?"
Damn! Was there an echo in this canyon--maybe one I hadn't noticed because talking to other human beings down here has never been my primary reason for coming?
He seemed nice enough, though.
But I could sense those recent blog ideas, momentous as they were, slipping right out of my brain, and irretrievably absorbed by sand and surf.
"Well, I'm on my way out," I said. "Hope you don't need my rope 'cause I'm out of here."
I waited a two seconds for his response.
See? I can be quite charming when I want to be. At about four seconds, he answered.
"Hey, well, no. Not a problem, man."
"Good. It's a little slippery, I know, but it can be done. Well, take care!"
My rope and I departed like smoke in the wind.
Crossing a field to my car, I saw a late model, red Toyota pickup. License plate "7X..." something or other.
Damn!
Now I had to drive back in the morning just to make sure his truck wasn't still there.
But again, that's just me--always looking out for the other guy.
I planned to finish my Jack Reacher novel. But the sun was warm, my mind distracted.
A blog entry entitled "Stains" was rough and unpublished. I didn't like the ending, dark and depressing, a mood apart from my usual self.
Lying there, I came up with an alternate ending, lighter because of its references to popular culture.
Well, I thought in my head (which houses my most defective organ), why not provide both endings, let the reader make a choice? Brilliant!
And all was good. I returned the unopened novel to my pack and headed out.
Twenty yards before I get to my rope, an unpleasant surprise. Some geezer landed awkwardly on the beach, huffing and puffing.
I noticed his vest, blue, short and bedazzled. He's about my age, poor guy, and judging from his bad fashion choices, is an elephant seal docent looking for something else to rant about.
Not that I've got a particular grudge against volunteers. God knows, I've spent hundreds of unpaid hours in that thankless activity, though mostly in a national park setting. But to stand like this guy must in cold and constant wind--without even a port-potty to piss in--all because you're A Friend of the Elephant Seals? Well, I just don't get it.
I mean, how can you wax enthusiastically about a behemoth male creature that does little else but lounge and hump? And how about the females? They give birth, immediately hump some more, then abandon their offspring. Sorreeee! Watching elephant seal behavior is too much like interspecies voyeurism. I bet internet porn portrays better values.
Nonetheless, facing this stranger upon my beach, I brought my happy muscles to play and attempted a smile.
"Hi" we said in disturbing unison.
"How you doing?"
"How's it going?"
Damn! Was there an echo in this canyon--maybe one I hadn't noticed because talking to other human beings down here has never been my primary reason for coming?
He seemed nice enough, though.
But I could sense those recent blog ideas, momentous as they were, slipping right out of my brain, and irretrievably absorbed by sand and surf.
"Well, I'm on my way out," I said. "Hope you don't need my rope 'cause I'm out of here."
I waited a two seconds for his response.
See? I can be quite charming when I want to be. At about four seconds, he answered.
"Hey, well, no. Not a problem, man."
"Good. It's a little slippery, I know, but it can be done. Well, take care!"
My rope and I departed like smoke in the wind.
Crossing a field to my car, I saw a late model, red Toyota pickup. License plate "7X..." something or other.
Damn!
Now I had to drive back in the morning just to make sure his truck wasn't still there.
But again, that's just me--always looking out for the other guy.
Stains
Been cleaning carpets lately.
Carpet soil, I've noticed, comes in three categories:
1. The mistakes you remember--oh, yeah, what was I thinking?
2. The mistakes of others, no idea how or when they happened.
3. The wear of life--too many people walking the same route for too long.
Lately, stains seem darker. I walk into a room and my eyes are immediately drawn to them
Guess I could avoid looking down but then I'd worry about tripping.
So clean the stain, right?
I've spent a lot of time on my knees doing just that. The results are never satisfactory and only three outcomes can be expected:
1. Nothing. No brand of cleanser or any amount of scrubbing will remove it.
2. Yes, the stains fades, maybe to the point where others won't see it. But YOU know it's there.
3. The stain totally disappears, which is worse. It leaves an overly white border against the background dirt, a constant reminder that something particularly bad happened there.
Seems futile doesn't it? Like trying to undo time.
* * *
So get a new carpet, silly!
A basic replacement really isn't that expensive.
But everyone who's been there knows how much hassle it is. You've got to move out the larger pieces, often quite heavy, and turn your life upside down for a day or two.
Easier just to live with stains from the past.
So that was my first version of this weird homily, essay, whatever. Carpet cleaning for dummies, depressed dummies I thought. Actually tempted to substitute "sins" for "stains" in that last line.
Get a grip!
I really didn't feel that depressed (or guilty) when I wrote it. Carpets are cleaner now and what else are you going to do when you're at the coast and the sun won't shine?
So I wrote another ending, lighten it up. From the triple asterisks above consider this "Soprano" ending.
In the perfect Jersey intonations of the late James Gandofini, playing Tony Soprano:
"What're you going to do?"
(with that cosmic shrug best achieved by true Italian-Americans).
Should your name be Christopher Soprano and you hesitate, you might also hear:
"So take out the f-ing carpet!
Get it done."
"Yeah, yeah, Tone, I got that. And basic replacement, well, that's not a problem.
But everyone says it's a hassle. You move out all that heavy shit, you know, then everything is all f-ed up for at least a day or two.
I'm not sayin' I like it, but sometimes you gotta live with your feelings, you know?"
Tony would then say to his nephew, Chris:
"Do I look like your mama? You got feelings, go talk to a shrink--I'll give you a number. Meantime take care of business--and fuh-ged-about-it."
(Now Tony never exactly said those last three words, but James Gandolfini could convey them with a look. Good advice, really, but hard to follow)
Carpet soil, I've noticed, comes in three categories:
1. The mistakes you remember--oh, yeah, what was I thinking?
2. The mistakes of others, no idea how or when they happened.
3. The wear of life--too many people walking the same route for too long.
Lately, stains seem darker. I walk into a room and my eyes are immediately drawn to them
Guess I could avoid looking down but then I'd worry about tripping.
So clean the stain, right?
I've spent a lot of time on my knees doing just that. The results are never satisfactory and only three outcomes can be expected:
1. Nothing. No brand of cleanser or any amount of scrubbing will remove it.
2. Yes, the stains fades, maybe to the point where others won't see it. But YOU know it's there.
3. The stain totally disappears, which is worse. It leaves an overly white border against the background dirt, a constant reminder that something particularly bad happened there.
Seems futile doesn't it? Like trying to undo time.
* * *
So get a new carpet, silly!
A basic replacement really isn't that expensive.
But everyone who's been there knows how much hassle it is. You've got to move out the larger pieces, often quite heavy, and turn your life upside down for a day or two.
Easier just to live with stains from the past.
So that was my first version of this weird homily, essay, whatever. Carpet cleaning for dummies, depressed dummies I thought. Actually tempted to substitute "sins" for "stains" in that last line.
Get a grip!
I really didn't feel that depressed (or guilty) when I wrote it. Carpets are cleaner now and what else are you going to do when you're at the coast and the sun won't shine?
So I wrote another ending, lighten it up. From the triple asterisks above consider this "Soprano" ending.
In the perfect Jersey intonations of the late James Gandofini, playing Tony Soprano:
"What're you going to do?"
(with that cosmic shrug best achieved by true Italian-Americans).
Should your name be Christopher Soprano and you hesitate, you might also hear:
"So take out the f-ing carpet!
Get it done."
"Yeah, yeah, Tone, I got that. And basic replacement, well, that's not a problem.
But everyone says it's a hassle. You move out all that heavy shit, you know, then everything is all f-ed up for at least a day or two.
I'm not sayin' I like it, but sometimes you gotta live with your feelings, you know?"
Tony would then say to his nephew, Chris:
"Do I look like your mama? You got feelings, go talk to a shrink--I'll give you a number. Meantime take care of business--and fuh-ged-about-it."
(Now Tony never exactly said those last three words, but James Gandolfini could convey them with a look. Good advice, really, but hard to follow)
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Territorality, Part One
I'm at the tricky part.
Attach the rope to the spike, pull hard, check that it's firmly implanted.
I run through my checklist, everything's good, until I notice another spike. It's attached to a small and slimy rope that drops 50 yards straight to the beach.
Now this is a problem. This mini-canyon is spring fed, always wet. This rope could slip out of someone's hands, feet could lose their footing. Nothing good can come from this.
I do the right thing. I coil up this foolishly weak rope and secure it in my backpack. But that's just me, always looking out for the other guy.
After my expert descent to the beach, I sit on my favorite rock, surveying the ocean and majestically posed much like Auguste Rodin's Thinker.
Peace and tranquility.
For fifteen minutes.
Then awkward movements and garish colors, 150 yards north.
I make out a T-shirted, pot-bellied geezer followed by what I suppose to be his pinkly clad wife. Both are carrying ice chests and umbrellas. Their route down is perilous.
Beyond earshot in the pounding surf and no place that punching 911 would produce a response, I resign myself to witness tragedy.
Yet they disappear, reroute to appear again half way down the next ravine. Whatever.
I expect their departure shortly. They can't make it further down without a rope and, lacking a kayak, tidal forces will slap them silly if they try to get any closer to me.
So I do my best to ignore them but notice the husband laboriously assembling a fishing rod. And I wish him first timer's luck in an area decimated by otters, seals and sea lions.
The wife beside him cradles binoculars that never veer from my direction. Clearly, she needs a hobby.
After a while I stand up from my rock throne and begin the business of collecting rocks. Every time I bend down to claim one, I turn my posterior in her direction.
"Hey, honey, you like these sweet buns?"
After a few passes along the beach, I decide collecting is over the day.
So I get out my my Jack Reacher novel, stretch out full length on the warm sand and begin to read.
"Yo, sweetie, betch ya don't need a zoom for this piece of kelp!"
(I wish)
Out of the corner of my eye, Wifey is still watches me thru the 'nochs. That's okay, always wanted to be in the entertainment business.
Pages turn, Jack Reacher predictably kicks ass, and time passes until I sense imminent sunburn.
Time to get up, pack up, and climb up.
And maybe now would be good time to address those snarky rumors about me collecting rocks in the nude.
Why would anyone do such a thing?
What could be more absurd than believing that more and better rocks will be collected if you prance around in the buff?
How ridiculous is that!
So watch my keystrokes: I h-a-v-e n-e-v-e-r collected rocks in the nude.
Seriously.
I always wear shoes, sometimes even socks.
Attach the rope to the spike, pull hard, check that it's firmly implanted.
I run through my checklist, everything's good, until I notice another spike. It's attached to a small and slimy rope that drops 50 yards straight to the beach.
Now this is a problem. This mini-canyon is spring fed, always wet. This rope could slip out of someone's hands, feet could lose their footing. Nothing good can come from this.
I do the right thing. I coil up this foolishly weak rope and secure it in my backpack. But that's just me, always looking out for the other guy.
After my expert descent to the beach, I sit on my favorite rock, surveying the ocean and majestically posed much like Auguste Rodin's Thinker.
Peace and tranquility.
For fifteen minutes.
Then awkward movements and garish colors, 150 yards north.
I make out a T-shirted, pot-bellied geezer followed by what I suppose to be his pinkly clad wife. Both are carrying ice chests and umbrellas. Their route down is perilous.
Beyond earshot in the pounding surf and no place that punching 911 would produce a response, I resign myself to witness tragedy.
Yet they disappear, reroute to appear again half way down the next ravine. Whatever.
I expect their departure shortly. They can't make it further down without a rope and, lacking a kayak, tidal forces will slap them silly if they try to get any closer to me.
So I do my best to ignore them but notice the husband laboriously assembling a fishing rod. And I wish him first timer's luck in an area decimated by otters, seals and sea lions.
The wife beside him cradles binoculars that never veer from my direction. Clearly, she needs a hobby.
After a while I stand up from my rock throne and begin the business of collecting rocks. Every time I bend down to claim one, I turn my posterior in her direction.
"Hey, honey, you like these sweet buns?"
After a few passes along the beach, I decide collecting is over the day.
So I get out my my Jack Reacher novel, stretch out full length on the warm sand and begin to read.
"Yo, sweetie, betch ya don't need a zoom for this piece of kelp!"
(I wish)
Out of the corner of my eye, Wifey is still watches me thru the 'nochs. That's okay, always wanted to be in the entertainment business.
Pages turn, Jack Reacher predictably kicks ass, and time passes until I sense imminent sunburn.
Time to get up, pack up, and climb up.
And maybe now would be good time to address those snarky rumors about me collecting rocks in the nude.
Why would anyone do such a thing?
What could be more absurd than believing that more and better rocks will be collected if you prance around in the buff?
How ridiculous is that!
So watch my keystrokes: I h-a-v-e n-e-v-e-r collected rocks in the nude.
Seriously.
I always wear shoes, sometimes even socks.
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