FaceSpace

I am nearly finished with Facebook. It's becoming so . . . MySpace, with more ads.  It is addictive, because one in about 70 posts are quite interesting, or connect me to remote friends in ways otherwise ignored in this multi-tasking attention-energy-sucking meaning-diluted swirling first-world juggernaut. One of the principles of behaviorism is that intermittent reinforcement will increase the likelihood of the persistence of the desired learned behavior much more than constant reinforcement will. Think gambling. As of this writing, I have not found a filter that will allow a friend's family pictures while preventing their re-posting of videos of skateboarders sterilizing themselves on railings, or pictures of dogs with signs around their necks written by their owners bemoaning the latest cushion dismemberment. As we enter what may be the ugliest, most idiotic political seasons in this country's history, I fear that my ability to remain will not survive.
My account contains a fairly diverse population, which guarantees that the full spectrum of opinion and insensitivity on any popular topic will be displayed for my entertainment, judgement and often, disgust. I would characterize my friends into four general, overlapping categories: Family, the church people, the disability crowd, and gamers. Toss in some co-workers, and I think that you can see the opportunities for any and all to be offended/offensive to each other, no matter where I fall into the Venn Diagram that is my life online.
I have many friends from other countries and continents. Their insights (and involvement) in the United States of America's goings-on is both fascinating and embarrassing for me. Just as I do not know what it is like to be *insert country -ish/egian/ian*, they interpret our goings-on through a foggy american cultural lens that often leaves me screaming (only in my head as of this writing). It does sting quite a bit when they're completely correct. Ignorant of their government structures or functions, I'm not capable of commenting on their internal issues. Educationally obtuse and linguistically, er, inarticulate in only one language, I attempt to at least acknowledge my 'ugly american' status to retain their affections.
My family experience on FB is weird. Isn't yours?
Church People. Very much like the attendance at my wedding, and at my father's funeral, for that matter. My Dad pastored 6 churches officially, and many others as the result of his various leadership positions. What this meant at these two particular occasions was that one could not predict who might show up, how many, or what they'd bring in the form of memories. It makes for some pretty weird combinations. There was a couple who came to Dad's funeral who were from his first church in Sierra Vista, AZ. In 1959.
We in the 'Disability crowd' ( There is no good term, ok?) promote diversity and acceptance. I suppose that's what makes it difficult to 'unfriend' a fellow parent with whom I share a diagnosis only. In my struggle to learn this path, many of us shared an emotional journey that turns out to be like summer camp or, more aptly, a plane crash. Once the circumstances subside, there's not so much left. As with every other group noted here, there are exceptions, where we find common interests that go beyond the generalizations.
Then there's the gamers. From Australia to Italy and points in between. I have moose pepperoni in my freezer from CrazyMoFo from Canada. One is a working ventriloquist who's been on Letterman and "America's Got Talent." Some are gifted, most are goofy. Many of them are prone to posting content that my other three constituent groups would find, well, pretty offensive. I will fail to stereotype them any further; let's just say that they play a lot of different games, some of them are online, some in real life. How else would I learn about things like tanks and snowmobiles and beekeeping and WWII ordinance(one guy operates a prop shop up in Los Angeles with uniforms and all the accoutrements)? 
While I would like to think that I can use all of the friends that I can get, I know that the word 'gregarious' does not pop into anyone's head when describing me. My growing dilemma with Facebook is the signal-to-noise ratio. The "don't just like - cut and paste this to your timeline if you love me and support penguin rights, it's the only way I'll know you care" crap. "Match up the month and day of your birthday to these lists to find your Leprechaun name." The post, this week, that intrigued me: "Never buy laundry soap again!" The link then directed me to buy cakes of Fels-naptha, shave pieces into a bowl, then use a mixer to combine it with other purchased ingredients to MAKE MY OWN LAUNDRY DETERGENT. Perfectly in context if I'm looking through the aisle at the General Store before I mosey back to my sod house on the prairie. Are you kidding me? I buy pre-made soup and a cooked chicken from the grocery store, why would I MAKE MY OWN LAUNDRY DETERGENT? I believe I've made the point. 
Moving, personal information about my friends' lives. Cat videos. Kardashian news. It all has equal weight on this platform. I realize that ads make it 'free', but we've been conned into passing along all of this crap without thinking about the effect we're having on each other. I've fallen victim to it; I did, yesterday. Something I thought was fun and entertaining turned into something I never intended it to.
I have to make some changes. I'm not sure what to do. Winnowing the list may help some, but I know that a few folk that I truly care about clog my news feed with dreck. What, then? Throw the Facebook out with the ice bucket challenge? I was tempted, then. Until Alex did the challenge with a tub of rocks, out here in drought-stricken California, and it was nearly worthwhile. Ya gotta love family.

A Simple prop, to occupy my time

It's time, once again, for the annual houseboat weekend on the ever-shrinking reservoir.

Day One, or "Getting there is not half the fun"

"Day One" is actually quite misleading. Weeks of preparation have led to this moment - everything and anything one might imagine that one needs to make and/or acquire to both maintain and entertain oneself on a 50 foot long floating Single-Wide for 5 days has been considered, downloaded, purchased, cooked,bagged, batteried, and packed; charging cords and adapters double-checked, inflators procured, and transportation maintained. Let us not forget the coordination of multiple caregivers and preparations to keep the household running in your absence. Mental checklists overlap and repeated inquiries are made to verify the contents of each container of supplies.
At last, we set out on our 5 hour run across the desert border to Henderson, Nevada, home to the Fiesta Resort and Casino, familiar meeting point for our fellow travelers. Decompression slowly begins as we catch up by the pool to the music of the freeway and railyard, sun setting an orange glow over the smoggy dome that is Las Vegas to the West. Some nachos, then off to bed next to the cycling wall air conditioner that is the hallmark of the under $80/night hotel experience. The alarm chimes much too soon.

Day Two, or "Let's move into this apartment with a truckload of stuff in 100° heat!"

Shopping and moving - two of my favorite vacation activities. Perishables must be procured, and four of us fan out into the community to acquire them, including 40 bags of ice to be quickly transported the 30 miles or so to the marina. The big Wal-Mart has 9 types of salsa in 4 different locations, which ones shall we buy? I hope we have enough limes. The providence of instant communication ensures that we arrive with 2 packages of E.L.Fudge in a timely and gracious manner.
Off to the marina, into the basin that forms Lake Mead. Past the marinas that have closed up altogether, due to the lack of water, to Callville Bay, which is now really Callville Cove. The main launch ramp has been lengthened over the years to the point of abandonment, another one built. New concrete has been poured to the latest water's edge, and we begin the task of loading said supplies onto the houseboat. This is accomplished with the aid of large wheelbarrow-like carts, making it a process of unloading, loading, pulling said carts for a quarter of a mile, and then unloading. In the desert. Supplies and belongings are duly put away in their proper places, and we are piloted out onto the lake and left to our own devices - well, mostly their devices, but you'll see what I mean. Brunch is lovely, and we settle in to traverse The Narrows and the Virgin Basin. Crossing to the other side, we approach a spot to stop and swim. It turns out to be unexpectedly shallow and, one broken prop and a visit from the marina staff, our berth for the night. We swim, lounge, read, and ponder our predicament. Sliders and mac'n'cheese are a hit, and we settle in for our first night under the stars.

Day Three, or "Nightmare on Mushroom Cove"

6:30 am, and the extremely helpful mechanics arrive early to replace the broken prop and pull us off the rocks. It goes as smoothly as pulling a multi-ton fat catamaran off an uneven shelf can be. Thanking them, they advise us that tonight will bring rain and 40 mph winds. They advise us to seek the shelter of Mushroom Cove, as well as telling us that they are recommending that the many boats that they are sending out today stay on the other side of the Narrows. This means that we have the majority of the lake all to ourselves. That is, except for the helicopters. More on that, later. We happily cruise Southwesterly toward the familiar Southern edge of the lake, to a spot that looks good to ride out the oncoming storm. We set our large
steel stakes and tie the boat securely to the shore against the prevailing wind. The water temp is wonderful; the gathering thunderheads brilliant white against the pure blue skies and the crumbling Mushroom rock formation to the East.

Ribs and Rice in the dining area, A/C cooling as we bob about into the dark.
For those who have never been out in the wilderness, the night sky is a major attraction. The Milky Way is spectacular, and one can always see shooting stars to the East, away from the dull glow of the greater Las Vegas valley to the West. On this night, the thunderstorms seem to surround us, and the night was pierced by lightning-light in a spectacularly strobing display. I crawl into bed, as usual, before the others.
There is a particular timbre to the sound of steel rebar being struck. We were all instantly brought awake by the tinkling sound of them being dragged down the face of the cove shortly after 1 am. We had just become unmoored. One sprung into action, firing up the outboards to attempt to hold us in place while the other 2 nearly able-bodied of us scrambled to recover and subsequently re-attach said moorings. In the dark. In the sandblasting wind. I did not feel like Thor, holding a 4 foot-long shaft of steel in the middle of a lightning storm. Looking down on the boat from my elevated position on shore, It looked like a Spielberg movie - light spilling from the windows as it pitched and rolled, props churning as the wind shifted and blew the boat promptly into the shore, sideways. Scratch prop #2. We killed that engine and tied the boat to shore that way, settled in uneasily, and all gradually returned to sleep except for me. I listened to a couple of podcasts until I finally dropped off shortly before dawn.

Days Four and Five, or "Relaxation under the Helicopter Highway"

We pushed off that morning, prop chewed but still productive, only one of us fell in getting us underway. Off to Temple Bar Marina for gas and ice, then off to another cove for some peace and quiet.
Starting at around $200, you can take a helicopter tour from Henderson or Las Vegas to the Grand Canyon and back. This route will also afford you terrific views of Hoover Dam and Lake Mead. They begin at 7 am and run pretty much every 5 minutes or so until about 4 pm. If you looked straight down from said helicopter while over Lake Mead, this last weekend, you would have seen us looking up at you while we interrupted our conversations to send you a special greeting. It reminded me of the time my family went camping at San Onofre State Beach, where the sound of the freeway is only interrupted by the sound of the trains going by, all night long.
We did have beautiful weather, those last two days, and I actually enjoyed a nap befitting one of advanced years such as myself. Good meals and relaxation, brochure-worthy in all respects.

Monday afternoon. Let's move again! The great unmingling of provisions back into boxes and then carts and then cars and, after another 5 hour dash home, back into the cupboards and garages to be stored for the next adventure.

Four days later, the vertigo has nearly subsided. The insect bites and scrapes have become more evident as the sunburn abates, and I've had two really good nights' sleep in my own bed. I'm looking forward to the weekend.

 Happy Campers, all.

Surprise!
There's been some thought provoking stuff percolating in my head, from the world, lately.
A famous Atheist - probably the most famous one since Madeline Murray O'Hair, or whatever - has essentially said that people with Down Syndrome should not exist. This is certainly not a new idea, and let us not forget that the majority of them are already being euthanized in utero, as we speak. Call it what you will, this is what I call it. Calling for the complete eradication of a classification of Human Beings is a tenuous position/slippery slope/precipice, if you will, that we have been treading for a while. Shame on him for saying it out loud. At least Bill Maher only likened my daughter to a dog.

Let me bring you to this:People with Down Syndrome are Pioneers in Alzheimer's Research, from KPBS.
Diversity is the key to biological success - it is a tenet of Evolution. The presence of people with Trisomy 21 may just hold the key to the prediction and treatment of this disease. Unless, of course, a prenatal test for Alzheimer's Disease is found and we abort them, too - denying them lifetimes due to an unpredictable threat. Sorry, just took a leap there. Don't mean to sound like a radical "Pro-Lifer", because that would cause you to make waaay too many assumptions about what I believe and don't believe. They would be wrong. But I hope you see my point. We are heading into a new age of medical discovery, combined with an information explosion that will probably cause some real mistakes in how we relate causality to Human values, and we may all suffer some unfathomable consequences if we are not very, very careful. I'll leave that there for now.

I would put forth  that diversity is essential to our survival as that which we currently define as Humanity. Diversity in all forms. Just as the Interstate Highway system hastened the homogenization of our culture (read the loss of regional identity), efficiency can often bring about unexpected qualitative losses. Media, on the other hand, has moved from 3 network shows on a night that everybody watched, to the current explosion of everything from Duck Dynasty to Downton Abbey. A spectrum that now requires greater discernment about how one spends one's mental attention and energy. Enlightenment, or guilty pleasure? Or both.

We live in times more tumultuous than we could have imagined, in this post-nuclear holocaust/dirty bomb/terrorist world where there's poor leadership in the government fighting against no government at all. Borders are melting. Conventional diplomacy is a memory.

The simplicity that Mr. Dawkins desires is a dream that cannot and should not be realized. I do not believe anymore in purity of thought, I think. I do still believe in the purity of Love.

Thanksgiving, 2011

I passed you, coming out of the morning meeting.  You weren’t supposed to be there. You were on your phone; still said “hi” as I went by.  I figured that you were just checking in. I wish you’d said something then, but that really wasn’t ever your way of doing things.  Later on, you were gone, with the message in my inbox that you’d resigned.  I know some of the whys and wherefores, and there’s a lot that I don’t know.  I do know that there are some things that I need to tell you. It’s part and parcel of what we talked about in terms of many other people and situations as I tried to help you as we worked together. We just never really talked about what you’ve done for me.

You took action on my behalf at a time when I was out of options. I was out of ideas; mostly I was out of hope. I was hope-less. Trapped from any of the thousand ways I tried to look at it, resigned to a crumbling future. I was beyond hating my job, hating those around me, beyond sick and tired. I was numb.  It was not “acceptance,” it was despair. What you gave me - and it was truly a gift – was an opportunity. We both know that it was also good for the company. What you did that others would not was to recognize this and do something about it. I would hope that you could consider this a success. As we discussed, many times, success in your particular position was often very difficult to measure. One of the things you understood was that success as a leader could be measured in human terms, usually ‘off the books’, even when others might not understand. I enjoyed those conversations very much. You most certainly achieved that with and for me. Thank you.

It didn’t mean that I liked my assignments. Not at first, and some of them I will never enjoy. You did, however, treat my attitude and frustrations with a compassion that amazes me, still.  These last few years have not been easy for anyone at our workplace, and you were often pretty near the end of that wagging dog’s tail. Though we (ok, me mostly) made fun of some of your statements (“It is what it is”), there was no mistaking that it was what it was, and it likely wasn’t getting any better. You encouraged, cajoled, moved stuff around, didn’t run certain reports at different times, and did your best to make it work. Often, you looked bad for our sake. Some of us recognized that.  Thank you.

The opportunities that you provided me have given me quite an education into an aspect of my career that I never thought I’d receive.  You have increased my value at least threefold; to Mercy, to myself, and hope-fully, to my future.  You’ve helped improved my home and family life – I’m a little easier to live with than I was in my six years in “The Pit.” I actually look forward to going to work, every now and then. Just don’t tell anyone – I have a reputation to maintain.  Thank you.

Thank you for looking me in the eye. Thank you for letting me rant when I needed to, to say the wrong thing, to accept my apologies for doing both. Thank you for valuing my opinions. For listening. For your confidences, which I keep. It meant that you valued the ‘working’ me, something that had been taken away.  You allowed me to do, to make a difference, to work through a new challenge to the other side, to make something better, not just fill time on the train to oblivion.

I don’t know what the future holds for either of us. I hope what you told me, the last time we talked about it, continues to be true. I know that you’ll be successful and make a difference, whatever happens, because that’s what you do. I’m just thinking about you on this Thanksgiving eve.

Thank you.

“V-8, with a Detroit attitude”

- from “Livin’ Large in My Malibu”, Steve White

About three months ago, I purchased the above vee-hickle. Two and a half tons of Dearborn steel, an iconic hunk of Americana. This is not my first truck, but it’s been a while, and the last one I called a truck was really an SUV stuck on a small truck chassis. My first truck was a brief yet (nostalgically) satisfying encounter 20 years ago with an ex-forest service truck with a straight-six, three on the floor rattler that I frankly can’t remember what happened to it. This is my first V-8. I’m old enough that I had to do the conversion to be happy; it says 5.4 liter but that means 330 cubic inches, to me. Not quite the 350 of my ‘childhood’, and  what we Amurrcans call a “short block”, but it’s the biggest motor I’ve ever put my foot into. I haven’t actually done that, yet, and that’s going to be the point of this essay, eventually.

I didn’t set out to buy this truck. I had smaller things in mind, really I did. I wanted a truck; consumer/homeowners that we are, we accumulate things (like IKEA furniture) that may come home in small packages but require disposal options not available at curbside.  We also needed transportation that could accommodate the four of us. Toyotas and Hondas were in my sights. I took Sam along to test back seats. The short story is that I saw this truck, liked it immediately for several reasons, negotiated a reasonable price, and took it home. And yes, I succumbed to its’ ‘bigness.’

So here’s the deal. It took me a good two months to come to the realization that I am rebelling. No, not like the middle-aged (and yes,  I am clutching at the outer edge of that precipice) guy who buys a Corvette and gets hair plugs.  I can’t say if it’s always been this way, but I suspect not – that I’m living in a society where everything I do is guilt-inducing or otherwise contra-indicated for some reason or another. I know that I consume more on a regular basis than most on this planet and, while I can and do conserve/recycle/etc., there are aspects of my living that I cannot change – right now.  Suburban life probably must change significantly if we are to ultimately sustain life on Earth; however, those changes are going to happen pretty slowly in comparison to my tenure. Having said that, there is so much noise around us about what’s “good” and “bad” that I fear none of us should truly enjoy much beyond camping in the woods, eating berries and missing toilet paper. We are made to feel guilty about where we shop, what we buy, how we cook it, what kind of pots and pans we use, what countries the spices come from, how we eat it, how we wash the dishes, and we really should be composting those coffee grounds and watermelon (I’m SURE it was union-picked) rinds. I have been wondering, lately, what ultimately costs more – sending food scraps through the garbage disposal, or putting them in the trash. Water is expensive here in Southern California; at the same time our landfill is pretty full. Yes, really, I can feel guilty about just about anything, anymore.  I was getting pretty self-righteous about that whiny, freeloading cat at our house until he reminded me of his worth yesterday by leaving mouse parts on the front porch. Alright, so he’s doing his part, he can stay.

With the truck, it’s gas. Let’s not mince words here, this thing.sucks.gasoline. As an impulse buy, I can claim that I was misled by a CARFAX® report that grossly overestimated the mileage – I later found out that it gets exactly what Ford Says it’s supposed to.  It is the heaviest truck in it’s class, and it just takes a lot to move it around. So I, good person that I am, immediately became guilt-ridden and obsessed with improving it. I got online and found lots of expert advice, including a modification to the air intake system that I performed myself with some drain pipe and a hose clamp.  Any further efforts will be costly, and must be placed pretty far down the list of things to do, if at all. I can report that the things I have done, which include driving (as one truck forum poster wrote) “like there’s a raw egg between my foot and the gas pedal”), I’ve increased my city mileage by 0.71 mpg.  This means a little over 21 more miles per tank of gas (It’s got a 30 gallon tank, fer pete’s sake), or about a gallon and a half savings  per tankful.  I now measure things/purchases/etc. by tankfuls of gas.  I’m also about ready to get over it.

I know it’s new and all (to me, it’s 4  years old. Pretty good lookin’ considering that, huh?), but I have just enjoyed the heck out of this truck. I had been driving the 20 year-old 4-door Honda Civic that the kids grew up in, complete with a back seat so encrusted with happy meal detritus. . . I need go no further. I had no fan, so no heat/defrost/AC action; it bore the scars of domestic bliss  and deferred maintenance (kinda like me, but I still have some trade-in value).  I enjoy everything about it – the space, the ride, the fact that it has airbags  and big ol’ bumpers.  I know that I will get used to it, over time. For now, the cost of operating it has turned to an appreciation for what it does for me. Not exactly a guilty pleasure, more like I’ve earned the right to have it and enjoy it. If I could afford it, I would buy one of those little electric cars and use the truck less.  I would take public transportation back and forth to work if it were practical, but, last time I checked, it was about an hour and a half each way vs. about 18 minutes by car. That is not a reasonable trade-off. 

There has to be a point where one stops bullying themselves about what they can’t do and do more than just make do. Yes, I said that in an obscure way just to over use the word ‘do.’ Must we always be willing to settle for less? Today, this suits me, and I will make the best use of it until such time as my circumstances and abilities change. One day, pretty soon, I think that I will get on a freeway onramp, put the pedal to the floor, and smile.

A Forum Post

Gasp! a blog post! 
This is from me, on a forum. I think if you read it you don't really need more context than that. Just saving it for posterity, thought you might like it.


I understand what and how you are saying it, Oxy, but you are assuming that everyone sees this world the way you do. They do not.
It does no one any good to wish that Emma was anything other than what she is. I, of course, would welcome any treatment that would improve her cognition and abilities, but it would not change who Emma is.
There is nothing special about DS nor autism. Every child is a blessing. Yes.
The blessings are where you find them. I would hope that you could believe that many of the most contented moments of my day revolve around just being with Emma - pure love, pure fun, holds me in her arms like no one else can. I look for those moments, and savor them when they are here. In many ways, including the support I receive here and see others get, she has done more for my faith in our species than anything else. That is backward - she's a 'defective' copy, and yet she displays her humanity in ways that the rest of us inhibit to the point of self-destruction. To miss that message, in my opinion, is to miss a fundamental aspect of what it means to be human - across the spectrum of humanity. Overcoming suffering - in all of it's forms - physical and mental, from within and without - is a component in just about everyone's life, at some point. I am not saying that I am any good at it, I'm doing the best that I can, but this is another thing that has been brought into sharp focus for me through Emma's existence.
Some get way more suffering than others, some are destroyed by little, some (I have some personal heroes here) amaze me with their resiliency and personal resources. I can learn from them, but I cannot be them, I must find my own path. I can certainly appreciate and applaud others' ways of overcoming. I don't agree completely with Viktor Frankl, but what a story of succeeding through the most horrible suffering imaginable.
I put the whole "blessing" thing into the same basket with "all DS kids are happy." It is a very poor reflection of the whole picture. But blessings are there, and they are available.
I cannot follow the thought that I was somehow chosen to have Emma; the implications take me to a place that is completely theologically untenable to me. I won't know the answer to that until after I die.
I've shared the 'revelation' that I once, very grief stricken, had the thought that Emma would be made 'perfect' in heaven. I almost immediately had two thoughts: 1) How would I recognize her, then 2) how would she recognize ME? How imperfect am I?
I'm not attacking you, Oxy. I'm still angry at DS, pretty sure that I always will be. My desire is that you can find your way to see what these folks here have learned, for them, to find meaning for yourself. I'm still working on it, too.

Just Right.

Sometimes the reasons that certain things seem timeless can only be revealed in the dead of night. I realized this at about 3 a.m. this morning, as I knelt beside Emma's bed retrieving "Goldilocks and the Three Bears", to drone her back to sleep. The simple refrains of "Too Hot. . . Too Cold. . . Too Hard. . . Too Soft. . . Just Right" hold a rhythmic quality that, frankly, stalls for time when one is looking for quantity over quality. These phrases provide both, and require much less in the way of material to remember. I got almost all the way to the end by the time I could hear her steady breathing; my eyes were too bleary in the dark to see if she was sleeping.

 I don't know if the author intended it to provide this sort of comfort to weary zombie parents, their senses dulled in the wee hours, but it is sheer genius.

That I can get away with this old story with a nearly 12 year-old is some of the 'sweet' part.

Emma takes off

It’s pretty incredible – what happens inside you when you realize that Emma has left the building. She has done this, before. The last time - a while ago, a neighbor brought her to the front door before I knew that she was gone – any realizations were after the fact; she was safe. This time was different. She was gone, through our bathroom, into the garage and a double-locked door (no problem for her), and I didn’t know for how long or which direction she’d gone. A quick search of the house confirms that she’d split. Running down the street, barefoot, trying to guess which way she might have gone, trying to determine the most dangerous, nearest big intersection. Reaching it. Nothing. My cell phone battery’s nearly dead because I’ve been playing Angry Birds on it all morning. Call Sam at home, ask him to stay there. Mom’s out driving around in the car, looking.  I wander for another block or two, then head back to the house. Look through the house, again, hoping that she’s under something. What will the police think when they see what our house looks like on a Sunday afternoon of Spring Break with Emma?

I dial 911. I’m still breathing hard from running. I feel completely sick as I hear myself saying the words, “My daughter is missing. She has Down Syndrome. She’s 11. She cannot speak. . . ” What will happen to us, now? The dispatcher is calm, asking me questions that I don’t readily know the answers to; I have to dig. Part of my job at the hospital is to receive calls like these from nurses reporting missing patients; I now have a new compassion for those trying to answer the most basic questions under circumstances like these.  She’s going to stay on the line with me until the police arrive. I’m still taking mental inventory of how bad we’re going to appear, that we’re going to lose both of our kids when they see how we live. . . it’s a feeling beyond desperation. It’s like, well, realizing the diagnosis. It all comes back with the addition of this current failure on my part to keep this from happening in the first place. My mind races with where Emma might be. Time stretches into a string of consciousness; I don’t care that I’m standing in the middle of the street in a pair of shorts and a dirty T-shirt grasping a phone to my ear, making seeming small talk with a woman who’s facilitating my descent into yet another world that I’ve only glimpsed. In my mind, I’m already being questioned, over and again, our life (of which I’m making as much sense as I possibly can) is being turned over and examined by those who’ve got no clue about the hows and whys, and I see them reaching well-meaning-yet-completely-wrong conclusions. It’s all going on as I stand there. Emma will be found safe and our family will then be torn apart. It’s paranoia of the highest order. As desperately as I want the help, I fear their impending potential. Layers of fear, playing out simultaneously on this bright, cool Spring afternoon – yes I even thought this, looking up into the sky between watching for police cars. Still didn’t see any. How long has it been, anyway?

Then, Vicky comes around the corner, with Emma in the back seat. She’d found her, a couple of blocks away. She’d crawled up into a U-Haul truck, buckled herself into the Driver’s seat, and was happily running the steering wheel back and forth. No clue that this was wrong, bad, dangerous, nothing. Happy to see us, although perplexed that we didn’t seem as enthusiastic about her escapade – she’d had a grand time. I thanked the dispatcher, and we went inside. The ultimate frustration in all of this was that there was no opportunity to parent her.  I have no way to tell that she received any message that she should not have done this; the act itself is too abstract to connect any behavioral modification to. All we can do is to be more vigilant with containing her. I thought we were, but one button didn’t get set, and the opportunity arose, and it wasn’t even a matter that Emma was looking to escape – she just followed her curiosity.

That evening, Mom went to get some dinner for us. I had been sitting in the same room with Emma most of the afternoon, but she’d gone into her bedroom. It had not been actually 3 minutes when I looked in and saw that she wasn’t there. To make a long story short, I panicked and went running around the block again. Neither Sam nor I had seen Emma in my bed, covers pulled up to her nose, hanging out. I spotted her there a few minutes later doing another once-over before reaching for the phone. I then had to go back out and find the amazing neighbor who had dropped what she was doing in her yard to look for Emma. This is not the way to meet your neighbors, although it’s the sweetest part of this story.   All of this happened again – compressed, of course –  I’d ‘gone around the bend’, literally, when Emma had only gone about 20 feet.

It’s been six days, and the hole in the pit of my stomach is much better. As always, Emma is Emma. How and what she does just continues to reveal who I am, and it’s not the sort of exercise that I’d recommend. I’m not very proud of what I’ve written here, but it’s pretty close to the truth. Fill in the darker parts as you wish, or, my preference, skip it entirely. There hasn’t been much else this week that’s bothered me; my perspective’s been a bit, er, skewed.  It’s a different kind of worry. It’s got to be more constant than it has been. Complacency is the enemy, the cost of relaxation just went up $40 a  barrel.  The dangers of being locked into one’s home. The dangers of one’s own mind.  Looking for a reality check when there really isn’t one.  Learning what to let go of and what to hold. Bittersweet.

If Andy Rooney had more than three minutes, this is what it would sound like.

This is one of several editions that I’ve been stuttering on over the past few months.  Let’s see if I can make it to the “Publish” button, today. It’s all the way up there on the menu bar . . . and I seem to be in a strange humor, this morning.
I can’t really blame the meds, this time.  There’s a lot going on. As I’ve stated in earlier missives, reasons for omission seem to be overwhelming my desire to capture what’s going on for posterity. In addition, I’ve been reading Samuel Clemens, it’s like going to see Steve White play; you’re not gonna pick up a guitar for a few days afterward. Because the Internet is forever, or seemingly so. Blogging for me has assumed a certain liability - akin to the perils of having “unprotected” sex – the potential implications being enough to inhibit those of us with the proper fears and sensibilities installed.  What if my potential employer reads that I think that Healthcare management in this country is insane? It’s a pretty radical concept. There - I’ve said it - no turning back, now.
To my tortured mind, it’s always been the argument between “You’re not talented enough” vs. “You’re not disciplined enough.” There is probably more written about being a writer than any other subject, it only stands to reason.  Writing about Writing is the next best thing to, well, Writing.  “Being A Successful Writer” – the statement itself contains 4 words that are wildly open to interpretation, individually. I recently read an article that pointed out that having a world-changing “thing” was not enough; it was the implementation and, er, exploitation of that idea that really made the difference. Thank you, Adolph, now PUT YOUR ARM DOWN -  I’m not going to tell you again.  Exploitation is such an ugly word. Sausage tastes really good, though – you just don’t want to know how it’s made. I know that they use high-pressure water hoses in the manufacturing of SPAM . . .
I’ve been reading more random blogs these past few days. Google Reader has a “recommended” button that somehow aggregates blogs based upon one’s saved blogs/recent activity/shoe size/bank account statement/last physical/?? (I’m sure Google knows what I’ll be doing tomorrow, at least upon the intertubes). People I don’t know. Families with Down Syndrome and Cancer in their lives. I don’t know why, but Cake Wrecks keeps coming up – it’s hilarious. And, of course, tsunami pictures. Blogs from Americans and Japanese who are there and say that it’s not so bad, where they are. News about purported and potential radiation plumes, and the page that proves that my home is 48 miles from the San Onofre Nuclear Plant, just inside that magic 50-mile circle.

This experience has re-affirmed for me that Faith and Love are really the essence of our existence – the best of Human production. They need to be together for us to be worth, well, a plug nickel.
Our lives, individually and collectively, are being recorded ‘seismographically’. The extremes often become defining moments, although (usually) they are the anomalies in an otherwise bumpy but boring pass under the pen.  So often, the gritting goal-attainment gets ignored. The Japanese are being described in glowing terms at the moment, based upon their suffering and stoicism. I’m not begrudging this – just noting it. One Japanese official has already made a bonehead statement that this was their Gods’ (purposefully  plural, thank you) punishment, then retracted it. It’s nice to be reminded that we don’t hold the exclusive rights on ignoramousness. God gets blamed for a lot; it makes the senseless so much more sensible. I suppose.  Our species has such a way of saying the dumbest things at just the wrong times.  Of course, I have to put this blog into that category by definition. See how I can talk myself out of this?
I found it so very unsettling to sit here comfortably in my chair while I watched the sea engulf Sendai and the north coast of Japan. Long shots displayed the passionless, inevitable rolling wall of water. Closing in, to watch a thousand tragedies unfold, methodically, without regard, without any reason other than the principles of Newtonian physics. Sensible, yet senseless. To share, at least, a sense of powerlessness with the camera operators, helicopter pilots; those who could only witness what was transpiring below them.  It was not so long ago that the world would only learn of these things by eyewitness account, often weeks later – dramatized and/or sanitized by layers of editorial effort.  I had a God’s-eye view (if I might be so impetuous to imply) of this as it was happening.  Having been made in God’s image, I can understand that I’d be unable to sleep if I were He,  having to constantly see that sort of thing. And then get blamed for it.
Emma.  She’s becoming more articulate in her own inarticulate way. That I’m having trouble coping with my soon to be 12-year old daughter is as “normal” as it’s supposed to be. The problem is that the problem is me.  She’s learning how to get along with other people, not just the three of us, and they don’t treat her as abruptly as I tend to. I haven’t grown out of the “terrible twos” mentality – you know, ask , ask, ask, ask more firmly, ask even more firmly, threaten, threaten, then move you where I asked you to go ten minutes ago. Not so easy when the ‘askee’ is about 100 lbs., a girl, who now has the vocal abilities of Maria Callas with a megaphone and the physical presence to collapse onto the floor in the most dramatic and embarrassing way.  I need to respect her more, and not just because it’s inevitable that I’m not going to get my way all of the time, anymore.  It helps very little to rationalize these things when I’m tired and grumpy myself (that would be between the hours of noon – nine p.m.).  To put it into whatever context this rambling has produced, I love her dearly. I need to invest more faith in her. So we’ll probably be even later than usual to whatever event you’re hosting, if you invite us. Yeah, both of you.
We’re starting another no-fly-zone. We’re wasting our money on war while those who need caring for are getting less. Ideology and idiocracy overwhelm Faith like paper covers rock. “The Money” is going somewhere. The Golden State is drowning, and our earthquake hasn’t happened yet. We will not be lauded for our orderly society when it does. It helps very little to rationalize these things when I’m tired and grumpy – oh wait, it’s only 10:30 in the morning. Time to check the news.

Pick a cliché, any cliché

I am standing in the middle of an eight-way highway interchange. Frozen by tonic immobility as the events of my life whiz by me at speeds that must surely be illegal, immoral, and fattening.

Tomorrow, I will engage with a new ‘smartphone’ that will tell me where I am, where I should go, how I should get there, who’s calling /where they are, and can surely measure my core body temperature if I only insert the appropriate Bluetooth device. In other words, I will be entering into a new relationship. I know this because I see it, everyday. Just now, my computer insisted that I capitalize “Bluetooth.” I have co-workers that stare blithely into these things seemingly at every turn. I truly do not wish to be assimilated as much as I want to just keep up; I too must have something to do while everyone else is checking their YouTube accounts, not just stand there with empty hands and something witty to say. Now I’ll be able to Twitter it for the entire world’s pleasure, just like this blog. My initial enthusiasm for all of this stuff has been replaced by a slight nausea. I think that’s healthy, although my blog continues. . .

I’m facing a practical problem when it comes to this space. I may have written about it, before -  I don’t remember, and am too lazy to either tag my posts for later search or look it up, now (Technology does not exist in a guiltless vacuum – it simply enhances it in new and exciting ways).  I know that this problem has existed as long as writing has. Mark Twain purposefully stalled his autobiography for 100 years because of it – it’s only being published now. I have taken some solace in this.  The problem is one of exposure. I am a pretty open person; I attribute that to being brought up in a Minister’s home where our lives were pretty exposed to a large circle of people -  in fact, many aspects of my personal and home life were used as sermon ‘illustrations.’ Just ask my Mom about Walnut Chicken. One of the things that I have learned in my life outside the parsonage is that there is a modicum of privacy available for those who choose it. Most of the things I’ve had to write about, lately, have involved other people, and I ultimately have not felt comfortable (or courageous, if one were to assume a militant stance) enough to make them feel as I often did sitting in those pews as a young boy. I’m not claiming psychic damage here, I’m just making a point. Not clever enough yet to mask my personal relationships with the polite fiction of a novel (that allows deniability), I struggle to write about my life without exposing theirs. It was fairly easy when Emma was more idea than ingénue – when it was mostly about me and how I wrap my head around the implications of her existence, rather than the practical realization that I’ve been changing diapers for nearly 14 years, now (yes, that includes Sam’s warm-up years). If I am to preserve this privacy for my family and friends, can I exclude Emma merely because she’s not ‘aware’ enough to be embarrassed or feel ‘exposed?’ I’m struggling with this.

Is it important (to whom? to me? to you? to my great friends whom I’ve met through blogging?) that I write about the realization that my 11-year old daughter is now beginning the process of becoming capable of reproduction (How’s that for taking ‘that’ to a new level. . . )?  Would any  ‘normal’ 11 year old girl be happy that her Dad had announced this to the world? Uh, NOT! I suppose that I should have, could have blogged about it before it happened, but there’s nothing like being in the moment to bring things into sharper focus. I can only imagine that, typically, this is a milestone calling for trepidation – any reasonable thinking Father would be thinking in terms of a triple-walled compound with guard dogs and underground sensors. For me, there are added dimensions of fear. I’m not going to enumerate them now, you’re all smart enough to go down that path as far as you may wish to. Those few ‘outsiders’ that I’ve shared this with give me a look that I haven’t seen in a long time – you can see the torment in their eyes as they need to respond to you, but would much rather be running down the street in the opposite direction screaming obscenities at the top of their lungs. It’s nice to share, if only for the moment as you see it flash across their countenance.  I say, “nice”, yeah it’s a guilty serendipitous pleasure, and I’m not sorry.

Well, since that ‘genie is out of the bottle’, I suppose I’ve given us all permission to talk about it some more, and I may. My reason for taking this particular liberty is that I’m trying to focus this blog on my experiences and thoughts about being Emma’s Dad. It’s a bit unique, and I have been told that it’s given some others insight. Although Emma may not ‘mind’ (gosh, that’s a loaded word, there), I do mean to mind her as a whole person. I think it’s why I’ve seen so many be so passionate, publicly, about their kids and experience at first; not so much as they get older. Passions wane, wounds (actual and perceived) heal, and the just plain reality of bumping through those diaper and bedding changes become the numbing ‘normal.’ It’s why I admire my friend Nick; he’s been able to get in position by virtue of who and what he is to make a real difference in the lives of many in Ireland – from my great distance I’ve seen him mold anger and pain into purpose.

These are just a couple of the ‘crossroads’  I’ve been standing in. 51, with all of the incumbent inhibitions. I have great family and friends, a home, and health insurance. I am, by just about any standard, content. Just Bittersweet, that’s all.

It’s the Next, Most, Wonderful Time, of the Year.

This is the time of year when things get out of routine, although it’s happened about 23 times, now. It’s when we go to Lake Mead for a long weekend on the houseboat.

By things, I mean stuff just happens around this trip. There’s plans to be made, stuff to buy. . .  this is the impetus for us to buy music to play on the boat, books to borrow/buy to read on the boat, things to float on (we have a large inflatable shark, for example, from a previous year), meals to plan/cook ahead. This year, it’s been a challenge to find folks to take care of the kids while we’re gone, but we did it. Leaving your children in the care of others for nearly five days is a mental exercise regarding probabilities and possible outcomes that frankly leaves me with a hollow feeling in my stomach. Bittersweet.

There’s a lot of other stuff going on, too. We’re just about mid-way through a project to make the garage a usable space for us. Let’s just say that we put a bunch of junk in there when we moved in 13 years ago and just added to it until it was ‘waste high’. Several trips to the dump and various recyclers has left us with a storage unit half full in the driveway and a nearly drywalled space soon to be filled with grown-up cabinets and, hopefully, some semblance of organization. There’s even talk of a shed for the landscaping accoutrements (that’s French, without the umlauts). There might be “after” pictures, but no “before” pictures were taken for legal reasons, and those who have assisted us are sworn to secrecy.

Friday, as I was cutting someone off on the freeway (hey, she’d jerked her car in front of me on the onramp, I was just returning the favor), Kar-ma  (made myself laugh) struck when my sudden acceleration (again joking because it’s a ‘91 Civic sedan, awright?) caused the alternator belt to shred. Savvy motorist that I am, recovering from the interesting sound of it flapping around for 5 seconds or so, followed by the illuminated ‘battery’ idiot light  - along with the lack of billowing smoke or remaining recognizable pieces in my rear-view mirror, I ascertained this truth and drove home. Those of you who have worked on Japanese cars will sympathize with me when I opened the hood to the realization that the alternator belt is the first of three belts attached to the main pulley. For the rest of you, this means that one (and this was the moment when I determined that I was not to be that one) must remove the other two to complete the task at hand. And need I remind you that my tools are distributed in about 5 boxes in the previously mentioned storage box in the driveway? So, another day off from work on Monday whilst a younger person with a lift, a real toolbox, and probably a hangover replaces all three belts, with the appropriate grunting and tension on them. Might as well change the oil, too.

In addition, today we’re driving up to Temecula to see an unusual mix of inlaws and outlaws. Another afternoon of chasing Emma around Pat & Oscar’s.

So I’ll need Monday to make the Green Chile Stew in advance; my boatmates are tired of watching me work on it on Saturday afternoon. How else am I to garner their heartfelt appreciation for my culinary efforts – now it’s just another frozen dinner from Costco. Big whoop. I’m.Just.kidding –it’ll taste better after that chemical thing that happens to soups and stews that makes them taste better the next day. Probably.

Like I said, stuff just happens around this excursion. The trip will be great – paying good $$ for a properly maintained boat with a marine radio to complain into (and that is rare) is a worthwhile investment -  it’s just the GETTING ON THE BOAT part that requires so much effort. We will not be moving Heaven and Earth, merely the contents of lower Manhattan back and forth over the next 6 days or so. We have gotten better at it, with practice. According to the Park Newsletter(pdf), the Bald Eagle count has soared; we’ll be on the lookout. We’ve seen wild asses (no, not just other boaters), bighorn sheep, and a few other wild things, but I don’t remember seeing our national bird,there. Gazing at the horizon for Bald Eagles is a worthy occupation onboard – it’s about the extent of what’s expected. Therein lies the beauty of the whole situation, if youse gets my drift, and we most certainly will NOT drift (inside joke, sorry).

Diva Dis, Diva Dat.

Emma's Grade School "graduation" was today. They have a lovely ceremony for the now middle schoolers, where they call each one to the front, present them with a certificate, and then let the parents take pictures of each class. It's age-appropriate.
Emma sat with her 'mainstream' class - she shares time between regular class and a special ed class - and clapped happily for all of the announcements and for her classmates as they were introduced. Then came the announcement  - "Emma Goble!". She immediately put her hands to her face, and started to cry.
Now, my little Diva rarely shuns the spotlight, but this, apparently, was just too much for her. I don't know if it was her runny nose, or if she just hadn't been properly introduced (I was told that there was a run-through where she'd done 'just great'), but she wasn't going to leave her chair. My expectation was that she was going to take her sweet time getting to the podium, like Meryl Streep, stopping to thank all the little people on the way. . .
The principal - who is a Wonderful Man, hardly skipped a beat. He said to the teacher, "We'll go to her," and they came down the steps of the stage and handed her her certificate. Applause. Ceremony continued.
I reached her a few moments later, and she perked up when she saw me. I put my arm around her and tried to prompt her to go up on stage, but she'd just pull my arm tighter around her. Let the rest of them stand up there. We were together in that crowded, noisy auditorium, and the rest of it didn't matter.
So, I don't have any pictures of her 'graduating'. Here's a snapshot apre~cake; chocolate cake is always good for celebrating.

You just never know what Emma's going to do; know that she's going to do it her way.

Beta Tester

I’ve discovered something.
I’ve been taking medicine to control high blood pressure since 1993. Over time, it gets higher, prescriptions change, side effects occur, weight is gained, lost, and regained, you know – the beginning of the slippery slope on the downward turn of the circle of life thing. I’m given a particular mix, sent off with sample bottles, and it takes 3-5 weeks to see if A> it has the required effectiveness (the Doc’s agenda), and B> it doesn’t make me sick, sleepy, not at all sleepy, and/or scream its' way through the synapses of my brain all day(my particular agenda). Sometimes, it has been a process that has taken nearly a year to properly implement to meet both our criteria. A trumps B ( I still maintain the will to live, most days), for the most part , which has produced the subject of this post.
Such experimentation has been underway for the past several months. One of the agents that has been steadily increased has been what’s known as a beta-blocker. In addition to its' overall effect on the cardiac system, it also has an effect upon emotional states, namely anxiety. It is used specifically by some for this purpose. I didn’t realize (I was not paying attention) to this aspect until the dosage reached a point where it was disturbing my sleep (it affects serotonin and melatonin levels), as well as making it harder to stay awake and/or focus during any conversation lasting more than about 90 seconds. Went to see the Doc, and he set me off on a different course, still including a lower dose of the beta blocker. I just happened to have a work schedule that included 3 days of off-site training – sitting in a classroom (i.e. a resting state), so I decided to do an experiment. I quit taking the beta blocker.
I literally felt my head begin to clear after about a day and half. I felt better, I had an attention span again, etc. -  I actually read something and teared up a bit. I started posting, and halfway long ones, at that, on the online places I inhabit. Sacre Bleu! I have an excuse for not writing! There has to be a reason for everything, right? This Level-headedness is also passionless-ness, and I realized that it has been hard for me lately to really give two hoots for much of anything enough to do something about it – whatever it might be. I quit playing any music – the guitar broke a string, I put it away. That was two months ago. I bought some strings, yesterday.
Relax, T, I’m back to  my full prophylactical potential. I don’t know if the veil will descend; my base med has changed, and the side effects seem manageable, so far. This latest round has fostered renewed resolve to do some of the things I should be doing that could conceivably remove the beta-blocker from the equation, entirely. I do so appreciate your continued interest. I do need to write. And some of you need to write, too. You know who you are.

An Honest Mistake

I'm finding fewer and fewer reasons to endorse the Human Race, particularly among those who parade and promote in public. I was really quite pleased, then, by the events surrounding an umpire's blown call, that cost a Major League Pitcher a 'perfect game', this week.
This world has seemed so jaundiced, lately, so much so in the 'heroes' category. It seems that even Lance Armstrong cheated while deliberately misleading everyone - lacked even one cajone for the truth. California Ballot initiatives are written so that "No" means "Yes", backed by advertising and endorsements that distort the truth past the point of propriety. Everyone is willing to turn the economy to mush as long as they get theirs. BP turns a tragedy into another toxic lesson about corporate greed, including profits from selling itself the most environmentally damaging dispersant that they happen to manufacture.
How grateful I am, then, to see two men in prominent positions exceed our ever-crumbling expectations of how they should act. One man knew instantly that the other was wrong, along with a sizeable portion of the assembled crowd. In our current society, this was clearly an opportunity to exploit, to assert one's primacy via injury in full prima-donna fashion. Instead, the opposite happened. The player accepted the call, returned to the mound, and finished the game. This is not just good sportsmanship, it was a recognition of many levels of respect - beginning with the player for himself, the umpire, and the rules of the game - that it is a game, with what has always been the possiblity that sometimes the truth suffers. Truth, as it currently stands, is not paramount in Baseball. It has been and continues to be a topic of debate.
The umpire also demonstrated great integrity. I can only imagine what it took him to rise from the replay to go to this player's locker to look him in the eye and apologize. To do so, again, publicly.
To be forgiven, graciously.
Roger Ebert talks about the "elevation" of the human spirit that movies often provide. The conduct of these gentlemen elevate us all. As it should be, the particulars of a game pale when compared to the performance of character.
We needed the lift.

Read the best, then read the rest.

To be, or not to be--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! -- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered.

- William Shakespeare, “Hamlet”

 

To be or not to be is not the question, today.
One is, and cannot un-be. Unbecoming as that might sound.
One can do, or not do, but that which remains undone can lead to one's undoing.
There can often be quite the to-do about one's to-do list.
Who you be affects what you do;  what you do about it can be limited -- or can it be?
I tried to be, got a "B"; I could see that "C" was really a "D" for me. I said, "A!", but could never really make the grade. I sit in the hallway and wait for the bell to ring.
I see the genius that is Shakespeare, and loathe my generations who've squandered beauty for gadgetry and lubricants, discarding elevation in the name of equality, celebrating the mean.
Know what I mean by mean? I mean, 'mean' has many meanings. The average man can be mean, and he can do things that are mean, but this does not make him necessarily the mean of mean, or even mean to be mean, but it's close.
So, in closing, do we mean to do from being, or does our being inherently make us mean in our doing? Surely, most of us look for meaning, and mean to do well, but in the mean we all fall short. That's no mean trick - or is it?

Bittersweetness

My apologies for not writing, sooner. I’ve been keeping my thoughts to myself, lately, for several reasons that I’m going to continue to keep to myself. Some of you are saying, “Thank you,” I’m sure.  I’ve also noticed a drop in postings from my regular haunts; I suspect that something’s in the air – or the water.

I had a quite bittersweet time, this last Tuesday afternoon. Roger Ebert is one of my heroes. If you watch movies, he is an inescapable force. If you appreciate great writing, his reviews and now, his blogging and online offerings are necessary. He continues to live an amazing life, and his writings reflect a mind cultivated by a wide world of experiences, transformed by extraordinary events. It’s difficult for me to write in the same ether.

Roger appeared on Oprah last week(I am going to assume that my European friends know who she is – if not, google away). If you don’t know, he has lost his jaw, along with his ability to eat and speak. Among other things, this appearance debuted a synthesized version of Roger’s voice, which no one had heard for quite some time. It was wonderful to see him, to see Chaz, and learn a little more about them both. I will confess I had tears in my eyes at the end.

That’s the sweet part. I had tears in my eyes before it started.

I get home about 10 minutes before Oprah comes on. I turned on the TV in the bedroom and began changing out of my uniform, ending that part of my day, getting ready to watch the show. It was then that the news came on that Chelsea King’s body had been found in a shallow grave. It was another instance of a community taking another punch in the gut, tenuous hopes giving way to grief. Grief and anger at the being (thankfully, in custody ONCE MORE) capable of such inhumanity. I did not know her, but our city was looking for her; she’d been a main focus of attention since her disappearance the Thursday before. Moments such as these should break every heart.

I’m presenting this to you, backward, because it’s really how I experienced it. I had been anticipating the “sweet” for days, the “bitter” was a 10-minute step into knee-deep sorrow, followed by the good feelings I’d been waiting for. Twenty minutes after that, I turned the TV off and sat on my bed in a moment of stunned silence at the breadth of human experience that I’d just witnessed. I didn’t dwell on it for long, there were things to do, and many of these thoughts are best dealt with alongside the grit and grime of the things we need to do. I’ll leave that thought there. 

Bittersweet. Exhibit 476-B, category – Humanity (apologies to Rod Serling)

Again, and as I put it here, I feel such a sense of mystery about what this is all about. Mystery that I should feel that need, that human need, to make it make sense. Can I accept that is not possible for “this” to reconcile?

Can’t dwell on this stuff too long. I won’t get anything done at all.

Love’s Lessons, part 47

My Grandmother passed away, a week ago Wednesday. Her obituary is here. I think that everyone present would agree that it was a good time, overall, for a far-flung family to gather in a way that will never happen again, to tell stories – new and old, and honor a life well lived.

One of the things that I’ve been personally aware of, for some time, is that a great deal of sorrow can be spawned by ‘unfinished business’ – the good, bad, but not indifferent currency of a relationship. Grandma and I were paid up, our accounts reconciled, with the exception(of course) that I will always owe her my gratitude and respect for her legacy and love – that's off the books. I think you know what I mean. Dementia had taken a large part of her, some time ago, her physical departure was merely an inevitable reality.

Serendipities occurred. I was able to make three quarters of my journey with either my parents or my sister. I seemed to make some new connections with a couple of cousins, whom I’ve only seen once or twice.

The funeral was on Saturday. The last time we were all together was at the graveside, and there weren’t any more ‘group’ plans made after that. Uncle Bob had casually invited me out to his home on Sunday to see his ‘57 Chevy project. I waffled, and decided not to go. It was a 45 minute drive out and back, for maybe an hours visit before I climbed on a plane for another 4 hours or so. I immediately began concocting a plan to bring Sam out to see the car when it was completed, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to Bob about it. I found out later that he and my Uncle Cliff had gone to an OU football game Saturday night – plans made in advance, and which Hazel would have surely approved.

Sunday’s flight was actually pleasant, and I was home in time for dinner. I’d taken Monday off because, well, I could. The phone rang at about 8:15 am. It was Dad, and Uncle Bob had just died. His obituary is here. I think Dad said that he and Cliff had ‘taken down a couple of trees’ at Bob’s on Sunday (I haven’t had any real conversation with anyone, my folks are returning home tomorrow). Clifford is a doctor, and he and my Aunt Althea were staying there. When he had chest pains, I guess Cliff kept him going till they got him to the ambulance and the hospital. His funeral was yesterday.

I’ve written this post, many times and many ways, since Monday. Excuses, mostly. Unfinished Business. I didn’t tell him in person; I actually wanted to send him a letter -  in writing to show that I wasn’t saying what I was supposed to in the moment, that I really meant it – telling him how grateful I was to him for taking care of Hazel all of these years, that his example  sets the standard. How he waded through the family and personal issues to not only do the job, but do it extremely well. How I wanted Sam to meet him and get to know him, if only as little as I had. I will try and express these things to Aunt Janice, but it just won’t be the same.

I so now wish that I’d been willing to make myself mildly uncomfortable for an hour and a half, last Sunday.This is at least the second time I’ve been taught this lesson, and I hope that it’s the last:

Do not pass up an opportunity to spend time with the ones you love. It could very well be your last.

FB Flashback

Point Loma College Soccer Team, 1977

I’d just returned from a summer trip to England, with a church group, where I’d actually been asked for autographs after doing my finest Larry Norman impression. It’s now my freshman year in college. I’ve got a steady girlfriend, which kinda messes up my BMOC vibe, but I’m in love. I’ve got a car, which gives me the freedom to get away from the Shangri-La that is PLC, mostly to get to said girlfriend, who goes to State. Classes are fine, dorm life is “Animal House” without the sex, alcohol, and fun – close quarter living with smelly people in a moldy 12-person ‘quad’- “Das Boot” without the camaraderie. Young Hall was awful, even if it was only 400 yards from the Pacific Ocean. Of course, I had no idea at the time, but life was pretty stinkin’ good – and I do mean ‘stinkin’. We had to gang up on Charles at about week 7 to force him into the shower, clothes and all.

Then there were these guys. One of them was already a good friend. Others would become so. This was a team that had started as a ‘club’, and it would be some years before it would became a viable, completely supported, competitive part of the athletic program. I was coming to PLC, having been part of the startup of my high school soccer team - we'd gone from nil to third place in three years - my senior year had been a very good one. At Point Loma, we were doing our best, but usually got our heads handed to us by the likes of Simon Fraser and USIU – teams of international students here on scholarships. I am only aware of one game in my 3 years playing where statistics were kept – I think it was So. Cal Baptist College or something, in 1978. They had 38 shots on goal. We only lost 7-1, that day. For those of you, like me, who don’t care for math, that means that I had 31 saves. If I’d known then what I know now, I would have had a better time, but that has been my nature - still workin’ on that. I do take pleasure in memories like playing in Aztec Bowl, which no longer exists. Even if it was against SDSU's "C" squad.

We usually got to take the little bus to away games. Boredom and bus hijinks, like the time we all mooned the guard shack at the entrance to PLC upon our return. On a couple of rare occasions, we even got to clean out a restaurant or two, out of town, late at night, returning from a game way up the coast. Yeah, we were geeks, but guys like Dan Brown made sure that we had good times.

Dave, third from the left, front row. Left wing. Gets a yellow card for some infraction – continues to yell “I’m not sorry! I’m not sorry!” at the ref. Makes me laugh out loud, today. Dave Oakes, next to the coach - a great fullback and encouraging presence on the field - we cracked knees, one day, his gave way, mine didn't. It killed his entire season. I still feel like crap about that. He made a lousy martyr - I would have done the job much more effectively.

Yeah, I was that skinny, and yeah, that was my real hair. For those of you who weren't there, or otherwise haven't figured out that I was the keeper, I'm #3 on the left, back row.
Robert Martin, third from the right, put this pic up this morning on FB. Just sent me spinning into nostalgia. Thanks, guys.

Emma’s 10th Birthday Bash

It was everything it was supposed to be. Candles, cake, presents. Emma’s got a bit of a summer cold or something; she was a bit subdued, but always manages to be the life of the party. Here’s the annual video:

Emma's 10th Birthday Cake Video from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

My thanks and appreciation to all who gave us the better part of their day to make Emma’s birthday party a wonderful one for her and us.

Emma’s Birthday is Tomorrow

I remember it like it was yesterday. I can still see it. It took me about nine years and ten months to gather the courage to watch it on the screen. What I found was not what I remembered. It’s taken the other two months to sort out what did happen. It’s time I wrote it down. I’ve shared parts of this with others, but I’ve never really written it, for myself. My motive is not to make you sad; it is to take you on another part of the journey, with some perspective.

Dressed in my bunny suit and bouffant hat, I stood dutifully in the operating room, holding Vicky’s hand on her side of the drape separating us from the business at hand. I saw the smoke and smelled the smell of the cauterizing scalpel. I watched as Doc Williams pulled Emma out of the (gratefully obscured) field of surgery by one foot, into the air. Emma, moments before had been ‘breech’, with one leg cocked up over her shoulder. Low muscle tone equals amazing flexibility. She started to cry (Emma, not the Doc), and was quickly handed off to the assistants gathered about a warmer. That’s when I started up the camera.

Through the lens, I watched them clean her up, wrap her up, and she was rolled away; about two minutes. What I saw, watching it now, was three women; one picks up Emma’s foot, fingers her toes, kinda flopping her foot back onto the bed, they look back and forth at each other, and then get back to business. At a point between then and now, I’d have been angry enough to find out who they were and tried to get them fired. Emma was evaluated and dismissed within minutes of entering this world. Now it just stings. Looking back, I’m pretty sure that the Doc had had her suspicions, kept them to herself, and probably diagnosed her as she lifted Emma into the air. I’ve never asked her, although I’ve had plenty of opportunities. Doesn’t matter now.

I don’t remember what happened, exactly, next – the show in the OR was over, and I wanted to follow Emma to the nursery to record her first bath and checkup. At some point, I left Vicky and was directed to the Special Care Nursery. There was some cause for concern for her oxygen levels, or something. I wasn’t particularly worried, and headed over there with my camera. When I got there, and checked in, Emma was unattended in a warmer to the right of the nurses’ station. Having worked in there in the past, it was not an alien place to me, the atmosphere and hardware weren’t at all foreboding. I turned the camera on, secured the lens cap, and walked over and bent over to capture my daughter’s face. That’s when I saw her. Her eyes. I froze. This was the moment that I waited ten years to witness again. It wasn’t there on the tape. Evidently, I never pushed the record button.

Emma had Down Syndrome. No one had to tell me. I turned, and sat down at a round table a few feet away. I remember putting the lens cap back on the camera, turning it off, and then something happened that I have not experienced before or since. I saw a little blond girl, running into my arms. I was opening the door to our home, greeting her first date. Watching her drive off. Walking her down the aisle in her wedding dress. Taking a baby from her arms. A lifetime of expectations paraded in front of me in a matter of moments. It was a feeling of deep sadness that struck to my core. It was all gone. I sat there until the Doc came in and told me of her suspicions. I remember saying, “I saw.” I needed no karyotype.

As you all know, I have a little blonde girl who runs into my arms. I have learned that the majority of what I knew of Down Syndrome from what were then 20 year-old textbooks was wrong, but in those moments a lifetime had been lost. The next few hours and days were filled with grief, much of it fed by those around me who either knew nothing about our life ahead, or, in most cases, had no idea whatever to say. Some did and said some extraordinary things, and they hold a dear and precious place in my heart. Teresa. Cliff, the ex-steelworker who, when he saw me, said nothing; threw his arms around me and hugged me like there was no tomorrow (he is raising a granddaughter with CP). There were others.

Emma was born a little before midnight. About 10 a.m., the next day, I headed down to the cafeteria for something to eat. Into the elevator came an acquaintance, a psychiatrist. I told him about Emma, and he turned, looked at me with with surprise, and asked, “Didn’t you have an amnio?” It was not the reaction that I had anticipated from him, not then. In my exhausted honesty, more than any sort of practiced nobility, I said the first thing that popped into my head. “It wouldn’t have mattered.” I found out later that, at that moment in time, he was involved in a troubled pregnancy, struggling with his own decisions. Her reality precluded any pleasantries, or even any empathy toward me, the idea of her cut his sensibilities like a knife. This has proven to be the case with Emma: She requires you to deal with who you are; you cannot pretend, pretense means nothing. There is no denial available.

I can’t predict the future (I gave up on expectations some time ago), but I will not be surprised when Emma becomes a cheerleader. She’s sitting across from me now, negotiating her way through sesamestreet.org. She may not be completely accurate, but she can be very articulate. Her sense of humor demonstrates an intellect that one can only experience to appreciate. In the realm of human measurement, she can be ‘less than’ and ‘more than’ in the same moment. We were told, on the second day, “She is more like you than she is not.” It was a comfort through a period of learning. It is a partial truth – the reality is that she is you. You just didn’t know it, before now.

Emma’s birth was an end, and it was a beginning. The end of every assumption I’ve ever had, with the possible exception of gravity. The beginning of a widening breadth of the experience of loss, gain, tragedy, joy, but most of all love. Seeing Emma through that lens, I began to see life through different eyes. This piece began, in my head, by wanting to share that moment with you, show you the video. That it doesn’t exist, doesn’t really matter, in the end. What matters is that you’ve been changed, know a wider world, and we share it together with love because of Emma.
Bittersweet.

The cake video and celebratory stuff will be coming, the party’s on Saturday. Sweet!