Funeral Lament

Traveling south on the I-5 corridor in central California on a beautiful sunny day, going home.  Green hills fade to brown but the sky remains a pastel blue the entire way. 

Travelers we, lost souls in an automobile on a rock highway, we leave no trace while traveler’s in aluminum tubes in the sky leave lines in their wake – vapor trails.  

On a funeral weekend, the lines seem like God’s stitches in the sky as he adds another angel to His patchwork. 

lines and shadows

While waiting for a seminar to start, a couple of Saturdays ago, I noticed the light shining through the window.  The lines played well with the shades and light and I was able to capture the moment on my camera.  I love these little gems, these moments, that just lift your spirits.  I really enjoyed that. 

D.

Thoughts

Different industries each have their own ego, jargon and conceit.  Each may feel they are the most important.  In truth, every enterprise has their own unique presence and power in being.  Be good in what you do. 

D. 

Friendship

My friend, Bob, died a year and a half ago, February 26, 2013.  I miss him.  I found a note on my desk tonight.  Something I wrote on the anniversary of his death.  I want to capture it here and get that scrap of paper off my desk.  I am trying to clean things up.  It is not working.  Oh well, baby steps.  Here it is:

It has been a year now.  As if each 365 day block creates a milestone of loneliness.  As if each man made entity serves as some sort of remembrance.  But the truth is, each little day, each little moment, minute, hour, I have missed you.  You were my friend.  I enjoyed every conversation, every thought, every plan, every joke.  You were my friend.  That word carries with it its own meaning.  I had known you for 34 years.  Outside of family you were the longest relationship of my life.  I am glad we stayed in touch.  I wish we could have talked more.  Thank you for being a friend.

So, there you have it. Just a few thoughts.  A short remembrance.  This is for you Bob.

May you rest in peace.
D.

Friday Night Dinner with My Dad.

Since my mom died, gosh, almost three years ago, my sisters and I take turns fixing Dad dinner.  Tonight was my turn.  

The television news was on when we got to my Dad’s house for Friday night dinner.  Same news, bad news, old news, new news.  One story caught my attention.  One of our local school districts has discovered that the new school session has some students left without books.  The news story contained the information that you would expect.  One health class did not have enough books.  Some parents were upset.  How could the board not plan for that?  Really!  Further on the reporter announced that only 90% of the students had IPads. 

 

My dad responded.  Words to the affect that… “when I was in school I was happy just to have a tablet.” 

My dad further explained that it was during the depression, 1936.  And the tablet was a wood framed little piece of blackboard.  His writing utensil would have been a piece of chalk. 

The more things change, the more they stay the same.  School supplies were in short supply then as now.  And the new student really just wanted a tablet. 

D.

David Francey Is A Poet For Real Life

About a month ago my wife and I took a trip up the coast to Long Beach, California.  I had heard a few months earlier that the great Canadian folk singer/songwriter, David Francey was coming to town for a house show.  And so, I immediately inquired about getting tickets.  House concerts are small, informal venues at someone’s house.  This was a small event and sold out immediately.  I was put on a waiting list.  Unfortunately, someone cancelled.  I say unfortunate because they were unable to listen to a great poetic musical talent.  But it was fortunate for us because my wife and I were able to attend.  As luck would have it the evening (May 18) was the anniversary of our engagement (27 years ago).

 

It was beautiful venue.  The hostess, Julien Menard, was a very gracious host and even offered dinner for those who wanted to stay.  It was a very intimate environment and a very nice afternoon. 

The stage was set in the Menard’s living room--a stool for the Artist, a chair for his guitarist, an overstuffed chair and sofa, and rows of folding chairs for the guests.  There were two windows open to allow a nice breeze to flow through.  Ahh, the breeze, every once in a while, the wind will blow, and sometimes, on that wind, we are blessed with the music of greatness – music of real people, real stories.  David’s poetry comes through his songs and subjects.  His words are poetry and his subjects are made so much more beautiful for it.  David’s songs touch everyone because his songs are about all of us. 

I first discovered David Francey when I heard “The Fourth of July” on XM radio, channel 15, 10 years ago.  I have been a fan ever since.  One CD, another, then another, and now I am hooked.  I love them all.  And it seems that each song somehow touches a part of my own existence, my own life’s journey. 

I have been a “Paper Boy”, I have spent nights in “Cheap Motels” and I have traveled at “Nearly Midnight”, and traveled all alone at that.  I have spent the “Waking Hour” wondering about new loves.  In these songs David touched me.  

In the next set he sang one of my wife’s favorite songs.  “Broken Glass” is one that touches us both. I was one of those shy 14 year olds.  My heart broke every time one of those girls went by. 

Sunday morning’s in our neighborhood the church bells ring.  It is one of the things my wife loves about our house.   And we often go walking and listen to the bells and watch all of the “Saints and the Sinners” walk or drive past us.

  

David Francey sang a song titled “Green Fields”.  I didn’t get a chance to thank David for this song and for singing it.  This was a story of my wife and myself.  I had a few doomed relationships before I met my wife.  But I eventually wrote her a letter.  She wrote back and “love came with letters and the morning mail”. My wife and I used to live off Greenfield Lane.  The song means a lot to us.

 

During the concert David spoke of his life’s experiences.  He used to be a “Paper Boy”; I used to be a paper boy.  He washed dishes in a restaurant; I washed dishes in a restaurant.   David Francey is a poet for real life.  I was proud to have made his acquaintance.   

David Francey is a real person, who writes real songs about real people and real life. 

Taylor Creek

I was twenty nine when I took a bride.  I was a late bloomer, living in the California High Sierras.  I worked for several years, decided to go to college, then went to work again and found a wife.  I was searching for someone who could share in the beauty of the life I had found; someone to share in the beauty of the nature all around me.  I had only to look in my backyard.  Or, at least, in my parents backyard.
 

My wife was not a country girl.  I met her in college, moved away and found her again through winter letters, written by my heart in solitude.  She responded in kind.  Our hearts just gravitated towards each other like a seed to fertile ground.

She was a southern California girl, raised in the big city with grocery stores and shopping malls.  The only wild animals she ever saw were the spiders that haunted her backyard or on the occasional trip to the zoo.  But she fell in love with me and said she would go wherever I took her.

My wife moved in with me on my grandmother’s birthday.  June 24^th.  My grandmother would have been 84 had she not died four days earlier.  But I brought my wife to my apartment in a little High Sierra town surrounded by forests.  From our living room window you could see the ducks landing on the meadow across the street.  We could hear the squirrels and chipmunks scurrying up the pine trees to grab the nuts from the pine cones.  Occasionally a deer would wander through the meadow.  I was happy to share these gifts with my wife.  A love together is a wondrous thing.  And throughout the summer our love grew. 
 

By the fall she was beginning to feel at home in the mountains.  It was then that I decided to take her out to the stream profile museum at Taylor Creek, just off Highway 89.  I tried to explain to her what she could expect to see.  I told her that the salmon were running upstream.  She laughed as she tried to picture salmon “running” as she explained.  “Cause they don’t have feet”.

We pulled into the parking lot, paved-over meadow lot, used by hikers in the summer and cross country skiers in the winter.  The lot was surrounded by various types of pine and fir trees.  On this particular day, it was just my wife and I, and the forest service employee who was stationed there for the entire month of October to guard the salmon in the stream. I think the forest service was also there to warn the human visitors that there may be bears about due to the abundance of delicious, nutritious fish.  It was always wise to be wary of bears in the Sierras.

We parked our car on the southern edge of the parking lot near the stream.  I didn’t want to be too far from the car just in case a bear, or bears, were in the area.  We got out of the car and walked to the edge of the lot.  The lot was constructed on a piece of ground above the stream bed.  We could hear the water of the stream as we got out of our vehicle.  I led her to the edge of the parking lot.  We stood there looking over the stream bed.  The edge of the stream was lined with hundreds of kokanee salmon.  Other salmon were swimming upstream to complete their life cycle.
 

I turned my head momentarily to watch a bird fly through the trees around us and to soak in the natural beauty of nature’s spectacle.  I turned to my wife and I could see tears in her eyes.  I reached out, put my arm around her and asked if she was ok.  She said that she was saddened by the end of their lives.  I told her that is was natural for them to die like this.  They had just finished mating and laying their eggs in the stream.  There were hundreds of these salmon on the side of the stream and thousands more making their way upstream.  I told her this was the way of  nature and they have been living and dying this way for thousands of years.

She turned and thanked me for showing her the beauty of the world.  I explained that it was my pleasure.  She had enjoyed her life in Lake Tahoe.

We moved away three years later.  But we are making plans to return there to finish our lives as close to Taylor Creek as we can get.   

D.

The Greatest Job of My Life.

March, 1989 was the beginning of one of the greatest times of my life.  My wife and I had been married for over a year and each day I woke up loving her more than the day before.  During this time I decided, we decided that we were ready to take on more responsibility.

I was looking for a new job.  I embraced this job gladly, happily, with no misgivings, even knowing I had no experience.  But I was confident that I could do it.  I had seen so many others try it before me and I was ready to try it myself.  It has turned out to be the toughest, yet most rewarding job I have ever had. 

The job I applied for was "Dad".  I became a Dad on December 26, 1989.  It was a wonderful experience.  Every day since then has proven to be enjoyable and rewarding.  I thank my children for allowing me to pursue this remarkable journey.