Happy Mother’s Day, 2020 (as in the year, and hindsight is 2020).

Kind of pensive this morning, and it reminded me of how thoughtless I was to my own Mom.  Remembering events with my mom. I remembered when I moved out on my own when I was almost 20 years old I chalk it up to the inexperience and stupidity of youth, and to the first onset of adult independence and freedom.  I see it in my own life’s experiences, but please bear with me.  

My wife and I live in an area of steep, curvy mountain roads with long distances and open spaces between services.  Facebook offers us a local road conditions page where concerned citizens post the local knowledge of accidents, fallen trees, road hazards, or dead (or live) wildlife or livestock on the roads.  Yesterday, Saturday, was an uneventful quarantine day in our area until late afternoon.  Someone posted about a motorcycle accident, and the ambulances and police services being called.  A fellow facebooker commented that she was worried about her brother and dad who were late getting back from a ride. 

I worried too.  

What an awful way to hear about an accident that may involve your family.  And the not knowing…!  Later, she posted that all was well and that all was well as they both just walked in the door.  I felt relieved for her and her family.  Strangers, whom I have never met and do not know.  But my heart went out to her in this situation.  

But still, there was a serious accident and it involved strangers, too.  No personal link, however far stretched.  But they are neighbors, fellow citizens who are hurting.  My thoughts and prayers went out to them as always.  It is a dangerous world out there.  

And all of this snapped me back to my own quarantine and to all of those suffering.  We see families on the news.  We don’t know them. We see the stories and we feel the emotions.  This links us all to their situations.  The pictures provide a visual reminder of the toll.  

3100 cases of illness in the state where I live.  102, or more deaths.  Each number represents a family hurting or worrying.  One hundred families hurting.  Thirty-one hundred worried families.  

These stories reminded me of my mom today.  Years ago, in my youth, my newfound independence and freedom, I neglected my mother’s feelings.  I forgot about her worries.  

I was living in the mountains 500 miles away.  I had an apartment and a job.  I was doing ok.   I called my brother from a payphone.  He said my mom was “pissed’ that I didn’t have a  phone.  I was independent and naïve.  Why did I need a phone?  I was free.  My brother said, “Mom wants you to get a phone.”  I did. 

There was girl I worked with.  Same situation as myself, young, naïve, and free.  She called home to say “Hi” to her mom.  Her sister said, “Mom died six months ago.” 

This lady in my county worried about her family.  All the current covid patients have families worried about them. My mother worried about me. She needed to know I was ok.  I got a phone.

I regret not calling my mom.  I didn’t at the time.  But I do now.  Call your Mom, if you can talk to her on a regular basis.  Believe me, there will be a time when you want to… and you can’t. 

Happy Heavenly Mother’s Day Mom. 

Announcement

On this last day of 2019, I have decided that I will not run for the presidency of the United States Of America.  I just wanted to put that out there, cause I thought at one time that someone asked me if I wanted to run. 

I wanted to announce to my 10 followers first so that you could be the first to know.  Please advise your friends that I will not accept any write-in votes either.  I do not wish to be president.  It is hard. 

And, I don't think people really agree with my politics.  Therefore, do not consider me.  The press interviews and attention would really aggravate my neighbors and family.  And I truly have not decided to whom to throw my support.

Thank you for not considering me. 

DN.

Time

Time.


It used to pass so slowly. I remember when I was twelve. I couldn't wait to grow up. My wife says I still haven't, even after 50 years. Ha.


When I was a kid, it seemed like it would take forever. At some time in the past 40 years, I heard a song. A Gordon Lightfoot. Went like this, "if you plan to face tomorrow, do it soon." And I always worried if I did... Faced tomorrow.

Well, after 50 years of tomorrows, I have. Faced it. I finished school. Got an education, got a job, got a career (two actually). Got a wife, got kids. 

And now, I find there does not seem to be enough time. Time to do what I want. Time to do what I need to do. Time to dream. Time for reflection. I guess that I realize. No time like the present. I realize. Realization, of all that I have. I am blessed. I guess somewhere along the line, I did grow up.

Wow. How did that happen? Oh, I know...

Time.

DN

Tragedy at the bird feeder.

Tragedy at the bird feeder.  Mom and Dad quail arrived yesterday morning with their covey of 8 to 10 chicks.  We have watched them grow for two months now.  We feed them every day.  It is nice to see them.  What a beautiful family.  

Yesterday...  

  

Yesterday morning, a neighbor told me. A hawk came out of the trees and snatched a chick. 

This afternoon, the dad came back.  He stood on a rock, scouting the security of the yard.  

Later, as I went to check the mail, I saw the mom and a few chicks cross the street.  Mom was looking back, as if wondering, where is…?  And, I thought to myself, did the chick have a name?  What name did Mom use?

Will she always look back for her chick,
wondering?  

David Normand
Aug. 7, 2019

Rembrances - shopping with kids

Mother’s day shopping (ca. 2005)

Today I took my son shopping for a Mother’s Day gift.
 I had offered to purchase a gift the other day when I was at the mall and my son was at school.

He said he couldn’t tell me what he wanted to get.
He said he saw it last week but could not remember it.
I said I would take him to get it tomorrow. 
Tomorrow is today. 

We went to the mall. 

We could not find the gift.

“What was it?” 
I don’t know.  It was purple. 
“Who wrote it?
I don’t know.
“What was it about?”
I don’t know.

Needless to say we bought something else.

DavidN.

Cancer is a horrible thing

Last year I wrote about a friend of the family.  She is close to my wife.  A work friend, a text friend, a dinner date friend.  I have met her on several occasions.  I'll admit, she is closer, and better known, to my wife than myself.  But I know her story.  

http://ponderingdave.blogspot.com/2018/11/reach-out.html

My wife gets a text over this past weekend that this friend's doctor has spoken.

"Go and do what  you have always wanted to do.  Now is the time."

My wife's friend replied as to what she always wanted to do.  "I want to live."


Cancer is a horrible thing.

DN.  July 28th, 2019.

An Elegy

The river seems a little low today,

The skies’ mood is grey.

Normally I'd be concerned,

But not my heart, not me, not today.

The snow is beginning to fall.

It will drive us all indoors.

Is introspection your gift to me?

Am I on your list of chores?

Say hello to me mum and dad (and my brother, too).

And say hello to yours.

I still miss them all these years

And I don’t understand the "what for’s?"

I know She comes for all of us,

The only thing that's sure.

But in the dash from here to there,

The life well-lived is the cure.

by David Normand

Reach out

You think you are doing the right thing.  You buy the time that may save your life.  You move your wife away from her friends, and farther away from her children, to lessen your commutes, to be closer to your work, to be closer to nature. Everyday you see the beauty of nature all around you, but, at times, you hear the loneliness in your wife's voice and heart.

Then, the text from her friend.  One of the friends we dined with, and partied with.  The one who lost her sister to cancer.

Then, the text from her friend.

"I start chemo next week."

And there is nothing you can say.


DN

Part Time Poet

It’s not easy being a part time poet.  I live in a beautiful part of the country where the clouds, sunlight, trees, flowing river, animals, all lend themselves to moments, events, or thoughts that beg to be written down and shared.  The problem is, I am a part time poet.  I don’t always have the time to sit down, relax, and write.  I don’t have the time to get into the moment.

 

Just yesterday, it seemed to come to the forefront.  My wife and I were rushing out the door.  Yesterday was a cloudy, blustery, windy day.  I was leaving the house, turning out the lights, locking the doors, and, …leaving.  That very moment, a line crept into my head. A beautiful line, great words, great rythmn.  A perfect first line begging for a poignant poem.  This happens to me an awful lot.  I get these little seeds.  Sometimes they germinate for a day and grow into beautiful thoughts.  Sometimes they fall on unfertile ground and wither to a wasted potential.  

In this moment, I thought that sounds great.  I will write it in my head and it will be great.  I turned out the lights, grabbed my keys and jacket and walked out the front door.  As I turned to lock the front door, I started to think of all the things we needed to do that day.  Saturday chores, shopping, shoestores, grocery stores, my wife’s flu shot.  And there you have it.  That second, that moment, my great line was gone.

Truthfully, I didn’t remember losing the line until this morning.  The same weather conditions, lighting, all combined to make me remember the moment of loss.  I remember the moment.  I can’t remember one word that gave me that feeling.  It is gone.  

This morning I scribbled these lines on a note pad in the kitchen:

First line, lost and … gone.  Just before trekking out the door, a line not written, an emotion deeply felt. Chores, and journeys.  A day’s rest.  The emotion remembered. But not the line.

 

Such is the life of a part time poet.  I think I have an idea for another blog.  But I just don’t have the time right now. 

DN. 

Safe Harbor

My wife and I live in Hood River, Oregon.   We like to stroll along the river to watch the sail boarders and kite surfers dance on the river.  The wind through the Columbia River Gorge is amazing and gives rise to a lot of wind daredevils. 

One particular evening we were strolling by the yacht club.  It was windy on the river, but all the berths in the harbor were in use.  Every boat was anchored, no sails were rigged. We could hear the lines of the sails whipping against the metals masts.

"The ships are safe within the harbor.  But is that what ships are for?"  

I was told that Albert Einstein said that.  But looking for the proper citation for this little entry I stumbled upon "https://quoteinvestigator.com/2013/12/09/safe-harbor/".  The Quote Investigator tells me that this saying should be attributed to John A. Shedd, from his  1928 volume, "Salt from My Attic."

So, I will go with that.  

On entering my sixth decade...

On Friday, July 27th, 2018, I entered into my sixth decade on this great planet.  I have spent the weekend in deep thought about my life as it is.  I have a beautiful life. I have been blessed with great parents, (R.I.P.), great brothers (Mark, R.I.P.) and sisters.   I have a wife who gave me two great kids. My wife has connected me with another whole family, aunts, uncles, cousins, and more sisters.  I believe I have really accomplished everything I set out to do. My life is blessed.

This weekend I celebrate my sixty years on this  planet. Friday spent in pensive thought and restfullness.  Saturday, a farmer's market and off to a winery for wine and music.

And today, Sunday, my wife and I took a trip to the Maryhill Art Museum out in the gorge.  It was something I have wanted to do.  What a great little trip.  It is about 45 minutes east of us in Hood River, Oregon.  It was a nice drive although all the hills are now covered with a dry, tan grass. It is a nice museum.  I was pleased that the Rodin exhibit was still there.  I have been a huge fan of Rodin's sculptures.  The ruggedness of their form still manages to capture all the emotion meant to evoke.   We were lucky to see it.  

After a tour of the museum we drove about 4 miles east to the Stonehenge Memorial.  Sam Hill, the benefactor for the Maryhill museum also contracted for a replica of the Druids Stonehenge site up here in the Columbia Gorge.  The replica was built as a memorial to the 11 Klickitac county young men who lost their lives in The Great War (AKA the war to end all wars, World War I).  The memorial contains plaques honoring those 11 young men -- not a one older than 30, most in their early 20s.

This memorial was built in the 1920s or 30s.  It was not until later that the WWII memorial was added, as well as the American wars since, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan.

The Stonehenge memorial touched me this weekend as I turned 60.  The young men memorialized here were barely in their 20s. I have lived triple their life span.  I wonder if I have accomplished enough to justify their sacrifice.  Should we not all live our lives to the betterment of society?  Should we not live our lives to make these men proud and to honor their sacrifice.  We should be taught this early on in our educations.  I wonder, if knowing this now, that we must live such as to honor those who have given their lives for our continued freedom and liberty, I wonder.  Can I still make the necessary changes to my life, so to make those who have given me this life, proud?

I wake up every day and try.     

Oregon Trail

I live on the Oregon Trail.
And enjoy all the hope
and treasures the journey affords. 
And God is my neighbor.  

D.R. Normand
C. 2018

A Mystery of Life

The other day was a particularly stressful day at work.  I was struggling with trying to understand a sufficiently difficult task so that I could write the procedures about it.  I was struggling with how to make it understandable to the normal person.

The engineer I was working with called it "black magic" and said no one understands it.  Know that Joe is an engineer and went through years of training in math and science to get to where he is now.  I am a technical writer, a geographer, trained in maps, blueprint analysis, and the ability to read two dimensional depictions of three dimensional items.  This "black magic" is a mystery to me.

During the course of my research into this topic I was introduced to a concept called "Fast Fourier Transform".  It was basically important for me to understand this concept, so I used my trusty research associate, "Google" and ran a search.  My associate came back with a website called "Betterexplained.com".  This site takes math concepts and simplifies them.  This site told me a little about Joseph Fourier and his transforms.  They even mentioned a descriptive model that he had about circular forms being made into a staircase.  STAIR CASE??!!  JOSEPH.  Whoa!!

Joe is my engineering cohorts name.  Wow.  Amazing.  Staircase? Joe! St. Joseph's staircase!  (https://www.lorettochapel.com/info/staircase).  "Black magic"? No.  It is the beauty of a higher power.  The workings of this problem, this task?  The understanding is part of the mystery of life.  To understand it, you just gotta have faith.  That much I understood.  It is a miracle that I figured that out.

DN. 

So, I sit and stare...

I stare at the blankness of the beckoning page.  Do I have something to say?  The emptiness taunts me, the blankness, like a silent elevator among strangers, I am compelled to make a joke.  Compelled to speak.  The silence is painful.   The blankness is painful. And so, I throw ink on the page, words to  the silence.  AND for what?  What is this saying other than I feel a need to communicate.  I in my silence.  My blissful silence.  I, the lonely poet,  I feel a need to speak?

No, not speak.  A need to communicate.  This is my communication.  This is my voice.  These are my songs, my blogs.  This is what I do. 

Whenever.I.remember...

DN