Middle school little leaguers growing up. A new season, a new December. High school baseball tryouts. Pint-sized gladiators in a new arena. Running Drills across the outfield, right to left.
My son, Smiley, my hero, the last runner, enjoying being there, coming up short.
He comes home and puts his running shoes away. Different challenges await.
Author's Note: This article originally appeared in our local newspaper, River Talk Weekly, in April, 2024.
There are many chapters and passages in life. My wife and I are in our Autumn years, reaping the harvest of years of work and family life. The fruits of our labors have allowed us to live mortgage-free with no desperate claims on our time.
Ah, retirement. After half a century of work, my wife and I are both looking forward to enjoying life as we get to discover new things. We are finding that with our newfound free time, we want to explore as much of this world as possible.
We live in a semi-rural setting. We are away from metropolitan areas. We had been talking about getting out to explore the night sky, and the beautiful natural areas around us. Alas, we hadn’t always found the right “time”.
We were watching the local news a few months ago and we heard about a meteor shower coming up. So, this weekend my wife and I drove out into rural Washington State, hoping to see some meteors. Yes, we were watching the weather. Rain, overcast, and above those clouds there was a full moon. We didn’t think this through, but we hit the road anyway.
We drove out to Goldendale, WA, a small farming town of about three thousand five hundred people. The town has been around for over hundred and fifty years. Fifty years ago, this town built an observatory (https://www.goldendaleobservatory.com). They were far removed from the light pollution of the big metropolitan areas, and it seemed like a good place to put a telescope. We signed up for the 9:00 p.m. to midnight visitor’s slot for the observatory program.
We arrived at the observatory at our chosen time, along with maybe 20 other diehards. The observatory is now a state park and we wanted to go and visit anyway. The Ranger on duty that night, Troy Carpenter, Observatory Administrator, gave an excellent tour of the telescope and facilities. After an introduction to the nighttime telescope alignment and operation, we were escorted into a classroom where we were taught the history of the universe. All learned because of the interpretation of light from a telescope. It was raining and cloudy outside so all of our learning was virtual, and we did not get to look through the telescope. Very poor planning on our part.
We learned about the light emission spectra, the light absorption spectra, and the history of stars. 13.7 billion years ago was the Big Bang. The most common elements were hydrogen and helium. Over the next 13.7 billion years the rest of the elements were developed when the fundamental particles, neutrons, electrons, and protons, collided with each other and formed the various nuclei of the different elements we see today. I was fascinated. Here we had the explanation to all of the universe. The how and why of what is going on with life. It put my little 65+ years in perspective and brought forth a great many questions. How much can one man’s action change the world? Or the course of history? And even, what is this world? What is life?
Normally, the insignificance of the human animal and, indeed the earth, would have sent me into a weird conundrum of despair and depression. (I mean, in the vastness of space, what is the point of it all?) I have spent my entire adult life wondering what this life is all about. I haven’t yet figured it out. But I am on the cusp of something. I think this weekend trip may have helped.
My upbringing in the Christian faith told me that God created the earth in six days and on the seventh day he rested. 13.7 billion years divided by six equals 2.283 billion years. I am now convinced that God works on a different schedule than you or me. I understand more now.
On our way out of town the next morning, my wife and I stumbled across the local Goldendale history museum that had been made from a local lawyer’s house in the 1920s. We decided to take the tour. The house was a large, spacious, three-story house with an attic. Each floor had about one thousand square feet.
We were lucky enough to have a guided tour by the museum director. Every room was period decorated and, on each wall, hung several portraits of former residents. These portraits were in black and white and showed separate images of the man of the house, or the lady of the house all dressed up elegantly in their Sunday Best go-to-meeting clothes. We started talking about these. The director said that the museum had a room in the basement with “loads” of these portraits lined up like books on the floor. Many local families, 3rd, 4th, or 5th generations, inherit these heirlooms and have no personal link to the family members who passed away twenty, thirty, forty, or fifty years before their birth. There is no repository for these histories. No repository but the local museum. The history docents at the museums love to research old photos. I got into a discussion with the old docent this weekend. Families these days do not know what to do with the photos. I, myself have often wondered. We live in a small house and have limited wall space. But this house had numerous walls all adorned with many photographic portraits of former residents of the town, the only place for a family’s old heirlooms and stories.
I have done a lot of thinking about my life and work legacies over the past few years. I have two beautiful children to carry on my name and character. My siblings all have kids, and we all share a general character and values that I believe we are passing on. I hope someday my kids will fully understand the gifts I have given them. I do not know what they will do with our portraits after our days on this planet are done. They may be digitized, stored on some computer drive or in the cloud somewhere, or stuffed in an old trunk relegated to someone’s attic or basement.
Where will that trunk be forty years from now? Will my children go through my belongings when I am dead and gone and look at the old photos for a few minutes to reminisce about their aunts, uncles, and grandparents? Will the photo ever be taken out and re-hung on a wall? No, I doubt that. The pictures, the lives, the memories, shared and forgotten do not have a life beyond the realm of family. They just become portraits of no historical value other than the life stories of my children and nieces and nephews.
A hundred years from now, our photo will just be a portrait of a family long forgotten. Such is life. Life is transitory. Families move. People live and die. Memories fade. The true value is in the spirit. The values and character that we pass on. We provide comfort and warmth, and we try to leave values and character. That is our true gift, our true legacy.
Late early morning walk. I am late this morning. My early morning walk started at 9:30AM. I walked from my house down the street to the railroad trestle. The trestle goes across the local creek. The salmon are about to start running and I wanted to see if there are any fish in the stream. Three weeks ago my son and his girlfriend and I walked out there and saw what looked like a steelhead resting in a pool. (Upper right hand quadrant of this photo.)
These days we all have a cell phone with a camera at the ready to capture those beautiful sights. Moments of glory, captured. Sometimes you just have to drink it in. This happened a few years ago.
One trip from Oregon to Tahoe,
going down old Hwy 89,
the wife and I drove around a bend descending into a small gorge,
where on the other side of the river was a train,
with two locomotives exiting a tunnel,
steam and smoke blowing,
truly a picturesque sight burned in my memory,
but I was driving, could not take a picture,
probably would have lost it anyway,
but after 5 or 6 years,
I can still see it in my mind's eye.
I met "Bambi" once. It must have been sometime in 1980. After living in New Orleans for ten years my family decided to move back to California. My dad had just gotten a new job in California and my family moved from New Orleans. My parents and younger sisters settled in La Mesa, CA (a San Diego 'burb). I had my own apartment but was looking for other things to do in my life.
In the San Diego Newspaper there was an ad for a hotel in the high Sierras. The hotel was looking for kitchen help. I applied. I had always wanted to move to the mountains. I wanted to get back to the hills. So I applied. I had four years experience as a fry cook and I was hired.
I loaded all of my belongings into the back of my new old pickup truck and moved to Lake Tahoe. People asked me if I was afraid to make such a move. I think I was just to young and stupid to know there should be fear involved. I had no problem. I thought this is what people do all the time.
I started work in late August 1979 at the big coffee shop in the hotel. A few months later I was transferred to the New York Deli. In the New York Deli I met Bob. Bob was the lead cook and we became fast friends. He was from Montana and I told him I had always wanted to go there. I loved mountains and wanted to hike and fish.
Bob became a mentor to me. He became my best friend. He was later to be the best man at my wedding. But Bob was always a jokester. We would play practical jokes on each other all the time.
File clean-up:
Memories.
Sitting at the computer looking for something new to write about. Looking for something to get the creative juices flowing. I found this gem from about 28 years ago. I think my son was about 4 years old.
My wife and I were both working and to help our daycare situation we worked staggered hours. I went to work early and picked up the kids in the afternoon while my wife works late. I usually had dinner ready when she got home from work and we then sat down for a family meal.
One particular Friday
evening, my wife and I and the kids were watching TV when we thought that
popcorn would be a good idea. My wife
went into the kitchen and pulled out the air popper from the cupboard. She was plugging it in and adding the popcorn
when my three-year-old son pulled up a chair to watch. My son was so amazed, that he had to remark,
"Gee, Mom, I didn't know you could cook."
Ah, from the mouths of babes. My wife is a great cook. It just worked out that at that time in our life I took on those duties.
Our son is an amazing kid. He was a happy, smiling kid. His nickname on one team was "Smiley".
March first. Then write.
A little play on the date. A friend once told me that the date, March Fourth, is the only day of the year that is an order. I remember that as we start March First. Today. And so, I shall make ready to March forth.
Stephen Sondheim died this weekend. I remember I bought a vinyl record just because Judy Collins recorded his “Send in the Clowns”. I admired his talent. I admired his career.
Just this weekend CBS Sunday Morning did a couple of segments on Sondheim. In one segment he is quoted as saying to “…let the content dictate the form”. This to me is profound. I shall take that to heart.
I retired from my career in January. And for the past year I have been considering compiling all the essays that I have written for my blog into one complete memoir of sorts. Of course, “let the content dictate the form”, so I have been trying to format this document, these stories, these essays about my life into a memoir.
I hope to have these little vignettes structured to a cohesive memoir in the next few months. That is my new retirement task.
Happy Columbus Day to those who remember the history of the world. Happy Indigenous Peoples Day to those who empathize. Happy both days to those who understand the history of migratory peoples, the history of the world.
I celebrate Columbus Day because of the history and discoveries he brought to our lives. The world is no longer flat. There are no serpents at the edge of the world. We will not fall off into the abyss if we travel too far. We have been to the moon and confirmed that the earth is a blue marble flying through space. The world, this earth, is a giant rock hurtling through space with no end in sight. What I mean by that is, we have time, and the knowledge enough to make changes, however you perceive it to be. We have time to become who we want to be, to become better. Humans have done that since the race's beginning.
I celebrate Indigenous Peoples' Day because I care about the lives and contributions of the people who lived here before European intrusion. I am also the product of a certain indigenous tribe or my great great grandfather was and his blood flows through me.
I am proud of my Indian heritage. I am proud to be living in an area of the country with such a vast array of indigenous history and European history. For the most part I am proud that these two groups have learned to live together.
As a part of my celebration of Indigenous Peoples' Day, I want to post a picture of a sunset over the historic Columbia River. I am sure that there have been sunsets in this area similar to this for the past 10,000 years. But I just wanted to share.
Yes, there you have it. My last post suggested that maybe I should change the name. No, not going to happen. But I am beginning to think/ponder that pondering may just be another name for procrastinating. It all happens in the mind. People say that a writer's job is a lonely pursuit. We sometimes work by ourselves. The relationship between mind and page: mind and electrons with in a chip. Who knows how we publish our thoughts.
My mind is always going. There are thoughts and plots, characters and voices, ideas and stories. But, there is something wrong with my motor functions in the rest of my body. My mind very rarely tells my body to sit down and WRITE. I don't know why that is. I was born to be a writer. I think. But the creation of an idea, a character, a story, whatever must get transferred to some media for it to be real. I am learning, striving to do that.
Please be patient.
DN.
On January 7, 2021 I retired from my career. I had plans to settle into the life of a reclusive, lonely poet, and maybe start writing that novel and some assorted stories that have been haunting me for many years. So, I cleaned up my office, created a workspace.
And…nothing. Some words hit the page but they were, so, bland.
Three months into this I was ready to give it up. Maybe the dream of being a writer was enough to keep me alive for all these years. Maybe tomorrow…? Maybe next week…? Maybe next year…? Maybe when I retire. But what then?
Retirement has been great. Pensions, and other assorted income makes for a stress free lifestyle. With the pandemic and quarantines all I really have is time. Time to write.
And…nothing. Why? I used to write a lot. I used to have these words. But for the last three months nothing really came forward.
I should state that I write from deep down in my soul. Hypnagogic, I believe they call it. It usually manifests itself right when my subconscious is about to take over when I am falling asleep. I drag myself out of bed and to the desk. And I write. But not lately. I really don't understand why.
I have been rather pensive and have been looking back over my long working career. 50 years of work. I was smart. I worked hard. I accomplished things. I made money, paid taxes, raised a family, created a pension for my later years. But what bothers me? I cannot help but look at all the mistakes I made in the 50 years when I was employed. Why? I was successful, mostly. I was gainfully employed most of my adult life. It brought me to where I am today - a pensioner.
But looking back I only see the mistakes I made. Is that nature's way of telling me to take control of my decisions; take control of my life. Don't make the same mistakes. Be good. Do well. Make the correct choices. I just have a hard time following the signposts in life.
Maybe I should rename this blog. Call it the procrastinator's diary or something. I will think about it and maybe do something next week. Stay tuned.
DN.
Today, this last day in February, 2021, was a beautiful day in the PNW. I stepped out onto the porch after lunch to breathe in some pure fresh air. Several deep cleansing breaths really did the trick. I felt great.
I glanced across the street to the mailboxes about 50 yards away. The winter rains left the drive access to them all rutted and created three rather large puddles. It wasn't so bad with the snow, but now the snow has melted and there are puddles. Not good for retrieval of mail but good for other reasons.
Today I looked over and saw splashing coming from the puddles. There were several birds splashing around in the water. Once those birds flew away there were more in the bushes and trees behind the mailboxes who waited patiently to bathe themselves in the puddles.
Just one of the many reasons I love living here.
Some quotes on tolerance:
"No man has a right in America to treat any other man "tolerantly" for
tolerance is the assumption of superiority. Our liberties are equal
rights of every citizen." --Wendell L. Willkie
"Tolerance. I have seen gross intolerance shown in support of tolerance." --Samuel Taylor Coleridge
"The responsibility of tolerance lies in those who have the wider vision." --George Eliot
"Tolerance comes with age. I see no fault committed that I myself could
not have committed at some time or other. "--Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
"People are very open-minded about new things--as long as they're exactly like the old ones. "--Charles F. Kettering
"Tolerance is another word for indifference." --W. Somerset Maugham
"Broad-minded is just another way of saying a fellow's too lazy to form an opinion." --Will Rogers
"It is easy to be tolerant of the principles of other people if you have none of your own. "--Herbert Samuel
"Tolerance is the oil which takes the friction out of life." --Wilbert E. Scheer
My first presidential election was in 1976 where voters were unhappy with the state of the federal government. It was an era of high inflation (“whip inflation now” WIN), oil crises (OPEC), the Viet Nam war, the cold war, and the war on poverty. There was a general dissatisfaction with Washington D. C.
I remember that election. The appointed president, Gerald Ford, was running against the Washington outsider, Jimmy Carter, the former Governor and peanut farmer from Georgia. A new, young, republican, I voted for Gerald Ford.
The issues in that election, in addition to those stated above, were the trade deficit, the national debt, social security reform, health care’s rising costs, and assorted other issues.
I won’t delve into the reasons or the effectiveness, or ineffectiveness of each administration but it is clear to me that in the 10 elections since then the American people have elected individuals promising change to the Washington establishment. Carter (governor), Reagan (governor), Bush (a one-term Washington insider exception – but as a Reagan disciple, a point can still be made), Clinton (governor), George W. Bush (governor), Obama (a rookie senator, so new that he may qualify as an outsider), Trump (a businessman outsider from New York).
I think it is clear that Americans want change. We want results from out Washington
officials. Do we have to wait? How come Washington is so ineffective in
making changes? Has ideology supplanted
the altruism of public service? We have
been looking to ‘drain the swamp’ since at least the 1970’s. I just don't know how we do that. Term limits? Isn't that what elections are all about?
