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. 

Burning Questions on Frozen Bubbles

Several years ago on this same blog, I wrote about bubbles.  We were having a bbq in our backyard and the hot, dry air in southern California evaporated the water from the bubbles leaving only a soapy, spherical residue. This fascinated and amazed me.  I wrote about it here (http://ponderingdave.blogspot.com/search?q=bubbles).

Well, last week this question came up again.  I asked my cousins in Norway if they had ever done this.  They had not but suggested that I check on Youtube.  I was lucky to have found many videos of this phenomenon.  But today I was provided with a link to the following website.  It was like the cosmos has guided me to sites to answer my burning questions.  It truly is a wonderful life. 

http://www.mymodernmet.com/profiles/blogs/angela-kelly-frozen-in-a-bubble

Thanks.
D.

A Significant Buzzing

This afternoon, a stillness hummed over our neighborhood.  A gray autumn day.  A quiet day, the day after Thanksgiving.  Sometime after a lunch of leftover turkey, I was sitting in my very comfortable chair, enjoying the quiet, tryptophan induced restfulness.  My wife decided it was a good time for a walk.  She stepped out onto the porch, quietly stepped back inside the house and mentioned that she didn't know where the bees were but they sure were noisy.  

On occasion, we have heard these bees in our trees in our front yard.  I have not seen a hive anywhere in the vicinity but we sure have heard them.  They show up periodically. It is the strangest thing.  We can hear the bees and we can see them.  But I don't know where they live.  Can't find the hive. 

I have some pictures.  I will post them later. 
D.

Where I Need To Be

In October of 2012, a good three years into my thinking about writing my play, I found the SanDiegoWritersInk.org.  I went to a few workshops there and decided to join.  I became a member just in time for the October Writer’s Conference; four days of classes, workshops and, just general get-togethers.  I immediately signed up for the conference.  

I enjoyed all the workshops that I attended.  I found them informative and instructional and they just seemed to fit into my plan.  

But it was what happened the first day, during a lunch break on my first workshop that really struck a chord.  I had just gotten a sandwich from a local grocery store and was sitting in my car eating my lunch when a news story came on the radio.  There had just been a charity triathlon in Florida and a young cancer survivor was running the last leg – a one mile run.  During that last run, the boy’s prosthetic leg broke.  A screw had come loose and the prosthetic leg just broke in half.  The boy sat there in the middle of the course, crying when a U.S. Marine, also running the triathlon, just happened by.  The Marine stopped and put the boy on his back and carried him to the finish line.  

The boy had lost his leg to cancer when he was six and his family had encouraged him to do just about everything he could.  His dad told him before the race that “this is exactly where you need to be”.  These were words of encouragement for the kid.  Turns out it was.  Exactly where he needed to be.  And so was the Marine.  Exactly where he needed to be.  The moment is a touching moment in sports and life.  (http://myfox8.com/2012/10/10/marines-carry-boy-across-finish-line-after-his-prosthetic-leg-breaks-during-triathlon/) 

But for me?  I took it as a sign that I was supposed to be here at this writer’s conference.  I was working on a play but this conference did not specifically playwrighting, only screenwriting and other genre.  But later in the day, during a break in the courses, a lady walked into the venue, just as I was speaking with the conference director.  This lady was a representative for the Cygnet Theatre in Old Town.  She was there to present fliers for the Theatre’s upcoming Playwrights in Process festival in a few weeks.  Four days, four plays and a few assorted workshops and sessions for aspiring playwrights.  

I am a writer, working on a play, with no knowledge of what a play really is much less how to write one.  I am learning.  Up until this point, I had no idea of the things I needed to do.  I did not know the “process”.  The new playwrights workshop was exactly “where I needed to be”. 

 

Had I not come to this writer’s conference, I would not have received this flier.  I have learned so much about plays and how to write them.  

But that brings me to this past weekend.  I had accompanied my wife on her San Diego Chorus retreat, this "recharge", as they put it.  I am here to support her in her new affiliation.  I have never seen her so happy and full of life.  She is singing her heart out.  And it shows. 

But while my wife is singing with her group, I find the time to write.  During one of those writing sessions, I stumbled across a video on Youtube.  I was actually looking for some music on the San Diego Chorus. 

My play is about schizophrenia, or there about, and a video popped up on my computer.  I don’t know if a keyword from a previous search had lingered or what other search led me from the SD Chorus to schizophrenia.  But who knows how computer marketing works.  At any rate, I found the information that I needed.  

The video on schizophrenia fit perfectly into my own play.  It is a perfect tie in to my story line.  Schizophrenia can be treated, if recognized and acknowledged by the individual.  (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=syjEN3peCJw)  

Now, I understand that I probably could have stumbled across this video on my own, in my home office.  But I don’t know if I would have listened.  Being in a hotel room, I was captive.  And I listened, because, I had the time. It brought me to a place I needed to be.  So, these words have been written.  I must now go and listen to the voices.  I must write my play. 

D.

Lt. Col. Martin Joyce Papers

I am a history buff.  I am also a student of human nature.  I love human stories.  I just recently came across this gentleman's story courtesy a Facebook post from the World War II Museum in New Orleans. Thanks to the museum for letting me know about this.  I enjoyed the Boston Magazine article (http://www.bostonmagazine.com/news/blog/2013/09/03/martin-w-joyce-the-briefcase/). The article tells the story of a lost brief case in a Massachusetts' high school classroom (Wayland High School) (http://www.ltcoljoycepapers.org/). 

All, this is a wonderful story and well worth checking out.

D.

Lunch Time Questions

I was sitting at my desk at work today, having lunch.  I always look forward to the occasional phone calls from my wife.  I get to hear all the news of my wife and my life.  Today she called and told me of an upcoming event.  A very good friend of ours is having a birthday and my wife called to tell me that we would be going to the party at their house or a picnic at the park.  She said "we would be there".  I said, "be where"?  And my wife said, "why?"

She is such a sweetheart.  I love her.

D. 

$159.00 is fine for cell phone use while driving

While driving to work this morning I noticed one of those overhead freeway signs, lit up with the message “Handheld cell phone, ticket $159.  It’s not worth it.”

When I was a kid, learning about the world, I remember several times hearing about a merchant in the 1800’s who came up with the idea of knocking a few cents off and making an item sell for $0.99 rather than a dollar.  This ushered in an era of discounts and value pricing. $99.00 vs $100.00; $19.95 vs $20.00. 

And today, we see that being offered by the state in a contradictory way.  “Use your cell phone and the ticket/fine will only be $159.00”.  Look at the value in that. 

What a world we live in today. 

Use 'em while you got 'em.  

D.