Comfort in the Skywave Propagation

 The static of the AM waves played the latest and greatest of the day. It could be rain or snow on the windowsill. It did not matter. We did not have fancy kitchens, the latest luxuries, or anything that the average American family had. What the peddlers flashed in front of our faces, we knew one thing. That would never be us. We did not need any of that. 

In the old brick schools built at the dawn of the twentieth century, the hum of heavy fluorescent ballasts vibrated the fixtures hanging above our heads as we listened to the old steam radiators bang and tick, and drizzle fell on a gray day outside the window. When lunchtime came, we put on coats and were led across the street and downstairs into the basement. It was just right, perfect in every way. No one complained about anything. The workers around us were born in the 1920s, and I can still see some of their faces. 

The war on television had finally rested. To us, it was two-dimensional: a quiet stranger sitting at the lunch table, alone. No one ever sat with her, and even avoided her table if possible. She was lured by no campaigns or flashy promises of wealth and status. But she knew something we did not; we, and now she, were already rich. She was appreciative of all that I took for granted. We were so small-minded, and we had no idea. She was beautiful, and I did not know it.

The world at that time seemed chiseled in granite, but was actually a static bubble losing structural integrity, one molecule at a time. They say a star burns brighter just before its end, and that was certainly true in nineteen hundred seventy-five. Mister Ingram, I listened as your voice echoed and boomed over my radio, asking the grey line to allow the lowest levels of the ionosphere to rapidly disappear until tonight. I would hear your footsteps pass my door once again.

I did not know yet. As I stood across the street, I saw the light of a cigarette, and the shadowy figure whose face I could not see until decades later, when all of this was only a memory from a million miles away. But the feeling never ended. The vacuum tube world in which we lived felt so real, so tactile, and permanent. I was only ten, but I wanted to know everything and everyone.

Radio, then, just a mere 55 years old, had captured me, and it was a ride that was going to whisk me away into everything that followed. Here now, 105 years after that first day in 1920, we may never be able to tell the tale of a world that used to be so much bigger. Today, generations of people will never know what it was like to be marooned in your small corner of an infinite planet, and over the airwaves, through the unfamiliar voices of people you would never meet, learn about their land. See it. Feel it. Touch it.

At first, I met the kids in the neighborhood, and in an AM rock world that seemed good enough. It wasn't until darkness fell, and they all ran away from me, leaving me alone. It was deafly silent, and I knocked on doors looking for someone who dared stand up to the long and dark night. Down the alley, I thought I heard something. I stepped cautiously, trying to keep my steps silent. Although her voice was faint, it was coming from a blowtorch 400 miles away. 

I pushed open the door, and inside I found a world that no one challenged. Fifty years ago, in 1926, all of this began, and there was no stopping it. Beverly met me as I walked in, and suddenly, I wanted nothing to do with those who lived on my block. They had been holding me down, and I had not known it.

I visited until my eyes grew heavy and I was swept away in a land of dreams where she sang to me as I drifted. I heard a peculiar song that I would never hear again, thinking that perhaps I had dreamed it, until Danny arrived. He got up bright and early to be the first kid on the block to say good morning to me, even though his block was 400 miles away. As the ionosphere dissipated under solar assault, I sat as the day warmed, looking forward to visiting this very unique club where I found friends I could never find elsewhere. 

This was only the beginning of my journey into the night to a place where I belonged. The world was disappearing on us. The world we thought could not fail was indeed terminal. When I came to the end of the road, I was offered a journey into the past, and I took it. I got to meet friends who had come before I lived there, and that was so precious to me. Even that had to come to an end. I guess it is really over, this wonderful journey into the upper atmosphere where we used to live, jump, and breathe. But I also know that someday, just maybe, someone will dust off some old real-to-reals and let us take one more excursion into skywave propagation. 

One, Five, Two, O; One, Five, Two, O...

(what inspired this:  Captain and Tennille Lonely night / Neil Sedaka Bad Blood / 1975 James St)

I Don't Treat You Like I Should

 The Ringo Starr song, Six O'Clock has been stuck in my head for the last 2 days. The song was actually written by Paul and Linda McCartney, and they both performed in the recording. The chorus, "I Don't Treat You Like I Should," is repeated over and over. At first, the song getting stuck in my head was more random than anything, but yesterday it took on a different meaning, and I wonder if it has now carved itself into a significantly sad memory for me. 

Kiwi, Noah's lovebird that he got when he was 11, died Sunday morning. I went in to feed and water her. I took her out of the cage and cupped her in my hand. I stroked her head as she looked at me. I talked with her. It has been hard having a lovebird. They need lots of companionship. I have her in my little home office since we have very predatory cats who would figure out how to ravage a cage until they got access to her. 

Before Noah got her, he researched lovebirds extensively. The joy of watching Noah with her is something unparalleled in my heart. He was so in love with her. Most nights, our older cats were put downstairs so Kiwi could come out, visit, and fly around. She had so much personality in a little bird.

She loved the song "Popcorn " by Hot Butter, an early-70s techno-instrumental that literally sounded like popcorn popping. She would bob her head up and down, bouncing her full body to the music. She learned how to say her own name, which was so amazing. She would carry on conversations with us and imitate noises from the other room, such as a spatula tapping against the side of a pan or the gas burner ignitor's click.

Sometimes she would walk around on the living room floor. Other times, she would fly up to the ceiling fan and sit up high, watching us. We took her out and put out a small plate of water for her to splash around in. 

When the pandemic happened, she got to have Noah all day, every day. She would be so loud sometimes; it was hard for him to hear. When he let her out, she would remove keys from his keyboard and could even crack his earbuds open like they were seeds, much to his dismay.

When it was time to remodel Noah's room, she was moved to the office. She loved having me in there. Noah had returned to school, so this worked since I was there 3 days of the workweek. I would let her out, and she would explore the shelves and get mad at inanimate objects as she explored.

As time went by, we shuffled the rooms around, and I did not have an office for a year. During that time, we tried to move Donna's pottery room in there with her, but she ended up with a respiratory issue that we had to take her to an avian vet for care.

We got by that, and she got better. I spent a little time with her in the evenings since I had not been working there. She loved music and talking. I would hold her and read out loud. She always loved this. 

For the last year, life has had so many unwanted distractions. It was harder to spend time with her, but we did whenever we could. Noah had been talking about finding her a home where she would maybe have a companion or someone who could give her lots of attention. 

But yesterday, all of that changed. I could tell something was up. I set her back in her cage to turn a pan off in the kitchen that I had left on, and one minute later, when I returned, she was gone. I picked her up and held her under my neck, so sorry that I could not give more time to this sweet little life that just loved so much. Whose day instantly became the best day ever when someone came into that room.

Donna came in and held her for a while, and then we had to tell Noah, who I could see was silently hurting so deeply. Liam, too, was very sad. For Liam, there was more to it than just Kiwi. Kiwi for him was connected to a past of intense love, hurt, and paradox. 

I also felt this when I was taking apart her cage. It was connected to a memory of someone I really love, who I no longer have in my life. The incredible love and care that went into Kiwi getting that cage only hurts today. It makes the loss so much greater.

Liam said the most profound thing to me. He told me how wrong all of this is. How we, as humans, have these complicated lives where all these trivial distractions and responsibilities keep us occupied. Our pets, although very important to us, are a small part of our day compared to everything else we have to pay attention to. But, those little lives, we are 100% of their existence. When we go to work, they live to see us again, and it is the best thing that ever happened to them when we appear and give them attention. All they want is us. They want us to love them, and nothing else matters. I dare say we do not deserve the pedestal they place us upon.

How is it that we get to be god-like in the eyes of these precious beings who love us so unconditionally? How dare we? We overtake our existence with worthless things, all the while we can learn from these beautiful hearts that never get their priorities out of line.

We dedicated a spot in Donna's garden to rest our very big, little friend who brought such light into our lives for the last 9 years. Liam made a wooden box, and flowers were planted to mark the place. Such a beautiful little soul, full of love, happiness, and yes, I think, even humor. She really did mean so much to me, even though I failed to take the lessons in love she was teaching me when she was here. There are things that will always make me think of her. I miss her so much already. 

The following are lyrics from Ringo Starr's Six O'clock

I don't treat you
Like I'd like to treat you
Every diamond in the sky is in your eyes
But I don't treat you like I
No, I don't treat you like I
No, I don't treat you like I should
No, I don't treat you like I
No, I don't treat you like I
No, I don't treat you like I should
I know you would say
You love my way
It's good enough for you
But I know for sure
I could do more (more), more (more)

Grenade and Diaper Delivery Service

 I am not a career restaurateur, food service professional, or even one who has worked in the industry in a supporting role. I worked at Marie's Luncheonette in my mid-teens and at Colonial Pizza. Both were owned by second and first-generation Italian Americans, respectively. Their food culture was precise, impressive, and intense. I learned a great deal about my work ethic from these extraordinary men, and I am grateful for the experience.

I find myself constantly heaping heavy loads and huge demands on myself to produce. Most of the time, I am very pleased with the end result. Once in a while, I fall short, although no one seems to notice. That is because the destination I had in mind does not match the destination achieved. I think the reason I get a pass on that from my diners is that they still cannot get what I made elsewhere, and they don't die, so it is still like going on vacation and experiencing something different.

24 years ago, I decided that I could cook anything as long as I was all in and gave it the respect it deserved. Time, effort, humility, and most of all respect for all of those who have come before me.

At times, I got a little full of myself, but that was short-lived because I am good at seeing things from other people's perspectives, which reminds me we all have the capacity to learn. There are millions of people who could show me a thing or two. We all put our spin on it, and, granted, I do not approach the world the way others do, so somewhere in there, the art of cooking is ours to share. That is what it is about.

Why am I writing this rambling pile of nebulous words? I am looking for a system. I have a 3-day cooking event ahead of me, and I want to make good choices. Because it took me this long to reach this point in my culinary ambitions, I feel like I am trying to drink from the firehose while operating with cautious wisdom, as though I were running a grenade-and-diaper delivery service simultaneously. I have no problem with escalation. My whole life has been about that. It is restraint and subtlety that I have had to carefully cultivate.

I want a mission control wall with a feed on all things that will help me build, and somehow I want my brain to simplify it so I can make breakfast with a blindfold on and with no noticeable effort. I want flow and connection with the food that I am making. I can honestly say, I have that so much more today than ever before. In fact, lately, I have tapped into this subliminal instinct that I have learned to feel. It tells me when to apply and when to hold back, silent, yet screaming.

One thing I am sure of, you will never find me crafted by the mold of someone else. I will always be chaos where others see no need. I will always have that element of waking up on the kitchen floor the next day, never to know how I got there. This is what makes me who I am. That could never be duplicated. The magnetic power that holds all of the fragments together of what I am is absolutely illogical, but it seems to never fail. 

There are some things you cannot fake (like the AI-generated photo for this entry). You have to put in the work and deliver. The three-day cooking event mentioned in an earlier paragraph happened quite some time ago now. In those 4 days, I pushed everything to limits I had never reached before. I met my biggest challenge so far with confidence. I know this is only the beginning. There will be things so much bigger ahead, and I am ready. I got this.

Boring? Yeah, it's worth it

  What does my food week look like?

Some weeks are triumphs. Some weeks are train wrecks. Most are somewhere in between, tangled up in the usual chaos of work, obligations, distractions, and the random curveballs life enjoys throwing at us. The fantasy is that we control our schedules. The reality is that we're often hanging onto the bumper, getting dragged wherever the road decides to go.

That's why I believe in culinary contingency plans.

Not glamorous plans. Not ambitious plans. Familiar plans.

The dishes you can make when you're exhausted, distracted, or running on fumes. The ones you've made so many times that your hands know what to do before your brain catches up. They become muscle memory. Comfortably repetitive. Maybe even a little boring. That's fine. Boring is underrated.

But getting there takes time.

Back in 2002, when I was a fledgling home cook obsessed primarily with Korean food, I decided I was going to recreate the spinach and artichoke dip from an Italian restaurant we frequented. It seemed simple enough. Naturally, I approached it with all the planning and discipline of a small-scale industrial accident.

The result, somehow, was spectacular.

Not because I faithfully reproduced the original. Quite the opposite. Through a combination of poor planning, stubbornness, and a tendency to treat recipes like loose suggestions rather than instructions, I accidentally created something far better than what I was trying to copy.

The first attempt was a theatrical disaster. The kitchen looked like investigators would need black boxes and eyewitness testimony to reconstruct what happened. The next few attempts weren't much better. Every success came at the cost of dirtying every bowl, pan, spoon, and square inch of available counter space.

But repetition has a funny way of sanding down the rough edges.

Twenty years later, I can make that dip almost absentmindedly. I can stand at the counter carrying on a conversation while making it. You might not even realize I'm cooking. Blindfold me and I'd probably still get reasonably close.

That's the thing about practice. It's not inspirational. It's not exciting. It's just relentless repetition. And eventually, without noticing, competence sneaks in through the back door.

Lately, I've been thinking about applying that same philosophy to quesabirria.

I've made it twice now, completely from scratch. No shortcuts. No flavor packets. No birria bombs. Just white onions, guajillo chiles, árbol chiles, ancho chiles, beef, patience, and a willingness to make the house smell incredible for the better part of a day.

The results have been fantastic.

Now comes the important part: making it again. And again. And again. Until it becomes one of those dishes that lives in the hands instead of the recipe book. The kind of meal you can produce when life is pushing you around and you still want something extraordinary waiting at the end of the day.

That's the goal.

Not perfection.

Familiarity.

As You Lie There

 I am sick and tired of inaction. I am calling myself out. I have a well-tested talent for creating delicious food, and I stop short of the starting line. How many years will I allow this to slide by? I really cannot do it anymore. So I have questions, observations, and projections. 

I say, no more! Playing it safe does not pay the bills and is not fair to my desire to make something of this. Yeah, there are hoops to jump through. Anything worthwhile is like that. Insurance and permits, fees, and, of course, the biggest of them all, food safety. Yes, I am willing to do everything. 

The Boys of Dungeon Lane was released yesterday. It is Paul McCartney's 27th album release since the Beatles ended. This man has played the notes of my soul every decade of my life. Just like learning from a family of 8 hiking the Appalachian Trail, or a Mom with 15 bio kids doing the same, Paul's determination, knowing that he still has more to do, is incredibly inspiring. 

I am by no means Paul McCartney. No one is but him. But that was never his desire. People like Paul, his genius brothers John, George, and Ringo, all in their own right, had and have a deep desire to find everything inside and have loved seeing what others have within them, screaming to get out.

We all have something. This world programs us to dampen it, to control the flames. It does it in subtle ways. John Lennon touched on it in "Working Class Hero". I recall first hearing it. It was one of the biggest steps to finding out who I was. I started looking beneath the surface. I wrote The Concept of Me II. It was simple, revolutionary, and crude. I planted my flag in the middle of the town square and challenged everything around me. I was born an artist. I still had so much to learn, but at least I was on my way.

I have always loved Leonard Cohen's Dear Heather. I feel that the first track of the Boys of Dungeon Lane, As You Lie There, is the continuation of that story hours or maybe a day later. I love that. Incredible artists, picking up the narrative. Writers who occupied the same space in time, yet did they ever meet? The internet says, perhaps casually. Light mentions of respect for the other's work over the years, but no documented interviews to that effect. That is ok, because what I am talking about is so much bigger. Maybe I am the conduit, because when an artist speaks to so many, the narrative fires on different connections. 

While I love how these compositions make me feel, I am not missing the point. Yes, even you, Ben Crawford. I don't aspire to be any of you. I want to see what I've got. Instead of squelching everything, I want to tear it up and see what is there.

I am choosing to stop the propaganda. That little evil voice that whispers in our ears. You can't cook. You can't make your own laundry soap, and you can't make your own bread. You can't make your own yogurt. You can't make your own marinades and sauces, takeout, soda, beer, spices, furikake, cleaning supplies, bar soap, shampoo... We didn't start the fire!  The post-World War Two industrial disease made this mess. Guess what? Homey don't play that.

Over and Over. Over and Over. Right now is the hour. It is as if my whole life was drilling me without me understanding that I was putting the wax on, taking the wax off, painting the fence, jacket on, and jacket off. 

The narrative: As You Lie There, does ask the question; "As you lie across your bed, am I there inside your head?" Yes. A simple yes. It is something I always think about, but never do enough about, as I lie there. And you know what? I am tired of that.

Desperados in the trees

 There is a drain in the power,

 a loss in the grid, slowly taking something. 

Taking more than you know, before it's too late. 

You think you know the cost, 

but it is bigger than you think. 

There is a whole other life, 

but you are overruled.

You are denied from finding it

from knowing it is there.

It is your quantum reality

the normal that you deny

What tragic past holds you in its bindings?

Why?

Photo by Tigran Hambardzumyan on Unsplash

If you could see everything

Where would you be?

Who would you be?

Who are you now?

Who do you become?

Right now is the hour, the minute, the moment.

There is no time; there is nothing.

There could be everything.

What do you want?

There must be a way to fight.

There must be a way out of here.

Treacherous steps in the dusk, full of trepidation.

Disconnected and disoriented.

Distracted and unaware of the power of now.

Running down the clock, 

cooking off the grenade.

Is that what you want?

Late One Night Behind Stella Manor

 I was walking along a lonely road late one night in July many years ago. The night screamed with the song of wildlife, proudly declaring in error that this summer would last forever. My steps crunched on the pavement and dirt. I walked by an old home in an old town. It was built back in the centuries when many homes were actually given names. Recently, it had been carelessly allowed to fall into the hands of a man who could not protect it from himself.

Stella Manor, she was called. She was among the many homes in these towns built in the 1700s that saw entire lifetimes come and go through her doors. In that way, she was infinite. But here, tonight, her days are numbered. Miscalculation, desperation, misunderstanding, and ultimate failure to preserve what was and to protect the future all would culminate in a tragic ending. 

As I passed, I heard a booming sound. Curious, I turned down the dirt driveway and peered into the back yard. It was a man much younger than me. He was dumping boxes of papers into the dumpster in the darkness. There was a gravity about what he was doing. It felt like pushing helicopters off carrier decks to lighten the load for the refugees when Saigon fell. Be this Saigon, be this Waterloo, something was happening here.

"Hey!" I called him. But he did not turn. He was not ignoring me; I was out of phase. I could not affect or intervene, even though I wanted to so badly. In the pages that he was discarding, he looked at them briefly. He had carried them across the time and space of his travels. With great sadness, he looked at the pages of his first words in 79, the 100 compositions written in February 1983, the 180 written in March of 1983, The Recital, The Concept of Me II, works that captured his youth, innocence, and beginnings. In great lots, he hefted piles of work that would be lost forever into the dumpster.

What is it that compelled this young man of only 23 to make such a sacrifice? It is clear that he is taking pieces of his very soul and throwing them from the plane. He is about to jump into a volcano; he knows that is what this is, and yet he thinks he can handle it. But the very foundation of who he is already is failing. The integrity of all he has earned over the last year is not as strong or as established as he thought. He is walking upon nothing. He is jumping from piece to piece of the wreckage of the life that he has made, thinking that there is land nearby, never realizing he is traveling with hostiles.

The diary of a teenager who failed to live in the here and now because he did not understand the complexities of his composition. All broke down into strange outbursts and serenades, falling into nothingness. No one will ever know. He could walk those streets again, smell the air of days gone by, understand things decades later, but that was denied in this moment of absolute destruction. Blatant disrespect in the name of honor that writers often choose.

Most of the time, the writer is about to die when he or she makes this terminal decision to not live beyond their physical existence. Right then and there, they play God and decide to deny the very essence that they are to those who love them in the name of privacy, but in reality, fear.

This 23-year-old was practically coveting this passage into darkness, or was he? Although he was alive, he was not in reality. Out there beyond what he had built, he found the living dead. 

Words, words, more words. Beautiful words, boastful words. Shattered words, and loving words. Infatuation only just hours old. Heartbreak and betrayal. These were words that could never be written again, and he was discarding them. 

"STOP!!!! You fool! You have no idea what you are doing!" He stopped. He looked up at the starry night sky. He had been here almost a year and thought he had built an empire. It seemed as though moments ago, he was under that August 88 night sky when everything was brand new and perfect. Here now, he was throwing himself away. He did not know it because everything was chaos. He could not see through the thick gloom of his life at the time.

Back at the home of a friend, his prize waited for him. Everything he thought he wanted. It was going to be perfect. All he had to do was throw as much as he could overboard to make room for this choice. Bliss, freedom, and unsuspectedly dying in a way he did not know was possible.

The weeks that have passed were wild. He broke into this life by taking a stand against treachery and betrayal. He was right, and he was done. On his first day out, he met a beautiful woman who sat and told him of a tragedy so horrific that it broke her family. She was beyond rescue. She would be fine on her own, but he could not figure out where she would land. 

Was it the fact that he had been called out by his mentor? He pointed out the Freidian course that he was taking. But recognizing that would be a call to action, demanding that he change course right now. Don't run with this girl. Don't run away. Take a breath, see his life, and figure out a way to stay alive instead of running ahead of the fatal wave that was right behind him, that had already swept him away the moment he went looking for trouble. One incredible smile on the way to the gallows.

Everything had to be done with stealth, including this tragic moment. Ten years of ink and paper, most of it, treated with such disrespect. There was no turning back, there was no way out of the fall. I watched him with tears in my eyes, because here I was again, and there was nothing I could do. What was about to happen would be his inevitable swan song. This would happen in stages of release, guilt, catch, and release. The road was ahead, and it was hot, coarse, and bitter. It would burn away all of the facades and fantasy. It would leave behind the truth, and I would deny it to the bitter end.

Although I was this tragic person, dumping his very life into this dumpster, the next two months he would live an entire lifetime as if it happened all at once, and then, on the night of September 8th, he would face the end. The morning would come, September 9th, and the realities of everything he had done would fall down upon me. This night too, where he betrayed himself ultimately, and I knew that running was over. Even though I had made it almost 24 years, I was born somewhere in the stark realities that unfolded that Friday night into Saturday.

What was lost in that dumpster will never be again, and I have accepted this. It is the road that brought me here. I am who I am because of every minute and every decision. In my dreams, I have changed it a thousand times, but that is just an echo of my defiance.  I walked back out of the driveway, determined to leave this memory where it lives. The young man packed up the car, knowing what he did would hurt forever. As the lights fell upon the dumpster, a cat jumped up on it as if to ask him, "What have you done?"

He was one hour from oblivion, he knew it then, and I know it now, and there was nothing either of us could do about it.

Resistance, Fire, Oblivion

 In a flash of self-awareness

The brutal bloom of life infused with energy

the promises of hope and productivity

Here it comes, here it comes!

I want it to wash over me like a shower of lightening

No escape, only escalation into action.

Such lofty dreams from one who walks through the smoldering valleys of desolation.

Hundreds of miles of torn metal and toxic fumes, 

there is nowhere to go but through.

You made the choices and planned this journey

A future not so imperfect lay before you

You damaged the impossible reward

All of the time and money spent

What do you show for it now?

What have you done?

Where is it now?

You're not so smart, are you?

Maybe not even a little.

Here, the sun is setting, and you were sure you knew the way back

The reality is, you have no idea where you came from 

You are lost, alone, and abandoned.

What have you done?

What do you do now?

There is no pier of youth to cry upon.

Even though you were dead, you had so much time ahead of you.

There was always time, until there wasn't.

There was always hope that you could still turn around and come home.

Home does not exist anymore.

Photo by Nikolas Noonan on Unsplash

The days that felt like they would never end live only in memories you can see, but they dissolve when you reach out to them.

Moments counted then, too. You did not know it. Will you know it now?

You arrive late to the dinner, and look around.

You know someone here awaits to harm, and someone awaits to rescue you.

The socializing you do is a dance with treachery and hope.

You don't want to spoil the party with your nebulous commitment.

So you go.

You roam the land, cashing checks where you can to get to sunset.

Will you rest in the nighttime hours?

Or will you lament over all that you have not resolved?

You have no answers tonight, 

and none will be gained in the light of day.

Time to make time out of no time.

There is a green light from nine to eleven, 

shining through the years of fog

leading the boat to a shore long forgotten.

After drifting on the dark sea for so long, the light always seems so inviting.

When you get close, 

It could be rest and recouperation.

Or

It could be fire and oblivion.

You can never tell from here.

It is curious how it suddenly cuts through the fog. 

It is stark and direct.

I never knew it could hold so much depth.

You step into the water, pulling the boat onto the rocky beach.

Scraping sounds and sore joints come into focus.

Is it like coming in from the cold?

Is it like being greeted by a friend you never knew before?

There is a feeling of better days ahead.

A year later, you look in the mirror at your shattered face,

and try to understand what went right and what went wrong.

What would you have done if you could know what you know today?

You know for sure that even in safe spaces,

you are never safe.

What it is, what it is, what it is.

Not Soon Enough for Me

 I opened a Chef John Tastemade video. They were over-focusing on his stupid technique. If you can stomach that, you cannot even download or print their recipes. Selling their stupid jars of who knows what on Amazon? Primadonna much? I don't need it. 

I do love Vincenzo's Plate Pasta Grammar reviewing Giada De Laurentiis' videos. And Samin Nosrat: "But I'll never forget the lesson I learned that day; Food can only be as delicious as the fat with which it is cooked. I saw fat as an important and versatile ingredient in its own right rather than a cooking medium."

Photo by Peter Herrmann on Unsplash

I am currently in a very rough place with coffee. I sail along for several years in a pretty good place, and one day, I am shot down with the likes of a ground-to-air missile. Then, all coffee is expensive. I avoided the price hike for a long time because it took Amazon a significant time to raise prices on our formerly beloved New England Coffee. The pricing assault is not the worst, though. The fact is, I am left wanting more. I can taste the changes (most likely due to supply and sourcing pricing); this stuff is not half as good-tasting as it used to be.

So I brought a couple of bags of Starbucks into the house because they were on sale that week. For Donna, that worked ok because she is a mocha coffee drinker. For me, not as good. Starbucks has a bitter note for me. They also dust with other things, including cocoa. I overdosed on flavored coffee in the 1990's. I am never going back again. 

I was at my local Hannaford (rhymes with "Can't-Afford"). I always referred to them as "Scamaford," but these guys have grown on me a little over the last 6 years, so now, there are actually items that I prefer to buy here. If I had to completely shop here, with their limited produce selection and ridiculously high dry and dairy prices, I would need to take weekly trips to Shaws, for perspective, where they literally hold you hostage with rifles and clean you out of all your money, and your belongings, and perhaps even your offspring. Am I bitter? We now return to the point.

Hannaford had these very environmentally responsible-looking bags of coffee that are green and white: Nature's Promise Organic Colombian coffee. The price was reasonable (by current standards, in 1972 it would be enough to buy the ingredients for a meal for a family of five). The coffee, it turns out, is weak, stale, tobacco-like, and, overall, an assault on the senses. In fact, I would dare say, it tastes like one of Nature's OTHER Promises, if you catch my drift.

One hundred fifty-five dollars is all that stands between me and getting you food on the weekends. It is sustainable, it is the right direction, it has to happen! I am in such a weird spot right now. It is like my own version of "All Good Things." A colossal merry-go-round of untethered collisions across space and time. "No, yes, no, yes, no, yes, no...I love Italian, and so do you... Yes."

Show me your heart in your words, in your drawing on the vessel, the gift comes in, in your food. Make me laugh, make me cry. Feel something, make it real. Be brave. 

Sail on, o mighty ship of fragmentation. What is it that holds you together? The storms of bad decisions, the shortage of needed sustenance, and the aftermath of marauders stealing all power, how do you not just disappear across the night sky until you are nothing?

I know one thing. I want to scream, but I don't know why. When I think of all of the adjustments I made, I think of that lonely 7 Eleven at the end of an 18-mile road, on Padre Island. I turned dials. I filed and sanded. Polished and painted. Desolation was what I was made of. I took apart every conversation that settled wrong in my gut and asked myself why. I charged myself with keeping quiet, not reacting, cool, seemingly cold. Fool the masses, fool yourself.

It's May. Sickness squelches all that I wish to accomplish. It won't hold me down, I tell you! It won't. But as I look out the window, I see the sweet new green leaves contrast against a deep purple sky. Trouble. The one thing I cannot fix or control. 

When I look through the window that is painted silver on the back, it is hard to see because I feel he should have more answers than I do. It is all facade. You know how I can tell. I read the news of the day. It said the current adult generation is at a disadvantage. We held that storm back. Blood, sweat, and tears. We did it. 

What I want to see now is all that I will see in November. What a gift that would be. To know what is truly important. Spring took 100 years to arrive, and now that it is here, I don't even know where to start. I know I am churning and burning, though. Kimchi made, Desert Storm story finished, 1985 finished. I am checking boxes, and yet it never seems soon enough for me.

1985 Chapter 15: The End of the Innocence

 Dad and I sat at the kitchen table at Glenn and Carol's house. It was New Year's Eve, and the minutes were counting down to putting this year in the history books. 1985 had been a very progressive year. Live Aid happened back in July. Ronald Regan and Mikhail Gorbachev met for the first time at the Geneva Summit. Coca-Cola introduced New Coke, which turned out to be one of the biggest failures in business history. This was the year of The Breakfast Club and Back to the Future. The wreckage of the Titanic was finally located this year. The space shuttle Atlantis made its maiden voyage. 

Image by Pete Linforth from https://pixabay.com

I could not count the emotional miles I have traveled on this little island this year. When it came to coming of age, I jumped from the plane without a parachute. I got to see things about myself that I did not like and wanted to change, and I made those changes. For a person who didn't really have direction growing up, I figured out that it was up to me.

I actually had my first publication this month. Ray Cushing was the owner/publisher of one of the two island newspapers: The Island News. He loved the article I wrote the year before, which I called "The Art of Sunday Driving." Ray renamed it "Sunday Driving Recollections" and published it in December 1985. Copy of article Click Here I know this was just a small town newspaper, but having my first by-line was surreal.

I did not get paid for the article, but Ray did gift me an electric typewriter. For the last 5 years, I have been working on a story I called Lost in a Strange Life. I was pretty much over the revisions of that story. With the new typewriter, I would go on to write my second story, called Misfits.

The end of 1985 was this strange gathering of fragments, rushing to meet the end of a road somewhere, when I would have to make choices that I had never made before. In 1985, nine space shuttle missions were launched. It was the most ever launched in a single year. What we did not know was that only 29 nine days after this New Year's Eve, all of that would change. The reckless would become humbled. The humble would become reckless. Everything that 1985 began with would be drained of all of its value and become the salvaged cautionary tale that could never be duplicated.

As the holiday passed, the decompressing effect stirred up 1985 for all of us. I could not deny the broken pieces of a relationship that went on far longer than it should have. Dee needed to grow. 12 years of captivity, of which some of the living conditions outright matched those of human trafficking victims. She needed solidarity. I don't think I ever met a person who deserved it more. I had been too young to understand that.

She invoked something in me that I was all too familiar with. My parents separated at 8. We were Title 19 (Welfare) kids. We bounced frequently, moving from apartment to apartment, school to school. We had no car for two years, and during that time, we even went without a refrigerator for a short period. We were poor. The kindness of my Grandfather got us through the holidays, school clothes, and, I am sure, other times when there was just not enough. 

Living life like this conditioned me. I was always trying to make things better. Always pushing against the current. Always taking the answer "No" and making it into a 'Yes."  One time, specifically, was when we were evicted from 541 East Main Street in Torrington, Connecticut, back in April of 1979. My Grandmother, who now lived in a two-room apartment with a kitchenette, took us in. We were pounding the streets looking for a place to live. Agencies, papers, radio ads, and window signs. Anything out there, we tried. 

It was a cool spring evening just after dark when Mom and I pulled up on Earl Street in Bristol to look at a potential place to live. As we were walking into the driveway alongside the house, there were four couples there to tour the apartment, too. My mom saw this and did an about-face, "Oh, we are never going to get this, let's go." I grabbed her by the arm of her jacket. "No!" I said quietly. "You're right. If we get in that car, we will absolutely not get this."

In 1979, there was still a stigma about the single mother when it came to projecting whether they could maintain a good payment routine. The two-parent family seemed more secure for sure. This landlord was a widower, so the fact that there was a single woman looking to rent might have been an advantage. The fact that my mother was walking out to her car one cold morning while the landlord was backing out of the driveway, somehow caused his truck to crash into his own porch railing, might support that he liked her. 

There was another factor. A solid one. He, Jim, had been raising a son who was almost my age since losing his wife. It had been many years. I was not a passive 13-year-old; I was in control. I wanted to show this man that I was not some deadbeat, trouble-making teen. When we got to the basement, my opportunity presented itself in the form of a giant 50-year-old furnace. "Hey, that's one of those old wood/coal burners converted into oil furnaces," I said. Jim looked at me, very surprised. "Yes! How do you know that?" I placed my hand on one of the pipes, "My Grandmother had one of these in her house. There is no mistaking them." You could tell he was more than impressed.

My life was like this. I always found ways to save my mother. She absolutely could have done things on her own, but I also know I did something to tip the scales in a way that complemented her efforts. I did not realize that reflexively, this created in me what someone counseled me years later as my "Superman complex." I applied this so naturally, especially in my relationship with Dee. I spent a good part of 1985 trying to save her, whether she needed it or wanted it. 

All of the pieces were landing where they would. Getting the house, and her ex moving away, and her needing to make all of her decisions. As she expressed her right and desire to be on her own, I wanted to show her that I could still save us. After Christmas, I finally got it. There were 2% of the reasons why we should go on, and 19,678% of the reasons why we needed to separate and see what we could be as individuals and what we could be to each other. 

I told her she needed to move out. It was here that I discovered I had been living in my own nebula. "This is what I have been trying to tell you." As she said the words, it was as if I suddenly had months of dialogue in a foreign language translated. Not only did I see that I was trying to defy gravity, but I saw her kindness toward me. Patience interwoven with frustration. We decided we were still together, but on the last weekend of December, she and the kids moved out. We would "date." Within a month, we had decided the dating would also be over. 

Our relationship was hard to define, and it did not end here. We had several intense relapses the following year, and most people do not know it, but on the 4th of July weekend, on one very crazy Saturday night, she whispered to me, "Let's leave. Take me away from this place!" It was there that the plan to leave Port Aransas started to take shape. The idea was fueled when my Grandmother fell sick, and then I could not stop the momentum. I honestly can say I don't know if I ever would have left if she hadn't said those words to me.

After 1986, we continued as friends, and in my extreme lost state in the late summer of 1989, just before I quit drinking, I actually worked for Dee. By then, she was the Beach Crew Supervisor. She was easy to work with, and we enjoyed a true friendship that stood well on its own during our days working together. Although she had nothing to do with this, I do find it amazing that the last day I ever drank in my life was also the last day that I worked for her. It was a seasonal position, and it had concluded.

While I was working on the Beach Crew in 89, Horace popped up on the beach. He had not changed at all. He was no longer with Dee's sister. He was like a vampire; he just took resources and energy from all of those around them. I yelled his name when we pulled up to him on the beach. He walked around and acted very happy to see me. Then he retracted into a voice I was only too familiar with. The same whiny voice in which he used to advocate that Dee should be with her Ex, or that he and I were with the wrong sister. This time, he was complaining about Dee's live-in boyfriend, whom I knew well, and was a good guy. Horace whined that she would be so much better with me. Some people, you just can't save. I was looking at the living dead. I did not know where his life would end, and in reality, it really did so many years ago.

The moment Dee moved out, everything felt right. She also experienced the same thing. We had made friends and went through a period of change together that was extremely different for both of us. She was breaking out in her solidarity, and I helped her meet ends materially and accompanied her through the breakaway stage. I came of age in a way that could only be described as jumping out of a plane without a parachute. It molded who I was for the rest of my adult life.

When 1984 ended, I was sitting on the couch in that old mobile home where Dad and I lived at the time, watching the New Year's Eve celebration on MTV. I was definitely still a kid. Untested. Inexperienced in so many ways. Over the last 12 months, I have learned a skill in the oil business, and learned how to survive in the rough construction industry socially. I learned how to eat hot baked beans from a styrofoam cup without a spoon. I learned how to back trailers with ease, drive trucks and tractors, and so many other skills.

I learned how to keep my mouth shut. I identified a need to keep quiet, to be stealthy, and to keep strength because of it. Mostly, I learned to see and hear the person I showed interest in. The Superman complex continued for a few more years, and it caused significant trouble for sure. We cannot grow up all at once, but I definitely took the expressway for much of it. 

1984 was good for Dad and me. We had an equal balance of father-son and friendship aspects to our relationship. In 1985, it became more of a friend you like to spend time with, and the friend who makes you mad with their choices, too. Whatever happened in 1985, we learned how to exist in parallel lines, and it worked.

1985 was the year Brooke migrated to Texas, and she was meant to be here. Port Aransas fit her so well that it was as if Dad being there and I being there were almost supplemental. She and I were also true friends, and I loved that so much.

In the coming year, my Grandfather would come many times with my cousin, with my sister Amy, and it became quite normal for him to visit. 

Now, Glenn and Carol's kitchen table. At the same table, I was first introduced to Dee last May. It was just Dad, Glenn, Carol, and me. Dad raised his glass with rum and Coke to us in the center of the round table. "Here is to 86ing 1985." We raised our glasses too. "Here, here."

1985 Chapter 14: Workin' for the C-I-T-Y

 1985 was dominated by my time working for the City of Port Aransas. I began the year unemployed, suddenly as green as could be as Jeri's Instrument Fitter Helper in the oil refinery. There, I had to build my self-esteem, one teaspoon at a time. 

When Little Jimmy got fired, and Dad told me to get my application in NOW, everything changed. I did not have to be so on guard anymore. When you work with several thousand other construction workers, who do not even work for the same company as you, it is every person for themselves. 

The City was a comfortable niche, 7 am to 4 pm. One hour lunch in which there was plenty of time to go home, eat, and watch the noon news. Every day at 12:30, on KIII Channel 3, a somber and concerned Michael Landon would appear on our television and say: "Could I ask you a very serious question? Have you ever stopped to think of the financial hardships that would result in the event of your death, or the death of your spouse?" He urged us to call for our Academy Life Insurance Kit now, every single day. We almost knew the pitch, word for word.

I pumped the skid-o-kans out on the beach. There were 6 stalls, 3 per side, and toilets constructed of lumber, with plastic tanks beneath and joined by PVC pipe. I would show up with the laser-blue 1977 Chevy Silverado with a 300-gallon fresh-water tank and a pump, and a trailer with a 600-gallon waste tank and a pump. I would hook up to each building, pump them out, blast them with high-pressure clean water and soap so powerful that it had a flashpoint of 74 degrees. When I applied for this, Dad said this was one of the best jobs in the public works department. No one messes with you. As long as you do what you are supposed to, you have it made. 

When Dad told me the position had suddenly opened, I was expected to go for it. I had been driving 56 miles one way each day in Dad's car, which got 11 miles to the gallon at best. This job was on the island, I could walk to it, and it was a good job. There would be no "I don't know, I don't think it is a good fit." Dad walked to work every day, so I could drive to Corpus Christi. This opening was an incredible windfall for me.

On the days I was not cleaning the Skid-o-kans (Monday and Friday), I worked with the rest of the operations team. It was the spring brush-and-solid-waste pickup that the town sponsored. I was working with Gary, who did not have a license; he had lost it after a Driving While Intoxicated arrest. Having a license was required to work for the city. So I, who could barely get a standard transmission to move, had to drive this large dump truck. That was rough, but it should not have been. The reality of driving a heavy truck is that there is no need to increase rpm, which I was doing. I was so freaked out that I told Crockett, my boss, I would be better off not driving one of those. He cautioned me, "Well, Mike, that is the job; we need you to drive those." These were words. I think it would have been action if I weren't doing the job no one else wanted to do.

I will admit. I jumped into the fire a little too quick by starting to date someone from work during the first month. Dee worked on the beach crew, and within days, we were living together. Sometimes I was assigned to an extra beach crew after very heavy-traffic weekends. She filled every corner of my eyes and attention. It was fortunate for me that the pace of any of the work I did was a nice, easy one. I am sure that if I worked in the control room of a nuclear power plant, I just might have accidentally blown a state or two off the map out of mere distraction.

As the weeks passed, I became much more proficient with the equipment. Mosquitos were a serious issue in Port Aransas. Our open drainage ditches were a perfect breeding ground for them. To combat that, we mixed used motor oil with diesel and sprayed the ditches with it. The oil coating prevented air from reaching the larvae, and they would die without ever hatching. I know this sounds absolutely crazy by 21st-century standards, but it was normal and needed back then. Dad drove a tractor, and I stood on a wooden platform on the back, shooting oil into the ditches. The city also sprayed Malathion off the back of a small pickup once a month around the island. It was important to keep your house windows closed on those nights.

An old Ford pickup came into the city's possession, once the Dog Catchers' truck. Luther, our former landlady's son, was the animal control officer on the island. The city just bought him a new truck. I started using that truck for putting up signs, which was becoming another of my primary jobs in town. That truck was a 3 on the column, and something about driving it daily, alone, just made all of this gear stuff suddenly sink in. I then was able to drive any standard, any dump truck, tractor, anything. I had no more problems with these pieces of public works equipment.

I had only met Luthor a couple of times, and because the animal control officer reported to the Port Aransas Police Department, Luthor had this air about him of a wannabe cop. One of the jobs that Dad did regularly was to drive the garage truck on the beach to empty the close to 100 55-gallon steel drums. I accompanied him on a holiday weekend run. We got to one of the skid-o-kans, and there was a bowl of water and a plate of dog food, looking like the Gainesburgers that were popular back then. Dad put his hand out and stopped me from walking. He held his finger to his lips: "SHHHHHHH! Luther Trap. If a dog starts eating or drinking, Luther is going to pop up with a gun and yell, FREEZE!" I laughed. I could so picture him in the role of Roscoe P. Coltrain, Sheriff of Hazzard County from The Dukes of Hazzard. 

In the summer of 1985, a hurricane entered the Gulf of Mexico. Actually, there were a few that year, but this one appeared to be coming for Port Aransas. Working for the city meant we had the responsibility to secure all the town offices and property, leaving no time to care for our own. Danny had its sights set on us, and we scrambled to brace for impact. Incredibly, I found out why we called them "Skid-O-Kans." There were hooks on the end where we hooked up the pumper truck. We hooked up to those and to the hitch of a truck, a backhoe, or a front-end loader, and anything that could pull one, and started driving down the beach, out Avenue G, Cutoff Road, and then onto the Transfer Station. Towing these heavy buildings on the road was a ton of friction on the wooden runners they were built on, so there was so much smoke coming off them en route. We needed to make sure they were not on fire when we got them to the dump.

Next came the nearly 100 steel drums we used for trash cans. If we left those behind, they would get washed into town like giant bomb projectiles smashing people's houses and properties. I was one of many vehicles collecting these. Glenn and I were working on a dump truck. Ramone, an elderly gentleman who ran the transfer station, was on vacation, so we had hired a temp named David to monitor the dump. He was pretty close to being homeless, which in Port A, meant that you lived on the beach more or less. He was incredibly lazy. 

Each contingent of people who were bringing loads of barrels to put in the barn was getting out and stacking them. When Glenn and I got there with our second load, after David did not help with the first. Glenn backed into the barn, and David watched us. Glenn looked at me, "Still too many barrels to get, we don't have time to screw around here." With that statement, Glenn pulled the PTO lever on the dump truck (everyone had been unloading them by hand). David, realizing what was happening, started yelling, "Hey! What are you doing? YOU CAN'T DO THIS! HEEEEYYYYYYY!" The barrels were ejected into a giant pile in the barn in front of David. Glenn opened the door. "Make sure you get those all stacked before the next load comes there." The truck rolled forward, the bed came down, and we headed to the beach for another load.

Dad and others were boarding up the Community Center, City Hall, and the Police Department. As members of the Public Works Department, we could ride out the hurricane in City Hall because, allegedly, it could take a hit from a hurricane. The rest of the population would be evacuated. City Hall had not been tested because it had been destroyed by Hurricane Allen in 1980. No, I would evacuate to San Antonio and would be one of the first allowed to return after it was over to clean up. 

At the last minute, Danny turned north and made landfall near Grand Chenier, Louisiana. The task to reverse our preparations commenced immediately. What an experience, though, one I will never forget.

As the months passed, I learned to do so many things. I could operate all kinds of equipment and really enjoyed watching problem-solving on this level. Many improvement ideas came from our people and the department. We sandblasted and repainted our trucks and heavy equipment.

Carl was the Director of Public Works. Crockett was the manager of all the staff. Carl was all Texas and very animated. Crocket was quiet and very collected. Much of the time, Carl was loudly complaining about something or actively making a case for it. 

One great memory of Carl was on a cold, late December day. It was unusually cold on the island that day. We stayed in all day, detailing all the pickup trucks so they looked showroom-new. We had cleaned every truck as much as they could be cleaned and shone. It was about 3:35 in the afternoon, and we were all just standing around. Carl addressed the unasked question in the room. 

"Y'all want to go home, don't you? You are thinking that I am gonna let you go home early because there is nothing to do. Y'all would like that, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you?"

It was clear that Carl was going to go off about something. This was the build-up. "But you know what? Y'all wouldn't even piss on me if I was on fire!  You know that? I would be standing here, burnin up, on fire, and Y'all be like, 'Oh no, Carl, I can't, it's 4 o'clock, I have to go home.' You'd leave me there burnin, and nobody would piss on me!" We all had no idea what to say. "You know I'm right! Y'all really wouldn't even piss on me if I was on fire!" He really made us feel ashamed about this, too. I think inside, we all wondered if we would or not.

Clearly, this was Carl's way of burning enough time to reach 3:45, at which point he told us to "get outta here." When you are the Director of Public Works in a 2000-person town, you have to be careful because everyone has an opinion about what they see. Carl just had a very colorful way to handle things like this.

Glenn eventually got done with the city and started a lawn service. Dee and I continued to work for the Public Works department. Dad had been working there since 1980, the year he arrived in Texas. He had designed his own police car cages and the cruisers when the town could not afford to buy them. He had overseen the Department at times during his tenure and was even the de facto City Manager when people were out of town. 

Dad was a solid and highly valued member of Port Aransas and of this department. It was my honor to work with him there.

*NOTE: The Workin' for the C-I-T-Y reference in the title of the chapter is a tribute to a song that was very popular in 1985 by John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band called "Workin' in the C-I-T-Y."

1985 Chapter 13: The Nebula December

 This fall, Dad bought our friend Steve's 72 International Travelall. He had been driving the 74 Chrysler Town and Country wagon since I arrived in June of 84, but he was ready for something else. He sold the Chrysler to his friend Bill. Bill returned to the area with his family after living outside of Texas for a few years. 

Dad liked the Travelall. It was a very cool vehicle. It had some issues with the front end, but when you live on the island, you can live with discrepancies. The way you handle them, too, is very different from how it would be done anywhere else. The mounting bracket on the Chrysler, where the steering box was mounted, rusted out, and the whole steering column would suddenly convulse, making it feel like the car body was going in one direction while the engine and frame were going in another. Dad chased down Claude Brown, one of the County Constables, who also ran a side welding business and had a mobile welding rig. They pulled over on the side of the road, and Claude welded the steering box to the frame. Done.

I learned that the Travelall had a posi rear end. One Saturday, Harry, Steve, Glenn, and I were all at Dad's house visiting and playing darts. Port Aransas was mostly all open drainage ditches, so the mosquitoes had a place to spawn. The driveway was full of vehicles. Harry was heading home when he backed his Ford pickup into the drainage ditch off the driveway. There was no way he was getting out on his own.

Dad told him he could easily pull him out with the International. He pulled out of the driveway and smoked the tires. Back and forth in front of the house on Oleander. Dad kept flooring that old International, and in turn, because of those welded spider gears, laid two equal strips of rubber on the ground. Harry, standing out there with a rope tied to his truck, hoping that THIS time, Joe would line up to the rope and pull him out, preferably before the police arrived. The Cop Shop was only about 5 blocks away, and I would bet real money that they could hear the tire squeal from there.

Harry protested every time and was yelling at Dad to cut it out. Of course, that just made him do it more. He was burning the tires so much that at times, you could not see most of the vehicles out front. I imagined that if you could see this from the sky, it might appear that a small commuter jet had crashed here. This went on for about 20 minutes, and the more he did it, the funnier it got. Finally, he was done tormenting Harry and pulled him out of the ditch.

On the first Friday in December, we were invited to a family camp that Brooke's boyfriend, Allen, hosted. Dee, the kids, and I all went. We got there late Friday night and hung out on Saturday. It was nice to get off the island and do something different. Life in Port Aransas is otherwise, a complete state of mind and being. I would be lying if I said I remembered much of it.

Saturday night was a night to remember. We were surprised when Dad showed up in the International Travellall. With him, he had Brooke's friend Bella, from Connecticut, and her boyfriend. They flew down to South Texas to surprise Brooke. Dad had a pretty good buzz, but that was probably not the whole reason Bella and her boyfriend just about fell on the ground and kissed it when they got out of the vehicle. 

There was a control arm bushing issue with the Travelall, and a sticking caliper issue, too. Either one would not be too big a deal. Together, they were this crazy wildcard of physics in which, at high speeds, like those Dad drove there at, when you stepped on the brakes, nothing would happen until the sticky caliper suddenly grabbed hard. Then, the sloppy control arm bushings caused the vehicle to veer hard to the left, and then, in the next moment, you were driving through a field. Dad, then, would wrestle with the steering wheel and put the vehicle back on the road until the next time it became necessary to touch the brake pedal again. Honestly, I was surprised they had not driven through someone's barn on the way here.

I laughed so hard as they told us the story of their blindly taking a cab to Port Aransas from Corpus, only to take this death-defying ride out here to surprise Brooke. We did not have a normal father. Our Dad was fun, unpredictable, embarrassing at times,  reckless and dangerous at times, but he also had a heart of gold. Most people would probably have scoffed at me for finding humor in this, but it was what it was like to know Dad. Burying Harry's truck in the sand last spring. The nuclear response was his strength. It always caught people by surprise. 

It was why people did not cross him. They could not imagine how their challenge would be met, so they just made sure not to challenge him. This was his strategy. It kept the peace in a world where peace could otherwise have encountered complications. I did not fully understand it until years later, when he seemed decades older, although only 8 years had passed. In 93, the Clint Eastwood film The Unforgiven showed a more realistic side of holding peace with strength, even though time had just about erased the threat. The last scene, where William Munny from Texas tells them all not to follow him, riding on the coattails of his reputation as a younger man. It was, in effect, the primal example of return on investment: give a lot early on so you can coast later.

Bella and her boyfriend ended up staying for weeks. At first, at the Best Western at the beach on Sand Castle Drive, and later, with Dad and Brooke, to save whatever money they had left. Dee and I forged on with a focus on the rest of the holiday season. 

As we approached the holiday, Dee's other sister, Lee, came down from Dallas. She was a single, professional woman who showered the kids with gifts of clothing and toys. She was very nice. She stayed with her mom on the island during her visit. 

Dee and I were talking. Although Dee really appreciated her sister's kindness, she always felt that she was almost desperate to accept her generosity. For the last 12 years, Dee had always been in need of something, but since last year, she had established herself as a valued member of the Beach Crew and was building a career with her municipal employer. That may not seem like much at face value, but it is significant when you live on an island in the Gulf of Mexico. Here, the industries were fishing, tourism, and small-shop retail, and let's not forget mowing lawns. She was on her feet as a person and a mother. 

For once, Dee wanted to just enjoy her sister without feeling like she needed the material boost that came with her visits.  Lee never complained or made comments. She did this because she loved her sister, nephews, and niece. I told Dee that I was pretty sure I could ride over to Ann's house and get a small loan we could pay back the following week when we got paid. She liked the idea.

Dee thought it would be good for me to bring Lee the money, as she did not want to offend or hurt her sister in any way. I went over to her mom's house and met Lee at the door. I told her that we wanted to thank her for what she did, and I hoped she would not be offended if we gave her the money she spent on the kids. She just stood there and looked at me for a moment. "Can I have a hug?" she asked. We hugged. "All these years, I watched my sister struggle to get by with her deadbeat ex. It is so nice to see that she is with someone who really does love her and the kids."

That night, I sat up late with all three kids. They talked and talked about anything and everything. During my drinking days, it definitely helped at times like this. Alcohol allowed me to be relaxed and free. You could tell they really loved this version of me, and they took turns sharing stories and thoughts with me. They asked questions, and we laughed and listened to music.

This was a good thing, too, because their father, who lived in the trailer they all shared, had decided to move off the island and back up to San Antonio. He never did much with them, really. His children were amazing, but he was more focused on partying and seeing what he could score on the beach.

His departure from the island created this unspoken option. Dee's home, which she had paid for, was now open. She did not need to stay with me on Ruthie Lane. She had options. Of course, I felt that we were only getting better: the money for Lee, the house, the car, my growing relationship with the kids. But what I refused to look at was us. Our reason for staying together still lacked substance. Somewhere in my subconscious, I was banking a list of pros and cons. Although I could not see it, it was there.

There was a knock on the door just before Christmas. It was Dad. Dee and the kids had gone to bed. Dad and I sat up for hours and talked like we had not in what seemed like forever. It was wonderful. I really missed this. This was us. He talked about being a kid in the 1950s, his parents, and so much more. We talked about work, music, and family. Everything was so natural. Everything was right.

Forgotten

 Everybody has secrets

Everybody has dreams

The dogs are combing the soil

Whatever this is comes to light

Breaks the glass

Arrows down range

Cannot stop now

Jump. Scream. Dance. Throw up.

Nothing works except for the wind

That you cannot control just like that arrow

Futile exercise, empty words, worthless life

Question is, what now?

I dream of answers, and youth, and viability.

Image by fotoshoptofs-Pixabay.com

From Saigon I hear echoes of your abbreviated childhood.

Fire and tears then silence and more silence.

It's more than all mixed up

It's finished, interrupted, devastated.