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Monday

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5
Jan 26

You’ve got two thumbs for a reason

I did what I always do after we invade the airspace of another country and perform some as-yet-ill-described snatch and grab of the sovereign power of state, I went shopping.

Why do you ask?

I recall, through the fog of now almost 25 years and the haze of long hours and weird schedules and watching, with empathy, the people that were in real fear post 9/11. I recall when President Bush said the necessary things, “our financial institutions remain strong” and the American economy was still “open for business.” I remember he told you to get on that plan. Go to Disney World. Help the airlines. Vice President Dick Cheney, long before he was shooting his friend in the face, said we should stick our thumb in the eye of the terrorists. That’s how we win, for it’s our freedoms they feared, and our BOGO sales they wanted. And it seemed silly, then, too, on a micro level. If the health of the nation depends on me showing my fierce Americaness at Best Buy, we’ve got a problem. It’d be months, after all, before Toby Keith delivered a soundtrack for the moment.

I think of that, from time to time. Not the song. It’s a level of saccharine that hasn’t aged all that well, even Keith had something to say about that later. I think about the urge to push people out. It was about confidence and normalcy and distraction in the face of fear and trauma. And, of course, keeping the gears of this machine churning.

Today, we’d be told to jump right back into Meta! Open that ChatGPT window and ask it some foolish question and earnestly accept its reply. We’d have to buy all of our American flags direct from Amazon. We’re all Prime members today. Your flags, made abroad, would arrive in 25 minutes or less, or the DoorDash guy picks up the bill himself.

It will, of course, be the gig guy that takes it in the teeth.

And if he’s not available, we’ve got these robots with 360-degree panoptic sight and sound monitors, to make sure you aren’t watching the Venezuela episode of Parks and Recreation in anything that’s not a suitably detached, ironic fashion.

Well, bub, I’m from Generation X. Watch me work.

Anyway, I went shopping. I needed to get out of the house. I’ve been a bit under the weather. That’s overstating it. The weather was above me. No, that’s not quite right, either. I have had the sinus whatever it is that I get. This version has had two defining characteristics. First, it has been the lightest version of this I can ever recall experiencing. Second, it is persistent. Will not go away.

So I figured, why not experience some of what life has to offer on a gray winter day? This was my Saturday thought. I had only work ambitions today. Saturday I visited an antique mall.

No place, I’m pretty sure, was built to be an antique mall. It is fun to figure out what this gussied up and semi-permanent flea market by another name might have housed in a previous life. The place I went to, I think, was a furniture store. It felt, in fact, like it was still a bit of both of those things. Also, it was clean. It was nice. Nothing terribly old. Nothing terribly interesting. Most distressingly, I did not feel as if I needed a shower when I left the building.

That’s the mark of a true antique market experience, the American experience, if you will.

So I went to another, in the opposite direction. This place is built into a big barn-looking building. And that was built into a hill. And that hill marks a secondary, but important intersection in its town. Across the street is the fire department. At the top of the fire department, inside, but visible from the street, they display the old fire house bell. This is an antique mall, then, that sits opposite people that respect what was.

Inside the red barn shaped building, sharing a wall with the antique mall is a restaurant. It may be the same people. The restaurant does three things. They make a lot of food. They hired the best food photographer in three counties to shoot it. (Food photographers get my ultimate respect. That’s not always the easiest subject matter to shoot.) And they try to tell me that a pulled pork sandwich should cost $20.99.

And, for me, it absolutely will not.

But the antique mall, now here’s a place you could prowl around. Here is a place where the floor creaks beneath you and you wonder if it was your holiday diet, or 100 years of termites. Here is a place where you wonder, How is< that shelf standing upright with a lean like that? Here is a place where you overlook the Star Wars plastic junk for maybe something interesting. Here is a place where you feel like you need to rinse off after your time inside is done.

I wasn’t looking for anything. I just enjoy the experience. Oh, if the right sort of thing jumped out at me, maybe I would be anxious about it for a moment before I moved on, but mostly I was proud to walk around somewhere and not think about work — or, ya know, the state of things — for a couple of hours.

I saw a bunch of hand planes and spokeshaves and other old hand tools I don’t have a need for or a place for. But I have watched people restore them on YouTube and it’s a satisfying transition. At least in a 12 minute video, maybe not the entire process.

Remember, if you don’t watch a good restoration video now and again, the terrorists win. Stick your thumb right in their eye, so they can’t see to click away at the good spots. Stick a thumb in your eye, so you can’t see to skip the pre-roll ads, because commerce!

I got buzzed on the way home.

I drove responsibly. And only had the chance to get a quick shot through the time of the windshield, which has that extra bit of tint, explaining the colors of the sky.

And that was Saturday afternoon.

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29
Dec 25

One last Christmas party

All told, we had three family Christmases this year. One with my family, last week, and then with the in-laws on Thursday. Today, with the god-in-laws. (Just go with it.)

So there we all were, 15 of us in one lovely little three-bedroom split-level home. This was where my god-sisters-in-law grew up. Their parents are my lovely bride’s godparents. And my in-laws are their godparents. And, of course, there’s the next generation, five between the ages of 5 and 17. We visit, listen to the standards, Sinatra, Martin, a lot of Nat King Cole this year, which was lovely. We have appetizers while the kids run around. We open presents, by order of age.

In that room I’m the sixth oldest. That’s on the wrong side of the median, but I try not to think about it. It’s fun watching them all pair off. My father-in-law and my godfather-in-law have known each other since elementary school. My mother-in-law and my godmather-in-law went to nursing school together. My godparents-in-law met at my in-law’s wedding. And this family has grown up together, three generations worth.

Nine of us gather for dinner around a table built for six. There are place cards. I am usually sat at the right hand of the other end of the table, but today I was at the left hand of the head of the table. We have homemade lasagna. It’s better than what you know.

It just is, and I’m not sorry about that, but I am sorry for you.

My godmother-in-law reads a bit of scripture. The kids dine in the kitchen, and the oldest one, is gracious enough to dine over there. Better than spending time with us, I’m sure. She is on the right side of the median age, and she’s smart enough that she figured that out long before I did.

She is now preparing to go to college next fall, where she’ll play field hockey on a campus that looks like it came straight out of a European fairy tale. (They have a castle.) People are buying her gifts to decorate her dorm room. I am trying to decide how to buy her car things and not hurt the tiny little ember of credibility I have in her eyes.

We chat. Some people have coffee. Cookies and other treats appear from nowhere. Before long, someone has to scurry off to this event, and then someone else must slip away for that event. It’s a lovely way to wind down the holidays, and mark it all with people who like you enough to include you into things. I am grateful for that. And the lasagna. But mostly to be included.

A little while later, everyone sets out for home. I help move a few things around so our hosts don’t have to. There are many hugs and all of the usual things. My in-laws head north. We head south.

We stopped in to check on the cats of a friend. The front door was partially open. I grabbed something sturdy and swing-able and we walked through the whole of the house. No one was there. The cats were there. The lights were on in the proper configuration. The back door was locked. The pantry was open. We called the neighbor, a woman who dashed right over in her pajamas and long coat. She’d been in. And she’d opened the pantry. Maybe she’d forgot to latch and lock the door. We all had a laugh. I made a joke about wiping down my fingerprints.

We got home around 8 p.m., and for some reason I thought it was time for bed, but it was 8 p.m. So we sat up and watched the game and read and I’ll soon go to bed. Tomorrow, it is back to work.

The first part of this break flew by. Now I’ll need the second part to pass much, much more slowly.

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22
Dec 25

Fam week

And we’re back! Quite literally. I am in my little chair, which I bought four years ago with birthday money. My feet are up on a stool I made in junior high. My arms resting on my desk, which I made eight years ago.

That seems impossible somehow. And explains why occasionally I wonder what a new desk, a real desk, would be like. I made this out of pallet wood and, in a go-big-or-go-home way, it was the second thing I’d made since … well, almost junior high. And, in some ways, it shows!

But it holds my things, so it is good enough for now.

Anyway, we’ve been out of town the last week. Did you miss me? Did you notice?

We flew out Monday evening to Nashville. We got a rental car from Hertz, a hybrid Kia. Would not recommend it. The car had a Florida tag, so I was Florida man for a week, and drove like it. Would not recommend either of those two things, either.

We drove down to north Alabama, where we visited with my mother for the week. Highlights include, hanging out with her and helping around the house, seeing my grandfather, and rebuilding a closet shelf for him. I also helped him clean out a closet and bureau. I ate more food than necessary — including, in one meal, more fried food than should be approved for anyone. We had Mexican twice, catfish once. We watched football. And so the week flew by.

We also saw a cousin, and his new baby. I looked this up, she is my first cousin twice removed. She’s six months old and adorable. Right after lunch they went to this place that exists just to exist, apparently. It’s there because there are parking lots, and a bunch of little stores surrounding all of this. Inside this building, though, was a little Santa display. Small little setup, great looking Santa. And so we watched the kid take her first Santa pictures, and watched her mother absolutely humiliate herself to make her baby giggle for the camera, which she did. It was beautiful. They gave us a photo.

The place we were at, of course, was a mall. Or used to be. It has some out-of-town owners, and they’ve put up a lot of local propaganda. It is obvious they are trying to learn about the place, and convince the locals that they know about the place. And, I suppose if you’re in need of a visit to Sunglass Hut, Claire’s, American Eagle, Bath & Bodyworks, or Spencer’s, you would see those messages.

This is a small town, but that was a once-proud mall. Now they’ve framed up the stores to hide the empty windows. As for all out-of-time spaces, I try to imagine what this could be. Apartments, pickleball courts, a series of specialty medical clinics, a real and vibrant community activity center. It could host a couple of amazing worker spaces, or museums, or both. Or maybe a business incubator or an adult learning facility. Or maybe it could even be a place where you can buy things. But, instead, it just, is. And stuff like this is hanging from the walls everywhere.

C.S. Lewis isn’t going to help you much with this, mall.

Anyway, the father of the new Santa’s village child model is my cousin’s son. And everyone always thinks he’s like me. Poor guy. Now he’s in his mid-20s and knows everything. Poor guy. And occasionally, I try to impart wisdom. Poor guy. We also exchange music, so I gave him two records — an Avett Brothers and a Ryan Adams record. He played it cool. He better enjoy them.

Also last week, I did a lot of grading. My last two finals came due while I was traveling, or down there. And I wrapped up the assessments for two classes, and submitted the final scores. I still must wrap up my online grading, and get those in. Guess what I’m doing tomorrow.

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15
Dec 25

No fingers were (seriously) hurt in the production of this post

I was overdue for a trip to the inconvenience center. We take our recycling there. Cardboard in these bins, mixed recyclables in those bins, and so on. I also had to drop off four deck chairs. We inherited with the place, who knows how long they’ve been here, but at the end of a third summer with us, they were showing their age. The fabric was tearing from the aluminum frames, and we upgraded with nature’s IKEA, wicker chairs.

I’d asked the man that runs the place if he would take them, and he, a man of few words, pointed me to this other bin. I said they were aluminum. He pointed to that bin. I said they also had a fabric covering. He pointed to that bin. So, unless he was telling me to jump in the thing, I took that as permission. That was my last visit, some weeks ago. And today was the day. Only, the chairs filled up the vehicle. And we still had the two large containers of recyclables and a small factory’s worth of cardboard we’ve accumulated in the last couple of months, plus some that had been hiding from me in the basement. After some time, we managed to get everything inside, as I despaired over taking multiple trips. It is only an inconvenience center because it is across town. But, eventually everything was ready to travel, and I wished away every police officer between here and there. Surely I was breaking some ordinances about safe transit. Some of the windows could not be used for defensive driving.

As soon as I got to the place, I realized I did not have the community hang tag. There’s a big blinking sign, everyone must present their tag. Mine was in the other car, hanging, helpfully, from the rear view mirror. So I got into the place, backed in as you’re supposed to, and then hustled. Cardboard, cardboard, cardboard, all thankfully broken down already. One tub of mixed recyclables in, a second one turned over and dumped into the giant bin. We are really saving the earth today. By this time, a few other cars and trucks have come in to do their bit for the planet, and now I have to weave around them.

I manhandled these four deck chairs at one time. Not heavy, but ungainly as a one-person job. Plus there’s the bobbing and weaving around Old Man Coveralls who is doing his work. As I got to the bins for the chairs, the one the man pointed at weeks ago, I realized that I needed to readjust my grip so that I could heave and/or ho. This was the point where I pinched two fingers on my right hand. Earlier in this choir I’d pinched the ring finger. It hurt. Here I pinched the middle and index finger. It was one of those slow motion things. I had time to silently say goodbye to the tips of my fingers, thank them for their help over the years, and wish them well.

Before I had time to contemplate life without the top part of two fingers, though, I was able to readjust the chairs, sit them down, and relieve the unforgiving grip of metal on skin on metal.

Chairs deposited. Fingers OK. Hang tag never requested.

That was Saturday morning. Saturday evening we went to the cinema to watch a movie about propaganda, power, and epistemology.

Here’s my review: not as good as the first one, but the story needed to be completed. In fact, in a less cynical and more artistic world they’d just combined the two and call it a terrific movie. I love that these two movies were so devoted to practical effects. Everyone involved was obviously having a great time with their work. I love the way we portray what we think the 1930s thought the future would look like.

I’m still not certain how a hallucination has prequels.

Saturday night, into Sunday morning, we had snow. This is the view from the wee hours, as I was going to bed, thinking about getting up early to go outside. Unless it melted!

It did not melt. It was a fat, heavy snow. We had six inches and change when we went outside. It was still snowing. A few passes with the shovel proved that this job called for the snow blower. So, glad that I retrieved it from the shed yesterday, I filled it with oil, filled it with gas, and we cleaned the drive, so my lovely bride could get out of the house.

She was back before I finished the job, because the roads beyond were still impassable at the time.

All of the roads looked much better by the afternoon. And the sky cleared up beautifully. It was the perfect way to see the snow, from indoors.

The problem becomes the next few days of harsh temperatures. But, hey, I’m inside and warm and the driveway is clear. I’m not sure what else I can worry about right now.

Oh yes, the packing. And winter travel. I’m taking the rest of the week off from the site. Family time begins, though the work continues. I will see you here dashing, and dancing, on Dec. 22nd.

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8
Dec 25

It was July of 2002, maybe August

I was taking the garbage out last night, because that’s one of the things I do on Sunday evening. My mind wandered back, because that’s one of the things that it does on most any day, to a conversation I had in the summer of 2002.

I was talking with my news director about this and that and he said to me, “You have to look after yourself, because no one else will do it as much or as well.”

It was one of those things that made sense at the time, and felt more right the more I thought about it. This was what it was to be accidentally deep. Two weeks later, I walked back to his office and offered him my resignation. Not because he was right, but because I was already on my way out the door. And, also, he was right, of course. Since I think far too much about work, I’ve always thought of that as professional advice. Maybe that’s the way that he meant it.

But there I was, standing in the drive, in the dark, and just as I walked under the motion sensor and the flood lights clicked on I thought, What if he was talking about everything in your life? The fun stuff too? The rewarding stuff? The valuable stuff? What are the things we’re all looking to fill our days with to have a day well spent? What is that thing?

It’s a part of a long-running puzzle. Some passive part of my brain has been working on that for, I don’t know, seven, eight years. And I did not figure it out tonight, standing there in the driveway. It’s too cold for all of that.

But, yes of course a conversation from almost a quarter of a century ago came to mind. You don’t do that? I remember precisely where I was standing when it happened. Right where this dot is.

Every now and then, over my many years working with students and young journalists, I’ve found a way to work that same advice into conversation. Most of them are well equipped to realize that already, but it is worth repeating. That guy, my former news director, is working in Nashville now. He’s been there … for more than a decade, which is a substantial amount of time in one spot in his line of work. He seems very happy there, but he’s one of those relentlessly happy sorts.

What do those guys know, anyway? Aside from occasionally stumbling into good greeting card caliber advice, I mean.

Let’s have a look at the kitties, who are insisting that I get back on the schedule. They make a good point. They’re the most popular feature on the site, and Monday is traditionally theirs. Why mess with what works?

So here’s Phoebe, getting in the holiday spirit.

And here she is, getting all cuddly and cozy under a blanket. What a cute little face.

Poseidon, meanwhile, is ready for his closeup.

But, also, his pink nose is cold.

When they sleep like that it just kills me.

Maybe I should ask them about living right. They know how to spend a day.