Category: Life

Each moment is different. Here are some of mine.

The Bag

ONE OF MY FAVORITE QUOTES from The Lord of the Rings concerns Frodo Baggins’ loyal manservant and steadfast friend Sam Gamgee. It’s a narrative quote, not dialog, and it describes Sam’s knapsack as stuffed full of (quoting from memory): “… little treasures of his master’s to be trotted out in triumph when needed and called for.”

Sometimes, stories come to life.

The NorCal fire season definitely made an impression on me.

It’s my custom to post a daily Facebook question, to the evident delight of good friends who love to play along. I always answer it myself just to get the snowball rolling, and the other day I posted this:

What’s your EDC (Every Day Carry)? (Me: In addition to wallet, keys, phone and bandana handkerchief, I carry a four-pocket, five-pound, grey Cordura sling bag containing a Leatherman-knockoff multitool; blue and red ballpoint pens; blue Sharpie; mechanical pencil; yellow notepad; binoculars; two-lens jeweler’s loupe; LED flashlight; thumb drive; spare bandana; two black KN95 masks; two pair nitrile gloves; two pair earplugs; comb; mirror; six-inch/15-centimeter plastic ruler; earbuds [wired]; one of those steel, credit-card-sized “11-in-1 survival tools” [bottle opener, can opener, standard screwdriver, wingnut wrench, hex wrenches, blade, magnetic compass, file, ruler, keychain loop, and saw]; sewing kit; first-aid kit; inspirational reading; space blanket; razor-sharp Opinel No. 8 knife; miniature Swiss Army knife with toothpick and tweezers; mini carabiner clip; ibuprofen; Listerine spray; dry-mouth spray and lozenges; two plastic teaspoons; two paper straws; military-issue folding can opener; actual magnetic compass; synagogue-leadership roster; vaxx card; cough drops; folding scissors; eyeglasses; homemade trail mix; phone charger; small clothespin; rubber band; butane lighter [I don’t smoke, but instant flame can be handy]; guitar pick; Kleenex packet; nail clippers; two packets of Bustelo instant espresso; and one of my business cards with “IF FOUND PLEASE RETURN TO” scribbled on the back. In short, everything which I have needed and/or anticipate needing goes into this damn bag which I lug everywhere, feel absolutely naked without, and have misplaced twice – with attendant bad freakout. Wouldn’t you?)

The NorCal fire season – especially 2017’s, which burned half of Sonoma Valley – definitely made an impression on me, and I now partly live out of my go-bags for small things like sunglasses and daily grooming essentials; it’s a great stress-reducer to know I can grab everything of importance without thinking. But to be honest, I really tote all these things, each thoughtfully and meticulously collected over a period of years, because I love to be useful. (Which is not a bad way to be.)

So. What’s your EDC? And a bonus question: What makes you feel useful?

We’re All Americans, Dammit

I’VE SAID THIS BEFORE, BUT it’s more important now than ever:

“I pledge allegiance to the Constitution
Of the United States of America
And to the ideal on which it stands:
One nation of individuals
Indivisibly intertwined
With liberty, justice, and peace for all.”

(So help me, G?d. And so help all of us.)

False Economy

SO THERE I WAS, PEEPING through the window of the Eureka, California post office, waiting for my elusive boss to enter her across-the-street cafe.

The year was 1988 – a time of great personal upheaval, both good and bad. Through a combination of circumstances, my then-new girlfriend and I were trying to make a go of it in that sleepy, downbeat North Coast city. Jobs were hard to come by, at least for a journeyman printer like me, and when I saw a newspaper ad promising to train someone as a coffeehouse clerk I sprang into delighted and determined action.

At first, things were pleasant. The cafe’s owner, who I’ll call Simone, was friendly and easygoing, as were the customers, and once I had figured out the espresso machine and sandwich-making regimens I felt reasonably financially secure (and competently useful) for the first time in weeks.

Then “Dave” walked in, an itinerant handyman who lived in a big blue van well-stocked with tools of every description.

“You’re new here, huh?” he said as I handed him a double espresso and a roast beef on rye. “Simone paid you yet?”

“I’ve only been here a couple days,” I replied. “Payday’s Friday.”

“Yeah? Right. Good luck.”

Friday arrived, and at closing time, I asked Simone for my wages.

“I’m a little short right now,” she said wistfully, “and I have to move some things around at the bank. Can you wait until tomorrow?”

“Well …. I suppose so.”

Tomorrow became today, and Simone appeared late that afternoon as I was building a turkey croissant.

“I’m SO sorry,” “she said wistfully. “I just missed the bank’s hours. Can I pay you Monday?”

“I don’t know, Simone…”

“I promise. Monday morning, as soon as the bank opens.”

Monday’s dawn broke, typically foggy and grey, with me outside the cafe waiting for Simone to arrive.

She didn’t.

Neither did she on Tuesday.

Nor Wednesday.

Meanwhile, my daily phone messages went unanswered, both at the cafe and at the number purporting to be Simone’s home.

Hence, my Thursday-morning stakeout.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, I thought with one of many impatient sighs. Who am I, James Bond? But I also can’t believe I’m not going to make rent or buy groceries this week.

Suddenly, Simone’s red Gremlin pulled up across the street. As she exited her car, I exited the post office.

“Simone!” I called, breaking into a fast trot. “Hey! Simone!”

Her beseeching eyes reflected helpless and apologetic dread, but before she could say anything, I spoke with uncharacteristic bluntness.

“Look here, Simone,” I said. “I like you, and I like working here, but I need to get paid – like right now!”

Tears came to her eyes. “You don’t understand!” she sobbed. “I can’t afford to pay you. All I have is this cafe and what’s in it. I owe so many people so much money; my life is in shambles, and I’m just as much a victim as you are…”

“I don’t mean to sound harsh, Simone, but frankly, that’s not my concern. I’m not going to leave this place without your paying me.”

And that was how, and why, my girlfriend and I feasted that week on thick sandwiches of roast beef and turkey breast. Victory is indeed sweet – and sometimes, savory.

Where Are You Most You?

IN CARLOS CASTANEDA’S EPIC FANTASY, The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge, his titular shaman Don Juan Matus describes “places of power” — those locations where we can experience deep wisdom and indomitable purpose. No two are the same for everyone, and when you find yours, it’s best to stake it out and pay attention.

In my case, it’s the kitchen.

Our kitchen is a small one, measuring roughly 7’x9′ – a mere 63 square feet. (It’s also and actually the model for the inside of Prosatio Silban’s galleywagon.) That cozy space contains a refrigerator/freezer, double sink, drain rack, electric stove/oven, toaster, four drawers, and a trio of small counters with seven cabinets above and three below (not counting the one under the sink). In it are all things necessary for providing and consuming tasty fare: knives, pots, pans, dishes, tableware, pantry goods, raw ingredients, assorted seasonings, and a handful of small appliances and wall-hung utensils. In it I have prepared breakfasts, lunches, dinners, snacks, holiday feasts, and endless cups of tea. After a quarter-century of daily use, I know where everything is and should be, and I daresay I could find it all in the dark The size doesn’t bother me – it’s where I learned to cook, and I don’t know any other. (Besides – tight-space discipline is good for the soul.)

Perhaps most important of all is the boombox, either tuned to our hidden gem of a local radio station or filling the savory-scented air with background music from the CDs and cassettes stored atop the refrigerator. (I have occasionally been known to spend more time and energy selecting appropriate music than making the meal or washing the dishes that the music is supposed to accompany.) Few things can better motivate good cookery than listening to or singing along with the right tunes. Often, I will prop a book on the counter beside the stove while whatever’s cooking is cooking, standing a studious watch until the timer goes off.

Our kitchen is one of the two or three places I feel most like myself. What are yours?

“Room 101 Amusement Park”

RELAXING IN PUBLIC CAN SOMETIMES bring unexpected consequences.

Seated in the Walnut Creek BART station in the spring of 1980, I was reading my well-thumbed copy of 1984. So engrossed was I in Orwell’s pessimistic prose that I didn’t hear the man approach.

“You’re only reading this NOW!?” he demanded in an outraged bellow.

His intensity belied his nonchalant appearance: mid-30s, cleanshaven, plaid shirt, blue jeans, loafers. Although he seemed a normal human (for some values of the words “normal” and “human”), it also seemed best not to provoke him.

“No,” I replied with calm sincerity. “I’ve read it a couple of times.”

His blue eyes speared mine with an emphatic glare.

“Good!” he declared, and stalked off toward the escalator.

I guess it pays to be polite.

“You Can’t Avoid the Void!”

IT DOESN’T REALLY MATTER WHERE or when I was, beyond that it was a high place from which I felt an overwhelming urge to jump.

I felt neither depressed nor sad nor suicidal. But I did feel scared, though mostly of the compulsion. In fact, I retained an echo of those feelings, not to mention utter perplexity, until happening across a healthline.com article which told me that such compulsions are very, very common. Normal, even.

It’s known as the “Call of the Void.” (In the original French, because the French have words for everything experientially interesting, “l’appel du vide.”) In clinical terms, it’s referred to as “High-Place Phenomenon,” and can also involve other aspects of self-harm: leaping in front of a train, steering one’s car into oncoming traffic, or sticking one’s hand into a garbage disposal. Naturally, these urges are quickly suppressed. And no one quite knows why we have such episodes – they may simply be an artifact of our neurological wiring – but it seems related to anxiety: the more anxious one is, the louder the Void calls.

We humans seem to be repelled by, yet attracted to, vast emptiness: the gulfs between stars and galaxies; abyssal ocean depths; wide-open deserts; untenanted warehouses; the view from a mountaintop. (BTW, the worst vertigo I ever experienced was while [very briefly!] standing on my head atop Northern California’s Mount Diablo – I literally felt as though I was dropping into the sky. Brrr.) Perhaps such things remind us of our insignificance. Perhaps we just don’t know what to do with (or in) them. Getting lost in immensity carries a deep discomfort; it blurs the lines we draw between Is and Is-Not. And that can be downright scary.

The most important thing to do when the Void calls? Don’t answer.

Points of Honor, Literary and Otherwise

– STUFFING SENTENCES TO CARRYING CAPACITY.
– Never starting a blog post (or sermon) with “I.”
– Punctuality.
– Creative segues.
– Repeating verbatim whatever someone wants said to another.
– That only what I actually heard appears inside quotation marks.
– One-sentence ledes.
– Snappy ledes. (“If you can do that, you’ll never be out of a job,” quoth a mentor.)
– Keeping an open mind, especially when it’s difficult.
– Never speaking in absolutes. (Present list excluded.)
– Crediting my sources.
– Communicating as accurately as I can. (Challenging, but aspirational.)
– Pushing through my shyness. (Also aspirationally challenging.)
– Being kind to cashiers, sales clerks, waiters, and tradesfolk.
– Saying “Take your time” whenever necessary.
– Waving at passing cars.
– Not speculating.
– “Killing my darlings” (per Wm. Faulkner, via Stephen King).
– Making an effort to pet stray cats.
– Greeting passersby with (at least) a smile.
– Concisifying.

(And yours?)

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