...well actually it's Wednesday...and tomorrow is Thanksgiving

For a variety of reasons this short week has been a strange one, and as often happens this time of year, I cannot help but notice that people in general just seem to be in a better overall mood. I never really thought about it much before, but as I’ve gotten older, it really does feel like people are generally happier during Thanksgiving week…and over the course of the last few days, I’ve heard more than a few people say “Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.”

Perhaps it has something to do with the simplicity of the holiday. Christmas isn’t for everyone…and for those that do celebrate it’s often marred by the hustle-and-bustle and overall pressure associated with all the commercial craziness. Thanksgiving on the other hand, is ideally about getting together with the people you care about…and hopefully feeling some sense of gratitude for the people you have in your life.  I guess that is what makes it so appealing, and throughout the week I’ve eavesdropped on numerous conversations that include something like “my 88 year-old mother is coming into town” or “I’m picking up my son this afternoon at the airport” or “I’m headed to my parents by the beach.” I’ve even witnessed otherwise stressed folks change their entire demeanor when they cheerfully share that their “youngest is home from college” or “the entire clan is coming to the country home.” Almost every conversation I hear is about cooking, travel…and people. Sure, there’s the occasional reference to “my annoying uncle” or “extremist alcoholic sister-in law,” but for the most part the references are pretty positive. At the very least…I’m convinced people seem to be smiling more.

The emails and phone calls I receive during Thanksgiving week are typically nicer too. Invariably, some old friend or former colleague will send an unsolicited electronic message that says something like “Hey Bro…just want to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving” or I’ll get an email entitled simply “Thinking of You.” Almost without fail some old friend will call “just to say hello.”  I don’t know about you…but I don’t get many messages or calls like that in April or August. There is a lot of magic about the holiday season, but there is something about watching the big balloons float over Manhattan, a touch football game, taking in the aroma of a roasting bird and seeing the perpetually pitiful Lion’s play on a Thursday in late November that just makes everything better.

When I first arrived in DC in 2005 after moving completely across country…it was hard. My wife, family and friends were all back in Los Angeles, and as I’ve mentioned here before, I remember driving to the gym at 5am on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving feeling very alone. It was dark and unseasonably cold, and as I headed southbound down Connecticut Ave from Cleveland Park over the bridge that spans Rock Creek, I remember being struck at how deserted the streets all seemed. Typically it was much busier, but I drove my way around the Washington Hilton and down toward Dupont Circle, the streets were absolutely empty. I remember feeling almost an ache…and sensing that I could actually start to cry. The darkness and solitude were downright eerie…and then it dawned on me like an epiphany why is all seemed so deserted. Everybody else was home. Then…like the script of some corny movie…this morning’s song started playing on WASH FM.

I’m not sure what you’re doing this Thanksgiving…but I sure hope it has something to do with the people and family you care about the most. Enjoy the simplicity of a truly special holiday. Watch a parade, have some turkey, catch some football and if you can, hug a few of the people that matter most to you and think about at least some of the reasons you should feel genuinely thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving

...and the weather outside is frightful

It doesn’t really seem possible that it’s time to do this yet again…but tomorrow I’ve got to get started decorating the house for Christmas. In a perfect world  you should be able to wait until after Thanksgiving before messing with garland, red bows and wreaths, but with the late Thanksgiving and the early Chanukah this year, it just seems like everything in 2013 is hyper-compressed.  Actually, aside of increased short-term memory loss, deepening wrinkles, body aches, and the need to keep a bag of adult diapers handy, one of the real trips about getting older is the way one is affected by the passage of time. With each added year…the days, months and year’s themselves just seem to go by in a flash.

Sometime in the late 1960’s, I remember sprinting out of Overland Elementary School in West Los Angeles on the last day of the school year euphoric about the coming summer vacation. At that young age, the three months without school seemed like an eternity…and I really couldn’t even envision the eventual coming of Fall…and the inevitable return to school. As a kid summer seemed to last forever…but now as a greying adult, the seasons pass by in the blink of an eye.

For me, the typical year is a handful of milestones that come-and-go with what often seems like only days in between. We ring in the New Year at a wonderful party each year with dear friends. Blink once and it’s March and time my wife’s birthday. Pretty soon we’re lighting a couple of sparklers and after what seems like only days, it’s time to hop on the Harley for the annual  early August trip to the Black Hills. Before I know it we’re watching the College Pigskin Kickoff Classic, carving pumpkins, stuffing turkeys, spinning dreidels and decking the halls.

As I got older this accelerated passage of time never really made sense to me. Then one day, when I was working at the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers main office in DC, my boss at the time and I were talking about this very subject. He seemed perplexed regarding my lack of understanding on this phenomenon, and asked sincerely if I really didn’t know why time speeds up as you get older. I assured him I didn’t know, at which point he said simply this… “well it’s not that complicated…just think about it.”

He then proceeded to reach into his desk and pull out a 25’ tape measurer while asking “how old are you right now?” “Forty three” I responded at the time. He then started SLOWLY working the yellow tape out from the metal casing counting (“10, 20, 30, 40, 41, 42, 43”) as he extended out to the 43 inch mark. [Just a side note…if you’re over forty and you haven’t done this…try it. You’ll recognize quickly you have a lot of life in the rearview mirror]. I remember being struck at how much yellow measuring tape extended from the housing. Then he said, “how long do you think you’re going to live?” “Well” I responded, “the way I feel now maybe seventy.” He said “I’m going to give you five years…let’s make it 75.” Then while keeping the 43 inch mark pinched between his thumb and index finger, he moved the tape out to 75 and said, “looks like you got less ahead of you then you do behind you. Now…think of it from my perspective…” he continued while moving his fingers up the tape from 43… “I’m 62.”

He went on to explain that when you’re young…like maybe 10, you have your entire life ahead of you. The three months of summer not only seems like an eternity when you’re in grade school, but with the limited frame of reference at that point in our young life… summer vacation represents a big part of your life and really is a long time. As you get older, that type of span gets shorter and shorter. Eventually, the years seem to go by as rapidly as seasons, which seem to go by as quickly a months, which seem to go by as fast as weeks, that often appear to go by in little more than a day.

The first week of every October I have to start writing my holiday cards. Seems insane I know, but the list has swelled to over 330 and if I’m going to write something meaningful in all of them, I have to start early. I keep this big Excel spreadsheet with all the card recipients, and one of the rituals each Fall just before I begin is to scrutinize the list for address changes and accuracy. Every year though I have to do something else, and that involves the somber and reflective practice of highlighting in yellow the rows of addressees who passed away in the course of the year. There gets to be more of that as you get older too…so whatever you’re doing this weekend, see if you can’t keep that in mind and focus a little bit more on the people and pets that really matter most to you. If you can…take a little time to do something you enjoy too.

Have a great weekend.

Close your eyes. Somewhere, nestled in the Latin Quarter of Paris, there is a quaint little café with the sooth haze of cigarette smoke, the distant hum of conversation, the warmth of laughter, and the unmistakable soothing clinking wine glasses. In the corner of the bar is a 3-person combo…and they’re playing this… 

 Listen...

 

...and this past Monday was Veterans Day

Like many of you, I have my fair share of day-to-day challenges. Though I try not to think about them too much, there are times amidst the grind of daily life when I cannot help but lament such hurdles and dwell on the many external ingredients that helped create them. While this kind of whining has become an-all- too-frequent pastime in my relatively pain-free existence, it’s something my father never seemed to do at all.

Though my dad hadn’t finished high-school when he joined the Navy in 1936, he returned from WWII and the Korean War with an almost unexplainable appreciation for what often seemed to me like an excruciatingly average life. Becoming a master electrician with training he acquired largely in the Navy, he possessed a deep love for his skilled trade and the good life provided through that important and honest work.

Like many blue-collar construction vets of his time, my father was deeply patriotic and quite socially conservative. I believe the last democrat he voted for was LBJ (feeling Goldwater was just too extreme), but he loved his union (the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers) and despite his individualism he believed to the core that he had a far better existence because of wages and benefits provided through collective bargaining than anything he would have attained on his own. In many ways, I think he embodied the principles of a lot of his generation, and at least to me, he was a man’s man who loved his wife, his family, his work, his union, and his country at levels I don’t have the talent to convey. Though it probably seems corny, I think he saw himself as a truly rich man.

One of the traits that always tripped me out about my father, was the fact that he had almost zero tolerance for complaining or self-pity. Since his life had been far more difficult than mine would likely ever be, he didn’t have much patience for general bellyaching, and he certainly had little sympathy for my all-too-frequent references to personal hardship. Though he never said so, given his experiences living through the Depression and taking multiple Kamikaze hits on the USS Ticondaroga, I suspect my life must of looked like a cakewalk to him. That was one of the problems with his old-school rigidity…he just didn’t appreciate all that I had to deal with in the modern era.

                                              

The U.S. Navy aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga (CV-14) lists to port in the aftermath of a kamikaze attack in which four suicide planes hit the ship, 21 January 1945.

When I was a teenager, and felt quite certain there was empirical evidence to indisputably prove I was truly all-knowing, I had the unflattering habit of blaming any perceived trouble or crisis I might be having on just about anyone or anything but me. Thinking back, it is amazing how much I knew from about 13 to 30, and how much clarity I had when it came to identifying the flaws of others. Though I had experienced little in the way of real life, I had developed this uncanny ability to have the answers to just about everything.

As those of you know that are blessed with this gift, this type of supreme knowledge comes at a price. Since I indeed knew so much, I was always aware when the world was conspiring against me. Thankfully, knowing my father had little patience for my insights, I wisely muted much of my crying about my problems…especially when he was around.

One afternoon, while I was working out in the gym he had constructed for me in the huge garage of our comfortable West Los Angeles home, I remember my father was puttering around as he loved to do and on this day he seemed to be working on the pool heater. In an all-too-frequent lapse of judgment, I forgot who I was with and launched into a longwinded diatribe about my latest dilemma. As I remember it, it was likely about an idiotic teacher, some stupid former friend, an incompetent coach or worst of all, some shortsighted girl that didn’t truly appreciate the attributes of a gifted young man. To be honest...I'm guessing it was probably a little about all of those things.

Despite my father’s clear lack of understanding and insight into problems brought on by others, he continued to putter around and patiently listened without interrupting. When I finally finished, he asked a couple of questions for clarification and it seemed  clear by his line of questioning that he had been listening intently. It also seemed clear that he was uncharacteristically beginning to get an appreciation for both my problems and my justifiable status as the victim.

Then, after some delay…he asked how bad I wanted to truly understand the root of the problem. Because these substanitive exchanges with my father were rare, I was yearning for any insight he might have into how I was wronged…or what external force deserved the blame for my latest dilemma.

Then, he stopped what he was doing, walked over to me, and asked me one more time if I wanted to know the source of the problem. Once I assured him I did, he tugged on my sleeve and gently guided me over so I was looking directly into the mirror that covered the west wall of the gym area...just below the speed bag.  As we stood there gazing at our reflections in the glass, he pointed at me and said the following. “Now…if you really want to find the problem, stand here long enough and it should become clear to you. If you stand here long enough, you’ll probably find the solution too.”

My father has been gone for almost seven years now, but there are times when I wish he was still around to point me into that glass. Even now, when I’m perplexed at how I ended up at the center of an unpleasant situation, I am amazed how often I reluctantly recognize I had complete control of the wheel all along the way.

Not sure what you’re doing this weekend, but whatever it is, I hope it’s good. You’ve probably been working pretty hard, so please take some time to recharge these two days with the people (and pets) that you love. Most of the work stuff you're stressing about now won't even be on the radar screen when you fade away at the end.

My wife and I were sitting in the lobby of an upscale hotel in downtown Denver this past Veterans Day enjoying $5 dollar cups of flavored coffee while we looked out at the picture window at a developing holiday street scene framed by the snowcapped Rocky Mountains in the distance. The plushness of the atmosphere only highlighted the chasm between the struggles of my Depression era/World War II veteran father and my comparatively privileged life of leisure as a result of his generation’s noteworthy sacrifice. As we sat there in the sunlight, this catchy tune was playing in the background. The song seemed eerily familiar…but somehow I knew it was relatively new. I thought the singer sounded like Tammy Wynette or some such…but when I googled the lyrics later in the day…it appears this musician might even be a dude. You never know.

Close your eyes and see...

 

 

 

 

...and yesterday was Halloween

Just off old 81 about 40 miles south of Fargo, North Dakota sits a quintessential mid-western small town of Fort Abercrombie that my grandparents called home after moving off the family farm in about 1967. I’ve talked about that town of about 300 here before, and while so many other small towns across the Plains have slowly died, this particular little trade center has managed to keep going. The town is not exactly thriving…the bank, the hotel, the hardware store, the small Ford dealership, a couple of filing stations, the butcher, and the café have all shut down since I started visiting, but there is still a grocer, a town hall, one Standard gas station, a truss factory, a fire house, a grain elevator, an elementary school, a Lutheran church and a thriving bar. Even if everyone were to leave…I have a feeling the bar would still do enough trade to stay open. Note: I have seen towns in Minnesota…where every single of the town’s businesses have closed…except the saloon.

For many years (15 in a row) I would drive from Los Angeles back to that North Dakota town to visit my Grandfather and family each summer. I would stay in his old house, which had served as the area hospital back in the late 1800s and early 1900. My mother was born in that house…and my cousin Annie owns the brass bed that was used to deliver my mother on that faithful day (I know…TMI). I always loved visiting my grandfather. As he got into his early 90s,  we would spend hours and hours driving around the country as he told stories about the old days on the prairie.

My grandpa was pretty old when (in his 80s) when I started visiting him each year, and he was a devoutly religious man that attended the Evangelical Free Church in neighboring Wolverton, Minnesota. Any kind of extracurricular activity was usually off-limits, and drinking alcohol was a sin that doomed you to an eternal future that included a shovel and a whole lot of coal. Thankfully I was pretty straight-laced at that point in my life, and he used to love to introduce me to folks by telling them that I didn’t drink…and that I didn’t even like coffee.

In the evenings he would “hike of to bed” pretty early (sometimes around 7 or 7:30, at which point I’d sneak down the stairs and hop into my car and head up old 81 into Fargo. They had just passed a gaming initiative about the time I started to visit each year, and in Fargo you could walk into a bar and play blackjack. Sounds better than it was…as at that point there was a two-dollar limit on the bets. I would sit there for hours…drinking diet pop and playing blackjack. Usually around 11pm, I would leave and head back to my car and make the drive back south on old 81.

One of the things I love about the Plains is the hellacious thunderstorms that come across the prairie in the warm summer months. One particular night…you could just feel it was shaping up to be a good one. I was driving my red 72’ Ford Pinto (whatever cool image you have in your head…I looked even groovier than you’re imagining) with the window rolled down and you could literally feel the hair on your arms standing in anticipation of the pending electrical storm.

As I drove southward by towns like Oxbow, Hickson and then Christine, you could see bolts of lightning striking the wheat and soybean fields. I stepped on the accelerator hoping to get to my grandpa’s house before any heavy rain fell…or worse…a whole bunch of hail. Thankfully, I could see the lights of town on the horizon and the security of the blinking yellow caution light that swayed in the building wind above of the intersection of County Road 81 and Broadway.

Just on the left side of that intersection is the cemetery that hugs the Lutheran church on the west end of town. I used to see an old woman that lived in town walking her dog along the road there sometimes late at night, but after not seeing her for some time, I was surprised to see her outline illuminated by my headlights…particularly on this stormy summer night…and especially with the nasty weather closing in fast. To make matters worse, she was walking directly through the cemetery…and I remember thinking as I made the left turn into town that it’s true what they said about North Dakotans…they are a hearty group indeed. There is no way I’d walk through a cemetery at night…in pitch dark, with an electric storm about to break. I surmised that she too must have felt the storm approaching…and decided to take a short cut back to her house to avoid the rain.

The next morning I walked up town to have coffee with the boys (my grandpa never came…couldn’t see “giving” 35 cents for coffee when you could boil it up at home for next to nothing) at the town hall. I’ve referenced this group of mostly older farmers before, and I had become a welcome yearly regular with these guys…many of whom I was related to in some way (if you listen carefully you can hear the banjo music). They reveled in my often exaggerated rough-an-tumble “life in the hood” stories of LA, and they also enjoyed my animated recaps of my nightly gambling excursions into Fargo. Often times, if I’d hit it big, I take my 10 bucks in winnings and cover coffee for everyone at the table…I was a popular guy.

On this morning I was telling them about my previous night’s winnings and one of them asked me if I’d driven back in the heavy storm. I told them yes, and almost as an afterthought, I mentioned that I’d seen crazy old Mrs. Erickson* out walking at midnight again…directly through the cemetery on the west-end of town. Some of them laughed a bit nervously, and I continued to go on about how odd it was that she’d be out in weather like that. I noticed my uncle looking at me kind of strange…but before long we moved on to the usually bad Norwegian  jokes, stories about the latest auction sale, or guys talking about how much they had in their respective rain gages.

When we walked outside to hop into his dark blue GMC pickup to drive over to the Post Office to get the mail (it was literally across the street),  my uncle asked me why I told the story about seeing Mrs. Erickson. I told him I didn’t really know…it just seemed interesting that she’d be out on a night like that. He responded by asking if I was sure it was her. I told him yes…it was her…I have no doubt…I’ve seen her 100 times.  I inquired as to what the big deal was…at which point he told me that she had passed away the winter before last.

I know what you’re thinking…but it’s a true story…and the only thing I was drinking up in Fargo that night was diet pop. It was her…but don’t ask…I don’t know either.

One of the trippy things about moving from Los Angeles to the east is the amount of fervor folks have here connected to Halloween. Sure, kids went trick-or-treating in the west, but it was a one-day deal and there certainly wasn’t the fascination with the holiday that there is here. I’ve had some people here tell me it’s their favorite holiday…and it’s clear that even grownups really get into it.  So, I hope you had a fabulous and festive Halloween. It’s going to be a great Fall weekend…so make the best of the changing season doing the things you enjoy with someone you love.  

 

...we run through the streets of town so silent and still