The driver and his Ghia had cruised through the hills at the eastern edge of the central Coast Range several times a week for the past seven years. Rolling and smooth under a carpet of grass, the hills wore a seasonal coat that changed twice each year. In Summer, they were a soft dusty camel brown, shimmering with heat and haze. In Winter the haze gave way to cool mist and torrential sobbing rain and a fresh green coat pushed up to soften and smooth the velvet of the hills. Scrub oaks and manzanitas and California buckeyes danced a slow dance in delicate lacy clusters and cliques over the sensuous curves of the hills. Boulders and outcroppings of rock erupted in perfect stillness. Their placement was remarkable for its balance, their poise unwavering. Cattle were there — never concerned, never confused, never flustered, never lost in thought; just cattle.
It was the cattle that first caught his attention. He had seen them a thousand times before; just cattle. There were several of them lying down on a green hillside close by the road. They were facing the Ghia as it passed. In an instant, as the little car brumbled by, he saw them and knew there was something different. Something unspeakable. Something imperceptible, and yet pervasive. It was not the vacant cows. But the cows were essential somehow. They were stately and solemn. They were in the Presence. Whether they knew they were in the Presence, he could not tell. It didn’t matter. It was the Presence itself that mattered. It seemed fitting for cattle to be there, but why, he did not know.
Again, as he drove the hills a few days later, the Presence was upon the hills, this time enormous. Pervasive. A massive thing that magnified the hills; that blessed and nurtured them; that bathed them with the intensity of its being. Yet it was not a thing at all. It was not the hills. It was not the cattle. It was not the early summer haze that immersed the hills. It was not ancient, but time was its child. It was not large or small, although it was all-present throughout the hills as far as he could see.
He knew that the Presence had always been upon the hills. He knew that the change had come in his seeing. And now the hills were profoundly disturbing to him. Disturbing and at once comforting. He had an uncanny sense that his awareness of the Presence marked a change of great significance; that somehow there was a reason that he was aware of it now. And now he saw it whenever he looked out across the hills. Awe and foreboding and comfort and turmoil and peace all tumbled and flurried up together and whispered and swirled around the corners and crannies of his heart and his thoughts whenever he caught an unguarded glimpse of the hills with their petticoats of oak. The cattle were there; just cattle. And the Unspeakable Presence was there; waiting.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
Beach Street
He had met the poet for breakfast at Beach Street. Beach Street was a classic American trucker’s cafe on the street of the same name. It was a couple of miles east of Sunset Beach, among produce packing sheds and industrial buildings and warehouses in Watsonville, and it was the standard alternate rendezvous for days when the weather didn’t permit them to walk on the beach. Today had been one of those days, with the storm driven waves thundering over the beach to crash into the bulkheads, cliffs, and dunes nearly a hundred yards inland from the usual high water mark. The TV weather man had warned of driving wind and rain and the treacherous forty foot surf on the late news the night before, and both of the friends knew that meant bacon, hashbrowns and eggs with coffee would replace their usual Tuesday morning walk.
Regardless of where they met, they seemed to sharpen and stimulate and challenge each other. They had known each other since the end of high school. His first impression of the poet came when his freshman English class took a field trip. The class walked out to a bench by a lamp post across the campus where the poet and another senior from the drama club were waiting for Godot.
They did not meet that day, or even that year. The poet graduated, and was seen around town from time to time. Intensity was the poet’s most publicly discernible trait. He remembered seeing the poet at his senior art show three years later. The poet wore long flowing robes reminiscent of a monk. He came and went in silence, and still they had not met.
Now, nearly thirty years later, they were fast friends. They had finally met in the Jesus movement in the early ‘70s. They had weathered all sorts of things over the years. Both had married, both had kids, both had struggled to find time to keep their creative fires burning in the face of the cares of life. They kept each other honest and sharp. They were comfortable together and knew each other well.
Today they would sit at their usual spot at Beach Street and catch up on developments of the past couple of weeks. The rows and rows of baseball caps hanging above the windows all around the cafe would listen in attentively as they talked. The caps had emblems and logos from every imaginable source. They appeared to be contributions from truckers passing through. It had occurred to him that he should ask the waitress the origin and significance of the cap collection. Perhaps he would when she came around with the coffee pot again.
Regardless of where they met, they seemed to sharpen and stimulate and challenge each other. They had known each other since the end of high school. His first impression of the poet came when his freshman English class took a field trip. The class walked out to a bench by a lamp post across the campus where the poet and another senior from the drama club were waiting for Godot.
They did not meet that day, or even that year. The poet graduated, and was seen around town from time to time. Intensity was the poet’s most publicly discernible trait. He remembered seeing the poet at his senior art show three years later. The poet wore long flowing robes reminiscent of a monk. He came and went in silence, and still they had not met.
Now, nearly thirty years later, they were fast friends. They had finally met in the Jesus movement in the early ‘70s. They had weathered all sorts of things over the years. Both had married, both had kids, both had struggled to find time to keep their creative fires burning in the face of the cares of life. They kept each other honest and sharp. They were comfortable together and knew each other well.
Today they would sit at their usual spot at Beach Street and catch up on developments of the past couple of weeks. The rows and rows of baseball caps hanging above the windows all around the cafe would listen in attentively as they talked. The caps had emblems and logos from every imaginable source. They appeared to be contributions from truckers passing through. It had occurred to him that he should ask the waitress the origin and significance of the cap collection. Perhaps he would when she came around with the coffee pot again.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Mary
He had worked with Mary for the first five years of his career in computers. Over the years they had become friends—the kind of friends that weather all sorts of hard stuff together; the kind of friends that can talk about anything safely; the kind of friends who can go two years without contact and then pick up without missing a beat. She had married and gone off to Texas for a career change, and they hadn’t seen each other since the wedding nearly three years ago. E-mail contact had been sporadic but enough to prove that she was still alive and that she and her husband would soon be back in the Silicon Valley with another career adjustment. He looked forward to seeing them again.
Mary had been the first person he ever told about the problems with his marriage. Long before anyone else knew. She was just the right person to first confide in. She hadn’t really known how to help him with it, but did fine just by listening and letting him talk it through. She had said something back during one of those talks that moved him deeply and changed his understanding of women profoundly.
“Men are so damned confident!” she said. “You’re cocky and have the world by the tail. Guys feel like you have a right to succeed, so you just go out and do it. Everything is so simple for you and you just sail through life and nothing ever seems to bother you. Women are really jealous and resentful of that. We don’t get how you can skate through life without a care. Even guys who are total losers have it. Some of them should be ashamed of how bad they are, but still they can strut around on top of the world! It’s not like that for us. We take everything much more seriously. We don’t have that boyish confidence and we’re really pissed off because it looks so damned easy for you.”
Mary had nailed it. This was a fundamental gender difference at a deep level. A level not always articulated, but heartfelt and intense. He had always felt like women seemed a bit uptight about life, and resentful of men. You could see it in their remarks about men being overgrown boys who would never grow up. In their impatience and irritation at how irresponsible men could be. He had always shrugged such remarks off in the past, but suddenly now it made sense. Women really couldn’t help feeling the way they did about men’s playful, lackadaisical self-confidence. It wasn’t that they just needed to “get a life” as he had always thought. There was something intrinsically different in the way women lived in the world. This revelation was a turning point in his understanding of femininity.
Mary had tried to put a light hearted face on what she said, but he knew she spoke for herself every bit as much as for women at large. He had seen her lip quiver almost imperceptibly as she spoke. And he knew the envy and resentment and frustration she spoke of were not all directed outward toward men. Much of it was directed inward at herself for not being able to be as confident and playful as the men around her.
He began to talk to other women he knew about what Mary had said, and in one form or another, they all agreed. Some found it hard to say, others were outspoken. For some it was nuanced, or masked. But it turned out that this was a very common formation in the feminine landscape.
So what did it mean? What could he do with it? It seemed to be partly a real difference between the genders, but more a symptom of 6,000 years of uninterrupted radical patriarchy; layer upon layer of abuse and dominance and insensitivity and brutality. In varying degrees and manifestations this imbalance had continued unabated for 300 generations. He felt wholly incompetent to unravel this problem, and yet compelled by it. He would never forget what Mary had said that day. And it informed his sensitivity to a subject that guys just don’t usually get at all.
Mary had been the first person he ever told about the problems with his marriage. Long before anyone else knew. She was just the right person to first confide in. She hadn’t really known how to help him with it, but did fine just by listening and letting him talk it through. She had said something back during one of those talks that moved him deeply and changed his understanding of women profoundly.
“Men are so damned confident!” she said. “You’re cocky and have the world by the tail. Guys feel like you have a right to succeed, so you just go out and do it. Everything is so simple for you and you just sail through life and nothing ever seems to bother you. Women are really jealous and resentful of that. We don’t get how you can skate through life without a care. Even guys who are total losers have it. Some of them should be ashamed of how bad they are, but still they can strut around on top of the world! It’s not like that for us. We take everything much more seriously. We don’t have that boyish confidence and we’re really pissed off because it looks so damned easy for you.”
Mary had nailed it. This was a fundamental gender difference at a deep level. A level not always articulated, but heartfelt and intense. He had always felt like women seemed a bit uptight about life, and resentful of men. You could see it in their remarks about men being overgrown boys who would never grow up. In their impatience and irritation at how irresponsible men could be. He had always shrugged such remarks off in the past, but suddenly now it made sense. Women really couldn’t help feeling the way they did about men’s playful, lackadaisical self-confidence. It wasn’t that they just needed to “get a life” as he had always thought. There was something intrinsically different in the way women lived in the world. This revelation was a turning point in his understanding of femininity.
Mary had tried to put a light hearted face on what she said, but he knew she spoke for herself every bit as much as for women at large. He had seen her lip quiver almost imperceptibly as she spoke. And he knew the envy and resentment and frustration she spoke of were not all directed outward toward men. Much of it was directed inward at herself for not being able to be as confident and playful as the men around her.
He began to talk to other women he knew about what Mary had said, and in one form or another, they all agreed. Some found it hard to say, others were outspoken. For some it was nuanced, or masked. But it turned out that this was a very common formation in the feminine landscape.
So what did it mean? What could he do with it? It seemed to be partly a real difference between the genders, but more a symptom of 6,000 years of uninterrupted radical patriarchy; layer upon layer of abuse and dominance and insensitivity and brutality. In varying degrees and manifestations this imbalance had continued unabated for 300 generations. He felt wholly incompetent to unravel this problem, and yet compelled by it. He would never forget what Mary had said that day. And it informed his sensitivity to a subject that guys just don’t usually get at all.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
the licorice jellybean
The first time he remembered ever seeing a Karmann Ghia he pulled out three hundred fifty dollars and bought it. It was a 1960 hardtop. It was eleven years old and Volkswagen dealers still had parts for it back then. He had kept it for most of the seventies, and learned about brakes and bearings and kingpins and distributors and body work and valve adjustments and motor oil. His father had never been mechanically inclined—a school teacher who simply was not inspired by the puzzles and challenges of machinery. The Ghia taught his son what he had not. Its most treasured lesson was that he could solve virtually any mystery or problem it presented to him with a little patience, research, and attentiveness to detail. It was his first car. It would always, and perhaps irrationally, be his best car.
Now he was a quarter century older and once again driving a Ghia. It was probably some kind of mid-life thing and he knew it. That was ok. This Ghia was a ‘73. It was black, with original sky blue in the trunk and in all the hidden places. It was sort of a licorice jellybean with a lot of miles on it. The title and registration described it as a “special construction 1995 Karmann Ghia”. Two years ago he started its restoration by replacing the chassis. The California Highway Patrol had inspected it thoroughly and assigned a new serial number proving that it wasn’t a chop shop job. The state smog inspector had decreed that it must meet the 1973 smog criteria, and verified that it did. It still had no interior, and was a raucous echo chamber on the road. But it handled like a cat. It was much quicker than the ‘60 had been, but still a VW at heart.
He drove it often on the back roads that snaked through the scrub hills skirting the eastern slope of the Coast Range. His favorite was Uvas Road, a winding two lane blacktop trail through oaks and manzanita west of Morgan Hill. It was a road designed for 45 miles per hour, but the Ghia could handle most of it well above 60. What made Uvas Road so good for the Ghia was that in spite of its curves, it never climbed steeply enough to slow the little engine down. He could run hard and fast from one end of the road to the other. Most of the time he didn’t push car or road that hard —just often enough to know the limits of both, and to work off a little adrenaline from time to time.
Now he was a quarter century older and once again driving a Ghia. It was probably some kind of mid-life thing and he knew it. That was ok. This Ghia was a ‘73. It was black, with original sky blue in the trunk and in all the hidden places. It was sort of a licorice jellybean with a lot of miles on it. The title and registration described it as a “special construction 1995 Karmann Ghia”. Two years ago he started its restoration by replacing the chassis. The California Highway Patrol had inspected it thoroughly and assigned a new serial number proving that it wasn’t a chop shop job. The state smog inspector had decreed that it must meet the 1973 smog criteria, and verified that it did. It still had no interior, and was a raucous echo chamber on the road. But it handled like a cat. It was much quicker than the ‘60 had been, but still a VW at heart.
He drove it often on the back roads that snaked through the scrub hills skirting the eastern slope of the Coast Range. His favorite was Uvas Road, a winding two lane blacktop trail through oaks and manzanita west of Morgan Hill. It was a road designed for 45 miles per hour, but the Ghia could handle most of it well above 60. What made Uvas Road so good for the Ghia was that in spite of its curves, it never climbed steeply enough to slow the little engine down. He could run hard and fast from one end of the road to the other. Most of the time he didn’t push car or road that hard —just often enough to know the limits of both, and to work off a little adrenaline from time to time.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
lightning box
The morning air was still sharp. It was nearly seven o’clock and the sun was wrestling with the hills far off to the east, bent on gaining his liberty once again. Several crows sat in the high branches of a live oak across the creek watching intently as a little black Karmann Ghia crawled slowly down the dirt road between melons and corn. Suddenly a theatrical argument broke out among the heavy blue-black birds. The air cascaded with caws, each thrust at the troupe by its speaker and trailing off into the cacophonous backwash of the others. Then, as abruptly as it began, the debate was over and the throaty little Volkswagen motor was the only punctuation to the still, clear morning.
Beyond the creek, a hundred acres of cherries dusted the rising foot of the southern hills with the pale petals that had only last week advertised the spring harvest to ten million charged particles of airborne gold. The bees had done a fine job harvesting their cherry crop and thus ensured that the orchardist would find his crop full bodied and sweet later in the summer. Now the little field hands were off to some new source up in the hills. Ceanothus perhaps, or one of the early blooming eucalyptus or native oaks. This little valley was an extraordinary location for bees. Eleven months each year the weather was right for flying, and nectar flowed freely from agricultural, residential, and native crops so abundant that the bees rarely were at a loss for work.
Finally the Ghia reached the end of the dusty little trail. The engine stopped at the edge of the apiary and its silence was punctuated by the click-tooth grind of the parking brake mechanism.
The soft glow of the dawn's half sun filled the car and washed the driver through the open window. He sat quietly for a few minutes listening to the place. The creek, subterranean through most of the summer months except for a few of the deeper holes, was still running, but just a whisper, much slower than during the January rains. It had surged over the spillway of the reservoir upstream just after the new year, and had rushed in a frenzy of boiling mud and unrelenting runoff down through the valley for three weeks before it finally spent itself and settled to a more stately flow nurtured by hundreds of hillside springs oozing with the full gush of the highest water table since before the long drought that had ended three years ago. But now the flow was beginning to settle, and the creek was no longer a river.
The soft murmur of the creek was studded with pinpoints of song from goldfinches, and twitterings of bushtits, and chatterings of common sparrows, and now and then, a skeptical remark from one or another of the crows. Just once, a coyote barked from across the orchard and then slipped up into the hill country where his shyness would serve him better through the bright hours of the day.
The sun suddenly won his struggle with the hills and jumped the first few inches of his skyward climb as if the pent up energy from his striving was suddenly released. Now that his appointment with the sky was once again assured, he floated softly, rising steadily but now with such slow fierce dignity that his movement was almost perceptible. And as he gathered his fire and might, his first warmth brushed gently against the valley.
All the entrances faced the rising sun, and so the little girls who had waited inside their boxes so patiently all night came to peek out and greet their sun as he first painted the landing boards with warmth. At first, there were only a few at each entrance, peeking out with curiosity at the new day. Then there were dozens walking around on the landing boards, stopping occasionally to talk antennae talk. Soon there were tentative short circling hops into the still crisp air as if to verify that flight was still possible. And suddenly the fielders were off to the hills. Their departures were emphatic and decisive. Each had committed to her chosen forage days earlier, and knew exactly where to go. No energy was wasted as she took off from the landing board as if slung from the flight deck of an aircraft carrier.
Within minutes some of these field bees were back with their first load of the day. Their approach was remarkably unlike their departure. Now loaded with nectar or pollen, they flew much more slowly but with more momentum. Crash landings were a serious possibility as they came in back-pedaling hard to slow down with their heavy load before they hit the deck.
The driver did not open hives today. He had worked the colonies a few days ago and all were queenright and bustling. Each had sufficient room to store the pale produce of their labor, and to expand their nurseries for the spring buildup. One showed early signs of impulse to swarm, and he had taken precautions to relieve the temptation. There was no work for him to do in the rustic white boxes, their little golden bundles of lightning were positively charged, and for him to open a box now would only be meddling.
He had come not to work but to commune—to drink in the peaceful assurance that came from association with this most orderly, unchanging simplicity. The bees were exactly as they had been for many thousands of years. Their simple insect brains were deeply ingrained with patterns that lent themselves readily to anthropomorphic metaphor. Perhaps this was part of why he was so powerfully drawn to them.
The bees appear industrious. At the landing board and in the field, where most casual observers know them best, they work steadily and without pause. All they do appears unselfish and bent to the greater good of the hive. A field worker wears herself out in about three or four weeks and then goes off to die alone, not cluttering the hive with her carcass or bothering her sisters with the need to dispose of her. Inside, the nest is a constant bustle of activity day and night. Housekeeping, nursery duty, and foraging all go on in orderly fashion without any apparent need for leadership. The hive appears to embody the ideal of communism that so captivated and betrayed mankind throughout much of the twentieth century. The bees all seem to know their place in the order of the hive, and eagerly hold to their station without self-centered ambition or striving against the common good.
But all this wonderful idealism is lost on the bees. They are utterly oblivious to it. They are not unselfish communal idealists. They are simply bees. All they do is ingrained and imbedded in thousands of years of repetition. Hard-wired circuitry. Responses to pheromones and scents and visual cues and conditions and stimuli that have repeated and conspired since the dawn of time to make them what they are. They have no idealism, no ambition, no great schemes, no pretense. They live to be alive; to be honeybees; to gather nectar. As he sat against the fender of the Ghia he knew this. And perhaps it was this simple unassuming being without pretense or striving that attracted him to the bees more than all the noble anthropomorphic analogies. He was deeply moved and comforted by the bees and their world, and could never find words to express it well enough.
Beyond the creek, a hundred acres of cherries dusted the rising foot of the southern hills with the pale petals that had only last week advertised the spring harvest to ten million charged particles of airborne gold. The bees had done a fine job harvesting their cherry crop and thus ensured that the orchardist would find his crop full bodied and sweet later in the summer. Now the little field hands were off to some new source up in the hills. Ceanothus perhaps, or one of the early blooming eucalyptus or native oaks. This little valley was an extraordinary location for bees. Eleven months each year the weather was right for flying, and nectar flowed freely from agricultural, residential, and native crops so abundant that the bees rarely were at a loss for work.
Finally the Ghia reached the end of the dusty little trail. The engine stopped at the edge of the apiary and its silence was punctuated by the click-tooth grind of the parking brake mechanism.
The soft glow of the dawn's half sun filled the car and washed the driver through the open window. He sat quietly for a few minutes listening to the place. The creek, subterranean through most of the summer months except for a few of the deeper holes, was still running, but just a whisper, much slower than during the January rains. It had surged over the spillway of the reservoir upstream just after the new year, and had rushed in a frenzy of boiling mud and unrelenting runoff down through the valley for three weeks before it finally spent itself and settled to a more stately flow nurtured by hundreds of hillside springs oozing with the full gush of the highest water table since before the long drought that had ended three years ago. But now the flow was beginning to settle, and the creek was no longer a river.
The soft murmur of the creek was studded with pinpoints of song from goldfinches, and twitterings of bushtits, and chatterings of common sparrows, and now and then, a skeptical remark from one or another of the crows. Just once, a coyote barked from across the orchard and then slipped up into the hill country where his shyness would serve him better through the bright hours of the day.
The sun suddenly won his struggle with the hills and jumped the first few inches of his skyward climb as if the pent up energy from his striving was suddenly released. Now that his appointment with the sky was once again assured, he floated softly, rising steadily but now with such slow fierce dignity that his movement was almost perceptible. And as he gathered his fire and might, his first warmth brushed gently against the valley.
All the entrances faced the rising sun, and so the little girls who had waited inside their boxes so patiently all night came to peek out and greet their sun as he first painted the landing boards with warmth. At first, there were only a few at each entrance, peeking out with curiosity at the new day. Then there were dozens walking around on the landing boards, stopping occasionally to talk antennae talk. Soon there were tentative short circling hops into the still crisp air as if to verify that flight was still possible. And suddenly the fielders were off to the hills. Their departures were emphatic and decisive. Each had committed to her chosen forage days earlier, and knew exactly where to go. No energy was wasted as she took off from the landing board as if slung from the flight deck of an aircraft carrier.
Within minutes some of these field bees were back with their first load of the day. Their approach was remarkably unlike their departure. Now loaded with nectar or pollen, they flew much more slowly but with more momentum. Crash landings were a serious possibility as they came in back-pedaling hard to slow down with their heavy load before they hit the deck.
The driver did not open hives today. He had worked the colonies a few days ago and all were queenright and bustling. Each had sufficient room to store the pale produce of their labor, and to expand their nurseries for the spring buildup. One showed early signs of impulse to swarm, and he had taken precautions to relieve the temptation. There was no work for him to do in the rustic white boxes, their little golden bundles of lightning were positively charged, and for him to open a box now would only be meddling.
He had come not to work but to commune—to drink in the peaceful assurance that came from association with this most orderly, unchanging simplicity. The bees were exactly as they had been for many thousands of years. Their simple insect brains were deeply ingrained with patterns that lent themselves readily to anthropomorphic metaphor. Perhaps this was part of why he was so powerfully drawn to them.
The bees appear industrious. At the landing board and in the field, where most casual observers know them best, they work steadily and without pause. All they do appears unselfish and bent to the greater good of the hive. A field worker wears herself out in about three or four weeks and then goes off to die alone, not cluttering the hive with her carcass or bothering her sisters with the need to dispose of her. Inside, the nest is a constant bustle of activity day and night. Housekeeping, nursery duty, and foraging all go on in orderly fashion without any apparent need for leadership. The hive appears to embody the ideal of communism that so captivated and betrayed mankind throughout much of the twentieth century. The bees all seem to know their place in the order of the hive, and eagerly hold to their station without self-centered ambition or striving against the common good.
But all this wonderful idealism is lost on the bees. They are utterly oblivious to it. They are not unselfish communal idealists. They are simply bees. All they do is ingrained and imbedded in thousands of years of repetition. Hard-wired circuitry. Responses to pheromones and scents and visual cues and conditions and stimuli that have repeated and conspired since the dawn of time to make them what they are. They have no idealism, no ambition, no great schemes, no pretense. They live to be alive; to be honeybees; to gather nectar. As he sat against the fender of the Ghia he knew this. And perhaps it was this simple unassuming being without pretense or striving that attracted him to the bees more than all the noble anthropomorphic analogies. He was deeply moved and comforted by the bees and their world, and could never find words to express it well enough.
Monday, April 25, 2011
a day like any other...
Today was Saturday of Memorial Day weekend—a Memorial Day weekend like any other—opening day for the great American outdoor party of Summer. Millions of Americans all across the continent were flocking to beaches, firing up barbecues, playing softball or frisbee, boating, swimming, and engaging in countless other outdoor leisure activities for the first time since Fall.
None of his friends or family yet new of the death his marriage had already died. It would still be years before most found out. They were holding on to its outward trappings for the kids. He held some hope that it could be resurrected, but in some deep place where he seldom visited within his heart, he knew that the marriage had been totaled in the crash. So they went on, playing house, and little league, and soccer, with picnics and barbecues and parties and all the activities that make up a Norman Rockwell happiness.
Three other families had joined them in their back yard to swim and sun and relax and play and barbecue the day away. The hollow pop of ping pong balls against table and paddles, the sharp click of billiard balls crashing into each other, and the voices of kids playing, drifted from the open patio and game room beyond. More kids splashed and dove and swam and shouted and sputtered in the pool.
The dads sat on the deck under the grape arbor marveling quietly at the peaceful calm of early Summer stillness, and watching over the swimmers to ensure their safety. They talked a little, mostly about nothing at all, and sipped at their cool drinks, just happy not to have anything they needed to be doing; happy to be at leisure with their families intact and healthy and safe. For a while, when the time was right, they moved to the patio to barbecue the meats over hot coals and open flames, as was their responsibility and privilege as men.
The moms swam and sunned and sat in the shade of the mimosa tree and made salads in the kitchen and played with the dogs and played with the kids, and visited with the dads, and all the while, they talked. He had always marveled at how many words a woman has inside her. It was a wonderful thing and he somehow knew that a woman’s freedom to talk was the barometer of her heart. He loved to hear their talk and took comfort in it.
Late in the afternoon the meat was done and most everyone settled down to eat. A couple of kids were still in the pool, not yet hungry, and the dads were back in their chairs on the deck with plates full. The afternoon had grown hot, and most of the kids and all of the moms had moved into the cool of the house to eat. One of the dads commented on what a great back yard they had for barbecues. Another remarked about the still peacefulness of the afternoon.
Then, with a sharp force that froze the moment, there was an ear- splitting explosive crack. The dads were instantly upright, awash with adrenaline and scanning for the source of this assault against the peace. Now a tearing, splitting, ripping, creaking sound replaced the explosion as the southward fork of the old Monterey pine in the neighbor’s yard slowly leaned over and crashed ponderously through the fence, imbedding its huge shattering branches in the lawn between the pool and the patio. Not three seconds had passed before the dying giant lay still in the yard, 60 feet long and 40 feet wide. Half of the yard was beneath the sprawl of twisted and broken branches.
The dads scrambled to see if anyone had been caught under the tree and the others poured out of the house to see what the commotion was about. The pool was now empty, and a quick head count proved that the only casualties were the great pine itself, two feet of redwood fence shattered by its huge trunk, and a small apricot tree loaded with green fruit but now broken and lost. The kids, playing on that lawn only a little while before were all safe.
For a moment awe silenced the group and then chatter erupted and everyone was telling their own stories of the tree’s falling. The sprawling branches on the upward side were filled with youthful explorers. The dads surveyed the tangle of branches and trunk for potential dangers and the moms got out the cameras to record the event.
As the energy dissipated from the moment, he began to realize how fragile peace and safety and comfort really are. He was overwhelmed with gratitude that the tree had not sent them to the emergency room or the morgue. Their backyard barbecue could well have provided the evening news, and four families could have been tragically altered forever.
In the years that followed, he was always moved when he thought about the old pine tree, and how devastating it’s fall might have been. And it would be years before he realized what a powerful foreshadowing it was for the transitions to come in his own life.
Memorial Day weekend, 1996, Gilroy, California
None of his friends or family yet new of the death his marriage had already died. It would still be years before most found out. They were holding on to its outward trappings for the kids. He held some hope that it could be resurrected, but in some deep place where he seldom visited within his heart, he knew that the marriage had been totaled in the crash. So they went on, playing house, and little league, and soccer, with picnics and barbecues and parties and all the activities that make up a Norman Rockwell happiness.
Three other families had joined them in their back yard to swim and sun and relax and play and barbecue the day away. The hollow pop of ping pong balls against table and paddles, the sharp click of billiard balls crashing into each other, and the voices of kids playing, drifted from the open patio and game room beyond. More kids splashed and dove and swam and shouted and sputtered in the pool.
The dads sat on the deck under the grape arbor marveling quietly at the peaceful calm of early Summer stillness, and watching over the swimmers to ensure their safety. They talked a little, mostly about nothing at all, and sipped at their cool drinks, just happy not to have anything they needed to be doing; happy to be at leisure with their families intact and healthy and safe. For a while, when the time was right, they moved to the patio to barbecue the meats over hot coals and open flames, as was their responsibility and privilege as men.
The moms swam and sunned and sat in the shade of the mimosa tree and made salads in the kitchen and played with the dogs and played with the kids, and visited with the dads, and all the while, they talked. He had always marveled at how many words a woman has inside her. It was a wonderful thing and he somehow knew that a woman’s freedom to talk was the barometer of her heart. He loved to hear their talk and took comfort in it.
Late in the afternoon the meat was done and most everyone settled down to eat. A couple of kids were still in the pool, not yet hungry, and the dads were back in their chairs on the deck with plates full. The afternoon had grown hot, and most of the kids and all of the moms had moved into the cool of the house to eat. One of the dads commented on what a great back yard they had for barbecues. Another remarked about the still peacefulness of the afternoon.
Then, with a sharp force that froze the moment, there was an ear- splitting explosive crack. The dads were instantly upright, awash with adrenaline and scanning for the source of this assault against the peace. Now a tearing, splitting, ripping, creaking sound replaced the explosion as the southward fork of the old Monterey pine in the neighbor’s yard slowly leaned over and crashed ponderously through the fence, imbedding its huge shattering branches in the lawn between the pool and the patio. Not three seconds had passed before the dying giant lay still in the yard, 60 feet long and 40 feet wide. Half of the yard was beneath the sprawl of twisted and broken branches.
The dads scrambled to see if anyone had been caught under the tree and the others poured out of the house to see what the commotion was about. The pool was now empty, and a quick head count proved that the only casualties were the great pine itself, two feet of redwood fence shattered by its huge trunk, and a small apricot tree loaded with green fruit but now broken and lost. The kids, playing on that lawn only a little while before were all safe.
For a moment awe silenced the group and then chatter erupted and everyone was telling their own stories of the tree’s falling. The sprawling branches on the upward side were filled with youthful explorers. The dads surveyed the tangle of branches and trunk for potential dangers and the moms got out the cameras to record the event.
As the energy dissipated from the moment, he began to realize how fragile peace and safety and comfort really are. He was overwhelmed with gratitude that the tree had not sent them to the emergency room or the morgue. Their backyard barbecue could well have provided the evening news, and four families could have been tragically altered forever.
In the years that followed, he was always moved when he thought about the old pine tree, and how devastating it’s fall might have been. And it would be years before he realized what a powerful foreshadowing it was for the transitions to come in his own life.
Memorial Day weekend, 1996, Gilroy, California
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