It must be nice....

I was chatting with a friend the other day about family and life, when they said to me, 

“It must be nice to have children that grow up to be good people.”

Those words swept over me like a surge in the calm waters of the gulf I live on, not disturbing me, but almost moving through and around me at the same time.

“It must be nice to have children that grow up to be good people.”

  

It kept reverberating in my head as so many of the moments in my children’s lives flashed in my minds eye with each wave.  The conversation moved on, but the gentle waves kept coming,

“It must be nice to have children that grow up to be good people.”

It is.

I am proud of them.

They are good people.

I am proud to point to each and every one of them and tell others about them.  I can’t imagine ever feeling different about them, even when they irritate the hell out of me on occasion.
I have more than a handful , but short of the dozen that supposedly would have made them less expensive.  And each one of them could not be more different than each of the others. 

The only thing I would change in their collective lives if I could, would be to remove pain and sorrow.

Some say, “But how would they know true joy without suffering?”
My answer to them would be "I did not have to lose a daughter, to know and appreciate the joy of having her siblings in my life".

One needs not suffer lack, to be satisfied with enough.  One needs not suffer pain, to experience bliss. Nor sorrow, to be filled with happiness.  One simply needs to be a good person.

“It must be nice to have children that grow up to be good people.”

It is.

REB

Real life lessons keep on unfolding themselves.

He was standing just a few feet from the bottom of the steps in the sand on the beach, looking like a surrealistic commentary on life. He resembled a rather dignified European waiter holding in his left hand what appeared to be a platter of pastries stacked almost a foot high and a very large electric box fan in the other. His rather worn clothes and backpack were a clue to his domestic state.

I was walking along the surf as part of my usual routine. There are many unusual people that pass through this island, and it is not uncommon to see a soul that has lost their grasp on what most consider normal. And so when I returned to those same steps where the CHD (crazy homeless dude) had been standing, I was surprised, but not entirely shocked that the CHD had taken my flipflips, which I had left neatly at the bottom of the steps as I had intended to walk in the water.

I was slightly annoyed that I had been "robbed" of the chance to blow those old flipflops out, but was able to laugh about it and posted a little note on fb saying:
 
Today's life lesson: If you don't want the crazy homeless dude with a tray of donuts stacked a foot high in one hand and an electric 36 inch window fan in the other to steal your flipflops, then dont leave them by the steps while you walk in the surf!

I spent several hours off & on that day looking for the new flipflops my wife had given me and finally when I thought all was lost, discovered where they had been hidden. The night came to it's usual end and I awoke to another Monday.
With my new flipflops on, I walked down the seawall, as is my custom. Down the steps, as is my custom.
And what greeted me at the bottom of those steps?

My old flipflops.

 I laughed a deep belly laugh when I saw them, returned to me as it were.

I had not really been offended by his trespass. For whatever reasons something has broken him. He needed my flipflops that day and had I returned to them in time, he might have even asked me if he could borrow them to get to his destination. Instead, he "borrowed" them without asking.

He may have felt remorse, or not. But he returned them to the place he took them from with just a bit more wear on them. He may have been watching to see that I got them, or he may have left them in the early morning half-light and scurried away.

Whatever the case, I am reminded that things are not always as they appear.

REB

Galveston 43rd St. Restoration project is not friendly to the property owners along 43rd St.

Hey All,

I do feel a bit like biting heads off today, but I will endeavor to discuss the "facts" with as few editorial barbs as I can. I am making no promises though.

At the end of March, sometime around the 25th, I noticed a work crew that was marking some trees and shrubs along 43rd St. with colored tape. When I asked them what was going on and if my trees would be affected, they gave me a flyer that said basically, that work on the "43rd Street Restoration project" was beginning and the crew said "some of the trees and shrubs were going to have to go, but that mine were fine". They then erected a nice little temporary fence around my trees, which seemed to say "leave this property as it is!". That day and the next I noticed several palms trees, a couple of cottonwoods, numerous oleanders, and others along 43rd St. cut down.

At one residence the crew had decided not to cut the oleanders for some reason, but had uprooted the decades old plants. leaving 3 yawning holes, each 5 feet across, with a tangle of roots sticking in all directions.

 Let me tell you about this property owners experience. 

She is elderly, maintains the property herself, including all of the yard work, and is one of the only black property owners on 43rd St.

She had no warning that the city's street renovation plan included making use of her property.

When she returned home the day after the crew had pulled her oleanders out by the root, she had no idea who had done it. When she finally determined that it was somehow related to city work, she called and asked for a city employee to come and address her concerns.

Which were, first and foremost, Who gave the city permission to destroy her property without notice and consent? Then, what was going to be done about the gaping holes in her lawn? She was concerned about herself trying to work around such a hazard, as well as any bystander that happened along and was injured on her property.

The city employee that came to address her problems, told her that the city owned the property almost up to her house and could do whatever they want. He was very emphatic that there was nothing that she could say or do to change that. He then erected temporary fencing around the gaping holes and tangles of roots the work crews had left.

She did not point out to the city worker the strangeness with which her particular property had been treated. But in her discussion with me, the fact that every other home that had trees or shrubs removed for this project had been done with a chainsaw, very neatly with little to no debris left on the property, and the property of one of the only black property owners on the street was treated differently and left in shambles was not missed by her.

Those gaping holes along with the dangerous roots remained exposed until roughly June 22, when I pointed out to the contractor how that particular resident might feel her race had a factor in them treating her property in a singularly different fashion than any other home on the street.

Their solution?

Remove the temp fence, chop a few of the roots with a machete, and dump wet sand on the holes with a frontloader.

Now, do I think the city or the contractor singled her property out for different and inferior treatment because she was black?

Well? No, but it looks DAMNED weird! 

I have spoken to numerous people about it, driven different people up and down 43rd St. discussing the various residents and their individual issue with the project. When I point out her property and the fact the she is black, everyone of them is incredulous and said something to the effect of "How or why would they do that?"

I don't know, but it doesn't look good. And it doesn't make me feel any better about how the city is handling this project.

Feel free to take a drive up or down 43rd St. to see what I am writing about.

REB

4 years of silence.

Well,
it has been quite a while.
A lot has happened in 4 years, new lives created, old lives came to their inevitable end, young lives tragically lost, bodies bruised, minds changed, hearts broken, goals abandoned, goals exceeded, marriages, and more.
There have been many good times, but it has been hard and I have just not felt up to writing things fit for public consumption.

For those of you that are old friends, be forewarned, much of what I write in the next few months  will be specific to my neighborhood on Galveston Island. And to those of you that are new friends, hold on. I am not sure how regular my posts here will be, but I am pretty pissed off about the events that have unfolded over the last few months and this is a vehicle for redress.

The City of Galveston obligated my property to permanent public access without notifying me specifically of their intention to do so. They have created a sidewalk plan that places 5' wide sidewalks literally inches from resident bedrooms and they have been hostile and almost non-responsive to questions from residents.

City employees have shown complete disregard for or hostile communication with the truly handicapped, disabled, and elderly residents along 43rd st. They have threatened these residents with property seizure through eminent domain if they were uncooperative and suggested that the improvements that the handicapped residents had made to accommodate their disability were not to code and would probably be quite costly for the resident if they were not co-operative.

Other residents were told that portions of their homes were actually on city property and that they had nothing to say about the sidewalks planned because the property was not theirs! WTF! Please excuse my "french", but who pays the taxes for the property? Who is responsible to maintain the property and all the improvements to it? Who will be liable for injuries sustained on it? Whose property will suffer wear, tear, vandalism, and theft as a result of the public being invited onto our property by the city?

Shall I get started about all the dishonesty concerning city Master plans? Officials are promising "connected" residents that their homes or streets will not be required to have a public sidewalk placed on it by virtue of their "nice landscaping" or supposed historic nature of the street.
Residents on 45th st, which runs from Broadway to the seawall and is a main N-S travel route, are being promised that their properties will not be encumbered by a sidewalk, while millions are being spent to provide a sidewalk from Broadway on 43rd St. to what is essentially a dead-end into very busy vehicle traffic on U Ave. and  a walk of nearly a quarter-mile on that unprotected street before arriving to the seawall.

I could go on and on blowing steam on all the ways the City of Galveston has screwed it's residents with a project we all should be happy over., but I am probably just going cap it right now. I will, however, be directing all that steam into more posts.

REB

Dancing with the great mother.

Smooth & cool in my hands.
I am inspired & intimidated.

Older than mankind,
I beckon her to conform to my will.

But she is composed of the ages,
she has a will of her own.

The ancients began this dance so many millennia ago,
caressing the great mother,
they implored her as they kneaded and shaped her to meet their needs.

As they created from her bosom,
figures of worship and vessels of service.

And then they waited for her answer
as they passed her through the fire.

Would their labors end as shattered fragments lying in the ash?
Or would she bless them with a token of their dance together?

And so I join the dance started so long ago,
caressing the great mother,
imploring her as I knead & shape her to meet my needs.

Creating from her bosom,
figures of worship & vessels of service.

The ancients hands become my hands and my hands become theirs.
We become one in our dance with the great mother.

And they wait with me
as I pass her through the fire.

Watching to see if she has left me with shattered fragments,
or a token of our dance together.

REB

Faith...

This is a tribute to the daughter we lost "in utero". It is a wound that periodically has to be reopened as it never is truly healed. Her name is Faith.

I remember the very first time I gazed upon your face
Such serenity, such peacefulness, of one filled so full of grace

I remember your hands & feet, perfect in every way
so tiny & yet so wonderful in all of their detail

I remember your soft, soft skin,
So fragile it might break at my lightest touch

I remember the floor that day
wet from all the tears that fell upon it

I remember the cries I heard
from the woman that I love and her friends

I remember the broken apologies of the physician
as he repeatedly said "I am so sorry that you have to go through this"

I remember taking you home
so that your siblings could see you there

I remember holding you
with just my right hand

as I took the final look
of your journey to our land

I remember laying you
in the box of oak I'd made

I remember closing it
and locking down the latch

The ground was slightly moist that day
as my shovel pierced the ground

The grass must have wept with us
as it tasted our tears

I remember my heart breaking
as I covered up your grave

I remember being told not to grieve too much
after all you never really lived

I don't know if I will recognize you
when I leave this place for good

But if you see me there one day
please tell me all the things you've done

I'll tell you a little of myself
and gently hold your hand.

REB

When she sleeps at night......

I wrote this many years ago, I like it and don't want to lose it.

an infectious laugh
an impish grin

a funfilled life
an untimely end

when she sleeps at night
she dreams of him

the yellow haired boy with suntouched skin

she longs to watch him
play with friends

she longs to smell
his sweaty hair again

when she sleeps at night
she dreams of him

the yellow haired boy with suntouched skin

her stoney ears
still hear his laugh

Her weary eyes
still see his grin

when she sleeps at night
and dreams of him

that yellow haired boy with suntouched skin.

REB

"Flights of angels sing"

So my grandfather finally succumbed to the Alzheimer's that had slowly and cruelly robbed him of who he was over the last ten years.

These last few years have been hard on my whole extended family. The "Paps" I grew up with was gone, saving a few fleeting moments, echoes of his past. About three years ago he basically lost the ability to communicate what was on his mind. No-one can even know if they were lucid thoughts, he would simply stutter in an agonizing “deeb-deeb-deeb” until he grew tired of doing that.

Every time I would see this I would rage inwardly “FUCK YOU, YOU GOD DAMNED DISEASE!! JUST KILL HIM, LIKE YOU INTEND TO, DON’T KEEP HOLLOWING HIM OUT INTO THE EMPTY SHELL HE IS BECOMING!”
And then I would rage at god, “You cruel bastard, you call yourself merciful? Fuck you too; if you have any power at all you would end this!”.

It was difficult to watch the gentle “man’s man” I loved be lost. We used to lay on the floor together “spooned”, watching TV and singing the popular songs of his youth, ”You are my sunshine!”, Toot, Toot, Tootsie, Goodbye” and other lesser known songs. I am probably one of the few people my age that can just break out and sing those songs in their entirety. We used to wrestle on that floor, with him grabbing me in an inescapable scissor hold that would squash my stomach like a vice. That would result in my pounding on him with my fist with all my might, only to be met with playfully disingenuous toying “Oh, Ew, Ouch, Oh, that hurts”.

But for all his manliness, he was a softy. I never heard him raise his voice; he never spanked me, even when I deserved it. He loved animals and every pet they ever had was a stray that somehow found its way to their house or just “arrived” and decided they were home. They were not my "Mamaw’s" pets really, they were his, laying beside him, sitting on his lap, following him on his walks. One of the cats would even go for the morning walk with him after he had retired.

Since our moving back to Texas I had only visited him a handful of times and his usual reaction was either indifference to the strange hairy man in his room or a confused look and gibberish attempts at speaking. But about nine months ago something different occurred, this time I walked into his nursing home room and said “hey Paps!” as was my usual greeting and for one split second there was a look of clarity & recognition on his face as he perfectly articulated “Hey!” as was his usual response for my whole life when he was lucid. Then just as quickly, the confusion rushed back in and his eyes dimmed. I knew at that moment, that was the last time he would ever know me and I told him I loved him and said goodbye. I visited a few times more, but I could hardly bring myself to do so. My Paps was gone, living and breathing though he was, the man behind the veil of flesh had departed.

Sometimes my mother or sister would think they saw glimpses of his returning to visit as it were, but I would privately wrestle with their observations. I had worked in nursing homes for a few years; I had watched this disease plunder and kill more often than I cared to remember. Was what they saw wishful thinking or had he managed for a brief moment to circumvent the prison his mind was in? He still couldn't communicate with them, so my mind wrestled with what I believed and what they did.

Then the call came, at the same time cruel and relieving, “He is at the end, the Dr. says anyone that has unfinished business or needs to say "Goodbye" should come soon.” I wrestled with the decision, I had no unfinished business, and I had said “Goodbye”. So if not for me and not for him, what about for them? For my grandmother that had sat everyday with him for the last 5 years in the nursing home, or my mother, or my sister?

I didn’t want to see him like that, I didn’t know if I could bear showing up just as the final crisis came and seeing and feeling the crushing collective grief of those I loved. I had to make a decision. I decided I would not go for one last visit. It was selfish, but I think I can live with my selfishness in this circumstance better than I could have the alternative.

And so we buried him yesterday, the funeral was satisfactory, functional, but not overly sentimental in the least. Some may have wished for a more personal touch, but I for one was glad not to be torn by the emotional memories of others. I had a lifetime of them floating through my mind as the minister prayed both for his soul and those of us grieving his loss. My brother, sons, cousin, nephew, and I served as his pallbearers, his honor guard, the last members of his blood to have any contact with his remains, even if it was through a wooden box.

Some of my family felt his extraordinarily long battle with death was his way of “Raging against the dying of the light” and prefer to associate that Dylan Thomas poem with him, but I am not so sure.

He was a gentle man, I prefer Shakespeare's Hamlet:

“Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince;
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest”

REB

A birthday wish!

One interesting thing about getting older is watching all the children you have known over the years become adults, including your own of course. For me, some of the relationships with their parents have changed or even become acrimonious, but I still love those kids. All of them.
So I don’t mind at all when they ask to fb friend me or something like that. I want to know how they are doing, what kind of person are they now, I want to talk with them as adults.
It is funny though, for most of them, in my mind’s eye, when I think of them, often the image I have is when I met them as children or some significant period of time when we interacted a lot when they were kids.
I know they are adults, and relate to them as adults. I try to be friendly, & not too paternal or patronizing, I tease, debate, joke, dialogue, & so forth with them, like I would some other young adult I am just getting to know. But when they are doing something I think is stupid, I get more pissed than I would at some “new person”, when they do something great, I share more pride than I would at some “new person”, when they are doing something that I believe to be a danger, I am more concerned than I would be with some “new person”. I have to some of their chagrin,I am certian, been known to call their parents and tell when I thought they may be making decisions that could imperil them.
I am not sure if their parents thought I was over-reacting or being a busybody, but in every case that I have done so, I felt I would be betraying the family if I didn’t say something.
Probably, unknown to these kid/adults I share in some small way, some of the worries & hopes that their parents have for these kid/adults.
They are very much, my nieces & nephews, but they are more than that, they are “real people” they aren’t just my old friends children to me.
I want to see them fulfill their potential and above all, to be truly content with who & what they are.
I have watched with trepidation some of these kids make horrible decisions and have to go through the agony & consequences of those decisions, but I have also seen some of those same kid/adults overcome their “tumult & trials” to be adults that I like, that I like hearing about, that I believe will be okay in the end. I have seen some of them blossom without having to drag themselves through the mud and seem to know & be comfortable with who they are at a relatively early age.
So for me, one of the things that counters the sucky aspects of getting older, is watching the new generation grow up.
I watch with baited breath sometimes as my own kid/adults step into their paths, make their choices and realize & become “who they are”, but I will always be their dad. Just like my dad is to me. We relate to each other as adults, we laugh, tease, debate, discuss, & do things that friends do, but he will always be my father, there will always be a small part of me that has the emotions, thoughts & expectations of a child regarding him. Perhaps that is just me.
But for all of these kid/adults, including my own children, I share hope for the future. It is likely to be full of ups & downs, I hope that with all my shortcomings I can somehow be a friendly face to them, and someone from whom they can expect a real dialogue from & not simply rhetoric. Although, I am full of ……”opinions” and willing to debate vigorously, I have long reached the realization that I only know a tiny fraction of what can be known in this life. I hope I can impart some small portion of that to them & perhaps, run contrary to the proverb, & learn some news “tricks” from them.

So my birthday wish today is for all these kids, and is summed up by this quote

‘If there’s one wish I have for my children, it would be for them to do what they think is right and adventurous and exciting and titillating, and not to worry about what anybody says about them”
Lillian Carter


I especially like the fact that Lillian used the word "titillating"! ;{D}

Go out & get TITILLATED!

REB

The Invisible Man

I had an experience yesterday that was both curious & mildly disturbing.
Apparently, I became invisible for a brief span of time. Which struck me as curious as I did not have on my magic belt of invisibility, nor was I aware of any time/space phase distortions in the area.
However, none the less, I became invisible, not in the way that a baby does when he closes his eyes & thinks nobody can see him because he can’t see anyone else. My eyes were wide open, I was speaking and yet those spoken to either ignored me or could not perceive my existence as a human being. That was the mildly disturbing part.
What is also curious/disturbing is that the people that were unable to perceive my “place in their space” as it were, are acquaintances. People that had never meet me before last night seemed to have no problem interacting with me, the invisible man. Perhaps they had special powers that allowed them to see me.

Now, it could be, as was pointed out to me by my beloved in very delicate phrasing, I am just not that memorable, after all, she reminded me after I told her of my bizarre experience, it was almost a 1 1/2 yeara in one case and 1 year in the other that we have interacted. But I have trouble biting that one for a few reasons, maybe most notably my ego. Not that I take a huge amount of pride in being me, but even my dad says I am “a bit eccentric”. I have a thick gray beard, wear my long hair in a ponytail, have both ears pierced with “gauged ear rings”, wear flip flops most of time and am not exactly what one would think of as average size, not huge mind you, just bigger than your average pirate. I am also not very shy & engage in conversation with people readily, even willing to discuss some of the easily misunderstood aspects of our family life choices, like homeschooling. So, in my prodigious psyche, I think I probably leave an impression. Certainly not one you forget in a year’s time.

In the 1 1/2 year case, a couple came into the gym I had my girls at doing team sports. We have interacted at the very least several times with this couple. Their daughters have been to our house at least a few times, with mom staying to chat at least once for a good length of time with my beloved & me. Our daughters have been to their house several times, generally with my beloved in tow & having a least a few prolonged times of discourse in their home. I met the supposedly “anti-social” husband a few times when picking everyone up and he was true to his reputation, so I did not take offence.

Now this couple had my daughters, beloved, & I over for New Years eve celebrations last year, which is where I was introduced to the “1 year” case. It was a very small party, with less than 12 adults attending. Most of the children hung out downstairs playing games & what not and most of the adults sat around the kitchen table talking. A not insignificant portion of time was spent getting to know my beloved & I, as we were the “new couple” so to speak. Several of them, when told, knew exactly which house we lived in (small town), with the “1 year” case actually living just around the corner about two blocks away. I am much more verbose than my beloved, though she is not as reticent as she was in her younger days, so I would have to say I did more of the talking with regard to “who we are” than she did. Our choice to homeschool was a subject of interest and given some of the reactions, not entirely settling. However, I thought “that” conversation as well as the rest of the evening was stimulating and enjoyable.

We lost regular contact with the “1 1/2 year” case when the mother & daughters left the state temporarily while rebuilding their home after being devastated by IKE. And we never really established a relationship with the “1 year”case, though we lived just around the corner from each other. However, when seeing each other on occasion as people in a small town, on a small island are prone to do, we were always cordial. I always make it a point to say hello to people I am familiar with when passing as it seems the friendly thing to do. I generally leave room for more dialogue to take place, but I, like them, may be trying get something accomplished, so I don’t think too much about it if they need to go about their business.

Last night’s experience was not one of those, “I am grabbing groceries for dinner & gotta go” instances. We were in a foyer watching our children playing in the gym. We weren’t more than 30 feet from each other at any given time. The woman I am most familiar with did reply to my hello to her, but then I “disappeared”, her “anti-social” husband came in and he too replied to me hello, but again I mysteriously disappeared. The man of the “1 year” case simply did not acknowledge my hello, and began to engage with the other couple as well as a few people I didn’t know. I tried on several occasions to engage in dialogue over a period of 30 minutes with these people, but with NO RESPONSE. Not the ugh look, rolled eyes of “please get away from me”, or glare of “why the hell are you talking to me” or even the terse reply that obviously signals “you are not welcome to play in our reindeer game Rudolf”. Just nothing, no averted gaze even, it was if I was invisible & inaudible. That I didn’t exist.

I have to tell you, I was perplexed as am not inclined to believe the sci-fi scenario that I slipped into the fringe universe and they couldn’t perceive me. I am left to conclude they were “freezing me out”. I can’t imagine why. I have been told recently by someone very close to me that I am full of shit, and need to learn boundaries, but in this case I cannot fathom a reason for a “freeze out”. I have never had a disagreement or conflict with them or really anyone on this island.

My perplexion at this is furthered by my own understanding of the “freeze out”. In my mind to do so, is the strongest action I could take against a human that is not violent. It is deeper than screaming in their face, deeper than the “I’m not talking to you, right now!” To ignore someone to such a degree as to not acknowledge their presence, is to state their absolute worthlessness as a human, “you aren’t even worth my anger, or even the breath it takes to say “leave me alone” they just don’t exist. To be honest, I have never done it to anyone, although there are about 4 people living that I feel that way about, I just am not capable of moving on from the “anger” part of that action. The people I think deserve such treatment, I simply have too much anger towards for me to successfully pull off a “freeze out”.

Perhaps, they were communicating my boundaries to me by not responding to innocuous conversational statements I directed to them and I was not recognizing their boundaries. Perhaps, I am not as memorable as I think, and they didn’t know who the hell this freak was talking to them in such a familiar manner. Perhaps, the mundane & trivial banter they were engaged in required more focus than I realized and they were simply not aware that I was speaking to them. Or maybe Galveston Island has some freaky fringe universe wormholes & I brushed into one of them last night. Or maybe I am just having a pity party resulting from being ignored.

Whatever the case, I will let it slide for my daughters sakes. The daughters of these adults are my daughters friendly acquaintances, and they don’t have many on the island. So I won’t rock the boat in hopes that it was just a bizarre occurrence in my life or one that I somehow deserve.

But it is a very odd feeling to be invisible.

I want to ride my bicycle.

I have been wanting to go for my morning bike ride along the seawall for some time, but the weather has just not been co-operating lately.

The weather prophets had predicted rain again for this morning, but their timing was off and the anticipated storm system had not arrived by the time I crawled out of bed, so I decided I would get my ride in this morning.

It was a little cool as I set out for the seawall, and I could tell from the thickness of the air that there would be a good deal of fog on the beach. As I drew closer I could hear the roar of the waves, which at the distance I was from the seawall meant “big water”.

The Gulf of Mexico is an interesting body of water. Sometimes it is as still, & flat as a placid lake with barely a ripple at the beaches edge. And then other times, the tide is high and the waves roar & crash in a chaotic & boisterous display. Every time I approach the seawall I wonder what the water will be like, I am never disappointed.
This morning my ears were correct in gauging the size of the waves, as I turned the corner and beheld the Gulf it was “big”. People that live here or that have spent a lot of time here know what that means. The sea level seems swollen and while Galveston waves don’t compare in size to West coast or Hawaiian waves, on days like this, they are big & powerful, roaring & sending spray high into the air as they break. One of the things I most like on days like this is the smell, the waves toss the smell of the sea salt into the air and it makes me want to take deep breaths absorbing all the nuances the ocean has brought this day.

Today it was salty & robust, there was nothing subtle about the fragrance. As I rode my bike up onto one of the paved jetties I could see the clever seagulls doing a dance with the big waves crashing over the end of the rocks. When a wave broke on the end of the jetty it would send a shallow river of water down the paved portion, so as the wave broke the seagulls would leap high enough to avoid getting drenched, but land quick enough to pick any sea critters out of the rivulet for a tasty meal.

As I sat perched on my bicycle there on that little jetty, I also watched the one lone surfer out this morning. He was getting a workout in the churning waves, but his labor was not without reward, he caught several very nice waves during the time I was there. I decided at some point while watching him riding the waves that this morning’s bike ride was not about cardio, or burning calories, it was about the sensual rewards this little sandbar offers.

I let myself just absorb what my eyes could see, what my ears could hear, what my nose could smell, what my mouth could taste, what my skin could feel.

I let it have its work in stilling my soul.

And then I rode my bicycle back home.

The fall of the Titans.

In Greek mythology the Titans were the original Rock Star Gods, the younger Olympians being full of piss & vinegar, whipped their asses in an epic war, & tossed them down to earth. The Titans did not give up entirely, but many of them became acutely aware of their frailties, & those that chose to fight the Olympians, did so in a decidedly "gorilla" manner for maintaining what was left of their powers & revenge rather than to win the heavens back.

There are many humans in this day and age that either consciously or unconsciously buy into the notion that they are "gods". Most of them have what seems to them to be good reason for it. They do remarkable things very often that the "average" man or woman will never do. Physicians, are particularly prone to this type of thinking, being a fraternal order, they are encouraged to think this way by their superiors and peers.

I grew up in Dr.s offices, playing by my mother’s desk observing the "gods" as they preened & strutted, so often as the Greek gods did, looking for someone to stroke their ego's and laud their accomplishments. Even as a child, I found it offensive.
But I understand the temptation, people come to them weak, ill, & disabled and these men & women seek out the cause & often find the remedy for their subje...err patients. Surgeons are especially tempted to think of themselves as miracle workers, as nearly every time they go into the operating room they hold the very life of their patient in their hands. And usually they are successful.

Heady stuff, making the sick well, the blind see, the lame walk, the dying live. It is the stuff that gods are made of. No wonder they are tempted to think of themselves in such a light.

They are taught almost from the beginning of their entrance into their profession that some people won’t get better, some people they treat will die, but most will not. They are taught to put those that couldn't be saved behind them, not to dwell on them, there was after all no way to rescue them or their training would have done so.

This is reinforced by their experience, especially in 1st world countries, where the availability of the newest drugs, techniques, and facilities is ready for those that can afford it or have some benefactor willing to pay. These Dr's rarely fail, and when they do their training kicks in to insulate them from it.

Now reading up to this point, you must think I have a really terrible opinion of Dr.'s and you would be right. I will never forget the arrogance of the Dr. that leaned back in his chair, while trying to convince me I probably wasn't as sick as I was that, "I'm just an old country Dr., but I have healed quite a few people in my day. I will eventually figure out what's wrong with you."As he rejected the conclusions of his peers. In my experience that type of arrogance is the norm, humble Dr.'s are the exception. However I don't think many of them started out that way, some get into the medical profession strictly for the prestige & money, but I think many, most in fact get into the medical profession to help people. And then later become caught up in the system that exists.

So when a situation as dire as the conditions that prevail in Haiti arise, that original impetus to help people in need kicks in. They want to help. In the case of Haiti, many of them answered the call. They went to comparatively stone-age country, with stone-age conditions & attempted to help people in worse conditions & with less supplies and with less tools than you could find in most of our kitchens.
They were faced with some of the worst injuries that you could imagine and more often than not they were helpless. They were left to amputate limbs with box-cutters & hacksaws, with a host of people holding down a screaming, writhing patient that could not be anesthetized as there was nothing to do so with, then give them aspirin for the pain and no antibiotics to help them fight off the infections that come with such brutal procedures.

There were wonderful instances where they were able to do something incredible, but for the most part they were losing way more than they were helping, and the ones they were helping had a very good chance of succumbing to death later.
These Dr.'s were not trained to deal with the magnitude of failure they would face in such an extreme circumstance. All the platitudes they were taught, all the logic that usually consoled them at home, even logic that was actually irrefutable in this situation, like the lack of supplies, drugs, tools, sanitation etc... did not hold much comfort in the face of what they experienced. They lost many many more than they saved. And now back at home, the faces of those that they could not "heal" haunt them.

They were cast down from the lofty status of "gods among men" and faced with their humanity, they live here on earth. Many people do not have the means to avail themselves of the knowledge they have, even in this wealthy country, people die needlessly for lack of medical care.

I hope the faces of the dead that haunt these Dr.’s from Haiti, don't disappear with time. I hope those faces change those Dr.’s from preening Titans, to compassionate healers that look at our system of care and though it is regal compared to what Haiti has, realize that if people here cannot afford to utilize the wonderfully advanced medical tools, drugs, & knowledge we have here, they suffer just like the Haitians are. I hope they choose all out warfare to bring true change rather than a gorilla war to maintain what they have. I hope if they do so, all the people of our country win, not just the wealthy.

Sleeping Beauty

I envy my wife.

She is a "sleeper".

Not the terrorist laying in wait for instructions to wreak havoc. But, one of those people that needs 9+ hours of sleep to feel rested.

Some of you may think that's a peculiar thing to envy. But normally, when she lays down she falls asleep pretty quickly. Granted her age (youthful though that be), stress, & hormones have been disrupting her usual ability to plop right out on occasion and she does have the occasional night of insomnia. But for the most part, she lays down, closes her eyes, goes to sleep and wakes up 9 or 10 hours later, usually refreshed. There are exceptions of course. As a busy mom, home school teacher, wife, homemaker, college student, etc. there are times when she has to cut short her normal sleep requirements.

I am the quite the opposite, if I am not just exhausted (or a bit tipsy) it can take me as long as 2hours to succumb to a fitful, thrashing, pseudo-sleep, that may last for 6-8 hours interrupted by several periods of wakefulness, that leaves me waking up in the morning thinking "CRAP, IT IS NOT ALREADY MORNING!" There is usually very little reason to lay there and try to squeeze in a little more sleep as it just isn't going to happen, my body is already sounding the alarm, letting me know in particularly unavoidable ways that it hurts. The only solution being to get up and inflict more pain upon it, until things begin to loosen up & the pain subsides to the point that I don't want to run out & rip the head off every person that dares to look into my eyes.

So after riding my bike (when weather permits), eating my breakfast, and drinking my coffee I plop down at my desk to begin my day of work. My desk is in our bedroom, sort of at the foot of the bed. So, I have a wonderful view of my wife as she lays there, first in deep sleep, then a little tossing as she begins her journey of wakefulness, then as she begins to slip back & forth between sleep & the new day, her foot begins to move back & forth.

As I look at her face (when she does not have it covered under the blanket) I am struck anew each day at her beauty. Her hair is not askew, her face is smooth & unwrinkled, she rarely creaks or pops when she gets up & starts moving around. She looks so good that most people that haven't known me for long think she is my daughter when they first see her.

My side of the bed is a dissaster area. The sheets & covers pulled off and in a tangle looking as someone is preparing them for laundry. Her side is the picture of neatness, looking as if she slid into a neatly made bed, laid motionless for the night and then slid out again in the morning leaving a barely noticeable disturbance of the covers.

When I wake up there are deep wrinkles etched into my face, my hair looks as if I went for a 10 hour ride in a convertible, and you don't want to hear about the pain in my joints, muscles...well it isn't pretty.

Now she is no morning songbird, she isn't what anyone would call verbose or really even communicative when she first wakes up, and she also is not particularly enthralled by being awoken with a kiss,

but I love seeing her poke her face out of the covers & blink her eyes trying to get them to focus on the day.

Watching Sleeping Beauty awaken is always a good start to a day.

Snapshot

The smell of the sea fills my senses

as my feet march steadily along the beach towards the crashing waves.

The sounds of my daughters' squeals and my wife's shrieks

as the cool waters of the gulf splash them

are like background noise in my ears.

My sons have gone into the water before me

and are reveling in their very first swim in the ocean

delighting in the waves that pulse up and down

occasionally washing over their heads.

Teenagers now, I notice they are both manly in their fearlessness

and boyish in their play.

My mind says the water isn't cold

as it reaches first my ankles, then my calves,

when it reaches my thighs, my body begins to half accuse/half question

"Are you sure this isn't cold?"

"No!" my mind insists as I dive in,

"You'll be used to it in a minute!"

I am a little out of breath when I reach my boys

but here we are, bobbing in the water,

I wonder what they are thinking

as I watch my daughters hang on their mom

bobbing in the water laughing at something that's

"just between the girls".

I notice that my body has accepted the temperature of the water

and the buoyancy of the gulf is providing soothing relief from my enemy,

the ever present pain,

that slips stealthily from my joints, to my muscles,

to my head, and back again in no particular order.

My reverie, though full of pleasure

has touches of sadness in it

I wish this had happened sooner,

Three of my children are grownup now

and could not come with us on this trip.

Two of them will not come with us in this new chapter of our lives

They are writing their own stories now

Sprinkled, no doubt with episodes of our encounters together

But, I remind myself, that this is what children do.

"Daddy! Come on!", the little's call, "Help us boogie board!"

"Bluster, backpats, & a swift kick in the ass." or "The unholy trinity"

This is an article I wrote in response to the absolute debacle that occured on Galveston Island after Ike. Unfortunately, it was WAAAY to long to submit to the Galveston Daily News as a comment or guest article, so I just posted it on fb. here it is:

I spent most of my childhood and early adult years on the Gulf Coast. Squalls, gale force winds in thunderstorms, flash floods, and even hurricanes were just part the package. As a kid, I never gave a thought to such things as evacuations, infrastructure, recovery and such. By the time I had become an adult I had been through a few hurricanes and was fully aware of just how brutal nature could be and the need for planning for such events. My wife had been through Alicia as a young woman and had never really forgotten how scared she and her older brother were when a tree burst through their roof in Kingwood.

My wife & I, along with our 7 children have spent most of the last 25 years in the Midwest and just moved to Galveston in May. My wife was especially vocal in her desire to be prepared for a hurricane and so as hurricane season approached we dutifully read articles and pamphlets telling us what to do in the event one aimed itself our way. When the City of Galveston announced its Hurricane Preparedness meeting at the San Luis, my wife was determined that we attend, and so we went. I was pleasantly surprised at all the booths with information and swag, my wife and I both filling a small bag with information and "goodies" like band aids, pencils and such. The big screen and supporting equipment left me anticipating an information packed meeting and so I sat, free pencil in hand, ready to take notes on my free note pad, waiting to hear potentially life preserving information.

Was I in for a disappointment. The meeting started 45 minutes late and then we had to listen to Judge Yarbrough, Mayor Thomas, and City Manager Steve LaBlanc lavish praise and adulation on each other for the glorious evacuation plan they had all come up with to avoid a repeat of the debacle of Rita. So after 45 minutes of sitting around waiting for things to start, another 45 minutes of listening to mind numbing, yawn and sleep inducing bluster, along with pats on the back we finally got to hear about 15 minutes of how great our evacuation plan was going to work now that those idiots in Houston were going to stay out of our way, another 15 minutes on what to do if we didn't evacuate and about 30 minutes of the history of hurricanes, how hard it is to predict hurricanes, and the chances of a big one hitting us again. After a short Q & A session I got up bleary eyed and feeling that I had wasted my evening. Nothing of substance was offered at the meeting that had not been splayed all over the television for weeks saving the hot air coming from the mouths of the Galveston’s unholy trinity, Yarbrough, Thomas, and LaBlanc.

My wife had been reading whatever she could find at the local library on the hurricanes Galveston has weathered and wondered out loud what would happen if another struck Galveston head on. What would happen? What would be left? What would flood? I could only give her "the look", the one that says "I don't know, don't bug me about it." When she would finally corner me in order to elicit an audible response, I was somewhat condescending with a generic "The big ones rarely materialize, and we're behind the seawall, we'll be fine." or "We will evacuate if necessary and comeback and fix whatever damage we have after the storm." I figured if a big one hit, things would be difficult for a while, no electricity, possibly no water, maybe no gas, all of which would be very inconvenient and miserable. I really didn't want to dwell on it too hard. We would just have to deal with it, when and if it happened.
I never would have imagined that after all hot air blown by our county and city leaders about how well prepared they were for a hurricane, that all they had really planned for was how to evacuate, it should be obvious by now that they were not just caught with their pants down, but that someone had tied their shoe laces together, and when they got up to run around like chickens with their heads cut off, they tripped and fell over each other like bungling idiots in a bad slapstick routine. Except it wasn't a comedy, it was our lives, those of us that obeyed the evacuation order, placed trust in our officials to help us through this calamity. Instead, they closed the city, closed ranks, denied us lawful access to our property, limited information to the media, and refused or neglected to use the tools at their disposal to accurately communicate the state of the city to those of us that were stranded not only by the damage of the hurricane but by their decision to keep us in the dark.

Instead of a comprehensive and fair plan that would allow an orderly progressive entry back onto the island in a reasonable time for all the residents of Galveston, we have had to rely on the seemingly arbitrary decisions of the officers guarding the checkpoints letting friends, connected folks, and smooth talkers on, while denying entry to others whom they don't know, aren't connected, or were unwilling to lie in order to get back into their homes. I resisted the urge to have a couple of car magnets made for a fictitious Disaster Recovery business to use as a ploy to get on the Island, only to hear a news story about two brothers that successfully did just that and had begun work on their brothers home. People that refused the evacuation order, liars, lawbreakers, BOI's, and the well connected had been able to began necessary repair and recovery of their property, while those of us that tried to be good citizens had to let our damaged homes get worse with every passing day. Homes that had water damage that is difficult to take care of even when attended to immediately, had 12 days of mold, mildew and bacterial growth to be contended with when we are finally allowed in. And the permit process just allowed things to get worse.

I can hardly believe that this was simply misplaced paternalism of officials trying to do what was best for their "children". As events have unfolded and are becoming clearer, I am convinced that our leaders were so ill prepared for such a disaster as Ike that they cutoff communication with the outside world in order to cover their asses as they ineffectively tried to cobble together a recovery. In the process doing that, they made a terrible situation for every Galvestonian worse. Folks with no home other than Galveston and no money to stay anywhere else have had to stay in overcrowded homes of friends or relatives, or cramped uncomfortable shelters that offer little or no privacy to people in the most trying of circumstances, I even met a man while fishing one our local lagoons that was living in a shack he had made from plywood and covered with brush right next to the lagoon to avoid robbery or detection from the police. This is not a bum, but a man with a job who works everyday and cannot repair what was lost and has nowhere to go.

I realize that our county and city officials have probably been working hard to get to us even to this point, but they have failed us by not being prepared for this event, neglecting plans devised by previous administrations, neglecting the needs of the displaced citizenry for information, and refusing to treat all citizens the same. Some of them need to fired, some of them need to be replaced in the next elections, and some of them need a swift kick in the ass

What dreams are made of.

I woke up this morning with a smile on my face…. No, not for THAT reason, you of ribald minds, I should be so lucky.
I woke up smiling because of a dream…. get your mind out of the gutter… you know who you are.

Dreams….they still aren’t totally understood by scientist, but the general consensus at this point in history is that dreams are where we work out things subconsciously that we cannot figure out, work out, or act out in our waking lives. Sometimes they just amount to fantasies that we would never act out in real life, other times they deal with dilemmas that we are unable to resolve, and still other times are a bizarre combination of the sights, sounds, thoughts, & experiences of our lives weaving a narrative of their own. Religious groups often ascribe some spiritual quality to dreams as being divinely or demonically inspired omens, warnings, encouragement, or instructions.

I rarely remember my dreams, so when I do, I ponder it. I wonder what meaning it has? What problem am I trying to solve in it? What thoughts or experiences do I need to be process? What spicy food did I eat that served as the catalyst? For the past eight years my dreams have mostly been dark, violent affairs with me personifying the pain my body & mind are in. I do battle & wage war in pitched bloody conflict, my profane curses being uttered aloud as I sleep and the real-life pain causing such thrashing about that the sheets & covers are torn off. So much so, that my wife’s side of the bed is the picture of tranquility, and my side looks as if someone is preparing to wash the bedclothes.

This morning’s dream was a comedy. It featured two of my favorite people. We used to see each other daily, then more or less weekly, and then rarely. In the last 4 years I have only seen them a few times. Our lives just took different paths. Recently, circumstances were such that they & all their children were able to visit us here on our little island. It was a good visit, it was fun and easy. There was baggage hanging onto our relationship that needed to be jettisoned. As far as I am concerned it was. And so imagine my surprise when they showed up in my dream.

True to the nature of the husband, it was a slapstick comedy, over the top, & corny. They had something they wanted me to know, but couldn’t tell me for some unknown reason. Me, being the epitome of the curious cat that I am, just HAD to know what it was! And so the juvenile punch line developed. “Would you like to tell me, or would you like-like to tell me?” like tweens say when they develop their first crushes. I asked the question in every combination I could think of and in all kinds of ridiculous settings and of course they responded in kind. It got sillier & sillier as the dream went on until finally I woke up with the couple insisting they would “REAALLLLY LIKE-LIKE” to tell me the heretofore unmentioned issue.

Laying there in bed, I smiled, giggling at the dream, wondering what it meant.
What was I trying to work out in relation to them?
What was my unconscious trying to tell me?
Then it came to me, it wasn’t all that profound, nor was it new information.
It was simply that I miss them being a regular part of my life.

And that I REALLY LIKE-LIKE them.

jiffies & yoctoseconds

I love living on this little sand bar.
Today I walked out to the end of one of our little jetties and watched the surfers catching waves just ten yards away from me.
Man is not the only one that loves to ride the waves. As I watched today, I caught an occasional glimpse of different fish riding the waves with the surfers, then a squadron of pelicans came swooping down riding mere inches above the waves floating on the cushion of air that pushes off the wave just before it breaks looking for the fish I saw just a millisecond before, then they smashed into the water with astonishing force to catch the fish that is riding the wave with the surfer.
It all happened in barely an instance that the flash of a camera might catch, and nobody saw it but me, I had the perfect angle there on the end of the jettie. My mind holds the only image of that moment.
As long as I live, that moment lives in me.

#1

I am not sure what will come of this blog . Possibly nothing good. Who knows? Baring myself with regard to the mundane or significant thoughts racing through my mind could be insightful , illuminating, provocative, or absolutely boring. I am a mad man, this will, no doubt come out from time to time.

I am kind & inconsiderate, giving & selfish, harsh & sensitive, stupid & intelligent, intuitive & clueless. I am full of contradictions. If you try to change me, you will most likely not be happy with the results.

I am who I am.
Deal with it.
I don't mind differing opinions, mindsets, or worldviews, but if you really can't deal with who I am, just shut the fuck up.