San Francisco

I’m in the Bay Area this week for work (my day job, that is).  San Francisco is one of my favorite cities in the world.  Not that I’ve seen a lot of world cities, but, well, you know what I mean:  It’s interesting, lively, architecturally pleasing, and romantic.  Aside from its charming, yet impossibly difficult roads, it’s perhaps a perfect city.  Well, except for one other thing – San Francisco could use a good shower. 

This morning, I flew into Oakland.  I ended up sitting on the wrong side of the plane and didn’t get to see much of the city from the air.  But, for a few, brief seconds, as the pilot lined up for the runway, I caught a glimpse of the marvelous city by the bay.  It’s such a nice city, so picturesque and eye-catching, sitting there atop that little dome of rock. 

But once you get on the streets, with all the gum under foot, the garbage, the grime, and the pee reek in the strangest of places, you start to wonder if this city has never even seen the bristly side of a good scrub brush.

I guess this is true though of most of the big cities in this country and the world.  They are so attractive and intriguing from a distance.  But, when you view them from up close, they are a lot more human than they originally appeared to be. 

Not that I’m against humans.  I happen to like humans.  But do we need to be such collective slobs? 

Hang on.  Will you hand me that newspaper by your foot?  I need to wipe something off my shoe. 

I’m definitely going to need more hand sanitizer.

Photographs

I was just looking at the “About Me” section of this blog.  I started thinking about modifications and additions to the photography section and realized it was enough info to justify a post of its own.

The son of amateur artists, I fancy myself in a similar category.  Mom is crafty and creative, a decorator down to the core, an extrovert who loves to sing out loud and wear a lot of bling.  Dad is the dark, silent type, a musician who still practices every day.  He also carries a drawing notebook in his pocket so he can capture noses and eyes and landscapes with his careful pencil.

I think of myself in artistic terms as, first, as a writer, and also as a photographer.  Not that I’m great at either, but I greatly enjoy the process of honing the skills I have.

My first and favorite writing class was Mrs. Browns 8th grade creative writing.  She pushed me to do my best work, and filled me with ideas that continue to keep me writing all these years later.  In her classroom, I felt happiness, frustration, anger, acceptance, and love.  As the only boy in a class of 25 or so of the cutest and most popular girls in the school, I also felt very outnumbered.

It was this class that pulled together all the text, layout and photographs for the school’s yearbook.  And I was fortunate enough to be nominated the school photographer.  I already owned my little Kodak Disk camera at that time, but this assignment set me firmly on a lifelong photographic trajectory.

Since then, I have taken photos on the top of mountains, at the bottom of lakes, and once, from the lofty trajectory of a rocket I designed and built around a tiny 110mm camera.  The picture didn’t really turn out well, and the camera didn’t survive impact with mother earth, but man was that cool.

These days I take pictures of my kiddies - at soccer games and dance recitals and when they act silly at home.  Also, often in too much of a rush to stop, I sometimes stick my camera out the car window and shoot at trains and landscapes and sunsets.  These pictures almost always turn out badly, but I keep doing it.  Something inside me needs it.

With photography, and I suppose as well with writing, I’m trying to capture the world the way I see it; the perfectly lit, splendidly detailed, and delicately, fragilely, and beautifully composed world I get to live in, to enjoy, and to marvel at every single day.

Though, I never will, for the world is too wonderfully impossible to capture.

But, I’ll keep trying.

Chopsticks

When I was four years old, Mom, Jake and I lived in a little main floor apartment in a long line of big apartment buildings in Las Vegas.  We only lived there a short time so I have just four memories of the place: my dad helping us move there, the Mickey Mouse Show, Playdough, and Chinese food. 

The latter happened one evening, sitting around the little kitchen table as my mom tried to teach us how to eat with the funny sticks.  Ever since that day, I have always eaten Chinese food with chopsticks.  I like that it’s the traditional way to eat that type of food, and I also like that it’s a challenge to do it.

Because I was introduced to Chinese food, and taught how to use chopsticks at the same time, I figured that was the way you always ate it, and that everyone else used them too.  That is, until a few years ago, in a Chinese restaurant, where I had to ask for them after my food was served.  I was blown away.

Since then I have noticed that very few people actually use them.   Some people might try to use them for a few bites.  Some people might make comments about how it’s just too hard.  One friend recently asked me how to use them and said he’d never even tried before.  Wow.  If you don’t know how to use chopsticks, you are missing half the joy of eating Oriental food.

A few nights ago we had Chinese for dinner.  I’m the only one in the house that likes to eat it so we don’t make it very often.  When everything was ready, I looked around for some chopsticks but found only two sets.  The kids all said they just wanted one – as in one stick each (what you can do with only one chopstick is a mystery to me).   So, since we didn’t have enough for them to each have even just one, they all settled for two toothpicks each.  These they used to stab at the food.

As we ate, I remembered that little apartment in Las Vegas with just Mom and Jake and me.  Because I was fortunate to have lived in a lot of different places as a child, if I can remember where I lived, I can remember about how old I was.  It’s a great system for keeping track of, and accurately dating memories.  I was four years old then, the same age as the boy sitting next to me at the table, stabbing away at his sweet and sour chicken and rice.

Sometimes I wonder what my kids will remember from their childhoods.  I’m especially interested in finding out what their oldest memories will be.  Will those memories be the outings to the mountains or the amusement park?  Will they be big vacations to Disneyland or Yellowstone?  Or will that oldest memory be of something so common as sitting around the table, eating a meal together, tasting something new, and spending time as a family?

Today we need to go to the grocery store to buy some basics like diapers and bread.  I just added chopsticks to the list.

Last Firsts

Yesterday we gave our last first haircut.  I held the baby on my lap and Nancy went at his amazing blond curls with the scissors.  It was awful. 

I kept asking if she was sure she wanted to do that now.  “I love his hair,” I moaned.  “It’s not too long.  Does this really need to happen today?  I’m not ready.  Can’t you wait just one more week?”

With children, firsts are generally a great thing.  With five children, we have had the opportunity to experience many wonderful firsts through the years: first tooth, first Christmas, first birthday, first steps, etc., etc.  But now, with the youngest, and most likely the caboose experiencing all these firsts, they are as melancholy for me as they are exciting. 

Just this past week our baby started walking.   He’s been taking a step here and there for a few months.  But, with so many people willing to carry him everywhere, he wasn’t overly motivated about walking.  Then, all of a sudden he was no longer a crawler.  Literally overnight, he went from scooting around on all fours, to walking. 

Not only that, now he’s Mr. Independent.  Yesterday, I helped him up the stairs, and then, holding his hands, set him down on his feet.  He shook me off like I had the cooties or something and toddled off in search of something fun to do.  Never once did he look back at his daddy, standing there, trying to figure out what just happened. 

With his new skills, all his new independence, and now, with his new hairdo, I’m suddenly wondering why we even call him our baby.  Yesterday he was a little fat baby – POOF! – today he’s a big fat toddler. 

The last of the firsts.  A few months ago we celebrated our last first birthday party.  Yesterday was our last first haircut.  Tomorrow could easily be the last first, “Why?” 

Before we know it, we will celebrate our last first trip to the emergency room, our last first day of kindergarten, our last first swim lessons, our last first day in Jr. High School, our last first driving experience, our last first date, and our last first broken heart.  

But I’m getting way too far ahead of myself.  We still need to experience many of these things for the first time.  Why should I lament the lasts of the firsts before we actually enjoy the firsts of the firsts?  And why am I getting all hung up on life being all about the firsts?  Sure, the first kiss is great; you waited your whole life for it.  But the second kiss, and the third, and thousandth kiss are all just as great.

And so, I’m reminded of, and will try to be more thankful for all the firsts we have already experienced as a family.  And, I will also look forward, with great anticipation, to all the many firsts still ahead of us – and seconds and thirds and fourths and fifths . . .

This entry is a repost from my old blog that is no more.

Perfectionism

(Sorry, I couldn’t find just the right photo)

(originally titled, Writers Block, but that just wasn’t right)

What's the deal with writers block?  I mean, what's the point?  I've got stuff to write about, I've got time to write, but I just am not doing it.  Maybe writers block isn't the right term.  Perhaps lazy or unmotivated, or overwhelmed, or maybe even frustrated are better descriptions.

A friend of a friend once said, "Perfection is the death of art."  Wow.  Now that was spoken like a true artist.  This is definitely true for me.  I can't even tell you how many hundred great ideas have been shot down by my overly critical mind before I even give them a chance.

Of course just knowing I have a problem can be helpful.  At least I can work on these tendencies and try to hold them at bay.  But, knowing is only part of the battle, doing is the hard part.  This is especially true when your favorite quote is, "God is in the details."  (Frank Lloyd Wright)

Being a detail freak goes much further than just trying to punctuate and spell properly, or trying to say something worth saying, or trying to take well composed photos, or etc., or etc.  It also has to do with the noise level of the room where I am working, the temperature, and 99 other variables that have to be satisfied.

One thing that also helps me is having at least one child that shares the same tendencies I do.  In helping this child learn that it's okay to make mistakes, I am hopefully teaching myself the same thing.  One of the best things we stumbled across for her (and for the rest of us too) was a children's song by Laurie Berkner that basically says, "You're not perfect, no you're not.  But you do your very best, and I love anyway."

This song was like a light for her, piercing through the dark fog of perfectionism.   It was amazing to watch her little eyes brighten as she listened for the first time.  This was her first glimpse into a world she had not realized could be.

Sometimes you just have to do something.  You just have to stop doing nothing, stop fretting about the details, stop worrying, and start getting something done.  Even if you think it won't work, even if you think you might fail, even if you think your work isn't worthy of anything, you just have do it.  You just have to forget about failing, forget about your imperfections, forget about your insecurities, and just do it.

So what if you fall down?  So what if you fail?  It isn't going to end the world.  And no matter what, the important people are most likely going to love you anyway.  Hopefully.

Just do it.  Just do it.  Just get up off your behind and do it.

Busy, Busy

Life is busy these days.  Mostly work.  Lots and lots of work.  Long hours traveling as well as time at the office.  It’s good to be busy and it’s really good to have a job. 

Time has to be reorganized and reallocated.   Finances also need to be recalculated, new budgets figured and expenses cut where possible. 

It’s been a long time since I had to work two jobs.  In fact, as I think about it, almost exactly 10 years have passed since I first took on a second job.  We had just gone through a messy financial situation with a business that had gone down the drain and ended up with a lot of debt.  But through it all, our credit remained good and we were able to buy a house. 

By renting out the basement and building furniture in the garage, we were able to make ends meet and keep our creditors at bay.  Suddenly we feel as poor and busy as we did then.  We do have the little soap business, which, so far has paid for itself.  But it’s becoming clear that a second job is inevitable. 

Furniture manufacturing is again surfacing as the best option:  I already have all the tools, I have the space, my dad is willing to help, and it’s something I’m good at.  It makes sense and it’s a good way to make money in all the spare minutes I have in a day. 

All the spare minutes – haha.  I’ll have to find some.  I think writing has to go.  Not completely; I’d go crazy quick if I let writing go completely.  But almost completely for sure. 

Well my few minutes are spent.  Time to get on a plane.  Busy, busy.

Waiting

Some people hate the TSA.  I personally think they do a pretty good job and have only one complaint, Why?  Why do I have to get to the airport so dang early?  TSA suggests you be at the airport 2 hours prior to your flight.  This is so if everything goes wrong and you get stopped or delayed at every possible checkpoint, you can still make your flight.   But what about the 5 out of 6 times when everything goes perfectly, or close to it?  That’s my problem not theirs.

Last week, I was leaving Ontario, California.  I left the hotel a couple of minutes late.  Then the GPS would not accept the address to the car rental location.  Okay, I can do this.

Once I calmed down and started moving, and thanks in a great part to some well-placed signage, I made it in just a few minutes.  At the car drop off, I got directions to the airport shuttle and, less than 8 minutes later, I was walking through the terminal, looking for some place to kill almost two full hours.  But that was my problem, not theirs.

I survived and got some important work done but couldn’t help thinking about how I could still be laying in my comfortable hotel bed, sleeping.  Again, my problem.

When I was younger, and there was no TSA and you kept your shoes and belt on when you passed through security, I would get to the airport 30 minutes or less before the departure time.  Never once did I miss a flight (though one time I did cause a friend to miss a flight).

I’m not as young and carefree as I was then.  When the TSA says 2 hours, I do what they say.  For now I’m obeying this rule and spending some time sitting, and working, and writing, and thinking in air terminals.   It’s not a terrible problem.