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.

First Class

Last week I flew to Chicago in style; Non-stop and first class all the way, baby.  I was living large with the heavy hitters on the front of the plane; Full meal service, hot towel to clean my soiled hands, and, best of all, leg room, ah, leg room. 

This week I’m riding in the cargo hold with the rest of humanity.

I haven’t flown with this particular airline since Nancy and I were just married.  I remember showing her how to use her elbows, like Carl Malone used to, by holding them out to the sides and roll-jabbing them slowly but decidedly from side to side.  

I can see already, sitting here in the terminal, that flying with this airline is still not going to work for me.  I know I’m hard to please, but this seems ridiculous; Hundreds of people crammed at the furthest end of the airport terminal, waiting to stand in line - by their assigned number - so they can be crammed into a full airplane.     

Contrast this with leaving Chicago’s O’Hare Airport on Friday afternoon where, with a priority seating pass, I was the first person on and off of the plane.  Not that this is normal for me; normally I don’t travel this much.  And when I do, I usually drive.  But, this time I got lucky and found a little trick that allowed me, for a mere $5 per ticket, to upgrade from cabin class to first class.  I had no idea I had stumbled onto such an amazing find until I was sitting on the plane.  Oh, it was glorious.  And, sadly, I fear, for the rest of my life, it will make flying any other way a sad and sorry, counterfeit, experience.  Now I know better.  This isn’t always a good thing.

Jump Up

The eighteen months between high school and the real world were not productive ones for me. I lived with my mother for about six months, with my father for about six, and then back to Mom's house for six more. I thought at the time that my parents were the ones that were hard to live with. In reality, it was me and my attitude that made it difficult for me to stay in one place for any significant length of time. So, just before one parent kicked me out, I left again for the other parent's house and followed my nomadic urges from one end of the state to the other and back.

A bit of a hermit as well, I didn’t really go out in public much. That is, except in the evening, when I headed through the darkened city to my job on the night crew at a grocery store. After work, I would usually head straight home, arriving just as the sun was peeking up over the mountains. I would then go, like a vampire, into my darkened room and sleep the day away.

During the months I lived with Mom, my three younger brothers and I we were inseparable. They understood, or dealt with the attitude, and despite a 13 year gap from oldest to youngest, we all got along great. Ranging in age from 5 to 18, we must have seemed like an odd combination. But we didn’t think about age much and had a great time together.

Almost every day at about 3:30 they would come home from school and we would hang out until they went to bed or I left for work. Sometimes we did things a first grader wanted to do. Sometimes we did things a sixth grader liked, and so on. We played ball together, watched television, went camping, played video games, went sledding, fixed cars, launched model rockets, jumped on the trampoline, and went to the lake - together. So, if not productive, those months with my brothers were very enjoyable and filled with many great memories.

Above all other activities, the thing we did together most was listen to music. While driving in the car, hanging out in the house, or while playing in the yard, music was our constant companion. Always there was some music. Usually it was just in the background, but often listening to music or watching music videos was an activity in itself.

One of the most memorable songs of my last six months, living at Mom's house, was a tune we called, "Jump Around." Actually, I don’t even know if that's the real name. And really, I don’t know for sure why this particular song was a favorite. Kris was the only one that liked that style of music. But we each got a turn being in charge of the remote control, and everyone else listened.

This was a catchy tune, it was different, it was new, and it was true to its name. This song made you want to move. Not only that, it came with its own dance. Now the dance and the song didn’t match at all, but both were interesting, and together they made a memorable combination.


The dance was simply a quick slouch on the beat, while raising one knee. While your body was moving downward, your hands sometimes also came up, out to the sides a little. Before the next beat, you quickly came back up to a standing position, switched legs, and then slouched again on the next beat, raising the other leg, and so on. Now this dance was only done during the chorus, which went something like, “We came to get down, we came to get down, jump around. (Jump, Jump, Jump) Jump around. (Jump, Jump, Jump) Jump up, jump up, and get down. (Jump, Jump, Jump) Jump around . . ." Every time the lead singer said “Jump around," the background singers would chant," Jump, jump, jump, . . ." Maybe the discrepancy between a song where they sing, “Jump around," and a video where the lead singer does this little slouchy marching dance, is part of what was so synergistic and appealing about the whole thing.

As odd as the whole song and dance thing sounds to me now, it all made sense back then. And even if it didn’t make sense, it was fun. We would sing this song, chant the jump chant, and do this dance together on a regular basis. It was to us, almost a brotherly bonding ritual of sorts. The song came on, we did the dance. If we were on the street and someone said, "I came to get down," someone else would take it up from there and we would all dance. If we were in the mall and one of us started the jump chant . . . well you get the idea.

Eventually those six months ended and I moved away from home. In time, we each left Mom's house and headed out on our own, down different paths all leading in different directions. Sometimes our relationships are strained by our different views on life. But we still get together occasionally for a meal, or an activity, or the celebration of a holiday or birthday. When we get together we remember times long past, we tease each other, and we laugh a lot.

One of these days together was at the freestyle aerials competition during the 2002 Winter Olympics. There were just three of us now. Kris's path had been cut short about two years earlier. His death really changed some of the dynamics of our family. In some ways we are closer, and in some ways our relationships are stretched like never before. In light of - or maybe in spite of - our differences, we still try to spend time together when we can. So when the once in a lifetime opportunity of experiencing the Olympics in our home town came, we decided to go together.

That morning we were among the very first on the hill. By calculating a series of factors, including: distance from the event, expected security checkpoint delays and other expected and unexpected delays, the official booklet said to plan four hours between leaving my house and the start time of the event, less than 35 miles away.

In the days leading up to the event, I had heard some of the morning traffic delays discussed on the radio were a little exaggerated. In fact, a couple of my friends were convinced the traffic jams pictured on the news every night were old video files of some unrelated traffic event, shown only in an attempt to get people to stay away or ride the bus to each venue. We decided to push it a little and left only 3 2 hours before the event started. 30 minutes later, we were at the huge temporary parking lot, built specifically for the Olympics. In another 30 minutes, we were stepping off a shuttle at the base of the hill.

Here we met with our first of only two real delays. A wall of ticket scalpers were at the shuttle stop, blocking the way as we exited the shuttle, trying to buy any ticket they could get their hands on. I marched past them, offering only a, "good morning," and a smile.

I was about 50 yards up the path to the lodge when Jake told me to hang on. He pointed down the hill to the group of scalpers; one of them was toe to toe with our youngest brother, Cody. They appeared to be negotiating a big deal. I walked back toward him and watched the action. After a few seconds the scalper walked away and Cody turned and started up the path. Just before he reached us, the scalper ran up to him again and asked him to stop. They squared off a second time, only a few inches from each other. The scalper looked intently up into my brother’s face. They were only a few feet away from us, but all I could hear of the hushed conversation was the scalper’s thick English accent. Finally they separated and we started again up the hill.

"What'd you get him up to?" Jake asked.

"He started at $100. I went to $150 and he turned and walked away. Then he ran back and said, 'Okay, $150.' I just wanted to see how high he would go."

“That’s almost four times what we paid,” I said.

No sooner were the words out of my mouth when Jake jokingly turned and took a few steps down the hill. He was our ride home, so fortunately we convinced him to stay.

Further up the hill, the next and last delay in getting up to the ski jump was at the security check, which hadn’t even opened yet. We stood at the beginning of an ever-growing line, telling jokes and jogging in place to stay warm. The sun wouldn’t even come up over the hill for another hour. On the side of this cold mountain, my brothers and I were glad for good company and many warm layers of clothing.

After a few minutes, the check point opened and we shuffled through, finally on our way up the last snow-covered slope, toward the massive 6 or 8 story tall, grandstand. This huge structure, large enough to hold thousands of spectators, had been erected for the viewing of the Olympic Slalom, Moguls and Freestyle Aerials competitions. It would be dismantled as soon as the Olympic flame had been snuffed out a week later. Even more impressive than the massive temporary structure, was the gigantic banner, picturing an upside down skier in mid jump, which draped over and covered the entire back of the grandstand.

Our tickets though, weren’t for the bleachers; we were assigned to the standing-only areas in front. We arrived to our section so early that we ended up in the front row. Here we had an unmatched view of the landing area, only a few feet in front of us. Almost straight up and to our left, were the six, huge launching ramps that would catapult the aerialists into the air above us.

After a while the section started filling up. Eventually the standing crowd was so packed together that there was scarcely a space between each of us. The shortest of my Mom's boys is over six feet tall. Standing shoulder to shoulder, we must have looked like some great three-headed wall of warm clothing. I kind of felt bad for the people standing behind us. That is, until I realized the action we came to see was almost all straight up, well above our heads.

Freestyle Aerials, aside from being an insane activity, is an unusual and interesting sport. Prior to each run, the athlete stands on the hill, high above the launch point. A huge built-up, curving ramp of hard-packed snow, waits below to toss him or her high into the air over the crowds. The athletes name and the jump they will be attempting are announced. In anticipation of the jump, loud music starts to play over the speakers. When ready, the jumper skis down the hill toward the huge ramp at full speed. The aerialist launches off the end of the ramp and flies through the air, doing any number of twists, back flips and somersaults. Then, most of the time anyway, the skier straightens out and lands, feet first onto a steep, snow-covered, slope. Quickly he or she regains control and stops before taking out a section of spectators in front of the bleachers. The entire jump lasts only a few, intense and exciting seconds.

As you might expect from such a unique sport, freestyle aerials also has a lingo of its own. Terms like single, double, lay, flip and tuck are all added together to create fantastic and amazing aerial maneuvers. With no training beforehand in the vocabulary of an aerialist, we were completely lost when the first few jumps were announced over the loudspeaker. "Full Double Full," or, "Rudy Half Full," meant nothing to us at first, and we had to concentrate to figure out what was being said.


Jake was the first of us to figure out what all this freestyle mumbo jumble meant and was now teaching Cody and me. After defining the phrases, he quizzed me by asking if I would translate the next jump. The announcer called out the next Olympiad and said she was attempting a Full, Full, Full. I translated this into plain English; "He said she would do three flips and three twists. That was an easy one." As we intently focused our gaze on the ramp above our heads, I began to say something else. But, at that very moment, the music for this jumper filled the air, and I stopped talking right in the middle of a word.

I turned and looked at my brothers. Cody was looking back at me. He knew I was thinking about Kris.

After an almost successful landing, Jake turned and asked what I had said. “This song reminds me of Kris," I answered. Cody nodded.

"It does?" Jake asked.

"Yeah, remember in Reno?"

"Oh, yeah," he said.

I started to sing along and Cody joined in. We sang and listened for a couple of seconds and then I started doing the dance. Slouch, with one knee up, and a quick straighten up for the next beat, slouch, and so on. This was a bit much for my brothers, so I stopped after a few slouches. We all stood and just listened - and remembered.

A few days later, when I told my mom about this part of the day, she got a little choked up and asked me if I thought Kris was up there with us. I thought for a second before I answered, "No." I paused a second or two and then added, "but we sure thought about him a lot."


On the front row that day, my brothers and I, along with about 15,000 other spectators, stood and watched a piece of history unfold. All of us, faces pointed up into the sky, waiting for a whoosh of snow, and a skier, hurtling from off the top of a giant ramp. After flying, twisting, flipping though the air, the jumper would land, their skis slapping down on the packed snow. More often than not, they would pull off this landing and slide smoothly down the hill toward the grandstand. At the bottom of the hill, they would make a wide, sweeping turn, a wall of snow flying up from under their skis, their arms held high, triumphantly in the air. Then, after a perfectly timed stop in front of the television cameras, the ten second run would end with cheers and applause from the crowd and big smile on the face of the athlete.


I heard an old saying recently that says no one is ever really dead as long as someone is thinking about them. I don’t hear that old jump-around song very often these days, maybe once a year or so. But, before that day had ended, this song was played two additional times over the loud speaker, more than any other song blasted into the air above us. In fact, I don’t remember another song that was even played twice, let alone three times.

More than any other song, this one reminds me of good times with my brothers. More than any other song, this one reminds me of Kris, who introduced us to it and taught us the dance.

Who knows, maybe Kris was up there that day, with us on the mountain. But, even if he wasn’t there in person, he was definitely there in our collected remembrance of him. For a few short hours, that cold, February morning, Kris was alive and well, even if only in the thoughts and memories of his brothers.

Photo of the Day - Our New Computer Desk

This desk is what I did all day today.  Actually it's what I've done three of the last four Saturdays.  It's done now though, and I'm sitting at it this minute, typing away.  Painting will have to wait for warmer weather.

I just realized I should have put the doors back on for this photo.  It turned out pretty good for being built entirely of scrap materials.  Except for two sets of drawer guides and a drill bit, I didn't spend any money on materials. 

Almost all of the lumber has a history.  I used to build quite a bit of furniture for family, friends and clients, but haven't built anything worth noting for about two years.  But we needed a new desk to keep us better organized so I cleaned out the shop and went to work. 

Because all the lumber was left over from other projects, some of it has a history worth noting:
 - The frame is old reclaimed pine I got from my neighbor, Jim, across the street.  He salvaged it years ago from an old Boy Scout office and gave it a few years ago to me. 
- The white parts are left over melamine from two winters ago when I built bookcases downstairs.
- The base trim is left over from when I changed all the base in the house about five years ago.
- Beadboard on the sides and in the doors was left over from a wainscot in my daughter's room, which was finished with the rest of the basement about 18 months ago in anticipation of a new baby.  
- The front edge of the keyboard drawer was salvaged maple from a shop where a friend works.
- Parts of the cabinet and door frames are alder, left over from the trim I made for my uncle and aunt when they remodeled their house several years ago. 
- Last, but most meaningful, is part of a large, thick, glued up spruce panel.  I glued the boards together about 12 years ago, intending to use them in a headboard for my brother Kris. 

I never built the headboard.  Later, he needed a table for his kitchen.  But, this too, I never got around to making for him.  When he died, I hung onto the piece of wood, and always considered it his.  I never could, until now, bring myself to use it in a project.  Even included as part of a desk for my family, it took me a long time to finally break down and use it. 

While I stood and tried to decide if I was going to finally use this particular board or not, I brushed off years of accumulated sawdust, and thought about my little brother.  I stared a long time at the old board, and talked out loud, in reverent tones to it, as if it were actually Kris with me, and not just a piece of wood.  

Angels in the Snow

My moms birthday was last week so I finally get to post this.  I didn't want any leaks so I didn't even tell my brothers about this song.

This was written with the help of Marvin Payne.  I thought of him while writing the lyrics because I knew she liked him back in the time period of when this takes place.  When I emailed Marvin, I told him that back in the day when this event happened, she might have given away one of those two boys to have you write a song for her.  

Marvin was amazing to work with.  He gave me some great pointers with the lyrics that mad the song better than it would have been.  When we got around to making the music, I told him the type of music my mom liked to play on the guitar.  I listed a few of the favorite bands of the day and described the type of music that I was looking for.  He said, "like this?" and started to play.  I couldn't believe how well he nailed what I was hoping to hear. 

Mom came over for dinner on her birthday.  While she waited for us to finish cooking things, I told her I wanted to play a song that reminded me of her.

After the first few words, she asked if I wrote it.  I just shrugged and she stared crying.  She does that.


Let me know what you think.

Clark

Daddy's Little Girl

First Posted May 20th, 2009 on el Bed.com

Today I took a day off to spend it with my oldest daughter. As mentioned a few days ago, her class went to the JA Biz City simulation and I volunteered to help. We each worked in different businesses, she in the restaurant and I helped out at the bank, so we actually only got to see each other a few times. We did take a short break toward the end of the day and walked around the town together. We strolled past all the busy shops, full of children trying to get things done, and talked about how fun today had been so far.

The day was a great experience for both of us. She learned a few things about running a business and balancing a personal checkbook. I got to spend the day with about 100 kids who were having fun at pretending they were big people. We ended up at the restaurant for a snack and some photos of her standing out front. My little CFO daughter, 11 years old today.

11 years ago things were pretty messed up as far as business and finances go. The company I had worked so hard to build was falling apart around me. Over the next two years we lost everything worth anything and ended up with a massive pile of debt. Eventually, I lost the business and we sold our house to pay off a large and looming debt. With other creditors still calling, we moved in with Nancy's parents to save money and begin the rebuilding process. Maybe it goes without saying, but this was a tough time for us.

In that long time of darkness, one bright, little light stands out in my memory. She was that one, sweet, little girl, whose smile was infectious, whose hugs would brighten your day, and who’s love kept her daddy going. It was in that time in my life that I wrote the following words.

It's been a long, rough day.
Finally, I am home.
I’m feeling very beat,
So tired, and alone.

It all goes away,
When open swings the door.
And I hear the running feet,
Of baby, I adore.

Now everything's okay.
I lift her in a twirl.
When I see the grin, so sweet,
Of Daddy's Little Girl.


(Her Smile, November 1999)


Today gave me a few moments to reflect on my life with this girl, my relationship to her, and the debt of gratitude she is owed by me. Today has also given me a glimpse into how our relationship might progress through the years as she grows up and moves on into the world.

I love the memories I have of her and I will cherish them forever. I also look forward to what lies ahead and am so excited for many future lunch-hour walks in the company of this treasured daughter with the beautiful smile.

How about you? Who are some of the most important people to you and why?

Clark

Clearly for the First Time

Tonight I was moon walking in the kitchen. Jake and I taught ourselves how to do it on the slippery vinyl floor in the bedroom he and Kris shared. We lived in a modern log cabin, about three miles outside of a tiny little rural community in South Central Idaho. I don’t know why his room had vinyl flooring. It also had a whole wall of shelves, or pigeon holes, as we called them. I hadn’t ever considered it before, but I guess it was originally intended as a storage room.

It’s been over 25 years since we moved from there. In all that time, I have only been back twice. Both times were within a year or two of leaving there and both times I was just driving through on my way to somewhere else.

Actually, one of those times we did stop for a little while. It was about a year after we had moved away. My dad had picked Jake and me up for the summer. We wanted to see the old house. While we were there we dug up the box of hidden treasures we left for the next family to find.

Before we had moved away, we carefully hid this box in the rocky area on the sloping hill below the house. This had been our favorite play area in both summer and winter. Here we had spent many hours playing together.

To help the new residents find the box, I drew a treasure map of sorts and crammed it between two logs in the outside wall of my bedroom. I guess no one ever found the map.

After taking a look at the stuff: a few small toys and an old tennis ball, we buried the box back where we found it. I haven’t been back since.

After we moved away, I quickly lost track of anyone from there that meant anything to me. I’ve meant to go back many times, but just never did. I guess I never had a good enough reason.

I’ve thought a lot about our time there. Cody was born there. Kris was just a little kid. I think he was in Kindergarten and first grade. Lately I’ve thought seriously about going back for a visit. I don’t think I would look anybody up. I was just a kid myself, and it was a long time ago. I don’t suspect many people would even remember me. Mostly I would want to see a few of the old haunts from those years: the store where my mom’s second husband worked, the Chinese restaurant where my friend, Herman, and his family worked and also lived in a small apartment in the back, and the church where we would go every Sunday for meetings and every Tuesday evening for youth activities.

The old Junior High School, where I spent so much of my time as a young teenager, is gone now. I only know that because of the street level pictures on Google Maps. As you look right and click the cursor to the northwest along Locust Street, all you see is a barren spot of ground where the old building once was. This is where learned I loved making art, where I learned about writing, where I took photos as the yearbook photographer, and where I first got the nerve to ask someone to be my girlfriend.

I would also like to drive down the main drag, Broadway Avenue, as it makes it’s long, angled run from one corner of town to the other. The first time I rode in a car down this stretch of road, boasting the one and only stop light in the entire town, I dropped something on the floor just as we passed the downtown area. I found it and looked up just as my mother asked what we thought of downtown. In those few seconds of rummaging on the floor of our car, I had completely missed all of it.

The next time I drive that road, I will pay more attention through the middle of town. I will look especially hard for the small optometrist’s office where, for the first time in my life, I saw clearly. I vividly remember putting on my glasses for the very first time and looking out into the street through the large glass windows on the front of the doctor’s office. There, on the far side of the street, I could clearly make out the details of the Ropers clothing store. Later that night, I stood outside my house in the dark and marveled at the billions of stars in the sky above. Before that day, I didn’t know I couldn’t see.

But even with my new glasses I couldn’t see what damage I was causing to my second brother, Kris. Something changed between him and me in this little town. At first things were fine. He was a great little kid and we all got along great. In no time at all that was all gone.

Maybe part of it was that he was still a little kid and I was suddenly in my early teens. Maybe part of it was that I was jealous of him and the relationship he had with his dad.

I was the hard-to-understand-step-child, while Kris was his dad’s “Little Buddy.” He was “Little Skiing Buddy, Little Boating Buddy, Little Work Buddy,” and more. I admit I resented it. And, sadly, Kris, who deserved it least, was the one that felt the brunt of my resentment and frustration. Not that I ever took it out on him physically; that would have been too dangerous for me. No, I took it out on him in far worse, far more damaging ways; Kris was my target for alienation, for taunting, and at times, even for ridicule. For many reasons, real and imagined, I hated his dad, and Kris paid the price for that hatred.

Though we eventually overcame our differences, Kris and I never really became the friends I wish we could have been. We never had enough time to grow up and get to know each other as adults. I never got the chance to apologize to him for all the hurt I had caused him.

It was ten years ago today that he took his last breath. In the days after Kris died, I spent many hours on my knees, begging to be forgiven for the damage I caused to my brother, damage that changed the very course of his life, damage that indirectly lead to his untimely death.

There are so many analogies in this little, loaded essay that might be applied to my relationship with this brother. In fact, each analogy could probably also be applied, respectively, to the relationships I have with each of my brothers, and perhaps even my sons. But on this anniversary, ten long years since he left us, each analogy seems to me only a trite cliché that reaches for something that can never be had between Kris and I, and, perhaps something that does not need to be had.

I believe Kris has forgiven me. I believe too, that God has forgiven me as well. But, I also know that if was to alienate another person in the way I did Kris, I would never be able to forgive myself again. Now is the time to forever close the circle of anger, frustration and hatred that started in this small town in Idaho. Now is the time to begin a new tradition, based on love, caring, and selfless acceptance of the ideas, actions and individualities of the persons in my life today.

Someday I will go back to the small town where I first lost my brother Kris. I would like to again explore the rocky hills and open fields where we played together as children. But, in reality, I know already what I’ll find there, buried in the soil of my memories; little tidbits to guide me through my life. And from those treasured remembrances, I will draw lessons, which I hope always will help me understand my life more clearly.

Still Connected

When I was about 15, my mom loved this new song that was played once in a while on the radio. But to say she loved the song is too weak. She really, really loved the song.

When I realized how much she loved the song, I started to get an idea: Her birthday was coming up and I had nothing to give her. I would buy this album on cassette and give it to her. Easy, right? Wrong.

You know the saying about a watched pot never boiling? The same is doubly true in this case. For someone in the 80’s who wanted to know the name of a song they heard on the radio, time moved in super slow motion. First of all, as soon as you realized you liked a song well enough to find out its name, you never heard it again – never – ever – ever again. But if you were really, really patient, it might eventually come on the radio again.

You see, in those days, before the internet, before I tunes, before your car radio scrolled the name of the song on a little LED screen while the music was playing, and even before radio stations gave you the name and artist of every single song right after it was played (brilliant idea, by the way), in those days, if you loved a song, you listened to the radio carefully whenever the song was played – very, very carefully.

You had to listen so carefully because, again, back in those days, DJ’s talked way too fast and often in a very odd, deep, swanky, and/or bravado-filled way that made it almost physically impossible for a normal, English-speaking human being to actually understanding them. So, you sat, poised with your ear against the speaker. You strained your every muscle, you focused your every intention, you directed your every thought to what the DJ might – or might not – say at the end of the song.

Most of the time he or she said nothing between songs. And in fact, they started up the next song while were still listening to the one you wanted the name of. And before you knew it, you were off and listening to the next song, screaming at your radio to please, just tell you the name of the dang song.

But sometimes, like one out of twenty or thirty times, they did mention the name of the song. And sometimes, maybe half the time, you would understand them just well enough to get your point across to the salesperson at the record store. Yes, I said record store. Not that I ever bought a record from a record store (I didn’t start buying my own music until cassette tapes were all the rage.), but that is what the music store was called back then.

To be fair, I should also mention that another way to get the song’s information, was to call the radio station while the song was playing and ask them what it was. While this approach sounds logical, I don’t know of anyone who actually did this. And I, however, was very shy and hated to talk to strangers on the phone so I never got any song information that way. In this case, not calling cost me about two and a half weeks before I had the cassette safely in my hands.

During those long, two and a half weeks, I developed my gift-giving plan to perfection. I would open the packaging, take out the cassette, and cue it up to the right song, which, before the days of skipping ahead to the next song, had to be done manually by pressing fast forward and/or rewind until you got to the spot you wanted. Then, with the cassette still in the player, I wrapped the cassette case in wrapping paper.

The big day finally arrived and the gifts were handed over one at a time. I waited to go last and handed my mom the small wrapped package right after her second husband gave her a big bouquet of roses.

She opened it and looked quizzically at the artwork on the cassette. At that moment, I pushed play and the carefully cued music filled the room. It only took her a second for her to realize what the song was.

You know those videos of girls on the front row of a concert? The ones where the girls are dancing and screaming and jumping around? Booorriiing! My mom was pretty happy about this gift. I actually felt bad for the guy with the roses.


As you can imagine, this song has always reminded me of my mom. This was solidified even more when she turned 60. After her birthday party that year, I handed a CD to each departing guest. This song was one of the sixteen I had chosen to represent my mom’s life in music.

Today, while I was driving along on the freeway, this song came on the radio. I turned it up and dialed my mom’s mobile. The whole intro passed while I waited for her to pick up.

“Hello,” she said on her end. Of course, with caller I.D. she knew who was calling so I didn’t say anything. “Hello,” she asked a few more times.

Then she got quiet. I don’t know if the volume was correct for transmitting over the phone or not. I don’t even know if she could tell what the song was. All I know for sure is she stayed on the line and listened.

I was only going to play a few seconds and then hang up. But when she answered, it was in a part of the song that isn’t as easy to recognize. So I waited. Then the first, easily recognizable, chorus came on. I waited a little longer.

The years and the words and the music washed over me in a flood of memories and a moment with my mom as we both sat and listened. Me in my car, headed north on the freeway, back to the office after a meeting. She, who knows where. Both of us, just sitting and listening. I turned the phone toward me once to see if she was still on the line. The screen was black and I thought for a second she had hung up. I pushed the button to turn the screen back to life and saw we were still connected.

Still connected. That’s probably about the point when I got a little teary-eyed.

I’ve written about songs before in this blog and probably will again. I’ve always loved music and have often marveled at its ability to take me from where I am, to some other place, to some other time.

One of my oldest memories, if not the oldest, and for sure my oldest memory involving music, was a moment in a car, listening to the radio with my mom. The song on the radio ended and I remember looking up at her and telling her I had been singing along. I think it was Diana Ross, or maybe the Pointer Sisters. We were in the old Volkswagen Bug, back when it was still painted blue. I would have been three years old.

She looked down at me and said encouragingly, “I heard you singing. It sounded very nice.”

Because of that moment, I have always sung along to the radio. Because of that moment, Dianna Ross also made it on the 60th birthday CD.

Today as the song played on, I continued to hold the phone out in the air. Eventually, so much of the song had played, I figured I may as well keep her on the line until the very end. I sat and drove and listened to the words as I sang along loudly in my mind. The song wound down and I hung up the phone, without ever having said a word.