Catcher in the Wry

Several years ago, I read The Catcher in the Rye mainly out of obligation.  For me, part of the problem was the pervasiveness of the hype that this slim novel was going to rock my world.

I liked it.  But, because I didn't love it, that somehow tempered the mere like with something more akin to dislike. 

I did, however, remind myself that the unprecedented persona of the book's narrator peeled back the curtain on scornful, suspicious youth displeased with authority and perceptive of hypocrisies.  It brought in conventions that were groundbreaking at the time – things we've seen trotted out ad nauseam in mediocre television, countless films, podcasts, party anecdotes, lame stand-up routines, after-school specials, and late night television monologues.

That said, I remained fascinated with the cult of personality around the reclusive author.  J. D. Salinger's hardcore mission to remain apart from the celebrity his work brought him fueled the mystery.  His Harper Lee-act served as reverse-psychology to lure dedicated fans.

Plus, it seems roundly purported that Salinger wrote many works during his decades of self-imposed exile -- works never seen by anyone.  Though, since his death last year, I expect those undisclosed manuscripts will no-doubt come to light and fill the coffers of his beneficiaries.

Soon after Salinger died, I read about a Shane Salerno’s Salinger documentary (assembled over several years embracing the same cloak of secrecy the author himself demanded).  The documentary is scheduled for release later this year. It's possible I'll gain more pleasure and entertainment from the documentary than I did from the book.

The Time Traveler's Life

When I reached the 15-year anniversary of service with my corporation, I was allowed to select a gift from several options.

I don’t wear a watch, opting to tell time via my cell phone.  And jewelry has no big appeal.  A battery-powered drill emerged as the leading candidate until the kids lobbied hard for the telescope.

Last summer, we hoped to get a dramatic show from the Perseid meteors that streak through the night sky most prominently in August. Since the kids always stay up late during the summer, we all slipped on shoes and rolled out after midnight to find a rural area that would offer less of civilization's ambient glow.  But, the lunar albedo was illuminating so much of the sky, I'm sure it impacted the visibility of the Perseid meteor shower.

There was only a sporadic streak of meteor activity that night, during our post-midnight outing.  It was somewhat disappointing, because I ultimately felt like the payoff wasn't commensurate with the commitment to staying up into the middle of the night (since I had work the next morning) and driving out for a decent vantage.

Our oldest climbed up on top of the vehicle, no doubt thinking that being a few feet closer to the heavens would improve her view.  The rest of us wandered around nearby with our faces lifted toward the stars.

And though there weren't that many meteors, I was transported...

1.) I traveled through time to my military days, when, as a soldier in the field, I'd use night vision goggles (NVGs) or night optical devices (NODs) to view, through the green and grainy image enhancement, a nighttime sky bright and blanketed with countless worlds and distant suns -- so numerous that they crowded into every available space from horizon to horizon.

2.)  I was taken back to junior high school, when summertime campouts often involved staring up at the night sky for long hours, while we talked.  Inevitably, we saw shooting stars (i.e., meteors, no doubt) and tracked the movement of satellites orbiting high above:  steady dots slowly and quietly soaring overhead.

Believing & Not

I've looked up and observed such a beautiful and bizarre vision of cloud formations and coloration, that I was certain if I were to paint an exact representation of what I saw, viewers of the painting would scoff and say it wasn't realistic.

Sometimes, real life offers us less believable things than the fictions and fantasies we imagine.

Back in April, I printed a longish article ("A Murder Foretold," by David Grann, from NewYorker.com) based on a quick look at it. The piece appeared to be in-depth reporting on the assassination of a well respected corporate attorney (Rodrigo Rosenberg) in Guatemala. I was also intrigued by this quote:

“Guatemala is a good place to

commit a murder, because you

will almost certainly get away

with it,” a U.N. official has said.

I took the printed copy along on a recent trip and read it on the flight. I couldn't believe what I was reading. The tale of events that led up to Rosenberg’s murder, and the political backlash in the wake of his death, took a series of unexpected twists that made the entire story so fantastical as to challenge your ability to accept it as true.

This is destined to become a fascinating movie, since it already has the hallmarks of a Hollywood script. I’m still considering the murky machinations that set the whole thing in motion.

In related entertainment, I also happened to stream a movie from Netflix a few weeks ago (All Good Things) via our Wii.  And the movie plot was rife with unexpected tangents and redirections -- but, as it turns out, is based on true events from the life of Bobby Durst.

Rites of Passage

All around the country, kids are embracing their summer vacations.  For some, that means packing it off to camp, bunk beds, cabins, chow halls, crafts, archery, swimming, etc.  There were a few hot Texas summers in my youth when I spent a week or two at camp.  I always did well with the crafts, and, with some apprehension, navigated the delicate social constructs of camp-society.

Though I look back on those times fondly, I'm glad those weren't the all-summer camps I've read about since.  I've always had the impression -- from movies and television -- that it is typical in some regions of the country for kids to pack off for a summer-long camp, filling the gap between school years. I had adventures waiting in my own neighborhood back home -- so, camp was just a momentary diversion.

The accident happened on the last evening of my last year at summer camp. We all went out on a hayride to a nearby farm, where we'd have watermelon and (I don't recall specifically, but I'm guessing here) sing around the camp fire.

While frolicking at the farm, some of us spied a hay ring tipped up on its end like a spinning hamster track. So, I hopped on it and started walking up one side to roll it as though I were in 2001: A Space Odyssey or, in more current context, a Cirque de Soleil act.

Other campers thought I had a keen idea and piled onto the hay ring with me. With several people rocking the ring in competing directions, I lost my balance and planted my hand on a jagged piece of the ring's metal structure.

It didn't hurt severely, but it hurt. And when I got off the ring and held my hand up, it was rapidly filling with a pool of blood, like a dark wine seeping from my skin. That freaked me out a bit, but it also seemed oddly incongruous, because it looked really bad, but it didn't feel really bad.

I trotted over to a counselor, who seemed more panicked that I was. She rounded up some other counselors, and soon I was being whisked away to a hospital in the nearest town. First, we had to go back by the camp to retrieve my file with its medical information like the date of my last tetanus shot and a signed note from my parents that the counselors could seek medical attention on my behalf.

I got 12 stitches and a souvenir scar across the meaty part of my palm.

The whole ordeal took a long time. When I returned to camp, the other campers had completed their hayride/farm visit and were already in the big meeting hall for a dance on our last evening at camp.

When I walked in, lots of kids came over to talk to me and ask about what had happened. It felt nice to believe that they were genuinely interested or concerned, though it also seems likely many of them just wanted to get the lowdown on what happened, whether or not that had any interest in my well being.

Dad picked me up the next morning. "What happened to your hand?"

"I got cut. And I had to have some stitches, but it's okay."

Somehow, I felt adult-like by being able to explain something happened, but there was no real cause for worrying -- everything was going to be alright.

I Spied an Unfortunate Man

There's a certain stark beauty to the West Texas desertscape. It's a vast, sandy scene of tumbleweeds and shrubs dominated by rocks and boulders and occasional mountains rising up from the floor of desolation. Drivers headed west on Interstate 10 are drawn into bleak and barren stretches of isolation only broken by tiny communities offering scarcely more than topic for conversation.

Somewhere out there in the relentless heat, I spied an unfortunate man sitting in the middle of the seldom-traveled service road that ran parallel to the highway. Advancing drifts of sand obscured the edges on both sides of the road and threatened to altogether erase the existence of the road. Weeds rose from between the cracks of pavement negleted by cars and trucks.

The man in tattered clothes sat legs akimbo, like he participated in some Apache tribal ceremony. He was slumped over with the poor posture of the defeated. His head hung low. As if the man was no longer capable or willing to carry it, a nearby backpack sat askew.

I kept driving -- like every other would-be Samaritan speeding to their important destinations. The way I recall it, I released my foot from the accelerator. Part of me knew I needed to slow down, to stop, to offer help. But, I never even got far enough in the process to apply my foot to the brake pedal.

"Nah," I reasoned. "Could be a serial killer."

I sped away. At the time, my wife and infant daughter were awaiting my arrival in El Paso. I couldn't risk getting carved up by some homicidal lunatic as a result of my charitable goodness. Yet, I haven't really moved on. I see that guy in my dreams -- sometimes when I'm fully conscious and trying to displace that memory with something more innocuous.

And here's the bothersome part: sometimes when I relive that scene, I am the guy.

Unbidden Lessons

With my daughter’s recent graduation and forthcoming cross-country move, I’ve been somewhat reflective.  It’s caught me by surprise how we’ve suddenly found ourselves with a grown daughter who is about to flee the nest for big dreams and adventures.  Guess we always figured we’d have our kids here with us, because that’s how we’ve known it for so long.

As she and her classmates split up and disperse for different colleges and different paths, I’m reminded how she’s about to learn one of life’s lessons.  There are people we meet and relationships that we build which last for a chapter (or chapters) of our lives, and there are those that remain a constant thread throughout.

Consistently, life's pleasantries and moments of joy are dependent on the dramatis personae that share your stage.  So, it is with a forlorn mixture of emotions that I consider all the remarkable people that have sat next to me in life before moving on to other places and other times.  I miss so many of them.

Honestly, I've been quite fortunate to know exceptional people whose friendships were bright and warming -- whose frequent and uplifting presence never seemed to last long enough.

Relationships can make your life wonderful and joyous in a way that may even make you feel undeserving at times.  So, placing your bottom line elsewhere may also misplace your opportunity for true happiness.

Here’s how I was trying to process it.  Too many, I think, heavily weight the notion that a chosen vocation is a means of determining their value in an unofficial caste system of financial and social worth.  Yes.  Do something that makes you happy.  That is, your work should be fulfilling, and your job ought to revolve around something at which you are skilled.  But, without good people, it will always be shallow and empty.  Sure.  You could make a lot of money and have the best of personal gadgetry and property.  But, you need exceptional and uplifting people to enrich your world.

An important threshold in life is understanding the role and value of relationships, in my humble opinion.  You may be trying to push your six-figure salary into a seven-figure salary, or live in a lavish mansion, or reside in the hoity-est of toity neighborhoods, or have children whose only friends value them for their possessions, but the stanchion of enduring happiness is...

Well, you get the idea.  Or you don’t.