The Art of Eulogy

I recently saw an online guide to great obituaries. That made me think about two of my favorite obits: American painter Andrew Wyeth, whose work captivates me (though the man less so) and my great-grandfather (dad's maternal grandfather), John Silas Daniel.

From The Mineola Monitor on Thursday, March 7, 1929:

John S. Daniel Dies At Alabama Home

On March 1st, at Center Ala., John S. Daniel passed

to the rewards of a life well spent.  He was born

June 23, 1844, in Alabama where he lived until 1894

when he moved to Wood Country, Texas, where he

lived for 26 years.  This writer knew him well, being

closely and intimately associated with him -- in his home

and elsewhere, he was the same, yesterday, today, and every day. 

He was the best man in every respect

it has ever been my pleasure to know.

Mr. Daniel was a true man to his convictions;

who maintained his independence of thought for good,

always had time to consider his friends.  He despised

no human being, was ever desirous of bringing about

reconciliation among men and cause them to love

each other better, his whole desire was to do good;

wealth or poverty made no difference to him, he loved

you for what you were, and to love him was to become

better yourself.  He was a good man.  He served four

years in the army of Confederacy participating in many

of the most important battles of the war, more than once

was desperately wounded, carrying the scars of that

terrible conflict to his grave.  He was a devoted husband,

loving father, a consecrated Christian, a model citizen.

Andrew Wyeth, 91, died in his sleep at his Pennsylvania home in January 2009. He was controversial in the art world. But, I was a fan of his (and his father's) work. If I were ever a museum curator, I'd assemble a comprehensive Wyeth/Hopper show. Even if no one else attended, I'd still wander through it every day.

(For the record, my second show would be Chuck Close.)

I liked this line from Wyeth's New York Times obit: "Wyeth gave America a prim and flinty view of Puritan rectitude, starchily sentimental, through parched gray and brown pictures of spooky frame houses, desiccated fields, deserted beaches, circling buzzards and craggy-faced New Englanders." I wish I had written that.

I never knew the backstory to "Christina's World" -- his most iconic piece:

Wyeth had seen Christina Olson,
crippled from the waist down,
dragging herself across a Maine
field, "like a crab on a New England
shore," he recalled. To him she was
a model of dignity who refused to
use a wheelchair and preferred to
live in squalor rather than be
beholden to anyone. It was dignity
of a particularly dour, hardened,
misanthropic sort, to which Wyeth
throughout his career seemed to
gravitate. Olson is shown in the
picture from the back. She was 55
at the time. (She died 20 years later,
having become a frequent subject
in his art; her death made the national
news thanks to Wyeth's popularity.)

-- Michael Kimmelman, New York Times



Exhibition & Exposition

I've been recently catching up on podcasts during my commute, and an episode of To The Best of Our Knowledge (a production of Wisconsin Public Radio distributed by Public Radio International) included an interview with Chuck Close.

I saw the phenomenal Chuck Close exhibit at The Ft. Worth Museum of Modern Art back in May of 2006. His techniques and skill were impressive and inspiring. It made me wanna create. It made me wanna immediately leave the building in search of a canvas.

There was a cheesy Rothko-derivative Sean Scully exhibit, too. But, aside from the initial appreciation of texture, stroke, and color palette, it quickly became repetitive and ho-hum.

One room held the Nicholas Nixon exhibit, Brown Sisters, which encompassed the yearly black-and-white photos of his wife and her sisters taken from 1975 to 2005. The individual photos themselves are not necessarily captivating or impressive (though some are). The true power of this show is experienced when the viewer strolls along all the images in chronological order. One sees the steadfast affection of the sisters juxtaposed against the gradual change over the decades in their fashion and their aging faces.

Brilliant.

His Final Surge Toward Mortality

I woke up at 4:30 a.m. on December 16th.

When I checked my phone to see what time it was, I saw an alert from the New York Times.  (I get alerts on breaking news items.)  Christopher Hitchens was dead.

Two days earlier, Christopher Hitchens crossed my mind.  I realized I hadn’t noticed a recent article from him on Slate.com.  Typically, I would find at least one per week.  I knew he had esophageal cancer, and I suddenly panicked, thinking an absence of his writing meant he’d died.  So, I quickly clicked over to Slate and looked.  His last contribution was at the end of November.  Hmm.  A longer stretch than usual between Hitchens postings. I hoped it wasn’t indicative that his health had taken a turn for the worse, spiraling down in the final surge toward mortality.

I checked over at Vanity Fair’s site, another place I would frequently (though less so in recent months) read his observations and excoriations.  I didn't notice anything there, either.

Though he could make me angry, and though I certainly disagreed with him at times, and though I perceived he could be an abrasive intellectual bully, I loved to read his writing.  He was a brilliant, towering intellect who could dissect an issue and splay it with phraseology and a pervasive assault of reasoning.

Perhaps oddly, when I was diagnosed with cancer last year, my mind very quickly turned to Hitchens writing about his own diagnosis and battle.

Goodnight, Hitch.

Behind the Kimchi Curtain

The news out of North Korea last month (of Kim Jong Il's death) gave me pause.  I was in-country when his father, Kim Il Sung, died.  And, as a Korean linguist, I went on a 24-hour operations cycle as our electronic eavesdropping ramped up to discern what was happening behind the Kimchi Curtain.  There was one line of thinking that the generals wouldn’t stand for the ascension of the oddball, quirky, fey heir to the enduring dictatorship and totalitarian regime.

When Kim Il Sung died, it was just months after international hubbub concerning North Korea’s dismissal of the Nuclear Nonproliferation Treaty.  The peninsula was a precarious place then…at one of its more delicate moments since the long fermata of cease fire brought a manner of conclusion to the momentum of the Korean War.

My heart goes out to my fellow linguists at the 102nd MI BN of the 2nd Inf. Div.  No doubt their Christmas was unpleasant...and they'll be spending a lot of weeks in the field this winter.

The Big & The Bang

It's been a decade since the crash.  It happened ten years ago tonight.

I was headed home from work, after returning to the labors of office life in the wake of the Christmas holidays.  I remember walking down the hallway from my department and seeing a Security guy heading in the door.  Also, on my commute, I remember passing a cop whose bubble-top lit up as he pursued someone else.

BANG!

The next thing I remember was regaining consciousness slumped in my driver's seat, the scene marked by my blood, the bashed-in front end of my vehicle, and commotion outside.

I was sore, as if body-slammed off a 4-story building.  I slowly turned my body to look around.  Was there anyone else with me?  I didn't know.  Couldn't remember.  I called out for an answer.

I didn't know where I was going or where I was.  I didn't know if it was dark at the end of the day or the early morning. 

Somehow, I undid the seatbelt and crawled to the passenger side, where I reclined the seat as someone wrenched open the passenger door.

"Are you okay, man?"

"I think."  I tried to talk without moving my mouth.  I'd clearly chipped a tooth and maybe bitten my tongue.  "Can you call 911?"

"Someone already called," the voice assured me.

The next thing I knew, I was regaining consciousness again strapped to a board in the back of an ambulance.  Someone was cutting my clothes off.

There were others in the ambulance.  I heard talk about a Care Flight.  And I realized they would've had to pull me from my vehicle, get me on the board, and load me in the ambulance.  And, being unconscious, I know I was a sack of dead weight.  So, I apologized for being fat to those who had to carry me.

They asked me what day it was.  I had no idea.

Soon, the ambulance was under way.  Someone else from the scene was Care Flighted.

"I see you were wearing a seatbelt," said the burly EMT who rode with me in the back of the ambulance.

I had no idea what he meant until later, when I discovered huge bruises crossing my chest and belly and also my waist, exactly where my seatbelt had been. 

Not the best of days, but better than other possible outcomes.

Across the Years

My mother was a remarkable woman who didn't profess big dreams beyond day-to-day happiness and a good life for her family. When my folks were married in the late '40s, the world was an unusual place. The Second World War was over, Dad was out of the Navy, and America still held a Rockwellian charm as it slide toward the Korean War, the idyllic '50s, and the rise of Elvis.

Because Mom and Dad grew up during the Depression, some of the hard-learned lessons of that generation seeped into the atmosphere of our home and family.

Mom was an artist. That is where I got it. She could draw and paint (yes, they are different), and I was in awe of her talent.

For a time during my youth, Mom worked at a local department store, and she decorated and arranged the long display windows with meticulous dedication and impressive results.

At the grocery store (or on other local outings), we were often approached by townsfolk that told Mom how they loved her current windows, or thought this or that particular touch was clever or well executed. She came home with a smile after such encounters. (If she were with us now, oh how she’d love to talk with her granddaughter about fashion and accessories!)

I miss Mom.

I can still hear her distinctive laughter across the years, and I’ll always cherish the fond memories of her  for all my days remaining.

Happy Birthday, Mom.

No Man is an Island

Three Septembers ago, I headed down to Houston in the wake of Hurricane Ike.

My brother-in-law and his wife evacuated from their home on Galveston Island (six blocks from the seawall) to his older brother's house in north Houston -- where, as a result of the hurricane's winds, several trees fell on the older brother's house and garage, trapping their cars.



My sister-in-law (from Galveston Island) was in the midst of an important medical treatment, and since there was no power at the residence in Houston or anywhere near it, and since their car was block in a tree-attacked garage, I drove down to evacuate them from their semi-evacuation. (I brought along several bags of ice, which had me hailed as a hero.)

One of the many eerie aspects of the day was the complete lack of electrical power for such a vast region. Once I moved below Buffalo, Texas, on I-45 there was no power anywhere.

A surprising flow of traffic headed back to the Houston/Galveston area and clogged the interstate. Massive lines of vehicles developed at every exit ramp in hopes of having selected the right exit to score some gas or food.



But, no.



I left the interstate to drive over to the small town of Madisonville, thinking I might purchase a stash of D cell batteries -- a hot commodity in powerless Houston. I theorized that most of the travelers would not swing out to Madisonville, since it was not visible from the interstate.

 I was right. I encountered no traffic, but I also encountered no power. Nada.



In Huntsville, it was worse. I think there was a collective belief that power/food/gas would be available at this more sizable city. But, no. A long queue of cars snaked back up the shoulder of the interstate, waiting their turn to take the first exit.



When travelers discovered no power/gas/food, they rolled down the service road paralleling the interstate, hoping the next exit would magically, inexplicably prove to be the oasis of power/food/gas they needed.



I rolled on.



No power in Conroe. No power in The Woodlands. No power.



"Captain Trips," I thought.



I got in and got out, having topped off my tank before getting on the interstate in Buffalo.



It was just a few weeks later when I took by brother-in-law back to Galveston Island for a look-and-leave, when authorities allowed residents (with a photo ID) to enter the island and assess their property. We had to be off the island by 6 p.m.

Driving across the causeway as I-45 approached Galveston Island was a very surreal scene. What were once upscale yachts and boats were tipped on their sides in the median of the interstate. A collection of hull-damaged vessels lined the shoulder of the road. Sailboats with broken masts lay scattered about and abandoned.

It was crazy.

Tiki Island, which you pass en route to Galveston, was once a bustling community of condos on stilts and a crowded marina catering to the weekend-home crowd. Everywhere were piles of belongings heaped up next to the homes they once filled. That became a common theme: people dragged their possessions to the curb.

Once we rolled onto Galveston, there was more of the same. Boats where they should not be. Trees lying down. Businesses and homes all over the island had vomited their innards into semi-organized trash piles for contractors to collect and haul away.

I felt like I was intruding on the misery.

We rolled slowly down Broadway, taking in the sights of loss. When we finally turned to corner into the my brother-in-law's neighborhood, it was the familiar scene. Furniture and clothes and appliances and belongings spilled out of the homes and lined the sidewalks, as hurricane survivors moved in and out like a colony of ants.

At first glance, my brother-in-law's home didn't have any obvious damage, though I could see the avocado tree in the backyard and tipped over toward the alley. He spoke to his neighbors whose homes were on the ground level. They all theorized his house might be okay, since it was elevated.

We cautiously entered, expecting to see things tossed about and knocked over, general disarray, pillows and papers swollen with water. But, everything seemed in fine order on first inspection. The lack of complete destruction was incongruous with the scene in neighboring homes.

We wanted to celebrate, but we feared we were somehow overlooking something. Of course, there was damage: insidious destruction that didn't present itself at first glance. Not the kind of bombastic devastation seen on news channels, but structural and other complications that would ultimately cost quite a bit to rectify.

We taped up the refrigerator and hauled it to the curb. I coated his yard and underneath his home with heavy-duty mosquito spray. We turned his water back on and checked the faucets. We also got up on his roof, having seen some shingles on the ground in his side yard.

As the curfew approached, we cleaned up and got organized to leave the island, rolling slowly north in the line of others who had come for the day to do what repairs they could. 

A Decade Hence

It is not having been in the dark house,

but having left it, that counts.

-- Theodore Roosevelt

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    * 

What began a decade ago as a bright Tuesday morning full of promise, soon quite literally exploded into a new age for Americans.  In a moment of great separation, thousands of souls were gone without goodbyes.  We were thrust into an era of heightened vigilance and suspicion -- one in which we were all fully aware of the willingness (and eagerness) of our enemies to kill themselves as along as it meant they could kill some of us at the same time.

As a nation, we froze in bewilderment at the images and reports of planes flown into buildings or falling from the sky in the Pennsylvania countryside.

It was quite an incomprehensible demarcation that drew a sharp line dividing life before that day from life after.

The twin towers of the World Trade Center, symbolic stanchions of our nation's spirit, thundered down into the bedrock of a new millennium's zeitgeist.  Families floundered in the face of irrevocable absence.  Citizens struggled to cope with the scope of atrocities and the audacity of such enmity.

For a brief period, we Americans were drawn together and united in a collective huddle, cloistered like a crowd drawn to a beacon in the darkness of oblivion.  We shambled forward in a global cortege, numb with vulnerability and uncertainty, but increasingly finding our resolve.  That dark day has been countered with foreign policies, military actions, and covert special operations that have retaliated against organized terrorism with great consequence (from Bush's coalition of the willing to Obama's daring Abbottabad raid) -- despite the expected casuistry from opponents.

On that September day, when I was scrambling for the latest news about attacks at the Pentagon and World Trade Center, my oldest daughter was in third grade.  A decade later, she lives in the Chelsea District in Manhattan, not too far (not far enough!) from Ground Zero and potential targets like Penn Station/Madison Square Garden and the Empire State Building.  So, the anniversary of atrocity brings an extra dose of anxiety for me this year, this day.

Citizen of That Other Place

Everyone...holds dual citizenship 

in the kingdom of the well and 

the kingdom of the sick.  

Although we all prefer only 

to use the good passport, sooner or later,

each of us is obliged, at least for a spell,

to identify ourselves 

as citizens of that other place. 

-- Susan Sontag

It has been humbling to suddenly find myself rife with all manner of health issues and confined -- perhaps a strong word, but that is how I feel -- to a hospital for weeks and weeks.

An unexpected abdominal pain begat a series of tests that uncovered quite a list of issues.  I've likened it to taking your car for an oil change and being told you need to replace the driveshaft and get a new transmission.

But, there is a silver lining around my cloud:  some things were inadvertent discoveries (rather than issues sussed out because they caused trouble), which makes for a better prognosis.

The greatest emotional toll so far has been my inability to join my family on our scheduled New York City trip to move our daughter to college.  We had a lot of fun planned.  Though, I think we front-loaded the itinerary, because we knew it would all conclude with a moment wherein we had to wish our daughter well, tell her we love her, then turn and walk away to head back to Texas -- leaving her in the The City That Never Sleeps, knowing that we, too, might have trouble sleeping.

During my hospitalization (i.e., confinement), my family and I have had unprecedented support from friends and relatives.  The blessings of their presence and care have been almost overwhelming.  I realize how wonderfully privileged we are to be surrounded by such abiding love and sustaining grace.

August & Everything After

August comes in like a lion, like no August before.

In July, during the high holy heat days of summer, an epiphany explained the odd fermata of the recent months -- the long, lingering wait. I've spent most of this summer in a sort of slumped expectancy, knowing that August would bring that fateful trip in which my daughter moves across the country to begin college (and also, in essence, her adult life).

I'm simultaneously excited for her and forlorn that she'll live hundreds of miles away. I've the complex intertwining of happiness for her big step and sadness that it means, on some level, she's moved on from being my little girl and progressed into being her own woman.

I've been dreading being apart from her.

I know this is the order of things. I know it is an inevitable moment and an occasion for all the appropriately positive emotions surrounding exciting beginnings. However, when something begins, it usually signals that something else has ended.

Three Score & Four

Today is the 64th anniversary of my parents' wedding. My Uncle Fisk officiated the ceremony. His wife, my Aunt Grace, was there.

They are all four deceased.

Yet, today, I find myself fondly recalling them all. That can be a tremendous comfort to an otherwise aching realization of how long they have been removed from among the living. Though it can be written off as cliche, I find that telling anecdotes of their wit and adventures and good-natured deeds brings them back to me and to others. In some small but reassuring way, that keeps them near.

The Sound of a Crescendo

My iPod offered up Michael Jackson’s "Leave Me Alone" the other day.  And now the opening chords keep replaying in my mind.  And the jaunty chorus, replete with images from the music video.

It’s been more than two years since the announcement of Jackson’s death and the blitz of media coverage that followed.

While I was in college, a friend coaxed me into drawing a portrait of Michael for the wall above her bed.  She had the specific dimensions in mind, having already purchased a frame that suited the sensibilities of her college student chic motif.  She defined the medium (pen and ink) and chose the subject -- but allowed me the hallowed artistic license with regard to concept and composition.

I'd just painted the Queensryche's OPERATION: MINDCRIME logo on the back of a denim jacket (high-vogue, I know) for a buddy and was a little reticent to be on the hook again for someone else's artistic whimsy.   But, hey, I was in college, too.  A bag of potatoes and peanut butter sandwiches lose their tummy-tempting allure after so many weeks.  And I figured some cash in the pocket could translate to food in the fridge.

So, after a brief period of hesitation, I set about the task.  Soon after I began the piece, she left school, and I never heard from her again.  I remained unpaid, so the piece consequently remained unresolved.  Spurred by the tides of the 24-hour news cycle I recently unearthed the drawing, nearly two decades after I began it.

It wasn't like the man had not made music (and music videos) that peppered the years of my life.  At the time, he had not descended into the tabloid fodder, courtroom circus, and plastic surgery mishap that now defines him to younger people.  And by younger, I mean those who did not live through the infectiousness of Off the Wall, the omnipotence of Thriller, the tour de force of Bad.

"He was a dynamo," I tell these kids.  "Hit after hit.  He influenced what people wore and how they danced."

"He's a freak," they rejoin.  A familiar chorus from those who know him only from the days he was topping Internet headlines and not Billboard charts.

He was a powerhouse of pop hits, a cultural event, a consummate showman, and the Fred Astaire of Motown.  Even if you can't stand him, the facts (e.g., charts and sales) speak for themselves.  Of course, all of that has since been tainted by allegations of pedophilia and the public transmutation to a racially vague androgyne.  He was a monster to some, a deity to others, and a bank to many.

The exuberant and playful vocals of his Off The Wall tracks gave way to the visceral catcalls, verbal ticks, and syncopated grunts that marked the era of his affected sour-faced macho posturing, as if to plead:  "I'm so vulgar that you have to be convinced of my manliness."

Thus, he was King of Pop and King of Paradox.  It seemed as though he wanted to physically become Diana Ross -- maybe her alter ego, Dirty Diana.  Later, he verged on a black-wigged Carol Channing or drug-addled, Glaaaadiatorrr-spewing Elizabeth Taylor.  His famous Peter Pan Syndrome became less first-star-to-the-right-and-straight-on-'til-morning and more a darker fantasy of wealth and self-loathing.

In the end, for me, it seems healthiest to brush all those perceptions aside.  Perhaps his greatest transformation was not his surgically altered physical appearance, or the frequent video theme of Michael-becomes-panther/Michael-becomes-giant-robot/Michael-becomes-werewolf/Michael-becomes-sand/Michael-becomes-theme-park/Michael-becomes-sexual-entity sequence.  Perhaps his greatest transformation was via his influence on music and its byproduct, music videos...and possibly the single, sequined glove industry.

The Long Now and the Eventual When

The Clock of the Long Now ticks ever closer to existence.  It is back in the news again.

I blogged about it long ago (The Blog of the Long Now).  But, it is laughable and quaint to think of last November as a long time ago, when considering the expansive longevity proposed by those at the Long Now Foundation who envision the clock tracking time for millennia to come.

It seems there's a new location for the 10,000-year clock, courtesy of benefactor Jeff Bezos (of amazon.com fame).  Excavation has begun at a West Texas site north of Van Horn, where Bezos owns land around his secretive Blue Origin spaceport.  Builders are drilling an access tunnel to the location deep in the earth where the clock will mark the progress of time for thousands of years.

The audacity of this project is quickly realized if you attempt think back 10,000 years ago and imagine a device, structure, or mechanism that might abide the slow march of time to present day.

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 skyward 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).  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.

In Memoriam

Patriotic Americans exist in all walks of life and socio-economic classes -- the highly educated and the undereducated, from inner city neighborhoods and urban sprawl subdivisions to rural communities.

People find many ways to express their allegiance to our nation and the freedoms it has symbolized down through the generations, since our founding fathers first conceived and gave voice to the principles that guide us today.

This Memorial Day weekend, many will take time to honor those who gave their lives in service of our country and its ideas.  Cities, communities, neighborhoods, and families across the nation will pay tribute to fallen members of our military in individual acts, intimate gatherings, and grand ceremonies.

Some of us will place small flags on veterans' graves, while others attend crowded assemblies, sing the national anthem with flags waving over local memorials, or pause for a quiet and reverent moment of remembrance and prayer.

If you are grilling steaks in your backyard, frolicking at the beach, or simply enjoying the day off by taking in a matinee and eating at a favorite restaurant, it only takes a few moments to consider our forebears and those who have fought, undaunted, for our nation and its citizens.