Trailhead This Way

On Friday, January 22^nd, I went to my parents’ house to have lunch with them and help work on a rather annoying jigsaw puzzle that I had picked out for them to do when they finished the last one.  After lunch and some time at the puzzle, dad asked if I wanted to go on walkabout.  I love walking in their woods even in the winter, so I said sure.  I borrowed some boots and a warmer coat from my mom, adjusted my hat and scarf and off we went into the wilderness. 

We were almost back at the house sometime later when my dad, who was surveying the brambles down in a gully asked me if I ever thought about that time we got lost at Limekiln Lake.   My mind immediately went back to that afternoon in 2014…

…it was a gloomy, wet sort of day even though it was July.  I was up camping in the Adirondacks with my parents and my aunt and uncle.  Dad and I decided we were going to go on a hike.  We had a map, walking sticks, some granola bars, and we dressed in layers so we could adjust to any changes in temperature.  We had on good shoes and yet for some reason, we did not bring any water.  Nor did we have a compass or even my cell phone (since there was no signal up there anyway).  It was a good hike – there was lots of cool things to see.  I took lots of pictures as I trudged behind my dad.   It’s one of my favorite things to do, really – camp with my parents and hike with my dad while there.  The trail seemed a little sketchy in places, but we kept relocating the markers and so were more or less doing alright.  I didn’t think too much of one of the bridges being under six inches of water and was more fascinated at the amount of tannin in the water that was making it turn a fascinating shade of orange which made my feet look funny.  I had taken my sneakers off to cross and rolled up my pant legs in an effort to keep them dry.   This would become more significant later.

“Yep,” I said.  He started walking back towards the house again and I took up my usual spot behind him.  He was quiet for a moment and then said, “That was scary.  I have dreams about it sometimes still.”  We trudged through the snow up the rest of the embankment towards the lawn and the house beyond with its burning fire and cozy jigsaw puzzle.

Every once and a while we would stop to figure out where we were on the map and everything seemed to be going well.  Except that we eventually would come to realize that the map and the trails marked on it did not seem to match the trail that we were actually walking.  It was becoming harder and harder to find the trail markers – though we never completely lost them for long.  What should have been a forty five minute walked turned into an hour, and then two, and then three.  We shared a granola bar and the talk that had sporadically drifted in and out of our hike stopped almost completely.  We unconsciously took turns going first, trudging through heavy flora that was thick with rain and mud.  Sneakers and pants could not be kept dry and were drenched up past the knees.  I stopped taking pictures.  We kept checking the map.  We heard dogs in the distance, but they never seemed to get any closer and we dared not stray off the path we seemed to be on.  It felt like dusk was coming.

I didn’t really reply that I can recall, or if I did it was some sort of offhand comment about how it had certainly been memorable.  But his comment started line of thinking that I’ve been mulling over since.  At the time we were hiking, I knew that this was not how the hike was supposed to go and I knew that the map and the trail were not aligning in a way that made any sense.  I had heard stories of people becoming lost in the Adirondack Wilderness, so it wasn’t as if the enormity of the situation was lost on me then.  I knew that our growing silence meant that we were focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and getting to more familiar ground.  But there was something else going on as well…

When we finally came out of the vast wilderness that is Adirondack State Park in a completely different part of the campground from where we had gone in, the normalcy of camping seemed to come rushing back.  It was almost culture shock.  We were filthy, soaked, exhausted, and an evening chill was starting to set in.  My legs ached from pushing through ferns and branches and ankle deep mud.  I kept alternating between warmth from exertion and cool from the sweat drying and the cool breeze kicking up.  We walked slowly back to our own campground to find my mother, my uncle, and my aunt all somewhat frantic.  They had already been to the ranger and were trying to figure out what to do.  My dad’s brother had driven around the campground a few times hoping to see us on some path or coming out of the woods somewhere.  We had been gone a long time.

I know my dad well enough that his comment about dreams and actually saying that the hike was scary was no small thing.  This is a man who had been a soldier.  It took a lot for him to admit fear because it was always easier to keep it inside and do what needed to be done.  What I don’t think dad realizes is that while I respect the enormity of what we experienced, there was only one thing that caused me fear that entire afternoon.  The only thing that kept crossing my mind had nothing to do with not finding our way out or that we wouldn’t reach civilization again.  My only concern was that we would not make it back out before dad became sick.  He’s diabetic, see, and that much physical exertion with little more than a couple of granola bars was the only thing that I felt was out of our control.

Correction.  It was the only thing that I ever felt out was out of dad’s control.  I trudged on step after step and only two things ran through my head beyond how tired I was and how much my back was upset with me…. 

My legs hurt.  My back hurts.  I’m tired.  Watch your step.  Don’t be a klutz, this is not the place for an injury. I’m tired.  Please don’t let the diabetes cause a problem out here.  My legs hurt.  My feet are wet and cold.  I’m tired.  Don’t be a klutz. Please don’t let the diabetes cause a problem out here. Please don’t let the diabetes cause a problem out here. Please don’t let the diabetes cause a problem out here. Please don’t let the diabetes cause a problem out here.  Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.

You see, I knew we would get back to the campground.  I knew it would be okay.  I never had a single doubt that it was just a matter of time.  I didn’t have to worry or be afraid.  I was with my dad.

I was with my dad.

Beautiful Strangers...

One day last week I was sitting at a table providing information to students who were looking for their advisers. It is early November and already our eyes are looking towards a new semester. Being early November, however, also meant that Veteran’s Day was near upon us. Across the lobby area where I was sitting, there was an easel with a poster propped on it about the annual event being held on campus in honor of that day. I don’t remember what was written on the poster, but I remember that the center of it boasted a waving American Flag. Several people stopped and read it in the hour I was there; one of these has stayed with me. He was a youngish looking student, hair cropped close to his head and a backpack slung over one shoulder. He stood there for several moments, clearly reading the poster and internally filing the details. Then he turned, as the others who had read the poster did, and he began to walk away. As he did, his hand reached out and touched the flag. He moved towards the nearby doorway slowly, his fingers trailing across the stars and stripes. The gesture was reverent, loving, gentle, and lingering. I wondered about his story, and filed the moment away to think about later, when the bustle of the world around me slowly faded into a quiet evening. The image has returned to me at random moments since, and knew that I wanted to write about it. What I did not know was what I would say. I wasn’t sure if I could capture this singularly beautiful moment in an otherwise typical day. I was not sure if I could convey it with the justice it deserves. It reminded me – and still does – of the tiny moments of profound beauty that are all around us, if we can but see them. I know that I must often miss them. But when I am observant enough or lucky enough, I catch one of these treasures and they give me hope for this world.

Hope that is found in a young man feeding bagel crumbs to a seagull, or another young man in a completely different place in his life paying tribute to a flag, an idea, a lost comrade, a friend, a memory, an experience.

I have no doubt that this student has served and perhaps still does. I know that I can never hope to understand what he went through – what any veteran has gone through. My father, my grandfathers, many of my in-laws, my friend, my great uncle, and the line goes on and on. We take this special day to thank them for their service and their sacrifice. We thank the men and women who gave more than we can ever really understand – regardless of how we may judge the systems that placed and continue to place them in harm’s way. We don’t limit our gratitude to this day; for we walk the mirrored black wall to see the names, we tread amongst monuments and marble, we wave flags and tie ribbons. But on this day, our hearts are too full and they surge around us – paying tribute, making amends, showing support and honor in any way we can.

So, thank you. Thank you for the moments of beauty born from fathomless suffering. Thank you for all you have given and still give. Thank you for being brave and strong and doing what needed to be done. Even when you felt afraid and weak and doubtful. Thank you for standing in a place I can never understand and being someone I can never really know because your experience is so alien to the peace and freedom I enjoy. You are my father, my grandfather, my brother-in-law, my friend. You are known to me and loved by me – but a part of you will always be a stranger. And for that, my gratitude knows no end.

Mama Gets a Tattoo…

As most know, I go get a tattoo once a year, usually on Good Friday. This is the first year I had to shift it slightly since I started the tradition, and while it twinged a bit to do so at first, it turned out just fine. I was traveling on the Friday, so I instead went Easter Monday and I went through the rest of the experience the same way that I always do. For about a week or so beforehand, I worked on the design. I like to get there with it pretty much done so there's very little the artist has to do. It's cheaper that way for one, and for another, it makes the ink even more completely mine – because I did everything up to the point of the actual inking. So far, I have four cat prints, a tree on my calf, a two-part tribute to my favorite books on one arm, a sun on my lower back, an armband on the other arm, and then the new one. This new one was easier to render than some of the others as it consists of line work and no fill. It's a face my father has drawn since he was in college; a face whose name I recently learned was Witch Hazel. This will become more significant in a moment. The first thing I do is scan the image in, then crop and print it. This leaves the original intact. I go over the lines with a marker so that they are darker and more consistent in weight. Then I scan it in again and open up Microsoft Paint. I'm sure I could learn a more sophisticated editing program, but Paint seems to work, so I have never bothered. I then go through the process of cleaning up the lines, erasing any extraneous lines, and tweaking anything that needs tweaked. As for this new one, I was going to add swirls around her head to match the armband I already have on that arm, but I decided it would look strange, so I ditched that idea. Instead, I thought it might be fun to work in the first words I've ever had inked. On one side of her head, I put Witch Hazel in fancy letters with a heart doodle down near her neck. On the other side, I put Sunshine – which is dad's nickname for me. I put another doodle on this side – this one of a sun. It came out pretty nice, in my opinion – and since it's on my arm, that seems important. The sun is a theme across all my tattoos, and the Hazel is even more special because my grandfather used to call me Professor Hazelnut. I like synchronicity.

Once I'm content with the whole thing, I get it to the right size and when the day comes, I put it in the car and meet up with whoever is going with me. I never go alone. Sometimes it's my very-tattooed buddy, sometimes it's my parents. I also get cash. They have an ATM there, but it is painful for me to take that much out of a machine, so I usually try to devise plans for it to seem less 'lump-sum' scary. I also know that it saves them money if I bring cash – so I make it work. We then head out – stopping at Bruegger's on the way to get a bagel. I always arrive at the place at least 40 minutes before it opens. The reason for this is that they run on a first come-first served basis, and I like to be first. The longer I wait around, the more nervous I get. So, chatter and music in the car until they open the door, and then we head in. I tell the receptionist what I want – she might be starting to recognize me, but it's hard to say since it's only once a year. She disappears for awhile and comes back with any comments from the artist and with a price. I agree, and the artist gets to work making any adjustments and creating the transfer. Then, it's time.

It's rarely as bad as I remember and it seems to be getting easier every time. This time, I had Gooch. I don't always remember the artist, but I think I will this time. He's good – chats with me just enough to feel comfortable, but not so much that it feels awkward and fake. He advises with placement, lays the transfer, and gets started. The room is always cool and filled with strange monster heads, a few taxidermied animals, and either loud rock music or a movie. This year, it was The Big Lebowski. Once the needle touches down, I sort of slip away mentally; the pain isn't really that bad, considering how intolerant of it I usually am. It's just a constant stinging/burning sensation. I tense up while it's happening and if there's any fill, I usually start to sweat a bit. The artist has only ever had to stop once and that was with the lower back. Not much cushioning there. That and the inner arm were probably the two most painful places. The bicep isn't too bad – except this time, Gooch had to ask me to shake my arm out. The involuntary response to localized trauma is a tightening of the muscle. He said that with any other kind of tattoo it wouldn't matter much, but with a face, it mattered. If I didn't keep the muscle relaxed, the face would come out looking warped. So, I did my best and judging from the results, I did alright. As far as sessions go, it was an easy one – all lines, no fill, no shading. The lines are crisp, sharp, and fine. It looks incredibly cool, and it's fun to have something dad drew on my arm. Next year, I'll likely get my other calf done – and the pain-story might be a little bit different. But that's a year away, so I don't have to think about it for awhile.

The funniest part of this trip was something Gooch said as he worked. He didn't chatter much, as I said, but he did make sure that I was doing okay. I can't say I blame him, I'm not sure it would be good if the client suddenly passed out in the middle of a session. To complete the image I'm trying to paint, I'd like to point out that Gooch is a pretty big guy. He's not tall, he's just thick. Covered in ink, himself, he is, in some ways, a stereotypical-looking tattoo artist. He has a very nice voice, though, and a gentle way about him – you can tell he's an artist and cares about his work. Halfway through the session, he stopped for a moment and said, "You okay, mama?" and for some reason, that struck me. It is partially amusing to me because to most actual mamas, the smell of A&D Ointment would remind them of babies and diapers.  For me, the smell of it always makes me think of new ink.  Beyond that, it's the first time I've been called Mama and while I suppose it's a sign that I'm getting "older", I still thought it was cool. I'm not sure I can explain way. I'm not sure I have to…

 

I Like Birds...

We're at that time of the year when it's still cold, but there are birds returning to the trees and the skies and to those invisible places where they perch and sing until it sounds as if they will burst. I don't know where they are when they do this, sometimes, but it is enough just to hear them. Since we live near a lake, there are countless geese around, specifically. Now, I know that Canada Geese make messes and whatnot, but I still think they are fascinating and beautiful. I don't have to clean up after them, though, so that might make a difference. I've driven by the lake recently on a grey morning and noted that the lake was even grayer – dotted with what must have been hundreds of birds. Mostly geese, but with the occasional seagull poised among them visiting with its bigger cousins. I stopped and stood on the little deck that juts out from the gazebo and just looked at them. More were coming in and so for a moment there were geese all around me – calling out to one another and dotting the sky with dark and beautiful shapes. I felt empowered and trivial all at once.

Geese are interesting birds. I don't know a lot about them (or about any birds, really), but I remember once I read that they assign amongst them sentinels who stand guard whilst their flockmates sleep and eat. You can see them if you look at a grounded gathering of geese – they are the ones scattered throughout with their necks craned and their heads swiveling as they gaze the area around the group. I've never seen one call out a warning that I'm aware of, they just watch and wait, protecting the group, no matter how large or small the gathering. They will gather everywhere, too – the lake, the median that divides the drive-thru from the parking lot at Tim Horton's, the ragged cornfields still sporting the truncated spikes of last year's stalks. I'm always happy to see them return.

I'm also happy that the crows stay through the winter. Crows are a different sort of bird altogether. I've always thought that if we were to transform a crow into a human, we wouldn't get Brandon Lee, but rather James Dean. T-shirts with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeves and a swagger that would give all the T-Birds a run for their money, even Danny Zuko. They really don't care. They are jet black rebels, sauntering around as if they own the world. If you drive too close, they reluctantly get out of the way and often seem cranky while they do it. They will walk rather than fly, as if to drive home how nonchalant and unconcerned they are. Their call is raucous and edgy. They sit in the tops of trees and just send call after call into the sky, that throaty squawk that makes their whole bodies move. Sometimes they are alone, and sometimes they gather in clusters – exuding malicious or mischievous intent. A murder of crows. It is no wonder to me that one of the animal-spirited divine beings of some of the Native Americans is Crow, and for others, it is Raven. I can see it every time I catch the sight of black feathers, which always seem stark against whatever environment they've chosen – whether it is road-side buffet, the tops of barren trees, or just strutting around a random patch of grass.

On the exact opposite of the spectrum of birds are the little ones – the sparrows and the finches. The ones that are coming back to us now in full swing, moving in stuttered, hopping movement that makes 'flighty' an apt, if somewhat pun-ish, descriptor. Tiny beaks and tiny feet, they hop around looking for some great treasure in food or nest-supplies. I also like the bright ones – the elegant cardinals and the trouble-making blue jays. I love them all: the gangly grace of the heron and the ugly confidence of the buzzard, the stately royalty of the eagle and the menacing beauty of the hawk. I even love the goofy persistence of 'sea' gulls and the homebody waddle of the duck.

I do not know a lot about birds, but the few tidbits I've picked up are interesting and oddly amusing. For instance, it amuses me that they believe dinosaurs may have more in common with birds than with other beasts. It's entertaining also that pigeons and doves are more or less the same bird. I find it fascinating that flamingos are only pink because of the algae that they eat. And I will forever have the image of a chicken in a tree because I saw it once, somewhere. I also chuckle that every big, circling, faraway bird in the sky is a turkey vulture. Just ask my dad. In short, all birds are beautiful and funny and fascinating and with that first robin and that first morning filled with birdsong, I cease to love winter and I long for spring…

In that moment, I agree with e.e. cummings, who once said: "I would rather learn from one bird how to sing than to teach 10,000 stars how not to dance."

Sing on, my feathered friends.

Strange Creature...

I am a strange creature.

Many of you know this, but let me tell you a little story about my life that will drive the point home. Some of you don't need this to prove anything, but it's still an amusing illustration of the way I tend to go about things.

As many of you know, I have a fascination for the history of my family. One of the things that will thankfully forever be something of a mystery is my father's time in the army and, specifically, his time in Vietnam. He tells very few stories of that time in his life and I don't really push for more. I cannot even begin to imagine how hard it was and I would never ask him to revisit it unless he was willing to do so. I've involved myself in small ways over the years -- I saw the Memorial Wall with him, I ordered him new dog tags to replace the ones that had been stolen, I wear his army shirt, I send him Veteran's Day cards, I signed up for his unit at military.com in case any of his buddies should be looking for him. Little things that show how proud I am of him and how much I wish it had all unfolded differently. Well, my latest passion has been to take his "Views of VietNam" album and scan all the pictures in -- for him as well as for myself and anyone else in the family who might want them. Now, here's where the amusement factor comes in.

First, I was just going to scan them all -- I figured out how to do that with minimal manipulation of the pages so as not to damage the pictures. 92 photographs are in the album. That's a lot of pictures.

Half way through scanning them, I decided I needed to create a database so I could make notes of the ones that had captions. I thought it might be good to have a record of what the pictures actually depicted. In building said database (using Excel, of course), I came to the conclusion that I needed to rename all the scanned image files so that they were in order in the folder and could, thereby, be cross-referenced with the database. I also needed to record the page, the relative position on that page, and any notation my dad had put on the back.

Then, I decided I really needed to have the cover, the money, and the patches all scanned in, too. Six hours later, I had all the pictures scanned and codified and I was pretty proud of myself. Save file. Think.

The next day I thought to myself -- I'll have to sit down with dad and see if there is anything else he remembers that I should include in the database. And then I thought I should scan in the actual notations in my dad's own hand. I wanted to record the image of his notes to my mom in his own handwriting. I also thought that maybe it might be cool to build a slideshow complete with music -- basically, recreating the album as completely as I could in digital format.

So, in the end, one short evening of scanning some pictures has turned into many hours of work and a huge project that just keeps getting more complicated.

And that, in a nutshell, is me.