Tales of the Tragically Unhip - Volume 1

     As many of you remember (or perhaps you don't as it has been so long since last I posted), I am not made of the same stuff as the younger generations. The stardust and quantum energies that coalesced to form the haunted and ruinous temple that is me are older and more basic than those of the generations that have since been born. Were I to make a real world comparison, I would liken myself to a rotary phone with a ten foot spiral cord that was ever getting tangled to an iPhone 13.

    Evidence of this sad little truth lies in an incident that occurred some months back when I made a trip to Starbucks. Now, I would like to point out that I do not drink coffee. Coffee and I do not play well together, digestively speaking. However, I do love the smell of coffee and I have tried to drink it on many occasions, but the resulting reactions are unpleasant for myself and everyone around me. 

As such, I drink tea. Starbucks is not known for tea.

My family, you see, they drink coffee. They enjoy the fanciful concoctions with names that sound as if they belong in one of my novels. Chocolate flavored coffee or those with flavored creamers seem to delight them the most. And I, being the considerate patriarch, decided one day that I would stop by one of the local Starbucks on my way home just to surprise them with something they enjoyed. I was feeling very proud of myself as I turned into the drive thru lane. I mean, there did seem to be an inordinate number of cars, but it was a Friday just after rush hour so I was still feeling confident in my generosity.

The universe had other ideas.

My turn was soon approaching and I had come within site of the menu board. This is where I should have realized that I was in over my head. Still, undaunted, I stalked the listings like a Hanna Barbera lion in search of my prey. To my compounding confusion, I fond things such as: Cappuccino( I have heard of these from TV and movies), Honey almond milk flat white (ummmm...), Cinnamon Dolce Latte (Sounds...fancy?), Macchiatos (WTF?), Mocha (Chocolate-ish?), Clover Brewed coffees, and these are just the "hot coffee" items! 

Steady on, lad. You can do this.

Right then, it's nearly my turn though the person in front of me seems to be ordering for all of the city and the surrounding counties. More time to decipher these hipster (do people still say that?) runes. Hmmm...mocha. I've heard the wife say that before for...ice cream, maybe? No, something to do with desserts. It means coffee flavored chocolate? Well, I suppose it would be the reverse here. Mocha it is then. 

The surburban-elite-land yacht finally pulled forward taking the far too tight turn like hippopotamus in a sluice. I slunk forward like the coffee Philistine that i am and prepared to order. The speaker crackled on a woman asked me what I would like to order. 

"Two mochas, please" I answered.

"Which kind would you like?" she asked in return.

Which kind? There' s more than one? Bother.

I hurriedly look at the menu trying to see what I had missed. There were really only three options, but my brain latched onto the Frappachino (whatever in God's name that is) menu a glitched. There are at least a dozen varieties of those and so I replied, "Mocha Cookie Crumble."

There was a pause before she replied, "So you want Frappacinos, then?"

Frappaccino? What the hell is that? Oh, bother and damnation! I'm on the wrong menu.

"No, just a mocha please." I said hoping to steer the conversation back to where i thought it should be.

"Sir, which kind would you like?"

At this point, I could feel the judgement from the professional coffee drinkers in line behind me. Their vexation flew forward and piled itself on top my growing anxiety. Steady on, old bean. You can do this.

"Chocolate Cream, then, please"

Another slightly longer pause before she answered. "So you want a cold brew?" 

Cold brew? What...oh, for the love of...wrong damn menu again! Wait, was she laughing?

I could feel the heat rising at the back of my neck and in my cheeks. My ancestors were looking down on me and facepalming in despair at my ineptness. But then just as I was to pull out of the line in shame, I found the right part of the menu.

"Ah, ha!" I exclaimed. "Two reserve mochas, please"

There was definitely laughter in the ranks when she answered. "What size would you like? Tall, Venti, or Grande?"

Venti? Grande? I haven't studied Latin in 25 years. What the ever loving f....

At this point, one of the cars behind me honked its horn followed shortly by another. 

Frustrated and in a panic, I replied, "Look, I don't know the words to tell you that I want the chocolate flavored coffee in the large cup!"

There was a longish pause after that before the speaker came on again. Laughter tumbled out in digital buckets. She tried to reply but had to cut off her mic. I didn't wait for her to answer. I just pulled forward to the window and then handed my card to the person at the till. I didn't look at them save for a brief moment when they handed me the drinks. I believe I saw pity in her eyes, but I didn't linger long enough to find out for certain.

I am told that I did indeed get the right coffee drinks, though I think my family may have taken pity on the old man and told me what I wanted to hear. I have not returned to that Starbucks or any other as I am certain the tale of tragically unhip old lion has been spread far and wide. 

Happy Dance for a Weary World

It's been a long and frightful road to here hasn't it, my friends? Such a crooked and snarled path we have had to tread these past two years and more.  

"India Reports New Record Death Toll as Indian G7 Delegation Self-Isolates in London"

Grasping roots and seemingly impassible bramble thickets set in our way at almost every turn such that there little else to do save to brave the thorns and move forward. 

"Anti-Asian Hate Crimes Reported in NY, SF as New Study Shows Surge in Crimes Against AAPI People"

Now, here we stand, bloody and scarred at what we hope to be the end of this the trial of our generation. 

"Chauvin Lawyer Files Motion for New Trial as AG Seeks Harsher Sentence for Murder of George Floyd"

But the end seems elusive...ever moving just out of grasp. 

"Community Demands Answers After Black LGBTQ Teenager Mikayla Miller Found Dead in April"

Doom scrolling through any news feed will leave you to fall to the path and cover your head against the encroaching wilds.

"“New Normal” for U.S. Climate Is Hotter and Wetter, According to New NOAA Data"

And yet...

As I flick through the incessant rain of news and stories pretending to be news, a small thing appeared on my screen. At first, I thought little of it. It was just a man in the Yukon with another vlog to peddle. It seemed of little relevance against the backdrop of such serious and weighty matters bracketed the little video. 

But then, he appeared again. A different video this time, but still just of him. It was just that. A video of this man...dancing...in the frozen Yukon. 

This time I watched.  His name is Gurdeep Pandher and he dances the Bhangra on the shares of Lake Laberge. 

"5-Year-old is a Neighborhood Hero For Drawing Colorful Messages of Hope on Her House During Lockdown" 

I remember smiling as this 6'+ trunk of a man gamboled on the frozen lake.    

"India’s Richest Man Retools Factories to Provide FREE Oxygen to 1 in 10 COVID Patients Across Country"

It turns out the Bhangra is a Punjabi dance of joy and positivity.

"Watch NASA Mars Helicopter Make Aviation History: The First Powered, Controlled Flight on Another Planet"

So here, in the middle of the dross and dregs of my news feed is this Indian man dancing his happy dance at the top of the world.

"‘The Manta’ Sailing Vessel is Designed to Feed on Plastic Waste for Power–While Cleaning Oceans"

Other videos followed. Videos with him dancing with other people from the region. First Nation peoples dancing their traditional dances along with him. Irish dances high stepping in time with the swing and sway of his choreography. Bagpipers, even, bleating out a traditional tune as Gurdeep danced his dance of joy.

"Sister Makes Video For the Classmates of Her Brother With Autism Who is Starting First Grade – And it’s Adorably Helpful"

The videos were more than just a bit of entertainment. There was a purity to it that quieted something in me. 

"Believed to Be Solitary, Male Sperm Whales Actually Hang With the Boys – In Friendships That Can Last Years"

A purity of joy that allowed me to pause my doom scrolling and look beyond the existential dread.

 

"Spontaneous Spirit of Humanity Takes Center Stage Around Erupting Iceland Volcano"

Maybe...just maybe...life is about a little bit more.

Windows

 I must confess, dear readers, this has been a very difficult post to write. I have started it a dozen times or more and then deleted it, unable to capture the vastness of it all. I grapple daily with emotions that are greater than me. A complex Gordian Knot of feelings that are wound about, at the center, my mother and her Alzheimer's Disease.

For some years now, we have know that my mother was suffering from the disease though the exact start of her decline is a subject of debate. My sister was willing to see the signs far earlier than I was even though the history of Mother's family is littered with victims of the disease. I don't know whether I was simply in denial of what was happening to her or I was just that distracted, but eventually even I began to see the symptoms. 

My father, God rest his soul, was clearly covering for her lapses in memory for as long as he could manage. Yet, there came a time when my sister and I had to step in to help. It began with checking up on them on a more regular basis. My sister and I would take turns going over to check on them, alternating days for visits. Mom was still able to cook for them at this point, but the new vacuum we had purchased to replace the defunct one was a mystery to her. Trips to the grocery were now chaperoned by one of us as Mom could no longer remember how to drive and my father's eyesight was too poorly. In this way we managed for a year or two.

And then, my mother had a fall. She had been cooking hamburgers for the two of them and was taking the pan to the table when something happened. We don't know whether she suffered a stroke or her blood pressure dropped precipitously, but whatever it was caused her to fall to the kitchen floor. The grease from the pan burned her arm and left her in such a state that when I arrived I knew we had to go to the hospital. Many hours later they had her stabilized and we were able to take her home. Yet, during that night she had another episode which left her incapacitated on the bedroom floor. 

This time the ambulance was called. 

She spent the next ten days in hospital with a sepsis infection in her blood. These were dark times for our family (See my post "The Bitterness of Hope"). She did rally in the end, recovering in a rather miraculous style. There was a stint at a rehab facility to regain her physical acuity as best as possible, but she had lost something of her mind during all this. Her mind no longer functioned as it should having lost the ability to speak coherently. We agreed that she was "still in there" just by her actions and the partial sentences she would manage to cobble together. However, she was no longer able to be the caretaker matriarch of the family. 

The decision was made at the end of the rehab period to bring her home rather than institutionalize her. This was not an easy decision for any of us, but my father did not want to see her placed in a home. His own health was fairly poor at this point, so bringing Mom home was a dubious plan at best. Yet, he persevered. He had never lived on his own before and knew little of how to take care of himself let alone the two of them. My sister and I therefore, resumed our alternating visits though now we brought food (grapes and rotisserie chicken were poplar items) and did odd jobs around the house. My sister was tasked with giving Mom showers while I was tasked with goading my father into actually taking one. My wife would prepare meals that could be easily reheated in the microwave (we had to teach Dad how to use it) in random Tupperware and casserole dishes. We would take turns taking them to Doctor's visits based on our schedules and level of tolerance. I generally took my father to his visits as he had a knack for winding my sister up without even trying. My sister would take Mom to her hair cuts and random doctor's visits. Groceries were gathered by us as well until we were able to convince him to have them delivered (a concept he decried vocally until they actually began to show up on his doorstep). At the end, we even had Meals on Wheels delivering to them at lunch time just to make certain they had enough to eat. 

 It was taxing - emotionally and physically -  for all concerned, but we persevered for over two years until my father's heart finally gave out.

With Dad laid to rest, we now had the daunting task of sorting out the estate. My father planned assiduously for his retirement, hoarding every last inheritance and savings he could muster. They did not live extravagantly so that they might keep their nest egg as large as possible. I always chided him for this, but I suppose he was right in the end. He did not however, foresee the state my mother would be in at this point in their lives. I know he had hoped that they would both live out their days in the little house on Bancroft Street and die peaceful in their sleep. Such is the cruelty of the universe that it did not end this way. Without power of attorney, we had to seek guardianship for my mother as she could no longer make her signature or give verbal consent. If you've never had to go through this, dear readers, simply pray that you do not. I remember sitting in the judges chambers listening to him inquisition my sister as to her competency to be the fiduciary half of the care team be angered near to the point of outburst as she came close to tears. He then proceeded to explain to us that guardianship is not remanding the person into our care but rather that of the State. She was to lose all her individual rights and be subject to the will of the State. We would be the appointed caretakers, but ultimately, we answered to the judiciary. 

Let this be warning to you all. 

After this, a memory care facility was found near to us that was clean and had a good reputation. She has resided there for a year now. My sister and I resumed our alternating days of visiting, which kept us in her mind and kept us grounded to her. The little house on Bancroft was sold and the contents divided between us. Mom was safe and being cared for and we could visit her as we were able without having to worry about food, cleaning, or the thousand other things that we had been concerned. 

And then came the plague.

Since March, the facility (like all others) has been locked down allowing no visitors inside. In the early days, we were denied any visitation rights. Months passed without so much as a glimpse of her. Summer came and our understanding of the virus broadened. The managers of the facility began letting family have window visits with our loved ones. A sliver of open window with our mother in her rocking chair on one side and us in camp chairs in the mulch on the other side. Brief encounters that nearly always ended in a tearful goodbye, but at least she could hear our voices. 

But, the seasons change and summer faded into fall and that slid into winter. 

It is cold now. We can no longer have that sliver of screening open between us nor can we go inside. The staff are willing to let us try (bless them for their care), but she has lost so much weight she might flutter away in the breeze. We still visit, each of us making time as we can. I have an arrangement with the weekend nurses to visit on Sunday (official visiting hours are on Saturday).  I sit there on my chair in the landscaping outside her window shouting through the closed window. Our conversations are nonsensical as she cannot make herself understood and I'm not certain she understands what I say. On good days, she sits with me for a half an hour or more. It's on these days that it seems that she is more aware. On bad days, I'm lucky to get ten minutes before she gets up and wanders off. 

These are the days that nearly break me. The days when it seems like she doesn't know me and I am left standing at the window with my hand pressed against the glass shouting, "I love you" at her slowly retreating form.

Tiger Lilies

It has been hard for me to concentrate lately, my friends. I mean, my mind is normally just one shiny object away from going completely off track but the state of things of late has left me adrift. It's not that I don't want to write. I truly do. Rather, it's that there are too many things teasing away my concentration. There are too many things that I want and need to put to paper (figuratively speaking) that I just can't focus on any one of them.

Yet, I cannot let my mind wander aimlessly like this forever. I must calm the storm, as it were, and alight on a single subject. It being Father's Day I have decided that this is a good place to start. I would like to tell you all of the man that was my father.

It has been almost a year now since my father passed away. He died on August 19th in the wee hours of the morning in a run down nursing home on the east side of Indianapolis. It had been ten days since we first took him to the hospital until that final moment - a victim a failing heart. I don't know what I expected the end of his life to be, but I suppose I imagined something...more dignified. Not to slip away plugged into an oxygen machine set on full, desperately trying to force oxygen into your body. And yet...this was his end.

He deserved better.

My father was an Eastsider man and boy. Save for a brief time when Uncle Sam called him to service during the Vietnam War, he remained a scion of Indianapolis to the last. A graduate of Arsenal Technical High School and IUPUI he was on the forefront of computer programming. These were the days of punch cards and main frames the size of a city bus that had less computing power than my phone. I remember many nights when he would get the call to come and fix an error in the "code" (do punch cards count as code?) when the company would run its inventory and accounting. He always answered the call no matter what the time and stayed for as long as it took to make the thing go. It was only after 40 years and light years of change in the computer industry that he powered off his mouse and left the building for good.

He was a man of passions. Golf was chief among these. There was not a time when he was not considering playing a round. It was only thunderstorms and blizzards that kept him away, though I suspect he would have braved even those if he could. My mother used to tell the story that my dad was out golfing the day I was born. This was in a time before they let fathers in the delivery room, so it can be forgiven.

Now, when I was 11, I declared my intention to learn to play golf. It wasn't so much that I wanted to be like all the other members in my family as much as it was that I didn't want to babysit my little sister anymore while they were all away golfing. This was particularly true on our summer vacations to Michigan. However, it turns out that I am truly terrible at golf. I was so awful at it that is was painful for others to watch me try to play. My father, though, would come back from playing 18 with my relatives and then take me out to a small 9 hole course nearby to let me play. Oh, he would get aggravated with me and repeat the constant refrain of, "Keep your head down." but he would always take me out.

Fishing was another of his endeavors. Nearly every Saturday in any given summer would find us at the Mallory Conservation Club since I was the age of five. Now, at that age, I was mostly interested in chasing frogs and blowing bubbles in the water through the hollow bit of my bamboo pole, but he brought me (and later my sister) there week after week. I also remember always wanting to pluck a water lily flower for my mother. These were at the back of the pond and were notoriously difficult should your hook get entangled in the stems. Yet, he would row me back there at least once or twice in June and July to get some blooms for her.

He never told us out loud that he loved us. Men of his generation did not do such things. Yet, it was in his actions that we knew that he did. It wasn't just the golf and the fishing, but also the band concerts and academic awards "dinners" that he attended even though I am certain he would have rather been anywhere else. It was through these acts that we knew he loved us and it is these things that I will remember of him the most.

Father's Day comes at the same time of year that tiger lilies bloom. My father always told me that he liked these flowers more than any other. He would ask me year after year what they were called knowing that I knew of such things. And now, whenever I see them growing in the roadside ditches or in clumps in old fashioned gardens, I smile and wipe the tears from my eyes thinking of the good man that was my father.

Old Gamers Never Die

Once, a long time ago when the world was younger and so was I, God looked into the neon world of the 1980's and said, "Dude, check it ouuuut! Video games!"

We mortals looked up from our Monopoly, Risk, and Uno blinking languidly at the flickering monochromatic dot bouncing off the simple paddles. It coursed across the black background in a lazy, yet hypnotic, path. We, the uninitiated youth of the time, stared at this Greek fire brought from the ether by the modern Prometheus unaware of the twitch beginning to form in our thumbs. We huddled about the RCA or the Zenith shrines as cavemen would a fire listening to the boop and bleep of the dot as it struck the paddle.

Thus began our descent into madness.

From these simple primordial bits and bytes, rose an ever evolving and ever more cunning labyrinth of mental masturbation. And there I was, one of millions alive at the dawn of it all. Watching, but unable to resist, as quarter after quarter spilled from my jeans pockets and into the token machine. I was enthralled...I was addicted.

And then came the Arcades.

Raucous dens of sight and 8 bit sound. Tempest (my favorite),

Star Wars (I always wanted to be a Jedi), Dungeons & Dragons (are you surprised?), and so many more called to me whenever we mall rats drifted near. Had I but invested those quarters.... ah, but what's the use in "What if?".

I played as the games continued to evolve. PS1, PS 2, SEGA, Nintendo, and on and on. Final Fantasy was my last great love. I played them all from I to X, losing many a night to the conquest of digital monsters. But it all changed when we found out my son was to be born.



As I considered my future now full of impending responsibility, I knew it was time to lay such things as video games aside. And I did...for a time. Raising a tiny human encompasses your life in a way you can't imagine when you are a first time parent. All your time, thought, and...well, everything goes into this diminutive version of yourself. Even the thought of gaming left me, replaced my exhaustion and a slight nervous tick in my right thumb.

But, old gamers never die.

You see, my son loves video games as much as I do. We discovered this with our first Lego video game (one of the Star Wars versions, I believe). They are easy games that are fun to play together as most of them are multi-player. It is the kind of thing that makes the gamer gods smile while giving us memories to laugh about in the future.

Winter Will Fail and Spring Will Come

Life has crashed upon me in unyielding waves lately, dear readers. I have spent the better part  of an entire evening re-creating my eulogy for my recently departed father, only to have the digital gods take it all away. I cannot bring myself to go through that again, so I will leave you with a bit of my writing for now in hopes that I may be strong enough to try again at some later time.

Excerpt from "The Wild Man of Winter Wood"

             Shortly, six more squirrels glided out and fell in behind the first. Three more squadrons sailed in from different directions pelting the wolves with acorns and rocks as they flew over. One, grey with a black stripe down its side, hurled an acorn straight into the open mouth of a wolf as it leapt upwards towards them. The wolf fell to the ground gasping for air.

            It was then that creatures of the forest of all kinds came bounding, hopping, running and flying into the meadow. All set to harrying the wolves with teeth, stone, stick and claw. One in particular, a badger with a patch over one eye, ran into a cluster of wolves who had circled around Ralph. With a terrible ferocity, the badger began biting the wolves’ legs and muzzles, causing them to yelp and howl as they scurried away.

            A jagged black rock pelted down, striking Spur across the flat of his snout. The wolf growled fiercely as he leapt away from the Wild Man, snapping his jaws at the retreating squirrel completely ignoring the shrieks of rage from the tiny figure on his back. The Wild Man rolled to his feet, chucking handfuls of snow and sod at the wolf as he steadied himself.

            “Sparky!” he cried. He thrust both arms into the air waving them enthusiastically at the squirrel. A flutter of red scarf and the muted glint of the failing light off his goggles were all that the Wild Man saw of Leftenent Sparky McWingnut before he glided back to his squadron, but not before the squirrel nodded towards him and offered a brief salute. The Wild Man laughed and returned the salute as they banked to the left, gliding back into the trees.

            A banshee screech startled him around. He spun quickly to see Francis standing in front of the Flower, her back arched and her tail at full bristle. A low rumbling hiss came from her. The dark of her eyes had narrowed to mere slits as she glowered at Havelock. He stood a scant foot away from her and was creeping slowly forward.

            A single flake of snow drifted downward, coming to rest on a petal of the Flower. Havelock grinned wickedly. The Wild Man shouted. Francis hissed. Snow began to fill the air.

            And then, the snow stopped.

It was not that the storm had passed, but rather that the snow simply stopped falling. It hung in the air. Each and every creature within the clearing paused. And in the stillness, a woman’s voice was heard singing.

            “Still, still, still we are;

            Still, Still, Still we must be;

            The world without, the world within;

            All must be still, as still as can be.”

            A woman, dressed in russet and orange, stepped from the trees at the far side of the meadow. Tall and thin, with hair the color of loam, she crossed to the stone to stand facing the Wild Man. She held a wand of curled witch hazel, which she twirled in lazy circles as she sang.

            The Wild Man looked about. Nothing stirred, not even a mouse…except for him. The woman crossed the glade with barely a whisper. Snowflakes parted around her and swirled in her wake as she passed. She drew near the stone and paused opposite the Wild Man.

“Ever here, ever there;” she chanted. “I find you, ever here, ever there.”

The Wild Man began to circle the stone, holding his staff close to him. The woman did not lower her wand, but began to move around the stone in the same direction.

            "Time and Tide wait for no man.” He said as they circled.

Stopping suddenly, he looked around and said, “Survey says! Agatha le Fey!”

He blew his breath at a snowflake that hung in the air before him. “No man is a failure who has friends.”

A smile quirked Agatha’s lips as she also stopped. She lowered her wand and said,

“Known to you

And known to me,

I know you of old.

And me to you.”

And in that frozen time, the two stood across from one another unaware that they were not the only ones untouched by Agatha’s spell. Havelock cowered where he had stopped, crouched and ready to spring away. His black eyes darted between them daring not to move for fear of being noticed. After moments when only the frost of their breath stirred the air, Havelock leapt forward. He reached out, but had his hand swatted by Francis’ claws. Black blood oozed from the scratches on his hand.

Agatha whirled towards the darkling creature, pointing her wand directly between his eyes.

 “You have no power here, elf,” she said calmly. “The Flower will bloom soon and you will be returned to the Darkness. When you return next season, you will not remember any of today. No memory of this grove will remain to you when you return. You will begin this fruitless endeavor all again to the very same end. You are doomed for your sins to continue chasing Spring until Time itself perishes. In what’s left of your soul, you know this to be true.”

Mulberry Trees

There is a duality to my work life that I have alluded to in the past. On the one hand, I spend my days trying to save the flora and fauna of this landlocked state of ours by pushing back against the tide of progress. On the other hand, I am helping pave over creation by ensuring that the aforementioned progress is built correctly. This dichotomy makes for an unstable taijitu in my soul and mind and, quite frankly, leaves me exhausted.

Tonight, though, I would like to focus on the yin side of this couplet. Trying to hold back the onslaught of development (especially in a conservative state such as Indiana) is rather like tilting at windmills. The goal is to preserve something of the heritage and function of the natural places in the state. As part of that process, it is my job to identify the flora I find as I do my surveys. Now, it;s not enough to just wander into a field or woods and say, "Well, yes, this is a wetland." No, I must identify as many of the plants I find and label them as per their Latin name. Tree species are usually the easiest, though I do get the random transplanted species or escaped species that puts a wrench in the works. Asian Pears (Pyrus sp.) I'm looking at you. One of the species that I run into frequently is the Mulberry (Morus rubra or Morus alba) with the red mulberry being the most common.

Why do I bring up this innocuous tree, you may ask? I shall tell you. I do not like Mulberry trees. I do not like them, Sam I Am. No, not in the least.

My dislike of these trees has less to do with my professional assessment than from a personal bias. The trees do show frequently in my field surveys, however, all they truly mean to me is that I am on the dry side if things. It is only when I am home and tending to my own gardens that my disdain for these trees comes out. It's not that they are particularly unattractive trees as their glossy leaves are uniquely shaped and Morus rubra has a sort of orange bark. I don't even mind the prolific fruit that they bear as they are fruit for any number of wildlife. No, my loathing of these trees comes from the simple fact that they will grow anywhere and truly they will grow anywhere. Any crack in the concrete or split in the asphalt, you will find one of these trees growing.


No matter how bad the soil or steep the incline the mulberry will be the first to grow. Of course, once the tree has established itself, there is little anyone can do to remove it as it's tap root reaches all the way to the molten core of the planet. This means that I am forever battling against these colonizers in my flower beds and tree rows in a desperate attempt to preserve my vision of this tiny patch of the world intact.

Much like my professional attempts to keep the developers of the world from paving over everything in existence.

Now, as a biologist, I know that Morus rubra and species like it (Don't you look away Green Ash - Fraxinus pennsylvanica) are merely doing what they are meant to do. Colonize disturbed areas, stabilize the soil, and provide shelter for slower growing species such as Beech (Fagus grandifolia) and Red Oak (Quercus rubra). Their vigor and tenacity are part of their genetic make up. In short, this is the way they are meant to be and no amount of pruning or chemical deterrent is going to alter that fact. I rather view developers in much the same way.

So what is to be done?

It won't do to have mulberry trees growing ad nauseum throughout the garden, but neither am I likely to keep them all from growing. Thus, in the spirit of the taijitu, I have decided to try to change my views on the matter. Instead of reaching immediately for my pruners or my spray tank of weedkiller, I will try to see if I can tolerate the tree where it is. The three trying to grow next to my house will obviously have to die, but the three or four growing inside the White Pine (Pinus strobus) windbreak planted by the developer of the subdivision next to us...well, perhaps those can stay. And perhaps, not every proposed development needs to be opposed quite so vigorously.

"I Hope We Meet Again"

Jim Johnson is a tall man of slender build, white hair, and clear grey eyes. In all the years that I have known him, I have never known him to frown or be anything but positive. He is not the relentlessly upbeat person that causes instant loathing in an old cynic like me, but rather a calm and pleasant demeanor that even I cannot fault. He is a native son of Seymour, a small hamlet in southeastern Indiana that one passes on the way to Louisville and other parts south. Yet, ten years ago, I was fortunate enough to be able to meet him on a project just outside of town.

Now, I won't bore you with the technicalities of my job, but rather give you this synopsis. If a client wishes to impact an area with wetlands or streams, then said client must do mitigation. In other words, if you bulldoze a wetland or stream, you have to put it back somewhere else. Mitigation is exceedingly expensive and the permitting process would make a Vogon proud (if such a thing were possible). You must also know that very few people outside the industry understand any of this.

Thus, approximately eleven years ago, I was contracted to permit, install, and maintain a mitigation site for the local Economic Development Corporation. Permits take a long time to obtain (six to twelve months, typically) and it didn't take long for the process to become contentious. Enter Jim Johnson. A successful business man in his own right, he understood the basics behind any permitting process. He was able to bridge the gap between local obstinance and my Escher-esque explanations of the permitting process. I do not doubt that, without his help, the project would have never been completed.

It has been ten years now since the mitigation was installed and at least five years since last I visited the site. Last week, I decided to return to obtain some pictures for propaganda purposes. I called Jim and asked if he would meet me at the site. He rolled up in his black F150 smiling as ever waving a bottle of water at me as I parked.

"I kinda figured you'd be thirsty after walking around out there." he said tossing me the bottle.

That's the kind of man that he is. We talked for awhile about the site and how their lawyers had not been able to get closure from the regulators. I smiled and nodded as he talked knowing that they would never get there with their approach. Jim knew it, as well. The site had performed well over the years, and we walked about a little talking about this tree, that shrub, and that group of flowering things over there. Afterwards, I took him to lunch as all good marketing people should do. We talked about his farm and his grandkids. He gave me a brief history of the railroad presence in town and how it was named after John Seymour - the man that built the east/west rail line.

And then it was time to go. We walked out of the dinner and said our goodbyes. As he was walking away, he waved and said, "I hope we meet again."

I paused then, watching Jim gingerly pick his way across the tracks to his truck parked near the town square. Jim is 77 years old now and though I know the EDC would choose me to do any ecology work for them, it is not likely that this sleepy little town will progress much farther than it has. I stood there next to my truck listening to the carillon bells in the Presbyterian Church ring out "Nearer my God to thee."   I realized that it was likely that I would never see my friend again.

Don Ricardo de Codicia And the Yellow Line

In the annals of my corporate life, there are many things which would strike an outsider as odd. There are stories that would make you laugh and those that would make you despair for the fate of humanity. There are even some tales that make the reader and narrator scratch their heads in wonder. What follows is of the latter category. It is the tale of Don Ricardo de Codicia and the Yellow Line.

Don Ricardo is one of the great and good in our little corporate village - a veritable founder of the town , if you will. He is a tall man with little hair and of narrow waist, though his personality more than makes up for his lack of follicular activity. This is due in large part to his ego, which shares a gravity constant with Jupiter. Not prone to humility, Don Ricardo revels in leading tours of prospectives through the building touting this or that wonderful aspect of our little world. He enjoys the uninterrupted attention and the opportunity or dazzle the uninitiated with his knowledge of the inner workings of our craft. The fact that those inner workings, as narrated by him, change in scope and nature depending on whom he is leading about does not bother him, though it is amusing to the rest of us.

There is one thing however, that the Don will not tolerate in the least. One must never place anything beyond the yellow line. You see, within the deeper parts of our little village there are three bays each with its own automatic garage door. These doors are how we, the villagers, move our goods and tools in and out. One is blocked due to lack of storage options and the other is used copiously by all who reside in the hamlet. But the last one, dear readers, this last bay is for Don Ricardo only. This area is bordered on three sides by a bright yellow line painted on the floor. Where the line came from, no one knows but there it rests defining that area which shall not be used.

The Don guards this area with the tenacity of a peacock defending its hen. Should some unwary or unknowing serf be so unlucky as to attempt to store an item there for lack of a better space, the Don swoops in the scuttle the item away all the while clucking discontent at any near enough to hear. Now, it is not that he himself keeps anything in this area either. No, this is an area that he has designated for himself and must be kept clear “just in case”. The event that this space would or could possibly be used for has not been defined, but woe unto the lackey that places anything across that yellow line.

So we, the poor village folk, watch as Don Ricardo parades through stopping only long enough to chastise whomever is unlucky enough to be at hand to go and sweep out his area (yes, we are expected to keep it clean for him) before sauntering off trailing his audience. Those of us left in his wake grumble not so quietly as we push our brooms across the floor beyond the yellow line.

Cats in the Cradle

Tonight, dear reader, I would like to relate to you a story of cats. You may read this story and think that perhaps I have over reacted a bit in the telling and that really there was not much to it in the end. However, I would beg the reader’s indulgence in remembering that I write fantasy novels by and large and as such have a rampant imagination. It is with that in mind that I ask that you to bear with me as I tell this tale.

It was on an early spring day last year about mid-March when I found myself at a lonely farmstead in southeastern Indiana. For those of you unfamiliar with the area, it is a landscape of steep hills and broad ravines. Springs are abundant there, welling up from fissures in the bedrock which is ever near the surface. Pasture land falls off readily to wooded streams that meander through the lowlands making their way eventually to Salt Creek. This particular property adhered to this bucolic archetype with rolling hills and a stream bending its oxbow through the lowest part of the land. It was my job to identify and delineate any and all wetlands on the site. I’ll not bore you with the details of my job, but suffice it to say that I finished right as the day was ending.

Trudging up the last hill on my way back to my truck, I paused to watch the sun dip below the tree line. Well, truth be told, I stopped because the wheezing of my breath had become louder than the squelching of my boots in the mud and the thought of passing out on that lonely hillside did not appeal to me. The chill wind that had harried me for most of the day faded away leaving only the song of early migratory birds ringing through the trees. I pulled down the hood of my sweatshirt and heard the lowing of the cattle in a distant pasture as the sky faded from rosy gold to pale yellow.

Once my breathing had settled from "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!" to something akin to normal, I resumed my trek back to the truck. I had parked on a gravel road that led back to the hill above the oxbow facing towards the farmhouse and the silos. This road forked just before reaching the house with the wider lane going left between the house and the silos and barn. The other was narrow and ran behind the house to the right towards the road. I slumped into the cab, grimacing as my muscles protested every move I made. The tires crunched against the gravel as I pulled forward meaning to go through the wider left lane.

The farmhouse was small with white clapboard siding and green shutters at the windows much like most houses in the area that were part of working farms. It was obvious that no one was home, which I took no account of as most farmers have to supplement their work with second jobs. I rolled slowly past the fork in the road and up the gradual slope towards the house. The metal silos were just to the left  of me hiding the majority of the barn which was set back a bit. I could see the the barn doors were open, but again I thought nothing of it as this was not uncommon in the area.

It was then that I saw the cat.

There at the top of the rise came a small grey cat. It was little more than a kitten, really. It walked slowly out to the middle of the road and sat, curling its tail about its legs. What I remember most now is the yellow eyes. They were such a bright contrast to the smoke grey fur that you could not help but be drawn to them.

"Look at those eyes," I said as I rolled to a stop. "Come on, little one, get out of the way."

I pulled forward a few more feet, but the cat showed no sign of moving. It merely sat there regarding me with an aloofness that only a cat can manage. I beeped the horn, but received even less reaction.

"Well, this won't do," I said as I put the truck in park and opened the door.

It was well into the gloaming of the day at this point, but there was enough light for me to see my surroundings. I walked forward towards my little grey friend making shooing noises in my best non threatening voice. The cat, of course, made no movement other than to settle down into a resting position. It blinked languidly at me as I drew near.

It was then that two other cats wandered into to my view from the house.

"Oh, more of you," I said watching a ragged black and white tom and a less ragged calico pad their way towards me.

At this point, my imagination took over with enthusiasm.

You know....this is the point in the story where things go bad.

"And I just got out of the truck..." I murmured to myself.

I turned to go back with the plot of every horror movie and book I had ever read or seen tumbling chaotically in my head. Bram Stoker's Dracula won out narrowly over Stephen King's Cujo leaving me with the thought of demonic cats stealing my breath and/or soul like the old folks used to claim.

"Counteth oneth, twoeth, threeth. Throweth," I whispered, chuckling at my own crazy.

I had gotten three steps into my strategic retreat when I stopped. The barn was in full view now. Both doors had been left open revealing the John Deere green of the machines inside. It was the cats that made me stop.

"What the hell?" I exclaimed.

I watched as dozens of cats in all shapes and sizes streamed from the open doors. Now, had it not been going onto dark and had I not been exhausted from slopping around in the mud all day, I might have welcomed the herd of cats trotting their way towards me. However, as it was, I was left with the overwhelming desire to leave. It was only when I felt the touch of the black and white tom against my leg that I bolted for the truck.

I backed up to the fork in such a rush that I nearly slid into the field. Turning hard, I aimed the truck towards the other lane behind the house. The dash alarm chimed to remind me to put on my seat belt, but I ignored it.

"Yes dear, I hear you," I said to the truck. "But I would rather not have my soul sucked out at the moment, thanks."

It was only when I was out on the main road that I stopped to buckle up. I paused, though, as I was reaching for my seat belt to look into the bed of the truck.

...Just when you think the guy is safe....

As I was driving away, I looked over to the drive between the house and the barn and found the little grey cat still perched at the top of the rise staring at me with those bright yellow eyes. 

 

Folding Sheets

There are moments in a person’s life where reality dispels the illusions we build for ourselves and lay bare the basics of our lives. It is in these times that we discover the fundamental elements that make us who we are. It is the basic programming of our lives that remains when all else is stripped away. One such moment happened to me in the summer of 2017 when my mother was taken to hospital with sepsis.

She was there for ten days. We took turns - my sister, father, and I - sitting by her side as  the doctors struggled to diagnose her condition. It was only after the third day that they were able to ascertain that her bloodstream was infected with staphylococcus oralis, a bacterial infection likely obtained from an over zealous dental cleaning. During this time, and for some time after the antibiotics had started to work, she was delirious. The woman who had been my mother was no longer there, but rather replaced by this frail and gaunt soul in contest against Death. 

Yet, as I sat there watching her, there were signs that she was not completely lost to us. There was one constant during those early days even as she drifted in and out of lucidity. She kept folding her sheets. It wasn’t that she was merely turning them over in her hands, but rather taking measure of them with her hands and precisely folding as if to place them straight into the linen closest. The fact that she was lying on them didn’t seem to matter much at the time. She did this with her blankets and wash cloths as well, all the while tsk-ing and muttering at them when she couldn’t get them put right.

It was also during those early days before the diagnosis came through that she came perilously close to passing. I was alone with her as my sister and father were yet to arrive when she settled into a moment of clarity. Her eyes were watery, but clear as she clasped my hand as tightly as she could. She raised her free hand and rested it shakily on my cheek as she smiled sadly at me. 

“My boy,” she said weakly, patting my cheek with her trembling hand.

I cried then as I do now at the remembering of it.

But, this story has a happy ending of sorts. She survived the ordeal and has returned home, though a bit worse for wear. The Alzheimer’s that just begun to take hold prior to her illness is now much more pronounced. Yet, she remembers each of us though  she cannot say our names. Music still comes to her easily despite her losses, especially Christmas carols. Sentences may be beyond her reach now, but tonight as we were folding their laundry, I set Pandora to the “Fred Waring” Christmas channel and we sang Silent Night together word for word as we put the sheets in the linen closest.

Excerpt from Chapter 12

            Loose stone rasped beneath Surien’s boots as he walked the narrow path that led from the Settlement to the Raven’s Circle. Glancing up, he caught sight of a narrow black form winging its away to the west. He growled softly, grinding his teeth at being watched so blatantly. Had he believed that the dragon was alone, he would have sent every whorri left to him after it. Luck never favored him that way, though. Likely, there was a full Flight lurking within the clouds or just beyond sight in the mountains.

            Turning back to the path, he walked on. Lights began to glow within the windows of the houses that he passed as twilight deepened. The dwellings became fewer and fewer as he walked until, as twilight deepened into night, he was alone on the path. The mat of grey clouds had begun to tear, shredding into drifting threads in the evening breeze.  His eyes adjusted quickly, gleaning the pale near - light of Morobe’s slender crescent. The only sound other than his boots on the path was that of the creaking leather and clinking scales of his armor. His broad hand rested lightly on the pommel of the metal tipped goad sheathed at his belt. The red short cape attached beneath his gorget drifted with the breeze casting shifting shadows on the ground. Sweat and rain cooled against his skin setting a chill within him as the heat of the day faded. The chain mail at the back of his padded helm caught at his matted hair, but he ignored the discomfort intent on the path ahead.

            The path descended from the Settlement towards a cleft in the rock of the hills. Sheer walls of dark stone rose steeply on either side with only the twisted and stunted form of scrub trees clinging desperately to small cracks in the stone face as relief. Boulders and rocks lay strewn across the path tumbled down from the heights over the centuries since his people had been banished to this place. He picked his way past each of the falls placing his feet deftly in footfalls he knew to be safe. Ethereal fingers of fog crept up from the ground in sinuous threads as the night deepened further obscuring the line of the path. Surien did not slow, but merely continued his determined pace down the receding slope.

            Here in the deepening night alone with nothing other than his own thoughts to distract him, he could sense its presence. The dark shadowed other which had become part of his being so many years ago. A gift…a reward bestowed to him by the Raven’s Circle for surviving the Selection. He alone of thirty had survived the trials to be selected as Master of the Bloodbourne. Those that wore the red called him Master and bowed deference just as he had done for his predecessor these twenty years prior.

            The shadowed presence was just that – an apparition - never corporeal, but as much a part of him as his true shadow. Though truly, it seemed more akin to his soul. It lived though he knew it never drew a breath. It was aware. Its thoughts filtered into his own wrapping its sentience in with his own until it had become, after all these years, an extension of his own existence. It had power as well. Through this grafted existence, he was able to control the Hellkites. The influence and control that he was able to exert on the creatures and their handlers flowed from this other. He knew with certainty, though, that this was only the smallest portion of what lay within that presence. He could feel the storms of potential roiling within whenever he drew upon it to exert his control. It was there seemingly just behind him as always. Cold, powerful and as much a part of him as each breath he took.

            The rattling of stone rolling against stone brought Surien’s thoughts away from the darkness that had been given to his soul. Hellkites, three on either side, rose from their posts in the rock. Mauls, bred from the wolf stock that had been found in these mountains when his people had first been banished here. Fangs twice as long as those of an ordinary wolf with large instep claws that could rend a creature twice its size in moments. They had been mindless slavering wretches when he had first taken up the goad. Yet, he had managed to breed intelligence back into them by pairing them with captured wolf stock from the Odonae. In twenty years, he had managed to take a mindless species and turn it into a creature which no longer needed handlers or breeders to control it. They were given direction just as any human would be and they heeded it.

      Surien raised his hand towards the nearest to his left. It was larger than the others with a coat nearly darker than the stone on which it rested. Even to his sight, the Maul was nearly undetectable save for the two golden eyes peering at him from the deepening night.

      “Tarring siar, Rend.” Surien growled.

      The creature blinked languidly, and then lowered itself into a resting pose. A breath later the scrape of claws against stone came to his ears as the others settled back to their stoic watch. Surien grinned slightly, allowing himself this small measure of satisfaction. His sentries paid no further heed to him as he passed between them.

      Fifteen more steps brought him to the end of the path. Torches ensconced in iron brackets affixed to two stone obelisks on either side of the path guttered fitful light. Surien squinted at the brightness, stopping for a moment to let his eyes readjust.

      “Weakness,” he grumbled still squinting at the torches.

      The pale and weathered stone of the obelisks stood nearly twice his height. Hewn from something other than that of the mountains, they stood at the entrance to the Conclave – the gathering place for the Raven’s Circle. Each pillar had the image of a raven chiseled into it. Ancient glyphs trailed beneath each bird, but they had become so worn over time that they were no longer legible. Still, it did not matter. He had been taught the phrases long ago and could recite them now even were he overcome with senility.

      He turned to the left pillar and spoke, “What lies without.”

      Turning to his right, he canted, “What lies within.”