A Work Progressing

Several weeks ago, I watched a YouTube fishing video where the User’s I.D. happened to be Brats&Mustard. The video was all about fishing, but as I watched the video, I just kept thinking about Brats&Mustard — was it only because I am half German?

All day long, thoughts of Brats & Mustard crept into my consciousness. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted it. While watching TV, I thought of Brats & Mustard — while washing the dishes, Brats & Mustard —vacuuming, Brats & Mustard. Then sauerkraut popped into my mind — I wanted that too. Now, I like sauerkraut, but I can’t remember ever having eaten Brats & Mustard; today I vowed that I will have it with some sauerkraut.

So, I sat down to a lunch of Brats & Mustard, with sauerkraut, and beer. Then, I made the regrettable mistake of devouring it all, very quickly, without the slightest thought of savoring even one bite. Like so many other things in life, I kind of messed up my meal — I could have enjoyed it so much more, by just chewing and swallowing slower, by letting the taste linger. In life, I know there are no do-overs, but there are start-overs — so I thought, I’ll do better next time.

Now and then, I still crave Brats & Mustard, and after learning of the great health benefits of sauerkraut, I always include it.

So the words Brats&Mustard, and one German surname are few — but they had quite a bit of power.

Uncle Ed

Periodically I have guest posts, this is from my older brother!

In addition to the different vowel, there is a world of difference. While they are technically contemporaries, Edouard Manet is eight years older, and painted in an entirely different style. Manet is a modernist/romantic painter, and Claude Monet is the father of the Impressionists. It has been said that the Impressionists were more concerned with rendering light, sacrificing detail in the process. I think that is a fair description.

Monet was eight years younger but lived almost forty years after Manet’s death in 1884.

The title Impressionism was actually a critics slam, Louis Leroy, who was trying to criticize Monet’s works at the Exhibition Of The Impressionists. He called the painting an “impression” because he thought that the works looked incomplete,” he said upon viewing “Impression, Sunrise, 1872.”

Both painters had a massive impact upon Western Art. Manet pushed directly against the accepted standards of the times in composition, and came from a very influential family. In fact, Manet’s father was the Chief Justice of the French Court. It was perfectly okay to paint nudes so long as they were mythical or Ancient Greek or Roman, but Manet painted contemporary nudes of women. In fact, one critic said that Manet did not paint “nude” women, he painted “naked” women.

Manet was famous for the painting of “Déjeuner sur l’Herbe”, or “Lunch on the Grass”. It was rejected by the Annual Salon of 1863, and caused quite a stir because of the content. Two typical art students (modeled by Manet’s two brothers), accompanied by two women in different states of nudity, in public. The fully nude model was the famous model, Victorine Meurent.

My personal favorite is the painting, “A Bar at the Folies-Bergere”, 1882. I have studied, sketched, and repainted this piece several times. Manet was in the final stage of syphilis during the painting and died two years later in 1884, but had won the “Legion d’Honneur” for his artistic work in 1883.

Manet had also painted, “Madame Manet in the Conservatory”, in 1879. This was a classic Modernist composition done with great skill. Manet apparently saw the painting done by Monet, “Camile Monet on a Garden Bench, 1873” and was inspired to paint his own version.

Monet’s father was a middle-class merchant and wanted Claude to follow in the family business. His mother was a singer and encouraged his artistic development, unfortunately she died when he was sixteen.

Monet was following his studies of light. His painting “Impression: Sunrise, 1872” gave the name to the painting style. He also painted a series of haystacks in 1890-91, exploring the quality of atmospheric light. He had been introduced to “plein air” by Eugène Boudin In 1856 when he was just starting to paint, and most of his paintings were done outside, and not in the studio.

During the last thirty years of his life he painted over 250 separate paintings of lily pads. It is said that during these last years he was suffering from cataracts.

In 1923, Monet underwent cataract surgery on his right eye; he refused, however, to have his left eye operated on. As a result, he could see violets and blues through his right eye but not his left. It is also believed that due to the removal of the lens, which filters out ultraviolet wavelengths, Monet began to perceive—and paint— a spectrum of color typically unseen by the human eye.

His impact on painting was so significant that many art historians label him as the greatest artist of all time.

The Wedding

I’ve taken my time to ponder this last event, partly because of circumstances, mostly because of jumbled thoughts.

The next day, after the wedding, there was a picnic luncheon, very informal. Someone asked me what my thoughts were… I went with the immediate, the first on the tip of my mind. I replied, “I once rode a roller coaster, I didn’t know that it would be the last time.”

Of course that isn’t an absolute fact. I’m still breathing and a roller coaster is available after a two hour drive. But because of time passing, and the cost/benefit analysis, I have determined not to ride roller coasters, I just didn’t noticed that the last time was the last time.

The list of potential “last time” things is getting larger. I don’t think about it much until just before something might happen. Most is based upon age and time, but the last child getting married is pretty much the last marriage. I least I hope so.

This was the longest “distance” wedding in our family, apart from a nephew’s in Panama and another nephew in Hawaii. Upper state NY, was not familiar to me, I know a little more now. I’ve been told that experiencing a winter there will give a fuller picture. I’m not sure I want a fuller picture. It was simply perfect in the summer.

I have lived back East during the winter. It’s not bad for the first few months, but then the “slush” months arrive and the spring seems so far away. My daughter and new son-in-law are staying there for awhile. Good for them!

I suppose the daughter’s bedroom can be neutralized, obviously they can stay there when visiting, but now the “individual” can be changed to “guest”. That will be a big change. Too soon?

Moving would solve most of these issues. But it would generate lots of stress, and lots of new problems. Better to recover a awhile. … I’m avoiding my thoughts.

The Ceremony

The light is special. It has taken nearly eight minutes to get to this exact spot from 93 million miles away. It has fused with the earth’s magnetic fields, filtered through the atmosphere, and is hitting the leaves above our heads. The effect is called “dappling”, painters apply pigments in quick small daubs to give this effect.

I am bathed in daubs of dappled light when I hear a voice asking, “and who gives this bride?” I stumble my response, “her mother and I”.

How do we give what has been given to us?

In the same way that we have received, with love and grace.

Okay, minus the three years that I was in the army.

Why is this significant? Possibly it is just as ridiculous as the fad of long pointed shoes in European royal courts. It got so bad that strings were attached to the tips so people could walk. They were called poulaines. The longer and pointier, the richer you were—and the less you had to do.

In the Sixties, a fashion push came out of England. The Beatles combed their hair forward, then cut it into that bowl shape. It came with Nehru collars, tapered slacks, and pointed boots. An entire look, copied everywhere.

American rockers followed. Pomade disappeared. The flat-top ducktail gave way to something softer, more like the surfers out West.

So was it the music that drove the style?

Yes—and no.

Wearing longer hair became a signal. Non-conformist, even if most of us couldn’t explain what that meant.

I wish it was that clear.

From personal experience, the hair worked perfectly to cover teenage forehead acne. It could show up anywhere, but the forehead was the one place you could hide.

And then there were the ears. Alfred E. Neumann from Mad Magazine—gap-toothed, freckled, and those ears. The hair didn’t need to be long, just long enough to fill the space between skull and ear.

It was an attempt to look better. Basic. How to attract girls, without knowing what to do if it worked.

There was also the money. I got $5 every two weeks for haircuts. I kept the money and skipped the haircut.

So why did this become such a big deal that it reached the Supreme Court?

Because it became a label.

Teachers pointed us toward Animal Farm and Fahrenheit 451. Uncles talked about mountain men and pirates. Classical music was called “long-haired,” though few of us listened to it.

But that’s the cleaned-up version.

This is also an attempt to defuse something else.

Over forty years ago, my wife and I recorded our thoughts about the world before our first child was born. I was about thirty and thought I was pretty wise. Maybe it was the wine, but I went on a rant about longhairs, jocks, nerds, and thugs—the high school pecking order.

The tape still exists. My daughter has it and threatens to play it at family gatherings.

I don’t remember what I said. I assume I said what I thought was true.

Writing this takes away the surprise.

Long hair may have started as a fad, but it was useful. It covered things. It also acted like a uniform—something that let you find others like you.

The problem was, the likeness was often assumed.

Marijuana wasn’t even called weed yet—just a joint, or “Mary Jane,” as if that fooled anyone. The few users were mostly longhairs. I didn’t smoke, so I must have been a narc.

High school is filled with drama.

Day to day, it felt like combat. Long stretches of boredom, then sudden bursts of violence. No knives, no guns—just fists and kicks. I was hit hard enough once that a molar cut through my cheek. I carried a purple knot for months.

There was a simple solution.

Get a haircut.

My father asked me to. He even tried to bribe me. I refused.

Then something changed.

We were visiting his hometown in the Midwest. Walking downtown, he pointed out the theater, the malt shop, the bakery with the best apple pie.

Then we heard screeching tires and saw blue smoke.

Through the haze—arms. Fingers. All pointing at me.

No words. Just open mouths.

My father asked if this happened often.

I said, “No. Usually they just run at me.”

He never asked me to cut my hair again.

There were consequences.

I couldn’t get a normal job. I couldn’t be seen by the public, or trusted by it. The media gave us a name—“hippies.” We didn’t use it. We didn’t like it. At one point, there was even a mock funeral for the last hippie in Golden Gate Park.

So the usual path—work, routine, structure—didn’t take hold.

Instead, I read what was around me. Kerouac. Zen. Later, Whitman. You are what you read.

Anyone could have read those books. But they were labeled “hip.”

Was it a plot? To derail a generation with drugs, books, and unrest?

People argue that.

I’m more certain about the pimples and the ears.

In 1969, the musical Hair put it all on stage. A long, loud celebration of something most of us couldn’t explain.

Such a long, tedious song.

From 1970 to 1971, I had a buzz cut. High and tight. From 1971 to 1973, a regular haircut.

Then I left the military.

And I let my hair grow again.

I looked into it later. Read the articles. JSTOR, historical analysis, legal cases—the “Hair Wars” of the 1960s.

Well written. Well researched.

But they read like distance.

The difference between reporting on D-Day…

and standing on the beach.

Hair wasn’t an idea.

It was a shield.

George Eskridge, was a good man, it can be said that he always looked on the bright side of things. When he was just ten years old in Wales, he was kidnapped, and shipped off to a foreign country. His new master was kind enough to the boy, and year after year promoted him in various jobs, and even gave him a small wage. After eight years, George had saved enough to get back home. Once he was back, with the support of his family, he entered college, got a classic education, and a law degree. No one could recall him complaining about his decades of servitude.

Within a few years he had saved enough money for his next adventure. He went back to Virginia, where he was indentured, and bought 12,000 acres in Westmoreland County. He had learned every aspect of farming, harvesting, and the legal aspects of the farming business. This was in 1696.

George married a widow with 5 children, and enjoyed fatherhood to such an extent that he had three more children. No one could tell that his was a blended family. He treated all his children with the loving care that they deserved. He was a fair man in business, and a fair man in the community. He was elected to the House of Burgesses in Virginia for ten years.

His neighbors all thought the best of him, and he thought the best of them, and was ready to help when there was trouble. One couple had a modest farm next to his plantation. The husband got sick and died before his harvest was in. The wife, with a small daughter, was at a loss. George solved the problem by sending his men directly over to their farm after his harvest was done. This he continued to do year after year. The relationship grew so close that George became the young girl’s godfather.

A few years passed and the mother of the young girl got sick and died. She had previously arranged that George would be her daughter’s guardian. This meant that the small farm would remain the girl’s property, and she had security while considering marriage.

George had moved Mary Ball (the young girl’s name) into his large family home. He was already arranging marriages for his 8 children, adding one more to the list would not be a problem. Eventually a local suitor was found and George gave away the bride in a wedding at his home. George remained a good friend to the young couple for years afterwards. When Augustine and Mary Washington became pregnant, the first son was named after George.

George was a good man, and his god-daughter gave birth to a good son, a great general, and a great President.

We have arrived at our rental home in the Finger Lakes in upper New York State. It was many hours in a cramped airplane, and almost as many hours in a small rental car, driving up from JFK airport. We saved a $1,000 dollars from another flight from NY to Syracuse, but it was another four hour ride up the Hudson River.

My brother and I were soon out of the busy city, and the outskirts faded away. We made one short stop at the 24 hour tire store, weirdly placed exactly where we needed to check our tire pressure. Everything was fine, and we drove on the ribbon that twisted through the valleys, following the upper Delaware River. Our niece was getting married in upper New York State, after years of living in California. We were happy for her.

The trees here were dense, and the foliage came down close to the ground, creating a green wall along side the roadway. It was so different from the forests of the High Sierra. The trails here would be ancient, blazed over hundreds of years by the native Algonquin peoples. It was vaguely intimidating.

Arriving at the Finger Lakes region for the “distance wedding” was also a much needed vacation, and the end result of a full month of research. We wanted enough bedrooms for the multiple families that would join us. We wanted it near to a town, but not too near. We did have some friends that were local, so being near to them would be nice. And a pool, we needed to have a pool. The lake was near, but it was cold, so a pool in the sweltering summer was a must.

We did find a house that was perfect, it was on a bluff that gave us a great view of the lake on one side, and we butted up against that Great Green Wall of a forest on the other side. Looking West was the water, the pool, and the lake. Looking East was darkness. I noticed that the house was situated so that all the rooms were facing the water. Great views of the lake. The forest was to our back, it was undiscovered, almost ignored, or purposely avoided.

Two weeks to undo old habits, and two weeks to acquire new ones. And the first thing to address was the sleeping arrangements.

We have been traveling together for years, and during that time we have slept in cars, tents, cabins, boats… we have always adjusted. We were only two years apart, so we were each other’s best friend. Sharing the same room on our travels is mostly managed around the light sleeping habits of my younger brother. It is very hard for him to get to sleep, and very easy for him to wake up, then remain awake for hours. So the bedroom had to became a very dark place, shutters and curtains. In most hotels and motels this was no problem. Here it was an issue because the large bay windows only had light silk curtains. The lights on the lake were easy to see, but fortunately it was a new moon. For me it was usually hard to tell if my eyes were open or shut. This place wasn’t that bad.

As I’ve got older I’ve developed a need to get up several times a night. It became a long and tedious journey from the bed to the bathroom. Shuffling along the floor, fearful of taking a step because I couldn’t see what I was about to step on. The only light coming from the faint glow of my smart watch. The phone light was far too bright and might wake him.

Then of course, there was my snoring in combination of apnea. Strange combination of a sawmill, then a spastic jerking to regain breathing. Still, we managed through elbow pokes and thrown shoes, to be in the same room. The big change was my heart attack. Adjusting for health concerns can be massive. But between two aging brothers we made it work.

Sleeping in another room, sleeping at an angle, because laying flat was impossible. Sleeping on my side was no longer possible, because having your sternum sawed open made it painful. So many adjustments! Still, we worked it out. Even on our yearly backpacking trip, spending a week in a small tent, wasn’t bad. We found things worked out.

This currently was going to be a little longer than a weekend, but I had gathered enough pillows to make a proper wedge to cut down my snoring, and to help me to breathe. It was a large room with two double beds, but there was plenty of walking room. The bedroom didn’t have heavy curtains, but it was a new moon, so the night was pretty dark, and I still had my smart watch for a little light. Things worked out.

Somehow during the last year, the snoring became an issue. Not mine, because living alone made it a non issue. Sharing sleeping quarters was different. My brother in early years had barely made a sound all night. I often had to check the rise and fall of his shoulders to know that he was still breathing. There was some unexplained coughing recently, so maybe allergies have become an issue for him. Now he has started to snore.

His snoring wasn’t close to my epic sawmill, but it was a constant low rattle. It was one of those sounds that penetrates any attempt to ignore it. It was not a choice to use the poking in the ribs, he needed his rest. I found that my earplugs plugged in to a restful playlist was the perfect answer. I did have to edit my playlist considerably because often my dreams act out what I’m hearing, but it eventually worked out.

The one thing that was different is that I was taken out of the environment. With earplugs in, I couldn’t hear the creaks of the house, or the wind in the trees. I felt vulnerable, not that it was a big deal. It was just different. It was certainly safe.

Okay… new house, new neighborhood. I knew nothing about the history, the wildlife, or patterns of nature. Maybe this wasn’t the safest time to isolate myself in a bubble of music.

I decided to unplug one earbud, the one farthest from the snoring, just as a test. I was the eldest and I always took the lead in issues of safety. I tried to listen to the base sounds, the normal creaks and wind through the trees. It was a little different from expected, a newer house, different species of trees created different sounds, but I soon had a good solid baseline.

Then something different occurred. It was like a switch was turned off, except it wasn’t light, it was sound. All I could hear was the soft steady snoring on the other side of the room. Outside it was dead silence. Then there was a rustling at a distance, and it was coming towards the house. Almost like a car coming from a distance. Soon the sound was in the trees in the back of the house, then it passed over, heading down to the lake. I could actually hear it leaving.

In its wake was the dead silence outside, as before, but now I could tell that my brother’s snoring was slightly different. I wasn’t quite sure what the difference was at first, but now, I wouldn’t call it soft. There was a harsh emphasis, so much so that I felt the need to plug in the earbud in order to drown it out. But now I was back in the “bubble”.

In the quiet parts of the music I could still hear the snoring, and it still continued to change slightly, more fierce, with more volume. Then suddenly he choked, or maybe he just cleared hi throat. There was a moment when I thought he was shaking his head, then it was back to that hard snore, but now almost a growl.

I was propped up on my wedge of pillows, and I needed to make an adjustment, so I leaned forward a little and I used my left hand to pull the pillow to a better spot. The movement activated the smart watch and the dial illuminated a small area in the direction of the snoring for a portion of a second.

Being lit from below changes the normal shadows, but there was more than different shadows. It was a different face. The snoring was definitely now a full growl, the lips were pulled back into a wide slit, with flecks of drool in each corner, the brow was knitted above eyes that were unnaturally round, with pupils surrounded by white. My brother had crossed the room and was now standing hunched over me. Before the light faded I could sense that both of his hands were clawing the open air in time with his growls.

This was seen almost like in the flash of lightning, the light of the watch went out , and all was darkness. I was frozen in place, barely breathing, totally alert to any movement…

Then and old word came coursing up from my memory, windigo… windigo!

You take the time to venture into new lands, you cross two or three rivers, maybe a mountain range or two. You travel light, make no noise, you leave no trace. In some ways you would be labeled “a spy”. Within your spirit you called yourself “just a scout”.

The real test is when you find something wonderful, and you make the commitment to move “in strength”. If you don’t, you risk being stopped, defeated, killed, or enslaved. Certain;y this has been true in history, but it could also be true in modern times.

The lone spy in ancient times tried hard to be unseen, and if found out, it may have been difficult to survive. If he had recognizable skill sets, he might have been allowed transition to the new culture. The likelihood is that he would always be suspect, and seen as an outsider. The result would be lack of freedom, low pay, and no future. Parts of this is still true today.

If a scout successfully returns and convinces several families, or even a whole tribe to move to a new area, then the same rules apply. You may be stopped, or permitted to establish a new neighborhood, but the edges will likely have friction, and the more powerful group will determine the solution to troubles. True in the past, still true today.

When the cycle of scouts, spies, the random family unit and whole tribes have moved, then it can be when nations that confront nations. Usually we call this war, with the addition of “invasion”.

Certainly numbers count, and in most cases, the issue is decided by numbers. But there are other factors; cultural advantage’s, technological advantage’s, and perhaps even a “conquering spirit” advantage. Sometimes numbers do not count so much.

This was evident in history and it doesn’t require a lot of proof. It’s harder to find examples of entire nations on the move in present history. There are theories of intentional “replacement” plans, where socio-economic groups are “replaced”. It was definitely true in the past, but they used techniques that if used today would seem draconian. There are some people that study the changes around the world, and see that it might not be entirely accidental.

I want to isolate three examples from history that may clarify three different approaches to the successful movement of people. 1) the juggernaut of the Horde, 2) the Mighty, 3) open borders

In all cases the deciding factor is strength. We have one source that is unusually well documented. It started with one person, Temujin. He may have come from a tribal leadership background, but that is not where he ended.

(1) He was exiled from the surviving members of his tribe. They were absorbed by a more powerful tribe, with some that were killed, some that were enslaved, and some that were allowed to exist at the “edges” of their culture. The result of the powerful subjugating the weak. Temujin was reduced to the loneliest number, just one person, on the outside, living by stealing scraps. He could have stayed there until he died, which might have been until the weather changed.

But Temujin had a plan, if he could find a small group of people, he could challenge the leader in a “do or die” fight, then he might have a rather small tribe, with food, shelter, and a small future. He found the small group, he won, and he immediately searched for another group that was larger, but no too large. That was his secret plan for the rest of his life.

He repeated this over and over, and within a few short years he was renamed “Genghis Khan”, leader of the largest Empire in the history of the world. He never lost a battle that resulted in stopping his movement forward. He might have been delayed a few times, but dozens of empires fell, and the Mongolian people were free to live as nomads anywhere on the Steppes of Asia or Europe, and the world was changed forever.

To be sure there were other factors in play. The courage of their warriors, the structure of their army, the reliance on tough ponies and excellent archery on horseback, their method of leaving local governance in place for a price, and the shear terror of death and destruction for anyone who stood in their way.

Marco Polo traveled the entire width of Asia in complete safety, with the possession of the Khan’s passport.

Genghis used the same strategy in attacking other nations. He targeted nations that were slightly less powerful. When he won, there was no one that the smaller nations could turn to for help. He attacked in winter, because he could easily cross frozen river’s with his horses. He avoided fighting in rainy weather because the water had a damaging effect on the powerful laminated bows.

(2) Another example of movement through strength is the Nordic expansion into the Ukraine during the 700s. These “Pre-Vikings” came from the very cold North. They were fighting farmers and pastoralists, perfect for the steppes of Russia and the Ukraine. They used their well designed longboats to move thousands of men quietly down the river. Near Kyiv, they established a land base, and plowed their fields, and built a walled city.

Technically, they were a small army with no one to fight. They were skilled fighters, so they offered the neighboring towns and villages “protection” from being attacked. This is much like the gangs in the inner city today. Asking for money so that shops aren’t vandalized. (Side note: the Vandals were a people that lived as nomads on the steppes of Russia, then moved into Europe to confront the Romans, then moved to Spain, not satisfied, they became sailors and moved to Ancient Carthage, and became successful pirates in the Mediterranean. No wonder the world accepts the term “vandalism “ from their tribe.)

This “protection” racket kept the gold flowing into the city’s coffers and they became quite wealthy.

Sometimes they had to fight bandits, sometimes they had to fight cities that refused to pay…but if they won, they created a destination for more to com and settle. The tribe that Rurik brought to Kyiv became known as “the Rus”, and some say that is the source for “Russia”.

(3) The last theory is the open border concept. Today it is a political term, but essentially it is a organic term. It is a slow moving process, taking several generations. If there are no walls, or borders then people will fill the empty space in a random fashion, filling the well watered plains, leaving the mountain tops to loners. When the good lands are filled, you move on to the next rich valley. Some call it “the ooze factor”.

But if you were there first, and put up a fence, you might be a bit disturbed. There was once the example of a sleepy California town where a large tract of land was purchased by a group of people called “the Moonies”, they were followers of Rev. Moon. Soon, the town was exploding with new citizens from around the world. It didn’t last long, thirty years later it is back to being even sleepier, but it was very different for a while.

I know of dozens of examples, some based on religion, some based on politics. Some have faded away, some are still slowly growing. It is like being invaded in slow motion. By the time you recognize the change, it is far to late to do anything about it. Because of this it has been embraced as “the natural process”.

The world is such a wonderful place because all three methods are occurring at the same time.

I live in earthquake country, but I don’t have a lot of earthquake stories. Maybe that’s a good thing. Nothing gory, or heartbreaking. Just a lot of dish rattling, and a few pictures bouncing off the walls. The television always has a number of the worst case scenarios, broken wine bottles at stores, collapsed ceiling tiles, and a few chimneys toppled in the neighborhood. Fortunately it is very rare that lives are lost.

I do have one earthquake story that I would like to tell before it is lost forever. For a time I lived in Point Richmond, which is a small residential area in the low hills directly across the bay from San Francisco. Nearly every home has a wonderful view of the evening sunset across the Bay, and the lights of the City.

Many of the homes were built in the early 1900s when the first population boom encouraged lots to be purchased, and individualized homes built. It continues today, with any open lot that has been left. The effect is that there is a range of architectural styles, and age, throughout the neighborhood. Stately Victorians, next to 1950s, next to Post Modern homes.

I think it was 1990, on Crest Street where I walked, there was an older, one story Victorian, facing the setting sun with no houses on the other side of the street. This was a ridge road that led to a popular vista point. Well, popular to the locals who knew how to get through the maze of streets.

On my way walking to the vista point I noticed an older gentleman sitting in a chair, taking in the afternoon sun. He was still there when I came back, so I stopped to say hello. After a few pleasantries, we began talking about the view that he had everyday, and how special it was.

He related that he was ninety-two years old and had been born in this house, so he had seen quite a few remarkable sunsets. I asked him if there was one that stood out in his memory, and he quickly replied that there was one.

He was about eight years old and it was a day after the big quake. Nothing much happened in the neighborhood, some bookshelves fell over, and some dishes broke. It shook for a long time, but the house just flexed a bit. Across the bay the brick buildings had broke, and some fires had started. That evening he stayed up and watched San Francisco burn. It was April 18, 1906.

As horrible as it was to see, the thing that struck him was what he saw the next morning. He got up early and walked across the street to still see some fires burning, and billowing clouds of smoke. There on the grass all around him were some of the ashes that had traveled all the way across the Bay, riding the prevailing winds.

Something caught his eye, it was the front page of one of the City’s newspapers, laying draped on a rose bush. The thing about it was, that the paper was completely burnt a dark black, but the ink was white! It was like a negative, but still very readable. The fact that it stayed in one piece all the way across the Bay, and then was so readable, draped on the bush, was amazing. He tried to pick it up to show his parents, or perhaps save it in some way, but it crumbled in his hand.

All he had was the story of the wind delivering the morning paper, as readable ash. And he told it for eighty years.

She had her morning coffee on her balcony, and I walked underneath on my way to school. She had unnaturally black hair, or maybe it was just her pale face. I tried to walk without moving up and down, conscious that the wind was moving my hair over my face.

She was going to work in a few minutes, but took the time to come out on her second floor balcony, to watch the world go by. I had a thirty minute walk to my senior year in high school, so I was like clockwork.

After a month, I noticed that she watched me, not noticed me, she watched me pass. I started to watch back. She had probably just graduated, got her first apartment, her first real job, and she was not used to being alone.

After two months she said “Hello!”. I was stunned, but managed a smooth reply, “Hello!” After that we just nodded knowingly.

Three months, she asked if I liked music, I nodded. She suggested that I stop by sometime to listen. I hadn’t stopped walking so I turned my head backwards and nodded.

A few days later she said that she would be home in the afternoon, if I want to stop by. It was less awkward that she didn’t say, “stop by after school.” At this point I had only vocalized one “Hello!”, and dozens of knowing nods. I wondered what a conversation would be like with a woman, alone, in her own apartment. So I replied, “I’ll see you then.”

Later that day, after finding my way to her front door (a guess), I knocked, instead of ringing the bell. It seemed more manly, but I intentionally didn’t apply any rhythm.

She answered the door, dressed in black, holding a wine glass, wine matching the red of her lipstick. The impact of her blue eyes, dark eye-shadow, black pageboy hair, black blouse, and turquoise stone necklace was startling. I was way out of my comfort zone, with my Madras shirt, brown baggy cords, and Thom McCann sandals. She said come in.

It was a one bedroom apartment, with the bedroom hidden somewhere, but I saw the bathroom, kitchen, living room, and the door to the balcony. There was a small sofa with pillows, and a plush chair. She said have a seat. With my brain working fast enough to create some beads of sweat, I chose the plush chair. Best not to assume anything.

She had a record player on a small table. It wasn’t part of a stereo system, it wasn’t even a stereo. I had one like it for about four years. I got a subscription from Columbia records, and my mother bought me a “Hifi”, short for “high fidelity”. Apparently her salary didn’t allow her to purchase the newly available stereos.

I looked at the small stack of albums, I didn’t see any 45s. We called the albums LPs because they were “long playing”. The one on top looked like it was used a lot. It was Sam the Sham. and the Pharaohs. All of the albums were by Sam the Sham, and the Pharraohs. I wasn’t aware that they had that many albums.

“Do you like Sam the Sham? I really love them!” And the first record went on the record player. “Would you like a glass of wine?” “Ahm, sure!” Man, woman, music and wine. It was almost a script to a movie, except I missed rehearsals, and didn’t know what to say. I did bring my notebooks, with my rants, scribbles, and bad haikus. I was terrified that I would have to share them, considering that I was mostly mute.

The first song was finished, we had said nothing beyond the greeting at the door. So I told her my name, she smiled, and replied with her name. And the second song finished.

I figured a natural break would come when the sixth song was done, and the record was turned over to play the B-side. Then another break would occur when the album was changed. I did the math, it looks like we have about three hours of listening, and about 12 breaks. I could be home by dinner.

Unfortunately she was very practiced with the album flip to the backside. Not enough time to ask a question, or to make a statement. She did ask if it was loud enough, and I nodded.

Someone was in charge of what was happening, and it wasn’t me. My wine was untouched, and hers was half done. I studied the room, and when she was intent on the music, her eyes shut, and I studied her. She had clear skin, with fine lines around her eyes, she didn’t blend the makeup onto her throat, so her face was several shades lighter than her neck. Her lipstick was left on the wineglass, and slightly removed from her upper and lower lips, making it almost two-toned.

There was a brass camel on her bookshelf. The books were few, and looked to be from the Reader’s Digest collection. Kitchen counters clean, and stark. Everything in their space, and hidden behind doors, and in drawers. A small B&W TV with rabbit ears next to a rack of TV trays. It could have been my mother’s house.

Then things got ugly. If her flipping the album was fast, the changing of albums was just slightly slower. The new album was pulled from the cover, the old album was popped off, and for a moment there were two disks being juggled (only touching the labels of each record. The new album was on, with the record arm placed on the first song. Then old album was momentarily placed in the wrong cover.

Frustrated, she shook the record out, and it took flight directly at my wine glass. The glass tipped over on the table, splashing my cords, her couch, and the rug below. Oh yeah, the red lake on the table also soaked my notebooks.

It took less than 15 seconds, but we stared without saying anything for at least 30 more seconds. She took several hops to get paper towels, and a wet dishrag. All the while, she was muttering something. I could only hear part, “at least he could have drunk some of it.”

She blotted and wiped everything, but my cords and my notebooks. I wrapped the notebooks in paper towels, but decided not to blot my pants. I left her standing there with red stained hands, saying that I had better get home to change clothes.

When I got home I opened my notebooks, there were places where the ink ran, and wine left blots, like psychology tests. All in all, the notebooks had more physical character than content character.

The next morning, she was not on her balcony. I never saw her again. For some reason, I remembered 56 years ago, and wrote the following

I once knew the killer of poems,

She lay on pillows of satin red,

Because they didn’t show the stains of words.

I was young and foolish,

I thought that smoke didn’t mean fire,

I thought whispers made mysteries.

I was lost in a desert of comfort,

The ghost that was me, pale and silent,

Looking at notebooks soaked in wine,

Ink swirling in burgundy.

.

I dunno, a little wine could improve it.