...meanwhile Linda takes care of business at her job...
Linda sat tapping her index finger on a folder waiting for the rest of the crew to arrive at the meeting room.
Jane Steadham was there already, sipping coffee, looking through her owl-like glasses. In her fifties, she was in the department when Linda got there. She was comfortable in the self-contained job of being a buyer and didn’t have the stomach for management. She was an asset to Linda, as her suggestions focused on getting things right rather than her defects as a manager. If she screwed up, Jane would not be the one to replace her.
Maggie Draper was another matter. A few years younger than Linda, she also had a business degree from State. She was married and had a two-year old boy. Linda often studied Maggie thinking on the road not taken. Today Maggie looked like she was dragging, her short blonde hair still wet and her cotton dress limp, fashion a victim to practicality yet again. But she always seemed happy at work and her enthusiasm showed even through her weariness, as did her ambition. She was upfront about her desire to advance in the company, especially with the expense of a growing family.
The last member of the woman’s wear buying team, Rosalie Corvalis, sauntered in, smiling as she ended a conversation with someone outside the door. “Bye,” she shouted, her voice reverberating through the room causing Jane to hop in her seat. “Oops. Sorry,” she whispered.
Rosalie had a crown of black hair ending in a swirl across her chest like a vine of ivy exploring a wall. Her white blouse seemed a cut too small, her breasts overcoming the top three buttons. At least one of those buttons should be closed, Linda thought. Rosalie was the newest member of the team, coming up from sales. At twenty-five, she made her feel old. She was willing to do the job but always seemed to need a nudge to get started. Linda was already hoping she wouldn’t regret the hire.
“Let’s get started,” Linda said. Maggie volunteered to go first and began updating the team on her activity, starting with new vendors contacted and vetted.
Linda thought her department rivaled sales as most vital to the company. Without buyers to stock the store with merchandise, sales wouldn’t have a job. They ensured a steady stream of things to sell by being in constant contact with makers of clothes and accessories. There were thousands of vendors in the market, some well established, some new. They looked for dependable suppliers to provide quantity and quality at favorable prices.
Maggie had stopped talking. “Anything else?” Maggie nodded and began to list the items she recommended for purchase.
Linda interjected questions about volume price breaks and inventory on hand and Maggie fielded them expertly. Jane took notes, nodded her head and asked questions. Linda glanced at Rosalie who sat motionless. Her red lips, shaped in a permanent half smile, expanded when she noticed her look.
When Maggie finished, Jane made her report. She did so expertly but without Maggie’s enthusiasm. Then it was Rosalie’s turn. She didn’t have any new vendors, so she reported on her renewal orders. She touched the right issues, Linda thought, but without skill.
When the meeting broke up, Linda held her back to mention her blouse. It wasn’t business appropriate she told her, suggesting she fasten a button. She smiled gamely and tugged at it, inserting the button in the eye. As soon as she released it, it popped back out. “Oops. Sorry.”
“Maybe a size larger,” Linda mumbled, as she walked back to her office.
Chapter 4 will be posted December 6
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Chapter 2: A Calling to Serve
...depicting Linda's boyfriend at work ...
The creases of Joseph’s blue coveralls were sharply pressed and the built-in belt cinched tight and flush against his flat stomach. He knew he cut a dashing figure in the oil change shop and had long since gotten used to catcalls from the other guys.
The advantages outweighed the trouble. The manager allowed him, clipboard in hand, to approach customers as they sat in their cars to take name and payment information. It didn’t hurt that he spoke English better than the others or that he presented a smiling friendly face to the clientele. He felt a cut above the rest and it brought a few dollars more an hour.
It was just after eight in the morning when the first rush of business came in. Three cars lined up in the driveway leading to the servicing bays.
The first was an old white Cadillac. The elderly man had gotten there early and had been sitting for half an hour. He was a regular. Joseph took down his license number, scribbling it in the appropriate box on the form. He moved to the driver window, greeting him professionally, verified his credit card number, then stepped away. The man drove to Bay Three where Hector waved him in.
The next vehicle drove up, a small black Nissan pick-up. The man was in his thirties and wore dark sunglasses. Routine. Carlos directed him into Bay Two. The third car though was something special. Through the tinted glass, Joseph saw blonde hair framing a face. It gleamed like gold in the sun.
He raised his hand, palm forward, and the driver stopped. “Please shift your car into park and put the handbrake on,” he called to her. He stepped in front of the car, his legs as though astride a mighty river. He looked over to Bay One. “Corvalis! Can you take another one?”
“Si, of course!”
Joseph scribbled on the form and went to the driver window. The blonde turned towards him, her large candy red sunglasses dwarfing her face. He smiled as his eyes sallied down to her cleavage.
“Name and address, please.” She told him and he said, “Stacy. That’s a nice name.” Her red lips betrayed the smallest twitch of pleasure. “I need to check your mileage,” he said, opening the door. She sat passively as he thrust his head into the compartment between her body and the dash. He noted smooth tan legs, tight white shorts and a bare midriff. He glanced at the odometer.
He stood erect and shut the door. “Bay One.” Corvalis waved her in and Joseph jogged behind as she positioned the Toyota sedan over the service slot. When she shut off the ignition, he opened the door. Her open-toed heels clattered onto the concrete floor as she got out and sashayed to the waiting room.
During the thirty minutes it took to service her car, Joseph made small gestures such offering more coffee or advising her how much longer it would take. When she left he smiled as he put a slip of paper in his pocket, a promise for another day.
They started closing down the shop at six, though they stayed open until seven. He climbed out of his coveralls, revealing a white t-shirt and jeans. He hung his work clothes neatly in his locker. He and the others were going for a beer. It wasn’t a bad job, he thought.
Chapter 3 will be posted on November 22.
The creases of Joseph’s blue coveralls were sharply pressed and the built-in belt cinched tight and flush against his flat stomach. He knew he cut a dashing figure in the oil change shop and had long since gotten used to catcalls from the other guys.
The advantages outweighed the trouble. The manager allowed him, clipboard in hand, to approach customers as they sat in their cars to take name and payment information. It didn’t hurt that he spoke English better than the others or that he presented a smiling friendly face to the clientele. He felt a cut above the rest and it brought a few dollars more an hour.
It was just after eight in the morning when the first rush of business came in. Three cars lined up in the driveway leading to the servicing bays.
The first was an old white Cadillac. The elderly man had gotten there early and had been sitting for half an hour. He was a regular. Joseph took down his license number, scribbling it in the appropriate box on the form. He moved to the driver window, greeting him professionally, verified his credit card number, then stepped away. The man drove to Bay Three where Hector waved him in.
The next vehicle drove up, a small black Nissan pick-up. The man was in his thirties and wore dark sunglasses. Routine. Carlos directed him into Bay Two. The third car though was something special. Through the tinted glass, Joseph saw blonde hair framing a face. It gleamed like gold in the sun.
He raised his hand, palm forward, and the driver stopped. “Please shift your car into park and put the handbrake on,” he called to her. He stepped in front of the car, his legs as though astride a mighty river. He looked over to Bay One. “Corvalis! Can you take another one?”
“Si, of course!”
Joseph scribbled on the form and went to the driver window. The blonde turned towards him, her large candy red sunglasses dwarfing her face. He smiled as his eyes sallied down to her cleavage.
“Name and address, please.” She told him and he said, “Stacy. That’s a nice name.” Her red lips betrayed the smallest twitch of pleasure. “I need to check your mileage,” he said, opening the door. She sat passively as he thrust his head into the compartment between her body and the dash. He noted smooth tan legs, tight white shorts and a bare midriff. He glanced at the odometer.
He stood erect and shut the door. “Bay One.” Corvalis waved her in and Joseph jogged behind as she positioned the Toyota sedan over the service slot. When she shut off the ignition, he opened the door. Her open-toed heels clattered onto the concrete floor as she got out and sashayed to the waiting room.
During the thirty minutes it took to service her car, Joseph made small gestures such offering more coffee or advising her how much longer it would take. When she left he smiled as he put a slip of paper in his pocket, a promise for another day.
They started closing down the shop at six, though they stayed open until seven. He climbed out of his coveralls, revealing a white t-shirt and jeans. He hung his work clothes neatly in his locker. He and the others were going for a beer. It wasn’t a bad job, he thought.
Chapter 3 will be posted on November 22.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Chapter 1: A Tickle of Doubt
When Linda Jones dropped by to visit her mother, she discovered she wasn’t there and went home. Stepping off the elevator, she fumbled for the keys in her purse when she noticed her apartment door was open. A chill of trepidation shook her body. She pushed through the door and called out. “Joseph, are you here?”
The afternoon sun passing through the sliding glass doors illuminated her yellow sundress, her caramel colored legs and the light brown hair that capped her head. She looked like a brilliant mushroom wandering through the rooms.
She felt the odd sensation she was a stranger in her own home. Everything looked familiar yet new and unusual. She rested the palm of her hand on the flat surface of the round dining table. It was cool and smooth. In the front room she savored the richness of the Japanese teakwood coffee table and cabinets. Her sandals made a soft brushing sound as they passed over the white carpet.
She grasped the golden handle of one cabinet with her manicured fingers and pulled it open. Nothing was inside. She opened another and another and discovered they were all empty.
She passed through to the bedroom where a king-sized bed dominated the room, a blond wood bureau to one side. The bedding was ruffled, though she was sure she had straightened them that day. She set to making up the bed when a sudden fatigue caught hold of her, sapping her energy. She lay down and fell asleep.
***
When Joseph came home later he denied leaving the door open. “You leave later than me. You must have done it,” he said definitively. His fork paused in mid air, he peered at her with marble blue eyes, his curly close-cropped black hair wet from the shower, the scent of grease still about him from work.
“You’re right. I must have left it open but I just don’t remember,” she said shaking her head.
“You were tired, baby. You were knocked out when I came home.” He patted her hand then skewered another piece of meat.
She was still confused about the door and the bed and the strange sensation she had felt, but she thought she was having a bad day. “Tomorrow will be better,” she told herself.
Linda Jones and Joseph Thomas were in their thirties and were survivors of the bar scene, who decided to step away from the booze, hangovers and strange bedfellows to the relative calm of a relationship.
Linda Jones was ambitious for a prosperous life, a home and a dog or a cat, but not necessarily children. That wasn’t the way to go for her, she decided, though she had thought she would until her late-twenties; she realized most women around her were childless and living a good life. Her mother didn’t agree and thought she’d waste away in a life of hedonism. Being unmarried and living with a man did not work against that perception.
Linda felt her life was going in the right direction. She was a supervisor in the buyer’s department at the Rightway Department store. She’d worked there starting as an intern while earning her business degree at State. She took a fulltime job on a management track after graduation. Advancing in her career was the key to her security because there wasn’t a knight in shining armor to rescue her.
Joseph Thomas was her man. She met him in the L.A. club scene. She liked his dark good looks and his muscular arms. He pursued her and she put him off at first. But she started whispering in his ear about a better life and he seemed to be listening. She put it in his head that he could be a manager or maybe an owner of an oil change franchise. But he’d have to start putting money away. He could do that if they established a home where they could entertain their friends, saving money by not going out.
It was a year ago when they moved in together in a one bedroom in an apartment complex in Long Beach, which was smaller than she would have liked but she was used to that sentiment. It was close to work and there she found the peace she sought away from the parade of new faces she had to contend with when living with girlfriends.
***
“He’s not your equal. I keep telling you that!”
“And you are?”
“You said it.”
Reggie Barrow grinned broadly as he stood at the door of Linda’s office. Linda sat behind her desk, looking soft and pale like a cameo. Her brown hair was pulled back severely from her brow, then bloomed into a lacquered fullness at the crown, curving down to her ears. Her deep brown eyes returned his gaze.
Reggie stood tall in a sharp brown suit with a flamboyant red tie. He shaved his head smooth and it gleamed like a dark brown knob. Reggie was the manager of the Men’s Furnishing department, who often visited Linda on the pretext of advising her on inventory. Whenever Linda pointed out that she received daily reports from scanned sales information, he’d laugh and say he didn’t want her to overlook his inventory.
She welcomed his visits. He was fifteen years her senior and offered a different perspective on things. But she didn’t like it when he challenged her relationship with Joseph; it was her choice and she was committed to seeing it through. “That’s the white in you, steering you the wrong way,” he had said.
She told Reggie about the strange sensation she had the other day and expressed concern about what it meant. “Something’s wrong,” he said.
She didn’t think so but her instinct raised the hairs on her neck.
Chapter 2 will be posted on November 8.
The afternoon sun passing through the sliding glass doors illuminated her yellow sundress, her caramel colored legs and the light brown hair that capped her head. She looked like a brilliant mushroom wandering through the rooms.
She felt the odd sensation she was a stranger in her own home. Everything looked familiar yet new and unusual. She rested the palm of her hand on the flat surface of the round dining table. It was cool and smooth. In the front room she savored the richness of the Japanese teakwood coffee table and cabinets. Her sandals made a soft brushing sound as they passed over the white carpet.
She grasped the golden handle of one cabinet with her manicured fingers and pulled it open. Nothing was inside. She opened another and another and discovered they were all empty.
She passed through to the bedroom where a king-sized bed dominated the room, a blond wood bureau to one side. The bedding was ruffled, though she was sure she had straightened them that day. She set to making up the bed when a sudden fatigue caught hold of her, sapping her energy. She lay down and fell asleep.
***
When Joseph came home later he denied leaving the door open. “You leave later than me. You must have done it,” he said definitively. His fork paused in mid air, he peered at her with marble blue eyes, his curly close-cropped black hair wet from the shower, the scent of grease still about him from work.
“You’re right. I must have left it open but I just don’t remember,” she said shaking her head.
“You were tired, baby. You were knocked out when I came home.” He patted her hand then skewered another piece of meat.
She was still confused about the door and the bed and the strange sensation she had felt, but she thought she was having a bad day. “Tomorrow will be better,” she told herself.
Linda Jones and Joseph Thomas were in their thirties and were survivors of the bar scene, who decided to step away from the booze, hangovers and strange bedfellows to the relative calm of a relationship.
Linda Jones was ambitious for a prosperous life, a home and a dog or a cat, but not necessarily children. That wasn’t the way to go for her, she decided, though she had thought she would until her late-twenties; she realized most women around her were childless and living a good life. Her mother didn’t agree and thought she’d waste away in a life of hedonism. Being unmarried and living with a man did not work against that perception.
Linda felt her life was going in the right direction. She was a supervisor in the buyer’s department at the Rightway Department store. She’d worked there starting as an intern while earning her business degree at State. She took a fulltime job on a management track after graduation. Advancing in her career was the key to her security because there wasn’t a knight in shining armor to rescue her.
Joseph Thomas was her man. She met him in the L.A. club scene. She liked his dark good looks and his muscular arms. He pursued her and she put him off at first. But she started whispering in his ear about a better life and he seemed to be listening. She put it in his head that he could be a manager or maybe an owner of an oil change franchise. But he’d have to start putting money away. He could do that if they established a home where they could entertain their friends, saving money by not going out.
It was a year ago when they moved in together in a one bedroom in an apartment complex in Long Beach, which was smaller than she would have liked but she was used to that sentiment. It was close to work and there she found the peace she sought away from the parade of new faces she had to contend with when living with girlfriends.
***
“He’s not your equal. I keep telling you that!”
“And you are?”
“You said it.”
Reggie Barrow grinned broadly as he stood at the door of Linda’s office. Linda sat behind her desk, looking soft and pale like a cameo. Her brown hair was pulled back severely from her brow, then bloomed into a lacquered fullness at the crown, curving down to her ears. Her deep brown eyes returned his gaze.
Reggie stood tall in a sharp brown suit with a flamboyant red tie. He shaved his head smooth and it gleamed like a dark brown knob. Reggie was the manager of the Men’s Furnishing department, who often visited Linda on the pretext of advising her on inventory. Whenever Linda pointed out that she received daily reports from scanned sales information, he’d laugh and say he didn’t want her to overlook his inventory.
She welcomed his visits. He was fifteen years her senior and offered a different perspective on things. But she didn’t like it when he challenged her relationship with Joseph; it was her choice and she was committed to seeing it through. “That’s the white in you, steering you the wrong way,” he had said.
She told Reggie about the strange sensation she had the other day and expressed concern about what it meant. “Something’s wrong,” he said.
She didn’t think so but her instinct raised the hairs on her neck.
Chapter 2 will be posted on November 8.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The Power of Imitation
One day I boarded a city bus and found a seat near the back. In the last row sat a young black boy of about six years, his round face gleaming and soft like butter. Around him sat his teenage protectors, sitting sideways in their seats looking at him. As I gazed at the passing cityscape, I listened to their conversation and realized I had dropped in on an impromptu study session.
“Say ‘Fuck’,” a teenager said.
“Fuck,” the boy repeated sweetly.
The teens hooted and hollered, startling him. Say it again, they instructed. He smiled timidly and did as he was told. Again the teens whooped and his eyes blinked rapidly.
I felt sick to my stomach thinking how the lesson and the ones likely to follow would limit his ability to rise and prosper in our society.
Sometime later I picked through the pages of Darwin’s “The Descent of Man.” He describes humans as “a social animal” exhibiting love, sympathy and “the capacity for self-command”. These social instincts “conquer” less persistent instincts such as that of self-preservation. This explains, he argues, cases where a man or even a young boy, who has never risked his life for another, “but full of courage and sympathy”, risks his own life to save a drowning stranger.
Darwin goes on to describe “the senses and the intuitions, the various emotions and faculties, such as love, memory, attention, curiosity, imitation, reason, etc.” that humans exhibit and which may also be found to some degree in animals. All these help a species to succeed in the competition for survival, he says.
Darwin caused me to reconsider the mobile classroom. The child, through imitation of his teenage tutors, was stretching his language skills and being prepared for a larger world, though I’d expect an elder to rebuke him when he recites his lesson too soon too eagerly too well.
The lesson may prepare him for the streets but will there be someone to help his language skills at a higher level?
***
The ability to read well is the foundation for success in modern life. I decided to help children falling behind in this skill by working with the non-profit Reading Partners program, which matches volunteers to eligible children.
Eligible kids for this program are defined as lower income, between 1st and 5th grades and one to two grades behind in reading skills. Adults and teenagers possessing common skills can help coach these youngsters through a critical point in their education. Reading Partners volunteers helped 855 students across California during the 2008-2009 school year.
I volunteered in the middle of the spring session in March and tutored a 4th grade boy for forty-five minutes twice a week until summer break.
I signed up through the Reading Partners website and attended an orientation not far from home. There, we learned about the program and how we’d work with our students. Fingerprints were taken and transmitted to the Department of Justice. In less than two weeks I was cleared and had been assigned to the Sanchez Elementary School, only a five-minute bus ride from home.
Study sessions are structured and vary depending on the student’s skill level. Generally, the student selects any book from the study room shelves, which the tutor reads aloud for about ten minutes. Then the tutor and student address a study packet containing at least two exercises and two or three storybooks. After working on the exercises, the student chooses one of the storybooks to read. The tutor coaches him as he reads and observes his progress. Throughout the session, imitation and exposure to new material expand the student’s abilities.
Tutors are charged with making reading a fun and enjoyable experience, so there are various kinds of books and games in the study room to capture the student’s interest.
A Reading Partners site director interacts with the school, evaluates students and coordinates volunteers. The director knows all the students and ensures that tutors and students adhere to the program.
Summer break ends in September at Sanchez. I don’t know if I’ll have the same child but I found the experience highly rewarding. I wanted to leave a positive imprint on future society and found myself a beneficiary in the present one.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Vets Advance at Retreat
In June, I attended a veterans’ retreat at Zen Center at Green Gulch Farm in Marin County. It answered a desire I have to somehow get involved in helping veterans integrate into civilian life after service in Afghanistan or Iraq. Veterans who don’t integrate well may end up homeless. I am a veteran and I studied at Zen Center, so the retreat seemed a perfect vehicle for me.
I served in the Marines from 1972 until 1978, stationed mostly in the American South before becoming a Marine Guard at the American Embassy in Athens, Greece. I studied and practiced at Zen Center regularly from about 1981 until 1983, sitting meditation in the morning before going to work and taking classes in the evening. I hadn’t been to Zen Center since then.
The two workshop leaders, Chris and Lee, have been practicing at Zen Center for thirty years. Chris is a Marriage Family Therapist and a Zen priest. Lee conducts sensory awareness workshops. They scheduled four workshops. I attended one in May at City Center in San Francisco and the one in June.
There were about 15 participants, including three women, in the group. Most of the veterans had been in either Afghanistan or Iraq except a man who had been a medic in Vietnam and me. We met in a yurt, a circular tent-like structure used by Mongolian nomads. This particular structure had been in place for many years and was built to be permanent with wood supports and a skylight in the center like a celestial eye. The floor was carpeted and there were meditation cushions and mats and chairs to sit on. The group fell naturally into a large circle, most sitting on the carpet.
We introduced ourselves and told something about our experiences. Just as we finished a young man joined us late, because he went to the wrong location and ended up listening to the regular Sunday talk with Zen priests and students, laypeople and the general public. What he said, even though tongue-in-cheek, struck me. He said he knew he was in the wrong place because the people didn’t look like veterans, “they looked too happy.”
With introductions done, we packed up our lunch to carry to the beach about a mile away. We walked through the farm, which included hedge-enclosed gardens with blooming flowers, hothouses and fields of vegetables, organically grown. In one garden, we pressed our faces to a lawn full of fragrant chamomile. We saw horses and a deer on our journey. As we walked we broke into smaller groups to talk and further share our experiences. One thing I realized about myself was that I had never talked much about my own time in the military. It felt good to share.
The beach was full of people. The weather was sunny and mild, the sand soft and warm to the touch. It was a great place to eat our lunch and watch and listen to the sun-crested surf.
On the way back to the yurt, a Great Blue Heron landed on a grassy patch. She was sleek and stood as if posing on yellow spindly legs. She stood between three and four feet tall and had blue-gray feathers and a S-shaped neck. She appeared to be another countryside treat for us city folk.
Then she struck, quick as lightning, pulling a furry brown ball out of the earth. Her long thin beak skewered it once then twice. She gulped it down and then resumed her graceful pose as though nothing had happened.
As the others walked ahead, I lagged behind and watched her, not more than twenty feet away. In profile, her neck was strong and thick. She turned and I was in her line of sight. I saw the sleek aerodynamic taper of her neck. She was magnificent. But in a Jurassic Park moment, I worried about how far she could leap.
Slowly she leaned forward, unfolding her neck; her head far beyond her planted feet and close to the ground. Her dagger beak struck and pulled back with another mole, dangling in the air. The act was strangely silent, not even a whimper from the prey. A moment later, she spread her wings and took off, the fur ball still in her beak. Sleek, thick and deadly.
Sleek. Recently I found my Marine dress blue uniform in my closet. I stretched the waist of the deep blue trousers with the red NCO stripe down either leg. I laughed as I asked, “What man fit in that narrow waist?”
Thick. Back then I was thick with muscles and also thick enough to ignore the danger in my occupation.
Deadly. I was trained to be deadly to the enemy.
Some contrasts jumped out at me:
I served in the Marines from 1972 until 1978, stationed mostly in the American South before becoming a Marine Guard at the American Embassy in Athens, Greece. I studied and practiced at Zen Center regularly from about 1981 until 1983, sitting meditation in the morning before going to work and taking classes in the evening. I hadn’t been to Zen Center since then.
The two workshop leaders, Chris and Lee, have been practicing at Zen Center for thirty years. Chris is a Marriage Family Therapist and a Zen priest. Lee conducts sensory awareness workshops. They scheduled four workshops. I attended one in May at City Center in San Francisco and the one in June.
There were about 15 participants, including three women, in the group. Most of the veterans had been in either Afghanistan or Iraq except a man who had been a medic in Vietnam and me. We met in a yurt, a circular tent-like structure used by Mongolian nomads. This particular structure had been in place for many years and was built to be permanent with wood supports and a skylight in the center like a celestial eye. The floor was carpeted and there were meditation cushions and mats and chairs to sit on. The group fell naturally into a large circle, most sitting on the carpet.
We introduced ourselves and told something about our experiences. Just as we finished a young man joined us late, because he went to the wrong location and ended up listening to the regular Sunday talk with Zen priests and students, laypeople and the general public. What he said, even though tongue-in-cheek, struck me. He said he knew he was in the wrong place because the people didn’t look like veterans, “they looked too happy.”
With introductions done, we packed up our lunch to carry to the beach about a mile away. We walked through the farm, which included hedge-enclosed gardens with blooming flowers, hothouses and fields of vegetables, organically grown. In one garden, we pressed our faces to a lawn full of fragrant chamomile. We saw horses and a deer on our journey. As we walked we broke into smaller groups to talk and further share our experiences. One thing I realized about myself was that I had never talked much about my own time in the military. It felt good to share.
The beach was full of people. The weather was sunny and mild, the sand soft and warm to the touch. It was a great place to eat our lunch and watch and listen to the sun-crested surf.
On the way back to the yurt, a Great Blue Heron landed on a grassy patch. She was sleek and stood as if posing on yellow spindly legs. She stood between three and four feet tall and had blue-gray feathers and a S-shaped neck. She appeared to be another countryside treat for us city folk.
Then she struck, quick as lightning, pulling a furry brown ball out of the earth. Her long thin beak skewered it once then twice. She gulped it down and then resumed her graceful pose as though nothing had happened.
As the others walked ahead, I lagged behind and watched her, not more than twenty feet away. In profile, her neck was strong and thick. She turned and I was in her line of sight. I saw the sleek aerodynamic taper of her neck. She was magnificent. But in a Jurassic Park moment, I worried about how far she could leap.
Slowly she leaned forward, unfolding her neck; her head far beyond her planted feet and close to the ground. Her dagger beak struck and pulled back with another mole, dangling in the air. The act was strangely silent, not even a whimper from the prey. A moment later, she spread her wings and took off, the fur ball still in her beak. Sleek, thick and deadly.
Sleek. Recently I found my Marine dress blue uniform in my closet. I stretched the waist of the deep blue trousers with the red NCO stripe down either leg. I laughed as I asked, “What man fit in that narrow waist?”
Thick. Back then I was thick with muscles and also thick enough to ignore the danger in my occupation.
Deadly. I was trained to be deadly to the enemy.
Some contrasts jumped out at me:
lost traveler - happy people
city people - the country
beautiful heron - deadly heron
veterans - the civilian world
Each is part of the other. Each functions according to the logic of nature, experience or training.
Veterans, trained to work together and to sacrifice, encounter a civilian world where both seem optional. Some veterans carry the trauma of injury or memories of injury or death to comrades. Shouldering these experiences, they must learn to thrive back home. Some stumble. Talking about one’s experience is one step in the journey back home.
Chris and Lee plan to organize other workshops addressing the needs of the families of veterans.
Veterans and the families of veterans who are researching or applying for benefits may visit the the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs and VetCenter, an arm of the Department. The Swords to Plowshares website is a good resource for understanding the system and getting assistance.
Semper Fi.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
In its 8th year, the AIDS/Lifecycle 2009 ride took place May 31 through June 6. About 2150 bicyclists rode 545 miles from San Francisco to Los Angeles raising 10.5 million dollars to fight AIDS. My friend, Holly, took part in the ride for the first time, and spoke to me about her experience.
Holly told me she rode because she was looking for a bike-riding challenge and because she was concerned about the rising HIV infection rate in minority communities. She was pleased that so many people chose to support her when they learned she was riding and that, because of her own training, she was well prepared for the longest ride she’d ever undertaken. She was most impressed by the sense of community she felt throughout her participation.
I am always fascinated to learn how people organize themselves to do things and Holly told me some interesting details about AIDS/Lifecycle.
My biggest surprise was that riders weren’t allowed to wear headsets or earplugs during the ride. Music, audio books and talking on the cell were out. Safety was the imperative, Holly said. Riders were required to pay attention to what’s around them. Traveling single file most of the time in a variety of road conditions, cyclists shouted out warnings and pointed to dangers.
“Car back!” warned that a car’s coming up from behind. “Hole!” or “Glass!” warnings traveled down the file from ahead. The alerts wandered like instinctive shivers up and down the spine. When a rider wanted to pass another rider, she shouted, “On your left” to pass. Riders motivated and entertained each other by singing songs. Holly remembered singing “Foolish Heart” and “Oh, Happy Day”.
Riders who ignored the safety imperative might have their “bike pulled” by monitors riding with the pack. That meant a cyclist couldn’t ride for a leg of the ride, the rest of the ride or, in extreme cases, ever again. Think of a red card in soccer or the penalty box in hockey. For example, a rider passing without shouting out and going too fast and too close might startle even an experienced rider, breaking his concentration and leading to a tumble. If a bike were to be pulled it would happen at the next campsite at the end of the leg. Holly recalled noticing about six bikes in the “hold rack” once.
At rest stops, AIDS/Lifecycle looked after the needs of the rolling community. The ride had seven legs, one each day. Rest stops were scheduled along a leg about every twenty miles more or less, depending on the difficulty of the terrain. There, riders received “excellent” medical attention for sore knees and other ailments, nourishment and used portable potties that were trucked along. If a rider couldn’t finish the leg for any reason, she was picked up roadside by “sweeper vans and cars” to take her to the rest stop to board a charter bus for the next campsite. Holly said the care and support for the cyclists was extraordinary and well appreciated.
At the end of the day, riders pulled into the campsite set up by “roadies” in advance. They parked their bikes in racks with memorable names like “The Supremes” or “The B-52s”. Waiting for them was one bag containing their personal gear and the tent they had to set up. Evenings were spent eating, resting and listening to inspirational speeches from community leaders. The next day comes early, when the course opens at 0630.
Holly told me that among her favorite memories were racing downhill with panoramic valley views laid out before her; calling out to hardworking farm workers and the vigil on Ventura Beach where more than two thousand candles clustered under the night sky to remember those who had died from AIDS.
I asked her if she would do it again. “Absolutely,” she said and turned the question back on me. “Would you consider being a rider or a roadie?” Lifecycle needed about one roadie for every five cyclists. Some roadies traveled with the pack, but most participated as the ride passed their town or city. In San Francisco, roadies helped to launch the ride from the Cow Palace. I told her I’d think about it.
Go to http://www.aidslifecycle.org/ to find out about getting involved.
Holly told me she rode because she was looking for a bike-riding challenge and because she was concerned about the rising HIV infection rate in minority communities. She was pleased that so many people chose to support her when they learned she was riding and that, because of her own training, she was well prepared for the longest ride she’d ever undertaken. She was most impressed by the sense of community she felt throughout her participation.
I am always fascinated to learn how people organize themselves to do things and Holly told me some interesting details about AIDS/Lifecycle.
My biggest surprise was that riders weren’t allowed to wear headsets or earplugs during the ride. Music, audio books and talking on the cell were out. Safety was the imperative, Holly said. Riders were required to pay attention to what’s around them. Traveling single file most of the time in a variety of road conditions, cyclists shouted out warnings and pointed to dangers.
“Car back!” warned that a car’s coming up from behind. “Hole!” or “Glass!” warnings traveled down the file from ahead. The alerts wandered like instinctive shivers up and down the spine. When a rider wanted to pass another rider, she shouted, “On your left” to pass. Riders motivated and entertained each other by singing songs. Holly remembered singing “Foolish Heart” and “Oh, Happy Day”.
Riders who ignored the safety imperative might have their “bike pulled” by monitors riding with the pack. That meant a cyclist couldn’t ride for a leg of the ride, the rest of the ride or, in extreme cases, ever again. Think of a red card in soccer or the penalty box in hockey. For example, a rider passing without shouting out and going too fast and too close might startle even an experienced rider, breaking his concentration and leading to a tumble. If a bike were to be pulled it would happen at the next campsite at the end of the leg. Holly recalled noticing about six bikes in the “hold rack” once.
At rest stops, AIDS/Lifecycle looked after the needs of the rolling community. The ride had seven legs, one each day. Rest stops were scheduled along a leg about every twenty miles more or less, depending on the difficulty of the terrain. There, riders received “excellent” medical attention for sore knees and other ailments, nourishment and used portable potties that were trucked along. If a rider couldn’t finish the leg for any reason, she was picked up roadside by “sweeper vans and cars” to take her to the rest stop to board a charter bus for the next campsite. Holly said the care and support for the cyclists was extraordinary and well appreciated.
At the end of the day, riders pulled into the campsite set up by “roadies” in advance. They parked their bikes in racks with memorable names like “The Supremes” or “The B-52s”. Waiting for them was one bag containing their personal gear and the tent they had to set up. Evenings were spent eating, resting and listening to inspirational speeches from community leaders. The next day comes early, when the course opens at 0630.
Holly told me that among her favorite memories were racing downhill with panoramic valley views laid out before her; calling out to hardworking farm workers and the vigil on Ventura Beach where more than two thousand candles clustered under the night sky to remember those who had died from AIDS.
I asked her if she would do it again. “Absolutely,” she said and turned the question back on me. “Would you consider being a rider or a roadie?” Lifecycle needed about one roadie for every five cyclists. Some roadies traveled with the pack, but most participated as the ride passed their town or city. In San Francisco, roadies helped to launch the ride from the Cow Palace. I told her I’d think about it.
Go to http://www.aidslifecycle.org/ to find out about getting involved.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Welcome
I am a writer living in San Francisco focused on fiction writing and poetry. No, you haven't read any of my work yet. The purpose of this blog is to provide a space to practice and display my craft. My goal is to artfully and succinctly turn a phrase, render an image or depict a scene while entertaining and, possibly, informing the reader in a non-fiction mode.
Witness
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