Yellowriter

At first my state of mind made it difficult to concentrate on the ceremony.  The color guard snapped me out of my day dream and I covered my heart while the Star Spangled Banner played.  It was a Coast Guard changing of command ceremony in Port Angeles, Washington.  A cutter was being transfered and the boys did a fine job.  We (Annie and myself) had been invited by the wife of the man giving up the reigns of power; he was on to another assignment based in Seattle.  I was lost in thought.  It was a marvelously warm day.  The waters of the marina served as a gray backdrop to my equally gray mood.  It had been a long night.

Phone calls from my father come at reasonable hours.  The night before he called at a late hour to inform me that my sister was dead.  At first I thought I must be having a nightmare, but in my subconscious mind I had expected this call for many years.  The saga was finally over.

Most parents have to talk and talk about drugs to their kids - we never did.  Aunt Marvie was a walking metaphor.  Casual drug use turned into a way of life and in the end, a way of death.  Dad told me that she had died in her bed, most likely in her sleep.  That comforted me in an odd way.  Marva, the sister just sixteen months older than me, passed with dignity.

There were years when there was no contact and certainly no bed or apartment.  She lived in the desert and spent cold nights sleeping in drain pipes.  There were many terribly cold nights that I prayed for her, shedding tears as I thought about the rain and freezing temperatures.  Once I saw her walking down the street stoned out of her mind.  She was so pale and gaunt that I didn’t recognize my own sibling at first.  She was just one of the many all of us turn away from, the wretched poor.  But this was my sister.  We grew up together, fought a great deal and loved one another.  I bought some hamburgers and drove until I found her.  I had not seen her in years.  I didn’t speak and neither did she.  Marva accepted the hamburgers and began to shuffle away in a pair of worn bedroom slippers.  I turned down a side street and cried all the way home.  I knew she was in a bad place, but seeing her in this horrid condition shook me to the core.

My father got her out of the desert and moved her onto his property.  She lived in the motor home and slowly began to become human again.  He got her to go to the doctor and soon she had sworn off drugs and was on her way back.  She got Social Security benefits and secured a small apartment in Rosamond, California.  I went to see her in May and we had a grand time.  Jenna, my daughter, was able to come up from Valencia and spend some time with her aunt.  Our sister, Vicky, was there and dad and his girlfriend, Mary, fixed a nice dinner of a Russian soup (borscht) we are all fond of.  I kissed her at the door, never thinking I would not see her again.

There is something about hard, menial labor.  For me it is therapy - it clears my head.  I had spent the morning writing my sister’s obituary and it was much harder than I thought.  Her’s was a difficult and complex life.  She endured the death of her husband, the total disrespect of her two step-children, drug and alcohol abuse and a tattered work history.  After I condensed and rewrote, I printed the final draft.  I thought to myself, I’m getting pretty good at writing obituaries.  That made me break down.  So I began hauling wheel barrow loads of rock up the back forty of my property.  I mindlessly tossed pebbles, stones and boulders until I could barely lift the thing.  My arms ached and my back throbbed - the pain was a reminder that I still have my life and I want it to count. 

So now I am at the end of a difficult day.  I have come to the conclusion that my sister did have a life that counted and made a difference.  I remembered how kind she could be and how she took in misfits like stray kittens.  When I told her on Father’s Day (the last time I spoke to her on the phone) that I planned to dedicate my next book of poetry to her she was ecstatic.  I’m glad I didn’t save it for a surprise she would never see.  On the phone with my friends last night they all had warm things to say about my sister.  One buddy reminded me what a good dancer she was.  I had forgotten that.

The old boss walked up to review his troops, ten men who served under his command on the cutter.  The military is a place where people come and go.  I was seated closest to the men standing at parade rest as their leader shook each of their hands and gave them encouragement.  Eight of the men smiled and bobbed their heads.  It was obvious that they were fond of their leader.  Two of the men’s eyes burned as he spoke to them.  There was an unspoken love for the man they served and they probably knew that their paths would not cross again.  There were no tears, but I felt their pain as I watched them hang on his every word.  In the bright sunshine, with the fog laden Olympic Mountains in the distance, these shipmates said the goodbye that lasts forever.  I turned away, in respect, and looked at the magnificient beauty before me.  The only thought I had during this moment was it is so good to be alive.

I found out that Mary had taken some photos of our little dinner party and she vowed to make some copies for me.  I can sit here at my computer and think of all the ways my sister contributed to my life.  But life goes on.  There is no guarantee of tomorrow so make it count today.  I’m anxious to see those pictures.  In that moment I’ll thank God that I’m alive - alive to experience the goodbye that lasts forever. 

It was the writer, Thomas Wolfe, who said “you can never go home again” and I recently had that play out during an excursion to California.  David, our twenty-two year old son in the Navy is in Spain and his car, a Mazda 3, was parked in the garage of my dad’s girlfriend.  Mary, that’s my father’s young chick (she’s seventy-five) has recently put her house up for sale so the car needed to be moved.  David’s solution was for dad to fly down to Burbank and drive the phantom blue blur up the coast.  I can tell you that twelve hundred plus miles driving alone on mostly interstate is dull at best.  The good news is that the car is safe and sound in our garage in Port Angeles, Washington.  The bad news is that I found that Thomas Wolfe was a prophet indeed.

I was born and raised in the small town of Lancaster, California.  It is in Los Angeles County, but barely.  The landscape begins to shift as one travels north out of Valencia and Santa Clarita.  The desert starts to take over.  That would be the Mojave Desert and she can be one mean momma!  Hot as Hades in the summer and sub-zero in the winter, the area known as the Antelope Valley can be a tough place.  Growing up there was great though.  No video games for me and my pals.  We spent our days playing Over-the-Line, which is a scaled down baseball game, for hours on end.  We played in three digit heat and no one carried a water bottle.  Don’t ask - there wasn’t bottled water for sale yet, the stone age.  Actually it was about 1970.  I remember because we were all still pretty sore at the Baltimore Orioles for getting beat by the lowly, yet amazing, Mets.  We named a stenchy mud hole after Baltimore, dubbing it “the Oriole Hole.”  The kangeroo court could dole out a penalty and make a person get on all fours and thus have to smell the hole for five minutes.  Martin Stewart was the only guy with a watch so we all wanted to be on his good side.  He could add a couple of minutes to the sentence and nobody would be the wiser.

Junior High was painful, but High School was fun.  Antelope Valley Highs’ class of 1976 was awesome to say the least.  Jim Wagner was our Senior Class President and all of our reunuions to date have been exceptional.  Collen Hall helped out with the thirty-year and she could still shake and bake at age forty-eight!  Let’s face it - we just got old!  But the alternative isn’t so super.  You either get older or you get deader!  Friends I’ve lost include Donald King, Robert Louis Brown, Judith Pipkin and Dale Snyder (who died in a mountain climbing accident).  I thought about these people as I drove down Avenue I in Lancaster last week.

It is disheartening to me that when Hollywood makes a Mad Max end-of-the -world movie it is almost always filmed in the Antelope Valley.  Resident Evil and the Book of Eli show the desolate land for what it is.  Avenue I is a b-grade apocalypse film set, with about forty percent of the buildings from my youth, not only condemned, but demolished and removed.  If that part of Lan-scatter (affectionate term) were a mouth, most of the teeth would be missing.  So I came to the sad conclusion that the town of my childhood had contracted metaphorical meth-mouth.

My dad stills lives in the same house I grew up in.  I was nine months old in March, 1959 when we moved in.  I slept on the floor of my old bedroom.  It was humbling as I stared at the curtains my mom put up in 1972.  Dad needs a decorator or a new house.  The wind howled as I lay on my blow-up-mattress bed and remembered all of the nonsense I got into.  But they were good times.  I saw two of my sisters and we laughed for hours so it wasn’t all doom and gloom.  Time had simply moved on and I have yet to accept that fact.  I tried to go home again, but all I have is memories.

As I write this in my office, I glance up at the picture of my mom, taken when she was just sixteen years old.  She was so fresh and pretty and now she has been gone lo these seven years, just like Marley in “A Christmas Carol.”  But my mother does not haunt me like Scrooge’s old partner did him.  Instead, she comforts me.  You see, my time, and yours, is coming.  Nothing stays the same, but is in constant flux.  Accept it for your own peace of mind.  Thomas told me I couldn’t go home again and he was right.  I thought that in my old town I would be a fish out of water, but that analogy is not drastic enough for what I feel tearing at my heart and soul.  I’m not a fish out of water, but instead I feel like a fish in outer space. 

If you’re not too old, you can remember when we didn’t have Daylight Saving Time.  I was a freshman in high school when President Nixon ordered us to move the clocks.  The only vivid memory was sitting in my first period English class and looking out the small window in the door watching the sun come up.  I learned later that the original idea to change the clocks was Benjamin Franklin’s.  In terms of what it means to me - it meant living was getting tough.  That’s what my father said.  “Going to work in the dark and getting home when it’s dark makes living tough,” dad used to say.  I’m really not too sure why we do it (change the clocks); I think we just got used to it.

When I was in the Air Force I learned that not all places change their clocks.  Hawaii and Arizona are the main abstainers.  I guess it has to do with geography and the attitude of the populace.  My friend, Bob Schmid, told me this riddle.  A man in Florida calls his brother in Oregon.  The clocks of both read the exact same time.  How is this possible?  Answer - The man making the call lives in western Florida in the panhandle (which is in the Central Time Zone so he’s only two hours different from most of Oregon (most are on Pacific Time).  A small chunk of eastern Oregon is on the Mountain Time Zone so the brothers are only one hour different in time to begin with.  If the Florida brother calls between 2 and 3 AM when the clocks “fall back” the two brothers will be exactly the same time for 59 minutes.  At 2 am in Florida it becomes 1 AM and that is the time Oregon brother has until he turns his clock back at 2 Mountain Time.  

Confusing, isn’t it?  But here’s the good part - we are living in the best part of the year.  Not to say that Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s and football playoffs are bad, but now the living is easy!  That’s what dad says when we “spring forward” and baseball arrives.  To me easy living means sunshine and baseball.  Robert Frost said “All’s right with the world” and I’m buying it hook, line and sinker ball!

The upside and the downside is the extra innings baseball package on Direct TV.  The upside is I watch lots of baseball.  The downside is that I watch lots of baseball.  I only watched parts of four different games today so I managed to get a few things done.  I don’t know when I’ll find time to write!

My next novel is coming along at a snail’s pace.  I hope to finish it by Christmas.  I’ll get a lot more writing done after the World Series ends.  I’m going to try and stay close to home this year.  We took eight trips last year and it was fun, but much too much.  I’m letting people come to me.  Selfish?  Maybe, but the Olympic Peninsula is well worth the trip.  I tell folks that Port Angeles isn’t the end of the world…but you can see it from there! 

David, my son, is leaving for Spain soon (in the Navy) and he’ll ge to Dubai from there.  Jenna and David met at grandpa’s over the weekend and I got a full report.  I won’t get to see David until 2011 but Jenna is planning a trip in August when Lauren is home.  Two other kids have hazy plans to visit.  Part of me is sad because I miss my children and the grandkids in Colorado, but I know that modern life really spreads people out.  Sometimes that depressing feeling of sitting in English class, listening to the teacher talk about Lord of the Flies, while waiting for the sun to rise dampens my outlook.  But then I look outside and know it’s going to be all right after all.  Because now the living is easy!  

When I was young there was a popular childrens’ book entitled, “Are You My Mother?”  The gist of the work was a duckling that hatched and quizzed various animals on whether or not they were indeed a parent of the little quacker.  The book was based on the work of a man named Lorenz who did extensive work in the area of imprinting.  Imprinting is the connection developed at birth to the nearest caregiver.  For his study Lorenz nurtured newborn ducks and the feathery twits took him to be their momma.  The pictures of the ducks following this man around always brought a smile to my lips.  As absurd as it sounds, you can become someone’s mother.

That took me back to Christmas in Broomfield, Colorado this past year.  Grandma Jan, my wife’s step-mother, was deemed to be the youngest great grandmother in her church at the Christmas Eve service.  Jan claimed to have become a great grandma at the spry age of 63.  There were none close to her youthful vigor when it came to the great grandma department.  On the ride home I mentally listed her three children and their children.  None of her kids were grandparents.  I asked her about it and obviously offended her and my wife at the same time.  My daughter, Brenna, has two kids and grandma and great grandma were aghast that I had not “grafted them in.” 

I admit that I was wrong, but I’m a man and that comes with the territory, right ladies?  It brings up a dilemma between the bloodline believers and the grafting group.  We all have people in our lives that we graft in and don’t think twice about it.  One of my closest friends (he is more like a brother) is Charles Dickerson.  We met in basic training for the Air Force in San Antonio, Texas in 1977 and have stayed friends for more than 30 years.  The kids all came to know and love “Uncle Chuck.”  When Jenna told stories of her uncle, her husband Rich, was intrigued.  Jenna went on and on about Uncle Chuck.  While looking at photos Rich asked who the tall, slender black man was in the picture.  He was a little shocked when Jenna said, “Oh, that’s Uncle Chuck!”  She just took the grafting for granted.  Just as it should be.

What reminded me of all of this was a phone call this morning from my son, David.  He is in the Navy and is deploying to Spain soon.  He woke me at 7:30 because the Navy wants their troops to have passports in Spain and he needed information.  I gave him the data and then had some coffee.  Over my cup of morning “go” I realized that I had errored.  It was my “grafting” that may yeild him a rejection on his passport.  My wife is not his mother.

I called David back and explained the situation.  He shrugged it off, but I gave him the vitals as a back up in case the passport people are bloodline oriented.  I was actually dumbfounded at how little my son knows about the woman who gave him birth.  His birth mom was pretty much out of our lives since David was six years old.  He had no idea how to spell his mother’s name, did not know her middle name, and did not know that she was born in England.  He did not know her birthday or the year she was born.  For David already had a mom.  No, Annie didn’t carry him, but she was everything to him that a mom could and should be.  It humbled me as I thought about my “bloodline” analogy in December.

Part of me is sad.  David Edward Powers has grown into a strong, confident man.  His birth mother would be proud of him.  I am glad to not only call him my son, but my friend, as well.  When his birth mom began her abysmal slide into the darkness of schizophrenia, she lost contact with the three children she had given life to.  Natalie will soon get her P.H.D. at Yale in molecular biology.  Annie and I will be there to see Dr. Powers “get hooded”, as they say.  Brenna is married to Charles Vincent Arcebuche and lives in Fountain, Colorado.  Talon Gage Powers Arcebuche and Lilah Jasmine Powers Arcebuche are the grandchildren that she doesn’t even know exist.  Too bad.  They’re flat-out wonderful.

So who is your mother?  It doesn’t strictly boil down to who gave you birth.  Who loved you?  Who cares for you?  Who meets yor needs?  Who nurses you when you’re ill?  Who stays up til five in the morning to help finish that blasted science project?  Who tucks you in at night and prays with you?  The questions can go on and on.  The bottom line isn’t Lorenz leading around some ducks.  Ask, where is the care?  Bloodlines are important, but love trumps all else.  Are you my mother?  The question need not be asked.  Just search your heart and the answer will be crystal clear.

Okay, for the twelve of you out there in Cyberspace waiting for the Yellowriter to post, your time has come.  I really am way behind in all of this social networking, but I don’t mind at all.  Living in 1975 (most of the time) has advantages for me.  What has happened to me in the last couple of years is what will more than likely happen to many, you get left behind.

Being left behind is not generally thought of as a positive.  We have a politically backed program called “No Child Left Behind.”  In the military the code of honor demands that “No man is left behind.”  I think it should now be “No One Left Behind” because of the growing contributions of females in the military.  The point is that being left behind is a natural occurrence in this little deal we call life.

Lauren is our youngest and she just completed Basic Trainging in the Air Force at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas.  They taught her discipline, military bearing and integrity.  Lauren will not be leaving anyone behind.  I found it interesting to be back in the place that I had went to Basic Training at 33 years earlier.  I got my bearings by finding the McDonald’s golden arches.  In 1977, I would dream of one day busting out of that place and treating myself to a Big Mac and fries.  I was the youngest in my flight and I did have my share of trouble.  Lauren, I am proud to say, finished at the top of her flight, unlike me.  So off we went to Texas to spend 4 glorious days with Airman Lauren.  David, our son in the Navy, just got back from deployment in Kuwait and he flew over from San Diego and joined us.  It was a great time.  We did the River Walk, saw Avatar and a bunch of other stuff.  The hard part was not eating all the junk that seemed to pop up before us at the mall.  We saw the Alamo, ate, watched a movie, ate, took the boat tour, ate some more…I think you’re getting the idea.  On Monday, February 1st, Lauren boarded a bus to go to Witchita Falls, Texas and Annie, Dave and I went to Seattle.  At the end of four days, Navy Davey was gone and our house was quiet once again.

There is a peacefulness that comes around this time of year.  Halloween precedes Thanksgiving and then it’s hectic for Christmas and New Years’.  Super Bowl and Valentine’s Day kind of round out the craziness for us.  So now we have to get a routine that doesn’t involve travel and parties.  This is my 1975 time - it is simple.

Just as it is important to gear up for all the action, it is equally important to know when to take it down a notch and relax.  Annie suggested I take a part time job.  One looked kind of interesting, but the hours were 2 to 5.  That’s my nap time…when I feel like it.  The goal for today is to enjoy today.  I want to make a joke about almost everything in my day.  It feels so good to laugh.  Sometimes I laugh myself right into a nap.  Today I plan to finish this blog and walk/run five miles before the sun goes down.  You might be saying, “Good luck with that,” but I will make it happen.  I may even laugh about it later.  I guess in all the hubub (is that even a word?) I don’t plan on leaving myself behind.  If that means that I’ll E-mail or (persish the thought) snail mail someone as part of my day, so be it. 

The moral of the Air Force story is that things really are not that different from 33 years ago.  Sure technology is awesome, but wanna know what is even better than all of that electronic gizmo stuff?  People.  People are better.  Put down your I-Phone and get to know a few of them.  That’s what we did daily in 1975.   And we loved it!

It’s 2010 and this is my first blog of the new decade.  I think I’m one of six people who still blog, since billions of others are on to new mediums and, ah yes, social networking.  When MySpace.com hit the scene, Annie and I were unaware how much time and energy that this little bugger was going to suck out of our childrens’ minds.  We only had a family computer back then and we almost had to have a reservation to take a seat in front of the old 17 inch monitor that weighed about the same as George Foreman (Pick a George, any George!).  The complaints of “time to do homework” were soon to be found a smoke screen for “social networking.”  We didn’t call it that at the time, but who knows where technology may lead?

The first big bust with MySpace came when one of our daughters met the love of her life in a chat room.  A chat room is a place where mostly strangers converse in cyberspace.  Creepy already, huh?  Alex was a young man in Texas who had designs on one of our girls.  He was 19 and she 17.  He was in college and she was in high school.  Bad mix for dads everywhere.  I over reacted and then we ended up meeting the guy.  He was polite, intelligent and slobbery.  I caught them kissing over and over.  And kids think it’s gross to see their parents kiss!  They ended up broken up and that was that…or was it?

In the mid-seventies, when I was a spry lad, when you ended a relationship you got closure.  That means it’s over. The fat lady has indeed sung and get this, you may go your entire life without ever crossing paths with that person again! Here is another newsflash.  THAT IS HOW IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE!  Why, you may ask?  I’m glad you did.

We had lunch yesterday with a self avowed Facebook addict.  She spends hours each day checking on people from her past.  She admits that it’s unproductive, but she can’t seem to stop.  Last week she told me that she planned to delete Facebook, but couldn’t go through with it when the time came to press the “Enter” key.  This is dangerous territory, folks.  It is all about compartments in the space time continuum.

My wife says that I have to say, “this is my opinion” when I speak because I tend to get preachy.  She’s right, but this is my blog so you know that this is how I believe.  I think that we live our lives in segments or what I call “Time continuum compartments.”  A person at 51 years of age is simply different than the person he or she was at age 18.  I loved my high school years and I like reunions…for one weekend.  I just don’t want all of the people from that magical time in 1976 to pay me continuous visits in the year of our Lord two thousand and ten!  That was then…this is now.

When a person continually goes across segments of time with the assumption that nothing has changed, damage is done.  We are turning into a mass of emotionally unhealthy people because of regrets from the past.  We all have them.  IF I would have went to that college…IF I would have married that person instead of the loser I ended up with…If I would have waited to have kids!  See the pattern?  Facebook is built on regrets, disappointments and slights.  It simply is not healthy to try to live in the past.

I love science fiction movies, especially those that deal with the past, but did you catch the genre?  It’s fiction.  You cannot change the past.  Marty McFly will not escort you in a Delorean back to 1955, 65, 75 or 1985.  Robin Williams and Kurt Russell made a movie about a football flub that ruined their lives.  The idea was to replay the game to wipe out the regret.  The whole thing was a bust.  Regret is what it is and one simply must accept it and move on.  Facebook will not fix you.

The answer is to live in the here and now.  It isn’t healthy to dialogue with lovers from twenty or thirty years ago.  Facebook can be dangerous because it makes us alter reality, and that is never a good thing.  Satan wants us to live in perpetual regret and thanks to Facebook, he is ruining people through what the media calls “social networking.”  I call it brainwashing.  Don’t get sucked into Facebook and the space time continuum.  Take some advice from someone who has his foot on Regret’s throat - love, laugh and live in today because it is all we have.   

Because of all of the commercial interests in Christmas, it is a perfect time for one to get a bit of clarity and perspective about the holidays.  The one who got the lesson, again, was yours truly.  We won a Christmas tree at a community event called “Festival of Trees.”  We spent five bucks and came away with an eclectic sort of tree that contained ornaments from all of the other thirty trees.  There was a chess piece from the Twilight Tree and a pink Cadillac from the Elvis Tree.  Curious George, the monkey, made a contribution as well.  It was delivered, lighted and looked pretty good.  The 2 foot Curious George at the top was a bit over the top and the little primate creeped me out so we took him off.  My grandson will love him.

The perspective started when I realized that for the first time ever, I had no intention of decorating for Christmas.  Annie and I refused to participate in this event due partly to the fact that this was to be our first year without any kids living at home (empty nest stuff).  Also, we plan on traveling for the holidays so what’s the big whoop?  I did stick two wreaths out front.  Now to the NFL Channel!

We had our ornament exchange party and I have to admit that the tree stole the show.  Our problem was how to get rid of the thing.  Sure it had some cool stuff on it, but more really is less when you’re retired.  One of the ladies in our Divorce Recovery Group brought her cousin.  This woman has lupus and needs treatments to keep going.  She is in the middle of her own divorce and has two daughters at home (ages 6 & 9).  We found out that this woman needed a tree, but had very little money.  One man’s ceiling is another man’s floor.  I thought it would be a convenient way to rid the living room of this thing and at the same time, some kids would be happy.  To be honest the idea of clearing out the green thing took a front seat to bringing joy to a family that didn’t have much.  See the perspective train coming?  I didn’t.

Because we were to be traveling, we ate down our groceries.  We went to a Christmas party tonight and Annie used ingredients in the fridge to make a yummy casserole to take.  I can’t believe I just wrote “yummy.”  It was fun, but the real problem happened yesterday.  Annie wanted to get rid of some eggs and bacon and cheese so she decided to make a quiche.  I know, I know, real men don’t eat quiche, but it’s real yum…tasty.  She got upset because the cheese was moldy.  She had to go to the store.

Two days before we had loaded up the tree and placed it in the needy family’s house.  The cousin had the key so we were stealth.  Annie made them all stockings as well with toys, candy, games and perfume(for momma).  We left it and pretty much forgot it.  I had my living room back and there were 2 games on I wanted to watch.

Annie said that when the lady from our group, who works at the local supermarket, saw her she cried tears of joy.  Her cousin was so moved by “our act of love” that she wept on her cousin’s shoulder, thanking us for “making her Christmas.”  We didn’t get a call because they assumed that we had left town already.  The children were overjoyed with what they found when they came home from school that day.  To me, it was just something taking up space, but to them it was the true meaning of the season.  And all of their blessing came back to us because of an extra trip to the store caused by moldy cheese.  I really don’t think the cheese molded by coincidence, do you?

The real message comes in the simplistic.  Open your eyes.  Five dollars may not be much to you, but it is another one of those ceiling/floor things.  The blessings are there if we care to look…even in a block of moldy cheese. 

That is a curious phrase, “By the by.”  What it meant a century or two ago was a reference to things that are no longer useful or relevant.  Later terms referred to things like, “a fad” or “a flash in the pan.”  I write this because I realize that I am turning into a bad blogger.  I’m not saying the quality is poor; I’m referring to the quantity.  My blogging has become more and sporatic and I can guess you know why.  The reason is that blogging has gone by the by.

When I was a kid we got our first microwave oven.  It was huge, heavy and noisy, BUT IT HAD A PURPOSE.  Today, I will use a microwave oven.  It is convenient, mounted over our stove and relatively quiet.  It is user friendly and easy to operate.  The point is that this marvel is still performing its magic thirty years after its inception.  Why?  Because IT HAS A PURPOSE.  What is that purpose?  To serve us with convenience and save us some money.  A microwave oven will pay for itself over time (including the electricity it uses) because we don’t waste food - we eat it.  We shall refer to this as evaluating a product/service by how it pays by its purpose.

That’s a good example, but there have been some poor ones.  Remember Laser-Disc movies?  What about bulky Beta-Max?  How about Zip Drives on Computers.  Pagers had their day, but cell phones killed that market.  Technology rules the day, but we have to have the vision to guess which ones will hang around and which ones will bite the dust.  These products were outdone by the better mousetrap!  They don’t pay by purpose and therefore, must be discarded.

Blogging was very cool when it first arrived on the scene.  Alex Pinto, the guru who built and maintains this web-site, used to be enthusiastic about it.  He even bought me a book on how to blog effectively.  When I only blogged once a week, he was disappointed.  Now, not so much.  Why?  What changed?  Blogging is to social networking what cell phones are to I-Phones.  The purpose simply does not pay.  Someone can tweet or twitter and that makes a blogger like me typing in a backdrop from the Jurassic era.  Technology decides what mediums pay by purpose and blogging is right there next to the Creedence Clearwater Revival 8 track tape.  Bye bye blogsters!

But I am a dinosaur; I choose to be.  No, I have never sent a text message.  My two goals in life are  1) Never to kill anyone    and                                                                       

                             2) Never send a text message

Yes, I still have a Zip Drive on one of my four computers.  I just can’t stand to part with the things!  I did get rid of my DOS computer and the one with Windows 95 on it.  When I tried to circulate sermons in my Sunday School class by developing a lending library for the class, whereby they would take CDs from the bin, they looked back at me in horror.  One suggested the ease of I-Pod downloads as an alternative and another wanted to load them on a webite for phones and media players.  My head almost exploded.  I suppose I’ll just drop the whole idea.  Everything anyone REALLY WANTS is just a mouse click away.  But I’ll keep to my backwards ways.

The answer to the question is yes, I will blog on.  They will probably only be monthly, but as you can see, I have a hard time parting with things.  I met a guy yesterday at the Port Angeles Chamber of Commerce Luncheon and he began with the tech stuff.  I told him that “I still like to live most of my life in 1975.”  His wife asked about my mood ring and, with a straight face, I told her that it is on my nightstand next to my bed, which it is.  I’ll put it on later and see how this blog affected me.

I guess the question is, “Does this blog affect anyone?”  I guess it does.  It affects me because it gives me an avenue to vent.  Does it pay by purpose?  Psychologically, yes, but financially?  You read the ads on my web-site, didn’t you?  Ha!  Got ya!  Actually my blogging does public good.  When I want to kill the moron who keeps texting me and asking that I text him back, I blog instead of murder.  This pays by keeping me out of the penal system and also pays by making sure blog boy doesn’t go down for a dirt nap!  A lot of things have gone by the by.  Let’s make sure that the ability to laugh at ourselves is never one of the casualties.  

Time is funny stuff.  It seems like it was just yesterday and I was forced to share my bedroom with my meathead of a little brother named Craig.  We all had nicknames and some of them stuck.  My brother, Craig, was always referred to as “Burt” because is was merely an “n” shy of standing for burnt.  We called him Burnt/Burt because of his tendancy to say dumb things around me and my friends.  We even got to the point where we wouldn’t comment when he made a stupid remark.  We would all strike imaginary matches and toss them in my brother’s direction complete with airy sound effects like a charcoal grill being lit.  Pretty cruel, huh?  The sick part is that Craig liked it.

My brother was musically minded.  He started taking piano lesson when he was ten and there was no stopping him after that.  My dad and I continued to push him toward sports, but the lad was truly a gifted musician.  He went from piano to trumpet to guitar.  After a few years, there simply wasn’t an instrument made that Craig could not play.  I saw him fade into “his music” and our father stood by the adage, “Every musician I know is a bum.”  My brother made being a bum work for him.  He’ll be fifty in May  and he still lives for his music.

Craig, at the age of fourteen, insisted that everyone call him “Byrt.”  He changed the spelling and took ownership of what was meant to be a world-class insult.  But that’s my brother.  His existance and spin on the way things things are has always been a tad different.  Sharing a room with him for sixteen years was like living in some sort of bizarre movie.  Byrt had and has his quirks.  He lives in Anchorage, Alaska and works as the caretaker for his church and, of course, plays in the worship band.

What prompted this little trip to talk about my offbeat brother was time.  I was thinking today about the fact that here was a guy who I literally could not get away from for sixteen years.  We slept in the same room and ate at the same table.  Sure, we fought, but what brothers don’t?  When I was eighteen I left for the United States Air Force.  I can still see my father with that stoic look on his face, shaking my hand and telling me to do a good job.  I can also see my little brother crying and telling me how much he was going to miss me.  That was over thirty-two years ago but I remember it as if it was yesterday.

The rub comes because life rarely turns out like you think it will.  Craig went to Alaska in the eighties (I can’t remember what year) and our contact has been sparse.  I saw him for about three hours in 2007.  Before that it was two days in the Arctic Circle while I researching a book I was writing about Alaska.  I would have to say that I’ve been in the presence of Byrt about forty hours in the last twenty-five years.  I never thought about that as I tossed imaginary matches at the little twit.

I guess I miss my brother.  Our mother died in 2003 and she was the glue that held our family together.  The seams are ripping in the Powers/Willadsen family.  Annie and I are trying to hold some of it together by making trips to Wyoming and Missouri to see my mom’s two remaining brothers.  Maybe this is the way it is supposed to be.  The point is that during all those years I never dreaded losing a roommate.  Years later, I just don’t want to lose my brother.  I think I’ll send him an e-mail as soon as I finish writing this.  This time, Byrt, no matches.  The burn is on me.

I just finished a dad duty.  One of the things that never goes away is the need to be there for your kids.  Natalie, our oldest, needed my wife, Annie and me this week.

The news story of the tradgedy of Annie Le, Yale student and bride to be was a national headline over the past three weeks.  All one has to do is pick up a paper or turn on the news to view the latest in senseless violence.  Most of the time we sigh, pray and turn the page or the channel.  The story of Annie Le didn’t leave the memory as easily because she was my daughter’s friend and roommate.

I was with my friend, Bob F. Schmid, in Washington D.C. when the first call came in.  We were moving toward the Jefferson Memorial as Natalie told me that Annie was missing since the day before, just five days before her wedding.  These are the times you wish you’re close enough for a hug - we had to settle for cell phones.  The FBI had been called and a frantic search was on for the 90 pound Vietnamese woman.

I met Annie Le when I moved my daughter to Connecticut.  They shared the third floor of an old brownstone in New Haven.  The place had three rooms and the third room has had three tenants, but Natalie and Annie were still together as roommates when evil came to call on September 8, 2009.  Annie had an infectous smile and a wit and wisdom seldom seen in young people today.  She looked like a child to me as she stood only four foot eleven inches.  We went for coffee, unpacked and spent one day out to lunch at “The Educated Burger,” a must-do in New Haven.  It makes me ill when I think of her never getting the chance to share that smile or insert that rolling laughter.

I suppose I will always see Annie Le through my daughter because she truly changed Natalie’s life.  My daughter was always a loner and for everything she possesses in Einstein-like mental powers, she lacks in social skills.  I guess I should say lacked because Annie completed Natalie in so many ways.  Through Annie’s proding Natalie went shopping, tried new restaurants and went to parties.  She even went on a date that was Annie’s idea of a set up.  With John, Annie’s husband-to-be, the three made an odd couple plus one.  Natalie never felt like a third wheel around these two fun loving young people.  Annie planned to continue to room with Natalie even after she was wed to John because he will continue his education at Columbia in New York City while Annie was to continue at Yale.

But continue she did not.  The prayer vigil on Friday night is lengthy and goes into the evening a couple of hours.  It is mostly in Vietnamese so I read the faces and gather impressions from body language.  The mother and father are divorced and fail to make eye contact with one another.  The uncle and aunt who raised Annie and her brother, Chris, conduct themselves with quiet dignity and grace.  Many words are said, but I study their faces.  A great uncle speaks, the lines on his tired, tear stained face speaking volumes.  I did not know the words, but I hear the language of a broken heart.

The funeral the next day is long and it is hot at the grave site.  The beautiful flowers on display are torn apart and each person is given a token to leave on the casket as a means of bidding goodbye before the casket is lowered into the earth.  The weeping claws at my spirit like a physical presence.  The aunt, nicknamed “Flower” is escorted away in a state of grief that no actor in Hollywood could ever capture in a role.  I steal a look at the old man in his suffering.  I don’t know how, but I can actually feel his pain.  My body aches as we walk across the steaming grass toward our air conditioned van.

I tell my daughter that life goes on, but part of Natalie was lowered into that symmetrical hole in the ground, never to return.  Annie gave much and took a little with her.  I’m only trying to be a good dad.  I don’t have the right words; no one does.  In the end we must trust God, for all other roads have a miserable dead end.  I’m sorry for all of you who were touched by this fine young woman because you have lost a great deal.  We all have.  Annie lost the most so we won’t begrudge her for taking a splinter of our life joys with her to heaven.

My last thought is for Jonathan Widowsky.  He showed us the photos that were to be part of their wedding collection, now only memories.  I marvel as I look on the wedding band he wears in anticipation of a splendor that will elude him.  He speaks English, but does not need to use such a crude device to show me his state.  I learned a new tongue that day and I suppose I have Annie to thank.  God’s speed, child of the nation - you will be missed.  If there is any doubt just look into the eyes of Natalie Powers.  It is there you will decipher the language of a broken heart.