Raking Leaves

I raked leaves with my Dad today...

You see, Dad is someone you could describe in the common vernacular as "one leaf rakin' fool".  As far back as I can remember he raked leaves, and, get this, he seemed to like it. When I was a kid he would ask me to come out and help him rake and I responded as most kids would.  

I hated raking leaves.  There were no touchdowns, home runs, cars, motorcycles or pretty girls involved with raking leaves.  "What's the point?", I'd gripe.  Leave them alone; in a year they'll be mulch.  Entropy is a great thing.

However, as we raked he would talk about...stuff.  All kinds of stuff.  He would talk about where he grew up; I would gripe.  Thoughts on rules for good living and how to be and act around others; I would gripe.  Girls; I would gripe a little less.  Little did I know then that this stuff was life-affirming, diamonds of wisdom gleaned from experience, the most important-kind-of-information-a-father-can-give-his-son kind of stuff.  And I wasn't exactly taking notes.

After a while he would release me from my raking bondage and I'd run inside to continue more worthwhile endeavors like watching TV.  Yeah, I know, TV...really?  You have to remember that this was around 1970 B.C.  Before Computers.

Now, where was I?  Oh yeah, leaf rakin' fool.  

Something that is important for you to understand at this point is that our home was in the middle of the desert in Northeast El Paso.  That's in Texas.  Way West Texas.  Hot.  Sandy. Got the picture?  We had two trees in the backyard.  Big trees, just two, great shade, and man those trees made a lot of leaves.  So, I endured a lot of years of listening to stuff.  Two trees should not, however, have been the catalyst for so much complaining on my part.

Fast forward about twenty years.  My Dad buys almost an acre of ground in the Upper Valley of the Rio Grande near Canutillo, Texas.  And get this: the lot has irrigation rights. Here's where you have to follow me closely.  The algorithm goes something like this:  big fertile lot-->free water from irrigation and high water table-->big, big trees grow-->many, many leaves grow-->many many leaves fall.  Raking ensues.  My Dad goes from a leaf rakin' fool to the Zen Master of Raking.  I am now the son of the Zen Master of Raking.

However, good news for me at least, I have by this time kind of become an adult, so he doesn't have quite the power over me he used to, even with his Zen Powers.  I am a doctor, after all, and I now have people who do these kinds of things for me.  I call them Children. Five to be exact; a virtual landscaping crew who will work for food and electricity because there's a lot more than TV these days and so much of their lives revolve around the physics of the electron.  It is now A.D.  After Digital. 

Also, by this time, I'd moved to Michigan; very beautiful, but lots of trees.  Remember the algorithm?  Lots of trees-->lots of leaves.  Now, understand, raking leaves in the Upper Midwest is something of a chore for most of us living in the North Woods and it becomes a sign that marks the seasons, the seasons by which we plan our lives.   Rainy season, mowing season, road work season, raking season, and so on, and so forth.

People talk all the time about the Magnificent Fall Colors of the beautiful North Woods, like it's some kind of mystical place, like Middle Earth.  It's not.  It's my front yard.   And, usually, not a one of these people has a rake in his hands.

  

So, now I have my own acre of trees with their associated leaves.  The Magnificent Fall Colors drop from countless limbs becoming a  crunchy, psychedelic ground cover like a shag carpet in some 1970's frat-boy apartment.  You're willing to walk on it, but you really don't want to touch it with your bare hands.

This is made worse by the fact that I am not the Zen Master of Raking, nor did I, apparently, inherit the appropriate genes.  The problem is compounded by the fact that the damn leaves don't fall all at once; they take their sweet time and can ruin a month's worth of weekends starting each October.   However, if you procrastinate long enough it will eventually snow, and the leaves will magically disappear.  It's an out of sight out of mind kind of thing.  Many people live their lives this way: if they can't see it, it doesn't exist.  Convenient.  Leaves do this to people.  

Now, because I had had a bad experience with leaves when I was younger, I really did not like them much now that I was older.  Actually, I almost hated raking season.  I attacked leaves with a veritable army of tractors, lawn sweepers, chipper/shredders, gas powered lawn vacuums and blowers.  I'm sure the Zen Master would be appalled at the carbon footprint I left simply by my management of leaves.  But even with this collection of machinery burning every kind of petroleum product known to man, I still needed to use a rake to gather those leaves that would escape.  With rakes in hand, my family and I would scratch up leaves under trees and around  bushes, out of ditches and even off of the eaves. And as we raked we talked about...stuff.  I talked about where I grew up, how to act and be around people, girl and boy stuff.  The landscaping crew griped, but they also talked and I kind of enjoyed hearing about their lives.  Things I didn't hear about with the mowers, shredders, chippers, and blowers operating at their collective decibels.  And, as we raked, I thought about Dad; nice thoughts.

Through the years, when we visited back home, we'd all rake together with Dad.  No gas powered anything...but there was a cacophony of sounds from my children laughing and shouting, and the crackling, crunching noise made when kids jumped from decks into great mountains of leaves.  They were Hobbitts.  It was Middle Earth.  

I still don't like leaves, but I'm learning not to hate them.

Time passes.  Seasons come and go. Time is kept by the falling of leaves.  First, as buds in the Spring, next great and large and green, washed by Summer showers.  Then  the inevitable burst of magnificent color just before being dropped by their branches to the ground and the soon to be sounds of small horsepower engines running throughout the neighborhood.

Then Dad had a stroke.  Left side, meaning right side of the brain, left side of the body.  He bounced back with only a few deficits; some weakness on the left side with that tell-tale flexed arm and foot dragged just a little behind the rest of his body.  Even then he raked. With his trusty rake in his good hand he learned to use the gravity of his weak and heavy hand as a counterweight to move the tines back and forth.  His stance was skewed and his gait was awkward, but he raked.  The Zen Master of Raking became the Raker Emeritus.

The years, and a few smaller strokes, TIA's they're called, all take their toll.   He raked with a rake in one hand and a cane in the other; then with a rake in just one hand because his other hand couldn't even hold a cane.

As my children got older, one by one, they went off to colleges where someone else raked the leaves. Life goes around, a circle as they say, and it's Dad and me again.

So, now when we go home my wife and I help Dad rake his leaves.  During our last visit, after helping him rake up all his leaves into neat, seperate piles, I announced that it was time for us to go.  My wife tried to talk me into staying to help bag the leaves, but I deferred, citing the obvious, that we were, after all, on vacation and had other places to be, and other things to do.  (Remember, like when I was a kid?  Sometimes you just never learn).  Besides, he enjoyed raking and bagging his leaves, right?

Dad died just a few months after that last trip home, after that time I didn't help him bag what would be his last raking of the leaves.  You'd think I'd feel like a real jerk for not having helped him bag his last batch of leaves.  Actually, I feel worse.

I feel like I lost the most valuable, last-in-a-life-time opportunity to spend one more season talking to him about nothing and everything, looking into his blue eyes and just smiling at the thought of us both being young again.  But I let that opportunity slip through my fingers and Time.  Time I'll never get back.  

Regrets?  Just add this one to the list.

I was at his bedside at his home before he died, and as he was laying there, I took a few minutes to go outside and rake leaves with him.  Leaves he would never get to.  I used his rake and I imagined my hands on his hands.  It's hard to see leaves through heavy tears. When I was done I went back inside and laid by his side and whispered that the leaves were done and that he could go now.  

Looking back I wonder if it wasn't so much that he liked raking leaves as much as he liked raking leaves with me.  Dads are like that, a little sneaky, I mean.  Always trying to find a way to spend more time with you, to talk to you, to show you they love you as if feeding, clothing, educating, protecting, and putting a roof over your head all by working 12 hours a day wasn't enough.   I'd give anything to rake a football field of leaves with him right now. 

Thanks, Dad.

In a quote from one of my favorite books a man says, "from birth 'til death, we travel between the Eternities".   For me, a few times from birth 'til death I got to rake leaves with my Dad.   I'll look for him in the Eternities and hope there are Seasons in Heaven.

Is there a moral to this story?  I wouldn't presume to tell you what all this should mean to you.   But, Time in this life is finite.  Every second that ticks is gone.   If there is someone in your life who would be willing to rake leaves just to spend time with you, I'd take advantage of it and not waste the opportunity.  When they leave, I guarantee you'd wish you had.

Funny, I have a really strong desire to talk about stuff with my kids right now.

William Wayne Ayer

Born

March 6, 1934

Stopped Raking

December 19, 2013

uber Wal-Mart

So, we’ve returned from our month in Hawai’i with many tales to tell and pictures to show. But first I have to write about the really big news that occurred upon our arrival back home. Wal-Mart has seen fit to bless the Soo with not only a “Soo-per” Wal-Mart, but a “Soo-per Yooper” Wal-Mart. For months we’ve been anticipating the opening of our new Wal-mart, and had even heard rumors that this would be one of the largest stores in the nation. But no amount of pre-opening blather could have done justice to the reality of the situation. For in a world of over blown hype the hype surrounding this happening was, well, understated. In 40 years of shopping at Wal-Marts from Connecticut to California and Michigan to Mexico, I have now seen the greatest Wal-Mart of them all; the uber Wal-Mart. And it’s in my own backyard. Everything new and colorful, pristine, well lit, well stocked, and isles to walk 2, 4, 6 abreast, with carts even, rivals, dare I say it, Sam’s Club. To understand my excitement you have to understand this part of the world in which we live. Having such a store in our neck of the woods almost makes up for everything else we lack in the way of shopping, culture, convenience and choice. I know, it’s sad that the opening of a Wal-Mart upstages news from four weeks in Hawai’i, but there you have it, the unmitigated reality of living in the Soo. To me Wal-Mart represents the ultimate in shopping convenience if not shopping quality, and to have 230,000 sq. ft. of the ultimate Wal-Mart at my 24 hour beck and call is almost too much to believe. Should have bought that stock years ago; but with more stores like this one I'm still bullish about Sam's original idea.

Blue Doors

Last week I found a blue door while driving through a small town that lays on a stretch of road that, given enough time, connects El Paso, to the south, to Las Cruces, to the north, through an agricultural basin known as the upper valley. The blue door sits in a portal of a small white adobe structure on NM 28 in Chamberino, a tiny, old town surrounded by fields that drink from the muddy brown waters of the Rio Grande. The land that follows this part of the Rio Grande, to differentiate it from the lower valley, has come to be known as the upper valley, a green ribbon of irrigated fields laying in the middle of the desert that takes advantage of the sunny disposition of this part of the country. At first I raced past the white adobe house paying it no particular attention until the façade was interrupted by a window of flowers surrounded by blue. I u-turned and went back, not exactly sure of what I had seen, but curious because it stood in stark contrast to everything that surrounded it. There in the middle of a white stucco wall was a blue door with flowers pressed against a variegated window. The blue door appeared as though it no longer functioned as a door, opening and closing to let something in or out, seemingly stuck in place and time like most of the inhabitants in this part of the dusty world. No longer functioning as a door it still has purpose, perhaps greater now than in former times, it has become art in a place where you would not necessarily expect to find art. Serendipitous for sure, pedestrian probably, but appreciated none the less.

Chamberino, as most of the little towns along 28, is not a place you would consider a destination, but rather a place to go through on your way to someplace else. NM 28 represents the back way between El Paso and Las Cruces, the front way being the I-10 corridor that races at 75 mph between the two cities, and if you’re in a hurry it’s not the way you want to go. It’s a pity to rush through these little towns and miss everything that is unique about the old route when you could simply fly down I-10 and get from A to B much quicker. And it’s a pity because I’m sure if I took the time and looked I’d find a lot more things becoming art in Chamberino and the other small towns whose names more than hint at the art and culture that permeate the area, Santa Teresa and Canutillo, La Union, La Mesa, and La Mesilla. In fact, after learning the quick lesson of the blue door I found myself looking forward to each little town, each having a character unique to itself, setting it apart from the others, but maintaining the simple agrarian quality that defines much of what lies in the upper valley.

The valley is beautiful, not majestic like the Grand Canyon or the Rocky Mountains, though the southernmost chain of the Rockies is what defines this as a valley, but quieter, understated, whose deep green fields belie the dry, thirsty desert that surrounds them. The land in the upper valley is cared for, cultivated, planted, given water. Too often we look past things of beauty like this, taking it all for granted, in a hurry to get to a destination in our lives like becoming grown up, or getting married, or having children, or becoming president of the company while altoghether ignoring the journey to get to where ever it is we think we want to be. When I slow down and enjoy the entire experience of traveling to a place, whether temporally or spiritually, I appreciate the getting there more than the being there; the journey, and those who journey with me, is what I remember most. Then I find blue doors everywhere I look.

Smart Car. Smart Wife.

We were on our way back home after picking up the Grandmas from the Detroit airport, driving through the suburbs, when we came upon a Smart Car dealership. Rosalie had been researching this little bug of a car on the internet and was really taken with the responsibly "green" aspects of owning a car that could drive loops around our little town on just a sip of gas. It doesn't hurt that it's so cute, too. Not practical. Cute. (Although the fact that this little thing can haul two bodies plus a weeks worth if groceries around the city at 40 mpg does put a few checkmarks in the practicality column).

With a squeal of delite, she had me perform a rapid u-turn manuever and go back to the dealership where we found about 20 of these little hobbits parked in a circle outside, and another half dozen inside on the showroom floor and lining the display window. A lot to choose from, or so I thought. As it turned out every single car had been pre-sold and there was an 18 month waiting list to get one of these. Heck, I wouldn't wait 18 months to get a whole car much less a little 2-seater half-car. But since we were there anyway, we thought we'd just take some time to test drive one and learn more about them. Rosalie jumped into a Love-Bug wanna-be version, then headed down the road with a salesperson at her side.

Returning after about 20 minutes, she proclaimed her love for the car, and stated we needed to get one. The salesperson, having gone inside to check on something, came back out with an enormous smile on her face and announced that someone had cancelled an order and that a car had become available. She led us over to a little white convertible dubbed the Smart fortwo Passion Cabriolet. Rosalie immediately shook her head and said she didn't like white cars. No problem said the salesperson, "We'll just change the body panels to whatever color you want. Just takes a couple of hours". So, you guessed it. About 2 hours later, and less one personal check, Rosalie pulled out in a brand new silver Cabriolet with every optional bell and whistle available. She was happy. And since we bought the car just a couple of days before our 31st anniversary, we used that as an excuse to indulge ourselves. Who needs Hawai'i?

Driving around town we've become something of celebrities; people wave, shout from moving cars, laugh and smile, give us thumbs up, and come over to talk, almost as if they recognize us. My Porsche and BMW have become ugly step sisters relegated to staying in the dark garage while we tool about at 40 plus mpg. In a bigger picture this car, and cars like it, will become the rule rather than the exception. It's a different world we live in today than when I started driving in the early 1970's and 21 cents per gallon gasoline. Gas guzzling cars (less than 20 mpg) will become not only ugly step sisters, but dinosaurs. U-joints and ball joints, massive herds of carbon-combustion horse power sinking deeper into an energy black hole succumbing to entropy as all things inevitably do.

"Grandpa, what happened to the dinosaurs?"

"Well, sweetie, let me tell you about them. I lived through it..."

A Very Happy Day

One of the happiest days of my life just occurred. The birth of Mayumi Aziza, our first grandchild, took place in Washington, D.C. on May 24, 2008. At 3:01 pm, our lives changed forever. Her birth is a continuation of all who have come before in our family, and the beginning of many others who have yet to arrive. Contrary to what one might think, I do not feel older; I feel younger. Her birth reminds me of the feelings I had the on the days each of our five children were born. I was younger then, but I am young still. Now comes a flood of happiness and joy, and anticipation of all that can be dreamed of. A first step, a first word, a first everything in a long procession of ‘firsts’ that will be added, linked one to another, as in a delicate chain. Each link eagerly awaited and equally cherished. A clean, new page in the book of life to be written upon by all who will know Mayumi, and by Mayumi herself. I am young again waiting for the moment I will first meet her and anxious to see all that she will do and all that she will become.

There will be birthday parties and bedtime stories, skinned knees and monsters in the closet. I see a tricycle with a basket, a baby doll, or perhaps, a baseball glove and bat. It’s all good. Then there will be boys. Having gone through this with my own daughters, and having been one myself (i.e. a boy), I feel somewhat qualified to advise her father in the matter of boys. He should engage each caller in polite conversation. I particularly enjoyed word games with my daughters’ boyfriends, like, “What is the first thing that comes to your mind when I say, ‘Glock’?” Or, another favorite was, “I’ll name three things and you tell me which one doesn’t belong. 1) web strike, 2)groin kick, or 3)brachial plexus stun.” “Oh, you’re right, they do all seem to belong together”. Trick question, I guess. Smart boy. There are others, more direct, that hopefully won’t ever need to be employed. But they’re available.

Of course, I’m way ahead of myself. My main purpose in her life will be to explain why she can have all the ice cream she wants when she’s with me, but not with her parents. Other more weighty matters are best left to the watchful eyes and loving judgment of her parents. But, I hope she will know that grandpa will always be performing reconnaissance and running black ops in the background, keeping the monsters out of the closets. Sleep tight, Mayumi. I love you.

This Ain't No Dairy Queen Blizzard!

A couple of Wednesdays ago we awoke to a morning blizzard that saw winds whipping the snow around at gusts up to 70 mph. It would have been a good day to stay home as the visibility was near zero, wind chill was measured far into the negatives, snow drifts were 6 feet tall, and every tiny gap in our otherwise air-tight house moaned with a low whistle every time a gust ripped by. Every elementary, secondary, high school, and university in the area was closed, along with many businesses. Night crews at grocery stores and Wal-Mart had to stay over because the morning workers couldn't make it in. But we've truely become "Yoopers" (UP'ers), and it was Wednesday and we weren't going to let a little frostbite keep us from our regular, and somewhat "religious" routine of attending Taco Bell for lunch. For almost 16 years members of our church have been attending an unofficial, secular Taco Bell Branch meeting every Wednesday starting at noon, MST (Mormon Standard Time, 11:30-12:15). But I guess this was a blizzard to test the strength of even the most faithful, for when we arrived Taco Bell was empty. Not only had the heretofore faithful members not attended at our regularly scheduled time, but not even the gentiles ventured out. No, we were the only attendees on that blustery Wednesday (was that a little too 'Winnie the Pooh-ish'? I don't think I've ever said blustery before). But, you should have seen the faces of the Taco Bell skeleton crew light up as we entered. We placed our orders, and the employees showed their appreciation with a little extra cheese here, a few extra beans there, and an extra scoop of meat in our tacos (drinks always come with free refills, or I'm sure they would have offered to let us drink gallons). We sat in our usual places and watched out the window as birds performed tumbling airborne acrobatics, and played "name that piece" as we identified pieces of larger wholes (roof shingles, siding, parts of chimney flues, etc) that went flying by in low visibility, all the time wondering what all the fuss was about. The realization that we've become adopted "cousin-marryin, tooth-missin, ice-fishin Yoopers" both scared us and made us feel a little unique, if not a little proud. "Ya, I noticed dar's a little bite to dah wind, eh? How about a refill of yer diet Pepsi, dar-eh?"

Before digital, there was Polaroid

In the old days, when you wanted a picture of something fast, you used a Polaroid camera. Anything from cheesy to cheesecake, Polaroid could capture it if you had about 60 seconds to wait. Just focus and push the button, and the whirring gears would spit out a newly developing picture just like a baby without an umbilical cord. And like a proud parent, you'd put the picture in a warm folding metal blanket, or under your armpit, which ever seemed more appropriate at the time, to insure uniform development of the image. Then you'd show it around and everyone would have a grand time. But after a couple dozen shots someone figured out that you just spent enough money for a utility bill, and the fun was over. Now, Polaroids are relegated to the realm of the artist or the nostalgist. Or homicide squad. But with the increased use of laptops in the field even homicide detectives are getting digital prints at the scene these days.

The prints here were taken with a Polaroid Spectra camera on Spectra film. Most artists use SX-70 film for manipulation, but since I don't have any SX-70 film, and it's getting harder and harder to find, I had to settle for something different. Spectra film does not lend itself as well to manipulation. And by manipulation I mean using sundry items to rub, push, poke, mash and smash the emulsion layers beneath the clear plastic sheet covering the picture. I've used spoons, and wooden and plastic sticks to manipulate the film. But the best tools I've found are my old anatomy dissection tools. They're blunt, multi-shaped, and made of stainless steel. I've separated many bones, ligaments, tissues and tendons with these fine instruments; and now they've found new life manipulating Polaroids. Who'd a thunk it?