Rest in Peace Good and Faithful Servant

Today we are celebrating Dad's long and loving life with a service at the Methodist Church for anyone in the community who wishes to participate. Yesterday the family experienced a tender moment when the Military Honor Guard recognized Dad's faithful service to this country in WWII by playing Taps, displaying the flag, and then folding it and presenting it to my brother. The slow-motion salute was a powerful symbol of respect, one that had a more profound impact on me than I expected. Actually, I did not know what to expect.



My brother, sister and I placed Dad's ashes next to Mom's in their niche. The finality of this simple act is also profound, as if to say, "This chapter of your life is over." The notion of closure may be elusive to some, but as I saw their matching oak boxes side by side, I felt they were once again complete. And for that, I am grateful.

Catharsis for $161.25

In high school English class I was introduced to the notion of "catharsis", experiencing spiritual release through an intense emotional experience, or in the case of the Greeks, purification through tragedy. The notion seemed very grand, something that ought to involve blinding light and the parting of the clouds so that a heavenly voice could speak directly to the stunned mortals. I imagined the score would include the swelling of an angelic choir and the obligatory pipe organ deep pedal note.

Everyday life can offer a similar, if not more modest, experience when long-deferred projects come to fruition, when actual process is made. This weekend was made up a collection of tasks which when taken individually are pretty mundane. But taken as a whole, I think I might have just had a mini-catharsis without the tragic plot. The amazingly good weather motivated me to change the oil in the truck, a long overdue chore which I used to do with a regularity that would make my Dad proud. He was an automotive engineer and taught me the importance of routine and preventive maintenance for engines. As I removed the drain plug and oil filter, the wrench slipped from my hand and fell into the used oil. When something like this happened while Dad tutored me, I recall him saying, "That's exactly what I didn't want to happen." The memory made me smile.

After replacing the drain plug, installing a new filter and refilling the crankcase with oil, I topped off the brake fluid reservoir and took Roman to the p-a-r-k. The truck ran quietly and confidently, despite its 265,000 miles and 21 year-old frame. So the logical next step was to load the truck with as many crates of "stuff" destined for the swap meet as would fit.

Arriving at the Solano Drive-in about 9am, we were well-behind the regulars and hard-core swap meet crowd who setup at 6am to hawk their wares and prowl for treasure. Before we had unloaded our crates and setup our humble display, shoppers were helping themselves by looking in the truck bed, opening boxes and asking "How much?" I thought their behavior oddly bold, but then I realized this is a different community with its own norms for acceptable or customary behavior.

Interacting with and observing the humanity at the swap meet was fascinating. Generally, people were very nice, if not eccentric. One elderly gentleman made several visits to our table, declaring each time, "I'm not here to mess around!" On his final visit, he bought an imitation Persian runner, a hose spigot and a German license plate for $4. It's true what they say about "one man's junk." Interest in our table came and went in small waves of families strolling, hard-core shoppers looking for a deal and kind people who had time for conversation.

We sold over half of the stuff by volume but not by value. Most transactions were for less than $5, so it took quite awhile to amass our earnings of $161.25. After failing to sell a Lebadang lithograph I purchased in 1981 for $150, we looked it up on the Internet and found out it is worth $1,300. Another transaction, and another mini-catharsis to come.

The Serendipity of Travel

Flying backwards in a newly configured 767 was an interesting experience. The seating is configured 2-2-2 across the plane with each pair of seats alternating direction. Within the module one had a large video screen with remote control, built-in table, lumbar support which automatically inflated/deflated and considerable space to stretch. The seats could be made to recline or lie completely flat, making a surprisingly comfortable bed.

Chicago was briefly visible (above) as we queued up to land at O'Hare, changing planes for Charles de Gaulle. The transatlantic 767 was configured the same way, only we faced forward for that flight.

One never knows who might appear in the course of travel. In the Red Carpet Club in SFO, we saw two friends whom we had not seen in years. One came out of retirement and is traveling extensively, and the other consults on the road nearly every week. It was good to catch up briefly and affirm that we will all try to get together more often. I hope that comes to pass.

In Paris we were hosted by Francois and his father Daniel for a delightful lunch in the Marais district. I met Francois when riding motos with Molly on Mount Tamalpais back in February. Exchanging email resulted in us actually meeting. The white asparagus was in season and rivaled the flavor of spargel in Bavaria. Who knew a chance meeting on the side of a road overlooking Marin in the fog would lead to a new international friendship?

The TGV (train grande vitesse, or train of great speed) moved us at up to 320 km/hr (192 mph) from Paris to Aix-en-Provence. I had to laugh at the contrast between the transportation and the station. On the one hand, we enjoyed one of the most efficient, safe and environmentally friendly means of transport on the planet. Yet when we arrived in Aix, there was 1 working elevator to move passengers from the platform up to the skybridge which led to the station. Thus a 9-car train emptied hundreds of passengers on to a platform and the single, humble elevator moved 6-8 at a time to the station. One would have to wonder why the excellent design principles of the train were not carried through to the stations as well.

Travel with your intuition and instincts turned on full blast to savor the uniqueness which awaits.

Harley and Me

In front of Rosie's Bench, Volcano, California.

There are communities within communities. While the brotherhood of bikers (all genders included) is universal, bikes of a feather do flock together. Never was this more apparent than on Saturday's ride through the Gold rush foothills of Amador County, CA. Seven riders from our moto club at work showed up for the ride: 6 were on Harley Davidson Motorcycles, including the matching jackets, bandannas, and even special tiny bells hung on the underside of the bike to ward off highway gremlins. There is so much I do not know about the customs and protocols of this very friendly gang.

Like the bellows of an accordion, the gap between riders in formation expands and contracts to maintain the safe zigzag pattern as the traffic and road conditions change. As the only sport bike, and foreign to boot, I felt like an F-15 fighter among a posse of Boeing 747s. We rode through ghost towns like Plymouth, Drytown, Jackson, Fiddletown and Volcano. It is not an exaggeration to say that nearly 100 motorcycles were parked in front of the boardwalk hosting the historic Rosie's Bench. Every single bike but mine was a Harley. It reminded me of Sesame Street when the puppets sang, "One of these things doesn't belong, one of these things is not like the other..." It wasn't hard to find the outlier.



I have never been a member of a gang, but this group of gentle riders earned my respect and undying gratitude for letting me join the club, if only for the day.

Travel Details

Miles ridden: 253
Duration (actual saddle time): 5 hrs 9 minutes
Average mpg: 49
Average speed: 48 mph
Maximum speed: 92 mph (very briefly to reform the 7-bike zigzag on I-80 when 2 cars separated the group)

Mulberry Haiku

(The art of Japanese Haiku poetry involves three line stanzas, usually in lengths of 5, 7 and 5 syllables respectively. This post is my humble attempt at a Haiku approach to every day chores.)

Evil Mulberry
Leathery leaves unwilling
To decompose now

Squirrel autobahn
You gave access to the house
For creekside varmints

We prune you early
Before the leaves turn and fall
Branches chopped, leaves gone

Yellow fibrous leaves
Packed into recycle bin

Make us smile in peace

And now the backstory: for years we have mulched birch tree and liquid amber leaves into the vegetable garden area to improve the soil. What was once nearly impenetrable clay is now cake-flour like soil in which vegetables thrive in summer.

Mulberry leaves are fibrous, leathery and very reluctant to decompose. In Spring when the rototiller is asked to do the heavy work of turning the layers of soil, leaves and other vegetable matter, the Mulberry leaves sneer in denial. They form a slimy, almost chamois-like layer which merely churns around in an ever-thickening wad on the rototiller's tines. The only remedy is to remove this mess by hand, a very unpleasant task indeed.

So we have learned to prune the Mulberry BEFORE the leaves fall. Cutting the branches into lengths which fit in the bin, green leaves and all, we eliminate the double handling of the nasty leaves. And we really upset the squirrels by denying them easy access to the roof of the house from their nests in the Buckeye trees along the creek.

I Miss My Dad

I miss my Dad. As an adult child of an elderly parent, I understand on many levels that it is the normal course of life for my father to precede me in most things, including the final transition out of this world. What I was not prepared for was the long, slow goodbye of dementia, a disease which gradually fades the substance and spirit of a person until an unfamiliar entity remains. So while he is still living, I am grieving the loss of his presence in my life, the connection that a father and son enjoy through love, conversation and shared experience.

Dad was always the go-to guy in the family, able to fix nearly anything mechanical or electrical. Often he devised unique solutions for tricky problems, and he even made his own tools or “jigs” for special woodworking challenges. His father was an electrician, and in WWII Dad was a B-29 flight engineer; so he came by his skills through legitimate life experience. Perhaps one of the most precious gifts he gave me was how to “get the feel” of something so that I could safely use power tools, ride a bicycle, gap a sparkplug and control a chain saw.

The interface between human and tool can be powerful when understood and deftly used. Dad demonstrated infinite patience with me while under his careful observation I learned to solder, make precise wood cuts with a band saw or correctly mount and position the work at hand in a bench vise. For as long as I can remember, he encouraged me to observe, participate, practice and finally master many tasks by hand. No doubt about it, this is greatest gift he has given me, freely and without judgment or expectation.

The understanding of “how to” goes far beyond mere coordination: it is the ability to produce the intended result by anticipating how the human-tool system will behave. Application of this awareness, this sense of being able to select the correct approach, act with intention and respond to any unintended consequences has paid huge dividends in my life. I have successfully applied this acquired sense to many activities my father never attempted or mastered like snow skiing or playing the piano.

Now 91, Dad’s capacity for understanding the world around him has diminished to the point where simple tasks seem insurmountable one day and familiar the next. His memory fails him in ways far worse than merely forgetting: he sometimes blends memories of people and events into a new reality which never really existed. When he is aware of this having happened, he is understandably upset and frustrated. So our family tends to just go along with whatever spontaneous comments he makes to avoid drawing attention to the fact that he is slipping. This is an uncomfortable but necessary accommodation.

The notion of pre-grieving a parent’s passing may seem odd to some. I find it allows me to embrace the reality of his decreasing presence in this world without being in denial about the inevitable. I have stopped railing at the Furies over his unfortunate path which helps me focus on making whatever time he has left as healthy an experience as possible. I don’t know whether any true healing can start yet for the loss of my father, but I am confident that having integrity around what is and what is yet to come keeps me grounded.

Someday soon there will be a eulogy to write. I have no idea what will come to me as suitable for his memorial. Perhaps I’ll get the feel of it, just as Dad taught me.

Zealotry in any form is dangerous

On November 5, 2009 at Fort Hood military base in Texas, thirteen people were killed and 30 injured in a massacre by Major Nidal Malik Hasan. News of the tragedy has dominated the US media, and the debates over the Major Hasan's motives are likely to consume all the political oxygen for the foreseeable future. The collateral societal damage is predictable: grieving and angry people will ascribe the tragedy to religion, challenging the patriotism of American Muslims serving our country because we have been engaged in a war on Islamist terrorism for most of this decade. Instead of jumping to "furious and intemperate conclusions" about why this occurred, I was struck by the vivid, almost inherent conflict in the fabric of the perpetrator.

What has been revealed to us is that this person is a man, an American, a soldier, a psychiatrist, and a Muslim. He was also scheduled to be dispatched to the war in Afghanistan. Certainly there are other important attributes of who he was at the moment he made the decision to use violence against fellow soldiers and fellow Americans. What perplexes me is how any single vector of one's being could so completely overpower the integrity of the entire person so that violence of this magnitude results. Call it radical fanaticism or extreme zealotry, my tenet is that any form of this mindset is unjustified and tragically dangerous.

Stepping back from the Fort Hood events, I ask myself a broader question: how might each of us explore ourselves, our own personal philosophies, beliefs and principles, to determine if we might be motivated to act with a singular purpose? I'm not suggesting confining the examination to violent outcomes, but any unthinking, unreasoned one without considering the consequences. Sadly, one doesn't have to look far to see how we treat one another when motivated by prejudice, hatred or greed. What if instead we treated each other with respect, integrity and generosity? Can we agree to replace fear with understanding?

Returning to the tragedy at hand, I offer the BBC link as an access way for more editorial from the global press:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/8347361.stm