Begin Again

  OK. In case you didn’t know already, I’ll tell you. My sons are so, so fucking great. They are smart and kind, funny, talented, tender, thoughtful. I love spending time with any of them, and having them all together–which, since they have grown and moved away, is a Christmas time-only experience–is amazing. Not always easy, mind you; not uneventful. But amazing. Discussions about football or politics or, well, anything, really, can (and have) become loud, angry philosophical debates as my ultra-verbal sons weigh in passionately (and stubbornly?) for their position; evenings can (and have) turned sour as one or the other of us unwittingly tapped into tender emotional territory–or perceived that his emotional territory had been invaded. But the amazing always kicks in afterward. Laughter returns. Love prevails. So, when the prospect of a full-family June gathering was floated, I was thrilled. Neal and Brendan took vacation days, I made reservations at the Burbank airport Marriott, ...

  Another failed attempt at a camping trip to Joshua Tree. I thought to beat the oppressive heat with an early April run, but I thought wrong, and that’s all right. For the three days I was in Southern California, daytime temperatures nudged 100º, once even topping it. So, I shared the wifi and air conditioning with Colin and Leigha (both of whom are working from home) during the day, and we ventured out when it cooled down in the evening (into the 80s) for good LA food and one great night of music at the Largo. It was awesome. After the amazing time I had getting to Los Angeles, I would have called the trip a success if I’d only seen the Los Feliz Blvd. trash can fire that prompted Leigha’s first ever 911 call. Driving to our campgrounds outside of Crescent City, CA, on the first day was mostly familiar, a pretty, easy drive I made so many times to see my parents in Medford. My heart ached a little as I passed landmarks that reminded me of those distant days. But as I cut away fro...

  Tomorrow is Mardi Gras–literally Fat Tuesday–the last day before the Lenten season of self-denial, self-reflection, self-abnegation. We will indulge with a raucous carnival–literally farewell to meat–then get up the next day to be reminded of our mortality with a solemn ash cross swipe across our foreheads, preparing us for 40 days of sacrifice. Haha. JK. We’re just going to keep the carnival going, right? I have long since abandoned the rites and rituals of my Catholic childhood (and early adulthood, for that matter), along with my belief in a True Faith, an omnipotent score-keeper, or any sort of heavenly afterlife to which I might be admitted if I check all the right boxes. But that doesn’t mean I’ve given up on wonder or a commitment to good. I am regularly awed by small, simple moments that remind me that life–in general and particular–is absolutely amazing. Looking up from my dinner preparation to see Chip and Caruso, curled together in front of the fireplace; passing withi...

  It’s December and still no snow. Mt Bachelor is getting antsy, I imagine, but these beautiful, clear days, with highs in the 50s (and a few times 60s!) are letting me enjoy midday walks with my dogs that my former work schedule prohibited. Nearby trails and neighborhoods, their foliage and front porch decorations changing with the seasons, provide our usual routes, but today after errands we stopped at the Skyline Sports Complex where my boys could run on the deserted fields while I made my way twice around the paved perimeter. Except for the group of children on the far east playing field (7 – 8-year-olds, I would guess; probably Seven Peaks students), we were the only ones there. The children were engaged in a game of kickball, and, as I entered the park, their piping voices carried clearly to me: Piping Voice 1:   Hey! You went t o  the wrong base! Piping Voice 2 :  I can choose my own base! Piping Voice 1:  No you can’t! There are ruuuules!! I mean, yeah. ...

  After sixteen days of travel, I thought my dogs and I would be happy–relieved–to be home. But as I unloaded the Subaru, filling the washing machine, packing away camping gear, hanging rain-soaked tarps and my tent awning to dry (in the garage; it’s raining here), I felt more glum than glad. Maybe Dashiell felt the same. After a quick tour of the house and yard, he jumped back into the car and refused to get out. For him (and me?) these tight quarters had become home. Don’t get me wrong: I love my house in Bend, and I appreciate the comforts and conveniences I am so privileged to have here. Indoor plumbing? Heck yeah. But if there’s one thing the freedom of retirement has shown me so far, it’s that “home” is not just a particular physical space; it’s also an ideological anchor. The Trump-loving citizens of Lakeview, Oregon, where I stopped at a Safeway long enough to hear a young, unmasked worker urge an elderly masked shopper to avoid the dangerous Covid vaccine lest it ruin his ...

  Welp, once again life happened while I was making other plans, and my agenda ended up in the recycle bin. In the three days I planned to stay in Los Angeles with Colin and Leigha, I watched the weather prediction for Joshua Tree with concern, fearing that the 80º+ temperatures there would be too much for the dogs (mostly Chip) and not very comfortable for me. I don’t mind camping in the car during cold weather, but, at a certain point, heat is a deal-breaker. Finally, I decided we would give it a try, with the option to cut and run if it was just too hot. Then the UTI that had been threatening erupted with a vengeance, forcing me to stay closer to, well, bathrooms and giving me the chance to try out my brand new Medicare insurance! Oy. Anyway, the change in plans gave me more time in LA, which allowed me to indulge in one of my interests: death. Apparently, not everyone thinks about death as much as I do, which is weird, but to each his own. I find mortality one of the most compe...

  Why do I always feel like I have to defend California? I’m pretty sure it’s doing just fine without my two cents of support, I haven’t lived there in over 30 years, and nobody cares what I think about it, anyway. But for some reason I find it impossible to resist confronting the easy platitudinous putdowns of this complex and remarkable state. And every time I return–usually to visit my son who came back here for college and never left–my sense of California loyalty is reinvigorated. We moved from North San Diego County to Bend, Oregon, in 1990 to provide our growing sons with opportunities we could not afford or find in Southern California: clean air, open spaces, woods to explore. Bend was small and quiet and beautiful, smoke curling from chimneys of homes near Drake Park as the January snow fell when we first visited in 1985. Along Riverside Drive, children bundled in bright parkas and toting Care Bears lunch pails thrust out their tongues to catch stray flakes. Every vulnerab...