Summer Vacation, Day Two

I'm not in love with our new neighbors and don't know what to do with myself.

I don't hate the neighbors. They just aren't exactly the people I would prefer living so close. The previous owner hardly ever set foot in her yard and was silent. These folks, they aren't silent and swear a lot and one of them smokes while another vapes and their dogs bark at all hours and, well, you get the idea. 

Last week the owner of the house said she was having a six-foot fence installed for the dogs and asked if we wanted to have the four-foot picket between our houses replaced. She said of the fence guy, he'd give you a good price. We declined and that disappointed her some. It may be that we are difficult neighbors to her though I wonder what we do to disturb other than turn the pages in our books.

Summer vacation started yesterday. School ended Friday, but I don't feel on vacation until the first Monday. I have a big book to read, Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove which was recommended and is good so far. I get up early to write Morning Pages, go for a run, shave and shower, and, today at least, went to vote in the Democratic primary though voting seems pointless given what the country has become. Before noon, I pretty much have the day wide open. What to do with it? 

Reading in the backyard is good unless the neighbors are out. One of them doesn't work so she's out quite often, talking to the dogs in paragraphs: "Hey, don't you understand that you can't fucking jump all over everything? Stop it! I said, stop jumping. Don't you get it?" Perhaps she should put these things in writing. 

Even if our old, silent neighbor were back, reading isn't enough to keep me going the whole summer, six or seven hours a day. I get sleepy a few hours after running and sleepy when I read so the double whammy is likely to take me out if I don't do something more. I just haven't figured what to do. Yesterday I rebuilt the desk in my office, but that likely won't need doing again for a few years, so I'm out of luck there. 

My brother and I often talk about retiring. We're both ten years away from it but talk about it anyway and when he is over tonight for dinner I might bring it up again. He says, you have to know how you'll fill the days. He says, you need a kind of schedule. I believe him, but on this second day of summer vacation haven't come up with it yet. I suppose I still have some time. 

Taking time out to write and post something most every day is good. I could use an approximate time at which to do it. I don't need a time-clock schedule, but having a plan commits me to doing things. It makes it easy to commit to enjoying doing them too. 

In Lonesome Dove the guys keep sipping (or gulping) whiskey, and I keep thinking that might be the way to spend the afternoon. This feeling is especially strong when my neighbor is loudly asking the dogs to tell her "where's the poop?" then saying, "ah, Jesus Fucking Christ I stepped in some of your shit you fucking thing. Stop eating it! What did I tell you?" A beer or three would work too. 

It's quarter past four in the afternoon. I've read a hundred pages of Lonesome Dove, run seven miles, written three Morning Pages, let our dog in and out of the house thirty eight times (give or take), had lunch, and now have written whatever the hell this is. I could go ask the neighbor dogs.

I'm reminded of the Statler Brothers' song Flowers On The Wall, a favorite of my father's:  

“Countin’ flowers on the wall
That don’t bother me at all
Playin’ solitaire till dawn with a deck of fifty-one
Smokin’ cigarettes and watchin’ Captain Kangaroo
Now don’t tell me I’ve nothin’ to do”

Dad didn't seem like the type to sit and do nothing. My first thought of him is being busy. He painted and roofed our house when we were kids. He remodeled every room in the house. He built a business from the ground up. It's easy now that he's at permanent rest to think of him as always in motion, but then I remember him watching ball games or staring at the St. Lawrence or sitting in his office figuring things that might not have needed figuring, and I see a little of myself in this backyard, mercifully free of neighbors for the moment, just having a moment of rest and not being too worried if I don't know yet what I'll do next. It will come to me and I'll be ready whenever that happens. 

Slow Coffee, Slow Run

Went for a run this morning with Chris. He hadn't run in a couple weeks but was willing to take on a five-mile hilly loop when I said we would go slowly. We did. It was good. We talked and ran. I showed him the cemetery and the house with the pool out of which I hope Phoebe Cates will rise. (I don't know that anyone's ever swum in the pool. The gate is unlocked so I'm likely to dive in someday. No one will mistake me for Phoebe.)

After the run, we sat on my front steps drinking water and he told me about his coffee maker dying. A programmable drip machine, it used to brew as he slept. Convenient! He replaced it with an insulated French Press. Not so convenient. He has to wait for water to boil. There are fewer cups of coffee. But the coffee tastes incredible. 

Chris isn't lazy. He's building a fine-art business and hustles to make it happen. But, he says, I miss coffee being ready when I came downstairs. I get that.

My coffee hasn't been ready when I wake for years. I use an Aeropress and hand-crank grinder. A single cup of coffee requires two minutes of cranking, time to boil water, and another minute to press and then clean out the thing. It's as inconvenient as any coffee you can imagine. 

Which is what I like about it. 

It's not just the press that makes the best coffee. It's the pressing of it. The time we take making coffee makes it taste better. Slowing down to make a cup of coffee, that's just choosing to be part of living. 

It's okay if you don't buy that, but know that drip machines make weak coffee. Don't even bring up Keurigs. That thing is poison to the earth and makes pseudo coffee. Screw that. 

Our slow run felt good. Moving slowly, I savor the run. And why hurry the run anyway? 

It's the same with the coffee. We each took time to make coffee. It was slower than his automatic drip machine. All of five minutes slower. What were we going to do with that five minutes that's better than creating something? 

The act of creation, that's the best part of waking up. Forget about Folgers in your cup. 

Memorial Day

First thing this morning I saw on Facebook, a link to someone singing that god awful Lee Greenwood song "God Bless The USA." I didn't click, but the song began playing in my head anyway. Though I'm loath to subject you to such abuse, here are Greenwood's lyrics which may make you wonder, as Bob Dylan did, "Is there a hole for me to get sick in?" 

“If tomorrow all the things were gone
I worked for all my life
And I had to start again
With just my children and my wife
I thank my lucky stars
To be living here today
’Cause the flag still stands for freedom
And they can’t take that away

CHORUS
And I’m proud to be an American
Where at least I know I’m free
And I won’t forget the men who died
Who gave that right to me
And I’d gladly stand up next to you
And defend Her still today
’Cause there ain’t no doubt
I love this land
God Bless the U.S.A.

From the lakes of Minnesota
To the hills of Tennessee
Across the plains of Texas
From sea to shining sea
From Detroit down to Houston
And New York to L.A.
Where’s pride in every American heart
And it’s time we stand and say

CHORUS X2”

— Lee Greenwood

This guy is proud to be an American where at least he knows he's free? What the shit does that even mean? Free from what? Free to do what? To whom? Given the current administration I would guess it means free to carry an automatic weapon, hate anyone less fortunate, take babies from their mothers, and wear a red hat saying America isn't great. 

"'Cause there ain't no doubt, I love this land." Well, not the land so much as _the idea_ of the land. The actual soil is ours to poison. The water too. And if poor folk drink the lead, it's because they're too stupid to trade the right stock or be born to the right parents and inherit enough wealth to move somewhere nice. 

The whole song is vapid bullshit. This is why it plays so well to its demographic, the same people who think Springsteen's "Born In The USA" is a pep rally for blind patriotism. Bruce doesn't go at anything blind. He's no follower. 

“Down in the shadow of the penitentiary
Out by the gas fires of the refinery
I’m ten years burning down the road
Nowhere to run ain’t got nowhere to go

Born in the U.S.A., I was born in the U.S.A.”

— Bruce Springsteen

That's a hard look at this country and what it stands for. Greenwood's is straight up nonsense or propaganda and instead of that we should listen to Woody Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land," especially the last three verses which you probably don't know. Woody's patriotism ran deeper than a red hat with a racist slogan, a long red tie wound too loosely around the neck of a bigot, or a stars and stripes flag waving next to the Confederate banner. Woody's song, unlike Greenwood's, and even more than Springsteen's is a kind of national anthem that reads in part: 

“As I went walking I saw a sign there 
And on the sign it said “No Trespassing.” 
But on the other side it didn’t say nothing, 
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people, 
By the relief office I seen my people; 
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking 
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me, 
As I go walking that freedom highway; 
Nobody living can ever make me turn back 
This land was made for you and me.”

— Woody Guthrie

This Memorial Day I remember those who fought in lost, foolish causes: Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan. I mourn the senseless loss of life and curse the privileged who sent them to die. 

This Memorial Day I mourn those who fought throughout Europe, The Mediterranean, the Pacific, and more against an axis of true evil. 

This Memorial Day I reject Greenwood and embrace Guthrie's. We are most American when this country belongs to everyone. We are strongest when we are most accepting. We cannot accept hatred as leadership. 

This Memorial Day, fuck Lee Greenwood and the big orange maggot. My flag stays in a dark corner of the front-hall closet until we start acting like real Americans. 

Rust

“Out of the blue and into the black
You pay for this, but they give you that
And once you’re gone, you can’t come back
When you’re out of the blue and into the black”

— Neil Young, "Hey Hey, My My (Into The Black)"

I got to thinking this morning of Neil Young, a guy whose music I usually like but with whom I often disagree. I remember when he put out a super-duper digital music player and I thought, no way is that going to sell. It didn't. And he wrote this book that felt like the whining of a child or the grumblings of an old man. Still, he's Neil Young and has made incredible music, done good charity work, and been working at a high level for longer than I've been alive, so I should cut him some slack and have some respect. 

Still, this morning, getting in my car I got to thinking, "Neil's wrong." This was occasioned by the sight of rust weeping from under my driver's side door. 

My car, bought new in 2005, has 170,000 miles on it. We have been through a lot including one serious crash. Each morning, despite all the years, all those miles, and that crash, I open the door, climb inside, and my car starts on the first try. It gets me where I need to go. I like that and I'm sad to see the rust, know the exhaust system is dying, and feel it is passing the point of diminishing returns. 

It was raining this morning when I went out to the car. I opened the door and rusted brown water dripped from the rusting sill. I heard a voice sing, "it's better to burn out than it is to rust" and thought, "shut up, Neil." The rain and the rust had me a little pissy. I was thinking about Dad too. "And once you're gone you can never come back." God damn it, Neil. 

Driving to work, I thought over those two songs that I file as one: "Out Of The Blue And Into The Black." I didn't remember all the lyrics, but felt like arguing with him anyway. I wanted him to be wrong so maybe the I could be right. I remembered the album title: Rust Never Sleeps which I changed to Rust Never Stops. And rust always wins, Neil. 

Looking at the lyrics now, printed on clean white paper, out of the rain, I don't see much to argue in them, but I'm fighting what's happening to my car, what happened to Dad, what's developing in me. "There's more to the picture than meets the eye." I'm pretty sure Neil knew that rock and roll can and will die. Everything does. And even if he didn't know then, he knows it now. We're all forty years closer to death than when he sang his way out of the blue and into the black. After forty years, the rust is undeniable.

Did Dad burn out or fade away? Did he just rust? Is he out of the blue and into the black? Can he never come back? Is he forgotten? 

I'm not expecting answers. I sure as hell don't expect to hear answers from Neil Young. Or my car. Or Dad. I'm no longer in the mood to argue or fight. I'm just humming along with the song in my head. A memory or maybe an expectation. It goes like this: 

My my, hey hey and hey hey, my my. And goes on from there to wherever.