Home By The Sea

    Have you ever sold a house?  Have you driven by the home where you grew up and mourned at the loss of the trees you climbed as a kid?  Or have you further looked up the old homestead on Google Maps and dropped yourself on “street view” to have a look at the new siding, the dual-pane windows, or the swing-set peeking over the backyard fence that the new owners installed?  Sure, probably.  But I bet you’ve never found out that a former home had been given to another country, and that that country repainted it, and moved it 7,700 miles away?

                My “home” from July 1981 to May 1983 was in Honolulu Harbor but it wasn’t a building.  It was a ship.  I spent the majority of my hours, both awake and asleep, on the cutter Jarvis.  And when it wasn’t in Hawaii, say in Alaska or the middle of the Pacific, I spent pretty much every hour there.  My bed, my meals, my work; it all took place in a metal box 378 feet long and 50 feet wide. 

                The Jarvis was named after David Jarvis of the Revenue Cutter Service, a forerunner of the Coast Guard.  Lieutenant Jarvis became a hero when he led an overland expedition 1,500 miles to deliver food, in the form of 382 reindeer, to stranded whalers in Point Barrow Alaska in 1898.  Why they weren’t eating whale remains a mystery.

                I’ve never returned to Hawaii to revisit her although I’ve thought that it would be pretty cool to show my two sons where I stood bridge watch and how we lowered boats over the side to take boarding parties to foreign fishing vessels.  Google Maps will not allow me to “stand” on the wharf where the Jarvis is usually moored.  I am restricted to the road outside the gate where trees and buildings block my view.  The terrorists win again.  But neither of those issues matter now because if I do return to the Aloha State or even if the Google car is allowed to drive on to military bases, I’ll never see my Hawaiian home again.

    Because…

                earlier this year the Jarvis was decommissioned and then “given” to the Bangladesh Navy.  Gone is the bright red stripe on the bow; which was actually international orange, the same color as the Golden Gate Bridge.  It’s been painted over white.  Gone are the large black COAST GUARD letters painted along her hull; like a black Hollywoodland sign.  A plain F28, which has some meaning to her new crew, has replaced it.  Gone are the American flags, the Coast Guard flags, and the Coast Guard personnel.  Replaced I suppose by Bangladeshi flags and people.  Gone is the “Jarvis” painted on her stern, replaced by the name Somundra Joy.

                I tried to find what Somundra Joy means but was unsuccessful.  I guess there are some questions even The Google can’t answer.

                There are basically two ways a ship ends her life; she is either cut up for scrap or finds the sea floor.  The Somudra Joy, now the largest ship in the Bangladesh Navy, will patrol the Bay of Bengal.  In fact she arrived in her new home port of Chittagong two weeks ago today.  She will live to fight another day (another decade?).

Maybe it’s a good thing.  While not a living thing, she is still “alive” and she is still doing what she did 30-plus years ago when a young man from Fresno who had never spent one minute at sea came aboard her.  On the way to Chittagong the Somudra Joy delivered 40 tons of relief supplies to Manila for the Philippine typhoon disaster victims, although I doubt any of it was reindeer. 

In other news; Bangladesh has a navy.

*The picture above is the former Jarvis leaving San Francisco Bay on a foggy morning.

Little Note / Long Remember

             

Seven score and ten years ago Abraham Lincoln gave what is arguably his most famous, arguably the United States most famous, and perhaps arguably the World’s most famous speech, providing you’re prepared to do a lot of arguing.  The Gettysburg Address was delivered those 150 years ago, in under two minutes after the first speaker of the day went on for two hours.

            Ken Burns, the documentarian who made an unequalled Civil War documentary along with an East Coast biased baseball documentary, has started a website called learntheaddress.org where anyone can upload of video of themselves reciting the famous speech.

            People are doing it from couches and classrooms, from the offices of politicians and the studios of pundits, from California to the New York Islands, on cell phone videos and classroom audio/video equipment to major network studio cameras, and from modest homes to the halls of power.

            There are literally hundreds of videos and no real search function so you have to either peruse by most recent, by state, or alphabetical.  I watched dozens of them and have compiled my list of those that I thought merited some attention.  Remember these are from the ones I actually watched.

Worst performance by a professional is actress Alyssa Milano who didn’t bother to memorize it.

Ken Burns himself delivers it like a lecture; ticking off each point as if he were going down a list.

President George Bush recites it like a student in an elementary school classroom, likely garnering him a solid B.

President Carter starts out strong but seems to tire near the end of his minute and a half rendition.  But he is pushing ninety.

Bill Clinton delivers it like most of his speeches while President, with practiced sincerity for something written by someone else.

Barry Obama sounds like he’s a preacher delivering it from a pulpit, like most of his speeches.

Although I wasn’t a fan, I would have liked to have seen Ronald Reagan’s take.  He could speechify. 

While I like most of Louis C. K.’s humor, his delivery of the speech comes across like a shadow of President Bush’s; classroom recital, but he’d likely be lucky to get a C.

TV news host Rachel Maddow gives a good reading.  Too bad it sounds like someone is announcing bus arrivals in the background.

Most mysterious video is Red Sox / World Series hero Shane Victorino who shows up in a compilation but not as an individual clip.

Best headgear goes to Jon Jarvis, Director of the National Park Service for his Smokey Bear hat.

Best amateur “performance” goes to Tip Scarry for his updated presentation and prolog.  He gets a second mention for coolest name.

Worst video is the one that just came up with some text that said “404 Error.  Content not found.”  Of course that might have more to do with my Internet connection.

Best Background goes to Lily Ward of Ohio who did it in front of a Lord of the Rings movie poster for some reason.  Maybe she thought it was originally a speech by Aragorn to rally troops before the gates of Mordor.

But the best and most professional performance, in my opinion, was Conan O’Brien.  His reading sounds like he knows exactly what each sentence, each word, means and he gives what feels like the correct emphasis on the correct word in each one of those sentences.  It’s such a quality reading, again in my opinion, that you can forgive him for mispronouncing the third “cannot.”

Consecrate.

Francis Lightening Up

“Lighten up Francis.”

Sergeant Hulka (Warren Oates) Stripes

           

            When Bishop Franz-Peter Tebartz-van Elst of Germany okayed $600,000 worth of art and over a million bucks in landscaping to his $42 million living quarters in Limburg, the current Pope decided that something stank other than the region’s cheese.  So Bishop Tebartz-van Elst Gonzalez Alonzo McDuck Trust-Fund Maria O’Mally Thurston Howell III got called on the carpet.  He walked in a bishop and walked out off the every day roster.  He’s taking an “unspecified leave” according to a Vatican statement.  Kind of like when a TV show goes on hiatus, usually never coming back.  I’m still bitter about Keen Eddie…where was I?

            My first reaction was that a man living in something called the Apostolic Palace telling another man that living in a palace is wrong is like the pot calling the kettle…a pot.  But then I read that Mr. Pope Francis doesn’t live in the A&P, which I can only assume is the nickname for that building, but instead lives in a building called Domus Sanctae Marthae (Saint Martha’s House) which is a sort of apartment building for visiting clergy and the cardinals during a conclave.  Its total cost was $20 million, less than half of Elst's digs, but that’s probably because unlike the German Bishop’s abode, it doesn’t include much landscaping or a pig to warm your feet while you sit on your throne.

            In fact, Pope Francis has been humble in both his living quarters and daily activities for while.  I remember reading that even as a Cardinal he lived in a simple apartment and took the bus to work. 

            But that’s not the only place where Pope Frank’s progressiveness shows.  He has recently called upon The Church to shift its focus to the poor and the sick, and suggested that Christian Right here in the good old U.S.A dial back their anti-gay and anti-abortion obsession down from eleven.

            So I guess that even though I’ve likely long ago been excommunicated from The Church and really have no say in the matter, I like the new Pope.  He’s defiantly got a lighter attitude that his predecessor.  Maybe it’s all show.  Maybe it’s a distraction from the many “indiscretions” that have dogged its steps lately, but either way you gotta like the message.

Something Autumn This Way Comes

            “First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys.  Not that all months aren’t rare.  But there be bad and good, as the pirates say.  Take September, a bad month: school begins.  Consider August, a good month: school hasn’t begun yet.  July, well, July’s really fine: there’s no chance in the world for school.  June, no doubting it, June’s best of all, for the school doors spring wide and September’s a billion years away.

            But you take October, now.  School’s been on a month and you’re riding easier in the reins, jogging along.  You got time to think of the garbage you’ll dump on old man Prickett’s porch, or the hairy-ape costume you’ll wear to the YMCA the last night of the month.  And if it’s around October twentieth and everything smoky-smelling and the sky orange and ash gray at twilight, it seems Halloween will never come in a fall of broomsticks and a soft flap of bed sheets around corners.”

-Something Wicked This Way Comes, Ray Bradbury

            I know that’s a long quote.  I like it because it’s the very start of that book, one of my favorites, and I once used those two paragraphs, and a little bit more, to turn someone on to the Ray Bradbury.  I was in a used bookstore in Auburn, chatting with the owner, when the talk turned to Mr. Bradbury.  I mentioned that at the local branch of the library there were no Bradbury books when he said something like, “Never cared for him myself.”  I found a copy of the book in his stock and suggested he read the prolog, the above being well over half.  He read it, put the book down and said something else, this time along the lines of, “I didn’t know it was like this.”  You’re welcome.

            I also put that quote because I wanted to write about October and figured I could use Ray’s words for inspiration.  Here goes.

            With year-round schooling leaking into summer months and even “traditional” school starting in August now, June and August have lost their luster for boys, and of course girls.  So with June often filled with more school days, and zero holidays, and August suffering a similar fate, summer ain’t what it used to be.  Now July reigns supreme as the least school-y month, but July is tricky. Tricky and hot.  Always hot.  It’s not uncommon for triple-digits for every stinkin’ day of July in Fresno, and it’s a 31 day month followed by another 31’er.  The only such occurrence all year.  December and January don’t count; different years.  Here’s the tricky part: July has a holiday but unlike all those great Monday holidays, it can fall on a Saturday or Sunday making it null and void for children and adults alike.

            But while June and August have fallen from grace, and July makes up for no school with hot misery and a roulette wheel holiday, October has remained the rare and lovely month it was in Mr. Bradbury’s bucolic youth.

            October still has Halloween and the day it falls on makes no difference: dressing up and free candy don’t know a Sunday from Shinola.  October is the break out the soup recipes month, the wear a sweater month, the first fire in the fireplace month, the baseball playoffs and football just getting rolling month.  And October is that sweet spot of your utility bill where you’ve stopped running the air conditioner but haven’t cranked up the heater yet. 

            October is when the leaves turning and dropping really kicks into gear and even the brownish turn Fresno leaves take add certain elegance to gutters and a kind of grace to eddies and flutters of wind.  We’ve lost the smoky atmosphere of the burning leaves of our youth, but likely gained the clear view of the Sierras, where thunderheads pile up, blocked from invading Nevada.

            By the end of October a new baseball champion will be crowned, maybe in Boston, maybe in Oakland, maybe at the north end of Roberto Clemente Bridge.  Then we turn the page to November, where visions of turkey dance in our heads.

           

The Elder Beeboy

We had to rearrange a wiring closet, both network and voice cabling, in an area where we couldn’t do any work until the caregivers had gone home for the day.  It involved installing a large, freestanding steel rack, and bolting to it a variety of networking devices including two large battery packs.  Usually when I move one of these, called a UPS and weighing about 120lbs, I remove the batteries to make the chassis a little lighter, but my much younger partner wanted to get it done quickly so he could get home on an already late workday.  So the two of us muscled them into place, got everything up and running for when the shift returned the next morning, and then we went home.  By the time I pulled into my driveway I could feel my heartbeat in my knee and I half expected that had I looked at it, it would be throbbing like the throat of a bullfrog.  A cartoon bullfrog. 

                I went to bed with a brace on it – yes I own a knee brace – and I dreamed of the days when I had knees whose fragileness I was blissfully unaware.  By morning it was back to normal.  Well, as normal as a 52-year-old knee can be. 

                When I was young I never thought about lifting too much or going too long.  My first job was a paperboy, called Beeboys after the paper we delivered.  Sadly our newspapers have shrunk to a paltry version of their former selves, more like propaganda leaflets being dropped into our driveways.  Do they not throw them on the porch anymore because their weight, or lack thereof, would never allow them to be flung that far?  When I delivered The Bee it was more substantial.  Sunday’s edition was roughly the size and weight of a 5-inch naval shell.  And I landed them on doormats with the same accuracy as our fine Navy gunners.  Most Sundays I couldn’t take the whole load in my bike’s saddle bags and had to make two trips.  And woe to the kid who let his bike tip over with a full load; he’d likely have to empty them just to right that ship.  A lot like taking batteries out of a UPS before lifting it into a network rack.

                So I’m older now.  Yes, I have to think about my knees.  I have to think about my back and shoulders, and hands, and wrists, and was that last light green or red?, and well you get the point.  But I don’t mind really.  Even though I have more aches and pains than some sort of retired hybrid baseball catcher/ rodeo clown, I honestly don’t feel old.  Occasionally I find I’m as naive about some thing as I was as an 18-year-old, which I kind of find appealing.  For instance knowing when to use “who’s” verses “whose.”  What humiliated the boy charms the man I guess.

And I Dreamed I was Dying

I don't know a soul who's not been battered
Don't have a friend who feels at ease.
Don't know a dream that's not been shattered
Or driven to its knees.

                        -Paul Simon, American Tune

I’m all caught up on the Game of Thrones* books.  Good story telling, great imagination – the guy invented a 700 foot high wall of ice – with just enough magic to keep a couple of toes in the fantasy genre and just enough good old fashioned political intrigue to help the suspension of disbelief.  And although I could use fewer pages that go on and on about what icons appear on banners and shields, I do enjoy the chivalry and the lack thereof displayed by the knights of the story.

            I don’t know any knights but I know a man who has been fighting a dragon for years.  He has landed a few blows on this particular monster, but it doesn’t seem to weaken it.  There is no soft underbelly here.  He has vowed to never put away his sword because he is fighting this dragon for love, and therefore he simply cannot quit. Cannot.  Maybe men like him should be knighted rather than businessmen and pop stars.  I really admire the man and should he choose to tilt at windmills sometime in the future, I would gladly be his Sancho, although I probably don’t have the wit.

            He’s not alone.

            Friends and family are scattered about like a retreating army.  Walking wounded who shuffle along from Monday through Friday, sometimes Saturdays, hoping it gets better and praying it doesn’t get any worse.  They remain honest and conscientious while watching the dishonest and unscrupulous prosper.  They are slashed and stabbed by those who are rude and malicious for no other reason than they can be and they are beaten down by lifetimes of yes sirs and no ma’ams.  Tired and uninspired, used up but never caught up, hopeless or helpless they move like shadows of our parents.  I don’t have my own dreams.  I dream of having the dreams of my father.

There will be no king pleading “once more unto the breach” with promises of glory and praises of their strength and courage.  No conquered territory, no war prizes, no invading army tossed back into the sea, no peace and prosperity.  Just day after day, year after year on the line; keep your head down, your powder dry, and aim low.

Our minds are worn out.  Our bodies are breaking down and betraying us.  Our faith is shaken.  Hope they say.  When you have nothing else you still have hope.  Hope is just surrender with a scrubbed face and new clothes.  Of course I didn’t “expect to be bright and Bon Vivant,” but I did expect time to take a breath.  I’d like some nights around the campfire telling these war stories instead of never-ending days where we continue to live them.

*Yes, I know they are A Song of Ice and Fire books and that A Game of Thrones was only the title of book number one, but I say Crescent wrench for adjustable wrench and Kleenex for tissues too.

** The photo is from the great war time photographer Robert Capa.  Taken in Spain in 1936.  Used without permission.

***  I have amended this to say that while I hurt for friends and family who are struggling I have a better outlook myself these days.  When I lost my job and no one seemed interested hiring me, I had a dream where someone was dismantling the Golden Gate Bridge and piling the pieces on top of me in a nearby parking lot, expecting me to hold them up.  Don’t need Freud to work that knot.  The most recent dream I had, I was a cop interviewing a man and woman in a domestic dispute.  When the man tried to interrupt the woman I silenced him with a single finger, without making eye contact.  A little more control.

Nous voila, Lafayette

            We were refugees from the annual war that the summer sun wages on the Big Valley.  In a summer when park rangers asked visitors to stop frying eggs on the roads in Death Valley because they were tired of cleaning up after them, we pulled sleeping bags, air mattresses and tents from the stifling rafters of our garage and stuffed them in our trunk.  We pulled out of the driveway with the air conditioning blasting and dared not crack the windows to check the outside temperature until after Doughnut Nation in Los Banos, after the climb past the San Luis Reservoir, and after the first grove of eucalyptus trees on Highway 101.  When the boys were little we called the Dinosaur Trees, suggesting that T-Rexes and Triceratops were hidden in them.

            After a do-or-die left turn in front of a Mississippi of traffic that were for some reason heading to that war zone, we followed my brother’s road from pavement, to old pavement, to cracked pavement, to dirt, to the point where I once heard the GPS lady say, “You are no longer on a known road.”  We had arrived.  If Dad were still around he might have said, “Lafayette, we are here,” as he did now and again after a long drive or hike.  Or once anyway.

            We set up the tents in headlights an under a foggy moon.  Paradise.  We slept to the sultry sounds of yipping coyotes and flapping tent…flaps. 

            The following day more and more friends and family arrived with their sleeping bags, their tents, and their food.  We ate in the shade of an oak at my brother’s home, formally of goats and currently of chickens and bees. Ribs, pinwheel sandwiches, grapes, strawberries, salsa, potato salad, and drinks.

            Dominoes were spread across the table and later replaced by a family 60’s table game called Rack-O.  Rack-O is simple; get dealt 10 numbered cards and put them in ascending order.  When someone asked if it’s a number game or a word game, I’d reply, “It’s a filing game.”  Soon it got cutthroat.

            Wine was opened, beer was opened, and labels were studied.  One invited us to visit the brewery of a Hawaiian beer, located in Oregon and another informed us that Gulden Draak Ale contained caramel. 

            After the food was served and eaten, and after several rounds of table games, a forgotten box of fried chicken was discovered.  It disappeared before rumor of it spread to everyone.  Some missed out.

            My brother’s home in Prunedale is a haven from the bitter heat of Fresno.  Each year when they have the Cooldown, we wonder why we live in Fresno still.  Over the next few months I’ll contemplate it, like I always do after visits to the coast.  At some point I’ll accept it or forget it.  Then next summer will roll around.  PG&E bills will skyrocket, record consecutive 100+ days will be recorded, and for the 20^th  time I’m told, we will pack our car and drive up that road that the GPS lady is unaware of and sleep in the cool darkness of the ancient sand dunes above Monterey. 

            Lafayette, we’ll be there.