The Burning Truck

- February 11, 2015 -

 

 

I didn’t know a thing about the accident, or even if there actually was one. The clock on the wall was indicating the approach of workday’s end when a co-worker stepped in and advised me that my usual road home was blocked in both directions by a burning tractor-trailer. “Check it out online,” he urged. “The local paper has it up on their website.”

And so it was. A shell of a truck, its blackened cab a mere skeletal remain with smoking debris of a fragmented trailer behind it, blocking the highway. “The road will be closed for several hours,” the short article declared. “Motorists should expect long delays.”

As the decimated truck was positioned in the narrowest segment of the highway between my workplace and my home, I believed it. There is a ravine on one side of the highway and a mountain on the other. It usually takes me forty-five minutes one-way if the roads are clear and dry as they are now, and if traffic moves well. The alternative was a far less-traveled pathway over several steep mountains, connected by many miles of winding secondary roads. When I say “winding” and “secondary,” that hardly covers it. It passes a wildlife sanctuary and a remote state park, and passes right through an even more remote state park. Then the road becomes treacherous to drivers who don’t know their way around a country switchback, or through the snowbanks and turkey-tracks of horse-and-buggy-land.

Of course I did it. Overall my effort might have been almost a wash, as the trip required two and a half hours to complete; but that was mainly because I wasn’t the only one unwilling to wait until late to set out for home. I had plenty of company, including big trucks, like the one that was blocking the highway in the middle of the better-traveled route.

For the greater part of the trip I felt like I was in a slow-moving caravan. Traffic was moving in both directions so there were no clear passing zones, and of course there’s always an overly-cautious driver who leads such long trains of vehicles. At least we were making progress. Eventually, though, the first real bottleneck appeared up ahead, and we all sat for twenty minutes or more to attempt an entry onto a somewhat better secondary road. You couldn’t see far at the stop sign, and traffic on that road was fast-moving. I opted for the path that I knew would be less-traveled and I made a right turn to get out of traffic. I then turned left toward yet another mountain, and realized it had worked. For most of the rest of the way home, I was virtually alone. And that’s where this brief story really begins.

It was an overcast evening anyway, and darkness would fall by about the time I reached home. For now, it was waning daylight. I had passed the last country church on the way to Jack’s Mountain and was settling into the much more pleasant drive, negotiating the circuitous route that must have been established centuries ago by wildlife and then riders on horseback, perhaps the occasional buckboard. The pictures in my mind were vivid and clear. I wondered for how long each winter these roads had remained closed before the coming of four-wheel-drive trucks with snowplows. I'm sure that thought set the mood for the last turn in the narrow road before it began to ascend the mountain.

And then, there it was. An ultra-clear view of the Appalachians that seemed to extend forever into the blue-white distance; fold after fold after fold of sculptured planet, the trees on each fold contrasting with the snow before it, the scene topped by even higher mountains nestled immediately behind them, those topped with purest white.

All of my cluttered thoughts tumbled to the stony pavement, scattering along the roadside as my little car slowed to a stop. I glanced at my rear-view mirror. I was still alone.

I sat for a few long moments and gazed at the scene. Then I shifted into low gear and began the ascent, my thoughts, my perspective and my world forever altered, yet again.

The township road is fractured, undulating pavement of the roughest sort, angled slightly toward the guardrails. It’s a wonder snowplows can even clear it. I have seen large trucks on this road, probably the reason it’s that way. Any tree of the thousands that stand along it would close the road if it fell. There is an overlook at the top of the mountain, and long before I reached it, I knew I would stop again.

From the summit of Jack’s Mountain there is a fantastic view of the deep valleys on either side. The height and the distance is always breathtakingly beautiful, but neither view is the equal of the scene I’d beheld before I started up the mountain. In the summer that grandeur wouldn’t be apparent either, not without the contrast of the snow to outline the shapes as they extend into the distance. Words are totally inadequate. Tectonics, compression, elevation, erosion. Upheaval, geology, topology, buckling, anticlines, synclines. Call any of it what you wish. “Majestic” doesn’t cover it either.

As I stood and gazed over the snow-covered valleys, I considered my good fortune at having come this way on this particular evening. I realized that my everyday thoughts are organized into layers; one handles my bills, my income and my taxes, another, my workload; yet another, the relationships I try to balance, whether at work, with family or with my closest friends. All of my wishes, hopes and dreams are interlaced with all of those things, everything I know or I'm curious about is in there too. There are names, and statutes, and expectations, and conditions, and properties. Materials, energy, craft, and technique. On and on and on. And I wonder, what exactly are the limits to what we can know, or imagine? Or are there limits at all?

And yet.

All of humanity is so small, so insignificant in comparison to this place. This Earth.

I have long believed that humanity will somehow survive all trials, overcome all obstacles and will endure for as long as the universe exists. I hope we will. Tonight, I finally have serious doubt that we can endure as long as the planet on which we live. Despite our mental abilities, we are so frail. We are so emotional. In our arrogance we do stupid things, and we obsess on trivialities. We prioritize money, and comfort, and sex, and drugs. We attack and kill each other to a degree that exceeds the habits of common animals. As a group, we don’t always look out for our elderly, or the weak, and often, not even our children.

The planet is so unimaginably huge. Take a hard look, and try to imagine the relative permanence of the earth. I have to say. If in fact our planet is a mere dustball in the cosmos, as I’ve heard it said, it’s one hell of a dustball.

And we concern ourselves with so many of the wrong things. It’s not “the way of the world,” it’s the way of people. There’s nothing like a real view of our limited place in this grand world to clear one’s mind, and to press the reset button for one’s priorities. It's as if my maker selected this event to say to me, “Well hey, did you know?”

This morning I learned that the driver of the truck escaped the vehicle before it caught fire. I wouldn’t wish him any worse off because of the fiery event that blocked the highway. I'm sure he isn't happy about it. The pavement where the event occurred was melted and scorched and the highway, I've heard, was closed for twelve hours.

I, on the other hand, was quite fortunate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Nickle Rolled Under the Door

Damn right, the nickle rolled under the door. If it hadn't been just about the high point of my day, I wouldn't be writing about it. And actually I'm not writing about it, but rather, the fact that it was nearly the high point of my day. Sort of.

I'm not changing the subject at all when I say, slack time is dangerous. Slack time is wasteful, and it creates time for product developers to egg software engineers into making stupid changes to formerly good programs. Word processing programs just aren't what they used to be. Try highlighting some text. I've made every modification I could find to make, but you still have to try several times to highlight text, and all the while, the damned thing is trying to predict what it is I want to type. And I absolutely hate that!

Oh, I do know how to turn off the auto-complete “feature.” Doing that, however, alters or eliminates other things that I can’t afford to change.

I freely admit, I allow too many silly, stupid things to bother me. But consider, everything is just naturally a trade-off. Example, if you want to lose weight, you have to eat less and to exercise more. If you eat something extra you'll have to work it off, and if you put that off you will lose ground, like it or not. Everything is like that, it's just the way things are. But how much of that sort of thing is directly imposed on us by other humans? Why should that be so? The program worked fine before, but some product developer wanted to keep his job, so he persuaded his software designers to fuck it all up so it would look like he, the product developer, was still working. I say, fire him. Breaking something just to change it is just cause enough. The same applies to an operating system that more than once has failed to improve on the system it followed. But if we leave it alone, why, we won't make money! Folks, vote with your feet. Choose an alternative.

And as usual, I digress.

But not really. Because that particular list is long. The much-publicized computing “cloud” doesn’t even really exist, did you know that? There’s nothing new at all about time and storage sharing between networked servers. They’ve hung a new name on it, and now they’re eliminating your hard drives so that you require access to it. It’s a short trip to being charged to use it, which is the endgame, the objective. Not a one of the players gives a damn about your privacy, but only their profit. And then there are the “content deliverers,” who actually are doing far more than delivering content for their big customers. In actuality they follow you wherever you go on the internet, into your bank accounts, into your email. They want your passwords, they sell your data. My port scanner sees you people, and you suck! I block you, and you interrupt my ability to move about.

I shall continue to block you. I will not purchase any computer that has no storage capacity. I shall never pay for cloud services. No matter what.

So now, there’s a new reason why slack time is dangerous. It gives me time to think, and sometimes, thinking leads to writing it down. And it can become a rant.

Let me tell you just a tiny bit about the human condition that will affect you no matter what you do, and you do need to be aware of it. In order to understand where things are headed and what should be allowed or opposed, first you must know how things used to be. Some things were good, some were bad, but without any understanding of prior conditions, you cannot possibly know what should be acceptable, now or in the future. It isn’t just about history that could repeat itself; it is also about why no one knows what a block party is like, anymore. Why we know nothing about our neighbors. What it was like when the authorities had to get a court order to intercept communications. The “powers that be” can’t handle that they are not yet absolute. Young people haven’t lost sight of real freedom, because they’ve never known it. The generation that follows theirs will know even less. But it’s not because the information isn’t there; it’s because nobody cares, except the people who are taking your freedoms and your privacy and certainly, your money.

Today during my slack time, I happened upon an advertisement (an ad!!) that claimed that “all sixteen U.S. security agencies” were preparing for World War Three. Further, it claimed that this war was expected within the next six months. I’ve seen similar ads (a few months ago) claiming that billionaires were selling off their U.S. stocks in preparation for the upcoming world depression that would begin right here. In neither case is there anything to it whatsoever. My point is, the creators of those ads are human slime. They would love to be proven right, although they already know it’s senseless hype. It’s for the purpose of getting hits and selling subscriptions. Period. If their ad somehow set off a massive war and billions died because of it, what would they care?

Like all power-hungry, money-grubbing profiteers, they would not. And that’s what I wanted to point out about the human condition. Take care of yourself. Watch your back! “Question authority!!!” Trust very, very few. If any.

All of this came together because I had some slack time, and the reason for it was both sad and silly. I won’t get into it. I needed something to do, and I’ve stopped smoking, so I thought I’d lighten the change in my pocket and pick something from the vending machine that stands in the hall. Of course it was like texting and driving, but I extracted the handful of change that was weighing down my pocket and sorted for quarters as I walked. A nickel got away, and it rolled under a door. The door was locked.

And I guess it just kinda pissed me off.

The Valley of Clouds

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          I’m suspended above an unimaginably huge chasm, a cleft in the earth both wide and deep, a place of both brightness and shadow. This rope is far, far longer than I had ever imagined, stretched tightly and parallel to the earth. My feet dangle above an overtly alarming space; the broad floor of this valley must be thousands of feet below. And how far is it to the other side? To what, I wonder, is this rope attached at its end? My hands are large for my physical size, my arms are strong, but surely by now, the spiral-twisted strands of a thick rope are embedded permanently in my palms. And sometimes I do mind the ache in my shoulders, the straining of my muscles. Hand over hand, taking one new grip after another, slowly I progress. From time to time I stop, turn about with careful effort, and look back. I can no longer see how far the rope extends as it vanishes into the distance behind me. I can barely recall the point from which I began. I’ve been out here, now, for months. No. Years. It most definitely has been years.
          It’s far more than symbolism. I’m actually where I’ve said. Figuratively, of course, and in no small way, literally. I dare not let go; I live on this rope. I eat, sleep, breathe and may also die, on this rope. It was my choice to come out here. I took a deep breath, and I began.
          All of my life, this had been coming. So much for the prescience I’ve sometimes claimed, I never saw it until it arrived. I should have known there was a reason behind the workouts when I started them, and for once, was able to stick to them. I’d been pushing weights, all I could muster, until my chest ached and my heart pounded. I thought it might be the way I would die. But I would not stop and I will never stop. Because if I must die, it’s the way it should happen.
           The day I left the safety of solid earth, I knew it would be a long trip. I didn’t know if I could make it across. But, then as now, I was not at all prepared to face my mortality. If I’m not immortal, I just don’t see it, and that’s the truth. But I don’t know if I’ve reached the halfway point, or if I’ve passed it. Or if I’m even capable of completing this journey.
           Like any endeavor, I know why I started. On the other side, there is sure, sweet release. There’s something definable there, a final destination that must be reached. I will know exactly how Winston Churchill felt, hours before he addressed his nation for the first time about the realities of war.
          I also suspect there’s someone waiting, someone I’ve missed for ever so long.
          It’s so strange that I don’t know who that someone is. And it’s possible there is no one; but I think that’s human nature. If we want something badly enough, we begin to believe it exists. Thus we never really know if something ethereal has changed state. Trust me, it can and it does happen.
           I’ve named this place above which I’m suspended, and it’s my title for this short piece. I think it’s also human nature to give a name to any place where so much time has been spent. And it fits; the reality of this place to me is stark. Earth is an amazingly beautiful planet, and the valley below may be the most attractive place upon it. The weather here changes, as does the time of day or night. The silvery ribbon of river winding far below my feet is often shrouded in mist. The mist rises beneath the warming rays of the morning sun until it shrouds me; and from here it advances to join the billows of clouds, still higher above. Of course, it rains, and I get wet. Snow collects on my head and on my shoulders. It gets cold out here at night, and in summer, it gets hot. But I’m still here. I manage it with a “second” wind drawn from the depths of my soul, a deepened gulp of new strength, gratefully taken hundreds of times. Daily I’m reminded that I should have changed my work boots before I ventured out, but one cannot go back to change the place from where one began. At least the boots keep my feet warm, and the high-tops protect my ankles when I boost them over the rope, to get some sleep. When I do, I awaken to the reality known to everyone else.
          When the air is clear, I swear I can see for hundreds of miles in any direction. And life has not slowed in any way because of this rope. My best work has come from it. The further I progress, the better it gets. And then, there’s the music, always with me. Fault me for it if you wish, I couldn’t stop it if I tried. From here, entire magnificent symphonies have been composed and then forgotten, not a note if it written, or otherwise retained for posterity.
          The music happens to be the only doubt I’ve ever had about the rightness of the objective at the end of this rope. It’s a serious doubt. But without doubt there would be no life at all. Without doubt, there would be no questioning, and thus, no resolution. I cannot speak for anyone else, but the necessity of the process seems obvious to me. And who knows. Perhaps I am immortal after all, and that journey will be the next rope. Ha, that's doubtful.
          Because it’s only a rope, there is no safety harness involved, nor is there a net. But immortal or not, completed or not, this was a journey upon which I had to embark.
          I had no choice whatsoever.
          There is no turning back.



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The Power of Slide

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“Let it slide.”

Ever heard that line? Admittedly it has its downside, and that’s not an intentional pun. But without Slide, life would be just about intolerable. The trick is to use it judiciously. I freely admit, I’m still working on it, and I always will be...because it’s a dynamic term, applicable in very many ways and in so many situations. Misused, it’s just another way to procrastinate. But if it’s used well, it’s extremely advantageous.

Slide is tolerance. Let’s face it, everybody makes mistakes. No two people are always in sync with their thoughts and intentions, although some are better with that than others. Being out of sync with the feelings of another is no crime, but how often does it affect a relationship? If you asked me, I would say, continuously. My head doesn’t seem to work like anyone else’s. So if a significant other says something that sounds like it’s stupid, or maybe it’s vulgar, or even obnoxious or damaging, do you let it slide? Can you? Should you? Your decision will be based on how important the person is to you, for your own sake, keep that in mind. It will depend on the frequency of such occurrences. On the severity of the apparent infraction. Unfortunately, some of us have no tolerance at all for a misstep or a misspeak. But sometimes, people do screw up. Slide is not necessarily forgiveness, it’s somewhat tentative coolness. “Okay I’m just gonna let that slide.” A bit of advice...if you hear that as a response, take it seriously. Oh and by the way? Everyone is different, whether that difference is in appearance, demeanor or ethnicity. Slide should be on full-automatic for that, to your great advantage. In those cases, it may have less than nothing to do with any kind of personal relationship.

Slide makes it easier to re-group. Even some chickens know this. A flock of chickens is just about the most excitable assemblage on earth. I’ve kept chickens, you can come to feed and water them at the same times every day, and still, they’ll freak out when you enter their pen to do it. But they’ll re-group, settle down, and then mob the feeder. You’re forgiven, it’s time to eat. And there are always a few of the birds who hang out on the outskirts, placid and cool, because they aren’t as excitable as the rest. They’ll be the first ones to the feeder. Be cool. Is that project daunting? Set a time to begin, and take a break. When you reach the point where you told yourself you would start, hit it hard...but until then, you’re sliding. Be careful with this one. Your employer may not know how to let anything slide. But if he or she does not understand the importance of mental attitude, again, the job can become just about intolerable. Some bosses never learn this. It’s unfortunate. Trying to see things from their perspective may allow you to let that slide, too. Good luck.

Slide makes re-evaluation possible. It’s the exact opposite of a knee-jerk reaction. Sometimes, the situation seems to call for packing a bag and getting the hell out, or reacting with anger, or worse. Whoa! Slide is a step back, a step away, but it isn’t burning bridges. It isn’t getting you arrested. It isn’t getting you fired. It isn’t escalation of any kind. It doesn’t take a hike, it takes a walk. It allows one to cool off. It eliminates, not postpones, but eliminates conflict. Think about that! And how many songs have been written about regrets? How many families have been decimated by quick decisions? Think about the position from which you would prefer to re-evaluate. Unemployment? Alone, in a motel room? In a cell? Brother, sister! Slide. When you have to take action, at least know that it’s necessary.

By now it’s plain that this could go on forever. However when I sit down to write something, I never, ever just rip it off. I walk away, I walk circles, I think about it. I look things up. I re-word everything, as seems appropriate. I don’t publish it before it has aged a while. I re-read after my perspective has had a chance to change.

I’m not the best slider in the world. I’ve messed it up at least as much as I haven’t; but I’ve learned from it. At this point in time, I’m letting more slide than I should be. I consider it to be an adjustment. And it allows me to write.

My final bit of advice on the topic will be straightforward, and there's some urgency in it: Allow yourself to live. Take time, so that it doesn’t take you.

Slide.


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A Story Writes You

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All this time I had believed that a writer writes stories. How silly is that? It just happens to be where I am at this moment. Looking backward as I've done at the pieces I've completed, I can see it wasn't me inventing tales. If it had been, all of them would have been exceedingly boring. Insults accepted later, hear me out.

Sometimes I thought I had a story to tell. But in fact, happenings that revealed themselves as something quite different later on in the story, were unplanned. That must be what's meant by stories writing themselves. It can take on a life of its own while in process. In fact, though, each of these have real substance in the form of occurrences that actually took place, or that might have in some surreal existence, based on some real experience.

There have been things I've written that took shape, but that had no planned ending. In those rare cases I had to find an ending that would hopefully satisfy readers, releasing them from the tale to return to their personal lives and pursuits. However in most cases there's somewhere I want to go with an idea, before I begin. I have a character, I have a setting, I have a point. I may even have an ending. Now the objective is to seize the attention of the reader, give him something to care about, and hold his attention while I wrap him personally into the scenery. Then, I will push him off of the edge of a cliff. He will not survive unless he gets my point before he hits the rocks.

That's all a pile of crap, of course. I'm not that good. In fact, when I write something it's because Icare about it. I care about the limitations of careless, lazy, unthinking, robotic humanity. I care about the natural world, and everything in it. I care about the majesty of the universe, what our place as a species could be rather than what it seems likely it will be. Like, stop hurting each other, okay? Listen to Bill and Ted, and be excellent to each other. And I care about humor, because it helps to preserve my, 'um, sanity. “How are you today?”

“Hahahahahaaaa, ssstable!”

Everything's relative.

Writers of fiction are chicken. We're unwilling to come right out and say what we think, because people might hate us for it. If they hate us, there's no way we'll ever get paid. We're journalists who are unwilling to do the homework to write articles using sound, provable facts. If it's plausible, more or less, it's good stuff. If we know something or just believe something, we can use it, 'cuz it's fiction.

I've reviewed the things I've written from time to time, because it helps me to see just a little bit better how they might impact a reader who hasn't already seen them. Thanks to a crappy memory, I can do that. But that's not what caused this little piece to be written. What did? I just watched a video that takes you to the places from which J.R.R. Tolkien probably got his inspirations for his epic series of books. He definitely had some real points to make, and he assembled the materials from a lifetime of experiences. A fantastic imagination took over.

And so I have one more thing for which I could thank him. If his works defined him,
then my own writing may be defining me.

I can live with that.

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The Book Sale

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I’m wondering if I can successfully tie a simple community book sale to a veritable lightning strike. Today is just an ordinary day, one on which the local public library is holding a semiannual fundraising event. A year ago the same thing was happening, on a very similar fall day. I remember it well; I’ve decided there are no days when one's life cannot drastically and unexpectedly change. Further, one never knows when one’s path is about to be set.

On that beautiful day one year ago, I had several Saturday morning errands to run. I needed gasoline for the mowers, to make a stop at the bank and to pick up a few items at the store. The usual short-cut I take happens to be a less-traveled side street, and then through the parking lot of the local public library. On the way through, though, I couldn’t miss the banner over the entry walkway of the library. “Book Sale Today” it proclaimed, in large, red, hand-painted letters. “Hm,” I thought, “I haven't been to a book sale in years.” I didn’t consider stopping, either, and went straight on to the bank.

However on my way back, I thought maybe I should. In years past I'd watched for these book sales, and Saturday has always been the last and the busiest day. The best choices would likely be gone, and the prices would be halved to try to clear out as many of the donated books as they could. As I'm seldom in town during the week, Saturday was generally the only day I'd ever been able to go and look at what they had, anyway. I decided to stop, if only for old time's sake. It had always been with the family before, so it would seem different.

Entering the library, I realized it had been so long since I'd been there that I didn't even remember where, exactly they held the sale. I inquired at the desk, and then of course I remembered. Through the green door and downstairs to the basement. Down I went, past the childrens' story room and childrens' books section. And there it was, in a musty, squarish room with pastel-green block walls, the books arranged on tables and chairs and even stacked on the floor, and with incomplete book sets displayed in cardboard boxes. They could have sold books for another full week at least, although the room was nearly full of browsing people.

I ran into an old friend there whom I hadn't seen for at least a decade, so we shook hands and carried on a brief conversation. Then I looked around, and at first, nothing caught my eye. I didn’t know if my browsing skills had atrophied that badly or if, in fact the magic was gone. I was about to leave when I spotted a book on the historical progression of mechanical devices. That looked interesting, so I picked it up. Then I noticed there were more novels than anything else. At last it occurred to me that here was an opportunity to pick up an inexpensive novel or two, as examples of successful works. I'm never too old or too far along to learn at least something.

So after a few more minutes of browsing, I selected a paperback copy of Seabiscuit by Laura Hillenbrand, because it was marked “#1 New York Times Bestseller,” and James Herriot's All Things Bright and Beautiful. I'd expected that like everything else, the prices would be three to five times higher than the last time I'd been there, so I had a twenty dollar bill ready. But for some reason, the things that are most worthwhile are sometimes the least-supported, and the presumed values were still far too low. The half-off price totaled thirty-eight cents. I donated a dollar and felt embarrassed. If I'd had a five or even a ten, I'd have given that to the attendant.

Call me a rebel, but I sometimes read books from the middle toward both ends when I'm curious. When I got to my car, I opened James Herriot's book and started to read. It was something about veterinary work, and I had opened to an engaging story about saving the life of a bull calf that later grew up and almost took the vet's life. I closed the book and headed for home. When I got there, I'd been thinking about the power of a good opening to a story, but even more importantly, a strong ending. So before I went on to my next task, I opened the back of the book, and on the very last page I read:

“The shops were still closed and nothing stirred in the market place. As we left I turned and looked back at the cobbled square with the old clock tower and the row of irregular roofs with the green fells quiet and peaceful behind, and it seemed that I was losing something forever.

I wish I had known then that it was not the end of everything. I wish I had known that it
was only the beginning.”

I'm afraid I can't quite explain how that affected me. I will never forget the moment; for the first time, I knew I would be writing for the rest of my life. For the first time, I realized what power I have at my fingertips when I do. For the first time, I did not doubt that my writing would be read.



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Photo credit: ~Brenda-Starr~ / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND

A Girl by the Road

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There’s a young girl outside, standing by the road.

I often revisit the dusty roads of my memories; once in a while, it’s a purposeful journey. More often, however, a wandering trek through the passageways of my experience comes without necessarily any approval from me, or any real intent. Such has been the unfortunate case, once again. So much for my peace, which admittedly has been disturbed. It comes, and on occasion, it goes.

But seemingly, it took so little; this time it’s just a girl who is standing by the road. In her early teens, hands clasped behind her back, head tipped downward, watching her bare feet as she pushes pebbles and grasps at the stunted roadside dandelions with her toes. And every once in a while she steals a furtive look at the long stretch of country road that runs by both her home and mine, peering one direction and then the other, but favoring just one. She’s looking for someone, no doubt a boy of about the same age whom I’ve seen before, when he’s come to call. She has been out there for a while now, occasionally stepping inside, but each time, returning to the side of the road before many minutes have passed.

Could there be a reason, I wonder, why simply observing someone whose heartstrings are being tugged, pulls in turn on mine? After all, men are raised to be comparatively insensitive. That’s an opinion, backed by a tsunami of fact. Strength is expected of us, but then we are also blamed for it. Ours is the gender expected to train and to take up arms, to leave behind all that we’ve lived and believed, and to kill our fellow man. Circumstances and the realities of violent conflict and war sometimes necessitate it. And then, if we have survived and we get to come home, we are expected to leave all of those behaviors behind and to function like all other civilized persons. But it doesn’t take a war; the conflict might have been on the street. Those of us who have not seen combat must live and work and compete with those who have. And in either case we are dysfunctional if we cannot nurture our children, serve as loving spouses and do what’s right for our families. Sensitivity does have its place, after all. I’m only being sensitive.

Or maybe it’s something else.

Memory can be a deeply cruel thing, and despite my age, I am both blessed and cursed with an extremely vivid memory. I recall as if it was only moments ago, the first time I experienced the sensation of being struck in the face by an older boy who was intent on a fistfight. I remember that he wanted the change in my pocket, and that he took it. I recall the resultant rage and resolve that led to my learning to deliver the same, how to clench a fist and how not to, and discovering that I had the strength and speed to compete. As long as the other kid wasn’t too big, of course. I have similar memories I am unwilling to share, but such things as those are just one side of the coin.

The other side is the one revisited this evening. As a young man, I quickly learned that I am no less vulnerable to attachment and to pain than members of the opposite sex. I’ve been left behind. I have made unpleasant but, I thought, necessary choices and thus, delivered the same. While perhaps an unavoidable part of life, it can be and has sometimes been unpleasant. That’s putting it quite mildly.

I am no longer a young man. I am not in a position to counsel the young girl whose roadside vigil has caused me to sit down to write. And even if I happened to be her father, I’m not sure I would try to tell her anything. Some things have to be learned the hard way. One would hope that sooner or later, the hard lessons would stop coming. But they don’t. In fact, we don’t learn such things very well at all.

For in my own way, I have been by the side of the road, and more than once. I have experienced the disappointment she is presently feeling. I’ve also been in the place of the young man who has not appeared. He’s made a decision I’ve had to make, and would very much prefer never to have to repeat. It seems to be bothering me, far more than it should.

On most evenings in this pastoral valley, the five-toned horn of a passing train, blaring through the haze of the river and echoing through vine-covered trees, is melodious and welcome music to the ears. But tonight its descending wail is plaintive and mournful, the evening air, damp and sullen. I try to tell myself that a life without regret would be no life at all. I try to tell myself, it’s just that I’ve opened my heart to emotion, an effort to help me to write. If that’s all it is, I’ve done a terrific job of it.

Darkness will fall shortly. She may as well go inside and try to make herself busy at something, even though I know it won’t help.

He isn’t coming.


It comes without warning. I whisper softly.
Father. Please forgive me.


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