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The page stares back at me. It’s blank and white and expectant.
There are far too many rules. If I say it doesn’t need a title, then it doesn’t. Okay?

Just moments ago, as I stood outside alone in the cool night air, the breath of another fading summer drifting softly past, I wondered. Just how much does anyone know? About anything?

One year ago on another August night, I was also writing. Then as now, the sounds of thousands of countryside katydids kept me company in the enveloping darkness. Then as now, I sought to make descriptive sense of my surroundings. And since, many people have passed from this world, while many more have arrived.

I’ll never, ever forget the face of my youngest child looking up at me with widened, questioning eyes.

“Daddy? What was before?”

I looked down at him and asked for clarification. “Why, what do you mean? Before?”

“Before I was (here).”

I paused, stricken. Then I tried to understand further the nature of his query. After a few exchanges, and I wish I could recall exactly what I asked and how he answered, it became clear that he imagined there was no world in existence before he arrived. Yes, he was very young, barely beyond the point of learning to speak. I recall trying to explain to him that it was only he that was not here before, and I’ve often wished I had not. Because for all intents and purposes, there was no world for him, before his moment of arrival. I wish, in a way, he could have kept all of his beautiful innocence.

Many, many summer nights before that moment, my first child had been about the same age when a nineteen-year-old co-worker of mine was killed in an automobile accident. Though my co-worker was younger than I, he was a friend, and I was getting dressed a few days later to attend his funeral. I don’t remember what exactly was said, but for some reason I believed my little daughter was aware. In fact, death was a concept that had never crossed her mind.

“Daddy?” She looked up at me with the same cherubic expression I would eventually see again from my youngest. “I hope your friend gets better.”

I knelt, and I held her close. I wept, for the innocence I knew she would lose, and the one and only time I would do so for my friend.

Now I fold my arms and sit back in my chair, and stare once again at the page. In a way, it’s beginning to look like it has some life. The page is something like a life, too. It may or may not have a great beginning, but one hopes for a purposeful end and coherent existence. It’s like every page that may or may not hit the trash can.

So the question stands, the one I had when I sat down across from the blank page. One can live for a decade, or two, or ten. When it’s all said and done, how much does anyone actually know? In the course of a lifetime, we meet people, we learn to play the game, we parry and thrust and deliver barbs, and receive some. Sometimes we even fall in love, get married, have children. We decide what’s important and we live for it. We learn, and change our minds, and then we live for something else.

At long last, here’s my concern. Walk through a cemetery sometime. There’s where both you and I will be someday, too. I received a child’s question about that, once, as well, and I don’t wish to remember that one, but I do. But all of those people, a la Carl Sagan... “billions and billions” ...all gone. Oh, for certain, some of them left a mark, a few of those, indelible. Some changed the world for the better. But the great bulk of them? Not so much.

And the older I get, the more it becomes plain to me that I actually know very little. Oh, sure, to some extent I’ve learned to play the game. I have my beliefs, and things that I live for.

But what will I die for? And what have I done?

And how much, exactly, do I know? Practical things, useful, as it stands, only to myself.

Tonight I felt a grand hope, hope that the whispering breath of another fading summer would always be renewed by the passage of the other seasons.

Tonight, at least I knew that in this place, all nights in August are truly beautiful. I knew that katydids deserve to exist every summer, everywhere, and forever.

And I knew I was alone.

Survival Will Not Be Enough

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             Each day passes, most, very much like the one before it. One finds oneself repeating familiar motions just because they’re familiar, putting the toothbrush back into its holder the same way, doing things in a certain order that defies variation. I’m sure it’s more than just efficiency, it’s habit. I will do things this way because it’s the way I do them.
            When I eventually complete all of my usual morning tasks and head out for the daily commute, I’m well-aware of what I will soon face. Thousands of other drivers with their own individual habits and objectives are also going somewhere. Some are on vacation, others are already on the clock, moving a commercial load from point to point, and many more are doing the same as I am, going to work. We all have our own ways of doing that, too.
            And I wonder, what level of importance does anyone else place on how they do it? Does anyone else prefer an easy, pleasant drive? It surely doesn’t look that way. It’s a daily early-morning expression of impatience, aggression and selfishness. Yes ma’am I can see that you’re late. And excuse me, sir, I realize that reaching your destination is ever so much more important than my reaching mine. Pardon me for being here. I’m sorry, am I too slow? Ten miles over the speed limit isn’t enough to keep you off of my back bumper? Here, let me signal and pull off. There you go. Now, was that gesture really necessary? Oh I see, it took too long for me to get out of your way! I’ll do it more quickly tomorrow. Of course, that won’t suit your ass either.
             I tell myself as I wait for the opportunity to re-enter traffic, it was probably always this way. When I was a child my dad was usually driving, and then it was his job to deal with it. I was just a passenger. But I know that’s not true. Even in my own lifetime I’ve seen a change, and it’s worsened. I’ve reasoned, maybe it’s just because I’m older, and tiring of it.
            But without mentioning types or brands, take a look out there. There are many more high-end, extremely expensive vehicles on the road. There aren’t fewer high-speed drivers at the elevated fuel prices of today, there are more. The majority of drivers are also using phones. Only a very few are careful enough to pull off to use them.
            It’s a shockingly accurate reflection of changes everywhere, none of them good. It seems to me, very few people give a rats-ass whether the glaciers are melting and sea levels are rising, or that drinking water is being sold the way milk once was, while many don’t even have milk. That the cycle of wildlife worldwide is on a downward spiral, that government, business and financial institutions are becoming indistinguishable. That the utilities run the utility control entities, that graft and money make the rules.
            I’m sure it has nothing to do with the permanent concrete barriers between lanes that prevent migration of wild animals, as their bodies collect along them on the highway. What do we care? Cleaning them up creates jobs. Or with the cops lined up along the road to catch speeders in road-construction areas that haven’t been active for a week. Hey, let’s all just be assholes. That way we can die sooner and make room for the children.
           Don’t even get me started on the children. There’s no way you’d finish this short piece. It does have a bottom line, coming right up.
           I’d like to suggest that we all start paying attention. Martyrdom only serves a purpose if somebody cares. And there are some things, if we’re looking, that deserve a closer look. It all has to begin somewhere. And where will that be?
           Consider, I might have written a hundred more pages about the changes that are needed, to prevent very real things that go on right where you live. Everywhere, it’s increasing government surveillance. And yet, in some places it’s still slavery. Here and elsewhere, it’s actual human trafficking, including of children, and regrettably, not for parenting. Swindle and theft. Terrorism. Drug cartels. Gang warfare, drive-by shootings, rape, muggings, murder. The list could go on and on. And none of those things even touch what humanity is doing to the planet on which we depend for our very existence. As waterways open where the glaciers once were, corporations and governments team up to claim them.
           As I age, I’ve realized there’s something more important to me than even companionship or love. I wonder if there exists anywhere, any man or woman who feels the same?
           It will not be enough for humanity to survive.
           To be worth the effort, we need to begin to deserve it.






                                                                  *****

Loud and Clear

Loud and Clear

An Open Message to One of my Curses


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I have never heard your voice. I don't even know who, or what, certainly not where you are. If you’re anywhere! But you're coming through loud and clear...and I have to say, I have no idea why I should believe you now, if in fact I ever should have.

(Some of the things I write are the purest of fiction, others really aren't, but must be presented as such. This time, I'm not saying.)

The first time you showed up, and I can't say “appeared” because, you didn't - you awakened me while I was yet a child, a very memorable and horrible moment, deep in the dead of night. I didn't know anything at all about you; so of course I did not recognize you. But the effect your visit produced was decidedly negative to an extreme, as I awakened in grief like I’d never before experienced, and in tears. To the best of my recollection I'd had no dream or nightmare before it, and I had no idea why I felt so terrible – but very specifically, for someone who happened to be quite close to me. I remember I was not able to sleep for a while after that. It was so long ago, I don't recall if I slept at all after awakening that night. But awakening thus left a very powerful impression on my young mind.

The occurrence that followed about one month later cleared it up for me. You were prescience, either an unknown power or much-maligned falsehood, perhaps a mental and/or emotional aberration. But I could not deny what had occurred. Our much beloved family dog, who had reached the ripe old age of sixteen and who never ventured near the road, succumbed to the crushing weight of a vehicle.

Had it been the only such event, I might have forgotten about it. But it was not; throughout my teen years you seemed to follow me, as if determined to see to it that I would never be alone. And you had the most fertile of imaginations with which to do your work. I began to see everything in a strangely analytical light. I realized that neither people nor things were ever, ever exactly what they appeared to be. And far worse, because of you, I began to doubt reality. I gradually became suspicious of everyone and everything, and I knew no one around me shared my perceptions. It was very socially debilitating. I became sure that something was wrong, specifically, with me.

At last, however, in spite of you and while still a teen, I mustered my resolve and recovered my grip. I recall the event with clarity. But you did not go away, I simply ceased to fear you. I do not fear you, even now.

In my dreams, in broad daylight while awake, in a semi-awake state, no matter if I was fully occupied or doing nothing more than walking, you came to call. You have always been a problem for me, because for a period of time as an adult I believed many of my imaginings to be prescient thoughts when actually, they were probably not. And yet, I will never know for sure, because I tried to use you. I confronted my closest family members or close friends, asking them to be careful. “Don’t fly for a while, okay?” or “Avoid College Avenue today. Or anyplace near it.” or “Please, stay off the road today. I mean it. Really.” I believe that in most cases, my target individuals listened, because they knew me.

But other than such small things, I might have believed your occupation of my existence was over, until almost thirteen years ago. There were others in my car with me when it happened, and thus there are witnesses, as I told them what I’d just “seen.” You showed me a clear image that definitely was not there, but a clear image nevertheless, of a full-sized passenger jet, moving far too slowly and flying much too low, traveling west. It was a standard grayish-silver aircraft with both red and blue markings, one week before Flight 93 became one of the tragic airliner casualties on 9/11.

I just got up and took a hard look in the mirror. I don’t look like I’m kidding at all.

Tell me, prescient curse, what was the use of that? What information existed there that had the potential to help anyone? If you are a legitimate phenomenon, where is your causality?

And yet...you persist.

Then, at last, I began to write, and everything changed. The stories told themselves in most cases. I was often sure of the ending before I began, in others, I had no idea where it was going. But it was uncannily easy to do. You had a hand in that, didn’t you, prescience?

But if you had always been there when I needed you, I might not have totaled a car. You weren’t. I might have known it was coming before my parents had that accident. I had no idea. Or when my own mother fell ill. Ha, nothing from you.

All of those things were life-changing events. So why the inconsistency? It only creates unwelcome confusion, although frankly, I do appreciate the heads-up, when it counts.

And now, at last, I believe I understand. You will actually never come on-cue. I cannot use you. You will show me something if it’s really, really going to become a big deal to me, and then, only if it suits you. Because you’ve done it again. Yeah, I got it, loud and clear.

There is a stark difference between common worries and an event you’ve shown me. And I dare not tell anyone exactly what it was, because even now I doubt you. I would look like a fool if it didn’t happen. I’m just simply, not telling.

But I will say this: things that have occurred within the past year have shown me what is possible. What I’d thought was one kind of enlightenment was actually a revelation of quite a different kind.

I haven’t told many people about you. Small wonder, right? I’m nuts.

Many years ago I sat and told my mother about the things I was experiencing, and a formerly light-hearted conversation took an immediate turn. Her smile vanished and I thought she was about to advise me to seek some help. Instead, she became dead-serious, and then, after some moments of silence, she softly spoke. She said, “You must be careful never even to imagine anything negative. You can affect what happens.”

I have to say I've never really believed that. I still don’t. That would be a bigger thing than even telekinesis, would it not? And yet...

What I have seen is something I cannot help but want. So now, at last I’ll know, because despite the possibilities, it seems extremely unlikely to me. Strange prescience, you may have stepped in it this time. You shall surely be disproved because of the clarity of it. This was very definitely one of “those.”

So suppose it does happen. Just suppose. What do I do about you then? And if it does, I’ll have one more question. It’s the same one I’ve asked myself since the passing of our family pet. You know what it is, don’t you? It’s a simple question, really.

Do I have you, or do you have me?

********

Three Birds

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      This is an unlikely account of three birds, whose exact species shall not be mentioned. These three birds all happened to be male, which is probably irrelevant. Well, who knows.
      Bird number one decided it would be a good thing to be cool. So he bought himself a new pair of Ray-Bans with money he borrowed from his mom, flew to New York City and sashayed down the street amongst the crowds of people.

      Of course, it didn’t take long at all for a bird on the sidewalk to get stepped-on, new Ray-Bans notwithstanding. He might have learned from the experience, but only the other two birds, who were watching, realized what it meant. Which of course is, even if you actually are cool, nobody really gives a shit .

      Then bird number one decided maybe doing drugs would make him cool. There are certain challenges for birds that choose to do drugs. One is that you have a lot farther to fall if you’re dropping to the street. Another is dealing with pushers. How the hell would they know what you want, if all you can do is chirp? And a lot of those guys are armed, you know? So doing drugs was a bust after a while too. No pun intended.

      So finally he thought, maybe the ticket was gambling. He started out small, playing chicken with guys on motorcycles. Mostly they didn’t notice something coming that was only just so big, which always meant that bird number one lost. He didn’t learn from that, either, and worse, he was now hooked. So he started shooting craps and playing poker, and was forever losing his shirt.

      Bird number two thought that bird number one should have been number two, because most of the time he looked like it. But when you’re number two, he decided, you might as well accept it and make the best of it.

      Bird number two did possess a special talent, which was introspection. He believed with his whole tender heart, surely there must be a reason he was number two, so he took to prayer in an effort to discover why. Of course, there was no clear answer, which caused bird number two to ask almost continuously for forgiveness. But no matter how hard he prayed, he never really felt absolved. So he got pissed off and gave up on prayer, turning instead to taking comfort from ladies of the evening.

      Actually, they kinda liked him. He was a bird, you know? And they almost never treated him like he was number two.

      Bird number three was the smartest of the three birds. If he’d been a mouse, he would have been the second one that gets the cheese. He knew to hang back and to check out what happened to the other birds. And eventually, it paid off. He worked hard, and discovered that the harder he worked, the luckier he got. Birds do have a certain advantage in this area. He found himself a new “bird” every spring and became a daddy many times over. He enjoyed his active life and became the future of avian existence in his area of influence for many decades to come. Mostly, this was because he had decided he could surely do no worse than had the others, simply by being himself.

      Bird number two nearly died of the clap and thus he finally repented, entering seminary on his way to an abbreviated term in the ministry.

      Bird number one hit the lottery, bought himself a new beamer and drove like a complete asshole.


                                                             ***************

My Father’s Orchard

     This Saturday afternoon I clambered into several of the many apple trees in my father’s orchard. It’s what I’ve done for some consecutive Saturdays, to do something good and as much rewarding. Now that the weather is warmer it’s not at all unpleasant; there's a steady cool breeze from the west and the warm spring sun in my eyes when I look up to make the next selective pruning cut. The sweet sounds of songbirds are everywhere. Several large hawks pass overhead, scouting for prey. Dad quips that he hopes they won’t catch the Easter bunny. 
     Writing isn’t what I do to earn my daily bread, at least not yet. Neither is pruning apple trees, but if I had to do it as a part of my living, for sure I could do a lot worse. 
      Fruit growers surely must know they are artisans. They are also farmers of a sort, relying on a good annual crop. They plan their pruning, fertilizing and spraying schedules to coordinate with the weather and the seasons, which vary each year. Spring may come a little late as it has this year, or early, almost certain to be followed by damaging frost if the buds have responded to the warmth. Apple trees are amazingly resilient, but there are limitations when it comes to spring frost. 
      Pruning isn’t at all as easy to learn as one might think. It isn’t just cutting away the thick watersprouts, or “suckers” that has to be done. The amount of new wood a full-size apple tree puts forth in a single growing season is tremendous. Any single new-growth frond that wasn’t shortened slightly, or “headed back,” after one year has forked off into two or three useless watersprouts that probably have crowded their way into other branches. And thinning branches is nothing like cutting hair. Proper thinning is a measured and careful process tempered by an understanding of what configuration will produce the best and largest fruit, with room around the apples to permit sun-ripening. Buds that point downward are headed in the wrong direction, as are buds that point straight upward. Those that will bear and support an apple have sprouted to either side, and there are usually too many of those for the branch to support the weight of so many apples. So it’s a selection process, a hard look at the distribution of branches, and an experienced snip to help prevent overgrowth during the coming season. 
     And this is just about the pruning, not the subsequent thinning of fruit to prevent having too many apples so that they’re undersized. Or about the safe application of pesticides to prevent a myriad of minor maladies, such as apple “rust,” powdery mildew or scabbing that render an apple unsalable. Some years, for every whole apple that goes out for sale, two or three others are consigned to the bushels of “seconds” that will be processed for applesauce, canning or cider. 
     I don’t do all of this, I just know all of this because my father knows it. I grew up amid these fruit trees. Like any outdoor enterprise, some dedication to the end result is required to make you come out into the cold while the buds are still dormant, to try to get a jump on the process. 
     Dad’s orchard isn’t a commercial enterprise anymore. Dairyman, nurseryman, fruit grower, that’s my father. The orchard is the focus of his retirement, and I’d like to see him continue it for as long as he’s happy doing it. So I get out there with him when I can and do as much of the high work as I am able get to, before he does it. I have to be quick, because Dad doesn’t fool around. 
     There are many deer that are resident in the area, so deer damage to apple trees is a major problem. Some of the best and easiest apples to pick might have grown near the perimeter of each tree, but the deer see to it that they don’t. “Pruning apple trees changes your appetite,” Dad observed. “I feel a growing need for a venison burger.”
     He has lots of orchard-based wisdom to offer as well, some of it a bit of stretch. “Take off your hat and throw it at the tree,” he tells me. “If it doesn’t go all the way through, you’re not done.” 
     But it’s also true, once you know what you’re doing you kind of stop thinking about it, almost to the same degree as shifting gears when you drive. You just do it. That’s when the rewards begin, and that’s the source of my last paragraph. 
     Pruning apple trees is good for the soul. It provides time to reflect on the challenges you’re faced with in the world beyond the orchard, an opportunity for introspection, time to think about what you’re doing and to imagine what you could do. It isn’t just me. My father agrees. 
      Thank you, Dad. 

Nothing is Ever Forever

    I won't ask you to get out of your comfortable chair. Just imagine yourself stepping outside and looking around. If you see mountains, it wasn't always that way. If you don't, it wasn't always that way either. Water? It used to be dry land. Dry land? Water.
        You hear this "forever" stuff from people all the time, at weddings, in pop music, on the street if you're listening. You may have heard it or said it yourself. "I will love you forever." "You and me, forever." I suppose it sounds better than "I will love you for a really long time." But use of the word "forever" is truly misplaced. Because nothing at all is forever.
        You name it, folks. Mountains, plains, species, love, life, livelihood. Certainly, youth.
        Get ready, loosen up, think about who you really are. Change is always on the way. Delta-current reality = a constant.
        Depending on whether you know what's coming and how you feel about your current situation, maybe it can't come quickly enough. Then again, maybe the change that comes won't be the one you were looking for.
        But for most of us, whatever sort of cash stream may be feeding us or the relationship that seems to make life worth living, is often in reality, hanging by a thread. An executive or political decision from somewhere else can end the economic health of an area or of a whole city. People die in accidents, or the inevitable changes that happen as people experience life events can also change minds, about who and what things are important, changing in turn the lives of others, often drastically.
        Where I live, people tend to complain about the weather. They say: "If you don't like the weather here, just wait a minute." They believe it's too changeable. I don't think the weather here is bad at all. Hurricanes don't make it inland this far, tornadoes of any size touching down anywhere in the state would be big news. But observing weather is a lesson in life of sorts, because with weather, everything is affected by everything else. It's the same with just about everything, as it turns out.
        So, say something happens, and you've suddenly got a huge problem that you didn't have yesterday. The only thing that will bear you up will probably be your own personal strength. Have you exercised it lately?
        I would be very surprised if there's anyone out there at all who would be virtually unaffected by a revelation that no one actually cares about them, or worse. You just haven't lived until someone tells you something far worse than simply "You ain't shit." Yeah, I've been made to feel that way. Fortunately I've learned that no one has the right to do that to anyone. "Adversity builds character." Crap. It isn't necessary to belittle people to justify your decisions. If you're gonna do it, do it and shut up about it. Live and let live.
        Not so long ago, I came to a very startling realization. I'd thought for some time that I really didn't like people. Maybe I didn't, I don't know for sure and it no longer matters, as I've discovered the reverse is true. It turned out that what I have a problem with isn't people, the problem is leadership, or the lack thereof. The influential, capable self-serving put people in power and we are left out of it. Period.
        But I digress. Take care of yourself, if you don't know how, ask others, work on it, until you find out how. If no one else seems to care about you, you are simply mistaken. It isn't so. Friends of any kind are of great importance.
        And even friends aren't necessarily forever.

Day One: SparkleTown

Day One of my Blogging Experiment: SparkleTown

       I really don't know if it was just another of the strange things that are presently going on in my life, or if this phenomenon was completely real. I'm kidding of course, it was genuine, but honestly, at the same time, surreal. I've never seen anything like it. Ever. All I can say is the sun was well above the mountains as I headed out at 7:50 this morning. I took note of the time because I plan to duplicate my exit-time tomorrow in hope of seeing it again.
      The highway is cut into the top of a high ridge. The nearest town is laid out in the valley below as if you were viewing it from an airplane. However today, the town and the automobiles far below me absolutely sparkled. Sparkled! In broad daylight...white-light flashes, apparently from everything with glass - the motion of my car was no doubt a large part of the effect. I think it had to be that the sun was at the perfect height and angle at that time, angle of incidence equals angle of reflection, so that the directly reflected sunlight was coming right at me. But my little town, not necessarily so pretty in any other kind of light, looked more like Tinseltown than does Tinseltown. Or it might have resembled the hometown of Tinkerbelle (I'm pretty sure she doesn't live there). 
      As this is a lunchtime blog-burst and may never be repeated, I'll stop there. I haven't been writing much lately because of the aforementioned strangenesses, and this is a break-out effort. Not to mention, it was totally indescribable.
                                                                                                                                               -BT