As political as I get

When I was little history was yesterday.  Five minutes ago new became obsolete.  I was born in the 60's.  Because we travelled frequently up and down the West Coasts of both America and Canada I gained a unique perspective on the era and the people shaping it.

 

Never in my wildest imagination did I consider how 40 years later I'd be sharing with my great-nephew and his friends how the 60's was a heck of a lot more than hippies and protestors; sex, drugs and rock and roll. Suddenly I was "the old folk" recounting memories of childhood. More than that I began wondering just what the kids today are being taught. 

 

Three weeks ago I embarked on a 2,000 miles trip from southeastern North Carolina heading west to New Mexico. Although I had carefully plotted my route at the time it did not occur to me what significant locations lay along my path. Then as I approached the North Carolina - Tennessee border road signs began stirring memories of stories heard in my youth. Ah yes, back in the days when I was either trying to stay awake or covertly flirt with a cute boy during history class. 

 

Meaning no disrespect to those who lost their lives but battlefields don't interest me. Think about it, in my lifetime we've always been fighting somewhere. So many places in fact I'm not sure I can list them all. And for that matter, many have undergone one if not several name changes.

 

What did catch my attention was a simple road sign stating the miles to Oakridge Tennessee. 

 

History.  More precisly, a significant neon marker on the timeline of events that has directly impacted every single person on planet Earth - and still does.

 

I had to take the exit. I had to pull over and stop and reflect on events that transpired in that place nearly 20 years before my birth. This was bigger than the 60's. Sitting there along side the road it occurred to me, if not for Oakridge we would not have the prosperity of the 40's and 50's. There would not be a generation known as Baby Boomers. Oakridge is directly responsible altering our language and social structure.

 

When I got to the hotel that night I posted a question on Facebook - and recieved very surprising responses. The question: "the federal government built the town of Oakridge to provide housing and services for workers of what project?"  Bonus question: "name Oakridge's western counterpart where the project was completed and tested".

 

The following day I posted the same questions on Twitter. Save for a few history buffs, the replies were so embarrassingly wrong I removed the questions and responses. Lordy, if this isn't a sad commentary on what is not getting taught in school. I can't imagine that many kids slept through history class. Come on people, there are several movies about this "project". The key word being - project.

 

Oakridge along with it's western counterpart Los Alamos developed the atomic bomb. Overnight America and the rest of the world learned new terms. Words are powerful. Saying the words changed our thinking, and thusly our way of life.

 

Atomic Era. Nuke. Might, as in the Mightiest Nation on Earth. We had the Power!

 

Cold War. Bay of Pigs. Fallout shelter. Descriptions like "Downwinder" crept into our vocabulary. Schools had bomb drills. Everyone knew about the red telephone and the button. Communists, and Socialists were the enemy.

 

There was the promise of cheap electrical power. Designers and Advertisers jumped on the bandwagon. Harnessing the atom opened the door to a bright and shining future. Jobs and prosperity; new fields of science, engineering, medicine - if they could dream it, it was within their grasp. Sure there were naysayers even among those responsible for the era but very, very few listened. America was riding high.

 

For the first time in history a nation's status was determined by it's ability to blast another country "back to the Stone Age."  Those of you old enough will remember that was the most often heard opinion regarding how we should approach Vietnam. Ironically at the same time we feared our enemies would do precisely that to us.

 

I would now like to point out a few ultra important facts. The American people were not asked if we wished to develop the atomic bomb. No citizen went to the polls and cast a vote for the allocation of funds for the Manhattan Project, building of two cities or amassing of manpower and resources. No citizen was given the opportunity to say "yes we should nuke Japan" or "no, the mere threat to nuke them is enough".  Likewise no citizen was given an opportunity to say "I really don't wish to be a part of nuclear cloud dispersal / distribution testing." (Google - Pacific Northwest radioactive fallout tests 50's and 60's)

 

Stop. Go back and read the above paragraph again.

 

Our government made a decision that affected the lives of every person on this planet, not just then but for generations to come. And did so WITHOUT the knowledge and / or approval of American citizens.

 

Looking back I wonder how people might have voted. Would they have realized the atomic bomb was more than a means of swifly ending World War II?  I doubt anyone back then could have imagined how a few short decades later America would apologize for nuking Japan, and that we would be indebt to Japan and China.

 

Because of the discussions with my great-nephew (born in 1995), I firmly believe the 1960's was the last time the average American citizen did anything that altered the course of this country. People of every race and religion came together to say "enough is enough; we don't like what's going on". We are the People. This is our country, our home and our lives. We will have a say!

 

Apparently they did not say enough. Apparently we got complacent. Sometime between Nixon's resignation and Obama's election it seems the American voters became selfish, self-gratification seeking assholes. Is it any wonder ads for mood / performance enhancing drugs run back to back with commercials declaring our entitlement to money, to vacations, to whatever. How is it we have multiple generations asking the same question - what's in it for me?

 

The DEA and multi-agency task forces cannot fix America's drug problem because the drug(s) are legal. Turn on the television and watch the commercials if you don't believe me. Stay tuned long enough and there will be notice of a class action "bad drug" lawsuit. We are entitled to compensation for failing to take responsibility for our actions or lack thereof.

 

As you are getting ready to vote next month there is something else I'd like you to consider about Oakridge. Picture yourself moving into a brand new house.  Your spouse is raking in overtime wages at the Lab. You've got a job clerking at the grocery store. Your son is an usher at the movie theater is the envy of his friends. He gets to watch movies for free. Technically you are living the American dream: job, home and money in your pocket. No one within your earshot better say anything derogatory about America or her government. Ok, so there's some stuff going on that doesn't seem right but hey, you've got more than you dreamed.

 

How did it feel years later when your sons and daughters protested the same government? Were you embarrassed or did you support them? Did you defend their right to speak their mind and challenge authority?

 

See, I'm guessing in the 60's you were still unaware the the primary construction material used at Oakridge was a mixture of concrete and asbestos. Third Law of Physics applies: every good is measured by an equal portion of bad. Simply put - what's in it for me is also the entitlement to be homeless, unemployed, hoodwinked and dead.

 

We have made the government our parent. We have charged them with supplying our every need. We have our hands out like children demanding an allowance.

 

Guess what folks, our govenment is no different than us. It's all about "what's in it for me?"  Just as private citizens overspend themselves into bankrupcy and homelessness, we have given our government the power to do the same thing. Sadly anymore it seems we only wish to hold them accountable for not meeting our whiney demands. Gimme, gimme, gimme. 

 

I was born in the 60's. I'm a huge fan of the freedom of speech. From time to time I still hum the song Signs - there's something happening here and what it is ain't exactly clear. Personally I don't like the direction America is heading. Equalization reduces everyone to mediocraty. It stiffles dreamers and kills aspirations and denounces achievements.

 

Personally I feel America needs a bit of revolution about now. Come Election Day - STAY HOME.  DO NOT VOTE. (Oregonians, do not mail in your ballots.)  If you really want your opinion to matter send the message "none of the candidates are suitable!" 

Exhale. Inhale

The words are strange to my mouth, "I haven't felt like writing". 
The statement is even stranger to my ears.

I've written all my life. Before I knew how to write I scrawled lines of pretend cursive on mom's note pads or any other piece of paper I got my hands on.

I wrote about dreams. I told about places I'd been or something I'd seen that sparked my curiosity. Often I expanded upon interactions with friends and/or animals subconsciously adding plots. Periodically I took inspiration from TV shows and wrote an episode or spin-off. 

As I grew older writing became an emotional outlet. Poetry or prose, it really didn't matter as long as the act of putting pen to paper eased the "too-full, going to burst" sensation in my head. Then when I moved to writing on the computer there came the added bonus of hitting the delete key symbolically eradicating the pain from existence.

Writing has always held a major role in expressing my creative nature. I also: paint, draw, sew, bead and play several musical instruments. While these are great hobbies, they are limited by location, time and space.

This has been a very difficult summer. It has been an extremely sad summer. For the first time in years I've actually wished to be back on OCD meds so my brain was wrapped in layers of cotton. Ok, while that is a true statement, it is not quite the full truth. I have no desire to live in a haze ever again. This has just been one unrelenting summer. I barely had caught my breath and wiped my eyes before the next sad news phone call hit.

Since the end of July I've had to make a conscious effort to breath: inhale, exhale, relax while conducting business. I haven't made it through a day without crying multiple times.

Now here I am days before making [another] major move across country and I should be excited. I can talk a good game. I can pretend there's all sorts of things I'm looking forward to seeing and doing. All the preparations have been made and route west has been mapped. But raw emotions make it difficult to see beyond loss and regrets.

Exhale; blow nose, wipe eyes
Inhale; focus on the horizon

Exhale; accept that I did my best
Inhale; carry the love, leave the regrets

In case you're wondering why I put exhale first it's because when sad things happen one after the other we tend to hold our breaths waiting for the next wave to knock us. You have to exhale in order to inhale. I feel like I've been holding my breath for months. Even though I've been crying everything inside of me is bottled up. So much has happened in secession I'm waiting for another shoe to drop.

Exhale; release what I have no control over
Inhale; grasp opportunity

Exhale; free the emotional log jamb
Inhale; start writing again.

About Holly

The other night I was watching a show on Animal Planet that showcased the antics of two Boxers.  Between bouts of laughter I would reach over and poke Holly.  "Wow does that look familiar!"  Each time Holly responded with "the look".  Due to her being part Great Dane, Holly has mastered the art of looking down her nose.  Believe me when I say the rest of her personality is all Boxer.

Holly was around 6 months old when we found each other.  She was scared of the dark which made it real interesting to take her out to go potty when we lived in the country where there were no streetlights.  Come evening if Holly and I were at opposite ends of the house with the lights off in between us, Holly refused to cross the dark barrier.  Lucky for Holly, I had spent so many years working night, sleeping days that I have problems sleeping in a dark room.  We sleep with the TV on, sound turned down and have nightlights through the rest of the house.  The latter is for Holly.

I had researched Boxers before deciding to get one.  I understood that they are high energy, very intelligent dogs who are prone to mischief.  Despite all information from breeders and trainers nothing truly prepared me for the "human" antics. 

You know that sound you make when you're exasperated?  The first time Holly puffed out her cheeks and let loose a short, quick exhale I thought I imagined it.  Then she got into practicing it on other people when they weren't paying her attention.  Oh yes, talk about positive reinforcement training.  And it encouraged Holly to mimic other human  actions / reactions. 

Holly was about a year old when she discovered she could dial my cell phone.  At the time I was on a limited minute plan.  Can you say OVERAGES!  I was stumped as to how this was happening.  Of course none of the wonderful people Holly was calling bothered to mention it to me until much later. 

One day I was doing laundry and Mom was at the other end of the house frying chicken.  Holly had been napping in the living room.  I looked up to see her trotting towards me carrying something.  Now her carrying things is not normal so curiosity lead me to ask "what do you have?"  Happily Holly brought me a piece of chicken.  Even though it was a boneless, skinless breast I couldn't imagine Mom giving one to Holly.  In response to "where did you get this?" Holly trotted back to the living room, waited for Mom's back to be turned and slipped into the kitchen to ease another piece from the plate on the counter.  To Holly's way of thinking, she had brought me a piece, she had a piece and we were good.  (I put both pieces in a Ziploc labeled for Holly only and stuck them in the freezer for two weeks.  She does not get rewarded for stealing.)

I know people say we assign human characteristics and qualities to our pets like it's a bad thing. All I have to say in response to that is, if it weren't for these human attributes there would be no guide dogs, no service dogs of any kind.  Holly is my constant companion.  She takes care of me and I take care of her.  It seems only natural we would learn from each other.

Meeting Opportunity

Where are you going?

I don't know; maybe Texas, or New Mexico or straight on to Nevada.  Holly (my dog) and I haven't decided yet.  We may not pick a destination until we're on the road.

What are you going to do when you get there?

The same thing I'm doing here.  The beauty of my job is I can do it anywhere as long as I've got Internet connection.  Plus I'm going to work on getting a novel or two published. 

Why are you doing this?

The simple answer is - because I can, see answer above.  The real reason has more to do with opportunity.  North Carolina has been good to us but it's time to move on.  Sometimes your ship makes it to the dock; sometimes you have to go meet it. 

I hate the planning stage.  Making checklists and ironing out details puts my stomach in knots.  Vacations are different, mainly because those have beginnings and ends.  But then, vacations are also a heck of a lot more stressful as you're trying to cram maximum enjoyment into a set amount of days.  Holly and I have the luxury of "when we get there, we get there". 

A lot of my decisions of late are based upon what I don't wish to regret.  I am actually more afraid of spending my last few years on Earth lamenting what I should have done while I had the health to do them, than I am of setting a course without destination or money. 

It is true; life is a mystery. We don't know what will happen five minutes, six months or a year from now.   As long as I remain open to possibilities, opportunity will happen. 

Prime example: while writing this blog I received a phone call from a potential new client.  We chatted; she emailed a contract and now I have to go fill it out.  There is no guarantee how this will translate into dollars.  It might be a little.  It might prove to be a lot. 

Opportunity. 

Heaven is

Dad was a Christian.  He believed upon his death he was going to Heaven where he'd spend eternity with God.  On a side note: Dad was also pretty positive he got to the Pearly Gates and St. Peter would hand over the leash of a Basset Hound.  In Dad's Heaven he'd have a woodworking shop.  There'd be a comfortable recliner in a library.  And his Basset would be welcome everywhere.  Perhaps because Mom refused to let Dad have a dog when he retired he figured God provide one.  Dad's Heaven also included trains and rivers like the Columbia on which he could watch boats and ships. 

If you asked me Dad's version of Heaven sounded a lot like Southwest Washington.  But hey, it worked for him.  Who am I to say if he was right or wrong? 

A few years later when Mom died I arranged her funeral.  Those attending were commanded to wear their most colorful outfits, think Hawaiian print, and to dress casual.  When the officiating pastor remarked he'd feel more comfortable in a suit, I strongly suggested he be wearing new/clean underwear.  Absolutely no one attending the service was to wear somber colors, black or white.  We didn't care if he was a pastor; the suit would have to go.

Mother was an artist.  Traditionally one wears black and white to gallery openings so not to compete with the paintings.  Mourners then don all the color they can for the funeral to celebrate the artist's life.  During her latter years Mom lost the ability to distinguish color.  Her world was reduced to shades of gray.  This was another good reason for the colorful send off.  Mom knew when she got to Heaven there'd be a fully stocked art studio waiting for her.

I buried my brother in a brand new pair of bib overalls and a t-shirt emblazoned with a smart-mouth comment symbolic to his sense of humor.  We made sure there were certain things in his pockets.  Blame Led Zeppelin and the song Stairway to Heaven.  Allow me to misquote "when he gets there he knows the stores will be closed."  My brother had often said that would be his luck.  Therefore we sent him off with everything but the rum to go with the Coke.  I sort of figure if rum is available in his Heaven it's far better quality than what we've got here.

This morning a very dear friend passed away.  Larry once told me his version of Heaven was pretty simplistic.  Heaven is where all animals are safe, happy and well tended.  Years ago some preacher tried telling him Heaven didn't have animals.  Larry said if that was the case, then he didn't want to go there.  How can it be a "better place" without dogs and cats?  Larry knew when he got to Heaven all his pets that preceded him would be waiting.

If Heaven is what we make of it, then Larry went to the same Heaven as my dad.  They're probably out walking their dogs along the riverbank.  In a bit they'll kick back in the library with cookies and milk, their dogs sleeping alongside their chairs.  

For all his years of service in animal rescue, delivering pet food to outlying communities through all kinds of weather so no animal would go hungry, and taking in "just one more" I am certain God came through for Larry. 

Welcome to Heaven,  my friend.  All critters are safe and well-loved.  Enjoy eternity.  Just don't forget the squeaky toy.

Larry 1937 to 2012

Qualified?

Four years ago I was in the middle of writing a sci-fi when my brain went blank.  Three days into watching the cursor blink on the screen, I kicked back in my office, stared out the window and cranked up volume on the speakers.  My Rhapsody play list included a bit of everything but opera and spirituals.  Douglas Spotted Eagle, Tom Petty and Buffalo Springfield; then came the opening strains of Alan Parson's "Turn of a Friendly Card". 

I love this song.  So naturally I'm singing along and suddenly the question popped into my head.  Anyone with a creative mind be you writer, chef or chainsaw artist knows this question.  For most of us it begins "what if". 

A few hours later I had written the first chapter of DESERT.  Then I figuratively put it on the shelf and went back to writing the sci-fi.  Problem solved; I was a happy camper.  The words were flowing faster than I could type.  People around me breathed a huge sigh of relief.  Life was normal once again. 

Months later with the sci-fi completed I returned to this lonely chapter to inquire of female lead "how did you get yourself into that predicament?"  Remembering the song that sparked the idea I set the playback to loop and started writing. 

Now after all the rewrites and head-banging-on-keyboard editing DESERT is being shopped to literary agents.  I find this a very frustrating process.  Allow me to clarify that statement.  I realize this is my debut novel and I've a lot to learn about the industry.  However, there is one question that has popped up that, to borrow a Southern term, is killing me. 

"What makes me uniquely qualified to write this novel?" 

 IF I had written a non-fiction, I would thoroughly understand the question. DESERT is fiction. 

My mother was an artist. She has sold paintings in all of the Americas, Europe and Japan. Believe me, Mom would have gone ballistic had someone asked what qualified her to paint a picture. Even back when she was first forging a name, pity the person who voiced that question. Easily it would have taken the police riot squad, National Guard and a dozen sanitation trucks to deal with Mom going nuclear. And even though she's been dead nine years we'd still be hearing about it.

To be asked how I'm qualified to write makes me feel like instead of the synopsis I should send: high school and college report cards; Mensa test scores showing eligibility and affidavits from my proofreaders. 

What qualifies a person to write fiction?  The obvious answer is imagination. 

Help me out here.  How would you, or did you, answer this question? 

Change the Channel

Back when I was working as a nurse I used to have dreams about driving.  To an extent these dreams made sense as I was young, had a steady paycheck, a nice car and was always heading some place seeking adventure.  Most often in these dreams I'd be cruising down the freeway with a destination in mind.  However, as I approached the exit the ramp would be closed.  Figuring I could take the next exit and circle back, this wasn't a problem.  But the next exit ramp was blocked with large orange and white barrels too.  Continuing on down the freeway I'd start fretting time or the uncertainity of what surface streets to take to get to my destination.  Exit after exit would be closed.  Or I'd be stuck in an inside lane unable to change lanes due to traffic.

I had variations of this dream for years.  Sometimes the setting was rural.  Other times I'd be driving a loop around a city like Seattle or Los Angeles.  I never reached my destination.  The real pisser was, often I could see where I wanted to go from the freeway.

One day my dentist pointed out none of these dreams take place in Portland, Oregon which was where I lived at the time.  He found that interesting.  He theorized Portland was exempt because of how well I knew it.  Portland is an easy city to get around in, there's always another road.  Dr. Jerry suggested the next time I have a driving dream, instead of getting stressed I should alter the setting to Portland or tell me to drive on to Portland.

It took a bit of practise but gosh darn, it worked!  I ceased clenching my teeth and waking up in pain.

My dad used to dream he was falling.  Night after night he'd plunge off a bridge, building or viewing ledge.  Sometimes he'd be falling towards a busy street, or waves breaking on rocks, or the bottom of the Grand Canyon.  Dad would jerk awake before impact.  In complete panic mode he'd first assess he was still alive and then he'd lay awake for hours.

A friend suggested Dad imagine he was flying instead of falling.  Dad tried but once he was falling and terror set in he found it difficult to break into the dream.  Then, courtesy of a cartoon, Dad discovered the trick.

While his method did not halt Dad from having the dreams it did put an end to the panic.  And it drove Mom nuts for the next thirty years.  What did he do?  At the point in the dream as he is plunging over the edge Dad first used his hands to turn his body so that he was falling feet first.  Then he flapped his feet like he was swimming until he returned to the ledge or bridge or rooftop. 

I know a lot of people, myself included, who use the "change the freaking channel!" method to break out of bad or stressful dreams.  With television being a major part of our lives, this is amazingly easy.  You don't like what you're watching - change the channel.   

Our brains are wonderful things. They will latch onto the absurd.  My friend Shirely yells "ollie, ollie, oxen free" to get out of scary dreams.  A big Star Trek fan, Josh orders the holodeck computer to end program.  Another friend discovered merely saying "this is dumb" works for her.  Rosemary gets a bit more creative.  She evokes the power of the word "Calgon".  Remember the commercials "calgon, take me away"?  I like it.  It doesn't work for me but I still like it.