Kolymbari, Crete, Greece
Written Winds Tea, October 8, 2008
Conditions: cool, windy, and clear at eventide
and a half moon in the sky – south over Africa.

CAT

Alone on my porch in the moonlight. A large black cat walks silently up the stairs, jumps lightly onto the balcony wall, sits down, and considers me. I consider it. But I neither move nor address this surprise visitor. Tolerance is the best I can offer a cat. It is free to come and free to go. It is just a cat to me.

It has never been my way to project anthropomorphic qualities onto cats. They are not small, four legged, furry semi-people with inscrutable expressions on their faces. I do not call them, pet them, feed them, talk to them or encourage them in any way. Usually they mind their business and I mind mine.

Some cats find my neutrality troubling. They will rub themselves against my legs and even jump up into my lap. When I do not respond, they abandon me. It is just as well. I am allergic to cat hair. When I sneeze, they flee as if assaulted. It is neither their fault nor mine. It is just the case.

But this large black cat does not stir from its place. It stares at me. I stare at it. When it blinks, I blink. Stare and blink. Perhaps it will wander off on its way. But no, the cat lies down - still staring. And blinking now in that special way of cats –a slow double squint - a wink with both eyes. What does this mean? If I do this to people they find it mildly alarming. If this cat was the size of a leopard its slow-motion squint/wink might be a sign that it is considering me for dinner. Unintimidated, I squint/wink back.

Time passes.

This is a living being, I think to myself. I am a living being. Squint/Wink.
It can hunt and take care of itself. It can see and smell things I cannot. It can go where I cannot. For those things it is worthy of my respect. It does not need me – or even seem to want anything from me. Squint/wink. Deep in its primitive wiring it must think I am edible, but, all things considered, not palatable. Squint/wink. What is it thinking? Why is it here? What does it expect of me? Squint/wink.

I have been alone most of the day and have not spoken a word to anyone. But my mind has been busy, churning thoughts and ideas like laundry in a washing machine. Without intention, I begin musing aloud to the cat:

“I have been reading a book entitled ‘Sex, Lies, and Handwriting.’ I bought it in desperation during a four-hour wait in the Athens airport. It promises ‘shocking revelations’ about my friends and me through unlocking the secrets of handwriting. What I have learned troubles me.”

Squint/wink.

“I have discovered similarities with the handwriting of serial killers, axe murderers, the Boston Strangler, Jack the Ripper, two cannibals, and Adolph Hitler. Do you think I should be concerned? Do you think that by altering my handwriting I can avoid suspicion?”

Squint/wink.

“Would you be interested in some of the random facts lodged in my brain?
For example, Bloemfontein is the capital of the Orange Free State in South Africa. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. The Admiral Graf Spee was a German battleship scuttled off the coast of Montevideo. The term blue-stocking first referred to London literary friends of Benjamin Stillingfleet who always wore blue hose. Cochineal dye, a red used in women’s lipstick, comes from the blood of insects which infest prickly pear cactus. Women use approximately 5 feet of lipstick every year. Pohada is a Czech word referring to a contented state of mind. Jsem v phohada. I’m in pohada. This is my condition for the time being.”

Squint/wink. And yawn. (Is the cat bored?)

“Perhaps I should explain the state of the American economy, the policies of the Bush administration, and the way Americans go about electing a president? Or tell you how once, when I was eight, I dipped a cat’s tail in turpentine and set fire to it. I can still imitate the sound the cat made as it ran away. Perhaps it is that sinister tendency that lurks in my handwriting.”

Enough. The cat yawned again. Stood up. Stretched first its front legs, then its back legs. Jumped down off its perch, and walked away down the stairs as silently as it first came. I know the cat does not understand my words. Perhaps it sensed a shift in mood from the tone of my voice. The Czech word for this is litost – a state of confused despair.

On the edge of that swampy line of thinking, I yawned, stood up, stretched, and went to bed in a state of thambos – Greek for a confused state of mind sometimes best addressed with a good night’s sleep.

I have not seen the cat since.

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Kolymbari, Crete, Greece
Written Sunday, October 5, 2008
Conditions: cool, blustery, mixed clouds and sun and rain -
whitecaps on the sea, with the wind out of the northeast.

ARRESTED – WITH POMEGRANATES

Whipping along on National Road #1 at racing speed, playing dodge-em with traffic, ignoring lane markings, and working one’s way up past any vehicle in front of you just for sport: This is standard Cretan driving practice. A Cretan man will get no respect from other drivers if he lollys along on the edge of the highway driving like a ya-ya (grandmother). And I, not wanting to be considered anything less than a Cretan man worthy of respect, am playing the game in my black rental Toyota shaped like a speeding bullet. Varooom!

Suddenly. Out of the bushes alongside the road steps a man uniformed in silver helmet, tight black leather jacket, high black boots, masked behind sunglasses and armed with a pistol. He gestures: PULL OVER AND STOP. Motorcycle policeman. Uh-oh.

“Greekity-Greekity-Greek.” he says.
“Parakalo, signomi,” I say, “Thin milao Hellenica.” (Please forgive me, I do not speak Greek.)
“No problem. I speak the English. You have been arrested for speeding.”
“Oh.”
“Your papers please.”
He takes my passport, my driver’s license, and my car rental papers.
“Wait with my colleague,” he says. Another man in black carrying a gun steps out of the bushes and frowns at me. The policeman with my papers straddles his motorcycle, cranks its mighty engine, and roars away in the direction of Kastelli – where there is a police station and a court and a judge.

For thirty minutes I sit and wait. And think.
The Greek police are notoriously harsh. They will find out about me and everything I have ever done that is wicked. He is going to bring the paddy wagon. I will be pulled from my car, handcuffed, beaten carefully so as not to draw blood. Then I will be carted away and thrown into solitary confinement. By night I will be deported to Iran where I will be held hostage as a terrorist working for the CIA. I will be tortured. I will confess everything. Finally I will be cut up into small parts and thrown out into the desert, where buzzards will pick my bones clean and beetles will consume my bones. Captain Kindergarten will never be heard from again.

One is inclined to be somewhat paranoid when detained by the police, no matter for what, no matter where. Busted. They have you in their power.

I wait. And wait. And wait some more.

Slowly my thoughts return to normal.
Why was I in such a hurry? I am in Crete, for god’s sake. There is nowhere I must be and nothing I must do. It is a beautiful day in early October. The sea is out there – the olive trees are over there – the sky is blue – the air is warm – and in the yard of that nearby house there is a tree hanging heavy with ripe pomegranates – the first true sign of fall. The pomegranates are not just red – but a combination of egg-yolk yellow, sunrise orange, cyclamen pink, sunset magenta, and geranium scarlet. I would not have noticed the beauty of the pomegranates if I had not been arrested and forced to sit still by the side of the highway. I imagine the carmine red of their juice. Grenadine syrup. The color of my fresh blood. This will be my last lovely memory before my miserable life comes to an end in Iran.

Suddenly my reverie is shattered by the rumbling presence of the motorcycle pulling up beside my car. It is my main man in black. He is smiling.
“Here are your papers, sir. You are free to go. I warn you: Stop driving like a Cretan, or else . . .”

Or else? What? Or else they will catch me again and send me to Iran?
No. Or else I will miss what cannot be seen by a man in a hurry? Yes.

“Epharisto poli – para poli,” I say. (Thank you – very much.)
How can I explain that it is not for being let off with a warning that I am thanking the policeman. No. It is for stopping me. For making me sit still. For giving me the pomegranates.

Turning off the main road, I took the long, slow way through the narrow back roads of deep Crete. Through the farms and villages. Noticing the pomegranates all the way home. 

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Seattle, Washington - where it’s cool and cloudy and fall
Written September 19, 2008

NEWS:
“What on Earth Have I Done?” - my most recent collection of essays and stories - has just been published in paperback by St. Martin’s Press and should be available soon from most bookstores and Amazon.

My novel - “Third Wish” - is now in production in English, and will be available in February as a two-volume set, exclusively from Amazon, part of the contractual package that includes availability before Christmas by electronic download for their Kindle™ device.

On Sunday I leave for a series of speaking engagements (not public) on the east coast, winding up in Atlanta for the 25th anniversary celebration of Tree Climbers International. Then to Crete, back to Moab, and finally returning to Seattle in early November.

There are two public appearances coming up - one near Denver at the Mile Hi church in Lakewood, Colorado, on Friday, Oct. 17. And the other in Madison, Wisconsin on Friday, Nov. 14 - details and tickets. available from the First Unitarian Church of Madison.

Travel always fuels my journal and story writing, but getting things up on the website is a little higgledy-piggledy because I don’t travel with a laptop. Nevertheless, new material will get posted here from time to time over the next 8 weeks, so check in.

POSTCARDS FROM THE ROAD - in September

TULALIP INDIAN RESERVATION - northwest Washington State. Here’s a view of the tribe’s gambling casino and hotel-and-spa. A multi-million dollar Las Vegas level operation. Just out of the picture is a humongus shopping mall with outlet shops of famous name brands. It all belongs to a native-American community that was at the bottom of the cultural and economic heap in this neighborhood only a few years ago. Now the tail wags the dog. Big money, honey. The annual fund-raising banquet of the United Way of Snohomish County was hosted this year by the Tulalips - a bit of a twist on the Thanksgiving meal of American history.

As part of the perks of my being asked to be the guest speaker at this occasion, I was invited to spend the night in the hotel. And was given a tour of the high-roller suites. If you lose enough money at the gambling tables, you get the use of the accommodations. Here’s a picture of one luxury accommodation that included a full bar, a pool table, sexy brown robes, a bathroom you could hose down a pickup truck in, and a TV screen big enough for a drive-in movie. And great authentic Salish Indian art.

The chairman of the tribal council was a large, handsome, easy-going former fisherman who spoke eloquently at the breakfast about his tribe’s traditional values of generously sharing assets with one another and the community. He said “We have always believed in the United Way - that there is no way on for the world unless we are united.”

AMISH PRAYER FLAGS

This is a photograph taken the next day - where I had taken the day off to drive out into the rolling farmland near Fort Wayne, a town in northeast Indiana. This is Amish country - a landscape dominated by the white houses and barns of a people who live simply, without electricity or gasoline. Since they don’t use automatic washers and dryers, their laundry is strung up in the sun to dry. Long lines of white sheets, many shades of blue clothes - all blowing in the morning breeze reminding me of Tibetan prayer flags - flying in the wind as a sign of mutual respect for their version of the focused religious life.

The Amish go about in horse-drawn buggies. I followed along behind several, admiring the well-kept vehicles, the fine horses, and the simple dress of the drivers. One buggy was driven by a young woman, with three little black-bonneted girls hanging over the back, giggling and smiling at me.
And one buggy was whipping along, the horse trotting at traveling speed, and the young man driving leaning back in his seat without a care in the world. Or so I thought. Until he took out his cell phone.

No, I don’t have any answers to the questions I - or you - might have.

HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN

Weather scrambled flights from Fort Wayne through Chicago and back to Seattle. So an extra night in a hotel in Indiana and an extra day playing roulette with the airlines, standing in lines at ticket counters, and running through an airport to make a flight, only to sit in the plane on the ground while lightning shut down O’Hare.

These interruptions of a smooth way home are tests of one’s inner guru. I admire the priestly calm of the airline employees who must deal with tired, frustrated, and irritated passengers who act as if the agent behind the counter was personally in charge of weather and planes.

I try to help in a small way by employing my secret weapon: a red rubber nose. When I wear it an amused bubble of calm seems to form around me. People loosen up and talk to me. The nose does wonders for the morale of ticket agents, and makes a humane connection between me and flight attendants. The airlines ought to pass out red rubber noses on chaos flights instead of salted nuts.

And I arrive home feeling amused instead of abused.

No, I haven’t yet had the courage to wear it through TSA security.
But I’ve thought about it.

The nose is the first thing I pack when I travel.
In fact, I am wearing it now as I write to you.
You see? It made you smile.

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Seattle, Washington - where it’s cool and cloudy
Written the second week of September, 2008

SORTING SNAPSHOTS

This week a friend complained of the onerous task of going through all the pictures he had taken over the summer. He felt a need to find the good shots and put them in order. A task he was dreading. There were thousands of photographs. Thousands. From his cell-phone camera and digital camera and video camera. Thousands. And, meanwhile, he’s still taking more pictures.
He’s retired. Now he’s making a new career of self-frustration.

His relentless image-accumulation costs him plenty wampum, depresses him, and makes him feel guilty over not finishing the task he set for himself. “These pictures are a pain in the butt,” he says, “but someday I’ll be glad and my grandchildren will thank me.” Well, I hope so, but I don’t think so.

He’s an old friend. So I nod and mutter “I understand” as if I did, or as if I had a life crisis of a similar severity. In truth it’s hard for me to empathize. Being a mechanical misfit when it comes to cameras and cell phones and even toasters, I solve his problem by not having it in the first place.

But I do take pictures. Consciously collect memories in mental images somewhere in the raw meat between my ears. There are moments I want stored in the museum of my mind where I can find them when I want to remember who I am and why I go on with my life. While I don’t invite friends over for a power point slide show of what I did this summer, from time to time I try to describe an image as a way of asking, “Did anything like this happen to you? And the likely answer is that you could match me picture for picture. No machinery required - except imagination.

GREEN SUMMER SURPRISE: Here’s a picture of an old man with a slight grin on his face, raised eyebrows, and a twinkle in his eyes. He’s standing in the middle of the community garden I walk through most mornings. We talked in April, when the cold wet spring had delayed his planting tomatoes. Now a cool, damp summer has faded into fall and his plants hang heavy with a fine crop of bright green tomatoes that will not ripen this year.
“Too bad. Guess these are compost,” I say.”
“Oh, no. Fried green tomatoes with parmesan cheese,” he says. “And green tomato salsa, pickled green tomatoes, and even green tomato guacamole.” He finished his inventive list with this: “And you can make green tomato juice in the blender, strain it, pour it over some ice in a glass and add a couple of shots of vodka. I call it the Green Summer Surprise.”
I think that’s why he’s grinning in the picture. He’s already a couple of shots into his tomato juice. I thought the fruit-jar in his hand was just Koolaid.

SLAM DUNK GOOD DEED: This photograph is of a young woman as she turned up my driveway and saw me. She has tears in her eyes. But she’s smiling. Earlier in the day I found her wallet in the street. Her driver’s license gave a nearby address, but when I knocked on the door I got no answer. So I left a note saying, “Call this number and I will make you very happy.”

While she was in a mad panic searching the streets of Queen Anne hill I was sitting on my porch drinking coffee and savoring the thought that in a short while I would make somebody’s day. It’s not often that I am so confident that what I do will have that effect. Slam dunk.

Turns out she was chasing after her child who had gone off riding without his bike helmet. And this was not the first time she had lost her wallet. Her husband reminded her of that. So she’s feeling stupid and mad and anxious.
The photograph was taken in that delicious moment when her anguish drained away and was replaced by relieved gratitude. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said. “Believe me,” I said, “The pleasure was mine.”

FREE: This picture is in vivid color. The back-story is that people in my neighborhood seem to have forgone the hassle of garage sales. When cleaning out garages or basements or attics, or when they have something they want to get rid of that’s too big to move, they put it out on the curb in front of their house, marked with a sign: “Free” - and somebody comes along and takes it. One man’s trash is still another man’s treasure.

In front of one house was a beat up old couch - the color of green tomatoes, actually. Also a floor lamp with a pink shade. And several boxes of used clothes. And the sign -“FREE!”

When I came back by an hour later the whole pile had been plundered by two little girls - seven or eight years old. Used clothes were scattered around, and the girls were sitting up on the couch like two babes on a yacht. One was wearing a woman’s black and white polka dot dress and the pink lampshade for a hat. Another had on an old yellow bathrobe and gold high heels. She was holding the battered remains of an umbrella over her head - the fabric was gaily floral. They were singing, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and paid no attention whatever to me as I walked by across the street.

Somehow the sign that said, “FREE” applied. They were. I was tempted to join them - rummage through the boxes of clothes and find a costume and sit there on the couch as uninhibited as they. I know the song, too.

SINGING: This next picture is a little hard to puzzle out because it was taken in the dark of a movie theater. On the screen is the film version of the stage musical, “Mama Mia.” Starring Meryl Streep. With the lively music of ABBA. This is the new sing-along version of the movie. The man in the photograph is singing along. He came to do that. This is the seventh time he has seen the movie.It meets his criteria for a good film - singing, dancing, laughing, and the implication of romantic sex off screen - with a happy ending. No explosions or guns or violence or gross nudity or cruelty. Why pay good money to see what’s in the news every day? His friends think he’s becoming a silly old fool. He doesn’t care.

The man is me. Singing along. Taking a reliable antidote for my own cynicism, sadness, and confusion. For a couple of hours I am “Taking a Chance” on a “Dancing Queen.” I know how the movie ends. Happy. That’s another reason I’m present. There has to be a happy ending somewhere, even if it’s only in the movies.

REAL LIFE: This photograph is of the face of an old and dear friend - the only one who would go to “Mama Mia” and sing along with me. The expression on her face is solemn - barely containing the memory of pain she’s just shared with me.

It’s a story of eight months of promise and one day of tragedy. She was going to be a grandmother last December. Her only daughter’s first baby was due any time. But it was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around its neck and foot. It strangled itself. Perfect little girl, otherwise.
I’m stunned into tearful silence.
My friend has just described how the family dealt with the death - held the baby, named it, and cremated it. My friend is strong. And so is her daughter, who is pregnant again. The look on my friend’s face expresses deep sorrow wrapped in high hope. She will read what I’ve written here. I want her to know I have her photograph. I’m inspired when I look at it.

And then - got up from where we were having a glass of wine, and went into the theater to enter the world of imagination - to sing along and laugh. Here’s a picture of my friend watching Merl Streep paint her daughter’s toenails, holding her close in her lap. My friend is smiling.

TONIGHT: Here’s another picture taken in the dark - earlier tonight. It is the same man - me - sitting out in the cool night of early September, watching a half moon go down in the western sky. If the man looks a little stupefied, it’s because he is recovering from having eaten a bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, and a chocolate malt.

Dietary supplements are all the rage these days. Once a week I put a little additive in my tank. Who is to say it is not good for me? Makes me happy, contented, and at peace with the world. Doesn’t come in a pill or a powder. A small happy ending to a day.

As curator of the museum of my mind, I keep these images - the light and the dark - the heavy and the evanescent - the sad and the joyful - and trust you know why because you do the same.

Enough for now. This is hit-the-road-day for me. I’m headed off to the airport to catch a plane to Phoenix to make a speech. And then in and out for awhile for other speaking engagements. The website postings will be erratic. But I’ll be back - to show you pictures from my trips.

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Seattle, Washington - where it’s cool and cloudy
Written the first week of September, 2008

SALLY FORTH SLOWLY

That’s an archaic expression. One of its meanings is to venture out from a defensive position. In my case, it means rising up out of my morning foxhole where I’m hunkered down drinking coffee and trying to wake up. Some days have slow starts. But there’s a fine day out there in the making - as soon as the early fog burns off. The switch on the wall of the world marked “September” has been thrown to the On position. Time to sally forth.

If you could see my kitchen this morning you would have a clue or two as to why my sallying forth is in sloth gear. The remains of a fine meal are right where they were left last night. Two crumpled blue napkins. Dessert spoons in blue-and-white bowls where once there was coconut sorbet and a mix of peaches and mangos. Two glasses empty of the zinfandel they contained. Two smaller glasses now empty of rainwater Madeira.

Still on the stove are the pan where summer squash and corn was sautéed - and a pot where rice noodles were cooked. The smell of fresh pesto lingers in the room, mixed with the smoky fragrance of candle-wicks after they are blown out.

It’s not that I’m a slob or too lazy to clean up the kitchen after a guest leaves. Not at all. I usually leave my kitchen just as it was because I want to reinforce and revisit the memory of a lovely evening.

I want that pause when I come down in the early morning light - the pause when I recall preparing that meal - recall turning off the lights and lighting up the candles - recall catching the hand of my guest and saying “The best blessing a meal can have is good company.” - recall the first tastes of the meal, and the second glass of wine and the last.

The memory flash lasts only a moment. But I cherish that moment. I want to savor it. It is the true dessert for a memorable meal.

In that mood, I sally forth. The dishes can wait.

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Seattle, Washington
Written in the last week of August, 2008.

NEWS

1. NOVEL - An agreement has been reached with Amazon to make my novel, Third Wish, available via their Kindle electronic download program in time for the holidays. Amazon should be posting the details in September on their website, where information about Kindle is available now. The print edition of Third Wish is in production and will be available in February through Amazon. Onward!

2. BACK TO SCHOOL - On September 3 I have the honor of addressing the assembled student body of the John Hay Elementary School - across the street from my house. I’ve often written about the school and what I learn as its neighbor. And many fine memories of my childhood are associated with Back to School, so I’m as wired up for this privileged encounter as I was long ago. What shall I wear? What version of a lunch bucket shall I get? What food to bring? And, of course, I will need new school supplies as soon as possible. Don’t need a ruler, though. I still have mine from elementary school. But it’s an old ruler. Time for a new one. But I can hear the voice of my mother, “When they change the length of inches you can have a new ruler.” An inch still an inch. My ruler still works.

3. FAMILY DEVELOPMENTS - Youngest grandson’s voice cracked and changed in one week this summer. He’s almost 13, starting 7th grade, and taller than his mother. Suddenly he’s very talky - taking pleasure in using and hearing his new voice. Other signs of oncoming teen-hood: Two showers a day, hair gel, I-pod, and being as concerned in deciding what to wear back to school next week as is his grandfather.

4. MORE FAMILY DEVELOPMENTS - Youngest grand-daughter, 11, sister of the young man just mentioned, has been visited by the breast fairy over the summer. Time for a training bra, navel jewelry, and kitten heels. Wooha! She is my fashion adviser. Says I need a “hoody” and “bags” and “flips” for my back to school day. (A sweatshirt with a hood and cargo shorts with 10 pockets and flip-flop.) Why not? Imagine our shopping experience . . .

5. SPEAKING OF IMAGINATION - Imagine that you miss getting good mail so much that, on a whim, you signed up for your own private box at a nearby mail-handling store. Imagine that you decided to send yourself mail from time to time as you traveled around. Interesting stuff. Funny cards. Invitations. Ransom Notes. Letters of commendation. Imagine that you can enjoy doing this because your mind is so scattered that in a few days you will forget what you sent. Imagine that when you do remember that you have real mail and go to your box you are truly surprised. Wow! Look at all these envelopes and packages! And since you sent the stuff, you know it will all be good news. At least somebody loves you and thinks about you. Even if it’s only you. There’s no shame in this. It’s not a site to receive pornography or espionage or an illicit lover’s perfumed letters. You may wish it was, but No. Just a wiggy way to amuse yourself. So far so good.

Imagine this is your secret. Nobody but you knows about the box or the box number. And then. You go to your box, not expecting anything because you think you’ve got everything you sent you, but then, you’re not sure because you can’t remember. So you check. And the box is full of mail for you - letters, post cards, little packages. Imagine your surprise. Not a single piece of this mail looks familiar. Unless you’ve really lost your mind and started disguising your own handwriting, or unknowingly been traveling out of town overnight, you did not send you this mail.

Imagine the daze you walk away in. Somebody knows your secret. How?
Who? And why have they chosen this way of entertaining you? You could handle hate mail or dirty mail - especially if you knew the who and why.
But clever, anonymous, playful mail that makes you laugh and smile. Imagine what you would do next.

Would you play detective and try to discover your patron? Would you demand of the store that they explain the leak in your secret pipeline?
Would you take a wild guess and start flinging foolish mail at several suspects as a way of saying “Gotcha!”

Walking home from my mailbox with all these thoughts jumbling around in my head - with a second batch of great mail from my benefactor - I said outloud to myself, “Fulghum - do nothing. Be pleased. Enjoy.” Good advice.

But I did decide to do something. To tell this story on my website. As a way of saying to my kind and clever benefactor - I’m grateful for the foolish joy. 

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Seattle, Washington
Written in mid-August 2008

AUGUST

Intensive tango is over for me for the summer. A strong festival and two performance evenings of Tango Cabaret have zipped by. As I write I gaze across the room and smile at my dancing partner.

Louise: Orange-red hair, pink dress, gold shoes, scarlet lipstick. With an enigmatic, enchanting Mona Lisa smile on her expressive face.

Louise, I regret to say, is in fact a full-size lady orangutan. A stuffed animal. We danced together at the cabaret. She follows well. I could have easily made some very flashy moves with Louise. Swung her around my neck, thrown her up in the air or slid her between my legs. Like the professional dancers from Argentina did in the cabaret show.

In my role as master of ceremonies, I did say to the audience, after some spectacular dancing by the Argentinians, that the Surgeon General of Argentina asked me to warn that tango dancing could be dangerous to your health. You should not try some of the flashier moves made by the professionals unless an aid car and a medic were standing by.

Or, of course, unless your partner is a stuffed orangutan. (Louise is smiling.)

Less than three weeks before September. This part of August always has touches of nostalgia and tension in it. Already there are memories of the summer of 2008 in the scrapbook of my mind. Already the far off Olympics are underway. Already the days are noticeably shorter. Already the fiercest heat of summer is past. Already the list of things I was going to accomplish this summer has been revised by reality.

Why is it I think the three months of summer are going to be longer than any other three months of the year? And I will be more efficient and energetic?

I did actually manage to triage and reorganize my basement - because it was the only cool place in the house during a mini-heat wave. And moving the boxes of stuff as far as the garage is, despite the opinion of others, progress.
Next summer I will clean out the garage. These things take time.

Already the incoming mail and calls and e-mails aimed at me in my office are about September and the fall. People are back from vacation, getting geared up for an energetic plunge into busyness. Immediate reply required.

No. Not me. Not quite yet. There are still the late summer farmer’s markets to attend - sweet corn and tomatoes and late peaches and melons and wild salmon are in season. County fairs and music concerts at the zoo.  A parade or two. The lake is finally warm enough to swim in. And the evenings soft enough to sit outside in lantern light and talk with old friends visiting from out of town. There’s no reason to run for the work train of the world just yet.

Though I slop along looking back over my shoulders at oncoming September, the sanest voice in my head reminds me: there are still days to go. September will come, no matter what. And running to meet it is not quite as fine a plan as strolling in its inevitable direction. One is always free to choose one’s attitude and one’s pace and one’s focus.

The last summer full moon rises up on the 16th.
I have reserved seat tickets for the performance.

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Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah

Written in early July, 2008

Just a note to tell you that the production process for the English language version of my novel, Third Wish, is in high gear. The actual publication date is not yet firm, but as soon as I know, I will publish the details here. Meanwhile:

THE CLOSING OF THE MILL

This is an invisible slide show.
A mental power-point presentation.
Imagine.

1. On your screen is a photograph of an active sawmill in south central Oregon near the whimsically named little town of Drain. A blue-highway, blue-collar crossroads in the valley of the Uumpqua River where it winds through the Coast Range before emptying into the Pacific Ocean at Reedsport. This is the setting for Ken Kesey’s fine novel, Sometime A Great Notion. The photograph was taken 30 years ago.

As you can see, the mill yard is full of machinery – D-8 Cat tractors, logging trucks, log loaders, and the randomly parked collection of pickup trucks belonging to the workers. Across the way, logs are being rolled from trucks into the mill pond. Men with spiked boots and long poles are moving the logs toward the chain-way that pulls the logs up into the mill, where they are debarked and shoved forward into giant gang-saws. Somewhere inside the mill, finished boards are stacked, then lifted up by fork lift and hauled out to the huge drying yard that extends far out of this picture.

The smoke you see is steam from the boiler that drives the machinery. If you could smell the scene, your nose would tell you the wood is fir.  The great mounds of chips and sawdust in the foreground are used to fire the mill’s boilers.

2. Here’s a second slide – taken ten years later. The mill is active, but not today. All is still. No workers in sight. I don’t know why. Holiday? Strike? Shortage of logs, perhaps? The pond is only half full. The stacks of drying lumber seem fewer in number.

3. Here’s a third slide. A sign says: “Mill Closed – No Trespassing”. The mill is not only closed, but seemingly abandoned. No stacks of lumber. No sign of life. The glass windows in the mill office are broken. Only rust and weeds are at work. And there are no logs in the pond. The nearby woods are clear-cut of trees. The mill’s days are over.

4. A last slide. The sawmill has been torn down, the machinery scrapped, the land bulldozed flat and seeded with green grass. Wild flowers bloom, and ducks inhabit the now-quiet pond.

These pictures are not a nostalgic documentary of the coming and going of the timber industry. Not an environmental impact statement, either. Nor an elegy for the human depredation of the earth.

What I’ve written is an elaborate metaphor. About writing. Mine. Only time will tell how accurate the analogy may be.

For as long as I can remember stories have been dumped into the millpond of my mind in endless supply. The idea-logs have been hauled up into my sawmill, cut into word-boards and assembled into structures to be used by others. It seemed out of the question that I could not go on forever. I could not not write. Writer’s block had never been an issue. To the contrary, I assumed I had a permanent case of logorrhea – an inability not to babble on.

This June, at the end of my 70th year I realized, I was no longer writing.
The mill seemed to be shut down – at least temporarily – as it has before from time to time. As the days and weeks have passed on by, I notice that the urge to produce words had stopped. The mill seems to have closed.

When I checked the mill pond. There were no logs floating in it.

Instead, the desire to make art again came as a flood. On the spur of the moment I came down here to southeastern Utah to my studio to do nothing but paint.

Come. I’ll show you. Follow me down the hallway stairs.

On the entrance wall you see that I’ve written Green! Green! Green!
Further on you see that three work tables are covered with scraps of the color green – cuttings from magazines, sample cards from paint stores, and paper smeared with the greens I’ve mixed up for a palette.

In the next room you will see nine canvasses of three sizes – the dominant color on each is green. I don’t know why. I don’t care why. I’ve never painted much green before. My green period seems to have come. The content of each painting is still in progress. As is the wordless conversation between me and the paint and the canvas.

This making of visual art is a private affair for me. Not for a show or for sale. For sanity and pleasure and a special kind of joy not unlike what a kindergartner feels when recklessly splashing color around on an easel. Remember?

The only thinking I’ve done is about some words pinned to one of my easels.

“The grass is not greener on the other side of the fence.
The grass is greener where it is watered.
When crossing over fences, carry water.
Or stay where you are and tend the grass there.”

So there you have a round about answer to the questions from readers of this website: Where’s Fulghum? What’s he doing? Where’s the writing?

He’s into green - watering his grass.
The sawmill may be closed.
Meanwhile, he’s very happy.

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Seattle, Washington
Written in June, 2008

COUPLE QUANDRY

Do you do this: Stare in awe and wonder at a couple walking by - a couple of unlikely mis-matched ill-builts - and think, “What on Earth do they see in each other?” Yes?  Me, too. Nonstop. We examine the passing exhibition of the human species as if we were the judges in an ongoing State Fair livestock competition. Couples, especially. “Ohmygod, look at them!”

Many’s the time in the days when I was a parish minister when an appointment was made to discuss wedding plans and I would look up in astonishment at the couple when they came into my office and think, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

I had the same experience with the appearance of my teenagers’ first steady boyfriend or girlfriend. “What the hell . . . ?”

Fat with thin. Ugly with gorgeous. Old with young. Weird with straight.
Smart with stupid. Zebras with orangutans, a moose with a Jersey cow, a giraffe with a warthog. And on and on and on. You know. In fact, you may even be part of such a couple. (Though you’re probably the last to know it.)
It’s a mystery - the Couple Quandary.
Not only does love seem blind, but also deaf and dumb and stupid and twisted, and hopelessly hopeful as well. At least from the outside.

This profoundly original insight is a prelude to telling you of today’s sighting: A couple walked toward me on Queen Anne Avenue. About the same age - mid-thirties, maybe.  Holding hands. Laughing. One was at least six feet six inches tall, athletically healthy, short black hair, well dressed, and well-proportioned. The other was five feet tall at most, likewise in great physical shape, tanned, very fit, and quite handsomely dressed.

They seemed blissfully delighted to be in each other’s company, and walked at that casual pace people use to wander about in art galleries. No rush. No cell phones or I-Pods or dog or baby stroller. A couple. Together.

(You know I’m shamelessly leading you on. But wait for it . . . )
The big one - was a woman - very feminine - quite pretty.
The little one - was a man - very masculine - quite handsome.

My mind went wild.
What was he to her? Her lunch? Her jockey? Her substitute for a pet?
What was she to him? His bodyguard? His trained huntress? The other half of his circus act?
And, well, I admit it - I wondered what went on between them in bed. Who did what to whom and how? How could I not wonder that? Wouldn’t you?

So I turned around and stalked them - followed at a distance for awhile.

At times he let go of her hand and placed his arm around her shapely butt.
(It was as high as he could easily reach.) And she rested her hand on his shoulder or on the back of his muscular neck. And then they went back to holding hands. Always in touch. And the touching was always tender.

They window shopped.
They stopped to look at the flowers in front of the Metropolitan Market.
He picked orange roses. She picked some blue flowers I don’t know the name of. They had the clerk wrap the flowers together.
“Is this a gift,” the clerk asked. “No, just for us,” she said.
The man paid, but they took turns carrying the flowers as they wandered on down the avenue.

We - they, with me still tagging along - went into Café Ladro for coffee. They both ordered an iced latte - single shot - to go. She paid this time, while he held the flowers. They sat down in the chairs outside to drink their coffee and watch the world go by. Still holding hands. And I, sitting three chairs over, finally noticed the wedding rings on their fingers.
Really? Really.

I couldn’t hear what they said, but they laughed a lot. And once she picked up both their hands and kissed them both lightly in a wordless blessing.

I left.
I was afraid I would say something to them.
Something stupid.

Like I had been following them. Like asking them for their story - the rest of it. Like asking them how they saw each other beyond the cultural categories of Big Woman / Small Man. Like some sage comment on the mysterious nature of love. Like telling them the story they made for you and for me - the one I was going to write when I got home.

But, no.
Sometimes - not nearly often enough - but sometimes, I am wise enough to mind my own business. And sometimes I am also wise enough not to explain the obvious to those who read my journals. Like you don’t know the point of my telling you all this? I trust you can take it from here . . . 

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Seattle, Washington
Written June 1, 2008

ACCOUNTING

“What did you learn in school today?”
A question we ask children. Why are we surprised at the stock answer?
“Nothing.” or “I dunno.”

If we understand the interchange as a mere formality between adults and kids - like “Hey, how are you?” “OK.” - then the mission is accomplished - we’ve noticed each other. But if you really want information on what the kid learned in school, then you need to first understand that the kid’s suspicions are immediately aroused by what seems like an oncoming investigation: “Uh-Oh.”

Better you should be more specific and empathetic. For example: “When I was in fourth grade I learned about Chicago. I will never forget Chicago, even though I’ve never been. Do they still teach Chicago?” It’s an opening for a conversation. Little kids recognize that and will talk to you. Maybe not about Chicago, but about something. And isn’t it the conversation that you wanted in the first place, not an accounting of educational increase?

Somewhere along the way we quit asking “What did you learn in school today?” Never have I, as an adult, asked or been asked that - by a kid or another adult. But I was asked yesterday by a boy at a funeral. He was on the sidelines reading a book. The last Harry Potter one. I am also a reader, so I asked him about his book - one I had not read - and we talked.

As the conversation was winding down, he asked me, “Do you still learn stuff?” “Yes.” But he didn’t get to ask “Like what?” because some other people came over and interrupted our conversation.

I thought about his question all afternoon. And again this morning. Suppose I had to write a report. “What I Learned This Week - by Bobby Fulghum.”
Not all of it is consequential - as is often the case in education. Never the less, here is a partial list - things I learned, that you might want to know:

1. If you read in bed at night, and if you like noting important passages with a permanent yellow marker pen, and if you fall asleep with both the book and the marker still open, when you wake up in the morning in the dark and bumble down to the bathroom, you will see in the mirror that your skin has developed yellow blotches and you will think, for a moment, that you have a tropical disease. You will be wider awake than you want to be.

2. Permanent yellow marker cannot be removed from sheets and pillow cases. Not even with Goo Gone or its companion product, Goof Off.

3. Factoid: Hit at three miles an hour by the bumper of a car backing up, a large plastic recycle bin will travel thirty feet across a street. When it hits the curb, it will stop. And fall over. And spill its contents across the sidewalk. If this happens at the edge of a primary school playground where children are present, they will be massively entertained. You will not be. And you cannot say aloud what you are thinking because children are present.

4. If you have large scarlet-red oriental poppies blooming in your yard, and you want to cut some and bring them inside, even though you know they will not last the day, if you immediately burn the end of the cut stem with a candle flame before putting them into warm water in a vase, they will last a week. And if you let the petals fall and leave them where they are, the petals will last another three days in a beautiful scarlet-red ring around the vase.

5. If you have a birthday coming, but you don’t want to celebrate yourself, but what you would like is to be with a group of friends who are far away, you can send two of them a fish - a huge copper river Alaska King Salmon - by air express, knowing full well they will have to invite the rest of your friends to eat the thing. And they will all have a grand time and think well of you. And you don’t even have to be there to have them sing the song at you. This technique is called “Giving Away Your Birthday.”

6. If you have an older neighbor - one you see every day - and she dies and you go to the memorial service, you will learn amazing things about that neighbor that, had you known, you would have made a point of sitting down with her and getting her to tell you all about. And you would have had something really fascinating to answer if anybody asked you, “What did you learn today?”

7. Asking is usually a good thing. 

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