Seattle, Washington - February 4, 2010

INTERSECTIONS - A Traffic Report

Here’s the picture:

An old Honda sedan was stalled out in the middle of the street.
The young woman driver was wide-eyed with distress.
Aimed at her from seven different directions were four cars, two pickups, and a garbage truck - all restlessly creeping forward toward her.
The oncoming vehicles were themselves being hassled by the stop-and-go creep of the traffic behind them, lined up bumper to bumper.

Miss Wide Eyes had lost her cool trying to navigate a rare form of vehicular vexation - a 7-way traffic intersection - the convergence of seven streets.
She became a temporary hazard that forced other drivers to treat her like a small round-a-about.
When she finally succeeded in getting her old Honda re-started, she crept on downstream like anxious turtle seeking refuge - on through the flow to the relative safety of a one-way street, where she stopped to recover.

She will likely not pass this way again.

Queen Anne Hill, where I live in Seattle, rises above the landscape as an island in the sky. There are only a few major routes up and down. And one of these, on the northwest end of the hill, involves negotiating the 7-way intersection that also happens to be where the hill is steepest.

The intersection is a model for testing human ingenuity and the limits of grace. The movement of traffic at this location relies entirely upon the cooperation, good will, skill and attention of the drivers.

Over the years I’ve become fascinated by the behavior this seven-way intersection elicits. Recently I parked my own car a block away and watched the action for awhile.

I amused myself by trying to put labels on some of the drivers I noticed.

Beside Miss Wide Eyes, I saw The Alarmed Creepers, The Screw-You Speedballs, The Zombies, The Side-Seat Navigators, The Inept Truckers, The Veterans, and The Rookies, as well as the Noble and the Nice.

But all could be divided into two broad categories:

1. Those who stayed inside the bubble of their cars in mind and spirit.
Those who stayed centered on themselves, and seemed to look upon the experience of the intersection as personal inconvenience to their mobility.

2. And those who moved outside their cars in their minds and spirits.
Those who stayed centered on the common experience of navigating a tricky convergence of traffic. They noticed other drivers - looked at them - nodded - smiled, even laughed - gave an “after you” wave - as if they were treating the experience as an intriguing puzzle to be solved in community concert.

I stress and emphasize that this was far and away the predominant attitude.

Despite the fears of Miss Wide Eyes, every driver who passed by her did so slowly and carefully. The garbage truck driver even paused, rolled down his window, and asked her if she needed any help.

Despite the arrogance and idiocy the intersection can provoke, I was most impressed by an almost gallant civility on the part of most drivers who recognized the situation and made it work without incident.

I confess that this was not what I had expected.
My pessimism was the only thing bent out of shape at the intersection.

Being a witness was a pleasure - adding an upbeat mood to my day.
I went away feeling good about what’s possible in human affairs.

It’s true that human rudeness and insensitive stupidity go on existing in the world. In cars or on foot. These traits are pretty well evenly distributed, and may be found if looked for - even sometimes seen in one’s own mirror.
Who has not been an irritable driver in a self-serving hurry on occasion?

But, if looked for and noticed, evidence of altruism, kindness, and alert intelligence are likewise well distributed, and may be found. If it were not so, none of the many intersections of human endeavor would work at all. 

Seattle, Washington - January 28, 2010
Heavy fog and chilly this morning - but the promise of an early spring has been announced by the blooming of the first brave purple crocus flowers.

LAUNDRY ANNIVERSARY

“I am in charge of the laundry at my house.”

So begins the first essay after the Introduction to my first book, All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergarten - first published 22 years ago.
The story itself was written three years before that.
Twenty five years have gone by.

It might be said that this is the silver anniversary of my laundry cogitation.
Not exactly a cause for public celebration, but a reason for private reflection.

I am still doing my share of the laundry - for the same reasons.
It gives me a sense of accomplishment and a feeling of competence.

Put in the dirty clothes, add detergent, push one button.
Washed.
Put the clothes in the dryer, push one button.
Dried.
Fold neatly.
Done.
A task completed - a need fulfilled.
For a moment, at least, life seems tidy and neat.

Doing the laundry still has religious dimensions, too.
It connects me to elemental aspects of existence.
Water, earth, fire - polarities of wet and dry, hot and cold, dirty and clean.
Round and around and around it all goes . . .
Small cycles as a metaphor for The Great Cycles of Being

Doing the laundry still provides simple-minded amusement, as well.
Static electricity will stick socks to you - and I still do that.
It’s cheap, harmless entertainment.

Moreover, in my house in Utah the walls are covered with thick rough plaster, and I discovered this winter that electrified socks and underwear fresh out of the dryer would stick to the laundry room wall if I threw them hard and high.
It happened by accident with the first sock, but after that it was on purpose.

At one point I managed to stick 12 socks, 6 of my under shorts, 3 of my companion’s bras, and 3 of her lacy underpants mounted on the wall like a collection of laundry trophies.

It worked so well that two days later I had to get up on a ladder to retrieve the items still stuck ten feet up near the ceiling.

Dumb, I suppose. But we laughed a lot, and a good laugh is good preventive medicine when you’re snowbound in winter.

Today I was washing new Carhart canvas work-pants that needed heavy duty washing and hot drying to get the stiffness out of them and shrink them to the right size.
The process needs close supervision.
This kept me standing in front of the washer and dryer pushing buttons.
And thinking.

The control panel of my life could use some of these elementary buttons.

When my mind is overfilled with busy-ness - too much in the mental machinery - I’d like to be able to push “Heavy Duty” or “Bulky Items” and shift automatically into a gear that could handle the load.

I’d like to have a “Delicate” cycle to handle the complicated stuff.

And a “Touch Up” or “Wrinkle Shield” button to push when all I need is a little smoothing out to function well for a day.

It would be nice if a “Cycle Complete” light would come on once in awhile, telling me I’ve done all that can be done for now.

And I wish I could get up in the morning and simply push “Normal” to keep a day from getting completely out of hand.

As for detergent, I don’t use CHEER anymore.
While I did like having a happy wash, I’ve switched to TIDE.
It has deeper implications - connecting me to the great pulsing of life - driven by forces beyond my control and understanding.
I like knowing my laundry has gone out with the tide.
As will I, someday.

My new Carharts have now endured the continuous thrashing of three hot cycles of Wash and three hot cycles of Dry.
They needed that in part because I had first taken them out in the yard and put them in some mud and on some gravel, and then backed my car over them a couple of times.
You can’t just put on a pair of new Carharts and be comfortable.
There’s a science to loosening them up.

I took one pair out of the dryer while it was still damp, and I’m sitting here writing this with warm damp trousers on.
Why?
So they will dry and fit my body just right - including the lumpy parts at the front and backside, and the bendy sections at the knees.

Despite it seeming a simple matter, doing laundry well involves some skill and experience and a philosophy.

So there you have it - a laundry essay anniversary update.

I ended that first laundry story by advising you not to try tasting CHEER.
I did.
And it was awful.
But my tongue was pretty clean for awhile.
Recent research says the same goes for TIDE.

Seattle, Washington - January 20, 2010

IT’S NOT THE SIZE OF THE LOSS,
BUT THE SIZE OF THE SORROW.

Last Saturday - out for an early morning walk.
Heavy fog - a chilly, drippy start to a January day.
Nobody else seemed to be out and about.
So quiet . . .
Until I’m a block from the nearby park.

From somewhere close by I heard the sound of a small child crying.
But the fog was so thick I couldn’t see far enough to locate the child.
The Good Samaritan Alert goes on in my mind.
Trouble? Lost? Injured? What?

Hurrying along I found, standing on a corner, these three:
A mother, a child, and a dog.
The mother was weeping.
The child was crying.
And the dog looked so forlorn it would have been in tears - if dogs did that.

All three were in basic Seattle cold-wet-weather gear, including the dog - a yellow Labrador, wearing a yellow rain slicker over most of him.

The child was bundled up and packed down inside a high-tech baby carriage that could be used as a Mars Rover if it had a motor.
All I could see of the child’s face were its eyes, awash with tears.

As I appeared out of the fog the child was the first to speak:
“Have you seen my . . . ?”
The word was lost in a sob.
“Seen what?” I asked, thinking puppy, kitty, doll, teddy bear, father?

Blankie turns out to be the operative word.
And the child is a little girl named Nelly, about four years old.

It took awhile, but between the tearful mother and Nelly, I got this story:

Once upon a time . . . Nelly’s grandmother made a blanket just for her.
Nelly became deeply attached to the blanket, as children will.
In time, the blanket became little more than a deteriorating rag.
Last summer the dog and Nelly had a tug-of-war with the blanket.
The big dog tore off a big chunk of the blanket.
The mother did not repair the blanket, thinking it was history.
Alas, Nelly remained fully committed to both parts of the blanket.

This morning the mother has been out jogging with the Nelly-in-the-bucket.
Somewhere along the way the lesser part of the blanket went overboard.
And now, despite retracing the route three times, it cannot be found.

The mother choked up again.
Nelly lapsed into sobs again.
And the dog lay down with its face in its paws.
All three were wet, cold, and approaching hysteria or hypothermia or both.

“What does the blankie look like?” I asked
“Like that . . .” said the mother, pointing at Nelly’s wrapping.

Around Nelly’s neck and head was entwined what might be the desiccated remains of a dead python.
Lumpy, fuzzy, brown and green and red, with yellow stripes here and there.
A raggedy remnant of what once was the blanket.
A blanket now in such grim shape that you might find it in the reject dumpster out behind a recycling center.

“My blankie,“ moaned Nelly, tightly clutching the dead python.

This could be funny.
And maybe . . . someday . . . it will be.
But not now.
Not to Nelly.
Or the mother.
Not even to the dog.

As the world rates catastrophes, the missing partial blankie is small stuff.
But to Nelly . . . a major loss.

I was struck by the serious dignity of her grief.
No wailing or screaming or fit-pitching.
Just sad-eyed sorrow.
“I need my blankie. . .”

What could I say or do?

Should I explain to Nelly that the Buddha said that the attachment to things is the source of sorrow? Be not attached.

Should I say to Nelly that her situation is the glass-half-full, glass half-empty
attitude problem? Be glad you still have most of the blanket.

Should I tell Nelly that life isn’t fair and that losing a partial blankie is training for future losses in life?

Shall I elaborate about hurricanes, earthquakes, fire, thieves, and the loss of a limb or sight or parents? Could be worse.

Or maybe explain to her about the losses involved in love and friendship, when what is lost is never found again?

No. Nelly is four.
Sooner or later she’ll find out on her own, like the rest of us.

Nelly’s sorrow is still real to Nelly.
And grief is to be attended to, not judged or analyzed or dismissed.
This was not the time for the Good Samaritan to offer a sympathetic discourse to mother or child or dog on the existential realities of the human condition.
Dispassionate explanations will not help.

So I knelt down beside Nelly and said,
“I’m so sorry.
I understand.
I had this happen to me once.
It made me cry, too.
I’ll look for it.
And if I find it, I’ll make sure you get it back.”

(And to my complete surprise, when I said that, tears came to my own eyes.
I’m not sure just why.
Perhaps I was thinking of the times in my life when I wish someone had said that to me when I was grieving over a loss of my own.
Lost Blankies come in many sizes and shapes and forms.)

What I said seemed to help. Not much. But some.
Enough to set the threesome in motion again on their quest.

Blocks away I found the missing semi-blankie.
Or thought I did. Several times.
In the half light of a foggy morning, many heaps of mossy trash lodged under bushes resembled partial pythons.

The false sightings reflected my hope that I could and would find Nelly’s blankie, and be the one who returned it.

But I did not and was not.

So what’s this all about?
I’ve been asking myself that for the last few days.

My frustration in this small matter mirrors, I think, a deeper universal human wish that any one of us could make things better for all those in pain wherever, whenever, no matter how small the loss or large the sorrow.

Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
Friday, the 8th day of January in 2010

It’s still very cold here – unusual winter.
How cold is it?
The Colorado River has frozen over in many places.
I have worn long underwear every day since Thanksgiving.
We can’t sleep with the window open – not even a crack.
So cold that our metal garbage dumpster froze closed.

(Making snow ice cream with maple syrup and pecans is still easy.
Scoop up a bowl of snow, pour on the syrup and pecans, leave it outside on the porch for 15 minutes and you’ve go frozen dessert.)

So cold that the winter birds at the feeder are so fluffed up and hunkered down that the look like exotic tennis balls with a beak on one side and a folded fan on the other.
So cold that all civil conversation revolves around it: “Cold over at your place last night?” etc.
So cold that every time I’m in town my older friends can’t stop talking about how it was in the olden days when the river froze so solid for so far that horse drawn sleds were used on it to move equipment and supplies.
And the snow was so deep that bridges had to be built to cross Main Street.
It’s not that snowy or cold. Yet.
And it’s not the Arctic. Yet.
And I’ve thrived – three new books pretty well wrapped up.
Warm brain, cold body.

But by this time next week I will have returned to Seattle.
Where the grim grey duvet of rainclouds will define daily life.
And 45 degrees with rain will seem balmy compared to winter here.
I’ll be back here on the web in a week.
Meanwhile . . .

POSSIBILITIES

In town on Monday to get my Ford Subdivision serviced, I was on foot, hustling along through town toward hot chocolate, when a friend stopped and offered me a ride.

In the passenger seat of her car was a heavy-duty fly swatter, which I picked up in order to sit down.

“What’s with the fly swatter? Not many flies around this time of year.”

“I got two adolescent kids, and when they’re strapped down in the back seat for too long they start bickering and picking on each other.”

“Yes?”

“And I can hit them both from up here with the fly swatter if I have to.”

“Have you actually hit them?”

“No.
Not yet.
But I could.
And I might.
The possibility focuses their minds.”

No, not yet, but I could and I might.
Possibility focuses the mind and greases the wheels of the future.

That’s where I am as I hit the road for Seattle and the year ahead.
Lot’s of good possibilities.
I could.
And I might . . . 

Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
The beginning of January, 2010
Cold and much new snow

(Note: this is a follow-up to a previous essay written 10 days ago – scroll down below to – “Hunting and Being Haunted.”
Read or re-read that so that what follows makes sense.)

SHIPPING NEWS

Considerable thought has gone into my flying deer dilemma.
They continue leaping at me when I am on foot in the dark.
I do not wish to hurt them or eliminate them.

I just want to unhinge their minds and keep them at a distance.
I want them to run like hell in the opposite direction when they know I’m coming down my path on the way to a peaceful morning’s work or on the way back up to my house late at night.

I want them to dread my coming and never try to pile-drive me again.

Guns or grenades or flares or bows-and-arrows are out, of course.
But I am now armed.
With a commercial-grade boat horn, driven by compressed air.

“Marine Big Horn – Grand Siren” - manufactured by Flamm Technologies in Cadillac, Michigan – for boats up to 65 feet.”

“One horn blast – going to starboard.
Two blasts – going to port.
Three blasts – going astern.
Four blasts – danger.”

These horns are commonly used on waterways to notify operators to open bridges, and to signal any vessel movement.
They are also employed to warn of impending boat collision.
Or in case of imminent deer assault.
I went to sleep last night smiling, imagining what the deer will think in the morning of the sound announcing the approach of a large tug boat.

Here he comes – move a little closer – wait, wait, wait . . . Now! Jump!

But before they can make the leap of terror, they will hear:

UNGA-POOOOOOOOT!  UNGA-POOOOOOOT!
UNGA-POOOOOOOOT!  UNGA-POOOOOOOT!

Four blasts – impending collision.

Some deer can fly. Santa Claus knows.
I imagine the deer suddenly way up on the ridge above my house.

What the hell was that? Don’t know. Don’t want to know. Don’t go back.

______________

And so?
What can I tell you?

The first time I tried the horn was when I came in the door after a shopping trip to downtown Moab.

If you push the horn button inside the house – when your companion doesn’t know you have it . . . well, you can imagine . . .

However it may work on deer, I can testify that it works well on one woman.
In fact, if I had known she could scream like that, I wouldn’t have bought the horn – just had her go ahead of me down the path, and I’d prod her with a sharp stick from time to time, and she could shriek at the deer.

I can also testify if you employ the horn inside your house you will not be able to hear for awhile.

Likewise if you fire it inside your car.

I can tell you that if you leave the horn out on the kitchen table, it is certain that some visitor will pick it up, ask “How does this thing work.” and push the button before you can say, “Don’t . .”

But, by then they will have answer to their question.

So - it is the case that this horn-in-a-can works – at least on people.

It also works on coyotes.
They moved way off down the valley when I pointed it in their direction while they were doing their evening choir practice close by my front porch.

Ok, Ok, get to the point.
How about the deer?

Beyond my wildest hopes.
Four blasts did it.

See if from the point of view of my leaping assailants:
Imagine the daily action meeting called by the senior deer:

I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to tell you . . .

Sire, would you mind speaking louder, we can’t hear you.

I SAID I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL THE SOUND WAS, BUT JUST STAY AWAY FROM THE PATH WHERE THE BIG FUZZY THING WALKS. YOU MIGHT GET HURT OR ELSE GO DEAF”

“What did you say?”