Developing an interest in photography- Then

I needed something to set myself apart in high school. I had already mentioned that I had long hair, and eventually, I grew a beard to go along with the look. But that only went so far. I was interested in photography, and I knew the yearbook people were seeking photographers. I was in.

Photography soon developed (no pun intended) as a way for me to meet women, or to have something to say to others I knew, but had not spoken to yet. What better way to meet someone than to sneak up on them with a camera, quickly get a shot off, and then explain that the picture might end up in the yearbook? Plus, that camera, a fixture around my neck for three years of high school, was my ticket to being accepted by almost every group on campus. No matter how out there a group was, everyone was interested in getting their picture in the yearbook.

One example of how this helped me meet women was that it finally gave me the nerve to approach Meredith. She was a totally gorgeous blonde.  She had been in student government in junior high and on the high school tennis team. There were a couple of problems. She was someone I thought was totally out of my league, and I thought she already had a boyfriend. Of course she did. All gorgeous women were already taken. I have learned since then that this is not always true. But I assumed it to be true then.

Anyway, one afternoon, I noticed her standing talking to someone I knew would not let on that I was coming up behind her. I positioned myself, framed the shot, focused on the back of her head, and then made some sort of noise so she would turn around. As she turned, I waited a brief second for the surprise to register on her face and then clicked. It was a perfect candid shot, something I excelled at, and something that had not been done much in the previous yearbooks I had seen. Most shots were posed, or, if candid, you could tell the person realized what was happening when the shot was taken. This one was just that moment of recognition, captured as the sun highlighted her hair. If I had had a flash, it would have been better technically, but we did not have a budget to be absolutely perfect. I made sure the printing was as flawless as possible, and my editor loved the shot. It got in easily.

Of course, when the yearbooks were published, I sought her out to have her sign it. By then, while we were not close friends, at least I knew she was aware of me, and we talked a few times here and there. I may even have asked her to sign the book if the picture had not made the cut. Of course, she signed around the picture. And every year after that, I also asked her to sign. Sometimes she would sign a picture of herself that someone else had taken. If there were no picture, she might sign a picture of me. Later, I would look back at what she wrote and wonder about that boyfriend I thought she had back then. Maybe it would not have worked for us, but there was an interest then that I did not see until much later. It makes for a nice memory now, but I still wonder how many opportunities I let go by because I wasn’t confident enough to act.

Nobody ever said this would be easy. . . Now

(About the picture- Even if it is an accurate representation of how my mind still feels cluttered at times, even writing on a laptop, I would never have so much distracting me from my coffee.)

There are times when writing is easy. An idea just pops into my head. I start writing, and before I know it, I have something finished that can be published in this little blog. Maybe someone, maybe even you, will eventually read it and smile.

Other times, writing is real work. It reminds me of every time I sat down to attempt a writing assignment for my high school or college classes, or a small piece for my high school newspaper. An hour later, I would still have a blank sheet in front of me, and many crumpled-up failures in the wastebasket. One difference now is that I do not have to waste any paper with what turns out to be one more unsuccessful attempt.

Currently, my life seems to be in a high state of confusion and flux. Being in such a constant state of change can be beneficial in writing.

Or not.

Good writing is a fragile balance; a process of managing turmoil with tranquility. (Where did that come from?)

I seem to be in a flow of weirdness that will not allow good writing at this point. If you know me, you will know and understand why this could be. Eventually, the weirdness will sort itself out a bit, and maybe some of it will make it into a piece here in some way or another, once I work my way through it.

Sometimes there is just too much grist for the mill.

More bumps in the night- Now and Then

The night creeps in, again.

Why is that anyway? During the day, I am fine. Life is as it is, and I go with the flow. Then the sun goes down.

And I start to doubt everything again.

Have I done all I should do? If not, will I get a do-over? Will I then know what I should have done or how to do whatever it is I am still fretting over? Who will tell me? Will anyone care one way or another? Will anything I do even make any difference, anyway?

Life gets funny at times. Is anyone laughing?

All of this self-doubt will disappear at sunrise.

I hope.

If you have not already guessed, I have self-esteem issues. It seems pointless. It seems to be a lifetime affliction. I have been better recently, but that is during the day. The night focuses on doubt. It focuses on those other bumps in the night, the ones I am only aware of in this quiet time. 

Like many others I know, I had excellent teachers early on in learning to doubt myself, in the person of my parents.

My father was the one who first raised doubts about my looks. He told me I was funny-looking, like Alfred E. Newman funny-looking. Later, he would amend that to say that I looked like Ernie on the old Sixties sitcom My Three Sons. Of course, I wanted to look like one of the more normal sons. You know, the handsome ones.

I was confused. I did not think Ernie looked like Alfred E. Newman at all, so how could I look like either of them? Even though I knew the logic was flawed, I bought the premise.

My mother was not as obvious in setting me up for self-doubt, but she had her own impact on me, nonetheless.

She made me wonder why I ever pursued education beyond high school. Throughout my early school days, my teachers had told me that college should be my educational goal. So, my goal had always been to go to college like my brother and sister had before me. My mom thought that it was all a waste of time and money. Go to a trade school, she would tell me. Avoid the disappointment of failing.

Why?

You could fail. You are not like them.

Oh, so that means I am not smart enough to go to college?

You get the drift. I wonder if she told my sister and brother the same thing.

Avoiding failure by aiming too low was a central part of her message. I do not blame her for imparting her fears to me. She had to get it somewhere. Her parents, no doubt, influenced her as much as she did me.

At some point in the early college days, I was doing fine. Then my wife at the time had an affair and dumped me like so much trash. Like a hot potato. She could not get away from me fast enough. And who was it that got her going in ways that I could not? (I have to be vague. This is a family blog.)

The guy that I lost my marriage over was someone who literally reminded me of a way too tall and skinny version of Ernie, from My Three Sons. Throw in the weirdness of Alfred E. Newman, and you have him.

The irony was not lost on me, either.

The one thing, or maybe the two things, that I learned from this earlier time in my life is that none of those imposed limits on me were valid. Not then, and certainly not now.

I have learned from attending class reunions that there were many (a few at least; there it goes again) young ladies in my classes then who may have wanted to know me better. Again, I am being purposely vague. Maybe things would not have gone very far, but I never gave it a chance back then to see how far anything might have gone.

Then there is the matter of my self-esteem after my divorce. This divorce messed with my head for five years. I thought I was done. I lost the will to even try to find anyone new. Now, I look back at pictures of myself from that time and literally do not recognize the person in them as “me.”

There was a picture of me from about the time I was still married, and I thought I looked fairly good.

Then, just a few months after the divorce, there was that same guy in a tuxedo at my sister’s wedding. I had totally forgotten about this and didn’t even recognize that guy as me. Who was I then that I had no clue how I looked?

It was all needless, and I regret the time I lost not knowing who I was because of the filters others imposed on me. I regret not getting to know those around me then, who may have wanted to get to know me.

I regret that until more recently, I did not know myself.

She was playing real good, for free- Now

The harpist sits at her table outside. She is there playing and smiling at people as they come inside to get coffee. There is nothing set out yet for donations, although a basket sits on the table near her, covered with a colorful piece of fabric.

There are only a couple of people sitting there within listening distance. Most people walking by or coming into the coffee shop don’t acknowledge seeing or hearing her, even though she is hard to miss. Occasionally, she smiles or says hello to people she recognizes.

She stops playing and rifles through the covered basket. She removes a few dollar bills and sets them on top of the fabric cover. She sets the basket down on the sidewalk near her feet and resumes playing.

Even with that basket, which makes her intent more obvious, people still ignore her for the most part, though a couple return, having gotten some change from their purchase. They bend down to drop the money into her basket. She smiles, thanking them.

Inside, where I sit, the classical music on the coffee shop’s audio system never stops. I only hear of the harpist for a few seconds at a time when the door opens as people come or go.

On prior visits, I have smiled at her, and she has returned the smile. On those days, I felt I was already too late to stop long enough to listen. There are always so many things to get to, and this is usually my first stop.

Today, as I am leaving, I stop and sit at one of the tables outside. The song she plays and sings, “It ain’t me babe,” has always been a favorite. I had not heard her sing it before.

When she finishes, I walk over to give her a couple of dollars. She thanks me. I tell her I have seen her and briefly listened on other occasions, coming or going, but never stopped long enough to really listen. I thank her for the music she plays. I am surprised that my voice cracks a bit. I guess the song affected me more than I thought. Or there may be other reasons. Turning away, I tell myself I will have to stop and listen again soon.

As I walk away, she starts again, playing real good, for free.

What are those bumps in the night . . . – Now and then

Everything is magnified at night.

Noises that at any other time would go unnoticed turn into threats in the middle of the night.

What was that noise just now? It has to be nothing. I run through my internal data bank of known sounds, trying to categorize what we have in here that would make a noise like that. Or since I can’t recognize it, I hope it is outside. 

As I do this, the memory of the sound gets harder to recall accurately. Maybe I was half asleep when I heard it, and that is why I can’t categorize it. I convince myself that it was nothing. If it really is something, the security system will alert me. Of course, at times, the security system has gone off for no known reason. When this happens, it is almost always in the middle of the night. Of course.

A stray thought about past insecurity can remind you that that insecurity may not really be that much in the past. It is just harder to be sure at night.

Is she still OK? What if she isn’t breathing? Would I recognize that in time? Loved ones’ health issues are magnified at night.

Don’t even get me started on my own issues. I go back over everything I have done in the day, mistakes and regrets included. There are times that this can go on for hours, destroying the rest of my night.

If my day was good, I try to spend an equal amount of time on the good things as I do on the not-so-good times. When sleep just does not happen, I much prefer to dwell on the good things in my life. There are many things I am thankful for, and thinking about these is a much better way to go through the night.

When I was little, and it was time to sleep, my mom would sing to me. The official title of the song is: “Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ra (That’s an Irish Lullaby).”  After she sang it, I knew I would be OK through the night. Simpler worries, then compared to now.

Maybe later, or it could have been at the same time, my father would always chime in with, “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” I may have been too young to know what bedbugs were, but I am sure worry about bedbugs occupied at least a few sleepless nights.

I know things were not always OK back then. But others were in control, so it always seemed OK. Now I am the one in control, and I am at times overwhelmed. Why can’t I turn this stuff off so I can sleep? 

What is it about all of these bumps in the night?

I call shotgun!!!- Then

I steer my small Ford pickup to the side of the road and shut off the motor. I open the door and stand up. As I do, my border collie, Scooter, jumps down next to me, panting with tail wagging, ready to run. I bend down to remove the leash, and she is off. At first, she trots, her nose down scanning for something only a dog would find of interest. Her run meanders in long, slow curves out and away from where I stand watching. I sit down again and close the door to the truck.

Hearing the door close, she stops momentarily and glances back at me. Suddenly, she takes off, her legs a blur through the sparse grasses, herding imaginary quarry; running and cutting to first one side and then another.

And as if responding to an unspoken command, she turns towards the truck, running full speed, back to me. I expect her to stop, but she keeps up her all-out run, launching herself at the driver’s side window, which, lucky for both of us, is open. I lean back at the last second as she lands awkwardly in the seat next to me.

She always gets shotgun, but not usually with as much flair.

Goodbye old friends, revisited- Now

I walk out towards the end of our back yard, past our small pond, which, until the last hard freeze, still was home to a few wild guppies. These are also known as mosquito fish, and they do a surprisingly effective job of controlling the local mosquito population. During a hard freeze in December, the surface froze and remained frozen for several days. The guppies can take some cold. They survived last winter, but this is not last winter. I could see the dead fish through the opaque ice cover. Maybe some are still hiding in the muck at the bottom.

I stand at the base of one of our dawn redwood trees, the branches now bare for winter. It is about the tallest tree on the property, with the possible exception of a magnolia out at the street. A nearby coast redwood may eventually overtake its cousin.

In the distance, I am surprised to hear calls from a hawk for the first time since the removal of two trees from a neighboring yard. These had been nesting trees used by hawks ever since we have lived here. As tall as our trees are, they are not suited for the hawks to use for nesting. I had seen one briefly land in the lower branches of the dawn redwood, but only on rare occasions when hunting something in our yard.

Our neighbor told me that he removed the two trees because the owner of the house over his back fence had complained that one of them was dropping branches into their yard. That house is quite far from the fence. I have been back there recently looking for one of our cats. Their yard is completely overgrown, and it is hard for me to imagine they would have noticed if a stray branch had landed there from a tree well into the next yard.

I hear the cry of a lone hawk again, and looking up towards the openness of the yard next door, I still expect to see those two trees. The sound of the hawk makes it harder for me to look. With the trees gone, it is so empty. I wonder if the hawk even recognizes the area or if it is as confused as I am.

It is probably easier for me. I can choose not to look, at least most of the time. It is harder for the hawk. He may not only be searching for his old nest tree, but he could also cry for his lost mate. He will not find her.

A few days after the tree removal, we found two separate hawk wings in the yard, evidence of an unknown trauma.

As I return to the house, I hope he will find a new tree to nest in and eventually find another mate. I wonder if the new nest tree would be near enough to us so we could still hear them calling in the distance as they hunt food for their young. Part of me hopes they choose a spot much further away from here. 

It is no longer safe here if it ever was.

My Best Man, wasn’t one at all- Then

When I met Linda back in high school, I never would have guessed that she would be my best “man” at my wedding.

I brought a small tenor banjo to school one day, which had belonged to my father when he was a kid. I had just refurbished and rebuilt it, and was learning to play it. Linda approached me to see what it was. I played a small bit of something I had made up. I let her hold it and strum a bit. I had the impression this was the first time she had ever been so close to any kind of string instrument, or to anyone who could pretend to play one. I got a picture of her in the yearbook. When she signed my yearbook, she mentioned that day. We were friends, and that was enough for me. But, talk about gorgeous. What was I doing with her? As much as I thought I was out of my league with some other girls back then, I was totally comfortable with her. We quickly became very good friends. But. . . There is that “but” I always dreaded.

One day, I went to my locker, and inside was a folded letter from Linda. This was a very intense letter, describing how she was interested in getting to know me, but that it would have to remain a friendship. I just did not do it for her as boyfriend material. And, “How does a person tell someone they love them as a friend?” I guess that way worked.

I still have that letter. It was the first time anyone had ever used the “just friends” phrasing with me, but it was also the first time anyone ever told me they loved me as a friend. At the time, I was more than happy to have her as just a friend. High School relationships almost always went “bust” very quickly. But friends, they could last forever- or a long time anyway. I only wish I knew what happened to her. It felt right to ask Linda to be in my wedding.

After my wedding, I found out that my brother was hurt that I had not asked him to be my best man. But then he hadn’t asked me to be his best man when he got married earlier. I never even thought of asking him. Linda had seemed the perfect choice at the time; although I am sure having a woman as “best man” raised a few eyebrows among relatives and friends in attendance, and maybe also my wife-to-be.

I know that Jeanne did not care for Linda. It is funny that she felt threatened by Linda, yet she was the one who later became unfaithful to me. When Jeanne and I later divorced, Linda was extremely helpful in talking me through my feelings. There were a few visits I made while she was still living at home with her parents. I remember sitting with her out on her deck, talking about Jeanne, how we had been together, what we did, and what we did not do. How Jeanne acted around me or others. I know I must have cried a bit. Linda was there for me. I almost let myself believe there might still be a chance for something more with Linda, but that was not to be. She now had a very detailed idea about what her perfect mate would be, and I was not close. Eventually, she met her perfect match and married- after a couple of near-misses, and a delay or two.

Originally, Linda had written to ask if I would be part of her wedding, since she had been part of mine. It felt right. She asked me if I would be willing to play guitar and sing at the ceremony. Her chosen song was “You’ve Got a Friend.”  I was still a relative novice guitarist at the time and had not sung solo anywhere, let alone while I played the only accompaniment. Of course, I wrote back that I would be happy to do it.

What was I thinking?

As I worked on the song, I got to a point where I felt comfortable sending her a cassette recording of me playing and singing, just so she would know whether she really wanted me to do it for her wedding. She responded that she loved it and couldn’t wait to hear it in person at her wedding.

A short time later, I received another letter from Linda saying that the wedding was “OFF.” She knew I was still working on the song and told me maybe someday I could perform it just for her. 

I had the impression they had some things still to work out before the wedding. I can’t say I was totally disappointed. Even if I had gotten to the point where I felt comfortable playing it in front of people I knew, I doubt I would have been able to get through it without losing my composure. I knew it would have been possible with enough practice. My idea had been that if I had problems doing the song live, at least I would have a taped version to play. My debut as a wedding singer never happened, though.

This was around the time I met Judy.

Of course, being in a new relationship was all I had on my mind then. It was interrupted by receiving in the mail what was obviously a wedding invitation. Before I opened it, I told Judy who it was from, and also about my previous promise to play and sing at her wedding. I opened the invitation. There was no mention of her having asked me to play and sing at her wedding.

Judy and I went to Linda’s wedding. I remember before we drove to the Bay Area, Judy asked if I wanted to bring my guitar, just in case. Not that I would have been ready to do the song, I said, “No. She didn’t mention it. I shouldn’t mention anything, unless she brings it up.” That wedding was the last time I saw Linda. She moved somewhere; I was never sure where. After a short time, she stopped responding to letters. Then, one was returned with an expired forwarding address. I sent a letter to her at her old home address, where her parents still lived. I never got any response. I do not know what I did, or if I did anything that may have upset her. Clearly, I could not have done enough to make her upset with me and not remember what it was? That is sad; to have that good a friend, and just have them disappear.

But, like the song says, if she ever were to try to contact me, I would be there. At the same time, I know that after close to 30 years, it will never happen. I guess I have to learn to let certain things go.

This is a tough one, though. I am still trying. 

Twenty-Thirteen? Be gone!- Now

I am not one to make resolutions at the New Year. I figure, if a change is worth making at all, it might be better to make it while the reason is still fresh in your mind. If you wait until an arbitrary date to start, even if it is a special date, why bother in the long run? Especially if it is a health-related resolution. Just do it. Get a head start on the procrastinators.

What I have done in the past, instead of a resolution, is to challenge the upcoming year to take its best shot at me. I believe that twenty-thirteen was the time I made that challenge. The prior year had had its bad times, but I made it through with all mental faculties intact. I figured I might even have been made stronger by the challenges of twenty-twelve. Well, it may not have been such a good idea to challenge twenty-thirteen after all.

From my health to the health of my loved ones, this last year took its best shot at me, and at her. I came out OK in the long run. The jury is still out about her, but she is hanging in there, fighting as if her life depended on it. And it may.

The rest of the family had taken a hit in the last couple of years, and it continued in twenty-thirteen, but in a way, no one could have foreseen. A hit to my family is a hit to me, no matter who or what is the cause.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom last year. At a time when I was reeling from several hits, I gained a good friend who has already provided many valuable insights about the weirdness life can throw at you from time to time. I hope to be able to pay this friend back in the future, but I hate that this would mean she would need that help. So, I send her positive energy. Maybe it will help keep the weirdness under control. Maybe it will help both of us.

Twenty-thirteen, be gone and good riddance to you. I will never challenge the New Year again. Sometimes the universe hears you, and you end up with more than you bargained for.

On writing now vs. then- Now and Then

I remember from my school days, both high school and college, all of the time starting writing assignments, having to face that empty page. That empty page has so much promise; if I can only find the right words to fulfill that potential. Usually, back then, I failed miserably.

I would try. And I would fail. And I invariably would think that just having tried hard made it OK that I had missed the point of the assignment. With writing and for other subjects too, it was easy to rationalize the results. I was so close. I could have done better if just a few things had been done differently. I never would have admitted back then that I had simply not done an assignment well. Maybe I just needed a better pen.

I heard the examples of what my peers had written for the same assignment I had done. After hearing their papers read aloud, or having read them myself, I would come away thinking, “Where did they learn to write like that?”  I knew I had been in the same classes with most of them earlier. Where had I been when they learned to write so well?

For one writing assignment in my high school Advanced Placement English class, we were told to choose a current song we liked and explain what it was about. I already knew by then that my being in this class was a total mistake. Being here assumes that you already have the basic and even more advanced writing skills mastered. That would be the “advanced” part of the course title. Somehow, the people at that particular switch must have fallen asleep, allowing me into this class with no real writing skills. That was never more apparent than with this particular assignment.

My teacher told us about the assignment and read us a sample paper from an earlier class. My teacher raved about this paper as one of the best he had seen in any class he had ever taught. I think I knew before he started that it had been written by my brother.

For this paper, my brother had chosen “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road?” by The Beatles.

“Why don’t we do it in the road?

Why don’t we do it in the road?

Why don’t we do it in the road?

Why don’t we do it in the road?

No one will be watching us

Why don’t we do it in the road?”

And repeat. . . And repeat, and done.

I have to admit it was a really good paper. And it may have been a really good example of what this teacher wanted. For me, it made achieving success in this assignment particularly unattainable. For one thing, I did not have his talent. And also, for all the praise my teacher gave my brother for this gold medal moment in his teaching career, I knew the truth.

My brother had not chosen the song because he knew he could nail the assignment with his interpretation of the deeper meaning of one of the Beatles’ shorter song ventures. My brother chose that particular song because it was so short. It mattered that it was short because he had waited until the last possible day to even think about doing this paper. He did have a bit of talent to turn what, for me, would have been a disastrous failure into a victory.  

My teacher did not know this, though. He presented this example as if my brother had spent long hours on multiple days getting everything just right. In reality, it had taken him less than half an hour to create this masterpiece of high school writing. I worked on my paper for an interminable amount of time, and still barely passed. I envied my brother’s creative ability to some extent. But I knew I had creative abilities in other ways that he could never touch back then, or even more recently.

And now that I am in somewhat a forced retirement, I am taking writing a bit more seriously and I find that I enjoy it. I like that I can create something out of a blank page and an idea. I like that it can be about any subject that interests me. And I like it even more that it will not be graded by my old Advanced Placement English teacher. Thanks for trying, Mr. Thomas.