The Church of Nature Gives...and It Takes Away

Holding the sun

What a glorious morning! The rising sun is peekabooing through fluffy clouds and there are promises of afternoon temps in the high sixties. This fine weather is especially welcome after last month’s record rainfall that led to a calamitous mudslide nearby, killing so many, and devastating a small community.

This brooding thought lingers for a few minutes until I come back to the itch that’s been teasing me lately: this time next week my wife and I will be on a plane returning home from a long weekend in Tulsa--my hometown--where a week from today our fiftieth high school reunion will be history. It's much easier to imagine it in the past tense, rather than what it will actually be. 

I’ve never gone to a reunion before. It’s been 25 years since I was last in Tulsa. Many of my classmates, especially those who stayed in Oklahoma, have kept in touch with a circle of friends, but me--not so much. It’s not the yearning for reestablishing connections that’s brought me back, although in a few instances that is the case; it’s more the symbolism of the occasion. 

Our high school graduation marked entry into an adulthood that’s led us in myriad directions. From that common point, over the past half century we have each forged lives that are unimaginably varied. We've  gone through a marriage or two or more, raised our kids, established an identity that’s rooted in where we came from but is mostly our own invention. Now we’re entering retirement, no longer bound to our wage-earning lives, and looking forward to God knows what. 

This seems a propitious time to not only mark a long passage, but to think about what’s next. For some reason, for me, entering this new stage means going back to the place where my parents raised me, to gather among former classmates who have opted to make the same journey. On this trip, I’m blessed to have my sparkly-eyed wife for company. 

We got our inexpensive tickets online through Cheap-O Air. We'll leave for Tulsa way early Friday morning, and don’t have assigned seats yet on Monday's leg home from Dallas. I’m hoping for a free upgrade, but prepared for the two of us to have scattered seats in the rear. 

Unbidden, in my mind’s eye, an image of those airplane “seats” morphs into a newsreel shot of sodden muddy cushions, splintered timbers sticking out of the sludge, and much worse--that deadly slide again. At least the friendly weather will make it easier for recovery crews, and hopefully cast a bit of warmth and light on the affected families’ futures.

For me, today is a good day for a walk down to the beach, and up to the ridge overlooking the Sound. The water will be calm, the sun glittering off its surface, and I'll be thankful for the moment just to be, and let the future take care of itself.

And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined, dirty houses—
something not known to anyone at all
But wild in our breast for centuries.

--Anna Akhmatnova

Church of Nature

Bugling Spring's arrival

The Church of Nature had just thrown open its doors, and the sidewalk was thronged last Sunday morning with fellow worshippers. I was gob-smacked by this stand of buttery daffodils showing off at the corner across the street from our post office.

Then I crossed the street to discover, in one of the flower beds there, a cluster of hand-sized rocks curving around the historic plaque, inspired no doubt by the dry streambeds of a classic Japanese garden. Fittingly, nearby is a recently planted laceleaf maple with its finely etched leaves just beginning to unfurl--a long-range promise for a vibrant Fall. Newly installed azaleas anchor the other two corners.

All in all, a big upgrade at 2nd and Main. Thanks go, I’m sure, to Debra and her inspired, committed colleagues at Edmonds Parks who create and maintain our city's beautiful flower gardens. Good on y'all!

During the rest of the morning’s pilgrimage, similar new rock arrangements were spotted on the way to the roundabout's flower corners, well sited next to crossed bamboo stakes placed to protect the garden's edge. 

Sweet-scented Daphne blossoms

Around the fountain there was also the sweet scent of previously unnoticed Daphne odoras--three of them, if memory serves. This was one of the rare occasions when I recognized the Daphne’s blossom before I registered its fragrance; my nose has been too occupied with allergens lately to smell much of anything. Even so, as I leaned close to the tiny creamy fuchsia blooms, my olfactory senses rejoiced. 

The Daphne is a tetchy plant; give it well-drained soil and just the right amount of water in filtered sun, and it might--just might--reward you with a few good years of its sweet, early Spring scent.

Hallelujah! 

Way Late Life Hack

Don't start at this end, instead...

No intention to defame--they’re long gone anyway--but that well-intentioned couple who brought me up failed to clue me in to the best way of peeling a banana. The upshot is that I’ve been flaunting my pig ignorance at tropical gatherings over the past sixty-five years.

Nunh-unh

After carefully studying internet images of cartoon banana peels, I've also concluded that our popular culture has been abetting this mistake. I offer instructions in this post as a public service. 

Begin here.

You do not begin peeling at the end where the fruit connects to the stalk. You could--sure--but unless you use, and thus dirty, a potentially dangerous knife, you will nearly always risk smushed-up pulp.

Or--before peeling you could bite, instead of slice, the same spot on that perky-looking fruit, but then you have the bitter taste and unpleasant texture of the skin.

Pinch, and peel with natural flair!

Now I know a better way; thanks to recently received wisdom from my knowledgeable spouse, I start at the butt end. Pinch the nipple, peel those cunning flaps back with ease, and look at how securely they gather at the stalk. Top off your accomplishment by tossing that flaccid peel away with a flair and grace that confirms you're finally right with nature!

Call me, “Just Enlightened.”

Nehi Orange and Pheremonal Funk

Our fiftieth high school reunion is in Tulsa next month, and that’s got me to thinking about an inspiring teacher I had by the name of John Haynes. He taught Social Studies at Wright Junior High and moved on to Edison to teach Freshman English. 

Mr. Haynes was a young guy then, but even with those odd glasses, his bullet-headed buzz cut and sarcastic lips gave him a not-to-be-fucked-with demeanor. I don’t remember much book learning from American History, but stories he told about living depressed, in a New York City walkup, are still around the edges of my mind. 

That such inchoate feelings could be shared and even named, that such a concrete bin of grime and glamor actually exists, and that teachers might have the same tics and appetites as me--these were all revelations that pretty much exploded my pubescent world view.

Mr. Haynes’ class rated high in student involvement. We aped his demonstrations of how to drink Nehi Orange and eat ‘Bama pies like the people he’d met in Georgia. As we eagerly--even if a bit mockingly--acted out its distinctive behaviors, we were learning empathy for an unfamiliar culture.  Mr. Haynes became an exemplar for my own teaching style.

We had other good English teachers at Edison, too, like Ruth Wells. I was a precocious brat and Mrs. Wells indulged me, but she must have done it with good authority, because I still have, and appreciate, some of the perversely obscure work I did for her.

That was the class where a comely blonde sat sweetly in the desk right behind my own, making scholarly concentration impossible. Though never spoken, the feeling I had for her surely oozed from my follicles, joining the rest of the room’s pheromonal funk. 

Even through the wiggling horniness, and my obsessive contemplation of the mysterious reappearing red mark high on our female classmates’ achingly alluring calves, Mrs. Wells persevered. She gave us encouragement to fly with our words, or at least to try. When I study her yearbook picture now, with these 67-year-old eyes--no disrespect intended--but I see serious GILF material. Click on the pic and check out the sensuous mouth, and smoldering gaze behind those cat's-eye glasses. Call the class to attention, Mrs. Wells!

Mrs. Martha Cole appears to be in her late thirties when we were at Edison; she passed on four years ago. I remember meeting with other students at her house--a first for me to go to the home of a teacher! We were working together on a school literary magazine--something right up my pretentious alley. She kept me focused and involved though--a warm, good person and teacher.

I think it must have been Mrs. Cole who encouraged me and Lee Hoevel (AKA Diogenes Brown) to write a play--a political satire--and perform it, if memory serves, in the lunchroom. That kind of tomfoolery kept me engaged for many years in the then-distant future.

If you Google “John Haynes Tulsa,” you’ll find a link to an autobiography you can download from Scribd. His people moved to Oklahoma when it was still Indian Territory and, like my own dad, his father was an elementary school principal for many years in Tulsa. Further search suggests he might still live, or at least own a home, on South Trenton Avenue. 

Good health, Mr. Haynes! What a trip it would be to see you again.

CASE NO. 12-X-XX588-X, Part 4

As Artist smiled goodbye, the rest of us were in a bit of a tizzy. It was four o'clock;  it was Friday--Valentines Eve, fer crissake. Make love, not verdicts! No one, though, wanted to come back to this decision after the three day weekend. But it was either/or, so over Cellphone’s fluttery disclaimers, she was scrummed into leadership with seemly reluctance.

Forbidden to speak about the substance of the trial until this moment, I was shocked that not everyone shared my opinion: even with prior conditions and inconsistencies, Plaintiff’s lower back had clearly been damaged or “lit up” by the accident. She deserved some major compensation. I imagined her using the award for therapeutic guidance, materials and treatment, down--and way down--the line. 

Pretty clear...on the the third or fourth reading

So, it was a surprise to hear Cellphone jump in with her nurse-ly opinion that Plaintiff’s problems were clearly either pre-existing or degenerative. "And besides that, she didn't follow doctors' orders!"

In the confusion of pent-up emotion that followed I was taken aback to hear Banker, Dog Trainer, Stiff, and Chaplain--especially Chaplain--give Cellphone their support.

Plaintiff's posse was back on its heels until Seldom Talked, introducing herself as I-am-also-a-nurse, pushed back with contradictory clinical insight. Fireplug, speaking from a yogic-body awareness perspective likewise supported Plaintiff’s claim. I offered my own dimly illuminating tale of lumbar woe, and Curly Blonde plus Shy Woman skirted a little behind Plaintiff as well, enough so that everyone pretty much agreed that at least the low back pain was a result of the crash.

Clear as mud...Short shrift was given to clarifying many pages of
instructions

But, could we agree on a sum for the non-economic damages of this pain before six o'clock? What should that figure be? After several false starts we each threw out a number in the thousands: a cluster of 50s, a scattering up to 100, with a leap to two of us at 150. 

Since it only took ten to agree, we eliminated the outliers and our initial “average” turned out to be 74K. Not long after this revelation, Mario the Bailiff checked in to ask if we’d be able to reach our verdict tonight. Yes, we confidently replied. What followed, though, was a period of venting to which, with hindsight, I wish I’d given more respect. But I was looking forward to lobster dinner and a romantic evening, so pushed us to get back to a mathematical task that had become disconnected from the gritty of the case.

Could ten of us could agree on 75? No, too low. Ninety was too high. At this point, in an aside to me, Seldom Talked said her first thought had been 200K. One more poll, though, gave us our sum. At 5:10PM we twelve jurors filed back into the courtroom. Cellphone handed our verdict to the clerk. Because we felt it was too low, Fireplug and I were the only ones not joining in the opinion, which was “Damages for the plaintiff in the sum of $85,000.”

It was quick and it was dirty, and this glib recounting offers little more than lip service to justice. The heart of the case will always lie in the body and mind of Marilee, our Plaintiff. I wonder how, after this long, expensive, disappointing, and ultimately sad chapter, she can continue the story of her recovery.