Authors Note:
The following is a brief recounting of an experience that took place in the Spring of 2002, when I was a sophomore at the University of Hawaii-Hilo.
It was a beautiful evening on the Kona Coast of the Big Island. Not that the time of year mattered much, it's always beautiful and clear on the Kona side. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the stars lit up the sky as bright as a moonlit night anywhere else. The temperature was warm, and the air held the salty crispness that the nearby ocean provided.
We weren't about stargazing that night. My friend Jeremy and I had just attended an outdoor concert at the Old Kona Airport venue. There wasn't much around to give one the impression this was once an airport, just a bunch of wide open grassy space and a stage. The show was over, and we were making our way to the parking lot, and the few tall-boy's of beer in a cooler in the bed of my truck.
As we made the transition from the soft grass of the venue to the coarse and crushed basalt of the parking lot, something struck me as odd. There must have been a few thousand people making their way to parked vehicles, yet I spied not one police officer or even a rent-a-cop watching out as this mass exodus took place. Never once had I been to an event this large without there being some sort of visible security presence.
Here we were, two haolis, in a sea of locals, nearly all of them drunk and high. Immediately this sense of difference made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Think whatever high spirited notions you want about the nature of our modern world, racism is still plenty prevalent in this world, and in this situation we were the minority amongst a highly resentful majority.
The word Haoli originated in the Hawaiian language to denote a foreigner, someone who was not of the Hawaiian people. It was merely a word used to signify someone who came from anywhere in the world besides the seven islands of black basalt that make up Hawaiian.
Over time, this word went through a wholesale change, and now is used to refer to any white person in the islands, regardless of where they were born or raised. Someone could have lived amongst very traditional Hawaiian people their entire lives, and would still be looked upon by many locals as a haoli. Through years of real and perceived injustices perpetrated by whites upon Hawaiians, a strong emotion of contempt has built behind the word, and now it can be delivered as a wholesale racial slur.
Local, on the other hand, has become a word to describe any non-white person, of any Pacific Islander heritage, living in Hawaii. It really doesn't have a racist undertone to it, aside from the fact that many use it as a means of being exclusionary towards whites and other non-Pacific Islanders.
As the uncomfortableness of our situation was really beginning to sink in, Jeremy tapped me on the shoulder and pointed. About a hundred yards down the row of cars we were walking, a ruckus was forming. Two rather large local men had started a shouting match in pidgin, a dialect of the islands made up of various words of English, Hawaiian, Portuguese, and other influences. Quickly it was becoming a shoving match, and a crowd had started to gather around them.
Jeremy and I stopped. I noticed that my truck was one row to the left of where we stood, about fifty yards nearer the building altercation. I pointed to the truck, and Jeremy nodded. We slipped over to the other row and started walking, mindful of the trouble that was increasing and every step we took which brought us nearer to it.
After a couple of steps we heard the massed crowd start screaming, the fight was now real. The two men were exchanging blows. I don't know if you've ever seen two men, neither over five feet, eight inches tall; and neither under three hundred and fifty pounds in weight fight, but it's something to behold.
The men stood toe to toe, each wearing the trademark footwear of Hawaii, slippahs: a pair of dollar-store plastic thong sandals. Not what I would chose for combat on the jagged volcanic gravel of this parking lot. They hurled hay-maker after hay-maker at one another, until one landed a good blow. The punch took forever to make its way to the mans face. So long, in fact, he could have, should have, written and notarized his last will and testament in the time it took for the blow that would destroy his face to arrive.
Blat! The noise surprised me. It wasn't what I had imagined the crushing of a man's nose and cheekbones would sound like. There was no crack as the bones split, no tear as the cartilage left its moorings, nor the sharp pow-noise associated with the movies. It was like a raw and wet steak being slapped against a counter top. A heavy, cold, and wet slap.
Instantly, the mans face was a bloody mess, and he staggered away from the blow. His poor choice in fighting shoes got caught on a rock, and he was down. The other man, not satisfied, immediately set upon him, his slippah-clad foot repeatedly kicking the man in the face. The crowd was not satisfied either, and the savage brutality that human beings keep locked away was released with a fury. Within seconds, this man was receiving savage kicks and punches from his fellow locals as he lay there defenseless. I don't imaging he remained conscious for very long, thankfully.
Jeremy and I had been transfixed upon this brutal scene. So much so, that we had scarcely covered half the distance remaining to my vehicle. We looked at each other, more and more realizing the gravity of the situation, and the peril we might be in. We put our heads down and walked as fast as we could to get to our means of escape. This was not our fight, and didn't want to get caught up in it. These people could very likely turn their blood-lust towards the first different thing they saw, namely us.
The last few steps passed quickly. In no time we were on either side of the vehicle, and I took to fumbling with my keys.
Ba-woing!
It was the sound of something impacting sheet metal and the spring-like sound of said metal trying to return to its previous form. The sound was very nearly like the one children make when they take a sheet of construction paper into either hand and shake it vigorously. The strange noise was a lot closer to us than where the fight had been, the situation was getting worse.
I turned my head and looked. Just across the aisle, and up a few places, the fight had escalated into a seven on seven brawl around a Ford F350 with an obscene amount of lift and monster truck tires. It was a small-penis compensator anywhere in the world, and right here fourteen or so alcohol and drug fueled crazies were incorporating it into their scuffle. Heads were bouncing off of bumpers, body parts were being slammed in doors, it was straight out of a bad movie. This wasn't a movie, it was real-life theater and it was going on too close to me.
"Dude, get the truck unlocked now," Jeremy said in a low calm voice. "I don't want wanna be a stain in this parking lot when these locals finally tire out. Where the fuck are the cops?"
Pop, my key found its mark and released the door lock. I opened the door and reached over to let Jeremy in. He opened the door and had one leg inside...
"Hey haoli, you got one beef cuz?"
Our evasion was over, we had been discovered and we were being challenged. There is no talking one's way out of the situation here. It's flee or fight. In the world of fighting in Hawaii, numbers are paramount. There is no such thing as a fairly-matched fight, it's how many people you can bring on your side. I imagine it is some sort of cultural holdover from the not-so-distant past when the islands were ruled by feudal lords who engaged in clan warfare.
We would never survive the fight that was now finding us. We were grossly outnumbered, in a state that prohibits the public from carrying firearms, and there was no law enforcement in sight. Jeremy and I would become yet another conveniently overlooked statistic in the never-ending cycle of racism and hate in this nation.
Our salvation lie in twenty-five hundred dollars worth of steel, plastic, and rubber. It was now time to hope to hell my rickety 1987 Isuzu Pickup would judge that Jeremy and I were worthy of life, start and get us the far away from there. We would not be safe until we were out of this parking lot. Even if the door locks held, a few windows would be nothing for these men to break. Their fists were as big around as pineapples, and judging from the melee around the Ford, they must be pretty impervious to pain.
As Jeremy was planting his ass in the seat next to me, I was stepping on the clutch and putting the keys in the ignition. Turning this truck over was never a problem, but it took a little bit of feathering on the throttle to get the choke to disengage from the carburetor before she had enough steam to pull first gear.
Ruh-Ruh-Ruh-Vroom! The small four-cylinder came to life. A couple quick stabs on the throttle, and she was purring like the fourteen-year old kitten she was. I looked up into the rear view. I could see silhouettes. They weren't fighting each other anymore, they were moving in our direction, at a very brisk walk.
I couldn't make out distinct features, just outlines cast by the glow of vehicle headlights behind us. It was like the scene from some cheap zombie-apocalypse movie. Only, these were real human beings, and they really wanted to hurt me.
My right hand quickly found first gear. I revved the motor with my right foot, and dumped the clutch with my left. The little Isuzu's rear tires spun free in the black gravel, showering the men behind us, no doubt. I cranked the wheel right, and we were off down the aisle. I slowed and made the left turn to exit the parking lot. As we made it onto the driveway on our way out, Jeremy turned, opened the rear sliding-glass window and reached into the bed of the truck. He came back with two twenty-four once cans of Coors Light.
"Here man, I thought you might want this!"
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
14. Griz Mornin' To Ya!
Author's Note:
I chose to set my piece to a drink connected to a cultural phenomenon rather than a food. I probably could have written about a particular dish connected with a certain subculture, but I wanted to write something I knew, and this was the best I could come up with.
Red Beer
Pour a Pint Glass 2/3-3/4 full with an American-style lager beer
Fill remaining space with Tomato Juice, V8, or Clamato
Season to taste with pepper, Worcestershire Suace, Salt, Horseradish or whatever you prefer
Long before the Chelada craze struck America, long before Annheiser-Busch began offering Bud Light premixed with Clamato, men and women in the Northwest were drinking Red Beer. No one really knows where the tradition began, what influenced it or who brought it there. And nowhere is this cultural phenomenon more prevalent than the town of Missoula, Montana.
Montana is the heavy-drinking state. One can often hear it murmured that Montana contains more bars per-ca pita than any other state in the nation. Up until five years ago, there was no statewide open container law. It was perfectly legal to drink while driving, so long as said driver wasn't drunk. The state flaunted it's "Most of Us" campaign. This campaign proclaimed proudly the findings of a recent survey of Montanans which concluded: "Four out of Five of us don't drink and drive!" Sadly, the state chose to ignore the fact that twenty percent of its population admitted to drinking and driving on a regular basis.
Missoula is home to two of the finest craft-breweries in the nation. Big Sky Brewing, with its vaunted Moose Drool Ale, has grown exponentially in the last fifteen years. Their products are now not hard to find on shelves across the nation. The Bayern brewery produces, perhaps, the finest beer outside of it's namesake German state, Bavaria (Bayern in German). Where Big Sky embraces national growth, Bayern deliberately keeps their products exclusive to Montana, instead focusing on exacting quality that reflects the German heritage of many of Western Montana's residents.
With Montanans' love of beer, it is no surprise the favored breakfast drink in Big Sky Country would be the Red Beer. In fact, in many quarters of the state, it is no different than having a glass of straight vegetable juice. This mindset is best described in the words of Missoula's most celebrated author, Norman MacLean, "you will have to realize that in Montana drinking beer does not count as drinking" (MacLean, 88).
On Saturday mornings in the Fall, Red Beer consumption reaches it's annual high in Missoula. The turning of the leaves in Missoula's University district announces that it's football season, and the University of Montana Grizzlies are the only show in town. For the city of 69,000, Washington-Grizzly Stadium is their Coliseum and the Grizzlies are their hometown Gladiators.
Up until two years ago, Washington-Grizzly Stadium was an oddity among college football venues, for it had no lights. On three occasions in the 2000's mobile lighting was brought in for a few playoff games, but otherwise every game was played in the early afternoon of a Saturday. With very little in the way of tailgate spaces, and a downtown loaded with bars within walking distance, everyone converges on the century-old brick buildings of downtown to get ready.
Most arrive at the downtown taverns with a few beers under their belt. Missoula, being an alcoholic's paradise, is the only place on Earth where it's socially acceptable to drink beer in the shower––so long as it's Game Day! At a quarter-past eight, the bars are filled with a sea of maroon and silver. The whole city dons the colors, no matter their real affiliation. No other color will do. Woe unto ye who sports blue and gold! Simply wearing the colors of Montana State University here can likely lead the transgressor to picking up his teeth... with broken fingers.
Somewhere along the train of drunken logic ridden by Missoulians, adding vegetable juice to beer makes perfect sense. For many, it's the only essential nutrients they will consume all day. The rest of their caloric intake will be booze, chicken wings, and cheese fries. For others, it's a softer hair-of-the-dog remedy to brush off the previous night's hangover and get back into form. Others more find it a way of pacing themselves. It will be a long time until two in the morning when the bars finally close, why burn out at the beginning of the race?
When the patrons finally head to the game they leave behind a sea of tomato juice caked pint glasses. The bartenders, usually half-drunk themselves, then set about preparing during the calm the eye of the hurricane presents. Glasses are washed, shelves restocked. Televisions are tuned to the game at all times. Not that anyone is watching the game, everyone is at the game. No, this is the early warning system. Once the cannon fires at the end of the game, the bartenders know they only have moments to prepare. The people of Missoula are coming. Coming either to celebrate, or drink away their pain. Either way, they're coming to drink. From now until closing time it's going to be liquor cocktails or beers and shots. They can put away the tomato juice until next Saturday.
MacLean, Norman. A River Runs Through It. Web. 14 Feb. 2011..
I chose to set my piece to a drink connected to a cultural phenomenon rather than a food. I probably could have written about a particular dish connected with a certain subculture, but I wanted to write something I knew, and this was the best I could come up with.
Red Beer
Pour a Pint Glass 2/3-3/4 full with an American-style lager beer
Fill remaining space with Tomato Juice, V8, or Clamato
Season to taste with pepper, Worcestershire Suace, Salt, Horseradish or whatever you prefer
Long before the Chelada craze struck America, long before Annheiser-Busch began offering Bud Light premixed with Clamato, men and women in the Northwest were drinking Red Beer. No one really knows where the tradition began, what influenced it or who brought it there. And nowhere is this cultural phenomenon more prevalent than the town of Missoula, Montana.
Montana is the heavy-drinking state. One can often hear it murmured that Montana contains more bars per-ca pita than any other state in the nation. Up until five years ago, there was no statewide open container law. It was perfectly legal to drink while driving, so long as said driver wasn't drunk. The state flaunted it's "Most of Us" campaign. This campaign proclaimed proudly the findings of a recent survey of Montanans which concluded: "Four out of Five of us don't drink and drive!" Sadly, the state chose to ignore the fact that twenty percent of its population admitted to drinking and driving on a regular basis.
Missoula is home to two of the finest craft-breweries in the nation. Big Sky Brewing, with its vaunted Moose Drool Ale, has grown exponentially in the last fifteen years. Their products are now not hard to find on shelves across the nation. The Bayern brewery produces, perhaps, the finest beer outside of it's namesake German state, Bavaria (Bayern in German). Where Big Sky embraces national growth, Bayern deliberately keeps their products exclusive to Montana, instead focusing on exacting quality that reflects the German heritage of many of Western Montana's residents.
With Montanans' love of beer, it is no surprise the favored breakfast drink in Big Sky Country would be the Red Beer. In fact, in many quarters of the state, it is no different than having a glass of straight vegetable juice. This mindset is best described in the words of Missoula's most celebrated author, Norman MacLean, "you will have to realize that in Montana drinking beer does not count as drinking" (MacLean, 88).
On Saturday mornings in the Fall, Red Beer consumption reaches it's annual high in Missoula. The turning of the leaves in Missoula's University district announces that it's football season, and the University of Montana Grizzlies are the only show in town. For the city of 69,000, Washington-Grizzly Stadium is their Coliseum and the Grizzlies are their hometown Gladiators.
Up until two years ago, Washington-Grizzly Stadium was an oddity among college football venues, for it had no lights. On three occasions in the 2000's mobile lighting was brought in for a few playoff games, but otherwise every game was played in the early afternoon of a Saturday. With very little in the way of tailgate spaces, and a downtown loaded with bars within walking distance, everyone converges on the century-old brick buildings of downtown to get ready.
Most arrive at the downtown taverns with a few beers under their belt. Missoula, being an alcoholic's paradise, is the only place on Earth where it's socially acceptable to drink beer in the shower––so long as it's Game Day! At a quarter-past eight, the bars are filled with a sea of maroon and silver. The whole city dons the colors, no matter their real affiliation. No other color will do. Woe unto ye who sports blue and gold! Simply wearing the colors of Montana State University here can likely lead the transgressor to picking up his teeth... with broken fingers.
Somewhere along the train of drunken logic ridden by Missoulians, adding vegetable juice to beer makes perfect sense. For many, it's the only essential nutrients they will consume all day. The rest of their caloric intake will be booze, chicken wings, and cheese fries. For others, it's a softer hair-of-the-dog remedy to brush off the previous night's hangover and get back into form. Others more find it a way of pacing themselves. It will be a long time until two in the morning when the bars finally close, why burn out at the beginning of the race?
When the patrons finally head to the game they leave behind a sea of tomato juice caked pint glasses. The bartenders, usually half-drunk themselves, then set about preparing during the calm the eye of the hurricane presents. Glasses are washed, shelves restocked. Televisions are tuned to the game at all times. Not that anyone is watching the game, everyone is at the game. No, this is the early warning system. Once the cannon fires at the end of the game, the bartenders know they only have moments to prepare. The people of Missoula are coming. Coming either to celebrate, or drink away their pain. Either way, they're coming to drink. From now until closing time it's going to be liquor cocktails or beers and shots. They can put away the tomato juice until next Saturday.
MacLean, Norman. A River Runs Through It. Web. 14 Feb. 2011.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
11. A Double With Papa
Author's Note:
This assignment really made me dig deep to find a trip I always wanted to take, but didn't. When I finally found the inspiration, I researched the topic and got some good imagery to write from this site. As always, please refrain from accessing the link until AFTER you read my story. Thanks!
MK
Papa died fifty years ago today. I never had the pleasure of knowing the man, but I feel like his spirit resides within my chest, as much now as it did when he lived and breathed. If Papa hadn't left such a profound legacy of work, which reached out to my heart and soul after all the years, I'm not sure I'd be living the fuller life I am today. I've long since had the urge to make a simple gesture, one to say thank you to the man who taught me so much about myself. Today is that day.
It's beautiful and sunny. Just a few wispy clouds high in the stratosphere which add a marble-like character to the big blue sky. I find myself standing in front of a modest iron arch straddling over a narrow driveway. The words "Ketchum Cemetary" span the arch in large uppercase letters. Beyond this arch lies a large hill. It might be a mountain by some standards, but in the Rocky Mountains of Idaho, it's a hill. Between the hill and the arch is a bright expanse of closely-mowed green grass. It's been cut recently and the smell of the grass has mixed with that of the pine trees scattered throughout the cemetery. Below the pines lay a mixed bag of gravestones. Somewhere, between two of these trees, I will find the spot where Papa lies. I know, from the pictures I've seen on the internet, he's interred underneath a simple granite monolith, which is laid even with the ground.
I'm near Papa...
_______________________________________
It wasn't until my early twenties that I found a profound personal connection with art. Sure, I'd always been very appreciative of the practical arts; woodworking, metals, jewelry. They just weren't the kinds of things that touched me on any kind of emotional or spiritual level. It's safe to say that it took me a little bit of time to discover what George Jones meant when he said, "who's gonna give their heart and soul to get to me and you?"
I found what gets me is words. The connection first came to me in novels, short stories, and philosophical works. Later, I would come to find the same feeling in well written song lyrics. For me, finding a connection with someone pouring their heart and soul out into words is the closest I will come to finding God in this lifetime.
My parents may have been the ones who put the spark of life into me. They were also a great influence in shaping the framework of my mind. However, my ability to connect deeply with written words wasn't revealed to me until I struck out on my own.
My first realization of this connection came through the works of a man who passed away long before I was born. The man known simply as "Papa", by those who feel a strong connection to him, is my favorite writer of the 20th century. No, strike that, Papa is my favorite writer of all time.
As a teenager, I read a few of his works. At that time I was able to really appreciate how vividly Papa could paint a picture in my mind, but I hadn't lived enough of my life yet to make a deep emotional and spiritual connection with his words. It wouldn't be until I had lived through trying experiences that I could really find the meaning that Papa and other experienced souls express through their art.
My "Eureka!" moment came when I was twenty years old. I was a sophomore at the University of Hawaii-Hilo and in a bad place. I was fresh on the heels of a devastating breakup. I had survived the war, but my heart and soul were left broken. Somehow, in between the frequent self-medicating, a copy of The Sun Also Rises made it's way to me.
To me, critics have ruined so many good works by trying to tell me their interpretation of what something means. Many people try to academically destruct Papa's "Iceberg Theory" to try to find some sort of absolute hard meaning below the surface of his writings. What I've come to realize is this: the meaning is whatever I need it to be. In this particular instance I was able to feel connected to the protagonist. I had survived something horrible and it left me scarred and lost. I saw so many parallels in the life of Jake Barnes and my own trying times. By the time I was done with the book, I knew I didn't have to live the rest of my life in that rut because I possessed something Jake didn't: the ability to heal myself.
Since that time, I find the more meaningful words I read, the more self-aware I become. It hasn't been until recently that this process has come full-circle. I've always been able to write. Communicating well through written words has always been something which comes easy for me. What has taken time to develop are my abilities in expressing the deeper parts of my soul. Finding a sense of self-awareness has finally imparted in me the ability to take the things deep inside myself and put them in a way I feel others can relate to. It has been a long road to get where I am, and there's many more miles yet to go, but I never would have found my inner voice if Papa hadn't lit a fire within me.
Somewhere along the way the notion entered my head to find a very personal way honor these writers. Some way so that whatever remains of their souls, wherever they may be, might be eased in the knowledge that they continue to make a difference. Call it morbid curiosity or whatever you will, visiting graves was about the best thing I could come up with. Naturally, Papa's would be the first on the list.
________________________________________
This assignment really made me dig deep to find a trip I always wanted to take, but didn't. When I finally found the inspiration, I researched the topic and got some good imagery to write from this site. As always, please refrain from accessing the link until AFTER you read my story. Thanks!
MK
Papa died fifty years ago today. I never had the pleasure of knowing the man, but I feel like his spirit resides within my chest, as much now as it did when he lived and breathed. If Papa hadn't left such a profound legacy of work, which reached out to my heart and soul after all the years, I'm not sure I'd be living the fuller life I am today. I've long since had the urge to make a simple gesture, one to say thank you to the man who taught me so much about myself. Today is that day.
It's beautiful and sunny. Just a few wispy clouds high in the stratosphere which add a marble-like character to the big blue sky. I find myself standing in front of a modest iron arch straddling over a narrow driveway. The words "Ketchum Cemetary" span the arch in large uppercase letters. Beyond this arch lies a large hill. It might be a mountain by some standards, but in the Rocky Mountains of Idaho, it's a hill. Between the hill and the arch is a bright expanse of closely-mowed green grass. It's been cut recently and the smell of the grass has mixed with that of the pine trees scattered throughout the cemetery. Below the pines lay a mixed bag of gravestones. Somewhere, between two of these trees, I will find the spot where Papa lies. I know, from the pictures I've seen on the internet, he's interred underneath a simple granite monolith, which is laid even with the ground.
I'm near Papa...
_______________________________________
"...the great artists of the world are never Puritans, and seldom respectable. No virtuous man--that is, virtuous in the Y.M.C.A. sense--has ever painted a picture worth looking at, or written a symphony worth hearing, or a book worth reading..." - H.L. Mencken
I found what gets me is words. The connection first came to me in novels, short stories, and philosophical works. Later, I would come to find the same feeling in well written song lyrics. For me, finding a connection with someone pouring their heart and soul out into words is the closest I will come to finding God in this lifetime.
My parents may have been the ones who put the spark of life into me. They were also a great influence in shaping the framework of my mind. However, my ability to connect deeply with written words wasn't revealed to me until I struck out on my own.
My first realization of this connection came through the works of a man who passed away long before I was born. The man known simply as "Papa", by those who feel a strong connection to him, is my favorite writer of the 20th century. No, strike that, Papa is my favorite writer of all time.
As a teenager, I read a few of his works. At that time I was able to really appreciate how vividly Papa could paint a picture in my mind, but I hadn't lived enough of my life yet to make a deep emotional and spiritual connection with his words. It wouldn't be until I had lived through trying experiences that I could really find the meaning that Papa and other experienced souls express through their art.
My "Eureka!" moment came when I was twenty years old. I was a sophomore at the University of Hawaii-Hilo and in a bad place. I was fresh on the heels of a devastating breakup. I had survived the war, but my heart and soul were left broken. Somehow, in between the frequent self-medicating, a copy of The Sun Also Rises made it's way to me.
To me, critics have ruined so many good works by trying to tell me their interpretation of what something means. Many people try to academically destruct Papa's "Iceberg Theory" to try to find some sort of absolute hard meaning below the surface of his writings. What I've come to realize is this: the meaning is whatever I need it to be. In this particular instance I was able to feel connected to the protagonist. I had survived something horrible and it left me scarred and lost. I saw so many parallels in the life of Jake Barnes and my own trying times. By the time I was done with the book, I knew I didn't have to live the rest of my life in that rut because I possessed something Jake didn't: the ability to heal myself.
Since that time, I find the more meaningful words I read, the more self-aware I become. It hasn't been until recently that this process has come full-circle. I've always been able to write. Communicating well through written words has always been something which comes easy for me. What has taken time to develop are my abilities in expressing the deeper parts of my soul. Finding a sense of self-awareness has finally imparted in me the ability to take the things deep inside myself and put them in a way I feel others can relate to. It has been a long road to get where I am, and there's many more miles yet to go, but I never would have found my inner voice if Papa hadn't lit a fire within me.
Somewhere along the way the notion entered my head to find a very personal way honor these writers. Some way so that whatever remains of their souls, wherever they may be, might be eased in the knowledge that they continue to make a difference. Call it morbid curiosity or whatever you will, visiting graves was about the best thing I could come up with. Naturally, Papa's would be the first on the list.
________________________________________
Thursday, February 3, 2011
8. "Somewhere In The Middle of Montana"
Author's Note:
I found myself struggling with trying to complete the assignment along the stylistic lines called for. After more than a few discouraging attempts, I just hit shuffle on my iPod and wrote the first idea I came across.
"I'm tired of this dirty old city.
Entirely too much work and never enough play.
And I'm tired of these dirty old sidewalks.
Think I'll walk off my steady job today.
Turn me loose, set me free, somewhere in the middle of Montana.
And gimme all I got comin' to me,
And keep your retirement and your so called social security.
Big City turn me loose and set me free.
Been working everyday since I was twenty.
Haven't got a thing to show for anything I've done.
There's folks who never work and they've got plenty.
Think it's time some guys like me had some fun."
Big City by Merle Haggard
I didn't walk off my steady job. I just took a vacation. A wonderful week in the land where I was born, the middle of Montana. The Bitterroot Valley to be exact. I took my son to meet his Great-Grandmother for the first time, and get in a little fishing.
Western Montana is the place where I feel most liberated. There's something about how being engulfed by mountains brings me comfort. No dirty old sidewalks, just clear streams and fresh air. The waters are teaming with fish, and the air smells of rich pine. I'm in the stream with a fly rod, and feel completely set free.
With me on this day is my Grandmother. She's eighty-nine, I'm twenty-seven. We're just two people enjoying nature, separated by two generations and two different angling styles. I'm a fly fisherman, she a bait caster. It doesn't matter much, she's caught more fish than I'll ever dream.
We make such a startling contrast, it's hard to believe we're related. I'm wearing chest waders, a fly vest, and sunglasses. My Grandmother is clad in jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a straw hat. My rod is a fragile and expensive combination of space-aged fibers, her's is twenty dollars worth of the best fiberglass 1982 had to offer. I struggle to tie minuscule flies onto hair thin leaders with my gigantic paws. Grandmother loops #2 hooks onto her thick monofilament easily with her tired old hands. While I struggle to adopt new means to trick fish into my hand, she's perfected the way to land them on her dining room table.
We leave her fishing car, a 1979 Ford Courier pickup, on the road and walk down to the creek. It's late August and I'm hoping to take advantage of the abundance of grasshoppers to make my catch. This matter's not to Grandma, she's brought an old Hills Brother's can full of gigantic worms, nightcrawlers, she pulled from the ground at midnight last night.
I ask her where she's going to fish from, she tells me that she's going to watch me try first. I make my way out into the stream and start stripping line. I make a cast upstream and land the hopper pattern as near as I can to a rock. I watch as my fly drifts by without a fish taking an interest. I repeat this a few more times, still nothing. I look back at my grandma, she's smiling.
"Haven't got a thing to show for all that fancy gear, do you?" she jokes.
"Not yet Grandma, but I'm working on it," I say.
I move upstream, repeating the process. Finally, after what seems like forever, I hook into a six in Brook Trout. I bring it to my hand and look back smiling. All the while my Grandma has been watching me, not casting once. She looks at me, smiles and says, "You gonna turn him loose? It'd be a shame to keep a baby."
"Yeah," I say defeatedly. Then I pull the forceps from my vest, and gently remove the hook from the juvenile fish's mouth. Gently, I slid him back into the stream. In a flash, he's gone.
Even though this little fish was laughable, I feel fully content. I've got my fix for the day. I turn to Grandma and say, "Are you going to try today?"
"Yes, but I was just waiting for you to quit messing around."
She turns and starts walking back towards the road. I'm puzzled.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"To catch a real fish," she replies.
I didn't know fish swam on the road Grandma. I get out of the stream and follow her. Instead of going towards the truck, she walks a few yards down the road to where it crosses the stream.
"You see that patch of brush?" she asks.
"Yeah."
"Pull them branches back."
I pull back the branches, and look down. There's a huge deep pool of blue water just below me.
"Thank you," the worm-fishing sage says as she drops her baited hook into the water. In an instant she has a bite.
This is why I hate fishing with her! I allow myself to joke.
"Do me a favor and pull him in for me."
I reach down and start working the line in by hand. When the fish comes to the surface, my disappointment at being out shined by a retiree on social security can't be any higher. I get the fish in my hand and look at the wise old lady.
"You want me to set him free?" I ask
"You know me Matthew. I came out here to get dinner."
With that, I set about cleaning a sixteen-inch Cut-throat Trout that my Grandmother has lured from the deep with psychic precision. As I pull out my knife and begin the process, I begin to realize a few things. I had just hoped to one day be able to out-fish her in her lifetime, but I know now that will never happen. A peaceful feeling sets in, and I'm thankful that I'm able to share this moment with her. I know this might be the last time we ever get to do this, and it means the world to me.
I finish washing the fish in the stream and place it into a Ziplock bag. I gather up our tackle, and change out of my waders. She watches with a big smile as I load all of our gear into the back of her ancient little brown truck. I walk over to help her into the cab and she hugs me and tells me she loves me.
As I climb in the truck I smile and laugh a little. The thought that crosses my mind makes me even more happy to be where I'm at. The only thing Grandma does better than catch fish is fry them!
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
9. Angelo: The Refuse Messiah
Author's Note:
This posting is based upon an event that happened after the snows that shut down NYC last month. The story I am referencing can be found here, however I ask that you read my writing BEFORE accessing this link.
"When is the world going to return to normal?" Angelo Icapatos thought out loud to himself.
He was sitting on the sofa gazing out window of his ninth floor apartment. Angelo lived in the West Side neighborhood of Manhattan, and had watched as his community ground to a halt over the past week.
"How can a little snow bring everything to a stop?" he once again pondered. "I need to get to work. This much free time isn't good for me!"
Angelo had started yet another in a long line of jobs to nowhere about six months ago. This had actually been the longest he'd managed to hold a job in his young life. There had been so many different brief employments, but HE always screwed things up, always got Angelo fired. The twenty-six year old man was bound and determined to not let HIMSELF get himself fired from this one. After all, he'd been making some fantastic strides in his therapy and hadn't heard from HIMSELF in a long time.
The young man went to the stove in the little kitchen of his tiny apartment. He poured himself a cup of tea from the pot that had been staying warm on the stove for the past hour. Angelo walked to the window and took a sip.
As Angelo looked out across the horizon, he saw an amazing contrast. The familiar New York skyline, the one he had found so much stabilizing comfort in, was now standing tall over a seen of chaos that threw Angelo back.
It had been a week since mother nature had dumped a record snowfall on the city, and completely ground it to a halt. There was still snow covering everything. Cars had not moved from their parking spots Trash bags had piled up into little mountains on the sidewalks, uncollected since the snow hit. There were hardly any people about. It just didn't make sense to Angelo, and it ruined the routine he depended on.
Angelo thought about the tools his therapy had given him. He was fighting a losing battle, and he knew it. He could only hold out so long with this much disruption to his life. And as if on cue, HE was back.
Hello Angelo!
"Took you long enough!" Angelo said to the voice.
Oh, I've been here the whole time Angelo! I've just enjoyed watching the torment the mere THOUGHT of me coming back has brought you.
"I know you're not real. I've worked so hard to get you out of my head, but you keep coming back. Keep messing my life up. Why?"
Because you make me real Angelo! Because you can't live without me, I am you Angelo! You'll never be rid of me.
"Oh yeah?" Angelo opened his hand and drop the cup to the floor. He turned to the window, and slid it up and open. He was met with a chilly breeze as he looked out and down.
Angelo, it's cold out there. What the hell are you doing?
"Something I should have done a long time ago," Angelo said as he locked the hold-open latch on the window. "One way or another, this ends today. I'll not have you running my life anymore."
You think it's that easy Angelo? Okay, do it. I don't think you've got it in you. You've always been my bitch Angelo! You always will be my little plaything. Try it. You'll just get to spend eternity, with me, in hell.
"We'll see." Angelo ducked his head down, swung a leg out the window. The other leg followed it and he was looking down past he feet at snow covered scene below him.
This is going to be awesome! You're mine forever!
Angelo gave a push, and was met with a falling sensation. He was on his way down, body parallel with the ground. His face looked back at the window of his apartment.
"It's done."
Whoosh! The fall was over.
A long moment passed. Angelo opened his eyes, expecting to see either heaven or hell. Either were preferable to the life he'd just left, it didn't matter. His life had been hell.
It wasn't anything he expected. Angelo felt a strange numb sensation, a paralyzed feeling. His eyes were taking a second to adjust, things were a blur. They soon came into focus. What was a brown haze a second ago began to take shape. It was a large rectangle, with shiny nearly-metallic rectangles in vertical rows upon it's face.
Angelo was drawn to one of these lesser rectangles. It didn't appear metallic. It just seemed dark. It was in the row nearest to him, but far up the vertical row. Angelo blinked.
When he opened his eyes again, full clarity returned. Then reality set in. The large brown rectangle was his apartment building and the odd dark rectangle was his apartment window. The window he had just leaped from was the only open one on the building, the only one that wasn't casting a metallic reflection of the hazy skies.
"The fuck?", Angelo moaned. His body couldn't move, but his eyes swept left to right. All he could see was a black plastic film that his body was lying on. It seemed to ripple in the slight breeze.
"Trashbags! God-damned trashbags!" Angelo screamed. It was in that instant he realized he had fallen nine stories onto the week's uncollected accumulation of his building's filth. His body was broken, but he was alive.
How's that feel Angelo? I told you 'you will always be mine', Angelo!
This posting is based upon an event that happened after the snows that shut down NYC last month. The story I am referencing can be found here, however I ask that you read my writing BEFORE accessing this link.
"When is the world going to return to normal?" Angelo Icapatos thought out loud to himself.
He was sitting on the sofa gazing out window of his ninth floor apartment. Angelo lived in the West Side neighborhood of Manhattan, and had watched as his community ground to a halt over the past week.
"How can a little snow bring everything to a stop?" he once again pondered. "I need to get to work. This much free time isn't good for me!"
Angelo had started yet another in a long line of jobs to nowhere about six months ago. This had actually been the longest he'd managed to hold a job in his young life. There had been so many different brief employments, but HE always screwed things up, always got Angelo fired. The twenty-six year old man was bound and determined to not let HIMSELF get himself fired from this one. After all, he'd been making some fantastic strides in his therapy and hadn't heard from HIMSELF in a long time.
The young man went to the stove in the little kitchen of his tiny apartment. He poured himself a cup of tea from the pot that had been staying warm on the stove for the past hour. Angelo walked to the window and took a sip.
As Angelo looked out across the horizon, he saw an amazing contrast. The familiar New York skyline, the one he had found so much stabilizing comfort in, was now standing tall over a seen of chaos that threw Angelo back.
It had been a week since mother nature had dumped a record snowfall on the city, and completely ground it to a halt. There was still snow covering everything. Cars had not moved from their parking spots Trash bags had piled up into little mountains on the sidewalks, uncollected since the snow hit. There were hardly any people about. It just didn't make sense to Angelo, and it ruined the routine he depended on.
Angelo thought about the tools his therapy had given him. He was fighting a losing battle, and he knew it. He could only hold out so long with this much disruption to his life. And as if on cue, HE was back.
Hello Angelo!
"Took you long enough!" Angelo said to the voice.
Oh, I've been here the whole time Angelo! I've just enjoyed watching the torment the mere THOUGHT of me coming back has brought you.
"I know you're not real. I've worked so hard to get you out of my head, but you keep coming back. Keep messing my life up. Why?"
Because you make me real Angelo! Because you can't live without me, I am you Angelo! You'll never be rid of me.
"Oh yeah?" Angelo opened his hand and drop the cup to the floor. He turned to the window, and slid it up and open. He was met with a chilly breeze as he looked out and down.
Angelo, it's cold out there. What the hell are you doing?
"Something I should have done a long time ago," Angelo said as he locked the hold-open latch on the window. "One way or another, this ends today. I'll not have you running my life anymore."
You think it's that easy Angelo? Okay, do it. I don't think you've got it in you. You've always been my bitch Angelo! You always will be my little plaything. Try it. You'll just get to spend eternity, with me, in hell.
"We'll see." Angelo ducked his head down, swung a leg out the window. The other leg followed it and he was looking down past he feet at snow covered scene below him.
This is going to be awesome! You're mine forever!
Angelo gave a push, and was met with a falling sensation. He was on his way down, body parallel with the ground. His face looked back at the window of his apartment.
"It's done."
Whoosh! The fall was over.
A long moment passed. Angelo opened his eyes, expecting to see either heaven or hell. Either were preferable to the life he'd just left, it didn't matter. His life had been hell.
It wasn't anything he expected. Angelo felt a strange numb sensation, a paralyzed feeling. His eyes were taking a second to adjust, things were a blur. They soon came into focus. What was a brown haze a second ago began to take shape. It was a large rectangle, with shiny nearly-metallic rectangles in vertical rows upon it's face.
Angelo was drawn to one of these lesser rectangles. It didn't appear metallic. It just seemed dark. It was in the row nearest to him, but far up the vertical row. Angelo blinked.
When he opened his eyes again, full clarity returned. Then reality set in. The large brown rectangle was his apartment building and the odd dark rectangle was his apartment window. The window he had just leaped from was the only open one on the building, the only one that wasn't casting a metallic reflection of the hazy skies.
"The fuck?", Angelo moaned. His body couldn't move, but his eyes swept left to right. All he could see was a black plastic film that his body was lying on. It seemed to ripple in the slight breeze.
"Trashbags! God-damned trashbags!" Angelo screamed. It was in that instant he realized he had fallen nine stories onto the week's uncollected accumulation of his building's filth. His body was broken, but he was alive.
How's that feel Angelo? I told you 'you will always be mine', Angelo!
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