Father's Day

When I was a boy, my father taught me how to fly-fish on the Au Sable River, in the northern end of Michigan's Lower Peninsula, near the town of Grayling. He taught me, even though I did not wish to learn, the art of casting, and of patience, waiting for the strike, in the evenings when, I suppose, the fish were out.

I did not learn how to fly-fish until years later. I was by then an adult, living in San Francisco, and suggested to my father that we take a trip to Montana, and fish the Madison and Yellowstone Rivers, as we had done on a family trip when I was nine. I had seen and read A River Runs Through It, of course, and desired some sort of literary closure with that vacation twenty years earlier. Dad rose to the idea, and a few months later he met me at the Bozeman airport, set to go.

I had not been fishing in at least a few years, so Dad had to teach me all over again. We started out on the Madison, and spent several fruitless days (at least in terms of fishing), and it started to dawn on me I still had not learned to fish. I don't think sons ever really come to terms with the idea that there is something that their Dad can do that they can't. And if this skill, or gift, or talent, is something that the father is trying to pass on, or teach to, the son, the son resists even more.

We switched rivers mid-week to the Yellowstone, in the very aptly-named Paradise Valley. Dad had arranged to hire a guide, the son of a friend of his, who would take us down the Yellowstone in a small boat, which we would fish from. We started out, and I think the guide figured out right away I did not know what I was doing, so we got out at a large sandbar, and he taught me how to cast.

Something clicked, and suddenly, I got it. I wasn't good at it, but I could competently throw line around without gnarling up every other cast. I don't think the guide used some sort of Jedi fishing technique, or that Dad was so inept at something so easy. I just think that I wasn't fighting Dad anymore, and could just learn outside of the dynamic of my father's and my relationship. It was like all of Dad's teaching kicked in, once it was freed of the constraints of our wills and emotions.

In any case, I caught some fish that day - not many, mind you, but some. And the next day, when Dad and I went wet-wading in a little stream that flowed into the Yellowstone, without a guide, I caught some more. That was a good day, the best day of that trip.

That day is now many years gone by, and neither my Dad nor I fish anymore. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that Dad had something he loved, that was dear to him, that he tried to pass on to me, no matter how much I resisted. And he didn't do it because he enjoyed it (I'm sure I made it less than a pleasurable experience), or because he thought fishing was something that I should do. He did it because he loved me, and he wished to share his passion with me. And he recognized that it was worth keeping at, even though I resisted, because in doing so we would always have something to share.

I never became the fisherman that I'm sure Dad wished I would. I just don't have the patience to invest the time to do it right. But I did gain a value of Dad's as a result of all his failed attempts to impart his passion to me. I've been to Montana, and the deserts of the southwest, and I've lived on both oceans that border this country. But I am most at home, not in sight of majestic mountains or the unknowable sea, but near a simple stream, or when I can hear the breeze whisper through the maple trees. And I have Dad to thank for that.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

Fear

My wife sent me a great post to read.  Go to this link and read it, and I also recommend reading the comments (which I seldom do).  When you're done come back here.

Okay, wasn't that awesome?  I felt it was an incredibly personal way of stating FDR's famous truism:

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

Take that in.  Because I am, and I have been scared my whole life, of what people think, of looking stupid, of being embarrassed, or ashamed.  And now I'm in my forties, and like the writer of that post, I know I am not doing what I am meant to do.  So now I am going to say it.

(The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.)

I want to be a writer.  I have wanted to be a writer all of my life.

Yeah, I know, duh, you're writing right now, so you are a writer.

Let me clarify.  I want to be a work all day in a cafe, live by my imagination, see the world, drink coffee on the Left Bank kind of writer, at least metaphorically speaking.  I want to be free to tell the stories I want to tell the way I want to tell them.

(The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.)

So yeah, I have a job, and a mortgage, and responsibilities, and I am not about to quit and live off of credit cards and Ramen noodles.  I am going to go to work and be the best classroom scheduling manager I can be, and I am going to take care of my house and my mortgage and my family, the best way I can.

But I am also going to write stories.  Because I can.

You heard it.  The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.

There is a Way to be Good Again

The title of this post is the mysterious promise made by an old family friend to Amir, the guilt-ridden protagonist of Khaled Husseini's first novel, The Kite Runner.  

(Yeah, I know, everyone has read and written about this already.  So I'm late to the party, bear with me, okay?)

I'm not going to summarize or spoil anything about this wonderful novel, so you can read without fear.  Husseini's tale is fundamentally a redemption story, and reading it has me thinking a lot about the power that redemption holds over us.  I finished the book a week ago, and in the meantime read Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer Prize-winner, The Road, which also has redemptive elements, though less overt than The Kite Runner.  However, establishing themselves as "the good guys" becomes very important to the two main characters of The Road.

So then, why redemption?  What is the attraction of atoning for past mis-deeds?  It is not purely the Christian concept of sin, as the author and characters of The Kite Runner are all Muslims.  No, it is the recognition in all of us that we are not saints.  We can all do more to make the world better, and too often, we don't.  A redemption story is a fictional method whereby the reader is redeemed, merely by absorbing the story.  

But that doesn't really redeem us, does it?  We are only redeemed by being inspired by the redemption story to go out into the world and actually living the redemption story.  It can be by volunteering to help the less fortunate, or working to further the greater good, or simply living a kinder life of greater generosity and compassion.  Studies have shown repeatedly that people who help others feel better themselves, and who doesn't want that?  I am constantly amazed at my own inconsistency in simply being aware of situations where I could commit a nice or supporting act.  But that doesn't mean I don't or that I won't do more.  I am living my redemption story, in the end.

Aren't we all?

Three Reviews

Victoria and I sat down Saturday night to watch a movie, and we put in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. I love Indiana Jones movies, I have the first three on DVD, and I hate people who don't give movies a chance.

I don't know if we made it past the first thirty minutes. It was terrible. And not because Harrison Ford is old, either. It just wasn't Indiana Jones. The movie is set in 1957, and the bad guys are the Soviets. It involves Roswell, and aliens, and there's a nuclear bomb test. And none of it felt, looked, or sounded like an Indiana Jones movie. The wisecracks all fell flat, the action was dull, and the omnipresent CGI just increased the artificiality of it all. Early George Lucas movies relished in their on-location filming, and that helped the first Star Wars trilogy and the Indy movies a lot. I don't know if they bothered with the two hours it takes to go to Nevada to film, but if they left a soundstage I'd be shocked. The less said about this travesty the better.

Sunday afternoon I went to see Watchmen with two friends. I loved Watchmen as a comic book, buying it in monthly installments when it was first released, and I've read it many times. It is one of my favorite, if not my very favorite, comic-book story, and I was concerned how the movie would turn out.

I am very pleased. I could pick some nits, but the film captures the comic book's tone and themes as well as anyone could expect. The acting, from a mostly unknown cast, is a little uneven, but mostly good, and Jackie Earle Haley's portrayal of the iconic crimefighter Rorschach is memorable.

I think what pleases me the most is, even though the film is very violent, and portrays a harsh, even cruel, world, the underlying message that every single human life is a miracle, an existence born out of astronomical odds, and therefore worth defending. The filmmakers used the comic's dialogue whenever possible, it seemed, and even used the art as camera frames, so that Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons' vision is fully realized. All of that said, Watchmen is not for everybody.

However, the real gem of the weekend was something else entirely. Sunday morning, Victoria and I watched a wonderful movie called The Visitor. It is about a widowed, Connecticut econ professor who, through a few random actions, becomes involved in the lives of an illegal immigrant couple, and befriends them. I won't go into the plot any further, but it is a really good movie, filled with authentic performances. The friendship that forms between the prof and the Syrian African-drum player, and the commonality they share in their love of music, is wonderful to behold. And when the Syrian's mother enters the picture, the prof and her forge a relationship that is understated and lovely.

It's a little movie about big things, like identity, and compassion, and it's beautiful.

A Dove with Claws

Once upon a time, the United States was a republic.  At the turn of the 20th century, the Spanish American War gave us Cuba and the Philippines, and a taste of empire.  That taste has not gone away, as we are now a full-fledged empire, with possessions spanning the globe, and the military entanglements that go with them.  And as we all know, there are no "good" empires.

These comments are to preface an article by one of my favorite anti-Empire writers, Tom Engelhardt.  He has a great blog called tomdispatch.com, and here is what he has to say today:

http://www.tomdispatch.com/post/175044

Honor

I remember saying once at a party, maybe twelve-fifteen years ago, that our generation's desire was to live our whole life just like we lived in college.  Everyone, laughed, and it was regarded as an insightful witticism.  It was true then, when we were facing thirty.  Is it true now?

I still find myself clinging to fantasies of a life of joyous irresponsibility.  I try to tell myself that it is freedom, not irresponsibility, that I fantasize about, but that's a lie.  Like it or not, as we form attachments in life, we become responsible for them, and to them.  It doesn't matter if the attachment is to a partner, a spouse, a pet, a child, a home, a way of life, we have responsibility for that attachment, a duty, an honorable duty, to treat that attachment with respect, to nurture that attachment, and to add value to that which we are attached.

It is the fantasy that says that our attachments don't need that respect, nurturing, or value.  Our attachments are organic things, and they need attention to prosper.  Committing to someone, or something, and not giving it your attention is like planting a vegetable garden, and not watering it, but still expecting to reap in it's harvest.  You only reap what you sow if you do all the hard work in-between.

I thought I was very clever with that witticism, all those years ago.  I patted myself on my back, and my friends did, too.  I think most of them learned to move on, though.  I didn't.  I spent many more years clinging to the irresolute life of a mediocre college student.  It gave me a good excuse to drink too much, eat junk food, and accomplish nothing.  

I'm married now, to the right woman, with a house, a job of some responsibility, even pets.  It's taken time, but the dishonorable life of a mediocre college student is no longer for me.  Now it's the not the bar, but the kitchen that I look forward to after a hard day's work.  It's not the latest blockbuster release, but the simple pleasure of tending to the details of my life that I will look forward to on the coming weekend.

We get water in our basement, and when it pours the water comes in pretty freely, in two places.  I dread those days, I get all anxious in my shoulders, and queasy in my stomach.  But now, facing Spring weather like it's the barrel of a gun, I don't feel that way, even though it is raining as I write this.  I feel liberated.  This is my house, and it is my honorable duty to care for it, and if that means digging up the shrubs and re-grading so that water stays out, then that is what it means.  It doesn't mean I won't worry, it just means I will embrace the challenge of solving problems, instead of the fear of the problems themselves.

My friends have a quote painted on the dining room walls, that speaks to the effect of "Doesn't this home deserve our love and compassion, our care and our creativity?"

The answer is a resounding yes.  As is does not my life, my wife, my home, my car, my pets, my being deserve love, understanding and care?  Do I not deserve those things?  Do I not desire them?  There is a belief that you only get in this life what you are willing to give.

I once was an immature ass, and I'll be damned if I'll be one again.  It's time to get to work.

March

I've always liked March, as a month.  I have no delusions about it, especially in Wisconsin.  It comes in like a lion and goes out like a pissed-off lion.  But there is enough green, or the promise of green, that I always feel like March is the month I turn the corner.  February is the end of the line; the terminal station of Winter's death march.  It is cold, and snowy, and dreary, and did I mention cold?  

But March is, well, hopeful.  The birds are singing in the morning, even with snow still on the ground.  I saw a rabbit out in the pre-dawn light this morning, having his morning breakfast.  March is windy, and cold, and damp, but the damp is the coming of Spring, so I'll put up with it.  The whole miserable lot actually makes me feel nostalgic, possibly for the northern European homes of my ancestors (central Ireland or the Rhine Valley, take your pick).  

March is the month you can get out, and re-acquaint yourself with your environment.  For the past three months (or more), you've been traveling from home, to car or bus, to work, and back again.  But there will be days, not many, but some, that you can get outside, and feel the sun and the breeze, and be glad of it, not repelled by it.  March has smells, while the months beforehand, don't.  

Not everyone likes March.  Victoria thinks it is mostly a cruel joke, promising Spring while delivering more of Winter.  I get that.  But in March, for the first time in months, I can feel like the glass is half-full, and that's enough.