Shout It Forward

I was an early enlistee for the People's Climate March held in late September of 2014, on a Sunday in NYC. I was enjoying the trip preparations, a high of expectations, when two family members came down with a bad cold just five incubation days from my flight day. Five days of mild panic to real hysteria as I body scanned for symptoms of a cold that would ruin it all. On Thursday morning, still wary but allowing myself to be excited again, I made it to the airport. Sitting at the gate, waiting for my flight, I was finally feeling both calm and giddy at the same time.

I haven't flown for several years, and wasn't quite prepared for economy class. Airline economy class is designed for very small people: everyone else just makes do. You can only sit in one position until your feet go to sleep and then you join everyone in the aisle waiting in line for the restrooms. The aisle is a one lane road with traffic going both ways. It's a clever arrangement because by the time you actually get to the restrooms and back, your feet are revived, and you go back to one position. I flew into Newark, NJ. Newark Airport and the nearby airport hotel were standard, nice enough, but leave little impression. The ubiquitous hotel room is my jump off place for the grand adventure. I was feeling bubbly; continuous body scanning assured me I was not sick.

While I'm probably a normal adult with a bad sense of direction, I see myself more dramatically as having a mild form of Developmental Topographical Disorientation (DTD), characterized by the inability to navigate through a non-verbal process, or generate cognitive maps. Catching the train to Penn Station in NYC the next morning was easier than I could have imagined as the crowd going there formed a human wave that carried me right along. That clarity ended at Penn Station. The subway system is a hot, brightly lit underground rabbit warren, and those rabbits move fast. I was in no mood to figure out the system at that moment; couldn't find my rabbit mode, so I headed for an exit. Twenty-five short blocks to my hotel, a moderate walk by New York standards. Wheeling my luggage heightened it to level moderate plus, but the pleasant, warm weather still made it a pleasure.

I had booked a room at the Park Savoy Hotel on W. 58th Street, a block from Central Park near Columbia Circle. It's a very expensive neighborhood, full of posh hotels, but the Savoy is a wonderful exception. The rooms are more like college dorm rooms than hotel rooms except that you do have your own small, private bathroom. The charm lies entirely in the affordable price at a great location.

Park Savoy Hotel NYC

While checking in, I met Susan, who had the seriously informal look, and the sturdy shoes of a fellow climate activist. After a brief conversation confirming we were both there for the march, we were instant comrades, and went with another couple Susan knew to find food. These people were prepared. Of the hundreds of workshops and other events planned for the days leading up to the Climate March, the couple had definitively chosen their events, purchased their metro passes, marked their subway maps, and were ready to rise at the crack of dawn to begin. Susan was not quite as up to speed but exuded confidence for getting about. I felt like the kid who didn't do her homework, can't read, and doesn't want anyone to know. I could have tagged along, of course, but the very competent couple struck me as quite humorless and I preferred my own confusion.

Comrades from the Hotel Savoy 

The four of us met again at our complimentary breakfast site next door to the hotel. The competent couple rushed off in order to stay on schedule. Susan was ready to launch before I was, but she stayed in contact with me through texting. It was perverse, but while I very much appreciated the navigational help she gave me, I wanted to do it on my own. It didn't go smoothly. I got turned around a number of times, but I emerged from the subway station on the right street and with my very own metro pass.

Of the approximately one thousand organizations that participated and supported the march, Global Climate Convergence was perhaps the best organized with 40 or so different workshops presented. A conference of very serious people all networking. I made it through two workshops; The Climate Crisis is a Water Crisis, and Toxic Trade Agreements. I had planned to attend three or four workshops but was feeling overloaded with depressing information. Had the urge to immerse myself in serious subject matter not been so strong, I could have been sight-seeing on such an idyllically beautiful day. I did consider going to a Bee In with Reverend Billy and the Stop Shopping Choir, but I would have had to travel to a distant Bowling Green Park. I could manage a subway backtrack to my hotel. I could not manage a whole new subway project and then find my way back. In retrospect, je regrette profondement. I love Reverend Billy.

Stop Shopping Choir 

I was a mere subway ride away from singing along with the Stop Shopping Choir whereas if I wanted to join them again, my next opportunity would be St. Louis, MI, where they will be celebrating a pesticide free, non GMO organic Thanksgiving meal at Monsanto's headquarters. Whimsical activism is obviously more fun than the normal shuffling about with signs and banners except for the going to jail part. 

In a departure from the usual protest march agenda, there were to be no speakers at the end of the Climate March on Sunday. The speakers were instead holding court the night before at several venues. Susan and I were able to take a modest hike from our hotel to the All Souls Unitarian Church to hear a panel discussion with Bill MiKibben, Bernie Sanders, Naomi Klein, Chris Hedges, and Kshama Sawant; all rock stars of progressive politics. The audience was hyped for the march and high on just being together with leaders who could articulate so perfectly why we had come from all over the country to be part of this event. Bernie Sanders, Independent, socialist senator from VT is the political man of the hour to fight the corrupt corporate takeover. Kshama Sawant, socialist city council member from Seattle, is a charismatic and effective politician who can always deliver a "Storm the Bastille" speech. Naomi Klein and Chris Hedges are journalists with sharp edges, and Bill MiKibben is the 350.org instigator of the Climate Change March.

For Progressives, it was like being at church with nearly one thousand of us in attendance, all warm and glowing. Somewhere inside my inner glow, I'm vaguely becoming aware of my sore throat. When church is over, I'm eager to get back to the hotel, go to sleep, and maybe lose the sore throat. I'm really trying for a state of denial about impending doom. As I'm standing outside the church impatiently waiting for Susan to join me for the walk back, I nearly stumbled over Amy Goodman of Democracy Now. I wanted to gush and proclaim my admiration for her, but this is NYC and some sophistication is required.

Amy Goodman & Juan Gonzalez on TV set. Democracy Now! 

As I wake up on Sunday morning, the cold is now inevitable, but my energy is still good and I can hold it off for a few more hours. I head out to meet my Seattle friends at our designated starting point for the march. My hotel is easy walking distance from Central Park, and I'm early enough to engage in pre-march photo ops.

Poster Child 

The World At Rest 

It has been advertised as the largest climate march in history; it's certainly one of the most organized marches in history. We are neatly divided by city blocks in order to allow traffic to cross periodically. Consequently, there is a lot of starting and stopping to this march, and we are marching for hours to cover the two and a half mile permitted route. The anarchists among us are disdainful of all the coordination with the city police force. A relatively small contingent of anarchists do join the march anyway and are rewarded with their very own police escorts. Otherwise, the police along the route are very relaxed and non-threatening. This is definitely not a hostile crowd. It feels to me more like a Macy's day parade or maybe a ticker tape parade with NYC mayor, Bill de Blasio, out in front of the approximately 400,000 exuberant marchers. The props, banners and costumes on display are more elaborate than I was expecting. I'm marching with 350 Seattle and we are taking turns pulling a huge globe with large and heavy accompanying banners. Marching bands are tucked in at random, and for most of the route, we are entertained by a talented four person drum band.

Alex Garland photographer 

It's difficult to feel the true impact of the crowd, or to have any idea of the numbers when we are folded somewhere in the middle. An inspired piece of the march plan is that at a given time, we will all stop marching and have a full minute of silence to be followed by exuberant, joyful noise making to let the world know we are here. The silence is almost eerie. Whether by design or by chance, the joyful shouts begin at the back of the line and the human roar travels forward toward us on a wave of incredible volume and intensity. We join the wave in turn and shout it forward. We are single drops of water flowing together in a river of white water noise. We look at each other in surprised awe; the moment passes, and we are groups and divisions of people marching forward.

Adam Smith photographer

As we cross the finish line, we are already going our separate ways. The cold virus has taken over; my head is stuffy and my energy is drooping. In a parallel universe where I didn't get the cold, I would have helped my friends to dismantle the props and joined them for the dancing in the street and general merry making that followed. Instead, I took to the sidewalk and followed the march route back to my neighborhood. Since my division was somewhere in the middle of the march, I got to experience the last half of the march as a sidewalk spectator. I was too weary to photograph it myself, but there is no shortage of march documentation.

Alex Garland photographer 

Doing my job; helping to carry the world. 

According to GobalClimateConvergence.org, a mere two days after the People's Climate March, the UN Climate Summit ignored the mandate from the street, fulfilling lowest expectations for inaction and empty rhetoric. The cheer-leading was led by President Obama who called for other countries to follow U.S. leadership in pledging a puny 3% emissions reduction by 2020.

Bill and Hillary Clinton were elsewhere on People's Climate March day, though not far. It was rumored that they were otherwise occupied in a meeting with Wall Street bankers at the Sheraton Hotel. True or not, they were in NYC but did not find it politically expedient to join the march or express support.

We, the marchers, did not expect more from the politicians. The People's Climate March was for show, and for fun, and to energize and inspire us for the less glamorous work ahead.



“Into the Streets”, a gorgeous 9-minute video about the march from our friends at Meerkat Media

It's All Open Space in Costa Rica

We wake up in a tree house to surround-sound, exotic bird songs as the windows here are always open. Sunrise around six, no curtains on the windows; adjust bedtime accordingly. Each morning is a fresh start but the weather changes little. The air is soft and warm, so full of moisture that nothing is completely dry. A natural moisturizer for skin and hair; my clothes don't get a chance to wrinkle.

The morning view of the valley always delights me, almost like a programmed response. There are other houses hidden in the vegetation, but it seems to be exclusively our view.

We join Frank in the open air kitchen for strong coffee and quiet conversation as he prepares breakfast for us. Eventually, we all gather for another incredible meal, heavy on tropical fruit that we can barely afford to buy in the States. The mist is lifting from the valley, the sun is warmer; we are encircled by vegetal greenery and bright flowers.

If it's Thursday, we can travel a short distance to an open market, a farmers' market on steroids. Fruit and vegetables for sale in such abundance, it looks like it could feed the world.

The market has a county fair like atmosphere as local residents come to socialize as much as to shop. All fun stops at the Mennonite lady's table. Her breads are popular but do not smile here where life is apparently very serious and certainly not joyous or carefree. The cheese lady stands alone. Her cheeses may be superb and her hat is festive, but she is not having a great day either.  

On another afternoon, we stop at a local, neighborhood bar. There is little separation of the
inside and outside; windows with no glass or screens keep nature close. Anything seems possible; a jaguar or ocelot might be wandering the dirt road below our open window.

Given enough privacy from passers-by, glass and screens are completely optional here in the countryside. Our friend has lived here for nearly twenty years with artfully liberated windows.

But real open space begins at the beach. We're on the Pacific Ocean side where there is a stunning lack of commercial development blight. People friendly beaches abound that are nevertheless not crowded with people.

Paradise doesn't exist, and in other parts of Costa Rica there are bars on all the windows and razor wire is a prominent feature. But bars on the windows is also a state of mind, and I'm going for the open space.

Wrong Man

I am walking down the bike trail near my home in the late afternoon on New Years Eve. The trail is not empty but certainly not very busy on this late December day. At a good distance, I see a white haired man coming toward me who looks very like one of my neighbors who moved away but still visits family members on our street.

Love Israel, my former neighbor, is the grand poobah of a long established commune conveniently named the Love Israel Family. As befits any grand poobah or successful salesperson, Love is charismatic and exceedingly outgoing. You are his new best friend the moment he meets you. A good recruiting tool of course, but the man is a totally legitimate extrovert.

As the man is approaching me, he turns on a beaming grin and, full of cheer, asks me how I've been. It's like taking a drink of iced tea when you were expecting lemonade. The man looks and acts like Love, but is not quite Love. I find I've already launched into a conversation with the man about gardening, and he's telling me he once had an organic farm in England. That explains the British accent that I'm just now taking into account; further prove that he is definitely not Love Israel. But now we're talking about the horrors of genetically modified organisms and the Evil Empire of Monsanto.

He decides to introduce himself; his name is Walter. I try to explain to him that I had mistaken him for a neighbor. "Oh don't worry," he says, "I'm a terrible flirt."

In the Beginning

There are exceptional people who sit down to meditate for the first time and experience a deep level of concentration, who can sit for hours not distracted by thoughts or discomfort in the body, and who then return to the normal state of mind refreshed and at ease. This is not you or me; this is not what most people experience when beginning to meditate.

Beginners usually start by focusing on a mantra, or on their breath; both methods are called concentration meditation. Breathing is normal, not manipulated. Your mind will not like this. Your mind wishes to remain free to jump about from topic to topic, chattering at you non-stop; including but not restricted to: planning, rehearsing what you plan to do or say, remembering past conversations or scenes, endlessly explaining something to somebody, and fantasizing. Your mind will most likely inform you that concentrating on one thing, like a mantra or your breath, is flat out boring.

While I think any attempt at meditation can be beneficial, I personally went looking for another method after attempting for years to just follow my breath. I was drawn to Vipassana or Insight meditation, which can incorporate focusing on the breath, but broadens the experience. I'm not attempting to give an official, certified teaching on meditation; just my understanding from my years of experience.

The instructions for concentration meditation are to put your attention back on your mantra or your breath as soon as you realize your mind has wandered off. That's it. Your mind wanders; put it back on the object of meditation. Analogies commonly given are that training or taming your mind is like breaking a wild horse, training a puppy or a monkey, or anything trainable. My mind was more like a zebra, which allegedly can't be tamed.

Insight meditation offers more interesting instruction. When I "wake up" and find that my mind has wandered off of my breath, I notice where my mind has gone. There is the experience of separation; I am watching my mind now. Bringing the incessant chatter to a halt while I check out and note where my mind has been. As my mind inevitably does wander and I notice each time, I am collecting useful information about where my mind likes to hang out, and I'm seeing patterns of thinking that I was not aware of. For example, though I wouldn't describe myself as an angry person, I see a habitual pattern in which my mind self-righteously (angrily) lectures a vague "someone" about political corruption and social injustice.

The experience of separation, of being acutely conscious of where my mind goes and of habitual thought patterns, is for me, extremely beneficial. People who have no experience of meditation are more apt to be bound within their own mind, to accept all of their thoughts as true, to believe that they are their thoughts. Meditation gives me the space to step back and observe my mind, to step back from whatever emotional state I'm feeling; to be a neutral observer. Rather than deep concentration, this method invites insight as to how my own mind works, and to some extent, the way everyone's mind works. As to the nature of the mind, we are all more alike than not; it is the content, or the story we tell ourselves about who we are that differs from person to person.

It's a beginning meditation trap to expect that all meditation will be peaceful and stress releasing. For most of us, every meditation session is different, entirely unpredictable. I may sit down and feel an immediate sense of calm and well-being; thoughts seem to slow down and give me space and peace. For no discernible reason, in the next session I may be restless and agitated with angry, negative thoughts seeming to overwhelm me. I no longer have any agenda for meditation; whatever happens will be interesting. Whatever happens will be illuminating in some way if I approach my meditation with curiosity rather than any expectation.

It is not my job as a meditator to stop my thinking. I can't. As I say, there are people who can but that's their experience and it is irrelevant to me. It is enough to be curious about my thoughts, to give my thoughts respect but not to be necessarily taken in. My thoughts are sometimes crazy, often judgmental, sometimes vicious, and not necessarily true. I don't control my thoughts; I observe them. If I can be more tolerant of myself regarding my own thoughts, than I can develop more tolerance for others.

I can't attribute the quote to anyone in particular, but one explanation as to who we really are asserts that we are the space between our thoughts. Meditation is a way to become aware of the space between your thoughts.

The Dog's Deposition

Occasionally, dogs with guns shoot people. A tale from gun nutty America that seems improbable though parts of it may be true.

Florida man, 35, told police Saturday that he and his dog were in his truck when the dog kicked a gun that was on the truck's floor. The gun went off, shooting the man in the leg, police said. The man wasn't seriously injured. According to the police report, the man said he was driving along State Road 17 North when the dog kicked the unloaded .380 pistol. The report went on to say that the man was "surprised" to learn not only that the gun was loaded, but also that it was actually a 9mm Beretta semi-automatic handgun, not a .380.  Police Commander Mike Carter said police are investigating the incident. 

The Dog's Story:

Chuck 

It was my first time being questioned by the police. The police commander seemed professional and friendly, but I was kept waiting in a small room by myself for at least as long as it takes to walk twice around the average block. The holdup, apparently, was finding a police dog who could interview me. The first inquiry was conducted by a very large, intimidating police dog named Roger.

Officer Roger entered the interrogation room abruptly and he didn't just sniff around. He wanted me to describe the gun in detail, and whether or not I'd had reason to believe the gun was in fact loaded. A trick question. My best friend, man-person Bob, had himself been very confused on this point when questioned by the police after the incident. Bob said he'd been shot with an unloaded .380 pistol; the policeman and I are looking at the recently fired 9mm Beretta semi-automatic handgun still laying in plain sight on the floor of the truck. I told Officer Roger, that I had no knowledge or expertise with regard to guns, loaded or unloaded. Which is not true, but I didn't like the tough dog routine.

The police commander stepped into the stuffy little room at that point, and motioned to Officer Roger, who was immediately replaced by my new interrogator, Officer Danny.

Officer Danny was sympathetic; said he understood I was in a bit of a tough spot as dogs had neither gun rights nor lawyers. He just wanted to hear my story. I decided to tell the truth.

Chuck's Deposition:

IN THE CIRCUIT COURT FOR HIGHLANDS COUNTY IN AND FOR THE STATE OF FLORIDA.

Case No. 02-C-04-055271

My best friend, man-person Bob and I were in our red truck. I ride shotgun beside Bob. We own a vast array of guns that we keep in a pile in one of our back rooms; we always travel armed because this is Florida. Bob had just grabbed a gun from the top of the pile, dumped it on the floor of the truck, and we set off.

We were still in town, coming up to a red traffic signal where another truck pulled up beside us. Bob's driving, listening to music and talking to his buddies on his cell phone, so I'm the lookout for any signs of danger. Danger was definitely staring right at me; a Doberman in a bad mood. A Doberman in a bad mood with an AK - 47  practically on his lap.
     

         

Bob was oblivious to the threat and headed out to State Road 17 North with Doberman truck following right behind us. Just one more truck carrying an attack dog and assault rifle as far as Bob was concerned. The Doberman's driver was getting ready to pass us.

Of course the Doberman can't actually aim the gun, but most dogs of a certain size know how to whack a loaded gun to make it fire. My only option was to kick our gun first, both to get Bob's attention and to warn off Doberman and driver. I was entirely successful. I do regret shooting Bob, but he wasn't seriously injured so not much harm done.



Pursuant to Notice, the Deposition of Chuck was taken on February 26, 2023 commencing at 10:05 A.M. at the Sebring Police Station, before Officer Danny, police dog and a Notary Public.

*

The Lonely Lecturer #getmoneyoutofpolitics

I had my doubts. Global Noise, a sister organization to Occupy Wall Street, had a permit to hold a street event at the plaza in downtown Seattle. The plan was to have a speaker give an hour long lecture about how the bankers and the rest of the financial services brethren are both waging and winning a war on the rest of us.

The speaker would be from our Get Money Out of Politics (GMOP) group, a small but earnest collection of political activists who came together as refugees from Occupy. Randy is our designated speaker and expert on the evils of the financial services cabal. He has a prepared slide show on the topic and is eager to engage the financially uninformed public. Possibly too eager.

I'm a veteran of sparsely attended rallies; I'm cautious now. The talk wouldn't begin until 7 pm, so that would be a lengthy, detailed lecture on financialization held outdoors in the darkness of  mid-October.
After a beautiful, extended season of sunshine and no rain, the Seattle rainy season began about a week before the plaza speaker event.

I am desperately unenthusiastic about attending this event, but I am a loyal team player and this is my group. The day is chilly, overcast, and the rain falls intermittently. I'm feeling glum as I board the bus to head downtown. I'm not at all clear as to the agenda prior to the lecture, but GMOP will be setting up a table with informational handouts and political buttons to sell. There might be dancing in the streets, or fellow activists might be banging on pots and pans to protest the unfair debt burden on the masses.

I arrive about an hour before the lecture is to begin. I see a nearly empty plaza; no dancing, no banging on pots and pans. At least I'm conveniently in downtown Seattle. I go shopping.

As lecture time nears, I saunter over to the darkened plaza and find the GMOP table manned by five or six compatriots. The props for speaker Randy are set up; the sound system is now playing dance music and possibly a dozen people are gathered. At least it's not raining and Randy is still game to go on with the show. The turnout is beyond disappointing; it's the least attended event imaginable. The situation is so preposterous, I turn unexpectedly giddy.

Professor Randy, who is actually a medical doctor, appears undaunted, and presents the full, unabridged lecture to the motley crowd. A few people are actually listening and paying attention. On all sides of the plaza, shoppers continue shopping; still resolutely uninformed. 

Friday Night Lecture

Crowd Shot

The Lonely Lecturer

Altercation with an Anarchist Clown

I miss the Occupy action that never really happened except in New York for a brief period. Instead of a raging river of protesters, Occupy drained off into much smaller tributaries, or work groups. Those of us who had spent the Bush years sitting quietly fuming in front of our computers, and then watched Obama genuflect to Wall Street, couldn't wait to get out of our chairs and into the streets in search of the equally outraged. But in Seattle, Occupy was quickly divided by purist political views and tactics; the number of protesters sinking to inconsequential.

When two serious organizers tried to revive the march on the banks, I was hopeful. I was ready. The march was advertised as non-violent on the Facebook event page, with an appeal to the more reckless element to stay out of it. The rock throwers did stay home, but the organizers invited the anarchist clowns.

Around 200 people signed up to march; a very modest response. I remained hopeful that others who  had no affinity for Facebook organizing tools would join us, but on that particular morning in mid-July, a cold, battering rain storm came through. The turn out was abysmal. Those who did show up looked like semi-professional protesters; we were very short on seriously fed up members of the civic-minded middle class. The rain had stopped and I was carrying my best protest sign so I dutifully stayed with the cause.

Gen'ral Malaise photo from his Facebook page

The police presence for this march was inconspicuous; the bicycle patrol looked bored and non-threatening. The clowns were prancing about, keeping up a constant patter. The clown known as General Malaise (or Gen'ral as he likes to misspell it), abruptly changed the mood to ugly street theater. He pointed his furled umbrella directly in a policeman's face and pretending it was a gun, began "shooting"  while delivering a taunting harangue. Without conscious thought, I stepped in front of the General, put my protest sign in front of his "gun" and demanded that he stop. I was suddenly a fourth grade teacher on a field trip and I was not putting up with this behavior.

I imagine the General experienced flashbacks of all the elementary teachers who had ever reprimanded him; he went ballistic. I was astonished by his reaction, maybe because he looked like a clown. I reached out to put my hand on his shoulder to calm him down. Mistake. The General apparently decided I'd tried to rip his arm off. Flashbacks of teaching nuns coming after him with rulers raised to strike perhaps. It was a surreal circumstance to have an anarchist clown shrieking that I had assaulted him on a downtown street in front of a stately banking establishment. The police wisely ignored it all.

At My Feet

Earth Day Poem by Makenna

with a little help from her Grandma

 Kindergarten assignment:

Earth


At my feet

Rolling ball

The flowers bloom

Herbs to eat.

Ducks on river

Ants in dirt

Your day.

We've Got Your Back

Discussing World Architecture with Jackie

Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis was my next door neighbor in a small, rural village in Ohio. Not credible in my waking state, but dream logic allows for a lot of suspended disbelief. The house next door to my childhood home was referred to as the preacher's house and all the Methodist preachers and their families dutifully moved in and out on a five year rotation. Flexible dream logic made it unnecessary to account for the fact that neither Jackie, nor either of her husbands, was ever a Methodist minister. She lived alone there, and as in real life, she was a woman of mystery. Maybe she was in a witness protection program. No one would've thought to look for her in Ohio, whatever she was hiding from. I had a cordial, neighborly relationship with her, but we are both quite reserved and did not impose on each other. 

The real time dream event is taking place in some ultra cosmopolitan city where Jackie and I meet again at a cocktail party; Ohio is the back story. The party is a crush of sophisticates milling about in rarefied space. Jackie moves about the room in perfect harmony and confidence; she's radiant in a tastefully spangled dress of dark blue and black that catches the light and illuminates her face. A really implausible back story for an equally implausible dream event.

Jackie spots me and pushes her way through the crowd to hobnob with me. She is Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis in her element, not my quiet neighbor in hiding. She seems to remember me quite fondly; effusive but with reserve still intact. I am completely enthralled by my old friend Jackie in a way that I simply wasn't in Ohio. She is enthusiastically commenting on a book she has recently read, and asks if I know of the book. I have not read the book nor heard of it, probably never would read the book; something to do with the masterworks in world architecture. But in the little circle now surrounding Jackie and me, we are all very excited and upbeat so I say I love the book too. A friend, who is standing beside me, is nodding and smiling and says she was quite sure I would've read that book. Well, deep shit, I'm thinking. Someone is going to find me out before I can sneak away and read the damn thing. But Jackie is ready to move on, and of course no one else is going to quiz me on a book they didn't read either. 

Jackie's smile seems genuine. She expresses regret that I did not come to visit her more when we lived next door in Ohio, and the regret seems genuine too. Then Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis drifts back into the multitudes. 

I wake up wondering why in the world I didn't visit her more when we were neighbors in Ohio. I didn't even get to see how she had decorated the old parsonage, or see her library. We could have started a book club. Maybe I would've liked discussing world architecture. 

Permanently Elsewhere

Before his cancer diagnosis, my brother Barry had been remarkably healthy with no forewarning of the exhausting discomfort that nearly continuous chemotherapy treatment would bring. He died in November of 2019 after a three year struggle with leukemia. Throughout his life and including his final difficult years, the piano was his steady companion. His own piano lived in his bedroom, not sitting regally in the living room or

stuck away in some dusty corner of the house.

Piano man, sibling reunion in 2017

As adults, Barry and I were close, but as children the seven year age difference gave my older brother an aura of great mystery. From my child perspective, Barry didn't actually live with us. As a teenager, he enjoyed unique parental indulgence to come and go as he pleased though I never heard it discussed or remarked upon by other family members. He spent most of his waking hours elsewhere and as he was years older than me, I was usually in bed asleep whenever it was he made it home for the night. Some of that freedom may have been because he worked in my father's business and had a special permit to drive even before the legal age of sixteen. He took on a worldly, grown-up appearance from a very early age.

Barry in jaunty military cap; I'm the wee one in authentic play clothes before Oshkosh b'gosh

When I was around ten years old, Barry drove me to a movie theater in our closest small city, a rare event for me. The movie was Dangerous Crossing, a black & white noirish, mystery film. Barry dropped me off, left to hang out with friends, and picked me up when the movie got out. At the time, I was in absolute wonderment at my brother's blasé indifference to this incredible movie experience. It added to the mystique. 

For anyone who went through high school before the Russian satellite named Sputnik was launched in October of 1957, high schools in small, rural towns often seemed like little more than an excuse to organize sports teams. Barry was athletic but chose not to participate in school sports. By not playing team sports, he kept a relatively low profile; he didn't spend his free time at basketball or baseball practice. Neither did he spend his time studying or doing any type of homework, but his grades were never discussed and didn't seem to be a problem. Barry was exceptionally smart and apparently school in that day required little effort.

Barry was, however, a natural musician and could play trumpet, guitar, and piano without lessons or formal training of any sort. While this talent endeared him to the school music teacher and the church choir director, it had rather the opposite effect on his peers in the sports-minded farming community. He was largely absent from our house, but his life elsewhere did not include much time spent in the small town either. I never asked my brother then where he spent his free time, but I was always gloriously happy when he made an appearance. He would sit at the piano in the dining room and play jazz, blues and boogie-woogie and I was enthralled. 

Years later, I learned that while still in high school, Barry played piano at a local night club on weekends. He would have been underaged to even be in a night club, let alone working there. If I ever questioned Barry or my parents about this odd arrangement, I don't explicitly remember their answer. Perhaps they all believed that a normal life was not probable for my brother in that small town and that the unconventional arrangement was all that prevented Barry from dropping out of school and going permanently elsewhere. He mostly floated about in his own world during this period, and barely registered the existence of his brothers and sisters unless we were being especially annoying. It was all the more surprising then that he so dramatically changed the trajectory of life for three of his younger siblings.  

After serving several years in the army overseas, Barry returned home and transplanted himself to the San Francisco Bay Area. And one by one, as we came of age, he invited my sister, my brother and I to leave the provincial life in Ohio for a more cosmopolitan experience. The transition for all of us was not without high drama and while Barry didn't hover over us, he did provide an emotional base camp where we could always retreat and revive. 

Barry and California siblings posing for the cover of a 70's rock album but without the music. 

Siblings in birth order from left to right

My brothers and sisters were not always perfectly congenial together but in later years, we put sibling rivalries and resentments aside and the six of us periodically gathered for reunions. Barry's death along with aging and assorted infirmities prevents these happy occasions now and we stoically accept meeting on Zoom instead. I find it much harder to accept my brother Barry's absence.