A grasp on what's Past

     One of the birthday cards I got was handmade, from Nathaniel. He had taped a quarter on the inside of it along with a picture of him and me holding hands. It’s terribly cute. It reminded me that several years ago Benjamin gave me a card, handmade in crayon. Inside of it he had taped several coins totaling perhaps 40 or 50 cents. And the thing is that if I looked through my stuff long enough, I would find it. The money would still be taped inside it.

     My writing space, the shelves in my room, and even in my truck there are stored items, treasures by my definition. Garbage and/or junk by most other standards. I can’t seem to let go of a lot of things. I tend to attach a memory to an object and then grow the irrational fear that getting rid of this object will cause me to lose something else as well. If I were to throw this away, I could lose the memory. I might be throwing away the love that this gift was given with.

     Sometimes it’s not just in the middle of the night that irrational thoughts seem sound and sane. Sometimes, if held onto long enough, they become canon.

     When I was 8 years old and moved from Arizona to Hawaii, my parents didn’t have trouble convincing me that the moving truck wouldn’t be able to fit all my stuff. I gave away some toys and actually threw away a big stack of car books, the kind one usually got from dealers. As I settled into my new home in Hawaii I had a good-sized bedroom all to myself. I also had a developing resentment that things were not as good here as they had been there. I longed for my life back in Arizona. Maybe that’s when I started to have trouble throwing things away. I realized that it was an unusual habit. But I was never inconvenienced by it until I had to move. The first real shock came when we had to leave Hungary after living there two years. We could only pack what we could check through on the flight home. I couldn’t pack the sword I bought and I didn’t even have room for the Russian gas mask.

I was sad to leave them behind in the apartment for the next occupant to enjoy. But I made sure I had room for other things. I packed a few pieces of a toy stroller that Naomi had. And I packed some broken parts of student’s desks from the school I had taught at. Those worthless items meant more than the sword or gas mask. They had pretty much no monetary value, but I made sure to keep them. Attached to them were memories of Naomi cheerfully pushing her stroller around our flat and teaching kids. I think I still have the items somewhere.

I don’t know what kind of person I would be if I lived in a mobile home with only a half dozen cats for company. I have only heard about a television show that showcases people like that so I don’t know much about people whose lives are severely affected by this disorder. If I had never married and had no family or friends, would I be one of those people? Maybe. I can easily imagine what I would be like and don’t even like to go there. But I was assessing the inventory of my life as I tend to do this time of year. When Nathaniel gave me that card with the quarter I remembered right away that I still have some lose change from a few years ago and I’m afraid to spend it.

So maybe I’ll look for that old card and break off the coins. One thing to do would be to add the quarter from Nathaniel to it, take it to the 99 Cent store and buy a candy bar for 49 cents. But the really brave thing would be different. I don’t know if I could bring myself to do it. But I could empty the change into my container of lose change and mix it all up. I don’t know if I could go there. Maybe I should do that. Because if I bought a candy bar I would feel inclined to not throw away the wrapper.

So my drawers are crammed with homemade birthday cars from my kids from over the years. There are toys on my writing space, some from my childhood and some recent gifts from my kids. I have bits and pieces from cars I’ve owned. Stepping back and looking at this habit from the outside it looks a little depraved. But to me it’s only attaching a memory to an object, even if it’s literally a piece of garbage like the disposable coffee cup that Prajna drank from during our road trip to Arizona where I saw the house I sat in years ago and threw away old treasures. This little foam coffee cup, worth nothing to the world, has a value to me I can’t quite understand. But it has a blend of memories. And there is a real concern inside me that if I were to drop that piece of garbage in the dumpster and never see it again, there would be an emptiness in my life.

There, I said it and that’s how it is. I know it’s not rational. Maybe it’s not healthy either. Maybe I should start with that handful of change. I could drop it in a donation box. It could be a start. We’ll see.

Memory of an epic Showdown

     When I couldn’t grasp things as a kid I might have dreamed about them in order to sort them out. I remember dreaming worst-case scenarios, playing them out in my head and managing to survive. One dream I remember as a young kid had an endless line of cars streaming between me on one side of the street and my home where I needed to go. All I remember in the dream is jumping ahead in time and finding myself home with my dad telling me it would be alright.

     My young mind went though all kinds of “what if?” questions. In later elementary school I walked home most days past the crossing guards at the corners outside the school. The captain, an upper classman, would blow a whistle and two other kids would lower their signs, round stop signs at the end of long poles that extended out into the crosswalk. When the students were done crossing the captain would blow twice from the whistle and the guards would raise their signs. I remember hearing the strong, authoritative voice of a crossing guard once ordering me to stop before I crossed the street so he could allow traffic to pass. It didn’t matter to me that these were elementary school kids not much older than me. To me, they held astounding strength and ability. They could stop traffic on the main street in my town. Where I had always been told that there was danger and I had dreamed of being stranded, these kids were Moses parting The Red Sea. Nothing seemed stronger than them. But not even my anxious little mind could have imagined the showdown I witnessed that one afternoon.

     It felt cool and the shadows were long. It was probably the end of another day that I had sat in the classroom trying to absorb information I hoped I would need someday. I may still remember facts and information from the classroom that day or I may not. It was after school, walking home that I have not forgotten. I didn’t need to cross the street where the crossing guards were working. I walked by, alone as usual and glanced at the kids with their orange safety vests, yellow helmets and stop signs at the end of long poles. The kids were holding the poles extended into the crosswalk and a crowd of kids was moving in the crosswalk. Then I heard it. From my right came the unmistakable wail of the ambulance siren. The ambulance was a converted Chevy van decked out with red flashing lights, so cool it was one of my dream vehicles.  Everybody got out of its way and it could run red lights. And the thought raced in my mind: Why didn't I ever consider this? Of course this has to happen. The immovable crossing guards would have to someday stand and face this, the unstoppable ambulance.

     The kids in the crosswalk ran to the curb like a wave slapping the shore. The siren grew louder and I watched in astonishment as the two crossing guards actually held their signs down in the crosswalk still and looked down in the direction of the approaching emergency vehicle. It may have been only a second or two, but in my young life, these two seconds were where time stopped. And here is where I have a clear picture in my mind of two crossing guards holding their signs, the long afternoon shadows, and in this stopped time, there is the growing sound of an approaching ambulance.

     Suddenly time started again with the two quick blasts of the captain’s whistle. The two guards yanked their signs up and it seemed that at the same instant, the ambulance appeared and drove through. Perhaps it had won this showdown. But the crossing guards had held out to the very end and gone with as much strength and dignity as possible.

     It was all I could tell my mom about when I got home that day. I never considered for a moment that the ambulance driver would have slowed down in a school zone and not hit any children.

In my young mind there was never any compromise. Whoever was stronger would always triumph. And in the world the debate seems timeless. Generations ago, who was stronger, Tarzan or Flash Gordon? The Axis or the Allies? The reds or the rest of the world? Nowadays I still see it. Gandalf or Dumbledore? Them or us? My cat or the praying mantis?

And the big question, will there ever be an epic struggle and will we ever have to find out?

As a child, the biggest fear I had was not being able to achieve the safety of home. The crossing guards were there, but even their work could be disrupted, I saw. And I wonder how much of the most important struggles I fret about all come down to just that. The current events of the world that everyone seems to be most frightened over seem to be the ones that would deny someone a safe place. I wonder... if that is what we are all really afraid of, what can be done to settle the struggles before they become so epic? Maybe that sounds like the mind of a young child asking who is still impressed with flashing lights and sirens. I sometimes wish the world could be that simple.

           

The Diamond Lil' Revue

     “Well,” one of the kids said. “We had been wanting to paint the ceiling black, right?”

     I blinked in surprise at the jokey attitude, but the students of the Baldwin High School drama guild were dealing with it as best they could. Their drama room had burned overnight. An arsonist had set fire to it. The damage was extensive but it wasn’t a total loss. They were in a middle of a show's run, The Second Annual Diamond Lil’ Revue. Baldwin Theatre Guild was able to move the venue to the playhouse of another local community theater. The temporary loss of the drama room was devastating as well as the shock of the assault on each person who held that place dear.

     But as loved as that room seemed, it wasn’t the walls and ceiling and the clutter of props and costumes that provided the magic. It was the kids, the alumnus and the adults who put so much of their lives and souls into the theater program there. I have never seen such talent in my life. For such a little island as Maui, there seemed to be a lot of burgeoning talents. Several have moved on to professional carriers in theater and film and music.

     And there amongst all the drama on and off stage, the teen angst drama, the students in some of the most decisive and confusing times of their lives, were the adults. The drama teacher, Ms. Loudon, was like a mother, lion tamer, mentor and teacher of all things theater.  Now retired, never replaced. Ms. Loudon is the type of person who comes along so rarely and touches so many lives that no amount of gratitude would ever match the love she showed. Other adults at the theater were local theater buffs, school alumnus, even kids from other high schools that didn’t have a good theater program. (That was me.)

     I saw parents dressing in outlandish costumes and yucking it up or acting down the house. But one parent in particular was the one who played Diamond Lil in the Diamond Lil’ Revue. If you only saw her onstage and didn’t know her as a person you would be hard pressed to believe this. But stage presence and talent were completely outshone by a full heart of gold in Rita.  Her energy onstage was only surpassed by her aloha offstage.

I was privileged to get to see the first few Diamond Lil’ Revues. They were formed as a royalty-free type of show full of song and dance strung together with a plotline. Rita hosted the shows as the title character. The first year set the tone for the rest. It was an old western dance hall. There was bar, a jail and of course a big stage with musical numbers, dance and a melodrama. The show was well received and they did it again the next year set on the Mason-Dixon line. That was the year of the fire. But the show went on. And the next year was a riverboat theme.

I got to perform for two of the three weeks for that 1985 show. And that was one of the quirky things about those shows. They would run two or three weekends for maybe 9 or 10 shows. No two were ever quite the same. Some acts were rotated to give more kids a chance to perform. Sometimes new acts were added in. Inevitably there was a lot of improvisation onstage.

The next year was a speakeasy. I only got to watch that one when I came home from college. Actually one night my friend let me take his part and be Elliot Ness at the end.

The next year was a Broadway showcase. I helped develop the plot for that show and then did the first weekend as a janitor and a magician. Then I went back to college for the spring. The cast of the show bought me a plane ticket to come do the last weekend with them. I will never forget that.

I missed the next couple of shows. They had a Christmas theme. When I moved back to Maui after college, Desert Storm was on everyone’s mind. I helped develop the plot for the next Diamond Lil’ which was a USO canteen theme. And for the next three shows I had the thrill of working alongside Rita as Eugene Toro, clipboard wielding assistant to Diamond Lil’. We did two USO shows. In 1994, Diamond Lil’ Revue had a theme that some folks had wanted since the very beginning.  With the blessing of Ms. Loudon, a bunch of guys finally sat down and wrote out the plot and setting for what turned out to be one of my favorites, the science fiction themed Restaurant at the End of the Universe show. We had a blast.

We did one more USO show. Then I did my last Diamond Lil’ in 1996. It was a Nashville/Hillbilly theme, still full of talent and friends. At the close of the show I was waiting word to see if I would be going to Hungary to teach.

I came back to Maui two years later but was not able to participate in Diamond Lil’ that year. I sat in the audience with a severely sprained ankle. (That wasn’t what kept me offstage)and I wished I could be up there. It was the last show I saw on Maui.

And all that was just my experiences. So many others were able to do more. It was a wonderful part of growing up that went on into my adult years. For one USO show Ms. Loudon, (you didn’t call her Sue even when you grew up) asked me to write a letter for a girl to read onstage. The show had her as a movie star reading a letter from parents to their son on the radio. I wrote the letter and was very pleased with it. Then Ms Loudon lost it so I wrote another that I thought was better. She lost that too and I wrote an even better one. Today I wonder if she kept tossing them away, knowing that I could do better. That was what it was all about. We rarely ran the show fully through until opening night. Kids were challenged to do their best and have tremendous faith in themselves and in others. And today the world is a better place. Not just for that room that burned on night in 1985, but for the passion and life that no flame could quench.

    

           

Dissolving Motes in the Wake of Time

    

It’s what we older folks wish we had more of.  Young children, especially last month were lamenting its slowness.  Their parents felt it rushing like the wind in the wake of something massive passing by with unmatched speed and power.  Despite its motion through space, it has no mass.  It has been called God’s way of keeping everything from happening at once.  Of course I’m ranting about time.

     I can’t say for sure what time is made of, perhaps memories.  But if that is true then time might be very feeble indeed. Three days ago I was considering what to blog about.  I have grown weary of the lecturing and ranting about how December made me edgy.  I have been dealing with what I considered to be the highest possible themes and imagining that my musings are an essential beacon at the beginning of everyone’s week.  Truth be told, Roadwalker is a writing exercise that I share and other people are kind enough to indulge me by reading.  So while I was vacuuming three days ago and considering what to write about I tried to check what time it was and then gave a frustrated huff.  My watch battery died several days ago and I haven’t worn it since. 

I thought then that I would blog about how I’ve always had the ability to keep track of time in my head but still how much I love wearing a wristwatch and how vital it was at the radio station to know precisely what time it was to catch the ABC network feeds.  I thought about Peter Fonda in Easy Rider throwing away his wristwatch in his iconic and rather lame film as a symbol that he was no longer tied to established society.  I had an idea for a blog and I had some building blocks to hold it up.

     The next day I was wrapping up another vacuuming job.  I remembered vacuuming the previous day.  I remembered what room I was in and that I had thought of a blog topic.  And that was all I remembered.  The topic, the wristwatch that I still wasn’t wearing, motorcycles and good rock music, all gone.  I began to compose a new blog in my head right there about how my memory was going the way of the brown pigment in the hair on my head.  What had happened to my past?  Once forgotten, did it exist anymore?

     I don’t know when the first blog topic came back to me, but probably when I when I tried to check the time on my bare wrist.  And then did time re-establish itself?  I don’t know.  Memories are a funny thing.  I can still hear the school bell in my head from kindergarten almost 40 years ago.  I can remember the words to songs my class sung in elementary school.  I remember insignificant details about all kinds of things I’ve done all my life.  But I can’t remember how many times I’ve asked one of my kids the same question or told Prajna the same lame joke.  And I am pretty sure that I used to be able to think of a writing idea and be confident that I would not forget it.  Now, I’m not so sure.  I have been jotting notes down more often lately to preserve ideas.  Sometimes I lose the notes though.

     If all my past is made of is my memories then my past is dust motes in a shaft of light.  Lucky for me I can record silly little memories here on this blog.  If you read back to when I first started blogging a year and a half ago a lot of it is little snippets of my past.  I might go back to telling stories like that some more as long as I can tie them into what is happening today.  I want those dust motes to form little bricks and not be lost as time blasts on.