Heavy Light Reading

Do we really know someone we've only "met" online? Yes and no, I think. I think we know them on a different level, somehow. Not necessarily better or worse, just different.

I've never met Thom Gabrukeiwicz. He's a friend and former coworker of my good friend Ian, who presides over a fun blog titled Uncle E's Musical Nightmares. They both worked at our local paper in Redding, the Record Searchlight, but they both left--along with a bunch of other senior journalists and staff--with the downturn in the paper's fortunes. Thom strikes me as someone who would make a good friend, even though he'd thoroughly piss you off now and then.

In addition to his blog, Thom has a site named Three Word Wednesday. Once a week, he offers up three words as writing prompts. Folks create poetry with the words, or short stories, or "flash fiction." Thom presides over the site like a kindly uncle, and his own submissions show how much can be conveyed with few words.

Perhaps because I'm in aviation, where divorce seems as common as the common cold, Thom's post yesterday really got to me. For National Guard and Reservist folks who've been deployed to Iran or Afghanistan, the divorce rate is strikingly high. That's probably another reason why Thom's story wrapped me up: I've heard similar stories over the intercom. I hope you'll give it a look.

Thom worked as a journalist in the midwest until recently. On his deathbed, Thom's dad encouraged him to go to New York to pursue his love of writing fiction. I wish Thom loads of luck, and I hope he'll do his best to see to it that his first novel is released on Kindle.

What Goes Around

I mentioned in a Facebook exchange with fitness writer Lou Schuler that I'd stopped watching VH-1 several years ago, after watching a string of "Behind the Music" episodes. "Behind the Music" often had a "where are they now?" theme, but heck, I'd never heard of most of the acts in the first place. And that was several years ago.

In response, Lou wrote, "It's funny to see my kids get into music that was new a decade or two before they were born. One of their Kidz Bop CDs has a cover version of "Time Warp," from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. They were absolutely shocked when I not only knew the words, but vaguely remembered the dance steps. I tried to explain that it was fun to go see it at midnight when I was in college, but I didn't get far. They refuse to believe any story that involves their dad being awake past 10 p.m."

In related news, Dylan is now referring to me as a "walking fashion crime." Geez.

Dylan's Seven Line Poem

A couple of months ago, my wife, son, and I were lounging after a lazy Saturday morning breakfast. It was my first weekend at home after being away to Louisiana.

Rhonda said, "Hal, Dylan wrote a poem in school about you. You should read it." She handed it to me.

Dylan walked up and hugged me, looking somber, and said, "I love you, Dad."

I tend to get a little misty when he does that.

So I read Dylan's creation. His assignment in his fifth-grade home room was to compose a seven-line poem. Here it is, just as I read it.

Snow as white as a rabbit

It's been quite the habit

That I go sleighing on a Saturday night

I gave myself quite a fright

When I heard a deathly howl

And I realized it was my dad Hal

Getting whipped on the butt by an owl

Rhonda and Dylan were so pleased with themselves when they saw my reaction. Sheesh, what a set up.

One More Gift, Wrapped in Aggravation

I've loved the Indian summers of October since I was a kid. Growing up in coastal southern California, it was often the best "summer" we had, since the marine layer would move in for much of the real summer months. I can remember going to the beach in July and not seeing the sun until mid-afternoon. The fog seemed to make a joke of summer in my growing up years.

No such thing as a marine layer up here in Shasta County. Some of our summer days get brutally hot, and many folks look forward to autumn. I know how they feel, but I always grieve a bit for the end of warm nights out on the deck, or out on the lake on a moonlit night, wearing shorts and t-shirts.

We've had a nice stretch of Indian summer here for the last few days, so a few nights ago, we took our forty-two year old patio boat out to Shasta Lake. We had a great time. The air was warm, but the water had cooled to just short of cold. Dylan and I both gasped when we jumped in, but we got used to it quickly.

I felt a little sad. The water told me that summer was over, even if the air didn't. The Indian summers have always been bittersweet for me.

We got back to the marina shortly before sundown. Rhonda walked up to back the Suburban down to the water, but soon came walking back. Dead battery.

There was nobody around to give us a jump, so I called Triple A. The phone person on the line said it would be about thirty minutes.

Two hours later, we still waited, but about the time I started betraying irritation, Rhonda said, "Yeah, but what a night to get stuck at the lake, don't you think?"

She was right. We watched a crescent moon set behind the mountains. Later, with little artificial light around, Rhonda pointed out various constellations, and we clearly saw the Milky Way overhead.

The tow truck driver showed up, finally. He apologized profusely, telling me that his company was supposed to have three drivers on duty, but he was the only one to show up that night.

I suppose he might have thought it strange had I thanked him for taking so long.

Dylan and Alice