Couch By Couchwest 2015

It's Couch By Couchwest time again.

Here's my submission for the online alternative to South By Southwest. Now in its fifth year, Couch By Couchwest attracts everyone from folks who've never played outside the home to touring musicians to, yes, the occasional star.

I was got a heck of a surprise last week when I learned from Erin Friedman, a Shasta County resident and awesome songwriter, that my video from last year had been named as one of the ten most popular for CXCW 2014.

I was planning to do an original tune this year, but I rediscovered a tune from a friend, Redding singer-songwriter Jonathan Foster. Jonathan is also an  an awesome songwriter, and this song grabbed me by the throat and didn't let go a few days ago.

I hope you enjoy it. It was recorded in the Johnson family bathtub, where the acoustics tend to be better than other places around the house.

Here's the link to my video on Couch By Couchwest.

Sharing a Chairlift With Shirley

Her name was Shirley.

It was the winter of 1982. I'd paid the $19 standby fare on Texas Air to travel from Austin to El Paso, and another $17 to ride a bus from El Paso to Ruidoso, New Mexico on a solo snow skiing trip.

The weekend passed, and the Monday crowd was light. After my third run, she stood in the line for the chairlift, like she was waiting for me. "I'm Shirley. Would you like to join me?" I did.

It was the longest lift on the mountain, and we rode it together three times. I learned that she was a 62 year-old retired teacher, had learned to ski at the age of 59, and was full of advice about traveling on a budget. On the second, I learned that she had married the love of her life right after college. His name was Joe. They were married three years when Joseph Jr. was born.

Joe died in a car accident when Joe Jr. was but two years old. Shirley raised little Joe as a single mom, with help from her parents. She never remarried. Little Joe was her life.

Joe had grown up and become a teacher himself. Shirley was so proud of him that her eyes lit up every time she said his name.

On the third ride up the chairlift, she said something that I've carried with me since.
"People nowadays are more concerned with being happy than being good. I wish they would remember that the path to being good sometimes means choosing being good over being happy."

Over the years, I've kept Shirley's parting thought in mind, and I've tried to live by it. Sometimes I've succeeded; too often I've failed.

Shirley and I parted ways after that third run down the mountain. She told me that I reminded her too much of her husband. We didn't exchange addresses or phone numbers.

And, for thirty-three years, I've treasured a friendship made during three rides upon a chairlift.

Couch by Couchwest 2014

You've probably heard of South by Southwest, a music and film festival based out of Austin, Texas. Thanks to our local music duo Still Married, I learned that there is an online alternative to South by Southwest called Couch by Couchwest. As the folks running CXCW explained on their website, "Let’s face it, we’re all too broke to go to Austin, and even if we had the money, we couldn’t get out of work anyway. There’s this pesky thing called “life” that keeps getting in the way. Allow us to introduce you to Couch by Couchwest.CXCW is an annual online music festival that is for everyone. No badges, lanyards, bracelets, parking fees, ticket lines, exclusive parties, VIP tents, porta-potties, babysitters, dogsitters, expensive beer prices, or crappy hotel rooms…just the sweet comfort of your own couch. Here’s how it works, artists and bands from all over the globe record a video performance for us from their living rooms, kitchens, porches, bathrooms, you name it…pretty much anywhere but a stage…and we post them during the week of the festival (March 9 – 15, 2014)."

I've lived in Shasta County for twenty years, but as much as I love live music, I've hardly explored the local music scene until recently. But, after seldom playing the guitar for thirty years, last year I picked it up again, prompted by my son Dylan's interest in branching out from classical music on his upright bass. I started singing some folk and alt-country songs while strumming the guitar and singing, accompanied by Dylan on the bass. We had loads of fun. One thing led to another, and with the encouragement of Rhonda and Dylan, I sang a few songs at an open mic in town. Nobody booed or threw anything at me, so a did it a few more times.

And then I read Erin's post about Couch by Couchwest. I thought about videoing myself singing a song to submit, but I was kind of chicken. Then my new friend Jonathan Foster, a singer-songwriter I met as a result of sticking my toes in the local music scene, mentioned that the deadline for submissions loomed.

So, I drove out to the "monolith" here in Redding, equipped with my guitar and an iPad, and I did it, covering "Too Late" by Andrew Duhon, a singer-songwriter out of Metairie, Louisiana.

Erin Friedman and her husband Craig also submitted a song to CXCW, "The Best Damn Man." Erin wrote the song - she's been writing songs since in her teens - and Craig sings it.

My new friend, casual mentor, and fellow singing sasquatch Jonathan Foster submitted one of his own creations, "Two Wheels."

As much as I love covering songs by songwriters who deserve more notice - such as Erin and Jonathan - come next year I'd like to submit one of my own songs.

I'd better get started.





Hal Johnson – Too Late (Andrew Duhon)

HUET Training, and One Woman's Crossroad

Every four years, I go through water survival training at the Marine Survival Training Center in Lafayette, Louisiana, which is run by the University of Louisiana. MSTC actually offers a few different courses for folks who make their livings in offshore waters, and ours is known by the acronym "HUET": Helicopter Underwater Egress Training. It involves, along with classroom instruction, strapping oneself into a helicopter mock-up cabin elevated above a pool, then riding along as the cabin is dunked into the pool, then turned upside-down. It's then up to the students to stabilize themselves with handholds, locate the emergency exit, operate the emergency exit, release the seat belt and shoulder harness, and escape from the "aircraft."

I think it's safe to say that most of our pilots and mechanics do not look upon HUET training fondly.

HUET isn't designed just for pilots; oil companies and service companies send their employees, those who ride as our passengers, to the training as well. This year, for the first time, I was the only pilot in the class, although a PHI mechanic was in the class with me. The morning hours were devoted to classroom instruction, and with a number of first-timers to water survival training in the group, the air of trepidation was heavy.

Oh yeah, there was another first for me: I was the oldest in the class, and the one who'd been through the training the greatest number of times. Getting older is weird.

We had a break for lunch, and then reported to the pool building for the training. Several of the students looked nervous, but one woman in particular looked scared as hell. I overheard her talking to a classmate and learned that she was a single mom, and that her upcoming offshore position was her chance to break away from a life of dead-end, minimum wage jobs.

The kicker, of course, was that she had to successfully complete HUET training before getting her chance to gain a better life for herself and her children.

Her group went into the "dunker" before mine. I saw the look on her face, and I felt terrible for her.

"Please let her make it," I thought.

In the training, everyone gets six rides in the simulator. The first involves only partial submersion, staying upright, when the students are responsible for deploying the emergency exits. The second brings actual immersion of the cabin, and escape from the simulator.

The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth rides are when things get really interesting: the cabin is submerged and turned upside down. Maintaining orientation by using handholds instead of vision, and pulling oneself out instead of trying to swim are crucial memory items.

I watched the young woman go through her first two rides. She looked petrified, and she hadn't been turned upside down under water yet. I wondered how she'd respond. I feared it wouldn't go well, and it made me sad. Four more rides in the simulator, and two hours on the clock, and she'd be on the way to a better job and a better life.

But looking at her face, and watching her body language, I had the feeling her journey was coming to a sad ending.

Her group came out of the water, and the group before mine went in for their first two rides. I  maneuvered along the side of the pool to where she stood. She was on the verge of tears.

"It's kind of intimidating, isn't it?" I said.
She looked at me. "You're a pilot. (We're required to go through the training in uniform.) It probably isn't intimidating to you."
"That's because I've done it for years. But geez, the first time, I cried."
She laughed. "You're lying!"
I laughed too. "Well, okay, but I felt like crying."
She sniffed. "So it gets better?"
"Yeah."

That was all I could offer for moral support, though. Our groups got separated again.

And then it was her group's turn again, and she was the last out of the simulator, assisted by two safety divers wearing scuba gear. Her first upside-down egress obviously didn't go well. She stood at the platform at the end of the pool and cried. I couldn't hear her, but I'm pretty sure she was saying, "I can't do this."

The youngest of the instructors leaned toward her face and talked to her, quietly. I have no idea what he said to her, but I could see the kindness and the patience in his face, and the end result was that she agreed to give it another try.

Out of the eight people onboard the simulator on the next ride, she was not the last out. She was next to last. An improvement. And, the safety diver wasn't holding her arm. She looked scared, but I thought I saw a glimmer of hope on her face. On her fifth out of six rides, she was still next to last getting to the surface.

On her last dive, though, she popped up in the middle of the pack. She smiled as she swam to the edge of the pool. The instructor fist bumped her and said "Good job!"

About that time, I imagined her going home to tell her kids that Mama was getting her new job for sure, and maybe taking them to their favorite place to eat in celebration. My sinuses started giving me fits.

Damn pool water.

A Thing From Before

 

It was too foggy to fly, so I drove down the road from the heliport to get something to eat. I first noticed a driveway that looked like it once led to some commercial establishment, but now leads to nothing but a building pad. The building was taken out by Katrina, or an earlier hurricane. Off to the side of the driveway, in an overgrown parcel of land, I saw this boat.

It might have been someone's personal sportfishing boat in days past, or it could have been a smallish commercial fishing boat or commercial guide service boat. I don't know.

Old things get to me. They hold stories they can't tell. I looked at this old boat, and wondered how many people may have made their livings off of it, or how many good times and sorrows danced across its deck.

I wish old things could talk. I wish when old people talked, more people would listen.

First Cousin

It was a cold night near the end of 1991. I'd finished berating myself for being a chickenshit wimp, done with giving myself a pass because my dad had died just a few months earlier. I showered, dressed, and drove away from home into the night to Saint John's Hospital in Oxnard, California. I was born there. But for the next few nights, I would keep my cousin Jimmy company. Jimmy was my closest cousin on my mom's side, so it was only right that I would join him at the hospital to watch his dad die.

My uncle Owen was fast losing his fight against prostate cancer. A big, tough man, he'd ignored symptoms until the cancer spread.

I hadn't seen Jimmy in over a decade.  He'd moved to Houston and had nearly severed ties with the family. It didn't feel the same at first; that old cousin bond seemed gone forever, but in the next few nights, it came back.

When my Uncle Owen took his last breath, I stood next to Jimmy. I didn't know what to say, so I just hugged him. My aunt Wanda, Owen's sister, and my uncle Marvin, a retired Navy chaplain, stood weeping in the room with us.

Jimmy left to go home to Texas soon after Owen passed. He didn't offer an address or a phone number. It seemed obvious that he intended to disengage himself from family ties once again. I didn't know why. I still don't.

Jimmy called the night before he left. When I asked him for an address or a phone number, he just changed the subject. But, before he hung up, he said, "Dude, I love you. You've helped me more than you know."

It would be the last time I spoke to Jimmy. My mom told me a couple of years later that she thought he might be in prison, but that the news was sketchy.

I learned yesterday that Jimmy died six years ago, at the age of fifty. No word about the cause of death, or whether he'd left a wife or children behind. Darkness always seemed to rest on Jimmy's shoulder, and I wondered if light had left him for good.

I felt like I halfway grew up with Jimmy. He was my cousin, the same age, and my friend. We did lots of crazy, stupid stuff together. But at the end, he died a stranger, wrapped in mystery.

Not Boring

Last night, after dinner, Dylan accompanied me on his upright bass while I worked on the chord progression for an Uncle Tupelo song. Gosh, he sounded great. The song I was working on is slow, and lent itself well to Dylan using a bow instead of plunking the strings.

Rhonda stood listening and smiling, until she announced it was getting near bedtime. Dylan walked to her and gave her a hug. He leaned back and looked at her with an impish little smile.

"Gosh, Mom, I'm sure getting taller than you."

"Yeah, well, I'll still kick your butt," she said.

She started throwing play punches at his chest and midsection until he collapsed in a chair, helpless with laughter.

The thing is, when Rhonda says, "I'll kick your butt," what we hear is, "You're acting like a booger, but I sure love you."

I took Dylan to school this morning, and during the drive, he repeated something he's said before: "I'm glad I don't have a boring mom." We laughed and swapped Mom stories until we wheeled into school.

I watched him walk into the campus, marveling at, indeed, how tall he's getting. I thought again about the mother of my son, how fun she is, and how easy she is to live beside.

As long as I don't forget the ice cream.

Pondering the Reality of Night and Day

It's funny what can prompt a memory. I just read something on Facebook by author 
Jeff Bennington, and a memory from thirty years ago washed over me.

Here's Jeff's post.
Interesting night: I heard a tapping noise on my bench every few minutes last 
night. It came and went, sometimes every few minutes, sometimes every ten. It 
sounded like someone was tapping the eraser end of a pencil on my desk. When I 
put my hand on the desk where the sound was coming from, my hair stood on 
end--everytime. I could not find a reasonable explanation.

I'd been with my employer for about three years, flying helicopters in the Gulf 
of Mexico, when they asked me if I'd like to transfer to the new base in Santa 
Barbara, California. I grew up in Oxnard, less than an hour away. I didn't have 
to think long about my answer.

When I first moved from Austin, Texas back to Southern California, I stayed with 
my parents. I was back in my old bedroom in my old bed, and one night I started 
thinking about my little kid years, when I was just sure that a monster lived 
under the box spring. My mom and dad were patient about looking under the bed 
for a year or so, but exasperation eventually took root, and they finally 
delivered the big boy law: "You're a big boy now. Quit imagining things and go 
to sleep."

The first night after my parents saddled me with the big boy law, I tried 
talking with the thing under the bed.
"Can you talk?"
Nothing.
"Can you make a sound?"
A faint brushing sound, like someone sweeping the floor a few rooms away. Gulp.
"If you can hear me, poke the bed beneath me."

Immediately, I wanted my words back. My heart hammered, and my mouth went to the 
desert. What the hell was I doing? It felt like an hour passed, but it was 
probably minutes. My heart rate had slowed to something near normal, and I'd 
nearly convinced myself that I was acting like a baby.

Then, I felt a gentle poke through the mattress. My heart raced back from idle 
to fight-or-flight speed.

"Are you going to hurt me? Poke once for yes, twice for no."
One. Two.
My heart began to slow. I started breathing easier. I believed him. It.
"If I shine my flashlight under there, would I see you?"
A pause. Then one. No.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
One.
"Are you glad I know you're there?"
One. Two.
"Do you want me to talk to you every night?"
One.
"Do you want me to talk to you sometimes?"
One. Two.

So, once a month or so, from the age of six until I turned ten, I talked to him, 
or it. Perhaps four or five times in those years did those subtle pokes come 
through the mattress. Once a year or so, it would let me know it was still 
there, but only after I'd fallen asleep and woken later, and only after 
midnight, as I recall.

In the wee hours, it seemed all so real. But after being awake for a few hours, 
a hard veneer wrapped itself around the memory, and I'd feel just sure that my 
imagination was running away with me. It was a strange dichotomy of perception, 
but it felt comfortable, and just maybe like it was part of some unwritten rule. 
I thought of it as The Daylight Rule: what is real in the night is not real in 
the day.

Fast forward to thirty years ago. I was back in my old bed. I'd moved away after 
going into the Army at the age of eighteen. At the age of twenty-six, I'd all 
but forgotten about it.

Until my third night back in my parents' house, that is. That was when I felt a 
gentle poke through the mattress. It was three in the morning. I chuckled. I 
guess I still have an imagination.  Another poke, but I felt even more sure it 
was my imagination, because it was barely perceptible.

But then, two knocks on my bedroom door. Muffled knocks. Not the kind of knocks 
a person would make. Not the kind of knocks my sister's cat would make when 
she's hungry. I chuckled at myself, amused at how realistic my dream about 
something knocking on my bedroom door seemed. But then, another knock. And 
another.

I was scared, and I laughed at myself for being scared. I was grown man, a 
former soldier, and a big guy. Another knock.

I got up. I walked to my bedroom door. I paused, took a deep breath, and opened 
the door. Nothing.

Nothing, until I looked down the hall toward the living room. There was a shape 
at the entry into the living room. It was about a foot tall, and furry. My 
sister's cat was white. It was not white. It was dark. It moved farther from me. 
I took a couple of steps closer to it, and I sensed that it was about to run.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. There wasn't much light in the living room, but I 
could see its shape, and I detected movement, but not in retreat. It felt as 
much as looked like a wave of a  . . .

What? Hand? Paw?

It moved to the side, out of my field of view. I walked down the hallway and 
into the living room. I heard a soft brushing sound. I turned on the lamp. 
Nothing. Nothing but a feeling, a feeling that something had left, and was not 
coming back.

"Goodbye," I whispered. I went back to my old bedroom, got in bed, and strangely, I felt sad. I felt a little like when my mom told me Santa Claus wasn't real. Somehow, I knew that I wouldn't see or hear from the thing

under the bed again.

Thirty years later, I think back to those nights, and I feel certain that it was 
all part of an elaborate, realistic string of dreams.

At least, I'm certain in the daylight.

Dying Languages

Someone left a copy of National Geographic in the employee lounge the other day, and it had a sad and fascinating article about languages in the world. According to the article, there are 7,000 languages spoken on Earth, but half of them are expected to pass into oblivion by the end of the century.

In Papua New Guinea, only 15 speakers still use Abom. None of them are children. In the Americas, 170 languages may soon pass out of use, including Tataina in southern Alaska, where only 75 people speak the language, most of them older adults. The Native American language of the Wintu peoples, where I live in northern California, has fewer than a half-dozen speakers remaining.

In Asia, only 15 speakers of Ainu remain on the Kuril Islands. In Africa, only 8 people still speak El Mono on the shores of Lake Turkana.

In Europe, only 25 speakers of Vod remain in Russia. Vod has never had a written language, so hopes for its survival are especially dim.

So what's so bad about a language dying out? Isn't that just the natural order of things? Wouldn't we be better off with fewer languages? 

I don't think so. I think the world will be a poorer place with fewer languages. Sometimes, particular words in a language can offer meanings about nature, the world, and life that simply have no translation. Once a language is gone, a unique take on life is gone. Forever.

Particularly sad to me is the possible demise of the Cajun dialect of French in south Louisiana. When I was a new guy with my employer in the late 1970's, such a thought would have been silly. All you had to do on a busy crew change day was open your ears, and you'd hear Cajun French in conversations between oil workers waiting for their offshore flights. You could go into a bar in Lafayette and hear the bartender speaking Cajun French to a patron next to you, seemlessly changing from French to English and back again.

I don't hear Cajun French much anymore. People who live in Lafayette, the "capital of Acadiana," tell me that most children there aren't growing up bilingual as was typical thirty years ago. The Council for the Development of French in Louisiana says that the number of speakers of Cajun French has fallen markedly over the last fifty years, and that body is trying to get the dialect reintroduced in south Louisana schools.

It seems many folks in Louisiana doubt that the Cajun language will even last another generation. I hope they're wrong.

Sean Jacobs Returns Home

I'd gone to the airport to rent a car, and I knew someone was coming home when I spotted the Patriot Guard Riders lined up, starting about a mile from the airport.

Sean Jacobs was his name. He graduated from local Foothill High School in 2006, and graduated from West Point in 2010. He deployed to Afghanistan in April of this year, and returned home on August 6. Sean was a U.S. Army 1st lieutenant when he died.

I learned all of that when I got out of my car to ask about the returning soldier. I stood next to a retired couple, and the wife filled me in.

Most of the Patriot Guard Riders mounted up on their motorcycles and followed the hearse, but as I walked back across the street, I saw one guy standing next to his bike, weeping. He was a mountain of a guy, and wore a Vietnam veteran patch. I felt like I had to say something to him, but all I could manage was "thanks." He offered his hand, and tried to say something. He took a deep breath, and finally said, "He was an only child."

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. I saw Dylan's face, and wondered what Sean looked like at the same age. I walked to my car and sat inside, pretty much going to pieces.

I heard the mountain man crank his Harley, so I gathered myself, started the car, and followed him out toward Highway 44. For a few miles, I had his back.

Meeting a Hero

One day back in the late 80's, a few of us helicopter pilot types met at the Hitching Post Saloon in Camarillo, California. We played pool and drank beer, but when we paused, my friend and coworker Roger said, "I want you to meet someone."

He led me to the end of the bar where an older gentleman sat sipping whiskey and reading the newspaper.
"Hal, this is R.J." I shook his hand, and was surprised by the strong grip from the slight, weathered-looking man.
"R.J. was one of the Tuskegee Airmen."

I was stunned. There, in front of me, was a man who played a part in military aviation history.

I sat with R.J. for a while. After a couple of beers, I get nosy, so I zeroed in on trying to understand what it was like to be a black man trying to become a pilot in a military where racism was still institutionalized.

The quiet, soft-spoken man had stories. Stories about how some of the training cadre made life unbearable for the Tuskegee cadets, and stories about how ill-received they were upon their deployment to combat.

But, there were also stories of training cadre and commanders who sought to compensate for the hatred the Tuskegee Airmen faced day in and day out. I asked R.J. if anything he encountered during his time as a black aviator had left him bitter.
"Not really," he said. "Except . . ."

He looked at me, seeming to weigh his words.

"They sent several of us to a different base by ground transportation to pick up some P-51's to ferry back to our base. There were only a few of us, with empty seats all around. About halfway there, we stopped at a camp to pick up some German P.O.W.'s. Even after everything we'd lived through, we were still shocked when we were ordered to stand to allow the Germans to sit."

R.J. paused, looking like he was somewhere far away, took a sip of whiskey, and met my eyes again.
"We were fighting for our country. They shouldn't have done that." He didn't look angry. He only looked sad.

He shook my hand again. I'd been dismissed, and I left R.J. alone with his whiskey, his newspaper, and his memories.

Race and the Media

I was heading home on an airline flight, having a engaging conversation with a man who was quite the history buff. We talked about the state of race relations in the United States. I remarked that as far as we'd come in our country, I still felt that it was harder to grow up black in America instead of white.

My friend for a flight ("McFriends" I call them) agreed. We talked about President Obama, and the significance of his election.

Then the conversation turned to the Civil War, and that's when my row mate decided we were no longer McFriends. I remarked that it appeared that Abraham Lincoln was no friend of the black man during his tenure as a congressman. I went on to state my belief that although Lincoln later embraced emancipation, he was not largely motivated to preserve the Union by a desire to end slavery. Instead, I said, it was mostly about money and power, as are most wars.

Not immediately noticing the chill that had come over our conversation, I dropped the real bomb.

"I think the state of race relations would be much better in our country had the Civil War never happened. Between the Civil War itself, and the way that the black man was used as a pawn against southern whites during Reconstruction, it set the stage for a hardened, institutionalized racism in the South that's still there."

The man looked at me with what seemed to be disgust.
"You know, until now, I wouldn't have fingered you as a racist."
"As far as I'm aware, I'm not a racist," I said.
"If you think we'd be better off had the Civil War never happened, you're a racist."

I tried to point out that I was only speaking in terms of how the Civil War and its aftermath affected race relations for generations to come, and that obviously there would have been a plethora of ramifications beyond race relations.

No matter. My McFriend was no longer my McFriend, and in his eyes, I might as well have flashed a KKK membership card.

I'm thinking about that encounter today after reading Bob Barbanes' blog post regarding the George Zimmerman/Trayvon Martin affair. It appears that the "mainsteam media" has followed the lead of Fox News, deciding to discard the truth to build a big news story.

My God, I hope I never have to take another person's life while defending myself or my family. I remember talking to a retired cop who'd once shot and killed a young man who'd robbed a liquor store, and even though he was a Vietnam veteran, it was evident that the shooting would haunt that man for life.

But I've also had this thought: "If it ever happens, I hope the bad guy is white."

Maybe, in your eyes, that makes me a racist. I think of it as facing reality.

(Thanks to Bob for the link to NBC's apology for their "mistake.")

Reflecting on a Past Resolution

The New Year's resolution I made and broke this year was the first real resolution I've made in some time.

In fact, the last one I made was about twenty years ago. I know that because it was before Rhonda and I got married.

I realized that I was getting into the unsavory habit of talking about people behind their backs, and it dawned on me I was getting so bad about it that I could have listed backbiting as a hobby.

So, my early-nineties New Year's resolution: "I will not talk about people behind their backs."

Unlike my recent resolution concerning my writing habits, I kept that resolution faithfully, for two months.

After two months, I decided to give up on holding to my resolution. Why? Well, EVERYBODY in the work place started irritating the crap out of me. When someone offered a "good morning," I more often than not wanted to snarl in response. You would have thought I'd given up coffee or something.

So, I went back to talking about people behind their backs, albeit more judiciously. It's an unsavory, low-minded habit, yep.

But in my case, it acts as a relief valve, and makes being civil to assholes more bearable.

One Resolution Blown to Hell

Well, my New Year's resolution to write six hours a week hasn't come even close to fruition. In fact, Since the end of January, I doubt I've averaged six minutes a week.

I've never really obsessed over getting older. I really don't feel much different than I did twenty years ago; aging so far has brought more positives than minuses.

But now, halfway through my fifties, I'm struck with how time is getting more precious, whether I have one year or forty left on this earth. I'm struck with how much living I've done inside my head, and not engaged with the world in the here and now.

My job takes me away from home, and when I'm away, I grieve over every lost hug, every laugh, every warm moment with my wife and son lost to those wanderings inside my head.

Writing is part of that world, that world inside my head. Sometimes I think it detracts from the riches of my life instead of adding to it. Before I can truly engage with writing as a life journey, I'll have to make peace with the feeling that it could be a detour away from what really matters.

I'm not a writer. I'm a guy who writes now and then.

Will that change? I don't know. I'll have to get back to you on that one.

The New Year

Another year in my life and yours.

River rafting strikes me as a metaphor for life: when you're negotiating the turbulent rapids, your attention is focused on what is to come. But then, in the calm stretches, you have the luxury of looking back and wondering about the meaning hidden in the calm behind you.

Gee. That was so profound, I just want to hurl.

Things change. I learned that a couple of high school classmates died. Some coworkers went to other helicopter operators. People I know moved away from our area.

I came back from two weeks away from home last time, and I wondered if someone slipped some sort of growth formula into my kid's food: he looked nearly as tall as Rhonda, who's five-seven. Sure enough, I put him up against the growth chart, and my eleven year-old son, Dylan, is now five-five. He's grown an inch and a half since September. I fear, with teenage years on the horizon, that we'll have to take out a second mortgage just to feed him.

I realize that my writing dwindled more and more, so I made a modest New Year's resolution: I will write for a minimum of six hours per week. Blogging, working on the anthology, grocery lists, whatever: if I have to set my alarm for an hour earlier a few times a week, I'll get those hours in. Six hours ain't much compared to what serious writers put in, but it would be a marked improvement in output for me.

Happy New Year to all my friends out there, and may the rapids in your life be just frequent enough to give you a renewed appreciation for the calm waters.

But, not so frequent that you wanna hurl.

Fun With Spam

It's been a good while since one of these emails snuck through the spam filter, so I thought I'd have a little fun with it.

Here's the email from, uh, "Mary."

Wow!

You are an exquisite looking man. So stunning. You captured my attention.

But then I imagine you have that affect on all women. Would you be interested in corresponding? If you would like to know more about me, please reply to my email.

Sincerely,

Mary

I couldn't just leave the poor gal hanging, so I promptly replied.

Dear Mary,

It's true: tall, middle-aged, somewhat overweight balding men such as me are often burdened by the need to fend off young, alluring women such as you.

That said, I do appreciate the accolade. I'll try to keep it in mind when I shave in the morning, when I'm prone to talk to myself: "Whoa man, what the hell happened to you?"

However, my wife is a passionate Italian woman who happens to be quite proficient with firearms. So, even if I were inclined to let the little Eskimo explore strange igloos, my strong sense of self-preservation would preclude such (mis)adventures.

I sincerely hope I've let you down gently. And please, quit skipping meals.

Regards,

Hal Johnson

Mixing

It's been a long time since I've thought of someone as "my bartender." I don't frequent taverns much nowadays, but for the last few months, on my break night before flying home, I've stayed at a hotel in New Orleans with a bar and restaurant I like.

The first night I met K as my bartender, I was talking to a British waterworks engineer who'd recently lost his wife. K mentioned that she'd lost her husband a few years ago to cancer. He was only in his forties.

The last time I saw K on the night before flying back home, the restaurant was busy, but the bar deserted. Being the nosy guy I am, I asked how she met her husband. She told me that they met during Mardi Gras, and started dating. She then told me how they came to be married.

"Marry me," she said to him.

"I don't want to get married," he said.

"Then I'm going back to California," she said.

"Okay then, I'll marry you," he said.

They were married for twenty-five years before cancer took him away. She followed the ambulance with her oldest son and daughter in the car. Her youngest son rode with his dad in the ambulance.

The dad looked at his son. "I'm not going home again. You know that, don't you?"

The youngest son couldn't accept such a proclamation. "Sure you will, Dad."

Silence.

The dad looked at his youngest again. "Your mom is the love of my life."

And indeed, the dad never went home again, although his message did make it back to the woman who would soon carry on as a single parent, making a living in a bar, pouring beer for nosy guys like me.

September Exchanges

A few nights ago, I came upon Dylan eating sunflower seeds. I asked him to clean up the shells. An hour later, the shells were still there. I asked him again. 20 minutes later, the shells were still there. So, I gave him a choice. "You can clean up those shells NOW, or I'll pick you up from school tomorrow wearing a Speedo."

The boy moves fast when he's motivated.

***

A question from my eleven year-old son: "I hear people say they're 'overwhelmed.' Is anybody ever just 'whelmed'?"

***

A day after the ten-year anniversary of the 9-11 attacks, journalist/musician Jim Dyar posted this: "I remember the short window of unity that happened after 9-11. It didn't last long, but it was tangible. Can we go there in our minds again? It requires dropping off all your bags that are marked 'I hate (something).'"

A Change of Heart

People ask me how my son handles me going away to fly helicopters. That's the nature of most flying jobs; dads (and sometimes moms) go away to work.

At eleven, Dylan is pretty stoic about me leaving, except during times like hurricane evacutions in the Gulf of Mexico, or annual training, when I'm away for longer stretches than usual. My friend and coworker Todd has a son the same age, and relates that it's pretty much the same with his son.

It's all Dylan has known, after all. When he was a little guy, prior to starting school, I'd get a kick out of how he reacted when I walked through the door after being away: it was like he picked up on whatever conversation we had before I left.

But at the age of seven, it seemed that Dylan really got a grasp of how other families lived. His little friends had their dads home every night. One night, when I reminded him that I'd be leaving the next morning, he burst into tears. It shook me. I held him in my arms like he was three again.
"I don't want you to leave, Daddy."

Oh geez. For the last year, I'd been "Dad" instead of "Daddy." This was serious.

I said, "Dylan, if me going away is really getting to you, I'll find another job."
"Really?"
"Yeah, really."

He pondered that for a moment. "So you'd be home every night?"
"Yep. Every night." More pondering.
"Dad, would you still volunteer at my school?"
"Well, probably not. I'd probably be at work. Have you noticed that it's mostly moms who volunteer at school?"
"Yeah. Dad?"
"What, Punkin?"
"Does that mean we couldn't go camping during the summer?"
"We could go camping, but it would mostly be on the weekends."
He frowns. "While more people are there at the lake?"
"Yeah."

He thinks more. "Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"If you got a job where you didn't have to leave, does that mean you wouldn't be a helicopter pilot?"
"Well, yeah, I guess that's what it means."
"I couldn't tell my friends my dad is a helicopter pilot anymore?"
"I guess not," I say.

He holds his hands up in a stop right there gesture. "WHOA WHOA WHOA. FORGET IT."

And that was the last time he brought it up. Sometimes, I guess, peer influence can be a blessing.

Shoulder Time

A couple of nights ago, Dylan and I sat next to each other on the sofa. He was feeling rotten, suffering through flu-like symptoms. He leaned against my shoulder as we watched TV, and a realization washed over me: it had been at least a year since he'd leaned up against me like that. He was sick then, too.

Don't get me wrong. I'm openly affectionate toward Dylan, and he doesn't seem to mind. We hug a lot. When I drop him off at his school in the morning, I still kiss him on the head, and he doesn't seem too embarrassed.

Yet?

He's eleven now, and getting more independent, and the little boy in him is receding into the background, little by little. I thought about that as we sat there on the sofa.

Sometimes, he gets exasperated with me, and informs me that I still treat him like a little kid. I explain to him that, to me, it doesn't seem so long ago that he was so small I feared breaking him while picking him up.

One day, when he was three, we came back from town. I extracted him out of his car seat, held him close, and kissed his head.
"Thank you, Daddy. Will you still kiss me when I'm thirteen?"

I was taken aback, and I laughed a surprised laugh. Where the heck did a three year-old come up with such a question?

"Well of course, Punkin'. But you know, sometimes by the time boys are thirteen, they don't want to be kissed by their daddies anymore. I might have to chase you down and tackle you just to kiss your head."
He giggled. "That sounds like fun."

It also sounds like a good motivator to stay in shape.