Boys Birthday Map

Greetings from the cartographer,

Alexander says to me:  “So this is our map?”

“Yes.” I say.  I sometimes forget what he has not been shown.

He runs his hands over the lines on the paper, and I see him pause at the creases, and he is concentrating for a moment.  He wants to ask if this fold is important.

“Where are we on this?” he asks.  He looks at me.  There is a small furrow between his eyebrows, exactly where it appears on my own face when I am curious. 

The table is littered with things.  Books his brothers have read.  A photo album from his sister’s life before there were brothers.  An old LP record.  A DVD with a movie that Harrison made.  Crayon drawing from grade school.  A folding knife with the Eagle Scout emblem.  A copy of a valedictorian speech.

I place my hand near his on the map and point to where our lines have met and stopped.  He knew, but this is how he draws me closer to him, by asking me about our lives.

He glides his fingertip across the towns and counties and rivers and backroads.

“These two lines, where these cross here,” he asks, “That is where Katherine met Tim?”

I smile.  He loves asking this question because he likes the rest of that story.  We trace our fingers along the two lines running tandem across the map. 

“This is Monarch Pass.”  he says.  “She loved climbing that. Well, she loved having climbed it.”

I refill our mugs with coffee and he sits back to sip his, black and strong.  It is the middle of the night for some people but he is an early riser.  Because that’s when we have time to visit.

He leans back to the table and runs his hands over the maple, the planks scratched and creased from thousands of meals, from homework and tax forms and newspapers and plates with birthday cake.  And maps.

“You made this table for us.” he says.  I nod.  His fingers touch the braille left by his family; finds the edge of the table where his brother dented the wood with something.  He is counting the chairs and I see a shadow cross his face.

“There is room for more chairs.” I tell him.

“I know.” He looks up, the shadow is gone and he is smiling.  “I can feel us in this wood.”

His hands absently move back to the map.  He is not looking at it but I see him tracing the red line.  “He runs a lot of miles.” he says. 

“Yes.”

He follows the line to Montana and Wyoming and back.  The red line spirals in and out, twists up with other lines, zig zags between Detroit and home.  “He’s upstairs sleeping right now.” 

“They sleep a lot, it seems.” I say.

“They fill their days up to the brim, they need the rest.” Not defensive, but protective.

The blue line stops in Ann Arbor.  He moves backwards along the map, to D.C. and Texas and a little town where there was band camp and across the state to Ludington.  There are a lot of stops. 

“I can tell that a lot of thought went into these routes.”  He is shaking his head slightly, amazed.

I say nothing.  He knows more about the routes his brother took than I do.   His forefinger taps the map.

“He is at a fork in the road. Wonder where he is headed?”  He looks at me, still smiling, as if he knows something he’s not telling me.

We sip our coffee, elbows on the table.  He sometimes traces my line back before his was on the map, but we have had those conversations many times, and this morning he is thinking about his brothers. 

The green line has crossed with the blue and red, at home, in Ludington.  Here was our camping trip, just the boys, to Canada.  He laughs, remembering the rain.  The green line runs close parallel to the others, but it is in its own direction, making its own way, stopped at this moment in a small side street near Allendale.  He traced the line backwards a ways, south.

“Why was he in Atlanta?”

I tell him it was a service project he did on spring break. I say: “He took some amazing pictures.” 

“He has an eye for capturing a moment.”  he says, nodding.  “You know, he might be a genius.”

I don’t argue that.

We don’t have to talk about his own line on the map, the black line, a blend of all of the other colors that track his sibling’s paths.  If you looked casually at the map you might not notice it; it looks like an outline or a shadow of the other lines.  But it is there, tracing the same travels taken by Katherine, Harrison, Carson and Sawyer.  He is with them, and me, at every turn.

We fold the map and put it where we always put it.  He leans back and sips his coffee, looking up at me over the brim.  His eyes have the passion, the kindness, the intelligence I have seen in the other children around this table.  We sit in silence, both of us savoring the flavor of the moment.

After a while I ask: “What would you like for your birthday?” 

He doesn’t say anything right away but he already has the answer in his mind. 

I rest my hand on the table.  He was right.  I wait, watching him, looking at my father’s eyes, my son’s eyes.

He answers at last: “A map of the world.”

Hope this finds you exploring,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith

Monday Script

March 7, 2016

Greetings from the first scene,

FADE IN:

INTERIOR.  DARK BEDROOM

Close up of digital clock on the nightstand shows 4:30.  Light from window (snowy exterior) casts pale grey on sleeping figure.  Blankets are thrown back and legs appear on the edge of the bed.  MAN sits up, runs his hands over his face and fumbles for glasses at night stand.

(SOUND OF KNEES POPPING AS MAN STANDS UP)

CUT TO KITCHEN.

MAN  stands at the counter pouring coffee beans into grinder.  He is wearing tattered flannel pajama pants and a wrinkled t-shirt.

GRINDER: (loud-sarcastically) I bet you wish you had bought grounds instead of beans. Or at least ground the beans in advance.  Am I right? Well?

MAN: Could you be a little quieter, please.  It’s still practically night.   

GRINDER: Sure, shoot the messenger.  You know this is what I sound like, I’m like this every morning, so now you want to blame me?  You’re the one who wants coffee. 

MAN says nothing and scoops the coffee into the filter.  Pours water into COFFEE POT.

COFFEE POT: (whispering) Morning. You look tired. 

MAN: You say the same thing every morning. Are you showing concern or trying to make me feel old?

COFFEE POT: (sighing softly) Why don’t you go wash out your mug while I finish here?  Otherwise you’ll get annoyed waiting the two minutes it takes for me to make the coffee.

MAN removes mug from sink and runs hot water, scrubs the mug and dries it and sets it on the counter next to the coffee pot.  On the side of the mug is printed three words; ‘Life is Good’.

COFFEE POT: Coffee is done.  If I do say so myself, it smells fabulous.

REFRIGERATOR: Just want to remind you that I am fifteen years old. Not sure how much longer I’ll last.  By the way you’re out of butter.

MAN: (reaching into REFRIGERATOR for cream) Why do you bring this up?  I know you are old, really, do we have to discuss this now?  I’m not awake yet.

WALL OVEN: You think he’s got problems, I am on my last legs here. And I am really expensive. 

FURNACE: (OFFSCREEN) Remember how much money I cost? 

COFFEE POT: Don’t pay any attention to them.  Just pour your coffee. 

COLLEGE TUITION: (OFFSCREEN) I know I have been talking to you all night about this but I hope you have made plans for next semester. Last time we talked you seemed clueless.

MAN pours coffee into mug, stirs in a few drops of cream.

REFRIGERATOR: I don’t know why I bother to keep cream at all, you hardly use enough to matter.  Every day I work so hard to keep things cool and no one appreciates it.  I am really ready to give up.

MAN glances at refrigerator but does not respond.  He lifts the coffee to his lips and takes the first taste.  He breathes in the aroma, and smiles.

(SOUND OF ANGELS SINGING)

CUT TO: DEN

Small desk set against window lined walls. A single lamp lights the room from the desk.  A laptop and some papers sit in the yellow circle of light. It is dark outside so the reflection of the lamp is on the windows.

MAN walks in holding coffee, sits down at the desk. 

(SOUND OF KNEES POPPING AS MAN SITS DOWN)

LAPTOP: I thought you were going to write last night.  You never learn.  I mean, no pressure, but you don’t have a lot of time.  What were you doing?  Watching the debate?

MAN: (sighing) Really?  I just sat down.  Can you give me a minute?

LAPTOP: I’m not sure if you heard me last night while you were trying to sleep, but I had all of these really great ideas.

MAN: I heard you. But, (sipping coffee) I don’t exactly remember what we talked about.

RUNNING WATCH (FROM DESK) Are you going running this morning?  You didn’t get a lot of miles in last week.

KNEES: Get off his back.  He’s not getting any younger

RUNNING WATCH: Look, I don’t care how old he is.  He committed to me to a certain number of miles and I’m not seeing it.  But, if he doesn’t think it’s worth it…

LAPTOP: No pressure here but if you are going to write anything this morning you better get started.

MAN: Can I at least finish my cup of coffee?  I mean, seriously, you have been pestering me all night and I just need a minute to wake up.

COFFEE POT: (OFFSCREEN) Just ignore them.  If you want another cup I’ll keep it warm for you.  Really, you should think about getting to bed earlier.

LAPTOP: I can’t believe you don’t remember what we talked about last night.  Remember that great idea that you thought was hilarious?  Pulitzer Prize and all that?

MAN sets coffee mug on desk and rests hands on the laptop.  He licks his lips.

LAPTOP: All right, here we go.

EXTERIOR: View through window of den: MAN sitting at desk motionless.  (SOUND OF SINGLE BIRD CHIRPING.  SOUND OF WATER DRIPPING OFF EVES) 

INTERIOR: DEN. MAN sits with hands on laptop.  Screen is blank.  He is staring at the keyboard.

LAPTOP: Don’t you ordinarily press the keys to make words on the screen?  Isn’t that how the writing activity goes?

MAN: (through gritted teeth) I’m thinking.

STOMACH: Hungry.  And a little annoyed.

MAX (small white dog) walks into den and looks expectantly at MAN.

LAPTOP: Come on, we have a lot to do.  This can’t be that hard.  Just start.

MAX: I have to go out.  I don’t care what you are doing.  Stop it now.

STOMACH: If you’re getting up to let him out, could you get a banana?

MAN: (to LAPTOP)  I have to take care of this.

LAPTOP (exasperated) Fine!  I thought this was important, but go ahead.  No pressure.

MAX: Why are you still sitting?  Let me out or I will pee on this rug.

RUG: Please let him out.

KNEES: If you are going to keep running you have to stretch more.  You could do it now.

(MAN stands up and exits with MAX.  Den is empty and quiet except for FURNACE whispering something about utility costs and changing the filter)

MAN returns and sits down again. 

MAN: Ok, where were we?  (Rests hands on keyboard)

STOMACH: Not getting the banana evidently. (GRUMBLING) Might want to rethink coffee.

COFFEE POT: (OFFSCREEN) Leave him alone.  It’s one of his few pleasures.

LAPTOP: It’s not that hard.  Just push any key to get started.  You can do it.

MAX: (OFFSCREEN) I want to come back in right now.  Stop what you are doing.

MAN: (to LAPTOP) Come on.  Give me a clue.  What was it I said that was so funny?

MAX: (OFFSCREEN)  I am going to wake the neighbors now and see if they will come let me in.  And there are deer out here.  And I want to come in.

RUNNING WATCH: (FROM DESK) Wow, look at the time.  If you’re going to fit in a run you better get moving. 

PILE OF MAIL ON DESK: Looks like your cellphone bill is due.  And your car is being recalled.  And you should read this magazine you ordered about writing.  It’s been here for a month.  Maybe if you’re not interested in writing you should cancel your subscription.

LAPTOP: He is interested in writing.  He just needs to get started.  Press a key!

MAN: Maybe another cup of coffee will help.

LAPTOP: NO!

STOMACH: NO!

COFFEE POT: (OFFSCREEN) Great idea.  You deserve it.

MAN STANDS AND EXITS DEN (SOUNDS OF KNEES POPPING)

CLOSE UP OF LAPTOP- SCREEN SAVER COMES ON

RUNNING WATCH: (FROM DESK) Is he coming back?

(FADE TO BLACK)

Hope this finds you directing,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith

Leap Year Conspiracy

February 29, 2016

Greetings from the Spotlight,

It is a generally accepted fact that the ‘Leap Year’ is a fabrication developed by the government, also called ‘the gummint’ in some regions.  So called ‘scientists’ have claimed that adding a ‘leap day’ is somehow necessary to line up our calendar with the sun. Really?  What are we, Aztecs?

For those of you who were not around four years ago, which, by the way, was ALSO an election year, (tell me that’s not a coincidence) allow me to explain.  In a leap year the government changes the calendar so that there are 29 days in February instead of the correct number, 28, like God intended.  Look it up.  There is no mention of Leap Year in the bible.

Nothing has been written about this conspiracy in the media.  Does that tell you anything?  Not even an oblique reference in the social barometer ‘Family Circus’. The silence is deafening.

If you watched the Academy Awards last night you probably noticed that not one Oscar winner said anything about Leap Year in their acceptance speech.  Climate change, political corruption, racism, sure all that was bandied about, but when we look to Hollywood to lead us in real social change, as we all do, they were ominously mute.  In the classic ‘tail wags dog’ scenario, it’s obvious that the government has somehow gained control of the entertainment industry. 

I belong to a group which is dedicated to untangling this web of weblike conspiracies, which is as intricate and sticky as spider’s web. Our group is called Leap Year Abolitionist Reformers, or LYAR.  (The acronym is a little misleading.)  Our goal is to illuminate the real motivation for this so-called ‘intercalating’, which sound like something no one wants their teenagers involved with.  Here are a few reasons that the government is forcing you to change your calendar:

The powerful Winter Sports lobby.  By extending winter an additional day, this syndicate of snowshoe sellers and toboggan manufacturers rakes in huge profits.  Ever wonder why so many Senators are seen wearing Seirus gear?

Adding February 29 creates an additional campaign day for the presidential election.  Everyone in the system benefits: the Koch brothers, network television, the DMV (or wherever you register to vote) not to mention the huge Yard Sign Consortium, which has a permanent office in Washington DC.

Extending the tax year by one day.  We pay $1.5 trillion in taxes each year. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happens when you add an additional day of income for the government.  You do the math.  Seriously, what did you get? 

The list goes on but there is one main reason that the Leap Yearers want to stretch February beyond its normal limits.  I imagine that you are probably thinking the same thing; this extra day in February delays celebrating one of the most important days of the year to many people.  Of course I am talking about St. David’s Day. 

As you know, every March 1^st, the world stops to honor St. David.  The tradition usually included parades, speeches, the lighting of the St. David tree.  And of course the memory of St. David is celebrated by honoring his namesakes.  Usually these special people are showered with gifts; the traditional dark chocolate, Starbucks gift cards, sometimes discreet envelopes of cash are appropriate. Some towns will offer special parking privileges closest to the door at Panera.  It varies by region of the country; who can say where these traditions start.

I know that I don’t have to lay this out for you, but if you look you will see there has never been a President of the United States named David. (Not even Eisenhower)  There are only two members of the US Congress named David.  There are only 10 in the House of Representatives.

Petty jealousy? Well, we can hardly call it petty.  Our government, disproportionately run by Bobs and Johns and Franks and Nancys, have used their power for generations to delay the celebration that honors the name we all hold in such high esteem.  A name we celebrate by giving random shoulder massages to the people who have been called to be a David.

I’m not going to let this make me bitter or cynical.  I will continue my fight to eliminate this wedge that the government has forced between the 28^th and 1^st.   I will honor St. David today AND tomorrow, doing my best to represent his memory by accepting the adulation and the gifts that you all so willingly bestow in his name.

Hope this finds you leaping to celebrate,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith

Larry

February 22, 2016

Greetings from the inward glance,

We lived in a small house on a street crowded with small houses.  A street like thousands of others in the city, a random assortment of families starting out, retired couples, lonely widows, boisterous teenagers.  Not every driveway was paved, not every house had a screen door.  Postage stamp yards packed with toddlers and dogs and gardens and tricycles.   

Larry lived across the street from our house.  It was a small journey but in many ways important because he was one of my first friends.

I am lucky to have grown up in neighborhoods where I could make friends.  Throughout most of my life this would mean going outside and running around until I met someone to play with or attracted a large enough group to muster a game of some kind.

It is a little different when you are five, waiting for the big day when you are allowed to cross the street on your own, after the fundamentals of looking both ways have been ingrained,                        the principles of which I still recall and largely employ.

The trip across Barth Street, going to play with Larry, was a study in contrasts.  Our house was a frenetic panoply of activity.  Three children, soon to be four, laundry folded on the davenport, grandparents wedged in the tiny dining area, dinner boiling for visiting relatives, immigrant uncles living in our upstairs, diapers, toys, noise, chaos.  It was a three ring circus in a one ring tent.

Larry’s house was quiet enough to hear the tick of the clock. He was an only child, neatly ensconced in a tidy room of his own.  There were pillows on the chairs, there may have been flowers on the table.  There were no fingerprints on the walls.  I know because mine were wiped off promptly.

Larry never came to our house.

He was a gangly kid, with cropped hair and thick glasses.  He had a goofy smile, which was standard issue, and sort of distracted look, as if he was thinking of something else while you talked to him. And then suddenly he would be present, his eyes big and round behind the lenses.

I don’t remember Larry’s parents much, and my view of them was typical of any five year old;  I remember their knees mostly.  But I do recall the elevated level of tension, his mother hovering, observing, present.

It was arranged that I come to visit and play with Larry.  We did what all boys do when thrown into that circumstance; invented a way to make a noisy mess.  We explored Larry’s toys by spreading them about the room and then creating ways to have fun at the top of our voices.

Larry’s mother would occasionally stick her head in the room to see what mischief we had created.  It took me a little while to learn what she was really looking for.  Larry would occasionally become focused on something that would upset his mother.  A wiggler.

Larry would find something, a thin finger of packing foam, a rubber dart, the end of a rope, and he would hold it in front of his eyes and wiggle it.  The tip would vacillate in front of his thick glasses, his eyes unblinking, hypnotized by the movement.  He would be lost to our conversation, gone from the boy’s world of toy cars and dinosaurs and pretend.

I don’t know what worried parents and the experts they consulted would have said about Larry. Things were defined differently in those days.  It was not something that registered with me since I only had one label that mattered: friend.  I don’t remember ever asking him about his fascination.

Wigglers had been removed from Larry’s life but he was a resourceful kid.  One day when his mother had determined the order of the house could no longer tolerate two rambunctious boys we were dispatched to the back yard.  We revved Tonka trucks and piled up sticks and ran around whooping or mimicking low flying planes.

Larry plopped into the grass and sat cross legged, plucked a long green frond from the earth and held it in front of his eyes.  The breeze did the rest, waggling the weed before him, hypnotizing him again.  I lay in the grass, my face propped in my hands, and waited for Larry to return.

His mother got there first.  She snatched the weed from his hand and snapped at Larry.  The words I don’t remember but the message I do; she was at her wits end. Why wouldn’t he stop with this wiggler nonsense?  She stomped her foot and wagged her finger and used all of the parental tone at her disposal, and then left in a cloud of frustration, delivering the last word from the porch, the ultimate salvo; wait until your father gets home.

I looked at Larry, expecting to see the hot tears tracing his cheeks, but he was composed, unperturbed.  He puffed out his cheeks and blew a breath, and watched the cropped green blades flutter.  And smiled.  He looked at me and raised his eyebrows, as if to say ‘It’s the way it is.  What can you do?’

My horizons expanded and I explored our street from Dupont to Chevrolet and every space between every house, and the shops on the corner, and the scary alleyway, and the places behind the garages where trash was burned.  Larry did not go with me.  He was framed in by the wiggler free boundaries of his yard.

When we moved away from Barth Street a couple years later I was only seeing Larry if he was outside.  We were friends, and even though no one explained the rules, I knew they had changed. I don’t remember saying goodbye. 

In the decades since then I have been in the company of a myriad of friends, all shades and different intensities, and varying lengths of time.  Each made their own impression, each gave me something else to know and learn and share with the next friend.

In all of that time I have gained some perspective about what is unique in all of us, including me, and what is common among all of us.  I’ll admit I don’t always use the persective wisely but there’s a good reason to keep trying.  Some friends had ragged jeans, or red hair, or a chipped tooth, or pigeon toes, or a honking laugh, or black skin, or went to a different church.  But beyond all that, behind the wiggler, there was always a story worth knowing. 

Hope this finds you making friends,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith

Valentine

February 15, 2016

Greetings from il sogno si avvera,

Cobwebs tinged with dust stretched across piles of scrap wood, pieces of art abandoned and then adopted by the spiders.  The workshop was a calamity.  Filled with projects in various stages of completion; some dangling from the ceiling, others piled in corners, some clamped in place where the wood carver left off working on them.

There were three legged stools and ladderback chairs, elaborately etched boxes, a deacon’s bench, picture frames, toy wagons, bowls, spindles.  Creations destined for life elsewhere, waiting in the purgatory between the idea of them and reality.

He stood at his workbench, the lanterns flickering at either side of him, bathing the wood carver in gold.  Behind him stretched two oval shadows, converging in a greyish heart shape laid out behind him on the floor, stippled in sawdust.

He worked there day after day, month after month, shaping and forming wood into creations sometimes only he would understand at first.  Years poured over him and fell like wood shavings at his feet.

His face was still.  His eyes had stopped seeing what was in front of him, and now he was lost somewhere else, seeing another time.  His hands were resting on the piece he had been sanding, forgotten now on the crowded bench. 

His hands were cracked and calloused, the nails rimmed with the vestiges of dark stain.  In the decades he had worked with oak and cherry and pine he had aged like wood, darkened in marbled colors from where time had left its patina. 

Outside darkness had already absorbed the world around his windows.  He had lost track of the time and worn way another day, sanded it off moment by moment until night was all that was left.

His eyes flickered and he came back to the room, and his lips parted beneath the scruffy white mustache and he took a breath.  He turned his head slightly and glanced up at the old clock that pecked at the silence. 

There was not a day he didn’t think of her, but on this fourteenth day in February, this same day he first lost her, she was branded in every pulse in his chest.  Each time he breathed in he smelled her, every shadow held her possibility, each sound might have been her saying his name. 

He slid his hands from the piece he had been sanding, looking down at its lifeless form where it seemed to mock him, the shape not quite what he hoped.  His faced changed for a moment as he looked closer at his work.  The arms and legs were good, but he needed to spend time on it to make it perfect.  Perhaps tomorrow. 

He turned from the bench and shuffled across the room and then settled on the worn cushions of the settee.  She would be here soon.

He wiped his hands on the apron, both caked with the fine white powder from the sanding cloth, the effort merely trading the dust back and forth.  The room was cold, he had not tended to the fire, and now he felt it in his bones.  He sighed and waited.

In one moment he was alone with only the sound of his breathing and the steady tempo from the clock.  And then she was there.

She sat next to him, lovely, graceful.  Her hair, the color of newly cut cedar, was swept up in that magical way she kept it, wild but contained for now, like so much of who she was.   She was wearing a yellow dress, his favorite.  He did not look directly at her for fear she would not be there.  He watched her smile from the corner of his eyes.

She rested her hand on his and his breath caught and he pressed his lips closed to stifle a sob.

“I am so grateful you are here, but it has been a long, year. I miss you,” he said.  “I am not as strong as I was when you first left, and the time is harder to pass alone.”

“I know.” She said.  “I feel that.  But you know I am with you, don’t you Joseph?”

He smiled at this, felt the laugh in him.  She would call him Joseph to tease him when he was too serious.  Or Little Joe.  It was something she brought from America

He finally felt the courage to look at her and he felt the warmth spread over him. 

They sat and talked, trading whispers back and forth, laughing now, then quiet again.  He told her about the year that had passed, the things he had made, the people who came to the workshop.  The conversation drifted to their shared memories, and he felt lighter just being in those moments again with her.  The night swept by them marked by the metronome on the wall, he didn’t dare look to see how many hours they spent talking.  And then he paused and took a breath;

“I love you more than I knew.  And now that I know I am too poor in words to tell you.” he said, now unable to look at her for a moment.  He sniffed, the tears that had slipped along the creases under his eyes touched the edge of his glasses.  He raised his other hand to swipe the moisture on his cheek.

“Love brings us such delight, doesn’t it?” she said, taking both of his hands in hers.  “But it is not just a gift, it comes with a price.  You shouldn’t be sad at that cost; it is part of what binds us to each other, the joy of being together, such as this, and the ache that we feel when we are apart.  It is each part of the same thing.”

He looked at her again, his mind working, trying to find how to say what he felt, knowing that the morning would be coming and their time would end. He spoke her name and she smiled at him and he felt something in him fill a little more.

“My Joseph,” she said, “I must be going soon, but I am not going to leave you alone.”  She tilted her head and held him with her eyes, the color of deep, rich mahogany.   He started to say “I don’t understand.” but her look told him he would know what she meant, and he trusted this with his very soul.

Now he did not want to look away from her, not ever.  In his mind he saw them sitting there from that moment on, wherever that took them.  The thought gave him peace, and his eyes closed for a moment.  And when he looked again, she was gone.

He sat looking at his hands where her hands had been, the dust swept from his skin where she held him.  He sensed the room getting lighter as the morning seeped into the room. 

There was a soft rustle from his workbench.  He looked up, saw the morning light now overpowering the lanterns hung over the bench.  The sound again, more distinct, the gentle tocking sound of wood against wood.  Something was moving there.

He straightened on the settee, poised to stand, but afraid to move.  He stared at the workbench, saw the movement now.  There was a gentle cough and a plume of sawdust rose above where he had been working. 

His mind whirled, not knowing what he was seeing, still feeling her presence, and hearing her words, trying to put it together with the impossible transformation on his workbench.

And then his son sat up.

Hope this finds you wishing on a falling star,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith

Status

February 8, 2016

Greetings from a widening view,

Occasionally I will meet someone and get to know them just well enough to have a framework of understanding, but the rest has to be filled in with impressions and assumptions.  I am not always proud of where this leads but it is common in human interaction.

I look for clues and representations of what their life is like and make some guesses about them.  We all do this before we are able to get to know someone well.  We look at status symbols.

It is a dangerous thing to talk about, I realize, because no one is comfortable saying they accumulate status symbols on purpose.  But they are in our lives and they get there somehow and we are involved.  We are all taking part in choosing our symbols, and we all take part in assessing others by their symbols.

There are easy examples like the stuff we own: cars, jewelry, homes, clothing.  The choices we make represent us to a degree as people first see us.  If we are carrying a Dolce &Gabbana purse or carrying our stuff in fanny pack, people take notice and assign an impression to it.

It is not just about wealth or possessions.  We view each other by a variety of status to see if we have things in common, to seek connection or find ways of communication.  Education, awards, political affiliations, religious beliefs.  Who our friends are.  Sometimes the accomplishments of our children are a status symbol.

This kind of interaction happens at all levels of society; homeless people have status symbols, so do baristas and tattoo artists and nuns and athletes.  Every culture has them.

Just so we understand each other, I am not judging other people’s status, or how they present it to the world.  I’m trying to figure out how I feel about my own.

I am guilty of status envy.  I have chased around other people’s versions of status, been tempted by their symbols of status.  I know the root of this.  Admire me, accept me, think highly of me, be impressed.  This symbol says I have attained a place in life that allows me this ‘status’.  It is a reflection of my self image, ego, and pride.

But I think enough years have passed that I have learned which are hollow and temporary and which matter to me.  At least on most days. 

I thought about the people I admire the most and this occurred to me; the status symbols are not the point.  They exist, they are sometimes really obvious, but they are a reflection of life lived for another purpose.  A person who is in service to his neighbor because of his beliefs might be awarded a Nobel Prize for Peace.  It is now a status symbol that is part of that person’s life.  But which is more meaningful, the beliefs or the prize?

It is hard to see people’s motivation, what inspires them, so sometimes we just look for the symbols.  As we know more about them we can guess if they are about the pursuit of the symbol or the pursuit of the accomplishment.  The pursuit of admiration, or of a fulfilling life. 

I think I am probably average and I fall all over the place on this subject.  I aspire, I accomplish, I represent the success in the symbols I gather around me.  I sometimes give in to the pride.  But I am a work in progress.  One of my prized possessions is a twelve year old nylon jacket that says Boston Marathon on the back.  It is a status symbol to a very narrow section of the population, but I feel self-conscious wearing it.  That tension between pride in the achievement and pride in the symbol and the humility I gained from the experience is what keeps me balanced.  At least on most days.

I just figured out this morning that it isn’t the status symbols themselves that matter, it is how we feel about them, how important they are to us.  It is a wide band of grey areas.  Consider possessions:  If we own something for the purpose of status that is one shade.  If we own something for the value it brings our life, and it also serves as a symbol of our status, that’s another shade.

The fact is some status symbols are a byproduct of living, of our ambitions and accomplishments.  They accumulate around you whether it is your intention to live to impress or to live to express. Some things are meaningful emblems of significant achievement.   Others are baubles.   

Status symbols can reflect who you are, not only what you have or what you know or what you accomplished.  Earlier this week someone made me laugh.  One of those deep cleansing laughs, authentic and joyful.  It was a welcome gift, the product of friendship, not something I accomplished or sought .  I think anyone who met me in that moment, saw the smile on my face, would have been able to judge accurately who I was.

That’s the kind of status symbol I really want to pursue.

Hope this finds you elevating your status,

David

Dad's Birthday

February 1, 2016

Greetings from the celebration,

I know this is short notice, but this is your invitation. 

I remember making a birthday card.  Drawing a picture in it and writing words.  I remember him unfolding it,  I know the look he had, the goofy smile, eyebrows arched, as if Rembrandt had remembered his birthday.   

Many years of cake and candles and cards and gifts.  Some homemade, some bought with first earned dollars, some given with great pride, others with too little thought.  The cake was eaten the presents opened, the cards displayed for the appropriate number of days.

There were probably a few birthdays I did not remember, a few times I made a frantic trip into the convenience store and fumbled under the ‘Belated’ section in the Hallmark display. 

But most years the day was given its due. Decades piled up, the calendar whirled, and every year we celebrated the life of someone we loved. 

There were, thankfully, a good number of birthdays when his grandchildren stood proudly in front of him with their own gifts, some clumsily wrapped, cards with primitive art inspired by candles and cake.  He would smile his signature grin, and arch his eyebrows in awe, and the connection would be made again.  And in them he could see himself extending into a time when he would no longer be close enough to touch.

Tomorrow is my Dad’s 85^th birthday.  It has been thirteen years since we have been able to hand him a gift, watch him unwrap it and see his smile, sing the song, kiss his forehead.  But we have such momentum now it’s impossible to not celebrate his day.

To paraphrase an old Russian idiom, ‘You live as long as you are celebrated.’  As I wrote these words this morning it dawned on me how significant that might be.

My family will always remember my Dad, each of us having catalogued some special fragment that carries him with us into this new year.  Time, the passing of each generation, will leech a little of those memories, alter a few, fade a few, erase a few.  It seems like on his birthday it would be a good time to refresh them, and I can’t think of a better way than to invite you to celebrate them with us.

If you look at the best in each of his children you will see the best of my Dad.  When you see any of us work hard, make friends, raise our children with dedication, give passionately to those we care for, laugh louder than is appropriate, there you will sense the echo of our father. 

When you see us make mistakes, stumble, fail, and get up and start over, you will know part of his story.  When you see us challenged but never defeated, you will see how he handled his battles. When you see us apply the gifts we are given, small and large, to make the lives of people around us richer, you will know more about our Dad.

And tomorrow, when you see us celebrating his birthday, toasting his memory, retelling old stories, laughing too loud, you’ll have some idea why. 

So this note will serve as your invitation.  Join us in celebrating a life well lived.  Get a piece of paper and draw out your best artwork, and write the words ‘Happy Birthday Scotty’.  Put it where you can see it.  I promise it will bring a smile. 

Want to make the smiles go further?  Take a picture of your card to my Dad and post it on the Monday Moanin' Facebook page (click here)

Hope this finds you celebrating,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith