Snow Globes

 Living in the moment seems the best fit for me, because my memories seem to be more comprised of moments than events. Though there are some things I recall in toto, there are far more vignettes that comprise my recollections. Maybe I don’t have the focus or the energy to commit most things to memory. Maybe I simply do not have the bandwidth for it. Whatever the reason, my life separates into moments where some remain with me while others join the dinosaurs or the socks that disappear from the dryer. Taking time to reminisce on Christmases throughout my life, I do not have full memories in the round, but moments strewn along the path of my life. Smooth and shiny as river rocks – and I’m good with that.

 As a child, my paternal grandmother (Nanny) would come down from mythical Ridgefield, Connecticut to visit us. In my youngest of times, she arrived by train. I could not tell you if the station we picked her up from was in Columbia or Orangeburg or Branchville or some other town. I don’t remember if the station platform was wood or cement. I don’t even remember the mighty locomotive or Nanny disembarking from a passenger car. What sticks in my mind is the image of the rails disappearing in the distance where the parallel lines merged (obviously Connecticut). The Christmas gift of this vision was my first glimpse of infinity. Not bad.

 Christmas with Nanny was filled with recollections of her taking her grandchildren to Eckerd’s Drug Store at the Orangeburg Mall for lunch at their lunch counter where every year, the waitresses were excited to see her.  Of course, there also are the moments that exist within me of Nanny’s bad driving (the stuff of legends), of her lovingly saying to me in Arabic Ya Habibi, and her occasional expression of amazement with her wrinkled hand pressed to her forehead as she would moan “Sheesh ohboy!” The thing I remember most from these many Christmas visits was joining my siblings around the tree one Christmas morning with Nanny telling us that a noise had awakened her in the middle of the night. She got up to check on the cause of the sound to find Santa with his back to her putting presents under the tree. I can picture her in her flannel nightgown quietly scurrying back to her bed, because magic is a fragile thing.

Most of the other Christmases of my childhood come as images of me crawling stealthily beneath the tree and opening a seam or corner of gift wrap on my presents to see what I would be receiving. This never spoiled my Christmas morning. It simply changed the excitement of the unknown to the excitement of expectation. The joy of finally stripping the wrapping paper from a football helmet or Coleco hockey game that I couldn’t wait to play with. I am not ashamed to note that this excitement did not extend to the packages bearing shirts and sweaters.

 Beyond that my snippets of South Carolina Christmases are mostly glimpses of a tree, an ornament, a smile. One thing that was universal to every Christmas in the Handal household was my mom’s dogged efforts to ensure she spent the same amount on each child for the under-the-tree presents, and carefully planning for the same number of knick-knacks for each child’s stockings. This latter habit brought to me my biggest Christmas smile one year when I was back from Clemson for the holidays. As was the tradition, when we kids got up Christmas morning our stockings were the first thing we went for. Never knowing what to expect. This time when I emptied out the lumpy red velvet boot, out popped a magazine, some baseball cards, maybe a yo-yo, and a can of tuna. Grinning I turned to mom as she explained with more than a little undeserved embarrassment that she had miscounted my share of stocking stuffers and needed to add one more item to even things out.

 As an adult, the memory of any Christmas day is murky at best. This surprises me because I would think that especially the addition of Jean-Marie and the kids to my life would place most Christmases complete in my heart. But it is the spirit of the day that persists, the happiness, the chaos, the grazing on cookies and leftovers from the Christmas dinner. The larger memories for me with my wife and children are the whole of the season where I see Christmas parties that filled the house, and I am once again scouring the city with Jean-Marie to find those things we think the kids will love, driving around to see all the neighborhood Christmas displays that delighted us so, and the taking of turns on the phone talking to in-laws and out-laws, siblings and friends.

It is all of these moments of Christmas that scatter before me each year. They are not pieces that when rearranged complete a puzzle. They are snow globes, one scene in each. And as I pick up ones at random, I give each a shake, place them before the light and see what arises as the white flakes settle and the water clears. I get new snow globes every year. I have quite a wonderful collection.

 

Merry Christmas

A Poet's Stigmata

It appears on my hands 

As dark splotches 

As black smears 

No need for a Thomas 

To probe their truth 

They are there, they exist 

As portals to words and spirits 

Practitioners and progenitors of the faith 

Stains assuming the quality 

Of through and through wounds 

Letting the breath of ghosts and giants 

Pass through them 

Chill winds of inspiration 

Urging my writing hand 

To cramp desperately about my pen 

Drawing my eyes from 

My hands and the blotted ink markings 

To the waiting page 

Where fresh ink will pass 

From heart, to hand, to pen, to pad 

Transubstantiated through the act of writing 

Changing ink into blood 

Blood into words 

Upon paper made flesh

Somber Sunrise

I cannot see horizons from my backyard

Rooftops and trees and fences effective camouflage

Overhead, the moon still hangs in darkness

Retreating from an east that glows with the threat of day

Advancing west along rose tendrils anointing far clouds

I watch this play out as the dogs play tag in the grass

Thinking on cares lying within me like a dead weight

I see the hope in the east, needing to believe in it

Needing to feel its warmth rather than the early chill

Needing more

Rainbow from God

The sun slips

Behind the silhouette of mountains

Whose broad shoulders

Silently wait as

Both wall and gateway

Below the west rim of the world

It sends

A wavering red wash

To the low, dark, spread of clouds

Wine dark ripples heading East

Space and sky responding

As if liquid mediums

The setting sun

A celestial stone

Cast into a universal pond

The red undulating glow

Reaching towards the East

A struck match

Setting the hidden earth

Alight, aglow

A message sent from

Today to Tomorrow

A message of promise, hope

Not unlike

A rainbow From God

Songs in the Key of Life (How we add music to our life's soundtrack)

 

We all have a soundtrack to our lives, like the Jimmy Buffett tape (CD, mp3, phone) we slap on the car stereo for a summer trip to the beach. I personally like to listen to The Pretenders singing about the chain gang as I work in our garden as the days get warmer and warmer. But there is music that inserts itself unbidden along the way from doctor’s offices, elevators, dentist’s offices, and coffee shops to name a few. They are songs that stick as part of our life’s music because it gets stuck in your head, it embodies a certain irony, or simply and unexpectedly fills a moment.

Being a man of a certain age, I recall my most recent colonoscopy last year (unfortunately all are…uh…memorable). Gastroenterologists are their own breed who see the humor in what they do. Their offices often have blue signage with jokes that you can easily guess. Anyway, as with many procedures the doctor will have music playing that they prefer to work to. As the Propofol started to guide me into disremembering I could hear the music switch on to “Let’s Get it On,” by Marvin Gaye. That’s just wrong.

In the dentist’s office recently for the dreaded expensive deep gum cleaning, as the hygienist was going at my mouth sans Novocain (I can’t stand needles in my mouth), there was music playing over the office speakers. I don’t know if it was canned or simply a radio station, but as I listened while there was griding, probing, suction, and what I strongly suspect was the hygienist making funny shapes with my lips for her enjoyment, Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” played. Really?

Some music in my life attaches itself unintentionally to a moment, or activity. The one that comes easily to mind is my constant playing of the “Grand Illusion” album by Styx. It was the summer that I was finally taking time to read Peter Benchley’s “Jaws.” Now the two are forever intwined. Although, I guess it is fitting to think of shark attacks whenever “Come Sail Away” is played.

In that same vein, another memory comes forward. This time associated with my youthful days as a runner. In college, I was part of the Outta Control Track Club. Team colors black and blue of course (kudos to Eddie Pennebaker for coming up with that), and a team moto of “There is no control like outta control.” The guys and I were in Greenville just down the road from Clemson, joining in on a 4x5 mile relay. When it was my turn to run for the team, I took off. Legs pumping, breath coming fast but easy. I felt like I was flying as I ran the fastest 5-mile time of my life, 26:40. And in my head, the entire circuit was Mick Jagger wailing “Start Me Up.” I’m thankful that takes pre-eminence over the standard runner’s tunes of the theme from Rocky or Chariots of Fire.

I spend two or three hours a week in Coffee Shops, reading, writing, eating, and drinking good coffee. The music though is really hit or miss. Some shops like playing odd alternative music at low volumes which only leaves a jumbled misunderstood collection of words and notes in my head. A rare few play poplar music, and some play folk or jazz. This morning at Switchback Coffee just down the street, as I ate eggs and toast and had a mug of coffee (espressos and custom coffee drinks have fixed prices, the mug of drip is what you can afford or as I choose, the Pay It Forward option), they played popular music. Or actually music that at one time, long ago, and far away just to the east of the Death Star was popular. The last song that came as I was self-bussing and gathering my letter writing tools was “Loving You” by Minnie Riperton. Memories of high school came flooding back. But I no longer remember how I looked then, and my mind saw this old man amid timeless young ghosts. And though those thoughts are returning to dormancy, I cannot get “Loving You” out of my head even as I bid Alexa to play Rickie Lee Jones. Save me, Rickie.

Baseball Ascending

 

As with most that love the game of baseball, mine is a complicated relationship with the sport. My love for baseball has only waxed with me into adulthood, it has never waned. But my attention to it goes through all the phases of the moon. In recent years it has hovered somewhere around the new moon.

My time with baseball recently has been limited to highlight reels on social media and the occasional glance at AL and NL standings, and box scores. This current languor has nothing to do with the sad performance of the Colorado Rockies, or the bonehead decision to give the designated hitter a home in the Nation League instead of kicking him out of the American League. My teams have always gone through extended periods in the basement of their respective divisions - here I offer the Atlanta Braves of the 1970's and 80's as an example. And baseball has always made horrendous mistakes regarding baseball's rules of play assuming offense is the primary reason anyone watches the game - the lowering of the mound due particularly to the dominance of Hall of Fame pitcher Bob Gibson springs immediately to mind. What brings me to my current predicament has everything to do with streaming services and how MLB deals with the watching of local teams.

Five years ago, we made the decision to ditch cable TV for streaming content due to the cost and impossible-to-understand "deals" offered by Xfinity. The only downside to streaming was the inability to watch "in market" baseball games unless I streamed a cable provider (thus defeating the purpose). Add to this the Rockies' inability to retain excellent players in favor of always expecting a talented rookie to arise from the minors, and my day-to-day interest in the sport has wavered. How can I be expected without the aid of television to keep up with the ever changing roster and performance of my Rockies when I look at the box scores and read it as "new guy", "Charlie Blackmon", "new guy", "f'n DH", "new guy", "I didn't know he was on the team", "new guy", and "new guy" - and who the heck knows who that pitcher is.

But without fail, during every spiritual low point with baseball, there is a redeeming epiphany that reminds me of the eternal flame within me for America's Pastime. My epiphany-of-the-moment occurred as I was driving past a neighborhood school, Columbia Elementary. Its lot is less than a square city block, so you can imagine the overall size of its playground. As I was passing it, a flash of bright green caught my eye, and I turned to see in one corner of that playground a perfect child-sized baseball diamond was laid out. I drove by it the following week and stopped and took a picture of it. The diamond was pristine. The grass a well-trimmed and vibrant green. The base paths unmarked by footprints. The chalk lines unmarred by baseballs, runners, or base coaches. The mound was perfectly groomed. I had no way to explain the idyllic conditions of this field fenced in along with gangs of 4-foot-tall bringers of chaos.

I went back today to look at it again and take a picture from atop the playground slide. From that vantage point I noticed something that I had not before. Dismounting, I walked over to the edge of the field, near the third base line. The field, the base paths, the mound were all astroturf. The razor straight base lines were painted on and not chalk at all. Learning this, I was not disenchanted in the least. It was after all, a wise choice for the cheering and laughing berserkers that would use it. I couldn't help but stand there, transfixed by this art imitating life, by this art as life. My mind could make out happily screaming children rounding the bases. I could almost hear the cheering of parents and sound of a baseball coming off the bat echoing in the morning's silence. And I smiled when I pictured a teacher, calling the game from behind the plate, throwing up her arms in exasperation, unable to make any sense of the latest inside the park home run and how it drove in more runners than bases.

This is the nature of the game. Fun, laughter, smiles. This is at the heart of baseball for me. It is what made this elementary school field a holy Chapel among the Cathedrals of baseball. There is Yankee Stadium, there is Fenway Park, there is Wrigley Field. But more importantly there are these oases of baseball purity. The places like sand lots, junk yards, inner city streets, and this school where dreams are born and some never die. 

I stood there, unable to step onto the artificial grass, unable to interrupt the reverence of the moment. I stood there like Doc Graham unable to cross the first baseline and return to his youthful "Moonlight" Graham self in Field of Dreams because those days were behind him, behind the ghost of him. My playing days ended when I was a child and lost track of my glove. My playing catch days ended when I caught a ball tossed by my college age son with my face in the fading light of day at a neighborhood park. At that point he simply said, "Let's go home." We have never tossed the ball since and I miss it, but it was the right call. I was never any good at baseball.

Columbia Elementary School's field was just another reminder that you don't have to be good at baseball to love it. You don't have to be good at baseball to regard it as mystical. You don't have to be good at baseball to keep it in your prayers and to honor it as America's Pastime.

A Pirate Passes

 I woke this morning to find that on September 1, 2023, Jimmy Buffet at the age of 76 had died. He reportedly passed peacefully surrounded by family, friends, dogs, and music. I would be hard pressed to imagine someone who had not heard of Jimmy Buffet. He was a citizen of the world and he made us all citizens of Margaritaville.

One of his greatest hits collections was called Songs You Know by Heart, and we did. We knew the words to everyone of those songs. From Come Monday to Grapefruit - Juicy Fruit on that album, I knew all the words. And to the likely chagrin of whomever would be around me, I would sing along with each and every tune. I would sing along with Jimmy.

I couldn't even tell you what was the first song of his that I ever heard. Was it Margaritaville? Cheeseburger in Paradise? Son of a Sailor? I don't know. I know the first album I purchased of his was Son of a Sailor back when I was a college student. I am sure I bought several more in short order. And my favorite song of his? He went to Paris.

Jimmy Buffet was big on campus when I was at Clemson. I was lucky enough to be able to work with Clemson's Central Dance and Concert Committee and help set up the stage for Jimmy Buffet when he came to town. Before the show started, but after the audience was already in the building, I remember running across the stage and yelling out "Save the Whales". It was an act of joy brought on by just being at a Jimmy Buffet concert. My friend Eddie Pennebaker will remind me of that from time to time even to this day as we settle into our 60's.

Jimmy was a storyteller, and he did this through his music, his books, and between songs during his concerts. His songs were often joyous, and even those that weren't ventured toward the meditative but never sadness. Through his music, he made us wonder what it would be like to have a pencil thin mustache like Boston Blackie, he would make us nod in sympathy as he sang of stepping on a pop top, he made us crave cheeseburgers and margaritas. He had the seductive power of genuine smiles and relatable tales.

For me this is particularly true in his song Son of a Sailor. Hearing it, I cannot help but think of my father that brought sailing to his children. And from there my thoughts go to my little brother Greg. Captain Greg as he is often called. He caught our father's love of sailing much more deeply than the rest of us. He is now a sailor and a man of the sea by passion and profession. He conducts fishing and sailing charters, and has found a particular niche that I'm sure Jimmy Buffet would have approved of, Bachelorette Cruises. Throughout the Spring and Summer, he can often be found in the waters off of Folly Beach and Charleston with a boat full of young women who are drinking, having fun, and above all smiling. In his boating life, Greg is a bringer of smiles. This, I believe, Jimmy would have also approved of.

No matter the size of the audience, a Jimmy Buffet concert was a raucous yet intimate experience. He played venues of all sizes, comfortable whether he was in a stadium or had just popped into some local bar with his guitar in hand. He seemed infinitely approachable, like an old friend. I have no doubt he was. It is not difficult to imagine being outside under an umbrella with him, sharing a beer, and chatting about anything and everything beneath the hot tropical sun.

I will miss Jimmy Buffet, but I can't seem to mourn him. He was too full of life and energy to believe he won't be anything but in the world. And I guess he will be. His music, his stories will last forever. And besides, he will never be truly gone as long as there are margaritas and rum and an horizon for a pirate to chase.

Political Climate

This mid-term as my wife and I drove to the library ballot drop off, we shared the same thought – will there be armed and masked drop box “observers”? I did not like that tinge of fear at voting. It was both a new and unwelcome feeling.

Though Colorado has not evinced any such behavior to my knowledge, fear is something that can reach epidemic proportions in the blink of an eye. And fear is what politics peddles more than any other idea lately. Fear for democracy, fear for our purses and wallets, fear of science and intellect. Of course, as fear spreads, its sibling anger comes with it hand-in-hand.

Fear and anger are certainly nothing new to politics, but now it seems to be the primary goal over ideas and ideals. Fear and anger have become the stick accompanying the prosperity carrot. It is a smorgasbord, grab a plate and pick your poison.

To be sure, there is real risk to some of the elements goaded at. Democracy is at risk, but that risk can be used as a club just as much as our pocketbooks can be. Still, if I had to pick among the topics of fear, I would worry most about democracy.

The economy is currently causing aches and pains, but I do not worry about it. The economy is global in nature and therefor neither the full blame nor the full responsibility of the U.S. It is also demonstrably cyclical. It falls and it comes back. In my sixty years, we have survived the recession of the 70’s, an economic collapse in 2008, and are weathering inflation and talk of a recession now. Live within your means, be understanding and generous to those less fortunate, and we will all come out of the downward spiral. The economy will cycle up.

Democracy does not come and go in cycles. It is a living thing, an experiment that has been going in the United States for 246 years. As a living thing it is born to grow and adapt within the sound framework of the founding fathers. It is made to live and thrive. But if it is ignored or taken advantage of it can die as well. It can be stronger than you imagined, and is more fragile than you think.

Much of the fear in general these days is driven by the political climate espousing what I call “stuffism”. Where’s my stuff? What’s in it for me? Why do they get all the stuff while I get nothing? And this latest manifestation of our greed could not thrive so without the use of “villains”. Villains that are wedges to be driven into our socio-economic fissures and cracks. Villains with roots in antisemitism, racism, and anti-intellectualism. In many ways antisemitism and racism are self-explanatory. They have been front and center before and have raised their ugly heads once again. The anti-intellectualism pervasive today is not as familiar to people. Too many candidates in the last six years have miss-used common sense to make us doubt science and reasoning. This is an appeal to our baser instincts, our lizard brains. Encouraging people not to think. It leads people to embrace conspiracy theory that no matter how implausible draws lines that people blindly follow between one thing and another. And this laziness of thought leads us to deny thoughtful and reasonable explanations and conclusions. It causes us to deny science and the scientific method. It caused us to throw down our masks in anger and breath in COVID. It caused us to believe our system of voting and electing our representative is greatly flawed and given to abuse, instead of believing the numerous recounts and demonstrations of how solid and unbiased it truly is. Where once most people would construct an intellectual exercise to understand an issue, now we google for more information on the disinformation we are fed.

To me it feels like this rise in fear and anger, this combustible fuel of selfishness, this burning match of “common sense”, is turning us into sheep. Cattle herded blindly in the trust of others though it may lead us to slaughter. Politicians wringing their hands in glee as we follow the Judas goat of lies. I admit, this IS easier. That thinking and testing and discovering are an effort. But like most effort, we come out the other side stronger.

The End of the Longest Day

At the end of a long day, you take your leisure where you can find it. That is how I captioned the picture above six years ago according to the Facebook memory notification today. I ache at both picture and caption, because today Mabel's longest day has ended, and she has been lain down for her longest rest. I can’t tell you how difficult it has been to say goodbye to her and to have her leave us. I will never be able to properly describe the loss we feel, a loss born of love.

Jean-Marie found her and fell in love with her the moment she saw her at the Humane Society when she was a volunteer. Mabel had been placed on hold by someone who allowed that hold to expire. And so it seems Mabel was meant to be with us and we with her.

I was in Winnipeg on business when Jean-Marie found her and texted me her picture and details. It was sweet of Jean-Marie to check with me before she did anything. If I said no, she would have gotten Mabel anyway I think. But I didn’t say no. I was smitten at first sight with Mabel just as she was. Of course Mabel’s name was not Mabel when we adopted her. But the name that the Humane Society gave her, Dandi, didn’t fit. Jean-Marie saw into the baby girl’s soul and Dandi became Mabel from that moment on.

Mabel joined our family, but she was the one to set the rules. Jean-Marie was Mabel’s comfort. She clung to Jean-Marie. We would often say that Mabel was glued to her hip. Mabel simply made me her man-servant. She never wanted to trouble Jean-Marie with anything and so if she was hungry, she barked for daddy. If she was thirsty, she barked for daddy. If she needed to go outside, she barked for daddy. If she needed anything, she barked for daddy. She never bothered momma. She sat with momma. Lavished lovins’ on momma, curled up with momma. She only kissed me right before bed time, and only curled up against me during the night for my abundant body heat. That was all I needed.

She was never a dog in our household. She was a person. She was a personality. Occasionally I would put a leash on her in attempt to take her for walks, but she always looked upon this act with disdain. She did not lead nor follow. She walked where she wanted, wandered on the leash up to the point that I would eventually have to pick her up and carry her for the remainder of the walk. Of course this is what she wanted.

Mabel brought joy to everyone to meet her. She loved to go out shopping with us, particularly to Bed, Bath, and Beyond and the nearby Home Depot on North Academy. As we pushed her around in our shopping cart, people would flock over to pet her, ask about her, smile because of her. She was enchanting. She was a people person.

With all of this personality, it has always been difficult for us to believe that someone had dropped Mabel off near the Humane Society at a Walmart entrance along with several other dogs. It makes us sad to even try and imagine what the first seven or eight years of Mabel’s life had been like. She did not deserve that kind of life. So we gave her all that she did deserve, and she gave back to us unconditional love in return.

Over the years Mabel has constantly made us smile and laugh. She took our hearts and kept them safe. Because rescuing a pet is essentially a selfless act, we never considered that Mabel would rescue us in return. But that is what happened. Now today, Mabel can rest after years of taking care of us. We will always miss her, we smile at countless memories of her, and we will be shedding tears at the loss of her for quite some time.

Flagging Belief

Our nation’s Flag has always been special to me. When I was young, I learned to honor it first with The Star Spangled Banner, and as I matured with my beliefs. When the Flag was raised over ball games, I sang to it along with the crowd in my young off-key voice. I would feel the nation was being put to bed when late night TV would sign off with a view of our Flag waving in the breeze. And I remember scout leaders impressing upon me the care of the Flag. These were the wholesome images of our national symbol that I carry with me from my youth.
The other day while running errands, a truck traveling in the opposite direction passed me. It was large and black, covered in slogans, and flying the American Flag and a Trump flag from its truck bed. No pride within me was evident at the sight of the Flag as there used to be, only a sense of dread and disappointment.
This symbol of our nation that unified us by our differences has been coopted, has been radicalized in a surprisingly few years. What once symbolized the good we could achieve, what once symbolized the loftier heights to strive for, now symbolizes much less, is now used to drive wedges into the differences that once united us.
Now I often see that Flag of our nation on the back of pickups sharing equal space with a Trump banner. I see that Flag of our nation roadside along with signs equating Democrats with socialists and communists, and ones claiming President Biden and Vice President Harris to be Satan incarnate.
Our Flag is now at the leading edge of disinformation and hate. It has been placed at the head of a charge that has reduced the Constitution of the United States to only a broadly interpreted Second Amendment with a dollop of First Amendment on the side. The rest of that beautiful document is left to rot in a corner, neglected.
Part of this front of hate is aimed at people of color and immigrants. With the exception of my maternal grandfather whose family has proudly been here for many generations, my remaining grandparents represent immigrants and first generation Americans. In fact, my father’s parents immigrated from Palestine. I wonder if these false-bearers of our standard had their way if my family would have been allowed in the front door at all.
Our once proud Flag has become a distracting bauble, a glittery charm used to hypnotize the faithful and rob them of reason. Many who wave that Flag believe all lives matter without any recognition of how little black lives matter, how much more poorly people of color are treated. Many who wave that Flag want to live a life of freedom of their own design rather than within the framework of freedom first formed in 1776.
My sadness and ache spread out darkly like oil on pavement. Viscus and tangible. We have been led to the edge of a precipice surprisingly easily, cattle following a Judas goat. We cannot fall in, we must not fall in. Either the Flag stretches far enough to embrace all or it has failed to cover any. Agree to disagree but still hold hands. Give rise to debate rather than descension. Restore our Flag as a symbol instead of continually using it as a bludgeon.