Winter neglect

November 8, 2008


As I pulled the air conditioner out of our upstairs window, its frame blanketed in a double layer of snow and ice, I wondered why I hadn’t gotten around to taking it out sooner.

Easy. Just a week ago, it was beautiful. The clearest and most beautiful Halloween night I can remember. The chores could wait a week.

Six days pass. Our best intentions weren’t enough to stop the inevitable. It was November, after all.

Snow. And with it, the cold, icy hand of winter.

Two days later, our yard still seems unblemished. Few footprints have broken the clean glaze of constant melting and freezing. The only things that break the horizon of snow along the edges of our yard are those that were abandoned as the snow approached.

Two bags of leaves stand in the front, an unfinished raking job from the night of the storm. Our patio furniture floats alone in a vast sea of white. Our garden still contains the last gasps of the growing season.

It’s as if our life itself was frozen shut, trapped, unmoving. Time stops. Chores are suspended. Plans remade. One moment, everything is moving smoothly, gearing toward their natural end, and then the next they’re stopped short, like the reminding corpse of a road-killed animal.

The fire that fueled our summer is doused, smothered in white, a form-fitting covering of insulation. Our yard stands as if filled with white stone reminders of what we left undone.

Everything is frozen. Unfinished.

It’s what I imagine the end of the world to look like. Various items representing various actions left scattered in various states of incompleteness. Cold and unfeeling, their stories lost and their purpose forgotten.

It’s nothing that dramatic, though. It’s simple.

It’s winter. And it’s here.

Frozen Whirlygig

(For more winter neglect pictures, check out my post at Much More Sure.)

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Bridging the immersion gap

October 22, 2008


There are people who love indie music. Love it to death. Know everything, have created their own scene, talk incessantly about it, identify with fellow indie rock nerds. And then there are those who don’t know anything about it at all, who simply don’t care, who don’t have time to learn new music, who are content listening to the typical.

And then there’s the lonely expanse in between.

The line between being part of a scene and being out of touch is rather wide. Yet, the people who fall into the middle – a seemingly wide range of opinions, you’d think – are nearly always out of place in either camp – looking either like a poseur or a radical, respectively.

In other words, instead of being openly accepted by both sides for being open to alternative ideas while still holding true to the status quo, the people who toe this line seem detached from both groups.

My example, though shallow, is in regards to music, though it resonates through any concept that has two polarized sides, whether opposing views or depth of knowledge.

I listen to a wide variety of music. Music on both major and independent labels. Music that my grandparents could understand and music that the guys in tight jeans love. I taste from every genre, preferring some, leaving others be.

To the people I work with, however, Radiohead is a foreign concept. These are people who, despite their creativity otherwise, are simply rarely in tune with anything more alternative than the local hot hits station. It’s not because they hate these bands – it’s just that they’re not familiar and, at this stage in life, immersing yourself in new music can be a time consuming commitment that most lose track of.

Then, turn it onto the other side. I rarely go to shows any more. I walk in and find myself seemingly out of place. The kids – and, to be fair, adults – who attend most of the shows of bands I’d care to see (independent, underground, indie rock, whatever it’s called) are deeply immersed in this lifestyle. They are familiar with more than just Radiohead and it’s derivatives – they’re lifelong addicts of left-of-center music. Sure, I’ve got a few Wolf Parade CDs, but I’m still rocking Modest Mouse, long after they were really relevant. And R.E.M. And 90’s Revelation Records emo.

It carries over to other concepts. Ask a casual tech follower who has friends both deeply immersed in Web 2.whatever and incredibly Web deficient. Ask a moderate how they feel standing in between a liberal and conservative. Ask a gamer how frustrating it can be to be too good for the “Medium” difficulty, but not good enough to handle “Hard.”

When this is your position, it’s hard to figure out which direction to go. Learn more and join the uber-knowledgable? Count your losses and just stop caring?

Or admit your place in the food chain and continue bridging the gap.

Tags: Music, On... |

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We’ll all survive

October 6, 2008


Every hour, we’re reminded of instability.

We’re reminded of how life isn’t predictable. How every moment could change everything. How one breath could wreak havoc on the world, how under every step lies the chance of failure. Predictability is only reserved for math and computers. And even then, it’s not necessarily given.

Every day, we’re reminded of our own mortality. We know how short our time is, relatively. We worry endlessly about the trivial, and fret aimlessly about larger concepts we barely understand. We worry when it’s worthwhile, and we worry when it’s painless and simple. Yet, we never really latch on to the fact that the worry will never solve anything.

That, in most cases, there is someone out there who is already working on the problem, and that the result is out of our hands.

If you are within earshot of a television, or if you simply breeze over the front page of MSN on your way to Hotmail, you’ve no doubt caught wind of our nation’s – and the world’s – financial troubles. Markets sinking. Consumers refraining. The entire fabric of our economic system, threadbare and worn like the elbow of an old sweater, threatening to tear apart.

But maybe it’s not that big. Maybe you’re worried about an upcoming test. A project at work. Your overall standing in the grand scheme of things. The meaning of life.

It’s worry. It’s a crutch I fall upon. It’s the reason many of us stay awake at night, develop ulcers and drink coffee 23 hours a day.

One of my goals over the past several years is to worry less. Which means worrying less about Sierra’s ability to comprehend things above her age level. Worrying less about how successful I can become in my career. Worrying less about my image, about my favorite sports teams, about politics, about things I can barely control and ultimately change little in my life.

And so her I am, not worrying about this financial crisis. In fact, justifying it.

I hate the way I think, sometimes. I tell myself that this financial situation is self-correcting. That this is what we get for living a reckless life, for spending what we don’t have, for trusting the un-trustable. Yet, that’s exactly what I think. I see this as an opportunity to live more simply. To prepare for the worst. To save, damn it. To start saving again, like every one taught me in high school.

I’m fighting my own worry by being optimistic. At risk of sounding a little too “half-full” about the whole ordeal, it seems like we just need a dose of optimism. Even if it’s practical, life affirming optimism.

Listen - when it comes down to it, we’ll all survive. We may need to scale back a little. We may need to live within our means. Things might change. Or things might correct themselves.

But we’ll all survive this. Things won’t be exactly as they have been. But we’ll all survive.

We’ll all survive.

Tags: On..., Politics |

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On anticipating fall

September 21, 2008


The only thing I can hope is that with the smell of falling leaves comes a similarly windswept busyness, that things will mellow out, that we’ll face the lowering of the temperature with a lowering of energy, torporing our way into the typical droll autumn attitudes.

Because the weeks seem to be going to fast. Sierra’s shooting up like a milkweed unchecked, a full inch and a half in just a month and a half. New experiences. Hot days. Shorts, grill-outs, a series of backyards and porches and patios. Summer lights up, blinds us – forces us to blink – and when we’re standing with our eyes finally open again we notice that it’s already September. It’s already time to say goodbye. As if we never even knew it.

I love each beautiful day, but with the cacophony of grunts and football banter flowing in each weekend, I can’t help but long for the crispness of October. My birth month. The first month I learned to love, with the anticipation of Halloween and the great candy and the changing of the colors and the cooling of the weather, the winds and grayness serving as a cold shower to our over-excited lives.

Leaves. Wind. Cold rain. Overcast. Hoodies. Jeans. The puffy vest everyone gets tired of seeing after a few weeks. Hot coffee during a still dark morning.

I’m sorry. I should appreciate these days while they’re still here.

But life is moving a little faster than we expected, and I can only hope that this fall helps cool things down. Because our engines can’t run on overdrive for too long without running out of gas and sputtering to a halt. We can’t miss a thing. Sometimes it feels like we’re missing it all.

I’m stuck between a season I love and a season I need.

Tags: On..., Sierra, Vilhauer |

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Post marked stamps

September 17, 2008


The vehicle looks like a pygmy ice cream truck, the doors opening the wrong way, the driver sitting as if he had fallen out of a Monty Python skit. The shorts are ridiculous, the black shoes and socks even worse. But to see him walking down my front walk is to feel the pangs of excitement, the promise of what could be. Open optimism, the glass not half full, but overflowing and pouring into a safety reservoir for later use.

The mail is coming. And I’m excited.

Always. Without fail. I view the coming of the mail the same way some wait for the morning newspaper, like some wait for the weather report, how others continue listening to the radio in order to hear the Twins score, with anticipation and promise.

This isn’t an “old man watching the ag report” phenomenon. This is a testament to the open possibilities of what could come in the mail, the same kind of tug that draws some to cliff jump or hike the Boundary Waters or travel to the Amazon. Except a lot more simple. And a lot safer.

The best part is, I know I’m not alone.

For most of us, it starts when we order something as a kid. The torture of waiting for something in the mail tears at us, as it did to Ralphie in A Christmas Story as he waited for his Ovaltine decoder ring. In college, it becomes a part of your day. Walking to the mailbox to see what stuff you get – letters from long-distance partners, checks from parents, packages from some midnight drunk shopping spree – is nearly equal to an early dinner at the commons in terms of importance and procrastination.

And then, you grow up. Your mail becomes more varied. More people ask for money, some give you money, others offer you riches unimagined. Cards from family members you can barley remember, orders you forgot you’d paid for. Every pile is a new adventure, a reconnecting with the outside world, a period of discovery that once connected us like no other, before the days of e-mail and its instant gratification and ease. Some of it’s utter shit. But equally, some of it is surprising. Exciting.

I must have an old soul, because I still long for the brief connection of the mail.

Magazines and other periodicals. Shipments. Birthday cards. Newsletters. Bills. I anticipate what could be coming each day. It’s the first thing I do when I stop home for lunch, and my hour seems derailed if the mail hasn’t arrived. I order enough things over the Internet to have perfected the longing need for mail delivery. When will my camera get here? Why hasn’t that book arrived? Shouldn’t my magazine come this month, or is it the November/December combined holiday issue?

And then it arrives. I look it over, skim through the stuff I have no interest in, and toss it on the pile. Just like that, it’s over.

But for a few brief minutes, from the anticipation and realization of mail delivery to holding those assorted items in your hands, anything is possible.

Tags: On..., Vilhauer |

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I’m back…

September 7, 2008


Chances are, you haven’t seen me around for a few days.

There’s a reason. I’ve been on vacation, in northern Virginia, where Kerrie’s parents now live. It’s about an hour west of Washington D.C., and right in the heart of historical Virginia, where the streets are all cobblestone and the shops all consist of the same warped windows that have lasted through two of the country’s most recognized wars.

But more than that, I’ve been on a mini sabbatical, a rest from the world, respite from my constant wordsmithing. I’ve been recharging, as they say, and I won’t lie – I feel it.

I feel like I’m bursting with inspiration, my mind ready to take on the challenges of writer’s block. I feel like I’ve got things to say. Weekly and monthly columns to get around to. Books to pretend I actually read.

And, I feel relaxed. Probably for the first time since I stayed home with Sierra during my paternity leave. Relaxed, and thrilled about it.

With this relaxation, with the utter lack of responsibility and no need for critical thinking, I made some incredible realizations. Realizations that might seem banal, too simple to be revelations. But revelations all the same.

I realized that Washington D.C. isn’t a tourist paradise, but a legitimate amazing feat of urban design, mass transit and epic history. I realized that even the most hardened cynic can feel patriotic around the Lincoln Memorial. And I realized that after three years I still haven’t come to full terms with my grandfather’s death, a veteran of both the Vietnam and Korean wars, two wars memorialized in D.C. and located in close proximity for the maximum in emotional drainage.

I realized that history is unchanging, and that no matter how many layers of paint or remodeling jobs you do the ghosts of history still stand, watching you, Civil War caps tipped to the right, bayonets sagging under the weight of their ammunition, thousands of lives wasted for a quarrel, their remains creating the landscape that we trod upon.

I realized that 350+ pictures is probably enough.

I realized that a beer at noon tastes better than any consumed at night, that seafood pasta at home can reach restaurant like excellence and that the only thing you should do while on vacation is eat and drink and eat some more.

I realized that a week can easily be wasted just watching your daughter grow up.

Most of all, I realized that time off is necessary. That it’s healthy. That the problems of travel and close quarters and weather and delays and rising tension and lost productivity mean nothing when matched to the sheer expanse of soothing catharsis that comes from a few hours away from the grid. Or a few days. Or a week. Plus.

That’s all in the past, though. I’m back, and I’m glad.

Tags: Blogging, Grandpa Boyer, Meta, On..., Outdoors, Travel, Vilhauer, Writing |

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On changing daycares

August 28, 2008


We officially switched day cares today.

Technically. In reality, we have a week off in between where Sierra will not need daycare.

And though it was the right thing to do, we can’t help but feel a little trepidation.

It’s a big change. And how will Sierra handle it?

Most importantly – how will we handle it?

It wasn’t gross negligence that forced us to change – it was distance. Sure, a series of ever-present pet peeves brought it to the forefront, but my 45-minute drive to daycare and then to work wasn’t working out anymore.

We feel strongly about our daycare provider’s ability to take care of Sierra. She was good at it. And Sierra loved her. We couldn’t have asked for a better person at the time – a home setting, with Sierra being the only newborn, the only attention-grabbing baby, with plenty of love to give.

So it’s only natural that we still feel a little bittersweet about the whole thing.

After all, who was it that showed genuine love for Sierra, a love you don’t find in your typical center? Who was it that said to us, “Sierra has had more of an impact on me than any other child outside of my own?” Who was it that welcomed another child into her home, at eight weeks old, and treated her with the same gentle spirit we would have ourselves, who stood in for us when we needed to leave, who became a solid rock in the ever-changing life of a baby?

We tried to show her how much it meant, the time she put into helping Sierra grow into the bright, energetic one-year-old she has become. We gave her a gift, told her thanks, tried to brush it off as business-as-usual. And she did the same.

Those bonds are difficult, though, like the feelings a teacher has for his or her favorite students – a feeling of guardianship, of not knowing what their life will become after leaving your watch. Emotions are a bitch, it seems. They tie us together, even when we’re trying to get away.

I am fully confident we made the right choice. But that doesn’t help the feeling I have. It’s change, and as an overprotective father, who has nothing greater in his mind than the livelihood and future of his only daughter, I can’t help but feeling a little uneasy.

But I can always rest assured. If things don’t work out, her spot is still open.

That’s a relief. It’s a back-up. A choice. It’s not all or nothing; instead, it’s faith that no matter what happens, Sierra’s going to be in good hands, whether it’s at her new daycare or back at the original.

And that’s the best gift we could have asked for.

Tags: On..., Sierra |

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