Summer proved a nice time to read, crossword, and run. Despite the time to sleep in, I continue to rise at pre-dawn hours to make miles in the cool morning climate along the river and through the park near my house.
Since the start of the school year nearly one month ago, the dust has yet to settle. With typical rapidity, the Woodland Joint Unified School District continues to approve changes to educational approaches, school schedules, and district policy. As a result, the Pioneer High School teaching staff is diligently trying to navigate a schedule with seven 52-minute periods. Furthermore, these seven periods split on Wednesday and Thursday to a rotating block, with students attending periods 2, 4, and 6 one day, then 1, 3, 5, and 7 the next, for 93 minutes. I find myself struggling to make use of my prep time, and it always seems like I'm shoring up last-minute elements of the day's agenda in a frantic rush before the bell sounds.
I also stepped into the position of head cross country coach. When the position was offered, I figured the job would provide running time, and thus allow me to continue working on weekly mileage goals while coaching and supporting like-minded runners. This notion proved completely misguided, and now I find myself facilitating workouts that meet the varying needs of a variety of running types. When we run intervals on the track, I am able to jog in the opposite direction and provide encouragement and critique. However, if I send them on long/easy runs, they're strung out across town, and my attempts to join them prove either shortsighted, or just plan ignorant. I learned the hard way when, as I tried to keep two fatigued runners talking through the workout, another set of students had to hail a ride from a passing teacher to stave off an asthma attack.
With the running world unable to coexist with the coaching world, I've found myself doing something I once chastised my teammates for doing: Two and three times a week, I rise at 4:30 a.m. to put away 8 or 10 miles before work. With this decision I've had to eat crow, essentially, because in addition to finding a way to make it happen, I've started to absolutely love it. I'm sure the end of daylight savings and the onset of an autumn chill will have me humming a different tune, but for now, I'm a convert to the 5 a.m. run.
Two things to point out beyond the obvious difference in temperature and the fact that, for the rest of the day, the workout is behind you: 1.) I've seen an inordinate number of meteors; 2.) I enact my revenge on the automobile by running right down the middle of the street, which at that hour is free from obstruction.
The training has worked, and my speeds have increased along with my overall mileage. I've graduated to a higher training group on the racing team, and as a result I will face harder workouts as October--my biggest racing month this year--approaches. I'm slated to run in October 2's Urban Cow half marathon, then slated to recover and revamp for October 31's Marine Corp. Marathon in Washington D.C.
Hopefully in the interim I will have figured out how this cross country monster works...
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
The State of Things in the State of New Hampshire.
A lot of people have asked why the hell Stephanie and I found ourselves in obscure, small towns in Massachusetts and New Hampshire. Most "vacations" to that region tend to include metropolitan stops, historical landmarks, and the Cape. The best response to the curiosities remains the basic need to briefly escape California and the steamrolling effect of the summer schedule at major law firm. But to choose this region as the destination for our summer trip illustrates our preference for bed and breakfasts, walkable places of interest, and the chance to, should we want, do nothing at all.
With those things in consideration, a trip from Boston to Portsmouth, west to Manchester, then south to Amherst begins to make sense. This slice of the east also offers a combination of gorgeous scenery, myriad walkable sites and shops, and progressive approaches to food, drink, and leisure. Like a number of more driven pockets of the country, trendier towns in New Hampshire and Massachusetts seem focused on catering to locavores and offering organic products and farm-to-table food.
Rather than provide a summary of the places we slept and ate, however, I want to focus on how this Northeasterner mindset affected one particular experience. (I can give you the lowdown on all the other details, if you are interested.) We zoom in on the morning following our first night at the Bedford Village Inn.
Zoom closer.
Closer!
There we go!
Our spread included a small kitchenette, something the lodging description signified as a "convenience kitchen." I don't know what that means, but perpetual restauranting in a place of such abundance for the consumer started to seem illogical. I took the availability of a stove and an oven to mean that I could, if I felt so inclined, use the facilities to explore the culinary potential of the local landscape.
Despite the presence of the kitchen, our cupboards contained nothing beyond the standard flatware necessary for in-room dining. Thus, at our complimentary continental breakfast, I delicately inquired as to the possibility of procuring a pot and pan to prepare a locally inspired, "home-cooked" meal. No problem, I was assured. Sounds like fun, even.
Newly liberated by the absence of a hard and fast dinner reservation, Stephanie and I spent the better part of the day traipsing through the Lakes Region, mulling the possible local goodies we could purchase and enjoy later that evening. Thanks to our handy travel guide, we settled on Moulton Farm, where, inspired on-site, I concocted a plan involving green beans, tomatoes, zucchini grown on site, as well as some house-made granola. I also found some plump plums, nectarines, and an organic yogurt from nearby in Canada. For protein, Moulton offered a selection from Sal's Fresh Seafood, a Boston company who set up a small booth outside the market. Despite the options, I realized how foolish it would be to pass on spectacular cod filet, caught that morning and tailored for our tastes.
Notice the sharp dicing knife I found in the kitchenette.
A solid pound of fish!
Ingredients in tow, we made our way back to the Inn and ambled over to the afternoon wine and cheese hour. After a nice glass of house red, I set out to obtain the hardware needed to put together my regional dish. Upon inquiry, I was promptly refused the items I had been formerly promised. "Only industrial supplies on site," I was told. "Mistaken," was the earlier information. "Convenience kitchen," I was reminded.
It should be said here and now that free wine does devious and wonderful things to people. When on couples this with the tone set by driving around behind New Hampshire license plates that pridefully claim to "Live Free or Die," and wine hour turns into an easy way to enjoy (read: smuggle) wine well past the allotted hour. Simply pour wine into paper coffee cups located in the same room as the wine glasses, cover the cups with heat-trapping lids, and easily and inconspicuously transport hooch back to your room for dinner. Live Free or Die, indeed.
Once back in the room, I made a phone call, asked for the manager, and quickly received the supplies I was promised.
Without oil or butter to facilitate the cooking process, I ended up pan frying the zucchini in water flavored with salt and pepper while boiling the green beans (4 quick minutes). After draining the water, I added the diced tomatoes and warmed the concoction on medium for another couple of minutes.
Along with the wine, we pocketed a number of crackers which I intended to use to make bread crumbs for the cod. But without a coagulate, a lot of hard went essentially went for naught.
Stolen crackers.
Making bread crumbs by smashing crackers between two bowls.
Unbreaded, here's the meal just before plating. It actually looked pretty good. The fish cooked quite quickly in the remaining zucchini water and relatively low heat. I added the remaining diced tomatoes and used a spooning technique to add heat to the exposed portion of the fish.
Just before we sat, I added the yogurt and granola to the diced fruit, which made a sweet fruit salad to compliment the other components.
The inspiring setting, the sweet and sour staff at the Bedford Village Inn, a vacationer's industriousness, and the collective desire for happiness all worked out in the end. After our meal, the turn-down service provided two chocolate chip cookies, which completing an otherwise healthy meal by providing some sugary sweetness. And the free wine was fine, as you might imagine.
All told, our time in and around Bedford, Manchester, and the Lakes Region provided ample opportunities to savor all the good things the Northeast has to offer.
With those things in consideration, a trip from Boston to Portsmouth, west to Manchester, then south to Amherst begins to make sense. This slice of the east also offers a combination of gorgeous scenery, myriad walkable sites and shops, and progressive approaches to food, drink, and leisure. Like a number of more driven pockets of the country, trendier towns in New Hampshire and Massachusetts seem focused on catering to locavores and offering organic products and farm-to-table food.
Rather than provide a summary of the places we slept and ate, however, I want to focus on how this Northeasterner mindset affected one particular experience. (I can give you the lowdown on all the other details, if you are interested.) We zoom in on the morning following our first night at the Bedford Village Inn.
Our spread included a small kitchenette, something the lodging description signified as a "convenience kitchen." I don't know what that means, but perpetual restauranting in a place of such abundance for the consumer started to seem illogical. I took the availability of a stove and an oven to mean that I could, if I felt so inclined, use the facilities to explore the culinary potential of the local landscape.
Despite the presence of the kitchen, our cupboards contained nothing beyond the standard flatware necessary for in-room dining. Thus, at our complimentary continental breakfast, I delicately inquired as to the possibility of procuring a pot and pan to prepare a locally inspired, "home-cooked" meal. No problem, I was assured. Sounds like fun, even.
Newly liberated by the absence of a hard and fast dinner reservation, Stephanie and I spent the better part of the day traipsing through the Lakes Region, mulling the possible local goodies we could purchase and enjoy later that evening. Thanks to our handy travel guide, we settled on Moulton Farm, where, inspired on-site, I concocted a plan involving green beans, tomatoes, zucchini grown on site, as well as some house-made granola. I also found some plump plums, nectarines, and an organic yogurt from nearby in Canada. For protein, Moulton offered a selection from Sal's Fresh Seafood, a Boston company who set up a small booth outside the market. Despite the options, I realized how foolish it would be to pass on spectacular cod filet, caught that morning and tailored for our tastes.
Notice the sharp dicing knife I found in the kitchenette.
A solid pound of fish!
Ingredients in tow, we made our way back to the Inn and ambled over to the afternoon wine and cheese hour. After a nice glass of house red, I set out to obtain the hardware needed to put together my regional dish. Upon inquiry, I was promptly refused the items I had been formerly promised. "Only industrial supplies on site," I was told. "Mistaken," was the earlier information. "Convenience kitchen," I was reminded.
It should be said here and now that free wine does devious and wonderful things to people. When on couples this with the tone set by driving around behind New Hampshire license plates that pridefully claim to "Live Free or Die," and wine hour turns into an easy way to enjoy (read: smuggle) wine well past the allotted hour. Simply pour wine into paper coffee cups located in the same room as the wine glasses, cover the cups with heat-trapping lids, and easily and inconspicuously transport hooch back to your room for dinner. Live Free or Die, indeed.
Once back in the room, I made a phone call, asked for the manager, and quickly received the supplies I was promised.
Without oil or butter to facilitate the cooking process, I ended up pan frying the zucchini in water flavored with salt and pepper while boiling the green beans (4 quick minutes). After draining the water, I added the diced tomatoes and warmed the concoction on medium for another couple of minutes.
Along with the wine, we pocketed a number of crackers which I intended to use to make bread crumbs for the cod. But without a coagulate, a lot of hard went essentially went for naught.
Making bread crumbs by smashing crackers between two bowls.
Unbreaded, here's the meal just before plating. It actually looked pretty good. The fish cooked quite quickly in the remaining zucchini water and relatively low heat. I added the remaining diced tomatoes and used a spooning technique to add heat to the exposed portion of the fish.
Just before we sat, I added the yogurt and granola to the diced fruit, which made a sweet fruit salad to compliment the other components.
The inspiring setting, the sweet and sour staff at the Bedford Village Inn, a vacationer's industriousness, and the collective desire for happiness all worked out in the end. After our meal, the turn-down service provided two chocolate chip cookies, which completing an otherwise healthy meal by providing some sugary sweetness. And the free wine was fine, as you might imagine.
All told, our time in and around Bedford, Manchester, and the Lakes Region provided ample opportunities to savor all the good things the Northeast has to offer.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
A Tale of Two Soccers.
My title itself commits an egregiously jingoistic foul. I'll take a yellow card, a penalty for an error akin to a national avoidance of the metric system, the temporary rejection of "French" as an adjective, or a history of snubbing tea. I won't refer to the sport by its logical, globally-preferred title. I'll suffer the snubs and call it "soccer" so that everyone within earshot knows I'm not talking about Roger Goodell's pad parade. I run the risk of eye rolling from my more cosmopolitan contemporaries, but I am and have always been a red-blooded American who can distinguish his arugula sprigs from his rocket.
My attraction to soccer is relatively young and largely attributed to my wife, brother, and brother-in-law. As my personality continues to stray from its roots in Pop Warner and high school football culture, though, I also see my mannerisms, tastes, and behaviors more connected to the enormous family of soccer supporters. Despite my own ignorance of fundamental facets of the sport, I'm often initially mistaken for a player in some circles because of my smallish frame and style of clothing. In only 5 years, however, a network of players and fans have helped educate and expose me to much of the sport's bedrock traditions and quirky idiosyncrasies. I've since read literature, surveyed European leagues, closely followed regional tournaments, taken part in supporting the rise of Major League Soccer in the states, and, unbelievably, attended a World Cup in Africa.
I've also found myself embroiled in the debate over the fate of soccer in America. Much of this discussion focuses on how the sport can meld with and adapt to the landscape of a saturated American sports market. Yet, as I came to believe last night in Stanford Stadium as the New York Red Bulls battled the "home" team San Jose Earthquakes, much of the problem with soccer in America seems to be America itself.
Take, for example, the fact that professional soccer games in the states are still played in stadiums designed, quite ironically I might add, for football. Players in last night's match directed the ball across heavy turf, through blades of grass spray painted green to hide the collegiate yard markers. The Quakes, a representative of a surprisingly fervent Bay Area fan base, have no permanent pitch to call their own. This is not unique in Major League Soccer.
Another troubling aspect of last night's match: Many supporters lack, well, an understanding of the term "support." The many families, footers, and tailgaters who clustered amid the eucalyptus groves for pregame festivities notwithstanding, many seats sat cold well into the announcement of the lineups and the procession of teams. Perhaps it reflected the privilege characteristic of a city like Palo Alto (we actually saw a restaurant dedicated specifically to hummus despite no clear dietary or regional need), but the late arrival--merely ten minutes of expendable American nonchalance--meant a lot in a game that saw its first goal in the seventh minute. And once these groups arrived, strangely, many seemed to lack a basic understanding of how sports institutions organize and classify seating. All around us, the dapperest of spectators quibbled over the labeling of aisles, seats, and sections, while the rest of us tried to find a view of the ongoing match.
My biggest concern over the place of soccer in America, however, reflects the way game's organization conflicts with an American sports culture obstinately entrenched in its heavily-marketed, heavily-ritualized, yet somehow whimsical mentality of competition-as-pastime.
Take organization, for starters. Soccer, whether you know it or not, is comprised of two, uninterrupted forty-five minute halves. There are no timeouts, no commercial interruptions, and no stoppages for substitutions. The clock rolls. If time is wasted, the referee determines a degree of (arguably artificially decided) stoppage time, which is added to the end of the half. This design promotes, in my eyes, two very acceptable football behaviors: support and sustenance. Without the built-in TV timeouts, pitching or inning changes, or punt-return producing commercials, soccer is conditioned to provide the typical human body with the space and time it needs to thrive. After your pre-match eating, drinking, socializing, and ball kicking, you can wisely use the restroom, sing your anthem, and settle in for roughly 47 minutes of regionally-specific, energetic-yet-tastefully-restrained fanaticism. In that span, you are encouraged to shout, chant, cry, gesticulate, and bemoan the universe before you. You expel the energy stores you collected outside the stadium during the process, and after the whistle sounds, you stop. The football gods then allow 15 minutes to repeat some pre-game behaviors and rituals while the action has subsided, which allows you prepare for another 45ish minutes of support. Then, it ends, and you celebrate, discuss, reflect, or take it to a pub.
Unless, of course, you take your American sports habits along with you as you explore what MLS matches have to offer your American sports pallet. In this instance, as I learned last night, you show up a little late, get up to use the bathroom in the 23rd minute, then buy your buddy a hotdog and some garlic fries in the 38th (which seemed confusing at 8:15 pm, by the way). You follow the exodus into the aisles at halftime--who cares why, since it's more acceptable--only to return in the 53rd minute, buy cotton candy from a vendor (why are vendors even an option during play?) in the 68th minute, and leave to beat the traffic in the 84th. While it might just seem like sport to you--you did wear your Henry jersey only to cheer for each San Jose goal--I find your reliance on the fundamental American sports experience as a drag on so many's desire to enjoy soccer--er, football--in the way it was meant to be enjoyed.
I, along with fans far more dedicated and experienced than myself, can't force the national sport's landscape to carve out a patch of grass for professional soccer. But like those fans, I don't see a need to set a place for it at the proverbial table. "The beautiful game" isn't characteristic of anything in the American narrative. I don't write this in order to qualify America as ugly, only to point out this conflict is perhaps more indicative of a positive trend. Ever the optimistic entrepreneurs, Americans have a knack for making commodities out of habits, passions, or a preferences. Thus, it seems logical and savvy for these budding sports franchises and organizations to strive for ways to make soccer more appealing to an American market.
But football isn't American. And while many would argue that this forced translation is essential to the success of the sport in the states, it remains a global game, and it should be aloud to speak its native tongue.
My attraction to soccer is relatively young and largely attributed to my wife, brother, and brother-in-law. As my personality continues to stray from its roots in Pop Warner and high school football culture, though, I also see my mannerisms, tastes, and behaviors more connected to the enormous family of soccer supporters. Despite my own ignorance of fundamental facets of the sport, I'm often initially mistaken for a player in some circles because of my smallish frame and style of clothing. In only 5 years, however, a network of players and fans have helped educate and expose me to much of the sport's bedrock traditions and quirky idiosyncrasies. I've since read literature, surveyed European leagues, closely followed regional tournaments, taken part in supporting the rise of Major League Soccer in the states, and, unbelievably, attended a World Cup in Africa.
I've also found myself embroiled in the debate over the fate of soccer in America. Much of this discussion focuses on how the sport can meld with and adapt to the landscape of a saturated American sports market. Yet, as I came to believe last night in Stanford Stadium as the New York Red Bulls battled the "home" team San Jose Earthquakes, much of the problem with soccer in America seems to be America itself.
Take, for example, the fact that professional soccer games in the states are still played in stadiums designed, quite ironically I might add, for football. Players in last night's match directed the ball across heavy turf, through blades of grass spray painted green to hide the collegiate yard markers. The Quakes, a representative of a surprisingly fervent Bay Area fan base, have no permanent pitch to call their own. This is not unique in Major League Soccer.
Another troubling aspect of last night's match: Many supporters lack, well, an understanding of the term "support." The many families, footers, and tailgaters who clustered amid the eucalyptus groves for pregame festivities notwithstanding, many seats sat cold well into the announcement of the lineups and the procession of teams. Perhaps it reflected the privilege characteristic of a city like Palo Alto (we actually saw a restaurant dedicated specifically to hummus despite no clear dietary or regional need), but the late arrival--merely ten minutes of expendable American nonchalance--meant a lot in a game that saw its first goal in the seventh minute. And once these groups arrived, strangely, many seemed to lack a basic understanding of how sports institutions organize and classify seating. All around us, the dapperest of spectators quibbled over the labeling of aisles, seats, and sections, while the rest of us tried to find a view of the ongoing match.
My biggest concern over the place of soccer in America, however, reflects the way game's organization conflicts with an American sports culture obstinately entrenched in its heavily-marketed, heavily-ritualized, yet somehow whimsical mentality of competition-as-pastime.
Take organization, for starters. Soccer, whether you know it or not, is comprised of two, uninterrupted forty-five minute halves. There are no timeouts, no commercial interruptions, and no stoppages for substitutions. The clock rolls. If time is wasted, the referee determines a degree of (arguably artificially decided) stoppage time, which is added to the end of the half. This design promotes, in my eyes, two very acceptable football behaviors: support and sustenance. Without the built-in TV timeouts, pitching or inning changes, or punt-return producing commercials, soccer is conditioned to provide the typical human body with the space and time it needs to thrive. After your pre-match eating, drinking, socializing, and ball kicking, you can wisely use the restroom, sing your anthem, and settle in for roughly 47 minutes of regionally-specific, energetic-yet-tastefully-restrained fanaticism. In that span, you are encouraged to shout, chant, cry, gesticulate, and bemoan the universe before you. You expel the energy stores you collected outside the stadium during the process, and after the whistle sounds, you stop. The football gods then allow 15 minutes to repeat some pre-game behaviors and rituals while the action has subsided, which allows you prepare for another 45ish minutes of support. Then, it ends, and you celebrate, discuss, reflect, or take it to a pub.
Unless, of course, you take your American sports habits along with you as you explore what MLS matches have to offer your American sports pallet. In this instance, as I learned last night, you show up a little late, get up to use the bathroom in the 23rd minute, then buy your buddy a hotdog and some garlic fries in the 38th (which seemed confusing at 8:15 pm, by the way). You follow the exodus into the aisles at halftime--who cares why, since it's more acceptable--only to return in the 53rd minute, buy cotton candy from a vendor (why are vendors even an option during play?) in the 68th minute, and leave to beat the traffic in the 84th. While it might just seem like sport to you--you did wear your Henry jersey only to cheer for each San Jose goal--I find your reliance on the fundamental American sports experience as a drag on so many's desire to enjoy soccer--er, football--in the way it was meant to be enjoyed.
I, along with fans far more dedicated and experienced than myself, can't force the national sport's landscape to carve out a patch of grass for professional soccer. But like those fans, I don't see a need to set a place for it at the proverbial table. "The beautiful game" isn't characteristic of anything in the American narrative. I don't write this in order to qualify America as ugly, only to point out this conflict is perhaps more indicative of a positive trend. Ever the optimistic entrepreneurs, Americans have a knack for making commodities out of habits, passions, or a preferences. Thus, it seems logical and savvy for these budding sports franchises and organizations to strive for ways to make soccer more appealing to an American market.
But football isn't American. And while many would argue that this forced translation is essential to the success of the sport in the states, it remains a global game, and it should be aloud to speak its native tongue.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Unraveling a Good Yarn.
More and more, I see life as a prolonged absorption. I consider where I've been, who I've seen, and what I've heard, and how it constructs who I am and what I think and believe. Time and retellings sometimes layer the stories and memories that build me with a glamorous dust of nostalgia, and if I'm not careful, I find myself soaking in sterile versions of an otherwise complex reality.
Absorption is natural. It's a process of construction akin to setting up a Jenga tower one block at a time. And self examination, self analysis really, requires a certain stock of vigilance in order to scrutinize the fundamental elements of one's personal makeup. It can be exhausting, frankly, and lead, like gaming the Jenga tower, to periodic toppling.
Unlike Jenga, however, the fallen blocks do not constitute a loss. Understanding this, over time I've made self examination and self analysis as natural as absorption. I've learned that these symbolic Jenga pieces can do a lot more than make and remake towers; however, I've also come to see that making self study second nature renders one a slave to process--a believer that knowing is ongoing, really.
With this prologue in mind, I submit my annual summertime musings on the father-son dynamic by which I'm so ardently intrigued. In past summers I've analyzed some father-son traditions, asked that my old man expose me to one part of his history, and even tried (failed, really) to walk in his footsteps. In keeping with this interest and tradition, this summer I asked Dad to help me discover more relics of our father-son dynamic by showing me elements from his own past, moments from his history that perhaps trickle down to inform our own.
I can't say for sure if this in some way fuels my own understanding of my relationship with him, but I know that learned behaviors reconstitute themselves over time, and I know I understand him--to some extent--because of the way he understands his own experience as a father and son. Like last year's backpacking trip, I again forced him to take the reins. This time, however, I challenged him with a less strenuous quest through his hunting history in Idaho.
Hunting, for my father as a child, was a learned behavior. He followed the lead of his own father, who had in his youth forged relationships with other men who enjoyed the practice. This enjoyment eventually took them to the northern regions of Idaho, a place where hills give way to sweeping valleys and dramatic canyons that offer a treasure of public and private lands teeming with deer, elk, sheep, and bear. My father's first trip into such country involved 12 hours in the back of a trailer, where at 13 he and his twin brother bickered and argued nearly the whole of a drive which culminated in two, long hours down a nauseating dirt road into Wild Horse Canyon.
After returned trips, a property owner in the canyon suggested she and her husband better "make friends with them California boys." And thus, what started as an invite for dinner forged a bond that outgrew its original intentions. The family eventually provided lodging and hospitality for countless hunting trips, and offered staging areas for various trips in the canyon and around their daughter's home in the community of Council. In exchange for this kindness, my grandfather provided tractor parts--his trade, really--along other necessities for the rugged, canyon living characteristic to this kind of country. The relationship eased the burden of isolated living for them, and provided relief from the burden of urban living for my family. Things evolved--continue to evolve really--into an extended family forged by fondness and frankness, bearing all the brightly and darkly shaded tones of tradition and time.
I've included some highlights of my recent trip, and brief explanations of particular threads comprising the familial flag.
For me this experience, like those in past summers, hasn't been about uncovering the past so much as using aspects of it to justify the future. Before the dinner we shared on our final night in Council, Ray made a brief whiskey toast at cocktail hour "to old times." The salute seemed fitting: he and my father, estranged step brothers, had just spent the afternoon casting line and telling stories. From Ray's left, with my own glass, I added, "and to new ones," in a hazy move to solidify the permanence of our unfurling lineage. He paused, considered, and agreed as the atmosphere seemed to turn momentarily poignant.
But a really good story will do that to you.
Absorption is natural. It's a process of construction akin to setting up a Jenga tower one block at a time. And self examination, self analysis really, requires a certain stock of vigilance in order to scrutinize the fundamental elements of one's personal makeup. It can be exhausting, frankly, and lead, like gaming the Jenga tower, to periodic toppling.
Unlike Jenga, however, the fallen blocks do not constitute a loss. Understanding this, over time I've made self examination and self analysis as natural as absorption. I've learned that these symbolic Jenga pieces can do a lot more than make and remake towers; however, I've also come to see that making self study second nature renders one a slave to process--a believer that knowing is ongoing, really.
With this prologue in mind, I submit my annual summertime musings on the father-son dynamic by which I'm so ardently intrigued. In past summers I've analyzed some father-son traditions, asked that my old man expose me to one part of his history, and even tried (failed, really) to walk in his footsteps. In keeping with this interest and tradition, this summer I asked Dad to help me discover more relics of our father-son dynamic by showing me elements from his own past, moments from his history that perhaps trickle down to inform our own.
I can't say for sure if this in some way fuels my own understanding of my relationship with him, but I know that learned behaviors reconstitute themselves over time, and I know I understand him--to some extent--because of the way he understands his own experience as a father and son. Like last year's backpacking trip, I again forced him to take the reins. This time, however, I challenged him with a less strenuous quest through his hunting history in Idaho.
Hunting, for my father as a child, was a learned behavior. He followed the lead of his own father, who had in his youth forged relationships with other men who enjoyed the practice. This enjoyment eventually took them to the northern regions of Idaho, a place where hills give way to sweeping valleys and dramatic canyons that offer a treasure of public and private lands teeming with deer, elk, sheep, and bear. My father's first trip into such country involved 12 hours in the back of a trailer, where at 13 he and his twin brother bickered and argued nearly the whole of a drive which culminated in two, long hours down a nauseating dirt road into Wild Horse Canyon.
After returned trips, a property owner in the canyon suggested she and her husband better "make friends with them California boys." And thus, what started as an invite for dinner forged a bond that outgrew its original intentions. The family eventually provided lodging and hospitality for countless hunting trips, and offered staging areas for various trips in the canyon and around their daughter's home in the community of Council. In exchange for this kindness, my grandfather provided tractor parts--his trade, really--along other necessities for the rugged, canyon living characteristic to this kind of country. The relationship eased the burden of isolated living for them, and provided relief from the burden of urban living for my family. Things evolved--continue to evolve really--into an extended family forged by fondness and frankness, bearing all the brightly and darkly shaded tones of tradition and time.
I've included some highlights of my recent trip, and brief explanations of particular threads comprising the familial flag.
The view west through Wild Horse Canyon, toward Council, Idaho.
The view of the ranch house from an overlook bearing family memorial plaques.
My father, addressing his dad's plaque, alongside current property owner Darryl. The ranch and land were passed on from his father-in-law Arnold, whose plaque sits in the foreground. Portions of both men's ashes were scattered from the hilltop.
The ranch house and seasonal garden (below).
Darryl (at right) making homemade ice cream in the kitchen/dining room.
The staircase to our lodgings.
My spread.
We took a dirt road out of Wild Horse, driving the ridge line toward popular hunting locations. This is a view from the rim of the canyon, looking northwest in the direction of Oregon state.
The view toward a tiny speck of the ranch house from the deer trail (below), trekked countless times by the men in my family.
Dad, indulging my desire to try the fast-moving Wild Horse River, tying the brightest spinner we have.
We wised up, finding far more success the next day. Here's the result of my first cast at Lost Lake, north of Council. The second and fourth casts provided the same result.
Uncle Ray shows off the day's dandy whopper.
Final tally came to 14, four shy of the limit. We threw a number of smaller perch back, but saved a few for what I'm told are tasty filets.
Ruth, the matriarch and initiator of the friendship "with them California boys," surveys the remnants of our fish fry back in Council.
For me this experience, like those in past summers, hasn't been about uncovering the past so much as using aspects of it to justify the future. Before the dinner we shared on our final night in Council, Ray made a brief whiskey toast at cocktail hour "to old times." The salute seemed fitting: he and my father, estranged step brothers, had just spent the afternoon casting line and telling stories. From Ray's left, with my own glass, I added, "and to new ones," in a hazy move to solidify the permanence of our unfurling lineage. He paused, considered, and agreed as the atmosphere seemed to turn momentarily poignant.
But a really good story will do that to you.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Sibling rivalry: When the TV Fights for a Place at the Table
I was fortunate enough to see my college roommate on Father's Day. This is significant for a number of reasons, but the most prominent include that facts that, a.) He was the first in my inner circle to become a father; b.) The opportunity to become a father ended our time together as roommates (rightfully so, we would say); and c.) I haven't seen him in at least a year.
He and his family live a stone's throw from my grandpa's house. Since the old man is a father worthy of celebration, I found myself chatting in the garden and realizing I should probably pay a visit. I walked over to his place and sipped on a gin and tonic, because I thought it would be funny to boast about the childless world of Sunday afternoon gin baths (kidding, sort of). I ended up catching the tail end of their family movie night, and showed up just in time to see a motley group of digitized, sub-Saharan animals walk off into the sequel to a Madagascan sunset.
"Is this a weekly occurrence?" I wondered.
"Pretty much," he replied. "We like that the television is in here. Usually its music or voices for their entertainment."
Here was a tiny alcove near the front door, probably conceived as a mudroom for shoes and coats. As I sat on the floor, the children bounced on a small loveseat and told me about their favorite scenes before scampering off into their own sunset, now just visible through the branches of a tree and the backyard swing.
I told my wife about this arrangement later that evening--about secluding the television in another room--and we discussed the nature of television in our childhood homes, as well as what we observed with our friends then and now. In my house, I told her, everyone got ready at their own speed, so spending my middle school mornings with Eek the Cat! was pretty common. My step-mom even coaxed my brother and me into submissive cereal sessions by using VHS episodes of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles we'd seen hundreds of times.
I was somewhat of a latchkey kid outside of football season, so I spent afternoons with Music Television staples like The Grind or Singled Out or, in earlier years, Fox's Mighty Morphing Power Rangers. When dinner was served or homework started, the TV finally went blank. It kicked back on later, and even put me to bed on occasion. I confessed to having, but not abusing, my own small TV set in my room at one house.
At certain friends' houses, both then and now, the TV is the chattiest member of the family. It's on even when no one's watching it. The steady beat of commercial jingles, conversations, and sportscasters fills any gap day-to-day living and communicating might create. Most often, the ubiquitous white noise of the television causes anxiety, confusion, or stress when eliminated. Things seem a bit awkward for them, likely the same kind of awkward I feel with the damn thing always on. The existing silence represents a lack which, like a junkie after that sweet warm glow, needs fixing.
In the interest of full disclosure, I will say that we have an enormous television set in our house. It is featured prominently in a central location. We have modern bells and whistles as well. There's a dusty Wii, the an unfilled 6-disc DVD player, and an old VCR. We also rely on the genius of TiVo to select and record programs, then zip through commercials that get in our way. While I might sound like a slave to entertainment, last night I realized something kind of neat. TiVo ensures that we know why we are sitting in front of the screen. No one sits down and says, "What's on?" It's only, "What do we have saved up?" or maybe an expectation of a regularly scheduled episode. When the show ends, so does our TV time. Because we select the shows we want to watch, we flip, surf, or endure programs in the hopes of finding something to watch. The TiVo, it seems, is a solid reason we don't feel compelled to let the tube prate on in the backgrounds of our evenings.
Though my life does not share the context or the structure of my old roommate's young family, I do not fear that someday my own clan, whatever shape it might become, will rely on a channel to fill the spaces between its members. I'm sure this imaginary family will have plenty to talk about as soon as Daddy figures out how to kick this internet habit...
He and his family live a stone's throw from my grandpa's house. Since the old man is a father worthy of celebration, I found myself chatting in the garden and realizing I should probably pay a visit. I walked over to his place and sipped on a gin and tonic, because I thought it would be funny to boast about the childless world of Sunday afternoon gin baths (kidding, sort of). I ended up catching the tail end of their family movie night, and showed up just in time to see a motley group of digitized, sub-Saharan animals walk off into the sequel to a Madagascan sunset.
"Is this a weekly occurrence?" I wondered.
"Pretty much," he replied. "We like that the television is in here. Usually its music or voices for their entertainment."
Here was a tiny alcove near the front door, probably conceived as a mudroom for shoes and coats. As I sat on the floor, the children bounced on a small loveseat and told me about their favorite scenes before scampering off into their own sunset, now just visible through the branches of a tree and the backyard swing.
I told my wife about this arrangement later that evening--about secluding the television in another room--and we discussed the nature of television in our childhood homes, as well as what we observed with our friends then and now. In my house, I told her, everyone got ready at their own speed, so spending my middle school mornings with Eek the Cat! was pretty common. My step-mom even coaxed my brother and me into submissive cereal sessions by using VHS episodes of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles we'd seen hundreds of times.
I was somewhat of a latchkey kid outside of football season, so I spent afternoons with Music Television staples like The Grind or Singled Out or, in earlier years, Fox's Mighty Morphing Power Rangers. When dinner was served or homework started, the TV finally went blank. It kicked back on later, and even put me to bed on occasion. I confessed to having, but not abusing, my own small TV set in my room at one house.
At certain friends' houses, both then and now, the TV is the chattiest member of the family. It's on even when no one's watching it. The steady beat of commercial jingles, conversations, and sportscasters fills any gap day-to-day living and communicating might create. Most often, the ubiquitous white noise of the television causes anxiety, confusion, or stress when eliminated. Things seem a bit awkward for them, likely the same kind of awkward I feel with the damn thing always on. The existing silence represents a lack which, like a junkie after that sweet warm glow, needs fixing.
In the interest of full disclosure, I will say that we have an enormous television set in our house. It is featured prominently in a central location. We have modern bells and whistles as well. There's a dusty Wii, the an unfilled 6-disc DVD player, and an old VCR. We also rely on the genius of TiVo to select and record programs, then zip through commercials that get in our way. While I might sound like a slave to entertainment, last night I realized something kind of neat. TiVo ensures that we know why we are sitting in front of the screen. No one sits down and says, "What's on?" It's only, "What do we have saved up?" or maybe an expectation of a regularly scheduled episode. When the show ends, so does our TV time. Because we select the shows we want to watch, we flip, surf, or endure programs in the hopes of finding something to watch. The TiVo, it seems, is a solid reason we don't feel compelled to let the tube prate on in the backgrounds of our evenings.
Though my life does not share the context or the structure of my old roommate's young family, I do not fear that someday my own clan, whatever shape it might become, will rely on a channel to fill the spaces between its members. I'm sure this imaginary family will have plenty to talk about as soon as Daddy figures out how to kick this internet habit...
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Call it, "A meditation on fantasy."
It's summer again, so I'm carving out a new routine.
I wake at the same early hour, somewhere before six. I open three windows, grab the newspaper, start the coffee, feed the cat. I usually head out for my run before 7; if I'm resting that day, I dig into the A section.
By mid morning, I'm at the keyboard, reading analysis and commentary on Slate or Grantland, updating newly downloaded podcasts, checking in on Facebook, and considering my errands and chores list.
Sometimes there's time for television, and since my usual cycle of watching only includes the staples I've made time for, summer represents my best chance to catch up on the nonsense I would otherwise skip in lieu of favorites like Community, Friday Night Lights, or Mad Men.
So, I've reacquainted myself with Anthony Bourdain and his No Reservations franchise, something I admitted to loving back in an early blog nearly three years ago. What I loved about the show, then and now, remains Bourdain's episodic commitment to spinning a food-centrist narrative. All the ills plaguing social and cultural landscape of the Western world--one might gather in watching Bourdain's the carefully-constructed arduousness of his trek across the globe--can be solved by reading the fine print on the centuries-old food labels on simplistic, old-world meals.
He eats. He asks. He learns. He even cooks, on occasion. And throughout each venture, you hear him espousing the ways recipes reflect lifestyles, the ways these lifestyles reflect people, and the ways these people make the world. It's a fantastic product, one that catapults Azorians, Icelanders, or Laotians into American living rooms, rendering them tangible, pure, and equally enviable. I admit I occasionally buy into his vision of the world, and identify what I perceive to be a kind of lack within me--an awareness of some cultural or familial legacy I desperately seek to acquire even though it might not exist. I sense a distance between myself and my past.
Is it the narrative creating this? Is Bourdain a glorified commercial, artfully orchestrating some product placement scheme, trying to sell me something I a.) don't need, or b.) can't actually obtain?
In a week, my father and I will embark on a trip that came about from similar ruminations on history, narrative, and tradition. There are things I need to see; places I need to know. So with my summer and his retirement, we have the chance to visit remote areas in Idaho, places he frequented in his life with his father and brothers. We will stay at a rustic family home in a vast, isolated canyon, brought to unnatural life only in the evening and morning by generator power. I will tread the ground where family ashes were returned to the earth. I will learn, like the patriarchs of my family, by the terrain of surrounding hillsides and the eddies of the swirling creek that swells along the property. I will hear the stories of the people who reside there.
Because I can't tell the future, I can't be certain this trip will satisfy all my structured longings. I can say for certain, however, that I've already built a scaffold for the experience in my mind. The deconstruction of these expectations might need to occur before the trip can become organic--before I can allow it become "real"--and by that point, I might already find myself disappointed in the chasm between the life that is and the narrative I so often want it to be.
And that's the thing about Bourdain's narrative. It's easy to spin a yarn about the quality of life when the spool of fabric encompasses an afternoon meal. What I need is proof that something obtainable exists when the episode ends. When the commercial goes to commercial.
I wake at the same early hour, somewhere before six. I open three windows, grab the newspaper, start the coffee, feed the cat. I usually head out for my run before 7; if I'm resting that day, I dig into the A section.
By mid morning, I'm at the keyboard, reading analysis and commentary on Slate or Grantland, updating newly downloaded podcasts, checking in on Facebook, and considering my errands and chores list.
Sometimes there's time for television, and since my usual cycle of watching only includes the staples I've made time for, summer represents my best chance to catch up on the nonsense I would otherwise skip in lieu of favorites like Community, Friday Night Lights, or Mad Men.
So, I've reacquainted myself with Anthony Bourdain and his No Reservations franchise, something I admitted to loving back in an early blog nearly three years ago. What I loved about the show, then and now, remains Bourdain's episodic commitment to spinning a food-centrist narrative. All the ills plaguing social and cultural landscape of the Western world--one might gather in watching Bourdain's the carefully-constructed arduousness of his trek across the globe--can be solved by reading the fine print on the centuries-old food labels on simplistic, old-world meals.
He eats. He asks. He learns. He even cooks, on occasion. And throughout each venture, you hear him espousing the ways recipes reflect lifestyles, the ways these lifestyles reflect people, and the ways these people make the world. It's a fantastic product, one that catapults Azorians, Icelanders, or Laotians into American living rooms, rendering them tangible, pure, and equally enviable. I admit I occasionally buy into his vision of the world, and identify what I perceive to be a kind of lack within me--an awareness of some cultural or familial legacy I desperately seek to acquire even though it might not exist. I sense a distance between myself and my past.
Is it the narrative creating this? Is Bourdain a glorified commercial, artfully orchestrating some product placement scheme, trying to sell me something I a.) don't need, or b.) can't actually obtain?
In a week, my father and I will embark on a trip that came about from similar ruminations on history, narrative, and tradition. There are things I need to see; places I need to know. So with my summer and his retirement, we have the chance to visit remote areas in Idaho, places he frequented in his life with his father and brothers. We will stay at a rustic family home in a vast, isolated canyon, brought to unnatural life only in the evening and morning by generator power. I will tread the ground where family ashes were returned to the earth. I will learn, like the patriarchs of my family, by the terrain of surrounding hillsides and the eddies of the swirling creek that swells along the property. I will hear the stories of the people who reside there.
Because I can't tell the future, I can't be certain this trip will satisfy all my structured longings. I can say for certain, however, that I've already built a scaffold for the experience in my mind. The deconstruction of these expectations might need to occur before the trip can become organic--before I can allow it become "real"--and by that point, I might already find myself disappointed in the chasm between the life that is and the narrative I so often want it to be.
And that's the thing about Bourdain's narrative. It's easy to spin a yarn about the quality of life when the spool of fabric encompasses an afternoon meal. What I need is proof that something obtainable exists when the episode ends. When the commercial goes to commercial.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
The End / The Beginning
Members of the class of 2011 ventured on the annual grad trip this past Thursday and Friday, set to tear madly through Disneyland and California Adventure alongside thousands of other graduating seniors and a few hundred overtaxed, underpaid chaperones. Rumors came via text on Friday that bus number two broke down just below the Grapevine, stranding a group of anxious teens and one reportedly cantankerous bus driver.
I don't know what any of this means, but there must be some symbolism somewhere.
For four exciting hours they sat on a bus. They reminisced, they laughed, they slept. Some perhaps joked about this final ride on a yellow Blue Bird with black trim. Internally, many of them reflected that they've crossed some milestone; they acknowledged a sense of wisdom they've acquired, and how it already exceeds that of their classmates around them. They know better, but they can't help but believe that they are better. And in these thoughts, they remain reliant on their parents' (who helped finance the trip), their teachers (some of whom sit among them), and the company of their classmates and friends.
Then, the world stands up and beats it into them: You are still a child, it scolds, reminding them of their coddled rearing. You can't fix a casserole! What will you do with the engine of the bus? The rest of the planet is whizzing by--even the slow lane is a blur--and there they are, in shock and on the sidelines.
I don't know what any of this means, but it's got nothing to do with The Rapture.
I don't know what any of this means, but there must be some symbolism somewhere.
For four exciting hours they sat on a bus. They reminisced, they laughed, they slept. Some perhaps joked about this final ride on a yellow Blue Bird with black trim. Internally, many of them reflected that they've crossed some milestone; they acknowledged a sense of wisdom they've acquired, and how it already exceeds that of their classmates around them. They know better, but they can't help but believe that they are better. And in these thoughts, they remain reliant on their parents' (who helped finance the trip), their teachers (some of whom sit among them), and the company of their classmates and friends.
Then, the world stands up and beats it into them: You are still a child, it scolds, reminding them of their coddled rearing. You can't fix a casserole! What will you do with the engine of the bus? The rest of the planet is whizzing by--even the slow lane is a blur--and there they are, in shock and on the sidelines.
I don't know what any of this means, but it's got nothing to do with The Rapture.
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