best days

graduating from college was one. my whole family came, and most of them were in the stands. from down on the field i scanned the crowd. there was a lot of jostling going on, people trying to get situated before the commencement began. for one brief moment i caught sight my wife, in the purple dress that she wore for me. i locked my gaze on her for as long as i could. she was waving, so i knew that she saw me too. even from that distance i could see her smile, she her mouth making the words "we love you!" i smiled and waved back. but then i blinked, and lost her in the crowd for good. but at least we had that moment, and it never fades.


another was actually a night, a rebecca st. james concert. i had been to plenty of concerts before, but this one was amazing like none other. she was accompanied by a small orchestra, and most of the instruments i didn't even recognize. the music had a haunting quality, a slight dissonance, that made me feel like i was hearing angels. i have never experienced that feeling before or since.


once was hiking in the weminuche. most in the group i was with were not in shape, not prepared for the kind of hiking we needed to do, not smart about the amount of weight they brought in their packs. it became clear soon on that we would not be able to complete the loop that would have made this a 50-mile hike. instead, we had gone about a third of the way around the loop, and then turned around to go back the way we came. it was the worst disppointment for me. from here it would all be paths i had already walked, taking me closer to the world i came here to be away from.

i arrived before midday at the Y where the trail made the split and made camp, but i knew that the stragglers would not get there before late afternoon. i filled a bottle at the icy stream for a quart of instant lemonade and drank it all. i sat in the shade, leaned against a tree and asked myself "now what?" to the right was the trail that we had traveled twice now, once going up and once coming back. to the left was the trail that we should have come down. i pulled out my contour map and looked at the trail. a series of lakes, the first and largest one, emerald lake. about 4 miles, but a 2000 foot change in elevation. it was what they call 'a coming down trail, not a going up trail'. a tough hike. but i had a half-day, and i only needed to carry a day pack, not the full pack that i would otherwise have carried, so do-able.

at first the trail was only a mild uphill grade. i crossed a stream and waded though a small meadow of waist-high sunflowers. shortly after that though, i hit the first of a seemingly endless series of switchbacks. back and forth, the narrow, rocky trail zig-zagged up the mountainside. once i topped one hill, there might be a short downhill stretch before another long uphill. it went on for 4 hours. i pushed hard because i knew i didn't have an excess of time. maybe this was not such a good idea. i was sweaty, wearing out, and the fun had gone out a couple miles back. i no longer cared that i was seeing something new -- this was work. finally i had enough. i knew i should be fairly close, but with mountains on all sides i couldn't find any distinct landmarks to tell exactly where i was. i decided to top the hill i was on, rest a few minutes and head back down. i was out of time.

as i crested the hill, i got a surprise. there it was. a lake, bright beautiful green. ha, of course. emerald lake. shoulda guessed that. after i got over my initial amazement, i went on over to it. the shore i was on had a stand of pines, and the opposite side was bound by a mountain. i stripped down to my briefs and waded into the water up to my thighs. it was frigid. i stood in it for a minute and splashed water on myself to try to acclimate to the cold. medium-sized trout swam close enough for me to see but not touch. well, i came all this way. ought to at least take a swim. i took a deep breath, braced myself, and fell into the crystal water. the shock was immediate, and when i came up my breath came in shudders. okay, i swam. i waded back to the shore and leaned against a huge boulder to draw heat from it. still shaking, i got dressed for the off-chance that other hikers might come down the trail from above.

i wanted to stay, but knew i couldn't. the afternoon was almost gone, and i wasn't sure how long it would take to get back. i stood at the waters edge for a minute to take it in. this was a special place, i knew. not a place that you could drive up to and step out of the car to see. it took work to get here, and statistically at least, very few would ever stand here. i could never find the words to describe the feeling of it. this is where i belong.

i turned and started down the trail, back to the world.

space

i knew better.
but history, it repeats.
paralyzed
i hurtle through space
into debris.

jagged pieces come
i cannot avoid, or choose not to.
impact after impact,
my course defined by collisions,
pain of one melds into the next,
until the ache is steady
and new hurts are seen, not felt.

detatched,
face bruised,
chest caved,
arms dangle useless.
i wait the fatal blow.

when it comes,
i wonder
will i remember the way?
remember which bridges i crossed,
and which i burned?

heat

it's hot.
now that i try not to swear, i find i have very little to say.
dog won't stay in the yard.
cat won't leave the house.
a co-worker i liked got let go.
a stranger told me to never use negatives when speaking about myself.
i failed to rise to the bait, because that would take energy.
i'm not learning anything new.
i'm not meeting anyone new.
i'm not saying anything new.
when i try to be a good husband, my wife decides to be aloof.
when i sink into a mood, she decides to be a good wife.
will we never be in sync?
promised one more year, then see where we are.
been off coffee a month, maybe two.
the memory is the first thing to go.
best thing that happened today: postcard from france.
bonjour de paris! voilá , c'est la carte postale que vous...
it's in french.
i admire multilinguals.
i am not multilingual.
nora is multilingual.
find nora.
nora reads french to me.
nora is great.
thanks, nora.
back to work.
gonna be late.
call the wife.
wow she's in a good mood.
wish i could bottle that.
work.
work.
work.
this heat is depressing me.
got to get squared away.
it's no good.
no good.
going off the rails again.
thinking a word here, but not saying it.
shakes head.
hopeless.
pointless.
useless.
gutless.
those aren't negatives.
less is more.
more or less.

the wind and the ashes

oklahoma has a reputation for being flat, so much so that any mound protruding above the surrounding terrain by as much as a few hundred feet gets designated a mountain. laughable, really. but western kansas and far eastern colorado are flatter still, though the vast emptiness of it takes on a beauty all it's own. the 400-mile drive from salina to denver is actually an imperceptible 4000 foot climb, and denver lays claim to the cliche of being the "mile-high city" at 5280 feet above sea level. the last hundred miles or so is a series of increasingly dramatic hints of what you are about to discover. the flat plains begin to roll, here and there raw rock is shoved up through the grass. when you get within 30 miles of denver, you begin to see what could be mistaken as dark blue rain clouds on the horizon. the closer you get, though, the more distinct the outlines become, the peaks more pronounced. unlike the scattered petite bumps of oklahoma, these peaks routinely reach 10,000 feet, some greater than 12,000. the dark blue shades give way to greys and greens, and white caps on the higher summits. too numerous to count, they extend hundreds of miles to the north and to the south. the enormity of this mountain range exceeds comprehension. you have discovered the Rocky Mountains, or more simply, the Rockies.

if you are fortunate enough to hike in this majestic range, you will experience a smallness of self as you take in the beauty. slopes of shale give rise to granite faces. fragrant, towering pines shade soft dirt paths, leading you beside flowered meadows. as you climb, the heat of the valley gives way to cool, crisp air higher up. you cross streams, finding the water crystal clear, clean, cold, and you drink of it. leaving beaver ponds and grassy meadows behind, the climb becomes steeper. the meandering path becomes an endless series of switchbacks with grueling, relentless intent on scaling the unavoidable mountainside. the air becomes thin, and it surprises you that every fifty steps you need to stop for breath. finally the path curves to the right and evens out onto a high grassy plateau; you have climbed higher than the elevation at which trees can grow. you camp overnight beside a small lake at 12,000 feet.

beyond the lake is tomorrow's climb, a 500 foot ascent to cross the continental divide. from where you are, it looks impassable, a boulder strewn slope with no obvious path. but tiny specks of color halfway up tell you that a team of outfitters are traversing a path as you watch from below. the path is there, marked with small piles of rocks left by those who have gone before to tell you that the impossible is possible; look closely and step carefully. so steep is the climb, so thin is the air that every ten steps requires a pause for breath. unlike the the dirt paths below that drew you along easily, this path requires constant attention. find the next marker, pick your path to it, test each step before putting your full weight on it. finally, a gentle turn to the left, and a snow bank meets you at the saddle. you are standing on the continental divide, and the view is tremendous. the hard work has been done, 4 days of uphill climbing, your pack at it's heaviest, the air getting thinner with each step. from here the hike down is easy by comparision, but it can wait. you take your time and enjoy the view.


for me though, there would be no hiking this trip, and no solitude. we entered the Rockies going southwest on 285 toward jefferson and fairplay. it's a nice drive, maybe not as breathtaking as going north through golden and central city. but the highway winds through the mountains, trees and red rock slopes line the way, and white water rapids parallel the road. but the best part comes near the end of the hour-and-a-half drive when the highway makes a horseshoe bend. as the road curves to the right, suddenly a beautiful green valley opens up. continuing around the curve, the panorama overwhelms the senses. maybe the plains are too deeply a part of my soul, but to me that valley is even more beautiful than the mountains that surround it. here, it was easy to forget that there was even a world "out there".


the road dropped down into the valley. at jefferson we turned east and after a short drive found the entrance to my cousin frankie's ranch. she and her husband were expecting us. jc greeted us first; he had been in the shop working on a tractor. we met frankie in the house where she was just a little panicked that we were a little early and she was still frying chicken. her hair was completely white. she now reminded me of her mom, my aunt betty, who had always been sweet, and whom the kids had fallen in love with the one time they got to meet her. but other memories were unreliable. the stairs were not where or how i remembered them. i could not find the salt and pepper shakers made in the fashion of a pair of outhouses. as a boy my older brother jimmy had duped me into believing that the 's' and 'p' stood for...well, something other than salt and pepper.


we sat and drank tea, and visited. frankie finished cooking, all the while telling us stories about the family. as we ate, the conversation included both the good and the bad memories of her childhood, and ours too. after the talk began to wind down, we agreed that it was time. just north of the ranch buildings was a large hill. some climbed it, the rest of us piled into the back of frankie's pickup and rode up the bumpy slope to the top. the hilltop was the highest point in the valley, and from it mountains could be seen in every direction. silver heels and baldy to the southwest, the twins to the northeast, many others whose names i forget. some with snow, most without. a gentle breeze was blowing from the west.


my sister charlie brought the small box out and we formed a circle and had a short prayer, mostly saying we had done the best we could, sorry it couldn't have been more. then she opened the box and handed it to evy, because she was the oldest. we took turns, oldest to youngest, then denny who had made the promise, then nephews, then niece. reach into the box and cup a handful of ashes, say a silent prayer of goodbye, then toss the ashes high into the sky. the breeze did the rest. my sisters all cried, and denny did too. the fact that i didn't gives me pause to wonder, what am i? but i didn't try to force tears; if they ever do come, it will be in their own time.


jc and frankie helped evy set some cut flowers into the rocky hilltop, knowing they wouldn't last long. they looked out of place among the indian paintbrush. still, it was the only marker mom would ever have. uncle bob's ashes were scattered in the saddle between the twins, so now she would be close to him. cancer had taken him long ago, and when mom was diagnosed she chose not to fight it, as if it was her ticket out.


sometimes we do out of obligation, and sometimes we refuse to do for want of a better reason. but time does not relent. we grow old. those we ought to have loved, ought to have mended hearts with, they pass on. they leave us with memories if we are lucky, regrets if we are not so lucky, but always with an empty place that waits to be filled.

thornton

in kindergarten we had assigned seats, and i sat beside a little brown-haired girl. mostly i remember how she colored. light, even strokes with the crayons, always stayed inside the lines. perfect. no matter how hard i tried, my crayons always found a way to cross the line and ruin the picture, a big mark of red where only yellow should be. when we made mother's day cards, it was more of the same. she cut construction paper into the shapes of flowers and neatly glued them to the front of the card. i sat beside her with a sinking feeling. even if i had the imagination to create such a masterpiece, i didn't have the dexterity to cut such intricate shapes. nor the time. i had spent most of the class period sitting there, waiting for some inspiration, anything, to get me started. now i was running out of time. i hurriedly cut small rectangles from different colored construction paper, and glued them all to the front of the card. as a finishing touch, the teacher wrote 'happy mothers day' on the inside because we couldn't write yet.

it was a few blocks to walk from school to home. winter was over, but spring hadn't quite warmed up completely. i carried my books under my left arm. in those days, no one had yet considered the notion of backpacks for school children. my coat added bulk but didn't really keep me warm, and it made it hard to keep my books from slipping. the wind was strong and gusty. suddenly, as if fate decided to play the meanest trick possible on a five-year-old, the card was pulled out of my grip and carried off by the wind. i dropped my books and ran after it, but quickly lost any hope of ever catching it. before i had run ten steps, it was already a small speck in the distance and moving away fast. i stood there in disbelief as it disappeared across the bare field. by the time i gathered my books and continued toward home, hot angry tears were already stinging my cheeks. i walked more slowly now; there was no hurry. as pathetic as the card had been, it was all i had. now i had nothing.

by the time i got home the tears had stopped, but my mood had not improved. i sulked and avoided everyone, not wanting to face the moment when i had to admit that i had been so careless and stupid as to come home empty-handed. my sister Brenda saw that i was brooding, and somehow got me to tell her what had happened. the tears began steaming in my eyes as i relived the moment. she listened, and then said "aww, come on. what do you say, let's make you another one?"
reluctant to let go of my loss and my self-pity, i mumbled, "it wouldn't be the same." as if that were a bad thing.
but she nudged me along. "i know it won't, but it will be alright. come on, i'll help you."

truthfully, she made the card, and i sat there and watched. she didn't have any construction paper, so she took a sheet of notebook paper and folded it in half. she sketched a rabbit on the front, carrying a basket with flowers. then she found some colored pencils and lightly colored in brown for the fur, pink for the nose. i noticed that she colored as well or even better than the little brown-haired girl at school. she finished it off by writing happy mothers' day mom. love, leonard on the inside. then she handed it to me and said, "there you go. how's that?" to be honest, it looked more like an easter card to me, but i didn't say that. she had rescued me. i don't remember if i told her thank you, but i hope i did.

i remember running to give the card to my mom, and her responding something like "why, thank you. that's real nice." probably not a moment she remembered for long, but it's too late to ask her now. eventually, if i live long enough, i will have a hundred questions i wish i had asked. how did you choose my name? how did you meet pap? when did you stop loving him? what dreams did you leave unlived? i don't remember you hugging me, did you? do you remember when we lived at thornton...

the shaper

the machine room was a din of noise, as usual. any one of the saws, drills, tenon machines or sanders was loud enough in close proximity. put them all together and then add the giant dust collection system on top of that, and you could hardly hear yourself think. when the day shift got ready to leave, the noise abated slightly, and the night shift never ran all the machines at once. jesse and i had already gotten our job assignments from the day shift foreman, and had passed them on to our teams that would be running the loads. jesse usually handled the sanders, because he had a touch with them, and he handled the mexicans, because he was mexican. i usually handled the saws and drills, because i was precise, and i handled the nigerians, because they regarded me with respect.

the people on day shift earnestly believed i spoke 'nigerian'. the truth was that the nigerians spoke the Queen's english, but they did so with an accent that was difficult to acquire. and a few words were different, like 'spanner' instead of 'wrench'. they were all college students who attended the small university nearby, and took the factory job just to earn a little money to make life easier. they didn't like jesse much, because he felt they moved too slowly, and they knew it. they seemed to have a dignity about them, exceedingly good posture, always polite. maybe not so fast, but steady at least. other than that, they were individuals, like anybody else. kamoru was the tallest, most talkative and most friendly. others were quiet, shy almost. most responded to respect with respect. it was an adjustment for me. i had come from a different department, full of high school students, same as me, whom i mainly motivated by yelling and swearing at them.

our night shift foreman, jim, was an older guy from kentucky. at first jesse and i had regarded him with skepticism. we didn't think we needed him; we could run things fine without him. and he seemed so back-woods. tall, strong, he had a rich southern accent and glasses so thick that they magnified his eyes to about twice their actual size. eventually he won us over though. he was easy-going, never pushy. had a real good touch with the sanders, and he and jesse learned tricks from each other all the time. he was tough, too. he had bought an old honda 350 motorcycle and always rode it to work. then one night he came to me in the middle of the shift and said "i'm not feeling too good. i'm gonna go." he was pale, sweating, and his face was fixed in a grimace. he looked as if he might pass out at any second. i asked him if he wanted me to drive him, but he said no. i thought he would drive to the hospital, which was less than a mile away. instead he rode his motorcyle 17 miles home, and then his wife put him in the car and drove him back that same 17 miles to the hospital. found out later that he was passing a kidney stone.

the day shift had finished clocking out. i had gotten the nigerians started. jim was standing and talking with a couple of day shift foremen in the aisle. i joined them. jesse had just finished getting the mexicans started and walked up to us too. the paint room foreman was telling a story about how static electricity had once ignited the paint thinner he was spraying into a bucket. any fire in the paint room could easily destroy the entire plant if not contained quickly, but to contain it one first had to overcome the compelling desire to flee. he was saying, "had to tell myself, 'self, come on back here.' " we were all laughing at the thought.

as he was finishing the story, i noticed one of the nigerians, arisa, had approached the group but maintained a respectful distance, not wanting to interrupt the conversation. jim was still laughing about the tale, and he quarter-turned to me briefly. i saw his smile, the laughter in his Mr. Magoo eyes. then he continued his turn and for the first time noticed arisa. his countenance changed abruptly, and i heard a serious tone in jim's voice i had never heard before. "what did you do? what did YOU DO?!!" it sounded almost like an accusation. it was surreal. i stood dazed, trying to get the scene to make sense but failing. then i noticed the crimson.

somehow, instantly, i knew. the shaper was a high speed saw we used to cut a clean groove into bed posts. i had showed arisa how to orient the piece of wood. put the foot against the stop on the right. push the piece into the blade, all the way against the fence. slide the piece to the left until the top touched the stop on the left, keeping the stock against the fence the whole way. i watched him run a few pieces to make sure he understood, and he did. then i left him. whether by imagination or divine cognition, i could see what must have happened next. arisa ran several pieces. with each piece, a small amount of sawdust escaped the dust collection system and remained on the table top. if enough dust accumulated it would hold the wood away from the fence and cause the groove to be too shallow. so he wiped the dust away...by hand. at several thousand rpm, the blade of the shaper saw was invisible.

we hurriedly examined the injury on the way to the car. the cut was so clean, so sharp, so deep. there was obviously some bone missing at the joint of his index finger, now a groove that flowed red. someone found a towel and we wrapped his hand. the personnel manager drove us to the emergency room. i sat in the back, one arm around arisa's shoulders, holding the towel in place with my other hand. as we pulled out of the parking lot, it seemed to hit arisa for the first time that this was serious, not something to put a bandaid on and go back to work. he might lose the distal phalanx. at the very least, he would lose some function of the digit. the reality sank in, and he put his head on my shoulder and began to cry. i held him. there was nothing more i could do.

a glimpse of heaven

still feels like i don't fit in, but bothers me less these days.
starting to feel like i can change, attempt, progress, if not succeed.
starting to look for a pursuit worth my time, and it feels near.
worry and despair are sloughing away, and new skin feels the sun.

maybe it's the beginning.
maybe life starts today.
maybe i have left darkness behind.
maybe the best has finally come.

i recall the tears, but forget the pain.
my heart can beat without aching.
tender scars have faded to white,
and they are beautiful.