Twenty-two and Counting

In my continuing series on death (it seems) I'm going to talk about my father on the anniversary of his.

My father was not your traditional father figure. For most of my young life, he was not a strong presence. He we there, but he wasn't front and center. If I stare at the family photo I hold in my mind, my mother and grandmother are right there, centered and surrounded by others in a spiral of significance and importance - my sister is in front of them, small and smiling in her white dressy top (lace collar and all) and jeans with dirty knees. Behind my mother and grandmother, faded even more into the poorly illuminated background is my great grandmother, large and looming in the shadowy mist. To the right and left of her are my Grampa Jack, my Uncle Benny (great uncle actually, but who's really keeping track), Aunt Joe (still made-up and looking great) and their son and grandchildren. Even more faded and mist-covered are my uncle, aunt, and their three sons - my cousins- as well as his dad, Uncle Tony.

My father is kneeling down, off to the right and partly out of frame, looking at something he spotted just as the picture was being taken.

See, he's there, just not in the way you'd expect.

He wasn't much of a drinker, but had an occasional Plank Road Ice House beer (when they came onto the market - before that, I think he might have been a Michelob man, but I'm not sure). He ate what would be described these days as a 'shit ton' of starlight mints and spearmint leaves. He made macaroni and cheese from a box and without milk (yes, without milk), tuna fish sandwiches with chopped onions that I hated and refused to eat, but a hell of a good toasted cheese. We watched the old western shows together when my female family went off to square dancing, and managed to get me to watch every damned WLVI-TV Sunday Movie at noon, at two, and four. And sometimes even others. We saw Creature Double Feature together, and wrestling - lots of wrestling (with the likes of Ivan Putski, the returned Chief J. Strongbow, and Bobby Backlund in the cast of characters), and many trips to the Lonsdale Drive In (actually, we attended all the local drive in movies).

He introduced us to rollerskating, and to fishing impatiently, and to boating on a shoestring budget. I experienced a lot as a lad, even though my time with him was pretty limited. It is better in hindsight than it was then.

My dad had a short fuse, was easy to blame others for things going poorly, and was pretty prejudiced (as many people were in those days). Family life was sometimes tense when there was fighting, and as I remember it, there was usually always fighting in some aspect. But it was my family.

I've said before that I wouldn't make the same choices my father did for us, but I respect that he made the best choice he could. There was a lot lacking in his formative years as well, and I respect that he didn't want his own children to experience those missing pieces. Strangely enough, in his quest to make up for his own childhood, he was away far more than he needed to be if he'd just stayed at one damned job. But he didn't, and he spent a lot of time on the road. That's life.

Looking back, I was allowed to experience so many different things that helped me be the man I am today. For that, I am ever grateful that my father (who became frustrated with auto repairs and such) taught me to be patient in his impatience. He taught me to be fearless in making choices, but more cautious when it impacted my family. And he taught me that life is too fucking short to stand around waiting for it to get better.

My father passed from this lifetime on August 10th, 1993. I was in his presence when he did, and I am grateful for that gift as well.

I will write about him again, I'm sure. He helped make me the man I am.

I Wasn't Done With That...

I

In life, we all leave a mark of some kind. Some leave children, or a life's work, or perhaps something built with our own hands - a building, or home, or art of some kind. Some leave words, or perhaps photos. But one thing we all share in this life is that we leave stories for others to tell or laugh about, or cry over.

The story we write every day.

When we pass from this lifetime, we leave those stories behind as a trail of breadcrumbs for others to decode who we were - and for those who knew us to reminisce about our life. Even in death, we live on.

Patricia Anne Marie Eastman passed from this life on May 8th, 2014.  She was a nurse, a recent member of the Lions Club, a neighbor, a partner, a friend, a companion. She was also a sister, a daughter, a grandmother, and so many other things. But first and foremost, she was the mother of a woman I love dearly.

Pat beat cancer twice. She raised 3 daughters, and had a good heart. At family gatherings, she was always very helpful but she had a penchant for cleaning up just a little bit early. It's ironic that she stole Death's plate away from him twice, surviving both bouts of breast cancer. In the end, Death blindsided her with a heart attack. The cancer just wasn't going to work, evidently.

II

Her tears fall freely

I try to kiss them away

As I hold her close

I'll have more to say. Just not now. 

Merry Meet 

Merry Part

Merry Meet Again

April the Twenty-eighth

Listen closely and I'll let you in on a secret - someone has a birthday today.
Not just any someone, but a wonderfully delightful someone I adore.
A someone who taught me quite a bit about pieces of the world I never knew existed. A someone who let me see a part of the country I never dreamed I could see. A someone who let me know that having an opinion about art didn't mean that I was pretentious. A someone who saw things in my own world through new eyes, and discussed that in a way that sometimes challenged me, sometimes supported my own beliefs, and sometimes shared her differing opinions instead of nodding and smiling.

You see, there's this girl who I used to fly to visit. She's got style and a vibe that's not East Coast, not West Coast, and more than a blending of the two. She's charming and bright, and I love her.

If you see her today, wish her a very happy birthday.

She deserves happy days, because she helps make mine that way.

There are words, and there are silences, and there are smiles that don't need to be explained.  I'm grateful for all of those things.
And I'm grateful that I share them with her.

On her very special day, I'm happy to hold her hand and laugh with her.

I'm pretty sure she is, too.

Happy Birthday, Gina.
You are. And you know.
And that's perfect.

4-28-14

<3

Back When I Was Someone Else

Usenet.



Remember when this was relevant? Remember when you had to go find the correct group for your interest or else you were flamed out of the wrong one you posted in? Those were the days, huh? Seriously, it was so much better than the current state of online interaction. Back then, you talked about anime in general with one group, specific anime with another (and many of those folks ONLY talked abut that particular anime), and you could even talk about cosplay and modeling in those respective groups. Want to talk about your specific model of car? Go find it. It wasn't just ONE BIG ROOM (as it has been described to me) like Facebook, it was a giant convention with all the different rooms available for discussions with people you just might come to know over time.



It was a very different world back then.


You built communities based on the culture of the group, and every group had a different feel. The best ones were well-moderated and policed by group members, those few off-topic posts were gently nudged as being inappropriate, and there was always the FAQ cop, ready to throw a link out to ANY offending member. It was brilliant.


Rec.art.anime.models was one of my haunts, and it was a good place to hang out and swap info, opinions, thoughts, new projects, etc. There were other groups I ran in, and each one consumed much of my time online. Conversations were held in semi-real-time, with a response coming either a few seconds (if you were both actively refreshing the feed) or a few days (life actually got in the way back then). Today, Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter have taken all the waiting away, and with it our understanding of patience. Posting a binary to the group (a picture, say) was pretty straightforward (UUEncode, anyone?), but today a picture is just an MMS away.  We built communities then, not just friend lists.


There was a lot more to getting to know someone than just lurking on their FB page or scrolling through their other social media links. You had to strike up a conversation, sometimes you could discover that someone you interacted with every day lived right around the corner, or halfway around the world. There was no sending of friend requests, you had to interact with them, and there was no public acknowledgement that you were friends with them, other than your inclusion in the same news group. As I write this, I am considering how large my friends list on FB is, and exactly how few of them I actually interact with just because of the sheer number of them. It's not that I wouldn't interact with them all (hell, either they or I sent a friend request, right?), it's that there aren't enough hours in the damned year to.  Back in the day, you popped into a newsgroup and checked the latest posts. You might do this for several dozen groups, but in slow ones, there might only be 4 or 5 new headers. In busy ones, there might be upwards of 1000, but rarely were there more than a handful that were of interest to you. Threads seemed easier to manage, too.


But time marches on, and Usenet is gone. Modern social media beckons with instant response, self-gratification, and the allure of being famous in your circles. I use it to distribute this blog, and I'm okay with that, but the idea of patience is history. Everything today is so much faster, and the thought of waiting to hear someone else's opinion (tomorrow) seems almost implausible.


I'll revisit this sooner or later. I'll run through the Google Archive of Usenet groups and find some old stuff ("Chaos Returned" or perhaps "Fish219" if you care). Maybe I'll even check Facebook and see if anyone I use to know is there.


I'll let you know. Stay tuned.

Everybody's Friend

There is a strange phenomenon that occurs when you drive an old motorcycle. Everyone is your friend. There was a time, or so I've heard, when being caught on a Japanese motorcycle very well might end with your ride being trashed. Those days, as far as I can tell, are long gone. Nowadays, every other motorcyclist will look at your machine and say something along the lines of "I used to have a 750" or "my <fill in the relative or friend here> used to have one of those..."

Everyone.

It's really wonderful to have strangers approach you and want to talk about old times that you never shared. Stories are told about the time that this stranger or that rode hos or her 440LTD, KZ650, or old Honda CB whatever up Mount Washington a little too early in the season, or the time that so-and-so met everyone at the campground without a tent, or perhaps the time when he was in the middle of nowhere, got lost, and had to camp out in a field until daylight. There are always so many stories. Rarely do you hear about being stranded on the side of the road (after all, we're not talking British Twins here).  Everyone will tell you about their own experience when they rode, or rode with someone, having an old Japanese bike.

I'd forgotten that part of it. I first experienced it with a 1975 Goldwing, and when I was reminded of it, I smiled wide and had one more reason to look forward to a long riding season. I'm excited about all the people who will grace me with a story. After all, you meet the nicest people on a Honda.

See you on the road.

Here.Have These.

I kiss those lips with anticipated need
I taste your mouth with ache and greed
I hold you in my arms and breathe
I feel you in my heart.


And a Haiku or two...

You cannot cage me
The clear open sky above
Leaning round the bend

Winter fading fast
Springtime practices her lines
The curtain is raised

Open Road

Alphonse is up and running. I heart him. I spent some time with him over the past weekend, and I am thrilled at being back on the road without a cage. It's the most freeing experience a motor vehicle operator can have. If you've never driven a motorcycle, I recommend it fully.

The ability to be out on the road, in traffic, feeling the world and wind go by is a wonder. The road passing under your feet, the sound of the machine beneath you, and the integration of man and all those mechanical whizzings is such a delicious thing. The chain-driven cams make music unlike any car I've ever heard, and the tires on the pavement ring out a beautiful grinding and crunching that falls upon my ears like the soft falling of snowflakes on the crisp, cold ground. We spend too much time wrapped in comfort and silencing the world all around, I think. Cars shield us from the rest of what's going on. Close the windows, turn on the heat or AC and you are swathed in your own little pod of isolation. I wonder what it must be like to commute in a place that embraces motorcycles and other open-air vehicles? I wonder if there is more personal interaction in a place like that... less "Me and my own space". 

I've also been reminded about how dangerous motorcycles are by several people. I get it. Yes, yes. But as a motorcyclist, it's MY responsibility to make sure I'm not in blind spots, nor hidden behind other vehicles, nor surprising other motorists. If EVERYONE had to take a motorcycle safety course, or even better, actually DRIVE a bike now and then, I think we'd ALL be better drivers. On a bike, you can't take anything for granted. Turn signals are just possible indicators of a driver's actions, not rules. Making eye contact is important, and being acknowledged by other drivers is imperative. Never assuming that someone sees you, or your vehicle, and actually paying attention when you are changing lanes or approaching an intersection will keep you alive on a bike. Granted, we are smaller and less visible, but we are also better equipped to get out of a bad situation in traffic. I'm ranting a little, but you get my point, I think.  Share the road is an important, if often overlooked, rule of surviving. 

A dear friend of mine helped me pick up my bike. He lost a leg in an accident and still rides to this day. He told me the story, every detail of it, and I am humbled by his positive outlook and his continued desire to keep riding. Just a few seconds changed his life forever, and the driver of the car that hit him has to deal with the fact that her judgement changed not only his life, but his family's forever. I hope to never have that happen to me, but if it does, I hope to display the same incredibly positive outlook as he does.  He has my admiration and respect, and I hope he knows that (if he didn't, he does now). 

My summer is looking a lot different this year. You'll share those rides with me as I show you the places I go, and I hope to hear about your adventures, too. 

Come on! Pack a bag and let's get out there and ride. The open road awaits...