Journal July 30, 2016

Last Day of Summer                                                           Park County Fair Moon

chiefhosa300We’re glad to be doing this, having Jon here, seeing the grandkids more often as they come to be with him. It’s important, as important as anything we could be doing right now. It does remind me, however, that we’re used to a somewhat more, ok a lot more, sedate style of daily life. The change is good for us though, keeping us engaged. And, a bit tired.

Yesterday we hit 90+ here. Even with the lower humidity it was downright unpleasant. Ruth was sick, Gabe, too, so we didn’t go to the Denver County Fair. This morning instead.

Jon worked on the walnut top shelf for the three lower sections of shelving in the loft. With the staining process he’s chosen, the walnut will show off its dark, close to black color and create a strong contrast with the birch bookshelving that now lines the loft. He’s also preparing the final coat on the art cart’s distressed oak table top, the oak that came from the bed of a junked tractor-trailer. Once both of these are done, I plan to spend a good bit of time rearranging my library, putting up or placing art, getting this wonderful space Kate found for me into its final (for now) configuration.

I am back at work on Superior Wolf. After I reimagined the story, taking it back to its deep origins in the primordial gods and goddesses of ancient Greece, things seemed to fall into place. I have two novels that I’ve been using as models, the sort of big thing I’d like to produce: The Historian and Jonathan Strange and Dr. Morrel. They both took a quirky, but deeply researched approach to, on the hand, vampirism, and on the other, black magic. They were original within an often cliched genre, surprising in their treatment. That’s what I want for Superior Wolf and Jennie’s Dead.

Still nothing on the Latin. I won’t leave all those years of work on the side, I know it, but I’m finding the discipline difficult right now.

 

The Harvest Season Is Nigh

Summer                                                                    Park County Fair Moon

Jon, Ruth, GabeInto Denver for the Denver County Fair today with Jon and the grandkids. Our county and state fairs, stocked with canned goods and quilts and wholesome teenagers with Guernseys and prize boars, are in the Lughnasa spirit. Lughnasa, starting on August 1st, is a Celtic holiday of first fruits. Also called Lammas in the Catholic tradition, villagers brought bread baked from the first wheat to mass.

Each of the cross quarter days in the Celtic calendar: Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnasa and Samhain were the occasion for weeklong market fairs. Goods were sold, contracts for marriage and work made and broken, dancing happened around bonfires, general merriment abounded as individuals tied to the grinding daily labor of subsistence agriculture found themselves with time free for fun.

In our hearts we are a rural country still and there is something deeply satisfying about seeing sheep, cows, chickens, rabbits in competition for some mysterious (to city dwellers, now the dominant fair goer type) prize. Yes the number of family farms is at its lowest point in the nation’s history, but we have a communal memory of the time when most of us lived on the small farms that used to dot the land. In fact that small farming culture was often subsistence farming, very similar to the sort of rural life in the Celtic countries of Ireland, Wales, Scotland, Breton, and Cornwall.

It is this underlying sensibility of lives lived close to the land that seems so absent from our political discourse in this election. We are a people of the plow, the barn, the hay rick. We masquerade as global sophisticates, but in truth the itch to grow tomatoes or to have a small herb garden is as American as, well, apple pie, which we will see on display at the Denver County Fair, I have no doubt.

Lughnasa begins the harvest season which continues through the feast of Mabon at the autumnal equinox and ends on Samhain, or Summer’s End. It is one of my favorite times of the year, only the dead of winter is better for my soul.

 

Sinking Behind Black Mountain

Summer                                                                      Park County Fair Moon

The sun is on its way down, sinking behind Black Mountain. I don’t often write in the evenings anymore because I’m usually downstairs in the house. Tonight I came up after a sweatshirt. It gets cool reliably around 7 pm or so.

It also gets quieter here in the evening. The motorcyclists have made it to wherever they were headed. The cars loaded with camping gear have found a spot for the night. The Denver tourists headed to Upper Maxwell Falls trailhead have returned to the city. No bicyclists. No one walking their dog. A few people are still arriving home from work, probably having driven from downtown Denver.

This has been a hard week. Jon’s most recent encounter with the courts got at least part of the divorce mess sorted out. Kate drove home from Jackson Hole. The last of the painting project is almost wrapped up. Kate and I went to the grocery store today, a task that proves physically difficult with our mutual arthritic thises and thatses. The days have been warmer than I prefer, though definitely more tolerable than Denver proper.

A possible arc upward does seem hidden in the detritus. Jon has more predictability now in his life. The long work of staining and painting has all but ended which means no more extra cars and people around during the day. BJ’s injury is healing, headed toward what her surgeon believes will be a good recovery. He says she should be playing again in a couple of months.

Lugnasa lies just ahead, two days. That means the peak heat of the summer has begun to wane. The nights will get cooler, the days shorter. Welcome changes.  Summer is my least favorite season and was so even during our intensive gardening days in Andover. I don’t like the heat, even the more modest heat that we get here. The vegetables and fruits and bees needed it, we welcomed its results, but not its presence.  I’ll be glad to move into August, even more so September.

 

 

A Most Profound Election

Summer                                                                 Park County Fair Moon

Right now I’m watching the polls, reading analysts, following stories of both campaigns. A political junkie since age 5, this is by far the strangest, the most bizarre Presidential election I’ve ever seen. It may also be one of the most profound.

Not for the candidates. Hardly. Hillary does not represent my politics, nor my vision of the Democratic party. I don’t find her untrustworthy so much as I do unlikable and too centrist. I will vote for her and happily though. Not because she’s not the Donald (sorry about the double negative), but because a Democrat in the Whitehouse is better than a Republican.

Trump represents a worrying trend in contemporary politics: the strong man, the anti-politician, the glib hand, the one whose supposed virtue is in having no political track record. Then there’s the not small matter of his character. He’s a blowhard, a know nothing, petty and mean. Aaaccchhh!

Why profound then, if not for the candidates? Because this election season has laid bare so many fundamentals of our polity, so many fundamentals that have lain unaddressed under Republican and Democrats alike. Wealth and wage inequality of a dimension unseen in decades. The shrinking middle class. The erosion of working class jobs, an erosion so severe that their jobs often no longer exist. The fear of white, uneducated men and women about their economic future. The awful rat-a-tat-tat of violence of all kinds, done by guns of all kinds, by homegrown terrorists, cops, angry African-Americans, garden variety punks and thugs. The still strong pressure to hold women out of real power. The role of immigrants in this land filled by immigrants.

These are not our only issues, but they are ones so stubborn, so apparently intractable that they have been ignored or stalemated. It may be morning in America, but the sunlight isn’t hitting every home. Many people remain in the shadows, their lives contracted and miserable.

As in medicine, if you can’t diagnose a problem, then you’ll have real difficulty trying to solve it. This election, by boiling these issues to the top, and, paradoxically, by handing us two candidates ill suited to the times, underlines the critical importance of the electorate as problem solvers. Now that we’ve seen the fractures in our common bond, we can begin to hunt for solutions and for politicians who can help us implement them.

Summer                                                             Park County Fair Moon

Inviting our cold war enemy to spy on a running candidate for President? Then trying to shrug it off as sarcasm? I call this what it is: treason. Plain and simple. In any other election year, when the public gag reflex had not been systematically desensitized, this comment about asking the Russians to find e-mails purportedly linked to Hillary Clinton would have resulted in demands for Donald Trump to be tried as a traitor.

This year? Well, Trump said he could murder someone in New York and not lose any votes. Shame on us as a country. Shame on us.

Yesterday

Summer                                                              Park County Fair Moon

Kate got back last night, a long drive, 9 hours, from Jackson Hole to Shadow Mountain. Good to have her back. Home is better when both of us are here.

staing begun
Masked with the staining begun, 7/19

The painters may finish today, they’re very close. This project has taken three weeks so far. The cabinets are done, most of the other interior work, too, including Kate’s splash of bright green above the cabinets, changing the character of the kitchen yet again.

It was hot here yesterday, though pallid in comparison to Denver. We remain less humid than the plains and the nights are cooler. Minnesota has had a siege of weather related storms and heat, not over yet.

ruthandgabe 86
Beginning of school a year ago

The grandkids were up last night. Gabe reprised his week ago trick of attaching a dog bone to a long line of twine and “fishing” for dogs off the deck. This time though he used a stick. The bone worked better. Ruth had a sore throat, but was in good spirits. It was a calm, normal evening, the goal toward which all this divorce mess aims. It was good to see.

Today is another court related hearing, an important one, for Jon. We’re all going in to see what the disposition will be. He goes back to work next week and is planning, for now, to commute from here into Aurora which is on the eastern edge of Denver. A long drive in rush hour.

 

 

 

 

Becoming Vishnu

Summer                                                           Park County Fair Moon

Bhagavan_VishnuVishnu is the Hindu god of stability, the preserver and protector. When I look at the Hindu pantheon, my eye has always gone to Shiva, the god of creation and destruction, the whirling vibrant energy of the universe. Were I Hindu, I would be a Shaivite. But as we’ve aged, as we’ve become the members of our family and, for that matter, of our generation, at the edge of extinction, it has become clear to me that Vishnu defines us better.

When we stand, as we do, between life and death, life itself takes on a different color, a different valence. That’s not to say that we don’t always stand between life and death, life is fragile and death, in its entropic way, more natural. But as we veer past the mid-60’s, the path from birth to death has grown long and its terminus closer.

We stand, too, at the end of our ancientrail, able to look back over the days and years with gathered wisdom. At least sometimes. Shiva forces are at work in our children’s lives and especially in the lives of our grandchildren, creating careers, destroying dreams, unfolding the future. Our reach now extends into those lives as a somewhat distant, but sometimes intimate force, offering stability and protection. We have become the avatars of Vishnu.

natarajThe role is unnatural for me, having been more of a bomb thrower in my youth and in my middle-age, too. The Vaishnavite forces, always there, for we are a mix of all these fundamental powers, have gradually strengthened, gained more purchase. It’s possible, I suppose, to see Shiva as the radical, willing to take apart received wisdom, to burn institutions to the ground, to start over and over and over, and Vishnu as the conservative, or at least conservator, the solid, steady hand needed when Shiva’s work has gone too far.

The Hindu trinity of Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma, the God of origins, the creator force who lives now distant from the work of his creation, constitutes, like the Christian trinity, an expression of the one god in three manifestations. Like the Great Wheel it is a poetic, a metaphorical expression of the nature of reality. You may choose to believe that these gods are real and I wouldn’t argue the choice, but in my maturing understanding of religious belief, all the world’s religion are artistic renderings of the subtle and not-so subtle forces set in motion at the big bang. No, they are not all the same, hardly; but they are all attempts to give expression and coherence to the context of this temporary, wonderful miracle we call life.

So, it’s not surprising to me that in this third phase of my life, I find a purpose defined by a Hindu god. We arrive at this moment shaped and pulled by the paths we have chosen. Our ancietrail is now more experience than future. As Vishnu rises in our lives, that experience becomes his form, the vital energy that allows us to serve as anchor for our family, for our community, for the world we’re passing on to our children and grandchildren.

I said above that the Vishnu role is unnatural to me. Perhaps I should say that it was unnatural to the younger me. Now, it seems natural, necessary, good. The maintainer and protector.

 

 

Tears

Summer                                                        Park County Fair Moon

Politics is about so much more than elections and campaigns. It’s even about more than governing. Politics are about heart, about the deepest dreams we have for our common life. My political river has its headwaters in the Roosevelt liberalism of my parents, the hard-nosed politics of the labor movement of the 1950’s, especially the UAW, and in my childhood friends and their parents whose lives were the reality I knew affected by both of these.

Michelle Obama’s speech at the Democratic Convention last night, which I just watched in its entirety, brought me to tears. This articulate, eloquent black woman spoke of the true purpose of politics as the world we leave behind for our children. She spoke of Hillary Clinton as the woman we could entrust with that world. The first lady, a black woman, speaking on behalf of the first woman candidate for president and the likely winner, cheered on by Latinos and African-Americans and women and LGBT delegates, made me believe in the promise of our country. Still. Again.

That political river with its headwaters in Alexandria blue-collar Midwestern America altered its course during the heady politics of the late 60’s and early 1970’s. A powerful tributary which came down like a mountain stream in May carried with it a vision of an America which could actually collect on the promissory note long owed to the Indians and to the descendants of the enslaved. It was fed by the rhetoric and actions of such men as Martin Luther King and Malcolm X. It was fed by the consciousness changing politics of such women as Bella Abzug, Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem. It was fed by the grape boycotts of Caesar Chavez. It was fed by the anger and dismay of all who thought the Vietnam War was a mistake, a mistake so costly in human lives and treasure that it represented a fundamental denial of the purpose of politics given voice last night by Michelle Obama.

In Michelle’s speech the early politics of the working classes and the Rooseveltian compact with the elderly and the veteran and the poor flowed into a mightier river, the one created by the confluence of mid-century liberalism with the radical analysis of the 1960’s. In this moment there is a chance, an opportunity to reawaken the labor movement, to reinforce the voice given by Barack and Michelle Obama to African-Americans, to lift the Latinos and Asian-Americans to full citizenship. And this chance comes with the voice of a woman, one whose own political agenda has been pushed to the left by the wonderful, quixotic campaign of a 74 year old Vermont democratic socialist.

This is the nation for which I have yearned and fought and worried all these years. Those were the tears that fell this morning as I watched her speech. Tears of realization, tears of hope coming to fruition. At 69 it feels good to see at least the possibility of a mighty, mighty river finding its way to the ocean of justice.

 

 

Missing Kate

Summer                                                               Park County Fair Moon

imps
imps

Interior painting today. Very close to this project’s wrap. Just right because I got the contract for the bathroom remodel in the mail yesterday. Was thinking how much cash we’ve put into this house over the last couple of years, wondering if it made sense. Our attitude, in Andover and here, has been, invest the money early so we can enjoy a space that nourishes our creative lives, expresses our values and is in the best shape possible for the future. Still does make sense, at least to me.

I was wrong yesterday about a couple of things. BJ will join Kate at the Hitching Post Motel right next to the hospital. There’s a wheelchair accessible suite available and it will allow BJ to remain close for physical therapy. Sister Anne comes on Friday for a couple of weeks. Family at work. A theme of our last two years. Too, BJ has invited us back for the August 21st total eclipse. The path goes right over Driggs. I hope we can make it.

Also, Jon made considerable progress on the bathroom and the deck, but he didn’t complete them. Jen will have to hire a contractor to finish. Still, he did thousands of dollars worth of work. Some encouraging news from his lawyers. Even so this has become a gauntlet for him. One that wears him down.

Jon and I moved his ski collection and other miscellaneous things to his storage space in the Stapleton new urbanism development, then loaded up the Rav4 with its third load of items to store in our garage. It was hot and humid, draining. Dehydration is a constant danger when working outside in a Colorado summer, especially down below in the Mile High city. Much cooler and drier up here on Shadow Mountain.

Feeling a bit weary today. Want my partner home. I miss her.

So far

Summer                                                                    Park County Fair Moon

Kate takes her sister, BJ, home today from the Jackson Hole hospital. The surgeon says she’ll regain enough range of motion to continue bowing. That’s a huge relief. Can you imagine contemplating the end of a career that began when you were in single digit age? Because of a damaged shoulder? We often read about athletes felled by physical trauma, not so often about musicians or construction workers or artists (with the exception of Chuck Close). That’s not because it doesn’t happen, BJ’s injury demonstrates that it does, it’s because the media coverage of athletics is so outsized to its cultural importance.

Jon’s finishing up the last of his work on Pontiac Street. He’s done a lot though not as much as he’d hoped. A new deck and a new bathroom seem like pretty good accomplishments for a single person working in 90+ degree heat and high humidity. The divorce continues its jagged march through the lives of Jon, Jen, Ruth and Gabe. It’s slated for a mid-September to mid-October finish as I understand it. Can’t come too soon.

Here at home, the painting and staining moves forward. Getting the projects around the house finished makes me feel good. So far they have been mostly maintenance and necessity oriented: boiler, generator, new gas lines, electrical work, wildfire mitigation, the painting and staining. The kitchen and the solar panels were not necessary, but they were desirable. The remodel of the downstairs bath to a zero entry shower reflects a reality of aging bodies; we’re not as agile as we used to be. It will be finished by Samain. The only projects after that will be rationalizing our sound system and some electrical repairs.

house and garage

shed
shed
garage, one door painted
garage, one door painted