Essays and Etcetera

On Thursday the list of entrants that advanced to the second round of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest was posted on line. I did not make the cut.

This stung. I doubted I would win, I found it likely that I would not make it past the second cut, but I felt pretty certain I would make it past the first cut. On the Amazon forum’s I saw people describing some pretty poor material. (Awful might be another word.)

To be dropped in the first round makes me feel, in some small way, like I am among the dregs. Am I really like those losers, who can’t see bad writing right in front of their nose? Do I really write that bad of a pitch?

Now for the sour grapes:

I was ambivalent about the whole contest. To be out this early in the contest is a blessing in that it makes clear what I certainly won’t be doing in six months–that is, receiving a publishing contract with Penguin. If I had made it into a later round only to then be rejected, I would have been held in suspense longer.

To be dropped in this first round is really not a comment on my novel–the person who rejected the novel never saw it. They merely read a 300 word pitch. The fact that I was rejected could mean I don’t know how to write a pitch, but it is not as stinging as if my entire novel were read, and considered not worthy to advance. And perhaps there was nothing intrinsically wrong with my pitch–it might just be that my ideas are too unique, and don’t follow the standard cliches close enough.

Yes, that is it. I am a misunderstood genius.

The snow is falling thick and fast outside my window, and the weather report says we could end up with a total of nearly two feet. With this as the atmosphere, I sit down to write about winter.

Winter is like a friend. Not so, you say? True, sometimes it is very easy to think of winter as The Enemy, but it is a friend.

Winter is not your typical friend, don’t get me wrong. It isn’t that light and airy friend, that friend which is all sunshine, and butterflies. (That would be summer.) Winter is not that friend which always makes you smile, or laugh, that friend which always gives you a good time. Winter is not always fun, or easy. Winter is like those difficult friends. Those friends which require so much, but when it is all said and done have given you a lot.

The season is a temperamental friend. One day the sun is shining brightly from a clear blue sky, warming the bare branches of the trees. The next day snow is pouring down, heaping in drifts, as the wind howls. It can be hard to get through those days. Then you turn around and the sun is shining again, only now the world is more beautiful with everything blanketed in crystal snow.

But mostly the sun isn’t shining. Winter is that moody, dark, friend, who you suffer with. Winter is severe, not easygoing. The months are full of those days were the darkness comes early, and leaves late.

Winter is the kind of friend that makes you think. It makes you think about how slippery the roads might be, or how unpleasant it is to feel cold. But you also end up thinking about the rest of the year, the other seasons. On those cold and dark days, you think about what you like, and why. You think about the year, about life, and how things come and go.

This is the best thing about winter: it is like a friend that gives you perspective on life. It is like a friend that is difficult, but in being difficult improves your own character. If we didn’t have winter around, what would we be like? Would we appreciate the other seasons as much? Would we have eyes that see so clearly all the good things? Without winter we would we grow aesthetically lazy, taking all the beautiful things–the green growing plants, the beautiful flowers, the sweet breeze, and the warm sun–for granted.

A difficult friend can sometimes teach us more than all of our sweet easy friends combined. The difficult friend can be very important in our lives.

And yet, still, we can’t help feeling glad when they’re gone.

I am not particularly cosmopolitan in my eating. At the end of the day the types of food I will eat are of moderate variety, and those which I really enjoy or which you will find my regularly grazing upon is an even more limited selection. However, I am a curious fellow, and perhaps I still haven’t shaken that infantile urge to stuff various things in my mouth and see what they will taste like. As a result, when I am in the grocery store I will keep my eyes out for some odd thing to try, something which will “Expand my culinary horizons.” More often than not these experiments are not added to my regular diet.

A few weeks ago I experimented with black garlic. The black garlic caught my eye because the packaging loudly declared it was excellent on pizza. I am a big fan of regular garlic in cooking, so I decided to give it a try.

I made up a batch of dough and garnished the pizza with black garlic. It was a leap of trust, or at least of culinary experimentation. Not only was I risking my pizza, but the garlic was expense too. As a one time splurge to further my education I felt the pizza risk, and money, it could be justified, or at least excused.

Black garlic is fermented garlic. They say it is very good for you–even more healthy than non-fermented regular garlic. The idea of fermented garlic is enough to send some people running, but since wine is fermented and cheese is aged (fermented) I was not immediately appalled at the idea. But I confess that when I peeled the cloves and discovered the actual contents I had second thoughts. The shriveled cloves were–in color and consistency–almost exactly like prunes. Or . . . um . . . other more nasty things. I don’t have any problem eating prunes (some people do) but when I found myself looking at cloves of garlic that appeared to be little shriveled prune bits my reaction was “Oh my gosh, that doesn’t look natural at all. Hmmm. I really wonder how it tastes.”

Soft, prune-like garlic cloves? I had to work myself up to taking a taste. I found it wasn’t bad. Definitely unique. The website www.blackgarlic.com describes the taste as “sweet meets savory, a perfect mix of molasses-like richness and tangy garlic undertones. It has a tender, almost jelly-like texture with a melt-in-your-mouth consistency similar to a soft dried fruit.” That is fairly accurate, though someone with sensitive taste can certainly pick up more undertones.

Black garlic is interesting, but far too expensive to be a part of my regular life even if I wanted it. I don’t think I would want it a part of my regular life. The garlic is rich and flavorful, but it is a middle-eastern or oriental flavor which is not the cuisine I usually eat. The Molasses-like sweetness is intriguing when consumed plain but I found it struck a discordant note to what I expect on a pizza. It was too sweet. On pizza I expect the zing of normal garlic. Black garlic is something I would expect in a rare exotic spread for baguettes at some party.

After my own experience I had to bring some of the garlic back to the old homestead for the rest of the family to try. The first thing everyone asked on being offered a little shriveled sticky bit was, “What is that?” Being a man of great maturity I aways answered, “What does it look like? It’s a bit of poop. Here, have a taste.”

Everyone had a taste. Many required that I give a more accurate description before they were willing to stick the garlic in their mouth.

Not everyone could taste the same flavors. A number of people claimed it mostly tasted like burnt garlic. A few thought it tasted like molasses. The youngest kids thought it tasted horrible, one running to the garbage can to start nosily spitting, another declaring it tasted so bad it made him want to cry. Based upon my experience, I would say black garlic is not something most children will enjoy. Your own enjoyment of it will depend a lot on what kind of ethnic food flavors you appreciate.

____

There is a little further info on black garlic at the wikipedia article: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_garlic_(food)

On Monday, January 25th the daytime temperature climbed to 50F, and it rained. A lot. With the ground still frozen and the snow rapidly melting, we were caught in a deluge. Behind the house, Choconut Creek rose rapidly in a flash flood. The water, murky and violent, was almost dizzying to watch up close as it rushed by.

By Friday morning the temperature was back down to -2F. Such is the nature of a mid-winter thaw.

____

For more photos: http://silverwarethief.com/photos/albums/spring-thaw-01-25-10/

I was up very early this morning. Actually, I got up a few minutes before 12:00 AM. You see (as I informed cousin A) I was chasing fame and glory and riches. This is also known as entering the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. Submissions opened at 12:01 AM Monday morning and submissions will stop being accepted as soon as 5,000 entries in each category are reached. As entries are still being accepted now at 12:00 PM, my early start entering was clearly unnecessary, but I wanted to play it safe. So many people were trying to enter that Amazon’s servers were bogged down, and as a result it took me an hour to get everything filled in and uploaded. Then I went back to bed.

Now I will just have to hope I entered the contest properly, and see how well I do. It should spice up the rest of winter, and spring, a bit.

It is not often a contest comes around that I can actually enter my writing into. Often there are stipulations and requirements which keep me from even entering. The rules for the ABNA contest this year were changed to allow previous self-published novels as valid submissions. This enabled me to submit The Stuttering Bard of York. This year there is also a separate category for Young Adult fiction, which means that my light-hearted and childish romp won’t have to compete with the likes of the next James Joyce.

The prize for this contest is a $15,000 book advance with a publishing contract with Penguin. The contest progresses by “rounds” with more manuscripts eliminated with each round. The first round ends February 25th, with the number of contestants in each category reduced to 2,000. The second round ends March 23rd with the YA category reduced to 250. The third round (quarterfinals) ends April 27th with the field narrowed to 50 entries. The fourth round (semifinals) ends May 25th with only 3 finalist left standing. On May 25th everyone can vote on who they want to be the winner, so if I make it that far I’ll be counting on your vote! On June 14th the winner will be announced.

So, anywhere between February 25th and June 14th I could find out I am a looser, but I won’t know if I am a winner until June 14th. I’ll keep you all posted as things progress.

For further info: https://www.createspace.com/abna

I am the sort of person who is always doing “something,” a “something” which can be describe as some productive project or getting into trouble–this depending somewhat on what I am currently doing, and your opinion of what defines “trouble.”

I like to work with my hands. I like to fix and make things. During the seasons of good weather I will usually have some endeavour under way, either of creative or practical import. Such was my life, but when I began taking care of Grandpa this habit was interrupted. When you are spending most of your time caring for someone with Alzheimer’s you don’t have much time for projects. For two years I had a nearly complete absence of hands-on work, except for an undertaking involving a very large pile of dirt and a very old wheelbarrow. (But that is a story for a different time.)

This past summer I decided it was time to end this sabbatical. At that point Grandpa was so far along in the progression of Alzheimer’s that there was much less I could do for him. It was a situation ripe for making a person feel helpless and useless and I decided I need to put myself back to practical use–to fight off the despair, and to take my mind off Grandpa’s failing condition.

The Patio

In the spring I decided to make a small patio out back, providing myself with a more pleasant environment in which to use the propane grill. The enclosed porch/sun room also need some lattice to beautify its base, so this was worked into the project. Consulting with Grandma, we decided on a very modest patio area, built from concrete pavers. All in all it was a nice little project–the minor complications being that I didn’t have a truck, I was working alone, and I still had to care for Grandpa. I solved the first problem by borrowing my brother Teman’s truck to haul the supplies from Lowes, I ignored the second issue because I am still young and healthy (and perhaps slightly deranged), and as for the last matter–well, I handled it as best I could. Trying to not “abandon” Grandpa and yet work on the project added some stress, and I felt a bit guilty, but at the same time when the end of the day came around and I could see that I had actually done something I felt good, too.

The patio project was simple, but this did not keep me from having disasters. It is a rare feat for me to get through any project without at least one minor disaster, and this is why (much as I enjoy working with my hands) I hope to never be employed by someone else in this manner. When I have a disaster while working for myself I can say “Oopsie,” then laugh or cry as the situation warrants and get on with my life. If I were working for someone else and were so feeble as to commit a mistake then honor and mortification would require me to rush out and find the nearest bridge from which to hurtle myself and thus atone for my miserable failure. Unreasonable? Perhaps. But knowing my temperament I avoid such employment and situations as might put me in that emotional state.

The first mistake in the patio project was my preoccupied forgetfulness. Grandma and I discussed two different patio sizes, and settled on the smaller dimension. I then forgot this little fact, either by failure to write it down, failure to look at what I had written down, or just plan caught up in my original grand vision. In any case, I went out and bought the correct amount of supplies for the smaller patio dimension, then dug out the ground for the larger patio dimension. I remained blissfully unaware of my stupidity until after I had finished digging the foundation, laying the fabric cloth, pouring and leveling the sand, and was halfway to three-quarters done laying the pavers I had bought. At that point I said, “Gee, it doesn’t look like I have enough pavers to cover all the area I have.”

And the truth struck like a lightning bolt.

In this case it was no great crises. I went out and bought the pavers I was short, and the resulting patio looks better for the increased size. But in the moment of realizing my mistake I was exceedingly grateful that I was not in the business working for someone else. I could just picture myself coming up to the suburban homeowner: “Um, heh, you know how I dug up that large portion of your lawn? Well, it turns out I only needed to dig up half of that, and now you’ll have to fork over more money so I can build you an even bigger patio.” I just about died thinking of the imagined fool I would be in that imagined job, and swore once again that I would never go into the business doing this sort of thing.

A minor irritant–but thankfully not a disaster–occurred at Lowes when I was picking up the initial load of pavers. It was not my fault (for once) but this did not make it much less irritating. The number (and weight) of the pavers made it unwieldy to drag the cart(s) of them through the store to the checkout. The supposed routine was for me to check out my smaller items and then drive the truck around to the gated Lawn and Garden exterior section of the store and have a fork-lift place the pavers on my truck.

It was a brilliant plan, but like all brilliant plans it died in the hands of corporate America. A manager was notified that he would have to unlock the gate to the Lawn and Garden loading area, but by the time I got out to the truck, loaded my minor items, and drove around to the gate, the manager had gone on break. The only person waiting was a peon who had neither the authority nor a key to unlock the gate. I had a headache, and there was a chill spring mist in the air adding to the unpleasantness of standing around waiting.

We waited and waited. Another peon came and used the forklift to bring the pallet of pavers up to the gate, but this peon didn’t have a key to open the gate either. Still we waited. The peons suggested I rip the manager when he finally arrived. Much as my mood was heading in that direction, what I really wanted was for the manager to show so that gate could be opened and I could have the truck quickly loaded. At that point I would have been willing to thank the manager for showing up, late or not.

What I should have done was not waited another minute but went back into the store and raised hell with somebody besides a peon so I could get the pavers I had paid good money for. Instead I told the two peons, “Look, just pass the pavers through the crack in the gate and I’ll load them into the truck.”

I always chose the stupidest solution, in case you were wondering.

“You sure?” they said. (Probably thinking, “Is this guy nuts?”)

“Yes, I’m sure.” It beat standing around in the mist waiting for some selfish, lazy, manager to come off break.

So the two peons passed the pavers through the crack in the gate. I then loaded the 3/4 of a ton or so of stone pavers into the truck. All. By. Myself. I did it, and with a pounding headache besides. The two peons wandered off to do whatever peons do with nary an profuse apology or offer to come out and help. I was pretty peeved at Lowes by the time I was done. Perhaps some day I will become smart enough to go into the store and demand that someone get the ball moving after waiting five minutes instead of waiting fifteen mintues to half an hour and then loading it all myself.

I was very thankful to get home without further trouble.

That evening I had to go back to Lowes for another load because the truck couldn’t carry the weight of sand and pavers in one trip. This time ended in disaster. At Lowes I actually got competent help the second time and with a forklift in action I had the truck loaded with my 27 or so bags of sand in a jiffy. But my brilliance was my undoing.

I have a bit of a phobia about transporting stuff. I always have this nagging fear that somehow it will all come loose to an accompanying great disaster, embarrassment, and perhaps police trouble. I never want to be the poor fellow you see on the highway who has his stuff scattered down the last two miles of road.

So . . .

My second load from Lowes consisted primarily of the twenty-something 50 lbs bags of sand and some eight foot plastic lattice panels. How was I going to get all of this into the truck? Since Teman’s truck had an extended cab I couldn’t get the lattice to lay flat without dropping the back gate. I had visions of the light lattice blowing away if I put it on top so I put the lattice on the bottom and stacked the sand on top. The bags of sand would keep the plastic panels in place, I figured.

The rest of you experienced people can stop sniggering up your sleeve now.

I was a very cautious and careful fellow driving home and by some miracle managed to not dump my load on any of the people behind me at the various stops on the way. Then I came to the last intersection a mere hundred yards from Grandma’s driveway. At that point I was nearly giddy with relief. I was home-free. Everything was done. No big disasters this time. And so I accelerated out of that stop perhaps just a little faster than the other times. Just fast enough to break the slight friction holding the slick plastic panels in the bed of the truck and send them to sleighing out the back, neatly depositing my entire load smack in the middle of the road.

I remained completely obviously and happily drove the rest of the way home. (See why you should never hire me?)

As I pulled into the driveway I noticed a truck following close behind me, and thought it rather odd. But I figured maybe someone was just using the driveway to turn around, so I ignored the vehicle, parked, and hopped out.

“Hey! Hey, sir! Were you carrying a load?”

Were.

Never had the past tense carried such dreadful meaning.

“Because if you were . . .”

“Oh, dear Lord,” I said, horrified realization coming in an instant.

“It’s just back at the intersection, come on!” the man said.

We hopped back into our trucks and zipped back to the scene of the crime. Never have I hurled bags of sand so fast. I was flipping them into the truck one right after another. Another passerby stopped and helped load. The three of us had the truck loaded in record time. They had my profuse apologies. No police showed up.

It could have been a much worse disaster. Instead, it was a minor disaster, a big embarrassment, and one of those country-life male bonding experiences.

I guess.

Such was the excitement from the patio project. Beyond all of that I am very happy to report everything went smoothly.

Building Barn Doors

I have never built barn doors before this summer. The closest I came was a door to a goat shed. Even if you have constructed and mounted a barn door before it is not a project you are ever advised to undertake by yourself for the simple reason that mounting long lengths of metal track is difficult to do by yourself and mounting an eight foot door by yourself can be a bit dicey. Not deterred by these facts of reality, I undertook building and mounting two new barn doors for Grandma, all by myself.

I will admit the only thing that allowed me to do this was the fact that the faceboard over the old bard doors was level, which allowed me to use it as a guide for mounting my track. If that hadn’t been the case doing the project by myself would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible. It also helped that I am still very fit, and so remain dexterous and able to lift heavy objects with one arm. (Translate: I can do dangerous things on a ladder.) Nonetheless, there were a couple times when the whole process was a little dicey. If you have ever tried holding an eight foot 2×8 up to a line with one hand while nailing the board with the other hand–well, you probably haven’t tried but let me tell you it was about the very limit of my dexterity, strength, and patience.

If you are comfortable with the principles of carpentry then the theory of constructing track barn doors and mounting them is simple. The only really challenge I had was doing it all by myself. I honestly wasn’t sure I would be able to pull it off solo. With each door being eight feet wide, I wasn’t at all sure I would be able to mount them on the track alone. I simply dragged them out and gave it a try. They were a bit heavy, but the biggest problem was the fact that I could only work one end at a time when it came to mounting. Grandma thought I couldn’t do it, and watched (or gaped) as I righted first one door and balanced it precariously then slid it onto the track and then did the same with the other.

A quick test showed both doors slide smoothly and easily in their track and hung true.

I was very pleased.

To finish the project off I replaced the old wooden panel in front of the loft opening with a sliding glass window.

The Bike Shed

With the barn doors as a warm up, my next project was building a 10×10 bike shed for Mom. I have built other structures of similar size before, so there was nothing intrinsically challenging about the task. Since the only time I had to work on the shed was during my one day off from taking care of Grandpa (when someone else would watch him) the only real issue I was working with was time constraints. So the one challenge I set for myself was to build the shed as quickly and efficiently as possible.

A good part of the first day was spent at Lowes picking up the supplies. The journey home this time was uneventful, though I was uneasy for the entire journey because I had over-loaded Teman’s truck and the trailer to fit all of the lumber in one trip. I drove home very slowly, envisioning all sorts of disasters.

It was already afternoon by the time I reached Mom and Dad’s and began working on construction. I had plenty of help for building the shed, so the important thing in this project was to make sure I knew exactly what needed to be done, in what order, and know who to tell to do what. I think I succeeded in my aim for efficiency and speed. I worked hard, and late, the first day–to nearly 11:00 PM. By the end of the first day almost half of the roof sheathing was on, and some of the wall sheathing. Dad volunteered to watch Grandpa so I could work a second day, and by the end of the second day I had the roof completed and all of the wall sheathing tacked on.

In basic form, I had the 10×10 shed built in two days. Given the constraints I worked with, I felt I couldn’t ever expect to do better.

As the final touch I built and hung the doors later, at my leisure. I also built two bike racks for the shed using ripped 2×4s. I felt a bit like a genius for this (or at least brilliantly frugal) because the bike hanging gear you can purchase is pretty pricey. For the cost of a hanging hook for a single bike I built two racks for a total of eight or so bikes. Ha. Beat that Walmart.

The Cabinet

I am not–and never will be–a true finish carpenter. I think that even if I had all of the right equipment, I would still be a little short on patience. For really good finish carpentry you need good tools and a lot of patience and attention to detail. Because of my personal flaws, I will never be able to boast about the beauty of my finished carpentry work, but that doesn’t keep me from dabbling in it for fun.

I decided to build a cabinet from scratch, according to my own design, just because. This is the first cabinet I have ever built, a complete learning experience. If a real carpenter saw it he would have a fit. The cabinet is very solid, but I made some mistakes, and did a number of ugly things. For this cabinet I can say in my defense that I was learning, and I didn’t have all the right tools. (I was using a framing chop-saw and trying to get by with a shortage of proper clamps.) I will never make finished carpentry as a professional job but as a challenge and mind-stretching experience for myself I enjoy it.

Of all the the projects I did last summer I think the cabinet intimidated me the most. Building the cabinet required a lot of precise cutting. Staring at the pile of lumber and starting the cutting–believing that it would all come together in the cabinet at the end–was an act that gave me pause.

Perhaps the biggest mistake I made was purchasing a sheet of stainless steel that was far too heavy gauge. I just about broke my thumbs trying to cut the thing down to size with tin snips (I told you I don’t have the right tools), and the difficulty in working with it made the finished top not come out as polished as I had hoped. Also, I felt like a giant idiot when I realized (after the fact) that I had put the wrong side of the stainless steel up (I put the better face down). On the positive side (I say dryly) the steel top of the cabinet should make a good shield in the event of a gun-battle.

Today I will write about dreams I had this week, just so you can all worry about my mental stability. Don’t let Freud get his hands on this.

Early this week I had a dream about a scale. It was bright florescent pink and made from a textured plastic fabric. Apparently I had bought it, and was pretty pleased with this fancy new scale that was rolled up. I unrolled the scale and stood on it to see what I weighed. I was unhappy with the number on the scale, and couldn’t believe I was that fat. Then I realized the number I wanted to see was how much fat I had–this was one of those fancy new scales that can somehow use an electrical current to measure your body fat content. I reasoned that since the number was so high and I clearly wasn’t that fat the scale must not be working properly or I was doing something wrong. Then I saw the little electronic eye (or button) beside the digital number display, and understood I had to put my big toe on that button to get a reading of my body fat. So I put my big toe on the button and the number on the display was much better. I was very pleased.

I did it again . . . and again . . . and again.

Then I woke up.

My thought on waking was, “That has got to be one of the stupidest dreams I have ever had. What a waste of dreaming. If I am going to dream it could at least be of something more interesting than a pink fabric scale that checks my body fat weight every time I put my big toe over the button.”

Later in the week I dream I was in college and had forgot to write my finals paper, tomorrow was the last day of class, it was late at night, and I was very tired. I could either try to stay up and write the paper (being so tired I could barely keep my eyes open) or I could go to bed and hope I could get up early enough to write the paper in the morning. I was appalled and deeply, deeply, embarrassed that I could possibly have forgotten something so important. Mortification and self-recriminations filled me as I tried to figure out what had gone wrong, and what I was going to do about it.

“But what . . . But how . . . I can’t possibly . . . how did I forget . . .” I thought to myself, and the emotions responded, Oh, you forgot! You bad little boy, you completely forgot! You forgot so bad, and now you’re in troubleeee!

“Wait a minute,” I thought. “I’m not in college, am I? I haven’t been in college for years.”

Yes you are, and you’re in trouble.

“No, I’m not! I’m not in college! I’m not in college! I don’t have a paper due tomorrow! I don’t have any papers due tomorrow! This is a dream! This must be a dream! Yes, this is a dream!”

I was very glad to wake up.

Probably just about everyone who has gone to college has had similar college dreams. What I find so odd in my case is that I only took two college classes in a non-matriculated status. I did very well in both classes, and never forgot a paper. I don’t recall having nightmares at the time about missing papers. But in the years afterwards I have intermittently but consistently had dreams where I am back in college and have forgotten a paper was due, forgot I signed up for a class, forgot to pay a bill, forgot to catch the bus–or any number of other variations on embarrassing forgetfulness.

Clearly the event made a deep impression on my psyche.

There is the old familiar saying, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” The sentiment is only partly true. A picture of the Grand Canyon can convey its physical appearance far more clearly than a thousand words. But a picture tells you very little about what someone thought about the Grand Canyon. If someone brings home a postcard of the Grand Canyon that picture on the postcard does not tell you whether they were elated or fearful at the sight.

To take the thought further, a picture is not good at conveying the detail of complex ideas. A good picture of a person may hint at the complexities of the subject, but it cannot speak clearly about past sorrows, joys, or accomplishments. I could convey more detail about the life of a person I know in a thousand words than in a single picture. But a picture would give you a clearer understanding of their appearance than I could convey in a thousand words.

It is also said, “Pictures don’t lie.” But this is not true. Anyone who understands photography knows you can present false information in a picture, whether by the physical altering of the photo (very easy with today’s technology) or by simply altering the lighting, posing, or setting of a photo. Even the most simple photograph is not just conveying what is–it is conveying a certain perspective.

Words don’t replace pictures, and pictures don’t replace words. They simply tell different stories.

Why am I saying all of this? Because when I look at pictures of Grandpa from during the time I cared for him, I am always struck by these realities. I think “There is so much that photo isn’t saying. There is so much that photo isn’t showing.” But also I sometimes see a photo and think, “That photo is showing something I couldn’t convey in words.”

The memories, words, and photos I have of the time I cared for Grandpa balance each other out. They each tell a slightly different story. In my memories, and often in my writing, what comes more readily are the bad times. But then I see some photos–photos of things I lived through–and it gives me a different perspective.

I would divide the following selection into two categories. The first are sad pictures, which present an approximate chronicling of Grandpa’s decline:

In the early days he spent a lot of time sitting at the kitchen table.

Later, when he was no longer able to walk well (or at all) he would often crawl around the house until he was so exhausted he lay down and slept wherever he happened to be.

He never wanted to be alone. This photo is from two months before Grandpa died.

This last photo was taken only a few days before Grandpa died. He was no longer eating or drinking, only sleeping.

It is hard to describe my reaction to those photos. They are sad, and at the same time when I look at them I feel like they don’t do justice to what happened. The living, and feeling, can’t be distilled down to what the pictures show.

But then I see the happy pictures, which remind me of things I need to not forget.

Grandpa liked hats. He was always more than willing to wear hats. Here he is wearing my younger brother’s hat.

This picture says a lot to me.

The pictures that say the most to me are the following. They were taken on July 4th, 2009, two months before Grandpa died. It is when I am looking at these pictures above all others that my thoughts turn to what I said at the beginning of this post. The last months of Grandpa’s life were extremely difficult for me. Grandpa was slowly slipping out of my grasp, eating less and less and as a caregiver is was very hard for me to care for someone slipping away. The most immediate memories that come to me from the last months of Grandpa is one unending blur of trying to coax him, and help him, to eat.

It was emotional and psychological misery, and it is very easy for that to become the only window through which I see the last months. But these pictures show a different side. The vision is so different it is almost hard to believe when I look through the pictures. A stranger looking at those pictures wouldn’t think Grandpa was nearly incapable of speaking, or eating. They wouldn’t guess how after the party was over it was a battle with apathy and exhaustion to get Grandpa to eat a few mouthfuls. And for that reason the pictures can feel like a lie. But it isn’t that they lie–it is that they only capture a small part of the picture. A very small part, but a very important part. There were many sad times, and many hard times, but there were happy times too. Even though Grandpa was in the last weeks of his life, and just about everything had fallen apart for him, when his children and grandchildren were around he could still be happy.

Perhaps even very happy.

And in that the pictures remind me of something it is easy for me to forget, and which is good to remember.

Grandpa with a granddaughter.

Grandpa with a son.

Grandpa with another son.

Grandpa on the couch.

Grandpa interacting with his granddaughters.

Grandpa sharing a laugh.

Today, December 31st, would have been Grandpa’s 82nd birthday.

I am often reminded of two things at family gatherings. (1) I am not very good at socializing. (2) I am not very good at feasting.

As to the second point, Saturday’s party would be a good example. The main course of the party was sheet pizza. I had four slices of pizza at lunch, along with a sticky bun. That was my feast. I didn’t sit down to another meal for the rest of the day. Later I did have some cookies, and two servings of ice cream, and I munched on various snacks throughout the day. I had plenty to eat. I had no complaints–if I had eaten more some part of my digestive system would have complained. But with such eating constraints I hardly feel like I do the idea of feasting much justice. Finding oneself stuffed after the first course hardly leaves room for that languid festival meal with course following course after course.

Don’t get me wrong–I enjoy eating good food very much. It’s just that I find I rarely feel like I do justice to the abundance of feasts.

In the matter of socializing, my personality contributes to the problem. I am not very good at “social” conversation. Perhaps also called “Talking for the sake of talking.” My nature is to talk with a reason or goal–some subject or piece of information in mind. If I don’t have such I am hard pressed to talk. But also contributing to this lack of social grace is the fact that I am not employed like most people. Everyone else can talk about their jobs and the people in the world, and intelligently commiserate and understand when other people talk about their jobs, and the people in their jobs, etc.

I can’t. My employment has no drama–at least none that can be easily shared with the outside world. Talking about how you argue with yourself about your writing hardly makes for gripping conversation. Or talking about how you are trying to format your book optimally. Or how you are struggling with fears about revision . . . or anything. If I could somehow collect my thoughts about such things in a way that I could talk coherently about, as soon as I began my audience would surely go cross-eyed and pass out on the table. Such conversation has utterly no relevance to their lives.

If one person works in the manufacturing industry and another works in the service industry they can still converse to a great degree because both have job stress, coworker problems and stories, and boss annoyances. There is the great well of fellow-feeling which they can come to and (proverbially) pat each other on the back. For me my boss is myself, my coworker is myself, and all my stress (if any) is self-induced. It is awkward at best to talk about how I irritate myself, how stupid I find myself, and how stressed I am by my writing quality. It sounds neurotic at best, easily ego-centric, and frankly boring. Even I don’t want to talk about how irritated I make myself–I already spend enough time being irritated without hashing it all over again by talking about it.

As a result I often spend much time listening in on the conversations others have about their jobs. And if someone makes a valiant attempt to engage me, it can be painful. On Saturday uncle N turned to me late in the day and said, “Well, I haven’t heard a peep out of you all day. What have you been doing?”

I had to marshal myself together to keep from saying, “Nothing.” But I did little better, going to get some of my publishing work to show him instead of dutifully launching into some engaging conversation. After a few short minutes of glancing at my work the next question comes. “So . . . what is this story about?”

I tried very hard to not say, “Nothing.” But I do scarce better, saying, “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

In retrospect, it is easy for me to criticize myself. How hard would it have been to say, “Oh, it’s a really exciting book about this adventure these people went on! You’ll love it! There is all this danger and excitement!” Such a discourse says nothing at all, really, but it at least might make people interested and engaged. But I am loathe to prattle about what I have sunk so much work into. I have so many hopes, doubts, frustrations, and thoughts crammed into any book I’ve written that asking me to make some pronouncement on it leaves me feeling as if I must utter something profound. Unable to do that, I end up saying something akin to “It’s hard to explain.”

Thus conversation dies like a strangled cat.

Last week I learned that my namesake died. It was in the obituaries in the newspaper. Grandpa’s older brother Gene died on Saturday, December 5th. He was 85. Gene was Grandpa’s most beloved brother, and I was called by his name by Grandpa for the last two years of Grandpa’s life.

Gene’s health had been failing for some time, and there was at least one point in the last year where it appeared that he was about to die before Grandpa. For Grandpa’s sake I was glad Gene held on because it meant Grandpa didn’t have the sadness of Gene’s death in his life.

On the subject of Grandpa . . . it is strange what unexpected things will appear to remind you of the past.

Earlier last week Grandma was digging through her old collection of Christmas cards, thinking that since she had collected so many unused cards over the years she ought to use them. Then, there in the midst of her cards, she found a small plain white envelope addressed in the familiar tight handwriting of Grandpa, to my uncle Kevin.

The card was old, at least more than 16 years old. It had never been sent. There wasn’t even a stamp. Inside the envelope was a small simple card. On the front was the pastoral painting of a red barn in winter. Inside Grandpa had written:

Dear Kevin -

Cards never seem to have the precise words to express what a person really thinks or feels on a Holiday season such as Christmas Time. So, [below were the printed words of the card:]

Wishing you a beautiful world
Through all the seasons of the year
Happy Holidays

[then he concluded in his own writing:]

With much love and unbounded hope for the future
Mom and Pop

I was astounded to see the card. Not because I didn’t know Grandpa felt such sentiments toward his children–for I know he did–but that he actually ever wrote such a thing in a Christmas card. Grandpa didn’t share those feelings–he kept them hidden away in his heart where it only came out in little glimpses if you were paying attention. And perhaps that was why I saw the card today . . . perhaps in the end he was embarrassed by what he had expressed and put the card away so nobody saw it, until today. Which is too bad, because I know Kevin would have understood, and appreciated, the quiet sentiment behind those words.

And he still will, because Grandma is going to give him that card this Christmas. It’s a little weird getting a card from a dead man, but still fitting. Our past deeds speak about us, even from beyond the grave.