Honea Express

Archive for the ‘Do the Right Thing’ Category

There is a story there, beneath the fallen tree. Perhaps it sings like wind or runs deep like roots.

There is a story there, in the bright, green sea. It is full of trash and imagination.

The world keeps spinning and the stories blur between lives lived and souls squandered. There are those that do nothing but care, and those that do everything but. They all have their reasons. My job is to show it fairly and explain it just. Mine is not to justify.

I have hands held tightly in mine, and they are small and trusting. There are eyes on mine and they are sharp and watching. I find it hard to expand upon the ignorance and meaningless of it all.

The good comes easily enough, and we only need walk a moment before we find the wonder. It is the sunlight between the branches, the rain against our feet, a sky deep in all directions and the smile that should always be there.

Innocence is only fleeting because we choose to let it go.

The journey is not starting and it is not ending. It is a notch on a timeline filled with risks and careless stumbles, safety nets and milestones. The peaks are mirrored by so many valleys, each staggered with steps that sink and spiral, and the timeline folds and crumbles upon our back. We watch for rocks accordingly.

The peaks give to bend, but never break. From a distance the valley is a hammock swinging lazily, and the sweat beneath it pools and glimmers like an oasis. We have no choice but to kneel and drink. The salted waters taste of lessons and the sea.

The night is short on hours and long on longing. We have walked far and seen much and their world is as big as it is contained. I tell them what I can and strive to show them more. Most stories are never told, and mine are told too often.

Then there is proud and there is humbled and there are dances around the awe.

There is a story here, and I do not know if I am the hero, the villain, the reader or the writer, but we are all the characters, every one.

It’s a well-known fact that I live each week like it’s Shark Week. The only thing that changes is the shark. Or my underpants, depending on said shark.

This week is no different, but instead of contemplating the circle of life we’re looking at some of the other fish in the sea. That’s right, it’s review time.

Here’s what happened: A) My last post changed so many lives and made me so popular that I have more followers than I need. I figure a long review post should weed out the bandwagon. 2) While packing for the move I found a whole bunch of unkept promises behind the couch, and if there is one thing that Whit Honea almost always does, it is sometimes keep a promise.

For instance, did you know that Saturnian 1 Sport “… has the world’s easiest balls to grip.”

Seriously, it says that.

I know.

They are pretty cool though. The Fun Gripper Balls (what are you, 12?) are made from soft, durable material that makes “grasping, tossing, flinging…” Jesus, I can’t do this.

Here’s what you need to know, Saturnian 1 Sport makes sports equipment that is easy to hold and throw, and they make them in bright, fun colors. They sent my kids some footballs and soccer balls and they really do love them, and yes, they are much easier to grip than a regular ball.

Now grow up.

Speaking of fondling things, Freehands makes gloves with “flip back caps to expose your thumb and index fingers” so that you can text, email, game and pick your nose while you’re driving in the winter or a walk-in freezer. Except the driving part, don’t do that.

The good people at Freehands.com were good enough (that’s why I called them “good people”) to send me some gloves to check out. They also sent a pair for my wife, which was a nice touch. I really should have covered this during the winter, which, for the record, just ended here last Thursday.

And now…

The Arts

Seattle is well-known for its music, but did you know that one of the best genres here is aimed at kids? True story. In addition to my pal Chris Ballew (hope I didn’t hurt you when I dropped that name, see also “dropping babies“) there are a number of great acts. Take Recess Monkey, please!

Recess Monkey has a new album out this month (release date is June 21, 2011) called Flying, and it’s pretty darn catchy — in a good way. The Monkeys were kind enough to send me a copy, and my boys really dig their funky sound. In fact, now that I think about it, they kind of dance like monkeys when they listen to it. I’m going to assume that this is just a coincidence, but I’ll keep you posted.

Here is what I know about Bob Logan: He has a blog called boBLOGan, which is freaking clever, and he is the author/illustrator of the book Rocket Town. Emphasis on illustrator.

Mr. Logan has a day job as a story artist at Dreamworks, and as such he has worked on such animated hits as Madagascar, Open Season and Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. As you can imagine, the pictures in Rocket Town are out of this world.

See what I did there?

If I Could Keep You Little… is one of those books that make people cry in the bookstore. I tend to buy things like this for my own mother so she remembers how awesome I am.  This book, written and illustrated by Marianne Richmond, is even more sappy than most — that is to say, if you love that sort of thing you will love this, and if you don’t you’ll try to write the nicest review you possibly can without saying it was just too much for you.

Like that.

Aron Nels Steinke is the talent behind The Super Crazy Cat Dance, which is, as you may have guessed super and crazy. There is also dancing. And cats. LOL.

The Super Crazy Cat Dance is for the inner crazy cat lady in all of us, and by all of us I mean my wife.

But seriously, folks, it’s good fun and written in a style easy for kids and enjoyable for adults. Who doesn’t love that? People that aren’t kids or adults, that’s who. Also, dogs.

And there you have it, gentle reader(s). Shark Week but without the sharks plus reviews. Next up, a visit from the Green Lantern.

Believe it.

I received all of the items mentioned above from the featured companies and/or artists (or an agent working on their behalf) for the purpose of review. I’ve also received other stuff, but I don’t write about items that I (or my kids) don’t like. Negative vibes make negative people, and I don’t have time for that crap.

“I want to show you something,” I said. “It’s not a kid thing.”

The boys were in their pajamas and whatever they were watching was full of smiles and hugs and had been sanitized for their protection. I turned on CNN and started a conversation that I had long avoided. Their eyes were on the screen behind me and they widened as they took in images that they couldn’t comprehend — images that have haunted the rest of us for nearly ten years.

“I’m showing this to you because this is history, and someday you may want to remember where you were when it happened. Assuming you want to remember it at all. I want you to know what is happening.”

And then I started to justify actions to my children that went against all of the words I had ever told them.

I explained to them that a man was dead and that he deserved it. I compared him to the villains from their storybooks. I compared him to Hitler. I told them that he had done evil things for evil reasons and that his death was a means to help end those deeds.

I said that many people would feel a sense of relief. That many people would feel a sense of joy.  I explained the concept of closure.

Hanging in the air was an unspoken thought, a quote from The Iron Giant that had been repeated often in our home, usually by me:

It is bad to kill, but it is not bad to die.

I could say that and I could believe it, because I knew how to make exceptions to the rule. I left that part out. I also left out the part about how many of the people they know and trust would have killed this same man with their own hands had the opportunity presented itself. I left out that I may be one of them.

“Why are the people singing?” asked my oldest son long after his brother had gone to bed.

I didn’t answer him. I saw what the people were doing. On some level I understood it. However, the death of one evil man in a world of evil men did not inflate my patriotic pride with song, rather it emphasized my silence. I thought of the losses our country has suffered over the past ten years, the lives, time and money that have been wasted. It reminded me that things are far from over.

“I know why they sing,” he said. And then he fell against my lap, first quiet, then asleep.  The TV stayed on for hours. Their song carried on the night like a lullaby.

I was fairly stationary as a child. I lived in the same house until college. Then I lived in the same area for another ten years. I was never more than 40 minutes away from anyone, friend, family or foe. Not that I had any foes, but I did have a love for alliteration.

I met my wife, and on a whim we hit the road. Once the moving started we couldn’t stop — kind of like dancing, except with less alcohol. My wife and I dropped pins all over the left side of the map. We were up, down and then up again. We had U-Haul on speed dial. Our last stop found us just outside of Seattle.

There are things here that we love. There are friendly people, incredible neighbors, wonderful summers, scenic beauty in every direction, fantastic schools and a sense of community that I haven’t known since my childhood. We live in a quaint town where roots are deep and well-watered. It is a perfect setting in which to raise a family.

But there are things that are dark and press against us, and the silver lining has become harder and harder to find within them. The clouds stretch from the sea to the summer, and their constant soaking leaves a layer of cold tucked tight between skin and bone. There will never be enough logs upon the fire.

Seasonal affective disorder comes and goes, literally with the seasons, but with each ebb it grows slower, and every flow seems more fond of shadows than sunlight.  Sadness grows like mold in the corners of our happy household.

The children do not go through bouts of depression, but rather sit beside them and grow restless and frustrated. They do not want to go outside into the cold and the rain, but they would enjoy it if we took them there.  The trips are few and far between. The children suffer secondhand, which is full of shame and lacking in justice.

We have tried to compensate with manufactured light, an overextended calendar and daily supplements, but all it has done is make us face the truth. It is time to pay heed to Harry Nilsson and go where the weather suits our clothes. It is time for sailing on a summer breeze.

Come June, when we are done with school and leases, we will follow our footsteps back to the sands of California. There is where opportunity awaits, and with it a warmth to bask in. Our running is equal parts to and from.

The leaving is bittersweet, and it packs a heavy heart, but the journey should find us nearly healed and the arrival somewhat lighter.

The ocean stretches from July to forever. We are the stones that skip across it.

I was born in Tucson, Arizona. I lived in the area for over 28 years. I ran barefoot through the green-spotted desert as it turned from the square quilts of cotton fields to the oval patches of over-watered golf courses. I rode my bike on gravel-lined dirt roads that grew overnight into car-filled highways. I shot a BB gun in my front yard and waved at passersby, calling to each by name.  I remember when that Dairy Queen was the only thing out there.

The majority of my youth was spent in Marana, a town just north of the city that my family helped to settle and govern. My father has served the town of Marana through seats on the council, and now as the mayor, for over 30 years. Unlike the indigenous vegetation in the area, the roots of my family have grown thick and deep into the clay-baked soil of the Sonoran Desert.

I attended the University of Arizona and graduated without honors. Somebody has to. I met my wife on two-for-one night in a bar just off campus. I was drunk on whiskey, and I’m still hearing about it.

Many of my family and friends remain, meaning my ties to Tucson are more than just margaritas and sunsets, although both are fantastic.

I grew up in a conservative home. The earliest jokes that I can remember had Jimmy Carter as a punchline. We went to church every Sunday, and on holidays my uncles would sit in the shade of my grandparents’ porch, sip iced tea and wrap themselves in layers of racism, homophobia and laughter. I didn’t know innocence from ignorance, and I laughed just as hard as they did, happy but to be there.

My parents taught me things that transcended politics. They taught me how to be happy with very little money, and how to treat people with respect, courtesy and humor.  They never suggested that I consider violence as an option, and when I outgrew religion they never tried to tether me to it.

Ours was built firmly on trust and understanding.

I left Tucson as an adult, and although I’ve returned for weddings and funerals, each visit made it more and more clear, you can’t go home again.

It used to be the heat that kept me away.

And then technology went forward as technology is prone to do, and suddenly I found myself looking into metaphorical windows, staring into a world that I had left behind — a world where many never noticed that other paths diverged, and so they continued along the only way that they had ever known, easy and slow and bending forever backward. The path most traveled is paved without thought, and it has made all the difference.

I found that I missed it less and less.

Days ago a young girl was shot and killed. A judge joined her. The tally rose to six innocents dead and many others wounded. The target had been a congresswoman, full of courage and reason.  The shooter had been a boy, full of madness and confusion.

I blame the line between fear and reason. It zigs where we are told that it should zag.

Of the victims, know that their story is not here. I am not qualified to write words on the victims or their loved ones. I cannot comprehend the depths of their loss, nor will I cheapen their memories by attempting to do so. Just know that I grieve like we all grieve. I anger like we all anger. I can only wish things weren’t as they are and think thoughts of better days for those they’ve left behind.

I once thought of Tucson as a beacon of light in a state of gray and darkness, but in the years since my absence I have watched it grow overcast and haunted. Or, I thought, perhaps I am only now seeing how it has always been.

That’s not to say that there are not stars there. They are many, and I reflect upon them fondly. But the night is bold, loud and howling. It twists words like the wind and wrings sweat from the brows of the misguided. It is spreading swiftly.

I feared that the Tucson I knew, or thought that I did, was on the verge of disappearing forever.

And yet, the stars shine brighter but for the darkness.

Last night I watched a memorial for the fallen. The president spoke. My father was in the stands. There were tears as far as the eye could see.

For the first time in a long time I saw a glimpse of what I once took for granted. What has always been there, only hidden too often by levels of bureaucracy and the sad fact that ignorance and hate sell more papers than rational quotes and the good deeds of everyday people.  Amid the pain and loss of a country I saw the courage and strength of a city, and from its collective diversity came a roar of passion that the media couldn’t comprehend. I saw Tucson’s heart and it was sad, but strongly beating.

For the first time in a long time I saw the place that I used to know.

I saw Tucson, and it felt like home.