Honea Express

Archive for the ‘future’ Category

I do not need to see the paint to know it is there — a fresh coat of white where once grew the notches of their youth. Memories written in pencil tend to be erased, and those are the things you never like to think about. It was a trace of them, and it is gone.

The boys grow here, too. There is sunshine and warmth and toes sinking in sands ever shifting. The waves crash upon their laughter, and the boys wave back with salt-soaked smiles. Their hair is soft in strands of gold. Their shoulders brown and growing broader.

Somewhere in an overgrown garden are the fruits of their labor. Tiny leaves spring from seeds once carried home in love and paper cartons. They have been set free and forgotten — something new for countless raindrops to fall upon. They will grow and bloom and nobody will ever know that the boys were the ones to place them there. Only the roots will remember.

Here the ground is hot and it rolls towards the horizon. The boys are shouting as they run across it. There are paths worn in the hillside and their small steps keep the tall grass always parted. Rabbits dart, birds flock and the boys sing songs made of their own device. They glow in the midday sun and their brows glisten accordingly.

Such is the way of chapters closed, next and those being written. We have left pieces of us, some by chance and some with purpose. For example, there are places in the glen where our voices softly echo, and there are stories tucked away to tell when such things are needed. One is about an old dog asleep forever beneath the cherry tree, and it should be told fondly with just a hint of tears. Others are filled with countless bottles growing light and rather quick to empty. They should be told loud and often. We left all that, and a spot of quiet that wasn’t always so.

These are the things that fall from your postcard.

Where were you 10 years ago today? I’ll throw you a bone, it was a Friday and the world, according to some country singer, was still turning. America was unattacked and the majority of its citizens were far smarter than the president. My children were still years away from being born and loved ones were still years away from dying. Things were different then, but the times, according to some folk singer, were a-changin’.

I woke up that Friday morning and set straight to pacing. At some point friends showed up and we set straight to drinking. Then we dressed like penguins and stood in the Arizona heat hoping that the ice didn’t melt. Finally, the sun went down and the music went up. My life would never be the same.

And then there is a montage of moving trucks and pitchers of margaritas. There are new jobs and blurred faces and babies crying and moments frozen in my mind forever. Ten years is a short time spread over something that stretches out further. It bends and tangles. It mends and loves and never once breaks. In the spring it drives along the coast with something great on the radio and the windows open.

Ten years ago we wed. Since then we’ve made mistakes and excuses. And we’ve done wonderful things. Ten years is something strong to build upon.

Happy Anniversary, Tricia. I hope you’re enjoying the ride.

Please note, that last line is about the roller coaster of life — not sex. Of course she’s enjoying that.

And this is what we danced to.

Just because I have to tell you that I’m tall, handsome and talented doesn’t mean it isn’t so. It just implies you have a loose grasp on the obvious, and I don’t blame you for that. I blame society. The obvious was much quicker to register when it wasn’t going so fast. We are all George Jetson on the treadmill. We all want off this crazy thing. Eventually. I’ll wait until I’m done winning.

There are things in the works and there are works unattended. It’s a vicious cycle. Like life (see, George Jetson). Once again I am standing at the crossroads and Ralph Macchio is about to blow the top off this joint. Steve Vai will be all, “Whaaa?”

My blogging career is going in a few different directions. I’m guest-posting. I’m speaking. I’m writing and editing at some incredible sites. I’m losing part of my livelihood, along with 900+ others at one site, and I’m in talks to rejoin some old friends at another. Things will be a bit tighter, but that’s been happening for a while.

For example, my jeans just ripped while I was typing this. Because this is an exercise. And I’m getting fat (see, 40). Hard to get much tighter than that.

You may or may not listen to the show we do (even though podcasts of said show are free). I get it, you’re busy.

You may not have bought my book. Don’t feel bad, I’m still writing it.

I have products to review that have been stacked here since Christmas.

What I’m getting at is that there are many paths open to me at the moment and some require more faith than others. They are all rewarding. They are all hard. They are not in direct competition with each other for anything but my time. However, they all draw from the same well, and it leaves me dry and in need of a drink. This is a metaphor, but I’m also mighty thirsty.

The point is that I felt like writing something for nobody, so I did.  I needed to write sentences that didn’t have a deadline, demand a meeting or have pitches pending. Then I published it because I can, and like a virtual message in a bottle of freshly-finished whiskey it has floated, and against all odds it has found you. And that means more to me than you’ll ever know.

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.

I’m alive. I haven’t left the building. Yes, there are cobwebs covered in icicles hanging on the hinges of Honea Express, but it’s not like I haven’t been busy.

For example:

My latest at DadCentric – One Foot in Front of the Other

My latest at BabyCenter – 2011: This One’s for the Boys

They said that 2010 was the year of the Dad Blog, and yet it was fairly quiet around these parts. I’m aiming to fix that. I’m not sure what fodder will fall to these pages, but whatever it is I hope you join me for the ride.

The following was Bill Watterson’s goodbye to Calvin, Hobbes, and us. I think it also makes a grand hello.

Hello, 2011. Welcome.

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