The Ripple Effect

I do not believe that it is possible for me to accurately reflect the profound and lasting impact that my paternal grandmother has had on my life. Suffice it to say that without her love and support I would not be the man that I am today. Without that love and support of me my young son will not become the man that he is destined to become. It was primarily by her example that I learned to love and trust God, and for that I am eternally grateful.

Flossie Aline was born on December 29, 1918, in a dugout home near Roy, New Mexico. She passed away at the ripe old age of ninety, having experienced the highs and lows that life has to offer. She was part of that generation of rugged Texans who worked hard, suffered with a quiet dignity, and appreciated those seemingly small things that many of us take for granted. She thrived under the best and worst of circumstances, appearing certain through it all that God was watching over her and those that she loved. She was ready to go home and I am grateful to God for finally letting her.

In her later years she lost both her sight and hearing, finally succumbing to complications from the Alzheimers Disease that had taken her independence and those precious memories of the man and family that she had spent her life devoted to. Until the disease made it otherwise impossible she was able to retain and exhibit a deep and humble love for God and his creation, a quality that could not help but be recognized by everyone that she came into contact with. My grandfather used to tell us that she had not in her entire life met a stranger, a fact that I believe stemmed from her almost innate understanding of the brotherhood of us all.

Hollering Under Bridges

Up until about a month or so ago I ran mostly in the afternoons after work.  This schedule allowed me to not only get a full day in at the office but to also get my runs in and take care of my toddling son when Minnie went to work. I loved spending this time with him. He quickly got into the habit of waving at everyone from his seat in the jogger while eating his tortilla chips or playing his harmonica. We chased squirrels and pointed out every dog or child that we saw on the trail. We stopped on the side of the trail and cheered cyclists and swimmers during the most recent Capitol of Texas Triathlon. We hollered as we ran underneath bridges to hear the echo. We stretched together when we were done. I figured that I was getting tougher by pushing him and that it was good for him see his daddy running and to be around so many other friendly exercising people. I felt like I had found a nice balance.

Then it started getting hot.

Because of the Austin heat I have been running early in the morning before my son is up for the past month or so. I love getting good cooler runs in without pushing the jogger. I love being able to actually swing my arms while I move. But I miss running with my boy. I miss getting his chips ready and making sure that he has his little water bottle and harmonica. I miss how excited he gets when I tell him we are going to the trail. I miss pulling his jogger out of the trunk of the car and limbering up next to the tennis courts while he yells at the old people chasing balls. I miss people smiling at him while we run. I miss our little trail adventures. I miss how sweet he looks when he tries to stretch with me after we have finished. I miss how he bangs his head to "Ramble On" when we get into the car to go home.

I think that I will incorporate him back into at least one of my workouts each week.

The Narrowing Road

The rosary hung from the left corner of the speckled mirror on the old dresser in front of his bed. The Blessed Virgin of Guadalupe smiled at him from within the small silver casing that she occupied at the crossroads of the beaded strands. He had bought the rosary in the little church gift shop that stood adjacent to the old San Felipe de Neri Church in Albuquerque on the first day of that week in June when he could not but truly feel the presence of God at every turn. He had chosen this rosary because it was prettier than the others and because the crucifix hanging from the end was made of metal instead of wood. The kind man behind the counter had asked him twice if he was sure that this was the one that he wanted. He remembered feeling a bit awkward at that moment as if he was doing something wrong, scared that some pious member of the diocese would cry out from across the shop, "Stop him, he is not a Catholic." He had quickly said yes to the man before any questions of his religious pedigree were raised. He was still unsure whether or not he was breaking some church rule of which he was unaware. He was concerned that there might be some sort of confrontation.

Hanging from the other corner of the mirror was a simple hand-carved cross on a plain thin string that he had bought at the old mission church in Taos during that same week. He remembered arguing with her that day because she had moved the orange and white temporary barricade at the gate of the church so that it would not be in the way of the picture that she wanted to take. He thought that it was highly inappropriate for her to just make up her own rules like that and risk getting them in trouble. Couldn't she see the dozens of church parishioners all around them gathered for the annual renovation of the structure? While he had narrowly escaped trouble in the gift shop in Albuquerque, he was certain that her brazen disregard for the rules would land them in serious hot water this time. Fortunately there had been no confrontation.

Above the mirror was the simple painting of an aged man deep in prayer before his meal of bread and soup. The picture had hung in a place of prominence in his grandparents' home for decades before their decline and had always reminded him of them and of their pure and trusting approach to life. Nowadays he saw the praying man as a hero, someone that he wanted so badly to be like. He was driven by the idea of living the more honest life of the man and of his grandparents, a life where he was truly thankful for all that was given to him, a humbled life where he had no doubt that he was the created not the creator, a life where he honestly trusted God the way he had in New Mexico. Then he began to feel a bit sick. A little voice from somewhere deep inside of him exaggerated what he knew to be true, that he was at his core a self-centered, angry, and weak person, regardless of how hard he tried not to be.

His head dropped just enough to see the reflection of himself in the mirror. The peace that he had unknowingly felt just moments before was gone, replaced in an instant by a feeling of disgust and anger that arose from some dark and old place deep within him. His heart sank momentarily, then he sighed and saw the smile return again to his face. "Seems like this road used to be wider." he thought to himself as he turned off the light beside the bed.

Remembered People

Three days ago Minnie and I learned that she is pregnant. The reality of this situation is only now just beginning (at times) to become clear to me. Frankly, I had resigned myself to the likelihood that I would never be the father of a child that was biologically my own. I assumed that if Minnie and I were to ever raise a child that it would be one that was connected to us only by love and proximity, not by blood.

As you can imagine we are very excited about the whole thing. I caught myself calling Minnie "mama" yesterday, to which she responded to me with "papa" and a kiss. Today I learned that our baby is about the size of a sesame seed, looks more like a tiny tadpole than a human being, and that its brain is beginning to grow. Honestly, I forget at times that Minnie is pregnant, or at least my mind has not yet fully integrated this notion into my constant reality. When I read or hear little tidbits of information about the baby a heavy wave a reality passes over me, a deeply emotional wave that steadily pulls me under and holds me in a solemn place of awe and joy. It is at times like this that I feel a strong sense of urgency to not only know the sex of our child but to give it a name as well. Calling our child "baby" is simply not respective enough of this singularly unique human being that has already centered itself in our hearts and thoughts.

I remember being at the cemetery in Osage a couple of months ago for the funeral of Minnie's great uncle Joe. After the ceremony I wandered a bit in the graveyard reading headstones. I was particularly struck by the marker for Oscar Bland, an infant who had apparently died after only a month on this earth. I remember thinking at the time that it would be a good thing to name our child Oscar in honor of this little boy who never really had a chance to experience this world.

While I do not know what name we will ultimately decide upon for this child, I do know that for me naming our child is a serious responsibility that can not be taken lightly. I know that whatever name we settle on will be one that has meaning, one that connects our child in some way with our ancestors, one that our child can carry through his or her life with a sense of pride, confident in the knowledge that he or she comes from a family with a long lineage of remembered people, both good and bad, strong and weak, smart and dumb, handsome and ugly.

Black Cherry Goat Hides

I know that I am not supposed to be concerned with what other people do or with what they think about me. I have been taught that such things are simply none of my business. My experience reminds me that when I care too much about what others think about me (either for the good or for the bad) that I become unhealthily tied to their opinions, many of which are frankly more unbalanced than my own. But as the slow learning and quick forgetting human being that I am I often do care (too much) about what other people think about me. Because of this I have spent much of my life trying to be as cool as possible in hopes that people will like me, that they might even love me, and that they will as a result of such attachments be less likely to leave me to the cold winds of that solitary existence that at my core I fear the most.

Thank goodness for cowboy boots. Nothing makes me feel cooler (to be read "lovable") than wearing a pair of nice boots. When I wear them I feel taller, I feel more handsome and manly, and most importantly I feel like that cool guy that everyone wants to know. Please understand that I am neither a cowboy nor am I trying to look like one, though I have absolutely nothing against cowboys or their rugged look. I do not wear a western hat and I do not own a big rodeo belt buckle. I wear Levis not Wranglers. The look that I am going for is one that fits more with my punkish upbringing, a rock and roll look that requires a black t-shirt, jeans, and dark sunglasses.

My love of boots is fairly new (I did not own my first pair until I was almost forty). It was perfectly obvious to me growing up in Southern California that cowboy boots were the farthest thing from cool. I would not have been caught dead in anything that seemed western. The only boots that I owned as a teenager were a pair of black leather Beatle boots that I bought on a crazed road trip to Tijuana when I was seventeen years old. In fact when I moved to Texas more than twenty-five years ago I joked with my friends that if they ever caught me wearing cowboy boots or a big western hat that they were to immediately kidnap me and take me "home" to the reasonableness of Los Angeles. Funny how things change.

The first cowboy boots that I bought were a beautiful pair of black calf skins with intricate white stitching and very pointed toes. I loved every little thing about those boots. If I was wearing long pants it was simply given that I would be wearing those boots. I even remember times (when I was drinking too much of course) that it did not really matter if the pants were long or short, or even whether they were on my body or rumpled on the floor. I wore those boots until the knuckle of one of my toes finally rubbed a hole in the top of the leather, something that true cowboys have told me should not have happened. I remember looking down one day to see a piece of my white sock ballooning out of the front of one of my boots. I was heartbroken, knowing that I would have to retire those boots for good.

A few months ago Minnie bought a beautiful pair of black cherry goat hide Luchesses for me for my birthday. Now that the weather is beginning to cool down here in central Texas (by which I mean it is now only in the mid-90s instead of mid-100s) I have started to wear these boots more often. I actually look forward to putting them on in the morning. I love the feel of the boots' thick leather when I first grab hold of them in the morning. I love the coolness of the leather against my skin when I slide them on at the beginning of the day. I love the way that the boots smell, that clean unmistakable wholesome scent that only new leather can give off. I love the solid sense of security and support that I feel when I stand up after putting them on. I truly could not have dreamed of a better present and I thank Minnie for her thoughtful and generous gift to me.

It is unclear to my seemingly schizophrenic mind whether or not I wear my boots because of some true and unrequited love for them and the way that they make me feel, or because some part of my recovering mind still desperately desires the approval of others. I suspect that the truth is that I am motivated in no small degree by both. This is the type of question that my busy brain will often attempt to answer, that is until the saner part of me intervenes to inform myself that it is really not that important of a question.

Ducky Dogs

While I have been known to eat hot dogs with chili and cheese I generally prefer them with yellow mustard and sweet relish. There was a time in my life when I would eat four or five hot dogs four or five times a week. Now, not so often, mainly because of my growing (morbid) obsession with my ever-expanding belly, though I have to admit I am beginning to be concerned with what they are made of as well. Minnie tells me that the part of our brain that fully comprehends consequences does not completely develop until we are well into our twenties. Mine apparently is developing a little more slowly, an occurrence that is admittedly a bit disconcerting but that I am nevertheless grateful for.

I generally like "Dirty Water" dogs (those boiled in water flavored by the other dogs cooked that day) more than dogs that are steamed, fried, or grilled, though I am not a snob about such things. Of course it goes without saying that the bun must be steamed. When I am cooking at home I buy Hebrew National's all-beef franks, which are made with 100% kosher beef (better cuts of meat processed cleanly) that contain no artificial flavors, no artificial colors, no by-products, and no fillers. I generally boil three links for a few minutes (until they are crisp), then put each of them in their own bun topped with mustard and relish. Of course milk is the (absolutely required) drink of choice.

On a side note, the lawyer in me believes that it is appropriate at this point to make the following DISCLAIMER: "Ducky (Author) is not, nor has he ever been, employed by Hebrew National, Inc. (Company) nor any of said Company's subsidiaries. Furthermore, said Author does not hold, and has never held, any financial or other pecuniary interest in said Company nor any of said Company's subsidiaries. Said Author is simply of the opinion that the products of said Company are yummy."

I have a dream of one day opening a hot dog stand in Austin, to be named of course Ducky Dogs. Every detail of this my true calling is firmly cemented in my brain. As you would suspect Minnie supports each and every one of my dreams, though she has made it perfectly clear that her support of this endeavor will be that of the hands-off variety. Apparently she has paid her dues in the food service industry and thus will only be available to cheer me on from afar. Even promises of naming a vegetarian dog the "Minnie Dog" has not to this point changed her attitude about the glory of slinging dogs in a shop of our own creation. While I find her reluctance a bit disappointing, my study of history reminds me that the greatest of men have often had to pursue their passions on their own. While my drive for greatness may ultimately be along such a lonely road, I have no choice but to slog on, knowing that there are few callings more important that providing a good dog to a hungry populous.

Webbed Feet Fantasies

Minnie decided to bestow the glorious name Ducky on me a couple of years back because of my deep affection for water and because of its unconditional acceptance of me. I love to be in the water, under the water, on the water, around the water. Clean water is nice, but not required. Deeper water is preferred, but even a puddle or a little drizzle will do in a crunch. Ocean, lake, stream, pool, bathtub, it does not matter so long as it is wet. There is nothing that tastes better than a cold glass of water when I am thirsty. There are few things that sound as pleasant as water bubbling from a spring, or as exhilarating as water rushing down a creek or over a fall. Water refreshes me, it nourishes my body and my soul, it soothes me when I am stressed and it provides the opportunity for excitement when I feel adventurous. There are simply not enough good things to say about water.

I do not remember a time when I could not swim. I must have learned at a young age, though I have no memory of actually being taught. Given the rugged and spirited nature of my ancestry it is quite possible that I was simply thrown into a body of water and told to make do, a possibility that could explain why I have no memory of the occasion. What I do know for certain is that I was a fairly proficient swimmer by the time I was five or six years old. I know this to be true because that was the age at which my loving grandfather attempted to drown me, my first conscious face to face encounter with death.

My grandparents had taken a number of us grandchildren to Lake Meredith in the Texas Panhandle to camp and fish for a week or so. It had become a sort of family tradition for my grandfather to tie four or five intertubes together in a long train behind his fishing boat, then drag us screaming and sunburned grandchildren around the lake at incredible speeds until we begged him to stop. At some point during one of my grandfather's wild rides I became stuck underneath my intertube. Every time that I was able to pop above the water I screamed at my grandfather to "SLOOWWW DOOWWWN," to which he sped up, seemingly out of some sadistic grandfatherly pleasure, though more likely in order to force me to release the death grip that I had on the intertube. Needless to say I did not find his behavior amusing, though his wild driving did eventually cause me to release the intertube. Though I did almost drown, I have to say that nothing about this experience dampened my deep desire to be in the water. In fact, I believe that it strengthened both my love for it and my resolve to find some way to grow webbing around my feet and hands so that I could become a real-life Aquaman.

To this day I find few things more relaxing than being under the water. One of my favorite swimming holes in Austin is Barton Springs Pool, a three acre spring-fed reinforced pond that stays at about sixty-eight degrees year round. I read somewhere that Robert Redford learned to swim in this pool when he was five years old while visiting relatives in Austin, though I was not there so I can not actually confirm this. This little tidbit of trivia does nothing but encourage my fondness for the place. Those who know me are well aware of my rock solid belief that, "If it is good enough for Redford, then it is good enough for me."

Anyway, I love to dive to the bottom of Barton Springs Pool to explore while others splash around on the noisy surface or laze (I mean flirt with coeds) in the hot afternoon sun. The sense of weightlessness and the strange semi-silence at the bottom of the pond always fill me with wonder and joy. It is a truly magical place for me (though I can say the same for each of the underwater worlds that I have visited). Sometimes I swim after turtles that live in the springs, sometimes I float above small mother fish guarding the spot in the sand where their eggs are maturing. Other times I just pick at smooth rocks or mine the fine sand for treasures, or simply swim through the flowing weeds that grow from the bed of this watery paradise. I have found no better way to forget my few troubles or to reconnect with that sense of carefree wonderment that I believe I must have experienced as a child.

I have yet to grow the sort of webbing and gill structure that would allow me to live permanently in water, and I am not sure how Minnie would feel about such a thing (though I fantasize that she might want to join me as some sort of scientifically modified human/mermaid). Until that time I think that I will have to be satisfied with learning how to SCUBA dive, something that I have always wanted to do, though have never made the time for. Perhaps the time is now.