User Posts : The Southwest Voice

Writing Contest Entry: My Grandma is My Best Friend

My grandma is my best friend.

My most important family member is my grandma. I live with my grandma. Me and my family call her Nana Pat. She is so important to me. She makes me feel better everyday. Whenever I feel mad or sad she always makes me feel better.

She will be nice to anybody. She cares about anything and anybody. She doesn't care what the person looks like. She just likes to be nice to everybody. My grandma is very truthful. She makes the best food ever. I like my grandma because she is very nice.

Right now when I am writing these things down, she is watching over me and being the best grandma ever. That's why she is the best grandma in the whole world.

Sometimes grandmas could be your best friend.

Silence and Seclusion

This summer, my son and I took a trip to Aspen. That’s where one set of grandparents live. Though the weather was comfortably warm, it was much cooler in the highlands.

On this day, we hiked at Maroon Bells, the Rocky Mountain peaks closest to Aspen. There, I marveled at the clear water and air. We secluded ourselves away from other hikers. Now all we heard was the gentle hum of the breeze through the trees, the chirp of birds, and water rushing down a rocky stream. It was like a nature soundtrack, except we were here.

Then there was the path, nestled in between trees and the large rocks. This is when it was quietest, when nature gave you a solo: you heard the sound of your feet and your breath, nothing more. Nature likes to see you work for the space she gives you. I opened my mouth to tell my son how beautiful it all was, but he was walking the same path. In this sanctuary, you are grateful, but there’s not much to say, except perhaps, “sanctuary much.”

After twenty minutes, the path grew steeper, and hiking became more like exercise. Our legs – or mine – hurt. Tree branches suffocated the path, which now seemed rough and whimsical. There was no clear destination. But, that’s okay here. We instinctively followed nature’s whims, noticing the silence.

After the hike, we asked a park ranger to snap a picture of us. Father and son. A quiet and profound day.

In a way, our silent climb was much like home. Though our son comes with us everywhere – the beach, the movies, the store – I realize just how important “solo” time is. So, at home, I don’t make too many demands on him. He is the quietest member of the family. And, you’d think he was conducting scientific experiments on the thermodynamics of prolonged silence – until you stand outside his door and overhear his tender conversations with his girlfriend: “That’s SOOO RETARDED. I mean, gosh, if you ever wore something like that, I’d never talk to you again!” He then laughs good-naturedly, safe in her affection.

Sometimes I wonder if I am setting a bad example by leaving him alone. Maybe I need to kick his door down and climb through the rubble. I’ll yell, “Silence is death!” and beat my chest. Maybe I’ll enter his room wearing sunglasses and cocking my fingers at odd angles. I’ll rap while he stands in shock. “I said, Yo, you better embrace time with yo’ peoples. I mean, take a look, fool, it’s illin’ and chillin’ to be with my chillens! Whatcha think about that, Yoyo?”

It's the surest way to lose your children, so I have to be more creative. Yet, I have mixed feelings on this matter of silence because I know that noise can often kills a good idea. If I don’t write things down immediately, valuable bits of inspiration will be drowned in the course of everyday conversations. Last year I flew to Detroit for a writing seminar. I paced the room of my near-private mansion and dictated a complete synopsis for a new novel into my tape recorder. I credit silence and seclusion for that prolonged moment of inspiration.

Silence is good. No, it’s sacred. But, I also credit seclusion; I was two thousand plus miles from home.

Yet, I have often gotten similar moments of prolonged inspiration sitting in my bathtub, and I didn’t have to fly my bathtub to Montana for that inspiration.

Seclusion; that, I have decided, is what my son and I enjoy in our own separate ways. He doesn’t escape into his electronic gadgets for long before he'll throw open the door to show his family his latest drawing. Sometimes, he'll come out, tell his younger sister, “YOU will NOT touch this drawing. Do you UNDERSTAND?” and quickly return to his room. He is proud of his artwork. That's enough for me.

But I still beat myself up trying to find ways to break out of my own “solo time” and enter his world. There are not one but two gulfs I must cross. The great thing about a visit to Aspen is that it’s often a cure-all for the sickness of silence, as I see it. Even my son’s grandparents see more and do more in their indigenous Aspen when we visit. My son and I also see more of each other during these visits. Rather than think in isolated time periods – a trip, a movie, a good laugh – I know that when you want to spend time with someone, you never focus on time. What I wanted was not simply time with my son, but a closer relationship. He is in his first year of high school, a year in which he will grow in dramatic ways. He’ll face many temptations and have some great times with his school buds. I cannot let him face these alone.

Some so-called experts say that your job as a parent is not to be your child’s friend but his parent. They are half-right. My father always disciplined me to follow a certain path, but when he did it, I knew he did it in love; in that sense, he was my friend. I had equated “friendship” with equality. In that sense, I felt I could never completely be my son’s friend, because I would have to abdicate my parental authority. And that would ultimately be hurting him. What I missed was that you have to start with the basis of friendship in its broadest sense: Jesus called his disciples “friends” and said that the greatest love was to lay down your life for your friends.

My favorite aspect of the trip was asking my son what he wanted to do. I love it when it’s just the two of us. No books, no television, no computers, no iPod, no piano. These days it seems like you have to kidnap your children to really get their attention. Figuratively speaking, I had kidnapped my son … and taken him to the Rocky Mountains to find peace in seclusion.

In recent years, we’ve taken a number of small trips. Often the best time to do this is when you don’t feel like. I love to smoke the pipe of solitude, enjoying the lightness of my thoughts like smoke rings floating up. Moreover, my imagination is straw for the fire of my writing … and procrastination. I wonder when pondering Joyce’s Dublin will finally bring me to take out the garbage. Maybe if I finish Ulysses I’ll meet a character who does just that.

The next day, we went to the Aspen Recreation Center. The center’s “pool” is actually a combination of three separate pools and a large hot tub. The largest of these pools is no deeper than four feet. On occasion, we ran up four flights of stairs and rode a water slide. Then we just relaxed in the shallow pool.

The banter and splashing was loudest in this pool. Several babies were being whisked by their mothers through the pool like angels in the air. They brought their tiny arms up high up and back down again into the water. With each splash, the mothers and babies celebrated together.

I rubbed my back against the rock wall in the pool for a deep massage. But the deepest relaxation came as I gazed out the window and saw the Rocky Mountains. There was still snow on the tallest peaks. The sky was a blue I have not witnessed since my childhood, looking into the sky though my telescope

This is what came back to me and transformed my whole being – nature, blue and green; nature, rocky and gentle, nature, harsh and creative; nature, blunt yet peaceful.

What did my face say? I wish I’d had a camera then. In any case, children and mothers played on totally unaware, I’m sure, of the energy they’d given me.

Sound Familiar? Hopefully Not

The following starts out as a typical family trip to the Grand Canyon. Little Johnnie is strapped into his seat belt and finishes his Lifesaver lollipop, he looks out the window and asks,

Are we there yet?

- No.

Are we there yet?

- Not yet.

Are we there yet?

- [sigh]

Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

-Nnnnnyes!

Yay. Weeeee...[?!?]

Are we there yet?

- I said yes.

Where are we, Daddy?

- Get out of the car.

Daaaaddy, please no, no,no,no. I'm sorry, I'm sorry!

- We’re "there."

Noooooo! I’ll be good boy.

- Promise?

I promise, Daddy.

- Okay, now sit down and let me drive.

Yes, Daddy. Okay, Daddy... Are we there yet?

Local Writer on Public Radio

Want to support the arts in the San Joaquin Valley? Why not scribble out a check for $10,000 dollars? Or simply sit down in your favorite rocking chair (or on a smooth rock), tune in to Valley Pubic Radio, and listen to “Valley Writers Read,” an annual showcase of local literary fiction.
Valley Public Radio is broadcast on KVPR 89.3 for the Fresno area and KPRX 89.1 for Bakersfield and south valley areas.
While you might associate KVPR with classical music and National Public Radio, the station broadcasts a variety of musical and spoken-word programs. Some of my favorites include “The Thomas Jefferson Hour,” and “The Oasis,” which airs jazz, international, and other music (I don't normally like jazz, but the selections remind me of the jazz played at bookstores and cafés in my native San Francisco.)
The new “Valley Writers Read” season begins Jan. 3 and extends over 26 weeks. Programs air on Wednesday nights at 7 p.m. In addition, each story is archived onto: www.kvpr.org where the station can be heard live wherever Internet is available.
I was honored when I received a letter in July informing me that one of my stories had been selected for the upcoming 2007 “Valley Writers Read” series.
While recently preparing to read my story in the KVPR studio, I got a chance to tour the station. There, producer Don Weaver opened sound files for a story by author Wilma Elizabeth McDaniel. The sound file taught me that McDaniel is “widely known as one of the finest writers to emerge from the ‘Dust Bowl’ exodus of the thirties.” McDaniel's story “The Ketchup Bottle” started the 2006 season and was followed by a selection of her poems.
With precision, Weaver coordinates the reading selections, music, and announcer files in order to create a seamless show. He puts great care into selecting music that will enhance each story.
This year, Weaver and his co-producer, Franz Weinschenk, offered writers the chance to make music suggestions. I immediately created a soundtrack of songs. While there is no guarantee that Weaver will use my music selections, the mystery is part of the excitement.
I'm fairly new to the literary spotlight, so I was especially flattered when Weaver told me my story will air near the beginning of the 2007 series (Jan. 10 — tell the neighbors!).
“We feel that this will be a good story,” he said.
Despite the emphasis on story and music, I feel that one of the most charming aspects of “Valley Writers Read” is its host and co-producer Franz Weinschenk. His charming voice has the right amount of sand in it to recall an era of dim lights and bright stars when a man’s substance matched his style.
Knowing that “Valley Writers Read” is one of the few bastions of literary arts in the valley, Weaver and Weinschenk continue to solicit stories from local authors.
Check out some of the archived stories at www.kvpr.org. There is something for every literary taste, whether it be mystery, suspense, history, or humor.

It Happened to Me Part IV: 15 minutes

The traffic school teacher showed a video in which various drivers described how their lives had been ruined in moments of carelessness. At the end of each segment, the drivers would say, “It happened to ME. It could happen to YOU.”

The first guest was a child-faced man whose mutton chop haircut and bright blue blazer suggested rock star. The man spoke outdoors in a monotone. “On a morning much like this … I was driving drunk down this country road…. I crashed at approximately one hundred … miles per hour. Because of the force of the impact … I flew out of my windshield … and was run over by my own vehicle.” I thought he might be an actor until the camera panned down to his wheelchair. His listless legs were the size of arms and barely filled his pants. “It happened to me … It could happen to you.”

The next segment was filmed at a train stop. A middle-aged woman in a wheelchair sat motionless as the Lincoln Memorial. When she spoke, she barely moved her eyes and lips. “On a January morning, my car was struck by a train. The last thing I remember was a dark wall coming at me and a deafening sound. The train snapped my spinal cord in two. I will be … paralyzed for the rest of my life.” In the pause, her eyes filled with bitterness and her voice wavered and firmed. “It happened to ME … It could happen TO YOU.”

The third driver had made an ill-fated decision to reach for a cassette tape while driving at Big Sur. In the next instance, his car tumbled down a steep cliff before becoming a crushed aluminum can. “All it took was a split second and that was it.” He had escaped with no serious injuries and seemed indifferent. “It happened to me … It could happen to you.”

Andy Warhol once said that everyone will have fifteen minutes of fame. These fifteen minutes are not likely to be spent on a stage, clutching an Oscar, but rather describing something stupid we’ve done.

The video that affected me most was of an accident involving a student that had fallen asleep at the wheel. His truck ran into a street and killed six other students. Parents sat on a couch and stared at their knees while describing how energetic and giving their sons had been. A segment shows one of the victims water skiing in slow motion with his brother, the joy pouring through his open mouth.

At the end of the class, I stood up to give my teacher my traffic school paperwork to fill out. He was shorter and frailer than I had imagined. The Wizard and his bible, the DMV Handbook, didn’t loom as largely.

Yet, the videos had left me quiet. It’s the same reaction people have when they leave a sad movie.

I left and drove the open streets, enjoying the freedom and wisdom that traffic school afforded me. At a stop sign I actually stopped.

My new driving habit lasted about … fifteen minutes. It happened to me. It could happen to you.

It Happened to Me Part IV - 15 Minutes

Yet, the videos had left me quiet. It’s the same reaction people have when they leave a sad movie.

I left and drove the open streets, enjoying the freedom and wisdom that traffic school afforded me. At a stop sign I actually stopped.

My new driving habit lasted about … fifteen minutes. It happened to me. It could happen to you.

It Happened to Me Part III - Aches, Dents, and Coffins

Midway thought the class, the teacher introduced an unexpected hero: the truck behind the man. In its old age and heavily-dented condition, the truck kept him relatively safe. “Well, she goes zero to sixty in half an hour, but she’s all I got.” He spoke of his truck the way you might a giant tortoise that was your only means of transportation. “It gets me places, but I wouldn’t take my date on it. The good thing is that I can’t get pulled over for speeding if I wanted to. I don’t lose sleep when she picks up more dents.” This was shared as though it were an advantage.

More importantly, the truck seemed to shed light on the teacher’s unexplained character change, the one responsible for making him teach traffic school. “Sure, as a young man I would have pounded on you for making eye-contact. But, now I hurt in too many places. I’m a virtual cripple.” He had apparently lost his job after an industrial accident. Now, he and his truck resembled each other the same way many couples do after years of marriage.

Tossing the DMV guide onto the desk, the teacher explained how he had recently perfected the art of driving without a rearview mirror. “It’s not my fault. It just fell off. Technically, you can drive in California without one.” I leaned forward in my seat. Maybe this man taught traffic school for the usable insights. It was the equivalent of the employee discount, an electrician that knows all the shortcuts.

Now I was listening. Perhaps there would be benefits for me, as well. I might even find out about the teacher’s missing sideburns.

When he told us more about his truck, I began to doubt its safety. “And remember, drivers are under no obligation to let you onto the freeway. So, when merging, you had better drive with the flow of traffic, unless, of course, you happen to be driving an older … truck.”

The radio in the teacher’s truck didn’t work, too. “I don’t care. If I want to listen to the radio, I just bring in a boom box.” Boom box?

Several years ago, a friend from work drove me home in his seventy-four Maverick, a car covered in rusty dents. Sitting in the passenger’s seat, I reached for the radio and noticed a large crack in the frame. “Oh, don’t bother,” he said. “It doesn’t work.” He opened the glove compartment and pulled out a large tape recorder. After he banged it on the hood twice, it responded with what sounded like Russian marching music. “They go through my car all the time at night. I don’t mind. I just can’t stand it when they leave the door open and I find dew on my seats in the morning.”

“Is that what this note on the dashboard is about?” I asked. The note had faded ink and read, “Please lock door on way out. THANK YOU.”

These “visitors” had apparently tried to jack the stereo. But, the job was abandoned, either because they were amateurs or they just grew frustrated with the car’s apparent worthlessness.

That’s the good thing about having a stereo worth more than your car. It takes attention away from your precious ride.

“Mostly they steal the incidentals. Money and stuff,” he said.

To my friend and my teacher, there was a simple beauty in having a car you didn’t mind wrecking. To them, a car was simply a means to get from one point to the next. Today, a car represents anything but transportation. You see it everywhere: movies playing on video screens, transformer trucks that convert into SUVs. Cars have become comfort machines, offices, and home theaters. The typical car is so loaded and plush that its interior can resemble a coffin. And these are not even the luxury cars. Sadly, many of these same cars will become coffins on the road.

My friend Cheryl was driving on the LA freeway with her family when her six-year-old daughter pointed at a video screen playing in the car ahead of them. “Mommy, what are those people doing naked?” In explaining the movie as delicately as possible, Cheryl avoided the word “porno.”

TO BE CONTINUED

It Happened to Me Part II: Blind Men and Horses

After three hours in a DMV guided lecture, I became convinced that the enemy was not the highway patrol. Rather, it was the system that gave us traffic “school.” No orange cones; no driving course; just a lecture that no one is bound to retain. My drowsy classmates were proof of that.

The teacher prefaced “lessons” by asking, “Did you know?”

“Did you know that the Bill of Rights guarantees you the right to free travel, but it never mentions cars? And the DMV is not bashful about reminding you: driving is a privilege, not a right.”

I wondered why this Franklin Graham look-alike dressed like a golf caddy. Where was the famous preacher’s suit? You see this with reluctant celebrity look-alikes. The Charles Manson double goes into scientific research while the Elton John twin works at the library and stays away from pianos. These people can become hermits while trying to avoid the unwanted spotlight.

“Did you know that in Bakersfield, it is still legal to drive a horse-drawn carriage on any road?” I imagined myself cracking a buggy whip in rush hour traffic. It wouldn’t be long before drivers would unite and strangle me with my own whip. People get angry at me just for being behind the wheel.

I learned that working in a state makes you an automatic resident, subject to all the state’s traffic laws.

It seems that with a DMV Guide, you could understand the subtleties of our world. Not sure why your date ditched you after a “relaxing” drive? Open up your DMV guide and learn that driving too slow is a traffic violation. There’s a strong likelihood that it’s a social sin as well. Want to know why it takes a full forty-five minutes to fly from San Francisco to Los Angeles and only five hours to reach your “nearby” hotel? Consult your DMV guide and learn about a city’s crucial need for one-way streets. I am convinced that the “rules of the road” exist solely to make life miserable.

But, there were other benefits for knowing traffic law. For example, you could become a road vigilante. With a straight face, the teacher said, “Why not turn in grandma for unsafe driving? I mean, if failing vision renders her unable to handle the road, you ought to exercise your right to make that anonymous phone call.” If she failed her vision test, the DMV would take away her license. I pictured a hunched-over grandmother hobbling home on the freeway. “Just eight more exits to go,” she’d say. “Sure, it’s windy and loud, but it’s the only way I know.” What a cruel world.

The topic of safety failed to resurrect the dead class. “What do you do when you’re driving into an intersection and a pedestrian enters the crosswalk?” A few people shifted in their seats, but no one spoke up. “Come on, guys. Do you have the right of way?” When someone spoke a random yes, the teacher’s voice rose like a clarinet. “NooooOOO? Just think of the pedestrian with sunglasses, a seeing-eye dog, and a white cane with a red tip.” After an eternity of silence, he said, “Okay, what happens if you drive into a crosswalk on a yellow light and a blind person steps off the curb? You better believe that he has the right of way, because you’d have to be a blind track star to make it across in time.”

His message seemed clear: law is no substitute for making morally right choices. Avoid a ticket and you might kill someone, or take the ticket and save a life.

In California, I think many lives are saved in those precious seconds it takes the average driver to deliberate: “Do I really want to save that man’s life?”

I admired the teacher for not punishing our silence. He left penalties to the real world of the DMV, the courts, and my father.

But, when it came to our personal safety, he was most fervent. He shifted his ball cap and rubbed his temples. “If you cross the center divider to a let a screaming fire truck pass, you’re just begging to die. Common sense will save lives.”

But how many California traffic laws use common sense? Starting this year, you can be cited during the daytime for failing to turn on your headlights when activating your windshield wipers. Whose life is that saving?

Some traffic signals actually invite disaster. At a four-way intersection near my house, the left turn light will often stay green for only five seconds. I have to floor my car in order to avoid getting my picture taken by a traffic spy camera. Any pedestrian caught in the far crosswalk is in danger. I am not against a society where everyone rode horses.

It Happened to Me Part Two: Engines and horses

I once sat in a business meeting in which the speaker tried to break the ice by telling a joke.

“What has two hundred legs and three teeth? Give up? The front row of a Willy Nelson concert. Hahaha.”

When several people laughed, he relaxed and said, “I’d like to take our CEO’s paycheck, buy nearby Taft, and give it back to the Indians.”

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to laugh, but I think he had something there. It made sense to give Native Americans back native lands.

Several years passed. Then I got a speeding ticket in Navajo County, Ariz. The very name seemed to imply “Indian ground.”

"Wait a minute," I thought. "Wasn’t it all Indian ground?"

I thought about it while the officer wrote out a ticket. Maybe for each traffic violation, the government should return 100 acres to Native Americans. Instead of issuing points on your driving record, the DMV could make you perform community service on newly redeemed lands. That might actually be more fun than traffic school.

But maybe there are reasons the government doesn’t just throw land at Native Americans.There are social, political and health issues that need to be addressed.

The patrol officer was a humble, younger man who seemed to be of Native American descent. His glasses and close, gelled haircut made him look like a medical student.

“Sorry, I would give you a warning, but too many people have died around here lately."

I accepted the ticket as though it were a certificate of honor. I liked being “on his side,” whatever that meant.

Make no mistake –– no one likes getting a traffic ticket. But I preferred to not focus on the pain.

Instead, I imagined over-simplified solutions to the “Indian plight.” In my elaborate delusion, I was the “good American,” the person who cared for his Native American neighbors.

That’s the problem with people. We pay attention to something long enough to feel better before the “concern” fades.

My delusion was stronger. It followed me into California, where I proudly ticked off other drivers by driving the speed limit in the fast lane. How I longed for one these drivers to climb up my hood, his lips flapping out of control in the wind. “Why!?” he would ask.

“I’m on special assignment,” I’d say, thinking back to the officer’s parting words: “Just be careful. There are more patrol cars down the road.”

Maybe I was nervous. Or maybe I just wanted to feel important. I told the officer, “Thank you, Your Officer, I mean, Mr. Police Honor.”

After three hours in a Sunday traffic class, I am more convinced that the enemy is not the highway patrol. Rather, it’s the system that gives us traffic “school.” No orange cones, no driving course, just a lecture that no one is bound to retain. My drowsy classmates were proof of that.

The teacher prefaced most of his “lessons” by asking, “Did you know?”

“Did you know that the Bill of Rights guarantees you the right to free travel, but it never mentions cars? And the DMV is not bashful about reminding you: driving is a privilege, not a right.”

I wondered why this Franklin Graham look-alike dressed like a golf caddy. Where was the famous preacher’s suit? You see this with some people who look too much like celebrities. The Charles Manson double who dresses up; the Elton John twin who avoids pianos and works at the library. Anything to outfox the unwanted spotlight

“Did you know that in Bakersfield, it is still legal to drive a horse-drawn carriage on any road? I know, because I looked up the law.” I imagined myself cracking a whip in rush hour traffic and how long that would last before drivers united and strangled me with my buggy whip. People get angry at me just for being behind the wheel

I learned that working in a state makes you an automatic resident of that state, subject to all its traffic laws. It seems that with a DMV guide, you could understand the subtleties of our world. Not sure why your date ditched you after a “relaxing” drive? Open up your DMV guide and learn that slow driving, too, is a traffic violation. Maybe it’s a social sin as well. Want to know why it takes a full 45 minutes to fly from San Francisco to Los Angeles and only five hours to find your “nearby” hotel? Open up your DMV guide and learn about a city’s crucial need for nothing but one-way streets. Most “rules of the road” seem to exist for the sole purpose of making life miserable.

But, there were other benefits for knowing DMV law. For example, you could become a road vigilante. With a straight face, the teacher said, “Why not turn in grandma for unsafe driving? I mean, if failing vision renders her unable to – um – handle the road, you ought to exercise your right to make that anonymous phone call.” He said that DMV officials would subject the suspected senior to a vision test and, if necessary, take away her license. I pictured a hunched-over grandmother hobbling home on the freeway. “Just eight more exits to go,” she’d say. “Sure, it’s windy and loud, but it’s the only way I know.” It’s a sick world.

The teacher talked road safety to a class that still resembled a wax museum. “What do you do when you’re driving into an intersection and a pedestrian enters the crosswalk?” A few people shifted in their seats, but no one spoke up. “Come on, guys. Do you have the right of way?” Someone said yes, and the teacher’s voice rose like a clarinet. “NooooOOO? Just think of the pedestrian with sunglasses, a seeing-eye dog, and a white cane with a red tip.” We were the kind of class you had to spoon-feed. After waiting a minute, he said, “Okay, what happens if you drive into a crosswalk on a yellow light and a blind person steps off the curb? You better believe that he has the right of way, because you’d have to be a blind track star to make it across in time.” The message seemed clear: avoid a ticket and kill someone, or get a ticket and save a life. In California, I think many lives are saved in those precious seconds it takes the average driver to deliberate: “Do I really want to save that man’s life?”

I had to admire this teacher’s patience, though. He gave us the answers and left punishment to the DMV, the courts, and my father.

The teacher shifted his ball cap and rubbed temples. “If you cross the center divider to a let a screaming fire truck pass, you’re just begging to die.” When it came to our personal safety, he was most fervent. “This isn’t difficult, guys. Just use common sense and you’ll save lives.” But how many California traffic laws are common sense? Starting this year, you can be cited during the daytime for failing to turn on your headlights when activating your windshield wipers. Whose life is that saving?

Some traffic signals actually invite disaster. At a four-way intersection near my house, the left turn light will often stay green for only five seconds. I have to floor my car in order to avoid getting my picture taken by a traffic spy camera. Any pedestrian caught in the far crosswalk is in danger. I am not against a society where everyone rides horses.

It Happened to Me - Part One

“And …ACTION!”

My actions on this Sunday morning –– running out of my house, jumping into my car, and racing to a nearby Holiday Inn with an anxious look on my face –– would have been fitting in a movie in which I play a married man having an affair. In this movie, my unknowing wife hands me a travel coffee mug and tells me, “Hurry so you’re not late!”

Once inside the secret hotel room, I am well-received, despite my lateness.

In reality, the story was different, but the actions were the same. I was speeding because I was an hour late to traffic school. And, because my life often works in a series of reversals, I was sentenced to traffic school in the first place because I had been speeding.

The class was held in a small meeting room on the first floor. While traffic school allows you to erase points from your driving record, the DMV strives to make the experience not only painful but memorable. Receiving a beating in a dark alley is bad enough, but imagine being sent a T-shirt of the event, just to make it memorable.

Someone has decided that instead of training you hands-on to be a better driver, it’s more cost-effective to punish you by making you listen to a lecture. Usually, it’s a reformed outlaw with bad breath and an outfit from the Larry King clothing line at Sears.

He clears his throat, revealing a voice made raspy by chain smoking. “Good morning class…” His job is to convince you that life is about studying the intricacies of the current DMV guide. “This is what I have been missing,” we are supposed to say. “And this is why I am a low-life.”

Had I broken the law in California, I would have been able to “attend” traffic school online from my computer at home. In my pajamas or even naked, if I wished. But, I got my ticket in Arizona, so I was required to attend a minimum five-hour class. My particular class was eight hours, the three extra hours amounting to torture.

Stepping out of my car at the hotel and realizing that I had seven hours to go, my whole attitude changed. Didn’t I owed it to myself to be another two hours late?

Now, I simply strolled into the hotel, studied the marble tile in the lobby, admired the wallpaper in the hallway, and then strolled into the meeting room.

The fiercely positive part of me –– two lonely brain cells –– asked, “Why become bitter? Can’t we just make the best of this?”

My remaining three bitter brain cells shouted, “No!” and so I became rebellious. Breaking a speed law by 16 MPH and carrying my rebellion into traffic school made me feel like a hardened criminal.
The room was quieter than I had imagined. I could have walked into a wax museum. Although the class had just started, the attendees resembled an exhibit created under the theme: fatal boredom. Everyone appeared frozen. Younger people leaned at odd angles. Their faces were devoid of emotion, their pristine sport jerseys and white tennis shoes completing the wax museum appearance. Middle-aged men and women folded their arms or held onto their purses and bags, props bespeaking lifelessness.

While I hated the very idea of traffic school, it was hard to dislike the teacher. Maybe it was his resemblance to evangelist Franklin Graham, son of Billy Graham. Of course, I had to discount the obvious character differences: the preacher had fervor; the teacher seemed geeky. Sideburns were painstakingly shaved off, as though he was ashamed of them. It was the thorough shave common to the five unlucky women in the world who have beards.

With a good-natured giggle, the teacher stood up and clapped his hands. “Okay, class, welcome to Saturday and Sunday Painless Traffic Schools.” The word oxymoron came to mind. The name, “Saturday and Sunday Painless Traffic Schools,” appeared on official school stationery. While his Miami Vice tropical shirt, baseball cap and shorts suggested youth, his voice carried in it the rough sand of one’s weary 40s. These features made me suspicious, because they appeared to be calculated to hide his age. I questioned everything. Was the dark hair beneath his ball cap dyed or was it a toupee? If so, was it a full toupee or just a patch of hair that came with the ball cap?

When the instructor ignored or didn’t notice my lateness, I started to like him. I also started to hate myself for not taking advantage and showing up even later. Had he taken issue with my lateness, I would have told him, “Sorry. I had my license taken away, and I had to walk from Tehachapi … and … I have leave three hours early to make it home before dark.”

A question entered my mind: Would I die of boredom? I mean, eight hours! Maybe I could enter the temporary death depicted by the other attendees’ lifeless postures, and wake up after all financial debts and judgments had been erased. If I were lucky enough to die of boredom, it would probably be a slow death, rather than an instant, painless death. The school would only deliver on the promise of a “Painless Driving School” if I were to agree to stay alive. I have never actually heard of someone dying of boredom. Or maybe I would just die thinking about dying of boredom.

To my delight, the teacher immediately began telling the class personal stories. So, I sat up.

He had a number of past lives, all of them punctuated by law-breaking on the roads of his youth. At age 12, he got his first traffic ticket for speeding and not having a license. He’d been driving a motorcycle and had misread an “End 40 Mile Zone” sign. “I rounded up to the next 50. How was I to know?”

In later years, he was pulled over for running red lights, making illegal turns in residential neighborhoods, and racing. He used to build hotrods, something I had trouble imagining him doing. But, this was many years ago, as he explained. He didn’t share the stories to impress us, but out of kindness; he wanted us to stay awake.

Once, as a teenager, he’d left the house in a fit of rage. Within one city block, he he’d broken five separate traffic laws. The officer gave him the option of choosing just one violation. He chose driving without a registration, figuring that he could fix the violation prior to his court date. What he’d done was prove his street smarts. He earned the confidence to negotiate traffic tickets in court later and win.

The downside was that he became addicted to speed. And, an expensive habit developed. Opening his eyes wide to take in afresh the force of his youthful indiscretions, he continued. “I tried to beat the system as I grew older, but I was in danger of losing my license and getting thrown in jail.” Tickets caught up with him.

The engine behind his voice idled down and he looked at the ground. He explained that, due to an aging body and what he called a “desire to avoid getting hit in the ol’ pocket book,” he was forced to convert to good driving.

The teacher’s combination of bad boy and mild manners reminded me of serial killer/cannibal Jeffrey Dahmer. I had seen televised interviews in which Dahmer, shy and soft-spoken, described his grisly murders without remorse or shame. Serial killers and road warriors are alike in at least one way: both never let on to their real craft. To the naked eye, both men appeared kind, and I understood how someone could trust Dahmer prior to becoming his dinner. As I watched the Franklin Graham look-alike, I thought about Jeffrey Dahmer’s victims. These victims did not have the benefit of seeing the valuable props common to cannibals: the loin cloth, the spear, and the bamboo reed driven through the nose.

Normally, I would equate such a teacher’s presence with “community service,” rather than a lifelong teaching ambition. It’s like seeing a serial arsonist on his knees, planting baby trees in a new park. “What are you doing?” you might ask him.

“Oh, I’m just passing time before the next big fire. Gotta replenish our natural resources!” But something, I thought, had actually changed this man. I just didn’t know what. Then he would tell another rowdy story, and I would be left another impression: his presence here implied a hard-won victory for the DMV.
TO BE CONTINUED

Summer Vacation Contest Entry: The Colorado Rockies

This summer, Andrew and dad took a train ride up to the Colorado Rockies. We saw family in Aspen and drove back through the Grand Canyon. We also visited Morro Bay. The Beautiful Girls of Love stayed at home this time.

Case for a Classic: "The Golden Ass"

After graduating from the local university, I read “The Golden Ass” as part of a self-paced reading program in the satirical classics. The first book I read was “The Satyricon.” In a brazen fashion, it chronicles the adventures and misadventures of one Encolpius and his friends and lovers. “The Satyricon” was written in the time of Nero and captures the decadent Roman age with humor and style.

Why should one read such classics? For one, they are historical. Santayana urged us to learn from history so that we would not repeat it. Writers in every age have built upon earlier writings and myths, thereby enriching literature. If one understands how literature came to us, one is better equipped to see where it is headed.

Sadly, modern readership is in decline, according to Joseph Bednarik (“The Law of Diminishing Readership” in Poets & Writers, May/June 2006). Bednarik suggests that writers “read and recommend enough books to nourish the system [they] want to enter.”

Simply speaking, we need books. I did not realize to what extent writers relied upon the classics until I read “The Satyricon” and “The Golden Ass.” Even Shakespeare borrowed from the classics to write “Hamlet,” “Romeo and Juliet” and other dramas. Other plays served as the basis for some of his historical dramas. “The Satyricon” contains a passage believed to be where our concept of platonic love originated (Socratica Fide).

The “The Golden Ass” pictured here is a modern version. I have not read other translations, but my guess is that educated or academic readers may want to consider a more traditional translation. Still, this version allows most readers to "get all the jokes" and may serve as a good introduction to the classics.

In the main plot, Lucius dabbles in witchcraft and accidentally turns himself into a donkey. Yet, “The Golden Ass” is a montage of stories woven through the main plot. At times, these tales appear tacked on, but in a way, they complement the main story, which shares much of the suspense, humor and allegorical nature of the woven tales. One memorable story, “Cupid and Psyche,” takes up almost three of eleven chapters.

The book is also called “Transformations” (“Metamorphoses”), and these titles convey an important idea. Lucius transforms from one bodily shape to the next, and his conversion can be said to be a transformation.

No doubt, part of the work’s appeal is due to the confessional nature of Lucius’ story telling. He recounts what happened in the past in complete honesty: I literally used to be an ass. His tales entertain as though they were occurring in the often capricious present. Yet, Lucius often invokes Fortune, good and bad.

Fortune is blind, it seems. In one passage, mule drivers find the Golden Ass eating delicacies. Instead of beating him, they create a show out of the bizarre events. Later, a wealthy heiress that murdered her husband is sentenced to marry the beast. The crudeness of their intimacy is redeemed by the hilarity and style with which it is written, however. A modern interpretation of this kind of myth is found in “Beauty and the Beast.” Each tale was entertaining and allowed me to understand Greek mythology a little better.

Readers may or may not find useful the book’s table of contents and corresponding head notes. I did not use these content notes because I did not want to know what was going to happen ahead of time, but the notes occasionally allowed me to maneuver through the rich narrative threads.

Part of the strength of a writer is his ability to tell an existing story with wonder and fascination, lending new insights to new audiences. One gets that feeling when reading “The Golden Ass.” The novel is resourceful in terms of its style.

At the story’s conclusion is Lucius’ return to human form and his conversion to the cult of Isis, his redeemer. In this way, his character arcs and gives the novel a sense of closure. Lucius is one of many characters that get what they deserve. The wonder of “The Golden Ass” owes in great part to how actions and their consequences play out in unpredictable and often hilarious ways.

The next book on my list is Rabalais’s “Gargantua and Pantaguel.” On second thought, I might take a quick detour through American satire and read Jonathan Swift’s “A Tale of a Tub” in its place. Then, I’ll resume my climb through the older classics and work my way up to Mark Twain and the moderns.

Maxine Stumbaugh's never-ending dance

While my family and I celebrated Mother’s Day weekend at the coast, we received a phone call and learned that my wife’s grandmother was in the hospital, following a stroke. On Sunday, we gathered with immediate family members to say farewell to her.
Maxine Stumbaugh was born on Aug. 2, 1922 in Los Angeles and raised in Taft.
She did not know her birth parents, and during her six years in an orphanage, she spent time with various families.
One day, Maxine noticed a visitor who smelled good.
“I hope she takes me home,” she said. The woman’s scent lingered long enough for Maxine to dwell on what life would be like in a real home. Her wish came true when the woman adopted her.
When she was 20, Maxine married Harley Stumbaugh. He had a daughter, Jacquie, from a previous marriage. Together, they had two sons, Harley Jr. and Loren. Their three children brought them six grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren. Adoption apparently ran in the family, so Maxine “adopted” several of her children’s friends.
Her greatest love, however, was her husband.
And, despite the pressures of marriage, children and work, nothing diminished the romance they kindled until his passing in 1985.
Maxine and Harley shopped together at the local grocery store, and whenever they heard their song, “Elmer’s Tune,” he would take her hand, and the two would dance the aisle, oblivious to the vegetables and shoppers.
In the years following Harley’s passing, Maxine continued to play their song at home. The familiar melody would make time melt away, and then Maxine would dance around her living room, feeling Harley’s arms surrounding her.
Maxine lived a “maximum” life.
In her last four years, she got a computer and used e-mail to stay in touch with her friends. On occasion, she sent letters through the mail. The letters were typed as opposed to hand-written, demonstrating her characteristic blend of the sentimental and the practical.
Two nights before her passing, Maxine explained, “We’ve got a problem.” She was dining with her son, Loren, and she was out of tequila. Strong gestures and calm confidence were her trademarks. While her empty, waving glass said, “I want tequila,” her lowered eyeglasses and gaze said, “I need tequila.” No one questioned her.
The next afternoon, Maxine lay down on her couch for a nap and woke up in heaven, just in time for a Mother’s Day dance with her beloved Harley.
There are no tears in heaven, only joy. Though we miss Maxine, we know that she is happy and “bright shining as the sun.”
At her graveside service, some family members wore blue or floral colors, suggesting the Resurrection hope that anchored Maxine’s life. Local singer Raymond McDonald sang “Old Rugged Cross:”
So I'll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross
And exchange it some day for a crown.
In a modern fable, a boy sells all he has and prepares to cross the Sahara Desert in search of buried treasure beneath the pyramids.
A camel driver knows the boy may face death along the way. He tells the boy, “Life will be a party for you, a grand festival, because life is the moment we’re living right now.”
Though Maxine passed through the “valley of the shadow of death,” she came out the other side more alive. She recently wrote, ‘When the time comes and I am gone, try not to sorrow … life is too short for all of us, and you need to get on with tomorrow. For those I have loved and now must leave behind and to my friends I beg you to reach out and touch the one you love in a special way. As you know we never know for certain how much time we have to share, so reach out to those around you and let them know how much care. Although I won’t be there to hold and comfort you, I will be watching over you and praying that the Lord above will embrace you all with his endless love.’ - Mom
In life’s wearisome desert, clouds of memory guide us into the night, where the memory of loved ones burns like a flame. At times, we reach an oasis where we revive our souls with new friends. At other times, we only see a mirage, a simple reminder that the real treasures lie beneath the pyramids of the heart. Maxine’s friendship made the journey meaningful for others because she shared of herself.
Family and friends created an oasis of fellowship and comfort when they celebrated her life through music. Loren Stumbaugh and Harley Stumbaugh II, Harley III of Aspen, Colo., Taylor Stumbaugh of Oceanside, Calif., and Cherice Stumbaugh’s husband Kevin Shah joined on stage with members of Big House to put together a tribute concert at Fishlips.
Big House includes some of Maxine’s “adopted” sons. Another local musician, Raymond McDonald, also sung.
They played with their whole hearts, trusting that Maxine was watching over the stage.

Missing Buck’s ‘Freight Train’

This Sunday, I test-drove a new car.
The salesman buckled up and told me to drive from White Lane to Panama Lane. On the freeway on-ramp, we passed a cop who was sitting on his parked motorcycle.
“He’s gonna catch somebody,” I thought. We passed more parked cops before coming to a blockade at Panama.
“There’s been a shooting, obviously,” the salesman said.
Then, we saw the people.
They emptied the buildings; they pushed themselves to the edge of the sidewalk; and they stood waiting silently for what seemed to be a motorcade.
I realized that I was witnessing a rare event.
When Buck Owens fell asleep for the last time March 25, the veins of a close-knit community opened, and a great one had slipped out.
And, as with all great ones who pass away — Lincoln, Kennedy, Diana, Mother Teresa — people poured out through the veins of the cities to pay homage.
I was aware of the funeral, but after work, I decided to visit a car lot to see a vehicle I had been romancing for several days. My business had left me out of touch with the wound my adopted city was suffering — losing a legend who defined her.
For me, Buck represents what I have always loved about Bakersfield — the same open arms that welcomed Buck in 1951 had welcomed me in 1995.
But, I had been too busy buying a car to realize that this was Buck’s last ride.
I felt like I was intruding upon the funeral motorcade.
The police barricades had let my cold business pass through uninterrupted, while others stopped and stood specifically to catch a glimpse of Buck’s motorcade.
Ironically, the exit to Panama and drive to the dealership was smoother than normal, courtesy of the blockades.
The car dealership overlooks the freeway, and upon our return, I sat down at the desk and stared out the window at the freeway.
I wanted to see Buck’s hearse, but I only saw several slowly passing cars. The scene reminded me of a poem called, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloomed” by Walt Whitman.
The speaker stops and watches the funeral train, while expressing his grief. Whitman wrote the poem after the death of Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln’s coffin passes on a train.

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

Had I attended Buck’s funeral or seen him perform, I think I would have better understood and appreciated what Bakersfield is all about. Buck was the one person who defined Bakersfield for its citizens.
I went to a chain bookstore last week to read some poems and stories. At the close of the reading, the community relations manager, Thomas Robinson, stood at the microphone and held up a book. He paused, and then explained that he had successfully negotiated with his company to sell their first book ever written by a non-profit organization.
The book, “Freight Train Running: a Biography of Buck Owens” by Linda Stacey, will benefit Bakersfield City School District’s Education Foundation. The biography is available only at the Crystal Palace, Russo’s Bookstore, and Barnes & Noble.
Robinson could not attend the scheduled book release celebration at the Crystal Palace, so he missed a final opportunity to see Buck and his hat. He paused again and explained that he had planned many times to see Buck perform. The words he uttered each time were, “I should go.”
How easily time passes.
And how easily we say the words, “We should go.”
People come and go, and sometimes “we” turns to “I.”
“You know, I really should go.” We say it with such feeling. Yet, the children grow up and away, and the opportunity is gone. In reality, we do not have the past or the future, only the now.
In missing a performance, Robinson had missed Buck’s unique “Bakersfield sound.” The biography calls this Buck’s “Freight Train.”
I wish I could say that I saw Buck perform, specifically in the city he loved, but in my business, I was probably 10 years away from just planning to do so. The thought crossed my mind.
But, other than a family brunch at The Crystal Palace last year, the would-be viewing on the freeway was the closest I would come to seeing Buck Owens, the man who was Bakersfield.
I, too, missed the train.
And, so here is my salute to you, Buck: “Sing on, dearest brother—warble your reedy song.”