Author: fifteenkey (Page 16 of 95)

This week I read an article on the “slow photography” movement. The point is that as we pose, point and shoot ourselves, let’s not miss the experience we’re snapping to document. The “document” versus “art” aspects of photography was also explored. Most of us are mere documentarians with our DSLR’s, point and shoot’s and camera phones, but occasionally we luck out and capture real beauty. Well, at least our interpretation of it.

Toward the end of our brief trip to Burlington, Vermont to escort her son back to UVM for semester two, Joyce and I enjoyed a little shop browsing and noshing in charming Woodstock. If you’ve never visited this 250 year old gem, named by National Geographic as, “One of America’s Most Picturesque Villages,” go.

Our 36 hour “some people get the holiday off and some don’t” getaway began Sunday morning when we jammed the car full of the student, his clean clothes, and an assortment of junk food. And Gatorade because he’s a D1 athlete… Anyway, after a quick late lunch burger, we headed for the unloading. If you’ve never visited a freshman’s post semester break dorm room, named by National Geographic as, “One of America’s Scariest Places,” don’t.

Speaking of scary, after a quick check-in at the lovely Holiday Inn (thanks a lot Shatner!), we found a couple bar stools adjacent to a hi-def display to watch a horror show. After the Jets thoroughly had their way with our Pats, even icy Bill Belichick was looking for some cuddle time, throwing a hug at Jets coach “Sexy Rexy” after the game. Dejected, we walked it off a bit on shimmering Church Street and settled into Leunig’s Bistro for a scrumptious nightcap of wine and cheese.

Monday morning my Acura groaned at the thought of ignition in the single digit freeze of Burlington, yet upon my “Oh, come on!” she started right up. Clearly, I have a way with her.

Then, after a quaint Arcadia Diner bellyful of “apple oatmeal” (made with apple juice – good!) and turkey sausage, we were off to the Catamount Outdoor Family Center for my introduction to cross-country, um, skiing. My Nordic holiday is best summarized in song. So, go ahead, conjure up your best Tony Bennett and let it rip:

I….. Left my joints. In – Nor – thern Ver – mont

“Isn’t it beautiful!?” Joyce exclaimed. Of course it was, but as I struggled, head down, up yet another hill on the “flat” 5K course, I wasn’t really noticing. We were under a Crayola sky blue sky, but apparently the sun was also on holiday because it was barely radiating six degrees of separation from zero. I’ll admit it was fun, but as a beginner any loss of focus resulted in me horizontal. As I followed her around the course like a panting greyhound vainly chasing “Swifty,” the mechanical rabbit, I thought, “she looks great in those…” BAM! “DOWN GOES FRAZIER!” It happened very quickly and actually my fall was broken by one of my ski poles. The one in a 90 degree angle. I looked up for sympathy and saw Swifty smoothly gliding around a corner and out of my view… I struggled to bend the pole back into the shape of a crooked walking stick.

Leaving Woodstock at dusk Monday, Joyce pointed out a bright moon above the mountain backdrop and foreground barren trees. “I haven’t taken a picture all weekend,” I responded while pulling over to imprint the image. I clicked off 3, but none captured it adequately. On the slow and smooth, hill and dale way home, we chatted and channel surfed. At one point I glanced over to see a peaceful and beautiful sleeping face reflecting dashboard light.

I don’t have the pictures, but I have the experience in my heart and mind forever.

I’m not sure when this one oozed into my ear, but it’s been sloshing around a while, so since I have nothing else to write about, now seems a good time to unscramble my thoughts on one messed up nursery rhyme.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
OK, big mistake Dude. You’re extremely obese, literally the shape of an egg. You’re an uneven oval and very unbalanced even when sober. You know you can’t sit still unless you’re in that big, cushy “huev-o-boy,” of yours, so what made you think you could sit on a freakin’ wall? Idiot.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
I wasn’t there, but a “great” fall? I’m sure he didn’t find it good at all, and as falls go, I don’t really consider a plunge of likely less than ten feet great, and this one looked to be six, eight tops. Now falling out of a plane without a parachute and having a few minutes to think about it before being impaled on a steel-barbed wireless tower? That’s a great fall.

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
Yeah, let’s teach our kids that General Franco and monarchies are all benevolent and somehow still cool. And I’m sure it wasn’t all of them. Workplace absenteeism statistics alone would place some at home riding the horse for non-work purposes or playing with their new Kinect. Plus, who’s back at the castle protecting the monarch? This is nothing but Palace Propaganda.

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
Um, what would motivate them to even try if horses actually could perform micro-surgery in the dirt with their filthy hooves? And how do you know where to put those cloudy little white bits? Even if they tried and to some degree succeeded, Humpty sadly would have devolved from an egg to a brutally scarred eggplant, and that’s only if the medieval medical staff managed to avert a massive, middle ages, black-death type infection culminating in an oozy explosion of egg-fart sudden death. It was the humane thing to do when they just kicked dirt over the shell filled, uncooked omelet.

So who the hell chose to mess up multiple generations by relaying the story?

I don’t do New Year’s resolutions. Well, not grandiose ones anyway. A simple scan of the gym in early January versus any other time of the year is the reason why. As the U2 song simply states, “Nothing changes on New Year’s Day.” If you want to quit something or start something, just do it. You don’t need the first page of your new cat calendar to tell you when. Any moment in time will do. Still, New Years Day does stimulate a personal inventory process in some, including me. Not always, but since I’m sitting here with coffee and keyboard, I’ll give it a go. “Continuous improvement” of my life is always in process, so what tweaks will I look to make, more or less, in 2011?

More: Writing. One blog post in December ties my record low from February 2005. Oh, and that’s back when I started the blog on February 28th, Megan’s 16th birthday.

Less: Chemicals/food additives. “Low fat” or “low-carb” or any other faux food concoction messes with the body’s natural metabolic processes. I’m rubbing myself with pure butter right now…

More: Face-time. More time in people’s faces is good for me and for you. Well, I mean it’s good for you to be in the faces of people that matter to you.

Less: Immersion in the US political process. The state of my country is extremely distressing to me and our broken political process doesn’t provide much hope for solutions. Last night as Joyce and I watched Hitchcock’s classic “North by Northwest,” I said there will never be another president on Mt. Rushmore because the opposition party of any potential candidate would not allow it. I’m sure I’ll be back. I care too much, so “I can’t quit you baby, but I got to put you down for a while.”

More: Work with my hands. There’s something very fulfilling about stepping back and seeing the tangible result of mental and physical effort. I’ll let you know how that feels when I finish the basement family room.

Less: Sports Talk-Radio. Really, what’s the point?

More: New music. My spectrum is too narrow. MVRadio has opened my ears to wonderful audible scents this weekend.

Less: Rumination. Be here now.

More: Caloric deficit creation. Two related, tangible goals are to 1.) successfully run the 2011 Falmouth Road Race; and 2.) not get a sunburn with white shading under my “moobs.”

Less: Time in bed. No, not that time. Reading or watching TV for 10 minutes and falling asleep at 9-ish, then re-awakening at 1 and lying awake till 3 or 4 isn’t working.

More: Travel. I’m reading a book with a collection of Ernest Hemingway’s musings on writing. About writers, he um, writes, “The more he learns from experience, the more truly he can imagine.” I hope to learn a great deal from Paris in the springtime, but also raise my awareness to learn from simply walking local streets.

Less: Procrastination. OK, maybe these are resolutions…

More: Discipline. I’ll need it to make these improvements in 2011.

Less: Being “connected.” I can probably be more productive with much of the above if I don’t update Facebook hourly…

What tweaks are you planning?

On a recent Saturday in our luxury box seats along the first base line at church, Joyce and I listened to a sermon about Advent. Father Tim said it was about “Hope, Peace, Joy and Love.” I thought, “there a blog there,” but it didn’t formulate until today.

Hope
“When are you going to come back to us? When are you going to let it go?” My questions were softened with love, but they tore open a six month wound that’s yet to even begin healing. I believe the resultant tears were cleansing and my arms protective of heart. I left with the hope my loved one will move on with the living to honor those past.

Peace
“Peace be with you.” This week someone very close to me has been robbed of it by another. It’s natural to react defensively when attacked, but often that’s just what the antagonist wants. My advice was to wish them a Merry Christmas and the hope they find peace this holiday season.

Joy
“Oh, please tell her I said ‘thank you.’” That was the joyous response of the mother of my children when she learned Joyce had baked her favorite Anise cookies. Just then Joyce got into the car and the two chatted and laughed at Gigi’s request that I NOT leave the cookies at her house without her supervision. She knew Kyle would leave no crumbs… Twenty minutes earlier, Joyce and I speaker-spoke with her ex about his new job and the joy that accompanied it. We’re thankful we can share joy across our extended families.

Love
Um, yeah.

Tonight after picking up my little blond, we sang our way home. Once we got there, Maddy agreed to share it with all of you.

Merry Christmas

Having worked out hard last night on dead weights, carving machines and the elliptical contraption, this evening I needed to give the bones a rest. I stopped for fresh things make meatballs and tortellini, and then decided a nice red would complement the meal. Kappy’s has a good wine selection, and I browsed their Italian offerings and then the Pinot’s. What I wanted was a blend I enjoyed last week with pal Alan. It’s labeled “Hook n’ Ladder,” but I can’t find a retailer that carries it. I settled for a distinctive black and blood bottle of Apothic Red. The label and description got me:

“A captivating blend of three distinct grapes, with the dark fruit flavors of Syrah, brambly spice of Zinfandel, and a smooth elegance of Merlot.

Apothic Red reveals intense fruit aromas and flavors of rhubarb and black cherry that are complemented by hints of mocha, chocolate, brown spice and vanilla. The plush, velvety mouth feel and smooth finish round out this intriguing, full-bodied red blend.”

I gently caressed the neck of the $9.99 beauty and put it on the counter to breathe while I got busy, Italian style. After balling and setting the sauce a simmer, I killed another half hour surfing for Christmas presents. The thought of sipping the three grape merger was…Well, it was apothicating. There, I said it. Well, wrote it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I gingerly removed a goblet from the cabinet and placed it down next to the… still corked bottle.

That little aggravation aside, it’s a fine Tuesday night wine.

Yesterday was a day of retail errands with Maddy and Kyle. Port for a dinner party. John Stewart’s “Earth” for a birthday present. Some new clothes for Mr. Fashionista. As we swept through the Thanksgiving parade sponsor’s space on our way to the candlestick maker, the little blond had her left hand in mine and her right extended to brush all the fabrics she passed. “Ooohh, so soft” she’d say as she swiped sweaters and other garments within reach. As we approached a woman bent over a display of scarves, I thought, “no, she won’t.” I was wrong. The little paw remained extended right across the protruding butt like it was just another clothes rack.

We kept walking, but I at once chastised baby girl and turned back to apologize to the woman. She was smiling.

Early yesterday morning I was mentally stringing words like popcorn and cranberries, but they were stale and wouldn’t stay on the thread. The red timer on my somewhat annual Thanksgiving post just wouldn’t pop. I put it aside and starting doing (Work)work.

A couple hours later I received an email that read, “(Work)Joyce’s mom just passed away.” In yesterday’s vapor-post, I had intended to use an uplifting line from a song called “A World of Hurt,” unknowing that’s where my friend would be. It’s a place many of my generation are now experiencing with their parents. On Saturday, (Play)Joyce learned her boss’s mom had also passed away.

A little over 4 years ago, my new boss greeted me in her office saying, “Hi, I’m Joyce.” I remember doing a bit of a mental eye-roll and thinking, “Of course you are.” In the years since, we’ve done some great work and we’ve laughed a lot. I first met her mom at a 4th of July party at the parents’ home in Rockport. It didn’t take long to figure out (Work)Joyce’s humor and infectious laugh was heavily influenced by the maternal X chromosome.

So my Thanksgiving post was going to be about what I’m thankful for. How about Joyce squared? “J²,” to borrow a nickname from another J-pair. They are both smart, strong, accomplished, independent and fun. My Joyce’s live life fully and in spite of incredibly busy schedules, they always make time to help others through their civic and charitable work.

I guess the lyric fits after all…

“It ain’t too late to take a deep breath and throw yourself into it with everything you’ve got.
It’s great to be alive.”

– World of Hurt by the Drive By Truckers

Happy Thanksgiving.

I do try to keep a lid on Kyle’s obsession with the Harry Potter stuff, but often I’ll engage him. On our way to the Orlando airport yesterday, the following conversation took place:

Me: “Kyle, how come the Death Eaters can turn into black smoke when they’re flying?”
Kyle: (With incredulity) “Because they’re Death Eaters.”
Me: “Oh.”
(quiet few seconds)
Kyle: “I wish I could do that.”
Me: “I know you do, my boy.”
(few more quiet seconds)
Kyle: “I’d fly to school instead of taking the bus!”
Me: “Well, then you could sleep in.”
(laughter)

Sometime in the future when I visit my Dad’s house in “the Villages,” it will be because he died. I don’t really expect that to be anytime soon. He’s pretty healthy at 77 and his mind is totally there. Physically he struggles a bit, but that’s because he spends most of his time in front of a television. A Schwinn exercise bike I bought him a few years ago is one of the things less active than Dad in the house. He tried to tell me he rides it, but I called BS on the claim, citing the overall weakness in his legs. “If you were riding that thing you wouldn’t walk like you’re 97,” I asserted. Kyle jumped to his Papa’s defense, but Dad didn’t debate me. So, with little activity and maybe even less will to live since his wife Caroline passed 3 years ago, Leo Joseph Daley still seems relatively healthy, but you just never know. Hey, he could visit my home for a similar reason. You never know.

I imagine I’ll get a call from Dad’s friend and neighbor, Dick Greene. Dick and his wife Kay live right across the street and are wonderful to Dad. They’re dragging him along to “Katie Belle’s” for Thanksgiving dinner next week. They do try to get him out of the house and they keep an eye on him for me. Sometimes Kay will drop me an email if she thinks I need to know something. Kay always types in all caps, but in person, she never shouts, and I’m not about to point our email etiquette to her. I just send her pictures of the grandkids and great-grandkids for Dad, and the occasional thank you note.

Sometimes I’m not the best at observing life around me. I think it’s an attention deficit thing. I’m not going to look it up, but I believe Matthew Broderick as Ferris Beuller said, “Life goes by pretty quickly. If you don’t stop to look around once in a while you might miss it.” The past couple days at Dad’s I looked around. I noticed things. Dad likes to use Styrofoam cups and paper plates. He’s got mugs, glasses and plates, but I just don’t think he likes doing dishes. He didn’t do any while Kyle and I were there. I also noticed the PUR water reservoir I got him is AWOL. In its place are cases of plastic water bottles, the kind made from petroleum. Again, I think he just doesn’t want to wash the glasses.

Dad hasn’t really changed anything in the house since Caroline died. Oh, a friend of hers removed all of her clothes and other personal belongings, but the décor of the house is exactly the same. Most of the prints are of Caroline’s choosing except the Degas “Jockeys” I gave Dad one Christmas. There are pictures of kids from Caroline’s side of the family in the cabinet surrounding the 27” TV. The people in those pictures don’t have any relationship with Dad. Actually, none of that family does, even those who live a few blocks away, but that’s mostly Dad’s choice, I think. As for the still faces in those frames, I believe the fading relics maintain a comforting presence of a past he still aches for. While looking for old pictures this morning as the younger and elder Daley boys slept, I opened the cabinet doors to find VHS tapes, pale yellow plastic flowers and a brown extension cord alone in a bottom cabinet. It too has nothing to do. Dad’s coffee table had the tin cased “Band of Brothers” DVD set I got him a few years ago. I forgot to ask him if he ever watched them.

There are a few things I’ll want including the gifts I’ve sent over the years and many of the photographs (I grabbed some sweet ones to scan and write about). There are even a couple monochrome wedding pictures from 1957. The photographer that day sucked, but I’ll keep them anyway. I’d also like the framed card and golf ball from Dad’s hole in one, but my brother Corey may want that. They played some golf together. Dad’s clubs are still in the garage, along with several pairs of nice golf shoes and dozens of used balls in egg cartons. I’m hoping Dad has a change of heart and decides to lose a few more of those.

Then my next trip down can be to play some golf with the old man.

“Dad, have you ever seen a midnight show?”

My son posed that innocent question seconds after we bought our tix to the Friday midnight showing of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.”

“Yeah, man. In college we went all the time. To the same show.”
“What show?” asked the now curious Syltherin lover.
“Oh, it was a rock show, my boy.”
“Dad, what the heck was it”? reiterated a now impatient boy.
‘“The Song Remains the Same” with Zep.’ I responded proudly, like that fact bought me some level of cool with Jr. It didn’t. He had no idea what I was talking about.

Too bad, because every image, note and broken bow string of that 1973 performance documentary live permanently in some dark, wet crease of my gray, and for that matter, to this day defines rock and roll for me, but that’s not important right now.

It’s fitting this father-son road vacation will culminate with a midnight show, another new experience for Kyle. This trip has again engaged Kyle with great friends and places. I’m so thankful for the love that has blanketed Kyle throughout “the Dirty South.” Georgia, Dave, Joseph, Paulie, Maddy, Michael and Margaret… Thank you all!

As for me, the road has been different than the 2,200 miles we drove in August of 2009. I’m in a much different place, and the miles have been more affirming than cathartic. There hasn’t been any solitary “Hitching Post” moment. Sharing precious moments of this life with my son, my Dad and my friends has been joyous.