Time was when “The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.” referred to more than the character of a prospective spouse, it also described the clustering of extended families in a narrowly defined geographical area.  Then, the whole family, often 4 or even 5 generations, would gather under one roof for Christmas.  The women competed in understated ways to demonstrate prowess in cooking, decorating, and in who had the best-behaved children.  The men competed in much more overt ways.  The family was strengthened like a large muscle.

Today we are usually faithful to call our parents and siblings on our cell phone, or leave them a message on My Space.  We share photos—electronically.  We are separated, often by great distances, because of jobs and other factors we consider important.  The family muscle simply atrophies.

Nowhere is this trend more clearly demonstrated than in the senior living complex with which I have an association.  Of the 41 residents, at least 30 spent Christmas either sequestered in their apartment, or trying to recreate the past with other residents.  The social spirit is strong, but by itself, there are things that are beyond its ability.

Let me suggest that the dispersed family is a greater problem than the average person sees.  Holiday gatherings are just the public display of the life-skills training that goes on every day of the year in extended families.  Everyone understands that the Olympics cannot happen without the untiring daily labor of athletes, coaches, and staff that have set aside much of what others consider life to strive for the goal set before them.  We have lost sight of the glory that is a working extended family, and are no longer willing to make life sacrifices to pursue it.

It’s not just that Jane can no longer make her grandmother’s stuffing.  It’s more than the character built into children by gracefully enduring Aunt Matilda’s bosomy embrace.  It’s that unspoken knowledge that the world does not revolve around our own tragedies and triumphs; that there is an overarching responsibility to something higher.  The family becomes the center of our world.  People that have been exercised in this world do not usually do the unspeakable things we read about every day.  I would be willing to bet that few, if any, of the world’s major polluters ever had to wash dishes they did not eat from, or pack up and carry out the trash from a family gathering. 

So, is it possible to rescue the extended family?  Of course it is.  We are exploring Mars; Michael Phelps won 8 gold medals in a pool in Beijing.  We can do virtually anything we choose if we dedicate enough time and energy to it, and don’t mind what gets pushed to one side by the single-mindedness of the effort.  

I once knew a group of about 100 friends who met in collage and decided not to part ways after graduation.  They took locally-available jobs at much less than they could have made elsewhere.  They shared housing, and drove used Fords rather than new BMWs. They quietly married each other.  They continued to eat together at least once every week.  They rarely considered any of it a sacrifice. After 30-odd years, not everyone still lives in the same town, but to my knowledge, there has been only one divorce, no one has gone to jail, and no one eats Meals-on-Wheels alone on Christmas.

Tags: Christmas, family

I understand that toys are for kids, but what do toymakers have against adults?  Adults have the money.  By and large, adults make the final selection, so why the adult-oriented malice?  What malice, you say?  Have you had any experience trying to remove one of these semi-sentient pieces of plastic from its original package?  The new innovation seems to be plastic-coated silver wires—lots of them—inserted from the front and diabolically twisted and taped in the back, with a non-opening cardboard cover over the whole thing.  The new essential for Christmas morning (or eve) is a pair of sturdy needle-nosed pliers with wire cutters.  And patience.  It shouldn’t take 10 minutes to remove Bumblebee from his/its packaging.  I can only assume a conspiracy of malice.  But Transformers are not the worst.  A company named Toy State  makes a Caterpillar bulldozer that requires the removal of no fewer than 12 small, Phillips-head screws to free the thing from its package.  To make it worse the toy is on when you buy it—the blade randomly raises and lowers, and it makes wisecracks and loud engine noises while you are fumbling with a screwdriver.

I have a counter-conspiracy proposal.  Go to your local appliance store and ask for 2 or 3 large cardboard boxes.  The boxes will be free, come fully assembled, and need not be removed from any packaging whatsoever.  Moreover, they will be at least as entertaining to small children as an expensive toy the operation of which is generally beyond the grasp of its target age range.  Send an e-mail to the manufacture whose toy you did not buy, explaining that malicious conspiracy can be a two-way street.  Take that Hasbro.

Tags: Christmas, toys

Most people currently in my life don’t know about my photographic past.  There was a time in the 60’s when I was obsessed—shot 800 frames a month in 35mm, 6X9, and 3¼X4¼ (if you’ve heard of the latter you’re either old, or way too involved with photographic history).  I did my own processing, shot weddings, did covers for local rags, and won every contest I entered save one.  During this time, I decided to try my hand at cinematography.  Film is film, right.  I made lots of animated snapshots, but no films. 

Recently I’ve been working—OK, dabbling—at a non-fiction book.  (If you don’t know that I write sci-fi and fantasy, take a moment to navigate to my home page.)  Writing is easy for me, and more than one person has read everything I ever wrote, and is waiting for more.  Non-fiction is like digging ditches—by hand—in August.

There are people that use meticulous outlines for their work before ever starting to write.  I’m told that J. R. R. Tolkien wrote full biographies of even his minor characters.  For me, it’s more like the sculptor that says he starts with a block of marble and simply removes everything that is not the figure he had in mind.  Stephen King has said in various places, “It’s like we’re walking through a desert and all at once, poking up through the hardpan, we see the top of a chimney. You know there’s a house under there, or at least you assume there’s a house under there, and I’m pretty sure that I can dig it up if I want.”

When I find such a chimney, I start with a strong “what if,” an engaging opening scene, and an interesting character.  The character plays out the scene; other characters wander, charge, or stumble in from the wings, and say something in keeping with their persona.  If this doesn’t dig up a reasonably interesting house with a clear plot, I fill in the hole and try again.  Perhaps 1% make the cut.  I’m finding that non-fiction doesn’t work that way.  My fictional characters speak; I listen and write it down.  My non-fiction doesn’t have characters—or sets to decorate—or stages to manage.  It has an idea to expound, and defend.

If I can find the talent, I believe the non-fiction piece—a book about my understanding of marriage after 50 years experience—will be more rewarding than all the aliens and Elders I ever created.  It’s a big if.  I bailed on my attempt at cinematography—gave away my equipment, and never again saddled family and friends with animated snapshots.  Stay tuned; if you see something called One Flesh on my site, you’ll know I slew my dragons, and actually wrote it.  If not…

Tags: marriage, non-fiction, writing

The Apple Shed, in Cedaredge, CO is a boutique displaying the talent of artists, local and otherwise.  As the name implies, it occupies an old apple packing plant; the parent company still ships apples from a modern plant next door.  In one corner of the boutique is a classy little sandwich shop serving up their own version of the classics plus a few that are unique.

Some time ago, the owners expanded their market to include The Garden Center in Delta, Co.  While it is a working greenhouse, it also includes fine art.  (My wife’s Christmas present came from there.)  If you know Bachman’s in Minneapolis, you’ll have some idea, although nothing on the scale of that landmark.  

More recently, the Garden center has added a clone of the Apple Shed restaurant.  So far, advertising is pretty much limited to word-of-mouth and a tiny sign attached to the main Garden Center sign on the highway.  It’s a pity.  As I have complained in earlier posts, the area is hardly saturated with nice restaurants.  I have, on separate occasions, taken my wife, my boss, and my staff there; it is up-scale without being stuffy and the food is delicious. 

So here we go.  In the interest of preserving one of the few places in Delta suitable for squiring a gentle lady to lunch, please take the trouble to find the place (just south of town on highway 50) and spend money.  Without money, no good thing can long survive.

Tags: Add new tag

We are officially in a recession.  Amid all the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, there are a few scattered points of light.

·   Personal debt went down for the first time since they started tracking it in the 50’s.  Part of it is because home loans are disappearing into the black hole of foreclosure.  Part of it is the clear fact that it’s more difficult to get a new loan.  There is a debate about whether personal debt is good or bad; in my less-than-humble opinion, paying interest on anything that depreciates is just feeding from the three main consumer food groups: the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life.

·   Gasoline prices dropped so dramatically that many of the pundits who said we would never see $2.00/gallon prices again are hiding their heads.  Adjusted for inflation, $.18 gasoline in 1950 would cost about $1.66 today.  I just filled up at Sam’s Club for $1.60.  As the oil companies are fond of saying, it’s supply and demand, and we’re demanding less—a lot less.

·   Highway deaths have dropped dramatically.  It’s not that the nouveau-poor drive better; it’s that we all drive less.  Although I once knew a mother and daughter that flew to Los Vegas for lunch, few of us currently think it appropriate to drive 30 miles for something as trivial.  (OK, she worked for an airline.)

Do reduced circumstances make us smarter?  I wouldn’t think so.  At my age, the trick is to keep what little intellect I once had, and yet I spend less.  My house payment is not delinquent; I pay my credit cards off every month; I could stand to lose a few pounds—poverty has not yet reached my door.  And yet I spend less.  One of my characters once observed that he preferred to learn from the blister on someone else’s finger.  There’s got to be a financial metaphor in there somewhere.

Tags: saving, the economy

WARNING: Theology alert!  If this is not where you live, a blessing on you: may you receive everything on your Christmas list.

 

I don’t hate Christmas, really, I don’t.  I’m not fond of what it has become, but I have no desire to throw the baby out just because the bathwater has exceeded the tolerable level of turbidity.  I made peace with most of my issues years ago:

·   We don’t know the date of the birth of Jesus of Nazareth, but picking a date to celebrate is not a bad thing. 

·   Christmas trees, holly, and all the decorative traditions, not to mention St. Nicolas/Santa Claus are European pagan traditions, but probably harmless.  At the very least, one is free to opt out of them. 

·   No one knows how many wise men there were, let alone their names—there were three gifts—and the traditional crèche with shepherds and wise men together at the manger is a sweet oversimplification of the story. 

The part that bothers me is that the Birthday Boy has been squeezed out.  The iconic modern Christmas song is Eartha Kitt’s 1953 classic Santa Baby.  My great-grandchildren have been taught better, but Christmas is still about whether they will score a new Wii console (yes), and can they come to the timeshare with us (no).  There is no trace of, “…this do ye… in remembrance of me.” 

The quote, of course, refers to the Eucharist—communion if you’re Protestant—but the concept of periodically doing something to remind us of who we are, whose we are, and how great a gift we have been given is valid in both cases.  It’s good to give gifts—“…freely ye have received, freely give.”—but the emphasis has to be on the, “freely ye have received” end and not on enriching Sam Walton’s heirs.

I can imagine a group of people throwing me a birthday party, and sending me a note.  “We held a party in your honor.  The food was spectacular; everybody exchanged gifts, and had a wonderful time.  We would have invited you, but we know how busy you are.  We’re already planning for next year.”

My only response would be, “I’m glad you had a good time.  In regards to next year, party on, but please don’t use my name.”  

Dave

Tags: Christmas, religon

Colorado’s Western Slope is a mixture of high desert and spectacular mountain vistas—a place where any house outside the corporate limits of a city is likely to have a corral and a horse or two.  It’s a good place to live, and a wholesome place to raise children.  It is, however restaurant challenged.  Not to say that there aren’t good restaurants, but they are few enough that crowding is a problem and service sometimes suffers.  As you move to smaller cities, the problem is simple; there pretty much aren’t any.  If you know where to look, however, a few do exist.

I found one in Montrose that seems to live under a canopy of camouflage netting.  If you say Garlic Mike’s, even the locals scratch their heads.  Never mind the name, it’s a comfortable, elegantly rustic little Italian restaurant hidden back on Rose Lane, a tiny road that even my GPS can’t find.  The food is superb; it’s not often you hear, “The bread will be here in just a moment; it’s not out of the oven yet.”  The wait staff are gracious, and know enough not to stick their elbow in your face while filling your glass.  For the time being, you can get a full meal—appetizer, wine, soup or salad, entrée, and dessert for about $17.00.

Garlic Mike’s leaves me with a dilemma: if I tell enough people they will find it, and it will be just as crowded as the other three good restaurants within driving distance. If I don’t, it may close—no restaurant can stay open without customers.

Tags: Colorado, restaurants, Western Slope

I just learned a new term—Naturally Occurring Retirement Community, or NORC.  A NORC is a community or neighborhood where residents remain for years, and age as neighbors.  According to Seniorresource.com, 27% of seniors live in one.

All joking aside, and I do a lot of joking, I graciously accept the senior discount some restaurants give me without even asking, but I don’t think of myself as old.  Still, during the course of listening to some highly motivated, intelligent, and caring young people talk about the concept and all the ways it can become a full-fledged care system, it occurred to me that I already live in a NORC.  We’re not organized.  We have no mutual care plans established.  We hardly know each other, but any children on the street are assumed to be visitors.  We clearly fall into the definition of a senior community (80% of households have a member at least 55 years old). 

So, who cares?  We didn’t buy the house because our neighbors were aging, we bought it because it’s all on one floor, we could afford it, and with a little skill I can chip a ball from my back yard onto the 7^th green.  Well, I care, for starters. 

We have always been gypsies at heart, but at some point one needs to contemplate growing old.  It’s unlikely that we will be able to gather our far-flung family around us, and we will soon begin to need a little help with the ordinary tasks of living.  Already I find myself saying, like Samson, that I will go out as before and “shake myself,” not knowing that the strength has gone from me.  Organizing the already-graying neighborhood into a care-giving unit seems reasonable.  The Volunteers of America, with whom I have been associated for some years, recently voted to make this and other related concepts the focus of their attention for the foreseeable future. 

In my case, it is probably just in time.  Nothing good happens overnight.

Tags: aging, NORC, voa