Indian plums, John Denver, and a bike named Rhonda

Yesterday, Peggy and I took my new bike to the woods. I was going to bike alongside her as she walked, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t go slow enough uphill to match her pace, and it was no fun braking all the way downhill. We decided that she needs to get a bike, and that we need to revamp the van so we can both camp in it and carry bikes in it. We might even need a bike trailer for the dogs—if not now, in a year or two.

I tried my bike on hills and in loose gravel. It climbed as lithely as a mountain goat and descended as stolidly as an army tank. I decided that it wasn’t a bike after all, but a mythological being come to life. I had never seen anything like it. I had never known there was anything like it. The only hills that I was unable to climb were so steep that the bike threatened to somersault backwards. It was limited by me, not me by it. If it were a woman, it would have already gone off to find someone younger and more exciting. If I called it a slut, I would mean the word as a compliment—it is cherry red. The only thing it can’t do on its wide tires is to roll really fast, but I didn’t buy it to roll really fast. I bought it to climb like a mountain goat and to descend like an army tank. I think I’ll name it Rhonda.

The day was sunny, the temperature around seventy. It was my first trip to the woods in many months. After my surgery, I pretty much stopped going, because I didn’t know what to do once I got there. Going was just too sad, and I felt just too bad that my limitation was weighing on Peggy. She didn’t complain, but I knew how I would feel if I were her. Hiking has been too much a part of our life for too many years.

So, yesterday was my first time out of town in a long time, and the day was perfect. There were new leaves and new flowers. One book described the Indian plum this way, “It’s flowers smell like a cross between cat urine and watermelon.” Tell me, is that a good odor smell or a bad odor? Regardless, it a very alive odor.

Peggy napped while I threw a stick into Winberry Creek for Bonnie. She quickly learned to swim at a trajectory that would intersect the stick. I was surprised by how fast she learned this, because the concept of gravity is a challenge for her. For example, she will take her tennis ball to the top of a set of steps and roll it down for me to fetch. Only sometimes when she drops the ball, the ball won’t roll. When this happens, she stares at it as if to say, “I have done my part, ball, and now it is time for you to do yours.”

I could tell that Bonnie needs the woods too. A blue heeler is too near the wild to be a town dog. In town, Bonnie is only half alive, but in the woods, she’s 1 1/2 times alive. It’s magical to see a creature become so alive that she can’t contain it all. It’s as if she has crossed some boundary. We usually think of a creature—or a human—as being either alive or dead, but maybe that’s a little like thinking of something as either healthy or unhealthy. Maybe nothing IS. Maybe everything exists on a continuum.

Peggy and I had been playing a CD by John Denver about his love for water, and sunshine, and mountains. I looked at the water, and the sunshine, and the mountains; and for the first time, I felt the full depth of my sadness over losing these things, and I could not contain it. I have gone to the woods since my earliest remembrances, and I saw that I must go back, no matter what. I cannot imagine how people survive without the woods. How can they not experience a void? For most of our history, our species has lived intimately with nature, and even when people don’t know they need that intimacy, I suspect they suffer from the lack of it.

John Denver died at 53, and this makes his songs the more poignant. I understand death about as well as Bonnie understands gravity. Phil (my friend who is dying of cancer) was at lodge this week, much to everyone’s surprise. He arrived late, and walked across the room slow and stooped, like an old, old man. Even those who can no longer hear well could hear Phil breathing, because he breathed like a man who had run a marathon. The lodge grew very quiet as we watched him walk to his seat. I told myself to memorize how he looked, because I knew I would never see him cross that room again.”

Death is one of those things that all the money in the world, and all the militaries in the world, and all of everything else that is powerful in the world, can neither prevent nor reverse. Even if all the powerful of the world tried as hard as they could at the same time, they wouldn’t be able to force so much as an amoeba to live—or bring it back to life. Such thoughts put our power in perspective.

The question then becomes how I should feel about us, given our limitations. Sometimes, it’s easy to take the route of the people at the anti-war rally this morning, and hate the weakness that I see all around me, but, again, hatred is not useful except that it makes killing easier. And even though killing is necessary sometimes, I’m not sure that hatred is a good thing even then. If I’m being attacked by a bear, will it help to hate the bear that I am about to shoot? I actually doubt that there is any situation in which hatred does more good than it does harm.

Two events

I attended two predictable events today. First, a large peace rally. Unlike the small ones, it had speakers, booths, and hard feelings. On one sign a picture of President Bush was covered by a swastika; in another, he was shown alongside Nazi war criminals. I saw posters screaming, “We are Fucked,” and “Fuck the USA.” “One World Socialism” was touted alongside other liberal causes. Many people had tattoos, piercings, dreadlocks, and freakishly colored hair. After the speakers were done, longhaired men stood in a circle drumming.

I saw only one person who held a pro-war sign. I asked him if he was a veteran. “Special forces,” he said. I shook his hand and thanked him for his service. I tried to engage him in conversation, but he assumed that I too was a veteran, and he wouldn’t speak to me when he learned otherwise. He shouted at the news media; he accused me of blocking his sign; his lips twisted with rage. I moved on. Reuben, a rat-terrier appeared. I don’t know his owner’s name—although she often brings him to my house to play with Baxter—so I call her Mrs. Reuben. Reuben the dog was distressed. “This is his first demonstration,” Mrs. Reuben explained.

What is the good of all this hatred, I wondered. Really, who does it reach? What is the benefit of saying by implication, “I’m for peace, and if you don’t agree with me, I’d just as soon shit on your grave.” As least this was the sentiment that I heard screaming at me from many of the signs and many of the faces. I thought of the French Revolution, and I surmised that, like Robespierre, these people lacked the ability, or even the will, to do anything but destroy.

I saw nothing that I didn’t expect, yet it still depressed me, utterly depressed me, because, as I thought, if so many of the people who are for peace are filled with hatred, where is there room for hope? Where is the rosy glow before the dawn? There is none. It’s all darkness, darkness, and more darkness. I went not to support but to observe, and I had wrongly thought that this would protect me from being so strongly affected.

There were also cops on bicycles and motorcycles, and, a block away, a white van that had Department of Homeland Security on the sides. Brawny, crew-cut men stood near the van. They are all caricatures, I thought—the demonstrators, the cops, the feds…. It’s like a movie set.

I then biked to my mineral club’s meeting and picnic. The new president is only interested in lapidary, and every meeting is devoted to it. This event was supposed to last five hours, but I only stayed an hour and a half—just long enough to eat and socialize before the rock saws and polishers were brought out. People didn’t understand why I was leaving. They wondered (or so I thought) if I was mad. I went out of my way to be nice so as to reassure them.

Two mineral club people had asked me over lunch if I was new to the group. I said that no, I served as the membership officer last year (I didn’t add that I had given oral reports at every meeting). Such is the impression I have made on the Eugene Mineral Club. For two years, I’ve been simultaneously inside and outside. It’s this lapidary thing that pushes me away. So then, why do I go? I go partly for the scant geological knowledge that I receive, and partly because I feel sorry for a club that is dying. I can neither help them nor abandon them.

Bikes versus cars

The common morality in regard to the automobile is based upon obeying the law, and this makes it easy for people to dismiss their own driving as having little impact upon pollution or our dependence upon foreign oil. I even know a great many motorists who hate bicyclists, because, as they claim, bicyclists use the roads without paying a gas tax. Most road funds come from other taxes, but even if this were not true, shouldn’t bicyclists be given a break for the harm they don’t do? They don’t stink up the air; they don’t contribute to global warming; they don’t make noise; they don’t leak oil; they don’t wear out the pavement; they don’t increase our dependence upon the Middle East; and they almost never kill people. None of these factors are relevant in the minds of people who hate bicyclists. I think that if they were honest, they would have to admit that they mostly hate bikes because bikes are not the common mode of transport (they’re damned near un-American to hear some people tell it), and because they slow traffic.

I just returned from the supermarket. I was obliged to bike on a busy street for part of the trip, and his gave me two choices: I could ride in the right-hand traffic lane, or I could ride where people park. The traffic lane had been paved repeatedly since the parking area had been paved, so the pavement in the parking area was rough, cracked, and potholed. It also contained an occasional parked car along with such roadside obstacles as rocks, broken bottles, and sand from street deicing. But the traffic lane was filled with motorists who wouldn’t hesitate to honk, curse, and pass without changing lanes. When a motorist is in a hurry, and something that is slow and small blocks his way, the impulse is to show the offender who owns the road. This means that dozens of times per mile, two and three ton hunks of steel piloted by drivers of varying abilities and degrees of sobriety pass within twelve inches of my handlebars at forty miles per hour.

Since most motorists exercise considerable caution when passing that close to a stationary car in a parking lot, I must conclude that they place little value upon my life as a bicyclist, although I’m sure they would be extremely sorry—for themselves at least—if they were hauled into court for killing me. Unfortunately, juries are composed largely of drivers who could just as easily be on trial themselves, and are therefore eager to pardon their brethren.

Cars hit bikes so frequently in Eugene that such accidents aren’t mentioned by the press unless someone was killed or the motorist fled. There was an incident last weekend in which a man in a Jeep Cherokee hit a woman on a bike (and in a bike lane), jumped from his SUV, cursed her as she lay on the pavement, got back into his SUV, crushed her bicycle, and fled the scene. The very idea that someone of driving age would choose to ride a bicycle when she could be driving a car absolutely infuriates a some people even in this city that is known for being bicycle friendly.

Pedestrians are treated some better if only because they are in the road less. But let one try crossing the road. (Two blocks from where the bicyclist was hit by the Jeep, a pedestrian was killed by a hit-and-run driver the previous weekend.) Eugene recently installed a great many pedestrian/bicycle crosswalks, yet not more than one out of fifty cars will actually allow a pedestrian to cross. I see person after person waiting in the crosswalk, not until a car yields to him, but until no more cars are coming. I’m not so timid. No privileged class gives up privileges until forced.

Don's car is broken into

Don, one of my Masonic brothers, discovered after lodge tonight that his new Toyota station wagon had been broken into and a leather briefcase stolen. I listened in astonishment as he went through his car and listed the items that were not stolen—his cell phone, his .45, his other leather briefcase, his set of electrical tools, and his billfold with cash and credit cards. “That thief was really dumb to leave all this!” he exclaimed. I bit my lip.

No, Don is not dumb. Don is an optimist. As he put it, “I knew something like this could happen, but I never thought it would.” By comparison, I assume that “something like this” is practically guaranteed to happen, but that I can minimize the damage by preparing for it. I had not even left my bicycle outside during lodge, but had taken it indoors and locked it, and before lodge, I had been searching the Internet for ways to beef up my window security despite the two keyed locks and protective film that I already have on every window.

During lodge, I had listened in awe as Don spoke untold—and unwritten—pages of Masonic ritual flawlessly. Dumb he isn’t, except in a selective sort of way.

Lodge ritual is both sacred and something that is not to be taken too seriously. As with church liturgy, it is more beautiful when performed well, but it must also have heart. Otherwise, computers could be programmed to speak the words, and the people could sit back and listen. There are two parts to an ordinary meeting. There is the ritual part, and there is the business part, and the former is as beautiful as the latter is mundane. I thrive on the former. It lifts me out of myself. I speak and perform in an altered state. I simultaneously experience reverence and laughter. I feel connected with something that stretches around the world and through the centuries.

Don told us tonight that he recently met the Masonic Grand Master of Iran. If the man lived in Iran, he would be killed, so the temporary headquarters of the Iranian Grand Lodge is in Los Angeles. In this day of diminishing freedoms and privacies in my own country, I can at least be grateful that my situation is not so bad as what people in most times and places have suffered.

Six hours in a parking lot

I spent six hours today standing in a parking lot collecting signatures to force the county income tax onto the November ballot—the same income tax that was defeated on last November’s ballot. One hundred volunteers collected signatures in eight locations. My location had a steady stream of voters despite the fact that the Register Guard and at least one local television station reported that the commissioners were “probably” going to do away with the tax anyway. When I asked people why, having heard this, they still came—thirty miles in some cases—they all said that they don’t trust the commissioners or the media. Many people appear to place a negative truth correlation upon what they are told by the powerful. A local TV station sent people to the wrong location for our rally last week, and the Register Guard sent them to the wrong location for my signature station today—in a paid ad, no less. Accidents? Even if they were, they would suggest that the media is untrustworthy.

I asked one of the three men who started the petition how it came about. He said that he and the other two work together, and that they often threaten to take action against one government outrage or another, but that, until now, their threats had fizzled. This time, one of them donated $10,000 for legal fees and advertising, and they all took off from work to support the effort.

The volunteers at my station thanked everyone who signed. Many of those we thanked pointed out that it was we who were doing all the work, but we didn’t see it that way. As one volunteer said, “We could stand behind these tables all day, but if people didn’t care enough to show up, we would be wasting our time.”

A perfect fit bike, fun with my internist

T’was a big day. I got my new bike out of the shop after leaving it overnight for its second fitting adjustment. I paid $100 extra for a “custom designed perfect fit” only to discover that the only way I could get it was to go home and measure everything about my old bike, and have the custom design team redo the new one to match it.

I’m reminded of a woman who told me that she had a contractor come out to see about replacing her patio door. The man failed to notice that the door was closed, and he walked into it and broke it. His replaced it with a new door of her choosing, entirely at his expense. Obviously pleased with her sagacity the woman assured me that she would “never hire that klutz again.” I concluded from this that she was a hard and silly woman indeed, because it is not the perfect workman who is to be cherished but the workman who is willing to keep plugging away until the job is right.

Another reason it’s a big day…. The results of my follow-up blood-work were in, so I went to the doc to talk about why it was screwed up. He said I have low testosterone. He added that the problem is easily and cheaply remediable with shots, and so he shotted me. I feel better already, like a bull rather than a steer (as he put it). Come to think of it, I felt like a bull anyway, and was astounded that my testosterone was low, so maybe I’m aroused by my new bicycle rather than my new testosterone.

A strange arousal, perhaps, but surely not a bad arousal. Better a bike than a farm animal, I always say, if for no other reason than that bikes don’t kick or transmit hoof-and-mouth disease. Besides, I don’t know where I would keep a farm animal, although, come to think of it, Bonnie is a herd dog, so she would probably enjoy having something to herd—something other than Baxter who just lies on his back and looks despondent when she tries to herd him. But, on the other hand, there’s Peggy to consider. If your spouse told you, “Look, I’ve absolutely, positively got to have a romantic relationship with either a bicycle or a farm animal—you choose;” what would you say—“Get a cow, honey. I’ve been wanting to try my hand at cheese-making.” I don’t think so.

So, Bonnie votes for a farm animal, whereas Peggy would no doubt prefer a bicycle—if I had enough testosterone to ask her—but Peggy can give me infinitely more grief when she’s frustrated. Easy choice, no? Wife—ten. Dog—zilch.

Now for some doctor jokes, or rather jokes told to me by my doctor.

“Why do men have holes in the ends of their penises? So their brains can get oxygen.”

How are bulls able to screw three times a day? They get a different cow each time.”

“Yeah, men are different,” I said. “With women, sex is mostly a function of what’s upstairs. They’re defective that way.”

“You’re right,” he said sadly, as we gave one another a manly hug. “Too bad we don’t know how to fix them.”

“Well, maybe you can work on it after you learn how to cure the common cold,” I offered.

“Yeah, maybe we can,” he answered, but, with a notable lack of optimism.

Another demonstration with Peg

I had a good birthday. Shirley gave me daffodils and chocolates; Walt gave me comb honey from his hive; Peggy’s parents gave me their usual $25; others sent cards; and I got word that my new bike was ready. I didn’t pick it up until Saturday (my birthday being on Thursday), because I wanted to take my first ride without getting rained on. This bike “feels” the pavement more than my other one, and the vibration puts my hands to sleep. I took it back today for some modifications, but the problem wasn’t eliminated, and I anticipate it being even worse when I go off-road. I can get my money back within thirty days, but I am loathe to ask for it. Although I went to lengths to make a prudent decision before I ordered, I obviously failed to go far enough, and for that I feel badly. On the other hand, I’m not about to eat $1,700. My hope is that further handlebar adjustments will remedy the problem.

While I was at the bike store today, an elderly couple arrived to pick up their new bikes. I spoke with them for a long while, and the man said he and his wife have been tandem enthusiasts for years, but that Parkinson’s has made it unsafe for him, forcing them to return to “beginners’ bikes” as he scornfully called a regular bicycle. I know nothing about tandems, but thought he looked ready for a trike. I considered saying as much, but since he was already indignant about his “beginner’s bike,” I bit my lip. I felt sorry for his wife who quietly endured his bitterness, and I felt disgusted with him for ruining what might have been a joyous occasion. Later, I realized that his unhappiness might not have been entirely a result of selfishness. He might have also felt remorse that his failing body had deprived his wife of something she loved. I know the feeling since I can no longer hike with Peggy.

I went to the monthly neighborhood peace vigil last night. We had fourteen this time, which was about double last month. I also went to the federal building today to stand with Peg. She was in the twelfth day of a two-week fast, and confessed to feeling sickly. I caught her at her second of three demonstrations today. The first was a sit-in at Congressman DeFazio’s office. She said that people were arrested, but that she was not among them. “We take turns,” she explained. Since no mention of these arrests ever occurs on the news, I don’t know what the point is.

I have observed that the spiritually oriented protestors (like Peg, who is a Quaker) act on the basis of what feels right rather than on what seems pragmatic. This causes me wonder if the point of their protests is more to feel good than to do good. Since I am out there with them, I am forced to ask myself the same question, and I can but offer that I support them because their dedication makes me ashamed to do otherwise, and because of my hope that, together, we can inspire others to join us until our numbers become great enough to end the war. If nothing else, our efforts might bring more thoughtfulness and compassion into the lives of those who see us. For this reason, I would never knowingly demonstrate with anyone who planned to use harsh words or destructive behavior. To paraphrase a Quaker admonition: When you work to end war, be sure that you are free of the spirit that causes war.

Right after her daily stint at the federal building, Peg crossed the street to protest with “Women in Black.” True to their name, they all wore black. I biked home, sick as always from exhaust fumes. I asked Peg if the exhaust doesn’t bother her, especially in her weakened condition. She said, “I worry about it, and many people have had to stop coming because of it, but I always think about how much worse the people in Iraq are suffering.”

Peaceniks in the snow

I went to the federal building for a peace demonstration today. As I biked, a stiff wind blew wet snow into my face, stinging me with surprising sharpness. No one was there when I arrived, so I speculated that maybe I was the demonstration, and this posed a problem because I had no sign. Then I saw a woman slowly approaching with a five-foot high poster that read “Vigil and Fast for National Repentance and World Healing.” Her name was Peg, and she said she hadn’t eaten in a week, and that her back was killing her. Her every word and movement was in slow motion, and, although she showed a friendly interest in me, she had trouble tracking what I said. Others began to arrive singly until we numbered five women and myself. Hearing my accent, someone asked what part of the South I was from, and said she had lived ten miles from there. Finally, another man appeared. I was the youngster of the group.

Unlike on Saturday, I was very much in the mood for a protest, so I stood right next to the curb holding a borrowed sign. I alternated between waving and smiling at the four lanes of traffic from the west, and—when they had to stop for the light—waving and smiling at the three lanes of traffic from the north. Hundreds honked and waved back, including a cop and a bus driver. I chatted amiably with my companions, all of whom seemed pleased-as-punch to be out demonstrating on one of the foulest days of the year. I commented that we were surely a scraggly looking group in our comfortable but unstylish raingear. Someone replied that, as peaceniks go, we were more scruffy than scraggly. I could but defer to the voice of experience. After an hour, we formed a circle, held hands, and chanted: “May all beings be safe. May all beings be well. May all beings be happy. May all beings be free,” before going our separate ways. Peg said she comes everyday, so maybe I will see her tomorrow.

This was my third demonstration in a month. I also wrote to Republican Senator Gordon Smith to thank him for his bravery in opposing the war, and I had a letter about bicyclists published by the Register Guard. Even if nothing I do makes the least bit of difference, I feel better for having done it. The hardest thing is to say nothing. The next hardest thing is to speak out alone. The easiest thing is to speak out as a member of a group.

I felt increasingly sick during the demonstration. My chest is congested, and the exhaust fumes were torturous. The cold and wet didn’t do me any good either. By the time I got home, I was close to vomiting. Two hours and a hot shower later, I am still close to vomiting.

I asked Peggy to go with me to the demonstration, but she said she worried that some Marine with PTSD might come by and blow us all away. When I told one of the demonstrators this, she said she had been spat upon and hit, but never shot. She speculated that the spitter must have been a smoker, because the sputum was green and thick.

Anti-tax, anti-war

Local voters rejected a county income tax in November only to have county commissioners authorize it this week. Today, I attended a protest in front of city hall. Hundreds of motorists honked in support, but none offered to stand in the rain with us. One yelled (humorously, I supposed), “Get a job!” to which someone of our group yelled back, “That’s the problem—we have jobs.”

I hate standing on a street corner holding a sign. At first, I assumed a deadpan expression simply because I didn’t know what else to do. After awhile, I thought I might be more useful if I smiled and waved. I could do the latter easily enough, but I was in no mood for the former.

Eugene being Eugene, there was another protest across the street (the city hall, the courthouse, and the federal building are on adjacent blocks), this one against the war. I noticed three men with a Marine Corps banner approaching the peace activists, and I wondered if they were for or against the war. I suspected they were for it, because they looked really pissed-off. Sure enough, they placed themselves between the peaceniks and the street, willfully obscuring the signs of the former. One of the Marines screamed that anyone who opposes the War in Iraq shows contempt for every Marine who ever died in any battle of any war (he then listed a dozen or more battles). I was appalled by his logic, and even more appalled when the leader of my group yelled back, “We are with you and the United States Marine Corps, and not with those guys behind you there.”

“Wait just a minute here!” I said to myself, but I held my peace because I didn’t want to take energy away from the protest I had come to support. When the Marines crossed to our side of the street, I worried that the pro-war people and the anti-tax people would look like one big happy family, but I couldn’t think of anything to do about it. When I could stand the situation no longer, I yelled to the people on the other corner, “I hate the damn war. We never should have never gone there in the first place, but now that we’re there, we should come home yesterday.” The people on my side ignored me, and the heavy rain and traffic noise kept the people on the other side from hearing me, so I crossed over. They welcomed me warmly, but I didn’t stay long because I didn’t want my anti-tax placard to dilute their protest.

In less than an hour, all three protests disbanded, because the rain was drenching us and destroying our signs. On one side of the street, I had volunteered to gather signatures for an anti-tax ballot measure, and on the other, I volunteered to attend the next war protest. As with the recent neighborhood war protest, I don’t expect the ones at the Federal Building to shorten the war, but I like the idea of supporting those who support issues that I believe in.

Boots returns home

As I sat in Peggy’s recliner last night in the wee hours (which were my worst hours when my father was dying), I remembered a runaway cat named Boots from thirty years ago. My Georgia cousin, Carrie, had given Boots to me because she was allergic to his fur. I drove him 450 miles back to Mississippi, and he soon disappeared. I said nothing about this to Carrie, but she called nine months later to tell me that Boots had come home. He scratched on the door, she said, and went straight through the house to where his bowl used to stay.

Bonnie and Baxter have a strange way of appearing unheralded when something of interest is about to happen. Like if I take cheese from the refrigerator. Even if I try to be sneaky about it, they are capable of awakening from a deep sleep at the other end of the house and making their way to the kitchen before I can get the package open.

My species has habitually demonstrated the capacity for one generation to declare whole groups of people as hopelessly, obviously, and unarguably inferior, only to have their own children declare them a hopeless, obvious, and unarguable embarrassment. I suspect that our feelings of superiority over other animals is similar, only they present our bigotry with a greater challenge because they compare to us so poorly in some ways even while possessing gifts that we can scarcely imagine in others. What pet lover has not looked at his dog or cat and wished mightily that he could see through their eyes? Whole worlds at our fingertips, yet they might as well be on the far side of the galaxy.

Boots returns home

As I sat in Peggy’s recliner last night in the wee hours (which were my worst hours when my father was dying), I remembered a runaway cat named Boots from thirty years ago. My Georgia cousin, Carrie, had given Boots to me because she was allergic to his fur. I drove him 450 miles back to Mississippi, and he soon disappeared. I said nothing about this to Carrie, but she called nine months later to tell me that Boots had come home. He scratched on the door, she said, and went straight through the house to where his bowl used to stay.

Bonnie and Baxter have a strange way of appearing unheralded when something of interest is about to happen. Like if I take cheese from the refrigerator. Even if I try to be sneaky about it, they are capable of awakening from a deep sleep at the other end of the house and making their way to the kitchen before I can get the package open.

My species has habitually demonstrated the capacity for one generation to declare whole groups of people as hopelessly, obviously, and unarguably inferior, only to have their own children declare them a hopeless, obvious, and unarguable embarrassment. I suspect that our feelings of superiority over other animals is similar, only they present our bigotry with a greater challenge because they compare to us so poorly in some ways even while possessing gifts that we can scarcely imagine in others. What pet lover has not looked at his dog or cat and wished mightily that he could see through their eyes? Whole worlds at our fingertips, yet they might as well be on the far side of the galaxy.

Everyone knows that old people are senile.

I caught a cold three weeks ago, and was hit by a second one just as I was getting over the first. Within minutes yesterday, it went from my head to my chest. I can no longer breathe lying down, and breathing sitting up isn’t any great shakes either, so I suppose I either have pneumonia or close to it.

Dad was the last person to have pneumonia in this house. I remember the gurgling, coffee maker sound of his slow drowning, and the green froth that ran from his mouth in a steady stream. I found his death hard to watch and worse to listen to, but then he was my father. Attending a death is a privilege, and attending a parent’s death is a privilege many times over.

Thank God, my father died here at home, sans tubes, sans blood draws, sans all that kind of stuff that is a miracle to those who have a chance but torture to those who don’t. Save me from hospitals and nursing homes, if you please. If all else fails, and I am in pain, hide me in a ditch with a little bottle of morphine or, if you’re short on morphine, my .357, so I can die on my own terms, so I can embrace death as my final friend.

When Peggy was a young nurse, she took part in tying old people to their beds and treating them against their wills. After all, everyone knows that old people are senile even if they don’t act it. Besides, no person in his right mind would refuse everything that modern medicine had to offer, would he? No rational person would choose to die today if she could survive until tomorrow, regardless of the terms. Yes, Peggy did things then that she would not do now, and that were probably illegal even when she did them. But that’s one of the funny things about the law: large and respected institutions can simply ignore it when they think they’re helping someone, especially when the person they think they’re helping is powerless to resist. As it is said, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

ORCAS is gone, I bike across town

Peggy drove across town today, and I later went to meet her on my bike. It was a two-hour trip—the way I did it. I biked streets that I hadn’t been on in a decade and others that I had never been on. I passed the Oregon Center for Applied Science (ORCAS) where I worked as an on-call handyman for years. Several blocks later, I realized that I hadn’t actually seen the two large buildings, so I biked back to discover that they were gone, torn down, all the way beneath the ground. Only the trees and parking lot remained. I could see where I parked, where I set up my sawhorses, and where I entered the buildings. I never imagined that all my work would be so quickly destroyed, and I felt bad about it, although the knowledge quickly came to me that I was but a minor player at ORCAS and therefore a minor loser. The irredeemable devastation before me became a metaphor for the end of all things as I stood in the gray overcast.

Shortly afterwards, I passed the Shari’s where Don and Dorrie took Peggy and me to eat. They were millionaires, so I expected something better, but Shari’s was their favorite place. Don died twelve years ago, and Dorrie soon followed; leaving their money to a son who is characterized by the arrogance and sense of entitlement that follow most rich men’s children.

On one part of my journey, I passed through a residential area of curving streets, most of which were named for trees that don’t grow naturally within a thousand miles of here. The day being cloudy, I might have lost my bearings if not for occasional sightings of the Coburg Hills. I forget how big Eugene has grown, how many hundreds of thousands of people carry on lives that I am in utter ignorance of, all within a short distance of my home.

I wasn’t exactly lost in these suburbs, but I didn’t know my route out either, and the thought came to me that a flat tire would present quite a problem. It would prevent me from either meeting Peggy or letting her know what had become of me. I saw no place except people’s yards to leave my bike; and I doubted my ability to walk out. I knew that I would have to knock on doors; and I knew that if I were the people behind those doors, I probably would not open them for fear of a home invasion robbery. I resolved to carry tools in the future.

Later, I passed two teenagers on a bike path. I studied them as they approached because they were on bikes that were so tiny—and with seats so low—that their knees practically touched their chins on the upstroke. One smiled at me and said, “Hi, how are you doing?” The other also smiled and said, “Do you want to fight?” I said nothing, and they screamed profanities. I took comfort in the thought that I could easily outrun them, not that I bothered to look back to see if they were in pursuit. I later wished (or half-wished) that I had talked to them in an effort to understand why they would abuse an old man (for I must have looked old to them) on a bike path; but this would have put me at risk of underestimating both the extent of their meanness and the extent of my ability to elicit their goodness. Riding a bike exposes a person to things he would never experience behind two tons of steel.

Cheap versus frugal

A year ago to the hour, I was having knee surgery. Today, my application to an experimental drug study for people with severe arthritis was accepted. I feared it might not be because, after all, how severe is severe? Surely, there are people who are worse off than I.

I upgraded my order for a new bike, putting it at $1,700. If my father knew I was spending that much on a bike, he would declare me a fool. The difference between us is that I am frugal whereas he was merely cheap. It’s a distinction that few people make. I rarely eat out because I place no value on eating out and because I can eat more economically at home, but when I do eat out, I order a cheap entrée. If the cheap entrées cost too much, I order a cup of soup or even a cup of coffee. I know plenty of people who think nothing of spending $30 on a meal but would turn pale at the prospect of a $1,700 bike. Few of us have unlimited money, so we must either prioritize or spend until we run out.

My father took another route. He carried thousands of dollars in his billfold (he never much trusted banks), rarely bought anything he didn’t have to have, and spent as little as possible on that. Even his carpentry tools were chosen more from a standpoint of price than of quality. But as I see it, he could have done worse. He could have said to hell with tomorrow and lived in debt. If he had, I would have pronounced him the fool, although being a fool in one area doesn’t disqualify a person from being brilliant in others.

Peggy and I share what I suspect are the two most important values to a happy marriage. We value money about the same, and we value housekeeping about the same. She’s a little freer with her spending than I, and I’m a little more opposed to clutter than she; but at least we’re in the same ballpark. We also excel in that each of us encourages the other to loosen the purse strings from time to time—as with this bike. If Peggy had balked about the price, I wouldn’t have ordered it, but the only time she balked was when I returned to the store to make an alteration, and she somehow thought I was going to cancel the order due to the cost. When I came home after spending hundreds of additional dollars on a stronger and more versatile frame, she was as pleased as I with my prudence.

I study Spanish to keep my brain young

I’ve been studying Spanish for two hours a day for the last ten days. I heard that it’s important to exercise your brain as you age, so I figured I should either do math or learn Spanish, and Spanish seemed the more practical.

Spanish has a lot of charming words like la falda (skirt) and funny words like el excusado (toilet), and it seems logically constructed compared to English, which is more like a house that was added onto by each of its twenty owners, none of whom had any talent for carpentry or design. This isn’t to say that I don’t love English. I adore English, but that’s because it’s my language and the language of my cultural forbearers. On the other hand, if I were a Spanish speaker who was trying to learn English, I would be pulling my hair out. The only thing that bothers me much about Spanish is that every noun in the whole language is either a boy noun or a girl noun. Who thought that up? The wall (la pared) is feminine, but the floor (el piso) and the ceiling (el cielo raso) are masculine. Go figure.

My first peace rally

I just came from a neighborhood candlelight peace vigil. We were two men, four women, two kids, and a dog—a peaceful dog, unlike my dogs, which I left at home. We stood in the middle of 17th and Van Buren; lit candles; sang a song; ate cookies; watched two nutria amble by; and were kept on our toes by four passing cars. I went mostly to please the woman who invited me. I had only met her once before (ten years ago), and found her to be true to her reputation as aggressive, argumentative, and all around obnoxious. Still, she lives but a block away, so when she interrupted my work to invite me to attend an event that she was hosting, I saw a chance to mend our relationship. I doubt that the event contributed anything to world peace, but maybe it helped on a smaller scale.

I daresay that I was the only person at the peace rally tonight who would want to do other than help society’s enemies, and this is one of the reasons that I rarely attend peace rallies. In fact, I don’t recall having ever attended a peace rally. Six adults, two kids, and a dog…guess I started out small enough. I suggested that we start a riot, but peaceful people are more, well, peaceful than they are amused by my offbeat humor. Of course, I am more prone to making sweeping generalizations than I am to peacefulness, so I guess we’re even.

Phil is dying, optimist versus pessimist

My friend, Phil Conners, has cancer. His bones are breaking; his body is no longer producing blood; he is struggling to breathe; and he has run out of treatment possibilities. He is handling all of this surprisingly well. When your every other option has been taken away, you can still inspire people by the way you die.

Since I met Phil in 1992, his house burned to the ground, he lost an eye, his son drowned while trying to rescue a stranger, his wife had cancer, and he himself has fought cancer for years; yet I have never seen anything get him down. When I ask him how he is, he says, “Well, I’m breathing, and I can still walk for short distances, so I guess I’m doing pretty good.” I would need a lot more than that to pronounce life good, but I see no reason to rain on Phil’s parade.

I would like to think that Phil’s bravery is a choice, but I suspect that there are those among us who are congenitally upbeat. It’s as if they have a net beneath them that softens their every fall, no matter how far the drop. That stated, I can’t say that I too wouldn’t face death well. I haven’t faced an arthritic knee well (it being the worst thing that has ever happened to me), but I see no reason to conclude that despondency over a relatively small thing would necessarily indicate despondency over any and all great things. Just as an ordinary toothache might hurt worse than a fatal stroke, so might people’s emotional reactions vary.

At least if I were dying, I would know that the indignity of using the toilet was near an end. At least, there would be that advantage, whereas I can’t think of any advantage to an arthritic knee. The damn thing hurts so bad right now that I can hardly sit still. It keeps me awake at night; it threatens to collapse during the day; it has robbed me of the ability to engage in the activities I enjoyed most; and there is no good solution. There might be something that I could learn from it, but I don’t know what.

Peggy went skiing last week with a couple of fellows named Rick and Doug, who got into an argument on the drive to the mountains. Rick said that he is, and always has been, prone to depression, but that he has learned that there is a benefit to his depression; namely, that he has more philosophical and emotional depth than people who are inveterate optimists. Doug being an inveterate optimist, an argument ensued that got so nasty that the other people in the car ducked down and stayed quiet.

Most traits probably do have their upsides and their downsides, and these aren’t always obvious or even discoverable. Of course, I pretty much have to think this way, because if I were to judge my worth as a human being by the way I am handling this knee issue, I would come out looking bad; just as Phil Conners would come out looking bad if he were judged by how clean he keeps his house.

Okay, so maybe dying well is more important than keeping your furniture dusted, but then again, maybe it isn’t. Maybe all that God really cares about is cleanliness (it being next to Godliness), which would mean that Phil is doomed to burn in hell and me to have a front-row seat in heaven (where I would probably be put to work polishing something). Which one of us would be more content with our fate is another issue.

The tux search continues

I went to my Masonic lodge last night prepared for my first night in the junior deacon’s chair. As we were donning our aprons, the master told me that lodge would be conducted in the Entered Apprentice degree instead of the Master Masons’ degree, the latter being the usual degree and the part I had memorized. I protested his failure to tell me sooner, but there was nothing for it but to say the lines that the degrees have in common and wing the rest (either that or run from the building). I served as best I could, and felt that I conducted myself well.

I find beauty and comfort in the precision and predictability of a well-conducted Masonic lodge. It is like a formal garden in which every walkway is swept and every flower is in bloom, the difference being that Masonry changes but little and slowly. If I could travel back in time and emerge in the earliest Eugene lodge at the time of its inception in 1850, the primary differences would be the antique clothing and the absence of electricity. If I were to go back even earlier and attend lodge with George Washington and Benjamin Franklin, I would still recognize the essentials and most of the superfluities.

After lodge, the senior deacon renewed his determination to find me a tuxedo. To this end, he engaged the help of another. They looked me up and down while debating what size I needed. I suggested a 42, but they agreed between themselves on a 40, and I saw no point in arguing over something that I was only 99.9% sure of. While they searched, I stood behind them, hoping fervently that nothing would be found. And nothing was found, at least nothing that was not moth-eaten, white, powder blue, or velvet. Just when I thought the danger was past, they decided to seek the assistance of the Scottish Rite. 750 of its 1,000 members have died over the last few decades, so this leaves a potential warehouse of tuxedos.

It might seem ironic that I am as determined to know my part well as I am to avoid wearing a tux while performing it. My reason is that the former reflects upon my resolve and my intelligence, while the latter is a matter of taste. I accepted the post only after being assured by the master that I would not have to dress for it. Last night, I wore a sports coat without a tie. No one complained, although I take this determination to find me a tuxedo to be a tacit complaint.

Two Years Before the Mast, thoughts on hardship

I am reading Two Years Before the Mast, an account of life aboard a U.S. merchantman in the 1830s. The author was nineteen when he left Harvard and shipped out, and the book was published when he was twenty-five. If I were to cite only the most memorable passages from the fifty pages I have read, I would need ten pages. I could not have approached such poetic insight or descriptive powers when I was so young, and I seriously question whether I could do so now. I might, after all, mistake my talent for writing just as I mistake my talent for singing, for my every note is as soothing from within as it is grating from without. Some people have even doubted that I am capable of forming a note—or at least more than one of them.

On Monday, November 19, 1834, a young Englishman on Dana’s ship fell from the rigging into the sea. He was so weighed down by ropes and tools that he never surfaced.

“Death is at all times solemn, but never so much as at sea. A man dies on shore; his body remains with his friends, and ‘the mourners go about in the streets;’ but when a man falls overboard at sea and is lost, there is a suddenness to the event, and a difficulty in realizing it, which gives to it an air of awful mystery. A man dies on shore—you follow his body to the grave, and a stone marks the spot. You are often prepared for the event. There is always something that helps you to realize it when it happens, and to recall it when it has passed…but at sea the man is near you—at your side—you hear his voice, and in an instant he is gone, and nothing but a vacancy shows his loss. Then too, at sea, to use a homely but expressive phrase—you miss a man so much. A dozen men are shut up together in a little bark, upon the wide, wide sea, and, for months and months, see no forms and hear no voices but their own, and one is suddenly taken from among them, and they miss him at every turn…. There are no new faces or new scenes to fill up the gap. There is always an empty berth in the forecastle, and one man wanting when the small night watch is mustered. There is one less to take the wheel, and one less to lay out with you upon the yard. You miss his form, and the sound of his voice, for habit has made them seem almost necessary to you, and each of your senses feels the loss.

“All these things make a death peculiarly solemn, and the effect of it remains upon the crew for some time…. There is more quietness and seriousness. The oath and the loud laugh are gone. The officers are more watchful, and the crew goes more carefully aloft. The lost man is seldom mentioned…”

How much more beautifully poignant is this description of grief because of the last sentence. I suppose it is true at all times and in all places that there is much that men do not share with other men.

“Whatever your feelings may be, you must make a joke of everything at sea; and if you were to fall from aloft and be caught in the belly of a sail, and thus saved from instant death, it would not do to look at all disturbed…”

Yet, I cannot say that there is no good in this prohibition. I have read many accounts of men who were trapped on mountains or in Polar Regions, and I have learned from them that the Stoicism, if not the outright cheerfulness, of some made the survival of others possible. Indeed, Earnest Shackleton’s men were so elevated by his bravery that they reported having been ashamed to voice their own discontent during the long months of cold, hunger, and mortal danger. Yet, how often have men like Shackleton survived unimaginable hardships with a cheerful countenance only to become despondent when those hardships were past. The ability to flourish in times of peril does not insure the ability to so much as exist on ordinary days.

When I consider my own state, I cannot see that I have a genius for either times that are good or times that are bad. While it is true that I have never been tested by the worst that man or nature offers, it is also true that I have never sought to be tested. The men who I read about went looking for the worst time after time. I’ve read of men whose fingers and toes were lost to frostbite, yet still climbed mountains. I do not know what to make of them, and so I continue to read. Especially when the long months of winter are upon me, and I can barely muster the will to get out of bed each day, I seek the literary companionship of those who were determined to keep going no matter what.

Books entitled Angels in the Wilderness, In the Land of White Death, and Ice, helped me survive December. Now that the daffodils are tall, the willows are swollen with buds, and each day is longer than its predecessor; I know I will last until better times. I am tempted to say that a forlorn day in summer is more agreeable than a happy day in winter, but this would make no sense, so I will not say it.

In her regard for the seasons, as in many things, Peggy is my opposite. The only good she can say about sunshine is that it makes the snow to sparkle most agreeably.

Questions of respect, of morality

I watched Saddam’s hanging, both the authorized photos and the secret taping. Peggy speculated that he died bravely because he lacked normal human feelings. Perhaps. Perhaps the presence of cameras helped too.

Would George Bush have died as well? Would I? Hang me outdoors on a warm sunny afternoon, and maybe. But in winter, before dawn, in a room that was cold and gray, surrounded by people who tormented me.... Peggy said she wouldn’t want to see the tape because she wouldn’t want it to get stuck in her head. I am glad to have it stuck in my head because it was a powerful—and even an inspirational—moment.

There was nothing in his life that so became him as the leaving of it. -Shakespeare

His last words were, “You go to hell.” They weren’t good last words, but defiance surely beats cowardice. Peggy thinks that terror would have been a more appropriate response. Maybe it’s a gender thing, but, despite the understandability of fear, who wouldn’t prefer solace, and what better solace than courage? Even if Peggy didn’t think less of me because I died trembling, she think better of me if I died with dignity.

If Peggy is right about Saddam’s lack of normal human feeling making his death easier, what does this say about the desirability of normal human feelings? And what does it say about good men like Nathan Hale who died bravely, or other bad men—like Ted Bundy—who died as cowards? I could not look at Saddam Hussein standing tall and proud in the midst of his masked haranguers and not feel respect. It is a grudging respect to be sure, but even the devil deserves his due.

Another difference of opinion arose between Peggy and me this morning. We were talking about our little dog, Wendy, when Peggy said she would give $100,000 to bring Wendy back to life. I never thought that Peggy loved Wendy more than I, but I would not give $100,000 to bring Wendy or anyone else back. So what then, would I give $10,000? Yes, but I hate to be forced to admit that I only value the life of a beloved dog—or a beloved friend—to the tune of a certain number of dollars. Besides, the issue is more complex than that.

For example, I might not pay a large sum to bring Wendy back, but neither would I have accepted any amount of money to end her life prematurely—except for humanitarian reasons—even if she hadn’t been my dog. There seems to be a paradox here. While I make little effort to rescue ailing and destitute dogs, I would not choose to profit from their deaths. But how might I defend this position? After all, I could use the money to help many other dogs. This leads me to wonder whether I care more about dogs or more about my self-image. It is the kind of dilemma that would never torment Peggy, because the right way would be obvious to her, and she would follow it regardless.

Of course, the proper use of such money as we already have is not an issue that concerns just me. Almost every dollar that either of us spends is a dollar that could have been used for what we would acknowledge to be a higher end. Instead of a new computer, we could have fed hungry children. What does this about our values?

I shudder to think, so I won’t think. I will go to the bank and deposit a $506 check that just arrived from the woman who bought my father’s house.... I like having money because money makes me feel safer than most of the other things that make me feel safe, and the truth is that I value my safety—and even my comfort--more than I value the lives of destitute children. Their numbers are unending, but there is just one me.

....The rain started back as I was leaving for the bank, so I didn’t go.

Peggy and I don’t talk about deep things much because they make her eyes glaze over. I consider it another paradox that she is more ethical than I, but that her values don’t arise from reflection. This used to frustrate me no end until I went through a string of lovers who could talk about deep things all day long, and still go out and act badly. This made me appreciate Peggy more. Now that Gerald Ford just died, I think of her as a little like him. She might not be razor sharp in some ways (although she is smarter than I in others), but if you’re looking for someone of unquestioned integrity, she’s your woman. When Ford replaced Nixon, someone asked him if he had considered creating a list of ethical guidelines so his staff wouldn’t get themselves into a Watergate-like fiasco. He replied that his own behavior would serve as their guideline. Like Ford, Peggy would consider it redundant to enumerate such standards.

An observer might suggest that, in many cases, my own depth appears to be a prelude to rationalization, but I would argue that, even though this is sometimes true, only one who cared about ethics would bother to rationalize. I would also argue against the possible implication that people who don’t think much about what their behavior means are more likely to behave well. Right and wrong are not always so obvious. If they were, life would be easier. Even in my own head, I often find myself in dilemmas in which my ambivalence is such that I feel screwed no matter which way I go. Some problems don’t admit of outcomes that are fair to everyone.