Feeling Funny Bone-less

 

Earlier this week, a friend sent a text to Mark and me.  She was snarky and I was black-and-white in my stodgy, unappealing response.  So, she answered back: "Sarcasm.  Don't ever forget my sarcastic nature." 

At some point in the last few months, I done broke my funny bone.   

My God.  I might as well have lost both legs, a major organ and my hair. 

I so hanker for a gut-busting laugh these days.  I am deeply hungry for an inane, fart-filled giggle fest in which there is no mention of news or loss or anything at all that is serious and relevant.  I mean, I'm 58 and retired. You'd think I could find irrelevant more easily. 

Instead, I mumble horrible things to Mark while we walk the dog, conjuring imaginary, "Tennis anyone?" Monty Python episodes of a politician's unfortunate downfall.  Sure, we laugh.  But it's a hard laugh, one that has sharp edges and lacks the silliness of my favorite kind of humor.   

I guess I just want to be goofy again. 

Oh, I get close.  

Lately, I've been getting the giggles on the pickleball court, some absurd image flitting through my head while I should be concentrating on the serve.  Really, if it weren't for pickleball--the court filled with my kind and easy-going peeps, all of whom sweat less than I do--I might find myself in a corner, sucking my thumb. 

Humor has served me so well throughout my life--forgiving my adolescent stupidity,  softening the loss of beloved family and friends, providing a much-needed break during cancer treatments.  I'd like to lean on it a little more right now.  

Maybe I should quit the news for awhile and play my music a little louder.  Somehow, I think that'd help my funny bone to heal a bit.  

I always live larger and better when my funny bone is fully functional. 

 

The House that Jane Built

I think I'm a pretty flexible person, but, when it comes to walks, I'm incredibly predictable.  In fact, one neighbor refers to a certain time of day as "Finn o'clock." ( Finn is my dog.)

After 16 years of walking essentially the same route each day, you'd think I'd know the neighborhood pretty well.  I certainly thought so.  But I was reminded recently that habit does not equate knowledge.

I've walked past one corner house at least a thousand times, and, each time I look at it, I'm always left thinking the same thing.  "No one lives there."

The other day, I asked our mailman Trey about the house, certain he'd confirm my hunch. But he said he delivers mail there every day.

How is that possible, I thought to myself.  I've never seen anyone in the yard.  Never seen a car in the drive.  Never seen evidence of a newly planted garden or even a newspaper on its stoop.   And yet, Trey knew otherwise.

Yesterday, when I passed the house--a house I now knew had at least one human shuffling around inside--I realized that, in all these years I've walked this route, I've only spent maybe 15 seconds a day in front of it.  And, almost always, that passage has taken place in an amazingly predictable time span--usually between 6 and 7 a.m.

My God. What if this person is normal, and sleeps past the crack of dawn?!

I'd written a story that didn't take the mundane and probable into account.  Instead, I'd constructed a story of abandonment, of loss of some kind, based upon a series of tiny 15-second exposures, typically occurring at the same time of day. Not a good reportage technique, yet still I was flabbergasted to know how wrong I'd been.

And, while I now know that the house is occupied, I still know nothing about its occupants.

In the past month, I've come to realize that my understanding of African-American lives in the United States is as flimsy as the story I'd written about that house.  For 58 years, I've kept to my reliably predictable route, one with brief interactions, simple stories, quick observations and predictably limited results.

Finally, it seems, I've arrived at "BLM o'clock."  Yes, that clock has been ticking a long time.  Yes, I should have noticed these things much earlier.  Those facts won't change.  But what has changed is this path that now takes me forward.  It's a new route, one filled with different faces, important histories, personal reckonings and lots and lots of paying attention.

I'm gonna need a new pair of shoes, because I have a lot of ground to cover.

Making the Global Local: A Late-July Update

 As I write this, over 150,000 people in the United States have died from COVID-19--still, nearly a fourth of its

victims worldwide.  But what does that number mean to me?  How can I make sense of such a large number?

Below is a list of U.S. cities in each state whose populations come closest to 150,000.  Since I first wrote this post on April 25 (when the U.S. reported over 52,000 deaths), this new figure is big enough that I have to include multiple cities in many states.  That is unimaginable.  In Nebraska, 150,000 means no Grand Island, Fremont, Bellevue or Kearney.  Wow. 

By the time you read this, these numbers will be old.

What Does 150,000 Look Like In Your State? Imagine these cities, gone.

ALABAMA

Tuscaloosa 103,000

Madison 52,000

ALASKA

Juneau     31,000

Fairbanks 31,000

Badger     19,000

Knik        17,500

College 14,000

Wasilla      11,00

Tanaina     10,500

Lakes         10,000

Sitka            8,500

Ketchikan    8, 200

ARIZONA

Yuma    98,000

Lake Havasu    55,800

ARKANSAS

Fort Smith    88,000

North Little Rock    66,000

CALIFORNIA

Salinas    155,400

COLORADO

Lakewood     157,000

CONNECTICUT

Bridgeport    144,000

Canton        10,000

DELAWARE

Wilmington    70,000

Newark        38,000

Dover           33,000

Middleton     23,000

FLORIDA

Hollywood    154,800

GEORGIA

Macon-Bibb    153,100

HAWAII

East Honolulu    48,000

Hilo   46,000

Pearl City    46,000

Waianae    14,000

IDAHO

Meridian    114,000

Post Falls    36,000

ILLINOIS

Peoria    110,000

Oak Lawn    55,000

INDIANA

South Bend    104,000

Elkhart    52,000

IOWA

Sioux City    82,000

Iowa City    75,000

KANSAS

Kansas City    153,000

KENTUCKY

Bowling Green    70,500

Owensburo    60,000

Paducah    25,000

LOUISIANA

Lafayette    126,000

New Iberia    28,400

MAINE

Portland    66,000

Lewiston    36,000

Bangor    32,000

South Portland    25,000

MARYLAND

Columbia    103,000

Aspen Hill    52,000

MASSACHUSETTS

Springfield    153,600

MICHIGAN

Ann Arbor    120,000

Lincoln Park    36,000

MINNESOTA Rochester    120,000

Richfield    36,300

MISSISSIPPI

Gulfport    71,700

Southhaven    55,700

Greenville    29,000

MISSOURI

Columbia    123,000

Liberty        32,100

MONTANA

Billings 109,000

Butte    34,600

Belgrade    9,700

NEBRASKA

Bellevue    53,500

Grand Island    51,200

Kearney    33,800

Fremont    26,300

NEVADA

Sparks     105,000

Carson City    55,000

NEW JERSEY

Lakewood    106,000

Plainfield    50,000

NEW MEXICO

Las Cruces    103,000

Carlsbad    29,000

Gallup    21,000

NEW YORK

Syracuse    142,000

Ulster        12,600

NORTH CAROLINA

Wilmington    123,000

Cornelius        32,000

NORTH DAKOTA

Fargo    124,000

Williston    29,000

OHIO

Canton    70,000

Youngstown    65,000

Ashland    20,275

OKLAHOMA Norman    125,000

Shawnee    31,000

OREGON

Bend    100,000

Tigard    55,500

PENNSYLVANIA

Allentown    124,000

Ross    30,000

RHODE ISLAND

Cranston    81,400

Pawtucket    72,000

SOUTH CAROLINA

Charleston    137,000

Wade Hampton    20,000

SOUTH DAKOTA

Rapid City    77,500

Aberdeen    28,200

Brookings    24,400

Watertown    22,100

TENNESSEE

Clarksville    158,000

TEXAS

Midland    146,000

Ingleside    10,000

UTAH

Provo    116,000

Spanish Fork    40,900

VERMONT

Burlington    43,000

Essex    22,000

South Burlington    19,500

Colchester    17,000

Rutland City    15,000

Bennington    15,000

Brattleboro    11,000

Essex Junction    10,800

VIRGINIA

Roanoke    100,000

Leesburg    54,000

WASHINGTON Olympia    53,000

Lacey    53,000

Burien    51,000

WEST VIRGINIA Charleston    46,500

Huntington    45,000

Morgantown    30,500

Parkersburg    29,300

WISCONSIN Green Bay    104,000

LaCrosse        51,000

WYOMING

Cheyenne    64,000

Casper    58,000

Laramie    32,700

Here Be Dragons

While I appreciate the wanky geographic muscles of Google Maps--especially as I enter a city new to me--I will forever love the feel of its analog cousin, the accordian-fold map, stretched out across my lap.  Running my finger across its well-worn surface, I feel like an explorer, pondering the infinite possibilities before me.

Terra incognita ("unknown lands") is the term early mapmakers gave to those otherwise unexplored areas.  Sometimes, they filled these spaces with fantastical, out-of-place animals--strangely-shaped elephants or lions.  Some were even said to include the phrase "Here be dragons" in the otherwise blank space.  It is strange to look at one of these early maps of a now-familiar place, the outlines smudged or simply not there.

Every map, though,  is a fluid representation, a best guess of what it is that is before us right now.

And where is it that we are right now, the once-confident edges of our known lives losing their hardness?

Hunkered down, awaiting the slow, menacing wave that grows towards us, our maps are unspooling. Unnamed days run together, and we find ourselves taking our cues from nature--the angle of the sun, the early song of the robins, the shocking pink of the first tulip unfurling in the garden.

We are making new maps these days, erasing the familiar and replacing it with Terra Incognita, lands unknown, stretched across the now-emptied spaces.  I think I will use a pencil and write lightly, drawing these new landscapes with love and care, knowing that their contours will continue to evolve. 

The Dis-comfort of our Days

I started to feel it Wednesday night, a vertigo, of sorts, like someone had applied a Snapchat filter when I wasn't looking.

After a simple dinner of rice and beans with the kids, I'd suggested we go to Woods Park to catch the sunset.  There, folks were walking their dogs and swinging on swings, kicking a ball and enjoying the view.  Ordinary things on a warm March evening.

Later, back in our living room, between sharing dance moves and TikTok videos, we learned that Tom Hanks had tested positive for coronavirus.

And, for just a moment, I felt the earth lurching on its axis, a low moan escaping it, nearly undetectable.

Thursday, another familiar scene took on a new filter.  I was sitting with pickleball friends at El Chaparro, our conversations as varied as the food before us, when I wondered aloud if we'd see each other next week. An unexpected dis-ease settled on me, as I pondered the effects of this new invader.

On Friday, the unwelcomed filter returned yet again as I felt dis-placed at HyVee, the store bustling, even though it was midmorning on a work day.  In the produce aisle, mid-squeeze on the fifth avocado (I like them just so), I was overcome by the sense of menacing microbes lurching in the folds of that strange skin before me.  I wiped my hands on my jeans and wondered if I had unleashed something irreversible.

Dis- is the name of these strange days we find ourselves in, a prefix of not applied liberally--like Dial and Purell.

We are dis-pleased and dis-turbed as we dis-infect these once familiar lives of ours.  We establish dis-tance between us, feeling dis-combobulated, although we cannot recall having ever felt combobulated, which just makes things seem even more dis-orienting.

How is it that the cranes continue to alight each morning, their long shadows stretching across now-empty blinds?  Who bears witness to their ancient songs?

It will not be me, I know.  I am too busy singing the doxology, my hands sudsy and chapped, my thoughts dis-persed in a hundred different directions.

Feeling Ver-Clipped

I reached into my back pocket and brought out the crumpled list:

Bananas, peppers, milk, bread, coffee

Considering that they weren't on the list, it's a miracle that I even remembered to look for paper clips.  And, if a person can be allowed two miracles in one day--even two lame ones--I'd go so far as to say it's a miracle that I actually found the paper clips.

HyVee, after all, isn't exactly in the paper-clip business.

But, most grocery stores--even smaller ones--have an aisle (or, more likely,  a shelf or two) set aside for what might be called the widows and orphans--those odd things that, every couple of years or so, we need and hope to God we won't have to run to Menards or Office Depot to get.  Think ream of paper, handful of screws, highlighters, and paper clips.  Like Rudolph's island of misfits (er, make that aisle of misfits), it's an easy aisle to miss, which is why I was so pleased to find it yesterday.

Scanning the myriad oddities, I found three options--three!--for paper clips--jumbo, color-coated and standard.  Settling on the standards, an odd thing happened when I grabbed the box of 200.  Immediately, I had the strangest feeling that this would be the very last time in my life that I would buy paper clips.  Ever.

Why, I wondered, would a box of paper clips cause me to have an existential moment, if not an actual full-blown crisis?  What was it about these ordinary items that jarred loose the notion that I would not always be here?

I suspect that, had there been only 50 in the box, my life would not have flashed before my eyes.  Likely, nothing would have flashed before my eyes, and I'd have scratched myself, yawned a bit and tossed them into my cart, zombie-like in my uncaring.

Apparently, 200 is my mortality-rate tipping point for paper clips.  Which makes sense, if I generally use 5 a year, because I can't imagine myself as a 98-year-old person heading to HyVee to get some more.

Maybe this explains my lifelong resistance to big-box stores. 

Most people love big-box stores for all those eye-popping savings wrapped up in mind-boggling quantities.  I hate them, though.  I always thought I hated them because they were big and  crowded and it was weird to be able to buy trampolines and t-bones all in the same place.  Now, though,  I think maybe it's because big-box stores are overwhelming reminders that I'm going to die and there ain't no way I'll be able use 400 rolls of scotch tape between now and then!

Before heading to the checkout lane, I had a fleeting, secret longing.  Safety pins!  Rare and precious, I can recall only three safety pins that I've had in my house in the past 20 years.  I have no idea how any of them came my way, but the two larger ones frequently accompanied me to work, holding together a gaping shirt or keeping closed another buttonless pair of pants, so that I might keep my job.  I'd be hard pressed to find even one of those safety pins today.

Alas, HyVee doesn't carry safety pins.  Thank goodness I'm so over caring about bulging button-ups and dysfunctional denims!  Now, I've just got to be really careful these next thirty or so years.

Making a Clean Sweep

My Defcon 5 kitchen sink.

In my house, the level of cleanliness generally confers the depth of friendship between us.  Below is the chart I use before pulling out the vacuum from the closet.

DEFCON 1: Cocked pistol--maximum readiness and immediate response.

For distant relatives or practical strangers I'm forced to entertain, I have (somewhat grudgingly) pulled out all the stops, Holt-style.  That means I will have dusted and vacuumed that day, picked up the kitchen and wiped down the counters that day, cleaned the first-floor bathroom with actual products as well as swapped out the dirty hand towel for one with fewer stains and holes--again, that day, and vacuumed the fur balls off the stairs.  Depending on the time of year and the level of judgment I anticipate, I may even spritz the kitchen-sink window to try to get rid of some of the water spots on it.

DEFCON 2: Armed forces ready to deploy and engage within 6 hours.

If you are a new friend, or a person I hope will become a friend, you will be greeted by a living room whose rug bears recent vacuum streaks and whose fireplace mantel has been pretty much swiped of dust.  Evidence of Finn will be limited to his actual body, all fur piles either in the vacuum bag or kitchen garbage can.  You will find the kitchen tidy and wiped down and the stove top scrubbed to the point where the marks that remain are simply unremoveable.  Believe me, I've tried!   I'm willing to spend a little more time on the kitchen because we likely will spend some social time there. The first-floor bathroom will smell of 409 and soap, and the towel will be folded smartly atop the rack, though you still will feel awkward using the bathroom, since it is tiny and has two doors that seldom close at the same time.  Some things cannot be addressed without a contractor and a good loan.

DEFCON 3: Ready to mobilize in 15 minutes.

For old friends who are stopping by for a visit, Finn fur has been picked up, by hand, and thrown into the library garbage can.  Dirty dishes are loaded into the dishwasher.  While the kitchen counters may show evidence of morning's toast crumbs, visitors will still feel relatively confident that they will not contract anything serious by eating or drinking whatever is offered.  The bathroom also can be used with relative confidence.

DEFCON 4: Above-normal readiness

Neighbors popping over for a beer will be greeted by minor tweaking. The dining-room table is mostly cleared, Finn fur is visible along the floorboards, although the most copious piles have been shoved into a dark corner near the church pew.  Dirty dishes are neatly piled on kitchen counters and spaghetti-stained kitchen towel has been swapped out for a clean one.  Magazines have been stowed in drawers although the morning's half-done crossword sits pathetically atop the footstool in the library.

DEFCON 5:  Lowest state of readiness

Here for a game of Scrabble?  Virtually no effort has been made to impress you.  After all, what's the point?  If you are thirsty or hungry, you will have to serve yourself and be willing to rinse out a glass or fetch a dirty fork from the dishwasher.  Likely, you also will have to flush the toilet before you use it.  Best to just go ahead of time.

It's with some trepidation that I share this chart with you, especially if you will be coming over some time in the next year.  What if you consider me a good friend yet you find my house sparkling clean when you pop in?  Will such foreknowledge threaten our friendship?  Will you be offended that the toilet has been swished, the dog hair hidden away?  My hope is that you'll excuse me for the transgression and trust that I'll do even less for you next time.  You are a good friend, after all. 

Naturally Inclined

Last night, I fell asleep imagining myself floating face down, in warm, salty Caribbean waters,  my eyes taking in the coral wonderland beneath me.  Beats the heck out of an Excedrin PM, that's for sure.

In the last dream I had this morning, I was playing pickleball with Amy Klobuchar, Pete Buttigieg and Reese Witherspoon.  Pete kept bumping into the net, which was somehow both annoying and kind of charming.

I woke with a smile and a sense of calm.

Maybe that's why I was so aware of all the wonders outside this morning--the bright bend of late-winter light, the nervous robins flittering in our crab apple tree,  the call of a lone goose looking for its peeps.

Relentless news cycles and bullying buffoons can wear a person down.  But, just when I fear my edges are disappearing for good, I find myself redrawn in sunlight and fresh air.

Ten minutes into this morning's walk, I felt my circuits restart.  A low thrum ran through me, as real as the traffic on "O".  As we strolled the path, Finn found a hundred smells that I could only imagine, and I was happy to just stand there and watch his amazing snout soak it all in.  I kept eyeing the trees, hoping to spy a sleeping screech owl wedged perfectly into a carved out knot.  It's a bit of an obsession of mine, these days.  Just last week, while exploring tree limbs for signs of animal life, I found a large opossum slumped over a high branch, worn out, it seems, from living life as an outlier.

We wandered past a dozen bluejays pestering the squirrels, squirrels chittering at the robins, robins freaking out about who knows what, and who knows what churning up little piles of fresh dirt alongside the sidewalk.

It took us 45 minutes to walk a path that normally can be done in 25.  But there was nothing normal about this beautiful morning, bright and new, taut with the news of something else altogether,  waiting just around the corner from us.

Not My Type

In June of 1980,  I graduated from high school and the world was forever changed--but not because I graduated.

Duh! 

That same month, Ted Turner rolled out CNN, the first 24/7 all-news network the world had ever seen.  Well, I didn't actually see it, since we didn't get cable for a long, long time.  Prior to CNN, though, I doubt any of us had thought of anything in a "24/7" kind of way.

Thanks, Obama.  Er, Ted.

Since that dubious rollout (Ted's, not mine)  things have been a shipwreck.   I mean, what could possibly happen to journalists--the keepers of the gate!!--when someone leaves the damned gate open all night long?!?   I'll tell you--mild cramping and raging diarrhea, that's what! . . . and journalists have pretty much been pooping their pants ever since.

For reasons both personal and professional,  I've been thinking a lot about life in journalistic terms, most of them typographic.

Two terms, in particular, keep popping up in my noggin--kerning (the space between letters) and leading (short e--the space between lines).

KERNING (the space between individuals)  

Whathappenstomeaningwhenwelosethespacebetweenthings...Howdowedecidewhatismostimportantifeverythingistreatedthesame?

The endless pipeline of news does nothing to truly inform our citizenry. We need to return to the days when a group (yes,  journalists--I still believe in their integrity) acts as gatekeeper, determining which stories we see and which ones die on the newsroom floor.  I understand that this is an ironic statement, considering that news organizations helped create this kerning disaster.  But the current situation--in which everything is equally weighted and all are welcomed through the gates--is not helpful to anyone but those who are in power.  

And most of us aren't in power.  

LEADING (the space between lines)

When it comes to problems that arise from managing the space between lines,  I lay much of the blame at the feet of 'social' media. What audacity, using that term 'social,' when it's clear that social-media sites too often encourage the exact opposite of social living--each of us huddled, alone, in our living rooms, staring into our laps, while Facebook and Twitter build coalitions of sameness until we can hardly imagine 'the other' as human at all.

Too little leading and we become claustrophobic.  Too much leading and we don't hear or recognize each other.  

In typographical terms, here's where we find ourselves these days:

Make America great again!

We are a country of immigrants!

What happens when we build too much room between ideologies?  Too often, we just quit listening to the other and, instead, paint them with a broad brush, which is pretty much the same as brushing them off altogether.  

God bless George Tuck and his harder-than-I'd-have-thought Typography class!  It was there that I learned that spacing is an art, that we can lose meaning when we cram things too close together, just as we can lose touch when we space things too far apart.  It was there, in my Typography class four years after the birth of CNN, that I learned to consider the space between things--and how important that space can be.  

As we kick off a new decade, I offer a toast--Here's to the chance to learn those typography lessons all over again.   Because, if we don't take the time to learn about the art of kerning and leading--honoring the spaces between things--we likely will find ourselves both asthmatic and antipathetic, unable to breathe and unable to care about each other.  And I just can't abide such a life.