"The first family of Minnesota Blogging" - Mitch Berg, Shot in the Dark

Illuminating fun, faith,
family and foolishness.

“Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.”

- Damon Runyon

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

California fires are close to home
My sister and her husband and twin daughters live in Oceanside, CA, just north of San Diego and pretty much in the middle of the fires. I've been trying to keep up with the progress of the fires and its proximity to where they live. CNN has some interesting video, but watching on TV is maddening since every two minutes Anderson Cooper or someone reminds you to stay tuned for their upcoming program on global warming and how its related to these fires. Somehow I feel like there'll be a lot more smoke in that report than there is in San Diego County — and it looks as if there is a LOT of smoke in SDC.

I've Google-mapped my sister's address and also found NASA's MODIS (or Moderate Resolution Imaging Spectroradiometer) map of the fires in the area, as of 1900 hours on Oct. 23. (See image below).



The red areas are fires; yellow marks areas that have already burned. My sister and her family are due west of Vista on the map; the small red blotch north of Oceanside, I'm pretty sure, is the fire located on Camp Pendleton. By comparing the various images I can pretty much pinpoint their home in comparison to the fires, and I've also seen maps pointing out evacuation centers near them, including one at a church that I think we visited when we were out there a few years ago. You'd expect the prevailing winds to be off of the Pacific, blowing inland, which would be good news for them but these are the notorious Santa Ana winds, the ones Raymond Chandler famously referred to in his story, Red Wind:

"those hot dry [winds] that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen."

The Santa Anas form over the Nevada Basin, then come riding westward up over the San Gabriel mountains and stampeding down into Southern California like thirsty cowpokes at the end of a long trail. This week fire comes along for the ride.

You can see it coming in shots from space, through satellite pictures beamed into your living room, the reality still somehow so unreal. The technology at my fingertips is incredible, yet the sense of helplessness seems all the more complete because of it. Nature can be a bitch. I've tried several times to get through to my sister's cell phone and the circuits were predictably jammed either by traffic or missing towers or both. So far I have gotten one message through that reached her voicemail. Senselessly I told her to call when she gets the chance, as if she wouldn't do that anyway, but it was good to make some contact, nebulous as it was.

Fortunately there's someone who has a better view than even the satellites and the best technology can provide, and isn't dependent on cell phone towers or microwaves for communication. I've got him on the line.

Update:

We received an email from my veterinarian sister, aka "Queen Chick of the World and Marathon Mom" Wednesday afternoon:

We are all fine and safe in Oceanside except for the daily dose of snowy ash covering the neighborhood. Oceanside, especially near the coast is not a worry, even with the start of a fire near the Camp Pendleton/Oceanside border that occurred due to a transformer explosion near the front gate commissary. They feel this one will be contained very quickly and it is moving northwest. The DeLuz area near Fallbrook and the Riverside County border is pretty scary still. We had guests due to the evacuation this week — one bathroom, plastic up, dry wall dust and all! Jenny and Gene had to evacuate their home in Fallbrook but so far their home is still safe. Fortunately most are safe of our group and clientele. The fire on Palomar Mountain is not controlled; the Witch Fire has threatened a lot of our clients in Escondido and Valley Center and now Julian and is not considered controlled. The weather is changing slowly and they feel that they will have a turn around in the fire control today or tomorrow. The San Marcos fire was west of the clinic and we did not have to evacuate the clinic but it has been very smoky and we are full up with injuries and evacuated pets. More later!

Monday, October 15, 2007

In My Father's House, Part 3
1989 was my first Father's Day as a dad myself (thanks, Mall Diva). As a first-timer that June I wrote a letter to my father that included the following:

There are things about growing up that can’t be explained to — or understood by — the emerging adult. At those times the elders can only say “Wait until you have kids of your own” to indicate the unseen forces and emotions that will one day come into play. It is an enigmatic, somewhat ominous, prophecy born of instinct, experience and intuition. Given enough words, it can be described but not experienced. Given enough experience, it no longer needs to be described.

The revelation of being a Father, to accept the title that has always belonged to someone else, is almost dizzying. The family armor, passed on for generations, has been taken off the wall and handed to you with your banner. It is your turn.

Some find their armor rusty and decrepit. Corroded by years of venom, its surface has been marred by each coat of blame and accusation they have applied over the years. These men will always find their armor ill-fitting and uncomfortable. Never having learned or cared where the weak points are, they don’t know what parts need to be reinforced, what parts need extra care, what parts need to be protected the most. They clank and creak into battle already spiritually defeated, blaming the previous owner, and scarcely able to defend themselves, let alone carry out their sacred charge. Some even abandon the field completely, leaving it (and the next generation) to the enemy!

Others will be blessed and even surprised to find their armor in good shape, and not nearly as big on them as they thought it would be. Oh, there’s a scratch here, a small dent there, but these only serve to reinforce the necessity of such gear. These men are properly outfitted and equipped, and where necessary they have taken it upon themselves to repair or replace whatever they see missing. Respect, and a good teacher, have kept the pieces oiled and in good working order.

I have been thinking about armor lately; thinking about how it's something worn on the outside as protection against the things that would pierce or cut us, the mortal thrust to our vitals from an external foe. But what about the poisoned blade that comes from inside?

Think about the wonderful design of our bodies; how they easily and automatically handle the vital chores of our survival: respiration, digestion, circulation, even healing and restoration. From the time we're in the womb our bodies perform countless tasks dedicated to our survival, including resisting infections and toxic interlopers. In today's vernacular, you could say our bodies "have our back." How cruel and crushing, then, for our closest friend and ally to turn on us, for our very own cells to go rogue, even to the point of using our own defenses against us.

And how quickly it can happen! The doctors estimate that from the time my father's mutinous lymphocytes first went over the wall to the time he was diagnosed with Stage 4 lymphoma (lymphoma in multiple locations above and below the diaphragm) was only about two months; this in a person who was undergoing nearly constant check-ups and monitoring due to a previous bout with prostate cancer and a heart-valve replacement a couple of years ago. What can you do?

Then again, maybe there is an internal armor and a toughness after all. Cancer is an insidious foe that, along with the measures used to combat it, strips away virtually every visible vestige of one's dignity. I know heart attacks can be devastating and life-changing and leave you weak as a baby, but at least they leave you with your hair. The chemo takes your hair and your appetite and nearly every illusion you have about being in control of your own body. When I was down to see my dad in June he still pretty much looked like himself, but the stress of the pain and the effects of the pain-killing medication caused him to throw up — much to his dismay. "I haven't thrown up in more than 30 years," he said. At one point when I went to see him in September he was throwing up every 30 minutes. Rather than lurching into the bathroom each time he had fashioned a bucket from a one-gallon plastic milk jug and used that. The first time I went in to assist my mother he was sitting up in bed, spitting up into the bucket. He was well past the point of feeling embarrassed, he just gave me a matter-of-fact look over the lip of the jug and went about his business.

He's lost his hair, and more that 40 pounds from a frame that can barely spare it. He's been poked with needles and IVs so many times the nurses can barely find a vein that won't collapse and there's scarcely a bodily function he can perform without an audience, yet he still jokes with the nurses even if his voice sometimes sounds more like his 100-year-old mother's than his own. He struggles to swallow his food, and to keep it down even when he does, yet he's drawing sustenance from his will and a determination not to give up no matter what fresh hell the day brings, and doing it with a grace that I never would have expected in him.

We think of armor as being made of metal. Apparently, it has more to do with mettle.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

It was 20 years ago today...
...No, this isn't a Beatles/Sergeant Pepper reference (though I have to admit it's getting better all the time)...

...And I'm not jealous of Mitch Berg's ongoing saga (though he might have reason to be)...

...And I'm not going to say "Score!" because some people, you know, just wouldn't take it in the right way...

...So I'll just say, "Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Stewart!"



Let's see, it was a pretty small bridal party. One Maid of Honor (pregnant with the future Miss Inver Grove Heights), and my Best Man, aka Heathen Brother. He was on a special training cycle at the time and didn't think the Air Force would let him out for the weekend, but Someone higher up intervened and there he was in his dress blues.



Some last minute words of advice from my dad. Sorry, can't remember a thing...
In My Father's House, Part 2
A childhood memory: waking up in the pre-dawn winter hours to the muffled thrumming of my father’s car warming up in the driveway. In my mind I can picture the clouds of crystalline exhaust illuminated by the back porch light. I would lie snug in my bed and listen to the sounds of my father preparing to go to work: his step (the heaviest in the house) in the hallway, the jingle of the dozen or so keys on the big ring on his belt, the clink of a coffee cup being set down on the counter; finally the closing of the back door to mark his passing. It was familiar and unremarkable, and I would go back to sleep.

When I awoke again my mind was filled with my own thoughts and plans for the day. In this time my father owned his own business and was rarely home for supper. My brother and sister and I would eat with our mother, and go about our evening routine. I would often be in bed again when I heard him return. There would be the sounds of my mother frying him a steak, and of talking; their voices distinct, but not the words. Sometimes the tone was obviously my mother reciting the sins of the day, and if they were heinous enough, we would be summoned from our beds for the promised retribution of When Our Father Gets Home.

As a father now myself, I understand how this had to have been as unpleasant for him as it was for us.

During this time our father was a seldom seen force in our lives, operating outside our understanding, toward ends unknown. We would see him mostly on Sundays, and there was a feeling of awkwardness as if none of us were quite certain about how we should act. And yet there was always food on the table, a comfortable house, and clothes for every season, even though we gave little thought, or saw little connection, to how these things came to be.

It wasn’t until I was 11 or 12 and old enough to go to work with my father that I really started to get to know him, and learn what a just and wonderful man he was. I admit he never seemed to be at a loss for things for me to do: pick up rocks and litter, sweep the drive, clean the restrooms for the rest of the workers and the guests. As I learned more about how to please him, my responsibilities and privileges grew. I came to know the special feeling of joining him in the early morning while everyone else was asleep as we got ready to go to “our” work.