The End (Of the Year)

It’s very tempting to compose some paragraphs about the year just ending. Predictions for the year ahead are also in generous supply about now. I might as well toss some words of my own into the pot.

The year began in cold and snow here on the mountainside. That was good, because we needed something to harden the ground left soft and slippery by the extended Fall. We are used to, and comfortable with, temperatures that dip below zero, that occasionally even fall far enough to require really heavy coats and more frequent trips to the woodshed and furnace. It sorta didn’t happen. We did have some weeks of cold and snow, coming late in the season, but overall it was a mild late winter. It’s happening again.

Today we will probably have temperatures in the 50s, fog and maybe light rain. No snow. So far this season we have had flurries once, and that has been it. We have four seasons here: mud, snow, fly and dust. Some days we have all of them at the same time. While any one of them can be sufficient, none of them seem to last very long anymore. You just get one level of clothing out and easily available and you need to go up or down to another level: coats and hats, boots, gloves come out of the closet, but by the time you’ve outfitted yourself you are overdressed for what you will find when you actually go out the door. Or you find yourself shivering and turning up the heat in the car because you’re dressed for the 60s and the temperature has suddenly fallen through the bottom of the glass.

But that’s enough about climate change. What about the rest of the environment? How about safety in public places? No calendar provides a guide to that either. There was a time when we were secure in our homes and offices and schools, but that has changed over the years, too. Today we think about people in other countries, countries where we have felt safe and welcome in the past, but where we would not want to visit today.

It is hard, some days, to feel positive or even hopeful about the world we are going to live in for the foreseeable future. For some of us, of course, that is a short-term issue. For those we have brought into the world, have nurtured (continue to nurture), it’s a different story. Same plot, same characters, just a different clock perhaps. I’m not the first to think that compulsory military service shouldn’t begin until one is past retirement age, and it’s unrealistic to even propose it, but it does, you must admit, have its attraction.

There was a time when I was drawn to science fiction, both as a reader and a writer. I tried my hand at it while I was still in college, but gave it up for the same reason I had stopped reading it in the first place: it was all coming true. My introduction to the genre was in the 1940s, but by the early or mid-fifties so much of what the science fiction community was offering was based on reality that I lost interest. I’m rethinking that genre now.

In the first place, science has taken us so much farther than most of us even considered sixty or seventy years ago. Walking on the moon is so much history today, and the recent book and film about surviving alone on Mars is already a little behind the known science. The mystery, the opportunity for imagination to soar is limited, but growing more intriguing, offering more real possibilities. Maybe we can imagine our way out of the future some people are imagining today.

We will have to turn to our new calendars on Friday of this week, with all the little and large changes that will mean. The date on checks, for instance, and on letters written by hand, will offer opportunities to get it right (and wrong), at least until we’ve written it a few times. But there are more opportunities for us all.

We can try to devote more time and effort to discovering truth, seeing people as people, asking thoughtful questions and giving thoughtful answers to the many questions before us. These are times of struggle and uncertainty, to be sure. There will be new challenges and still-to-be-discovered truths, if we but learn to listen. There may even be answers, if we want them, but we will have to listen with care and answer with thoughtfulness. This is not the time for off-the-cuff responses to deep-from-the-heart questions. It will be a time of work and study, if we are to understand the changes our universe will spawn. We need to be ready for it to happen. Now is a good time to begin.

Happy New Year.

I Don’t Know

I hope you will not turn away from this essay because it isn’t about writing or dogs or life in the country; the things I usually choose to write about here. Normally I keep to those sorts of subjects because they are what I feel most comfortable writing about, and understand the best. Today I want to focus on tomorrow.

I just don’t know what to make of the current social climate. We are beset by enemies at home and abroad, we are arming citizens as if we were all just graduating from boot camp, we are letting the people who make more in a week than most of us earn in a lifetime dictate fiscal policies and control who serves in congress and perhaps even the White House and you and I have almost nothing to say about it, given the loud voice with which money speaks. I’m scared.

I’m scared because at this time of my life I should be feeling the warmth of a life well lived and enjoyed, and turning my face more to the past than the future, but instead I am filled with concern for our younger generations. I’m worried that they will not have the future they expect; that we, the people who were to have given them a future, will have given them a world trying to destroy itself instead.

I understand that some of what I am feeling is just an old man’s squint at the bright light ahead, but in fact, I do believe that while we will always face war and the threat of war, we are approaching a future that is unlike anything we’ve ever experienced not just as a nation, but as a global neighborhood. I don’t want that bright light to come at the end of a countdown.

Somehow we seem to have become so polarized that there is no more shading of images. Everything is cast in absolute terms. Do you follow the realities rather than the newsviews? Do you really base your understanding of the world on sound bites? And if you do, is that fair to those who come after?

If you read (and I assume that since you are following this blog, you do), and you listen to what others are saying, then you must be hearing the same things I’m hearing. Do you wonder, as I do, who is listening? It doesn’t seem to me that the people we want to hear from are saying what needs to be said, but instead are saying what they think will bring in the most coin. Dollars, pounds, yen, you name it: everywhere the political life of our world seems in the hands of those holding a fist full of currency.

Is there an answer? I don’t have one. I just know that in the long run, we are the people most affected by what the free-spending politician-owning class does. And political party doesn’t seem to matter.

And if that is true, then neither do we. Matter.

BOOK SAIL

I spent most of last Saturday among a group of fellow writers. We had gathered at a local venue to offer our books for sale directly to readers and (we hope) fans. It’s what writers do, or should do, when they aren’t actually writing. Putting work up on the internet, contacting real bookstores and other sellers, and finding other ways to make contact with readers is all part of the world of writing and publishing. Nothing new in that; selling books is simply part of the writing process. If a book falls onto a tabletop, and nobody reads it, does it make a sound?

Writing books, selling books, go together like whatever pairing words you choose: bees and honey, coffee and cream, sand and surf . . . you choose. And then you must add one more: reading. Reading is where it all begins.

When I was very young, just learning to read I think, I was presented with a most ususal gift – a package of bookplates. Don’t know what they are? Perhaps in this new age of digital books the bookplate is on its way to obsolescence. For me, it is as much a part of acquiring a book as the book itself. It is a simple way of identifying books one owns and (almost as important) one shares by lending to others. The ones we have in our books today simply have the name of our farm and the image of a tree. The tree reminds us of our debt to wood as the prime ingredient of paper and the printed pages we treasure. That is today.

The first bookplates I had (and can still find in some books I’ve owned for a long, long time), have a drawing of a sailing ship, and the words of Emily Dickinson: "There is no frigate like a book to take us lands away." That’s as true today as it was when I was five years old. Books work both ways: they take us "lands away," but they also bring lands and lives to us.

What magic the written word holds, what knowledge and pleasure, what truth and treasure we have before our eyes, simply by opening a book, turning a page. What pleasure and knowledge we are able to ingest and digest simply by turning a piece of paper, a collection of pieces of paper, bound between a beginning and an ending. Danger is there, too, of course: what you read is not guaranteed to be true. How widely read you are determines that: nothing is all true or all false. Words are not simply a collection of letters. Words represent ideas and not all ideas are good. The only safety is in numbers: the more you read, the better you are able to find the truth, to understand the meanings, to make the right choices and decisions in life.

That frigate, that ship of thought you board when you open a book is the way you travel the universe that is life. I’m not trying to write poetry, or create great literature here, just trying to share with you the excitement, the pleasure, the learning that reading has brought to me. That, and the understanding that without words, without books, we remain where we started. To grow is to learn and to learn is to apply and to apply is to make decisions about one’s life that can take you to the best or the worst places. How you survive, what you do when you get there, is a reflection of what you have learned along the way.

Enjoy the journey.

The Janus Effect

Somewhere along the way to delivering a finished story, a writer must go through what I call the Janus Effect. Janus, you will remember, was the Greek god generally depicted as a head looking both ways; the god of beginnings, and by extension, of endings, the god of doors.

When a writer begins a new story there are several things that should be accomplished. First, of course, is deciding what the story is about; the plot line. How will your story begin, what will happen to advance it, and how will it end? It is possible to begin backwards and determine the end of the story before deciding how to begin it, or even how to tell it. Regardless of where the writer begins, the story eventually must have a beginning, a middle and an end. Pretty basic, isn’t it?

Hard on the decision to write a story comes the fleshing out: deciding who is in the story, why they are in it, what they will contribute. The writer must also give time and thought to what the characters look like, how they speak, their movements both physically and within their place in the storyline.

Location is another fundamental of any story. The where can be as important as the why and the what and the who and when. But these are all matters every writer understands, I think. The five W’s are among the first rules of writing and are not negotiable. Without answering those questions at least indirectly, no story can really be a story. But that still leaves you with the Janus Effect: looking at your story from two directions, if you will.

The first face is writing the basic story in your head, following the plot line from the opening to the end of the line: getting it down, putting it on paper, making sense out of what you want to say. I think in another essay about writing non-theatrical films, I’ve described reaching the point at which the client asks how the script is coming, and the answer I would give: "Finished. I just have to put it on paper." That wasn’t a dismissive response, but rather, a true one. Writing, the physical part, is really the end of the job for a writer. The work begins in one’s mind, is developed and fleshed out long before it all comes together on paper. When I sit down to write a story or a script, I do it when I can see and hear it in my mind. To do otherwise is a struggle, trying to control and contain rapid fire thoughts that are created like sparks from a piece of metal dragging along under the car: bright and noisy but too scattered to be useful. When the words are ready, they pour out and fill the pages. And that’s the first aspect of Janus.

Looking the other way doesn’t mean ignoring what is in front of you. It is looking at the story from the reader’s or viewer’s place. The thrill of writing sometimes causes us to ignore what the reader knows or doesn’t know, perhaps doesn’t even understand. So when you read from the reader’s perspective or position or knowledge node, you should discover what you left out, what you need to expand or what means nothing in the overall story and can be deleted. You get to the end, but perhaps it isn’t the end you had in mind, or expected or even wanted. And now the work begins.

Writing, you see, is fun, can be challenging, is sometimes hard. It’s part of the package, though: telling a story isn’t just saying what’s in your head. It is forming the parts into a model others can see and understand. First, of course, you must have a story to tell. Second, you need an audience to hear the story. First you write to satisfy your own desires and demands. Then you write for your readers.

That’s the Janus Effect.

Thanks For All That

So we approach the end of the year. In another month, in less than 30 days in fact, we will cross the line from Fall to Winter. The days will stop growing shorter and barely perceptibly, begin to lengthen. Who can be unhappy about that? In a world of uncertainty, such fixed points are more than welcome.

As years go, 2015 hasn’t been so terrible. I can say that because we are still here, still working (though at a somewhat slower pace), still getting up every morning and going to our own bed every night. Well almost every night. We have traveled a bit more this year than in the previous five or so; more than 12,000 miles between May and November. We have seen much, shared a lot, said a few hellos and more than one goodbye. It hasn’t always been what we wished, but we are at least here to wish at all.

Since Thanksgiving is this week’s focal point, it seems a good time to look back and acknowledge the good things that have happened, recall the things we’d rather hadn’t come to pass, and try to see the future. Having family return to the neighborhood, to within an easy walk, is one of those things one thinks about as age asserts itself, but in today’s world that doesn’t often happen (unless we’re talking about twenty-somethings coming home to regroup). No, we’re talking about one moving back to a tenth of a mile along the road, that was part of our original purchase, and another who has married and is about to begin the exciting process of building a new home across the road that bisects our farmland. The prospect of so much family so close is a cheering and warming aspect for this coming winter. And then there are the success stories of other family members whose destiny lies beyond our sometimes inaccessible hideaway. The good things have been balanced by the loss of one member of us, but still it has been a year with new promises, and promises fulfilled. One cannot expect more from life.

We welcome each day, sometimes with trepidation, with anxiety about what new horror has been unleashed in the name of ending horror from our lives (whether we like it or not). But we welcome each day because the alternative hasn’t breached our shores yet. There are too many signs, too many symptoms to ignore the fact that our way of life is threatened. Perhaps it is envy, as we’d like to believe, but more than likely it is a misguided philosophy that preaches one idea, one ideology for all, with some extras like jealousy and envy added. What ever it is, of course, we as a nation, and we as individuals, will deal with it, overcome it, and hopefully grow stronger. But there is a danger.

In seeking to protect ourselves, we run the risk of assigning to every threat the same weight, the same intensity that the most egregious act or proposed act of hatred and violence can create. We can fail to see (or maybe we don’t want to see) that managing such human enterprises as hatred and jealousy cannot be done with irrational, ill-considered responses. Fences will not stop hate. Killing will not stop hate. Jails will not stop hate. Ignorance will not stop hate. Some as yet undetermined mix of strength, knowledge, creativity and desire to heal, will.

So Thursday, Thanksgiving Day, we will come together in groups small and large. We will recognize the strength our way of life gives us, protects us and makes us strong.

And for all of that, let us give thanks.

Can you Just Say "No?"

There comes a time, I guess, when civic duty and personal time cross, and the result is a strong desire to say "no." I’ve been saying "yes" for so long now that it has become a habit. One of the challenges of growing older is learning to say "no."

We have made our annual trip to the beach, and I’d rather be there still, but other things demand my time. Voting, for instance. A few days after our return from the coast we voted for local office holders: County clerk, treasurer, sheriff and others. In our county those are the races that draw the greatest number of voters. It has to do with size, as much as anything. There are fewer than 2,500 full-time residents, and about half were born here, and about half are from somewhere else. Most have roots in the county, some dating back two hundred years. That accounts, perhaps, for the high turn-out for local elections. Almost everyone is related to someone who is running for office.

On voting day I was up by four O’clock. The precinct where we vote is less than a mile from our home, in the volunteer fire department building, and for some years I have volunteered as one of the official officers of election. And since I was an active member of the volunteer fire department for some years, I still have access to the building, and I usually arrive early enough to open the doors and start setting up for the Six O’clock opening.

Getting up early isn’t the hard part. Even staying at the table as long as the polls are open (until Seven O’clock in the evening) isn’t all that taxing. Of the slightly more than 100 registered voters in our precinct, somewhere between 60 and 70 per cent usually show up, especially for local elections like this one. That’s a pretty high turnout, we are told, but not more than three of us can handle. Still, by the time we close, open the ballot boxes, tally the votes (this year performed by a wonderful optical scanner) and fill out all of the official paperwork it means getting home around 9:30 or later (sometimes much later, if we have to count the votes by hand). It’s a long day, yes, but because it is important to us, because it is where we feel the responsibilities of governing ourselves, it isn’t an unpleasant job. Besides, we get to see our neighbors, share news and stories, and generally enjoy the process. It is, after all, what we as a nation wanted way back in 1776: the right to determine who will lead us, who will do the hard job of making freedom work.

Now a week has gone by, and we are nearly at another milestone day: Veterans Day. Recall that on the 11^th day of the 11^th month at 11:00 AM in the year 1918, World War I ended with the signing of the treaty of Versailles. "Armistice Day," it was called then. It was "the war to end all wars," and it didn’t. What we have today is ours because we as a people don’t let go of our dream.

Keeping that dream alive and well demands that we do what is asked of us in support of our way of life. We can’t leave it to someone else. If we do, chances are that eventually that "someone else" will try to take it away from us. We have no choice but to say "yes," when we’re asked to volunteer our time in support of our way of life. I can’t deny, however, that I’m ready to share that responsibility. So when you get the call, asking for your time, just remember who you are, where you live, and why you wouldn’t live anywhere else.

There are so many places where you would not only never be asked, but you would be harshly treated if you tried to participate, so if you get a call asking you to volunteer, forget the word "no." Just say "I will." And be happy that you can say that.

Election Day to Veterans Day is not a very long time, but for too many people today, it’s a week they may never know.

And don’t you forget it.

　

　

Design For Living

I love old things. I’ll choose a Rembrandt over a Picasso every time. A thatched cottage over a Frank Lloyd Wright masterpiece. An Agatha Christy over a contemporary mystery. History over Futurism. A vintage car over the latest super BMW. And I think I know why.

It isn’t just that those are old things. It is because they represent a world in which things were easier. I know, I know: people died younger, manual labor was what most people did, houses were colder and travel was between villages, not continents. I know all that. And I appreciate the opportunities that modern life provides; the better food (if you can afford it), the ease of movement from place to place (if you fan afford it), the warm-in-winter, cool-in-summer houses (if you can afford it). But still . . .

Life was simpler. That is good. There were fewer choices. That is good and not good. But what I really miss in this mass-produced, mass-marketed world is the sense that someone, a craftsman at whatever level, cared about what he or she produced, respected the future user, felt a responsibility for the user’s enjoyment and success when something was used that had a real hand applied to its creation.

I once had a saw, a simple, traditional cross-cut saw, that had belonged to my father. He was not a carpenter or craftsman, just a simple family man, a homeowner, a man who had occasion to cut a piece of wood, and this was the tool he used. I admired it because, aside from its sharp teeth and smooth cutting character, it had a handle that was decorated with artistic carving on the part where the blade attached. I always thought of that saw, certainly made by a machine (or machines) as something designed by and made by people who respected not just the work the tool could do, but the hands and eyes of the people who would use it. It spoke to me of people who could envision the users, who hoped to add their own art to whatever the project was that called for the saw. There is little to none of that today.

Look around. Sewing machines and typewriters once stood proudly on store shelves, bodies painted with rich black paint, enhanced by gold pinstripes and artful scroll work to make the point, I believe, that the tools were important and the makers proud. A far cry from plastic in assorted Picasso colors unable to even remotely suggest strength and durability evident in a Rembrandt painting.

I am a realist, though. I know we will not go back to a time when life was simpler and permitted more time for gracious and artful design or display. I know, too, that with every loss there is a gain, and I’m grateful for some of the gains, accept some of the losses, even celebrate some of both. Still, for me, the old ways, the old things are better.

Perhaps because I’m one of them.