Autumn

Try. You try to remember why trees forsake their leaves in the winter, for the sake of your son who asked you, and you wonder why you don't know the answer. You try to remember what it was like when you didn't know anything, before you knew everything. Remember when you knew everything, and the world was simply a great unexplored mystery, there for you to dissect and rule?

You remember seeing a picture of your own father at fourteen, white T-shirt and a pack of smokes rolled into his sleeve, just before the car he and sixteen-year-old Uncle Steve were driving broke down near the Nevada border. Your father told you the two of them had purchased a whole bushel of corn-on-the-cob that day, back when they were flush and before the $10 repair cost for the car erased their food budget. They ate the corn for the rest of the trip, until they ran flat out of money and got bailed out with a bus ticket by an old family friend in San Francisco.

Now you sit back and examine your thirty-year-old reaction today, parenting your own father: "How could Grandma Vi and Grandpa Don let those two teenagers drive a broke down car across several state lines--by themselves?" Ten years ago, your reaction would be different, you realize; the image of your father squinting out from over-exposed black and white, the whole desert at his feet, would have stirred dreams of swirling dust and sleepy two-lane towns with bell-ringing gas pumps.

Now you have an easy chair.

Ten years ago, you were the boy with the desert at his feet, standing in swirls of dust, filtered by a setting sun, a child of the nameless heart-yearning of open roads and wind in your hair. You were Possibility, your notebooks were filled with prose, and she fell in love with you then. Her poet husband.

Now you are Law and you are Order, and the scurrious scribbles of your pen--that used to melt the heart of that black-haired love of yours--that pen now scribbles out dollars and cents onto checks at the kitchen table, evenings, after the kids are upstairs. Now you think to yourself, "I Could Never."

Here's a picture of you, younger then, in soft afternoon light, and you are driving her old Ford pickup truck with the windows down; she took the picture on a disposable camera, and you are looking at her without looking at her, laughing in the corners of your mouth, freshly in love and not yet aware of the import those small smiles, in those old pictures, will have ten years hence.

Once and again now, you sit down with a notebook again, you put on music--the good music that makes you feel young and old at once--you scribble out a few pages, you wonder if it's any good, if she'll think it's any good still.

And even if she doesn't... Even if she doesn't, you thank God that He gave you a clutch of chipper sons in the back seat of the minivan, who ask you questions about the world that you have forgotten to ask anymore; for a baby who is all feet-pajamas and lopsided smiles; and you thank God that whether she thinks your prose is any good anymore or no, you still are crazy in love with that black-haired beauty from all those years ago.

My Politics

America can be great again.

We can wear suits on Sundays, our children can ride their bicycles around the block until the streetlights come on. We can take our hats off indoors. We can respect the members of the opposite political party, and admit that they probably love the flag and the Constitution too.

We can shop on main street, at a store owned by a man who lives in the same town as us. We can bike to work. We can buy hefty and shiny vegetables at farmers' markets. We can apprehend bank robbers and wild-eyed bombers with the strength of our middle school teachers and sidewalk hot-dog vendors.

We can all know who won the World Series last year; maybe we can even care. We can drive cars built and designed in America, with American sweat and American intellect. We can pay the men and women on the assembly line as fairly as we pay the men and women in the design labs and the board rooms. We can all stand up when a lady arrives at our table. We can take our children camping, we can help in their classrooms, attend their Little League games, and check their homework at night. We can expect excellence from them, and we can teach them to learn from their failures. We can learn from our failures.

We can be proud of what we put our name on, nationally and individually, from "USA" on a rocket to Mars all the way down to "John Q. Public" on a citizen's initiative petition. Because in this great country we are permitted to privately and anonymously detest anyone we choose; but if we strive to bring that emotion to the public square, if we endeavour to steer the ship of state against our neighbors, then we must stand up and name ourselves, to declare, "I, Insert Name Here, wish to use my small but mighty piece of this democratic franchise for this end."

Our name should mean something, and we should not use it lightly. Our participation in our democracy can be something we pride ourselves on, not something to be ashamed of. We can stop apologizing for hiding behind our opinions, and we can start defending them. We can remember that the last part of the Pledge commits us to "Liberty and Justice for all." We can understand that my "Liberty" and your "Justice" are often in conflict, and respect those people and institutions who strive for balance.

We can participate in our society as well as our politics. We can watch out for each other's kids; and yes, we can even correct them when they're going astray. We can stand up against injustice anywhere, and remember that it threatens justice everywhere.

We can refuse to be a nation of bystanders.

Forgive me, but yes we can.

Photos from the Coast

Remember drives out to the coast? We would cruise down highway 34 and the sun shone on us, the wind blew in our hair. We drove in her light blue Ford pickup, and we went down that road like we were shot out of a pistol, like there were no cops and it was all downhill. We rolled the windows down and pretended like the ripping wind didn't make us cold. Now that was a summer! I built her a house on the beach out of driftwood, just big enough for us to lie down in with our legs sticking out.

The coast is always colder than you expect. We stopped at a gas station, we bought the local newspaper and a cigarette lighter, we found our little house again and built a fire. We sat there and watched the waves roll in and out, watched the gulls anticipate the wind, watched the stars speckle the sky after the sunset had burned it down. We talked about the nothings young lovers talk about, and didn't even bring sweatshirts. I was in love with her. She had smiles in her eyes and the wind caught her thick black hair.

I married her, and we went to the coast again. This is the one I have pictures of, me in a white t-shirt and rolled up Dockers, her in a gauzy white dress. We are playing baseball with a Made in China set we bought for $2.99 at the Shop-N-Save, the sun is high, the sea and sky are flawless and blue. The rest of that trip comes back to me in little pops: a trip to the historic downtown, Fort Clatsop, antiquing, a quarrel in our lace-bedecked room at the Bed and Breakfast. I look back at my pettiness and think, maybe all those other bits were us just playing at Being Married Now, still those kids from before playing house, trying to be more than we needed to be. The photographs we keep become the memories we keep. For me, the true and lasting center of that trip is she and me mugging for the camera in the sand, one of me like I'm about to field the ball, this one of her with her toe pointed and her arms bent in mid-windup, preparing to deliver a vicious curve.

Now it's many years and many kids later. Now we bring sweatshirts. We went last in January, a van full of us and our luggage for one night over. Rubber boots and jackets for everyone under six, hotel reservations, everything. The coast became smaller, just the little stretch of bay shore between the hotel and our favorite seafood restaurant. Even that small distance was a slog, issuing constant reminders to our progeny to Come Back Here and Stay Where I Can See You. They are willful and exuberant, and don't realize how fragile their small bodies are against the terrible, indifferent power of the sea. They are fascinated by their footprints disappearing in the shimmering surf, by tide-pools, jetties, writing in the sand, digging to find water, by seashells.

On the way to the restaurant, the three-year-old, middle child, successfully falls into the bay, soaking himself, sputtering. My wife picks him up, comforts him, scolds him, laughs at his verbal instant replay. "Yes, you DID fall in the ocean." She looks at me, and there are smiles in her eyes, and the wind catches her thick black hair.

M's Take the Opener, 5-3

OAKLAND—The Ancient Mariners began the sporting season of spring by visiting Oakland last night, and stepped lively to begin the fiscal year. After a disappointing infield fly by Ichiro, new hire Figgins garnered a walk. Once astride first, he was quickly astride second under false pretenses, then on to third when the overwrought Oakland Catcher Suzuki threw it right past Ellis on into the Athletics’ beautiful back yard. Ellis and Suzuki looked at each other as if to say, “I hope Chone doesn’t make a habit of this.”

So with Figgy on third, the stalwart first-bag-man Kotchman didn’t hesitate to pound a double against the back wall of the park, and before you could sneeze the M’s were playing baseball with all the bases.

In their second turn to bat, the bald-by-choice Seattle Catcher clocked a 3-1 over the center field fence in a sweet, clean arc into the gloaming. It should be noted that the fan who put his hands on it made a pretty catch, and he had a moment of team loyalty as he thought about throwing the sucker back. (But then the words, “I caught a home run ball on opening day” raced through his head and he thought better, took it home to his son, I hope.)

Then in the Thirsty Third it was Ichiro again, this time with his only hit of the night, a single, and when Figgins showed up in the box, Catcher Suzuki thought, “Here we go again.” And here we did go, because Itchy went running, grabbing bases as they came along until he got caught in the neighborhood of third. But in the meantime Figgins walked (again), and once he did that he stole (again), and then old Suzuki threw the ball about eight feet over poor Ellis at second, right at Davis who just happened to be playing center field today. (Again.)

Now with Figgins at third, Kotchman knows what to do, he’s been here before just a few minutes ago, and this time he tries to bang it off the left field wall. Buck stands under it, out there in left, but Figgy is going to try for it, and Buck makes it a race. It was a beautiful, daring charge to the plate by Figgins, he ended it by darting his hand around Suzuki’s back as he went by it, and picked home plate right out of the Catcher’s pocket.

Three runs in three innings was a pretty good deal for Our Sailors, and they let the Pitcher Hernandez rest on that until the Seventh.

Of course, Hernandez wasn’t resting, though he always seems to be, with his bad-first-impression slouch and his rumpled trousers. But as he ended the Fifth only having faced two batters over the minimum, he was reminiscent of a balding, bespectacled cubicle troll with a mustard spot on his tie, who despite his dire want of a flat iron has just made a killer presentation to the boss and bested you in quarterly sales. Even through the Oakland Seventh, Felix continued to work quickly, efficiently, and his breaking shit had a cruel, heartbreaking bite at the end.

It was in the Seventh, though, that the Elephantine Athletics mounted their offensive, through sheer infiltration. A pair of two-out, 3-1 walks in a row sat Hernandez down, and Pennington singled across Ellis. Next it was Davis, and his single was a potato deep into right center with such a generous helping of sour cream and chives that Penny got stars in his eyes and tried for third. Too bad for him Wilson came up with the ball in the basepath and put him out; but not before Buck came across to tie it all up.

So here was Kotchman in the Eighth, leading off, and before the umps can clean off their bifocals enough to realize there may be a baseball game afoot out here (and tied, at that), Kotch hit a doozey almost short enough into center, but not too short for Davis, whose acting skills played to rave reviews in the umpiring cadre. A replay clearly showed a short bounce into RJ’s glove, but Davis sold it and the umps were buying, and there was no getting that one back. That let the air out of the rest of the Nautical balloon, despite a strong double from Griffey. The Oaklands feinted in their half, but some steady fielding, including one of the Ms’ four double plays on the night, put an end to their stealthy bases on balls.

So on to the Naughty Ninth. Gutierrez, leading off, struck out. Johnson strolled aboard, and Wilson moved him over with a sacrifice. Back up to Ichiro, who was given his base on balls intentionally. Now on to Figgins, who slapped a ball into the infield, but who seemed to be surrounded by a strange force-field all night. The throw to first by the Greek Kouzmanoff was off by a hair, pulled Barton off the bag, and Chone wriggled around the tag and onto first.

Kotchman stands in again, and works the count full. The steady Baseman picked the one he wanted, and sent it right back to Davis again, but this time he wrote on it, “No funny business.” But Davis didn’t have a chance to reprise his Oscar role, and both Ichiro and Johnson walked on the dish. Aardsma neatly cleaned up the bottom of the Ninth; final score was the Seattles 5, home club 3, and Kotchman’s name was scribed on all but one of the Seamen’s scores.

Introductory Post

In college, I majored in Writing. People would ask me if I was going to be a teacher, and I would tell them no, I am going to be a Writer. I will get paid just to write, and will write the most moving, poignant, sentimental, and savvy Great American Novel (or Novels) ever written. I will live contemplatively and tragically in Europe, and will drink wine from the bottle on riverbanks.

Nearly ten years later, I am a police detective, so as it turns out I do get paid to write. Unfortunately, my work now consists generally of smutty, sordid, and overlong reports describing my conversations with child molesters, robbers, burglars, and the like. The novel still isn't written, though I made a few earnest stabs at it.

So insert a cliche about time passing and all the things I've learned along the way, because here I am, with a stint in the Army and a year at war to my name, having seen the great capitals of Europe, having moved back to my old hometown, with a beautiful black-haired and pregnant wife, three stair-stepped Pirate boys and the girl on the way, a good job that I enjoy. I love baseball, camping, God, stories about colonial Africa, my wife, spaghetti with okra in the sauce, the rugged rain-washed beauty of Oregon, my kids, America, pizza, well-laid-out cities and neighborhoods, cheap wine, and expensive cheese.

Expect this blog to be about all of those things (and maybe more) in some fashion or another. I hope, at the end of it all, you think to yourself, "That guy should write a novel."