At this rate, my subconscious will surely run out of unsavory circumstances intended to disrupt my sleep.  Seems I’d only just rung the last drops of “Impossibly Huge Tsunami Dream”seawater from my socks, when more madness ensued. 

Now we’re dealing with porcupines.  Technically not porcupines.  A single porcupine.  And technically not the actual porcupine itself, but the quills. Last night I dreamt that our 4 year-old family black Lab, named “Wailea” in more blissful times, rolled into the house like a pin cushion.  I was going to infringe the copyright on a Google photo image of a dog with a snout full of quills, but those images were unsettlingly close to my not-quite-faded nightmare. So I chose to infringe on the considerably less frightening image above.  This little critter doesn’t look so scary, right?

I’ve never pulled a porcupine quill from a dog, as far as I can recall.  And I think I would recall something like that.  But in my “dream,” there was one quill in particular that I was never able to pull from Wailea’s forehead.  (Hopefully this does not mean I will return to the quills tonight.) This quill was approximately the length of an unused yellow number 2 pencil.  I yanked on it a couple times by pinching my fingers and thumb together.  No dice.  And Wailea protested loudly as I flailed.  So there we are again — some thorny (pun intended, I suppose) problem that I cannot solve despite my best efforts.  And my inability to fix the problem is causing great pain to something/someone I love and for whom(?) I am responsible.

So I searched all over Breitbart News for “removing porcupine quills from my dog’s nose,” but just couldn’t come up with anything relevant.  Actually, I didn’t do that at all.  But if I had done this in my nightmare, well, I don’t even know where to start on that.

I also dreamt — and I this was a separate and distinct dream as I recall — that I was trying to find a spot in San Francisco Bay for a quick swim. My normal swimming spots, for some reason I didn’t see any of those at all.  They all seemed to be gone, as if they were never there in the first place. So I kept trying to slide in in odd locations.  Once awkwardly traipsing through a picnicking group at the water’s edge.  The picnickers were justifiably annoyed.  And probably confused.  Because it was also nighttime, and a strange time for a swim in the Bay.  (Forget for a moment that maybe they chose an odd time for a picnic.  This is my nightmare, not theirs.)  And their aggravation was enhanced because they likely knew one key fact that I would only discover a moment or two later, as I stepped off the shore:  The water was roughly as deep as my ankles.  But at this point, having rudely disrupted their midnight feast, I had no choice, really.  I had to lie down on my belly.  Hold my breath in a weird, panicky way.  Extend my arms and legs and somehow float out to deeper water.  And of course there was no deeper water to be had. I was beyond embarrassed, as this ridiculous scene played out right in front of the dining companions. I don’t have any idea how this situation ultimately ended; I believe my subconscious let me off the hook (for once) and dropped the curtain before things got any more damaging to my fragile ego.

What in the wide wide world of sports is going on here?  Restaurant tidal waves? Smug porcupine quills behaving like gag, relighting birthday candles?  Swimming in mud puddles?  At this point, I don’t even have any quaint and reassuring means of wrapping up this particular blog post.  No immediately obvious way to whip up some lemonade from these here lemons.

Instead, I’m plain old on edge as to what exactly my sadistic brain stem, thalamus and cortex will dig up for entertainment during tonight’s REM sleep.  Something’s gotta give, before I wake up on Elm Street.

Thanks for reading.  

Where do we go?

Where do we go now?

Where do we go?

Sweet child o’ mine

Things are definitely off piste when I’m resorting to seeking solace in Guns N’ Roses lyrics. Generally not my cup of tea. And Slash with the top hat and dangling cigarette — he freaks me out a bit, if I’m being honest. Nevertheless, Axl poses a very good question: Just where in the hell do we go from here?

I’m feeling numb. Feeling stuck. My head is not quite right. Is this what it feels like when someone experiences a genuinely traumatic event and is forced to accept it in order to continue to function? A soldier whose friend a foot away is felled by a bullet on the battlefield. Dead. Gone. Done. That soldier must acknowledge what he or she just witnessed with his or her own senses. Stuff that experience away somewhere to be unpacked (or not) later. The world is changed forever from that moment forward, yes, but the soldier must return his or her attention to soldiering on. Keep running at a full sprint. Stay out of harm’s way himself or herself. Is that what this is?

I’ve been taking my own advice, mind you. We have surrounded ourselves these past few days with good friends and had deep and important dinner table conversations. We have patiently answered our 10 year-old’s myriad queries aimed at sussing out exactly what this new normal means. Reassuring him (and ourselves) as we hear our own words spoken aloud. And I’m not sitting around on the couch in my pajamas all day, gorging on spicy cheetos while the beard stubble on my face gets longer. I’ve run. I’ve hiked. I actually swam in the Bay four times this past week. All of this good stuff has allowed me to keep my moment-to-moment equilibrium. And while I am not drowning, I have to admit that at best, I am only treading water. 

There is something deeper going on. Something that is only now starting to percolate up. Lately I’m having that recurring nightmare where I’m sitting in an ocean view restaurant right in front of a huge window overlooking the sea. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an impossibly gargantuan wave stands up and blots out the sky. Marching right at me. Poised to destroy everything. And there’s absolutely nothing I or anyone else can do. I hate this dream, man. Because I know what it means.  It serves a purpose, beyond just as a nagging reminder not to sit at that table at that restaurant. And beyond taking a second gander at those blue Tsunami Warning signs in my neighborhood. “The closest exit may be behind you….”

This “Impossibly Huge Tidal Wave Nightmare” only bubbles up, it seems, when I am wrestling with some sort of heavy shit. Some important riddle or puzzle or quandary that remains insoluble during my waking hours. My mind pulls out all the stops when contemplating something deeply troubling. “Let’s throw the Ridiculous Wave Nightmare in the mix tonight, send him a signal that something serious is up. In fact, let’s roll that footage every night this week.” Ugh. OK, OK, OK. 

So where do we go now? My subconscious (and those Tsunami Warning signs) are trying to tell me something: Apparently, I need to find higher ground. I’m not sure what that means yet, but I suspect I won’t be alone there. And in the meantime, here’s hoping the maître d’ doesn’t seat me by that ocean view window again at 2am tonight….

Thanks for reading. 

I couldn’t find it inscribed or stamped on anything stuffed in my pockets, at first.  I’ve long since given up on carrying loose change. The rattling and clinking drives me mad. And the $5 and $20 bills I did scrounge up? Well they trust in God, evidently, but not in people and union (and not in Latin). 

Enter Wikipedia for some background on the phrase, “e Pluribus Unum”: The traditionally understood meaning of the phrase was that out of many states (or colonies) emerges a single nation. However, in recent years its meaning has come to suggest that out of many peoples, races, religions, languages, and ancestries has emerged a single people and nation—illustrating the concept of the melting pot.”

At the moment, that feels like a stretch. There doesn’t appear to be much Unum crystallizing from all the Pluribus, if you catch my drift. 

And one of the articles I read first thing this morning suggests that it’ll be awhile. In uncertain times, I turn to the sage advice of an American hero. Well, not really. British comedian Ricky Gervais popped up on my Facebook feed. No hilarous videos of his finicky cat or funny-faced bathtub photos. This time, Ricky told me to read an article he considered the best or most important of the year. It is a long read, but go for it. 

The CliffNotes version? Humanity is poised to go to hell in a handbasket, according to well-documented historical trends. We are staring over the edge, into the abyss, and there is very likely nothing we can do to keep from taking one more numbed step and falling for quite some time. And in fact, we may already be in free fall. 

Holy shit, right?

Probably not the smartest choice on my part to choose that particular apocalyptic piece to set the morning’s tone. Thanks a lot, Ricky. I’m going to need way more videos of your house cat and your goofy, cross-eyed faces in the bath to make up for this terrifying shit you’ve now planted in my head, Ricky. In the future, please Rick, we need from you more of this — 

And less of this —

But fear not, good people. After all, this blog is about making lemonade from lemons. Finding the bright side of the street. Uplifting stuff. Am I right? 

The good news — and by the way, if you haven’t figured this out by now, there is ALWAYS good news — is that the kids are truly alright. Or at least they will be. 

I say this, first, because the post-election data I’ve seen suggests that the young folks have their heads on straight and understand what “north” looks like on a proper moral compass. Here’s the map —

Turns out this map was actually based on a pre-election survey, and therefore likely depicts somewhat of an exaggeration. But even still, you get the point, yeah?

Second, we got the teachers. Yes we do. I am the product of two school teachers, and I have been the beneficiary of some wonderful teachers along the way who are not my birth parents. But the teachers my kids and your kids are exposed to nowadays? Off the charts amazing. My 10 year old’s 5th grade teacher emailed me an article about an hour ago that rescued me in the midst of chewing my fingernails completely down to the quick. A perfectly-timed antidote to the fire and brimstone piece suggested by my sadistic friend Ricky. (Thank you, MK!)

It’s another long one, but again, I say go for it. The soaring speech (from which I lifted today’s “EPU” theme) comes down to the teacher’s vow “to help to make this residential school an example of a tolerant, loving, diverse, serious, hard-working, supportive, unbreakable community.” Amen, brother. Amen. 

I say this, lastly, because of the kids themselves. On a more granular level, we have reason to be optimistic because of kids like Jackson Lyon. He is the son of one of my wife’s dearest high school friends. Check out this post on Facebook, and see if it doesn’t lump up your throat as it did mine —

(I did’t ask for permission to post this, so hopefully Jackson and his family are cool with my sharing with you how inspired I am by Jackson’s words.) I think I’ve only met Jackson once, and I think one of us was wearing diapers at the time. Seems he’s all grown up now, or nearly so. If Jackson is any indication of what lies ahead, I think we all have reason to feel hopeful. E Pluribus Unum. 

Thanks for reading. 

It’s not every day that I hear or read a word I’ve never heard or read before. On the way to grab some pizza for dinner last night, my 5th grader asked me if i knew what “syzygy” meant.  I assumed he was kidding, what a ridiculous word that must be fake. Then I tried to pretend that of course I know what that word (and ALL words) mean, how dare he question my omniscience, etc.  Then I just gave up, clarified the spelling, looked up the definition, and thanked him for the inspiration for my next day’s blog post.  Thanks again, me boy.

Wikipedia says, “[t]he word syzygy is often loosely used to describe interesting configurations of planets.”  After Tuesday, it seems to me, there is definitely an interesting configuration going on.  Not sure where it will end up, but this is most assuredly a time of syzygy.  And it’s a lot to digest, right?  Certainly hard to take in all at once from close range, soaking in it.

So on the heels of yesterday’s blog post, and given my 5th grader’s day off from school today, I pulled the eject lever on the nonstop CNN coverage droning in the background at our house for the last 48 hours. As eager as I am to learn the ins and outs of Tuesday’s seismic election, I think sometimes you just need to get away from that shit. Especially in a time of syzygy.  

So today — at least this morning — I got away from that shit.

My 10 year-old and I drove over the Golden Gate bridge with his dog-sister, and hit the Old Railroad Grade.  This last sentence might give the mistaken impression that Everett and I were totally aligned on this extra-television jaunt.  Actually, he only agreed to go after I made several threats of taking this away or that away.  I may have undercut my credibility here by threatening to take away things that he has already had taken away.  But I was desperate; pleading with him about how “Daddy is SO tired, please cut me some slack and do this with me.” Ultimately promising him a trip to the neighborhood novelty shop for Magic Cards later. I have learned that bribery can be a powerful motivator.

So I packed my pack and we went.  And it was fantastic.  For nearly two solid hours, I barely thought of the election, the uncomfortable sitdown at the White House between Obama and Trump presumably transpiring as my son and dog and I huffed and puffed on the trail.  And for the most part, I was able to refrain from searching my memory banks as to what, exactly, a president can do unilaterally.  On this last point, I clearly need to bone up.  But not during the hike this morning.

It’s not a new observation by any means, but I was reminded again of the value of the outdoors.  It gives perspective.  It makes the heart pump.  It is something over which parents and kids and dogs can bond. I hope the next administration doesn’t do anything to set back the ongoing progress of, among other things, creating more National Parks, inspiring more people to go to those National Parks, and preserving the Parks we already have.

On the trail with my youngest son and only black lab, I felt lucky to be alive.  Lucky to be outdoors.  Lucky to breath fresh air.  Lucky to have food and water in my backpack for the three of us.  Lucky not to step in a dozen piles of horse or coyote or dog poop.  The day was so great, actually, I’d be fine with some shit on my sneakers.  

I guess my point is this:  Everybody get outside, if you can.  Take a walk around the block for just five minutes, if that’s all you have.  Look up.  The sky is still there.  Look down.  The earth is still beneath our feet.  We have a ton of work to do in this country over the coming days and weeks and months and years.  Many things will change, and we’ll all feel the shifts as we navigate this time of syzygy.  We all need a place to come back to as source of perspective, positive energy, and just feeling damned lucky to be alive and to be taking at least one more breath.  So take comfort, good people, in the sky above us, the earth beneath us.  Take comfort in the simple things.

Thanks for reading.  

I woke up crying, and for a moment or two, couldn’t figure out why.

The last time I woke up choking back tears was the morning after my grandmother died in a small Upstate New York hospital bed surrounded by family. Years ago, now. How strange to experience profound sadness as the first emotion of the day. And these are not two isolated, unconnected incidents.  Because my grandmother — my inspiration for starting this little blog — taught me how to make lemonade from lemons.  Hence, “The Lemonade Chronicles.”  So, good people, it’s time to make some lemonade.  Here, squeeze this lemon, stir it up, and maybe even drink some along with me….

It would be easier to lash out. Point fingers. Assign blame.  Cry foul. Demean and malign. I admit to giving expression to those base instincts in the last 24 hours.  I am angry, for sure. But I would like to think that I am better than that.  That we are better than that.

So my family and I are not going to choose that path. Instead, this is what we’re going to do —

Practice Resilience.

My most important job is “Dad.”  And my wife’s is “Mom.” In those roles, for years we have preached to our kids the importance of resilience — bouncing back after a setback.  And there have been setbacks: Birthday parties not invited to. Little League all star teams not made.  Schools not admitted to.  Grandparents diagnosed with cancer.   Great grandmother passing away unexpectedly.  And now, a difficult and unexpected general election result.  Every setback, every disappointment, every loss, offers an opportunity to practice resilience. We’re going to pick our heads up off the canvas, get our legs under us, and stand back up.  And we’ll appreciate every knockdown, because that’s just one more chance to get right back up.  Resilience.

Be Grateful.

I’ve always been drawn to a legend of ancient martial arts masters who willed themselves to dream of being dispatched by enemies wielding sharp swords; that way, when they awoke the next morning, alive, they would be elated at the possibility of one more day.  Even one more breath.  Especially in tough times, I have tried to remember and conjure this parable.  I’m grateful that I woke up this morning.  Many people didn’t.  And I’m grateful for the next breath I take, and for the fact that it probably won’t be my last.  Nope, it wasn’t my last. Because there are plenty who at this moment, will not take another breath. My family and I have so many things for which to be grateful.  And I’m not talking about surfboards, and bicycles, and flat screen televisions and wifi.  I’m talking about love.  I’m talking about our health (even knowing that one day will be our last, and at some point there will be only one more breath). I’m talking about our family and friends. We are grateful for you.  Thank you.

Build Empathy.

We have some work to do here.  We are going to need to double down on empathy.  In our San Francisco bubble, this election result is unfathomable and completely unexpected.  I haven’t seen many Trump bumper stickers.  I can count the friends of ours who are Republican on the fingers of one hand.  So I must acknowledge, now, that I am raising my boys in an echo chamber. Our family has not experienced the isolation and frustration felt by 40 million-plus of our fellow countrymen and countrywomen. Plenty of women apparently voted for Trump last night, for example.  Can you imagine how much pain they must be experiencing to cast that vote, despite the sexist behavior and words of their chosen candidate?  Similarly, I don’t believe that everyone who voted for Trump is a bigot.  Clearly, millions are not, and millions do not support those toxic values.  Their pain drove them to the only choice they felt they had.  I suppose my family and I are “privileged” and “elite,” though I don’t think of ourselves that way.  But clearly, I need to get to fathoming what had previously seemed unfathomable.  People are in terrible pain, and we need to appreciate, respect, and address that.

It’s Cool to Be Kind.

We are also going to be kind.  Kinder, perhaps, because I would like to think that we have been behaving in a kind way.  “Be kind” has been a dinner table mantra for quite some time around here. Easy to say, harder to do.  And even harder to do, as of this morning. Raising a high school sophomore son, we are in the belly of the beast. Even in supposedly “progressive” and right-thinking secondary schools, it is not cool to be kind.  It is cool to demean, to objectify, to criticize, to marginalize.  We are going to have to keep pulling the rope, hard, from the opposite end. Probably need to pull harder than ever before. We are going to keep working on being who we are — authentic and vulnerable with all of our warts.  And we’re going to be savvy consumers of others’ warts.  We’ll look for the warts, everyone has them, that is the real world, and we’ll embrace them.  Yep, we will fancy ourselves as “Wart Embracers.” There is a new premium on kindness now, in my view, and we’re going to give it as much currency as we can.

Do Important, Meaningful Stuff.

None of this means we will be complacent. We will refocus on what is important and on doing meaningful work. I am embarking on a new role with a startup focused on eliminating single use plastic bottles.  This morning, that mission seems even more important.  Too, we have talked as a family for years about finding a single charitable cause on which to focus our efforts, rather than writing myriad modest checks here and there without contributing sweat.  I suspect we’ll be more serious and purposeful about this important work now. Same goes for being more actively involved with the democratic process. And hopefully our kids will discover what drives them, and will be inspired to do something with their lives that leaves the world the better for it.

So these are the thoughts filling my head as my family and I tackle this difficult day.

Wake up, America.  It’s time to rise and shine.

Thanks for reading.

He’s strategic. Executing a sophisticated plot to cut us off from the outside world. Pit us against one another. Pick us off, one by one. The woodchuck has not shown his face today, at least not yet. But his presence is unmistakeable. 

Sliding the back patio door open, I now scan everything within view to ensure Grammie’s Gazebo is not overrun by the vermin. Or that the gopher is not lying in wait under the potted geranium. Even the slightest hint of the critter’s activity causes my heart to skip a beat. Once again, like Lazarus, he has managed to push aside a (relatively speaking) huge chunk of granite placed next to the Gazebo step, intended to keep the woodchuck where woodchucks belong and out of where people belong. Every time I check on the rock, it has been budged a few inches to one side or rotated a few degrees. I suppose this could be due to the changing angle of the sun. But I can’t be sure. It is surely safer to assume the worst here. 

Next I will resort to outlining the rock’s position with chalk. But I’ll need to whittle down the fat chalk pieces available to me. I’ll need a precise, scientific line. Razor-thin. So that there will be absolutely no question when (not if) the chalk-figured granite barrier has been skirted once again. It’s science. 

We have had one false alarm — the result of jumping to conclusions when under duress as we are. The Gazebo’s overhead fan, we noticed, had stopped fanning. It’s background humming was no longer humming. The only possible explanation, of course, was that the rock-blocked beaver had chewed through the fan’s power cord in a fit of pique. Nevermind that Grampie had secured the cord in a thick plastic conduit in the offseason. 

Until yesterday, Grammie and Grampie had always been able to sleep at night by imagining sweet little rabbits as the lovable culprits of such backyard pranks. “Rabbits like to get that little electric jolt,” Grammie reminded me. But the devilish plot at hand is clearly not the work of some silly-assed, floppy-eared rabbit. Anyone can see that. And so sleep is hard to come by, what with being pegged and redlined at this new state of high alert. 

Then again, the gopher didn’t cut the power either, as it turns out. That was yours truly, when I fat-fingeredly unplugged my iPhone charging cord from the Gazebo’s outlet and accidentally pushed the circuit breaker button. So, in point of fact, I broke the circuit breaker and the woodchuck did not. 

Nevertheless, we will remain vigilant. In fact, I think the rock just skipped over its chalk line. 

Thanks for reading. 

Wise words, Messr. Loggins. May I call you “Kenny”? No? Well, nevermind, then. Your lyrics will do the trick all by their lonesome. 

Vermin. Grammie’s Gazebo has vermin. This little oasis, painstakingly handcrafted by Grampie, lovingly adorned with comfy outdoor furniture, cushy pillows, and wind chimes, has been conquered by a woodchuck. Could be more than one woodchuck, we just have only seen one. Could be a whole battalion, keeping a rigid watch schedule. But just one is bad enough. 

Here is a “before” picture, taken this morning B.V. (before vermin) —

Lovely, right? 

Later in the afternoon, my mother (“Grammie” to my children) calmly informed me that a woodchuck had quietly sidled up next to her as she lay prone on the cushy couch. By my calculations, the beaver stood only a foot away on his haunches. Could have been there for 20 minutes. Just watching Grammie as she was absorbed reading about the aftermath of Melania’s oh-so-impressive speech. Grammie had to clap her hands loudly to get the chubby critter to budge. 

This is not good. The natural order of things in the Gazebo environs, I fear, has been upset. A breach in food chain etiquette has occurred from which we may not recover. I, for one, will no longer frequent Grammie’s Gazebo Zoo until I am assured the coast is clear. Grampie’s latest, new toy — a whirling drone — suddenly has a clear, paramilitary purpose: Rooting out the enemy so that we can enjoy a goddammed styrofoam cup of Dunkn Donuts and Melania’s speech on the iPad in peace. 

But I fear those carefree days are long gone, and the trouble has only just begun. 

Thanks for reading. 

Throwback to one of my favorite places, Zion National Park.  Two years later, Angels Landing still makes me gulp short breaths. Reblogged on WordPress.com

Source: Stairway to Heaven.

  

Someone made it halfway down the bag of Doritos before we even pulled out of the driveway. 

Hilary had very thoughtfully composed, packed, and sort of hidden our delicious bag of road trip Cornucopia the night before. Rip into that bag of Diabetes before the entire family had settled in to the I-5 Grapevine? Verboten. Unthinkable. Unforgivable. 

I say “someone” because I intend to continue my own protestations of innocence for as long as it takes. Why would I have eaten half a bag of Doritos last night? After all, we have here two, far more likely suspects. Both with a long history of smuggled late night junk food.  Bedrooms strewn with crumpled KitKat bar wrappers. Couch cushions stuffed with illicit Popsicle boxes. Exhibit A: Look at these two ne’er-do-wells. Don’t these backseat bandits just reek of guilt?

Exhibit B: The younger one, I now have reason to suspect, has been plotting The Great Fake Cheese Snake Heist for four long years. Patiently biding his time. Lying in wait to unleash his evil nature on an unsuspecting Spring Breaking family. 

  
Exhibit C: I give you this shady character here, four years later. Can he really be trusted about anything?

  
 If that isn’t the clearest telltale sign of Doritos thievery — crashed out in the hotel lobby from spiked and crashed blood glucose levels and mainlined Red Number Five — then by God, I don’t know what is. 

Well, actually, there is a more tellingly telltale sign of monosodium glutamated snack pilfering: Orange dust-sticky fingers. Caught red-handed. Orange-handed, really. 

So the jig was up before we rounded the first corner on our trek to Disneyland. Now, how does one get rid of a steering wheel covered in nacho cheese powder?

Thanks for reading.