The Fear of Not Being Interesting

The fear of not being interesting is a death knell for a writer's hopes, a sound borne on a howling wind of doubt, chill and paralyzing. You clutch at your coat, half mad, and wonder why you started in the first place, why this rash half-baked quest has come to such a lonely moment, hoping for some other fool to come along and lead you to a hovel, a shelter from the storm.

I began the blog because I cared about words and ideas. I wanted to say something and enlarge my purpose, touching others in some way. I started it also because I had things to work out. Originally I used it to declare my love for one woman to the world wide web, and now the two of us have reached such a low ebb that all that exists between us is an occasional tentative phone message. I know I tried. I accept what has happened, and now I'll start with moving on.

Don't misunderstand. Moving on doesn't mean jumping headlong into a new romance. God, that would be awful. Moving on means reordering my life and redirecting my energy. It means writing about a wider range of things, and hoping on a broader range of hopes. It means taking care of myself, my chores, my finances and my job, taking time to reconnect to my family and friends, striving for balance. I can't just hole up and play poker. I can't hide in the gym, or in books, or Duck football. I have to remember why I'm here and what's important. I have to remind myself every day.

For all our passion and intensity, it was never a functional relationship. We couldn't get along. Fear and doubt constantly plunged us into irrationality and craziness, loud talk and misery.

Still, I miss her. Any man would. She is an enticing and memorable woman. But silence and distance are a poor substitute for intimacy. Marie doesn't return my phone calls, though I'm paying for the phone. I give up.

Tomorrow, I promise, I'll write about something different. I'll try to be fearless, and as interesting as I can.

Bonding with Ethan and Kourtney

Monday morning Ethan and I sat in the rocking chair and read the classics. We started with One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish Blue Fish, then Hop On Pop, and then Go Dogs Go. We were going to move on to more sophisticated material, Curious George Plays Baseball, but he needed to changed and fed and take a power nap. He loves to be read to, flailing his arms and cooing delightedly. At his age of course they are responding to the tone of your voice as much as anything, but it's still a wonderful experience for both of us. His father had a softball game Monday night, and Ethan sat in my lap while I kissed the top of his head and rubbed his belly and explained the fine points of the game. The Yakima Training Center Yakirats swept a double header, comig from behind to win the second game 20-19. Ethan's daddy Thomas had a line drive double to right center and several nice catches in left field before an enthusiastic crowd of soldier's wives and girlfriends.

Kourtney and I played 3 games of Clue, 4 games of Yahtzee, and 8 games of Sequence. Tom barbequed hamburgers Sunday night and we all participated in another round of The Backyard Olympics, this time thoroughly dominated by the Newlyweds, who finished 1 and 2 in the medal count, taking gold between them in every single event. Kourtney and I faltered badly and took turns sulking, although she did earn a silver in Bocci Ball and staged a nice rally in croquet.

It was a great visit. Ethan is thriving and the newlyweds are deeply in love. The tenderness and affection between them is wonderful to witness. I've never seen Stephanie so happy. I'm glad I spent the time and the precious petrol to make the trip. Easily the best vacation I've had in a long while.

Stephanie sends her love, and a contribution

Stephanie sent me an email:

This must go in the blog funniest e-mail I have ever read.....



Subject: FW: I REALLY NEED TO DO AT LEAST 5 OF THESE A DAY! To Maintain A Healthy Level Of Insanity ....

1. At Lunch Time, Sit In Your Parked Car With Sunglasses on and point a Hair Dryer At Passing Cars. See If They Slow Down.

2. Page Yourself Over The Intercom.Don't Disguise Your Voice !

3. Every Time Someone Asks You To Do Something, ask If They Want Fries with that.

4. Put Decaf In The Coffee Maker For 3 Weeks. Once Everyone has Gotten Over Their Caffeine Addictions, Switch to Espresso.

5. In the Memo Field Of All Your Checks, Write 'For Marijuana'

6. Finish All Your sentences with'In Accordance With The Prophecy.'

7. Skip down the hall Rather Than Walk and see how many looks you get.
8. Order a Diet Water whenever you go out to eat, with a serious face.

9 . Specify That Your Drive-through Order Is 'To Go.'

10. Sing Along At The Opera.

11. Put Mosquito Netting Around Your Work Area and Play tropical Sounds All Day.

12. Five Days In Advance, Tell Your Friends You Can't Attend Their Party Because You have a headache.

13. When The Money Comes Out The ATM, Scream 'I Won! I Won!'

14 . When Leaving the Zoo, Start Running towards the Parking lot, Yelling 'Run For Your Lives! They're Loose!'

15. Tell Your Children Over Dinner, 'Due To The Economy, We Are Going To Have To Let One Of You Go.'

16. And The Final Way To Keep A Healthy Level Of Insanity:
Send This E-mail l To Someone To Make Them Smile.

It's Called THERAPY.

A Moving Day

On Saturday I transferred all my worldly possessions from the old place to the new one, hung up my good clothes, and met my new roommates Padrick and Doug. (Padrick is actually the correct spelling, no matter what spellcheck says--it's Irish, he says.) After two recent moves my miscellaneous unsorted junk, the plastic bag of rubber bands, a handful of unsorted photographs and old billing statements, fits in one small box. Moving is good for your personal economy; it reduces clutter and demands a flurry of organization, and such prompts are a good thing in our cluttered lives. For a few days you have to live like a soldier on a march, and the experience can clear out your head and heart as well as your closet. All my laundry is done and everything is folded; my mother is beaming down at me from heaven. God, I wish you could walk into her house. There was such a state of antiseptic clean and perfect order--a doctor could have performed surgery in her garage, it was that clean. The floors, the counters, the cupboards and even the remotest corners of the refrigerator, impeccably stain and odor-free, no trace of dirt, spill, crumb or smudge. At any hour of any day throughout her life the entire house spelled of Lysol and bleach and Lemon Pledge. She was remarkable and efficient and fiercely proud, a wonder of purpose.

These remarks are not a judgement of anyone else. Lord knows I inherited none of her fierce devotion to order and spotlessness: I make the bed once every two months. You could even argue Mom could have relaxed a little at some point, or reordered her life to channel that remarkable energy to some other hope. I certainly don't expect anyone else to live as she did or clean with the same relentless discipline. I'd rather you sat down with me and had a glass of wine. My only purpose in writing this down is to remember her the way she was, to put it down the way it happened. The Aborigines of Australia have a ritual they call the Walk About: they tour their lands as a group, and recite the history of their place and their people. "Remember, remember," the old ones tell the young. We must. It's the only way to find our way home, to know what home should be after the boxes are unpacked from moving day.

On my way out of town I stopped at the Ace Hardward in Parkrose to get copies of my room and house key made. When you are The Most Absent Minded Person in the World that is a necessary and immediate precaution, one that wards off a certain disaster of being locked out in the rain on the worst possible day. Just the presence of the extra set somehow defeats the evil genie of forgetfulness. I have to do little things like this. When I go to my daughter's I set my wallet, cell phone and my keys in my shoes at the front door, because here I don't have an assigned place for them and I would mislay them for sure.

I always go to Ace in Parkrose rather than the big box retailer. Some of the clerks there have worked there 12 years and they know where things are. I walked in the door and two of them said hello. "Where do I go to get keys made?" I asked. The older man at the information desk in a blue Parkrose hardware uniform smock looked up and smiled and turned behind him. "You just go straight back to the back of the store, to the counter under that sign that says Customer Service." Another clerk overheard us, a grey-haired guy with a friendly demeanor. "What were you looking for?" he asked. I need to get some keys copied, I said. "I'll meet you right back there," he said, and turned out the keys in two minutes. When I got to the front counter a third clerk opened another checkstand for me. Folks, it isn't rocket science, but that's how you run a business, and those are the kind of people you hire when you do. Where do think I will go when I need a new hammer, some lawn clipping bags, or ice scraper for the Vista Cruiser? I guarantee you it won't be Hardware-R-Us. But somebody must be going there because they keep building them, right down the street from the Costco in every town. It's a mystery to me, but then many things are.

I wish somebody from Parkrose Hardware worked at T-Immobile, Maybe I could get cell phone service that actually worked. I had another Nightmare Customer Experience in one of their sales outlets this week, the one right next to my post office box store near 122nd and Division. The manager came out from the back room with an air of slouchy displeasure and said "May I help you?" in a voice that clearly indicated she'd rather be doing anything but, maybe getting back to the game of Freecell in her office, or the email to her new best guy ever. I want to cancel my service I said. "Okay." she replied, just like that, without the faintest trace of curiosity or concern. I handed her my phone. "I just had four calls fail on the sidewalk in front of your store. My cell phone bill last month was $185 and I can't make a phone call." I handed her my phone. "This phone is very old," she said. I bought it about eight months ago, and they made me sign a two-year contract when I did. They even read some of the lawyer language to make sure I knew it was ironclad and inescapable. Which would be fine, if the phones actually worked to make reliable phone calls in America's 35th largest city.

It went on like that for about 5 minutes, the Manager interrogating me about the age and condition of my phone and the status of my rate plan, no closer to solving my actual and longstanding problem, until finally I said, "You're very rude and contentious, and I can't wait till the day I can cancel this contract." And I took my phone from the counter and walked out of the store. Of course leaving in a huff insured another several weeks of the same lousy cell service, but at least I wouldn't have to be browbeaten by her anymore. She called out after me, chiefly to tidy up her version of the story, "Sir I'm sorry you feel that way I'm just trying to help you." No she wasn't. There's not a kilobyte of helpfulness in that whole abominable organization, from the mind-numbing automated customer service call sorting system with its recorded voice activation, "Please press 1, or say 'English.'" to the 40-page indecipherable billing statements. I don't know what I got for my $185 last month, but I have a lot of paperwork to prove it. And 10 dropped calls a day. Stop me if you've heard this before. I just figured out a way to make my first million and buy the house down the street form Doug's: I'll start a website called t-immobilestinks.com. I'll have a million hits, go viral, get my picture in Wired magazine. Maybe Gretchen can go with me down to another store and get this resolved for me; I don't have the patience and I just make it worse. She has a way with these types of situations. Most women do, a knack for refocusing attention on the issue that should truly be at hand, a way of cutting through the crap. I think it comes from several sources. Women are hard-wired for communication; they have more brain cells and more connections in the corpus colossum, and they listen more. Then there are the years of sifting out whining and excuses, first from their husbands and then their children. It's a remarkable gift, really, one that could save American commerce if we allowed it free reign. American moms should be hired to send underperforming managers to their rooms to finish their homework and straighten their closets, and no tv until sales improve. It might work.

Enough of that. I'm sorry I got myself started again. Where was I? Oh yeah, the hardware store. I paid for my keys and walked over to Subway next door because by now it was 4:30 and I hadn't eaten anything all day except a small bowl of Frosted Flakes with half and half (the Wheelers were out of milk) and some Ritz crackers. The sandwich was heavenly. Hunger is the best sauce, no matter where you wander on your quest, or what sort of windmills put you on tilt. I stopped at work for a minute to throw away a bag of trash (free trash service is one of our employee benefits, a useful and thus far untaxable perk), called Stephanie (wow, the call actually went through) and headed east on Marine Drive along the Columbia to see the grandbabies and my smart, funny and beautiful daughter. The small cares and irritations of daily life faded as I began the trip, through the Columbia Gorge, which I have remarked on before as a Holy and awe-inspiring place. The ever-changing landscape, carved by time and the wind and the river, relatively unspoiled, cannot fail or cease to move you. "Open the eyes of my heart," the song says, and in such a place your eyes and your heart cannot fail to open if you just look around. The God who made us is greater than anything we could imagine. His vision and artistry is breathtaking, humbling and unspeakably rich. I listened to the music and took in the beautiful sights of the Gorge and the high plateau and the mountains, and stopped in Goldendale for a perfect strawberry milkshake spun by a kid named Jeffie at the Dairy Queen off Highway 97. "How is it?" he asked, really wanting to know. "Perfect," I said, "You are milkshake master, a milkshake Jedi." "I'm glad you're enjoying it," he said with a big smile, and I could tell he genuinely was. When he finishes high school Jeffie should be appointed CEO of T-immobile. They could use one employee like him. It might reverse their dwindling market share, though it's probably too late. Their other 685,000 employees have already done too much damage. The exact number doesn't matter. You get the idea.

I got to Selah around 8:30 in the evening. I'd made good time. The Vista Cruiser is so much fun to drive on long trips, with the top down and the cruise control on and the sound system turned up to 11. I never bring CDs; I like to spin the FM dial by pressing "seek" and just see what comes up, jazz from KMHD until Cascade Locks, Christian Rock until The Dalles, a pop mix format until I reach the mountains, with Fleetwood Mac and The Doobie Brothers, stuff that takes me back to my misspent youth and early adulthood and the birth of my smart funny and beautiful daughter, then Country from Toppenish from the mountains to parking lot of Sav-On foods. I always stop at Sav-On to call Steff and buy some fruit and razors and a bottle of wine, ask if they need anything from the store. They just wanted some Gatorade for the swim meet tomorrow. Kourtney has improved her time in freestyle by 10 seconds this summer, and she had three new ribbons to show me.

Ethan is chunker, a big happy baby with kissy cheeks. He's looking around now and he studied my face intently with his big blue eyes. He smiled when I sang to him. It was just before bed and he was a little fussy, but finally settled down to nurse sweetly while I shaved and took a shower. His father Thomas played him a few songs on the guitar and put him to bed. I sat up with Tom and Steff a while and we talked. He may be reassigned to a teaching post in Alabama where the Army needs instructors in explosives. He's one of twelve finalists but he doesn't want to go. Here in Selah they are a few hours from his family in Montana and few hours from Stephanie's, and he wants to stay in the field. Life for military families is subject to dramatic and uncertain change. He might be deployed next fall; there's no way to know. Every day at work I speak to mothers and wives who have young men who are half a world away in terrible uncertainty, and your heart has to go out to all of them. Thomas wants to hold his son like all of them, but beginning next week he has an assignment that will have him in the California desert for 35 days. Fully realizing that many other young men and women are in a much harsher desert for a much longer time, he goes where he is told to go. We can all do no better.

We talked a while longer until everyone got tired. The household has to get up at 6:00 am for the swim meet and I see it is that time now as I write. They're getting a puppy for Ethan to grow up with, a Siberian Husky. Thomas had one when he was a boy, and says they are particularly good with kids, loyal and gentle. He knows the family where the dog was born, they've raised three generations of these dogs and raise them gently and with care, an ideal pedigree all by itself. Stephanie and Thomas are having discussions about whether she should go back to work. She has mixed feelings; Thomas wants her to do whatever will make her happy, Stephanie's mother thinks it's vital for her daughter to have a purpose and independence and is steadfastly against her staying home. I'm Switzerland in this matter, but I see how Ethan is thriving, and I've never seen Stephanie more happy or more serene. All I know is that it is a joy to be among them, and I'm looking forward to an Egg McMuffin and the age group freestyle. I'll let you know how it goes.

Today was moving day and it was a complete success. I was thorougly moved, and my good clothes are hanging in my new closet. Thank you for helping me get settled.

The Dead Man Walking Meal

For dinner tonight I had a bag of animal crackers and a 32 ounce Pepsi with extra ice, and I burped and didn't say excuse me. It was a Dead Man Walking Meal, like the scene in prison movies like The Green Mile or Dead Man Walking or Monster's Ball, when the condemned man gets to choose whatever he wants for his last meal, pork chops and potatoes and gravy and peach pie, maybe with two chocolate milks. I think once every week or two we ought to eat like a condemned man, just eat whatever you want.

The ideal way to do this would be to assemble your family or three or four of your closest friends, and make it an occasion, a festive celebratory time rather than merely wallowing in food indulgence. But as a culture we tend to box ourselves in about food, make ourselves miserable over it, full of guilt and shoulds. Occasionally, you should eat whatever you want. Just be sure to stop when you are full, and appropriately ramp up your activity level to match your intake. Don't try to reach an arbitrary body image goal through tortuous self denial. Get moving and start living, and truly enjoy what you eat. It's a way better formula.

It's particularly important to share meals with others. It's part of a fundamental human need. I've been in the basement just long enough. In the blog's comment section friend of the blog Brad from Eugene compares going to the basement to a trip to Vegas, and the analogy is humorous and apt. A short stay can be entertaining but it is no place to live. Food is meant to spiced with sharing and conversation, and sharing a memorable meal with friends and family can turned the condemned man to a redeemed one. I challenge each of you to share a meal this weekend with some people you truly love. Make it leisurely, and make conversation and storytelling the centerpiece of the evening and serve the dessert with a scoop of laughter and real whipped cream. Be sure to hug one another at the end, and make sincere plans to do it again and follow through with them. In doing so you have added years and enormous worth to your life. Turn off the TV and turn to each other, and sit at the table together. Have a last moonlit glass of wine on the deck under the stars, because this is what we were born for, to bond to each other, to savor each other. This is what fellowship really means. It isn't a trite boring word from church. It's the most precious and rewarding of human experiences, other than holding a child of your own flesh. I can't wait to get my arms around that bright alert happy grandbaby boy. He had his four month checkup today and he's 27 inches long and 16 lbs., and I'm recommending that Coach Belotti move him on the 2027 depth chart from outside linebacker to defensive end. I'm going out from the basement into the light of day: I'm moving tomorrow and after I get unpacked I'm taking the Vista Cruiser with the top down and heading for Selah for Kourtney's swim meet, two precious hours of rocking chair duty and a night game with the Yakima Bears. It's good to be Grandpa Golf. It's great to be alive on God's good earth.

A Postcard From the Basement

I don't actually have a basement--the basement I'm speaking of is not a physical place but a state of mind. Sometimes as men we have to go into the cave, the basement, the brooding quiet place where we don't shave and wear the same shirt for two days. It's a guy thing. We go to lick our wounds and rest, to plan and to pray. David did it. Job did it. I think it's totally all right to go to such a place, emotionally and spiritually, as long as you emerge. Sometimes, you just have to retreat, and even hide, for a while. Partly to restore your spirit and be still. Partly to take stock. And partly because we hurt, and we just don't want to engage the world much.

I do that from time to time. It reminds me of an old Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson song, "...maybe it's time to get back, to the basics of life." In the time in the basement you can get some sleep and eat a good bowl of soup, catch up on your laundry and write a long email to the person you trust the most. I won another $200 playing $2 tournament poker and caught up on my laundry.

While I've been in the basement I've had some wonderful people check in on me. Brad from Eugene, my friend Gretchen, Arlene, my daughter Stephanie, and William have all sent comments, and their interest in the blog and in my life is a deeply encouraging and heartwarming thing. It's wonderful to me that this little web journal has caught the interest of such fine people, that they would take time from their amazing lives to touch mine. It's really a lift to check my email and find another little gift from them. I remember the joy our whole family felt when were kids and my mother got a package from home. It feels like that. An email from one of you is like a good bar of German chocolate or new matchbox car. I am so thankful for the gift of your readership and responses.

In the days I've been away Marie and I have left a couple of voice mails for each other and text messages, and we talked once on the phone. I think she's just worn down by all the distance and uncertainty, and has reached a point where she has to focus on what's best for her and her daughter Austin, who just scored a 100% percent on her learner's permit test and had a 3.8 grade average for her freshman year. Marie needs a new job and a fresh start, and the endless loop of our troubles, conflicts and stuff has just worn her down. She's in self-protection mode. I understand. More than anything I want her to be happy, and I'm just going to trust--trust her, trust God, and trust that I'll emerge from this cave time a better and stronger man.

My friend Frances at work, a dear, sweet woman and grandmother of five, heard me talking the other day about how I was going to buy a bicycle on Craigslist, and this afternoon she turned to me and said, "Dale, one of my kids has left a ten speed in my garage for ten years, and none of my grandsons want it. If you'll come over to pick it up you can have it." How much do you want for it, I asked. "Nothing," she said, "I just want it out of my garage." It's an inexpensive bike, a Murray ten speed, probably the kind you'd buy at a variety or discount store, but the tires took air and the brakes work, and it will get me back and forth to work for $0 a week. There's a beautiful off-road bike trail that will take me most of the way.

So after work tonight I picked up the bike and drove to a bike shop on Division, the nice one with the fancy bikes, to find out how much it would be a get a tune up for it, you know, some new tires and tighten the brakes, grease the chain and tinker with its gears and knobs. To me the most terrifying words in the world are "some assembly required" so this is the kind of thing I have to hire out. It's just better that way. It saves the skin on my knuckles and an extensive use of my golfing-words vocabulary. The fancy bike shop had a nice sign board above the repair counter. Tune ups ranged from $65 to $135 dollars, depending on how detailed the work. Plus parts. This bike, new, wouldn't have sold for more than that. I can take my car to Firestone for a basic tune up for that. Yikes. I decided I could buy a crescent wrench at the Dollar Store and make do.

I had the top down on the Vista Cruiser and I laid the bike upside down in the back seat and took it over to my new place, the room at Richard's. The bikes are kept in the shed. We talked for a few minutes, and I met his son and dropped off some coats, a few books, and my golf clubs. I love my room and the location, just minutes from work. There's space for my desk and computer, a nice wide closet with a shelf for shoes. Richard has a gig this weekend at a bar at 82nd and Division and I promised him I'd go over and catch a set. That's sounds nice actually, have a cold beer and listen to some music. It will be my first venture out of the cave.

Of course this weekend after I finish moving I'm going to Selah for grandbabies, barbeque and The Backyard Olympics. I have to defend my world number one ranking in horseshoes, golf and badminton, and avenge my humiliating loss in bocci ball. Kourtney and I will probably go over to Yakima to the Par 3 for a game of golf, and Ethan is now looking around and engaging the world and needs to be held and kissed. I think I will email or call and invite Marie to go. It's a little thing, maybe too late. But there isn't any harm in asking.

Well, that's about all the telling that will fit on the back of this postcard. I'll send you another from the road, and from Applegate Country Club, the site of the prestigious Backyard Olympics. It will good to be among family and fully engaged in life, and be away from the headset for four precious days. My love to all of you and good night.

Life Comes at You Fast

If you are going to try to sell me something, make me laugh. The commercials that come on and try to drown me in sound and fury or fear I tune out immediately but the ones that are funny I remember and even lean forward to watch. I love the Geico cave man in his therapist's office. His cell phone rings. "It's my mother. I'll put her on speaker." Or the one where a woman is going for a boat ride in Vienna and handsome Fabio is steering her boat in a flowing, white romance novel shirt: they go under a bridge and in the next moment he is decrepit and old. Life comes at you fast. Last night I had to show my ID. The DMV never takes your picture anymore; they just mail a new sticker. Maybe that's changed. But over the last many years I've had to visit for a change of address or renewal that's what happened. My driver's license picture is from about 1993, about 15 years ago. I hardly recognize myself. I wasn't nearly as handsome then.

But the changes and movements of life come quickly and they are often unexpected, occasionally jolting or wrenching, filled with humanity, good things and bad. My friend Daphne at work is taking some vacation time to visit her daddy, who is very sick, and she gets ready for her trip she's filled with the realization she may be going to say goodbye to him, although in the last few days he seems to be rallying his strength. There's a dear and radiant woman in the commercial department whose husband recently underwent surgery for cancer and the doctors discovered it has spread to his lymph nodes. He'll begin chemotherapy in a few days. Her spirit is strong and courageous, utterly inspiring to witness, but what an unspeakable trial this must be. Can you imagine, going to work and leading a meeting, with all that in your heart? She herself is a cancer survivor, a miracle of God's grace, and an inspiring person. It's amazing what people overcome and endure.

I've mentioned my son Roger here many times, 21 and full of life and promise. Recently his girlfriend of six years, since sophomore year of high school, an eternity in his young life, broke up with him. "I just feel we're going in different directions," she told him. It may lead to some wonderful growth and opportunities for him but right now he is devastated and drinking too much, and my heart hurts for him. We are only born with two fears, the fear of abandonment and the fear of failing, and losing a loved one, in any way, is both. We hurt to our core. We feel the ground under our feet has fallen away.

Yesterday in my little life two big things happened, or at least two things that were important to me. I met with Richard one more time and we agreed to become roommates. I'll be living in the little house in Portland's Gateway district, just a few miles from work and three blocks from the grocery store. There's an off-street well-maintained bike path that winds on for many miles nearby, connecting to trails that go all the way from Marine Drive to Clackamas Town Center to Gresham, and including one that easily takes me most of the way to work without encountering a single car, downhill on the way there. Roger and I used to ride that trail when he was little. It stretched from my house to his and all the way to Blue Lake Park. He rode the yellow bike, the first one I bought him when he was five, and I taught him to ride in the parking lot of the Lutheran Church across the street from my apartment. That was a great apartment. It had a pool and a nicely landscaped courtyard with rose bushes, on a quiet street. Stephanie and her friends would come over to go swimming. Roger and I played broom hockey one day when it snowed.

My new place is the third bedroom in a house, an older home Richard has beautifully restored. He's an interesting, likable guy, a man of faith, a Catholic with a 14-year-old son who stays with him a couple of days a week. Richard rides Harleys with a group of his buddies on weekends. He's 47 and at a crossroads in his life, thinking of how he wants to shape and be shaped by his future. This weekend he's playing drums at an outdoor festival in Vernonia, a charity event run by some bikers friends he knows, a group called Brother Speed. He's seen a lot of life; it shows in his voice and his eyes, but there's a directness and a reflectiveness in him that I trust, particularly when I see the care he has put into his home, a small Craftsman bungalow he has lovingly restored with hardwood floors and three coats of paint on the crown molding. He seems to be a fine man and runs the house with just a few reasonable rules: Pay your rent by the third, and let me know right away if you need to to wait until the fourth or fifth; only one overnight guest a week, keep the noise down after 10 pm,and turn off the lights and the TV and computers when you are done with them. We met last night for a final time to discuss the arrangements and wound up talking for two hours. I'll get back 10 hours of commuting time a week and save $500 a month I was spending on gas. In another six months to a year I'll have accumulated money in the stock account again and I'll be able to get a place of my own. It's an inefficient way to save but I know myself; that's the best I can do right now. Later on I can use the same habit to a better purpose. But I'd better be careful, because life comes at you fast. I'll be 60 in seven years. 60. In the words of the immortal Mickey Mantle, "If I'd known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself."

The other seemingly big thing that happened, at least in my world, is that yesterday Marie didn't return any of my calls. Over the course of our separation, which began in February after a passionate and often troubled marriage, we have made it a habit to talk every day and I usually call her at lunchtime and after work, at least when T-Mobile doesn't drop the call, and often again in the evening before going to bed. We've dated and worked out together and continued to talk and many Sundays have gone to church together, with the hopes of working out differences and finding better ways to handle them, to experience conflict and resolve problems without letting our stuff spin things out of control. We were hopeful of preserving the love and ending the screaming and craziness. I pay for her cell phone and her gym membership and try to stay connected.

Yesterday I called at lunch and again after work and then again a couple of hours later and she never returned any of my calls. I left three tender, concerned messages. No answer. Nothing. Not an email or a text or a hello or a goodbye. My stomach tightens a little as I write this, the fear of abandonment and the fear of falling, grabbing me at my core. It could be she has been busy, it could be I said something that upset her, maybe she met someone or had a date; I can't possibly know.

I have another gnawing worry, totally unrelated. Any of my close friends or family members might tell you that I am the most absent minded person in the world. Sunday I took the credit cards and AAA card and some other stuff out of my wallet, and I thought I set it in the console of my car, intending to put them away later to a safer place. I was tired of carrying all that stuff around, and the AAA membership had long expired. There were about eight cards in all, things like my Kaiser Permenente membership and stuff like that. Friday at lunchtime I was looking for them and they're not in the console. It was foolish of me to leave them for so long. But now I am wracked with a growing uncertainty--did I misplace them or store them in a different place, or have they all been stolen? I have some money being wired on Monday, to pay for the new place and catch up on some bills. Oh my god, what a disaster it would be if they were stolen, if that money was taken. Right now it's all the money in the world to me, even though it's just a few hundred dollars. I'm going through the car and my room today to see if I can sort it out. If not, I'll have to make all those panicked phone calls and hold through the muzak and navigate the phone tree for my bank and the credit cards, the kind of task I truly dread. Life comes at you fast. And even when you are think you are doing better, when you are striving for sanity and reasonableness and good decisions and control, you're vulnerable, far more vulnerable than you can ever realize. Life can plunge you into sorrow or craziness or disaster or joy in a second. It can take your breath away, fill you with ecstasy or shake you to the core. It can expose you or transform you, in a 1000 ways you couldn't have possibly anticipated. My mother's car was rearended at sixty miles an hour on a Saturday morning in June 2005. She was stopping at a roadside fruitstand to buy strawberries for a shortcake. The little girls had junior rodeo that day and she wanted to make them a treat. The pickup slammed into her Honda and spun her into the path of oncoming traffic and in ten minutes she was gone. It can happen to anyone. Anything can. We are here for only a moment, and our most treasured connections are more tenuous than we can possibly imagine. Our boldest plans are bits of fluff.

May God be with you today. Thank you so much for coming to visit.