I was quite young when I first learned how to spot a razor clam lurking just beneath the surface of black, wet sand. In the very moment that the Pacific pulls away from its rocky shoreline, revealing a few rare feet of smooth, flat beach, a trained eye can spot the clam’s quiet calling card: tiny holes in the damp surface, about the size of a quarter, often surrounded by a raised ring that locals and old-timers will refer to as “the doughnut.” The trick, of course, once you’ve spotted such signs, is to dig - fast - before the ocean hurls its way back in, shifting the sands, and the advantage, decidedly into the clam’s favor.
At certain times of the year, I’d hear my father rise before dawn. The house would fill with the smell of coffee and the sounds of him rustling about in search of the proper tools. I’d scramble from my bed and emerge from my room wrapped in layers of thick clothing, knee-high socks stuffed into tall rubber boots, and a striped knit cap resting just above wide, hopeful eyes. Regardless of how far along he was in his own preparations he’d always chide me for being late. “It’s about time,” he’d say “I was just about to leave without you.”
We’d load up the car with special clam shovels and plastic buckets before heading off into the predawn darkness. Some times my father would play music on the way there.. Donovan’s [u]Sunshine Superman[/u] or CCR’s [u]Creedence Gold[/u]. Other times, we’d sit in silence and I’d watch the streetlamps steal across the windshield, but we never spoke. Looking back on it now, I can see that my father had no idea how to talk to me. Like many men of his generation (and others too, I’m sure) my father’s idea of good parenting consisted solely of providing food, shelter and discipline for his children. Conversation with his pre-teen daughter, particularly within the confines of a small, moving, metal box, was probably not something he was prepared for. But back then, the silent drive there only added to the magic of the moment. There was something about sharing that space with him, without the clutter of words, that only served to make the entire experience that much more extraordinary.
On the beach, things changed. He was full of instruction and wisdom to impart. We’d walk along the edge of the misty shoreline, heads bent towards the black sand, our eyes adjusting to the coming dawn as we searched for buried treasure. Back then, my father seemed to strike a massive and imposing figure. At that age, I was often frightened by how loud his voice could be and how often he used his fists to make his point. But in those early morning hours, he seemed more teacher than tyrant; more mentor than menace. He’d put his fingers to his lips and hush me, telling me to pay particular attention to the spots where I’d just stepped as “doughnuts sometimes appear in footprints.” With his demeanor changed by the vast, gray world, my father seemed, for all his strength, a little smaller. Indeed, these were the the only times I ever heard him whisper.
Ours was a finely tuned clamming machine. My job was to spot the clams and then stealthily alert my father, usually by jumping up and down and pointing. Immediately, he would swing into action, carving the sand away with his angled spade (which many people refer to as a "clam gun") and his fingers. Once the clam had been dug up, he’d hand it to me; my second job was to transport our riches to the waiting bucket. With every second or third success my father would ask me how many we had; my third job was to then count them dutifully, which I did. (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday). Clearly, I took all my jobs very seriously.
These were the beaches of my childhood. Rocky, cold, gray and inhabited by feathered scavengers along with a dying breed of hardened men who survived by fishing the harsh waters that their fathers had fished before them. Unlike their California or (southern) east coast counterparts, people who braved pacific northwest beaches in the early morning hours to dig for clams or to cast thick lines into the choppy sea in search of bigger bounty, did so knowing they’d have to work for their suppers and swallow more than a little saltwater. Similar to the rocky shores of ancient British islands, ([url=http://thejongleur.tblog.com]or so I've been told[/url] ) these are the beaches that I find the most beautiful, the most captivating, the most full of life, the most capable of leaving a bit of itself on/within you even as you slowly make your way inland. Indeed, when we were finished, my father and I would emerge from our quest wet and cold, with sand in our shoes and with a bucket full of stories to tell my little brother and mother in tow.
The drive back, like the one there, was marked by a lack of conversation… but every once in awhile, this man, who I hardly knew, would look over at me and wink.
Once home, my father would set about the business of preparing our bounty. He’d stand in the kitchen, peeling the clams away from their shells, cleaning them and cooking them. Sometimes he’d fry them, but most times he’d mix them in a pot with milk, potatoes, onions and other secret ingredients until finally the result could be called chowder, all the while recounting bits about the day, the weather, the chase and the catch, until eventually, we’d all bask in the warmth of a dinner that my father and I had caught with our bare hands.
After a few bites he’d ask me if it was good… and even though fried or as chowder, razor or otherwise, I really, really (really) don’t like clams, I’d have to smile and nod every time – not because I knew it was the *right* answer or because I didn’t have the heart to confess my anti-clam pallet, but because neither the question nor my reply had anything to do with food. It didn’t matter if I liked clams or not, I could nod and smile and still be telling the truth; it really was good.
Yesterday I received a postcard in the mail. I’m a big fan of postcards. The thing about them is that no matter what you write on the back, what you’re really saying is: I’m thinking of the people and things that comfort me and make me feel like I’m home, even when I’m far, far away. And I just wanted you to know... you are one of those things. Plus, there’s just something about the notion of having to fit your message into a little square box on a little square card that makes considering every world vital – and I quite like that. It’s all so Griffin and Sabine-esque. Besides, as someone who suffers from a severe case of anti-brevity, I need to be challenged to choose my words carefully; I need to be forced to cut out the superfluous; I need to be nudged into simply sticking my bit of cheese on the back so I can get the damned thing in the mail before I’ve actually returned home from my journey.
The card I received yesterday was sent from New York and has a picture of the city skyline on the front. It’s one of three I’ve received this summer, the others having been sent from Alaska and Hong Kong. I’ve pinned them on the message board above my desk and looking at them now, I cannot help but be reminded of the post-card collection I kept as a teenager: I had hundreds of them - they lined the ceiling of my bedroom like a makeshift wallpaper border. I can remember being so excited whenever a new one would come in the mail. I’d rush to my room, create a haphazard ladder out of a chair and some books, and pin the new arrival next to his brothers in the next available spot. (Ah. The comfort of rituals). Looking back on it now, I cannot imagine who actually sent all those cards. The fact is, I just didn’t know that many people... and I certainly didn’t know that many world travelers.
There were the cards from Italy, which I was sent from a “pen pal” with whom I’d gotten in contact via an assignment for a foreign language class (not Italian, by the way). I always loved the slant of her writing and I can still remember the way she wrote out the letter J – making my name seem so foreign and exotic.
There were several cards from an older cousin who spent a few years studying in England and who relished in finding postcards with pictures of livestock on the front. His cards always contained dubious messages on the back like “whatever you do, don’t let go.”
There was, of course, the obligatory stack of Disney related cards sent from friends whose families traipsed up and down the west coast over summer breaks in search of the magic of Mickey Mouse. The blurbs on the back were always about rides and rollercoasters and teenagers dressed as animated characters, expensive bottles of water and wanting to come home.
And then there were the “art cards" I received from another cousin in New York who remains, to this day, the only true intellectual I have ever known. On a visit there when I was about 16, he took me to the Met and the Guggenheim and was mortified by my lack of knowledge. After that, he sent me postcards with various works of art on the front. On the back he’d add to the history of the piece that was provided by the makers of the card -- along with a list of the artist's other noteworthy creations, which he was convinced I needed to know about. Despite his best efforts, I still don’t know much about art, but those cards remain some of my fondest memories of him.
(There were others, of course… but I’m getting old, and my memory fails.)
The thing is, somewhere along the way, my postcard collection disappeared. I have no memory of actually getting rid of it or of consciously thinking… “ok, I don’t need this anymore.” Nonetheless, like so many other things, I’m sure, pieces of it were slowly chipped away with each move and each spring cleaning until finally nothing remained. What’s more worrisome to me, however, as I look at the three high-gloss cards pinned to the spot where I keep things that are important, is that not only did I lose track of the heap of equally shiny mementos that once meant so much to me, but I also lost track of most of the people who sent them as I made my way through the world.
I know where I could find my cousins, of course… but that doesn’t mean I do with any amount of frequency. The friends whose names and addresses that appeared on the back of cards from Disney, and other fabulous vacation spots, have faded from my memory (and address book) like the screen printing on the t-shirts they brought home and wore everyday until finally the day came when they didn’t. And as much as I’m ashamed to admit it, I can’t even remember my Italian pen pal’s name.
And so it goes…
People come into our lives and then seem to leak through our fingers like fists full of sand. Each year, I make a pledge to myself that I’m going to stay in closer contact with the people I love. I make plans to write and call… and sometimes I do… for a little while. And then life intervenes, and suddenly I’m consumed by more immediate concerns (like mailing packages of 3 Musketeers bars across the ocean or wondering if I’ve left the lights on in my car – answer: usually yes).
Maybe postcards are the answer. Maybe a stack of blank cards and a book of .20 cent stamps would help me do a better job of keeping in touch in an era when staying connected is supposed to be so incredibly easy. I can only imagine the faces of my friends and relatives as they find me waiting in their mailboxes on a sleepy Wednesday afternoon -- for no good reason: a shiny postcard from Nowhere, North Carolina with a giant coffee pot or a covered bridge or a picture of Jesse Helms (heaven forbid!) on the front and a few scribbled sentiments on the back. Of course, I wouldn't subject them to art primers, nor would I have fabulous stories from exotic locales with which to regale them. But maybe if I was extra careful with my wording and spent a little time crafting my message, they'd smile... knowing what was in my heart:
The following is my own careful offering in response to both a [url=http://thejongleur.tblog.com]lovely little drawing[/url] and the prodding of [url=http://lindy.tblog.com]another friend [/url] who was the first to be so brave.
~~~~~~~~~~
All his life, he’d tried to convince himself that he was naturally attracted to brunettes. He’d felt this somehow made him more interesting, if only to himself. And yet now, sitting several tables away, in a quiet corner of a bookstore café, he’d managed to clock a blonde.
It had been impossible not to notice her, not so much because there was anything about her that particularly demanded attention, but given that the bookstore had only just opened, she was one of just a handful of people sharing the space – each lost in his/her private corner, secure in the perceived anonymity provided by a stack of books and a cup of expensive coffee (or in her case lemonade). This was the only time of day in which he could stomach places like this. Soon this very room would be full of shouty people, laughing and talking about things in a manner that was meant to suggest that they were deeply intellectual, intensely witty and full of something so obviously worth noticing. The early mornings were different, however. The few people who found their way there when the place first opened came for the books, the calm whir of cracking spines and machinery, and the solitude of a single cup on the table. When the noise came, he’d have to leave of course, but for now, he rather liked the thought of this girl across the room who had, in his mind, come there for the same reasons he had.
His hands found the book at the top of his stack; the one whose review he’d read in the paper months ago, but had forgotten until yesterday when going through a heap of old newspapers, (determined to pitch most of them) he’d stumbled upon its title once again along with the drawing, that he’d scribbled in the margins, of a little naked boy holding a sign which read “protected by sellotape”. He’d kept the paper. But somehow, now he was having trouble concentrating on the object of his recollection. Instead his eyes peered over the top of the book, finding their way to the girl who seemed just lonely enough to need his company.
She wasn’t particularly beautiful or defined by features that traditionally inspired fascination or capriciousness, but nonetheless, he found himself studying her face: the thin lower lip which she was prone to bite when overwhelmed by some quiet confidence, the eyebrows – a little too far apart, perhaps, the sprinkling of dim freckles that peppered her fair skin, and, of course, the blonde hair he’d tried hard not to notice, which was pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, but that kept falling against her cheek – only to be brushed back behind her ear (again and again) by two quick fingers . Taken separately, her features were strikingly ordinary, but together they seemed to make perfect sense to him. She too had a stack of books which she’d placed on the table, spines towards her, as though to shield the titles from gawking onlookers for fear of revealing too much of herself; but for the moment her attentions were divided between the open newspaper, which was splayed partially across the table, and the small notebook in which she scribbled notions he felt almost desperate to peer at from behind her shoulder. Perhaps this was her appeal, he thought to himself absently while turning another unread page of the book in his hand, the tugging allure of closely held secrets scribbled in a notebook – such things were difficult to resist, after all. Then he found himself caught between two contrasting sentiments: grateful for the downward gaze that had kept her from noticing his stare, while also silently wishing she’d look up for just a moment so he could see the color of her eyes. He knew it wasn’t the notebook.
Just then a large woman and a young man fumbled their way towards her table. They must have called her name, but he’d failed to notice them until she did, looking up and smiling in a way that was in equal measure full of a sincere gladness to see them and a similarly genuine irritation at having been spotted – despite expertly donned camouflage. The three chatted politely for a few moments, but she did not offer them a seat, and soon they were on their way towards other silences that needed breaking. When they were gone, she looked around the room, as though noticing for the first time, (as he was), that it had grown quite crowded. She began to pack up her things. She slipped the books, along with her notebook and pen, into the large green canvas bag that had been resting beneath the table, took a final sip of her lemonade, sighed in recognition of something inevitable and then made for the door.
He panicked.
He knew that no matter how long she sat there, he’d not have the courage to speak to her, and yet, he wasn’t quite ready to let her go either. He looked around the room, catching a glimpse of himself in the distorted reflection offered by a darkened glass refrigerator case. Behind him, he could just see the exit door open and then, (although no such device was present), he heard bells – the jingling of metals designed to alert the world of her leaving. Without thinking anymore on the subject, he rose from his seat and followed her.
Once under in the daylight and surrounded by air that wasn’t muddled by books and people, he realized how absurd this all was. He’d seen a girl. And now he was following her. Clearly, he’d lost his mind. But there was no turning back. He’d come to a precipice and jumped; the only thing left was to fall.
He could tell almost instantly that she had spent most of her life walking. She walked with purpose – not in a hurry – but with the stride of someone who’d used her feet to find her way through the world. He knew there would be no car waiting around the corner, and he smiled silently to himself. She’d flung the canvas bag over her left shoulder, letting her right hand swing in time with the opposite leg. She carried herself in a way that was different from the girl sitting in the bookshop. She seemed almost to be forcing herself to look straight ahead, unwilling to allow a passing thought to disconnect her – however briefly – from the world around her. He imagined her struggling not to look at her feet as she walked, and he wondered what had happened to her to make her feel she needed to be that brave.
At the end of several blocks she turned to cross the street and he saw that she was heading towards a nearby park. After a quick scan of the traffic, she sprinted across the lanes, and as she did so, she reached up and pulled the band from her hair, letting the ponytail spill open... a blonde hurricane falling against her back through tiny fingers of wind and movement. He stood on the corner watching her move a little further away from him, and for the second time he thought he might lose her to the world. When the cars allowed him, he too crossed, and hurried towards the sound of children playing and dogs barking. As his eyes adjusted to the dappled sunlight, he scanned a length of green for her, only to discover she’d stopped at the second clump of trees.
As he got a little closer, his walk slowed, and he found her retrieving a small blanket from her bag and laying it out with practiced precision. He noticed that she’d already taken off her shoes and seemed content to let her toes play in the cool grass for a bit before sitting in the shade. Once again, she removed the stack of books and the notebook – setting them to the side – readying herself for this next chapter of her day. As he neared her, he began to worry about what he would do next. Would he stand there gawking like a fool? Would he simply walk past her, only to turn around and walk past again, repeating the process until either she noticed and called for help or he simply could no longer bear his own idiocy? He found his answer on a nearby bench that afforded him an opportunity to, if nothing more, sit. Suddenly he wished he’d thought to steal one of the books from the bookstore so at least he could pretend to be reading again. Instead he feigned interest in one of his shoes and pretended to do something that resembled tying it even though, admittedly, it had no laces.
A few yards away she sat on her blanket reading a book from her stack. With her hair down now, he wondered about her age. For a moment he thought she was older than he was, but in the same instance, he mused that perhaps they’d been born on the same day. Just then, she looked up from her book, her green eyes catching his. Before he could think to look away, she looked back down at her book and he could see her teeth reach for her bottom lip. His heart began to race. He knew he’d have to get up and leave. There was no other choice really. He’d taken this path to its end.
But then she looked up again. And this time… she smiled.
Her smile, like the rest of her, seemed to reveal things he felt certain the rest of the world had overlooked. Her lips barely curled and in fact, she remained focused on that thin lower lip that appeared to bear the brunt of all she felt and yearned for. But the rest of her face gave away what she tried not to let her mouth betray. Like him, she seemed aware that she’d let her gaze linger a little too long, and looked back down at the book she was now only pretending to read, and for a moment he felt certain he heard a tiny giggle being carried to him on the wind. He knew he was smiling back.
Before standing, he reached down and pulled a clump of dandelions from the earth. He thought of all the times in his life he’d been caught looking at some girl across the room. He thought of all the pats on the back he’d received from well meaning, but equally awkward, friends whose advice usually consisted only of commands like “go get her” or “ooh, she likes you, mate” or other such phrases designed solely to send a young man off to his own death. He thought of all the lonely conversations he’d had in the dark, chastising himself for not being brave or brash or full of the boyish confidence he’d read about in books, only to then congratulate himself for being smart enough to recognize that she’d not have been interested in him anyway. He looked across the field to the girl whose eyes now rested on the open window between them and decided he wanted tonight’s conversation to be different.
He stared for a moment at the cluster of small white blooms in his hand. There was no one nearby to pat him on the back or offer a few foolish words of encouragement… but he heard them anyway.
He closed his eyes… and blew.
~~~~~~~~~~~
If you're tenacious enough to have waded through all of this, (and even if you’re simply skipping to the bottom), go see [url=http://thejongleur.tblog.com]the art [/url] that inspired it… and by all means, leave a story of your own. The world could use a few more storytellers.
I’ve never been one to write about articles that I see elsewhere. I tend to leave reporting the news to others who seem better suited to summarizing and linking. However, there was an article in today’s New York Times that I simply must talk about.
The article, “Gay Teenager Stirs a Storm,” chronicles the story of a teenager named Zach who, after telling his parents that he was gay, was sent to a place called Refuge: “a religion-based program intended to change the sexual orientation of gay men and women.” Zach’s story gained national attention when he blogged about the reaction of his parents upon breaking the news, and their subsequent belief that sending him to anti-gay boot camp would ”cure” him. (Interestingly, while they refused to comment when asked by the NYT – they have managed to appear on the local christian broadcast channel to tell their story).
To be honest, when I initially read about the camp in the article and their rules about “no brand named clothing” and “mandatory football games” for boys, I giggled a bit. I mean… c’mon the very idea of a program based on the concept that forcing boys to play football will somehow make them slightly less gay just seemed… well, absurd.
But then I read some of the camp’s other rules… and suddenly things became a lot less funny.
Here are just a few:
“No continuing education while in the program. Home-school Refuge clients may be allowed to continue their studies during the program, pending approval by LIA staff.”
“Clients are to sit in such a way as to not cause another to stumble.”
“Clients may have no contact with anyone who has left the program prior to graduating without the blessing of the staff to do so. Clients may address off-limit persons they inadvertently encounter with a polite "hello" only.”
“Absolutely no journaling or keeping a diary outside of the MI process unless directed or approved by staff.”
“…any belongings, appearances, clothing, actions, or humor that might connect a client to an inappropriate past are excluded from the program. These hindrances are called False Images (FI¹s). FI behavior may include hyper-masculinity, seductive clothing, mannish/boyish attire (on women), excessive jewelry (on men), mascoting, and "campy" or gay/lesbian behavior and talk.”
“Refuge participants must submit to an F.I. search every morning.”
“Refuge clients are allowed a one-time 15-minute maximum closed bathroom door time for shower/grooming purposes. The only other closed-door alone time allowed is for using the restroom.”
And perhaps the most frightening of all…
“No discussing therapeutic issues at home.”
It should be noted that all of the staff of Refuge are men… all of whom seem to have graduated from this or similar programs. Futher, the “leader” of Refuge is a “recovering homosexual” who says that although he “still finds men attractive,” he has been “faithful to his wife for 16 years.”
Honestly, I’m not sure how to feel about all of this. No. Let me amend that. I know how I feel; I’m just not sure who I should hate the most. Should I hate the people running the place? The people who are at best making hands full of money ($2000.00 for 2 weeks) by molding fragile young people into adults who loathe themselves and who are at worst engaging in something far more sinister behind the camp’s closed doors and under the veil of confidentiality? Or should I hate a government that is either unable or unwilling to remove children like Zack from such a place because a) no one is being held against his will and b) Zack’s parents signed on the dotted line. Which brings me to this: Is it the parents who most deserve my hatred? Should I direct my hatred at them for being so afraid of homosexuality that they are willing to subject their own child to an environment that is, minimally unhealthy and most certainly dangerous? Admittedly, hate might not be the most productive use of my emotional energy, but frankly, it’s all I’ve got.
I wish I had some link or some words to impart that offered some sort of a solution. If there is something to be done about this, I’m simply not sure what it is. And… so I find myself writing here because throwing punches in the air is remarkably unsatisfying.
Ironically, Camp Refuge bills itself as a “safe place for teens.” I can hardly think of anything more repulsive.
Last year, around this time, I found myself in the midst of a turtle dilemma.
One afternoon, I was walking in the garden and discovered a female box turtle laying eggs in one of my flower beds. I sat by quietly and watched her. Once she had finished digging her hole to just the right specifications, she laid her eggs and then covered them with the warm, red earth. It was insanely beautiful.
But then... I worried. I worried a lot.
Each day, I checked the spot for signs of distress. I watched for other creatures who might be on the prowl for turtle eggs, and I thought constantly about the day the tiny creatures would emerge from their warm, safe subterranean home -- only to brave the unforgiving world alone. I considered digging them up and read about how to care for turtle eggs until they hatch (it's surprisingly complicated). But in the end, I received some [url=http://filbert.tblog.com]very good advice [/url] and finally decided to let nature take its course.
Then... one morning I meandered bleary eyed to the garden, only to discover that during the night -- without fanfare or fuss -- they'd hatched. I could see a little trail where they'd dragged themselves to the edge of the flowerbed towards -- on pure instinct -- the creek that runs behind my house.
To this day, I'm convinced they made it there ok.
This year, if there are turtle eggs in my garden, I've not discovered them. Rather, my attentions have turned to a certain Mrs. Finch and her growing brood.
For all the time I spend lamenting the sadness and idiocy in the world... today, I'm finding it difficult not to smile.
Growing up I knew a girl named Nina who had multiple sclerosis. Nina’s hair grayed before its time and she spent most of the second half of her life in a wheel chair, but that never seemed to dampen her spirits. One of the things I remember most about her was how good she was at saying goodbye. It was something of her trademark. She’d give you a big toothy grin and say “toodles, you.” Even on the phone, you could hear her smile as she said goodbye… and you just knew what was coming: “toodles, you.” It didn’t matter if you didn’t want to hang up… it didn’t matter if you were sad… it didn't matter if you were hating the world... you simply couldn’t help but smile when Nina said goodbye. With her, parting really was such sweet sorrow… but with an emphasis on the sweet bit.
Once, when I was just a teenager, Nina and I went to an outdoor music festival in Seattle with my mother and her boyfriend-du-jour. We saw a few bands play that day, but at the end of the evening we piled into an arena to watch Fats Domino and Jerry Lee Lewis do a set of their hits from the 50’s and early 60’s. Afterwards, we went to the back doors where a crowd of people had gathered hoping to catch a glimpse of the pair as they left, (something we were fairly certain we’d not be able to do). Anyway, someone from the staff must have felt sorry for Nina – who was clearly disabled – because she came right up to us and gave us the backstage pass from around her neck. We were dumbfounded and excited. Nina grabbed my hand and said “quick, before they change their mind” and I pushed her through the forbidden doors and into the long mysterious corridors that led eventually to some well-guarded back rooms. The two musicians were there eating dinner with their band mates and a gaggle of well-wishers. They invited us in and we sat around eating fried chicken and listening to stories from the road. I was no more than 15.
Before we left, we had our pictures taken with them. Jerry Lee Lewis stood between us and put his arm around us both saying “you can’t believe everything you hear about old Jerry Lee.” (Uh huh. Ya Right.)
On our way out the door, Fats Domino called to Nina by name – saying goodbye - she turned and looked at him, then waved and said, “toodles, you.”
~~~~~~~~~~
I’ve never been particularly good at goodbyes. Even on the phone, I ramble on endlessly (18 minutes was the record, as I recall) working my way up to and through the final farewell. Needless to say, I find it hard to let go of people, places and things. Unlike some people who mark their farewells with much fanfare and weeping and gnashing of teeth, (only to reappear within a very short amount of time), I actually mean it when I do finally say goodbye, I just have a difficult time getting to that point. I suppose I just have to be sure before I say those words.
Yesterday evening, when I walked into the door of the old used CD store – where I practically lived all through college – it felt like walking back in time. The bins of new music were lined up against the walls as they always had been – complete with plastic hand written dividers declaring the presence of hundreds of bands. In fact, I smiled openly when I saw that the same handwritten sign marking [i]recently acquired used CDS [/i]still stood haphazardly above the bin closest to the register.. even the primitive listening station with massive headphones and ancient turntable attached wreaked of familiarity. It felt like coming home.
As is my wont, I found myself drawn immediately to the backroom, which I was thrilled to see was still filled with bins and bins of used CDs and vinyl. Within moments I was standing beneath the one speaker than hangs precariously low – where I had, on many occasions, perched myself for hours flipping through titles while the blasting music and smell of plastic washed over me. I stood there as I had so many times before; a girl in search of treasure - only this time I found something slightly different.
Looking through the bin of used CDs I began to feel the tingle of uncomfortable recognition. It felt strange to pick up REM’s [u]New Adventures in Hi-Fi [/u]and Letters to Cleo’s [u]Wholesale Meats and Fish [/u]and realize they’d been traded in/discarded for something cooler… something more progressive… something more now. It was then that I looked up and surveyed the room. True, I was the oldest person in the store… but that didn’t really bother me. ([url=http://lindy.tblog.com]Really[/url] . No… [url=http://filbert.tblog.com]Really[/url] .) And it’s true too that the boy behind the counter wasn’t the same one who used to call me by name when I’d come in and then tell me about what was new and what I should definitely check out. And it’s definitely true that the girl at the end of counter batting her eyelashes at him was most certainly not the same blonde with the ponytail who used to hang out there for hours on end. (*cough*) But I think what knocked me most off center about the whole thing was that I knew that if unexpectedly the world just stopped and the music dimmed and suddenly the four or five of us in there had to have a conversation about the music we love and were currently searching for… there’d be a glimmer of recognition amongst the rest of them that I wouldn't share. A bond that would extend to everyone there - except me.
I can’t say this really bothers me all that much. I’ve never had a problem being the odd man out. I’ve never been afraid of being the blacksheep. In fact, these are the labels I’ve come to cherish over the years. But I have to admit that I suddenly I felt like the gang from St. Elmo’s Fire (believe me, I can’t believe I’m referencing this movie either) looking in the window of my old haunt, only to see a new gang of regulars who look suspiciously like me and (even more disturbing) equally at home in the place I felt certain I’d always belong.
I’ll admit I felt a little sad and more than a little nostalgic as I stumbled upon this epiphany of sorts in the back room of my sacred indie-music store… but deep down I knew this was just how things were supposed to be. We grow up. We grow old. And we move onto new places.. making room for the new gang of regulars who, if they’re really lucky, will find a bit of themselves in the places that helped to define us and the gang who came before us and the one before them and so on and so forth.
So… when I left the store there was no weeping (or whooping) or drawn out speeches. Just a few delicate sighs and one last long look before heading home. As I said, saying goodbye is not easy. But I think I’m doing pretty well. In time, I may very well head back there, but for now I’ve said my farewell.. or make that my “toodles, you.”
As some of you know, I “work” part-time at a local community college here in the evening. (Forgive me… but I feel obliged to put the word “work” in quotation marks, because I’m not certain that reading and giggling on the phone all night really qualifies at work). Most evenings, while the halls of our tiny campus bustle with students rushing to class and chatting about all manner of things scholarly and otherwise, my interaction with said scholars is fairly limited. That said, however, the following is a transcript of a real conversation between two rather vacuous girls that I observed and became momentarily sucked into this evening while still reeling from events that, upon closer refection, appear to be painfully insignificant. At the time of this interaction, both girls stood just a few feet away from me… one chomping mercilessly on some gum, the other, holding her cell phone to her ear during the entire conversation:
Gum Chomper: [i]Hey did you hear about bombings in London?[/i]
Cell Phone Ear:[i] Ya. It’s sad.[/i]
Gum Chomper: [i] Can you believe some people over there are actually comparing it to 9-11?[/i]
Cell Phone Ear: [i]What? That’s such bullshit.[/i]
Gum Chomper: [i]I know. It’s totally disrespectful to compare that to 9-11. I mean… only like 50 people died.[/i]
Cell Phone Ear: [i] Ya. I mean… it’s sad, but it’s not like 50 people is all that many.[/i]
Gum Chomper: [i]Right. That many people die over here every day.[/i]
(At that point, Gum Chomper looked over at me and smiled.)
Me: (somewhat under my breath and with a great heaving sigh) [i]Now *that’s* something to be proud of.[/i]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile, in the hanging fern on my front porch something of a miracle has taken place:
Quietly, David Gray's [i]Sail Away[/i] plays in the background. ([url=http://filbert.tblog.com]Thank you[/url] )
I was quite young when I first learned how to spot a razor clam lurking just beneath the surface of black, wet sand. In the very moment that the Pacific pulls away from its rocky shoreline, revealing a few rare feet of smooth, flat beach, a trained eye can spot the clam’s quiet calling card: tiny holes in the damp surface, about the size of a quarter, often surrounded by a raised ring that locals and old-timers will refer to as “the doughnut.” The trick, of course, once you’ve spotted such signs, is to dig - fast - before the ocean hurls its way back in, shifting the sands, and the advantage, decidedly into the clam’s favor.
Like many men of his generation (and others too, I’m sure) my father’s idea of good parenting consisted solely of providing food, shelter and discipline for his children. Conversation with his pre-teen daughter, particularly within the confines of a small, moving, metal box, was probably not something he was prepared for. But back then, the silent drive there only added to the magic of the moment. There was something about sharing that space with him, without the clutter of words, that only served to make the entire experience that much more extraordinary. 
Ours was a finely tuned clamming machine. My job was to spot the clams and then stealthily alert my father, usually by jumping up and down and pointing. Immediately, he would swing into action, carving the sand away with his angled spade (which many people refer to as a "clam gun") and his fingers. Once the clam had been dug up, he’d hand it to me; my second job was to transport our riches to the waiting bucket. With every second or third success my father would ask me how many we had; my third job was to then count them dutifully, which I did. (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday). Clearly, I took all my jobs very seriously. 
These were the beaches of my childhood. Rocky, cold, gray and inhabited by feathered scavengers along with a dying breed of hardened men who survived by fishing the harsh waters that their fathers had fished before them. Unlike their California or (southern) east coast counterparts, people who braved pacific northwest beaches in the early morning hours to dig for clams or to cast thick lines into the choppy sea in search of bigger bounty, did so knowing they’d have to work for their suppers and swallow more than a little saltwater. Similar to the rocky shores of ancient British islands, ([url
