On this particular Monday I wandered upstairs, as I always do, to change clothes, catch my breath, and start the unwinding process. Hank, as he always does, wanted to play and called out to me to follow him somewhere or other and do something or other with him. "Ok, Hank," I responded while walking upstairs. "Just let me change clothes and I'll be right down."
"Ok. I will," he called back.
I sat on the edge of the bed, took my boots off, and walked to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. While there I heard Hank's little feet scamper up the stairs and then a short series of grunts and knocks that told me he, as usual, was up to something. "What's going on, Hank," I asked him from the bathroom. I was suspicious and weary.
"Nufing," he said. "I just need to take my shoes off and put them in the room like you." Normally Hank's shoes are thrown in a massive pile downstairs in an area between the kitchen and the laundry room. That day, however, he saw it fit to do otherwise. I saw his shoes when I returned to my room to change shirts. I sat back down on the bed. I smiled. The difficulties of the day vanished and I walked downstairs to play with Hank.
There have been at least two other times when an event like that has made me as happy as it did. The very first time happened just about a year after Hank was born. We took our first long nap together. It was also the third sunday of June, Father's Day. The second time is a recurring phenomenon but it never ceases to amaze me. Almost every time I pick him up from school, no matter what he is busy doing, he sees me, yells out "Dad!," and runs to give me a big, smiling hug.
It's all pretty nice and though it makes me realize that I still have some big boots to fill I feel like the combination of these all-too-brief moments are the only reason this world continues to spin its course. Somehow, someway, the energy produced in these seemingly simple and, yet, simply innate actions spark enough momentum in this planet that it has no other choice to keep moving forward forever. And it's good.
Some shoe songs!
Gram Parsons: The New Soft Shoe.mp3
Hem: (The Angels Wanna Wear) My Red Shoes.mp3 (An Elivs Costello cover)
Still sick (now a sinus infection). More computer problems. Another week of uploading, downloading, replacing, and spending an inordinate amount of time on the phone talking to specialists in El Salvador (now a new hard drive). More extended summer heat (mid-eighties, everyday). No exercise. Exhaustion. Same dirty car. Shit.
Music for the times:
Peggy Lee: Fever.mp3
Squirrel Nut Zippers: La Grippe.mp3
Paul Burch: Polio.mp3
Johnny Bond: Sick, Sober, And Sorry.mp3
Hazel Dickens & Alice Gerrard: TB Blues.mp3
Neil Young: Tired Eyes.mp3
The Pogues: The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn.mp3
The Smiths: Still Ill.mp3
Then there's this one that, I swear, the computer was humming to me in its state of self-confident derision as I bumbled and fumbled my way back to a working condition; I am decidedly not computer savvy. Sweating, pulling my hair out, sighing in defeat, I felt like I was dealing with Hal 9000.
Well, there is always next week. Keep on the sunny side.
There are those weeks. Weeks with a smacked-upside-the-head cold. Weeks with returning students and an unprepared class to teach. Weeks with a disintegrating hard drive and the bane of technology. Birthday weeks. Weeks of looming taxes and paperwork to sift through. Weeks of a long lawn and a dirty car.
Then there is Chilco.
The wild and abundant Chilco (fuschia magellanica) grows especially well in Chile's Lake District and, most importantly, on the river banks and hill sides around Pucón and Villarrica--the places where I certainly would have rather been this week, waist deep in cold water, staring at the flowers dangling softly above clear streams.
But then there are also our eight-foot tomato plants and the hundreds of green and red fruits that we will pick from them well into autumn. And the fig trees that even in their first year here are producing their crop. And the morning air is quite cool and, seemingly, fresh. And the morning light is long and pale.
And so returns the issue of a birthday and with that the impromptu "Happy Birthday Paper" Hank insisted on drawing before we left for school. And with that most things were made right, even an uncut lawn and a dirty car.
I'm standing under the 'H' with an appropriate half-smile, my beard reduced to a goatee, my hair now represented by a single tuft on the top of my head. Hank is in front of me with his full head of beautiful hair. Wendy stands to my left, taller than me and with a strip of birthday paper wrapping in front of her face as it flies in the air. Hank's best friend, Amerie, who now lives in Mexico City, stands on my right. Though she looks a little puzzled as to why she was invited to this party her blond curls and big blue eyes are well-represented. The letters 'H' above my head, 'E' (yes an E), and, obviously, 'O' are simply part of the gift. The other squiggle is more wrapping paper floating in the air. I think we're all dancing. And wearing cool pants. Thanks Hank.
Seven flowers for seven days:
The Carter Family: Wildwood Flower.mp3 (from Anchored in Love: Their Complete Victor Recordings 1927-1928)
Jolie Holland: Alley Flowers.mp3 (from Catalpa)
Granfaloon Bus: Daisy.mp3 (from Rocket Noon, RIP)
Ralph Stanley featuring Ralph Stanley II: The Water Lily.mp3 (from Real: The Tom T. Hall Project)
Lynn Anderson: Rose Garden.mp3 (from Rose Garden)
Merle Haggard: I Threw Away The Rose.mp3 (from Down Every Road)
Galaxie 500: Flowers.mp3 (from Today)
