One Hand Clapping – July 2003
— William Michaelian
Note: Each month of One Hand Clapping has been assigned its own page. Links are provided here, and again at the bottom of each journal page. To go to the beginning of Volume 2, click here.
March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003
October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004
April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004
October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005
July 1, 2003 — I had to laugh when I saw the cover of the June issue of Reader’s Digest, which came our way via a friend whose mother buys him a subscription every year. You would think a magazine that’s been around so long and that has such a huge circulation would be a little more heads-up in the design department. I am referring to the bold headline that runs across the top of the front cover, which says, “America’s Fastest Growing Crime.” Directly underneath is the magazine’s name, leading one to the natural assumption that Reader’s Digest is the crime in question. That was my assumption, anyway. Listed in the table of contents, though, there was an article called “America’s Fastest Growing Crime,” which turned out to be about identity theft. I was so disappointed. In fact, I might have been thoroughly destroyed if I hadn’t received a telephone call from someone working in the Friends of the Salem Public Library bookstore, saying I had just won their first-ever monthly drawing for a free book of my choice. That turned me right around. The last time I was in the store, after I paid for Ernest Hemingway, Selected Letters, 1917-1961, the person who took my money asked if I’d like to enter their drawing. I said of course, and scrawled my name and number on a little piece of paper, then added it to a fistful of others in a fishbowl. On my way out I said, “I’ll be back later to collect my prize,” which, for some odd reason, I fully expected to win. Now that I think about it, though, I probably won because there was no money involved. But that’s okay. I have a much easier time holding onto books anyway.
July 2, 2003 — Someday, just for the fun of it, I’d like to spend six or eight weeks in a remote mountain cabin with a typewriter and several reams of paper. If that doesn’t happen, then maybe I can spend six or eight weeks in a diseased fleabag hotel with a computer and several bottles of Scotch. And if that doesn’t happen, then maybe I can spend six or eight weeks under lock and key and behind bars on Center Street here in Salem, which is where they made the movie of Ken Kesey’s novel, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. The only thing I’d be afraid of there is that they’d never let me leave, or, even worse, that I wouldn’t want to leave. But at that point I guess it wouldn’t matter. Then again, maybe it already doesn’t matter, and I just haven’t realized it yet. Maybe I’m already on the inside looking out, or on the outside looking in — depending on how you look at it. Is sanity a choice? Are sanity and insanity like chocolate and vanilla? Is everyone waiting for my decision? If they are, they don’t seem to be. I wait for my turn to buy stamps in the post office lobby, and no one even clears their throat. The radio behind the counter is playing hits from the Sixties — “My Little Runaway,” “Going to the Chapel,” etc., and I think, What the hell am I doing here? I don’t need stamps, I need a vacation — from everything and everybody. Then my turn comes to face the cheerful clerk who for some strange reason always remembers my name. “Staying out of trouble?” he says, and I answer, “Is there any reason why I should?” Suddenly, a panel in the ceiling slides open and stamps flutter down like snowflakes. “That’ll be thirty-seven thousand dollars,” the clerk says, and I answer, “But I only asked for a hundred.” “Ah! My mistake!” Everyone laughs. Get the janitor on the phone. Tell him to clean up the stamps. “No, no,” I say then, “that’s all right. Don’t bother him. Give me the stamps. I’ll use them eventually.” And so I write a check for thirty-seven thousand dollars. Well, that’s it, then. That’s the formula. With all these stamps, I’d better get busy and write some letters. Dear Mr. President: You dirty so and so, and so on and so forth. Yours truly, etc., etc., Room 1215, Waldorf Astoria, Center Street, Salem, Oregon, comma, comma, comma — I’m sick of commas! I’ve been using commas all my life! If the president doesn’t use them, why should I? He doesn’t even know what a comma is, for crying out loud — and they are crying comma you’d better believe they’re crying comma you’d cry too if you had any sense period (.) There. I feel better now.
July 3, 2003 — Salem’s street people are breathing a little easier now that the nights aren’t so cold and the days are filled with sunshine. I see them out making their rounds. Many follow a set schedule, and can be found at certain corners or in certain crosswalks at almost exactly the same time each day. One man I’ve noticed in particular walks many miles a day. He talks to no one, and I’ve yet to see him stop and sit on one of the benches downtown. His hair is a lot longer than it was a couple of years ago, he looks much older, and he has found a pair of heavy black-rimmed glasses, the kind commonly worn in the Sixties. His nose is bigger. He has let his beard grow. He is I am you are we are all together — in other words, with a simple twist of fate he could be me, or I could be him, and the rest of us could all change places. Such things have been known to happen, especially when we least expect it. Assumptions are dangerous. Often, we have a shorter distance to fall than we think. No one is immune. It’s something to think about when winter rolls around and we are sitting by the fire or in a warm theater, or relaxing in a warm bed. And they are out there, walking. Shivering. No one understands better than the street people, the fleeting days of summer, the fleeting nature of life itself.
July 4, 2003 — While Americans flex their patriotic muscles by setting off fireworks this evening, I will be sitting here with my window closed trying to keep out the smoke and the smell of gunpowder. Of course, the racket and nonsense has already been going on for several days. Yesterday evening, from just a few houses away, there came a blast so loud that it made me jump out of my chair. This sort of thing happens every year. Once a neighbor and her son even took it upon themselves to aim fireworks at the dry roof of our house. Luckily, they missed. These people are not what you’d call the finer elements. Over the years, the police have been their frequent guests, thus giving them the attention they so desperately crave. Well, Americans have the attention now. People all around the world know about the empty cowboy hat that occupies the White House, and that, in reference to the ongoing violence in Iraq, says things like, “Bring ’em on.” What? You didn’t know hats could talk? Well, they can. They can’t make sense, but they can talk. They have a limited vocabulary that consists mostly of words like freedom, and terrorism, and homeland security, and democracy. They love that word, democracy, even while they roast the concept on a spit over an open fire out there on the good ol’ range — between the oil wells, logging roads, toxic dump sites, and nuclear testing sites. And isn’t it interesting how the great American economy can afford to pump untold millions of dollars each day into killing people, destroying the planet, and taking over other countries, but it can’t afford to help people get the food, medicine, or employment they need? I think it’s interesting, anyway. I think it’s just fascinating when people who are laid off can’t find work for two years. And I think it’s absolutely intriguing when young people can’t find jobs in fast food restaurants because college graduates with advanced degrees are taking them. So what are people supposed to do? Let off some steam on the Fourth of July and then head back to the unemployment line? Get drunk, blow off their arms, and join the armed forces in the fight against freedom and understanding? Say whoopee?
July 5, 2003 — There are moments when you understand beyond the shadow of a doubt that you aren’t getting anywhere, or that if you are, the progress is so slow that you won’t live long enough to enjoy the fruits of your labor. There are also moments when you realize that you have already accomplished a great deal, and that there is much of which you can be proud. And there are moments when you care so much that you don’t care, and work so much that nothing works, and worry so much that everything finally seems pointless and laughable. But what is one to do with this knowledge? Combine the moments and take an average? Or settle on a certain type and be elated or depressed accordingly? What is the argument about, really — or is there an argument? Why all the fuss? Why not just sit back and enjoy life while you can? Or can you? Should you? Do you have that right, or is contentment something that must be earned? And if it is, who decides the worth of your achievement? Or is time the judge? And if you are contented, what about all the people in the world who aren’t? Is it their problem and not yours? Or is your contentment selfish and self-centered? Does anyone have the right to be contented while people are starving and being tortured and killed? Or is contentment derived from good work the best remedy for the world’s ills? For doesn’t good work and happiness breed more of the same?
July 6, 2003 — The other day, after reading several of these journal entries, our daughter said to me, “When it’s hot you go crazy, and then when the weather cools off you become normal again.” She said these words with a twinkle in her eye, which I knew meant, “Normal for you, anyway.” She’s right, of course. The heat and I really don’t get along, and haven’t for many years. I resent high temperatures — or, to be more specific, I resent being where high temperatures are. It can be as hot as it wants as long as I am somewhere else. The trouble is, I am never somewhere else. I am always here. Then again, where else could I be? A person is always here, even when he’s there, which hardly seems fair. Last night, for instance, I had a dream in which I found myself on our old farm in Dinuba, California, surrounded by friends who had unaccountably grown old. At the time, though, I wasn’t there. I was here. Only in talking about it later can I say I was there. And then suddenly a great wind came up, and we watched as it stripped the leaves from one of the nectarine trees in our orchard. The sky darkened, and then three funnel clouds appeared, heading southward. Someone said, “Those could do damage if they touch down.” And then, sure enough, the trio of funnel clouds descended over a neighbor’s vineyard. But they didn’t make it all the way to the ground. They rose again, and continued on their way. About this time, our telephone was ringing on the floor in the kitchen. I didn’t want to answer it, but I had a feeling it was my wife’s brother, so I did. I was right. “Where have you been?” I said. He replied, “I called to tell you where I have been.” Then he hung up. And I thought, Fine, then. Hang up. See what I care. Only then did I notice that the telephone wasn’t plugged into anything. Where was I then? And where am I now? I am here. But it is not hot. The weather is fine. A cool breeze is blowing in through the window. This afternoon, the temperature will reach the low eighties, but that’s about all — normal for this time of year, like me.
July 7, 2003 — After telling the volunteers on duty at the Friends bookstore that I was the lucky individual who had won their June drawing for a free book, it took less than a minute to find a title I wanted: A World of Great Stories, published in 1947 by Avenel Books. The 950-page hardbound volume contains 115 short stories from around the world. It has an American and British section, a Romance Language section, a German and Scandinavian section, a Russian and East European section, an Oriental section, and a Latin American section. While I was in the store, I couldn’t resist getting another book, for which I paid the gigantic sum of two dollars. Short Stories from the New Yorker, published in 1940, contains sixty-eight stories. It includes work by James Thurber, Sherwood Anderson, Erskine Caldwell, E.B. White, Dorothy Parker, Morley Callaghan, and Christopher Isherwood, as well as many authors I’ve never heard of. So now I have 183 stories to read. On my way out of the store, I noticed there was another drawing under way for July. But I didn’t enter, because if I had I most certainly would have won again, thereby casting doubt on the contest’s credibility. For some odd reason, this makes me think of the last presidential election, which is something I don’t want to do at the moment. What I really want to do is to spend some time reading my new books, because when I read I often find new answers to old questions, and old answers to new questions. And sometimes I find answers without questions, and vice-versa. There are also times when the questions aren’t worth asking and the answers aren’t worth hearing. But that is still better than there being no questions and answers at all, which is a pretty fair description of television.
July 8, 2003 — A moment ago, I was thinking about how pathetic it is that professional athletes who earn millions each year are paid millions more to sell tennis shoes, cars, and credit cards. It’s even more pathetic that this kind of advertising works. But I don’t know what got me started on this. I’ve only been sitting here for two or three minutes. During that time, I’ve stared out the window, taken several sips from a cup of coffee, and wondered how much longer I’ll be able to stay awake. And yet, this lousy business about professional athletes and their so-called endorsements pops into my head. What’s the use of thinking about that? What’s the use of thinking at all, if that’s what I’m going to think about? It’s not like I’m going to say anything new on the subject. Everyone knows it’s a joke, a sham, and an insult — at least deep down, they do. Don’t they? I can understand a young kid getting the idea that wearing a certain kind of shoe will help him be more like the hero who’s advertising it, but shouldn’t we outgrow that sort of thing by the time we’re ten or twelve, say? Should we really sign up for a credit card because a commercial shows a player for the Yankees using it during a wild night on the town? What sense does that make? But enough of that. What I say or don’t say, or think or don’t think, won’t make a bit of difference. Or will it? Maybe if I say it, then someone else will also say it, and then pretty soon everyone will be saying it. Of course, by that time, I will have moved along to saying other things, like, “I drive a Ford,” or, “I’d rather fight than switch” — when the truth is, I’d rather fight a Ford, switch off the light, and go to bed. But I can’t go to bed. It’s only one-thirty in the afternoon. Besides, this morning I piled a bunch of books and papers on the bed because I was trying to find something that wasn’t there because it’s somewhere else. And now I can hardly remember what it was I was looking for in the first place. This probably explains why I ended up thinking about professional athletes. Then again, it probably doesn’t. But something needs explaining, I know that much.
July 9, 2003 — He was playing a cruel, sophisticated donkey, but I still agree with what Rod Steiger bellowed after falling down the stairs of Lara’s Yuriatin apartment in Doctor Zhivago. He said, “We are all made of the same clay, you know.” Clay, or, if you like, we can call it stardust, as Joni Mitchell did in her generation-defining anthem, “Woodstock.” Stardust, clay — it amounts to the same thing, though stardust is a bit more poetic. Clay so often turns to mud — which is why clay is probably a more apt description — although more and more these days, there is an argument for plastic. We are all made of the same plastic, you know. That does have a nice ring to it. Or how about this: We all use the same cosmetics and toothpaste, you know. Anyway. I was driving through town this morning, listening to a little music and noticing for perhaps the millionth time that the people on the sidewalk were walking in step with the song on the radio. They were graceful, poetic, and tragic, and for a beautiful moment I was sure we were all related, that we were brothers and sisters if not long lost friends, who, by some evil twist of fate, had become strangers who spend their precious time looking for the obvious in all the wrong places — a problem further compounded by someone like me, who insists on using long sentences. But I must say, long sentences aren’t needed to describe what is happening this very moment at the neighbor’s house across the street: They are sawing down two trees. Now everyone who drives by or walks by will be able to see into their backyard. What a treat that will be. We may all be made of the same clay, you know, but why would anyone want to sacrifice their privacy?
July 10, 2003 — Gee, it only costs the U.S. $3.9 billion a month to maintains its “presence” in Iraq. That’s quite a bargain. Throw in a little murder and suffering, and you have some really great summer entertainment. Dear Mr. President: I know you’re busy telling lies in Africa at the moment, but while you’re there, would you please throw yourself to the lions? It will only take a moment. Or maybe you can cut the ribbon at the grand opening of a rhinoceros factory and then be trampled to death. Yours very truly, Ima Writer. Dear Ima: The president thanks you for your humorous letter. He asked me to tell you that if he thought you were serious, you would disappear from the streets without a trace within the next twenty-four hours. Being the son of a kinder, gentler ex-president, however, he is happy to “cut you some slack” (i.e., give you the benefit of the doubt). Best wishes, Someone Standing in for the President Because He Never Learned to Write. Dear Someone: Tell the president I meant every word, and that I have already disappeared from the streets because I can’t afford groceries anymore. Catchya later, Ima. Ima: Someone was just relieved of duty. Your letter has been forwarded to the appropriate authorities. Have a nice day, Someone Else. Dear Someone Else: I’m awfully sorry if I got Someone in trouble. I’m sure it would never have happened if the drug companies weren’t holding us all hostage and I could afford my medicine. You might mention that to the president, even though I know he doesn’t care, and figures when he gets old he’ll be immune to health problems because he has lots of money. Oh! They’re here already! Gotta go, Ima.
July 11, 2003 — This just in from the Who Would Ever Have Guessed Department: the U.S. will be in Iraq for several years. What a surprise. And isn’t it interesting that the so-called seeds of democracy — otherwise known as life, oppression, and the pursuit of oil — would be shaped exactly like bullets? Yes, indeed. There is much happiness on the horizon. Fortunately, here in the “homeland,” we have plenty to distract us, such as poverty, unemployment, and unaffordable health care. But, as a wise man once said, you can always rent a video. Of course, we won’t have too long to wait until we are treated to a rerun of the last “election.” I predict some pretty good entertainment: this country’s finest wrapped in flags, safely debating the “issues,” coupled with the asinine commentary of pinhead columnists and other experts. But the results, I’m afraid, are already in. No matter who wins, everyone loses. Not that I don’t have faith in the system. It obviously works for those who have appropriated it for their own ends.
July 12, 2003 — It’s seven o’clock. I’ve already eaten breakfast and had a look at the newspaper, and have just — ah, there — had my first swallow of coffee. I’m writing on the early side this morning because in a short while we are driving to the coast. Our destination is Newport, Oregon, where today’s high temperature is expected to be fifty-nine degrees. The plan is to leave Salem and drive west on Highway 22, then either take Highway 99W to Corvallis, and then Highway 20 to Newport, or to bypass 99W and drive through the town of Dallas and then on to Kings Valley and the towns of Nashville and Summit, and then to pick up Highway 20 further west. Either way, we’ll end up on Highway 20, unless we take Highway 34, I believe it is, and go by way of Philomath and the Alsea River, which would land us in Waldport a few miles south of Newport. We came back that way one evening a few years ago. It was beautiful and we had the road almost to ourselves. The Kings Valley route, on the other hand, comes highly recommended by a friend, who said going that way would probably add forty-five minutes to our trip, and that we would most likely get lost. It’s hard to beat a recommendation like that. For breakfast I fried a potato in a little olive oil, then scrambled it with two brown eggs with cheddar cheese, tabasco sauce, and basil. I also had a piece of toast with butter and homemade peach jam. And now it should be noted that there is a huge uproar being made next door by a commercial gardening outfit — mowers, blowers, edgers — what an idiotic racket, especially at this hour of the morning. The front lawn is the size of a postage stamp and doesn’t grow because it gets almost no water. The house is a rental, currently unoccupied. And here it is, Saturday morning, and there are great clouds of dust floating into the street. Time to get up, everybody! Rise and shine! No rest for the wicked! Fools.
July 13, 2003 — Instead of turning left onto Highway 99W, at the last possible second we changed lanes and continued west on Highway 22. We passed through the tiny towns of Rose Lodge, Otis, and Neotsu, then landed in Lincoln City, along with several thousand other people who had “escaped” to the coast. But we didn’t stop there. Well, actually, traffic was so thick we stopped several times. But we soon cleared Lincoln City and made our way south on Highway 101 to Newport, where the beach was almost completely abandoned. There was a sick grebe sitting near a pile of rocks, bravely waiting for the tide to end its cares. The steady crashing of the waves afforded it a frightening measure of privacy. We walked on the beach for a time, battered by strong winds beneath a mostly cloudy sky, then stopped for lunch. After we had eaten, we took another walk on the beach. The clouds thickened and lowered. It began to mist, then rain, and we were soaked. In the process, the dry sand further from the water blew all over us and we were coated with grit. Still, it was a fine time, and we got a bit of a tan. On the way home on Highway 20, I missed the turn that would have taken us through Nashville and Summit, so we stayed on 20 all the way to Corvallis, enjoying the scenery and place names like Burnt Woods and Blodgett. It rained off and on until we were about ten miles from Corvallis. In Philomath, the town has invested in a huge number of roadside flags affixed to inch-thick poles planted at regular intervals. While the stars and stripes fluttered madly in the breeze, we nearly wore ourselves out saluting. We picked up 99W in Corvallis and enjoyed a beautiful drive through the country, passed through Monmouth and Independence, the latter of which will soon have a new library. And now the clouds are here, but not the rain, and only a little of that blasted sand. Sunday morning. The calm. The quiet. There is already talk of taking another drive, this time east toward Silverton and the hills. There are some fine old cemeteries between here and there, and rolling grass seed fields, and fields of flowers also grown for seed. There are filbert groves, blueberries, marionberries, and pumpkins. There are sweating farmers telling their kids how hard they worked when they were kids, and being entirely ignored, or put up with, or listened to, or laughed at. And there are farmers’ wives who are exhausted from working in town, trying to help their husbands make ends meet. And somewhere there is a dog dozing on a creaky wooden porch, unaware of the fly that is walking across its noble forehead.
July 14, 2003 — One day, a boy riding a bicycle came upon a philosopher sitting beneath a tree. “Good morning,” said the boy. “How are you?” “I’m fine,” the philosopher replied. “I’m trying to figure out this tree.” The boy looked at the philosopher, then at the tree. “What’s wrong with it?” he said. “Nothing,” the philosopher said. “Nothing at all. But it’s here, and that’s what I am trying to understand.” Once again, the boy looked at the philosopher and at the tree. “I think it’s an oak tree,” he said, trying his best to help. The philosopher smiled. “Ah, yes. An oak. But why is it an oak? Why isn’t it a walnut tree, for instance, or a maple? And why is it a tree at all, instead of a person, or a cat, or a dog?” The boy stared at the philosopher in disbelief. “Because it’s an oak,” he said. The philosopher sighed. “If only it were that simple,” he said. “But why isn’t it?” the boy said. “I don’t know,” the philosopher said. “That’s another question entirely. Down through the ages, many great and learned men have wondered that very same thing.” “Well,” the boy said, “what did they decide?” “Nothing,” the philosopher said. “Not a dad-blamed thing. When it comes to simple things, the learned men of this world are as dumb as a post — myself included.” Just as the philosopher finished making this statement, an acorn fell from the oak tree and landed on his head. This puzzled him even further. Before long, he forgot to notice the boy’s presence, and began mumbling into his beard. The boy got back onto his bicycle and rode away. He had to. He still had a life to live.
July 15, 2003 — Details. A stream of tiny ants, carrying eggs to a new home, forty feet away. How many trips do they make in a day? What do the ones coming say to the ones going? Plenty more where that came from? There’s a great tavern not far from the first dahlia on the right, but watch out for the puddle? I could sure use a vacation? Details. A man stands in his doorway in the morning and spits on his lawn, on his sidewalk. Spits everywhere. Makes a horrible sound. His son, a little boy, runs through it a few minutes later. Runs through the spit, which accumulates day by day. The spit, which gathers force and runs down the driveway, clogging the gutters. The spit of a man, who barks at his child, who in turn ignores his father, who spits, spits, spits, and we haven’t even mentioned the wife, the mother, nor will we, because we are sick of the subject and wish to proceed no further. Details. Strands of clouds, braided clouds, yellow and pink and orange and gray. In the evening, an eerie yellow light. Drops of rain. A soft breeze, the scent of fields, the advancing season. Summer. Long days. Children finding their way, adults looking for a way out, looking for the way home. A stream of ants, bumping into each other. Coming, going. It’s a good life, though nothing like the one envisioned. The fairy tale, the happily ever after. Though it could be. Almost. If it weren’t for the details. Those pesky details. Funny how they invent themselves. Cute little buggers. Mom, may I have another serving of details, please? They taste great. Buttered details. Details with homemade jam. A quiet gathering at the table, trembling beneath the weight of details. The gathering, not the table. The table is fine. Papa detail, Mama detail, Brother and Sister detail. Baby detail. I think I’ll write a story today. Call it “Waiting for the Echo’s Return.” What are you doing? the hero says to the lonesome stranger standing at the edge of a cliff. And the lonesome stranger says, I’m waiting for the echo’s return. And the hero says, The Echo’s already been here and gone. Fastest stage in the West, as a matter of fact. To which the lonesome stranger replies, Really? I’ll be darned. That explains a lot. And he walks off the edge of the cliff. The End.
July 16, 2003 — If this starts making sense, please let me know. Also, it might be wise if you were to check with your doctor. It’s too late for me, but there might still be hope for you. . . . In other news, earlier this morning my mother and I were in nearby Woodburn, and we happened to pass the garden plot I had seen being prepared for planting back on the fourteenth day of May. The space is now an organized jungle of successful growth. There are rows of corn, squash, beans, tomatoes, and possibly more, but, as I was also paying attention to traffic, I can’t be sure. But what I did see was inspiring. Our own tomatoes are doing well, though it will probably be another month and half before we have anything ripe enough to pick. The parsley I planted is growing rapidly, as is the zucchini. There are several about an inch-long, so we won’t have to wait too much longer — and then suddenly we’ll have far more than we can use, which should make a few people we know very happy. Let’s see. What else? Late last night I killed a mosquito in bed. It was so cute and peaceful lying in its little bed, but I went ahead and murdered the rascal anyway. No, wait. I was the one in bed. Anyway, after that, I turned the light back on and read four short stories from Short Stories from the New Yorker, published in 1940: “The Girls in Their Summer Dresses,” by Irwin Shaw; “Over the River and Through the Wood,” by John O’Hara; “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” by James Thurber; and “The Net,” by Robert M. Coates. All very enjoyable, and certainly better than most of the stories one is apt to find in big-name magazines these days. For some reason, an awful lot of stories now are well written, but devoid of life and purpose. They are clinically sophisticated, predictable, safe, and boring. I call this movement Token Fiction. In other words, it’s just another way of breaking up the advertising. Or maybe it’s all very realistic, and people are living token lives. That would be even worse. Wasn’t there a saying somewhere about life imitating art? Then again, what is art? I had an Uncle Art, and he was definitely worth imitating. But I doubt that’s what they meant — whoever “they” are. Then again, they didn’t know Uncle Art, who was himself a work of art, a pipe-smoking wise man with an incredibly dry sense of humor, well read, a lover of all kinds of good music, and fanatically honest, which is why he got along with my father so well.
July 17, 2003 — So far today I’ve written three letters and tried to figure out how to delete the colored background from an image on the computer. The letters were easy. So was the computer operation, once I’d tried a dozen or so different options and failed. At least next time I’ll know how it’s done — if I remember, that is. In fact, I think I’ve already forgotten. That’s the trouble with doing something you’re not really interested in. It’s a lot more fun to remember the time you struck out fifteen batters in little league, or bowled a 234 in high school, or went fishing at Pine Flat Dam with your father. I find myself remembering things like this every day. Sometimes, family members are surprised by how much I do remember. I tend to come up with some fairly detailed reports on long-ago happenings, including complete conversations. Either that, or I make up new ones to fill in the blanks, and convince myself that so and so really said such and such, and, having been convinced, am all the more convincing to others. In other words, when the wind isn’t whistling through, a lot of talk goes on between my ears.
July 18, 2003 — Watching our children spread their wings reminds me of when I first spread my own. But before I could spread them, it was necessary to slave away for two summers at one of the local fruit packing houses. The first year, I worked for the whopping sum of $2.35 an hour, the second for $2.55 an hour. During the height of the season, I started at seven in the morning, and then often stayed on the job until midnight or later. It was a grueling schedule, especially in the San Joaquin Valley heat, but it didn’t matter because I was earning big money. I bought a 1967 Chevrolet Impala Super Sport for $900 and never looked back. Actually, I looked back quite often, just to be sure no one was chasing me. I drove all over hell and gone. Then I moved out and went to Fresno, where I worked as a cook in a restaurant, worked in a nursery and did some landscaping on the side, and worked as a groundskeeper for a doctor and for an author of livestock handbooks. Later, we heard the doctor had fled the country because he was wanted for some crime. I found this amusing, because when I knew him he was quite a weasel. And I can only assume the livestock author is no longer with us, because he was well into his seventies when I worked for him almost thirty years ago. But I could be wrong. It could be that with his rigorous schedule, he never found the time to die. He slept only three hours a day, from six in the evening until nine. The rest of the time, he worked. Once, he and his wife had company in the evening; when the people left, it was already past nine o’clock, so he told his wife, “Put on the coffee, I’m going to work,” and skipped his three-hour nap. He even looked like an owl, albeit a featherless one. For some odd reason he seemed to like me. I suppose it was because I was always courteous and respectful. When I finally quit, he was disappointed, even a little angry. But watering his house plants and trimming his roses three days a week was hardly a career. And of course I never saw him again, or any of the others I worked for or with. When I worked at the nursery, one of my fellow employees was a twenty-nine-year-old young man from Japan, named Mitsuo. We got along very well, and occasionally I would help him with his English. He found similar sounding words like “full” and “fool” intriguing, and would say, “I am full, but not fool.” Then I would say, “Yes, and I am fool, but not full, because it’s almost time for lunch.” Where is Mitsuo now?
July 19, 2003 — I have always found it impossible not to exaggerate. At the same time, I am bound by a rigid code of honesty that I inherited from my father and mother. So when I do exaggerate, it has to be done in a way that leaves the truth intact, and, preferably, in a way that reveals that truth to others. At least that’s my hope. This might very well be the reason I became a writer. When I read over the stories I have written, I am pleased by how much truth they contain, even though in many cases they are a complete circus. It is my belief that each of us lives to tell the truth, and to be truth’s witness. It is also obvious that we often fail. I don’t believe failure is inevitable, though it could be. At the moment, I am too pig-headed and self-centered to answer that question. But over the years, exaggeration has stood me in good stead. I have found that a great many people appreciate the humor involved in stretching things to unlikely, if not impossible, proportions. They instinctively understand that an honest effort is being made to point out what is right and what is wrong. And when I am misguided, their smile lets me know. You can’t blame a person for trying. Not trying is a crime. Each moment must be its own small revolution against ignorance and evil, both of which pale and melt away in the face of laughter.
July 20, 2003 — Even in their juvenile stage, it appears our zucchini plants are going to take over the small garden plot they are supposed to be sharing with our tomatoes and parsley. But the tomato plants seem ready and willing to compete. They are now between four and five feet tall and covered with blossoms, and new tomatoes are appearing every day. And it won’t be long until there is enough parsley to pick. We could already get away with picking a little here and there, but we still have about a week’s supply in the refrigerator to use first. Then, look out. Now, I just remembered the white asparagus we used to have growing by our house well, which was referred to as “the pressure system,” when I was growing up. My father had found a patch of it growing in the vineyard once, and had transplanted it by the house. I used to wait for it to come up in the spring. When it started poking out of the ground, I’d check daily on its progress. For a long time, the white asparagus was the only kind I liked. But eventually the patch died out. I don’t remember why. And I haven’t seen white asparagus since. Another fine memory is that of our old clothesline, one end of which began just a few feet from the asparagus. The line — actually there were several of them — was made of twelve-gauge vineyard wire that had been stapled on each end to redwood cross-arms nailed onto redwood four-by-fours buried in the ground. My mother visited the clothesline several times a day. When I wasn’t off playing somewhere, I liked handing her the wooden clothespins, or putting them in the bag she’d hung from one of the lines. My father was always careful about doing tractor work nearby when there were clothes on the line. Still, every great once in awhile, the breeze would shift and a cloud of dust would drift over Mom’s freshly cleaned sheets.
July 21, 2003 — I remember reading in the paper a few years ago that mulberry trees do well here in the Willamette Valley. And yet, after living here for sixteen years, I still haven’t seen one. I have read the same about fig trees, and have seen only a few of those. I can understand there not being any pomegranate trees, since even in a warmer climate pomegranates ripen late in the year. And I can understand the lack of citrus, since we have colder winters. It’s a shame, but I can understand it. I also understand that most people no longer know what to do with mulberries, figs, and pomegranates. To make matters worse, each fall, when pomegranates appear in area grocery stores, they are wilted and come with a two-dollar price tag. That’s two dollars apiece. A few of these find their way onto the occasional Thanksgiving Day centerpiece, along with desiccated bunches of grapes that have been wrapped and shipped in plastic, gassed bananas, and occasionally a stray walnut or two. I’ve often heard it said that pomegranates are difficult to eat — as if this were a legitimate reason to deprive oneself of one of the world’s oldest and greatest fruits. My answer to that is, so, let it take a few minutes. And if you are willing to take a few hours, you can make some of the best jelly on earth. There are also people who say they don’t like the seeds in figs, because they remind them of bugs. My answer to that is, if bugs tasted that good, I’d probably eat them too. Why does everything have to be smooth, blemish-free, seed-free, and generic? Besides, doesn’t that contradict society’s fascination with low-grade, greasy drive-through burgers? I see people grappling with these messy things in traffic, and yet a pomegranate is “hard to eat.” I admit that a pomegranate doesn’t quite make a meal, but that’s what bread and cheese are for. Of course, most of the stuff that passes for cheese these days isn’t really fit to eat — but it’s pre-wrapped! — and that makes all the difference. Notice to Consumers: In some cases, contents may resemble actual cheese. We apologize for the inconvenience. Sincerely, Acme Cardboard Company.
July 22, 2003 — Last night while we were waiting for the house to cool down — it was ninety-five degrees yesterday — I took it upon myself to read each of these journal entries straight through from the beginning. I made it through June 2003, finally gave out, and then finished the rest this morning. Not counting today’s, there are 126 entries, and a total of over 35,000 words. But those are only minor statistics. While I was reading, I gradually became aware of several other things, which I suppose are obvious to anyone else who has suffered along to this point. First of all, there is no doubt that I am against war. Second, I don’t seem to be very fond of the current government — or any government, for that matter. I don’t have an “us” and “them” mentality, and resent the artificial divisions imposed by the fat cats of the world who benefit by them. Third, I love to write. Fourth, it is my belief that people owe it to themselves to do what they love, and that if they don’t know what that is, that they should do their best to find out. Fifth, I believe in the importance of family, and I love family life. Sixth, I try to be honest, but I don’t always succeed. Reading between the lines, it seems quite possible that I am more honest with others than I am with myself. This might be hard for a stranger to judge — or very easy. I’m not sure. I don’t even like to use that word, stranger. Why should any of us be strangers? Why shouldn’t we begin with assumption that we are friends and relatives, and then go from there? Seventh, I am one sarcastic S.O.B. Eighth, I am realistic very nearly to the point of mental illness. Ninth, I live in a dream world that might really be mental illness. Tenth — and this is perhaps the most important thing of all — I mean well. There are probably a dozen or so other things that are equally obvious, but this list has gone on long enough, at least for now. In closing, though, I believe there is one other important thing to consider: if you are reading these words, we may have more in common than either of us would care or dare to admit. And if you are not reading these words — a statement that makes no sense whatsoever — then the same is likely true.
July 23, 2003 — I have been thinking lately that it would be interesting to take a walking tour through the countryside and several villages, or towns, as they are referred to in this part of the world. There is no shortage of scenic backroads in the area, and there are plenty of old barns and homesteads that beckon study and contemplation. I could sleep in abandoned ones, or perhaps in seldom-visited cemeteries located at the end of graveled roads. I would need a good walking stick, of course, as well as a notebook and a sturdy hat and shoes, and one or two other items related to survival. A month’s journey should be sufficient. Since it’s summer, there is plenty of fresh produce available. Under extreme circumstances I could even pay for it, but I doubt it would be necessary. Or I could take along copies of stories I have written and offer them in trade. In fact, it might even be possible to travel the entire length and breadth of this country in just such a manner. After all, each of us has something unique to offer, and by trading, all our lives would be enriched. It’s something nice to think about. Many would say the idea is impractical, but that only makes it more appealing.
July 24, 2003 — When I was a boy and first came under the influence of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, my new burning ambition was to run away. Actually, I had long been doing just that on a daily basis, but within the boundaries of our farm, and always with an eye on supper time. But now the thought of floating down a river stirred powerful images in my mind. I pictured myself wearing a straw hat and lazily smoking a pipe on the nearby Kings River, which I had in fact floated down many times already with my father in his twelve-foot wooden boat — the one my mother called “The Eggcrate.” It was a good boat, painted light-blue and permanently stained by salmon eggs and fish scales. Of course I wouldn’t be using that boat; what I needed was a raft. About this same time, one of my brothers and a friend or two had taken it upon themselves to build one, which they planned to use in the irrigation ditch that ran along one side of our property and continued on through the countryside. Being a bit too heavy, however, it sank on its maiden voyage. This made me think twice about building my own, which I had no way of getting to the river anyway. Somehow, asking my father to put a raft in the back of his pickup and then to drive it and me eight miles to the boat landing in Reedley seemed less than authentic. So I decided to become a hobo instead. I found a long stick and a bright-red handkerchief, into which I bundled a few necessities: marbles, feathers, an old one-dollar pocket watch, and a couple of chocolate chip cookies. I tied the handkerchief to the stick and put it over my shoulder, then took a look at myself in the mirror. Deciding I was ready, I slipped everything under my bed with plans to sneak off during the night. I woke up the following morning and forgot entirely about the bundle under the bed, and then kept on forgetting about it for the next several days. By the time I finally remembered, the cookies were completely stale. I ate them anyway. After that I practiced bird calls, just in case a wagon train happened by and my scouting services were needed.
July 25, 2003 — Last night before my eyes finally gave out, I read two short stories from A World of Great Stories, the free book I won a few weeks ago at the Friends bookstore at the Salem library. The stories were O. Henry’s “The Love-Philtre of Ikey Schoenstein” and Ring Lardner’s “Ex Parte.” I’ll say this: these boys not only knew how to write, they had a genuine gift of gab. It’s also obvious they’d made it around the block a time or two. Ikey Schoenstein, the night clerk at the Blue Light Drug Store between the Bowery and First Avenue, “roomed and breakfasted at Mrs. Riddle’s two squares away. Mrs. Riddle had a daughter named Rosy. The circumlocution has been in vain — you must have guessed it — Ikey adored Rosy. She tinctured all his thoughts; she was the compound extract of all that was chemically pure and officinal — the dispensatory contained nothing equal to her.” And so on, all the way through to the end, when Ikey’s plan to keep Chunk McGowan from eloping with Rosy backfires and the sleeping pill he’d intended for her is given by Chunk to her father instead. A fine story, indeed. And here is a snippet from Ring Lardner’s story: “. . . Only one thing was more unreasonable than the chairs, and that was the table itself, consisting of big planks nailed together and laid onto a railroad tie, supported underneath by a whole forest of cross-pieces and beams. The surface was as smooth on top as the trip to Catalina Island and all around the edges, great big divots had been taken out with some blunt instrument, probably a bayonet. There were stains and scorch marks that Florence fairly crowed over, but when I tried to add to the general ensemble by laying a lighted cigarette right down beside my soup-plate, she and both the Dwans yelled murder and made me take it off. . . .” Florence is the narrator’s new bride, who, much to her husband’s surprise, would rather live in a salvaged barn like their friends the Dwans’ than in the fancy furnished house he surprised her with. Now, for some odd reason, this reminds me of the house my father’s parents lived in for a short time during World War II. The place had a neatly swept dirt floor, accented here and there with small rugs. Once a week, my mother helped her mother-in-law wash clothes in a big kettle heated by a fire in the yard. It was hard work, but also a good way for them to get better acquainted. After all, there is nothing quite like sweating together for a common purpose.
July 26, 2003 — Not infrequently, I will be sitting here minding my own business when out of the blue one of the hairs in my mustache will suddenly spring up and tickle my nose. Either that, or it will curl upward in such a way that I cannot help but see it, causing an unsettling distraction. Sometimes I am able to grab the offending hair and tuck it back into my mustache. But there are also times when the hair refuses to obey and I am left with no choice but to lop off an inch or two, after which it recoils in horror, and doesn’t dare show itself again for weeks, even months. This type of behavior begins to make sense when you realize I have had my mustache since the fall of 1974. In the almost twenty-nine years since, the only trimming I have done has been in the manner just described. If stretched to their full length, many of the hairs run to six inches. On rare occasions, one will even fall out, most likely due to overcrowding. It is always a sad moment — though I do manage to stop short of holding a funeral. When I was growing up, the men in the family all had big mustaches. With this example, it was inevitable that I would follow suit. Long before I needed to shave, I had decided to have my own. The beard was a natural addition. In fact, the one I am now wearing had its start about sixteen years ago. In 1993, I cut it off on a whim, and then immediately let it grow back. This is something else that I picked up from my father and his uncles. After about eight years, one of them would suddenly appear with a sheepish expression and a cleanly shaved, pale upper lip. Everyone would holler, and then a few days later a new mustache would be visible.
. . . Last night I read another old New Yorker story. “Home Atmosphere,” by Sally Benson, is a sparely written piece about a small-minded wife who is jealous of her husband’s aging housekeeper, Mattie, whose only joy in life is the time she spends with her employer’s little boy, Billy. Determined to come between them, the wife tells Mattie she no longer needs to bathe the boy and put him to bed. She does so under the guise of caring about Mattie’s tired, aching feet, but her purpose is clear. “Mattie stared at the door and a murderous rage filled her heart. . . . The evening loomed starkly ahead of her. No bath, no talking in the dark, no stories. That Woman had taken the last moment of the day from her, the only moment now when Billy was still her baby. That Woman could do anything. Mr. Kirk had married her, hadn’t he? She had got him.” As the story ends, Billy comes in from playing for the evening and Mattie scolds him gently, one last time. . . . And now I am looking at the recently acquired books I have stacked here on my work table, and wondering how many more gems they might contain. There are thousands of pages, and probably close to a million words — a comfort, and also a challenge.
July 27, 2003 — To help them understand the gravity of the situation, those who order soldiers into war should also be required to spend a night alone with each resulting corpse. I also think the requirement should extend to corpses originating from both sides of the conflict. In all fairness, the same should be required of people who blindly swallow their government’s propaganda, and who support its destructive policies. This would help them see that there is a direct connection between their thoughts and actions and what goes on in the world. But why stop with corpses? Why not require those responsible to spend time with the fallen soldiers’ destroyed families as well? And by those responsible, I mean anyone who is willing to think war is an acceptable activity for human beings. After all, war has to start somewhere. Before it can reach the battlefield, it must first take root in the mind.
July 28, 2003 — Yesterday we drove eleven miles through the country to the small town of Silverton, then continued on into the hills until we reached Silver Falls State Park, where there are ten waterfalls and several miles of hiking trails. Though the weather was really too warm for hiking, it was great to see, feel, hear, and smell something real again. We walked for about two hours, and felt the cooling spray of South Falls and Lower South Falls, both of which you can walk behind beneath hollowed-out, fern-covered cliffs. There were a lot of kids on the trail, including two of our own, laughing and kicking up dust. There were also babies in strollers being banged about by the rocky path, and babies asleep in pouches slung over their mothers’ or fathers’ backs. It was obvious by their parents’ expressions and sweat-moistened clothing that these little ones weighed a ton. The park trails descend rapidly, lulling hikers into thinking they are out for a leisurely stroll. But what goes down must come up, and if you want to see home again there is no way other than climbing back out of the canyon. In my case, slow and steady didn’t win the race, but I did make it to the top alive. Today I am suffering no new aches or pains, which is encouraging. And I am still thinking of the many faces we met yesterday along the path — the faces of young couples noticing only each other, and of tired couples trying not to notice each other, and of old couples noticing they were still alive, and rejoicing in the fact.
July 29, 2003 — It’s hot — too hot. And I find it interesting that even drinking two large mugs of very strong coffee isn’t enough to agitate the mind and body after another sleepless night. The mind and body are one long, dull ache. What is 100 degrees? It is good weather for growing watermelons, peppers, squash, eggplant, and tomatoes. Cotton also loves the heat. But I am not a cotton grower, so I don’t care about that. I have, however, picked cotton, and played in a cotton trailer full of cotton, even though the activity was deemed unsafe. Cotton is sort of like quicksand: the more you struggle, the deeper you sink. That’s what makes playing in it so much fun. I never had trouble climbing out, though. At one time or another, just about everyone has read about picking cotton, but not that many people have actually picked it. Not many have had the opportunity to drag a long, heavy sack over the ground between two rows of cotton plants, or to be scratched by the dry growth and ragged edges of the fully opened bolls. Bolls — there’s a word for you. How long has it been since you uttered the word bolls? Or what about boles? According to my trusty 1924 dictionary, a bole is “The trunk or stem of a tree, or that which looks like it.” It is also “Any of several varieties of friable earthy clay, usually colored more or less strongly red by oxide of iron. It is used to color and adulterate various substances; it was formerly used in medicine. It consists essentially of hydrous silicates of aluminum, or less often of magnesium.” A third definition lists bole as “An aperture, with a shutter, in the wall of a house, for giving, occasionally, air or light; also, a closet, crypt, or locker in the wall of a building.” Or what about this one: “A place, usually a round cavity on a hill, where lead was formerly smelted.” Maybe for today, though, we should just stick with boll. Otherwise, we might be boled over. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. It’s hot. Too hot.
July 30, 2003 — Just a few days ago, we acquired a delightfully sweet thirty-five-pound watermelon that was grown in Hermiston, Oregon. Now it’s almost gone. We’ve also been working on a couple of very good cantaloupes. In this weather little else sounds appealing — although, just to be sociable, we have managed to force down a few containers of ice cream. In general, though, we’ve been traveling light, and are being careful to not become dehydrated. Nevertheless, by the time evening rolls around, we are wrung out and look like we’ve been hit by a train. Last night, awhile before dark, I sat outside and passed the time by reading some more of Gulliver’s Travels, which I had set aside for a few weeks. I am bound and determined to finish the book and just started the last part, about the intelligent, horse-like beings known as “Houyhnhnms.” They are fascinating creatures, and so are their beastly human-like counterparts, called “Yahoos,” which climb trees and hurl dung at their enemies. For some reason, this activity reminded me of the behavior of modern politicians. If I am still alive this evening, I will definitely read some more. If I am not, I will have to finish Gulliver’s Travels at a later date.
July 31, 2003 — Yesterday evening, in Her infinite mercy, Nature delivered unto us a breeze. To celebrate, my wife and I picked two bowls of blackberries from the bush we have allowed to take over the southwest corner of our backyard. While we worked, our youngest son chopped back some of the wild growth that was spilling over the fence and threatening to strangle the neighbor’s bushes. Some of the canes were almost an inch thick, and the entire mound of growth is covered with thorns, making our berry harvest a necessarily timid affair. The breeze continued until well after dark, and at times it was an actual wind. The heat spell is beginning to break. Ocean air is arriving. The house is still too warm — the attic and walls are full of heat — but now there is legitimate hope for a few nights of decent sleeping weather. Meanwhile, I didn’t read Gulliver’s Travels last night after all. Instead, we were caught up in a show on PBS about Nixon and the Watergate affair. Listening to the tapes was quite a treat. Nixon may have been a monster in many ways, but there is no question that the man could think. And it was great hearing him and Kissinger swearing about the latest developments in the Watergate hearings. When I think of the current president zipping around the globe with his limited vocabulary, puny mental capacity, and inability to survive without a script, I can’t help but wonder how he will fare when both shoes finally drop. Or will he be protected by the frightened media, and have found enough men and women willing to sell their souls so that he may go free? At present, there seems no shortage of either. But this is still America, and funny, unpredictable things can and do still happen here. Who knows? Maybe someday, people might even decide they are fed up and want their country back, instead of focusing on “reality television.” Well, maybe that’s going too far. Then again, maybe an “Iraqgate” hearing would be reality TV’s crowning achievement — as long as it doesn’t interfere with sports.
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October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004
April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004
October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005
Also by William Michaelian
POETRY
Winter Poems
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4
52 pages. Paper.
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Another Song I Know
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1
80 pages. Paper.
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Cosmopsis Books
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