Light My Fire

Barbecue.  In the United States, the origins of barbecue trace back thousands of years to Native Americans cooking in buried pits, including the tribes of California. When the territory became Spanish Las Californias and then Mexican Alta California in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, the Missions and ranchos of California had large cattle herds, primarily for hides and tallow.  Large pit barbecues cooked the remaining meat when the culling and leather tanning season came to an end.  The outdoor cooking tradition continued in the early days of California statehood for fiestas, becoming popular across the country in various shapes and forms.

Barbecue in my family meant chicken, pork ribs and/or beef tri-tip.  With only one cut per side of beef, for decades the tri-tip found itself cut into cubes for soup meat or ground into hamburger. When butchers carved their own beef it didn't make sense to try and market one of something.  With institutionalized beef packing,  the tri-tip became a staple for the grill.  Once an overlooked piece of meat , it is relatively inexpensive, flavorful and a favorite among those who have tried it.
 
For decades, the big draw for tri-tip was California.  With expatriate Californians came the pull of the tri-tip, and now it can be found in many areas of the country.  The tapered shape makes it an ideal cut of meat to produce a range of doneness from medium in the center to well done at the narrow tip.

Barbecue is the story of a social institution, acting as powerful social magnets, drawing people together.  Cindy and I were in Santa Barbara last weekend to celebrate my sister's 50th birthday with family, friends and barbecue.  The chicken and ribs were wonderful, but it was the tri-tip that drew me back to the serving table.

Spring has sprung here in the Great North Wet, and like the natives we have learned to take advantage of a sunny day.  I snuck in some grilling yesterday, and yes, it was a tri-tip.  While our family footprint here is smaller than in Southern California, we nevertheless gathered around the table, gave thanks for our meal and enjoyed each others company.

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

My sister gets the blame for many things that happened during our childhood.  Better known as "The Agitator", it was her goal in life to get me in trouble. As previously discussed, she would agitate and aggravate and torment me to no end, until all that poking and prodding resulted in her having an imprint of my hand somewhere on her body, which would then result in me getting yelled at from the front seat by our parents, leaving a smirk on the face of Little Miss Innocent that required removal with another well-placed hand imprint and the cycle would replay itself over and over.

She continues in her ways to this day.  Julie is completely and irrevocably to blame for getting me hooked on geocaching. Like a drug dealer, she told me about how fun it was. She even took me on one when I visited her recently; just the two of us, she found the geocache in short order and made it look sooooooo easy. She made it seem it was socially acceptable by taking me in a group to look for caches. It seemed okay...other people did it.  I became hooked, and then she cut me off, told me I would have to get my own phone app and log my own finds.

Some of the puzzles are impossible to figure out. The other day I stood in the rain in a parking lot looking for a geocache, just trying to find one to satisfy my cravings. I leave work early or reschedule appointments to allow for geocaching, justifying that it helps me relax and provides exercise. I have even logged a cache when I really didn’t find it myself, just so I could run up my total count. I have been questioned by security patrols and received many strange looks from people around me as I stand and rock back and forth wondering what evil person hid a needle in a haystack.

I made Cindy go with me yesterday and talked Laura and Bryan into going today. I'll need another fix by tomorrow, so I'm scoping out possible finds right now. Now I survive by hanging out with other addicts, trading secrets and looking for that next big score.

I blame my sister. Perhaps I can learn to forgive her once I complete the Geocachers Anonymous program.

Telephone Line

March 3 marks the birthday of Alexander Graham Bell in 1847, a scientist, inventor, engineer and innovator who is credited with inventing the first practical telephone. Bell's father, grandfather, and brother were associated with work on elocution and speech, and his mother and wife were deaf.  Bell's work was influenced by his family, and his research on hearing and speech further led him to experiment with hearing devices, eventually culminating in Bell being awarded the first US patent for the telephone in 1876.

March 3 also marks the day in 1885 when Bell established the American Telephone and Telegraph Company, which we know today as AT&T Corporation.  This company maintained what they referred to as a natural monopoly on telephone service in the United States; this meant one firm could better serve the public than two or more.  For much of its history, AT&T and its Bell System functioned as a legally sanctioned, regulated monopoly. The fundamental principle, formulated by AT&T president Theodore Vail in 1907, was the nature of the technology would operate most efficiently as a monopoly providing universal service.  Classic examples of regulated monopolies include the utility industry and the telecommunications industry, which are subject to governmental price control.

It has been said that nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky, and such was the fate for Ma Bell.  In 1974 the U.S. Department of Justice brought an antitrust lawsuit against AT&T, which eventually led to the 1982 breakup of the Bell system into the regional holding companies, or Baby Bells.  Those have come and gone, changed names and been folded and reshaped numerous times.

What does remain, however, is our attachment to the telephone.  Whether it is corded or cordless, comes through copper wire, cables or microwaves, we want to be connected.  Was I walking around with a personal cell phone 20 years ago?  Nope.  Can I imagine not having one now?  Yes, but why would I want that, as the benefits definitely outweigh the costs.  According to Pew Research Center surveys, cellphone ownership among American adults is around 88%.

Numerous other inventions marked Bell's later life, including groundbreaking work in optical telecommunications, hydrofoils and aeronautics.  He became one of the founding members of the National Geographic Society in 1888, and has been described as one of the most influential figures in human history.  Still, in retrospect, Bell considered the telephone, easily his most famous invention, an intrusion on his real work as a scientist and refused to have a telephone in his study.  He knew then, as we try to remember today, that eliminating distraction is the best way to complete our work.

But enough of this...time to get back to the approximately 3,000 advertisements I will see today, not to mention the 5,000 distractions caused by constantly checking messages from phones, emails, IM’s, wall posts, tweets and more.  This is progress, right?

Smile A Little Smile For Me

Today marks the end of Random Acts of Kindness Week (February 11 – 17). According to the Random Acts of Kindness Foundation, RAK Week encourages people to go above and beyond to make others feel special.

I would argue that we should not need a special week to be reminded to do acts of kindness.  Still, a nudge every now and then can't hurt.  Today, we'll concentrate on smiling.

Smiles are contagious. Smile at someone and they tend to smile too, effectively passing all of the benefits of a smile to the other person. The gift that keeps on giving, a smile is an amazing thing. Other people feel good when they see you smile, and studies have shown that smiling on a regular basis can reduce stress, boost your mood, reduce blood pressure and improve your overall well-being. There is a fascinating TED Talks presentation by Ron Gutman on the power of smiling.  According to Gutman, one smile produces the equivalent brain stimulation as eating 2,000 bars of chocolate, or receiving $25,000 in cash.

Premeditated acts of meanness just aren't good for anyone; smile and make a difference.

That'll Be The Day

"It was already snowing at Minneapolis, and the general forecast for the area along the intended route indicated deteriorating weather conditions." So begins the Civil Aeronautics Board investigators report six months after the crash that killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, J.P. "the Big Bopper" Richardson and pilot Roger Peterson in the early hours of February 3, 1959.

On February 2, 1959, the Winter Dance Party tour was eleven days into a scheduled twenty-four performances.  The distance between events had not been fully considered when scheduling the performances, so many hours were spent on a bus not properly equipped for the weather. The heating system broke down shortly after the tour began, flu spread rapidly among the rest of the performers and Holly's drummer suffered severely frostbitten feet.

Holly chartered a plane for his band to fly to Moorhead, MN, the next stop on the tour.  Richardson, who had the flu, convinced Waylon Jennings to give up his seat, and Ritchie Valens won a coin toss for another seat on the plane.  The rest, as they say, is history.
 
Paradise Lost by John Milton and The Inferno by Dante Alighieri both speak to innocence lost.  Don McLean's 1971 single "American Pie" expresses another metaphor for the loss of innocence, turning the death of Buddy Holly and the plane crash into moment when the United States lost its last bit of innocence.

Still, it was not, as McLean wrote, the Day the Music Died.  Britain devoured Holly records faster than the record company could produce them. Demo tapes, previously unreleased recording sessions, whatever Decca had to sell, all shot up the British charts and turned Holly into one of the forefathers of the British Invasion that would strike America five years later. John Lennon and George Harrison learned to play guitar in part by listening to Buddy Holly records. Holly presented the model for many bands that came after: write your own songs, two guitars, a bass and drums. The fledgling Beatles, as the Quarry Men, recorded Holly’s “That’ll Be the Day” as their first official tune before renaming themselves with a nod to Holly’s band, the Crickets. The first Rolling Stones' single released in the US was cover of Holly's "Not Fade Away."

In 1959, not even the musical pioneers themselves were certain that rock ’n’ roll would survive much into the 1960s, whether before or after the Day the Music Died.  Seems silly today, as we look back across the years, to have doubted the insistent beat of the music would sustained a global movement.  The beat does go on.

Magical Mystery Tour

It is a story as old as time.  You meet, slightly wary of the unknown, but the uneasiness wears off and you are hooked.  You are inseparable, spend all your available time together, and think about the experience when you are alone.  Life goes on, things change, your interest diverges, and in the blink of an eye a quarter of a century has passed.  Then one day, you stumble upon your old friend, and it is as if no time has passed whatsoever. 

This may not so easy for those of us with greying hair or a few extra wrinkles.  It is, however, much simpler for a computer program, because, well, no time has passed. 

That's right.  It is pitch dark and I am likely to be eaten by a grue.

One of the items that came with my Associated Student fees at UC Davis (go Ags!) was access to the mainframe computer.  Each quarter provided a certain number of hours of computer time.  Keep in mind this was in the days of punch cards, CRTs and Commodore 64, so mainframe access was the 1983 version of leading edge gaming computers like the CyberPower Black Pearl or the Velocity Raptor Signature Edition.  Just without graphics, sound, a mouse or a few dozen other things.

At that time, UCD had Unix machines in a cluster.  Each was named after one of the Marx Brothers: Chico, Groucho, Harpo and Zeppo (Gummo and Mannie were apparently less computer savvy).  Logging onto Groucho (or one of his brothers) would take us to a games area, filled with the wonders of interactive typing.
 
The first game we found was Zork, one of the earliest interactive fiction computer games.  The authors were members of the MIT Dynamic Modelling Group, the forebears of a company named Infocom that brought forth numerous games before being bought up by Activision.  Zork was a single player game, so it was just you and the challenge of the dungeon. 

Zork created a wondrous, magical realm, a feast for the imagination.  You have stumbled upon the ancient ruins of a vast empire lying far underground.  There are strange rooms to explore, a temple where some prayers are answered, a coal mine, a river with a waterfall and the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

And all through typing, much like this:

The Troll Room
This is a small room with passages to the east and south and a forbidding hole leading west. Bloodstains and deep scratches (perhaps made by an axe) mar the walls. A nasty-looking troll, brandishing a bloody axe, blocks all passages out of the room.

Your sword has begun to glow very brightly.
The troll swings his axe, but it misses.

>swing sword
Whoosh!
The troll swings, you parry, but the force of his blow knocks your sword away.

>get sword
Taken.

The troll hits you with a glancing blow, and you are momentarily stunned.

>kill troll with sword
You charge, but the troll jumps nimbly aside.
The axe gets you right in the side. Ouch!

>kill troll with sword
The troll is staggered, and drops to his knees.
The troll slowly regains his feet.

>kill troll with sword
The fatal blow strikes the troll square in the heart: He dies.
Almost as soon as the troll breathes his last breath, a cloud of sinister black fog envelops him, and when the fog lifts, the carcass has disappeared. Your sword is no longer glowing.

In the days before graphics, computer games enticed players with a well-turned phrase, delighting players with clever writing and tearing their hair out with difficult puzzles.  Rightly so, the creators of Zork will be honored this February with a Pioneer Award at the D.I.C.E. (Design, Innovate, Communicate, Entertain) Summit, an annual multi-day gathering of video game executives.  Perhaps by then I will have remembered how to enter the crypt and finish the game.

The World Spins

Life is filled with choices. We are aware that every choice we make will have a consequence, even if we don't know what it is. We use our past experiences as a guide.  We prepare for every consequence as they happen, and as a result our lives take shape, even though we are uncertain what the outcome will be. It is the unknown that drives us, our monkey curiosity always exploring and looking to the future. 

There are times where our past does not help prepare us for what happens, where the future sneaks up behind us.  We are taken aback, lose our way, can't focus.  We are unprepared for certain consequences, no matter how much we think we have prepared for them.  Life becomes jumbled, tumultuous, turbulent, and we long for order, peace and calm.

Life does not return to normal, for we have been changed by the experience, whatever it may be.  We adapt, adjust and reconcile ourselves to the new normal.  We live, we move along, we spend our time, energy and everything else.  We again make choices, cognizant of what we have learned, experienced, survived.

It has been said that we make choices, but in the end our choices make us, that show what we truly are.  Let those choices make for a better life.

Light My Way

Winter Solstice may have passed, but the dark days of winter are still upon us.  This time of year is associated with light, the lack of it as well as the way we respond to it with candles, sparklers and strings of bulbs. Some use a a menorah to illuminate the night, others an advent wreath or an all-night bonfire for the burning of the Yule log; the list is practically endless.

In these times of question and doubt, we look for understanding, comprehension and compassion.  We look for beacons of light in the darkness, lighthouses to guide our way, to helps us to find truth, illuminating what life could be.  It has been said that when the soul and the brain meet, the truth that is encountered makes sense of the world and you wonder how you could have lived without this discovery.

The lighted candles of an advent wreath were originally designed to signify the persistence of life in the midst of winter; the accumulation of light is now an expression of the growing anticipation of the birth of Jesus Christ, who we Christians see as the light of the world, a beacon of light in the darkness.

Clement of Alexandria is credited to have said that all truth is God’s truth.  Whatever you believe, however you pray, whatever motivates you, allow the light of our humanity to shine bright through your actions.  Don't let the darkness win.

Spirits of Ancient Egypt

Ninety years ago, on November 4, 1922, Howard Carter's excavation group found the steps leading to Tutankhamun's tomb.  This was by far the best preserved and most intact pharaonic tomb ever found in the Valley of the Kings. 

Much of history is lost to us, despite thousands of satellites circling the globe and billions of people living upon this good Earth.  We continue to discover (or rediscover) items that have been hidden for thousands of years.  Some are treasures with monetary value beyond measure, while others have more intrinsic value.  All were of some value to someone in the past, and each bit of history we find reminds us that we too are mere mortals.

What is important is that we keep looking.  Whether it is the Ark of the Covenant, da Vinci's lost mural or my car keys, we don't give up.  Our monkey curiosity propels us forward, wanting to make that connection between the past and the present, and trying to understand what the future brings us.

I recently tracked down the name of my great aunt on my mother's side of the family.  There is certainly no monetary value attached to this, but it fills in a blank in our family tree that has been staring at me for years.  It doesn't appear she had children, so while there are no relatives along that branch to find, discovering that tells me I can stop looking and let my attention drift elsewhere.

While it would take months to fully investigate the chambers and catalog the contents of Tutankhamun's tomb, it all started with a tiny breach to peer into the darkness and gaze upon history, of what Howard Carter indicated were "...wonderful things."  Never give up...keep looking.

Confusion

Gaius Petronius Arbiter was a Roman courtier (attendant) during the reign of Nero and believed to be the author of the Satyricon, a satirical novel. One of his more notable quotes is about our tendency to meet new situations by reorganizing: "...and what a wonderful method it can be for creating the illusion of progress while producing confusion, inefficiency, and demoralization."

Welcome to Reorganization 101; I'm your host, Fred Tabacchi.

Recent weeks have found me reorganizing things along lines that keep shifting and changing, requiring more reorganizing and creating, you guessed it, a sense of confusion, inefficiency and downright depression.

It is not all bad, trust me. It is just...a lot.

A relatively simple project to replace a door on the rear of our house turned into a several thousand dollar repair and a gaping opening in the wall for a few weeks, all for the want of the builder having done it correctly the first time.

I finished my MBA, which is a good thing, but I will admit to the completion of the program did not bring the sense of relief I was expecting. Instead, it was as if I had come to the jarring end of a fast roller coaster ride.

My employment situation is fluid and keeps changing. Lots of deep breaths and happy thoughts will get us through this, I know it, but still it is disheartening and uncertain.

All of this will pass, I am sure of it. And in the overall scheme of things, these are little bumps in the road.  The next great adventure is waiting for us. Until then, I will fight the urge to reorganize and spend less time worrying and more time being thankful.

I'm So Tired

It's been said that writing is hard, that ideas are difficult to come by, that making it all come together is illusive.  Writing is simple; starting may be the most difficult thing, but once you are past the first few words it flows like a broken sprinkler pipe.  Ideas, as Rod Serling once said, “...are born from what is smelled, heard, seen, experienced, felt, emotionalized.”  Putting it together can be tedious, but good things come to those who wait.

I picked up a norovirus or something similar last week and sufferred through the fever/bed/bathroom cycle for a few days.  Once it finally left my body it took another two days before I was able to go back to work.  I am still feeling the ill effects of whatever coursed through my veins.  I tried to complete some light house painting today; what should have been an easy job got the better of me after about three hours.

Writing isn't hard.  Being sick is hard.  Not feeling well is hard.  Being tired all the time with joints that hurt is hard.  And while most of us think we understand what it feels like to struggle through another day when we feel under the weather, we really don't.

Understanding is the key.  May my experiences, however small and limited they be, help me to remember we all have our burdens to carry.
 

Flying East

It is not the destination, but the direction, that is a problem. Flying east seems to vex me, no matter how small the time change.  My body rebels against me with pitiful sleep the night before and no desire to adapt to the time zone.

Flying west, on the other hand, seems so natural.  I fall into step with the time zone with little effort, likely due to spending most of my life in it. 

I look forward to spending the week with my collegues and learning new things, but when it is over I will be heading west again, chasing the sun and looking forward to the sunset over the Pacific.

Garden Party

As residents of Southern Oregon, for years we drove past the "Visit Beautiful Butchart Gardens" billboard in Yreka.  While the gardens beckoned, it was farther out of our reach than our normal travels, except those to Southern California to visit family.  It was a "back burner" item for when we had time, and that never seemed to happen.

Now, as our days as Washingtonians appear to be waning, there is time.  Time to see the sights, time to visit places we didn't expect to, time for strolling around gardens.  This weekend Cindy and I took the ferry through the San Juan Islands to Vancouver Island and made our way to the elusive Butchart Gardens.

The trip through the San Juans was breathtaking.  The weather was near perfect, with the occasional wisp of cloud along the horizons and the sun shining as it is not often want to do in the land of filtered sunshine.  Passing by Lopez, Orcas and San Juan Islands, the ferry made its way steadily towards the line of demarcation in the water that separates the US from Canada.  My cell phone altered me to the transfer, as the warning text regarding the increased cost of data hit the phone just as we crossed into Canadian waters.
 
A chance comment by the Canadian customs agent let us know there going to be fireworks at the Butchart Gardens that night, so after checking to out hotel and dinner, we headed west in search of our destination.  The abundant signage made it easy to find and we were able to find a place to sit ans watch the fireworks among the things of others present.  Re-admittance the next morning was a scant few dollars and we spent the next four hours visiting the work the Butcharts and their descendants have done over the last 100 plus years.  Among the wonders we saw were The Sunken Gardens in what was originally a used-up limestone quarry, an indicator that anything is possible as long as you are willing and able.

Our return trip was through the northern San Juan Islands, another treat of beautiful sunshine and wonderful weather.  A stop at Tim Hortons for donuts completed this trip to our neighbor to the north.

There is a sense of permanence attached to large gardens, such as the Butchart.  Stone walls, paved paths and statues fill the areas, reminding of estate garden where my maternal grandfather lived and worked when I was a child.  While I haven't seen those gardens in over 40 years, visiting Butchart gives me hope that it still remains and is more beautiful than I can remember.

One More Cup of Coffee

It was bound to happen.  I never followed the recommended instructions, always thinking they were unnecessary and didn't apply to me.  Things went along just fine, and I began to take for granted there would never be an issue.  And then it happened.  At first it was just a minor inconvenience, something to clean up and not talk about.  It became chronic but it was too late to do anything about it and I chose to ignore it just the same.  When it failed completely, I stood there, empty cup in hand, with a mess to clean up.

The Brewstation is dead. Long live the Brewstation.

It happened many years ago when our coffee pot gave up the ghost.  I was going to Costco that day, and there I found the most magnificent coffee maker I had ever seen.  It had no glass pot to break, using a thermal-lined insulated coffee tank instead...you depressed the trigger with a mug for one-hand dispensing.  Completely perfect for the geek that I am, I put it in the cart and took it home.

Guests would stare at it, trying to figure out how to get coffee.  It was, as Cindy said for years to come, what happens when you send me out to buy a coffee pot.  After a few years and a move it began to leak, so we replaced it with yet another version that would make iced coffee as well.  Eventually that one began to leak as well, so we moved to our most recent version, one that was tall enough to fit a travel mug into the dispensing area.  And now it has failed, leaking all over the counter, leaving me wanting one more cup of coffee.

Much like Ahab, I continue to be obsessed with finding my infamous white whale, a pot-less coffeemaker that does not leak.  Perhaps this time, I will go with the Krups or the Cuisinart.  Paraphrasing Melville, the pot-less coffeemaker does not seeks me; rather, it is me that madly seeks it.

The Things We've Handed Down

It is easy to float in and out of tracing your family history.  There have been times where it sat on the sidelines for me, waiting to be revived.  There have also been times (such as now) where it seems to consume most waking moments and spins me up and down rabbit holes, chasing after data that may or may not be helpful.

Each person has eight great grandparents, 16 2nd great-grandparents, 32 3rd great grandparents, 64 4th great grandparents, 128 5th great grandparents, etc.  I currently know of approximately 40 ancestors that I share blood with, so there are still plenty of people to find.

Chasing them down has lead me to over 700 shirttail relatives, such as "father of sister-in-law of 3rd cousin to..." or "great-grandfather's second cousin once removed".  They must have shared common experiences in Italy, Brazil, the United States or wherever they lived.  Some of them show up on ship manifests, others on microfilmed records; many have numerous references or points of certainty, while others appear at the right time to fit into existing trees.  They all had hopes and dreams.

Most of these have no direct relation to my family tree, but finding them means other records may exist and the hope of journeying farther back in time prevails.

Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again

Among the many places we visited in Italy was the cemetery in Crespano Del Grappa.  We were looking for the grave of Alma Angela Rosato Tabacchi, my father's father's mother, who died when my grandfather was 14 years old.   We split up at the entrance and headed in different directions.  The names read like a Santa Barbara telephone directory: Torresan, Zilliotto, Melchiori, Panizzon, Bortolazzo...the list went on and on.

Walking through that cemetery and looking for a specific headstone took me back to an early spring day in the late 1990's in Dunsmuir, CA.  Along with a good friend who was from the area, I was hunting down the grave of Antonio Capovilla, my mother's mother's brother.  There were a significant number of Capovillas in the area, but none that I reached out to could connect the dots.  We walked the Dunsmuir Cemetery, the Evergreen Cemetery in Yreka and struck paydirt in the Winema Cemetary in Weed.  A small weathered upright headstone gave me his dates of birth and death, which eventually lead me to find the manifest from the ship he traveled on to the United States.

Antonio arrived in the United States through Ellis Island on March 20, 1912.  Much like my paternal grandfather, he too left Italy at the age of 18.  Antonio traveled with his cousin Mose', who had previously been in America and worked the coal mines in Thurber, Texas.  Both were bound for Dunsmuir with hopes of a better life.

Antonio's life in the United States was short-lived.  He died during the 1918 flu pandemic (better known as the Spanish influenza).  Between the months of August and November of 1918, this influenza spread quickly around the world, with more people dying of influenza in a single year than in four years of the Black Death Bubonic Plague from 1347 to 1351.

My daydream of the Winema Cemetery was broken by calls and waves, indicating the headstone had been found.  We gazed upon our history, took some photos and returned to the van that would transport us to other places my relatives spoke of, allowing us the opportunity to gaze upon the same sights they did.

Turns out we have had this picture for over thirty years, as I have a scan of a photograph that someone took prior to 1979.  The names weren't very clear, but when compared to the recent photographs we took it is apparent they are the same headstone (with more names added to the family crypt).

Cemeteries are full of stories about the lives of those who rest there; it is up to us to find them and keep those memories alive.

A Recurring Dream Within a Dream

"America," written by Paul Simon, includes the poignant lyric "Michigan seems like a dream to me now."  Substitute Italy for Michigan and it sums up how my continent-hopping trip now feels, as if it took place in another lifetime.  This past week I went between the past and the present, trying to decide which was the dream and which was the reality.  Feeling sleepy during the mid-afternoon (when it would be the dead of night in Italy) and feeling hungry at 3:00 am (lunch time half a world away) didn't help.

As the week progressed I was no longer craving the afternoon nap nor waking from a dead sleep to a growling stomach.  The patterns of this life fell back into place, the daily repetition becoming once again familiar, all while the images of Italian towns, landscapes and architecture began to shuffle further back in my memory.

Carl Jung would likely have a few things to say about interpreting my dreams.  I am not worried about what someone else may think they mean, as I know they connect me to that place now so far away.  What is more important, at least to me, is that I dream of distant lands and people and know it was true.

Long Way Home

In the time it took my ancestors to travel by ship from Italy to America, I flew there, visited places I had only heard of, met relatives I had never seen and flew back.  As with most trips, you are excited about going and eventually happy to return home. For me, this trip was no exception.  Plans had been made months in advance, allowing for the anticipation to build.  Tickets were purchased, applying another layer of reality to what seemed like a dream.  We arrived and our passports were stamped, and thus began our adventure.

While I am happy to be home and with my family members in Bellingham, I feel the heart strings of Italy pulling already.  I will miss the meals we took together.  I rise earlier than the rest of the household, so my breakfast will once again be solitary and will no longer consistent primarily of prosciutto and bread. Dinner each night will no longer be like the family gatherings of my youth, with lots of good food and many conversations going on at the same time. 

Mostly, I will miss the new members of my family, the ones recently met but now forever a part of my life.  Mauro, Paolo, Laura Uno and Nadine, you took us into your home with open arms and we felt like we had known each other for years.  We found we shared more things than what separated us, and despite the language difference we talked and understood each other.  For that, I will be eternally grateful.

Arrivederci Roma

According to our cab driver, there are eight thousand taxi cabs in Rome.  Each one may tell a story, as they say in Cash Cab, but the story is in Italian.

Rome, the Eternal City, has a history that spans twenty-five hundred years.  Whether as the capital city of the Roman Kingdom, the Roman Republic, the Roman Empire, the Papal States, the Kingdom of Italy or the Italian Republic, it has been a dominant power in Western Europe and the lands bordering the Mediterranean and is commonly regarded as one of the birthplaces of western civilization.

Imagine New York City or Los Angeles as cities that are thousands of years old, rather than hundreds of years old.  Keep the current traffic and population but add in ruins from previous civilizations.  Keep the current visitor load and add in skillful yet erratic drivers, all in cars half the size of the typical American vehicle.  Keep the public transportation and add in more scooters than you will find motorcycles in Sturgis in August.  Keep the modern skyscrapers and add in both ancient and modern monuments towering far above the ground.

We spent the better part of three days touring Rome, by foot and by subway, by bus and by guided tour.  We could have spent three weeks and would still have barely scratched the surface.  As the English scholar Richard Le Gallienne put it, all roads indeed lead to Rome, but theirs also is a more mystical destination, some bourne of which no traveller knows the name, some city, they all seem to hint, even more eternal.

Travelin' Man

What seemed like so far away is upon me.  Today I get on the flying tube and cross America, the Atlantic Ocean and a good portion of Europe as I head to Italy, the land of my fore-bearers.  Armed with the Italian version of "Speak in a Week" on my iPod, I boldly go where my grandparents came from, the Veneto province in northeastern Italy.

Where is the American consulate?  Dove si trova il consolato Americano?  Hmmm...that might be handy.

It will be the first trip for the generations that were born in the US, and we look forward to finding more of our distant cousins, seeing where our ancestors lived and finding out more about ourselves.  Nothing like a cramped airplane, sleep deprivation and the potential lack of the comforts of home to really show your mettle.

Waiter, my napkin has been soiled. Cameriere, il tovagliolo è stato sporcato.  Somehow I don't think I will need that one, but you never know.

Today is also a celebration of summer, friends and hiding in plain sight.  If you are watching the Summer solstice parade in Santa Barbara, look for something that resembles a wedge of cheese.  If you have an extra bottle of water, find the small slit in the side about eye level and press the bottle through (they'll thank you for it, trust me). Clap when they go by and tell them I love each and every one of them.

The Summer Solstice parade is a celebration to manifest your wildest dreams.  I dream of Santa Barbara, my family and friends who are there, the times of my life spent there and the times yet to be, as well as the adventure before me, the undiscovered country I will visit and the extended family members I have yet to meet.  Today, as with many days, my past meets my future, and I, much like the parade, will go with the flow.

My friends, we've come home.  Amici miei, siamo arrivati ​​a casa.

Everyone I Meet Is From California

Sun.  Family.  Smog.  Family.  Traffic.  Family.  Graduation.  Family.  In-N-Out Burger animal style and a chocolate shake.

Need I say more?  

Cold Wind to Valhalla

In Norse mythology, Valhalla is a majestic, enormous hall located in Asgard, ruled over by the god Odin, where those that die in combat travel to upon death.  It was the heaven of the Vikings, much like Sto'Vo'Kor is to the Klingons or Aman is to the Elves of Middle-Earth. 

You don't expect a true cold wind in June.  Yet, here in the Pacific Northwest, I continue to be surprised by the rapid changes in the weather, the fluctuation in temperature, the fleeting sun even during summer.  Today is no exception.  The bright warm-ish sun of yesterday has given way to a continuous cold blast, an oppressively gray sky, chilling to the bone.

In Ray Bradbury’s “The Cold Wind and the Warm,” the Royal Hibernian Hotel in Dublin is having a dull winter, until a group of “Martians” checks in.  As the story continues, you realize the “Martians” are not aliens at all, but instead homosexuals, whose very presence shocks the locals.  The locals discover an unexpected affinity and both groups move towards understanding each other.

Bradbury, along with Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, Robert Heinlein and countless other authors, created stories that expanded my vocabulary, exercised my mind, exposed to to science fiction and, the greatest gift of all, gave me an appreciation of the written word.  For that, I am forever thankful.

And while the weather may not cooperate, the mind can imagine the brilliance of a summer day, the colors of the Martian landscape or a robotic grandmother, and the heart warms.

Till It Shines

Sun.  When it arrived, we all moved outside, working in the yard, digging and edging and cutting and planting.  We redesigned the yard, moving plants from here to there, taking in an abandoned rhododendron we found along the street, sculpting the straight lines into smooth curves, all the time synthesizing Vitamin D from the sunlight we strain to capture.

And now, the rain...light but persistent, watering in the newly planted items, keeping us at bay from tinkering with plants and bark mulch.

Not yet summer, we wait for drier days, for more sun, for time in the vegetable garden.  We wait...till it shines.

Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft

Here in the United States, peanuts are generally associated with the South.  Peanuts originated in South America but came to North America via Africa.  In the 1890s, George Washington Carver began to promote the peanut as a replacement for the cotton crop (which had been decimated by the boll weevil), and by 1903 he had developed hundreds of uses for peanuts in recipes.  Georgia is the leading peanut producing state in the US.  Approximately half of all peanuts produced in the US are grown within a 100 mile radius of Dothan, Alabama, which is home to the National Peanut Festival, established in 1938 and held each fall.

It comes as a surprise to many people that peanuts are a big crop in eastern New Mexico, where growers harvest approximately 46 million pounds of peanuts from 20,000 acres.  The hot, dry weather brings the best yields, and the dry climate and elevation of more than 4,000 feet creates low humidity and low night temperatures, which result in fewer diseases.  And while it sounds like a lot, 46 million pounds is only about 1 percent of all peanuts in the nation.  It is, however, 90% of all Valencia peanuts grown in the US, which make for superior peanut butter than their larger Runner or Virginia counterparts.

A previous employer used Valencia peanuts for the peanut butter they manufactured, which resulted in my traveling to eastern New Mexico on a semi-regular basis.  One trip had a rather long period of time between runs, which was just enough time to visit the source of another of New Mexico's cash crops, Roswell.

The highlight of the trip was visiting the UFO Museum, which opened to visitors in 1992 to educate the general public about all aspects of the UFO phenomenon.  Exhibits include information on Roswell, crop circles, sightings, Area 51, government cover-ups, and alien abductions.  A word to the wise: this is not high tech at all.  Photos and articles from newspapers pepper the walls, along with love notes from those who have disappeared and witnessed UFOs.  It was worth the five bucks just to say I had been there, since, strangely enough, it is really the only thing in town dedicated to UFOs, unless you count the McDonald's in the shape of a saucer or the streetlights shaped like alien heads.

The high point of the trip?  Eating at the Cowboy Cafe; good home cooking, a friendly atmosphere and great biscuits and gravy.

Elvis, it has been said, was fond of a peanut butter, banana and bacon sandwich.  Elvis, it has also been said, was connected to aliens.  However you look at it, New Mexico has a strong Elvis connection.  All you have to do is believe.

Child of Vision

During World War I, Pope Benedict XV made repeated pleas for peace. On May 6, 1917, he made a direct appeal to Mary to intercede for peace in the world. A week later, on May 13, 1917, the first of six appearances by the Blessed Virgin Mary as reported by three shepherd children occurred at Fátima in Portugal.

Do you believe in this? That, of course, is entirely up to you. What is important is that you believe in something. The mental attitude that some proposition is true is a belief.

For each given proposition, individuals either have or do not have the mental attitude that it is true. Belief is different from judgment, which is the evaluation of a proposition as reasonable, misleading, etc. It is up to you to decide what to believe in. It is likely that facts, experience and the opinions of others contradict what you believe. That's why it is called a belief.

"Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good. That honor, courage and virtue mean everything; that power and money ... money and power mean nothing. That good always triumphs over evil. And I want you to remember this.... that love....true love never dies! Remember that boy ... remember that. Doesn't matter if it is true or not, a man should believe in those things , because those are the things worth believing in...... got that ?" - Secondhand Lions (2003), written and directed by Tim McCanlies.

There comes a time in the journey of life when you need to rise and face the challenges in front of you. It is important to believe in yourself and in your ability. If you don’t believe in yourself, you can't expect others to believe in you; if you can’t convince yourself, you can't convince others of your abilities. Do yourself a favor: believe in yourself. 

Teacher, Teacher

There have been many teachers in my life.  Some taught school, others taught life, and a few taught both.  It was Dorothy Wagner in 8th grade who helped me understand that what sounded like a squeaky voice in my head could be a formidable force that I needed to learn to utilize.  Later, in high school, it was Shirley Alvord who convinced me I could do anything if I put my mind to it.  In college, Klaus Wills cemented my love of science and showed me being a little crazy was okay as long as you were smart about it.

There is only one teacher, however, that I wish I could better emulate.  That person is my sister, Julie Grimes.  Julie has taught hundreds of children and made a difference in every one of their lives.  While I hope to have passed something on to future generations that may make for a better world, I already know Julie has.  She was recently honored by her school, her peers, her friends and her family.  Here is just a brief portion of that they had to say: 

"The La Cumbre Junior High School Foundation is honored to present...to Julie Grimes the La Cumbre Junior High School Teacher of the Year Award.  She has exhibited during her 11 years at La Cumbre Junior High School as a Special Education Teacher the love of her students while at the same time demonstrating a "no nonsense" attitude that students and their parents have come to both admire and respect.  La Cumbre Junior High School, acclaimed as one of the top performing schools in Santa Barbara County, has accomplished this distinction due in part to the exceptional commitment of its teachers and the leadership team established at the school.  Julie exemplifies every day this extraordinary commitment to excellence and dedication in her classroom.  Thank you Julie, for inspiring your students for not wanting to settle for less and for acknowledging the greatness that is in each of them. May your light continue to shine in the hearts and minds of your students."
To my favorite sister...stop crying already!

Empty Cages

Our most recent foray into backyard chickens led us to someone who was moving and needed to reduce the number of chickens in his flock. Chicken George, as we refer to him to this day, treated his chickens to microwave popcorn on many afternoons. He personally drove over the three hens we picked out and placed them on the roost one at a time while re-assuring them everything was going to be fine.

The hens, which we promptly named Miss Marple, Jessica Fletcher and Nancy Drew, provided eggs for our consumption and tilled the yard for theirs. We enjoyed the cooing, clucking and cackling of the girls. Their egg production slowed with their age, but they continued to produce more than we consumed.

It was a good relationship, but like all good things it came to an end. Jessica met the fate of the minor guest star on "Murder, She Wrote", as she contracted an avian illness of some type and we draw the line at taking chickens to the veterinarian. We will be moving from this house in the relatively near future, and the perimeter of the yard, which belonged to the chickens, needs to be landscaped; Miss Marple and Nancy were re-homed yesterday to someone who already had chickens, as well as lambs, ducks and bees (and that was just in the front yard).

The chicken tractor will be next to go. The coop purchased with this set of chickens was transformed into a tractor so it could be wheeled around the yard and the chickens moved from one place to another, allowing time to scratch and peck while eating the grass and looking for bugs. Now vacant, we spent some time making a few repairs and it is ready for the next owner.

Chickens are relatively low-maintenance animals, produce better eggs than you can find in the grocery store, and provide chicken poop, which is great for the garden. Ever let a chicken loose in the yard so they can look around and curiously explore every nook and cranny? It's pretty entertaining.

Someday we will have chickens again, of that I am sure. Until then, I will till the soil myself and thank the hens for starting it for me.

Yesterday's Men

September, 1981.  I arrived at UC Davis, my residence for the next two and a half years.  Up to that time I had never been away from home for more than a few weeks, and never by myself for more than a couple of days.  When I opened the door to my dorm room, there was a pile of clothes on the bed under the window, but I didn't see my roommate for a couple of more days.  The first person I met was from directly across the hallway.  Long straight hair, glasses, three days growth on his face, Birkenstocks without socks, a fan of the Grateful Dead, from Encino, CA, home of the valley girl and "the mall".

Little did I know that Casey and I were to become fast friends.  We went off campus for dinner one night and ended up at a Chinese restaurant, which was the first time had ever had Chinese food.  We both laughed about my inability to use chop sticks and my wanting to know if you really ordered one from column A and two from column B as I had heard on some television show.  The biggest laugh was my trying to make sense of the designs on the tables, which looked like the head of a bull.  Armed with the new knowledge that I liked Chinese food, I wanted to know what the designs meant, so I asked the waiter, who promptly informed me they were steer heads and the restaurant used to be a steak place. What a schmuck I was (something else I learned from Casey).

Casey listened to a wide range of music, and while my tastes were pretty middle of the road, we did have some overlap, reveling in The Concert in Central Park by Simon & Garfunkel, which happened the weekend before we met.  I listened to mainstream pop and British Invasion while he listened to heavy metal and something called ska, the walking bass line accented with rhythms on the upbeat of Madness performing "One Step Beyond" passing through the concrete walls of the dorms.

Birkenstocks.  Chinese food.  Madness.

While I don't wear Birkenstocks, they are familiar to me and no longer unusual.  Chinese food is a staple in our current household, and I remember being home one day from college and talking my parents into Chinese take-out.  And I continue to listen to Madness, which lead to other third-wave bands such as Let's Go Bowling and The Mighty Mighty Bosstones.

"Hey you. Don't watch that watch this." And so began the sheer exuberance of it all.  They were great times.

Second Chance

Dr. Oliver Sacks wrote in "Awakenings" how the philosopher Immanuel Kant spoke of music as "the quickening art". I have written about music before, how it stirs my soul and how I can feel it with my very being and my heart.

Here is your chance to stir the souls of others who need it most. Music & Memory is an organization that trains caretakers on incorporating individually relevant music into therapeutic care and raises funds to help provide the resources for that care. Watch the clips on their web-site and prepared to be moved.

In "The Dry Salvages,” T.S. Eliot wrote "It is not heard at all, but you are the music, while the music lasts." I pray the music lasts forever. Help it last by giving a tiny machine that can bring a spark back to someone's eyes and stir their soul again and again.

Sunshine on My Shoulders

While the rest of the country had unseasonable warm weather in March, we waited, perhaps a bit jealous and envious, for our turn. It was a cold and soggy March, and while appreciated by many (including moles and vampires), we finished the month on the cold side when compared to average temperatures.

Spring is typically a bit cool and unsettled in the Great North Wet, or as I recently discovered, also known as The Zone of Filtered Sunshine.

Written in 1924 to promote economic and demographic growth in Seattle, In the Zone of Filtered Sunshine proposed to investors and immigrants reasons why to make their new home in the Puget Sound, making a virtue out of the cloudy weather of the coastal Northwest. This type of weather apparently had been shown throughout history to be the most conducive to economic prosperity and achievements by civilization. “Filtered sunshine -- sunshine filtered thru the clouds -- and only a moderate degree of intense sunshine, as exists in the Pacific Northwest, is best for all, and vital to the development of the most energetic peoples.”

I always thought it was the coffee that made the people of the Pacific Northwest energetic. Who knew it was filtered sunshine?

Be that as it may, Spring has arrived in Bellingham, just in time for the opening of the Farmer's Market, one of the largest farmers markets in Washington State. Our day in the unfiltered sun has come. I, for one, am happy.

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

Several years ago, in Idaho on business with a few hours of free time, my traveling companions and I headed east and came across the Old Idaho State Penitentiary, just outside of Boise. Mary, Sue and I walked the grounds, listening to the docent talk about the history of the prison. Originally built as a territorial prison in 1870, over 13,000 convicts passed through its walls. The living conditions were sub-standard and led to a number of riots by prisoners, the last resulting in damages that lead to its closure on December 3, 1973.

Eventually I started wandering, as I tend to do. I discovered a rose garden, the solitary confinement area (know as Siberia), and then found myself in the prison laundry, face to face with an industrial-sized wringer.

Like many others, my paternal grandmother did other people's laundry, and she had a wringer in the basement. I remember watching her pass a tablecloth through the rollers, pressing it flat after which she carefully folded it and placed in in the basket with other laundry.

I had grown up thinking the wringer was called a mango. While the mango may be one of the most cultivated fruits of the tropical world, it was not a common sight at my house. I had never seen one before, so I had no reason to wonder why a fleshy stone fruit and a clothes press had the same name. When my childhood friends, who occasionally ventured into the basement with me would ask, I would confidently tell them, "That's a mango."

In the prison laundry, I stood, mouth agape. Holy crap, I thought, it was a huge mango! I had never seen one outside of my grandmother's basement. It was enormous. I gazed upon the pictures which hung on the wall showing prisoners using the laundry equipment, at the various pieces of machinery and, as my eyes moved up, to a sign that read "No Loafing, No Sitting on Mangle tables".

Mangle, not mango.

The the UK, it is called a mangle. More commonly known as a wringer here on our side of the pond, it is typically two rollers in a frame and was originally designed to wring water from wet laundry. Mangles are more commonly used to press or flatten sheets, tablecloths, clothing, etc. Mangles are an essential feature of commercial laundries. They are used to press flat items such as sheets or tablecloths, and happen to be faster at removing the majority of water when compared to a clothes dryer. Prisons were, or perhaps are, no exception.

While small domestic pressing mangles are typically not sold in North American home appliance stores or departments, although, as with many things, if you look hard enough you can find them. The Miele Rotary Iron is available for around two grand from Wiliams-Sonoma. And I apparently had missed the 1995 movie The Mangler, which was based on a short story by Stephen King about a large industrial mangle possessed by a demon which, to satisfy its blood lust, claims the lives of many victims.

Lesson learned: mangoes may be mangled, but mangles may not be mangoed.

Reason To Be

My life does not always look exactly like I want it to. That's kinda besides the point, isn't it? Life is what you make of it, regardless of what it looks like.

What does matter is how you feel about that life. Do you choose to smile simply because it feels good? Do you provide kind words when you feel low? Neither of these depend on your situation.

Long-term happiness truly depends on your ability to notice things around you and appreciate the details. Even if you had everything you could want, there will still be highs and lows in life. Learning to enjoy the little things means you can find happiness and peace when something goes wrong, disappointed yet determined, knowing the simple pleasures are really what count and what will help you through to whatever comes next.

Find joy in the moment. It doesn't matter if it is small or inconsequential. We all have goals and dreams, the want of having a meaningful life, to positively affects others with our actions. Happiness is a choice, and while it is not always easy to make that decision, you will be better for it.

Happiness isn't as much about what you have, but rather what you do with what you have. What you have changes; how you decide to work with what you have is up to you.

Vintage Future

In the 1960s, The Jetsons were set one hundred years out in 2062. Not a bad looking future, with flying cars and robot maids. In 1973, Soylent Green warned us that pollution, overpopulation, and the greenhouse effect could send the Western world into a new Dark Age in 2022. In 1982, Blade Runner depicted life in the year 2019, a polluted planet being abandoned for off-world colonies, molded by Philip K. Dick's 1968 novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Back to the Future II depicted life in 2015, a scant three years away, as a much more pleasant place.

There are no flying cars, no jetpacks, no hoverboards, no robot maids. Of course, we're not eating soylent green, the world isn't entirely polluted and it isn't a police state either, so it isn't all bad.

Back in my day (oh geez...when did that happen?), schools had libraries rather than media centers, with actual books and magazines. What makes more sense as the future of libraries...digitized information or robots getting the book you wanted?

Sometimes the future we imagined wouldn't be better that what we can do now, just different. Cars don't zip through some highway in the sky, but they do have GPS and WiFi built into them. The flying car became the symbol of a future that never was, and one we are likely better off without.

We are not bound by what someone else thought one hundred or fifty or even one year ago. Napoleon Hill said it best: we are what we believe and where we believe we should be. Want to be different or be somewhere else? Change what you believe. The future’s not what it used to be, and that is a good thing.

Sleep's Dark And Silent Gate

Some nights, as I wait to fall asleep, I reflect upon the day; what happened, what it meant for today, what it means for tomorrow. Other nights, I think about love, past friends and good times. This week I have been reflecting on the uncertainty of our lives, how change comes when you least expect it, how forewarned is forearmed, how crystal balls tend to be fuzzy at best, how planning is everything but how plans are nothing.

Change hurts. Change makes us insecure about our abilities, and confused as to why it happened or what will happen. Life is easier when things remain the same. But that's not how life is. Life goes on, regardless of whether or not we control which way it goes, which is precisely why planning is everything and the plan is nothing.

In a few months I will be fortunate enough to visit the areas in Italy where my grandparents came from. What will I find there, who will I meet, what will I see? I could plan my trip down to the minute or hour or even to the day, but all that means is I will likely be constantly changing my plans. What is more important is that I plan to be agile and to be ready for changes. To do that, I will pack my bags what I think I need for the journey and discard the rest. I know my destination and what I would like to see when I arrive. I will head in that direction and work with the surprises that are put in front of me, changing direction as necessary.

As many others have said, it is the journey that shapes our lives, not the destination. It is the past, whether today or many yesterdays ago, that help shape our future, as we learn to react to things based on how we acted before. Fill your bags with things that will help you, not hinder you. Keep planning but be ready to make changes. And most importantly, keep moving.