From the train platform at Del Amo station, I observe a man in a tree. He stands on a slender branch, a modern halberd extending from his hand. A chainsaw dangles from a rope, but he is unfettered. The man tests his weight on a branch, then steps blithely without the use of his hands. He is hatless, crewless, and ladderless — a long row of trees in his path. When the train comes, I consider letting it pass to watch his artistry for another moment.
Isaac and I are on the road outside of Pasco, Washington, in the cab of a 24 foot truck. His father’s ’68 Mustang is behind us on a car carrier. There are sun-drenched vineyards to our left and to our right. With the windows down, the smell of grapes is intoxicating.
We are poolside, craning our necks to witness baptisms at Fountain of Life Covenant Church. It is one of those days when the pain and sadness that surround us — envelop us — separate like clouds and the rays of the sun warm us to the core. Today, the kingdom of God is palpable. John is in the water with Chef Mike and his brother, Rudy, in their oversized white robes. Mike came to faith and then invited his brother to “come and see.” Here they are in the pool being baptized, first Mike, then Rudy. When they are done, they hug John, and then they dive into the water and swim and splash toward the deep end of the pool. Lucas, age 4, smiles and says, “It’s just like the Olympics!"
I pulled out Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring (yet again), and I was struck by two passages from the first chapter, “A Long-Expected Party.” As the years pass, I don't rush through as quickly to get to the action.
“The fireworks were by Gandalf: they were not only brought by him, but designed and made by him…They were all superb. The art of Gandalf improved with age.” (I hope that, like Gandalf, my art--chopping vegetables? skipping rocks?-- will improve with age.)
“Many young hobbits were included, and present by parental permission; for hobbits were easy-going with their children in the matter of sitting up late, especially when there was a chance of getting them a free meal. Bringing up young hobbits took a lot of provender.”
A few months ago we started buying provender at a place that Mark Mikasa calls “Costco-land."
There are many strange sights in and around our building. We have a main elevator that doesn’t usually work, a service elevator where one must press “5” to exit on the fourth floor, and other oddities. Here are a few images to give you a flavor of the absurdity we see every day. (My favorite is the “No Smoking” sign next to the Liquid Nitrogen tank.)
One summer night in South Los Angeles, Richard, Reid and I sat on the porch and listened to our friend, Clarence, talk about monkeys in the Vietnamese jungle. Clarence would often stop by in the early evening, asking for a dollar to buy a hamburger at the corner burger joint, or a cup of juice. He lived in nearby boarding house and came by when he was hungry or bored, which was quite often. He was a huge man with a large round head, thick hands, and a crooked nose—the result of his years as a boxer, he said. Clarence acted like a kid at times, widening his round eyes as he asked for a cookie. At other times, those eyes would well up with tears as he told us about some of the things that he’d done during his tours in Vietnam. “I don’t think God can forgive me,” he said. Even if I had a collar on, I don’t think he would have believed me when I told him that God could forgive even the worst things. He just cried and ate his burger. Then he would suddenly snap out of it and act like nothing had happened. We didn’t know if he’d experienced a brain injury as a result of boxing, or using drugs after his tours of duty in Vietnam.
On that summer night, Clarence was especially lucid as he sipped his plastic cup of juice. “Have you ever eaten a monkey?” he asked us. We exchanged glances then shook our heads. "Barbecued monkeys,” he continued, “That's some good eatin'." When he was in Vietnam, the members of his squad were often out in the bush for extended periods, growing tired of MREs and hungry for meat. When desire outweighed inconvenience, they hunted monkeys. with their M16s. "They’re hard to catch, too. The big ones are smart and they fight back, throw sticks , scream. But when you catch 'em and put 'em on a rotisserie stick. Mmmm."
Maybe it was the summer heat, but we pictured ourselves with Clarence, half a world away. We sat there for a moment of silence and imagined Clarence savoring his dinner the way that he put away a cheeseburger and fries.
At the bus stop an older man looks at me and we say hello.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Fine, thank you, but my arm is swollen.” He rubs his left arm and stares off into the distance. “I think it’s gout.”
* * * * *“Do you know about the great stuff that comes in bottles and takes that stuff right off your nails…, nail polish remover?” he said in a droll manner.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” she replied.
In the interest of counteracting an overwhelming desire to sulk, here are a couple of great amateur basketball moments.
Once upon a time, Debbie and a dear family friend, Trinh, played for the Florence Nightingale Middle School Nighthawks. Our family went to a Saturday tournament to give them moral support, but we expected to be home early. King Middle School, the tournament favorite, had a roster filled with taller and quicker players; some even honed their ball-handling skills in the Saturday Japanese-American League. What Nightingale lacked in height, they didn’t make up with experience. Some of the Nighthawks even played in tennis shoes. Needless to say, they weren’t supposed to succeed.
If memory serves, Nightingale overachieved and reached the championship game. They were outmatched in terms of skill and physical size, but the other team went cold went cold in the finals, missing lay-ups and getting frustrated. The score was incredibly low, in the teens, I think. In the second half, the game was close and the Nighthawks trailed by a point in the waning seconds. The crowd assumed it was over, but they got the ball back and someone put up a wild shot. Trinh jumped up, avoided the trees, and came down with a rebound in the paint. As she went up for a shot, she was fouled, and the ref blew his whistle. With three seconds on the clock, Trinh was going to the free throw line with a chance to win.
The opposing coach, with predictable gamesmanship, called timeout to ice her. There’s no way a junior high schooler can overcome the pressure, I thought. Maybe, just maybe, she could send the game to overtime. Trinh returned to the line after the timeout and calmly hit the first free throw to tie the game. Impossible! She got the ball back from the ref, bounced it, and sank the second free throw for the lead. We jumped up and down and rushed the court when time expired. Trinh, thanks for the memories. (Note: I spoke with Debbie today and she couldn't remember beating King. Maybe it was a consolation game. By the way: I'd still trust Trinh to sink free throws in crunch time.)
Finally, this video from two years ago made me choke up. A friend from high school sent it to me the other day. It's a great story about an autistic boy who played an amazing game for his high school team.
