Casita Klatsch

Adios, Tucson (otra vez)

The time has come once again to say goodbye for now to Tucson, my US friends and family, Mark, Zane and Martha.  It's odd leaving Mark and Zane behind in my old home, North America, and returning alone to my new(er) home in Australia.  Life has a way of leading us in opposite directions sometimes.  But then, I have often found that the journey back to common ground proves the most rewarding.

For all of us living in Casa Crazyhorse, it has been an eventful academic year, one full of surprises, discoveries, and accomplishments.  In a way, I feel it has been a year of intense learning, not only for my handsome, intelligent partner during this final year of his doctorate, but also for me in a way that is intangible and connected to the meaningfulness of life.  Sometimes the learning was fitful.  Sometimes it was pretty awful.  Occasionally it was transformative. Some people have one really big mid-life crisis.  I think I endure a limitless string of miniature crises, none of which is particularly train-stopping in nature, but all of which yield their own lessons.  I prefer it that way. 

As I return to Sydney, one year closer to the mid-century mark, one year more in love than ever, and one year prouder as a parent, I go with a light heart.  Although I realize that my aggregate time in Tucson is drawing to its terminal number, I know that I will be back, time and time again.  I have lived many places in my life.  And even though life gets more hectic and challenging to keep up with, I know what home is.  I have more than one.  And I prefer it that way.

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This brings Casita Klatsch to a temporary pause.  Please keep up with me on my original blog, The Banal Chew.  Thanks for reading, and I'll see you back here on CK in December.

Dad

I am currently in my home state of Arkansas.  I traveled here earlier this month to help tend to my sick father.  Because I am fortunate to have a day job that affords me a fair amount of transportability, I am able to camp out for a month at my old college pal's house in Fayetteville, a charming university burg that I will always consider my hometown, and use his broadband to log in my work hours. 

Each day, I travel multiple times between Alan's home in the center of Fayetteville, and my father's place in the rural outskirts, about 10 miles outside of town.  I don't mind.  It is a pleasant drive, and even if it were not, I would do it.  He's my dad, and as his eldest son, I feel a strong calling to offer my assistance as best I can.  Aside from that, I love him.  While we may not always have seen eye to eye on many things, he brought me up to be a well-mannered and respectful person with (I think) a kind heart and honorable soul, all of which are traits I have admired in him since childhood. 

Nearly every day, I go out to Dad's house to spend time with him.  Sometimes I shuttle him to his radiation therapy appointments, when he doesn't feel like driving himself.  Wednesdays are tough days for him, with radiation followed by 3 to 4 hours of chemotherapy.  His arthritis in his knees nearly debilitates him, but he marches on like a trooper.  It is difficult seeing Dad like this.  He has always been a strong man, a gentleman to a fault.  He was dashing in his earlier years, with a friendly charm that could carry  him through any situation.  It is no wonder he was a successful proprietor of the small grocery store and gas station that he owned while I was growing up. 

Even though we were light years apart with our social and political leanings, I have forever loved Dad, and although I always looked up to him as a man like no other, it took me a long time to realize the depth of my affection.  He is not perfect.  Despite his successes, he has often been plagued with failing hopes and harsh regret, and has more than once entered the dark cavern of clinical depression.  But he has always emerged with head high and spirit intact.  He is, quite simply, the most remarkable man I know.

I am now comfortably middle-aged, and he is approaching his septuagenarian decade.  With the benefit of some sharp hindsight, and although we don't talk about it much, we are both aware that those many years we spent in quiet disagreement and rank avoidance of each other were sadly wasted.  But the past is past, and we never discuss it.  We don't feel the need.  Over the past few years, we have come to get along like we never have before.  We have learned how to accept our differences, and we have taught each other a startling amount of acceptance along the way.  Yes, I have learned a lot from Dad.  Of that, there is no doubt.

I am proud to carry his name.  I am honored to be his son.  I am grateful to be here with him at this time.

Hello. My Name is Sandy.

Dear Blog,

First things first.  I am back.  Damn, there's lots to tell. 

I regret having put you on the rear burner for so long, but when you hear of some of my parochial goings-on, you might understand the crunch.  

In any event, I have returned.  In some ways, I am a changed man by the "transpirings" of the past month. I have learned a great deal about myself, and with the devotion and support of my partner and son, I have come to realize that middle-age ain't so bad.  You never stop learning.  You never stop trying.  You never stop crying.  And you never stop laughing.  Nope, not so bad at all. 

I know there challenges and hardships directly ahead of me, the foremost being the reality of an extremely ill father and the separation from partner and son (again) for months at a time.  There are also happy challenges, such as taking up the post of music director for a wonderful chamber choir in Sydney, about which you will hear much more in the near future.

During my retransition into the wonderful world of weblogging, I think it's fitting to return to my blog-roots and engage in some camera play. 

The gibbous moon of recent nights has provided ample opportunity to play with my Canon Ixus's shutter settings.  I am by no means a photographer, and to be honest, the manual makes my head spin.  Armed with very general principles in mind, I tend to futz with the settings and experiment.  The problem is that I usually don't remember what was effective or had any real artistic merit.  Serendipity as art.

While playing with the shutter settings, I set the camera with a 15" shutter and no flash, mounted it on my new bendy tripod and assumed a silly position by the pool.  Martha, intent on stealing the spotlight, came over and hammed for the camera.  I shooed her away, but the images still made their way through the lens, something  you don't notice until the Auto-Enhance feature is used to turn night into day. 

Now I know how hoaxes are constructed.

Mantra du jour (de la semaine, du mois....)

I will blog.  I will blog.  I will....

Back from the Dead

After five weeks of bronchitis, or six--I lost count after a while, and nine days of diarrhea, a trip to the emergency room, a fistful of atomic antibiotics, and a fair amount of bedrest, I am tired and weak.  And behind.  But that's enough complaining.  I am back, and that's good enough for me.

I have this notion of morning therapy.  For as long as I can remember, I have made sure that I take the time to engage in something just for me, before I begin the workday.  (Or school day, if you want to go back that far.  As it's my birthday very soon, I have no desire to, but go ahead.) 

My morning ritual, to which I am very happy to return in better health, is pretty simple. Get up at least a half-hour before anyone else in the house.  Void the bladder, wash the face, check the wrinkles.  Stagger to kitchen, drink water, make coffee (a ritual of its own), and head outside.  In the limitless expanse of our backyard, I do things like sweeping the patio, checking the pool and gathering dogtoys.  

The pool wearing its winter cap

Mostly, however, I potter around with my Coffee-From-Hell mug, checking out the plant life and watering as needed.  I'm not a true gardener, but my rural Southern roots are surprising sometimes.  I like to play in the earth.  Having said that, I am mindful of the fact that we live in the desert and limit my play to that with drought-tolerant plants, or reserving those that need a bit more water either to pots or very small spaces.   The trees were already here, and I do what I need to to keep them healthy on as little water as possible.

One of these days I'll have the time to research what type of tree this is.  (Anyone care to save me the suspense?)

I have plans for this little piece of concrete-locked earth.  Zinnias.  Lots and lots of zinnias.

Baby zinnias (which you could see better if there weren't so many dead olive leaves)

More babies on the way, of many kinds.  (The previous tenants left a small greenhouse behind.  They're nice guys.  I have met them before and am pretty sure they will be happy that it's getting some use until they come to collect it.)

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In other news, I am singing a bit this weekend.  If you're local and up for some interesting choral music, jump here for more details.

Funny Zombies

It's here.  It just wouldn't be a Sandy summer without a head cold.  I thought I might have escaped it this year, but it has moved in nearly overnight.  I'm hoping it will be one of my short-lived ones. 

Last night, Zane and I watched Shaun of the Dead.  It has been on my wishlist for a few years.  Now that Zane is old enough to deal with such movies and not obsess or have nightmares, it is a real pleasure to watch them with him.  Of course, anyone who knows anything about SOTD, Simon Pegg or Edgar Wright knows that this is not your average zombie flick.  Part of their "Blood and Ice Cream Trilogy", it is so clever.  Ranks up there with Bubba Ho-tep on my list of favorite dark comedies.  Even Mark, not a fan of horror films, giggled a bit throughout it.  

In other news, I have a birthday coming up fast.  In case anyone is out of ideas, I'd like something from here, please.  And there's always my Powells or Amazon.  Thanks in advance!  </wink>

It's a Sad, Sad, Sad, Sad World

Like many, I am an NPR junkie.  I love it.  As a US citizen who has lived in three other countries over the past [nn] years, NPR has been my comfort food, providing the necessary sustenance to warm my homesick soul.  It's not that I prefer not to listen to (or watch) the media outlets indigenous to the countries in which I am living.  I certainly do that.  NPR is a balm.  And it's home. 

Many slam NPR for having a blue slant.  For being too progressive.  I say, what's wrong with with being progressive?  Shouldn't we, as a society, progress?  Shouldn't we move forward to adapt to the current of time and the advances it brings? 

I just heard two very frightening things on NPR.  One was a rant by an Alabaman who felt immigrants should completely "assimilate" (his word) into US society.  The other was a newsbite that militia are on the rise in the US.  Reportedly, this is, in part, due to the Obama presidency.  Apparently, these militia members feel their rights are threatened.  Seems to me like the goal is to enhance rights for all, not to take them away.  I think these people are misguided, but I've thought that for a while now. 

Last fall, my 17-y/o brother [don't ask!] engaged in a Facebook thread with his fellow high-schoolers in Arkansas about the upcoming election.  The prevailing consensus took the form of objection to Obama, based on the fact that he is a person of color [actual statements censored], and that "his middle name is Hussein...need I say more?".  <sigh>

The culture war is here, and it is ugly.  I never thought that the push for healthcare for US-Americans would be the vehicle.  Why is it that those who stand to benefit the most raise the most hell?

I cannot watch the Town Hall clips on the news.  I did see the one from Arkansas, my home state, with the woman decrying the loss of "her" America through her raspy sobs.  Obviously, she was distraught.  But why?  Another woman who looked very much like my late grandmother, jumped to her feet upon hearing her, her jaw set in a way that made my spine chill.  I suspect she did not want to counter the bereft woman's statements.  I think she had her own cross to bear.  Probably the same cross her husband planted in someone's yard the previous night.

I am losing patience.  I'd like to think we are moving forward as humans.  I'd like to think the world of Zane's future is going to be much happier than that in which I grew up. 

But I think I am wrong.

Beaver's got nothin' on me

...that's right.  Busy as.  And blog-starved.

Between work, settling in, family life and catching up with people, I have had no time to keep up with my blog posting, emailing, facebooking, and pretty much any other kind of 'Net-based socializing.  But I'm back now, if only for a second.  Mark is at the grocer picking up items for the gazpacho we are making for tonight's gathering with some choral conducting colleagues.  When he returns, it's chop chop and whiz whiz.

Oh, I think I hear the scooter pulling up to the porch.  Yipes!  Let's see, maybe he forgot the shrimp and will have to go back....

No such luck.  I'll leave it with a photo of our vintage Danish daybed/lounge we picked up for a song a few years ago at a second-hand shop here in Tucson. After languishing in our storage unit for the past 4+ years, we cleaned it up, got a new piece of foam cut, went to the local fabric shop and took it all to a highly recommended upholsterer in South Tucson.  The next day, we had our favorite piece of furniture back in our living room.  Zane hates it.  Martha loves it.  Mark and I adore it.

Here it is (again)

My final day in Tucson.  What an odd connection I have with this place.  Okay, so I just wrote this long segment on what Tucson means to me on a personal level.  Then I deleted it all.  A bit too Sally Jesse. 

Let's just say that I've grown here.  I've experienced both intense joy and pain.  I've worked my ass off here.  I nurtured a partner through the hell of getting his Ph.D here.  Then I followed up a couple years later by returning to get my own doctorate.  

And, here, along came Mark, wrecking my plans and stealing my heart.  It was here I began my life-changing role of parenting, when Zane arrived from Australia.

Now, here I am.  I was 34 when I first arrived.  Now I am 46.  More than 7 of those intervening years were spent here in the Sonoran Desert.  Most recently, I've just spent 6 of the past 8 months in Tucson, during which time I have realized that a full-time career in music is not worth the sacrifice of being with my partner and watching our son grow up.

As always, I'm a bit heart-heavy leaving Tucson.  Homer has made my temporary residency here a pleasure.  We have become very close, and I'm happy that we place each other on our list of best friends.  Fellas, for the record, here's one worth noting. 

So to Homer, as well as Lani, Forrest, Steve, Brian, Richard, Cobban, Ray, Lyle, Norene and everyone I've met or reconnected with here, thanks for keeping me company.  I'll see you all in July, when we return to Tucson for Mark's doctorate. 

Wait, did I just say that?

Naughty Redux

Martha is naughty. There's no question.

But she's a puppy.  And we were all puppies at one point.

To Martha, everything is new and immediate.  It is exploration and learning, cleverly disguised by Mother Nature's Department of Instinct and Behavior Development, as a playful game.  Oh, they're crafty bureaucrats, with their destroy-the-houseshoe and maybe-I-can-just-eat-my-poo tricks. 

I can't get angry with her.  I can be a stern teacher, but I don't have to be overly annoyed.  Of course, puppies will push the boundaries.  They learn from it.  I don't think there's any species of our kingdom that knows the difference between right and wrong from birth.

Take Zane, for example.  As he has grown and matured over the past 5+ years, I have watched and guided.  Admittedly, I used to get annoyed with him as he learned yes from no, need from want.  It took a while for my Let-Him-Learn epiphany to occur, something which made me realize my annoyance was unnecessary and misguided. 

What I was really angry about was that my carefully ordered notion of parenting and partnership was being tampered with, and  I hadn't put together a Plan B.  Unfortunately, Zane's mum got caught by the gravity of the chaos. 

Lord, the apologies.  All heartfelt, and all very necessary.