Uncle Frank

A silver Grand Prix pulls into the driveway just a little before 5:30, always early. After a number of long, strong strides accompanied by a cheerfully whistled tune, the doorbell rings. He stays in the entry way while she grabs her purse, as the landmines of cat fur farther inside would trigger his allergies. He whistles back to the car and opens her door for her with a smile.

The car is clean, feels almost new despite the fact he bought it used a number of years ago. The cup holder in the center console is full of those generic hard candies no one wants on Halloween--butterscotch, strawberry, rootbeer. There is a stack of undistributed fliers in the back promoting a local art show for one of the galleries he's recently signed on with. He starts the car and the radio comes to life with lyric-less jazz, just a little scratchy because the reception isn't the best it could be.

Frank avoids the highway, though it would cut the driving time by more than half. He opts instead for the scenic route on Blossom Hill Road through the Los Gatos hills. Jazz fights with static as the hills rise on either side, but the music eventually wins with renewed volume. He's always been that way, unhurried, easy-going.

He was there when I was born, a co-worker and close friend of my mother. I've grown up around "uncle" Frank, the eternal bachelor. He's always had silver hair and that slightly lazy blue eye. I remember one night the family was out to dinner with him at a very nice steakhouse in downtown Los Gatos and his exciting news of the evening was that he had finally gotten himself a cell phone. It was a simple pay-as-you-go type thing, but it was all the technology he was willing to handle.

After he retired, he started painting as something to pass the time. He mixed his own pigments and produced work after work of stunning surrealism. His first sale was "Hope," a dusty brown tree on a cream landscape with a black sun rising behind it and a single green sliver of a leaf on its bare branches. It hangs on the wall of my mother's security office at work.

He's entertained the notion of moving to Oregon, Washington and Alaska in the past few years. He almost made it, but decide to remain in the area at the last moment. As preparation for the move, he wanted to give unsold paintings to friends; such was how my family ended up with two more of his works; one my parents chose (right) and the other one I'd been eying for years, "Viewpoint," which features a white orb emanating graduated blue light in a black sky. A tan cave lit from within and an impressive cliff reaching toward the orb rises from the dusty brown rocks of the landscape below.

It seems it doesn't matter what viewpoint an individual has, he's one of those people with a personality everyone can love. A people-person to the end.

We end up at the California Cafe in the rich part of Los Gatos (the really rich part, not just the rich part) and enjoy steak Diane with asparagus and mashed potatoes while overlooking the Los Gatos Creek Trail he walks more than once a week. Afterward, we wander the downtown streets, poking through shops. He whistles in the lulls in conversation, tickles the fancy of those lucky enough to pass us.

Beat Your Heart

A solitary militant call shatters the sunset silence.

Taresukuten taresukuten

Seventeen voices respond in unison.

Don

Their exchange continues, rising in urgency before falling back into rhythm.

Taresukuten taresukuten

Don don

Taresukuten taresukuten

Don, don don don don don don don don

Their chant is repeated, once, building further with a more forceful eight-count added at the end. The voices break together for another melody.

Don, don, don-don--

A brief interjection from a different set of voices, twenty strong now: "Sore!"

Don, don, don-don

"Hai!"

It repeats for a total of four rounds, shaking the glass panes and vibrating the floorboards. A volleyball hits the windows but is drowned out by the building force within.

The twenty voices lead now.

"Sore zu--" Don

"Zu--" Don

"Zu--" Don-don

The briefest moment of pause after three repetitions before--

Don

And the Cha!--cha!--cha! of wood-on-wood.

Don

Cha!--cha!--cha!

Unified, hearts beating with each stroke, they return to the original melody.

Don, don, don-don--

"Sore!"

Don, don, don-don

"Hai!"

Twelve full rounds, two position trades, sweaty hands resisting blisters, aching arms continuing fueled by willpower alone, cramping feet pushing for balance. Despite it all, the hearts continue beating in harmony.

The drummers end together, a final "Hai!" before they pose, drumsticks in the air, feet planted, chests heaving. Blisters, calluses and sore muscles will form, but won't prevent another harmony.

Vivian

A friend invited me to dinner at their church for Easter. I'm not a religious person, but I'm not about to go insulting people in their own domain. So I dressed myself nicely and headed out, feeling a bit anxious about being surrounded by people I don't know who all believe in something I do not.

Halfway there, I spotted a couple coming toward me. The man faded from view, drowned out by the woman's attire. She had a black and neon pink, orange and green poncho. As one who has taught herself to both knit and crochet, I was automatically distracted--even after the gorgeous colors were comprehended.

Before we passed each other, she paused to tell me about a dinner at a nearby church--the same one I was already headed to. Her smile that I would be joining them was stunning. That someone could be so happy over the choice of a complete stranger boggled my mind. I thought about this as I continued on my way to the church.

My friend wasn't there when I arrived, so I stood around, hands clasped in front of me, hoping for a little show of friendship. That's when I saw the poncho again. She saw me and that smile reappeared. She came right up to me and invited me to sit on one of the sofas (the church didn't have pews, it had sofas--some of which reclined) to talk while waiting for either my friend to arrive or the food to be ready.

Her name was Vivian. In the church, she removed the poncho. She was originally from San Diego, but moved to Forest Grove just a few years ago when her husband was offered a job. The climate change may put others off, but Vivian couldn't love the cooler, damper climate more. While we talked, her eyes constantly flitted to the kitchen, looking for any task she could help with.

She spoke in a soft voice, the kind whose laugh isn't obnoxious, the kind used in TV shows as the kindly, advise-dispensing grandmother or aunt. Her light brown hair was short and naturally curly. Many things about her were natural; I was impressed that she didn't wear makeup beyond lip color.

That's probably why her neon poncho stands out so much in my memory snapshot.

Hi, I've Got ADD

Undiagnosed, of course. Because really, who gets tested for that kinda thing? And who has time to take pills? I barely have time in the morning to get out of bed and get dressed, let alone pop a handful of pills. You know how it goes. Alarm goes off, you hit the snooze. Then you hear those birds outside and you can't actually get back to sleep.

The birds on campus start up their chirping at about 4 a.m. When you're trying to get to sleep at 4:30 a.m. after laying out the newspaper, it's really hard with the damned birds chirping. It's just another frustration on top of having errors on your pages and having to redo them over and over and still knowing there will be something wrong when it goes to print.

And then people complain about it and you just want to scream because they have no idea how difficult it is to produce the level of quality they're currently holding. We've got maybe 10-15 people who actively work with us; the others just swing by when they feel like it.

Apathy's a huge problem. I had to fight it in high school when I was involved in clubs. No one ever played chess at Chest Club. No one in anime club ever wanted to participate in events. Organizing Seito ChibiCon in 2008 was really difficult because I was supposed to be working with a handful of other high school anime club presidents but they all flaked, so I ended up doing everything from arranging prizes from companies like Dark Horse Manga to securing a location. And of course the school doesn't take us seriously because we "weren't a purposeful club."

I hate it when people assume they know everything about you or your cause and treat you in line with it. Assumptions are the number one reason for miscommunication and related failures. They never stop to really figure out what's going on and hence miss the bigger picture. Ego plays a lot into it too--that's why we can't get anything done with the damned government.

...sorry, April Fools on the Internet distracted me for a half hour or so. What were we talking about? Government, right. How about that "fucking big deal" that got passed a week or so ago? Exciting news for me, even if it's a single step forward. That first step is usually the hardest.

Speaking of news, I need to go distribute the Index. I was up until 4:30 a.m. Wednesday morning putting that dratted thing together and I'll be darned if people don't read it.

Bye!

On Athlete's Foot

It usually comes on so slowly I don't notice until it's too late. Maybe I wore the same pair of shoes too many times in a row. Maybe I didn't dry my feet well enough after a shower. Maybe I haven't given my feet enough time out of socks. Doesn't matter if any or all caused it, there's always that one time I take off my shoes and suddenly realize how bad they smell. My feet, the shoes, the socks, doesn't matter. It all converges.

Athlete's Foot is a terrible thing in social settings.

It's a terrible thing on one's own, too.

When I was younger, I'd have an infection every month. Dad would have me sit on the side of the bathtub after I'd showered so he could spray my feet with Tinactin antifungal powder and roll a clean sock over each foot. The bathroom would be avoided for at least a half hour after each treatment, it would be so hazy with the stuff. I'd have to wear those socks for 24 hours while the white powder did its magic.

Though one spray rarely fixed the problem, my cases were hardly what one would call extreme. I'd get the excessive dryness over the entire foot and toes. Sometimes it would peel and I'd have to use a pumice stone to scrape it off. But all that's still only the first or second level of the infection.

When the fungus really gets going, nails can turn yellow and rise from their beds. Blisters will form and pop and form again, leaving scars and pockmarks. The body can be taken over, especially the groin area. Children have lost patches of hair on their scalps from this same fungus.

A lot of people freak out over Athlete's Foot. I haven't known any personally, but I'm sure there's someone out there who refuses to exercise or refuses to wear sneakers because they're afraid of it. I do know more than a few people who can't shower in a locker room or their college dorm because they're so paranoid about contracting it.

I laugh, because this seems like such an irrational fear. Sure, those places are ideal locations for the fungus to flourish, but the amount of things we're exposed to and don't contract each day should put the probability into perspective.

All it takes to thwart the fungus is good hygiene. When my father finally got fed up with spraying my feet, he made sure I at least alternated shoes each day and made sure I changed my socks after cross country and track & field practices. When I did get reinfected, he would take my shoes in the backyard and spray them with the Tinactin, leaving me to deal with my own feet.

In the two years since coming to college, I've only had to spray my feet for two separate infections. I never wear "shower shoes" and I don't use antifungal or even antibacterial body wash. I wear a different pair of socks every day and use different ones for exercise that are hung to dry after each use. I don't alternate shoes as much as I should (which is why one pair now needs to be sprayed), but I'm sensitive to how my feet react.

Extreme cases only arise when you're uneducated. Don't run away from something because society's deemed it distinctly "unfabulous." Odds are, you'll have to deal with it eventually, be it for yourself or your kids; knowing how to deal with and treat it gives you all the defense you need.

Pennies, Bras and Phobias

3/16/10 Reading Response

Reading through the section of Dillard's work reminded me of a poem I wrote towards the beginning of high school. Until then, I'd been one of those people who stopped to pick up dropped change no matter its worth (or lack thereof). I'm not entirely sure when that changed. I've recently gotten back into the habit, but that might just be because I'm a college student and any money is welcome.

Lost Pennies

I look upon the ground
as I continue on my way.
How many times that I've
walked by have I seen that penny?
Long ago I would have stopped,
taken time to pick it up,
but now I simply let it rest,
its worth no longer calling.
When did the world diminish such
that I no longer care?
When did the world change so that
the small things do not matter?
We stumble through our lives
seeing only large successes.
We wonder why we are unhappy
when the truth lies just before us.
Perhaps next time I see that penny,
I'll pause to pick it up.
Who knows, I say, what simple things
may return into our lives?
If we begin to care again
about such little gestures
will the world come full circle
and become again its past?

After the Mammalian piece, I found myself looking up this "Last Resort Bra," because I was interested in its alleged existence. Lo and behold, it does exist, but it's breast-ist against those of us smaller than a C cup. Apparently we don't need total immobilization.

Then I got to the On Pests piece. A page or two in and I had to stop reading to go and quell the trouble brewing in my stomach. I hate bees. I was okay with them until I was about 7. I was okay with them until one Fourth of July on a hillside when a group of wasps decided it was a good idea to make their nest on the ground. Where a 7-year-old watching fireworks could step on it. In the dark. With no warning as to what they were about to experience.

Since then, I freeze up exactly like the niece does; rigid, arms clamped to the sides with clenched fists, eyes closed, often shaking. I can't come out of it until a minute or two has passed since the buzzing has faded. Actually having one land on me? Hysterics.

I wouldn't have batted an eyelash over the decision to get rid of the damned things. I don't care if they're "gentle" or "harmless" unless provoked. Bees are perpetually provoked. End of story.

The Riff

There are a number of items I have on my person at all times. Two friendship bracelets, made by my middle school camp kids during the summer; my high school class ring--its third variation after two missizings and a completely incorrect order, and a jade necklace, of either a peacock or a phoenix, can't determine which (though the giver believed it to be a snake) are the accessories that are always equipped. Items that inhabit pockets have a varied order of importance, depending upon my location and my location alone. While at school, the most important is my student ID card, for obvious reasons. While at home my phone takes that title, also for obvious reasons. The runner up is a tube of chapstick.

I don't quite remember when I started using chapstick, though I imagine it was during middle school. I began running Track & Field and Cross Country in middle school, and the constant wind across the lips from breathing through the mouth (I know I'm supposed to breathe through my nose, but I just can't get enough air that way) definitely caused some chapping.

Middle school was also the time my mother took it upon herself to make me more feminine. I'd joined the running sports to avoid her threats of signing me up for the cheer squad. I believe there was one Christmas where my stocking contained nothing but cheap beauty products; lip gloss, eye shadow, brushes, eyeliner and of course, chapstick.

By eighth grade, it had gotten to the point that my lips stopped moisturizing themselves. I required the chapstick. I was addicted. In those first months upon realizing this, there were a number of times I forgot to grab the colorful little tubes. Sometimes I'd get lucky and be with my parents (to this day, my mother has a tube of vanilla chapstick in her purse that the hospital gave her when I was born) or friends. Other times, I would fall into an excruciating pain as my lips dried out and my saliva only made it worse.

I learned quickly after that. These days, the only time that pain is experienced is when a tube gets used up. I've become sensitive even to that, however. The change in weight of the tube and the sharp plastic base at the base of the product are the warning signs. With the change of the weight, the balance of the tube is also thrown off. I know when to start carrying two.

Now, the chapstick itself hasn't changed that much over the years. I refuse the Chapstick brand. Why? They put microscopic bits of fiberglass in their product to cut your lips. That cooling sensation the brand promotes is the result of other ingredients in the product healing the cuts. Blistex feels pasty. Avon is usually alright, but expensive and difficult to come across. Burt's Bees is okay but doesn't give me the level of moisture I need so I find I'm constantly reapplying. Generic brands are hit-or-miss, depending on their formula.

I've always been a Bonnie Bell Lip Smacker girl.

The best perk has to be the variety of flavors offered. If I didn't have the choice, I would be perfectly content with one flavor once I found it (I actually found the "one flavor" of Lip Smackers, but like everything else I like best, the Moon Rock Candy flavor was discontinued). There are only a few types that don't work for me, which allows me to buy in bulk without worry.

Kiwi, Strawberry Kiwi, Fruit Punch, Red Raspberry, Wild Raspberry, Strawberry, Watermelon, Grape, Cherry, Vanilla, Cotton Candy, Lemonade, Pink Lemonade, Squirt, 7UP, Crush, Mountain Dew, Starburst (all the original flavors), Jell-O (Strawberry, Blue Raspberry, Lime, Grape, Strawberry Kiwi, Cherry), Strawberry Gushers, Cinnamon Bun, Peanut Butter Chocolate Cookie, Gingerbread Man, Melon, Strawberry Banana, Tutti Frutti. There's more, but I'm sure the above conveys just how many choices there are. The one I will not touch is Dr. Pepper. Instead of moisturizing, it immediately gives the uncomfortable sensation of the drying out pain.

People don't notice the chapstick, much less when it is changed. The only one that's really been called to attention was the Strawberry Gushers, because of how unusual it was. Sometimes, like with Watermelon, people will notice the smell but they won't outright ask about it.

A single tube lasts about two months. There is no ceremony for switching from one to another. Sometimes I'll ask someone else their opinion of which flavor I should use next. Old tube goes in the garbage, new tube goes in pocket.

Today is Jell-O Strawberry Kiwi. Tomorrow is something completely different.