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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 f
or 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.
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.
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.
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!
