iPad, or pasta?

I was one of the last people in the western hemisphere to get a cell phone. I was always practical, waiting for other people to vet new technologies. More to the point, I resisted the marketing strains that seduce vacuous consumers to part with their money over anything labeled the Next Best Thing.

Yet there I was, at 8:55 a.m. on a Saturday in April, in line with 100 or more people outside the Apple store inside the Holyoke Mall, waiting to get my iPad. The marketers at Apple had not only convinced me to pre-order, they had threatened that I would forfeit the chance to get my new machine if I were not there between 9 a.m. and 3 p.m.!

It was an impressive display of mass marketing. There was free Starbucks coffee and bottled water for people in line—two lines, actually: one for those lucky ones like me who had pre-ordered, one for those hapless losers who stood enviously waiting to order, hoping for the opportunity to spend their money on the cool promise of the much-hyped machine.

There was irony galore. The line was opposite a Borders bookstore, and security staff had to instruct us several times to move away from Borders’ doors. The teenage boy behind me uttered comments like “I’ll never buy another book again.”

I called two friends to help document this historic moment. The first was duly impressed, but the other was too sleepy to appreciate it. There was no common denominator to my compadres in line, no universal demographic—young and old, male and female, geek and non-geek all gathered together to be the first ones on their block to bring home the latest from Jobs and Co.

It took 45 minutes for me to reach the head of the line. A pleasant young woman in a blue, short-sleeved crew-shirt crossed off my name from a plastic clipboard and announced through her headset that “Russell” was ready. I was then allowed to enter the store. I was greeted by my first name by more young people wearing blue crew-shirts. This cutting-edge technology was uniform, but with a human face!

The rest was anticlimactic. I was handed my machine, paid for it and left in a matter of moments, without fanfare. But like Woodstock, years from now I can say I was there.

I can’t yet tell you much about the new machine. It looks like fun—that is a given, I suppose. An iPhone on steroids, and probably much, much more, depending on how much time and money I invest in it, adding applications to the basic package that came with the machine (part of the Apple master plan).

But whatever it is, I will know about it now, not a year from now, or by reading about it. For the moment, at least, I am on the cyber frontier.

It is far too early to know if the iPad will deliver on its promise to transform our communication lives, or to speculate over whether it represents our doom, or salvation. But the people in line, including me, were betting on the latter. Driving this merchandising machine is hope that technology is a force for good, and can lead us through myriad challenges.

A week earlier, while walking with my housemate and our dog, we passed a yard sale, unattended and unattractive. But there, amid a blanket of forgettable items, was a stolid Royal typewriter.

I have not owned a typewriter since the early 1980s, when a student borrowed my portable electronic model and never returned it. That typewriter was a gift meant to encourage me to write, but it was light enough that it often jumped when I hit the carriage return, and it became obsolete when I bought my first IBM computer.

Since then, though, I have often wanted a typewriter in my repertoire. Its unique quirkiness is compelling: the smell of oil and inky ribbon; the sound of the bell announcing the end of a line, and the hand-crank of the carriage return; and its heavy bulk and unyielding keyboard that requires muscular finger strokes. Faster and more flexible than hand-writing, the typewriter nonetheless forces the user to think before putting words to paper, lest the letter, essay or narrative has to be typed all over again.

The Royal on the pavement was dusty, but otherwise appeared in great shape. I tested it, and it worked. A man in a woven navy cap, plaid shirt and chipped tooth came out and made light conversation, telling us a slow, sad story of a wounded heron. We never exchanged names. The heron finally breathing its last breath, I asked him what he wanted for the typewriter.

He said his mother owned it, and she was moving to Arizona. He put the question back to me: what did I think it was worth?

I was thinking $20, but I didn’t say it, instead batting the question back to him, telling him I had no idea, and what did he want for it?

He paused in the manner of any good salesperson. “Well,” he began slowly, hands in pockets, “I have to think it’s worth …” here he paused again, hand to stubbled chin, “… at least a buck,” looking up at me hopefully over his wire-frame glasses.

I tried not to accept too quickly, but paid him the dollar. He was glad to get rid of the Royal. One less thing to cart away, and a heavy one at that. Said his mother probably hadn’t touched it for years. I believed him, doomed heron and all.

The ancient typewriter, despite its weight, is in some respects like the sleek iPad. I can’t yet say exactly how I will use either of them, but both feed my desire to communicate with others. It feels a little like opening my pantry door in January and taking comfort at the canned goods and boxes filling the shelves.

If the power goes out, I’m protected. In any event, I have choices. My larder is well stocked, with dried mushrooms and cornichons from France and staples like pasta. No storm, no wind or snowdrift, can leave me hungry, or isolated, for long.

Fighting Fear

A little anger in the body politic is not such a bad thing, generally, especially when the alternative is apathy. Democracy, we know, is sometimes messy. But rarely has fear been more naked than in the current “debate” over healthcare.

There is no debate over healthcare. Consider:

• Everyone wants healthcare for themselves (especially when they become ill or injured).
• Selfish as we Americans sometimes can be, we don’t really want our friends or neighbors to go without healthcare, either (Immigrants? Well, that’s another story.).
• No one believes the status quo is working, or sustainable.
• Flawed as the current healthcare bill may be, the opposition presents no alternative (After half a century of inaction, “starting over” is indefensible, and it does not constitute a contrasting program.).
• By their own admission, the people who most passionately oppose the healthcare bill don’t really know what is in it.

The small business owner from Utah who traveled to Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid’s home in Nevada to protest passage of the healthcare bill, one of several opponents interviewed on NPR, said she feared the provisions of the bill would force her out of business by making her buy health insurance for her employees. Told by the reporter that the bill includes subsidies and tax credits for businesses like hers, the woman scoffed, saying that “no one” knows what is in the bill. Presumably, she includes herself in that statement.

If her business was a profitable one, if she felt secure about the future demand for her product or service, I doubt that she would spend the time and money to fight legislation she knows nothing about.

This is about fear, pure and simple.

Fear of a world that is changing too fast.

Fear of a black president, and the larger truth he represents (as writer James Baldwin uttered 30 years ago, “The world will never be white again.”).

Fear of an economy spinning beyond our control, of losing our national superiority and our material ease.

Fear of the transition from fossil fuels to something more sustainable, as yet unknown, of becoming casualties of the slow, uncertain and painful process of having to retool major industries like automobiles and energy.

Fear of being held accountable for our nation’s past sins against nature.

Fear of wars waged in two places that lack shape or common purpose and drain our nation’s resources like twin black holes.

Fear of not fighting these battles, powerless against an evasive, unseen enemy.

Fear of a bomb going off in our midst.

Change, we know, is inevitable. We cannot still our brains, even if we wanted to. As a species, we are in perpetual motion, relentless as the passage of time, and subject to its rules. That’s why, thousands of years after dwelling in caves and living from meal to meal, we take collective action to feed and clothe ourselves, to travel between destinations, to gain knowledge and new skills, to defend and protect ourselves, and now, to take care of each other when we are stricken by injury or disease.

No amount of fear can change this. But fear can wreak havoc along the way.

All arms and legs

Running or painting, it’s all about mediating energy. During both activities, mind and body process energy like oxygen, ingesting it involuntarily from an invisible, omnipresent force and transforming it, first animating our living cells, then expressing it—“to make known the opinions or feelings of (oneself); to represent by a sign or symbol; to force out by pressure,” according to Merriam-Webster—in a new form.

Running (or throwing or jumping) and painting (or drawing or carving) are both physical, solitary acts. We may run in a pack or paint in a class, but the experience is largely our own; to the runner and the painter, teamwork and collaboration are attainable, but they begin as largely abstract concepts.

Unlike team sports such as basketball or crew, the challenge of running is intensely personal. We are testing our physical limits, finding our threshold of maximum exertion, trying to hold concentration and relaxation together in perfect balance under intense conditions. It is a supreme experience of energy, powerful, and extremely difficult to sustain.

Unlike video or film, painting, too, resists collaboration. Even the act of writing, while largely solitary, lends itself to editorial input from others, and the words on the page can be changed at any time, and then changed back again. Painting is less easy to revise.

To either run or paint well requires a seeming paradox: discipline and control to produce fluidity and freedom. Harnessing energy to release it.

Running and painting are both sensual acts, but running is macro and external, painting micro and internal. Running engages all of the senses, a rich immersion in the physical world. But the sensuality is impersonal. Runners—and more generally, athletes—are to be seen, not touched.

Athletes are their own paintings, perpetual-motion sculptures. Runners are physically fit, and good running form is graceful, pleasing to the eye. We run in nothing but shorts, exposing our thin arms and muscular thighs, but the pleasure is distant and ephemeral, not sexual. Like the painting in the museum, the runner is to be admired from afar, not felt.

Painting, by contrast, is intimate, even erotic, soft and fluid, curvaceous, filled with color and light. The motions are smaller than running, though the experience can be as exhausting and intense, as the flow of energy through the arm is equally strong as through the legs.

Unlike running, when painting is done, something remains; energy is fixed. Running is like firewood, burning brightly and generating great heat for a limited time; painting is like the steel forged in the fire. Neither, of course, is truly permanent, but painting leaves longer traces.

My experience of energy is passing from athletics to art. Muscle strains and knee pain have prevented me from sustained or intense training in the past year or so. I have slowly come to accept the reality that I will have to be a more casual athlete from now on, recreational rather than competitive, running for my general mental and physical health, not as a primary means of self-expression. I have already given up sports like basketball and softball for fear of injury, as I feel neither capable nor interested in slowing down my approach. The game remains, but not the same force of energy.

At the heart of my love for athletics has been my experience of energy. It borders on the electric. I almost become another person when I step across the foul line onto the softball field or walk onto the basketball court, hyper-charged with an energy that feels as if it originates somewhere other than in myself.

But while my legs are no longer capable of channeling energy in the same way, the flow remains, entering my body involuntarily and eventually needing to find a way out. Fortunately, I can engage my arms, hands and wrists in the act of painting, where I can process the energy, energy which I am drawn to but do not fully comprehend.

Twilight Zone

“Time is a photograph.” — David Byrne

For many years, with the aid of Vinny, a gentle but persistent Siamese cat, I would wake up sometime between 5 a.m. and 6 a.m., roll out of bed and go for an hour-long walk (after feeding Vinny). I would leave before breakfast, and usually before coffee or tea — just lace my shoes, throw on coat and hat (depending on time of year), and go, jerked like a water skier behind my motorboat black lab, Mickey.

In the fields and off leash, Mickey’s concentration on tennis ball or stick was absolute, and I could relax (one morning I spotted a bear about fifty yards away but Mickey was, thankfully, oblivious, flipping a stick in the air with his nose and catching it). I was self-employed during these years, so even in the darkest days of winter, I could leave as late as seven o’clock and still have plenty of time to get ready to begin work at nine. The walks gave me ample time to appreciate my surroundings, get my bearings and contemplate the day.

I love the morning; no matter how much or how little sleep I have had, I am at my freshest, and there are few distractions during these early hours. It is solitary, quiet, and there are often spectacular sunrises that otherwise would go unnoticed. When I returned home I felt as if I had earned my breakfast, and the exercise and fresh air laid a solid foundation for whatever else befell me during the day. No matter how stressful work or life might get, I had already done something good for myself. I even got used to the cold during winter, shrugging it off, even embracing it, following Mickey’s example.

Now my rhythm has changed, and I walk late afternoons into evening. I still get up early, but spend the time writing, reading or doing household chores rather than walking. I now put on my walking shoes when I get home from my day job, around five, and I have come to crave the slow, sensual transition from sunset to twilight to stars.

I was a late convert to digital photography, for reasons that seem foolish now, if I even can recall them. Something about the added degree of difficulty associated with film — digital looked too easy (never mind that traditional photography is a facile, mechanical shorthand for drawing what we see). In any event, I held out for a long time, with a vague, if naïve, belief that it had something to do with artistic integrity.

Silly me. During these twilight walks, I can take photographs without a tripod or flash that would be impossible using film. A whole new world has opened before me, expanding, not compromising, my experience of taking pictures. It has been several years now since I have shot with film, and I am still a neophyte with digital. But these twilight walks encourage me to push the boundaries of what can be captured on camera.

Today I began my walk shooting tobacco barns in slanted, late-afternoon light, then gingerly crossed a narrow slat bridge resting on the surface of the swollen Mill River. I arrived at the Connecticut when its expanse was a shifting blend of blues and apricot. The sun had disappeared; it was twilight, but I kept shooting. The light was so subtle and rich that it felt like time was suspended, or that it filled the air rather than simply passed through it. The light lacked a specific value, but infused everything in sight with a dense, yet transparent, hue.

The camera flash had still not gone off and I had nothing to lose (more advantages of digital—low light, low cost and instant access), so I tried the moon next, a thin crescent pointing skyward, poised over the silhouette of a tobacco barn that jutted above an orange horizon seeping above the tree line. The pictures might not come out, but who cares? They might communicate the moment, if not the literal image. When we walk, after all, things look blurred at times as our head moves in opposition to our feet at varying speeds on uneven surfaces. So what exactly is literal, anyway?

No matter which way I walk to the river, the return from my walk brings me to town, where pedestrian electric light contrasts with moon and stars: the ghost-like reflections of television sets undulating on walls; the steady red eye beaming from a small metal box affixed to a telephone pole; warm, incandescent lights of kitchens and dining rooms as people sit down to eat. At this hour, I am straddling worlds — the semi-wilderness from which I return, and the human habitation at the end of my journey. I feel kinship with both; a double dose of longing, and belonging.

Once back on Maple Street, I heard a car slow down and stop behind me. It seemed an odd place to pull over, between driveways, but I just kept walking, not bothering to look around.

A minute later, the car went slowly past me, and once again came to a stop by the side of the road. Perhaps the driver was lost and, having searched a map unsuccessfully a moment ago, was going to ask me for directions. Or perhaps, I thought, remembering being hassled at night in small towns sometimes as a teenager, someone was going to give me hard time. Either way, I didn’t feel much like talking.

The door opened, and the driver slowly got out as I neared the car. But instead of looking toward me, he turned and faced the direction I was going, took something from his coat pocket, and pointed it at the sky.

It was a digital camera. He, too, was still shooting, aiming to capture the sliver of a moon in the deepening indigo evening. I opened my mouth to offer encouragement, but closed it before speaking. A picture says a thousand words.

Mud Season Redux

It’s quarter of one on a Saturday afternoon in March, and I’m ready for a nap. I’ve been up since five, as our still-young dog, Molly, apparently miscalculated and had to get up to pee. By the time I am dressed and stand with her outside, I no longer feel sleepy, so I stay awake, but it is catching up with me now. With Molly, too—she is curled up on the sofa fast asleep—and my housemate, who has a bad cold and, after a restless night, has wisely gone back to bed.

I’ve been paying bills, which always leaves me feeling stressed out, even after a good night’s rest. It’s vaguely satisfying to know that everyone has been paid, but the effort leaves my head spinning. It’s time to lie down or take a walk.

With temperatures in the low 40s, gusty winds and gray skies, it seems like a no-brainer: take the nap. But the weekend forecast calls for heavy rain, and it is only sprinkling now. Between this morning’s rain and what is predicted, this may be my best window of opportunity. That angelic-looking dog will be totally wired when she wakes up in a few hours if she does not get some exercise. So I chose to walk.

In certain respects the landscape now resembles the starkness of the Cape Cod dunes. At first you feel as if you are in a world of a few broad, monochromatic bands. But once you have been there awhile, your eyes adjust like night vision, and you see details within each band you missed upon first or second glance.

At a distance, it looks as if a fine red scrim drapes the leafless trees. The blue foothills of the Berkshires are shades of purple and slate gray. The dead grasses covering the fields, dull and uninspiring in sunlight, are a vivid gold, as an ember glows brightly before expiring.

Along the perimeter of the fields, a profusion of maroon and pink blackberry canes arch gracefully in every direction, inspiration and a crude model, perhaps, for the invention of fireworks. I have no doubt that the abstract shapes and lines I paint have their origin in nature.

Rain at this time of year does a better job at coaxing green from the earth than the sun—it always looks brighter after a spring shower. Today is no exception. The fields are noticeably greener than during the previous week of sunny weather.

The earth is deceptively solid in places, like a breached whale before it descends back into the murky depths. It won’t last. Before the end of the walk, some of last week’s puddles have already reappeared and, if the forecast holds true, Monday the land will be submerged again.

While the whale-backed field will temporarily disappear, the flotsam remains. A sea of beer, bottled water and Gatorade is consumed in and around these fields, and their detritus is everywhere. In addition to the cans and bottles, there is industrial waste, from tires to plastic jugs to rusting metal. There are abandoned mattresses, and appliances: a refrigerator, an air conditioner, a toxic computer left, not to rot—they are made of too much plastic and non-biodegradable material—but to permanently (or as close as we know it) scar the landscape.

Many of us experience odd moments when we feel like aliens. My friend Peter, a casual sports fan, tried to make conversation at a Super Bowl party a few years ago, in between plays and during the ads. The dismayed gathering mostly ignored him, and at that instant, he knew he was an alien. There are many places this awareness can happen in modern America (like fast food restaurants, or watching television).

That’s how I experience this garbage. I just don’t get it. It’s not judgmental; I simply cannot understand why anyone would be so careless or indifferent as to violate the beauty of this space. This cavalier attitude is foreign, er, alien to me.

But the world here is too big for the trash to ruin my experience. Lately, my partner and I have become members of a silent resistance, bringing trash bags with us on many of these walks and hauling out as much of this junk as we can carry. It may not amount to much, but it feels better to be engaged than passive

The elements, though, are too daunting for that today.

I reach the end of the dike and pause at the river before turning toward home. The wind now is in my face, and the rain has picked up, needling my cheeks. I have to keep my head down and hold on to my hat. Before long water is dripping from its brim, my glasses are spotted with raindrops, and my hands are red with cold. The wind in my ears is a constant roar; when it briefly lets up now and then it merely allows me to hear it blowing further away, through the trees or across the river.

Molly is unaffected. To her, this could be the most beautiful day of the year. She runs around in mad circles, chases the birds wherever they land, sniffs everything in sight. I see a muskrat swimming in the Mill River, am startled by the brightness of a bluebird. There are deer prints in the mud near the river. Three stoic Hereford cattle lie chewing their cuds, two beneath a lean-to, one in the rain. Until I am back in town, these are the only living creatures I encounter.

The rain lets up once I am on Main Street. We walk swiftly home. Once there, I take a long nap.

Mud Season

As certain as lambs being born or maple trees being tapped for sap, in New England the transition from winter to spring is marked by mud season. Depending on the amount of snowpack that has to melt and the amount of new precipitation that falls during this time period, the season can last for six weeks or more, from mid-February into April.

Mud season is generally an underappreciated time of year, for several reasons. It is often cold, or windy, so hat and gloves must remain handy. On even warm days, winds can gust or temperatures plummet, making you wish you had brought the extra layer that seemed superfluous when you started out.

The earth stinks—literally—a stench so foul and putrid in places that it borders on dead animal. The earth is a giant stewpot of rotting grasses, sweating off months of inactivity and ice to prepare the soil for the new life to emerge. Mud season is wet and dirty, as its name implies. You can’t go anywhere off road without having to slog through an unpredictable and unstable sheet of mud.

It helps to have a dog at this time of year, as they embody the truism that there is no such thing as a bad walk. To dogs, walking is as essential as oxygen, supplying sensory nourishment to their brains that they digest like kibble for hours afterward deep in sleep, reliving each step, occasionally twitching their eyelids or legs.

Most dogs are, at least, indifferent to mud. The vast majority relishes it. Their communion with the planet’s surface in all weathers is how they know they are alive.

With or without a dog, if you accept the traces of cold, register, if not actually enjoy, the smells (the odors, after all, help locate us in this particular time and place), and develop a short-term tolerance for the awkward and somewhat unpleasant sensation of your feet sliding through mud, mud season has a quiet beauty.

There is the exercise, of course, true of any walk, but a little more demanding and involving more muscle groups at this time of year due to the shifting ooze beneath your feet. You can’t take balance for granted.

A mud season walk brings a fresh experience of sun and air after a winter spent mostly indoors, a return of color to your cheeks. It brings a heightened awareness of the natural world, including not just the returning geese, ducks and other migrating fowl, but also the local bluebirds, skunk and possum. Since so many people avoid it, the muddy walk offers an extra measure of solitude, increasingly hard to find, and a silent camaraderie (if you walk with someone, and/or bring a dog).

Mostly, though, mud season provides a uniquely compelling experience of the earth. It is a wet world, filled with puddles and vernal ponds and rushing streams that will vanish by spring or early summer. Most last only a few days.

When you walk through the fields at dawn or dusk at this time of year, the quality of light is unparalleled, reflected off of a thousand bodies of water ranging in size from a tennis ball to several acres, mirroring sunlight in dazzling shades of peach, crimson, blue, yellow, orange and purple. At times it is as if you are not mired in mud, but floating on a speckled sea.

So unlace those mud-caked boots by the back door, and towel down that wet, dirty dog before letting her back inside. It’s part of the ritual. You never regret a walk, I like to say, and that is especially true during mud season. If the rare beauty doesn’t move you, there’s always the prospect of some fresh maple syrup waiting inside.

Andy of Mayberry, compulsive liar

Andy Taylor is a liar. Seriously. I’ve been watching episodes of the show evenings this winter, from its early black-and-white days featuring Barney Fife to its four-color evolution with prominent roles for a cast of small-town characters: the frumpy, fastidious worrywart Aunt Bea, the earnest, fastidious accountant Howard Sprague, the fastidious school teacher Helen Crump (Andy’s bland girlfriend), and two goofballs: Floyd the barber, and Goober. Andy is a constant, of course, as is his son, Opie.

Several of these characters can be annoying or uncomfortable to watch at times, especially Aunt Bea, Goober and Helen Crump. Aunt Bea can’t relax, and Goober is so stupid at times it is painful rather than funny. And Helen—what writer came up with the name of “Crump?” What stylist that butch haircut? She brings little to the table other than a bland pleasantness. Her “romance” with Andy is tepid, she’s neither beautiful nor funny; most of the time she seems no more important to the story than a piece of furniture. When she is featured on occasion, it is usually to be petty, jealous or untrusting of Andy.

With good reason. Almost every episode revolves around some deceit by that man—the sheriff, no less! He is always lying: to Helen, about that blonde attorney he spent the day with in Mount Pilot, or his old high school flame (the two of them couldn’t sleep and met up in the woods in the middle of the night, but of course it was all on the up-and-up). They make up at the end of the episodes, but the stories pivot on Andy’s conviction that Helen will be unable to handle the truth.

Andy lies to Aunt Bea about Opie visiting the sheriff’s office after school, against her wishes, or about who is doing the cooking and cleaning when Aunt Bea makes one of her rare trips out of town. These are presented as harmless, even humorous “white lies,” as acceptable ways to avoid conflict.

Andy manipulates his friends to get them to overcome their petty grievances, getting Aunt Bea and her friend Clara to make up after an acrimonious vacation to Mexico, or tricking Barney or Goober, Floyd and Howard by pretending to take the side of the bad guys (a developer who wants to evict a family, a barbershop franchise that briefly takes over Floyd’s homey shop) to get his desired outcome. The businessman castigates Andy for being cruel and reverses his position, allowing the family to stay; landlord Howard and tenant Floyd agree to split a proposed rent increase so Floyd can remain on Main Street, angrily chiding Andy for failing to see the role of the shop as a community meeting place. Andy takes the heat and smirks when they look away, his secret preserved.

The themes of lying and deception dominate. Barney is terrified of a criminal on the loose and through a series of slapstick moves manages to apprehend him, and Andy conspires to make it look like Barney was a brave hero, so as not to wound his ego. The town is filled with simpletons, er, simple folk. When people complain that Barney is acting too officious, a straight-faced Andy starts telling everyone that he’s going to fire Barney and bring in a replacement, and hearing this the townspeople rally to Barney’s defense. Aunt Bea fools one potential suitor (a clergyman, no less!) by wearing a wig, and pretends to be a “swinger” to turn away another.

These lies are presented as incidental to stories that on the surface appear to be about people’s good hearts and pure intentions, about a close-knit community where everyone pulls together. But even when the virtue of honesty is the theme of an episode—like the one in which Opie breaks a bottle of perfume at the drugstore where he works, and pays a fortune to replace it rather than own up—the moral is undermined by the show’s compulsive lying. The resolution of this supposedly clear-cut tale is compromised when, to make Opie feel better, the store’s owner breaks a bottle of perfume deliberately when Opie is not looking. One lie begets another, but all in a good cause.

No one talks to each other in this supposedly warm portrayal of small-town America. People routinely are dishonest, and Andy is unwilling to treat his friends or family as equals, condescending to them, treating them like children. The town father as sheriff knows best. But his benevolent hand requires constant deception, and he pays an unacknowledged price. For all the laughs and despite appearances, Andy leads an emotionally empty life—there is no one worthy of his respect, no one his equal.

This originally appeared in the 2004 Margie: The American Journal of Poetry:

Fathers In Black-And-White

I was raised in black-and-white.

My father often worked,

seldom spoke, but furnished me with a TV.

Dick Van Dyke

What an athlete.

See him tumble and get right back up—

in suit and tie!

Handsome as a geek, proof that goofballs

can get great jobs and a beautiful wife.

Perry Mason

Raymond Burr.

One’s an actor. One’s a lawyer,

carrying justice on his broad shoulders.

People murder to cover themselves.

People murder for love.

People murder over family wealth.

It doesn’t matter.

Perry unmasks them with his dagger eyes, his tidal voice,

always taking the exact same time.

My father always worked,

never spoke, but provided me their teachings.

Ward Cleaver

Thinks like a cleaver. Acts like a cleaver.

Cleaves his sons. Cleaves his wife.

Ward seems like an easy-going guy.

Just don’t get on his bad side.

Andy of Mayberry

Bit of a hayseed, but always does the right thing,

even when it’s hard, saving Barney Fife from his stupidity,

answering when his bird of a boy shrieks, “Pa!” Pa!”

He doesn’t like locking anyone up

in his harmless birdcage,

but will if he has to.

That’s his job. That’s the law.

My father sometimes watched with me,

but let them do his talking.