A Christmas Letter (2008)
Ever hopeful that this may be the first of a series of annual Christmas, New Years, Spring letters (hey, it’s only February, May) I embark on this journey despite the realization that the chance of actually completing this adventure is pretty slim. Still, hope springs eternal.
The attached letter actually began as a response to a wonderful letter from Sharon prior to Christmas where she surmised (correctly) that we too had signed up for the New Austerity program offered to everyone in this country by the demise of rational thought on the part of ‘the smartest guys in the room’, then watched “with great humor as our life savings followed Lehman Brothers down the toilet”, and were now happily signing up for the latest universal health care programs and economic stimulus plans from Congress designed to keep us all active and healthy by removing even the notion of anything as sedentary as retirement.
Her ruminations that the emergence of this ‘new economy’ is actually extremely fortuitous, providing an opportunity to set aside personal goals and ambitions, and embark on a personal ‘character building’ opportunity not offered extensively in this country since the Great Depression, are a wonderful testament to our mother’s eternal optimism.
Briefly flirting with the notion of a more insular approach to this current economy Sharon offered a possible alternative involving a potato farm, perhaps in Idaho, where we might collectively draw on our vast skills and knowledge of rural farming to begin life anew. Sign me up!
Sharon,
Other families not so genetically predisposed toward this potentially ruinous crop, may not see the beauty in your potato farm idea. We however, believe it has great merit! We would of course have to spend a few minutes learning how to actually grow something, but how hard could that be?!
In light of having spent our formative years developing the “lightning harvest” method of gathering potatoes from a paper sack in a darkened cellar, and having consequently exhausted much of our childhood in pursuit of the land speed record for ascending a flight of cellar stairs while simultaneously honing our negotiating skills (apparently successfully) with the resident boogey-man, perhaps “extensive farming experience” might be viewed as padding the resume. However it had been my sincere hope that this experience and subsequent lessons would have proven a sufficient developer of character to see me through the rest of this life. And yet here we are, still apparently needing yet a few further ‘evening classes’ in character improvement. Still, it seems somewhat apparent that this potato farming thing must truly be the root of our DNA, if not the sole source of our outstanding character.
Hunting and Gathering
As a matter of fact Cathy and I were just discussing such a venture. We’ve spent some time looking at a place in eastern Washington as a possible retirement home. The town of Cle Elum, WA (population 1,723) just east of the Cascade Mountains was, until recently, second runner-up after Chiang-Mai on our ‘best places to retire’ list. This area in fact had many thriving potato farms at the turn of the century. It also had coal mines until that wasn’t a nice thing to do anymore, a robust logging industry until that was determined to be politically incorrect, and an astonishing number of mink ranches (farms?) until that wasn’t cool anymore either. So now it has, well, nothing…which I guess is why we like it so much.
So here’s this great house (it was built as the main house for what was at the time planned to be a bed and breakfast) surrounded by 20 acres of land, on a forested hillside overlooking the Yakima River valley with the Stuart Mountain range on the horizon. The original Bat Masterson homestead (remember the 1950’s TV western?) is just down the road. Astonishingly huge herds of elk traipse back and forth through the woods around the house to access the river below.
It would be the perfect place to circle the family Winnebegos in September when the cottonwoods turn gold, and the heady musk of yarrow lingers over the potato fields. This could be the perfect retreat for an annual fortnight celebrating the potato harvest at the new “Gib”, spent separating rocks from potatoes, tall tales from the truth and the devil from our Irish whiskey. (Gib of course is short for Gibraltar as the endearing nickname for the rock strewn Killarney farm in Aunt Mary’s memoir) As you suggest, with the economic future looking increasingly bleak this literal approach of moving “back to our roots” has great appeal.
It could of course also become the site of the new ‘Hooverville’; a shanty town built on the edge of our soon to be urban economic dustbowl as a literal retreat from the 21st century where we could all reminisce about our collective expulsion from the garden of eden and that long lost American attribute once referred to as ‘character’.
Given the dominant culture in Cle Elum however, in addition to the potato ranching we may also need to learn how to hunt. Having apparently misspent much of my life in other pursuits, I’m now informed that this is a required social skill here much like clam digging is in Boston, only with somewhat bigger guns. On any autumn Sunday morning the trees along the residential streets are festooned with deer carcasses, swinging like so many church bells along the parking strip in front of the homes. Maybe it’s the place, perhaps it’s my age, but although I don’t remember this particular seasonal ritual on the streets of Boston, it somehow doesn’t seem out of place here. Although I’m not sure I would be fully in communion with this congregation, perhaps it’s time to embrace a more ecumenical perspective of life.
“Vegan”, the menu at the local restaurant informs me, is actually an old Yakima Indian word meaning “bad at hunting”. This may partially explain the dominance of Idaho, and not Cle Elum in the french-fry index of our global economy. Still, crashing thru the woods in plaid, day-glow orange hats in pursuit of dinner, is perhaps just the natural progression from dashing up the cellar stairs while being pursued for dinner.
Still hunting, less actual gathering.
And yes, just as we thought our aim was improving and we were beginning to land a few retirement-destination-darts with a decisive and satisfying thud on our world map, our darts gradually began falling farther and farther short of their intended destination. We realized eventually and to our great consternation that not only did subsequent darts fail to reach the map, but even ones that were once firmly affixed, were now falling to the floor.
We picked up Chiang Mai from the debris beneath the map, smoothed her ruffled tail feathers and placed her plans for the exotic Thai guest house back in the box. The dart for Luong Prabong whose once promising guide service to Ankor Wat and the temples of northern Cambodia now lies somewhat tarnished next to the dart marking our kora of Mt Kailash. The boisterous Buddha Bar in Uttar Pradesh for the moment, lies quietly next to the annual retreat and renewal at the ghats in Varanasi. The bike trip from Lhasa to Kathmandu is now lined up neatly next to the Corcovado tent camp in the Osa Penninsula. Bathing in the fabled glow of the rose-fingered dawn over the battlements of ancient Troy, waits patiently next to the ruins of Ephesus and the caves of Cappadocia.
So we’ll spend the next few years earnestly sharpening our darts, kept vigilant by the hot breath of remembrance on the back of our necks whispering urgently the story of two fathers who also had retirement plans at a similar age, and who somehow came up short.
Hunting and Hunting
Aaron is doing well. Last January he took over the Collections department at Ben Bridge Jewelers which has been a good move for him and he has done well. He seems pretty happy. The girl friends come and go. Cathy is steadfast in her vigilance to maintain the maternal pressure at full steam for him to stop running around, find a nice girl and settle down. He is equally dutiful in maintaining his independence, swiftly and confidently parrying any notion of domesticity.
Aaron’s vision is down to just a few degrees. I sometimes sense a rising panic, a smoldering fear just below the surface. He calls more often now. He lingers longer in the car when I drive him home. He wants to talk, but always about other things. Not about him. Not about his blindness. Always a positive outlook.
The cataracts that seem so be so pervasive with many of these retinal diseases, tend to cloud his remaining vision, but he has just an amazingly positive attitude. He adapts well. He’s extremely resourceful. He’s very engaging. Has a delightful sense of humor and a very quick wit. People instantly like him. He’s maintained his mobility and his independence and he’s an absolute joy to be with. We try to spend time together, try to see as much as we can. Coordinating schedules to be able to do that of course becomes more and more difficult. I can’t imagine why but apparently spending time with friends often takes priority over spending time with Mom and Dad.
Still, in the past few years we’ve managed to do a few father and son trips. We hiked the Grand Canyon and then stumbled our way through Las Vegas (talk about a trip full of contrasts!). We’ve sniffed and swilled our way through the champagne and wine regions of France, circumnavigated Ireland, checked in at the family farm in Killarney and struggled with the language barrier through most of England. We rode the Iron Rooster to the remote hill towns of Bac Ha and Lao Cai on the Chinese border, sipped rice wine or kerosene (we still don’t know which) in Sapa, ate fermented fish in Hanoi, sailed Halong Bay, wet our toes in the South China Sea and celebrated New Years in Ho Chi Minh City. This year we will immerse ourselves in the remarkable poetry of Rumi, and awaken each morning to the call to prayers, as we all celebrate the Christmas holidays together in Istanbul.
When Aaron was in high school and was diagnosed with Retinitis-Pigmentosa, we were told that he would be completely blind before he was thirty. He’s now 32, still has some good central vision left, and we all try to be thankful for, and celebrate all that we have. Which is a lot. Ever hopeful for a cure, ever hunting for a separate peace.
Gathering and Gathering
Cathy is constantly in motion. President of this volunteer organization or that, flying off to LA or other destinations for board meetings or to receive leadership awards, she is always involved. She is the rock of the family, although she’ll tell you differently, she is what keeps us all grounded.
We are all well here, despite occasional protests to the contrary. Cathy still postpones her knee replacement even though she now comes full circle if she tries to walk 100 yards in a straight line. She had some other surgery done in Mumbai a couple of years ago, so we may go back there or take a summer medical hiatus elsewhere this year and get matching knees to compliment our matching Christmas sweaters. Medical tourism! A scourge and a blessing. Frightening and fascinating. Often like the bar scene in the original Star Wars; Saudi Sheiks and African Princes, Burmese generals and Kansas housewives, all sitting around recuperating together and discussing the intimate details of their ordeals. It truly is a new world.
Cathy turned 60 on Friday, and I will follow obediently in the coming year. As I find myself increasingly surrounded by people burdened by this gathering of years, I find myself increasingly aware of just how brief this walk in the sun truly is, and the necessity of coming to terms with how I have spent these years, and of course how I will engage the ones yet to come. (I’ll send another e-mail if I come to any startling conclusions!)
I re-encountered W.B. Yeats poem “Sailing To Byzantium” over the Christmas holiday. Like so many things that I cast disparagingly aside in youth, (religion, reason, pistachio ice cream…) and re-encountered decades later, I find myself almost continuously re-born to old notions and ideas, now somehow perceived in a new light. An extraordinary observation on the intersection of mortality, art, and spirituality, Yeat’s poem, so vaguely morose and obscure 40 years ago, now seems almost astonishingly insightful, and exceedingly personal.
Still Hunting and Gathering
Our business is (for the moment) still doing well given the state of the world. It’s all relative of course. “Flat” is the new “up” as someone said the other day. We ended the year down just under 2% in volume but with a slight rise in our profit margin. Not a remarkable performance, but better than many. The collapse of big businesses, to say nothing of entire governments, is staggering. The number of small businesses that are beginning to fail around us is sobering. There was a card shop just two stores down from us that closed it’s doors last week. She posted a small card on her now papered over windows: “Life is hard sometimes. I recommend that you get a manicure and a really cute helmet”.
I think this is just the beginning. We’ve done a lot to try to position ourselves for the coming year and we will continue (we’ve kept the sandbags in reserve). The coming year(s) will be, if nothing else, at least memorable (and will add perhaps a few check marks to our character building scorecard!).
A study conducted by Dr. Haviland-Jones at Rutgers University a few years ago found that the presence of flowers in homes and businesses made people more sociable, more productive, engendered a higher level of enjoyment and life satisfaction, and significantly reduced the stress levels in most people’s lives. I can’t think of a better time to send flowers!
I hope this letter finds you well. My apologies for the endless ramble.
Love to all,
February 28, 2009
Sharon,
Other families not so genetically predisposed toward this potentially ruinous crop, may not see the beauty in your potato farm idea. We however, believe it has great merit! We would of course have to spend a few minutes learning how to actually grow something, but how hard could that be?!
In light of having spent our formative years developing the “lightning harvest” method of gathering potatoes from a paper sack in a darkened cellar, and having consequently exhausted much of our childhood in pursuit of the land speed record for ascending a flight of cellar stairs while simultaneously honing our negotiating skills (apparently successfully) with the resident boogey-man, perhaps “extensive farming experience” might be viewed as padding the resume. However it had been my sincere hope that this experience and subsequent lessons would have proven a sufficient developer of character to see me through the rest of this life. And yet here we are, still apparently needing yet a few further ‘evening classes’ in character improvement. Still, it seems somewhat apparent that this potato farming thing must truly be the root of our DNA, if not the sole source of our outstanding character.
As a matter of fact Cathy and I were just discussing such a venture. We’ve spent some time looking at a place in eastern Washington as a possible retirement home. The town of Cle Elum, WA (population 1,723) just east of the Cascade Mountains was, until recently, second runner-up after Chiang-Mai on our ‘best places to retire’ list. This area in fact had many thriving potato farms at the turn of the century. It also had coal mines until that wasn’t a nice thing to do anymore, a robust logging industry until that was determined to be politically incorrect, and an astonishing number of mink ranches (farms?) until that wasn’t cool anymore either. So now it has, well, nothing…which I guess is why we like it so much.
So here’s this great house (it was built as the main house for what was at the time planned to be a bed and breakfast) surrounded by 20 acres of land, on a forested hillside overlooking the Yakima River valley with the Stuart Mountain range on the horizon. The original Bat Masterson homestead (remember the 1950’s TV western?) is just down the road. Astonishingly huge herds of elk traipse back and forth through the woods around the house to access the river below.
It would be the perfect place to circle the family Winnebegos in September when the cottonwoods turn gold, and the heady musk of yarrow lingers over the potato fields. This could be the perfect retreat for an annual fortnight celebrating the potato harvest at the new “Gib”, spent separating rocks from potatoes, tall tales from the truth and the devil from our Irish whiskey. (Gib of course is short for Gibraltar as the endearing nickname for the rock strewn Killarney farm in Aunt Mary’s memoir) As you suggest, with the economic future looking increasingly bleak this literal approach of moving “back to our roots” has great appeal.
It could of course also become the site of the new ‘Hooverville’; a shanty town built on the edge of our soon to be urban economic dustbowl as a literal retreat from the 21st century where we could all reminisce about our collective expulsion from the garden of eden and that long lost American attribute once referred to as ‘character’.
Given the dominant culture in Cle Elum however, in addition to the potato ranching we may also need to learn how to hunt. Having apparently misspent much of my life in other pursuits, I’m now informed that this is a required social skill here much like clam digging is in Boston, only with somewhat bigger guns. On any autumn Sunday morning the trees along the residential streets are festooned with deer carcasses, swinging like so many church bells along the parking strip in front of the homes. Maybe it’s the place, perhaps it’s my age, but although I don’t remember this particular seasonal ritual on the streets of Boston, it somehow doesn’t seem out of place here. Although I’m not sure I would be fully in communion with this congregation, perhaps it’s time to embrace a more ecumenical perspective of life.
“Vegan”, the menu at the local restaurant informs me, is actually an old Yakima Indian word meaning “bad at hunting”. This may partially explain the dominance of Idaho, and not Cle Elum in the french-fry index of our global economy. Still, crashing thru the woods in plaid, day-glow orange hats in pursuit of dinner, is perhaps just the natural progression from dashing up the cellar stairs while being pursued for dinner.
And yes, just as we thought our aim was improving and we were beginning to land a few retirement-destination-darts with a decisive and satisfying thud on our world map, our darts gradually began falling farther and farther short of their intended destination. We realized eventually and to our great consternation that not only did subsequent darts fail to reach the map, but even ones that were once firmly affixed, were now falling to the floor.
We picked up Chiang Mai from the debris beneath the map, smoothed her ruffled tail feathers and placed her plans for the exotic Thai guest house back in the box. The dart for Luong Prabong whose once promising guide service to Ankor Wat and the temples of northern Cambodia now lies somewhat tarnished next to the dart marking our kora of Mt Kailash. The boisterous Buddha Bar in Uttar Pradesh for the moment, lies quietly next to the annual retreat and renewal at the ghats in Varanasi. The bike trip from Lhasa to Kathmandu is now lined up neatly next to the Corcovado tent camp in the Osa Penninsula. Bathing in the fabled glow of the rose-fingered dawn over the battlements of ancient Troy, waits patiently next to the ruins of Ephesus and the caves of Cappadocia.
So we’ll spend the next few years earnestly sharpening our darts, kept vigilant by the hot breath of remembrance on the back of our necks whispering urgently the story of two fathers who also had retirement plans at a similar age, and who somehow came up short.
Aaron is doing well. Last January he took over the Collections department at Ben Bridge Jewelers which has been a good move for him and he has done well. He seems pretty happy. The girl friends come and go. Cathy is steadfast in her vigilance to maintain the maternal pressure at full steam for him to stop running around, find a nice girl and settle down. He is equally dutiful in maintaining his independence, swiftly and confidently parrying any notion of domesticity.
Aaron’s vision is down to just a few degrees. I sometimes sense a rising panic, a smoldering fear just below the surface. He calls more often now. He lingers longer in the car when I drive him home. He wants to talk, but always about other things. Not about him. Not about his blindness. Always a positive outlook.
The cataracts that seem so be so pervasive with many of these retinal diseases, tend to cloud his remaining vision, but he has just an amazingly positive attitude. He adapts well. He’s extremely resourceful. He’s very engaging. Has a delightful sense of humor and a very quick wit. People instantly like him. He’s maintained his mobility and his independence and he’s an absolute joy to be with. We try to spend time together, try to see as much as we can. Coordinating schedules to be able to do that of course becomes more and more difficult. I can’t imagine why but apparently spending time with friends often takes priority over spending time with Mom and Dad.
Still, in the past few years we’ve managed to do a few father and son trips. We hiked the Grand Canyon and then stumbled our way through Las Vegas (talk about a trip full of contrasts!). We’ve sniffed and swilled our way through the champagne and wine regions of France, circumnavigated Ireland, checked in at the family farm in Killarney and struggled with the language barrier through most of England. We rode the Iron Rooster to the remote hill towns of Bac Ha and Lao Cai on the Chinese border, sipped rice wine or kerosene (we still don’t know which) in Sapa, ate fermented fish in Hanoi, sailed Halong Bay, wet our toes in the South China Sea and celebrated New Years in Ho Chi Minh City. This year we will immerse ourselves in the remarkable poetry of Rumi, and awaken each morning to the call to prayers, as we all celebrate the Christmas holidays together in Istanbul.
When Aaron was in high school and was diagnosed with Retinitis-Pigmentosa, we were told that he would be completely blind before he was thirty. He’s now 32, still has some good central vision left, and we all try to be thankful for, and celebrate all that we have. Which is a lot. Ever hopeful for a cure, ever hunting for a separate peace.
Cathy is constantly in motion. President of this volunteer organization or that, flying off to LA or other destinations for board meetings or to receive leadership awards, she is always involved. She is the rock of the family, although she’ll tell you differently, she is what keeps us all grounded.
We are all well here, despite occasional protests to the contrary. Cathy still postpones her knee replacement even though she now comes full circle if she tries to walk 100 yards in a straight line. She had some other surgery done in Mumbai a couple of years ago, so we may go back there or take a summer medical hiatus elsewhere this year and get matching knees to compliment our matching Christmas sweaters. Medical tourism! A scourge and a blessing. Frightening and fascinating. Often like the bar scene in the original Star Wars; Saudi Sheiks and African Princes, Burmese generals and Kansas housewives, all sitting around recuperating together and discussing the intimate details of their ordeals. It truly is a new world.
Cathy turned 60 on Friday, and I will follow obediently in the coming year. As I find myself increasingly surrounded by people burdened by this gathering of years, I find myself increasingly aware of just how brief this walk in the sun truly is, and the necessity of coming to terms with how I have spent these years, and of course how I will engage the ones yet to come. (I’ll send another e-mail if I come to any startling conclusions!)
I re-encountered W.B. Yeats poem “Sailing To Byzantium” over the Christmas holiday. Like so many things that I cast disparagingly aside in youth, (religion, reason, pistachio ice cream…) and re-encountered decades later, I find myself almost continuously re-born to old notions and ideas, now somehow perceived in a new light. An extraordinary observation on the intersection of mortality, art, and spirituality, Yeat’s poem, so vaguely morose and obscure 40 years ago, now seems almost astonishingly insightful, and exceedingly personal.
Our business is (for the moment) still doing well given the state of the world. It’s all relative of course. “Flat” is the new “up” as someone said the other day. We ended the year down just under 2% in volume but with a slight rise in our profit margin. Not a remarkable performance, but better than many. The collapse of big businesses, to say nothing of entire governments, is staggering. The number of small businesses that are beginning to fail around us is sobering. There was a card shop just two stores down from us that closed it’s doors last week. She posted a small card on her now papered over windows: “Life is hard sometimes. I recommend that you get a manicure and a really cute helmet”.
I think this is just the beginning. We’ve done a lot to try to position ourselves for the coming year and we will continue (we’ve kept the sandbags in reserve). The coming year(s) will be, if nothing else, at least memorable (and will add perhaps a few check marks to our character building scorecard!).
A study conducted by Dr. Haviland-Jones at Rutgers University a few years ago found that the presence of flowers in homes and businesses made people more sociable, more productive, engendered a higher level of enjoyment and life satisfaction, and significantly reduced the stress levels in most people’s lives. I can’t think of a better time to send flowers!
I hope this letter finds you well. My apologies for the endless ramble.
Love to all,
- Bill
No comments:
Post a Comment