W i n t e r W h e a t :: [Supplemental]

 

Songs :: Rock My Soul by Elvin Bishop, Copperline by James Taylor, and I Remember Everything by John Prine

© C. Davidson

A Canopy of Trees

 

Maui Hideout

After decades of marriage, we finally made time for a honeymoon and found ourselves elevated high above the jungle floor because our rental was built on piers. The ground below us sloped through the jungle towards open pasture and volcanic beaches. It felt like an exotic, well-appointed tree house with a view of the ocean and the hazy profile of Moloka’i. I’d never been to Hawaii before. My wife had, friends and relatives had told me about their vacations, adventures on mopeds and even a yearlong residence in Honolulu. After our arrival in Kahului on Maui, we picked up our rental car, some dinner, groceries for our stay, and headed to the Airbnb not far off the Hana Highway. We parked in the designated pullout, grabbed all our stuff, and followed the narrow jungle path across a small red bridge lit with string lights. We dropped everything off and explored the place before discovering a red dirt road that led to a lush green meadow, strong warm winds, and cows that greeted us at the fence line. It was getting dark, and the shore was very rugged, so we stopped where we were and soaked in the view.

The next afternoon we drove to the town of Makawao in Upcountry on the northwest slope of Haleakala and wandered through the small shops, found lunch and a spot to eat that looked towards the ocean. Regardless of how close it was, whether waves lapped at my feet, or we snorkeled in it, or it was just a distant silver band, the ocean always framed everything. I looked inward too—into the dense jungle, the waterfall pools my wife swam in, and the black sand beach that glittered like diamond dust.

After we finished our lunch, we wandered through town a bit more, spent time in a glass gallery and then drove higher up the slope passing through pastures spotted with black volcanic boulders, pineapple fields, tropical flowers, and palm tree groves. The steep road eventually switch-backed through the clouds until we reached the summit. After parking and reading signs about the climate and geology, we hiked a mile into the caldera before turning around because we remembered what the park ranger had said about hiking in this vast landscape at ten thousand feet. The crater is eleven to three miles wide on average and the trail gradually descends two-thousand feet. Sometimes tourists wearing flip flops and board shorts underestimate the distance, altitude, and their fitness and hike five or six miles in, then become stranded and need to be rescued because they can’t make it back out.

Maui is comprised of two shield volcanoes, and we were on top of the biggest one. When we spoke with the ranger about its geology, I asked him if there was a threat they could explode someday like Mount Saint Helens did. He said it’s unlikely they’d ever become active in our lifetime and if they did, they wouldn’t explode, they’d ooze. After a few hours in the caldera and on the summit, we drove back down and stopped at a botanical garden where the smells were thick like pollen. We explored it for a while and ended our day with dinner in Haliimaile and the Country Store—a large one-and-a-half story converted warehouse with wood floors and a large front porch. It came into existence because of the pineapple plantations that surround it and to serve the workers who lived nearby. It was past dusk, and the horizon was electric orange like there were distant fires somewhere. At our table, my wife’s face was lit by a cluster of candles next to a mason jar full of yellow hibiscus flowers.

Songs :: Lahaina by Loggins and Messina, Waterfront by Simple Minds, A Case of You by Joni Mitchell, Hot Sun by Wilco, and Gimme Shelter covered by Patti Smith

© C. Davidson

Expecting Too Much :: [Supplemental]

 

Songs :: Tangled Up In Blue by Bob Dylan, Thank You for Sending Me an Angel by Blondshell, Let’s Start by Fela Kuti

© C. Davidson

A Small Amount of Free Air

 

The Ironman Ride in April years ago provided three different overlapping loops—30, 60, or 100 miles. Each route was fully supported with frequent pit stops. Pit stops usually provide port-a-potties, park facility or school bathrooms, snacks, water, Gatorade, simple first aid supplies and sometimes mechanical assistance. It was gray and drizzling most of the day and I hadn’t ridden my bike since the previous Fall. I was out of shape and exhausted and struggled to make it to the 85-mile pit stop before I quit. When that happens, they have buses to transport riders and their bikes to the next pit stop, or back to the starting point.

I felt odd on the bus, during the drive home, and all evening long. I assumed it was dehydration, so I drank a lot of water but the next morning I felt worse. I was lucky to get a clinic appointment for the same day and the resulting blood work showed a high white cell count. There was an infection somewhere, so they prescribed an antibiotic and a muscle relaxer. Around midnight, an excruciating pain began in my rear-end, crawled between my legs, and settled in my abdomen like it was alive. It was overwhelming and after a few minutes stumbled upstairs to tell my wife something was wrong. She followed me back down and called the nurse hotline. While she was on the phone describing my situation, I went into the bathroom and stripped for some reason, then crawled out on my hands and knees and passed out. The nurse and my wife agreed the emergency room was necessary, so she called a neighbor and asked her to stay with our sleeping daughter while we were gone. She arrived within minutes, and we drove to the hospital where I remained for two weeks. 

They scanned me and the diagnosis was diverticulitis which can have a range of severity. They also discovered a colon perforation because there were visible bubbles of free air in the MRI. So, they flooded me with intravenous antibiotics, nutrients, and morphine hanging in bags next to me for the first six days. I drifted from one day and night to the next being tended to by countless doctors and nurses only aware of half of them. My wife asked me what I do all day and I said, “I have no idea.” Eventually we decided surgery was the best option which resulted in them removing ten inches of my colon. That was followed by five more days of recovery in the hospital before being released.

Around this time, our daughter took weekly piano lessons. During her lesson, I usually walked to a nearby coffee shop to get coffee for me and something for her. If the weather was nice, I’d relax outside, people watch, and sometimes call my mom for an update. As I leaned against the wall chatting with her, there was a loud explosion on the sidewalk just a few feet in front of me. “What was that?” my mom asked. It took me a few seconds to register what was happening inside the dust cloud and finally noticed a bike locked to a street sign had a flat rear tire. “Someone’s bike tire exploded,” I said. I’d seen it happen before but it’s a rare event because tubes are forgiving. Later that evening, I rode to the studio and after a few hours of working, there was a loud explosion at the other end of the space that made me jump. I had no idea what it was and walked over to see a flat rear tire because my tube blew too. I hadn’t had a flat in a very long time and had never had a tube explode. I attempted to patch it twice but couldn’t fix it. During my 3:00am cab ride home, I realized it was exactly one year to the day that my colon had ruptured.

Songs :: Everything In It’s Right Place by Radiohead, The Shape I’m In by The Band, Beng Beng Beng by Femi Kuti, Pump It Up by Elvis Costello, and Over (feat. Yebba) by Robert Glasper

© C. Davidson

Bighorn Flashback :: [Supplemental]

 

Into the Bighorn :: 2018

— — — — — — —

"I’m very solitary, that’s all . . . I can’t dismiss it. Inside, I’m very much in communication with a lot of people and things who absolutely don’t know I’m in communication with them." Jean-Luc Godard

— — — — — — —

Songs :: Rocky Mountain Way by Joe Walsh, Voices Inside My Head by The Police, Travelin’ Light by J.J. Cale, High and Dry by Radiohead, and These Shadows by Wooden Shjips

© C. Davidson

Lake Missoula

 

Glacial Calving :: Image – Video Still from Montana Natural Center

Potomac :: Image – Google Earth

The older I get the more nostalgic and emotional I’ve become. I think that’s common for a lot of people. My father and mother did and I’ve spoken with friends who are older too, and they’ve said the same thing. One has a daughter who left for her first year of college and for weeks afterwards he’d spend time in her old room every day because he missed her so much. I was surprised he told me about such intimate moments and relieved he did because I experienced that too. For months after our daughter left for her gap year to the other side of the world, I took much longer naps, welled with tears, told stories about her to anyone who’d listen, and made certain the plants she left behind were well tended.

As much as I’m nostalgic about people and animals, I’m just as nostalgic about places— places I’ve lived, read about, and some just briefly passed through. Places like Jordon, Montana where I refueled once, parts of Ohio, white sand beaches in Florida, and the drive into the Potomac east of Missoula with a sister and brother-in-law five decades ago. I hopped into the bed of the pick-up truck once we exited the highway and headed south deeper into the valley. The smell of pine and sweetgrass was fresh and the Doobie Brothers were loud enough for me to hear them playing in the cab. It was a perfect day and our trail of road dust through the lush green pastures revealed our path that led straight into the mountains and cooler air.

I spent a lot of time in Missoula during my youth, sometimes visiting for weeks. I heard the new Fleetwood Mac album in 1975 for the first time sitting on a couch at the Pine Palace house one summer. Fleetwood Mac was playing at the university field house the following night and everyone I knew in town was going. Halfway through the concert, I found myself on someone’s shoulders not far from the front of the stage and almost eye level with Stevie Nicks and Lindsay Buckingham. She wore a flowing white skirt, white top, tall boots, sleeves that looked like scarves, and a tambourine in one hand.

The railroad bridge we jumped off the next afternoon smelled of creosote and spanned the Clark Fork River. It was fast with rapids, ragged boulders, rocky beaches, and cottonwood trees along the shore. There was a deep green pool directly below the bridge and we were there to jump into it. We accessed the road level tracks high above the river and from there, shimmied up a diagonal timber truss to the top where we balanced ourselves. I squatted nervously there for at least ten minutes before gathering the courage to jump. Eventually I did and entered the water yelling feet first, then surfaced and dog paddled quickly to shore to avoid being swept downstream because I wasn’t a strong swimmer.

I didn’t know then that this valley I spent so much time in had been part of a giant two-thousand-foot-deep lake once and Mount Sentinel and Mount Jumbo were underwater. I didn’t realize that the horizontal lines etched on many of the foothills in the area were where Lake Missoula had once lapped against their shores as the water drained, and refilled dozens of times over thousands of years. It’s hard to comprehend the scope of those massive geological changes, but that history pales compared to the sweet thick aroma of herbs and teas my sister-in-law filled their houses with during the nineteen-seventies.

For Carol, Ray, Marilyn, Russ, Scott, Sharon, Tim, Vicki, Buck, Lindy, and various friends, friends of friends, and anonymous citizens of Missoula during the nineteen-seventies.

Songs :: Indian Summer by Joe Walsh, Show Me Some Affection by Dave Mason, South City Midnight Lady and Without You by The Doobie Brothers, Wooden Ships by Jefferson Airplane, See The Changes by Crosby, Stills & Nash, and the entire Fleetwood Mac album from 1975

© C. Davidson

Wisconsin :: [Supplemental]

 

Songs :: Everyday Life by Coldplay, Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show, Meadows by Joe Walsh, and Transcendental Blues by Steve Earle

© C. Davidson

T u l s a

 

Sometimes road trips are mostly functional, like distant errands, a rural work meeting, or to visit friends in Wisconsin. Other times they’re much longer like during vacations. All of them lift my mood and change my perspective, but the long ones can transform me. I’ve never finished a long road trip and felt it wasn’t a good thing to have done. There might have been times it felt hot and endless, sketchy, even risky, but I’ve always felt better afterwards because traveling through time and space always feels good. Carl Sagan, Stephen Hawking, Andrea Ghez, and other notable astrophysicists have spent their careers researching and informing us about spacetime, even floating weightless to show us how things change out there. Driving a car at interstate speeds won’t allow us to escape earth’s gravity, or slow the aging process, but it’s still time travel.

We were surprised to discover that Tulsa is almost due south from the Twin Cities, along with Des Moines and Kansas City. It’s a north-south corridor of the country that we hadn’t visited before. We arrived in West Des Moines at dinner time and ate Mediterranean food near the shore of a small city lake. Then drove to Kearney, Missouri north of Kansas City and spent the night. The next morning my wife woke early, had the continental breakfast, and walked the neighborhood while I slept in. We grabbed coffee and food at a Filipino kitchen located in a mall parking lot, drove into Kansas City, and ate on the enormous green lawn at the Nelson–Atkins Museum. She suggested we stop there when planning our trip and showed me their website. It’s a classic Beaux-Arts building from the early twentieth century and looks like other stately museums from that period. Then we noticed there was a modern addition to the museum as well, and it was designed by Steven Holl Architects, one of my favorite studios. After we finished lunch, we walked through a variety of gorgeous contemporary exhibitions inside the partially subterranean Bloch addition and then explored the grounds. Before leaving town, we drove by the nearby Kansas City Art Institute where professors I used to know had attended, then refueled, and gathered snacks before driving further south.

Visiting Tulsa has been on our road trip list for years. We have friends who moved there decades ago, and we’ve always wanted to visit them. We finally did and were able to spend part of an afternoon and evening touring the city, reminiscing, sharing stories about their dog Bailey, and eating Italian food for dinner. My wife became a virtual member of a church located there too and is more involved since the pandemic. She was overdue to visit her newest friends and colleagues in person, so it was the perfect trip to accomplish both. The night we arrived we drank wine with a new friend in their screened porch lined with party lights and candles, next to softly lit shrubs and trees that glimmered in the still blue pool. The community affirmed their affection for my wife and demonstrated that her place in Tulsa isn’t only virtual, it’s local too. She read a poem during services, we walked through the lush Gathering Place near the Arkansas River, visited the Greenwood District, followed multiple tornadoes north through Iowa, and finally arrived home where time felt different and noticeably compressed.

Songs :: Hello In There by John Prine, Like a Ship by Pastor T.L. Barrett & The Youth for Christ Choir, (Cross the) Heartland by Pat Metheny Group, Everyday People by Sly & The Family Stone, Can’t Find My Way Home by Steve Winwood, and Chinese Cafe/Unchained Melody by Joni Mitchell

© C. Davidson

Temptation :: [Supplemental]

 

Temptation

Songs :: I Didn’t Mean to Turn You On by Robert Palmer, Lowdown by Boz Scaggs, Hunger Strike by Temple of the Dog, Why Can’t I Touch It? by Buzzcocks, and Early Days by Paul McCartney

© C. Davidson

Places

 

She called me from the cabin and I could hear her friends’ voices in the background. I pictured them gathered in the kitchen laughing and talking over each other, some scattered, or sitting around the coffee table near the heavy stone fireplace working on a large puzzle.

I sipped afternoon coffee on our deck a thousand miles away behind the Goldenrod and Black-Eyed Susan’s growing next to me. The sun moved behind our broad green umbrella, while she told me about the events from her day and revelations about our relatives and their unlikely connection to her newest friends. Clouds passed between the umbrella and the sun, my coffee cooled, and I remembered when she was four and we talked through cans connected by a string while nesting in her fort built of sheets, blankets, and chairs. I’d always planned to re-imagine how we supported the fort. It could have been with thin nylon cords stretched tight from strategic locations in the room. It would expand the footprint and allow any breeze upstairs to move more easily through it. We lit the fort with two flashlights and one small battery lantern that caste shadows and shapes that moved and changed.

After we shut down her fort for the night, we usually read two books, both would have been from our usual rotation of dozens. One was often a longer Dr. Seuss book, or the one about the people who made doughnuts because the illustrations made us crave doughnuts, and sometimes we read Old Hasdrubal and the Pirates. I usually hid the later book at the bottom of her large piles of books after she fell asleep because I didn’t like to read it. I couldn’t pronounce the protagonist’s name easily, and I was uncomfortable with the story for some reason. I thought maybe she’d forget about it, but it would reappear the next night, or nights later because she’d found it. I didn’t admit I was hiding it until many years later. She never asked me where it was and didn’t admit looking for it every time she noticed its absence. Then we’d transition to her bed where she’d get settled in and I’d sat next to it. She’d reflect on her day, and sometimes we told each other one of the stories we’d invented. We might alter and embellish them depending on our mood, or If one of us had something significant happen during the day, we might introduce it which would shift our story.

One involved an enormous village of mice that lived in our detached garage. They were quiet by day and active at night. Our visits were random, but they’d always be there and seemed to expect us. We didn’t interact with them much. We’d sit for a long time though just watching and clapping while they performed with miniature acrobatic equipment, circus animals, and special lighting effects.

Our other story involved a small family of deer that lived next to the lake near the family cabin. Sometimes we’d see them when we canoed close by. There were large areas of lily pads and shallow grasses near the shore that brushed against the bottom of the canoe, so they always heard us before we saw them. Just beyond the beach was a doe, a buck, and a fawn staring back at us. They seemed to expect us just like the mice did and always invited us to join them. I beached the canoe and helped my daughter out. We walked to a small clearing not far from shore, protected by pine trees, huckleberry bushes, with two logs for seating. The buck stood at the opposite end of their cozy clearing watching us, and the doe and fawn laid down in in the soft, thick grass in front of him near their well-tended fire. The doe asked us questions about our cabin, others in our family, and how long our visit was that year. We asked them questions about their daily routines, if they’d visited Morrell Falls or the giant Larch tree recently, and if anyone else knew they lived here. They said no one else knew and if other people did pass by, they’d become invisible. We didn’t ask how they could magically vanish and speak like us, because we didn’t think it was unusual.

Songs :: Plains (Eastern Montana Blues) by George Winston, Side Tracked by Dave Mason, Here We Go by Joe Walsh, June Hymn by The Decemberists, and Cool Water by Joni Mitchell

© C. Davidson

August Wednesday:: [Supplemental]

 

August

Songs :: Wharf Rat by Grateful Dead, Fight for Your Right by Beastie Boys, Venture by Lanterna, Talkin’ Bout A Revolution by Tracy Chapman, and Powderfinger by Neil Young and Crazy Horse

© C. Davidson

Missing

 

Looking East

Looking West

A few months ago, I had a routine check-up with my dentist who’s a dental student at the University of Minnesota. He was born and raised in Hamilton, Montana located in the Bitterroot Valley and is an accomplished collegiate golfer. The student working in the cubicle next to us was also from Montana and a collegiate golfer. It’s less and less unusual to encounter someone from there but meeting two dental students working next to each other on a floor of fifty other dental students, both collegiate golfers, on the same day is extremely rare. He said he and his wife who’s a law student and from Hamilton too, plan to move back there after they graduate because they miss it. If not back to their hometown, he imagines living in a town small enough that it only needs one dentist and one lawyer.

That led us to reminisce about other towns we remember, love, and could afford to live in today. We talked about how other cities, small towns and the countryside have changed over the years. He doesn’t recognize Bozeman anymore and said sometimes it’s called the ‘New Aspen’, but a close friend who’s lived there multiple times over many decades disagrees. She’s heard that nickname too but thinks the other nickname ‘BozeAngeles’ is a more accurate description for a variety of reasons.

Our conversation caught me off guard. With the exam light inches from my face and multiple devices wedged in my frozen mouth I started to daydream. Sometimes I drive by specific places when I’m there, places I’ve lived, places friends have lived, main street, campus, the Pickle Barrel for a sandwich, the Western Cafe, and to see if the Far-Out House is still intact. I even stopped by the art building the last time I drove through. I parked, stood on the front lawn, and called a friend who I went to school with. We reminisced and I described how the arts and architecture complex looked the same. “Did you go inside?” he asked. “No, but I did fifteen years ago when I attended some meetings. It’s the same inside too but I didn’t recognize it and felt out of place.” Our conversation shifted to 1980 when Mount St. Helens exploded, the cloud moved east, and three days later thick ash fell and collected like snow right where I stood.

After my appointment, I walked to a distant parking ramp because the closest one is always full and street parking is never available. I hadn’t been on this part of campus for a while but I noticed the corner deli where I’d received a call from my wife many years ago. I was getting coffee, and she was filling me in because I’d just missed the visit by her doctor and his team. They discovered what was wrong, its critical state, and how they planned to help the following morning. The fear and guilt washed over me again. Then I drifted to a landscape in Central Montana which always settles me down, thought about my dentists hope for his family’s future, and the familiar views he’d enjoy when he returned to the Bitterroot.

He asked me if I missed Montana. “I do—a little all the time.”

Songs :: The Boy In the Bubble by Paul Simon, Clay Pigeons by John Prine, Small Town by Aaron Espe, Goin’ Back by Neil Young, and Rocky Mountain High by John Denver

© C. Davidson

Hiawatha :: [Supplemental]

 

Hiawatha :: 4 July – 10:25:50 pm

Songs :: People Have the Power by Patti Smith, and Shaking the Tree by Peter Gabriel

© C. Davidson

Glen

 

44°54'46.8"N 93°12'25.6"W

This glen isn’t in Scotland, but when I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, I imagined it could be. I don’t know if it would feel more like the Highlands, the Lowlands, or maybe it’s like the in-between. I’ve never visited, but our family has roots in that part of the world, so it’s a place I think about occasionally. The earthy smell reminded me of Florida after an afternoon storm too, and even an early scene from the film Spirited Away because it felt just as mysterious. The path was only visible because of the way different plants reflected the light before it continued into the dark.

I was told a story when I was in middle school about a hook man in Wadsworth Park located on the edge of my hometown. He targeted lovers who were alone in their car at night. He almost succeeded once but as he approached the couple’s car, the driver noticed him at the last second and quickly rolled up his window trapping the hook man’s arm. As they sped away, only the hook was left dangling from the car window. I never knew if it was true, but because of that story and the fear of the hookless hook man, I never ventured into the overgrown park. It was a place people were discouraged from exploring but I always stared hard into it when I drove by, looking for the slightest movement.

Here though, I follow the barely defined path into the deep shade that’s ideal for ticks. They aren’t deer ticks, the scary ones, so I wasn’t too worried because those begin to appear in Wisconsin. After pushing aside low hanging tree branches and walking through shrubs, plants, and shade, it slowly got brighter and transitioned into tall grass, the sound of moving water, and louder birds. The change from light, to dark, to light again, felt like a living garden gate to a green room on the opposite side. All those other places, those other memories didn’t go away as I stood in the small meadow, but they receded. Now it was more about the owl I hadn’t seen until it turned towards me, and the blue above the trees.

Songs :: The Boy In the Bubble by Paul Simon, On The Road To Find Out by Cat Stevens, and For What It’s Worth by Buffalo Springfield

© C. Davidson

Happening :: [Supplemental]

Southside Peonie

Songs :: Home by Moontricks, Desert Skies by The Marshall Tucker Band, and Goin’ Back by Neil Young

© C. Davidson

Smith Hill

 

I did laundry on Saturday afternoons every couple of weeks and looked forward to it because things felt different while doing it, and afterwards too. It was a reset. It was empowering to complete a defined task from beginning to end in a single afternoon, unlike everything else that was filled with uncertainty and infinity. Laundry on Smith Hill, solo bike rides, occasional cocktails with friends, and grocery shopping at Star Market were the only distractions I needed. If it was a gray day, even drizzling, I enjoyed laundry day more because that’s the best time for inside looking out chores, especially at the laundromat.

I had a large backpack which could hold everything if I stuffed hard, with room in the top pocket for odds and ends including my Walkman. After packing, I rolled my bike through the foyer and heavy double doors with frosted glass, to the long front porch of the brick house my apartment was in. Then I cued the volume to the Special Beat Service disk. Once I put the Walkman in the top pocket of my backpack, I couldn’t access the controls while riding, so I selected the song Save It for Later, put it on a loop and left a gap in the pocket for the earbud cord. It was the perfect song for the ride to and through the Smith Hill neighborhood. There was a short steep downhill onto the flats across two streets, a boulevard park, the thin Providence River, then a long gradual uphill grind past the McKim, Mead & White designed State House from 1895. I spent hours with strangers who were doing their laundry too. I drew, watched pedestrians pass by, and eventually crossed the street to get hotdogs from Baba’s for lunch, or dinner. The neon, murals, chaotic signage, and typography were comforting and even better than the dogs. The Smith Hill neighborhood could have been in a different northeast town, in a different state during those hours. It’s difficult to describe a New England city neighborhood, but there’s a similarity, a common architecture of three story multi-family homes, and an urban feel that was new to me.

In those days, I was unreachable unless I was at my apartment, or at the studio. Personal computers as we know them barely existed and I didn’t own one until ten years later. Laptops, tablets, and smart phones were science fiction and when I returned home there wasn’t a blinking answering machine either, only a heavy black rotary phone that I’d owned for years. I liked being unreachable. After I finished folding and stuffing my clean laundry back into my pack, I road slowly back towards my neighborhood, savoring the late afternoon and the smell of dryer sheets. When I approached the long downhill, I released the brake and flew past the State House where the wind changed everything again.

Songs :: Save It for Later by The English Beat, Save It for Later by Eddie Vedder, Wild Wild Life by Talking Heads, and Buckets of Rain by Bob Dylan

Images :: Google Earth

© C. Davidson

Dusks :: [Supplemental]

 

Dusks :: Photographs – Diptych

Songs :: Learning to Fly by Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers, Birdland by Weather Report, and Here We Go by Joe Walsh

© C. Davidson

Longfellow Boom

 

Every so often there are loud booms near the river in South Minneapolis. They seem to happen monthly and usually at night. They’re loud if you’re outside, or your summer windows are open. I’ve heard them for years but have never had a conversation about what causes them with friends, or neighbors since we’ve lived here. It wasn’t until I joined Nextdoor years ago that I read posts about the booms with the same questions posed every time. “Did anybody else hear the boom last night?” “Where do they come from?” “What are they?” Those are followed up with the same answers every time that range from, “it’s probably a sewer gas explosion down by the river,” “maybe a transformer blew,” “the nearby trains,” “fireworks,” or “the military.” Then the thread veers further away into Hilary’s emails, anarchists, crime, or Obama’s citizenship.

City council members, the health department, the police department, ballistics experts, and the FBI, don’t have a clue what causes the booms, at least no one has come forward publicly to confirm anything. Investigative journalists haven’t discovered any answers either, only further speculation. There was even a triangulation project commissioned between the city of Minneapolis and the main airport to discover the location of the booms. Despite the precise monitoring technology that was used, they never found the source.

In the meantime, there will be an uplifting post by someone notifying people that their cat has been found or thanking neighbors for shoveling a path across their front yards, from home to home, through deep snow because it makes it easier for the mail delivery person. The later post devolving into a thread of anger, suspicion, and lecturing. Someone will explain that they don’t shovel a path because of how it might affect their spring lawn and wish other people wouldn’t either because it makes them feel guilty and targeted since they choose not to. ”It’s ‘divisive,” they say.

Then a different person will post a non-sequitur saying that people shouldn’t walk in the alleys. That turns into arguments about race, thieves, car jackers, and how Minneapolis has become unlivable because of the unhoused, and an increase in stolen lawn gnomes. Turns out the person walking in the alley was a new neighbor most people on their block hadn’t met yet. He was looking for the discarded lumber and shelving he noticed days earlier that someone had set out. He thought he might be able to use the items since his house was unfurnished. The misunderstanding was never clarified, and apologies were never posted because Nextdoor has become another venue for the frustrated, bored, and unheard to vent their agendas. It’s like a mashup of Foghorn Leghorn and Lord of the Flies, complete with neighborhood moderators drunk with keyboard power and still, no one knows what causes the booms.

— — — — — — —

“A thought often makes us hotter than a fire.” :: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

— — — — — — — 

Songs :: If You Want Blood (You’ve Got it) by AC/DC, and Angry by The Rolling Stones

© C. Davidson

John and Lill

 

We lived next door to John and Lill for decades. They lived in their house since the late 1950’s and raised three boys. When we moved next to them, their sons had long since left and had families of their own. Lill was born and raised just a few blocks away and never desired to leave the neighborhood. John is originally from Boyceville, Wisconsin and always wanted to move out to the suburbs but they never did. He was a quiet man, but not a shy man. He was always very warm with us and acknowledged all the neighbors who crossed his path. We talked a lot about the things next door neighbors talk about like cutting the grass and if we plan to mulch it, bag it, or let it fly that day, why our lawn mowers are burning more oil, squirrels and the damage they do, illusive hummingbirds, his sore knees, my sore back, the heat, our kids, and the duck his family had as a pet in the nineteen-seventies.

Sometimes John and I had conversations on our shared alley driveway too and by the time we finished, we would have traveled five to ten feet. After many years of this, it finally dawned on me what was happening. He was slowly backing up while we talked, and I was slowly advancing to maintain the same relative distance, not realizing his slow-motion retreat was an intentional, defensive move, because I was chatty, loud and invading his personal space. Eventually he would say, “ok, you’re busy and I have to go now,” then turn and disappear inside.

I also realized one afternoon while I was in our backyard that John was a smoker. I enjoy the smell of cigarette smoke and did then too as it drifted over the fence, followed by him exiting their garage moments later. I mentioned that I didn’t realize he smoked, and he said, “yeh. Lill is happier when I don’t smoke in the house.” I told him I’d quit a few years earlier, otherwise I would’ve asked to join him. Eventually he did invite me into their garage periodically to talk about a small appliance he was fixing, show me his collection of lawn mowers, or offer me an old tool that he had duplicates of. I usually declined and thanked him for offering, but during his last few years, I always said yes. I finally realized it wasn’t about whether we needed or wanted whatever it was. It was about accepting his gift.

In the years after John passed away, we spent more time visiting with Lill in her living room and helping with small tasks. Sometimes she sat on her deck dosing in the afternoon sun. If one of us was in the yard, she’d wave us over to talk about her garden and the crimson hollyhocks that were taller than all of us. The last time I sat in the sun with her she asked me to join her inside for a minute. We went through the kitchen, into the living room, and she sat down in her chair and turned on the nightly news. Then she pointed to her collection of small ceramic angels, explained where most of them came from and said she wanted us to have one, so I should choose. Then she turned back to the television, and I spent a minute or two looking for the plainest angel. It was white with silver accents and when I showed it to her and asked if this one was OK to have, she smiled and said, “perfect.”

Songs :: In My Life by Johnny Cash, Fish and Whistle by John Prine, and Transcendental Blues by Steve Earle

© C. Davidson