Everything But The Girl - Time After Time

Voice Of Truth - Casting Crowns

Words of Wisdom

On the Road to Find Out!
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Albie Gone
And Other Triumphs!

Today's Song
Pilgrim Heart, Krishna Das

God Is The Boss, Francis

 

God Is The Boss, Francis

 

I was visited by an old friend the other day walking along the Rio Grande Trail through downtown Aspen. I had just passed the Aspen Art Museum on my way to the John Denver River Sanctuary, passing a stainless steel 30ft artist’s rendering of the “Last Tree.” The Rio Grande Trail is a beautiful scenic trail that skirts along the river and opens upon a small meadow by the river. There are large boulders with many John Denver song lyrics carved into them. It was there among the yellowing aspens that I sensed it, that very faint trace of the dampness of winter in the air. My good childhood friend came to me. I looked up and saw him hiding in the scrub oak turning red along the base of Red Mountain and the multi million dollar mansions that exist there. The Aspens’ turning gold along Smuggler Mountain, one of the last working silver mine, that made Aspen the Silver City.  How I used to wait on his arrival with great anticipation in Albany, New York. The fall season is different in the East because of all the hardwoods to be found.  In the Adirondacks, the Berkshires, the Green Mountains, and White Mountains, you will find an array of reds, yellows and golds. It signaled to me the coming of winter and my sport of choice, skiing. I imagined all of the hats that I have worn over the years to pursue my great love of the sport. How it has been my refuge through my trials and tribulations and how whenever life of the world got to me, I would simply choose another mountain to learn and ski.

It had begun simply for me in the early days. My grandfather filled my head with dreams of the Adirondacks and the beauty of them. I quickly made friends with the other skiers in my class. One of those friends was my good friend, Frank Thompson who has become “Captain Zooms” in my stories. I, a shy retiring bookworm, who found great solace in learned knowledge versus outdoor activity, was immediately attracted to him. He was already a ski technician and worked with skis and understood ski hardware. He turned me on to my first pair of jet foamed form fitting ski boots, called Strohlz, and my Rossignol Strato 105’s, they were 215 cm’s long. “My steel beams to hell,” I called them. My boots were purchased for me by my high school girlfriend Sandy. Frank’s room was a classic of ski posters and equipment leaned up in every available corner. One particular poster of a buxom woman in a tight fitting yellow Bogner ski outfit, unzipped to her navel exposing her abundantly large breasts, she was exploding through this incredibly awesome mogul field, and the caption read, “Keep those tips up.” It was a K2 ski poster. I thought he was the coolest kid in school. He was a real rebel where I was the nerd.  Other  posters, like the infamous Solomon Ski Binding Poster that said, “Solomon, Deliver Us From Premature Release.” These have all become great collector items. Frank became my ski mentor, and mountain teacher. Every available evening, weekend or cut day from school was spent chasing snow flakes and sunsets, until at a very young age, I took a year off from college, to pursue my dream of being a true ski bum, (I wish to write, Every Ski Bum’s Bible, a commentary of all the things you need to give up in life to pursue that dream.)

The culmination of that dream was skiing at Arapahoe Basin, which at the time was the highest lift operated mountain in North America. I had arrived. The steep, the deep, anti everything that corporate society stood for. No material hang ups or needs with a true disdain for the Corporate Whores who would sell their soul for the almighty dollars. I considered myself the self appointed King of the Mountains. I knew every inch and every skiable trail in America. Many places in America that I had skied were not accessible by lifts and had to be climbed. I was young, “no problem.” I conquered and truly loved every one of them.

Every year my friend that first trace of the wet dampness of winter would arrive and I would gear up for winter. In the early years we would leave Albany on Sunday to ski the mountains of Vermont, a state that I came to love dearly.

Francis’s mom, Bea Thompson, was a devout Christian and practicing Catholic. Her greatest concern was for our almighty souls and redemption from sins, she was sure that we were committing. Her concern included where we would attend church on Sunday if we were skiing. We were quick to allay her fears by informing Bea, that we attended Mass on the Chapel on the Mountains, every Sunday. We  justified our lie by rationalizing that God invented Mountains and they were places of awe and inspiration since the days of Moses and we were somewhat of Biblical Characters ourselves with long hair and beards. Modern day Prophets if you will, we attended the almighty church of the high mountains. Our justification was dashed one particular Sunday Morning when Frank and I dressed in our White Stag ski sweaters tight fitting ski pants with our brightly colored ski jackets were confronted by Bea Thompson in her large blue terry cloth robe on her snow covered concrete steps in suburban Colonie, New York as were fastening our skis and poles to the roof rack of Frank’s Tan Dodge Dart. (Algernon, named after the Book Flowers for Algernon, yes it had push buttons on the dash to shift instead of a typical stick or automatic shift lever.) We had to face down the wrath of Bea who had found out about our lie, that ski areas did not have chapels on them. Like Moses, delivering her edict to the infidels who were worshipping the false gods of gold they had wrought, she stood with her outstretched blue terry cloth arm raised in accusatory fashion delivering a divine message straight from the mouth of our Lord himself.  The cold chilly air crackles and rings in my ears to this day as she yelled, “God is the Boss, Francis!”

I have been more fortunate than most and have had the ability to build a tremendously successful Plumbing, Heating, and Electrical Service Business in perhaps the richest Ski Town in the world, where the occupants ask questions like, “Is it the biggest, is it the best?” How wonderful that I who took a year off from my pursuit of an Industrial Engineering Degree to go skiing in 1973, could be designing and installing mechanical systems in multi-million dollar commercial and residential building in Aspen, Colorado, owned now by exclusive Billionaire Industrialists.

During my early tenure as a property manager, before opening my business, my job was to decorate 8 of the most prestigious Commercial Buildings in the downtown core of Aspen with Christmas lights and decorations. My then Supervisor, (now turned Wife) and I decided to change the drab white lights on all the trees and buildings to brightly colored Salsa Lights, The red, blue, green, orange, amber lights, tightly woven from all the trees in front of the buildings, and hung along all the rooftops, literally set the up tight establishment of the Aspen Town fathers on their ears. I was summarily crowned the “The King of Lights,” in Aspen Colorado in 1994, in a ceremony presided over by our entire Property Management Team, which has since become the most prestigious Property Management and Real Estate Company in Aspen and the Entire Roaring Fork Valley. I was presented with a tin foil crown and in a mock ceremony became the King of Lights of Aspen, Colorado, by my boss and future wife.

So as I stand among the Words of “Annie’s Song,” and “Rocky Mountain High,” and listen to the gentle waters of the Roaring Fork River cascading out of the pristine mountains of Independence Pass. I can't help but hear the refrain of Frank's Mom, "God is the Boss, Francis."
Today's Song
Cat Stevens, "Where do the Children Play"

Let Your Hippie Out

 I have always been a Hippie as long as I can remember. Through out my life I have tried to suppress the hippie in me at various stages and times when it wasn't convenient for a job, life or whatever. It never worked the hippie always came back. For me I think the the hippie surged in eleventh grade in high school with my English teacher Mr. Cocker. I wore these really sharp leather moccasins, made by Quoddy Moccasins on upstate New York, and jeans and flannel shirts. I sat on top of my desk in the back of the class with my legs crossed Indian style and wrote poems instead of my assignments. The great thing about the teacher is that he graded us on our writing and encouraged us to continue. He actually celebrated our individuality. Rare for 1970 Public School where conformity was the general rule. He would often bring in his guitar and play music for us. It seemed so counter culture.

   My hippiedom only increased the more I pursued skiing in my youth. I became more anti-societal and way more earthy. Rejecting the norms of my time and being fortunate to be the first year in the draft lottery and drawing a high number insured my freedom to pursue my dreams, mountain dreams. It seemed perfectly normal to me to take a year off from college to pursue my ski bumming dream. What I did not for see at the time is that I would find myself 40 years later living in Western Colorado getting ready to retire and pursuing my writing dreams after a lifetime of sunsets, snowflakes and mountain sides.

   Has it been a rough an rocky road? Yes. Would I wish to change it and have become and Industrial Engineer and have developed Industry in third world countries as was my young man business goals. Nope not really. The life of the open road was my calling. I think that it still may be. I am not sure that I will not always wonder what lies just beyond the horizon and over the hill. Even now that I have a wonderful home, with a great work shop and am assured of a decent retirement, I think of the ocean and walking on the beach with my wife and best friend, and talking about my stories and their plots and of sunsets and ocean tides. Instead of white powder and steep slopes I think of ebooks and stealing little children from secure careers as doctors and lawyers and setting their feet upon the road.
Let your inner hippie out!

Today's Song

Over The Hills And Far Away, Led Zeppelin

Treatment

   I look into the steely eyes of the Oncologist as he is saying, " Usually the cancer follows down the nerve. So we are going to have to run the radiation down along the nerve. It will go deeper than normal. Which means that you will probably have burning and blistering in your throat as well as losing about 2 1/2 inches of hair around your ear, including your beard that may not grow back. You may get your salivary gland back on your right side after 4 or 5 months."

   I look closely at the Doctor and smile. Trying not to laugh as I am reminded of a co worker of mine from Albany New York when I was growing up. I sold gas at a gas station that was full service. My co worker was Bob Hornsby a crusty old middle aged man. His favorite saying was. "Ya Cock- Knocker Ya!" I want to say to the Doctor, "Ya Cock Knocker Ya!" It's funny what runs through your mind at very crucial times of your life. I was a goofy sheltered 16 year old when I met Bob Hornsby and was pumping gas when it was 33.9 cents a gallon. Women wore mini skirts and Bob taught me all about beaver shots when you were cleaning car windows and that some women knew exactly what was going on and liked it.

   I walk through the vault door of the radiation and lay down on the cold steel table covered with a blanket. I lay my head into the cradle while they snap the molded mask over my face and snap it in place, securing my head to the table so I can't move. They tape the bolis to the right side of my head. The table slides into place under the multi heads of the radiation machine. There is a green centering light that crosses the mask to give them true center. The table stops and the green light outlines my entire face like a computer image and disappears from the reflection of the main head. The machine clicks and whirs and all the attendants leave the room and close the vault door. The machine goes silent. They say you can't feel the radiation but every time the radiation starts I have a tingling sensation just below my right ear. I begin my mantra to pass the time. "Om Mani Padmi Hum. Om Mani Padmi Hum."

   "Wumpf, Wumpf, Wumpf," the sound of the rotors of the flight to life echo from the roof of St. Mary's Trauma Center. It is across the street of St. Mary's Pavillon where I get my treatment. It's strange because I instantly recognize the sound of the Flight to Life from my Ski Bumming days. I always watched the birds take off from the top of Snowbird Ski Area in Little Cottonwood Canyon of Utah. I knew that seriously injured skiers where transported to critical care hospitals in Salt Lake City. I never thought about the birds delivering the injured skiers to the hospitals. Maybe it was because I never ever thought about my mortality. We literally skied places where if you missed a turn you would fall and die. We never let that into our minds. No time for the fear!

   I have fear these day's. Will I be O.K. ? Will I be cured? Will this reoccur? "Om Mani Padmi Hum!" I bring my mind back to center as the table shakes and I know the session has ended. The attendants appear as the heads spin and whir above me and I am let out of my medical bondage.
I will return tomorrow as today marks half completion. Just as I know I will complete my writing projects, each and every one and find joy and satisfaction in the challenge,

   I head home to my loving family who welcomes me with open arms and love and it does not escape me that I am the luckiest man in America!

   Today's Songs

Can't Find My Way Home," Allison Krauss

"Why Worry," Dire Straits

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7no9Ak2uSrQ&sns=em

Only The Beginning

To steal a phrase, who knows what jogs your creativity or your mind. My notebooks are filled with great one liners that never went anywhere. They were the beginnings of the great American Novel that everyone aspires to write, or at least I hope they do. The work that will move the world.


   I am freaking out! If I had to have a favorite perhaps that would be mine. It is perfect for my early youth, and my life well into to mid life. Another good line I like was a title from a work by the rock band Supertramp. Crisis, What Crisis? They came out of London in 1969 and took America by storm in the late 70's. Are you you getting a theme here? I think I am as I am writing this.


   It always seemed to me that when my life appeared to be falling apart, or I was freaking out over something. I turned to putting words on paper. Old habits are hard to let go of. Almost all of my poetry and even most of my short stories began with a line, not a word, always a line. They sat there deep in brain and waited for me to revisit them.  The best analogy I think I have come across is that of an oyster with a grain of sand. The oyster of course gets the grain of sand and carefully rubs and polishes and rubs and polishes and voila comes the pearl.

 Writers are not much different, you write a line. Have a thought, or angst over some injustice in the world. You go back and visit it. You expand it stretch it out, coat it with words. Sooth it with a little pain and suffering and one day it plays itself out in a poem or short story. If you are lucky it may be something that can only be expressed in a great long form and then comes your Great American Novel. Sometimes you put off the process, it isn't time yet, I don't have enough time to write it, I am too busy at work, all the reasons of why not to finish.

   Then one day the Armageddon of your life arrives and you address the issue. I guess you will know your own personnel Armageddon when it shows itself. Mine has come to knock on my door in the form of my brush with skin cancer. Just enough to turn those wheels of fate in your mind. I will survive mine as I have the past two surgeries. The last being particularly nasty and invasive. Then comes the threat of the radiation to cure the final stage. You are told all will be well and you will be good as new as soon as you are irradiated. O.K. then sounds good to me. No wait a minute, what is this all about? I thought or I had always said I will live to be a Centurion. I had planned on that. I need the time in retirement to write. Now some thing is threatening my great procrastination plan. What about all the times I could have written and didn't? What about all the times that I wanted the next very last powder run? Is this going to be my last powder run here?

   Could have, should have, thought I had more time, if only I had when. All idle threats gone with the melting snows of winter. The Ides of March have turned into the green grasses of June. Now is the time. As you let the first rays of the radiation that is killing and curing you wash over your being for the next six weeks, find the courage and the strength to put all of the projects you are working on to bed. Before you go to bed for the last time.

   Sometimes in life you need to remember that that the thing that you are running, from the injustice that you moves you, the mistake that you made, that forever changed your life, is the very thing that brought you your greatest reward or triumph in life. I was a lonely ski bum who didn't need anything from anyone. Who by the Grace of God found a soul mate to share life with. I have always maintained that I am the Luckiest Man in America. I guess as I go forward on this next journey. What ever the final outcome will be. I need to realize it truly is the beginning. You must begin at the beginning to come to the final end.

A Song for Tomorrow

 Chicago, "Only The Beginning"