A Moonlight Walk By The Sea

It may seem impossible that on an island, less than half a mile wide, I could go more than twenty-four hours without seeing the ocean, but I confess it is true. From my life's vantage point the sound cannot be avoided, but the ocean is hidden by a dune. This reality is absurd, I admit. It gets worse though. I work on the beach sometimes and don't really see it. I might check the surf while I repair a dune walkover, or register the blue mass to my east as I peel some brittle shingles off of a roof. But I forget what it is. The edge. Sure we can fly over it in a plane. Ships ply the seas. Humans have all but mastered the sea. But a human can't. Without the wisdom and infrastructure of a species, the ocean is much more daunting. And their in is the beauty. It can be hard to be humble sometimes, but never by the sea, when you truly see it.

We walked a moonlit beach. The air was crisp, almost crystalline. The sea was calm, lapping at the shore. On our way home, from a hilltop near our house you could see the orb of the moon washing the ocean's surface in light. The silhouette of each house floated on the silver sea before it. A postcard photographer could not have hoped for a more ideal night. A young man seeking the hand of his beloved would have thought the moment magic. Pure magic.

In reality however. . . my dog patrolled the beach looking for smelly smells. My daughter threw her head back in her baby backpack hollering at the stars and torquing my lumbar region. She alternated between whining about "bat monsters" she saw among the dunes (annoying) and babbling about wanting to marry me when she was a "growed up" (heart melting). My wife froze, quietly. And I tried to explain to my child, who was professing her undying love for me, and fear of bat monsters, that she would be able to see the lighthouse light better if she used more energy for her eyes, and less for talking. Yes, I did that.

I mentioned to Deanna that we should make a point to do these winter beach walks whenever it was bearable outside. She agreed. The thing is we weren't on the beach tonight because that's the reason we live here, the right thing to do, or the only thing to do. We were on the beach because I worked too late to go to the gym. I work too late too often, and worry about work too much when I don't work too late. Because of this, and probably because of my love for the barley pops, I'm told by members of the medical profession that going to the gym is probably a good idea.

So, when I run out of time to go run on a treadmill, I strap my kid on my back, and walk briskly through a scene that should be strolled through. My cold wife by my side, who should be being warmed by my arm around her. My dog by her side, who should be allowed to wear dead seagull perfume if he wants to and then sleep in the garage! And my daughter, on my back, who should be tired of talking to me by seven at night, because she has already had my undivided attention for several hours.

Mandela

I accept that for a white man in Duck North Carolina to have anything valuable or interesting to say about the life and passing of Nelson Mandela might seem presumptuous. I hold him dear though, I keep a copy of his inaugural address in my desk drawer. Of course he was transcendent. I'm sure lots of people keep a copy of his inaugural address in their desk drawer. I keep it there because it's inspiring, but more because it reminds me of the man who gave it to me. I worked at a summer camp with a young, privileged, handsome, white South African name Gareth. He gave me a Zeroxed copy of the address. He carried a stack of them in his travels. I remember being mildly puzzled at this, but intrigued. He seemed genuinely to believe in Mandela, and everything he stood for. Though I imagined that his parent's thoughts on the subject had to be more ambiguous. This resonated with me because I am a product of the American South. We seem several generations slower here.

I visited South Africa and Mandela's cell on Robben Island. The Apartheid Museum left a mark on me. There were several halls of video-shocking video. To invoke blood in the streets, is often to exaggerate. I witnessed, in repetition the brain matter of children in the streets; entrails severed and spilling. The most gripping and disturbing video I had ever seen. Violence in the abstract is offensive. Violence in living color is nauseating. The impression, of what black South Africans endured during Apartheid was seared into my conscience.

Mandela became a focal point in my thoughts as years passed. Understanding him seemed to become the key to understanding what I had seen in South Africa--it wasn't all museums... I've pondered him, and this is how I've tried to distil him:

He was above all gracious. His forgiveness of his captors is legendary, and in many ways the seat of his power. Most of his negotiating leverage sprang from his suffering, and his refusal to pity himself over it. He was also right, and this cannot be under estimated. No tyrant could take a page from Mandela's book and hope to succeed. That was not all though, he was not a saint, in the classical sense. He accepted, if not embraced violence. He was characterized as a terrorist. Or was it freedom fighter? Either way, he was not a pacifist. Above all he grew. He evolved. He did not let his early acceptance of the necessity of violence undermine his eventual move to grace.

In my search for way to be a husband, parent and citizen I struggle to find my way. Mandela reminds me that the way is not a route--not something you can read as a list of directions. It is a path, it evolves with us. And though all parts of it may not be what we imagined, as we are in them they are in us. The journey is changing us as we seek our destination. Participation is mandatory. You cannot get there from here. You must become someone else--or yourself--as you go, to realize you've even arrived.

It's Mostly Sanding

I built a coffee table over the holiday weekend. I am happy enough with how it turned out, and I learned something valuable. I saw this table in my minds eye as a small part--an incremental step--in taking our domicile over the finish line. It is one item on a long list, bed frame, fireplace surround, etc. that I must finish to truly bring our humble abode to completion. Details details...I realized as my father and I worked this weekend that it's mostly sanding.

This illuminated something about the home we are building here, the life we are building here, and the community we are building here. The work to create it is punctuated by moments of agency, selecting the wood, or final assembly--metaphorically. But most of the time it us mundane--sanding. If you take care and have patience, most hardwoods can be smoothed to an almost vitreous surface simply by sanding. Graduating to ever higher grit counts, you can actually polish raw wood. Wet it to raise the grain, and sand again, you can be assured that a simple oiled finish will shimmer in any light. What's more, simple wood, in this case an old pecan tree combined with some salvaged ipe decking can be striking, even when assembled by a novice.

That's the really profound thing. The ingredients need not be impressive, and the skill of the craftsman need not be expert. All you really need to make something serviceable is the patience and perseverance to sand.

In House

I may have moved here because I fancied myself a surfer, or some other sort of free spirited vagabond. But, to face my current reality is to accept that my vocation is house building. While tourists created the environment that makes my living as sustainable and lucrative as it can be, it is my clients, the owners that I serve, and Thanksgiving is their week.

Owners of vacation homes visit often, and the lucky ones, usually those with some proficiency in accounting, spend a lot of time in their rental properties and second homes. But many visits, particularly for the rental owners are not missions of joy. The savvy owner of a larger, newer, home with a pool close to the ocean will be here around Easter. He will bring his indentured servants (family and chump friends) and while beer will be drunk, and the sun may peek through the clouds, there is little relaxation. The property must be readied. And these owners will be damned if they will suffer a $5 lightbulb, courtesy of their rental company, this early in the season. They will demand that their pool be opened, and heated. Their children, the only ones with any sense will refuse to swim in it. They might call me for a last minute repair, and by this time of year, I will be forced to explain as politely and succinctly as possible that this is a call I should have gotten two months prior. I will try to fit them in before Memorial Day.

Memorial day visits are for the lower stakes property owners. They've owned the house for years. They come to install screens, touch up a little paint, etc. Still they are serving a cruel master--the $$$.

Christmas is iffy because it is becoming a lucrative rental window. There are also all sorts of weird family dynamics with Christmas. Then there is New Years. Tough to keep the family together then. My client demographic tends to have kids that want to drink, but aren't quite old enough. Not an ideal age to spend New Years with mommy and daddy.

But Thanksgiving!! The blessed holiday of the owner--no--of the house. The beach is viewed through windows; it's cold. This could be the only time of year that the trim detail on the feature window that I agonized over might finally be noticed. Thanksgiving is the holiday of the fireplace surround and living room built-in. The focus is the house, my focus. Also, there is no real preparation. No high season looms. Enjoyment is possible. Maybe I'm going to remodel your beloved home. You've of course told me to hold off until after Thanksgiving. Vacation home owners use their houses like they are just that--houses. For one week they are no longer rental machines. They are homes, fulfilling the day dream that was envisioned amidst those long nights at the office paying for this beast!

For this one week owners treat their houses the same way the rest of us treat the houses we live in year round: A comfortable place to lay our head, a warm gathering place for the family we wish we didn't have to leave every day to support. For this one week, the fruit of my labor is divorced from the economics. Whenever I meet a client and they assert that they are going to treat their home as an investment, and not let emotion get in the way I'm torn. Half of me wants to punch them in the face and tell them they are full of shit! I've not seen anyone pull that off. Something about being human makes us see something that looks like a house very differently than say a security comprised of a bundle of home mortgages. The last time you told your broker to buy JP Morgan, you didn't spend three hours on the phone wondering if the accent tile you picked for JP Morgan's backsplash would compliment your granite selection. The other half of me wants to punch myself in the face. Why did I decide to build houses. I'm tired of talking for hours with people about the merits of eggshell versus satin.

I don't want to punch anyone on Thanksgiving though! Because houses aren't for bragging rights. They aren't about impressing their neighbors. They are mostly dry warm boxes designed for holding families and friends. My whole little town seems to be about something more pure and enjoyable than it is for the rest of the year.

Of course, when living on a margin like this you can never escape the irony. Nothing embodies an American Thanksgiving like eating more food than you need to eat, followed by sleeping in a house so big that you don't even remember what some of the rooms look like, overlooking a pool in which you've yet to swim. Makes you want to hug a pilgrim!

Threat Level DAD

Wee Quinn is a traveler. She has flown, and her ship (actually a ferry) has sailed. We were fortunate enough to visit family in Upstate New York, and friends in Boston week before last. A change of pace was nice, and probably needed. And-a pleasant surprise-Q is a master jet setter. She is a friendly and compliant flyer, and brings a three year old's perspective to things that we jaded adults have long forgotten to be amazed by. And seeing how different the rest of the world is from our home certainly gives us perspective on both.

The look of wonder on her face would be hard to capture in words, but her words were the most endearing. Highlights: "I can see the whole village out the window dad." (In this case the city of Norfolk). Upon beginning our decent, "We're going down guys!" I explained that landing was probably a less provocative description. Adjacent passengers laughed. . .nervously. When landings were bumpy--which they all seem to be when traveling with such precious cargo--"Phew that was a close one!" When I asked close to what, she just shrugged and looked at me as if I was the most naive person in the world.

All of our flights went smoothly and flying from Norfolk to Albany, things seemed tame to say the least. By the time Q was awaiting departure at Logan, she was an old hand. I, on the other hand, found a lot at Logan to occupy my parental mind. I sensed Deanna was feeling the same way when she pointed out a guy in a Saint Louis Cardinals hat (the Cards had beaten Boston the night before, no small crime in Boston, and during the world series). "Why's he gotta wear that hat, is he trying to get beat up?" Then there was the guy doing yoga, why he had to be limber for the flight I couldn't guess. I like to be limber for a flight, but bloody marys work way better than yoga.

Of course yoga guy and his buddy stood in the aisle for five agonizing minutes in which I was 48.7% sure they were up to no good. I was beginning to feel a little like Juan Williams, but nobody had a beard--except me. Maybe this is not unique to me, but as a father, pretty much everyone seems like at least a low level threat. Watching someone do yoga in an airport terminal while listening to the TSA's admonishment to report strange behavior raised my suspicion. In truth, I did a quick inventory in the terminal. I'd say eighty percent of my fellow passengers waiting in the terminal were either reading or drinking coffee or both. I decided to keep an eye on everyone else.

Then we landed, or "went down," if you will. And I spent fifteen minutes of the car ride home silently berating myself for being a paranoid jerk. Then last week there was a shooter at LAX. And I thought about the terminal we'd been sitting in. I thought about wrangling my friendly kid in an airport. I though about trying to keep her close when all she wanted to do was talk to everyone. I thought about how hard it would be to get to her to keep her safe as we stumbled into our shoes just past the security check. I spent some time berating myself for feeling comfortable in our little Norfolk airport--for letting Quinn or Deanna get more than eighteen inches away from me.

Statistically speaking, the ride to daycare, or time in the ocean or pool are far more dangerous to Quinn than flight, airports, terrorists and run of the mill nut jobs combined. Were I a sensible man, this would help me to just relax and take life as it comes. But, I'm a father, so at home or in the airport terminal, I'd say I hover around the same threat level. I'm not sure what color that threat level would be, so I'll just call it threat level DAD.

Drawn In

The surf was pretty phenomenal yesterday.

If your car is covered with salt, the weather has been unseasonably cool, traffic has been unseasonably heavy, and then all the sudden it's ten degrees warmer and all of the tourists are at the beach, you can bet the surf is pumping. At the moment the wind switches to come out of the southwest, the surf spends about an hour getting organized and then it is a race against time. The swell is falling. As the gentle west wind grooms the face of each wave, it begins to equalize the force of the wind driven sea. If it's blown over twenty five miles per hour onshore for more than three days, it should be head high. At low tide, it will be fun, and in most places serious enough.

If you are on vacation and it has been blowing northeast over twenty miles per hour for more than three days, you may be contemplating going home. At least you can cut the grass before you go back to work. You've over payed for several movies, and some t-shirts that you don't need. You haven't been on the beach, because to do so is to risk death by micro-derm abrasion. And then, the clouds part, the wind shifts and the angry sea (and roadways) give way to the pristine beaches you had been hoping for all along. There's just one thing...the waves still look pretty big, even though they look far less threatening in organized lines.

When the wind shifts, surfers will be standing on dune crossovers gazing to the east, as I was yesterday when I saw a familiar sight: lifeguards speeding down the beach on four wheelers. They stopped about two hundred yards north of our beach access, and I commented to some strangers checking the surf that it looked like a rescue. There was someone stumbling out of the water with the kind of surfboard that indicated that he didn't know what he was doing. We figured that was it, but then, there in the impact zone was a head bobbing. The lifeguard was in the water in seconds, and thanks to the rip current that had caught the victim, was within feet of the individual in distress in less than one minute. As the guard offered the float to the swimmer, who's head was still above water, I commented to the strangers that it looked like the show was over.

I surfed literally until I was exhausted. I caught great waves. I watched friends catch great waves--hollow tubes that fully cover a crouching man. I made it out of some, and was crushed by others. The surf was serious enough to demand complete attention but it was familiar. The waves aren't that good that often, so I'd say it was like being with a great friend that you don't see all that much of. I should have gone back to work when the lunch hour ended. But I knew conditions were fleeting. I stayed until I couldn't.

Yesterday afternoon I was in the town office (completely exhausted) picking up a building permit. I overheard a comment about an ocean rescue that was unsuccessful. I asked if it was the one I'd seen and my fears were confirmed. I didn't see that one going that way. I once asked a friend of mine who is an ER nurse if her experience made her see life as extremely fragile or extremely durable. She said working in the ER just made life more mysterious because she would lose people who seemed to have relatively minor injuries and see people with horrific trauma pull through.

Our quaint little town hides a secret. We are on the margin--on the edge of human habitat. Through practice, familiarity, and probably some hubris, some learn to enjoy the sea. We may survive there, we may revel, but we cannot thrive. Walking the beach, seeing the ocean turn from angry to inviting and back again reminds us of our fortune and our frailty. The sea, is another world, and the beach is the border. But there is a lot of nothing on that horizon. Sometimes in that nothing, we see what we need to. That is why we are drawn in. And sometimes any one of us can be drawn in too far.

The Circus

You've got to get out occasionally, or so I'm told... We took the wee one to the circus in Elizabeth City, our nearby metropolis. Elizabeth Town would be more accurate, but that was taken, and Elizabeth Large Town would be even more accurate, but is cumbersome. In addition to several auto dealerships, E City as it is affectionately know by outer bankers, sports a vintage (mildly decaying) National Guard Armory. This sleepy--gymnasium really--played host to the greatest show on earth last week. Now, it is possible that the Circus Pages Circus is not the greatest circus ever to be performed, but I am pretty comfortable arguing that pound for pound, it's pretty bad ass!

Now, let's put aside our concerns for the strange lives of the circus performers and staff (mostly one and the same on this scale), and lets let the 300 LB animal welfare gorilla doze in the corner of the room, and let's--just for a moment--marvel. To not be impressed by this show you would have to be dead, or higher than a giraffe's buns.

Let's do stats first. The Armory's open room had to be around 10,000-15,000 square feet (guessing). There are vacation homes with more space than that (big ones, granted). There were probably less than twelve professional performers, though they wore many hats, and about as many prop guys and poop--no excrement managers. There were: three lions, two elephants, ten or so ponies, a horse, two tigers, a globe of death with four, yes four motorcycles!, a trampoline act, an ariel acrobatics act, and something that was a cross between a bullfight and a wardrobe extravaganza (you gotta see that one to believe it). Perhaps most impressively, the lion tamer, the ticket girl, the face painter, the acrobat, the bikini clad lady in the globe of death, camel wrangler, and sometimes announcer were the same person! She wasn't the only one. One of the acrobats sold popcorn, funnel cakes, did crazy business on a trampoline, and then rode a motorcycle (upside down at least thirty percent of the time) in the globe of death. Oh yeah, and there were four trained camels. From what I understand they are ornery cusses so, there's that.

The versatility, the ease of transition, and the complete lack of pretense (my kid was high as a kite on cotton candy and all over the place, no on once asked her to sit down or back away from the rail) were pretty stunning, but what was more compelling to me was the scale. I live a tiny life in a tiny town, and truth be told, I love our tiny E City. And here it was, a tiny circus in size only. Literally every trailer hauling all of this talent and animal grandeur was parallel parked in less than one city block. Elephants!! You get that? Elephants plural! Tiny footprint, huge show. I know I sound like a bit of a company mouthpiece here, but I payed full price (and then some) I assure you.

It was truly like stepping back in time. We drove forty minutes and fifty years into the past. My daughter and I took an elephant ride. She rode a pony as well. We never once saw a release form! The whole show fit snuggly inside the Armory's walls, but it completely blew our minds. I hope the magic comes to a mini city near you. You can invite them if you would like....


http://www.circuspages.com

Little Sinister Here

I imagine today that the one person who lives on the edge of Washington DC furthest from the violence at the Naval Yard feels far less safe than I do. Statistically speaking, I wouldn't know. I know that daily I worry about my wife and daughter. I know my wife worries about me. I'm on roofs and under heavy things. She works with chemicals and water. Our daughter is new and naive. Then there is the traffic. I'd venture to say that our occupations are fairly dangerous. We fear for one another's safety.

I cannot say who is in more danger; us or the Washingtonian. Factoring in the hurricanes, and winter storms; there is a statisticians dream. But it can be made sense of. Even lightening strikes have a haphazard statistical profile. But, there is nothing sinister in these "accidents." An accidental death highlights human frailty. The violence like today's at the Naval Yard highlights something else. Is it evil? Weakness? Both? No destruction feels worse than self destruction.

I have no insight or perspective on what happened today. I'm trying to understand my home, and its place in this world. I noticed a critical difference between here and what seems a world so far away: There is little sinister here.

Shouldering The Bootleggers

The crowds are gone. The weather is still fully summer. Every store and shop is still open. The ocean will be warmer than it has been all summer for the next month and a half. At no other time in the year is it more clear why we live here.

There are still a lot of visitors-The Bootleggers, to coin a term. Just as rot gut tasted better in a swinging speak easy, vacation feels better when it's a little out of bounds. Those here now, the almost retired, and the childless twenty-probably thirty, but who could pin them down-somethings enjoy summer time amenities at bargain basement rates. They are shoulder people, enjoying the shoulder season--Neither children, nor retirees, not quite summer yet not quite fall. It is pure coincidence that we who live here are accidentally more pleasant to visitors than we will be at any other time in the year. We are not too broke at this point, and we don't have to work all the time.

I can grasp at straws to try and relate this to the rest of the world. My mind wanders to the Syrian dilemma. I can reach, but during the shoulder season, I just can't make it stick. Maybe that's the only point to make. I found myself discussing intervention in Syria with a co worker today in conventional terms...You see a little old lady's purse being stollen, you must act. What if the old lady is two blocks away and you just hear about it later? What if the old lady was actually a mugger on her day off etc etc. But when I walked away from the admittedly short and somewhat flippant conversation, I wasn't thinking about Syria. I was thinking about going spear fishing as soon as I could reasonably stop working for the day.

There's the rub. Duck is a little like booze. Most of the year it's like a fine wine. In February it's like PBR. In the Fall it's like 151. It's at it's purist. It works fast. If you are just visiting you will probably have a great time, and skate through a minor post vacation withdrawal/hangover. If you're here full time you've gotta take the good time easy. Do some chores! At least clean out a couple closets or weed some flowerbeds. If you don't temper the good times, January will be a rude awakening. And as for trying to mould the rest of the world into versions of my permanent vacationland--Don't Do It! We (humanity) would never get anything done. Then again, maybe that's not such a bad thing

Not One Step Back

I often lament that I will raise my daughter in a place largely devoid of political activism. Today the activism came to us though, or within an hour anyway. Moral Monday protests have been ongoing in Raleigh, NC, and until today, we on the coast have been at least geographically removed.

North Carolina's Republican legislature has, according to a recent New York Times Op Ed piece, engineered the "Decline of North Carolina" by rolling back decades of legislation designed to care for the least fortunate among us. I tend to agree, and contemplated dragging the family to Raleigh to join in protests at the capital. I was pleasantly surprised to learn this morning that Dr. William Barber, president of the North Carolina NAACP, would be speaking at a rally/protest in Manteo (the county Seat) this evening. I knew I had to bring my daughter. Not that she would understand at three, but that she would see her mother and I standing in solidarity with members of our community.

Quinn seemed non plussed that we were standing around listening to speeches. No one was being arrested, voluntarily or otherwise. I imagine that would have generated some questions in Quinn's curious mind. I did catch her though shouting the responses to call and response slogans. Seeing my three year old daughter stomp her foot and shout, "not one step back" was pretty inspiring. I was filled with a sense similar to what must fill the hearts of evangelicals everywhere when their toddler raise their hands in a church meeting, or shout hallelujah. I'm not being snarky either. I don't think that my daughter is anymore an activist than that evangelical toddler is a willful disciple of christ. There is some satisfaction though in communicating the language to your child. And I showed my daughter tonight, unequivocally, that there are things in this life important enough that her normally sensible father is inclined to passionately shout otherwise ridiculous phrases.

I don't want to wax political here. The real lesson for me tonight came about ten minutes before we left home. The surf was perfect. The water was warm, a small rain shower had blown through, and I'd had a rough day at work. The ocean was begging me to play. It was too easy. Put on some trunks, grab a board, stroll to the sea, and enjoy the evening. Come home, eat dinner with my girls. Crack open an ice cold beer and reflect on the fact that though the legislatures behavior has been despicable, it doesn't affect me or my own directly. And there is the problem in living where we live. Our surroundings do not remind us of the struggle and pain so many of our human family endure. It is incumbent on us to keep a well oiled conscience. The legislative failures of our elected officials are our failures as a community. I'm sure none of that was communicated to Quinn tonight. But being there was a step with her, hand in hand, down a road that I hope will be characterized by frequent reminders to offer a helping hand when you can, and stand in solidarity when you don't know what else to do. It's great to live in a place that energizes you with what it has to offer. But you have to expend that energy in places where it is needed.

Because all the damage that the North Carolina legislature has done will probably only leave more money on my balance sheet this year, I'll tax myself, in waves, making a tiny sacrifice. I'm not sure my family's presence will change anything. And I would not delude myself to say that passing on surfing once to go to a rally that posed no danger or even real inconvenience to myself, makes me part of the struggle. What I'm trying to understand is how to live a useful life where I am. Once you've worked, or lucked your way into the middle class, then made the geographical move that your middle income affords, you have to be really careful. It's pretty easy to become irrelevant...

After Trayvon Martin

I heard/read three stories on the same day that left me really wondering about the meaning of the death of Trayvon Martin. I tried to write about it in what I'd characterize as my normal style--something like loosely stringing together ideas around a topic in an attempt to provoke thought? I think it's too delicate to be indirect.

I caught the tail end of an audio essay on All Things Considered the other day. A young black man name Miles Best was delivering what I thought was going to be the third in a series of essays I'd heard chronicling the unfair and unfortunate but necessary instructions that the mothers of black boys impart to their children. Basically the intent of all of these instructions is to communicate the importance of seeming non-threatening, in a world that is predisposed to seeing a threat in a black male. Mr. Best closed his essay brilliantly and made me think. In his closing sentence he didn't characterize himself as being seen as a threat, but a target.

The other two articles are linked here:

http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2013/07/17/202956379/rolling-stones-tsarnaev-cover-whats-stirring-such-passion


http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=202729367


For the lazy among you I will summarize:

The first link is NPR's take on the Rolling Stone Tsarnaev cover. The part of the angle is that when white people do heinous things, we look for a reason--bad family, bad upbringing, trauma etc.

The second is a piece about high school students transcending gender. If that doesn't make you want to read it, I don't know what will!


It all cooked down in my mind to this:
Seeing young black men as a threat is an absurd position, defensible only with a heavy reliance on skewed anecdote. The contention that in fact, young black men are a target, a representation of something non blacks want to kill is repugnant. When two people meet on the street, after dark, and one is packing; which one is the threat? The only part left for Martin to play was the target. Once this sank in, I was angry.

Then, faced with the reality that when white people commit atrocities, apparently premeditated atrocities, they are apologized for, I almost lost hope.

Until I heard the kids! At first I dismissed them as absurd. However, I'm a sucker for equal parts idealism and immaturity. It's a winning combination. I'm not implying that maturity is good and immaturity is bad either. Immaturity is just fleeting, but idealism...you can hang onto that.

By the time my daughter is to make her own way in this world she will be a minority in our country. Maybe by then it won't matter. As we white's lose our numerical dominance, I'm sure our apologists will grow louder before they are silenced. But even if they aren't, if the adolescents in this story characterize the audience, it won't matter. And as for some being targets or threats...When selection of a gender pronoun takes discussion, I don't see any practical way to generate race and gender stereotypes. If these teens have their way, you'd have to spend an hour every morning defining the shifting description of everyone you wanted to hate for that day. I must admit, I wasn't offended by this last story, but I did feel a touch of bewilderment. That was until I realized that definition is a key ingredient in hatred. You can love everyone. But you can't hate everyone, we've all got moms and kids etc. If you are going to hate, you must define. And it seems like that is getting more complicated.

So maybe my daughter won't be out of touch after growing up in a beach town. We are removed from a lot of violence. We are also removed from the dynamic thought that might expunge some of the violence form our culture. We probably aren't part of the problem, but we aren't part of the solution either. Or maybe we are .... everyone is here to go to the beach. In cheap trunks with your nine dollar flip flops and your Mercedes, or Civic--whichever the case may be--parked at the cottage, we all seem remarkably the similar. In a world where we are remarkably similar, fewer of us get shot.

Stacking The Deck

My vague goal here is to explore what makes place important, or not--my place in particular. I'm motivated to do this as I try to comprehend my personal balance of family, work and play. For a series of moments this evening, my understanding of the value of my choices was crystal clear.

Work was average today. It rained some, the bane of the construction worker. But, on average we continued to enjoy a break in what seemed like an endless heat wave, and I am on the cusp of getting all of the people that depend on me back to very steady work for the next nine months or so. On the cusp, not quite there. Put another way, there is some end in sight to the greatest recurring stress of my professional life.

As I wrapped things up today though, I found myself near my daughter's daycare, picked her up a little early, and took her with me to finish the day at the office. We walked down to the ocean together before heading home. I was hoping for a little wave to ride later in the evening, but it didn't look to promising. We got home and kissed wife/mom, depending on which one of us you asked, and I slipped out for a quick motorcycle ride-my choice B afterwork grown-up stress reliever. I was feeling pretty relaxed as I turned into the driveway, only to see wife, daughter and dog headed to the beach. I caught up. Child and dog wandered the beach and played and fetched, respectively. Special lady friend and I followed and monitored and sipped beverages. The surf looked better and better. I commented to wife. We brought the brood home and she suggested I go catch a few waves. Really? Choice A and B adult afterwork relaxation in one day?

The surf was in fact not good. Two short rides and a little stretching the limbs really. But, the air was just below too hot. The water was just above too cold. The eastern sky was a deep grayish blue, shaking off the days thunder showers. The western sky was a blazing orange sunset. The north and south held every color in between. All the while, it was all so understated. I wouldn't describe it as perfect. It was just great, and made greater by its ease, and its ease is a function of its proximity.

Proximity is what stacks the deck in my favor. That's why we bet on this hand (to drive a metaphor into the ground). The move to Duck was a move closer to the things that can't make everyday perfect, but serve as a constant thumb on the scale of life. Tonight the ocean was in the middle, like a comfortable old friend; refreshing, not to exciting. Sometimes it reminds us how insignificant we are. Other days it cradles us like children. When you are trying to balance a life, being steps from an ocean that makes you feel like a child, and within view of sunsets over the sound that make you feel like a king, it's hard not to feel like you are cheating.

In September, the visitors will thin out, my guys will all have plenty to do, and my wife and I will walk with our daughter to the beach. She will push further into the water than we want, but no farther than I would in her position. She will hold up a jellyfish, or sea star, or sea glass for our inspection. Her lips will be just turning blue. Her grin will be irrevocable. I will beam down at her secure in the knowledge that if her mother and I have given her nothing else, we've given her proximity to the sea. She will learn volumes from the sea, but what is more, I hope wherever she goes, she will feel close to it.

Adversity Not Included

Today Malala Yousafzai, on the occasion of her sixteenth birthday, addressed the United Nations. In her own characterization she spoke "for the right of every child." I have followed Malala's story with an interest I would not have had just four years ago; I have a three year old daughter. I love her dearly, as all fathers do their own daughters. In our community of ease and privilege, a community I was not born into, I have seen many daughters and sons spoiled. Of course I have vowed not to do this with my daughter, but will it be so easy? I'm plagued by this question.

Malala speaks out for every child's right to an education. My daughter cannot fight this fight, it has been fought for her. In her circumstance, she might be able to start a campaign demanding a private college prep education, but that sounds as trite a struggle as I've ever heard. Malala Yousafzai; determined to secure her education, determined to assure this accommodation for her friends and neighbors, martyred (so it would seem) for her cause, returns larger than life to proclaim that an education is a right, for all children. This right she even proclaims for the daughters and sons of her would-be murderers. This young woman embodies everything I hope to see developed in my child; determination, bravery, kindness, grace. Her spirit has been tempered by the most intense adversity and yet, hers is a sweet, gracious spirit.

Mine is not a burden unique to the parents of children raised in resort areas, it is the burden of affluence everywhere. Those of us not born with a silver spoon in our mouths went to work--we had to, there was competition there, performance was a necessity, not an option. With some luck and a great deal of hard work we secured our more and more comfortable future. By extension we have secured a more and more secure future for our progeny. Herein lies the problem: the sense that I had to support myself motivated me to work for my security. My childhood could not be characterized as fraught with adversity. Point of fact, it was pretty great. My daughter's is shaping up to be even more secure. So where does character come from? Adversity cannot be manufactured. Generosity born out of the shame of abundance is not generosity--it's just shame.

And yet, for the one Malala we have embodying the goodness of one daughter over the evil of this world, there are scores of lost children. The adversity that has strengthened this young girl and catapulted her to the forefront of our attention has claimed the lives of countless daughters and sons. No father would wish the pain and suffering that this and countless other children have endured on his own daughter in the hope of building character. And what of those who survive adversity only to be come bitter and hard?

I'm not sure that there is a remedy, or a route out of this conundrum. I do know that my daughter will know Malala's story and be reminded of it often. Most of us will never know what the true nature of our character would be when facing down the barrel of a gun. All of us see pieces of constitution when we are facing minor adversity, and we think no one is looking. I don't know her, and I could be wrong, but my bet would be that Malala's singularity was not immediately forged in that one defining moment before a muzzle flash. That was simply the moment her character, built of a million tiny moments of determination to overcome, was galvanized. I hope my daughter never faces down the barrel of a gun but I do hope that I can instill in her the sense that each moment our character is tested, even in the slightest, is our opportunity to tip our own personal balance in the direction of goodness.



A Link to Malala's speech to the UN






Background from Vanity Fair
http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/2013/04/malala-yousafzai-pakistan-profile

Leather and Lace...Ebony and Ivory...Khaki and White

I saw something peculiar this morning. I occasionally take my beloved pooch for a beach stroll before work. As a construction worker, this means we must be home before quarter to seven. This particular morning was lovely. It was cloudy, but not overcast, so the sun rise was electric and shimmering orange and gray. There was a lone photographer trying to capture the moment with due diligence. The peculiarity arose from the two other photographers and their clients all clad in--you guessed it--some form of khaki pants and white tops. Kudos to those willing to rise at six am or earlier to get their beach photo. And it is duly noted that they were lovely families. I must say though. It's vacation, no uniform is required. If you are dedicated enough to get up at the crack of dawn to document your moment of "relaxation" go big, or go home. Khaki and white are tired. If you are up at sunrise, you obviously are not tired. Show it! If you are going to curtail my dogs fetch moment. Do it in leather and lace, Ebony and Ivory, orange and pink--whatever, just not khaki and white. It's overdone. Live large, or live meekly...after fetch time.

Water On a Mission

I participated in a canoe trip on the headwaters of the James River this past weekend, and learned something about my home. A brief overview: For those who love and are refreshed by nature, but occasionally loath hiking and its discomforts, I recommend a canoe trip. Canoes are indeed the boat reduced to its leanest and most capable form; fine lines, shallow draft, astonishing payload to displacement ratio. An elegant solution to humanities aquatic needs. Rivers are at their inceptions pristine, quiet and lively places. The trip carried me over forty eight miles of sometimes pristine, but mostly just rural river land. There were small mouth bass and muskie. There were also cranes and cows grazing and drinking at the waters edge. The weekdays were devoid of people. The weekend days were full of floaters. Here is what fascinated me: Even on the most placid sections of the river, I could obviously see that the river was dropping in elevation; going down hill. Subject to the lay of the land and gravity, massive amounts of water were cascading in what seemed like slow motion to the sea. Now, this seems obvious. Anyone that can read a map can see this on paper. However, not only am I a flat lander, I'm a coastal dweller. The water I live with is as level as--well-- sea level. Sure there are hydrological phenomenon at play in my coastal region that allude to the dynamic tendencies of water. Sure there are storms and storm surges, wind events, etc. But on most days this is reality: All rivers flow to the sea, and where I live so is the sea, and all of our water is, ultimately at sea level. Stasis. Now here's the leap. I think that is what makes this area special. It is explicit. You have reached the end of the line. Without some serious hardware, you cannot go on. So sit. Look out, be inspired by the space, the expanse. But sit, because you are on the margin. The thin line where the rivers meet the sea. The point of stasis--the point of equilibrium. The only appropriate thing to do is relax completely. Modern humans have found refreshment for the soul in nature essentially since we've abandoned a natural life. But replenishment comes from the mountain at the price of physical exertion--or fossil fuels in some cases. Replenishment in the meadow is found in the seeing of its true nature--active observation of flora and fauna. At the sea's edge, while there are ancillary pass-times for the uninitiated, true aficionados simply observe. Or perhaps absorb would be the better word. At the point where the river meets the sea, where the earth levels out, in a since, we can level out. Perhaps that is the appeal, you can surf, fish, throw a frisbie. But you can also snowboard, hunt, or document bird sightings. I am having trouble conceiving in my mind anywhere else that it is not only acceptable, but expected that we will just sit, relax, exist, and get exactly what we need out of just being.

We are watching...

It has come to light that the NSA is monitoring my phone correspondence. This did not come as a surprise to me. Personally I expected it. I have exhibited subversive behavior...or something. I will briefly relate the same story twice:(actually happened to me) Version 1: Beginning in 1999 I traveled to Israel to study. I met people there, people with an agenda. They were not "Zionists". At the time my government supported a Zionist agenda, of sorts. I traveled throughout Israel with my new associates. We crossed the border into Egypt together, we were in the Golan heights less than seven days later. We requested that our visas not be stamped on our passport pages, but on paper inserts. We entered the West Bank. In subsequent years I stayed in touch with these individuals. I traveled to Paris on more than one occasion to meet with one associate, and then again to New York City. The other associate visited Washington DC and I met with him. On each visit, no "tourist activities" took place. Meetings were held in apartments of friends, or small cafes. In subsequent years I traveled to South Africa, not too exciting... The would-be drug export hub of Zihuatanejo, Mexico, maybe exciting, and finally Baja California. Who knows what went on there... Version 2: In 1999 I won a scholarship that landed my redneck self in a sweet apartment in Jerusalem Israel. I had a kitchen which made me popular with my student friends. I met a lady, who was nice, very pretty, and I think fascinated by what I will call, "my rural charm," that's putting it nicely. I was a jackass in an equally cosmopolitan and partisan city. I went on a school sponsored trip every weekend I was in Israel accept one trip to Sinai to swim with dolphins. This trip was fun, but a bummer, because it's tough to get a beer in the Egyptian hinterlands. The only other exception was a trip to Ramallah, which did feel a little deviant, but not for reasons you would think. There is a native dessert served there, I think it's called Kanafa or something like that. If I remember correctly, it is a sugar coated fried cheese. Pretty sweet. Though romance did not blossom, a friendship did between myself and said pretty lady. She introduced me to friends of hers, and in subsequent years I would visit her, and they would visit me, and we'd have beers, because who goes to museums anyway. Trips to South Africa, and Mexico grew out of meeting more friends, and wanting to go on vacation and surf great waves. The surf pretty much universally sucked...Se la vie. Obviously this is a truncated version of the story, but it's all in how that facts are illuminated. I can't help but notice that the innocent doofus version is slightly longer than the incriminating one. Who's got time to waste on details when they are looking at so much information. Certainly not a mid-level civil servant tasked with preserving the American way! I'm not sure what any of us should feel about leakers, or having our privacy invaded. I will reel it all in here though. My sweet town, where no terrorism has happened to date, as far as I know, has cameras. They are mounted in public places, and they take still shots. They take still shots because we cannot afford video. I heard the proposition of cameras discussed at a town council meeting where the consensus was that video monitoring of the town would be a good thing. When the town manager explained that this was not possible for economic reasons he sited evidence from the still cameras that were already installed. YES THAT'S RIGHT, THE CAMERAS THAT WERE ALREADY INSTALLED!! Obviously this was prior to the meeting discussing weather or not we were going to install them. I think this is all in the name of preventing TV theft, but humor me for a moment. A different story twice (did not happen to me, but totally believable). Man walking on bike path passes attractive minor in bikini. Man begins striking his legs--some sort of nervous tick. Minor becomes nervous. Places 911 call. Man appears agitated, retires to bushes and removes pants, and begins frantically pawing at groin. Police arrive. Minor is crying. Man is arrested. Still photos of man with hands on genitals--damming evidence. Or Man walking on bike path feels something crawling on his calf. Awkward adolescent girl in bikini passes man examining his calf. Awkward adolescent girl has been nervous and uncomfortable for roughly three years. Man makes her feel more nervous and uncomfortable. Man discovers multitude of ticks/fire ants/whatever swarming his legs. Man is suffering, but knows it is not appropriate to remove pants on Duck Road Bike Path. Man retires behind bush to examine self and attempt to mitigated personal damage. Adolescent places 911 call. Paramedics are directed to bush and able to spare man unnecessary infection and suffering. It is obviously never this cut and dried. I accept the fact that my desire to have what I write read puts me on the world wide web. But we have to draw the line somewhere, and it will be a crooked moving line. But we have to put in the work. It is absolutely unacceptable that "meta data" is being gathered on all of us for no reason. It may also be dangerous to value complete privacy over safety.

Open Season

Memorial Day weekend means different things to different people. In Duck, it means the visitors will arrive in force, and be here at least through labor day. Local's cars are plastered with bumper stickers that chronicle a myriad of opinions on the subject. They range from sincere, "sign of welcome.." sorts to disparagements of regional driving ability (driving style if you consulted the disparaged party). Some go as far as likening tourist season to hunting season. Suffice it to say, though opinions vary our economy is dependent upon our visitors, absentee owners and tourists alike. For that reason they are welcome. I must make an attempt to understand their presence though, and what it means to me and my community. In short, they are an inconvenience that enriches our community, in the best case. In the worst case we are the exploited party in what can only be characterized as a prostitution of--or perhaps more accurately--the rape of our community. It all depends on the behavior of the guest. I'll go dark first in an effort to end on a high note. On their worst behavior, visitors arrive in a flashy vehicle of some sort. They shout from the cockpit of their usually topless, jackass mobile at cyclists sharing the road and whistle inappropriately at under age passerby modeling swimwear their mothers thought was a bad call--they are now certain of this hunch. They go on to toss empty beer bottles from their machismo floats, on their way to restaurants, where they complain that their meal was not as familiar as their neighborhood Applebee's. They get drunk, and tip poorly. They attempt to drive two blocks home, maim or kill an innocent passerby. All parties at the scene deny that they were the driver. And they return perennially. Hence the snarky bumper stickers. Fortunately they are the minority. The majority strike a much more familiar chord. The holiday family get together. I encourage a listen to Robert Earl Keen's "Merry Christmas From the Family." Elements of it are inappropriate and embarrassing, but so is family. Tourist season is metaphorically like hosting some ridiculous family reunion. You are anticipating your extended family's arrival, we'll say for the Fourth of July week (can you feel the heat and humidity). You've casually prepared for weeks. You've finally organized your garage, the foul weather, back-up gathering location. You didn't want to clean it up and turn it into party headquarters. You know it will set you back weeks on your high performance riding lawn mower customization, but you make the sacrifice. They are family. They are entitled to your hospitality. You've cut the grass and mulched the flower beds. You don't want to seem like some sort of hack, your "spouse" has encouraged you to put your best foot forward. As you anticipate your extended family's arrival your mind is consumed with two thoughts. One: you are much more put together than you feel like you will be able to communicate--or, more accurately--you can't help it that the damn package store was out of the good margarita mix, why does you sister in law insist on drinking top shelf tequila if she's just going to wreck it with mixers anyway? Two: You know the second cousins said they were more than happy to sleep on the hide-a-bed in the den, but you also know that if they aren't uncomfortable there, they will definitely make you uncomfortable being there. Faced with this, you know from experience that the following will happen: At least one party will arrive inexplicably early. At least one party will stay inexplicably late. You will wash an unbelievable amount of dishes, even though you remember providing compostable paper plates and silverware at every meal (five a day!). No one will notice or comment on amenities that you improved upon or expanded from last year. No one will thank you for hosting--yet again. Someone will break something. It will cost you a lot. Though these people are extended "family," the whole experience will stress your immediate family. You will have an inexplicable surplus of food. You will have an inexplicable deficit of beer. We've all been there, or will be. Now imagine either being assaulted by thugs or visited by family for a period of three months. . . . Open Season.

Sambuca The Cat

Most of the time my thoughts lead me to compare life in Duck to life elsewhere. Sometimes life elsewhere comes to Duck. We've adopted Sambuca the cat. Back story as I understand it: Service member in Alaska has dog, cat and significant other. Family of four moves to Nags Head or surrounding area. Service member's deployment is eminent, relationship with significant other falls apart, dog and cat find themselves in Dare County animal shelter. Pet Smart in Nags Head has feline/shelter gallery at check-out. Murray Family is at Pet Smart to purchase clipper blade for shaggy dog. Murray family deliberates: diet Pepsi or fluffy white giant cat. Cat requires application...anyone can buy a Pepsi...Murray family opts for cat, delays Osteoporosis. That was Sunday. Today is Thursday, Sambuca came home. Fluffy white cat, new fluffy white cat bed, food dish, etc in downstairs bathroom. Cat loves to be brushed. Resident cats accept, grudgingly, presence of new cat. Dog sees opportunity in additional food bowl. I often struggle when confronted with service members. I feel compelled to say thank you. I may not agree with the mission, but I am indebted to those who volunteer to serve and do our nation's dirty work. What's more, I think I have some understanding of what it means to serve in service to your comrades rather than any "cause." I've heard interviews with soldiers though that lament the awkwardness of the obligatory, "thank you for your service," no matter how sincere. If this man cared for his cat, like I care for mine, or my dog, I feel totally comfortable saying instead, I'll take care of your cat. Love can be a fickle beast-complicated by the participants. Pets though, when approached meaningfully and responsibly can transcend love. Pets are a testament to partnership. I will do x consistently in exchange for you doing y consistently. It's not the exchange that is sacred, it is the consistency. I will feed you and keep you safe, I appreciate your affection and availability in return. The relationship is elegant in its simplicity. Hopefully the thank you is elegant in it's simplicity. I appreciate your service, but I don't need to say that. What I will say instead is: I will care for your cat, as you did. He will be a member of our family. I will keep him safe.

Pick Your Poison

I listened to an official from the Oklahoma State Police break down into tears describing the aftermath of the tornadoes there. I had seen some photos, and listened to a lot of radio, but this woman's perspective really got me. She's a professional, not melodramatic at all, and by virtue of her chosen vocation, not unfamiliar with atrocity. It is the loss of children that gives us the most pause, and the grieving of their parents. To be a parent is to fail, daily. However, the joy of parenting is the constant renewal of opportunity--the resilience of your child. They have a faith in us, in spite of our shortcomings. They have faith that we are good, capable and can protect them. But we cannot. And in failing to protect them once, all of our other failures are magnified. Failures of patience, failures of sensitivity, all pale in comparison, and are also magnified by any failure to protect. Why would anyone live there? I hear people ask, Tornado Alley! Really!? It's all a question of degree. I puzzle at my neighbors on Hatteras Island, a Hurricane Hole, as we call it. But we get hit, again and again. If a tornado is a knock out punch in a street brawl, a hurricane is the crush of an enraged mob in a soccer stadium, or a street riot. In many ways though they are similar. The tornado's odds are slim--wrong place at the wrong time etc. But as the hurricane's footprint is large, its catastrophic damage is random. So much depends on terrain, exposure, construction technique, the age of the structure. Why would anyone live here? Why does anyone live anywhere? Born here. Beautiful. Peaceful. Found work. Can't find work. Just kind of ended up here. Wherever you've ended up, you can't protect your children, you can't protect yourself, you can't dot all of the i's and cross all of the t's. You can only make a life. And a life is worth making, anyplace. I wonder if the real danger isn't found in the real reward? The finer a life you make--the less you fail your kids, your spouse, your boss, your friends--the more you have to lose. I listened to another engaging story this morning about cicadas. They will emerge this year, after seventeen years underground. They will burst from their exoskeletons, sing songs, mate, and die. Their offspring will burrow into the ground, and repeat the process in seventeen years. The biologist interviewed explained that the cicada's life cycle has evolved as a way to overwhelm predators, and ensure the propagation of the species. Forced to pay attention to the harshness of our environment through natural disasters, our disregard for our humanity in Asian sweatshops, and the evil among us in the form of teenage terrorists, I will take the cicada's path. I'll emerge, make some noise, make a family, do what I can to protect it, and go in peace, hopefully.

Santa Clause and The Easter Bunny Live Here

No shit.. . .. They really do. In a week that headlines for the real world read: Islamist militant/freedom fighter/ Syrian rebel desecrates enemy corpse... U.S. fashion companies promise $.50 per t-shirt to secure the future of workers in Bangladesh. I just want to offer the following... I'm sure there is a nationwide, or even worldwide Easter Bunny. However there is a tiny older woman in our community who holds an Easter egg hunt the Saturday before Easter for local children, all ten of them. She dresses as a bunny, hides eggs and does not speak...at all. The rest of the year, she walks her Newfoundland on a circuit of town, daily. This alone would not be particularly amazing. However, in addition Santa Clause lives here. He works at our local hardware store. His name is Al. He is the most authentic Santa ever. He stopped by our house last Christmas Eve, and I am sure we have a life long believer. If Santa is an idea Al is the embodiment of it. Sure he is payed for his efforts, and his absolutely perfect look. But Damn. Al has a real beard, and a dapper ermine trimmed suit. He is not portly, nor svelte. He is one jolly dude. And he will sell you plumbing supplies, with a knowing wink. I'm not nuts, I know these people are not the real Ester bunny or Santa. But if there were a real Easter Bunny, or Santa, I can say unequivocally, they would live in Duck. It just makes too much sense. Photo Evidence:

Alert ! Man on Bike Path Not Doing Bike Path Things...

My wife called me the other night on her way to meet me. "There's this guy on the bike path right by the house, earlier he was just sitting there, now he's lying on his back listening to an i pod. Do you think I should call the cops." Now at this point a normal non-alarmist person, I thought about saying no, it's probably nothing. What I actually said was, "Hell yes call the cops." Reactionary? Overreacting? Maybe. Maybe not? The Duck Police Dept certainly takes care of their business. Their business just tends to be a little more routine than say, the LAPD. You can read the blotter. DUI, drunk in public, public nuisance etc. We do have an unfortunate amount of pedestrian/cyclist interaction with motor vehicles. Actually we had a brutal, fatal hit and run a couple of years ago. But suffice it to say, booze, cars, fireworks and rudeness are the normal fair. Once we met for dinner, I asked my wife if she indeed called the police. She did, and the duty officer's response to her query got me thinking. He proudly reported, "yes ma'am I saw that gentleman and he did look mildly suspect to me, so I stopped and asked what he was up to . . . waiting for a ride. Thanks for the call though." As I muse about my town's pleasantness, and ponder frequent turmoil in the world outside it, I'm inclined to look for root causes. I think this story illustrates one: In Duck, you do appropriate things in appropriate places. Bike paths are for biking or walking. Beaches are for relaxing. Houses are for eating and sleeping. Streets are for driving etc. When you try to re-purpose a town feature, you will be noticed. There will be no waiting for a ride on the bike path, without some inquiry. We aren't huffy about it we didn't haul the kid off to jail. We just notice. And in a world where psychological research assures us that if we are getting a beating on a crowded street, it is unlikely that we will be helped by passers by, it's nice to know that here, someone would probably have already asked our assailant why he was wearing last year's Tommy Bahama before he could even think about beating our ass. OK, it's probably not that extreme. But it is pervasive. Theft is a huge problem here, especially in rental houses. It is very hard to police when contractors and rental companies are constantly scrambling to keep the newest and nicest amenities in houses. Once you see enough TV's and dining room sets on the side of the street on bulk pick-up week, you start to not notice the unauthorized individual quietly removing said items from a property. The weird thing is that Duck also doesn't feel particularly exclusive or high brow. All the restaurants are casual. There are rental houses of every stripe and price range. I don't think it's the residents either, there just aren't enough to set such a pervasive tone. I think it is what it is. A resort town. Everyone is here to have a good time. And maybe a good time is more important, or at least more dear than morality. Absorbed in our everyday lives in any other city or town, passing by someone being harmed, there is a possibility that we tell ourselves we do not understand the circumstance. Maybe we don't even notice due to our absorbtion in our day. Life is real, life is busy. We see our world through our worldview. We bend our surroundings to our purpose. People re-purpose things. Houses become meth labs, streets become protest venues. Pressure cookers are made into bombs, parks become community gardens. Cars become homes. The pulse of the world around us doing what it needs to do to get something done is intense. In a place where you go to get away from all of that, even if you carry it around with you on your smart phone the whole time you are supposed to be relaxing, there seems a desire to not re-purpose. A desire to see things at face value. Re-purposing can serve good or evil ends, but in either case it takes a critical eye to see and a critical mind to develop, and perseverance to execute. In a resort town these are not common values.

The ooze of pleasantness and bliss

A bad week, putting it mildly. I listen to the news regularly, but after the Boston bombing, I was paying special attention Tuesday. An extremely powerful earthquake was being reported in rural Iran. Then, Wednesday morning, reports of an explosion at a fertilizer plant in West Texas. At some point interspersed in there, authorities in Mississippi made an arrest of an individual suspected of mailing poisoned letters to the president, and a member of congress. On Tuesday morning, as I pondered the news from the night before and the breaking news from Iran, I passed a group of what I deduced to be Mennonites playing volleyball on a sand court in Ocean Dunes. I'm not sure I can capture or explain the minutia that makes towns like Duck the way they are and separates them from the rest of the life as we know it. Maybe it's in these snapshots, that I might find some sense of what it is though. On a placid, gentle, warm oceanside morning, as Bostonians were waking bewildered by the previous day's senseless carnage, as Iranians were in the midst of suffering and loss, and as Texans in the town of West were on the brink of disaster; eight young women in cheerful dresses and matching bonnets played an impromptu game of beach volleyball. I'm finding it difficult to imagine a more poignant or bizarre juxtaposition. I cannot. Truth may be stranger than fiction. Truth in a hamlet devoted to relaxing by the ocean as the world goes flying by is far stranger. I completely accept that if you isolated any small town, neighborhood--even in a big city--you could make observations similar to mine. This is extraordinary however, to my mind. Yes there will be a share of human suffering on a daily basis. And yes any pleasant town could be seen in contrast to this. I must maintain however, the following is extraordinary. There are less than eight hundred permanent residents of Duck. It's only April. It's not a holiday. So with the smattering of vacationers visiting, say two hundred and fifty or so people here to work for the day, no permanent mennonite community, and me by no means scouring the streets ( I do have a job...); How does this happen. By chance, with a random sample of less than 3000 possible humans do I happen onto the street where eight young women are playing volleyball in bonnets. They were all beaming with happiness by the way, having the time of their lives. That is why I feel compelled to share these observations. The ooze of pleasantness and bliss can be so pervasive at times it would seem saccharine, if it weren't so blissful.

...and that is why we are afforded our grace

I'm finishing the build of our new house, and I've been thinking about a new project. I've lived in Duck for about a year and a half now, and though I've been on the Outerbanks for almost ten years, I feel that Duck is different--more removed, more isolated, more compact. I want to chronicle a year in Duck, in hopes that I can highlight the sense that I get sometimes of being a part of the world, while being separated from it. I'd planned to start this project, or whatever it will become after finishing our home. But, as I have been mulling it over in my head for that last couple months as while tiling a floor or trimming a window, I've felt compelled to somehow illustrate Duck's relationship to the wider world. Today that relationship was illustrated for me in full relief. The Boston Marathon was bombed today, while I was meeting with clients concerning a potential second home building project. As my potential client and I said our goodbyes they admonished me to take my time in getting back to them and not forget the importance of spending time with my family. I assured them that I was grateful for the work, and looked forward to putting pen to paper and finalizing their budget. I stopped off to meet a pool contractor at another job and then returned to the office to begin developing a budget proposal for the new build. Here I am completely consumed with the world of second homes, pool additions, cranes employed to move hot tubs...and there it is on my homepage "Explosions Rock Finish of Boston Marathon." How banal seems my world. I have dear friends who live in Boston and work downtown. Call or text? I texted, they are attorneys after all, and was relieved to get an all's well response. Miraculously, they were both home, with their kids, on a Monday. We all seem to take for granted why Boston, New York, Sydney, Miami,Cape Town, Norfolk, Los Angeles etc exist. Centers of population develop around ports, centers of commerce develop between them; Chicago, St. Louis, and in between them small towns. And that's where people live: big cities, or small towns, or something in between. But then there are regions set apart. Areas so beautiful or singular that people want to spend some time there. Enterprising individuals who can tolerate underemployment, sparse public services, seasonal isolation, and occasional but absolutely shit weather make these places home. And try to make a living making the visitors comfortable. We deal with serious issues here, but they are almost always uniquely local. We agonize over managing development, erosion, traffic etc. But our issues are destined to be microcosmic. We are affected by, and shaped by the events of the world around us, and at the same time unaffected. Maybe the world needs places like Duck, and that is why we are afforded our grace. Bostonians will visit us this summer, and I hope they don't remember the bombs, for a week or so. I hope, in this blog, to explore this idea further. A year in Duck. What's going on here, what's going on out there, and how are they related, or not.