Yuppie's Marching

How smug was I in high school when I first heard Dave Matthews' Ants Marching and thought I got it? That would never be me. In some ways, I avoided that fate. No nine to five me--the phone rings all the damn time. No commute, I live amongst my projects. I do make more money that I ever thought probable, and it buys less than I ever thought possible. And tonight, I became decisively more middle class and yuppiefied. I wrote my first email to the principal--no, no it's worse, there's not even a principal yet--its just the owner of the preschool! Let's leave the substance of the complaint out, to protect the innocent. It's a big enough deal to send an email, and abide the precipitating phone calls and conferences, but no one is on fire.

The odd thing is, while writing the email, I wondered if I wasn't helping too much. On the one hand, we want our kids to work things out on their own. On the other, when they are being subjected to harm outside of their control, we feel like we need to intervene. As I rolled this over in my head, I thought of something else. What is the percentage of children that will never have a parent, or in this case two parents proof-reading and email on their behalf--Is it too harsh, to soft, the correct tone? And the fact that there are two of us mulling this over is not because we just stumbled upon awesomeness accidentally. (For the record, we are not awesome.) Two stable, if not perfect households raised two stable if not perfect children. Over $100,000 was invested in post secondary education, some of which we are still paying off, to teach us not to be jackasses. Then we were fortunate enough to bounce around for a while trying out various lifestyles and vocations until we stumble upon parenthood and marital bliss--in that order, oh the scandal.

So, while not a textbook case, I'm still pretty amazed that statistically less than half of the children in this country will get what we have to offer. I wish I had something to say about that, but the shock of it is pretty overwhelming. I spend a lot of my time wondering if the interaction I have with my daughter is good enough. I wonder if I balance teaching and affection. I wonder when she needs to be seriously introduced to musical instruments. I wonder if I spend enough time with her. And then I wonder how we expect to even have a livable world without every single father pondering these things. Then I wonder how we can expect every single father to wonder about these things when we live in a world where so many fathers and mothers probably don't have the time, energy or perspective to do so. They don't get a break. Then the problem seems so huge I just give up for the night. And as my sweet child sleeps, and as my dog chews a bone, and my wife wonders how long I will type, I grab a beer from the fridge. And I realize--that's the problem--those of us not experiencing the problem directly can take a break. And in doing so, we never solve it.

Disappointment or Compassion…Not Sure

As isolated as we may feel sometimes. Important moments can create a real sense of solidarity. Let us dismiss for a moment our differences over who may or may not be funding our nation's space program and the entire debate that goes along with that. On this day, I was afforded a break by the world. A scheduled rocket launch was postponed . . . meaning that there was just enough news coverage of the non-event to bring it into my consciousness. We were working hard on the compound, but we paused on the roof of my brothers house (still under construction), daughter in arms, wife uncomfortable on roof, to watch the launch of the Antares rocket. It failed. Quinn cried!

I wish I could say that her concern was out of compassion, but I'm not sure that she understood things completely enough for that. When I explained that there were no people on the doomed rocket, the tears subsided only for a moment.

The fact is, she felt human failure. We bet big. . . and sometimes we lose. She expected a streak in the sky and we attempted to placate her with explanations. No explanations suffice when you have climbed onto a roof to see a spectacle. Maybe that's how we all felt.

Unfortunately, for the grown-ups in the crowd, the loss of a rocket and 50,000 lbs of supplies seemed insignificant. We are the generation of The Challenger. But Quinn's disappointment resonates. We thought we were doing one thing. . . but we really weren't quite there.

What Would Elsa Do?

**If you haven't watched Frozen several times, you will not get anything out of this**

My daughter identifies with Elsa, to the point of completely ignoring Anna. Anna is sweet and goofy; fun and engaging. Elsa is a flawed badass who struggles through her own problems. A risk taker. If Elsa existed in a temperate climate today, she would be a biker. She'd trade in the braid for a brain bucket and the dress for some leathers and hit the road. Sure it's dangerous, but it's a fulfilling way to live. You learn a lot about yourself when you make your decisions less than six inches above pavement racing by at seventy miles per hour. Usually you find out that you aren't quite the badass you thought, but so be it. Knowledge is power.

In other news, I read today about New York State's program to buy out residents of Staten Island, who's homes were damaged in Hurricane Sandy. The article was interesting, and mildly nuanced, but the comments on the story were not. So much, "taxpayers subsidizing rich risk takers etc." I know little about coastal New York, but we are equally besmirched here in Dare County, NC. Few people who don't know this will read this blog, but, I must say: Emergency disaster relief is not flood insurance. And disaster relief usually comes in the form of subsidized loans. So, in the world of bail-outs, flood insurance and FEMA aren't really bailing anyone out. (They are spending money, but that is another issue.) Another interesting fact: flood insurance only covers loss above base flood elevation. So accepting grandfathered, repetitive loss properties(which are the minority), no one is really behaving irresponsibly--at least in Dare County NC, which is all I can speak about.

Do we take a risk living here? Certainly, risk that is typically borne by ourselves. Why do we admire Elsa, the badass, ice-flinging, self styled risk taking princes. But then we are more than happy to disparage those who choose to pay ridiculous insurance premiums and endure astronomical cost of living, to live by the sea. If you asked an insurance adjuster about a person riding a motorcycle or living by the sea--and she answered honestly--she'd tell you that those persons are a potential gold mine. All that agent could tell you is that someone who chose to do both of those things would be a real cash cow for the old company.

Risk is a bitch, but it makes the world go round. It makes us money and it makes us interesting. You win some, you lose some. I get that. When someone is taking different risks than you, it's pretty easy to ridicule their decision making process. As you can learn a lot about yourself near the pavement, you can learn just as much near the sea. Ask yourself: "What would Elsa Do?"

Sand Spurs, The Little Prince, and The Compound

Compound members are delighted to welcome a new member, plus one!. My brother, and soon to be compound neighbor (Lord willing by December-when his house is supposed to be finished), is now betrothed. This will bring the total compound population to seven adults, one child, three dogs, and three cats, in less than a year. This will be on less than one acre of land.

Recently we were visiting a friend on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. She and her husband live in a wonderful big old house on maybe five acres. They are surrounded on all sides by farm land-creating a sense of borderless bucolic bliss. The social dynamic of the compound was called into question on occasion-gently, but sincerely. I value the opinion of this friend and so I've pondered the possibility of difficulties.

I will at this moment take responsibility for all of this. I want the compound, and I'm excited about it. I wouldn't say I've coerced anyone. I've laid out practical reasoning at every turn. But, I must admit, without me, the compound would not be. Because I've solicited and secured input and consent, the success of the compound will be a shared success. Because the compound could not have happened without my motivation (or harping depending on who you ask), I will be blamed completely for its failure.

So I take each question to heart, as I try to answer sincerely. But the truth is, I don't know if it will work out, or how really. I know what it can be, and I know what I hope for it. But the compound is a family, and at the end of the day they work, or they don't. Some work well. Some work satisfactorily. My immediate family has always worked well. I figure the compound will at least come off satisfactorily.

I've been reading The Little Prince to my daughter lately. That little guy had a serious opinion about harmful plants. He uprooted every baobab tree on his tiny planet in an effort to save it from certain destruction. His planet was, by his description, a sphere with about as much square footage as we have on the compound. (There I go talking in numbers.) The fact the he and his flower could not see fit to live there in harmony does give me pause. But alas, they were intense individuals…. His key to relative success was to remove problem trees before they became an insurmountable problem.

As I was mowing my lawn today, I came upon a patch of sand spurs. These are a species of grass that grows like most, by root, by runner, and by seed. The only problem is that their seeds are covered in a spiky husk. They look like a Lord of The Rings version of the worst kidney stone you can imagine. I have worked diligently to rid my lawn of this scourge. However, I've been busy with the building of the brother's portion of the compound. Obviously I've been forfeiting territory. Allowed a foothold they will spread like wildfire. They are well suited for our dry sandy little island. As I was pulling them, I could not help but think of The Little Prince. I thought, what a splendid metaphor! I will blog about this. All you nay sayers! The compound will work. We will weed out problems early and thoroughly.

But then, as I realized that the battle with the spurs would never be won on my effort alone, I began to think in grand communal terms. I actually had a vision of all compound members stooped over ridding our Eden of spiny nuisance. Then I realized, what if my brother and wife are sharing a spur that I don't even know about? What if my dog upsets my sister-in-law's dog, thus upsetting her with me. What if my brother and dad are sharing a conflict that I am not privy to? What then? The sand spur is a real bitch, but at least they are transparent. They wave in the fall breeze and seem to stare up at you saying, "Hey man, I'm here to wreck your yard, you got time to pull me out, because I literally have all the time in the world." What if the issues that might undermine the compound are not so forthright in with their intent to ruin.

I'll admit, this has me a little freaked out, but the potential rewards still outweigh the potential downfalls. I guess because the success of the compound has a little more to offer than a sweet lawn.

What Barack Obama, and Jax Teller Have In Common.

Everyone knows President Obama, so I'll elaborate on the other individual in my title first. I watch a program called Sons of Anarchy. It's been called a soap opera for men. It has it's weak moments, but it focuses on a theme that I find interesting--power and violence. Actually, I obsess about it. In fact, I'd say that I think this theme cuts to the core of our existence.

Sons of Anarchy is a series about a biker gang, modeled loosely on the Hells Angels, that vascilates between its dual purposes as a social organization, and a criminal enterprise. This seems like a silly premise, but as a guy who likes to ride motorcycles and hates working, it seems completely reasonable to me--about one eighth of the time. Without belaboring the point, the tension in the program is derived entirely from the motorcycle club's need to dominate as a criminal organization, and the realization of this end. Put simply, if people or organizations undermine the motorcycle gang's, superiority or business interests, the gang must react. The tension and interesting plot points are generated by mistaken identifications of aggressors, or underestimations of the aggressors capabilities. And so, the audience, knowing all, finds it extremely frustrating when poor, or misinformed decision making leads the club into turmoil. Jax Teller is the unreasonably handsome, charismatic leader of that organization.

Barack Obama is the unreasonably handsome, charismatic leader of the free world. I think the American public seems to be behaving like an unruly motorcycle club. Until two months ago, we were war weary. Over it! Bring them home, even though most of us couldn't name one man or woman that was fighting on our behalf. Now however, we've become motivated. Two journalists have been beheaded and paraded on You Tube for the world to see. I do not want to minimize the loss of those two men. They sacrificed greatly, to show us the struggle of other humans, a world away. They have been disgraced, desecrated, and as members of our clan/club, the crime against them is a violation of us. Something must be done.

Two days ago, we commemorated the anniversary of the September Eleventh Attacks. We were violated, and we reacted. If it had been a season of Sons of Anarchy, the fans would have been anguished when the club president, George W. Bush went after the wrong guy. In the ridiculous world of Sons of Anarchy, the characters are forever misidentifying the actual aggressor, and starting gang wars that result in unfortunate losses of members and operating capital. I would argue that we, as Americans, did the same in Iraq. The expenditure in hardware not withstanding, the September Eleventh Attacks cost approximately three thousand lives. If you add to that the first responders that are still suffering and dying, that number rises to four and a half thousand. To date four thousand four hundred eighty six American soldiers have died in Iraq. Over two thousand one hundred seventy five american soldiers have died in Afghanistan. This does not consider coalition forces, or indigenous individuals loyal to the United States. I'll let you do the math, but if you take any hardware costs into account, it seems unlikely that even the most creative accountant could say we came out on top.

I'm not suggesting that any legitimate leader can allow or permit aggression against their organization. The critical path to success lies in meeting out vengeance in the most efficient, judicious, and meaningful way. That can be a tall order for any organization, or State. An effective response depends on three elements: Resources, Capability, and Resolve. The United States Armed Forces have the capability and resources to spare. The resolve comes from the American people, and it is in short supply. At this moment, we, as Americans are angry. We have the resolve to defeat the Islamic State. It won't last. Precisely for the reason we've become so united. We want to see action-vengeance for the murder of two journalists. With air strikes, we can mete out the vengeance we want. Then we will lose interest. As we should. We should return to work, building our economy, our capability. The strength of our economy is the strength of our army.

Our long term defeat of ISIL, or whatever you want to call it will not come on the battlefield. It will come in the workplace, and more importantly, on the highway. ISIL is financed almost completely by oil revenue. Defeating ISIL on the ground would require an open ended time commitment, and an acceptance of their terms. They ascribe little value to human life. We do not accept this term, but if we try to engage them on the ground we will be subject to it. In the end, resources win wars. We as a nation need to focus on that. Our leaders need to focus on convincing, or coercing our Arab allies into confronting this problem on the ground. I do not doubt that we have the capability or resources to defeat ISIL on the ground, I just doubt we have the stomach for it.

Quinn Creeps . . . or a Story of Astonishment

The above is a photo of my daughter. You see the back of her head in the foreground, and between the porch rails you see "the drummer," the object of her affection. We will refer to him as "the drummer" to protect his privacy. Live music is the norm in a resort town on a sultry Sunday eve, and Quinn loves to boogie. So a couple of weeks ago, when she exclaimed that she was, "falling in love with that boy (the drummer)." I didn't think much of it. I mean the drummer's always get the girl, right? They usually don't have to put in much effort either -- "the drummer relaxes and waits between shows for his cinnamon girl." And it is reasonable to believe that Neil Young could be speaking of a Canadian drummer. I take that to mean a slightly less forceful and self appraising drummer than your average American drummer. Even he needn't work to woo! He relaxes and waits--that's it.

Be that as it may, this week was different. Quinn made a couple of adult, or at least young adult proclamations that gave me pause. First, as you see in the photo, she is a professional creeper--she said that she wanted to see "the drummer," but did not want to be seen by him. She also asked, "mom, do you think I need to apologize for the last time?" She looked genuinely concerned, and upon further inquisition explained that last time she was holding "the drummer's" tambourine when he needed it. This was no surprise, because she had held his tambourine for the entire evening. Clearly she had been brooding about this for quite a while.

Quinn's earlier expressions of a desire to marry, or the sentiment that she was falling in love sounded like things she might have heard others utter. But to contemplate a perceived failure in the eyes of the object of her affection, store it in her psyche for almost two weeks, and lament it with sincerity was tragic and absurd all at once--just as young love tends to be. I have no angle on this one. I was taken aback, and I've been that way ever since. I tried to develop some insight, but none came. I can say that I smiled, and offered no more comfort than my presence. As the evening wore on, I was forced to ponder the reality that that would be all I'd ever have to offer. And as my daughter starts down a long road, seemingly way too soon, I may never be more helpful than I was last night--and that wasn't very helpful.

Irresponsible Living

This is a recurring theme in ye old Duck. But I can face the facts. Scientific consensus is that a barrier island might no be the place to make a lasting investment. Of course we can disagree on the duration of lasting. I'm hoping for something multi-generational here. I don't want to dictate where the progeny live or anything like that, but we are creating a family compound of sorts. And I hope that in whole or in part, it's a place the family uses indefinitely. Mine is not an investment seeking a monetary return. It's an enjoyment return. Also maybe a sense of place return. I hope that my daughter can feel like she is not simply from here, but of here. A product of the wind and waves and sun. I hope she can look at life as someone raised on a literal and figurative edge.

New research concerning Antarctic glacial melt seems to confirm our fears of sea level rise. What's more it really converts our fears into expectations, by concluding that the catastrophic damage is already done. It's only a matter of time. Somewhere between 80 to 900 years, give or take. The horizon for this forecast calamity is greater than previously offered, but the severity is far greater. The recently published study that prompted my musings today predicts a minimum of four feet of sea level rise--possibly ten.

The doom is not what I find interesting. It's the deferred nature of the doom. And our human relationship with deferred doom in general. I'm a worrier, to be sure, but if you put a long enough lead time on pretty much anything and even I can ignore it. I'm sure there is a delicate calculus in my brain that allows my risk analysis to skew in whichever direction is most convenient. I don't understand that calculus though. I can only approach it in metaphor.

It goes something like this:

I've run four days in a given week. I've eaten healthily. I've kept my beer intake to somewhere only slightly over embarrassing. I've taken my vitamins. I have done my work (that I get payed for). It is a sweltering Saturday. I have worked all day (unpaid) building something on the compound. The evening is just beginning to cool. All that is left for me is to shower, eat a sensible dinner and reverently reflect on the weeks accomplishments before nodding off to sleep, perhaps with my young daughter on my lap. Perhaps my wife is gently caressing my rapidly graying hair.

What will actually happen though is probably more like this. My father will have been smoking some piece of salted fat ensconced meat all day. I have known since the coals started that, in spite of my better judgment, I will devour more than three normal serving sizes of this meat. Nothing will wash down smoked meat like cold beer. Once you've consumed five beers and four pounds of barbecue, it will only makes sense make my rounds devouring anything else on offer at the table. Desert later, who knows. And as my foggy head hits the pillow one beer and one hour beyond any hope of waking up without a headache, I'll think . . . now that wasn't a healthy end to the week. No I will not. I will think, what a great day!, and nod off.

And therein lies the rub. Certainly buckets of barbecue and gallons of beer do not a smiling cardiologist make…or maybe they do. You get my drift. But I don't know that cardiologist. I do know a night on the porch, and though it might be killing me, it's killing me softly. I'll jog tomorrow!

And here I am in duck, building my castle on the sand. And the sand is warm! I probably can't make my fellow man behave well enough to keep that same sand from sooner or later becoming soggy.

I'm not describing anything unique though-but I do wonder. In the face of conclusive evidence that we should all wake up tomorrow, and postpone whatever it is we have to do, and concentrate on dealing with climate change, most of us will wake up tomorrow and do whatever it is we have to do and postpone dealing with climate change. Something about this irresponsible behavior is equal parts typical, shocking, and terrifying. And it is totally human.

What It Might Be

I listened to a disturbing and compelling story this morning on the radio, that described La Crosse, Wisconsin as "The Town Where Everyone Talks About Death".

http://www.npr.org/blogs/money/2014/03/05/286126451/living-wills-are-the-talk-of-the-town-in-la-crosse-wis


It dawned on me, as I listened, that it may not be the town of Duck that is all that special to me. What it might be is what I'm doing here. That is building an immediate family, and creating a space for our extended family. So this story was relevant in the sense that my parents will retire in close proximity to me, and we've skirted these issues in conversation. But more to the point, the most illuminating moment in the piece involved the description and recording of a nurse doing a home visit and consultation with an older couple. The husband had terminal cancer, and seemed to accept his reality. The wife was struggling to accept the situation and it dawned on me that I probably would too. The husband had cancer, and in that sense a job--to go gracefully, die with dignity, however you'd like to phrase it.

The wife was well, but she was sad. As my immediate family grows and strengthens and our extended family is drawn closer, I realize we are creating a life together--all of us--not just the typical nuclear American family, but some hybrid. And the more team members we add, the more we expose ourselves to the fact that the loss of them will not be abstract. The passing of a grandparent will be the passing of a neighbor and the passing of a community member--someone we see every day.

Perhaps I'm finding the community in which I reside so interesting because it is the back drop for the micro community that we are building. We've all decided that this will be a beautiful place to live, and most of us, though we've not verbalized it, feel like it will be a beautiful place to die. And in fifty years if my daughter comes home to visit me on my porch, Lord willing, it will be the porch we cried on when her great grandmother passed, and her grandparents after that.

What's more, as we live here together we create an environment in which the passing of one will feel to all of us, in varying degrees, like the passing of that woman's husband in the story. It is his to die, and hers to grieve and wonder what to do. As any one's time comes to our family, there will be community at a loss for what to feel or think. That to me is terrifying, and only assuaged by the sense of joy and contentment I feel when we are all together here.

On Violence

I've often related the gentility of my community. However, because of my work as a contractor, I work with a lot of guys, and a few gals, who see violence as a viable, if not ideal method of resolving conflict. I had to fire a guy last week. I'd had a conversation with him the evening before the termination, listening to his concerns (spoken emphatically!), and stating my position (calmly but firmly). I woke earlier than usual the next morning, and pondered what my scheduled morning meeting might bring. The dispute boiled down was trivial, but it involved an unreasonable person and his livelihood, and a budget. This constituted irreconcilable differences. I resolved to wear contacts instead of glasses, in case I had to take a shot in the face. I've not caught many punches, but I've encountered enough to know that they are considerably less pleasant with glasses, and if your assailant is determined, that ducking business in the movies is pretty much bull shit. In summary, he didn't hit me. I payed him, he grumbled and left. I was later told by a mutual acquaintance that my concerns were founded, just about a decade too late. Even violent people are aware of the time it takes to heal from even a mild scuffle. And so parted two people, more or less acquainted with violence, unharmed.

I'm not trying to suggest that contractors as a lot, are violent. They are tough, generally grew up in circumstances where all of the "schooling" doesn't come from a teacher, and work in an environment where the aggressor is usually pretty identifiable. After all, revolutions are born of the artisan middle class, not upper middle management. Suffice it to say the job site's conflicts are not resolved with declarations that one's behavior is "inappropriate, or unacceptable." If one is genuinely admonished to shut up, one does or begins to size up his would be opponent.

Honestly though, these thoughts seldom cross my mind. They just happened to be recent, when I read today of yet another school shooting (reported by KRQE.com and NPR), and an even more bizarre shooting in a movie theater (reported by The Tampa Bay Times and CNN). In the school shooting, two students appear to have been wounded when a thirteen year old boy opened fire, fired into the sky, then gave up his gun and was apprehended by a teacher. This I could comprehend with the lexicon I've been given by recent horrific events. This tragedy will be framed in terms like adolescence, access to weapons, emotional trauma, etc. I am not diminishing the gravity, or pain of this shooting. I simply want to point out that it has the marks of a terrifying trend we are witnessing. And trends, however disturbing are more comforting to we humans than no pattern at all.

The school shooting made me wonder if we couldn't understand the recent apparent surge in the mass shooting of innocents as some grotesque bell curve. Is it possible that as a society we've abandoned the ways of the O.K. Coral in favor of civility, only to be victims of our own civility? Maybe the absence of violence particularly gun violence in the median population divorced us from the tragedy of it. In a culture where gun violence is common place (I'm thinking of America circa 1700-1890), the damage the gun caused, direct and indirect was familiar. Not to mention the general brutality of the time. There was far less separation in the agrarian south between the bucolic farm and the dinner table. And in the north though the factory worker might be able to buy his sausage from the corner store, he could easily see his limbs and digits turned to sausage on the factory floor. The taking and ruin of life was not abstract. Maybe it motivated us to be more gentle, for everyone's sake.

The theater shooting, dashed what little solace the recognition of a possible pattern was giving me. In this case a retired police officer (aged 71) seems to have been the shooter, and the victim, a forty three year old man who was texting loudly in a movie theater. I am by no means a pacifist, nor do I feel that a blanket ban on fire arms is the right approach. However, it gives me great pause to think that someone trained to use a fire arm, familiar with the damage a gun can do (at least some cursory experience, one imagines), and one hopes not subject to the pitfalls of the developing adolescent brain would never consider something like this. Now, the investigation is ongoing, but one tidbit of the current coverage really bothers me. Apparently, after an initial argument the alleged shooter left the theater, and returned, and that's when popcorn was thrown by the victim, and a shot was fired. At best, there was a pause. Step back take a breather. Then still violence? At worst, the gun was in the car, that is a disturbing amount of evil intent.

My wife and I have discussed purchasing guns. We both grew up in households with guns. I can see value in hunting. And, I do have a vague sense of fear for my family's safety. Neither of us suffer from mental disorders. And in my development I encountered violence, in the school yard, on the wrestling mat, and in adult places too, where it definitely does not belong. I think I'm prepared to be a responsible gun owner. Whenever I shoot, I'm keenly aware that the utensil I'm holding is designed to efficiently end life. All signs point to use being responsible would-be gun owners. Today I'm wondering, can anyone be?