My Life in a Hole

The first time I was told I was a "little differnt," as my mother used to say about people who were a little differnt (she said it the way I wrote it, it's not a typo, thank you for your help) was when I was playing with my train one day. It was a train that just went on an oval track, no switches, no sidings, like Blair's, my friend. But I made up imaginary sidings and villages and all the stuff that real players have on their toy trains.

And my mother walked into the room and said, "Didn't you hear me call you for lunch? Why didn't you come?" Her tone was scolding. She was a kind mother, but ignoring her meals was not something she cared for.

And I was baffled. I hadn't heard her. "No," I said.

And she said, "I stood right here and called you for lunch." She was about five feet away.

So I went into the kitchen and ate my sandwich, drank my milk, and went back to my train.

Sometime later, or not so later, my sister said to me, "I heard Mom and Dad talking about you. They are worried you are so shy."

This came as a real shocker. I didn't think I was shy. I played with Blair down the street, and sometimes with Tommy up the street. How far was I supposed to reach for friends? Not off the block, surely. Or what did she mean that I was shy? It was long before Garrison Keillor began talking about "shy people" who should eat "powdermilk biscuits to get up and do what needs to be done." Did they mean I was like Bashful, the dwarf? Did I make that silly laugh of his and say "gawsh"?

But I didn't know what shy meant, and I didn't spend a lot of time worrying about it, because, hey, we didn't talk about lost-in-your-headedness in my family. There was no analysis. Things were just the way they were. And I was shy. I guess.

The third awakening was more rude. I was sitting in Mrs. Wilcox's science class in eighth grade. I know where I was sitting, because it is burned into my mind. A woman from the Salt Lake City Board of Education was visiting the class that day, and she sat directly across the aisle from me, 2.75 feet away. near the back, left side of the room. She was a friendly lady, smiled at me, and I probably smiled a shy smile back.

Mrs. Wilcox was talking about something to do with stars, and I was, apparently, drifting into my innermost world, where I liked to be. Then, in order to make a contribution, and to make Mrs. Wilcox look like a good teacher, I raised my hand. Mrs. Wilcox gave me the all clear sign to speak, and I said, "I've heard that if you're standing in a well, you can see the stars. At that moment, Mrs. Wilcox, without saying a word, pointed to her diagram on the board, which looked something like this:

I was once again dumbfounded. And this time embarrassed. I looked over at the lady from the SALT LAKE CITY BOARD OF EDUCATION, and moaned and hit my head with my hand. She was smiling and most likely thinking, "Another little introverted professor in the making." 

And she was right. Introverted, shy, happy to be in my head, even if it is scrambled. When our kids were young they made up a song with the words, "We're the absent-minded sons of the absent-minded professor." 

Train Wrecks and Bureaucracies

Yesterday Louise and I went to renew our driver's licenses. Louise's expired in September, mine in October, and the nuisance of rounding up documents, interrupting well deserved late-morning sleep, missing lunch with friends all made the trip to the DMV even more distasteful. But we decided on Tuesday night that Wednesday, yesterday just had to be the day. Would we want to be arrested for driving without a valid license? Would we want to see our only car towed away to some unknown impound lot while we were left to walk several miles to home? Would we, heaven forbid, want to re-take our driver's test?

So I collected a bag full of documents, more than enough proof of address, proof of citizenship, proof of humanity to get us through the hurdles that the DMV had so lovingly set up to trap any who proved to be less than red-bloodied Americans within a small margin of error.

Once at the HIV, er, DMV, we filled out paper work that asked about diabetes, peripheral vision, medications that might impair driving. I noticed with some irritation that it did not ask about cell phones, texting, and reading books or newspapers while driving. We were simultaneously called to counters across a very large room, and since I had the documents, Louise would call across for proof of Social Security, proof of address, and proof of citizenship.

I whizzed through the paper work with a friendly woman at a counter, passed the eye test, even the peripheral vision test, and then she said, "I can't issue you a license. Your name is in the national data base for an offense in New York. Have you lived in New York?" Yes, from 2006 to 2008. Do you know why there would be a hold on your records? No. I had an accident, and I was found not guilty. That shouldn't be on the records. But my imagination flashed to some courtroom flunky tossing my acquittal in the garbage and stamping "FELON" on my file.

Well, the kindly DMV woman said, "Here's the number for the New York Department of Motor Vehicles. You'll have to straighten this out with them before I can issue you a license. I saw myself slogging through an enormous swamp filled with alligators, man-eating catfish, and mermaids who jumped on you and held you under water. The New York traffic division is one to be avoided at all costs. Having your car towed in New York City means it will be dumped in one of half a dozen city lots and you will have to slog through the whole mess to find your and pay about $500 to get it back.New Yorkers who have gone a round or two with the DMV and want to show you their scars.

Louise came home with her temporary permit, liking her picture. I came home with dread of calling the New York traffic gorillas. "Just take your laptop and sit in a comfortable, quiet place with some treats you can eat. You'll be on the phone a long time," she said. It was good advice. I took two phones into my man cave in the basement, along with my laptop. Two phones, because I doubted there was enough power in a fully charged phone to last through what I was facing.

I dialed the number. A voice comes on giving me eight options. I hit number 8. Another voice comes on giving me six more options. I hit number 6. Finally a third menu comes on (I find it despicable that menu means both food and slimy bureaucracies.) I hit number 3. The phone goes dead.

Start over. Same routine. The phone on number Three rings. Oh, yes, sir, I'll forward you to an office that can look up your records. The music is playing loudly in my ear, and I attempt to adjust the volume on my phone. The line goes dead.

I am now about an hour into this damn thing and haven't made an inroad. I go through the three menus again. And this time, I get a living breathing human being--after about a 30 minute wait. I check the battery time left on my phone. Time to switch. I don't want to lose the connection because of a battery. The friendly lady says I need to verify my address. Salt lake City, I say. No, that's not it. Um, Provo, I say. No, that's not it either. I picture a woman with a big smile and long teeth. OK. New York City. No, that's not it. I'm desperately scrolling through any place we might have stayed. Motel 6, Hampton Inn. Sandy, Utah, I say. Yes. That's right. Do you know the address. My head clears and the correct address pops in.

Now, she says, I can check your record. While waiting I begin composing a limerick in my head. There once was a New York trucker. That felt promising.
After 10 or 15 minutes, she returns to the phone. "When did you leave New York?" she asks. I detect a dagger in her voice. In 2008, I say. "Well you didn't cancel your car insurance when you left, and it was cancelled." I was now trying to register what she was saying. Would I owe thousands of dollars in back insurance bills? "So what do I have to do?" I asked. Well the fee for leaving New York without canceling your insurance is $25.00. "I'll pay, right now," I said. "You can pay me directly with a credit card, which has a $5 handling fee plus a $19 fee for--"  I don't know what. Or, I can walk you through a computer program, and you can pay online.

"Oh, please, please," I beg. I am now groveling like a dog on its back waiting for a tummy rub. "But don't leave me until it's done, OK?" "I won't leave you," she says. And she walks me through a 500 step click here click there program, and finally I'm told that I have cleared. And I am free. Free at last. Thank God almighty I am free at last. And the State of New York sent me the nicest confirmation email saying that I had paid. And I just love the picture of the nice lady that came with it. I just love bureaucracies who show they care about you.

Have any of you dear readers had a flirtation with a bureaucracy?

Makin' you laugh

First, my apologies for the background to the text in this entry. I did something that I don't know how to undo. But I'll get on with it. 

T. Webster Armstrong, whose comments I have enjoyed on Louise's blog and occasionally on mine, and who writes a fine blog herself, just gave me a nudge: "The Storm's gone past," a reference to the horse in my last blog, "and we love your art. Come on,. give us a new post of art or literature." 

Thank you, T. Webster. I have written barely a word since my bout with hypnotism in Las Vegas, and I crowed at the time that it had loosened me up, taken down the barriers, thrown out the rules. And now I find that the freedom of that moment has evaporated, and that I'm back to my old anal-retentive, perfectionist self. So I'm putting up this piece that is almost finished but not quite. It has passed scrutiny with Marian, my teacher, but that was in an earlier state. 

So here's the thing: this picture comes from a photo of my shy but witty Grandson. Not the picture you see, but the original photograph. I had set up a little studio downstairs on Thanksgiving and herded the family, one by one, in front of my backdrop. Almost everyone was in a "let's get it over with mood," but this grandson carried a piece of food into the basement and put it to his mouth as I shot the picture. 

Dammit Grandson. I have struggled with your hand to your mouth for weeks now. And late last night it hit me that I could reposition your arm and hand in Photoshop. And then in an aha moment, which the family may or may not appreciate (I really don't care at this point), I put a microphone in your hand. You're now singing with your dancing bodies all over the canvas. You don't sing? You don't dance? You've never held a mike? Pity. I don't care, because this is my piece of art about you. Future generations will say, "Hey, my great grandfather was a singer and dancer." If you want to create your own piece of art about yourself, go for it. Meantime, mine goes down in history. 

I learned that from Louise. Our sons would yell that her stories about them are lies. "Mom's a liar," they'd wail. Louise's reply: "If you don't like the way I wrote the story, write it yourself." Until a new generation of writers has begun emerging in the family, that was a safe thing to say. 

In any case, dear Grandson, will undergo some revisions. Not many. But hey, here he is. Here's the imperfect Grandson. In all his glory, looking every bit NOT like the somewhat shy person he is--at least when I'm around. Love you. 

Thanks, T. Webster Armstrong.