Cross-posted from my new blog, 365 Jobs:
Witchcraft
Wednesday, April 13, 1977
"I'm Sheila," she says as she opens the door. "Some people say I'm a witch." She's old, gaunt, with long straggly blond hair. (I'm young - 29 - skinny, with straggly brown hair.)
It's an aging house, not quite gothic, in disrepair. She says she hears mysterious gurgling. It's creepy in the middle of the night when she's alone. "If I were really a witch," she says, "maybe it wouldn't bother me."
I tighten a no-hub coupling, open her clean-out and listen, investigate her toilet, fix a leak in a faucet.
I like her. She likes me. We chat. She says she was an economist but now she's a therapist.
"What kind of therapist?"
"Hypnosis," she says. "I teach self-hypnosis."
"Wouldn't work on me. I never let myself lose self-control."
She laughs. "You don't lose self-control under hypnosis. You enhance it. That's what it's good for. You'd be a pushover. It's the physicists and engineers who have a hard time." She's having an open house that very evening at her office. She invites me to drop by.
That evening, I show up at a conventional office building in Menlo Park. Her therapy room looks like your basic business conference room - carpet, drapes, sterile smell - but no furniture.
We sit on the carpet. There are about half a dozen people in attendance, including one talkative couple: the woman is a nurse taking a course in business management, the man an engineer. Both of them seem to flit from fad to fad, transcendental meditation to auras to crystals - and now to hypnosis. They sound open-minded but seem to have no core. Maybe that's what they're seeking.
Sheila describes what she can and, mostly, what she cannot do. Hypnosis can't make you do something against your will. It can help you do what you really want to do. She's unpretentious and matter-of-fact. She says some people fall easily into a hypnotic state, others find it nearly impossible. Then she has each of us hold pendulums and concentrate on the motion - just like in old bad movies - and in good faith I give it a try.
I'm there. It's fascinating. Like a tunnel.
When she brings us out of it, the fad couple say how marvelous it was. "I'm not sure you got there," Sheila says.
Then Sheila turns to me. "You fell fast," she says.
"So that was hypnosis?" I ask.
"Totally."
It was such a familiar feeling. I go into that state - call it hypnotic, or not - whenever I write. It's the feeling of obsessed, shielded, narrow concentration. Sometimes with other craft work - carpentry, plumbing - I'm the same way.
"I haven't heard any creepy gurgling since you left this morning," Sheila tells me as I'm leaving. "It's like you cast a spell on the house."
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Four Dog Riot is Live!
For the 99% of the world who have no idea what a podcast is or how to obtain one, please consult a local teenager.
You can listen to a 3 minute preview here.
There will be 6 more episodes. I'll have them available at a rate of at least one per week until all 13 are uploaded.
A word of warning: You may have to grit your teeth through a jarring 30 second ad that's been tacked onto the beginning of the episodes. I get nothing from the ads, but they help support my host, podiobooks.com.
After all 13 episodes are uploaded, I'll make the novel available as an ebook on Smashwords. I have no plans for a print version at this time. This is the first work I've ever created where the music is an integral part of the story, so the podcast is really the best way to enjoy it.
And I hope you do enjoy it.
365 Jobs, Day 102: Fingertip Feedback
Fingertip Feedback
Wednesday, April 12, 1989
The decorator wants me to install a switch and 3 downlights in the Cantor's living room. The attic is difficult: stuffy, cramped, hot. I have to lie in dusty insulation, stretch out my arms to a spot I can't even see, and make wire connections by touch. It's amazing what you can do based solely on the feedback of your fingertips.
When at last - ta da! - I turn on the switch, the light pattern is not what the decorator or the Cantor had expected.
The decorator frowns.
The Cantor looks embarrassed. He has an ornate old armoire of dark carved wood. Highlighted in the new light, it is suddenly obvious that the carvings are of naked women. Of course they were always there, but now they jump out at you. Their bodies - at least certain parts of their bodies - are polished as if someone has constantly rubbed them to a high sheen, glowing in the new light, while the rest of the wood remains dark, unrubbed.
"We'll install another light," the decorator says. "To - um - balance things a little better. I won't charge you for it." She looks at me meaningfully.
"I'll be happy to do it," I say. What I'm obviously expected to say - but don't - is: "No charge." Not if I have to crawl in that attic again. He isn't my cantor. Heck, I'm not even Jewish. And anyway, it's the oldest law of business. Some services you provide at a loss, some at normal cost, some at a premium. There's probably a great Yiddish phrase for this, but here it is in English: In the world of commerce, the more nookie, the more you pay.
Wednesday, April 12, 1989
The decorator wants me to install a switch and 3 downlights in the Cantor's living room. The attic is difficult: stuffy, cramped, hot. I have to lie in dusty insulation, stretch out my arms to a spot I can't even see, and make wire connections by touch. It's amazing what you can do based solely on the feedback of your fingertips.
When at last - ta da! - I turn on the switch, the light pattern is not what the decorator or the Cantor had expected.
The decorator frowns.
The Cantor looks embarrassed. He has an ornate old armoire of dark carved wood. Highlighted in the new light, it is suddenly obvious that the carvings are of naked women. Of course they were always there, but now they jump out at you. Their bodies - at least certain parts of their bodies - are polished as if someone has constantly rubbed them to a high sheen, glowing in the new light, while the rest of the wood remains dark, unrubbed.
"We'll install another light," the decorator says. "To - um - balance things a little better. I won't charge you for it." She looks at me meaningfully.
"I'll be happy to do it," I say. What I'm obviously expected to say - but don't - is: "No charge." Not if I have to crawl in that attic again. He isn't my cantor. Heck, I'm not even Jewish. And anyway, it's the oldest law of business. Some services you provide at a loss, some at normal cost, some at a premium. There's probably a great Yiddish phrase for this, but here it is in English: In the world of commerce, the more nookie, the more you pay.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Where the heck is Four Dog Riot?
Four Dog Riot has its own Facebook page here with a little more information. Pretty soon you can download the podcast from iTunes. I'll let you know when it's ready-to-stream.
*Well, okay, there's a little construction in the story - and even a song. It's a counterpoint to the multigazillion dollar software company starting in the garage next door. But it's not about software or any high tech stuff, either. It's about four kids being kids. Honest.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
365 Jobs, Day 100: Last Comes the Bathroom Door
Cross-posted from my new blog, 365 Jobs:
Last Comes the Bathroom Door
Tuesday, April 10, 1984
At the playground my son meets another boy his age. Immediately, they hit it off. I chat with Jennie, the boy's mother. As any parent knows, your social network is formed by your children. Jennie, it turns out, lives just down the street from me.
We visit Jennie's house so the boys can continue their play. Jennie and her husband live in a shell - a house frame with a relatively complete exterior. Inside, they've been camping out for several years, completing rooms as time allows. Just like my wife and me.
Camping in an unfinished house, you learn your priorities. First, running water. A toilet, a sink. At least one functioning electric outlet. Each little improvement is a quantum leap in comfort. Then heat. What luxury! Some kind of stove. Then hot water! A bathtub or shower. Life is good.
Privacy came just about last. Neither Jennie nor I had given much thought to it, but talking together we realize that in a close family, you can live a long time with stud walls. Eventually, you put up drywall. Even then, with young children there's little that's private, not even your bed.
Jennie says, "We didn't put doors on our bathrooms for about three years." She laughs. "Then my mother came to visit, so we finally got around to it."
"Same here!" I say with surprise. I'd never thought about it. "Except it was my father-in-law."
It seems odd, looking back. Maybe it was a generational/counterculture thing. We may have hung a blanket over the doorway from time to time to accommodate guests. But for the in-laws, by golly, you need a door.
Once you have a roof to keep the rain off your head and walls to keep the coyotes from wandering through, what are your priorities? Here were ours:
1. Water.
2. Toilet and sink.
3. Electricity.
4. Heat. (In a colder climate, heat would rank higher.)
5. Stove.
6. Hot water.
7. Bathtub.
Then came insulation, permanent lights, a kitchen sink, drywall, a comfortable chair, a shoe caddy, a shelf for toy trains and little stuffie bears. And finally, for Jennie's family and mine:
100. Bathroom door.
Last Comes the Bathroom Door
Tuesday, April 10, 1984
At the playground my son meets another boy his age. Immediately, they hit it off. I chat with Jennie, the boy's mother. As any parent knows, your social network is formed by your children. Jennie, it turns out, lives just down the street from me.
We visit Jennie's house so the boys can continue their play. Jennie and her husband live in a shell - a house frame with a relatively complete exterior. Inside, they've been camping out for several years, completing rooms as time allows. Just like my wife and me.
Camping in an unfinished house, you learn your priorities. First, running water. A toilet, a sink. At least one functioning electric outlet. Each little improvement is a quantum leap in comfort. Then heat. What luxury! Some kind of stove. Then hot water! A bathtub or shower. Life is good.
Privacy came just about last. Neither Jennie nor I had given much thought to it, but talking together we realize that in a close family, you can live a long time with stud walls. Eventually, you put up drywall. Even then, with young children there's little that's private, not even your bed.
Jennie says, "We didn't put doors on our bathrooms for about three years." She laughs. "Then my mother came to visit, so we finally got around to it."
"Same here!" I say with surprise. I'd never thought about it. "Except it was my father-in-law."
It seems odd, looking back. Maybe it was a generational/counterculture thing. We may have hung a blanket over the doorway from time to time to accommodate guests. But for the in-laws, by golly, you need a door.
Once you have a roof to keep the rain off your head and walls to keep the coyotes from wandering through, what are your priorities? Here were ours:
1. Water.
2. Toilet and sink.
3. Electricity.
4. Heat. (In a colder climate, heat would rank higher.)
5. Stove.
6. Hot water.
7. Bathtub.
Then came insulation, permanent lights, a kitchen sink, drywall, a comfortable chair, a shoe caddy, a shelf for toy trains and little stuffie bears. And finally, for Jennie's family and mine:
100. Bathroom door.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
365 Jobs, Day 99: Toy Chest
Cross-posted from my new blog, 365 Jobs:
Toy Chest
Monday, April 9, 1984
On this day in 1984 I'm building a toy chest for Will's second birthday. In six days my son will be two years old.
I'm using 16-inch pine planks that I pried from Wagon Wheels just before the poor cottage was crushed. Unlike my older two children, Will never lived at Wagon Wheels, but this toy chest will give him a piece of it.
Though not quite two years old, Will actually assists me in the construction at least to the extent of picking up sweet-smelling pine shavings and placing them in a pile. His older brother Jesse, age seven, helps run the plane over the top. Everybody loves to plane. Then both Jesse and Will watch the quickening of color as I apply oil to the wood - no stain, no varnish, please.
And oh how I love salvaged wood. Here's a photo from 2007 which I've been advised never to show anybody because "there's something creepy about a man hugging a toy chest." In the photo you can see the shape of the chest (an old Shaker design), the extraordinarily wide planks of the sides, the planed top. You can also see that the chest is somewhat banged up from 23 years of use. Eventually Will left it behind, not needing a toy chest at Dartmouth - so it remains where I can hug it again if ever I feel so inclined.
Building that chest was such a pleasure - and such mental therapy - that I recreated the experience in a chapter of my novel Clear Heart. If you're curious you can read all about it - Chapter 30 to be exact. Or episode 14 of the Clear Heart podcast.
I'd quote the chapter here, but it's a bit too long for this setting. But, hey, I tell you what. For the rest of April readers of this blog can buy the ebook of Clear Heart for half price! Such a deal! Just follow this link to Smashwords, put Clear Heart in your shopping bag, and use this discount code at checkout: CJ48P. You'll get 50% off the price of a book that already costs less than one beer at Sullivan's Pub. Now it costs just half a beer!
Here are the words of some people I respect, craftspeople who could build a far finer toy chest than I:
Toy Chest
Monday, April 9, 1984
On this day in 1984 I'm building a toy chest for Will's second birthday. In six days my son will be two years old.
I'm using 16-inch pine planks that I pried from Wagon Wheels just before the poor cottage was crushed. Unlike my older two children, Will never lived at Wagon Wheels, but this toy chest will give him a piece of it.
Though not quite two years old, Will actually assists me in the construction at least to the extent of picking up sweet-smelling pine shavings and placing them in a pile. His older brother Jesse, age seven, helps run the plane over the top. Everybody loves to plane. Then both Jesse and Will watch the quickening of color as I apply oil to the wood - no stain, no varnish, please.
And oh how I love salvaged wood. Here's a photo from 2007 which I've been advised never to show anybody because "there's something creepy about a man hugging a toy chest." In the photo you can see the shape of the chest (an old Shaker design), the extraordinarily wide planks of the sides, the planed top. You can also see that the chest is somewhat banged up from 23 years of use. Eventually Will left it behind, not needing a toy chest at Dartmouth - so it remains where I can hug it again if ever I feel so inclined. Building that chest was such a pleasure - and such mental therapy - that I recreated the experience in a chapter of my novel Clear Heart. If you're curious you can read all about it - Chapter 30 to be exact. Or episode 14 of the Clear Heart podcast.
I'd quote the chapter here, but it's a bit too long for this setting. But, hey, I tell you what. For the rest of April readers of this blog can buy the ebook of Clear Heart for half price! Such a deal! Just follow this link to Smashwords, put Clear Heart in your shopping bag, and use this discount code at checkout: CJ48P. You'll get 50% off the price of a book that already costs less than one beer at Sullivan's Pub. Now it costs just half a beer!
Here are the words of some people I respect, craftspeople who could build a far finer toy chest than I:
" I LOVED Clear Heart. In fact, I couldn't put it down. It's about a 55 year old ex-hippy carpenter named Wally—and the interaction between true craftsmen, their good-natured joking, routines and habits (like sometimes getting too friendly with female clients). It's male bonding at its finest, filled with endearing characters and fast-paced, nail-biting mishaps. And it made me want to ask Wally: 'You hiring?'"—Kari Hultman, The Village Carpenter
" I just couldn’t put it down. It was a great read. Now I have met many of the people in Joe’s novel, quirky sub contractors, stupid clients and the like. I found myself (I believe for the first time) actually rooting for fictional characters. The book is gripping. It is a love story and so much more. I should also tell you that it is a book for adults. I wouldn’t have my (prude) sister read the book."—Stephen Shepherd, Full Chisel Blog
Thursday, April 7, 2011
365 Jobs, Day 97: Creating the World
Cross-posted from my new blog, 365 Jobs:
(Before writing these blog entries, I go back through my journals reading one particular day for each year, sort of a Ground Hog Day movie except that each time everybody is one year older, and in the end I still haven't gotten it right. Here are three such days.)
Saturday, April 7, 1979
A good garage sale can cure a bad mood. So can a ride in a pickup truck. Today I apply the double cure to my son Jesse, age two-and-a-half. He's been horrible, a not uncommon condition for a two-year-old, but enough is enough.
We're still living in the Montgomery Ward cottage at Wagon Wheels while building our new house in La Honda. The new house, I believe, is the cause of Jesse's crankiness because it takes me away from home all day every day, and he's used to having me around.
In the pickup (known as the Twuck), I let Jesse lean forward in his car seat and push the radio buttons, choosing random music.
At one garage sale Jesse falls inexplicably in love with an old brass coat rack, so we buy it to install in his bedroom.
Stopping at a grocery store, Jesse's eyes alight on a display rack. "What's that?"
"Those are called pocket pies."
"You put them in your pocket?"
So I buy one. As it happens, Jesse has no pockets today, so I put it in mine. In Palo Alto we drive to a quiet street of big green lawns. We park but remain sitting in the twuck under the shade of a sycamore. We unwrap and share the pocket pie. From a grocery bag I remove a beer and open it. I pop an old Beatles tape into the radio/cassette player.
A pregnant woman with two travel bags is walking down the street, crying. Jesse grabs his teddy bear from the dashboard of the truck and holds it, watching the woman. She's wearing a long blue dress which is flapping in the wind. She’s stopped walking. Her fingers are on her lips. Still crying. I want to help but know I would only be interfering. After a moment, she walks on.
Driving home, I see the world through Jesse's eyes, the world I've brought him to - the sun burning over six lanes of El Camino Real, glinting off cars, while Daddy listens to old rock tapes with a bit of beer on his breath. A large part of Jesse's world will be whatever I bring to him, such as cruising the garage sales and eating pocket pie. The woman in the long blue dress will no doubt create a far different world on this, our shared planet.
Saturday, April 7, 1990
Jesse is now thirteen and a half. He's in eighth grade and sometimes discovers that I'm weird. We live in the house I built in La Honda. The truck is a Ford. We listen to Grateful Dead tapes - Jesse's choice - and drive to Palo Alto where we hit some garage sales and come away with a turntable. Jesse in his lifetime has never played a record album but has seen my crates of them stored in the attic. He'd like to listen.
After the sales, we drive to a medical office building on Welch Road near Stanford Hospital where together we repair six entries for six psychiatrists. I need Jesse's help to remove and replace each solid-core, dark mahogany, massive door. He's old enough - and big enough - to help dad earn a living.
For three hours labor on this, his first paying job, I give him $30, a great wage for a thirteen-year-old. And he knows that he accomplished something.
Back home the turntable works. In fact, it's excellent. My old records - John Prine, Phil Ochs, Big Bill Broonzy - have never sounded so good. I haven't heard them for ages, and now I'm hearing them through Jesse's ears, a whole new world.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Today I'm providing childcare for my grandson, age two and a half. Raj was born in San Francisco and recently moved to the suburbs down the Peninsula. I could stay at Raj's house where he is comfortable and happy, but I consider it my job as grandfather to introduce him to the more rural life in La Honda.
From my house we take a walk. There are no sidewalks in La Honda, so we walk the narrow streets. A bit up the hill from my house are two llamas in a pen. One sleeps; one watches us with a steady gaze. I explain to Raj that you will never see both llamas sleep at the same time; they watch out for each other.
We walk downhill a bit to another house and feed carrots through the fence wire to a couple of goats. The bigger goat keeps butting the smaller one away with a thwack of horns. He can eat an entire carrot in a matter of seconds.
Farther down the hill, we throw popcorn to the ducks in the pond. Farther still, we come to "the cookie store" otherwise known as the La Honda Country Market, where we select one large chocolate chip cookie from a glass jar.
Back home we read a book I just got from the bookmobile: Gramps and the Fire Dragon, which becomes the event of the day. To Raj it's an utterly gripping tale in which a boy and his grandfather encounter a fire-breathing dragon who chases them up an apple tree which they escape in a hot air balloon, but the dragon follows through jungle and cave and finally is melted by water from a fire truck's hose. When Raj enjoys a story he's all over it fingering pictures, flipping pages, shouting, laughing. We read it six times, cover to cover. What a great book.
We talk about the fire dragon all the way home in the car. Raj reprises episodes and adds new ones involving butting goats, hungry ducks, watchful llamas - framing the story and the events of the day, coming to grips with the fear, the excitement, the camaraderie. To Raj there is no line between encountering a dragon and what we did today; it's all part of the wonderful web of life. For me it's a beautiful lesson in the purpose and power of story - why we tell them, how we respond and grow. I brought Raj to my world; in return he brings me to his.
(Before writing these blog entries, I go back through my journals reading one particular day for each year, sort of a Ground Hog Day movie except that each time everybody is one year older, and in the end I still haven't gotten it right. Here are three such days.)
Saturday, April 7, 1979
A good garage sale can cure a bad mood. So can a ride in a pickup truck. Today I apply the double cure to my son Jesse, age two-and-a-half. He's been horrible, a not uncommon condition for a two-year-old, but enough is enough.
We're still living in the Montgomery Ward cottage at Wagon Wheels while building our new house in La Honda. The new house, I believe, is the cause of Jesse's crankiness because it takes me away from home all day every day, and he's used to having me around.
In the pickup (known as the Twuck), I let Jesse lean forward in his car seat and push the radio buttons, choosing random music.
At one garage sale Jesse falls inexplicably in love with an old brass coat rack, so we buy it to install in his bedroom.
Stopping at a grocery store, Jesse's eyes alight on a display rack. "What's that?"
"Those are called pocket pies."
"You put them in your pocket?"
So I buy one. As it happens, Jesse has no pockets today, so I put it in mine. In Palo Alto we drive to a quiet street of big green lawns. We park but remain sitting in the twuck under the shade of a sycamore. We unwrap and share the pocket pie. From a grocery bag I remove a beer and open it. I pop an old Beatles tape into the radio/cassette player.
A pregnant woman with two travel bags is walking down the street, crying. Jesse grabs his teddy bear from the dashboard of the truck and holds it, watching the woman. She's wearing a long blue dress which is flapping in the wind. She’s stopped walking. Her fingers are on her lips. Still crying. I want to help but know I would only be interfering. After a moment, she walks on.
Driving home, I see the world through Jesse's eyes, the world I've brought him to - the sun burning over six lanes of El Camino Real, glinting off cars, while Daddy listens to old rock tapes with a bit of beer on his breath. A large part of Jesse's world will be whatever I bring to him, such as cruising the garage sales and eating pocket pie. The woman in the long blue dress will no doubt create a far different world on this, our shared planet.
Saturday, April 7, 1990
Jesse is now thirteen and a half. He's in eighth grade and sometimes discovers that I'm weird. We live in the house I built in La Honda. The truck is a Ford. We listen to Grateful Dead tapes - Jesse's choice - and drive to Palo Alto where we hit some garage sales and come away with a turntable. Jesse in his lifetime has never played a record album but has seen my crates of them stored in the attic. He'd like to listen.
After the sales, we drive to a medical office building on Welch Road near Stanford Hospital where together we repair six entries for six psychiatrists. I need Jesse's help to remove and replace each solid-core, dark mahogany, massive door. He's old enough - and big enough - to help dad earn a living.
For three hours labor on this, his first paying job, I give him $30, a great wage for a thirteen-year-old. And he knows that he accomplished something.
Back home the turntable works. In fact, it's excellent. My old records - John Prine, Phil Ochs, Big Bill Broonzy - have never sounded so good. I haven't heard them for ages, and now I'm hearing them through Jesse's ears, a whole new world.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Today I'm providing childcare for my grandson, age two and a half. Raj was born in San Francisco and recently moved to the suburbs down the Peninsula. I could stay at Raj's house where he is comfortable and happy, but I consider it my job as grandfather to introduce him to the more rural life in La Honda.
From my house we take a walk. There are no sidewalks in La Honda, so we walk the narrow streets. A bit up the hill from my house are two llamas in a pen. One sleeps; one watches us with a steady gaze. I explain to Raj that you will never see both llamas sleep at the same time; they watch out for each other.
We walk downhill a bit to another house and feed carrots through the fence wire to a couple of goats. The bigger goat keeps butting the smaller one away with a thwack of horns. He can eat an entire carrot in a matter of seconds.
Farther down the hill, we throw popcorn to the ducks in the pond. Farther still, we come to "the cookie store" otherwise known as the La Honda Country Market, where we select one large chocolate chip cookie from a glass jar.
Back home we read a book I just got from the bookmobile: Gramps and the Fire Dragon, which becomes the event of the day. To Raj it's an utterly gripping tale in which a boy and his grandfather encounter a fire-breathing dragon who chases them up an apple tree which they escape in a hot air balloon, but the dragon follows through jungle and cave and finally is melted by water from a fire truck's hose. When Raj enjoys a story he's all over it fingering pictures, flipping pages, shouting, laughing. We read it six times, cover to cover. What a great book.We talk about the fire dragon all the way home in the car. Raj reprises episodes and adds new ones involving butting goats, hungry ducks, watchful llamas - framing the story and the events of the day, coming to grips with the fear, the excitement, the camaraderie. To Raj there is no line between encountering a dragon and what we did today; it's all part of the wonderful web of life. For me it's a beautiful lesson in the purpose and power of story - why we tell them, how we respond and grow. I brought Raj to my world; in return he brings me to his.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)