Tools

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

It’s nice to at least once in a while have a tangible positive result.

The Roll-on/Roll-off was pulled to the side of the road with it’s hazard flashers going and the driver standing outside it. The way he waved suggested he might need help so I stopped and inquired.

“Yeah, could I use your phone?” He shouted. The wind had picked up, thick grey clouds rolled by and it was about to rain. I parked my car got out and handed him my phone. He was wearing heavy boots, jeans, a faded plaid flannel shirt, mirrored wrap around sun glasses and a beanie.

“This wind… I stopped to bungee the cover and locked myself out… my keys, my phone are in the cab!” Oddly enough my phone worked and he gave his dispatcher the scoop. “Thanks,” he said as he handed me my phone, “they’re sending someone… from Pojoaque.” He shook his head. Pojoaque is at least fifty miles away. “If I only had some tools I know I could get into the truck, the lock, pretty much anything will open it.”

The conditions weren’t much for hanging out so I wished him luck and got back into my car. “Hey, wait a minute,” I thought. I grabbed the multi-tool I almost always carry with me and headed back to the truck. “I got this thing,” I said, opening the tool. It has a bunch of screwdrivers and other little goodies folded into it. The driver looked it over and selected a small flat blade.

We were getting pelted with the first fat drops of rain. “I’ve driven this old truck for years. I know this will do it.” The big diesel clattered under the hood, waiting patiently. He slowly turned the lock cylinder with the blade and pulled the handle. The door opened.

“All Right!” I said.

“Man, I appreciate it.” We shook hands.

As I jogged back to my car I felt good to have been able to help this guy, and then thought, “… or maybe I just helped him steal it!” Oh well, either way it felt good to help him.

Gordon Bunker

A Friend, Lost

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Tuesday was a hard day. Wrapped in my own dark cloud, that morning I would tell a friend, “there’s been too much disappointment.” And I meant it. I would later learn Tuesday was also the day my friend Mark killed himself.

Mark and I used to be co-workers. Mark was in his twenties, married and the father of two children. We were never all that close, but I loved the guy. He was a dear person. The crew we were a part of pulled off some great work together, and sure did have some fun doing it. I had little glimpses that at some point in his life he might have been treated harshly, but he was an admirable and skilled guy, putting in a good honest effort, facing the challenges and doing pretty well.

But so much of and perhaps the most intense of our suffering is private. I have been told those who are serious about and actually commit suicide typically do not talk about their troubles, or their suicidal tendencies. So the tragedy is compounded in that the people who love them and would give anything to help are not in the know.

I feel so for Mark. Something in his life was unbearable, something or some awful accumulation drove him beyond his ability to cope. There’s now an empty place in this world, so many of us wish with all our hearts was still filled with Mark. I feel for his family. What has happened is a great loss.

Gordon Bunker

The Quietude Of Ice

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

The friends I had dinner with last night have a standing joke with me. Sooner or later the conversation will revolve around current events or “news” and I sit and listen and nod my head. We all know I usually have no idea who or what they are talking about but still get a laugh when I ask a question along the lines of, “Who is this John Ashcroft, anyway?” This is the result of slicing 99% of the media out of my life. My mind has gone elsewhere. Last night the conversation and dynamics were not out of the usual and I realized we have very active minds which to a large degree are filled with agitation. Myself included, but I’m glad my agitation is mostly concerned with things I might be able to do something about.

This morning I’m thinking of E.V. Moody, an old man from my childhood who from all appearances had a peaceful mind. In the early 1960’s my family would stop by his business, Moody’s Ice House on the shore of Lake Wentworth in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire. We would be camping in a tent for the summer on the other side of the lake, and buy blocks of ice from him for our cooler. In the barn, hidden in great mounds of damp sawdust were hundreds of blocks of ice in various sizes. It was cool and smelled of pine, and it was quiet. There were no compressors or fans we associate with refrigeration. No radio or phone. Just the quietude of ice, slowly slowly melting and finding its way back to the lake.

Mr. Moody knew my mom from when she was a kid growing up in Wolfeboro. He was always pleasant but didn’t have a lot to say. A big barrel of a man, he would methodically scrape away the sawdust revealing the luminous blocks and with his tongs pick one up and sling it over his shoulder onto the leather smock covering his back. He’d carry the block and set it in a dish pan we had on the floor in the back of the car. A maze of tiny air bubbles and their curvy trails filled the ice. I’d sit there and slide my bare feet on the cold glistening surface and wonder about the mysterious bubbles, air from the previous winter trapped, waiting to get out. We’d pay him fifty cents and be on our way.

The part of Mr. Moody’s work I never saw was the winter harvesting. He and a helper would go out on the ice with a team of horses pulling a heavy wooden sled. With hand saws they would cut the blocks, then load them on the sled and haul them in. Every day they were out in the open, this was their work, heavy and simple. I have spent some time on the frozen lakes and except for the wind and the occasional cracking of the ice, it is quiet. Working on the ice, day in and day out, two men, two horses, there must have been plenty of space for thinking. I wonder what filled Mr. Moody’s thoughts. I wonder what he said when he talked with friends.

Gordon Bunker

Popular Folly

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

I asked my friend S., “do you think we will ever have a primary value system based on something other than the dollar?”

“I don’t know.” Her answer came with a sigh which by my guess meant, “probably not.” S. was born into a family with plenty of money and the pleasures and sorrows which come with it.

"Men (and women, GB), it has been well said, think in herds; it will be seen that they go mad in herds, while they only recover their senses slowly, and one by one." This is from the treatise on popular folly, Extraordinary Popular Delusions and the Madness of Crowds, by Charles Mackay, first published in 1841.

We are puzzling creatures, especially when it comes to our shifts in values. As individuals we will go to great expense by many measures to provide care to a suffering loved one. We will put ourselves at great risk of harm to rescue another from a dangerous situation. Small personal items left by a predecessor have great intrinsic value while the heirlooms sit in boxes in closets.

When we herd up these principles and ethics in all their personal depth indeed go flying out the window. We provide or deny one another medical care based solely on the dollar. In the name of “development” we alter the landscape in long term ways for short term gain. The same goes for the environment, preferably of course when it’s someone else’s back yard. Cloaked in the abstractions of states and policies, on grand scales we murder one another and destroy property to get the resources we want.

While as individuals we commonly abhor the madness of our herd behavior, we seem to keep right on doing it. We evolve physically in response to our environment and without much choice in the matter. But can we evolve socially, changing human nature toward living sensibly? I hope so.

Gordon Bunker

Putting It Together

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Yesterday I was talking on the phone with my sister Vic, catching up on various topics including the presentation she’s giving next week, “Seeing Through Time.” October is “Archeology Month” in New Hampshire and my sister is an archeologist. We have a propensity for putting things off until the last moment. I mentioned sometimes the best results come with the intensity of working this way. We got laughing about just how far this could be pushed – for example, could she do Powerpoint while driving to the event?

One spring semester in college I was taking a studio course in hand building clay. Class met once a week on Wednesday evenings from six to nine. Typically it would start with a critique of the previous week’s assignment followed with a demonstration by the professor, and some hands on work time thrown in for good measure. Assignments were to be worked on during the week when the studio was not otherwise occupied by other classes.

My usual method was to put things off all week, show up at the studio a couple hours before class and get the work done. One particular Wednesday dawned a beautiful day, warm and breezy, the sap was on the rise. Too beautiful to do anything but go canoeing with my girlfriend. First thing in the morning we hefted the little boat onto the roof of the car, strapped it down and took off. Where we ended up I don’t remember, but there were lots of remote spots to choose from. It was a great day, out on the water, lots of sunshine. We got naked, which might have had something to do with why we went canoeing in the first place. Time slipped by. And then I realized I had clay class that evening which I didn’t want to miss.

At about 5:15, in a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and flip-flops; sunburned, full of fresh air and life and pleasantly whooped I more or less stormed the gates. Now what was the assignment again? Oh yeah, mold clay into a found object, make a series of three. I looked at the clock. 5:24. Ok, focus and work. The other students were showing up and carefully taking their pieces off the shelves. They’d been in there off and on all week, working, fussing, and for some of them, squeezing every last particle of life out of the clay and the ideas.

Ma ha! A dust pan. Like a madman I wedged up some clay and rolled out slabs and started molding pieces into the body of the pan. I trimmed the edges and created cylinders which got attached as handles. One, two, three. Hey maybe I’m on to something… brilliant! I’ll call it… the industrial… revo… oh, wait a minute, that’s already been done. The clay was raw and fresh, the handles drooped, so three little balls of clay to support them did the trick. My fellow students were all sitting around, some chatting, some scowling but all sitting like broody hens close and protective of their pieces. I gabbed a stool and plopped myself down. Done! 5:55.

The professor walked in carrying his clipboard and ratty tote bag and said hello. We all sat at attention. He scanned our work on the tables. He stopped.

“Whoa! Who did the dustpans!?!?” He zoomed over. “Those are so cool!”

“…me.” I put my hand up half way.

For a moment it looked like things were going to get ugly.

Gordon Bunker

Two Women's Lives

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

I’ll call them Claire and Laura. These are not their actual names. The dealership where I’m bringing my motorcycle to have a safety recall taken care of also works on cars and has a shuttle service. Claire is driving the shuttle, a jazzy SUV and Laura is another customer needing a lift. I’m already in the front passenger seat and Laura gets in behind me. We three are contemporaries, all in our fifties. Laura has had her car in before and she and Claire are already acquainted. Laura is in a rush to get to her office and launches into discussion about her work anxieties. She works for an insurance agency and specializes in health insurance. Apparently since President Obama’s health insurance bill of this past May, “my job has been hell,” she says. For the first time she “has no solutions” for some of her clients. “Lowering coverage and raising deductibles no longer works,” she says.

Getting to Laura’s office takes fifteen minutes. Both Claire and Laura’s Blackberries ring. Not very long ago if you said to someone, “my Blackberry has Bluetooth,” you would have gotten a blank look. Claire fidgets with hers but does not answer it. There’s a no hand held device law in Santa Fe. Laura answers hers. The conversation is thus interrupted two or three times. I keep quiet. I am ignorant about health insurance. I haven’t had any for – I’ve lost track - maybe fifteen years, I know the delivery of health care in this country is criminally poor and insurance companies are wildly profitable. Choosing my battles with care, this is one I stay out of. I find Laura’s comment that she has no solutions for her clients telling. Perhaps a little light will come on that for-profit insurance companies controlling the delivery of health care is not the solution. Nonetheless, I feel for Laura. She seems genuinely concerned about her clients, has put in her time with a career and is stressed over the top. We leave her at her office and Claire and I are off for my “office,” my home which is out in the sticks. We’ll see if this SUV can handle my road.

Claire has a lot of things on her mind. Relaxed is not how I would describe her, but her Blackberry quiets down and we start trading stories. She and her husband have recently moved to Santa Fe. They’re buying a house here which is out in the country compared to their previous urban life. We talk about restaurants in their new neighborhood, catching rainwater run-off, the particulars of wells and septic systems. They’re about to close on the place and Claire expresses all the usual concerns. We talk about work; the challenges of making a living as a writer in my case and the car business in hers. We talk about how laid back and small town Santa Fe feels after the big city rush-rush. Claire and her husband have two kids, both in college and have had their ups and downs in business. The past couple of years have included big changes for them. They’ve sold a big fancy home and if they’re like everyone else probably didn’t see the money they’d hoped for. I presume they pay tuitions for their kids. From her story I sense as a couple they have weathered the storms and hung in there together. This is something I love to see.

Looking forward to the new house, Claire tells me about it. It’s smaller, and lower key. The living room however is relatively large and open, full of possibilities. There’s a subtle but significant shift. The pitch of Claire’s voice drops and ditto her shoulders. She glances at me. “You know, life is getting… simpler.”

“And that is a good thing,” I respond.

“Yeah. It is.” she says.

Gordon Bunker

Eating A Fruit

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

What is success? Money, possessions, notoriety? Love? One day an answer came to me: to have the presence of mind to enjoy eating a good piece of fruit. The rest of it I find all too illusive.

Being a New Hampshire boy, I have a special place in my heart for apples. Walking into the shade of a barn filled with apples on a clear fall day, the air is permeated with their fragrance, this is heaven. Take an apple in your hand and consider it. The heft of it is all the juice contained in that skin. It is smooth and cool, rap on it with your knuckle, it has a hollow knock. Winter is coming. Study the skin, the blush and range of colors, the little spots and flecks. There may be a scar from where a bird pecked it. Polish it on your pant leg, twist and pull out the stem. And then bite into it. Things happen for all the senses. The crisp fruit crushes between your teeth, the juice spreads around in your mouth.

Stand there and eat the apple and pay attention to what you’re doing, and what the apple is all about. All of the business of growing and harvesting apples has come together for this. If you don’t have a barn full of apples or any other fruit, just one is sufficient. If you’re in the kitchen, look out the window. If you do this I hope like me, you will feel lucky to be alive and for those few moments at least, feel successful. When you are through eating the apple maybe throw the core off in a spot where some critter might find and eat it. Hold on to this experience as best you can as all the other definitions beg for attention.

Gordon Bunker

Yoga With Ronna

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Before heading for yoga class I have a light lunch. Two eggs scrambled with green pepper and scallion, a couple of raw carrots and a slice of toast. After chopping the scallions I notice one or more of the slender tubes had dirt in it. Frustrated, I search though the slices on the cutting board and pull out the worst of them. The remainder look clean enough and I put them along with the pepper in the skillet. They sizzle in the hot olive oil, the toast is toasting, I pour the eggs into the skillet and in a few moments I am eating lunch. I look at the food and think about my agitation but also about what has come together here and feel gratitude.

There’s a lot of dirt in the eggs. I crunch and grind my way along and have a hissy-fit. I am not a happy camper but decide, “eat it anyway.” Mutter, fume, expletive deleted. My anger is not really about the dirt in the eggs, but a reflection of everything that’s wrong in life, both micro and macro, the details of which are probably not unique. Ellen DeGeneres and her “… back to a place of inner peace…” routine floats through my mind and I laugh.

There’s Ronna at the yoga studio. She is drinking a rather tall coffee. We’ve been friends for about a year and a half and while we don’t spend that much time together, Ronna is a great friend. I’m talking great in the sense that she is a solid character, smart, honest, and a person I know I can count on. She’s of small build with a huge heart, has high energy and I told her once, “you project well,” and she looked at me and said, “I’m loud.”

Of the fifteen or so students showing up, this week I am the only guy. One of the women notices a tag sticking out from the back of Ronna’s top and tucks it in with a pat. We bustle around the cramped entry area, getting our shoes and socks off and into one of the little cubbyholes on the wall. We wander into the main room get our mats and get situated. I’m glad to be here. It turns out I’m smack dab in the middle of the room.

I’m new enough where at times I get lost, but this ok. Ronna demonstrates and describes the postures and breathing and keeps the sequence going. She has a great sense of humor and encourages us not to worry about how we look. This helps a lot. As we go along the postures become more difficult. We are groaning and grunting and sweating and shaking. The heat in my body goes up. The heat in the room goes up. There we are, each of us balancing on opposing hands and feet with our butts up in the air, with the other arms and legs stretched out straight, sort of, and Ronna says, “now gimme three push ups!” and laughs and guffaws circulate the room.

And we relax. Taking a break any time is encouraged, but then as a group we all just lay there on our mats. With eyes closed I might be the only person in the room, it is that calm. The ceiling fan is going, the soft oscillating whir becomes my world for a moment.

Class is open to people with all levels of experience. Around the room, some clearly know yoga. Ronna tells us even if we can’t do it or screw up, we’re still doing yoga. I watch her closely as she demonstrates. I always knew she did yoga, but to see her do it… no bone, just cartilage, maybe that’s her secret. Or maybe it’s that she has been doing this for twenty years. The flexibility and strength she has, I never would have guessed. It’s amazing. Ronna shares wisdom too, saying, “We spend so much of our lives in our minds and much of that has to do with the past or the future. We replay the same movie over and over. The body is in the present. Yoga is about getting into your body and listening to what it has to say.”

After class we mingle a bit and wish each other well. I feel wiped out, a little overwhelmed and totally alive in my body. It feels good.

Gordon Bunker