Tryptophan Street

Last night, my commute took much longer than usual. Most likely because I was wearing rollerblades and skating through traffic on I-380. It was hard to keep up and vehicles kept rushing past, nearly knocking me off the road. The sky was almost dark, but the oil well fires along the interstate provided a warm, flickering glow that helped light my way. Some of the wells burned more brightly than others, causing huge columns of fire to leap up into the sky, and creating plumes of smoke that could be seen for miles.

As I skated, I had to keep wiping the sweat and grime from my face. The heat from the fires was stifling and blackened particles floated in the smoky air. Debris from passing cars stung my forehead and every so often a rock would fly up and hit me.

Eventually, I arrived home. Of course, there was the car still sitting in the driveway where I left it that morning. How in the world did I forget to drive the car? I couldn't leave it sitting in the driveway, so I strapped on my helmet and climbed in. I backed it into the garage as carefully as I could, but that was really difficult to do with my rollerblades still strapped on. Either the garage had gotten narrower, or my driving skills had taken a nosedive, because I couldn't seem to get the car into the garage correctly. On the first try, I hit Cynthia's car and knocked over both motorcycles. The second try resulted in my car scraping violently against the side of Cynthia's car, gouging up the sheet metal on both cars and taking off lots of paint, but at least I got the car far enough in there to shut the door. I shook my head at all the destruction I had caused, but figured that with a little buffing I could get most of the scratches out and maybe no one would notice.

I tossed the rollerblades over the fence and went inside. As I walked through the kitchen, I noticed the neighbors outside digging through our trash. I opened the window and yelled at them and they scampered off and hid behind the bushes, waiting for me to go away so they could resume licking the empty pizza boxes. Weirdos.

Cynthia greeted me wearing a new headband with fuzzy bunny ears. It didn't look as nice as her old headband, but I didn't say anything. Rose and Emily were playing in the living room and Rose told me that mommy kept trying to lock them out of the house. I told her not to make mommy mad.

We sat down to the dinner table and ate popsicles. Mine was grape and tasted great. Then we skipped dessert and cleared the table. Immediately the house went dark, so we went to bed.

Note: Turkey and Ritz crackers make a good late night snack, but apparently they mess with your dreams. Must be the tryptophan.

Hollywood Avenue

When I was growing up, I lived in this house on Hollywood Avenue in Chicago. It was a 2-story flat in Edgewater, at the north end of Lake Shore Drive. I found this old scan from a photo and decided to post it.

Ah, memories...

Studio

This week has been full of surprises, one of them being the chance to rent out a studio so that I can shoot photos somewhere other than my living room. No sooner did I rent the building, then I immediately had a shoot lined up for it! Very exciting, but very tiring, too. The building had been a studio previously, but recently was used for storage. I had to help move out lots of appliances and shop equipment, then clean the place before I could begin getting set up in it. It was a lot of work, much like moving.

As you can see, it's a fairly humble building, but it's a start. Even though the studio is in Iowa City, it's off the beaten path and sits back on a large wooded acreage. The scenery is nice, though. It has a gravel drive and gravel parking and the building has heat, A/C, and internet. You wouldn't just stumble across it and when you pull in, it looks like a place where some cult might gather to wait for their comet. Or it could be an Al Qaeda training camp. Any militant would be pleased to train here.

At any rate, it's a great place for cult members, militants, and photographers and I'm happy to be here!

Today

Writing a blog has been a new experience for me. I have a lot of things to say, but it's tricky to know how to say them or even where to start. I guess one of the most important things is honesty. I've read blog posts from other people who I know personally and they aren't even honest with themselves. How messed up is that when you can't even be truthful about your life in your own blog?! A personal blog should be the one place where you can tell it like it is. No whitewashing, glossing things over, or distorting the facts. Otherwise it's just fiction. Which is fine, as long as everybody knows it's fiction. Anyway...

So I'll start off my blog with some honesty: I'm typing this while sitting at my desk at work. Yup, I'm writing this while on company time. My excuse for this is that we have some downtime at the moment and there isn't anything else to do. I simply have to be here in case a problem pops up or a rush project gets thrown my way. It's the day before Christmas vacation and we have completed all of the 2011 publishing deadlines. So here I am at my desk typing away and my coworkers are surfing the internet. Probably should have been a sick day. Oh well.

On the upside, one of my carpool peeps brought me a plate of cookies this morning which made for a great breakfast. I don't know why everyone bothers with trying to eat healthy crap to start off their day. Most of the "healthy" stuff you buy in the store is loaded with sugar and preservatives. Some of the granola bars have almost as much sugar as a candy bar. They're overpriced, lack protein, and generally underwhelming. At least with cookies you know what you're getting. And cookies don't come in a foil wrapper that explodes saw dust all over when you try to open it. Yeah, I'm talkin' to you, Nature Valley!

Let's see, where was I... oh right, talking about blog writing. Blog writing has been kinda fun. I used to write stuff every so often and then delete it when I was done. I didn't really have anywhere to post it and I'm shunning Facebook because it's against my religion (not really, I just got Facebooked-out). Now that I have this blog, I can post all sorts of ridiculous, cockamamie stuff. And I can use words like "cockamamie" just to annoy everyone who reads this. In fact, I think I'll start dropping some old-timey words and phrases into my blog posts from now on and no one will know what the sam hill I'm talking about. See if that don't butter your necktie.

Alright, I should get back to eating cookies. Hope everyone has a great Christmas!

A letter to Gerald Lee Harmanson

This is a letter I wrote a while back (before I had a blog) and have never gotten around to posting it until now. It was posted on Sheila's blog about a month after I wrote it, I think.

This letter is part of the reason that I started writing a blog. I've written lots of things over the years, but with each one, I've deleted it once it was finished. Writing is a good way for me to speak my mind or get things out of my system, especially since I'm not much of a talker. When something is stuck in my head and I need to shut it off, putting it down in words usually seems to work. There's a lot of things that I should probably write about, but for now I'm putting this one to rest.

Anyway, here it is:

Dear Mr. Harmanson,

We've never met, but I've heard quite a bit about you. I know that you have always been known as a good storyteller and I think that you would be interested in the story I have to tell you. This story stretches over many years, but is certainly one worth telling. As any good storyteller would agree, it's best to start from the beginning.

On October 31st, 1950, a beautiful, healthy baby girl was born in Chicago, Illinois. She was the cutest baby anyone could ask for and best of all, she was yours. For some reason that still remains a mystery, shortly after she was born you left. Her mother struggled to raise the tiny baby on her own, something that would be a daunting task for a single mom today; but much more so in the 1950s.

Her mother raised her well, despite hardships. She was much like her dad; besides sharing his middle and last name, she had his kind sense of humor, his eyes, and even his smile. She was hard-working and intelligent, helping her mom around the house and excelling at school. He would be proud of the way she gave her best effort at everything she did, from piano lessons, to her studies, and even in her friendships. Yet there was always an awful void that overshadowed everything she did. With each birthday, she hoped that she might get a card or a gift from her dad, or maybe he would write her a letter. Maybe he would even show up on her doorstep. He might even come back to stay with her and put her on his knee and tell her stories to make her laugh. But he never did.

She couldn't help wondering if he left because of her. She wondered if he had wanted a boy instead of a girl. Then she wondered if he had even wanted a baby at all. Maybe he left simply because she was born. That burden of undeserved guilt hung over her every day. Didn't he want to see her? Didn't he want to know what she was like? Had he forgotten about her? Her mother wouldn't tell her anything about him. Not even his first name. If she knew his first name, she might be able to find him, but then maybe he wouldn't want to talk to her.

For years, she searched for him. Even if she found him, she wasn't sure he'd want to talk to her, but she had so many questions. There were so many things that they could talk about and so many things that she needed to hear. A smile and an "I love you" would have made a world of difference. So many things were left unsaid. He never reached out to her and her mother had no idea if he was still in Illinois or somewhere several states away.

Time went by and her mother became ill. Knowing that her mother's time was running out, she asked again for his name and anything else her mother could tell her about her dad. Her mother revealed his name and she even had some photos she had saved of him from shortly after they were married.

Not long after, her mother passed away. Now she began searching in earnest, hoping that with a full name and some pictures she would be able to turn up something. The search hit one dead end after another, but she was persistent. She searched records in several states, but to no avail. It seemed as if he had completely vanished.

Today, 60 years after you left, she found you. There you were in the obituary section of the newspaper. Even in that grainy photo, the resemblance between the two of you is unmistakeable. The brief biography in the paper revealed fascinating details from your life. For many years the two of you lived only 15 minutes apart. I wonder if you knew this. Did you know her house? Did you ever drive past? In spite of all, your daughter still loves you and grieves for all the years that she spent not knowing you. Even though she's no longer the tiny baby you left behind, she is still your daughter.

I'm writing this letter knowing that you'll never read it, but hoping that you found peace. I hope that your daughter can finally have some measure of closure and that she can put this part of her life to rest. As I mentioned at the beginning of the letter, you and I have never met, and yet I have learned some important things from you. Being a father myself, the circumstances of your life have impressed upon me the importance of fatherhood and the need to always be a steady part of my daughter's lives. Many of the things I often take for granted are so much more important than I ever realized, whether it be spending time with my daughters or simply telling them I love them and how important they are to me. You can rest assured I will always be there for them, no matter what. I thank you for that lesson.

Your grandson,
Mark

My garage

I have a garage. When I go out there, my hands get dirty, I bang stuff around, and I frequently spit (on the grass, not on the floor). My walk becomes more ape-like and I fart a lot more (I dunno what that's about). There's always something to tinker with and plenty of hammers and screwdrivers to assist with the job. That's about all I have as far as tools, but you'd be surprised how much can be accomplished with just those two things. It's really great to go out there and be all manly and whatnot.

This weekend I have to tune up my snow thrower and get it ready for winter. It's a beat-up old 1974 Bobcat and the loudest, meanest snow thrower on the block. There's nothing like firing it up early in the morning and shattering the snowy silence with a mechanical roar and a puff of smoke. Every time I use it, I find myself scratching my armpits and my speech reduced to grunts.

Yeah, the garage is OK.

Going nowhere

There are worse places to live than Cedar Rapids. Really, there are. For example: Detroit, MI; Jackson, MS; Atlanta, GA; Miami, FL; New Jersey (yup, the whole state); Albuquerque, NM; nearly all of Nebraska; and most of the rest of Iowa, to name a few. But if you really feel like you'd be better off anywhere else, Google suggests getting some ink done. If you Google directions from Cedar Rapids, IA, to "anywhere": you'll end up getting a tattoo. Or three.

Planning to go nowhere in life? Go to college. Don't get mad at me, Google said it first.