All I Want For Christmas

What do you want for Christmas? I really used to like that question and now I don't like it at all. Not one bit. New toys or technology or gear or tools used to satisfy that question. Hell, even clothing worked from time to time. There are presents I received for Christmas that I cherish or appreciate to this day. My Kenner “Bridge and Turnpike, Panel and Girder” building set was the greatest toy, ever! I was maybe 11 or 12 when I got that set and became, for a while at least, a budding engineer. The reality of understanding the math and physics of real engineering had yet to become a known and I was able to build anything in the kit and create even more. I built the suspension bridge that stood nearly 2 feet tall and more than filled the card table. I had to redesign the New Jersey side approach to include an extra turn of it would have required I move the family off the kitchen table.
Speaking of the kitchen table. Remember, I was 11 or 12 and had too much unsupervised time on my hands at that time. Following the process of discovering how heat changes the strength and stability of these plastic girders, I also found that heat not only rises, but radiates out and down as well. Once I had finished my tests, extinguished the flames and began the cleanup I had one of my first real “Oh Shit” moments. The heat had burned a hole in the gray Formica table top. It was right where my mother would sit for her meals. After a little well done panic, running around with my hands in the air saying things my mother didn't know I knew how to say, I revisited the arson scene. A place mat wouldn't do since the edges of the burn were slightly raised and we didn't use them anyway. A review of the situation once I'd cleaned up the best I could revealed my solution. Turn the table around! The other end of the table always had the Lazy Susan with the napkins, salt and pepper shakers, sugar bowl and a few bills or letters. To the best of my knowledge it had never been otherwise.
It looked perfect. The apartment had aired out sufficiently that there was no obvious trace of the toxic smoke by the time Mom got home and I figured I was in the clear. Now I had until after high school graduation and a job to worry about the final solution. If I was living somewhere else and sent home a brand new table and chair set it would be a great gift and we could laugh over what an idiot I had been back when I was just a kid. What I didn't realize was my mother did things that 11 or 12 year-old idiot boys didn't comprehend, like when she cleaned the table, she moved everything out of the way. So instead of having 6 or 7 years to work on the problem I had until the next Saturday morning. I won't go into details, but believe me it wasn't pretty from my point of view. She probably didn't have much fun with it either, but I was pretty focused on my experience at the time and failed to appreciate her emotional investment at the time. Unfortunately there would be more of that before I could appreciate the parental view of this kind of situation. I learned a few things other than engineering and thermodynamics that week and surprisingly, I still have a bit of a handle on some of them as well as the the building kit. Maybe I'll dig it out for a grandkid to use one of these days. Maybe I'll pass one or two selected lessons on.
So back to the original question, what to say when someone asks what I want for Christmas. Everything that matters now seem to be in others hands. I want my wife to be healthy once again and not have cancer lurking in the background, leaning in on every plan and decision we have to make, every trip we take and every photo we take with loved ones. I want my children to be successful and happy, independent and making us proud with their smiles and stories of accomplishment. I want their kids to be the same. I want the same for the rest of the family and my friends, you all deserve it, really you do. All that helps make me happy, almost like I have some control over those situations and conditions from afar. I have a rich fantasy life, so if something good happens for someone I care about after I've suggested they deserve it, I will take some credit.
And for me, personally? Time. Control over my time would be nice. Not the kind of control where I can move back and forth from today to 1847 where I'd suggest to Brigham Young that the Tooele valley would be a better place for his city. The kind of control that leaves me time to write and post stuff more frequently than every 5 months. The kind of control that leads to a bit more time camping with friends or traveling with my bride or even sleeping in the afternoon if it's needed. Time to watch movies or go to galleries or casinos and just look at stuff and people and breathe and smile at how wonderful all of this can be. Oh, and I'd like to hit the Powerball, see more Major League baseball games have Democrats win a lot more Utah elections and have the Jazz win the NBA championship too. Now Santa, you know what I want, so get to work. Okay?

Desolation Canyon

Travel on the river is unusual in many ways for me. I've always moved about on land and occasionally by aircraft. My time on the water is limited and most of that has been on sail boats for part of a sunny afternoon. Trips to the backcountry that require sleep have always been either car camping or backpacking trips. In the car camp trips we have a base camp that stays the same as we wander about during the day and return to the comfort of the base for drinks, food, entertainment and sleep. Backpacking is so dependent on the limited weight I can carry that the minimal comfort and luxury quotient has to be balanced by the beauty and isolation factor. It's really simple math once you get used to it, a kind of camping calculus where even the constants are variable, but fortunately they are within acceptable and predictable ranges. On rare occasions something goes out of whack and you are left nursing blisters, sore muscles, confused egos and empty water bottles. But those times are well outnumbered by the unexpected and soul-soothing beauty of a wild sunset, a meadow of wildflowers or a rock wall so full of color that they would challenge the ability of an Elliott Porter or Paul Gauguin to capture or John McPhee to describe or explain. And I challenge the stars of the Food Network to prepare meals that would better fit the occasion or satisfy hungry rafters.

River trips invite comfort, luxury and even extravagance at times while fostering the same leave no trace philosophy and isolation that backpacking does. This type of travel leaves plenty of time for social interaction, a significant difference from backpacking where we are strung out in a single line of hikers, each dealing with the trip in their own way. We gather in clumps at breakfast, breaks and dinner for quality social time but much of the travel time is solo. On a raft we are sitting next to our fellow travelers and able to observe, point and discuss without fear of falling over or losing the trail. There is a continual opportunity for socialization and shared experience as the raft moves through rapids or past a particularly interesting site. The massive amount of material that is carried requires teamwork to set up the shared part of camp, the kitchen in particular. That team effort makes it happen quickly and if there are no other demands, the social environment is reestablished in short order. If there are other demands for the members of the trip, and there were on this trip, they can begin shortly after the rafts have been beached for the evening. Work is shared, so a majority of the folks are able to carry about with their business while a small group is engaged in setting up the kitchen, the bathroom and preparing dinner.

Wait for another paragraph to roll by before I get to the comfort and luxury stuff, because this was a work trip. The rationale for being there in the first place was work. Well, maybe the beauty and fascination offered in that canyon inspired the quest for work there, regardless of the chicken and egg argument, it was a work trip none the less. Read the details elsewhere by those who know and understand better what we saw and recorded. This was archeology. The trip was sponsored by the Bureau of Land Management in their effort to identify and document the cultural resources on lands they administer. The particular resources we were charged with finding were those of the Fremont era people who lived in this set of canyons 800 or more years ago. Rock art, structures and tools are all preserved in the area and they are one of the things that draw people to the river and the canyons. However, over the years many of those resources have been damaged or removed, leaving the record of the Fremont people cloudy and obscured by more than time and the lack of formal records. Every site identified and documented by professional archeologists adds something into that modern record that may eventually allow for an understanding of what life in these canyons was like. Once we know that past, it may shed light on how we need to deal with the canyons now and in the future. It's one more place that may be “loved to death” if we don't understand what we are dealing with, so extraordinary efforts like this are critical in providing managers the information they need.

Each raft has a very large cooler that is packed full of ice and perishables at the beginning of the trip. There are also large metal dry boxes filled with food and anything else you might need to cook with or otherwise used to enhance a long summer evening in camp. There were a great variety of both food and drink to savor and share. We carried tables, chairs, a fine kitchen, awnings, and the raw materials to create a very comfortable setting each evening in a great camp site on the river and under the amazing rock walls of the canyon. The kitchen was the first thing to be set up followed by the conversation circle of chairs that would be the focal point of the camp for the remainder of the evening. We laughed, we listened, some played music and some of us tried to sing along, it was all good. Discussions ranged widely and were always entertaining. Each member of the trip has a couple of river bags that are coated with waterproofing and contain their tent, pads, sleeping bags, clothes, books, cameras, guitars and anything else they believe might be needed. Of course all of this is subject to the most basic travel fallacy, that we can plan for everything. There was one small issue. While we were prepared for mosquitoes no one knew we would be facing an epic gnat infestation on the river. Some of the crew were very attractive to these little guys and they feasted extensively on those poor folks. I was fortunate in being pretty to look at, but unappetizing and suffered only a few bites.

On the raft we felt the gentle rolling of the river and even in most rapids there was little sense of forward momentum and more the movement of the river under our craft. The first day was motoring as we lashed the rafts together in groups of three and ran a small outboard motor to speed us downriver. After that it was the river and human power through oars that directed our party where we needed to go. The river is powerful and is not into negotiation, so the pilot needs to find the best line to avoid hazards or eddies that curl backwards, trapping the unwitting in quiet pools as the rest of the party moves along. Rapids hide rocks and provide places to trap or even flip boats that are not properly directed. We were splashed, bounced and on the new, and becoming infamous, Cow Swim Rapid, we pioneered a route that required skill, strength, communication, faith and a little bit of luck to keep us upright. It was interesting that after the run Andy decided to tell us that it was the first Class 5 rapid he had done in a large craft. He didn't want us to be worried in advance. I guess he didn't notice how white my knuckles were as I grasped the rope and crouched in the bow of the raft as we approached the foaming, spitting, growling rapid.

Although Andy did most of the rowing, both John and I got a chance to manage the boat on both smooth and splashy water. John did better than I in the rapids, and both of us felt better and more confident after the trip than we did going in. It was another learning experience and the kind I like, those without disasters that drive home the point that had been missed. The crew was steeped in education and it would have been impossible to not learn about rafting, archeology, the Fremont, the history of the canyon, music, politics, other rivers, politics, policies and river management among so many other topics. We shared the beauty of the canyon as it rained diamonds or saw it lighted through a honey or a whiskey filter.

Those rafts were time machines that took us to places where portals opened and we could at least look at the evidence of a hard life and share a vision of life 800 years ago. The companionship was excellent and the company of those from the past and those who shared the boats during that week will be well and long remembered. I left the river with an eye open for a used raft, knowing that it probably won't happen. But that's how a good trip should work, like a performer who ends the show leaving the audience wanting more, the river needs another and another visit before I'm satisfied.

More photos can be found at: http://picasaweb.google.com/neville.orange/DesolationCanyon2010#

Confusion isn't all bad

This morning our house phone rang with a caller id we didn't recognize. Usually we let these go to the answering machine, particularly if they seem to have that feeling associated with scam. We got pretty good with those back when three out of four calls to our house were to offer me an extension on my car warranty. You know, they were worried that I would need service on the 1973 pickup truck or on my 1992 Jeep and the manufacturers warranty might have just run out. Occasionally I'd talk to them in an attempt to use up all the minutes on their throwaway cell phone, it was the least I could do. The call this morning was local, our area code, so it could be someone attempting to collect money. Still another good reason not to answer the phone. But I was just getting around to that first cup of coffee and wasn't at my best, so I picked up the handset.
“Hello?”
“Dave?”
“Yes?”
“This is Tori, how are you?”
“Tori? I'm sorry but I'm drawing a blank. I'm trying to remember you and can't.”
“Dave Barnes?”
“I'm sorry, you have the wrong Dave.”
A few more embarrassed pleasantries and the call was ended. It was a call for Dave, but not this one and for a few moments I was very confused. Now I've been confused before. In fact, there have been times when the level of my confusion was nearly Olympic. I usually wander around with an odd look on my face, not really sure what is going on and often not caring either. In those greatest moments I could have managed to infect on the law of gravity the question of not just “up/down” but wouldn't sideways be an option as well. This morning was minor confusion, quickly and easily resolved. It was the unintended side effect of the call that interests me. In much less time that it takes to brew and drink a cup of coffee I was fully awake and thinking clearly. The cloudy feeling of confusion had been blown away as I struggled to figure out who the hell Tori was. Evidently I'd been given a shot of the brain equivalent of adrenaline and I was up to speed. So much that after my cup of coffee I was taking on tasks that I'd been very successful in procrastinating for quite some time.
This was amazing and I'd love to find a way to duplicate the effect, without having to talk to Tori or answer the phone if I can avoid it. It was the unexpected that I confronted and it cleared my mind. Inspector Clouseau had his trusted Kato to attack him at any time in order to keep his self defense skills at their peak. A master provides a koan to the student as an aid to finding that moment of clarity and zen. Kids are constantly confronted by the unexpected and it's during those years they experience the greatest growth in knowledge they will have in their life. Of course dementia patients are exposed to the unexpected on a daily basis and they don't seem to enjoy the growth or clarity seen by the others I've mentioned. But their confusion is from a very different set of circumstances and maybe it isn't the best example here. At least I hope it isn't.
It is a daunting challenge to find a way to be confronted by the unexpected on a regular basis. The very nature of scheduling a chance to be exposed to an unexpected event or problem is self-contradictory. It's kind of like Steven Covey suggesting you put a block of time in your Franklin planner for some spontaneous creative activity. This is more of a koan than a time management suggestion if you ask me. What is the sound of one hand clapping pales in comparison to the modern concept of scheduling some spontaneity. I guess I'll just try to wake every morning with a mind clear of preconceptions. I will expect to make coffee and plan to avoid spilling hot liquids on my body.
The day can come to me in spurts or flow like an old meandering river, washing me up on the bank for a new adventure or just a little rest. It's all good and it seems that after looking at the whole mess, a little bit of confusion can be a good thing.

The Origin of Neville Orange.

It was 1971 and I was living in a tiny apartment on Center Street in Salt Lake City with my friend John. I'd been learning cartography but studying underground comics. H.D. Roberson had shown me a simple way to draw a face and I took it from there. The idea of actually taking a class to learn how to illustrate wasn't even considered. In fact, I didn't think anyone would ever see any of the images I created. They were for my amusement initially, but the character that sprang out of those images took on a life and character of his own. Dan O'Neill had produced a wonderful series of simple cartoons titled "Odd Bodkins" and I loved the simplicity of the design and strange humor in his stories. His things were much better and can be found on the web. I recommend going there now and forgetting this exercise.

My character was a round fellow with hiking boots and derby hat. No arms, legs or other appendage were needed because he was all about attitude. Charming but cynical, Neville Orange was born on my drafting table and found his way onto paper, restroom walls and finally now off into cyberspace. This is probably where he was headed all along, I just never knew it at the time.

In his first and longest adventure Neville takes his ward, all super heros had wards to train and possibly to abuse for their own pleasure, on a trip to visit Mr Sun. I know, it's odd. But remember this was 1971 and I was probably under the influence of a culture where experimentation was expected and Art was a kid I knew in elementary school.

My "studio" was probably a blank door set up on cinderblocks to serve as a desk. Light came in through a couple of small, dirty casement windows that had been painted shut. The stereo was a KLH and my pride and joy. We had my records, John's records and a bunch that had been left with me by a friend of my first roommate when I bought his record player. He didn't have anywhere to store them and no way to play them, so I had them on long term loan. He got them back about 2 years after that but they had given us plenty of enjoyment. I might have been listening to British blues or maybe a live album by a San Francisco band as I worked.

Why did the Sun have a Fu Manchu and John Lennon Glasses? Why did he have a mouth? If I could answer that I would. It seemed pretty neat at the time and I still kind of like it in a dated anachronistic hippie way.

Neither Neville nor myself had any desire to go into dentistry or even to practice better dental hygene. There was a lot of trust there between Neville and the Sun, maybe like those little birds who pick the teeth of crocs in African rivers. Or maybe not. It could be that they were both just a couple of wierdos and this seemed to be something fun to investigate or taste. They do both seem pretty happy when its done.

And there it is. There was going to be a word balloon that explained the Sun had bad breath, but the graphic seemed to be better without it. I can't explain it any more now than I could then. It was a fun experiment and from that point on every Neville Orange cartoon was a single frame with some kind of smart-ass remark. He became one of my characters, an alter ego and I could use him as 'Neville sez:' to comment on the goings-on around me. Neville is a zen gutter philosopher. Don't follow him or believe what he says because he is a version of Coyote and will probably be setting you up for something silly at best.

Murph and St. Patricks Day

It's St. Patricks Day and some of you may remember my Irish stepfather, William E. Murphy. He told me once that he never worked a St. Patricks Day in his life. It was probably a lie, but I believed him anyway. He was born in Boston where he and his brother were given up for adoption by his poverty stricken parents. He went to a few homes but apparently his Irish prevented him from ever sticking in one place during his youth. He ran from the orphanage several times. He learned that the cops would recognize the metal toes of his shoes and cut of his jacket and put the collar on him. He learned that when he was returned to the orphanage the thankful brothers would beat him for running away. It took a few times, but he finally left and didn't return. He learned a lot on the streets of Boston too. He found friends that taught him how to swim by tossing him off the pier into the Harbor. He was stronger than any of us ever realized and he learned how to use that physical gift along with a sharp mind to survive in times that were less than forgiving. He learned from a wide range of experiences and kept the successful lessons close and never forgot the failures. He was in the National Guard, played professional baseball in the minor leagues, worked at the horse track, tended bar, worked as a salesman and drove anything that had wheels. Once while playing ball for the Hollywood Stars he was mistaken by some for Bing Crosby, until they got a little closer or heard him speak.
I was just getting into Junior High when my mother met him. She and my father had been divorced for several years and she was attempting to raise my older brother and me by herself. She found some support and he found something to settle down for. It wasn't me or my brother, just in case you wondered. Their lives improved and although I was clueless, mine did too. He tried a variety of jobs before settling in with Salt Lake City Streets and later the Airport as a Materials Engineer. Not bad for a guy without a degree. He may not have even had a diploma, but he was able to work nearly two decades before retiring. I need to address that "settle down" thing. He still had adventures, he was still Irish and there was this thing about Gin, Horse Races and playing Craps that I'm still trying to understand. He even had a chance or two to run away, but times had changed and he was welcomed home to people who really did care about him. While he didn't invent "Murphy's Law" he was a practitioner of the first order. From picking paint colors that never failed to disappoint to getting to Ireland for his only trip to the homeland, only to spend most of his time sick in his hotel room near the Shannon Airport, he found a way to keep that particular faith.
We thought that when my mother passed away that he wouldn't be around much longer, but he was a stubborn as ever and battled shingles, loneliness, mouth cancer and the NFL on a regular basis for many years after that. One day I got a call from him and went to see him at the hospital. He told me he had cancer again and this time it was a bad one. A couple days later I took him home and a few nights later I slept on his couch in case he needed something. While I wasn't paying attention he left and all there was left for me to do was to say "May you be in Heaven a half hour before the Devil knows your dead."
I learned more from him that I'm really aware of. While it's evident that my streak of bullshit is genetic, I like to think that Murph allowed me the opportunity to put a flower on it. He opened my eyes to some of the worst jokes a bartender ever told and pushed me, in spite of himself, to the left politically. He demonstrated that marriage wasn't a test but a career that required dedication, respect and trust. He set standards high and even now I try to buy good gin and I try my best not to work on St. Patricks day. So I'll drink my morning cup of Irish Coffee today (Bushmills) and wish you all the best as spring begins to roll out in front of us.

May the road rise up to meet you.May the wind be always at your back.May the sun shine warm upon your face;the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

May your horses always finish in the money.
May your gin always be cold.
And may the world smile on you fondly
as you very slowly grow old.

The God Gene

I read recently about “The God Gene”. The hypothesis being there is a genetic tendency toward religious belief. For those with this gene it is more likely they believe in god, participate in regular religious activities or are generally more likely to see themselves in a spiritual context. While not well or widely accepted the theory has plenty of support and I like it. I have attempted to find my spiritual center on a number of occasions and end up with a blank, the eternal void. The only times I've been close to organized religion it was through peer or family pressure and I never found the comfort or reassurance promised. I'm guessing that I'm genetically an atheist and will always have that wall between myself and an ability to commune with and trust in God.

I know it has been said that my odds will be better to believe. If it is true, somehow God will like me more and I'll better off in the afterlife with that extra chip in my pocket. I've never been a very good gambler, as most of my poker playing friends will attest, so I'm willing to wander toward those streets paved with gold without the benefit of a holy hall pass and hope my behaviors haven't been so evil that I can remain. Stuff like that just doesn't make sense to me. Nor does concept that there is either a kind and loving God or one bent on punishing our evil choices. And the large number of religions we have invented doesn't help me either. The simplist explaination very often is the best and most accurate. Let me go with brain chemistry being the source of most mystical experiences. The moral foundations are common sense that needed to be codified, first in an oral tradition and later written down. How it became organized and the basis for really odd choices that are contrary to what was written is beyond me.

Now this doesn't mean I can't be spiritual in some sense. I feel there is strength in community and am comforted by time spent with loved ones and out in nature. My atoms came from somewhere and after I die they will move on at a less organized and hectic pace. However, my consciousness or soul is destined to vanish. Oh well. Since I don't really know or understand what I'm missing it's not a great loss to me. As Tommy Johnson in "Oh Brother Where Art Thou" says when asked why he sold his soul to the devil, "I wasn't using it." Those who believe in an eternal soul, reincarnation, heaven or hell may just have to plan either to not see me at the bar or be ready to laugh at my folly. Hey! It ain't my fault.

Since this might be a genetic trait it would be interesting to find out where it is headed in an evolutionary sense. Is it something that is proving to be a benefit for survival or is it something that is being weeded out by natural selection. It's common in many Christian faiths to “grow and replenish” and they tend to have more children, an evolutionary benefit I would guess. However, there seems to be a reduction in the number of people attending church or claiming belief in God. The latter is based on short term data and may be temporary. Surely there are a lot of people who are not being subjected to Harris, Newsweek, CNN or Gallup polls. Like those folks living in China, India, Indonesia, Africa, South America and most of the Middle East. These are people who practice or don't practice many other faiths or belief systems, some of them with very large numbers of devout believers. I don't have data for those areas and would be reluctant to offer opinion on what is happening in this regard in those locations.

Regardless, there seems to be a very strong tendency for religious beliefs to spring up or survive under (or maybe because of) even the harshest conditions. During the official ban on religion during the life of the Soviet Union there were plenty of churches operating underground. China has never seen a lack of people who believe in something beyond the state. It also seems that just as I am on the unbelief side of the gene, there may be folks who are just as far on the other side, filling out the bell curve of belief. Is it something we can apply statistics to? For every fanatic believing in the glory of God and the words of God's prophet(s) is there a fanatic who rejects it all as foolishness? I don't have a clue. It could be that I'm here with just one more genetic trait that manifests itself as a cultural characteristic.

If this theory is true, will there be genetic therapy one of these days to correct the defect, one way or the other? What would happen if we flooded the air with nanobots capable of delivering a gene that would either add or remove this trait? Will we see compeating factions with labs manufacturing genetic floods that result in mass religious conversion or abandonment of faith beyond what we can see? Breakdown or salvation of society? Damn, that's another story and well beyond my ability to figure out. However for the right price I will offer the idea to someone who wants to write the novels as a counterpoint to the series of Rapture related books that seem to be doing pretty well these days.

On the other side of this argument is the lack of a genetic component to belief in God. If that's the case then why is it I haven't been able to make the connection? Logic? Lack of rigor in my search? Inability to recognize spirituality when it's right in front of my face? I had a chance and misinterpreted the experience? I'm correct in my disbelief? I'm open for suggestions. After all, I'm just barely past mid-life now and this sort of thing should be a bit more important as I approach the end of days. However, I've always been approaching the end of my days since the moment I made my entrance. Why worry now? I'm comfortable as a spiritual slacker and will most likely remain one for the foreseeable future. Anyway, when God wants my opinion she will give it to me. Until then my Sundays are free and morals unencumbered by anything other than love, respect and a little common sense.