There was a long lull in the, until now, consistent sets of waves. After scanning the horizon again, I noticed Brent paddling up around me.
“What is it with people and rumors and tearing each other part,” I asked Brent.
“We’re surfing man, lighten up.”
“There’s nothing coming in right now.”
Brent sat up on his board and looked at the horizon.
“You ever hear that quote by Eleanor Roosevelt?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It goes something like… high-minded people like to talk about music and beauty, poetry and art, surfing… some people talk, and mostly complain about their work and stuff… and low-minded people have nothing to talk about other than other people, and usually not in a good way. They’re generally jealous types, vindictive, they’re sure they’re in the right because they’re the majority.”
“That’s gnarly.”
“Yeah it is, now just let it go and get some waves, there’s something big coming in on the outside.”
Dry stuff first, then wet; mixed in a ’62 Pyrex bowl.
Knead it,
roll it,
cut it (allowing for windows and doors)
then bake it.
White frosting mortar,
red & green M&M’s,
peppermint candies and red hots.
The kitchen is filled with the heavy scent of gingerbread.
“Now don’t eat too much of the icing, it’ll make you sick and rot your teeth.”
“Ok mom, but my stomach already hurts.”
“Drink some club soda. And Carol, can you hand me the icer.”
“It’s important to get the first two walls together straight and strong.”
“Here mom, I’ll hold’em.” says the little boy.
“Thank you Philip, and Carol, can you get me a wet towel.”
Mom breathes heavily through her mouth, though her lips are close together. The air makes almost a whistling sound and Philip thinks how like music or the sound of the wind it is. Mom is copying the weather outside he thinks. Jack Frost north winds blowing across the continent and threatening to collapse the gingerbread walls. The weather sent dad out on overtime, fixing phone lines.
Her thumb struggles against the icer and turns red in places and flushes to white in others and the pressure looks to Philip as if it might hurt.
“Hard to push that thing down Mom?”
“Yes, but I’ve got it. It shouldn’t come out too fast or too slow. Do you want to try it?”
“You better do this first part mom. I’ll try on the next one.”
“Ok, hold the two wallls up and steady.”
Philip holds the walls up and hopes his hands won’t shake or wobble. He feels his shoulder muscles tighten and his fingers tense. He starts to breathe like his mother and now he’s Jack Frost.
“Steady,” says mom.
“I’m trying,” says Philip.
Mom squirts the icing all the down the length of the walls where they make a corner together. “Ok,” she says and motions for Philip to let go. Mom then wiggles the walls so they fit tightly.
“Hold’em again, please.”
She squirts more icing on the inside and the outside of the walls and leans and takes a long satisfying breath.
“You guys want to go out and play now? This is going to take a while to dry.”
“I’ll get my sled.” says Philip.
“Your big brother should be down by the pond. Get your warm jackets on and I’ll see you in about an hour.”
Sister Carol has the watch and Philip admires that she will be the one to know when it’s time to come back. Out through the back door, the ground crunches under their feet with Philip nearly falling as he walked down the back steps. There is a layer of ice under a couple inches of snow and his rubber boots can’t find friction.
“Hurry up you little poop,” his sister says.
“It’s icy,” says Philip.
“Well step down hard like me.” Carol steps down hard and Philip sees that her footsteps are deep and the ridges around her footsteps serve as support walls for her boots. They don’t slip and she strides like an eskimo around the back of the garage and into Mr. Van Leuven’s yard.
“D’ya think we could toboggan Mr. Van Leuven’s yard?” Philip asks.
“Not steep enough,” Carol replies.
They trudge throught the open space of the yard. The snow is deeper there in the open space away from the trees and it threatens to sneak into their boots. Philip keeps his head down watching for it to do so and runs head first into his sister.
“What’re you doing?” he asks.
‘My underwear is crawling up my butt,” she says, adjusting the seat of her pants.
“You’ve got a wedgie,” Philip says smiling.
“Shut up you little poop.” Carol says.
At the guard rail where [Washington] street turns and goes down they drag their sleds around the end of the rail and look for signs of their brother and other kids. Their breath is like pipe smoke and Philip thinks how it looks like they’re a couple of Godzillas about to burn each other.
“I’m Godzilla,” he says and rushes at his sister, “Rarrrrrr.”
“Get away you little dork.”
“Stop calling me names or I’ll tell mom.”
“I’m sorry,” she replies smiling, “you little dork.”
“How’d you like it?” he says.
“All right, I’m sorry.”
“I’m going first.” he says and jumps in front of his sister. The trail is steep but smooth. In summer it’s strewn with craggy rocks and divots but the ice has filled it in and Philip flies like an Olympic luge racer on a Yankee Clipper. He manages the twists and turns with grace, ducking beneath “sticker” bushes as he nearly derails a couple of times, then slows to the opening of the woods, where he grabs the sled’s “leash” and begins to drag it toward the pond.
He looks up at the hills which they call the pines and is projected in his mind along the dusted treetops and imagines himself again as Jack Frost; this time flying and blowing the snow into little tornadoes. The pines are his Sherwood or Black Forest and he situates himself among them as some claymation figure from the Christmas shows on TV.
Carol comes sliding in behind him, red-faced and smiling.
“The trail’s perfect huh?” he says.
“Yeah that was a good run.”
The two continue walking toward the pond.
“Can I drag your sled for ya,” asks Philip.
“I’ve got it, thanks.”
“How do ya think the gingerbread’s doing?”
“We’ve got a little time.”
“I love you sis.”
“I love you too.”
The two would be grounded a couple of weeks later during Christmas vacation and it was because they loved each other that it would be ok.
The Maui AMPFest is part of: The Aloha Project
Promoting Aloha, Music, Hawaiian Culture & sustainable living through international collaboration.
This Video Fest strives to showcase diverse bands from around the world with Hawaiian Culture and music as it’s centerpiece, thusly perpetuating the Spirit of Aloha and creating a worldwide bond between socially and politically conscious people and musicians from around the world.
All the way up until JFKs time, presidents were likely, and felt comfortable with, likening the US to great “Western Civilizations” like the Greeks and the Romans. Civilizations who made great advancements in literature, architecture, fine art, and philosophy.
Nowadays, just about any time you get into a conversation about anything to do with the US, there’s likely someone in the group who’ll say, “At least we don’t live in the ‘Third World.'”
At that point I realize how low American expectations have fallen. The America that is “at least not the Third World” is what’s become acceptable. What have we done, as Americans, with our freedom in the past 50 years? Nothing but continue to expect less and less from ourselves and everyone around us. And, at the same time, we hope that no one will question our complete lack of diligence toward, motivation for, or adherence to, the ideals set forth 239 years ago.
Obama had a grand old time, early on, comparing himself to Abraham Lincoln (The Great Emancipator). And before I say anything further about Obama, you must know that my understanding of him is that he is purely the front man, the face of, and/or the image of our “democracy.” I don’t regard him as our president, our Commander-In-Chief, or even as our leader. I didn’t feel or think of any of these things with regard to George Bush either. They, to me are just convenient targets, figureheads, or even masks for the people behind them who control everything that happens in this country. They give a face to faceless; the cowards who hide behind their coattails.
I, as many of you do, find these people to be the only tangible representation of that thing we wish we still had something to do with; democracy, equality and liberty. They are the face of a faceless corporation hell-bent on controlling, manipulating, dividing and conquering everything that we hold sacred, and everything we hold dear. So it’s to them I say, and I hope many of you join me in saying, “what happened to the idea of America, the ideal of America, and America’s supposed precepts.”
Why are we not trying to advance civilization any longer? Why are we not trying to raise the bar, lift the human experience and transcend the bounds of our human bodies? Why must we continue to grovel in the gutter, avoid the real questions, and twist the beauty of living into a commodity and a cancer. Why are we not following the dreamers, patronizing the talented and furthering the meaning of being a truly civilized, compassionate and creative force in the world?
We had it once; the drive, the spirit, the camaraderie, and the common interest in lifting one another up. When did infighting, obfuscation, and selfishness become the center of all political affairs? When did we lose sight of common goals, of common interests and common understanding. We the people are not so different as we once were. So, why have we let the daily drama of childish, sandbox babble become all we expect of our leaders?
We can only become better, and expect more (and I’m not talking about more in a financial sense, I’m talking about more: ethically, morally and spiritually), by expecting more from ourselves.
This Video Fest strives to showcase diverse bands from around the world with Hawaiian Culture and music as it’s centerpiece, thusly perpetuating the Spirit of Aloha and creating a worldwide bond between socially and politically conscious people and musicians from around the world.
She, like every other woman around him, except that she was beautiful, had been walking by and smiling or just looking and maybe saying hi or how are you but never moving beyond the look and the small talk; never thinking to ask him anything about himself or what he did or does or was about. She thought he would initiate it and she did this as all the others did for months and never, strangely, thought it was strange that it didn’t seem to be advancing beyond the hi or how are you.
But today she had an idea, she’d gathered enough background about him from others that she knew he was interested in films and would probably be into going to a movie and she knew of a good one and she asked him and he said yes and he looked happy saying it because he’d been invited and hadn’t really felt invited by women in a long time.
Mostly, I remember the boxes. They kept coming for days – weeks, it seemed to me then – after my brother died. All of them had “Airman Gary Scott Banks” scrawled on their sides in black misshapen letters. Inside were Gary’s neatly mounted black-&-white photos, negatives, and camera equipment. Photography magazines. Clothes. Nineteen years of life crammed into a bunch of boxes…I couldn’t get over it, any more than I could understand how they’d been able to fit my brother, skinny as he was, into that narrow flag-shrouded coffin.
I was almost 15 when Gary was killed in a car accident out in Idaho. A few days later, I was back in school, writing poetry and drawing pictures during geometry and reading what I wanted instead of class assignments. I took long walks in the field behind my parents’ house. I read and played with my beloved three-legged Siamese, Christy. And all the while, I felt cut off from the world around me. I was grieving, and I didn’t want to be. So I buried that grief even deeper than they had buried my brother. Like Christy, who had learned to get about gracefully on three legs after having been hit by a car, I learned to move about as though I was still whole.
I wasn’t, of course. And because, to paraphrase Emily Dickinson, I would not stop for grief, grief stopped for me. Frequently. Politely, like a well-mannered guest waiting for me to finish what I was doing so that it could say what needed to be said. It showed up in all sorts of ways. In driver’s ed. a year later, I’d freeze behind the wheel; and all the instructor’s advice and all my father’s kind, patient after-school instruction could not banish the tall, skinny curly-haired ghost who sat beside me in the car. Then came the day that all the driver’s ed. students were supposed to watch footage of a fatal traffic accident. There would be a short film about driving safety first, the instructors informed us, followed by the main feature, “Mechanized Death”: we were to watch at least 10 minutes of it before making the decision to walk.
I spent the last few minutes of the first flick staring at my feet, afraid I’d still be staring at the screen and accidentally catch a glimpse of mangled bodies and bloody, disfigured faces. The micro-second the lights went down a second time, my sneakered feet hit the floor in record time. It helped that several of my friends decided to join me in flight: the instructor could not catch us all at once, and all of us except one made it successfully to another floor.
When I went off to college, Gary went with me in a different way. I brought his camera with me. He had been a photographer; I would, I told myself, be a photojournalist. I never did become a great photographer, but I felt a little closer to him when I was outside trying to capture an image.
Over time, his presence faded. I overcame my fear enough to get my license. But there were moments when I looked into a mirror or at a snapshot of myself and saw his face staring back at me. People who had known him back in school would meet me and say, “You look like him…”
But I still found it hard to talk about the boy whose face I shared. “I lost my brother,” Elizabeth DeVita-Raeburn writes in her book The Empty Room: Surviving the Loss of a Brother or Sister at Any Age, “and because of my family’s inability to find a way to cope and to attempt to heal, I lost the grief. I stuffed it into that back closet…And because of that I lost my brother even in the way I might have kept him.”
Then one night, when I was out with Tim, the man I would later marry, someone asked me how many brothers I had.
“Two,” I replied.
“You have three brothers,” Tim corrected me quietly. He knew Gary’s story.
He was right, of course, but I didn’t want to let that ghost out of the closet I had so carefully blockaded. And not just the ghost but all of the baggage that came with it, including the additional strain on my father’s heart that eventually killed him. The way that Gary’s death broke apart the charmed circle of our childhood.
It has taken me a long time to find my brother again. I came across an old photo of Gary not long ago. In it, he is sitting atop a fallen tree trunk on a mountain, staring off to the side. He is wearing his characteristic scowl, but toned down. He looks fit, thoughtful, and at peace among the rocks and trees he loved photographing. In it, I see someone who shared my love of nature. Whom I might have even been able to work with, my words and his pictures coming together to tell a story.
It’s just a pipedream, of course. I don’t know the person my brother would’ve become, and I will always regret the not knowing. But I’ve learned to let grief in – to honor the loss. A photo he took of one of my favorite cats – Alexander snoozing by a toy airplane, looking as though he’d just thwacked it down with a paw a la King Kong – hangs in my living room. The onyx horse-head bookends he gave me before he left home hold up some treasured books on the bookshelves of the secretary where I write. And some days, I’ll take my camera out into the yard and photograph the trees in my yard or the way the sunlight spills through their branches.
The break in the circle is healed, and so am I. By befriending Gary’s ghost, I have my third brother back again.
between sets
Gingerbread by Philip Scott Wikel
All the way up until JFKs time, presidents were likely, and felt comfortable with, likening the US to great “Western Civilizations” like the Greeks and the Romans. Civilizations who made great advancements in literature, architecture, fine art, and philosophy.
She, like every other woman around him, except that she was beautiful, had been walking by and smiling or just looking and maybe saying hi or how are you but never moving beyond the look and the small talk; never thinking to ask him anything about himself or what he did or does or was about. She thought he would initiate it and she did this as all the others did for months and never, strangely, thought it was strange that it didn’t seem to be advancing beyond the hi or how are you.
Gary’s Ghost by T.J. Banks
The Lorax Correspondent 