Michael Park’s Summer Vacation

Michael jumped at the knock on the door; almost knocking the paint can off the stepladder.

“Coming.” Michael said as he wiped a little paint residue off his hands.

“Are you Mister Michael Parks?” The policeman said.

“Yes, I’m Michael Parks, my dad was the mister part though.” Michael said. smiling as he opened the door.

“Mister Parks, were you at Elm Springs Elementary School yesterday?”

“Yes I was, I was there with a couple of other teachers. We were finishing up the class records and archiving them to the county’s servers.”

“Mister Parks, I’m going to need you to come down to the station with me. We have a few questions for you.”

“Do we have to do this now? I’ve just started painting the kitchen and my wife will kill me if I don’t get it done today. My wife. Don’t make her angry, you wouldn’t like here when she’s angry.” Michael said trying hard to keep his hands from shaking.

“I’m afraid this can’t wait sir.” The policeman said.

Michael saw the serious look on the policeman’s face and decided to forego his next joke.

“I’ll be right with you, let me change shirts and wash my hands.”

Michael fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, anticipating what was in store. It was just a joke, just a bit of fun, and no one got hurt. Michael thought.

Michael had never ridden in the back of a police car before. He stared at the smooth plastic cover where a door handle would normally be. I guess it’s pretty obvious that they’d not want you to roll the windows down. Michael thought. Walking into the police station Michael saw the reason for his delightful ride; what comic books would call his arch nemesis: Dolores Wagner. Michael had taken no more than three steps into the station when Dolores stood and stabbed her finger in his direction.

“That’s him! He’s the one that vandalized the school. He’s the one who defaced and destroyed government property. He’s a terrorist and should be locked up.” Little flecks of foam stood in the corners of Dolores’ mouth as she spat each word at Michael.

“Oh come on Dolores. A few styrofoam peanuts in one of the teacher’s file cabinets, and some hand lotion on door knobs doth not terrorism make.”

“Again with the wise cracks. Hmmm Mister Parks?” Dolores face assumed it’s smug shape. Where Michael was concerned Dolores typically had only two looks: twisted with rage, or smug when those she pressured into action would come down on Michael.

“I suppose you have forgotten about car theft haven’t you Mister Parks?” The vein on the side of her neck throbbed in rhythm with her speech.”

“Oh Jesus Dolores, I just shuffled peoples cars around in the parking lot. It’s just a bit of fun to kick off the summer. I mean, you remember what it’s like to have fun don’t you Dolores? You just put your lips together and… well, you know the rest.” Michael said, not able to keep from bouncing his eyebrows a bit at the last part.

“You see officers. He can’t even take his crimes seriously.”

“Mister Parks, I would advise you to hold up until we have time to discuss the situation with you.” Sergeant Overton said, lightly placing his hand on Michael’s shoulder. A subtle glance in Dolores’ direction, and Overton’s face dropped with resignation. “I believe Ms. Wagner, as the director of Water County Schools is going to press charges. And Mister Parks, with this happening on government property this could be quite serious.” This does actually fall within the law.

“Are you serious?” Michael said, the surprise lifting his eyebrows as much as Overton’s had dropped.

“Serious Mister Parks. Deadly serious.” Dolores said coldly.

“Serious sir. Sadly.” Overton sighed.

And so began a most interesting summer vacation for Michael Parks, the former math and science teacher at Elm Springs Elementary School.

Life is amazing.

“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don’t resist them – that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.” – Lao Tzu

“Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” – John Lennon

And so it is with mine, Life that is. I have found myself experiencing quite a few “I never would have thought I would be…” moments in the past few years. Most, but not all, have been associated with travel; and what moments of travel I have experienced. During my younger years I had the opportunity to, quite literally, travel around the world. This early travel was all on Uncle Sam’s dime, hell I even got paid. This came with a trade off though: I went where the Navy took me, and sometimes I didn’t get much liberty — time off from work– whilst there. For instance, I was fortunate enough to visit Auckland New Zealand but I only had a day and a half of liberty… and this wasn’t contiguous. Having said all of this, I think the worst part of traveling when I was young, and I’m only speaking for myself here, not all young people, was that I was young and pretty much dumb. Not stupid, I think I’m a reasonably intelligent fellow, but boy was I dumb. With this dumbness was a generally diminished realization of just how awesome it was to be where I was. But I was still there, and I’m happy with that.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m still kind of dumb. But I think I am much more aware of some of the awesomeness happening to me. Which leads me to this amazing travel I’ve had the pleasure to experience the past few years. In 2011 I visited Europe, France in particular, for the first time, and it was… dare I say it? Amazing. I made some good friends whilst there, and look forward to going back again. Then in 2013 I went back to Europe. This time I experienced Geneva Switzerland and got to visit CERN. Thank you Jim, and Terrah. What a breath taking experience. (Oh look, a different superlative!) Followed up with a visit to my French Friends and a fun-filled trip to their chalet in southeastern France. Thank you Claude, and Martine. And now, on to this year. In May of 2015 I visited my eldest son, Ethan, who is teaching English in Seoul Korea. One of the great things about visiting someone who lives in the location is that you get an even more in depth, and immersed, experience of the locality. This is what happened in Korea. I was able to stay in the “thick” of the action in Bucheon, near Seoul, and experience the local culture with some wonderful guides. Thank you to Ethan, Hana, and Hyesun. As if that were not enough, this trip also included a nice, though short, trip to Kyoto Japan. I honestly cannot think of a superlative that properly conveys the feeling of awe I have when I reminisce about this trip. Amazing just doesn’t even come close.

All of this rambling has led me to this point. In the past few years I have: mumbled, stammered, whispered (in awe), and otherwise exclaimed, “I never, ever, would have thought I would be here.” While staring off into the, relatively short, distance at the North Korean flag; hiking to the top of a hill (thank you Ethan for cajoling me onward and upward) to find a breathtaking vista at a temple overlooking Kyoto; riding the clean and speedy subway to the Seoul’s city center, and experiencing the juxtaposition of old and new Korea, with the looming mountains of Korea as a backdrop to the beautiful Gyeonbokgung palace adjacent to towering glass and steel buildings showcasing South Korea’s prosperity.

I never would have ever thought that I’d be the places I’ve been. And this leads me to wonder, “oh where oh where shall I go next?!” Where indeed.

Peace and Love to all.

Marv

The Rock Quarry

I have climbed Mount Everest. I have also climbed the Matterhorn. I have fought German Panzers advancing on Patton’s position. I have broken trail with Daniel Boone. And I have parlayed with the leaders of the Sioux nation whilst living amongst them as a mountain man. All within earshot of my mother calling me to dinner.

This place of magic and imagination was “the rock quarry”, a unique and wonderful throwback to a time of growth in the area. It was a place nestled in a juxtaposition of time, born in an era when life was much harder, and the fingerprints of pioneer technology were still evident. Yet this place existed in my modern childhood; a time of television, fast cars, and free-love — which I was too young for dammit.

In the early twentieth century the wave of westward expansion had swept over the area long ago. Knoxville’s river-city heyday had come and gone, and out in the country we were left with mostly just filling in the lines. The county I grew up in was ‘modernizing’ its infrastructure; building new roads, and improving some of the existing secondary roadways. A final gasp of its mule-powered muscles; mules and manpower in lieu of dump trucks and mechanical excavators, and without the means to haul the roadbed materials, the county dug quarries along the way. The use of local resources, both terrestrial and human, was necessary, and gave many of the locals a bit of profit. Sweat equity had a different meaning back then. The original purpose of these quarries was utilitarian, but by the time I came along that original purpose was gone, and for me it was a place of inspiration, challenge, and adventure.

Though my childhood was an amazing slice of time compared to the era when the rock quarry was born, it was pretty antiquated compared to life today. We had television, but could receive only two of Knoxville’s three stations. We received the third station, the station that broadcast Batman had just enough to barely make out Adam West as he pondered whatever superheroes ponder; this was a tease that bothered me to no end. I recall once during a futile attempt at adjusting the little flags of aluminum foil wrapped strategically around the rabbit ears I was able to make out “to the bat cave Robin”; which totally made my day. I believe I commanded my family *to the bat cave* for the next two weeks. Even with just two stations, there was still plenty of fodder for my imagination: Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea; Lost in Space; Davy Crockett; and the updates to the Apollo missions amongst many. I did mention that regardless of my lack of television I did grow up in an amazing time didn’t I? Television and space exploration not withstanding, my solace and recreation was in comic books, and the  forest around my house.

My family lived in the ‘holler’. I have to be honest, it just sounds funny to call it the hollow even though geologically it is a hollow depression in the ridge, probably caused by the collapse of some ancient limestone cavern long ago. Still yet it was the holler to me, and to everyone I knew. At the time, our gravel driveway left the main roadway through a small meadow — beautiful, but prone to flooding — and across a homemade wooden bridge. This was the sort of bridge with broad braces on angled support poles with planks perpendicular to the braces creating runners for your tires. I can’t tell you how many people would take one look at that bridge and give a hearty “hell no.” (Most likely a “heck no”, we were in a good Baptist community after all.) Across the bridge, the driveway followed a brook, the “branch”, whose violent past had likely cut an easy path out of the holler and down into the valley. The driveway curved left and ascended up into the hollow… uh, I mean holler, and a couple dozen yards up, the quarry appeared on the left like a gaping cavity in the hillside. This cavity sloped slightly downward into a crescent-shaped cutout, and the floor of this cutout was carpeted with fine gravel – obviously these were the tailings of the quarrying operation. Though the quarry wasn’t actually very tall, maybe thirty feet at its zenith, still, the deeper you went into the cutout, the more you had to crane your neck to see the top of the quarry. Because of the topography of the hillside, the contours of the quarry’s height followed a sharp parabola. A wizened climber would have chosen one of the side routes to easily scamper up, but not the thrill-seeking adventurer such as I. No, for me it would be straight up the middle, with only the slightest meander around a protruding boulder and then latching onto the cedar tree that grew from a crack in a boulder face and up to the top of this escarpment I would spring. Sir Edmund Hillary himself could not have been more proud than I was on any of my many successful climbs. Standing at the top of the quarry my gaze was unhindered of the main road in the valley below. And it was here that I was indeed ‘King’ of my mountain. And it was here that my imagination would soar.

You may recall that the woods, and the quarry in the woods, were the place I could unleash my imagination, and the television shows I watched gave me inspiration, but so did comic books. I recall reading war comics like Sgt. Fury, and the Howling Commandos, I would devour these stories and then reenact them as soon as daylight came. A tobacco stick, or some other ‘mostly’ straight piece of wood served as my M1 carbine; or perhaps I’d break the stick a bit smaller and it would be my ‘Tommy gun’. For me it didn’t matter what story I was reliving, nor its source: comics, television shows, or even the encyclopedias I read with great enthusiasm, I could always find some place in the quarry to relive it. The large cracks in the rocks were my Crystal Cave, and I would either be the modern Floyd Collins (who met his death while exploring Mammoth Caves), or the fictional Merlin experiencing his historic visions in his Crystal Cave, or Sgt. Fury savoring his victory whilst chomping on a stogie. The rock quarry was everything and anything to my growing imagination.

Though my Everest was not so tall, and the Panzers and Germans were only in my mind, my imagination paved the way for many facets of my life; most of my successes, when thoughtfully analyzed, clearly show among their sources the spark of creativity that the rock quarry gave me. Erosion, encroaching development, and kudzu will slowly render my rock quarry into little more than a steeply sloped gravel pile, but it will remain a bastion of adventure for me. And for this I am eternally grateful.

Peace and Love.

Marv

Just Write

“To gain your own voice, you have to forget about having it heard.” —Allen Ginsberg

“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” —Ernest Hemingway

“Making people believe the unbelievable is no trick; it’s work. … Belief and reader absorption come in the details: An overturned tricycle in the gutter of an abandoned neighborhood can stand for everything.” —Stephen King

Oh Calliope, muse of writing, where art thou? That has been my lament for some time now. Sadly it is no fault of the muse, but my own blind eye turned away from the page. Writing is easy; or the act of writing, as an exercise, is easy. When I am responding to questions, or stating an opinion, or a point of fact, I can pontificate profusely — and as my work colleagues would confirm, I typically do. I find delivering words through my fingers onto the keyboard a quite liberating action. I can pepper my prose with the appropriate humor, or deliver the: one, two, three punches as bulleted lists with relative ease.

But, and you knew there was a ‘but’ coming… to write, as in to write creatively, is oh so hard. Ideas aren’t the problem, those typically flood my mind, seeping into every crevice; no it’s that instantaneous editing, guidance, and shepherding of the plethora of ideas into the least nauseating prose I can set down into the bits on my computer that is the real issue. I sit at the keyboard and wonder — and yes Jethro Tull, often aloud — how this plot should proceed, what should this character say, I’ll mutter “show don’t tell” under my breath incessantly. I’m sure I’m a comical figure whilst writing: I talk to myself and make the necessary facial expressions as I answer; I’ll exclaim, “no, no, no” when I’ve made a decision in plot or character that I realize was wrong; and finally throw my hands in the air as I start up a game of solitaire — draw three, Vegas rules of course. A truly agonizing experience, and I’m sure a horrible sight as well; sorry work colleagues.

When I know I should write, I will make every excuse in the book. I have been known to avoid eye contact with my computer when I know I should be writing. I honestly think I’d rather clean than even sit at my computer. But then comes the perfect storm of ideas and decisions. Calliope has spoken. I look at my computer and whisper breathily, “oh hello you.” With only the slightest hint at digital foreplay and I am on a roll. I’ve corralled the creative juices into something that is cohesive, and maybe even just a bit entertaining or enlightening… then I am in bliss. It feels amazing, the pouring forth of prose that every alcohol-soaked brain cell died for; some sort of culmination of the essence of me, of my personality… of the cerebral WhoIs of me. Yes then it is all worth it. When I’ve typed out a few hundred words, hell maybe a thousand or possibly more, I will get giddy, cocky even. I’ll laugh and mock myself for stupidly procrastinating. Swaggering around in my own mind, I’ll make commitments to “do this every day”. It’s always easy to revel in success, even if the success is confirmed by only you. Such a great feeling, and it is what I dared to begin writing for in the first place.

But then begins the editing process. Oy!

Peace and love.

Marv

Music and writing

“Music is your own experience, your own thoughts, your wisdom. If you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn. They teach you there’s a boundary line to music. But, man, there’s no boundary line to art.” – Charlie Parker

“Without music to decorate it, time is just a bunch of boring production deadlines or dates by which bills must be paid” – Frank Zappa

“Playing the flute is like writing a book. You’re telling what’s in your heart…It’s easier to play if it’s right from your heart. You get the tone, and the fingers will follow.” – Eddie Cahill

“After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.” – Aldous Huxley

I love music. I listen to music every day, and I can’t imagine not having some form of music in my life. I think it’s genetic. My grandfather, a farmer back in the day, would relax in the evenings by picking out tunes on the banjo; a banjo he traded a pig for by the way. He didn’t have Pandora, or iTunes, or MP3 players, but he still got his music fix. I read somewhere once that some paleontologists think that human speech developed first through group singing. I think I can picture that, actually it is highly reminiscent of a hipster concert. (Although the hipster concert would most certainly be hairier.)

My choices of music vary as to what task I’m performing. As a software designer by trade, I tend to listen to ambient, or other sorts of music whilst coding. If I listen to something like Nine Inch Nails, I tend to write mean code. None of us want mean code. If I’m cleaning the house… No honest I do. Sometimes. But if I’m cleaning the house, I like to listen to something a little more upbeat. For a long trip I love putting on a huge playlist of my most favorite songs, or maybe listen to a couple of comedy albums. Nothing like some Mitch Hedberg to get me through the doldrums of interstate whatever.

Now that I’m trying to write more, writing fiction or essays that is, I tend to be quite selective in the music to accompany the type of story I’m writing. For instance I’m writing a short story about a young man from a place in the south, who is on a bus ride back home to attend a funeral. I can’t listen to Bebel Gilberto, she’s much too worldly. No I choose something to put me in just that right mood. Maybe the soundtrack to True Blood, or maybe the Legendary Shack Shakers. I want something that gets me into that gritty ‘70s Burt Reynolds southern exploitation frame of mind. Shakey puddin’ anyone? Now when the  protagonists mother calls him an “ungrateful little shit”, I can really feel it. I hope all of you do too. Well, when you read it that is. And I hope it’ll be published sooner rather than later, I have a few thoughts for publishing, and I’ll keep you all in formed. (Had I been listening to some southern grit music: I’ll keep all y’all informed.)

Peace and love.

Marv

Huntsville, Alabama

I’m going to Huntsville! Yup. For five wonderful days. Umm Why am I going to Huntsville you ask? Well, let me tell you… I’m going to Huntsville to write. I have made a decision to write more, and you can’t write more without writing. So I’m trying to figure out just how I can create the right environment to encourage myself to sit and tap out those profound words that keep bubbling to the surface of my consciousness. Okay, it just so happens that I’m staying at a Hotel/Spa, so I’ll get a massage too. But writing, that’s why I’m going to Huntsville. I know from painful experience that it’s difficult for me to sit on the couch with the television and Netflix beckoning to me so raucously to think that I can just lounge on the couch and write. Wrapping my head around the word processor page is much more difficult than putting my fingers on the keys, but once I get in the flow I can churn out some Hemingwayesque prose. (Yeah only in my mind.) Okay fine,  the hotel has a Ruth’s Chris steak house in it, so a massage and a steak or two. But also writing. Yep that’s why I’m going to Huntsville. It’s not far from the house, and though I’m sure it’s a fun town, it’s not a beach town, and it’s not a huge tourist draw like New York City, or filled with tourist attractions such as Washington D.C. (I could spend five days just in the Smithsonian Air and Space museum.) I would like to find a couple of places to which I could flee for a few days, or maybe even a week,  every quarter or so. All part of my nefarious plan.

So after the massage, and a steak or two, and maybe just one visit to some of the NASA attractions nearby. Man I am gonna write!

Peace and love.

Marv