So on Monday I went to the hospital for a scheduled CT myelogram (think spinal tap) and a whole lot of waiting around on gurneys, in empty hallways counting holes in acoustic ceiling tiles (more on why in a later post).  And while I enjoy all the pomp and circumstance of having a 20 gauge needle put into my spine and then injected with an iodine-based dye while strapped to a table tilted head down at a 45° angle as much as the next person, I can probably think of one or two other things I’d rather be doing on an 85° Berkeley day… like, oh, I don’t know, not having a 20 gauge needle put into my spine and then injected with iodine-based dye while strapped to a table tilted head down at a 45° angle.  Call me crazy, but I’m just wired like that.

Still, like so many things in life, it’s not always about the size of the needle, but rather the size of the heart, and yesterday, my heart had an opportunity to swell again by at least two more sizes.  Hospitals, it seems, have that effect on me.  But it’s not really hospitals — personally I prefer to be nowhere around them — no, it’s really more a matter of what I’m able to see while I’m there — outside the backless gown, if you will.

From the beginning, I thought the day would be no big deal; check in, get prepped, get spiked, get scanned, lay flat, go home.  Simple.  But my mom, in her unchecked sensitivity and love, felt she would’ve been remiss in her motherly duties if she didn’t let me know just what kind of test I was actually having:

Her: “You know this is a serious exam don’t you?

Me: “Uh, yeah?”

Her: “Well, let me just send you a couple of links so you can see what it’s all about, just in case”.

Now, I know a lot of people out there subscribe to the whole “ignorance is bliss” thing, and while I’m not one of those subscription holders, I will cop to the adage that sometimes “less is more”, and in this case it especially applies to myelograms*.  In other words, go in cold, you’ll be a whole lot happier if you do.

Anyway, long story short; given the unfiltered, straight dope presented on those websites — and because my parents are just that cool — my mom and dad wanted to fly up to Berkeley to be with me for the exam.  Now you’re starting to see where I’m going with this, aren’t you?  And though I didn’t think it was necessary, I do enjoy their company and if a needle in the back facilitates that, well, then, far be it from me argue the point.

But as I said above, sometimes it’s not about the size of the needle; and what was most huge about the day — besides my mom waiting seven hours with my anxious dog, all the good thoughts from all over penetrating those reinforced steel walls, the cool nurse who chatted with me for an hour and a half while I was in recovery, my two friends shifting their schedules around to help me out — was my dad driving my battery challenged car over 100 miles to nowhere in the 90° plus heat without air conditioning after they woke up at three in the morning to catch a flight north, so that my car would be charged up enough to be smogged and then registered**.

Big, no?

But wait, here’s the kicker (and a lesson for humanity about how we should all be, what we’re all capable of); when he came down to see me in the basement post-op recovery room as I was being discharged, he was nothing but smiles — no sign of fatigue, no grumpiness, not a single complaint about what he’d just done***, not a word about it, just his sweet, patient, kind smile, and a “well kid, are you ready to go?”.  And, wow, I gotta tell ya, my heart at that moment couldn’t have been more expansive. My pop is an amazing father, to be sure, but more than that, he’s an exceptional human being who continually surprises.

Now I can give you a thousand and one reasons why I think this is so and where I think it comes from, but really, it’s hardly important — to know him is to love him and that’s enough.  Is he flawless?  That depends on your understanding of what that means — politically he can move a bit further to the left (but then so could most everyone else in SoCal) — but he continues to grow more patient, kind and loving with each passing day. And this is beautiful when you consider how full of these three things he already is.

And there you have it, a CT myelogram, while not exactly a ride you’re gonna see at Disneyland anytime soon, is like everything else in life — neither good nor bad — an open door in which opportunity — of all sorts — can be had.

Footnotes:

*This actually applies to most medical referencing on the Internet.  If you don’t believe me, try putting in the symptoms for the common cold and you might find that you have the Ebola virus.  I’m just saying, exercise your Google health searches with caution.

**Seems crazy, I know, but I don’t drive and neither do any of my friends.  It’s Berkeley, after all, and this is a town of bikes and public transportation.  So why do I have the van, you ask?  Well, believe it or not, it does occasionally come in handy, i.e. trips to the Sierra to ski.

***This, incidentally is really nothing compared everything he’s selflessly done since I’ve known him.

pau.

After nearly 40 years in Newport Beach, my parents — like the Israelites in the Old Testament — have all but made the final exodus out into the desert.  They’ve traded cool ocean breezes and the smell of salt air for the oppressive heat, the need for AC and putting greens. And while it wasn’t God who told them to go east (or at least I don’t think so), it’s a liberating — albeit painful — move just the same. Retirement is in their sights.

As for myself, I left Newport for Berkeley in 1985 and it couldn’t have been soon enough.  By that time, the city had changed — was changing — going from the semi-nondescript beach town in the shadow of Los Angeles to the crown jewel in the fast becoming uber chic “OC”.  Once quaint 40s style beach houses became tear down fodder for bloated mansions on tiny lots and exotic European car dealerships outnumbered seagulls, I knew my days were numbered and never felt the need to look back.

Still, even as the city was changing, there were things about the place that resonated within me; my family, the people who were there for us during difficult times, the beaches and our charmed home on Port Manleigh Circle.  For my parents, especially for my mom, these are some of the things that have made it so difficult for them to completely pull up roots and leave.  So much happened in that place, over so many years, with such deep personal investment, that their sense of loss is easy to understand.

Of course, it’s only natural for one to wax nostalgic, reminisce or even second-guess decisions as boxes are being packed, labeled and loaded to be moved to a new home.  And it’s even more natural for one to feel unsure as you begin to fill a new home with old things, expectations and most importantly, life.  But the wonderful thing about homes is they’re responsive to the things we fill them with, and will grow, blossom and fruit accordingly.  Fill a home with love and goodwill and the home will give that back.  If you’ve ever been fortunate to live anywhere long enough you understand this potential, and my parent’s new home has potential in spades.

Even still, I’m surprised my parents have indeed moved, and there’s even a little part of me that’s inclined not to believe it until actually see them firmly planted in the new place.  But, the truth is — and all facetious disbelief aside — the move has been a slow train coming.  In actuality, they’ve had their feet in two cities for a couple of years now, which –  among other things — has served to temper a naturally difficult relocation process.  As I said, their roots in Newport run very deep and if history has shown anything, it’s shown they possess an uncanny ability to influence decision-making and hold one in place.

That said, this isn’t the first time a move from Newport Beach was in the works — in the late 80s a move was all but eminent.  At the time, it was less a choice and more of a necessity, but just the same, the gears were engaged and the house was on the market.  Now, why it never happened is in large part a matter of fortuitous arrangement, but still I’m confident things wouldn’t have turned out quite the way they had had it not been for the unconscious (or not so unconscious) kibosh my mom levied on the process.

How NOT to sell a home

If you’ve ever been privy to the selling of a house, then you probably know it’s a good idea not to allow the owners or family members anywhere near the property while you’re showing it.  And there are good reasons for this:

1. Change is difficult. And while sometimes it manifests itself in quiet apprehension and introspection, more often than not it leads to visible moodiness and overt fear. And nobody, walking through an open house for the first time, wants to feel or see this.
2. It’s a lot easier to picture yourself in a new home if the previous residents aren’t in it.
3. People — above all else — are unpredictable and therefore you never know what sort of crazy thing a homeowner might say when asked a question directly or has the desire to be of friendly assistance.

Now, this is great advice and I would highly recommend anybody who’s going to sell their home to follow it.  But, when it came to selling ours — circumstances being what they were — we went in a different direction completely.  I, with a pressure sore, would stay at home in bed to recover, and my mom — who, with all her body and soul didn’t want to move — would stay with me — keeping me company, as she put it, but also at the ready to “assist” potential homebuyers with any questions they might have about the house.  This, not very surprisingly, is where things went off the rails.

Unlike the housing market bubble of the not so distant past, the credit default swap and “don’t ask, don’t tell” loans had yet to be invented, and things at the time were comparatively slow.  People came to check out the house, but more often than not they were “lookie-loos” rather than serious buyers.  When a serious buyer would come along, conflicted emotions would run through us all, and I think secretly we were all wishing for the same thing –  Amityville horror or some other paranormal interference.

But truthfully, though, one doesn’t need floating pigs, rooms full of flies or the devil if you simply go against the above advice as we did.  My part in the kibosh was circumstantial, but nevertheless I was there. To this day, I try to imagine what it must’ve been like to come into an otherwise empty house on a buyer’s preview and find somebody still lying in bed in one of the rooms.  Granted, there were no tubes or wires coming out of me or beeping machinery keeping me alive, but still, upon discovery, what sort of conversation would you initiate when this is your final stop on an otherwise typical open house walk through?

Needless to say, the experience provided me with a fascinating insight into the nature of human interaction; not to dissimilar to witnessing how people in an elevator adjust to somebody facing the opposite direction from the doors and engaging in conversation.  And truth be told, I almost got a perverse thrill watching as these homebuyers — in that microsecond of a moment — decided how they wanted to deal with this most unusual “elephant in the room”.

Unfortunately for the anthropological/psychological sciences community, and any future papers that may have been presented/published on the subject by moi, my mom — by virtue of her location with me in my room — was more often than not able to preempt said situation and temper some of that initial awkward contact.  It must also be said, however, that any attempts on her part to explain why I was in bed during an open house — the physiology and treatment of pressure sores — though done for the uninitiated’s benefit — were not easily digested or understood.  And in the end, I’m afraid, only served to add to the awkwardness and confusion of the situation, not achieving the purpose she’d hoped.

A coyote ate my baby

For homebuyers, our house was fairly unique compared to other houses that may been on the market in the neighborhood, as our backyard sat right up against an empty field. It was a great view and there were no plans to develop it in the future, making it a natural highlight for potential buyers.

On one occasion, after learning more about pressure sores than she’d ever expect to learn during a buyer’s preview (or anywhere for that matter), one of the more serious homebuyers — there with her infant daughter in her arms –  asked what I can only imagine she believed to be a innocuous, but useful question about the field.  Certainly, the conversation was crying out for a less intimate direction than the condition of my ass, but the question was no less a valid one.

“Well, we just love it.”  My mom answered with a sparkle in her eye, “You’re right up against nature. We’ve got squirrels, hawks, buzzards, lizards, owls, frogs, coyotes… all sorts of animals out there.  At night, it’s beautiful, you can often hear the coyotes howl.”

“Coyotes?”, the woman asked, instinctively clutching her baby a little tighter to her breast.

“Yes,” my mom said, not sensing the woman’s growing uneasiness, “But we rarely see them, they’re pretty shy.”

Now here’s were the conversation could’ve gone in a couple different directions, but even from my bed, lying more than 10 feet away, I could see it was headed for unintended consequences: like watching an accident unfold in slow motion, and wishing you could do something, but knowing, in reality, it’s moving way too fast to intervene.

“Oh.” She said, shifting the baby to her arm away from the window.

“Although”, my mom paused and then began again,  “Sometimes they do come in and take someone’s cat or small dog, but that’s not very often. We’ve got big dogs”.

And boom!  There it was, the collision.  And just then, I could see the gears in the women’s mind start to turn, as the joyous pictures of her, her husband and their baby in their idyllic new Newport Beach home were quickly eroding and being replaced by that of her baby being carried away in the middle of the night by a coyote.

How I kept from erupting with laughter is purely a testament to the power of shock and disbelief. But my mom — God bless her — in her attempt to share something that is actually quite spectacular — hearing coyotes in a beach community at night (not the part about “fluffy” and “whiskers” becoming dinner) — was completely oblivious to the story’s affect on this young mother looking to buy a home in the peaceful suburbs.

In the end, the woman and her husband never made on offer on the house — and that was fine by us. The fact was, none of us wanted to move, that house on Port Manleigh Circle felt less like a structure and more like a gift, and was the hub of so much activity, goodness and love. And while by proximity alone, I’m indeed culpable to some degree in our house’s failure to sell, it was my mom’s beautiful, unchecked gift of gab that brought us home.

Epilogue

I have not yet been to the house in Palm Desert as it stands now, but nevertheless, I believe it’s starting to feel like home for them.  They still rent a little refuge on Balboa Island they can retreat to when the summertime heat of the desert rises to the absurd temperatures of Venus, or they have work to do in the “OC” (retirement still seems to be a little further off), but I think ultimately, as the rest of us start to visit during holidays, weddings and funerals, it’ll begin to feel alive in the way only a family loved dwelling can.  The structure doesn’t have much of a history yet, but like I said, that’s a remedy served by time, place and people.

As many of you may have discovered by now, a lot of these stories have their root with my mom.  And there’s good reason for this.  My mom is by far one of the most interesting, crazy, fiercely loving people I know, and her heart is an unchecked beacon that shines brightly and attracts many.  But above all this, she’s hilarious and has the ability to laugh at herself in a way few people can or do.  This I admire to no end, and hope that I possess at least a fraction of this DNA.

I must also point out, that my mom is now — and has been for many years — a real estate agent of great success, skill, integrity and loyalty, and would never suggest any home seller go against the above rule…

unless, of course, they really didn’t want to sell their house.

pau

It’s hard to believe, but just a short while ago my dog Shadow had me questioning her mortality. And rightfully so, for a moment there she seemed to be bumping up against it. But like they say, “that was then, this is now”, and where I was once questioning her mortality in regards to whether or not she’d be around much longer, I’m now questioning it in regards to will she be the longest living Golden Retriever on the planet.

If there was ever a better example of the adage, “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger”, I’d like to see it. There’s no question I’m resilient, but this dog makes my resilience look downright pedestrian. Yesterday, or example, we celebrated “my neurosurgeon had emergency surgery and had to cancel my appointment” by taking a jaunt to Amoeba, our favorite record store, to pick up biscuits for her and the new Neko Case, Decemberists and Amadou & Miriam CDs for me. I say jaunt, because it’s a 1/2 mile there and 1/2 mile back, and she ran the whole way nonstop… and she’s like 150 in dog years.

Now, maybe there’s some sort of longevity juice inside that softball-sized fatty cyst she’s been carrying around all these years, or perhaps she’s concerned there might not be popcorn and biscuits on the other side, or maybe it’s just that death itself, basing its judgment on her breath, isn’t convinced she hasn’t already shaken off her mortal coil… I don’t know. But whatever the reason, I couldn’t be more grateful.

Shadow celebrated her quinceañera last Friday, and while I skipped the party dress, streamers and DJ, the biscuit keg was tapped and flowed freely. The thing is, when you’re a 15 year old Golden Retriever and you’re refusing to let go of the puppy in you, you deserve a bit of recognition… and all the snacks you can stomach.

¡Feliz cumpleaños, Shadow!

pau.

A week ago past was one of those weeks that was bound to come, but that’d been conveniently relegated to somewhere in the back of my mind — Shadow, my 14 1/2 year old golden retriever, suddenly became quite ill. I suspect, at her age, this is something that shouldn’t be surprising, but Shadow hardly seems her age. Sure, she’s slowed down a bit, her legs are a little shakier than they once were and she’s a lot more white now than she is golden, but her heart and enthusiasm are so deceptively puppy like that it’s easy to forget her age. Last Saturday I was reminded.

One of the things that’s plagued Shadow these last several years is that she has a compressed vertebrae in her neck (strangely at C 4-5, the very spot of my injury), which two or three times a year will flare up and cause her great pain and mobility issues from anywhere between 24 and 36 hours. Though there’s no cause to be found as the trigger, usually time, rest and some children’s aspirin are the best medicine. On occasion — depending on the severity — a cortisone shot is required, but this is something I try to avoid as the side effects can be rather harsh. Think a stiff neck multiplied by a hundred and you probably approach what Shadow is dealing with.

So, a week ago Saturday was another one of these incidents, but as the day progressed it seemed like something else was going on. It was clear her neck was causing her pain, but her countenance and spirit were unlike anything I’d experienced before. Even still, there was little I could do at that point, other than give her aspirin and hope that by morning she’d be doing a little better.

Sunday morning came and while she definitely wasn’t worse, she didn’t seem a whole lot better either. Of greatest concern for me wasn’t so much her neck — though don’t get me wrong, I was worried about it — but rather the fact that she wasn’t barking and didn’t want to eat. You see, if there are two things that make Shadow Shadow, it would be first and foremost her voice — she’s a talker and she barks about everything (even more so since losing her hearing; what she wants, what she wants me to do, what she wants others to do, etc.); and second, her love of food — she’s got an insatiable appetite and literally loves everything (fruit, vegetables, smoothies, popcorn, dog biscuits, etc.). Having one of these things disappear is alarming enough, but both was head spinning and a real challenge to my normally zen/chill, up demeanor.

On Monday, given where she was still at (or wasn’t at), there seemed like no other choice than to take her to the vet. It’d been 48 hours and if it’d been only her neck, then historically speaking, she would’ve been showing signs of recovery. Tuesday, when the doctor was at last able to see her, she was pretty much the same and still hadn’t barked. She was eating a little bit now (she would’ve been in the emergency room if she passed up her new meals of canned salmon, cottage cheese, orso, kibble and organic chicken broth), but was drinking more than normal and consequently had to pee in the house couple of times. It was this latter fact that concerned the doctor most and so she ordered blood tests to determine if something else going on in addition to her neck.

When I got the results back the next day, the initial prognosis was a deflating one; Shadow’s enzyme and protein levels were exaggerated which might explain her heightened thirst, but it also pointed to the possibility of intestinal and liver problems. What was clear, was that in order to find out anything further, more testing would need to be done and an ultrasound would be the primary tool.

Needless to say, I was disheartened by this news and was confronted with a decision; the ultrasound would be an expensive procedure to be sure, but money wasn’t the issue (I’d sell my left kidney for her if I had to), the issue was what would the ultrasound show and then in turn, what would be the steps following. The main function of the test would be to see if there was any sort of growth or mass and if there was, to perform a biopsy and/or surgery as the situation warranted. And while under most circumstances this might seem like the logical thing to do, for Shadow this wasn’t an option.

As I said, Shadow is 14 1/2 years old and at this point in her life I would never subject her to the dangers of this type of surgery and the painful, prolonged recovery that would invariably follow. If she were four years younger, perhaps, but at this stage it would only be traumatic for her body. Golden Retrievers typically live 10 to 12 years and Shadow is well beyond that. Quality of life is something I value tremendously and would never in a million years subject more pain and suffering onto a creature I love so dearly.

Now don’t get me wrong, given what I just said, I still wanted to know what was going on and struggled mightily with going through with the test anyway. I wanted to believe that it would show me something else, that it would show me there was a pill she could take that would make her better and surgery wouldn’t be necessary. And if this was true, then by all means, I would have had her belly shaved and lubed up in a heartbeat, but this wasn’t true and I had to accept that whatever was going to be would be. I made a decision that, while I believe was the right one, left me feeling incredibly helpless with little to do but watch and wait and hope she’d get better rather than worse.

And then it happened, on Thursday night, for the first time in five days, she came bouncing back into the apartment after taking care of her business and barked for one of her requisite midnight biscuits. I was shocked, but her voice — as discordant and abrasive as it can be — was like the trumpet of Gabriel announcing the return the angels and I couldn’t have been happier.

On Friday, though she was still in recovery mode, she was barking and eating and things were definitely starting to return to normal. By Sunday she was back out on the track with me and even did a couple of laps before retiring to her usual spot under the olive tree, where she would impatiently bark at me until I finished my workout.

Having her back to her normal, engaged, enthusiastic self after such a worrisome week was one of the most heart swelling moments I’ve felt in my life. To say I was grateful beyond measure wouldn’t even come close to describing how I felt and a large part of that was because I felt as though a bullet had been dodged.

I know as well as anybody when you’re in pain or not feeling well, it’s difficult to be yourself — eating, laughing, even conversation can be a challenge — and I know this was a large part of what was happening with Shadow. But that said, for me, her caretaker, not knowing exactly what’s going on because she’s a dog and can’t directly vocalize it, is a frustrating and worrisome experience, especially when it’s something completely out of the ordinary.

The thing is, Shadow is in tremendous shape — for her age or a dog four years her junior — and I suppose this is what made this whole thing so difficult — I conveniently haven’t had to face the inevitable consequences of her aging. But again, facts are facts, and regardless of how in shape, spunky, healthy, happy or genetically special she might be, she’s still pushing the longevity envelope of her breed and is most definitely in the twilight years of her life.

I’ve had a lot of dogs in my life and I’ve been very close to all of them, but I’ve never had a dog such as Shadow. There’s a bond here that’s difficult to describe — that goes beyond beyond the fact that we’re always together or that as a service dog she’s been an incredible help in my life — she’s this strange furry, funny creature that’s become an unlikely extension of who I am. But even more than that, she’s a friend, a family member and a source of tremendous joy. For many people I’m simply known as the guy who’s attached to Shadow, and for my friends, well, I’m not sure they even see us as two separate entities. Of course, I’m fine with either of these things, because the truth is, it’s difficult to imagine her not by my side.

In their short lives dogs give us so much, unconditionally and with devoted enthusiasm. But as Shadow ages — and  she’s indeed aging — I know our time together will both change and come to an end. And while this will be an incredibly sad day when it does, this, I believe, is one of a dog’s final and greatest gifts — leaving us with the opportunity to see death not as a finality, but a continuation and essential part of this beautiful and ever changing world. In this way, they’re like stars who’ve gone supernova but whose light continues to shine long after they are gone. No doubt, Shadow is an incredibly bright star now so I can only imagine what will linger in her wake.

All this said, she’s still got a few more birthdays left to celebrate, and no doubt each one will be a gift.

pau.

If there’s such a thing as the ideal surf conditions for a C 4-5 quadriplegic — and I now know there is — then Saturday, August 16th was it; 75° blue skies, 68° water, light winds and a 1 to 3 foot southwest swell. It had been 28 years since I last put on a wetsuit and sat on the sand waiting to enter a lineup — a palpable grom-like excitement snapped to attention by the smell of surfboard wax and neoprene warming under the morning sun.

From the moment that first doctor uttered the words, “you’ll never walk again”, this day has been the stuff of dreams. I’ve seen it unfold countless times — in various manifestations — in such detail and color it almost always felt real. Often I’d be standing — surfing as proficiently as I used to — doing roundhouse cutbacks, off the lips and getting barreled. While other times, I’d be wobbly, barely able to stand, as if walking for the first time since my accident. And still others, as I am now — paralyzed — but able to catch waves on my belly like a boogie boarder.

What rarely seemed to be in my dreams, however, was how it all came together. In my dreams, there was hardly any paddling, duck diving, sitting in lineups waiting for waves — any of that ancillary stuff. It was all about the surfing. But all that “ancillary” stuff is critical to catching waves, and it’s something I’ve given great thought to in regards to how I might surf in the real world as opposed to my imagination.

No matter what form they take, it’s a strange moment when your dreams come true.

This was a Life Rolls On and They Will Surf Again event, two organizations which — among other things — have made a mission of bringing awareness to spinal cord injury research and getting disabled folk out into the water to surf. At this particular Bolsa Chica event, there were about 150 volunteers — surfers, non-surfers, high school students, college students, parents, grandparents — most of whom were on the beach helping with registration, food, getting wetsuits on and off, etc, while others were in the water helping people surf. On this beautiful summer Saturday, it was inspiring to see so many people come together to help 20 individuals catch some waves.

Red. Blue. Green. Orange.

On arrival, surfers were put into four color-coded groups of five with the order the surfer would get to hit the water determined by where the surfer was on a list in their group. In other words, things were set up like a typical surf contest, with four surfers from each group in the water at the same time for about 20 minute heats. Once in the water, each surfer was accompanied by 8 to 10 volunteers who — depending on the surfer’s needs — were spread out in a boxlike pattern with spotters on the outside keeping an eye on the waves, spotters on the inside to get to the surfer if he or she wiped out, and a few others to help push the surfer into the waves (or over them as the case warranted).

I won’t lie to you and say I wasn’t a little frustrated by my heat draw. I was fourth in my group which meant I had to wait an hour before I’d get to enter the water, and this was an additional hour on top of my arrival time (did I mention the 28 years before that?). And while I’m not saying there’s a better or safer way to do it — perhaps because it was my first time they wanted me to check things out a bit before I got out there — as an ex-surfer, I knew with every passing moment the wind would become a little stiffer onshore and the conditions would slowly get bumpier. Less than ideal for the waves.

“Reminds me of your NSSA contests“. My dad said, sensing my antsiness and trying to comfort me a little. “A lot of waiting for a few waves”.

“Yeah”. I said, smiling. “A lot”.

And it was true, waiting is all part of the process. Sometimes you get an early heat draw, sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you get it glassy, sometimes you don’t. But really, truth be told, I would’ve waited all day and into the next week if I had to; a little bump wasn’t going to turn this quad around. Besides it gave me a great opportunity to meet and talk with some of the other more experienced crip surfers who’d been to these events before.

Triceps are everything

There’s an expression amongst spinal cord injury crips that goes something like this: quads want to be paras and paras want to walk. I’d amend that slightly by adding, high quads want to be low quads, but otherwise — in my experience — it’s pretty right on. The thing is, the lower your injury is on the spinal cord, the more motor function you have. If we’re talking about the cervical vertebrae, the difference in moving the trauma up or down one or two vertebrae could mean the difference between breathing on your own or not, or being able to get dressed and get in and out of bed on your own or not. This movement over a very small amount of real estate can have a huge impact on one’s level of independence.

To illustrate this further and maybe paint a clearer picture for those of you who aren’t fortunate enough to know a quadriplegic personally, Christopher Reeve’s injury was sustained around the first two cervical vertebrae and thus he required a respirator to breathe, whereas Jesse Billauer, the founder of Life Rolls On and the godfather of quad surfing, sustained his at the sixth. My level of injury is between the fourth and fifth vertebrae, and the difference between Jesse and myself is that he has the use of his triceps, wrists and maybe some pectorals and I don’t. How this difference translates to surfing is that where Jesse is able to support himself on his elbows, lean from side to side to control the direction of the board and see straight ahead, I’m unable to do any of these things. The use of triceps in this regard is the x-factor.

As they were bringing me out into the surf for the first time, I was trying to get my head around how this was all going to go down. It was obvious I’d be prone, but how I’d see or stay on the board was a complete mystery. As I mentioned above, I don’t have the use of my triceps so holding myself upright on my elbows wouldn’t be an option. Also since I breathe with my diaphragm, being on my belly would make it difficult for me to take a deep breath, and when you’re surfing being able to take a deep breath can be very handy from time to time. Fortunately, the board I was using had a hard piece of foam duct–taped to it and this allowed me to keep my head — albeit turned to one side — off the deck and able to breathe air instead of salt water. It wasn’t a perfect design by any means, but I didn’t expect it to be — I was on the board and that was another step closer to surfing.

Still, as we got closer to the lineup I wasn’t without apprehension; the waves weren’t big, but I was concerned that because I couldn’t see ahead of me, I wouldn’t be able to take a breath in time if we needed to go under or over a wave or if I pearled and wiped out. It wasn’t drowning that concerned me — my friend Natalie was riding tandem with me and between her and all the other spotters I knew somebody would to get to me — I just didn’t want it to become a “pump the salt water out of the redheaded quad day”. I wanted to surf, not be resuscitated.

But like everything else that day, it was about teamwork — this kind of surfing isn’t possible without it. When that first wave broke in front of us and everyone shouted, “breathe!”, I knew another obstacle had fallen by the wayside. Even though I lacked something essential like forward vision, the team did their best to make up for it. They couldn’t take a breath for me, but at least they could tell me when and how long I should hold it.

And then

I want to tell you that being in the ocean again — in this capacity — for the first time since breaking my neck was like a trip home. I want to tell you that after we punched through that first wave — the sound and sensation of the cool whitewater rushing over me — that everything came flooding back and I felt supremely comfortable. I want to tell you these things, because the ocean is my heart and soul and does feel like home. But what I was feeling was much more than that and conflicted as well. Wrapped up in my elation and stoke to be in the water again was a profound sense of vulnerability, that while foreign and uncomfortable, felt strangely appropriate.

I’ve always had a tremendous respect for the ocean, but I’ve never felt vulnerable in it — even when things got really heavy. The day I broke my neck, the day I floated there in the water — my home — unable to swim or save myself, as waves broke around me, was a humbling moment. Coming back to those sensations — that awareness (I still can’t swim to save my life) — felt more electric I suppose because of where I was now. I’ve pushed my boundaries before — confronted my fears — and I know those feelings well, and this wasn’t one of those feelings… this was not adrenaline. This was something far greater. This was — for lack of a better way to put it — the moment. And it was a lifetime in the making.

The three waves I caught that afternoon were small, but to me they couldn’t have been more perfect. On each wave I could hear my family, my friends and the team cheer as Natalie and I cut and rode towards shore. Most of these folks had waited as long as I had for this moment and the fact that they could be there with me — sharing it — meant as much to me as the experience itself. I’ve surfed alone on many great days and had many great sessions, but the days I cherish most — good or mediocre — were the days I shared with loved ones. This day was no exception and I’m forever grateful they could all be there.

A picture is worth…

Later that evening, I saw some photos my sister and cousin had taken of the event, and one in particular grabbed my heart and made me a bit dusty. It was of my parents — together — watching me at some point in the afternoon — either putting on my wetsuit or catching a wave — and both of them were crying. I’ve tried to imagine on numerous occasions what it must be like for them to have had their only son break his neck and how intensely they must feel both my challenges and successes as I’ve grown and lived with my disability. But truthfully, this wasn’t what got me about the photograph — though it’s making me a bit teary now — what got me about the photograph, was that I believe for the first time after all these years they truly — in the deepest, most profound way possible — felt and understood what surfing means to me.

Don’t get me wrong, my parents were supportive of my surfing at a very young age. They were always aware a good part of my drive and spirit were formed by surfing. They have adopted sons and my sisters have additional brothers because of surfing. My dad often got up before the crack of dawn and took me to my contests, my friends and I to Baja, Trestles and countless other surf breaks beyond the range of our bikes and skateboards. And my mom — God bless her — rarely said no to me going to the beach by myself in my preteen years, something a lot of parents wouldn’t dream of today (in her defense she always thought I was going to meet somebody). But still, given all this, deep down I don’t think they ever really, truly got surfing… not really. They knew I loved it — obsessed over it — but like most people who’ve never surfed, the sport — in all its entirety — was beyond their understanding.

Surfing — for me at least (and a lot of others around the world) — has always been a spiritual experience; if you don’t surf that’s near impossible to get your head around. And if you do, well, it’s nearly impossible to explain. Surf culture is about community as much as anything else, and when we have a profound experience within a warm, embracing community that experience can be magnified infinitely. What I saw in that photograph was the accumulation of all my parents’ experiences with surfing — years of being around it, seeing it, hearing about it, living it — reaching a place of understanding in an environment that was the perfect catalyst for just such an awakening. Take that and combine it with everything else about that day, our history and our love for each other and you have yourself a couple of parents who at long last found the true meaning of stoke. They may not surf, but they’re now part of the tribe. Who wouldn’t shed some tears?

Still, I suspect even now if you asked them what it was that made them so emotional in that picture, they might say something completely different from what I’m suggesting here. And that’s fine, because don’t believe it’s one thing. But I also don’t believe they would’ve had quite the same reaction had it been basketball, fishing or even a skydiving I was doing for the first time since my accident.

Recently I’ve given it a lot of thought as to why — at this age — these sports — surfing, skiing, sailing, skateboarding — still have so much resonance in my life. There’s no question aging or all those years spent in bed nursing pressure sores has something to do with it, but I think it’s much more basic than that. I broke my neck at a time when these sports literally meant everything to me and it was like having a meal snatched away before I’d even finished — my belly still growling and hungry. That said, I don’t pine for these things or feel my life is any less complete because I’m not doing them the way I once did — quite the contrary. Not being able to do them has sent my life on an incredible trajectory that I never would’ve been on otherwise. In many ways — though this might seem like a strange metaphor given the obvious — it’s like losing your sight and finding your other senses have become more acute. Now when I see or do these sports, their meaning and impact feels far more significant and — in a way I never would have expected — become a springboard to much higher heights.

And the future?

Unlike my skiing experience where the equipment is pretty much dialed in for my level of injury, this surfing experience was a “go with what we’ve got” type of a deal that ultimately worked, but could be greatly improved upon. Since that afternoon, I’ve begun brainstorming on how to do this, as I want to get out in the water again as soon as possible. I figure any solutions I come up with will benefit not only somebody like myself but ideally somebody with less function as well. And ultimately that’s the goal — making the experience as accessible and enjoyable to as many people as possible. If you know any shapers or anybody who wants to participate in this endeavor, point them in my direction. Contrary to popular belief, you can never have too many brains in the broth.

Epilogue

I’d be remiss in my duties as a blogger if I didn’t close out this piece with a little something about inspiration and its effect on action. As you’ve come to understand from above, my desire to surf again was a pretty heavy one. But because of my level of injury and my inability to swim, I could never quite figure out how to make it work and it eventually became a back burner fantasy — prominent and ever present, but nevertheless back burner.

The first time I saw that video of Jesse Billauer surfing many years ago was a watershed moment. Not only did it move me to see an ex-surfer get out there and ride waves, but as a fellow quadriplegic and champion of all things bold and pioneering, it’s significance wasn’t lost on me. Not only was it one of the heaviest things I’d ever seen in the sport (try negotiating whitewater or going over the falls when you’re unable to swim and have no use of your legs), but perhaps one of the most inspiring as well. Suddenly what was once difficult to wrap my head around, now seemed possible and it was only a matter of time before all the right pieces would fall into place. Our disabilities may have been different, but that hardly mattered, he had broken down the door and this is where things would start to happen.

Fast-forward many years, several adventures, some life-changing opportunities and a return to a location not far from where I broke my neck, and as I was sitting there on the beach waiting to get wet, surrounded by dynamic and beautiful people, I was entirely aware that this event, the 19 before it and others like it taking place elsewhere around the world, were the result of a single spark started by one individual.

This was inspiration evolving into action, and if there’s anyone out there who still doubts your individual power, I suggest A) you reread this blog and B) you check out one of these events.

Aloha and big mahalos to volunteers everywhere.

It seems we’ve reached a point in my family’s evolution where weddings and funerals are the only time when everyone gets together.  And when I say everyone, I mean aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, dogs — the whole thing, either side of the family.  It used to be the holidays when we’d all gather, but since everybody’s moved away from Newport Beach (and some out of California) we’re lucky if we get together once a year.  Even then, the numbers are usually limited to the immediate family.

In March we got together over my grandmother’s memorial and it was a beautiful thing.  Everyone on my mom’s side of the family was there, and it was the kind of send out my grandmother would have appreciated; a sunny day, good vibes, kids running everywhere, a meal — not gourmet or set with fancy china, but served with the appropriate quantity of mayonnaise — a California Mission, and her ashes enclosed in a fancy linen sack on top of my grandfather’s rather plain urn (it helps to have known them to truly appreciate the poetic comedy of this spatial arrangement).

But this memorial wasn’t about just one day, it was about a week.  And beyond that, it was about establishing something lasting for the next generation.  When my mom’s parents were alive and all of us were still centrally located, for us grandchildren holiday get-togethers were a loud, crowded, fun affair.  My grandfather would sit down at the piano or organ and crank out the show tunes, his originals or whatever else we’d request, and we’d all sing along (or least pretend to) with an enthusiasm that rivaled anything on Broadway.

They were times centered around performance — his, ours, everyone — and they eventually came to a vaudevillian inspired head when we decided to establish a dinner prerequisite in the shape of a variety show.  The idea was simple; before dinner was served everyone (guests included) would perform some sort of act — singing, dancing, card tricks, what have you.  The upshot being; if you wanted to eat, you had to get on stage.

I’m not going to lie and say everything that went up was brilliant, because that was hardly the point.  But what did was inspired, creative and more often than not sidesplittingly funny.  What sticks with me most, however, is not what us kids did, but rather what the adults did — those creatures who inhabited that other table during mealtime.  There was something about seeing the adults step out of their usual adult space and into the realm of kid like, Monty Python-esque lunacy that tickled our ever expanding hearts and imaginations that resonates with us still.

Bringing back this tradition seemed like the most natural thing in the world and — for a new generation not yet fully schooled on the craziness of their elders — an absolute imperative.  The circumstances couldn’t have been more appropriate, and given the lack of performance anxiety in my family’s DNA, the mere suggestion of a such an evening brought on enthusiastic planning by all.

As to be expected, the show was an unqualified success.  The little ones got to see their grandparents — dressed as what can only be described as cowboy witches, and speaking in voices that — under most circumstances — would’ve scared the bejeezus out of them — perform a quixotic, shaggy dog piece called “spludge” (yeah, I know, the title is a bit sketchy).  My sisters and I followed that with a Shiva-esque take on a QVC beauty program, that brought on such fits of laughter from my mother that the grandkids — temporarily assuming the role of adult — threatened to kick her out of the room if she couldn’t control herself.  And the kids, well, they did everything from upside down singing chin faces, to dances, to Star Wars reenactments and even some tae kwon do.

The thing is, when we laugh together, perform for one another, applaud for one another, act fearlessly in front of one another, act the fool in front of one another, we strengthen not only ourselves, but each other as well.  We create an environment of solidarity where taking chances are championed and failure is irrelevant.  Everything works.  This is especially important to experience when you’re young, because fearlessness, I believe, is the essential ingredient to living life to its fullest.  And while I’m not saying having holiday variety shows is a way to ensure fearlessness in the young, for our family at least, it’s part of a great many things — love being the biggest — that contributed to our closeness and strength.  And that’s where fearlessness takes root.

Look around some time and take in all the people afraid to think for themselves or take risks out of fear of failure or what others might think, and more often than not you’ll see folks who have no support system.  Life is often a high wire act, and falling or failing is a whole lot less scary if you know there’s a net to catch you.  My family is that net and it’s got us through some pretty heavy times.

This is what our performances reminded me of and this is why I am so very grateful for my family.  A friend of mine who came with me to the memorial — and who is like a brother (yeah, he performed too) — told a friend about the trip — and in particular, our crazy show — and she said, “are there really families like that out there?”  To which he replied laughing, “yeah, I guess there are.”

There definitely are.

Epilogue

Now, given how much we all love each other and how much fun we have when we’re together, there might be the mistaken tendency to see this whole wedding/funeral get-together schedule as less than ideal, as the space in between these events is at best unpredictable and normally inconsistent.  And originally, I’ll admit, I was in that camp.  But since I’m a glass is half-full type of guy and I like to look for the positive in just about everything, I thought I’d reframe it and see what I came up with.

First, let me just say, it’s all about the math — I’ve got a big family.  Counting both sides there are… well, I don’t actually know how many there are, but there’s a lot  — and numerically speaking, that bodes well for future get-togethers under the current criteria.  Not being too cryptic about it, there are a lot of potential memorial services up ahead, and if that’s too heavy for you, well, there’s a lot of weddings as well.  For the record, I prefer weddings to memorials — there’s generally more dancing at the weddings — but if the memorials could be like my grandmother’s, and a celebration of a life, not the mourning of a death, well, then, what’s not to like about a memorial?

The bottom line to all of this — and the point if you’re searching for one and haven’t found it — is that family is something to be cherished and celebrated.  When you’re with your family, look into their faces and take in all the beauty, and know that no matter what happens, these are the people who will be with you when you really need someone.  I don’t know about you, but I’ve got two incredible sides to my family and that moves me to no end.

Holidays, memorials, weddings — no matter — whenever I can see everybody, it’s all good to me.

Aside from it being International Worker’s Day and a day where some folks may want to dance around a Maypole (our European brethren mostly), it’s also my dog Shadow’s birthday. She’s 14 years old today; getting up there by golden retriever standards, not so much by tortoises’.

She’s in great shape and as bighearted and goofy as ever. She’s less fond of rock ‘n roll and hip-hop shows, but still retains an enthusiastic interest in catered events and Mexican restaurants with mariachis and cascading bowls of chips. Her hearing has diminished some (selectively and otherwise), but her bark is as efficient as ever. Tennis balls still hold a significant place in her heart, but her nose to the ground and knowing every other dog’s business seems much more a priority now. And while I’d hoped her ever evolving dog breath might’ve reached a critical mass by this point, I’ll gladly endure its further evolution in exchange for many more years together.

It’s only fitting Shadow’s birthday is on May 1st — the day of the worker and the day of the May Queen — given she’s both, it’s the only one that would do.

Those who know Shadow, know this about her — she is a lover beyond words and a wondrous spirit. Every day she’s in my life is another day to be thankful for. May the years continue to be kind.

The biscuits flow tonight!

My relationship with eggplant over the years has not been one of gastronomic appreciation. The purplest member of the nightshade family, despite technically being a berry, is not — in my opinion — a very tasty treat. Still, people have attempted to persuade me to see it otherwise. What it is about the eggplant specifically that inspires such evangelical behavior I’m not sure, but it seems everybody has that killer recipe that’ll win me over, and the opinion that nobody else knows how to cook it.

Historical context: suffer the children

Growing up in the Schmiesing household one thing was abundantly clear around mealtime, no matter how passionately you made your case for not liking what was being served (and believe me, my sisters and I had a passion that could — under most circumstances — make your average parent cave), you were going to eat what was on your plate. End of story. That’s it.

“This is not a restaurant”, my mom would say, “There isn’t any ordering”.

Most of the time we would accept our collective fate — albeit with some persuasive words from our parents — and get through the said distasteful item with as little chewing and tongue contact with it as possible. But there were those times when something was served often enough that it almost began to feel as though we were the butt of some sadistic joke. My mom’s battered eggplant with maple syrup was one of those suspicious dishes.

After years of being served this impressively horrible dish almost monthly the seeds of revolution began to sprout and rebellion became eminent. Our sheer numbers (4 to 2) gave us the confidence to stand tall, except the likely blowback and to say, “Enough is enough. We are but children, why must you torture us so?”

Of course, we had no idea what would come of our insolence, but what did was so absurdly funny, heartwarming, and like O Henry’s The Gift of the Magi in its irony that to this day I am forever grateful for the eggplant.

“I make it because your father likes it”, my mom said.

In unison we turned to stare down the apparent source of our eternal suffering… my pop. Sure, my mom may have been making the dish, but it was at the request of my father — the responsibility was his.

“No I don’t”, my father replied, looking a little confused and quite clearly feeling the heat from his four children’s eyes bearing up on him.

“Yes you do”, my mom said. An embarrassed smile starting to slide over her face. “Why else would make it so often?”

“I don’t know, I thought you liked it.”

“No, I make it because you like it”, my mom answered, laughing.

Baffled, my sisters and I couldn’t believe our ears. Could it really be possible that all our suffering was over our parent’s lack of communication?

Hello. Mom meet dad, dad meet mom.

“Why didn’t you say something?”, I asked my dad. “We all would’ve been spared”.

At this point the whole table erupted in laughter; a seachange had occurred and us kids were feeling pretty optimistic about our future.

“So does this mean we don’t have to finish our eggplant? “, we asked. Certain the establishment of this particular dish as a “no go” with my father meant the punishment would at last stop.

“It most certainly does not”, my mom answered. “There are starving children in China who’d give anything to eat what’s on your plate. Finish your dinner.”

Of course, we knew there weren’t children anywhere who’d eat what we had on our plates — starving or not — but it was the last night we’d ever have to, and so like a nest of preadolescent snakes we swallowed whole what was in front of us and began digesting the end of an era.

Upon further reflection

Over the years I’ve had ample time to reflect on the above event and what I’ve come to understand about my parents lack of communication in regards to said eggplant dish is this: Romantic love, at least in part, is about sacrifice. My mom, not liking the eggplant herself (though there is some controversy over this fact), but under the unfortunate misunderstanding that my dad did, served it on a regular basis just to make him happy. And my dad, not wanting to offend my mom, thinking she made it as often as she did because she liked it, said nothing so she could continue to enjoy it guilt free. These are beautiful gestures of love and sacrifice, to be sure, and as I said above, I am forever grateful to the eggplant for allowing me to witness it, but you’ve got to ask yourselves one question; with all this sacrificing going on, how is it possible none of it trickled down to the little ones?

The recipe (in case for some reason you’re thinking; eggplant; a deep fryer; maple syrup — yeah, that’s my kind of meal)

Ingredients

Eggplant (as many as you feel comfortable eating)
Milk.
Eggs.
Bisquick.
Oil.
Maple syrup.

Directions.

Heat oil to deep frying temperature in appropriate sized pan. Slice eggplant into half-inch thick rounds. Mix milk, eggs, Bisquick into batter like consistency. Dip eggplant in batter and coat thoroughly. Deep fry eggplant until golden brown. Serve with pad of butter and grotesque dousing of maple syrup. Enjoy with loved ones regularly.

My grandmother, Gee Gee, died yesterday from complications related to her Alzheimer’s disease, but instead of being sad (though there’s definitely some of that), I find myself overwhelmingly filled with love and a sense of understanding that makes me smile.

She was ready to go, there’s no doubt about it, but these feelings aren’t coming from a place of relief — for her or for those of us who imagined how she must’ve been suffering — no, they’re coming from the fact that in her death she is shining a huge, contrasting light on all the life that’s here before us.

At the most basic level this “life” is the family that exists because of her — my mother, my sisters, my aunt, my uncle, my cousins and nieces and nephews — all beautiful beyond words and all quite the legacy. However, the “life” I’m specifically referring to is this whole thing — the moment we’re living in now and sharing with everything — the “life” that, through the gift of her death, shines brightly waiting only to be celebrated and lived with love. Grateful for this, my smile continues to get bigger, and if I was my 91 year old grandmother, that’s the only way I’d want it to be.

If you want something, know who to ask..

It’s funny, but when I think of my grandmother, it’s difficult for me to think of her outside the shadow of my grandfather. They always seemed like the unlikeliest of pairs — like Laurel and Hardy or the Odd Couple. I guess that’s what made her so interesting to me, how she navigated their relationship with such patience and humor, and how at the oddest times she’d step out from under my grandfather’s large personality and steal the show.

As kids — and even as adults — if there was something we wanted from my grandparents, we knew exactly who to go to. My grandfather tended to be a stickler about things, but my grandmother — for whatever reason, maybe because she liked being contrary to my grandfather — would give us whatever we asked for. This worked out especially well, when, at an early age, I fell in love with my grandfather’s hawaiiana/tiki oddities. Whether it was in a box or tucked away in some corner, it made little difference, invariably if you asked my grandfather for it, he would say no. But, if you asked loud enough or if my grandmother was in the same room, then, well, you could be pretty sure you’d be going home with your object of desire. “He won’t even know it’s gone”, she’d say, as she handed it to you on your way out the door.

Sausage talk

To say my grandmother had some strong opinions about things, would be an understatement. Where they came from, God only knows, but more often than not, these opinions (in my opinion), would be downright ridiculous. Sometimes I would just laugh and roll my eyes, while other times my liberal Berkeley leanings would compel me to respond. I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere with her, but if I could get her to that place where she’d had enough, then what’d come next would make it all worthwhile. Push her to that point where in her mind the conversation was over and you’d invariably hear, “Oh please, you’re talking like a sausage”.

Now, I’m not a linguist, but I have a fairly good understanding of the dynamics of language, and how you combine words is pretty important. For example, the following combination of words (expressions, if you will) — I love you; the tea is good; the hippo is fat; shut your mouth — regardless of how often you’ve heard them, or even if you haven’t, will always make sense. My grandmother, who was not a dadaist, somehow managed to come up with an expression, that while making absolutely no sense at all (unless, of course, you’re a dadaist, and even then, I’m not so sure), paradoxically — almost poetically — makes all the sense in the world.

Is that Griffith Park I taste?

It’s hard to say, but I think it’s an established fact that my grandmother was an excellent cook. Somewhat of a foodie myself (yeah, I said it) and knowing several chefs, I’ve learned it’s extremely beneficial to have an open mind where ingredients are concerned, as great things can often come from unexpected sources. My grandmother understood this and could be counted on to turn out some pretty interesting dishes.

When my sister M and I were very young, our grandfather taught us how to catch crawdads with just bacon tied to a string. For whatever reason, this method of fishing sparked our imaginations, and whenever we got near a lake or a stream (size and location weren’t an issue), we’d scour it for crawdads. Fortunately for us, my grandparents lived near Griffith Park in Los Angeles, and through Griffith Park ran a little stream and in that little stream were — you guessed it — crawdads (I’m not exactly sure why).

Catching these little creatures was a lot of fun, but what we really looked forward to was how my grandmother cooked them. What her recipe was precisely, I don’t really know, but I’m sure it began and ended with butter. Now, there are a lot of great chefs in the world and you can bow down before as many Rachael Ray’s, Emeril Lagasse’s or Wolfgang Puck’s on the Food Network as you like, but I’d like to see them make a tasty crustacean dish with the city-licious flavor of Griffith Park.

Behind door number one…

The truth is, we’re all so much more than our bodies. This thing that we flop around in is temporary; it’s going to get old, it’s going to get wrinkles, its breasts are going to sag, its neural pathways are going to become damaged and stop firing, it’ll suffer from erectile dysfunction; it’s going to get ugly, it’s going to poop on itself and, yeah, in the end, it’s going to die. But who we are — who we truly are — is beyond all that.

So, yeah, my grandmother’s body shut down and died, but to think she isn’t here anymore would be a lack of understanding. Just like I never doubted she was still in her home after we’d visit and say our goodbyes, I have no doubt she is with us now. Of course, my grandmother would probably say I’m talking like a sausage, but, hey, if the shoe fits…

I love you Gee Gee. Thanks for switching the light on.

I recently returned from a weeklong vacation at my folk’s home in Indio with a very good friend of mine, where I relaxed on a couch across from a cathedral sized plastic Christmas tree, surrounded by my lovely, loud family, pushed a mile and a half every day under clear blue 65° skies and satisfied my next years quota of mercury by ingesting more fish than the entire cast of A Very Orca Christmas™ at Sea World™. It was by all accounts a great trip. For what it’s worth, here are some of my observations:

Homeland security: one embrace at a time

I’m not sure about the word quaint to describe the Palm Springs Airport, but when was the last time you got a hug from an airport employee who was happy to see you again. Let’s just say, if it was a Starbucks you wouldn’t have to order your venti half caff/decaf soymilk macchiato with a lemon twist and a touch of honey, they’d anticipate your arrival and have it waiting for you.

You are what you read

People are funny. Always being the last one off an airplane gives me a unique perspective into human nature. This time, as I was waiting to deplane, a well-dressed middle-aged woman passed me by with a brand-new hardcover book she’d found on one of the seats. She was trying to get the attention of the elderly woman in front of her whom she thought had left it behind by mistake. When the elderly woman said the book wasn’t hers, the middle-aged woman looked confused about what she should do. Appearing to be a fortunate find, my friend and I suggested she keep it as a sort of gift from the airplane gods. But instead of smiling and nodding in agreement — you know, in the spirit of the holiday — she held it slightly away, looked down at it over her nose and simply scoffed, as if it was the last book in the world she’d want to be caught reading. Instantly, my friend and I burst into laughter, we didn’t know the book, but judging by its cover (which clearly you shouldn’t do), it didn’t appear to be overtly pedestrian. It wasn’t like it was The Da Vinci Code or anything. Still, you gotta wonder, what does that book you’re reading right now say about you?

You are the exit you take

When you’re leaving the Palm Springs Airport you can take either the “Palm Springs” exit or the “to other resort cities” exit. There are no other choices. You’re either living large and heading to Palm Springs or you’re slumming it and going to one of those “other resort cities”. Don’t judge us, but we, of course, headed to the latter.

How to shop like an Englishman

When the front page story of the local paper is the grand opening of a Fresh N’ Easy store, you know you’re in an exciting town. Don’t get me wrong, I understand this particular franchise represents a new way of buying your food (according to the article, this is the way it’s done in England), but I think more than anything it legitimizes staying at home, relaxing on the couch and maybe even going for a float in the pool.

???

Despite 482 days a year of sunshine, there are no laws requiring solar panels on houses, supermarkets, mini malls or circus tents. Is it only me or does this strike anybody else as a little odd and perhaps even, oh, I don’t know… stupid. Don’t even get me started on lawns.

Magic hour on the red planet

No matter how desolate and uninviting the surrounding Mars-like landscape looks during the day, at sunset in the shadow of the snowcapped San Jacinitos mountains, you can almost understand what made people originally decide to settle in the desert. Assuming they came in the wintertime.

Adult supervision

My mother’s lunacy will forever make me laugh. The scene is this: we’re watching Knocked Up, the latest film by Judd Apatow, which while sweet and poignant, is also delightfully vulgar. Not a film my mom would like or get. That said, she’s seen it.

Now, here’s why you gotta love my mom; instead of leaving the room to go to bed (it’s late and my parents tend to retire early these days), she gathers her knitting stuff together, sits down in front of the TV and begins to tell us (mostly my sisters, because they’re mothers and I’m somewhat of a lost cause) how depraved we are for liking such a film.

Of course, we’re not going to take such critique lying down; a). because there’s a tradition of debate to be upheld with my mom, b). she will continue to inject commentary over an already turned down sound system that has been carefully calibrated so as not to wake up the children with our depravity and vulgar sense of humor, and c). she clearly doesn’t understand the genius that is Judd Apatow and must — even if it means delaying our pleasure for it — be made to see the light.

However, before we could even address this oh so crucial last point with an enthusiastic championing of the hit The 40 Year Old Virgin (because this is the obvious place to start), my mom says, “Oh, the grandkids and I watched that. We ordered it from On-Demand”.

What came next can only be described as a very brief yet very pregnant moment of shock, followed by a synchronized, “What!?” from my two sisters, who were clearly dumbfounded by our mother’s interesting sense of judgment. Laughing hysterically, my mom explained she turned it off when she realized what it was and the kids hardly saw anything.

But I had to ask her what was it about the title The 40 Year Old Virgin and the rating Unrated that suggested, wholesome kid friendly entertainment? Let’s go kids, hurry up and grab some Orval Redenbacher’s, that movie about the 40-year-old virgin is on.

By this time we were all rolling and my mom could barely catch her breath, but still you gotta wonder when it all clicked for her? I’m guessing somewhere around the description of the Baja donkey show, but I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what sort of questions the kids start asking.

The right exit

As far as families go, I only truly know this one, but every moment I spend with them feels like a gift. I’m thankful to no end that we’re able to get together as often as we do… even if it happens to be in one of those “other resort cities”.

Mele Kalikimaka me ka Hau’oli!