Moojinorbit

In the highly educated, secular, queer, feminist, fashion forward, and politically progressive crowds I run in, born again Christians (“evangelicals,” in the religious sociology lit) are anything but popular. Indeed, they are the Other, pretty much figured as backward, dogmatic, ignorant, oppressing, stupid, bad-fashion, Jerry Falwell-butt-kissing minions. Indeed, I can think of few categories of people more often read as The Enemy than Jesus “freaks,” with the possible exception of, I don’t know, Neo-Nazis.

I’m not saying conservative evangelicals don’t present a political problem for “my kind” and our allies—they do. And I’m not saying they’re not seriously misguided to ignorant in some matters, for that’s definitely the case. They’re also generally (not always) patriarchal, oblivious to the actual content of other faiths, problematically missionary, and blithely judgmental. And thanks to their limited theology, there are an awful lot of gay and lesbian folks trapped inside those cultures with very hurt hearts, leading double lives. I’m not dismissing their faults. But my recent four-day research stint, immersed in their world at a national “new church” conference, reminded me of the things I like about Born-Again Christians and why I enjoy burying myself from time to time in the ethnographic wonderland that is their world.

First, they are—by far—not all white. In fact, most African Americans are evangelical; a fact our larger culture tries to block out because we don’t know how to square it with our image of [bad, fascist, Evil] religious right. They’re also all stripes of Latino, African immigrant, Hmong, Chinese, Korean, and on and on. But that’s the subject of, oh, a whole book I’m writing, so I’ll set that bit of complexity aside for now.

They’re also really, really nice. Not in the flaky, vacuous way like, I don’t know, Delta Gamma girls (uh oh; yeah, I’m stereotyping). But nice in the way that people who are very concerned about your soul in eternity can be nice. Warm nice—as in wanting to know who you are, how you got here, where you came from, what you care about, and, yeah, how they can find a way to connect about Jesus and/or “share the gospel” with you. Every single time I have done research in an evangelical context I have felt entirely well hosted, warmly attended to, by these folks, even though I was from the get-go a suspicious other who any of them would have valid reason to suspect did not necessarily sympathize with their worldview. Still, they let me into their world and included me warmly, never pushing me to do anything, never getting in my face, never crossing a boundary once I’d set it, always giving me the benefit of the doubt. I’m honestly not sure my crowd would do the same for an evangelical researcher in our midst.

Now, I know this will set some of you to bristling, but Born Agains are really into love, into active loving, into creating a culture of active loving. I mean, there’s a part of it that’s not unlike what I imagine hippie culture was like in the sixties—without the large quantities of hallucinogens, of course, or the sexual freedom. (Although the Holy Spirit has some serious hallucinogenic properties, from what I’ve seen.) Sure, it’s hard to feel loved by them when some evangelicals are behind blocking our right to marry or control our bodies or whatever else. I don’t feel particularly loved by the phrase “love the sinner, hate the sin”—but, then again, I don’t feel particularly loved by the whole concept of sin. Hell, I don’t feel particularly loved by the phrase “civil unions.”

I do, though, feel a lot of active love when I walk into a room of evangelicals. I feel them trying so hard to love the other people in that room; to really love their kids in open, expressive, soft ways; to love their husbands and wives when it’s really hard; and to love each other even when serious conflict is bubbling up between them. To love me, the weirdo with the short hair and the tape recorder. And I’m flat impressed by this subgroup of evangelicals willing to love each other when they make all kinds of blunders trying to create multiracial, multiethnic churches. I have never seen that kind of love in cross-racial conversations on the left; anger and resentment are always the more tangible emotions. I can’t fault them for not working hard at it. Sure, this is also partly about loving “their own,” but most of them try harder to love those not part of their faith group than others I’ve met.

And oh how they are in love with their god, how they reach out to connect in meaningful ways with that god, to hear his voice in their hearts, to be guided by him, to be close. It’s intense and romantic, like the deepest teen crush you ever had, where you just lie in bed gazing at the ceiling, crazy out of your mind with want for your savior to come wrap you in infinitely loving arms and bring you home. Their spirituality is so tangible, so real, so untheoretical for them—even the intellectual ones who know their theology and Biblical exegesis inside out. Honestly, there’s something inspiring for me in that.

I also like that Born Again men are given a lot more room to be emotionally expressive, alone and in public, in this subculture. Watching those guys hold each other’s hands, embrace their “brothers and sisters in Christ,” toss their heads back and sing praise songs is a sight to see. There’s no shame for these guys in shedding tears. And sometimes when they “testify” about “what the Lord is doing” in their lives, their voices just drip with giddy enthusiasm, the likes of which guys in the outside world only get to express around other guys when inebriated. Yes, I have my own problems with Promise Keepers, but masculine emotional expression is not one of them.

Bottom line: Even though I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to be stuck on a deserted island with Born Agains, there are worse crowds I can think of (like Human Filler).

Miscellaneous likieness:

•    I liked that I saw a young hippie evangelical sporting a black Che Guevara t-shirt.
•    The African American pastor from Brooklyn who told me he was a “radical inclusionist”—which meant fighting for GLBT rights.
•    The surprising sex appeal of the really gifted pastors.
•    Hot, edgy evangelical babes (men) in low slung blue jeans (admittedly a minority to the sea of middle aged khaki wearers).
•    Evangelical environmentalists.
•    No Born Again at this conference of 5,000 ever made me feel like I should’ve worn a wig over my silver crew cut.
•    The prayer spoken in Spanish, Portuguese, and Chinese at the closing of the multiethnic church building track.

What do you think of when you hear “filler”? I think of homogeneous stuffing. Stuff that goes inside other stuff, just to fill it. For example, fig goo in Fig Newtons; cream in cream puffs; that fluffy, synthetic material in stuffed animals; lawn grass; cement; commercials; the dialogues in soap operas; Kevin Costner movies.

And then there’s Human Filler. Yeah, I’m finally getting it down in the blog.

Warning: the following ideas lend themselves to fascist implementation. Keep tabs on your inner Mussolini.

Assertion #1:
There are human beings in the world who seem to centripitally pull to the homogeneous center, the land of normative, the vortex of sameness and therefore mediocrity. These will be here referred to as Human Filler.

Assertion #2:
There are more of these humans on earth than there are centrifugally oriented ones, who pull to the outside, the margins, to various realms of non-normative thinking, behaving, living, and, ideally, questioning. (The latter humans are typically camped as “minorities,” “elites,” or “freaks” of some sort.)

Assertion #3:
Admittedly, the boundaries of normative and nonnormative shift according to social and political context. A rebel in one setting may be a robot in another.

Assertion #4:
A defining characteristic of Human Filler is that if channels, funnels, tranquilizing devices, cages and such are designed cleverly enough, Human Filler will fill them voluntarily, no force or coercion required. This is partly because Human Filler by definition likes to be around other Human Filler and prefers to avoid the harder work of carving out unique paths. (Scholars such as C. Wright Mills, Hannah Arendt, and Herbert Marcuse have brilliantly theorized this dynamic. My assertions are not particularly original, though the terminology and application is idiosyncratic.)

Assertion #5:
Most humans like to think they are not Human Filler, and some are indeed more original/rebellious/freaky than most, but precious few are never Human Filler. Being inadvertently bundled among the Human Filler is a product of the postmodern condition. This is an inescapable fact for all but the most determined social isolates—who may become so isolated that they are incapable of understanding Human Filler enough to challenge it if the time comes. (Thus, a reason to visit Or-Land-O.)

Examples of Human Filler Activity:
The masses of humans in London and Paris in 2005 who endured extreme urban congestion, parking nightmares, and attendant logistical hell to congregate in public squares merely to discover whether their nation would host the Olympics several years hence, then cheered or hissed in dramatic reaction to the announcement (which they might have simply watched on t.v. and which summarized decisions over which the Human Filler had no input or control) exemplify Human Filler Activity. But, of course, all states require Human Filler to attend such announcements, else who would be there to represent an audience/citizenry? (Aside: the fact of “citizenry” becoming reduced to “audience” is itself a sign of an advanced Human Filler society.)

Consider the possibility that the throngs waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square every New Year’s Eve, or who amble Zombielike along the sidewalks and through the moving casino walkways of Las Vegas and Atlantic City, who pack football and soccer stadiums around the world, likewise represent Human Filler Activity. Human Filler also tends to congregate in malls, in live television audiences, on public transportation (see, no one is exempt), in SUVs, midsize sedans, minivans, muscle cars, and compact cars. Also: video arcades, bowling alleys, and suburbs. Really, there are few public sites in postindustrial cultures—with the possible exception of the mythical “public square” where people allegedly once participated in democratic debate and decision-making—where Human Filler Activity is not.

Also, I don’t know because this is not the culture with which I am familiar, but sometimes big Islamic prayer rituals seem, at least from the outside, really Human Filler-y.

You know when you’re leaving a concert and people start groaning “Moo!”? That is Human Filler inadvertently making its noise, one of the rare instances in which Human Filler becomes aware of itself.

Assertion #6:
The United States is a factory of Human Filler, with certain geographical regions, such as the Midwest and “The Valley” in California, being especially high-output areas. To wit: the swarms of puffy pasty people wandering the halls of the Chicago O’Hare airport munching Doritos and looking for their gate.

Or Orlando, Florida: Land O’ Human Filler. There, not one, but a half dozen “theme parks” have been designed to attract Human Filler for to drain the savings they have acquired through tedious and difficult employment or, alternately, reduce the credit allowances on cards designed for Human Filler consumption. Disney World, Sea World, Universal Studios, Holy Land (the Christian theme park; Lord, how I wish I’d had time), Water World, Discovery Something-or-other-about-dolphins, and the new Aquatica, where scantily clad attendees can shoot rapidfire through clear tubes underwater past undoubtedly miserable sea mammals.

In Or-Land-O Human Filler, body size is no obstacle to thrill rides, no-holds-barred buffet dining, mall shopping, and sunbasteing. In fact, the larger the Human Filler bodies, the better. Everyone knows that skinny kids can’t do good cannonballs and thereby effectively drench people sitting beside hotel pools reading silly academic books. In Or-Land-O it is obvious that the American food industry is stuffing Human Filler with fatty filling. The plumper the flesh, muse our chefs of state, the juicier the roast.

In Or-Land-O Human Filler, airport architects didn’t mind designing excessively inefficient security line structures that would mean longer waits than almost any airport in the country; they know that Human Filler would be sufficiently numbed from theme park lines as not to ask questions. The longer Human Filler can be made to stand around, the clearer the resolution captured by invisible surveillance cameras.

Poor Human Filler carrying shopping bags, dragging strollers and suitcases through the jam-packed airport on a Thursday. Human Filler children lugging Mickey Mouse, Goofy, and the Little Mermaid stuffies, whining for their dead-eyed Human Filler parents to carry their extra. Parents instructing them to “sit down and play your Game Boy.”

This is Or-Land-O. Freeways running parallel to each other with only a couple of miles between them; displays of senseless transportation management and excess expenditure. High-end housing tracts stretching as far as the eye can see, broken only by artificial lakes, golf courses dug out of or created by filler, and, of course outlet malls, strip malls, and restaurant malls. Formerly wild places filled in wherever one looks with linear landscaping—grass and palm trees and flowering bushes trimmed into squares. Very X-Files, very Truman Show, very pastel. Very disturbing.

Call me harsh, call me anti-American, but Or-Land-O was total Human Filler overwhelm and only supported my miscreant theories.

Assertion #7:
Human Filler is the prelude to the Apocalypse.

I have so many things to tell you, having to do with things like

Florida
extreme landscaping
the Doubletree “Castle” (super yikes) versus the Doubletree “Universal Orlando” (yesser yikes, but still yikes)
my third eye for evangelical sitings
multiethnic church building conference track o’rama
and
how I love a sleeping in luscious hotels.

However:

hiccups for 30 minutes running
excess drinking, perhaps, with Sam Reiser (Marce’s brother), though I only had two drinks with dinner
sleepinesss
overwelmn (sp?)
plus, it’s 10:30 here whereas only 8:30 in Colorado
and, yeah, I’m kind of buzzed.

Suffice to say: my lazy ass did run 3 miles this morning on the treadmill, plus sit ups and sit ups. Also, I did manage an interview and 5+ hours with evangelicals locked in a closed room in a very large megachurch in Florida.

Perhaps I can be grante a night off from coherent blogging.

Lovies.

n

My main nickname from my dad is Miss Muffit. I don’t think anyone remembers why, but for the nursery rhyme he must’ve sung to me a lot.

Tonight I’m rinsing down my tub with the shower head to get ready to draw a bath, when along comes a spider, an unassuming blonde one, out from behind my bath cushion. Before realizing what it is I have sprayed it and it is now running, tucking, rolling, trying to find traction for its life. Normally I rescue spiders under a glass or on a paper towel and put them outside. Tonight, though, I’m exhausted and jumpy from a long, frustrating day, and I just can’t deal, so I spray the little guy right into the drain, and promptly feel sick to my stomach. Culpable.

And then (while the spider is doubtless scrambling for any possible escape in the pitch black of wet pipes beneath me) I steam in my tub thinking about our bizarre human reactions to all the tiny innocents that come into our purview. Do we jump when we confront a spider because we really think we’re going to be bitten or eaten or swarmed? Or does that tinge of fear come because we’re afraid that the spider might catalyze our inner killer and thereby force us to remember that we’re beholden to our own murdering reptile brain and not so civilized after all? We kill it because on some level we fear it, but do we fear it because it “makes us” into possible killers?

Then I got out of the bath and pulled the rubber plug, dousing any chance for survival.

I think the Ambien’s kicking in now. Buh-bye.

By the way, what’s a “tuffit”?

I’m excited for the Universe to supply me with these $600 black patent leather Luccheses–which RULE. No, I’m not buying them. I’m just telling the Universe that I realize I deserve them.

Is it a crime to feel good?

Those of you who live in Denver know that we are on a two-day run of long-awaited, fan-freakin-tastic weather. We’re talking blue skies, barely a breeze, seventy some degrees. Sweet! I think most of us were ready to get out of here after what has seemed like an unnecessarily winter-like spring–or at least I thought so. Apparently it’s supposed to be 40 again and raining tomorrow, which is okay ‘cuz you know how I like the rain, but all in all I’m psyched for warmer days. The last time I remember being this ready for spring was when I lived through my first winter in Ithaca.

Anyway, so I’ve been sitting out on my porch this morning slurping my steel-cut oatmeal and green tea, watching the cats roll around happily, and basically NOT getting started on all the things I need to do today. Why am I not getting started, even though it’s almost 9:00? Well, because of the happy spring morning, sure, but also because of this thing that I don’t think a lot of people understand about me and that I’m really just beginning to get my head around myself:

I’m. Totally. Lazy.

I am. I think I maybe should’ve been born a cat, seriously. I would be perfectly happy lounging around on some comfy couch for 8-10 hours at a time, then getting up, eating, wandering outside for a little while, and flopping right back down. It wouldn’t bother me at all to watch three or four movies in a sitting. If I never had to deal with a “to do” list, if I could just be a rich housewife (sans kids), running to the dry cleaners now and then, waiting for the plumber to show up, walking the dog, rearranging the furniture, maybe going shopping with a friend, gardening, I honestly think I’d be quite happy. I mean, eventually I’d probably start writing and painting, and I feel like I could do lots and lots of that, but as far as being driven by some internal ambition motor, as far as just naturally being a “go-getter”–I really maybe am not.

For how lazy I feel, I’m surprised I’ve only gained 10 pounds in the last two years, and not 100 (and my recent overeating cycle merits another post). Because even though I like exercise when I’m doing it, and especially after I’ve done it, I have to grit my teeth and push through the unbelievable inertia that stands in the way of getting my body moving in high gear. (Except, perhaps, when it comes to riding my bike around town, which I really like, but maybe not because of the exercise.) I’m just not one of those people who wakes up and goes, “damn, I feel like riding my bike up a really long hill for a couple hours,” or “I feel like running a 10K this morning!” I don’t even understand those people, even though they include most of you reading this. When I wake up, I usually feel like lounging in bed for another hour and if at all possible, that’s exactly what I do.

I know; I must not be too lazy if I got through a doctoral program and (eventually) into a very decent job–although in retrospect it’s hard to believe those kinds of things happened. If I set goals I can often psych myself up enough to reach them, or at least convince myself how shitty I’d feel about not reaching them. And if someone is depending on me, I generally get it done. But sometimes I think the process should be a little more organic than that, a little more naturally self-motivated, as in, “I really can’t wait to write that article,” or “I feel like I have so much great work inside me that I always look forward to sitting down and working on it.” Do people actually feel that way about their work? I think maybe the only thing I feel that way about is the writing I do outside of academia, like this blathering blog.

You know what I’m really good at? Writing lists and making plans about what I’m going to do. I write these elegant goal sets each quarter, complete with schedule blocks and affirmations and steps to success. About three weeks into the quarter I’ve usually abandoned half of them, I’ve gotten so caught up in the immediate details of teaching and/or so freaked out about how scary, tedious, or grueling the work I’ve set out for myself now seems. Or because I’m just lazy. Because chatting on the phone with a friend or reading the New Yorker or just sitting staring at the sky feels so much better than writing academic crap for academics. Maybe THAT’S the root of it. (I do, though, really, really love to sit quietly. I also love to nap.)

I wonder what motivates other people not to be lazy. Mom, you just seem to have the most overflowing wellspring of energy, where you just want to do a million things and you’re always active. You are so not lazy. Jen, you too, although I know that with the set up of your career and family right now you pretty much have no choice but to go-go-go. Caryn, same-same. Dawn: over the top not lazy (though the out of control sleeping is surely your compensation). Grandpa–well, never mind; you’re my true laziness hero. You have raised lazy to an art form.

But here’s what I’m guessing about motivation and laziness. Some people are motivated by the challenge of seeing what they’re capable of, like climbing a mountain, running a marathon, building the Golden Gate bridge. So the curiosity gets them halfway there and the adrenaline gets them the other half. A lot of people are, I suspect, motivated primarily by fear–fear of failing, not being good enough, or of being lazy. Some people are motivated to change something they think needs changing–the state of science, the neighborhood, the world. Some people want fame and fortune. Some people are not lazy because they don’t have the luxury. And some are just lazy.

I don’t know what my issue is. I’m sure I’m a little bit naturally lazy, but I think I’m also at some kind of plateau. I’m not freaking out about my basic survival as in the past (even though I’m haunted by fears about my survival in academia, but that’s an unattractive motivator), I’m enjoying a period of relative security, I’m getting used to the experience of total happiness in a relationship, and cats are the primary models of ambition in my house. (Though Rico, to his credit, is the least lazy cat I know. Paco on the other hand…) Still, there’s a lot that I aim and want to get done; a lot that I want to pursue. I just don’t want to feel like I’m pushing boulders to get going.

9:35. A whole post on laziness should be enough procrastination. Here I go.

Something, probably my fat, hungry cat, woke me at 5:45 this morning. (I was having a lively dream about a family of teenagers with built-in back braces and suspicious sexual proclivities, thank you very much.) I went into the kitchen to feed Paco and noticed something strange happening outside my kitchen window. Rain. Had to do a double-take in the dark, but even without my glasses I could see that it was, indeed, rain–a good, clean, soft April shower.

This filled me with happy comfort. I love rain, and it’s probably the number one thing I miss about Colorado’s otherwise delightful weather (yeah, I also like snow). In summer we do, if we’re lucky, get sweet, dramatic thunderstorms that last a half hour or so, but an entire rainy day comes, if we’re lucky, maybe only twice a year. When that happens, I feel like I’ve died and gone to Portland. But I’ve noticed that most Colorado residents don’t seem too keen on it. God forbid it’s rainy for three days in a row here; people start whining and clawing at the Prozac, anxious about missing their hikes and runs and five-hour bike rides. It’s a tough crowd here on the Front Range, as so many moved here from bad weather places to pursue outdoorsy lifestyles. Gloomy skies seem to give them bad flashbacks or something, their exercise addictions flare up and, well, as Missy Elliot puts it, they just can’t stand the rain.

Clearly, I do not have an exercise addiction. Sure, a nice run or work out perks me up and I like the righteous-muscle feeling as much as anyone, but if the choice is between strapping on my Sauconys or being socked in by a big, fat rainstorm, I’d choose the latter in a heartbeat. Give me a book or a stack of videos, a cup of hot chocolate, a warm blankie (and, ideally, my girlfriend under it with me). Bring it on. Let it come down so hard it makes a fast drumbeat on the roof. I want to remember that Thanksgiving I was stuck at my grandparents’ in Coos Bay, Oregon, the long inhale and exhale of the showers so loud I could hear them over Grandpa George’s football game. Or that first winter at UC Santa Cruz, before the drought years, when I’d walk to class under an umbrella and marvel at the peace of the dripping redwood giants.

 

On summer road trips to Cheyenne Frontier Days or Grandma Grace’s house in Iowa with Daddy, I loved coming up on the charcoal curtain of a storm, watching the water splatter hard on the windshield of our Ford Econoline van. If it lasted long enough, I’d crawl onto our mattress in the back, listening to sentimental Marty Robbins or Tammy Wynette songs on the speakers, hypnotized by the water spreading down the glass of the moonroof. Maybe it’s because I’m a triple air sign, but rain just settles my soul like nothing else.

Marce, remember all those camping trips we got drenched? Seemed like every single time we’d finally get our butts out under the trees we’d be greeted by the deluge of the century. I even have fond memories of those–one of us dashing out of the tent to strap the fly on, screeching and cursing, and then the clammy sweating as the moisture inside created a steam bath, big drops dripping on our heads from the inside. Our wet, giggling Gin Rummy games. Or that time at Harbin Hot Springs, when we had to high-tail it to the tubs across the wet bridges, in nothing but Teva sandals. (Isn’t that when I had to crap in the plastic bag because I didn’t want to run to the outhouse?) And, God, Telluride: coming back to our soaked tent to huddle together in our sleeping bags after nearly getting killed on that high-alpine hail trail from hell (“I’m conFUSED!”). The last thing we wanted to see was rain; we had fantasies of Jodie Foster befriending us and leaving the film festival to warm us up in her clean, dry hotel. Um, NOT. Or outside Gallup, New Mexico, in 1990, on our way to the nuclear test site protests. Oh, yeah, that was snow. But there was that unbelievable rainbow over the Grand Canyon. No rainbows without rain.

So, now it’s barely dripping at all, but the skies are still gray, so I’m hopeful. Give us the kind of rain that makes the grass grow an inch in a day. Give us the acceleration of green. Free car washes. Wet windows, happy flowers, colorful slickers, and kids in rubber boots. And maybe a sense that we haven’t dried up the central states with our aerosol-fixated, gas guzzling, pollution-spouting ways. Maybe even a whole day of rain and exercise IN it.

I’m crossing my fingers.

 

(Most of these pictures are from Wikipedia’s awesome “Rain” entry .)

(Photo courtesy of 4 year-old Reilly, who took it himself.)

I drafted this a couple weeks ago and just finished it up this morning.

***
In the continuing chronicles of my relationship with my dad…

I spent yesterday with the Old Man. We did the single thing we probably do best together: strapping boards on our feet and sliding down huge mountains of cold white stuff for fun. This we can do without talking about politics or religion, without awkward silences, without having to be anywhere but where we are together. In this one activity, I can enjoy following in his path exactly, as he carves graceful arcs in a dance with air and earth. In this I can only hope to live up to the model of excellence he has shown me all my life. When it comes to skiing, the man makes me proud.

As the day unfolds, I find myself noticing what does and doesn’t change over the 40 years I have known the man (which is precisely half of his life, as he fathered me at 40).

For instance, a phrase like, “there’s a nice little blonde lady that works at this warming hut restaurant” still basically translates, “I think that young blonde over there is hot; I noticed her last time.” All my life, whenever my dad has referred to a woman by her hair color, he is assessing her attractiveness, usually favorably. With that exception, most other observations about women are negative, along the lines of, “Jiminy Christmas, do you think you could drive, Lady?!”

What also hasn’t changed is that though my dad is wearing the same pair of worn-out blue ski bibs he’s been sporting for a couple of decades, he nevertheless invests in top-of-the-line boots and skis. I’m talking custom fitted Italian ski boots that come with a boot warmer you plug into the cigarette lighter in the car. I bet they cost a good $800. This is the exact equivalent to the way he wears hand made, special-fit Lucheses with the same Wranglers he probably bought in 1975. On the slopes he trades in his Stetson (alternately: custom multicolored hard hat with “Cowboy” airbrushed on the side) for a glossy chrome-colored helmet. A helmet. This is clearly not the old days.

He’s forever fond of the unspecified “we,” especially when regaling strangers with miscellanea about his past, only some of which is true, so guessing is something of a crap shoot. “Before ski areas became a corporate industry, we used to jump off twenty foot cornices on strips of plywood.” “We used to have to dig a tunnel from the front door to the street, we got so much snow.” “We ran a couple of ranches in Montana.” “We invented the Harvey Wallbanger at the bar I used to run.” “One time we dangled up there on a chairlift in a raging blizzard for four hours because the ski patrol thought it’d be funny to evacuate everyone else before they got to us.” Who is this ‘we,’ I always wonder, and where are ‘they’ now?

But the truth is, as much as he seems like a loner living up in Encampment, Wyoming, land of ranchers and survivalists, and driving all over the country in his Ford F350 by himself, my dad does have, and I guess always has had, lots of friends and acquaintances. Like, now he knows all these colorful yokels down in Talladega, Alabama, where he drives down a couple times a year to sell tickets at the races–for which he barely gets paid enough to cover his fuel. One of those guys called me this summer to RSVP for Daddy’s 80th birthday party and I swear I couldn’t understand a word the guy was saying, his accent was so deep-swamp. But he loved my dad, and the dude actually showed up at the party with his wife, and pastor, and pastor’s wife in a happy little RV. (They were a little too interested in how well my walk with Jesus was going, so I kept a respectful distance.)

Also: my dad skied over 25 times this season. At 80 years old. (It pisses me off, by the way, that so many ski resorts are making people over 70 buy tickets. Don’t you think if those folks are still downhill skiing it ought to be on the house?)

As for what has changed, I’m happy to say there seem to have been a few late-in-life developments.

To wit, the guy actually bought me a pair of skis and boots this year, because my skis are too outdated and one of my old boots broke back in December. Now, I doubt he spent a lot of money on my new equipment; he knows a guy who owns a shop and got the stuff barely used and probably for a steal. But the point is he coughed up actual dollars on me for some shiny equipment when I wasn’t even there. He even got my shoe size right. Considering that when I was young and he’d (oh so rarely) buy me something semi-costly, it would typically come wrapped in the comment, “now, this is your birthday and Christmas present next year”–and it would be. So this random gift-giving thing is progress. He also bought lunch when we went skiing, and this, too, counts for something given the tight wad he is. (Maybe he wanted to impress the hot waitress.)

Also, he’s softer, less caught up in tight-lipped moralizing and grousing about the world. Maybe this is a byproduct of my setting a boundary with him a few years ago that we can’t talk politics. Or maybe he’s just happier. But it’s nice not to hear a lot of comments about Mexicans or Democrats or “Socialist Party A and Socialist Party B,” which is how he once referred to the two party system in the U.S.

He seems to be losing his hearing and says “What?” constantly, which is aggravating. But I suppose with all of the hammers, drills, and saws he’s worked around all his life I can give the guy a break.

He has a BFF, a best-friend guy named John, that he met in church in Longmont. And he calls John, or John calls him, all the time, which means that the last several times I’ve been with my dad I’ve heard them have their little check-ins, talking about what they’re doing that day. I think my dad’s kind of a father figure to John, who’s probably in his early 50s, but John also seems to keep an eye on Daddy, and that gives me a sense of relief. John even slipped me a check to help pay for Daddy’s party. Anyway, it’s cute. (No, Mom, this does not mean that Daddy is gay.)

And speaking of the phone, my dad use to be an absolute Hitler about the phone; he hated the thing, which led to all kinds of f’d up restrictions for me and Bill about phone use in the house and when we could talk to our friends. But now? Seriously, the guy is Mr. Popular with a mobile. His phone rings on the chairlift, and he picks it up!!! We literally got off a lift at the top of Mary Jane so he could listen to his voice mail. He had EIGHT messages. And last Christmas in Crested Butte, he chatted with more friends than Bill, Mary, and me combined. I’m trying not to believe that this is because he’s at the center of a massive evangelical anti-government conspiracy. I’d rather be grateful that the guy is 1) not lonely, clearly; 2) reachable wherever he goes; and 3) no longer a phone hater.

Also, he used to refused to smile in pictures on principle, grousing, “Why in the world do they have to make you smile for it to be a good picture?” But now just look at that happy mug.

For sign off, I’ll just leave you with this ol’ diddy my dad busted out midway through a lift ride that I later had to call him up and transcribe. I’d never heard it before and it just flowed right out of his memory. Cracked me up.

Fifty Cents

I took my gal to a social ball
it was a fancy hop
we stayed until the folks went home
until the music stopped

then to a restaurant we went
the fanciest on the street
she said she wasn’t hungry
but this is what she eat:

a dozen raw, a plate of slaw
a chicken, and a roast
asparagus and apple sauce
and soft-shelled clams on toast

Irish stew, with crackers, too
her appetite was immense
when she called for pie
I thought I’d die,
‘Cuz I had but fifty cents.

She said she wasn’t thirsty
though she had an awful tank
and to prove to you it wasn’t true
this is what she drank:

A whiskey skin, a glass of gin
it made me shake with fear
a bottle of pop with rum on top
and then a glass of beer

A ginger ale, a gin cocktail
she shoulda had more sense
when she called for more
I fell on the floor
‘Cuz I had but fifty cents.

She said she’d call her family
and then we’d have some fun
so I gave the man my fifty cents
and this is what he done:

He tore my clothes, he smashed my nose
he hit me more and more
he gave me a prize
of two black eyes
and with me swept the floor

he took me where my pants are loose
and threw me o’er the fence
take my advice, don’t try it twice
if you have but fifty cents.