Simplifying

Everyone’s gone through something. I have, too–some of which I remember, and some of which is a little fuzzy. In many cases, I learned something that’s stuck with me ever since. In other cases, I just shake my head and wonder at the fact that it happened to me. Since I enjoy these stories from my own experience, I decided to write them down.

For awhile, I was storing them here.

In the interest of integration, I’ve decided to consolidate these little essays with my main blog: https://markivancole.wordpress.com/. You’ll find all of these bits there, along with all the other stuff I work on these days.

Thanks for your attention. See you in the ether.

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Spirit of Competition

Competition1974

Fall, 1974 – Quito, Ecuador – Somehow, my tiny expat school can muster up three levels of uniformed boys’ basketball teams. It seems like every guy in grades 7-12 shows up for the after-school tryouts to be either chosen or cut. Seventh and eighth graders are on the same floor with Juniors and Seniors. It’s all drills, skills and fitness assessments. Bragging rights and coolness quotients are at stake. I’m a Freshman this year, and this is my third tryout. I’ve never made it past the first cut. I’m scared to death, but not trying out at all feels like social suicide.

In years past, I would come to school the next day and see if my name was there on the list of guys reporting for for Day Two. Not seeing my name was an embarrassment and a relief: I wasn’t good enough [again] but I was off the hook for the rest of the season if I could live through the gloat-fests some guys had at the losers’ expense.

We all know who the top players are on Day One, but something about this year’s basketball tryouts is different. This year’s Seniors–Jay, Pete, Cesar, “Murph,” “Laurie” and the others–aren’t acting like shoe-ins. They execute every drill as if it mattered, and there’s something else. I see it in the way they hand off the ball after a drill, the way they look you in the eye.

The Seniors laugh and joke as always, but somehow they’ve raised the bar. I’ve never experienced competition like this before. Excellence and respect are contagious. Everyone steps up. Swagger and trash talk disappear.

Toward the end of Day One, most of us are already gasping, but we have to do “wind sprints.” You start at one end of the court and sprint to the foul line. Sprint back. Sprint past the foul line to half court. Sprint back. Sprint to the far foul line, and back again, and then finally sprint across the full court. And back.

The coaches are making it a relay race. We’re divided randomly into teams, motley collections of doomed neophytes, hopeful wannabees, and seasoned athletes. Cesar is on my team.

The whistle blows and the first runners blast out. By the time our guy turns around from the foul line and heads back, Cesar has planted his own foot sideways on the baseline. The runner uses it as a backstop, reverses and races for half court. It’s like launching off a brick wall!

“GO-GO-GO-GO-GO!!” yells Cesar.

I look across the court. Some of the other Seniors are doing the same for their team, posting up to support the runner. The noise in the gym is deafening. We’re all cheering for each other, from the high-scoring, fleet-footed point guards to the bedraggled, knock-kneed stragglers. When I’m tagged, I rocket off of Cesar’s sneaker, too, knowing that he’ll be there urging me on when I get back. When he runs the anchor leg, one of the bigger guys posts up for him. We scream our lungs out for him. I’ve never enjoyed an exhausting race this much. We’re all out there doing our best, and we know it. It feels good. I don’t know which team “won.” It doesn’t matter.

The Seniors continue to raise that bar on Days Two and Three. I know, because I’m also on the floor. After three tries, I’ve made the first cut. I make the second cut, and the third. I get placed on the 3rd Category team. I spend only a few minutes on the court most games. I do my best.

What I remember most from that season is the tryouts, and how the Class of ’75 showed us what good competition looked like.

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Explosion

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Quito, Ecuador, circa 1978 – It’s my senior year, and I’m taking a class that I absolutely need in order to graduate from high school. The teacher is famously hot-headed. I’ve taken one of his classes before, and I’ve seen that bomb go off at close range. Over the years, we’ve all heard the ruckus from our desks in other classrooms. That angry voice cuts through multiple walls of concrete. If we catch each other’s eye, we say nothing. There he goes again.

This whole semester has been quiet. In fact, it’s been basically normal. Until today.

Someone walks in late, interrupting the instruction on a complicated topic. The teacher’s eyes narrow. His face gets red. The bomb detonates.

The late student gets blasted for the disruption and sits down in abject embarrassment. The rest of us are paralyzed at our desks. My heart is pounding, and I’m not even the target. The destruction ends. There is a short silence.

“You have your assignments,” the teacher says, finally. “Get on with it.” He stalks to his desk and starts working. We hear papers shuffling.

We take out our own paper and start working on the assignment. I find it hard to concentrate with cortisol racing through my bloodstream. Five awkward minutes go by, maybe ten.

The teacher gets up and comes to the front of the class. He sits on the stool.

“Can I have everyone’s attention for a minute?” he asks.

Like we’re gonna say no.

He looks over and addresses the late student by name. “I need to apologize,” he says. “You were late, and that was wrong but my response to it was inappropriate. That was unnecessary and you did not deserve it. I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.”

The late student mumbles a shocked acceptance.

The teacher accepts it and tells us to carry on. Then he walks back to his desk.

He’d blown up in front of the whole class, and has the guts to admit he was wrong–not just to the student in private: in front of the whole class.

This example of adulthood I will not forget.

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Here’s the Pitch

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Quito, Ecuador, circa 1970 – I’m ten years old and I’m going to Little League for the first time. Other expat kids do it. Maybe I’ll like it. I know nothing about the game, but I love airplanes so I’m thrilled to be drafted by the Pan Am “Jets.” Perfect.

Before I get my uniform, Pan Am pulls sponsorship and we are now known as “Parker Drilling.” I have no idea what that is.

The game of baseball proves to be a madman’s experiment in kinetics and self-defense. This rock-hard projectile comes hurtling toward me at high speed, and I’m supposed to either deflect it with a stick, or absorb all of its energy into myself and hurl it at some other kid. Practices are interminable. My left hand is a tenderized pork chop and my right arm is a half-ton noodle hanging from a shoulder socket. My neck hurts from all the ducking.

The good thing is: I’m a quick study. I soon learn how best to evade the projectile, whether I’m holding the stick or wearing that oversize leather hand cover. A combination of leaning away, closing my eyes and turning my head works like a charm. This allows the spent ammunition to come to a harmless stop elsewhere.

I also discover I have an unerring ability to get “out.” Holding the stick becomes a formality. Unless the guy on the little hill throwing rocks at me is exceptionally unskilled, I simply eschew the bases. This is not deliberate; it’s a natural talent. For me, being in the batter’s box is the metaphorical kith of a million monkeys sitting at typewriters banging out Shakespeare.

Despite my efforts, Parker Drilling takes second place. We all get trophies.

Once the season is over, my memory of Little League mellows quickly. The silver trophy helps. I imagine myself taking that wide stance: feet planted, bat gripped firmly, steely eyes focused.

There’s the windup…aaaand here’s the pitch.

Once again, I lean away, close my eyes and turn my head. My flailing stick sweeps through the air, making the sound of a million monkeys pounding on typewriter keys.

“STEEEEERIKE THREEEEE! YERR OUUuuuut!”

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The Perfect Gift

Bangkok, circa 2003 – It’s the last night of my first business trip to Thailand. Having failed to get to the shopping center the night before, I head out on foot. This time, I make it.

Everything in the mall is lit brilliantly and polished to a dazzling shine. Having just come in from the heat and humidity, I also glisten. Excessively. No matter. I’m on a mission. I want a proper Thai outfit for my wife. I’m lucky she is Asian: it gives me a better chance of finding something in her size.

I move quickly from store to store. Most of the more traditional offerings clinging to the bosoms and waists and draping down the legs of the mannequins are overly complex. Fabrics tend to be uncomfortably crisp. Colors are almost garish. Prices include digits my budget cannot accommodate. I keep looking.

The stores will be closing soon. I scale the escalator in leaps and bounds, grateful for the air conditioning. The second floor has nothing more suitable than the first. I head for the next floor. I’ll look in every store if I must. Time is running out.

Different colors, different fabrics, shifts in design–from more Indian to more Japanese–none of these are any closer to what I want.

I’ve come to the last store. A petite young clerk approaches me, using the best English she can muster. I try to explain: I’m looking for something classy but casual. She points out a teal/red/white costume that would not be out of place at the opera, onstage. I smile apologetically and walk around the store one more time, just to be sure. The clerk follows at a polite distance. The store closes in five minutes.

Wait. There. That. YES. That’s EXACTLY what I’m looking for!

Hanging on a rack of miscellany somewhat out of the way is a simple, fitted, long-sleeved, bronze/gold dress. Traditional peg-and-loop buttons go down the front from the low-rise Mandarin collar to the waist. The naturally crinkled fabric is soft to the touch. The slightly flared skirt splits just above the knee on one side. The whole design speaks of comfortable elegance.

I cannot find a price tag. Perhaps it’s a return. I don’t mind. It’s the right size. It’s perfect. I ask about the cost.

“I’m sorry; I cannot sell that to you,” says the clerk, graciously.

It’s precisely what I want, so I inquire again. Apologizing anew, the clerk insists that this dress cannot be sold to me. I’m baffled.

“Why can’t you sell it to me?” I ask. Surely it’s available. She’s wearing one just like it.

“That is our uniform, sir,” she says.

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Attempted Transportation in Thailand

Bangkok, circa 2003 – It’s the next-to-last night of my first business trip to Asia. I want to get something local for my wife. One of the hotel staff kindly writes the name and address of a major shopping center on the back of the hotel business card. Perfect.

I flag a taxi. He speaks little English and I speak no Thai. I show him the business card. He looks it over and nods. I get in and off we go. He’s asking questions. I repeat the bit about the shopping center and show him the card again. We lurch slowly forward in the crazy traffic. After a few blocks, he pulls over and calls out to a pedestrian.

The guy on the street doesn’t know what either of us is talking about. The driver shrugs and waves me out of the cab. I disembark. We haven’t gone far enough to cost me a fare. The taxi drives away as the guy on the street points toward some tuk-tuks, the three-wheeled motorcycles that go everywhere in Thailand. My ride is now reduced by one wheel and a couple of cylinders, but I might still be able to get to the shopping center on time.

I show my business card to the nearest tuk-tuk driver. He looks at it. Another driver looks at it with him. The business card draws a small crowd that now includes the rest of the tuk-tuk drivers and various passersby who wonder what’s so interesting. There is much discussion, much gesticulation, much shaking of heads. The passersby move on. The tuk-tuk drivers disperse. A champion emerges.

A guy who’s less than half my size hands the business card back to me and strides confidently toward a gated area, waving to me to follow. He’s getting his scooter. Scooter? I do the math: I started with a taxi, went down to a tuk-tuk, and have now deducted one more wheel, all of the doors, and most of the engine.

When I mention the shopping center, Mr. Confidence nods repeatedly. He dons a plastic army man helmet and hands one to me. I place it on top of my head where it sits like an abandoned turtle shell stranded on a boulder. The strap ends dangle just below my earlobes. Even if I could buckle it on, this helmet would cause more cranial damage than it would prevent.

Clearly, this will not work, but what’s next? One less wheel and I’ll be riding shotgun on a unicycle.

The shopping center is closing soon. I return the plastic army man helmet to Mr. Confidence and start walking back to the hotel. I get lost only once.

Later, I sketch out how I imagine Mr. Confidence and me on the scooter. I envision a death-defying wheelie when he hits the gas.

I will try again tomorrow–on foot.

Thailand_Mark on a Scooter
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The Signature

Portland, OR, Circa 2006 – I’m standing in the Art section of Powell Books. A particular shelf has seized my attention. It holds a dozen or so copies of a book that is new to me. I bring down a copy and begin to peruse the pages. It’s an artist’s sketchbook, fully realized as a hard-bound publication. It offers more than I could have asked for: droll yet entertaining text with insights into the process and the experience, page after page of creative, imaginative depictions of fantastic places, objects and creatures; musings on how such ideas arise…

The pencil drawings are rendered deftly–almost casually–but with such skill! The designs are out of this world, and fully believable. The environments are evocative. I aspire to draw like this!

So engrossing is the book that I do not immediately notice what’s happening on the other side of a projection screen facing rows of chairs a short distance away. A man is speaking in a gentle voice with quiet enthusiasm. The audience laughs appreciatively at one thing or another.

Somehow, what he is saying correlates to the drawings I’m studying. Minutes later, I come to the realization that the man is speaking in first person–that this is, in fact, the very artist whose Lord of the Rings Sketchbook I hold in my hands.

I close the book and walk around the edge of the now-standing-room-only crowd facing the projection screen. Alan Lee is saying things like, “I eventually left art school because we didn’t seem to be doing much drawing,” and “The film deadlines were so tight, we all got very good at Photoshop; we would just paste a few figures onto a photo of New Zealand.”

He carries on for maybe half an hour more, holding us in rapt attention. When he is done, he sits down at a small desk while a staff member announces that Mr. Lee will be available for autographs. Ping suggests that I buy the book and have it signed. I tend to be reluctant to ask for autographs. I don’t quite know what they mean, I guess. The people who quickly form a long line leading to the desk have no such misgivings.

I buy the book and join the queue behind a guy who has a moving box full of Alan Lee art: books, calendars, posters, etc. I have a long time to wait. I watch Mr. Lee stand up and shake the hand of every person who comes to the desk. He does this for everyone, without exception. Then he sits down and signs whatever thing they have for him. He is neither hurried nor harried. I’m impressed. The line inches forward.

When the guy in front of me gets to the desk, he launches into a “great fan of yours” speech. Mr. Lee listens quietly until it becomes obvious that the guy wants him to sign every bit of memorabilia in the box. “How about if I sign these two?” says Mr. Lee. The box holder relents.

Now it’s my turn. Alan Lee stands up, looks me in the eye and asks my name. We shake hands. I give him my new copy of his sketchbook. Opening it to the title page, he asks: “How would you like me to sign it?”

I balk. I have no idea. We’ve just met. What do I want from Alan Lee?

I don’t want to be a bother. I say: “Whatever you like is fine.” I’ve given him nothing.

Graciously, he writes a brief dedication, signs beneath it and hands the book back to me with a smile. I thank him and move on so he can continue with the rest of the line. I’ve not been too much of a bother.

I’ve had years to think about this. I know what I would ask for now. From what I have seen of Alan Lee, he would happily give it to me. Time is not linear, so I have gone back and asked for what I really wanted.  I got it.

When I read his signature now, it says this to me:

To Mark–
   Keep drawing!
     Alan Lee

I have done so, Mr. Lee; I have indeed. Thank you.

Alan Lee Sketchbook

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Fuses, C-clips and Generosity

FusesCClipsCirca 1983, Santa Barbara, CA – The Fiat sits in the median. Turning the key does nothing. Jiggling wires and opening the fuse box turns up nothing. The car remains dead. I find a repair shop that can fix Italian cars and have the Fiat towed there at a cost of $30. At my income, that’s a big “ouch.”

The guy calls me the next day and says I can pick up the car. When I come to get it, I ask what caused the breakdown. A fuse had blown. He replaced it. Five bucks.

I’m relieved, but puzzled. All the fuses I’d checked seemed fine. “Where is this fuse?” I ask.

He gives me a funny look. “That’s how we make our money,” he says, and offers no more information.

I’m stunned. I can’t afford to spend another $35 so he can make less than $5 in profit the next time this same fuse blows. When the carburetor jams up a few months later, I find another mechanic who works on Fiats. He’ll fix it, and he tells me I can save some money by removing and replacing the carburetor myself. Gratefully noted. I ask him about the fuse I couldn’t find.

“Beneath the carpet under the driver’s seat,” he says. Sweet! I have a Fiat mechanic.

Same year, different car. The clutch goes out on my Pontiac T1000. I have the car towed to a GM-certified repair place. They grin, shake their heads and fix it on the spot. It’s done in a few minutes.

“How much?” I ask.

“No charge.”

“Really?! What did you do?” I ask.

One of the guys points to a corrugated worm coming out of the firewall. “This sleeve slides over the clutch cable. You pull it out to adjust the amount of play. It’s kept in place by this flimsy aluminum C-clip. These things break all the time.” He reaches into a box and hands me half a dozen of them. “If you run out, come back for more,” he says.

I keep them in the glove compartment. Over the next couple of years, I replace several. Tired of having the clutch go out, I finally cut a piece of pipe to the right length and wire it in place. Problem solved.

One day the car starts growling like an adenoidal chihuahua. It’s lost power, too. I take it to the C-clip guys.

They show me a hole in the manifold.

“How much is this going to cost?” I shudder to ask.

“Nothing. California emissions law requires the entire exhaust system to be maintained under warranty,” they tell me. “We’ll just bill Pontiac.”

Guess whom I recommended wholeheartedly when a friend’s car needs major work?

Minor investments paid off in major trust.

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Our First Big Hike

LeafFossilTrail_AP_10x8Circa 2000, Oregon – It’s our first real trip together as a couple. Ping has suggested a tour of some of her favorite places in Oregon. I’m stoked.

I’ve been hiking a lot in the last three years, including a recent solo summit of Mt. Forgotten and a couple of climbs to Camp Muir up at 10,000′ on Mt. Rainier, so I consider myself pretty experienced. I’m looking forward to hiking with this delightful woman: doing something I love with someone I love.

It takes more than four hours to drive to the John Day Fossil Beds. I can hardly wait to get on the trail. I talk when I’m excited, and I’ve been talking nonstop.

We pull into the Leaf Fossil Trail parking area. I get out and pop the trunk, prattling on about the Ten Essentials while I pull out my hiking stuff. As we get ready, I enthusiastically describe each piece of gear: what it’s good for, how I learned about it, and how much weight it saves. I have a lot to say.

“See, when I put this duct tape on my heels and each big toe, and wear these hiking socks, I don’t get blisters. My boots and gaiters have Gore-Tex. They’re not just waterproof; they’re breathable. I’ll never wear non-breathable gaiters again! I can adjust these three-section, collapsible trekking poles to the proper length and level of shock absorption most suitable to the terrain.”

I doublecheck the pack: compass, map, whistle, first aid kit, emergency blanket, fire starter, flashlight, extra batteries, extra layers, extra food, hydration system, lip balm, water filter…

Ping just stands there. She’s been ready to go since she tied her shoes.

Finally, I don my glacier glasses, pocket the protective rubber tips from my trekking poles, clip the hydration system mouthpiece to the strap of my pack, and re-position my camera case. Off we go.

I set a steady “go all day” pace: just quick enough to make good distance without wearing us out. I’m still chattering away like a one-man flock of starlings.

“Wow, great place! Fossils everywhere. Hey, once we’ve been hiking for ten minutes or so, I’ll probably stretch. I used to stretch at the trailhead but now I hike a bit first, just to get warmed up, you know? Did I mention how these trekking poles stick to everything? I don’t need them on this level part of the trail, of course, but they really add stability when crossing streams or snowfields. This is actually my second pair. Yeah, the first ones I got were—”

I’m suddenly speechless. The view is unbelievable.

We’re looking…at…our car. But we just left our car. Why is it here?

We have a map. I pull it out.

The Leaf Fossil Trail turns out to be exactly one quarter mile long. Total. And it’s a loop.

We could have walked the whole trail in less time than it took me to gear up. It probably takes longer to say “Leaf Fossil Trail, John Day Fossil Beds National Monument, Painted Hills Unit” than it takes to hike it.

Way more time will be spent laughing about this. Short hike. High entertainment value.

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