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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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Here’s the Pitch

Batter1

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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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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The Banquet: Part Two

BigDate1977bMay, 1977 – Wheaton, IL. It’s prom night (the Junior/Senior Banquet as they call it in our school). I just got my driver’s license this morning. I don’t remember how to get to my date’s house since I’ve never driven there before. I’m lost.

Thank goodness I gave myself an extra half hour to get there. I use it all before I pull into Gayle’s driveway. I’m not late. Not really. Gingerly, I park the green Plymouth Fury III next to her family’s Cadillac Seville. Her younger brother Brad is in the garage, getting their motorcycles ready for summer. They have a boat in there, too, and a private plane parked at the local airport.

I am so far out of my social league, I can’t even see it from here, but Gayle agreed to go with me to the banquet. I take a deep breath and get out of the car. I’m wearing an ill-fitting blue tuxedo, white tube socks and dress shoes.

Brad stands up and wipes his hands on a rag. “May I help you with something, sir?”

“Uh, yes, I’m here to pick up a Miss…Gayle?” I say, trying to match his easygoing gallantry. Not even close.

“Mark,” he says. “Hold out your hand.”

I do. It’s shaking like a leaf.

“She’s just a girl, Mark.”

“I know,” I say, not that knowing it makes any difference. I show him the little box from the florist. “What do I do with this?” I ask. I have no clue.

“Give her the whole thing,” he says. “She’ll know what to do with it.”

I make it to the front door. Gayle’s mom opens it and ushers me in. She announces my presence to the foyer and my date arrives in a pale blue dress. I say stuff like “wow, you look great” and “here’s the corsage” and “okay, you want me to stand where?” as photos are taken in front of the grand piano. Just like that, I get a cameo in the family history.

I escort Gayle to the car, open the door for her, close it without catching her dress in it, walk around to the driver’s side and get in. I back out of the driveway as gingerly as I pulled in. Transmission in Drive. Turn signal. Mirror check. We’re off.

Moments later, I’m lost again. Fortunately, Gayle knows the area. After a few re-directions, we have the banquet hall in sight. I’m thinking about how I will make that left turn into the parking lot when I realize the car in front of me has stopped. I lock all four wheels. My prom date almost hits the windshield. Maybe she actually does, I don’t know, but I apologize profusely as she settles back into her seat and tries not to look ruffled.

No bones broken. No bumper impact. Nerves are shattered, but that is all. We make it to a parking space without further drama.

The banquet is pleasant. I enjoy the musician. I won’t remember the food. I’m glad to be escorting Gayle; she’s nice about it. Friends stop by to chat. As things wind down, a group of us decide to go somewhere after the banquet. Once out of the parking lot, though, I realize I can’t find the place we’re supposed to meet.

That’s it, then. I drive Gayle home. She knows how to get there.

As we drive, I say I had a good time. I say it more than once. Actually, more than three times. At least. She says it was nice. We get to her house and I walk her to the front door.

When I made my reservation a few weeks before, the guys were in shock. “With who? Gayle?! Really? You gonna kiss her good night?”

“No!” I said.

“Idiot!” they cried.

I’m a man of my word. Gayle goes inside; I go back to the car. Lip contact is not involved.

I drive straight home. I walk in the front door and I’m surprised to see my parents sitting in the living room. They’re just as surprised to see me. It’s late for them, but it’s early for a prom night. Really early for a prom night. It’s not even tomorrow yet.

“How was it?” they ask.

“It was fine,” I say. It was. I go to my room and hang up my rented tux. I’m one of the few upperclassmen who gets some sleep that night.

At school a few days later, some guys are comparing notes. They call me over. “What happened? You and Gayle were going to meet with us afterward.”

“I couldn’t find the place, so I took her home.”

“Sure you did! Did you kiss her good night?”

“No!”

“Idiot!”

I’m still glad I went. Thanks for going with me, Gayle. Your graciousness was much appreciated.

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The Banquet: Part One

BigDate1977a_LoResMay, 1977 – Wheaton, IL. I have to go to the Junior/Senior Banquet. That’s what we call the prom at my high school where I’m one of 196 students. That’s not just my Junior class: that’s the whole high school. It’s a fishbowl in which we’re all staring at each other.

Not going to the banquet would be a serious social blunder. I have to go. Fortunately, I already have my tux. Like all the other guys in the choir, I had to have one for the Spring Concert next week. This means that a dozen of us will show up at the banquet with either the red or the blue version of the same ill-fitting tuxedo. Still, that’s one thing off the list.

What I don’t have is a date. Somehow, I have to find a willing female among the dwindling ranks of those still available. The feeding frenzy has gone on for weeks already. Friends have been telling me I’d better hurry. None of my carefully calibrated casual conversations with girls has gotten me any closer to actually securing a date.

Too late. The school day’s over and the deadline for reservations is tomorrow. Now I’ll have to call someone from home. I don’t even have any phone numbers. I’m toast.

I drag myself onto the school bus with my big ol’ guitar case and slump into a window seat. I’m maybe the third person on the bus. I don’t have the heart to wander the parking lot for a final Hail Mary. I can’t imagine who hasn’t already been asked. I stare out the window.

“Is this seat taken?”

Barely registering the question, my brain reviews the facts. The bus is virtually empty and I have a guitar here but this is, technically, a free seat.

I’m vaguely curious who’s asking. I turn to look. It takes me a couple of rapidly accelerating heartbeats to believe my eyes.

Gayle is a Senior. We’re both in choir and we have some of the same friends. She’s nice to everyone. She’s a cheerleader. She’s musically talented. She’s leading the senior class academically. She’s gorgeous.

She’s wondering if the seat next to me is taken.

My mouth doesn’t work.

“Sure, I mean, no, I mean, yeah, you can sit here.” I move my bulky guitar case and Gayle sits next to me. We exchange a few pleasantries. Nothing memorable. I’m still in a fog. She asks me if something’s bothering me. Am I that transparent?

“Oh, it’s this whole banquet thing,” I say.

No, no, no. Why does my mouth suddenly work now when I want it to stop?

“I haven’t got a date yet,” I say.

Do stop. Please. Please stop. My mouth finally stops.

“Neither have I,” says Gayle.

Okay, now my brain won’t work! This does not compute. The highly talented, highly popular, highly intelligent, soon-to-be-valedictorian-who-also-happens-to-be-stunningly-beautiful Gayle does not have a date to the banquet? Impossible.

“You don’t?” I blurt. It’s all the eloquence I can muster under the circumstances.

“No,” she says, looking at me.

The mind boggles. I try to make sense of this information. Gayle doesn’t have a date. She doesn’t. No one has invited Gayle to the banquet. This is SO UNLIKELY as to be inconceivable. I’m still stuck at “Gayle doesn’t have a date.” She’s sitting here with me. With. Me.

She waits.

Slowly, the light dawns. I do the math: it works.

My mouth starts to function again.

“How about if I fix that for you?” I ask. How dashingly suave.

“Really?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “How about if you and I go together? That fixes it for both of us. What do you think?”

“Deal!” she says.

I’m overjoyed! It’s a deal! We shake on it. Literally. We actually shake hands.

Giddy with relief, I chat with her all the way to her stop. She says goodbye and gets off the bus. Gayle. My date to the banquet. Just got off the bus. After sitting next to me. I’m stunned.

A few stops later, I float off the school bus, not bothering to use the steps because my feet won’t stay on the ground anyway. I float into the house. My mom looks up at the ceiling where I am blissfully drifting past the light fixtures.

“What’s with you?” she asks.

“I’m going to the banquet with Gayle,” I say.

“With whom?”

“Gayle,” I confirm.

Eyebrows are raised in surprise. From up here, I don’t care.

I don’t even need to pick out a tux. Now I just have to get a driver’s license.

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Rite of Passage

May, 1977 – Wheaton, IL. At 17 years old, I’m overripe by Midwestern standards. I still don’t have my license. I’ve taken Drivers Ed. and gotten my learner’s permit, but it comes with a ball and chain: another licensed driver must be in the car with me when I drive.

To make matters worse, the prom is coming up. Worse yet, it’s TONIGHT. My date has a valid driver’s license, but if I am to drive her to the prom without breaking the law, I must do the following:

  1. Drive Dad to my date’s house.
  2. Pick up my date.
  3. Drive Dad and my date back to my house.
  4. Drop off Dad.
  5. Drive my date to the prom.
  6. Drive my date back to my house.
  7. Pick up Dad.
  8. Drive Dad and my date to her house.
  9. Drop off my date, while my dad waits in the car.
  10. Drive Dad back home.

Graciously, my dad has decided against this plan. Though it’s a school day, we drive to the Department of Motor Vehicles. I present my credentials to the authorities. They assign an examiner. We go outside.

I get in my dad’s 1972 Plymouth Fury III with a guy who is missing 1/3 of his lower jaw and about half his tongue. Cancer, he says. He tells me everything slowly, doling out syllables one at a time. I’m nervous, and very glad that I’m taking my driver’s test in suburbia after everyone’s already gone to work and school. The neighborhood is deserted.

The examiner tells me to turn right at the stop sign. I come to a complete stop and check to be sure the road is clear in all directions before I turn right. It is. Utterly.

“You know what I miss the most?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

“Beer,” he says. “I can’t drink beer now.”

I’m sympathetic, but too self-conscious to respond properly. The test continues as we wind down one empty, tree-lined street after another.

He tells me to parallel park. You could dock a yacht here–which is good, because that’s essentially what I’m driving. I exaggeratedly turn the wheels “up, up and away” even though the incline is negligible. I put the transmission in Park. All is silent but for the rumble of the idling V-8.

“What did you do wrong?” he asks.

Fear rises like an enemy submarine. I scramble through the possibilities out loud:

“Um, am I too far from the curb? In front of a fire hydrant? A driveway? Should I have checked my mirrors…three times?”

All my questions are answered in the negative. I’m stumped.

“You forgot to use your turn signal,” he says.

I look around. There’s nobody else on the road. Seriously, there’s nobody on the sidewalk.

The examiner reads my mind. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “If you’re going to do anything in a two thousand pound vehicle, let the whole world know!”

Fair enough. It’s my only goof-up on the entire test. I check my mirrors, look over my shoulder, put on my turn signal and drive the examiner back to the DMV. He sits in the passenger seat, filling out paperwork. It takes forever. I just try to appear calm and cool.

When we finally step out of the car, my dad looks worried. I don’t know why. Then it dawns on me: my super-cool deadpan has been misinterpreted. I give him a thumbs up and he exhales a lungful of fatherly concern.

I’m very late for school now, but I can legally drive us straight there, whether or not my passenger has a license. My dad takes over the wheel after I get out. Prom night is saved, but I have one more obstacle: the librarian who doubles as the attendance officer. She is not known for flexibility.

I hand her the handwritten note from my dad: “Please excuse Mark’s tardiness today. He was completing his Drivers Education course by getting his license.”

It’s a stretch, but it’s legit.

Fate smiles upon me. The librarian does not, but she signs the note. I’m excused.

The tale continues. I’ll do the “prequel” and the “sequel” in subsequent posts. Stay tuned.

DriverMay1977

 

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4th of July Creek

1996. It’s 4th of July weekend and I’m hanging out all by myself at Paine Field in Everett, feeling bummed. As the sun goes down, I finally decide that feeling bummed is useless. “If I could do anything I wanted to this weekend, what would I do?” I ask myself.

The answer is immediate: go hiking.

It’s not that I’ve been an avid hiker up to that point. I used to go into the woods on occasion when I was growing up, but I’ve always wanted to go hiking. So why didn’t I? There were plenty of reasons, but none of them applied anymore. It was time to go.

The next day it rained, but the day after that, I got in the car and drove out Highway 2 toward the Cascades. I stopped at a mini-market and bought a gazetteer. Loved it immediately–all those topographical maps with trail markings and dirt roads! “Goblin Ridge” sounded interesting, but wait…”Fourth of July Creek!” It’s fate! Okay, so today’s the 6th of July. Close enough. Plus, it’s the squiggliest line on the map. That’s got to be good, right?

I go down Icicle Creek Road and find the trailhead. I start charging up the hill! It’s exhilarating! It’s fantastic! It’s…exhausting!

Switch back after switch back, it climbs and climbs. About two hours into it, I’ve stripped off my jacket and I really wish I wasn’t wearing denim jeans. I keep going. A lovely group of fit-looking 20-somethings comes tripping down the trail. One of the girls smiles cheerily at me and says, “You’re not sweating nearly enough!” Nicest lie I’ve ever been told.

I keep going. I’m can see more and more of the Enchantments across the valley. I’m up in the lupines now. Beautiful! I’m just pooped, that’s all. I put one foot in front of the other. The top of the ridge still seems to be way up there. My left quad suddenly cramps! I stop and massage it out. A few minutes later, I continue. Another thirty steps and my RIGHT quad cramps! Ack! I rub it out. It’s not totally gone, but now, I can hobble ahead again. NO! I haven’t gone far before my LEFT quad cramps AGAIN! I stop one more time.

As I try to make the painful spasm go away, I’m thinking: “This is NUTS! If I have to stop every 30 steps, I’ll never make it!”

But then, it occurred to me: If I don’t stop, and I don’t turn around, every step is progress. Making it to the top is actually inevitable. Seriously. I can’t help but make it!

I decide that’s what I’ll do: I’ll “rest my way to the top.” A few more steps, another rest. A few more steps, another rest. I avoid cramping again. Little by little, I make it, all the way to the top. I’m so excited that I even have enough energy to climb the garage-sized haystack rock at the summit. The view is amazing, all the way to the valley on one side, and up into the Cascades on all the others. I love it!

Now I have to get down. I chat with a local climber much of the way. When I get to the car, he asks if I want to do some rock climbing with him. I’m just glad to have made it to the car.

I drive home. Getting out of the car takes a series of handholds, a lot of arm strength, and gritted teeth. The next day, I go to work. I’m walking like a decrepit chicken. Getting up from my chair is a 60-second ordeal. This lasts for a couple of days, much to the amusement of my coworkers.

I’ve never forgotten 4th of July Creek. That’s where I learned to “rest my way to the top.”

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