Who Dad?!

Hunkering & Tinkering

During the long hot night hunkered down without power, I thought of many things. As one who has been on fiery mountains with the U.S. Forest Service after the sun went down, I especially imagined those called to work through the night to restore power. Working with men accomplishing difficult tasks shaped much of what I know about being a man.

After writing the above, I had to look "hunker" up. Did you know to hunker is to squat on the balls of one's feet, keeping low to the ground but ready to move if necessary?

I can't maintain that position very long these days; in fact, my challenge last night was finding any position that remained comfortable.

A guy I knew who was the best at hunkering was a well-groomed garbageman called Gentleman Ernie. He was from somewhere in South America and would squat like that on break, always ready to spring into action, and never soiling his ever-pressed uniform. From that position he'd smoke a cigarette to the bitter end, but never leave a butt on the ground. Class, style, and elegance can show up anywhere.

Yeah, I was once a garbageman. Earned a Master's Degree at the University of Arizona while pitching cans in the morning. I even wrote about the "secret language of the alleys" for the Tucson Citizen. I thought I'd write a book about garbagemen, but never did. Here's how it was going to begin:

"The clouds were sitting on the horizon like restless cavalry, straining at their bits, waiting for the command to run rampant on the unsuspecting sleeping city.

At the South 11 yard, line after line of once white garbage trucks slumbered quietly. At the far end of the lot, always busy-looking foremen hustled back and forth between Chevy LUVs and office.

The mountains sucked in the first rays of sunlight like the last hit of a cigarette, and instead of exhaling, let the smoke drift slowly out of its pores until the blue-gray mist covered the mountain face.

In the parking lot outside of the South 11 yard, some in cars, some half in half out of cars, on cars, or leaning on cars, some just standing about looking aimlessly, but all posed for unseen audiences, and all drinking or smoking something: coffee, beer, wine, cigarettes, pot, pipes — for these were the various marijuanos, barachos, winos, cervezos — the operators that ran the garbage trucks called EVOs.

Every morning, rebellion alternated with the bottle, or the smoke, for the dominant position on their lips. Every morning, parking lot inertia and a quiet camaraderie ruled. Foremen and garbage trucks were unthinkable intrusions to this spirit of shared suffering and glory.

But the clouds finally softened, looking now like surrogate foothills, only smoother, more inviting than reality. And all within another moment, the clouds became gold-tipped, a last brilliance before the sun took center stage at the expense of all else.

No whistle blew, but the morning monolith spoke to them: 'Home . . . Federal . . . Savings . . . 5:58 . . . 73 . . .' and the rebellion died again without a word of surrender. A last hit or chug of whatever and the men shuffled and swayed to their waiting steeds.

Then the explosion of starting and racing engines split the air; the rattle of too often shaken steel vibrated the bones; the shriek of brakes long over-used pierced the ear and nerves. These were the sounds of another day beginning at Tucson's South 11 yard."

During the pandemic, I thought of going back to several unfinished manuscripts and typescripts, but sadly realized I could not go back and write in such detail so many years later. There really is a time for everything.

However, the good news is that there is always something worth paying attention to now. I think that is the job of the writer, the artist, the creator: pay attention.

Did you know there are over 350,000 different types of beetles known? Why so many? There are even more kinds of flowering plants. (Have you ever felt you had nothing new to say or do?)

If it were a designer at work, or play, why continue creating more and more new models? Boredom? Fashion? Or, just eternally showing off?

There's a legend that no two snowflakes are alike. I question the possibility of such research, but I get the point: The source, from which everything emerges, is endlessly creative, and we are a part of that.

Here's another story idea: Long ago, before people knew better, there were those who not only stared at clouds but shaped them with their minds. It was wonderful interactive amusement on a planet that could be whatever its inhabitants desired when in harmony with the force that formed and sustained it all.

Imagine if we lived like that. Even the sad dreams of poverty, famine, and pestilence would disappear as if waking up from them — if only we'd love ourselves, each other, and this Creation which tirelessly provides the imagined, the impossible, and the unimaginable in every single second of existence.

If I were a god

creating life on a planet for the first time,

might my trial and error

look like natural selection?

Could I be full of wonder within my own Creation

while still wondering where I went wrong,

tinkering to make it all better?

Might the moon be a love letter

I keep revising?

Sunrise, me again, advising

how to approach a day, each task?

And sunset the signal to sit back,

reflect, let go of control, console, bask?

Not everything goes as I planned.

But then the night sky, the countless stars,

remind me of forever,

our endless Source.

And between the supernova of doing

and the black hole of being

there's nothing to do, or be, but everything.