Scared of the Dark

So, my brother and I shared a bedroom for about the first nine years of my life. For most of that time, we had a set of bunk beds. Being older, Chris got the obviously cooler top bunk. We had them set up with mine at a right angle to his, my left shoulder up against the ladder for his bed. 

I’m not ashamed to admit, as a kid I was a big time scaredy cat. I don’t know if I just had an overactive imagination or what it was, but there were lots of nights I was too scared to sleep and would sneak into my parents’ room and either sleep in their bed or ask my mom to come sleep in mine to keep me safe.

Rest assured, this stopped before I hit middle school.

But I was often scared at night, my mind filling in the space that my bedside lamp couldn’t reach. I imagined all sorts of monsters lurking, just waiting for me to drop my guard. I was even scared to sleep facing away from the bathroom door, because they just might come in through there. 

I saw the movie Gremlins in the theater as a three year old; I’m still not sure why my parents thought that was a good idea. I spent most of it in the lobby, using Jujyfruit candies to comfort me. But I caught certain scenes of the movie in between crying and my parents switching off who took me out to the lobby. After that, I was definitely scared of gremlins.

You're telling me this wouldn't scare the crap out of you as a three year old?

For months, I would be absolutely certain that a ravenous pack of gremlins was right at the foot of my bed, waiting to chew on my feet. 

There was one thing that kept me sane and comforted me enough to fall asleep each night. 

I knew that if gremlins WERE to crawl up over the footboard and get under my covers, all I would have to do is scream. My brother would be quick thinking enough to both realize exactly what was happening, and also comprehend that he just needed to roll off his bed and land on my legs, squashing the gremlins.

I’m serious. This was my thought every night. I envisioned my brother waking up and instantly knowing what needed to be done and just roll off his bed onto mine, saving me.

Because he’s almost seven years older than me, my brother and I got in more than our fair share of fights sharing a room. But every night, fighting to fall asleep, I was glad he was there and missed him when he eventually moved out and I was left alone.

Sea Shells, Ice Cream

This feels like an odd memory to write about, because I’m currently sitting in a mountain cabin surrounded by snow. 

I grew up spending lots of time in Newport Beach, because my family had a house there. We often went with another family who stayed with us, the Adams. Matt was a few years older than me and his sister was about my brother’s age. We would spend weeks there every summer, mostly playing in the bay surrounding our little island. 

On the island was an ice cream shop named Dad’s, and they had a special offering: Balboa Bars. A Bal Bar is a brick of vanilla ice cream with a stick through it. They dipped the ice cream in melted chocolate sauce and before it hardened, they put the bar in sprinkles, or nuts, or chopped up Oreos. The chocolate would resolidify and they would hand this delectable summer treat to you on a cheap paper tray.

My parents being smart and recognizing that we would eat as many Balboa Bars as possible, they tried to ration how many we had. I think most days this “rationing” meant that we kept it to one bar per day. So, my siblings and I figured out a way around the fact that my parents had all the money.

We walked the beach, collecting seashells, and would eventually reconvene to lay out our newfound treasures. The beachfront on Balboa Island has a seawall about three feet high, perfect for spreading out a towel and the cream of the crop shells for an impromptu sales booth.

We would charge nickels, dimes, and quarters for the especially unique shells. After a few hours working the beach front, enough people would have played along for us to have a Ziploc bag full of change. I think most people just walked a few hundred feet and tossed the shells back into the sand, but we had a great sales rate when people heard that we were trying to earn enough for Balboa Bars. 

Now, when I go to Balboa, I still see kids selling shells from time to time. It’s a little sad for me now, because I think three decades of people like me collecting all the best shells has left the beaches pretty sparse of shells. Whenever I see a shell sale now, the kids have painted on the shells, making them bright pink and green. They lack the simple charm of the ones we sold, but I always make sure that I don’t pass by without giving them something for their shells.

Balboa was such a huge part of my childhood, and I think what makes me saddest about this memory is that the place simply can’t be what it was when I was younger. Balboa Bars cost too much now to buy with change. The beautiful shells have been long since harvested from the sandy shore. 

But looking out at the snow just outside the window, I know that no other place will ever hold the charm and the magic that Balboa has for me. Even though the island is different now, it’s still the place where I could make a whole day out of seashells and ice cream.

My Neighborhood and an Earthquake

Growing up in Southern California, earthquakes were fairly common and I grew used to them. But the first one I remember experiencing was distinct. It was 1987, and I was lying on my bed next to my older brother reading a Batman comic book. About a quarter to eight, the room started to move.

I'm not sure if I had ever experienced an earthquake while awake before that, but I know that this was a foreign feeling for me. My parents had trained me to go to the long hallway in the house and get in a doorway, the most stable place in our home. That hallway was right outside my bedroom, so my brother, being the quick thinker that he is, picked me up and tossed me towards the hallway.

I guess he was looking out for me, but it only made me more panicked. 

Once it was over, we checked the news and saw that it was a 5.9 shaker, no small deal, even to an area where earthquakes happen regularly.

After some debate, my mom decided that we were all going to school anyway so my brother headed off to middle school while my mom walked my sister and me the few blocks to our elementary school. When we got there, it was a vague sort of controlled chaos. The majority of kids had still shown up, most of them with their parents instead of the standard solo walkers and bikers. 

My mom was allowed to sign out several other kids, and since they decided to cancel school once everyone had checked in, we ended up taking home four or five families worth of kids to our house. I grew up in a neighborhood with lots of families the same age, and we all served as the emergency contact for each other. 

There were about 20 of us crammed into our family room, watching TV all day. It was a funny feeling, being both on edge for aftershocks (which came throughout the day) and excited to be missing school and hanging out with all our friends. We even made a game out of waiting for the aftershocks. There used to be a vase full of fake flowers on top of our TV, and every time they moved even a little, we would all yell and grab cushions and put them over our head. My brother would even put on an old hard hat. Most of the time, the flowers shook because our dog was scratching behind his ear.

I think the strongest memory of that day was how much fun it was, even though it was a scary experience and I was on edge a bit the rest of the day. When I look back, I'm kind of amazed at how well we all knew each other; my mom signed out almost two dozen neighborhood kids, and those parents trusted her to look after them on a day where everyone was a little nervous that "The Big One" would be on its way. I think that says something about my mom and it says something about the kind of neighborhood we had. The only way to get the kind of reputation she had and the kind of neighborhood we had is through time and consistency. Being dependable time after time, they trusted her, and we had all been together long enough that our neighborhood felt like we were all in it together. 

What a place to grow up.

30 Days of Memories

There's an organization called National Novel Writer's Month, or NaNoWriMo for those in the know. Their goal is to get people to write a 50,000 word novel in the 30 days of November each year, and hundreds of thousands of people participate world wide. Last year, I was a "winner" (meaning I completed a 50,000 word novel in the month) and loved the experience. It was a challenge, trying to keep up with the required daily word count.

I enjoyed how it pushed me to be creative and to write every day, and I would love to participate again. But I'm at a spot where it feels like giving 90 minutes a day to writing isn't the best use of my time, so I've decided to tweak it a little. Rather than be driven by a word count and the challenge of writing a novel, I'm going to write about one memory each day. My hope is to recall moments I thought were lost and to flesh out, give life to the familiar recollections. I tend to need deadlines and external motivation to write, so I hope this does the trick!

I'll be posting most of them right here all November long, though I expect to hold back a few particularly personal ones. Make sure you check back all month to see what turns up!

A Yearly Practice

I committed myself to a yearly practice: sending a thank you card to a doctor.

Every year on October 29, there's a surgeon who gets a card and a picture of me doing something I wouldn't have been able to do without his work. I've sent him a picture of me on top of a 14,000 foot mountain and one at the finish line of a half marathon. I'm not sure which one I'm sending next, but I know I'll have some good options by this October.

And really, that's one of the reasons I started doing this. I knew that if I had to have at least ONE adventure every year, even if it was just to have a picture to send, that would push me to do more. I can't live a sedentary, uninteresting, unadventurous life…because I need a picture to mail. This pushes me to try new things and simply…do more enjoyable things.

I also started doing this so that I would always remember gratefulness. It is so easy for us to forget what things used to be like once we live in a different reality. I want to remember how hard it used to be, so that I recognize just how good it is now. I believe that sending him a card keeps me in touch with thankfulness.

But there's actually a bigger reason that I send him a picture and a card. It's to remind HIM of how important he has been. Just another day in the office for him wrought out a massive life change for me. I think most people probably receive from him what I did, which is a massive gift…but then they go about living into that gift. This man changed everything for me, and I want him to know that. And that's why a one time thank you isn't sufficient in my mind. Every year that I'm able to do something is STILL a gift from that surgeon, and I want him to know that another day in the office shifted my potential for joy.

Neighbors, Alarms

Last December, someone kicked in my door and left with a few items…it seems they wanted to do their Christmas shopping at my place.

Because I don't want to repeat the experience, I've had an alarm installed in my house. It's taking some getting used to, and I've definitely already set it off once by accident. 

One of the things I've realized in this whole process is that a couple of decades ago, people didn't really have home alarms. 

They had neighbors. 

When my house was robbed, I couldn't even tell my neighbors to be on the look out, because we've never really spoke. I've lived here more than two years, and I know the name of ONE neighbor. I think it used to be that neighbors looked out for each other, and they would recognize when there was a suspicious car parked across the street. 

Home alarms are taking the role that our neighbors used to have. We would rely on our neighbors to watch over our house when we were gone, but now we rely on an electronic system. We simply couldn't ask a neighbor to gather our mail or pick up the newspaper, because that would be trusting and inconveniencing a stranger…who lives 25 feet away from me. 

I don't know what the lesson in all this is…it makes me realize that I wish I were more present in my neighborhood. If nothing else, that I could knock on their doors and tell them to be extra careful around the holidays. Maybe that's the challenge to me. Christmas is 33 weeks from today…I'm going to make sure that come December, my neighbors feel like they can trust me more than their alarm system.

I Am Not a Hipster

Hands down, this is my favorite movie of the week at Sundance. It seems to me that there is a lot to love about this film.

It's a musical in the sense that "Once" is a music. While the characters don't simply burst into song, as musicians their craft indicates their true feelings and struggles. The main character, Brook, is struggling to come to grips with the loss of his mother, his own purpose and the value of creation.

The film is full of references to his first album, Canines, which indicates that he has great talent for songwriting. However, Brook wonders about the value of such creation; the movie opens with him being heartbroken over the tsunami striking Japan's coastline. It is apparent that he questions the value of something as "silly" as songwriting in a world where such atrocities occur. In many ways, Brook craves something that is real. He shuns meaningless relationships and while he enjoys the praise of his peers, he knows that it is ultimately empty. 

This brings up the question of meaning and purpose to each life; what are the goals of living? An individual bestowed with huge amounts of talent wonders whether it's worth using it. Brook represents many of us who wonder what we are meant for. It's human nature to question our purpose.

Similarly, Brook's life questions the value of beauty. Is it enough that something is enjoyable, or must it have some further, deeper purpose? Is the enjoyment and appreciation of something enough to giving it intrinsic value? Perhaps the beauty of something indicates a built in value as well as the value of its creator.

A pivotal moment occurs between Brook and Clark, his would-be best friend. Brook states, "Too many people are making crap and calling it art." Clark responds, "I do it because it makes me happy." This epitomizes a future shift for Brook, a realization that creation itself has value. 

This movie was so well done in many ways. The dialogue is authentic and true; nothing about the interactions feels forced. The camera work is excellent, especially in the scene where Brook displays his brokenness. He breaks down at night and cries, waking one of his sisters. She comforts him holds him; it's an incredible scene, with the point of focus constantly shifting. It provides the audience with a sense of shifting clarity and mimics the view of one who has tears in their eyes. It is a finely crafted scene that serves as a high point of the directing.

Perhaps the best part of this film is the music. It is insightful into Brook's struggle and matches the philosophy of the film. The soundtrack is certainly worth owning, as is the Canines album, which the filmmakers released.