The Northward Contrail

Well!

As you may recall, even though Valentine's Day is coming up Sunday, I really don't observe it.  Even though I've been lucky at love, my heart has remained with those Cupid's arrows have missed.  I was one of them for a long, long time, and I'll never forget how it feels.

Instead, I'd rather observe what February 14 is really all about: it's Jack Benny's birthday.  Go here and spend some time with the great man.  And enjoy a moment Sunday with two of my favorites:

The drawbridge

Of late the literary recluse has been in the news: first with the passing of a certain Mr. Salinger, and then Calvin and Hobbes creator Bill Watterson granted a rare, if brief, e-mail interview to a Cleveland newspaper.  

Out of all this has come a good deal of commentary about why these creative men kept to themselves, why they didn't contribute more, what their motivations were, and so forth.  For years, people have tried to track them down.  We've heard from someone who used to help handle Salinger's mail, and those tales are interesting, to say the least.  And journalists have tried for years to track down Salinger and Watterson, sometimes ending up with regret afterward.

Some people can't figure out why these men, with their accomplishments, did what they did: why Salinger retreated into the castle with the moat around it, only letting down the drawbridge when he wanted to.  Or why, in relative youth and with Calvin and Hobbes still reliably funny and poignant, Watterson would call it quits and find bliss in anonymity.  Some of the comments on recent articles have been interesting, with people wishing these men had been more productive or been less publicity-shy, or you name it. 

But I can read these articles and completely understand why they didn't let the drawbridge down more than they did, and why they did things on their own terms.  Why, for instance, they used their creativity as they saw fit and refused to let others dictate how they should spend it.  I have no need to second-guess what they did, because I understand it.  And, to some degree, I envy their self-determination.  I've tried to emulate it to some extent. 

For so long, I took so many orders from other folks, and took on things I hated doing.  It was like an apprenticeship, yes, and I picked up many valuable skills and life lessons.  But I also realized that life was too short, and when I was able, there were certain things I wouldn't do again.  I also came to realize that a lot of things in life that somehow meant a good deal to some people weren't really that important to me. 

To a certain extent, I began strategizing for the day when I could have my own drawbridge.  And, to a certain extent, I have one.  I have a good job that pays the bills, and I now have enough seniority to be a little more selective in how I do my work.  I have a little bit of outside consulting work, but I'm very careful not to overextend myself there, and to only do things that I feel are worth it.  With work and with outside activities, I've gotten rid of a lot of things that didn't justify themselves.  As I've grown older, I've really come to appreciate the utility of the word "no."  I still pop up, but only when I feel it's worth it.  I'm not wealthy, but I don't need to be.  I'd rather be happy.  (As I've long said, I pray not for wealth, but for "just enough."  That "just enough" gives you what you need, but reminds you not to get complacent.)

It also fits in with the fatigue I have with letting others define me, or letting myself be defined by my surroundings.  For example, when I'm not at work, I don't like being considered a "professor," because that's not who I am outside the office or classroom, and I get tired when people throw it at me outside a professional context.  I don't like when people project their hopes, dreams, desires or ambitions on me, even when some of those things might be things I'd otherwise stand for.

A few years ago I began writing a novel (that has since, it thankfully appears, died a merciful death).  The protagonist was a young airline pilot who was caught up in a set of circumstances on a certain September morning, managed to resist the takeover of her aircraft, and landed the plane safely.  Against her hopes and wishes, she became a heroine.  And, out of this, her life became a nightmare because everybody wanted her to be something she didn't want to be.  They saw her as all these things, projected onto her a lot of things she didn't want or believe in.  She just wanted to be left alone to do her work and live her life, and it made folks upset that she didn't want to fill this role other folks created for her.  (It was probably a good thing this never got finished, as without really knowing it, I realized later I'd sort of unknowingly ripped off part of Convoy.)  In the end, she ended up moving to a little town in Alaska where nobody knew her except as another bush pilot, and she created her own new life and destiny, and had her own drawbridge.

I spent a lot of time, and put in a lot of effort, earning what I have now.  And, having spent so long and having dedicated myself to getting here, I'm wary when others want something of me.  Inevitably, I've learned, when you do that, they'll want more.  It becomes the old "if you give a mouse a cookie" deal all over again.  So that's why I'm wary.  I do my work, sure, but outside of my work, I like the ability I've earned to ration myself.  It's not that I'm misanthropic.  It's that I'm careful.  I like, for instance, that I basically write this blog because I like to, and if I get tired of it, I can walk away from it and it costs me nothing.  No endorsement deals, no tie-ins, nothing.  It's liberating, and it stays fun that way.  I like, for instance, that most of the projects I do outside work are for myself.  If I'm building something and it doesn't come along to my satisfaction, I can shelve it and not worry about it because I'm my own client.  That's awfully nice.

I like it this way.  And I've worked to get to the point where I can enjoy it.  So, while other people wonder why Salinger and Watterson turned "reclusive," I can look at those two and say "Right on, brothers."  Because I get it.

Frozen in amber

I must have been eight years old the first time I saw it.  Our family was taking a day trip to visit my grandfather, who had a summer home a few hours away.  To get there, we had to travel a series of back roads through different towns to get to the Interstate.

We'd stopped off for some breakfast that Sunday morning and were getting underway again, when I noticed it on my right as we drove past.  It was an old Studebaker dealership.  Long since closed, but it looked almost as if it were preserved in amber.  The neon sign was still up outside, the sales banners were hanging up along the back of the showroom...and, inside, there were a couple of Studebakers on the showroom floor.  I couldn't believe it.  That scene haunted me for days after.

Sometimes we'd take a different route to the Interstate, but other times we'd take this route through this town, and each time, there it was.  My dad would sometimes slow up as we drove past so I could get a good look. 

On one trip, he actually made a stop there so I could get out and look through the showroom windows.  Things were covered in dust, and the windows had this sort of grimy film, and some of the stuff along the back wall was sagging and sun-bleached, but through those windows it almost looked like time had stopped in 1966, like a phone call from South Bend had confirmed the inevitable, and the salesmen had just turned out the lights and locked the doors. 

For whatever reason, I wanted to cry.  I couldn't put my finger on why, not even a decade into my life, that scene got to me.  I don't know if it was because it was like looking through the window directly into a past I felt some kinship with, or if the eerie stillness of it all got to me, or if I was upset because I worried those poor cars were trapped, or what it was.  All I know was, I was just short of inconsolable. 

It became a minor obsession.  My brother had a stereo system with a recordable tape deck and a microphone, and I used to make tapes on which I'd try to do funny things or attempt to create my own radio shows, and on one of them I went on a little monologue about this poor, defunct Studebaker dealership in a hushed, somber tone.  Sometimes my parents would get me a piece of poster board on which to draw, and one of them became a canvas for a heartfelt, trying-too-hard drawing of the building, complete with all the objects in the showroom, trying to depict what it might have been like just before time froze in there.

Time passed and we found different routes to get to my grandfather's home, and over time I put the old Studebaker dealership into the back of my mind.  We passed by a few years later, and the cars were gone, presumably taken elsewhere for safekeeping.  Every once in a while I'd think about it, but I went on to other things and other interests.

About five years ago, hubby and I were coming back from a day trip, and our route home took us through this town once again.  It was the first time I'd been through this town in perhaps two decades.  As we drove along, I saw some things I remembered from back then.  And I began to wonder: Is it still there?

I recognized the building.  It's still there.  But it's different now.  It's been repainted.  The cars are gone.  The big plate glass windows have given way to bricks.  And the sign is gone.  It's now a grocery store.  You'd never know what it used to be. 

All these years later, for the life of me, I still can't figure out why it made me want to start crying that morning all those decades ago.  How can I explain it to others when I can't explain it to myself?

Pop goes the culture

Whilst traveling about the Interwebs lately, I've come across more interesting places that excel in the purpose of killing time.  Here you go:

:: Letters of Note, a place for the display of unique correspondence.  There are some real gems there, everything from the famous letter that started the "Yes, Virginia" tradition to dispatches from Presidents, celebrities, authors, and common folk in uncommon moments. 

:: The Kisseloff Collection.  Jeff Kisseloff wrote one of my favorite books, The Box, an oral history of American television's first four decades that's packed with great stories, and he's also written numerous other books and articles.  This blog is a place for him to display other things he's come across, and to discuss stories and display materials that couldn't fit into his books.  Be warned that a few of the things he's found can be a bit stark, and Kisseloff has a decidedly leftist bent, so if those kinds of things are issues to you, be advised.  On the other hand, some of the exhibits are downright priceless, like these 1948 notes from the NBC censor.   

:: Finally, while a lot of people go ga-ga over the Smokey and the Bandit Trans Am, this website is dedicated to the Pontiacs dearest to my heart.  It's no end of fascinating, especially since I'm planning to build models of a couple of the Rockford Firebirds.  (Perhaps I'll even have the little portable printing press sitting in the back seat so 1:25 scale Jim Rockford can print phony business cards?  It could happen!)

Perspective

I was looking for something the other day and happened across this (it's in six parts; the link takes you to the first part, and you can find the rest there).  It's a long-form interview, conducted by a famous documentarian, with Capt. Denny Fitch.  If you don't know the name, Fitch was involved in the United 232 accident in 1989.  He happened to be aboard the aircraft and volunteered his help to the flight crew.  It's a deeply moving film, in unexpected ways. 

If you've had a bad day, it's excellent viewing to help you put things in perspective.