The Loneliness of Lighthouse Keepers

The last time I checked in at Governor's was under a moon holding water. This time, it was giving me a sideways grin.

As soon as my right foot hit the faded paisley carpet, the bartender looked up and barked a greeting in my direction. Actually, he says just about everything in a bark and I reckon from the look of him that he's got the bite to back it up. I hadn't even sat down yet and he was already pouring my pint. He doesn't know my name, but he remembers my drink. Lord, I love this place.

It was the day after Valentine's Day, that marvelous invention to fulfill our need to buy some useless shit and bridge the chasm between New Year's and St. Patrick's Day when we can drink ourselves stupid and have an excuse...but it didn't matter because the décor here is prepared for all occasions.

There are cardboard cut-outs hung here and there via staple gun, the kind you see on your kid's wall at grade school. Hearts and cupids of course, but they share the wall with shamrocks and pots of gold, a turkey, and a cock-eyed baby new year that has long since worn through all but one staple in his top hat. The baby's feet move away from the wall from the puff of air that pushes in whenever someone enters. Top it off with a bar festooned with colored Christmas lights wrapped in a garland made of material I'm sure was banned in the 70's, and you've got a one-stop holiday hangover installer. It's very festive.

The only thing missing are the ashtrays. They adopted the indoor smoking ban early up here, and you have to be one hardcore smoker to go stand outside for a cigarette this time of year...and these people do it without coats in 5 degree weather. They'll have whole conversations, just standin' out there smoking like its goddam spring.

Boone was there, legs akimbo, perched on the corner stool. I get here about twice a month and he's always on hand; he lives in the neighborhood. The 64 bus, the same line I take to work, lets out right at the corner. Boone gets off the bus and then ducks in for a drink and to read the paper before he goes home, but tonight he had stayed longer. He was mid-stream in a PBR tallboy and a story about how winters like this make people go crazy.

“This should be good...” I thought to myself as I unzipped my jacket and parked across the corner from him.

The bartender is an ol boy called Lou. As I got situated, he swabbed the bar in front of me and roughly set down my beer, sloshing some onto the area he'd just wiped. Lou is kinda what you'd call a 'skinny-fat guy'. He's tall and lanky, but solid and broad chested. His pants go up higher in the back so the waistband can accommodate the belly that's sloppin' over the front. Rail thin legs, but thick Popeye forearms with a few faded military oriented tattoos. You know the type...he used to be really thin, probably an athlete, then let himself go. Puts you in mind of a sweet potato experiment in a mason jar on the kitchen window sill when you were kid.

I got out my wallet as Boone went back into his rant, tapping a Newport filter side down onto a coaster. He said “people tell stories, those urban legends, 'bout how a one room school house in the country gets snowed in, then the teacher goes ape-shit and kills the kids."

I pointed out that a one-room country school house is a strange topic for an urban legend.

"Put that one on my tab, Lou.” Boone said, directing me to the jukebox. I used the fiver there instead and he picked up where he left off.

“Butchered every one of 'em. They say if you go out there at night you can hear the screams. It's an urban legend, but that shit happens. And let me tell you, after the shit we've been through up here these past 5 months, there ain't a jury in this state that would convict the teacher.”

Lou agreed with a stifled bark and rolled his eyes. He says hibernation can be good, but like anything...'good' is best in doses. Believe it or not a body can only sleep so much before it starts to rebel; it gets to a point where sleep is all you really want, but your body says “screw you, I've been sleeping for months now, we're staying up”. You don't know which way is which and every time you wake up you have to figure out if its dawn or dusk.

Someone really put a nickel in Boone tonight, he was full of examples of people going nuts and doing unexplainable things. Short tempers ruining relationships. For the better part of a half hour he shared these stories with enthusiasm fueled by cheap beer. I didn't have the heart to tell him that some of the details from his stories were actually out-takes from The Shining.

“Going ape-shit is right.” Lou said, finally taking a break and leaning against the cooler as Van Morrison's An Evening in June came over the speakers. Boone looked up and gave me that “oh, aren't you cute” look.

“My uncle did a stint in the Coast Guard on the east coast, when he got out he pulled six months as a lighthouse keeper built on this little...turd of an island”, Lou said. His uncle fashioned himself as the independent sort, and didn't think the isolation would be a problem.

He held up one finger and kinda shook it, explaining that “isolation is one thing, going mental is another, and then there's being by yourself on an island...working your ass off to tend a light you're not sure is even necessary.”

See, lighthouses had become easier to manage by the time his uncle came on. This particular light was previously manned by three people even though the work could have been done by two; the third man's job was to keep the other two from killing each other if a fight broke out after someone suddenly lost their mind; snapping when someone says "pass me that wrench" wrong. Obviously that part of the job description was interchangeable, any one of the three might be called to break up a fight, however there was no contingency plan for a situation where two guys suddenly realize they've had it with the other's superior attitude...then what? With a bit of 1950's technology and some automation, everything could be monitored by just one person at this point.

The first people on the island to tend the light was a family; a couple in their thirties and their young daughter. Evidently their living quarters weren't finished, and they were staying in a wood shack that had been set-up nearby when a huge storm rolled in with high winds, snow, and temperatures colder than a well digger's kerblocken. The water around the island was frozen solid 50 yards out on all sides for three weeks with 15 feet waves beyond that, there was no getting in or out. They didn't have a radio. The little girl got sick. She died since they couldn't get help.

“My uncle told this great story about how the wife took their daughter to the mainland as soon as a boat was able to get there. She told him she would be back after she had seen to a proper funeral...get the kid buried and that. Obviously he had to stay. Days turned to weeks. Weeks to months. Months to the realization that she wasn't coming back. Before the winter was over, he had hung himself from the top railing just after cleaning the lens.”

Lou paused for effect, then his voice dropped way down. The bark softened to a deep murmur; that comforting tone a normally gruff man takes on when you put a baby in his hands. He added “Can you imagine that? He kept that light going...just hoping that the next boat was going to bring his wife back. Finally he realizes that she's joined the world, and is probably well out of sight of that light he's tending.”

I was expecting more, but suddenly he snapped back to himself and got busy with some glassware.

Boone piped up with a couple choice words and a rather incredulous response to Lou's uncle's wife leaving him on that frozen rock.

Lou exhaled heavily and then corrected him. "No dipshit, weren't you listening? My uncle was alone, this was the first keepers on the island. I don't even know if its true."

"See that? That's what I'm talking about. Gettin' all frustrated over a simple question. Damn man, have a highball. I'll buy it for you."

“How did your uncle do?” I asked.

“Oh, he was always kind of an asshole so who knows.” Lou said flatly.

There. That's the ending I was after.

Boone laughed his way out to smoke. Lou started dragging trash cans to the back.

For a few moments it's just me and suddenly I want to leave, but I've still got half a beer and 5 or 6 more songs on the juke.

*here are the lyrics, if you want to sing along.

Christmas card from a DJ in St. Paul

I-80 between Des Moines and Omaha is pitch black by 5 o'clock in the evening...not much traffic. Once away from the city, the only evidence of the wind turbines was their collision avoidance beacons, each firing off at a different time than those around it....a strand of giant red lights against black nothing. I must've spent 15 minutes trying to come up with a red light district joke that would work with a farming community tie in...but I got nothin'. Obviously I had begun to go a little car crazy with nothing but the hum of tires with 30% tread and green mile markers to look at. My phone's 'This American Life' app only works with a solid network connection, so that was a bust...consequently I think I memorized the new Cadillac Sky record.

One track in particular really got me inside my head. I had a full 90 minutes to remember.

I'm runnin' at 72 mph in a tin can, listening to this song and thinking about the time dad took me to Dairy Queen on the back of his motorcycle after I had worked in the yard all afternoon. I was so tired, I lapped at that ice cream cone for all I was worth. I remember struggling to stay awake after the exhilaration had worn off. All those brilliant moments when dad would make a sharp, swooping turn, and quick starts from a stoplight where he'd goose that old 550 enough to snap my head back a little. Permagrin.

I remembered how excited mom used to get around this time of year, how her Christmas spirit was indefatigable. Thanks to mom and her Christmas club account, us kids always had some nice gifts and appreciation for the meaning behind them on Christmas morning. I was a little disgusted to remember how we would chuck the socks and undershorts aside, and how we'd empty the fruit from our stockings right back into the crisper. Mom told me once that they always got fresh fruit in their stockings when they were kids, that was a real treat. And I'll be honest with you, I kinda wish I had gotten some boxers and socks this year, I'm in need. The toiletries mom put in there would be welcome, too.

My brother and I connected on a new level this trip. We played guitar for two hours straight Christmas Eve...and I just want to say that all the time and money I've spent on guitar lessons and practicing paid off some huge dividends. I recorded us playing there in his basement...they'll never go gold, but they are to me.

I left home with anticipation, and was not disappointed. I left feeling like a ghost and returned whole and buoyant...renewed.

And I'm just getting started into the planning stages of next summer's trip into the Badlands with my brother from another mother.

Take it with me when I go

Flying solo on Thanksgiving night, I rolled down to the nearest watering hole in the wall for a snort or three. The neighborhood tavern. Just a bar, where people go to lie about their lives and the places they've been. The kind that is slowly dying off these days, where the folks that live stumbling distance away used to gather for a game of pool...watch sports on some beat up old television with $2 PBRs. No frills, no credit cards. Everybody knows each other in these joints. Sit there long enough by yourself and you'll be drawn into a conversation about God knows what. Be yourself, because they'll probably remember you on the next visit.

You don't have to worry about any neon...no store-bought kitch on the walls. No video jukebox thumpin' some horseshit at full volume in the corner. No trivia night. No Jaeger bombs. The idea of advertising at this place is a white sign with big red letters. “PULL TABS” it says, twisting in the wind above the door. There's a simple disc-changer juke over next to the popcorn machine.

Everybody must be at one of the kitch places. There's only a few people around, five or six. All their conversation is fairly audible, even with Van Morrison playing in the background. A small but festive group.

I sauntered past the young heavy set couple in a naugahyde booth making googly eyes at each other over some fish bowl of liquor built for two...caught part of a conversation between a couple guys with a huge stack of pulled pull tabs in front of them. One guy has a jaw like a cash register drawer, he says to the other guy, he says “how do I communicate to my boss the fact that I sell better to women? I mean, I got a way with 'em, they love me...” His buddy says “yeah, you got a radio voice”...just before he made that 'face for radio' joke. I only heard this much because the path to the bar was blocked by a woman with her back to me trying to get her scarf situated.

I finally plunked down on a stool at the bar across the corner from another guy on his own, about 3 stools away. I imagine he's younger than he appears. Now this ol boy looked like he just had his ass chewed out. Like his mind was so tussled, he physically looked like he'd just fallen out of the car he was sleeping in. He must've been buddies with the bartender because the two went back to talking about whatever after I got my beer.

A copy of the local ad rag provided good cover as the two talked. I heard a little of his story, he said he thinks he kinda has it made. He said that most people are dying to get out of the house after spending the holiday with people they don't really like. Him? Shit, he had his peace all day. The bartender let out a rattling smoker's laugh, the guy joined in a second later after an awkward, sputtering start.

The bartender's laughter slowly trailed off as he walked away, pushing his damp dish rag along as he went.

“Yeah, that's what you want.” he said, loud enough to be to me.

“Whatzat?”

He sat there, glassy eyed, got the thousand yard stare at the rim of his glass twelve inches away as his smile slowly dissolved. He didn't repeat himself.

About 5 minutes went by, and he started up again like there was no lull in a conversation we'd been having for awhile.

“No, no, you see...it's not that.”

“It's not what?” I said after a pull on my pint.

“It's not that. I coulda went the family route.” he said, nodding.

He told a barely coherent story about how he had lost at love. It was amazingly rambling and he touched on some things I'm sure weren't related, but there was one thing he was clear on. There was a woman that he had left behind somewhere along the line for quite a few legit sounding reasons, but I could tell he had some...genuine feelings for her. Problem was he didn't think she gave one iota about him at all when in fact she was nuts about him. He said he saw her over Thanksgiving the previous year, found out she's married now. They had the 'what if' talk in a moment of weakness...indulgence. They each found new perspective.

I have no idea if it was true or not, but I could relate.

Epiphany on Theodore Wirth trail

Saturday, October 23, 7:17am

Haven't had much time to do much writing for myself since getting back from my trip North. When I got the word that Eric's wife might well have a serious health crisis on the horizon, he had to drop from the trip. I can't compare my emotions to what they must have went through in those days, but at the moment my reaction was what it must be like to get t-boned in traffic; you don't even see it coming. One minute you're on your way to DQ, the next you're waking up in a steaming wreck. Almost right away I felt awful that I had that reaction not because one of my friends might be really sick...but because the thought of spending my vacation alone brought on what must have been an anxiety attack. I went a little nutty for about 30 minutes that evening. It's a shitty helpless feeling, not being able to do much from so far away. And worse that my first reaction was based in selfishness.

The weather was incredible, in fact I was a little disappointed that it wasn't cooler...I think it reached 75 one of the days. And the nights were still. Every once in awhile breezes would come through that weren't even strong enough to be heard, but just enough to jostle leaves from the trees. Crisp leaves landing on one another were louder than the breezes that dislodged them.

Something was different though, that first night. I went down to the lake and listened to the waves...turned off my headlamp and just sat there. It was clear as a bell, and just too many stars to look at. But I couldn't stay too long. It was peaceful but for some reason I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something big behind me. No matter which direction I faced...there was just something looming.

I felt a lot better up by the fire ring, with the dark outline of the cabin in view. My guitar went well with a little fire and some Left Hand Milk Stout. I had a lot of time out there in the dark to waller all those thoughts around. I think I even dug up some new ones. Now, I know I do this, I catch myself doin' this and I know I need to take steps right away to get myself back on track. Gotta keep movin', keep doin' the things you like...but I'm really starting to wonder why I have such a hard time letting things go. Why I am so hard on myself.

One thing that helps...is bike rides. Lately I feel like I've done nothing but try to catch up on sleep and there have been days when the last thing I wanted to do was get on that bike...but 10 minutes into the ride and I'm always glad I went. Earlier today I rode two laps at Theodore Wirth park, an amazing little patch of singletrack right smack dab in the middle of the city. Its on rides like these where I get some real clarity.

I took my buddy Kyle along, it was his first honest-to-goodness mountain bike ride. Man, you'd think he had ridden just last week. Of course being 25 helps. If I could go back to that age knowing what I know now...I would do things a lot differently. He made it through 45 minutes of twisty riding without a scratch, then went home and managed to put a hatchet through his knee cap cutting firewood. Went in for stitches, ended up having some minor joint surgery and will be in the hospital till Monday. And my first reaction?

"Dammit...he won't be able to go ride with me till Spring."

Is life so different than it is in your dreams?

I am pooped. Its a perfect fall day and I don't have the energy to leave the house. My sleep schedule is all over the place. When I finally do lay down, my mind just races. I'm having a hard time quieting my thoughts, sometimes they come so fast I can't even keep up with them, let alone shut them off. Start to nod off...another thought shows up and startles me awake like a loud knock at the door. Its all the usual stuff, I'm not special at all worrying about work or fretting over relationships...wondering about friends and family in far-flung places. I've got it narrowed down to the night shift with plenty of time alone as the ultimate culprit for the times it gets more intense than normal.

Woke up on the sofa in my clothes at about 2. Felt like I could've slept till 4. Coffee tasted extra good today, out on the front porch. Traffic hasn't picked up yet, the only sound on the block is arguing squirrels.

I saw online that my man Tom is nominated for induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame next year. I'd say its about time, but honestly I thought it would be several more years before he would be nominated...so this is a nice surprise.

There's not a lot of artists out there that make me think like Tom does, so many of his songs bring up detailed sense memories. A few weeks ago I was looking through pictures with some random iTunes playlist going in the background. Tom's Please Call Me, Baby came on at an amazingly poignant moment. It made me stop on that one particular page for the whole song. Tom has written all kinds of songs that cover the ups and downs of relationships; take Martha for example. Some guy trying to get in touch with his girl from 40 years back, hoping she remembers him and praying that there might be a bit of reciprocation of his nostalgia. In reality the guy is most likely drunk and making the call at about 2am, standing in a phone booth that hasn't worked in years. But Please Call Me, Baby seems much more lucid to me. He realizes that the relationship has soured to the point that treating each other poorly has become the norm; he admits to his bad behavior and wonders if he can change it, but still asserts the fact that he's responsible for exactly 50% of the problem.

But the chorus...that's what is in his heart:

So please call me, baby
Wherever you are
It's too cold to be out walking in the streets
We do crazy things when we're wounded
Everyone's a bit insane
I don't want you catching your death of cold
Out walking in the rain

Just one of the things I appreciate about Tom, he can make you think twice. He can make you remember what its like to be soaked to the skin, standing at a pay phone in the middle of the night.

Good mail for a Monday

September 21, 6:08 am

Sometimes I don't mind the night shift at all.

When people ask how I cope with the schedule I don't really have much bad to say because like everyone, I've found upsides in my situation and do my best to focus on those. Every job I've ever had, I found moments that were each uniquely special. When I was on mornings, my favorite times were the 5am bike ride in to campus, now that I'm on nights its the thin hint of sunrise along the horizon on the way home. That light is amazing; pre-dawn glow comes up from under your feet. Barely enough light to make out the path.

Sitting on the front porch at 5:30, I know I'm the only one watching a wrestling match between two albino squirrels in the tree across the street...with a beer in my hand.

You pick your moments. Each becomes special unto itself.

A freak hail storm came through last night and I missed it, in my well insulated cocoon at work. Some hail. The trees in the neighborhood really took a beating, there were leaves and small limbs down everywhere. Its a fitting metaphor; I frequently seem to walk in at the end as of late.

The mail included treasure today, my recent eBay purchase. A DVD copy of Tom Waits: Big Time. I put it on and as the first few numbers played, I suddenly realized how I was completely caught up in the aesthetic Tom creates. I read Innocent When You Dream and a collection of 20 years worth of interviews with Waits simultaneously. I saw two sides of a dirty coin; Innocent When You Dream is biographic, but with the interviews its all embellished truth mixed with hobo legends. Things he thought up on the spot, some old chestnuts he pulled out over and over. The problem is no one knows what the proportions of each are. Sometimes the interview gives a little insight to a moody nature. Sometimes he's just a jerk. But this persona of a well-traveled loner...a man who has existed (and even thrived) for so long on the fringe...well, he must have some incredible stories.

I started to wonder.

I wonder if the fact that I've romanticized this persona for so long...if it hasn't actually manifested itself in my life. For real. I wonder if this tendency of mine to shy away from groups, to not actively make more of an effort to socialize...I wonder if I haven't somehow brought this on myself.

But even this strange loner has secret desires of...being home. The most seasoned leathertramp must occasionally want to let the engine cool for awhile...and be around people that are important to him. Say what you will about the delivery; I love the lyrics on this one. Pure beat poetry. Its the feeling of distance I identify with, but the whole story is so evocative I feel like I walked along right beside him the day it all happened. By the end, I was just as ready to leave as he was:

...I wondered how the same moon outside
over this Chinatown fair
could look down on Illinois
and find you there
and you know I love you Baby

and I'm so far away from home
and I miss my Baby so
I can't make it by myself
I love you so

Shore Leave...

I have to wrap up here. Tom is doing his Civil War pregnancy bit.

Crested Butte: Epilogue

I thought things would be different when I got home from Crested Butte.

After 5 days of riding 3 or 4 hours, followed by micro brewed stout and long conversation, I really felt as though I had turned a corner as far as my recent mood was concerned. I believed that I had 'bumped into my old self', cradled in that idyllic valley.

It physically hurt to leave CB. My chest was tight, stomach felt sour. I had the same feeling leaving Mr. Toad's the night of the last session before my move. I felt as though I was choked up to the point of losing it, and wondering if that might not be a good thing. Maybe there would be some relief afterward...but in the end the break down never happened. The thoughts and emotions stay bottled up. Trying to talk about it gives off a pathetically narcissistic aroma. Not talking about it causes heightened paranoia.

No sooner had I gotten back home...I wanted to go back out. Anywhere. To just grab what I needed, throw it in the car and go. I've got the playlists from the trip in almost constant rotation, plus the new release by Ray Lamontagne and the Pariah Dogs. Beg, Steal or Borrow feels like it was written just for me. Sometimes I'd jump on the interstate and get between a couple semis and imagine that the cloud line in the distance was actually a mountain range, that my next stop would be to set up base camp for another outdoor stretch. I even took it a step further and headed off into Western Wisconsin to do an afternoon hike through a nature preserve. It almost worked. The Timber Rattlers we ran into almost made me forget that Highway 35 was less than a mile away.

While typing in my journal entries from the CB trip, I ran across a note I had written to myself almost a year ago when I first bought my little Moleskin (incidentally, check out this list...I was a cliché without even trying on this front).

It said “Where has your backbone gone? You didn't used to be like this.”

Truth is, I don't know.

Cue music. Roll credits.