Lake Bimidji, 1960

Edward Dyer, Lake Bimidji, August 1960

I just found this picture the other day ...

In the summer of 1960, my dad was attending some sort of educators' conference at Bimidji State University in Bimidji, Minnesota.  Here you see him, standing on the shore of Lake Bimidji, looking well.  He, like me, had a life-long battle with his waistline.  We Dyers have well-banked metabolic fires.  I've said that I have the metabolism of a rock.  But Dad, that summer, was winning one of his perpetual skirmishes.

Dad smoked pipes in those days--lots of professors up on the Hiram campus did.  He had a pipe rack someone had given him, his dozens of pipes lined up in a row (most were gifts; most were unused).  Mom would tolerate pipe smoke in the house, but he had to take his cigars outside.  And cigarettes were Evil.  Satan's Smoking Sticks.  (Which is why, I suppose, all three sons were smokers, for a time.  I quit shortly after I was married--after huffing-and-puffing on the basketball court with some Aurora colleagues.  I was only 25 and was breathing like some consumptive character in a Poe story.)

I recall that week in Bimidji as a very placid time in my life. I was about to commence my junior year in high school and had not yet fully descended into the Slough of Sloth.  Every morning--while Dad was at meetings--I would go to the university tennis court, where I met the son of another conference attendee, and we took turns beating each other.  It was odd, meeting someone whose skills were about at the same abysmal level as mine.

In the evenings, we would drive around and look at the local sites, most notable, of course, the huge statues of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox, statues built in 1937.  Paul used to have a shotgun leaning beside him, but Father Time rotted it (just as he does the rest of us).  (Here's some more information about it: Bimidji and Paul Bunyan.)  We also went to the nearby headwaters of the Mississippi River; somewhere is a photo of me out in the middle of that tiny stream, perched on a rock like a dim bird with nothing to eat.

"Bimidji," by the way, comes from an Ojibwe word meaning "lake that traverses another body of water"--or so, at least, says Wikipedia, whom I trust as I will adders fanged.

I look at that photo of my dad now ... and I think of what a time that was for all of us, 1960.  My mother was working on her Ph.D. at Pittsburgh while teaching full-time in Garrettsville; brother Richard had just completed his freshman year at Hiram College; brother Dave would enter seventh grade in the Hiram Local School.  We were all healthy.  We were hopeful.  The future still glistened out on the lake.  And everything was still possible, even a kindly giant of a man with a blue ox name Babe.  And a gentle father smoking a pipe at the edge of all.

Insulting Weather

When I was an adolescent, my mother sometimes got sick of me.  Hard to believe, I know.  Like all other adolescents, I was invariably respectful, neat, moderate, mannerly, appreciative--and wise, really.

But now and then I would get annoyed at the weather.  And I would complain about it in my customary restrained adolescent tone in a voice that, at the time, was deciding whether to be a soprano, alto, tenor, or bass.  (Throughout my high school years it settled for a mixture, I fear.)

"The weather is not a personal insult," Mom would say.  And I would think dark thoughts of things I would say right then if didn't really want to live any longer.

"The weather is not a personal insult."

Yes it is.  Obviously.  It often rained on days we had little league baseball games--that's insulting.  Back in Oklahoma, in elementary school, it was hot as hell (I do not exaggerate) in the fall and spring in our un-air-conditioned brick schoolhouse.  (Why on earth would you build a prairie schoolhouse out of brick--did you plan to have it double as an oven?)

Or the western sky would turn a boiling red as a dust storm approached.  That's an insult.  Though not always--we sometimes got sent home early when it looked really bad.  I would fasten my Cub Scout bandana across my face like a border outlaw and fight the wind all the way home.

At Hiram College, we were snowed out of a tennis match on May Day.  Insulting.

Later on, we had an ice storm the night of our marriage in December 1969.  My grandmother fell and broke her wrist.  (That's not insulting?)  And on our honeymoon, we drove on the ice, mostly sideways, all the way to New Orleans.  That was insulting.

This past Thanksgiving, we drove in an all-day downpour, Ohio to Massachusetts (ten freaking hours!), to be with family.  Insulting.

And this morning?  In mid-April?  I walk outside to head to the coffeeshop.  And nearly fall on my prat because the porch and stairs are coated with snow--as is Joyce's car.  Halfway there, my tennis shoes are soaked.  A major insult.

I remember a story in an elementary school reader--about a contest between the sun and the wind.  They bet who is the more powerful--and they use as a test case a random pedestrian walking below.  (See?  The weather plays with us!)  They want to see who can make the man remove his cloak.  Well, the wind blows like mad--like an Oklahoma dust storm--but the guy just wraps it more tightly about him.  Then it's the sun's turn.  He waxes warmer and warmer and warmer.  And, gee, guess what happens?

I'm not sure what moral the teacher wanted us to extract from that story.  But what I learned is that the weather is a personal insult--if not assault.

Q.E.D.

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The Bronze Age

I have one of my baby shoes, bronzed.  My parents did it, long, long ago.   It looks a little raggedy now--a bit like the guy who once wore it.  My two brothers each had a shoe bronzed, too.  It was the thing to do in the 1940s.  I don't know if people do it anymore, have their kids' shoes bronzed.  Here's a site, though, that still offers the service.  A baby-shoe bronzing site

I'm not even sure why we put shoes on babies, who spend virtually no time whatsoever on their feet.  I don't want to sound harsh--but dressing up a baby with full clothing and shoes is a bit like dressing up your dog, isn't it?  I see dogs around here, their owners having adorned them with odds and ends of human raiment, and I'm not sure whether it looks more funny or pathetic.

I know that we want to humanize our children as quickly as we can.  Get them looking like people and then, maybe, they'll start acting human, too, instead of the way most babies do act.  I know--they can be cute some of the time (when they're sleeping--or oddly happy about something).  But they're often, well, a handful.  Demanding.  They don't understand--or care--if you're tired, sick, busy, depressed, worried, whatever.  They want warm milk--NOW!  They want their rears wiped--NOW!  They want to feel entirely comfortable--NOW!  And if you don't deliver those services, they have mastered some very effective ways to get your attention.

This all came about because a reader responded to yesterday's piece about what to do with a profusion of books with some websites that showed ways to convert old books into things like desks land beds and other practical things.  Link: Converting Old Books

I replied that making my old books no longer functional would be a bit like bronzing our children.

Which made me think that maybe that wouldn't be such a bad idea.  If we could pick a really happy moment with them and then bronze them at that moment, just think ... no surly adolescence! no college checks to write! no unpleasant experiences with future in-laws!

And no grandchildren demanding warm milk and clean rears and ...

Jonathan Swift suggested eating children, but that's a little short-sighted.  Sure, you could have a few good meals, but then what?

With bronzed children out in the garden--playing, looking happy, maybe even singing (you could install a sound system very easily)--you have a perpetual sense of joy when you look at them.

They'll start to flake at some point.  But so will you.  And birds have no respect for anything, either.  Always a problem.

By the way ... here I am at 6 mos wearing the shoes, one of which is now flaking its bronze.  And I confess: I'm glad no one ate me (though I do look, well, scrumptious).  Or bronzed me.

Too Many Books

I remember reading somewhere about a new library that had to close because the engineers hadn't properly calculated the weight of books.  Once they realized, they feared collapse.

Just one wall ...

So do I.  (I fear all sorts of collapses, actually.)  We've filled our little place with so many books that there are times--I'm not exaggerating-when I think I hear the house groaning at night.  (Houses don't talk, I know, but I think they do complain.)  In the basement, I see foundation stones that look as if they want  to pop out of the wall.  We had a mason look at it last year; he said it was no problem, just needed some attention to some of the mortar.  He'd come back soon.  No big deal.

We haven't seen him in, oh, six months.  I think he's afraid to go down there.  I know I am.  When we come back from trips, I'm actually surprised to see the house still standing.  I rather expect to see it sort of folded in on itself like ... well, like a giant book.

All nooks get their books.

We talk now and then about selling some of our books.  Maybe on eBay.  Or on Amazon.  Where we could open our own little store: a mom-and-pop in cyberspace.  (We even have a cool name picked out, but we won't tell you what it is because you might steal it.)

Then we think about the hassle.  Dealing with people.  (Who can be annoying.)  Packing and shipping and ... dealing with people (who can be annoying).  And I know that the second a book is in the mail, I will need it for something--something vital.  Perhaps life-saving.

Many of our books I have never read and never will read.  They looked interesting; I bought them; I shelved them (back when we had shelf space); I looked at them fondly now and again.  Then forgot about them.  Moved on to another relationship.

But there they sit, neglected children, patient, uncomplaining, waiting for some parental attention.  Waiting, you know, to be accepted, understood.  Just like the rest of us.

But maybe they're more like neglected lovers.  They are not patient; they are bitter.  They groan in the night.  They will get together with others like them.  They will organize.  Throw their weight around.  Bring this whole place down!

The Routine Machine

I'm getting pathetic.

I've always been a Creature of Routine--well, always is perhaps a bit strong.  Most of my adolescence I lay around being bored and complaining about having nothing to do, at a time, of course, when stacks of homework were up in my room waiting for some attention.  Which came rarely.

But as I've grown older, I find myself ever more in the grip of Routine.  Mark me ...

Weekdays: up at 5:10, down to coffee shop a few minutes before 6 (when it opens--got to get there early to make sure I get "my" chair);there, I read books I'm reviewing, edit copy from previous days, read other things.  Home, usually, by 8-8:30, at which time I work on writing projects.  Noon (guess what?).  Noon-ish-3:00: another coffee shop for more reading/editing.  3-4:30 LifeCenter Plus, where I ride an Airdyne for 30 hard minutes (and here's the nerdy part) while reciting--silently, lips moving only subtly--one-third of the poems I've memorized (yes, I have three sets, each of which takes me about 30 minutes to go through).  4:30: prepare supper (yes, I'm the Chief Cook and Bottle-washer).  5: eat supper, watching Daily Show via DVR.  Fuss around the house--or run an errand.  7:00: in bed reading, working through about 7 books, a chapter in each.  8:30 watch something mindless on cable.  9:30 lights out.

Are you excited yet?

Saturdays are pretty much the same--though at night (as we do on Fridays) we'll go to a movie (or a play) or a bookstore or both.

Sundays are a little different:  Up late (about 7:30) to mix bread dough (I feed my sourdough starter on Saturday night), then off to Panera for breakfast and TIMES (about 9), then to the grocery store for the week.  Home--shape bread for loaves or rolls or whatever I'm making.  Work on writing things.  Lunch.  Bake bread.  Then drive or bike down to coffee shop to read my Kirkus quota for the day (I read 100 pp/day for them, seven days a week).  Home to prepare supper (we'll watch DVR of SNL).  Then upstairs to read at 7 ... and off we go again.

My dad's routines drove my mother around the bend at times.  You'll have to ask Joyce what she thinks: You can find her, well, around the bend ...

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Oh, deer!

Last evening, driving through the Cuyahoga Valley on the way to look at the blue herons (oh, are they nesting and flying and wowing folks down on Bath Road!), we saw--of course--some deer here and there, out from hiding, feeding in pastures.  Such a bucolic scene ... sylvan grace and all ...

But last fall ... ?  That was a different story.

I love daylilies.  I'm not sure why.  But I've always wanted them around the house--and we've always had them.  Maybe my fondness for them comes from their appearance each year about the time I began wishing the school year were over?  Paper-grading weariness and other school-induced odiousness usually ground me down by May.  And so there's something hopeful about the daylily.  There it is, rising from the ground in stalky greendom, harbinger of summer (and no essays to grade!).

Last summer our lilies were especially lush looking.  Joyce had planted some peach-colored ones, and they looked ripe enough to eat ("Do I dare to eat a peach?").  Each morning, I looked forward to seeing them as I walked or biked down to the coffee shop.

And then ... Wednesday, 13 July 2011.

I came out that morning with joy in my heart, a joy soon transformed into the most homicidal rage.  Someone had cut off every single blooming daylily in our yard!  (See before-and-after shots.)

I did something I've never done before: I called the cops.  I asked the dispatcher if she'd received any other reports of an Orchid (uh, Lily) Thief operating in our neighborhood.  No, she said.  I thought she sounded a little cavalier about the whole thing, to be honest.  This was a crime, damnit!  And I wanted action!  I wanted some police brutality!  I wanted someone's blood--or head--or both (hard to have the second without the first, you know?). 

I hung up, boiling with indignation.

Later in the day, at Starbucks, I ran into a friend who teaches biology up at the Academy--Pat Smith.  I told him the story.  He looked at me as if I were the dumbest damn guy in Summit County.  He breathed deeply, spoke: "It's the deer," he said.

And I'm thinking: Bambi ate my goddam lilies!  Bambi!  What a little vandalous vixen!  (I know--a vixen is a fox and a very non-PC word for a ... you know, but I was in  full, Daffy-Duck rage at the time.)

And then, over the next day or so, my rage softened into something more like a snit.

A couple of days later, I saw at the coffee shop a local cop I've gotten to know--a good guy.  I told him the story, laughing at myself.  But not as hard as he laughed at me.  He promised he would round up all the deer, get them in a line-up for me.  We'll get her, he promised with something like sincerity.  Protect and serve ...

Even later, we were up having dinner with friends in Beachwood (the Brodskys, for you Harmon followers).  As we were leaving (in the gloaming), we saw deer across in their neighbors' yard--calmly chomping on their daylilies.  It was cathartic.  It was not just the Dyers' lilies the deer were stalking!  Or, rather, unstalking ...

This Body ...

In his poem "Youth and Age," Coleridge cries out about "this body that does me grievous wrong."  He writes about how easily, how readily,  his body used to obey him.  But now it doesn't.  (Here's a link to the entire poem: "Youth and Age")

It's how I feel these days, especially three times a year when I have to go to the Cleveland Clinic--as I did this morning--for a blood test.  They're keeping an eye on me, checking to see how swiftly my prostate cancer is returning.

In 2005, not long after I was diagnosed, I underwent surgery for the removal of the gland.  The surgery seemed to go well--although the post-op biopsy discovered that it was a much more aggressive cancer than the pre-op biopsy had indicated.  Things went all right for a while.  And then, about a year later, the signs of disease began appearing again.

And so I went to the Clinic every day for thirty-five days (not weekends) for thirty-five radiation treatments.  This was more wearisome than anything else--no more painful that a dental X-ray.  Every day, at the Clinic, I saw people of all ages in far worse shape.  I was humbled.  And after the treatments, things were all right for a while.

But about year ago, here it came again--not rapidly, not making me feel ill.  This is one insidious aspect of prostate cancer: When you start feeling sick, you're in major trouble.  As my oncologist has told me: If it weren't for the PSA test, we wouldn't really know anything was wrong with you.

And so I go in now, every four months, just to see what message my blood has for me.  I'm pretty good about not thinking about it much until, oh, a week or so before the test.  Then it's no longer at the edge of my peripheral vision; it's right in front of my face.

My oncologist tells me not to be worried until he is.  Which is nice to hear.  But not fundamentally comforting.  He tells me that it's microscopic (which creates a problem--where is it?), that it's not metastasized.

But it's growing, steadily--sometimes more.

The seeds of our destruction lie in all of us, of course.  Unless some accident claims us, our biology, like a time-bomb, ticks, ticks, ticks ... usually in near-silence, if we're lucky.

But once every four months, for me, the ticking becomes louder, and on days like today--the day the needle goes in my arm, the day the blood moves from me into a vial--the ticking drowns out all else.  And will do so until I find out what my numbers are.  And what they mean.