Gazebo Rocks

Spirits in mind and memory.

TBT: Fishing with Dad

Fishing trip.

I caught my first fish at age seven with my dad at my side.  I'm older here, obviously.

This trip out into Monterey Bay, oh, my father was miserable.
Seasick so much.
Still, the whirr of the reel would catch his attention . . . .

I'm not sure we caught those or if we were gifted by cousins on the same trip.  The conditions were raw that time, and we went out more than once.

1996?

Mourning Motley: Old Shots

I miss my girl.

Bits and Pieces

Gazebo Rocks: Memorials

Hi Mom and Dad!

Jaunty Mom!

My mother, back in the late 1960's/early 1970's, in front of our family tent somewhere in Northern California.  I'm thinking, perhaps, Lake Siskiyou?

I think she looks rather jaunty in Dad's hat here.

Batter Up! My Dad As A Young Man

R.I.P.  Dad.  The anniversary has rolled around once again.

My father was always a ball-player.  And, he has "Duckworth" written all over his face.

Memorial Lane

Or, that's what I call it. Right next to my mom's viewpoint when she was still alive and checking the coast--clear or not--as often as she could.

Almost head-high wave, I'm thinking, and a few weeks back now. Maybe a bit bigger--but only knee-high Hawaiian, of course. Looks good for body-surfing, if I could improve my entry and dodge all the rocks on the way in. (There's a line of toothy bits and boulders beneath the white water there in the middle of the scene.) Gorgeous view; glorious in motion.

I'd like to dive out there, to dodge some breakers and the rocks, to shoot some fish and a crazy surfer or two with my water-camera. To search for shards of the sculptures sacrificed out here. Mermaids; duck-heads; masks. I'd hardly expect to find anything still whole, not with that pumphouse working through the seasons.

I ought to take a look, though. Maybe on a flatter day. Slightly flatter. I wouldn't want to miss all of that energy. Would you?

My Mother Taught Me To Hunt

She did, indeed. "What did you learn in school today, Matthew?" she started asking when I was five. She made me feel I should learn things, so I pursued learning, sometimes relentlessly. Learning something (or, better, multiple "things" ) to bring home and share became proof of my prowess: a string of trout for the pan after a day of fishing for knowledge. And, she listened to my answers for so many years that I think about reporting what I've "caught" at the end of each day, still, even now.

(We didn't get along all the time, but those were absolute gifts.)

When I think of her, I now often think of the ending to Ted Kooser's poem "Mother":

But the iris I moved from your house

now hold in the dusty dry fists of their roots

green knives and forks as if waiting for dinner,

as if spring were a feast. I thank you for that.

Were it not for the way you taught me to look

at the world, to see the life at play in everything,

I would have to be lonely forever.

The poem's ending catches my sense of debt, of appreciation, and while I don't think I ever feared the spectre of loneliness the way the poem's speaker seems to have done, perhaps the gifts of seeking knowledge, of seeking life, and of reporting it, of sharing it, have protected me in their own way.

My mother died on a Friday, December 5th, back in 1997.

You should have quit smoking the day I turned eleven, Mom, the way you promised you would; I quit sneaking sips of beer that day, just as I said I would, and I didn't start again until years later when it became quite clear you weren't going to keep your part of our bargain. I know you had your reasons, but I'm still angry about that. Can you blame me?

Rest in peace, Mom. You need it, and you deserve it.

Your son,

Matthew David

Touchstone: Neruda, For Rudi

Here's another favorite poem from Pablo Neruda: "I have four dogs to declare" / "Declaro cuatro perros." His poem puts me into his sorrow, his attention, his wonder, his love, and this poem puts me into memories of my father, actually, and puts me into my own list of beloved creatures, mostly cats, beginning with Rudi, including Motley, China, Sam, Charlie, and others. Perhaps this poem will engage you and your sorrows--memories, creatures, losses--in a way that proves worthwhile, as I am engaged.

I will quote the poem in William O'Daly's English translation as well as Neruda's original Spanish.

I have four dogs to declare:

one is already buried in the garden,

two others keep me on my toes,

tiny wild

destroyers,

with thick paws and hard canines

like needles of stones.

And one scruffy dog,

aloof,

fair-haired in her gracious manner.

No one hears her smooth golden steps

or her distant presence.

She barks only late at night

at certain phantoms,

so that just a few chosen hidden persons

hear her on the roads

or in other dark places.

Declaro cuatro perros:

uno ya esta enterrado en el jardin,

otros dos me sorprenden,

minusculos salvajes

destructores,

de patas gruesas y colmillos duros

como agujas de roca.

Y una perra grenuda,

distante,

rubia en su cortesia.

No se sienten sus pasos de oro suave,

ni su distante presencia.

Solo ladra muy tarde por la noche

para ciertos fantasmas,

para que solo ciertos ausentes escogidos

la oigan en los caminos

o en otros sitios oscuros.

Neruda, Pablo. The Sea and Bells. Trans. William O'Daly. Port Townsend, WA: Copper Canyon Press, 1988.