“I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection.” — Sigmund Freud
Sitting on the big old fanciful redwood bench overlooking Portuguese Beach on the southwest edge of the little town of Mendocino—the venerable perch falling apart, a thousand carved initials and names worn away by the inexorable machinations of sun and rain and fog and wind and time, oh especially time and her microbial allies—I gaze down upon the placid waters of Big River Bay.
The gentle winter sun is smiling on dozens of migrant ducks sharing the heart of the peaceful cove (Portuguese Cove?) with grebes and cormorants, while a steady stream of voluble tourists rushes by me. Two big pelicans glide into view, circle the assembly of bobbing ducks and grebes, and make splash landings quite close to shore.
“What are those?” asks a little boy, stopping directly in front of me and speaking to his companion, a very wide man talking on his cell phone.
“Hold on a minute,” says the man to whoever he’s talking to. He glares down at the boy. “What do you want? Can’t you see I’m on the phone?”
“What are those big birds who just landed?” asks the boy, pointing at the pelicans. “Those ones with the big noses.”
“Sea gulls,” says the man, resuming his phone conversation. “Sorry about that.” He listens for a moment. “No, we’re gonna wait and see it in Imax. They have 3-D here, but no Imax.” He snorts derisively. “The boonies.”
“I don’t think those are sea gulls,” says the boy, shaking his head.
“Those are pelicans,” I venture to say.
The man on the phone shoots me a nasty look and gives the boy a shove to make him move along.
“There is no present or future, only the past, happening over and over again, now.” — Eugene O’Neill
2014 came to an end just as I was getting comfy writing 4 at the tail end of 201. Now I must unlearn the 4 and entrain my brain to write 5. How swiftly time flies when one is old, but not ill. I struggled through a serious health challenge in 2014, and for those months of illness the hours were days, the days weeks. Now that I’m well, months fly by in no time, thus confirming the psychological nature of time.
“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.” — Oscar Wilde
A gang of tourists, four women and two men, gather in front of me. One of the women asks her cohorts, “Do we have a destination or are we just walking around?”
“Spotty reception,” says one of the men, frowning at the screen of his phone.
“When I was here with Richard last year,” says another of the women, “we saw whales. Well, spouts. But I think we were further out on the headlands. They call this the headlands.”
“Richard,” says another of the woman, spitting the name. “What does he know?”
“I saw the spouts,” protests the woman who was here with Richard last year. “Regardless of what Richard knows or doesn’t know, I saw them.”
“Can we please not talk about Richard?” says the man with the spotty reception.
A silence falls. Waves slap the shore. The gang moves on.
“We are divided into two categories of people: those of us who are trying to escape from something, and those of us who are trying to find something.” — Ileana, Princess of Romania
Heading home, my knapsack full of cukes and zukes and eggs from Corners, I bump into a friend coming out of Harvest Market, a woman I haven’t spoken to in a good long year. She smiles sheepishly and says, “I see you walking everywhere and I always think I should be walking, too, but I’m always in a hurry and I don’t know why. I mean…what’s the rush?” She laughs shrilly. “Why am I so busy?”
“You must enjoy being busy,” I suggest. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“But then I have no time to walk, and when I do have time, I’m too tired.”
“I know how that is,” I reply. “Fortunately, I like to walk, so it’s no great sacrifice for me.”
“I watch too much television,” she says, giving me a quick hug. “But my New Year’s resolution,” she shouts as she runs to her car, “is to watch less and walk more.”
“I think in terms of the day’s resolution, not the years’.” — Henry Moore
Nowadays I prefer intentions to resolutions—much easier on the psyche. For 2015 I intend to be more regular and enthusiastic about my stretching regimen, to plant my first round of summer vegetables earlier than last year, to grow more pumpkins, and to stay healthy. I further intend to resume my practice of handwriting at least one missive to a friend every day, even if the missive is merely a postcard. I intend to produce a new album of piano-centric tunes, to complete Book Three of the Ida’s Place saga, and to bring out a coil-bound photocopy edition of the sequel to Under the Table Books, a sequel I wrote six years ago: The Resurrection of Lord Bellmaster. And I hope to be less cranky and more upbeat.
“Never make predictions, especially about the future.” — Casey Stengel
Predictions for 2015: the California drought, slightly dented by a wet December, will go on, the apple harvest will be stupendous, the earth will accelerate her climatic catastrophes to express her displeasure with the behavior of our species, wholly unexpected events will change the course of human history, the race between cruelty and kindness will continue apace, and pelicans will continue to splash down on Big River Bay.
(Todd Walton’s website is UnderTheTableBooks.com)
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