Some things would smash nicely

I borrowed a lock of my father's to chain up a bike. It turned out the lock was rusty, wouldn't open, and could not be turned by its key. I left my bike unlocked at Garfield and hoped. Luck was friendly that day - my bicycle received no jacking. However, between school and home, the key disappeared.

For the next few weeks questions regarding keys and loaned locks were dodged. This evening my dad confronted me about it.

I told him that I was sorry, explaining that the Masterlock was broken, and hoped for a mild response.

Instead he spirited away my weights, citing their constant underfootedness.

Now I know very well that I handled losing something entrusted to me wrongly. That aside, taking away a personal possession hit a special nerve. We've gotten along all year, I'm getting ready to leave permanently, and no longer expect my parents to be a policing element.

Buying a new lock would have been no problem, which only served to add to the sting.

Then some random exchange set the whole lot off. It's not really important what was said. What matters is that it was the last of too many annoyances, and it got to me like few things ever have.

I was angry.

Angry like a freshly woken nest of hornets. Angry like an avalanche waiting to bury some Bavarian village. Angry like the hulk.

You know that sensation of grief when something of great personal consequence is lost? I mean that cringing tug that goes from your forehead to your toes, and makes it feel as if there is no comforting cranny in existence that could remain hidden from the ache. I had that inescapable feeling but in shades of red.

I wanted to smash something that would make a releasing crunch, but decided against that course of action. A shouting match at home didn't seem so splendid either.

To get away, I picked up Pygmalion, put on my shoes, and started walking. I strolled until the microwave no longer seemed like it would have a nice arc to its fall. Then I sat down on the curb and started reading.

Two hours later a return trip gave time for reflection. I found nothing astounding in the experience, but once home, I wasn't mad anymore. Neither was my dad.

-Tim Wilder

My poor old grandmother

My poor old grandma is 91. Her legs can barely hold her precarious weight. Her arms can barely lift the walker that supports a hobbled frame. Her memory can barely recover the names of young family members. Her name is Betty, and she lives a life of hardlies and maybes.

It must be a sad day, when your life reaches an age of inevitability - when there's no doubt that the worse will come soon, and that the abilities to enjoy the meanwhile have long since sauntered off - a certain defeat must come.

I see the once commanding mother of four resigned to a hunched form in a rocking chair. Casual speech is unintelligible, and her highest form of participation is one-and-a-half-sided conversation at best.

When no one visits her cabin by the beech, human contact comes almost solely from regular caretaker visits. Alex Trebek takes a close second. She knows this well and you can see it etched into her eyes when the laughter of conversation and company leave for Seattle.

I wondered how she got by until just a few days ago.

It was morning and the group was preparing mothers' day breakfast. Insisting on work, Betty fiddled away at the previous night's dishes. I grabbed my camera in some down time to snap a few frames.

"Oh stop you grandson" half laughed and half pleaded the washer. "My curlers are all in and I don't want to be seen not pretty". And there it was, the coping mechanism.

To keep sanity, my grandmother was hanging onto little points of pride. I realized that the scope went far beyond a few silly pink curlers. The table cloths perfectly pressed flat for company, the flowers that would solicit showers of rants if not planted every year, the orchard that had to be trimmed; all of these things were pieces of a greater thing.

An aging woman's dignity they formed.

In a way it seemed, that so many things were beyond her control. The few items that fell into personal jurisdiction then were magnified in importance. Let go of their beauty and tending and there really would be nothing. A pretty image and a lush garden meant that my grandmother still could hang on to some part of her life. They gave her something to keep walking for.

In noticing this, I learned two simple things.

Be kind to old people and pay attention to their minute interests. They don't have a whole lot else to live off.

Get your living out of the way now. At some point you will care very much about very little and wish you had done much more in the past.

Tim Wilder

Woops

Woops

It was a blustry day said he
that man lone on the shore
when gained he did that old dear peg
from some foul titan’s roar

The beast she came in froth all white
to tear and scratch and howl
oh at men’s backs the tug the bite
groped some into its scowl

And all the old one had to say
was to his luck and sake
that to the deep he did not stray
but pay merely a leg

Tim Wilder

Garfield attendance policies, your experience

Remember long lunches? Recall a time before tardiness based Saturday school and suspensions? I'd love to hear your story.

This week I will be writing an article on the changes to attendance policy Garfield goers have endured for the last few years.

Anecdotes and the like would be great. Anything attached to tardiness, unexcused absences, planned trips, Saturday school, suspension, etc... is perfect.

Also, if you remember roughly when a specific policy change took place, please do share. I'm trying to put together a timeline and don't want to leave anything out.

Thanks, Tim W