Sandy

I pull out the rolled up mat from the top shelf and a shower of sand spills down its woven synthetic fibers. It sound like a rain stick - the sand trickling down the hollow tube - then it empties out the bottom to form a pile on the tile floor of our entry way.

Indigo is sitting on the couch getting ready for the day. She decides to wear boots and is preparing to put them on. She pulls out a crumpled sock lodged in the top of her right boot and sand suddenly seeps out, spreading all across the black leather, pooling along the seem of the cushion.

The tile floor has a certain grit to it. Need to find some carpet fast.

The beach has invaded our home. The salty, sticky eroded and broken down stone, coral & shell particles have made their way up the stairs, across the pool deck, through the lobby, up the elevator, down the hall and finally through our locked and bolted front door. Sand has hitch-hiked in on the tires of our stroller. It has stowed away in the folded cuffs of my pants. It has been kicked up and then picked up by our feet and ankles. Filled our swim trunks. Clung to towels and chairs and toys. In the cool AC it looses its stickiness and drops to the floor and is spread throughout the house by five pairs of feet.

The broom stays busy taming it and eliminating it. But you can't really get upset about it. It is the basest and purest and most elemental symbol of summer.

And it is nice to keep a little (or in our case a lot) of that around all year long.

Big Pink

Big Pink on the corner of Collins & 2nd is humming with hungry patrons. The waitresses glide around the small space, maneuvering through the small aisles between packed tables, carting back and forth the oversized menus, oversized platters, and oversized bills. We've filled a semi-circular booth - Sharon and I are bookends keeping the kids from spilling out. We are an anomaly. The only other kids in the place are two curly-haired blonde boys - they are waiting for the same casting that we are - it will begin across the street in 45 minutes.

Big Pink is crammed with row after row of stainless steel, orange-topped tables lined with youthful, non-committed singles filling their mouths with hamburgers, sandwiches, salads and fries. Tattoos on bulging muscles peeking out from t-shirt short sleeves. Bikinis hidden by sun dresses. A multi-ethnic mesh of the super chic.

Nine years ago, Sharon and I were twenty-somethings living in Forte Towers (which has since gone through two different name changes and extensive remodeling to the point that it looks younger now than when we lived there). We were care-free then, though we didn't fully realize it at the time, in that narrow sliver of time before becoming parents. We loved living in South Beach then without any kids and love that ironically now it is our kids that most often bring us back here. South Beach is the kind of place where wandering the streets is all you need to enjoy yourself. Every street and every corner and every alley is alive and unique and filled with character.

There are so many restaurants in South Beach that you could eat at a different place indefinitely. I had only eaten Big Pink one other time when I was 24 years old. It was delivered to our studio apartment in Forte Towers. At 2:00 am we were craving hamburgers. Where else can you crave a good hamburger at 2:00 am and have it delivered? This time however I'm feeling in a "deli" kind of mood and order a turkey reuben on rye. Sharon orders the barbeque burger even though she knows she will never be able to finish it or the bucket of hand-cut french fries it comes with.

New buildings have sprouted up all over in last eight years - particularly around South Pointe and the Marina. There aren't as many pink buildings either, their property owners opting for white paint to cover their brightly colored past. The roller-blading population seems to have dwindled. This place is ever changing, yet somehow it all feels the same. South Beach has grown a lot in the eight years since we moved - but it hasn't aged at all. Everyone here is still in their mid-twenties (even those who aren't.) South Beach is an ever flowing spigot of twenty-somethings. The Fountain of Youth that Ponce de Leon never found, only because the McArthur causeway hadn't been built yet. They flow in. . . and they flow out. No one is from here. No one stays here. The vibe makes me feel exactly nine years younger.

Natural Typography

Nature has placed the characters in a seemingly random array across the page of earth near my shuffling feet along the path. Words of vines and stems and leafs branch out into phrases. Asterisms call attention to certain passages. Phrases group into sentences and paragraphs. And as I walk the length of the path an entire story has been told. Asterisks denote thousands of footnotes . . . where no further explanation is offered. The meaning of the tangled green text left open to interpretation.

Hot Hot Hot

The heat is driving us delirious. Our air handler had frozen solid - a big dripping block of ice - which all sounds very nice and cold. . . but it's not. After years of persistent salt water-laced ocean breeze, torrential rains, high winds, hot sun, (maybe even an occasional solar flare?) the A/C unit on the roof had rusted and corroded to a point of no return. The freon had leaked out leaving the system inoperable. Getting a quote on a new unit, getting the quote approved, getting the permit application, sending the application to the landlord, having him sign and notarize the application, overnighting us the application, ordering the unit, scheduling the installation - this all takes days. Hot muggy miserable days.

Target does not sell fans in September.

The heat has made us short-tempered and cranky. We don't want to cook. We don't want to clean. The only thing that helps us battle the heat just a little is laziness. We drink copious amounts of ice water and pink lemonade. Condensation forms instantly on the cups and leaves watery rings where ever we set them down.

Costco does not sell fans in September.

Samuel woke up the other night an hour after he fell asleep. His hair wet and matted. His pajamas dark with sweat. He needed a drink. He wandered around the kitchen and living room picking up random near-empty glasses of water and finishing them off. A little water thief. I laid him back down trying to convince him he didn't need his blankets. He persisted. He wanted them on. All five of them.

Home Depot, let it be known, does sell fans even in the "cool" of September.

We pick up two of the 20" inch box fans. White & bland. Not very stylish. But they do the trick and offer some necessary respite.

SLC

We are flying over Kennecott. One of the largest open-pit copper mines in the world. Its reddish-orange concentric circles always remind me just a little bit of Dante's Circles of Hell from the Inferno. Across the aisle beyond the three random travelers who share my row I see the exact opposite. The Paradiso. Zion. The city of my youth. Perfect squares of suburbs are jutting right up against the brown and gray mountains that encircle the city like a great protective wall. Downtown appears with its hand-full of simple skyscrapers. Quaint. Small. Going back to Salt Lake after living in Miami for 9 years is like going back to your elementary school as an adult. You can't help but be amazed at how a place that looked so big when you were young suddenly has small halls and ankle high urinals.

I love Salt Lake and always will. Around each corner is a myriad of memories. It is full of places that define me - that made me who I am today.

I'm driving now from the airport - out on to I-80 east-bound toward downtown - the familiar skyline of buildings and mountains in front of me. West Temple and Broadway: I pass a familiar parking lot and crane my neck to the see the building on Main and Broadway where I interned at CitySearch back in the early internet days (when CitySearch meant something). Third floor - great city view. I remember taking the short walk to Sierra West Jewelers in the ZCMI mall one day before work to buy Sharon's wedding ring. I pass the Salt Palace and Symphony Hall. I love those fountains. Though I'm not sure why. Perhaps there is a memory there that I can't quite recall.

Across the street, the Inn at Temple Square has been torn down making way for a new residential high-rise condo. The landmark of our Honeymoon is gone. And then I arrive at the campus of the LDS Church Headquarters. Temple Square to the right - museums to the left - the Conference Center ahead - beyond to the east is the Church Office building (the tallest skyscraper in Salt Lake) - and the Joseph Smith Memorial building. The entire area is so rich in personal history. So rich in shared history with my wife Sharon. It is palpable. It is like opening a thick volume of my life. Conferences, Christmases, Endowments, Solemn Assemblies, Dinners, Lunches, Concerts, Carriage Rides, Pictures, our Wedding Day. . .

I drive east towards another campus steeped in personal history: the University of Utah. A pivotal highlight of my academic and intellectual life. Literature and Writing and Philosophy and Religion and History and Yoga. . . My favorite thing to do was to sit outside near the bustling pedestrian walkways in early spring feeling the sun breaking through the chill air and feeling that my thought was being expanded in ways I never before considered.

Then it is on to my old neighborhood, filled with the familiar streets and homes and businesses and schools. The pitch and angle of Morningside Drive is so familiar as I walk it and drive it. The view of Mt. Olympus is solidified in my permanent memory. At any point in time I can close my eyes and see that view perfectly. Each house means something different to me. They emote myriads of feelings and memories. A tree has been cut down since last I was here. The unfamiliar gap messes with me. Something isn't right. I consider this for a while. It just isn't the same. Though, it all has changed really. The old people are older . . . or gone. The young people have moved on. The babies now have facial hair and are barely recognizable.

I'm also different - I'm older and I've moved on and I'm in a completely different stage of life, though I long for the familiar to help make the nostalgic more permanent; to help seal and preserve an ever eroding personal history that without effort fades like so many unrecorded memories.

You can save the historic buildings that are filled with meaning for the masses but you can't always count on your Junior High locker still being around for years in the future to enshrine and hold your adolescent memories. . . Mine, for example, burned down a few years back.

Isa

It only seems right. After all she's gone now. What's left? A body that soon will be ashes? Memories that eventually fade? It only seems right. I should write something down. It is all that is left of her here. Words and phrases. Sketches and scenes of her life, recorded in black and white. Letters, characters, some punctuation throughout.

She is waking up in another world and I wonder if it is what she expected. Did it solve her problems? Are there people there she can turn to? I wonder if the regret was immediate. I wonder if the feeling is overwhelming.

It's been years since I've seen or spoken with her. The break was clean and complete. Before that we worked together day in and day out for about five years. It is a little sad that we spend more waking hours with co-workers than we do with family & friends. I suppose work is more lucrative than love. But it means, at least on a professional level, that you can get very close to those you work with.

I was always surprised that I never bumped into her at least. We lived in the same neighborhood. I thought our paths would have crossed more than just the single time I saw her at an antique jewelry show and she wouldn't talk to me. Of course I didn't approach her either. I didn't know what to say. I was forced to take a side when she left and I think she assumed I would take hers, that I would stick up for her, that I would prefer to leave rather than work there without her. Somehow I was stuck in the middle of the whole mess. I wanted to just stay safe on the sidelines. But there I was. And that was the end of that.

In the years since, I would hear snippets of her comings and goings in and around the small world of the Miami jewelry industry. Most of them, unfortunately, were negative little snippets. (Remember, I was on the opposite team). She was always very talented yet she obviously came up short. Can't say exactly what it was. She liked being in control. This much is evident in the way she chose to go. When you like to be in control though, you have to know how to yield to those things outside of your control.

It's all sad. She was always very nice to our young family. She lavished Kiara with gifts, like a massive pink stuffed dog from FAO Schwartz. That dog wasn't the only way she left her mark on our house. At one point she lived in the same building as us and when she moved we bought and were given a number of objects that served as a constant reminder of her: a table, a television, a couch, a glass shelf, a set of dishes. All of those are now gone. Slowly, one by one, they too dropped out of our life.

The most lasting reminder will probably always be a photo of her and our family taken at the Bellagio in Las Vegas. She had just treated us to breakfast at the Paris Casino. Somehow the downloading of this photo to our computer coincided with the advent of iPhoto. Meaning this picture had the honor of being the very first photo in our library. Since then, every time we have ever imported pictures, and scrolled through them, we knew we had reached the end when the library would loop back to this first picture. Which means that we have viewed this picture (though inadvertently) more frequently than any other picture in our entire library. She hated having her picture taken. This is one of only two pictures I have ever seen of her.

What the picture can't tell us is what transpired in the years since. How did she get from point A in that photo at the Bellagio to point B. . . She was only 31 years old when she lit the charcoal grill, sealed the room, took the sleeping pills and let the carbon monoxide do the rest. There are a million details that I'm leaving out. Leaving out because I do not know them. Leaving them out because I will never know them. Leaving them out because even if I knew them I can't say that I would ever truly understand them. Trying to understand other human beings is a complicated and risky thing.

She is waking up in another world now. She left behind a little mess. A little mess that I suppose she felt incapable of cleaning up. I wonder if she is finding any peace now?

Liquid Light Show

Red, green and white stains of light drip in long streaks across the wet black canvas of the road. The psychedelic riffs of Pink Floyd pour from the speakers, accompanied by the pitter-patter of rain on the sunroof and the windshield. The street lights stream through the speckled glass creating a liquid light show on our dashboard. The colored light soars above us and slides below us. It dances to the music.

The performers are hidden, but the stage surrounds us.

The Rescue

It must have been raining throughout the night. The beach path is wet and littered with puddles. Pockets of reflection. The sunrise-drenched clouds are something unreal. Too perfect. Beyond reality. Like they have been painted straight from the mind of an imaginative genius. It is that time of morning when there hangs in the air a certain buzz and vibration and electricity that is just beyond reach. You walk on the ledge. On the cusp. The hinge. The threshold. Vibrant and bright and cool.

I push the stroller over the smooth sand - dark and damp. Who knows what captures Samuel's attention as the landscape slides by. Perhaps the jagged edge of the sea-grape leaves, the dull curve of his blue Crocs, or the rhythmic foot prints overlapped by winding bike tire tracks. Kiara and Indigo walk along either side of Sharon, each holding one of her hands, enthralled by the telling of a suspenseful story.

We prepare to leave the beach path by crossing diagonally the broad swath of sand in front of the Best Western. We are twenty feet from the stairs when something stops me in my tracks. I have just come inches away from running over something in the sand. It is small and slightly darker than the sand around it. It is twitching slightly and I crouch to get a better look. It takes a few seconds to register. I'm looking at a newborn baby sea turtle.

I announce my find and suddenly it is surrounded by my crouching family, all of us peering in amazement. It is moving slightly but going nowhere. Looks like it is confused and alone. It had also been heading towards the stairs, but looks like it realized its mistake once the rain had stopped and morning had come. Clearly it was going in the wrong direction. It must have struggled all night long using its tiny flippers to crawl through the sand, over the dunes, through the shallow puddles, and across the vast expanse of sand towards the lights of the hotel.

Helpless. Lost. I know we can't leave it. But I also don't know how we should save it. The kids want to touch it. We keep telling them not to. Samuel is excited and at one point throws a little sand on it. Not appreciated, I'm sure. I scold Samuel and tell him to move back. Kiara draws a circle in the sand around it. Protection?

I'm Googling the Wildlife Care Center on my phone. They are a non-profit organization out of Broward County involved in animal rescue. Not sure if they deal in Sea Turtle rescue specifically but they are the first thing that comes to mind. Sharon is dialing 411. I find the phone number first and call. It rings. I follow the instructions and listening carefully to their automated menu (because it recently changed).

Sharon and the kids unload the backpacks from the stroller. They have to continue on their way to make it to school on time. I agree to stay with Samuel to protect the baby turtle and call in the reinforcements. I press 1-0 for an animal rescue emergency. The operator picks up then puts me on hold. . .

Barbara picks up the line a minute later and I explain the situation. She asks a few questions and then tells me I should speak with the Florida Wildlife Commission. "Do you have a piece a paper to write down this number?"

"Um. . . uh. . ." I don't have anything and am trying to think how to do this.

She senses my hesitation and tells me to write down the number in the sand. Brilliant! You can tell she has done this before.

So using my finger I carefully transcribe the number into the sand. Then I hang up and begin to dial. Is that a 5 or a 3? Shoot. Gotta be a 5. It rings. 5 ends up being the right number. I had initially called thinking that maybe I would report the location and - I don't know - a team of environmentalist would swoop down in a helicopter or come peeling around the corner in a converted SWAT truck. I didn't think it would be as simple as "pick up the turtle and take it the water's edge." Wow. You mean I get to be the hero here? OK. I can do that.

I pick up the baby turtle with thumb and forefinger on opposite sides of the firm shell just behind his flippers. The lost and confused sea turtle is now flying and it isn't so sure yet if this is helping or not. It begins flapping back its front flippers, hitting my fingers in defense. The rough flippers feel foreign and strange against my skin. I'm worried for some reason. Worried that I'm holding it just right, worried that some cranky jogger will see me and demand to know just exactly what I'm doing carrying around a baby sea turtle, worried that I'll drop it, worried that it will figure out a way to move its head around and bite my finger. I ask Samuel to climb into the stroller and I begin to push him with one hand while carrying the turtle with the other. We move quickly. The turtle's head is poking around trying to make sense of what is happening. We get to the beach and the stroller stops in the deep sand. I call for Samuel to hop out and follow me down the slope of the beach to the ocean.

As soon as I place the small turtle in the sand at the edge of the surf it knows exactly what to do. Instinct kicks in and it scampers quickly toward the bright ocean. The surf submerges it briefly then recedes. The turtle continues its journey rapidly crawling in the wet sand. The surf approaches again. The frothy water lifts the turtle for a moment then places it back in the sand. The turtle keeps going. Then for the final time the gentle wave laps the sand, lifts the turtle and rapidly drags the turtle into its new home. . .

For the rest of the day there will be nothing that can spoil my mood. Nothing will bring me down. Because no matter what else happens today, I'll know that the morning was magical, that the clouds were an unreal ideal, and that I found and rescued a baby sea turtle.

School is back in session

On the first day of school they were there to greet us. Stopping us for a moment as we walked over the bridge. We stared and pointed and beamed in amazement.

On the second day of school they were there again. Again we stopped, peering over the chainlink fence down into the bubbling and swirling water below.

On the third day we anticipated them. As soon as the blue ribbon of intercoastal water came into view we started looking. From the low angle at the start of the bridge we could see an indiction of their presence by the surface rippling - it was almost fizzing like club soda. As we reached the middle of the bridge we could look straight down into the water to see their dance.

On the fourth day we saw the reason for their presence must have been the enormous school of tiny shimmering fish. Thousands of them fluttering just below the surface - covering an expansive section of the water flowing below us. At first we didn't think we would see them. But soon they emerged from under the bridge. Swimming through the field of plentiful bite-size fish. It was breakfast time. As Thom York sings: "The big fish eat the little ones. The big fish eat the little ones. Not my problem, give me some."

On day five we followed a family pushing their bikes over the bridge. RIght on cue they stopped in the middle of the bridge and began staring and pointing and beaming in amazement. We already knew what to expect.

I've walked over that bridge probably 2000 times over the last 8 years. Whenever I cross, I always look down. Sometimes the tide is going out and the water is murky. Sometimes the tide is coming in and you can nearly see all the way to the bottom. Occasionally you see nothing, but frequently you will spot at least a fish or two wandering aimlessly through their water world. Sometimes you can spot a school of ten or so fish swimming in synchronicity. Rarely you'll spot a sting ray or a dolphin. But I've never before seen such a large school of such large fish. By "large school" I'm talking about at least 50. By "large fish" I'm talking about 20 to 25 inches - probably some kind of snapper or sea bass. For at least the first week of school, as we walked with our backpack-toting kids, the school of fish became a familiar landmark on our path. As familiar as the sandy beach path, the intersection by Publix, Bella's house, the park, the bridge, and the cross-guard guarded cross-walks of Bay Harbor. School is back in session for us and for them.

Life on the Bindery

I find myself getting hypnotized by it. Copy after copy after copy. I get a little motion sickness. Every book is exactly the same. Exactly the same. Exactly the same. Exactly the same. It repeats and repeats and repeats. Every book is exactly the same - except for the ink-jetted address. When it comes out of the trim cages, bound and cropped, the address area of the glossy catalog is completely blank. The catalog then travels on the conveyor belt under a small metallic box. The small metallic box hovers just an inch above the highway of speeding catalogs. A black stained tube feeds ink to the metallic box, a thick cord feeds it electricity, a thin cable feeds it the names and addresses. It chews on these for half a second then spits out a blob of ink in completely coherent numbers and letters onto each passing catalog. You don't see any of this. It just happens. One second the corner of the catalog is blank and the next thing you know Dr. Berg has his name on the catalog along with his address. Mrs. Shepherd has her name on the catalog along with her address. Mr. Keough has his name on the catalog along with his address. 30,000 times this happens. 30,000 different names and addresses. I don't watch all 30,000. That would take hours. I watch just enough to be satisfied.

I had originally thought that if forced to watch all 30,000 that I would eventually find the zen meditative quality in it all. The entire mechanical production of belts and chains and hydraulics all reduced to one simple koan hurling the enlightened observer towards Nirvana. But it isn't there (or perhaps I am not enlightened enough to find it). It is relentless. It beats you down. It makes you sick. And on top of that there is no punctuation to it. No cadence. No melody. No dramatic pauses or breathes. It is moving too fast. Sure there is rhythm. Monotony followed by monotony followed by monotony followed by monotony. An incessant rhythm. Industrial and draining and racing at a pace that is incomprehensible. By the time you focus on one printed piece the next is already there taking its place and before there is enough time to comprehend what has happened, that catalog has already been stacked in a bundle and stuffed in dingy postal bag. And the line of catalogs keeps coming. I have to look away every once in a while. I'm worried that I will get dizzy and stumble and stick my hand in a grinding piece of machinery.

There have been no smudges. No misprints. No missing characters or lines. I walk away satisfied. . . though somewhat perturbed.