Essays on Life, Experiences & Hopes

Camel

2012-01-21T11:14:00.000-08:00

You should never know..

That my legs are sore and that I feel a twinge at my calf every other step.

My neck feels every careless bounce of your body as you point things out or wiggle to peek at your brother.

My back, pits and arms are perspiring heavily as the sun's heat focuses on them.

I can tear bits of my dry lips since I'd rather you have the water.

Those are the silly worries of your loving and loyal camel.

"Oh I see the tiny birds honey...."

iPads for All?

2012-01-11T10:03:00.000-08:00

I heard through the grape-vine that my child's school could be implementing a program where he and his future classmate could be receiving iPads for educational purposes.

I was/am thrilled.

Then it was rumored that some parents were concerned by the program because a damaged or broken machine could put a heavy financial burden on a family.

Though I understand the concern, I feel it's a mistake to not provide our children access to a technology simply because we as parents are afraid of costs. In essence, we are putting a price limit on our children's education and it lies in the range of $500 or less.

That low?

Today, any one of us adults, could get a parking, speeding, texting while driving ticket that would cost as much if not more than the iPads we are worried about loosing. Should then we stop traveling our byways so as to avoid the heavy financial burden?

What about the cost associated with our children not having another educational opportunity that will help them accomplish more in the years to come? Is the potential $500 investment not worth the reward?

Are some parents simply giving up before we've even started and admitting that they have no intention of monitoring their child's use of the tool?

I stand with giving children the opportunity to handle, work and become comfortable with a technology that will become more and more relevant in the years to come. The costs is real but our potential loss in education is more troubling.

Talk Around the Waterhole: A Play

2012-01-06T12:47:00.000-08:00

Bird One: You seein' Larry over there?

Bird Two: Yeah! Always posing for the freakin' camera. Can't stand that guy!
Bird One: I know right!? I mean...come on now. Get freakin' clue already. It ain't all about you.
Bird Three: That a-hole...you know he cheated on my sista!
Bird Two: No freakin' way brother!?
Bird Three: Yeah and he's got some nerve coming around this place.
Bird One: Freaking bastard!
Bird Two: So what you want to do bout' it?
Bird Three: Nuttin' now. I got me a plan.
Bird One & Two: Kool kool!

Echoes

2012-01-03T13:17:00.000-08:00

I heard my son's voice bounce like a ping pong ball about the ancient rocks. Reverberating free and carelessly.

Unaware of it's significance he played gleefully on the cool pink sands of the alien desert escape. Racing up steep dunes with winged feet. His grin bared in delight.

My daughter joined him. Wild and fiery her tiny voice filled the ancient valley. Her laughter roared up its walls and coated them with her spirit.

They joined a thousand hearts who have passed through these natural passages.

Americana

2011-12-22T11:32:00.000-08:00

"Es una Americana"

That was that first thing that crossed my parents minds when I introduced her for the first time.

Over the years they had grown accustomed to a shameful parade of women who I had brought home. But there was something about this young woman that they didn't quite trust.

"In America, white women have loose morals" my mother warned me. "In America, blondes will break your heart and move on to the next man." my father testified.

They shook hands and exchanged nervous pleasantries in broken English. Secretly they hoped that this young woman would amount to not much more than a common cold so I could then meet a wholesome Mexican girl.

Bring It

2011-12-16T21:58:00.000-08:00

The week had not started off right but then again the 40 days before that Friday hadn't been our best. I had arrived to the apartment on the second floor of the complex in Montebello and I knew as I slid the crooked key into the lock that I had inadvertently set off a chain of inevitable actions that had been waiting to collapse like a row of propped up dominoes.

As usual, upon entering our shared 800 square feet I made my way to the kitchen that sat immediately off the front door and to the right. Like instinct my hand grabbed the wooden handle to the yellowish colored refrigerator that had come with the space. With a jerk I opened the door and heard the soothing clanking of glass bottles that awaited within.

I reached in a pulled the beer from the lower shelf, opened it and took the first of many swallows. She would not arrive home for a couple hours and for now the empty and quiet space was mine. In less than twenty minutes, as I sat on the white chair we had recycled from her German grandparents home, the liquor had begun to warm the veins at my arms and was beginning to creep its way to my chest, throat, eyes and brain. The familiar daze kicked in and I forgot that time existed.

Eventually though, the jarring front door reminded me.

She came in with a half-smile on her face and that eroded when she noticed the four bottles sitting at the counter of our tiny kitchen. I chose not to acknowledge it. At the time it seemed prudent to let the usual take its course. Today though, I reminded myself, was not usual.

Who fired the first shot is unclear. She was tired. So was I.

The last few month had become a constant unwillingness from both of us to meet in the middle. My constant drive to push limits without concern for her needs and her growing campaign towards a more adult life had become near irreconcilable forces. The arguments were constant. Feelings were hurt on a daily basis and as of late conversations had become mere efforts to pass on the most elementary bits of information.Who's paying this bill? Do you have the late shift this week or next? Are you going out with them again?

The argument was long, exhausting and draining. Neither party had clear answers and ultimately it seemed that the lack of common ground led to only one conclusion.

We were not working as a pair. We had tried and enjoyed a great experiment together but we were different people and now it was time to seek opposite paths. My eyes ached by 11:38 that evening. I could continue to cry on but my body had no more tears. Worst of all, as I grabbed the keys from the counter I looked through the kitchen and viewed her flaccid body on the white chair.

I could see disappointment and a broken heart.

When we met, the young man she experienced had promising talents and virtues that over the years had leached to the world of frenzied mediocrity at the sands and bars of Venice Beach.. She had invested time and love. For her efforts she had received very little.

The cold of the evening hit my cheeks as I closed the door behind me. Perfectly sober I found the red Nissan Z sports car we had bought together in the parking lot. As I pushed the silver key into the ignition I felt the weight of the last few months land on my thighs.

I was leaving the best person I had ever met. We had drawn lines and we'd possibly never be together again.

Peacocks

2011-12-14T11:25:00.000-08:00

Every woman I have ever met has a unique rhythm.

My mother, my sisters, past lovers, my wife. Each one a unique signature that is non-transferable.

You could know them for a thousand years and never find two that are exactly alike.

That is the wonder and allure of the fairer sex.

To me at least.

Original Sin

2011-12-12T15:05:00.000-08:00

Eve offered the apple from the knowledge tree and handed it to Adam. All heck broke loose from then as far as I know.

Would we be better off if we weren't "knowledgeable"?

For my part I gladly welcome the challenges that come with a wondering and curious mind.

Guayavera

2011-12-08T14:17:00.000-08:00

My father wore Guayaveras,

Despite their casual nature, the men that would frequent our home in Mexico and smoked the strong cigars wore them like tuxedos.

I often marveled at the intricacy of the weave. Imagined a day when I could sit around our court yard with my own and join the men who told the stories, blasted out obscenities and told the dirty jokes with my father.

At the end of the evening the men would leave. My father had enjoyed too much cognac and his nose would be red.

Then I knew I would pay penance for the day's trespasses. For the broken dish at the party, or falling down off the tree and scuffing my newer shoes.

The belt would sail through the air and strike. Often until he lost his breath and tired out.

Then my mother would relieve him of his shirt and put him to bed.

On the morrow...the shirt would be crisply hung. Ready to be worn again.

Stories

2011-12-04T23:38:00.000-08:00

My stories are not epic.

The imagery of my 30 years is mild compared to the exciment of those before me. There are so many who have faced truly cold winds, sharpened winds, cutting criticisms.

But my story is mine. Peril is real and so is fright.

Oh Christmas Tree

2011-11-18T21:23:00.000-08:00

The skies were cloudy when the last bell of the year rang at Malabar Elementary and we were released to our parents for the holiday break. I had lost my jacket a few weeks earlier and my thin gray sweater was too thin to keep the Southern California winter breeze from jarring me when I stepped out of the school's main building.

The fourth grade was turning out to be challenging and confusing. I had started the school year knowing little-to-no English and I was just now slowly starting to find my way around the new language and the friends that it game me access to. I said my good-byes to a few key people and made my way to my mother who awaited with my two little sisters at the corner of Fresno Street.

Her year had been interesting too. She had moved our family from Mexico City to the U.S. to meet my father who had made his way here to make a new life for us. Seemingly timid and always proper, she struggled to acclimate to the new language, currency, my father's work hours and a culture that she considered lost. Nonetheless, her family had to be whole and she left her homeland and made East Los Angeles her new residence.

My father worked security at the local hot spot and market. His job entailed catching thieves that picked the pockets of tourists, solving disputes between the vendors and breaking up fights between sweaty drunks who had enjoyed too much tequila at the upstairs bars. He worked around the clock enjoying the physical aspects of the job. Taking pride in the baton he wore, the badge at his chest, the occasional use of his fists and the women who frequented his office. Silvio was the head of security 12 to 16 hours a day and despite his efforts his pay was just enough to cover the basic needs at home.

That day at lunch, Santa Claus (the school's vice-principal) had visited our class and dropped off presents. I was one of the lucky ones who picked a red remote control race car from his satchel. The boys in class sighed heavily when I tore the blue wrapping paper apart and drew from it the shinny box that held my prize. They flipped over the large rugged tires on the box's picture and most congratulated my luck. Then, above my shoulder, a boy named Freddy said, "the good gifts always go to the poor wet-backs, he doesn't even have a Christmas tree." The room stood quiet for a moment and then the silence was broken by a tepid round of snickering once they realized our teacher hadn't heard. I didn't know what a wet-back was but I knew the word poor and I knew that it wasn't good.

I ran to the corner of Fresno and Malabar and reached my mother holding my prize. I could hardly contain myself and she had to shush me a handful of times before I could begin to detail the day's events. We walked the mile back home hurriedly and the cold breeze was sharp and hurtful at the ears. Then on Blanchard street I asked her if we were poor.

She stopped and reached for my shoulder so that we stood squarely to each other. She asked me why I asked and I told her what Freddy had said. She looked up and then seemed to search the streets for something. When she found it she stretched out her arm and asked me to retrieve it.

On the opposite side of the street, a small branch from a fir rested. Perhaps it could have fallen from someone transporting a tree home for the holidays. It was no more than a foot tall and some of the needles towards the wider end were starting to turn brown. I picked it from the ground, joined my family and finished our walk home.

After supper was over, my mother asked us to turn off the TV set at the kitchen table which rested against a wall. The house still had the scent of fried rice, re-fried beans and tortillas. The windows wore the steam from the boiling coffee pot and help turn the light in the room warm. From the bedroom, my mother produced about a half dozen of magazines. Inside them, she said in Spanish, are "pictures of snow globes, tree decorations and presents". "Cut out as many as you can and make a pile." My sisters and I worked for 30 to 40 minutes. We fought, laughed, took breaks and finally finished with a healthy mountain of cut outs. When we thought it was enough we called my mother into the room.

She came in with the branch and some clear tape. After a minute of scanning the room she asked me to unplug the television and remove it from the table. She had found the spot.

With great care she taped the branch on the wall and laid a white bed sheet on the table. She created peaks and valleys by putting two soup cans under the sheet. Then her hand took one of our cuttings and showed us carefully how to tape them to the wall and decorate our tree.

My sisters and I took the next few minutes feverishly attaching cut outs to the wall. We put up pictures of ornaments big and small. Pictures of Santa, Jesus, snow globes, shiny lights, tinsel and finally presents.

When we were done, she asked us to take a step back and brought us close together.

She then said.

"We are not poor. We have each other. This year we won't have presents but I promise you that next year we will. Your dad and I will do what we can to make every picture of a present taped to the wall come true."

A tear had rolled down her cheek by the time she finished her last sentence and I felt guilty for bringing up the word "poor" and winning the car. She hugged us and told us to get to bed.

Just before I did, I caught her cutting a picture of a star from a JC Penny catalog and taping it to wall a top our Christmas tree.

The Lamp

2011-11-14T16:35:00.001-08:00

We have a pair of friends that don't have little ones.

Their carpets are pristine white and lack the splotches from previously dropped peanut butter & jelly sandwiches.

Their furniture is wrapped in expensive leather and lacks the impressions of little feet that make believe it's a trampoline.

Their walls showcase the latest hues from Edward Dunn and lack the array of fingerprints at about 3 feet off the ground.

Their lamp is a wonder of design and it stands quietly in their gorgeous home.

Penmanship

2011-11-10T10:56:00.000-08:00

My father believed in the virtue of penmanship.

As a wee one he'd make me practice my writing for hours and would crumple sheets of letters if he didn't think they were up to par.

Over the years though, as a man, I've been praised for my handwriting. I will even go out of my way to buy the best pens so as to enhance my impressions on crisp white paper or yellow Post-It notes.

To my son, I'll encourage the same fondness for lettering. Perhaps not with the same fervor.

Eulogy

2011-11-06T21:14:00.000-08:00

I eugolized my father.

At the moment of truth I had the chance to speak my mind. To say it like it was(is).

But my father wasn't a monster. He was a flawed man.

Not very different from me.

So I stood at the podium. Wrapped my hands around its wooden sides, looked at my mother and my sisters and channeled what he would have practiced to say.

It wasn't poetic but the words resonated.

Goodbye Steve

2011-10-06T10:36:00.001-07:00

I am not writing this because I want my name associated with Mr. Job's demise or seeking extra views.

I am writing this because I mourn the absence of someone who (although I never met) inspired me and others to stay the course in their business goals despite the detractors and challengers around them.

The networks will debate his legacy. It's their right to do but for one I've stopped watching.

Now I'm doing my own self reflection and despite the sadness I am more inspired than ever.

I think that's what a man like Steve would want as his legacy.

I.C.E.

2011-08-30T09:57:00.000-07:00

I was asked to write my son a letter that would comfort him in the event of an emergency.

Not a simple assigment. I write all day but I struggled to find the right combination of words that would give him comfort should we not be there for a reason.

What do you tell your son from afar in dire times? How well do I know him and how do I express comfort when another person reads it?

In the end I wrote from the heart. Told him that we'd do the best we could to reach him as quickly as we could. To continue to sing his silly songs and listen to his teacher.

And also.....to remember his Jedi training.

Change

2011-08-14T11:32:00.000-07:00

Change is happening.

The normalcy that we've built over the last few years has started to shift and will eventually morph into something different.

That's the ebb and flow of all relationships that stand the test of time.

Our challenge is to continue to trust one another and say the things that feel real. To recollect the simple charms of youth and take pride in the ways we've made each other grow.

We have done it before, we are doing it now and in time...we'll do it again.

Fools Rush In

2011-08-01T16:42:00.000-07:00

Wise Men say
only fools rush in
but I cant help
falling in love with you

Shall I stay
would it be a sin
if I can't help falling in love with you...

Like a river flows, surely to the sea
Darlin so it goes, somethings are meant to be..
Take my hand, take my whole life too
for I can't help fallin in love with you...

Like a river flows, surely to the sea
Darlin so it goes, somethings are meant to be..

Take my hand take my whole life too for I cant help
falling in love with you

for I cant help falling in love with...... you.

- As performed by the King.

Wish

2011-07-23T00:29:00.000-07:00

When I was younger I'd pick dandelions, blow upon them and wish for important things.

A new skateboard, a pair of Doc Martins, a Laker's Starter jacket, the affections of the cute blonde in my 7th grade class.

I wish for different things now.

But I'm still holding out for that Starter jacket.

Thoughts from Alaska - Nicole's Parents

2011-07-11T12:10:00.000-07:00

Nicole is an only child.

When we were married, when my in-laws trusted that we were situated as adults, when the time was right... they moved to Alaska to live out their retirement years.

I am lucky in the sense that I truly enjoy my in-laws and they have adopted me as a son.

It is hard that they live so far away and it's a very rare treat to see them and so this trip to their home has a very special meaning for us and our squids.

One of the toughest challenges of the trip were the good-byes.

She was shaken by it.

She's tough and German....but when she thought I wasn't looking I caught a few tears in her eyes.

Graduation Day

2011-06-14T13:11:00.001-07:00

In the blink of an eye you went from being a bundle of joy to a curious tyke.

Slowly, I've been pouring into you my limited wisdom, my songs and my hopes for you. Every day I've come home to share in your latest discovery. To hear your stories and to excitedly gasps with delight at your take on the world you get to experience.

Then today you took your first step out of an accomplishment and you're running toward the next this fall.

I could cry! I can laugh! I can hold you in my arms for a few.

Congratulations to my little man. Your daddy loves you so very much.

Jealousy

2011-06-02T10:54:00.000-07:00

Found in my old Journal.

The Old Spot

2011-05-31T10:30:00.000-07:00

We headed out to our old spot yesterday. A tiny bit of sand in Malibu that is open to the public.

We used to go there in college because it was free parking and we were starving students. Interestingly enough it's still there.

Returning to it was a fun experience. Now our squids get to enjoy the waters like we used to.

It's also interesting to see that other couples now call this place their own like we used to do.

Healthy Young Man

2011-05-23T11:12:00.000-07:00

Went for a physical this morning and was told that I'm a "healthy young man" BUT:

I need to eat less meat.
I need to drink less.
I have allergies that I didn't know anything about.
I need to sleep more.
I have borderline high cholesterol.
I have ingrown nails and need to soak my feet every now and then.

They are also checking me for:

STDs
Diabetes
Hepatitis C.

Not sure if I feel better after the visit and the results of all the tests will soon be coming in.

It used to be a lot easier back in them days. I was 20 something and invincible.

MJ

2011-04-28T22:52:00.000-07:00

People hate Michael Jackson.

But at a time, his music was the only one that I was privy too.

The morning started like any other. The skies over East Los Angeles were overcast but the day would eventually turn hot and insufferable. At the moment though, I felt relaxed and jaunt listening to the tunes of MJ's Dangerous album on my hard earned Walkman.

It was at the corner of Hammel and Gage Avenue that the altercation happened.

He was a young man about my age but experienced beyond my years I think. He wore a crisp white shirt, a cleanly shaved bald head and a taught laundered pair of khaki pants one size too big.

At the intersection he stood. Confident and wearing a killer look that I interpreted as meaning business.

I took it seriously.

He hastily asked to empty my pockets. In shame and knowing that it wasn't much I showed the the paltry allowance I had earned for bus fair. He did not care. $7.00 was enough and I gave it to him as I looked as what I considered to be a gun but was obviously his hand pointing at me under his clothes.

As items felt out of my pockets he laughed!

A pencil? A skinny wallet filled with school ids and lunch tickets?

Finally there was my Walkman. The one that had taken me months to earn. The one for which I had saved every penny, dollar and dime my parents had given me.

And now this bald headed ruffian wanted it.

I was scared and I gave it to him.

I wanted to live and I didn't want to take the chance that there was a real gun under his shirt. People had died in my neighborhood for much less..

He looked at it and smiled and then took the CD out?

"Michael Jackson?, what kind of stupid music is that?" he said and chucked the delicate disk on the floor.

Then he ran out onto the streets.

My ego was hurt! He had stolen from me. He had laughed at my music.

He took my safety net away.

Questions

2011-04-27T12:48:00.000-07:00

There must have been a moment.

A fraction of a second where the first spark of intelligence took place.

That single moment made our species just a hair more special then all others we are aware off.

Where will we eventually end up. Will we let our intelligence destroy us or guide us to a new level of understanding?

Body Image

2011-04-19T11:21:00.001-07:00

For as long as I can care to remember I have worried about my appearance.

In younger days it was my thin legs.

In high school it was my big nose.

In college it was my lack of muscle.

In my early years of marriage is was my weight.

In my early thirties is is my receding hair line.

What I will focus in my later years is a mystery but it will be something.

It's tough not being one of the "pretty people."

White Belt

2011-04-06T15:50:00.000-07:00

My father told me on many occasions that he needed to break my nose.

He felt that by doing so he'd prevent it from looking awkward should one day someone else break it.

Silvio had this concept that a man must to learn how to fight and defend himself physically from the randomness of life and that is how I came to be enrolled in my one and only karate class.

As we walked into the training center that chilly rainy evening I felt a rush of heat surge through my body and jitters making my hands shake. The first 15 minutes or so were spent on introductions and instructions on the appropriate way to wear the tunic and how to tie the white belt we'd been assigned.

Then for about 30 minutes we learned a few basic steps and repeated them over and over and over again. The entire time I felt growing hotter, slower, less capable. But he was looking on and expected sharp snaps at my elbows, fists and kicks and made sure I knew it with his cold glare.

It was only during the last few minutes of class where were paired with another child for some simple sparing. I saw the more senior boys pick other boys to practice on and it was finally a brown haired girl who picked me. It was a flawed choice.

With weak knees I stepped on the mat and in mere seconds I was pinned down for the first time. Experience, quickness, and boldness were overpowering and the inner heat I felt just kept on growing.

The instructor thanked us all and sent us on our way. I changed, folded my new uniform and stepped out of the studio to greet my father.

The first strike hit right before we hit the car. Like lighting his heavy hand hit at my ear and sent a shrill noise bouncing in my head. The second was was a hot slap to the face and the third a punch to the chin that felt colder because he wore his heavy detective ring.

I dropped my clothes on the wet floor and felt tears welling up. I didn't understand that he was disappointed in my performance and that my lack of talent had embarrassed him in his mind.

We didn't talk in the car. We didn't talk for a week.

He only broke his silence many a days later when the chicken pox had subsided and I was on the mend.

I suppose I should feel lucky that my nose remains intact.

Tough Call

2011-03-30T15:24:00.000-07:00

Every now and again I have a conversation with someone that no one wants to have and that will change the status quo.

Whether it involves letting someone go, giving bad business news, critiquing a person's hard work, the struggle within is always a challenge.

But interestingly enough, I treasure the position being the bearer of ill news or tough talks. I feel that it is a skill that is suited to my personality and not one that I have seen well exercised by others out there.

Amongst the best advice I have received on the topic came from a mentor of mine. He said, "you know you've delivered the news well when the other party respects your integrity and thanks you for the talk." He added, "reasonable and ethical people can disagree on many a things but the art of business is keeping relationships healthy so that one day you may do business again."

That is how I approach these conversations.

Delivering the bad news while focusing on the positives that may arise from the situation. I point out that the status quo is not always healthy and that more often than not, action of any kind tends to be more positive to all concerned.

I can't say that I always handle these situations as well as I could but overall I think the people do appreciate my willingness to have the tough talks.

Folks resist change, critique and bad news. But they are part of life and I cherish dealing with them....as painful as they may be.

Sun Kissed

2011-03-19T09:54:00.001-07:00

Do you remember the first time I really touched your skin babe?

It was our first date and we were resting at the beach that late California afternoon. The sun was making its way down for some much needed rest.

You were laying on your tummy looking at the waters and I picked up fistful of warm sand and scattered it on your bronzed back.

You looked at me and smiled. I promised to take it off and I proceeded to swipe the sands away with my fingers.

It was the first time I felt your smooth flawless skin. It's feel was (is) intoxicating.

That moment changed the course of my life. Your soft bronzed skin did that.

Just thought you should know.

Dive

2011-03-12T23:26:00.000-08:00

The light is always that much more dull as it seems to enhance the inner neon lights as time passes.

Four walls and the heavy wooden rectangle are enough to enhance the American guitar's dirty/soulful heavy vibrations.

Brass surrounds the rectangle. It's turbid golden and morphs one's image as the beer and the whiskey does to the surrounding audience.

The stage hosts 4 to 5 worn souls who have found themselves connected by the tunes of memories long pasts but that somehow seem relevant to new generations who understand them for banal reasons.

As the night's precious minutes tick by, intoxication envelopes all and the light dulls even more. From the corner the man who continues to prove himself becomes louder and the woman whose partner's lack of attention is apparent acts out on the dance floor.

The usuals look on:

The man who drinks for drinking's sake chuckles.

A starving poet writes on his journal seeking approval that will never come.

Saturday's jolly pairing orders their usual wine and beer combo.

The seconds tick on by and the night crawls to it's eventual end. Bills are paid, feuds started or ended, couples brought together or torn apart, and decisions are made all around.

The poet inks his last few stanzas and walks on home. Only to do it again, very very soon.

Eventually, someone turns off the neon.

All I Want

2011-03-12T11:28:00.000-08:00

You say you want
Diamonds on a ring of gold
You say you want
Your story to remain untold

But all the promises we make
From the cradle to the grave
When all I want is you

You say you'll give me
A highway with no one on it
Treasure just to look upon it
All the riches in the night

You say you'll give me
Eyes in a moon of blindness
A river in a time of dryness
A harbour in the tempest
But all the promises we make
From the cradle to the grave
When all I want is you

You say you want
Your love to work out right
To last with me through the night

You say you want
Diamonds on a ring of gold
Your story to remain untold
Your love not to grow cold

All the promises we break
From the cradle to the grave
When all I want is you

You...all I want is...
You...all I want is...
You...all I want is...
You...

- U2

Yukon Charmer (2003)

2011-03-09T22:02:00.000-08:00

The Yukon River is a major watercourse of northwestern North America. The source of the river is located in British Columbia, Canada. The next portion lies in, and gives its name to Canada's Yukon Territory. Then, more than the lower half of the river lies in the U.S. state of Alaska. The river is 1,984 miles long and empties into the Bering Sea at the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta. By comparison, the total area is more than 25% larger than Texas or Alberta.

The longest river in Alaska and the Yukon Territory, it was one of the principal means of transportation during the 1896–1903 Klondike Gold Rush.

- Wikipedia

Sudden (12/09/2010 1:17:05 pm)

2011-03-08T11:56:00.000-08:00

The phone call came in no more than an hour ago.

A good friend awoke this morning and attempted to rustle her husband to enjoy the morning's first light.

He did not respond.

During the evening life escaped his body and beyond the reach of a loving wife and a brave new soul who knew her daddy for too short a time.

Suddenly, the world seems different.

We are left shaken, scarred, troubled, concerned.....

Diabetes

2011-02-15T13:35:00.000-08:00

My father was a brawny simple man who developed diabetes in his forties.

For many years my mother excused his fits of rage on the disease.

Growing up we walked on egg-shells around him so as not to trigger the anger.

When it couldn't be helped he always went for his belt drawer. He had them in all shapes and sizes. Some were made from crocodile hides, others were thick hunks of black and brown leather.

I still remember the fear and dread when he commanded us to stay put and await his return. My back, arms, chest, legs and face still recoil when I remember the flash of heat they sensed when the belt whipped the skin.

Once the rage subsided he paced away gruffly. Muttering, cursing, and perhaps looking for other opportunities to start up again.

My on-looking mother would then remind us of his diabetes.

Teeth

2011-02-12T09:38:00.000-08:00

The three of us had been sitting impatiently for over an hour. Trying not to wrinkle the clothes that she had pressed and fuzzed over earlier in the day.

My mother paced the living room. Constantly looking at the clock and cursing under her breath. Though I could still hear the occasional swear word.

He arrived, he had been drinking. HEAVILY!

I remember the moment that her disappointment and concern turned into scorn. The afternoon meant an important Mexican celebration and we were late and he was unstable.

She raised her voice in protest and after a few minutes of berating him she asked us all to get up. We would go to the event without him.

That lit the fuse.

He was a Mexican detective and his side arm was at the ready. With instinct on his side he swiftly drew the weapon and brandished it toward her.

My body went numb with fright.

He yelled. He had been disrespected and that was unconscionable.

Like a charging bull he sped towards her and she was unable to move from the incoming force. With the full force of his arm he let the full weight of the weapon's steel smash at my mother's mouth.

In an instant, her jaw was mangled and to this day continues to have issues with her teeth.

My sisters and I rushed outside and looked on to them for an eternity from a window.

He sat her on the couch and he placed himself in front of her. Their dialog only available to them.

The effects of earlier excesses eventually led to sleep and allowed his captive to sneak away and gather her frightened children.

On a side note. My dentist called today. My teeth need to be looked at.

Quake

2011-01-27T22:28:00.000-08:00

I remember bits and pieces.

Mexican schools took the dress code seriously and my mother was upset that I had wrinkled my pressed shirt when jumping on the bed. The morning was hurried and I had delayed us 5 minutes while she re-ironed my shirt.

I was on my way back from having my milk in the kitchen when the shaking begun.

The record says that it was an 8.1 quake but to me if felt like the end of the world.

In a moment, I saw my mother thrown across the kitchen like a rag doll. The force shocked my sisters and I and then the violent crash of glass begun. For what seemed an eternity the ground moved and tossed us. I was so scarred.

Once the movement ceased, my mother took stock of the condition of the house. So much had happened in such a short period but in her mind we still had a day to take on and we'd be late for school.

As soon as we started to make our way down our long street to the bus stop we noticed that things would not be okay for a while. Water was bursting from the sewers and many homes seemed in disarray.

We never made it too school that day. For the next 8 months life would not be as we knew it.

My father was not about.