Fourth Week of Lent

uno. First day of spring was glorious. The winter has been hard in the northwest - cold and windy rain so deep it makes you feel like growing bark to stay sturdy - so any hopeful sign of warmer weather was welcome to this out-of-region Mexican. Screw the groundhog! I don't care if it saw it's shadow; I felt heat on my back and it was a day out of the office. All good.

dos. First guitar lesson with Jack. Like me, he's from Louisiana; damn good old boy with cut sentences to make the talk linger well beyond our time together. My fingers hurt bad after one hour; but my mind was even more in pain; twisted about with music theory never learned during my years in the biz. Jack is a fine teacher, hope to make him proud with steady practice ["How do you get to the Paramount Theatre?" If I have to answer, don't ask.]

Memphis seems to be a natural on the Yamaha acoustic I found. She immediately started working out a simple song, plucking strings to match the lyrics she was singing. We're not going to force feed her music instruction BUT I do want her to master music theory so any instrument has a common frame of reference. I also want her non-dependent on other musicians to write songs - her songs, her voice, her life. The biz is heartless; less she has to count on strangers to make it... amen.

tres. First lunch with Steve in quite some time. Good to see him, hear his stories; good to break crab cakes for a Catholic avoiding meat. Wish I could have lunch with at least one cousin each week. He's got the reins for the foundation web site... I'm just the wizard of oz barking directions from the curtain.

Perhaps it's the man-to-man aspects of the lunch which still hold fresh. So few of us [men in the family] spend time together; communicate about hard life issues. The women [or so I am lead to believe] do it without effort. If men are the perceived leaders of the community, or at least our families; shouldn't we discuss where we're leading everyone else? Do we have a plan? Or do we know the destination?

It's a sad reflection, but the most memorable male talks drawn from childhood are with Bud Shearer, Chris's Father. He was the next bigger-than-life character after Grandpa died. You never forget how people like that affect you.

quatro. First time I saw an animal slaughtered was as a child. It made sense because the entire cycle of primal process was exposed to me, living with Chula. She transformed the slaughtered animal into food; helped me grasp why their lives became our survival. And she reminded me never to name the animals [especially any outside the cats and dogs].

You give up meat for a while, what is it really? And what's the core relationship to it? Sunday New York Times has a piece on getting intimate with meat eating by going through the hunting experience; forcing a connection with what we ingest with what we have to kill. I haven't read the piece, just the summary; but expect it will take me back in time to Sunnyside slaughter jobs. Back then we hired this guy to come to the house and slaughter the larger animals; like a cow. The first thing [for me] you have to reconcile is blood. There's blood when the slaughter happens; then there's blood in the kitchen while the animal parts are getting transformed into meal ingredients.

But could I kill today? Or is meat so important even a slaughter job wouldn't stop me from getting a nice steak now and then? Wayne hunts; sounds interesting. Just not sure I could do it. And most certainly I couldn't do it at our house; as in raise a steer to maturity, then slaughter it and turn parts into ingredients for our favorite dishes.

Here's the truth... even though I gave up meat for Lent, don't really eat much. Chicken yes. Could raise chickens. Beef? Very little. There's something sacred here to muse on into next week's reflection [probably related to sacrifice]. Plus I'll read the NY Times piece and get back to you.

cinco. First love was a girl from Sunnyside, Lisa Trudeau. It was not a sensual relationship yet it was the first experience with intimacy. No kissing, just talk, listening to each other grow in our adolescent selves. The desert of Lent seems similar, where few words are spoken but the bond grows if you can put aside the sensual desires. My God it's right in front of us, how can we not see it?

BTW: Lisa was also my first introduction to Latin/Anglo chemistry. Evonne will dislike me saying this but it made sense then and even more now. Contrast seems like a natural evolution; especially when the offspring display the attributes from which they came. Who believes we are born of pure blood? Consider the melting pots which were [and still are] the Iberian Pennisula and MesoAmerica. Different folk just hooked up - and here we are. Back then I could have asked Lisa where she was from, what was her culture; and she might not have had as crisp an answer as I, but did I really no more about origins?

Be in love with humanity; because there is a common source [if only we could accept this; stop the killing].

ses. First thing in the morning, the offspring wants to play. I have to thank Chula for passing on genes to wake up Memphis at 6AM - on a weekend! Maybe it's spring fever. Regardless it's fresh cappucinos for this papa. I've joked recently [maybe more reality than joke] we need a two hour nanny, to cover the 7-9AM slot on the weekends. This make believe nanny would make sure there's food, drinks and plenty of book reading. And if she wants a tip, she makes my coffee too :}

Memories of Sunnyside recall the morning hours as most holy, like the greeting time with Our Father, where prayer is clear and fresh. Smells are different, light is different, heartbeat is different. Even the cemetaries seemed serene first thing in the morning; standing on our humble concrete porch. And this time of year was like a bloom explosion; so many fruit trees trying to compete for my eyes, showing off tiny flowers.

So thank you Memphis, for waking me up.

See you next week. Con paz.

frank