Thoughts on growing older

It's been almost six weeks since I posted last, but it has been a busy time.

On the writing front, my son and I have been hammering out a rewrite of our screenplay, Black Rock, which we hope to see filmed next summer (2010) in West Virginia. If all goes well, he will be directing it, too.

We're both excited, the production company that optioned it are saying money is looking good, but we are ready to move on to a new project.

I've been writing on my own, as well (for reports on that, check out my writing blog, A Moving Line). And I am flying to Lawrence, Kansas next Saturday for a two-week-long writers' workshop conducted by a science fiction great, James Gunn. Teaching fiction was his "day job" while he wrote and he still is involved in the operation of The Center for the Study of Science Fiction at the University of Kansas in Lawrence.

I dug around in my book storage boxes last week and found a copy of Future Imperfect, Gunn's collection of short stories published in 1964. I bought it new and it's still in pretty good shape, although the pages have yellowed. The price, printed on the cover for all to see was forty cents.

And that brings me to something I have been mulling upon.

It occurs to me that one of the reasons that it has been six weeks since I have posted is that the days go by so quickly. Does it seem that way to you? That the older you get, the faster times goes by.

My son was thirty-one June 11th.

Rachael and I have been in Seattle for eighteen months now and it seems like just yesterday that we made that non-stop trip here.

She just had another birthday Wednesday and when we went out for pizza to celebrate, she told me that she felt as if the years were picking up speed, as well.

We've been together ten years now.

I can't help but wonder where does the time go?

Shakespeare had MacBeth say:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

I don't want to get all maudlin here, but I'm feeling a bit like that idiot tonight.

It's about the small things

What a glorious day yesterday was; the sort that makes me glad we moved to Seattle.

No wind, clear skies, lots of sunshine and mid-afternoon temperatures in the mid fifties. What more could someone who enjoys four seasons ask for in a winter day?

It was Rachael's "Sunday", too, so we stopped by Easy Street for breakfast. Easy Street is a local landmark, often billed as the best little record store, coffee bar and diner in West Seattle. They also have a small performance space and Eddie Vedder still drops by, now and then, when he's in town.

We stop in a couple three times a month because the food is tasty and plentiful, the wait staff is attentive and friendly and people at other tables join in your conversations. The visit yesterday was no exception.

At home, we settled in to watch Tomb of the Dragon Emperor, the third entry in The Mummy series. It doesn't hold a candle to the first one. The actors were trying too hard, even Brenden Fraser, whom I usually enjoy. But it was fun; particularly when served up with a nice bottle of white wine we got at Christmas.

I sneaked in a nap after the movie, and just before three p.m. we went for a walk, down by the Fauntleroy ferry landing, on to Lincoln Park, then up the hill, nattering on about houses that we liked.

And what a grand view of the Olympics from my bench above the ferry landing! Picture postcard perfect.

Home again, we grilled fish for supper, decided it was too warm to throw a log in the fireplace, and then I wrote for a couple of hours while Rachael fiddled with a video game. Bedtime came early, just like darkness does this time of year.

Another day in the life, don't you know. Not very excited business, but it's the little things that make a difference, isn't it?

I swear we just got here

Today is the first anniversary of our arrival in Seattle. (We got here on a Saturday, but it's the date that's important. October 27).

It was a seat-of-the-pants, leap-of-faith move; we showed up with a few thousand dollars in our pockets, everything we owned in an eight-by-ten trailer hitched to the SUV, hardly any income flow and no place to live.

That wasn't how we planned it, of course. Rachael flew to Seattle, from Miami, twice last spring to test and interview for a job with the King County Correction Department. We thought it was a lock; she was a Florida-certified corrections officer with almost four years experience, she passed all their tests with room to spare and got good recommendations from the folks at Monroe County Detention Center.

But September rolled around and our lease was up the end of the month and we still hadn't got the yes from King County. So I said, "Let's drive to Ohio and visit my family for a week or two." And we did.

I'm not sorry we did that; my Dad is eighty-seven and every second that I got to spend with him was golden. But October twenty second came around and we were still in Ohio. We didn't want to hit snow in the mountains, so we decided to head west. We had an apartment set up, and we figured we would just wait it out.

"We can both get temporary jobs,if it comes to that," I said. "Just until the county calls."

We decided to leave Thursday morning, the twenty-fifth. And then the bubble burst. Two letters showed up in the mail Wednesday. One from the apartment complex and one from King County. The apartment had, by accident, been rented and they had nothing else available until December first; even worse, King County said they would not be tendering a job offer.

What could we do? We both had been dreaming about Seattle for months. Thursday morning, we said goodbye, climbed into the SUV and drove toward the sunset. And drove and drove and drove. We didn't want to spend money on motels, so we just pulled over when we were tired.

We drove down out of the Cascades sixty hours later. I cried when we saw Mount Rainier; it felt as if I had come home.

It's been a struggle, but God has blessed us. We found an apartment we both loved that Sunday and moved in on Tuesday. Rachael found work, at a Barnes & Noble, less than a mile from us. Somehow, the money stretched.

Now, Rachael is driving a Metro Transit bus, and loving it. We are in a larger apartment, in the same building we found that Sunday, with a spectacular view of Puget Sound and two restaurants we adore a short walk away. There is even money left over after the bills are paid, so that we can go out for a bit of fun, now and then.

And for me, my fiction is flowing, almost faster than I can write it down, and it is selling. Ten stories since the first of June, five of which have already been in print. I have edited my novel, Lifting Up Veronica, and sent it out to be considered for publication, and my son and I have written a screenplay, Black Rock, working via the internet.

Best of all, Rachael and I have each other; she swears we are halves of the same soul. I think she is right. Life in Seattle is good, it gets better day by day, and I swear we just got here.

Ecclesiastes 3:1

A quick note on all things new.

In the middle of May, Rachael and I moved from our cozy one-bedroom apartment into a two-bedroom, two bath unit. Same building. Same view. Lots more space.

When we made the trek to Seattle from the Florida Keys, we cut what we owned right down to the bone, again; if we couldn’t squeeze it into the eight by twelve trailer we bought, we couldn’t bring it.

That was fine for the one bedroom, but last week, after sorting everything, we discovered that we now had empty space – the entire living room. Yesterday, with our federal economic stimulus checks in hand, we headed for IKEA and spent almost all of it on put-it-together-yourself furniture. Putting it together kept us busy the rest of the day.

Finally, with it all in place, we took a moment to consider our handiwork. I know I have said it before, but it wasn't bad for a couple of aging gypsies.

And then Rachael said something that pounded home just how on the move the two of us have been over the years, singly and together; how much we have lived out of backpacks and suitcases, without many permanent possessions.

“You know,” she said. “That’s the first sofa I ever bought that no one else had ever sat on.”