Author: Jeff

There’s a guy I run into sometimes who knows my name and a bit about my background, but I can never remember anything about him. When some personal detail about him comes up in the course of a conversation, I forget it immediately. I guess it’s pretty cruel and self-centered.

I don’t remember who he is or how we met. I’ve forgotten his name every time that he’s mentioned it. I wasn’t even able to recognize him by sight for the longest time. When he’d run into me, it would take a few seconds before his uninflected nasal voice would trigger the memory of the man I couldn’t remember.

I asked him to remind me how we met, and he told met that we had run into each other a lot when I used to walk up Some Street on my way home, back when I lived Someplace. I had lived on the street that he’d mentioned, but I couldn’t remember talking to him then; and now I can’t even remember which street he’d mentioned or where I was living at the time.

I’ve finally memorized his face. I recognize him when he turns up, but only as the man that I don’t recognize.

Photo Friday – Identity
Westlake Center – 3/22/03

Irrigation water was for sprinklers. But if kids were going to run around in the sprinklers, then you’d want to use house water. (Did we call it house water or well water?) I knew that the faucet by the porch was house water, but I would have to ask any time I used one of the others. My older brother and sisters seemed to have the whole arrangement of outdoor faucets memorized. But it was simpler than that, they just understood that, as a rule, irrigation faucets came up out of the ground and house water faucets were on the side of the house. That was codified for me late enough in my teens that it somehow doesn’t count.

Lake Washington Blvd.

Daniel shared a canoe with my mom and me. He wore Mickey Mouse ears tilted at a jaunty angle, like a beret. My sister Karen crinkled her nose at the swampy foliage and told us, “There were cat tails growing in my lawn. Isn’t that weird?” She lives in the Phoenix suburbs, out in the desert. Karen shared her boat with our mutual nephew Chris, seven years old. Chris seemed as confident with his paddle as anyone. The oldest kids and Rachel’s au pair didn’t get their rowboat far. The two kids had the oars going every which way and were taking the boat in circles.

The Can of Spam buildings

Lake Washington Blvd.

Waterfront Park, Pier 57 & 59

I saw this statue when I was a kid and I thought it was just the weirdest thing. Is that really what Christopher Columbus looked like? He didn’t have a hole through his head! My family was finishing up a day of site seeing. After puttering around outside for a bit, we moved on to have dinner at the fish and chips place right there at the pier. I kept talking about the statue while we were eating. I wondered aloud why we hadn’t gotten a picture of it. My parents finally sent me out with the camera to take the photo. I went outside and headed over to the statue, it had gotten dark since we’d gone inside to eat. It felt a little queasy when I pressed the shutter button on the camera and the flash went off. Taking pictures was something that kids just didn’t do. It seemed like something that involve spending money somewhere along the line – something that I wasn’t very comfortable with. My parents hadn’t found the statue worthy of a picture, how could it be picture-worthy based only on my say-so?

I don’t have a point here. This is just something I remember about this statue.

I talk to Jesse in the hallway as I’m leaving. I hold the door open and he wheels his chair outside and over to the van that’s waiting for him at the curb. The driver says hello and helps Jesse onto the wheelchair lift. Our conversation trails off as Jesse gets himself situated in the van. I wave good-bye and push off on my bicycle. But the timing of it is weird – Jesse looks out, waves and laughs at me a little. I’ve been in the habit of hiding the (mostly healed) wound on my hand whenever I gesture with it. So I sort of waved with my hand closed in a limp fist, which came across as kind of a loose Black Panther salute somehow. And that, of course, looks just ridiculous on me.

Day Street Boat Ramp

There’s a little park under the Seattle end of the I-90 bridge. The bridge pylons dampen the sound of the traffic (unseen from the park) into a steady soothing rumble.

Hey, look: a new layout. I thought it was about time that I brought out a brighter palette. There’s even an RSS feed now, and a less than helpful About page. Please let me know if there are any problems in your favorite browser/OS/screen-res combination.

Link distractions: This is the most earnest Marxist pop/marching song you’ll hear today, and this is the funniest comic strip ever.