An Embarrassment of Boxes

I recently moved from California

to Oregon

and after several trips to the thrift shop

and three trips to the dump

I found myself with over 300 boxes
of stuff.

Not furniture, not clothing,

Just stuff.

An embarrassment of boxes.

I remember when my grandfather

moved after years in Hollywood,

acres of excess

stuffed into a clapboard garage

which had collapsed long ago

but was unaware,

as the broken appliances

and three-legged chairs

upheld the facade for years

after its demise.

After his passing the building groaned,
the roofline sagged
like an old swayback horse
under the weight of an unseen rider.

In truth,
the horse died long ago,
yet remained draped over its
skeleton of castoffs and keepsakes.

Of course, that has nothing to do
with the legions of boxes now residing
in my own clapboard garage,
waiting to be unpacked, sifted and sorted,
as I search for those treasures
which were once my grandfather's.

I walked over to the local high school...

So,

I just walked over to the local high school to watch softball. Being a bit of a baseball fan, and catching occasional snippets of spring ball on the radio, I walk over from time to time whenever the field lights are on.

Tonight was the worst mismatch I've ever seen, and the winning team wasn't any powerhouse. A couple of company teams, just 18 working guys. Top of the inning it's three up, three down. Bottom of the inning it's single, double, single, single, triple, steal, double, single, and finally - the first out. It was really entertaining, like the Keystone Cops or the Washington Generals.

The poor guys were so earnest, but they couldn't even get the ball from third to first. The other team was just hitting bloopers - grounders and pop-ups and little dribblers - but the guys couldn't catch it, couldn't pick it up and certainly couldn't pass it on to one another with any degree of accuracy.

The sad thing was, they were the more powerful hitters. They'd hit big, soaring flyballs, or drives right at a player, but it was always three up and three down - and then the slow, painful slaughter.

But it didn't seem painful. It was just like, "this is the way we play ball." There was constant chatter among the players, but with no purpose. Somebody would stumble to catch an innocent, childlike bump of the bat, and there was nothing like, "that's alright" or "good hustle" or "what a moron" - nothing. Just idle chatter.

So,

An hour and a half later, after watching a full four innings,

it just wasn't funny anymore.

Things are tough all over

.
I work in downtown Los Angeles a lot now, and it's been fun finally getting to know the heart of the city I've been skirting around my entire life. You meet a lot of interesting people downtown, often interesting in ways you'd never suspect at first glance.

In the alley behind my building, I met a guy sitting in a doorway I've never seen open. He was grinding and sifting what appeared to be charcoal, and I asked him what he was up to.

"It's gold," he said. Apparently, he has a vein of gold-rich soil on his farm/ranch in Mexico, and brings it up in crude, dried clumps to sift out and take to the assayer when he needs money here in the states. These are his emergency funds, safer to transport as soil and more profitable to process here due to the corruption in his homeland.

It seems things are tough all over, but it was wonderful to see the zeal with which he ground his gold - here was hope and opportunity. It's a lesson to make the best of what you've got and ride out the waves in this economy.
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