Crossing Over to Distant Shores (Part Ten in a Series)

Part X -- Paris Stories -- Sleep

[Interlude:  the human body shuts its systems down with amazing efficiency preparing for the transformation of sleep. The brain curates thoughts and memories like a director of a vast art museum; but when awake, stimuli evoke obvious reactions, whether provoking, eliciting, or sensory. Closely observing the response to a difficult question, like the one proposed by Gabriel to Charlotte about America, was curious.]

Charlotte looked at Gabriel and flinched, "What?" She seemed wide-eyed, caught.

"What do you mean: What?" said Gabriel. 
He watched her intently; locked stare, beating heart.

She was classically trained as a lawyer in school, but hadn't practiced as an attorney enough to learn how to lie very well.

"You... you mean what I said about crossing over, I mean jumping in?" She knew exactly what he was asking, and that Gabriel was smart enough to interpret her inner-turmoil, illustrated so well verbally by describing plunging into the cold water, swimming across. [See Part IX, previously posted]

This rare awkward moment between them now turned on how fixed their relationship was; and whether Charlotte's life-plan centered on French art, or U.S. law?

Gabriel softly probed this line of inquiry, once he saw Charlotte's flustered response to his stimulative question about the other shore (America): "I thought the way you described your dilemma was fascinating, since you mentioned it involved a destination?"

Strangely uncomfortable, Charlotte realized what she said about a distant shore came from a deep, subconscious place. She said, "To get to the other shore, I have to go across." But was this journey pre-ordained? Was it required? Did it seem unpleasant, and why?

They didn't discuss the future, nor did she know much about her own plans, at least in a cognizant, logistical way. However, her analytical mind worked constantly in the background, especially during the sacred hours of sleep.

"Maybe we should talk more about what you're thinking after your study term ends here in Paris?" Gabriel asked, in a classic flanking maneuver.

Charlotte grew up in a family where the dangerous currency of emotion was used or flashed only in extreme circumstances. Less mature emotionally as she appeared, for her crying was a weakness, in her unfledged opinion of herself. But here, with Gabriel, the floodgates opened, and she wished they were anyplace but in bed, where right now she felt vulnerable and weak. 

But she pulled him in like the moon created the tides, and as her emotions swelled, he felt fiercely protective and watchful over Charlotte. Gracious Gabriel held her close and they each thought about their own hidden interpretation of this "crossroads" meeting, like an evolving mystery. Charlotte was a long way from her home soil, confused and exposed. Gabriel was on the precipice of artistic discovery, and yet at the same time, in love with this fragile girl.

Youthful naiveté prevented them from forming future plans using as much skepticism as angst; but who knows the future, or can guess which path is the best? Life plays out like a book, with each year, and then each decade, reflecting a distinct chapter in our history. Sometimes chapters weave together as part of a larger storyline, but often one chapter abruptly closes the interplay of that particular representation of our lives, not necessarily influencing its outcome. 

Gabriel could not fathom what life would be like without Charlotte, but did he really know if this relationship was best for him right now? For a Frenchman he still was "conservative" with a lower-case "c" - even though he wasn't in the "elite" upper class, nor was he very religious; in his heart he envisioned having a traditional family, including marriage and children. If both lovers moved on, would they always look back to this fortnight in Paris as the highest form of a partnership they’d experienced? If what’s past is prologue, meaning the past has set the stage for the next act, as a prologue does in a play; how would the rest of their lives be changed by the decision today of whether Charlotte would return to America without Gabriel?

Silence enveloped the moment. Quietly, her sobs pierced the reticence either had to speak again. Enough had been said already; and they were together now, sitting at the edge of the water to which Charlotte referred, feared, but knew she had to confront.

to be continued...............

 ##

Fiction 2018©Mark Pillsbury

August National Geographic Magazine Cover Story on Sleep:
https://www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2018/08/

The Burst of Bloom

The Burst of Bloom (Part III)

[Paris]

“Like the soil, mind is fertilized while it lies fallow, until a new burst of bloom ensues.” (John Dewey)

Without being an adept guitarist, still I joyfully practiced chords and songs in my Paris flat. With a cool breeze coming through the window, the street noise soothed my anxiety about learning. For hours we’d try songs we both knew; singing and reminiscing about each one’s importance; forging the kind of connection that led to a greater one, later. Music’s power moved us to experience different feelings, its primitive elements combined to reflect our own artistic predilections. These times playing guitar together fostered concord in our relationship, although we were hardly aware of it.

We also read together and discussed the state of our interests. By the hidden interface of fellowship through art’s revelation, we shared our personality struggles and became closer to each other’s quest for a new kind of beauty. 

Eventually it became possible to articulate how and where each of us sought validation. My gut told me that God sanctified mathematics through Gabriel, using his imagination as a soul-force. He would humbly remind me that a poem is not a legal argument, and that I could grow beyond my American biases and idols.

Once I read a passage that struck for us a note of truth: 

“Art celebrates with peculiar intensity the moments in which the past reinforces the present, and in which the future is a quickening of what now is;” Dewey continued, calling art’s qualities: “commemorative, expectant, insinuating, and premonitory.” 

This resonated between us, with a fervently mutual hope that the art would be such things, as our intensity grew. 

Auld Lang Syne: It's January 2016, can you remember December?

Can you remember December?

In some ways the “memory” is more a part of the event than the actual happening, because it is the only thing we have left. Such is the way we look back on the frenetic month of December from the perspective of January. How did we fit it all in one month? So much of it seemed slow and gauzy at the time, and now it seems as if it flew out of our hands like the wind.

Now that everyone is back at work and re-enrolled in schools, the pace is back to the normal whirring, buzz of the high RPM lifestyle so common in modern society. If there was a chance to rest, reflect, maybe even refresh old relationships over the holidays, now the engine is back to cruising speed and the special holiday times are pushed back into the far reaches of our memory.

As low-key as I tried to craft my December, there was still a lot to remember and many good times with friends, family, past acquaintances, and celebratory gatherings. From old co-workers, high school friends, out-of-state-family, visitors, even parents, siblings, sons & daughters—the past month was a special time of building relationships, sharing joy, good food, gifts, cheer, and memories… But it’s gone.

Is December atypical? Set apart and foreign enough to be ephemeral, outside reality? For some, the holidays represent surviving immense pain, for others it is awash in oblivion, yet it is certainly different every year, and more unrealistic to me as I get older. 

Auld Lang Syne is "for (the sake of) old times" and each December seems to be partly that, and partly a pure money play for the sake of capitalism. As I wrote in my Christmas poem last month, what puts the wind in our sails is something entirely different.

We have a new slate in front of us on which we write the story of the new year. All accounts are back to zero-sum, the value has yet to be added, and frankly we don’t know which way to turn. There’s a feeling of renewal and anxiety balanced with confidence in what we can do, tempered with a healthy respect for present uncertainty; but describing that is like catching lightning. 

It’s the first month of the year, the short hesitation before it soars again, is like the silence before a sonic boom. Even seeing the object move across the sky silently, you wait for the speeding bullet to break the sound barrier.

How long before the average person jettisons their new year’s resolutions? Just a few weeks? Are they gone already? What do I want to accomplish this year? Just setting the goals is the first step in January; but the hard work and persistence required to make real change is the cold water into which we must jump. Good luck.

Material Girl and The Candidate: Fiction based on True Bill Clinton Episode w/ Single Women

Material Girl and The Candidate: Fiction based on True Bill Clinton Episode w/ Single Women

Prologue:

[Twenty-two years ago, on January 20, 1993; William Jefferson Clinton took the oath as 42nd President of the United States--first of his vaunted “baby-boomer” generation. This fictional account of a true story revolves around a charismatic candidate, unknown to a sexy single girl returning to Dallas on the final leg of her journey; occurring in November 1991, fifteen months before the inaugural]

More than any other airline, or business for that matter, Southwest Airlines® lives the bromide: “it’s all about relationships,” by ensuring both passengers and employees have fun during a flight. With no assigned seating, cheap drinks and plane tickets; they value the atmosphere created by happy employees, and the goodwill created in customers by always being on-time and treating them with respect. Focusing on people creates a competitive advantage in a difficult industry. So, this flight provided the perfect place for Tina and Bill to meet; both of them experts at building relationships: selling, communicating, networking, and having fun ran in their blood!

Tina Dobbs was a tall Longview girl; a little country, not from Tyler—in her 30s but casually beautiful. Wearing comfortable Madonna-leggings and an oversized sweater on the flight, Clinton loved the view from the aisle as she stretched upward to shove a carry-on bag into the overhead bin.

“I think I can see through those tights, Carville,” he whispered to his bald friend. “Doesn’t she just want you to reach through the opening of that sweater,” Carville replied, “two scoops of sweet cream, Billy.” Carville’s cackle caused people think he was drunk; but he was just from Louisiana.

Tina was a cross between a young Diane Keaton of the Annie Hall era and an athletic Cameron Diaz from There’s something about Mary. A stunning beauty with long, sinewy legs, but ample bosom; the two young politicos admired her tantalizingly sheer black bra. Her retro, horn-rimmed glasses and stylishly cut, feathery blonde-hair gave a studious air to a fiery sex appeal. Carville thought she could pass for a LSU co-ed, but his saavy client knew better; hoping she was as experienced in bed as he was.

The 46-year old Clinton maneuvered gracefully so he sat across from Tina near the bulkhead in the open area on a Southwest® jet considered neither cattle-car nor pick-up bar. So adept at conversing; the forced “facetime” of a flight, buckled into opposite chairs gave him the tactical advantage. It didn’t take long before the sizzle between them passed across the small space like electric current, their animated dialogue covering multiple topics.

After partnering with his political wife Hilary Rodham 11 years in a backwater state; during the previous month, the obscure if colorful outsider announced as a presidential candidate on the capitol steps. Nonetheless, here was Bill the cad, always playing the fulcrum between risk and reward; flirting with an eligible woman not his wife. Hurtling toward Texas like fledgling lovers, their personalities ran a mile wide and an inch deep: some priorities intersected, but not in a serious way.

,

“I love that song,” said Clinton, referring to Madonna’s pop hit Material Girl coming from nearby Walkman® earphones, “I’m not going to get that out of my mind,” she demurred. It didn't take long for her to warm up to Clinton’s charm, but in a peculiar way she was playing with him like the material girl in the song. He pursued her subtly; serious about politics but relating to Tina intimately in a small space, intensely looking into her pale eyes as he meandered through his story.

“I’m not liberal or conservative: I’m both--it's different,” feebly explaining his politics, his upbringing, his passion; she was captivated by his eyes, close cropped hair, slightly graying, and the southern twang that made her comfortable: he sounded like he was from East Texas. Their opposite seating seemed like both a bridge and a wall; Tina felt both connected and protected.

Offering no real political insight to the conversation, she agreed amicably with the young candidate that the economy was tanking, and President Bush’s popularity was sliding, even in Texas. Entrepreneurial art dealers in Dallas rarely feel economic effects either way; because their clients come from wealth and sophistication--the exact demographic Clinton was coming to Dallas to tap. Since that dark November in '63, Dallas filled the chasm in its soul with the flickering light borne of a beacon; reflected off shiny buildings, cars, and people. That beacon guided this flight home.

Her politics mattered much less than her ability to sell rich people expensive pieces of art. Clinton relentlessly talked about himself like anyone running for office, but Tina pictured him more likely the president of his fraternity a few years ago; away now in Texas, trying to close a big real estate deal.

Even though he launched the campaign earlier in 1991, she previously knew nothing about his background whatsoever--except that he was cute. Hardly effusive, this divorced mother of two talked little about her personal life on planes; mostly they discussed popular culture and how the country needed to change course:

“My hero was John Kennedy. I want to finish what he started when he asked every American to take personal responsibility for the future of our country.” 

God, she thought; this inexperienced politician seemed a little mischievous to want to save America from the Republicans. He desired immense power, that she could tell; and yet he wanted to help—by force of his charm and the twinkle in his eye he slowly convinced her of his candidacy. She was unconsciously falling under the Clinton spell.

He confided in his wispy/raspy voice, “we’re hosting some liberal Jewish attorneys over at Fred Baron’s house, and then it’ll probably end up over at the Stoneleigh P.” This neighborhood contained art galleries and bars; she knew it well. "Say, do you know Truman Arnold? He's from East Texas;" Clinton pried, always networking or fundraising. The material girl scratched and clawed but never cracked the upper echelon of rich Democrats like the Barons or the Bransons; and in the age before smartphones or Google® how could she know that these two men ironically, also were married to overbearing, bitchy, attorneys?

“My gallery is up the street on Cedar Springs,” Tina confided, “I’ll be working late tonight for sure.”

Not uncoupling from the invisible line of electricity connecting them, and hoping they might run into each other again; she eagerly pondered the alpha-Male in her mind, fascinated, curious, and attracted to him even in the short time they had been together. President Clinton the micro-manager, obsessed over details of economic policy or healthcare; was able to discuss eloquently yet technically almost any subject in politics. As a regular observant guy on this flight, however; he noticed Tina’s Razorback-red toenails, the little dimples in her back that peeked out just above the hips, and her bleach blonde hair; a bit more natural than Gennifer Flowers.

Southwest Airlines® flights provided a casual workplace for the young powerbrokers of Texas; a small boardroom where they could loosen their ties and socialize while airborne. Its nutty, comedic advertising promoted the image of “love,” engendered the stock ticker symbol of LUV, and its home base was Love Field. “I’ve got so many of these tickets, let me get you a drink?” Clinton ordered a beer and Tina a very expensive brand of Vodka, again the contrast of Bubba and the fancy girl from Big D. The optimist politician was sure she’d meet them later if he pitched this right.

As they drank more, Clinton got sanguine and Carville got loud; men focused like assassins on the issues of the upcoming election in 1992. Tina’s initial assessment fell far short of the election results just one year later; in fact, as impressed as she was that afternoon, she didn’t think of him again until after the Democratic nomination. He appeared on the Arsenio Hall late-night TV show, playing that damned saxophone on her TV screen! By then, the Clinton contagion was going viral, and Tina couldn't believe her eyes. She had brushed so close to a high-voltage power line, smoldering and exciting; even without regret, the memory burned deeply into her psyche as much as any historical fact of her life.

The dating Gods protected her from the maelstrom and sexual mayhem of the Clinton presidency. Like a ghost of a gathering storm; in reality the relationship never had a chance. When they met, his candidacy and future wealth wasn’t apparent; and frankly the material girl was mainly impressed by free-flowing cash men of Dallas. Maybe she was ahead of her time, because looking back on Bill's exploits today, he seems creepy. Despite the physical spark, he just didn’t show enough immediate financial attractiveness at the time, even with the allure of a wildly charming nature. But Tina’s dalliance sure made a good story for the rest of the Nineties.##

Music video:  http://youtu.be/DNSUOFgj97M

 "Some boys try, and some boys lie but

That's alright with me;

If they can't raise my int-rest, then-I

Have to let them be-ee.” (Madonna) ©Warner Bros. 1985

Fiction©Mark H. Pillsbury (2015)

(Fair use of copyrighted work shown herein is not an infringement of copyright law, see 17 USC §107) 

Open Letter to the Class of 1983

See you in September

I can’t decide whether I'm more excited about college football starting again, or the few weeks until my 30^th high school reunion. Thoughts go back to those years when your age seemed frozen and the future appeared far off in the distance; the way you feel when you have plenty of time before a flight, checked-in and ready—no pressure, no hurry.  We were comfortable back in the 70s & 80s.

My class graduated in late May 1983, and although we had no idea about Madonna when her album debuted that summer, we launched out from there; lives moving rapidly from one stage to the next, unevenly aligned with decades, but furiously reaching one road sign after the next. Most of us went off to college, many stayed in Texas, some even settled in Big D to raise their families. Won't a few of you from faraway lands come to this reunion?! It would be fun to guess who comes from farthest away. London, Hawaii, Australia?

How can we be at the third reunion? Each celebration so far has been unique in its theme:

• 10^th was just another big party like many of the weddings I attended; pretty nervous walking up to Winfrey Point clubhouse, I pondered why I hadn't given the concept much thought?
• 20^th was the “Vice-President Reunion,” as everyone climbed the ladder of success rapidly and came ready to show off their progress. (How could everyone in the room be a Vice-President?). I thought it a fairly insincere bridge from the early reunion to the upcoming milestone of 2013.

My impression is that with this class reunion, all who attend will feel lucky to be there, and everyone by this time has taken some lumps:  suffered through some bout of death, divorce, disease, disaster, and/or depression. It will be something from which we did not overcome with the same pride and fervor thought to have come so easily at our 20^th anniversary.

"That which tears open our souls, those holes that splatter our sight, may actually become the thin, open places to see through the mess of this place to the heart-aching beauty beyond." From Ann Voskamp’s quote there is encouragement to seek conversations and renew relationships in a sincere, transparent way; allowing friends to see through the thin, torn patches in one's personal tapestry, for they are the passages by which one sees the real insides of my being, and hopefully the beautiful light of God beaming through them.

I believe this time the grace of a group approaching their 50s outstrips our natural tendency to fudge, judge, or peacock in front of our classmates. This platform of life takes time and skill to climb onto; and so we welcome our friends to a wonderful point in which the pretense of success, status, and class, pale in comparison to the love and joy we will experience as we share each other’s foibles, struggles, and humility.

At first it will be difficult to peel the layers of the onion back; we’ll fall back to the natural, “I’m great, the kids are super; Yes, I do have it all put together just as it seems.” However, as we break through to authenticity, it's fortunate that we really made it here at all, considering what has happened; at this point there is hope for a renewed camaraderie among humble old friends. This reunion presents a rare opportunity to re-connect, review, and even de-construct some of the "archetypes" manifested in previous meetings. But how many of the graduates have the courage to show up and tell their (real) story?

My story certainly has some twists and turns too strange for fiction, and I know that your story will take my breath away at some point during its telling. It’s been such a long time since we thought of each other, but thankfully there’s still so much we have in common. There are strong mysterious links which enchain the heart to the regions where the morn of life was spent.

With all due respect to the writing of Gail Godwin in her novel The Finishing School, I am expecting to meet two kinds of people at my 30^th high school reunion:

“One kind, you can tell just by looking at them at what point they congealed into their final selves.

It might be a very nice self, but you know you can expect no more surprises from it.” These people are doing just fine with themselves and I say, “more power to ‘ya,” or to be perfectly frank, and to use the phrase so enthusiastically used in the South when we just don’t quite know what to think: “well, bless your heart?!”

Godwin’s character Ursula continues, “Whereas, the other kind keeps moving, changing. With these people, you can never say, “X stops here,” or “Now I know all there is to know about Y.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re unstable. Ah, no, far from it. They are fluid. They keep moving forward and making new trysts with life, and the motion of it keeps them young.”

“In my opinion,” Ursula says, “They are the only people who are still alive.”

One unambiguous characteristic of this second group of people will surely be that they seize life with gusto. Contrary to the self-doubt that creeps into my mind sometimes when I think of the ups and downs of my career path; at least I had the courage to change, when the time to change was apparent. I will likely gravitate to and appreciate those who took on life’s challenges with passion, and I look forward to reliving some of my friends’ most perilous moments. 

To quote Jack London’s credo as told by a reporter named Ernest Hopkins:

“I would rather be ashes than dust!

 I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.

 I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.

 The function of man is to live, not to exist.

 I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.

 I shall use my time.”

For those of us who make it back to HP in September, may that credo be the cry of the class of 1983.

©Mark H. Pillsbury

A-1 series beginning w/ the letter-A: Appreciation

Appreciation

Appreciation is all about relationships: friends, family, organizations that I value. A friend no longer living here in town is my “pick you up in the middle-of-the-night friend,” the kind for which we all are grateful. Although we've shared each other’s likes/dislikes, burdens, joys, tragedies, humorous and sarcastic moments, for thousands of cell-phone minutes; I most appreciated his friendship when he picked me up late one night when my car broke down. Cognizant that this friendship is purely unmerited favor, I regard him with high respect, that’s what makes it special. 

Being “aware” gives us the sensibility to actually experience and live for today, not stuck on another day; appreciative of the present. Estimable affection can be temporal; indeed it also allows us to see the miraculous in the common. The hobbyist and the connoisseur both relish what they see and taste; settling softly on their palette with warm appreciation. They know it when they see it, recognition is passionate and instantaneous. I can hear a few notes of my favorite music and respond immediately with singing, and a glance at my children pictured as toddlers shines into my heart like bright rays of morning sun.

Awesome begins with an A, a word overused and trite; yet when we look at something with awe, appreciation rises. As the year begins, I am committed to show and experience appreciation. We crave it ourselves, if we make the effort to perform a nice deed on another’s behalf their acknowledgment makes it worth it; as long it is given freely and not from obligation. Have you noticed the difference between a sincere thank-you note and a canned one?

Hat by Zazzle.com

An antidote to the venom of narcissism, thankfulness has been proven to improve both mental and physical health; likewise, studying the cause of sincere customer satisfaction captivates business.

Appreciation: joy’s cousin spreads a smile to a passer-by, a call to a lonely, elderly relative, and returns a large tip to a jovial bartender. Worth taking time to stop and be appreciative for the blessings of life, we take a receptive posture; absorbing the pleasantry with satisfaction and happiness. Further, pursuing appreciation is subtle and important; as edifying as the experience is lovely. As I mature I am increasingly aware of the joy I experience over the littlest of things, or the largest of concepts. Give thanks, for this is the day the Lord gave us; life is not a dress-rehearsal.

Next time:  arbitrage

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Unemployment and the Job Interview

Unemployment and the Job Interview

Measuring "unemployment" is complicated because like a diamond it has many facets. In the U.S. currently, only about 60% of all people over 18 yrs. old hold jobs. By this measure, the "real" unemployment rate is 40%.

That perspective is too broad. Most people who don't work are in school, staying home to raise children, or retired.

Government statistical geeks have the difficult task of trying to measure people who want to work but can't find anything. They have a series of measurements numbered U1—U6, with each total representing a number which includes a larger detachment of the country without jobs. The parameters change as it moves upward on the scale. Are you asleep?

The U6 unemployment rate counts not only people without work seeking full-time employment (the more familiar U-3 rate), but also counts "marginally attached workers and those working part-time for economic reasons."

For the last couple of years, U6 numbers have been hanging around the 15% range of people without work who are out in the market seeking full-time employment. That’s a lot of job interviews going on!

image: dorothea lange

After a really good interview, one can spend the rest of the day playing the “what-if” game, daydreaming about the next appointment, replaying the conversation in the mind, even mentally negotiating the right salary. 

In my experience, job interviews are like the early stages of dating, especially when the meeting is held in a social setting. One can go through an innocent evening at a restaurant, having a reasonably good time, thinking that there could be some potential in the relationship; only to never hear from their partner again. The other participant made a snap judgment right after the appetizer that you weren’t their type and that is the end of it. 

Because they are polite and adept at hiding their true feelings, the repartee is cheerful perhaps even deceptive; nevertheless at the end of the evening there are no real signs of affection and the hiring party (in dating this is obviously cloaked) laments privately whether it was a complete waste of time. “We are not going to offer this person the job,” thinks the decision-maker; at least the etouffee was excellent! 

Employment is a huge commitment today, so there are many reasons to avoid resolution as to the offer of a job (or love). If there is no real connection it is always best to keep looking. Sometimes the only collaborator the pursuer has is time; in love and commerce the “ticking clock” can be one’s best ally. 

For me it comes down to the discipline of letting God be sovereign over all things big and small. Will I be able to surrender the future into God’s hands and open my heart to let Him work, even open to “rejection” at the hands of an erstwhile suitor? This type of surrender gives all choice to God, all I have to do is be diligent in the process (run the race) but bow my knees in prayer: “Thy will be done.”  2 Corinthians 12: 9-10

©Mark H. Pillsbury

Part one: Fire and Rain (fiction ripped from the headlines)

Part one: Fire and Rain (fiction ripped from the headlines)

Storm chasers at work:  https://youtu.be/8jWOq3lWvz0

©Mark H. Pillsbury (2011)
[Some material may be deemed inappropriate for less mature audiences]

They were storm chasers, but the spring tornado season was so active with over 100 tornadoes in June, they were looking for a change. After dating a year and working together almost two, Rick and Jessica often finished each other’s sentences. They were Sooners, trained in meteorology in one of the finest departments for weather in the country, schooled in the heart of tornado alley, Norman Oklahoma.

image: Tegtmeier, NSSL

“Jess, why are you so quiet? Aren't you happy to take this cruise?”

Jessica was tall, thin and sweet. She liked the rainbows better than the thunderstorms,and on weekends at FOX25 she “did the weather,” indeed, she was proud during the broadcast when underneath her name sat the big word: Meteorologist. She wasn’t big like that girl in Dallas so many years ago who could block out most of East Texas by turning sideways, however when they split a big royalty check from the Discovery channel for video of the big twister in Millbury Ohio, she did sneak away that summer and get some work done on the second floor, so to speak. Rick loved it, and all her small-screen associates assured her good looks were the way to rise through the ranks, as long as you had talent to team with the girls.

Rick, the hard-charger of the group, founded Tarleton & Associates (or TNA like he loved to snicker when he used initials to name his company) right out of OU. He minored in business, but wanted to chase the biggest storms each spring, film them up-close and hi-def, sell the footage to networks and Cable shows that specialize in high tension reality-TV.

“I only see my cousin one weekend every couple of years, babe; can you try to be nice to me? This is an expensive date we are going on next week.” Jessica had no idea where Liberty County was; maybe she would feel better once they cut through the blue water of the Caribbean Sea.

Even though they had only a Chevy Tahoe and a satellite link to their laptops, Rick usually rode the waves of instability first, and that is where he earned his money. He arrived early at the boundary separating hot, dry air to the west from warm, moist air to the east, known as a “dryline,” and like a wildcat driller, he molded an opinion how the next cloud would play; he then drilled down into the data on the laptop (for which he paid a fortune in subscription fees) in order to back up his gambler hunch. Rick seemed to know instinctively which way to run. Jessica lingered on the idea that despite her love of weather, indeed because she understood them both, her man would have to retreat from the dangerous mistress twisters had become.

His training at OU quickly focused on what produces “meso-cyclones;” an area founded by Ted Fujita more than a decade before Rick was born. Fujita, a Japanese-American scientist, invented the recycling hypothesis of “tornadogenesis” including the spotting of RFD (rear-flank downdrafts) which showed-up clearly on radar as “hook echoes.” Rick read radar as an oil man reads 3D seismic imaging from the Gulf of Mexico; watching the bright hues of his laptop change as the data crunched through his Pentium processor. He used the cell phone to chat with other storm-chasers only when he felt behind in the race, but Rick was usually a front-runner.

Rick’s "Christmas shopping season” was between April and June, and usually the hours of operation were between 4 and 9PM, when big storms heated up. Classic stormchasing occurred in Tornado Alley, an area in Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and South Dakota where the proper atmospheric conditions existed in abundance during that time of year. At 10 he watched the movie Twisters, and he was 13 when Doppler radar recorded the fastest wind speed ever measured, 318 miles per hour, in a tornado that hit the suburbs of Oklahoma City, OK, on May 3, 1999. He remembered that storm like a kid remembers how many trophies Michael Jordan collected with the Bulls.

“Why do you squeal like a school-girl when we hit the gas heading up one of those dirt roads? [toward a storm]” Jessica was ribbing Rick, because she knew he loved tornadoes more than she.

“I do not?!” Rick said.

They were headed to a cousin’s ranch in Liberty County to do a little four-wheelin, cat-fishin, and hanging out in the country as they travelled toward Houston’s new cruise ship terminal to jump on a boat. This would be a great opportunity to relax with Jessica and talk about their future. Not surprisingly, he had some very specific plans.

“Maybe it is the adrenalin rush, but when I look across the prairie and see one of those huge grey elephant trunks reaching down out of a supercell,” Rick was excited even in this retelling, “I’m not trying to joke, it pulls me closer!”

“Remember when we dove last year off the wall of Cozumel?” Rick asked Jessica, “The deep blue of the abyss was calling in a way, wasn’t it?”

“Like hell,” Jessica snapped.

“You didn’t see it?” Rick responded. “No,” said Jessica, “I mean it reminded me of the depths of hell and I wanted to go up; I didn’t like it at all.” She continued warily, “if we do this storm thing much longer Rick, it is going to be the end of us.” Jessica went silent, knowing somehow what she said had multiple facets.

Rick was lost in thought. He remembered filming at Millbury and feeling like the trap had ensnared him once, only to thrust through the howling winds back to the truck as Jessica peeled out at a 90 degree angle away from the storm path, fleeing down an anonymous country road.

They pulled up to the ranch house in mid-afternoon, and the mercury was flirting with the century mark. Both of them knew innately that the dewpoint and the air temperature were sticking too close for comfort. Rick piled out their bags and went inside to drink in cold air and maybe an adult beverage, his throat was dry from a long day in the saddle.

His cousin Clay was very different than Rick. He was older, taller, more direct, fearless, graduated as a Texas Longhorn, a Christian, and he usually made a quick shot across the bow to put you off-guard, nevertheless, Rick thought of him as a brother, and was delighted to see him.

After big back-slappin hugs, and Clay popping the tops on chilled Coronas, they settled down on the couch and turned on the satellite television. Rick hoped that Clay would ask him about what was playing on Discovery Channel, but instead he got right to the point, “How long ya’ll been dating?”

Rick and Jessica sort of grinned as they looked at each other like doubles partners in tennis, sending silent messages to each other: "You take-it!"

“Coupla years, Clay, why do you ask?” from Rick. Jessica just chuckled and sipped the cold beer.

“Trip like this almost seems like a honeymoon?” he said sardonically.

“Nope. Just getting away after a busy spring chasing dollars.” Rick was not defensive, but he did not want to get into any of this with anyone but Jessica.

“Do you think what you do together is as dangerous as bullfighting?” Clay continued, unabated.

“What do you mean ‘what we do together?’ Clay?” Rick replied cleverly, still parrying with his cousin.

“Getting right up close to a tornado, is that like snake-charming or Russian roulette?”

photo credit: Reed (1909)

"Many entertainers, pilots, sports stars, explorers, journalists, cops, Marines, nurses, drivers, have to go in harm’s way to make a living, but the natural disaster that is most accessible, shocking, loud, and violent, is the tornado. It does more in 5 minutes than any army. People want to look at it up close, just like they go to the zoo. They pay to stay at a distance," said Rick, continuing, "Aren’t we meeting market demand? There are hundreds of storm-chasers in Tornado Alley?!"

“Does the number go down every year?” Clay sipped as he grinned. “Will you guys, put a car seat in the Tahoe when Junior rides along after the twister?” Jess lit up.

That one went a foot slightly outside the boundary line, but Rick was used to this kind of joking. Most of the time he dished it out more than took it.

Most biting humor is equal parts truth and jocularity.

Eventually they changed into cooler clothing and went down to the little pond at sunset, fishing (casting), talking and drinking; nothing much happened until the sun went down.

Fortunately, Clay brought frozen pizzas from CPK, and plenty of cold-longnecks. There was no more talk of relationships, storms, cruises, business, or Houston. It was time for youthful socializing, talking sports, family gossip; and Clay getting to know Jessica.

Considering all their rustic reminiscing, back to nature fun, listening to music, and staying up late into the night, they were remarkably “unplugged” for their generation. They did not know that burn warnings were up in all the counties around Liberty, and the NWS was under high alert for wildfire. They had no idea that bearing down upon their little chunk of the woods, was a ten-mile wide wall of flame.

This menace did not rain, hail, or spin. Considering how few roads went away from the ranch, even in their wildest nightmares, neither of these kids would be ready for this inferno. It was as if all the devils in hell showed up in southeast Texas, and they were flying in high and hot…

(To be continued… in Part 2)

photo credit: Red Cross