Pecan Blossoms

5/6/13

Josh Parr

Her porch was warm in spring sunshine, and 90 years meant nothing. She was lithe and buoyant on her feet.

“When I found him he was on the bed with a wet cloth over his face. He’s a tough one.”

She had followed the trail of blood from the couch past the stairs, to the bedroom.

“Your father says he just fell off the stairs,” she said, “but the gal from the police says his wrist injury showed he was blocking the second blow. The first got him in the back of the head. The gal said the shattered wrist could only have been from him bringing his hand up to his face to protect himself.”

There was nothing missing from the house.

“This half of his face, you know, is now plastic,” she told me, brushing her right cheek from ear to chin.

It was during his treatment at the hospital that all the funny stuff happened.

He watched a baseball game play out on the window.

At another point, he got off the bed, dragging catheters, and announced he was going fishing with his grandson. He carried a bait bucket in hand.

“But Norvin, Josh is in California.”

“Ah hell, that’s too far. I’m not going,” he declared, and crawled back into bed.

They had lived in Taylor for about 8 years. They went to church.

She played in two Bridge clubs, one which met on Monday and Wednesday and the other Tuesday and Thursday. Because people kept dying, she’d been playing in both groups now for about a year.

“And let me tell ya, soon there may just be one group.”

“Either Taylor is the best city or the most boring, there’s not a lot of gossip at those tables.”

“The only thing to discuss is one woman’s son, who got a sex change. But we can’t talk about that.”

While she was at her bridge clubs, Norvin stayed at home.

 “Taylor may be the least friendly town in the world,” he said.

“We’ll be putting everything up for auction soon,” he says. “Hope they can sell this house along with it.”

It was a two story brick home on the corner, on a plot shaded by four, hundred-year old pecan trees, though one had died recently and the stub of its trunk stood stark on the corner of the driveway.

A Texas flag waved in the stiff wind that blew past the front door.

“You wonder why there’s as much traffic here as there is,” he marveled. “None of these streets go anywhere, they just end.”

They’d recently taken down the fence around their house.

Months ago, they’d seen a man walk into their garage to take a look around. He’d rummaged through the boxes and then wandered off, and when they spoke to the police, “the gal there recommended we take the fence down. More eyes makes break-ins less likely.”

With her eyes cast to the blue Texas sky and the tops of the pecan trees, she said, “Last year, I believe we had 100 pounds of pecans, unshelled. And I didn’t even pick them all up. But this year, looks like we won’t have any at all. I rake up the blossoms, and last year, it looked like the ground was covered with snow. This year, not so much at all.”

Inside the house is a steep staircase with a ninety degree turn in it, leading to the master bedroom. In that room, is a bed on a pedestal, with its own staircase to clamber up.

They refuse to change the bed, or sleep downstairs.

She had grown up in Taylor until she was 14. Her father owned the kalachi bakery, after leaving the railroad business that scattered the family throughout Texas.

But could anyone hold a grudge that long?

“I was at Church, and we’d just finished, so I called the house. I might have saved his life,” she said.

“He didn’t answer, so I waited a few minutes in case he was driving over. Then, I headed to the house.”

“I reckon I called right when it was all happening. Maybe they thought someone was watching, or checking on Norvin. I think that’s why they left.”

The porch is warm. Seems like the weather couldn’t be any better. Not too hot. No humidity. A sprinkle of wildflowers dot the grass with color. No bugs.

“Your daddy thinks he just fell,” she says.

8/8/11- Fear Trumps Hope?

Tomorrow, 8/8/11, may be the day historians pinpoint as the day that fear trumped hope in America, and the day that America lost its place as the center of the world. But let's hope not.

The symptoms?

Internal politics of fear, trumping hope. Market devaluations. A restless world without a central axis. Domestic troubles shaking world confidence.

Here's the detail:

At dinner, a friend commented, a few times, that his phone was blowing up. Messages to make sure to be at work early, by 6 AM.

"It's going to be crazy. The next couple of weeks look rough," was as analytical as things got, but what other words would one need to hear?

My friend is a banker. Fixed income guy.

Tomorrow, American markets will take a massive hit. Credit de-valuation "adjustments" will rock the entire world.  And as many know, markets are more indicators of basic animal motivations like fear and lust, than rational behaviors oriented toward the common good. (Despite Republican arguments that markets should regulate rather than be regulated.)

To me, it's less an "adjustment" than it is a symptom of  "climate change." And at the root of that climate change, is a domestic shift from hope to fear.

If money is like water, then the big thaw is coming. The elevated vaults of frozen assets will soon evaporate into the ether of the global market.

Just as global warming means more hurricanes, the dramatic alteration of rain fall patterns, record levels of flooding, and refugees searching for safety, a landmark day on Wall Street will mean similar things for emerging and established markets. Changes in long held patterns, washed out markets, record spending on "safe" commodities (gold for instance), and the search for new "securities"- (maybe companies lke Apple and Google.)

The symptoms are clear: a markdown to AA+ due to Tea Party shenanigans around the US debt. A weak President trying to create consensus instead of setting an agenda. World wide markets (Japan, greece, Spain) standing on artificial legs, propped by national banks.

The evaporation of capital will sadly dim the hope that underpins "recovery", leaving the psychological driver of fear to dominate in the days that follow.

Sadly, "Hope" was once Obama's mantra, a slogan and sentiment that drove him into office. A 2000 era vision of prosperity, equity and peace firmly motivated Obama's base.

Our hope doggedly chased  his every negotiation and compromise, until his voter mandate for change had suddenly disappeared.

What are we left with then?

A weak President. A Tea Party intent on making the poorer parts of the world suffer more than they already do for its benefit. A world without a vision of hope that can hold it together.

Perhaps we will look back at 8/8/11 as a day that the markets, and all who look to them as measurements of our world's motivations, were over-run by our basest animal instinct.

Perhaps Obama has some backbone we have not yet seen; certainly he is capable of becoming great. Certainly the man is the most intelligent, articulate, and genuinely good person we have had in office in my lifetime.

But now is the time to deliver.

I'm looking for, yes, a market meltdown, but also a sign of that latent greatness.

Because I'm too fearful to truly let go of hope.

Bring it Obama. Time to kick some ass, and remember what you were elected for.

NBA Draft 2012

Comparisons and Projections

There are a few players who will do well, some on their own unique abilities, and others because they find the right fit on the right teams.

Starting with the right fits..

Lakers PG- the need is a a quick defensive PG, who can drive and hit open 3's. Not unlike Mario Chalmers.

A consolation would be a defensive PG who can drive.

Top choices, in second round, including Malcolm Lee, form UCLA, and Shelvin Mack, for Butler. Though both might be gone, either could fill the role for the PG strapped Lakers. New coach Brown could re-vamp this position, which almost became irrelevant when Fisher was not hitting timely 3's in the playoffs. If so, a trade for Mack or Lee, if either drops into the second round would be a wise move. Lee is more of a defensive presence, while Mack is the all around bull, who can hit timely shots.

Unique Talents-

Irving- Has the poise of a Chris Paul. But the game of KJ.

Keith Faried- An animal. Every team needs him coming off the bench. Imagine him as Udonis Haslem meets Ronny Turiaf. A defender, mostly, who can rebound, and provide the grit and energy inside that lifts the team.

Marshawn Brooks- Could be next Kevin Martin. Great outside touch and range. Perhaps with a better handle than Martin.

Kanter- Like the younger Gasol. Has the same game. Even touch from the outside. Will bang hard and provide inside presence.

Bismack Biyombo- Has the same exact body as Bill Russell, for what that's worth. Quick ups, wiry strength, long reach, seems like he can dunk without jumping. How about an Ibaka without the offensive game? Not too bad....

Derrick Williams, Arizona- Great all around talent. Tough guard for anyone. Inside/Outside game, plus mentality to dominate will carry him far. Future all star. Similar to Rudy Gay, but stronger.


Intermediate Pix...

Jimmer- Won't be more than a mildly successful 6th man, at best. But still, a guy who can fill it up every once in a while.

Vucevic- USC center will surprise- yes, another heavy legged center, with limited mobility, but also a nice outside touch, like Nenad Krstic, currently on the Celtics.

Bulls and Thunder

So many similarities do the Thunder and Bulls have...first off, let's say this is a necessary step in the development of their teams, to lose, to have adversaries, to find limitation. Both are newly minted teams. New additions to a core of star, but developing players. Youth who don't believe they have any limitations yet.

And many differences.

The Thunder need to establish their pecking order, the flow of ball control. With Westbrook clearly desiring stardom, akin to Dwayne Wade, a dominant 6'3" shooting guard who handles and dishes, the hierarchy isn't yet clear. And clearly Brooks, their coach, wants those guys to work it out amongst themselves, knowing that the true chemistry that brings championships is born through mutual understanding fraught from both winning and discord.

The Bulls however, have a clear pecking order. A dominant Point Guard, Derek Rose, who has jets, then a cast of guys who can play D and occasionally score. Luol Deng has become the second option that Carlos Boozer was supposed to be. Deng unfortunately, should be a third option on a championship team, and with Thibedeau's emphasis on defense, and the less flexible nature of the team's lineup, this is never going to be a team that will blow another team off the court. Ultimately, they don't have that finisher, who can grind it out in a half court setting.

Not many teams do- and some teams that thought they had one, don't. The playoffs showed Kobe isn't enough anymore. Neither was Zach Randolph. And sadly, and surprisingly, neither was Kevin Durant.

But it isn't because KD can't be that kind of player, he just isn't yet. Having his shot blocked by Shawn Marion was a classic juxtaposition of veteran versus young talent. Unsure of exactly what to do, Durant's lack of experience, and lack of creativity was easy for Marion to take advantage of, knowing which options could be defended in that situation.

This brings us back to some of the Thunder's issues. Neither Durant or Westbrook should be player pulling the trigger. Both are potential superstars, but neither is capable, as LeBron is, or Kobe was, of creating enough consistency in crunch time themselves. If Va Gundy didn't make it abundantly clear, the Thunder have the trigger man they need in James Harden. A High IQ guy, with no real flaws in his game. His ballhandling made him look every bit a big, bullish point guard in the Chauncey Billups model. Hits 3's can drive, makes good decisions, can be deadly. He rarely shoots a shot he shouldn't and almost all of his shots look like they will fall. And the kid knows where his team mates are. Once the pieces fit, with Harden leading the attack, Westbrook on the left wing, Durant on the right, the Thunder will create good shots for their stars almost every time down court. They should be, when all is said and done one of the most consistent teams on both ends of the court in the next five years.

Chemistry is the only question. And once that's answered, the path to the Western Finals is open, with the Lakers and Mavs both going into decline over the next two years. Only Memphis seems like a potential challenger, with the Blazers sadly sinking out of contention with the tragic diminishment of Brandon Roy.

The Bulls however, will always have the Heat to contend with. Imagine how things would be if the Bulls just signed Bosh instead of Boozer. Another legit scoring presence who can hold his own on the D side of the ball- rather than Carlos, who is undersized, a bit sluggish, not as powerful as one would think, and has a softer inside game than a guy with his heft and strength should have. And let's not discuss his D, which, in my opinion, makes him a potential bench sitter in crucial 4th quarter situations.

Unless Rose transforms into a consistent, deadly outside shooter, he will never truly be able to carry his team to Game 7 wins.

But, the paths are clear. Both teams are going to be contenders for years to come. Champions? The Thunder have all the pieces and coaching in place, and it's a matter of chemistry, which can only happen with losses like these. Chicago? Still a piece away. Maybe if they can trade Boozer, and Noah can become a 14 ppg player, and a scoring perimeter player, someone like Kevin Martin can take over the role of 2nd scorer, the Bulls can climb past the Heat. But right now, they look like a distant second, particularly if Miami tinkers with its roster, and finds a real big man to clog the middle.

Who knows- maybe Dexter Pittman!

40. Y Que, Culero?

It's been said that there are four major transitions in every man's life.

Birth. Puberty. 40. Death.

Of those, 40 seems the most arbitrary and least explicable. But I'll give explanation, or justification, a shot. (Might be the last real opportunity to justify some asinine behavior.)

IF the disease is turning 40, here are some of the symptoms.

Facebook photo albums labeled, "Now we are all old", showing themselves.. eating, smiling, in a park chasing kids. Am pleased to say they don't seem to be afflicted with extraordinary stress or hardship, though Facebook is not exactly the forum for hardship is it?

An aptly named panel at the South By SouthWest film festival, called Growing Up or Getting Old? 

All the athletes we grew up with have retired. Our bands have split up, with only the lead singers left to sing favorite --oldies. 

The women we fell in love with, irresistably, and inexplicably, have all "matured," hardening into a set of behaviors and responsibilities that we might not recognize as attractive any more.

We grey. Metabolism slows down. Food, it's said, becomes as appetizing as sex. Religion, it's said, becomes somewhat, though not very, tantalizing.

And not making that transition?  Can be seen as prolonged  juvenile behavior.

So this age is where the average soul begins to contemplate immortality. The lack of growth without extraordinary means (steroids, viagra, rogaine, young muses) is clear.

It's more about maintenance now. We've built and mastered our tools; innovation is either part of a process, or it's for the young, who can take our unfulfilled dreams, our remaining inspirations, and dedicate themselves to them, as we did for our mentors.

Standing on the shoulders, so to speak.

Each of my peeps has a different story:

One is leaving Manhattan after 16 years in an East Village pad, to Queens, to move in with his lady, hoping his music career can continue its acceleration and pay the rent. 

Another had a kid last year, and got married, though he made bank and could retire if he felt like it. It's all about the challenge of being able to chill at home now. 

One moved out from his girl's place, because her son (not his) starting calling him daddy, and is hoping his internet design company has the right talent to persist.

Another has basically turned his music studio into a storage unit for a jumble of projects: video, construction, even culinary ideas.

Another is opening a chimp preserve in Texas. Damn straight.

Others seem like they've been 40 for years already. 

Those guys with a circlet of pale skin under their wedding bands who have sired several wonderful, stable kids, speak the jargon of office talk, and look financially, if not physically, healthy.

The seemingly immutable guys, who've set their life in stone, the ones you just don't think about enough, because they're doing just fine, content, who always have a few dozen priorities on their mind.

But the ranks of my New Orleans Jazz fest cohort are swelling. Maybe the mortar is loosening a bit. This year, with mid east turmoil, nuclear meltdown, natural disaster, financial instability, loose nukes, and yes, the loom of 2012 overhead, the call to New Orleans for a weekend out has been answered from across the nation.

40 years.
Y Que, culero??

. 

Hiromitsu Shinkawa

The ocean was now everything it had taken from him. Clinging to the splinters of his roof, grateful he had recently added a grainy waterproof tiling, the ocean supported him, carried him, roused him, or tranquilized him. Black waters brought him what means of survival he required, a plastic bottle to catch rain, a sheet of plastic he could dry off and use as a blanket.


The edge of his homeland drifted farther away with each hour, now a mere blur on the horizon. As it receded, he re-considered the decision not to swim to shore when he was a mere 100 meters away. But away from what?

The tsunami had hit with ferocity. First a shallow advance of water only ankle deep, then a raging torrent, a hammer of black water that smashed a commercial street into a cataract of bobbing cars and trucks. A rivulet that tore homes from their foundations with the hiss of still live electrical wires and gas pipes. In less than five minutes, his neighborhood, his grocery store, all things familiar were gone. In their place, a flotsam of gubbage- broken things, floating things, splintered things, a skin of chaos.

What had there been to swim toward? he asked himself again.

Standing on the edge of his rooftop, grief stricken, just scrambled and dripping from those chaotic waters, he saw only the ragged edge of his city, houses floating like boats. No shoreline. Even to clench his fist was hard, the cold made his fist a stone. The tendons ached.

Instead he laid himself down on his back, stretched out with his chest open to the sky, and let himself weep. There, splayed across his rooftop, he let the sun dry him, let the wind caress him, let the ocean weave its endless undulation beneath him. Holding his hand above him, like a silhouetted starfish against the bright sky, he saw the wedding band that remained on his finger, a solid band of gold. Unnoticed went the sky, which was clear save a single column of smoke that dispersed like a dream.

Later, when he would wake from brief naps, dreaming of the steaming bathhouses, his eyes would search for that column of smoke, knowing its path was the way home.

“But what home do I have now?” he asked himself, feeling the roof buckle.

When night hit, there were the lights in the sky. Stars, a half moon like a lidded eye. And helicopters, red beads blinking across the sky, always heading back to land.

He wondered what was happening there. Had the waters receded? Had they found her yet? Would they ever? A red light blinked faintly, but it did not turn his way.

The only certainty was that he was moving farther into the ocean as the waters pulled back to the epicenter, 9,000 feet underwater, from whence they had exploded.

Chapter Two

An infant God wrestled inside the womb, kicking against the elasticity that enmeshed her. And the world shook, the plates moved.

Hiromitsu and his wife dropped their bags of bean sprouts, packaged fish, miso paste. The shelves rattled as they scrambled for cover. After a minute, scrambling for a safe place, they held each other in the middle of the street, watching themselves and the power lines sway like arythmic dancers.

It was the longest he had been shaken.

The shaking would not stop, and they were falling down now, everytime they tried to get up.

Immediately,  city-wide sirens and a mechanically insistent voice, echoed.
"Tsunami warning. Move to higher ground. Evacuate immediately."

Glass shards were falling like rain. The earth still shook while he fumbled for the car door.

"We need things. We need clothes!" said his wife.

And so they drove home.

Their neighbors were leaving in a hurry.

"Evacuate!" they shouted. "Go!"

Instead, as the world stopped shuddering, they climbed their stairs, found bags, and began stuffing them with clothing, pictures, a computer.

"Tsunami warning. Move to higher ground. Evacuate immediately."

"What is that?" he said, suddenly aware of a river. The sound of a river as it sped by. But there was no river here. Then, broken glass.

He ran downstairs to see black water pouring in, rising up the stairs, pushing him back. He ran to his wife, screaming.

The house lurched, flipping on its side, the lights went out. Blackness except for the windows. Water covered their bed.  Their TV sank to the bottom of his bedroom.

There were only windows to leave through. He shoved her through, and she said, "The water is here!"

"Climb up!" he told her, still shoving her. Water forced itself in, cold, hard, dense.

He grabbed for the edges of the window frame with his eyes and mouth filled with the sea.

Then the world flipped,
a sky opened above,
the waters carried him.

He heard only the roar of the dark salt waters. Somewhere above him, a bleary sun twisted in the sky, blurred by a sheet of water.

When the water released him, he clung to the edge of his roof, riding a dark current that carried other homes, cars, sticks. He was cold, shivering. He coughed, but could not clear his lungs.

"Mitsuko!," he shouted.  "Mitsuko!"

Though he searched everywhere for her, she did not answer.

"Tsunami warning. Move to higher ground. Evacuate immediately."


The wave churned fields into mud, looted stores,  drank cattle. It circled a stubborn home, as if angered by its resistance.

After hours had passed, the river stopped moving, and gathering itself,  commenced it retreat, inexorably, back into the ocean form whence it came, gently carrying him and the ashes of the city out to sea.

Inside Central Juvi Part II.

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