I don’t
know much about One Thousand Gifts beyond the glean of a quick Google
search and that it was the recent feature in my wife’s book club, but I like
the idea. Gratitude has been an idea in my brain for a number of weeks now, and
it’s time to strain the wine-soaked onions, the bay leaves, and the
peppercorns. It’s time to add some salt to the butter-mounted reduction, and if
I’m lucky, squeeze some citrus into it. The plate has been a concept and life
has reached the acme of service. I’ve weighed the starches, proteins, and yes
-- the veggies -- entered them into the spreadsheet, and clicked ‘save’.
Conceptual value determined, presentation awaits garnish, expedition, and
delivery.
So before I
conjure any more food metaphors, it must be stated that, while possible to
order such a list in some sense of ascending appraisal, I will probably not do
so. I imagine this will take enough time on its own, so if I list two-ply
toilet paper before the Rocky Mountains, don’t think that I consider
comfortable defecation cleanup to be a more precious commodity than rushing
runoff through a wildflower field. I’m just not disciplined enough to spend the
necessary time to reorder these things once I’ve written them. That said…
One Thousand: heritage
For at
least 15 years I’ve wanted to trace my ancestry. I dabbled in it for a minute,
oft hoping to find the Internet loophole to free research, but I’ve never
bitten, so I’ll go on what I know. Or what I think I know. My father told me
that my blood consists of Irish, German, and Cherokee lineages. In looking over
a few documents I obtained, it appears there’s some British as well, which
would explain the teeth, I guess. I don’t find the Irish portion of that mix to
be superior, but it’s the one with which I’ve identified the most and for the
longest time. It’s hard to sort out the emotional and mental pieces of why
that’s true, but I think it has to do with finding pleasure in a people that
have worked hard and struggled. I also imagine there’s a part of me that seeks
family unity and finds a source of it there, buried beneath real and imagined
rubble. I can’t really speak for the German (or the British) pieces, but I
suppose they lend perspective on being the oppressors of the world. Be it true
or not -- I mean, have you met my sister, Tiffany? -- the Cherokee embodies the
spiritual me.
Nine Hundred Ninety-Nine: Neil Young
From the
raw power of “Cowgirl in the Sand” to the dark staccato of “Down by the River”
to the bold, tear-inducing “Cortez the Killer” the 69-year-old Canadian icon
has rocked. He’s rolled with gems like “Old Man,” “Cinnamon Girl,” and “Heart
of Gold” and he’s waxed nostalgic with “Out on the Weekend,” “One of These
Days,” and “Dreamin’ Man.” Young’s touched the world with “Natural Beauty,”
“Alabama,” and “Words (Between the Lines of Ages).” This list, though, is but a
scratch of the proverbial surface, as his 39-album studio discography holds
more passion and adventure than the Harry
Potter and Hunger Games
collections combined. Neil Young is one of those artists whose fan base, while
huge, remains a mystery in that it does not contain every human being (with
access to music) born since the Baby Boomer generation. No sense in allowing
the uncontrollable to mess with the obligatory honor associated with having had
his music affect me, though. Thank you, Neil Young, for your countless gifts.
Nine Hundred Ninety-Eight: coffee
In one of
my post-college visits to Durango, I brought the wife into the KDUR 91.9 FM
facilities so that she could see the spot from which I hosted a three-hour
community radio show for three years. Auspicious coincidence afforded us the
opportunity to run into then Station Manager Nancy Stoffer. We haven’t spoken
since and we spoke little that day, but she remains, nonetheless, one of my
favorite people. At the time she’d decided to quit drinking coffee, which
astonished me. She didn’t want to have a relationship with it anymore and it
had never occurred to me that one could have such a thought. I want to get to
that spot. I want my life to exist without feeling as though it needs crutches
like alcohol, tobacco, and coffee. I want to get there. I will get there. Until
I do, I’m pleased that Joel and Steve Rathje taught me the ways of enjoying the
morning mug: with cream and sugar.
Nine Hundred Ninety-Seven: sports
I can’t not
write more about this topic in more specified selections, but for now, sports
have taught me a lot about myself. They’ve learned me the ways of frustration,
anger, pride, and accomplishment. They’ve been a good lesson in the way of
practice, dedication, hard work, as well as embarrassment, shame, misfortune,
and disappointment. The last two years have weighed heavy on my mind in all of
these ways and more. I shouldn’t feel disdain (even if minimal) about that
great Kansas City Royals post-season run (which I did). It’s foolish and
shallow to ridicule the sport of soccer and its fans based on nothing more than
direct comparison to ice hockey and its following.
It’s unhealthy and unfair to let my week (and those in it) be affected by the
lack of success achieved by the Kansas City Chiefs. I refuse to believe it, but
the truth is that they may never win a Super Bowl in my lifetime. The same
applies to the St. Louis Blues and their empty Stanley Cup showcase.
Even
bigger, though, comes the idea that I always assumed that -- if I had kids --
they would play sports, and if I had a boy, he’d play football. I don’t think I
want him to anymore. Scholarships, wealth, fame, opportunity, success, and
glory do not total a value larger than that of a healthy brain. We can still be
fans together, though. I’d love the opportunity to share that passion with him.
I might die happy knowing he might regale his
son with stories of Chiefs and Blues championships.
Nine Hundred Ninety-Six: butter
I’ve never
milked a cow, let alone churned cream to separate out the fat. I don’t even
know if I even want to, although it’d
probably be pretty cool to make and eat your own.
Butter
doesn’t make any sense to me. Milk and sugar taste good by themselves, so it
makes sense that adding them to other ingredients results in a product superior
to the parts from which it was created. Same with chocolate and bacon: they’re
delicious as standalones and they enhance the items to which you add them.
There’s nothing all that satisfying, however, about knocking back a spoonful of
butter. In fact, it borders on displeasure. I’ve yet to discover, though,
another food-world staple as breathtaking and amazing as butter. Spread it on
your toast? Fantastic. Crisp a tortilla with it? Hard to beat. Mount a sauce,
sauté some Brussels sprouts, pulse into flour. Whatever you’re doing with
butter should be commended. You’d be hard-pressed to finger another natural
byproduct, that, with a little human elbow grease, transforms into a stick of
magic. So, thanks, ovine friends and thousands-of-years-ago people. Ya’ done
good.
Nine Hundred Ninety-Five: trees
I’ve
climbed them, built in them, used their products, admired their majesty, and
yes, even hugged (figurative and literal senses) them. They creeped me out in The Wizard of Oz, took my breath in The Lord of the Rings, made me teary in
the Shel Silverstein book, and embodied personification in the Rush song. Above
all, they’ve symbolized, in my eyes, the world’s voice. They’re the
storytellers of all ages, the shepherds of the wind, the sun, and the moon. We
take them for granted a thousand times an hour, maybe more. It’s hard -- maybe
even impossible -- to imagine life without them. These regal towers of the planet
shower the landscape with perspective and limitless gratuity. The least we
could do: be thankful for them.
Nine Hundred Ninety-Four: blankets
What else
is there to say? Blankets are the fucking shit. Especially wool Navajo
blankets. And fleece blankets. Not sure I would’ve made it to 40 without them.
Nine Hundred Ninety-Three: my son, Elihu Joseph
It’s
impossible to know if things would’ve been the same had my children been born
in reverse order. I imagine they wouldn’t have, but for the sake of this gratitude
I’ll assume it to be true. This is a ridiculous sentence to type because I’m
only a portion of the way through this journey, but my son has taught me so
much about myself that my tongue becomes tied, my eyes swollen when I try to
count the ways. He has tested my irritability, highlighted my anger, made my
heart flutter, my throat tighten, introduced me to new laughter and fresh joy. All
of this he has managed in a mere 14 months. He is the most amazing boy I have
ever known. I have not known many human beings for less time than I have known
him; he has shown me more about emotion than those I have known the longest
have shown me in a lifetime. I don’t know what the reasons are. Maybe God;
perhaps karma. Regardless, my wife and I were gifted with two healthy,
beautiful children who also happen to be incredible people.
Nine Hundred Ninety-Two: eggs and bacon
Is it
“bacon and eggs” or “eggs and bacon”? Poor egg. Still hasn’t even made it out
of the which-came-first debate. Either way, it’s pretty damn amazing that
chickens birth eggs and, for whatever reason, we’ve figured out a way to
harvest food out of that situation. And pigs? Well, just bless you, you
wonderful animal. Think I’ll run to Hardee’s for a hot ham and cheese. Before I
digress: As a kid it was eggs and bacon for breakfast, end of story. Not that
we didn’t have other things for breakfast, but one of them was eggs and bacon.
It would be years before I’d learn of custard or eggs as a part of cake batter.
There was no fried-egg hamburger. Hell, people weren’t even putting bacon on
their burgers (that I was aware of) when I was a kid. Bacon in soup? Huh? That
it was it: the two were together, for breakfast, or sitting there alone in the
grocery store. How versatile, these gifts. How vast the culinary possibilities
of each. How wonderful they still are after all these years, together, for
breakfast. Or otherwise.
Nine Hundred Ninety-One: the sun
Thank you
for your proximity to our planet, for helping grass be green, the ocean
reflect, and people be warm.
Nine Hundred Ninety: sleep
If there’s
anybody that’s not with me on this one, my guess is that you have mental-health
issues that will affect your life span. I mean, where do I start? Is there
anything greater in human existence than sleep? I’ll allow a minute here, for
you to make your private case for the sausage biscuit or sex or your cat or
your favorite television program, or for the really zany: sex while you eat a
sausage biscuit with your program on and your cat watching you watch it. Sorry,
though: sleep trumps all.
Think about
it: There’s sleep, a thing that is beautiful and necessary for survival. What else -- in all of existence -- can
stake that claim?
Sleep. Nine
hundred ninety on this list. Number one in so many ways.
Nine Hundred Eighty-Nine: boobs
If putting
boobs on this list makes me a creep, then…label accepted. I love boobs and you
can’t tell me not to.
Nine Hundred Eighty-Eight: hot water
I don’t
list this item in vain; I’m aware that many people in the world don’t have
clean drinking water at their disposal. I also know that some people are
homeless, and that others are poor. These things don’t affect my gratitude;
they enhance them. Doing dishes, taking a shower, shaving, doing laundry. All
of these things (and more) are made easier with hot water, and for it, I am
grateful.
Nine Hundred Eighty-Seven: YouTube
It might be
easy for some to make a list of 1,000 things for which they are grateful, and
have each of them be
Internet-related. That seems a little excessive, but I’m not ignorant enough to
think that this will be the only World Wide Web inclusion of mine. For now,
let’s hear it for one of the greatest inventions in recent generations.
YouTube: because we just didn’t watch enough television without it.
Nine Hundred Eighty-Six: my mother-in-law
The
antithesis of cliché, mother of a guy’s wife, Mary Jo Saviano has told me and
shown me that she accepts me as one of her own and loves me for who I am. She
has never pressured me to do something (except propose to her daughter sooner
than I was ready to) I do not want to do or be someone I do not want to be. She
does not judge me (at least to my face). She includes me in her prayers and
respects the way in which my wife and I are trying to raise our kids. Mary Jo’s
wit and warmth are irreplaceable assets I have in my corner, and even though
she once told her daughters (in front of me) that I eat like a ranch hand, I
could have wished for a better mother-in-law, were I wont to do such a thing.
It would have been a waste of a wish though; there wasn’t a better one to be
had.
Nine Hundred Eighty-Five: the banjo
I’m not a perpetual
failure with musical instruments. I took guitar lessons for a while. I
practiced a little and improved upon the things I was instructed to practice. I
branched out a teense and taught myself a few riffs. Later, I took up piano.
Again I took lessons, practiced less than I was supposed to, and -- more or
less -- clung to a dream of being a keyboardist. After that I bought a bass. I
never did anything with it, but I have a basic understanding of how to lay down
a groove. Later still, I bought dual-turntable set. I never obtained a speaker
for it, or the needle for it, and I never bought any vinyl upon which I could
scratch. That said, I haven’t sold it yet, so…you never know. I’m far from a
bluegrass expert, but I do dig it a bunch. The banjo: the closest thing to the
sound-producing version of a soul. I’ll probably never buy one which means I
will never own one and practice it with insufficient frequency, but I love the
sound that it makes. It speaks to me, and for that, I am thankful.
Nine Hundred Eighty-Four: stand-up comedy
Whos and
whens are not important. Taking a stage in any form requires courage. Doing so
in a form that will be direct and doing so in a form that is intended to
generate laughter requires a special kind of bravery. Laughter, as we all know,
is medicine. It’s the kind for which no prescription is required. You do have
to be alive, however, for the process to take place and as long as I am alive I
will be a consumer of this craft. Cheers to every comic who has succeeded.
Hurrah to those who have bombed. Above all, thank you to those who have bombed
then succeeded.
Nine Hundred Eighty-Three: painters
I’ve been
blessed to know a few folks that have the gift of arranging colors on a canvas
with brushes. Of the three that come to mind, they couldn’t be any different
from one another, nor could their art be. I’m thankful for their gift for this
reason: I could probably do what they’ve done, but I’d have to work 100 times
harder at it and I a) don’t have the discipline to do so, and b) would’ve
gotten pissed in a destruction kind of sense early and often. Moreover, I
couldn’t do what they’ve done without seeing how they did it; I wouldn’t be
able to produce what they produced without seeing some examples of their
finished works. That is, I could never, in this body and with this mind, do
what they have done, so I’m privileged to have met them, lucky to have seen
their work, and in a few cases, proud to own a few of their pieces.
Nine Hundred Eighty-Two: clarity
The DNA I
inherited and the experiences I’ve encountered with it have, on more occasions
than I’d care to admit, led me down a path, in a direction away from clarity. I
give thanks to the source of spirituality in the universe that has allowed me
to recognize that. I give thanks for the loved ones I have that have been
bright in my mind in a few dark moments. I give energy to the idea of hope that
I may never lose sight of those thoughts and their interconnectedness. To help
me do so, I will give.
Nine Hundred Eighty-One: the calculator
I’ve said
it before but I suppose it’s worth repeating: I’ve got the basic-math thing
down, and have had since childhood, but there’s zero chance of figuring out all
of the equations I need to on a daily basis without the help of that
handy-dandy device. No, I’m not talking about the one on my phone. I’m talking
about the real deal, the handsome Staples SPL-230 my job handed out during
training. So, thank you, Homo Sapien predecessors, for counting rocks and shit.
Thank you, Egyptians, or whoever it was that invented an abacus. And thank you,
Wilhelm Shickard, Blaise Pascal, Gottfried Liebniz, James L. Dalton, smart
Japanese people, and all of the other people I’m too lazy to read about in the
Wikipedia article, for the groundwork you laid for this device coming out of my
laptop bag some 10 times a day. Without you all, I’d be frozen in a museum
exhibit somewhere with either a dull pencil or a slew of curse words for my
cell phone.
Nine Hundred Eighty: Sugar-Free Red Bull
There’s
probably some Zen behavior or some meditation practice that will unleash all of
this organic energy trapped within, but until I find the secret for tapping
into that shit, keep doing what you’re doing, people in Santa Monica that make
the Austrian energy drink. You do fine, fine work, and without you, I’d
probably be asleep on a floor somewhere. Healthier, yes, but not awake.
Nine Hundred Seventy-Nine: the fryer
Yep. I’m an
asshole because I morph the material and the unhealthy into gratitudes. And
since it’s been established that I’m an asshole, you don’t need to call it a
deep-fat fryer, or even a deep fryer. It’s either a fryer or a skillet. Quit
making shit complicated, people.
But, yeah. Nothing
says delicious quite like submerging something into a vat of piping-hot oil.
Don’t tell me you want to live life without nachos. Don’t tell me you only eat baked chicken. And don’t tell me you
like your potatoes boiled. Clogged arteries or not, fried food is awesome.
Nine Hundred Seventy-Eight: Doug Armstrong
The Kansas
City Royals were two runs away from winning the World Series for the second
time in my life. I’ve seen two Kansas Jayhawk men’s basketball championships,
but my Kansas City Chiefs and St. Louis Blues continue to fall short of the big
dance. Chiefs General Manager John Dorsey driving the brass wheel for the
Chiefs could one day get us there. Blues G.M. Doug Armstrong will probably beat
him to it. His work has impressed me every step of the way and I have felt his
conviction, his determination for greatness all 250 miles from my home for the
last four years.
Nine Hundred Seventy-Seven: trash night
Just
kidding. I fucking hate trash night.
Nine Hundred Seventy-Six: Chuck Klosterman
I don’t
know that I wish I could consume books with the same voracity my wife does, but I wish I made time to read more. In
the last three or four years, though, if I’ve read 10 books, three of them were
Klostermans, and they were probably the best three books I read. Stephen King
is probably at the four spot, perhaps the three if I thought about it for a
minute. Point being: Klosterman’s my favorite book author at the moment and I
have no idea who could possibly be in second place. Point being: If it weren’t
for Klosterman I probably wouldn’t read books at all, which is pretty sad. So,
thanks, Chuck!
Love it already and can't wait for the rest. Laughed pretty hard at trash night.
ReplyDeleteLove it! :)
ReplyDelete