November 18th (next day) Page number two:
I feel the urge to write more, but I find my mind and the histories of its actions mostly so laced with rather too-negatively-charged materials-of-memory and bodies-of-knowledge, as to give me cause to reflect upon what I could write to you, as a 68 year old father to his 34 year old daughter that would not have any negatively-toned text(s). As I suppose is any parental type effort to communicate ideas, images, and what may pass for wisdoms, I feel the urge to explain how stuff works, but my whole body-of-knowledge about working stuff and stuf that works is one rooted in the mentality of one whose whole body-of-knowledge is from the industrial age of us western civilization types, and just seems no longer pertinent to you of the electronic age-of-information; so to try to explain all the processes that I have some handle on would seem, basically, superfluous, to most intents and purposes.
So: What then can I write about that may have even one iota of interest to you? This is my quandry. I will continue to search my admittedly foggied brain for some idea . . .Spellcheck tells me that foggied is not a word, and that fogged is the better assemblage of letters—in fact: spellcheck tells me that spellcheck is not a correctly-spelled word, or is in fact, not a word at all! and suggests: spell check when I check spellcheck for why spellcheck keeps squiggly-underlining spellcheck. This new electronic age's machinations are kind of a mind-blow to this industrial age dinosuar. When I grew up, I grew up into a world wherein I was always able to keep my car running by working fixes, both the temporary, and then the later, at my leisure, or after procuring fresh auto parts, permanent fixes. I see that now a days it is next to impossible for the car owner to fix stuff that quits working, without going to the repair shop and prostrating him or her self at the mercy of the often unscrupulous auto mechanic, and the exorbitant going auto shop rates of dozens of dollars per hour of work done on the customer's car or truck. This is the main reason that I bought a thirty year old vehicle this last time: it was built before computers were adapted to the motor trade, thus rendering it still fixable by those such as me who learned how to keep my vehicle running and usable by my own hand's willingness to get rather sticky and greasy with petroleum-distillates, etc., usually, in the process(es). I am encouraged by the fact of parts for this old truck still being available, and at fairly reasonable prices as compared to foreign and the newer cars' costs for parts and repairs. With my own hands and not too many tools, I have replaced: front brake calipers and brake lines; the braking system's master cylinder and vacuum booster unit; rewired some of its lights; and replaced its gas tank with anew one—the old one having rusted through and leaking. The rather idiot self of mine whom I refer to as Hardway takes a minimum of three times as long to do these type mechanical maneuvers as a real (organized) mechanic would take. But: Being a Hardway type, I am completely used to this pace and have learned to meter my neurosis about a lame vehicle in need in an appropriate manner suitable to one such as me who functions not as quickly or ambitiously as many others I know who battle with projects in a much more ferocious manner, suffering that extra, and I feel: unneeded stress of those who just can't seem to wait, patiently, uncomplainingly, for the process to complete itself. There's another kind of a mechanically-inclined personnae that I refuse to be, and that is the one, like Mike Verrier was, who grumbles and complains in angry outbursts at the slowness of some others he knows; and who places rather too much emphasis on the monetary value of his services or labor, and will not work for peanuts, ever—well: mostly never. I mean: Where is that? I do not believe that I could even begin to chronicle the list of stuff that I have done, both for others and for me alone, that I did just for the satisfaction of having seen the 'job' get done. Whether it was paid for or not being basically immaterial--in my mind's eye, at least. For me: The 'pay', as I 'see' it, is in the satisfaction of seeing a project or process, construction or repair getting done, and not just how much monetary-value others might try to convince me my time (and materials) was supposedly 'worth.' Think of all the stuff-of-experience that people who base all of their value-systems on the possibility or potential for just monetary reward miss out on because, in their estimation, there's no money in it.
And yes: Both of my child-bearing partners accused me of not being ambitious enough, but most of their accusations were due to their having based their ideals on monetary-reward principles, so I can excuse myself from SOME of that complaint; but not all, by any means. I admit it: I have a proclivity for laziness that I have capitulated to more often than not, oftener than I would suppose most people would accept as anything else but laziness—and selfishness/self-interest/self-flagellating/self-indulgent, and etcetera. Laid back, mellow? Un-hunh. A stoner? Well: Sort of . . .I am sure that you have often observed my use of the cliché: name yer poison pordner. Sure: I self-medicate; have since I first experienced the pleasurable effects of many non-pharmaceutically-evolved substances. All I can express to balance this somewhat is that I would hope that you are glad that alcohol was never one of my drugs-of-choice—heck: I'd be dead already if that had been the case. If I had ever accepted pharmaceuticals as the cat's meow for better health, I probably would also be dead by now—even though there were times in my life where certain pharmaceutical substances probably saved my life; but those rare (thank goodness!) instances don't amount to much of a hill-of-beans, with respect to the amount of time that I was 'put' on those drugs or anti-biotics: heck: maybe for three weeks out of sixty-eight years . . .
Wood butcher, shade tree or cowboy mechanic, inland boatman and journeyman-level wood boatwright, inland tugboat smartass rigger, marine salvage expert (sort of),musician, poet, artist, and highly-experienced chainsaw operator and firewood renderer . . . .not much of a body of experience and knowledge and wisdoms to attract the interest of a thirty-four year old landscape architect, I would presume.
So: I can't really toot much of any horn that might really resonate as a curiosity in your being in this year of 2008. And the natural affinities that I do have for nature and its natural processes surely already exist within you, so I can't even give you gardening smarts, can I? Oh well.
Admonishments, criticisms, belabored nonsense, nagging, entreaties, and everything of the negatively-charged is completely off limits, are they not? Sure. Though I cannot, personally, give you great positive encouragements and praises or knowledge that you will just instinctively understand and take to heart, I can always wish you well and better success as the future unfolds and close my letters with an expression of a loving heart and write love in closing, and assure you that I will always keep a thought of good-wishes for all whom you are and do, and could, would, or feel that you should be. Not whom I feel that you would, could, or should . . . but: What and who you feel and decide that you would, could, or should be or think or do—right? Yep.
Well: This exercise in trying to add a page to my other one—just because I haven't sent you much lately—has little to show in the way of positively-oriented growth and development type stuff, but I would hope that it was the thought that counts or counted here, and not so much the highly-evolved intriguing subject matter. Bye-bye and take real good care, won't you? You better . . . DAD
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