Shaking a bush boss, shaking a bush.

The above was first introduced to me by my friend K.G., and later I realized where it came from. Cool Hand Luke. What a great movie.

The phrase has now grown, like a virus, on my current job sites. The odd thing for me is that I don’t get to say it, although I would love too. Why? Because I am the boss which kind of sucks. “Tiling a floor boss, tiling a floor.”, “taking a break boss, taking a break”, and more is what I am assaulted with continually.

I am no boss. I’m a pushover to a point. But it makes me laugh. This summer has been a frazzled experience of running two jobs at once and more. I don’t want to be the boss mostly, although I do like working for myself. Check that. I like working BY myself but that is not possible on bigger jobs.

We three core employer/employees have gelled to a great degree which is a fine thing. But boss? Who is that?

Posting a post boss. Posting a post.

Oops, never published

Hawaii bound.

For the third time in my life I am bound for those lush islands to the far west of the American continent. The first time I was bound for the same I was 8 years old and my uncle decided he was going to take me to Hawaii along with his parents, my grandparents. I believe I was living in St. Louis at the time. My grandparents came out for a visit and then accompanied me on a flight back to Los Angeles. I was extremely excited, as you would imagine an 8 year old to be. But I was also determined to be a grown up among grownups. Being the oldest of five in my immediate family, but also the oldest cousin on both sides of my family (which can, according to how you calculate, can be well beyond 30 of my generation and of course hundreds beyond) I had a predisposition toward joining the grownups who were much more present to me than the growing numbers of babies and toddlers looking in the other direction.

To that end I was well dressed. Sort of a school uniform version of what an eight year old might look like were he to take seriously his wardrobe. Grey slacks, a white button down shirt, polished shoes, belt, short tie. I had the window seat. My grandmother, Dorothy, was in the middle and my grandfather Lloyd was on the isle. There was still a smoking section on the plane and meals were served and the stewardesses were young and attractive, the heyday of American aviation. And the culture was exploding. It was 1968 after all.

Well into the flight dinner was served. Back then it was a full affair, with trays and plates and real silverware. I had just received my dinner, licked my lips and decided to butter the dinner roll first. Knife, butter, hard roll, whatever unruly combination of the three interacted, the result was that I managed to plunge the knife into my left fore-finger , knife slipping off the hardened dinner roll and finding my bone instead.

There was much blood and more worry and copious attention from very attractive women who supplied me with towels and bandages and a new dinner and endless concern. I was stricken with embarrassment at first. After all, I was trying to blend in with the adults, even though I was short. But soon I realized that this mishap loaned me a little cache, at least for the present. And lets face it, attention is attention, feel me?

The second journey was with the entire immediate family. Ma, Pa, bro #1, sis#1 sis#2 and bro #2 (in birth order). I was 18 and I have very little recollection of the trip. We did go inland on some adventures and it was the late 70’s so bathing suit fashions were out of control. I think I sported a black speedo most of the time.

This time, nearly 32 years after my last visit, I am again on a plane with ma, pa, and two of my four sibs. The other two arrived earlier and are waiting for the last plane load to arrive. Also in attendance are in-laws, partners and 3 nieces. Kaui is the destination and bonding is the goal. We will chronicle the time to the extent we can.

Lets hope the sun will shine, metaphorically as well.

The Land of Cleve and Beyond

Pruning

There is a place and time for pruning, for cutting back old growth, dead and dying. Some branches sprouting in unhealthy directions, some once stable limbs diseased. And while one is at it, inspect the roots. Are they sound? Do they too need some attention? It is apt that a very significant amount of pruning of the tree that is me happened in the land of cleve. Cleft from the trunk were large branches that had grown foul and threatened the life of me. Snipped back were misguided hopes and patient, unrequited caring that stole the sunlight from more deserving leaves. Patched with tar were lacerations in the bark, the skin, that could become infested.

The process of cutting back disfigures for a time, leaving something wounded-looking to the layman’s eye, but the arborist knows better. She knows that the temporary malformations insure a stronger future, a more healthy growth, a longer living, happier tree/me.

The sharp blade of the clever, the shearing strength of the clipper, the serrated tear-cut of the pole-saw is not to be taken lightly. It is to be avoided. Tell the tree to grow straight and strong, symmetrical and well rooted! But how often is that possible? How often do you see a tree unencumbered by some accommodation to obstacles? Growing over rocks. Ducking eves. Competing for light.

Cleft from my trunk was the sickly limb of an unhealthy marriage in the land of cleve. Clipped from my hanging branches were the friendship of fellow artists who dangled too low to the ground in the land of cleve. Patched and protected, lest it loose its life, was my offshoot of pride and self respect that had been threatened by neglect in the land of cleve.

I have nothing good to say about that time except that it was necessary. Any good arborist will tell you that you have to prune in order to make room for healthy growth.

And it happened to me in the land of cleve.


Rejuvenation

The next season brings…(I all of a sudden feel like Chauncy in the Peter Sellers film).

Am I healthy? I mean my tree? No. But I have a greater potential to watch the tree of my life grow in magnificent ways than at any other time I’ve ever known. The branch I call career is stubby from the wound the hatchet of cleve administered, but it has been growing stubbornly, sprouting many small, green offshoots. And they look like they want to take off. The roots of home and hearth have doubled down in their effort to reach rich soil. The textured bark of survival has recovered from the callous knife-cuts of cleve and is growing stronger and tougher, more resilient to bad weather with every satisfied customer. And the heart-wood, that most treasured of cuts when the log is dead and kilned, is no longer in jeopardy. It has found a rich source of nourishment, which, as any arborist knows, will keep a tree alive for many hundreds of years.

I will never ever go back to the land of cleve, but I thank it for the sloughing off.