A Day in the Life of Chaos

When I was a child growing up on MacINNES St. in the frozen northern town of Anchorage, Alaska, my world seemed like a world unto itself.  It was a clearly defined nation state with borders I needed a passport stamp from my parents to cross.  Wide roads acting as frontiers ringed the nation with seemingly impenetrable traffic.  Around my house there was a vast menagerie of streets that seemed to wind their way through all forms of terrain, perfect for a bicycle.  There were hills, gravel areas, circles that safely went around and returned to where they started.  Best of all, there were trails that skirted houses.  They led to areas that seemed vast and wild.  We gave them names like Burlington Woods and the Swamp near Geneva Woods.  Each had their own characteristics, places filled with secret trails, hiding spots and rafts of old wood.  These were the National Parks of our country, places where kids were kids and parents were a distant shout from a porch calling for dinner. My so

My grandfather died about 8 years ago now, he was in his 80's when he passed.  He was the son of German immigrants and spent his life working for Hughes Aircraft in California.  It was the time when Howard Hughes was in his heyday.  Ideas were flowing like lightning bolting from the sky.  Invention fed modernization and modernization fed more invention.   Government led the way.  It established the context, the mission and brilliant minds lined up to provide the answers. When you are a child you never really appreciate the significance of a life, of a talent, until you grow older and place it within the context of your own life.   A micrometer is a tool that allows a human being to nearly create perfection.  It measures the minute and until computers and lasers it was the guide post for human ingenuity when seeking to create the exact.  My grandfather had countless micrometers and his abilities as a machinist created parts the flew with the Apollo missions to the moon.  They answ

I am fortunate in where I live to have property that borders a large wooded area.  To call it a forest might be a bit dramatic, perhaps the name Hundred Acre Wood better suits it.  It is an area green, filled with trees and home to all sorts of critters that occasionally make themselves part of my life.  The other day I smelled a horrid smell on my back deck.  Further investigation of the nasal sort lead me to a planter box where I discovered the smashed body of a bird.  I don't know what smashed it but it was beyond redemption and almost beyond recognition.  I scooped up the remains and noticed that nestled not far away was another bird.  It was youthful and I quickly determined it was a baby.  I left it alone and later in the day noticed the mother tending to it.  She would cuddle up beside the bird before venturing out for foraging runs.  A few days later I looked out and saw the baby walking alone along the deck railing.  I was concerned at first but soon decided it must be its

There is a beauty to the innocence of a child.  It manifests itself in so many ways however if you don't look for it you might miss it.  The sad part is that over time, the innocence disappears as the child ages, corrupted by the world around them.  Sometimes I wonder, if there was a way you could take a generation of children and keep them away from any adult, is it possible that they might develop free from prejudice?  Would color be unimportant and sex be invisible? When a child is young they see a different world than an adult does.  Any question is based not on assumption or judgment, simply curiosity.  When a white child sees a black man they simply wonder why the person is a different color.  When the child sees a gay couple they wonder why it is different than their parents.  They are not passing judgment, there is none to be made.  They simply want to understand.  When my son was born I held him in my arms.  I cradled him and looked into his eyes.  I told him he could be

Is a person with an obsessive compulsive personality born with it or can it just happen?  I never really thought about the answer to that question as I laughed my way through every episode of Monk, the story of an obsessive compulsive private detective.  Monk is never far from a hand wipe.  Luckily he always has an assistant ready to hand him one after each door opened, each hand shaken.   Recently however a state of enlightened consciousness obtained while sitting on the holiest of holy thrones has provided an answer.  There is not much to do in the moments while you wait for nature to take its course.  Some read, some hum.   I tend to just speculate on who else is in my throne room by the shoes that they wear.  Of course all the while I keep my own shoes well within the boundaries of my stall to avoid any Larry Craig incident. When a toilet flushes you hear them rise to their feet.  They slide the lock to the stall and venture out into the bathroom.  At this point a decision is