I guess if Major Tom was willing to buy peace with his life then I shouldn’t be too worried about buying peace which allows me to keep a few thousand dollars, right? Even if the rest of the dollars are flowing away like water thundering over Iguazú Falls?

If only my Jeep had a connection to Ground Control…

I’ve been going through boxes of stuff, trying to whittle down the amount of things that we’ll move back east after the house sale closes on the 30th. “Going through stuff” is very dangerous for me. I’m a pack-rat and a sentimentalist and the process of going through even a small box of papers can take me hours. If there are photos, old journals or stories…well, let’s just say I am helplessly obligated to endlessly re-examine whatever historical epoch of my life is reflected in the artifacts contained in the box.

Tonight, for example, I shredded several pale blue sheets of paper that I had received in 1981, each documenting my completion of a self-guided curriculum called a PACE. Each certificate shouted “CONGRATULATIONS!!!” in a giant, bold-faced Arial font, along with the course, score and date of completion, all wrapped around a line-art sketch of a man, young girl and young boy, each very high-cheekboned and Caucasian and very well-dressed and probably drawn by the same guy who illustrated those wretched Chick tracts that used to scare the bejeezus out of me when I was a kid. I had forgotten all about PACEs, along with most of the rest of whatever happened in the eighth grade, but I did remember that I went to school at Chapel Hill Academy, a Christian school in the suburbs of Minneapolis and that the curriculum was self-study; students learned and did their work at their own pace with guidance and help from the teachers.

(Hence the acronym PACE. I have no clue what the letters in PACE stand for - it’s been 28 years since I was in the eighth grade - although I suspect the letter “C” stands for either “Christ” or “Christian.” I have a strong hunch it didn’t stand for “C, as in Charles comma Darwin.”)

(Aha! A quick Google search has turned up “Packets of Accelerated Christian Education” in an online article dated May 27 2009. The PACE, apparently, is alive and well - in Alton, Illinois, at least.)

This is one of Lisa’s PACE certificates…I didn’t think to scan one until after I shredded mine.

Anyway, I shredded several PACE certificates congratulating me for my 100% scores in Science and Social Studies. There were only one each for English Literature and English Grammar. I find that interesting because I was an English major in college, but looking back over my life I realize I’ve had a consistent interest in astronomy, geology, physics and things that roar, like dinosaurs and loose women. Maybe those PACEs knew something I didn’t?

So I fed the shredder little bits of my life: an MFL (Michael’s Football League) schedule, documented in my sprawling 13 year old hand on spiral notebook paper in multiple colors of felt-tip ink, tracking in detail the 1980 season I played out on my electric football game with the little plastic players (which I still have stashed in a box in the garage), the aforementioned PACE certificates, a couple of Bible class quizzes on the book of James and the book of Hebrews printed in the dull purple ink from a mimeograph machine (I must not have been paying attention; I scored a 25/40 on James and the Hebrews treated me even worse: 24/40), four pages of a cartoon creature called Hungry Harold that were probably drawn during the class lectures on James and Hebrews and a bright yellow speeding ticket I got in 1985. (I think I got the ticket on Joe Rogers Road while driving my ’79 Chevy Monte Carlo - sweet chocolate brown, baby! - with my left foot out the driver’s side window.)

And then I came across this gem. (Please keep in mind this list was probably published in the late 70s or early 80s. Anyone who has bought a home in the last 10 years will giggle when they get to item #20.)

Dr. Thomas H. Holmes predicts that people run the risk of developing a major illness in the next two years if they total more than 300 LCU points. (LCU = life changing units)

So. 300 points gets you an anxiety attack or a stroke or the ebola. Debra and I scored a 458. And that’s with earthquakes, wildfires, mudslides, IRS problems, lightning strikes, power outages and betrayal not even appearing on the list.

So today wrapped itself up nicely.

I opened my email in a bit of a grumpy snit because The Debra and I are trying to choose the photo we will use for our (late again) Hannamas card. After looking at the same three photos 600 times and with no end in sight and with The Blessed One still unable to make a selection, I autocratically, dictatorially, and - with great sweeping gestures - grumpily  (I’m not patient with these sorts of agonizings, even though they almost always lead to excellent decisions) told my Lotus Blossom that I would email her the pics and she could look at them over and over and over and over (and over) again without me and that I would be more than happy with her choice.

Not only was she able to make the choice without me (and, as I expected, I love her choice), but when I opened my email to send the pics to La Raymunda, I found two Amazon gift certificates in my inbox from my parents, sister, and cousin Damon. Total score!!!

I told my family that normally I would have to say that their gifts were too generous, but since we are currently unable to afford air I told them that this year I heartily and unhesitatingly accept! So I bought the French language software I’ve been jonesing for for the past year and a half and I hereby promise to buy a baguette and some stinky cheese - in French, of course - on each of their behalfs the next time we are in France. Thanks mom and dad and Lisa and Damon!!!

This is that which will produce stinky cheese.

I’ve heard - or read or somehow absorbed - the idea that one’s age shows in the hands, so I had an idea to start a tradition of photographing my hands each year on my birthday. Over the course of 40 years I imagine I’ll see some differences, assuming we still have a world wide web or digital cameras or a Michael in 2049.

Hands at 42 - At Home, Yorba Linda, California
Exif: ISO 400; f/16; 2 sec; 135mm
01.02.2009 ©Michael Raymond 2006 - 2009

Whenever The Debra says something like, “Oh God, I look so old today,” I always remind her to consider the alternative. That’s the perspective I choose to take with 2008, as I send it into its long, wintry goodnight. (Not that there is much “wintry” going on in Southern California, but I try to work with what I’ve got.) 2008 was a massive pain in the butt, but it was better to have lived through it than to have not been around for the experience at all.

To be honest, I can’t wrap up The Year That Was any better than our guests, Wendy Hunter and Rolf Wyss and their two sons did when they came to celebrate my birthday on January 2nd (which I suppose lets the cat out of the bag on the fact that I am writing this post after January 1 and cheating by pre-dating it - but again, I work with what I’ve got). Wendy and Rolf, and their 4-year-old son Jaeger and 8-year-old son Bodø, gave a short performance in our family room which summed up 2008 better than I ever can. They were kind enough to leave a transcript of the performance as well as give me rights to its first publication in North America with an option to add worldwide and electronic permissions with advance written notice - plagiarized and notarized - as long as a live salamander is stapled to the request.

Jaeger

Poem for Michael, Upon Turning 42

Bodø

At 41, Michael found life a bit dull,
“How to stir things up, and get out of this lull?
I know!” he said, to his lovely mate.
“Let’s get out of Virginia, move to the Golden State.”

Rolf

So Michael and Debra packed up and came
Moved near family and friends, but what a shame!
Had an earthquake that summer, they were near the epicenter -
Hadn’t closed on their house, they were living in a “renter.”

Wendy

Went ahead and bought the house near the middle of the market;
Real estate crashed, “Yikes, can we hock it?”
Fellow Yorba Lindans saying, “Yes on Prop 8!”
“Aargh…how can we live in this conservative state?!”

Wendy

Next thing they knew, fires raged all round about ‘em,
Bonded with those neighbors, “Garden hoses on!” they shouted at ‘em.
With ash in the swimming pool and dust throughout the rooms,
Preparing for the holidays filled Debra with great gloom.

Rolf

Just when everything was neat and tidy, spick and span,
Torrential rain poured from the skies, enough to break any dam
And send mudslides creeping downward toward all the homes.
“Evacuate!” said authorities. “Now it’s time to roam!”

Bodø

It’s January 2nd, and orders been restored - all clear!
For Michael looking back, 41 has been quite a year.
What can the next, 42, have in store?

All

We don’t know, but…we hope you won’t be bored!

To that I would only add this email exchange I had with my boss back in Herndon, Virginia, after we had wished each other a happy, peaceful and prosperous 2009:

2008 wore me out. Between changing jobs, living in four residences, moving twice, crossing the country twice (at high speed while doing conference calls and learning a new job), buying a house, fires almost burning my new house down, mudslides, family holiday drama, losing a top engineer on my team, dealing with the economy and its psychological fallout, and then all the chaos at work to close out December…I’m ready for a quiet year.

So please everyone, while Baby New Year looks cute and cuddly in its New Year Diaper, please tiptoe and whisper and try not to wake it; I need a break.

Happy New Year and may the coming year be blessed, peaceful, prosperous, and full of joy for you all.

–Michael

YES!

YES!

YES!

The problem with these white Apple keyboards is that when you spill chili on them it really shows up.

The movers unloaded our belongings into the house last weekend. I think I moved the living room couch 34 times until it was finally in the right place and Debra gave the thumbs-up that she was satisfied. The piano has a new home along the only wall in the house that it would work with, and it looks great. I love the view from the top of the stairs, looking down into the very open-floored living and dining rooms…it just has a wonderful sense of space. And The Debra is thrilled with the kitchen and her new appliances, each of which is  the size of five full-grown humans and each of which cost the GNP of Suriname. The kitchen’s cupboard configurations are a bit wacky, so she’s been challenged with trying to find places for all her goodies: plates, blenders, mixers, measuring cups and six kinds of salt. It’s hard to pity her, though, since she’s finally got her granite countertops, massive commercial oven and a refrigerator in which we believe Jimmy Hoffa has been tucked away.

The pool is a little green: some time elapsed between the former owners chlorinating it and us moving in and beginning the chloronation process again…and the pump has been working a bit weakly, so there is a little greenish business to nuke before everything is crystal blue again. It was while endeavoring to ascertain if there was a clogged filter somewhere in the pump’s suckage path that I undid the wrong clasp and freed the pump’s motor from the pump itself…and so far have been unable to get it reattached. So we’ve got a guy coming out to help us with that on Saturday who will also give us the low-down on how to care for a pool and show us how much chlorine to add to the water so that we don’t overdo it and burn the eyes out of ourselves when we swim. And Debra, by the way, repaired the in-ground sprinklers - a mighty victory where defeat seemed certain.

And today the cable guys came and hooked up the TV and the broadband modem. So now we have high def and the Intarwebs. The house is full of unpacked and half-packed boxes, each jammed with stuff we don’t have space to store or display, which has been a source of low-level frustration - we need a basement!! But none of that mattered after the cable guys left and I sank into my own couch in my new family room and watched the first game of the NFL season in HD while I sipped a perfectly chilled Diet Coke and ate my favorite cookies from Trader Joe’s.

It was utterly, stupendously wonderful.

*****

As if further scientific proof were necessary, here is additional data that proves alcohol is poison (even if it is sometimes yummy and occasionally a wonderful muscle relaxant):

I came home from work today and poured a small amount of whiskey into a snifter.  (Evan Williams…very smooth, buttery and delicious Kentucky bourbon that my ol’ buddy Chris O’Neill turned me on to.) I sipped it throughout the evening while the cable guys did their thing and while I watched the game. I had a snack of blueberry yogurt during that time, too. Well, after finishing up some work in the office I came downstairs and took a sip from the snifter. Along with the smooth, buttery and delicious Evan Williams I felt something lumpy on my tongue. I thought perhaps it was a stray blueberry from the yogurt that had been tucked up somewhere in my mouth and which had come free when I took a sip of whiskey, and I almost chomped down on it and swallowed. But for some reason I didn’t and I caught the lumpy thing on my fingertip and that’s when I realized that I had had a dead fly in my mouth. He - or she - was soft and ball-like, curled up in a fetal position, dead from his or her excursion into my whiskey glass.

I flicked the dead fly into the sink and checked the snifter for any other dead fly detritus. It looked clean enough and it was good whiskey - too good to waste on behalf of a dead fly - so I finished the drink, grateful that I had not chomped down on and eaten the “blueberry”.

At last.

Finally.

Ours.

Keep your fingers crossed: it looks like we are actually, finally, going to close on the new house today.