ONE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE LATER

How often does a declaration of independence come up?

I declared my independence early.

It was a quiet declaration that went something like:

I do declare my living conditions to be unlivable.

What did I do? Nothing.

I was maybe thirteen, living at home, and my older brother got to do things I didn’t.

It all made sense when I got to do things my younger brother didn’t, but I’d already made my bed.

I was the dissatisfied one of the bunch, also known as the ‘middle child.’

Since then I’ve been independent minded, which is what all married guys like to tell themselves.

We don’t say it out loud because then we’d have to discuss it with the wife in the house, which wouldn’t be very independent.

When I first thought of declaring my independence I kept it quiet because both of my parents were first borns. They wouldn’t know the struggle.

My Mom liked to solve problems quickly and had a motto:

 

‘Someone ought to have the silly slapped out of them.’

 

With a father who was in insurance adjuster looking for the truth and a Department of Motor Vehicle staff mother looking for cheaters and car thieves taking advantage of Oregon’s low cost vehicle registration fees, they were an imposing duo.

In other words, they set rules to follow.

 

Declare Your Independence, But From What?

Once I left for college freshman year I was free from the tyranny of my parents.

I was also free from having a car to drive, free from family company, free to do what I wanted, which was a real baby boomer question.

My freedom came with a healthy splash of guilt that left me thinking I ought to be doing more than I was doing in school.

Free time wasn’t as free as I’d thought it would be.

If there’s such a thing as too much freedom, you see it in campus groups lazing around outside on a nice day, lazing around the student union, lazing around the dorm.

With the proper coaching I’d have been logging miles on the road, clocking hours in the weight room, going to class, studying, and resting for the next day.

It’s always easier to blame coaches than take a slice of personal responsibility.

To make up for all the lazing around I joined the Army instead of going back for sophomore year.

It was the complete opposite of lazing around in the freedom of unstructured time.

 

A New Declaration Of Independence 

In my vast experience with unstructured time, it’s not always productive.

Not everyone jumps off the couch every hour for a set of push-ups, sit-ups, and a Turkish get-up.

Including me, but I still think about it.

Not everyone reads fifty pages of great literature a day to improve themselves.

I read the New Yorker for the same reason, but it’s not the same.

The most recent book for me was the winner of the Ken Kesey Award for fiction.

I liked it, but wanted to like it more, which means I’ll read her next book.

In some ways I want to separate from my generation, in other ways I want to embrace it more.

By age seventy some things are fairly settled for the rest of the way out.

Having been young kids in the 1960’s, too young to get caught up in the first version of the hippie parade, the era still caught our attention.

Moving through our twenties in the 70’s, and now our seventies in the 20’s, the compassionate heart beats for those who dropped out and drifted away, those who lost their grip, for those who took one too many trips.

Climbing this far up the aging mountain provides an all encompassing view of the 80’s, 90’s, 00’s, and teens.

I see the good in people, the good intentions, the well wishes, the hopes and dreams.

Along the way I’ve felt the uncertainty of health issues as people pass away from neglect, bad habits, and poor choices.

More than anything else I feel the hurt and disappointment of my fellow citizens who bought into the idea of a new declaration of independence only to find themselves at the mercy of their founding father.

Instead of the freedom expected, it’s questions about health care, food assistance, school funding, and an available labor force of skilled motivated workers.

Instead of kicking back to enjoy the wheels of history grinding up everyone who deserves it based on their man’s opinion, they’ve found themselves caught in those same gears.

Maybe they’re wearing the wrong pants?

 

Safety First On The Hog Of History

This is a story they told new guys when I started my summer job in the Georgia Pacific mill in Coos Bay.

For context, the cement floor under the green chain had a big trench covered by steel plates.

A huge screw turned in the trench, crushing and dragging discarded wood off the floor.

The story in the break-room was about a college-kid fuck-up who came in last summer, didn’t listen, and stepped over the trench on an uncovered section during cleaning.

He hopped back and forth to show everyone how stupid the sliver-pickers were to be so worried.

He slipped and fell in and everyone panicked trying to pull him out instead of cutting the power.

It had him by one leg, then the other, while he screamed in terror.

He went quiet as he passed under the sections with steel plates, his body thumping up against them with each screw rotation dragging him along.

It was an awful story, true or not.

Pounding the table while telling about the body thumping up was a convincing effect.

I didn’t see it, or hear it, but that steel plated trench had my attention.

It was called ‘The Hog.’

Maybe the wheels of history have a a new name coming up?