Starting out a blog post by talking about how it's been SO LONG since the last time I blogged makes me feel ridiculous and also makes me think about how weird blogging is in the first place, so I'm NOT GONNA DO IT! But I woke up early today so Tami could make me coffee in bed and give my my birthday gift (Spoiler Alert: it's my birthday!!!) and now I'm wide awake and felt like spilling my mind-grapes before breakfast.

Side note: Tami got me a birthday sweater just like I got her one. It's a dark-grey cardigan with a shawl collar, and I'm still a little on the fence about it because I don't wear things with shawl collars very often/ever. It is a testament to my wife that she bought one even when, after telling her what I wanted, she told me that she didn't really like cardigans on guys. My wife, people - solid gold.

Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about my culture and history lately. Partly this has to do with two of the classes I took this past quarter: and ethnomusicology course about music and community, and an ed course on teaching African American students and culture. Both of these classes challenged me to cultivate an understanding of my own culture and values in order to better respect the backgrounds of my future students, which I find to be a difficult thing to do, considering the dominance of my statistics in the U.S./world at the current moment. But discerning my culture and values has been coloring a lot of my thinking lately.

We picked my younger brother and sister up from the airport on Thursday night, and I drove them home Friday morning while Tami was at work. Since I've been slacking on the running front during exams, Andrew and I went on a six-mile run in the afternoon down through the valley. The air was stagnant and hazy, and someone was burning something big, which made everything smell, not unpleasantly, like wood smoke. We detoured around the fire towards the farm, so it wasn't until I got back to my parents' house that someone told me that they were burning down the old house on the Bylsma Road.

This house had been beyond saving for some years, and was definitely a hazard, but I had spent a lot of time exploring it, taking photos and imagining what it must have been like to live there, and it jolted me a little when my parents told me it was being torched. It sat on a nice rise above the valley, and the view from the kitchen window was one of the nicest you could ask for. There was a barn and shed next to it, one of them filled with old wooden-frame windows and an old door. I had always contemplated taking the door myself, and I hope someone saw fit to pull it out before they burned the place.

When I think back on this year in the future, I wonder if I'll remember it as the year of houses. My parents moved out of the farmhouse and onto their new place in January. The house in Iowa burned down in the fall (my brother visited after the remains were bulldozed and grabbed a brick for me). And now they shoved down the old house and barn on the Bylsma Road and burned them, too. It amazes me how much loss I feel in all of this. Much of my history's physical manifestation has been destroyed or is now closed to me, and part of me wishes that I had pulled out that door, or some moulding or railing from the Iowa house; that I still had some piece of these places to hold on to.

I'm not trying to turn this into some carpe diem thing. I guess I've become more aware how my history is being shaped with each passing year, how my culture and values are burned, changed, or made more concrete through my experiences. That includes loss, and I think that losing something is an easy way to put it in focus, but I am blessed to have so many more things that I haven't lost. This past Sunday, I helped lead two carol sings, one at my old church in Lynden, and then one with my extended family, and I realized how important that tradition is to me, and how incredibly thankful I am to have been able to sing "Thou Didst Leave Thy Throne" with my Grandma's voice in my ear one more time. I got to have breakfast with my other Grandparents on Tuesday morning before heading back to Seattle, and I get to spend Christmas with them for the first time this year. My sister and brother-in-law are bringing my niece (and themselves) over from Nebraska, and Tami's brother and sister-in-law are expecting a baby this spring. We have stability, shelter, friends, jobs, etc. There is a lot that hasn't burned.

Increasingly, one of my favorite quotations is from the "Cana of Galilee" chapter in The Brothers Karamazov: "Not grief, but men's joy Christ visited when he worked his first miracle, he helped men's joy...'He who loves men, loves their joy'..." That's how I've felt, more often than I deserve, this year - that Christ loves my joy. I can't think of anything better to wish for people this Christmas.

Just an update. As I prepare to student teach, I'm buttoning down much of my online activity so that students who Google my name can't find out my sordid past. Not much here that I'm worried about, but it's better safe than sorry, right?

So. Might make this thing private, or change the URL. Not sure. Will keep you posted. Thanks.

An ending

So the house burned a week ago last Friday. I was about to start a choir rehearsal at church Thursday night when my mom called from Iowa. I felt that something was wrong when I saw her name on my phone and hoped that she didn't have bad news about a family member. She told me she was in mourning, or something along those lines, which indicated that it wasn't a person that had passed, and then I knew: "Someone burned down my childhood home."

My parents stopped by on their way out of town to see it and sent me some photos they took on my Dad's phone. They're sort of blurry around the edges, and they look like Mathew Brady Civil War photographs, the scorched-brick/early autumn colors bleeding into each other, dulling the edges of the scorched earth. The walls are still standing for the most part, but everything flammable is gone: staircase, window seats, sidelights, piano. The left side of the front facade collapsed, but to the right of where the front door was you can see scorch marks where the barreled ceiling of the porch attached. The whole thing makes me sick to my stomach, especially when I think that it might have been deliberate. It feels like someone died.

I think about it when I'm falling asleep, that burned skeleton standing on the same hilltop where it has stood for so long. I did before it burned, too, wondering if it was raining or windy, if shingles were blowing off and letting in more water, wondering when the balance would shift from "salvageable" to "condemned," still clinging to a crazy hope that I could change its fate. I don't know what the owners will do about it. Judging by past performance, they won't do a damned thing, but maybe they'll hire someone to push what's left of it down into the cellar, smooth over the dirt, and call it a day. Old, alone, done for.

I don't like to think of myself as a weepy twenty-something who cries in Starbucks when he thinks about a burned-down house. Add to that the fact that it wasn't my house, that no one was living in the house, that the house had been abandoned for close to two decades, and even I don't understand it. I don't know that I ever will. Right now, I know that I can hardly bear thinking that the owners let this happen, that some idiot kids broke the windows out and smashed the railings and drank and smoked there and then eventually set the thing on fire because why not burn it? I want to find these people and yell in their faces, grab them by the shoulders, shake them. How could you do this? How could you allow this to happen?

Because it wasn't my house, but it was. I loved it. My family loved it. I wanted to help it. I did believe, crazy or no, that maybe, possibly, I could make other people understand, make others want to save it, too, to the point where we could actually raise money and fix it. I still believe that I could have. But now that's not an option. And I have to face the fact that even if it had been restored, it could have burned down just as easily, just like any other house. My inclination is to go and scavenge, grab a few bricks, pull up a chunk of sandstone and take them with me; if not the whole, than at least a part. But then I realize that I'd just be delaying the inevitable, putting off a goodbye with back-breaking labor, and then who's the stupid one?

Which just keeps me circling back to the one thing I seem to always be able to circle back to: there is goodness in this world, but it's a messed-up place.

Yesterday I was waiting for the 44 on campus, and a gust of wind blew up behind me with a couple of the leaves, and it smelled like fall. Not just fall in general, but the fall I associate with being on the farm. The minty color of the grass in the mornings, the rare and shocking red of the windfall Kings from the two big trees in front of the farmhouse, catching falling maple leaves on the road while waiting for the school bus. Grandma's blue corduroy jacket. Coming home to garbage cans on the front lawn, full of corncobs, the kitchen sweet-smelling and sticky. Leggy mums which had been so dutifully pinched back earlier in the year, now collapsed under the weight of their flowers. Drifts of locust leaves in front of the garage. The whiteness of the moon on clear nights driving home from a late play practice. Sweatshirt weather. The first day after daylight savings time ended, when it seemed like the earth had unbalanced itself.

I think mostly about corn silage. When I was younger, sometimes at night I would ride along with an uncle or with Dad in a silage truck. You couldn't talk a lot, nor was there ever much to say, but it hardly mattered. It was enough to sit there as darkness fell, feet braced against the floor to keep from bouncing out of your seat, in awe of their uncanny abilities to predict where the chopper would be when the next load came full, slicing through the new world of the bare cornfield with their headlights. Every year it was like pioneering, uncovering ground that had been inaccessible for months. Eventually, you would tell the driver that this was your last load, and then swing out easily down onto the pavement, turn and reach and slam the door, watch them drive off for another load, and head back into the house. But there, in the back of your mind while you were doing your homework or practicing piano, was the comfortable knowledge that they were still driving, secret and powerful in the dark cabs of their trucks, filling up the bunker load by load. For a few weeks, there was a nightlife on the farm, and although everyone complained in the morning, you could tell that everyone enjoyed being in on it together.

The year I lived at home was the year that I was actually a cog in the machinery. I was not a good truck driver: I never synched with the rhythm of the chopper, couldn't get a feel for the gears, and always felt like I was behind. My main job that year was packing the bunker. Someone else, sometimes Jose but often my dad, would spread the corn out over the stack, and then I would pack it down in a tractor with an ecology block mounted on the back, driving back and forth, up and down. It was mindless, decidedly dull, and sometimes I suspected that Dad had invented the job to give me something easy to do that I wouldn't screw up, but I fancied that I was pretty good at it: how flat can you pack the front with just two narrow front tires? How close can you drive to the wall without hitting it? Can you read the stacker's mind, and stay out of the way? It was wonderful. I listened to music (mostly Pet Sounds), ate Wint-o-green LifeSavers, and drove back and forth, up and down late into the night over an artificial, electric-green mountain of corn under hot-white flood lights, on our own little playing field surrounded by darkened farm, fields, trees.

One night Dad and I went until 3 in the morning on the stack, and it was getting late (close to 11, if I remember) when my mom called and asked what I wanted to drink. A while later, she arrived with a mocha for my dad (typical) and an Italian soda or smoothie for me (typical at the time, anyway) and we took a break, my dad and I stiff from sitting so long, my mom wearing a jacket because it was chilly out. I remember leaving my sweatshirt in the cab on purpose whenever I had to get out to pick up my dinner or pee or something: it always felt good to crawl back in where it was warm after being outside where you could see your breath. But standing there with my parents, enjoying that free feeling you get behind your knees when you finally stand up after driving for a long time, drinking whatever it was I was drinking, talking about the farm and probably nothing much at all, really: I don't think I'll ever forget that feeling of belonging. Everything in that moment was simplified, and I think those are the moments that mean the most, that are closest to heaven.

It's a weird feeling to be reminded of all that at a bus stop in a city, where the seasons only seem to relate to clothing, heating bills, and, God forbid, the complete shutdown of everything should there be snow. I miss that rhythm sometimes, and it's a very real fact to say that there's no going back to those times in many ways. But, sitting here now, even though I can't ride along, it's still nice to know that a couple hours north, my family is pulling in a harvest.

This is my fall/farming song. On repeat.

Three essential YouTube videos

Joanna Newsom performing "Baby Birch" in Amsterdam

This was the encore when she played in Seattle, and although we were sitting in the middle of the balcony at The Moore, it was just as captivating. She's completely wrapped up in the performance. An artist in every sense.

Gyorgy and Marta Kurtag performing their transcription of the Sonatina from BWV 106

Pulled from a documentary about the couple. Perfect in simplicity, and still 100% Bach.

Stevie Nicks singing "Wild Heart" at a photo shoot

She starts singing a little bit of "Love In Store" before someone turns on a demo track for "Wild Heart." Thankfully, someone had a camera. This is relatively new to me, but I don't think I'll ever get tired of listening to it.

Surprise Lake

After a successful hike to Lake Serene, Tami and I decided to try for round two on a Friday she happened to have off. Snooping around the Washington Trails Association website (recommended, if not for helpful up-to-date member reviews, at least for the ridiculously flowery hike descriptions, i.e. "Tumbling Surprise Creek, always nearby, provides constant visual and audio delights"), we were looking for something a little longer. We settled on the Surprise and Glacier Lakes hike, mostly because it was about the length that we wanted. The trailhead is between Skykomish and Stevens Pass, just past Deception Falls a few miles. We headed up on Thursday night and stayed with our friends Charles and Ed, who live on Highway 2 just outside of Gold Bar. Apart from a shorter drive Friday morning, this also gave us the opportunity to see/play Charles' new pipe organ. His friend in California built it for him, and they had just installed it a few weeks ago. Can I just take this time to say how boss it is to have a real organ in your house? Charles and I played/sang some Psalms from the grey Psalter Hymnal. It was very Reformed. Tami has photos on her phone, which I will maybe post later.

So. The hike. Best hike ever. No exaggeration. Not too difficult, "constant visual and audio delights", perfect weather, old-growth trees everywhere, lots of wildflowers, salmonberries, and a beautiful alpine lake. Thanks to it being Friday and not the weekend, there were hardly any other people out on the trail. We passed a few going up, but we had the lake to ourselves. Also, Charles and Ed brought their dogs, Pointer and Tiger. Tiger went off-leash, and nothing makes you appreciate a beautiful hike more than sharing it with a dog who is obviously having the best day of his life.

It was practically a 5-mile hobbit trail.

Trees.

Surprise Lake. We didn't go the last half-mile to Glacier Lake. Happy enough to sit around here for an hour.

Yeah, it was cold.

Hard to think of a better way to spend a Friday afternoon. Although, once we got back to the car, we all thought we were going to collapse.

Gloomy side note: did any of the loggers who cleared PNW forests for the first time feel any regret or sadness about what they were doing? I mean, yes, they probably thought the supply of giant trees was inexhaustible, that what they were doing was hardly making a dent and was necessary for progress, etc., but still. There is nothing quite as breathtaking (for me, anyway) as old-growth timber, nor anything quite so humbling as spending some time walking through virgin forest. You see those old photographs of bearded men in suspenders standing on stumps that could be used as helipads, and they look so proud. Why is it that when we're presented with something amazing in nature, we feel the need to conquer it? It's the same sadness I feel when reading about big-game hunting in Africa in the early part of the last century, or about the decimation of bison herds. To God be the glory/great things He hath done, now grab your two-man saw and rifle, O pioneers, and go ye forth and subdue. Genesis 1:28 is a scary verse.

Heritage

This came from my Grandma Blok's sister. I found it in an old email and thought I'd post (maybe re-post) it here. It is still to my mind one of the most beautiful things I've ever read.

"The last time I saw Ma, Pa didn't know me real well, but the last time I saw her, she was sitting in a room with a little white shawl on her shoulders and she was never cold for nothing. But she said I should probably read Psalm 90 to her, and so I did and then she said, "Well, you better read it once more in Dutch before you go," and that was the last time I saw her. And I don't know if Pa really knew that she was gone, cause he walked around the home asking, "Where's my wife? Where's my wife?" And he died about two years later.

They called the kids one day and said, "Your Pa's not breathing too well." So they all went there and he sang Psalm 42 in Dutch, and he hadn't talked for weeks, never said a word, but then he sang the first verse and started into the second and then he was gone.

So in all of their hard times there was so much joy in what they give us in trying to keep us together. My Pa always was a cut-up and they were always there for us kids, no matter where they would be. if there was something sad that happened in the family, no matter what time it was, even if it was three in the morning, they would always sit up with a cup of coffee and talk about it. I don't think there are very many people who can say they had a Ma and Pa like us. They were just always there. And Pa always used to say in Dutch, "Jam'n, God laat geen bidder staan" - "Yeah, but kids, God never lets somebody stand alone who prays." And I can still hear him say that."