His email was short and to the point, “Dear Linda, Yoga's not my thing. Nor poetry. Will you still consider me a friend? I hope so.”
So wrote, George Lancaster, a fellow writer with whom I’ve reconnected since our student-days at Earlham College. George has lived in Australia (with his Aussie wife) and two children since 2007. He updates his WordPress Blog regularly and distributes thoughtful, poignant, witty, and often funny essays and stories to a dedicated group of readers.
My college-aged self was intimidated by George and his pack of “soccer bros,” an unapproachable group of talented athletes who seemed to roam and rule the campus like a herd of bachelor stallions. Today, our late teens and early twenties are far behind us, and we connect across a million time zones via zoom to talk about our writing lives, writing groups, short stories, and how we process our lives “out loud” on the page.
I can forgive his disinterest in poetry and yoga. Afterall, you like what you like.
I hope you’ll like these essays and excerpts from George’s long history of “writing out loud.” You can find more of George’s writing at his website.
George Lancaster was born and raised in Japan and spent most of his life in the States (mostly Atlanta) until he moved to Sydney Australia in 2007. He and his wife recently relocated to Melborune to be closer to their adult children. He writes mostly to explain his weird self to his kids.
Dad’s Detention
Benjamin got nailed for detention today. It’s his first experience with the form of punishment, and it seems I’m responsible.
It all started with my wife’s pregnancy. As any pregnant woman can attest, the bladder gets short-changed by the expanding womb. Just a thimble full of liquid and you gotta go. Now! It’s been seven years since Jessica was born and ten years since Benjamin came into this world, but a bladder, I guess, is a petulant beast. It’s still punishing my wife for those long-ago months of cramped existence.
When my kids shed their diapers, the phenomenon multiplied by three. Fast food being the only recourse on long-distance road trips, the kids invariably gulped down the incorrectly branded ‘child-size’ beverages, and as individual physiques process uniquely, one kid’s squirmy desperation was another one’s la-de-da. Add the long-suffering ex-pregnant mother and there was absolutely nothing I could do to coordinate the enterprise of bathroom breaks. I discovered the hard way the words, ‘just one more exit,’ have little power over the natural flow of things.
I, of course, hate to stop. Stopping breaks the rhythm. It interrupts the hypnotic siren call of the broken white line. Engaged in an unwinnable fight against human biology I channelled my frustration into the tease. Whenever someone piped up, “I gotta go,” I’d say, “Smells like RAIN.” Or, “What’s the sound of WATER again? Is it DRIP, DRIP or DRIPPITY-DRIP-DRIP?” I never thought it abusive, feeling it paled in comparison to the cruelty done to me for having to stop too frequently.
As the kids aged and their bladders grew, they joined in the fun. My wife’s condition, as noted before, didn’t appreciably change, so she usually took the brunt of it. We even got assistance from a song by Chumbawumba called “Drip, Drip, Drip.” The chorus, the refrain, pretty much the entire song is, “Drip, drip, drip, goes the water.” The kids and I wore out the car’s CD player playing it. Even now, the words “drip, drip, drip” are a reminder of a secret joke that sends my kids into giggling fits.
Which brings me to Benjamin’s detention. A girl asked the teacher if she could go to the bathroom and, you guessed it, he said, “drip, drip, drip,” and laughed. His innocent intent at triggering a humorous familial ritual, however, was understandably misconstrued by the young girl. And it was his dumb luck to say it within hearing distance of the teacher. He was quite shocked, I’m sure, at the reaction he received by what, to him, was a harmless joke.
He’s not yet worldly enough to differentiate between words with a rich, shared history and words in isolation. It’s my job to teach him the difference, but since I’m ultimately responsible for getting him into the predicament in the first place, he may feel I failed in the task. And why do I sense I’ll get no commiseration from my wife….?
As always, thank you for reading and supporting this labor of love! It is a gift to receive your reactions and comments. I read and respond to every one of them.
A Wakeful
Most of us never know of our influence on others, the noting of which is too often reserved for eulogies. At our funerals. Too bad there’s no similar ritual we can enjoy while still breathing. And cognizant.
Yeah, there’s the retirement party, awards ceremony, a marriage anniversary gala, etc., when you might be reminded of your positive (and negative, though mentioned in loving manner) imprint, but it does not give justice to the fullness of you. It’s a mere slice.
Our influence spread over a lifetime is so much more than that.
The best analogy for me is the daily shed of dead skin cells. Two numbers come up online – one million and 500 million. The widely divergent figures are another reminder not to trust everything you find in a search, but either way, it’s a lot. And these are shed unknowingly, without thought, all day, everywhere we go, and passed along to everyone we encounter. That handshake? Those cheek-kiss greetings? A hug? You now wear a piece of someone else.
And if you’ve ever met me, you may very well wear a smidge of my influence. And I of yours.
Best now to clarify my meaning of the word. I’m not talking of ‘influencers’, those product shilling social media vampires, today’s equivalent of snake-oil salesmen. Nor thought leaders, whatever the hell they are. Nor of grand deeds, such as the guy who bravely stood in front of a tank in Tiananmen Square.
And I’m not interested in anything negative. Who wants to hear that? Like dog shit on the lawn, best avoided.
No, I’m speaking of all the little things. Like skin cells. Something we did, said, imparted, that probably meant nothing to us at the time, but regardless left a lasting impression. On another. In a positive way.
A wonderful example occurs when close Atlanta-based friends visit us in Sydney. Out walking in the bush near our Blue Mountains cabin, my bootlace comes untied. The wife is shocked. “George!” She sounds incredulous. “Can’t believe that! You’re the one who taught me how to tie laces, so they never come undone!”
Seems I neglected to follow my own advice. Advice I cannot remember giving her, over twenty years ago, most likely while hiking in the Georgia mountains. And ever since she’s attributed her never-again-suffering-from-untied-laces status to me. She recalls it as if it were a day ago, because, to her, it’d been memorable. To me? Not at all. Some tidbit of conversation, a quick how-to demonstration, forgotten immediately after.
All of us as we pass through life have this impact on others. Yet rarely do we hear acknowledgement of it during our lifetimes. Well, at least I don’t, as the above case is an outlier. And that comes about only by fortuitous accident. I’d remain ignorant to this day had my own lace not come untied.
Must admit, hearing her say that makes me feel great. Fulfilled. A tiny matter, yes, but to get a reminder that I’ve made a positive difference in another’s life, how good is that? Why can’t that happen more often? While we’re alive to truly appreciate it?
Two things I’d like to suggest. One, if you’ve been positively influenced by someone, no matter how seemingly insignificant, let them know. I promise you, it will bring joy into their day. Perhaps their year.
Two, let’s create a new ritual. I’m calling it a ‘wakeful’. My trusty thesaurus’s first-listed synonym is ‘alive’. Which is what you’ll be, in contrast to a wake. Not sure how it can be coordinated, but maybe with the help of an app, globally marketed. Post a notice and hope to reach everyone in your past periphery, with two questions, “Did I make a positive difference in your life?” and “If so, how?”
Reckon that’d be a killer app.
Words are Best Left Unsaid
Finessing Japanese etiquette is a tightrope walk above downy pillows. Easy to slip off, and you will, but it’s into a soft embrace.
I’m inculcated more than most, but forever vigilant to non-verbal signals. It’s said communication is done more by expressions of face and body than words, and the Japanese own that in spades. A raised eyebrow here, a lift of a finger there, and I get the message. No harsh words. Nothing overheard by others. For however flagrant the affront, body language limits the exchange to two people.
In an American Baptist missionary’s home, aged ten, I’m woefully ill prepared, unaware as I am of the expected site-specific proper etiquette. But slipping off the tightrope in this environment is an embarrassment made audible. No allowance is made for saving face. Quite the opposite. Seems the more public the denouncement the better.
Seen from my Presbyterian bubble the Baptists are mysterious. And scary. Compared to us, the quietly contented, they are loud Happy Clappers. More conservative, more stringent, more vigorous proselytizers. For the most part we don’t interact. And this despite there being only two Christian missionary families in Takamatsu, a city of four hundred thousand.
One day I’m invited to dinner with the Baptists. I’m friends with their son. We’re the same age, go to the same one-room school, and religion never enters our conversations. But still, a rare event, and accepted with trepidation. Nervous doesn’t cut it.
The house, more spacious than ours, is pristine. Merely treading upon the carpet I fear causing inadvertent defilement. In the formal dining room crisp linen covers the table. Father on one end, mother on the other, sitting ramrod straight, elbows concealed. We kids sit across from each other staying quiet, our propensity to giggle stifled by vigilant parental oversight. Few words are spoken until grace, delivered in clasped-hands sincerity. And passion. Unlike the perfunctory exercise I’m used to.
On the menu, spaghetti and meatballs, served in the finest china, the fare congealing as we wait. During grace my mind reels. It’s basically noodles. What to do with the fork and spoon? Where are the utensils I’ve grown to master since the age of two?
I learned to use chopsticks early living in more isolated Tokushima, a city where we live before Takamatsu. My family the only Westerners in the entire region. With my blond locks I am a speck of gold glitter on a blanket of black velvet…
It’s Grief, Regardless
Grief percolates early. Because we humans know it’s coming, the dog does not. Henry is still his cheerful, loyal self, oblivious to impending death. Innocent. All Nicky and I can think about is the looming date. Every day leading up to it we take him on Blue Mountain trails, his favorite milieu, trying to indelibly imprint in our collective memory his very being, his joy, his unadulterated love, his profound positive impact on our lives.
Not enough time. Not nearly enough.
This grief is unstated. Unshared outside the family. Because it regards a pet. As a close friend observes, a pet’s death is not afforded the same legitimacy as that of a human’s. But why not? Henry is as close to another child as you can get. We feed him, walk him, and clean up after him (by my rough calculations, based on twice-daily poos over 14 years and five months, we bagged his ‘gifts’ over 10,500 times!). He sleeps upon our bed, is given the best medical treatment, and provides unflagging comfort to his human parents. And human siblings, particularly daughter Jessica.
He is possibly more endearing than a human child (sorry kids!). Because he doesn’t talk. And doesn’t talk back.
The night before the vet’s arrival I cry my eyes out. All that percolating grief explodes as I search for suitable quotes. To read at his grave side. Strange, though. Regardless of amalgamated quote sites, almost all are by men. White men. As if women, or people of color, never said anything worth remembering.
We all know that’s not true…
Interview with George Lancaster
When did you start writing/creating and what inspired you?
George: About 30 years ago, finding inspiration in other people.
How did you grow into your identity as a creative person?
George: By wearing a smoking jacket. Just kidding. I don't understand the question. I've always been creative.
How has your work changed over the years?
George: Hopefully it's improved.
Who are your favorite creatives? Who do you admire and why?
George: Gunter Grass. Haruki Murakami. Both are sentence wizards.
What are you reading / listening to these days?
George: Mostly get inspired by listening to music, especially new music.
What inspires you? What do you do when you are ‘stuck?’
George: Outdoor walks.
How often do you write/create? Do you have rituals or routines?
George: Once a day, but length of time varies.
What is your process for creating/completing a new work?
George: Placing one word after another.
Do you have a funny story or anecdote about being creative?
George: No. Said I was creative, not funny.
What’s the best advice you’ve received about the creative process?
George: Don't ever expect to make a living off it.
What advice do you have for aspiring writers/creatives?
George: See above. But don't let that stop you.
How has being creative influenced the way you see the world?
George: I see it the other way around. How I interact with the world influences my creativity.
Any last thoughts or words of wisdom?
George: Nah. At 64, I'm still waiting for wisdom.
Are you a creative person?
Writer, poet, artist, videographer, musician, photographer, sculptor, painter?
I’d love to feature you and your work in a future issue of Starry Starry Kite.