growing | Literature and Libation

There’s no crying in the Garage

March 20, 2017 · by Oliver Gray

The screwdriver slips from its slotted perch. My knuckles rasp against the mangled folds of an old radiator.

As drops of fresh, red blood well up on my skin, so do the tears in my eyes.

He towers up, and looks down at me as I cradle the wrist of my injured hand, stifling sniffles as well as an eight-year-old can.

“There’s no crying in the garage,” he says.

For my entire life, I regarded my dad’s behavior as a form of classical machismo. He wasn’t being overly harsh, or reinforcing contemporary gender stereotypes about “strong men,” but instead passing on to me the toughness he’d accrued from years of amateur rugby and slinging wrenches on engines in the cold of England evenings. Hardening through experience, to face the challenges of life.

Weakness held no sway around him. I’d flex my fledgling biceps in a show of pre-pubescent power and he’d laugh, quipping, “when I was your age, I had more muscles in my spit.”

I never got angry, or bitter, or resentful, because he practiced what he preached. Rarely did I see my dad wince at physical pain. He never hinted at psychological stress or fatigue. I never saw him cry.

I swallow the pain and wrap my knuckles in an old, oil stained cloth. He comforts me in an utilitarian way, and tells me to wash my hand and go find a band-aid. There’s expectation in his voice, an implication that I will return to work and not let so little a thing beat me. I nod, and wipe away the few salty drops that managed to migrate down my cheeks.

Even when his mother died, I didn’t see him cry. Maybe he did, behind closed doors, but in front of us, he remained forest pond placid. I envied him, then, wishing to be so in control of my emotions that the worst of the world’s worries simply rolled off like water on glass.

My daughter cries. Hard. Her tiny little lungs muster more than enough air to send her vocals chords into a fury of complaint. She has no other way to communicate, and I can’t blame her, but the sound tears through me. It startles me awake mid-REM. It eats at my heart. Her every outburst feels like a failure as a parent.

The layout of our house, as functional and open-concept as it is, means her cries echo and rebound, filling every corner with anguished bellowing. If she’s upstairs, the cries cascade down. If she’s in the living room, the sound reverberates off counter and coffer. It’s impossible to escape the sound of my irrational questioning of my ability to parent.

Except in the garage.

When the heavy door swings shut, I can’t hear her crying. When I pop into the garage to take out the trash, or grab a beer, or snag a screwdriver, I get a tiny respite from my nagging doubt. If I can’t hear the cries, she’s OK, and I’m doing things right. In that moment, as I cross the threshold, I go from father to son again, existing as two spirits in one space.

I remember him, there, and think of her, here.

But there’s no crying in the garage.

Beer Review: Bell’s Two Hearted Ale

June 27, 2014 · by Oliver Gray

Through the morning winking between white oaks, through the steam rising up from my dark roast, through the headached fog of a bad night’s sleep, I can see my garden. From my office window all one hundred odd square feet lay bare; Maryland dirt formed into six long rows, surrounded by a Hadrian’s wall of recycled concrete pavers, barely ankle high, just enough to keep peace with the armies of grass on the other side. Gangly sweet peas cling desperately to bamboo teepees while across the road, their broccoli and Brussels sprouts neighbors can’t seem to rid their houses of pests. Tomato tenements block the light to the carrot slums below, and two stately Willamette hops scrape the sky, regal, austere.

A tell-tale banjo-pluck of an incoming email reminds me that now is not the time for dirt on hands. Now is the time for documentation and duties, for corporate and coworkers, for processes and paychecks. The job bought and keeps the land, but the land craves all my attention. On days when summer lets off the throttle and drops the heat into second gear, it becomes very difficult not to trade the sickly glow of blue monitors for the healthy glow of yellow sun.

I planted this year subconsciously, passively. Seeds were purchased; pots were filled; soil was fertilized; sprouts were watered. Not until I plucked the first pod from my peas, or saw the first hop cone popping from bine, did I realize that growing was my mind’s natural reaction to losing; green life a spiritual replacement for gray death. My obsession with creating a garden from seed, from creating life where there was just a handful of potential before, wasn’t random or strange, but grief manifest.

My heart is broken, ne’er to be repaired. The faults and cracks have finally cleaved the thing in two, left it beating two conflicting rhythms; one rasorial and flighty, the other responsible and grounded. Having two hearts presents a professional conundrum, because a sundered heart is a free heart, a heart suddenly opened wide to all the realities from which we often hide, a heart that by experiencing the worst, has nothing left to fear. A broken heart is to be envied if we’re being honest, as its owner awakes from the walking dream to a world where all possibilities and eventualities are real, both good and bad. A broken heart is liberation through pain, an audit on your life with red hot poker, an emancipating agreement signed with emotional and spiritual blood.

As I sit at my desk, trying my best to carefully sort technical from superfluous and turn jargon into justification, the mewing of a catbird and the wind rearranging the leaves of the trees pulls my mind away. The new half of my heart beats wildly, impulsively, telling me to go spend my time how I want to spend it, not how my brain tells me I should spend it, logically. More often than not, before the pragmatic tie-wearing half of my psychomachia can even show up to field an argument, I’m off running, or weeding, or watering, or just lying on my back, eyes closed, relishing all that extra Vitamin D production.

Even though it’s broken, this new heart is much kinder than my old heart. At least half thumps with jeux de vie, shedding apprehension about pursuing what I love, telling me with each cardiac cascade that I’m alive and as a result, should probably do my best to live. In the sea of red blood cells swims a spirit born again, a spirit who considers my brewing equipment more important than my government issue laptop, the fledgling fruit on my tomato plants more important than that ever looming deadline.

So nightly I scrub the dirt and toil from under my fingernails, rinse the sweat from my face and hair, plop down on the couch tired but satisfied. I pour myself into life outside of the nine-to-five like a beer into a glass, taking on a new shape where I had long been confined, roaring to a bubbly head with enthusiasm, settling to relax and and enjoy the creamy complexity of a Friday night heavily hopped with good stories and good friends. My heart is broken, split in two, and contrary to all long-held belief, to all established understanding of the matter, it may be the single best thing that ever happened to me.

“For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken. It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.” ― D.H. Lawrence

A Foundation of Firsts

August 28, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

Life is one massive chain of first experiences, each of which defines a life, personality, and career.

First air taken deep into infantile lungs. First vibrations of vocal chords to mewl an announcing cry to the world. First soft caress of a warm blanket on cold, pale skin. First eye-to-eye contact with a woman and unconditional love, a man and a role model.

First pets of the silky fur and listens to the silky purr of the family cat. First tastes of ice creams and cakes, first jubilant celebration of yearly maturation. First days of kindergarten in those brightly colored halls, first argument over construction paper, first lesson in sharing and social conscience.

First falls from bikes and skateboards, first hospital visits, first fractures. First sleepovers with hushed whispers of crushes and curses, first explorations into friendship, secrets, trust. First bright red uniform with name and number on the back, first goal slipped deftly past the opposing keeper. First rush of adrenaline and pride, first surge of self-worth from being the one that won the game for the team.

First girlfriend, first kiss; a redhead named Robin on a soccer field near the school. First loves tangled in raw emotions, juvenile jealousy, and lack of experience. First scalds from the burn of teenage romance. First realizations that heartache is closer to stomachache as the acid churns in time with emotion. First longing. First lament.

First diplomas, first sweet and sour taste of independence. First painful understanding of the price of excess, first successful triumph over the thumping regrets of a hangover. First true appreciation for academics. First brief flash of a hand-forged future.

First job, first sole accountability and lone responsibility. First bosses, quick but calculating, first coworkers, slow but kind. First feelings of financial helplessness. First major disillusionment and questioning if there is more.

First time following dreams beyond the comfortable, first time embracing doing something just for the sake of doing it. First few readers, first few comments, first few encouraging words to make the work worthwhile.

First heartfelt words of admiration from a mentor. First glowing praise from peers. First moment, albeit small, where the world seems within grasp, where imagination can be reality with enough work and ingenuity.

First publication. First award. First communication with other successful professionals. First time acknowledging that good work leads to good people that leads to good times.

First delivery of free beer on the doorstep.

First moment of thinking it’s all a dream, then realizing you’re wide awake.

A special thanks to Darin at Avery Brewing Company in Boulder, CO, for making one of my obscure, career-defining milestones, a reality.