I bought property at the end of a cul-de-sac. In a quiet corner of rural King County (Seattle), with only two access points (NW and SW) for an area roughly 100 square miles. (The county bought the land around Rattlesnake Canyon and closed it off years ago, so you can’t get through that way anymore. EVER.)

To get to my house, you drive down the road, turn a curve, go to the end, and you’re facing my gravel driveway. Then you wind up and around 150 meters to a plateau midway up the hill, where the house is.

Remote. Nearly feral.

I bought the land in 2010. Got the house done in 2015. Most of my neighbors had no idea anybody lived up there until 2018, because the two neighbors I do know are socially isolated from most of the rest of the folks around here (the hippies have a driveway out on the main road instead of into the neighborhood, and the guy directly south of me is an asshole that everyone around here hates, and not just me.)

I’m also not on the common well that they all use, so they have a neighborhood water association. That entity had it’s annual meeting yesterday, and the hosts (who I do know well) threw a BBQ afterwards and invited the rest of us to come down and say hello. Finally got to meet more than half of the folks around here, after just waving at them as I go by for so long.

Nobody knew that I was here for the longest time, because there is a landlocked chunk of 15 acres above me (I have 6.5 myself). The woman that lives up there (if I understand the story correctly), bought this whole section (1 square miles in American parlance) back in about 1962-63. Originally, her and her husband lived down on my pond, before selling chunks off to developers over the years. (They built that current house starting in ’64. Got power and a well in ’65, as the story goes. The kids used to ride their horses down through the current neighborhood in the early 70s.

The parents divorced at some point a long time ago and this 80+ year old woman is at the top of the hill. Railroad along one edge. Wilderness Preserve (public park land) on another side. Steep hill down on the third, and me below her, with her having an easement driveway over my property to the street below.

Crazy lady. Not bad, just stubborn as hell. Her kids are maybe 5-10 years older than me, and I’m friendly with both when they come up to see their mom. Know a couple of the grandkids as well. All adults at this point.

Then, there is Jimmy-Jack.

E is a small woman. And used to ride racehorses at the old track south of Seattle, some 40-60 years ago. Her daughter (mid-50s) still jockeys occasionally, but mostly works as a carpenter. Also tiny. Also stubborn. Barbed wire and tan.

In addition to an ongoing string of big dogs and chickens, E also rescues old retired racehorses.

Horses run professionally for only a few years, then they’re done, but can live 30+ in the right circumstances.

The hippies at the bottom of my hill have had to bring up an excavator a few times while I’ve lived here, so they can dig a hole and bury a dead horse.

I figure there are a few dozen dead horses up there. Can’t wait until somebody buys it after she dies and decides to build their dream house. 15 acres remote but only 10 minutes to Starbucks will go for a lot of money, until they look at all the dead cars, trailers, junk, etc. up there.

And then have to deal with unmarked horse graves.

I might be looking forward to being a fly on the wall that day, but I have a small soul and while her kids are nice, she can be a pain in the ass.

Neither here nor there. (Personally, I’ve suggested to the county a few times that they buy it themselves and extend the Wilderness another 15 acres while they can.)

Today, I wanted to talk about Jimmy, but it required some set up.

Jimmy-Jack is a 30-year-old retired race horse.

Two years ago, we had a friend come out and stay with us for the summer, sleeping in the camping trailer because COVID meant that everyone needed to be isolated, and she had a job as a shopper for folks, delivering groceries to their house.

She is also a photographer, and a loving soul.

Jimmy used to come down the hill regularly to hang out with her. And she’d walk up and say hi to him.

Sure, there’s a fence. Might Keep a shy sheep in. Jimmy just steps over it. Then down the driveway, cut across, and graze in my septic field. In the old days, I’d have to chase him off, but we both got over ourselves and he was mostly looking for company. And nice grass, because it’s all trees and shade up there, so nothing green he can just munch on.

So Jimmy would come down in the summer of 2019. Usually in the late afternoon. Then he’d head back up around sunset. I stopped chasing him off, and my guest made it a point to clean up the horse apples he’d leave, so it was fine.

Weird, but fine.

Because while some of you have neighborhood cats you might feed. Or the dogs that run around and hang out, I have a neighborhood horse.

How you know you live in the country.

At one point that summer, E was in the hospital and rehab, so her kids and grands had to come by twice a day to feed the various animals. One day, the dog and the horse both come down, late afternoon/early evening. The dog is friendly enough. Barks, but it isn’t a warning bark or a friendly play.

“Hey, you!” kind of bark.

Jimmy’s with the dog, hanging out. Watching me.

This goes on for a few minutes, so I grab Fabulous Publisher Babe™ and we walk up the hill, with both critters making a beeline ahead of us once they’re sure where headed that way.

Through the gate. Wind long ways around the driveway. Jimmy practically dancing, though he and I have a carefully-armed neutrality. (My dad got kicked by a horse 40 years ago. Broke several ribs and nearly killed him.)

At one point, Jimmy stomps right over, so I grab him by the halter and tap foreheads, telling him to behave.

Horse is ornery, not dumb. He nods and heads off to where his feed bucket is.

We get to E’s house. It’s unlocked. I don’t go in often, but it was obvious nobody had fed the critters today and they were starving, so I yell, open the door, yell some more, then go find the two feed barrels and get the dog and the horse fed.

Head back down, having done our good deed.

Smiled.

About 15 minutes later, one of the grandsons drives up E’s driveway, on his way to feed the critters. I can only imagine his response when he got there. I’m sure both animals told him they were starving and had never been fed in their lives. (Never trust a horse about his feeding schedule.)

After that summer, the guest moved on. Jimmy stopped coming down.

Until about a week ago. Guess he was kinda lonely. Or maybe missed the good grass.

Always interesting, waking up at 4am to the sound of hooves clomping along outside the wind. Dark brown horse, so I’d have to hit him with a flashlight to see him.

Usually, just clapping loud or yelling at him to go home is sufficient and he’d prance back up the driveway.

All a big game to that dork.

Won’t say I’ll miss him when he finally goes, but I will miss the stories I can tell about having a neighborhood horse.

One of the things they don’t tell you about being a grown-up is that you’ll lose friends along the way. Partly, at least in my case, that’s the outcome of living a full and adventurous life.

I wanted to talk recent times, but it dawns on me that I need to go way back to set up the scene. because I’ve lived a strange life so far.

My family moved from Wichita to Salina, KS when I was about five in the mid-70s. We lived there for two years, so kindergarten and half of first grade for me. Then back to Wichita for the other half of first grade, plus second and third, where I was at the same elementary school (Seltzer). Fourth grade in the gifted program at Minneha. Fifth and Sixth they split that group in half, and sent me to Clark.

That’s just elementary school, going to three of them without moving. Four in six years.

Then, for junior high (grades 7-9 in those days), they took half the folks I’d been with at Clark and sent them to a different school (Coleman) from the one the other part of us went to (Curtis). So all my bestest friends disappear and I’m pretty much starting over. Remember, this is before social media or even cell phones, in the early ‘80s, so they’re kinda gone.

Managed to stay at Curtis for all three years, which was amazing. And a record to that point.

Then all of us finally circle back to the same high school. (Wichita Southeast, when it was still on Edgemoor in town, instead of out in the middle of nowhere.)

But I’ve lost touch with everyone from elementary by this point. New friends in Junior High.

Then I graduated high school after what was functionally my Junior Year (technically skipped Junior and went from Sophomore to Senior, long story). So I was only in that building for two years, one of which I was suddenly in classes with folks a year ahead of me previously. They didn’t always react well to the kid. (Understatement.)

Graduate in May. Start classes at Wichita State in June. Don’t turn seventeen until the end of June, so I am not kidding when I say I started college at sixteen.

Stayed there three and a half years, which was my longest time in any school, and graduated in December of 1989. Took spring off. Went to graduate school in the fall in Los Angeles in the fall of ‘90.

Lived in LA until the fall of ‘95. Came back to Wichita, but only stayed about 18 months.

Moved to Seattle in the Feb 1997. New world. New life. Except that the woman who had convinced me to move to Seattle changed her mind after I got here.

On my own, in a whole new place. New everything.

Again.

I have been here (PNW) for twenty-five years now, having marked that six weeks ago. Was with Donna from 1998 until her death in 2008. Been with Fabulous Publisher Babe(tm) since 2013 (the second time around).

Worked for an insurance agency for a year. Then a property management company for two. Then I spent seven years (the HORRORS!) at a software startup. Then a year at Microsoft at as a-dash.

Swapped sides of the lake and worked in downtown Seattle for a year at one place before it shut itself down, then down at Pioneer Square facing the Pergola for three.

Then some friends from a prior gig recruited me to a new gig down near the stadiums, and I was there from 2012-2018, when I retired from the day job and started writing full time.

Social media works for me because I’m kinda feral, and have lived the exact opposite of that life where you and the same three guys you went to first grade with stay together for sixty years.

I tracked down my best friend in 4th-6th grades a few years ago, through an ex-girlfriend I remain on good terms with. Hadn’t talked to him for more than thirty-five years, I think. Haven’t talked to my best friend in Junior high and high school since just before we turned thirty, so that’s nearly twenty-four years now.

Etc.

Amazingly, I am friends with half a dozen exes on social media. Like, interact with some of them at least weekly, and others regular enough to count.

But I obviously have lost touch with a lot of folks over the decades. Some, it was for the better, like a handful who are probably all-in Q-Anon whackjobs these days, based on where they were headed in those days.

Others simply vanished when everybody got busy and drifted apart.

The friends you make in school are because you see them every day. Once you get out into the world, you will see co-workers regularly, but I was in software for a big chunk of my career, in Seattle, where folks move around a lot. Being with three different companies that went out of business not long after I left (writing on the wall kind of thing) doesn’t help.

So that’s where I started this morning with this blog.

The Pandemic has caused a lot of folks to stay home. To maybe lose touch with some old friends because you haven’t been seeing them at work or getting together for beers.

As a man of a certain age, I’m also old enough to have not seen folks in a decade or more, and maybe only loosely track that number.

So I started reaching out. Just to say hello. Catch up on news. Poke sleeping bears. Something. Not all of them have responded, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Maybe they didn’t drift away but purposefully strode into the fog and I didn’t understand at the time.

Who knows?

But I keep trying. Maybe I have an old email address that doesn’t work any more. Or a bad phone number.

Or they don’t want to hear from me.

That doesn’t stop me, until they specifically say to fuck off.

You, now. When was the last time you reached out to that friend you haven’t seen or talked to in a while? Even to say hello?

What’s stopping you? Do you owe them an apology? Do they owe you one?

Has it been long enough that you don’t even remember why you haven’t spoken? I got a few of those, where I remember stepping back, but not what triggered it. Can’t be helped.

At the same time, there are remarkably few folks out there that I won’t at least say hi to.

Like you, I keep a list. Folks TSTL. Or folks who violate Wheaton’s Law. Something bad.

But there are a lot of folks that are just out there.

If you’re one of them, and I haven’t talked to you in a long time, maybe reach out?

We live in an age of polarization, but also atomization, as we can remain kinda in touch while being farther and farther away physically and emotionally.

But ya gotta try from time to time.

When was the last time you tried?

Because it’s come up three times now in the last few weeks, I thought I might share some thoughts on where we are in the modern age.

Civility has taken a back seat for many people. Just the basic courtesy of not being an asshole to someone. I’m not talking about the ribbing and teasing I get from close friends. I mean semi-random strangers on the internet who feel that distance and anonymity gives them the right to go out of their way to abuse me.

I know a few folks who thrive on the emotional combat that comes from such interactions. The striving to find ever-more-poignant ways to troll people.

What does it gain? Other than the adrenaline rush of the moment, what does it matter? Have you made the world a better place by verbally assaulting someone on social media? By being an outright dick to them? (How many times have you failed Wheaton’s Rule today?)

I don’t argue with folks. I don’t fight people in a public forum. But I do keep score. I do look at those folks who would rather spend all their time lashing out at the slightest infringement on their personal space in apocalyptic tones.

I understand fighting the good fight. I don’t see any reason to expend all my energy going after someone that won’t learn a single thing from anything I might tell them. Their minds are closed. Their souls are unable to find joy in themselves or others. They cannot look on a stranger’s success and be happy, so they must find fault and find a way to tear someone down.

They are addicted to rage.

Are you? Answer me honestly.

When something inconveniences you, what is your first—automatic—response? Do you shrug phlegmatically at something beyond your control? Do you suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and get one with your day?

Or do you turn around and throw punches (verbal or otherwise)?

Since it’s come up again, I figured I’d say a few things that some people will acknowledge and others will ignore. They are addicted to rage. They cannot be saved.

We are approaching the second anniversary of my home state of Washington shutting down entirely as a way to control a virulent disease that had mutated into something new. Something deadly.

West of the Mountains is (with a few dumbass pockets) an extremely civilized place, where folks are willing to suffer a minor inconvenience so as to help complete strangers.

Not everyone, though. I was at the grocery earlier picking up supplies and noting the physical traits that a handful of unmasked yahoos had in common. I bet you can list them all easily enough, because those folks have become a caricature.

I no longer say rude things about masks to those people, because after this long, they cannot be saved.

Read that again: Cannot be saved.

Any energy I might want to spend trying to educate them, trying to find the slightest hint of empathy, anything, is therefore wasted.

They can’t be saved. They don’t want to be saved. Their entire identity is wrapped up in a thing of utter negativity, and they would rather die than change.

They are addicted to rage because they have run into something they cannot control, and have never grown up.

Because that’s what it is. You’re seeing the sorts of juvenile behavior that we display as toddlers until such time as we discover that other people exist and might also have value.

Some people never learn that lesson. All you have to do is walk around a grocery store to see it on display.

Pride. But the wrong kind of pride. Pride in individuality at the cost of every other human being they might ever meet.

I can’t save them. Someone asked why I ignored a few folks who had discovered emptiness when they demanded my attention. Ghost-mode.

I’m not there. Won’t be. Won’t be coming back again.

Because I can’t save you. And it takes an amazing amount of effort on your part to move me to that sort of intention. Three folks have all managed it recently. (Actually, far more than three, but these were object lessons brought up by others in the past few weeks, so I’ll leave it at them.)

All of them raged. In two cases, they were wrong, but will never admit it. In the third, it was my fault, and I apologized, only to have an extra heaping of scornful rage dumped on my apology and rubbed in my face.

Easy enough. I promise that I will never make that mistake again. Safest way to do that is to never speak to you again. Voila. Endgame.

I understand rage. I was addicted to it myself for the longest time. But I hardly ever let it out on someone else. In fact, in the last twenty years, I can only think of a few circumstances where someone else witnessed my rage. (Ain’t none of you seen me truly angry, no matter what you might think.)

Then one day I decided I didn’t want to be angry all the time. July, 2013. I’d woken up white hot. Worse than I could ever remember being.

That was bad. I realized that NOTHING useful came of that rage.

So I became someone else. I do that a lot. Anyone who has known me long enough has seen it happen, but this time I had a hard pivot.

I chose to be happy.

Took a while to recover from the addiction. Won’t deny that. But I did.

Walked away from it. Don’s miss it.

But I do recognize others who haven’t gotten to that point in their emotional development. They think that scoring points on folks like that matters, because they have no empathy. I probably have too much, and that was largely the basis of my anger for so long.

I’m not that guy anymore.

And I can’t save you. Because you don’t want to be saved. You want to be idolized for the volume, tenacity, and destructiveness of your rage. For the metaphorical scalps you have accumulated in any given day.

All of those scalps belong to people. Do you ever give a thought about them?

Or is the rage your fulfillment entirely?

So when you can’t figure out why I won’t take your call, why I’ve blocked you entirely on social media and forgotten you exist, perhaps you can look on these thoughts and learn something from them.

How often do you drive people off? How many people are willing to look at you and tell you that you’re being a total asshole to complete strangers? Or are they afraid you will go after them next?

Been there. Done that. Got the scars.

But I also have my freedom from your behavior.

Because I can’t save you.

As a result, I have absolutely no interest in putting forth any effort.

Maybe you’ll grow up one of these days. Maybe you’ll learn how to apologize. Doubt it, but I’ve been struck by lightning a few times over the years, so I’ll leave that door ajar.

But not for who you are today. I don’t like that person, and choose to not have them soiling my air with their rage.

You have to decide to save yourself.

Good luck.

Without going into details (the guilty would be too easy to identify), I was having a conversation with a friend the other day about deciding to be happy. In the way back, I was not a happy person. Folks who knew me in those days can testify that I was frequently a grumpy curmudgeon.

Shitty job (that paid well). Lots of stress. A LOT of unprocessed issues from much earlier that I have been slowly sorting out and putting to bed for many years.

But not happy.

One day, in early July of 2013, I hit white hot. Simply as angry as I could ever remember being. Burn it all down and salt the earth kind of mad.

Then something weird happened.

I woke up the next morning and realized that I didn’t want to be that guy. Didn’t want the rage to dictate my actions.

Didn’t want to be unhappy anymore.

So I decided to become somebody else. Folks who have known me for long enough can also testify that I have been doing this since at least the mid-80s, if not earlier (I don’t honestly remember at this point). But I had never chosen to be happy.

I had made a lot of bad choices over the years. Defensive one, for the most part, designed to keep people from hurting me.

Then one morning I said “Fuck it, I’m going to be happy instead.”

Decided to make wholesale changes in my life. Stopped drinking soda pop entirely. Stopping shaving. Even stopped cutting my hair. Lost weight and turned into a scruffy nerfherder pretty quickly, but I also let a lot of stress go. Slid right off my back.

It was kinda weird.

I mean, I would wake up excited for the new day, instead of dreading it. The job wasn’t all that great, but it paid a lot and let me do crazy/interesting things with data. And I had a boss who mostly left me alone to solve problems because he had other fires to put out instead.

Happy.

Part of it was slowly starting to cut negative people out of my life. You know the ones. Folks who answer any and every smile with a snarl. Or bitingly sarcastic viciousness. Gaslighters. Narcissists. The works. I had accumulated too many.

Started fixing that.

The timing was wonderful, too, because about a month later, Fabulous Publisher Babe™ wandered back into my life and asked what I’d been doing for the last five years. I told her that that was a three-beer conversation, so she asked where we were going for beer.

One of my department minions at work ended up keeping the quarter I bet her about how that Saturday date would go. And FPB and I were engaged about nine weeks later.

She had also gone through an interesting patch in spring of 2013, and realized that she wanted to make some serious changes in things. To become someone else.

We met at the right moment, because we were looking to be happier, and realized that each could help the other. We talk. Hold hands. Have entire conversations with a few sounds that include no consonants. (It freaks a few people out, but we can’t help it.)

Happy.

It is a thing I work on everyday, because I like being happy. Not something I’d experienced for way too long. WAY TOO LONG.

So I grabbed hold and won’t let go.

Circle back to my friend, and some of the things frustrating him. I asked him if he’d rather be happy.

For me, I was a conscious choice. One I make in the morning.

He’s not quite there yet, but I have planted a seed that will blossom. I’ve seen him go through some rough patches in the past, as well as lose some dear friends in the pandemic. But he’s also happier now than he’s been in a long time, and most of the frustration was not recognizing that other folks haven’t made the decision to be happy yet.

They’d rather be crabby. Backbiting. Snarky without purpose. He wants the best for them. I do too, but hardly know them to be able to judge where they are and what they might change that suddenly caused happiness to burst out all over their lives.

But we all need it.

What have you done lately to bring more happiness into your life?