Bathwater

Published in BYU-Idaho's Outlet, Journal of Art and Literature 2011:

Freddy splashes in his bathwater. His tiny hands slap the surface, sending droplets everywhere. A healthy puddle threatens to reach into the adjacent room. He stops and smiles at me. At seven months he’s a big kid – 20 pounds and 30 inches long. He looks at me with round, blue eyes and an adorable smile. It is open-mouthed and all gums. I smile back at him just as his attention diverts to the suds and the dozen toys floating around him.

He picks up a rubber duck with his chubby little digits and sucks on the bill.

            I experience a moment of envy.

            I am sorry to say that it is not the first time.

            I wish I was tiny again. I remember my baths, or maybe the comfortable feelings they evoked. When I was an infant I know I was loved and protected. I know I was never bored; I too, sat in a lake of toys.

            As I grew, my baths evolved. The change involved two things – new tubs, of course, and new toys. The edges became sharper, the masculinity started to take shape, and interests began to be realized. In essence I was playing with action figures and boats in lieu of rubber ducks and teething links.

            I don’t know when it happened. Between being a kid and maturing into a teen the toys were put away and never pulled out again. I still remember their last resting place beneath the sink - I wonder what Mom did with them.

            Despite the years I never lost my love for baths. They are my time to relax and read.

            In an instant my right pant leg is soaked. Freddy has just broken his own record. It’s the biggest splash yet. All I can do is laugh.

            We laugh at each other.

            I am laughing at the fact that until four months ago my baths had been toy-free for well over a decade. Now, I can’t help but step on a rubber duck, or a plastic donut when I get in the tub.

            I rub my son’s head. He loves that. He has a skull like granite; hard and, if he follows the Haxby trend, impenetrable. I take a small, blue cup from the edge of the tub and dip it in the water. I pour water over him to keep him warm. He turns his head and reaches for the cup, latching onto the edge with the surprising strength of an infant.

            He wants it. I can’t let him have it. He likes to dip the cup in the bathwater and drink from it. I am able to pry his tiny fingers from the edge. He cries, his mouth open and screaming, his eyes scrunched shut.

            I grab his favorite duck, one that looks as though it has hatched from a pumpkin, and squeeze it. Its squeaking distracts him from his tears and he takes it.

            The days when his rubber ducks lose their appeal and a truck, or boat, or an ATV replaces them I will write it down. He will know when he changed, when he grew. I see him driving a truck over the edges of the tub and around the faucet, making the noise of a rumbling engine in his throat, knocking shampoo bottles and soap into the water.

            He squeals suddenly and goes back to the business of exporting water from the tub to the floor. The duck is floating at the other end of the tub. I hand him a link and put a towel down to stem the flood.

            He’s having such a good time I can expect to sit here another twenty minutes. I don’t mind. He’ll play, he’ll talk, he’ll sing and splash and abruptly - he’ll be done. He’ll rub those beautiful baby eyes with his fists and complain to me. He can speak some words quite clearly, and in context. I’ll listen, and hear that it’s time for a bottle and a nap.

            When he is ready, I pass him on to his Mother, wrapped in a towel and happy.

Often he’ll be asleep before I finish cleaning up, so I never say anything like, “I’ll see you in a minute!” I just tell him I love him.

            I wish for him to take advantage of these early years. I wish for him to be this happy all his life. When that little tongue of his finally gets itself efficiently around the English language it will be time to start chipping away at childhood and teach him responsibility. The time for accountability will soon follow.

            Then he will be grown.

            He latches onto my leg. He wants to stand up.

            He struggles and grunts as he rises. Standing there he looks at me.

            “Dada,” he says.

            I smile. It falters.        

            Time to get out.

            Time to grow up.

            The bathwater settles and cools, as if removing life from it takes its warmth. In my arms I can feel that the boy carries it with him.

            That gives me hope.

Turning 30

Submitted for publication with the BYU-Idaho Press 2010:

The night before it happened swore I wouldn’t be 30 years-old until 3:53 PM, the minute I came out screaming. I wrote a journal entry. It said, “I am saying goodbye to my 20’s. I don’t know what happened to them. All I can remember is a lot of painful growing up followed by the hard realization that I am a late bloomer.

            “I will be 30 when I finally graduate with a bachelor’s. Oh well, at least I was married and had my first child before the decade turned . . . barely.”

            I woke up that cool October morning and went to a baptism. My wife’s youngest brother was baptized by his Dad. It was a bittersweet goodbye to the baby of the family, and a fresh hello to the newest kid.

            I had been scheduled to work.

            That’s how much I cared for this day.

            My wife, ten years my junior, is still alive with vibrance and energy. She had a wide smile and was bouncing, tugging at my sleeve, telling me to call in sick. When she exuded that energy it was like she held control of my free will. I obeyed on condition that my father-in-law, a practicing physician, write me a sick note.

            He complied and we left Rexburg, Idaho forthwith.

            She rarely drove.

            This time she was insistent. She is also a master distractor. I was thinking less about the last hours of my 20’s and more about where she was taking me. The further south we drove the more I ran numbers through my head; gas expense, mileage, the budget to be expended upon arrival, the hours used, and the energy required to act surprised and happy. I was hesitant to spoil myself these days. I had been paying for the same stupid splurges for two years.

            When we crossed the Utah state line, all I could do was speculate on the destination. Halfway there I started to feel a little spunky. I took a cell phone picture of myself and sent it to my friends and family with the caption, “30, and still so fine.” I received replies from everyone.

When we arrived in the metropolitan area of Salt Lake City we had been driving for three hours. She continued on.

            We went over the point of the mountain and suddenly we were not moving anymore. Traffic was stacked all the way down the hill. October was hotter down here and I worried about the car overheating. We were averaging four miles an hour for thirty minutes but the temperature held.

            When we finally cleared the wreck we could see that some idiot hadn’t learned how to set his trailer on the hitch. We dodged pieces of Jayco as we came off the point into happy valley. As I looked around I felt like I hadn’t been absent from this place long enough. Although it had grown and changed, everything looked the same.

            This was one of those places where I had had some hard growing-up experiences. Nevertheless, I felt like a visitor.

My wife called her mother and told me to plug my ears and hum to myself. Once again, I complied. This was one big surprise already and I wasn’t about to ruin the crescendo.

            She smiled, nodded, and took the next exit. We went over the pass with my wife muttering, “Where is it. She said it was on the – RIGHT!”

            She pulled into a parking lot between a Conoco and a restaurant. All I could see was a huge Cal Ranch store in the back and I thought there must be a killer sale here or something. Then she took another hard right into the parking lot in front of the restaurant.

            She put it in park and smiled at me.

            I looked at the windows that were painted with an unfamiliar something and then I looked up. It was called The Sushi House.

            “It’s all you can eat,” she said. She was a tense ball of expectation. She wore a precarious smile that would either bloom or break depending on what I had to say. I found that I didn’t have to expend the energy to act surprised or happy.

            In this moment I had peace. I knew I was married to a genuine person who loved me in spite of all the flaws, mistakes, scars, and reality that was me. My smile was huge. Then my dry humor came out.

            “’Better be good sushi for a three and a half-hour drive.”

            She laughed because she knows me.

            We went inside and were sat in a largely empty dining room. The waitress handed us a slip of paper. Printed on it were 30 or more different sushi roll styles. We could have as many rolls as we wanted for $18.99 per person.

            We ordered 14.

            I knew, as soon as I tasted the first roll that my sushi experience was forever ruined. This was so delicious and authentic that I knew that I could not go to my local sushi bar with the same excitement again. We ate until we were fit for a good, long nap, paid our bill, and waddled out to the car.

            “It’s a good surprise?” she kept asking.        

            “Wonderful surprise, honey. Thank you.” I kept replying.

            She took us back onto the Interstate and headed north. My next birthday present was waiting on 3300 South in Salt Lake. On the trip there we talked about the day so far and I had another surprise.

            I hadn’t thought about turning 30 for hours. 3:53 PM passed without my acknowledgement. I was happy not to focus on it.

            After a harrowing exit and about 36 traffic lights we turned left into a tiny strip mall. There sitting where it had for years and years was Dr. Volt’s Comic Book Shop. I was on the verge of tears. Inside this small shop was rich plethora of comics from all over fandom. Weeks could be spent here and you’d never read them all.

            We arrived 30 minutes before close and I enjoyed every second. This was such a birthday! The sushi was settling well, the comics were top rate, written in conjunction with a story by the insanely talented Geoff Johns, and we still had hours till we were home.

            The greatest element of my marital relationship is our ability to be the best of friends and talk, which we did for as long as she could keep those big, beautiful eyes open.

            This was an elemental day, a day in which the eternal love of my wife was shown to me. I am grateful to have had such a strong start to a new decade and, like Tim Mcgraw vowed, “My next thirty years will be the best years of my life, raise a little family and hang out with my wife, spend precious moments with the ones that I hold dear, make up for lost time here, in my next thirty years.”

            Thank you my darling Rachel.

Reality? Influence and Popularity of Reality Television

Winning Essay:  www.scholarship-contest.com Sept. 7th, 2012:

Man is a race that enjoys mayhem; war, hand-to-hand combat, torturous emotion, and the day-to-day drama of living. We watch movies to experience emotions we would otherwise avoid, and go to theater to see those situations played out in front of our eyes. We not only gossip about other people, we buy books and magazines that gossip. We love to love, and we love to hate, and we direct that energy toward the characters in our lives. Human nature is to be entertained by human nature; in that regard, reality television has offered the most unique and influential entertainment in the history of broadcasting.

Television now provides the open windows we have never been allowed to peek into, but have always wanted to. If our impressions remain true we get to see people live their lives raw and unedited. Sitting on the couch, remote in hand we dash through today’s programming and land on the faces of reality. They are not always appealing, but they are de facto, and free to stare at. We cannot help but watch.

The underlying message of reality television is simply an affirmation of our fascination with other people. One of the most popular activities of any generation is people watching. The intimate exchange of two people viewed from afar could be anything! They could be doing a drug deal, or they could be secret lovers. Are they the mafia? Could they be meeting for the first time? The fascination is in the mystery. It would either eat away at us, or provide a moment’s entertainment. Reality television allows us to indulge in our assumptions, learn about those strangers, and in the case of some shows, participate in their fate. The appeal is overwhelming.

The potential of reality television is limitless. As a race mankind is incredibly diverse. We are adept at creating stories worthy of acclaim, and each day those dramas play out. They can be short-term, long-term, or lifelong, and every one of them holds appeal to a substantial market. The show that makes it to production is one of hundreds, so the idea trough will never dry.

I am not fond of watching terrible people act terribly on reality television, nor do I like the influence they wield, but I have to admit I have my favorites. The shows I am drawn to appeal to my nature. They reflect my passions. They excite me. They are easy to relate to, especially if that relation is delusional, or relevant to an experience I treasure. I have an appreciation for programs that inspire values and support moral living. When in those intimate situations the camera tends to denude the human being, making him real, and relatable. The truth is different.

Even the rawest reality show is scripted, directed, or rehearsed. Seldom is one a witness to a sincere event. The participants often testify to a kind of reality TV syndrome where, with the cameras running in their face, they take on an entirely different persona. With most reality television, we are watching real people in pseudo-real situations doing the one thing they are not supposed to do – act. This paradox is the source of the most harm that comes from watching these programs. These “real” people are, by example, affirming that it is normal, acceptable, and tolerable to act poorly. It is easy to justify acting out bad behavior under its influence. Reality television wields a largely negative sway on the viewing public, inspiring us to revert to reckless behavior in the name of entertaining our audiences, real or imagined.

Reality television is a phenomenon but not a fad. Just like “people watching” it will always have appeal and always have a market. Inundated by mass media, lacking in time, attention, and divided among the inanities of life the consumer is a tough sell. Reality television not only attracts their attention, it does it at a fraction of the cost of a sitcom, and holds their attention long enough to throw a few advertisements in front of them. While the show holds its appeal it rarely provides anything wholesome, or praiseworthy. Most programs parade the self-obsessed, the self-centered, egocentric, the megalomaniacal, and the drama queens for our temporary entertainment. We love to people watch. Now that tradition, in all its assumptive glory is available any time of day. Reality television, harmful or inspiring, has caught on, and is here to stay.

Last Man Standing; Asbestos As A Personal History

He is kind enough to sit for an interview at the uncomfortable kitchen table. He is eager to talk on the subject. His breathing is rapid and irregular. When he speaks, E. Wayne McKenzie is able to articulate normally. Only with a tight ear can one hear the breaths taken between the words. When asked if he knows what the topic of conversation will be, he replies, "Asbestos. Terrible stuff." From 1966 to 1996 Wayne worked for Argonne National Laboratory-West as a maintenance specialist. One of his responsibilities under this pay grade was to insulate the pipes that carried steam in excess of 600 degrees Fahrenheit to heat the facilities. Throughout his career he insulated 42 buildings, including work on the EBR-1 research reactor in the Idaho desert. Asbestos is little understood, its effects are frightening, and the health issues are every bit as bad and unexpected as the experts claim.

Wayne opens by describing what the substance is. He holds his fingers together with only a slight part two millimeters wide and says, “It’s like needles. They are fibers. Not a powder. Fibers. They float in the air. The slightest movement of air flow and they . . .” he lifts his hands into the air to illustrate, “You can breathe them and not even know it. This stuff floats in the air and you can’t even see it. If you were in the dark and got some of it airborne and shined a light through the air you could see it. But in daylight; forget it.”

The fibers are the result of crushing the minerals into a powder-like substance. “Asbestos includes chrysotile, amosite,crocidolite, tremolite asbestos, anthophyllite asbestos, actinolite asbestos, and any of these materials that have been chemically treated and/or altered" (www.osha.gov, 2012). Asbestos, unlike many industrial materials, is mined. “[This] group of minerals [occur] naturally in the environment as bundles of fibers that can be separated into thin, durable threads. These fibers are resistant to heat, fire, and chemicals and do not conduct electricity" (National Cancer Institute, 2012). The maintenance specialist at Argonne mixed the asbestos powder with water, making a kind of mud or paste that he spread over a surface to insulate it. The substance dried solid and would hold up if an adult walked on the piping. Asbestos is harmless in this inert form.

In its processed form, as a powder, the substance is harmful. In its processed state the asbestos escapes into the air and is inhaled, alighting onto surfaces, and settling into hair and clothing. Once inhaled here is no way for the fibers to be processed through the system. Instead they embed after inhalation. Lightly barbed, the fibers dig through the membrane of the air sacs to the pleural, or lung coating. There the fibers combine like strata to form a hard layer. The condition Wayne suffers is pleural thickening of the lungs. His lungs, in essence, are encased in a layer of asbestos rock. “I can’t take deep breath,” he says.

Asbestos had been extracted from the earth since the late 1800s. During World War II, however, the commercial use of asbestos grew. Since then asbestos has been utilized for insulation, roofing, brake shoes, ceiling and floor tiles, adhesives, paints, and coatings to name a few. The industry was huge, the applications were extensive, and the cash flow was healthy.

When asked when the industry became aware of the issue Wayne replied, “Suspicions arose around 1975.” Like similar stories throughout history the laborers became aware of a problem, in this case breathing issues, and while immersed in the cause the medical professionals began looking into it. For 11 more years Wayne went to work without any special clothing, equipment, or breathing masks. Then, on June 17^th, 1986 OSHA established the final amendment to the occupational exposure to asbestos standard 29 CFR 1910.1001. This standard clarified regulations for the respirators, and protective coverings necessary to interact, and work with asbestos. Unfortunately, Wayne had been working with minimal protection for 20 years. In the years leading up to 1986 he was feeling the effects.

Even with new safety regulations Wayne knew one important thing, “At that time all the pipe insulation that you could even buy at the manufacturers had asbestos in them. [It] had to have asbestos in them.” Asbestos production is still active, and utilized in production. In 2002, however, chrysotile (white asbestos) mining had ceased in the United States (Kogel, Trivedi, Barker, Krukowski, 2006).

After he had laid out his history, Wayne answered a difficult question with firmness. The question was, “If you were in their position, if you were making all that money, but you knew how dangerous [asbestos] was, what would you do?”

“Fiberglass.” No hesitation. In 1966 fiberglass was a safe, albeit less sturdy, alternative to asbestos. There are safe alternatives to asbestos available today in the form of ductile-iron, or polyvinyl-chloride pipe cement (Kogel, Trivedi, Barker, Krukowski, 2006). With safe and sturdy alternatives in place the global demand for asbestos has declined steadily, except in China, because of strong opposition to the mineral.

An honest man sits at the kitchen table with rocks for lungs. He is one of thousands affected by exposure to asbestos. This is a substance that causes diseases; the same way poisons cause death. The link between asbestos and lung disease is absolute. “The three types of asbestos-related lung disease are scarring (asbestosis), non-cancerous disease of the tissue of the lining of the surface of the lung (pleural disease), and lung cancer (of the lungs or their outer lining tissue [mesothelioma])" (www.medicinenet.com, 2012). Unlike most toxins, asbestos has its own version of cancer. Asbestos is the only known cause for malignant mesothelioma. This progressive cancer affects the pleura or the peritoneum, the lining of the lung or the abdomen.

When asked how he was affected when he learned the truth about asbestos Wayne replied, “I was upset about it.” He leaned forward, “But what could I do about it?” He was sincere. He dismissed the question about a lawsuit like a man who truly experienced forgiveness. It is inspiring and uplifting. As the interview reaches an end Wayne recounts how many people he worked with at Argonne. With a wistful look in his watery, blue eyes he said, “Seven. There were seven of us, and six of them are dead. [All] from breathing problems.” He sits back and smiles, “I still have good lungs, yet.” Among his peers he is literally the last man standing.

When E. Wayne McKenzie sat at that kitchen table he was the only man in town who was a known victim of asbestos. The public knows it is harmful, but the awareness is minimal. Even the health consequences are not entirely clear to them. The families suffering from the conditions of asbestos afflictions know the deadly effects. Their awareness is peaked while the rest of us can only speculate at the lawsuit ads and the talk. Asbestos is first a mineral that, when processed, becomes a powder of fine fibers whose insulative  properties are extremely valuable, particularly in post World War II industry. The effects were little understood until the mid-1980s, and by then, for thousands, the hazards were already blossoming. Like Wayne many suffer debilitating, signature afflictions that kill 9900 people per year (www.esg.org, 2012). Still the survivors, if that is what they can be called, represent the best in humanity. With rocks for lungs their spirit is such that the last men standing will smile and say, “I have good lungs, yet.”

Citations

Kogel, J. E., Trivedi, N. C., & Barker, J. M., Krukowski, S.T., (2006). Industrial Minerals & Rocks: Commodities, Markets, and Uses (6th ed.). Littleton, Colorado: Society for Mining, Metallurgy, and Exploration, Inc. (SME).

http://www.cancer.gov. (2012). Retrieved from http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/factsheet/Risk/asbestos

http://www.ewg.org. (2012). Retrieved from http://www.ewg.org/sites/asbestos/facts/fact1.php

http://www.medicinenet.com. (2012). Retrieved from http://www.medicinenet.com/asbestos-related_disorders/article.htm

http://www.osha.gov. (1994). Retrieved from http://www.osha.gov/pls/oshaweb/owadisp.show_document?p_table=FEDERAL_REGISTER&p_id=13404

http://www.osha.gov/OshDoc/data_AsbestosFacts/asbestos-factsheet.pdf. (2002). Retrieved fromhttp://www.osha.gov/OshDoc/data_AsbestosFacts/asbestos-factsheet.pdf