I’d forgotten about this picture. I spent some time in the Sierras again this summer with some friends. This is Joe Crane lake. In this lake, as you walk along the shoreline, you can discover rainbow trout who love spinning lures. And you may discover one with Paul’s lure still stuck in its lip. Sad, but true.

I’ve been in Pennsylvania for about two weeks now. The last week I’ve been in the city. I’ve been riding bike all around the streets, taking some public transit, exploring downtown (had Jim’s Steaks, remember that Tim?) and mostly just really enjoying the place. Mostly I’ve been impressed with how I’ve been able to stick around for a couple of weeks with some good friends, be given places to stay for free, been given a nice green bike as a present, and how big the Italian Ice was that Matt and I bought the other day for $1. I’m currently staying in an unbelievable eclectic barn and residence converted to comfy homestead. Trees abounding. Somehow I get to be there? Nuts. I’m playing lots of cards, reading a book, and enjoying myself.

And
I’m well and happy,
which is, kindly,
what Grandma says
matters most.

This is Farm place.

DNA evidence is not going to be enough, guys. Photos of its mouth, teeth, and even one of the hairy bipedal standing amongst dense foliage are not going to be enough. We need proof, skeptics will say. I will say. Mary will say. Keith will say. We need to see it, touch it, and have more people tell us it’s real. Micah?…Micah will never need proof. Micah tells me that he can feign skepticism concerning Sasquatch all he wants, but when he is lying on his back in the middle of some back-country wooded area, everything changes. He starts envisioning Bigfoot leaning over him, looking down into his eyes, a silent and menacing spectre.

And who can blame Micah or people like him? After all, the reality of the Bigfoot is well established in the lore of people groups all over the world. Yeti, Skunk-Ape, Bigfoot, Sasquatch, the Yowie; it probably has tons of names in all kinds of languages. There has always been and there always will be more than enough room in all our imaginations for a forest/desert/snowy mountain guardian-dweller who will find elusive and terrible ways to enact just retribution on behalf of Mother Nature. I will admit, as much as I wanted to write off Bigfoot in a large group of people, I would lie in my warm bed, comfortably in my redwood cabin at night, and sometimes, with my eyes on my doorknob, I would stare for about five to ten minutes with my ears perked. It was not uncommon for me to silently remove my sheets, take a small careful step onto the cold, cold floor, and quickly turn the lock.

Even if this latest media burst is all a hoax in the end, I will admit that I am incredibly entertained. My imagination has been expanded, my heart spent a good thirty minutes pumping hard at the thought of this discovery, and I began to speculate how the presence of an ape-man roaming our landscape would call into interesting questioning widely held beliefs about the origin of men and women. Most likely, it will end up being a media ploy. But….what if?

And out of all of this, the what if? is the most compelling thought. To ask “what if…?” is to attempt to thread ones imagination, dreams, and hopes with reality. And to attempt to blend these things together is an important and fulfilling part of life. The Sasquatch question is admittedly far-fetched, unbelievable, and even laughable. But what about other areas in life that tease our imaginations forward to intent about our realities; our friendships, how we spend our days, what we read and find worth thinking about, what we make to eat, how we speak, how we write, what we draw, paint, and look for on a walk in the woods?

Ethan. What a guy. We all adore him, so this latest is for Ethan.

In my sorting and resorting pictures, I discovered a few gems. I have uncovered a picture of each of the Saiki boys when we were around Ethan’s age. What do you think? Who does Ethan most resemble?

David is the picture holding the baby (Tim!). In the mostly white picture with the four of us, Tim is about Ethan’s age. In the bunny ears picture, that’s me on the very right, putting bunny ears on nobody (just wanting to be included). That’s Greg on the bottom with the luntz pail.

Cast your vote for the rest of us to enjoy together. Does Ethan have a totally new look about him or does he resemble any of us more than the others? Is he a combination of two or more brothers? Give us some thoughts.

Dad, this one’s for you. I discovered this picture yesterday, and now here it is being revealed to the world again. I find it helpful in understanding my own sense of style, why I am sometimes aloof looking at the sky, and the fact that sometime soon, I am going to need to wear glasses to see definition.

After deciding to not return to New Zealand in a couple of weeks, I spent my time discovering how I handle myself in a state of bewilderment. This actually turned out to be almost identical to how I’ve spent the entire summer: Waking up when the time was right, seeing what my family is up to, and lots of sitting.

I fed myself a nice breakfast, had some coffee, and read a book. I then dove into old photo albums in my sweet mother’s closet. So much of our history together is printed on these flimsy pieces of paper. Old Halloween costumes, notes scribbled in fading purple marker, all of us boys as three, six, and ten year olds, the cutest picture of David I have ever seen; where any of this begins and stops I’m not sure. So much is unknown or unremembered in these photographs. Where was this photo taken, who took it, who are these other people?

The bookends of a family’s history are mysterious amorphous hands reaching backwards and forwards in time. I found some rest in this fact while I was looking through these short chronicles. Looking at them was a rare insight into family and personal identity, like if a tree could look at its own rings or if some bug stuck around and studied its exoskeleton after shedding.

I heard someone say once that in mid-life years he kept coming to know not how different he was from everyone else, but how much he was his father, his mother and sisters. In time now, I’m still finding things out about myself in connection to my family, where I grew up, and where I’m headed. My most recent was that I nervously pick at my toenails just like David does. I also pick at my nose hairs nervously too, which isn’t a secret or anything new. There. I said it.

But this summer. Whew, this summer, this summer, this summer. My summersong belongs to the Bees, the Buntings, Baked Oats, Billy Joel, Brother Ben, and all the Beach Cruisers taking people where they will. To Summer Morning, open windows, goldfinches, bullfrogs, fuzz in the air, froccer, the red-headed woodpeckers’ formal attire, and the vague tickling feeling of ants or not ants while lying in the grass. More still to the sound of sleeping friends, fresh fruit, brown pelicans, Ethan, and Bread Crumbs.

And Matt Dailey, if you ever read this, you deserve the best.