It is a well known fact of life that any reasonable man who goes to the old cafe for conversation and companionship does not like cats. You see, real men like dogs. They ask themselves why would anyone want an animal that coughs up fur balls and takes a bath in its own spit. “Cats tend to act too much like women,” says Manor Hill Mack, and most men seem to know what that means.
Therefore, each Christmas when talk begins to lag, Holly Lake Jake is asked to tell his Christmas Cat Story.
Jake swears this is a true story.
Clinton was the church cat. He was the church cat because Ms. Bernice Tavener liked cats. Bernice was the Women's Auxiliary head, the Pastor Annoyance Committee permanent chair, and a church choir soprano who demanded a solo at every service. Even for a soprano, Bernice's vocal chords were wound a little tight. She also looked the part. Her dresses were small tents, and her Christmas hat was an expanse of green felt topped with two turtle doves.
Though most men of the church would gladly have handed Clinton over to the Sipe brothers for proper disposal (the Sipes brothers liked to cook live frogs), the powerful and obnoxious Bernice Tavener would not allow it.
That brings us to the Christmas Eve Pastor Presley got the idea to let loose a dove during his sermon.
“Now Leslie,” said Pastor Presley dispatching Leslie Sipes up to the organ loft. “When I say, ‘Let there be peace on earth,’ You let this dove (actually a pigeon) go. You got that?”
“Yes sir,” Sipes said and up he went.
Pastor Presley then told Bernice to do her mandatory soprano "oooie-oooing" when he first said the words, “peace on earth.”
It was set. Leslie Sipes was in the organ loft, Bernice in her green tent and turtle dove hat was in the choir, and Pastor Presley was ready for a Christmas Eve nobody would ever forget.
Knowing the stunning effect the dove (pigeon) would have on the congregation, Presley went full tilt. "Let there be peace on earth," he bellowed and gestured to the organ loft. On cue, Bernice started to “ooie-oo,” and Leslie Sipes reached for the bird. Unfortunately, the bird was dead, and Clinton the cat was grinning. Leslie Sipes was in a panic.
Down below, Pastor Presley was now saying, “Peace” like it had three syllables. “Paw-ee-suhh, I say,” and his neck veins were an inch thick. “Let tharr be paw-ee-suh, on earth,” Presley said and looked to Leslie. --Nothing.
“I said, let tharr be paw-ee-suhh, on earth!” Presley shouted.
At that moment Leslie Sipes became unhinged and threw Clinton over the rail as if he thought cats could fly. Cat's arching trajectory was eerily on course.
The cat's screech hit perfect pitch with Bernice's “oie-ooing,” and Clinton's flight path homed in on Bernice.
From its perspective, the cat could just see the outline of two turtle doves in a green field below. It unsheathed ten sharp daggers for combat!
Some say it was the highest note ever achieved in operatic history. The shock waves broke windows as far away as Missouri City. Later, Bernice personally turned the cat over to the Sipes brothers who considered it a fine Christmas present. Bernice herself, never sang or annoyed anyone again.
Pastor Presley said it was his best Christmas ever.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
A Christmas Dinner
A snowy,stiff, cold wind blew across the Old North Side Cafe.
On Christmas the cafe is closed. The men are at home with children in houses about to be filled with warmth and love. In the air is the unmistakable aroma of roast turkey, hot rolls and pumpkin pie.
Stella, the waitress, lowered her head into a sharp gust and counted the blocks to the cafe. She was already cold. The kids were with their father for the holiday. Stella spent Christmas without them.
Before the divorce, Christmas was awful for Stella. She cooked a meal for at least 20-- turkey, ham and all the trimmings. Stella made rolls, cranberry sauce, and the little extras like oyster dressing, and fudge that made the day special.
Stella remembered how mad she was after the feast was over. Hours and hours of hard work were reduced to twelve minutes of consumption at half-time of a football game.
Few ever said thanks. Stella and a few other women were left alone to do dishes and clean the kitchen while the men lounged.
Stella did not miss that part of Christmas
.
She chided herself for her moment of self-pity. Sunday the kids were back for Christmas with her family. Still, this cold morning, she felt alone.
The wind blew a little harder and she picked up her pace.
When Stella was little girl, Christmas was a family time. Even as a child, she understood this holiday was bittersweet but deeply meaningful for adults. Families need to be together.
It was their celebration of the things a family stands for. The best moments came with the simple rituals like prayer, lighting candles, singing, and eating food they never got to have any other time. Stella grew up with a family she could see
Her Dad had been harsh and distant at times, but on Christmas his home was always open. Stella remembered resenting some of the ragged looking people who came to their home, but her father welcomed them all.
It was 4:30 a.m. and Stella knew she was behind. Bigger spits of snow filled the air. Her fingers ached with the cold as she unlocked the cafe. Soon, the ritual began. The first smell of coffee, the rattling of pans, ovens warming, vegetables peeled, Stella moved with an ease that betrayed the size of the task before her.
Tug showed up as 8:30 a.m. with an armload of groceries. Tug was from the church. He was gay and his family did not want him for Christmas.
"Hey, I brought my TV. Do you mind?" Tug said.
"Heck No," said Stella.
By 11:30 the first of the day's guests had arrived.
He was ragged looking--had a blue stocking cap which he clutched in both hands as he stood by the door. Soon they poured in from the cold. Mostly they sat in silence, their eyes down. Old men, some women, a few children--they all shared the same hunger.
"Welcome!" said Stella bursting from the kitchen coffee in hand, Her smile was a mile wide.
Stella and her helpers, other people who had no place to go on Christmas, served about 60 homeless people that day.
Tug said a prayer that made 'em all cry. She carved ham till her hands ached, and the football game was as stupid as ever. Few said thanks.
They finished washing dishes about 7 p.m. Stella stayed and cleaned the Old North Side until 9:00 p.m. and walked home in the dark. The day had cost her $700 she didn't have.
The boss let her use the restaurant as long as it was ready for business the next day.
Stella bowed her head to the cold. All those years when she had so much she never thought about those who had nothing. Becoming tender was not easy and at times took the strangest of turns.
She welcomed the cold walk home. The stars were sharp pinpoints. Snow and ice glistened in headlights. Christmas lights merged into a swirling galaxy of illumination. The warmth from inside etched a smile on her face.
This Christmas had been a good one.
On Christmas the cafe is closed. The men are at home with children in houses about to be filled with warmth and love. In the air is the unmistakable aroma of roast turkey, hot rolls and pumpkin pie.
Stella, the waitress, lowered her head into a sharp gust and counted the blocks to the cafe. She was already cold. The kids were with their father for the holiday. Stella spent Christmas without them.
Before the divorce, Christmas was awful for Stella. She cooked a meal for at least 20-- turkey, ham and all the trimmings. Stella made rolls, cranberry sauce, and the little extras like oyster dressing, and fudge that made the day special.
Stella remembered how mad she was after the feast was over. Hours and hours of hard work were reduced to twelve minutes of consumption at half-time of a football game.
Few ever said thanks. Stella and a few other women were left alone to do dishes and clean the kitchen while the men lounged.
Stella did not miss that part of Christmas
.
She chided herself for her moment of self-pity. Sunday the kids were back for Christmas with her family. Still, this cold morning, she felt alone.
The wind blew a little harder and she picked up her pace.
When Stella was little girl, Christmas was a family time. Even as a child, she understood this holiday was bittersweet but deeply meaningful for adults. Families need to be together.
It was their celebration of the things a family stands for. The best moments came with the simple rituals like prayer, lighting candles, singing, and eating food they never got to have any other time. Stella grew up with a family she could see
Her Dad had been harsh and distant at times, but on Christmas his home was always open. Stella remembered resenting some of the ragged looking people who came to their home, but her father welcomed them all.
It was 4:30 a.m. and Stella knew she was behind. Bigger spits of snow filled the air. Her fingers ached with the cold as she unlocked the cafe. Soon, the ritual began. The first smell of coffee, the rattling of pans, ovens warming, vegetables peeled, Stella moved with an ease that betrayed the size of the task before her.
Tug showed up as 8:30 a.m. with an armload of groceries. Tug was from the church. He was gay and his family did not want him for Christmas.
"Hey, I brought my TV. Do you mind?" Tug said.
"Heck No," said Stella.
By 11:30 the first of the day's guests had arrived.
He was ragged looking--had a blue stocking cap which he clutched in both hands as he stood by the door. Soon they poured in from the cold. Mostly they sat in silence, their eyes down. Old men, some women, a few children--they all shared the same hunger.
"Welcome!" said Stella bursting from the kitchen coffee in hand, Her smile was a mile wide.
Stella and her helpers, other people who had no place to go on Christmas, served about 60 homeless people that day.
Tug said a prayer that made 'em all cry. She carved ham till her hands ached, and the football game was as stupid as ever. Few said thanks.
They finished washing dishes about 7 p.m. Stella stayed and cleaned the Old North Side until 9:00 p.m. and walked home in the dark. The day had cost her $700 she didn't have.
The boss let her use the restaurant as long as it was ready for business the next day.
Stella bowed her head to the cold. All those years when she had so much she never thought about those who had nothing. Becoming tender was not easy and at times took the strangest of turns.
She welcomed the cold walk home. The stars were sharp pinpoints. Snow and ice glistened in headlights. Christmas lights merged into a swirling galaxy of illumination. The warmth from inside etched a smile on her face.
This Christmas had been a good one.
Take the Keys Away for Christmas
Winter pounced on the fragile ease of an autumn Indian summer. An army of occupation moved in from the north. It's cold regime of wind and ice hold captive the early days of December.
“What in the Sam Hill is going on?” Camelot Bob moaned shaking out of his Eddie Bauer down jacket. “Last week it was 70 degrees, and I was watering the grass.”
“You know what they say,” said Manor Hill Mack anxious to throw in the oldest joke in the cafe book. “If you don't like Missouri's weather, wait minute; and it'll change.”
Men smiled. There is comfort in the familiar, dumb as it may be.
Then it got serious
“How's the boy doing?” asked Mack.
“About the same,” Ron replied.
They knew the boy from church. He was in a wreck on an icy road. THis condition was critical. Drinking was involved.
The shock of such events stuns our sensibility. Old people form uneasy alliances with death. They know living, and that it slips away. Our children are not supposed to die. They think they never will.
Some at the cafe remember when childbirth and the first few years of life were a time of fear. Now, a driver's license ushers in the premier terror of our modern culture. A phone call comes in the night. A knock on the door means lives unalterably changed. Car wrecks are an abomination.
For the first time in years, drunk driving is again on the rise. The old guys at the cafe are plenty irked at kids these days. Some think they are soft and selfish, shallow and dull. But their real wrath is for parents who know their children drive drunk and turn a blind eye.
“Kids, beer and cars, I hate it!” said Ron and he dipped his head.
For that moment Ron was riding back from Wathena, Kansas to St. Joseph, Missouri on the old Pony Express Bridge. An oncoming car slammed on its breaks and slid sideways directly into a jolting crash. Ron's best friend was driving the car, and his girlfriend was killed.
It was all for winning a game and celebration that they crossed the line into Kansas. Drunk on glory, young love, beer, and the sheer power of a massive V-8 engine, Ron and his friends believed in the invincibility of youth.
“By God, if I could do anything for kids it would be to cut off the top of their heads and pour in the truth about life,” Ron said. “Even the magic of youth can not change a three second mistake.”
The sharp edge of sunlight outside the cafe clouded for a moment, and the silence inside was a prayer.
Wear your seat belts! Have a sober, designated driver! Don’t ride with a driver who is drunk; and, don’t let others drive drunk. Few of these messages ever squeeze past the arrogance of youth; especially when they are drinking.
It is up to parents, teachers, emergency room nurses, police, pastors, youth leaders, bloggers, best friends and caring strangers to enforce a sanity on our kids. We need to speak up and speak out!
Maybe the best gift we can give a kid this Christmas will be to take the keys away.
“What in the Sam Hill is going on?” Camelot Bob moaned shaking out of his Eddie Bauer down jacket. “Last week it was 70 degrees, and I was watering the grass.”
“You know what they say,” said Manor Hill Mack anxious to throw in the oldest joke in the cafe book. “If you don't like Missouri's weather, wait minute; and it'll change.”
Men smiled. There is comfort in the familiar, dumb as it may be.
Then it got serious
“How's the boy doing?” asked Mack.
“About the same,” Ron replied.
They knew the boy from church. He was in a wreck on an icy road. THis condition was critical. Drinking was involved.
The shock of such events stuns our sensibility. Old people form uneasy alliances with death. They know living, and that it slips away. Our children are not supposed to die. They think they never will.
Some at the cafe remember when childbirth and the first few years of life were a time of fear. Now, a driver's license ushers in the premier terror of our modern culture. A phone call comes in the night. A knock on the door means lives unalterably changed. Car wrecks are an abomination.
For the first time in years, drunk driving is again on the rise. The old guys at the cafe are plenty irked at kids these days. Some think they are soft and selfish, shallow and dull. But their real wrath is for parents who know their children drive drunk and turn a blind eye.
“Kids, beer and cars, I hate it!” said Ron and he dipped his head.
For that moment Ron was riding back from Wathena, Kansas to St. Joseph, Missouri on the old Pony Express Bridge. An oncoming car slammed on its breaks and slid sideways directly into a jolting crash. Ron's best friend was driving the car, and his girlfriend was killed.
It was all for winning a game and celebration that they crossed the line into Kansas. Drunk on glory, young love, beer, and the sheer power of a massive V-8 engine, Ron and his friends believed in the invincibility of youth.
“By God, if I could do anything for kids it would be to cut off the top of their heads and pour in the truth about life,” Ron said. “Even the magic of youth can not change a three second mistake.”
The sharp edge of sunlight outside the cafe clouded for a moment, and the silence inside was a prayer.
Wear your seat belts! Have a sober, designated driver! Don’t ride with a driver who is drunk; and, don’t let others drive drunk. Few of these messages ever squeeze past the arrogance of youth; especially when they are drinking.
It is up to parents, teachers, emergency room nurses, police, pastors, youth leaders, bloggers, best friends and caring strangers to enforce a sanity on our kids. We need to speak up and speak out!
Maybe the best gift we can give a kid this Christmas will be to take the keys away.
Remembering Thanksgiving and Heading For Christmas
Stella, the waitress, was worried. Since last week's newspaper story that men steadily lose their mental sharpness from the day they turn 20, the men had sat moping. It's not easy watching the old mind go. They fear a day their brain will turn to thick chunks of wood.
"Snap out of it fellas," Stella said. "It's Thanksgiving. Your kids are coming home. We all have to get old; your minds aren’t gone yet." No use. Mack and Jake, Pete and Bob sat like lumps. Losing accurate recall of the past was no small thing to them. They fiddled with their napkins and drank their coffee extra slow.
"When was Pearl Harbor?" asked Mack, unsure, half expecting to be ignored.
"That was December 7, 1941. Japan attacked at 7:55 a.m.. They sunk 19 ships and killed 2,300 people. We declared war against Japan on December 8. On Dec 11 we declared war on Germany and Italy.
"I know that date because my wife, who was just my girlfriend then, was out with that no good, snake in the grass LeRoy Leggit. Now, every time somebody brings up Pearl Harbor I have to hear about her date with LeRoy."
"When did Joe Lewis fight Max Schmeling? Can you remember that?" asked Mack.
"Joe Lewis TKO'd Schmeling on June 22, 1938 in New York," smiled Bob smugly. "In those days a new Ford V-8 cost $535. A summer suit went for $17.50 and good Kentucky bourbon was $1.59 a fifth. Those were the days"
"That was the depression, you idiot," snapped Pete
Stella liked the sound of this and served up some more coffee. They remembered the day Roosevelt died, April 12, 1945 in Warm Springs, GA. The A-bomb on Hiroshima, August 6, and Japan's surrender August 15, 1945.
They worked their way into the future, sometimes fuzzy about dates, but sharing lives full of emotion and history.
It was Jake who first sensed a feeling of thanksgiving beginning to form. Not for the wars or living through them, but for the friends gathered now. Not for the stories but for ears willing to hear them.
That afternoon Jake bought a 16 lb. turkey and extra drumsticks for the grandkids. He rummaged around looking for the old oyster dressing recipe. Along toward 5:30 p.m. he snuck over to Camelot Bob's house for a quick toast with fine Kentucky whiskey.
"That night he asked his wife if she remembered LeRoy Leggit. "Oh yes," she said. " December 7, Pearl Harbor, we were having such a lovely date until we heard the news."
On Thanksgiving Jake stood and asked to say a few words to the entire assembled family. It was his traditional toast. As he lifted his glass, silence filled the room.
May there be plenty of toilet paper ready today and the line short.
May those who prepared the food, of which I am one, rest while those who ate it clean up.
May parents never spank their children.....too hard.
May children learn to forgive their parents.
May love be a feather and your marriage a feather bed.
May the winter be short and the fires burn long.
May the moon always be full on your darkest nights.
and
May we be Thankful and never forget to remember each other, except for LeRoy Leggit.
Happy Holidays from the Old North Side Cafe
"Snap out of it fellas," Stella said. "It's Thanksgiving. Your kids are coming home. We all have to get old; your minds aren’t gone yet." No use. Mack and Jake, Pete and Bob sat like lumps. Losing accurate recall of the past was no small thing to them. They fiddled with their napkins and drank their coffee extra slow.
"When was Pearl Harbor?" asked Mack, unsure, half expecting to be ignored.
"That was December 7, 1941. Japan attacked at 7:55 a.m.. They sunk 19 ships and killed 2,300 people. We declared war against Japan on December 8. On Dec 11 we declared war on Germany and Italy.
"I know that date because my wife, who was just my girlfriend then, was out with that no good, snake in the grass LeRoy Leggit. Now, every time somebody brings up Pearl Harbor I have to hear about her date with LeRoy."
"When did Joe Lewis fight Max Schmeling? Can you remember that?" asked Mack.
"Joe Lewis TKO'd Schmeling on June 22, 1938 in New York," smiled Bob smugly. "In those days a new Ford V-8 cost $535. A summer suit went for $17.50 and good Kentucky bourbon was $1.59 a fifth. Those were the days"
"That was the depression, you idiot," snapped Pete
Stella liked the sound of this and served up some more coffee. They remembered the day Roosevelt died, April 12, 1945 in Warm Springs, GA. The A-bomb on Hiroshima, August 6, and Japan's surrender August 15, 1945.
They worked their way into the future, sometimes fuzzy about dates, but sharing lives full of emotion and history.
It was Jake who first sensed a feeling of thanksgiving beginning to form. Not for the wars or living through them, but for the friends gathered now. Not for the stories but for ears willing to hear them.
That afternoon Jake bought a 16 lb. turkey and extra drumsticks for the grandkids. He rummaged around looking for the old oyster dressing recipe. Along toward 5:30 p.m. he snuck over to Camelot Bob's house for a quick toast with fine Kentucky whiskey.
"That night he asked his wife if she remembered LeRoy Leggit. "Oh yes," she said. " December 7, Pearl Harbor, we were having such a lovely date until we heard the news."
On Thanksgiving Jake stood and asked to say a few words to the entire assembled family. It was his traditional toast. As he lifted his glass, silence filled the room.
May there be plenty of toilet paper ready today and the line short.
May those who prepared the food, of which I am one, rest while those who ate it clean up.
May parents never spank their children.....too hard.
May children learn to forgive their parents.
May love be a feather and your marriage a feather bed.
May the winter be short and the fires burn long.
May the moon always be full on your darkest nights.
and
May we be Thankful and never forget to remember each other, except for LeRoy Leggit.
Happy Holidays from the Old North Side Cafe
Monday, December 6, 2010
John Lennon Lives
Late in the night, thirty years ago, December 8, John Lennon was murdered outside his apartment building in NYC. It would have been his 70th birthday on October 9.
There will be special events around the world and many of us here in KC will listen to Lennon's music and celebrate his songs, the Beatles, his poetry, life, and genius. "Give Peace a Chance" will again echo in our collective memory.
So much about John and the Beatles is still relevant. Paul McCartney's Kennedy Center Award will air December 28 and the grammy nominated artist (Helter Skelter from last years's Good Evening NYC cd) will be on Saturday Night Live this coming weekend. Those who saw McCartney in KC earlier this year will never forget his performance. Ringo is still a force in the music world. George Harrison's life story has become all the rage in literature and film. I-tunes can't tell us enough they have the Beatles catalogue for sale.
A prominent list of the 1,043 Classic Rock Songs of All Time includs 99 Beatles songs. In the Top 10, Imagine is #7, Let It Be is #5 and Hey Jude is #2. John Lennon, my Hero, thanks again. Rock on, "Dreamers!"
There will be special events around the world and many of us here in KC will listen to Lennon's music and celebrate his songs, the Beatles, his poetry, life, and genius. "Give Peace a Chance" will again echo in our collective memory.
So much about John and the Beatles is still relevant. Paul McCartney's Kennedy Center Award will air December 28 and the grammy nominated artist (Helter Skelter from last years's Good Evening NYC cd) will be on Saturday Night Live this coming weekend. Those who saw McCartney in KC earlier this year will never forget his performance. Ringo is still a force in the music world. George Harrison's life story has become all the rage in literature and film. I-tunes can't tell us enough they have the Beatles catalogue for sale.
A prominent list of the 1,043 Classic Rock Songs of All Time includs 99 Beatles songs. In the Top 10, Imagine is #7, Let It Be is #5 and Hey Jude is #2. John Lennon, my Hero, thanks again. Rock on, "Dreamers!"
Saturday, October 2, 2010
North Side Cafe: Bedbugs Create Itchy Problem
"Dad, this is not funny!" Paige said, holding up her arm.
Holly Lake Jake could see his daughter was distraught. He also knew she had a serious problem. Jake had seen these welts before. "Good Lord," he thought.
"Darling, those are bed bug bites, and …." Her scream cut him off in mid-sentence.
"Bed bugs! No! No!" she screamed, then collapsed in his arms.
The North Side coffee klatch knows bed bugs. It was a fact of life before the invention of DDT.
"How? Why? What’ll I do?" Paige screamed, scratching her arm."
Jake’s daughter is as fastidiously clean as she is dramatic.
"First, stop scratching or it will get infected," Jake said. "You probably got them while in New York."
Jake has that right. Infestations are showing up at colleges, hotels and motels, dressing rooms, used furniture stores and offices. Our love of travel to exotic places for fun and war is making it worse.
"I hate bugs!" his daughter screamed. "I’m washing everything, buying new mattresses, pulling up carpet …." Her spittle was airborne, and her eyes were bugged.
"Whoa, Baby." Jake calmly interrupted. He had watched his mother and knew the drill — hot water and dryers, inspection, reduced clutter, vacuuming and sealing.
There was a good reason our grandparents used to say, "Cleanliness is next to godliness."
Bed bugs live months without a meal in mattress seams, box springs, baseboards, behind wallpaper and in clutter. Thank God they carry no known diseases.
Back at the café, the boys were talking about bed bug hysteria.
"I remember igniting gunpowder on mattresses or soaking them with gasoline. Uncle Clem fumigated buildings with burning sulfur or cyanide gas," Manor Hill Mack said. (The best-known brand was Zyklon B, which later became infamous at Auschwitz.)
Jake smiled. He pictured a rabid environmentalist locked in a room infested with bedbugs. "DDT will be making a comeback," he thought.
Holly Lake Jake could see his daughter was distraught. He also knew she had a serious problem. Jake had seen these welts before. "Good Lord," he thought.
"Darling, those are bed bug bites, and …." Her scream cut him off in mid-sentence.
"Bed bugs! No! No!" she screamed, then collapsed in his arms.
The North Side coffee klatch knows bed bugs. It was a fact of life before the invention of DDT.
"How? Why? What’ll I do?" Paige screamed, scratching her arm."
Jake’s daughter is as fastidiously clean as she is dramatic.
"First, stop scratching or it will get infected," Jake said. "You probably got them while in New York."
Jake has that right. Infestations are showing up at colleges, hotels and motels, dressing rooms, used furniture stores and offices. Our love of travel to exotic places for fun and war is making it worse.
"I hate bugs!" his daughter screamed. "I’m washing everything, buying new mattresses, pulling up carpet …." Her spittle was airborne, and her eyes were bugged.
"Whoa, Baby." Jake calmly interrupted. He had watched his mother and knew the drill — hot water and dryers, inspection, reduced clutter, vacuuming and sealing.
There was a good reason our grandparents used to say, "Cleanliness is next to godliness."
Bed bugs live months without a meal in mattress seams, box springs, baseboards, behind wallpaper and in clutter. Thank God they carry no known diseases.
Back at the café, the boys were talking about bed bug hysteria.
"I remember igniting gunpowder on mattresses or soaking them with gasoline. Uncle Clem fumigated buildings with burning sulfur or cyanide gas," Manor Hill Mack said. (The best-known brand was Zyklon B, which later became infamous at Auschwitz.)
Jake smiled. He pictured a rabid environmentalist locked in a room infested with bedbugs. "DDT will be making a comeback," he thought.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Back Yard Portal
Night storms blew down lichen encrusted dead limbs from the tall Red Oak in the back yard last night. The wind blew pots from the fence shelf smashing into the much beloved tropical corn plant. The cannas yielded and laid down. I did what I could to restore some order in the rain, but the real push will come with the sunshine, whenever that might be. My backyard is timeless. Sometimes it is the same branch from 50 years ago that I'm picking up. I half expect to see my dad, a young man with red/orange hair cutting up branches felled by a storm and stacking them next to the lilac bushes. I, of course, am picking up the leaves, anxious to help. The repetition of flowers and storms, pets and holidays, weeding and mowing leaks into the the here and now making the present soggy with memory. Now, two generations of children and their pets have grown up in the back yard. Everywhere I step they follow me. I find plastic indians in the indigo blooms of flowers and miniature tow-tucks under the morning glory vine. No wonder I hear Mickey the Wonder Dog barking at me to come play. His ashes carefully placed in the flowerbed he loved to destroy, rose up long ago to prowl the twilight; I feel Mickey in every blade of grass and turn of sunshine. As Kurt Vonnegut would say, my back yard has become unstuck in time. The train is off the tack. Time and space are out of place among the castor bean and rampant honeysuckle. Freed from this dimension the garden welcomes my ashes and then opens to possibility. I am parallel to now; I am my opposite; I am matter and light, heaven and hell. And now, before the ying-yang glue sets, thank God for hummingbirds. Their flight, mechanically impossible, explores the zinnias and soothes the contradictions of the permeable space-time continuum. It brings on more common conundrums. Moon flowers and California cactus blooms taught us that five hours of intense beauty stands equal with redwoods and their endurance advantage. There is an easy answer to this, "why?" however. Each individual thing is incomparable, exquisite and unique to every perception. It is all moment and angle, interpreted through filters of mechanism, age, learning, circumstance and chemical coating on cells. All this sensory input lathered up with our emotions cranks out a very unstable reality at best. We can all have our unique argument that is absolutely true. But, back to this morning. My back yard is drenched in water and memory, its portals are open and its display is experienced uniquely by every organism. Makes me proud to be so insignificant and yet the God-like giver of understanding. All this meaning given to the nothing of nature sparkles in the sprinkler rainbow my eye and brain conjure up. It does not exist without us! We are the keepers of our god, a quite unique relationship. Who knew the back yard could be so fun! I pray my thanks to God.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Durango
An afternoon shower woke me from a nap. It's cool after the shower and the Durango skies are open for sunshine and cloud shadows. Hummingbirds are at the feeder confounding me with their energy.
Bruce and I have talked literature for about three hours. We talked all day yesterday. there is no line we can see that tells us where the literature ends and life begins. There is a difference but in these early days we use the Blue Highways to avoid the interstate cliche. We want the slow route where everything comes at its own pace Literature is so deliberate. Writing is so exact. We don't need that just yet.
Life and writing offer an infinite range of possibilities but it always settles to a single option. A writer's blank page is not infinite possibility. Each single word is chiseled from nothing one word and one thought at a time. We talk in drafts, but the writing like the living is an endless stream of tiny choice. We are lucky to have a direction, let alone a map.
I drove over Wolf Creek Pass into the San Juan River Valley and Bootjack Ranch country to get to Bayfield which is located 14 miles east of Durango. Colorado. It (the mountain experience) never gets old to me. So many true things are here.
From mountain passes the only way is down. It is best to stop at the scenic overlook and capture the moment in a subconscious photograph. Use the low gear. When I fist came to the mountains, camping at the bottom of a canyon always seem to calm the angst and stress the young seem to live on. I knew the only way out was up.
This is the third day of my Walkabout. I talked with Russ the first night, after driving across Missouri, about his bypass surgery. His living is imbued now with new emotion and wet with strangely spontaneous tears. He care more about this, and less about that. He is tender to the night. We sat outside and the evening air was cool. Missouri was more than 620 miles away; home was just another star in the night sky for me. I was a mile high closer to the top of the world.
Russ said he was no longer so concerned with the perfection he had once sweated his life's blood to attain. He was joining the Navajo artists in weaving a tiny flaw into his tapestry --an escape port for bad spirits.
Scientists marvel how theories break down at the edges; and, while Quantum Physics now offers some explanation, it too is is a probabilities game and shockingly rife with error. The new holes in Russ's heart now let out the bad spirits; and in that chaos of imperfection a new and fragile sense of order is forming.
Russ showed me to my room. I had only called him earlier that day asking if I could stay. His door was open. First night out and we are talking about the stars and creating holes in the bucket list that leak out impossible expectations. Wow!
My purpose these days is to help Bruce think about his book, and offer scholarly criticism. The role of the critic is in trouble these days. Criticism is supposed to be helpful in it truest form. Today the critic is a shrill helping himself to the flaws he finds in others. Fault finding has become the national pastime while constructive criticism is almost nonexistent. Christians had a better chance with the lions than new ideas have today. Heaven forbid there be a new and creative thought. In the public sector everything that might possible be construed as new is actually termed DOA.
Bruce and I put on our walking shoes and talk. As our legs tire the boundaries broaden. We have come this far and so we can go further. His characters walk with us and we grieve or laugh with them. We find ourselves and our flaws in them, just as like we find ourselves in mountain streams or puffy clouds or the smell of pine.
Your characters have a beer fetish.
-We laugh at the thought and our stung.
That character cannot commit.
-fingers point both ways
I hope to have the book end where it began.
-We smile knowing we are old friends back in the mountains.
Finally we enter the rare air of constructive criticism. Only best best friends and cool intellects can breathe here. We are running now, going further and faster than we expected. I will be especially tired, but happy, to come back home one day.
Bruce and I have talked literature for about three hours. We talked all day yesterday. there is no line we can see that tells us where the literature ends and life begins. There is a difference but in these early days we use the Blue Highways to avoid the interstate cliche. We want the slow route where everything comes at its own pace Literature is so deliberate. Writing is so exact. We don't need that just yet.
Life and writing offer an infinite range of possibilities but it always settles to a single option. A writer's blank page is not infinite possibility. Each single word is chiseled from nothing one word and one thought at a time. We talk in drafts, but the writing like the living is an endless stream of tiny choice. We are lucky to have a direction, let alone a map.
I drove over Wolf Creek Pass into the San Juan River Valley and Bootjack Ranch country to get to Bayfield which is located 14 miles east of Durango. Colorado. It (the mountain experience) never gets old to me. So many true things are here.
From mountain passes the only way is down. It is best to stop at the scenic overlook and capture the moment in a subconscious photograph. Use the low gear. When I fist came to the mountains, camping at the bottom of a canyon always seem to calm the angst and stress the young seem to live on. I knew the only way out was up.
This is the third day of my Walkabout. I talked with Russ the first night, after driving across Missouri, about his bypass surgery. His living is imbued now with new emotion and wet with strangely spontaneous tears. He care more about this, and less about that. He is tender to the night. We sat outside and the evening air was cool. Missouri was more than 620 miles away; home was just another star in the night sky for me. I was a mile high closer to the top of the world.
Russ said he was no longer so concerned with the perfection he had once sweated his life's blood to attain. He was joining the Navajo artists in weaving a tiny flaw into his tapestry --an escape port for bad spirits.
Scientists marvel how theories break down at the edges; and, while Quantum Physics now offers some explanation, it too is is a probabilities game and shockingly rife with error. The new holes in Russ's heart now let out the bad spirits; and in that chaos of imperfection a new and fragile sense of order is forming.
Russ showed me to my room. I had only called him earlier that day asking if I could stay. His door was open. First night out and we are talking about the stars and creating holes in the bucket list that leak out impossible expectations. Wow!
My purpose these days is to help Bruce think about his book, and offer scholarly criticism. The role of the critic is in trouble these days. Criticism is supposed to be helpful in it truest form. Today the critic is a shrill helping himself to the flaws he finds in others. Fault finding has become the national pastime while constructive criticism is almost nonexistent. Christians had a better chance with the lions than new ideas have today. Heaven forbid there be a new and creative thought. In the public sector everything that might possible be construed as new is actually termed DOA.
Bruce and I put on our walking shoes and talk. As our legs tire the boundaries broaden. We have come this far and so we can go further. His characters walk with us and we grieve or laugh with them. We find ourselves and our flaws in them, just as like we find ourselves in mountain streams or puffy clouds or the smell of pine.
Your characters have a beer fetish.
-We laugh at the thought and our stung.
That character cannot commit.
-fingers point both ways
I hope to have the book end where it began.
-We smile knowing we are old friends back in the mountains.
Finally we enter the rare air of constructive criticism. Only best best friends and cool intellects can breathe here. We are running now, going further and faster than we expected. I will be especially tired, but happy, to come back home one day.
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