Stray Trash

Win some...lose some.

2008-11-02T15:48:00.003-06:00

I feel I've wasted my weekend. I spent the last three days at home mostly alone. Now before I hear the pangs of an "awwww" (which if you are saying that...you don't know me, and if you are laughing right now...you do know me), let me remind people that it doesn't bother me in the least. Well, maybe a little, but not enough to bring on full psychosis...yet. But what little I did this weekend, still feels like miles of confidence to me. The house needed a cleaning. Bad. Luckily I bring certain domestic abilities to the table. Good. I would say that the final project came in somewhere between full-blown fall cleaning and obsessive compulsive behavior. Laundry needed to be done. Bad. Again, certain domestic abilities. Good! It wasn't a ton of laundry, but it was at that point where it's mildly inconvenient and could probably go a couple of more days, or just be done with it. I chose the later. The laundry washing thing isn't the part that gets me...it's the folding...of the undergarments. Don't ask me what the hangup is...it just...well it just IS. Colors, jeans, towels, the lot of it, I could fold it all day. Give me a load of skivvies, and I moan like a six year old that's just been told, "We aren't stopping for Ice Cream". But it was done, anyway, cause I just can't pass it off on the dogs. All I would get is a slobbery mess that makes the whole process that much more squeamish.

A hospital bag needed to be packed. Full of all the goodies for the hospital. Cell phone, iPod, you know, the important stuff (notice: this previous sentence is written for the express purpose of some of my readers who will no doubt be sending me messages scolding me for only packing those items or even mentioning their relative importance. The rest of you...just take it for what it is...damn funny!). I literally took an hour canvasing the house to scope out the best place to put the bag. In the bedroom, in all the hustle and bustle, it might get left behind. Spare room might keep it out of sight, but what good is "out of sight" when you need it. So I placed it right by the door. Now hopefully I won't trip on it on the way out the door.

I also spent the weekend watching films. Not movies. Films. What's the difference you may ask? The Godfather? Film. High School Musical 3? Movie. Pretty simple huh? Now before you go labeling me a film snob (which I will readily admit to anyway, if you'd just ask), let me just tell you that I have "movies" in my collection. Plenty of them, in fact. I also, have a good deal of "film" in my collection. Sometimes you want cotton candy at the Fair, and sometimes you want to eat at a fine restaurant. It doesn't mean both can't have value as an experience. However, I do draw the line at one finer point. The are people who go to see movies, and those who like to watch movies. There is a large segment of our society that likes to go "to the movies". Some, like the dressing up, or paying the high prices, or eating the shitty popcorn, or something. Some are audiophiles. They want the sound, the boom, that larger than life screen (I partly fall into this category when I do go the movies). And them some, the movies are all they have. There is still massive amounts of rural townships, full of blue-collar workers, providing for their families, and this is the highlight of their week or month. I salute these people most, because they still enjoy the entertainment of going to the movies, and remind the rest of us, that there is something nostalgic about that. Then there are people like me. I honestly go to the movies about twice a year. Usually for a comedy or an indy film that picked up more screens. Sometimes it may be more than that, depends on if certain directors I appreciate are all extremely prolific in one year, or if it's a Harry Potter year. I know...I know...but hey, remember the cotton candy analogy? That's mine. I like to watch film, and I've found the only way to do that is with multiple viewings. Sure, it be nice to do it in a movie theater, but I'm not some trust fund kid that's got a no-limit credit card. I mean, you got to draw the line somewhere. So I ravage the DVD outlets and look for gems. One rule though with my collection is that is has to be a movie or film that avails itself to multiple viewings and honest criticism. So under that guideline, sure I can have Army of Darkness in my collection, because I get something out of that movie each time I watch it. Whether it's classic lines, or errors in continuity, or crappy effects, they still hold a certain cinematic value. It is what it is, and doesn't try to be more. And that's why a film like that can sit alongside The Godfather on a collection shelf. Different films, but both can maintain a level of context for the viewer. That's where the difference between the two lie. One goes to the movie for the entertainment value of it. The other watches the film for the art of it, or lack of it. Can you have both? Of course you can! You can have a great experience watching a fantastic film in a movie theater. Not that often, but still. But on the reverse, I've watched some pretty terrible movies in my own home. Actually, in the interest of full disclosure, I've probably seen more crap movies in my own home than I ever have in a movie theater.

But those are the risks you take.

That, and nine bucks for a ticket.

A Teenie One...

2008-10-21T11:30:00.001-05:00

Word of Advice for the day:

Never stand between a pregnant woman and her milk and cookies.

At Least Do Some Homework...

2008-10-02T14:24:00.008-05:00

It’s that time of year again when the conspiratorial juggernaut of misinformed, or dare I say just plain ignorant e-mails, passes through my inbox. In an election year they get increasingly more moronic, like trying to explain to a two-year old why the sky is actually blue. I usually ignore those trifles of stupidity on either candidate, mostly because they come pre-packaged in an air of bias, and I have enough of that in my life without prowling through cyberspace. But occasionally there comes along some ridiculous piece of information that you can’t help but rebut.

When I was sixteen years old, we would gather Thursday nights at a home of one of the members of my father’s church for prayer meeting. Chairs were informally set up, either in a living room or dining room, and members would share their prayer requests around the room for “the body” as a whole to pray about. Millions of these meetings still exist on Wednesday and Thursday nights around the country to this day. This one particular evening, a woman brought in a printed sheet that apparently contained some highly sensitive material. It was treated with the utmost seriousness, and many who read the paper did so with hints of horror and disdain upon their faces. The letter was concerning the company Proctor and Gamble. You may know them as the progenitors of many household products that you probably have in your home at this very moment. In the 80’s, P and G, used to put their official company logo on the back of each of their products. It is a crescent man in the moon being surrounded by thirteen stars. In the wisp of the man’s beard you can make out what appears to be the inverted number 666 in the curls. The heading of the letter contained this verse:

Revelation 12:1, which states: "And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars."
(Note that in this scripture, it’s a woman clothed in the sun, not the man in the moon, and it is a crown of twelve stars, not thirteen stars in the heaven. Go figure, scripture can be twisted to say anything.)

Because of the 13 stars in the P and G logo, some believed (as this paper did) that the company had made a direct allusion to the verse perverting it with thirteen stars and apparently, under theological guidelines, qualified the symbol as Satanic. It then asked the reader to boycott the products that were listed. My mother was horrified. She developed that panicked look as she mentally raided her household products cabinet to do an inventory of this demon company’s products in her house. She had let Beelzebub into her home, and he had come in the form of Ivory soap. “Ninety-nine and forty-four one hundredths percent pure, my ass”, my mother’s eyes read.

Turns out, in the 1800’s, Proctor and Gamble was a successful candle company. They had held a contest to determine what the company icon would entail. The final design was rendered as a reminder that Proctor and Gamble candles light up the night as bright as the moon and stars hence, (and I say this with an immense amount of notable sarcasm) the man in the moon with…you guessed it, stars. But what about the 666 in the beard? Chalk it up to 19th Century art stylization. And the thirteen stars, twinkling in their orbs like little demons poking fun at all the believers? Representative of the thirteen original colonies that Proctor and Gamble so serviced with their fine candles. Hide it under a bushel?...No! And let’s not get into the campaign that was run against the company by the army of the ignorant. They even went so far as to say that President of P and G at the time appeared on The Phil Donahue show on a Saturday morning and claimed that he and the company we’re the loyal servants of Satan. Rest easy…no interview ever took place and the Donahue show never even ran on Saturday’s. But it was enough to make the company take the logo off its products, though it still exists on stock sheets issued by the company, and still remains on the side of some the corporate buildings.

The Nineties saw no less of a letdown in propaganda el stupido. This time the target was the up and coming Beverage Company called Snapple. On their tea bottles an image exists of what appears to be African-American slaves tending to a ship with a logo of a “K” surrounded by a circle. American’s (targeted again to well-meaning Christians) were led to believe that through this visual depiction, Snapple had openly supported slavery and racism by the sheer look of the graphic and the circle “K”, most certainly had ties to the Klu Klux Klan. Down with Snapple were the cries of angry conservatives, as a shit storm raged against the company.

The graphic…is the official painting of the Boston Tea Party. The slaves…were the objectors to the British taxing of tea dressed as Indians. Maybe not the best costumes in hindsight for the protestors, but you can understand why Snapple might put that on the “tea” bottles. As for the circle “K”, Jews snickered in their little corner of irony at the fact that we got so bent out of shape for their symbol that the product was “kosher”.

This brings me to the most recent awareness issue from the Council of the Stupid, the new American Dollar gold coins. Instead of me spelling it out...let me just give you the email.

This simple action will make a strong statement.
Please help do this.. Refuse to accept these when they are handed to you.

U.S. Government to Release New Dollar Coins

You guessed it

'IN GOD WE TRUST' IS GONE!!!

If ever there was a reason to boycott something, THIS IS IT!!!!

DO NOT ACCEPT THE NEW DOLLAR COINS AS CHANGE

Together we can force them out of circulation.

Now the email enough should be evidence, but let’s break it down.

1. If you are going to send something this banal, at least show us both sides of the coin as evidence.
2. These coins were not commissioned and manufactured as an evangelistic tool, they were commissioned to commemorate the U.S. Presidents.
3. Have you ever tried to take a penny out of circulation? The most useless piece of currency we have still makes you look down on the pavement to pick it up.

That entire aside of course, let’s trump the mind-numbing intellectual evidence of the e-mail. Well for one, “In God We Trust” is actually on the coin. It appears on the edge of the thickness of the coin, as well as the words “E Pluribus Unum”, the year of minting, and the location of where it was minted (P for Philadelphia, D for Denver). To be fair, some early mintings of the coin the edge wording (all of it) was absent. It’s nice to think that some little atheist or agnostic stuck their grimy little hands into the cogs of the Department of the Treasury, but the fact of the matter is that it was a manufacturing error as the coins are stamped on the obverse side (front) and the reverse side (back) in the same process, while the edge minting is done with an entirely separate process. Good thing too, cause there is a lot of coin collectors happy, because mistakes in the minting process (just like stamps) mean more value. It was a mistake…not an anti-Christian statement.

But many were not happy to have “In God We Trust” relegated to the outer rims of our currency. Never mind that they paid no attention whatsoever “who” was on the coin. Let’s just sample our first four President’s theological leanings.

1. George Washington: Deist. Did not believe that Christ was divine, or that God was involved in the everyday activities of his creation. Also, he owned slaves, and grew hemp.
2. John Adams: Unitarian Humanist. Pretty much the same flavor as a Deist, but less involvement from God.
3. Thomas Jefferson: Humanist. Also owned slaves and grew hemp. As well as being a wine connoisseur.
4. John Quincy Adams: Unitarian. See John Adams.

(Author’s Note: I do not have problem with any of these men’s theology or lifestyles per se. Washington and Jefferson both released their slaves upon passing from this world. I’m just making the point that maybe one ought to do a little “homework” before parading their ignorance and hypocrisy around the internet.)

On December 26, 2007, the House of Representatives passed House Resolution 2764, stating that all future impressions of the “Golden dollar” were to have “In God We Trust” imprinted on the obverse or reverse sides. Front and back seems ok for the Divine, just don’t go pushing him to the edges.

I frankly don’t care whether it is on there or not. My spirituality and how it becomes fleshed out in my life is not tied to its representation on my currency. Plus, it obviously has been missed by plenty of people in banks and all over the country considering the present financial crisis we find ourselves in today. My objection is to the ignorance. If you’re going to send some fly-by-night shit to my email box…at least have the decency to check if it’s really true. Because in the end we have enough stereotypes to overcome, being a bloated and ignorant nation isn’t one of them.

By the way…

Plants make oxygen, but trees don’t. Let’s see how far that one goes.

Straight-jacket...Please!

2008-09-09T14:09:00.003-05:00

I AM insane. I must be. I need to enroll in one those clinical trials for the new crazy person med. Why you ask? Well…here’s the low-down. The confessional. I have a woman in my house that is seven months pregnant, and a dog that helps make my day already full. That should be enough for any man…right? Apparently it’s not for me because we have gone and gotten another dog. Oh…the shame!

A little over two weeks ago we were enjoying a late summer evening, when we spot a small dog across the street. It’s not new for a stray Fido from someone’s yard to be prowling about, but this one we hadn’t seen before. Now begins the perfect storm. The dog wanders over, tail wagging furiously, and we see that she is just a puppy. Few months old at best guess, she resembles our Maggie, except for the fact that she is all black. It is apparent right away that she has been outside for a while. She has nothing over the dockworkers in downtown Baltimore in terms of smell. Her coat looks musty, but her teeth are clean, nothing that a bath couldn’t fix. I’m hesitant to let her near my pregnant other as you never know what a dog has in its arsenal, both temperament and bacterial.

“What are we going to do?” she says, and I can already spot that “look” in her eyes.

“I’m doing nothing.” I say, resolute in my false machismo that another animal in the house will upset the domestic balance.

‘Well, we can’t do nothing.”

We certainly can. I talk her and Maggie, our three-year old Lab-Shepard mix, into the house and close the door, praying my conscience quits bothering me. I wake up the next morning to find that the dog decided to take one of my outside shoes as a souvenir, rendering the shoe and the term “pair” useless. I already know that this dog will haunt me from a distance. I just pray that it’s not too long. As I’m outside, mourning the loss of my shoe, the wind and the rain begin to roll in courtesy of our new friend Fay. Four days of solid rain, we need it, and it washes away the memories of our little thief.

Maggie is pent up after four days of rain, and we begin to rethink Seattle as a possible permanent destination. I take her out and round our usual corner to find that we have come snout to snout with the shoe thief. She is bounding and happy to see us, and in my mind I wish she were Cujo.

My heart and conscience can take mo more, and starts to wag war on my common sense. We call the number for the adoption agency where we obtained Maggie, and they tell us that she must go to the pound first, as they cannot accept any direct strays. The pound is open till 6 p.m., it is now 4:10 p.m. We load her in the truck, and begin the ride find this dog her fate.

“I can’t take her to the pound”, she says, and the “look” makes an encore appeal.

“Yeah, I’m not too crazy about it either, but what can we do?” I’m rapidly talking myself into the inevitable.

She grabs her phone from her purse, and proceeds to dial. A co-worker lost their dog a couple of months back, and she thought that they may be in the market for a new pet, thief though it may be. Watch your shoes, I think. I loved those shoes. We go past the pound for the moment, as the co-worker is, at least, in the mind to take a look at the dog.

Then…I make the gravest of mistakes. I look down to see this dog’s floppy ears draped across the belly of my pregnant love, and I’m hooked. Her solid black nose letting out the lightest of wheezes, and she is at rest. The visit to the co-worker becomes just a formality, an excuse to pass the time till 6 p.m. comes and goes.

The myriad of rationalities pour out of us like children justifying a trip to Disney World to blindsided parents.

“It will be a great companion for Maggie” I say.

“Yes, especially with the baby coming! It will hopefully ease her jealousy.”

Or double it.

And that’s when you cross the line between border-line bonkers and full-blown wackiness. Bring on the white suits and the straight-jacket. Nurse Ratchet never looked so hot.

“Well, we need a name, right?” she says with shoulders hunched up. “I like ‘Blackie’.”

“Oh! What about Negrodogmus?!” I feel especially proud that this dog has not made a dent in my creative streak.

Then…we remembered we live in the South. Maybe we should just go with a literary name. One we can both agree on.

Zooey.

That’s the ticket.

A trip to the vet and she checks out fine, along with a six-month supply of heart-worm medicine. The first few days are murder. I don’t know what the blanket word for dog murder is, but “canineocide” crosses my mind. My saving grace is the Bissell Little Green Machine that I purchased when Maggie was a puppy. If they ever make one just for babies…I’m buying stock.

I feel like a battered pitcher who can’t seem to find the strike zone. Every pitch is a grapefruit and every batter swings a Fat Albert. The light at the end of the tunnel is fading and I’m thinking about digging a new tunnel. This dog seems to have an endless supply of pee and shit.

Bring on the parenting.

Then…it happens. It is late at night and my love rises up on her elbows from the couch.

“Have we had an accident today?”

I groan. She’s jinxed us. Doesn’t she know that there is a reason that baseball players sit on the other side of the dugout when a pitcher is throwing a no-hitter into the ninth inning? No one talks to him. No one mentions the game. I’m an island, and she’s just parked her boat on my beach. We lose the no-hitter that night thanks to a late rally, but we win the game with just one error. Over the course of the next four days we pitch four straight no-hitters, and the “player to be named later” has her stock rising on the team.

Two weeks have now passed, and she’s still a puppy. A better puppy, but none the less still a puppy. She’s part of the brood now, taking her naps in Maggie’s warm belly, the two of them looking like Yin and Yang. We’ve expanded our family by one, with one more to be added. Life is good. Life is sweet. And I am insane…happily.

Now I wonder if she can remember where she took my shoe.

Caveat Emptor

2008-08-25T13:30:00.002-05:00

I now find that the bulk of my thinking time is taken up with impending thoughts of parenthood. It’s in this vein that we finally made a decision to start buying the baby some items that might be needed for its upcoming birth. It is three months to go and we’re finally getting “in the game”.

Now as a general rule, I hate shopping. I think most men do, except for the cases where they get to buy a new car, television, or the latest electronic gadget. I especially hate shopping, mostly because of the shoppers. But baby shopping is like regular shopping on crack. Hormone rattled mothers and beat-down fathers ogling over which car seat this, and which crib that. It’s shopping as competition. It’s human nature to keep up with the “Jones’”, its borderline insanity to keep up with the Jones’ baby.

Bearing that in mind, I am a welcome shopper on the internet. It’s comfortable, convenient, and readily absent of shoppers hyped up on their grande mocha's with a double shot, prowling the aisles like Serengeti tigers waiting for their first real taste of blood. I don’t have to hear their phone calls to their mothers regarding the print or pattern and the functionality of the hanging diaper bag. And I certainly don’t have to hear about what color the baby’s room is and whether the present motif you are looking at would suit his/her tastes. There is only one “taste” that a child comes out with, and your significant other knows right where they are at…like two milk cans strapped to the front of her chest. The kid couldn’t care less about whether he/she has cows or giraffes, they care about the breasts. Motifs and themes are for parents. Any attempt to convince me otherwise is futile.

We scour the internet baby sites with no hopes or expectations. Our only real requirement is that it serves as something functional. It may look cool, but the fact of the matter is that if my kid can’t sleep in it, it doesn’t matter how many race cars it has on it. We’re bad parents already. We have no theme picked out for our son. We’re playing it by ear. How will my son know if he likes horses or cars, sports or music, if I don’t have a theme for his pre-life preparations?

We find an item that we liked. It’s called a Nursery Center, but it’s really a playpen and bassinet on steroids. It’s got more gadgets and gizmos that a full day at FAO Swartz. Now we just have to find where to buy it.

Apparently in the baby consumer world, the company that makes the item you want doesn’t actually make the item. They get it from a manufacturer. Now before you go and think I am giving you a remedial course on economics and consumerism, there’s a hitch. The company that “has” the item you want to buy doesn’t actually “have” the item to be purchased. You have to go to a “retailer” to purchase the item. So I am now at a site that neither makes nor sells the item that I want. What they do actually do remains a mystery.

We find a retailer that carries the item, from a link on the “company that neither makes nor sells” site. But the one and only retailer that the company chooses to sell the product that they do not make has a “dead link” (which means that the company that doesn’t make or sell the product has linked to a retailer that apparently doesn’t sell the item either). So I have now spent the better part of an hour looking for an item that a company doesn’t make and a retailer doesn’t sell. I’m beginning to think that maybe my time would have been better spent looking for the Holy Grail.

Back to square one. We find an alternate pattern, with the same features we were looking for in the other pattern (in the interest of self-disclosure, the “features” referred to are a diaper and storage keeper for her, an MP3 input for me). So we go searching for this present version of our now ever-growing obsession. The link from the site leads us to a retailer that carries the item, but is presently out of stock. I’m beginning to think that this search is a cruel joke to be played on expecting parents. I fully expect someone to leap out of the computer screen to tell us that this is just hazing for new parents and we will now be welcomed into the “fraternity”. We decide to call the retailer.

“Hi. I was just wondering when you might be expecting the item. I have the item number here if you need it.”, she says rolling her eyes, and I know the person on the other end of the phone has no idea what we are asking of her.

“So no idea then when it might be in stock?”

I see by her face, that the answer brings us no closer to the end of this saga.

“Well, what did they say?”, I ask hesitantly.

“Could be tomorrow, could be 8 weeks.”

Now I’m just frustrated.

“Call the company” I say.

The company answers after 3 rings. Not a great sign, but not a bad one. At least you get to talk to an actual human being. But then again, the human being is only as useful as the information it knows. And the human at the company…knows nothing. When I say nothing, I don’t mean anything useful, I mean NOTHING. The customer service rep has no idea what the order status is from the manufacturer, and no idea IF the retailer has even ordered anymore of the item. I want to strap a live cow into a trebuchet and launch it at light speed.

As a firm believer in the rules of baseball as they are applied to life, I figure three strikes and you are out. It’s a 0-2 count in the bottom of the ninth, and my batter is standing there with the bat on his shoulder. Swing for the fences.

We decide we like it enough (our own personal version of pre-parental insanity), to give it one more shot at the third pattern. At this point I’d settle for a bed made of oak branches and pine straw, with a gourd for a diaper holder. I’ll call it the “Cro-Magnon” line.

The third pattern is carried by a retailer and is in stock. It’s that fine line between seeing the batter take his cut, and not knowing if it will be a home-run, a double off the fences, or a fly ball snatched from the air for the third out.

She looks at me. I look at her. And suddenly a weight that Sisyphus would not be jealous of, sits on my chest like a petulant child. What if this is not the right one? What if my son is supposed to have another bed out there that he is predestined for? One that will challenge his awareness of life, and give him the character he needs to be a kind and loving human being. What if the giraffe mobile scares him? What if the color doesn’t match anything else that we buy for him?

“Let’s just get it”, she says.

“But what if it’s not THE one?”

“Gandhi is not sleeping in the bed, our son is.”, she replies as calm as a Hindu cow.

And I order it. Questions and apprehensions swirling in my head like the perfect storm. It’s done. It’s clicked. It’s on its way.

I need a break. I need to clear my head. This is important right? Isn’t every decision I make now going to affect my child for the rest of his life? This bed could be the impetus for my child’s scorned rage.

Then again…maybe it’s just a bed.

Crazy Pete or The house that Dutch Painted

2008-07-24T15:01:00.007-05:00

Jerry calls me at 5:30 in the morning.

“Meet me at the usual place.” he says.

I had worked for Jerry for going on five months in early 2004. Jerry owned his own heating and air conditioning company, which consisted of Jerry, his wife Gene who did the books, and me. I would do whatever Jerry couldn’t get to in the day, picking up equipment, installing thermostats, running wiring, checking up on other jobs where he couldn’t be at two places at once.

The “usual place” was the company's “warehouse”. It was one third of a small building that used to be attached to a greenhouse. Three large aluminum garage doors and ours was the last on the right end. I would arrive at 6:45 and finish my coffee while listening to WTOP, the local AM news station. Jerry would pull up in his van, and we would determine our plan for the day. Sometimes I would head off in my own truck to spend a day working on another job site, and other times I would ride with Jerry all day. And although he never said it out loud, some days I would wonder what he actually needed me there for, and then I figured out that it was mostly for the company.

“We’re going to my father’s today.” Jerry remarks as he flips his turn signal and looks in the direction of the turn.

“Ok” I say as I take my last sip of rapidly cooling coffee.

Jerry knows the roads we take like the back of his hand. If there is anyone to know in Howard County, Jerry knows them…and they know Jerry. His father is equally as well known. Dutch worked the stockades at the docks in downtown Baltimore. Livestock were brought in by ship and loaded into corrals where trucks would take them to their designated locations throughout the surrounding counties. Some were designated for slaughter, some for agriculture, and some for government testing. Apparently a few years back, they were unloading a particularly feisty bull. As the bull came off the docks, it bolted, and before Dutch could get the pen door closed, the bull flipped the gate off its hinges and essentially head butted Dutch. The diminutive, retired aged man took a running shot from a full-sized bull…and lived.

“Only shame that really came out of it was that he had to quit doing the two things he loved,” Jerry says, as we whip through the back roads like Ichabod Crane, “drinking beer and talking.”

The local pub owner always ordered a case of non-alcoholic beer, should Dutch ever make an appearance. We pull into the driveway of his father’s house. Jerry immediately gets out and begins grabbing some tools. I exit the passenger side with the look of amazement that has been plastered on my face since entering the driveway.

“Like the color?” Jerry remarks, patting me on the back and giving a little chuckle underneath his breath.

“It’s…interesting.” I say.

“Few years back he bought twenty, five-gallon, pails of industrial latex paint at an auction upstate, he decided he didn’t want it to go to waste, and painted the house with it.”

“What color is that supposed to be?” I ask.

“Robin’s Egg Blue”, Jerry replies scratching the top of his head.

Its looks like the color of the sky on a cloudless day…on LSD.

Jerry hands me a crowbar, and points me to a shed in the back yard.

“The backhoe is coming at ten o’clock. I need everything you think might be worth savin’ in that shed out by that time. We’re gonna tear it down.” He says as he heads toward the side door of Dutch’s house.

He turns. “Oh and by the way…Crazy Pete’s gonna come over and help you.” Then he disappears inside the house painted like Willy Wonka’s nightmares.

Here I am standing outside of a house that could just be where the “Great and Powerful Oz” would live, with a crowbar in my hand waiting for a man named “Crazy Pete”.

I head toward a shed that has the exact opposite effect the house has on its initial viewing. The shed is no bigger than a small bathroom. It has a simple wood plank floor raised off the ground about ten inches. The siding is made of 1x6 boards nailed in an alternating pattern vertically. A simple, angled tin roof sits on top of the shed like a comfortable hat. The shed has obviously seen its better days, and I worry if I step into it, I won’t be in Kansas anymore.

“Looks a little rickety don’t it”, comes the voice from behind me. I wonder what Ash would do in this situation?

“Go on in, nothing in there gonna bite you…I don’t reckon.”

You know that scene in Deliverance…?

I turn to find a man, who is surprisingly hard to categorize by age. He looks like he is in his late 60’s, but his voice is young, almost vibrant. He stands before me in a pair of tattered blue jeans, a tank-top undershirt, and hair that can only be described as what Einstein might have had if he had gone through the heroin-chic era. He opens his mouth wide to give me a friendly semi-toothless smile and remarks, “Had to take my bridgework out while I’m a workin’.”

“I’m Crazy Pete” he says as he extends a hand towards me.

Now I’m not worried too much at this point, although for some reason I do have a passing image of Ned Beatty in my mind. It always concerns me a little when people attach adjectives to their name. It’s one thing for someone else to attach it. “Like I have this friend, Ditzy Jane, we call her.” And everyone proceeds to ask:

“Is that really her name?”
“What makes her so ditzy?”

and so on…

But when THAT person refers to themselves that way, well then I have to raise a little concern…right?? But I feel that may be asking about how he got his name is better suited once we’ve destroyed a shed together.

I open the shed door’s simple latch and it reveals a dark, dank space with creases of sunlight peeking through the cracks in the siding. “This is how horror movies start.” I think. As I open the door wider to the allow the full light of day to wash over the floor, I immediately notice that it looks like most people’s sheds. Gasoline cans lying around, Mason jars filled with nuts and bolts, screws, washers, and all manner of small odds and ends. I notice what I believe to be a hitch bar in the corner. A hitch bar is what we called a large pry bar about five foot in length with one end looking like a large nail head and the other end a flattened piece of blade iron. Basically, it’s a big iron fulcrum. Except when looking down to see a blade, I see the end is sharpened to a point.

Why is it that whenever you walk into a new unfamiliar space the last place you look is I up?

Across the beams hang a series of iron hooks and chains, and my first response is that Jerry’s dad has secretly been in the S and M movement for years, perhaps even one of its founding fathers.

Crazy Pete pushes past me and begins to lower the hooks off their nails. He has three in each hand and turns towards me to walk out. Somehow I am reminded of Wolverine Vol. 2, issue 1.

“Hogsh hooks.” He says with a slight lisp from his absent bridgework, and walks past me back into the light.

“What hooks?”

“Hog hooks. Dutch used to slaughter his own hogs. These er fer hooking the hog to drag him down to the blood tub to drain.” I immediately regret having that bacon with the side of eggs for breakfast.

He returns to the shed and grabs the bar.

“This is fer speerin the hog. Right down through the neck.” And he raises the bar above his head and brings the point crashing down into the soft earth. “Ain’t nothin’ better than slaughterin’ your own hog.”

In the course of fifteen minutes, I have discovered the shed from Evil Dead, met a guy named Crazy Pete, and had an engaging and hands-on demonstration of “hog slaughterin’”. All this happening in the shadow of the house from the Smurfs.

Over the course of the next two hours, Crazy Pete and I would ramble on some more about the practice of “poaching a pig”, and I would know more of why Pete refers to himself as “Crazy”. Pete and Jerry went to school together. They’re related in some way, but with Pete’s bridgework lying in a glass of water across the street, I shake my head a lot and utter “yeah, uh-huh” the way most people do to sound interested in what someone is saying although you have no idea what is being said. Apparently his moniker “Crazy” derives from something that happened at a local high school football game. I can’t catch all of it, but I do pick out the words “ride”, “donkey”, “naked”, and “jail”.

Pete lives next door to Dutch in a house he describes as, “full of my full-time bitchin’ wife and whore of a daughter.” He smokes more than a nervous Sean Penn during a Charlie Rose interview. And I’m pretty sure that there is some kind of prevalent drug habit that makes up most of his past. Yet, Pete has an innate sweetness about him. After slinging slaughter supplies for a couple of hours you feel as if you get to know a guy. Jerry would tell me later that Pete takes whatever money he can work or scrounge and will head to North Carolina for days, sometimes weeks at a time. Then he will call around to see if anyone can go and pick him up or he hitchhikes with the truckers along Interstate 95. Jerry says he will spend all of his money on hookers and cocaine, his wife is not as bad as he says she is, and his daughter is actually a whore.

The back hoe comes and takes the now empty and discarded shed to the ground. Pete is standing in front of it, taking long drags off a cigarette, the smoke wafting into the clear blue sky, his shadow casting long along the grass to the back of the house.

Jerry emerges from his father’s house.

“Why do you call him ‘Crazy’ Pete?” I ask?

Pete will take his money for a hard day’s work and head to North Carolina. No one sees him for months. Dutch will pass on within a year.

“Cause. We thought “Stinky’ Pete was just too cruel a name.”

Keep It To Yourself

2008-07-22T13:47:00.005-05:00

There are just certain things you don’t say or do to a pregnant woman. Obviously, and I may be totally wrong about this, but I think most people get that memo. Birth is unique in that it is one of the few events in an individual’s history that they can share with every other living human being on the planet, yet no one can remember it. We all went through it, but I challenge anyone that says they can remember being born, yet it has happened to all of us. Somewhere between that blankness of memory and impending adulthood, we develop a certain awareness to memory, but nothing we can do, dream, or hallucinate will recall that event back to us. It’s as if the two things we commonly experience in life, birth and death, we have to rely on the memories of others. Well, not death actually…cause why would you need to remember your own death? Anyway…I digress.

“I hope that this situation will not stress you out and cause you to lose the baby. I would be very upset. It would just kill me.”, she says through a thin veil of tears hanging from her eyes. This coming out of the mouth of a woman whose “family” was preparing to sue my pregnant significant other. The suit would be dropped in a few days because of lack of evidence, but I knew it was because of lunacy. Because if you say something like that to a pregnant woman, you have stepped off the balance beam of mental stability and floated into the abyss of just plain stupidity. Because this is what a pregnant woman hears in her head, “I would like to cut your baby out with a spoon. But no hard feelings…eh?”

We have a cousin that lives in the same town we do. Plenty of people have family that lives close to them. All families, I have come to realize, also have that family member that is vaguely inappropriate in social settings. You know the Uncle that burps the alphabet at family reunions, or the Aunt that smells of some kind of exotically bad cheese and has a knack for always hugging you into her armpit. Two things I immediately notice about these family members: One is that they seem to only be this way with family, and that it only seems to bother family members. Outside of the familial bounds, the uncle is seen as charmingly rude. His friends laugh at him and say things like, “Well there’s Ralph for you. He’s a real character.” While the aunt is seen as charmingly exotic, friends remark that her artwork is handsomely abstract, and they don’t even notice the 27 cats in her house anymore when they visit her. The other thing that I notice is that an amazing amount of family members DO NOT live anywhere near the offensive party. I am not that family member. Up until a few months ago, the “cousin” (as I’ll refer to him), lived in the same state, but at a comfortable distance. I find that right amount of distance is about three hours. It’s just far enough away to weasel out of visitation, and seriously decreases the chances of a random meeting. An hour drive requires little effort, while three hours puts you in the range of a serious trip. That however all stopped when the cousin moved into the same town. Have you ever noticed with the family you want to see you have to put in an enormous amount of effort, but the people you would just assume disown if you could, always have a way of randomly showing up at your doorstep to announce their great and abiding presence in your life?

“We’ve moved up here! Isn’t that great! Now we have family to hang out with!”, he says at my front door while he bounces up and down like a child waiting to blow out the birthday candles. This being the same man that only a few weeks earlier had made a random visit to my girlfriend’s place of business and proceeded to fart on her leg and laugh in front of her other co-workers. The way he announces himself in the store is to grab an unsuspecting associate and have them announce over the walkie-talkies that her “lover” is in the store and would like to see her. He is her first cousin, and he is forty-two years old and married. Lest you think he is a total ogre, let me in fairness inform you that he has a successful career, and from all appearances a lovely wife. They live a comfortable lifestyle, and reside in a nice house. Professionally he’s a success; socially he’s a train wreck.

We had debated for some time telling family about the pregnancy. Not because we didn’t want to tell anyone, it’s just that it was just as much a surprise for us as it would be for them. I came up with a three-tiered plan for telling our families, press release style. We, of course, told our parents first, and from there we moved our way though the immediate families, letting other family members share in the joy by allowing them to tell the immediate family strata below them: parents to children, to uncles, aunts, and so on. We told the mother of the cousin, and informed her that we would tell him when we felt the time was right, which she wonderfully honored.

“I have football season tickets for you.” he says into the receiver of the phone.
“We’re not going to get them this year, we have other things we are planning on.” she says dryly as if talking to a casual acquaintance.
“What?!? What could be more important than football tickets!” he screams as if he’s just received the news his house has burned down.
“We’re expecting a baby.”, she says calmly.
“So what’s that have to do with not getting football tickets?”

Two days ago he shows up at her work. He is with his wife.

What is it about pregnant a woman that opens up the opinion bloodbath? It seems that everyone, regardless of whether or not they have children, feel its ok to tell you their advice on children or that they must tell you their worst pregnancy stories.

“It was wrapped around the baby’s head three times, and I spent three hours in surgery so they could get the little bastard out…but he’s such a joy! We’re so lucky to have him!”

“Oh you won’t get any sleep! I was in labor for 16 hours. I didn’t take the epidural, stood on my head and did two back flips right before she popped out. You will never work harder in your life! But it’s all worth it.”

“Oh honey, don’t worry about taking a shit everywhere! Just ask for the enema. And bring plenty of snacks!”

He proceeds to first start touching her stomach. Now I don’t know a lot of things, sometimes my social graces need a little refining, but I do know one thing…you do not touch the stomach of a pregnant woman unless she ASKS if you want to, and maybe not even then. If you like your hands actually attached to the ends of your arms, my advice to you is steer clear of the tummy touching. Fair warning.

He then makes a comment about her size increasing. People…listen, and listen good. It is never ok to make a comment to a woman about her size, period. It ranks right up there, and maybe higher than asking her age, weight, or going through her purse. But saying it to a pregnant woman borders on being both stupid and dangerous. I know my woman. She’s like most women; she has a concern about how she looks. I wouldn’t call it a dangerous concern, but if you think your woman doesn’t have it, you’re retarded. Now take that normal concern for a woman and feed it the steroids of pregnancy and you have a woman who looks (in my humble opinion) wonderful, but feels like a hippo and the Spruce Goose all rolled into one.

“You know your boobs are going to get big and tender. Bigger than they already are!”

This is something you might hear from an inappropriate obstetrician, not your first cousin.

If I had been there, this is the point at which I would have taken a swift kick to his twig and berries. Not that it would have made any difference. This is the same man that informed us at our first ever dinner with them, the great lengths and personal conviction that went into getting “his winky snipped” as he put it.

His wife stands there…mute.

You’ve gotten that look from your partner. The kick under the table, the glaring look, the pinch on the back of your arm fat that your significant other so lovingly gives you to let you know that, in fact, you have crossed the imaginary line of good social sport. I get “that look” all the time. If it wasn’t for her, I’d have to go and get that tattoo on my forehead that says “Insert Foot Here”. That’s how relationships work. It’s as much about keeping each other out of trouble as it is getting in trouble together.

“I think I should say something!” I utter as I push my chest out in bravado pacing a track across the floor. My whole stomach is churning and I feel like a football hooligan on opening match day. My mind runs circles around various scenarios resembling something of an amalgam between the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and The Godfather. I envision taking him down with my posse at an abandoned toll booth stop. Rat-a-tat-tat, the rhythm in my head is almost deafening.

She lies on the couch, with her belly exposed. The life of our child swimming inside her, and she says, “What are you going to say? He won’t even get it if you explain it to him.”
And in the middle of my mind, bullets raining down, I realize she’s right. Put your Tommy guns away.

If I were to say or do something, I know the reaction I would get…bewilderment. He would stand there after my highly justified and incredibly logical berating, and have a quaint, almost childlike expression on his face. My dog gets the same look on her face after she has gotten in to trouble. The head tilted sideways, ears drawn forward, and eyes as calm and glassy as the sea.

Then, he would probably try to hump my leg.

You Pay for What You Get

2008-03-19T11:17:00.007-05:00

I'm excited. Not that mushy love excited, the kind of excited that can only come from buying something. You know what I am talking about. The brand of excitement that usually comes with Christmas. Here I am felling a little bit like a little boy of eight, feet wrapped tightly in "footy" pajamas resembling cased haggis, blond thin hair all flopped to one side, buckteeth smiling proudly from the wide creases of a little mouth, big ears extended to pick up small satellite transmissions, and hunkering down before a piece of hacked off pine that once occupied the skirt of the sand pit that conveniently was located at the end of a dirt road up the street. THAT kind of excited.

Now "what" you may ask demands this kind of excitement from a thirty-eight year old man? A new television. That's right. I said it. A BRAND SPANKING NEW TV!! But one thing...I don't watch TV. Now let's set the record straight before we go any further.

About October of 2006, I returned from vacation in Colorado to find that Comcast had, once again, raised our cable and internet rates. Now I have (had) one thing that I watched TV for...HBO. That's it. I could do without the rest. Reality TV? HATE it. Don't come walking up to me and ask my opinion on the latest American Idol, Project Runway, Survivor, Big Brother, or even the now most excellent incarnation of evil on the tube, American Gladiators. Didn't we all get together about twenty years ago and decide this was a bad idea originally?? Thanks writers strike. So my cable bill (basic digital), plus internet, had now ballooned to $150 a month. No way. Not for THIS version of television. Even Tony Soprano couldn't make me think that I was going to get raped monthly and still like it. So, I told them to shut it off.

I've never taken heroin. I'd rather fall from the top of the Space Needle that even attempt that drug. Ever seen Trainspotting? Point made. I went through TV withdrawls. I was waking up in the middle of the night like some Dickensian antagonist being visited by the ghosts of Anthony Bourdain, Keith Olberman, and Ian McShane. They were begging me to take them back, damned be the cost. Nope. F- Comcast. Period.

So what do I need a new TV for you may ask? Well, does anyone really need a new TV? Well you will in about 10 months, or at least you will have to pay someone else (again) to have a set-top box so you can watch on your "cruising toward the landfill" television set. You need look no further to our government for that decision. Evidently we were running fast out of analog bandwidth. All our shows crammed into one little spectrum of light. Then along comes digital. More space is needed...bada-bing, let's pass this one on to the consumer. You may now drop your pants and face the wall, knees akimbo, with a smile on your face.

But I found an alternative. Unless I sound like some bitter man raging against the rampant juggernaut of commercialism, I watch TV. That's right. I still enjoy Anthony Bourdain, my HBO series', Weeds, BBC America and many others. I just had to get creative. I go to the local movie store, Wal-Mart, and online. Know what I found? They sell these shows on DVD, and no commercials! But you knew that right? So why drop the cable altogether? Because I found I can watch what I want, when I want...for about a third of the price. That is, if I don't mind waiting a little longer than those bent up against the wall of their house, being held hostage. In fact, I can now watch a show, the night after it airs, for about a buck. It's called my Xbox. Welcome to the digital age.

But is this really why I am buying a new TV? Emphatically no. Is it that HDTV is around the corner and I have to fit into the masses before my socially structured ego is yet again rent asunder? Not even close. So here are the reason I am so excited about a new TV...I'll just give you ten to get the gist of it.

1. Akira Kurosawa
2. Julie Taymor
3. Wes Anderson
4. Michel Gondry
5. Spike Jonze
6. Alfonso Cuaron
7. Robert Rodruigez
8. Quentin Tarantino
9. Milos Foreman
10. Stanley Kubrick

I could go on with a list as long as my arm. The reason I am excited is to finally see some of the greatest moments, scenes, and directors to ever be captured on celluloid and transferred to DVD.
I want it big, loud, and bursting with all the color one man, or woman, can cram into a single delicious frame. Now if that doesn't get you excited, weak in the knees, mildly aroused, and ready to have your senses bombarded, then I don't know what will.

Maybe give Comcast a call.

About Time...

2008-03-16T11:35:00.003-05:00

I figure it's about time to really give this blog thing a try. So, I'll be posting on a daily (hopefully) basis on items that have no trivial value for anyone or anything. At times, they may have some personal or cultural relativity, other times...I reserve the right to rant. So...here we go.

Hoping For A Piece of Frozen Hell or Penance for Sins, Pennants for Wins

2007-10-15T10:31:00.000-05:00

It’s been hot here in Alabama this summer. It’s been hot everywhere this summer. Places that usually stay more temperate have had rising heat indexes; while the warmer regions of the country (insert “deep south” here) have just been downright unbearable. It seemed as if for weeks and weeks the mercury on the thermometer held steady at an even 100 degrees with no thoughts of taking a break. And let’s not even get started on the drought that many regions of the country have been enduring all summer. We haven’t had a decent drenching here in Alabama for almost 5 months. My yard is so brown that when I take out the dog the burnt grass underneath pops like bubble wrap. It was giving a whole new meaning to the phrase, “The South is burning.”

Then, last week, things started to cool off a bit. Temps were rising only into the lower 80’s, with evenings dropping down in the lower 50’s, and on one evening the high 40’s. Welcome relief. I turned off the A/C and opened the windows to let a little air waft through my humble home. And let me tell you it was about the perfect time, this place stared to smell like a college dorm room inhabited by hippies and international students.

But why did the temperature break? I went searching for the meteorological answer on the internet. Was there some strange weather anomaly that had allowed the heat oppressed south to feel an early reprieve from the early autumn heat? No. Well maybe, I don’t know, that’s not really the point to the story, and besides, understanding weather is akin to me trying to play scrabble with George W. Bush, frustrating and boring. However, I did find a possible answer in a story that was buried most of last week in favor of more pressing news, namely that Spears chick losing custody of her kids.

Late last week, Islamic leaders sent an open letter to Christian leaders throughout the world, asking for peace. That’s it! I found the answer. Hell finally froze over. Most likely not a deep freeze, but surely a paper thin coating of frost at the gates of hell. The real hard freeze will happen if the Christian leaders respond. Cynical you say?? Yes, most definitely! All the greats in the pantheon were sent letters, Catholics, Presbyterians, Methodist, Baptists, even the Lutherans probably got a letter, I sure hope they did, they kind of have the market on the whole letter writing thing in their history. Now whether some smart-ass decided to nail it to the Lutheran headquarters door is at this point unknown.

The embarrassing part to this story is that the Muslim leaders, from all different sects of Islam I might add, got together to draft a letter of peace. Can you honestly see all the different Christian denominations coming together to draft a letter of peace to anyone, let alone Muslims? They are still struggling with the poor, socially unacceptable, and downtrodden to even bother to come together on subjects like peace with the Muslims. Anyone remember the Crusades? If they start responding to peace letters from the Muslims, what’s next? An open letter of apology to the Native Americans? How about a letter of peace to the gays or the African-Americans? Will the next stop be apologies all around for the Inquisition? And don’t think I am letting the Mormons and the Baptists off the hook for their “we weren’t even around for any of that!” excuse. They both have their dirty little secrets in the closet, and don’t exactly proclaim the “Plays Well With Others” banner. The Church of England will probably write a nice letter of response though, something non-committal and free of threatening retort. Listen, I liken the whole scenario to baseball: penance for sins, pennants for wins, that's my motto. Imagine the National league sitting down and drafting a letter of peace to the American league. If they did, it might go something like this:

Dear American League,

No more games, playoffs or World Series, let’s stop this pointless bickering and competition and get together for the greater good. We will now work pro-bono for the salvation of all the fans, not just the ones who can afford to come and sit in our seats. We apologize to those we have downtrodden, the blacks, though we made amends in 1947. To the homosexuals we also apologize, although we have yet to come to terms on a deal. Instead of competition, we will now call it “friendly rivalry”, and no winner or losers should ever be declared. We propose no system of ownership or propriety. Everyone will be free to practice baseball as they see fit. We will sign autographs freely, meeting the people out in their homes. Their will be no more marketing of our respective teams. The public will be free to choose their teams. No more criteria of who has more pennants, or wins, or curses. All will be equal in the sight of the grand and glorious commissioner. Let’s finally put these squabbles behind us, and move into a new period of peace and prosperity.

Signed,

The National League

That’s why the letter of peace won’t work. That’s why this “cold” snap won’t last. And if any member of the Red Sox nation tries to tell you they would at last make peace with the Yankees, get ready for the deep chill. But I think I hear hell thawing out already. Go ahead. Listen.

Harry Potter author admits to reading on the “john”.

2007-09-17T10:37:00.000-05:00

While most Americans readily admit to having a stash of magazines in the bathroom to peruse, Harry Potter author, J.K. Rowling hinted there may be more substantial reading in her water closet. In a recent interview to Oprah’s O Magazine, Rowling admitted her reading fetish by commenting, “I read when I’m drying my hair. I read in the bath. I read when I am sitting in the bathroom. Pretty much anywhere I can do the job one-handed, I read.” Rumors quickly began circulating about her admitted obsession. Lowell Downly, a local pub-owner in rural Edinburgh, Scotland, adopted hometown to the famous children’s author, admitted to seeing Ms. Rowling come into his establishment last month, “with a stack of books in her hand, and heading to the loo.” Calvin Gatherbottom, an intern with Rowling’s UK publisher Bloomsbury, cited during an interview, that Rowling had recently asked for a list of the “hot authors” and for a private bathroom to be installed in her editor’s office. Her editor could not be reached for comment.

So far among the young readers of her famous Harry Potter series, bathroom reading has increased 38%. With the new release of the final installment of the series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, readers were indulging while participating in all kinds of necessary activities. Ronald Deaver, a 20 year-old English major at the University of Vermont claims, “I had to get through it in 24 hours, there just wasn’t going to be any stopping. I ate, showered, and yes, even went the bathroom with Harry Potter. I would have done anything while reading the book, there had to be no compromise.”

Mary DiAgresio of the National Council on Bookreading Habits, states that this is not an all-together new phenomena. “When John Grisham revealed his penchant for reading on a bidet”, DiAgresio states, “readership on bidet’s went through the roof according to our stringent market research.” In fact, bidet readership went up a staggering 300% upon the arrival of Grisham’s last novel, and sales of the fountain toilet went up 65%. And these are not the only statistics to see a rise. The NCBH states that since the publication of HPDH, time spent in the bathroom reading has increased as well. “Over the last year, we have seen a distinct rise in the number of minutes, and in some cases hours an individual will spend reading in the bathroom” says DiAgresio. The statistics are alarming. Pre-HPDH, the average reader spent 8.6 minutes in the bathroom reading. Post HPDH, the number has taken a significant rise to 24.5 minutes, and in one case, a man from Maryland, spent a total of two hours and fifty-three minutes in the porcelain temple consuming the Rowling narrative. When asked about his experience, the man simply stated, “I couldn’t stop…reading that is.” Commode sales are on the rise as well. Vince Teeler, manager of a local Home Depot in suburban Atlanta says, “Ever since the publication of THAT book, we haven’t been able to keep a toilet in stock, it’s like people can’t get enough.”

Rowling is notorious for keeping her life private, and her stories even more so, but this recent revelation has had a far reaching effect on her readership. 14-year old Anna Montville, of Holland, Mich. states, “I always read Harry Potter wherever I can, and sometimes that means when I’m taking a number two. But now that I know that J.K. does it too, I’m not ashamed of my secret.”

Readers in Los Angeles, New York, and Atlanta have been seen lining up at public restrooms with their copy of Deathly Hallows in tow. Said one reader, who wished to remain anonymous, “If it’s good enough for J.K., it’s good enough for me.”

Running to Stand Still

2007-09-17T10:33:00.000-05:00

I have this recurring dream that I am running. Not so much as running from something as…just running. Richard John and Lillian Francis met sometime in the early ‘20’s. Most likely at school, at least that’s what the clearest memories of the people who are involved in this story can recollect. He liked sports, she resented her middle name being spelled like a boys, an “i” where there should have been and “e”. Theirs was a deep and abiding passion right from the start. Lillian sends love letters wisped with the mild essence of lavender water.

The lines.

The phrases.

The very letters, dripping a weight of affection. They would be caught in the back seat of a car kissing passionately. Parents would come to agree that instant marital union was the best choice to ward off any dangers. A boy of rigid Swedish mid-western upbringing and a staunchly raised Irish red-head would tie the knot before their eighteenth birthdays. Life would begin hard, and fast. They would have a Christmas baby before their first anniversary, Anna. Nancy, Patricia, Richard Earl, and Jerry would be added before the brood was full. The man would serve his country in France and Germany during World War 2. The woman would become a sales woman at Yonker Brothers department store. The husband would come home and drive an ice truck in the summers and a coal truck in the winters.

He would have an affair.

It would break her heart.

They would stay together, the dirty little secret tucked away in the far corner of a long lost forgotten house of memory. He would give up his job and move to Washington State to work for the school district in Seattle, his son Jerry would follow in his footsteps after a bout with diverticulitis and depression. She would slip into an ever deepening madness so that now her children and their spouses call her “boss”, the name Lillian now being confined to work where she prefers “Lily”. He would develop a love for music, being able to read music on sight and translate them to an instrument, his sweeping tenor voice breaking the air with song. She would take up smoking, and make him feel guilty for being talented.

They have grandchildren they would go visit. Grandmother would complain, grandfather would dole out pieces of beef jerky while smoking a pipe packed with cherry tobacco. They would live out of the travel trailer for months at a time. The stale, bitter smell of tobacco and resentment lingers in the air.

They would make their peace.

Retire in quiet.

Someplace peaceful, where you can only hear the wind rustling the leaves on the ground while a warm sunset glow fills in the edges between the trees. He would be diagnosed with cancer while his grandson was playing in a national high school basketball tournament in Milwaukee. She would start to drive to the bitter edges of her own sanity. The husband would die a month later of stomach cancer, having never wrapped his arms around his children in love. His funeral is attended by immediate members of his family still surviving. She would live on 8 years more. Never fully coming to grips with her life and the loss of her husband. She would smoke three packs a day, sneak in candy, and steal sweets from the food cart meant for other patients. She would die withered and fragile with no mind left, cremated. Neither, as much as the sources can recall, ever showed affection. She never said “I love you”, or “I’m sorry” to her eldest and dearest daughter. They would live three thousand miles apart till her death.

They now reside in a small piece of earth in a rural area south of Seattle, their ashes in cardboard boxes, buried next to each other. No one except the youngest son knows the whereabouts of the graves. No markers. I met them once when I was 6. These are my grandparents.