Labrys

A Lovely Couple

2011-10-05T10:38:00.000-07:00

Writers are often inspired by love. I know a couple that are so much in love that I smile just to be near them. Their love spills around them like a waterfall and envelopes everything near. The subject of love often calls for the creation of a poem, rather than the use of prose. Let me make this attempt.

A lovely Couple

She is his girl, so Savvy, She gets Whatever She Wants
Because he loves her and because she deserves it and nothing more
Clattering into town in the old white van,
"Click", quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Packed like sardines in the Lil' Whale
Sharing their way with marginal success
Better saving cats than criminals
Better planning to Cruise
Better jonesing for Tim Horton's or a can of Busch beer
Dollar days and DVD nights of love on the boat with no name
The pretty boat with Raven eyes and Savvy smiles
Better saving boats than Tom Cats or criminals
Rat Fink safe and sound in a bag
Ribs covered in linen and high water pants on the boom
Entertaining just one more stupid question
Pina colada chasers that warm the blood in the cool night wind
Sounding like angels at the end of a broken guitar string
Such is their love
Like angels, although he never did like that guy
She laughs and the papers are signed
Its official, Whatever She Wants
How delightful they are, my two vagabond friends
With dreams that come true before my eyes
Far away dreams than sail with the tide and time and weather
Leaving me behind

They are indeed a lovely couple very much in love. They give the rest of us great hope to see such a great thing manifest in the world. They are wonderful to have as friends. Be careful of any vagabonds you may meet along the way. They just may steal your heart.

Twix

2011-09-10T02:12:00.000-07:00

I have had no great breakthroughs in my understanding of life, other than to know that it is better to be immersed in it rather than to study it from the sidelines. My grandmother, especially in the last 25 years of her long life wondered why she was still here. She had bobbed up to the surface of life after grandfather passed, left with only the sensation that she was adrift in the waves.

Having something to do, likely a job that followed a regular schedule, may have been the balm that would have set her right. I do know that my own personal experience has taught me that I'm happiest when I am employed in some fashion as opposed to being idle. My musing along these lines comes about from an afternoon with a wonderful little dog named Twix.

Twix, oh, he is so cute that I call him Twixie! He is a lovable dachshund, standard in size, with a smooth, what I would call a brown coat, but I believe those in the know would call it a red. He has a wonderful long nose and large floppy ears. His chest is broad and the long body sits atop short stubby legs set on over sized paws. Then there is his tail, which is a long and sinuous whip of a thing that tells as much about what he is thinking as anything.

Twix lives aboard M/V Perelandra, a large private motor vessel with Miss Kittie, his owner. The Perelandra is named after the second book in the C. S. Lewis Space Trilogy and I think the name fits it well. It has a spacious wheel house, ample quarters fore and aft below, and a wonderful upper salon deck which affords beautiful views of the marina and bay. There is good fishing in the marina itself and Miss Kittie is a good fisher woman.

Now, the thing that employs Twix the most aboard Perelandra is playing catch with a tennis ball. He is very particular about the color of the ball, it must be green. He also is choosy about the brand, preferring Penn or Gamma and shunning Wilson. I suppose it may have to do with the way the ball mouths, or possibly its bouquet.

He must perform at least one trick before the game is allowed to start and like tennis, there is no time limit on the game itself. Twix will play until play is interrupted. On the day I visited aboard Perelandra, Twix was encouraged to start play by dropping the ball into a bowl and then retrieving it. Game on.

If one says "I can't reach it", Twix will toss the ball back to you. If you are on a soft surface, like a berth, he will drop kick it to you with his long nose. If on the deck, he just gives it a roll. In either case his tail whips along just as the ball flys towards you. I believe it provides a catapult effect and is adorable.

Twix is completely rapt when playing ball. He has no past, no future. His cares and concerns are completely obliterated by the present moment. He is absolutely immersed in the employment of playing ball.

There is one thing that will pull him from his rapture and that is when a fish is hooked. Twix gets so excited that he dashes to the rail with ball in mouth, and in his glee as the fish is being hauled on deck, will actually drop the ball. I hurriedly had to grab the long handled net and retrieve it from the water for him. He gave it no mind. His whole being was captured by the presence of the fish.

Miss Kittie has taught Twix to kiss the fish, and he did that lovingly at first, but since a catfish poked him with a barb, the kisses are more like love bites and I fear for the safety of the fish!

So, I conclude from all this musing, that a steady employment among those of good company with an occasional excitement make for a healthy rewarding life. Twixie agrees with me from the tip of his cute prolonged nose to the end of his expressive tail. I wish my grandmother would have been able to see him so many years ago. It may have changed the last quarter century of her very long life. I can only hope that those of us that are still living, may apply this small canines bit of wisdom to our own lives as well.

Memory Of House In Place And Time

2011-02-21T14:18:00.000-08:00

It was a small house, a two story built in the Craftsman style. I suppose it had been built in the late 1920's. The family that lived in it all of my young life were best friends to my father and I suppose as a result, also to my mother and me. The house is a stranger to me now, but I remember it clearly.

There was always a riot of children in that house and I never knew it to be quiet except late in the night when sleep would finally take all and leave peace on the door step. It was a grand place to be a child, full of wonder and fresh delight.

The house had a front porch of course. Nothing special, but covered and wide and deep enough to allow extended occupancy. The kind of front port designed for a swing and rocking chairs although I never knew of anyone to actually linger there. It was more of a launching pad for the front door and the excitement that lay inside.

The wooden front door with the big glass window was always open in the summer and barely closed at any other season. We blew by it making a hard right to the landing at the bottom of the stairs and then a mad dash to the top landing, never pausing at the window, then hard left the rest of the way to the hall. There were only the three bedrooms and one large bedroom sized bath. That was how they did baths back then. And the bedrooms usually held us in bunk beds when our ages and sizes warranted. We battled and cajoled for top or bottom as seemed best at the time.

There was always a television on in the bedroom and when we were confined indoors there were Sci-Fi and monster movies and of course Charlie Chan, Sherlock Holmes, and Tarzan to keep us entertained. The local Cleveland CBS affiliate carried Ghoulardi and later Houlihan and Big Chuck. They brought a wacky brand of humor and hip lingo to us with phrases like, "Turn Blue You Purple Knif," and, "Rat Fink." We were delirious. There were sleepovers, Barbecue potato chips, Royal Crown Sodas and the mother of all TV foods, pizza!

We never slowed going back down those steps, preferring to jump to the first landing and fly to the second. The mirror on the coat closet door caught us mid sail and we could admire ourselves in it and rightly so. We were quite proud of our abilities.

The living room was usually packed with games of all kinds. There were kid sized tables for pool, football, hockey, pinball, and assorted others as fashion dictated. The tables were sturdy, but still, did not last terribly long in the face of kid commotion and were replaced often, usually with a newer and therefore hotter model. The sofa stretched along the front of the room under the big picture window and was strictly reserved for George, the father of the house.

How can I describe George? Aw, now that is making me remember. He seemed such a very large man to all of us kids. He was extremely friendly and generous and loud. He never failed to pay attention to us, pointing out our existance with a resounding cry of "Yoy!" We crushed and eddied around him but only for moments at a time, our currents running too swift and deep. There were only two times that he would cause us to suspend our escapades, when it was time for his nap under the picture window and when he was engaged in doing "The Books" for his business at the little desk in the dining room. I have the most wonderful memory of George, fast asleep on the sofa, with his yougest son Fankie spawled asleep across his massive chest.

The Dining room was seldom used for dining. There was just too much going on for that. It held the little desk, the huge leather recliner that would either hold George or three or four of us in front of the color TV. We piled deep in that chair when Joe Namath and the Jets won the Super Bowl in pantyhose. There was a table against the back wall, the kind that opens up for company. I don't remember it ever being opened. In the craftman style built-in cabinets there was one very special drawer. It held what seemed at the time to be hundreds of small toys of every type. There seemed to be no bottom to it and they would issue from it like a fountain whenever it was opened.

The kitchen belonged to Gerri, the mother of the house. She was a lovely thin woman with an easy kind smile and an amazingly patient demenour. How she kept us all within her radar and relatively trouble free remains one of the great mysteries. And how she fed us all. Breakfast was fairly straight forward of course, there was cereal in the cupboards and we could be kept quiet while reading the backs of the boxes and when the contents grew low enough, seaching for the toy inside.

But there were counless lunches and an avalanche of dinners. Summers, those could be managed outside from the grill, but summers in NE Ohio are short, so much of her time must have been spent between the kitchen and the laundry. Still, I never knew her to be overwhelemed by all of us nor lament our presence in any way. We could talk to her of course, if we slowed enough to be intelligable. She would always listen and say "Is that so." or "Isn't that special."

The back porch was so small as to be nothing more than a place to change trajectory from the angle of the steps to the opening of the back door. There was hardly enough room to swing a cat out there and we probably would have if it were possible. The steps spilled on to the the black top drive which required frequent renewal, but was always a wonder for at least a summer after it was was laid down. There were all sorts of bikes, peddle cars, skooters, trikes, balls, bats, and gloves stashed in the garage and that pristeen black ashfalt got a workout.

The family car was always a classic station wagon. I don't remember make or model, but it was large enough to carry piles of us. There were picnics at the lake, trips to the root beer stand for Mugs and conies, drive-in movies, ice cream cones. The boys played baseball and football and there was always a game to go to and a stop to make on the way home. Later a travel trailer was added and sat in the side yard. It acted as our summer vacation home where we piled up with the TV and Jungle Larry and pretzles waiting to ambush the Jingle Scoop ice cream truck which could always be heard blocks away.

It was a house full of the greatest volume of life in those days. We thought it would ever be like that but things change. George died way too young and was unable to finish raising his family. The house grew quiet when he passed. Those of us that were not of the family visited less often. Children grew up. Gerri made it a pretty house and things stayed where she put them. I don't imagine it was ever the same for her. I never asked.

I long for those childhood days in that house at times. They were good days. Full of energy and promise and free of care. I have never experienced the like of it since nor do I suppose that I ever will.

The Cruise

2011-02-14T17:10:00.001-08:00

I was fortunate to be able to take a five day cruise out of Galveston recently and this is the account that I penned to my good friend Sandie.

The Cruise

The drive from Corpus to Galveston started out pleasant, a little cool, but sunny. As I got closer to Galveston, the weather turned rainy, cold and windy. The ship, Carnival Cruise Lines Ecstasy, was late coming into port because of dense fog and the boarding passengers had to wait in line outside the terminal in the wind and cold. The rain had stopped by then. We waited about an hour and then the doors opened to let us in. I was only a dozen people from the door and the line stretched for blocks. As I approached the entrance, a security lady stopped me and told me I had to check my bag at the other end of the terminal, but she would let me cut back into line when I returned. I had a long cold walk both ways and got some pretty dirty looks when I went to the head of the line.

The wait in the terminal was another two hours. I amused myself with watching a group of older women playing bridge. They were quite lively and talkative, so the time passed quickly. The actual boarding process went very fast. I dropped my carry-on bag at my room and my checked bag was waiting just outside the door. The room, an interior cabin, was spacious and lovely. I suppose it seemed much larger than it was because I live in 360 square feet inside my RV. The bath was large and brilliantly lit, immaculately clean and gorgeous. There was abundant closet space.

I unpacked and stowed my bags and headed to the Lido Deck for a late lunch. The cafeteria style facility was very comfortable, well staffed and the food was good. This restaurant takes up the entire aft third of the deck with floor to ceiling windows on both sides. The food was quite good. The deli was excellent.

I was pretty tired after the drive and long wait at the terminal, so I decided to take my rest. The bed was turned down with chocolate hearts placed by the pillow and a very creative white swan shaped from a bath towel greeted me. Throughout the voyage, more towel creatures appeared. There was an octopus, stingray, walrus, and an elephant. My cabin steward was excellent in keeping my room made up and clean.

I spent the next day, a day at sea, exploring the ship. I had a nice breakfast in one of the two formal restaurants, lunch in the cafeteria, and dinner in the cafeteria. The shops were open and I did a little shopping. I had my e-book reader and found a comfy spot to read next to the piano player. It was still too cool and cloudy to be out on deck in the elements. Being rested I took in a show in the evening and then spent some time in the piano bar listening to the requests. Lorraine was very good at playing and singing, and was very bubbly and lively. It was nice.

The next day we arrived in port in Progreso, Mexico. I had been in this port before and did not feel like seeing it again alone. The pool deck was sunny and warm, so I put on my bikini and designer sun glasses and headed for a deck chair. The deck was not crowded so I had no problem leaving my chair to fetch lunch and beverages without any risk of losing the chair. I had a very relaxing day. In the evening, we had the first formal dinner and I dressed and went to the dining room. It was the only evening that I went to the dining room. Three of the four table mates did not speak English, being from Bolivia, however one woman was a transplant to Houston and we had a nice conversation. I met her again later on the aft deck and we chatted again. I have forgotten her name already. She had been an ER nurse, married a Scotsman and had a daughter. She loved the USA and had been here for forty years. She was retired and the Scotsman had returned to Scotland to finish out his years. I thought that unusual.

After dinner I attended another show, changed into another dress and went to one of the many clubs to listen to the music and have a drink. I spoke to a couple that had noticed me waiting in the terminal, They were glad that I was not among the "old ladies." I replied that I would have been pleased if I was. They would have been excellent company. I never saw them again, the duration of the cruise. The gentleman was retired from a state government post and they had moved to Mississippi to be near their son and his family. He was very cordial, but I though her quite cold. Perhaps she did not approve of his conversation with the pretty tall blond in the red dress.

Our next port was Cozumel. This is a very nice port and has very beautiful beaches. Once again, I have been in this port before and did not want to explore it alone. I bikini'd and SPF 50'd and went up to the pool deck. The deck was almost deserted, very sunny and hot. There was live music and a number of contests. One was the hairy chest contest which was very funny. I struck up a conversation with a woman from Houston. Christi was her name. She was in her early 40's and had 2 natural and 4 adopted children. She was very interesting to converse with. She was studying to be a councelor and was very spiritual and philosophical. One never knows who one might meet on a cruise, sometimes no one, sometimes someone very interesting.

That evening I had dinner in the cafeteria and went to the comedy club and then to the piano bar. I dressed up for the piano bar. There was a single gentleman that arrived after I did and he sat beside me. I found him attractive. He was tall, slim, about my age, with a full head of wavy dark hair. He was from Oregon. He was very attracted to me, but an impossibly difficult and boring conversationalist. I had to drag out every word from him until we struck on the fact that he had three vintage muscle cars. Unfortunately, that was the only topic he could discourse and I lost interest and retired to my room. I returned later to find him absent. I did meet him again outside of the elevators the last morning before disembarkation but he continued to be tongue tied. Oh well. I wished him safe travels home and that was that.

The next day at sea was windy and rainy and cold. I did have two amusing incidents on the cruise that I can recount. The first was while at the cafeteria for breakfast. I was sitting at my table gazing out the window and the wind was really picking up. The chairs and tables on the outside of the glass, in the elements, began to blow aft. A couple near the window noticed an unattended tray with cups and dishes on it beginning to work its way off one of the tables. The man opened the door and stepped out on deck. He was very surprised at the force of the wind and quickly hunched over to make a smaller profile. He managed to rescue the tray but realized he would have to back his way to the door in his hunched position. I knew he would not be able to open the door and hold on to the tray successfully in that wind. So I went to the door and opened it for him. It would have made for a great video.

The other incident happened with the cabin steward in day two, I believe. I had just stepped out of the shower when the bathroom door opened and there he was! He shrieked and ran out the cabin door. I laughed long and hard about it, but one does not wish to have their nakedness greeted with a shriek. I payed a prank on him by laying out my clothes on the bed as if I were in it. He must have had a start the first time he entered the cabin to clean. He would make up the bed and very carefully lay the clothes back in place just as if I was there. I never saw him again after the shrieking incident.

The disembarkation process in Galveston was amazingly quick and smooth. I was back at the RV by 2:00 PM. The weather was clear and cool.

Those are the highlights. I can only tell you that it was a good cruise, but from experience I can say that cruises are best enjoyed with a special someone, family or friends. They really are not meant for the single traveler. This one may be my last for a long time. I do love cruising though and hope that my fortunes will improve regarding a travel mate.

This was a long letter for a short cruise. I hope you enjoyed reliving it with me.

That Day

2011-01-27T21:27:00.000-08:00

I remember that day on the train to Pittsburgh
With my hand in my daddy's palm
Walking down that long aisle trying not to look
Into all of those strangers tired dry eyes
And being completely uninterested in their brown and black shoes
Daddy opening the door between the cars and feeling the wind in my hair
The little coal drawing fire in my belly yearning for the dining car
Maybe a hamburger and a milkshake might find me there
Where the white linen table cloths swayed with the music of the clack
As that train to Pittsburgh rolled on down the track
Past the grey inverted lives of those passed by
On my way to an Aunt missing one unknown uncle
Whom I had never seen before except in a sepia tone matte with black corner tabs
In the red book next to the nut cracker and the porcelain lamp
A Christmas apparition in a babushka as black as smelters coke
But I didn't know the train was taking me to a time and place
That would never again see the light or hear the whistle, feel the rumble, or smell the smoke
There was nothing but the little hand that held so close and felt so safe attached at the end of my fathers arm

God's Mirror

2011-01-26T21:51:00.000-08:00

I looked into God's mirror tonight and I am not sure why
It was the first time I was ever allowed to do that
And there you were, standing behind those blue cat eyes
That melted my heart so many years ago, or maybe it was just a moment past
Or so it seemed to me then, looking through God's good glass
At a miracle that needed no light to delineate the love from the smudge
That filled my eyes and fogged the memory of why you were gone so long
In a place that I could never be and was always running from
And how you ever found your way to smile at me again
Your gentleness and kindness closer than the ring in my back pocket
That you kept for me in the hopes of something that might just never be
Even if there had never been a me and all that I believed
There in my dark despair for only did you know we shared the same prayer
And tonight in God's mirror, I saw you standing there

Thoughts

2011-01-16T04:58:00.000-08:00

She knew that he had been thinking as he sat in the big leather wing back chair. He always thought in that chair and he took his time there carefully. She paused in the doorway to see if he might speak.

"I could hurt you," he said. His eyes weren't sad.

"No, you could not do that," she said.

"Why?" He smiled, "What would stop me?"

"You know what would happen," she smiled in return.

He was smirking now, "What? Would you press charges?"

"No, I would not have to do that. You know what would happen." Her voice, like music, filled the room.

"Tell me," he said, almost serious.

She moved to take hold of his strong hands. They were wonderful hands, like the paws of a great bear yet she could hold them easily. He was waiting.

She looked into his warm eyes. "God will take me from you and then your heart will break like that wine glass into an infinite number of sharp pieces and he will fling them out to the universe."

"Oh," he smiled. "And how will I ever feel alive again?"

"The only way," she said, "Will be to stand in my gardens beneath a clear night sky and search the multitudes for each tiny shard and as you pluck them one by one from the heavens they will cut you and make you bleed and make you wish you had never been born."

"Yes," he laughed. Leaning forward he sweetly kissed her. "That is exactly what I have been thinking."

A Lyrical Conversation On Life And Death

2011-01-14T14:27:00.000-08:00

My good friend C is quite the the wise sage and I turn to her for the most thought provoking conversations. She was kind enough to grant me permission to share this one with all of my good readers.

The subject of our discussion was the meaning of the lyrics to a song released in 2004 by the musical group Iron and Wine. I give them full credit for the lyrics seen here and assure them that they appear only for the purposes of our intellectual consideration of them. The song is titled "Sodom South Georgia." Here is the transcript of our conversation.

Sodom South Georgia (By Iron and Wine 2004)

Papa died smiling
Wide as the ring of a bell
Gone all star white
Small as a wish in a well
And Sodom, South Georgia
Woke like a tree full of bees
Buried in Christmas
Bows and a blanket of weeds

Papa died Sunday and I understood
All dead white boys say, "God is good"
White tongues hang out, "God is good"

Papa died while my
Girl Lady Edith was born

Both heads fell like
Eyes on a crack in the door
And Sodom, South Georgia
Slept on an acre of bones
Slept through Christmas
Slept like a bucket of snow

Papa died Sunday and I understood
All dead white boys say, "God is good"
White tongues hang out, "God is good"

Me: C, I know you like this song very much. This is a fascinating lyric and very muti-layered. What is your interpretation of it?

C: I've thought about the lyrics to this song sooo many times. I've never had to put my interpretations/ideas into words, but I'm going to think on them a little more and get back to you. :)

Me: Thank you. I will be interested to learn your interpretation.

C: I think I may even surprise myself a little. But then again my ideas could be jibberish. Never the less, you will hear them soon.

C: Well I've thought for awhile and I came up with..... nothing. lol. NOT. But I don't think I have come up with anything that profound at least. Just thoughts. I believe the song, simply put, is about death. It's about dying, how people cope with someone dying that they love, and in general the experience of death. Some people see death as something beautiful and look at it as a peaceful release. Release meaning the ability of someone's soul to escape the imprisonment of a body and reach it's resting place, escape from the trivial aspects of life, it has achieved its individual, beautiful purpose. these people "understand" and feel more at peace with death, and realize, though sad, it is just a part of life, new souls then enter the world, and other souls are reborn. Death and rebirth. To live life in the most fulfilling way and die is the souls ultimate purpose. Death is only the beginning. This thought about death goes for the living whom witness death and those who are preparing for death themselves.

Others look upon death as an extremely terrifying and sad event. Which truthfully, it's usually very hard to view death in any happy way while one is being affected by it directly. This song is about accepting and embracing death, the death of all things, not just a person. Even good things die, we don't know why and it's hard to accept. But the soul reaches a greater place when it's left its body, it's fulfilled, it has gained more experience and wisdom. Life on earth; however, has to continue on the same despite the loss of a soul/anything that they loved with their full being.

Whew... just a little dreary. It's such a deep subject and it's up for lots of debate, I'm sure. Those are my ideas on this song, I suppose. Please let me know what you think, I could be way off, I don't know? Thanks for listening to my ramblings. :)

Me: I will consider your words in the mornings light. You are a deep thinker and I am too tired to study them tonight. Sleep well.

C: Yessss... sleep now great one and ponder the ponderings. LOL. Can't wait to hear.

Me: C, you have greatly surpassed any commentary that I might have on the meaning of the lyric. I do think the song is biographical and personal to the song writer. One interesting factoid is the Sodom Cemetery in South Georgia is an old cemetery dating from the late 1700's with about 700 bodies buried there. Some were slaves and former slaves. I find this fact interesting. Especially against the line, All dead white boys say, "God is good". Also interesting is that the cemetery is like many old cemeteries, somewhat in ruin and used primarily for paupers graves. This leads me to believe that Papa may have had a hard and not very prosperous life, nor were his surviving family prosperous. There is a lament here I think, God is good but perhaps was not so good to Papa and his kin and likely is not going to be in the future. "Lady" Edith may be another lament. She may only hope to be a "Lady" in name only. My interpretation is that the songwriter is telling us about the struggles and failed promise of the living and the release from those struggles and lack of promise in death.

Now as to your narrative regarding death and the way it is approached and viewed by those effected by it. I find your thoughts wonderful in their expression of the reality and truth of this thing we call death. They are quite moving. I shall consider you a wise sage in this regard and worthy of high praise. Death is an interesting thing to ponder, because every time we examine death, we contrast it with life, our own life, and that is where we concentrate most of our inquiries and thoughts, finding those answers within us to guide us that suit. At least for a while.

C: I believe that your thoughts on the lyrics of the song are more correct. I think my thoughts are a little deeper than Iron and Wine was intending to go with his lyrics. The historical facts are interesting. The song, I guess, has to do more with historical/factual information rather than "death" itself. I probably should have looked up Sodom, South Georgia and probably would have arrived at a more logical conclusion.

When God Grieves

2011-01-12T00:54:00.000-08:00

The stars in the heavens are more numerous than can be counted
Although we count them anyway and take pictures of them
With the Hubble telescope, radio telescopes, wee space craft and pocket digital cameras
Sometimes from a mountain top where the air is thin and clear
Others from the vacuum of space with all its Dark Matter that we simply put a name to
Because there is so very much of it that we don't or perhaps can't understand
Even though we want to so very badly and we don't know why

God set so very much in motion the day he looked up from his work of creation and thought
There would be so much more to experience if I gave my children free will
It was a simple thought, a powerful thought, momentous, enormous in its impact
And set the universe spinning in its intensity when all was put into the motion of the unknown

How hard it must have been to see his children stumble and fall
On the way to whatever it is that the his children strive for when they think they can and should
Whether through want or need or duty or society or WORD of GOD or Madison Avenue
Only to have and then have not and grieve, and rise up and gain and lose and grieve again
With nowhere to go in their grief but to God their father and he to resolve time and time there over
Their hurts and sorrow when and where he may if they only let him and many times they do not

Imagine then after all these many years of the burden of the grief of his children
He thought to produce a son, like but unlike the rest, true man and true God
Hoping the free will of his children would not harm the boy, that the children would be kind
Hoping that with all he had set in motion, his son, this special one, would live a long and wonderful life
That he, God, would not suffer the loss of his son, until as an old man he came to his natural end, this was his hope

So that God himself would not grieve, for who might he turn to for resolution
How would God's heart be healed, who does God turn to at a time of loss and sorrow
Yet God took a chance, to have a son, this special son, this flesh of his spirit
For thirty three years he had this special son, thirty three short years
Only to have his children take his son, his flesh upon the earth, to take him away
How God must have wept among the stars alone in his grief and all that Dark Matter

With no one to talk to, to turn to, to cry to, to comfort him in his loss and he knew
That as hard as it was going to be, to lose his son all over again, he had to return him
Whole in the flesh again, to walk among the children, to make them see what they had done
Make them see that they should never do evil again, should never harm a child any child
Be that child one of the children or God's special one and that grief, his grief should wake them
Make them grow, make them understand love and kindness

The lesson being a powerful one, a painful one, God knew he would have to lose his son again
He knew, he returned him anyway, he knew the pain it would bring him and he suffered
In his grief, his eternal grief, to show his children the way, and only because he loved them
Can you imagine what it is for God to experience a loss because of what we have done
And how it must hurt him every time we make the wrong choice and stumble and fall
Only to be set up again by God's grace, and the eternal love that he gives us even as we cause him pain

Be kind, children of God, choose not to bring sorrow and grief upon Earth and Heaven, be kind

A Quest For Service

2011-01-05T06:48:00.000-08:00

Ah yes, once in awhile there is turbulence in an RVers pleasurable, low stress life style. I almost hesitate to write this piece because it is still unsettling in the telling. You see, just as I was ending my Volunteer Park Host stint at Mustang Island State Park (a lovely, cherished experience) and had stowed and secured everything for my exit, the RV would not start. Now, as you may or may not know, my RV is a 38 ft diesel pusher motorhome, ten years old, with a Cat 3126B engine with about 40K miles on it. The motorhome is in grand condition, one might say like new and makes for a very comfortable home on the road.

Now what one does when this sort of thing happens is to call one's Emergency Service provider. In this case Coachnet. So I did call Coachnet on Monday morning requesting service from the Corpus Christi area. They were very kind, took all of my information as to member number, location, nature of the problem, the type of coach, etc. and said they would arrange for service and call me back.

I waited a short while and a nice young man called me from Coachnet to say that there were no service shops in the Corpus Christi area that would be willing to service a diesel motorhome that was over ten years in age. The closest location that was willing to do the service would be in Pharr Texas, 160 miles to the SW and that they would arrange to have my motorhome towed there, that I would not be able to stay in the motorhome until it was fixed and released to me, and not to worry.

Well, that did make me worry. A lot. You see everything that I have in this world is in this RV. And as a single full time RVer I am very reluctant to part with my home especially to strangers in a strange place. How would I protect my possessions? Would towing a 28K pound motorcoach 160 miles cause further damage? What if the service shop was unreliable or dishonest? No, this was not an acceptable solution.

I patiently informed the nice young man that I had reservations regarding the feasibility of his recommended course of action, that I would cast my nets locally for help and then call him back.

His feelings were hurt, I could tell by the tone in his voice. I felt bad about that. But it didn't change my position on the thing.

The captain that I crew for on Wednesday evenings on beautiful Corpus Christi bay is a man of good lineage and standing in this area. He is reliable and a Christian of good character. So it was next to him that I turned. As ever he was in good spirits about the call and resourceful putting me together with a local diesel mechanic of fine reputation. I was noticeably relieved. Rescue was at hand.

The mechanic (I will call him Mechanic One) arranged to come out to look at the problem on Tuesday, but I was very pleased when he called Monday afternoon to say he was on his way. Very good. We were about to get things resolved.

Mechanic One inspected the engine with a lot of very encouraging comments using terminology that I did not really understand but sounding appropriate. He thought the fuel filter needed changing and drove into Corpus for the part and put it on. Then he primed the fuel system. (His words). The engine turned over just as it had before, but would not start. Back to square one.

He inspected the engine further and discovered another fuel filter. This one must surely be the culprit. So off he went into Corpus yet again to fetch another filter. When he returned he changed this second filter and we tried starting the engine again. Same result. It turned wonderfully like a Swiss chronometer. But would not start.

Mechanic One is deflated. He does not have the capacity to check the dreaded ECM or Engine Control Module. The computer. He knows it is a very simple problem, like a sensor, but not which one. He is defeated, apologetic, and feels bad enough that he does not want to charge me for the service call. I am impressed with his earnestness and good intention and pay him parts and travel expenses. He leaves promising to find a pal that has computer training and the equipment to support it and will call tomorrow. That was the last I heard from him.

I have to tell you that I am a worrier and the longer a problem continues without a clearly projected resolution the more I worry. Monday nights slumbers were neither long nor restful. I was becoming edgy and out of sorts as Tuesday morning dawned over the Gulf of Mexico.

I placed another call to my good Captain and he was as chipper and helpful as ever. There was another fellow in town, an Englishman by birth, long time in the diesel engine repair line that he would direct my way. This made me cautiously optimistic. I would have been buoyant, but the previous days experience and lack of sleep had tempered me.

The Englishman (I will refer to him as Mechanic Two) called as promised and said he would be out to look at the problem within the hour. Within the hour he pulled up in front of the RV smiling and cheery and ready to tackle the thing. He inspected the engine. Contemplated. Grew quieter. Then said that the problem was probably some very minor thing like a sensor and that if he only had the computer gadget necessary to diagnose the problem he could definitely fix it. Alas. He did not have the gadget. He was going to get one soon. But had not just yet.

Mechanic Two was very helpful, very cordial, very well intentioned. He called all of the local repair shops attempting to find someone to diagnose and fix the problem. One by one they all said no. They would not work on a diesel motor coach more than 10 years old. (10 years and 6 months old being no exception). Strict company policy and all that. I would just have to stay stranded. They were very nice about it. What could they do? Company policy must prevail.

Mechanic Two was finally able to reach a friend in the transmission repair business that suggested that it might be a transmission sensor that was causing the problem. If I could just have it towed to the shop they would have a look. This seemed promising to me at first take. Then I began to think about it and became uncertain. I know very little about machines, but something just didn't ring true.

Even though my doubts were mounting, I called the Coachnet people and made arrangement to have the coach towed 25 miles to the transmission shop. Maybe it would work out. I had only one shot for the tow. Coachnet said one tow only since I had decided not to heed their advice to use the shop in Pharr. They would not support a second attempt. One tow and then I was on my own. They were very nice and friendly about it, but I could tell they were wagging their finger at the phone receiver where I could not see.

In my desperation on Tuesday morning, I prayed and got on the Internet to the web site for the local Cat engine repair shop. There was a little click-on box on the homepage that said click here to contact a service advisor. I was so at wits end that I did and left a rather frantic plea. Help, I am stranded alone at Mustang Island State Park. Cat 3126B engine will not start. No one will service. I do not know what to do. Please, please help. I meant it. I was becoming a mess.

Not long after Mechanic Two had made his departure (I paid him travel expenses for his efforts) and making arrangements to have the tow to the transmission shop, the Cat dealer called me. The man said that he had got my note and would send someone out if I agreed to the standard shop and travel expense rates which he stated very clearly. He said it was very unlikely that a transmission sensor was the culprit, but rather the engine fuel sending sensor was the more promising cause. I should be better to let his man, specifically trained for servicing the 3126B make the repair. It was my decision. what would I like to do?

How I would know what to do at this point was a mystery. Woman's intuition was the best I could muster. Amid my confusion, frustration, worry and a very quick prayer, I made a decision. I told him to send his man. He agreed to work with Coachnet on the particulars of the travel expenses. I would have to cover the repair costs, part sand labor. We were agreed.

I called Coachnet and got another very friendly and helpful service representative. She patiently listened to my change of instructions, took down all the new information and said she would call me back to confirm in a short while. I went to lunch during which she did call to say that everything was in good order, the mechanic (I will call him Mechanic Three) would be on site on Wednesday. She did admonish me for not following Coachnets earlier directions to have the motorhome towed 160 miles to Pharr and again warned me that I had but this one chance with them then I was on my own. She was very nice and very courteous. I could sense her finger wagging at me at her end of the call.

Tuesday night I slept a little better. After all, a qualified Cat 3126B technician with all of the necessary computer training and equipment was coming to my rescue. I have had my breakfast this warm Wednesday morning, talked to Coachnet once and the Cat dealer once. The Technician is here and looking at the engine. I am praying and praying that he is successful. His computer says it it the fuel sensor. He had the forethought to bring one with him and is installing it now. Praying. Praying. He has installed the sensor and the engine still will not start.

Mechanic Three is doing something with his computer and the fuel sensor and something else. I am not sure what is up. He thinks it is going to start this time. Here goes.

Its started! Its started and it is running, but he doesn't like something on his computer. He says the engine sounds normal but the computer says its not, but the engine is not doing what his computer is saying it is doing. The check engine light has come on.

No, its running, but not correctly. Mechanic Three's computer is giving error codes and the check engine light is on. There seems to be a problem with the HEUI pump. Looks like it is drivable to the shop and that repairs will be in the 2-3 thousand dollar range. There went any savings I may have had from volunteering at the parks for the last year. The shop is looking for parts and scheduling the work. They will let me know the particulars this afternoon. I am relieved that I can drive it in and am very stressed that is needs further repair. I am thinking that I am getting too old to be living this kind of life alone. It may be time to go back to living in an apartment. And less expensive too. I will have to look into that option once the repairs are completed. There may be a very nice well kept motorhome on the market soon.

The weekend passed with little regard to my unrest and on Monday the word arrived that the Cat dealer would make repairs on Tuesday. There was company policy to consider which recommended the replacement of all of the injectors. That extra bit of work would add $3,200 to the tab not counting incidentals and taxes. A call to Mechanic Two set me right and I was certain that this was a very unnecessary additional repair and declined. That policy was meant for warranted repairs and I was not subject to it. I was noticeably relieved.

The Tuesday morning drive 20 miles from Mustang Island to the Cat dealer was a white knuckle experience for me. I prayed very hard at the beginning when the coach would not go more than 20 mph over the Inter-coastal bridge just 5 miles into the trip. The rest of the way it was 35 mph in the slowest lane under emergency flashers. It was a cold morning and very cold in the coach, but even so I was sweating like a point guard in a rough post season game and stayed keyed up most of the day.

My good friend S gave me the kindness of a strong shoulder to lean on and transportation to and from the dealer. I left the Jeep on Mustang Island, fearing the Big Rig's ability to manage the tow. I was very glad that I had, as I would never have cleared the big bridge with the extra weight behind. S met me at the Cat dealer and together we retrieved the Jeep. He followed me to Rockport where I deposited the Jeep at its new home. Then he treated us to lunch at the Chinese restaurant. And in return I treated us to a movie, True Grit, which at the time seemed very appropriate to my state of mind.

S ferried me back to the Cat dealer in the late afternoon where Mechanic Three was just finishing his work. I was just in time to make the test drive with Mechanic Three on board. All systems were go, no computer faults or noticeable hiccups. Just the lovely purr of the Cat engine and the wind in the out rigging. We pronounced the effort a success and headed back to the shop to finish the paperwork.

I was so relieved to have the repair behind me that you can only imagine. The good people at the Cat dealer really went out their way to rescue me when no one else would. I am so very thankful for them, their good efforts, ultimate success and most of all their kindness.

As I write these final words I am safely moored in my new space at the Rockport RV park. It is another cold day, but it is a good one, and I am blessed to have the whole affair behind me. For me, there is a lesson in all this. I am too old and too alone to maintain a large motorhome. And I am tired of wandering. As soon as the weather warms I will have the exterior of the RV re-detailed and will re-detail the interior myself. And then the for sale sign will go in the window. It has been a grand adventure, but even grand adventures must one day come to an end.

Then There Is The Middle To Consider

2010-12-27T08:21:00.000-08:00

We all have but one beginning and one end to our lives. Each and every one of us goes though this sort of entrance gate and exit gate. It is perhaps the only thing that all the multitudes have in common. There is a simple uniqueness about being born. It makes for a nice clean start to things. Imagine if we were all to have to live our lives from conception forward. That idea seems very messy although as I think on it, perhaps we do begin our lives in the fertilized egg and that IS why our lives are so messy. I am going to have to set that thought aside and mull it for awhile. A thing like that shouldn't be considered hastily.

Whether the starting point is at conception or at birth, I suppose, is unimportant to this narrative. Then again, I believe it is the custom in Italy that one celebrates ones birthday on the anniversary of ones conception. But that hardly seems important except that it is much more difficult to determine the day of conception than it is the day of birth. Usually there are a great many more witnesses to a birth with a number in attendance in positions of authority. Conceptions are commonly more private affairs with typically two and perhaps one or two more highly distracted nonobjective parties in attendance sometimes influenced by alcohol or other substances that may impair the exactness of the record keeping process. Again, I pause in thought because of the ready availability of video capture devices, but no, I should not like to go there in any detail.

Well then, there is a simple common beginning for all of us or perhaps not so simple and yet a beginning still with nothing of us before and something of us thereafter. This causes us to start the experience of living our lives somewhat like starting the car so we can put it in motion. Although I suppose that the analogy of the car is somewhat impractical since cars can be put into motion all sorts of ways using gears, transmissions, and simple everyday physics like coasting down a hill under the power of gravity. Or heaven forbid cast about by an impact if one sort or another.

While the conception option of designating a beginning may seem attractive it also lends itself to a great amount of unpredictability. All manner of influences can sway the outcome. Why, something as ill timed as a telephone call could derail the whole expedition. No, the conception method is just too fraught with uncertainty to be of much use in the modern, scientific world. Now, the birth stratagem, that method is very predictable and actually maneuverable, dare I say schedulable. There is an argument among my friends that the time of birth is too manipulated and artificially manifest in today's society. I tend to agree, although I do see the professionals side of things. Time must be scheduled because, as everyone knows, time is money. And there may be a certain godlike feeling, no matter how badly misplaced, by the manipulation of the time of birth. It may give the professional an impression of actually playing some part in the creation of the life, as erroneous as that impression may be. I suppose the debate will continue on its own without my help.

So much for the topic of beginning life and now to a discussion of the ending.

The ending, seems to me (and you will please forgive me for saying so,) more finite than the beginning. I may have to pause again and rethink my statement. Death itself is finale but there may be a gradualness to it. Physicians say that the body does not die all at once and that there can be a fuzzyness about the actual medical definition of what death is. Most of the definition seems to be about the processes of the mind. No mental activity usually means death. Just how it is determined that there is no mental activity can be questionable. I'm reminded of the Monty Python skit where the fellow objects to being declared dead. An argument ensues and is settled by him being bonked on the head and re-pronounced dead. The lack of argument on the part of the deceased seems to add to the credibility of the pronouncement.

One also has to take into consideration the phenomenon commonly called the, "Near death experience." This is when one dies just enough to live and tell about it. I have know several people that have recounted this adventure with amazing satisfaction and dismay. The satisfaction surprisingly comes from the near death experience itself with the return to the living resulting in dismay. It tells like the experience of death is vastly superior to that of living. There seems to be an angelic commonality to the stories, a euphoric journeying into white light, a purification. I wouldn't know myself, but they certainly make it sound good.

With birth there comes an endless array of possibilities. Death seems to close every one of them out for good or ill. There are countless theosophical discussions as to what goes on before we begin our lifes journey and perhaps an even greater volume of debate as to what happens after death. For me the the substance is in the middle where all the living is and I think, if we are smart about it, that is where we should concentrate our attention. As a friend of mine once advised, if one grows to be old enough, one realizes that life is just a fleeting glimpse out of a tall tower window on to the gardens below. We have no choice in the beginning of our lives. I think we should have little decision in its ending except for heroic considerations. The middle is ours to do as we so choose. Make the most of it.

Christmas Memories

2010-12-23T18:52:00.000-08:00

My memories of Christmas past have become shadowy and vague. My adult memories do not seem to want to materialize at all, although it may be caused by my trying too hard. Ah yes, here comes one now. Let me snatch it out of the air before it gets too far out of range.

My mother had a difficult time with the idea of leaving the old neighborhood for a new one closer to her work and, frankly, a much safer environment for her to live in. The old house was in good condition, as she had always managed to keep it well maintained, but the surrounding homes and lots had sunk beyond the standards of good care required to retain or attract good neighbors.

With a lot of cajoling, reasoning, pleading, and bribing, we were able to finally convince her to sell the house and move from the SW end of town (the bad end) to the NE side of town (much better.) I say we, because my mothers friend/boyfriend/weekend live-in was also a huge proponent of the move. He dearly cared for her and wanted her to be safe while he was away from town working throughout the week. It was in this house that most of my adult memories of Christmas derive even though I had my own house and own husband of one or another kind during the time.

Mother's paramour was an Italian by birth and his name in Italian translated to bird in English. To keep his identity confidential I will simply refer to him in this narrative as Bird. Bird was an interesting man, full of a colorful past and a memory like an accountants ledger. He pulled stories from his vaults at will, all punctuated and colored just as fresh as the time in which they occurred. And every one autobiographical and as far as I could tell, true. I will set aside the telling of the stories of Bird's life for later narratives for this one is dedicated to Christmases and my memories of spending them with my mother and Bird.

My mother was by descent English, having the credentials to trace the family lineage in this country back to the early 1700's. It showed in her manner and disposition. She could be uncommonly stoic and fiercely independent, then completely surprise one by being as delicate as a rose (her favorite flower.) Needless to say, Bird had his hands full negotiating the turbid waters of relationship with her. After many a long and animated discussion on the most simplest topic he would throw up his hands and proclaim that he thought Italians to be the stubbornest lot on the globe and yet the the English (meaning my mother) trumped them (meaning him) every time.

Bird was a wonderful cook, limited to Southern Italian cuisine, but non-the-less marvelous. My mother was an able cook. One might say solid. Surely capable of producing the tasty dishes that one expects to find on dining room tables in the American Midwest. At this point you may be having an inkling of just where the narrative is headed. You would be correct in thinking that there would be a great deal of compromise required to integrate the Christmas traditions of two very different cultures into the same household. I won't go into the details of how the compromise was reached but will cut right to the thing itself.

Christmas Eve, The Holy Night, was given over to the Bird's direction and commissioned the Southern Italian style. Christmas day fell under mothers jurisdiction and was celebrated according to Midwest tradition. I mostly stayed at arms length in the days of preparation leading to the twin finale and was able to enjoy both as long as I expressed equal appreciation and satisfaction with each and was careful not to give one a higher rating than the other.

Sweets were a tradition on both days, although very different in nature. For our Eve there were wonderful Italian cookies fresh from Nini's Italian bakery. These were tiny succulent things with pine nuts and almonds and cherries best consumed with espresso or wine. I sigh just to think of them. But they were just trifles to whet our appetite for Italian Rum Cake, the evenings grand finale. Christmas day treated us with home made cutout cookies with colored icing better with hot chocolate or cold milk.

But let me tell you of Christmas Eve. The tradition established itself as follows. Bird would go round to the fish markets and gather up lobsters, mussels, clams, calamari and flounder. Only the freshest (and the best bargained) would do. Then he would begin the cooking of the grand feast. A most wonderful feast.

Bird would chop the garlics and the tomatoes to make the sauce. The mouth watering sauce that the lobsters (yes, they were alive) would end up flavoring with their own juices. Then the muscles in that same wonderful sauce. The clams were always the hardest work. Bird would have to open each and every one, dice the poor clam, mix with 7 kinds of Italian grated cheese, add home made bread crumbs, stuffed back into their half shells and popped into the hot oven!

Of course there had to be spaghetti because there had to be something to pour that lovely lobster sauce over and bring to the table. And Italian bread to soak up that sauce and small dishes of olives and peppers and other niceties that I am unable to remember. The house would be a fog of mouth watering delight and first dinner began at 6 pm. Second dinner followed shortly after and continued until 11:30 pm at which time we pushed ourselves away from the table and made our way upstairs to the living room.

The living room was always in perfect decoration for the traditional opening of the gifts. We sat in the glow of the lights and reflected ornaments of the Christmas tree. Mother always took great pains with her decorations and was quite proud of them. She had a tremendous store of ornaments from many years past , had them cleverly stashed throughout the house, and we were never really quite sure where they materialized from.

The television would be tuned into the local channel carrying the Midnight Mass directly from Saint Peters Basilica in Rome. (A church that I had the privilege of touring not once, but twice with Bird in the later days of my youth.) And of course, the Pope himself, there at the edges of the living room, was always a staple in the Christmas Eve tradition.

Not taking anything away from the Papal Father but mother was a protestant by long pedigree and she tolerated his presence more for the sake of pomp and reminiscence than religious principle. She did like the pomp and splendor of the magnificent church , but loved to hear Bird and I exclaim "Oh look at Bernini's altar" or "Remember the magnificent dome." And other such memories of the place. She enjoyed our pleasure at reliving the thing.

In the foreground, and foremost, however, was the opening of the gifts. The TV broadcast always faded off our radar as mother began handing out the beautifully wrapped packages that were carefully arranged under the tree. There was always more than one for each of us and always thoroughly investigated and selected just for the recipient. Mother was a genius at selecting just the right gifts.

Bird, on the other hand, always gave mother the same things. They were always lovely things, some more practical than others. After the first few shared Christmases we knew exactly what was in each package by its size and shape. This one was slippers, that one earrings, stockings in the next, cookies in that one, cashews in another and so on. It was the same every year. Mother oohed and awed just as if it was the very first time. Every time. She was a trooper that way.

As the years passed we would break up and head home earlier and earlier, but always after midnight. There were often times in those later years when either the Bird or mother would fall to napping in their chairs and awake with a blink and a snort only to resume where they had left off. It was impossible for me not to realize that the tradition would soon be coming to its end.

Christmas Day, when I did spend it with mother and Bird was dinner at noon and a more restive affair. Mother made ham or a turkey or pigs in the blanket. Sometimes more and sometimes less. She made mashed potatoes and salad and the usual side dishes that one expects to find on a small town Ohio table on Christmas day. We ate and talked, listened to carols on the radio, read the paper front to back. Sometimes we napped. It was a quiet day and intended mostly for keeping each other in good company.

Mother passed in 2004 and so ended our family Christmas tradition. I spent subsequent Christmases either traveling or alone. There is church now on Christmas Eve, and dinner with friends on Christmas Day and I am very thankful for them. But they pale somewhat to those Christmas memories that came before. Those memories that I alone am able to recall, and though I can relate, can never share again.

How To Raise The Nation

2010-12-21T12:45:00.000-08:00

If only, in our youth, our mentors would sculpt us to endeavor at what we are most suitable for, given our temperament and character, rather what what society thinks we ought to be capable of, I believe the entirety of the nation would benefit and we would all be much happier for having done it.

Sing Me Now of Christmas

2010-12-18T16:52:00.000-08:00

My mother had been unfortunate in her attempts to produce a family. She lost two, her boys, shortly after each was born. Against doctors orders she tried again and it was a close call. I nearly did not make it myself. I suppose that by the time I arrived, my father, a man beset by a life of grief, was too emotionally depleted himself to be of much use. He had some family of his own, but these he did not share with mother or me and I don't believe they cared much for one another. So you see I had very little family to begin with and was as often lonely as not. I was still a young girl when my parents divorced and ever since, a few weeks before Christmas, a thin blanket of grief begins to envelope me. As the days of Advent pass one by one the blanket gains density and weight until Christmas Eve Night when it magically lifts for a few hours, then crashes down with the dawn, a massive structure more slate roof than coverlet, pinning me under a crush of despair.

This season is uncommonly severe and leaden in doling out doses of gloom from an seemingly endless bag of loneliness. It is the worst of the worst this year and it is a struggle to maintain some measure of balance. It is requiring all of the great courage that I have expended in the past, plus what little reserve I may have banked, and caused me to place a mortgage against any that I may have hoped to set aside for the future.

I know from long experience that this will pass soon after the New Year. The lengthening of the daylight hours is always a help. The best curative is having the Holidays so closely behind me, meaning that the next round of agony is furthest in time away. More time means more hope. More hope that there will be love, and family, and friends, gifts, parties, some semblance of my hearts expectations. I find that as I grow older I try to assure myself that there are only, say twenty, or at most twenty five of these trials left. Then I think, well maybe only nineteen, I surely could survive nineteen more. And yet this year it is different somehow. The pain is sharper. My resolve so much weaker. The periods of incapacitating loneliness and despair longer with less and less joy and merriment in between.

I am not complaining. There is nothing to rail or rally against. It simply is what it is. I do pray that God does not forsake me entirely this season. Surely a kind and loving God would not do that to any of his children. Especially since it is one of his most sacred of seasons. For all of you that are blessed with the love of family, good friends to surround you, the abundance to give and the Charity to receive, I wish you a Very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Then I offer this prayer, "Please be aware, in a wide awake and not sleepy way, of just how rich you are at this moment. Richness does not come from memories of what is past. It does not come from the money that is in hand. It comes from the love of those around you."

For those of us that are lonely I pray, "That God should grant us peace, strength, hope, and most of all love. Peace to find respite from this crushing despair. Strength to carry on another year. Hope to escape our lonely lot and join the ranks of those that have loved ones. May God give his blessings and grant his grace to us all."

Butterflies

2010-12-15T20:42:00.000-08:00

She hovered only an inch or so away from my gold earring, on the right ear (the one that has some hearing left)
One of a pair my lover gave me, before he went sailing off to Mexico to be C'est la vie
Her blue green eyes and translucent wings rainbow colored in the sun
Made her a most beautiful dragon fly
Reminding me of the young you wondering at riding the tail of a kite to see the world
Or blowing about like a Milkweed seed across a sky of coral cotton candy clouds
Never knowing where or when the wind might make your arrival
So long ago we sat in our summer teenage idle dreaming on your back porch swing
I thought you the most beautiful, passionate, girl-morphing-into-woman exquisite creature
But you knew better than to hurry and stayed softly wrapped in your cocoon
While I struggled ugly upside down inside my own, aching to break out
Many days of crystalline light trumped themselves over as many nights of starry dark
As we labored separately to become butterflies of our own making
A miracle of itself we emerged one dewy morning to spread our wings to evenly dry
Oblivious of one another we flitted independently yet somehow knowing
How to find the flowered meadows where we would surely meet again
Aiming our internal GPS when chance and time allowed we did
So after all I laughed this morning when madam dragon fly whispered in my good ear
That she had never known two butterflies to be as beautiful, graceful, and wise
And how very much she wished to be just like us

A Most Unusual Case

2010-12-15T10:52:00.000-08:00

You are the most unusual creature
Proud as a peacock in bib overhauls and flip flops
Hair wild as a drunken Irishman bent at odd angles over the bar
With a face like you'd been hit with a Soupy Sales Wrinkle Cream Pie
Splat! That you partially wiped off and ate the rest or dried and smoked later in your pipe
Your Doctor Grabow tamped and a smolder with the herb odor free or aromatic
Depending on your financials, availability, logistics and market conditions
That racking cough, the one that sounds like the best representation of the death rattle
Shakes you to the marrow, shakes you so hard it makes your eyes twinkle
Makes you shoot up a throatful of Reddi-wip from a cold cold can in regular, chocolate for greatness
Past that I'm-so-happy shit eatin grin that sits square in the field of stubble
Rolling across that week old mown furrowed hay field of a face
Hung out and strung out across your bed, your lounge, your salon, your saintly repose
Only to burn yet another Malboro cigarette as a chaser and another and another and another
As you contemplate the state of the European Union, bare naked titties, or why seagulls stand bundled so closely together in the surf in a hard wind
Or you opine that one always pays for sex one way or a multitude of ways whether there is love or not
Your cat agreeing all the while and reinforcing with head butts and back arches all pushy pawed
Wanting to go out into the clean fresh air and you wanting to be under
Under ground, under water, but always without underwear, commando, just in case
Serene in your meditation emancipation procrastination algebraic calculation E+T+L=SUCCESS
So you dream as soundly as a mausoleum in the night sometimes gripped by the damp and danks, sometimes not
Crying out rarely in case someone should hear that secretly you are lonely though not too much
And certainly not like the rest of us

The Gatekeepers Song

2010-12-12T20:37:00.000-08:00

There were windows and window walls
With hanging balconies and trellises
You were admitted through plastered lintels amid
Leaded cut glass panes and hanging baskets of night blooming flowers
Under sloping porch roofs covered with deep green moss
Too long out of the sun under the deep shade of the ancient live oak
The back door propped open to let in some of the cauterized evening breeze
Left over from the heat of the mid day sun releasing from the terrazzo tiles
We were young.

I could see your future, standing there in your cotton dress in silhouette
All the way to the end, at least, the path I knew to be true
The one you must take no matter how many detours or stops you might choose
But you didn't see it, and couldn't because I was the gatekeeper and you were not
All those years ago as if a dream come reality, you stood before your first gate
I remember it still and I wanted you to pass through, to get on with it, to begin
You were afraid, I sensed it, I knew it even though no words were spoken
Your innocent and carefree smile had gone hard and brittle like a frost had hit it
Pulling at the corners of your mouth in a frigid kind of way without giving in totally to a frown

You went away after that and I never did know what became of you, if you made it
There was no method that I could devise to go with you
My job was simply to open the gate, to get you through, give you a little shove
You were one of hundreds, perhaps thousands, passing though those gates
Or standing still as the stone fence waiting
While I tried to motion you forward with words and empathy and what little I had at my command
Each and every one of you
Always passing by, or staying just long enough to know that one cannot stay
Because eventually all gates must be opened, stepped into and through no matter how frightening
Unto the final gate that leads beyond where even I can see
For my vision is only for this mortal world and for that last eternal gate, I have no key

Everything Will Change

2010-12-02T22:21:00.000-08:00

The Guardian stood before the door. There wasn't time to think. Looking across the room, she thought of many things. No time. No time. She was a child. The walls were bare. The floors were warm. So many years ago. No time. No time. There was something in the hall. Something different. She was grown. She went away. The Guardian. The Guardian by the door. Always letting her out. Letting her in. Letting the room change. With cold floors and pictured walls in blue and green. Then nothing. Then flowing yellow light. Cultures and histories blindly passing by. The windows shuttered and sometimes open. Glimpses out the window. With no time. No time to think. The Guardian always watching. But never moving. She moved. She always moved. Time. In time. The windows. The doors. Blowing open. Blowing closed. Ever faster. Each breath a moment. A moment on the way to eternity. Everything. Everything. Everything. She thought. The Guardian knows. Everything will change.

Becalmed In The Sea Of Life

2010-11-04T01:06:00.000-07:00

It seems to me quite queer to suddenly find myself unable to determine a course for my life and with no winds to blow me there if I did. The reader will accept my apologies for using the nautical references. Others seem to be propelled past me in the blur of living, determined in their efforts, engaged in some enterprise or other. My role seems to simply be to watch their passing, calling out a friendly hello, and following them with my eyes to the edge of the horizon.

Not so very long ago, I remember having some semblance of the passage of a life, a recordable ordinary existence. There was a spouse, career, some small amount of family, a pet, some amount of travel, friends. Then there was the house to keep up, gardens to tend, cars to wash and wax.

Now, it strikes me, there is just God and me. We walk the beach together, talk for hours, worry over everything and nothing. Everything, because there should be some movement, some direction to my life. Nothing because there isn't.

Is there any precedence for this kind of human situation where simply being is the underwhelming state? Its not like waiting. There is nothing to be waiting for. I don't have a sense of requiring rest, or gathering provisions, there are no plans, no milestones, no risk or reward for anything.

As far as feeling adrift, that doesn't seem to be the case. The current of my life has slowed, perhaps stopped altogether. My anchor is not out, there is no sense of being tied to the dock or mooring. All in all it seems most unnatural.

Every day I ask for some direction, some notion, some purpose to apply myself to. Each day I walk the beach, putting in my special request, God processes it. There is no sense of longing, or despair, no excitement, anticipation, unrest, nor turmoil. Each day simply passes into the next. It is the oddest thing.

My reader might asked if I feel trapped, and I would say no, not at all. I am free to go in any direction and at any speed I choose. There is a feeling of having abundant, perhaps luxurious amounts of the currency of free will and nothing enticing to spend it on. Past, present and future have little, if any, relevance. What is, becomes what is.

As far as life skills, professional skills, experience, intelligence, abilities, capabilities, talents, education, understanding, spirituality, and awareness, my treasure chest is full and completely unutilized. The idea that such a vast amount of personal assets should lay untouched is puzzling to me. I am puzzled, puzzled, and then more puzzled. Why should this be?

The book of my life contains many chapters, containing many stories. The stories mostly have a beginning, a middle, and an end. This most current chapter has no stories. It has the most uncommon title. Be.

The Empty Seat

2010-10-30T03:21:00.000-07:00

My friend Steve wrote lately of this experience and I am moved to share his words with my readers.

The Empty Seat

So how can a seat stand empty? When a seat isn't standing. I don't know, but there is a seat standing empty here that had been filled with love, laughter, wisdom, and caring among many other things.

Now don't get me wrong, sometimes that seat standing empty was a good thing, because there where two of them standing empty, but as I said, tonight there is just one seat standing empty so there is no love, laughter, wisdom and caring among many other things there.

So why is that seat standing empty without love, laughter, wisdom and caring among many other things? Is there something afoul here? I guess not, the love, laughter, wisdom and caring among many other things is seeking a much more suitable partner. And there is no blame or failure. Hopefully the seemingly close bond shared for moments in time will strengthen us both with the belief that the right person does exist and all we have to do is continue our search.

Yet I am so saddened by the empty seat standing there because I miss the love, laughter, wisdom and caring among many other things. And there will always be times I will.........

Love Drips To The Page In The Early Morning Hours

2010-10-21T02:29:00.000-07:00

I just don't write as much as I should and that bothers me a bit. It seems to me that writers ought to write, else they be called thinkers, or workers, or readers, or worse, procrastinators.

Much of my thought energy has lately been consumed by the nature and substance of love or perhaps the lack of love in my own life and the lives of the women that are my friends. We don't seem to be able to find love, romantic, mated, passionate love and we wonder why.

There seems to be no lack of lovers or wannabes for any of us. We are attractive, sought after, pursued, and desired. We are intact in health, have some measure of wisdom, are experienced at life, and accomplished. One would think these qualities would entitle us to a loving mate, someone to share the glory of the adventure of our otherwise rich lives. And yet our experience is otherwise.

There is no shortage of fourteen year old boys cleverly concealed in the guise of 30, 40, 50 and even 60 something men. These boy men come at us like freight trains, lights blazing, and horns blowing. The very earth rumbles beneath their feet. We are captivated by them, mesmerized, consumed by hope and desire. Then their wheels fall off and we are in the presence of the 14 year old and know that we have been bamboozled once again.

My favorite category of the lot is the friend with benefits. We can't help but love the guy. He is fun to be with, listens, engages in interesting conversation, and is always helpful. We can trust him and feel safe with him. As a lover, he is always tender and caring. He is always and ever the friend. Never will he be the mate, or the husband, or life partner, that level of commitment is always just beyond his capability. This is the guy we are the most tempted to settle for and this is the guy that slowly grinds our hopes and dreams into oblivion.

Then there is the married guy. He's unhappy with his life, taken stock, has decided that he is going to change his current situation. We are the answer to his dreams. He finds in us everything that is lacking in his own wife. He sees endless possibilities for our lives together. We see them too. But endless possibilities turn into endless promises and endless foot dragging and inevitably for us, endless regret.

I can't forget to mention the mommas boy, who is always a charmer. He lives with his parents or in the case where they have perished a brother or sister. Comfort and companionship are the keys to his sales pitch. Our independence, strength and nurturing natures attract him. Being a loving, loyal and well behaved son is the gift he gives to drive us screaming for the exits.

There is no use whatsoever in describing the agony of involvement with the addict, the psychotic, or the criminal male. These fellows captivate us in their own right, are unworthy, and only bring us the pain of the realization that no amount of love on our part can fix them. We are left questioning the power of love in general and gain nothing but grief and despair.

There are true, accomplished, mature, wise, and loving males at large in the world. We know them as married friends, in-laws and siblings. They are always on the periphery of our lives moving in and out like tantalizing shadows. Just enough presence to make us aware of their existence, to yearn for their kind. They remind us of how alone we are and coax us into believing that one day we will find such a man of our own.

These are the things we think about, talk about, and share in our hopeful circle. Perhaps they are better served if left unwritten. Perhaps dripping them onto the page will gain us some measure of understanding of them, some new angle for enlightenment, some new measure of hope. I don't know. I really don't.

The Balm of Love

2010-10-20T06:37:00.000-07:00

I have a lovely young woman as a dear friend. She has been looking and longing for her soul mate. The good fellow that she has found is failing in her expectations of him. She asked me for some advice as to what to do. This is what I told her.

My proper response to your question should be to suggest you both begin the process of finding a professional to help you both grow through your life experiences. I don't know that either of you want to hear that, so I would advise you to simply tell him how much you care for him. Love is a wonderful balm, but it will not fix much more than the lack of love and perhaps loneliness. All the other problems continue unless addressed specifically. I had to learn this lesson the hard way, by living it.

Love is a wonderful balm and one the is sorely needed by most of us in this world. But love is not enough to solve the problems and issues we face. Determined effort, wisdom, support, introspection, and courage are also required. Love is a wonderful balm, but love alone is not enough.

An Intimate Conversation

2010-10-12T18:46:00.000-07:00

She Said

If I were able to say it
I would tell you many things
Of how good you are to me
And how I appreciate it so
Your gentleness
The way you hold my hand
The look that fills your eyes
When I look at you
Falling asleep in your arms
Safe and content beyond measure
After a lovely day together
Doing everything and nothing at all
The sound of your breathing in the night
Hours and hours of satisfying conversation
Sharing the fair
Dolphins jumping into the air
Wondering why you never wear underwear
And whether you miss me when I'm not there
But I can't speak of these things
So I speak them to you as you sleep and dream

His Reply

I do not know why no underwears...
..... 'cept LJs in winter.

Ah misses you....
specials the interestin' conversation.

I sleeps on da pilla...
Wheres you left your scent.

I joyed de fair...
De dolphins too.

And nevers 'fore sees...
Da undersides of a dockin' line.

I sees so muchs promise...
Togeters we coulds be.

Da beautifuls Tat...
and old hippys me.

How?

2010-10-06T13:29:00.001-07:00

My friend Steve is a very fine writer. I asked him about the nature of friendship and love and this was his reply:

How could mere words ever express the deepest passions of one's heart when the feelings of friendship and love are like the universe, immeasurable, only to be described as infinity. It is almost as daunting as explaining colors to the blind or music passages to the deaf. No reference points exist. None can be created that match the intensity and feeling to be described. The attempt would be likened to the fictional characters in a movie, whose actors and writers try and fathom true meaning through performance and occupation.

All this being true, there must be a way to relate to the reader my real meaning. I myself should beg off from trying when my reference to you has been "I love the engineer in you," which brings giggles to those you tell it to. So all that being said, I would simply prefer to write that friendship and love cannot be put into words because, as with the universe, the full scope and magnitude have yet to be discovered. And new never before known experiences might be just on the horizon.

Sailing

2010-09-27T07:37:00.000-07:00

I came to joy of sailing very late in life. My dear mother always wanted to sail, loved boats and being near the water. Yet she never sailed. My fondest memories as a young girl were of having long wonderful summer lunches at local marinas. Sitting in muted conversation, we awed at the beauty of the boats, especially those with sails, and the beautiful happy people that sailed aboard. Then we would pack ourselves into the car and return to the landed life and dream.

Back in the late 80's I had a chance to own a sailboat. The older couple that owned her, friends of my husband and me, wanted to sell. The captain had Parkinson's and knew that his sailing adventure was nearing its end. He wanted to teach me to sail and I wanted it very badly myself. It may have been fear, or lack of self confidence, but I declined and the boat went to another couple. I thought my dream of sailing ended then.

I kept a copy of Chapman's small boat piloting in my special treasure chest and a very old paperback on the basics of sailing on my library shelf. I just couldn't part with them somehow. Every spring I would look through their pages, sigh, and return them to their sacred places. I just couldn't give up completely.

Lots of life flowed over the dam of time before my sailing dream resurfaced. Through an odd series of events I suddenly found myself free to do just whatever it was I wanted to do with the last chapters of my life. And I knew what I wanted to do. I was going to sail.

The Corpus Christi Texas area is beautiful for sailing. The city caresses the magnificent Corpus Christi bay. The bay connects to the Gulf of Mexico through Port Aransas. The winds are almost always favorable here and the weather is warm all the year round.

A lot of friendly people gave me advice when I asked about how to proceed. They weren't always very helpful. A lot of times, the suggestion was to take lessons and to buy a boat, both outside the limits of my financial situation. Some were more imaginative. My favorite was the opportunity to volunteer to crew the Wednesday evening races from the Corpus Christi marina. I steeled my courage. I had to try.

The way one volunteers is to arrive at the Yacht Club at around 5pm on Wednesday evening and try and catch a ride. If the captain and crew like you, they may invite you back again to crew. A very honorable invitation indeed. One has to be a little bold in order to actually make the attempt. It is a little like taking a blindfolded step. Scary.

So I waited until Wednesday afternoon, took a very deep breath, lowered my
expectations, and drove the short drive to the marina. The first dock I went to was the wrong one. I had to ask a shopkeeper for directions. She was very nice. I was just one street away from the right spot.

I was a little bit early when I finally walked into the Yacht Club. I felt very out of place. After all, I had no boat and had never sailed. What was I doing there? The bartender was the only person in sight and since bartenders usually know a lot, I asked him if I was in the right place. He smiled and said I was, to wait, and when a captain came in he would point him out to me. I was radiant with nervousness and most of all excitement!

As I sat waiting I realized the temperature in the club was frigid and I was dressed for 95 degree outdoor weather. Just shorts and a T over a bikini. I was beginning to freeze! I kept thinking, "I have to go outside and get warm, but I can't miss a chance to talk to a captain." I got colder and colder and still no captain came in. I had to go outside. I broke for the front door and the hot humid air. Ahhhhhhhhhh.

Just as I uttered my sigh of warmth, a man got out of his car, looked at me and said, "Are you looking to crew?" I smiled my 1000 megawatt smile and said, "Are you asking?" He said, "Yes!" And I said, "Yes!" And he said, "Come on, let's go!"

That's when I met the most beautiful sailboat I have ever seen. She is a four year old Beneteau 373. Her length is 37 feet, her beam 12 feet and I was instantly in love with every inch of her. Her name is as marvelous as she. Her name is Milky Way.

I have sailed aboard the Milky Way a number of times now. Most of the time I have been at the helm. We have raced on Wednesday evenings and pleasure sailed on Saturdays. This past Saturday we sailed for 6 hours in varied weather conditions. Each sailing, I learn something new. I really want to become an excellent sailor. I want it more than anything I have ever wanted in my life. It is the most wonderful blessing and I thank God for it.

My spare time is spent reading my sailing books. There is, 'Sailing For Dummies,' 'Sailing Fundamentals,' and my cherished 'Chapman's.' My friends have lent me other books about the history of navigation, sailing terminology, and other sailing topics. There is so much to learn and remember that it is almost daunting. Almost! But not quite!

Never give up on your dream. Never. When it gets tough, tuck it away in a sacred place. Bring it to the light of day when you can, nurture it with hope. One day, with the help of God. Your dream will come true.

Sailing The Milky Way

2010-09-11T22:16:00.000-07:00

I sailed aboard the Milky Way though no one knew at all
Yet even as I set a southern course the wind and sails did call
There never was another dog more saltier than I
And that my dears I can't deny took me completely by surprise
More than the shooting star I saw with friends along the shore
The night I sat and prayed to God the sea no further than the door
That God should bless a soul like mine with a love no man can give
Behind the wheel beneath the sun and running with the wind
Come about and mark the course and sail her close and sure
And now at last through tears of joy I long for home no more

Rolling Stone

2010-08-23T19:05:00.000-07:00

It wasn't to be this way. He was with his wife. It was a Christmas party for Christ sake. A company Christmas party. With a classic rock cover band, tons of food, casino night. He had worn a suit. She was in slacks. I left my bra at the foot of the bed. Hey, it was a party, like I said.

She was okay, a bit mousy, she wasn't trying. Why should she? He was her husband. Had been her husband a long, long, time. They had grand kids. A big house. A Beamer and a Dodge. He was good guy. It was enough.

His eyed followed me where ever I went. To the buffet table. To the bar. Back to my seat. I noticed those eyes. Predator eyes. He was hungry for me. Starving. I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck.

She drifted off to sit with friends. he followed me to the black jack table. I took a seat. He introduced himself and suddenly he was there. Right where he wanted to be for a million years. I could tell it made him happy.

We played a dozen hands. He lost rapidly. Gave me what chips he won. Gave me his life story. He was lonely. She didn't care. He was getting old. He had come to accept it.

She wanted to go home. He introduced her and helped her with her coat. I made the right noises. She smiled and he walked her to the car. I watched then though the plate glass windows.

The band broke up their set for a beer. I mingled. There were some young guys. They couldn't hold a conversation. No eye contact. It was cleavage appreciation night. I was getting bored.

And then the oddest thing. There he was. Removing his coat. Holding out his hand to touch my arm. Guiding me to the bar. He wanted to tell me more. He wanted to share the band, the Christmas cheer, he appreciated cleavage. Later he walked me to his car. And I walked past it and on down the street in the softly falling snow. Not making a sound. And we both wondered why.

The Faint Hope Of The Hearts Desire

2010-07-28T08:34:00.000-07:00

Of late, my life study has been of the nature of human character. Initially the aim was scatter gunned to those in my circle of family and friends past and present. More recent pressing events have focused it to the specifics of my own character.

From my limited observance, human beings in general are a fickle lot, moving rather randomly through their lives like fine sailing ships full of cargo with no specific sailing orders in hand. I won't take the analogy further than to say that the capricious winds of chance seem to direct us as much or more than the rudder and keel of our own free will.

If this is true, and so far I am convinced of it, then how must a person's character be formed? More important to the conversation is the question: does ones character even matter? And further, if it does, to what purpose is it?

Now you may be wondering at what I mean by character and so I will tell you. Character is that unwritten set of rules, measures, and guides that define and drive our conscious and subconscious thoughts which eventually determine our actions. I am assuming, of course, that we are capable of making at least some determination of our actions, since to say otherwise dismisses the entire discussion.

Now to the specifics of my own personal example, painful to me as they are. At a very awkward and turbulent time of my middle adult life I fell in love with and married a very special person. I will not use his real name here as is my usual practice, but will simple call him Bob. Let me describe him for you as best I can.

Bob is a kindly fellow with a calm demeanor, modest education, light on ambition, meticulous to a fault, and very funny and entertaining when inspired to be so. He is rather set in his ways, as one might expect, has a healthy belief in god, loves children, and has what he would describe as a strongly defined character.

As our marriage progressed I found myself loving Bob more, taking care of Bob more, and being in love with Bob less. Now this seems strange to me, this combination of loving more and being less in love. It is a puzzle in its own right. Over many years I fell into what I would call the roll of a caretaker rather than that of an equal partner and lover. With each passing year, I loved Bob more, and was in love with him less. I took solace in the fulfillment of my duty to care for my husband and my love for him. Still, I was not happy.

There were many ups and downs over the course of our marriage. We sold our individual homes, built a new one, made friends, lost friends, had family problems. I eventually lost my high paying job and was forced to take an early retirement. Bob trudged along for awhile in his low paying position. We scrimped and scrabbled to keep the roof over our head. Then one day we had to face the facts and began the unjoyful process of downsizing.

The best direction at the time seemed to be for Bob to leave his marginal position, purchase a motorhome, and begin the carefree life of early retirement. Many Americans look at this kind of freedom in later life as a dream come true. Why should we think otherwise? And also, I must tell you, that it was my secret hope that once free of the cares and burdens of the brick and mortar life and with the wonders that naturally come from exploration, I might fall in love with Bob again.

At first I thought this might be so, and then increasingly Bob missed the old haunts, the old friends,and family. I began to realize that the very wonder that gave me cause for joy and hope, was uncomfortable and distressing to Bob. I struggled more and more each day to find a way to reconcile our two discordant views. Bob grew distant, pined more for home, was unsettled and sad.

We did return home for a summer. Four months. Bob spent his time away from me as much as he could, savoring the time spent with family and friends. I saw him less and less. Since he would take our only car for the day I came to make new friends of those immediately around me. Bob and I began to travel in separate social circles. I found myself happy with my new friends though very lonely for Bob.

In that very same late summer I began to plan for our return to warmer climes. Bob did not participate and was absent most of the time. When he was present, he spent most of his time on his cell phone well out of hearing range. Luckily I checked the minutes used and just barely avoided a huge bill from our carrier.

Now comes the very strange twist in the story, that, if you don't know already, will come as a shock to you, I think. Shortly before we were to leave, Bob was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, a very serious and non-curable illness. it was Bob's greatest fear in the whole world.

I won't drudge you through the terrible time of those few weeks. They are beyond my ability at present to put to the page. I can tell you that Bob left me and filed for divorce. Whatever shared friends and family we had turned squarely against me. And I was outcast to fend for myself with no family of my own. This condition held for nearly a year and it was touch and go for me each and every day.

Now I can finally get to the question of character. My character to be specific. Bob called me recently with the news of the death of a very treasured member of our family. In that call he also said that he had screwed up, that he still loved me, that he had made a mess of things, and wanted his old life back. He wanted me to take him back.

Here is the dilemma. My heart says no. My character says yes. Let me explain the character issues. I was taught that marriage is a sacred bond, one to be taken seriously. One of the foundations stones of marriage is duty to ones spouse. We pledge to remain in sickness and in health. As long as Bob did not want to be with me and did not express love for me, I felt that it was way beyond the power of duty for me to love and take care of someone that would neither love nor take care of me. Now Bob says he loves me and wants to be with me. He wants me to take care of him. Is this not my duty? And with his love can I not perform it? If I am of good character, how can I refuse?

Bob was able to retain his old position on a part time basis making it all the more meager. He has increased medical expenses, has isolated himself somewhat from the rest of his society, lives a dull existence. He wants to quit his job and let me support him with my slim retirement funds. I myself have no life to speak of and yet still have the very slim hope of a new life, a new love, and the return of wonder. But these slight hopes speak nothing to my duty to my husband and thus diminish my character.

This brings me to the question of the value of good character since I seemingly have to choose between it and the hope for happiness. The values that I learned from my parents, my family, my church, my friends, my teachers and my society are written somewhere in indelible ink upon my wretched soul. They tell me clearly that I must, in all good character, take Bob back, fulfill my duty, and set myself aside. Perhaps this will even earn me a place in heaven.

My heart pleads with me, implores me, to say no. That this will be my own imprisonment and death. That these are the ending days, the dark days, and only madness and despair can come of it.

My head, the final decision maker, is at a loss as to what to do. How would you choose? Good character? Or the faint hope of the hearts desire?

Turtles Seldom Make The Right Choices

2010-07-22T20:46:00.000-07:00

My friend Larry wanted to be a bartender all of his life. Instead he made a career out of being a marine biologist. Sometimes we get lost on our way to the realization of our dreams. Sometimes we find our way back again.

Larry retired after many years of being under water. He was happy underwater. There was a lot to think about. You had to concentrate. There was a lot to remember. Like air. Air was always important. And not just the quantity. The quality was important as well. There were a lot of things like that to remember and think about. He rarely thought of bar tending.

Then one day he looked up and realized he wasn't in the water any more. Retirement had spit him out on shore. "Bar tending." He thought. And then quickly blanked that out. "No."

For his specialty, (well, he had to have a speciality), he chose a very small, one might say Pygmy, marine turtle. Valde Vegrandis Aequorous was its scientific name. The common names, turtle, little turtle, and green sea turtle.

Larry, having had a very long career under water, was able to observe, interpret, and publish just about everything one could learn about this turtle. However, it was not until he retired that he discovered their real secret.

One day, deep in thought, Larry found himself standing on the sidewalk in front of a beachfront resort hotel. Something caught his attention in one of the elaborate windows. It was a sign. It read,

"Bartender Wanted
Will Train
Right Candidate".

"Well," he thought. "This is very odd. I wonder why they just don't hire an experienced bartender?" Being as curious as one might expect any retired scientist might be, he stepped inside out of the heat to inquire.

"We are," said the head bartender, "Looking for a very special individual to tend our swim up bar."

"Ah," said Larry. "I might just be your man."

I won't bore you with all of the formalities of Larry's training, but will simply say that he studied hard, practiced tenaciously, and finished head of his bar tending class. His employer was delighted and quickly put him to work.

The first night on the new job Larry wore his best wetsuit. It was a new Patagonia R3 front zip full suit charcoal over black. He thought he looked rather dashing. He had arrived an hour before opening. He was just that excited to serve his first customers.

And just as the evening dusk was settling in and the pool lights were coming on, up they swam.

Larry did a double take. Sitting at the bar was not one, but two Valde Vegravis Aequorous. Roxy and Tom.

"Hey Tommy boy!, " says Roxy. Looks who's behind the bar! It's our old pal Larry!"

"Well, son of a bitch," says Tom. "So it is! I'd recognize those legs anywhere."

"Hey, he's kinda cute without the rubber mask," purrs Roxy.

"I'm sittin right here," groans Tom. "Give us a couple of whiskies, Larry old pal. Make em doubles! We'll run a tab!

Larry, being a dutiful bartender, delivers the drinks before engaging in conversation. He remembers his training.

"Hey, I never knew Valde Vegrandis Aequoeus drank alcohol," Larry says.

"Forgo the formalities hun, in here we're just turtles", says Roxy. "Just miserable turtles trying to drown our troubles and have a little joy in life."

"Larry leaned his elbow on the bar and looked into her eyes. "So where's the sorrow?"

Tom looked up and held out his flipper. "It's these damn tags Larry. They're killing us. You shoulda used titanium Larry. It's the damn plastic tags.

Larry startled back a minute, leans over and says. "In that case, the next rounds on me."

We all have an impact on one another's lives whether we realize it or not. Sometimes we make things better, sometimes worse. Its a big ocean out there. Go throw yourself into it.

The Man In The White Panama Hat

2010-07-22T19:56:00.000-07:00

"It's raining," said the man in the white Panama Hat.

"Yes," she said. "Again."

"We should go where it doesn't rain so much." He looked out of the misted windows to the garden. "There's gas in the car, we should just go."

"Yes," she said.

"We could drive to Arizona to see my cousin." He pulled at the sleeves of his white linen jacket. The linen was wrinkling already. That is how it is with linen, he thought. Even the best linen. And with this rain....

"That's an idea, "she said.

"Maybe some sun," he said. Would what, he thought? He hadn't sat when she offered. Already too many wrinkles in the backs of the knees of his white linen slacks. "Would be good for us."

"I'm sure," she said.

"We could fly. I can get the tickets on-line. We can rent a car. A white car. Maybe a Caddy or a Lincoln." He looked at the white tips of his shoes. Maybe there was a little scuff mark on the right toe. He frowned.

"We used to fly," she said.

"There are last minute deals. We can get one of those. You can sit by the window. You used to like that." He noticed he was reaching for the pocket of his white cotton shirt and realized there was nothing to reach for. He slowly lowered his arm.

"Yes," she said. "I'd like that."

"We can stay as long as we like. We can stay a week, two weeks. We can stay a month." He loosened the knot just the tiniest bit on his white linen tie. "As long as we like."

"As long or longer," She said.

"Its still raining," he said turning back to the window.

"Yes," she said. "It is."

Cattle Drive

2010-05-21T10:56:00.000-07:00

Eyes Of An Old Friend

2010-05-11T20:04:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem way back in June of 2005. An old and very dear friend of mine just happened to stop by my house. When I looked into her eyes it was as if I she had never been 35 years absent from my life.

Eyes Of An Old Friend

Camera lens
Captures and freezes
Quarks
Smaller too

Captured
Still coming
And going
Frozen

Time
Dying
Then being
Born again

All there
Past
Present
And future

Moving
Always moving
East no further
Than West

The essence
Cast
Onto the air
Hot in the sun

So near
Shimmering
On the
Horizon

No further away
Than
Your
Son's first haircut

No further
Than
Your
Daughter's smile

No further
Than
Your
Log cabin

No further
Than
Your
4 X 4

No further
Than the
Ring
Around your finger

No further
Than
One
Heartbeat

No further
Than the
Eyes
Of an old friend

Where meaning
And knowing
Are lit
From within

With the fire
Of
Shared
Experience

And wisdom
That still
Wonders
At small children

Gently Touch A Naked Heart

2010-05-01T11:25:00.000-07:00

Something always has to inspire me to write. This poem germinated by way of a sudden realization I had very recently. I will let the reader decipher the poems origins.

Leaning against the Hourglass
You turned it over
The days became longer
In my mind at least

And my heart was green
With new desire
It surprised me like
A crocus blooming on a snowfield

Perhaps it was the gift of violets
Set upon the kitchen table
That worried me so
In the early morning sun

To the point that I wondered
Should I go mad
At the thought
Of never hearing your voice again

That lead to my taking the hourglass from your hand
Turning it over again and again
So that the fine white sand never had a chance
To move very far at all

Each bowl equally full
Time standing still
Waiting for you to say something, to do something
Because I said "I love you"

Touching you, and never touching you at all
Except that one time
Forty years ago
When I was still nothing and maybe less

Now, all these years past
I am something and maybe more
Reaching out to gently touch
Your naked heart

Somewhere Deep Underground, Stars Are Falling

2010-04-23T20:15:00.000-07:00

I am smiling as I write this small, though significant piece. If you remember, I like to paraphrase this bit of verse from the Tao Te Ching. "There are ways but the ways are uncharted. There are names but not nature in words. Nameless indeed is the source of creation. But things have a mother and she has a name."

Life doesn't always make much sense to me and as I get more experienced at living it, the necessity for clarity becomes less of a goal and more of a giving in to the process. Well, I suppose I should say that there really isn't a goal anymore. There is only the living of the process.

Sometimes I just like to be very still and look inside. And when looking inside the eye turns to look out. There are many ways to do this turning in and out of the eye. This is but one of them.

Draw a card: (My basic situation). After many years of good labor in the spring and summer garden of my life, the harvest nears. It is abundant and unfailing. Sowing and reaping in tandem with mother earth, the meaning of life becomes clear.

Draw a card: (Influences to my basic situation). Isis, she provides me with unlimited independence. My intuition is trustworthy. Balanced and harmonious existence with the universe is achieved.

Draw a card: (My conscious thoughts about my situation). New beginnings are in the offing. It is time to go where the heart has called. The life road beckons.

Draw a card: (My unconscious thoughts about my situation). Which of the two paths will I choose? Only time will tell. This question must be answered through waiting. Trust is the key.

Draw a card: (Past influences). The gift of success.

Draw a card: (Future influences). The yearning for intensive interchange with those of like mind and like outlook.

Draw a card: (Myself). A deep mystery of sensitivity and feeling. Ila and Roarc attend to me and accompany me throughout my learning and transformation.

Draw a card: (Energies from without). Wishes and desires must be totally given into and experienced.

Draw a card: (My hopes). Gaining independence and freedom, I am surrounded by grace, kindness, and clarity.

Draw a card: (The outcome). The great task is brought to completion. The cosmos and I are indeed one. Everything is seen and experienced through the great eye of wisdom.

A sense of inner peace descends into my innermost being. Somewhere deep underground, stars are falling.

My Heart Takes Wings

2010-04-19T09:48:00.000-07:00

I was thinking just today about whether there could be love without marriage. No, I don't mean motherly love, or sisterly love, or any of that. I mean L-O-V-E love! As in lovers and in songs and movies and plays and books! Like in 'Crazy, crazy for You!' Like in 'Out of Africa.' Like 'It hurts so good, baby, baby, it hurts so good!"

He was the captain of his high school football team, valedictorian, and handsome as hell. And he could make you laugh till you cried. His name was Roger Edward Evans, but we all called him Roy. He was our hero, our dream, our desire.

It was on a flight from Atlanta to Houston that I saw him for the first time in 30 years. There was just one seat open next to me. We were almost done with boarding. The cabin door was about to close. And I looked up and he was there. Standing tall over me. With that big strong smile, sparkling blue eyes, blond hair, and oh so tan. Damn.

"I'm your seat mate", he smiled.

"I'm glad." It was all I could say working frantically to free myself from the seat belt so I could step into the aisle and let him settle next to me. NEXT TO ME! OMG! All I could think was "I've got a real man by my side, not a boy who runs and hides!"

I couldn't help shifting myself into him as he buckled in. Would it be right to wish for a flight delay? Five hours on the tarmac was really starting to look like a good thing.

God, he looked stronger now sitting next to me than he did 30 years ago. And I knew I was gonna fall in love with him till it hurt so hard. So good.

I had been wandering in the barren wilderness devoid of love and desire for too many a long year. Sure, it was a journey of regeneration and I had been able to become tough, independent, and tenacious. And I felt like I was more beautiful than at any other time of my life. I was ready to give my body the joyous gift of love.

I looked into those blue eyes and said, "All I want to do is have a little fun before I die." And swear to god he said, "Tat, is that you?"

"Yeah, Roy, it's me. " And he reached for my hand. When he touched me my mind went completely blank. I struggled to clear my head. I was unable to speak.

Somehow I knew we were going to be lovers until we both died. I felt a tremble go through me and was scared as hell.

I had always had faith in great love. Just never really experienced it with anyone that had the integrity and character to make it lasting. Roy had character, integrity, and success. He had it all. Was I really worthy? I knew for a fact that he was.

It was time for me to be balanced courageous and strong. I intuitively said, "Missed you." And knew it was the right thing to say.

"Tell me all about you." He said. And I felt it was the beginning of a new state of being. The sun and moon had crossed and were giving birth to stars. The lost years had served to transform all obstacles into possibilities. The long slow lessons of the past were giving way to the swift opening of my heart.

With virtue, honesty, integrity, and self confidence, I did tell him all about me. And the gateway to the future at long last was opened to lasting love.

What Mother Otter

2010-04-09T19:18:00.000-07:00

I picked up a dead mother river otter from the side of the road this morning just outside the main entrance to the refuge. She was large, and beautiful, and looked so perfect that I felt surely that she must still be alive. But she was not. Her nipples were hairless, which means she was feeding her children. She was still warm and soft. There was just the slightest mark above her eye.

It was an accident, of course. She was crossing the road for some reason at the wrong time. Who can say why. She was so magnificent that I called Tami and Stephanie to see if we could have the taxidermist preserve her for the display in the new visitor center that we are building. I would rather she be alive and free to feed her babies and play in the bayou, but she is not. So she will be preserved and has been given the magnificent purpose of teaching human children about how wonderful river otters are. She was a good brave otter, but there are accidents in life and she met with a bad one. May she rest in peace.

Purple Martins Are in The House

2010-03-10T18:05:00.000-08:00

Stinkpot

2010-03-10T18:04:00.000-08:00

Smiling Gators

2010-03-10T18:00:00.000-08:00

The Dune Fences We Put Up At McFadden Are Working

2010-03-03T18:12:00.001-08:00

McFadden Wildlife Refuge - Our Sister Refuge

2010-03-03T18:02:00.000-08:00

The Author At Her Work

2010-03-03T08:28:00.000-08:00

The Beast

2010-03-02T15:44:00.001-08:00

The Continuing Story Of TV From Outer Space

2010-03-02T14:13:00.001-08:00

It has taken me much longer to write the ending of the Direct TV story than the time elapsed during the experience itself. I have not felt like writing about life so much lately as I have been absorbed with living it. I suppose this has as much to do with being busy working at the refuge. Or maybe it is just as simple as the effect of mild sunny days. Whatever.

The Direct TV in my area is delivered over not one, but three satellites. There is 99, 101, and 103. I'm not smart enough to know much about satellites, but I do know that for the receiver to pick up all of the channels in my programming package it has to get a signal from each of the three.

There is a gadget, called a satellite finder, sometimes called a signal meter, that attaches between the dish and the receiver. It beeps loudly when the signal is strongest and not at all when there is no signal. Reading the Internet RV sites suggested that I buy one of these when I had the system installed originally and I am glad that I did.

The fist thing I had to do was find where I had stored the dish antenna in the basement of the RV. For those of you that are non-RVers, basement is a term used for the storage that is under the RV. In my case, there are about 7 storage compartments that fit this description.

The first compartment had a lot of nice stuff in it, but no dish antenna. The second one yielded pay dirt. In order to fit the antenna into the compartment I had to partially disassemble it. Naturally, a few of the bolts were missing. RV storage compartments have demonstrated an appetite for nuts and bolts in the past, so this came as no surprise. My stash of backup fasteners was in one of the other compartments. I found them on the second try also. Of course they were at the very back and I had to remove everything to get to them. That's okay too.

Then I had to assemble the antenna and place it so that it was level and had complete exposure to the southern sky. Not too hard to do here in SE Texas since the whole area is flat and obstructions are few and far between. The perfect spot was right in front of the RV which faces south and somewhat shelters the dish from the constant Texas wind.

Getting the antenna mast level turned out to be easier than I expected. Pretty much where I placed the whole assembly was level. I had to do very little tweaking. So far, so good.

Next I had to locate the cables and fittings to connect the dish to the living room and bedroom receivers. They turned up in yet another storage compartment. This time they were in the front and I did not have to remove anything to get at them. Sometimes you get a winner.

Once everything was hooked up, it was time to aim the dish. If you remember, the dish has to receive signals from three satellites somewhere out in earth orbit. Aha. After doing some Googling on the computer I was able to get these coordinates for aiming my dish. Elevation 55 degrees, Azimuth 191 degrees, and Tilt 78 degrees.

Okay, so what does all that mean? Elevation is the angle from horizontal (how far up the dish needs to point at the sky). Azimuth means the compass reading from magnetic north. And tilt means how far to tilt the dish left or right from horizontal.

There are marks on the dish assembly that correspond to the Elevation and the Tilt along with gross and fine adjustment mechanisms to maneuver the dish and secure the settings. I did these first. Next came the pointing of the dish for the Azimuth of 191 degrees. I got out my compass and tried to set the dish to 191. Hmmm. Not so good. The compass would read 191, 205, 187, and just kept bouncing around. I finally figured out that the dish itself was interfering with my $5 compass. So I had to stand away from the dish a sort of guess which was to point if according to the compass that was not so close to the dish. The satellite finder began to beep.

After a couple of hundred trips into the RV to check the TV for signal strength over the next few hours I was finally able to get satellite 99 and 101 with good signal strength. God know where satellite 103 is hiding. Maybe someone will read this and let us all know. I was able to get 85% of the stations in my programming package and that is good enough for now.

I used cement blocks, stakes, and water filled gallon jugs to anchor the beast. I don't want a good strong wind to launch it like a kite, connected by its antenna cable to the RV. The whole rig would probably sail across the marsh and end up in a bayou. Television. Is it really worth it?

Technology On The Road

2010-02-16T15:11:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I finally got around to calling Direct TV about setting up my high definition satellite dish. There are a number of options for receiving TV on the road. Most of them are fairly expensive for retirees on a fixed income. Like one company has an antenna that tracks the satellite as your RV moves down the road. There are also antenna models that are self contained that you carry to an open spot in the southern sky and look for the satellite for you. These niceties can cost into the thousands of dollars and are completely out of my budget.

So I have to rely on the satellite dish provided by the TV provider, in my case, Direct TV. The dish is an oblong monster about 3 feet wide and sits atop a rather shaky tripod assembly. The dish has to be aligned perfectly to intercept the signal coming from at least 2 of the Direct TV satellites. Altitude, azimuth, and tilt are all factors that must be configured. I won't go into just what those are just yet, since I am still trying to figure them out.

Back to my call to Direct TV. When I signed up for the service I was told that if I had trouble setting up my dish while on the road, I could call Direct TV and they would send someone out to do it for me. This was supposed to be a free service. Yesterday Direct TV told me no, it was not free. It would cost me $50 paid by credit card before the service would be scheduled. Then, If I relocated within a year it would be an additional $195 each time I had a technician set up the dish. No. No. No. No way I can afford that. Now I have to figure out how to set up the dish myself.

This will probably become a comedy of errors as I forge my way though this murky puzzle. It will definitely challenge my blond roots. It was too windy today to make an attempt, so I will try tomorrow if the weather cooperates. Stay tuned. This could turn into a very interesting story.

More Anahuac Pictures

2010-02-12T20:07:00.000-08:00

Everything is just ducky

This is the first deer that I have seen.

Hey, where are the Purple Martins?!

The neighborhood.

Our community building.

Coots!

Egrets.

Heron.

My favorite, the Kingfisher.

Ducks.

The visitor center and store.

Aching To Be A Child Again

2010-02-11T11:42:00.000-08:00

When I was a young girl, oh, lets say from the age of 5 to 11, it was fun to play outdoors in the marshes and fields adjacent to my home. My fondest memories are of exploring the wetlands, scaring up grouse and pheasant and catching frogs. There were milkweed plants in abundance and where there are milkweeds there are Monarch butterflies. Red Winged blackbirds circled in black clouds at evening roosting time and settled on the cattails at full squall. Their sound still rings in my ears. Flocks of ducks and geese came and went. It was a wonderful playground for us kids.

This morning I met my boss, Stephanie, at the refuge for water salinity testing training. Of course it was cold (about 40 degrees F) and pouring rain. Hurricane Ike pushed an 18 foot high wall of salt water onto the refuge and it has had some good and ill effects well after the water levels returned to normal. Some of the invasive plants, intolerant to salt, were greatly reduced and that was a blessing. Other plants, like our prized willow trees have come to harm because of the high salt content (salinity) of the soil and water around them. Our willows are prime habitat for many of our nesting birds and provide much needed cover in an environment where trees are in very short supply. To monitor the salinity, metered readings are taken at various sites across the refuge. That is one of my new assignments and I like doing it a lot.

Stephanie carefully marked my map with the designated sampling sites and we drove out onto the refuge to the first one. She unpacked the salinity tester from its case and gave me clear instructions on how to take the reading and the correct way to record it. First I had to turn on the meter, then make sure it was set for parts per thousand (ppt), check that it was zero'd out for the current reading, and then drop the probe attached to its long cord into the water.

The readings of the fresh water marsh should ideally be zero. No salinity. Closer to the bay, the reading can naturally scale up as high as 1.0 ppt. Readings are taken once a week and Patrick, our biologist, keeps tabs on them and trends the data. The readings are very important to the care of the refuge and I take the job of doing them very seriously.

So off we went to take our first reading and everything went as planned. I followed my training as I should, recorded my measurements and returned through the soaking rain to the car. There were a lot of birds out. I have noticed that animals seem to be more active when it is cool and rainy. We spotted at least a dozen pairs of mottled ducks. They are an indicator species for this refuge. Lots of mottled ducks is a very good sign. I can't hardly wait to see all the ducklings. The parents are just now beginning their mating season. Spring is coming!

Our next stop was at a water control structure near Frozen Point. Unfortunately it was about 100 yards off the road and located in a heavily cattle grazed area. In fact a cow was babysitting 3 calves nearby. With all of the heavy rain and the cattle activity, the approach to the test site was more marsh and pond than anything. We were glad to have our waterproof boots and the protection of our hats and hoods. It was a good slog across the muck and I nearly lost a boot more than once in the crossing. Stephanie made the comment that a lost boot would mean a fine for littering. I didn't want that to happen.

Just as I came on to the structure my right boot stuck in the sucking muck and started pulling me down. Before I had time to yelp, I found myself lying flat on my back in the mud. I had actually pitched over the side of the structure as I listed to starboard. All I could do was laugh. I am just too funny sometimes. I just laughed and laughed. It was like being a kid again.

Needless to say, I was pretty heavily caked in mud by the time we finished our reading. We did the best we could to clean our boots in the bay before we got back into the car. Our spectator cows seemed to have a rather satisfied grin on their faces as I sloshed along their fence line. They seem to say, see, now you know what we have to deal with!

Stephanie and I continued on, took more readings, and made it back to the shop with no further mishaps. Our readings were higher than nominal in the wake of Ike. Even with our heavy rains, salinity readings ranged from a low of'.6 ppt furthest from the bay to as high as 1.6 ppt close to the bay. The rain continued in torrents. We held up at the shop to talk with the guys for awhile. No one questioned the amount of mud on my clothes. It seemed to be an ordinary occurrence.

This afternoon I am going to wash my jacket and jeans. They should be as good as new when they are clean and dry. I did take 2 Ibuprofen as a precaution. My spirit is still that of an 11 year old, but sadly, my body is not. I may wake up pretty stiff and sore in the morning. But even if I do, I will laugh and laugh and laugh. For the first time in many a long year, I do feel like a kid again.

Recognition And Suspicion

2010-02-10T16:22:00.000-08:00

I had an idea for a poem while riding across the wildlife refuge to spot birds and look for fire wood with my next door neighbor Sonny. Sonny is a biologist and knows a lot about the refuge and wildlife in general. At one point while he drove us though the back country he discovered that one of the water control gates had been opened by Red Fish fishermen. Effectively robbing the refuge of much needed water, yet substantially increasing the likelihood of catching a Red Fish. There are always two sides to every story. Maybe more. It is difficult to see or know all aspects of ones surroundings at once.

Recognition And Suspicion

Red Tail hawk
Harrier
Juvenile
Or Adult?

Red Shoulder hawk
Cormorant
Grebe
Or coot?

Shoveller
Teal
Pin Tail
Or Mottled duck?

My guide
Is he an
Indicator
Species?

Is he
A nice guy
Or
Not?

So many
Cattle
On the
Levy

Make it
Hard to drive
The drag lines
Filled to overflow

In most places
But water is
Low by
The Intracoastal

Who pulled
The stop logs
And opened
The water gate?

At least
They left them
On dry
Land

We
Replace them
And call
Law enforcement

There's talk
A security camera
Will be
Installed

I wonder
Just a little
If I
Need One?

Are bobcats
And gators
The only
Predators?

Should I
Invite
Him to
Dinner?

Anahuac In Winter

2010-02-05T18:42:00.000-08:00

I finally had a nice clear afternoon for exploring the Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge. Here is a sampler of some of the sights I experienced today.

Six More Weeks Of Winter?

2010-02-03T07:13:00.000-08:00

My friend Michael lives in Pennsylvania not too awfully far away from Punxsutawney Phil. Michael wrote recently that he is not particularly happy with his Punxsutawney neighbor. Phil, for those of you who may not be familiar, is one of the premier winter weather forecasters for North America. Just to fill you in on Phil, I have provided his Bio from the esteemed Wikipedia free on-line encyclopedia:

Punxsutawney Phil is a groundhog resident of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, USA. On February 2, (Groundhog Day) of each year, the town of Punxsutawney celebrates the beloved groundhog with a festive atmosphere of music and food. During the ceremony, which begins well before the winter sunrise, Phil emerges from his temporary home on Gobbler's Knob, located in a rural area about 2 mi (3.2 km) east of town. According to the tradition, if Phil sees his shadow and returns to his hole, the United States will have six more weeks of winter. If Phil does not see his shadow, spring will arrive early. The date of Phil's prognostication is known as Groundhog Day in the United States and Canada. During the rest of the year, Phil lives in the town library with his "wife" Phyllis. A select group, called the Inner Circle, takes care of Phil year-round and also plan the annual ceremony. Members of the Inner Circle are recognizable by their top hats and tuxedos.

Zoological data suggests that groundhogs have a maximum lifespan of 10 years in captivity or 6 years in the wild. However, Punxsutawney Phil fans say that there is only one Phil (all the other groundhog weathermen are impostors), and that he has made weather prognostications for over 120 years as of 2010. They say that every summer, Phil is fed a sip of the mysterious Groundhog Punch, which magically lengthens his life for seven years. This is done by Inner Circle members. According to the Groundhog Club, Phil, after making the prediction, speaks to the Club President in "Groundhogese", which only the Inner Circle appear to understand, and then his prediction is translated for the entire world.

Michael is a hearty Pennsylvania native and is no stranger to the hardships of a long winter. He is also a gentle soul and not one to complain. So I was a little bit surprised to find that he was P.O.'d at his sagine neighbors latest prognostication of 6 more weeks of winter. Michael began with a not too subtle warning, "Careful what you do Phil...I hear groundhogs can be tasty." Then followed up with, "Dang groundhog...grrrrrrrrrrrrr." I found the "grrrrrrrrrrrr", especially menacing. "Grrrrrrrrrrrrr" in Groundhogese means "Ooooh you are so gonna get it!" He also reportedly balled up one of his massive fists and gave Phil an imaginary groundhog punch!

Now, this is where things start to get a bit sticky. You see while Phil is privileged to receive the mysterious life extending elixir, his good wife Phyllis does not. So every seven years Phil
gets the pleasure of having a new (and young) wife. This makes Phil a bit itchy in his seventh marital year and is what gave birth to the term 'seven year itch,' a particularly dicey time in a couples marriage.

My friend Michael is known to frequent the Punxsutawney town library where he always checks out CDs for his long commute. His favorites are groups like The Magnificent Men, Funkadelic, Mott The Hoople, Leon Redbone, T. REX, Suzi Quatro, Lou Reed, River Bottom Nightmare Band and Bob Marley. You will find out why this is significant in a moment.

Phil, if you remember, lives most of the time in the Punxsutawney town library with his wife Phyllis. The current Phyllis should more correctly be referred to as Phyllis the 17th. Phyllis the 17th is 7 years old and she is thinking real seriously about her philosophy of duty versus survival. Duty by this time isn't looking so good, the mysterious Groundhog Punch elixir is looking better and better, and Phil's 120 year old ass is looking worse and worse.

Well, things are coming together nicely.

Here's what I think happened. You be the judge. When my friend Michael went to pick up his latest River Bottom Nightmare Band release he uttered a rather cryptic "Grrrrrrrrr" as he passed Phil's rather lavish (and climate-controlled) abode just to the left of the New Age stacks. Phyllis the 17th heard this "grrrrrrrrr" and being a groundhog herself, knew its exact implications and also, might I add, possibilities. Phil was sleeping off a particularly nasty Groundhog Punch hangover and was dead to the world.

Shortly thereafter, Phil went missing. Phyllis, his rightful heir assumed his duties, honors, and major assets. Including their home at the library, a nice vacation hole out on Gobblers Knobb, a lifetime supply of Groundhog Punch and a lovely Waterford Chrystal bowl and serving set.

Michael very uncharacteristically checked out a book in addition to his CDs entitled "Exotic Stews from Around the Globe." And in it, on page 34 is found this recipe:

Woodchuck Stew
1 woodchuck
2 onions, sliced
1/2 cup celery, sliced
Flour
Vinegar and water
Salt and pepper
Cloves

Clean woodchuck; remove glands; cut into serving pieces. Soak overnight in a solution of equal parts of water and vinegar with addition of one sliced onion and a little salt. Drain, wash, and wipe. Parboil 20 minutes, drain, and cover with fresh boiling water. Add one sliced onion, celery, a few cloves, and salt and pepper to taste. Cook until tender; thicken gravy with flour.

I am thinking that in the future our winters just might be 6 weeks shorter. Probably just a coincidence. Lets chalk it up to 'Global Warming'. Michael will be pleased.

A Poem Promised Is A Poem Recieved

2010-02-02T16:57:00.000-08:00

I Promised You A Poem - By Chelyan Stone

I promised you a poem
to be delivered to you today,
But rhyming isn't easy
when I don't have much to say.

I'm trying Tat, I'm trying ...
putting ink to paper, fast.
For I fear I'll miss the deadline;
perhaps it's even past !

You must be now in Texas -
in your gypsy mobile house.
Starting fresh -- new friends await,
tho you brought along a mouse.

I wish you well my dearest friend -
Love, peace, happiness too.
While coyotes sing to you at night,
Shaman wolves will heal you.

Methinks I Smell A Rat Fink

2010-01-30T17:05:00.000-08:00

"What in the Obamanation is that!", I shrieked as the mouse hopped onto the arm of my sofa. "Holy C*R*A*P!"

"Uh, what do you mean?" Says the mouse.

"What do I mean, I MEAN, Hey! Hey! You are a talking mouse!" I shook my head really hard, must be something wrong with the furnace.

"Uh, yeah, so?" He says.

"Yeah so? Get out of my house! That's yeah so!" I found myself clutching the arms of my rocker recliner really tight.

"Uh, its not your house." Says he.

"Not my house?! This house?! This is not my house?!" My jaw is about to crack from clenching it.

"Uh, nope." He says.

"THEN WHOSE IS IT?!!!" My right eye is really starting to twitch.

"Well, uh, belongs to us mice." Says the mouse. "Uh, we bought the bank."

"Erp." It was all I could come up with.

He looked at me kind of sympathetic, or empathic, or maybe pitying?

I was stunned. "You mean I have to have you, a mouse, in my house?"

"Uh, technically, my house, or, er, our mouses house. Yes." he said.

"Nooooo. I can't stand it. No mice, no mice, NO MICE!" My hollering didn't seem to effect him.

"Um, look, I'm not a bad mouse, I'm just doing my job. I have a family to feed. You don't have any food around except for stuff in cans. I have to eat your sofa cushions. How would you feel if you had to do that for a living?" He wiggled his whiskers.

"I donno. It might be okay. I was never a mouse. How would I know?" My neck muscles were starting to bunch up right at the back at the base.

"Its not as good as you might think." He smoothed out his tail.

"Hey look," I said. "I'll cut you a deal."

He looked at his paw. "I'm not sure I can do this."

I smiled really big. My 10 thousand watter. "Sure you can!"

He squinched up his mouth , scratched his nose and looked away for a moment. "Hypothetically, what might a mouse get as a result of such a deal?"

"Ooh well, actually I have some peanut butter. And I have a very nice, very special, just for a couch mouse plate that I can serve it on." Another 10 thousand watter.

"Well, I, um, I am kinda tired of eating sofa cushion every meal. And I do love peanut butter...." He tailed off.

"Great! Let me load, I mean, prepare you a plate. Extra crunchy." I beamed. "I'll be right back."

So I go to the basement, grab a mouse trap, take it upstairs to the kitchen, and put a nice big glob of peanut butter right on the trigger. Then I very carefully pull back the spring and set the catch. "Heh, heh, heh."

"Here you go! All the peanut butter that you want. And when you have had your fill, out you go. Fair enough?" I coaxed.

"Uhm, well, it does smell like a really good deal... Okay!" He squeaked

I set his very special mouse treat right down on the floor in front of him. And you know what? He hopped down off the sofa, took one big bite, and "CRACK!" No more mouse.

I started getting a lot of nasty letters and then the threatening phone calls became a barrage at dinner time. You know, harassment. Stuff like, "Don't be surprised if you go out to get the paper and find a dead cat in your yard." That kinda stuff.

What could I do? I got scared. I packed up everything into my RV and headed for Texas. I took an assumed name, paid in cash, looked over my shoulder all the time. I think I'm gonna be okay. "Hey! Whats that? What's that shadow by the couch?! Hey! Wait! Hold on! I'll..........."

Editors note: No pictures, its just too gruesome.

Missing An Old Friend

2010-01-29T15:21:00.000-08:00

I have had a number of friends that have travelled with me over the years. My last companion was the best. While hiking the trails of Big Lagoon State Park in Pensacola Florida I really missed her company. The path was crooked enough to make me wonder just what might be around the next bend and there were small hills made of the dunes that held surprises. It would have been fun to share the joy of the days journey with her. I miss her very much.

Things don't always work out the way we would like in life. They do seem to follow a plan or a pattern, even though we don't understand fully. Wandering the trails along the lagoon reminds me that we are just a little part of what is happening in the universe. I may feel a certain way when walking along the path and then a pelican flies by. Then I think about what it may be like to be a pelican skimming over the surface of the lagoon. The pelican isn't concerned with me or my feelings. He is just busy being a pelican. I'm just a passing shadow. So much for my feelings.

Yet even though I am put in my place for the moment I am still sad at the loss of my companion. But like the pelican, I will go on until there is no more going to be done. And I appreciate each day for what it is, and what it brings. That is the best I or any of us can do. It has started to rain. It sounds like music on the roof. Tomorrow will be sunny.

Big Lagoon Trail

2010-01-29T15:02:00.000-08:00

I decided to stay in the park today and do some hiking before the predicted rain started in the evening.

Wonder what is lurking in here?

Cattail

Too cool and not enough sun for gators today.

Pelicans were out having a flight.

A white heron is looking for lunch.

Nature makes some beautifully unusual shapes.

Uh oh. Should I cross this bridge?

Pensacola Beach, Florida

2010-01-28T16:27:00.000-08:00

Pensacola Beach

National Sea Shore Pensacola Beach

Pensacola Florida

2010-01-27T16:47:00.000-08:00

This is my coach parked at Big Lagoon State Park in Pensacola, Florida.

This is Sadie and Jimmy's coach. They are camp hosts here at Big Lagoon. They have a home in Tennessee. The inside of the coach is made to look like an old time western train.

The beaches here are made of white powdered sugar sand.

I have seen a lot of beaches and these are some of the best. It looks like freshly fallen snow.

More pristine beach.

Sugar Sand.

The pier at Gulf Shores Alabama.

Another lovely day comes to an end.

The Cacophony of Silence

2010-01-21T13:40:00.000-08:00

My friend Wendy is wonderful artist. Nationally known, actually. She is what I would call a beautifully tortured soul. One minute deep in the well of creativity and the next at the brink of insanity. I don't know if all artists are similar in nature. I have only known the ones that are.

The great gift of seeing, interpreting and then revealing the truth of this mystery we call reality is a burden, a care, a sorrow, a joy, an exhilaration, a triumph, and a disaster. Art does mirror life. And the more the artist sees, interprets and expresses the further she delves into the lightness and darkness of life.

Years ago Paul, my artist friend, explained the secret of the artist's nature. He said, "Artists are ordinary people that see ordinary things extraordinarily. We look the same, talk the same, walk the same as normal people. We marry, have families, pay bills, work hard, never have quite enough, and worry just like everyone else. And yet everything looks just a bit different to us. When an artist is born he or she receives a lifetime round trip ticket. The destination on this ticket is Hell. As long as the artist holds on to that ticket he or she can travel the roads and tunnels of creativity in relative safety."

My experience with artists over the years is that they often misplace their ticket, get off at really bizarre stops and become really frightened, confused, upset, and angry. They feel abandoned, frustrated, and lost. I think from their perspective this is rightfully so because what they feel is their own personal reality.

The rest of us stroll with the artist through what we think are well ordered track lit galleries. We compliment the work, make what we consider intelligent comments, and ask what we think are meaningful questions. All the while trying our best to understand and appreciate what the artist is trying to share with us. The artist sees everything in her own light and sometimes forgets that we cannot see as she does. We work hard to communicate successfully.

I suppose my biggest concern for the health of an artist friend is the noise that swirls inside her head. Noise is not sound, nor music, nor conversation. Noise is just noise. It comes from being too close to the edge. The abyss is a cacophony of noise that pulls and pushes at the artists soul. Draws her into the deep well of creativity. She clutches hard to her ticket and travels silently to Hell. And I hope, back to the light of a brand new day.

Advice On Making It Through The Night

2010-01-19T20:24:00.000-08:00

I suppose no matter how humdrum our existence seems to us, we never really know what may happen round the next bend. My friend Ruth taught be a very good lesson about the unexpected and how to cope with it. There are 4 simple rules and I think they apply quite well to most situations:
1. Never assume anything
2. Speak impeccably
3. Don't take it personally
4. Always do your best

As I get older, and perhaps a little wiser, I like to pass on these pearls. I know that I have leaned back hard on these rules for support a number of times in my recent history. As a result I have been rewarded with much kindness and a certain lightness of heart. The glass stays clean and clear and for the most part seems more than half full, if even a drop or two are tears.

I carry what I remember of the opening lines of the great Toa Te Ching in the back of my head. They stuck there when I was in my early twenties and still remain.

There are ways but the way is not charted
There are names but not nature in words
Nameless indeed is the source of creation
But things have a mother and she has a name

It is a paraphrase, of course, but I understand what the master was teaching and that is what is important to me.

We all have our own words and meanings that we rely on in times of trouble and uncertainty. While they try and slip away, we hold them tight and speak them to the dark of night in hopes for the light of day. We are all brothers and sisters in this way. This speaking of the sacred words to banish the darkness and restore the light.

I wish you peace my good brothers and sisters and remind you to speak your sacred words tonight and not be afraid. Tomorrow is another day and each day is new and replaces the last. With each rising of the sun we are reborn. Greet the new day with widespread wings. And fly.

The Gloom Is Inspiring

2010-01-19T08:00:00.000-08:00

North Eastern Ohio has some of the gloomiest weather in the nation. I suppose it is caused from being in the Northern latitudes and the proximity to the wonderful abundance of fresh water in the Great Lakes. While winter is usually harsh and springtime short lived, summer and fall are luscious and linger. The folks that live here have learned to bear up under the weight of cold, clouds, rain and snow in expectation of sunny warm calm days.

We Ohioans that live in the Northeast have developed a distinct brand of optimism the is deeply rooted in the overcast, cold, and damp. We adapt, survive and thrive because it is so necessary to have a positive attitude living here. The gloom makes us clever, brave and resilient. It makes us creative. It gives us hope for tomorrow because at some point, tomorrow will become another sunny day.

There are no mountains in Ohio and the Great Lakes freeze over late in winter. The major winter sports activities are a bit out of our range. We do take to hiking, ice skating, and cross country skiing in the local parks. Shopping is often the best gloom reliever. Buying spring fashions in February means brighter days are ahead.

Spring here, while short lived, is a mosaic of vibrant color. The blossoms of forsythia, lilac, plum, pear, cherry, crabapple, dogwood, and redbud delight the eye and caress the nose. The green of new leaves, shoots and blades is vivid almost beyond belief. And sound returns on the wings of birds, insects and wind in the leaves. Life makes its return with a rush and clamor.

One of the things we watch for in spring is the late frost and sometimes hard freeze that will strip us of our beautiful blossoms and blooms. We hold our breath throughout the months of April and May which can be either very hot or very cold and sometimes both in a short span of time. I have seen Aprils well into the lower 80's and Mays in the upper 20's and low 30's. Gardeners learn to wait until Memorial Day to be safely clear of the last frost.

Northeast Ohioans pack a lot of living in the days between Memorial Day and Labor Day. We have to. Summer is short here and usually trends toward dry, hot and clear or wet, cool, and cloudy. Those of us optimists that own swimming pools pray for the former. Cool weather aficionados pray for the latter. Both camps get along well enough except on the hottest and coolest, cloudiest days. Extremes are sometimes taxing to the spirit and a word or two of grumbling might be heard.

Luckily, the most often heard grumble is, "Its too hot!" This is usually accompanied by a fanning motion across the front of the body. Sometimes assisted by the employment of a newspaper or magazine in place of a formal fan. I have found that most Northeast Ohioans prefer cool weather to hot and are usually quite comfortable with the typically lower temperatures we experience here.

Fall is usually long and golden with sunny days and pleasant nights. The deciduous trees are plentiful here and make for stunning displays of red, yellow, and gold. The beauty of this season is our reward for surviving the gloom of winter, the uncertainty of spring, and the transience of summer. Its intensity acts as our reserve to sustain us through the fast approaching winter.

When winter does come, usually in the weeks just before Thanksgiving, we rejoice in the approach of the Holidays. Family, friends, good meals and fine drink sustain us and there is football, football, and football. Northeast Ohioans as a general rule love football. We even think it was invented here and claim it as our own at the Pro Football Hall of Fame, in Canton, Ohio.

Human beings often thrive by pushing against something. We push against ignorance, unfairness, cruelty, and oppression. And in Northeast Ohio we push against the gloom of a cloudy gray day. We push toward the future, optimistic that the sun will shine once more, our days will be lush and verdant, and that in the end everything will be alright. So you see, the gloom is a good thing after all. Everything will be alright as long as we want it to be. As long as we hope it will be. We know, one day soon, it will be alright.

I Love Science

2010-01-17T05:40:00.000-08:00

Once my life entered the mid-life stage strange things began happening to my stuff. Stuff like my reading glasses, my TV remote, car keys, and ear rings. My stuff wouldn't stay put where I put it. It started to move around the house, rather mischievously disappearing and then reappearing in the oddest places. Over the years the frequency of these occurrences has noticeably increased. So much, that I have had to consult experts on the matter.

My good friend Cimmaron got me on to the idea of getting a government funded grant to look into the phenomena. Cimi is an academic by profession, analytic and bureaucratic in nature. She loves to cook, does Yoga, wears exquisite clothes, drives a BMW, attends the theatre, dines with friends, and travels. She has become my go-to person for many of the puzzles that have challenged me in my life. I trust her implicitly.

We discussed options over lunch on the patio of a charming little cafe in our quaint fair city a summer or two ago. There was a soft murmur from the tumbling of the water down the waterfall in the beautifully landscaped garden. Roses were in bloom. Laughter and the ting ting of tableware on fine china was in the air. The Japanese angelica tree provided just the right amount of shade for our bistro table.

"My dearest darling Tatiana," began Cimi. "I want you to know that I am resolved to do everything within my power to help you solve this disturbing mystery. My colleagues and I have put our heads together over many a glass of Pinot Grigio, Pinot Blanc, Pinot Gris, and Pinot noir in support of your cause. I can't tell you the quantity of Gruyer, Humboldt Fog, Mt Tam, Robbiola due Latti, and Stracchinos cheeses that has had to be consumed. Our efforts are prodigious."

I widened my already luscious smile, tossed back a long straight lock of golden hair, raised my eyes and crinkled my nose for encouragement.

"There hasn't been a topic so perplexing as yours to tickle our craniums in years." She continued. "Tucker, Marjorie, and Todd all agree."

I gently nodded her on.

"While we don't have an actual solution, of course it is way too early in the project for that, we have come to a conclusion as to the process vehicle which should be applied."

My smile weakened a little.

Sensing my disquiet she moved along with, "We all agree that the most prudent path for you to follow is to apply for a government research grant."

I stared off at the Ruby-throated hummingbirds feasting on the carefully potted red and gold trumpet vine blossoms at the back of the pond. "Sounds like tedium."

"Oh well," she said. "Its not at all when you know how to go about it. Don't worry. We are always here for you."

My expression showed I was less than enthusiastic.

"Here," she said. "We have compiled a list of potential agencies and contact information."

I scanned the list:
Department of Defense
Department of Energy
Department of Health and Human Services
Department of Homeland Security
National Aeronautics and Space Administration
National Science Foundation
Nuclear Regulatory Commission
Department of Transportation
Department of the Treasury

"Lots of D's and N's," I said.

"Our top recommendation is to apply to NASA." She smiled. "While they have a very limited budget, they really aren't doing anything over there right now. They are very open to this sort of niche work, you know, small projects that can get lost in their data banks."

"Well," I brightened. "I have always wanted to work with NASA."

"Then its settled," she purred. "The NASA research center that is the most accessible is the National Center For Atmospheric Research in Boulder, Colorado. NCARs mission is to understand the behavior of the atmosphere and related physical, biological, and social systems for the betterment of life on Earth."

"Ah," I said. My stuff does seem to disappear into the ozone."

"Perfect!" Cimi's eyes lit up and she laughed. I joined in. It took us a moment to restore ourselves.

That was how the whole thing got started. Since then I have applied for and received funding for my project. I have a staff of 5 graduate students with me at all times toting complex equipment and instruments. They measure the most minute detail of my daily routine in a non obtrusive fashion, working from behind the draperies, the rocker/recliner, the Steinway upright, and in warm weather, on the Lanai.

While there is still a lot of serous work to do, early research suggests a distinctive trend. Things do seem to end up in my sock drawer. There my team has recovered my missing Vacheron timepiece, the remote for the Panasonic TC P65V10 - 65" plasma TV, keys for the BMW Z4, and one of my 18k yellow gold heart shape yellow diamond drop earrings. We are, however, still having problems finding all of my VK Nagrani dress socks. The next phase of the project calls for an extensive study of the glove box in the beamer. I love science.

Searching For Answers Amoung The Reeds and Rushes

2010-01-13T20:03:00.000-08:00

My dear friend Dianne has the doom of having a bit of the poet in her soul. This is just another of the wonderful things we share. She wrote the poem Finding Green and graciously allowed me to edit and post it here.

Finding Green - by Dianne Paton

Green was the color of my first car
A '69 Mustang that first caught your eye
It was my car
Then me that you chased

Greensleeves was the name of the song that you sang
And strummed on your guitar
That melted my heart
And I knew I loved you

Green were the color of the polka dots
On my summer dress as we held hands
Going to the park to feed the ducks
Breadcrumbs on a sunshine bright day

Green was the color of the moss that grew by the side of the creek
Where I walked to bury the goldfish that you gave me
That succumbed to living in a round bowl
After a few weeks

Green were the color of the leaves that I weaved into laurel crowns
That graced our heads when we committed to each other
That we would remain together
Forever

Green was the color of your fatigues you wore
When you departed
For airplanes and guns
That July morning

Green were the color of the eyes
Of the man I met
At the lunch counter of the cafe
Across the street from my office

Green was the color of the stamp
I affixed to the envelope
Containing the letter I wrote
Explaining that I was gone from you

Green was my color
Your sorrow and my sorrow
My joy
My life

Comments on the Mewmonkan

2010-01-12T07:11:00.000-08:00

Now, some of my best friends over the years have been cats and dogs. I find that I have a good rapport with both species. Cats have always struck me as being little Zen masters. Dogs are more like Benedictine monks. I love them both equally. Here follows a rather philosophical, perhaps spiritual conversation between Zen Master Bindy the cat and Benedictine Abbot Mildew the dog. My apologies to Zen Master Mumon and St Benedict.

Abbot Mildew: "Has the dog the Buddha nature?"
Master Bindy: "Mew."
Abbot Mildew: "God bless you!"
Master Bindy: "For the pursuit of Zen, you must pass through the gates (barriers) set up by the Zen masters."
Abbot Mildew: "Gates are good. We have a very nice gate to the garden at the monastery. The roses are particularly lovely this year."
Master Bindy: "To attain his mysterious awareness a dog must completely uproot all the normal workings of said dogs mind."
Abbot Mildew: "Yes, yes! Precisely so! Why I dug up a particularly interesting bone in the garden just last evening."
Master Bindy: "If you do not pass through the barriers, nor uproot the normal workings of your mind, whatever you do and whatever you think is a tangle of ghost."
Abbot Mildew: "Now wait a minute, do you mean to tell me that bone I dug up in the garden might contain a ghost? I gnawed on that thing all evening. Heaven protect me!" (Crosses himself.)
Master Bindy: "Now what are the barriers? This one word "Mew" is the sole barrier."
Abbot Mildew: "I'll say. I sure can't get past it."
Master Bindy: "This is why it is called the Gateless Gate of Zen."
Abbot Mildew: "Sounds like a lot of dogma to me."
Master Bindy: "The dog who passes through this barrier shall meet with me face to face and also see with the same eyes, hear with the same ears and we shall walk together in the long train of the patriarchs. Wouldn't that be pleasant?
Abbott Mildew: "Now see here. Have you been into the catnip again? I'm sitting right here in front of you. What in God's name is the matter with you? Just answer my original question. Although, a long walk would be nice. There are a lot of trees here along the road.
Master Bindy: "Would you like to pass through this barrier? Then concentrate your whole body, with its 321 bones, and 84,000 hair follicles, into this question of what "Mew" is."
Abbot Mildew: "Really, I only have that one bone that I dug up last night and I'm thinking seriously of performing an exorcism on it before I even so much as give it another lick."
Master Bindy: "Day and night, without ceasing, hold it before you. It is neither nothingness, nor its relative "not" of "is" and "is not." It must be like gulping a hot iron ball that you can neither swallow nor spit out.
Abbot Mildew: "I had a pork chop bone stuck in my throat one time. Jesus, it almost killed me."
Master Bindy: "Then, all the useless knowledge you have diligently learned till now is thrown away. As a fruit ripening in season, your internality and externality spontaneously become one."
Abbot Mildew: "Woof."
Master Bindy: "As with a mute dog who had had a dream, you know it for sure and yet cannot say it. Indeed your ego-shell suddenly is crushed, you can shake heaven and earth. Just as with getting ahold of a great sword of a general, when you meet Buddha you will kill Buddha.
Abbot Mindy: "All this talk of killing is making my head hurt. My vows strictly forbid it!"
Master Bindy: "A master of Zen? You will kill him, too. As you stand on the brink of life and death, you are absolutely free. You can enter any world as if it were your own playground."
Abbot Mildew: "Really sir, I must protest!"
Master Bindy: "How do you concentrate on this Mew? Pour every ounce of your entire energy into it and do not give up, then a torch of truth will illuminate the entire universe."
Abbot Mildew: "Yes, I certainly intend to do just that. But tell me please, has a dog the Buddha nature?"
Master Bindy (extending claws): "This is a matter of life and death. If you wonder whether a dog has it or not,You certainly lose your body and life!" (Swipes Abbot Mildew on the nose! )
Abbot Mildew: "Yipe! Jesus save me from this devil cat!"
Master Bindy: "Mew."

My Sides Hurt

2010-01-11T20:45:00.001-08:00

My friend Dianne makes me laugh until I hurt. I mean it. Sometimes I think I'll tear a rib loose. We have not seen each other in 39 years. We do our talking on Facebook and over the phone. She inspired me to write this poem.

Tatoo Girl

Laughing
I can
See you
There

Across
The long
Lost
Years

An enigma
Freekin
Out the
Suits

Even
Though you
Were always
Home

When
The streetlights
Came
On

I never
Tire
Of
You

Even
At
The twenty
Minute warning

Lost in
Your timeless
Mosquito
Fog

With angels
Writing
Poetry
For love

Mustangs
Not the
Only
Wild things

You
Saw
The
Point

February 2
1971
We were
So young

Momma Mia
Is that a
A fish tatoo
Inside your right wrist?

Joni
Mitchell
Has nothing
On you

Snacks on a Plain

2010-01-11T12:57:00.000-08:00

There once was a mystic that travelled through the Painted Desert. Mainly, he was in search of truth. Or self. Or god. Something really deep.

Anyway, this fellow was in the Painted Desert walking in Teva Terra Fi3 sandals. They were Firetread Stone in color. Nice sandals really, although they only rated 3.8 out of a possible 5 and why not wear a good pair of Salomon Tech Amphibian hiking shoes? Maybe he was a purist. Yeah, a purist would have to wear sandals in the dessert, but not an old school purist. Right? I mean an old school purist would wear rope sandals. And where would you get rope sandals anyway? On the Internet, I guess, so he must have been a kind of techie geek mystic or maybe he just liked the Teva's, or maybe his mom gave them to him for his birthday. Whatever.

Anyway, this hi-tech geeky mystic was wandering the Painted Desert on Navajo lands in Arizona. He started out in Tuba City (Navaho: Tó Naneesdizí). So, well, he's not actually wandering around. I mean he had a Garmin Oregon 400T 3-inch touchscreen handheld GPS unit with preloaded topographic maps with a 4 Gb SanDisk micro SDHC memory card with 4 Gb of internal storage. Its not like it had way points for truth, or enlightenment, or anything like that. But its not like he's going to get lost. And he had an UltraLast Green Solar 2 AA/USB charger with 2 AA everyday precharged batteries. Okay? But still, he's out in the Painted Desert, see. He's seeking, you know, looking for answers.

Alright, alright. Where was I? Yeah, he starts out from Tuba City in his Teva Sandals and he's got his GPS and his solar charger and a satellite phone. Yeah, an Iridium 9555 with enhanced SMS and email messaging capability, mini USB dataport, and handsfree headset. When he finds out the truth or has his vision or whatever he can get someone on the phone or maybe Twitter the good news. You'd like that, right? Sure you would.

Of course he's not naked. Who said he was naked? Look, he was wearing a Tilley LT3 wide brim hat, white. I think it was white. A light blue Rail Riders Adventure shirt over a white Patagonia Mesh Sport Top with matching Moving Comfort Microbrief. He had on a pair of khaki Solumbra Active pants that had a little ketchup stain right on the inside of the left thigh from, well that doesn't matter. He looks hot, he's ripped, he's ready for anything see, and he's thinking. Meditating like, like walking Zen. Kinhin I think they call it.

So he's kinhinning along swinging his Stix X1 one piece carbon fiber trekking poles and he glances at his Casio pathfinder thermometer wrist watch and notices its 78.9 (F) which is cool cause its May and that's the average high temperature for May in the painted desert. I mean he's in the groove, in the zone, you know what I'm saying.

In his minds eye, his third eye, the eye of wisdom, he suddenly has this, well, what do you call it? A thought, vision? And its "Do not walk behind me, for I may not lead. Do not walk ahead of me, for I may not follow. Do not walk beside me for the path is narrow. In fact just get the hell away from me and leave me alone." This causes him to pause and ponder. Pondering always makes him hungry. He's already paused, so hey, time to eat!

He takes off the GVP Gear G5 gossamer lightweight frameless pack with padded harness that weighs a mere 7.6 oz empty. No its not empty, I'm just saying, that's how much it would weigh if it were empty. Its not empty. He pulls out one of the small Bozeman Mountain Works SpinSack stuff sacks and looks inside. Right on top is his freezer bag of GORP, you know, good old raisins and peanuts. Actually its GORPBan, because it has banana chips in it too. He put in the banana chips to make up for lost potassium. There's nothing better than a good old GORPBan snack when you are seeking in the desert since it replaces the sugar, salt, and like I already told you, the potassium, that you lose when you are kinhinning along in the desert. Listening to your inner voice with your third eye. That kind of stuff.

Whew! Folded neatly inside the GVP Gear G5 gossamer lightweight frameless pack with padded harness is his Bozeman Mountain Works SpinPoncho one person poncho/tarp. He gently removes it so as not to mess up the rest of his pack and then spreads it out on the ground. He then sits his pack on the tarp and then sits down. Once he sits down he takes off the Teva Terra Fi3 sandals and sits in a full lotus posture. I'm telling you, this guy knows what he's doing.

So there he is, sitting in the Painted Desert, on Navaho land, about 6 miles out of Tuba City, on a tarp, in the full lotus position eating GORPBan and contemplating his vision, or message, or whatever that was that came to him a few minutes ago in his third eye. "Do not walk behind me, for I may not lead. Do not walk ahead of me, for I may not follow. Do not walk beside me for the path is narrow. In fact just get the hell away from me and leave me alone." Yep, that's exactly what he was doing. Sitting there alone in the desert, doing that.

Munching away on the GORPBan, meditating Hmmmmmm. And then bam! He has a moment of enlightenment! He thinks "I do not eat meat, and I do not kill. Am I not killing these good raisins, peanuts, and bananas by chopping and mixing them up and throwing them into a plastic freezer bag?" I'm not kidding. This really happened.

Suddenly he's lost his appetite. He unfolds himself from the full lotus position and carefully puts the rest of the GORPban into the small Bozeman Mountain Works SpinSack stuff sack. Then he reaches over and pulls on the Teva Terra Fi3 sandals. From his pocket he pulls out his Victorinox Spartan Swiss Army Knife, extracts the plastic toothpick, and pops out a chunk of peanut stuck to his molar with raisin bananna glue. Sucking his teeth, he looks to the mountains and says to no one. "Well, I definitely think I should kill them before I eat them."

I don't know what happened to him after that. Seriously. One guy says he made his way back to Tuba City, drove his rental car back to Las Vegas, and became a Blackjack dealer at the Bellagio. Swears he lost 450 bucks at his table. Another guy told me the mystic dropped his GPS unit, a pronghorn antelope made off with it, and he is still out there kinhinning in the desert. Who knows, it dosn't matter. Its just a story. Just get the hell away from me and leave me alone.

Home

2010-01-10T06:29:00.000-08:00

I dearly love my friend Tim. He has always been there for me and has never harmed me in thought or deed, even when I might be at my most vulnerable condition. We were talking about what home means to each of us. He asked me to share my thoughts about home in a written piece here on Labrys.

Home

My grandfather on my father's side of the family was named Simeon. My father, his older two brothers, and his older sister called their father Samuel. Very proud to be Americans they preferred the English version of the name to the Russian name.

Grandfather Simeon worked for the railroad and had a rather unclear past. I have been told he came to this country by himself or perhaps in the company of a number of other 14 year old boys. They scrambled out of Russia near the end of the 19th century fleeing oppression, poverty, and war. They were young men still in children's bodies.

I never knew what part of Europe my grandmother came from. Her story must have been similar to grandfather Simeon's. She died 29 years before I was born and was never mentioned to me or my mother. We did learn that she had died in childbirth and lost twin boys in the process. Perhaps my fathers family wanted to erase a painful memory. She remains a mystery.

The white bungalow that grandfather constructed was well made and stylish for its time. Built in 1924, it housed grandfather Simeon, grandmother, oldest son George, second son Samuel, daughter Julia, and youngest son John. John would later become my father.

There was a sickle pear tree in the small front yard that offered the sweetest juiciest little golden pears. In the back was a vegetable garden and a cherry tree was planted in the side yard. There was no garage and it is doubtful that grandfather ever owned a car. The siding was narrow wood clapboard and there was a nice covered front porch with a wooden swing.

I'm not exactly sure what happened in the small white bungalow after grandmother died. I do know that things were never the same. My mother did confide in me that my grandfather had remarried and moved his new wife and children into his little home.

Grandfathers neat little house was located in the village of Kenmore in an ethnic neighborhood nicknamed The Russian Cell. It was made up of babushka ladies, laborers, and farmers. Much of the rich black swampy soil had been trenched and planted as truck gardens. My father fondly recounted the days when he and the other little boys would nab watermelons off the truck as it slowed to crawl up the hill.

The Russian Cell was framed in a triangle. One border was the multiple set of train tracks that always seemed to be alive with the rumble of freight cars and the blast of the engine horn as it neared the un-gated crossing. Sometimes an unfortunate driver would be too slow to get his Chevy or Ford across the tracks and there would be the most awful bang and crash. Later sirens would fill the air.

There was another train track that formed the second leg of the triangular border. This was a local line that was referred to as the Belt Line. The Belt Line was a slow moving train and even so, took its toll on a number of autos at its un-gated crossing. Her engine always seemed to move much slower than it actually was. And even though the engineer would blow the whistle frantically and look the driver straight in the eye, there were still those drivers reckless enough to try and beat the train. More awful bangs, crashes and sirens followed.

The third leg of the triangle was the great swamp itself stretching as far as the eye could see. There were thousands of red wing blackbirds. In the summer the sky would turn black against the sunset with their circling for the finale evenings roost. Their cries filling the air with a raucous melody. In spring and fall great migrating flocks of ducks and geese stopped in for a rest and a meal before resuming their journeys to summer and winter homes.

In summer the mosquito's were plentiful although not particularly large in size. The great masses of frogs and birds kept them somewhat under control. Every home had at least one bottle of calamine lotion on the shelf to treat the inevitable bite.

It is not certain which of the two railroads employed grandfather Simeon or what exactly he did there. He must have been fairly well paid to have built the white clapboard bungalow with the cozy front porch. I have often wondered if he travelled with the train , maintained track or worked in the train yard. If he travelled with the train he would have been away from home a lot. Working on the track beds or in the train yard would have kept him nearer.

My mother and father were married in the little white bungalow. Why there and not in the church is another part of the family mystery. By then my uncle George and my aunt Julia had both married and moved away from the Russian Cell. Uncle Samuel had been a navy pilot and was killed in a crash off an aircraft carrier near Italy at the end of the second world war. Grandfathers second family was living in the house at the time. I find it interesting that they are not in any of the wedding pictures or any other pictures for that matter.

Mother and father moved into an attic apartment in the Akron neighborhood of Firestone Park. It was a step or two up from living in the Russian Cell where grandfather remained with his second family. Mother became pregnant with her first child, a boy, that was eventually stillborn. She always said that the attic apartment was much too hot in the summer to live in.

I don't believe my father or his siblings ever went inside the white bungalow when they came to visit grandfather. The standard procedure was to park the car at the curb. Walk the short walk to the front porch. Knock. And then wait until grandfather came out to walk the visitor back to the curb. Conversations were held just at the rear of the car with one foot planted firmly on the bumper. English was rarely spoken and talk was accompanied by cigarette, cigar, or pipe smoke.

One day about a year and a half after my father and mother were married grandfather Simeon died of a stroke. This presented both an opportunity and a dilemma for my father's older brother and sister. The opportunity manifested itself as the forceful eviction from the white clapboard bungalow of grandfather's second family. The dilemma presented itself as to who would have to move back to the Russian Cell because, of course, the house must remain with grandfather's first family.

My father, the youngest and weakest of the siblings was elected to hold down the old homestead. Neither my father nor mother were pleased. Nevertheless, they both soon found themselves living in grandfather's house.

Mother and father were only allowed to occupy certain rooms of the house. They had the master bedroom, the living room, dining room, bath and basement kitchen. My aunt Julia used the second first floor bedroom, the basement bedroom, and half of the basement to store her large steamer trunks. What exactly was in those trunks wasn't known. The doors to those rooms were kept locked and my mother did not have a key. It made her feel like a visitor or a tolerated guest in the little white bungalow.

When my mother became pregnant with her second child, my aunt Julia removed her steamer trunks from the second upstairs bedroom. My mother went to work making it into a nursery and forgot about the other locked rooms for awhile. Her hopes were directed toward the future of a child. What my father's mood was at this time is unknown, as mysterious as the life and thoughts of his own father.

My aunt Julia and uncle George would visit the white clapboard bungalow occasionally. Julia would sometimes enter the house and sometimes go into the locked rooms. Uncle George preferred to maintain the old custom of talking at the back of the car on the curb. Conversations were limited to my father and rarely in English. My mother became more and more isolated.

In the seventh month of her pregnancy, mother gave birth to another boy. He managed to live 10 days. Both sides of the family offered reasons as to why my mother had failed in her second attempt to produce a healthy child. Mother was devastated. My father's mood remained a mystery. The little white bungalow was becoming a cell.

My mother's family pressured her to try once again for a child. There were many children in the family already and they felt she needed to keep up. Father's family pressed for another attempt because there were too few children and were afraid the family would die out. Doctors counselled against another pregnancy. The risks were too great. My mother worried and prayed.

In my family we used to say that the third time is the charm. And so it was with mother's final pregnancy. Aunt Julia removed the rest of the steamer trunks and unlocked the locked rooms and gave my father the keys. My mother worried, prayed, and sorted through advice from family, friends,and doctors. My father brooded over beer and cigars. And in the seventh month, on the Sunday of the summer solstice and Father's Day, I was born.

Two months later mother brought me home from the hospital to the little white clapboard bungalow. It was still in the Russian Cell, the trains rumbled by, the horns blew, and mosquitoes bit. Conversations with father's family moved into the house a little more, but stayed mostly at the curb. Mother's family continued to offer advice. Father continued to brood over beer and cigars. Mother, for the first time in her marriage, felt like she had a home.

I am not going to go into the details of the next 25 years in the little white bungalow. I will tell you that there were some hard times. Father lost his job, mother became ill, recovered from surgery, and then divorced. Father moved to an attic apartment in Firestone Park. Mother and I lived in the white clapboard bungalow and she called it home.

My grandfather's house was my house, but never my home after father moved out. It was just my grandfather's house, full of old ghosts of memories. Every day that I walked across the front porch and the short walk to the curb I would think how wonderful it would be to continue right down the road past the railroad tracks, the swamp, the junkyards (oh yes, the newest additions to the neighborhood) and the industrial buildings. Just continue right on out into the great wide world. And not come back.

My mother and father only took two trips together during their marriage. The first was a weekend honeymoon to Niagara Falls. The second with another married couple to Florida. Both trips happened before I was born. I know about them from the pictures my mother took. She regularly sat me down in front of the pictures and recounted the memories of those trips. My father was rarely mentioned in the recounts unless perhaps as an 'old poop.'

Mother was clearly enamored with water and boats. The honeymoon pictures were of the Maid of the Mist, the falls, and the Niagara River. In one picture she was at the bow of the Maid of the Mist engulfed in the spray of the falls protected by a rain coat. In a second picture she was standing at the falls overlook with the falls behind her. In another she is in a cave with the falls cascading in front of her.

She confided in me later in life, long after I had my own house, that she had married my father because she thought he liked boating. He was always telling mother about how many hours of fun he had paddling around the Portage Lakes in his canoe and that one day he would get the leak in the canoe repaired. Then they would go canoeing together. In reality, someone had given my father a leaky canoe which he kept out on Portage Lakes in an old shed. He hated being on or in the water because he could not swim and had nearly drowned as a child. He never repaired the canoe and eventually traded it to someone for a case of beer.

The Florida trip left an indelible impression on my mother. It was the first time she had ever seen the ocean, the beach, or the dunes. She fell in love with the coast of south Florida in a way that she could never do with my father.

After returning from Florida, mother decorated the entire inside of the little white bungalow in what I would call 50's Miami Beach style. She adorned the walls with paintings of egrets, herons, cranes, and palm trees. There were palm leaf print curtains, blond occasional tables, and pink flamingo place mats. She painted the walls sea foam green. The little white bungalow became a Russian Cell safe house for her Miami Beach microcosm.

Mother scrutinized every issue of Look and Life magazine for pictures of exotic beaches, tropical isles and posh beachfront hotels. These issues were saved and rotated to the coffee and end tables in the living room. She reserved the most precious issues for the nightstand beside her bed. The most treasured was the issue containing a photo spread of the Eden Roc Hotel in Miami. It was and still is a classic Art Deco wonder situated amongst lush tropical landscape with vistas of the beach and ocean. She shared this issue with me when she was feeling down. Turning though the pages and reliving the memories always set her mood right.

In the summer we would take a week for vacation and stay at the Breakers Hotel at the Cedar Point Amusement park near Sandusky. Mother would spend most of her time at the beach or the marina. One of her favorite things to do was treat me to lunch at the marina restaurant and watch the boats dock and sail. We often did this for hours at a time.

Shortly after I completed college and left home for marriage, my mother was persuaded to sell the white clapboard bungalow. The neighborhood, never good, had further deteriorated. Some said it had become dangerous. She had a long commute to her job in North Akron. The house was getting old and she was having a rough time keeping up the property.

With great reluctance, and much cajoling, she finally managed to move to Akron's North Hill only a few minutes from where she worked. And it was only a few minutes from where I bought my first house in Cuyahoga Falls. She decorated her new home with pictures of the sea and ships. This time from New England where she spent many of her later summer vacations. She ate lunch at the marinas, watched the boats dock and sail, and walked the beach.

Mothers love affair with the ocean and travel passed to me, I suppose, in the 7 months that she bore me. The years thereafter that I spent in the Miami Beach microcosm and our hours on the Cedar Point Lake Erie shoreline nurtured and matured my desire for travel and the sea. Fortunately, I have been able to travel much of my adult life to many interesting, exotic, mysterious, and wonderful places. I won't attempt to describe them here but will leave them as subjects for other postings.

Now, after providing this volume of background information, I can share my personal thoughts of what home means to me. Home is where I am today and the farthest that I can see from here. It is what is just over the horizon. It is the place where I rest when I am not exploring. Home is where my friends are whether they are old or new. It is where there is a warm smile, a hearty laugh, and a good tale. Home is where I find love and most often it is in my own heart. It is in a memory rekindled, the call of a bird and the sound of surf on the beach. It is in the roar of an engine, the flap of a sail, and the kiss of a warm breeze. These are all of the stuff that make up my home,.

I have never been able to find a house large enough to contain all of my notions of home. They exceed the capacity to be contained within walls. No window could ever be large enough to satisfy. No lot large enough. I looked out on the road as a child and wondered. Once I set foot on it, I knew I could never return. It has taken me, shaped me, and made me one of its own. It forever takes me toward the horizon and home.

Garden Memories

2010-01-04T14:56:00.000-08:00

My good friend Cindy Kay reminded me of something today that I had not thought about for some time. There comes a time of year just past the holidays when the seed and plant catalogs begin to arrive in the mail. Gardeners eagerly await the latest W. Atlee Burpee & Company, Stark Bros., and Parks Gardens editions ripe with the promise of spring and green and growing.

My grandfather, Oscar, was a fruit and vegetable gardener. My grandmother, Nora, was a flower gardener. Grandfathers garden was about 3 acres in size, with half made up of orchard and the other half vegetables. It was a couple of acres away from the house and tiered to compensate for the slope of the land. He had to make a long walk to tend his garden.

Grandmother's garden was just outside the back door of the white 1860's colonial that she and 'Daddy,' as she called my grandfather, had lived in and raised their family all their adult lives. Grandmother's garden was much smaller than grandfather's. Only a quarter of an acre at best.

She had what they used to call 'milk leg', a stiffened leg, that came as a result of her pregnancy with my mother, her firstborn child. As a result she could not stoop or bend from the knee and had to lean over from the waist. It was much harder for her to tend to her garden than she would have liked. So grandfather made her a plot close to the house and kitchen as a kindness to her.

Winter was always hard at my grandparents house. The roads were often in poor condition and the old country farm house just outside of town was drafty and cold. They heated with small gas grated stoves for the longest time until they became worried about the health effects. Grandfather bought a large gas heater and had it installed in the dining room in the center of the house. There was no duct work and the second floor was always cold.

Grandfather did finally install in indoor toilet which made things a bit more comfortable. Conditions weren't the best since it had to be located in the basement. The basement could only be entered from outside the house by descending the back stairs which in the winter were always prone to snow and ice buildup. Winter was a time of waiting for reports of who had fallen down the back steps and how bad the damage was. We grandchildren learned to use a chamber pot on cold winter nights and limited our forays to the toilet to the light of day.

There was no street address on my gandparents house. It was always just the Dorsey's. Or the last house on your right after you left town. The postal address was RFD, which means Rural Farm Delivery. It also meant that they had to go into town to the post office and pick up the mail. This was always a special treat for me in the summer. Grandmother would let me walk with her into town (she never learned to drive) and I would get to say good morning to the post mistress behind the wrought iron partition who was always very kind to me. Then, if I was good, I was allowed to use the key to open the wooden post office box with the little glass window in the front to show if there was mail. And after, we would walk to the grocery and Eppie, the grocer, would let me check her mousetraps for mice.

The garden catalogs were too large to fit in the post office box when they arrived in January. It was too cold to walk into town to get them. We had to wait on grandfather to drive home from his job as a hardware store clerk in the city in his big Oldsmobile. He would stop in to see the post mistress and get the mail. We had to wait until grandmother made him his evening 'highball' before he would settle into his chair and sort it through.

The garden catalogs were always the first thing we noticed in the stack of mail. He would always let us look through them before he got down to the serious business of planning this years garden. Amid the cold and dark and snow the catalogs gave us all hope and made us believe that everything would be alright. The world would get warm and green again.

There was always a copy of the Reader's Digest on the little table in the living room that held the catalogs and was what passed for the library. We always enjoyed the Readers Digest and would read it for hours, but our favorite periodical in the library was the Old Farmer's Almanac.

Grandfather and grandmother would always keep the Old Farmer's Almanac at the ready when looking through the garden catalogs. Consultation had to be made as to when to order seeds, start seeds indoors, transplanting seedlings, preparing the garden soil and most important, what days were best for planting.

My grandfather made a cold frame for starting his plants before the frost danger was gone. It consisted of a 4 feet deep hole, 4 feet long by 6 feet wide lined with boards. He ran electric from the garden shed at the bottom of the yard to the cold frame and encircled the inside of the frame with heat tape. Old storm windows were used as the roof. He had to be careful that snow didn't block too much light from the windows and that the temperature was always within limits. A tricky thing to do, yet he managed it rather well.

Grandmother started her seeds in the kitchen window over the stove from where she could look out at the plot that would soon become green with the new shoots of her flowers. As she was cooking the with canned tomatoes, beans, and corn from grandfather's last summer crop she would dream about the next one.

There was never a time so joyous at my grandparents house as those first warm spring days that gave freedom from the tedium of the indoors and first access to the gardens. Grandmother always predicted the summer weekend weather by the weather that occurred on Easter Sunday. Rain on Easter Sunday always meant rain for 13 Sundays thereafter. If I remember, she was pretty much always right.

As planting progressed, was completed and the fruit trees were sprayed and pruned, life pretty much got back to its normal busy summer pace. The serial blooming of the Crocus, Forsythia, Daffodil, Tulip, and Lilac marked the progression of spring. Grandmothers Peonies signalled the arrival of summer. Iris, then Lillies and Hydrangea all came and went. Grandfather would begin bringing in beans and peas, then cabbage and lettuce, soon corn and peppers and of course, my favorite, tomatoes!

Grandfather's tomatoes were the most wonderful in the world. I have not found anything to rival them since. They were big, red, juicy beefsteaks ripe just to the moment of picking. He would make me a special sandwich by buttering two slices of bread, one really thick slice of tomato, a very thin slice of onion and a really thin fried hamburger (a third the thickness of the tomato) seasoned with salt and pepper. My mouth waters at the memory of them. We would eat them at the old kitchen table with the warm sweet air coming in through the big screen windows, cicadas buzzing in the trees.

My mother gardened at our house in the city. I would always help and as I got older took over most of the duties. Mother worked two jobs most of my adolescent and teenage years and she was a single parent so she had little time to spare for her gardens. Her favorite flower was the rose, and I never knew anyone to grow them better, more profuse, or more beautiful. I cannot but look at a rose and remember my wonderful mother.

I gardened throughout my adult married life until just a couple of years ago. There were always seed and plant catalogs, the Old Farmers Almanac, and garden books in January. There was garden planning, ordering and planting in the spring. We marked the passing of the growing seasons with the buds and flowers and the ripening of the fruits and vegetables. The days were good.

Gardens have always meant beauty and life, and most of all love to me. I cherish the memory of gardens past and hope and dream of gardens future. May your garden memories comfort you as well a mine do when the winter is at its darkest and coldest. And may your future gardens nourish you with love, peace and joy.

We Each Have Our Seperate Passions

2010-01-03T10:16:00.000-08:00

This story idea comes from my friend Dianna. She was kind enough to intimate her love of moose and wolves. I should have guessed, since she adorns her home with North American Indian art. What I thought was interesting was her reference to how cute wolves and moose are and that she looks upon them with love (as she does most beings now that I consider it).

I was reflecting this morning that sometimes it is hard to believe that people are human beings. We often say and do things that are more machine like than of the heart. Sometimes knowing too much means understanding too little.

There are many ways to get back to the loving nature of our souls. One of my favorite ways is the teaching and experience of the Medicine Wheel. Today's story answers the question:

Where Does Love Come From?

Standing Buffalo watched for his friend to come out of the trees. The snow was falling softly in big puffy flakes and was getting deep. He felt warm and there was no wind. It was a nice night for a walk and a lesson.

Dancing Mouse emerged from the flurry and drew up even to where Standing Buffalo was waiting and said, "Hello, my friend. It is a fine night for learning."

Standing Buffalo gave him a hug. "It is good of you to come."

"And now let us walk and I will tell you the story of White Winter Wolf and Summer Moose, " said Dancing Mouse. And so it begins.

There lived in these very woods a long time ago a White Winter Wolf. He was very wise, his sight was keen and he was a very swift and magnificent hunter. He understood these qualities in himself and was quite proud and pleased. He ate well, had the most handsome fur coat, and wonderfully sharp fangs and claws. He had the most sensitive nose for sniffing things out and his hearing was beyond excellent. And his voice, why, it was positively magnificent!

To his mind he had and was everything that a White Winter Wolf could possibly have or be. And yet something was missing. It was a bothersome thought and as each season passed it puzzled him more and more.

Then one day in early June he came upon the scent of a Summer Moose. Ah, he thought, the first Summer Moose of the season. It would be a lovely hunt and he was hungry. What a perfect day.

Summer Moose loved this time of the year. The winter snows gave way to the warm shallow ponds full of sweet water lilies and pond weed. The sun felt oh so good on his back and he loved the smell of growing things and of the earth. He had made his way up from the south following the green wave north just ahead of the hatching of the flies. He waded deeper into the pond. It was a fine day to be a Summer Moose.

White Winter Wolf pushed his ears up and sniffed. His wonderful sharp teeth fell into a grin. His loping gate made no sound on the grass. His movement as undetectable as a summer breeze. Silent he stopped at the edge of the pond. He sat for awhile watching. He would simply wait until Summer Moose climbed out onto the bank. No need to get his handsome fur coat wet or his wonderful paws muddy.

Summer Moose turned to look a him. It was a kind look. This puzzled White Winter Wolf. Why would my prey look kindly toward me, a ferocious White Winter Wolf just at the edge of the pond?

Summer Moose said, "It is a fine summer day and you are a most magnificent White Winter Wolf. Good morning my brother."

White Winter Wolf had to think a moment then responded, "And good summers morning to you my good Summer Moose. Why, you are such a magnificent moose as to make my mouth water just to look at you."

"Thank you kindly for the compliment," said Summer Moose. "However, you may not wish to eat me."

This made White Winter Wolf frown. "Well, I don't know why that should be the case. I am hungry and you would make for an excellent meal this perfect summer day."

Summer Moose replied, "If you eat me, I will not tell you the answer to the question that has puzzled you for so many seasons."

"Question?" scoffed White Winter Wolf. "What question is that? There is no question."

"Ah, but there is a question in your White Winter Wolf heart," stated Summer Moose matter of factly.

"And what might this question be?" Asked a stunned White Winter Wolf.

"Where does love come from?" Summer Moose said through a mouth full of pond weed.

White Winter Wolf was speechless. So there was a question buried deep in his wise White Winter Wolf heart. Where does love come from? He stretched his neck to the left and then to the right then sniffed out his beautiful long nose. "Shhhhhft!" He stopped chewing his lip long enough to ask, "And you know the answer?"

"Why yes, every Summer Moose knows where love comes from," said Summer Moose. "However you must promise not to eat me, else I will not tell you."

Well, thought White Winter Wolf, this is quite the dilemma. Here I am magnificent in fur, tooth and claw. My hunger is powerful. And yet, now that I know what has been missing, well, I must know the answer to this question.

"I promise not to eat you, if you will tell me the answer to my question." said White Winter Wolf.

"And you also promise not to attack or harm me in any way?" replied Summer Moose.

"Yes, I promise. So tell me now," countered White Winter Wolf, full of anticipation.

"Love comes from the warmth of the sun in the South," Summer Moose began. "It comes from a place in the heart where summer never ends. It melts the deepest snows, thaws the thickest ice, and defrosts the wisest thought. The place of love is verdant green, the soil is dark and rich, there is just enough rain, and everything grows lush and full. All is forgiven in this place, all is in peace."

"But what do they eat in this place of love in the South for I am hungry?" asked Wise Winter Wolf.

"Innocence," stated Summer Moose.

"Thank you for the answer," said White Winter Wolf. "Now I will be on my way."

"Not before you eat me," said Summer Moose.

"Eat you!" Exclaimed White Winter Wolf. "Why would I eat you?! I have given my promise!"

"It is only with the purest of innocence that a Summer Moose would expect a White Winter Wolf to keep a promise like that for the answer to a simple question," replied Summer Moose. "Please eat me, for you are hungry."

"I don't understand," sighed White Winter Wolf.

"It is because of love that I give myself to you. Only from great innocence can come great love." Replied Summer Moose."

And it was only then that White Winter Wolf truly understood where love comes from. It comes from the innocent heart. It surpasses all ideas and notions. It gives completely of itself.

"That was a wonderful teaching and I thank you," said Standing Buffalo. "Did White Winter Wolf eat Summer Moose after all?"

"That," said Dancing Mouse, "Is a question that you will have to answer in your own heart."

Dialog On Green Over a Cuppa With Dianne

2010-01-02T13:26:00.000-08:00

This next piece has its origins in a conversation I had with my old childhood friend Dianne. She has a wry sense of humor not unlike my own and suggested, perhaps challenged, I write a short story about aquamarine. And so.........

We are at the kitchen table after dinner and the dishes are washed. Everything is just so, having a cuppa, just Dianne and me......

"Green", Dianne said. "Just let's discuss green."

"What? Like money green, grass green, pea green, sea green, evergreen, Mean Joe Green?" I said. "What green?"

"Sea green", she said. "Aquamarine."

I though a minute. "Aquamarine it is. Dessert then?"

"Maybe", she said. "Kiwi? Pineapple Guava? Granny Smith? White grapes?"

My tummy called up my brain and I averred, "Lime cream cheese cake?"

She pouted, "I don't believe."

I raised an eyebrow and she continued to glare at me. The conversation was drifting. I knew we had to get back to aquamarine before the cuppa went cold.

"So, its aquamarine and isn't that grand." I smiled. There was a twinkle in her eye. We were re-railed.

The wind rattled the window and I felt a chill.

She shook herself and stared at me hard. "I need to feed the cat. We can continue to talk while I do. Feed the cat, I mean."

"Aquamarine is a tint of cyan." This came from my memory.

"A tin can?" She said. "No I don't believe that's right," bending to fill the bowl.

"No, no. T I N T of C Y A N," I enunciated. I almost said, "Clean the kitty litter from your ears," but somehow held back. (A wise move on my part).

She returned to her chair and ran her fingers through her hair. "Named after the mineral aquamarine, a gemstone, found in granite rocks."

I squirmed a bit. "And so it is or at least is reported to be. You would know."

"Yes", she acknowledged, "I would." Then added after a long deep breath, "It has been a color name in English since 1598."

I thought I might challenge her just then, but thought better of it and conceded the point. "You seem to know your subject well."

She gave me the slightest hint of a smirk.

My head was beginning to ache. It was getting late, the cat was fed and I longed for my bed. Instead I said, "In Latin it translates as 'sea water'."

I was getting punchy from our exchange yet managed to stagger to a finish with, "The stone was believed to bring luck to sailors, protecting them from rough waters and seasickness." It was all I could do to contain myself. She was on the ropes.

She gasped, "Their lovers gave them aquamarines to keep them safe."

I knew she had me. She had played me like a violin.

A Shamans Dreams are not Always Happy

2010-01-02T10:36:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I am inspired to write a poem because of the combination of a specific life experience and a particular piece of music. The poem below was the result of the unification of the grief I felt flying in a helicopter over the Honopu valley (The valley of the lost tribe) of Kauai and the song "Hawaii '78 Introduction" from the album "Facing Future" by IZ (Israel "Iz" Kaʻanoʻi Kamakawiwoʻole). The Hawaiian people are among some of the finest people of the world and yet some of the most grieved. I wish them healing.

Shamans Dream

Islands
Rising
Unconfined
Free

Mountain
Tops
Floating
On the sea

No bird
Flies
So
High

No fish
Swims
So
Deep

To
Heal
The
Sorrow

Melting
From
Snowy
Peaks

Crashing
Down
Razor
Cliffs

Roaring
Through
Verdant
Valleys

At
Last
To find the
Sea

To drop
Below
The massive
Waves

Down
Deep
To mountain
Roots

Where
No
Man
Lies

With
A
Broken
Heart

That
Cannot
Be
Healed

Even
By
The passage
Of time

Or
The
Shamans
Breath

Her
Rattle
Her stones
Or prayers

And
Even
Michael
Pauses

Folds
His
Mighty
Wings

Around
Me
And lets
Me cry

For
All
That was
Taken away

Islands - A Romantic Serial (installment 2)

2010-01-02T08:45:00.000-08:00

If you remember, Sandy, my sexy resident romantic protagonist is searching to renew her sense of romance and adventure in the magical Hawaiian Islands. Read on.

The ocean breeze gently moved the grasses on the roof of the tiki hut that made up the outdoor bar and grill. The air carried the warm moist scents of ocean, SPF45, and the hibiscus kokiʻo keʻokeʻo ("kokiʻo that is white like the shine of silver"). She breathed in deeply and felt the sun on her shoulders and face. "Hhhhhmmm", she thought. "Luscious." And then, "I'm hungry."

She only had to wait in line a minute till the pretty hostess approached and asked, "Will there be only one for lunch today?" As if she could hardly believe it.

Sandy gave a half smile and said, "Yes, but perhaps someone may join me later for dinner." Her hostess was pleased to hear of that possibility. She was not happy at the prospect of a beautiful woman dining alone.

Lunch consisted of a lovely lite portion of seared ahi with wasabi beurre blanc sauce over white rice and a mai-tai served in a small glass adorned with fruit and a flower blossom. The haunting music of IZ was wafting through the roof rafters. Ah, it would be paradise to have someone special to share this with. She said a little prayer to what was left of the ahi and toasted herself, "To love," with a splash of mai-tai. (continues)

Love Isn't Always Hard Is It?

2010-01-01T18:29:00.000-08:00

I began this serial because of a discussion I had with Z about the creative process and the way the muse speaks to the artist. Since what takes place between the muse and the artist is communication, the artist must find a medium in which to convey her meaning back to her muse. Elswise the muse becomes unhappy and the artist mad. This will not do. And so begins this tale of love of a man and his search for the woman that will complete and enhance his life. Like most of these stories at the beginning love seems to be a hard thing. But is it really?

Once Was a Garden of Delight

That was the last time she said anything to David. She sighed and said, "You bastard, I loved you once, but not now, not ever again." He fell over a garden gnome getting the hell out of there and busted open his knee. All he could say was, "Damn", and scramble through the rose bushes tearing the silk lining out of his jacket. She was a bitch anyway and what did he care. He was terrified of her. Terrified. And he didn't even know why.

The sun was starting to set by the time he got back to his car. The top was still down and the birds had shit on the leather seats. She was the one that insisted that he park under the tree. Jesus, his knee hurt. What a mess. He was just a freeking mess. How did it ever get this way? Stupid birds. Stupid trees. Stupid convertible. (to be continued)

Friends Often Inspire The Poet In Me

2010-01-01T17:54:00.000-08:00

Real life is the only inspiration that works for me for the creation of a poem. This one came about as a result of a brief conversation with a friend on Christmas Eve and the resulting actions that came from that conversation. Poetry is the only way that I know of to capture and convey the meaning and emotion of such a special moment.

Christmas Morning

Standing
Out on
The balcony
Midnight

Christmas
Morning
Just past
Eve

Night
Silent as
Star
Light

The peaceful
Sound
Angels make
Singing

And snow lingers
A moment
Before
The rain

Time
Stands
Still
Eternal

Between
The beats
Of a human
Heart

Friendship Over The Net

2010-01-01T17:29:00.000-08:00

The last time I saw Mary was in 1971 or there about. We grew up together, sort of, in the same school system and neighborhood. We found each other on Facebook, like so many long lost friends. We may never get a chance to talk over lunch, since she is a thousand miles away, and yet we chat over Facebook at least once a week. I wrote this poem for her and all my far away Facebook friends.

Past Lives

Drifting
Across
The
Copper lines

Ghosts
And dreams
Gone
By

Childhood
Memories
In a
Blue box

A friend
Escapes
A
Moment

From
The roar
Of
The crowd

Hidden
Behind
The keyboard
Of a smile

She
Refreshes
Her
Soul

Islands - A Romantic Serial

2010-01-01T04:11:00.000-08:00

This serial is derived from an idea that was given to me by my good friend Z. We were discussing the need for romance in relationships and the seeming lack thereof being reported by many of our friends. What is this thing called romance? And once we hold it, will it always manage to squirm away?

Islands

Sandy stepped out on the lanai and had a hard look at the morning. It had been a rough flight from LA and she was too tall to be comfortable in those cramped seats and besides she never slept on the plane anyway. HNL had been deserted when the flight arrived. By the time she got through baggage claim and caught a cab to the hotel it was almost 4:00 AM and she was starting to get pretty strung out. The bed at the Marriott felt good when she finally kicked off her shoes and tumbled into it. Alone.

Mark was supposed to have been there beside her on the plane and in the cab. His head should have been on the pillow next to her in the night. "Damn, Mark", she said to the gulls. "Damn." The gulls didn't understand her any more than Mark had. Mark telling her, "I'm not paying three grand for a week long cruise with you or anyone else. Three grand, are you nuts?" Maybe she was nuts to try and put the romance back into the mundane life they had Crazy Glued themselves into. Or a fool. A lonely romantic fool.

The NCL liner Pride of Hawaii would be pulling into port tomorrow morning full of happy voyagers fresh from their islands tour. The ship would disembark her passengers, take on provisions and make ready for the evenings sailing. She would be on that ship when it sailed and she wasn't even going to turn her cell phone on even to call her mother. If she was going to be alone, at least she was going to be alone with 2200 happy passengers and if there was just one, just one that was lonely and romantic, she was going to have the most wonderful week of her life. She was sure of it.

The mirror over her dresser was a large one and she couldn't help but stop in front of it on her way back into the room. She was 46 and still pretty in an athletic way. Blond hair and blue eyes with just enough laugh lines to make them look happy. Taller than most of the other women she knew and more slender too. Her skin was still smooth and tight even after all those years of being out on the golf course. She looked at her hands. Each long finger was delicate, though strong enough to powerfully grip a club. "I'm attractive", she thought. Even Mark wasn't too dull to see that.

The shower felt wonderful and the heat made her back and shoulder muscles loosen. "I am beginning to relax," she thought. "I'm beginning to thaw." Her hair felt really good under the jet. "Maybe its not so bad that bad boy Mark isn't here. Hmmmm." She remembered the words to the Indigo Girls 'Galileo', "I'm serving time for mistakes made by another in another lifetime. How long till my soul gets it right? Can any human being ever reach that kind of light?" She thought she could this time. She really thought she could.

The Kuhio Beach Grill was crowded by the time she dressed and walked down from her room. Her long legs looked perfect in the khaki cargo shorts and her light blue tank made her shoulders and biceps look sleek and sexy. Her Birkenstocks made a sweet sound as she walked. Like the sound of the waves reaching the beach. Eddie, her first lover, had given her the sterling silver Labrys pendant she wore on the chain around her neck. It was back in the early 70's. She held the two headed axe for a moment between finger and thumb and remembered their passion. She was starting to feel better and better. Feeling a little shudder, she smiled. (to be continued)

Romance - The Most Dangerous Adventure

2010-01-01T03:59:00.000-08:00

The poets purpose is to capture truth in such a way and with as few possible words to give the reader a direct experience into the object of the poem. Of course each reader will have her own unique interpretation based on her own precious circumstance.

Dining With the Lioness

The lioness
Scans
Her
Prey

Lost
Within
Eye
Sight

Long legged
Deer
In a
Headlight

Clutching
A cell phone
And
Shoulder bag

Poor doe
She
Hasn't got
A chance

Lioness
She purrs
Over
Dinner

Stately
She captures
Tonight's entree
With her eyes

And later
Finishes her kill
With
A kiss

No Giant Video Screen or Once in a Blue Moon

2010-01-01T03:30:00.000-08:00

Authors and poets have long sought out venues for sharing their works. Some have the good fortune to be published to the masses in the mainstream press while others blog out their work to the curious and adventurous few.

To be a writer is a gift and a curse. A double edged axe that cuts the flesh as well as harvests the crop. A Labrys, if you will.

Come journey with me down the writers path reaping the joys of imagination and experiencing the illumination of deep revealing cuts into truth.