Today rich celebrities and politicians will make a parody of what should be real charity by feeding the countless poor and homeless, and it will ease their conscience, at least for a while. But charity should not be a substitute for social justice, and just to ruin some people’s appetites before attacking that golden turkey; keep in mind that today we are celebrating a genocide.
http://newsjunkiepost.com/2010/11/25/thanksgiving-celebrating-the-genocide-of-native-americans/
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
I love this artwork by children on cat boxes for the Humane Society ...
  |
| especially like the.."dododododo" |
Since 1900, Democratic presidents have produced a 12.3 percent annual return on the S&P 500, Republicans only 8 percent. GDP growth since 1930 is 5.4 percent for Democratic presidents and 1.6 percent for Republicans.
"Trickle-down" economics has not worked since Herbert Hoover tried it. Every dollar devoted to the middle class causes the economy to grow three times faster than a dollar for the rich, according to the Congressional Budget Office. Millionaires save more of their income gained by tax cuts. Middle-class families spend more. Lower taxes for the rich leave deficits that must be paid for by the middle class, taking the very money we'd give working families.
http://www.truth-out.org/the-great-tax-cut-debate-myths-and-facts65294
http://www.truth-out.org/the-great-tax-cut-debate-myths-and-facts65294
Thanksgiving and the Homeless
With the approaching holiday, news programs are filled with suggestions and stories of how to reach out to the homeless. It's very important that we, as a society, make concerted efforts to let them know they are not overlooked while we, ourselves, border on gastronomic gluttony. It does, after all, help alleviate our guilt...making room for more gluttony.
We do suffer guilt for our perceived self-gluttony. I propose that is not healthy. I am not big on guilt at all. I say, "Enjoy the riches of our lives!" Simply enjoy all that life has to offer. Enjoyment of life's riches is appreciation. And don't give from a perspective of guilt. Surely that feeling will be passed through the gift to the recipient which cannot feel good.
The thought of "gifting" to the less fortunate brings to mind a scene in Les Miserables, one of my favorite among Broadway productions, where Jean Valjean has stolen silver from a bishop who has been kind to him. Jean Valjean is caught by the police and returned to the Bishop of Digne who, after a slight pause, assures the police that he, the bishop, had given the silver to Jean Valjean. That proved to be a trans-formative gesture in Jean Valjean's life, who went on to live a very productive life of responsibility and dignity.
One never knows when a kind gesture might be significantly trans-formative. As to those we deem to be less fortunate than ourselves, I would suggest a gift we can offer [in addition to food/shelter] is a shift of consciousness to see them as "real" people, to acknowledge their humanity, their dignity. That acknowledgment, be it a gesture, brief kind word or simple nod, is a solid investment; one which cannot be traded for alcohol or drugs and is a solid brick upon which they can use to start re-building their lives.
I am struck by people who participate in making contributions toward the homeless and then expound upon their contributions. That leaves me with unsettled feelings. Why not make the contribution and say nothing?? I remember, specifically, one year when I worked at a very popular tourist attraction. Some fellow employees who enjoyed a very comfortable life themselves, saw a homeless man and, amongst themselves, put together a basket of food and a little cash to offer the man. It was a generous deed, and I am certain the man was deeply appreciative. But, as to the "cost" of the contribution to themselves, knowing something of their personal lives, it was almost nothing. And yet, each and all of them repeatedly told the story, to fellow employees and passing tourists alike, of how they had given to that homeless man. I couldn't help wondering if they really were making the contribution for him; or, in fact, the contribution was really meant to enhance their own images? I don't care that they wanted to tell the story over and over in the sense that, in fact, they did assist that man. I wonder how it might have felt...whether, perhaps, they might have walked taller, seen life with different eyes and felt with a different heart...had they done the same act and not repeatedly have spoken of it? Did speaking of the act repeatedly "objectify" the homeless man, I wondered? Were the homeless person a loved one, might we assist without expounding?
Of course, having them speak of it was better than the alternative: no self-enhancement: no contribution.
There are often homeless in the park Ace and I frequently walk. With few exceptions, I acknowledge them with eye contact and a hello or nod; occasionally, we engage in very light conversation. By the way, not a single one over the years has ever asked me for anything. And, while there are a few homeless who somehow manage to keep a pet with them [most often pit bulls], generally speaking one of the "comforts of home" so missed by those displaced, is a pet. And, so it is, most often they like to reach out to animals. Ace and I are very compliant. It takes nothing from us, and clearly, makes a huge difference to them to be able to stroke and interact with Ace. In case you wonder, Ace told me it's very OK with him. I would not comply were he uncomfortable with it. And, occasionally, he has pulled away from someone. When he does, I totally respect that, trust his instincts, and we politely move on.
In his thirteen-plus years, we did have one very negative interaction. Ace was about two years old and had never had, dare I say, a single negative life experience. We were walking in Little Italy, approached a street light..waited for the ped crossing signal. While we stood on the curb, a homeless man approached, commented on Ace, and in an instant, smacked Ace across his muzzle with his fist and took off running. Needless to say, Ace cried out and just looked at me so perplexed. If ever I had a propensity for violence, it would have been then. I believe I could have done some damage to that person. We called the police and Ace and I were guests in the police cruiser as we combed the area looking for the villain who, of course, knew the best secluded areas better than would we. Let it be said, Ace and I have not let that experience define our activities and/or expectations. And, bless Ace: he still expects the very best of people.
So, back to our walks in the park: One evening in recent years, soon after our arrival at the park, we encountered a tall, thin, very, very dirty, heavily bearded young man with coal black eyes. When a person has been on the streets for some period of time, his/her appearance can be so abstract from reality that it can be difficult to guess how the person might appear under "normal" circumstances. And, so it was with this person. He was Caucasian. His beard and hair jet black. I think, perhaps, he may have been young; perhaps in his late twenties. 'Cleaned up,' I thought, he may have been strikingly handsome. He, somewhat timidly, acknowledged Ace with appreciation, but did not reach out for him. I smiled and nodded his way but Ace and I did not break stride. I remember sensing a very positive, gentle energy about the fellow.
After an invigorating, enjoyable walk Ace and I were making our way to exit the park when a dark figure looked up at us from rummaging through a trash bin. His eyes flashed a smile of recognition and I responded with a nod realizing he was the man we had seen upon our arrival. He held up a hand to speak. Gesturing as to apologize for "bothering" us, he told me he wanted to say, "Thank you." No, really, he said. "Thank you for smiling." Momentarily struck, I again smiled, shrugged.
"Sure..." I responded, having paused.
"No. Really." he said. "Look, I don't mean to bother you," he apologized. "But, I really want to say 'thank you' for smiling. Most people...most people... won't even look at us [homeless]... I really mean it..." he touched his heart..."I just want to say thank you for smiling." His manner was so gentle.
I couldn't move. I found myself gesturing toward my own heart and offering an extended palm toward him, unable to speak. Feeling incredibly humbled, "It was nothing.." I wanted to say, but not. The moment was filling me with emotion. Again, I smiled...maybe a kind-of-painful smile this time...nodded toward him and turned to be on our way. I felt like fleeing...wanted to run because of the overwhelming emotion I felt...but tried to walk away in a measured step with stiff, wooden-feeling legs. I couldn't withhold the tears brimming my eyelids, spilling profusely down my cheeks.
From my earliest childhood I remember Mother saying, "When you see somebody, offer a smile. It costs you nothing, and you never know what difference it might make in their day." And, goodness knows, I have thought of that at times in my life when I may have been going through a rough and/or trying time and I was the recipient of a complete stranger smiling at me, the kind of smile you know flows from the heart straight to the lips. It's an almost tangible, validating, healing connection; not unlike a warm hug. It's "Namaste." It is, indeed, "Namaste."
And so: back to Thanksgiving and the homeless. I'd like to suggest we not only offer to contribute toward turkey for them; that we not only stand at the shelters and churches to help pass out meals. I'd like us to consider how are we toward them when we are out in society, passing them on the street? How do we speak of them amongst ourselves? I would like to suggest that, as a society, perhaps we can make an effort to "see" the homeless for who they are: real people. That perhaps we can really engage in eye contact, a nod and a smile. Offer "Namaste." You never know what difference it might make in their day; in their sense of communion with humanity. As well, it might be self-transforming.
And there you have it: My own 'bragging' about my contribution to the homeless: I gave a smile. It has been a couple years since that particular experience in the park. I did tell my kids about it at the time. And now, I have boasted in a blog. Good grief.
Ah! Perfection! Where art thou? Life is a process. All lessons, my own lessons. I feel deep gratitude.
We do suffer guilt for our perceived self-gluttony. I propose that is not healthy. I am not big on guilt at all. I say, "Enjoy the riches of our lives!" Simply enjoy all that life has to offer. Enjoyment of life's riches is appreciation. And don't give from a perspective of guilt. Surely that feeling will be passed through the gift to the recipient which cannot feel good.
The thought of "gifting" to the less fortunate brings to mind a scene in Les Miserables, one of my favorite among Broadway productions, where Jean Valjean has stolen silver from a bishop who has been kind to him. Jean Valjean is caught by the police and returned to the Bishop of Digne who, after a slight pause, assures the police that he, the bishop, had given the silver to Jean Valjean. That proved to be a trans-formative gesture in Jean Valjean's life, who went on to live a very productive life of responsibility and dignity.
One never knows when a kind gesture might be significantly trans-formative. As to those we deem to be less fortunate than ourselves, I would suggest a gift we can offer [in addition to food/shelter] is a shift of consciousness to see them as "real" people, to acknowledge their humanity, their dignity. That acknowledgment, be it a gesture, brief kind word or simple nod, is a solid investment; one which cannot be traded for alcohol or drugs and is a solid brick upon which they can use to start re-building their lives.
I am struck by people who participate in making contributions toward the homeless and then expound upon their contributions. That leaves me with unsettled feelings. Why not make the contribution and say nothing?? I remember, specifically, one year when I worked at a very popular tourist attraction. Some fellow employees who enjoyed a very comfortable life themselves, saw a homeless man and, amongst themselves, put together a basket of food and a little cash to offer the man. It was a generous deed, and I am certain the man was deeply appreciative. But, as to the "cost" of the contribution to themselves, knowing something of their personal lives, it was almost nothing. And yet, each and all of them repeatedly told the story, to fellow employees and passing tourists alike, of how they had given to that homeless man. I couldn't help wondering if they really were making the contribution for him; or, in fact, the contribution was really meant to enhance their own images? I don't care that they wanted to tell the story over and over in the sense that, in fact, they did assist that man. I wonder how it might have felt...whether, perhaps, they might have walked taller, seen life with different eyes and felt with a different heart...had they done the same act and not repeatedly have spoken of it? Did speaking of the act repeatedly "objectify" the homeless man, I wondered? Were the homeless person a loved one, might we assist without expounding?
Of course, having them speak of it was better than the alternative: no self-enhancement: no contribution.
There are often homeless in the park Ace and I frequently walk. With few exceptions, I acknowledge them with eye contact and a hello or nod; occasionally, we engage in very light conversation. By the way, not a single one over the years has ever asked me for anything. And, while there are a few homeless who somehow manage to keep a pet with them [most often pit bulls], generally speaking one of the "comforts of home" so missed by those displaced, is a pet. And, so it is, most often they like to reach out to animals. Ace and I are very compliant. It takes nothing from us, and clearly, makes a huge difference to them to be able to stroke and interact with Ace. In case you wonder, Ace told me it's very OK with him. I would not comply were he uncomfortable with it. And, occasionally, he has pulled away from someone. When he does, I totally respect that, trust his instincts, and we politely move on.
In his thirteen-plus years, we did have one very negative interaction. Ace was about two years old and had never had, dare I say, a single negative life experience. We were walking in Little Italy, approached a street light..waited for the ped crossing signal. While we stood on the curb, a homeless man approached, commented on Ace, and in an instant, smacked Ace across his muzzle with his fist and took off running. Needless to say, Ace cried out and just looked at me so perplexed. If ever I had a propensity for violence, it would have been then. I believe I could have done some damage to that person. We called the police and Ace and I were guests in the police cruiser as we combed the area looking for the villain who, of course, knew the best secluded areas better than would we. Let it be said, Ace and I have not let that experience define our activities and/or expectations. And, bless Ace: he still expects the very best of people.
So, back to our walks in the park: One evening in recent years, soon after our arrival at the park, we encountered a tall, thin, very, very dirty, heavily bearded young man with coal black eyes. When a person has been on the streets for some period of time, his/her appearance can be so abstract from reality that it can be difficult to guess how the person might appear under "normal" circumstances. And, so it was with this person. He was Caucasian. His beard and hair jet black. I think, perhaps, he may have been young; perhaps in his late twenties. 'Cleaned up,' I thought, he may have been strikingly handsome. He, somewhat timidly, acknowledged Ace with appreciation, but did not reach out for him. I smiled and nodded his way but Ace and I did not break stride. I remember sensing a very positive, gentle energy about the fellow.
After an invigorating, enjoyable walk Ace and I were making our way to exit the park when a dark figure looked up at us from rummaging through a trash bin. His eyes flashed a smile of recognition and I responded with a nod realizing he was the man we had seen upon our arrival. He held up a hand to speak. Gesturing as to apologize for "bothering" us, he told me he wanted to say, "Thank you." No, really, he said. "Thank you for smiling." Momentarily struck, I again smiled, shrugged.
"Sure..." I responded, having paused.
"No. Really." he said. "Look, I don't mean to bother you," he apologized. "But, I really want to say 'thank you' for smiling. Most people...most people... won't even look at us [homeless]... I really mean it..." he touched his heart..."I just want to say thank you for smiling." His manner was so gentle.
I couldn't move. I found myself gesturing toward my own heart and offering an extended palm toward him, unable to speak. Feeling incredibly humbled, "It was nothing.." I wanted to say, but not. The moment was filling me with emotion. Again, I smiled...maybe a kind-of-painful smile this time...nodded toward him and turned to be on our way. I felt like fleeing...wanted to run because of the overwhelming emotion I felt...but tried to walk away in a measured step with stiff, wooden-feeling legs. I couldn't withhold the tears brimming my eyelids, spilling profusely down my cheeks.
From my earliest childhood I remember Mother saying, "When you see somebody, offer a smile. It costs you nothing, and you never know what difference it might make in their day." And, goodness knows, I have thought of that at times in my life when I may have been going through a rough and/or trying time and I was the recipient of a complete stranger smiling at me, the kind of smile you know flows from the heart straight to the lips. It's an almost tangible, validating, healing connection; not unlike a warm hug. It's "Namaste." It is, indeed, "Namaste."
And so: back to Thanksgiving and the homeless. I'd like to suggest we not only offer to contribute toward turkey for them; that we not only stand at the shelters and churches to help pass out meals. I'd like us to consider how are we toward them when we are out in society, passing them on the street? How do we speak of them amongst ourselves? I would like to suggest that, as a society, perhaps we can make an effort to "see" the homeless for who they are: real people. That perhaps we can really engage in eye contact, a nod and a smile. Offer "Namaste." You never know what difference it might make in their day; in their sense of communion with humanity. As well, it might be self-transforming.
And there you have it: My own 'bragging' about my contribution to the homeless: I gave a smile. It has been a couple years since that particular experience in the park. I did tell my kids about it at the time. And now, I have boasted in a blog. Good grief.
Ah! Perfection! Where art thou? Life is a process. All lessons, my own lessons. I feel deep gratitude.
Personal Wealth
Don't get me wrong: I am as much for personal wealth as the next person. I do not have an opinion that rich is bad, poor is good. Au contraire. I very much like the idea of enjoying as much personal wealth as possible; and, wish it for my children and loved ones...and anyone/everyone. I just think you don't step on anyone else's head..or any other body part..ie. hold anyone else down...to attain your own goals. It's just a philosophical difference with some. I believe helping others helps oneself and the greater whole, as it were. I think there is joy in everybody being able to find some level of comfort in his/her standard of living. [ And, may I comment: everybody does not want great wealth. People find their own level of security and what feels comfortable for themselves. This is not to say, as many conservatives like to suggest, that the homeless, for example, deserve to be/want to be homeless. Although, to be true, there are, may always be, a very minuscule percentage...who really may choose that lifestyle. ]
Meg Whitman spent more of her personal wealth on her campaign for Governor of CA than anyone in history: $140 million ... plus, an additional $20 M in donations. Given her defeat, my understanding is she is now considering running for the Senate. Her premise for running, like many/most politicians, I suppose, is that she believes she has skills/answers which can see that all Californians enjoy a better standard of living/quality of life.
I am nagged with the question: If Meg (or Carly Fiorina) were genuinely, sincerely, soulfully concerned for the welfare of others, how else might she have spent that money? What kind of difference could she have made in people's lives? Had the contribution been toward education, for example...what difference might that "trickle-down" benefit make through generations of families?
I just wonder...
Even now, were Meg to say, "I will now contribute $140 M toward [whatever social cause]...." and were then to run for another public office down the road, I would take her more seriously...view her differently. It's not a difficult concept.
http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2010-11-12/whitman-fiorina-mcmahon-what-campaign-cash-could-have-done?om_rid=NHX0XQ&om_mid=_BM3-cfB8VspZ$b
Meg Whitman spent more of her personal wealth on her campaign for Governor of CA than anyone in history: $140 million ... plus, an additional $20 M in donations. Given her defeat, my understanding is she is now considering running for the Senate. Her premise for running, like many/most politicians, I suppose, is that she believes she has skills/answers which can see that all Californians enjoy a better standard of living/quality of life.
I am nagged with the question: If Meg (or Carly Fiorina) were genuinely, sincerely, soulfully concerned for the welfare of others, how else might she have spent that money? What kind of difference could she have made in people's lives? Had the contribution been toward education, for example...what difference might that "trickle-down" benefit make through generations of families?
I just wonder...
Even now, were Meg to say, "I will now contribute $140 M toward [whatever social cause]...." and were then to run for another public office down the road, I would take her more seriously...view her differently. It's not a difficult concept.
http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2010-11-12/whitman-fiorina-mcmahon-what-campaign-cash-could-have-done?om_rid=NHX0XQ&om_mid=_BM3-cfB8VspZ$b
Saturday, November 20, 2010
I remember when owning real estate was everybody's security in holding their piece of the American pie..
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/11/18/AR2010111806137.html
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Riverwalk - yesterday
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| This is the first Ace & I have been to walk the river since our encounter with Brad. |
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| Such a magnificent day... |
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| One of the few places we can enjoy the smell and crunch of crisp dried leaves one associates with fall. |
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Ambrosia
I don't know what motivates me to blog about this subject tonight. I have moved about these United States and enjoyed many truly fine eats, including, but not limited to, a memorable almond souffle' dessert at The Four Seasons in New York, the most enormous, tasty pastrami sandwich at Stage Deli, fresh lobster sandwiches on the eastern seaboard where the lobster is plucked right from a trap door in the lobster shack: yum!! A dear friend of mine in Phoenix shared with me delectable gefilte fish she had made for the holiday. Good friends from years past made Sheboygan brats simmered in beer, grilled and served on homemade rolls that I still think about, some thirty years later. The very best tortillas ever can be purchased fresh just blocks from my home. A neighbor makes the most fantastic tamales; so mouth-watering you can never eat another without yearning for hers; as if I never even knew what a tamale was really supposed to taste like until I sampled hers. I, myself, very much enjoy cooking and have been known for a couple good dishes over the years. A good dish's memories linger forever. I became a vegetarian in recent years, but still enjoy the memories of all those past gastronomic delights. Over the years, I prepared the meal described below many times in an effort to recapture it, but I was never able to create the experience of what we enjoyed that evening. Ever.
And so it is, tonight I am remembering a meal I often tell people was one of the best meals I have ever enjoyed. It was so many years ago now...in the '70's. My husband contracted with some local farmers for crops and one summer evening closing out a hot day, we drove some miles, off the highway, over dirt roads...up to a stark two-story white frame house sitting atop the flat prairie like a topping on a wedding cake. There was no yard, per se. The house needed paint. As I recall, there was some farm equipment sitting close to the house, a pickup truck, and an older model car. We had been invited to dinner so my husband and the man of that household could 'talk business'. In rural/agricultural communities, most people know just about everybody; even those in the little outlying towns. As it happened, I simply did not know this family. Had never had the occasion to meet them, I guess. They seemed to be very quiet, somewhat shy folks.
When we arrived, we were greeted by the farmer in overalls who opened the screen door to let us in. We entered a very dark living room. Although there was yet summer evening light outside, the living room was heavily draped to keep out the heat. There was a swamp cooler running, emitting a loud noise and the definite feel of moisture hung in the air. At that time, I did not even know what a swamp cooler was. The only light in the living room was a flickering bluish tint from the television. There was a young man, perhaps late teens, seated on the couch in the darkness. His eyes darted toward us, but he did not engage in eye contact. He smiled a smile that was almost a little giggle; otherwise, said nothing. I was escorted to an easy chair in that dark, cool living room with the young man across from me, his arms and legs tightly drawn against his body like a unopened envelope. [Really? I thought. You're leaving me in here...in this dark room..with this unusual young man?]
My husband and the host went into the kitchen to sit at the kitchen table for their discussion. The 'Mrs.', wearing a full apron, and a daughter were also in the kitchen making dinner. It was a typical farmer's kitchen with linoleum floor and a single, very bright ceiling light. I don't remember that the woman or daughter stepped from the kitchen to greet or acknowledge me, although I'm not implying at all that anyone was unkind. Quite the contrary. In their own way, I believe they were being very hospitable. The contrast between the bright, active kitchen and the very dark, swamp-humming, flickering television screen of the living room was stark.
No words were spoken in the dark living room. I tried to focus on the television program. I don't remember how much time passed before the young man and I were invited to join the others in the kitchen for dinner. Again, few words were spoken as everybody ate. Everything was plain as plain could be. I don't
remember any table linens or fancy dinnerware. But, I will never, ever forget that dinner. Pork chops, grilled
in the broiler under the stove oven, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans. Simple. All, so very simple.
Yet, not simple at all. Each and every bite was so succulent; so memorable. They raised their own pigs.
The green beans were fresh from the garden. I don't remember dessert; there may have been pie; probably a pie. But, I don't really remember that. Somehow, though, I knew the Mrs. wanted to please us.
I remember conveying profusely how amazingly delectable the meal was; followed up with a written note. But, I doubt she could guess that for nearly 40 years since when people talk of the best they've ever eaten, her meal is the one I most remember.
Food of the Gods.
And so it is, tonight I am remembering a meal I often tell people was one of the best meals I have ever enjoyed. It was so many years ago now...in the '70's. My husband contracted with some local farmers for crops and one summer evening closing out a hot day, we drove some miles, off the highway, over dirt roads...up to a stark two-story white frame house sitting atop the flat prairie like a topping on a wedding cake. There was no yard, per se. The house needed paint. As I recall, there was some farm equipment sitting close to the house, a pickup truck, and an older model car. We had been invited to dinner so my husband and the man of that household could 'talk business'. In rural/agricultural communities, most people know just about everybody; even those in the little outlying towns. As it happened, I simply did not know this family. Had never had the occasion to meet them, I guess. They seemed to be very quiet, somewhat shy folks.
When we arrived, we were greeted by the farmer in overalls who opened the screen door to let us in. We entered a very dark living room. Although there was yet summer evening light outside, the living room was heavily draped to keep out the heat. There was a swamp cooler running, emitting a loud noise and the definite feel of moisture hung in the air. At that time, I did not even know what a swamp cooler was. The only light in the living room was a flickering bluish tint from the television. There was a young man, perhaps late teens, seated on the couch in the darkness. His eyes darted toward us, but he did not engage in eye contact. He smiled a smile that was almost a little giggle; otherwise, said nothing. I was escorted to an easy chair in that dark, cool living room with the young man across from me, his arms and legs tightly drawn against his body like a unopened envelope. [Really? I thought. You're leaving me in here...in this dark room..with this unusual young man?]
My husband and the host went into the kitchen to sit at the kitchen table for their discussion. The 'Mrs.', wearing a full apron, and a daughter were also in the kitchen making dinner. It was a typical farmer's kitchen with linoleum floor and a single, very bright ceiling light. I don't remember that the woman or daughter stepped from the kitchen to greet or acknowledge me, although I'm not implying at all that anyone was unkind. Quite the contrary. In their own way, I believe they were being very hospitable. The contrast between the bright, active kitchen and the very dark, swamp-humming, flickering television screen of the living room was stark.
No words were spoken in the dark living room. I tried to focus on the television program. I don't remember how much time passed before the young man and I were invited to join the others in the kitchen for dinner. Again, few words were spoken as everybody ate. Everything was plain as plain could be. I don't
remember any table linens or fancy dinnerware. But, I will never, ever forget that dinner. Pork chops, grilled
in the broiler under the stove oven, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans. Simple. All, so very simple.
Yet, not simple at all. Each and every bite was so succulent; so memorable. They raised their own pigs.
The green beans were fresh from the garden. I don't remember dessert; there may have been pie; probably a pie. But, I don't really remember that. Somehow, though, I knew the Mrs. wanted to please us.
I remember conveying profusely how amazingly delectable the meal was; followed up with a written note. But, I doubt she could guess that for nearly 40 years since when people talk of the best they've ever eaten, her meal is the one I most remember.
Food of the Gods.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
What is that saying about the downward path to knowledge?
...that once you "get it"...once you really understand ... you can't "un-know" it.. you simply cannot go backwards. So, if you are still at a place of sexism, racism, classism...a place of judgment about lifestyles, women's rights, or any number of other "..isms"...then, I would suggest, so far: you just haven't "gotten it."
It's a process for each and all of us, but this I know: as a society, ultimately, we will not go backwards.
I do understand the process is different for each of us. I often say I don't trust anyone who declares they are not racist; at least, not anybody with whom I've shared this culture. I don't say, "I'm not racist." I wish I could. My desire is to be "at that place." But, I surprise, even myself, when, on occasion something may come to mind, and may, even, slip out of my mouth...that could be racist. And so, I strive for awareness. I apologize as needed. It's an ongoing process. But, at least, I am on that downward path. I know that because it "stings" when I hear the arrows and slings of separation and discrimination.
http://www.timwise.org/2010/11/an-open-letter-to-the-white-right-on-the-occasion-of-your-recent-successful-temper-tantrum/http://www.timwise.org/2010/11/an-open-letter-to-the-white-right-on-the-occasion-of-your-recent-successful-temper-tantrum/http://www.timwise.org/2010/11/an-open-letter-to-the-white-right-on-the-occasion-of-your-recent-successful-temper-tantrum/
It's a process for each and all of us, but this I know: as a society, ultimately, we will not go backwards.
I do understand the process is different for each of us. I often say I don't trust anyone who declares they are not racist; at least, not anybody with whom I've shared this culture. I don't say, "I'm not racist." I wish I could. My desire is to be "at that place." But, I surprise, even myself, when, on occasion something may come to mind, and may, even, slip out of my mouth...that could be racist. And so, I strive for awareness. I apologize as needed. It's an ongoing process. But, at least, I am on that downward path. I know that because it "stings" when I hear the arrows and slings of separation and discrimination.
http://www.timwise.org/2010/11/an-open-letter-to-the-white-right-on-the-occasion-of-your-recent-successful-temper-tantrum/http://www.timwise.org/2010/11/an-open-letter-to-the-white-right-on-the-occasion-of-your-recent-successful-temper-tantrum/http://www.timwise.org/2010/11/an-open-letter-to-the-white-right-on-the-occasion-of-your-recent-successful-temper-tantrum/
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Dragging chains...
A couple nights ago, about 3 a.m., I awakened to the sounds of dragging chains. I kid you not: it sounded like huge, heavy chains dragging on cement. Halloween?? I thought...what the heck! Peering out my front windows: a few doors away two shadowy figures in hoodies with a tow truck ... actually, one of those flat u-shaped tows angled upward on the back-end of a big diesel-style pick-up truck which, in the darkness, gave an appearance of hang-man, really... doing a repo on a vehicle... I don't know any of the parties involved. And, I guess one would have to say it went quietly, smoothly.
I've seen those programs on the teevee.. Believe me, the energy surrounding it in real life is most unpleasant.
I've seen those programs on the teevee.. Believe me, the energy surrounding it in real life is most unpleasant.
The Heavens Blessed Me Yet Again This Morning...
...I awakened to a fabulous gentle, steady rainfall. I can hardly believe it. Sooooo marvelous. Thereafter, the
skies cleared to the most brilliant blue and sunshine splashed about like a playful child.
skies cleared to the most brilliant blue and sunshine splashed about like a playful child.
Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear; some of my favorite signs & quotes...
"If we amplify everything, then we hear nothing.."
~Jon Stewart
October 30, 2010
"These are hard times, not end times..."
~ Jon Stewart
October 30, 2010
 |
 |
| ~ Probably My Favorite ~ |
Monday, October 25, 2010
More rain!
Rained most of the night; still dripping heavily this morning...am I loving this!!
An AH quote I also love:
Only through love can you return anyone to love. You cannot restore someone to their Connection with Source by belittling them or by punishing them, or by being disgusted with them. It is only through love that you can return anyone to love. And if you do not have a way of returning them to love, they will always be a problem to your society.
- Abraham-Hicks -
.
An AH quote I also love:
Only through love can you return anyone to love. You cannot restore someone to their Connection with Source by belittling them or by punishing them, or by being disgusted with them. It is only through love that you can return anyone to love. And if you do not have a way of returning them to love, they will always be a problem to your society.
- Abraham-Hicks -
.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Halloween...and death..
Yesterday, Geemo stopped by. I tried to give him a skeleton-faced ghost to take to his house. I told him I just felt uncomfortable hanging it outside this year, given my neighbor, Mike's recent passing.
"Put it out!" G responded enthusiastically. "Hang it out! Mike would like it...Mike would like that!" he expounded.
Yeah, I think...he probably would.
My daughter's Godmother, Diane, was buried on Halloween...years ago now. 1978 ?? She was only 39. I remember how different Halloween seemed to me that year. As a practicing Catholic at that time, I also remember thinking how nice that within a couple days it would be All Souls Day, a day when all Catholics would pray for those faithful departed. [Mike, too, was Catholic.]
Long before Diane's diagnosis with cancer I had been reading Katherine Kubler-Ross' work on death & dying and had attended lectures by Raymond Moody. Through the years I have formed a belief that we decide when/how to come into the world and when/how we depart. But, given that belief, even, one can still feel pain, as it were...sorrow..shock...anger, even...with another's departure. (You didn't tell me you were going. You didn't say goodbye. Why didn't you choose another option? That wasn't your only choice, you know, etc.; which really is to say, "You didn't clear your departure with me first!")
I have a friend, a nurse, who likes to say, "It isn't about you!" Well, yes...and no. It is about the departing one, particularly, when one is trying to keep the departing soul as comfortable as possible through the process, that's a fact. But, I have no doubt, once crossed over, the one departing will be fine...joyously free. I don't believe in the heaven/hell concept. So, permit me, if you will: it is kinda about "me", whomever "me" is... still functioning in this time/space.
And, given that "letting go" seems to be one of my lessons in this life, it is about 'me.' For someone who cried over a cute, cute little mouse with beady black eyes and huge ears who was peaking out at me late nights, who would "say hello" before he scampered to raid the cupboards, and whom I got to know over a period of time because he was much too smart for the safe traps, and who, necessarily, had to "move on".. Ohhh...don't remind me! Yes, letting go is, undoubtedly, one of my big lessons to learn this go-'round.
Anyway, I didn't mean to get into a philosophical diatribe...only to say that death near Halloween gives pause to my expression and experience of the holiday.
Which, I guess, could be said about any holiday.
"Put it out!" G responded enthusiastically. "Hang it out! Mike would like it...Mike would like that!" he expounded.
Yeah, I think...he probably would.
My daughter's Godmother, Diane, was buried on Halloween...years ago now. 1978 ?? She was only 39. I remember how different Halloween seemed to me that year. As a practicing Catholic at that time, I also remember thinking how nice that within a couple days it would be All Souls Day, a day when all Catholics would pray for those faithful departed. [Mike, too, was Catholic.]
Long before Diane's diagnosis with cancer I had been reading Katherine Kubler-Ross' work on death & dying and had attended lectures by Raymond Moody. Through the years I have formed a belief that we decide when/how to come into the world and when/how we depart. But, given that belief, even, one can still feel pain, as it were...sorrow..shock...anger, even...with another's departure. (You didn't tell me you were going. You didn't say goodbye. Why didn't you choose another option? That wasn't your only choice, you know, etc.; which really is to say, "You didn't clear your departure with me first!")
I have a friend, a nurse, who likes to say, "It isn't about you!" Well, yes...and no. It is about the departing one, particularly, when one is trying to keep the departing soul as comfortable as possible through the process, that's a fact. But, I have no doubt, once crossed over, the one departing will be fine...joyously free. I don't believe in the heaven/hell concept. So, permit me, if you will: it is kinda about "me", whomever "me" is... still functioning in this time/space.
And, given that "letting go" seems to be one of my lessons in this life, it is about 'me.' For someone who cried over a cute, cute little mouse with beady black eyes and huge ears who was peaking out at me late nights, who would "say hello" before he scampered to raid the cupboards, and whom I got to know over a period of time because he was much too smart for the safe traps, and who, necessarily, had to "move on".. Ohhh...don't remind me! Yes, letting go is, undoubtedly, one of my big lessons to learn this go-'round.
Anyway, I didn't mean to get into a philosophical diatribe...only to say that death near Halloween gives pause to my expression and experience of the holiday.
Which, I guess, could be said about any holiday.
Oatmeal cookies
One of my sweet moments in life is to enjoy an oatmeal cookie with my coffee in the morning. The oatmeal cookie can't be soft...it must be what many people would consider 'over-baked.' I want them nicely browned so they snap when you bite into them..and, of course (!), they must have nuts! In anticipation of making some oatmeal cookies for myself, yesterday I set aside some dried cranberries soaking in Amaretto. Mmmmmm....
Today,tasting the 'plumpness' of the cranberries, I think, "Why make cookies??" Mmmmmmm....just keep dried cranberries soaking in Amaretto in the frig for snacking...what a concept! Let's see now: how many servings of fruits per day, hmmm?
Today,tasting the 'plumpness' of the cranberries, I think, "Why make cookies??" Mmmmmmm....just keep dried cranberries soaking in Amaretto in the frig for snacking...what a concept! Let's see now: how many servings of fruits per day, hmmm?
Unusual weather....
This is generally the time of year when our fire danger is so high; when we have had significant fires. Usually the hottest month of the year.
The past two weeks, esp. have been most unusual. Cool, even chilly; often with drizzle to heavy drizzle. And, this past week, rain, rain, blessed rain! I so love the rain! For myself, this is merely a reminder that no matter
what may be "normal"...or, what might seem "impossible"...is always possible! Rainfall in October...Joyous celebration...for the rainfall...and the reminder... and leaves me toying with the delicious idea of just what we are able to create/effect by our thoughts/feelings.
The past two weeks, esp. have been most unusual. Cool, even chilly; often with drizzle to heavy drizzle. And, this past week, rain, rain, blessed rain! I so love the rain! For myself, this is merely a reminder that no matter
what may be "normal"...or, what might seem "impossible"...is always possible! Rainfall in October...Joyous celebration...for the rainfall...and the reminder... and leaves me toying with the delicious idea of just what we are able to create/effect by our thoughts/feelings.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Brad...
Today Ace and I walked the river. There is one stretch that is populated by homeless men. This morning, as we began that stretch, there was one very tall, lanky young man with blonde dreads who rose from a seated position, wrapped a blanket over his shoulders, greeted us and strode up the sidewalk, soon to disappear. As Ace and I commenced along the path, the young, lanky guy seemed to have been the only "resident homeless", although we met other hikers, runners, walkers. About half the length of the walk, beside a cement picnic table, sat a somewhat slight figure in a gray hoodie, head dropped, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankle. A small cooler sat on the cement beside him. Then, I noticed blood everywhere...on the picnic table, on the cement surrounding the figure, on his hands...on his clothes..the hood of his sweatshirt stained with big circles of blood.
I stopped and spoke, "Hey, are you okay?" When he lifted his head, his right eye was so swollen it seemed to
take up the whole right side of his face. His forehead looked like hamburger, swollen and clotted with blood.
His "good" eye was very jaundiced...the white of his eye very, very yellow...as was his the rest of his skin.
"You ok?" I repeated. He nodded.
"I think I need to call for some medical help," I said.
"I'm fine." he said.
"You know what? You're looking pretty rough. You really need some medical attention. Do you want to tell me what happened?"
"I fell" he said. "I'll be fine."
"Well, I'll tell you: if I had a mirror, you would think you needed some help," I said, my eyes widening, offering a slight smile.
"Then I'm going to leave," he said, trying to pick up his belongings, barely able to move.
"Paramedics, police will come," he said. "I don't have money for the hospital."
"That's ok; they'll treat you. You need help. You're pretty beat up..."
"Then I'm going to leave..."
He was so weak, his movements very slow and labored. But, I didn't know how long it would take for help to respond and that river area is so dense with vegetation and trees. Were this young man to move into the dense growth I considered that, because of his condition, he might just fall into the river and drown. Secondly, I had no confidence at all that were he successful in moving into the dense brush before assistance arrived, that any extended effort would be made to search for him.
"What's your name?" I asked. He raised his head and just looked at me with his one good eye for some time. Slowly, he responded,"Brad." His voice was weak, barely above a whisper.
"Brad. Brad, your life has value. There are people who love you. I'm am not leaving you here like this. I am not leaving. I have a son about your age. I wouldn't want people to leave him out here like this. I have to call for help.
How old are you?"
"28."
"28" I repeated after him. "Brad, you have a whole life ahead of you. Who do you love, Brad?"
He dropped his head. Softly, softly he said, "My family...brother...sister..."
"Older brother..?" I queried.
"Yeah, he's doing good. Real good." His voice was so soft; halting. "Not like me... but, I was in the Navy." (Pause) " Did four years," he offered quietly.
"You know, Brad, as long as you're breathing in life, you can start anew. You can start anew. You can get well, get back on your feet; maybe help someone else...set an example for someone else. You are young; you have a full life to look forward to... I don't care if you want to be angry with me, but I'm not leaving you here like this. I'll stay with you until medical help comes. "
His one good eye studied me from his seated position on the ground. A man about my age in a "Shell" work shirt came walking. He glanced at the seated figure, winced and kept walking. I signaled to the man to call for help, while trying to keep the young man engaged in conversation. After a pause, the man called 9-1-1... A thin, 40-something woman in white jeans and blouse, sporting a spray-on-tan, on lunch break from a near-by business came along and stopped. She was insistent the young man tell her who had beat him up, which stressed him immensely. Clearly, he was not going to give up any of that information right there. "I fell.." he kept insisting. She did offer him a cigarette which he welcomed.
Officers of the law arrived. Now, I don't have an attitude about the police. I definitely appreciate them. But, I've lived long enough to know there can be great inequities in their responses to given situations. These officers were quite full of themselves, if I do say. Arrived on the scene with an attitude about "another homeless", clearly. I kid you not: one officer, behind very black sunglasses, stepped way inside my personal space and did a "Barney Fife", i.e. drew a deep, long breath through his nostrils while pulling up his trousers and puffing out his chest. Rough and gruff and rude and impatient w/out an ounce of empathy. Exactly the reason Brad didn't want any interaction with them, I thought, feeling a bit as if I had betrayed him; still, not regretting calling for help. Whether or not he had warrants, who knew? Maybe. Probably. So, Officer Gruff and Officer Rude looked at the three of us standing and told us to leave.
"Put out the cigarette! Remove your hood!" they commanded Brad. Ace and I lingered momentarily, until we heard the sounds of the ambulance. I stooped between the officers so I could see Brad's face...until he looked up at me. "Bye.." I mouthed, my hand held upright, pausing.... "Bye, Brad..." I said softly.
Maybe he wasn't even homeless. In retrospect, his clothes were pretty clean. Hoodie was an expensive one, clean, except for the staining of recent events, gray, with crossed gold oars for team crewing on the front. He had a little facial hair. When the officers had him remove his hood, I noted a neatly-trimmed ash-blonde head of hair.
Homeless or not, I am left thinking about the people I know who had already passed him by
before I came along.
"Did that man who passed just before I came along offer to help you?" I remember asking, aghast no one had stopped to help him already.
Who are we? Who are we, as a society...that we can pass someone...homeless or not...like that??
~~~
As Ace and I returned to our parked car, I went into a nearby fast-food restaurant to use the facilities. Near the entrance sat the tall, lanky young homeless man we had first seen. He nodded "hello", recognizing me from our earlier encounter. I knew he had to have walked past Brad before we came along.
"Do you know that guy who was beat up down there by the river?" I asked. "You know him? You see him?" The guy nodded. "He's in pretty rough shape..." I said.
"I think he'll be fine. He'll be okay." the guy responded, somewhat nonchalantly.
I stopped and spoke, "Hey, are you okay?" When he lifted his head, his right eye was so swollen it seemed to
take up the whole right side of his face. His forehead looked like hamburger, swollen and clotted with blood.
His "good" eye was very jaundiced...the white of his eye very, very yellow...as was his the rest of his skin.
"You ok?" I repeated. He nodded.
"I think I need to call for some medical help," I said.
"I'm fine." he said.
"You know what? You're looking pretty rough. You really need some medical attention. Do you want to tell me what happened?"
"I fell" he said. "I'll be fine."
"Well, I'll tell you: if I had a mirror, you would think you needed some help," I said, my eyes widening, offering a slight smile.
"Then I'm going to leave," he said, trying to pick up his belongings, barely able to move.
"Paramedics, police will come," he said. "I don't have money for the hospital."
"That's ok; they'll treat you. You need help. You're pretty beat up..."
"Then I'm going to leave..."
He was so weak, his movements very slow and labored. But, I didn't know how long it would take for help to respond and that river area is so dense with vegetation and trees. Were this young man to move into the dense growth I considered that, because of his condition, he might just fall into the river and drown. Secondly, I had no confidence at all that were he successful in moving into the dense brush before assistance arrived, that any extended effort would be made to search for him.
"What's your name?" I asked. He raised his head and just looked at me with his one good eye for some time. Slowly, he responded,"Brad." His voice was weak, barely above a whisper.
"Brad. Brad, your life has value. There are people who love you. I'm am not leaving you here like this. I am not leaving. I have a son about your age. I wouldn't want people to leave him out here like this. I have to call for help.
How old are you?"
"28."
"28" I repeated after him. "Brad, you have a whole life ahead of you. Who do you love, Brad?"
He dropped his head. Softly, softly he said, "My family...brother...sister..."
"Older brother..?" I queried.
"Yeah, he's doing good. Real good." His voice was so soft; halting. "Not like me... but, I was in the Navy." (Pause) " Did four years," he offered quietly.
"You know, Brad, as long as you're breathing in life, you can start anew. You can start anew. You can get well, get back on your feet; maybe help someone else...set an example for someone else. You are young; you have a full life to look forward to... I don't care if you want to be angry with me, but I'm not leaving you here like this. I'll stay with you until medical help comes. "
His one good eye studied me from his seated position on the ground. A man about my age in a "Shell" work shirt came walking. He glanced at the seated figure, winced and kept walking. I signaled to the man to call for help, while trying to keep the young man engaged in conversation. After a pause, the man called 9-1-1... A thin, 40-something woman in white jeans and blouse, sporting a spray-on-tan, on lunch break from a near-by business came along and stopped. She was insistent the young man tell her who had beat him up, which stressed him immensely. Clearly, he was not going to give up any of that information right there. "I fell.." he kept insisting. She did offer him a cigarette which he welcomed.
Officers of the law arrived. Now, I don't have an attitude about the police. I definitely appreciate them. But, I've lived long enough to know there can be great inequities in their responses to given situations. These officers were quite full of themselves, if I do say. Arrived on the scene with an attitude about "another homeless", clearly. I kid you not: one officer, behind very black sunglasses, stepped way inside my personal space and did a "Barney Fife", i.e. drew a deep, long breath through his nostrils while pulling up his trousers and puffing out his chest. Rough and gruff and rude and impatient w/out an ounce of empathy. Exactly the reason Brad didn't want any interaction with them, I thought, feeling a bit as if I had betrayed him; still, not regretting calling for help. Whether or not he had warrants, who knew? Maybe. Probably. So, Officer Gruff and Officer Rude looked at the three of us standing and told us to leave.
"Put out the cigarette! Remove your hood!" they commanded Brad. Ace and I lingered momentarily, until we heard the sounds of the ambulance. I stooped between the officers so I could see Brad's face...until he looked up at me. "Bye.." I mouthed, my hand held upright, pausing.... "Bye, Brad..." I said softly.
Maybe he wasn't even homeless. In retrospect, his clothes were pretty clean. Hoodie was an expensive one, clean, except for the staining of recent events, gray, with crossed gold oars for team crewing on the front. He had a little facial hair. When the officers had him remove his hood, I noted a neatly-trimmed ash-blonde head of hair.
Homeless or not, I am left thinking about the people I know who had already passed him by
before I came along.
"Did that man who passed just before I came along offer to help you?" I remember asking, aghast no one had stopped to help him already.
Who are we? Who are we, as a society...that we can pass someone...homeless or not...like that??
~~~
As Ace and I returned to our parked car, I went into a nearby fast-food restaurant to use the facilities. Near the entrance sat the tall, lanky young homeless man we had first seen. He nodded "hello", recognizing me from our earlier encounter. I knew he had to have walked past Brad before we came along.
"Do you know that guy who was beat up down there by the river?" I asked. "You know him? You see him?" The guy nodded. "He's in pretty rough shape..." I said.
"I think he'll be fine. He'll be okay." the guy responded, somewhat nonchalantly.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Reading & Writing...
Today, while walking, I was thinking about authors who suggest they are voracious readers even while writing. My experience is, if I am trying to write something substantive, I cannot be reading a book. For a writing to feel "good" to me, it has to have a raw, organic kind of feeling. When I am reading and writing, my writings seem to have the quality of those '50's - 60's TV dinners, complete with aluminum foil wrappings. (Are those TV dinners still around, btw?)
Sunday in the park... I am filled with gratitude...
What a glorious day today! Weather could not have been more perfect! Acey and I had quite a walk in the park. Everybody was out: young couples, families w/children, older folks, runners...tourists..weddings and wedding parties...dogs everywhere...
There was a time I allowed 30 mins., plus or minus, for a good, vigorous walk in the park, which included time to and fro. Today, it took us two (2) hours. I think the sniffer gets a little weak after 13 yrs...so it takes forever to "read a message"..and then there are the lay-down rest periods in the shade. Instead of quick responses to slight tugs of the lead, never breaking stride, now Ace and I can get into "discussions" where he asserts himself, stopping completely, stalling...insisting on an alternative route or, perhaps, not moving at all until he decides which way he wants to go, if at all. He is also much more into routine; much less open to mixing it up until I find myself negotiating out loud, "Oh! Please! Can't we go this way just once??"
And then there is allowing audience time with everyone who wants to interact with Ace; such a popular guy! [One woman today, with heavy accent, commented how Ace looks like a polar bear punctuated with "Well, at least there's one left!"] =)
So, while sometimes these walks really test my patience, am I amazingly grateful Ace and I can still get out and walk about? That he's still w/me, in darned good health yet ? Ahhhhh: yes, I am. Indeed, I am! I am profoundly grateful. Deeply, profoundly grateful.
There was a time I allowed 30 mins., plus or minus, for a good, vigorous walk in the park, which included time to and fro. Today, it took us two (2) hours. I think the sniffer gets a little weak after 13 yrs...so it takes forever to "read a message"..and then there are the lay-down rest periods in the shade. Instead of quick responses to slight tugs of the lead, never breaking stride, now Ace and I can get into "discussions" where he asserts himself, stopping completely, stalling...insisting on an alternative route or, perhaps, not moving at all until he decides which way he wants to go, if at all. He is also much more into routine; much less open to mixing it up until I find myself negotiating out loud, "Oh! Please! Can't we go this way just once??"
And then there is allowing audience time with everyone who wants to interact with Ace; such a popular guy! [One woman today, with heavy accent, commented how Ace looks like a polar bear punctuated with "Well, at least there's one left!"] =)
So, while sometimes these walks really test my patience, am I amazingly grateful Ace and I can still get out and walk about? That he's still w/me, in darned good health yet ? Ahhhhh: yes, I am. Indeed, I am! I am profoundly grateful. Deeply, profoundly grateful.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Ode to Mike
I was happy to see the tide was high
The bay filled brim to brim
It was a viscous, dark sea
Powerful surf
Disturbed by passing ships
And yachts
And ferries
My head felt full as the bay
Brim to brim with a sea of thoughts
Viscous
Powerful
Sloshing thoughts against my cranial containment
The tide in my head had offered no reprieve..
Hadn’t receded..
I felt like I wanted..desperately needed..
To empty it out
Shake and fluff my brain
Like a huge comforter
Turn all those crevices inside out
Refreshed
Aired out
Before stuffing back into its cavity
Salted cranium
Like the sea itself
Preserved memories
Salty as the man himself…
Salty as the day he decked out his
Weighty body in motorcycle leathers..
Fringes flying from his wrists,
Silver medallions anchoring his vest
Fancy, hand-worked leather braiding..
That thundering, shiny, bright red Harley
And his long flowing gray curls
Roared right up my sidewalk
To the front steps
Delivering a plant
In gratitude for a kindness
He then proceeded to tell
Me, my son and son’s girlfriend
The official name of some pink Cadillac
Of years past:
(‘tho we weren’t even speaking of Cadillacs)
“Titty pink” he spewed. “I ain’t kiddin’! That
Was the official name of that color! Titty pink!”
He cackled gleefully, like a child quite pleased with oneself.
His big smile revealed widely spaced pegged teeth;
His voice tightly strung and high-pitched; as if someone had a
Tight grip on a prized part of his anatomy
I considered war injuries until I met his son.
Clearly, he wanted to extend the conversation about “titty pink”
He repeated those words as his crazed blue eyes opened wide
In a manner that leaves a woman feeling exceedingly, creepily uncomfortable.
Salty.
Not the welcome brine of a good blue cheese
Or crunchy chip.
But the brine of the sea which teases a thirsty soul.
Quench denied.
The brine that can steal a man’s life in the open sea.
Or, the time I heard his booming voice at the
End of his driveway and,
Peering out my kitchen window
Saw a dark t-shirt sausaged over his body
With the words
“Stand back, Sweetie!
You don’t know how big it gets!”
I was so appalled I texted a friend who,
Knowing him,
Replied she had spat out her drink reading
My words.
Rode w/the Hells Angels in earlier years.
Wouldn’t have to convince me
Yet fancied himself a debonair Italian courtier…
Never missing an opportunity to flirt with a lady,
Kiss her hand in grand gesture, and
Toss laurels of compliments
Directly at her bosom
As if her chest were eyes and ears
Sometimes he stood by his chain-link fence
Chatting with neighbors
Wearing nothing but bibbed overalls…
The overalls were a step-up
From the uber- faded, once-red
Very worn, seldom washed, cut-off sweat pants (only)
No seeming humility about that over-sized
White-skinned, gray-haired, bared torso…
I thought the house was vacant
When first I arrived
Dried weeds filled the entire yard
Weeds as tall as man himself
Save one narrow path
Night critters, I figured
No lights; no activity.
Until the middle of night
When the rumble of all hell
Jarred one from a deep sleep
As an old, rusted Econoline van
With a throated guttural engine
Which could wake the devil himself
Fired up with a bang
Rancid exhaust filled the night air
Filtering into neighboring homes
As the Unknown would come and go
Under the cloak of darkness.
A Viet Nam vet, Marine Corp
Three purple hearts
Time had stopped for him
Everything about his life defined by that experience
PTSD shouting out from the recesses of the garage
I was to learn the narrow path in the tall weeds
Was the path of his dog
A silent pit bull
Who had been rescued after being hit by a car
And whom he took in and loved
His “roommate” for years
In spite of the dog’s serious brain injury
No: because of the brain injury..
It was that ‘imperfection’ which was their bond
He was the one who always told people he’d look out for them.
Neighbors. Especially women.
I know he meant it.
I’m not sure he really could have done anything.
But, honestly, strange as it seems
When I wasn’t fearing him with his erratic behavior
And bombastic manner
Which varied from nighttime screams to
Chasing people with baseball bats,
And calling women bitches and whores in public shout-outs,
Honestly, there were times I felt lulled into a sense of security
With him as my neighbor.
He passionately honored the military;
Those actively serving;
Veterans..
Marine corps brothers: "Semper fi"
Old Glory proudly rippled in the breeze from his porch
Along with the black POW flag for those still
Unaccounted
I have never heard a human being wail as Mike wailed
When that dog passed
He threw his voluminous body upon her on the floor
And wailed, more loudly than the van’s guttural roar…
“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Ohhhhhh! Don’t leave me!”
A wail..a sorrow..so profound it pierced my very core
And left it
Feeling split, raw, exposed.
More recently, when I spoke of moving
He pleaded, “Don’t leave! Don’t leave! Don’t ever leave!”
He would have said it to anybody.
Unless he hated you. [And, there were those.]
But the pleading…from this tough old soldier:
“Don’t leave. Don’t leave! Don’t ever leave!!”
He leaned his whole body into his words
Wagging his index finger
And now
He..
has left us.
~ He has left us. ~
The thought reverberates throughout my head and assumes
A very solemn, unwelcome seat
Somewhere within
Mike.
He had lost a hundred pounds.
Watched his diet
Walked; exercised
Bought a bright red, brand new crossover car.
Told me how good it felt not to be embarrassed
By his van anymore.
Had his yard cleaned. Re-roofed his house.
Suspended blooming pots from his porch.
Became more socialized; made new friends.
Drew a happy face on a prickly pear cactus
And sat it beside his gate
He tossed ball in the street
With the kids next door
And took in his grown son who
Needed a soft landing.
And… was diagnosed with lung cancer.
I wonder, when last I saw him…as he sat in a wheelchair,
Tethered by his oxygen umbilical cord
Paramedics about to transport him to the hospital..
As I stood on my stoop…
And felt guiltily alive…
Acutely aware of the strong life-force
Coursing through my body
As I watched him struggle for his..
As his blue eyes looked upward
Locked with mine…
I wonder…
Did my eyes speak to him?
“Are you leaving us, Mike? Are you leaving??”
I am haunted
Wondering who was looking out for him
At the end
The tide is high
The bay filled brim to brim
It is a viscous, dark sea
And my head feels as full as the bay
The air wafts brine…
I was happy to see the tide was high
The bay filled brim to brim
It was a viscous, dark sea
Powerful surf
Disturbed by passing ships
And yachts
And ferries
My head felt full as the bay
Brim to brim with a sea of thoughts
Viscous
Powerful
Sloshing thoughts against my cranial containment
The tide in my head had offered no reprieve..
Hadn’t receded..
I felt like I wanted..desperately needed..
To empty it out
Shake and fluff my brain
Like a huge comforter
Turn all those crevices inside out
Refreshed
Aired out
Before stuffing back into its cavity
Salted cranium
Like the sea itself
Preserved memories
Salty as the man himself…
Salty as the day he decked out his
Weighty body in motorcycle leathers..
Fringes flying from his wrists,
Silver medallions anchoring his vest
Fancy, hand-worked leather braiding..
That thundering, shiny, bright red Harley
And his long flowing gray curls
Roared right up my sidewalk
To the front steps
Delivering a plant
In gratitude for a kindness
He then proceeded to tell
Me, my son and son’s girlfriend
The official name of some pink Cadillac
Of years past:
(‘tho we weren’t even speaking of Cadillacs)
“Titty pink” he spewed. “I ain’t kiddin’! That
Was the official name of that color! Titty pink!”
He cackled gleefully, like a child quite pleased with oneself.
His big smile revealed widely spaced pegged teeth;
His voice tightly strung and high-pitched; as if someone had a
Tight grip on a prized part of his anatomy
I considered war injuries until I met his son.
Clearly, he wanted to extend the conversation about “titty pink”
He repeated those words as his crazed blue eyes opened wide
In a manner that leaves a woman feeling exceedingly, creepily uncomfortable.
Salty.
Not the welcome brine of a good blue cheese
Or crunchy chip.
But the brine of the sea which teases a thirsty soul.
Quench denied.
The brine that can steal a man’s life in the open sea.
Or, the time I heard his booming voice at the
End of his driveway and,
Peering out my kitchen window
Saw a dark t-shirt sausaged over his body
With the words
“Stand back, Sweetie!
You don’t know how big it gets!”
I was so appalled I texted a friend who,
Knowing him,
Replied she had spat out her drink reading
My words.
Rode w/the Hells Angels in earlier years.
Wouldn’t have to convince me
Yet fancied himself a debonair Italian courtier…
Never missing an opportunity to flirt with a lady,
Kiss her hand in grand gesture, and
Toss laurels of compliments
Directly at her bosom
As if her chest were eyes and ears
Sometimes he stood by his chain-link fence
Chatting with neighbors
Wearing nothing but bibbed overalls…
The overalls were a step-up
From the uber- faded, once-red
Very worn, seldom washed, cut-off sweat pants (only)
No seeming humility about that over-sized
White-skinned, gray-haired, bared torso…
I thought the house was vacant
When first I arrived
Dried weeds filled the entire yard
Weeds as tall as man himself
Save one narrow path
Night critters, I figured
No lights; no activity.
Until the middle of night
When the rumble of all hell
Jarred one from a deep sleep
As an old, rusted Econoline van
With a throated guttural engine
Which could wake the devil himself
Fired up with a bang
Rancid exhaust filled the night air
Filtering into neighboring homes
As the Unknown would come and go
Under the cloak of darkness.
A Viet Nam vet, Marine Corp
Three purple hearts
Time had stopped for him
Everything about his life defined by that experience
PTSD shouting out from the recesses of the garage
I was to learn the narrow path in the tall weeds
Was the path of his dog
A silent pit bull
Who had been rescued after being hit by a car
And whom he took in and loved
His “roommate” for years
In spite of the dog’s serious brain injury
No: because of the brain injury..
It was that ‘imperfection’ which was their bond
He was the one who always told people he’d look out for them.
Neighbors. Especially women.
I know he meant it.
I’m not sure he really could have done anything.
But, honestly, strange as it seems
When I wasn’t fearing him with his erratic behavior
And bombastic manner
Which varied from nighttime screams to
Chasing people with baseball bats,
And calling women bitches and whores in public shout-outs,
Honestly, there were times I felt lulled into a sense of security
With him as my neighbor.
He passionately honored the military;
Those actively serving;
Veterans..
Marine corps brothers: "Semper fi"
Old Glory proudly rippled in the breeze from his porch
Along with the black POW flag for those still
Unaccounted
I have never heard a human being wail as Mike wailed
When that dog passed
He threw his voluminous body upon her on the floor
And wailed, more loudly than the van’s guttural roar…
“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! Ohhhhhh! Don’t leave me!”
A wail..a sorrow..so profound it pierced my very core
And left it
Feeling split, raw, exposed.
More recently, when I spoke of moving
He pleaded, “Don’t leave! Don’t leave! Don’t ever leave!”
He would have said it to anybody.
Unless he hated you. [And, there were those.]
But the pleading…from this tough old soldier:
“Don’t leave. Don’t leave! Don’t ever leave!!”
He leaned his whole body into his words
Wagging his index finger
And now
He..
has left us.
~ He has left us. ~
The thought reverberates throughout my head and assumes
A very solemn, unwelcome seat
Somewhere within
Mike.
He had lost a hundred pounds.
Watched his diet
Walked; exercised
Bought a bright red, brand new crossover car.
Told me how good it felt not to be embarrassed
By his van anymore.
Had his yard cleaned. Re-roofed his house.
Suspended blooming pots from his porch.
Became more socialized; made new friends.
Drew a happy face on a prickly pear cactus
And sat it beside his gate
He tossed ball in the street
With the kids next door
And took in his grown son who
Needed a soft landing.
And… was diagnosed with lung cancer.
I wonder, when last I saw him…as he sat in a wheelchair,
Tethered by his oxygen umbilical cord
Paramedics about to transport him to the hospital..
As I stood on my stoop…
And felt guiltily alive…
Acutely aware of the strong life-force
Coursing through my body
As I watched him struggle for his..
As his blue eyes looked upward
Locked with mine…
I wonder…
Did my eyes speak to him?
“Are you leaving us, Mike? Are you leaving??”
I am haunted
Wondering who was looking out for him
At the end
The tide is high
The bay filled brim to brim
It is a viscous, dark sea
And my head feels as full as the bay
The air wafts brine…
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