Sunday, February 14, 2010
Sweethearts
- Sweetheart candies have updated flavors and sayings. "Text Me", XOXO, and "Email Me", are written in brighter colors and boingier flavors instead of faded ink on chalk. I liked best the accidently old fashioned message I found. It should have said "MEET ME", but a few bars were missing, and it said "MELT ME" instead. Sweet.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Build It...
Old guys cuss youth. What is, is. Deal with it.
- Today's kids are gutless.
- There was a cool old dude in another century that would do things to stimulate the neighborhood kids. He had no children of his own and enjoyed watching the crew where I was raised. He would grab a chair and popcorn when the sandlot games began. Binoculars sat on the window sill, handy for snowball wars. An old push scooter just showed up on his lawn one day, and the temptation was too great not to test drive it. We didn't consider we'd stolen it. Just used for a bit. The scooter became the property of the entire neighborhood, and when not in use, could always be found under the juniper bush in the old man's yard. When it broke, it somehow got fixed.
- We had an abused soap box go cart that steered with rope and when the hard rubber lining stripped away from the wheel, a new full axle set was found in the street.
- We used the concrete flood channels for playgrounds. Skateboards were ruined where the steep sides met the flat channel bottom. The old man down the street spent a weekend building curved plywood ramps in the ditch. We never considered that he spent retirement income on us. To my knowledge, none of us ever thanked him. When he died, nobody went to his funeral. We read his name in the paper and thought of him fondly.
- My home sits on a steep circle drive. The island in the circle is the respository for snow cleaned from the roadway, which we get a bit of. From the piletop of snow to the bottom of the street is a vertical drop of about twenty-five feet.
- I've watched a dutiful mom pull her bundled little people up to the base of the snow pile and give them a gentle shove. I've listened to the squeals from the toddler and noticed the eight year old looking wistfully up at the huge mound of snow.
- A coworker gave me a small broken fancy toboggan because I have tools and time. I fixed it. It hogs a surprising amount of valuable storage space in my garage.
- I'm sure you know where this is going. I cut a staircase into the backside of the hill. I flattened the top for a perfect mounting platform. I sunk past my waist filling the gaps between peaks. I piled and packed, got cold and wet, polished the path, misted the soft spots, waxed the sled, set it in plain sight atop the hill, and went inside to warm up and watch.
- Nuthin'.
- Now I am certain my activity was noticed. My old Santa shaped neighbor shook his head. The sulky teen who shortcuts through the deep snow in the corner of my yard walked past and turned his head away instead of offering to help me extricate myself. The two little guys who had already made the street glassy had their faces plastered to the minivan windows when they came home from school and daycare.
- I got a long stare from one kid I've never seen before. He walked the entire circle, suspiciously inspecting the setup from a distance, but could never make himself climb the hill.
- The lady I share my life with laughed at me. She told me that while I won't admit it, winter is getting to me. She says that I so miss fishing that I built a deathtrap for children, and I am enjoying watching them being drawn to it. She giggles that the children are too smart for me. She says I am fascinated like a NASCAR fan waiting for a wreck, or a hockey fan. She won't quit. She says she doubts our insurance agent would be impressed. I say "What sled run? What Toboggan?" She says that perhaps I should demonstrate the sled run for the poor hesitant children. Right.
- And now I have an epiphany. The nice old man from my childhood was evil. He was a disaster junkie and empowered children to kill themselves while distancing himself enough to deny liability.
- The sky turned red and I retrieved my toboggan with disgust. Cowards, this new generation. Smarter than we were, but cowards.
- Today's kids are gutless.
- There was a cool old dude in another century that would do things to stimulate the neighborhood kids. He had no children of his own and enjoyed watching the crew where I was raised. He would grab a chair and popcorn when the sandlot games began. Binoculars sat on the window sill, handy for snowball wars. An old push scooter just showed up on his lawn one day, and the temptation was too great not to test drive it. We didn't consider we'd stolen it. Just used for a bit. The scooter became the property of the entire neighborhood, and when not in use, could always be found under the juniper bush in the old man's yard. When it broke, it somehow got fixed.
- We had an abused soap box go cart that steered with rope and when the hard rubber lining stripped away from the wheel, a new full axle set was found in the street.
- We used the concrete flood channels for playgrounds. Skateboards were ruined where the steep sides met the flat channel bottom. The old man down the street spent a weekend building curved plywood ramps in the ditch. We never considered that he spent retirement income on us. To my knowledge, none of us ever thanked him. When he died, nobody went to his funeral. We read his name in the paper and thought of him fondly.
- My home sits on a steep circle drive. The island in the circle is the respository for snow cleaned from the roadway, which we get a bit of. From the piletop of snow to the bottom of the street is a vertical drop of about twenty-five feet.
- I've watched a dutiful mom pull her bundled little people up to the base of the snow pile and give them a gentle shove. I've listened to the squeals from the toddler and noticed the eight year old looking wistfully up at the huge mound of snow.
- A coworker gave me a small broken fancy toboggan because I have tools and time. I fixed it. It hogs a surprising amount of valuable storage space in my garage.
- I'm sure you know where this is going. I cut a staircase into the backside of the hill. I flattened the top for a perfect mounting platform. I sunk past my waist filling the gaps between peaks. I piled and packed, got cold and wet, polished the path, misted the soft spots, waxed the sled, set it in plain sight atop the hill, and went inside to warm up and watch.
- Nuthin'.
- Now I am certain my activity was noticed. My old Santa shaped neighbor shook his head. The sulky teen who shortcuts through the deep snow in the corner of my yard walked past and turned his head away instead of offering to help me extricate myself. The two little guys who had already made the street glassy had their faces plastered to the minivan windows when they came home from school and daycare.
- I got a long stare from one kid I've never seen before. He walked the entire circle, suspiciously inspecting the setup from a distance, but could never make himself climb the hill.
- The lady I share my life with laughed at me. She told me that while I won't admit it, winter is getting to me. She says that I so miss fishing that I built a deathtrap for children, and I am enjoying watching them being drawn to it. She giggles that the children are too smart for me. She says I am fascinated like a NASCAR fan waiting for a wreck, or a hockey fan. She won't quit. She says she doubts our insurance agent would be impressed. I say "What sled run? What Toboggan?" She says that perhaps I should demonstrate the sled run for the poor hesitant children. Right.
- And now I have an epiphany. The nice old man from my childhood was evil. He was a disaster junkie and empowered children to kill themselves while distancing himself enough to deny liability.
- The sky turned red and I retrieved my toboggan with disgust. Cowards, this new generation. Smarter than we were, but cowards.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Tell me how to feel...
Someone close got news that mattered. Her monster died. The man that molested her when she was a child passed away. She was not alone; he was a pedophile all his long miserable life. She managed to protect her sister from all but the introduction to his 'affections'. She confronted him when she was old enough to do so. She alienated distant family by warning them to guard their children. She has always felt guilt for not managing to do enough to stop him. Sadly, the people most of us depend on to protect us were no help to her. She has lived in the shadow of what happened for forty years, and now he is dead. And she is not sure how to feel about it.
I don't see her celebrating. She won't call attention to his memory or travel to grind her heel on his grave. She can't grieve him or offer solace to those who cared about him, but I've heard her consider what drives someone to that sort of addiction. She wonders if his 'illness' was inflicted by a previous generation, and if other family was involved or victimized. She wonders if he suffered Karmic retribution or guilt. She believes in the power of forgiveness. But she can't. Even in death.
She describes being "ruined", his taking something precious he didn't deserve. Her love relationships have been rocky, and she understands that HER choices were to blame, but can't help the discomfort her introduction to intimacy caused. I've seen her reaction to the place where it happened, and I don't think her mind has blocked anything, though she doesn't talk details, and I don't ask.
She opened up more to me than she ever has when she heard he'd died. She'd like to care. She'd like to stop hating. She'd like to forgive, at least those who should have shielded her from him. She'd like to forget. But his death seemed to just stir the old emotions.
All I could suggest was to be thankful for the future. He can't hurt anyone else. Times have changed and folks don't sweep psychopaths under the carpet like they used to. Allowing him to occupy her thought empowers him, even in death. Maybe some day she will understand what drove him, or those who wouldn't stop him. But dwelling or forgiving isn't necessary. There is so much positive in her world now to busy her.
She is a caring and nurturing partner in a ten year stable relationship. She is aware of her trust and intimacy issues, and is dealing with them, finally. She has special bonds with her children and has a second grandchild on the way. She creates art in the kitchen, and has embraced the technologies she feared, even blogging and skyping with joy. She is appreciating her own health, getting baseline tests and watching her figure. She is funny, and capable, and generous. And now the evil in her mind's closet is dead. She may not be able to celebrate, but I am. I will celebrate that she is wonderful, and capable of overcoming what he did to her so long ago. Ding, dong.
I don't see her celebrating. She won't call attention to his memory or travel to grind her heel on his grave. She can't grieve him or offer solace to those who cared about him, but I've heard her consider what drives someone to that sort of addiction. She wonders if his 'illness' was inflicted by a previous generation, and if other family was involved or victimized. She wonders if he suffered Karmic retribution or guilt. She believes in the power of forgiveness. But she can't. Even in death.
She describes being "ruined", his taking something precious he didn't deserve. Her love relationships have been rocky, and she understands that HER choices were to blame, but can't help the discomfort her introduction to intimacy caused. I've seen her reaction to the place where it happened, and I don't think her mind has blocked anything, though she doesn't talk details, and I don't ask.
She opened up more to me than she ever has when she heard he'd died. She'd like to care. She'd like to stop hating. She'd like to forgive, at least those who should have shielded her from him. She'd like to forget. But his death seemed to just stir the old emotions.
All I could suggest was to be thankful for the future. He can't hurt anyone else. Times have changed and folks don't sweep psychopaths under the carpet like they used to. Allowing him to occupy her thought empowers him, even in death. Maybe some day she will understand what drove him, or those who wouldn't stop him. But dwelling or forgiving isn't necessary. There is so much positive in her world now to busy her.
She is a caring and nurturing partner in a ten year stable relationship. She is aware of her trust and intimacy issues, and is dealing with them, finally. She has special bonds with her children and has a second grandchild on the way. She creates art in the kitchen, and has embraced the technologies she feared, even blogging and skyping with joy. She is appreciating her own health, getting baseline tests and watching her figure. She is funny, and capable, and generous. And now the evil in her mind's closet is dead. She may not be able to celebrate, but I am. I will celebrate that she is wonderful, and capable of overcoming what he did to her so long ago. Ding, dong.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
MLK Day at My House
First direct sunshine on my house this spring. Houseplants are doing their sunshine dance. (slow, but joyous)
Didn't last long... but woot.
No moose tracks in the yard. (droppings either) Just sled tracks.
Hoar frost lacey in the trees. Only a foot or so left. Spring verging! (right.)
Bigger
Like a stuck song jailed in my brain, a good story has been simmering for weeks now. For the last couple of days, following a clear dream (that terrified me), the issue has not been how to develop the plot, but how to tell the story without casting a dark shadow on those I MUST draw the characters from. They have done nothing wrong. Exactly the opposite. They are perfect.
Perfect people give me the willies. In the six decades I've been watching, I've known exactly four perfect couples, and three folks who got it right on their own. The catch phrase is "old souls"; folks who instinctively know the right direction, choose the right partners and careers, are comfortable with their bodies and their faith or lack of it. Perfect people are untroubled (from this viewpoint). But evidently God wants to challenge all of us, because in every case, the perfect people I've known suffered some random disaster that dramatically changed or ended their lives.
They all reacted heroically, of course. But being close to the tragedies that felled them due no fault of their own, the rest of us suffered, too. Makes you jaded. Most of us fail the life test early on; I sure did. All I could do was start over, and celebrate the folks still on their game. But after watching them cut down, I'm like the fan at baseball watching a pitcher's flawless performance; you don't dare mention it, for fear it will end, and you'll be blamed. I love these people. I don't know if I could stand the heartbreak.
Of course I have to write the story, if just to purge it from my thoughts. The characters might be changed enough to deny liability should the plot or future similar events prove true. But I'll know. I know now.
(edited)
Perfect people give me the willies. In the six decades I've been watching, I've known exactly four perfect couples, and three folks who got it right on their own. The catch phrase is "old souls"; folks who instinctively know the right direction, choose the right partners and careers, are comfortable with their bodies and their faith or lack of it. Perfect people are untroubled (from this viewpoint). But evidently God wants to challenge all of us, because in every case, the perfect people I've known suffered some random disaster that dramatically changed or ended their lives.
They all reacted heroically, of course. But being close to the tragedies that felled them due no fault of their own, the rest of us suffered, too. Makes you jaded. Most of us fail the life test early on; I sure did. All I could do was start over, and celebrate the folks still on their game. But after watching them cut down, I'm like the fan at baseball watching a pitcher's flawless performance; you don't dare mention it, for fear it will end, and you'll be blamed. I love these people. I don't know if I could stand the heartbreak.
Of course I have to write the story, if just to purge it from my thoughts. The characters might be changed enough to deny liability should the plot or future similar events prove true. But I'll know. I know now.
(edited)
Saturday, January 16, 2010
The Sitter
The family was considering going to an "R" rated movie. The youngest in the group (four) wasn't interested. Neither was the oldest (eighty eight). Finding a sitter on short notice was proving difficult.
"What's wrong with Great-Grandma?" asked Great-Grandma, miffed that nobody had considered her capable of watching a kid for a few hours.
"We'll be fine", she said. "We both know how to use a phone if we get in trouble."
The cars hadn't left the drive before the evaluation started.
"Do you know how to make cookies?"
Yes, I do.
"We should make cookies."
No, we shouldn't.
"Let's go to the park!"
I don't drive anymore.
"Do you want to play on the computer?"
Do you know solitaire?
"Hmm. I think I'll take a nap."
Sounds good.
"I'll get my bear. You start the movie."
Movie?
"I can't go to sleep without my bear and my movie in my room."
OK. Get the bear. We'll see what we can do.
When the family came home, great-grandma was slumped on the couch, snoring. The four year old and the stuffed bear sulked next to her, arms crossed. The DVD player, the computer, and the kitchen needed reconfiguring.
The little girl has a new respect for her regular sitter, offering plainly that great-grandma "doesn't know much."
And the next time there will be an answer to the question, "What's wrong with Great-Grandma?"
"What's wrong with Great-Grandma?" asked Great-Grandma, miffed that nobody had considered her capable of watching a kid for a few hours.
"We'll be fine", she said. "We both know how to use a phone if we get in trouble."
The cars hadn't left the drive before the evaluation started.
"Do you know how to make cookies?"
Yes, I do.
"We should make cookies."
No, we shouldn't.
"Let's go to the park!"
I don't drive anymore.
"Do you want to play on the computer?"
Do you know solitaire?
"Hmm. I think I'll take a nap."
Sounds good.
"I'll get my bear. You start the movie."
Movie?
"I can't go to sleep without my bear and my movie in my room."
OK. Get the bear. We'll see what we can do.
When the family came home, great-grandma was slumped on the couch, snoring. The four year old and the stuffed bear sulked next to her, arms crossed. The DVD player, the computer, and the kitchen needed reconfiguring.
The little girl has a new respect for her regular sitter, offering plainly that great-grandma "doesn't know much."
And the next time there will be an answer to the question, "What's wrong with Great-Grandma?"
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Not Like You, Dad!
My friend was worried about his sensitive youngest son. The hockey coach said the boy was distracted. His teacher (fourth grade) reported worse work than usual. Dad decided it was time for a talk.
Ok buddy. What's wrong?
Sorry Dad. I don't feel good.
Really? Should we see a doctor?
No.
So?
The boy started to weep. "It's Heather."
Heather? Hockey Heather? (The only girl on the Mighty Moose team.)
"Yeah." Sobs.
What about her?
"I'm in love. And it hurts inside... so much." The tears are falling hard, now.
Dad put his arm around his son and just sat for awhile.
Then, "Listen Buddy, I understand. I've been there."
Yeah?
Yeah. But listen. You need to leave a little room in your head for the rest of your life. You don't want to be like me.
What?
"Look at me. I'm old. I'm chubby. You're mom tells me what to do." He opens his empty wallet. "I don't have any money. I don't have a degree. I can't even skate."
His son stared like he'd never really seen his own father. Then they hugged again.
"You're right, Dad", he blubbered. "I don't wanna be like yoouuu..."
That's right.
Later, after they'd beaten the Mooscateers, the boy asked his father if he'd really ever been in love to the exclusion of everything else in his life. "Still am", He said. "Thank goodness you're half your Mom or you'd be worthless." He winked.
My friend hopes the boy carries a picture of him, pulls it out whenever he faces a life decision, shrieks, and does the right thing.
There is more than one way to be a role model.
Ok buddy. What's wrong?
Sorry Dad. I don't feel good.
Really? Should we see a doctor?
No.
So?
The boy started to weep. "It's Heather."
Heather? Hockey Heather? (The only girl on the Mighty Moose team.)
"Yeah." Sobs.
What about her?
"I'm in love. And it hurts inside... so much." The tears are falling hard, now.
Dad put his arm around his son and just sat for awhile.
Then, "Listen Buddy, I understand. I've been there."
Yeah?
Yeah. But listen. You need to leave a little room in your head for the rest of your life. You don't want to be like me.
What?
"Look at me. I'm old. I'm chubby. You're mom tells me what to do." He opens his empty wallet. "I don't have any money. I don't have a degree. I can't even skate."
His son stared like he'd never really seen his own father. Then they hugged again.
"You're right, Dad", he blubbered. "I don't wanna be like yoouuu..."
That's right.
Later, after they'd beaten the Mooscateers, the boy asked his father if he'd really ever been in love to the exclusion of everything else in his life. "Still am", He said. "Thank goodness you're half your Mom or you'd be worthless." He winked.
My friend hopes the boy carries a picture of him, pulls it out whenever he faces a life decision, shrieks, and does the right thing.
There is more than one way to be a role model.
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