Coordinating Truth

Following is a Facebook post of mine from 3/8/2020. Just feeling a bit frustrated at the moment. Should any replies/comments post in the coming days, I will update as needed.

Full faith and confidence that we, as a country, are going to get through this Covid-19 thing – with a few bumps along the way – and it’ll all be ok.

There are mixed messages all over the place, which is more disturbing to me than the virus itself. What happens after the coronavirus settles out of our memories is where my mind goes.

There’s a bigger picture here. This isn’t an isolated Trump vs Democrats vs his administration vs the media vs medical experts thing. It’s all of the above. There is literally NO coordinated effort from anyone, anywhere to help us understand what’s going on. All we hear is who is, apparently, right .. who is making decisions, and who is, theoretically, in charge of “something” … I don’t know who to trust. Period.

And THAT’S the bigger picture here. What IF we have a larger, national problem than an irritating virus (with all due respect to the loss of life and apparent severity of this virus)?… The Covid-19 infection has lifted the lid on the complete inefficiency and inability of Washington to “come together” for our benefit. Meaning, put someone out front who speaks truth … backing it up with facts we can trust .. and don’t undermine said person. Give us daily updates, procedures and policies. Simple, right?

I know. I know. Apologists please don’t give me reasons on either side. I’m not interested. The system isn’t working. If it was, confused messages wouldn’t be spreading faster than the virus itself. I’m not a hater. Your views politically, although valuable, aren’t necessary for purposes of this post. This isn’t politics. It’s Washington as a whole.

Everyone is at odds with everyone. Half the country hates President Trump, so he’s not the answer. The other half think Democrats are lousy … that’s not going to work. Medical experts are tossed aside like yesterday’s news and talk show commentaries and silly mask memes are held up as gospel.

We need to start coordinating truth in our country. Should a more serious time come when we need to come together as one for an extended period of time, we need each other AND a leader all of us can trust. We need everyone under one umbrella of single-minded thinking or we’re not going to make it.

For now, we’ll be ok. I suspect for the short-term all will remain in place. For the sake of our children, however, can we please get our national house in order? Radical politics and the marginalization of basic human decency is beginning to undermine my trust in any message I hear from Washington.

Hoping You Didn’t

It is, simply, a beautiful day. Mid-50s and sunny. Ladies: the kind of day you almost want to wiggle into that after-winter, slightly tight, vertical patterned little halter top and do some springing around the house. Gentlemen: it is either the kind of day you don’t want to do anything around the house except watch your lady chore-ily spring about … or, it is a time to take her out for a nice walk around the neighborhood while treating her to organic teas and salads afterwards. I would caution against the former. Any attempt at individual idleness within your partner’s periscope of expected errands is a fool’s folly.

Maybe today is a single day for you. A day to get the ol’ frisbee out and toss a few flicks into the head winds. Perhaps call up a few friends and mingle around the park, occasionally taking the football out from under your arm to toss a short out-and-up as remembered. Talk out some financial problems with the pigeons as you relax on the bench by the pond. Whatever appeals to your get-out from behind the walls today, do it. It is, simply, a beautiful day.

We don’t get too many of these this early in March. Strange that today happened to be the day after our spring-forward clock event, when an hour of lost sleep became the drama disturbing the distractables. These folks see the sun, but absorb the shadow. They welcome the extended daylight as additional time to see more shadows extending back from themselves. We must remain ever vigilant to walk around … but at the same time, recognize sincerity in the pain and embrace an opportunity to join them with compassion because the beauty in a day can be the healing of a soul as well.

Single, or partnered up? One of the few missing, badly, an hour’s sleep? You’re a human who should find some way to grab a minute of marvelous merriment when offered up on a planetary platter like today.

Why am I writing this?

I eagerly started this post at 11 a.m. and the little white clock on my PC, now, says 9:20 p.m.. With the exception of an hour around 2:00 and a trip to a friend’s place, I’ve been sitting at my desk organizing receipts, stabbing at this blog off and on, and playing games on the computer … all day long. At 6:00, I shuffled over to a friend’s house to grab some snacks and visit – inside her basement, mind you – leaving around 7:30. The hour above was spent taking a leisurely walk about town. I pretty much missed the whole freakin’ day because I am a hypocritical, blathering blogger of the highest order. This is my need to purge my current penitent personae.

Feeling better now, though I’m sad I missed most of this simply beautiful day. Hoping you didn’t. My receipts are done and organized. I was, ultimately, successful on-line and feel pretty good about my diet today. The walk about town did help relieve some minor back pain I’ve been having – probably from sitting too long at my desk. Correlation? Maybe so.

More outdoor time might be warranted if we are so fortunate to have more off-season, beautiful days like this was today.

I think I have some old vertical patterned tops upstairs from my awkward junior high years. They’re not halter tops – just real ugly brown and yellow 70s button down, collared, short-sleeved, cotton blend shirts that are probably too tight, but I can use as dust rags. I may have some springing to do around the house if the weather cooperates in the next few weeks.

Clocks Ahead

“Push ahead, spring forward!”, they say with great anticipation. Words spoken … expected to extinguish the causes and pauses of a long, laborious winter season. And they do. Early mornings suddenly walk away from their partnership with bleak and creaky, cold-lit shady wakenings.

We are happily reminded, once again, to spring the hour hand (showing my age) forward on our clocks. This wee little tweak and twirl of the littlest worker, clicking by at a sixty-minutes pace, gives us renewed hope in the magic of time. Time being one of the assets we have to give away or hold … to use, or to waste, …. to treasure or lose.

Some believe there was a certain, specific timeline assigned to us when we were born. Randomness of events leading up to an unexpected end could never occur in their scenario of a pre-determined final exit. Others embrace a what will be, will be thinking and give no mindspace to possible pre-natal preludes of prognostication. Time is time for all of us. Birth to death. It has equal weight on the life scale as we stand side by side – whether or not our beliefs differ about its function.

Equal weight in the balance of nature as well: loss and gain

We’re losing an hour tonight. Giving it away, I guess you could say. Whatever anyone thought that hour may have represented, it won’t matter. In one swoop, it’ll be gone. Tomorrow, and days that follow, will be longer light with gradual, graceful, decreasing dark.

We’re gaining also. Now, what to do with the extra sunshine in your life? Just push ahead and see where the warmth leads, I suppose. Still only 24 hours to fill, so get some extra Spring in your step, drink lots of water, wash your hands frequently even after the covid19 shakey-head syndrome fades, breathe, sleep a good 7-8 if you can, and eat lots of really cool food!

Time is in your corner wanting the best for you. And remember, in six months, we’ll be falling back into …. ah, never mind. For now, just enjoy whatever time has for you in its magic bag of wonder.

Oh, and please DO turn your clocks ahead one hour!

Sing Sing a Song

We eventually reach the end – or, near the end … close to it, perhaps within sight of it. The age-enlightening, gosh already, step over moment our grandparents told us would eventually come. That wrinkle line. The age we reach when people we love start passing away. When mentors, friends, relatives – huggables who influenced our lives in many ways – step smoothly over into forever and leave us with only pictures and memories. Good and great, they were.

Death happens. We know its unavoidability as our lives go about, worrying and praising the goods and bads happening around us. The unknown, post-life extravaganza wished for is gladly preached among many different variations of god-beliefs while some choose a once here-and-done mindset. Whatever the walkabout, life does end for a huggable – eventually – and those of us left must experience the loss. We have to. To grieve is a private peace and public proclamation of love for the life once lived.

Monday, I lost one of them. Our community lost one of them. A huggable. A music teacher unique among the many I had the pleasure of tooting and singing my way around. Mr. Foor had an excitement that blew through the trombone he gleefully gloshed while we sang Carpenter songs. In the days before SoundCloud, Twitter, and YouTube, he carted cassettes, records, and 8-track tapes on a rickety old cart room to room. Gladly and willingly, we put down our over-large pencils and wide-ruled paper to sing our hearts to the moon – forgetting the problems of eight-year old loves and forgotten homework.

He gave us our kid time. Our music time. Time to sing. Time to enjoy ourselves not knowing the genius, until later, of Karen Carpenter’s voice, or the absolute inanity of Neil Diamond (sorry folks, can’t stand the guy) …. 🤦🏻‍♂️. The joy of music he knew as time pushed forward and his career path weaved in and around the same school district. From elementary to high school, he continued to laugh his way into the souls of young musicians and shape the futures of us all.

I saw Mr. Foor frequently around town over the years as we bumped elbows sharing a common love of instant lottery tickets. To see him in line at a local convenience store wouldn’t be a surprise. We’d look at each other …. and laugh knowing the insanity of our minds. But, hey, we also knew, as fellow trombonists, our minds didn’t work normally. He was, simply, in my life a long time. And wonderfully so.

The end of this short post today is near. Just a reminder to live today as one of them. Live as one of those who others can smile about on that day when the wrinkles come slinking across the line. It’ll be here before you know it… just like grandma said. In the mean time, do me a favor: Sing a Carpenter’s song. Any one you choose. Don’t worry that it’s not good enough for anyone else to hear. Mr. Foor loves you, anyway. RIP.

Sing.
Sing a song.
Sing out loud, sing out strong.
Sing of good things, not bad.
Sing of happy, not sad.
Sing.
Sing a song.
Make it simple to last your whole life long.
Don’t worry that it’s not good enough for anyone else to hear.
Just sing.
Sing a song.
La La La La La La
La La La La La La
La La La La La La
Sing. Sing a song.
Let the world.
Sing out loud.
Sing of love there, could be.
Sing…

Thank You Interview

New experience yesterday. The walk-about kind blogs are designed to talk-about. I guess.

This writing thing is still new to me. I’m baffled beyond amazed at how much fun the journey has been so far. Over 115 entries into this Imagineer’s Workshop of ideas and counting … with no barriers in front of me that I can see. 🤞 As a man with limited knowledge of grammar, a few ideas on how life should be, and an unpredictable sleep/wake cycle, I’m enjoying every solitary keystroke from my PA Keystone state of mind.

We are not having a normal winter here. One minor snowfall dusting and a few below normal, ice-scrapey days are scant entries in the diaries of expectant winter lovers. Ice melt sellers, snow blower repair shop owners and plow drivers rest easy inside local donut shops eagerly sipping coffee … waiting. Weather forecasters, climate experts, global warming alarmists, environmentalists, … everyone on social media, earth humans in general all wondering why West-Central Pennsylvania is having a mild winter. Me, too.

Yesterday was my “Me, too” movement. The simple act of moving my left leg out of the car onto the pavement of the radio station’s space in which I chose to park gave me pause. I, also, was wondering why the warmth of the sun felt so unseasonably pleasing on my nervous face. Or, why I didn’t remember walking across the slightly windy parking lot at all when I sat down in the lobby. The papers I prepared had little wind damage, nor did my black checkered sport coat, so all was well as I sat momentarily next to my good friend, Donna. And waited.

This was a radio interview to introduce a business venture/partnership between my Doug’s DAWGS concession thing and ArtsAltoona. In addition to this, the hour-long show also highlighted my music and blogging interests as well as a personal dive into the deep end of my family history swimming pool. Donna is the President of ArtsAltoona and was my support, friend, and compatriot in the process. A true, honest-to-greatness asset in our community and someone I am so honored to call a friend.

“The 11th Hour With Doug Herendeen” began as I would have expected since I listen to his show almost every day. The perspective inside his small, padded studio is quite different. He’s a real person, first of all – not just a voice. We had to sort out who was Doug #1 and Doug #2, get the microphones in order, and calm my nerves a bit. Bottled water at the ready, buttons knobs and switches lit and prepped, commercials done, …. the “on air” bulb lit up outside our small wooden door and words started to push up through the large satellite dishes …. into the invisible universe they went.

I enjoyed every moment. Every word. Every sputtering syllable (even though I believe I am a good public speaker). The creaky floors of our local radio station speak for the many who have walked upon those boards – delivering a message they believed to be important to them. Yesterday, Donna and I were honored to be counted among them.

As I left Donna behind to discuss other matters, the same sun I felt an hour before still appeared in noon glory through the front windows behind the leather, worn chair I sat in a short time ago. It was still unseasonably warm. Even more so … being high noon, and a little after twelve which meant I was due for a really nice lunch. A lot more relaxed, getting back in my car required much less movement and reason to question my anxiety. The uncertainty of underperforming, or not doing my best, had passed. I was going to be o.k.

Isn’t that what we want at the end of all the noise and confusion? We want to be o.k.. Things may not seem normal – like the weather – but somehow we manage. Yes, it’s hard and we ask why a lot, …. Why am I wondering if I’m going to say the right words, on the spot, live, with a large fluffy mic and untold numbers of strangers listening? Does it really matter? In my goofy past mid-years, am I still concerned what others think? Why, yes. Yes I am. If you were me, you’d be feeling the same, I’m quite sure. That’s ok, too. If you think you’re alone, you’re not.

Thank You for allowing me this space to tell you about my new experience yesterday. Next time I visit my friend, Doug, at the radio station, maybe you can join me. We’ll sip a bottle of water together in the lobby and maybe, just maybe, catch glimpse of a snowflake sledding down a seasonal breeze of arctic cold. Until then, live in unpredicability. There’s magic in the unknown.

Coronavirus Today, Anyway

Holding my cell phone as I type … and wondering: Are there any coronavirus molecules on here? … if molecules is even the correct term to use. I don’t know.

How could I know? No one has sneezed on it or held it lately, so odds are in my favor. I wash my hands regularly – in hot water and soap for 20 seconds – at least 10 times each day and sanitize the case of my phone with wipes once in a while. Travel is limited due to lack of free time and money. I avoid my friends at all cost because they don’t find my jokes funny. Finally, the news reports have me wondering why I am even alive at this point, so I’m at an impasse … ARE there molecules here …. or NOT?

I woke up 45 minutes ago with a stuffy nose. Details unnecessary. Under normal early March circumstances, I’m thinking too much white flour in my diet yesterday combined with not enough water consumption, or a seasonal allergy. I did have a large, leafy salad for lunch yesterday which probably saved me from a pit of misery this morning. Anyway, at first light bleeping, my cell phone MSN feed reports additional cases of Covid-19, blacklighting my already germ-anic, panic-laden nose closure. Did I wiggle a finger in my eye the past few days? Was my mouth open to the possibility of airborne particulates precipitating possible pathogens?

Sipping organic tea, casually nibbling on a Clif bar, and occassionally stabbing a few honey nut cheerios are the three things I can do right now to quell my supposed fear of coronavirus. An agitation I’m told every day to tattoo on my must-worry-about armful of things to carry around, like paying my bills, working, eating, and … living.

We know the statistics. Facebook friends have been sharing all the graphs and charts. There are more pies and bars on Facebook right now than in a drippy glazen bakery attached to an oozy, nutty chocolate factory. Doctors sitting under fancy lighting, presenting 5 minute professional summaries, with cartoon-bubbly spiked balls of badassery popping up on my feed every day. This-and-thatery being hyped from New York news rooms to Bay area think tanks.

I am a piano playing blogger with NO medical experience, save the safe application of a band-aid on a finger once in a while. I am also a very compassionate person who grieves the loss of any person, for any reason. Our extended family has been touched by the tragic loss of a young lady who lost her life battling a super-virus. Truly nothing to mock or satirize in a demeaning manner. I would honorably stand by the side of any person and console them while still convinced the Covid-19 news cycle now, intended or not, is way overblown.

There’s no reason sanitizer bottles, wipes, and surgical masks should be selling out like milk and TP during a snow storm. Additionally, if people thought President Trump was incompetent before all this, any response to a super-virus is akin to him entering the nuclear codes. Travel overseas and cruise ship considerations I do see being reevaluated … those make sense. Some friends are looking into changing modes of transportation from planes to cars for interstate travel. Hey, if they want to switch three hours in a plane for multiple days in a sweaty (possibly germ infested) heat box laden with blabs of kids, juice boxes, snack crumbs in the seats, traffic, a nag-i-vator in the passenger seat, and no control over anything? … go for it!!

We need to make our own decisions. I get that … there was a day all this seemed easier. The news wasn’t so overwhelming. We woke up with stuffy noses, blew them, and thought no more about it. If coughing ensued, a call to the doctor was warranted. I guess today’s world is better with easier access to Googles of information as well. Good and bad. WebMD and common sense. Coronavirus hype and settled-psyches.

I’ve been breathing comfortably through my nose since sipping my tea … refilled twice. Clif bar gone … and cheerios? Quite yummy. Still wondering if I have an infected phone, though. I’ll run a scan! Oh, wait. I can’t do that. I can’t run a check to see if the Covid-19 molecules are dancing the merengue on my phone. Damn! Why am I paying for an antivirus program if I can’t use it … especially now?

Alert the press!!

Here’s to the future of all this … much of which I don’t have a blasted clue. For now, wash your hands, wipe off all phones with sanitizer pads if you can find them, and please don’t sneeze or cough on anyone. Stay away from anything looking ooey, gooey, or pooey. Love your neighbor, stand by anyone needing compassion and care … and please filter all the news through a common sense brain I know you have.

I’m out of tissues, patience, and time. Be well.

That Went Well

Find me a corner booth somewhere. I don’t care where. Soon, please. Preferably in a greasy spoon diner where I can order two plates of gravy fries, three bacon cheeseburgers, a dozen deep fried wings, onion rings, unlimited sodas, and a whole dutch apple pie with slop-loads of whipped cream slathered on top. Don’t really care if napkins are available. Appearances at that point in my life will be secondary to the joy received from drowning my sorrows in cholesterol.

Oh, and one other request: find the person responsible for the phrase, “Well, that went well…”. I’d like to have a gentle discussion with said person – as I most likely will mouth-bulldoze (it’s a thing) through mounds of stress meats, drippy fats, and empty carbs. Yesterday will be talked about, sarcastically, as a “that went well..” day and I’ll want a full explanation.

It DIDN’T begin well once I realized the words, “Oh, you’re here celebrating your mom’s birthday!” ejected out of my mouth before my eyes and brain had a say in the matter. Clearly in front of me stood a man I’ve known for years. Roughly two years older than I, he is a good friend who married (emphasis on married) a lovely woman a few years older than us. I know this. I KNEW this when we crossed an unfortunate path yesterday in the cafe when I made the extra effort to approach him … in the semi-crowded room … where his lovely wife sat … at a table with birthday balloons at the ready … (getting the picture here?).

As he brisked by me to meet his wife on her special day, I spoke those seven hapless words to him – to my utmost horror – immediately wanting to cower under my small table as the air raid sirens of inappropriateness bellowed for all to hear. As my feet were immediately entrenched firmly in my gaping mouth, I was unable to follow him over to the table to extend my apologies for the gaffe. A cowering butt-scoot, however, under the circumstances probably would have been the right move.

What wasn’t the right move, in retrospect (after I wrenched my feet out of my piehole), was to go over to the table two minutes later and try to apologize. I ordered an omelet at what seemed like hours prior at that point. Had it arrived earlier, the eggy deliciousness would have been in my mouth – preventing this whole saga. It was not in front of me inviting a release from the torture, so the “go over” move was in play. Already knowing my brain-mouth relationship was tenuous, I adulted my way over hoping I could smooth this over. MmmHmm.

Act two. Adding the element of surprise: the arm around. Physical touch always adds a personal touch. Taking into account, as I mentioned, my history with these two fine individuals … I found myself beside the husband once again. This time, repeating the same phrase, “Oh, you’re here celebrating your mom’s birthday!”, but with two special add-ons … up-sizes – just like McDonald’s! #1. My left arm around the waist of said husband for comfort as I spoke, and #2. The phrase, “I’m so sorry I said ….” prior to saying “Oh, you’re here …”. Problem? You wouldn’t think so, right? Husband heard. Wife didn’t. Correction. Wife heard only second phrase. Not, “I’m sorry..”

If you are keeping score of the “Who heard what?” game: Husband 2, Wife 1, Doug wants to crawl in hole and die a slow death. Did I mention I knew they were married? Oh, I did?

There was no recovery. A few floor tiles away sat a nice older couple I’ve seen about town. At the very table where I sat a week ago pondering my good deed, they sat mouths agape. My voice, apparently, carries words of wisdom and woe. One more attempt to apologize fell flat. Details unnecessary as they wouldn’t surprise even the awarest of the aware. I slunked and slithered back to my table as my wonderful, now pale, wife/friend was left to think of ways to silently silence forever her current former friend. A moment of reflection as my omelet finally arrived. “Well, that went well.”

I didn’t look back. Their table five paces over my left shoulder. I could hear muted birthday celebratory words as another couple joined their table of four. Most likely friends of theirs NOT arriving to find merriment in a Mother’s Day fest. My table mates deriving deliciousness, not only from the end of their brunch fare forks but also from the irony at my expense. And shall I say, deservedly so.

To add a rather pleasant chapter to this continuing story, we did connect later on social media and exchanged messages. For clarity, mine began, “I am so sorry …. “, and she replied, “Thanks, Doug. Don’t worry about it …”. Her husband, the quiet type anyway, has not responded. I’m ok with that. He’s a super human, too.

Now to the matter of my unknown person. The inventor of, “Well, that went well …”

When we meet, this will be my tale spoken across the cracked black and white checkered, coffee stained table. To my friend who sits and listens to my insistent query, “Why the need for, ‘ Well, that went well?’ …”. I may refer him/her to this tome for perspective. Bitterness and regret will be interrupting the conversation disguised as heaping, caloric-laden fingerfulls of satisfaction. Loathing and lethargy may soon take over as well once the second and third helpings settle. Additionally, my body could begin to sink into the cheap ribbed vinyl, off-red, sunken booth seat I found myself glued into.

Near food coma. Good news, however. I probably won’t know anyone in that diner. Even if I do, there will be little brain activity at the moment. My friend, the inventor of the phrase, long gone. Read the summary above, figured I was ultimately responsible for my own inanity, and left. Alone, looking over sloshed gravy plates, empty crumply onion ring baskets, and a few slumpy fries, my glossy eyes will see the error of my ways.

Think before you act. The empty plates a testament to quick decisions having slow, festering consequences. Greasy, awesome food the quick tongue of the non-thinking world, and empty plates the lingering regret.

My jeans will make that awkward squeak as I scoot out of the booth. Doris, the only waitress on staff late at night, steadily wipes the counter near the register as she politely tells me, “Your friend picked up the tab. A bit pricey with all you ate, but he didn’t think you’d survive all the cholesterol and wanted to be sure I got paid.”. Pretty sure I’d see the irony, and possible truth, in this scene if it were to play out.

Heading out through two glass doors into the refreshing cold air, my still bloated, lesson learned, belly full of not-so-healthy imaginary goodness ushers this guy into the parking lot. He stops, turns to look over his left shoulder thinking he saw his two wonderful friends enter the diner, and says:

“Well, that went well ” … and, it kinda did.

Elfin Words

Writers, authors, novelists, poets, and bloggers – not an all-inclusive list of humans putting words together in some recognizable form, but a start. I have a close relative who belongs in this group, although he won’t ever admit it. Stubborn older crumblecorn of a guy, he is. One short story of twenty-five pages gives him forever status into our imagineer’s workshop.

It is an Elfin tale written during a time of loss and reflection. He traveled a zig-zaggy path with a co-author, trading paragraphs with a friend, back and forth over the internet three blocks away from each other. It was word therapy – the best kind, when tears and meals at an empty table no longer worked. If for no other cause, an expression of his grief unable to be shown over the casket of his wife who recently left his side, forever.

A project of love? Perhaps. He’ll never admit to Beatrice’s true identity. He wrote of her wanting true love as she stood singing on the balcony. Recent suitors to the castle never quite measuring up to her royal standards, she remained singularly focused on her love yet to be discovered.

Pacing, singing, … our fair Princess tuned out into the woods a song so pretty, and invitingly rich, no gentleman could ever deny his heart’s insistence. When, at once, through the mist came a friesian horse so bold … upon which sat a unseen suitor with a baritone song that pierced her longing heart…..

I’ll leave it at that. She fell for him. Not off the balcony mind you, … that would have been a ridiculous story line. Ya know, Beatrice hurting herself, some guy having to take care of her non-life threatening injuries while tending to his whatevers. Above is my two paragraph summary of Beatrice’s beginning journey into her exploration of true love – as written and imagined by my older wrinklefuss relative and his dear friend in their fantastical tale, “Elfin Irving, A Scottish Fable”

Over two dozen pages, they walk Beatrice through mist-laden bogs, literally, as she treads upon lessons theretofore mist (😂 love puns!) As a Princess, she didn’t know true love, I guess. We aren’t privey to her past years in the tale, but can only assume it was a life of foot massages, long hair brushing sessions in front of a full-length mirror while humming a wispy little tune, and grapes … plenty of grapes. We are to understand there lived a wonderful father and mother, i.e. Sir King and Lady Queen. Family life after a hard day’s work around the castle must have been pretty normal – for a fictitious family frolicking fancifully about.

I can’t disclose how the fable ends…not because you’ll ever read one of the 15 copies in existence. I can’t, due to the fact I’m a bit confused myself. Pretty sure I know, just not 100%. It’s been roughly two weeks since I read the heavy, tan parchment paper it is so elegantly printed upon and my memory has been committed to other matters. Mainly, did I shower yesterday, or not?

Overall point being, Beatrice aside, I’m really quite proud of my shufflescooter author who, along with his good friend, wrote such a tale. My dad.

He found a way to write about fantasy – which is a world so uncommon to his everyday. Very infrequently did he engage the monster, dragon-filled, playful fancy side of our childhood playtimes. Work – and only work – occupied his time. So common for the everyday man struggling to meet the demands of a three-child, one income household in the 70’s. Mom played. Dad worked. Three kids scruffled to-and-fro blopping and fropping with toys that made noise.

We transitioned into more expensive toys, spouses of our own, and lives apart from what we knew as kids. Dad pretty much stayed the same. For that matter, so did mom. Dad, the serious worker. Mom, the goofy gamer. Then she died.

My world changed.

I’m not going to claim dad’s world screeched to a massive halt and he fell to his knees in a rapturous, redemptive emotional u-turn the moment mom died. We walked out of the hospital numb. All of us. The rest of 2012 – the nine months since March 19th of that year – was a blur. Our playful gamer was gone. Fantasy and fun seemed lost. A world that dad never wanted to experience with her, anyway. Or, so it seemed.

He wrote a tale. It will be his only one I’m sure. It has to be. It is a story he could never write until love was worth searching for in a fantasy – not in a present reality. The unattainable … the lessons learned, finally, when perfection among all suitors arrives upon a stallion.

When all the hard work is proven worthwhile, yet years too late for one who passed. Not too late for those of us still grieving who finally decided to pick up this little gem and read it all the way through … seven years later!

So an awesome “tip of my hat” respectful nod to my father who has turned a corner into the imagineer’s workshop this one time. To feel his connection to mom – albeit probably not Beatrice’s identity as he would definite her – is my soul’s interpretation of the Elfin Irving. As the reader into my dad’s tipping hand, I reserve the right to see mom’s heart shining forth – singing wonderfully across the forested glen from a balcony of expanding, heart-gleaming tunes.

Two loving parents. One gone.. another here. Two very different transitions seven years ago. A single story written in fictitious form that, in it’s few dozen pages, tells a story of love beyond the pages. A personal story this son is glad to finally know. It may be just my silly interpretation, or not. I don’t really mind either way. The older klankmuster of a guy is my dad who shares a past with me that was kinda rough at times.

His fault? My fault? Don’t care. He’s my surviving parent, standing in the “not an all-inclusive list of humans putting words together in some recognizable form” group with me. So glad to have him here by my side.

For mom and dad, the final words from “…. A Scottish Fable”

“For after all, they both owed their love to all the little people in the world” The End

Short Salad Saga

So many choices at a salad bar. Not as many, it seems, as local drive up cracky speaker, self-serve (any more) fast food joints, though. I have to mindfully decide to up-size my heaping spring salad mix instead of that decision being forced upon me by well-intentioned, high margin cholesterol pushers. No fizzy sodas. No grease smells wafting around my clothes that gleefully linger throughout the day. Just me, the lettuce options, and …. so much more.

I’ve done this salad bar thing before – inside a local grocery store, where fifty-year old guys contemplate their internal organ conditions and consider a healthy lunch option every so often. Shouldn’t speak for other guys, however, ’cause I never nudge elbows or share baby corn tongs. I’m always alone. Me and #4471, the code for weighing the multi-colored , sometimes dry concrete heavy monstrosity I end up with at the end. Some say, “Eat salads! They’re light ..” … Yeah, right.

If I don’t somehow manage to drop 16 other containers on the floor trying to unglue one off the top, the process usually begins post haste. Four lettuce types – only one of which I really like: CHUNKS !!. Love the chunks. Iceberg chunks. If spinach and spring mix came in heaping chunks and cores of deliciousness, I believe the earth could stop spinning right now. Could’t find too many of these within the icy bins holding all the necessary base-salad leafy greens, so an assortment of boringly flat, wimpy, “please take me” scratch had to do.

Sliding down the bar of no-fat/no joy, I encountered the next option: smaller vegetables. Carrots shaved down to one size larger than the human hair, onion circles attached to one another somewhere rendering one without six others almost impossible, and cherry tomatoes sized to not match the end of the very tongs assigned to them … all standard utility every time I visit. Accompanying these were the peas soaking in water (no thanks), small dry broccoli and cauliflower florets, olives, and bell pepper slivers. Necessary pile-ons. To pass over these would’ve been sacro-salad-sanc. How embarrassing it would have been to the scratch spinach .. naked to the world, uncovered, bare, exposed – if only for a minute as I focused my attention on the next, most sexy-named group: Les Legumes.

“Ah, my sweet Legumes”, rolls off the tongue as easily as, “I love you, my lovely sweet plume.”. As an aside, say it with a deep French accent – not aloud in the grocery store, but very much alone as you read this …. Anyhow…chickpeas, black beans, white beans, or pinto beans – the third choice group down the slide. My pleasure in this group is watching the little tan chicks roll around, finding their way through the cracks and hopefully disappearing into the darkness. THIS is why chunks are so important! They give topography to the salad. Depth. Meaning. Never would I ever pass by my little chick-a-dee-peas.

Around the corner to the tough neighborhood. Feeling the weight upon my shoulders and #4471 friend, we enter the dark alley of the macaroni boys. Their gatekeeper, at the end, was a group who shake down all who dare to turn: bacon bit and crouton tumblers who will mix it up with you if you dare. I chose not to, walking wide around the alley of despair, hoping to face the macaroni boys head on – feeling quite confident as I previously avoided these two without incident.

The macaroni boys are bold and arrogant. They hold special favor in the salad bar neighborhood due to their heft. They throw around their multi-syllabic mac-a-ro-ni weight knowing a few ladle-fulls in a plastic bin of unawareness can tip the scales in the favor of profitability. Next to the hard boiled egg clan living next door, who could provide an admiral food fight, the M.B’s hold a tight reign of terror over salad bar city. I plucked a few spiral cousins, gently, from the clan before the bosses recognized me, and quickly shuffled out of there before trench coat Willie spotted me and put out a pasta hit on my ^ss.

Last up the line were the incidentals. The unintendeds. Colory little hickeymadoos the grocery store so graciously allows us to see. A few drop down meats of fish pieces, turkey chunks, ham, chicken, and protein options strewn about usually find their way into my one-or-two chunk pile salads. Cheeses shredded down, and nuts of all naturally nuttiness, nutrious goodness get a spoonful or two of my attention. … Puddings, salsas, and creams (I think) don’t, but are there for another fifty-year old(ish) guy wanting some. Possibly crackers in packages and dressings in bottles to use are there and packs of same to buy separately at a ridiculously high per ounce price.

Certainly other salad bars – and this one as well – have other, different, items available for the more discerning shopper. I am a focused – know what I want at the end of a salad bar tong – guy. That said, the check-out always surprises me. Always. I blame BABY CORN ON THE COBS!. The damn things must weigh 3 pounds each. Ordinarily, #4471 should be reasonably priced, right?

I’m not going to rant on and on … know why? Because I’m not going to change. I’m not going to ever make a salad at a salad bar without them in order to find out the difference in price. They’re just that good.

Feeling proud of my decision to eat healthy, I finished my salad while in the process of writing this short salad saga. My friend, #4471, and I can close out the the entry proud we did it together.

I snapped shut an empty plastic container about an hour ago and will be placing it into the recycle bin shortly. Thankful, as always, to share this time with you … and, in a way, to have my clothes not smell like grease.

I mark my life safe from the macaroni boys as well for another day.

Urge to Purge

Up for consideration is the great American urge to purge. The greatest past-time activity of adults with a few extra minutes and specific, idealistic thoughts about how things should be. Is this a new thing? Or, can we just define “new” as the latest iteration of already existing behaviors and notions? Maybe “Nothing new under the sun” is the answer, idiomatically accredited to the book of Ecclesiastes.

As assumed, it isn’t every one. Some sit in their boats with thankful hands free in the air. “Whatever is, is, and there’s no reason to fret about it”, according to reasoning in their boats not-a-rockin’. Others, anticipating purge-atory word-wobbling, white knuckle the sides of the very boats in which they sit … spouting thesis and assumptions. Two very different ways. Should be easier to live the former, in my opinion, but I’m seeing the latter more and more.

The urge to purge. Spouting about things by creating mountainous geysers of presuppositions upon molehills of misinformation. This is what is being done. Over and over ….. and over. I see it in Facebook strings, other social media sites, national media, print, local chatter, and online articles. Some responsible journalism sprinkled in, to be sure, but much ado about nothing otherwise.

Today’s purge wasn’t going to be such, however. Stepping aside and allowing the words of should be to pass me by, I planned a different kind for myself – one requiring physical effort and mental memory cleansing:

A STORAGE UNIT / GARAGE / HOUSE / SHED Clean-Out !!

Two ladies came quickly at the precise time scheduled, 15-foot cargo trailer in tow. First stop? A two car storage garage where years of not-so-stackable, leaning cardboard boxes of all shapes bend into corners and crevasses. The near final resting place of my grandparents’ china patterns, old records, tools, rusty advertising signs, and Tupperware bins full of cards, comics, and collectibles. Three adults in a garage, moving stuff – not seen in years – into a trailer … along with little memories, one at a time. Necessary purging. Absolutely awesome.

Contractually, the two nice ladies helping me aren’t finished. We are about 50% done with the project (the house stuff remains and storage has some items yet to be removed). They are organizers who sell clean-out inventory and split proceeds 50/50 with their clients. I love the plan, mainly because the idea of yard-saleing all the porcelain, pipes, perfume, pottery, pillows, pens, and packrattery defies everything I believe about what to do with my spare time.

One emotional hang-up still to be resolved is my mom’s jewelry box. It sits silently on a table and will remain there until I decide something … a something as of yet undefined. This is one of the stuffs unpurgable…and they are the should be’s in life: memories so deep and meaningful never to be purged. We have them collecting tiny, tucked-away particles in our brains, attics, closets, and storage garages.

This simple box was not to be my unpurgable today, but it ended up being so. I knew it was there among the leaning. I understood the risks inherent among the inherited boxes saved and stored. It opened my memories when I gently peeked the padded cream colored top and saw her faux beads, rings, earrings, necklaces, key ring full of keys, and all the shiny, glittery glam inside that really wasn’t her … but knowing her hands graced the very top of that box was enough memory for me. She was there with me. All the memories of my life with her before she died, in that moment. This moment I never need to have purged from my life as I stood in the midst of obsolete objects.

Old grills, tables, and vases melted moments into hours as we pushed forward. Their tow along creaked as bigger, heavier picture frames and boxes were pushed into place toward the back end, behind buckets and bins filled with trinkets, toys, and tawdry towels. In the top spaces where only skinny folks dare go, we swifted thin paper goods – posters, pretty pictures, pastelled prints – to lessen the burden of tomorrow’s haul.

Tomorrow will arrive with expectations just as today did. I hope to have this project done by the day’s end when my friends pull away – towing a trailer full of purged non-words away. Stuff taken for the enjoyment of others. I may see a financial return from the sales, well… I most likely will due to the area where I live. It’ll be nice to have some money in return, however, walking out of a garage today … and by extension tomorrow… knowing I had the urge to purge, is the better feel good feeling.

I’ll take tonight to think about mom’s jewelry box. Maybe jump over to Facebook and check out some opinions about this-and-thats. So many have purging to do these days. Taking into consideration all they have to say, I still contend my purge today is the better way to go.