My eyes aren't believing the beauty of splintered brushstrokes of lavender intermittently striped across soft apricots and diluted magentas as the sun sinks toward the horizon.
The side of my 1920s wooden bungalow buffets breezes from the Gulf just a few blocks away and, from my sitting porch, I can inhale the sea and seaweedy air, on this, the milder of many evenings in awhile, I hear my wood-framed structure squeeze out an occasional creak, and think about trees felled and hauled to top this piece of ground.
I think of what must be a long-dead carpenter whose pride sank nails perfectly into aligned joints, fashioned from new-sawn boards dried and awaiting sealer and paint.
The creaks of those trees now framing and siding and flooring my house for ninety-some years seem to mock my aching, arthritic joints, as I gaze at God's mural, my glorious sky show as if in an encore bow before succumbing to dark.
Reaching down from the arm of my oversized rocker, I stroke my bloodhound's head, knowing Grits' thirteen years have eroded his bones, too, slowed-up his gait.
The ole pooch and I don't have a plan for tomorrow but, for tonight, a little supper, a ball game on the radio, and a small but worn bed may get us into tomorrow if my prayers to see another sunset like tonight's are answered
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Treble-Edged
After an intentionally brutal workout, Jim bent to tie his wing-tips, already feeling stiffening soreness. He had to tell her tonight. Guilt was carving his insides like a blade separating cantaloupe from its rind.
Weeks before, lovemaking ended with the mutual disinterest of apathy. They lay on their sides, spooning in sleepwear in the master of their fashionable condo. Silence awaited his puncture, despite the gentleness of phrasing he‘d rehearsed in the shower at the gym.
He sighed and slowly inhaled.
"Don’t.” Celeste whispered, “I know about you two…everything.”
He groped for the nightstand lamp. Celeste’s confident whisper was infused with clairvoyance-informed surety possessed by women with a cheating spouse.
“The first time Stephanie invited me up,“ Celeste smiled, “she seduced me, too. We got crazy wild. We're still lovers.”
With every muscle’s pained report, Jim untwined to right himself out of the bed.
“We watched videotapes I shot of you two from the closet,” she said, and mocked, “’Oh puss-y-cat,’ you pa-thetically whined in one episode. We replayed that one over and over, howling with laughter, Jim!”
In shadows of a lamp-lit stare-down, Celeste rolled onto his pillow to deliver the quietus.
“Steffie leased the penthouse. She took a job in L.A. and I’m going with her…. You may want to start packing, because we leave, Sunday. And you can’t afford this place on your own.”
Jim gulped painfully, embarrassed she heard it.
“The couch is that way,” she pointed, retracting her arm to twist the lamp switch. “On second thought," she said, stopping him," why don’t you stay here. I’ll go up and crawl in with Stephanie. I've got a key.”
Friday, November 11, 2011
360+5 Remainders of the Thirty Dozen Days
Yes, onward Christian soldiers. Your faith informs you that your God has made you so free to choose that others may choose to deny, even defile Him, yet you march to that 'different drummer' down the much narrower path.
Donning your uniform as an American soldier, you pledge to defend your country “…against all enemies, foreign and domestic,” in the name of freedoms broad enough to protect those who would protest your duties, scorn you, stage demonstrations at your funerals, and spit upon the very colors waiting to drape your casket.
Thirty dozen days you are mindfully back-burnered, then comes your birthday, the day you died, the day your mutilated remains were lain to rest in a field much prettier and more peaceful than the infested jungle swamp in which your body was found nailed to a tree, disemboweled, your eyes gouged by a rusty blade, your clothing shorn, a sight your brothers-in-arms can never erase and are wont to find comfort of escapes both conscious and subconscious. You’re missed at Christmas, maybe an anniversary.
The remainders of those few days beyond the thirty dozen, Veterans and Memorial Days, baby flags are aflutter against your headstone and those of your brothers as “Taps” is mournfully blown while some of us pause in reverberations of respectful and tearful silences, silences to wonder why it was you and not us, sensing our remaining bond with you across life’s threshold, the true colors of our flags, internal, knowing we will serve with you again before the supreme commander.
360+5 Cycle of the Thirty Dozen Days Resets
Moisture has settled the earth, randomly embossing outlines of the gravedigger's trade across the ground in the waning light of Sunday night's dusk at Kentucky Veterans Central Cemetery.
Swarms of volunteers have collected the little flags from each gravesite, removed plastic flowers and other remembrances left by mourners and those who simply came to pay respect.
November's chill is fast descending, as fast as the falling sun, over the fallen sons and husbands, fathers and grandfathers buried in what's been called 'hallowed ground,' a term also used for battlefields where dead boys earn the more comfortable synonym, 'casualties.'
From atop the hill at gravesite D-231, left-to-right and right-to-left headlight beams occasion Kentucky's Highway 31 West, to and through Fort Knox.
My brother Jack's spirit rests his ethereal back against his marble headstone, thankful for remembrances and prayers on Veteran's Day, from near and far and home.
He is not a haunt or a ghost, but a cortege lookout, just another sentry of another era of another war of young men, awaiting arrivals of those who stand sentry this night, in peril around the globe, awaiting the next generation of those to arrive for rest here, content to know his little brother has requested to share this same serene field of mortal finality.
Swarms of volunteers have collected the little flags from each gravesite, removed plastic flowers and other remembrances left by mourners and those who simply came to pay respect.
November's chill is fast descending, as fast as the falling sun, over the fallen sons and husbands, fathers and grandfathers buried in what's been called 'hallowed ground,' a term also used for battlefields where dead boys earn the more comfortable synonym, 'casualties.'
From atop the hill at gravesite D-231, left-to-right and right-to-left headlight beams occasion Kentucky's Highway 31 West, to and through Fort Knox.
My brother Jack's spirit rests his ethereal back against his marble headstone, thankful for remembrances and prayers on Veteran's Day, from near and far and home.
He is not a haunt or a ghost, but a cortege lookout, just another sentry of another era of another war of young men, awaiting arrivals of those who stand sentry this night, in peril around the globe, awaiting the next generation of those to arrive for rest here, content to know his little brother has requested to share this same serene field of mortal finality.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Tomorrow's for You and the Others, Dennis
Dennis got to ‘Nam on August 17th of 1970, was in-country less than three months, an 11-’BoomBoom--nickname for an “11B,“ ‘Eleven Bravo,’ the army Military Occupation Specialty classification for an infantry rifleman--when, serving in the 196th Light Infantry Brigade at Quang Nam, Viet Nam, he was shot and killed by enemy small arms fire.
Dennis was born in Montana in 1950, was only 9 when his family moved to the Mt. Vernon/Burlington, Washington area, Edison High's honor student who worked on the yearbook and was drafted into the U.S. Army after attending Skagit Valley College from ‘68-70.
Quang Nam province was the U.S. Marines responsibility for several years before the Army was assigned to the area in February of ’70, six months before Dennis arrived, a region so deadly and dangerous that many Medals of Honor were conferred on Marines in actions where Dennis and his unit was to be assigned.
I don’t know if Dennis knew that the Marines had suffered 7,000 KIAs (Killed-In-Action) during their years in a place called Quang Nam, a place famous for its cinnamon and ginseng, an area with locales known as “Arizona Territory” because it was thick with “Indians,” a place called ‘Charlie Ridge‘, a Marine firebase called “Tomahawk,” and an embattled Marine stronghold at An Hoa.
When he awoke on November 11th of 1970, I don’t know if Dennis knew it was Veterans Day back home in Washington, if he awoke under fire, knew a firefight was imminent, or thought he might ‘get it’ that day.
For you, Dennis Richard Linnell, a Private First Class of Delta Company, 2nd Battlion of the 1st Infantry, I will pray, for you and for all who have fallen and may not be remembered by names etched in a wall such as yours, and especially for you, Dennis, I will fly my flag in your personal memory and honor, and for others because their lives mattered too, you the fallen who may not have anyone else by whom to be remembered.
[Two other soldiers died from hostile fire that day: Ronald J. DiBartolomeo, of Volant, PA, at Bien Hoa; Francis Xavier Bunk, of West Islip, NY, at Binh Dinh]
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Marian's Retirement Home
Although she shares space with her daughter, son-in-law, and grandchildren, I can’t imagine she feels cramped in a 55,000 square-foot mansion with three elevators, complemented with a staff to clean its 132 rooms (of which 35 are bathrooms) sitting on 18 acres of prime real estate.
Marian Lois (Shields) Robinson, enjoys 24-hour limousine service and an on-call kitchen for her dietary needs and whims. Not bad for a former Spiegel Catalog and banking secretary who didn‘t inherit, earn or marry into such opulent trappings, huh?!
Marian's retirement digs are actually public housing, paid for by you ‘n me.
There hasn’t been a ‘First Granny’ in the White House since Dwight & Mamie Eisenhower lived there in the 1950s.
Then and now, why are we footing the bill and who did you say approved that?
Friday, November 4, 2011
Jenna's Mortadella
Jenna leaned heavily into the glass display front of the grocery’s busy delicatessen, jostled by elbows of the people on each side of her. Despite the crowd, the three deli workers seemed like slow drones, working steadily without a sense of commitment to serve patrons quickly.
Jenna looked at the pink stub of paper in her hand, noticed “18” in bold letters determining her turn in the order of those to be served at the deli counter.
“For the love of Jesus,” Jenna muttered, then looked down the counter toward the workers and shouted, “Hey! . C’MON!! I gotta get going!” Two of the workers ignored her. The third, a sixty-ish black woman with grey-streaked hair, paused and gave Jenna a glare that raised the light blonde hair, and goosebumps, on Jenna’s arms.
“God-DAMN!,” thought Jenna. “Where do they find these people,” she wondered.
Serving another customer off to the right, the black woman's duties brought her side-stepping within six feet of Jenna and ducked half her body into the case fetch a half-round of cheese. As the woman emerged, Jenna shot her a look.
“All’s I need is a half pound of mortadella.”
The woman locked eyes with Jenna, “Wha’s your number, honey!”
“Eighteen!” Jenna replied with a sharp snap in her voice.
“You gonna be waitin’ awhile.”
“What’s awhile! I’ve been here forever! How many are in front of me!??”
“Right! And they’s 266 billion trillion people in front of you, and you jus’ gonna have to wait,” the clerk fired back with another momentary, as unsettling, glare.
“The HELL you say. Where’s the manager?”
“Right! You lookin’ at her. Now, what!”
“NOW, you slice my eight ounces of mortadella or…or I’m leaving and calling your headquarters!”
“You ain’t leavin’ and you ain’t callin’ nobody. Know why?”
Jenna roiled in furious silence and contrived a facial expression of angered disinterest, almost of boredom.
Nose to nose save for eighteen or so inches of deli countertop between them, the black woman cocked her head slightly as she said in a mockingly sing-songy tone, “I don’t care if you a lilly-white little paralegal who don’t like black folks none too much.. Who doesn’t got a lick o’ patience. And who don’t like nobody who doesn’t speak like YOU THINK they should.”
Jenna gasped and above the deli’s din, barked, ”YOU DON”T KNOW ME! I don’t know or remember YOU…hell, I don’t even SHOP here very often. How do you know I’m a paralegal?!” Only a wide, tooth-gapped grin answered Jenna. After a pause intended to further annoy Jenna, the black woman continued.
“You always been an impatient, spoilt little cuss.”
“HOW DARE you speak to me like that!”
“I dare cuz you ain’t goin’ nowheres. You cain’t leave without yo’ mortadella. Know why?”
“I need for my recipe--but other stores carry it! I’ve been waiting an eternity, you bitch! And I’m leaving!”
“You will wait an eternity. They’s 266 billion trillion people ahead of you and when your number 18 come up? You ain’t gonna hear it and the wait gonna start all over again.”
Jenna was never madder, more frustrated, but couldn‘t move or speak.
The black woman grinned and continued. “This is hell. Yo custom made hell right here in my deli, outta all yo littlest pet peeves and weaknesses in life. You got no recipe. You don’t need mortadella, Mortadella is I-talian for “she’s dead,” and you is. Kilt this mornin', too impatient to use a crosswalk and that car run you down an' TOOK your legs. You bled to death through ‘em.“
Jenna looked down, screamed and screamed, now knowing why the lean against the deli case felt so heavy. It wasn’t a lean. She’d been clinging to it with her arms. Her plaid skirt was caked in dried blood, as was the lower part of her blazer. Until then, she hadn't noticed the crystal on her watch was broken, and the sweep-second had wasn't moving. Screams diminished into sobs.
The black woman’s eyes now shone, and Jenna’s whimpering form had no escape, nor did Jenna’s eyes, again locked with the old woman’s.
“You died on the street and when God didn’t grab you up?? I sho’s hell did! HA-HA! You like that pun?? No, I knows you hate puns! I snatched you up! Well...down! Hah! Another pun!
“You’s mine and as soon as I turn to walk off , you ain’t gonna remember a shred of this conversation! It never happened.”
The black woman shifted the heavy, half-round of cheese into her other hand and walked down the counter with her back to Jenna.
Jenna looked at the pink stub of paper in her hand, noticed “18” in bold letters determining her turn in the order of those to be served at the deli counter.
“For the love of Jesus,” Jenna muttered, then looked down the counter toward the workers and shouted,
“Hey! . C’MON!! I gotta get going!”
The three deli workers ignored her. Jenna could swear that one of them, a sixty-ish black woman with grey-streaked hair, paused and seemed to snort with the slightest perceptible puff of vapor or mist…smoke(?) coming from her nostrils, never looking up or away from the back and forth rhythm of the slicer she operated.
The black woman returned the roast beef to the case and butcher-wrapped a package of sliced beef, setting it atop the counter. She glanced right, along the countertop, right at Jenna.
“Wha’s your number, honey?”
“Eighteen!” Jenna replied with a sharp snap in her voice.
The black woman looked to her coworkers and quipped, “She got EIGHTEEN! Hell, tha’s 6 + 6 + 6, iddn’t it??,” and the three women emitted a loud laugh.
“God-DAMN!,” thought Jenna. “Where do they find these people,” she wondered.
Jenna looked at the pink stub of paper in her hand, noticed “18” in bold letters determining her turn in the order of those to be served at the deli counter.
“For the love of Jesus,” Jenna muttered, then looked down the counter toward the workers and shouted, “Hey! . C’MON!! I gotta get going!” Two of the workers ignored her. The third, a sixty-ish black woman with grey-streaked hair, paused and gave Jenna a glare that raised the light blonde hair, and goosebumps, on Jenna’s arms.
“God-DAMN!,” thought Jenna. “Where do they find these people,” she wondered.
Serving another customer off to the right, the black woman's duties brought her side-stepping within six feet of Jenna and ducked half her body into the case fetch a half-round of cheese. As the woman emerged, Jenna shot her a look.
“All’s I need is a half pound of mortadella.”
The woman locked eyes with Jenna, “Wha’s your number, honey!”
“Eighteen!” Jenna replied with a sharp snap in her voice.
“You gonna be waitin’ awhile.”
“What’s awhile! I’ve been here forever! How many are in front of me!??”
“Right! And they’s 266 billion trillion people in front of you, and you jus’ gonna have to wait,” the clerk fired back with another momentary, as unsettling, glare.
“The HELL you say. Where’s the manager?”
“Right! You lookin’ at her. Now, what!”
“NOW, you slice my eight ounces of mortadella or…or I’m leaving and calling your headquarters!”
“You ain’t leavin’ and you ain’t callin’ nobody. Know why?”
Jenna roiled in furious silence and contrived a facial expression of angered disinterest, almost of boredom.
Nose to nose save for eighteen or so inches of deli countertop between them, the black woman cocked her head slightly as she said in a mockingly sing-songy tone, “I don’t care if you a lilly-white little paralegal who don’t like black folks none too much.. Who doesn’t got a lick o’ patience. And who don’t like nobody who doesn’t speak like YOU THINK they should.”
Jenna gasped and above the deli’s din, barked, ”YOU DON”T KNOW ME! I don’t know or remember YOU…hell, I don’t even SHOP here very often. How do you know I’m a paralegal?!” Only a wide, tooth-gapped grin answered Jenna. After a pause intended to further annoy Jenna, the black woman continued.
“You always been an impatient, spoilt little cuss.”
“HOW DARE you speak to me like that!”
“I dare cuz you ain’t goin’ nowheres. You cain’t leave without yo’ mortadella. Know why?”
“I need for my recipe--but other stores carry it! I’ve been waiting an eternity, you bitch! And I’m leaving!”
“You will wait an eternity. They’s 266 billion trillion people ahead of you and when your number 18 come up? You ain’t gonna hear it and the wait gonna start all over again.”
Jenna was never madder, more frustrated, but couldn‘t move or speak.
The black woman grinned and continued. “This is hell. Yo custom made hell right here in my deli, outta all yo littlest pet peeves and weaknesses in life. You got no recipe. You don’t need mortadella, Mortadella is I-talian for “she’s dead,” and you is. Kilt this mornin', too impatient to use a crosswalk and that car run you down an' TOOK your legs. You bled to death through ‘em.“
Jenna looked down, screamed and screamed, now knowing why the lean against the deli case felt so heavy. It wasn’t a lean. She’d been clinging to it with her arms. Her plaid skirt was caked in dried blood, as was the lower part of her blazer. Until then, she hadn't noticed the crystal on her watch was broken, and the sweep-second had wasn't moving. Screams diminished into sobs.
The black woman’s eyes now shone, and Jenna’s whimpering form had no escape, nor did Jenna’s eyes, again locked with the old woman’s.
“You died on the street and when God didn’t grab you up?? I sho’s hell did! HA-HA! You like that pun?? No, I knows you hate puns! I snatched you up! Well...down! Hah! Another pun!
“You’s mine and as soon as I turn to walk off , you ain’t gonna remember a shred of this conversation! It never happened.”
The black woman shifted the heavy, half-round of cheese into her other hand and walked down the counter with her back to Jenna.
Jenna looked at the pink stub of paper in her hand, noticed “18” in bold letters determining her turn in the order of those to be served at the deli counter.
“For the love of Jesus,” Jenna muttered, then looked down the counter toward the workers and shouted,
“Hey! . C’MON!! I gotta get going!”
The three deli workers ignored her. Jenna could swear that one of them, a sixty-ish black woman with grey-streaked hair, paused and seemed to snort with the slightest perceptible puff of vapor or mist…smoke(?) coming from her nostrils, never looking up or away from the back and forth rhythm of the slicer she operated.
The black woman returned the roast beef to the case and butcher-wrapped a package of sliced beef, setting it atop the counter. She glanced right, along the countertop, right at Jenna.
“Wha’s your number, honey?”
“Eighteen!” Jenna replied with a sharp snap in her voice.
The black woman looked to her coworkers and quipped, “She got EIGHTEEN! Hell, tha’s 6 + 6 + 6, iddn’t it??,” and the three women emitted a loud laugh.
“God-DAMN!,” thought Jenna. “Where do they find these people,” she wondered.
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