Rufus Gets His Revenge...

The dogs love our nigh walks as much as I do. Morning really, 4:15 AM this time.. The world is ours, no one else walking, only an occasional car rolling in the distance. Even two hours earlier makes a difference. At 2:15AM, you can still catch the sounds of Kawasaki crotch rockets screaming full-throttle, just blocks away, boys fueled on alcohol and testosterone feeling bulletproof. Good old boys roar their four-wheelers in response, maybe go off road onto the golf course to spin deep ruts and generate a few lines of outrage in our pathetic little paper, The Shores Observer. But by 4AM? Nada. Even the boys are in bed.

The humid night air is heavy with the smell of freshly cut pine and oak. Entire trees, sliced and diced, piled on the swales and crouching next to the path that dissects the park behind our house. They hunker down like sleeping mastodons, all a byproduct of a hurricane that no longer exists.

The Big Dipper and Orion’s belt surround themselves with their buddies overhead, pulsing, vibrating, especially bright tonight. Drawn to the park like tornados to mobile homes, they love the dark roll of open fields, avoiding streetlights like Kryptonite to Superman.

The dogs and I love it too. I’m in black pants and shirt, both dogs are black, so except for the occasional rattle of a collar at the leash, we are invisible.

At one of the darker spots, next to an old shuffleboard court where the kids have put up a makeshift basketball hoop, Rufus veered off the path. The last time we walked by there, on a hot afternoon three days ago, Rufus got hit with an overthrown basketball. He jumped like he had been shot and harbors bad feelings towards the boys in general. This time though, in the cool anonymous dark, he wandered off to the full length of his retractable leash, 15 feet. I know his habits well. He’s a private pooper, he looks for just the right spot, next to something else, so he’s not too isolated and exposed. His line became totally still, then active again as he kicked backwards to cover his scat and announce his manliness to the world. Stepping in his direction, I could just make out the shape of whatever it was he had backed up to. With the light of my iPhone, I saw that he had carefully placed a chocolate soft serve on top of their ball, a statement and a present for those boys at their next pick-up game.

Sorry guys, at least it is supposed to rain later this morning. 

(High-five Rufus! You the man!)

Dust Magnets & Wrens

My friend, Carol, posted a picture of the beautiful view looking out from her kitchen window. It faces her back yard, full of colorful birdhouses, hanging up close, alive with aerial activity.

She then posed the question, asking what ours looks out on...

Our own kitchen window looks into the addition we built on when we kicked out the renter and decided to move here ourselves. I can see a (gas) woodstove, some paintings, plates from Carls’s china collections, the TV with a tattoo guy applying flash to the leg of his canvas, and shelves stuffed with dust magnets. If I lean forward on my toes, I can see the top of Carla's head. Once in a while she shifts her position but otherwise, the view is static all summer. 

When it's cool enough to turn off the AC and open the house up though, we usually get a Wren or two that come inside to nest somewhere in the shelving. I do see them fly by occasionally, followed below by Chicca running furiously, looking up, leaping and biting at the air, like a breaching shark. The Wrens never get overly concerned and are quite brave around me as well. We get some tiny amounts of bird crap on things but Wrens are no bigger than a computer mouse, so it’s insignificant. That’s a small price to pay for these temporary borders, their chatter and aerial acrobatics. If I close the doors too early at night, they raise hell outside until I open up again and then they expect me to open the doors again at sunup as well.

I keep their nests from previous seasons, but the Wrens like new housing and build fresh nests when they return in the Fall and Spring.

Werewolves All...

Quiet moments, still half asleep, eyes crusty from the night.

The girls vying for lap space, squirming, clutching fat blue rabbits and pink pony’s.

Let’s just talk softly for a few moments, sipping our time together, while the sun still waits in the wings.

Soon enough I’ll clean up, don my armor and striped tie to go slay the dragon, bracing for the chaos of our rock n roll ride down to the train station. You kids eager for the show.

But don’t wake up Mommy up just yet.

We’ll watch that beast roll in on steel rails like a bursting thundercloud, screaming at us, trying to intimidate.

Did it flatten your pennies? Fuse them together?

Show me when I get home tonight.

Carla will be late, always late in her stream-of-consciousness lifestyle. I’ll stand in a corner of the old brick station after the train leaves and all the other riders have gone home, cold wind gusting, pulling at my suit, trying to get inside.

Walk a block to the liquor store and another block to the bridge, a vodka crossing. Brown wingtips well-polished, prepped to navigate the varied landscapes of escalator grids and street slush.

Shaking off the homogenized world of artificial lights, canned air and office chairs, bending headlong into the wind. One hand tight on the handle of my metal briefcase, the other paw holding my collar closed, a fist with a brown paper bag sticking from one end. The dark river below, a black abyss. I can hear the deep rushing water beneath me, smell it. Hyperaware with each soggy step out in the elements, almost giddy, more excited to be alive than I’ve felt all day. Raw and real.

Distant sounds float over the top of the wind, Warren Zevon and his Werewolves approaching. 

Headlights silhouette my victory walk, shadowed against the rusting iron beams of the narrow bridge. The cab bouncing, bright with little girls, howling werewolves themselves, pink skin zipped up in flannel bunny suits. Carla driving, smelling of lavender from the bath all three had shared, equally excited, the biggest kid on board.

Warren howls on, “his hair was perfect”, he sings.

Yes, I agreed, perfect.

My Vision of Hell

As a card carrying introvert, the very last thing I want to do is get on a cruise ship, unless, of course, I can get right back off again. The biggest ships are four football fields long with almost 7,000 guests and 2,000 crew. That’s a lot of bodies. The average human produces about a pound of poop per day. That’s 9,000 pounds of excrement every 24 hours. Remember though, 7,000 of these folks are under 24-7 all-you-can-eat-get your-money’s-worth pressure, so it’s probably close to double that amount of sphincter sausage.

Your average cruise ship produces between 140,000 to 210,000 gallons of sewage per week.

I can’t help but think of all those people, 98.6 degree food processors, working on a daily average of 8,260 cups of coffee, 5,000 eggs for breakfast, 2,000 steaks, 1,000 baked potatoes, and 1,150 pounds of bananas Those are just some basics. God knows the endless cheese and appetizer buffets and the all-day fruit and rum drinks don’t help any of it.

The goal is to eat and drink until you drop.

Most cruise ships come equipped with a morgue, which, in light of that, is a pretty good idea.

So anyway, all I see when I look at these floating sardine cities, is too many bodies in way too small a space, everyone in a feeding frenzy as if they will never have a chance to eat again. Each day, they produce new mountains from yesterday’s semi-digested buffet offerings.

All those people make me really love dogs.

Obviously many people don’t share my cruise line aversion. They see fun in the sun with a Coppertone glaze, drinks crowded with fruit, umbrellas, and cherries that can’t even begin to remember if they ever actually grew on a tree, all of it rolling blissfully to a Jimmy Buffett soundtrack.

It’s not like I haven’t tried. Carla won a free cruse at her work as a travel agent many years ago. I went along because she made me. Hugging the ballroom bar at night like a kid with his bankie, I was happy enough to try to blend in and look like just another bar-stool as I watched the dancing. It was an older ship, still featuring a mirror ball hanging from the center of the room. The MC, looking like an overweight John Travolta in a suit that hadn’t visited the dry cleaner since his Staying Alive days, worked the room. He whipped the housewives into a frenzy, spinning like dervishes under a mirror ball spell. Reflected lights did their own mini dance moves on pancake makeup applied with a trowel in cabins below deck. Rooms now strewn with the contents of exploded suitcases.

All of it pure cornball, I thought, but I was happy enough to watch, drinking undisturbed.

Then Mr. Travolta got personal. He made the mistake of coming over to me and trying to pull me into the revelry. I turned down his advances the first time and made sure he understood my adamant refusal. When he started in my direction a second time, I told the bartender that if Travolta put his hands on me again, I was going to break his nose. Luckily, even though the bartender really perked up when I told him my plan, the bartender waved Travolta off. Certainly, watching that guy night after night had caused the bartender to share my fantasy.

There is no universe in which I would willingly do the Macarena, group or solo. That’s not going to happen.

It’s not just cruise ships that send me running in the opposite direction though, all crowds do. I’ve always had strong concert avoidance systems as well. Eric Clapton and Jackson Browne managed to lure me out years ago but I still carry the trauma of caught-in-a-crowd claustrophobic nightmares from both of those lapses. Jostling bodies passing gas and smelling of sweat, gingivitis and FDS? I have to pass. 

You see, it’s not only about my introversion, it’s also the down side of being around living, human beings with functioning systems that take in energy and give off waste.

So I’ve always been happiest at home, in the woods, maybe out walking the dogs at night. You know, not around people. As we’ve already established, they smell bad. Me too. I stink, but I can’t escape it. My dear wife? Carla and I don’t even share a bathroom. His and hers works for us. I choose to believe that she doesn’t poop at all., I don’t want to know.

She always smells great.

I’m not a robot though, there are plenty of times when I’m pretty damn happy for her to crowd me. That’s a crowd of two I can get behind…and no comments from the peanut gallery about that last part, please.

Oh, and if I win free cruse or concert tickets? You can have mine. I’ll pass.

Mortars!

When we were kids, our houses backed up to each other. his back yard to mine. We ran back and forth between adjacent garages on a smooth dirt path. At night, with bare feet, we squished fat slugs between our toes when they were too slow to escape our scamper. They were always too slow. We sang in the Episcopal church choir three nights a week and on Sundays, driven to and from by one of our mothers, and then later by my older brother. He used mom’s VW bug for the chauffeur duties. On the way home, we opened the sunroof and took turns with my CO2 BB gun, methodically taking out streetlights for blocks around.

We should all be in jail.

David got his architecture degree from Ohio University in Athens. I spent a little over five minutes in grad school there. Mostly I studied my new wife who now, 40 years later I still study.  I generally have no clue as to how she works, but I’m no quitter.

We lived in Chauncey, a little town outside of Athens that had been dying a slow death since the last coal mine disaster had put a period to the end of the local coal industry. That's when David decided to build a big house in the woods along with other artists and architects living in root cellars and half finished homes..

None of us were very traditional about anything. 

David recently sent me this note, reminiscing about the first foundation pour at his place. Although I don’t remember the cement bath I took, I sure remember the mortars.  

Treasure Hunt!

When the girls were little, I used to make-up treasure hunts for them. Just for laughs I did this one when they were grown, both home visiting us about ten years ago. . I think it may be time for a new one.

..

Seventeen years, all come and gone,

Since Ruth dragged poor Hannah on that Lovettesville lawn, 

Both grown now, so pretty, but hopefully still…

They’re able to play at this game until,

New treasure is found,

In this house or this yard,

You two are real troopers, 

It can’t be that hard.

So go to Dad’s dresser and look at the mirror,

The next clue is there, it couldn’t be clearer! 

(TAPE TO MY MIRROR)

It’s a nice sunny day to hang clothes in the yard,

We don’t need the dryer, so it shouldn’t be hard,

To find the next clue just sitting inside,

With little attempt to trick or to hide.

(INSIDE THE DRYER)

I’m tired of tumbling around and around,

Please take me outside onto firm level ground,

In the pool house you’ll find an old length of hose,

With a clue sticking out, and a question to pose. 

(IN THE POOL HOUSE)

Come see me inside of the front sitting room,

Where I have a box, it isn’t a tomb!

I still want to play, so I’ll give you a clue,

And follow in spirit, and maybe bark too!

Love, Emmie

(AT THE BOX OF EMMIE'S ASHES)

Remember how I loved to scurry and scamper?

Well I’m with you right now as you go to the hamper,

That sits in the surf-room, (the door right behind you),

And pick out the picture of me…with Gwen and you two! 

(IN THE SURF ROOM)

In our garage the tandem bike’s tough,

It survived Hannah’s outings and treating it rough,

And now just to show that there are no hard feelings,

The bike holds a clue that may be appealing.

(IN MY TANDEM TRIKE)

I think running all over is making you groan,

So go back inside and pick up your phone,

Place a call to your Dad and listen to find

That your last clue is simple, you won’t even mind.

(PUT MSG ON MY PHONE)

This message was made for Hannah and Ruth,

Who should look for the scrimshaw on an antique whale’s tooth that sits on a shelf full of nick-knacks and dust,

And some old metal pictures, now eaten with rust.

You’ll be very close to something old just for you,

To keep till you’re older and you have kids too.

(ON DISPLAY SHELF)

Look in the table of books,

Two not Four,

And take out the boxes from the bottom-most drawer.

(PUT GIFTS IN DRAWER OF BOOK STACK COFFEE TABLE)

That's All I Need...

Irma left behind leaf debris and small nests of branches that litter everything, streets, lawns, and cars, all over what was a very manicured world just the day before. A fresh carpet fills the air with the scent of oak, pine, and cedar, moist and still alive. A potpourri broken open, scattered like what it is, natural mulch.

Of course I’m concerned for those who now face all that damage from wind and flooding. Yes, I’m grateful to not be one of them. 

But prior to the hurricane, when the news was spinning faster than the tornadoes spawned by Irma herself, I anticipated the possibility of an altered reality. like a Branch Davidian lusting for a different way of being, I thought of the possibility of forced freedom from materialism. 

What if it all blew away?

As is true for so many of us, my adult life has been one of acquisition. Too much stuff. Although I'm not particularly attached to the things we bought along the way, I’m somewhat of a guardian for inherited items. The worst offenders are the family antiques and paintings for which I’m just a caretaker. Portraits of my fifth great grandparents are out of place on a wall in my little manufactured home, but I can’t kick them out. A mahogany chest built by my grandfather, a present to my Grandma on their 50th wedding anniversary, has moved with us through multiple houses. Grandma’s silver card holder, a gift from Mexican president Porfirio Diaz in the early 1900’s. Some china from Dad’s maiden Aunts who raised him. These things and too many more like them, occupy shelves and wall space in every room. I’ve housed them for years, museum-like, weakly clinging to them as some kind of tangible foundation. They kind of tell me who I am, supporting my own idea of identity. They tell me, as Grandma would say, who "my people" are. I come from these things as they come from me.

I see no way out from under and I’m tired of the responsibility.

When I graduated from college I honestly believed that all I needed as far as material things go, was a room, a mattress, my records, and an ounce of pot.

Most of us spend the first half of our lives acquiring two of everything ever created by mankind and the second half trying to get rid of it all. Now, as we all know, the kids don’t want it either.

What if a hurricane huffed and puffed, offering me another level of freedom, just short of my own transition itself? Ready to strip me bare. What if I dragged the heirlooms out of the house and released them into the vortex? Let them ride their bikes with the wicked witch and leave me naked, to stand alone, unadorned.

What a rebirth that would be.

I know it’s not going to happen, but may I just fantasize for a minute about not having any material goods? Too big a leap? How about if I just had a mattress, music, and a little something for my Glaucoma?

As Steve Martin said in The Jerk…and that’s all I need…

Waiting for Godot...

It feels a bit like waiting for Godot at this point, except I know for sure he’s really coming. The news tracks his every move. The frustration is probably more similar to a fighter before his match, pacing in the dressing room, eager to get on with it.

I ain’t skeered. Maybe I should be, but that wouldn’t help anything. It’s the predictable loss of power that concerns me the most. Sure, I’ve consolidated the contents of three freezers into one, and added several gallon jugs of frozen water too. That should last for days, but if it doesn’t, the dogs and I will eat what we can and jettison the rest. Oh well. With most of the windows boarded over, the house will be dark, and stuffy without the fans or AC. Again, no big deal. The dogs and I will go naked. They’re more used to it than I am, I never do that, but vodka will help me to relax and adapt. I rarely watch TV other than my recorded shows and they can wait. The gas stove will still work, there’s an ample supply of flashlights and candles so the house won’t be a total cave.

Before and after the worst of it, when going outside is still a bit sketchy, I love to dress for the wind and rain, and run around in it with the dogs free of their leashes.  No one else is out there for them to bother. That’s one of the things I loved most about working a graveyard shift years ago, going out at 3am when I was the only person around. It’s as if aliens used a death ray to vaporize all humans but somehow I was immune. The world is mine.

But inevitably, after the Wi Fi is knocked out and my laptop battery dies, I’ll have to face the boredom of just being with myself. For me, having no Facebook and no MS Word to write with is like losing my sight and hearing. I’m pathetic. I mean, even if I’m just scrolling and mindlessly commenting here and there, I can kill hours of my life. What if I have an epiphany of some kind, an insight to truth that must be shared, what will I do with it if I can’t post it to Facebook?  It’s the tree falling in a forest where no one is around to hear it syndrome. Does the message even matter anymore if there is no possible way to get even a single “like” to let me know someone is out there? The last time we lost power and that happened, it gave me an unpleasant taste of what the SETI peeps go through, always searching for signs of extraterrestrial life but never even getting a single “like” or a thumbs up emoji.

Look at the click-bait I would miss. You know, all the sensationalized stuff in the side bar of our main Facebook page:

 8 Pics of Celebs Whose Thigh Gap Is Gross (And 8 We Want to Stuff Our Face in)

15 Little Shrimps We’d Love to Eat (Sexy dwarves)

15 Dark Secrets About Wrestlers You Wouldn’t Believe

15 Things We Totally forgot About Charles Manson

15 Embarrassing Photos of Celebrity Families Being Inappropriate

I mean, fuck the back half of the house that the big oak took out when it came down, right?

What will I do without this stuff?

Here is something really crazy. I’ve heard that there are people who aren’t on social media at all, no Facebook, no {Photos Not Suitable For History Books” or “The 30 Hottest Taylor Swift Pictures” I mean, how is someone supposed to enjoy real life if they aren’t on social media to see it?

It baffles me. Let’s hope this storm peters out enough to let me drive to McDonald’s for a working Wi-Wi signal. Their food may be crap, but at least I can wash it down with a dose of social media. Something that is at least healthy for my mind, even if the food isn’t.

After all, I wouldn’t want to miss the release of the Donald Trump pee pictures.

FPL

All praise the FPL Gods!

After 24 hours of abandonment, cast out, left in darkness and terror, the FPL gods have once again smiled down. I can’t see them, don’t know where they are, but I believe. They light up my life (I would sing that last part but you wouldn’t like it.)

I will be sure to make my monthly offering when the plate is passed my way. (OK, it’s not an offering, it’s a demand and if I don’t pay up, they will boot me right back into the cave.)

For now though, let the AC running, toaster toasting, microwave heating, music playing, TV watching, computer using, iPhone charging, freezer freezing, begin!

I'm switching the overhead light on and off real fast like a strobe light, just because I can, and also because I have a faulty "adult" gene.

It will be good to pee directly into the commode, rather than in its general direction. That was nasty. Everyone should have lights in their bathroom, it's so cool!

(When this all shuts down again permanently someday, only the hunter/gatherers will survive. The rest of us will be like jellyfish on a dry beach.)

Walking With the Beast...

 

 3:29am, 2 feet & 8 paws, rollicking down the street, elated to be outside, in it. Black fur 4 X 4’s skitter and twirl on long leashes, kites out of control, caught in pushy crosswinds. Horizontal blowhards break out their best takedown moves, going for the legs. Dogs twist and encircle. My own muscle memory launches into Tai Chi dance, well-practiced, circling one leash overhead to reverse the tangle, another twisted counter clockwise, controlling the dance. Trees culled, throwing their bundled clippings into my face, an intentional act. Fuck it all, I’m more alive here on the edge, out of my little nest, the one with two lights on over there, than I ever am inside wallowing in excess and false security.

Fortunately, I have the luxury of no one pushing me either way, other than myself.

Real Estate Law

Realtors everywhere have stolen a page from the Dorian Gray playbook. But their picture isn't kept in the attic, it's on their business cards. And it doesn't work. Most Realtors over 50 seem to use their college yearbook pictures and never change them.

Last week, my sales partner gave me a heads up “Jean Wilson said that she'll be bringing people in tomorrow." Working for a builder, I'm in a model home all day, answering questions for the people who walk in. I show them what the possibilities are. Think of me as the Vanna White of the building industry if Vanna White had a sex change, put on 100 pounds, ten years, and sported a goatee. The image somehow looses its magic.

Anyway, I was on the lookout for Jean Wilson. So when I found her business card in the desk, hiding under paperclips and a box of Altoids, I was glad that she was coming in. A visit from a pretty girl is always something to look forward to. She appeared to be around 30, brunette, petite, maybe even a little bit sultry, although that could be a tad of my own wishful thinking.

Later that day, three people I didn't know came in. A younger couple and their older Realtor who immediately handed me her card. You already know the rest of the story but since you've come this far, I'll continue. Yes, it was Jean Wilson. 30 maybe 40 years after her business card picture was taken. Her voice was so low, I would have called her “sir” if she hadn't been wearing a dress. Think Richard Sterban of the Oak Ridge boys (Elvira, my heart's on fire, for Elvira... Giddy Up, Oom Poppa Oom Poppa Mow Mow...) Jean had apparently fallen into a vat at the beef jerky factory and come out looking like an apple doll. I'm sure her beauty regime of sucking down 112 cigarettes a day didn't help.That's certainly what helped to qualify her for the bass section in any choir.

Oh well, I shouldn't knock such a time honored industry tradition of delusion and deception. After all, I'm a Realtor too. Here's my glamour shot from 15 years ago.

If I give you the same picture ten years from now, it's because I'm just following the unspoken rules of the industry.

It's a Real Estate law.

The Diary...

In searching for something else she suspected of being buried among those old cardboard moving boxes in the corner of her master closet, she came across the red plastic diary that had been her closest confidant when she was 14. She had forgotten it was there, or anywhere, for that matter.

All morning, transfixed, she relived the moments, bouncing back and forth in her 14-year-old hormonally driven race car body that zig-zagged from elation to desperation and back again, a little surprised now by her own naiveté. Halfway through, the pages pulled her in close, whispering back her own soliloquy, overwhelming her again, even now, twenty years later. Nicholas, sweet Nicky. Reading her own secrets, remembrances, took her back to that perfect night when they had stayed out until morning, lost in each other on the bandstand at Mindowaskin Park. Dancing on the worn wooden floor, his boom box singing their favorite songs, cuddling up against the cold, together in his brothers sleeping bag.

She held the memories up close, smelling the faint scent of the Tommy Girl perfume he had so eagerly presented on her 15th birthday. She had used it like an aspergillum, blessing the most private and holy revelations in her little red book. 

Briefly covering her embarrassment, memories that had been too personal to share, even with her diary, she paused with her head buried in the ancient scent of gifted perfume and for a brief moment, felt Nicky's arms around her, wrapped together in an older brother’s torn sleeping bag.

Linda Christensen, artist

When I Grow Up...

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” For me, the answer to that question is fluid. It has changed many times.

At age 7, “entomologist” was my answer. In those days I spent most of my  Saturday afternoons in the company of my best friend across the street, and his Dad. Mr. Ferguson was a noted entomologist. The three of us collected insects in an open field, moving them quickly from net, to collection jar, and into air spiked with a fatal cyanide high. Old balsa cigar boxes stacked one atop the other, filled the shelf space above my bedroom closet. Rows of insects marched forward in neat lines inside those boxes, forever frozen in time, skewered by mounting pins. Vlad would have been proud.

But that career field never materialized once I decided that what I really wanted was to be a very large black lady singing backup for Leon Russell. Leon often had those great, gospel raised boom boxes backing him up in his keyboard and vocal frenzies. 

OK, I thought, it’s decided then. I’m going to be one of at least four backup singers for Leon.

Then I changed my mind again. Just as well, I suppose, since Leon is singing in another dimension somewhere and I wasn’t born black, or female.

More recently I decided that I want to be either Bobby Flay or Cormac McCarthy. Bobby creates masterpieces in the kitchen, Cormac does the same with the written word.

Maybe I can be someone who writes like Cormac, cooks like Bobby, and sings like Aretha?

Am I asking too much, getting pushy?

Well, I’m allowed to dream, right?

Don't worry, I know that dreaming doesn’t make it so. I learned that bitter lesson years ago with dreams of Ali MacGraw.