Rumspringa

 

 

A friend in his 70’s was patting himself on the back for having completed a few days of productivity. He was proud of acting like a responsible adult, actually getting shit done. Apparently riding a wave of “fuck off” days as he called them, is more his norm.

A good boy, but only briefly.

That made me smile with admission of the fact that after I fully retired four years ago, every day for me is a “fuck off” day. Never inserting a “responsible adult” day, I’m like Snoopy lost in dance.

A permanent Rumspringa.

Sore from pinching myself about today, the only productivity day I’ll even consider, is tomorrow.

Satchmo sings in a never-ending loop:

“I see skies of blue, and clouds of white
The bright blessed days, dark sacred nights
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world”

If I had known it was going to be this good, I would have retired in my twenties.

“We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout.”

 

“We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout.”

That was on a cold January day in the front parlor of a Justice of the Peace 45 years ago. She was 21, I would turn 30 some eight days later.

We immediately moved to a shack on 38 remote acres of Ohio woodland. A gift from my brother and commuting distance to Ohio University. Our closest neighbor was a half mile away, living and raising her brood in a Tepee.

On that birthday night, my brother generously offered to buy us a lobster dinner to celebrate. We were to meet in town. But Carla and I had never lived together before, so I learned my first lesson in “Carla time”. Things happen when all the stars align for her, but not until then. Our 7pm dinner became, 8, 9, …maybe tomorrow.

I crashed.

At 3am, she woke me up to present the birthday cake she made for me. No easy task with a broken-down antique wood stove that had been converted to propane. The tank outside leaned drunkenly up against the front stoop.

No pluming or running water.

More like a bread bowl with a liquid center than cake, but in the middle of the night, with my bride of eight days, that thing tasted like euphoria.

It was better than any lobster dinner could ever be.

I hadn’t been looking for Betty Crocker or a maid. Actually, I hadn’t been looking at all. But along came this girl. So quick and bright, totally out-of-the box, the author of long articulate letters back and forth before we married.

I was powerless.

In his song “Galway Girl”, Steve Earl asks: “what's a fella to do?

Because her hair was black and her eyes were blue”

It’s like that, only with Carla it was freckles on her knees and hair that smelled Ivory soap.

Family Ties...

 

2021

I try to please her most of the time, but it's not enough. Her need is more visceral, deeply imbedded by shared DNA.

Best I can do is to take her to the source of her longing, watch her drink deeply of that linear connection, past, present, and most importantly, future.

Carla's active mind drives her too hard, too fast. Exits and opportunities blur. But not here, not now.

These peak moments allow her to pause and be present, completed by a human connection as old as our species itself, a bond that answers all questions of purpose and path.

Peace.

Thanksgiving Morning

 At 9am, this four-olive bloody Mary assures me of getting the healthy breakfast I need… packed with liquified vegetables, it's hard to beat. (Yes, Hannah, I went to the gym first.)

Two is better than one. Eight olives. Like them, I’m stuffed!

Later today, the club will deep fry 20-30 turkeys for people who booked a space on the sign-up sheet. Then at 3 o'clock they’ll serve a full turkey dinner for any AMVETS members who want one.

Carla is working eight hours today, gets an hour off from 5 to 6 tonight, and then she goes for 24 hours straight at a different job. So I'm coming back this afternoon to get a to-go box.

We’ll have a nice sit-down 20-minute Styrofoam Thanksgiving dinner together.

And yes, I’m very thankful!

 

 

Mexican Turkey

 

Apparently, turkey tastes better there. Maybe it’s the water but let’s hope not. Given the news of increasing cartel activity with heads stacked neatly in pyramids pointing the way to the snow cone machine, I expressed concern. Ruth assured me that the resort where they were staying had long ago been leeched clean of the slightest hint of cultural relevance. Zero Spanish would be spoken, and the kids would learn nothing new to expand their worlds, other than the quickest path to the waterslide.

 

The Meaning of Life...

 

 The meaning of life…

We are born in bumper cars, bump into stuff randomly for 70-80 years if we’re lucky, and then the power shuts off.

The end.

 

 

 

 

Billy the Fisherman/Perfection in a Bowl...

 

Perfection is the goal; balance is the key. Everything seeks balance: the moon and stars, opposing magnetic poles, heat sufficient to melt mountains squaring off with a deadly frigidity of space, the salinity of our oceans and our cells, a swirling interplay among all ingredients of our lives stirred up in a bowl.

Our physical and psychological well-being teetering on a balance beam.

Perfect moments can reveal themselves in the unfolding dawn of a new Spring Day…as the retreating chill of night cooled breezes are banished by sunbeams that stab eyes and recharge exposed skin.

I look for balance, perfection, somewhere in every moment I’m given, if for no other reason than the reassurance that it’s out there.

Then along comes Billy the Fisherman with his generous gift, a container of his much-acclaimed fish chowder.

An all too rare example of perfect gastronomic balance.

Much more than just a bowl of warm soup. The pyromaniac sun rising in the East lights scarlet fires in the hair of a distant tree line as I break my fast among the gods of balance… with perfection itself steaming promise up to me from an oversized ceramic mug.

Many thanks to Billy the Fisherman for reminding me once again, that perfection wears many faces, all most welcome.