Death Spray...

There was an ad on TV the other day that promoted the services of an attorney who represents clients harmed by Monsanto’s “Round Up” and similar weed & grass killers. It sparked a memory of a summer job that my friend Jeff Devlin and I shared some 50 years ago, working for a weed control company.

Our job was to drive a water tank truck up into New England to service established customers. Once on site, we mixed dry chemicals into the water tank and sprayed the parking lots of grocery stores, movie theaters, gas stations, drive in movies, anywhere that clients had large areas of open blacktop where weeds were trying to poke through.

It was a fun job. No pressure. We set our own route. Our employer wasn’t overly concerned about the time-frame as long as the job got done within a week or two.

The summer of 1969 was a great time to be 21, carefree and driving someone else’s vehicle into unfamiliar territory, with plenty of time to explore along the way,

After quickly realizing that we could mix in half of the prescribed weed killer with no downside, we went rogue. Using only 50% of the allotted chemicals was still way more than enough to kill all vegetation that even got a whiff of the stuff.

That doubled our killing power and our income. We had enough left-over chemicals, and plenty of time, to offer the same service to any lot owners with a weed problem that we may pass in our travels.

This was long before anyone thought about the harm those chemicals could do to things other than parking lot weeds. You know, silly things like plants, water tables, animals…and humans. Especially humans that had frequent and direct contact.

All of it unknown collateral damage at the time.

Jeff and I wore no protective gear of any kind.

Holding large hoses that allowed for 30-foot sprays, the wind often shifted. We were frequently drenched. Our clothes stayed wet.

Sometimes we had wars between us and sprayed each other directly, on purpose. Week killer up the nose, in the ears and eyes, cold and clingy in the nether regions like a wet bathing suit.

Several years after Vietnam, Agent Orange killed a mutual buddy of ours. Cancer ravaged his body and brain.

That Monsanto lawyer on TV is making legal drug money, big bucks.

Why didn’t we have any problems? I choose to think it’s because we only sprayed with a diluted, 50% version of what we were told to use. (That’s a lesson I’ve taken very seriously. I never do anything I’m told to do.)

It’s a miracle that after all these years, Jeff and I are still alive and kicking. Amazing that neither of us are pushing a neck tumor the size of a pot-bellied pig, in a baby stroller in front of us.

I know that I feel great, and Jeff looks healthy in his pictures. (but I think he may use Photoshop to spruce up his image, just to make me jealous.)

I do wonder about this recent swelling on my neck though. I’m glad daughter Ruth left behind the baby stroller on her last visit.

I may...grow into it.

Quietly Joyful...

Joy doesn’t need to be loud or flashy.

Appreciation can flourish without fanfare, walking quietly in shades of grey.

This morning’s new weather took the stage, fresh and crisp, doing what it could to blow down my loose collar, an ascot of intrusive cold. Clouds lay down a puffy quilt above as we walked the narrow gauntlet of the farmers market, stem to stern, flanked by tables stacked with artesian muffins, across from one adorned with sharks’ teeth twisted into jewelry by thin copper restraints.

We savored the day, a steaming cup of matcha with soy and chocolate.

Back home, we shared justifications that pardoned each other from any chores we had discussed, stamping the “To Do” list with one that said; “Tomorrow”.

At dinner, no stereo, no TV, no cellphones.

The two of us, quietly ecstatic in the moment.

Dungeness crab with Butternut squash ravioli, fresh cut strawberries spooned out with cane sugar and lemon juice from the tree that leans on stair rails by the deck off the bedroom, heavy with beaming yellow globes framed in green.

All of it, each moment, a subtle offering that screamed joy to the world.

Our own good fortune to live this life, glowing like a hot coal blown gently with the breath of god...

Baby Tales...

Here’s the thing about babies. I’m an expert after having one live with us in the house for a week.

They’re a LOT of damn work!

Ruth had to be with Wilder 24/7. Every minute, every hour. He needed to nurse, to eat stuff put on his tray, to reject all offers to eat, to play, to refuse to play, to be pushed around the neighborhood in his stroller, to be entertained, bathed several times a day and to be put down to sleep, or not sleep. 

None of it lasts very long.

The baby monitor buzzes with the sound of his distress as poor Ruth sits down to eat her own dinner, but rushes in to calm the Wild one instead.

It’s unending.

Ruth put the baby on the floor of the great room, nestled on a clean blanket surrounded by baby stuff. Mostly he paid no attention to the baby toys designed to attract and occupy his attention. It turns out that Wilder prefers soup ladles from the kitchen drawer. Three different plastic ones with deep cup dippers that he tried very hard to fit entirely into his mouth. Ruth said that she needed to use the restroom and asked me to watch him for a minute.

Even though she came right back, it was stressful. I’m sure that I couldn’t even handle a full five minutes by myself, much less the hours, days, weeks and months that are necessary.

It’s exhausting. Why do mothers even keep them?

Ruth changed his diapers throughout the day, often having to put on new outfits when the diapers leaked, or when the food on his tray was used more for throwing, dropping, or rubbing in his hair, than for actual consumption.

The dogs quickly learned that hanging out under Wilder’s highchair at feeding time was a good place for them to be.

Did you know that there are organic baby foods, pureed and extruded from a tube that looks like a double size Crest toothpaste? They’re the 2019 version of astronaut chow.

Remember to carry several of those everywhere you go. Always carry a huge backpack full of stuff. Don’t forget to bring the car seat and stroller, the baby wipes, extra diapers and outfits. Bring water, the white noise machine to slip down by the pillow under his head if he starts to look sleepy, a baby hat, and a reverse back pack to carry him around in when the stroller just won’t do.

So. Much. Stuff.

I popped into the guest bedroom when the Wildman was being changed. Ruth took his shitty diaper off and put it to one side. At his age, when Wilder gets changed, he tries to do a quick Alligator roll across the bed to avoid any kind of clothing. As I watched his diaper avoidance moves, he managed to flip his hand into the shitty diaper that had just come off of him, scoop up a handful of poop puree, and quickly sling it around on himself, the clean bed, his clean outfit, his face, and Ruth’s hair.

Nice.

It was so wonderful for me to be able to back out of the room, quietly shutting the door.

Although I’ve always believed women to be the stronger gender, my respect is multiplied tenfold for mothers.

Why you don’t conveniently “forget” that you left the baby in the produce isle next to the carrots and simply go home, free, free at last…I don’t understand.

Why women don’t more frequently “Bobbittize” their husbands is a mystery.

But I soon started to get it when after a day of bonding, every time Wilder would get up from a nap and see me, he lit up like a light bulb. A smile ear to ear for his Grandpa. I was so flattered and charmed.

That’s when I saw him give the same toothless grin to either one of the dogs when they came close. It didn’t matter which one.

I'm as special as a smelly black mutt that licks Wilder's face, not so much out of affection but more like a kid licking the beater used for cake batter. Lots of flavor hanging out there.

Oh well, I'll take it anyway.
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When I got up around three am, the house was too quiet. No baby monitor hissing in the kitchen. 

Knowing that Ruth and Wilder were now 2,122 miles away, back home, our house felt empty and pointless.

I felt pointless.

Sitting on the couch in the dark, next to an abandoned high chair with broccoli soup stains on the tray, I cried for the first time in many years.