I am still surprised that most people’s minds aren’t cluttered with a million observations about the people and places in their days. There’s not enough time to consider them, repackage them, and appreciate them. Even with the virus, the one that supposedly slowed the world’s spin a bit, I find myself accelerating toward a crucible that I can’t quite define.
I don’t get writer’s block and I even find myself not understanding how a musician runs out of ideas, lyrics, and brilliance. While watching the new “Selena” series, I rolled my eyes at least 50 times as the musicians struggled to find ideas and inspiration. If we are blocked or stifled, all we have to do is open ourselves up to the great people we have around us. We all survive by collaboration; it’s worth your time to stop struggling and listen to people as they live their lives. There’s enough story here for a thousand books and a library of music.
There’s too much life out here with so many people inhabiting our world in a way that deserves recognition. Humor, love, tragedy, and even the moments when you find yourself organizing your kitchen cabinets on Saturday night all carry weight.
I wish y’all could get ICS too. We could flood the world with our stories. Love, X .
Rarely do we get to see history and know it’s happening. I feel the irony of the pandemic as it creeps toward me. Even though I volunteered repeatedly to go first, I wasn’t offered the covid vaccine. Someone missed a PR opportunity.
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“When you’re young, they assume you know nothing. When you’re old, they assume you know better. Wisdom and knowledge are demonstrably independent of youth or age.” – x
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I walked a mile in her (high heel) shoes.
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I’m not supposed to admit to a low moment. Despite the pandemic and personal trouble, my optimism generally is higher than in a long time. For a time today, I got hit with a few waves of lonely anxiety. I walk in a strange, strange reality, in the region between who I am and who I used to be.
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An Anecdote About Hair
When I passed, I noted her crazy hair color. Because I’m not a barbarian, I didn’t turn and take a long, lingering look. Not because I didn’t want to, though. On my return, I approached and made eye contact, something that’s become essential to me in the last few months. Her hair was raucously orange, approximating what would be called “safety orange.”
“Ma’am, societal norms require me to not mention your hair color or to stare. But, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take a look. Your hair is fabulous!” She laughed.
“Yeah, it’s okay. I know people look. I change the color frequently,” she said. “I expect people to look, yes.”
“Haven’t you noticed people trying to look without being obvious? It’s hard not to look.” I forgot all pretense about commenting on someone’s appearance.
She laughed again. “Do you think it’s too much?” she asked me. I could tell immediately she was asking for an honest opinion.
“Yes, it is. And it’s perfect.” I smiled at her. Even though she couldn’t see my smile through my mask, I know it reached my eyes. I could see the hidden smile on her face, too.
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The Closed Fitting Room
I would have done such a thing before, but weighing less has given me wings, much like when I was younger, and would damn near do anything if it didn’t really hurt anyone. I’ve written before about my cousin Jimmy fearing that I would streak naked around the Thorncrown Chapel during his wedding.
Many places closed their dressing rooms. At one retailer, you’d think it was because of coronavirus fears. They have a sign to let us know that the dressing rooms are closed so that staff can clean in other areas. (Not because the rooms will be dirty.)
Although I own size 34 pants already, I wanted to try another brand. Lee, if you’re curious. I found some in size 34/30. The fitting rooms were still closed. Because I was in a mood, I pulled a cart over by the fitting room area. I blocked the alcove with the cart and then took my work pants off and then tried on the new pair. They fit perfectly. As I pulled them up, an employee walked by, looked at me, and then rolled her eyes at me. I laughed.
I bought the pants.
More importantly, I amused myself doing so. It’s probable that the security cameras caught me trying on pants in the closed fitting room area. As I walked up to check myself out at the kiosk registers, I half-hoped someone would approach me and question me about not using a fitting room to try on my pants. While I didn’t know what I might say, I knew that I wouldn’t be embarrassed, even if footage of me got aired on the nightly news.
There’s a pandemic going on. I don’t think seeing Danny DeVito, albeit thinner, in underwear is any more shocking than seeing someone in a bikini. Now that I’m thinking about it, your local retailer is full of life-size posters of people half-dressed. Take a look next time if you’ve grown accustomed to seeing it, especially in the women’s section. Just don’t take pictures or they will definitely escort you out of the place.
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Dubious quotes by X: “If you can’t be kind, be kind of.”
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Odd is just another way of saying “Still a suspect in an ongoing investigation.”
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Nov. 24th
The universe blinked for me this morning. For the first time since the time change, I was running a little later than usual. I took a slightly different route to work as I often do. I found myself at a red light at Robinson and 71. As the cross traffic light turned yellow, I watched two cars speed up coming from the right. The first one was close. The second car fully ran the red light. At 4:13 a.m., I found myself waiting. As I lightly tapped the gas, another car approached going at least 70. Had I been going through instead of turning left, or had I not hesitated momentarily, the car would have t-boned me at 70mph. A bit further along 71, I amusedly noted that the car’s license plate had a vertical blue stripe across an Arkansas logo. Whoever was driving must have realized they almost killed all of us – because they drove 40 mph all the way to the Mall. And so, my Tuesday commenced.
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“We often find ourselves in a locked room, only to later realize we always had the key.*
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This morning everything was blanketed in a hard white frost. The fog set on top of it. As I crossed Old Missouri, a shooting star came overhead and streaked across. And the Mall looked like a massive hovering mothership, lights dimly blazing through the canopy of fog. I’m sorry y’all missed it. (Nov. 23rd)
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While I ain’t driven to the certainty of this quote, it makes me think. That’s all I ask of wisdom, even if the sideroads to it and away from it leave me wondering if we know anything at all sometimes. X*
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Though you may not like it, one of the best remix/mashups I’ve heard is “Buffalo MC – Stop And Bust a Move.” It’s funky and invasive. It also led me to hear the lyrics to Buffalo Springfield’s song “For What It’s Worth” with new ears. Anyone who reads the lyrics will surprise themselves. Adding the groove of “Bust A Move” is pure genius. I rarely post videos to my wall, in part because I didn’t create it. I challenge anyone to hear this remix/mashup and not feel a little more alive. Or old. You choose. Love and Lemons, X
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Warning: Joke Alert
I guess I shouldn’t teach children valuable life lessons. In my defense, the logic was 100% legit. I bear no responsibility for the joke being told on Joke Day at school.
“John, what can you share and always have the same amount?”
“I don’t know, X, what?”
“Herpes.”
I used that picture to get people’s attention. People like looking at attractive people so false advertising seemed fair. Also, this guy lives in the #hunkcloset. And I need humor to get through life. And yes, I laugh at some awfully suspect jokes.
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“Every zoo is a petting zoo if you have the audacity.” – a funny cliché. If you read that and think to yourself that you see the logic and the possibility of having a good story afterward, mauling or not, you are one of my people.
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“Sir, what did the robbers take?””Two TVs, a computer, my will to live, and a jewelry box.””Wait. What was that third thing?””Evidently something I can live without.”
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If it is suddenly cold, it’s my fault. I made hell freeze over. I actually said these words today: “I’d really like to hear that one song by Luke Bryan.”
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The Bill Qualls Rule: all dogs eventually bite – and especially corn dogs.
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Maniac’s Musing #5: I hope that the Venn Diagram depicting the relationship comparing serial killers to a love of ice skating is mostly overlap.
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Optimism is buying your first pair of 34″ pants in 12 years – without a fitting room.
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A comedian once said that the worst time to have a heart attack is during a game of Charades. I disagree. I think the worst time is during your job as a defibrillator quality check technician.*
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You know that the train is pulling into the station for you when you can stand in the laxative section of any pharmacy for 30 minutes without anyone thinking that you are acting suspiciously.
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Nov. 13th
At 3:30 a.m., I drove across Don Tyson Parkway. Despite being 40 degrees, my windows were down. “Rise Above This” was playing on the stereo. As I crossed Old Missouri, I saw something dart across. Hoping it was my infrequent friend the coyote, I slowed down. The coyote sat about 20 feet from the road, near the vertical church sign on the roadside. He watched me as I stopped. Despite the absurdity of doing so, I waved and said, “Hello, Mr. Coyote,” He watched as I drove away toward my day.
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Hilarious Method To End a Management Conversation (true story):Manager: “I don’t want a lot of people around. I don’t like crowds.Me: “Especially in the bedroom!”Hysterical laughing, followed by ensuing realization of the implications of my joke.
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All seesaws are catapults if you have the element of surprise.
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I thought they were selling the Gastroenterology Clinic. The sign said “Everything must go.”
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A few years ago, I wrote this for someone facing an insurmountable loss. I’ve found that it echoes around the internet sometimes. May you too hear your high bell as needed. *
This picture takes on a life of its own each time I post it. It was the same this time – and with added meaning.
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Yesterday, I took a Rorschach Test. If you can picture it.
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Re: Accident Report. In my defense, I thought the plaque indicated, “…you must be trained and certifiable to operate this machinery.”
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I might have worked in healthcare too long because I just accidentally said, “…he maketh me lie down beside distilled water.”
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This one always gets a lot of laughs at work.
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The old man card trick never fails to bring laughter.
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Erudite Insults, Part 13 ☆ It occurs to me that one principal advantage of a zombie apocalypse is that everyone with a discernible brain will be eaten, leaving only middle managers to roam the Earth.
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I consider it the highest praise that everyone except the perpetrator of the prank blamed me for the boss’ cell phone charger being in a Jell-O mold this morning.
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“X, do you believe in Bigfoot?”
“No.”.
“Then why did you take him out for dinner and a movie?”
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The woman in the last picture isn’t naked beneath the mosaic pattern.
Or is she? You get to choose the reality.
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I walked up to someone demonstrating how to NOT treat a fellow human being. Because my social filter remains askew, I coldly interrupted her needless and inhumane tirade. “Did I mention to you that I LOVED you in the titular role of “The Hobbit.” “
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Combination joke: I opted for an Orthographic Orthopedist for my knee, because I need him to spell out the course of treatment.
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“Life is what happens to us while we are busy cleaning other people’s pans.” – X
The original, by Allen Saunders: “Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.”
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He’s a good friend: he agrees with me 100% and I agree with him 100 proof.
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Overheard at the covid screening station: “Have you lost your sense of taint or smell?”
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Aldi won again yesterday. With everything else going on, I found a new candy there, a sugar-free one that looked both hideous and compelling. They were delicious. I kept eating them, thinking how delicious they were, as I watched Die Hard for the 347th time. Sourly delicious, like lemons. About an hour later, I realized that I had eaten a dangerous amount of sorbitol. If you’re not familiar, sorbitol can cause Japanese-earthquake level disruptions to one’s digestive system. I already knew this but flavor rendered my ability to read clear warnings to be inactive. The good news is I think I lost 32 lbs. yesterday.
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If you didn’t want me to change the placard in the breakfast area from “Sausage” to “Reindeer Sausage,” you shouldn’t give me a job where I have access to magic markers. Also, I owe an apology to little Jimmy’s mom, who had to explain what happened to Rudolph.
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La Norma #1 De La VidaCuando te mandan a la mierda, casi nunca te consiguen un boleto de ida y vuelta. Lo unico que se puede hacer es sonreir y empezar a caminar. Espero que lo hagas con entusiasmo. Con amor, X
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I drove to work today with the windows down, in an unseasonably warm dark morning. Nothing says, “Happy” like someone joyriding at 4 a.m., and especially singing in Spanish in an absurdly high pitch. I got the vaccine yesterday and I experienced none of pain, headaches, hallucinations, or paranoia that others did. Although, I was bit irritated the CIA kept following me everywhere and using laser-armed cats to distract me. I parked my car in the pond and walked in to work. P.S. The mood at most medical facilities has perceptibly shifted since last week – and it has nothing to do with the fact that I am tripping balls. Love, X
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Unintentionally Inappropriate Quip: I never wear a jacket while at work, no matter who bitterly cold it is. I encountered her by the elevator. “Wow, X, how much weight are you going to lose? Isn’t it cold without the…,” she said, realizing she was going to need to say something acknowledging that I was fat before. “Blubber?” I said, finishing her sentence.”Ha! No. I would give you to coat off my back,” she said.”Well, I would rather have the shirt off your back,” I said, losing the race between my brain and mouth. …
P.S. While what I said certainly sounds dirty, I was commenting about her wild blouse. Given my change in fashion, I would totally rock her blouse.
She did not turn to acknowledge that he was about to snap a photo of her, nor did she tilt her head in disapproval. If she turned toward him, he would assume she disapproved and not take the picture. Instead, she walked slowly toward the sunrise-lit curtains. The part of her life controlled by fear or self-doubt would stay behind her, even if she had to choose an “as if” to propel her.
He gifted her the ability to see herself as imperfectly perfect. In her previous life, she would have hidden herself, stepped behind a door, or refused to be in light sufficient to draw attention. Such refusals inevitably lead to apathy, the architect of so much unhappiness.
Today, though, she crawled from the unfamiliar bed and walked toward the balcony. She knew that the light shone around her in a gauzy corona, giving him an unvarnished view of her. Letting the sheet fall away, she turned toward him. She smiled, one born of genuine acceptance.
Instead of snapping another picture, he tossed the camera on the floor. The camera was no longer necessary. Confidence was its own illumination.
A few days ago, I was at Aldi. That’s problematic enough. I have a love/hate relationship with Aldi. It used to be hate/hate, but I’ve softened a bit. I still leave the cart out in the wilderness of the parking lot, though – quarter be damned.
Immediately upon entering, I encountered a little section tucked up into the produce area. In it were several small vials of interesting liquids. Two of them were little vials of Vitalife Kick It In The Ginger / Turmeric. For whatever reason, it caught my attention. The Ginger shot contains cayenne pepper, lemon juice, ginger, and probably cat tears.
Vitalife is the sort of company that creeps me out. I can’t explain why, mainly due to the lawyers. I’m kidding.
This is the sort of thing I would never purchase habitually. But I am a connoisseur of foul-tasting substances; this seemed to be a prime candidate. That it contained lemon juice was the deciding factor. “Lemon anything” is my new go-to formula for happiness. I can’t get enough Lemon in my mouth no matter how I try.
I wanted to drink it then, but unfortunately, store personnel frown upon eating the merchandise before paying. Which, if you think about it, is both completely logical and also highly objectionable.
On the way home, I opened the vial and drank a bit of it. Yes, it tasted rank. Did I like it a lot? Also, yes.
I won’t say what it LOOKS like because everyone who knows me also knows that I am a perfect gentleman in every respect. It’s okay if you’re snarking already at this point.
I know people love spouting the benefits of drinking ginger. I don’t care what the benefits are. For me, the foul taste that I love is enough.
I won’t pay that much for a little vial of horrible taste. I can get that by eating a cricket or tasting anything at Wendy’s or Hardee’s.
If you need to try something that will make you reject your humanity, I highly recommend the Vitalife Kick It In The Ginger Shots.
“Save that spot for me!” The words echoed in her memory as she stood in the kitchen, staring at the empty rocking chair next to the ornate tree. Though her heart wasn’t in it, Susan begrudgingly pulled out the bins of Christmas ornaments earlier and studiously rebuilt the tree. Her mother’s constant reminder to everyone in the family still lingered in the air, along with scents of fresh pine and the dozens of cookies Susan’s son Sam and daughter Sue baked each holiday season. Last year, they made more than sixty dozen. The pastor of the church could not have been happier. When the kids presented him with a case of cookies, he excitedly informed them he had a freezer for just such a contingency. Neither had the heart to clarify to him that the cookies were intended for the entire congregation rather than the pastor himself.
It was Susan’s first Christmas without her mom. Everyone was supposed to call her mom “Darling,” a name she picked up while singing. The term used to annoy Susan. Total strangers called her mom Darling. Anyone who used her nickname with a bit of creativity earned a famous cackle of laughter from Darling and sometimes a quick kiss on the cheek. Darling loved giving kisses. “Johnny Cash gave me that name. If it was good enough for him, it’s good enough for anyone.” Was the Johnny Cash story true? No one knew. But it might have been.
For the last several years, Darling insisted that the rocking chair be carefully aligned near the Christmas tree and that she be able to claim permanent dibs on sitting there. It was an enviable spot. Not only could the occupant of the rocking chair see outside to watch everyone drive up to the house, but the floor vent was nearby, ensuring warmth that wasn’t guaranteed around the rest of the drafty living room. Factor in the prime observation spot for both passing out and opening presents, and it was the perfect spot to observe everyone. And as everyone found out with Darling, it was also the ideal point from which to bark orders, criticisms, and sometimes, encouragement.
Everyone enjoyed pretending to be unaware of Darling’s rule regarding permanent dibs on the rocking chair. Pastor Evans, who wasn’t faking his ignorance, found himself being unceremoniously harangued in front of a houseful of guests two seasons ago. He tried making his case with her. “Now Darling, there is a wonderful glider rocker over there closer to the kitchen!” She glowered at him and said, “Well, move your keister over to it if it’s so darned comfortable!” The pastor sheepishly changed seats after picking up another cup of famously-strong eggnog. Under his breath, you might hear him tell no one in particular that one had to drink around Darling to keep one’s sanity. This was more memorable because Darling always managed to sneak in another bottle of whiskey into the eggnog. Only Susan was aware she did it. “If it doesn’t ring your gong, why are you climbing the bell tower,” Darling loved saying. More than one person undoubtedly drove home from their Christmas get-togethers with a buzz. Darling could hold her own when drinking. She toured with many rowdy country and gospel singers when she was younger. No one turned the lights off when she was still in the room.
The Friday after Thanksgiving, one of Darling’s neighbors dropped by to give her some leftover turkey. She found Darling sleeping on the porch swing. When she shook her, she realized that Darling had passed away. The coroner advised them that a massive stroke killed her. A full cup of untasted coffee sat on the antique table next to the swing.
Susan considered not having a family Christmas this year, but she knew Darling would be very unhappy to hear of it, especially from her viewpoint in the afterlife. While Susan wasn’t a superstitious person, she dared not risk finding out if Darling could reach her from the other side. Sam and Sue applauded with enthusiasm when Susan informed them that the kitchen was back open for business because Darling would want it that way. Sam chimed in, “We’re going to make a hundred dozen cookies this year, Mom!”
By two in the afternoon on Christmas day, everyone had nervously avoided sitting in the rocking chair, even as a joke. Susan attempted to encourage different people to sit in the rocker. Even her husband’s Aunt Edna refused. Darling’s presence still filled the house. It might never be the same, even though their home was always filled with overflowing conversations, laughter, and the occasional shout.
When Susan’s husband Ed stood by the tree to read 1 Corinthians 13:13, Darling’s favorite, he laughed. “This isn’t a Christmas verse, but it is the one Darling insisted on for twenty years. I see no need to break it.” He recited the passage from memory as everyone in the living room and kitchen stopped to listen. Most had their eyes turned to the empty rocking chair next to the Christmas tree. Although many had endured both rebuke and charm from Darling, most eyes were moist from remembering her.
Susan felt an unseen hand push her toward the rocking chair. Aunt Edna turned from near the coffee table and started to make her way to the chair. Without knowing she was doing so, Susan shouted, “Save that spot for me!” Aunt Edna froze as every head turned to watch Susan walk across the living room and put her hand on the back of the rocking chair. She hesitated and then sat down firmly in the rocking chair.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” She asked. “These gifts aren’t going to hand themselves out, are they?”
The snug warmth of him behind her granted her sleep. She hadn’t known how desperately she needed the sleep of trusting someone. Her hair spread out across the pillow behind her. She woke to him gently touching the strands. She shivered at the sweet intimacy of someone playing with her hair. It centered her in a way she did not realize she had been missing.
He leaned in to whisper to her, a game both of them loved playing. “I figured out the line you need to start your book,” he softly whispered. No one else could hear them. The absurdity of whispering amused them both. Now that they started the game, they wanted to play it out for a thousand innings.
“There are no tiny paragraphs. The smallest increment of spoken intimacy is the phrase ‘I love you.’ Yet it can contain the volume of a lifetime if spoken.”
She turned slightly toward him. “Aren’t you romantic? It’s barely six, and you’re already turning the page.” He laughed.
“I got a head start, watching you this morning.” He leaned in, kissed her quickly on the lips, and then sprang from the bed with his customary energy. He briefly touched her dress from the day before. It hung on the armoire. “Thanks,” he whispered as his fingers caressed the hem.
As he neared the bathroom door, he heard a subtle whisper. He turned. She had pulled the cover off.
“We have more to talk about if you’re interested.” She winked and smiled at him. He jumped to the bed from where he was standing. She howled with laughter and surprise as his landing bounced her off the bed and back.
Another typical day and another neither one of them would take for granted.
I’ve written about a range of topics on this blog. I started it to share my life and to give anyone interested a chance to see me. (I’ll skip over the revisionists for now.) I’m not a great writer, but I am a constant one.
Instead of jumping in with a post that follows the course of this post, I’ll start with this one as a ‘heads up’ for everyone.
We all have thoughts, ideas, and beliefs that might not withstand scrutiny. It’s a rarity to find someone who can dish it out without regard to where it lands. That’s in part because we find ourselves trapped by the lives we lead. Words we say can leave love and understanding. They can also leave confusion and hurt. The best writers with the best intentions often wound the people they love. Imagine being a hack like me and wanting to express what feels like eloquence only to discover that I’ve scattered sand into someone’s eyes or clouded their heart.
We all do this in the course of our day. Usually though, it’s spoken and fleeting. Writing this way solidifies the reality of whatever is being expressed.
I know I harm often already. I know I do. I apologize. It’s safer to say nothing, to leave no trail behind, and to play it safe. Much of our lives is predicated on doing this each day. It’s part of the social construct. It’s folly to argue otherwise. It is also why so much of our lives get lost; we’re afraid for people to know us intimately or beyond the limits we impose on ourselves. While many people might know slivers of us, there’s just no way we’re going to be enlightened enough to feel unburdened.
I am going to venture out onto a few limbs. A few of them are going to break. I don’t bend them with malice or arrows designed to hit targets. People are not targets. They have their complexity. I don’t try to wound those on my overlaps. It still remains that my story is mine to tell.
Before venturing further, remember that you’re reading voluntarily. Something I’ve written must interest you because you come back to read more as I share it. I value the idea of you, whoever you are, in my head by consuming these words. You’re likely going to get uncomfortable with some things I write – and maybe get an unfamiliar feeling associating the words I’ll write with who I am. I understand.
And so it begins.
In the future, you’ll read a wider breadth of things about me. I will provide adequate warning on each post so that you easily avoid being uncomfortable, if such things are uncomfortable.
Marilyn asked me to memorialize one of her beloved Dad’s favorite sayings.
I told her I was making supper and she said she was about to go shower.
“I smell like a keg of buttholes,” she wrote, citing her dad, who was a poet in the truest sense of the word.
It is impossible to imagine what a keg of buttholes might smell like without immediately arriving at a conclusion.
Though he’s now departed, let’s remember his contribution to the English language by incorporating, “Smells like a keg of buttholes” into our vocabulary.
I routinely go through my colossal draft lists and discard troves of ideas and actual stories. I’d discard the computer, but they get expensive. When I was writing several of my Elm Springs stories, I kept skipping over the “Man Parked In Pond” account due to the incongruous absurdity of the title.
What might amuse you more is that I’ve seen several cars in ponds in my lifetime. Both stupidity and drinking were involved in all cases. I think there’s a universal truth to that last sentence. I can proudly say that I was in the car on separate occasions while BOTH my Mom and Dad drove into ponds, ditches, or swamps. It’s one thing to go into a small pond, but if you’ve ever seen how deep and snake-filled some irrigation ditches and swamps can be, you’re not enthusiastic about getting into one. At night. Snakes do not like to cuddle.
I am not afraid of snakes until they get into my underwear. Call it a phobia if you have to.
When I first worked at a nursing home in Springdale after high school, I often ran home before I got my second car. My first car, a great one given to me by my brother Mike as he shockingly went into the Army, was stolen by my Dad and sold on my cousin’s car lot. The irony is that I worked on the side at my cousin’s garage to earn credit toward the next car.
It was only 7-8 miles home from work. Those runs were interesting as hell at times, just as they were when I started from home and ran elsewhere. It was different back in the day. People drove drunk a LOT. Country roads were littered with cars at night. Saturday morning and Sunday morning was a great time to see the places on the road where people were probably driving too fast. Or drunk. One of the neighbors near where I lived often stopped and “borrowed” things from the cars he found on the side of the road at night. Thinking back on it, it was impossible for him to get caught. This is in part due to the visibility of approaching lights and the failure of most drunks to inventory their possessions, much less know for certain that they are driving their own car home at night.
Note to civil engineers: if you want to reduce unsafe and drunk driving, put a buttload of stupidly sharp curves in the road. Or a five-mile stretch of road that is 100% roundabouts. The Arkansas educational system didn’t adequately prepare most people for sensible traffic devices.
If you’ve driven the side roads from Springdale to Elm Springs, you’re aware of the sharp turns everywhere. Many of those turns sit next to barbed wire fencing. Or worse, ponds. While I didn’t see the accident when it happened, I was running home when I heard brakes and skidding, followed by sounds that didn’t make sense to me. It was after midnight, so I couldn’t imagine who or what had crashed. As I ran along a sloping S-curve, I saw taillights. As I neared, I could see that the barbed wire fencing had been torn open. The truck that went through the fence went a few feet into the pond. While I was sure I was going to try to help, I didn’t know how exactly. I heard someone drunkenly mumbling. In today’s terms, it sounded a lot like Kenny Chesney singing any of his Top 40 hits.
I remember being glad it wasn’t my Dad. He’d traversed many a fenceline while driving drunk. More than once, with me in the vehicle. Good times! After one particularly bad accident through a cow field, he kept repeating the same joke: “I was looking for a good steak.” His sense of humor was legendary when he wasn’t trying to kill someone.
The man in the truck managed to get the door open. He was cursing in drunk language at that point. Though I couldn’t see much, I realized he was trying to get into the truck’s bed from the cab so he wouldn’t step into the shallow water. I waited. Sure enough, a huge splash followed as he fell off trying to get over the side of the truck. He set the world record for putting the lord’s name in vain for the next couple of minutes. He staggered out of the pond.
“Who the f### are you?” he asked me.
“The ghost of drunks future,” I quipped. I wasn’t scared at all to mock any drunk I didn’t know.
This tendency got me into some precarious predicaments through the years, including one incident when a drunk tried to throw a mostly-empty pitcher of beer on me, and I yelled, “Ball 4!.” My shout made him angry when it dawned on him that people in the bar laughed. I had reluctantly accompanied my roommate Ray to go shoot pool at a bar that now no longer exists in the Midway area. When the drunk acted as if he would chase me, I dashed to the back door, opened it, and then slammed it. I stepped out of sight into the filthy supply closet near the back door. The drunk ran outside, thinking I went out first. We laughed our asses off about that for a long time. The best part of this story is that he didn’t remember getting mad or running out the back to chase me upon his return.
We didn’t have cell phones back then. There was a payphone at a small store a couple of bends of the road away from the pond. But I wasn’t going to accompany a drunk for that kind of walk. “Go knock on that door,” I told him and pointed to a brown house a couple of hundred feet away. “They’ll help you.” I waited, and eventually, he stumbled his way in that direction. I left out here that the owners of the pond and the house were the same people. I ran the rest of the way home, amused at my cleverness. I found out that the owners made the driver completely fix their fence and make restitution. Had I not run by that night, I don’t think he would have. And I wouldn’t be able to brag I watched a grown man drunkenly try to climb over the edge of his truck and then fall into a pond.
And so, I leave you with “Man Parked In a Pond.” It’s not Faulkner or Conroy, but it amuses me.
Judy’s eyes opened to see the projector clock on the opposite wall indicating 4:45 a.m. Before going to bed, she set the bedroom alarm for 5:00 a.m. and her automatic coffee pot in the kitchen for 5:15 a.m. Since it was Christmas morning, she needed to complete her to-do list before Jake scrambled out of his pillow fort. They spent at least thirty minutes last night, carefully building his sleeping fort to his precise specifications. He wanted to ensure that Santa wouldn’t find him awake in the dark. After getting Jake to stop chatting and to try to sleep, Judy pulled the presents for Jake from the trunk of her car and tucked them under the tree. It would be an austere Christmas this year. She hoped Jake wouldn’t mind.
Judy succumbed to the warmth of the bed; she pulled the comforter tightly under her neck.
The last year was beyond difficult. Judy’s ex-husband Richard spent the first four months of the year denying he had abused her. When he discovered that Judy’s decision to flee him was going to last, he turned his efforts to the court to take Jake from her. Even Judy’s mom testified against her. For reasons she still didn’t understand, the judge awarded her sole custody and granted her permission to move away. By September, she had a new apartment, a new job, and a new list of fears. Judy and Jake were on their own in every sense of the word. For ten years old, Jake somehow avoided the anguish others kids might have experienced through such a traumatic year. Judy found herself holding her breath tensely, waiting to see Jake act out. He never did.
At 4:50, Judy imagined she could smell coffee. If she overslept the alarm, the coffee always roused her from the bed. Single parents had to use a bit of creativity to keep their lives manageable. Imagining her first cup of coffee, she realized that she needed to pee. She pulled the comforter over her head as if doing so would erase the imaginary scent of coffee from her nose and the need to go to the bathroom. When she got the edge of the comforter tucked behind her head, she heard the soft melodies of “All I Want For Christmas” by Celine Dion. Most people preferred Mariah Carey, but not Judy. Celine was the voice of her angel. Deciding that she wasn’t going to quiet her mind or rest, Judy crawled from her warm bed and walked through the small dark bedroom to the tiny bathroom attached to it. As soon as she sat, she distinctly heard the music volume increase dramatically. Without a doubt, Celine’s voice played in the living room. Judy tried to finish more quickly, which only increased her need to go longer. As most moms discover, there is no such thing as quiet time, even in the bathroom. There’s always a bang on the door or an immediate need to address.
Judy quickly put on her Santa pajama bottoms and walked out into the living room. Inexplicably, the small tree next to the front window was fully lit and twinkling. The stereo next to the small television was on. Celine’s voice streamed from it. Judy walked across the narrow living room to Jake’s room. Opening the door, she went to the pillow fort and peered inside. Jake wasn’t there.
Judy quickly backed out of the room and peeked into the front bathroom. Also empty.
She turned and slid the sliding door to the kitchen open.
Jake sat at the small plain wood table. A cup of coffee sat in front of him. Next to that, a simple red box tied with twine.
“Merry Christmas, Mom!” Jake shouted as he ran over and hugged Judy around the waist. Surprised, Judy stood and rubbed her son’s hair back from his face. After a few seconds, he pulled away and reached over to grab the cup to hand to Judy. “I made this just the way you like it, Mom!”
“When did you learn to make coffee, Jake?” she asked.
“Oh Mom. That’s what YouTube is for! Plus, this is your Christmas!” Jake’s smile was as big as Judy had ever seen it. Though doubtful, Judy sipped the coffee. It was perfect. She laughed, realizing that Jake just volunteered to make coffee for her for the next ten years. “It’s delicious and so much better when someone else makes it!” She winked at him in the way that he loved.
“What are you doing up so early, son? It’s barely five.”
“Mom, I asked Santa to give you a good Christmas. He told me that I should give you a good one. I got you a gift.” Jake reached for the box on the table and pushed it toward Judy.
“How did you manage this, Jake? Do you even have money?” Judy laughed. She pulled the top bow loose to work the lid off the box.
“It was easy. I took out the trash every day for Mr. Johnson and agreed to help the building manager for a few months next year. I got Ken’s mom to get the gift at Target. Ken brought me the surprise to school, and I sneaked it home in my backpack. Simple.” He smiled. Judy knew that it had been anything but simple. Such planning for a ten-year-old was impressive. She was going to act delighted no matter what the box contained. It’s a ritual that Moms do instinctively.
Judy lifted the top off the box. She gasped. Inside the box at the bottom was a single ruby earring. Her eyes welled up as she looked at Jake. He sat, watching her, a smile on his face.
“Mom, do you like it?”
She swallowed hard to avoid crying. “Yes, of course!”
“I know that Dad took your Grandma’s ruby earrings and hid them. I could only afford one this year. I’ll get you the other one next year, I promise.”
Judy abandoned all pretense and started sobbing. She sat down hard on the chair across from Jake. Her coffee sloshed and spilled a little as she did so. Jake came around the table and hugged Judy from the side. She grabbed him and squeezed him hard against her.
“I love it, Jake! I love you.” She fumbled to pick up the single ruby earring and put it into her right earlobe. She smiled at Jake.
“Merry Christmas, Mom!”
As Celine continued to soar in the clouds in the background, Jake and Judy, mom and son, sat at the kitchen table laughing. It was a long time coming. In the living room, beneath the tree, Jake’s presents waited.
Love and Christmas were drowning them both. They swam in it.
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Wherever you are and whoever you are, the season is inside you if you’ll permit it to overwhelm you.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 