The girls to whom I gifted the chalk yesterday did indeed end up drawing in several places around the creek. It’s mostly obliterated now by the bikes and feet that traversed it in the interim. That’s okay. Not just because chalk is a temporary method of artwork. Rather, glimmers (or lemon moments as I call them), they are transitory, fleeting, and trapped in the amber of memory. I hope when they grow older they remember their loving grandfather who brought them to places like this. And that they do the same for anyone who follows them.
Perhaps due to the August heat, I remembered my grandpa for a bit as the hot surfaces attempted to burn the bottoms of my feet. Grandpa walked with me from the little township of Rich to a commensurate community named Monroe. A long stretch of flat highway, flanked by thousands of acres of crops. Dragonflies buzzing, and the sound of my grandpa’s voice. His voice was mostly silent and though I trick myself into believing I can sometimes remember its resonance in my dreams, that’s probably nostalgic wishful thinking.
The water is cool today, though not as chilly as yesterday. There are no little souls frolicking in the water. None of which thwarted my enjoyment of the moment.
I went to the creek earlier than normal. It’s trickier to walk the hidden trail in the back now, especially barefoot. The foliage is taking over. The smells are incredible. There were no falls as I walked down the middle of the creek.
As I finished my creek walk, a grandfather came down the incline, followed by two frolicking little girls. The grandfather asked me how slippery it was inside the creek today, so I told him to step into the water on the dam side. Because I sat on the embankment wall with my feet dangling in the air, I could hear him interact with his granddaughters. All I heard was kindness in his voice. Because of the splashing, I surmised that all three of them had taken off their shoes and socks, rolled up their pants as I had done, and stepped into the cool water. Such a simple pleasure, even to hear it as it unfolded.
When I walked back across the parking lot to my car, I got out several sticks of thick sidewalk chalk of various colors. I walked down to the creek bed and handed them to the grandfather. He was delighted as he handed them to his granddaughters. “What do you say,” he asked both of them. Both girls turned, smiled, and said thank you. “Draw something crazy,” I said, and wished them all a good evening.
As I walked away, one of the granddaughters asked, “What’s that sound” as the backdrop of insects roared once again. “Let’s draw whatever it is,” the other girl said.
It’s nice to hear good people doing basic things to enjoy the day. It makes me feel less eccentric.
I had to pull over and let the music play. It was unexpected. Pink’s song “Who Knew” came on and it took me back a couple of decades. It was only recently that the singer talked extensively about the song originally being about a huge loss she had suffered. The song was featured in a short-lived TV series named “October Road.” I didn’t watch the show but I heard it often in the background, as someone close to me loved the show. Afterward, it was impossible to hear the melody without a bell of melancholy ringing inside me. All these years later to find out that Pink felt a similar loss makes the song much more meaningful. Not all melancholy is bad. It serves as a reminder, too. Especially when you find yourself doing the things you have to do so that you can do the things that you want to do – and can’t always grasp the point or meaning. Most of our days are founded on obligation and routine. While the universe laughs and flies by us.
“If you go into the building with that much enthusiasm and energy, you’re going to end up with a nail driven into each palm.” That’s the quip I hollered at someone as they came in this morning and the one which inspired the following words:
When you run into somebody who is so full of enthusiasm and energy, it is either one of the best things in life or a trigger. It’s a trigger if you’re missing those things. But when the mutual laughter and enthusiasm collide, it’s a joyous ball of energy. Probably one that annoys onlookers. For that reason, I carry both Lone Ranger masks and COVID masks for the potential naysayers. Due to legal issues, they confiscated my taser. My plea that I only used it on myself went unheeded.
Because I didn’t want to miss the opportunity, I took my shoes off in the work parking lot and walked down to the creek nearby instead of one of my usual spots. The water is much cooler than my last visit. Unlike me. I’m as hip as a polyester suit at this point. But my desire to come down here and stand in the water stands among my best decisions. It tickles me as people race by and see me in their peripheral vision. I probably look like a rutabaga with a dumb smile on my face. I look goofy enough to get a nomination to the Supreme Court. Love, X
Dashiki shirts have a lot of history and symbolism. I realized that my new scrub tops were very similar to the style and cut of these shirts. So I got a colorful one. Of course. It’s extremely comfortable. I’m wondering why we don’t wear this type of garment way more often.
Since it is a cultural item, I will studiously avoid driving inside any small municipality around here. I won’t mention any of them by name.
It was about 4:00 a.m. I had a delicious bitter cup of coffee on the banister railing. The booms of thunder and lightning bedazzled my eyes and ears. It’s fascinating watching the traffic at that hour on Sunday morning. An unhealthy percentage drivers at that hour are on their way too or returning from unhealthy shenanigans. I heard the vehicle brake a little bit in anticipation of making a right turn across the railroad tracks. The big white suburban attempted to execute the turn while traveling at about 40 mph. As it turned, both passenger side wheels came up as the vehicle wildly turned and then spun all the way around, hitting the sidewalk curb. The wheels slammed back down. I expected the protuberance of the railroad rails to flip the vehicle. The suburban was motionless for a few seconds. The driver was probably checking his or her pants. Assuming they weren’t drunk and oblivious. I could not help but laugh. My laugh echoed much too loudly across the parking lot and against the building. Later, shortly after 5:00, huge gusts of wind buffeted anything not nailed down. I was already back outside with my broom to pick up the plants that I knew would not withstand the wind. None of them were mine. My corn stalks are on the inside railing and oblivious to the weather. My cat Güino darted outside long enough to get splattered by the rain. He was adorable, his face turned up against the wind and rain, his little nose and eyes squinting. He ran back inside when a singular wind gust slammed the door completely open.
“Knowledge comes easily, but wisdom wears a different pair of shoes.”
We all know that change and new behavior is the only way to move forward. But we are reluctant to put on work boots. Inaction is easier. To reflect, evaluate, prune, and move in another direction. Every important change starts with a new attitude. Followed by action. And if it doesn’t? You move first, and motivation will follow. Almost everyone gets stuck in the familiar; no matter how unhelpful our status quo is, it’s familiar and comfortable despite its consequences. Most of us observe with wonder at how complex our brains are, how filled our world is with surprise, and how powerless we feel when we want to connect with the invisible and intangible power of just being alive. “You’re your own worst enemy” was intended as an insult. I took it as an insight. Knowing you’re an idiot can debilitate or motivate. Everyone says they will do the things that matter, express the words that want to spill, and be a better person. Tomorrow. Later. When the time is right. Your boots are stuck under the bed somewhere, lonely from disuse. Love, X .
The man put his window down and asked me if I needed a ride anywhere. I told him Bentonville. There was a long, awkward pause. I laughed as he realized I was yanking his chain. I told him I was out enjoying the storm and rain. He told me he hadn’t intentionally been out in the rain in a lot of years. After I asked him how old he was, I asked him to guess how old he thought I was. Very early 40s was his reply. I told him I was 56, 5 years older than him. I’m pretty sure he left wondering why he doesn’t go for a barefoot walk in the rain.
When the storm rolled in, I helped the neighbors pick up a variety of plants and items the wind tried to kidnap as it traveled above us.
Even though I had already taken two walks this morning, I knew the rain was not going to be another missed opportunity. I stripped down and removed everything. Phone, watch, glasses, and common sense. And took off around the neighborhood for a walk in the rain. Barefoot. In the open spaces, I could see the expanse of the sky and the galloping clouds as they dumped rain.
It was a stolen moment, one particular to a warm August morning.
I wrapped my wet shirt around my head upon my return.
Despite it feeling like this hot summer might be interminable, I know that there will not be many more warm rainy mornings to enjoy the subtle pleasures of walking in the rain. Not to mention that I have no idea of how many more rotations around the sun I might get to enjoy.
This is a personal story. Some humor, some violence – but most of all, it contains a thread of nostalgia for people no longer walking the earth with us.
My brother Mike is no longer here to add the details to the story. He was older and larger than me. He reminded me of this easily observable fact quite often. For some reason, he was at the bar with Dad. I’m 92% sure it was the Red Door. During a relatively short stretch of time, Mike often accompanied Dad to the bar during one of our several residencies in Tontitown. Mike was trying to do his homework. Mike used to like to tell the story of how the barfly would hit on him. His account of her appearance was hilarious. Whenever he brought up the story I would ask him, “Yeah, but if she had been good-looking, you would have acted differently.” Sometimes he would punch me in the arm and sometimes he’d say, “Duh. I’m dumb but not stupid. But there’s no way I’d engage with someone who might have been with Dad.” Mike often told a repertoire of versions of this story, full of detail and exaggeration. The bones of the story are true, though.
Dad was drinking too much, which is like saying don’t wash your dishes in the washing machine. I don’t know Tiny’s real name. His nickname derived from the allegedly hilarious observation that he was the exact opposite of diminutive. He probably weighed 350 lb and was about 6 ft tall. Tiny was at the bar, which was a rarity. He preferred to drink an entire case of beer at home. Mike surmised that he and Dad undoubtedly had been working on a truck at some point in the day. And ran out of liquor. In Dad’s world, that was as serious as skipping seven consecutive dialysis visits.
A couple of rednecks came into the bar. They weren’t regulars. Their faces were anything but regular too. Mike liked to quip that both of them could have been a carnival attraction based solely on their faces. Dad was playing pool and acting like a fool to amuse himself. The rednecks wanted the pool table. Back then, we didn’t have Appleby’s, where you could drink too much and pick on an urbanite for amusement. Dad called them his favorite word: “++++suckers.” One of the rednecks came up behind him and knocked him down with a pool cue. When my brother Mike turned around to take another look, he saw Tiny pissed off and getting up from the bar. Tiny was probably more pissed off that he had to leave his beer unattended than he was about my dad BobbyDean getting clobbered. The redneck swung the pool cue at Tiny. Tiny raised an arm and took the blow across his forearm. In a move regarded as one of the most foolish in human history, the rednecks did not take the opportunity to run out of the bar. Tiny walked towards them both. They both started swinging at him. Tiny pushed one of them so hard that it looked like an invisible tether yanked him backward. He grabbed the other redneck by the arm and swirled him around. Despite Tiny’s size, he grabbed the raucous redneck by the belt and picked him up, and threw him in the general direction of the other redneck. He bent down and helped my Dad get back to his feet. Mike did add that Tiny was breathing really hard but otherwise hadn’t changed expression during the entire altercation.
The rednecks took their time getting up. Nobody had anything broken. Dad was bleeding a bit but since it wasn’t gushing, the old rule of “If you can stand up, it ain’t that bad” applied. It’s a version of “Walk it off” that parents told people of our generation – even if an arrow protruded from our thigh.
When the two interlopers had regained the ability to understand English, Dad told them if they would stop acting like Mississippi refugees, he’d buy them both a shot. It’s anybody’s guess whether they accepted the offer for fear of another round with Tiny, or they understood that that was the way these things were supposed to be handled.
My brother Mike ended up sitting at the bar, surrounded by two redneck strangers, Tiny, and Dad. They acted like old friends who just finished trying to kill each other. Mike noted that the barfly was still making geriatric eyes at him. I’m sure that on some nights, Mike probably had a drink, whether he’d easily admit it or not. Knowing Dad, he probably insisted on it. It was a violation of his code of conduct for anyone claiming to be a man to decline a drink in the presence of other men. Later in life, Mike adopted the same outlook, for better or worse. Dad often required me or Mike to drive us all home if he was particularly drunk. We never understood what gauge determined this, as Dad drove even when his breath was flammable.
I’m sure Mike learned more from observance that night than he ever could by staring at his textbook. Mike was brilliant but also brutal in his approach to certain situations. If you doubted him, he’d bend your thumb backward or hit you precisely in the neck in such a way that you were immobilized long enough to regret it.
PS The picture is a composite of their approximate appearance at the time.
One disadvantage of trying to sleep not long after 7 p.m. is that my body begins to stir by midnight. I was up at 1 a.m. It was fortuitous, as I witnessed the light rain sweep the parking lot shortly after. Not wanting to miss it, I crept down the landing stairs wearing only swim shorts. The rain pelted me with drops much cooler than I anticipated. I walked out by the road as my skin begged me to retreat to the protection of the landing or inside the apartment. Knowing I was in a moment that would be impossible to recapture, I remained there, smelling the singular scent of rain stirring the dirt and foliage. It was another stolen moment, one owing to sleeplessness, adventure, and pictures. My computer was on, with six or seven folders open, ones mostly mausoleum now, smiling and posed faces, many filled with people now moved on. I was attempting to both commemorate the past and repay a debt of shared pictures from years ago.
The problem with opening these windows is that they are often literal windows into nostalgia, penitence, and even happiness. “I wish there was a way to know you were in the good old days before you actually left them.” Andy from The Office quipped those words. Nostalgia often warps the sense of reality. We simultaneously fondly remember what we experienced while also catching slivers of memories that camouflage the chaos and pain that often characterize our lives.
It all started a couple of days ago when I revived an old photo of my sister. My cousin, who was older than my cousin Jimmy and I, commented, and our orbits intersected because of him. She commented that a man named Frenchie was her first love. I knew I had a picture of them, standing on Ann Street (Peaceful Valley) where I spent so many days, nights, and weekends. My Uncle Buck and Aunt Ardith were my refuge other than the Hignites’ trailer. I don’t remember much about Frenchie. When I think of Diane, I think of her husband Bob, who was a witty, kind person to me. I enhanced the picture of Diane and Frenchie. In the background, you can see what was once open fields and emptiness in that part of Springdale. I’ll put it in the comments. Strange how a picture taken for the purpose of celebrating people can also drag us into a memory of how the places around us used to be.
I love the video. Not because I’m in it. The video exists because of a long, circuitous technology trip, one which required conversion, editing, and keeping on my part. Aunt Barbara recorded us with a large camcorder, the kind that once rendered even strong shoulders a bit fatigued. I do laugh because, at one point, I used one of my favorite phrases at the time: “Hi, honey.” Later, at the very end of the video, you can hear me ask Aunt Barbara, “Who did you say, Aunt Barbara?” She called me “Little Bobby.” As people passed, the frequency of hearing my old name being used precipitously dropped. The joke was that if you threw a rock anywhere near the families, you’d hit six people named Bobby, Robert, or some variation. My birth name was supposed to be BobbyDean, like a mumbled run-on of a moniker.
When I watch the video now, I think that there should have been another sister in attendance, one who was kept secret. She would have been in her early-20s at the time. Lord, the fun we would have had scandalizing our older kinfolk.
At any rate, heading toward three decades later, I’m lucky to still be able to wake up too early, walk in the rain, drink the bitterest of coffee, and open windows into the past. I work to remember to avoid looking back out of those windows too long. It was bittersweet to live those moments. Dwelling on them too long robs me of remembering that the good old days are still here and that it just takes a large dose of time to render today’s moments as amber.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 