Life and Death in an Epidemic

I miss a lot of them a lot,

he said choking back tears.

Someone else said that there

are so many walking dead,

those who have lost some-

one so close that they can’t

imagine life going on as it

were.  They are the hungry

dead, the thirsty dead, but

the dead never-the-less.

There are those who

know those in the night of

the living dead and then

there are those who, through

no merit of their own, per-

haps just dumb luck or grace,

make it through the worst that

broken relationships and disease

and death could throw at them

and, believe it or not, survive

and emerge from the land of

the living dead and enter as

never before the land of the

living and perhaps even find

someone with whom to share

that good life, or perhaps be-

cause they have found someone

with whom to share that good

life for as long as that good

life might last as fragile as

they now know it to be, some-

thing so many others have yet

to learn.

He Asked His Wife

He asked his wife, “Will you miss me when I’m

gone?” She responded, “Of course I will.”

It wasn’t exactly the response he had in mind.

He envisioned, “What! Gone! Never! But if you were

destined for death we would go through it together,

darling. Like the president of Union Theological

Seminary, New York and his wife many years ago

who realizing the decline of one or both decided to

end life together, ah romantically, ah, so romantic-

ally.” But she opted for that which is so much more

realistic, and he scooped from the burlwood bowl

another handful of buttered and salted popcorn she

had popped in soy oil in the new Emeril five quart

sauce pan on the electric glass top Frigidaire stove.

They continued watching “Masterpiece Mystery”

while he sipped the bargain pinot grigio.

The Smoke Alarm Screamed

The smoke alarm screamed

THEEUUDDDD pause THEEUUDDD

into their ears and those of the semi-

deaf dog at three a.m. “Holy ____!” the

dog screamed not to mention what his

parents cried. It was that loud.

False alarm,

the last of many the dog’s dad thought.  He

crawled out of bed, a sweaty dream left behind.

It was a moment of mixed emotions.  He was glad

to be out of the dream but one, he had to fix the alarm,

and two, the dream might resume as often they did

when he crawled back into bed after taking a three a.m.

pee break.

For months, the smoke alarm had been losing

its mind, but they didn’t want to accept the sad

reality of SAAD, Smoke Alarm Alzheimer’s

Disease, but reality is reality and must be

faced especially at three a.m. when they

had just been scared out of their undies,

once again.

Enough is enough, they thought.  It was

sad but they had to put the ancient, twenty-

year-old electric, without battery backup,

smoke alarm, three-hundred-years-

old in human years, out of their (not

its) misery by committing SAE, Smoke Alarm

Euthanasia.

He climbed the short ladder and performed

what would go from surgery to an autopsy in

short order.  It was so sad. In trepidation, he

headed back to bed and, true to form, resumed the

dream about White Tailed Rattlesnakes but mostly

sharp toothed Gila Monsters challenging at

every turn.

He wished his son-in-law hadn’t sent photos

of the rattler and Gila from a backpacking trip

in Arizona, but he consulted Freud and Jung

and acknowledged that it probably meant some-

thing more, something that at 3:30 a.m. he wasn’t

real keen on analyzing. So, he slept as best he could,

given circumstances,

And he awoke, took a shower, dressed and headed

to Lowe’s to purchase a newborn, baby-aged battery

operated smoke detector that was old enough to sleep

through the night so all he would have to worry about

were snarly Gila Monsters, his long deceased parents,

maybe an appearance or two of his late wife and

Freud and Jung.

False alarm, pee break, once again, euthanasia, every

turn, given circumstances, Freud and Jung, dreams,

reality, life.

Freshness in the Air

Freshness in the air

After many humid days

Comforting cool breeze

The hundred-year-old

Chocolate Lab huffs and puffs

While in zephyr breeze

His coat won’t come off,

But huffs and puffs are fewer

In cool, thin air’s breeze.

The Best Father’s Day Ever All Around the Country

On Friday, his stepson showed up with the family.

Stepson gave stepdad the kind of hug he hadn’t previously

received in eighteen years.

On Saturday, when they left to go back to Chicago

stepson hugged him just like he had on Friday and

stepdad wondered why but was grateful.

On Sunday, his daughter called from an Arizona back-

packing trip with a rattlesnake and a Gila monster. She

blithely blew that off to focus on her dad.

On Sunday, a little later, his son called from Colorado

to ask how his dad’s Father’s Day was going.  They

exchanged  pleasantries  and then the

Forty-three year old kid said, for the first time ever,

“Dad, I love you with all my heart and you are the

best dad I could ever have.”

Dad cried a shrill, sharp whine into the phone and

embarrassed handed it to his wonderful wife to

finish the conversation.

After reflecting on his hideous, involuntary utterance

of joy, he gave thanks he wasn’t running for president

like Howard Dean had.

At least his loving son won’t cancel their relationship

like the Governor got his campaign for highest

office cancelled virtually on the spot.

He watched the totally British existentially,

humorous chronology of coming of age and

they are moving along from one event in time

to another totally absorbed in their mostly

adolescent male narcissism, “I can’t think of

anything to ask you about yourself, your life,

over dinner,” to totally tele-trivia.

The pass from July 1993 to whenever completely

skips the earth shattering, sun and moon eclipsing

event that transcends the start of WWI, WWII,

Korea, Vietnam, Kuwait, Iraq and Afghanistan —

August 21, 1993 a day that will live in infamy in

his life and the lives of the children, the day Honey

and mom died, but come on, it has been almost

nineteen years and it’s more than time to realize

how many others have lived and died recognized

by those for whom it counted, while life passed

by, and then he watched the T.V. as she died,

unexpectedly, slap yourself upside the head, in

a cycling accident.  She was breezing along, enter-

ed the street via a blind alley and that was that. He

sat stunned.  He thought it would be superficial.

The article below appeared on the National Geographic’s website which was coordinated with the 2009 documentary about our national parks, “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea” by Ken Burns .  National Geographic asked for accounts of first time visits to a national park:  

The first time I visited the Grand Canyon was the occasion of the wedding of my daughter Rachel Anna on May 24, 2008. In 1993, Rachel’s mother, who was an artist, died of a cerebral hemorrhage at the age of 49. Rachel was 20. The family — I, Rachel and her 25-year-old brother Matthew were devastated. We each began a pilgrimage of grief. Several years later, Rachel decided to spread her wings and venture to Phoenix, Arizona to live with a friend from high school days. Once there, Rachel, a communication and art major in college, landed a job as director of marketing for a retail office furniture company. She became a marathon runner and met and fell in love with Brian a geologist for the state of Arizona who was also an expedition backpacking guide at the Grand Canyon. After many, many backpacking trips together at the canyon, the question was popped and, of course, the place for the wedding was a given — the Grand Canyon. A small group of immediate family and friends gathered at a remote site at the edge of a point with a steep and deep drop off. Just before the ceremony was to begin, a Big Horn Sheep kid ascended the shear side of the cliff and joined the wedding party. He remained for the ceremony roaming between the wedding party and the guests. Just before the ceremony, Rachel presented me and her step-mom Chris with an original watercolor of the site of the wedding which she had painted in memory of her mother. The expansive vista, the wedding site, the watercolor, the happy couple, the uninvited but welcome guest — it was all awe-inspiring. I viewed it all through tears of joy. By the way and ironically, the couple had chosen “Goats Do Roam” as the brand of wine for the reception.

Bob Dahl

Happy, Happy Talkin’ Happy Talk —

Talk About Things You Like To Do

Boston College documented

That the super rich aren’t

Happy,

But that hasn’t stopped the

Super rich from striving to be

Happy

By acquiring more and more

And more and buying votes via

Happy

Lobbyists and anxious members

Of Congress who will be very

Happy

With a lot more money in their

Coffers for elections that keep

Happy

The duped electorate who buy

The lie of Das Führer Hitler’s

Happy

Marketing guy who said that

In order to keep the masses

Happy

You need to tell them the lie

Over and over and over with

Happy,

Happy, talkin’ happy talk,

Talk about things you like to do.

Happy!

The Clear Glass Fish

My wife picked up a Baccarat FAD #876 signed, clear glass, slender fish at the church indoor garage sale for a song. It sits on a petite wood holder with really petite metal arms to cradle the sleek Ichthus from the ancient French glass factory.  The flesh of my index finger caught on a sharp edge of the tail and we knew why it was in the sale.  I sanded and sanded with ultra fine sand paper.  The nick didn’t come out but it was smooth enough for the fish to flip out of my hands and our son in Colorado caught him with his 8’ #5 fly rod from a fresh, freezing cold, fast flowing spring creek on a streamer made by our grandson the fly-tier.  Once again it sits on that petite wood and metal holder just waiting for our son and grandson’s trip to Michigan to see it displayed on the coffee table near the window closest to the waterfall and pond where our seven-year-old gold-fish have endured as many years and twenty-eight seasons and still thrive because we don’t allow fishing, even catch and release in the backyard.

Showing up for worship we were welcomed with “Happy Pentecost!”

Looking at each other we knew I had retired from ministry.

Staring at all the red shirts, blouses, dresses, skirts and even slacks, any socks?

we then looked at our muted, beige, khaki, olive-green clothes and

 thought, actually we kind of like this, this escape from the tyranny of the church year.

Standing outside the church on the steps for the annual Pentecost

Family Picture, with my left thumb, I teasingly turned down the waist of my

Eddie Bauer slacks to reveal red, silk underwear.  Fortunately, the pastor was

Standing in front of me, so only we will know…as the fire engine red, flame

danced in our imaginations following the benediction

and into coffee hour.

Showing, looking, staring, standing, we whispered to each other across the room, “Happy

Pentecost, darling.”