The Feature of the Day

Yahoo’s feature of the day was the U-tube

Video that went viral about a cheerleader

Whose mistake could have been very costly

To her physical well-being.  The video frame

Showed her just about to begin her cart-

Wheel.  Oh, my, how did this end, he wondered

To himself. The promotional line to tempt the

Viewer into clicking the play arrow in the mid-

Dle of the photo was the tease about how bad it

Could have been, but wasn’t, except that it

Was bad enough.  He felt like a Roman citizen

At the coliseum waiting to see the Christians

Torn apart by the wild animals and thinking

Maybe one would survive without one leg and

One arm and a skull half exposed to the bone

And still kill the beast forgetting the Christians

Were pacifists back then. And so the devil and

The angel sat on opposite sides of his shoulders.

“Aren’t you sick in the gut over the appeal to

Voyeurism splashed all over the gory media?”

Angel whispered in his left ear. Wasn’t she

Supposed to be on the right side, he wondered.

“Oh, you know you want to see the tumble, the

Crash, that which should have, for all practical

Purposes, crushed the cheerleader’s upper-

Most vertebrae rendering her immobile in her

Extremities for life, but from which she

Would get up and laugh it all off. You know

You want to flinch and reel back at the crash,”

The Devil whispered, seductively in his right

Ear. And so after a moment but not too long

He clicked the back button and not the play arrow

And it felt pretty good.  It was a little victory, in

The battle of pretty significant Realms, but

Victory nevertheless. It was like the time in high

School when the really bright girl sitting next to him

In physics innocently (or maybe not) exposed her

Answer sheet and he didn’t look. Seventeen to sixty-

Seven and a few more times in between. He’s going to

Go to his fiftieth class reunion felling pretty good –

Pretty good, but he also knows that pride goes be-

Fore the fall and he imagines some old classmates

Would just love to see him doing a header and then

The splits, splayed out on the floor, writhing in pain

And then one hand on his head the other on his crotch

Screaming in agony while being carted off in a fetal position

On a gurney to the school nurse while everyone in the

Cafeteria roared. Then he thought that maybe he would just

skip the reunion.

The Sauna, the Water and the Nakedness of It All.  

Finnish men sit naked in saunas and pour water on hot

coals to get the steam going.

They leave their pinstripe suits, white shirts, ties and under-

ware behind and sit with other men of all ages.

They look forward at the hot coals not at each other, those

bodies that are, in the case of some young men, rock hard

with firm muscular chests and hard abs and in the case

of older men — fat, soft, supple, protruding breasts and

large nipples. They sit there scooping water, throwing it

on the coals and then pouring the rest over their heads.

In their nakedness, they speak of war and fear and the

death of one twin while tears pour down their faces.

They pour more and more water over their own and

each other’s heads like they were being baptized.

Then they all put on their underware, white shirts, ties,

and pinstripe suits, form a choir and in a cold, cold,

stainless steel, plastic and glass building sing wonderfully

warm words of life.

How Embarrassing

He was talking about a minor adjustment to the order of

worship with some people at coffee hour.

He had been told that his suggestion had been tried on the

immediate previous Sunday when he was out-of-town

and it didn’t go over very well, in fact, they said it was a

disaster.  He wasn’t there so he had no way of judging.

He was griping about the fact that they only tried it

once when the incredibly talented pianist heard him

griping at coffee hour and slammed him down hard

in front of every body and then took off for the sanctuary

for a while. The pianist re-emerged and went for the safety

of the kitchen, where everybody knows you are safe just like

mamma’s kitchen, but the guy who had the issue

followed him to the kitchen and signaled and

whispered that the pianist should come aside to work it out.

The pianist waved him off which bugged the guy who

only wanted to express an opinion and he said, “The

peace of the Lord be with you,” and the pianist

looked him in the eye and asked, “Any other zingers?”

The pianist refused to talk and they took it outside.

After an innocuous repartee, the pianist disappeared

and when he reappeared the guy who had been talking

about the minor adjustment to the order of worship met

him on the street and offered a sincere apology for

unintentionally offending someone who had such

an important part of the worship service.  The pianist

accepted the apology while the one giving it wondered

why he had to offer it and then that same  guy who offered

the suggestion in the first place had to ride home with

his wife who gave him the silent treatment all the way

and then admitted upon questioning that she felt like

she had to put her hands over her head to get out of the

coffee hour after being so embarrassed by her husband’s

behavior only reaffirming the truism that no good deed goes

unpunished.

Front Page News and the Handwriting on the Wall

Front page news: Get ready for a cat on a hot

tin roof of a summer, forest fires, water shortages

across New Mexico and Arizona. Large SUV’s

with distracted drivers on cell phones scream down

the interstate; twenty-something boys in oversized

pickup trucks speed their way to the  construction

site and after work to the bar for the end of Happy

Hour.  This spring tornadoes chased Snow Birds

through Texas to Nebraska into Iowa toward Wiscon-

sin leveling towns in their path.  Rains keep coming

from Chicago to Detroit with stops in Grand Rapids

and Lansing.  It’s going to be 90 tomorrow in Montague,

Michigan and 109 in Phoenix today and it’s only May

18^th.  The owner of the gas station/auto repair shop

leans against the side of the new Mustang turbo-

charged five liter while pumping four-dollar and

eight cents premium gas into the seventeen-gallon

tank, blankly stares at the dollars flipping round on

the pump and offers his opinion to no one in particular,

“Nope. No such thing as global warming.”

A Social Evening

A social evening, appetizers, three gourmet cheeses

left over from a family get together the

day before, were added to the host’s

salmon pate,

inexpensive but passable pinot grigio for the family

except the sommelier brother who

brought the three cheeses.

He spit,

they laughed and the next day took the remaining three

bottles to the social along with the three cheeses.

Four friends of faith gathered to celebrate

Mother’s Day

as an excuse just to be together because the only mother there

wasn’t their mother.  Her son was off for three-month

training in another state.  The host, the mother,

the mother’s

husband and the third guest, those four and no more, all

with years under their belts and now dry behind the

ears. Over pinot and pate, they chatted and the ever so

important talk

of discovery and self-awareness and after that self-acceptance

unexpectedly, almost spontaneously began, like this

was their chance, after all they did have all

those years

which collectively added up, so maybe even unconsciously

thought time was running out on getting things

out and it just came along. Casually,

it seemed,

willingly even, stories were told of this attraction and that,

from the budding erotic to fully expressed love found

and lost.  Conversation over the beef stroganoff and

pinot noir,

was much more mundane, about things at the church and

what to do in the interim. One guest who so touch-

ingly took the others on her journey had to leave.

The husband

walked her to the car because it was dark by then.  He

looked in the back seat and saw a ball glove.  Are

you left-handed, he asked?  Me, too,

he said.

He had played in high school and college. She said she

loved playing women’s softball, but when she

was a young teen, her mother had said no.

He asked

if she were on a team.  No, she said, but kept it handy just in

case she could ever get back in the game.  He nodded,

gave her a hug and said he would see her

in church,

then he went back to the host’s apartment to finish up

the creamy blue, the Asiago and the buttery camembert

from his sommelier brother-in-law, before he and

his wife, the Mother’s Day honoree

went home.

He kept waiting for his dad to come home,

to walk down the street, 144th Street to be

exact. Actually, his dad had never done that be-

fore to the best of his memory. His dad drove

just about every where, but for some reason,

the seventeen-year-old, senior in high school,

stood in the living room staring blankly out the big,

bay window expecting, hoping, desiring, crying

out in a stone, cold, silent way to see his dad,

his dad walking

home.  His dad didn’t do that, nor did his dad do it

when the son slept dreaming that his dad would walk

down 144^th street on the man’s way home.

His dad didn’t walk down the street and he didn’t come

home, the dad’s home, the son’s home, their home.  His dad

wouldn’t ever again sit in the chair by that big, bay window

smoking his Chesterfield non-filter cigarettes pulling

deeply on a draw and exhaling with utter satisfaction

while he told his son never ever to start the filthy habit.

His dad would never again lie down on the

couch under the big, bay window with pains shooting

down his arms, saying to his son when he walked in

the room after school one day that he needed to be driven

ASAP to the hospital because his dad really wasn’t

feeling very well at all and the boy knew that it must be

pretty serious. His dad came home from the hospital two

weeks later in a really weakened state after the son

had visited him only twice during that time because

it was the boy’s senior year and he was really busy

with which whatever it is that seniors in high school

are busy, not to mention never ending a sentence

with a dangling participle no matter how awkward

it makes the sentence his teachers had always told

him. His father lived another year but didn’t work

much and every penny that his father made from his

work came in to keep things going and if he didn’t

work, it didn’t come in and it weighed  heavily on his

dad’s mind, ever so heavily and the boy knew it.  So

one evening when his dad was feeling up to it, he

left the house to make house calls to sell head stones

to those who had recently lost loved ones or to put it

more bluntly, who had loved ones die. The son was

napping on the couch and his father’s words  as

he walked out the door were that the boy shouldn’t

sleep the evening away and that he should get up and

do his homework.  Next thing the boy knew the phone

was ringing and it was a call from the police station that

his dad had stepped in front of a train and had been killed.

The son thought the officer actually said that his dad had killed

himself.  The boy said it was a joke. The police officer officiously

said no. The boy called his married sister and they picked up

their mom from her work as a sales person in a women’s dress

shop. They went to view the body, that is, his brother-in-law, his

sister’s husband actually viewed the remains and said he

would never, ever speak of it again. And so, for a long time

the son stood looking out of that big, bay window for his dad

to walk down 144th Street, and then after the house

was sold and he and his mom moved and then moved

and moved again, of course, the son couldn’t look out

the big, bay window waiting for his dad to come home,

but he couldn’t stop dreaming that he was standing in

front of that window watching and waiting for his dad

to come home.  Through college, graduate school,

marriage, birth of his son and daughter and mov-

ing to another state, and then one day he realized

that he didn’t dream that dream any more and that

he just remembered being a seventeen-year-old wait-

ing for his dad to come home.

I Kept Waiting

I kept waiting for my dad to come home,

to walk down the street, 144^th Street to be

exact. Actually, my dad had never done that be-

fore to the best of my memory. He drove

just about every where, but for some reason,

I, a seventeen year old, senior in high school,

stood in the living room looking out the big

bay window expecting, hoping, desiring, crying

out in a stone, cold, silent way to see my dad,

my dad walking

home. My dad didn’t do that, nor did he do it when I

slept dreaming that hie would walk down 144th

street on his way home.

My dad didn’t walk down the street and he didn’t come

home, his home, my home, our home.  He wouldn’t

ever again sit in the chair by that big bay window

smoking his Chesterfield non-filter cigarettes sucking

deeply on a draw and exhaling with utter satisfaction

while he told me never ever to start the filthy habit

of smoking. He wouldn’t ever again lie down on the

couch under the big, bay window with pains shooting

down his arms and saying to me when I walked in

the room after school one day

that I needed to drive him ASAP to the hospital

because he really wasn’t feeling very well at all

and I knew that it was pretty serious.

He came home from the hospital two weeks later in

a really weakened state after I had visited him only

twice during that time because it was my senior year

and I was really busy with which whatever it is that

seniors in high school are busy, not to mention

never ending a sentence with a dangling participle

no matter how awkward it makes the sentence.

He lived another year but didn’t work much and

every penny that he made from his work came in to

keep things going and if he didn’t work, it didn’t come

in and I knew it and it weighed heavily on his mind,

ever so heavily.  So one evening when he was feeling

up to it, he left the house to make house calls to sell

head stones to those who had recently lost loved ones

or to put it more bluntly, who had loved ones die.

I was napping on the couch and his words to me

as he walked out the door were that I shouldn’t

sleep the evening away and that I should get

up and do my homework.  Next thing I knew the

phone was ringing and it was a call from the police

station that my dad had stepped in front of a train

and had been killed.  I think the officer actually said

killed himself.  I said it was a joke. He said no. I called

my married sister and we picked up my mom from her

work as a sales person in a women’s dress shop.

We went to view the body, that is my brother-in-law

actually looked. And so, for a long time I stood looking out

of that bay window for my dad to walk down 144^th Street,

and then after the house was sold and my mom and I

moved and then moved and moved again, of course,

I couldn’t look out the big bay window looking

for my dad to come home, but I couldn’t stop dreaming

that I was standing in front of that window watching and

waiting for my dad to come home.  Through college, semin-

ary, marriage, birth of my son and then daughter and mov-

ing to another state, and then one day I realized that I didn’t

dream that dream any more and that I just remembered being

a seventeen-year-old waiting for his dad to come home.

Back in Kentucky

Back in Kentucky when he was a young, wet-behind-the-ears

minister who pastored Presbyterian churches he determined not

to send out ordinary, typical “messages from the pastor,” that basic-

ally were attempts by the pastor to make those who got the newsletter

and who actually bothered to open it and who hadn’t been in wor-

ship for a while feel guilty or the messages were stewardship updates

on how far behind the church was in the budget which also was

designed to make parishioners feel guilty or they were syrupy senti-

ments about Gentle Jesus Meek and Mild. After all, he had been

an English major and had gotten some poetry published in his college

literary publication and had been the editor of his seminary’s student

literary publication, so he wrote short stories and editorials on national

and local politics from his Christian perspective and poetry, mostly haikus

which didn’t take too long to write. He put two of his college English

professors on the mailing list – one from community college days and

his courses in Shakespeare and one from his junior and senior years and

his classes in creative writing.  Once, he wrote a tribute in a newsletter

to his Shakespeare prof. and when he was on a trip to Indiana stopped to

say hi. The prof. had framed the tribute and it hung in his home study.

After the minister, now-not-so-wet-behind-the-ears, moved back to Mich-

igan, he visited his creative writing teacher who told him how much the

newsletter articles had meant to him and then kidded the minister about

still having some hair on his head. The prof. had saved some copies from

all those years. The minister didn’t get any of the writing from those news-

letters published in periodicals or journals or anthologies, but he did get

them published in the heads and the hearts of two mentors.  Now the minister

has a photo of the one hanging on the wall of his home study. He was teach-

ing Shakespeare at London University on a professor exchange when he

just dropped dead while in his fifties while at his desk and the minister thinks about

the other every time he drives past the street where the prof. used to live

before he died at a pretty young age from smoking too much.  Then the min-

ister thought about impermanence and the aging paper of his newsletters and

while it had been a long time since he thought of heaven in a geographical

way, he wondered if his profs. remembered him and then he remembered that

eternity was in his head and heart and that he would simply leave the rest

to God.

The Really Important Events

The really important events of human life

are recorded not in section D of USA Today

or retold on entertainment programs about

the entertainment industry and celebrities or

maybe they are

if such observations of endless, total

self-absorption might offer something more

than the predictable “un-uh, un-uh” illustrations

and admonitions in sermons –

What is it

you are spending precious time watching and

reading, Reverend? But rather in the really,

big, thick, dense tomes of the nineteenth

century Russian novelists, the novels

and short stories

of John Updike and the short stories of Ray-

mond Carver (who died of smoking rather

than drinking which he also almost did) who

wrote observations of endless, total self-absorption

and mundane events.

And maybe we asked ourselves, What is it in those

short stories of mundanity and novels of self-absorbed

protagonists we read for Stanfield, Jellema, Prins and the

really great, gay guy who got beaten up in Hyde Park

by his partner?

I Sit and I Sit

I sit and I sit at my laptop computer

Stretching and wracking my brains,

And what do I get for all of my effort

But spider and varicose veins?