We Sit at the Bar in the Seafood Shack

We sit at the bar in the seafood shack on a 70-degree late, December day in Biloxi as the fog bursts through the open window obliterating the view of the Gulf

and chilling us as the temperature drops.  I go to the car for the fleece pullovers and return for the beer and a dozen really plump, pop at the bite and slide down the throat

oysters on the half shell right out of the BP debacled waters. The Tabasco is fresh out of the bottle and never hotter.  The horseradish gallops up my nose. We are in town on

our way to Phoenix from West Michigan via the Gulf coast, New Orleans, San Antonio, Bisbee and Tubac by the day after Christmas when the shops will be open so we can see

all the great fiber sculptures. We will be on the road Christmas day but we figure there will be room at the La Quinta Inn. Instead of being in a stable with smelly animals, we will

be in a nice, clean motel room with an eighty pound, ninety-five year old in human years Chocolate lab who is really smelly because he gets nervous when we travel.  He sleeps on

his own bed so he doesn’t smell up the carpet. He’s a great traveler but he does smell. He’ll get a bath in Phoenix.  Instead of Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus, it is Chris, Bob

and the baby Boomer, God’s gift of unconditional love. We finish the oysters and beer, head to the motel and think about tomorrow’s drive to New Orleans along the coast.

I hope the fog lifts.

Walking, talking, strutting, gawking,

all of us are out there hawking,

looking for the looks we get

wondering if we’ve made a hit.

You are too much that’s plain to see.

In other eyes there reads a plea.

Look straight at the one you’re with

even though your mind’s adrift.

Weaving, swerving, dodging shoppers

look where you’re going show stoppers.

Push that cart filled up with gifts

while your head fills up with myths.

there’s this couple from south chicago. he started out in the garbage business and she was a homemaker for other people in other peoples’ homes.

every morning at four, they got up. he went out to clean the alleys of beverly hills, and she washed yesterday’s caviar, artichoke hearts, and t-bone steak juice out of his stained blue overalls

then she went to work and cleaned the homes of beverly hills and as she worked she dreamed.

at noon, he’d eat his summer sausage sandwich and he’d dream, too.

every evening they dreamed together. yes, they worked as a team and then he made it big, bought the business with their hard saved money and called himself the owner of a sanitation engineering company.

she quit her job and never washed overalls again.  he was busy and stayed away a lot. she made herself busy, somehow.

on a lonely day, she looked out the window and saw a garbage man in stained blue overalls and as she watched she dreamed.

We Gathered In a House

We gathered in a house I did not recognize but apparently was mine to hear the wisdom of my long ago college chaplain who died but was alive for this occasion.

It was an interesting group — two friends from my high school days who didn’t go to my alma mater and had never heard of the chaplain and several others I couldn’t identify but whom I knew pretty well.

There were around eight of us males and females.  Some of the females were young like daughters.  We waited downstairs for the doorbell to ring but no results.  Finally, a couple of us ventured into the darkness

upstairs just to see what was or wasn’t going on, heard a rustling on the couch and turned on a light.  There was my formerly dead chaplain resting.  I asked him why he didn’t ring the bell and come downstairs.

He simply said he didn’t wish to disturb us.  We all came upstairs. The chaplain sat on the couch; I noticed he was wearing pedal pushers.  He regaled us with his wisdom. I couldn’t tell you a word he said

but I did notice that he noticed that his pedal pushers were wet from the crotch on down and pee was running out the bottom onto his socks and into his shoes.  I could tell he was self-conscious.  I got him a couple

of towels one to put between his bottom and the couch and the other to cover him.  I certainly didn’t want him soiling the couch. For one thing it was cloth and not leather. I guess when he crossed over to the other side,

his incontinence wasn’t fixed; either that or when he crossed back again, the old infirmities returned.  It was getting late and it had been dark for a long time and the chaplain had run out of wisdom so it was time to leave.

He was going to accompany the young ladies home safely and my two high school buddies were going to ride with him.  The remainder of the group just disappeared into the night.  Because everyone left except me,

I guess the home which seemed foreign was really mine. One high school buddy sat at the top of a giant slide next to the front door and the other one sat at the bottom of the slide.  The chaplain asked when they

were going to be honest and come out of the closet with each other.  I thought it was strange because I knew their wives but the chaplain had significant powers of perception even before he crossed over.

I could only imagine how much more perceptive he was now.  I could only bow to his gay-dar even though I remained puzzled. My one buddy who sat on the slide at the bottom seemed to give it serious consideration.

The one at the top seemed oblivious to it all. Actually, I think the chaplain addressed only the one at the bottom of the slide.  As I looked up to the top of the slide at my other buddy, I could understand.

The chaplain really was perceptive. They all got in the car and left.  I just stood on the front porch thinking everything was really strange.  I hoped the chaplain had a safe trip back to wherever and

I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back into the house.

Out of the Car and Onto the Trail

Out of the car and onto the trail, the ancient baby Boomer stopped, gagged some spittle from his prolapsed throat. We didn’t stop the stopwatch. Later, he charged off trail deep into the woods for

privacy, circled and circled and circled and then did his business. We did stop the watch for that lapsed time. “Are you finally ready?” I asked.  Ignoring me, he moved to the left side of Chris

who jogged a few feet in front. I pushed go on the stopwatch. He ran, stopped, sniffed, ran, stopped, sniffed, charged in front, dropped to the back, stopped and inhaled deeply of something

aromatic. “Boomer, catch up,” I yelled to the half deaf dog.  Three times and I have a voice that carries.  Once a pompous fellow sitting a table over from where we sat coughed to get my attention

and with his hand motioned up and down for me to keep it down. I wasn’t in a good mood, motioned back and they got up and went in another room. Finally, I screamed bloody murder and the dog

bolted upright and charged in front of me, ignoring me as he passed on his way to sidle up to his mistress.  It had the same feeling for me as I think my motion had had for the pompous guy.

Boomer wheezed and coughed and his breathing sounded like his snoring at night while he sleeps on the bed in between me and Chris, mostly next to Chris, who then complains about not having

any leg room.  But he kept going and when we finally stopped back where we started, he snorted and sighed. We made a right turn out of the parking lot instead of the usual left so he said to us,

“When we get to town and you and Chris sit at the outside patio of one of your favorite restaurants for your summer time Sunday Make Your Own Bloody Mary with a beer chaser and I almost

always come along and lie just on the other side of the wrought iron railing from where you are sitting because we aren’t allowed by Michigan law to be where food is being served for reasons

completely beyond my comprehension. I’m very clean. Besides, I really like being close to you without a railing in between…”  “Boomer, get on with it,” I huffed impatiently. Ignoring me,

looking right at Chris, he got on with it.  “What I’m asking is would it be all right if I just stayed in the car and had a drink of water from the bowl on the floor of the backseat and took a nap?” “Okay, sweet boy,” Chris said.  His final instruction was, “Please don’t forget

to park in the shade, leave the windows open and give me a little more water .  Oh, and one more thing, could I have a pain pill when we get home?” As we walked to the restaurant, I looked at Chris and asked, “You don’t think that dog is spoiled do you?”

“Yes, but he did say please.”

Winds Rip Along the Shore

Winds rip along the shore turning yellow

and then so hot that red isn’t red enough

so blue comes to mind.

Cold heat slashes against your face as you trudge

up the coast, lift your head only to see fast

moving clouds two inches

overhead.  Lieutenant Leaphorn, from big sky country,

said it best when he visited his female friend in Chicago.

The sky’s too low in the Midwest —

except on a sunny day. Then you don’t have to lower your head

against the fierce wind.  You can stare up into the blue,

blue sky while your chin gets red, white and blue frostbite.

But what the hey! The sun is out and it’s a great day. And then you

come to your senses, turn around, walk backwards

and see Louis Sullivan wink right at you.

When You Were a Child and It’s Just a Word

I. When you were a child and telegraphed really stupid behavior upon which you were about to embark and a wise, perceptive parent noticed and chose to help avert disaster

and stopped you in your tracks, you were not real happy or receptive to any recommendations that parent might have offered or upon which to insist

and so you were going to go right ahead.

And then you learned that was a really bad course of action, maybe not for the good reason your parent intended, but simply because you experienced some pain (like a time out) and

hopefully avoided bigger pain then and on down the line. That’s the parent’s intent, desire, wish, prayer.  They don’t know for sure what they are doing, but they know that

something has to be done, that is, if they are on the job.

II. Now you are an adult on your own and you telegraph really stupid behavior upon which you are about to embark

and all your wise, perceptive, really mature friends notice and choose to avert disaster by not trying to stop you in your tracks by saying anything.  They do nothing,

because that has become the thing to do.

You know you are going to be really happy because there is no warning sign, stop sign, road block, fire alarm, siren, anything.  You don’t stop and nobody knows whether or not

you experienced pain in your death, but your wise, perceptive friends sure did. Unless they said, “Well, hell, at some point you have to be responsible for your own behavior.”

Yeah, but, a word to the wise, or perhaps even the not so wise?  After all, we are only talking about a word here.

I Couldn’t Park the Van Close to the Factory

I couldn’t park the van close to the factory

so I pulled up to the door, let all passengers

out and drove

three screened-in parking lots away

to a desolate place, parked the car in

between weeds that had grown up

along the cracks, and pushed the lock button

on the remote as I walked back to the factory

around chain-link fences, through

unlocked gates and on sidewalks between the

parking lots and the lower-middle class neighborhood

of small bungalows built on cement slabs.

Chain-link fences surrounded the backyards

silent of barking because there were no dogs there.

Nothing moved or made noise except me.

I wound my way through all the vehicles crowded together

as I neared the red bricked factory. If business failed,

it could be made into fashionable condos,

I thought, if it had been closer in to the city

center of whatever city the red bricked factory

was located near.  Before entering, I stood and

looked at the windows.  They would need

to have balconies attached, because I know my wife and

I would feel trapped inside with the

only escape to take the elevator to the first floor

and walk down the hall to the lobby and out the front door

to stand outside and breathe in the fresh air and

feel the summer, fall, winter, spring princess caress our faces

with a zephyr, tornado or hurricane. Walking inside, I was

greeted by my two grown kids, another person who apparently

I knew well and several others of the group that had

been staying at a less than posh accommodation not far

from the factory but closer in to city center, I think.

It must have been a retreat of some sort we

were on but we were here because we had business to do, too.

The factory floor was crowded. It was cold enough

outside to be Black Friday which would account

for my having to park so far away from the front door.

I didn’t see any police.  There were long lines of shoppers

waiting to talk to someone about the only thing available.

Apparently, it was a one item company – woodcuts.

Some of our group wandered the aisles moving from the

waiting lines to areas where the giant woodcuts would

be dipped in the voluminous ink vats and pressed against the

massive presses. None of the ink splattered into the aisles.

It was a clean operation. Finally, the person I knew well and I,

and I think maybe my kids, moved to the front.  The redheaded, female

clerk with a 50’s kind of permanent and a very ruddy round face

wasn’t helpful at all. She was impatient and bossy. We were all getting

frustrated. My children left to wander the aisles. The person I knew

well had with him a woodcut cut into the rounded

end of a broomstick handle and one other piece which

was nice, as I recall, except I can’t remember enough about it

to explain it in any detail. I didn’t have anything with me.  I saw

the short, bald-headed, kindly printmaker I knew from sometime before.

He was standing as if waiting to receive the next in line, but it seemed he was there

just for me and the person I knew well.

I told the red-head I wanted to see the bald-head, so the person

I knew well and I turned walked up to the printmaker who was waiting

for us with a kindly smile.  We greeted each other and I introduced

the person I knew well. The printmaker said things were going well and

presented a very large print.  He unfolded it on a nearby table, but

the table wasn’t big enough to hold it.

It was an abstract woodcut by my late wife, but instead of being ink on paper

It was a wood woodcut, hinged in places so it could be folded.  It looked

a bit like laminate instead of wood. I don’t ever remember having seen it.

The person I knew well presented his broom handle and the

piece I can’t describe to the kindly printmaker.  We went to

his station, he dipped the broom handle into the ink, pressed

the woodcut onto a sheet of paper.  The rounded head of the

broom handle made a circular indentation in the paper.

That looked nice. I could imagine it dried, numbered and framed.

Before he did the piece I can’t remember well enough

to describe, the kindly printmaker, who was standing on a

stool, turned like a pirouette toward us and told us that

the work would be very expensive.  How expensive we asked.

Very expensive, like thousands and thousands of dollars expensive.

The rest of our group was getting antsy and bored and wanted

to go back to the not very elaborate retreat center closer

to the city center to get their things together before going home.

I headed back to the van, passed all the cars still

jammed in the parking lot, through the gates, along the sidewalk

with the bungalows with the silent, vacant backyards.  I looked for absent dogs.

In the distance I could see the van in the otherwise abandoned lot.  When I squinted,

I could see the weeds surrounding the van. I was still separated from

the van by a chain-link fence and I had a hard

time seeing the unlocked gate. Was I supposed to have gone

around this fence?  I sat on a chair right there. My MacBook Pro

was in my lap, opened, on and connected to the internet. The remote

was too remote to work and I had to use openthedoor.com, but I

couldn’t find the site.  The person who I knew really well stood next to me.

He told me that a former parishioner of mine whom I didn’t even

know was on the retreat was angry about the whole thing and

decided that he was going to walk to the retreat center

by himself. I was worried because he had recently survived

a brain aneurism and was very fragile.

Anxious, I went back to the computer, but, accidentally,

I wound up scrolling down through movies to rent. I tried to get out

but each time I clicked an icon I rented another movie.

The last I remember, I owed $3,447.

The dull ache in the stomach –

anxiety over the market,

awareness of the plight of the poor,

anguish concerning the environment,

acute anger at the petty people and unjust systems,

activating all this fear,

or was it simply the madeira, my dear?

On Considering Getting a Twofer

Lift your hand if you are in favor of a hand lift to go

With the face lift (maybe getting a twofer),

Because you can have the face lift, but people will glance

at the back of your hands to get the truth about your

“Can he/she possibly look that young at his/her age?”

Of course, you could save money by walking through life with

your palms upward and the backs downward to hide the truth.

Besides they’ll think you are open, accepting, vulnerable, giving, prayerful

spiritual and maybe even a Buddhist – a very young looking Buddhist,

or perhaps a very young looking panhandler down on his/her luck,

or, if you pull your shoulders up around your neck at the same time,

someone who just doesn’t know the answers to life’s greatest questions,

but who could be forgiven, given your obvious young age.