Sixty-six Years Ago I was Thrust into Life

Sixty-six years ago I was thrust into life.

However old anyone is, he or she was thrust into life,

And it was a traumatic struggle.

Some believe Original Sin is a metaphor

For the birthing experience. It might be a blessed event

For mother and father but it’s hell for the kid.

The water breaks and I’m Falling from the watery Eden

Where breathing was never a problem. I dream of swimming

Underwater for hours at a time.

I bring my knees up to my chest and flip over and over

And salty water never goes up my nose.  I want to swim forever

In this warm, watery wonderland.

But I only had nine months in the saline paradise and I gasped for air.

Hands pulled my head and then legs from fetal to straight,

Wiped my eyes, poked into my mouth and up my nose.

I inhaled the cold, dry sterile air and watched bright, white light

That hurt my eyes.  “Please let me go to that briny,

Sweet smell and taste that familiar/dark/mysterious womb again.”

“Goin’ home, goin’ home, Lord, I’m goin’ home.”

I roll on my side, pull my knees up close to my chest and

Slide my hand between her thighs.

On Wishing He Had Said That From The Beginning

The glass too big for her hand slipped

From her grip and fell in slow motion

To the table striking on a tilt clipping

The bottom edge bouncing up and tumbling down

Onto the top edge settling after a rattle.

It didn’t break,

But

Milk spilled and splashed all over the plate of

Manwich sandwiches. She jumped back from the table

And screamed, “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.”

A piece of broken glass flew toward him

Slashing across his body, back and forth,

Deeper, deeper till it sliced through his left ventricle

And blood gushed over the milk and the Manwich sandwiches and

Splattered across his daughter’s summer dress and face.

“It’s okay. It’s only milk.”  He wished he had said that

From the beginning.

Love Potion #K9.
Didn’t think we could understand dog talk, but I was wrong.

Do know Boomer wants something by his bark.

Knew to tell him, “Show me.” But he’s so deaf I need to strike a gong.

People and dogs almost go back to the Ark.

PBS’s Nova traced dog back to wolf.

Yep, Shiatsu, Pomeranian and Boomer, too.

How do I do this without a sub-woofer?

Wolves howl. Dogs bark and we know a Tango takes two.

There’s a high pitched whiny “um,” “um,” meaning “Gimmy, gimmy, gimmy, pull-ease”;

A low gutteral “ummh,” “ummh”: “My 95 year old bones really ache.”

A “ruff,” “ruff” – “I want to play, now, right now, right now. Don’t tease.”

And the one just for me, “Grrruh, Grruh, Grruh, Rrrrr,” and he doesn’t fake.

“Get the heck away from Chris, right now, Bob. She’s mine.”

But when I scratch behind his ears and he looks in my eyes, it’s Love Potion #K9.

Frustration with Indian Summer Golf

Red, yellow, orange curl brown and brittle,

Bunched together and strewn around the ground,

Flying up and down and swirling a little,

Rendering my golf ball lost not found.

Kicking brittle twisted curls,

This way and that fly the crunchy browns.

Looking for any sign of sparkly pearls,

At last I glance that which was lost but found.

I head back to the cart and make myself a pledge,

To par the hole with a chip that is clean.

I spin back toward the ball, hand on the wedge.

I see a sea of brown and not an inch of green.

Oh where, oh where did that little ball go?

The wind came up the ball went under ground.

I reach in my pocket and what do you know?

There was the ball which was lost but found.

Come out, come out, you damned white spot;

Finding a ball in Indian Summer is never easy;

Sweet temptation doeth thicken the plot;

Would dropping the ball from my hand be so sleazy?

But just then the wind gives me a peek.

Hurry up, you old fogie.

The wedge comes down fast; the ball flies to the creek.

Farewell, sweet par; hello, double bogey.

A Great Run During Primetime

While we watch a primetime rerun, my wife catches my eye in my recently ophthamologically affirmed peripheral vision. I can see clearly now.

She points to our old Chocolate Lab who lies on the big, stuffed, red chair and ottoman, half on the chair half on the ottoman.

In his dream he is running and sniffing along the Riley trails where we go to off road run and hike.

Run done, he swims in the little lake and climbs up on the bank and follows it around as we walk along — in and out of the water, in and out of the water.

He dives back in and plunges his head under water for what seems like forever. A lab, he is on the hunt.

More often than not he comes up with a water logged stick.  Gasping for air, he shakes his head back and forth proud of his catch. He brings us his prize and presents it as his present.  Good dog, Boomer, good dog; now drop it, drop it, drop it.

He twitches and jerks his limbs on the red chair and ottoman. He shakes off the water.

Suddenly he stops.

My wife quietly moves to the chair, kneels on the cushion and leans down.  She cups his head in her arms and caresses the old Chocolate. She kisses him on his floppy ear and then his snout.

He looks up into her eyes, surprised, raises his head slightly and then flops it back down on the cushion and drifts off to a quiet and peaceful sleep.

The hunt is done for now.

Fight On

“Shtinky Bun Dinky Bun Dinks, Poofin’ Bun Woops, Schtubin’ Bun Poofers, Poofers Bun Doobers, Dirty Bun Shtinkers Bun Poofs,

You are the dirtiest of Dirty Bun Schtoops. There ain’t room in Dodge for da bod of us, you dirty boy.

Now, get out of town.”

Love names used to attack. It’s all in the tone.

Going deaf, he still hears the fighting words and perks up his ears.

He charges off the big red cushioned chair and ottoman and slides along the laminate in search of just the right soft baby or chew toy.

Graciously, he avoids lamps and chairs and tables upon which rests fine pottery

Back legs wobble in need of two anterior cruciate ligaments.  Where did those things go so long ago?

Rummaging through his basket, he grabs the big, floppy, stuffed Black Lab by the neck and shakes him back and forth ferociously.  He growls his readiness. He approaches the enemy, the guy who otherwise feeds him.

Fight on.

Little white beads race along the floor flying out of the Black Lab’s neck.

“Boomer!” she screams.

Fight off.

You Jump off the Big Red Chair

You jump off the big red chair and come by me as I sit back on a Sunday evening watching Inspector Lewis on PBS.

You come up beside me and look me in the eye.  I have heard that dogs don’t like to look anyone in the eye or be looked in the eye.  If they do, it means war.

We’ve been doing this for years and I certainly don’t sense war.  I just feel a tug. An emotional tug.  I hear a quiet whine.

I scratch behind your ears and tell you how much I love you.

You give me a blink, just a sort of double wink, a squint.  The look of love.

“I love you, Boom.  I love you so much.”

You go to get some affection from Chris.

Fishing Against Type

Question in the Logic Section of an IQ test:

Two people get into a boat.

One, an introvert, patient, long suffering, an avid fan of the Los Angeles Times Saturday Crossword and the New York Times Sunday Crossword,

all sudokus in any paper and a patient listener waiting for Will Shorts’ puzzle on NPR’s Sunday Edition on the way to church.

The Other demands when Lee Ann Hansen introduces the Puzzle Master, “Turn that thing off. I can’t stand these puzzles.”  He’s kidding, sort of.

Extraverted, impulsive, impatient, one whose professor once said that he should have glue put on his study chair so that he would spend some time, any time, with the subject.

They listen.

The one listens patiently and thinks along with the game player on the phone.

The other pushes the pedal to the metal and grates at what he experiences as the convoluted, distorted, twisted, tortured logic of the puzzle and announces, “I don’t have time for this.”

Understandably, the one gets a lot more answers correct than the other one in the car.

One smiles.  The other grinds his teeth.

Oh, yeah, the boat. You get the idea.

These two go out to fish.  The question: Which will be more patient while fishing, the one or the other?

Wrong.

The one, after baiting the hook and putting it in the water and waiting announces, “They aren’t biting.”

The other, who couldn’t wait to get on the water and upon shoving off breathes a sigh of relief, says, “Give it some time, dear.”

Some time passes.  No bites.  They move and move again. No bites.

“What are we doing?” asks one.

“Fishing,” says the other.

“No.”

“Yes. We are sitting here enjoying the day and waiting for the fish to bite.”

“I should have brought a crossword puzzle.”

Then she got a bite.  “Yes, yes, yes!”  One blue gill after another. “I love this. I could do this forever.”

“Thank heaven the fish started biting,” the other mumbles to himself.  “Now we can just sit here till the sun goes down.”

See, further evidence that life is just a puzzle.

e.e. or E.E.?

In college I was introduced to e.e. cummings and I thought the way he spelled his name was way cool, but

e.e. cummings didn’t necessarily want his name in lower case.

Some critics thought it to be for poetic reasons.

His partner said she thought it was because he was such a modest person and conveyed that periodically

and that there isn’t a reason to spell his name that way regularly.

He was E. E. Cummings, proud son of his father, who died suddenly, tragically in an auto accident.

His mother stood there, blood spurting from her neck, wiping her dress as if wondering where the wetness was coming from

not letting anyone take her anywhere until she approached the body of her husband and said, “Bring a blanket. Cover this man. He was a fine man; show some dignity.”

Then she let them take her to the hospital.

He was that kind of a husband; he was that kind of a man; I guess to E.E. he was that kind of a father.

What’s a kid to do but be proud of Edward Estlin, the name that kind of a father thought of or agreed to?

E. E. was the least he could do and as a father’s son, it is what he was willing to give.

She Doesn’t Own a Gun, But….

This person I know doesn’t own a gun (I’m pretty sure.),

Didn’t spank her kids who worked through some excruciatingly exasperating adolescent passages to become, well, pretty productive young adults

(She always said that discipline was a matter of tone.),

Eschews violence on TV, greets people with “Namaste” and an ever present authentic smile, and enjoys NPR, the talk shows and the classical music, on the radio in her

fuel efficient, squeaky clean emissions emitting hybrid.

Which brings me to the point – her driving.

This morning I saw her slide right through a stop sign and then across a bike path, looking neither left nor right, at the corner of the road.

Thank God I was behind her and there weren’t any cyclists crossing from either direction.

I remembered once when I was in front and she ran up my car’s rear end. I wished that I had had that bumper sticker that said, “Unless You’re a Hemorrhoid Get off My Ass.”  I can’t say that to this gentle soul.

She puts the pedal to the metal in a most fuel inefficient way cutting her gas mileage down to, say, thirty miles per gallon while going sixty in a forty-five mph zone;

She brakes a lot because she never leaves a car length for every ten miles per hour;

She never leaves a car length; she crosses solid yellow lines; she passes on hills and I don’t mean on the way down.

So, should I tell this flower-child like pacifistically inclined mom that when she is on the road,

She is Bruce Willis, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jan Claude Van Damme all rolled into

Lethal Weapon 1, 2, 3 and 4?

Maybe if I prefaced any remarks by holding up two fingers in a peace sign….

Maybe next time I see her in my rear view mirror, I’ll just pull over quickly and let her pass.

She’ll never see me; I know this because we will be listening to the same show.

She’ll be really focused on what Terry Gross is asking her child/adolescent psychologist guest.