Wednesday, December 30, 2009
How Spat.
Yesterday I visited Bailey's In-laws; such a cozy house with good company and lots of books and interesting furniture pieces from all around the world. While Sandy was suggesting a list of good reading material, it made be think of a book I'd finished last summer. (I have many books I started, then grew side-tracked before they were completed--I hate this and am really irritated at my lack of focus and inner drive.)
This particular book was called The God of Small Things; quite sad but smattered with endearing words and delicious sentences. Recalling the author's use of 'Bar Nowl' reminds me suddenly of our late night visitor. The How Spat has been absent for many months and it will be several more before he shows face again, if ever. I'd gotten rather fond of his random drop-ins. Hopefully he'll be back....
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Lost: 1 Antique Oak Rocking Chair
...through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
In a quandary we've all frantically searched for something; a set of keys, cell phone, a library book past due... It never fails--even if you slow down/retrace your steps/distastefully dig through the trash...its mysteriously gone forever.
Until 20 minutes later and there the object sits--right in front of your deluded, exasperated eyes. Gah!
During Thanksgiving week, we lounged around Bailey and Nate's cabin on 2 pre-owned comfortable chairs, or several couch cushions strewn on an older, patterned rug. I was telling Bailey how I loved to sit and rock my babies-- all of them snuggled and slept to the sound of my beating heart. A rocking chair is a life-saver needed by all new mommies--how I wished I could ship her the one I used.
The summer I was 18 and out of high school, I stripped the crinkled blackened finish off an old gently curved, low-seated, slatback rocker, exposing the lovely golden oak underneath. I sanded, rubbed and steel-wooled until it glowed, not realizing that I'd actually be using it 9 months later.
Baffled, my old memories soon grew even more confused. "I don't know where it is!" I told her. "I remember exactly where I used to rock Brigham, but I don't recall it at the smaller house." We'd moved. I racked my brain and wanted to cry. Had I left it in a garage and someone stole it like they did my cute iron day/trundle bed? Had I been feeling overly generous and let a former friend borrow it? Who? Who? Would my Ex have it? No... How could it be gone for so many years and years-- It was not in the garage...
So I came back from Alaska with that niggling predicament: What happened to the rocking chair? At my mom's? There was a clunky one in the garage after all, but it had a cushioned bottom and broken rocker. It bothered me in bed--I was heartsick at night and I've laid awake ever since--each of my babies fed and held there, sleepy, sweet, fussy or sick. Perhaps I was just overly excited about Bailey's new baby--who is already loved by so many people and he's not even here yet... I can imagine him cradled in mommy and daddy's arms...
And then, just sitting here, I knew! Oh brother--I sheepishly and embarrassingly admit what an idiot I am. Bailey, do you know where the rocking chair is???
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Homer Alaska has a fabulous library. While I was there, Bailey checked out a few books on baby names in her quest for a middle name. Brigham has already dubbed her baby 'Stephen' knowing full well such an irritatingly mediocre name would be totally inadequate. He's already purchased a gun for in utero 'Stephen'. Nate made some name suggestions while he moved about the kitchen installing an island he'd created out in his greenhouse/shop. A couple sticks of wood in the stove made it cozy inside. We looked through a ghastly 70's birthing book and home decorating magazines and later I picked up a bestseller to read: The Story of Edgar Sawtelle.
When my kids were babies, I went through a phase of disliking dogs. I guess I was a germaphobe or something--I didn't want them anywhere near my babies and I could hardly (if at all) put out my hand to pet one, no matter how nice they or their owners, were. This book would make a dog-hater change their mind. I can't write much about the book--don't want to dwell on sadness at the moment. Nate and Bailey's Daphne Dog helped me overcome my "anti-dogged-ness"; what a cute fluffy little hairball, and then it's temporary playmate, puppy Fergus, whom I call FurrGuy.
Daphne and I played 'sock' several times during my vacation--mainly just shaking a sock silly while it rips and tears and we bound (read: mom is on her hands and knees!) around the room rambunctiously hiding behind furniture and peeking at each other until one of us gets winded. We also went for several walks after Bailey's pots of strong coffee--either on the awesome little wooded trail across from her front window or on the beach. The weather there was a temperate 37; it snowed slightly one morning and misted, sprinkled, was sunny about 10 times a day. I couldn't get used to the sun coming up at 9:30!
I was totally thrilled that I saw my 1st grandchild move--a brief little bump near Bailey's bellybutton as she lay on the table at her doctor's office. Gotta show some pics!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Post Med.
I really have to watch myself; a few days ago I could not remember what year it was when filling out a check nor how to turn on the clothes dryer. Someone gave me a bag of pears and it took me three days to recall whom. Brigham asked why one of his sharp knives was opened and for the life of me I don’t know what I used it for. One evening I lost time somehow and was ready to go to bed—when I checked the clock it was only 6:45pm. Must have been a time paradox. Hmmm. But this week is better—I allowed myself to drive further than a few blocks and I don’t fall asleep the minute I sit down.
So, back to the future. The weekend was lovely and warm; shorts and tee weather. Yard work was pleasant until this morning when I heard leaves crunching and found Weird State Highwayman standing in my backyard. (exasperated sigh) Crap. Weird State Highwayman has asked me out intermittently for the past 23 years. Yes, I remember this because I can recall the very yard I was standing in when he appeared up the alley the first time he asked me out; a rental down by the end of mainstreet. I made a ‘no’ excuse at that time.
Every couple years his radar picks up my location and I must endure the uncomfortableness, inner irritation, and guilt as I think up a new reason to say ‘no’. About 5 years ago, he’d appeared on my porch out of the blue with a paint brush—I could not believe that he’d partially overheard my conversation at the grocery store about home painting estimates. He was ready to ‘help out’. I looked at him (incredulously)—“I’m sorry, but my dad is dying at this time. There is no way I am going to paint my house THIS MONTH!” and “No, I can’t even think about going out.” He drove by a few times that week; I saw him while walking. Here’s why it annoys me: Every time he asks me out, he is just on the verge of another divorce!
Anyway, I looked up when I heard the crunching leaves and he stopped short saying, “Uh, I just wondered if I could ask you a question?....”
I must have had a flash of annoyance cross my face. He didn’t come any closer. Or perhaps he didn’t like the big butcher knife I was brandishing high in my hand. (I’d been cutting down my little wren houses.)
“What?” I said bluntly and “Where did you come from?!”
“Um, I saw you when I got gas and decided to drive through your alley. Don’t worry, I’m NOT A STALKER.” ( INTERESTING!) I raise an eyebrow. (My insides snidely curl as I recall Mom’s old goat stalkerman said the very same thing!***plus, I’d noticed that truck go through the alley twice in the last few minutes…) “Don’t you want to go out?”
I am so proud of myself. I make no excuses but stay nicely cordial. “No, I really don’t want to go out. It’s just not my thing I guess!”
“Really? Uh, you never want to……..? Would you take a bribe?”
(Huh?!) “No thanks, it just doesn’t interest me….”
He mumbles something about being beautiful (ha!) and how he’ll still be asking when he is 70 years old as he backs out of the yard…. And I didn’t bother to ask him if he was still married like all the previous times.
This whole encounter puts me on edge—I don’t know why I always feel guilty about my choice to say no—don’t want to hurt feelings I guess. I went around towards the front of the house and Thank God mom and Motorcycle Gary pulled up just then—they actually saved me from conversing with Country Bumpkin Man, who’d just appeared in my neighbor’s FRONT yard. AAAAGGGKKK! If I come unraveled it’ll destroy the entire universe!!!
Country Bumpkin is a whole nuther blog…
Give me another pain killer please.
***Question: Why would a man say, “Don’t worry—I’m not a stalker.” Had there been a previous accusation? A judgment of personality? A suspicion? There’s something prepenseful , a little foreboding about that statement. Have any studies been done? What percent of stalkers have actually swayed their victim; reassured them, ensnared them in their trap with those very words? I’d like to know.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Frozen Food/Homeless
Since nobody showed for quite a while (wine-bottling/’nuther birthday party for Nick’s grandpa), we roasted some hotdogs anyway—we were ravenous. I even ate the white bread (ick) surrounding mine; well most of it… As we shivered and shook and held our knees and ankles pressed tightly together in a frigid mermaid stance, I decided I was too cold to walk 6 steps to the paper plates. It was much easier to pile a big spoon of potato salad directly on top of my last clump of bread that was crushed in a semi-folded napkin—thus Jesse once again yells: “Your mom’s a freak! Is that a potato salad snowcone?!” I licked up 2 clumps of potato salad snowcone’ (no spoons) and then we went back indoors to hover by the space heater in the tree house.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Are You KIDDING ME??!
I copy/paste this phrase in regards to Irritating, 'Ol Codger Stalker Man, or "Mom Stalker" as you've read about in the past...
4 separate court dates had been set for the first part of October; luckily we didn't have to drive to any of them, as the perpetrator pled no contest to stalking; thus saving us our gas, time, and emotional duress!
However, the ink has hardly dried on the page--it hasn't been a week and he's broken the law already.
Ridiculous serial bully/deceitful sorry old goat.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Predictor Philosopher Prophet of Doom
Gumbyman appears these last few mornings. AArgh...you’ve read about him before! I really try to clear out before the onslaught of retardation begins, but sometimes he strikes after one java--He’s just itching to begin some version of what-could-have-been-a-decent-topic-had-someone-else-opened-their-mouth instead…
I write this blog because I can’t get this vision out of my mind (eye-rolling here) and for some reason that boppy little Marilyn Manson tune of ‘Own Personal Jesus’ has run through my mind all day, with an occasional roar: ‘REACH OUT AND TOUCH FAITH’.
Gumbyman has begun the throat-clearing and the hem-hawing. You can tell he’s revving up. He’s probably watched something on PBS (Profuse Brain Stupidity) or on TLC-- (Trivially Learned Crap) last night. I like these channels and it wouldn’t be so bad if he’d just mumble out…”I watched this show on___….” But no, Gumbyman deluges us with his seeming ‘expertness’ in all fields but comes across like a 6 year old that retained only fragments of some silly fairy tale…or mixed together 2 or 3 tales with the nightly news and a bad politician.
“Ahem…grunt, groan. Throat rasps. Hem/haw. Slight cough. Um. Ahem…” Many people take their cues and jump up to get another cup of coffee or check their phones or lottery tickets then sneak out the door. I was in the process of grabbing some sugar packets and stopped dead in my tracks when my ears were assaulted with this:
“Ahem.. Um. Ugh. Yeah. Um. Ya know, the world didn’t end in 2000.”
I am speechless and I widen my eyes to the size of dinner plates as I looked over at County Worker Man, the poor remaining soul trapped in Gumbyman’s snare—too polite to get up and walk out, but he cannot hide or wipe the smile off his face no matter now hard he tries.
Yes, folks, I $hit you not. “YOU KNOW, THE WORLD DIDN’T END IN 2000.” WHAT THE FREAK DO YOU MEAN???!!! Frankly, I am highly amused yet flabbergasted by the stupidity of this statement; Gumbyman’s opening line to his 15 minute oration in which he soils himself with verbal diarrhea.
THE WORLD DIDN’T END IN 2000. I guess I did not know this. I should fall to my knees! Je$u$! Praise God! Our planet is NOT filled with uncomatose zombies that have managed NOT to lose their skin these last 9 years. Halleluiah! I should cry out like a Holy Roller Baptist! Praise be! We’re ALIVE!
This is about where crazy Marilyn Manson kicks in... I give miserable County Worker Man a huge grin and a slow beauty-pageant wave as I back out the door--his eyes are glazing over already...
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Disapointment. Odd Men.
Now that I'm back online and missing the night of giggling man-watching, I was thinking a bit about some of the men around here. Recall the whackos I've written about many times over... let's see...what other rumors might I disgorge? (I'll use 'disgorge' rather than 'divulge'--it rings more aequately to the sound of throwing-up, which tends to fit with my topic. Bluck.)
Hmmm. There was that man that decided dressing up in camouflage and striping his face green/black was the perfect way to stalk/windowpeek/harass/terrify his ex-wife. Oh, can't forget the weapon and his ultimate embarrassment at getting caught.
Then there is that man that always seems to be just over your shoulder wherever you go; funny that spiders crawl up and down your back in forewarning. Why do some men take pictures of their wives (now ex) while they slept? Weird. Just what in God's name were they/he going to do with the photos of her? What?!! (She shoulda sitcom-hit him with a cast iron frying pan and drug his a$$ out the door...that's what I woulda done. THUNK. And then stomped the camera.) Speaking of cameras....zoom lenses....this becomes a real joke when you wonder what some of these guys are REALLY taking pics of. Or looking at. The big honkin lens around the neck is certainlyNOT female attractant. It makes one want to run far, far away...
Oooh. There's Tall Hat Camper Man, a heavy-metaler (meddler?) that looks more 'Cowboy Country' with a ridiculously huge hat perched on the tip-top of his head. Too tiny in circumference and too high. (He's another one of those over-the-shouldlers!--reminds me of the 'sidler' on Seinfeld!) Plus that suspiciously sturdy locking back door on the crappershell, I mean campershell has 'serial killer wanna-be' written all over it. Invisible ink of course. But we all know.
Oh. Getting tired now. You have another glimpse of slim pickins in Wamego.
Hey. The 2 plants below? Extremely, dangerously poisonous. Guess who has them now growing around her yard?! : )
Appropriate to topic? I say.... yes.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
The Three Graces
Here I am, bored, standing around talking to Hippy Bill, Cowboy B-not D, and Vinny-my-new-boyfriend. (I call him ‘my boyfriend’—that’s another blog; he reminds me so much of an old friend called ‘The Blaze’ from Long Island [not really a boyfriend either] that I almost think they are the same person!) We have been snorting with irreverent laughter, chuckling/eye-watering, non-stop giggling and Vinny has just finished licking my forearm (sorry, you HAD to be thereto understand the humor of arm-licking by a near-total, boy-friend stranger, but what the hell!)
It is hard to maintain a straight face with our joking around, but now we all just observed (shame on us) “RUBY” once again:
LITHIUM RUBY. 67 yrs. Ruby truly believes that she has boyfriends, but they do not believe this themselves. Ruby is a day late and a dollar short. Ruby has defunct time-span socialization. She may be ‘on drugs’. A space-cadet. Ruby perceives men-that-she-likes have relationships with her (even though some are married—she even invites them AND their wives over), and if she finds you sitting with them drinking coffee, her walk into the gas station slugs down like a slow-motion film. Snailpace, then Standstill. It takes many seconds of staring to see.that. Brenda. Is. Sitting. By. Gerry. Ron.is.sitting. across. From.brenda. del.is. sitting.by.ron. … Ruby likes Ron. Ruby likes Del. Finally—comprehension! Ruby now shoots dagger-eyes at Brenda and Gerry, because we obviously must be putting the moves on her imaginary boyfriends and there is no place for her to sit. Ruby now takes more shuffling steps toward the Pepsi machine. It.takes.several.seconds.to.find.a.cup. It.takes.several.seconds.to.find.a.lid. It.takes.severa.seconds.to.find.a.straw.It.takes.several.seconds.to.find.the.pop.machine.features.and it.takes.several.minutes.to.decide.which.kind.
When Ruby pulled up to the outside window, I whispered to Bill that her bra was hanging out all over the place; like her tank top was on SIDEWAYS—“Don’t look!” He says that she always drools on the countertop, but I have never seen that facial phenomenon—only the vacuous, then glaring suspicious eyes—“DROOL? No WAY!”
Bill resists the urge to tell Ruby to rearrange her tank top for better coverage (“I don’t want to see THAT!”); normally he is open to open cleavage views. She looks completely disheveled, like she’d put the moves on one of her ‘men’ in a back alley or something. Ruby finally finds enough money to pay for her pop and leaves—she looks at each coin for 5 seconds apiece, I swear!
Back to us bored Wamegoans: The awesome new chiro-doctor has told me this morning to “do nothing below the belly-button”. I am sure you can imagine the conversation that ensued… more uncontrollable giggling. Perverts.
ANGEL of The Three-Ringed Circus: I’d been thinking of “The Bearded Lady” earlier today, so I must add this now. Teg and Bail will know who I mean! Angel is a fairly young gal—around my kid’s age, but twice their size. When she walks in the door, men of all ages automatically (and subconsciously) grasp their chins or lower jaws. I have seen this experience more than once and believe me; it’s extremely hard to wipe the grin off the corners of one’s mouth while observing the blue-collar class in distress.
They are male. They are mesmerized. They are speechless. They are…………….scared.
Downright frightened.
Angel has a beard thicker than theirs. They have even whispered this in awe as they stroke their own whiskers. “My God! Is that a girl?” Yes. Yes it is. And her facial hair is at least an inch long today.
Angel has 2 special brothers and a VERY SCARY MOM. When I picked my kids up from The Kindergarten Wall many years ago, I was terrified enough to cross the street to wait. Oh, what a Blessing to our community, this family! After the daily ear-splitting scream/cuss/slap show, we all breathlessly hugged our own tiny sane children and hustled them home to safety. Shudder.
IM NOT LISA; MY NAME IS _____, or, Truly _____: Unfortunately, I must bring up my ‘oxymoron minus the y word’ once again. I’M NOT LISA has just pulled up to the pump, causing Hippy Bill to perform eye roll groans. Oh God. I was a nonbeliever until I’ve observed this with my own 2 eyes, but I’M NOT LISA is the epitome of clumsiness. A true Bull-in-the-China-Shop. PLUS Lithium! I kid you not! We have 2, 2, 2 females that so obviously take some kind of mind/time altering/time-warp-funk prescription candy they should probably be on a sci-fi movie.
I’M NOT LISA sometimes stuffs all sorts of candy bars into her purse, oblivious that everyone is watching and when confronted, her confusion is an act worthy of an Oscar. She really doesn’t know what she’s doing. She spills. She drips. She stumbles. She speaks in tongues. She argues with unknown entities. Again, she spills. Is she drunk?? Today she has opened her car door and all of her change has rolled underneath. Sadly, it is a real site to see her picking up enough to get $5.00 worth for gas.
Once inside, she has filled her giant cup with ice. It crashed to the floor. She always drops EVERYTHING! At least there was no pop in the cup today and kind soul that I am, I could NOT bring myself to help her chase her ice cubes all over the tile. Why not? Because she doesn’t wear UNDERWEAR, that’s WHY NOT! IM NOT LISA is a big lady. Quite large. She manages to find the thinnest of spaghetti straps and the shortest of terry-cloth shorts MINUS appropriate underclothing, and, frankly, I did NOT want views of her woo-hoo nor her taa-taa’s hanging out all over the place if I ingratiated myself to help. But I finally did. I felt badly.
IM NOT LISA has so kindly moved to Oztown to ‘help’ with her young relatives—Alas, she is NO help. Sadly and embarrassingly, THEY help her. Sadly and embarrassingly, I decide to help IM NOT LISA pick up part of her ice cubes, post the “CAUTION: WET FLOOR” sign, and wipe the slick spots with a towel. Why?
It seems somewhat ominous to denigrate women when I am ONE MYSELF.
Ah well.
I will burn in hell for writing this blog.
And I’ve only just begun….
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Measels & Woodchucks, Buns Berry Baseball, Death.
(“Kansas has 2 temperatures” in the World According to Bill: “Hell-Hot or Bitch-Cold. Nothing in-between.”)
Brig raised a slight eyebrow, unimpressed by my new mammalian species… “I couldn’t tell if it were a muskrat or a weasel-thing…” I offer this explanation, but it’s too oppressive to talk. 2 nights ago I’d seen a rare woodchuck, the 3rd in my lifetime, and excitedly began that tale, but he burst my bubble when he asked if it were down by the old ball field… Harrumph. He’d spotted it too. “So. How much wood was it chucking? MINE was chucking baseballs…”, I say. But he didn’t find that worth conversing over either.
He’d Appeared Out Of Nowhere moments before, startling me like a damp orange apparition as I swiped the sweat from my eyesnoseears, teetering and diving down again for another purple/black elusive clump hidden in the still, mosquito-laden understory of humid silver leaves.
“Get those 2 big ones! Right there!” he points, but I‘m not Stretch Armstrong and he won’t grasp for them himself, preferring to nibble the already-picked, outer edge-of-the-patch redder-tarter ones. He has on a scissor-mutilated, debilitated-rehabilitated faded orange Tee, cut to expose his biceps, back and ribs: “Dangerously Cheesy” it exclaims, from the “It Aint Easy Bein’ Cheesy” cartoon cat, now crumbling from multiple washings since 7th grade.
Mr. Cheesy certainly will not risk a sharp raspberry scratch from an evil thorn, having experienced enough pain from last week’s tattoo claw. He’s hot. He’s tired. He’s all scratched out at the moment. Seeing that I’m not risking my careful footing to stretch for the biggest bestest berries, he harrumphs himself back indoors.
I, on the other hand (foot), continue precarious hippo ballet, wallowing delicately amidst the canes. I look for secure footing—one leg astraddle a low-lying clump.
This reminds me of my doctor-visit stance: “Stand up against the wall for an X-ray. Not facing the wall. I’m not going to frisk you! Have you ever been frisked?” Caught off guard by my incompetence (why are you x-raying through my stomach??), I find myself turning forward wondering ‘HAVE I ever been frisked?’and then gasp aloud, “NO!” “Don’t stand with your feet TOGETHER...” he says, “ keep your legs apart as wide as your hips and your knees straight.” I perform this and am still deemed unsatisfactory. “Closer together”. “Closer.” “Closer—Your HIPS are not THAT wide!”
I look down at the space between my bare feet. “Well, they ARE in my MIND!” I tell him. Aloud.
He leaves to go x-ray my solid parts, my bones; my thoughts are safe and can’t be read with his super human ray-gun. Harrumph. I’m disgruntled, having been told “NO MORE LUNGES” and “No attempts at running EVERY day—you’re NOT A MARINE.” I’ve questioned his “No more lunges” statement and he’s told me that the glute muscle works TREMENDOUSLY HARD during a lunge. It strains. It contracts. It squeezes. “Why do you think I do them?” my impertinent, invisible and un-x-rayable mind thoughts say.
Later, as my eyes burn from salt-sweat and Biofreeze (Brig wasn’t obliging when asked to rub my butt muscle so I did it myself-- accidently touching my face), I think that I probably AM doing some gluteus maximus straining anyway with this raspberry balancing act. Super-achy an hour later, I decide to stop.
Swimming away the heat at Paula’s, floating, dreaming, envisioning more unpicked berries—Brig calls from the Mall, cool and sociable once more. A fellow track-relay-mate, on the 4 x 400 one year, has committed suicide that morning. The boy, 3 years older, reminded me a lot of my own son when they both sported a goatee, same short stature, dark-haired and handsome. I had already heard this rumor from Paula’s dad minutes before. Brig always seems aggravated that I ‘know everything before he does’. (“Moms always know everything” I’ve told my kids numerous times. “And we always find out.”)
I am sad that sometimes moms find out things way too late. Way, way too late.
Now he doesn’t really know what to say. Things like this are BEYOND COMPREHENSION. I am the older, the wiser (?) so now I say the things that need said because this is truly such a waste of life and a heartbreaking devastation.
I much prefer the semi-silent conversations that auger forth imaginary measel creatures and light-hearted, trivial thoughts of baseball-playing mammals on a hot summer day…
Sunday, June 21, 2009
American Beauty: Flint Hills
I think I am one of those people, who, if not careful, would waste entire lifetimes away by dreaming.
I’ve already wasted away so much of mine.
I can’t help it. I can sit down to examine a flower or a unique seed pod and while needles of soul-piercing sun race up and down my arms, I am oblivious…a minute can turn into 20…or 30… and I watch the tiny gray weevil snuffling along a stem, a minute periwinkle butterfly probing a golden peppered blossom, an alien whitegreen crab spider contemplating a dinner gnat…
Hours I waste. And yet I feel so hugely awed by the smallest and simplest of things; is it so wrong to just waste time? I adored Fairy Tales: Thumbelina sleeping in a walnut shell, images of pixies clad in petals… I could sit there forever, moving a few feet at a time, and still not SEE everything.
It had to be coincidence that American Beauty was on later…the odd boy, the strange boy with his camera, filming a dancing plastic bag, and a dead bird… Ricky says it all:
“Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in.
and
Why are you filming that dead bird?
That was amazing.
What was amazing about it?
When you see something like that, it's like God is looking right at you, just for a second. And if you're careful, you can look right back.
And what do you see?
Beauty.
Is it only dead things?
No. Not at all. No, it's everywhere. You just have to be open to it.”
So its really not that crazy to be fascinated by the foot of a grebe or the claws of a snapping turtle. In honor of Father’s Day, I saw a rare scissortail this morning and I still remember our dad carefully bringing in a dead specimen. As little kids, we ooh’ed over its long feathers as he carefully wrapped and laid it to rest in the freezer…
So, I must post these few pics from Barry and Sandy’s place above their home—and remember, they do no justice to the actual beauty found with the bright fresh air and time and space…
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Gumby and Pokey!
That blog I wrote under this? I failed to mention the worst part--Gumbyman sits down opposite of me EVERY time he comes in, folding his hands on the table (like churchalterprayer) and STARES. He STARES and STARES and STARES. Its enough to drive me berserk. I do my best to hunker down and duck behind whomever happens to sit in front of me, but Gumby moves about to reposition his view, so its about 20 minutes of Adult Peek-a-Boo before I've had enough and walk out. (Either that or adulteress-gossip'll begin when I find myself nearly leaning on 'ol Coach Guy or something!)
Gumby, I'm ready to Pokey your eyes out!
Monday, June 1, 2009
Gumby Grumble
Gumbyman isn’t a true ‘regular’ coffee drinker—he’s lately ingratiated himself upon a somewhat wary and suspicious group of us—most of which get up and leave after a few moments of ‘Cliff Clavin’ rhetoric. Gumbyman knows all. Unfortunately, I heard a few tidbits of one of those ‘back in the war’ stories, which chaps my hide. For godssake people, what is with these men who bemoan their horrible days in ‘Nam—when they have never been there? ! Do they think women fall for this? If only I was a fast thinker—I’d whip out a clever retort—but alas, my brain moves too slow. Since Gumbyman (he’s missing all his teeth by the way) is MY age, perhaps I should view him with AWE! “Oh, Gumbyman, how unawares I was that our very own US government had a such a secret weapon—did you, too, train like the child VC’s?? Were you learning to lob a grenade?? My, you must have had some muscles! (It’s obvious he didn’t fare well socially, being deprived from parental care at the ripe old war-faring age of 9. Or war just does that to a pre-teen soldier.)
In KS it’s illegal to trap a raccoon—(furbearer license needed) and we’re not harboring a wild animal; we are helping to rescue an orphan. Mogely is not in a trap or cage. He is free to curl up under the couch or my collarbone or even in my basket of laundry; thus my excuse if the Game Warden comes knocking. (Good thing we sent him a ‘get well’ card when he was ill!)
Look at darling Mogely—he follows like a puppy, purring and twittering, and playing just like a real baby. He discovered his back feet! Brigham claims when Mogely fell asleep by my ear I was wearing his tail for a moustache.
Not true, but he’s the reason I haven’t blogged much!
Here we are getting ready to plant Lily of the Valley from Grandma...
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
In Which I Pet a Giant Fish....
Surprisingly, it was 'Dozer Davy', Pott County's competent bulldozer man. I say 'competent' because the other dozers around this county play with little hills of dirt for days on end causing much eye-rolling and many caustic comments about their so-called dirt-moving 'abilities'.
And our county 'Pott' is short for Pottawatomie County, not the 'smokin pot' pot, but the Indian/Native American Potawatomi or Pottawattamie, which actually don't even really reside here, but in the next county over-- Jackson County actually has the 'Indian Reservations'. (I have my reservations too.)
And KS pot is/was called K-Weed back in the day, but ya didn't smoke it-- you pulled it out of the creekbanks and fed it to your pigs. Only idiots tried to smoke it, but the law caught too many people in the 70's that were trying to grow the South American kind and got their panties in a bunch trying to distinguish between pothead pot and k-weed and banned everything that looked like a japanese maple leaf, thus denying pigs a good food source and making extra work for the farmers who had it all cut down. It still appears here and there in patches and ditches (and in the back of Paula's sr pictures as she leaned against a farm rail fence) No, we are not potheads!
But I digress. Dozer Davy had something to show me, so curiously, I jumped in his truck due to his rare enthusiasum. He's normally a man of few words, although if he's talkative he'll resort to bantering with the other local bluecollar men-- things like "Well, kiss my ass on Broadway" and other assorted farmer slams and quips. Knowing that he likes to set bank lines, I've been harassing him all year to take me along one morning. He failed to do that this weekend but he wanted me to see what was in the big fish tank, thus appeasing his guilt.
We drove out of town and tiptoed across someone's newly planted lawn to look at a monster. Petting the head of a 65 lb flathead was kind of cool; I even tried to stick my fingers by his gill, but not wanting to get my arm ripped out of my socket should he get riled, I withdrew my hand out of the cold water. A 30 pounder lay nearby all but shadowed by this grandfather fish that picked it's unlucky day to bite at a baitfish on a bankline. Noodling would be crazy--people that do that are darn lucky they're not drowned, but a large one like this is probably pretty rare. I'd only seen heads before, nailed on a shed by my cool Uncle Darrell...
I posted a generic pic of a 57 lb fish, as my battery was dead in my camera...
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Influences...
After that, I decided to drive over to the town of Wabaunsee, small enough that one can raise chickens in your yard, if one so chose, without much comment from any neighbors, as they have them too, and maybe even goats!
Wabaunsee is the home of Jaguar Joe, the only guy in KS that I know whose living room (which faces the main road) opens up to encapture whatever Jag he’s working on at the moment. We also come to this town for gun purchases in a guy’s basement, and other than that, I am not aware of any other ‘business’ here.
Jaguar Joe, a Vietnam Vet with white Einstein hair, bought this abandoned old limestone grocery back in 1983. The very next year, he was awakened when the back wall crashed away from the structure…as he restored the property, he extended the home and added many tall southern windows—this area is his art studio where he creates his wax sculptures to be cast later in bronze in the backyard.
There not being many (any?) Jaguars in KS, its easy to spot him coming, especially when his Jag was painted as a huge red/white/n blue wavy flag—with large paintbrushes and house paint. Up close, you can even see the texture!
I hadn’t seen him in a couple years, since I had stopped going to the Columbian Artist Group, but since I heard he has cancer too, I had to visit. “Damn! If this is what makes you come see me, I need to get cancer more often!” and “Listen bitch! Stop using your ‘lost glasses’ as an excuse and make some new art!” He’s very vocal and opinionated! Despite his pain, Jaguar Joe was very inspiring and showed me some sculptures-in-progress, some websites to visit, and the spirit to get motivated on some new art.
I will definitely drop bye more often, re-join the Artist’s Group, and yank him along with me to keep his mind on art and away from the pain!
If I can…
: )
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Eros Turannos
What fated her to choose him;
She meets in his engaging mask
All reason to refuse him…
Every once in a while the lines from this poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson will magically appear in my mind and repeat themselves over and over—I don’t know why or when but I relate to them very well (I take it too literally, probably) and from the first time I read these melodious lines in college, a vision of bright, sparkling blue eyes hovered before me, making me smile yet depressing me at the same time…
“She fears him.” Yep. Anyone. Although it may not show. Put up the defenses immediately... “Engaging masks”—too many engaging masks out there. There’s always something lurking behind them. They all have some type of hidden agenda… “All reasons to refuse him”—sometimes its easy to see right through the charmers. The regular ones are the worse; seemingly normal and all. Its so hard to be caught off guard and try to find an excuse to get away…
She fears him, and will always ask
What fated her to choose him;
She meets in his engaging mask
All reason to refuse him…
When I was 14 and had just discovered that a large number of high school boys were interested in the upcoming freshman class, I and my friends spent hours at the swimming pool shyly ‘looking the look’ and looking away. It was a new phenomenon, exhilarating/exciting and a little uncomfortable and scary. What did we know about older guys? God, they were cute and flirty and driven and dangerous.
A guy named DJ had been trying to talk to us all week. It became bewilderingly apparent that we looked damn good with our tans and white bikinis. When we finally pulled on some damp clothes and left the pool, him and a couple of new buddies walked up to discover what young chicks were seated on the picnic tables under the shade of the oak trees. All at once I was gazing into a set of incredibly mesmerizing blue eyes which snapped and sparkled at me while every warning bell and siren in the book went off, but it was already too late…the spell had reeled me in and I was a goner for years…
I’ll call this guy Cecil, (though I’m tempted to type his real name in case a self-google-search will pull up this story for old-times sake) and I spent what seemed like eons repetitively falling for his ‘engaging mask’.
Cecil had just graduated OUT of high school as I was going in, and lived near the pool and park with his dad and several fast, spotless cars. His house was near enough the school that one could eye the driveway from American History or Business, hoping to spot him luxuriously rubbing down whatever piece of machinery was gleaming there at the time, which could either be an extreme emotionally high or devastating disappointment.
I loved this guy. Absolutely fell for him. Would hope and pray to get a ride home from him after an evening at the pool or later after a baseball/football/basketball game, as I became a cheerleader and lived a mile out of town.
Having the strictest parents in the world did not make life easy—when Cecil, DJ, and others heard we’d be sleeping outside in a tent, my dad greeted their crunching gravelly footsteps at midnight with a shotgun, much to our dismay. It was horrible. As a group of guys fearfully dove under our vehicles; we glumly promised never to ‘invite’ anyone over again. I guess any hopes of first kisses were shot that night. Thanks a lot.
Probably the severity of parental disapproval made the forbidden even more enticing. I managed many times to kiss this guy and it was far better than anything one could read about. It was sheer heaven n hell combined. To be around him was so exciting, yet sickeningly scary, there would be times when one’s knees would be too weak to stand. And the look. That magical gaze. The SPELL. How many many times did I really believe the quiet “I love you” because his bewitching gaze made it TRUE? What a sucker I was. So many times.
And so many times he was with someone else the very next day or even hours later. How many times did my world turn upside down because I saw someone else in his car when I got groceries with mom, or there was someone else in his car when I rode the bus home from school or there was someone else in his car when I was stuck at cheerleading practice or babysitting or a hundred other random activities? It was so gut-wrenchingly painful and horrible, yet he could walk up to me later with that look, or call and the thrill would erase all of my previous thoughts and misgivings. Every single time.
It became very weird that summer. The phone would ring randomly, for my sis, my mom, my brothers, but if it was HIM, I could tell. I always knew. My stomach flipped over. I knew when the phone rang that it was him. It was weird and to the point of panic sometimes, nearly screaming—‘Don’t touch the phone—it’s for ME!’
My freshman year was filled with ecstatic misery. My boyfriend became DJ; not sure why, except he was always around. Deep down inside I really liked someone else.
But Cecil was a charmer. A player. A true P-L-A-Y-U-H. He thrived for the chase. He wanted girls constantly. He was quite gifted in getting his fingers on, under, over, around, in anything young and naïve. I’d learned fast that some of the girls he flirted with and picked up in his car were deemed ‘whores’ and ‘sluts’ the very next day. It was as if he couldn’t help himself, yet the moment they finally gave in to those hands, he lost all respect and was filled with disdain. He ignored them after the ‘kill’.
I knew deep down inside and knew it from the moment I laid eyes on him:…if I really wanted him, really wanted him to like me, you had to play a game and a rough game it was.
I remember an afternoon that I was finally allowed to do something with Cecil—probably ride into town for a summer baseball game or something. My best friend was over, but when we gave him a phone call he said he wasn’t feeling well, thus plans were canceled and I was feeling pretty low. Since mom had made a batch of soup, we decided to take him some. She let us drive into town and as we walked near, glancing through the windows, it was apparent that he was ‘involved’ with someone on the carpeted living room floor; another cheerleader who had actually heard me discuss my ‘date’ that very morning at practice.
Shock hit, again the world fell apart and I tried so hard to pretend I didn’t care…my friend could read my face and while we joked and silently fooled around with his vehicle—turning on the windshield wipers, the radio, etc, I could hardly keep the tears from overflowing. I remember the pity in her eyes. And later that evening, when he actually showed up at the baseball game, those blue eyes snapped with hatred—NO ONE was allowed to touch his vehicle he was so particular about it…but yet, I got a ride home later although the eyes flashed and blazed dangerously. I nearly ‘lost’ him by touching his car…
I could type a zillion tragic scenarios, numerous lessons in agony, (I even caught him with my sister for Christsake) but I always fell for the look and the “I really love ONLY YOU” line.
Cecil joined the Air Force the following spring and left town, yet he came out to say a fearful and crushing goodbye. It’s hard for any guy to venture toward the unknown. During my high school years he would keep in touch and visit me. I had other random boyfriends, all of which despised Cecil; I probably had some ‘look’ on my face when I’d hear his name. And whenever the phone rang, I could elatedly tell if he was back in town from Guam or England or Hong Kong or wherever, and I would jump for joy that he still cared. He always snapped those blue eyes and drew me in. Addiction was powerful and consuming.
Then I became a party animal and left home on Graduation. There was a big party house a couple towns over and many girl and guy friends took up residence together. Summer was a blast until a fateful day when my boyfriend dumped me at home and I had to tell my parents, hesitantly mumbling, that I was going to get married…
I remember my dad sitting in his chair reading and my mom not saying a whole lot, but didn’t seem at all negative about it either. I was home that weekend because I wanted to start sewing a wedding dress and the machine was in the back room. These words were barely out of my mouth when the phone rang.
I swear to god that I knew. It was HIM. It was Cecil. Never mind the fact that no one had heard about him in months, that I hadn’t been home all summer….it was HIM and I looked at the phone in delirious fright and awe and the most gut-wrenching feeling ever…and answered it.
It was him.
It wasn’t the world that tilted this time; it was the universe. The universe fucking imploded because he sounded so calm, so serious, so crushingly believable: “Will you marry me?” Can you imagine the total shock, the unresolved longing, the hope, the cruel anguish, thoughts swirling a million times a minute? (WHY WHY WHY Didn’t you call a month earlier? Why?) I had to quietly tell him the reason I was home and I think we made small talk and I got off the phone.
I imagine my night, sleeping in my old bedroom, staring at the ceiling, hot tears streaming hour after hour after hour….
The dress was begun early the next morning; I’d already bought the pattern and lace. (I trashed it a few years after my divorce as it was an ugly, sucky style.)
In the afternoon, I rode with Cecil to Wichita—I don’t remember why, only that it was very quiet and we didn’t say much except through eyes and our holding (gripping) hands…
He had paperwork on Base down there; getting ready to be shipped out again. Yes, I left with another guy on the weekend I was making my wedding dress and no one knew except for my mom. It was about a 6 hour trip and I don’t remember where we stopped for a quick bite to eat. I don’t remember much at all except for the shock and his eyes could still sparkle and snap though in a heart-wrenching, sobering manner. He wasn’t all fun n games then. It was so quiet. The blue eyes were beautiful.
I got married. Had a baby. Coincidently, who showed up at the hospital hours after the birth? I cried later, when all the company left, feeling trapped in a blasé marriage, but making the best of it with a sweetheart infant.
Then 4 years later, separated and stressfully trying to raise 2 toddlers, I woke up with the strangest feeling--thinking of him and the eyes and the sadness. My mom called in the morning and said, “Guess who was in town last night?” He showed up at the grocery store at noon where I worked as a checker, so I shakingly went for a ride in another hot car—he’d married someone in England and it hadn’t worked out.
Several years passed by, college and a new job; I was working and nearing the end of the day, my room phone rang. I had barely taken 2 steps towards it when I KNEW. Totally out of the blue. I was shaking so bad I could hardly answer and it was the secretary apologizing all over the place: “I’m so sorry; I shouldn’t bother you…but can you come out to the break roo…?” “YESYESYES!” I was saying before the words were even out of her mouth. And there he was with those mesmerizing eyes and the look and I melted into a puddle once again. He didn’t stay long, married to a Japanese girl this time…
The flustered secretary later talked a mile-a-minute….”Oh I’m so sorry, oh my, I just couldn’t help it, I knew I shouldn’t interrupt, but he just batted those eyes at me….oh, he made my day…” Yes, he could raise the heart rate of a 65 yr old.
He could almost get you to do anything, ‘almost’ being the key word in our non-relationship…
Whenever I read this entire poem--an overwhelming misery permeates the ending—I’m filled with sadness and relief. Although I was only 14, then 18, I feel as though I was wiser than the lady that allowed herself to fall for the allure of the ‘engaging mask’.
So I think of this poem and know inside that I would have been unhappy, because despite all the tortuous wants and desires and the breaking heart, it would never have worked out. There would be no trust on my part, severe jealousy, atrocious mind-games and debilitating emotional humiliation. And he would still tell me that he loved me, but it wouldn’t have changed anything. My inner voice knows it would have been a life of arduous despair and misery. No happiness-ever-after for me…
She fears him, and will always ask
What fated her to choose him;
She meets in his engaging mask
All reasons to refuse him;
But what she meets and what she fears
Are less than are the downward years
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs
Of age, were she to lose him.
Between a blurred sagacity
That once had power to sound him,
And Love, that will not let him be
The Judas that she found him,
Her pride assuages her almost,
As if it were alone the cost.
He sees that he will not be lost,
And waits and looks around him.
A sense of ocean and old trees
Envelops and allures him;
Tradition, touching all he sees,
Beguiles and reassures him;
And all her doubts of what he says
Are dimmed with what she knows of days--
Till even prejudice delays,
And fades, and she secures him.
The falling leaf inaugurates
The reign of her confusion;
The pounding wave reverberates
The dirge of her illusion;
And home, where passion lived and died,
Becomes a place where she can hide,
While all the town and harbor side
Vibrate with her seclusion.
We tell you, tapping on our brows,
The story as it should be,
As if the story of a house
Were told, or ever could be;
We'll have no kindly veil between
Her visions and those we have seen,
As if we guessed what hers have been,
Or what they are or would be.
Meanwhile we do no harm; for they
That with a god have striven,
Not hearing much of what we say,
Take what the god has given;
Though like waves breaking it may be,
Or like a changed familiar tree,
Or like a stairway to the sea
Where down the blind are driven.
I wrote the above story in my mind, with succinct fluidity, but while typing was interrupted numerous times by my son’s random friends, thus disrupting the flow. Apologies.
Would I go for a ride again? What would you think?
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Hot Lips. Batman. I have sunk to an all-time low.
God! I remember thinking no matter what people thought of Michael Keaton's 'not so handsome facial features', he didn't have to remove that black mask in order to look damn sexy. Hot lips--they looked good in both those movies.
How unfortunate that another actor took his Keaton's place--there'd be no replacing that mouth. But then Val Kilmer stepped in and after I warmed up to the change, how could one NOT find them (his lips) equally hot. Especially since both actors fit that 'sad, lonely, brooding, insecure yet strong, save me' personality quite well. Back in the day, when I was young...hell Batman--I'll save ya!
Anyway, I was way too young to remember Jim Morrison, but he probably had the hottest lips of all time. Even those old black & whites are totally mesmerizing. I had a friend whose older brother knew him (met him?). I guess all he had to do was look at a girl a certain way and she'd drop to her knees... so you'd have to add in his eyes for that kind of effect, I would think. (I knew this guy with these incredible eyes...but that's another blog!)
Back on track, I am taking a poll on who has the sweetest mouth ever. I say Johnny Depp. Johnny Depp wins. He is the winner. C'mon...that little cupid-bow perfect mouth. Johnny Depp's lips are the best. Johnny Depp wins.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Strange Corner
Thwunk. (pause) Thwunk. (pause) Thwunk. (pause) This was the repetitive sound created by by neighbor as he practiced his bow hunting next door.
Chink. (pause) Chink. (pause) Chinkklang. (pause) Chink. (pause) Chink. (pause) Chink-klang. (pause) As I was removing laundry later, I listened to the sounds of throwing knives hitting a huge board set against a shed. This is across the alley. The chinker? Some lady I have never met.
Brrrrrrmmmm. Brrrmmmm. or Zeeeeee zeeeee zeeeee zumzumzum. or Gggrrrugggrummmgrum. Gggrrrggrrummm. A youth rides motorbike/scooter/4 wheeler hours at a time...up and down the alley.
The thought crossed my mind...if they were out here at the same time, bowman could overshoot his target, hitting knifegirl, who twists in mid-air, stabbing scooterboy as he flies by.
Sigh. What can I say? I looked down and saw a blowgun dart in our yard, neglected by my son who has just purchased a 5foot shooter as tall as my forehead.
(I shall refrain from my "getting shot by a blowgun" story for another blog; forseeable title: "why my son is a fast runner"!)
Anyway, I found almost 30 mushrooms under my cherry trees while listening to knifegirl--I'm wearing one on my pinky-- and here are a few more dart purchases. Evil-looking, aren't they?
Now tell me: what would you say if your son said "Hey, quick! Google, 'how to make poison'! From kitchen stuff. For my blowgun!"?
I told him I was probably already on the FBI's most wanted when googling about my 'crackhouse' dollhouse...and just because they made homemade Ricin on 'Breaking Bad' a few weeks ago did NOT mean that it would kill a bird immediately... animal poisons involved a lot of tracking and patience as the victim slowly wanders....blah blah.
Yes, we have a strange little corner here...what can I say? And there is a muskrat in a bowl in my fridge...
Don't worry. No Banjos or Stills though. But I bet there is down the street!
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Exasperation.
I swear to God (not his. self-proclaimed 'preacher-man'. snarl.) that my blood pressure must be worse than a Mt ReDoubt eruption about now...
That little tidbit of information surely got a rise out of me. Any misgiving I had about self questioning or wondering if I was some type of a bitch for thinking I might be a mean person towards this old goat flew out the window now.
So I ran down to the PD to talk to a County Deputy (I knew many were in town since there was a wreck at the end of my street and vehicles galore!) and his recommendation was talk to a judge immediately...his own kids were within yards of my mom when it happened. No-one wants a person like THAT around their children and he'd had a run-in with this idiot already.
Sigh. Let's see what the Judge says--stalker was behind MY house later the same evening. My. He gets around.
DOCUMENT. DOCUMENT. DOCUMENT.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Breaking Bad
God. This 'skank' crusty druggie crushes her guy's head with an ATM; blood puddles everywhere...after she bashed in Jesse's head....and she also portrays the mother of a cute little red-headed boy. I could of cried because it's so real...kids actually live like this.
Here's this tiny, filthy boy abandoned in squalor--neglected, hungry, ill-clothed, subjected to sights no child should ever see...pretty gut-wrenching stuff.
I remember some folks that had taken in a youth from California, about 11 or 12 years of age, it was hard to determine...they couldn't figure out why he'd keep hiding bits of his supper upstairs in his bedroom. Later it was discovered that he'd had a toddler sister and they'd had times in their lives when they did stay in a box (or hide) when their mother was messed up. He'd been darting out and stealing food from trash cans--anything he could find, and bring it back for his sis to stop her from crying--and to probably keep her alive. Eventually she joined him in Ks--I don't think the mother was ever fit to have them...
Anyway, I think Danny Trejo ('Desperado', Johnny 13 on 'ConAir') will be on the next episode--he's so bad ass something radical is bound to happen!
Again.
(On a side note--those movies I mentioned above? I really got a kick out of them EXCEPT both their ridiculous endings--one can only handle so much bull at a time!)
Anyway, my Season 1 Breaking Bad dvd in now in Alaska... I hope the kids like it as much as I do.