Inspired Moment

  Having the theme of joy surface over the past couple of days, and sharing as I have fruits in a fictional flair, I’ll share this contrast coming from the shadow of my personal belief system; limitations, as it were, keeping me from realizing ‘joy’ as something elusive. Because it is not the same happiness that comes from the completion of well executed plans; but rather a self congratulation for honoring a deeper rooted purpose within that defies definition on protocol of correct behavior.  Maybe that’s the crux of it, a liberty, an exalted freedom from releasing a perception of adherence to perceived ‘have to’ or ‘should nots’ born from genuflecting to unuttered threat in a persistent unconscious fear over consequences never experienced; what a mouthful to say self inflicted wounds. I find a delicious element to inspired creativity; it possesses the true liberation from a dull and mundane existence.

   “Why not”
  Once, I was working at the Army’s Central Command operation center, and we were visited fairly often by celebrities; on this occasion it was Steven Stills member of the noteworthy group Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. They had influenced my musical artistic development from my earliest and tender recollection. Unobtrusively I entertained a notion of comical proportion. That of telling my friends and intimates,

  “Oh yeah, Steve and I are on first name bases.”

  Then, without constraints I saw the twinkled spark of mirth’s own good humor arise. I had been, for several weeks, been producing power point slides from operational maps for the chief of operations. I had become so adept at doing it, on several occasions my product gave him opportunity to waltz into the Commanding General with fresh news first. This made his notice rise above the covey of other Colonels in the command. On this particular instance, he was the one who would brief Steven Stills during his visit. Part of the orientation included the Colonel introducing each person manning their specialty desk. Before the introductions, I went to the chief and asked him if he was satisfied with my products; he said he was. I then requested a favor;  and that would be to mention that I too was a musician by the Name of Chance Haven when it was my turn to be introduced. Then I could mention that I wished to be on first name bases with Mister Stills. The moment arrived and the chief made the introductions
“Hi Steve”
“Hi Chance, how’s it going?”
“ Cool for spring”
  And there you have it. Not only did that opportunity arrive, the Public Affairs officer had us take a picture together for their public relations effort. Can’t help but beam at the notion that actual always exceeds our most grandest of hopes; if we’re willing to belief in the possibility ~ which always includes to dare and act.
Unabashed courage in an inspired creative moment urges,

  ‘grasp’.
Have it dance to the music of your intent. That is how the foundation of success is laid. One act of bold faith upon the other. Fame being the function of taking, dare the pun
Chance.

Help Me Emails

  OK, so I was feeling a tad bit stalled.  I didn’t have the bounce of optimism in executing a pretty-darn-well-thought-out-plan. And for me, if I don’t see results from my efforts, I give up: So what to do, do, do?

In this case, clean out my email folders from college was a meaningless enough task I could fluff up my ego with doing.  I was tickled by my observation of those little things of life while blue blazing my way towards what I thought would be the really cherished memories.  I figure at the end of the ride we’d all only recall the times something caught on fire, or when we were the focus of attention.

Yes, it’s all about me me me.

School Daze~

(Calendar date unrecorded)

  So I'm sending my notes to a classmate who couldn't attend this session's lecture. We have this personal pact to cover each other in such cases; experience has taught me its best to establish these alliances every term as preparation for those unpredictable times when other life tasks take priority.  In this case, the woman's name was Jamie. Jamie has three little ones at home, so of course the odds are stacked against her attending every 8 am class the entirety of the semester.

One Tuesday Jamie wasn't present. To add to the tension of this story, we're in the home stretch before the final. So it’s all the more important to pay particular attention to every nuance the professor might make concerning what might or might not be on our last test.

Jamie drops me an email,

   "Can you give me a copy of your notes?"

I fulfill my agreement and scan them into the computer, then send them on their way; feeling pretty good about me being reliable.

A few hours pass, then I get another email from her.

   "Albert, What do you mean that a rocket bagel can fly through suns? And is there really an electric celery toothbrush that get's between teeth, or are you teasing me?"

  I staggered on that last one....do you THINK THERE'S A CELERY TOOTHBRUSH OUT THERE FOR SALE?

I mentioned I was suffering a wandering mind at the time and to not take everything I write down as transcript....that'll teach her to miss class you betcha

A Pirates Jubilee

We have roofers, we have siding and new rain gutters being installed. They usher their noise, they excite the dog.  I am beyond focusing on any creative thread. So I'll resort to pulling out a poem from the past.  It's the least and most I can do in the moment.

A Pirates Jubilee

How goes your heart?

What words reply?

How would you live your ways?

if freedoms were not happenstance

to set our feet each day.

if laughter were the rule to guide

from worries do we flee

To choose to choose

a course to chart

as ships upon the sea

A pirates heart, is not so rare

a hungry jubilee

its not the shore that beckons us

its sails that set us free

Breaking Falls

Children are fearless tree climbers

Entertaining no concern for peril

Mother’s chide and warn of dangers

To the child, their fear is noise

the possible long fall to the earth; reasoning as they do

will be hindered by the branches

They take risk…for the glory of living out loud

We adults are experienced with mishap; but for the scars we are wise

But for the scars we must guard against our fear

Avoiding conditions that teach us more

Change is a demand…not request

Invest in Hot Chicks

  Yes, playing on words snags customers; in today’s hyper-marketing effort with time being the window of opportunity, technology has answered the call for bigger, brighter, new-and-improved methods for getting sales up and perpetuating the American way; it’s called Search Engine Optimization, or SEO for those in the business of Ecommerce.  The process is rather simple, as strategies goes. The internet runs pretty straight forward in a logical, mathematical fashion; browsers, known as search engines, do their looking using pretty predictable protocols when asked to retrieve information.  So the idea is to focus in on specific words, or groups of words that attract viewers. Then, capture pages that use those words and phrases well, and dish them up on a list in numerical frequency as results successful in luring customer queries on a topic.  In short order, like print and television marketing had discovered, identifying sex to any product will increase sales; from potato chips to chewing gum you can count on a scantily clad, buxom girl, with perfect teeth leering at the potential custom to suggest having the product would improve having the girl (change the format to a physically fit handsome guy with his shirt off and you have the formula in toto.) 

  As of May 3, 2013 there are over one billion web sites, (according to Netcraft who has been tracking the number of web sites on the internet for many years.)  Along with Netcraft’s interest in how many web sites exist, are firms who track which ones are visited and why.  Those firms count visits as ‘hits’ and they tally up the ‘hits’ of the most popular and compare what do they have in common?  Words…they use similar words; those firms invest heavily into software engineering to obtain their results, then offer them, at a price of course, to marketer who wish to know what is working, why, and how to duplicate those results with the product they represent.  For instance, you might be amused to know that the word finance, saving, and investing all come in the top one hundred;  sexy, hot, and chicks rank up there as well. 

  But it’s not as simple as just putting Sexy Shoe deodorant in your title to snag your market. Oh no, the browsers are a little more sophisticated now than back in the 90’s.  Today the browsers check for word match in the copy on a website; ensuring for their potential customers what is purchased isn’t junk advice.  If it were that simple, any moron can put Sexy, Chick, or Invest into a title to coupe a victory by application.  One has to incorporate the words into sentences and paragraphs as a message for it to really merit notice; which I just happen to have done in this blog.  

Now, I’ll sit back and compare the hits to my site verse when I use other catchy words like Goofy, Mama-jamas and Retarded Dolphins.  It’s all a question of application and attention to detail; kind of like scoping out the girls at a high school dance.  Who will be the least likely to turn down the advance?  Sorry to trap you with a shot of baby chickens under a heating lamp; so technically they are hot chicks. As for investing, China is really ordering a lot of chicken from the US and 1.6 billion mouths is a lot of hungry.  Hey, those chicks are snuggly and fuzzy warm….far more than frosty Cindy McLemore from high school. 

Final Exams

Final Exams

  Well we’re here; the end of May, and that means the awesome task of facing( or having had faced) final exams all across this great country.  The Finals, end of the year effort to justify all those months of day dreaming; about what? Doesn’t really matter; the point being, it wasn’t about the topic being presented.  The choices at this particular threshold have historically been rather clear; do the work, prepare in advance, and review in the final hours.  Or, conversely as well as most likely, blow off the work until the week before finals; realize it’s hopeless to try and cram all that knowledge into a few nights effort; order pizza and hope divine intervention is not a myth, where Oma and Opa up in heaven are pulling stings to make the inheritance money they gave you to go to college not be a big waste of their frugal life savings.

  I came across some very funny examples of witty students who faced down the inevitable hammer of failure.  Now really, don’t we really want fellow citizens who can think on their feet? I know in a bus crash I sure do.

Q: In Which Battle did Napoleon die?

A: his last battle

Q: Where was the Declaration of Independence signed?

A: at the bottom of the page

Q: River Ravi flows in which state?

A: liquid

Q: What is the main reason for divorce?

A: marriage

Q: What is the main reason for failure?

A: exams

  You get the idea.  My favorite was this. 

If I were a professor, I’d pass this fellow on pure brass cajones.

  By the way, Richard Benson the author of the book F in Exams, The very best totally wrong test Answers, is an American printer, teacher, and photographer.  He actually taught at Yale University until 2011. He put together a collection of brilliance-under-duress test taking and offered it up as a book.  It continues to be a smashing success.

Q: What did Mahatma Gandhi and Genghis Khan have in common?

A: Unusual names.

Before I was a Cat

I was French;

before I was a cat.

But it makes no difference to me what you believe.

Everyone; 

everything; 

is beneath my consideration.

That is by design; 

as it is also my good fortune.

It is not that I don’t care, as you would say.

It is that I am indifferent to your struggle to understand;

the world.

To understand; 

your role in it.

Or by extension;

understand me in your world.

For it is a concrete truth;

what you believe only matters to you.

As for me;

you do not matter.

Since I am French;

I understand your confusion.

Even before you noticed you are confused.

Your protests are impotent.

It is the order of things.

Since I am a cat; 

I am beyond considering anything but my own pleasure.

It is also;

the order of things.

So get used to it; 

or don’t.

Just leave me alone so I can enjoy the day; 

or not.

Stop wasting my time with trying to find ways to be happy;

just get out of my sight.

And no;

I will not wish you to have a nice day.

I am indifferent to that as well.

Out of Fun

  The sign at the Amusement Park’s locked gate was a ragged section of cardboard. The message, scribbled in grease pencil by most likely a workman, read Closed for Repares; tucked haphazardly at an angle in the chain linked fence, clearly placed there as an afterthought. Yeah, I got the closed part by the presence of the five pound master lock dangling on the thirty pounds of  linked steel chain; can’t put too much security on an amusement parks don’t you know; wouldn’t want any of that fun leaking out into the real world.

  They could have announced it in the local papers; or their website; perhaps they did, if I had bothered to go check after I made my purchase.  But that’d be living with anticipation for failure and I knew from experience, once you adopt a life of that way of thinking, you’re forever scanning the horizon for missiles.  My psychology professors would say that was ‘pronounced neurotics’ and adopting such a disposition could lead eventually into general anxiety disorder; in the profession they shy away from certainties such as ‘would’ or ‘always.’ They’re wise in that way; keeping from assuring any behavior is anything beyond unpredictable; psychologist are famous for concluding their research on dispositions with ‘it depends’. 

  I never even imagined as a kid that fun would be something I had to work at.  That’s all I was looking for; and frankly, I suspected reaching into my childhood memory for amusement parks being the home of fun was in fact, a desperate move; but sometimes we can find ourselves desperate. So as I said, the cardboard sign informed me of my error in expectation and I was going to have to keep on searching…elsewhere.

  Never mind the refund, I want my excitement back; and that’s not the same as the rush-to-combat instinct when feeling wronged.  I want to feel that thrill of excitement inculcated into the unexpected; yeah, that’s what we call,

Fun.

  I was draped in fun as a boy; I wore it every day I can remember. It was part of the dust on my cheeks; the dirt under my nails; the loam in my hair.  My turn signals were the collected scabs on my knees and toes.  I was never out of breath for fun; I was never at a loss for vigor to chase after it.  My friend Billy Brown and I tucked our shits down into our cut offs then shoveled playground sand down our collars; it made our midsections looked thick as fifty year old men.  I saw him the other day, looks like the sand came to stay this time.  In the wake of that chuckle was another time we were almost arrested for trespass when we kicked up so much dust in a farmer’s field he came out with his shovel to put out what he thought was a wild fire.  He threatened to tell our parents, but couldn’t remain too stern seeing we were totally covered head to bare feet in red dirt.  I guess he figured we’d catch heck enough for showing up home looking like run away dogs; which each of us did. 

But all of that doesn’t matter now, finding an amusement takes more effort than it did back then.  I need more than a box to get my creative juices perking.  There are too many concerns in the way for abandonment to capture me into the fun zone today. And as anyone familiar with fun can tell you.  Letting go of concerns is requisite for fun to blossom.

The Big Lottery

  I began this thread on the notion of finding a short story from my past.  Mainly because I feel the last few postings have been somewhat; deep, and I’d like to change topic to something more light-hearted, less, um, dire.

  While I was toying with that idea two things popped into my mind. One was how to choose from the many pieces I had affection for, even if like a bucktoothed goofy kid, there’s things to love about them, so it’s difficult to choose one over another.  Secondly I was churning the task of choosing would be a lot like a lottery. That led me to pondering the results of the recent drawing. Just this past weekend the Powerball lotto jackpot stretched past a half a billion dollars.  And I thought how winning that much money would be a life changer; then I modified it to winning any great amount would be a life changer.  

  Certainly winning that huge amount would like capsize any possible notion of keeping the life now known afloat; nope, everything would change, I’m saying so because it is those very minor things that keep us at our jobs; keep us feeling we must do this or that; prod us into believing all of those silly self imposed limiting living conditions are necessary to keep order in our world; with all that cash, that would instantly be changed.  Ya just didn’t have to suck up to the boss anymore to keep that delicate balance in check; you could speak your mind without fear of jeopardizing the stream of paychecks coming in.  Nope, those infinitesimal nagging bills would disappear without so much as a whimper; along with the knowledge there would be boat loads more where those dollars came from. That would arrest any conceivable economic threat short of purchasing one of the continental states, (including Texas). Welcome to the realm of ‘now what?’

  Oh we play, under the concept that you can’t win if you don’t buy a ticket.  In truth, we don’t spend milk money on the hope that a win will dig us out of our despair; some do. Yet, I’ve read where over 85% of jackpot winners are worse off five years after their wins.  Why would that be? Certainly there aren’t that many people who are that bad with money?  Well turns out, it’s not a case of stunted mathematics or arrested value systems as much as it is a case of lost valuation system.  You might notice efforts by Casino’s to practice that on its guest while they are there; it’s intentional disorientation; lack of the ordinary cues that would keep ordinary people behaving in, well, ordinary ways.  Take away the passage of time, and people will drift in some very odd ways. They will forget to get rest, eat or even drink, which will play havoc with rational thought processes in short order.   

Constant noise, lights will add to a conditional disorientation much like combat; that helps the casino dissolve the ‘guests’ natural awareness of their losses and value of dollars.  But never mind those corrupting skills and practices, they’re documented pretty well, yet people continue to descend on Casino’s throughout the world in droves; so the effect is not culture specific.  But the idea of a windfall does pretty much the same thing.  The winner quickly looses insight into the value of money; translated it means they forget the relationship of work to dollars.  Once that is accomplished then numbers of dollars are also meaningless.  I know when I sat down and really got my mind around what a million dollars was, then the rest of it, billions…and then trillions really took on a mountainous presence.  When someone gets that many of dollars dumped onto them they simply can’t place them in comparison to anything they know. 

  Once they gather up the final tally of the debt they owe and realize it’s a fraction of a fraction of what the interest of their winnings will earn….in a month…they lose their footing in their contrived existence.  We’re all very comfortable describing our limitations and can articulate them with reasonable detailed success.  Once those limitations are removed as the vast prairie of possibilities fill the horizon of real-life-choices; then comes the queasy feeling.  Most just can’t rise above their success; more so because it wasn’t earned.  And it’s been said, more times than I can cite the original author, but as of recent memory; ‘something given has no value.’ (Starship Troopers, Robert A. Heinlein.) So be wary my friends of a windfall of cash; it can solve many petty complaints concerning lack, but it also whisks away familiar comforts in the same stroke; leaving most devastated by the task of constructing a life from scratch; most abandon the fortune, giving it away heedlessly even, in hopes that if they go broke, they could somehow get their old life back.

  So let me sum this up, I’m rapidly closing in on a thousand words and I try to keep my post down below that.  Think twice about wanting a change forced on you; our society calls that a calamity.  What makes life sweetest, is the disposition of gratitude ~ that renders the eternal delight of reward.

You Won My Heart

For all the daughters and sons taken before we knew it; leaving holes in our hearts; leaving holes in our lives ~

I saw you before I knew you

My heart told me watch

You were fashioned perfect;

then you shattered and scattered into the world

to be reclaimed, one piece at a time.

You linger in hiding places;

in a gleeful game of having me seek.

You never stay put; you never use the same trick twice

Your nuance is crafty; but always the essences of telltale humor

You trick me, tease me, and encourage me

Masked as a stranger; a nostrum, a harlequin

You are anxious for me to unveil your masquerade

Even when your snares catch me unprepared

I remember the day we lost you; a freak storm whose violence

cut short your part in my comfortable world

For a long time, I half expected your knock at my door

It never came

The absence of you challenges our resolve to welcome joy

Mostly at night

You spoke in ways that enslaved me

Your earnest originality; your clarity, your affinity for the consummate truth of faith in others

I believed in you; I trusted my love,

Fortified, I discover more; to dare fear’s visit when the ultimate real snatched you from our familiarity

You went ahead, testing locked doors I could not fathom,

until the glory of you being gone

ushered in an unexpected vista

Some chase illusive dreams; others elusive butterflies

You taught me how

To release them.

Overshadow

There will come a point when your compassion will overshadow your pain. Consider the actual; love has no desire to injure. Consider that they; as they are, will be lacking in your perception for
...well as long as you see them defective, inadequate, and flawed.
 right now; why does that hurt? 

Beyond, perhaps a momentary satisfaction, how to you frame them; in recollection of their worst attributes? Are they what?
Inferior?

  If you deny the honesty of that pettiness, then you've more suffering in store until you can.  Admit love does not want vengeance, payback or retribution; it cultivates no need to be  'right'; only the injured ego does that.
   Peace is a process...it is surrender to the truth. And the truth would be, YOU LOVE.  You love the object; you love the person; you love the situation; you love the conditions, but they are just the frame that obscures your desire  to feel love as present; in a convoluted fashion you're blaming them for you not feeling as light as you had back when you were swimming in that feeling.
 They were not the reason you felt love, but dammit it is so hard to admit that when you feel you have been dismissed, and with that the 'specialness' of how the relationship has flown.

  Special is a separate condition.  There is 'the special' and 'everything
 else' and that is not the truth.  Even with a God like experience, no
 matter how many times crying out in bliss...Oooooh God, it is momentary. We compare our war wounds with everyone else and want to be the consummate 'victim of love'; where we didn't get to finish our journey. They, who held your hearts-breath, were a great assist to you. But EVIDENCE demonstrates that you and they were not suited for the daunting challenge of forever.  Perpetual growing whispers move along.  Their journey is different. Just as yours is.  The differences in cherished values and principals will reveal that.  Why point fingers at the differences when they are serving the very purpose of your quest.  They have a need to learn confidence in themselves; to feel worthy and deserving. As a contrast, you are not what they need to take those steps. You can't feed steak to infants.

 As you have been blessed to see that you are worthy and know that you want to love with no holds barred, that is a great thing to know.  Don't get wrapped up about it not being present with someone else or  as you would have it.  That will never be fulfilled.  Relax and be aware of what you desire, then allow it to come as you are being complete and loving absent of need to have someone be the reason, or applaud your performance.

 Love yourself first....you'll draw your complement when least
 expected...because you were having the time of your life....your life's
 playmate found you where the joy of you was present.  You have nothing to believe. You have nothing to trust.  Just practice peace and awareness of what you do enjoy...and slowly you'll be there all the time.

Atlanta Traffic

I saw a fuchsia headband tangled and soiled

Crumbled in the curb of the MLK Memorial Highway.

“Hola” it called as I drove towards the freeway

“Notice me”, it implored, like the spouting tulips in the house gardens I pass

There are countless clubs along this stretch of road,

I glance at their battered and flaky-paint signage

Named for far-away places, making even farther away promises

My mind conjures scenes from the previous night

Break dancers thrashing on crowded disco floors

Escape artist converging on the eye of the needle

Here exotic drinks are concocted to slake parched throats

They’re deceptively sweet as root beer,

Mood altering butterscotch with exquisite names like Shangri- Li

 or Red Sea Aurora

The uninitiated are revealed by ignorance to the names; what they suggest

Keep up with fashion, know your verbs

Far away, they dance to a different beat

In the Everglades they sweat with a sultry southern seduction;

but you have to be from there.

A cop in his parked cruiser watches me with unveiled suspicion as I drive by

He nibbles on his fresh glazed do-nut

Contemplating how he’ll ferret out my wicked ways

I don’t belong in this neighborhood

 his stare stalks me like prey; he has me in cuffs already.

The willow at the on ramp waves a subtle warning with its undulating farewell

don’t come back here white boy

The Airedale on the second floor balcony barks its repose

We’re not kidding

The Week For Tears

   My mother can’t remember the little things.  She has a wandering mind; it’s been that way for some time now, moreover it’s exacerbated by her current illness; exacerbated ~ what an elegant word for hurry.  As of recent, the episodes of her confusion are pronounced, with few signs of recovery.  It’s a test of resolve to resist assigning home-grown-diagnosis of popular themes to her suffering such as Alzheimer’s or geriatric dementia; the sad affect of aging is apparent to even the most casual observer; the doctor’s won’t throw me that bone.  Communication in the family is strained; as the Mommy of my past slowly, yet undeniably, fades into memory; what remains is a pantomime of a previous self; a dissolving Kodak caricature left in the sun far too long.

  This is not foreign to the human experience; I do not claim the affliction of some curse by the God’s for my misspent youth. It is, in all truth, another of life’s unrelenting, harsh but necessary, lessons concerning change.  The fabric of my family is unraveling under the stress of trying to wicker down to the truth of health care.  Endless assurances of hoped for procedures and processes that continue to be derailed or postponed for reasons that defy desires, but are unavoidably the stuff of bureaucracies. The news of yet another of many snags only serves to agitate an old woman who wants only to go home; a seemingly cruel taunting response to a weak and simple request.  Being the messenger of bad news to a frail woman is by far the most humbling of experiences.

  “Not today mama, maybe they will tell us more tomorrow”

  The life I used to have last week; the one where I had routines and schedules for things that I felt had to be accomplished in a particular order, has been abandoned to its own devices. I’ll deal with that fallout when those balls hit the floor.  As for today, I’m in a surreal world of uncertainty and alterations.  Phone calls, email, texting, and message mailboxes, all serve to keep us connected to one another instantly; anchored into the pressing moment; yet that magic also serves to cultivate misgivings wrought by conflicting uncertainties and contradicting noise; those of opinions, perceptions, propositions and schemes all chiding for attendance and resolution; all demanding immediate decisions based on partial facts that impact on others taking turns at making choices and plans. 

  All for naught, the delicate woman of whom I speak sits quietly with hands neatly folded in her lap. Hunched in her wheel chair parked just near the threshold of her room, she watches attentively as strangers walk by; in an unfamiliar place, with uncertainty as her only constant companion; hoping to catch the countenance of a familiarly, friendly face, she can readily recognizes.

  I am heartbroken, but shed no tears; they will deliver no solace.  My sisters and mother expect me to be the voice of reason; to provide resolve. I have this assigned mantle of leadership; I did not fashion, nor ask for it; but I wear the family anointment with resignation to the belief they need someone to believe in; to trust. So I surrender to the need of it.  I am human in my limitations, something I never needed to have pointed out to me. Yet I am taken once again by the hand and shown where I command nothing; where those I cherish are subject to pain and suffering no matter how much I maneuver to protect them from the worst of life’s storms.  Yes, I am sad today for the confusion, and the unavoidable truth of relying on others to provide care where I am not.

   Not one to wax faith or belief systems as the ultimate comfort during trying times; I am yet reminded of one of my favorite (as well as most often written), phrase in the Bible

“It came to pass”

Grandpa Allen

  I grew up without grandparents.  My mother’s parents both died while she was still a young girl of eight years old; she was raised as a ward of the great state of New York.  My father’s mother died when he was fifteen; I was told an accidental fall out a window hanging laundry, oddly that happened a lot back then in the city.  My Father’s father died when I was all of four; my only vague memory is of an old man holding us kids in his grasp burning our faces and necks with his whiskers while we squirmed and squealed for mercy.  So my siblings and I didn’t have any grandparent tales to tell in school; but my best friend Brit had a Grandfather, and one day he came to live with them.  I had no reason to consider why that was, just that the old fellow was around for a while, and then just as suddenly, he was gone.  Now that I’m an adult I realize that many families hand off their surviving parent between the siblings periodically as just a family obligation. 

  What I knew of Grandpa Allen stuck with me until this very day.  He had been a professional boxer in his youth; we stared for a very long time at the photo of him in his prime; it was hard to recognize that fierce looking guy wearing black gloves waiting to engage in combat. He was hidden by age in the slightly overweight ball headed fellow who insisted that was him.  He also had a war trophy from World War II.  We knew about that one, we watched television, so that was like super-real-life mysterious for us.  It was a Japanese Officer Sword.  We wanted to see the wicked sword but he refused to take it out of its scabbard. He said he it had blood stains, and he didn’t want to upset us.  I was puzzled by that since I had seen plenty of blood by my seventh year, and a lot of it my own, and if he had been a boy once…long ago…he should have known, or at least remembered, that telling boys something had blood on it would only wet our curiosity all the more; so, like what gives? What was the big deal?  Later I surmised it was his effort to not get his butt kicked out of his daughters house over the pretense of warping her boy and his friend into admiring the violence and gore of combat; way, way, too late for that.  Much like the long dreaded talk on the birds and the bees…just dopey parents not being alert to the inquisitive nature of kids; we already found out.  Anyway, we thought the sword was cool and even tried to creep into his room when we thought he wasn’t around.  

But we could never find his hiding place, and in short order the fear of getting caught along with the idea of cooking ants with our magnifying class appealed to us more, so we quickly forget about the war trophy.  Lastly, and this may sound absurd, but it’s true. I remember Grandpa Allen for revealing a grown-up-truth.  One that only after I became an adult did it dawn on me that I had been warned.  It’s really a trifle, in the order of things; but because of it, I can still remember his face along with his gravelly voice. 

  It happened one day when both Brit and I were racing indoors to the toilet from our outside rough housing, because we really had to pee. Just as we turned the corner towards the lavatory, we ran into Grandpa Allen also on his way into the bathroom.  He told us to come along, that we could all use the toilet at the same time. 

(ah the benefits of being boys).  Just as curious boys pay attention to things unfamiliar, both Brit and I noticed Grandpa Allen’s pee dripped after he finished going.  I asked him why? He chuckled and told us because he was old, and that when we got old our pee would drip too.  Of course we didn’t believe him any more than there was something horrible about seeing blood on the Japanese sword; but who can call a man his age a liar?  Especially when he used to be a boxer? Heck he could have easily knocked both of us out even at his advanced age; or so we reasoned.

  I remember my mom telling me years later that he had died.  She asked me if I even remembered who he was?  When she said Grandpa Allen had died I instantly remembered him telling me that one day my pee would drip.

Now I have to wonder just what phrase I’m going to leave behind?  I’m partial to something useful like, Oh, “pass the salt”

From Absurdity to Ludicrous

  Our little community of just under three hundred homes has a Homeowners Association.  With that, many fine ideas get discussed by our elected board and as such, some are actually hatched.  The idea of Neighborhood Watch surfaced with visions of promised security and safety, yet the key ingredient to success for any program is participation; something our community is not in competition for the gold over.  As of late, and just after local elections for Sheriff, a new spin was placed on the Neighborhood Watch idea; the suggestion to incorporate transistor radios into the mix; yes, Walkie-Talkies.  An eager and energetic Deputy Sheriff spoke to the residents during one of our monthly meetings about how his neighborhood had arrested crime in short order using these devices.  He was so convincing that many of us signed up to the program and went running out to purchase the very model radio he suggested.  With that accomplished, we then began talking to one another on our neato-new-devices like kids, and we found delight in the nonsense we transmitted.

In the historic voice of past laments,

“I should have seen this coming”

But I didn’t.

  One fellow in our community is a retired military officer; like myself.  Like it or not, some people hold on to their glory days; oft as not, they try to re-live them if given half a chance.  You see something of it with Little League fathers pushing their sons not just into the game, but to excel; you can also see it indirectly with retired military when they run into another retired military; their conversation gravitates to those old-field-days and personal adventures; it’s really rather nauseating to anyone who wasn’t in the military to witness, because it goes on for hours; meaningless meandering of what the Marines call “sea stories”.  And here in our midst we had a retired officer who set up a radio network on his cul-de-sac that we could mimic for our needs.

  I met him, and to my disbelief, he had a printed SOP (Standard Operation Procedures) with over fifty ‘codes’ to use while patrolling the streets of our subdivision; in addition there was also an authentication table (codes used to verify you’re a member of the club and get permission to enter the NET; kind of like a secret password.  A NET is the abbreviation of the word network, and it means communication on a specific radio frequency.  The idea of using an authentication table for a neighborhood watch is like using a Hilton Hotel as an Ice Cream Stand.  But it was impressive, I must admit, it stirred up all those memories of my years using call signs, and procedural phrases like “roger” and “Ah-firm-ah-tive” (which by the way every time I hear that it makes me think of that little girl survivor of the mining colony named Newt in the movie Aliens.) 

  Now for a heartbeat (or two) I got all spun up in the idea, embracing the notion of training the residents of the community on the proper use of the phonetic alphabet, call signs, and the like.  That is, until telling my wife of our find. She watched me pace the living room excitedly talking about how we were lucky enough to find this guy, and how much legwork he had already accomplished, and the details and acronyms of the procedures that are still foreign to her.  She just sat there watching me, unblinking, until I ran down and stopped for breath; she suppliantly said,

“This is not NASA and we’re NOT building the Shuttle.”

  I swear, it was like I had suddenly been awakened from a magician’s spell.  Of course not…and really…why would we even try to employ such an elaborate complicated program?  Heck, I even volunteered to lead this silliness into the wilderness of chaos.  I sobered up quickly and agreed we would only alienate any possibility of success if we made regular housewives learn this paramilitary stuff; metamorphosing into some kind of vigilante-pseudo-crime-fighters, (with or without capes).  When I mentioned to my wife I was withdrawing my candidacy to run our little militia she smiled and went up stairs humming the theme from the COPS show with intermittent chuckles in the lyrics

“Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do….”