Thursday, 7/1/10 - Love Is

A mother's love is a hug and a gentle reminder to do better, to do your best.
A father's love is a smack in the seat and a reprimand that this time your best was not good enough.

A mother's love is a roof that shelters and walls that protect.
A father's love is a foundation to build upon and all of the blueprints needed for future additions.

A mother's love is a holiday table set with the best china, crystal and silver.
A father's love is a handmade table sanded and stained and lacquered to a brilliant shine.

A mother's love is a twenty secretly slipped into your hand when times get tight.
A father's love is a balance sheet with slips and receipts paper-clipped tightly.

A mother's love is a gentle nudging of rudders, silent and unseen below the waterline.
A father's love is a firm setting of sails on masts that stand tall against the wind and sky.

A mother's love is a school time rhyme: all ABC's and 123's.
A father's love is a difficult lesson in a school of hard knocks.

A mother's love is clean sheets.
A father's love is a clean slate.

A mother's love is the sweetness of seven-layer cake after Sunday dinner.
A father's love is the sweat of the seven preceding workdays and the seven that will come after.

A mother's love is all the colors in box of Crayola crayons (the big box, the one with the sharpener in it).
A father's love is charcoal and chalk.

A mother's love is souffle.
A father's love is soup.

A mother's love is clean behind the ears.
A father's love is grease under the fingernails.



A mother's love is spatulas and steam irons.
A father's love is screwdrivers and tire irons and occasionally a nine-iron.



A mother's love is fairy tales at bedtime to put you to sleep.
A father's love is world news in the morning to wake you up.

A mother's love is safety sealed, bubble wrapped; it comes with care and use instructions that are clear and concise.
A father's love is loose in an unmarked box.

A mother's love is hot cocoa on a cold night.
A father's love is cold beer on a hot day.



A mother's love is what pulls you along.
A father's love is what pushes you higher.



And from these loves comes other loves.

A daughter's love is pre-planned and appropriate, it arrives well dressed, on time bearing thoughtful gifts in brightly colored packages that are neatly wrapped and festooned with ribbons and bows.

A son's love arrives early and unannounced wondering what's for dinner or, if it remembers at all, it arrives late, empty handed wearing a wrinkled shirt with the tails hanging out.

But love is love
is love
love is.

Wednesday, 6/30/10 - A Little Like Alliteration

"What are you having for lunch today?"



"Salmon salad."

"Any sides?"

"Spaetzle. Maybe spinach."

"Sound scrumptious. Do you have some to share?"

"Sorry, only a single serving."

"Wow, a shining silver service. Nice spoons."



"Thanks. Oh, no!"

"Oh no?"

"My single serving of salmon salad with sides of spaetzle and spinach served on a shining silver service with a spoon... and no fork!"

"No fork?"

"No fork!"

---

The preceding bit of silliness was prompted by two things:

1. a personal challenge to photograph clear glass on both black and white backgrounds (I need to do a lot more work on this!)


2. Thom's comment from yesterday's post (which tickled me and made me want to do something really silly)

For those who have asked, "Who's Thom?" (and everyone asks), you can check out his blog at http://BobosBest.blogspot.com. Hopefully he will include a link in his current blog (which is only a week old) to his previous blog.


Sometimes silly is so satisfying... sorry, I'll stop. Seriously...

Tuesday, 6/29/10 - Saving A Life

I would like to tell you the they arrived in time, that their ministrations averted the eventual, the inevitable.

I would like to tell you that they wheeled and whisked him and worked their wonders: staunching, steadying, stabilizing.

I would like to tell you that he is resting, recovering, recuperating, that his spirits are good and that visiting hours are from 8am until 8pm.

Yes, I would like to tell you these things. Some, like the visiting hours, would be true and good to know. The rest would be worthless, lies.

Jason Keegan died today at 2:53am and nothing I can tell you, no matter how much I would like to, will change that.

Technically, Jason died of a heart attack but the real reason he is no longer here is that he tried too hard to save his own life.



It was the robotic chattering that insinuated itself into my dreams and ratcheted me slowly awake. Unintelligible words like booted feet on gravel pathways ground themselves into my consciuosness. Snakelike hissings, starting then silenced by those same boots. The staticy sound of CB's and police radios.

And then there were the lights: torrid then frigid, flashing and forcing me to wake.

Awake. Then aware. And wondering: who?

Lying there a moment longer. Who? Neighbor's names reviewed, recent ailments recalled and recounted. Better to know.

Standing at the window surveying. It is Jason.

Dressed now and in the street I watch the EMT's: trained and trying. Trying not to save a life; that will come later. Right now they are trying to either enter or to extract. But each is impossible.

Impossible because Jason has saved his life in binders, in books and in boxes. Stacked from floor to ceiling, every empty inch stuffed with a recollection, a remnant, a remembrance.

Impossible because passageways are packed with pictures, postcards, posters, programs and playbills.

The stretcher stands abandoned on the steps. No way to work it into corridors curtailed by curios and cramped with clippings.

All available avenues in are, like his aorta, attenuated, atrophied.

A bristling and a bustling and a bucket brigade of boxes bursting and building on the lawn. Hurried, from hand to hand. A convoy cleaning and clearing. A constant cascading of cartons quickly, quickly, quickly... then...

...quietly...

...quietly...

... the coroner is called.

There is a shuffling of feet, a shaking of heads and a sharing of sighs. We tried.

They tried.

I stand by boxes abandoned looking at the leavings of a long life that lie now on the lawn.

As I walk away, I wonder, why?

Why?

Monday, 6/28/10 - A Line Drawn

"We could have used more pamphlets." She leaned forward and adjusted the dash-vents to direct the air-conditioned coolness directly on her.

Beach sand sifted off her feet and sugared the floor of the SUV. No problem, she thought, I will drive it down to Rita's tomorrow and have it detailed.

The thought triggered a traffic-jam of conflicting priorities in her mind. Tomorrow is Monday and that means a busy morning running the kids to school, then across town for yoga at the Y, race back home to get ready for the the monthly Ladies Luncheon, then down to the architect's in Mooresville to drop off the plans for the addition, back up the interstate to pick up the kids... There was something missing. Oh! The HOA Board meeting!

No, there was no time for detailing the SUV tomorrow.

The cold air blowing on her felt great. She was tired and sweaty.

It was a good sweat. The tiredness was earned.

She couldn't believe how successful the day had been. "What an incredible turnout! We expected a couple hundred and look! Just look! Thousands!" Swiveling in her seat, she looked at the sea of cars around them.

As she had commanded, he looked around. "There is a lot of traffic. It will take hours to get out of here."

His comment was just a dull noise in the electric buzzing going on inside her head. "It's amazing! I knew it," she slapped her hand on the dashboard for emphasis, "people are concerned about the environment! Look at all of them!"

Like her, he was tired and sweaty, "Do we have any water left?"

"No," her response sounded happy, as if having no water was an accomplishment, "Two hundred and forty bottles of water! They were gone before noon. All these people coming out, showing their support..."

She was wired. Her words gushing at him, around him, filling the cavernous interior of the SUV like rushing floodwaters. It would take hours for her excitement to ebb. During this time he only needed to bob his head, up and down, like a crab-trap float ball on the tide.

"...water. Next time we need more water! Ohhhh!" her hands paddled the air trying to propel the words from her mouth at the same rate they were occurring in her head, "We can have the water bottles printed with the Line In The Sand logo! And our website address! That way everyone can..."

He looked up ahead, slipped the SUV into park and pulled his foot off the brake. It was going to be a while before they moved. He was thirsty but there was nothing that could be done about that until they could navigate through this tangle of societal flotsam. Judging from the log-jam of traffic on the road and the steady in-flow of people from the beach, it would be hours before they moved even a few inches.

She kept gushing on and on about water, about buying more bottles next time, about printing labels. All of her talk was just making him more thirsty.

He watched the waves of people looking for anyone with a cooler that didn't look empty. He would offer them anything for something cold to drink.

A young couple walked alongside the SUV. As they passed in front the young man took the last sip of water from a bottle and absently dropped it on the ground. The couple kept walking.

He quickly sat forward and started to reach for the horn but stopped himself as he took a closer look around. The ground was littered with plastic bottles, food wrappers, cigarette butts. Jetsam, he thought, that's what it is, just another piece of jetsam.

He relaxed and sat back against the seat.

Beside him, she was still spewing. "...printing! Thousands more pamphlets next time! People need to know how to contact us! We were out of pamphlets by 10am! What do you think? two-thousand? Does this look like two-thousand people? More? Five? Five-thousand? You're better at this than I am! What do you think?Five?"

He set his head a bobbing.

"Five-thousand? More? There will be more people next time! Maybe six..."

A nearby trash can overflowed its contents onto the sand. People stepped over it and on it as they coursed to their cars. He watched as one of her pamphlets, crumpled into a ball, tumbled across the sand.

"I told you this was important. That people cared! There is no way they will allow drilling in the Gulf in the future..."

Over the years he had gotten pretty good at looking concerned without really paying attention to what she was saying. It was mostly a matter of peripherially hearing how she said things, not what she said. Some of her words crashed into his consciousness: "...oil companies..", "...obscene...", "... opportunities...", others flowed past him unnoticed.

The nice part about her was that she always asked questions anticipating a positive response. Any change in cadence or inflection and it was time for him to give an affirmative nod or a simple "Mmmm" or "Uh-huh."

Five minutes and they had not moved an inch. His earlier comment was true: it was going to take hours to get out of here. At least they were sitting comfortably, out of the sun, in air conditioning...

Bing! Bing! Bing! He reached for his cell phone. No, that wasn't the phone.


Bing! Bing! Bing! He looked around for whatever was demanding his attention and there on the instrument panel, the low-fuel icon, a bright orange gas-pump, winking on and off.

They were almost out of gas.

"...did it! We really did it! We drew a line in the sand that they can't ignore!!"

He took a good look around and realized that the line that had been drawn was not in the sand. It was in the surf.

Sunday, 6/27/10 - Forgot

The problem with grown-ups is that they forget.

I guess it's ok to forget some things but forgetting the fun things... well, that's just not right.

And just look here. See? Someone forgot!

Oh, they remembered the blankets to spread on the ground and the bathing suits so we can swim in the lake. They remembered the baskets with the fried chicken and the big wash-pail with blocks of ice and the bottles of cola and orange and cream soda.

They remembered the bats, balls and gloves. Steve even remembered to bring the bases so this year we won't have to use lids from the garbage cans.

Aunt Bea brought the radio. You can hear it now. Later they will play dance music and the old people will dance in the gazebo while the kids catch fireflies.

Then, when the sun sets, there will be a fire and we will roast marshmallows and make smores. Sweet and warm and gooey. Even the grown-ups will stand beside the fire slowly turning marshmallows on long, droopy willow poles until they are golden brown and melty then slide them, still hot, onto graham crackers topped with Hershey's chocolate then folding on top another chocolate and cracker.

Some marshmallows will fall like firey comets onto the earth. Others will burn and be blown out and the blower will explain that they like them this way...

Uncle Sonny, who's not really my uncle, remembered the fireworks. I saw them in his trunk.

But whoever remembered the watermelon forgot something.



Look. See what I mean? Seedless!

Someone forgot that the most fun part of watermelon is the seeds. And the best part of the seeds is seeing how far you can spit them.

Watermelon seeds are just the right shape for spitting: big on one end so you can put it behind your lips and hold it in place while you really build up some pressure, and small on the other end so you can press hard when you release it and direct it wherever you want. Poohhh - over the head of cousin Billy. Poohhh - ten feet. Poohhh- fifteen! Pohhh - twenty feet!!!

And they are all slippery so you can even send them short distances just by pushing them out between your lips, without a sound. Even from the side of your mouth - like small, black stealth bombs into Sally's hair or Frankie's drink or to stick on the back of Aunt Tiz's lime colored mu-mu.

Watermelon is ok without seeds, I guess. It's cold and sweet and you can eat it from the middle - like a great big smile - right down to the white part. The juice red and wet on your cheeks and running all sticky down your arms. After five pieces or ten or twenty you're still not full but the flies are coming and it's not a half hour but you run into the lake anyway and swim out to the floating dock and climb up and lie head-to-head with your cousins on the sun-warmed wood and the water drips off your skin and out of your hair and you watch the puffy white clouds float by and then you are dry again and hot and you jump up and off of the platform back into the cool, dark water and you swim back to the shore and race back to the table and to the bowl full of watermelon slices...

... without seeds.

What fun is watermelon without the seeds?

A boy needs seeds.

Saturday, 6/26/10 - Stay

Do I have to go?

I really don't want to.

Can't I just stay here?

I know that I complain from time to time about how bad it seems but if I had my way, I would stay right here. Well, maybe not right here where it's flat and hot. I might like to try the mountains where it's green and cool, where the earth reaches up to brush against the sky and where you can see for miles and miles. Or someplace with snow that shines white-white under the sun and holds moonlight like a big cut-crystal bowl at night. Or maybe a bustling city with corner cafes, subways and blinking neon lights.

You see, if I stay here I will have choices.

Choices are good. Even bad choices can be good. Nice part about choices is that you can change your mind. I don't want to go where I can't change my mind.

Sure, this place has its ups and downs, its bad and good, its day and night, light and dark, in and out. It's sometimes rough and sometimes smooth. It can be a laugh, a cry, a burden, a relief, a killer or a life saver. I kinda like those things. They make it interesting.

I like the daytime. I like it a lot but maybe that's because it comes after the night. I don't think that I would want it to be daytime forever.

Do you see what I mean?

I see nothing interesting over there. Just look, it's the same thing every day. Sure, it's good and happy and pretty... pretty boring.

Might be nice for a long weekend but that's about it.

I know you want to reward me for working hard and doing the best I could. For living well. For loving. For caring. And I thank you for thinking of me but I like it here.

I really do.

I like viewing both clouds and daisies from this perspective.

I don't mean to be ungrateful but heaven just doesn't sound like someplace I would like very much.

So, if you don't mind, when I'm done, I'll just stay here.

Friday, 6/25/10 - Order

Why am I doing this?

Without opening her eyes she estimates the time to be 2am. Less than three hours of sleep and, for her, the night is over.

She will stay in bed, unmoving, with her eyes closed but she won't sleep any more tonight.

She is sleepy but, even more, she is tired. Tired of this routine. Tired of the disarray. The disorder. The disturbance.

She is tired of sleeping in the middle of the interstate.

Not that her home is anywhere near a highway. It isn't but Jack, sleeping beside her, makes it feel like the bed is in the middle of eight busy lanes.

Jack, who consideres himself a polished, high-powered Peterbuilt in bed, wheezes and rattles like an old U-Haul after his eyes close.

She knows it isn't his fault. It is just a bad combination of apnea, restless leg and sinus problems that converts her quiet home into toll road every time Jack spends the night.

Some nights are better than others. She thought tonight was going to be one of those nights but he started moving his feet in little running motions that grew more spastic and started shaking the bed like an approaching 18-wheeler. Then came the highway noises. Strange mechanical rumblings, grating gears, slipping belts, bangs, bumps and backfires. Sounds no human could possibly make.

Once they started, her night was over.

In the first years of their relationship Jack had often suggested living together. She never considered it. Not even for a moment.

There are some people who should live alone and she knew that she was one of those people. She explained her reasons to Jack and he accepted them but he never fully understood.

Over the years they had fallen into a pattern of staying together on Wednesdays and Saturdays. It was not enough for him and too much for her so it worked out well for both of them.

Not sleeping was only a small part of the problem. The biggest part is that Jack is not a neat person. And she is a neat person. A very neat person. An obsessively neat person.

There is no middle ground that is comfortable for the two of them. He does his best when he visits and she cleans for three days afterwards.

Even in the dark, with her eyes closed, she can see the mess he has left in the bathroom. Not her bathroom - he is not allowed to use her bathroom - in the guest bathroom.

She knows that the towel is crooked on the rack. There is a smear of toothpaste on it where he wiped his mouth without rinsing first.

The toothpaste tube will be on the counter, not in the drawer where it belongs, and it will be crushed in the middle rather than pressed evenly from the far end.

There will be a glob of paste in the sink, a puddle beneath the toothbrush holder, a tissue close to - but not in - the trash can. The toilet seat will be up and there will be dribble on the rim of the bowl.

The shower curtain will be pushed back - which will just lead to mold - and, if it's a good day, the bath towel will be thrown over the curtain rod. If it's a bad day it could be anywhere...

She knows it's not him. He is normal. It's her. She is the one with the problem.

She knows that her ways are unnatural. Nature is not orderly; it is haphazard and helter-skelter.



Only man puts things in order.

No, she corrects herself, men do not put things in order; women put things in order.

Men just make messes.

Thursday, 6/24/10 - This Is Serious

"They call you Smiley."

He felt the sunny glow as the corners of his mouth pushed up into his cheeks. He tried to fight the feeling but it was too late. "You say that as if it was a bad thing."

Her brow dropped like a steel gate, the weight of it pushing her features down into a scowl. "You can't do it can you? You can't be serious about anything. Well, this isn't a joke; this is serious!"

Trying to force a more severe countenance just made his smile stretch wider.

She let out an exasperated sigh.

"Let me guess. It was my sister Jackie that said something, right?"

She didn't answer right away. "Am I right?" She nodded and he, as she expected, laughed.

"Sweetheart, Jackie is the most unhappy person I know. She manufactures misery, wallows in it and then isn't truly happy until everyone else is weeping along with her.

"Me? I prefer not to join her. She has been crying all week and she will continue crying as long as there is anyone around to listen."

"And you haven't shed one tear."

"Why should I?"

"Because this is a funeral. It's your father's funeral for God's sake!"

The way she threw them, the words should have stung him. Instead, they just seemed curiosities in their conversation.

"Jackie was upset because you were laughing and joking with Aunt Tiz."

"Aunt Tiz is wonderful fun! Did you know that she still swims and rides her bike every day?"

"Yes, I heard. Everyone heard."

He smiled, "Yeah, she's eighty-six years old and could probably use a hearing aid. But, she is alive and vibrant - which is more than I can say for my sister."

"Jackie was very upset when you didn't want any of your father's ashes. She had arranged an urn for each of your brothers and sisters and after the service she was going to have the ashes divided..."

"What would I do with his ashes? Besides, do you know which urns she chose? Gold. Solid gold. Two thousand dollars apiece. Is that crazy, or what? My father was a store-brand butter pecan kinda guy. How many times did you hear him complain that for the price of a single ice cream cone at the shop we could have bought a whole gallon at the grocery store. Two thousand dollar gold urns would have made him crazy.

"She can save the two thousand dollars and they can each have an extra scoop of Dad in their urns."

"Don't you miss him?"

"Of course I do!"

"Aren't you upset that you won't see him again?"

"Who says I won't see him again? I have a whole lifetime of memories that I can rewind and replay any time I want to."

"Aren't you sad that he is gone?"

"If being sad means sitting around crying about all the would have been's then, no, I am not sad. Oh, honey, you know me, I am just not made like that."

It was her turn to laugh. "No, I guess you are not. You laugh at everything. You even giggle when we make love."

"Oh, come on, sex is funny. With an 'ooh-ooh' here and an 'aaah-aaah' there it sounds an awful lot like Old McDonald's farm."

She slapped his leg but left her hand resting there. He covered it with his own.

"I thought that was what attracted you to me, that I am not all stuffy. If you remember, you did dance with me."

She looked into his warm face and his glinty eyes. They both smiled remembering the first time they met. It was at a wedding. She was a bridesmaid and he was a friend of the groom. They made eye contact several times across the room but found no convenient opportunity to casually meet.

She asked the bride about him and he asked the groom about her. "Do you think I should ask her to dance?" "It couldn't hurt," was the groom's response.

So, he picked up his crutches, propped himself upright and as gracefully as he could made his way over to where she stood.

She watched his progress with interest and when he stopped in front of her she realized that she had stopped breathing. It took a moment for her to respond to his question.

"Would you like to dance?" he had asked.

She laughed nervously and looked at the cast that ran from ankle to hip. "Yes," she replied, "Yes, I would very much like to dance."

He led her to the dance floor then propped both crutches under one arm. She moved in under the other arm and they stood there swaying while the band played "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes".

When the song ended they returned to his table. She sat with him and asked how he had broken his leg. He told her several versions, each funnier than the one before. At the end of the evening they were both giddy and glassy eyed.

That was twenty-seven years ago and the memory still made her feel that same breathlessness.

She looked at him again, "Will you be sad when I die?"

Wednesday, 6/23/10 - Seeing Red

The old woman rocked gently back and forth in time to the tune she softly hummed.

A slight stirring of the air caught her attention. Without hesitation in hum or rock she measured the amount of air that had been displaced.

"Shanti, come in here and let me have a look at you."

"Nana! How do you.."

"I may be old and blind but I am not dead. Now, come and let me see."

Shanti crouched beside the rocker, took the old woman's hands in her own, kissed them then sat unmoving while they slowly moved over her face and hair.

"You are a beautiful Shanti and red is your color."

"How do you know that I am wearing red tonight?"

"Because you are radiant tonight."

"No, really, Nana, how do you know? You can't see me but you know this dress is red. How?"

The old woman held Shanti's smooth, manicured hands in her own. She felt the young woman's long, slender fingers against her own wrinkled skin and gnarled knuckles.

"The same way that I know that right now you are looking at the differences between our hands." The statment startled Shanti and she pulled her hands away. "You don't need eyes to see what's true. It's not hard; you can do it, too."

"No, Nana, you have a gift. I could never see things the way you do."

"Sure you can. Here, sit here." The old woman rocked herself forward and out of the chair. As she moved to the dresser, Shanti perched on the edge of the rocker. "Sit back and close your eyes."

Shanti eased back, relaxed and closed her eyes. The old woman opened a drawer and removed something before moving back alongside the rocker.

"Hold out your hands." She felt along the arm of the chair and located Shanti's open hands. She placed the object into the young woman's hands and gently folded Shanti's fingers around it.

"What color is it?" she asked.

"I don't know..."

"Then we will just sit here until you do know."

"But Nana, I can't stay..."

"Yes, I know, you have a date with Raymond. Tell me about Raymond."

Shanti absently rolled the object in her hands. "Raymond is wonderful." She smiled a secret smile but the old woman knew it was there. "He is handsome, and funny, and kind, and..."

"And your father doesn't approve."

Shanti's smile disappeared. "No."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because Raymond is white. Daddy, for as much as he talks about integration and equality, does not want me dating a white man."

"But you are beyond dating, aren't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if Raymond didn't ask you to marry him. Maybe even tonight."

"Oh, Nana, what would I do?"

The old woman let the question alone.

"So, what color is it?"

"I don't know, Nana, I can't see like you see."

"Then stop trying and just tell me everything you can about what you are holding."

"Well, it's round. It's smooth. And cool. It feels like glass, like a marble, only bigger. It's hard but the smoothness makes it feel soft."

Shanti rolled the object around in her hands feeling its smooth coolness.

"Now, hold it up and tell me what color it feels like."

Without hesitation Shanti said, "It's blue. Blue." She opened her eyes and looked at the sphere and it was blue. It was blue because at eye level it reflected the sky outside. As she lowered her hand it turned white as it reflected the walls of the room then the brown of her skin and, finally, the red of her dress.

"Put that in your purse. Take it with you tonight. If Raymond asks you anything you can't answer then you just take a minute, close your eyes and tell me what color you see."

Tuesday, 6/22/10 - The Dumbing of America

Americans are dumb.

They weren't always this way but lately more and more Americans have become dumb.

On a recent 12 hour drive I looked for ways to quietly entertain myself so as not to wake my sleeping passenger.

One way is to play the game Auto-noyance. This is not the nicest game to play but it is a lot of fun and it does require some skill to play it well.

The idea is to watch for weavers - the ones that are in too much of a hurry to give the people in front of them time to move out of the way. The ones that weave in and out and back and forth just to gain a car length or two.

Once you spot one you calculate how best to pin them into a position where they cannot move. It's like Tetris - only bigger.

The trick is to do this without giving anyone the perception that you did it on purpose. That is where the skill comes in. You have to time it correctly and either increase or decrease your speed by only a small degree to pin them in place.

Too slow and they squirt out in front of you. Too fast and they just pull in behind and around you.

Once you have them in a position where they cannot move, you have to hold them just long enough to spike their blood pressure before you allow them to pass.

Like I said, its a fun and skillful game but it is not very nice.

On this trip I didn't feel evil enough for Auto-noyance so I decided to watch for interesting quotes on bumper stickers. My thought was that I would relate the best one to you in this blog.

The problem was that in 12 hours of driving I saw very few bumper stickers.



I expected religious statements, sports emblems, "my kid..." exclamations, and the whiny "I'd rather be..." stickers and I got some of that but not in the volume that I had anticipated.

At first I thought it was just an anomaly but after 12 hours I realized that this was serious.

Our cars are sacred and bumper stickers have always been a silent oratory of our beliefs and views. We would say things on our bumpers that we would not or could not say in any other way or in any other forum.



We loved our cars and anything else we loved was proclaimed on our bumpers.

Somehow, in recent years Americans have become voiceless and that silence is evident in the showroom clean bumpers traveling along the highways of this country.

Elie Wiesel wrote, "The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference".

If bumpers are any indication then Americans have become indifferent.

And although I didn't always agree with what was written, I always read what was posted on the windows, trunk lids, side panels and bumpers of automobiles around me.

I miss those quotes, the little quips, the words of wisdom, the pride filled passages and the honor, the humor and the honesty that was once so prevalent.

America, what has made you dumb?

I miss the sight of your voice.

Speak to me.

Monday, 6/21/10 - Face The Sky

A thick layer of clouds blanketed the horizon.

The sun, tired from a long day of baking Florida tourists, rested its head on that pillow of clouds.



Having worked the day shift for years, the sun learned many tricks for getting off work early. It considered calling in with an eclipse but it can't use that excuse too often as everyone seems to notice.



The easiest way is to just tell the boss that it is feeling cloudy. That way, it can pop in and out when it feels like it and it doesn't have to work the whole day.

So, rather than being caught sleeping on the job, the sun called the boss, said it was feeling cloudy and would be leaving work early.

With the boss' approval, the sun slipped behind the clouds and got some much needed rest.



As it slept, the sun began to dream.



The face you see in these pictures was formed by clouds passing in front of the sun. It was not obvious to me at capture time and was only revealed when reviewing the images later.

The last three images are the same only at increasing magnifications.

Pretty wild, huh?

Sunday, 6/20/10 - A New Friend

So, you have a new friend.

I am happy for you.

Actually, we are all happy for you.

All of us.

All of your "old" friends.

And just so you know, we all miss you.

For years we had all done things together and now you don't come around anymore. You never call and when we call you just tell us that you are hanging with your new friend.

Yes, I know his name is Bill.

You are not the first one in the group to become Bill's friend. We have lost other friends to Bill.

What I don't understand about Bill is why he monopolizes your time.

Let's be real about this, OK?

You have never met Bill but you run around telling the world how you are his friend. I'm a friend of Bill. I'm a friend of Bill. I'm a friend of Bill... Brawk, brawk, braaaawk - like a damn chicken.

I'm sorry. No, really, I am sorry.

I just don't understand why Bill thinks we are such bad people when WE have been here and HE has not.

Where was Bill all those times we just happened to show up at the bar at closing time to drive you home? Did you think that we were just passing by at that hour?

Where was Bill when you totaled your car? Or when you lost your license for a year? We all made sure you got where you were going.

Where was Bill during the first intervention we put together? I don't recall seeing him at the second one, either.

Where was Bill when you lost your job? Or when you lost your house?

Where?

Bill was absent through most of the tough times and now, now that you are getting healthy, Bill doesn't want you hanging around with us.

If you ask me, Bill sounds a little insecure about his friends.

If it helps you to hang out with Bill then we all wish you well.

I don't understand but, as a friend, I will support you. I miss you. We all do.

It is frustrating, really frustrating...

... you don't mind if I have another drink do you?

Saturday, 6/19/10 - Red Dress

Pausing partway through the parlor
She pens a poem then places it aside.
The sadness of the story makes her sigh.
A streak of silver slides out of her eye.
Walking to a window she watches the warm and weatherd sky
And moves her melancholy mood outside
To hang like hand washed hand-me-downs on high
All laundered lies and love notes on her line
Over grass that's growing greener all the time
From soaking summer storms and sweet sunshine.
A fragrant flower's full bloom does she find
Its perfect petals peaceful in her mind
So she sit herself beside its stem and smiles
Remembering her red dress,
her regrets
and her reasons for the night.

Friday, 6/18/10 - When?

I am going to:

• lose weight


• start exercising


• eat better


• stop drinking


• find a better job


• go back to school


• learn to play the piano


• spend more time with my kids


• turn off the TV


• clean out the garage


• fix that leaky faucet


• ...

When?

Thursday, 6/171/10 - Don't Blame Me

When was the last time you experienced silence?

This is the result of a 90 minute, late night drive with the window down, the radio off and almost no one else on the roads.

Read it with a country twang.




Don't blame me,
If nothin's all you're left with.
Don't blame me,
If I'm soundin' like a skeptic.

Don't blame me,
If your best times are in the past.
Don't blame me,
If things you have now won't last.

Don't blame me,
If your stars have all stopped shinin'.
Don't blame me,
If you can't find that silver linin'.

Don't blame me,
If there's nothin' left on your plate.
Don't blame me,
If I still have the cake I just ate.

Don't blame me,
If you should hear me laughin'.
Don't blame me,
If I folded up and cashed in.

Don't blame me,
If you try but just can't win it.
Don't blame me,
If I'm soundin' like a cynic.

Don't blame me,
If you don't like the hand you're holdin'.
Don't blame me,
If I played my cards and folded.

Don't blame me,
If you only get what you got.
Don't blame me,
If I always take my best shot.

Don't blame me,
No, don't blame me.

Wednesday, 6/16/10 - There is a moment...

In the evening, the sinking sun paints with honey.



It is sweet but it lasts only a moment.

Tuesday, 6/15/10 - Windows

Sometimes windows reveal
more about what's on the outside
than what's on the inside...

Monday, 6/14/10 - Wheels

Cameras and lenses were packed away for the 12 hour drive home from Asheville, NC. All of the days photo opportunities passed by - the focus was on getting home.

While fueling up for the final hours of the trip, the sunset demanded a shot.

Sunday, 6/13/10 - What Fairy Tales Are Made Of

Today I watched the crowning of a king



and the crowning of a queen



and the knighting of knights.



Life is the stuff that fairy tales are made of.

Saturday, 6/12/10 - Motion

Seas of people,
Coming in
              in waves,
                            Going out
                                          like the tide.



Constant motion.



Funneled, the flow eddies near exits,
Pools in pubs and pizzarias,
Collects in cocktail lounges,
Trickles into T-shirt shops,
Sluices past stores and sandwich shops,
Babbles into bookstores,
Navigates around news stands,
Finally floating free and finding airside.



Airside...

Yo-ho'ing into cell phones,
Corporate pirates, with their adventures ended,
tell tales of all they have pillaged and plundered.

International vagabonds,
Bodies contoured by too many ports,
Slump,
And prop their feet on roll-aboards.

Everyday adventurers,
Reflect exotic destinations,
In their far away stares.

Home bound hobos,
Huddle together,
Holding their breath,
Hoping to hear,
Their call for boarding.

Suited businessmen with battered baggage,
Sit, laps topped with laptops,
Coffee cups propped between knees,
Confer, hands-free, with colleagues,
In home ports,
And across the seas.

Friday, 6/11/10 - The Habit

I have heard that if you do something for 21 days that it becomes a habit.

This is the 140th entry into this blog... so, I guess it has become a habit.

With traveling and working, the next few days will be very crazy for me and I may not get to post every day.

I have been fretting over how to deal with this and even considered writing the next few entries in advance but that would violate the rules I established.

Funny, I was so concerned with how to handle the next few days that I failed to consider what I would write today...

... and that, my friends, is a good lesson in Remember, Be Here Now.

---

This image is more about the background than the forground. I carefully considered where light and dark should begin and end.



The following three images were taken through a screened window.

As the sun sank lower it illuminated some potted plants outside my window. I grabbed the camera and stepped outside to grab a few shots but the light was completely different when viewed from the outside.

So, I stepped back inside and took these.

Thursday, 6/10/10 - Click Here...

"It says to click here to get started."

"Do you want me to drive?"

"No, I want to do this. I know you would do it faster but this really is something that a mother should do."

"OK."

"So, I click here... Oooh, look, it knows who we are, Jack and Jean McKeon, and it knows that we have a 4 year old model BY-1517D."

"Click next."

"I'll get there, I just want to scroll down and see what else it knows about us. Address, income, bank accounts, pets, hobbies. They have everything! Should I click here to take this survey? They want to know how we like our BY-1517D."

"We can do that later. Let's just get our order in."

"But maybe there is something in the survey that will help when they configure this order. Remember how the BY-1517D leaked and made strange noises when we first got it? I don't want to have to go through that again!"

"I'm sure that they have those problems all worked out by now; it's been 4 years. Let's skip the survey and just click on order default."

"We talked about this! I don't want the default..."

"Sweetheart, we can customize it later. Selecting the default just creates a base configuration to work from."

"Well, ok, but I am not confirming the order until I have verified all of the options. Where is the list we made?"

"It's right here - all 15 pages."

"Don't be sarcastic; this is important! Maybe we shouldn't do this right now. Maybe I should just configure it by myself and you can review it when I am done. That way I can take all of the time I need and you can just click through it like you don't even care."

"I'm sorry. Really, I didn't mean to sound like I don't care - you know I do. It's just that I sit behind a computer screen all day and I know all of the tricks that vendors use to get you to buy things you don't really need. We have our list and if we stick to that we will get exactly what we want."

"But what happens if they have new features that we should consider? This stuff changes all the time."

"You are right. I want us to do this right and I want us to do this together."

"Thank you."

"Can we skip the survey for now?"

"OK."

"Click here."

"That's interesting, they configured the default as a GL-1228X. We wanted the GL but I am not sure about the X model, we wanted another D."

"That's just the base model. If you click here it will allow us to customize it. I have our list of specifications and I will check them off as we configure them."

"Here, look at this, virus protection is not part of the base package, it's a $3,500 install option with a $150 yearly maintenance fee. That's just crazy, who would order one without virus protection."

"It's on our list. Select it and I will check it off. Next?"

"Color."

"We talked about this and we decided that we would not spend more than $2,500 on a custom color. Let's see, the default is mocha-ivory-taupe, if we add some persimmon-cinnamon I think we can get close to what we want. Click on the color-chooser over there, then custom color over here, then "add tint over here..."

---

"Oh, honey, I love it! It's perfect! ... You don't like it?"

"The price is higher than what we agreed on."

"It's not that much higher, besides, we decided that this would be our last one."

"At this price, it will have to be our last one. Do you really like it?"

"It's perfect!"

"Then, do you want to click enter?"

"Yes, very much. Will you click it with me?"

"I would like nothing more than to click with you."

"There, we did it! Hey, what's this?"

"Looks like that model is out of stock and it is back ordered for... nine months!"

"I don't want to wait that long!"

"Click here and let's see what our options are. Hmmmm. Looks like the option set we chose requires a complete build. Do we want to accept one of these other options?"

"NO! I want what we configured. Just look at it. It's beautiful!"



"Well, then, I guess we will just have to wait."

Wednesday, 6/9/10 - Enter-tainted

A kingdom of magic,
not more than 5 minutes away,
explodes nightly,
working fire into the sky.

Brilliance and booming evoking
oooh's and aaaah's
from Ottowans and Alaskans
come for the sun
and meetings with Mickey.

Join us they caw,
in margarita marinated melodies.

Lucky you are, they lament,
to live in a land,
of everyday holiday.

Entertained,
in this way,
every day.

You!
Lucky you!

No point,
in rattling,
the keys to the kingdom,
that hold no more magic,
than a simple walk,
down any street,
in any town.

Walk then,
where you will,
if you go slowly enough,
you can see miracles,
true miracles,
not just magic,
that is manmade,
manufactured,
and enter-tainted.

Walk then,
and see,
tracks made by man,
overrun by machine.



See footprints,
that haven't changed,
in millions of years.



Look at the way,
we can contain,
the heavens,
in small boxes,
stacked,
and side-by-side.



And how we can draw lines on the sky,
and repeat them,
in perfect symmetry,
again,
and again.



See how we can create tunnels,
that transport us,
to places,
of our own imagining.



We can coil,
our currents,



And carry them,



From here to eternity.