Once we get past Labor Day, the tourist season pretty much comes to an end. The beaches and boardwalk clear, the ice cream shop shutters its windows, and residents take a deep breath and take back their lake community.
Since my retirement, I, too, acknowledge the changes of seasons and look forward to the quieter days and the nearly traffic-free streets. Walking two or three miles a day, I take to the hiking paths through the beauty of the wooded hollows and up the rolling dunes. But the dark lake and the weather it influences only allow so many weeks of autumnal free fall before the early snows and accompanying ice arrive and remain as guests long after the “oohs” and “aahs” of the first snow flakes of weeks and weeks before. The roads and the beach parks become pretty much impassable as western or Canadian storm fronts help pile up tons and tons of snow, which sticks around right up to and, sometimes, beyond the thaws of late March. Too much white stuff and too much slick ice really cut into my outdoor walking treks, leaving me way too much boring time on my Sears treadmill.
This year, purely by accident, I located the only place in town where the roads were plowed and salted even after highway clogging blizzards. Ironically, it was an area with the least amount of vehicle or foot traffic…the municipal cemetery. Located right in the center of the old village, the cemetery dates back to the early 1800’s with a myriad of pathways. The roads there, no wider than a single car’s width, snake through the dune and hardwood sections with varying elevations making the perfect setting for walking no matter the winter-crippling weather elsewhere.
Over a period of time, I created a routine and became familiar with the names on the headstones. Unusual names and old dates would pop into my daydreaming menus. One day I read the marker of a Thomas Dunst who was born in 1909. Anna L., his wife, was born in 1911 and died in 1946. On that stone there was no end date for Thomas. However, an immediately adjacent marker also had Thomas Dunst name engraved, born 1909 and died 1996 and his wife, Emily, born 1922 and died 1987! I began to imagine this Tom Dunst as quite a man, married to two younger women and outliving them both. What was he like? He must have been good with women and women must have found him charming. I picture him with thick, wavy hair, a little gray on the sides and staying that way. Did he end up with a third after ’87 or did he spend his last years alone? I don’t think alone. I want to believe that Tom hooked up with a 60’s something widow who was with him at dinners, parties, and movies right up to his last days. I’m sure the striking widow found Tom funny, manly, and the perfect companion. She loved him and would’ve married him had he asked. I wish I had known him. I bet he was a lively man who would’ve been enjoyable to be around.
A woman walking her very active dog broke into my imaginings. She introduced herself and her dog to me. “I’ve seen you here before, it’s a great, quiet place to walk,” she said. I agreed. With that she and Butchy moved on their way.
On another cold day, I stopped to reread a headstone that didn’t make a lot of sense. Underneath the engraved surname Lowe, it read: Robert J. and his wife, Lizzy Lowe. Both were born in 1904. I hadn’t seen many nicknames on markers as I presumed Lizzy’s was. Most couples’ headstones list the husband’s first and middle name or initial and the wife’s first and, occasionally, her middle name. After repeated passings, the mystery slowly unfolded itself. Lizzy’s maiden name was also Lowe, totally unrelated to Robert Lowe’s family. Most likely she and Robert met in the early school years where teachers often arranged their classroom rows in alphabetical order putting the then Elizabeth Lowe in the desk right in front of Robert. He never called her anything other than Lizzy and, perhaps, had given her the name. He teased her and did the usual things boys do to girls they liked. Lizzy never went to the teacher with complaints, never tattled. She liked Bobby with his bright eyes and his easy smile and, on occasions, would help when he asked for math answers or correct spelling words.
After the years of alphabetical connections, the two of them became inseparable. By high school they were a pair. Wherever you saw Lizzy, you saw Bob. He sat through many of her piano recitals. She went to all of his football games and wore his varsity sweater in their senior year. Another date on their marker noted that they were married in August of 1921, which would’ve been the same year they should have graduated. But it was the end dates at the very bottom of the marker which told me so much more than any obituary could ever recount… the date, 1985, the year they both turned 81 and the year they both died.
One of the more curious headstones that I had walked past so many times on those blustery days had nothing to do with old dates or unique names. In fact it was an engraved inscription, easily seen from the cleared road, on the backside of a headstone that caught my eye. The first line boldly stated: “Dad, you were our sunshine.” Now that alone would not have stirred my musings too much. However, the second line caused me to stop dead in my tracks to read on. I walked into calf-deep snow to be sure that what I thought I read was indeed what was engraved. I wiped away some snow that had distorted the letters a bit and read the second line: “and Mom, you were our moonshine.” Wow! I wished I had known Mom. What could the children have meant when they added those lines to the backside of their parents’ marker? So many of the family-added inscriptions are biblical quotes or famous, poetic lines. A moonshine reference isn’t often found along side RIP.
Back home I checked the dictionary for some help. As I thought, moonshine was defined as illegal whiskey; but the entry also listed another definition: “Silly language or actions.” There it was. Dad brought insight, intelligence, and clarity to the family. He was the center, he was the substance. He was the light. Mom, on the other hand brought life to the party. She ripped trouble to shreds, teased tears into laughter, and found ways to distill good cheer into the household’s routine. She was the life. God, you’ve got to love that kind of woman. I made myself a promise that on another day’s walk through I’d clear the ice and snow incrusted headstone front and find her name and place it in my memory bank. She’s someone to remember.
The mid-March warmth helped clear the sidewalks making old routes passable once again. I returned to my routes through the soon-to-be leafing hardwoods and beech trees and along the boardwalk and beach trails. The slowly warming days would take me to the town’s shops, post office, library, and to a favorite breakfast spot. But one thing was sure, no more treadmill days for me during the frozen months. No way. I located my winter haven.
I’ll be returning to the cemetery and looking forward to the stories that I hear in that narrative silence. Come those icy, windy days of winter, I’ll be retracing my steps to my hideaway paths where my stone-faced friends, names, dates, and inscriptions will await my walks and tease me once again from and with their cemetery plots and stories.Headstone Chronicles
Once we get past Labor Day, the tourist season pretty much comes to an end. The beaches and boardwalk clear, the ice cream shop shutters its windows, and residents take a deep breath and take back their lake community.
Since my retirement, I, too, acknowledge the changes of seasons and look forward to the quieter days and the nearly traffic-free streets. Walking two or three miles a day, I take to the hiking paths through the beauty of the wooded hollows and up the rolling dunes. But the dark lake and the weather it influences only allow so many weeks of autumnal free fall before the early snows and accompanying ice arrive and remain as guests long after the “oohs” and “aahs” of the first snow flakes of weeks and weeks before. The roads and the beach parks become pretty much impassable as western or Canadian storm fronts help pile up tons and tons of snow, which sticks around right up to and, sometimes, beyond the thaws of late March. Too much white stuff and too much slick ice really cut into my outdoor walking treks, leaving me way too much boring time on my Sears treadmill.
This year, purely by accident, I located the only place in town where the roads were plowed and salted even after highway clogging blizzards. Ironically, it was an area with the least amount of vehicle or foot traffic…the municipal cemetery. Located right in the center of the old village, the cemetery dates back to the early 1800’s with a myriad of pathways. The roads there, no wider than a single car’s width, snake through the dune and hardwood sections with varying elevations making the perfect setting for walking no matter the winter-crippling weather elsewhere.
Over a period of time, I created a routine and became familiar with the names on the headstones. Unusual names and old dates would pop into my daydreaming menus. One day I read the marker of a Thomas Dunst who was born in 1909. Anna L., his wife, was born in 1911 and died in 1946. On that stone there was no end date for Thomas. However, an immediately adjacent marker also had Thomas Dunst name engraved, born 1909 and died 1996 and his wife, Emily, born 1922 and died 1987! I began to imagine this Tom Dunst as quite a man, married to two younger women and outliving them both. What was he like? He must have been good with women and women must have found him charming. I picture him with thick, wavy hair, a little gray on the sides and staying that way. Did he end up with a third after ’87 or did he spend his last years alone? I don’t think alone. I want to believe that Tom hooked up with a 60’s something widow who was with him at dinners, parties, and movies right up to his last days. I’m sure the striking widow found Tom funny, manly, and the perfect companion. She loved him and would’ve married him had he asked. I wish I had known him. I bet he was a lively man who would’ve been enjoyable to be around.
A woman walking her very active dog broke into my imaginings. She introduced herself and her dog to me. “I’ve seen you here before, it’s a great, quiet place to walk,” she said. I agreed. With that she and Butchy moved on their way.
On another cold day, I stopped to reread a headstone that didn’t make a lot of sense. Underneath the engraved surname Lowe, it read: Robert J. and his wife, Lizzy Lowe. Both were born in 1904. I hadn’t seen many nicknames on markers as I presumed Lizzy’s was. Most couples’ headstones list the husband’s first and middle name or initial and the wife’s first and, occasionally, her middle name. After repeated passings, the mystery slowly unfolded itself. Lizzy’s maiden name was also Lowe, totally unrelated to Robert Lowe’s family. Most likely she and Robert met in the early school years where teachers often arranged their classroom rows in alphabetical order putting the then Elizabeth Lowe in the desk right in front of Robert. He never called her anything other than Lizzy and, perhaps, had given her the name. He teased her and did the usual things boys do to girls they liked. Lizzy never went to the teacher with complaints, never tattled. She liked Bobby with his bright eyes and his easy smile and, on occasions, would help when he asked for math answers or correct spelling words.
After the years of alphabetical connections, the two of them became inseparable. By high school they were a pair. Wherever you saw Lizzy, you saw Bob. He sat through many of her piano recitals. She went to all of his football games and wore his varsity sweater in their senior year. Another date on their marker noted that they were married in August of 1921, which would’ve been the same year they should have graduated. But it was the end dates at the very bottom of the marker which told me so much more than any obituary could ever recount… the date, 1985, the year they both turned 81 and the year they both died.
One of the more curious headstones that I had walked past so many times on those blustery days had nothing to do with old dates or unique names. In fact it was an engraved inscription, easily seen from the cleared road, on the backside of a headstone that caught my eye. The first line boldly stated: “Dad, you were our sunshine.” Now that alone would not have stirred my musings too much. However, the second line caused me to stop dead in my tracks to read on. I walked into calf-deep snow to be sure that what I thought I read was indeed what was engraved. I wiped away some snow that had distorted the letters a bit and read the second line: “and Mom, you were our moonshine.” Wow! I wished I had known Mom. What could the children have meant when they added those lines to the backside of their parents’ marker? So many of the family-added inscriptions are biblical quotes or famous, poetic lines. A moonshine reference isn’t often found along side RIP.
Back home I checked the dictionary for some help. As I thought, moonshine was defined as illegal whiskey; but the entry also listed another definition: “Silly language or actions.” There it was. Dad brought insight, intelligence, and clarity to the family. He was the center, he was the substance. He was the light. Mom, on the other hand brought life to the party. She ripped trouble to shreds, teased tears into laughter, and found ways to distill good cheer into the household’s routine. She was the life. God, you’ve got to love that kind of woman. I made myself a promise that on another day’s walk through I’d clear the ice and snow incrusted headstone front and find her name and place it in my memory bank. She’s someone to remember.
The mid-March warmth helped clear the sidewalks making old routes passable once again. I returned to my routes through the soon-to-be leafing hardwoods and beech trees and along the boardwalk and beach trails. The slowly warming days would take me to the town’s shops, post office, library, and to a favorite breakfast spot. But one thing was sure, no more treadmill days for me during the frozen months. No way. I located my winter haven.
I’ll be returning to the cemetery and looking forward to the stories that I hear in that narrative silence. Come those icy, windy days of winter, I’ll be retracing my steps to my hideaway paths where my stone-faced friends, names, dates, and inscriptions will await my walks and tease me once again from and with their cemetery plots and stories.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Universal Church*
Recently,
Stephen Hawking,
Wheelchair-bound,
theoretical physicist,
Repudiated
His previous theories...
Theories about the Universe
And a God-involved Creator.
Now,
In a complete 180,
Hawking claims
To have uncovered
The Real Answer
To that Universal Question...
The Question all primates
Have pondered
Since Homo-Erectus:
Where did all this stuff come from?
The answer according to
Dr. Hawking's newest theory is...
(drum roll, please)
The Universe,
Self-Creating,
Self-Sustaining,
And
Self-Evolving,
Yes, the Universe itself,
Made it all
And
Continues to make it all
Using the powers
Of its Cosmic Triune:
Dark Matter,
Gravity, and
The Dusty Gases.
Presently,
I am somewhat confused
And a bit enlightened...
So, I keep my string & beads
Within easy grasp;
And wait for
The next Chapter and Verse.
However,
Am I the only one
Who sees a little of
The Heretical
In Theoretical?
*church does rhyme with search.
Stephen Hawking,
Wheelchair-bound,
theoretical physicist,
Repudiated
His previous theories...
Theories about the Universe
And a God-involved Creator.
Now,
In a complete 180,
Hawking claims
To have uncovered
The Real Answer
To that Universal Question...
The Question all primates
Have pondered
Since Homo-Erectus:
Where did all this stuff come from?
The answer according to
Dr. Hawking's newest theory is...
(drum roll, please)
The Universe,
Self-Creating,
Self-Sustaining,
And
Self-Evolving,
Yes, the Universe itself,
Made it all
And
Continues to make it all
Using the powers
Of its Cosmic Triune:
Dark Matter,
Gravity, and
The Dusty Gases.
Presently,
I am somewhat confused
And a bit enlightened...
So, I keep my string & beads
Within easy grasp;
And wait for
The next Chapter and Verse.
However,
Am I the only one
Who sees a little of
The Heretical
In Theoretical?
*church does rhyme with search.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
*Gotta Love 'Em
For over thirty years I've been around them or should I say: They've been all over me? A type of allergy, perhaps. It seems like all my waking hours I'm stuck in this one position...like a flawed CD with a skip that keeps playing the same notes over and over. You know how the lyrics go..."Why do we have to do this, it's boring?" "Does spelling count?" And my all time favorite: "I know you hate me!"
Yeah, you guessed it. I'm a Junior High teacher and have been one for what seems like most of my life. Hey, look, I know more twelve, thirteen, and fourteen year-olds than I know adults. How sad is that?
Okay, sure I love 'em, but I do get a bit annoyed with some of their idiosyncrasies. You know adolescent things like sarcasm, teasing, rudeness, affected boredom, and the worst of all: drama queenmanship.
Nothing stokes an already established headache more than a coven of early-teen girls verbally jousting over things like: "She said I was fat;" or "She called me ugly;" or "Someone said that someone else overheard someone say that I was a...skank!...And do you know what that is?" This banter continues to buzz beneath the classroom surface for the entire day. It is maddening. It is migraine fodder.
Now don't get me wrong. It isn't only the girls who can get under my skin. The boys have their own method of causing me a mental rash. They can hit, punch, shove, bash, and trip their fellow classmates, inflicting injuries, bruises, and wounds just this side of permanent disfigurement. And then the very next day, the former combatants are best of friends, hanging on each other like blood brothers. Go figure.
Am I annoyed? Sure. Am I entertained? You bet I am. So I guess I'll have to accept my situation and live with them and all their weirdnesses. Frankly, it could be a whole lot worse. I could be in Kindergarten where they spill, drip, drool, and piddle; where they pick their noses and...but that would be way too gross and upsetting even for a Junior High teacher.
*I wrote this years ago and I thought it would be an appropriate post for the beginning of another school year. I do miss those adolescents and their unique behavior. And I do wish the very best to all my post-adolescent students wherever you are.
Yeah, you guessed it. I'm a Junior High teacher and have been one for what seems like most of my life. Hey, look, I know more twelve, thirteen, and fourteen year-olds than I know adults. How sad is that?
Okay, sure I love 'em, but I do get a bit annoyed with some of their idiosyncrasies. You know adolescent things like sarcasm, teasing, rudeness, affected boredom, and the worst of all: drama queenmanship.
Nothing stokes an already established headache more than a coven of early-teen girls verbally jousting over things like: "She said I was fat;" or "She called me ugly;" or "Someone said that someone else overheard someone say that I was a...skank!...And do you know what that is?" This banter continues to buzz beneath the classroom surface for the entire day. It is maddening. It is migraine fodder.
Now don't get me wrong. It isn't only the girls who can get under my skin. The boys have their own method of causing me a mental rash. They can hit, punch, shove, bash, and trip their fellow classmates, inflicting injuries, bruises, and wounds just this side of permanent disfigurement. And then the very next day, the former combatants are best of friends, hanging on each other like blood brothers. Go figure.
Am I annoyed? Sure. Am I entertained? You bet I am. So I guess I'll have to accept my situation and live with them and all their weirdnesses. Frankly, it could be a whole lot worse. I could be in Kindergarten where they spill, drip, drool, and piddle; where they pick their noses and...but that would be way too gross and upsetting even for a Junior High teacher.
*I wrote this years ago and I thought it would be an appropriate post for the beginning of another school year. I do miss those adolescents and their unique behavior. And I do wish the very best to all my post-adolescent students wherever you are.
Friday, June 4, 2010
*FRIENDS
FRIENDS, AT TIMES, MUST LOOK AT EACH OTHER
AND PREPARE TO SAY SOMETHING...
SOMETHING...NOT TOO BIG,
BUT SOMETHING THAT SAYS GOOD-BYE,
WARM, SAD, A THICKNESS NEAR THE THROAT.
AND YET, IT JUST DOESN'T COME OUT RIGHT.
IT SITS IN THERE LIKE SOME NEIGHBOR'S CAT,
NOT MOVING, NOT STIRRING
UNTIL...AND THEN IT'S TOO LATE
BECAUSE GOOD-BYE BECOMES GONE.
WHEN YOU THINK OF IT, THOUGH,
GOOD-BYE IS WASTED
WITH FRIENDS.
FOR SOMEWHERE BACK IN YOUR MIND,
IN SOME SPECIAL CORNER,
THIS FRIEND HAS CARVED DEEP INITIALS
INTO A VERY GOOD TREE.
AND YOU DON'T DO MUCH
WITH A VERY GOOD TREE,
BUT WATCH IT STRETCH AND GROW
AND READ WHAT WAS WRITTEN THERE
YEARS AND YEARS AGO.
*I wrote this for my first 8th grade homeroom's graduation back in 1970; and I have meant it for all those many students who, over the years, have been and will coninue to be my friends.
AND PREPARE TO SAY SOMETHING...
SOMETHING...NOT TOO BIG,
BUT SOMETHING THAT SAYS GOOD-BYE,
WARM, SAD, A THICKNESS NEAR THE THROAT.
AND YET, IT JUST DOESN'T COME OUT RIGHT.
IT SITS IN THERE LIKE SOME NEIGHBOR'S CAT,
NOT MOVING, NOT STIRRING
UNTIL...AND THEN IT'S TOO LATE
BECAUSE GOOD-BYE BECOMES GONE.
WHEN YOU THINK OF IT, THOUGH,
GOOD-BYE IS WASTED
WITH FRIENDS.
FOR SOMEWHERE BACK IN YOUR MIND,
IN SOME SPECIAL CORNER,
THIS FRIEND HAS CARVED DEEP INITIALS
INTO A VERY GOOD TREE.
AND YOU DON'T DO MUCH
WITH A VERY GOOD TREE,
BUT WATCH IT STRETCH AND GROW
AND READ WHAT WAS WRITTEN THERE
YEARS AND YEARS AGO.
*I wrote this for my first 8th grade homeroom's graduation back in 1970; and I have meant it for all those many students who, over the years, have been and will coninue to be my friends.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
On Solid Ground 1995
Holidays usually help set the mood for the season, and Memorial Day weekend is the kick-off for early summer and all the enthusiasm for outdoor activities. Let's face it, for most Americans, Memorial Day opens the door to the outside and gets things rolling. And so it was this last Memorial Saturday when my biking pals and I headed to our favorite route along the banks of the Rouge River for our first workout of the year.
We were slow getting started with skinny tires needing air, derailleurs begging for oil, helmets needing adjustment, and tools missing or lost. But we did get underway as the sun broke through the early morning clouds and as a light breeze pushed us on. Now it takes a couple miles for rider and bike to get comfortable and in sync. By mile four I was spinning at a decent heart-pumping rate with my friends trailing closely behind. Nearing a bridge across from a golf course, I checked my odometer...17mph. Not bad, not bad at all. As I came over the bridge, I noticed the almost-all blue sky merge into the lush greens of the fairway to my left. I eased off the road onto the paved shoulder still thinking of the unfolding day and then BAM! Lights out! Lights on!
In the bicycle vernacular it's called an "endo" when the rider goes over the handlebars and lands in front of the bike. I remember the loud heavy thud of my helmeted head smacking the pavement. (There are times when I can still hear that sound.) After the initial hit, my body followed and fell forcing my face into a concrete slide and to a skidding stop.
Carefully lifting my head from the ground, I realized three important things: one, I was not dead, yet, and two, the ever-enlarging pizza-size pool of blood was mine, and three, my Spandex cycling shorts were still on. I heard my friends approach and rush to my aid. Soon sirens seemed to be coming from all directions and getting louder, and I thought about...well, I thought about the mess I was in.
I thought about my daughter's high school prom that very night. I thought of my son in from Chicago for the weekend. I thought about my wife getting this news. I thought of my classroom and the end-of-year grades, report cards, and records. I thought of my eighth graders and missing Cedar Point and Graduation with them. Actually, all that thinking took my mind away from what was right in front of me: my road-rasped face.
The EMS crew arrived, examined me, asked some questions, wrapped my head and right hand in gauze and adhesive tape, and strapped me to a neck board for the trip to the hospital. Once there, ER nurses and doctors made plans for the restoration of my face and hand. After an hour's worth of Xrays and CAT scans, the plastic surgeon arrived, introduced himself, and said, "I think I can put everything back where it belongs." Reassuring? I hoped he was right.
After some time in surgery, I awoke in a recovery room and groggily began to inventory my situation. An IV was stuck in my left arm. My nose was thickly taped, but mostly back in the middle of my face. My lip was sutured inside and out and swollen to the size of a fat thumb. I could see bandages on my right hand and feel the stiffness of bandages on or near my forehead, cheek,chin, neck, and eye. Without looking in any mirrors, I knew one thing for certain: I was a sight for sore eyes!
By Memorial Day I was home in my own bed. There was no patriotic parade, no smoky bar-be-cue, no family gathering, no laughter, no joy of spring, just the beginning of a long, tedious recovery.
Now, that holiday weekend has long passed, but memories and scars of that worst of days remain and will, no doubt, surface from time to time. It was, indeed, a memorable day for a Memorial weekend...one I won't easily forget.
We were slow getting started with skinny tires needing air, derailleurs begging for oil, helmets needing adjustment, and tools missing or lost. But we did get underway as the sun broke through the early morning clouds and as a light breeze pushed us on. Now it takes a couple miles for rider and bike to get comfortable and in sync. By mile four I was spinning at a decent heart-pumping rate with my friends trailing closely behind. Nearing a bridge across from a golf course, I checked my odometer...17mph. Not bad, not bad at all. As I came over the bridge, I noticed the almost-all blue sky merge into the lush greens of the fairway to my left. I eased off the road onto the paved shoulder still thinking of the unfolding day and then BAM! Lights out! Lights on!
In the bicycle vernacular it's called an "endo" when the rider goes over the handlebars and lands in front of the bike. I remember the loud heavy thud of my helmeted head smacking the pavement. (There are times when I can still hear that sound.) After the initial hit, my body followed and fell forcing my face into a concrete slide and to a skidding stop.
Carefully lifting my head from the ground, I realized three important things: one, I was not dead, yet, and two, the ever-enlarging pizza-size pool of blood was mine, and three, my Spandex cycling shorts were still on. I heard my friends approach and rush to my aid. Soon sirens seemed to be coming from all directions and getting louder, and I thought about...well, I thought about the mess I was in.
I thought about my daughter's high school prom that very night. I thought of my son in from Chicago for the weekend. I thought about my wife getting this news. I thought of my classroom and the end-of-year grades, report cards, and records. I thought of my eighth graders and missing Cedar Point and Graduation with them. Actually, all that thinking took my mind away from what was right in front of me: my road-rasped face.
The EMS crew arrived, examined me, asked some questions, wrapped my head and right hand in gauze and adhesive tape, and strapped me to a neck board for the trip to the hospital. Once there, ER nurses and doctors made plans for the restoration of my face and hand. After an hour's worth of Xrays and CAT scans, the plastic surgeon arrived, introduced himself, and said, "I think I can put everything back where it belongs." Reassuring? I hoped he was right.
After some time in surgery, I awoke in a recovery room and groggily began to inventory my situation. An IV was stuck in my left arm. My nose was thickly taped, but mostly back in the middle of my face. My lip was sutured inside and out and swollen to the size of a fat thumb. I could see bandages on my right hand and feel the stiffness of bandages on or near my forehead, cheek,chin, neck, and eye. Without looking in any mirrors, I knew one thing for certain: I was a sight for sore eyes!
By Memorial Day I was home in my own bed. There was no patriotic parade, no smoky bar-be-cue, no family gathering, no laughter, no joy of spring, just the beginning of a long, tedious recovery.
Now, that holiday weekend has long passed, but memories and scars of that worst of days remain and will, no doubt, surface from time to time. It was, indeed, a memorable day for a Memorial weekend...one I won't easily forget.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Love Your Neighbor
Yesterday as I was mowing my lawn, my neighbor waved and walked over to where I was bagging grass clippings. She and her husband had just moved in next door during the past winter. They're young, energetic, and a 90's modern couple. A great addition to the block.
"We're going to be gone for a week," she said, "hiking and camping with friends in Kentucky. I was wondering if you could do us a favor?"
"Absolutely, sure, do you want me to keep an eye on your flowers, pick up your mail...what?"
"Thanks, but I was hoping you'd take care of Lucy."
I didn't answer right away. Thinking the worst that a Lucy would be in my house...I was silent for a while. Lucy is a cat and I don't much care for cats. "Well, I don't know..."
My neighbor could sense my apprehension. "Oh, Lucy's almost self-sufficient. She's an indoor cat and she's so sweet."
Instead of saying "no" which is what I really wanted to say, I said, "So, what's involved in watching a cat?"
"All you have to do is put food in her bowl twice a day and give her fresh water."
That didn't seem too tough. So I said, "Okay, I'll watch Lucy. "My neighbor's face lit up into a billboard-size thank you smile.
"Why don't you come over when you're finished out here and I'll show you where her food is kept and you can meet Lucy."
After sweeping up and putting my yard tools away, I went to my neighbor's house. Inside I was pleased to see that Lucy ate dry food and not that gross-looking stuff in those small tins. Then I was introduced to Lucy. "Mike, this is Lucy, now Lucy say 'hi' to Mike," my neighbor joked. Lucy sauntered by, gave me a cat-eye look, and brushed up against my leg. "See, she's marked you, she likes you."
Lucy turned out to be kind of good looking for a cat. She had a thick coat of large chocolate, tan, and white swatches...a calico cat, I was informed. "When should I feed her?"
"Oh, in the morning before you go to work and then again in the evening between five and seven. And by the way, Lucy likes it when you talk to her while she's eating."
"Talk? What kind of talk?"
"Just anything really. She eats and digests better when someone is in the room with her."
"Why not just leaving a radio or TV on?"
"She likes a real person, she can tell the difference. I've tried.."
As I started to leave and think about what I had agreed to do, my neighbor asked if maybe I'd like to hold Lucy. Now, I grew up with dogs, hunting dogs, German shepherds, and all sorts of hounds. I've picked up plenty of dogs. I know what that feels like and what to expect. Cats, that's a different story. So reluctantly and slowly and carefully, I bent down to pick up Lucy. Weird sensation. Unlike holding a dog, there's not much substance to a cat...sort of cotton candy with whiskers and a meow. After finding something to grab, I held Lucy for a full ten seconds and happily placed her in my neighbor's open, welcoming arms. With the introduction and hands-on lesson behind, I was done.
The day before her trip south, my neighbor checked in with last minute instructions. "Are you ready for Lucy?"
"I am and I'm looking forward to my week with your cat."
"It should go great. Lucy's such a good cat. There is one thing, though."
I have to be honest, I don't like the sound of phrases like that. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's really wrong. It's a very common condition for female cats to develop slight urinary tract infections, and Lucy has one."
Now I don't know much about a cat's anatomy, but I have a pretty good idea of where a urinary tract problem ends up and that's not pretty. "What do I have to do about that?"
"Oh really nothing...just medicate here in the morning."
Imagining a whole litter of disgusting possibilities, I asked, "How exactly do I medicate this infection?"
"Easy," she said, "just use the dropper in the bottle and add it to Lucy's food, she likes the taste."
"Great, that I can do!"
My seven days with Lucy went by quickly and rather uneventfully. As she became familiar, she would appear at the side door the very moment the key turned in the lock. She greeted me with what, perhaps, looked like a feline happy face. Anyhow, the care of Lucy went smoothly enough: not a single hissy fit, no mood swings, and, definitely, no attitude confrontations. Lucy was a good cat. For her size, I was amazed at the amount of food she ate. Many times I found a perfectly cleaned out bowl when she finished. It must have been my interesting dinner conversation that inspired her voracious appetite.
The week ended as calmly as it began. Lucy's owners were excited to be reunited with their pet and were pleased with the cat's care and their neighborly care giver.
I walked away relieved and a little puzzled to tell the truth. It was good to know that I had successfully handled a first-time situation. And although I didn't become a cat-lover convert, I have to admit (only privately) that at least I did like a cat named Lucy, my new neighbor.
"We're going to be gone for a week," she said, "hiking and camping with friends in Kentucky. I was wondering if you could do us a favor?"
"Absolutely, sure, do you want me to keep an eye on your flowers, pick up your mail...what?"
"Thanks, but I was hoping you'd take care of Lucy."
I didn't answer right away. Thinking the worst that a Lucy would be in my house...I was silent for a while. Lucy is a cat and I don't much care for cats. "Well, I don't know..."
My neighbor could sense my apprehension. "Oh, Lucy's almost self-sufficient. She's an indoor cat and she's so sweet."
Instead of saying "no" which is what I really wanted to say, I said, "So, what's involved in watching a cat?"
"All you have to do is put food in her bowl twice a day and give her fresh water."
That didn't seem too tough. So I said, "Okay, I'll watch Lucy. "My neighbor's face lit up into a billboard-size thank you smile.
"Why don't you come over when you're finished out here and I'll show you where her food is kept and you can meet Lucy."
After sweeping up and putting my yard tools away, I went to my neighbor's house. Inside I was pleased to see that Lucy ate dry food and not that gross-looking stuff in those small tins. Then I was introduced to Lucy. "Mike, this is Lucy, now Lucy say 'hi' to Mike," my neighbor joked. Lucy sauntered by, gave me a cat-eye look, and brushed up against my leg. "See, she's marked you, she likes you."
Lucy turned out to be kind of good looking for a cat. She had a thick coat of large chocolate, tan, and white swatches...a calico cat, I was informed. "When should I feed her?"
"Oh, in the morning before you go to work and then again in the evening between five and seven. And by the way, Lucy likes it when you talk to her while she's eating."
"Talk? What kind of talk?"
"Just anything really. She eats and digests better when someone is in the room with her."
"Why not just leaving a radio or TV on?"
"She likes a real person, she can tell the difference. I've tried.."
As I started to leave and think about what I had agreed to do, my neighbor asked if maybe I'd like to hold Lucy. Now, I grew up with dogs, hunting dogs, German shepherds, and all sorts of hounds. I've picked up plenty of dogs. I know what that feels like and what to expect. Cats, that's a different story. So reluctantly and slowly and carefully, I bent down to pick up Lucy. Weird sensation. Unlike holding a dog, there's not much substance to a cat...sort of cotton candy with whiskers and a meow. After finding something to grab, I held Lucy for a full ten seconds and happily placed her in my neighbor's open, welcoming arms. With the introduction and hands-on lesson behind, I was done.
The day before her trip south, my neighbor checked in with last minute instructions. "Are you ready for Lucy?"
"I am and I'm looking forward to my week with your cat."
"It should go great. Lucy's such a good cat. There is one thing, though."
I have to be honest, I don't like the sound of phrases like that. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's really wrong. It's a very common condition for female cats to develop slight urinary tract infections, and Lucy has one."
Now I don't know much about a cat's anatomy, but I have a pretty good idea of where a urinary tract problem ends up and that's not pretty. "What do I have to do about that?"
"Oh really nothing...just medicate here in the morning."
Imagining a whole litter of disgusting possibilities, I asked, "How exactly do I medicate this infection?"
"Easy," she said, "just use the dropper in the bottle and add it to Lucy's food, she likes the taste."
"Great, that I can do!"
My seven days with Lucy went by quickly and rather uneventfully. As she became familiar, she would appear at the side door the very moment the key turned in the lock. She greeted me with what, perhaps, looked like a feline happy face. Anyhow, the care of Lucy went smoothly enough: not a single hissy fit, no mood swings, and, definitely, no attitude confrontations. Lucy was a good cat. For her size, I was amazed at the amount of food she ate. Many times I found a perfectly cleaned out bowl when she finished. It must have been my interesting dinner conversation that inspired her voracious appetite.
The week ended as calmly as it began. Lucy's owners were excited to be reunited with their pet and were pleased with the cat's care and their neighborly care giver.
I walked away relieved and a little puzzled to tell the truth. It was good to know that I had successfully handled a first-time situation. And although I didn't become a cat-lover convert, I have to admit (only privately) that at least I did like a cat named Lucy, my new neighbor.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
A Christmas Heirloom
For years, Christmas Eve has been my family's holiday celebration. All during that day, family members begin arriving at my father's house from Ohio, Wisconsin, and hours-away Michigan cities. Early arrivals claim bedrooms and beds; later ones get couches and lumpy sleeping bags...but somehow, we all get there.
Sisters-in-law and my sister and my aunt pitch in to bring our traditional-Polish Christmas Eve dinner together. The rest of us, adult males, cousins, nephews, and nieces load up on snacks, drinks, ping pong, and lots of sports' chatter. My dad just sits back and watches his home get disarranged during this seasonal metamorphosis.
After dinner, after desserts, after dishes are done, dried, and put away, we all settle down in the living room and get ready to exchange and open the gifts stacked beneath the tree. But first, we have to sing a few carols...always ending with "The Twelve Days of Christmas."
Then the presents. Wrapping paper shredded, bows and ribbons untied, ripped, and tossed as kids and adults readily open toys and gift boxes. All of this doing and undoing is followed by the "oohs," and "ahas," and "You shouldn't haves" which are echoed throughout the room. Gifts are held up for display and assembling. "Some assembly required" is the norm with tired eyes trying to read directions printed in some third country's attempt at English and then whoosh!
A whole season of anticipation, shopping, baking, and planning all done. All the excitement drawn into a quiet, thoughtful moment of rest and peace on our own little space of earth.
And so it was a couple years ago on a routine, very late Christmas Eve as we were picking up the last remnants of paper and ribbon from the living room carpet. Little guys were in pajamas and nearly asleep; adults were yawning and dreaming of coming dreams. It was just about time to say a last "Merry Christmas" and give a final goodnight hug to those leaving when my father pushed himself up from his comfy chair and announced: "I almost forgot, there is one more present."
So we waited and yawned another yawn as my father went searching for the missing gift. A short while later he reemerged holding what looked to be a very long, very dusty, very old rifle. Weary eyes got amazingly re-alert with the appearance of a weapon in the room.
My dad walked over to me and said, "Here, I want you to have this, it's a Japanese rifle that I brought back from the Philippines nearly sixty years ago.
As he handed it to me, I said, "Dad, why would I want this rifle?"
"Well," he replied, " I once asked that very same question. Let me tell you all a little story."
And with that, my father recounted a late summer day in 1944 when he was leading his Seabee surveying crew in in a semi-cleared area, laying out construction lines for an eventual B-29 landing strip. My father, the only officer, was on the transit giving long distance, hand signals to where construction stakes were to placed. When suddenly, a shot rang out from the adjoining, heavily wooded area. The crew took cover or dropped to the ground and waited for expected gun fire. After waiting a bit, they looked around, saw nothing, heard nothing else, and so continued their work.
Later that day in the mess tent, a Marine approached the table where my father and some of his crew were eating. "Hey, Seabees, who was running the transit out on the new field today?"
"I was,Sergeant."
Noticing my father's officer bar, the Marine said, "Sir, my men noticed a sniper in a tree and took him out."
"Yeah, we wondered what that shot was."
"Well, Sir," the Marine continued, "I thought you might want this Arisaka rifle."
"Sarge, why would I want that rifle?"
"Sir, I don't mean to alarm you, but this rifle was aimed at you."
"So Michael, maybe now you know why I'm giving this rifle to you...it's what could have come between me ever seeing you, my son, born just a few weeks before in that same summer."
Needless to say, damp eyes and hugs filled the room with the ending of that story. My brother, my sister, and I will never forget that Christmas. We will always be thankful for the father we have had and for that old, dusty rifle that did not separate him from the family that we became.
Sisters-in-law and my sister and my aunt pitch in to bring our traditional-Polish Christmas Eve dinner together. The rest of us, adult males, cousins, nephews, and nieces load up on snacks, drinks, ping pong, and lots of sports' chatter. My dad just sits back and watches his home get disarranged during this seasonal metamorphosis.
After dinner, after desserts, after dishes are done, dried, and put away, we all settle down in the living room and get ready to exchange and open the gifts stacked beneath the tree. But first, we have to sing a few carols...always ending with "The Twelve Days of Christmas."
Then the presents. Wrapping paper shredded, bows and ribbons untied, ripped, and tossed as kids and adults readily open toys and gift boxes. All of this doing and undoing is followed by the "oohs," and "ahas," and "You shouldn't haves" which are echoed throughout the room. Gifts are held up for display and assembling. "Some assembly required" is the norm with tired eyes trying to read directions printed in some third country's attempt at English and then whoosh!
A whole season of anticipation, shopping, baking, and planning all done. All the excitement drawn into a quiet, thoughtful moment of rest and peace on our own little space of earth.
And so it was a couple years ago on a routine, very late Christmas Eve as we were picking up the last remnants of paper and ribbon from the living room carpet. Little guys were in pajamas and nearly asleep; adults were yawning and dreaming of coming dreams. It was just about time to say a last "Merry Christmas" and give a final goodnight hug to those leaving when my father pushed himself up from his comfy chair and announced: "I almost forgot, there is one more present."
So we waited and yawned another yawn as my father went searching for the missing gift. A short while later he reemerged holding what looked to be a very long, very dusty, very old rifle. Weary eyes got amazingly re-alert with the appearance of a weapon in the room.
My dad walked over to me and said, "Here, I want you to have this, it's a Japanese rifle that I brought back from the Philippines nearly sixty years ago.
As he handed it to me, I said, "Dad, why would I want this rifle?"
"Well," he replied, " I once asked that very same question. Let me tell you all a little story."
And with that, my father recounted a late summer day in 1944 when he was leading his Seabee surveying crew in in a semi-cleared area, laying out construction lines for an eventual B-29 landing strip. My father, the only officer, was on the transit giving long distance, hand signals to where construction stakes were to placed. When suddenly, a shot rang out from the adjoining, heavily wooded area. The crew took cover or dropped to the ground and waited for expected gun fire. After waiting a bit, they looked around, saw nothing, heard nothing else, and so continued their work.
Later that day in the mess tent, a Marine approached the table where my father and some of his crew were eating. "Hey, Seabees, who was running the transit out on the new field today?"
"I was,Sergeant."
Noticing my father's officer bar, the Marine said, "Sir, my men noticed a sniper in a tree and took him out."
"Yeah, we wondered what that shot was."
"Well, Sir," the Marine continued, "I thought you might want this Arisaka rifle."
"Sarge, why would I want that rifle?"
"Sir, I don't mean to alarm you, but this rifle was aimed at you."
"So Michael, maybe now you know why I'm giving this rifle to you...it's what could have come between me ever seeing you, my son, born just a few weeks before in that same summer."
Needless to say, damp eyes and hugs filled the room with the ending of that story. My brother, my sister, and I will never forget that Christmas. We will always be thankful for the father we have had and for that old, dusty rifle that did not separate him from the family that we became.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A Bump In The Night
For the most part, Hollywood's scary films bore me. The blood is fake, the screams are rehearsed, and the murder scenes are choreographed. Now Halloween is a laugh and a sugar rush. The skull masks and gorey costumes appeal to my sense of color and delight, but they don't spook me. Hey, I just don't find the obvious frightening.
There is, however, one thing that can send chills and sweat beads riding up and down my spine, that can churn my stomach into a gastric nightmare, that can beat my heart senseless. That one thing, that one little monster is my mind which can and has scared me to death.
Once in the middle of the night, thumping sounds came from deep in the basement. Alert, I armed myself with a flashlight, a rolled up People magazine and headed down. The noises seemed to come from behind the old furnace. I didn't turn the lights on...I wanted the element of surprise. Slowly I crept up behind the cold air return. Nothing! And then "BOOMPH!" Forcing me to shoot up from a crouched position bashing my head on the chimney exhaust pipe.
Hurting and bleeding, groggily I realized that the culprit was not some masked, blood-thirsty psychotic but rather the furnace motor making its last dying gasps. Shaken yet relieved, I returned to bed, bandaged, safe, and sorry.
Another time, home alone, during a late-night movie, I was positive that there were footsteps above, upstairs. This time I armed myself with a can of Raid. Silently and sock less, I climbed the darkened stairs. I tiptoed through the hallway to the back bedroom. As I grabbed the doorknob and slipped into the room, ready to disable the intruder with my insecticidal mace, I caught my toe under the partially opened door. In one quick, sick, and desperate move, I ripped a toenail off and dropped the Raid. The aerosol hit the floor, breaking the valve and spewing pest poison throughout. Gagging, I grabbed my throbbing, now blood-gushing toe and hopped to the bathroom.
There in the light I tried to stop the bleeding and access the damage: one toenail lost forever, one Raid grenade permanently debugging a room, and one imaginary maniac gone again.
Over the years my mind has created a number of situations and settings that have cost me plenty. But in all the years of buzzes, rings, knocks, and splats, I've yet to catch anyone or anything, and I've yet to find anything weird or out of place. Needless to say, I am always ready for anything since there is just no way to safeguard against all the scripts, dialogues, and special effects located in the haunted houses of my mind.
There is, however, one thing that can send chills and sweat beads riding up and down my spine, that can churn my stomach into a gastric nightmare, that can beat my heart senseless. That one thing, that one little monster is my mind which can and has scared me to death.
Once in the middle of the night, thumping sounds came from deep in the basement. Alert, I armed myself with a flashlight, a rolled up People magazine and headed down. The noises seemed to come from behind the old furnace. I didn't turn the lights on...I wanted the element of surprise. Slowly I crept up behind the cold air return. Nothing! And then "BOOMPH!" Forcing me to shoot up from a crouched position bashing my head on the chimney exhaust pipe.
Hurting and bleeding, groggily I realized that the culprit was not some masked, blood-thirsty psychotic but rather the furnace motor making its last dying gasps. Shaken yet relieved, I returned to bed, bandaged, safe, and sorry.
Another time, home alone, during a late-night movie, I was positive that there were footsteps above, upstairs. This time I armed myself with a can of Raid. Silently and sock less, I climbed the darkened stairs. I tiptoed through the hallway to the back bedroom. As I grabbed the doorknob and slipped into the room, ready to disable the intruder with my insecticidal mace, I caught my toe under the partially opened door. In one quick, sick, and desperate move, I ripped a toenail off and dropped the Raid. The aerosol hit the floor, breaking the valve and spewing pest poison throughout. Gagging, I grabbed my throbbing, now blood-gushing toe and hopped to the bathroom.
There in the light I tried to stop the bleeding and access the damage: one toenail lost forever, one Raid grenade permanently debugging a room, and one imaginary maniac gone again.
Over the years my mind has created a number of situations and settings that have cost me plenty. But in all the years of buzzes, rings, knocks, and splats, I've yet to catch anyone or anything, and I've yet to find anything weird or out of place. Needless to say, I am always ready for anything since there is just no way to safeguard against all the scripts, dialogues, and special effects located in the haunted houses of my mind.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Red, White & Blue*
I've never been much of a flag waver. For me, the 4th of July has been a family day with smokey bar-b-ques, potato salad, and coolers loaded with drinks, and ice cream, and sparklers in the evening...but not much more than that. I guess I was just a more subtle kind of citizen. But that all changed on this day in September when I, too, bled red, white, and blue.
Hundreds of moms, dads, brothers, sons, sisters, and daughters of all colors and creeds died that day simply because they went to their jobs in the city where dreams are supposed to be made and before they had a chance to finish their work, they became part of our tragic landscape...a horrid nightmare.
I saw red that day in the explosive flames that engulfed the buildings and incinerated innocents. I saw red on the faces of people crying and clutching to shreds of dreams past. I saw red in the blood of our future.
I saw white in the ashen smoke that stormed through the big city like a choking omen of fear. I saw white in the surgical masks of brave rescuers and in wound wrappings on survivors. I saw white on the posters and photos of the lost and loved. I saw white in the eyes of anger that searched for killers and reasons.
I saw blue in the flashing lights of the downtown turmoil. I saw blue in the uniforms of the stoic and wet-eyed officers who tried to secure the scene and whose bravery inspired a nation. I saw blue in the ink of students who wrote about their fears and hopes.
Now, I look up to the sky of our creator and there in the infinite blue of tomorrow I search for better days.
Today, my flag waves from every place in this land. Its freedom wraps us together as a stronger people, as a more united people. I am an enthusiastic flag waver and I am so very proud of the red, white, and blue...as it should be with all of you.
*I wrote this for a first-year-anniversary memorial of 9/11.
Hundreds of moms, dads, brothers, sons, sisters, and daughters of all colors and creeds died that day simply because they went to their jobs in the city where dreams are supposed to be made and before they had a chance to finish their work, they became part of our tragic landscape...a horrid nightmare.
I saw red that day in the explosive flames that engulfed the buildings and incinerated innocents. I saw red on the faces of people crying and clutching to shreds of dreams past. I saw red in the blood of our future.
I saw white in the ashen smoke that stormed through the big city like a choking omen of fear. I saw white in the surgical masks of brave rescuers and in wound wrappings on survivors. I saw white on the posters and photos of the lost and loved. I saw white in the eyes of anger that searched for killers and reasons.
I saw blue in the flashing lights of the downtown turmoil. I saw blue in the uniforms of the stoic and wet-eyed officers who tried to secure the scene and whose bravery inspired a nation. I saw blue in the ink of students who wrote about their fears and hopes.
Now, I look up to the sky of our creator and there in the infinite blue of tomorrow I search for better days.
Today, my flag waves from every place in this land. Its freedom wraps us together as a stronger people, as a more united people. I am an enthusiastic flag waver and I am so very proud of the red, white, and blue...as it should be with all of you.
*I wrote this for a first-year-anniversary memorial of 9/11.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Sweeper
While on a recent trip to Southern California to spend time with my daughter at her new address, I had plenty of opportunities to explore her ocean-beach neighborhood. My favorite walking route took me down a few curving roads that ended at the P.C.H.
As I became familiar with the area, I spent time each day making my way to the beach. As it turned out my usual route took me down a block that had a couple of restaurants, a piano bar, and a photo studio. While passing in front of these on my walks, I noticed a tall, slender man often sweeping the sidewalks and parking lot entrances. His work was not some superficial street swishing, no, his method bordered on street-detailing, much in the manner showcased in used car lots. This gaunt, leathery-skinned man swept the concrete slabs with such thoroughness that nothing was left on one before he moved to the next. He painstakingly cleaned the expansion joints as completely as he cleaned the sidewalks. I was a long-pausing spectator to this man's industry.
Now, I had seen those picturesque European villages on the Discovery Channel where shopowners and women in brightly colored native clothing come out in the mornings to sweep away their store fronts and stoops clean. None of them could hold a candle to my sweeper man.
What probably caught my eye on my passing, more than the energy and concentration he put into his work, was the broom he used. It had been one of those angle shaped household brooms with nylon bristles. His, however, had at most an inch or less of actual sweeping material. (It could easily be considered as a broom stub) He gathered the swept debris into small piles and the scooped them up in some homemade cardboard dust pan and deposited the contents into a large receptacle sitting at the curb. One day as he stood working his broom, I said, "Looks good." In a soft yet clear voice, he replied, "Thanks."
It was pretty obvious that this worker was one of the coast's homeless men. The owners or managers of those establishments must have given tacit approval to his undertakings for on a couple of occasions, I saw kitchen staff hand him bags and/or containers of food that he placed near his piled collection of extra clothing.
Once when I was walking on the beach, I saw him emerge from a spot near a fenced in utility shed. An old blanket was stretched over some posts and all kinds of street-found items were neatly arranged nearby. He passed me wearing multiple-layered clothing, clothing I had seen many times before, and, of course, he was carrying his broom.
On a Saturday, a few days before I was to leave for home, my daughter announced that she was going to clean out her garage, which meant that I, her father, would be doing likewise. So after coffee and breakfast, we set out to empty what the former owners had left behind. In truth, the garage wasn't all that bad. Most of what was left behind was tossed into the large plastic dumpsters in the alley: old curtain rods, broken down storage and moving boxes, worn out gym shoes, odd shaped wood and plastic pieces, well-used garden tools, ceramic plant containers, etc.etc.etc. Within a few hours we were finished and the garage was ready for my daughter's car, bicycle, and surfboards.
I noticed that one of the dumpsters my daughter had filled contained some decent looking yard tools. I asked her about them. She said she had her own tools which were ergonomically designed and she neither wanted nor had room for what she had discarded. As she was about to close the garage door, I checked out her throw aways. There in the midst of non-ergonomically friendly yard tools was a new-looking, long handled broom. I pulled it out. It was in great shape. I put it back in the garage and told my daughter that I had use for it. She just shook her head.
On the very next day, I laced up my walking shoes, picked up the saved broom from the garage, and headed out on my morning walking route. As the restaurants near the beach came into view, there was the sweeper working his tired broom over the sidewalks and cracks. I approached a few feet from where he was bending to pick up a crushed water bottle. "Good morning," I said, "I think I have something you can use." With that, he stood up, turned and looked at me as I stretched to hand him my broom. He barely glanced at it and said, "Not right." With that he went back to his work as I stood there somewhat confused and embarrassed still holding a second-time dejected broom. Walking away, I quickly dropped the broom in the city receptacle and went on my way.
After my walk, I showered, dressed, and used my daughter's car to pick up some items for her before my departure later that week. Driving past the restaurant block, I noticed there was no sweeper man about, but there was my long-handled broom still sticking out of the the trash can.
On my flight home, I thought back to my encounter with the sweeper. What was there about that gift broom, a broom that in my eyes would have made his toils much easier, that could have been "not right"? I pondered that question for quite awhile before I dozed off leaving that question unanswered for good.
As I became familiar with the area, I spent time each day making my way to the beach. As it turned out my usual route took me down a block that had a couple of restaurants, a piano bar, and a photo studio. While passing in front of these on my walks, I noticed a tall, slender man often sweeping the sidewalks and parking lot entrances. His work was not some superficial street swishing, no, his method bordered on street-detailing, much in the manner showcased in used car lots. This gaunt, leathery-skinned man swept the concrete slabs with such thoroughness that nothing was left on one before he moved to the next. He painstakingly cleaned the expansion joints as completely as he cleaned the sidewalks. I was a long-pausing spectator to this man's industry.
Now, I had seen those picturesque European villages on the Discovery Channel where shopowners and women in brightly colored native clothing come out in the mornings to sweep away their store fronts and stoops clean. None of them could hold a candle to my sweeper man.
What probably caught my eye on my passing, more than the energy and concentration he put into his work, was the broom he used. It had been one of those angle shaped household brooms with nylon bristles. His, however, had at most an inch or less of actual sweeping material. (It could easily be considered as a broom stub) He gathered the swept debris into small piles and the scooped them up in some homemade cardboard dust pan and deposited the contents into a large receptacle sitting at the curb. One day as he stood working his broom, I said, "Looks good." In a soft yet clear voice, he replied, "Thanks."
It was pretty obvious that this worker was one of the coast's homeless men. The owners or managers of those establishments must have given tacit approval to his undertakings for on a couple of occasions, I saw kitchen staff hand him bags and/or containers of food that he placed near his piled collection of extra clothing.
Once when I was walking on the beach, I saw him emerge from a spot near a fenced in utility shed. An old blanket was stretched over some posts and all kinds of street-found items were neatly arranged nearby. He passed me wearing multiple-layered clothing, clothing I had seen many times before, and, of course, he was carrying his broom.
On a Saturday, a few days before I was to leave for home, my daughter announced that she was going to clean out her garage, which meant that I, her father, would be doing likewise. So after coffee and breakfast, we set out to empty what the former owners had left behind. In truth, the garage wasn't all that bad. Most of what was left behind was tossed into the large plastic dumpsters in the alley: old curtain rods, broken down storage and moving boxes, worn out gym shoes, odd shaped wood and plastic pieces, well-used garden tools, ceramic plant containers, etc.etc.etc. Within a few hours we were finished and the garage was ready for my daughter's car, bicycle, and surfboards.
I noticed that one of the dumpsters my daughter had filled contained some decent looking yard tools. I asked her about them. She said she had her own tools which were ergonomically designed and she neither wanted nor had room for what she had discarded. As she was about to close the garage door, I checked out her throw aways. There in the midst of non-ergonomically friendly yard tools was a new-looking, long handled broom. I pulled it out. It was in great shape. I put it back in the garage and told my daughter that I had use for it. She just shook her head.
On the very next day, I laced up my walking shoes, picked up the saved broom from the garage, and headed out on my morning walking route. As the restaurants near the beach came into view, there was the sweeper working his tired broom over the sidewalks and cracks. I approached a few feet from where he was bending to pick up a crushed water bottle. "Good morning," I said, "I think I have something you can use." With that, he stood up, turned and looked at me as I stretched to hand him my broom. He barely glanced at it and said, "Not right." With that he went back to his work as I stood there somewhat confused and embarrassed still holding a second-time dejected broom. Walking away, I quickly dropped the broom in the city receptacle and went on my way.
After my walk, I showered, dressed, and used my daughter's car to pick up some items for her before my departure later that week. Driving past the restaurant block, I noticed there was no sweeper man about, but there was my long-handled broom still sticking out of the the trash can.
On my flight home, I thought back to my encounter with the sweeper. What was there about that gift broom, a broom that in my eyes would have made his toils much easier, that could have been "not right"? I pondered that question for quite awhile before I dozed off leaving that question unanswered for good.
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