I'm still checking...

 

          Here on my desk sits a bottle, into which I squeeze this rolled up message.  Should it float upon your shore, I hope it finds you well and of good cheer. 

          Yesterday we explored the Fresh Market in Downtown Rochester, and then took lunch in town before heading back up North.  There were ice sculptures in Rochester, but spread far enough apart that we didn’t brave the cold weather to visit them all.  We’re thinking that next week, in the Village they will be reasonably spaced, and in front of shops more inviting.

          I sat in the dentist chair last Friday getting my 6-month cleaning and check-up.  My plan was to be in and out of there before my eyeteeth had a chance to blink. 

        The Problem, as it turned out, is the dental hygienists can’t carry on a conversation without expressing herself by waving her arms about.   Anyone watching from the hall would have thought she was conducting an orchestra.

          As I write this I’m still thinking about the whole message in a bottle deal.  How much fun just to seal up your thoughts and heave them out into the ocean, thinking someday…  some one…  somewhere…

          This electronic bottle, although holding a little fun, lacks the mystery and excitement, for it is controlling the tides, and time.  Our aim gets our messages to very specific shores, and the moment we toss it out there, the only hope or anticipation is that it gets a response.  The thought of it getting swallowed by a giant fish, well…

          The messages themselves are different as well.  Were these real bottles, and a raging sea, I doubt I’d be rehashing a visit to the dentist.  Instead I’d be asking who you were?  Where do you live and how do you spend your day?  What is your food like where you are, and how controlling is your government?  (If you even have a government).

          Then, in a few months or so, I’d walk out to the beach every day, looking for a bottle to come floating up, full of news that you got my message, and telling me all about yourself.

 

         

         

 

 

To whoever finds this -

My name is Zobostic Corwin.  I live in a

Miserable, little snow-covered place,

Full of corked politicians, and bad drivers.

I tossed this message out on Sunday, January 28, 2007

I hope you find it.

What is your name?  Do you have any brothers

Or sisters to play with?  What are you going to have

For dinner?  I like Macaroni and Cheese,

And an occasional Martini.

OK, now you write something

And send it back.

I’ll keep checking until it gets here.

 

ZC

It would have to be Elmer's

            Mental lists are made and reviewed in waiting rooms, usually unrelated to the situation at hand.  I concentrated on the step-by-step way I would fix the gutter.  I thought about the nails I would use and the industrial strength construction adhesive that I would line the seams with.  I thought about the ladder, its sturdiness and…

            None of these things, of course, had anything to do with why I was there.  It was simply a diversion.  I didn’t want to allow my thoughts to drift towards the immediate situation.  If I had mentally headed down that path I would have started to consider all the things that could possibly go awry, and from there it would just get worse.

            Eventually I picked up a magazine.  I paged through it knowing full well that without my glasses every page was going to be just one colorful blur after another.  But it didn’t matter.  My thoughts quickly ran back to me atop the extended ladder, leaning back so that I could swing the hammer enough to hit the nail.  I could feel the rungs through the bottoms of my worn tennis shoes, an unavoidable discomfort, not to mention my stretching leg muscles.   Now, with my left arm looped through the ladder while my fingers aligned the nail, my right hammer hand reached back and…

            Actually, when envisioning myself up on the ladder, the real image I have is of a giant corn-dog on a stick, with the entire Mosquito Nation closing in for the feast.

            The television up in the corner of the waiting room was playing some soap opera with a string of sub-titles running along the bottom of the screen.   As I watched the words scroll by I began to wonder what committee determined the speed at which the words would travel.   I’m sure that someone somewhere did a study, took a survey and coordinated their findings with a Reader’s Digest comprehension formula that told them that every word must remain on the screen for no less than 5 seconds, and no more than 9, allowing for…

            Just then the gentleman in the lab coat, carrying the clipboard walked in.   He took the seat next to me, and in a low voice said, “Mr. Corwin, it took a little longer than we thought.  Once we were in there we found quite a bit of sludge in the crankcase.  We also had to replace two of the hoses coming from the…”

            But I had stopped listening.  As he was talking – my eyes were scanning the bottom of the clipboard.  I was looking for the total.   How much in American dollars was this going to cost me?

  To my shock and horror I saw… Page 1 of 4.

 

            Wow!  There was no way I was going to be able to afford the industrial strength construction adhesive.

 

 

 

 

zc

and far away

 

         I recall living just outside of Madrid in the late 60’s.  It was a simpler time back then, having nothing of consequence in our lives like food or money, we stayed tucked away in our little apartment along the Rue Dimentry.  Time was not measured in days back then but in events.  The first-floor Pub could have easily housed a Hemmingway type at a table along the back wall.  Live snails never staying in the plates on the bar made feeble attempts to escape deadly toothpicks, as drunken Spaniards would eat them alive.

      News from the States came in bits and pieces.  Spanish newspapers and televisions were all government controlled.  The only thing that was completely free from any type of control was health and sanitation.  Deliveries of fresh meat was carried into markets by flies, and the fresh baked bread was dumped, unpackaged in the road in front of the Pub, where locals scurried to select the biggest loaf.

      These things I can remember.  Everything I learned in school, however, somehow never got filed alphabetically.   All of my mental index cards were either dropped at some point, or they were filed away willy-nilly from the onset.  In either case, my present day retrieval system suffers the consequences.  For example: I know that Washington crossed the Delaware, but when I mentally examine the next card to discover why, it says, “To see his friend Gregory Peck.”  This answer obviously should have been filed under chicken jokes. 

 

 zc

Pursue Noble Aims.

 

 

 

Le Pete Fumigate

 

        There is a new French restaurant in the heart of Clarkston, whose pretentiousness permeates from the wine bar to the velvet rope, keeping at bay those eager to part with their wallets.  Although it is lavished with Art Deco fixtures, and a smattering of artsy vases, the first time diner will quickly discover a missing functionality, from the absence of coat racks, to the coffee cups handles too dainty to be picked up.

          Perhaps, in an effort to tone down the pricey chicken ribs basted with a creamy garlic – pomegranate reduction, they offer as deserts a choice of Ding Dongs, doughnut holes, or Twinkies. (No Joke)     

          I give them high marks for an adventurous spirit, but anticipate that after the initial wave of curious Clarkstonians discover that even their Discover Card isn’t enough to cover the price of the Shredded Hooves with Sprouts, the doors to what was once The Clarkston Café, will once again be closed, and offered up to someone a little more aware of their audience and the present economy.

 

         ZC (2 cents worth)

Stranger Things

 

I knew this monkey once who wanted to be a climatologist.

        Overlooking the fact that he could not only talk, but could actually convey to me a vocational aspiration, I said, “Cool”, all the while thinking what a lame job that would be.

        Why do I do that?  I say things to be polite, but it isn’t representative of how I truly feel.  There’s a name for people like me, but let’s not get into that whole name-calling thing.

        Let’s focus for the moment on the talking monkey.  (Where’s Darwin when you need him?)

Along the evolutionary scale of societal growth, I don’t see that we’ve stepped very far from the Scopes trial.  Our Nation still stands divided on the theories, even though the right to teach both sides has been resolved.  Teaching that which has its foundation in speculation is a topic for another day, although it lends itself nicely to my whole lack-of-growth premise.

        Today we seem to have the center of our attention on technology, and high-tech communication, while the rest of our knowledge base deteriorates into an apathetic, stagnating, non-carbonated persona, waiting for the alarm to go off.   Am I right, or am I right?

        Along with that there is major frustration when looking at the entire picture.  The lack of answers to philosophical questions may in fact be an inherent part of the human makeup, designed to trigger mental growth, all the while keeping us in check.  It’s the old, “Come here, come here, go away” - simultaneous, contradictory emotional attitude.  A social schizophrenia, if you will.   

        But I digress.  Having a monkey diagnose the weather and ultimately being contracted to spew forth his or her educated opinion over the airwaves…

        Hey, wait.  I think they’re already doing this in Detroit.

        The latest Doppler 7, Winter Storm Warning broadcast over televisions, radios, and capturing newspaper headlines, predicted us to be buried alive in snow.   According to their predictions, our houses should have collapsed from the weight of so much snow.  By all accounts I should be a squished, little mess, sprawled out under shards of mortgage bits, struggling to reach the send button on my keyboard.

 

 

 

 zc

 

 Written back when I was much older and living in very cold weather. 

 

 

Rosebud

 

There’s nothing ever so absurd

as searching for the proper word

When all is done and all is through

any silly word will do

 

It makes no difference what is said

what gets told or what is read

Don’t get yourself into a rage

choosing what goes on the page

 

For if you sip or should you snort

A shot of hooch helps your report

Nothing better helps you choose

Than a big old slug of Grandpa’s booze.

 

 

 zc

Far and Away

 

The thing about being tucked away for safe keeping is remembering where (away) actually is.

  

As the story goes, by the time little Billy remembered he had buried his little box of treasures in the backyard, 52 years had passed.  He was Uncle William now and for some odd reason he just thought about that little box. 

He smiled, trying to remember what was so important.  What had he put inside of that box.  Then he thought about the years of rain soaking into the ground.  That old cigar box has probably completely dissolved by now.  It is most likely just mushy yuck. 

Suddenly he remembered what was so important at the time.  He remembered his autographed Micky Mantle baseball card.  He had it wrapped in Kleenex, then put it into a sandwich bag, and that was double wrapped in aluminum foil.  Just maybe that has survived 52 years of rain.  If it did, it would be a small fortune by now.

He remembered it was 10 years ago when they had thought about having a swimming pool put in the backyard.  He was glad now they had changed their minds.

You’d think that sometime in those 52 years of cutting the grass he would have remembered that box.  It was the massive Oak tree that had put the kibosh on the idea of a swimming pool.  Wait a minute…  It was our last house that had the big Oak tree.  It wasn’t even this yard where I buried that stupid box.  Yes, I remember that yard.  When I tried to bury that box, my shovel kept hitting the tree roots.  What a project that was, just to dig a hole.

        And no, it wasn’t a Mickey Mantle card, I had already traded that for…  I can’t remember, but it must have been something good.  I guess it could have been Megan the hamster we buried.  Gee, my memory has more holes in it than the backyard ever did.

 

 

 

 

 

 zc