The Whole Thing is Awkward

I think I’d like to tip the scales

and alter DNA -

Whenever clipping fingernails

my thoughts get in the way,

Left is right but clumsy so

and such a stretch

to do a toe

It really is quite awkward though

to just ignore

 and let them grow

that’s all I have to say.

 zc

Maybe it was my distinguished Gray Hair

 All I know

is that she was giving me the eye...

Maybe she liked

my general features,

perhaps it was my aftershave...

She just kept looking at me

She wasn't coming over to me,

just sort of watching

waiting...

It was starting to creep me out.

Just so you'll know...

 Not Fun

Fun

Please put on your 3-D Glasses

 

Turns out - it was something we had not even thought of

 

We were under the impression they didn’t exist in Florida.  Fact is, just under two hours ago I discovered we have a basement.  I was looking for my old but favorite shirt.  It was made by Moose Creek, it is lined and very, very comfortable.  Yes, it is a bit tattered, but I can’t just toss it out.  We have a history.

Anyway, because I haven’t seen it in a while, I thought it might be in the guest bedroom closet.  That room is on the opposite side of the house from our bedroom, so I wasn’t worried about waking anyone else up by snapping the light on.  Opening the closet door, the first thing I saw were a stack of plastic tubs, with lids.  They are the ones left over from our move here.  I knew they would slide easily on the carpet, so I gently pulled them out into the room.  The overhead shelves were piled with winter blankets and extra pillows.  I smiled at the thought of Florida winter blankets.

Then, what at first I thought was a thin split in the paint at the far end of the closet, turned out to actually be more of an architecturally induced division. In other words, this looked intentional.  I couldn’t believe we had not noticed this before, but the guest room closet was never our focus.  Two cardboard boxes were stacked behind where the tubs had been, so I slid those out into the room and then flipped on the light inside the closet.  Once I pulled the carpet back a little along the baseboard, I could see the small lip on what was obviously a pull-up door.

I bent down and gently pulled it up.  It seemed to operate on a system of weights, sort of like the trap door in the garage ceiling that leads up into the attic.  I could hear the system groan, most likely from inactivity.

Anyway, as I lifted the door, I could see little flex of paint chip off from around the edge of the doorway.  It must have been painted over.  When it was about halfway open, I noticed a string attached to a clip on the back, or underside of the door.  The string was getting pulled as the door opened and then, just as the door seemed like it was as open as it was going to get, a light in the basement snapped on.  How cool is that?

The wooden stairs leading down looked relatively new.  There was a handrail along the right side of the stairs, but something told me to get a flashlight before I headed down.  I didn’t want to trust some rarely used lightbulb as my only source of light once I was down there.  Beside the light coming on, the second thing I noticed was the air temp.  It felt like much cooler air than the temperature of the guestroom.

Now I was wondering if there was yet another door down there leading outside.  The slight breeze had to be coming from somewhere.  I went back out to the kitchen and got a small flashlight from the junk drawer.  As I turned to head back to the guest bedroom, Claudia came walking out from the master.

“Oh good, are you making coffee?”

Well, actually I’m headed downstairs.

“What are you talking about.  What downstairs?”

I discovered we have a basement.  The door is in the guestroom closet.  I just came out here for this flashlight.

“I think you were dreaming.  We live in Florida, this house doesn’t have a basement.”

Follow me and see for yourself.

At that point she followed me back into the guestroom.  Her first comments were about the plastic tubs I had dragged out into the room.

Just wait, you’ll see.  It’s right in here.

No sooner did we enter the guestroom, she commented on the musty feel to the air. 

That is coming up from the basement.

I slipped the small flashlight into my pocket and started down the steps.  Claudia was right behind me.  I could feel her hanging onto my shirt.

We were surprised to see a dirt floor.  It was not a finished basement, as I had hoped, but rather a collection of stray lumber and general construction materials.  I looked back to make sure she was wearing her slippers. 

“What?”

There may be nails or staples around, I just wanted to make sure you were wearing shoes or slippers.

The light from the bulb overhead only went so far, so I got my flashlight out and slowly pointed it around into the shadows.

There wasn’t much of anything down there, but I did see another door on the far wall.

“Look at all this storage.”

Yes, but look over here.  This seems to lead outside.  If we are facing the direction I think we are, the lake should be out this way.

Our house sets on a cliff, and about 35 feet down is North Lake.  I was getting excited to pull this door open and see where it was taking us.

There was a latch on the door, but no lock.  I lifted the latch, but before pulling or pushing on the door, I told Claudia to get ready to head back towards the stairs.  It is altogether possible there could be alligators curled up sleeping just on the other side.  If there are, the opening of this door will startle them, and we shouldn’t be the first thing they see.

If this door opens up at the base of the cliff, we could maybe build a small boat launch, or a pier.

"Be careful.  If there are alligators on the other side of the door, then they have already heard us talking."

 

 

 

 

 

So who's Watching Scooter?

 

I thought you were.

Think about it...

 

I picked up this font the other day, don’t worry – I had gloves on.  It seemed a little scrunched up and dark, so I tried a few things.  The first thing I did was to make it a little bigger.  There, that is easier to read.  The problem came in when I noticed my fingers were all black.  Even wearing gloves, this font was making quite a mess.  This would never do. Please excuse me, I’m going to go and wash my hands.

OK, I’m back.  I had to get rid of that horrible font.  Here’s the thing, even though it was making a mess everywhere, it had a wonderful fragrance.  As I typed, I could smell something so familiar.  I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but even now, thinking back on that aroma, I long to have it back.

Now I wish there was actually scented font so you could not only read a cookbook, but you’d be smelling what the finished product would smell like.  How great would that be?

If I were to write about Sherwood Forest, as you read it you would be smelling the scent of the woods, the leaves, and the moss.  Everything I described would come to life in fragrance.

Of course, taking this idea a step further, Writers like Stephen King could vividly describe some nasty crime scene, while the stench made you nauseous.  Okay, not so much on that one.

I’m going to go and think about this for a while.  I’ll let you know what I come up with.

 

Ceiling Light

 

as seen from the dentist chair.

Stop the Project

 

While driving past a new house build,

a paleontologist spotted a dinosaur

thumb sticking up from the dirt.

Once she had gotten back into the car

her husband asked if she perhaps 

had been absent during dinosaur 

anatomy class.

 

A Day in the Life

 

          Edgar Meckel, known to his friends as Momo, sat at a table for one, at the far end of Lepski's Diner.  His day hadn't gone so well, but then… none of his days ever really went well.

         His oldest daughter, Mary, had come home yesterday with a tattoo of Ben Franklin.   Three weeks ago his twin boys had filled out and mailed in forms to join the Navy.  They are 11 years old.  Momo hadn't discovered this until a Navy recruiter showed up at his door asking to see Hector and Mickey.

          This morning when Momo got up for work he found a note on his wife's side of the bed. 

 

 

          Momo sat motionless, staring at his breakfast until the waitress finally came over and asked him if anything was wrong.  He looked up at her with tears in his eyes.  " Ben Franklin." He said.

          "I meant with the eggs, Honey.  Is there anything wrong with the eggs"?

 

From the next table over…

         

          "Excuse me, but I heard you talking about Ben Franklin.  Mind if I join you?  (He says as he changes tables and sits across from Momo)  I'm Gabe Abraham.  I own The Outside Inn.  I'm very familiar with Benjamin Franklin."

 

Momo:  "My daughter came home yesterday with a tattoo."   Momo replied still staring down at his breakfast.

 

Gabe:  "Yea, tell me about it.  Kids.  Go figure.  What is it a tattoo of?"

 

Momo:  (Looking up at Gabe)  "Benjamin Franklin.  She has a tattoo of Benjamin Franklin.  Now how am I supposed to compete with that?"

 

Gabe:  "Compete?  I don't understand."

 

Momo:  "I thought I was her hero.  I've always been her hero, and now I'm not.  Franklin was a scientist, an inventor, a statesman, a printer, a philosopher, a musician, and an economist.  My God, how do I compete with that?  I sew the eyes on sock puppets down at Winky's." 

 

Gabe: "You haven't told me your name." (Holding his hand out)

 

Momo:  "Edgar Meckel.  My friends call me Momo." (Shaking hands)

 

Gabe:  "Look Momo, it's simple.  All you have to do is join her in her new found excitement.  Learn all you can about Mr. Franklin, Quote him when the opportunity arises, but don't go overboard."

Unbeknownst to Momo and Gabe, the waitress had overheard their conversation and was shocked to hear that Momo worked at the sock puppet factory.  As a small child she had a frightening sock puppet experience that left her mentally debilitated, causing her to resent and torment her little kitten, Argyle.

 

 

 

I've never seen them use the gate

 

I didn't sign up for any of this

 

It seemed a slow transition, even though it has taken years.  What I mean is, presently I am old enough to vote, old enough to drink, drive a car and see an X-rated movie.

  The problem, I am also old enough to not want to do any of those things.  I am old enough to know that I should pay attention to tripping hazards when walking around the house.

  I am old enough to remember the feeling of hitting a double in the ninth inning, but also old enough to know I shouldn’t try to run the bases.

I think when my independence set in, my growing older should have at least slowed down.  It didn’t.

Now I am old enough to realize the doctor doesn’t really see me, all he sees is just another senior citizen coming in with aches and pains.  I’m also old enough to suddenly be seen by the auto insurance company as a risk, and viewed by my grandchildren as an ATM.

I enjoy being retired, but I’m not sure I like where this is headed.

zc

The Correlation Theory

There is something about the absence of heat that seems to bring on winter.  I also believe that no sooner does the cold set in, so does the dark.  It became apparent to me that the cold area of the moon is coincidentally always on the dark side.

 Likewise, sitting in the shade of an Oak tree, one tends to feel cooler than those sitting out in the light.  This theory can easily be viewed in Nature.  Looking around at the lawns of summer you will find them to be a dark green, while those same areas in winter appear snow white.

          There could, of course, be gray areas within this theory.  Further study may be required.

 

          As always, opposing views are welcome.

 

I just think he could do better

 

Apparently, I am not a part of the masses.  I have made several attempts to read books by the popular authors, like John Grisham.  He magically turns out more books than is possible to write in the timespan reflected between publishing.  Either he employs a team of writers and they simply use the Grisham name, or he doesn’t take time out for meals.

Anyway, they seem to write for the masses.  The more books sold, the more money made.  Simple.

Just today I made another attempt to read one of his works.  I enjoy the law and courtroom stories, but his latest work, by chapter two, takes a dark turn.  It tells, in graphic detail, of a gruesome murder.

I’m sorry, but for me that is not entertainment.  It is not fun to read and certainly not fun to retain as a memory.  If that is what the masses like, then I take that as proof that I am an outcast.

How hard could it be just to tell a simple, enjoyable story?  Isn’t the evening news bad enough?   Do we really need to fill our bookstores and libraries with it?

Yes, you are right.  I usually don’t break into a rant, but seriously folks, what’s the matter with Charlotte’s Web?  Okay, wait… maybe that’s a bad example.  Right off the farther wants to slaughter a baby pig with an ax.

Forget that.  How about Animal Farm, by George Orwell?  Oops, I forgot.  Once again there was an uprising, animals plotting against farmers and what-have-you.

So maybe the good-old-days weren’t all that much fun either.  But you see my point, right?

 

I have spent the last 8 years writing this blog.  No one has been murdered, nothing has blown up, there isn’t any warning about graphic detail, strong language or animals being turned into breakfast food.

It is just 8 years of silly stories, goofy pictures and more nonsense than is required by the recommended daily allowance people.

 

I’m done now.  I’ll shut up, and I'll try not to rant in the future.

Some Kind of Nut

 

This is an Acorn

As acorns go, it is small, in fact tiny.

To give you some idea just how small...

I have placed a penny next to it.

The problem stems not from its size

but from its number.

The Oak Tree in our yard drops

millions upon millions of these little things

all day and all night.

They cover the lawn and kill the grass,

they stain the driveway

causing us to have it power-washed

They plummet to earth with such great force

should one hit you on your head

you'd most likely be killed instantly.

But it's just such a nice tree

I'd hate to cut it down.

Forensic Entomologist

 

Jackie was never your ordinary little girl.  Bugs didn’t scare her, they made her more curious.  She chased grasshoppers, tried hard to understand why butterflies flew so erratically and even gave a presentation in grade school on how snakes propelled themselves along the ground, when they obviously had no feet.

In college she excelled in physics but surprisingly majored in law.  By the end of her formal education she had acquired a law degree, a master’s degree in physics and had a Bachelors in Entomology.  Needless to say, it surprised everyone when she took a job with law enforcement as a forensic entomologist.

I have known Jackie all of her life.  I have followed her career and have always enjoyed having her as one of my best friends, but when she asked me to write about her life in my blog, well… I just couldn’t do it.  I told her straight out;  “Sorry Jackie, but your job creeps me out.”

Face to Face

 

It was a very large tree.  It was mostly dead, but none the less, it was large, and that is where he hid, with his rifle, a few snacks and canteen.  No one had called a truce, nobody stopped fighting, it was just that Sargent Dan Porter had had enough.  He was done.  No longer would he point his gun at anyone and shoot.  He had tucked himself into that hollowed out tree and there he would stay.

With his eyes squinched closed he tried to remain perfectly still.  Even his breathing was kept as quiet as he could make it.  He didn’t wish to be shot, nor did he care to shoot anyone.  He wanted, with all his might, to be back home.  He wanted to be a little boy again, complaining about his chores, whining about his sister.  He even thought about being back in school, sitting in those stupid little desks, and lugging his books from class to class.  Where did that time go, he wondered.  It all went by so fast, and now here he was wedged into this tree, hiding from the war, hoping it would all just go away.

 

At least when nightfall came, he would be able to sit down.  Even if his feet stuck out a little, no one would see them at night.  For now, however, he just stood motionless, squeezing his rifle close into his chest, and hoping the nearby sounds he was hearing were heading away from him.  He knew if the enemy found him they would shoot him, but if his own men discovered him hiding he would be tried as a deserter and then shot.  Either way – it wasn’t looking too good for the Sargent.

 

Apparently, he hadn’t been the only one to hear people making their way through the woods, for someone lobbed a hand grenade and it exploded not far from the tree he was using for shelter.  The blast scared him, and he jumped but didn’t yell.  He could hear the soldiers fall and one of them was moaning in pain.  His tree shook but nothing penetrated the wood.  His first thought was to get himself out of the tree he had wedged himself into and check on the wounded man.  Maybe there was something he could do to stop the bleeding.  He stood perfectly still, listening, waiting.  Would there be a second grenade?  His ears were still ringing from the blast and for just a moment he thought the moaning had stopped.  He was wrong.  He still heard it, and it was close, maybe just on the other side of his tree.

As he stood there frozen in fear, he began to wonder which uniform he’d find on the downed soldier.  Would it be someone he knew?  Maybe even someone who would recognize him.  Maybe it was the other side.  It’s very possible the enemy had been following him, saw him duck into this tree and just before they got to him, the grenade took them out.

 

It had been long enough.  It didn’t seem likely there would be a second grenade, but should he risk stepping out of hiding to help some guy who could very well be the enemy?  Maybe the guy was already dead.  He didn’t hear the moaning anymore.  Maybe he should just stay put.  What kind of person am I?  Can I really let someone bleed to death who is lying just a few feet away?  I doubt I could live with myself.  For the rest of my life I’d think about nothing else.  Being afraid of war is one thing but this was something else altogether.

 

Even though it was not yet dark, the Sargent turned a little sideways and squeezed himself out of the tree.  Just to his right lay the body of the soldier.  It was not a uniform he was familiar with.  He knelt down and gently rolled the body over.  He was still alive but barely breathing.  The Sargent was surprised to see how young the kid was.  There was way too much blood on the uniform to be able to tell the exact location of the wound, but he couldn’t risk ripping open the guy’s clothes, not while they were out in the open.  Who knew who was watching, or if this guy would suddenly wake up and start yelling.   On the other hand, he knew he had to do something if he was going to try to save him.

 

The distant gunfire had not let up, and occasional explosions rocked the countryside.  What am I doing?  I’m not a medic.  Even if I expose the wound – then what?  Direct pressure, how long can I keep that up?  There isn’t going to be a Calvary riding over the hill to rescue us.  This isn’t the movies.  I should get back into my tree and wait until dark.  But as the Sargent was thinking of retreating back into hiding, the young soldier opened his eyes.  Now Sargent Dan was face to face with this person.  The kid looked scared, even more scared than the Sargent.  Neither said anything.  Then something happened.  Unconsciously the Sargent made a facial expression, as if to say, I’m sorry this happened to you.  At that moment tears rolled down the cheeks of the young soldier.  They both just knew they were not enemies; they were simply people.  People who had been put into a situation neither wanted but couldn’t get out of.

 

Dan Porter’s grandson had hung on every word.  The ladies were still clearing off the dining table and fussing in the kitchen as Dan wrapped up his story.  But the grandson wanted to hear what happened next.  He climbed up on his grandfather’s lap and then slid off, landing on the sofa cushion next to him.

 

“Finish it Grandpa.  What happened?”

 

Dan looked into the face of his grandson, smiled and said, “Well, as you can see, I got out of that tree.”

 

“But what happened to the dying soldier? 

 

“Some day I’ll tell you the story of your Uncle Todd.  He isn’t really your Uncle but I’m guessing you’ll like the story.”

 

 

 

 

 

 zc

Net Weight

 

He didn’t see it as a chore, it was simply something that had to be done and he was doing it.  With a very familiar pail he was making his way out to the well.  As he walked, it was the obvious things he noticed first.  The morning air was crisp, not too cold.  The crows, as he knew they would be, were up before him and voicing their concerns about all things crow.  He had no idea what that was but from the sounds of it, they were surely important topics.

It was his own shoes he noticed next.  He couldn’t help it.  He was looking down as he walked to the well.  He had stepped into a small gopher hole last month and had twisted his ankle.  That discomfort lasted for a few days and made his daily chores difficult.  He never wanted to repeat that, so it was with caution every day thereafter that he made his way to fetch water.

He actually laughed out loud when he glanced off to his left.  Two of the crows were perched on one of the arms of the scarecrow.  So lost were they in their conversation that neither realized what they were doing.  Or maybe they did, he wasn’t sure.  When he thought about it, the crows would have to be complete nitwits to believe Mr. Scarecrow was real.  Number one, he didn’t move.  He had never moved.  He didn’t look scary.  In fact, he looked more pathetic than anything, and now he was holding up his arms to be used as a conference table for a most important meeting.

Nate remembered building that scarecrow years back.  With the exception of the lumber, everything had come from that old donation box.  He chuckled, thinking how his children, at the time, wanted to name him Net Weight.  Mary, in showing off her reading skills to Scott, pointed to the cardboard box and said, “This must be his name.  Net Weight.”  Little Scotty, thinking she must know what she’s talking about, agreed, and so Net was born.

 

Now is the Time

 

Keep in mind, it was a really bad phone connection.

My Grandfather Field Clock

 

It's how I knew it was 6:57

 

More of a Honk than a Squeak

 

I am sitting in a chair out in some field.  On my lap is a clipboard with several sheets of paper.  I am writing something.

Off in the distance I see you walking towards me.  I keep writing but every now and then I look up to check on your progress.  You are getting closer.

As you walk past me you are close enough to glance down to see what I am writing.  At that exact moment I am writing down the time.  It is 6:57 am.

As I watch you get further and further away, I can only imagine you are wondering why I am sitting out here writing down the time.

I am still writing, and it is just under an hour when I notice a second gentleman walking along your same trajectory.  As it is not a well-worn path through this field, I can only assume he is following you, perhaps trying to catch up to you.

Again, as he passes, he looks down at my clipboard to see what it is I am writing.  It is at this point that I find it reasonable to assume people are curious, for both men have looked to see what I am writing.

I didn’t immediately notice it, but this person did not continue on.  He stopped directly in front of me and is still watching as I write this.  This, of course, makes me self-conscious and so I stop writing.

Seeing I am bothered by his presence, he turns and walks on.  Now I am wondering just how much of what I have written did he actually read.  If he read enough, he now knows he is heading in the proper direction to catch up with the first person, and he is now aware that the first person pasted my location at exactly 6:57 am.

Am I now an accomplice?  Simply by being out here in this field have I placed the first man in danger?  Not having been instructed by some second party to sit out here I doubt I am some pawn, or that I have been duped.  This location and time were of my own doing.  I discussed it with no one.

If this is some elaborate scheme, I wonder how good I would be at describing each of the men that passed me.  I doubt I’d do very well.  The only thing that sticks out in my mind, and it is because he stopped right in front of me, were the second man’s shoes.  They were very large, even oversized, red clown shoes, with yellow laces.  And they squeaked with each step.

zc

 

Starry Starry Night

 

I thought I’d try engraving one of these posts just to see what would happen.  Turns out, no matter what font I use, I still need to come up with something blog-worthy to write about.

One of the things I’ve noticed, not that I’m trying to change the subject, is the amazing amount of stuff inside a book that I never read.

Of course, I read the main story, and usually the dedication page, but never do I read all of the blah, blah, blah added in by the publisher or their legal team.

 

 

Who has time to read all this, and why bother?  It doesn’t advance the story, there are no plot-twists, or cliff hangers.  It’s just all blah, blah, blah…

They don’t seem to do this type of thing in the art world.  I mean, never have I looked at the back of the Mona Lisa and seen some fine print warning about copyright laws or some frame builder taking credit for the wood around the painting.

 

I’m just saying…

 

 

 Note:

Although this post was made with

Engraved font, that style did not transfer

over to this program, so when reading it

please close your eyes and imagine the correct font.

Thank you

Roads Scholar

 

It's Always Something

 

Yesterday was one of those absolutely sleepless nights.  I lay there wide awake, getting more and more annoyed that I wasn’t falling asleep.  The temperature was perfect, it was quiet, and I was sure I had reached the end of my day, and yet – there it was, more day left.  The only difference was it was the dark part of the day.  The part usually designated for dreaming.  I was being cheated out of my dreams.

Okay, so maybe that last part wasn't exactly true.  I had spent a good part of the daylight hours day-dreaming what our country would be like if certain things happened.  Maybe more nightmares than dreams, I guess you’d say.

That must have been it, between the time change and the threat of total chaos running rampant, I must have gone to bed too worked up to sleep.  Well that’s just great.  Now if whatshisname gets in, I can expect the next four years to be comprised of tossing and turning, not to mention tossing my cookies.  Yikes!

I may have to join IA, insomniac’s anonymous.  I’ll need a sponsor.  I’ll need their 24 hour hot-line phone number, so I can call them whenever I feel myself starting to nod off.  No wait, I guess it would work the other way.  I would call them during the night when I was lying there staring up at the ceiling.  But then they’d get no sleep either.  That doesn’t seem fair.

Now THAT is going to keep me awake.

I Rest My Case

 

In the wee hours, when I am the only one awake, I use my old Webster’s dictionary.  It doesn’t ding when I open it.  It doesn’t accidently ring with a wrong number.  I get to keep working and everyone else gets to keep sleeping in.  The house remains quiet.

Here’s the thing; I can’t take a picture with it, I can’t look up the latest news headline, and I can’t talk to it.  All it can do is show me the correct spelling of words and what they mean.  Yes, perhaps you’re right; these are things I should already know.

Well – I can explain that.  You see, being a writer – my words are my tools.  There are more tools than will fit in my toolbelt.  I can only carry so many tools around with me.  Just like a carpenter may carry with him a hammer, a level, a square, tape measure, and one of those flat pencils that won't roll away when he sets it down.  I have to lug around very heavy nouns, extremely fast verbs and many, many conjunctions.  That, my friend, is just the tip of the iceberg. 

That doesn’t take into account the insane amount of punctuation needed to construct a single paragraph, and there could end up to be thousands of paragraphs within a simple story.

So you see, Timmy – unlike the carpenter who has to carry enough tools to build a ranch style house, a writer must carry tools adequate to construct story upon story, and not just with straight lines.  There are also twists and turns and even without a door he can find himself in a jam.  

 

I rest my case.

Question

 There is an office full of

theoretical physicists.

The boss walks in...

What do they do to look busy?

😕