What was that?

 

        Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

 

Of course, it’s sentences like that that force you to keep reading.  Right away you must find out what happened.  The writer has poked you with a stick.  He or she has gotten your attention and now it is up to them to keep it.  How skillful are they?  Will you read to the end of the page, maybe read the whole first chapter?  How good are they at telling a story?

Many, as it turns out, write themselves into a corner.  It’s a lot like driving a car.  You can’t simply look at the vehicle in front of you, if you truly want to avoid a collision you need to look several cars ahead.  You need to be prepared for what’s going to be coming up.  It’s the same with storytelling.

The campfire is going, all the young faces around it are looking up at you, waiting to hear about the escaped convict that is now in these very woods.  They’re holding their breath, listening for that distant twig snap or planning which way to run should something suddenly happen.

Well, let me tell you, what happened next has become legend of the Great North Woods, and from what I hear, some of those kids are still in therapy.  So you can see why the court has had me tone down my stories and restrict me to writing on this blog.  I've been banned from telling campfire stories forever. 

 

 

Hang on to your hat

        

         There was a mighty storm.  The thunder rattled the windows and the wind - I thought the trees were going to snap right off.  I can’t even imagine where the birds find shelter in winds like this.  I guess they just wrap their little claws around a sturdy branch, close their eyes and hang on as long as they can.  How scared they have to be.  It must be like a tiny feather taking a direct hit from one of grandfather’s sneezes.

What I expected to find in the morning was debris everywhere, everything that wasn’t anchored down would now be someplace else, and water – there’d be small lakes along the sidewalk and a very squishy lawn.

What I discovered, however, was absolutely nothing.  There was no debris, no puddles and the trees looked as strong and sturdy as ever.  Apparently, while I was sleeping my mind had translated the sounds of my wife’s snoring into the sounds of a raging storm.  Funny how that works.  

I doubt I’ll say anything this morning.  Why spoil such a calm and peaceful day?

 

 

 

 

Pet Friendly

 

and if you stay very still
and remain quiet
you'll see them.

Camera Shy

 

Hiding behind the tree

Individual Pods

 

I’ve noticed that many of my friends are like my coffee.  Some could use a little sugar and there are those that just need to cool off.  Every now and then one will keep me awake at night and depending on the news of the day, one can be a little bitter.  I look forward to some and once in a while there’s one that can really get me going.

I wonder if any of my friends were to view me like their coffee, what their description would be.  I’m guessing some would say, not quite full, maybe a few floating grounds.  Perhaps an acquired taste, and a little too focused on the bean.

I haven’t opened the blinds yet today, so I have no idea what’s taking place outside.  I did just come back from the kitchen with my coffee, so I guess I’m ready to face the day.  I’ll open them now.  The guy across the street is just leaving for church.  He goes religiously.

and there is something trying to get in.

 

Tape to the fridge

 

When gravity’s calling

don’t do a thing -

Don’t be a falling

just let it ring.

It’s no fun to lay there

and wait to be fed

Being fussed with and poked

in a hospital bed.

So take my advice

and when you get old

Read this through twice

and do what you’re told.

                           zc

 

Hello - My Name is...

 

I'm hoping there are name tags in Heaven.

There is no way this is the little kid I played

with in school.

"Look what's happened to you"

Maybe they shouldn't have feathers

 

We like to think that we are all here for a reason.  Something important, no doubt, and yet when I look around the room I see things like this.

Some creature was placed here only to be made into a dream catcher.  Now I have to ask, which is more important, the creature or the dream, and was it worth catching?  Once caught, then what?

It’s all together possible that the entire purpose was for this conversation.  Right now, you and I discussing some random dream that happened to be caught in this contraption. Was the entire dream caught, or simply a tiny bit of it left behind?

Our memories seem to only snag a small part of dreams and even at that, they escape quickly.  I don’t think they’re meant to be held captive.  If they were, we’d remember them longer.

Is it that dreams are slippery or just clever?  We build elaborate catchers and still they’re gone in a flash.

 

The thickness of a book tells me something about the author’s ability to tell a story.  How long does it take them to get to the point?  How much fluff have they stuffed into it?  How much tedious detail have they droned on with?

If I am going to make a commitment to read the thing, I’d like to know that it is going to be worth my time.

I see several authors out there today that have more books to their credit than is possible to write in a lifetime.   I expect shenanigans.  Perhaps an entire gathering of ghost writers, just using the name of the top person to sell books.  It’s a business, not an actual passion for writing.

That’s fine and dandy, but there should be a disclaimer on the cover.  Note: This book contains 60% gibberish.  Ask your librarian before engaging in any strenuous reading exercise.

 

Rise & Shine

 

It’s like having my bed in the middle of a pet store.  I wake up every morning to the sounds of the jungle.  There are worse things, I suppose.   I just wonder what can all the birds be squawking about?  What’s so important?

If I were waking up in a bakery, I expect it would be the wonderful aromas causing me to rise, as if it were me who was full of yeast.  If it was an autobody shop, the harsh hammering of sheet metal would startle me awake.  Then again, should my bed be in the supermarket, it would be the loud, squeaky brakes on the delivery truck so early in the morning, or in the city it might be yelling, horns honking or sirens rushing to some emergency.

For many years, all throughout my working life, I woke up every morning to a very annoying and intrusive alarm clock.  It was never a pleasant way to begin the day.  The technology was not yet available that gave us options of waking up to different sounds, music or the sound of reindeer hoofs on the roof.  All I had was the harsh clang, clang, clang that had to be within reach, so it could be shut off.

Now, with my working life behind me, the neighborhood birds have assumed the responsibility of getting me out of bed in the morning.  The thing is, they start their day hours before any normal person.  They are not comprehending how comfy it is laying on this mattress, beneath these toasty blankets.  If they did, I’m sure they’d let me sleep a little longer.

I think entering a new day should be a joyful experience.  Neither of you have ever met before, it should be a peaceful, non-threatening and relaxing event.

You slowly open your eyes, maybe blink a few times, adjusting to the light, and then look around.  Is there morning dew on the lawn, has it rained overnight?  Or maybe it’s winter and there is a fresh blanket of snow on the ground.  Maybe a line of footprints from passing deer, or scrape marks on the snow left from a bunny rabbit.

Once you have your bearings, you make your way to the coffee pot, adding a little warmth and familiar aroma to your surroundings.  Then, and only then, should the neighborhood birds announce their version of “Rise and Shine”.

I recall that for the longest time we thought the name of the dog across the street was, Shut-up Rocky.  The paperboy would deliver his news early every morning and Shut-up Rocky would see him and proceed to wake up the entire neighborhood with his announcement that the paper had arrived.   I never did understand why a dog enjoyed the news so much.  It wasn’t like it was ever good news.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

but it did.

 

    The nightshift cook wanted to get back on the day shift, so he would hide things around the restaurant to make the place smell bad, hoping the manager would think it was the dayshift cook creating the bad odor. 

    None of the employees thought that plan would work.

Use it or Lose it

 

What they don’t show you in a diagram of the human brain is the most important section of all.  It isn’t the frontal lobe or the cerebellum, it is the child’s imagination.  If it were to be on this chart it would be quite colorful.  It’s that part that turns a smelly innertube into a wooden pirate ship and transforms a lazy river into the open ocean.

As we get older, that section of the brain shrinks, and in some, disappears all together.  A few doctors and psychologists have suggested that, acting our age, is responsible for its disappearance.  We tend to lose the childlike behavior and spark of spontaneity we have as children.  We become afraid to look silly.

Sadly, getting that portion of the brain to grow and flourish again requires imagination.  It’s Catch 22 of the thinking world.  Without it, you can’t get it, and to get it you must already have it.

Just note, anyone telling you to act your age isn’t your friend.  They aren’t doing you any favors.  Just look at them and say, “I’m rubber – you’re glue.  Whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks on you.”

 

 

 

 

While you were sleeping

 

It’s automatic, when the lights go out my imagination clicks on.  It never fails, suddenly there are creepy things lurking, ready to jump out and get me.  Even in the absence of light there are shapes and shadows, and not just in my mind.  I can see them.  They’re right there.

And should there suddenly be a sound of some kind...KA! POW! I jump out of my skin, my heart pounds, my pulse races.  I’m on high alert.

Usually barefoot, sometimes all it takes to send me over the edge is to step on a sock that I neglected to pick up earlier in the day.  I know it is a sock, I remember it, and yet in that split second, before my brain processes the feel of it, something else brushes against my arm and I let out a little yell.  Arrrggg!

That’s when a familiar but annoyed voice says, “Where’s your flashlight?”

 

“I didn’t want to wake you up.”

 

 

 

 

 

missing gene

 

Never did I realize that I was different

I had always thought I was just like you

In my mind I blended in just one of the boys

Basically the same in appearance

It wasn’t until years later that the light came on

Let me tell you it was a shock

I have always been this way

Which is why I thought it was normal

I don’t even know if there is a name for it

Not even sure what to look up

I typed it into Google

Someone born without punctuation

 

 

Toasters in the Bathtub

 

How clever the little outlet

along the bottom of my wall,

For tucked away within those slots

is everything for all.

 

There’s wind to cool the summer’s heat

and warmth to brown your toast –

There’s music there from by-gone days

and late-night talk show hosts.

 

There’s buzzing that will trim your beard

and weather so you’ll know –

Should you wear a bathing suit,

or dress for lots of snow.

 

How clever the little outlet

with all its hidden tricks –

Makes drills and saws  - dance about

when something’s to be fixed,

 

It makes rooms of dark – fill with light

and different shades of gray –

And makes every minute count

as it ticks them all away.

 

Deep inside my outlet

is a full-length color flick –

Wide screen and Surround Sound

all remote with just a click.

 

Yes we all could use an outlet

when Life gets hard no doubt -

That’s why the slots are tiny

so you’ll keep your fingers out.

 

 

 

 

 

The Candles were Licorice

 

You can of course bite em –

you just couldn’t light em.

The music was Mahler

the Opera was holler,

The gathering formal

it just wasn’t normal,

There were flowers in vases

and make-up on faces,

Drunks at the bar

valets for the cars

Most were delighted

that they’d been invited

The cops didn’t care

there was weed in the air

And there wasn’t a doubt

when the shot rang out

but the get-a-way car

was out in the thicket

and the unfortunate killer 

had misplaced his ticket.

 

 

 

 

 

and not always well done.

 

What my thoughts look like
before they're fully baked.

Somebody's feeding Phill

 

Even my thoughts sometimes wander.

 

I was simply out wandering around when I came to a place called The Wayside.  I noticed it was full of old friends and several acquaintances.  They had somehow fallen there and so there they remained.   I didn’t hang around, as I assumed there was some reason they had fallen by the wayside, and who am to question such things?  I just kept wandering until I reached that ridge over there.

That’s another thing, why are ridges never right where you already are, they are always off in the distance.  Just one more thing that was never talked about in geography class.  It’s not the same with hills.  An army can already be on a hill.  “We’ve got to defend this hill men.” Or it can be way over there someplace.  “We need to take that hill, boys.”  Not that hills move around, just that that they can be anywhere, but a ridge is always over there.

Come to think of it, I’ve had several ideas that have fallen by the wayside.  I’m surprised I didn’t see them when I was over there.

 

 

Please set this by the 
Wayside

 

Read me first

 

Enterprising florists sold off the summer in small bouquets while tourists picked at cold sandwiches along curbside tables.  Clarkston had never before been a thriving metropolis, but the winds had shifted and local politics took a backseat to the new, improved Chamber of Commerce, now run and run over by Mrs. Ethyl Petroski. 

I lived upstairs at 5 ½ Main Street; the first floor being occupied by the Clarkston News Review, although anyone would be hard pressed to find a stitch of news in it.  It was now and had always been the worst newspaper in the country, run by Mr. Portroski who had always fancied himself a writer but who was always at fault in every run-on sentence. The only thing worse than his grammar was his punctuation and the only thing worse than that was the circulation.  He stacked the papers up in the doorways of local restaurants, offering them for free.  As no business ran coupons in the paper the stacks usually remained untouched until he replaced them with the following week’s news. 

The news consisted of high school football scores, a rehash of school track meets and recipes from his wife, who had come over from the old country, but no one ever knew which country that was.

        Living not only on Main Street but on the second floor gave me an excellent vantage point over the whole town.  It was like watching life through time-lapse imagery; Christmas decorations melting into spring planters, which grew into Fourth of July decorations - winding like vines around bicycle spokes.  If I were to close my eyes, I could probably smell Rockwell’s pipe tobacco.

        Ethyl Petroski had not always been so bombastic.  In fact, before her husband passed away, she was just one more face in the crowd.  She had always believed in Clarkston but never showed the slightest spark of ambition towards anything.  Her involvement in the community was non-existent, with the exception of submitting recipes to her husband’s paper.  The change in her personality came almost the same moment the last shovel of dirt was tossed on her husband’s grave.  As everyone was walking back to their cars she glanced over at her neighbor, Sarah, who was walking along side and suggested the two of them go in with Lois and have a garage sale. 

        “I’m going to shut down the newspaper, sell all of the clutter, she said.  I certainly won’t need his tools, that old trunk or that stupid tuba.”

        Sarah wasn’t sure how to respond as she had never seen this side of Ethyl.  She took a few more steps and then smiling slightly agreed.  “A three-family garage sale should attract a good crowd.  I’ll even set up some coffee should anyone want some.”

        Ethyl didn’t acknowledge her but simply climbed behind the wheel of the old Cadillac and drove off.

 

 

 If you have read, The Garage Sale Tuba, found
in the book, The Pantry,
the above story will make sense to you.

 

 

 

Hey Jude

 

I find a familiarity in the song about fixing a hole where the rain gets in, just as I comprehend a certain sadness with Eleanor Rigby, but filling the cracks that ran through my door, that weren’t important yesterday says something about my list of priorities and its ability to change, or at least be flexible.

When I suggest that my philosophy is, I’ll follow the Sun, it doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t expect a little rain. Eleanor has shown me that, look at her working, darning her socks in the dark when there’s nobody there.  What does she care? I think if you asked her you’d find she does care, and she cares about the rain getting in as well.

I believe all the houses on Penny Lane have gone downhill.  The entire neighborhood isn’t what it once was.  Housing prices have dropped, stores have closed or moved out.  There are even some parts of town where Uber won’t go anymore.   This is all public record.

Speaking of records, I’m glad the Beatles songs stopped when they did.  I can’t think of anyone who wants to hear a song about the decline of Penny Lane, or see Jude as an old homeless guy laying in some doorway.  That’s depressing, I don’t even know why you brought it up.

Once there was a way to get back homeward, but I’m not sure what it was.  Maybe it's true, all you need is love.

 

Yes, that was my tribute to the greatest
band in the universe.

 

 

Class of 64

 

I don’t remember all the kids who signed my yearbook, and it was so important at the time.  I was completely unaware of just how fast the big hand was moving.  Turns out, the most important thing of all, they didn’t teach.

None of the textbooks talked about the limited amount of time we have on earth.  The topic was never on any test.  How foolish it was to spend so much time on history.  Every second that passes pushes us deeper into it.

I bet even today’s curriculum doesn’t address it.  Technology, that is the important topic of the day, not how little time we have here.  If there were a class on our longevity, or lack of it, the focus should be on the exchange rate.  Take stock of all your possessions, your house, your car, your clothes, everything.  You actually own none of it.

We are all renters.  Everything gets passed on to the next person once we die.  It all just goes away.  It is that rate of exchange that should be taught in school.  We are all rotated through this process, and rather quickly.  We spend our time accumulating wealth, only to pass it along to the next in line.

Your two most valuable items are your memory and your photographs.  Those are the only things that stick with you throughout time, no matter how fast the big hand is spinning.  Come to think of it, maybe school was showing it to us.  They put it all in a book of pictures and autographs.  How clever.

 

 

 

 

 

The Donor

 

That will be that

once my tires go flat

Don’t think I will last

when I’m all out of gas

No juice in my socket

no change in my pocket

I’ll just be a mess

without GPS

On the side of the road

like some flattened out toad

I hope on that day

when they tow me away

There’s no loved ones to grieve

as they all watch me leave

For I know in my heart

they’ll use me for parts.

 

The Sound that no one heard

 

It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t good
twas not a tree dropped in the wood
too long to be a single tweet
too short to think it was complete
Below the clouds – above the ground
no one heard it miles around
It wasn’t fast, nor was it slow
it never came and didn’t go
were it a fish, nobody hooked it
it was advice, but no one took it.

 

                       zc