Letting Go of My Shorts

We've all got something we just can't let go of because we just love it so much, right? Whether its pants, shoes, a jacket or a favorite old blanket, no matter how ragged it gets or how hideous it may appear to others, you just know you will keep it close by FOREVER!

I have a problem with letting most anything go and as I get older it becomes a bigger issue. Why, you might ask? Great question. Because if you don't throw anything away it accumulates rapidly and you run out of space to keep your treasures. Like the old George Carlin routine about "Stuff", things just seem to keep piling up.

Sometimes the culling out process becomes a topic of discussion around the house. Usually when there is a need to make room for newer, better fitting or possibly more important stuff. Dresser drawers is where this one comes from as my beautiful, loving and task oriented wife, who is now on a vacation from her job, starts to "organize" my mix of clothes. Please do not get me wrong. I appreciate every single thing she does. It is just a little bit of a challenge when it comes to parting with my things.

Daisy Dukes of Hazard

Locked in a dilemma, what should I do

with my raggedy jean shorts of faded light blue

A touch beyond frayed, the hem stitching gone

a fringe of bleached denim hangs jaggedly long

thin strands from the wear creep up on my thighs

like strings on a cute little lute or a harp, I surmise

I’m afraid my boxers would show through the strings

I’m too old for man-thongs and other snug things

I do like the freedom when I wear the old pair

there’s also the memories they hold and the air

I abide with a slight bit of danger you know

as I slip them on and they catch my big toe

I’ve taken to sitting to lessen the risk

but my daughter just offers a sigh and tisk tisk

Then rolling her eyes up into her head

I get a clear message, I’m causing her dread

“When you’re old its all about comfort,” I say

but it falls on deaf ears, I can tell right away

Still I can’t toss them out, you all know how I feel

I think I’ll save them for a dream trip to Rio

Dream "To My Children"

This is a dream I had back in March and the poem that resulted.  It is coming up now because my father's birthday is near and my thoughts return to his memory. He would have been 86 years old. There were a few stressors at the time that were likely contributors to the vivid nature of the dream and the intensity of the emotion I felt.

My dad, Earle, passed away at the end of November last year after a difficult encounter with cancer. It was, it has been and it continues to be a tough time for my family. One very good and comforting thing that happened was that all my siblings (and some of the grandchildren) were able to be with my mom and him at their home that night.

At this time in March my daughter Erin was about to go through a complicated medical event herself. I had no power or ability to protect her from it or take it on myself. All my wife, Vicki, and I could do was be as supportive and positive as we could for Erin and one another, but this was huge!

I had the dream one night as Erin's operation drew near, wrote the poem the next morning and then sent it out in an e-mail to my family. I think this helped me cope and I hope it touches home for someone else that needs to find a similar deep breath and a rope to hold as they walk into steamy dark places.

THE DREAM:

The rooms were steaming and hot, all white metal walls with different elevations. We really couldn't see beyond a couple of feet on any side. I was wearing a white smock and had a thick rope tied snugly around my waist. I couldn't see them but I knew my children and wife were hanging on to the other end of the rope to keep me from harm. I also understood that I had to get something or reach something in another room I didn't know what or who it was that I was going after but time was of the essence.

I started to inch my way forward feeling for the walls and floor with my left hand out-stretched and my right hand holding onto the taut rope that trailed off into the steamy void behind me. The walls and floor were slippery from the damp steam and hot, very hot to the touch.

The metal floor was at a slant and then there were steps and a railing like you might imagine on a submarine. I held the railing and moved my feet very cautiously down one step, then another. My right hand moved from a tight grip on the rope to the floor that I had just left and back to the rope, over and over again.

Finally, when I thought I had gotten to a good point on my descent, I extended my left arm and hand as I leaned my chest over the slanted railing as far as I could, barely balancing my weight without falling over into the dankness. I suddenly noticed the arm I was extending wasn't mine but my dads thin bruise mottled arm, not my hand but my dads long age gnarled hand. As startled as I was with this realization, at the same moment I made contact with something or someone in the fog and was immediately relieved and elated!

Thats also when I woke up.

So I'm thinking this is about family supporting one another as, together, we face the difficulties, trials, tribulations and things that go bump in the night that life spins our way. On another level it is also about how we are each instilled with and bolstered by this connection we have to family that is no longer with us but has had such a profound effect on us becoming who we are as individuals today. They are part of our fabric and we will be part of our children's fabric after we are gone. For better or worse we are joined forever, like a big beautiful Decker quilt!!

Erin & Dad

THE E-MAIL:

Hi All,
Below is a poem I wrote a short time ago with a lot of things going through my mind about how full our lives have been, especially lately. In particular I had a dream about Erin's surgery and in general I have been thinking about dad and us (The Big Us) as a family. Loving and missing The Big Us, yet at the same time being at peace knowing that we will survive because we have Us.
OK, enough explaining. I hope you feel it maybe a little cleansing, a little empowering.
Love YA'LL

THE POEM:

To My Children

words are not enough

03/12/2011

Child hold the line,

I’ll be doing fine.

You stand firm now and don’t let go,

no matter what goes on

no matter no.

It will be hard sometime,

but you are strong,

I have faith in you,

you’re one of mine.

When you can’t see me and I can’t see you

know in your mind, this is true

That I am up ahead

holding on the other end.

I’ll get it done what I’ve got to do

trusting you and knowing you

have got the strength you need

from the life you lead.

All of the work you’ve done,

the things you’ve been through,

There is no distance between me and you.

All connected, one big chain

linked together we share the strain.

We cannot fail, we will not fall,

it is impossible, we will stand tall.

When you can’t see me and I can’t see through

child hold the line and I will too.

We will get done what we’ve got to do

It is all possible,

It all is You.

Free Samples

I do like grocery shopping when the free sample carts are moved out into the aisles. My favorite is Costco and then Publix. We really don't shop anywhere else, mainly because of location. We have a Publix within one mile of our house in three directions.

As for "big box" store shopping, there is a Sam's Club closer than Costco but we like the selection at Costco better and they have more carts out on cart days. Like the products they offer, the "cart people" come in all shapes, sizes and attitudes. I will describe a few of my fav's.

First you have "The Show". "The Show" is the infomercial character. Usually only one to a store, above the shoppers on an elevated platform, wearing a hands-free microphone, wielding several deadly kitchen instruments and electrical appliances simultaneously. "The Show" attracts a big crowd just like a demolition derby or monster truck event. "The Show" prattles on with a well rehearsed monologue of product features interlaced with inflections, moot questions and jokes intended to hold the audience for the 4 - 6 minutes it takes to get the point across. A professional.

"The Show" is my least favorite. If there is an edible result, the mass of people standing by suddenly turns into a mosh (maybe nosh) pit of starving zombies and by the time I get near the front of the mess only the dregs in the blender remain. They do not allow access to the dregs, I asked.

Next is "The Eeyore", aka. the annoyed. These people do not know why they are there, work under a dark cloud, wish they were fishing or home reading a book and are generally displeased that they have fallen so far from grace. They are usually out of samples and in no hurry to replenish their little cups, napkins and tiny plates.

"The Eeyore" does not know where anything is in the store, including their own product. Luckily there are not many "Eeyores" in the store and they do not last very long, unless they are related to one or more of the managers, then you are stuck, "woe is me".

Saving the best for last, "The Mother Teresa" is my personal favorite. When I think of the concept of "aura", these people come to mind. They love people and want to help them find their way. You cannot look at a "Mother Teresa" and just walk off. Their words are like a continuation of a discussion with a long lost friend. Their sample's display is always filled without any effort or apparent rush on their part and there is seldom a long line waiting for a goodie.

When you are released from "The Mother Teresa's" glowing tractor-beam you see there are a couple of containers of their product in your cart plus a box of the crackers they used to serve it on. Such a pleasant encounter. When you get to check-out you see the same stuff in several carts and you just have to smile.

Free Samples

I don't want to be offensive or rude

when they catch my eye with a nice attitude

as I peruse all the aisles of Publix

"Our product is not that expensive,"

he says, "a really good deal," as I try to sneak by,

but our eyes are now locked and I cannot move,

"find our display and coupon on aisle six."

"Here, have a sample, take a little white cup.

I'm sure you'll agree it is tasty enough.

It will be a house favorite, don't you agree?

So don't miss this offer you better take three."

And on cue like a dance with a smile and a nod

I'm handed six litres to put in the cart.

I reach out and take them to not disappoint

the familiar old man in apron and gloves.

But just when I thought we had made a nice start

to a kinship and neighborly repartee,

he spins and locks on to three passing ladies.

"Our product is not that expensive...," I hear

as he walks off and directs them to all come near,

I guess we were done with his moment as planned

but someone is calling me from the next stand.

No Hurry for Curry

I am an easy date for restaurant choices. There are not many foods that turn me off and even fewer that disgust me completely. The only totally rejected dinner would be one that is still moving. Most flavors are acceptable from bland to pretty spicy stuff, but I have a mental block against pesto and curry.

I think I do not like curry as a flavoring in general. There have been one or two occasions that I have eaten a "curried" dish and was able to easily tolerate it. I don't know if it was the curry blend, the amount of it in the dish, that I didn't realize it was curry or the fact that I was so hungry at the time it didn't matter.

It might just be the smell that turns me off, but the idea of it conjures up thoughts of unsanitary preparation, meat sources that may be found around the home (with names like fido and boots) or local trash dump scavengers and critters that I've only seen in National Geographic or at the local zoo. I know that is totally unfair, untrue and slightly exaggerated, but there you have it.

No Hurry for Curry

The jury is out on curry as a spice to cook in my food

after one dish in a cafe that completely ruined my day

I promised myself with an oath not to go down that road I now loath

I discovered there is no little plant, bush or tree

that produces a nut, fruit or root called curry

It takes a village of spices to make the foul smell

with some of my favorites mixed in as well

Its a taste that only a mutton could love

a good spice too for a dish of tofu roux

or a lean cut of Yak from down on the back

As you can see I think its just not for me

but I'm not in a hurry to lock out curry

as long as I have tabasco nearby

The Semi-conductor Rag

I am definitely NOT what I would call a fluid user of the computer. I can do just enough to create a document and probably not in the best or most economical way, as far as use of software goes. A couple of reasons/excuses - I used a PC wherever I worked and a MAC at home and never really had to do  extremely creative stuff at either place. Let's just say I didn't push the limits of software capability.

I think I am able to get by because I have just enough patience to work through what are simple issues to most people and get a project completed. In the world of today's amazing hardware/software capabilities I am less than PONG. Vicki (mi esposa), does not (repeat: DOES NOT) have the patience and is generally impressed with what I can do and I love her for it.

Quick example in MAC-speak:
When deciding to write poetry I used Keynote (PowerPoint) but couldn't figure out how to have just an unformatted plane page, so I use a top box - title, a middle box - text and even though its there, I don't use the bottom box. When I want to copy and paste I have to do each box separately and, depending on where I want to paste it, I have to look out for little extra symbols and stuff that sometimes will show up (I think they are HTML commands). So I copied and pasted into Pages (Word) to have the poems on one page each. Fine. But now when I try to copy and paste into the blog from either, the blog will not save it! I have to re-key it, I mean holy shnikies really!!

OK, so it wasn't so short, sorry.  So I was sitting at the computer thinking about words that make me smile because they can be misinterpreted at times and "semiconductor" fell into that category. Whenever I start thinking of twisted words my mind seems to wander to politics. This is a look at it in a Roseanne Roseannadanna kind of way - "Never mind."

Semi-conductor Rag

These people are in the wrong line of work

why they are allowed to drive trains is a quirk

How can we let this get by

is there no test to duly certify

Is it work passed from fathers to sons

this half-way position atop two hundred tons

and thats just the weight of the engine I hear

then there's speed and breaks, but not much to steer

whistle control is most critical

proper tooting is almost rabbinical

we must have a full fledged conductor

not a semi or half wit impostor

someone who we all know

will be true to the great B&O

who delivers a hundred car load

and keeps all of it off of our roads

its frustrating for us common folk

we should hold elections for this valuable post

then we could sleep well at night

knowing we vetted them and they're alright

Why "The Dog-Eared Pages"?

Mr. Frisky

 "Why" is never a simple question to answer as anyone who has been a 4 year old or spent any time around kids can understand. Very often it ends up being a question of motive and less often a question of scientific fact. It becomes even more complicated when the "Why" question is attached to feelings because, depending on where you are emotionally in your life, the answer may be different at any given moment.

So in part, at this moment, I can say dog-eared refers to the old practice of turning down the upper corner of a page in a book to indicate your place or a particularly important passage. Since I do not read books much any more, I thought I would give props to the memory of that practice and try to invoke a little bit of subliminal smell-a-vision hoping that the readers might recall the slight musty smell of thick paged older books or the chemical/antiseptic smell of a newer glossy paged text book (one of the big heavy ones that had to be toted around in school). The purpose being to give a bit of weight to the posts in this blog thing.

Another part of "Why" is to give a little tribute to our dog Frisky. He is getting older and I wasn't always very nice to him as he was growing up. In truth I am still not very nice to him. He is a pig-dog! He will eat most anything that falls on the floor or that he can find outside on the ground. Particularly things that are not good for him, like the little dryer sheets that inevitably fall off a load of clothes on the way to be folded and chicken bones he finds on the side of the street on trash day.

With Frisky there is no reaching in to save him from swallowing once he has glommed onto a perceived treasure. When he gets a grip its a goner for sure. At breakfast or dinner he whines terribly while it is being prepared, eats it in less than 10 seconds and then looks at you like it is time for the next meal or treat! He is a fatty for a Shih Tzu Poodle mix, at about 26+ lbs. He has a hard time walking, laying down, sitting up, getting up, running(forget it!) and he snores, but I do love the little pig-dog bugger anyway.

So part tribute to our boy and part implication that, at least to me, some things I say may be humorous  and possibly insightful.

"When you're creating your own shit, even the sky ain't the limit." —Miles Davis