A Dream to Live For

No one has ever seen Annabelle in the physical, but I know her. She exists in the imaginations and dreams of my wife's mind. Since both Cindy and I want to get out of the city and move to a place where there's more elbow room, I believe that, sooner or later, we will meet.

Annabelle is a Jersey, one of that breed of bovines which looks almost deer-like and produces milk richer in butterfat than any other. She must be raised from a calf and will become a pet. She will be brushed and curried, washed and shined, tail combed, horns and hooves polished. There will be wildflowers braided around her neck alongside the bell collar. She will be taught to stand on command so she can be milked anywhere. Annabelle will dine on the finest of grains and hay, and when it comes to "bull" friends, only the BEST will do!

I love her already!

The Games We Play (on ourselves)

I wrote this spontaneously one day at Starbucks on a napkin in about fifteen minutes. Notice the time stamp. Since this was only nine months after 9/11, there was still a lot of discussion, hype, and hysteria about public safety. This piece has been sitting since then. I cannot make it better. It's time to make it known.


June 13, 2002, 06:10 p.m.

The heavy downpour of rain which occurred earlier this afternoon has ceased. The clouds are clearing, the sun is shining brightly, and it is hotter and more muggy than before.

I am lounging at Starbucks on my way home from work, enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee and cigar. The traffic flows smoothly through the intersection of University and San Jose. Everything apppears to be going well and I quietly relax from the pressures of the day.

Suddenly, however, I sit up straight. My feet, which had been placed in the chair across the table are now firmly on the floor. I have noticed a man with a camera in the median of San Jose Boulevard taking pictures in every direction. I think that's odd since there's nothing unusual or terribly important about the buildings or scenery here. Then I see his full beard and backpack and I begin to wonder. Is he a terrorist seeking a target? Should I walk over and inquire as to his intentions. The questions are rapid-fire now. Does he have explosives in that bag? Should I call the police? The FBI? What is my patriotic duty? Is it to question anything out of the ordinary or whatever appears strange to me?

Then my logical mind takes control and overrules my emotional thoughts. This man doesn't look like a terrorist. He doesn't fit the stereotype as I (and probably many others) have conceived it--middle-Eastern, swarthy, with long flowing robes and a turban. In fact, as I look at him more closely, with his sun-burned head and bib overalls, he looks more like a red-neck farm boy on a visit to the city.

So I sit still and watch curiously as he moves with purpose around the corner and out of sight, still snapping pictures. Maybe I'm completely wrong. Perhaps he works for a development company. He might be a professional photographer on assignment or an artist trying to develop a painting. He might simply be someone on vacation wanting to take some memories home.

The drama is over. The tension drains away and I begin to enjoy the atmosphere again, absorbing the sights and sounds of traffic, airplanes, and "My Girl" playing over the radio speakers. I relight my cigar which has gone out unnoticed, pick up my coffee cup, and prop my feet on the chair opposite. All is well. My world is at peace once more.

The Beginning of Wisdom

There is a saying that life begins at 40. Being as slow as I am, I was 43 or 44 before I understood this. Here's how it works--or at least my take on the subject.

When I was 16, I thought that I knew it all. When I was 18, this became a fact. I did know it all. There wasn't any question about it. When I was 25, I was still quite sure about that. When I was 30, I was beginning to have some doubts. When I turned 35, I had to admit there were some things that I didn't have figured out, but I wasn't about to tell anyone. When I turned 40, it began to dawn on me that I really didn't know much at all.

Over the next three or four years, reality sank in. This was an extremely difficult time for me. I can honestly say that the lowest point of my life occurred within this time span. I was down and life was kicking me hard. However, looking back at it from the vantage point of a few years (I'll be 49 in October), I can say that it was also a good thing.

Knowledge is knowing. Wisdom is understanding. Wisdom begins when you realize that you don't know everything. The saying quoted above is probably true because, while most people gain a lot of knowledge early on, it usually takes 40 years of ass-kicking before they gain understanding about the things they do know.

Making the transition from gaining knowledge to gaining wisdom was tough. It was also liberating. I'm not anywhere near as nasty to live with as I was and I expect that pattern to continue and accelerate until I become the most lovable person this side of heaven. Oops! Sorry, that one just slipped out. Better back up and take a different tack.

Tribute to my Mother

I was taking a writing course in 2002. One of the assignments was to write a short piece about a person I knew or had known, so I wrote this about my mother and sent her a copy. She died on her birthday, Nov. 20, 2005. She was 79.

SNAPSHOTS

My father called her by his pet name, Bunny. Many people know her by her given name, Beulah, or more respectfully, Mrs. Mitchell. She is Grandma to crowds of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, some of them not even related to her. I call her “Mom.”

She’s not as tall as she used to be. Shoulder length hair, once jet black, is now gray and turning whiter each year. Blue eyes, piercing at times to the depths of a young boy’s soul, are slowly giving way to glaucoma, even with the mitigating effects of modern medicine. Hands, gnarled and rough in earlier times from the hard work of maintaining a large household, have softened. Her heart, which has always been loving, has simply grown larger with age.

Mom, now 76, lives by herself in the house where she and Dad lived since they bought the place in 1949. The house, four bedrooms up and one down, with miles and miles of Pennsylvania countryside around it, was perfect for raising a large family. Babies came with regularity, five girls and three boys over twenty years. With cousins, friends, and neighbors also in residence, she gained a vast experience at the skill known as “mothering”. Today her flock has scattered, but there are enough kids nearby so that she still gets plenty of practice.

Fred, her husband of almost 51 years, (Dad, to me) was severely crippled with rheumatoid arthritis for the last years of his life. Mom nursed him faithfully through those years, often without any assistance which must have strained her endurance. Times were rare, though, when I heard her (or him) complain about the hand dealt. That nursing spirit still shows because she acts in the same way for others, at least two that I know of, really old women, which, of course, she’s not.

One time Mom gashed her hand on a broken Mason jar while washing dishes and almost passed out from the pain and loss of blood on the way to the emergency room. She was there when my brother, age 10, was struck by a car, comforting and calming him even though his right leg was smashed in two or three places. Both times she exhibited personal self-control which had been developed over the years dealing with crises from trifles like skinned knees to serious life-threatening situations.

My wife and I have tried to get her to fly to Florida for a visit, but it’s wasted effort. She won’t, especially after 9-11. Driving that far by herself is out of the question and cooperating with someone else for an extended trip probably won’t happen. Besides, if she left home, she might miss something important—or it might miss her. We stay in touch by writing letters and talking on the telephone.

She will never grace the cover of People or Time. The President won’t ever call her. World-wide recognition is not for her. It’s not important to me. She is my mother and I love her, which, of course, is all that really matters.

American Idol Dream

I like rock and roll music. I have a bad habit of singing along with songs I like. Sometimes I'll try to create a spoof by changing the lyrics. More often than not, I can't get beyond one or two lines. Occasionally, I'll hit pay dirt.
I have a dream about going on American Idol and singing this song to the judges. Imagine that you're sitting with them. How would you respond?

This should be sung to the tune of "With a Little Help from my Friends." If you don't know the song, talk to someone over 40. My humblest (wink, wink) apologies to the Beatles.


"What will you do if I sing out of tune?
Will you sit there and order me out?
Listen to me as I sing you this song,
If I lose, I'll try not to pout."

"Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.
I'll move on with a little help from my friends.
Maybe I'll cry without help, my friends."

"What can I do if my voice goes astray?
Should I go back and start it again?
If I'm on key all the rest of the way,
Would you judge me so viciously then?"

"Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.
I'll move on with a little help from my friends.
Please, won't you give me some help, my friends."

"It could be anybody
And you are the ones who will judge.
I just might be somebody.
Only two of you gotta' budge!"

"Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.
Let me know what you think, my friends.
Will I make it or not, my friends?"

"Can't you believe in a star at first sight?
Now, Simon, don't be such a jerk!
I've only one choice if you tell me, "Good night!",
Tomorrow I'll go back to work."

"Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.
Oh, I'm begging for help from my friends.
Please, please, give me some help, my friends."

"It could be anybody
And you are the ones who will judge.
If I can't be somebody,
I promise I won't hold a grudge."

It's been nice to be here, my friends.
Gonna' go home and relax with my friends.
Hasta la vista to you all, my friends.
Take good care and God bless, and God bless my friends!"