Grace of Our Fathers

Grace of Our Fathers

My Grandfather wore the pants in the house,

a pair with a hole in one pocket through

which he would slide a hand and, in a feat

of manual dexterity, extend  

one gnarled index finger up and through the

fly which he had quietly undone while

leading grace, the rest of us, heads bowed, hands

clasped, eyes closed in silent reflection, save

for me, I must confess, my prayer a plea

to Him to steady the hand of this man

about to bless our Sabbath meal with a

trick so amazing I could not resist

one quick peek, his intentions telegraphed

with a twinkle of the eye, chair pushed back,

rising to utter a stentorian

Amen, waggling his erect digit at

the hungry multitude, punctuating

the benediction with a lewd salute.

Essay

Household Systems Analysis

Homes are complex systems like bread mold or UPS.  I’ve got the results of the in-depth Systems Analysis that was recently completed on my home.  I did it myself without relying on the Federal Government for assistance.  Costco sells a Home Systems Analysis Kit.  I purchased a three pack but couldn’t figure out how to open the blister wrap. 

That’s where I began my analysis, looking at Incoming Stuff, or, more to the point, Stuff packaged so thoroughly it can never be free.  Like Johnny Cash in Folsum Prison.  My backyard shed is the primary repository of this sort of stuff.  The shed isn’t weather tight but it hardly matters.  The stuff inside is contained within materials impervious to the elements.   It’s as if the International Space Station was woven from sea grass and the astronauts inside were sheathed in fifty gauge polystyrene and slick cardboard that cannot be cut with the dull scissors we keep in the silverware drawer. 

In the interest of efficiency, I analyzed the big systems first.  Fresh Water In Flow, check, as long as you don’t mind a slight chlorine tang.  Grey Water Out Flow and Brown Water Out Flow, check and double check.  These are euphemisms engineers stole from the art world to describe a certain type of water.  Water you would cross the street to avoid stepping in.  Grey water comes from washing machines.  Brown water comes from toilets.  Greyish brown water indicates someone had a bowel movement in your Lady Kenmore.   All the more amazing if it’s a front loader. 

HVAC, check!  This is an acronym that has something to do with the furnace and the maze of filthy air ducts connected to it.  This system maintains a continuous cycle of flowing air, insuring that every corner of the house is contaminated with a rich stew of viruses and bacteria.  The V in HVAC stands for vector, as defined by the Centers for Disease Control. 

Magical Mystery Humours, check!   Houses are connected to something called the Power and Entertainment Grid by mysterious underground cables that can be easily severed with a shovel.  Once that happens the house becomes a soulless, blackened, dead hulk.   The house can only be resuscitated by a Utility Technician.  One simple phone call sets off a complex series of events leading to a repair two or three weeks later.  The tech can usually remedy the trouble by triangulating invisible rays between the orange cone placed behind his van, the aluminum ladder extending into the birds nest of wires on the power pole and your Visa card. 

Gas, check!  Gas and oil are fossil fuels made from dead dinosaurs, coconut trees and the Rolling Stones.  Burning them in our houses allows us to run our juicers without connecting them to the stationary bike tucked behind the furnace.  It also releases something called carbon dioxide into the atmosphere.  To illustrate, I’ll provide a visual example.  Let’s say you’re vacationing in the Greek Isles and, while walking down the beach, stumble on what looks to be a manatee.  Closer inspection reveals that it’s not a manatee at all but a nude and glistening Newt Gingrich.  He’s back in Greece with his creepy, current wife Callista, recovering from his failed coup attempt and conducting further studies of the Greek financial meltdown.  Every exhalation from his liver lips, every yawning pore on his corpulent body, every auxiliary orifice is dumping tons of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere.  Al Gore approaches from the other direction.  Together, using block and tackle and sturdy maritime ropes, you hoist Newt into the sea where Italian divers siphon off the remainder of his grandiose ideas and scuttle him to the bottom. 

Structural Integrity, check!  This is the umbrella term used to describe everything else.  Houses are essentially poorly fabricated versions of the packaging I described earlier.  If packaging was made to the same specifications as houses, it could be opened by premature babies. 

Miscellaneous, check!  Covered here are: 

·        The clock radio too complex to operate, the one with absolutely no FM reception.  

·        The spider egg hatching system in the walk-in shower.

·        The vanishing Tupperwear lid paradox.

·        Skyrocketing squirrel fertility rates in the backyard.

·        Alarming wine cork accumulation rates.

The Walk North From Lakeview

The Walk North From Lakeview

Why don’t you come with us.  You won’t be a

bother, if that’s what you’re worried about. 

We’ll drop by as we make our way down the

slope toward the tree, the one aligned just right

for shade on long, languid summer days, bare,

a stark presence the last time we drove out

this way, parking on the far edge, cutting

through to avoid the icy lane, our boots

biting into the thin, white crust, breaking

the flat silence, a stillness that vibrates

with your presence, you and all the rest tucked

away, ticking off the seasons, ruing

the deer that come to graze on the flowers. 

We wait while you bundle yourself up in

your old cardigan to ward off the chill

on the breeze off Deer Lake then leave by the

main gate, heading north on Depot Road past

the beach, dormant lifeguard tower the sole

witness to our leisurely stroll, the three

of us, until I turn to see we’re not

alone.  We seem to have been joined by a

few of the others out for a walk on

this fine spring day, more than a few, in fact,

enough to merit a police permit. 

I mention this to the fellow striding

behind me, dapper in a felt bowler

and handlebar moustache, and it occurs

to me he could be a former mayor

or town hall crony so I watch my p’s

and q’s.  In town, we walk the path around

Depot Park, then head back at the head of

an impromptu parade snaking back on

itself, nodding politely as some tip

hats or snap crisp salutes, our past catching

up with us or the other way around,

I suppose.  We slip back into Lakeview

through a gap in the old gate, the one they

padlock, and wave goodbye to them as they

drop out one by one until it’s just the

three of us again.  “I’m so glad you came

by”, you say as you gather your sweater

about you in the low afternoon sun 

then wave farewell beneath the tree, buds set

to burst, spring closing another circle.     

I

The Fossil Record

The Fossil Record

Some things never change, the angle of

the sun at precisely this time of the

day, for instance, on this particular

date in the heart of winter.  Provided

the day in question isn’t overcast,

some successor of mine will peer up this

staircase, right foot poised above the bottom

tread, humming absently, thinking of lunch

or dogs or the persistence of

ignorance in the world then pause,

his attention drawn by the small footprints

leading to the top, hugging the left side

beneath the bannister, each carefully

pressed into polyurethane, long cured,

a fossil record revealed by the ever

reliable sun and sheer happenstance. 

Maybe he’ll take a moment to speculate

on the owner of the stocking clad feet

commemorated here, running a

finger over a gritty imprint,

perhaps raising a hand to the back of

his neck, the hairs standing on end.  I’ll

gently point out the almost imperceptible

concavity left by the balls of the feet, as I

hover, unseen just over his right shoulder, and

note the effort required to place each step just so and

ask him to imagine, eyes closed, the moist

tearing sound of each foot pulled free, heel first,

from the newly finished wood.  An embarrassing

reverie of course, no less so because he won't

hear a word I say.  He’ll follow your path up and

out of sight, leaving me alone, grateful for winter

sunlight that falls just so and my failure to

repair these stairs, the ones you learned to take

in bounds, where I linger, peaceful vapor.   

 

Mose Allison

Mose Allison

Glottal blues sing-song,  

Dixie drawl behind beat, wry

as toast, work as play. 

The Part I Left Out

The Part I Left Out

Last night I dreamed I had one or two dire

symptoms.  Details are not germane at this

point.  Let’s just say it was impossible

to ignore them which is saying a lot

if you agree that in our dreams only

one rule applies, the dictum that all is

possible, an old saw that holds up in

the waking world as well, if you are a

reader of the daily headlines.  How to

explain the sheer relief I feel upon

waking, tempered by the disappointment

that goes hand in hand with understanding

that yes, I am healthy, at least no less

so than the day before and no, I don’t

look like Christian Bale, the part I left out

of the interpretation of my dream.  

Teachers I Never Married

Teachers I Never Married

You would think by now I would know better

than to read a piece about

Callista and Newt right before going

to sleep, her pearls and jewels from

Tiffany, his Robert the Bruce complex.

How else to explain the need

upon waking to recall, in order,

the names of my teachers at

Edgewood Elementary School, a task

many would consider not

to be essential in the least, no more

than the vestigial tail of

some bad dream.  Here goes nothing:  Miss Morton,

my kindergarten teacher,

notable for selecting me, after

much deliberation no

doubt, to lead the evacuation drill

one particularly warm

spring afternoon, my red helmet gleaming

under a hopeful yellow

sun.  Next up, Miss Trippler, eyes of a barn

owl, she caught the slight, furtive

movements I made trying to retrieve the

Pink Pearl eraser Linda

Mathon had hidden beneath her gingham

dress.  How could I forget Miss

Fuhrman, second and third grade, some kind of

administrative blunder

that, but credit where credit is due, she

correctly diagnosed the

early symptoms of my tendency to

daydream, a curious sort

of vagueness with dire academic

implications that followed

me to fourth grade and Miss McKinney, my

first black teacher, a woman

with a smile you never forget and the

creative audacity

to allow us boys to indulge our urge

to wage World War Two on a

table top, a wildly inaccurate,

bloodthirsty diorama

enlivened with handfuls of green plastic

soldiers.   Another first in

fifth grade, the balding, jovial Mister

Conti who read to us out

loud, an experience that resonates

today, as if I were in

a darkened theater listening to

Stanley Tucci, glasses perched

on the end of his nose, reading Charlottes

Web, his voice smooth as aged scotch.  

That brings us to Mister Ramella, a

bantam of a man, snarling

countenance only a quirk, a habit,

the repositioning of

his heavy, black horn rims hands-free, setting

those appendages loose to

wave wildly, emphatically fending off

clouds of unseen mosquitos. 

A decent group of people, they did their

best given what they had to

work with, but I was never tempted to

date one, let alone marry

any of them, as did Newt, one of his

bolder acts, the successful

propositioning of Miss Battley, his

geometry teacher, an

unfortunate woman damned forever

by the observation that,

according to his mother, “he was her

little boy.”  Somewhere in the

craggy highlands of Scotland the ghost of

Robert the Bruce is crying,

bereft beyond hope, plotting sweet revenge.