Some Sunshine

I awoke hanging in a tree; my tattered parachute hung limply in a nearby tree. It was the leaves that woke me. My skin quickly informed me there was not a trace of wind in the morning air. Yet, it was the leaves clangor that had apparently woken the dead. I looked at a bunch of them, like you do when you're looking past something, but you keep a mind's eye out for them. They were trembling, no dancing in the glorious light of the sun. That was what it was. The leaves were belting out a rocking gospel hymn to the light of the sun. I found myself suspended in a vibrating bowl of praises to the light.

I saw the leaves sucking in the light and singing like the ocean who sends in waves to meet the shore while it made life. I saw light bouncing back from the leaves of this old Delaware 'English Chestnut' surviver dance to some ancient African drum song. I felt my own exposed skin sing, joyfully, “You came back for me! You came back for me!”
And I knew that it always would. I looked back to my parachute and saw it's mathematical energy transfer co-efficients altering it's integrity. I took out my knife; cut myself free, and free fell the short distance to the ground.

My fall broke the soil. The scent of fresh, healthy, happy earth took my breath away, momentarily. When I could breath again, I reached into the rare dirt with both hands and grabbed fistfuls of it and brought them to my nose, where I breathed in deeply. “Alive, Alive,” screamed everything that the sun touched. I took that knife and cut off my clothes. I let it fall along with pile of protection. With every cell of my skin, I danced along to the leaves' African drum song, and I rolled with the magic incarnations of photosynthesis. Every shadow on my skin was a nude awakening, every bright spot a spontaneous eruption of joy.

But my bare feet are tender. And soon their discomfort broke my light induced trance and I got to thinking about the real world. I might be suffering from slight hypothermia, and or shock. But worse than that, far worse by far, there are over a dozen people,frantically fearing for me long, before I woke up. I reached down, gathered up my clothes and knife. After my shoes were laced, I checked the sun's angle and position in the sky, checked the tree for moss, composed a loose map of the area from memory and educated calculations on wind speed and direction during my fall and headed out.

I put my hat on to guard against the sun.  

You Can't Bring Baack the Taste of Walnuts by Eating Peaches

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Back in town. I take the 7th St. Exit, and drive to her house. Popping in to see Grandma. Then I realize, those days are gone. And I wonder if the new owners find her house too small. The one that opened the world of homemade boysenberry jam, rose bushes with white paint poured on the soil to help them grow, hinges fixed with half a pound of nails, and a kitchen that fed half of San Jose's illegal alien community.

Strangers still pray to her; they claim she answers their prayers. She promised that she would help me. Like always. She said she would help from heaven. But I don't feel her. When I'm scared, or angry, or lost, or lonely, I don't hear her.

"And HE walks with me and HE talks

with me and HE tells me I am his own. And the joy we share as we tarry there none other has ever known."

I discover myself singing it whenever I water plants. SHE included that song in her funeral for her Presbyterian friends.

After the funeral, to the day, I started taking care of her house. It brought me comfort. That was long ago. Long ago.

Without thinking, whenever I can't think, I water my yard. I find myself singing, "Just a Closer Walk". Memories take me down paths I know. Soothed, I soar.

Karma Dharma,

same old same old.

Man buys New York for a Story. Yesterday, a man walked into Albany with a tale to tell. He waved his arms frantically, danced about like a grouse and before anyone in the Capitol knew what hit them ,they discovered that the entire state of New York was sold to an unidentified charlatan for a yarn. Asked to comment on the fiasco, officials could only replied, "I can't remember."

The TV's o,n and I'm laying on the couch; I've got a plastic bag for my head. I picked a black one; I don't want to see the tv and the view out my window all filmy and disfigured. I want to be alone with my mortality as my breath heats up the hell fires awaiting me. Trying to drum up some drama I look inside the bag, I take a gander about the room for one last time. Then outside. There are doves on the power line, facing this way and that. They move with synchronicity. One forward, the other sways back. Bobbing: constantly in opposition. I laugh. They were amazing to watch, so unaware of the other, yet balancing with it perfectly. Unaware, I rise, and watch the doves.

Are leaves a tree's family snapshots?

In a time of

crisis: I see her hands

flattening a table cloth.

What more could God do?

Dust to dust, snapshot to snapshot, worry to woe, “Tinkers to Evers to Chance, a hundred years from now the world will ask, how did a charlatan buy New York in Albany? The Grouse will dance and tell a different story:

Once upon a time, a giant red balloon traveled to earth from the far reaches of our universe. Scientist studied every aspect of the phenomena. The red balloon was something alrighty. It was on a collision coarse with Earth. The exact landing sight was a typical tract house in Aurora, CO.

The giant red balloon defied reason. Scientists were perplexed: How is it that a latex balloon didn't explode in a vacuum? Where did it come from? Does this mean that the superior intelligent life in deep space is in fact, a supreme circus clown? Will the balloon explode when it descends into our atmosphere? Will its impact destroy the earth? Or is God merely sending "HIS PEOPLE" a birthday present?

Theories were as wide spread as a cold in December. “DOOMSDAY!”, cried the media preachers, “send your money to save your soul.”

“A long lost weather balloon”, decreed some officialarians.

“V-ger” proclaimed the Trekkies.

“It’ss a sign to be happy”, shrugged the simple.

“It is the Age of Cancer”, proclaimed some Astrologist.

“The Age of Safe Sex”, proliferated non-Catholics.

And there were several yahoos who shouted with glee that their alien babies were coming home.

A tramp, an ocean away from the tract house in Aurora, CO. caught a freight for Denver. The residents, he knew. So, he knew. Chugging across the backyards of America, he remembered stories of her building a street with a shovel; of a life touching other lives. Like a railroad ,her word, her deeds, on track, a lifeline for so many. In Aurora was a lost soul; an ear that heard, but could not hear, a blue eye that saw, but could not see her life of grace and wonder. The rails rushed under his disheveled head. A whirlwind stoked his chill.

The giant red balloon, gave an orbit.

The theorist of all claims agreed, with themselves.

The tramp arrived, walking up the high plain grasslands of Aurora. The balloon began its descent. The giant red latex balloon popped. People in daylight said they saw the dust of mankind as God was moved to breath life into it. People in darkness lost a breath as they saw stars move like the hips of a goddess dancing

The tramp found the woman trembling under the expectations of her childhood. He put his arm around her and in a voice as soft as boysenberry jam said, “It's okay, It's okay.. Grandma’s house has finally figured out a way for us to notice her.”

Everyone, everywhere realized that their missed ones had always been there in a dove on a wire, a smile in a crowd, a song on the radio, an unexpected call.

And the Grouse went on dancing, unnoticed. 

Bottlecaps on His Hat

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Everyone wants to know why?

The paper’s full of mysterious headlines; full because so many people have minds of their own. They have different tastes, different interests, different troubles. Yet everyone who met Joel wanted to know why he attached bottle caps to his hat. As if they knew, some 'unimaginable idea by the sane' would be born apparent to them. Then they could categorize Joel’s dementia.. Then he could be pitied. But as it stands - while the sun goes down in the West and tickles the East- the man is a champion of originality, and surly, surly as God has been prayed to, surly the champion of originality should amount to more.

I was expecting a floating sensation as if I had become a soap bubble blown by the breath of God.. I was expecting to hear music when I saw the color of it, I was expecting to grasp the simplicity of it’s notion in a heart beat.

Didn’t all of mankind hope that a champion of originality would ridicule racism? Forge compassion into a blush that anyone with a mirror could apply? Wouldn’t greed be a childhood disease like chicken pox or the measles? And wouldn’t you think self-pity would be as ludicrous as it should be.

Then, there’s Joel’s hat.

Bottle caps fixated without rhyme or guessed reason.

At least no one was hurt. Which is why Joel’s story wasn't newsworthy, will never be noted or accounted for, except that his name stood rightfully beside anyone else in the obituary column. Imagine the work and life of a good neighbor not making a 25 cent review over stale coffee on a morning where the humidity is already as high as a pulse rate.. Until the poor soul had been taken from the routine of the living. “ From the routine of the living” , the preacher repeated like a Greek Chorus, “From the routine of the living.....” 

The Radish

Leaving the office he found a radish in his car seat. Washed clean. Placed as if it hadn’t been placed.

“What?” “How?” No one else had a key. Anything else in here? A Golden Retriever claiming to be God, maybe? Some elf offering him heartburn? Why not? But no. Nothing.

He untied the old lace garter belt of his son’s wedding from the rear view mirror. He made a makeshift dryer and re-hung the garter with the radish hanging perfectly, the first time; he noted.

The night he found the radish he began dreaming. He was always back in his early childhood. He’d lift a door lying in his backyard and walk down the steps coming out in other towns where a circus was playing with accountant ants on trampolines, cheerleaders on the high wire and national politicians dressed as clowns.

The following day there was a carrot in his front seat. He hung that too.

Then a sugar beet.

Nice colors, he thought, as he took down the garter belt dryer, which was way to small for the burden of its bounty.

Then a mere orange blossom. How long ago had he been married? Nearly two decades. This he placed in his lap as he drove home and put that in the freezer.

That night he dreamed the backyard door wouldn’t open. When he tried his hands turned into door knobs, as did his feet and heart.

The next day there was nothing in his front seat after work. He had a long miserable dream where he was on stage playing, “Waiting for Godot.” Of course he didn’t know his lines, but it didn’t seem to bother anyone else. The play drug on and on.

That morning there was a wild violet in his car seat. Dew was still clinging to it. He looked around, but saw no one. He looked around again and saw that the dew was everywhere.

He walked away from his car. He picked more violets. Went inside and put them in water. He called his boss and took a personal day off from work. Then he rummaged around and found his old address book and sat down to make some calls.

Outside, his daughter-in-law drove away.  

A Team in Training Address

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In February of 2008, I joined Team in Training. It was their twenty year anniversary of raising money to fight Leukemia & Lymphoma. The idea is: professionally train 'all comers' to complete an endurance event (marathons, either running or walking, triathlons, etc) in exchange for raising money for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. I was struck by the commitment, and heart of the staff, both paid and volunteer, and my peers who not only transformed their health and abilities, but raised thousands of dollars for the cause.

It was a fluke that I happened to join during their 20^th anniversary, and that I grew up about 8 miles from where Abraham Lincoln lived while he taught himself the law, New Salem, IL. In the fifth grade we all had to memorize, The Gettysburg Address. I put the two together and rewrote one of the greatest speeches in American history, to honor my peers (past and future).

I believe that with This Team in Training Address can be slightly altered to apply to almost any worthy cause, including the simple act of being humane on any given day.

One score and zero years ago, our founders brought forth upon this continent a new TEAM; conceived in donations and dedicated to the proposition that through research we can cure blood cancer.

Now, we are engaged in a great fiscal war testing whether that TEAM, or any Team, so conceived and so dedicated, can prevail. We have met on a field of great personal trial in that war. We have come to set aside a portion of our lives as a promising hope for those who are either losing: their lives, or livelihood- to this disease. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot appreciate the pain of the brave parents whose child has been diagnosed.; we cannot comprehend a child’s lose whose parent has died. Those who suffer with blood cancer have consecrated our own lives far beyond our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember our practice run times, but it can never forget Why we are here.

It remains for us, the Teams In Training, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished hope, which they who suffer of this disease have thus far, so nobly advanced. It is rather for us here to re-commit to our physical and fund raising tasks; that from these honored afflicted we take an increased devotion to their cure- for which they might give the last full measure of breath. That, we of this Team highly resolve that those who have died, shall not have died in vain, that this Team, under God, shall have a new birth of perseverance, and that this Team: of volunteers, for the afflicted, and by the grace of the human heart, shall not fail.. 

The Boy who let Spring out of The Barn

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Everyone knows that each winter is different from the year before. Rumors were flying that this Old Man Winter wasn't as old as any before him. This Old Man Winter could still kick up his heels and dance for days and nights on end. It so happened that Miss Spring of the same year was not only beautiful, but she was quite the flirt.

She wanted to get an eyeful of this Old Man Winter and if he met her tastes she wanted him to see her. Early in february there was a string of warm sunny days. It looked like the seasons loved each other alright. Miss Spring wanted to play games. She wondered if this Old Man Winter was the man everyone had claimed. Could he keep up with her? She was going to play hide-and-seek and catch-if-catch-can. She spun and twirled away. But she slipped and hit her head on a sheet of ice. The blow knocked her out cold. Old Man Winter scooped her up lovingly and placed her in his barn.

He told himself that if she awoke he'd let her go, but she was so beautiful and he was having so much fun playing weather he truly doubted if he could let her go. You needn't be born in a barn to imagine how could it would be in Old Man Winter's barn. Miss Spring's complexion wasn't looking rosy. Nope, it was summer sky blue with cold.

Winter carried on through February and past March without a letup. April was mid-over and still no signs that winter would let up this year at all, ever. Pleas went out across all the lands and all the icy oceans for some hero to rescue Miss Spring. No one Knew for sure where she was or what had happened, but they guessed the only thing that could delay her was Old Man Winter himself. Some brave soul must confront him, or contrive behind his back a way to bring Miss Spring back.

Many people gathered about grand feasts and spoke bravely about how they wold succeed against this Old Man winter. Most of those people secretly disappeared to their homes where in their warm, comfy, stuffed chairs by the fireplace they imagined grand excuses or grand tales of near victory. Naturally, some people who had no business going, venture off anyway and became sad, frozen sign posts of failure, Others, some brave some good adventurers left never to be seen again.

There was an orphan boy of no special traits. He showed no ambitions of any kind. He was content to stand around an listen to stories that the old, old, people told. He could be found listening to old fools on streets or old spinsters way out in the woods.

Secretly, he gave himself the name, Yarn. He'd make up songs that retold the stories that he had heard. He was careful not to be overheard.

This winter was most curious. None of Yarn's old friends had never heard of such a lengthy winter. Yarn wanted to hear the story first-hand. He walked out in his warmest clothes and blankets. He even borrowed some baby blankets to wrap his shoes in He slipped out of town unnoticed by any human eye or ear.

He had no idea where Old Man Winter lived, so he walked directly into the cold wind. Soon his face was stiff and it hurt like needles. He began singing to keep his face warm. He sang about the great winter birds, how sad for them to be so far away from their summer home this late in the year. Yarn noticed a soft sound overhead. He looked up and saw great numbers of winter birds flocking about him. Their warm feathered wings blocked the wind and warmed the air.

Soon his feet were cold. Yarn sang about the days he'd hear about when all stones were hot, fresh out of heaven's oven. As Yarn walked on his face bent down to the ground, out of the wind; he noticed that the ice was melting. The stones ahead had melted a path for him to walk.

Soon, his body was shivering with cold. Yarn sang songs of the poor surprised spring animals. How cold and confuced they must be in this winter land without green saplings to eat, and soft ground to nest. Suddenly, Yarn was aware of a great commotion, He looked about him, he was surrounded by all sorts of spring animals,: squirrels, rabbits, moles, muskrats, fox, baby deer, and cubs of bear and wolf. Proudly, they walked with him., so closely that he felt he wore their coats as his own.

the warm stone paths led this curious pack to an ice lack high atop the mountains of the world. Yarn looked about him and saw no place else to go. Slowly, he stepped out onto the ice, The animals, too stepped hoof and paw onto the ice. Silence, every ear intent on hearing a warning crack or creak for the ice. none came . Another step and then another. Slowly they edged onward; on a lake so huge they couldn't see the other side. With eyes ever watcful for cracks Yarn noticed fish frozen deep into the ice. He wondered about the water fowl. He sang a story for the fish and water fowl of the world.

Without a crack or creak the ice turned into water. Fish, ducks, and swans held the animals and Yarn above the water. They flew over the lake in quick fashion. Before him on a barren plain he saw an old barn without doors. From a great distance Yarn could make out the beauty of Miss Spring as she slept. Her cold skin as blue as a summer's sky.

Old Man Winter took notice of him and his troupe for the first time. He blew some arctic air pin them. They stood firm. Firmer really, their feet were frozen to the ground. Yarn had no plan. He didn't expect to get this far. He yelled out to Old Man Winter, "What is YOUR plan for Miss Spring?"

"Who wants to know?" hissed an icy gale.

"The whole of the earth and sky. The whole of the seasons. Summer would like a clue as what to do. As would Fall and your successor has a stake in this as well."

"Really?" grunted Old Man Winter and he sat down. "To tell the truth I have only one thought and that is to look at her. "

"I guess she's a looker as far as a frozen lump of coal goes, but it's a pity you shall never see..." Yarn word fell secret.

"Never see what?" asked the confused old man.

"How much more beautiful her works are than her face could ever be."

"Oh, you don't know what you're talking about. You and your zoo tire me."

"You mean, you don't know how beautiful her work is? Every animal, every bird, every tree, and weed knows. You are joking with me aren't' you?"

"Joking! Not I! It's you who jests. Weeds don't know anything. Or trees or birds or anything you speak of. Don't' irritate me, boy or I'll freeze your heart.

Yarn looked the situation over. There wasn't much to work with. He couldn't run across the field and grab Miss Spring and run away with her. Old Man winter would crush him before he reached midpoint.His teeth began to chatter. He started singing to keep from chattering. He sang softly about the beautiful works of nature. He sang to Miss Spring as if he had come to court her. Normally Old Man Winter would have been frigidly jealous, but he could not believe his eyes. The barren field suddenly looked strange. It had.. it had ... color. Yes, that's what it was., greens! And some round dots of bright yellow, some dainty tufts of blue too. HE noticed that the air was different. It smelled. After a few sniffs, big enough to suck up most ponds HE decided that it was a pleasant smell.

Yarn' song grew louder. The story more personal. Miss Spring awoke. Her face the color of imagination.

She stepped outside the barn and the hillside came alive. Yarn noticed that Old Man Winter blushed. When he blushed the color turned his old ice wrinkles into sunrise color cloud, Soon he was gone. Where his eyes had been now shone the rising sun.

Miss Spring looked about her. When she saw Yarn and his troupe of trustworthy companions she realized that they had saved her. "What is your name child?" ( the animals and birds she knew)\

"I call myself Yarn, because I love stores, so. "

"Because you saved Spring for the whole would I will make a new thread, soft as your hair, as warm as your heart, as strong as your will, as deep as your courage, and as colorful as Spring, This new thread will be called Yarn in your honor. In the winter months, when days and days of grey sadden peoples hearts; they will knit sweaters out of beautiful Spring colored yarns to give them warmth and faith that I will come. IN whatever is made out of yarn there is hope."

Yarn blushed, you could say the honor unraveled him. 

There's Only One First Step

I was in prison. Not with iron bars and constant walking guards. This place was like a tiny little village in Mexico or Central America, or maybe even South America. The walls were aged white stucco. We stayed in what would have been a large commons room. Along the walls of the this great open room they had built little cubicles with a chicken wire fence where iron bars would be. There was a little chicken wire gate that was never locked from the outside, but it had a little hook latch that we could lock for our own privacy. It was a tall room. High enough to have a walk way above the first tier of cells. That walk way lead to a second layer of cells. Each cell had a wooden roof of rough hewn slates. Over the widely space slats what a layer of sheet metal. Then open air, and floor or the ceiling of building above. The center of the room was a maze of walls, and loose straw couches. The maze was no problem to solve; it was simple on purpose, but it gave us dens of inequity.

I'd fallen in with a group of Americans, we were all Americans come to think of it, but we didn't labor on that fact. Each of us knew that we didn't belong there. Yet, we never mentioned our charges of crime, nor did we ever talk about our defense attorneys. We just knew we didn't belong there. We talked mostly about escape plans. And we talked about each other.

Who ever knows what someone else truly thinks about you? So nothing was said about me. There was a skinny little guy, a neurotic coward of guy. Everyone else wore classic Papyion white prison third rate cotton. He wore a red t-shirt, almost a night shirt on him, and he wore a beanie. What wanted to be ruler of his own country. And until the peasants of that country come to him and ask him to be their ruler, he's settle to rule over himself and the only red shirt, and the only hat in the place.

We had a guy from the 70's disco babe chasing machine guys. I was talker to the old man of the group one day and I said, I don't like disco jock over there. The old man looked up at me, as if from a book of Chekhov short stories. I like the guy, he said, because the author takes a sympathetic view of him.

And the old man was in our coup. He seemed content, even serene, as if he felt down deep inside that, this too shall pass. He was older than he let on. At least that's what we thought out of respect for his attitude in life and for his vanity.

There was also a beautiful black woman with us. She sang little rhythmic ditties all day, of two none words, like “mone – wa”. All I could think about was what a great lover she would be. Her face as rich as wedding cake icing. Her songs were so heart felt they flowed out of her like sunlight falls onto your skin. The glorious high notes that took you to a place where all was glory to the highest. And low notes that took you hand and then hugged in a way that all the fears that bring on the night never had a chance to exist. And then there was the rhythm of her song. It was as if everyone that was good would always go on and on, effortlessly, and you'd be one with her subtle changes. Changes so perfect that you'd know that this new change was nothing more than a different part of the same rhythm. Ah, to have here around.

One day, Lee Majors joins our group. Now, we were going to escape for sure; we had a real live Hollywood Hero on our side. Truth was: he'd escaped before, got caught, and was brought back here. We will escape soon boys, and when we do avoid the church. Avoid the church at all costs. Evil is there.

During our days, we might make some impracticable crafts. Instead of weaving baskets, we'd weave birds. Even a sow's ear. Or we might hang out outside. Either way, we never saw any guards. Although we knew they were watching the prison walls. Some people had been killed trying to escape.

Today, we were outside. There were several little buildings in this abandoned village. Some had walls around their yards. All the buildings had the same hot tin roofs. I saw the black woman sitting on a wall, singing. I headed that way. When I reached her, I saw that several members of my coup had climbed onto a little shack and were leaping for the top of the wall. They were barely missing the top. Come on man, you can do it. And then you could help the rest of us over. Looking over the feat, I thought I could manage it. But I knew I'd get shot once it became apparent that I could escape. I shook my head no. Then the old man jumped for it, missed and fell. He landed on a pipe and seriously hurt his back. The black woman stopped her singing and yelled for me to go help him. I scrambled over to him. He was unconscious. The black woman came to our aid. She and I decided that we had to get him to a hospital. The prison had no help to offer. Dead, or incapacitated prisoners were cheaper to deal with here. The group helped to fashion a gurney which the woman and I drug off toward the some mythical hospital on the outside. She was all songs after she alerted me. And as we drug him off together, I sang my own two syllable non-words.

Without a thought about the guards we drug him across the the prison yard. It wasn't until we were well beyond the walls that we realized we were free.

We were in a land of large, wind swept cypress trees, eucalyptuses trees, grass as tall as your waste and as wasted as youth. The air was so sweet that it picked us off our feet. We were flying. Flying to the hospital to heal our friend. The sweet air had brought him too. He was flying too and he wheezed that he was alright now. Not this time we thought, as we flew on with him in tow.

We stopped at the first noble building. We landed like ducks on a pond. And she and I drug him closer to the building. Looking at the huge building of white stone I stopped and said, Now, this is a “real church.” A “real church” white dove landed in my hair and then flew off to door. We followed.

There was an elderly white woman standing post outside the door. She held a thick book in her arms. The old woman didn't look at us. She asked us, what's wrong; is there anything I can do to help you?

We started bullshitting her; we didn't want her to know that we were escaped convicts. She stopped our stories cold by announcing that she was a healer, retired now, but she could heal us just the same if only we would be honest. Then she turned and looked into our hearts. She said the old man has been suffering from arthritis in his back for years. The black woman replied in earnest, oh no, he fell on his back just today. And that's why we brought him here.

The old man spoke through his pain and embarrassment, she's right. I never told anyone because I didn't want you guys to razz me.

Shocked and encouraged by her insight I asked if this place was some kind of underground railroad. Could they give us sanctuary until a safe passage was prepared for freedom?

The singer grabbed my arm and whispered a warning, Lee Majors warned us to never come here.

Maybe it was her touch that set off the idea, whatever, the old healer and I said the same thing at the time. He'd been here before, was set free, and returned on his own accord because he couldn't handle complete freedom.

I looked past the healer; the church door was open and I saw a day care inside. I heaved tears. And the healer looked at me and said, Yes, you can get out; if you are honest in your heart.

And then I saw this prison as a metaphor for my life. I'm always in places I don't want to be. The nodded to me. She whispered, take the first step; there's only one.

I shook my head no. I can't leave my friends behind. They are too scared to come here.

And then I woke up.

Fool, I cried. The only way to help them is from the other side.

It's impossible to explain the rightness of this dream. Because you had to have been there to know that the air can be so sweet to lift you off the ground. And a building can be more than you could possibly imagine God to be. And only in the land beyond can whispering an honest admission will gain you eternal freedom from yourself. And only in my dreams do I see that for a brief, unreal moment I have been to other side, and that maybe if the Lord's willing and the creeks don't rise, I can give you hand to see it to...

Apparitions

My father says I was a good baby. I never cried, except when it was time to go to bed. I haven't thought about these apparitions in years, now I wonder just how far back did they go.

At some point in time, every night, when the lights went out and I was in bed and closed my eyes, I saw apparitions. The apparitions were already as familiar to me as my own voice. Were they that old? Were they even older? I only know that they didn't stop until I was in Junior High School; was I twelve or thirteen?

They are hard to explain. Imagine driving a car at night in the snow. The snow flakes come out of nowhere; head straight at you in a strange curve from out of the sky and then disappear. They were faces of sorts. Hideously distorted faces in bright colors coming at me like a hard snow at night behind a windshield. Each was as unique as a snow flake. They came and they came and they came. I would try to sleep with my eyes open, but that always failed.

Sending kids to bed always seemed cruel to me. All throughout the day there is some adult around. But after it gets dark, they tuck you in; make you repeat some prayers (as if rote has any power over passion), then they walk away and turn off the light and shut the door. All alone, in the biggest world imaginable, alone in the dark. In darkness there is no wall a few feet away; darkness goes on forever, and in all that distance something bad must be happening somewhere. I was so afraid of the dark.

I discovered some tips along the way. First, put the covers over your head. Nothing bad can get you under the covers; you're safe there. Covers not only hide you, but nothing can hear you breath under there, and they can't smell you. Keep your eyes open under the covers, that's very important. That way, when your mammal lungs come up to breath some fresh air, the room isn't nearly as dark. You can actually make out normal objects.

It took me years to establish this next tip as a rule. There is the question of where to keep the top of the covers once you come out for the night. Over your shoulder? or under your arm? I knew this fact would make the difference between surviving the night alive or not. And every night I couldn't remember what I had done the night before. The weight of this decision, the disappointment in myself for not remembering , or even coming up with a simple way to remember, and trying to figure out what to do, and trying to retrace all my steps until I had gone to bed the night before wore me out. But not enough to shut my eyes. It wasn't until after I'd seen a few vampire movies that this question was settled once and for all. Vampires can't bite you through your blanket. Keep it around your neck.

Some nights, Mom would stay up late and watch TV. TV was young enough in those days that it didn't have permission to stay up all night either. I always stayed up with her. For one reason, I wanted to be with Mom as much as I could. Second, I never wanted to go to bed. We must have seen every scary movie ever made from the forties and fifties. I promised that they never gave me nightmares, but they did once in a while. Yet, those brief dreams where I was prey for "The Beast with a Thousand Eyes" or Werewolf didn't posses me like the hours of nightly apparitions. Those nightmares I can't recall. I'd also have nightmares about being trapped in a large nest of snakes, or spiders. Even then I noticed that horror movies weren't nearly as scary as what was real, or that the possibility of being real.

Years later, I found out how to stop having nightmares. We had the largest Crown of Thorns plant I've ever seen. All I had to do was lay down facing that plant and ask Jesus to keep me from having a nightmare. I wouldn't, but the apparitions always came.

Childhood seemed to be an endless search for explanations. "Where are the streets of heaven that are paved in gold?" They are the cobble stone type clouds at sunset. That's when God looks down at us. "How can outer space go on without ever ending?" Well, one night, while I was trying to keep my eyes open, an angel took me to the edge of outer space. It was a jagged metal strip like the ones on a box of aluminum foil. I noticed that both side of the strip looked exactly the same, black space. For my apparitions, there was only one explanation: I was evil incarnate. Satan owned my soul.

It didn't matter how good I was during the day; at night, when I was as alone as a bone before creation, I was Satan's own soul.

Some days I'd think about this a great deal. Some days I was reminded how bad I was by my parents, my Dad did it with every meal. Some days, if I could manage not eating with my father I'd not think about it all.

One afternoon, when my Aunt, who never learned to drive, rode with me in the back seat of our old 48 Chevy, she took my hands and examined them. I had little white lines in my fingernails. She claimed that telling lies made those. I must be a big liar. I hid my hands for days. I was ashamed of being evil. I started paying attention to the truth. That's when I noticed that grown-ups lied all the time. They would say things like: it happened the other day when we were at the grocery store. Well, it didn't happen 'the other day'; it happened exactly three days ago and we were in Krogers. I learned quickly not to correct grown-ups, especially parents in front of other grown-ups. I knew Satan didn't own my parents, like he did me, because they were always trying to get me to act right and good. And they decided what that was, so they must be good.

My lies, (and I did lie) just made the world more interesting. When Mom would ask me where my brother was, I'd say, "A donkey stopped by, and they went off to California to prospect for gold." I think I got my mouth washed out with soap for that one.

Some days, I would worry all day long, or so it seemed, that I was going to Hell the moment I died. Satan already owned me, and there was nothing I could do about it. My nightly prayers didn't stop the apparitions any more than praying for it to be bright and sunny when you driving through a blizzard. . My pleas to Jesus didn't stop them either. Then one day, I came to terms with it. What would the Devil want with a six year old kid when he could have Kings and Presidents? That comforted me. The apparitions kept coming, but they no longer scared me. I could lay back and watch them come at me.

Maybe children have been put to be alone to prepare them for being an adult. My future has often been black distances where hope is some object infinitely far away, where a million bad things can happen before you can get there. It has been my children who are my sun, the day, birds singing in flight, wonder and awe. There is nothing evil, or even bad in their souls. I hope I told them this often. Maybe by laying down with them until they fell asleep has made them weaker adults.

Looking back, through the lens of what children mean to me, I realize that Satan would love to take the soul of a child; what could be more evil? What could be more sad than to think that your life isn't worth Satan's spit? I struggle with that still. I've been going bed alone for years, for a very long time, and I still think its cruel. And I can't fall asleep without something, even if its only a towel, or an old t-shirt over my shoulder.

Grouse Dance

It was a period of my life when I could not sleep. My stomach churned with grief. One night, I did fall into a fit full sleep. I had a dream. I was walking down the alley of my youth, on my way to my first grade classroom, by way of my Grandfather's house. There was a tiny pasture adjoining his yard. The sky, the air, the thick green grass was fresh from my six year old memories. Suddenly, there appeared a grouse in the pasture. It started to dance. I stopped and stared in awe. Being impatient and too hard driven, I started walking onward, never taking my eye off the dancing grouse. It danced parallel with me. We went on that way, my heart beating as thin as a vapor. That grouse met up with another grouse and he passed the torch of dancing with me onto him. I met four grouse in all on my way to grandpa's house.

Suddenly, I felt light as a feather with happiness. To think a wild thing like a grouse would even notice me. Let alone look into my heart and decide to help me. And then to think that that grouse was met by another who cold see into its heart and say, Please brother, let me help in this noble cause. I nearly cried from the burden of deserving such tenderness.

So I looked ahead. And there was grandpa's house. The sycamores, the root cellar, the well, the wood shed, the front porch of life that met the great depression on bad terms and survived. Then there was the cinder driveway that hadn't known his car years before I was born. Near is stood the grandest walnut tree in town. I looked up at it, as I always have. Today, waterfalls were cascading down through the limbs of summer leaves.

All of my senses and focus was upon that most profound question of any age, "What's the source?" My eyes landed on each marvel of each waterfall's source until I found myself looking into the sky. And there I was confronted with a sight that caused me to forget my purpose.

The sky was as black as perfection. The stars were so bright, I was like a deer in headlights. As I stared slack jawed I noticed that sometimes a lightening bolt would shoot from one star to another. So many were doing it that it first appeared to be random. Then I saw that they were talking to each other. And then I knew they were speaking to my life, outside of this dream, "Greg, we gave you so many gifts; what happened to you?"

I awoke in sobs of shame. And I fell into the first restful sleep in days.

I awoke feeling great. The dream came back to me with my first breath of awareness. I felt deeply touched. I thought, wow, even the stars know how hard it is to remain human on earth, and they give each and every life careful consideration and bestow gifts that will help us each on our path in this world.

It helped. I began sleeping again, and my stomach settled into the routine of hunger management.

Lately, I've been hearing the night sky again. At night, I go out and look up. I can feel their concern for me. But I wake up to the light of day and go about my business of 'cause and effect'.

I'm aware that heaven is out there, beyond the sun shine. It's in that light of worldly navigation that I answer the stars. They speak in lightening. My voice struggles against the gravity of the great needs and geography of this land.

The Pencil that Failed

THE PENCIL THAT FAILED

Sam sat at his desk, with 20 questions before him. 20 questions of homework, due. They lay between him and anything else he wanted to do. “Mom, can I watch a movie?”

“Not until your homework is done.”

“Mom, can I have a snack?”

“Not until you complete the 2 pages in your phonics book.”

“20 questions will take forever mom”, but, he knew her reply.

"Then you'd better get started right now."

20 to go, and just - just look at them. He measured the length of each one with his pencil. Suddenly, he noticed that his pencil had words on it. Words too big for him to read. He wondered what the words said. Was the pencil on his side or his mom's side? Maybe the pencil was trying to tell him how to escape.

He put the pencil's words to his good ear and heard the pencil whisper to him, "Crawl inside the flower vase. Flower vases give me magical powers. I'll be your magic wand and you'll never have to do phonic sentences again."

“Hmmm???” He looked inside the flower vase. The opening was far too small to let his head in. A fact which didn't stop him from trying, several times.

Sam took the promised 'magic wand' in hand, and forced his arm through the hole up to his elbow.

"Maybe 10 of the 20 questions will disappear", he hoped. He looked at the page . Nothing had chanced. Almost nothing.

"Mom! My arm's stuck!"

He could hear his mother's footsteps pounding down the hall. Each step making the next madder still.

He closed his eyes and said, while holding his breath, "Trusting that pencil had been a big mistake."

The door burst open; his "I'm sorry, Mom," drowned out her exasperated breathing.

She walked past his aching arm and looked at his home work. "You've been in here all this time and you haven't done anything!"

She grabbed his arm and the flower vase; she bit her lip; he closed his eyes again, and silently said, "Oh no, she's biting her lip”.

Next came a jerk, then a twist with a jerk (and the loss of some dearly beloved skin), and his arm was free.

"You had better finish those sentences before I lose my patience, young man." She stormed out, slamming the door like the clap of thunder that introduces you to your maker.

He looked back at his homework. His arm hurt. The pencil was very quiet. He listened for his mother. He couldn't hear her. "She's outside the door listening to me. This is serious."

He squirmed. "Mom was never like this before I went to

school. We used to have fun together."

He heard the floor squeak in the hall.

"She moved."

He read the first question loud enough for his Uncle to hear in Idaho, "The dog, 'blank' to the boy.”

“Which word fits?”

“Jumped?”

(These sentences sure are stupid), he secretly thought.

He twisted his neck around (forgetting about his mother) Sam wiggled out of his chair. He jumped like a dog across the room. There, he found a book his mother used to read to him, “Peter Rabbit”. He put the book in his mouth and romped along the wall. He laid down in the corner; he opened the book and the memories of his mother reading to him nearly made him pump one leg, like a puppy will do when you scratch them in the right place.

Just holding the book, looking at the cover took him into his mother's lap

His mother hadn't been listening to him in the hallway. She was busy making supper. Something she didn't fancy doing either. She was mincing onions when she heard a child-awful noise coming form the den. "I'll kill him", she cried, and without wiping off her hands, she thrust her bit lip forward.

He heard the door open. She was on him in a step. In one smooth move she had him up from their reading corner of the floor and into his chair. She sat right beside him. She was crying too. Maybe it was from the onions, or maybe it was from her memories of reading to him.

"Number One" She pointed at the words while she read.

“The dog 'blank' to the boy. - Now these are your choices. - Jump, hit, ran, pat”.

“Ran”, he said, as quietly as a tear.

“Right! Write it down”.

His pencil jiggled at the top. The lead forced out an "r" then an "a", and finally an "n. This is truly awful, he thought.

“You read the second one”.

He did.

“I'm going to finish dinner. You finish your work and we shall both live happily ever after”.

"Okay mom"

“Number 3. See the frog .... “

'Jump', he decided.

As he began the "J" his pencil broke. His eyes grew uncommonly large.

His mom yelled down the hall and through the door. "Are you working?"

He swallowed hard; opened the door, and walked into the kitchen, where his mom was still fixing dinner, with the smell of onion on her hands.

He hugged her leg, and said, "Yes, mom, but my pencil broke,

really."

And that is why, God gave parents: the gift of 'a sigh'.

The End.

first recall

My first memory was a dream. I can only guess that I was at least three, but I'm certain I was less than five. And I can only deduct that it was my first memory.

One night, I dreampt I was flying.

I was gliding above our house. Soaring over the yard, of green grass, so thick and so tall it was hard to pull your foot free of it. The wind was blowing to beat the band. I looked down on the peach tree, the clothes line, and some building called the garage, although we couldn't get in there.

Then Mom came outside, yelling for me. I didn't it know it then, but I later learned that she always talked to herself when she was looking for us, she say it over and over, “God, I'm going to kill 'em.” In the dream she looked up and saw me flying around. She shielded her eyes from the sun. I heard yell, “That's great! Keep flying!”, and she ran back into the house.

Now, I know we didn't have a phone. Nor did we ever make a trip to a neighbors house to use a phone. But she went back into that house and made a phone call. You could do that when you were young. If you wanted something bad enough, sometimes it would just appear, so why not a phone for a grown-up, who needed grown-up things.

Soon, a car came driving up to the house, a trail of dust following it for miles. A strange man got out, which was no surprise because I didn't know the car either. He started taking pictures of me right away with a Jimmy Olsen style camera with the big flash bulbs. He was a reporter from the big newspaper in town, way down the hard road. After he took a lot of pictures of me posing in mid-glide, eyes focused ahead, as my will to fly shooting out of my eyes was the only thing that keep me afloat. Then we started waving me down. “That's great kid. Come on down so I can talk to you.”

I started down, but I lost control. I couldn't land; I tried to go back up, but I couldn't. I was free falling. And I woke up, terrified.

This dream gave me an awareness of my first house. The first house my mom lived in that ever had electricity. It was house that had a name. Although, it's been torn down and plowed under for years that corner of the field is still called, The Old Hurie House. The grass of it's yard, which bordered an oil road out front and three straight hard lines of open field all around it.

I still think fondly of peach trees and peaches, despite this other memory. Mom had just finished baking a peach pie from that tree. She set in the the middle of the kitchen table to cool. She ordered me not to get into it. I don't remember getting into pies before, and I don't remember where she'd set them before, but I do remember thinking: this, middle of the table spot was new, and designed to make it impossible for me to dig my hand into it and start eating away like Yogi Bear.

It did pose a problem; I knew I couldn't reach it. The other problem would take care of itself. It always did. Any time I wanted to do something my mom didn't want me to do, she would, sooner or later, invite me to do it. She'd leave me alone. And then she'd even start making noise, to assure me that she'd be away for quite some time. That when I pulled one of the chairs out. Climbed up into it; stood up and turned around; and climbed up onto the table.

Yes, I was going to get into this pie and have something good. If you wanted something bad enough it would happen. I could take several hand fulls out of it and the crust would look good as new if I really, really wanted to eat some it now. That's the way things were.

I was crawling out to the middle of the table when the middle fell to the floor and ends came flying up over my head. The racket was incredibly loud. The pie broke. And I was hurt.

Mom stormed in. She started crying and then she grabbed me. The don't remember the other times this happened, but I remember I knew what to expect. I was going to get a beating. They were always the same: intense heat; soon I'd be standing in a fire with flames over my head. And I would run! Run, run as if I willed it I could run straight up a wall of flame that was taller than my head. I never gave thought about it being impossible, or that I'd always failed before, I just knew that I had to try. After all, this was still of age before consequence and the laws of physics, this was the stage the age of magic and wonder.

Time still didn't make much sense. Maybe it was hours later, or minutes later that Dad came home. We always ate supper as soon as Dad came home. But tonight, when Dad got home he was greeted by mom yelling. And then Dad started yelling at me. I know I couldn't always hear what they were saying because the heat radiating off them scared the senses right out of me. Dad grabbed me and I started running for that wall of flame for all I was worth.

Afterwards, I remember watching Dad work on the table. There was no getting around it; he had to fix it before we could eat. I remember thinking, how can he possibly fix that broken thing. And I remember thinking, no matter how much he wants that table to fix itself and no matter how much we all want to eat right now; it's not going to happen until Dad gets the table fixed. I truly felt sorry for him.

If that had been my first memory I don't think I'd be so keen on peaches. Or anyone ever being proud of me.

Nearly thirty some years later I wrote a poem about that dream. I was talked into burning it, by some second ex-wife, and now I try to reassemble it:

A howling kite's take of human soul

A clothesline hung from a peaches hall

and the Justice Department

eats grilled cheese sandwiches.  

hanging with Jimmy

I had this dream with Jimmy Stewart. We were playing poker in a small, old hotel room. He was wearing his 40’s suit and hat. We all had drinks and smokes, like people did in those days. The guy to my left and Jimmy’s right, asks him straight in the eye. “ Jimmy, what does it take to make a good movie?”

Jimmy leans into him, slowing holds an open palm above the table and slowly chops into with his other hand, “At the beginning of the picture you make the audience a promise, see. And then he leans back in his chair and with thumbs in his vest and says, “By the end of the picture you fulfill that promise”.

I was telling Ron, a friend of mine this story on our way back from a sunset on a Santa Cruz beach. And he said, “And that’s the way life is to, you know. You make a promise to yourself and then you go out and make it happen. Whatever that promise may be”. And then he stops, looks at me with wonder, “Did you really dream you were playing cards with Jimmy Stewart?”

Yep.

Later,

alone.

I got to thinking about all the Promise that slips through my open hands every day. I’ve been living my life in a way to make any promise impossible.

I believe, that each of us is on a hero’s journey, in the movie, end epic sense of the word – even anti-heroes. Within every such tale, there is a period of time when the hero is convinced that he’s not the one, and lives in denial of his own promise.

While I was thinking that my son calls me, and tells me, out of the blue, his theory on luck. “It’s what you look for”. Couldn’t argue with that, so I gave him the Paul Simon line from The Boxer, “ A man hears what he wants to hear, and disregards the rest”, one of my favorite lines of all time.

What’s taken me so long? What was I waiting for? A dream where Jimmy Stewart shows up, leans into my ear and whispers, “Harvey, wants to tell you something”.

It’s time to keep a keen eye and honed ear out for passing straws of promise. After all, I have a Damsel in Distress to save; her name is My Muse. She visits me often, although I’ve never laid eyes on her. When she leaves my knees buckle, and I pace like a cartoon character in the delivery room, and my stork is a veteran of the Norse Gods. That’s going to be a long, slow flight.

I have some ‘bad habit swashbuckling’ to do, and some bureaucratic shenanigans to slight-of-hand. The thickest thicket to hack through will be self-acceptance.  

sighs

It is a Sigh that greets me

when the world hears my tale,

though the storytellers be, nods

from the gods.

No hero ever showed more heart,

My passion dims Blake-ian imagination,

and my Love for you

is older, and more fertile

than The Word that bore all creation.

It is your Sigh

I can't defeat.

It is your Smile

I can't abandon.

To the last of my Life Forces

I shall overcome.

Trust me.

The Majestic Pretense of Failure

has never before

met the Will of, My Sigh.

I Shall dip in the Joy

of Your Smile,

Forever, and Ever.

bouncy bass lines

Big bouncy bass lines carried me out the door with a satchel sized smile on my face (Fastball painted on my shoe, the outfield's loafing in the bull pen; the infield is sitting behind the pitcher's mound playing cards; one run up in the ninth. Batter's eyes as big as Cadillac whitewalls, don't you know).

And I'm humming in the alley, soot dancing on hundred year old city street grit. A man pulls a knife. I pulled my empty pockets out , for all the world to see. My wallet's as thin as toilet paper blowing down the alley breeze of a city borne draft.

The knife disappears; there's a pat on my shoulder, and a fin in my hand as he slouches away with ever the ever devouring eyes of a bird of prey.

Who's to say that's a bad thing? My mom used to tell me, when my stomach growled and I said, Mom, I'm hungry. She'd say, “You're fine. You ain't hungry. That's just your big guts eating your little guts”.

Ain't it always been the same. Big shots eating the poor man's life? The desperate plundering the odds in their favor.

I was in a tiny little alley grew up in a tiny yard. Somewhere the world is still as big as Blue and Green. I hope there's some place in the world where the Earth is still wearing its birthday suit.

You can take the 'hunter and gatherer' out of society, but you can't take the 'hunter and gatherer' out of our DNA. You can take the fields of food supply out of the land, bu you can't take the fear of being without out of mankind.

Yet, I'm still dancing on a cloud, not seeing any further than in a fog, and I'm wondering a-mist this upside-down turn of events: was it my humming that big bouncing bass line while dancing with that with satchel sized smile that woke up the dragon of DNA- Isn't Living Great!

Pull Up Some Dirt and Sit Down

A long, long time ago, back before fire was an invention and Dirt was brand new, People lived on the ground. Dirt was alive, then. (And some people would say that Dirt still lives and breathes). Dirt just loved people. People and Dirt were inseparable in those days. Although Dirt can do many, many things: grow trees, make hills, and river banks, and even mud pies, Dirt can not tell stories. Dirt loved to hear the People make up stories. After a long hard day of being all that Dirt can be, Dirt would nestle up to the People around the campfires and listen and listen, and sometimes Dirt would even dream of making their stories come true. The people and Dirt lived happily together for hundreds of years.

The People's stories were often alike. They worked hard, but still they strove to be happy. The People dreamed of having an easier life. Over time Dirt gave away the secret of stone cutting, and iron making, and left it to the People to figure out how to build shelter. "Surely, now the People will be happier", whispered Dirt in the breeze of twilight.

People started building houses with floors without any Dirt! The People loved it. Poor Dirt was very sad. Sure some Dirt could blow in through the door and some would be carried into the house from the People's shoes, but they often take their shoes off when they get comfy. Well, Dirt was all astir with loneliness.. Now if you've been around as long as Dirt wisdom comes easily, but putting anything into motion requires some wheeling and dealing.

Dirt knows the ways of every animal and every soul. It knew which animal could come to Its aid,and It knew this animal wouldn't want to give up it's independence. In the light of dawn Dirt approached the cleanest animal of all - the cat. "Please take Us on your fur and enter the homes of People, so We can be near their wondrous stories again." The Cats turned up their noses and turned away from Dirt,, meowing "We will never give up any of our free will". Dirt was desperately lonely and blurted out the greatest prize of all, "We will give you LIFE." The Cats purred, "This is good, we'll take eleven lives." Dirt shook, "We can only give you five". "Nine" ,screeched the Cats. "Done" said Dirt.

Remember whenever you're comfy in your socken or bare feet sitting in your favorite chair or couch put a cat on your lap. And tell Dirt of your wondrous stories. Dirt has worked so very hard to be near you. The pure joy of a good story does the soul of Dirt good. And that's good for all mankind. And I think the cats enjoy it too, if they'd ever admit it. ...

the end

Bunker

The curve of his cheekbone I've brushed to put him to sleep since I first held him. Over the years it's given us both comfort. His eyes don't close now. Eyes moist, full of withheld tears. I rub his cheekbone bringing down a tear. He looks at me. He looks to me. I could look away and easily explain it. There's the window to block up again and there's piles of brick to move. But I won't. I owe him my eyes. I owe him food, but there is none. I owe him water, but there is none. I have only my eyes, and my meager touch on his cheek.

Once I offered more. Once my hands worked for our food. My imagination, and his built dragon saddles and fireproof bridles. Once our shovels and seeds helped Mother Nature in the Spring. Once my feet carried us both through the green forests where we would set up a tent and tell ghost stories. Once because I was Dad, I was Godlike. Naturally, the world was safe then, with plenty for everyone-- because I was a grownup and he looked up to me.

The bombs came. I so dearly wanted to be Godlike. In the silence you can hear that everyone here wishes to be Godlike. These days; you can hear it; you can breath it from everyone.

Maybe, we are. Maybe, these days, God only has eyes like mine.

"Dad", he says, "tell me one of your great stories."

I think of many stories - the final days of Tom's family in "The Grapes of Wrath", the people of the South during Sherman's March to Sea. I can't face him with those stories now. My mind wanders and I think of stories I've told others about him. Once, I was leaving him for the summer. I came to say goodbye. I was late; I needed to go. But he told me about everything in the room; things I had told him about many times. I had to go. After a hug too tight for words, I left. A couple days later I realized the moral of his story; he'd talk about anything just to spend more time with me.

Here, in the shelter, was everything; except food ,water, and any probability of tomorrow. I do have– more time with my son, and anything I want to think about.

I began: "Once upon a tim,e in a bombed out basement, a boy and his father decided to change the world. No one remembers how they came to think of it. Some people believe that they both just thought of it like you think of rolling over in bed when the sun hits you. The man and his son each pulled a brick out of the mud. They pressed the brick to their hearts, held hands and remembered their good thoughts before the war. They thought about all the people who had done them favors. They thought about every favor they had given. Dad remembered how he felt when his son was born. 'There are no Marxist, no communist, no Republicans, no janitors, no Democrats in the nursery. There is only: the blessed, holy miracle of LIFE”. Then they took their bricks and rubbed them together. As the brick dust settled into the mud it was magically sucked down, down. Far down, into the earth of the peaceful times before the ages. It fell onto a great lake. When the bricks had crumbled to their dusty palms and they held hands once again. The lake rained. The rain rose upward, going from the deep reaches of the earth, up through the all the mud floors of all the bomb shelters of all the land. The rain made everyone throughout the world feel like just the man and his boy. Tthere was no more war, and there was food and water for everyone”

Silence settled. Time slowed under its weight. He turned from me.

His index finger dug a line into the dirt wall of the basement. It was a simple line. It was pleasant; watching him.

"Dad, my being here is hard on you isn't it?"

I brushed his cheek. "You are a miracle that's been handed to me; I feel obligated to be worthy of it."

"What does that mean, dad?"

"Come outside with me. I want to show you things that I've already showed you a million times."

"Dad, can we take the dragon saddle and the fireproof bridle too?"

“Yes .and today, we'll ride that rascally old dragon."