As I was keying in a story for one of my blogs recently, I started thinking about how I learned to type. It was in high school, I was in 10th grade, 20 people in my typing class, all but 2 of them girls. The others were sissy boys, who played on no sports teams, but one of them did beat me in the student council’s presidential race. Typing was a girl’s thing in those days, 1964, the same year the Beatles first performed on Ed Sullivan.
Last week, I got an email from Craig, a guy I graduated from high school with. Presumably, his email was from himself, and not from his secretary. I wonder how Craig learned to type? I wonder what happened to all the secretaries? I do know that Craig was on the football team and not in the typing class.
Remember when the first men landed on the moon in 1969? It was on TV, and those guys weren’t sending typed messages, either. I wonder if that was because they didn’t know how to type? Seems like a typed message would have been one heck of a lot easier to arrange than a voice message. But a typed message would not have been very macho in 1969, and they sure as heck would not have wanted to send women up there into deadly space where it might be seen that they could survive quite as well as men.
After high school, I worked as a secretary for a while. I took “dictation”, but I didn’t know shorthand. Gregg’s shorthand, another “girl’s” class offered in my high school. The dictation I took in my first job out of high school was tape recorded, and it included loud throat clearing’s, hacking and harrumphs from my cigar-smoking (male) boss. Sometimes I even got to listen to an entire (one-sided) telephone conversation, as I waited for his next paragraph to drop.
I never wanted to take Home Economics in high school. There were certainly no boys who took it, and that wasn’t because they were refused. I wanted to take shop, but that was prohibited. I learned to love to cook, anyway, and have spent a good part of my life making a living as a chef. Of course, the people who have made the most money and accumulated the most fame cooking are….boys. I didn’t want to learn to sew, either, and wouldn’t you know it, the most famous and wealthy clothing designers are…boys.
Men’s work and women’s work have long been two very different things. With the speed of snails moving through a garden, some changes have been made. I now see men pushing strollers. My favorite car mechanic is a woman. There are many other examples, but I still wonder—what happened to all the secretaries?
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Wintersing
Wintersing
The frozen pond is snowed solid now,
a smooth shroud for the ice beneath.
If we had shovels, we could clear a space
and skate, end to end, side to side,
like we swayed to the music
during Summersing.
Back and forth, our blades
would riffle the ice like canoe wakes
or breast strokes.
Fish gaze up
like they did in June,
icy surface unbreakable, the other skaters gone.
The deck is covered in ice,
railings frosted,
roof quilted white as a bride’s bed.
Windows etched, grass hidden and brittle,
road ruts rough as a cheese grater.
Deer nose deep on warmer mornings.
The iron stoves are cold and flameless,
mousetraps lurk in the bathrooms
where the water keeps silent
as the elk, religious in their wanderings.
Brown birds chant, a gusting wind hoots.
Nowhere is the snow unbroken.
The frozen pond is snowed solid now,
a smooth shroud for the ice beneath.
If we had shovels, we could clear a space
and skate, end to end, side to side,
like we swayed to the music
during Summersing.
Back and forth, our blades
would riffle the ice like canoe wakes
or breast strokes.
Fish gaze up
like they did in June,
icy surface unbreakable, the other skaters gone.
The deck is covered in ice,
railings frosted,
roof quilted white as a bride’s bed.
Windows etched, grass hidden and brittle,
road ruts rough as a cheese grater.
Deer nose deep on warmer mornings.
The iron stoves are cold and flameless,
mousetraps lurk in the bathrooms
where the water keeps silent
as the elk, religious in their wanderings.
Brown birds chant, a gusting wind hoots.
Nowhere is the snow unbroken.
Monday, December 22, 2008
My Dad Needs Me
My dad needs me.
He’s told me again and again,
how when he was my age
his dad almost killed him.
He needs me, he tells me,
when he turns red and pants like our dog,
and when he yells that I don’t love him,
and he rips my doll’s arm off.
He loves me, I know that he does.
Sometimes his tears run into my ears
when he covers me with his hot body
and he says, “Oh, yes, oh yes.”
When he gets the wooden spoons
he says I’ve been bad,
and as a good dad he will teach
me what it is to be a good woman.
Did he teach this to my mom, too?
Is that why she doesn’t come home?
I know he’s careful not to hit my face.
He promised I will always be beautiful.
When my new sister came to live here,
he started teaching her, too,
but she didn’t learn very fast—
she is only three, and at first she cried.
I woke up to hear her midnight lesson,
the wooden spoon sounds like a wet ball bouncing.
My new sister must be learning now—
she is so quiet and Dad is too.
In the morning, my new mom screams and screams.
I just want to go to school.
Dad says, “Oh my god!”
but I know he doesn’t mean it.
He’s told me again and again,
how when he was my age
his dad almost killed him.
He needs me, he tells me,
when he turns red and pants like our dog,
and when he yells that I don’t love him,
and he rips my doll’s arm off.
He loves me, I know that he does.
Sometimes his tears run into my ears
when he covers me with his hot body
and he says, “Oh, yes, oh yes.”
When he gets the wooden spoons
he says I’ve been bad,
and as a good dad he will teach
me what it is to be a good woman.
Did he teach this to my mom, too?
Is that why she doesn’t come home?
I know he’s careful not to hit my face.
He promised I will always be beautiful.
When my new sister came to live here,
he started teaching her, too,
but she didn’t learn very fast—
she is only three, and at first she cried.
I woke up to hear her midnight lesson,
the wooden spoon sounds like a wet ball bouncing.
My new sister must be learning now—
she is so quiet and Dad is too.
In the morning, my new mom screams and screams.
I just want to go to school.
Dad says, “Oh my god!”
but I know he doesn’t mean it.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Workin' for the Woman
Used to be, you worked for the Man, a white man, of course, one who had power in the community or industry in which you worked. A man who had gained that power by working his own way into it, or maybe his Daddy did, whatever it took for that Man to be the Boss. No matter his skill, or his gifts, or his values. He was the Man, and you did what he said or you found other employment.
Now, you can work for the Woman. And it ain’t that different. I cooked for a Sorority for a year and a half, and I can tell you it is no different at all. My “boss” is a board member of the sorority—a 97-pound, coiffed and designer-clothed woman who sells stocks and bonds by day. She knows nothing about food, in fact, I’m betting that the woman hasn’t eaten for months. When she gets hungry, she drives through Burger King without stopping, just inhaling. I never see her in anything but black. She looks like an exclamation point without the swelling at the top.
The sorority girls are a different matter. They love salads. No surprise there, but they love their salads with a half-cup of sliced black olives and a half-cup of Ranch dressing on top. These girls think Ranch dressing is a beverage! They also love macaroni and cheese, and stir fry, and, well, anything fried at all. This is Kappa Kappa Gamma, one of the wealthiest sororities in the Greek system. They have no clue what good food is, nor do they wish to learn.
They hate the chef. Not just me, but any chef. Because we prepare food. We prepare food they insist that we prepare, and then they eat it, and then they gain weight, and then they hate us, and then they replace us with another chef who prepares low-cal food they hate, and then they hate that chef, and then they replace that chef. Year after year after year. With no thought to the fact that chefs work so they can support themselves and their families. With no thought to the fact that chefs often cook because they like to feed people, even bratty sorority girls. These girls have no thought for anyone besides themselves. They don’t even care what their sisters think of the food. It is all ME and the Chef's terrible food. There is one brain in that sorority, and that is who decides that the food is crappy. The rest just go out drinking.
It is rude and disgusting. It is amazing to come into work every day and not even know what pots and pans will be available in the pantry to use to cook meals for these brats. Whatever might needed for whatever reason by the sorority sisters would be taken away and returned when convenient, or not. One day I went in, and the microwave was missing. There was still a microwave in the “nook”, the area that the girls used to prepare their breakfast cereals and oatmeal. But the microwave in the kitchen was gone. About 5 weeks later, it showed up again, all plugged in and ready to go. Apparently, it had been found in one of the girl’s rooms, used to make microwave popcorn so she didn’t have to go down the stairs to do it.
My solution? Cook for dogs—they ALWAYS love the food!
And then I have to stop and think about what this all means. What it means for the state of women in the world and how little that has changed since I was a raging feminist back in the day. What it means when people hate the food they have to eat, which nourishes and sustains them. And especially what it means for young women, just finding their place in the world, just becoming themselves. And now I feel sad, so sad, that weight is such a loaded issue (pun intended). That how we look means more than who we are....still. That how we look IS who we are. Loaded, it is loaded with meanings I couldn't begin to address in multiple books. Suffice it to say that dogs are so much easier to get along with.
Now, you can work for the Woman. And it ain’t that different. I cooked for a Sorority for a year and a half, and I can tell you it is no different at all. My “boss” is a board member of the sorority—a 97-pound, coiffed and designer-clothed woman who sells stocks and bonds by day. She knows nothing about food, in fact, I’m betting that the woman hasn’t eaten for months. When she gets hungry, she drives through Burger King without stopping, just inhaling. I never see her in anything but black. She looks like an exclamation point without the swelling at the top.
The sorority girls are a different matter. They love salads. No surprise there, but they love their salads with a half-cup of sliced black olives and a half-cup of Ranch dressing on top. These girls think Ranch dressing is a beverage! They also love macaroni and cheese, and stir fry, and, well, anything fried at all. This is Kappa Kappa Gamma, one of the wealthiest sororities in the Greek system. They have no clue what good food is, nor do they wish to learn.
They hate the chef. Not just me, but any chef. Because we prepare food. We prepare food they insist that we prepare, and then they eat it, and then they gain weight, and then they hate us, and then they replace us with another chef who prepares low-cal food they hate, and then they hate that chef, and then they replace that chef. Year after year after year. With no thought to the fact that chefs work so they can support themselves and their families. With no thought to the fact that chefs often cook because they like to feed people, even bratty sorority girls. These girls have no thought for anyone besides themselves. They don’t even care what their sisters think of the food. It is all ME and the Chef's terrible food. There is one brain in that sorority, and that is who decides that the food is crappy. The rest just go out drinking.
It is rude and disgusting. It is amazing to come into work every day and not even know what pots and pans will be available in the pantry to use to cook meals for these brats. Whatever might needed for whatever reason by the sorority sisters would be taken away and returned when convenient, or not. One day I went in, and the microwave was missing. There was still a microwave in the “nook”, the area that the girls used to prepare their breakfast cereals and oatmeal. But the microwave in the kitchen was gone. About 5 weeks later, it showed up again, all plugged in and ready to go. Apparently, it had been found in one of the girl’s rooms, used to make microwave popcorn so she didn’t have to go down the stairs to do it.
My solution? Cook for dogs—they ALWAYS love the food!
And then I have to stop and think about what this all means. What it means for the state of women in the world and how little that has changed since I was a raging feminist back in the day. What it means when people hate the food they have to eat, which nourishes and sustains them. And especially what it means for young women, just finding their place in the world, just becoming themselves. And now I feel sad, so sad, that weight is such a loaded issue (pun intended). That how we look means more than who we are....still. That how we look IS who we are. Loaded, it is loaded with meanings I couldn't begin to address in multiple books. Suffice it to say that dogs are so much easier to get along with.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Good Morning Aunt Alma
Good Morning, Aunt Alma
By Lee Lawton
The summer after I graduated from high school, I went to stay on the Colorado River with my aunt and uncle. They had a trailer park just below Parker Dam, on the Arizona side, which they purchased in 1958 or 1959. The B & B it was called, after the original owners. My aunt and uncle had the only stick-built house on the property, the rest were…trailers. One or two may have been double-wide, but most were 28-52 feet long, single-wide, and meant for a cheap vacation on a pristine and quiet stretch of the Colorado River during the winter months.
It is 1966, just before this section of the Colorado River gets discovered by California spring breakers and jet boats. The river flows fast and cold from under Parker Dam, known to be the deepest dam in the U.S., smooth and roiling in the red sunsets that backlight scraggly mountains with profiles of bearded old men and camels. It is quiet here all day and all night. The river is empty of boats except for a couple of fishing boats now and then. Fishing from the dock is good, depending on how much water they’re letting out of the dam. Sometimes the current is so fast, it strips the bait right off your hook.
A paved highway belts the two sections of the B&B. Near the road is the laundry, and sinks and toilets in a brown-sided building. Before Marguerite and D.C. bought the place, the previous owners rented to the overnight crowd. Sometimes we do, too. The washing machines are the wringer type, like my mom has at home, with rinse tubs nestling close. The dryers are plastic coated lines just outside, four lines about 12 inches apart, stretching about 24 feet from t-poles, just like the telephone wires along the road.
The trailers here tend to be pink and white or brown and white, their tires sagging in the sandy soil. The longer the tenant, the more the tires sag into the sand, and the more chunks of fool’s gold litters their driveways.
Near the laundry is Aunt Alma’s trailer. Aunt Alma, as she is known to everyone, is my uncle’s aunt. My uncle is my aunt’s husband, as you might expect, but he is also my father’s uncle, being my grandfather’s half-brother. Our family is one of the leaders in complicated family arrangements.
All I know is that Aunt Alma is exotic, having been to Mexico many, many times. She is also very, very old, but her being exotic makes her seem younger.
By 1966, I had traveled to Iowa from eastern South Dakota, many, many times. I’d even gone on a bicycle, since it was only 3 miles away. I’d lived in Nebraska, and had traveled in Nebraska when my family boat camped on the Missouri River. I’d been to Minnesota on a summer vacation. I’d never been to Mexico, but after meeting Aunt Alma, it was the place I dreamed of.
Aunt Alma fascinates me. She has pots from New Mexico with unusual designs. She makes pizza from scratch—her dough is famous among the trailer park tenants. She has never been married, and she has traveled all over the southwest by herself. She has a parrot named Polly. I’m too shy to say much to her, but I watch her every chance I get.
Did I say that I visited my aunt and uncle during vacation? Well, that isn’t quite right. I graduated from high school, and would go to college in the fall, but meantime I was there to work. My work is watering the bedraggled lawns each trailer has. Mowing them when needed. Moving the irrigation hoses. Waiting on customers at the gas tank and in the store, helping Marguerite in the kitchen.
Western Arizona, in the summer, is hotter than melting plastic. That is nothing new—just check the records for Parker or Blythe, and I’d mention Lake Havasu City, but it didn’t exist yet. Because it was so hot, we went to work early. Like 5:00 a.m. early. At age 18, 5:00 a.m. is a good time to go to bed, not a good time to get up.
Mondays are wash day at the B&B. We wash bedding from rental trailers, and our own clothes, towels and bedding. My aunt comes knocking at about 4:45 a.m., when the sun isn’t up yet, and the light is gray and gentle. I get up and meet her at the laundry, which smells like bleach, soap and too much work.
The soothing grind of the washing machine begins, hypnotic, making me want to go back to sleep. While we wait for the first load to finish churning, we clean the stalls in the restroom next door. Then, we run the wash through the wringer and start a new load. Out to the lines, we shake out the flattened cloth, and hang it, using spring clothespins and those two-legged clothespins they make dolls out of.
This takes a long time, as we load wash after wash. About 7:30 a.m, Polly wakes up. She sleeps in a big, round, wrought-iron cage on the concrete patio of Aunt Alma’s trailer. She sleeps covered with a heavy piece of canvas. When she wakes, she starts talking.
“Aunt Alma.”
The sloshing sound of the washer almost drowns her out.
“Aunt Alma.”
The hose fills the tub, and I just barely hear her.
“Aunt Alma?”
We shake out the clothes and fill the clothes baskets.
“Aunt Alma?”
While the tub drains the soapy water, we hang the clothes.
“Aunt Alma?” Polly’s voice gets a little louder.
Back into the washroom we fill another tub, adding a fistful of Tide. When I go outside, I can hear Polly’s nails on her wooden perch, back and forth, back and forth. She pecks at the heavy cover, which dimples slightly under her beak.
“Aunt Alma?” I hear a bit of strain in Polly’s voice, some tension in her voice.
Through the wringer the next load goes, my Aunt commenting that it will be a hot one today. Even though the clothes are wet and cool, I am beginning to sweat.
“AUNT ALMA?” Polly demands, again.
We drop the flat, wet clothes into the basket, and walk them outdoors, heavy, sodden, the sky bluing, like the bluing we use on the whites.
“AUNT ALMA??” Polly shrieks, toastless, ready for the day.
I stop pulling cold, wet, cloth out of the basket, stretch my back, and look over at Aunt Alma’s patio. Polly’s cage is still covered in heavy canvas. The sun is just beginning to clear the rough, scraggly mountains in back of us, where my uncle has his toolshed, his playpen my aunt calls it. The temperature is rising, now about 85, which passes for cool around here in July.
‘AUNT ALMA!!” Polly proclaims, her claws scratching back and forth along her perch. “AUNT ALMA!!” Her voice rises even more, as she screeches, all patience lost.
Just as I shake out a pair of my uncle’s boxer shorts, Aunt Alma’s trailer door squeaks open. Aunt Alma appears, wearing a printed cotton robe with kittens on it. Her hair is mussed, her eyes are swollen, her left cheek has a pillow wrinkle I can see from here. In her hands is an old pie plate with toasted bread, grapefruit slices, a bit of cheese. She sets it down on a small table on her patio, and slides Polly’s cover off her cage. She lays the cover on the concrete, and says good morning to Polly. Polly begins to bob her head, rub her beak along her perches, mutter, “Aunt Alma, Aunt Alma, good morning, good morning.” Polly’s eyes are glinting so that I can see them across the yard from the laundry room. Her feathers are ruffled. If a beak can smile, she is doing it.
Aunt Alma opens Polly’s cage door and sets the food inside, one piece at a time. She is murmuring words I cannot hear. Aunt Alma caresses Polly’s head, but Polly is too busy to comment.
By Lee Lawton
The summer after I graduated from high school, I went to stay on the Colorado River with my aunt and uncle. They had a trailer park just below Parker Dam, on the Arizona side, which they purchased in 1958 or 1959. The B & B it was called, after the original owners. My aunt and uncle had the only stick-built house on the property, the rest were…trailers. One or two may have been double-wide, but most were 28-52 feet long, single-wide, and meant for a cheap vacation on a pristine and quiet stretch of the Colorado River during the winter months.
It is 1966, just before this section of the Colorado River gets discovered by California spring breakers and jet boats. The river flows fast and cold from under Parker Dam, known to be the deepest dam in the U.S., smooth and roiling in the red sunsets that backlight scraggly mountains with profiles of bearded old men and camels. It is quiet here all day and all night. The river is empty of boats except for a couple of fishing boats now and then. Fishing from the dock is good, depending on how much water they’re letting out of the dam. Sometimes the current is so fast, it strips the bait right off your hook.
A paved highway belts the two sections of the B&B. Near the road is the laundry, and sinks and toilets in a brown-sided building. Before Marguerite and D.C. bought the place, the previous owners rented to the overnight crowd. Sometimes we do, too. The washing machines are the wringer type, like my mom has at home, with rinse tubs nestling close. The dryers are plastic coated lines just outside, four lines about 12 inches apart, stretching about 24 feet from t-poles, just like the telephone wires along the road.
The trailers here tend to be pink and white or brown and white, their tires sagging in the sandy soil. The longer the tenant, the more the tires sag into the sand, and the more chunks of fool’s gold litters their driveways.
Near the laundry is Aunt Alma’s trailer. Aunt Alma, as she is known to everyone, is my uncle’s aunt. My uncle is my aunt’s husband, as you might expect, but he is also my father’s uncle, being my grandfather’s half-brother. Our family is one of the leaders in complicated family arrangements.
All I know is that Aunt Alma is exotic, having been to Mexico many, many times. She is also very, very old, but her being exotic makes her seem younger.
By 1966, I had traveled to Iowa from eastern South Dakota, many, many times. I’d even gone on a bicycle, since it was only 3 miles away. I’d lived in Nebraska, and had traveled in Nebraska when my family boat camped on the Missouri River. I’d been to Minnesota on a summer vacation. I’d never been to Mexico, but after meeting Aunt Alma, it was the place I dreamed of.
Aunt Alma fascinates me. She has pots from New Mexico with unusual designs. She makes pizza from scratch—her dough is famous among the trailer park tenants. She has never been married, and she has traveled all over the southwest by herself. She has a parrot named Polly. I’m too shy to say much to her, but I watch her every chance I get.
Did I say that I visited my aunt and uncle during vacation? Well, that isn’t quite right. I graduated from high school, and would go to college in the fall, but meantime I was there to work. My work is watering the bedraggled lawns each trailer has. Mowing them when needed. Moving the irrigation hoses. Waiting on customers at the gas tank and in the store, helping Marguerite in the kitchen.
Western Arizona, in the summer, is hotter than melting plastic. That is nothing new—just check the records for Parker or Blythe, and I’d mention Lake Havasu City, but it didn’t exist yet. Because it was so hot, we went to work early. Like 5:00 a.m. early. At age 18, 5:00 a.m. is a good time to go to bed, not a good time to get up.
Mondays are wash day at the B&B. We wash bedding from rental trailers, and our own clothes, towels and bedding. My aunt comes knocking at about 4:45 a.m., when the sun isn’t up yet, and the light is gray and gentle. I get up and meet her at the laundry, which smells like bleach, soap and too much work.
The soothing grind of the washing machine begins, hypnotic, making me want to go back to sleep. While we wait for the first load to finish churning, we clean the stalls in the restroom next door. Then, we run the wash through the wringer and start a new load. Out to the lines, we shake out the flattened cloth, and hang it, using spring clothespins and those two-legged clothespins they make dolls out of.
This takes a long time, as we load wash after wash. About 7:30 a.m, Polly wakes up. She sleeps in a big, round, wrought-iron cage on the concrete patio of Aunt Alma’s trailer. She sleeps covered with a heavy piece of canvas. When she wakes, she starts talking.
“Aunt Alma.”
The sloshing sound of the washer almost drowns her out.
“Aunt Alma.”
The hose fills the tub, and I just barely hear her.
“Aunt Alma?”
We shake out the clothes and fill the clothes baskets.
“Aunt Alma?”
While the tub drains the soapy water, we hang the clothes.
“Aunt Alma?” Polly’s voice gets a little louder.
Back into the washroom we fill another tub, adding a fistful of Tide. When I go outside, I can hear Polly’s nails on her wooden perch, back and forth, back and forth. She pecks at the heavy cover, which dimples slightly under her beak.
“Aunt Alma?” I hear a bit of strain in Polly’s voice, some tension in her voice.
Through the wringer the next load goes, my Aunt commenting that it will be a hot one today. Even though the clothes are wet and cool, I am beginning to sweat.
“AUNT ALMA?” Polly demands, again.
We drop the flat, wet clothes into the basket, and walk them outdoors, heavy, sodden, the sky bluing, like the bluing we use on the whites.
“AUNT ALMA??” Polly shrieks, toastless, ready for the day.
I stop pulling cold, wet, cloth out of the basket, stretch my back, and look over at Aunt Alma’s patio. Polly’s cage is still covered in heavy canvas. The sun is just beginning to clear the rough, scraggly mountains in back of us, where my uncle has his toolshed, his playpen my aunt calls it. The temperature is rising, now about 85, which passes for cool around here in July.
‘AUNT ALMA!!” Polly proclaims, her claws scratching back and forth along her perch. “AUNT ALMA!!” Her voice rises even more, as she screeches, all patience lost.
Just as I shake out a pair of my uncle’s boxer shorts, Aunt Alma’s trailer door squeaks open. Aunt Alma appears, wearing a printed cotton robe with kittens on it. Her hair is mussed, her eyes are swollen, her left cheek has a pillow wrinkle I can see from here. In her hands is an old pie plate with toasted bread, grapefruit slices, a bit of cheese. She sets it down on a small table on her patio, and slides Polly’s cover off her cage. She lays the cover on the concrete, and says good morning to Polly. Polly begins to bob her head, rub her beak along her perches, mutter, “Aunt Alma, Aunt Alma, good morning, good morning.” Polly’s eyes are glinting so that I can see them across the yard from the laundry room. Her feathers are ruffled. If a beak can smile, she is doing it.
Aunt Alma opens Polly’s cage door and sets the food inside, one piece at a time. She is murmuring words I cannot hear. Aunt Alma caresses Polly’s head, but Polly is too busy to comment.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Bill
Into the funnel of your death, I was able to pour more hurt than I even knew I felt. The thought of going to your funeral scared me right into a cold that kept me home for two weeks.
Let’s face it, I was fifteen years old and I didn’t know squat. You were killed, and I knew right then that we all skated on thin ice. I was right, too. Kennedy was killed that same year, Suzie got pregnant, Bobbi’s mom died of cancer, and that boy from Jefferson hung himself. And Dennis’ eye…Dennis’ left eye kept tearing like that was the only part of him that grieved. They said he’d scratched his cornea as he ran for help, leaving you lying alone in the bright yellow leaves. All the rest of that year, half of him wept.
When they told me that Dennis had shot you, my mom had just dropped me off for the weekly Luther League meeting, and all the kids were waiting outside in the weak light of an early fall evening. I wasn’t Lutheran, but I would have converted to any –ism in the book just to get out of the house. We had our usual snarling match on the way to the church, except I was finally learning not to say a word, no matter how she tried to peel back the bark and screw the knife in. Every time I slammed the car door behind me, I felt like I had just started breathing again after diving too deep in the murky waters of the lake that bordered our back yard. I had done that too many times, going deep, blind fingers feeling along the bottom laden with soft muck and countless small clam shells, waiting until I just had to breathe, then kicking upwards, sure I wouldn’t make it, swallowing to make the air last, then choking on the water that streamed off my hair in the bright sunlight.
When they told me you were dead, I just took off running. I didn’t even know you, really, except I’d see you warming the bench at football games, and I’d wanted a different debate partner than you, somebody not so nice, a real sarcastic cut-throat like me. Good old pudgy Bill. How could you get shot, when the thought of you hunting was just plain ridiculous? It seemed like a long time until somebody caught up to me, and I can’t even remember who it was that caught my sleeve and wrapped me up against their scratchy, wool coat.
Dennis stopped football, he just about stopped altogether, and he never talked about what happened out there in the woods. Then, my best friend Bobbi tucked him up under whatever she had left after her own mother died, leaving her with her six-pack-a-night father and her slut sister, and Bobbi and Dennis went steady. Later on, they married, but all I remember is they went someplace I couldn’t go even though I hurt too, and they just stayed there, Bill. They never came back and neither did you.
Let’s face it, I was fifteen years old and I didn’t know squat. You were killed, and I knew right then that we all skated on thin ice. I was right, too. Kennedy was killed that same year, Suzie got pregnant, Bobbi’s mom died of cancer, and that boy from Jefferson hung himself. And Dennis’ eye…Dennis’ left eye kept tearing like that was the only part of him that grieved. They said he’d scratched his cornea as he ran for help, leaving you lying alone in the bright yellow leaves. All the rest of that year, half of him wept.
When they told me that Dennis had shot you, my mom had just dropped me off for the weekly Luther League meeting, and all the kids were waiting outside in the weak light of an early fall evening. I wasn’t Lutheran, but I would have converted to any –ism in the book just to get out of the house. We had our usual snarling match on the way to the church, except I was finally learning not to say a word, no matter how she tried to peel back the bark and screw the knife in. Every time I slammed the car door behind me, I felt like I had just started breathing again after diving too deep in the murky waters of the lake that bordered our back yard. I had done that too many times, going deep, blind fingers feeling along the bottom laden with soft muck and countless small clam shells, waiting until I just had to breathe, then kicking upwards, sure I wouldn’t make it, swallowing to make the air last, then choking on the water that streamed off my hair in the bright sunlight.
When they told me you were dead, I just took off running. I didn’t even know you, really, except I’d see you warming the bench at football games, and I’d wanted a different debate partner than you, somebody not so nice, a real sarcastic cut-throat like me. Good old pudgy Bill. How could you get shot, when the thought of you hunting was just plain ridiculous? It seemed like a long time until somebody caught up to me, and I can’t even remember who it was that caught my sleeve and wrapped me up against their scratchy, wool coat.
Dennis stopped football, he just about stopped altogether, and he never talked about what happened out there in the woods. Then, my best friend Bobbi tucked him up under whatever she had left after her own mother died, leaving her with her six-pack-a-night father and her slut sister, and Bobbi and Dennis went steady. Later on, they married, but all I remember is they went someplace I couldn’t go even though I hurt too, and they just stayed there, Bill. They never came back and neither did you.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Dakota's Duck
Dakota's Duck
Yesterday, I went to Bimart to pick up a few things, and of course I had to check out the dog toys. I didn't see anything in that department that appealed to me on her behalf, but being near the Christmas season, I checked out the soft toys meant for children. In one of the bins was a duck. A mallard to be precise. About twelve inches long, with a green head and orange feet, as mallards are meant to be. This was not a toy for children, but a toy for dogs, as the tag said. And it quacks when you squeeze the tummy.
I had already tried some of the squeaky toys in the dog department, and I knew that I would soon be screaming if I gave any of those to my year-old pup. EEKY-EEKY, over and over and over again is not a good way for me to spend the day. Plus, I work at home, work that takes some concentration, and I really like my new dog, Dakota, a 55-pound white shepherd mix, and I didn't want to have to kill her anytime soon.
Duck sounds are good. A deep, low, gutteral, uck-uck-uck. I can live with that. Unfortunately, when I got home. Dakota had been a very bad girl. She had pooped on the floor in the living room. She had peed on my bed. On my bed, fer crissakes! That was nearly enough for me to want to superglue her little pee-pee shut! I checked online and there were all sorts of opinions and theories. We went to the vet, they tested her pee. We're going to dog training next week.
So, back to the mallard. The next day, being a forgiving sort, I offered the duck to Dakota. She sniffed it carefully. Then I squeezed it. Gutteral uck uck. She ran like hell. My house is small, so she couldn't go far, but she could get behind a wall between the kitchen and the living room. "Dakota!", I called. She peeked out from the hallway. I wiggled the mallard and squeezed, "uck, uck". She ran like hell.
Okay....I'm not about to let $7.49 go to waste. I call her again. She peeks around the corner again. I wiggle the mallard again. No squeezing this time. She looks. She backs away. I wonder, and not for the first time, just what kind of childhood this dog had before I got her. Carefully, she peers out into the kitchen where I'm standing with the duck in one hand, laughing my ass off. I don't mean to be rude, but really.....
No way would she come and take that duck. This is not the first stuffed toy I've given her. I even gave her my RCA Victor dog, and she acted like it was a spiritual experience as she carefully took it into her mouth, and chewed softly. She didn't let that one go all day, and even brought it into her bed that night. But the duck scared her spitless.
Finally, I sat down with the duck, now silent, in one hand, while I petted her with the other. After awhile I just dropped the duck and went back to work. A few hours ago, she brought the duck into my office, wagging her tail. Just a few minutes ago, I heard uck, uck, uck from the living room. Guess we've got a new mallard, too!
Yesterday, I went to Bimart to pick up a few things, and of course I had to check out the dog toys. I didn't see anything in that department that appealed to me on her behalf, but being near the Christmas season, I checked out the soft toys meant for children. In one of the bins was a duck. A mallard to be precise. About twelve inches long, with a green head and orange feet, as mallards are meant to be. This was not a toy for children, but a toy for dogs, as the tag said. And it quacks when you squeeze the tummy.
I had already tried some of the squeaky toys in the dog department, and I knew that I would soon be screaming if I gave any of those to my year-old pup. EEKY-EEKY, over and over and over again is not a good way for me to spend the day. Plus, I work at home, work that takes some concentration, and I really like my new dog, Dakota, a 55-pound white shepherd mix, and I didn't want to have to kill her anytime soon.
Duck sounds are good. A deep, low, gutteral, uck-uck-uck. I can live with that. Unfortunately, when I got home. Dakota had been a very bad girl. She had pooped on the floor in the living room. She had peed on my bed. On my bed, fer crissakes! That was nearly enough for me to want to superglue her little pee-pee shut! I checked online and there were all sorts of opinions and theories. We went to the vet, they tested her pee. We're going to dog training next week.
So, back to the mallard. The next day, being a forgiving sort, I offered the duck to Dakota. She sniffed it carefully. Then I squeezed it. Gutteral uck uck. She ran like hell. My house is small, so she couldn't go far, but she could get behind a wall between the kitchen and the living room. "Dakota!", I called. She peeked out from the hallway. I wiggled the mallard and squeezed, "uck, uck". She ran like hell.
Okay....I'm not about to let $7.49 go to waste. I call her again. She peeks around the corner again. I wiggle the mallard again. No squeezing this time. She looks. She backs away. I wonder, and not for the first time, just what kind of childhood this dog had before I got her. Carefully, she peers out into the kitchen where I'm standing with the duck in one hand, laughing my ass off. I don't mean to be rude, but really.....
No way would she come and take that duck. This is not the first stuffed toy I've given her. I even gave her my RCA Victor dog, and she acted like it was a spiritual experience as she carefully took it into her mouth, and chewed softly. She didn't let that one go all day, and even brought it into her bed that night. But the duck scared her spitless.
Finally, I sat down with the duck, now silent, in one hand, while I petted her with the other. After awhile I just dropped the duck and went back to work. A few hours ago, she brought the duck into my office, wagging her tail. Just a few minutes ago, I heard uck, uck, uck from the living room. Guess we've got a new mallard, too!
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