Cultured Cranberry #2

The first time I felt like I was losing my childhood was that December when Christmas didn't make me happy.

It didn't depress me or anything. I still got plenty of good presents, and had general fun in the process. It just didn't make me quite as ecstatic as it used to.

When I was a kid, Christmas was magical. There were presents of course, but also bright colors and happy songs and delicious food and silly family traditions. There were weeks of anticipation for the big day, reinforced by an endless media parade pushing the holiday (delivered to my tender brain through my hyper-saturated diet of television). I didn't know that it was just every retailer in America trying to stay in the black; it seemed to me like the world was just as excited as I was for that one day.

Then, one year, I remember looking at the tree - in our house, always a real, freshly cut one - and, being startled to find that I didn't feel anything. "It's a pretty tree," I thought, "but it's about the same as last year's and the same as next year's will be." I wanted Christmas presents, of course, but somehow I didn't want them quite as much as I had just a year earlier. I made varied efforts to ameliorate my apathy - I sung carols, I helped bake cookies with red-and-green sprinkles, I thought about all the things I wanted to get - but it was to no avail. Christmas just wasn't as exciting as it used to be.

This distressed me. I remember telling my Dad that I wasn't getting into the "Spirit of Christmas", or something to that effect. His diagnosis was simple. Christmas hadn't changed, I had. I was getting older, and Christmas just wouldn't have the same impact on me anymore. But he also told me how I could still enjoy the holiday in a manner more befitting my more mature outlook: helping my younger sister and brother to have the same sort of experiences I had. If I could enjoy Christmas quite like a young child, then I could start to enjoy it like a parent.

My Dad's advice was right on the money, but that December was still the first time I mourned the loss of a bit of my childhood.

Playful Peach #2

I woke up in a cold sweat with keen awareness of what I was supposed to do that day. 4:00 am, I really should try to go back to sleep. But, I couldn’t. I was too anxious.

The hot sticky air in my room reminded me of how much I wished that my mother would buy a fan. The air is so thick in Alabama in August its like no one moves, but the air on the reservation seemed worse. Combine sticky, suffocating air with the numerous old Indians without teeth stumbling home in an alcohol haze and you would feel suffocated too. I hate it here.

During the school year though, I get to escape and at least pretend to be normal. Well, at least as normal as you can be when you are an 11-year-old American Indian boy in the deep South with arms that look too long for your body and old hand me-downs that your mother bought at Goodwill. Sometimes when I am at school I try to pretend I am like everyone else and that I am not constantly reminded of my heritage and the fact that my people are dying.

Last year I got my first real friend. Bill is your typical Alabama boy, with a tuft of blonde hair that is always in disarray and sparkling blue eyes. I wished that I could trade my dull black hair and stern brown eyes for his. Bill lives just outside the reservation so I went to his house a lot. (He never went to mine.) And one day after school Bill’s mother invited me to go to their church. I was so excited! This would be my real entrance into normal life. All the kids in my class went to church together and I always felt left out. Not anymore though.

I started going to church despite my mothers’ disapproval. She told me I was hurting our ancestors and denying my roots. I told her that I didn’t care and that I could do whatever I wanted. I expected her to argue or slap me, but instead she just walked away sad. I tried to shrug it off; I wasn’t going to give up my opportunity to fit in.

I was really “in” when I accepted Jesus into my life. Every week the preacher would ask people to come up to the front and admit all the bad things they had done and ask Jesus to come into your soul. I wasn’t really sure if I believed any of that, and the thought of having another person in my body freaked me out. But, I knew that I would never fit in if I didn’t, so I got enough courage to walk to the front. At the front I saw the approving eyes of the congregation and I knew they accepted me.

That is why I am dreading today. I am turning 12 today, a very important step in the lives of boys on the reservation. Your 12th birthday is when you get to become a man. No one ever talks about what happens, but all the men in the tribe come to your house dressed in the clothes of the Anishinaabe (or “our original people) and they take you into the woods and speak to the spirits. I am afraid the spirits will know that I rejected them for Jesus and something bad will happen to me.

I hear a knocking at my door and it’s my mother. She calls on me to wake up and says that I will soon ‘walk the Red Road’ which means that I will be following the traditional ways of my people. I sigh deeply and get out of bed. I guess I will just have to greet my fate.

The leader of my tribe seemed like a giant in our small trailer, his head nearly touching the ceiling. He smiled at me as I walked towards him and patted my arm trying to be reassuring, but really made a sickening feeling rise in my stomach. I started my walk on down the Red Road.

We got to the clearing and I saw all the men that I had known all my life. Life in Indian Country is close, everyone probably knows too much about everyone else. But, at this moment I was thankful that all of these men knew my whole life story. It felt comfortable and nice.

The Chief told me that I would be known as Aniimikiiwanakwad. In English, it means Thunder Cloud. I felt proud to bear such a strong sounding name, it sounded so much more powerful than Joe. But, as I was distractedly thinking about my name the men began to dance as the Chief burned some leaves in this bowl. Then one man, I know him as Jim, began to sing the songs of the Anishinaabe. I stood there and let his voice powerful voice wash over me as the smoke that the Chief was burning mesmerized me.

The Chief smudged the remnants of what he was burning on my cheeks and said something to me in Anishinaabe language. Even though I didn’t fully know what he was saying, (mom has tried, but failed to teach me the language) I felt it in my soul. It was as if the Chief was inside my head speaking to me and I had never felt more alive. It was nothing like when I accepted Jesus because I didn’t even think or wonder how I felt. I just allowed myself to feel one with the Chief and the men around me and most important, the Anishinaabe. And I knew that this was the first moment in my life that I truly felt normal.

Tangy Tomato #2

As a child, I liked to write in one of those “pre-made” diaries, the ones that gave you prompts like: “favorite animal,” “best friend,” “biggest fear,” “wishes” etc. For reasons I cannot remember, I had put that my biggest fear was my parents getting divorced. But somehow I knew that could never happen to me. My parents had the best marriage; they never fought, and though my father traveled a lot, I knew how much he loved my mom. Some of my favorite childhood memories are the days my dad came back from his business trips. My two younger sisters and I always sprinted to the front door and leapt up into his arms.

It was the summer before my freshman year of high school and I had just gotten back from summer camp. For once, both parents and both sisters were there to greet me when I arrived. For the two days after I returned, everything seemed perfect. I was meeting up with friends during the day and having family dinners at night. And I was getting ready to finally be a high school student! I remember even thinking to myself, “wow, my life is the best it has ever been. I’ve never been happier.”

It’s amazing how fast things can change. It was a sunny, hot and humid Sunday, one of those unmistakable summer days, where the moment you step outside you can feel the heaviness of the air and the humidity makes your hair stick to the back of your neck. I was getting ready to go meet friends for ice cream and a movie, when my mom called me downstairs.

She and my dad were sitting on the couch in the living room. I sat down on the other couch and my sisters were sitting on the floor near me. I had never seen my parents look so solemn. After what felt like painstaking minutes of silence, but was probably a mere moment, my mom spoke, “we have some bad news.” “OH MY GOD!” I blurted, thinking they were about to tell me one of my grandparents had passed away. “We’re getting divorced.” My mom said. All five of us cried together, and my little sisters looked to me for support and guidance. From that moment on, I knew my carefree childhood days were gone forever and my biggest fear from my childhood diary had come true.

Crazy Clementine #2

I decided that maybe more candles my room would make me more angst-y. Not having found my "cause" yet, I came to the conclusion that mere rebellious paraphenallia will have to do. Yes, yes CANDLES WILL BE IT. I had spent my three-dollar allowance on two packs of Pixi-Stix at the dollar store - the "Sav-a-Lot" which alerted all incoming patrons to the fact that Only Two Teenagers Allowed In At A Time. Having just turned thirteen, I was finally regarded enough of a menace to the Sav-a-Lot that careful counting of heads would be necessary before I was able to access their peculiar array of off-color lipsticks and packs of "FROM THE OFFICE OF..." pads of paper. But the hundred-count Pixi-Stix were what had taken my entire allowance.

So, I needed to find candles in the house. I went down to the basement and rifled through boxes of old towels and sweatpants - - - and then, near the sewing machine, I found it, my CANDLE OF TEENAGE REBELLION.

A God-damn clownfish, in candle-form.

"This will have to do," I thought to myself - and went in my room and lit it. I sat on my bed and basked in the soft glow of REBELLION - an open flame WITHOUT parental supervision.

My clownfish stared at me with its waxy, bulging eyes.

"No. This will not, in fact, "do."'

Well, no good teenage rebellion is compelte without... ah, yes - A RADIO SHOW. I will be a radio deejay and ramble about how my parents don't understand me and nothing makes sense and just how rebellious I really am. That will be it.

I went to the "Wisconsin Room" (in the Midwest, apparently, wood paneling and an entertainment center evoke feelings of being in Wisconsin). There, I went through my dad's old tapes, trying to find a blank one upon which to record my angst-y radio show.

"This. Will. Be. So. Cool."

I found a clear tape and ran upstairs to my boom box - complete with a built-in-microphone. Angst alone was not able to finance a ham radio - so I would simply make a great tape of my rebellious prowress.

Casting aside my now-passe Rebellious Candle Clownfish - I put my boombox on my tiny desk and rewound to the beginning.

Well, the first days are the hardest days, don't you worry any more,
'cause when life looks like easy street, there's danger at your door.

----WHAT?!?!? Someone had pre-angst-ified my tape! I thought about just recording over whatever was on the tape, but I listened on instead.

Their walls are built of cannonballs,
Their motto is "Don't Tread On Me."

I got to the end of the song. And hit rewind to the beginning.

And again.

And again.

And so I listened to The Grateful Dead, Uncle John's Band for the rest of the night, the next morning, and into the next week. Over and over and over -- letting the song verbalize the mix of hope, fear and excitement that I could not yet at the age of thirteen.

Pretty Papaya #2

It would have been pitch black in the room if it weren’t for the light that crept through the tiny crack between the metal door and the floor. Katie sat there, eyes closed, knees against her chest, her back supported by the corner of two cold, wet stone walls. She stopped shivering a while ago. She hadn’t eaten anything but stale bread for weeks so shivering would require too much energy. Now she just twitched from time to time.

Despite the hunger and the cold, wet stone walls surrounding her, all Katie kept thinking was how much she wanted a cigarette. She put her fingers up to her lips as if she was holding a cigarette and took in a long drag of air. This is what comforted her; this is what made it all go away.

How did this happen? This wasn’t supposed to happen. If she had just listened to him, if she had just listened, she would be off at college like her friends… going to parties…. meeting lots of cute boys… sitting on the beach sipping margaritas during spring break…. or even if she didn’t go to college and got a full time job, she could be lying in her warm, soft bed at home, with her golden retriever Lucky lying by her feet.

But no, Katie couldn’t listen to him. She had to decide her future, not him. Her father Michael did not control her life; she did. That is why she took up smoking, because her father didn’t want her too. He also wanted her to go to college. Therefore she didn’t want to go. And when she purposefully failed to send in her college applications her senior year in high school, and he found out, he became unbearable to live with. Only if her mother Barbara were alive she could fix the situation. She always found a compromise that Michael and Katie could accept when they disagreed. But she was dead for almost two years by the time Katie was a senior in high school. So there were no more compromises.

By the time June rolled around her senior year, Katie’s father gave her a choice: find a job or apply to a community college with no application deadline. Otherwise she would have to find another place to live. Forced to make a decision, she came up with a great idea. Katie’s dad was drafted into the Army at 18 and was shipped off to fight in the Red War. He never really talked about it; whenever Katie asked about his experience, all he would say is that all she needed to know was that that was a life experience that he never would wish on her. At this point, the Army sounded like a good option for Katie. Not only did her father not like it, she could move away, get a living wage and travel the world. And with no war going on, she was not very likely to experience any life threatening situations.

It was a Saturday that Katie left for boot camp. She didn’t tell her father until early that morning that she had joined the Army. When she told him, fear overcame Michael’s face. He started crying and grabbed his daughter by the shoulders. “Honey, please tell me you didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.” She pulled her herself back. Trying to act confident in the face of her father even though she felt unsure inside, she said, “I did and there is nothing you can do about it…” Katie’s words trailed off as she became startled by the beeping of a car horn.

“That’s for me dad. Bye,” Katie said abruptly as she turned her back to him and went to pick up her bags.

“Wait Katie; please don’t do this to me. I lost your mother; I cannot stand to lose you too. Please…” Michael said through the tears he could not hold back.

Michael’s words struck a cord in Katie’s heart. She choked trying to hold back tears, and walked quickly out of the house. As she walked down the porch she repeated herself, “There’s nothing you can do about it now.” This time she was less sure about her words.

Katie got a hold of herself as she put her bags in the trunk. Her dad watched from the doorway. “Don’t worry, we’re not at war. Five years and I am done,” she said with assurance. She opened the passenger side door to the recruiter’s car.

Michael, getting a hold of himself, said, “Katie, I love you.” Katie wanted to tell her dad she loved him too and that she would miss him, but she was mad at her father for making her feel this way with his words. With a mixture of sadness and anger, Katie responded, “I love you too dad,” and slammed the car door.

“Let’s go. Please,” Katie said to the recruiter and they left.

Six months later, the Russians invaded. They were at war. Katie was shipped out right way.

That was almost three years ago. Now Katie was sitting in a holding cell, all alone.

…

A sudden BANG forced Katie to become alert to her surroundings again. Then she heard a long, annoying screeching noise as the door slowly opened. She put her hands over her ears and covered her face with her legs.

When the door was finally opened, Katie felt a breathe of fresh air sweep across her body. When she looked up she had to semi-cover her eyes with her hands in order to adjust to the light. She saw a blurry image of a solider standing in front of her. He said in a stern voice and a thick Russian accent, “Get UP.” Katie struggled to get to her feet. Immediately after she barely got her balance, the solider grabbed her right arm and forced her to walk forward. The pain in her calves was unbearable. It was as if her joints were as rusty as the door hinges.

After a short walk down a hall that smelled like gun powder, they came to a tiny room lit only by a fluorescent lamp. There was a table with two chairs in the middle of the room. The solider threw Katie into one of the chairs. She had never been so happy to sit down.

“Can I have a cigarette,” Katie whispered.

“What?” the solider said.

“Can I have a cigarette?”

“If you answer my commander’s questions, I will give you a cigarette.”

Katie put her head down. The solider just stood there. Katie figured they were waiting for his commander.

A feeling of complete hopelessness finally overcame Katie. Tears started slowly streaming down her face, collecting the dirt that her face collected over the past couple of weeks in the cell. Then she started thinking about her father and became very angry. But she wasn’t angry at her father this time. She was angry at herself. There was a reason her father made decisions for her. It was because she was a child; children do not know how to make the right decisions for themselves, that is why their parents do it for them, and that is why Katie’s father did it for her.

If she had only listened to her father, none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t have joined the army, she wouldn’t have ignored her commander when he told her to stay alert, she wouldn’t have fell asleep on guard duty, her unit would have never been captured and she wouldn’t be in that room wearing a torn, bloody army uniform that smelled like dirt, feces and urine.

She kept thinking, “Why didn’t I listen, why didn’t I listen?” Right at that moment, she knew she needed her father more than any other moment in her life. She didn’t know how to get out the situation she was in. She never wanted so badly for her father to make a decision for her.

All of a sudden there was screaming and running down the hallway.

“RUN!!!!!!!!!” is all she heard.

The next thing she remembered was darkness and lying on the floor. She looked around and saw the guard on the floor as well. She figured some sort of an explosion occurred, but it didn’t matter. She needed to escape. She slowly got up and took the gun off the soldier’s belt. She went to the door and looked down the hallway. She couldn’t see anything except rubble and smoke. She slowly started walking out the door, pressing her back against the wall as she walked down the hallway.

As Katie walked down the hallway, she began to hear a faint sound that resembled a child crying. She followed the sound. She turned the corner, and saw a solider standing in a room pointing a machine gun at a little girl. The little girl was maybe five or six, and was undernourished. The solider was whispering to the little girl in a low voice but Katie couldn’t understand him.

What Katie didn’t understand was him saying, “Shut up, they’re going to find us. I’ll shoot you if you don’t shut up.” This made the little girl even more scared. Katie raised her gun, pointed it at the man and shot him dead. The little girl screamed.

Katie put her gun down and ran into the room. The little girl kept screaming, so Katie put her arms around her, kissed her hair and said slowly in a motherly voice, “Everything is going to be alright… everything is going to be alright.” And even though the little girl did not know what Katie was saying, she knew by the tone of her voice that Katie was her friend. She threw her arms around Katie’s shoulders and Katie carried her out of the building.

Right outside the building they found rescue. One of the members of Katie's unit escaped the raid the night Katie fell asleep on duty, and sent for back up when they found out where Katie was being held.

Katie and the little girl got into an army truck headed towards base. The driver of the truck asked Katie if she wanted a cigarette. She looked at the little girl and then looked back. “I quit,” Katie said.

As Katie and the little girl were driving back to base, the little girl never let go of Katie. This was the first time in her life that she knew what it felt like for someone to depend on her. This is the first time in her life that she knew what it felt like to be responsible to make decisions for someone else. Even as a solider she never decided to take on the responsibility of another person. This is was defining moment in her life.

After they got back to the base, they tried to locate the little girl’s parents and family. They found out that her name was Olga Stanislav and her parents were killed in a raid earlier that month. She had no known living relatives so one Russian soldier, feeling pity for her, took care of her until he was killed in the explosion the day Katie and Olga were rescued. Katie’s unit granted her permission to take care of Olga until the war was over. Katie and Olga became inseparable.

Four months later the war ended. Olga was re-assigned to a desk job in the base by her father's house and given an apartment on the base.

An international adoption organization helped Katie adopt Olga. They flew home together.

….

Katie stood with Olga at her father’s front door. She hadn’t seen him in over three years. Sure, she talked to him on the phone after she was rescued and told him how sorry she was. But this was different. She would get to look him in the eye, tell him that he was right, how sorry she was, and thank him for being such a great father.

She pointed at Olga and said, “Doorbell.” Olga repeated in a Russian accent, “Doorbell.” Olga pressed it and her father came to the door. As soon as he opened the door, they began to cry and embraced.

When they were done, Katie looked at Olga, and said, “Olga, this is your new grandpa. Grandpa.” Olga repeated, “Grandpa.” The Katie looked at her dad. “Dad, this is Olga.” Then she started crying again and said, “I know I still have some growing up to do, but I wouldn’t be half the person I am today without you. I just hope that one day I am half the parent you were.” He smiled and said in a silly voice, “I know you will be a great mother. You’re my daughter, I wouldn’t expect any less.” They both laughed and all three of them went inside.

Bright Blueberry #2

The light was yellow. The kind of yellow light you would imagine the sun would provide- warm, clean, the kind of light that gives everything a golden halo. A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she stood at the window, mesmerized by this seemingly holy glow.

She hadn't thought about it before it happened. It was an instinctual reaction- the kind of reaction the back of your brain has already carried out before the front brain realizes anything has happened. The butcher's knife still dangled from her fingers, a mere brush of what could have been her lipstick on it's side. In the yellow light, itlooked almost alien.

"Sit down and shut the **** up" He hadn't argued. Sitting on a too-low chair with an intent and contrite face, the six-foot tall construction worker looked more like a schoolboy being disciplined by the headmaster.

He sat, he listened, and he learned in no uncertain terms that his game was up. The alcohol, the taunting, the complete disregard for others, was going to end. His check would pay the rent and not the strippers.

Of course, she'd known about this for longer than he realized. He had thought she was passive, watching but not understanding. He thought that, to her, he still had the halo of perfection all daddy's girls have. He still couldn't quite believe it when she'd grabbed the knife and shown him what she had really learned from him.

The tiny slice on his neck had bled, and blood was soaking through his ratty white shirt turning a dark brown that she wouldn't wash out. Like the scar that would develop when he didn't treat the cut, it was a reminder. Afraid to stand up from the chair, but afraid to stay, his muscles tensed and the blue veins finally bulged out of his neck and forehead, showing his wan soul for what it was.

She only had another few moments. Without turning around, she knew this. As if the gods understood, the clouds slowly cleared and the golden light faded to the clear, cold blue that matched her eyes. Pulling the flask out of the jacket pocket right next to his heart,she took a swig. She was still years away from that being legal, but there was nobody that would tell her no.

Benign Boysenberry #2

The Question

him.. in bed, in the dark…“What would you say if I asked you to marry me?”

me: thinking, not saying… ‘ohmygod, isthishowitisgoingtohappen?’,

my mind races with images of our past:
meeting in high school
Calc 2
He had a cute butt and called the teacher a moron
He was right

our reuinion a few years later
“do you remember me” his first words after all those years
how could I forget YOU, I wanted to scream… “of course” I said.
My friends teased me because I couldn’t forget him
I compared all other guys to him, none passed the test

endless trips to visit him
endless missing him between trips
packing all my stuff in a Ford Escort
goodbye to friends and family
driving across the Midwest to live with my love
what an adventure

our sweet and cheap apartment in Denver
with the carpet in the bathroom
two cats waiting impatiently for us to return

me, out loud: ”why, are you going to ask me?”

SILENCE SILENCE SILENCE SILENCE
The silence of a strange house, his friend David’s parent’s house in Salt Lake City
A silence only broken by strange house noises, mysterious bangs and pops…

recollections of the trip we are on now:
The guy who went nuts at the McDonalds
Helpless wife and kids in pjs and diapers
Watch their husband/father rant about the CIA and McD’s management
All we wanted was an egg McMuffin,
That will teach us to go inside to eat….

White Sands, more hot and dry than I’d ever been
Dry heat my ass 120 degrees is cooking temperature…

Laughing in the dark of our Grand Canyon hotel,
the one without A/C, July 4th weekend.
Damm—that was good sex, wow was it sweaty

Temple Square, Salt Lake City after dark with the lights on
the Mormon Mecca in all her glory – was that what prompted this?
What if he’s just in some Mormon-trance and wants to back out…

shit… it’s taking him too long….

Him: breaking the silence, “if I did ask you, would that freak you out?
With a hint of worry in his voice
He’s too sweet to worry this much, he must really looooove me… wow.
How could I possibly deserve this love?

silence, silence, silence,
what do I say???…

I think about our future…
He’s fun in and out of bed
He’s smart, funny and we have the same values
Sure, he’s kind of a geek but I’m no prom queen
And, I do love him
I’ve loved him since I met him
I loved him before I met him
I moved to Denver for him
I’d move to the Moon for him

Shit, what will I say if he asks?
“No” will break his heart, and mine
“YES” feels right, seems right… is it?

Me: out loud “No, I won’t get freaked out if you ask me”

Silence – that heavy silence, filled only with breathing in the still air of the guest room.
Which freaks me out
is he going to ask or not?
what if he doesn’t, I can’t ask him, can I ask him, or would that be weird?

I don’t see myself as a bride
Princess for a day
With a puffy white dress and 74 bridesmaids?
Rehearsal dinners and wedding cakes,
ring bearers and “colors”…aargh..
We have no money and neither do our moms

Could we elope?
Are we too young?
We don’t have good jobs or college degrees?
Will we be good parents?
Will our children have hooves?

Finally he speaks, his voice cracks, he speaks fast – like he wants to get it all out at once: “I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you, will you marry me?”

I cry,
I’m a dope and cry when I’m happy

I answer “of course I’ll marry you”

We make love quietly
In the squeaky guest bed

The first people we tell in the morning are David’s parents
When we get up early to drive home to Denver.
They are Japanese and are happy for us
David’s 19 and doesn’t get it
The only thing he loves is his tricked-out Ford Escort, and antelope – don’t ask…

In the car on the way home
I look at him and realize we’ll be together forever
And that’s the way it should be.

When we get home, we call friends and family
We pick out a ring and have a formal proposal in a park with a ring and wine

But the one that counts
Was in Salt Lake
Under the covers of David’s parent’s guest bed
He and I became “we”
And I knew I’d never be a child again

Tart Tangerine #2

February 22, 1991. That was the day I became a man.

No, not in the sexual sense, as I was only 12 years old. No, that was the day I became the man of the house. Because that was the day we got the letter.

It was a nice letter. It came in a crisp white envelope. It was hand-addressed, as was the note inside. I didn’t know that at the time, because my mother wouldn’t let me see it, but I caught a glimpse of it once, later, after she had read it. The paper was of good quality, thick. It looked like it would absorb ink, not streaking or smearing. All I really noticed of it was the dark blue circle on the top.

Funny how the little details stick with you. I remember the man who delivered the letter, though I couldn’t tell you his name. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Dad, and in fancy dress browns. I thought at first it might have been Dad, come home early. When I saw the blurry silhouette through the frosted glass of the front door, I went running with a cry of joy. But when I opened the door, prepared to fling my arms around Dad in a hug, I found only a stranger.

Mom was in the kitchen making some coffee. She called out to ask who it was. I said it was someone from Dad’s work. She said she’d be right there, and the next thing I remember was the sound of breaking china as her coffee cup hit the floor. I spun around, and she was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, one hand clasped over her mouth. She didn’t need to read the letter in the man’s hands to know what it said. She could read it in his eyes.

She took a deep breath and steadied herself. She told me to go to my room. I started to argue, but she looked at me, and I could tell this was not the time. But I didn’t go to my room. I stopped in the hall and peeked around the corner as she approached the man. He said something to her, something quiet.

Something solemn.

To this day I still wish I knew what it was. It was only later that I would hear similar things from relatives and friends of Dad’s. Later, on green grass, under a too bright sun, the blue, white and red so bright they stung my eyes. Or that’s what I told myself.

But that was a different day, a later day. All that mattered was this day – the day we got the handwritten note from the President telling us that my Dad was one of the 246 men and women to give what Abraham Lincoln called the last full measure of devotion.

February 22, 1991. That was the day I became a man.

Mighty Mango #2

There is a point, late at night, when the birds start chirping, and you realize it is now ridiculous to say it is "late at night," and is truly "very early in the morning." The sky isn't grey yet, but will be, soon; and who knows why the birds wake up so early?

The average human body is about six feet long and two feet wide. If you're trying to dig a hole sufficiently deep that no one will notice anything's there for a while, you need to go down around three feet. More, if there's time, but there usually isn't. That means burying someone requires you to move 6 x 2 x 6 = 72 cubic feet of dirt; at around half a shovelful of...

Well. I'm overthinking it.

"Rick," my brother says to me. "Keep digging, asshole. Jesus. Quit staring off into space. It's gonna be light soon."

I didn't say anything back, because there wasn't anything to say. I did just keep digging. If two people are digging at the same time, you really only have to each move 36 cubic feet of dirt, but you're slightly slowed down because you don't want your shovels to bump...

Overthinking again!

Everyone develops their own ways of coping with their job. I bet if you work on a ranch, and you have to kill cows and chickens and things, it grosses you out at first. Then you get over it. You know why? Because it's a job. Someone's going to do it, even if you don't, and high-minded moralizing isn't going to pay the bills. So you move past it, keep a firm upper lip, and all that bullshit. It's really not very different with my job.

I don't kill cows or chickens, though. The person I am presently burying is wearing what was once a very expensive suit. His hear is light grey and thinning, and he was wearing glasses when we shot him, although those got dropped somewhere. It doesn't matter, because not only will no one ever find the glasses, but our fingerprints aren't on them even if they did.

He is--was--a board member of Total Oil. It's a French oil company. Did you know that? I didn't, until recently. I found out because someone gave me a manilla file folder, with a photograph inside; and they said, "this guy works for Total Oil. It's a French oil company." In real life, when you're given orders to kill someone, there is nothing very dramatic about it, because it's just a job. No one sagely intones "make the hit, Rick," or "you know what to do." They just give you a file folder and inside is a printout from Yahoo! White Pages with the guy's address.

One thing my job does make me realize is how incredibly, terrifyingly unsafe the world is. Every day, we all walk down the street, out in the open, where any fringe environmentalist lunatic can grab or shoot us. This guy had no idea we were going to shoot him. I don't think he ever actually knew. We didn't walk up to him and announce his sins or anything dramatic like that; there's no point, because he's not going to live to tell anyone. The best way to shoot someone is to do it when they're not looking and can't see you, which is what we did; he was driving down the road toward his house after a late night at work and we were sitting on the side of the road and we shot him as he drove by.

His car careened off the side of the road and crashed. Did the crash kill him, or did the bullet? Well, we'll never know. With luck, they'll never find the body, and so no one will ever know but God, who we are really hoping will forgive us for this, but we figure he will.

It's just a job. If we don't do it, someone else will. Someone has got to make it undesirable to work as an oil executive, or, you know. The ice caps will melt, or something. Truthfully, I'm not a big ideologue, although I basically believe the survival of the species is threatened and everything. I'm just trying to do my job the best I can.

All done.

"You know, Cass," I say.

"What?"

"We're not kids anymore."

"I know. I'm tired."

TKO Question #2 for Group 2

TKO Question #2: [Personal]

There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in.

-- Deepak Chopra

Detail the moment or experience in your life when you realized you weren't a child anymore. Any format. (Of course, as always, fictional accounts are welcome to answer the personal prompts too).

**

Responses

Responses marked with an asterick were the most popular responses to this TKO.

Gnarly Grape
* Rare Raspberry
Alert Apple
Naive Noni
Classy Cherry
Cultured Cranberry
Playful Peach
Tangy Tomato
Crazy Clementine
Pretty Papaya
Bright Blueberry
Benign Boysenberry
* Tart Tangerine

Players Removed as a Result of This Vote

Creative Crabapple (inactivity)
Perky Pineapple (inactivity)
Newbie Nectarine (inactivity)

Mad Mandarine & Bizzare Banana #1

[posted by your OO host for MM due to the blogger outages yesterday]

Mad Mandarine

I come from a beautiful land…

It’s probably an American thing to say that I’m half Irish and half Czech. I doubt many Europeans are wandering around trying to pinpoint their heritage as though it matters. About the only real change is that children in the 3rd grade may look up different flags in the “know your heritage” unit in class.

I suppose that it’s different if your family immigrated more recently. A good friend of mine claims that he is half English. Considering that his mother was born in England and he has dual citizenship, his identification as half English actually means something. In my case, however, “half Irish” can be roughly translated as meaning,

“about 300 years ago some people arrived in the States. They may have come from Ireland because they adopted an Irish name. In the intervening three centuries the family intermarried with just about every ethnic group. The branch that I come from happened to keep the Irish name. Further, I could be like many guilt-ridden white Americans trying to increase my exotic appeal and claim that my great-great-great grandma was a Cherokee princess who married into the family, so of course I look so pale as to be transparent, and it’s okay if I get indignant when people question my sincerity about social causes because one of my ancestors might have encountered prejudice and racism. And no one could gainsay this because it would be, like, questioning my cultural identity, you know?”

In other words, my cultural heritage as anything but an American is about 99% bullshit. I guess that means my great-great-many-times-great grandma actually could identify as something more than a states-side mixture, but it’s been diluted by pretension and selective family interpretations ever since.

To be perfectly honest, this has never really bothered me. Even after our idiotic president declared war on Iraq, I still claimed my American heritage abroad rather than adopt the more easily accepted identity of an innocent Canadian, eh. Lying about it just seemed stupid.

So when I started planning my trip to Ireland, I was excited to cycle around the country. I eagerly looked up places to stay that would let me listen to Gaelic and peer over cliffs into the ocean. I contemplated whether kissing the Blarney stone was worth trying to sanitize my lips for several weeks afterwards. Mostly, I enjoyed the idea of traveling alone to another country without my parents or siblings trying to dictate what I did. The idea that I could see the “ancestral homeland” really meant absolutely nothing to me. Those antecedents of mine who crossed the Atlantic were more distant from me than a random girl in China living right now. Moving in time and space towards them would only link me to a world I neither recognized nor appreciated.

Ireland was supposed to be beautiful, I wanted to travel, and plane tickets to Dublin were cheap that summer.

I traveled. I hitchhiked. I rented bicycles in small towns and rode around Ireland. I ate good cheese and was run off the road by sheep. I laid atop the cliffs at Galway and stared down, whispering “The Cliffs of Insanity!” to myself, wishing I could share the joke with someone as other tourists milled around me.

It’s remarkably easy to be lonely even when all you wanted was solitude. I spent more and more time alone in the middle of green hills sulking. Looking back, it’s pretty pathetic. I was in one of the most beautiful countries in the world, I had no responsibilities and I was mentally writing horrible poetry that probably involved the rhyming of “death” with “breath.”

It was in the Aran Islands that I really lost it. They still speak Gaelic in the Arans, and some shepherds live in little peat huts among the hills. I went mostly because of my interest in weaving. I had learned how to spin wool a few months before my trip- the Arans are one of few places where working spinning wheels can be found in most homes. Most of the tourists who come wanted to learn for novelty’s sake. They wanted to be able to mention their rustic adventure at parties.

I was different, I assured myself. I wanted to learn how to spin better, and I would go home and card wool and spin all my own yarn for my weaving. Of course, it didn’t work out that way. I was briefly introduced to the Aran spinning wheels, hustled along with the other tourists and shown the many lovely novelty spinning wheels available for sale.

I was heartbroken. I didn’t want these people to accept me because I was Irish, because I wasn’t, not really. I didn’t want them to accept me because I could spend money. I wanted them to see me as a pupil, almost an acolyte. But I was sent along my way with the other Americans chatting loudly in flat, staccato accents. Inwardly I seethed. I was being punished by my heritage!

In a sullen fury I wandered to Dún Dúchathair, a Bronze Age fort along the Aran cliffs. It’s not a hugely popular destination for tourists; the hike up the once-fortified hill is treacherous and with the rain that so often blankets Ireland, more than one tourist has retreated from the Black Fort with broken wrists from falls. I retreated into my black depression again, convinced that everyone in Ireland was inwardly mocking me for my American shoes and arrogant presumptions.

Dún Dúchathair is where I met him. When he first greeted me, his accent was so thick I couldn’t tell whether he was speaking in English or Gaelic. An elderly man, I was impressed to see him so high up in the fort, slippery rocks having kept most people out. Since it was raining pretty steadily by that time, and my manners had not deserted me entirely, I offered him a spot beside me and broke out the bread, cheese and smoked salmon that was to be my lunch.

We ate in companionable silence until he started asking me where I was from. Hesitantly, I explained that I was from several different places, since my family had moved so often during my childhood. It was clear from his accent and demeanor that he had lived in Aran his whole life, a place barely large enough for a mid-sized American city. “I must seem like and idiot,” I thought. “He has really lived, while I have spent my whole life flitting around and never settling.” I babbled and tried to justify my different homes.

Out of politeness, I returned the question.

“And you, sir? Where are you from?”

“Oh my dear, I’m just like you. I come from a beautiful land.”

Bizzare Banana

I travel a lot. As in more than the average pilot a lot. In fact recently for business I have been flying across the country every two days. This travel schedule means that I spend a lot of time in airports and such. To cope with what would otherwise be tedious I have developed some entertaining airport games.

1- the freak the clean freak out game:
This game works particularly well when you contract the inevitable travel cold. The key to this game is to figure out which of the passengers near you starts twitching every time you sniffle. Then you milk it for all it’s worth. When they start to doze off you have a convenient coughing fit. When they are deeply involved in their book you sneeze. The reactions are priceless.
For example on a recent flight I was sitting across the aisle from an obvious germ freak that with every sniffle would bury herself further into her windbreaker. The highlight of the flight was when I sneezed and she threw her book into the air whacking the person behind her. *Further proof that the Divinci Code is a terrible book*.

2- The extended deck freak out game (for international flights):
I discovered this one completely by accident. When you arrive back state side and are waiting for your connecting flight you make a phone call. While on the phone with a close family member or friend you begin to loudly discuss what you should do about the weird parasites you pick up while abroad. The key to this game is the way you phrase things. Key words include “trashy hostel”, “bed lice”, and “no of course I didn’t say anything to customs”.
This has a similar effect to the previous game except you have to be a little bit more stealth since flight attendants do not think it’s funny if the overhear you. This version of the game has an added bonus; aside from amusing reactions, it is almost guaranteed to get you your own row of seats on the next flight. People will find the most creative reasons to move to another row.

I realize that the above games are rather mean spirited but I believe that comes from years of dealing with bitchy flight attendants, sleazy old men, and people who really should have bought two seats. Before you judge too harshly you should give it a try. It’s a bit like watching “jackass” or those internet clips you find on sites like “holy lemon”; you know you shouldn’t think it’s funny . . . but you just can’t help it.

If the disease games are a little too over the top for you I also recommend the “how ugly is your girlfriend game” and the “making friends with the dogs who get their own first class seat in hopes that their good fortune might rub off on you” game.

Happy travels . . .

Lively Lime #1

I was drawn to it. It called out to me. My pace quickened a little bit on the pavement, and in the distance on the grassy lawn I saw it. A greenhouse. I smiled and headed towards the glass building. As I walked, I wondered to myself…why am I so excited?

It was a perfect summer day. The sun was shining, the temperature was just right. It was Day One of my exploration of this new city out west, and a park seemed like a good place to start. This greenhouse would be the first place I visited. I walked through the open doors and saw the sign: Free admission! This was going to be great. As soon as I stepped inside, I was in a jungle. Tropical trees towered over my head. Ferns brushed against my knees. I could feel the humidity, thick yet strangely refreshing. I followed the narrow gravel pathways, twisting and turning throughout this huge crystal palace as the sun shone through the transparent ceiling. It was so much fun reading the little descriptive signs neatly placed next to each specimen. I felt like a world explorer, moving from one environment to another as tropical became desert, desert became temperate. I stared at the cactus and touched the hanging willow trees…maybe even vice-versa. Then my jaw dropped when I entered the hall of flowers. Every kind of flower one could imagine was there, like the King Solomon's mines of the flora world. There were so many colors, shapes, and sizes from all places on earth….and surprisingly, I found that I recognized many of them. From classic roses to elegant bleeding hearts to cute buttercups…each brought back a memory. I found myself loving where I was standing, in a sea of beautiful flowers. At that moment, I wanted to garden so badly.

And then I stopped. What had just happened? I looked over at the daisies and I knew. I had finally become my mother.

Flashback to when I was a child. Mom is in the garden in front of our small house. She is expanding it again, digging up weeds, adding some fertilizer here and there, and putting up a structure to start some climbing roses and ivy. Pastel shorts, rubber boots, and a big hat. The next year we have a new fountain and a fresh batch of annuals to accent the perennials. A decade passes. As I grow older and taller, so do her roses. What started as a small patch of flowers has morphed into a massive expanse of colors almost entirely surrounding our house, almost protecting it as well as beautifying. I used to wonder why she labored so hard every day tending to this small kingdom. After all, they were just plants. You could buy flowers at the florist. Why the big deal? She and Dad had taken me to many greenhouses before when I was still young, but we stopped going many years ago.

And then I thought again. My best memories of my mother were of her in the garden. Flowers reminded me of Mom, and now, at the beginning of my 20s, I finally understood why she had this passion. There are few things as rewarding as putting effort and love into care for a living thing and watching it grow to become something beautiful. She raised her flowers, and she raised me, and she was good at it. I knew that when I built my own home, I would have a garden too.

As I left the greenhouse, I was a little jarred by the hard blacktop pavement and honking of cars in the distance. I grabbed my cell and dialed home. Mom was going to love hearing about all this.

Lucky Lemon #1

I was 17 years old the first time my parents let me drive alone on vacation. The trip is familiar with easy highways, open plains, and plenty of friendly gas stations. Most of all, it is an escape.

We were young and juvenile, embracing the freedoms of summers and cars. She lived off a recently paved road (I wish it was still gravel) in the middle of nowhere. She is my best friend, with warm brown eyes and the sweetest hugs. Her parents let us live in an old mobile home situated behind their own house. We decorated it to make it our own, and stocked it with food. We had small parties without alcohol or drugs; we played silly card games and watched girly movies. It was our home.
A warm summer rain, the kind that makes you want to twirl with your head facing the sky, pounded on the gravel driveway. He had come to visit our little home, to see me as I’d requested. The night had been fun; his face had crinkled up as he laughed softly enough that I could watch the blue in his eyes twinkle. We avoided conversing directly and played into the group dynamic, trying not to focus on the issue at hand.

Everyone left one by one, and finally, it was time for him to leave as well. He said goodnight to all, and I mustered the courage to follow him out. Immediately drenched by the rain, we ran to his car. So many things I’d been longing to say. So many things I’d wanted to tell him. Wanting to explain why I hadn’t called, wanting to tell him of the wigs and the needles and the pain. She was weak and fragile and I could not make it go away. He broke the silence as I stood there, awkward and dripping, trying to find the words. Saying everything but “I love you”, he confessed everything I had always suspected. I stared. The rain falling into my eyes, a chill coming over my body, thunder rumbling from far away, I stood and I stared. Shocked that he cared, I waited. Waited for the kiss, the embrace, the three little words, the things that never came. He hopped into his car and began to back out.

Running, I slammed the door behind me. She looked at me, her brown eyes probing, and nodded silently. Before I could say a word, the door knocked behind me.

There he stood, rain pouring. My heart skipped twenty beats and I knew that movies wouldn’t fail me. A man has to kiss a woman in the rain.

“My car’s stuck.”

A kick to the stomach.

We spent the next hour pushing his car out of the mud next to the driveway. Caked in mud, we took a picture and then he drove away.

I have since lost the picture. Every year I return at least twice. Our house is now occupied. However in the middle of the night, when the sky is clear, the stars are sparkling, and the moon is shining over the lake across the street, I sit on the side of the gravel driveway where his car was stuck. I smile and think of his beautiful blue eyes and soft touch. I remember the way his lips felt when he pressed them against mine softly on my next visit, and the way his hand gently brushed the hair out of my face when he was done. I smile as I stand and look up at the beauty of the moon, remembering as he told me, that somewhere he was standing too, looking at her beauty and thinking of me.

Odd Orange #1

on November 14 he put it on
because he knew how he was supposed to feel
empty eyes, slack face, arms smooth with the body, shoulders hunched.
walking into the brown living room, declaring that his car must journey
across the country, stopping in crumbling stations
reminding him that he should be crying.

her absence meant no more summers at universal studios
or trips to the beach, or bone shaped cookies on Halloween.
she would never give him the last of the sausage
or send cute birthday cards to his house.
she would never have to wake up early in the morning
to take the battery of pills that stopped her blood from devouring her skin.
bruises a distant memory once the body is consumed.

wind rips through the car, screaming past his ears
videos playing behind his eyes
yellow sunbonnets replaced by raw, red sores
and the cup of coffee that become her final meal.

somewhere
on that vast expanse of i-70
his wheels devoured a rabbit
body not so white and fluffy anymore.
his chest heaved, breath gasped, eyes filled
and he couldn’t stop laughing.

Alluring Apricot #1

Summer Road Trip

His hands
On our bodies and tangible poetry on our backs
Calligraphic and bathed in conversations with god.
Sand on my back wind on our faces.
light in his eyes.

I wish to bring us back
Our collective on all sides of the coins and drop heavy copper And if we should stave
Eat the words you seek and become glutinous with knowledge, until all of us
Are happy and fat.

I miss the caves we've made
remember,
The sand we took
The stories we wrote
The detours we made

all for that last moment of summer.
the beach: golden sand, perfect sea
the mountains: green and inviting.
the open road.

Where I told you
Whispered to you
That adventure is synonym for
for life, love, and shit hitting the fan...

So I do urge you
To receive this urgent call
I main lined GoD
Sent him messages to call off his dogs

I'm not in a hurry....
I need to live these moments forever
because tommorrow may never come

but i live for today
and the wind in my hair.
and the smell of the sea salt air.

If you reach the others
Tell them I left messages
From Chicago pavement
To the Brooklyn bridge
A satellite
A stain
For those who are worthy...
to know

Cant stay long; love; dont have much time
he bleeds from my hand

the sun in my eyes
and the mist in my eyes.
these are the last moments.

I want to stay here forever on the road
long and inviting,
earth shattering and renewd life.


I'll send for you
I promise
...someday

Gutsy Guava #1

“They say that there is a slim possibility that frequencies humans cannot hear affect them anyways, in such a way that if you get headaches, feel anxious, or aggressive, it could be a high frequency noise out of your hearing range”, Said my friend Gabe from behind tired, bloodshot eyes. “Supposedly it can drive people to the edge”. I turned to look at him and retorted, “Perfect, so if I kill you now it can be written off as beyond my control”. He only rolled his eyes.

We were in a tent, along with some other friends of ours, perched on what can only be described as a small cliff high in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Several travel guides (along to make sure we didn’t kill each other, or ourselves out in the wilderness) were near the base huddled in their own nylon canopies. The mosquitoes that had descended upon us with what can only be described as biblical fury were so thick and plentiful that the echoes of their buzzing reverberated throughout the valley we had waited in for 3 days and nights. The concept was that this trip was a bonding experience for us, before we all took off for school, to bring us closer together. The field-tested idea related more to a death march in summertime Vietnam. On roughly day one, we had left in high spirits and good company looking forward to a week of good times. By day three, the ridiculous mosquito population had caused us to leave a planned route to the overall destination and hike up and over a nearby mountain range into a chaparral-plateau-purgatory like set of cliffs at a high enough altitude that some of us had trouble breathing. Then, we waited. As it happens, this was an exercise in futility, as the insects we were running from had no problem following us all the way to this newfound exile and hovering in wait. For three days.

“You know, in a way this is better than anything else,” another tent mate named Lucas said. “Remember those Vietnam veterans who came back from the war all bonded, and friendly and such? We could be like that!” Toby, a former classmate of mine who had an aversion to even leaving his house for very long sat up, aghast: “sure, and remember that little post-traumatic stress disorder deal? Permanent psychological damage? Ringing any bells?” Nev, the fifth person we had managed to fit into a 3-man tent turned to look at him and simply raised his eyebrows. At this point I was fully steeled for another argument about the physiological requirements for Post-Traumatic stress disorder (yes, another argument. We had spent roughly 36 hours in a tent at this point), when a loud “ziiip” interrupted the thought.

The collective intake of breath was so comical I actually laughed before realizing that the tent door had just opened. For the past three days, “do not open the tent door” had been the first and second rules of fight club. It had been the maxim, the motto, and the divine law. You just didn’t do it, unless the circumstances were dire, and almost nothing qualified as “dire”. If one were to open this door, the mosquitoes would pour in like sand through a sieve, at a frightening rate. Nev actually had almost 200 mosquito bites on his body because of this. We had learned quickly that this was not a fun state to be in. so we were all surprised when the eminent onslaught did not commence. Instead, Casey, a guide, poked his head in with a crazed look in his eyes and asked us to come out, while we had the time. Instead of doing what out minds had been reprogrammed to do and ripping the door closed, most all of us complied with his wishes after a quick peek around, and not noting any insect laden airspace.

Not only was the air finally free of the accursed creatures, but also the sky was fully illuminated with stars and the moon, burning brightly down. Casey stretched his arms outwards and yawned, while explaining that for whatever reason there weren’t any bugs out for the first time in 3 straight days. Almost immediately, the mood improved notably. A roaring (sure, this sounds cliché. But that’s because you didn’t see this fire. It roared, like an angry demon or something. It looked like we just lit a small tree on fire and threw more branches on top of that) fire was quickly constructed, and conversation started up. During these hours, I got to know several individuals I had been with my whole life better than I had ever known them before. The fact that we had spent three days in misery, were sore to the bone, and in the middle of nowhere all slid away, and what was left after that was amazing. The fire flickered over our faces and silhouettes, straight through until morning when the sun rose. And the bonds that formed that night were forged there, in that fire, only to go unspoken of as we walked out.

I rarely see any of the people I spent a week on a cliff with anymore, having gone our separate ways. However when I do, the bond is undeniable. I have very little compassion or sentiment regarding people I don’t know well, but this is different. Maybe it is that “prison camp” aspect of things, or the level of relief we all felt that night. But the end of it is simple, as simple as anything can be, because it’s not a matter of “having a bonding experience” that you can look back on fondly, it’s the little things. The people involved. The shape of the rock you sat on all night. The things you said. Because when it’s all over, that’s all you remember anyway.

Wacky Watermelon #1

“Shit.”

“This…is a problem.”

Eight hours before that we had been getting on our nonstop flight to Chicago’s O’Hare airport from London. The flight was delayed two hours, and about halfway across the Atlantic I realized that we only had a three hour layover scheduled in Chicago. I thought maybe I had my times confused or the effects of the night before were still messing with my head. But I had the feeling that I was right. Unfortunately, I was.

“We’re never going to make our flight.”

“Quick. Check out the next flight out of Chicago to Salt Lake. Maybe we can make that one if we end up missing our 8:00 flight.”

…

“Um, there is no other flight.”

“Shit.”

We had just stepped off the flight from London to Chicago. To our best knowledge, we had about 50 minutes to get our luggage, go through U.S. customs, recheck out luggage, go through U.S. security, and make it across the airport to our terminal for our 8:00 p.m. flight. We knew we were in trouble and the hangover from the night before certainly didn’t help. It had been our last night in Dublin and we stupidly took the locals’ advice for what to do that night before our 6:00 a.m. departure back to the states. Go out to a pub. Sounded like a good idea at the time. It was a good idea at the time. It was even a good idea while we were on the Dublin bus headed for the airport (possibly because the alcohol levels in our bloodstream were still favorable). The part where it started to become a not-so-good idea was about halfway across the Atlantic. At least, that’s when it became a bad idea for me. But we both knew the second we stepped into the international terminal in Chicago that we had both fully realized, and paid for, our stupidity the night before.

The second we found each other by the gate, we bolted away from it towards the luggage carousel. We waited 20 minutes for it. My friend looked at me with the normal panicked look that crosses his face whenever things aren’t going to plan, and rather than attempt to calm him down with my normally calculated approach to high stress situations I simply said “we’re in trouble.”

With that public acknowledgement of the obstacles we were facing, we then started running towards the customs counter. I thought to myself “30 minutes…we can make it.” That was until we got to the big room for U.S. customs and found literally hundreds of people in line in front of us. There it was. Defeat. There was no way we were going to get our gate in 30 minutes with the gargantuan line in front of us. I turned on my cell phone to tell my family that we were staying in Chicago when my friend literally tackles me in the line to grab the phone and shut it off.

“What the hell are you doing?!?”

“Shhhhh, those guards are looking over here and you can’t have cell phones on in here!”

“What?”

“That sign over there says you can’t have cell phones on! Now those guards are looking over here and that’s all we need is another delay.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure your football tackle in the middle of this line did absolutely nothing to catch their attention.”

Looking back on the whole thing I’ve found that putting two independent and headstrong people suffering hangovers into a high stress situation that involved a lot of waiting when they’d rather be running can produce a lot of smartass remarks. But thankfully the guards really didn’t care. In the midst of what seemed like an impossible situation, we finally got some hope when a couple more desks opened up and we ran as quickly as we could to get to them. We made it through customs with relative ease, and we had made it to the bag check within five minutes. We checked our bags and were very close to our destination.

When we got through security I looked at my watch and we had 18 minutes left before our gate closed. We ran as fast as we could through the international terminal until we made it to the railcar we had to ride to get to our terminal. We had been doing so well, and we had very little time before our gate closed. I looked at my watch again and we had about 15 minutes left. I began to relax thinking that we were pretty much there. That was until the railcar waited for 10 minutes before taking off. The “oh shit” look was again on our faces as we got off the railcar and started running through the terminal trying to find our gate.

As we raced through the terminal my friend managed to catch a glimpse at a flight status screen and he yelled that our flight gate’s status said “final call” on the board. We ran even harder. As we ran past all kinds of people, desperately trying to avoid collision after collision, we heard the announcement that said the flight gate to our Salt Lake flight had closed and was now departing.

“Damn!”

We stopped running and just looked at each other. We had been beaten. After looking at each other for a few moments we simply shrugged our shoulders and started walking. We had made it to the floor where our gate was and we decided we might as well figure out when the next flight in the morning would leave. Then, we heard it:

“Correction for flight UA 9658. Last call for United Airlines flight 9658 to Salt Lake City. Last call.”

We stopped walking, turned, looked at each other…

“RUN!”

We ran as fast as we could down the hallway towards our gate. Everything was going fine until both of us, after dodging near collisions with the people around us, were set on an inevitable crash course into two security guards that were walking in front of us. Both of us attempted to dodge this collision and ended up clipping the outside shoulders of both guards. Neither of us broke stride during this, and I looked back to see the two guards get slammed into each other as we ran past them.

My friend said, “maybe we should stop!”

“Are you out of your mind? Just run!”

We made it to our gate right when the attendant was moving to close the door. Breathless we threw our tickets at the counter saying “wait, that’s our flight!” She looked quite amused at our obviously panic-stricken disheveled appearance and calmly ran our tickets and let us on board. We stepped onto a full plane of passengers while we were literally gasping for air (I estimate we sprinted about a mile) and the half of the plane literally exploded in laughter. Apparently we were just the funniest thing they had ever seen. Sitting down the flight attendants literally came over to us with bottles of water and we drank them within two minutes. After resting for about five minutes we simply looked at each other and gave each other a high-five.

************

Looking back on it, I have no idea why we felt so victorious making it onto that flight, or why it was so critical that we did make it. It wasn’t like it was the last flight to ever leave Chicago for the rest of our lives. If we hadn’t made it, the worst that would have happened was a night of inconvenience in being put up in a hotel room and shuttled back to the airport the next morning. But from the minute we stepped off the London flight, we were both determined to make it home that night. There was no room for questions about how likely, or how smart, it was for us to try. We just knew that we were going to make it, and the ridiculous amount of effort we exerted in order to do so only goes to show how stubborn the two of us can be if we want to. But more importantly, I think of it as a great memory of what can happen when two likeminded friends set out to do something regardless of the difficulty in doing so, and they go do it. I didn’t question him, he didn’t question me. It’s the best type of friendship.

Strange Strawberry #1

I decided that it was time to have another session with the old man. It had been two weeks since my last one and that was only the second time I was able to visit him. While he is not the father or grandfather of any person within the village, he acts as grandfather to all those who care to listen to what tales he has to share. Despite this, he never appeared to be short of listeners and the private dialogue I had with him the second time gave me more to think about than I would have free time to digest. Because of the little time I had to reflect was reluctant to go back for another lesson prior to really understanding my first. However, since my time was short, I figured I could comprehend everything when space and time would prevent me from learning anymore.

As I approached his humble home, he was slightly bent over feeding the two chickens one of the local farmers must have brought to him. The few grains of feed he tossed on the ground appeared to bring him pleasure as the chickens scrambled for their meal.

I announced my presence with a superficial greeting and his eyes were slowly brought up with the rest of his head to catch my gaze.

“Ahhh…I expected you to come back last week.”
“My project, unfortunately, is taking up more time than I would like.”
“Between us, are you really the one who is hard pressed for time?”
“Have you been busy?”
“One does not need to be busy with research to be short on time.”
“…I see.”

We walked into his house and into the living room with a dusty rug and a couple of slightly damaged, wooden chairs. While the poorly crafted furniture was there for the convenience of guests, I sat on the floor as he urged me to do the first time I visited. He sat down, cross-legged, and asked me if I had match as he reached for his dull, wooden pipe in the middle of the carpet. I handed him the book of matches I had in my pocket as he began to pack the tobacco.

“I was not entirely sure if I was ready to talk to you again as I had not had the proper time to reflect upon what we talked about last time…” I offered as an apology.
“I am not a teacher or a fancy professor – I am just an old man who enjoys conversations with the young ones.”
“Our conversations have more depth than any conversation with a normal friend.”
“Bah, I’m old, I just have more to say.”

He strikes the match and puts it to the pipe as he begins the puff on the pipe. The pungent aroma of cheap tobacco quickly fills the room and we sit in silence of a few moments.

[..]

From our last discussion, I have come across (more aptly, I was introduced to) an “old idea.” I say that it is old, as it is certainly not new and, also, appears as something that has been rejected by modern thought. Though this has been well known throughout the ages to those who are willing to listen their wiser, older generations, individuals from the newer age of humanity tend ignore this fact as nonsense, irrelevant, or the ravings of college based, neo-pagan movements formed around the faint memories of the former generation’s experience in the 1960s. Despite the knowledge being truncated down into something that can be found on a fortune cookie or in some book of pithy sayings to guide your life by, the relevance is not only apt, but needed. This tidbit of knowledge is not a call to action or inaction, nor is it a moral lesson as to how one is to operate in their lives as only the newer religions offer some sort of guidance to behavior that rewards or punishes you. Instead, the knowledge is there as a lesson as a way in which one can interpret the world, and once that simplest of human goals (interpretation) is accomplished, the proper course of action (whatever that may be) can be discerned and accomplished.

The knowledge I gleaned is this: the gods are mischievous.

[..]

Knowing that I was in for an intellectual treat, I waited in anticipation of his voice to break the silence. Grandfather closed his eyes and slowly drew in a plume of smoke. After a moment of hesitation, as if the tobacco was reaching forgotten parts of his body, the smoke flowed over his sun-baked lips and contributed to the developing haze in the room. His voice on the verge of cracking with age as he began his tale:

“It was within the third generation of creation in which we, humans, learned illness…”

Precious Pear #1

The batteries to my CD player died around 2:00.

I ran out of things to say by 2:18.

We should have had dinner an hour ago.

An endless line of farms come and go. Each a little more empty. A little more grey. They all look like the one in the picture, and I start to wonder if she will just have to guess which one it is or if there’s some landmark only she remembers. A tree she climbed or a pet’s grave she dug… I’d be happy to spend the rest of the drive imagining what will set his farm apart, but my body is violently shaking the thoughts out of me. I pull out another “therapy stick”—one of my hippy mother’s attempts to wean me off the Marlboros she found in my sock drawer last month. A wad of leaves, herbs, and vitamin supplements rolled in lumpy rice paper. It tastes like piss and black pepper, but at least it gives me something to do.

Finally we stop and she gets out of the car without even looking at me. I follow. Not because I care really, but it’s hot as hell and she left the windows up.

It looks completely unremarkable.

It looks like a tornado could lift everything up and set it back down at random and nobody would be the wiser.

It looks just like what someone who’d never been to North Dakota would expect.

But she sees something else.

Tears are rolling down Mom’s face and the fading sunset makes her hair glow.

I should hold her hand.

I should tell her how beautiful she looks right now.

But it all feels too sentimental, so I inhale another cloud of spicy urine and stay behind her. She’s still quietly sobbing and smiling and thinking and just for a second I feel embarrassed. Then empty. Then jealous. And I wonder why I can’t make myself feel things the way everyone else does. I imagine crying in front of my parents’ house fifty years from now and accidentally laugh out loud.

She must have heard, because she walked back to the car and started it without waiting for me.

Nobody ever remembers what it’s like to be 16.

Pleasant Plum #1

“I love my boyfriend, I love my boyfriend, I will not break up with him!" I had to tell myself over and over again, as I drove his unconscious form home from the butt-fuck no where of western Colorado. It was somewhere between two and three am- I couldn’t tell because my vision was going. It had been a very long day-as pulling a tick off your body at 3 in morning would seemingly foreshadow. I had choosen to ignore my unpleasant visitor and hope for the best. I was wrong.

Going to Clark College was one of the best decisions of my life. Beautiful mountains, lakes and an awesome Anthropology program. There I met “Mike”. My Mid-West sensibilities said no. The nascent Coloradoan said yes. Mike was grungy, always a had a fresh cut somewhere, and honestly smelled sometimes; but Mike was the smartest, most amazing person I knew.

To cement our new found relationship, Mike wanted to show me why he was always returning from the weekends openly bleeding or in stitches. He wanted me to go with a him to a “Mountain Bike Ride”. Sure why not? I fondly remembered the rides my granddaddy and I went for in Iowa.

The only catch was that he wanted me to ride too. I could do that I guess?!

Camping really wasn’t an issue, after all-I had survived my share of Girl Scout camp outs. The tick was a quiet reminder of why I was no longer a Biology major. Mike liked endurance rides, so he’d be tackling the 60 miles course. I’d entered the women’s beginner race, 20 miles of what was billed in the pamphlet as “easy terrain”.

Grabbing my Schwinn and my tennis shoes, I shook off my disturbing night’s sleep and soaked in the beautiful mountain side. Gorgeous. The stillness and pristine silence were poetic. Light danced by the near by lake, and you could here the faint rustle of the creatures.

The women’s race was the last to start, so I saw my honey enter his other personality.

Seemingly feral men with gnarly facial hair were lined up in tight jagged lines. Black, tight bicycle shorts with a psycadelic jerseys-showed of their tone butts. Gear that seemed to come straight out of a Star-Trek episode were strapped to themselves and their bike frames. It was a mass of raw humanity, hyped up by Gatorade, Red Bull, and perhaps the occasional illicit drug. On the Go! horn, a stampede of gears, wheels and men took off down hill.

More than slightly shaken by this experience, I waited until my turn. I grouped up with the other women. They were hippies-unshaved legs, bicycle shorts and the distinct smell of sunscreen mixed with last night’s flavor of incense. My group was significantly less, so I didn’t have to be worried about the start of the stampede. At the Go! Horn, I told myself: you don’t have to win this, just do it and soon you’ll be back.

Um... I wasn’t a cyclist. Mile five -my calves hurting. Mile ten,-my calves were screeching for me to stop. The scene went by too slowly and yet too fast for me to take everything in. The fresh mountain air I was so enamored with this morning seemed like mace in my lungs. Did I mention I wasn’t used to the altitude?

After a while my body moved into a vague sort of numbness. It was a relief; and it seemed I saw the mountain for the first time, the active, moving, changing dynamic that was the trees and the creatures who call the mountainside home. I was no longer the objective observer I was this morning. I was a part of it, struggling against the mountain grade, trying to survive for one more petal stroke. A living creature, striving.

I finished finally, last, with an abysmal time. Waiting for Mike to complete his circuits, I could vaguely see his blurry “Greatful Dead” Jersey as he whizzed by. I sat down with one of the other ladies who had waved as she past me during the race. We split some of the most excellent mirco-brews between us. I definitely wasn’t in Iowa.

Mike finished exhausted, two hours after everybody else. He had gotten lost when he followed what he thought was a “trail”. I dragged his sorry ass, bleeding from multiple scratches to the truck and had to pack up by myself, as he whimpered for his favorite beer.

Driving home there was stone silence. Mike seemed to be catatonic after the mixture of exhaustion and too many beers. As the loyal girlfriend, I drove us home.

At least, I was the loyal girlfriend until we got back.

After then was another matter.

But I was definitely going to purchase some Lycra bike shorts.

Happy Honeydew #1

Sixty miles outside of Deming, New Mexico Lacey saw a silver minivan on fire. For a quarter of a mile she was certain that the setting southwestern sun was blinding her through a tree on the highway, but once she got closer there was no mistaking the sparkling silver mass on the shoulder of the road, and she knew that her husband saw it too by the way he slowed to fifty and turned off the radio, making the U-Haul clunking behind them audible once more.

“Do you see anybody standing near it”, she asked him, finding his hand that lay on the armrest.

“Sure don’t” Sean replied, turning his right hand over to interlock their fingers.

Outside of the speeding ticket they got in Las Cruces, this was the most eventful thing to happen on the Johnson’s relocation to Phoenix from Houston.

“I wonder how it happened” she mused, turning her head back to face the road and flipping the radio back on.

Sean placed more weight on the pedal, and relaxed after the needle on the speedometer hit seventy.

“Could have been a number of things”, Sean said as he sat up and took his hand out from under hers to place both his hands on the wheel, “There are so many things that can go wrong with a car.”

After pausing long enough to let her husband continue if he felt, Lacey crossed her arms and muttered, “How scary.”

***

Thirty minutes later the Johnson’s were passing another minivan, red this time that was ambling along at the speed limit. Lacey caught a glimpse of the Hispanic mother driving the vehicle, trying to settle her three children in the back seats.

Children were part of the reason that Sean and Lacey decided to leave Houston. After the second miscarriage their fertility doctor who had a handsome face and big sad blue eyes informed Lacey that she was infertile and to attempt to have a child now would be suicide. Eventually it became too awkward and depressing to spend time with all of their friends with small bundles of joy and the only reasonable thing left to do was to move.

Lacey unbuckled her seatbelt and lifted the armrest that separated her from her husband. He took his right hand off the steering wheel and grabbed her in by the shoulders.

As she was resting on Sean she thought about the silver minivan.

“Do you suppose we should have stopped”, she asked while she played with her wedding ring.

Sean sighed and responded, “I thought you said you could hold it.”

Lacey reached up to slap him with the back of her hand on his shoulder, “Not that” she said, “I mean the minivan. The one on fire.”

After a minute he said, “It’s too late now.”

***

They spent the night in an Econolodge in Deming.

After her husband had gone to sleep, a fact that she confirmed by his light snoring, Lacey turned on the TV. The remote was a little confusing but she managed to find a local news report.

It was a long habit from her childhood years, but Lacey could never get to sleep without the television on. The local news, which tended to be monotone and unimportant, had a special way of lulling her.

After an especially dull report on the tight election for school board president the anchor faced a different camera. The picture in the corner was the same image that Lacey had seen several hours earlier, except that this time the fire from the van was contrast against the dark New Mexico night and there were two police cars and a fire truck surrounding it. Lacey moved to wake her husband, but hesitate as the anchor began talking.

“A devastating lesson to those who don’t pay attention to engine trouble came in the form of a tragic accident an hour outside of our town”, the newsman reported with a blank stare, “Sometime in the afternoon a young woman’s engine overheated. Fire officials suspect that she worked it too hard and pulled over after it was too late.”

Lacey was making a mental note to ask Sean if he was making sure not to overwork the engine of their truck in the morning when the reporter continued talking.

“She had been five months pregnant”, he concluded before shuffling his papers to face a different camera.

Lacey found the remote and turned the TV off in the middle of the weatherman’s forecast of light showers for Saturday.

Brash Blackberry #1

Alex and I were standing on a large stretch of concrete in the middle of Avenida 9 de Julio in Buenos Aires. It was only day two of our week in Argentina, and our night couldn’t have been any better. I could see the wind blowing lightly through Alex’s heavy red hair under the light of streetlamps, and the temperature must have been close to 65° F. The perfect weather for walking around a city you’ve never imagined seeing.

Earlier in the evening, we saw the Buenos Aires Symphony from the cheapest seats in the house. We didn’t give a fuck that we couldn’t see the conductor waving his wand. Our philosophy had always been, “It’s about the music, not the view.”

When we stepped out of the Teatro Colón, we went for some food at a local restaurant because we hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Nothing hits the spot like ice cream sundaes and empanadas after a wonderful orchestral performance.

When we finished, we opted to cross the Avenida 9 de Julio, widely considered one of the most dangerous streets in the world. There are eight lanes on each side, and the only safe time to cross is when the lights give you permission. We had to cross to get back to our hostel. When the light changed, it granted us its blessing, like a god looking over his servants. We crossed to the middle.

There we were, the literal middle of the road. I took in the few sights around me. On one side of the street, I could see the bright lights of two McDonalds’ stores and a Burger King, all reminders of American consumerism we couldn’t escape. The other side was dark and unfriendly, seemingly not welcome to the American visitors who wanted to enter in its abyss.

At this point, I became mesmerized by everything around me – the smells of burning meat, car smog clogging my lungs and burning my nostrils, stars in the sky, the lights of American businesses, and darkness hiding the impoverished parts of the city. I needed release, and I couldn’t take it any longer. I wanted to do something to express the conglomeration of feelings that swirled in front of my eyes and in my heart.

I stepped into the street. I was wearing black, a perfect target for icy Argentine man who never liked Americans in the first place. I could see the cars coming for me as I stood three lanes from the middle. I was alive again. I threw my camera to Alex who stood perplexed, worried and safe in the middle.

The moment was ripe for a picture. Me dodging cars on the most dangerous street I would ever be on. I was a pretentious American prick who didn’t know Spanish or how to cope with his emotions, but I didn’t care. Alex snapped two photos and told me to get my ass back to the middle. I followed his orders because I didn’t feel like dying yet - I was only 20 and still had more dangerous roads to find.

Out of all the days we had in Buenos Aires, I remember this night the best. Really, it was a simple night of fun, devoid of meaningless sex and alcohol – two things I grasp to too often. It surprises me to think that the most simplistic night there was the paramount evening of the trip. I once read, “It's the simple things in life that are the most extraordinary.” And if we really do remember the most extraordinary things, then my experience only tells him that this quote should command all the actions of my life.

Cheery Cantaloupe #1

I'm still not sure exactly what made me say yes. Perhaps I'm an idiot, maybe I want to die, or perhaps I had a moment of temporary insanity...either way, I said 'Yes' when my boyfriend asked me if I wanted the chance to go white water rafting for free. A few of his friends had paid and backed out, so me and his father; (a RATHER large man, might I add), filled in the missing spaces.

So, we have this long arse drive ahead of us, not to mention this drive just happens to be at 6:00 in the A.M. (!!!!) and most of us are half-awake staring at the trees flying past in the window. That's because there's not much else to look at on our way out to whothehellknowswhere georgia. As we come up with about 10 minutes to, we pass a construction site with a port-a-potty spray-painted with one of the most truthful and deep phrases I think I may ever come across, especially at that time of the morning...in squished, black letters, barely fitting on the door: 'SHIT HAPPENS.' I think that pretty much sums up the whole world, in a nutshell...

Back to the trip, we arrive somewhere in between the buttcrack and the butthole of dawn, learn some safety precautions, and are on our way to the water; the men carrying the raft over their heads, me, stumbling along with all the oars. I am obviously too short and much too weak to be here. Once we get in the water, we meet our guide, who is one with the earth, if you know what I'm getting at. Our friend chris puts his smokes and other 'neccessities' in a water-proof bag, and when asked what it contains, he sarcastically remarks, "some smokes, chew, crack, doobage... you know." [remember this kids, its important].

Pretty soon we're learning and having a good time, my goal being to stay in the boat, so far so good. My boyfriend and his dad each take each other out one time, and we break for lunch. Potty time in the trees, which is not my favorite, because I have a bladder the size of a piece of pocket lint. No matter. Our guide had decided to 'get creative' with his lunch, since they eat the same offerings everyday...so he makes a pita full of peanut butter and all the mnms... we learned about sharing that day.

At night we sit by the fire, have some din-din and some laughs, and my boyfriend's father goes to bed. Slyly, our leader takes my boyfriend aside and asks him if he'd like some 'doobage.' He declines, and I still think doobage is the silliest word ever. Besides maybe beaver, but that's a whole nother story in and of itself...mooooving a long.

Next day is a whole new day, new leader for higher waters (it rained a buttload the night before.) I just want to let you know at this time that the leader sits on the back of the raft, my boyfriend and chris on one side, and me and the dad on the other side. Our weights DO NOT even out. So our side of the boat is always on the verge of suicide.

So we're holding on for dear life (by "we" I mean ME) over each and every rapid, paddling our little hearts out, and learning all about nature and the kind of power that water really has, especially when it is going over rocks and deep crevices. Anyway, my boyfriend is busy trying to get everything in picture form, while the rest of us are...ahem...paddling!!! And when we go over this huge fall my side of the raft turns, runs over a huge rock (ouch! my arse!!!) which pops me up like a pop-corn kernel and I, like the linebacker I am destined to be, take out Chris with me. I am gurgling freezing water with paddle still in hand, FREAK OUT TIME! If I don't get back in the boat quickly I could get pulled in! F*** the paddle! Im climbing the slippery sides, reaching for arms, when in all reality, I am beaming lazers at my boyfriend's dad for being a lump. I love that lump, just not when it threatens my life!

So we finish the day, everyone is burned and beautiful, we have learned about nature and ourselves. We have also learned a little bit about proportions in the boat, and how that equates to small people being tossed out like trash that they are, but hey, trash needs love too. Someone might think I'm treasure over here, huh!

So even though the one thing I was terrified of, did indeed happen, I was kind of glad in the end, because I made it through it, and it made me realize that its not the end of the world if you fall out of a raft, off a bike, or get in a car-wreck........puff puff pass?

Cool Coconut #1

The plane ride to JFK was long. Julie was afraid to use the bathroom in the plane, not because she thought she would get sucked in or because she wasn’t sure just what happened to the … waste… after the toilet was flushed. Mostly she didn’t want to bother anyone to step over them to the hall or wait when she got there and she just knew that as soon as she got in the tiny room the pilot would turn on the ‘fasten seatbelt’ light.

To take her mind off the pressure in her bladder she looked around the plane. Julie had requested a window seat; she liked to watch the patchwork of farms and rivers the Midwest does best sprawled out below. She sat in awe when the plane flew over the larger bodies of water, not much of that stuff in Nebraska. To her left sat a group of Girl Scouts. She was traveling with them and, though she was embarrassed to tell her friends she was still in the group, she was excited they afforded her the chance to see The Big City (she never wanted to see a box of Thin Mints again).

Periodically the pilot would come over the loud speaker and announce their altitude, weather conditions, and the area they seemed to float slowly above. As they neared JFK, Julie committed herself to staring out the window again, to note the terrain and identify landmarks she had seen in movies and guidebooks. They must have circled the city for 45 minutes so there was no loss for time. Empire State Building… check… World Trade Center… check… Central Park… check… and to her right the Atlantic Ocean spread endless across the horizon. Julie couldn’t help but wonder how many bodies were dumped in the East River and if the Mob really did that sort of thing and if she would see any Mobsters and if she would even know if she did!

In the last five minutes of their long circle, Julie thought of home. The skylines there were usually broken only by grain elevators, water towers, and Wal-Marts. As Julie stared over the scenery she wondered where all the grain elevators were in New York. She saw none and was unable to conjure an image of one that made sense at all. They don’t just pop up next to Macy’s. Then she felt dumb; of course there weren’t any grain elevators here. They don’t farm in downtown Manhattan. At least not since the going rate for a future Metropolis was about $24 in beads.