The Joke’s on Me #4

They say keep an eye on the sky . . .

And I say you better keep an eye on it and not just your peach pizza.

Because if you keep an eye only on your peach pizza, the ramifications of what could happen next can be devastating.

It all went down something like this.

Back in March of this year, the sweet daughter seemed in the throes of decision making.  She really, really liked it where she was teaching school in South Dakota.  She had good friends, she had good co-teachers, and, of course, she had good wood fired pizza.

But, she had been involved in the school system for long enough that it felt like it was time for a break.  She said what she would really like was a secretarial job at one of the local businesses just outside of town.  She implored of the crusty old man to check it out for her.

As luck would have it, they had a position exactly like she wanted, that they had just filled.  Now she was on the fence.  Come home with no bird in the bush or stay there with a bird in hand.

The crusty old man said come home, possibly for selfish reasons, that something was bound to happen that would be exactly what she wanted.

She came home. 

And nothing turned up. 

She started taking the corral down.  It was hot, back breaking work, and the telehandler kept dying on her.

The crusty old man suddenly had inspiration. 

Maybe the drugstore would have a position. 

So, he stopped in there one day, and, of all things, they were in the process of interviewing for a position. 

The sweet daughter quickly filled out her application and submitted it. 

They said they would let her know the next morning. 

The next morning, they called her to say, “Sorry, but you just missed it.  The one before you decided to take the job.”

Wearisome days followed.

For the crusty old man, that is.

Many doleful comments were heard that indicated there would never be a job.

Of course, experience spoke reassuringly and calmly in the midst of these minor tantrums, saying that what will be will be, and that all things would work out in the end.

And then, the crusty old man had another inspiration.

He messaged the fertilizer store just a half mile south of his place and explained his daughter’s wishes.

And, as luck would have it, they were interviewing that very day for a position that involved secretarial work.

Except this time, the sweet daughter was afraid.  Because there were lots of men there, and she didn’t think she would know how to do the job.

She sat still at the dinner table, wasting long minutes when she could have been at the neighbors, showing a good character by arriving early for her interview.

She really did look scared.

But, she eventually did the right thing and got herself over there.

And, they said they had just interviewed someone that morning for the job.  They said they would let her know the next morning.  She figured all bets were off.

The next morning brought tidings of joy; she had been hired.

At first, she thought it was just like she feared, that it would be a daunting job.

But a few days and weeks later, she came home with smiles and chuckles about the day’s happenings and mentioned how she really liked this job.

Until we had a beautiful 70 some degree day with the bluest sky and the greenest, softest grass.

And then we heard complaints about going back to work after her time at the dinner table was finished.

Whereupon, the crusty old man began to enumerate in, perhaps, the tenderest of mocking tones, the journey thus traveled to where she was. 

All this done while he was serving himself one of Mama J’s dulcetly good pieces of peach pizza.

And then it all went down. 

Literally.

From a long way away, or so it seemed, the crusty old man heard himself gasp and sputter with a sharp intake of air.   

He heard himself trying to speak a word, any word for that matter to maintain his sobriety and position of leadership among the females in his house.

From that same distant place he heard himself stutter, “It’s in my shorts!  It’s running down my legs!”

And as he began to come back to, and as discernment made its way back into his addled mind, he realized the sweet daughter had aimed her full glass of ice cubes and water directly into the gaping v of the crusty old man’s shirt, made larger and an easier target since he had failed to button the top button that morning. 

This was no spring chicken of a shower.  No.  It was a stormy, wind laced deluge.

It was a sad, soaking trail he left as he tried to ease out from the table to change his clothes, hoping not many more icy spots would come in contact with his already hypothermic skin and state of being lest it render him senseless and paralyzed at the feet of the women folk who were laughing so hard that no sound whatsoever came from their parted lips.

Who Are You?

Psalms 55:13

“Who are you, really?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, one place it says I need to fear you, and do everything you tell me to do.  Are you a dictator?”

“Go on.”

Okay, I will.  Another place it says I should honor you.  Like you are a President or King or something.”

“And?”

“Well, to my way of thinking you could be a dictator and exact both fear and honor, or you could be a King and exact the same.  It makes a huge difference how I think about you, if you are a dictator or King.”

“Like?”

“If you are a dictator, then I’m going to be scared of you the whole time.  I’ll be afraid you’ll be out spying on me to make sure I’m doing things like you want them done.  It’d be a lot the same if you were a King, but then I think I’d dare to hope you might give good things to those under you once in a while.  That is, unless you turned into a dictator from being a King.  It happens.”

“Okay, what else?”

“It says I should love you.”

“What’s so hard about that?”

“I don’t know what kind of love you want.  Love that follows you around like a lost puppy?  Love like I feel for my wife?  Tough love?  Permissive love?  I don’t think you could be a wicked King and get me to love you, nor a dictator.  It begs the question, again, who are you?”

“Anything else?”

“Well, I read that you got angry once.  Not sure I can understand that one, because in other places it says you are kind and compassionate.  I’m afraid if you got angry at me, it would cancel out any love and kindness you had shown previously.

What about the place where it says you chasten those who follow you?  Am I given to understand that I’m always going to be jumpy around you?  Not knowing what side of you I’ll see next?”

“Anything more, or are you done?”

“Well, there might be more, but I’ll let that suffice for now.”

“Okay.  I must say you have made it complicated for yourself.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s so simple.  I wish you wouldn’t muddle it up so.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You are fine.  That’s to be expected with the limitations of your humanness. 

How about we take a little ride in your truck together.”

“Sure.  You want to drive?”

“No, I’ll ride.”

“Well, it’s been several miles.  Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“I’m enjoying the beautiful day.  I’m enjoying you.”

“You seem so relaxed.”

“Sure.  If you keep it simple, you will be also.”

“So . . .?”

“This is who I am.  I am just like you.  Sometimes people fear you.  Sometimes they really love you for what you do.  Sometimes you get angry.  Sometimes they honor you.  But really, it’s more than that. 

I am your equal. 

I am your best friend, your companion. 

And maybe that’s why it hurts me just as badly as it hurts you when we need to talk things out and make amends.”

“So, what about all the other titles?”

“You were the one who coined those, not me.”

“Oh.”

The Joke’s on Me #3

I’ve enjoyed singing, both the listening and participation thereof, for the better part of my life.

Well, there was a time there when I didn’t quite so much.

People got a little quiet when they sang with me and then when the truth was out, they said I was a little ‘off tune.’

Which seemed weird to me, because I thought I sounded okay.  At least to myself.

So, I asked them which way I was off, and they told me I was down just a little bit.

I worked with myself and couldn’t seem to fix the problem.

Until one day I decided I’d try singing a half step up from what sounded right.

And then they were all smiles.

Me, not so much.

Because it was hard singing a half step off, but if that’s what they wanted, I could do it for them I figured.

And eventually, I didn’t notice so much when I was singing a half step up from where I thought it should be.

And, just as eventually, they stopped saying I was off.  Whether they stopped out of kindness or despair, I guess I’ll never know.

I started really enjoying singing, learning new songs, and trying, in a redneck sort of way, to improve on what the author had done originally. 

Which was stupid.  The improving part of it, that is.

Anyway, I’ve done enough singing both to myself and with groups through the years, that I began to think I had finally mastered the art, at least somewhat.

I was fairly confident when asked to sing in a group, rarely suffering from nerves.

I new my limits. 

Absolutely no duets of any kind. 

Those didn’t work. 

I could hear myself too much I guess, and it became a vicious cycle where I toggled between okay, not okay, nerves, no nerves.

I enjoyed leading congregational singing, and I enjoyed quartets.  I probably enjoyed singing with my children the most.

So, not to appear self-righteous or anything, it did seem like it was working for me.

Until one day.  My nephew from down south called me up and asked if I could lead one of the congregational songs on his wedding. It’s true, I hadn’t done this one yet, but it didn’t seem like it would be so very different from the hundred or so other congregational songs I had led.

Except it was different.

I really don’t know what was so different, but I had a near meltdown because of nerves during that song. 

I couldn’t figure it out.  Not at all.

I decided to wait, and if I was asked to lead another congregational song at a wedding again, I’d see if I could pinpoint what was going on. 

The only thing I pinpointed was that I had the same reaction again.

I had pretty much decided to decline all future wedding engagements when a close family friend called to say she was getting married, and, could I lead the opening song at her wedding?

Of course, my pride got in the way, and I told her I’d be honored to lead that song for her.

I had a special seat near the front. 

I practically knew the song I was to lead by heart.

I had a case of nerves.

And that

And even more so when I sat down and realized I had failed to pick up a card telling me after what part I was to lead this song.

But there was a card on the bench beside me that the guy sitting by me had grabbed and I quickly memorized where I was at before he picked it up and put it in the songbook rack.

My turn soon came, and I got myself up and over to the pulpit.

Of course I shook.

Of course my vision blurred.

Of course, of course.

Karma was alive and well that morning, reminding me of my shortsighted vision when I accepted this position.

But I got through the song okay, and as I sat back down, I thought maybe I was gaining on this thing and might soon have it in the bag, nerves and all.

None of us noticed much for a little, until the preacher got up and welcomed everyone and made a few announcements.

And then we all noticed something. 

And it got really quiet as we noticed it.

Because right then was where I was supposed to lead that opening song.

The preachers looked at me, and I looked at them.

We looked down a little and then looked back at each other.

We smiled uneasily at one another, but the smiles did nothing to mitigate the silence.

I seriously considered getting back up and leading another song.  One flashed in my mind that I could lead, but I seemed paralyzed and couldn’t for the life of me get myself up there.

Eventually the preacher figured he would need to have his opening, despite the fact that he didn’t have his usual time to finalize the details of it during the opening song.

The temperature went soaring up in the area I sat, and I couldn’t seem to make myself comfortable for the rest of the service, neither did I know where to rest my eyes. 

Even the benches seemed to smirk at me, and the floor heaved with laughter, so much so that I didn’t know if I was levitating or not.

The bride to be looked over at me and offered a sweet smile, which seemed way more than I deserved.

Not sure how many years ago that’s been, but that was the last opening song at a wedding I have led, and I intend to make sure it stays that way.

I sure wouldn’t want to inconvenience the preachers again.

Written at The Bake Shoppe

Five Dollar Bill

Every now and again, I get some royalty money.

Sometimes it’s more, sometimes less.

Regardless of the amount, I take fifty dollars out of it in cash.

And, I make sure to ask the bank cashier to make it in five dollar bills.

Because I have a little rule about my billfold.

Of course, all rules about my billfold are subject to my good wife’s need to reach into it once in a while.

My little rule is simple.

If it’s a five-dollar bill, whether from the royalty or from change out of a larger bill, it goes to anybody holding a cardboard sign.

I guess you could say it has become a highlight for me.

By now, I recognize some of the folks in our local shopping town.

There’s one guy who always seems a little discouraged with life.  I never talk to him much because where he stands is often a busy intersection and there are usually some waiting behind me to get on their way.  He holds a sign that says he is homeless, and he looks it.  His voice is about as thin as he is.  He moves slowly, and sometimes I wonder if he moves slowly because he is too discouraged to move any faster.

There is a Spanish lady who looks so sad.  Her sign says she needs money for her children.  She can hardly make eye contact when we have our two second meeting.  I don’t believe she has a husband anymore.  I wonder how hard it must be for her; she barely speaks English.  I probably would have had a different attitude towards immigrants before I went to Germany.  It was while there I realized I had a whole lot more to learn than the language if I was going to live there.  The culture looked like it could take years to learn, and, just because you learned it, didn’t mean you would like it.  I felt especially bad for her one day, when I saw the man I’m going to write about next giving her a real chewing out for where she was standing.  Seems he thought she was too close to where he was, and it was robbing him of some proceeds.  I saw her submissively and quietly move farther up the street. 

I went out of my way that day to give her my five-dollar bill.

This next man is quite the codger.  He always looks sharp and used to look fairly buff too, with bulging biceps and ripped abs.  He used to, and still does, wear a tight t shirt and fedora hat, clothes clean and neat.  Although lately his t shirt has changed places where it is tight.  And his hound dog is always nicely groomed, and well mannered.  Really, it wouldn’t surprise me at all to see a stogie angled sideways out of his mouth.  The man that is, but it wouldn’t look bad in the dogs mouth either.

I kept being intrigued by him, and suddenly one day the light bulb that is slow to light in my mind clicked on. 

He was the guy I picked up about three years ago on my way to the cattle sale at Pratt.  I stopped by and asked where he wanted a lift to.  He said as far as I could take him.  I said I could drop him off at the intersection by Walmart in Pratt if he wanted.  He said sure, but I asked him if he was certain, since he was walking west, and my journey took me east.  He said it was fine, he had just come from Medicine Lodge, and there were nice people there, he could go back before making his way on to California. 

He made a little place for his dog in the footwell of my truck and then, it was time to convert me to the seven principles of Christianity. 

I wish I had taken notes.  His thesis was interesting, if anything but very disjointed.

I should ask him sometime if he ever made it to California.

There’s the ancient man who sits in front of an Asian/Spanish market that is quiet until I get close.  Then he lifts his harmonica with trembling hands and plays a quiet, lilting tune.  I don’t think his hands tremble from substance abuse.  I see a hard-working immigrant gentleman who probably doesn’t have connections anymore in this world, and who, I hope, when the time comes, will have a home in a nice place for senior living. 

He definitely deserves it.

There’s an unkempt and dirty fellow once in a while that seems a little too gruff and grabby, but one never knows what his life is.  I suspicion if he had a nice woman like those of my household, he would be a very different person.

Then there’s the Vietnam war veteran.  After reading some of the atrocities this good country put those men through, my mind almost stops, and I wonder how much terror he still lives with today.

One thing though, is common among them all.  Even the gruff and grabby fellow.

They all say, “God Bless You.”

And I never can figure that out. 

Because it seems like it should be the other way around.

God has already blessed me, far beyond what I deserve.

And it seems like their lives could use the enrichment of his blessings so much more than mine.

So, I say “God Bless You” back to them, and I try my very best to say it in a way that I hope takes a little bit of that ache that each of them lives with away.

End of an Era

Thirty-two years ago, probably sometime last month, I stepped into the local full-service filling station for my first day of work.

Yes, you read right. 

Full-Service Filling Station.

Thirty-two years ago, was a different era entirely.

We weren’t so very far removed from being able to dial the last four digits to reach someone local on the rotary dial telephone.

And, if you stood near enough to the phone, while it was still on the hook, and listened closely, you would hear a tink sound.  I say tink, because to me it sounded like a cross between a click and a ting. 

If a person was really careful, they could gently lift the receiver, holding the hang up button down until you had the receiver up by your ear, and then, just as gently let the hang up button up, and, viola!, you were listening in to the 4 or so others who were hooked in to your line. 

Of course, we all got savvy to that little click on the other end that told of someone picking up and we’d stop to say, “Did someone just pick up?”  Whereupon there was a guilty silence and then the hang up click could be heard.  On the other hand, that little trick was somewhat important, because when the line was busy, no one else could make a call until the two people having their long afternoon chat got finished, and, sometimes, if they heard that click enough times, it would urge them to hang up.

Cordless phones house phones, forget cordless phones in your pocket, hadn’t made an appearance yet.  If you made a call, you stayed anchored nearby the earpiece and base linked by a three-foot cord, unless, of course, you had extra funds and then you had a ten foot cord.  That cord served a good purpose.  It was the precursor to the fidget spinner long before its time.  You could sit there and unwind and wind back up the spiral for as long as the conversation carried.

You still saw the occasional two-banger tractor working away out in the fields.

Cabless tractors were common, and the odd cabless combine was still around.  The only way to pull a straight furrow was to have it in you to begin with.  All the rest of us suffered snide remarks about how much more crop we had in our fields because of the meandering rows.

Center pivots were a novelty that only the wealthy could afford.  Almost everyone had little tablets on our pickup dashes with numbers printed on them that we could circle when we walked rows to show which rows didn’t have water while the rest had water that had made it down to the bottom end of the field with the flood irrigation we used.

We didn’t know the technicalities of cancer; only knew it was bad.  We didn’t connect it to swimming in mucky, smelling like chemical tail water pits.

The railroad track through town was still new enough, straight enough, and smooth enough, that if you didn’t watch for when the train came through, it could be a real menace if you happened to be in the middle of the track.  Because the train ran fast back then.

And, that Santa Fe still pulled a legit caboose that did legit work.

If you were lucky, you still sighted the occasional Hoozhalicht, or rabbit light, a left-over phenomenon from the dust bowl years.

The only blinking lights were the occasional radio tower.  The twinkle down low that told of running irrigation was still some years away.

We told the weather by looking out southwest about eight miles and when the shed out there disappeared, we figured there was a good chance we’d get rain.

But I must stop, or I may be found guilty of George Santayana’s “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it too.”

So, let’s get back to the full-service filling station, owned by Evan, and named, Evan’s Tire and Oil, or, ET&O by those of us who worked there.

It was a place where you listened for the ding of the air gong which signaled that a car had rolled up for gas.  We attendants pumped the gas for them, checked their oil, washed their windshield, and, if they wished, checked their tire pressure.

It was a place where you got your windows cleaned and the interior of your car vacuumed when you had it serviced.

It was a place where we went to pick up red Lincoln town cars from beautiful, older, rich ladies for a hand wash.

And, in that car particularly, there were rows and rows of cassette tapes, never mind CD’s or downloadable mp3 files, with Vince Gill, Alan Jackson, or Patty Loveless to croon you company if you thought you could sneak it off.

We weren’t so concerned about safety there. 

Of course we were, but not to the extent we are today.  If we had been, we wouldn’t have worked under that air powered, no protection stops at all, vehicle lift that always twisted a bit clockwise when it got to the top.  Neither would we have dared each other to see how long beyond the top of that cylinder we held the control lever to see how much the car bounced at the top of its travel.

It was also a place where I first learned how to count change.  Because the first time I tried to, I realized I knew nothing whatsoever about it.

It was a place from which I came home in the evening with greasy hair from the particulates that the oil burner heater put into the air inside that building.

It was the place where I puked up the contents of my first McDonalds hamburger into the wash pit.  I guess one could call that an emergency pit stop.

It was also a place of serious conversation, and not so serious but something stopping just short of antagonistic conversation with the salty bookkeeper.

It was a workplace to an employee, (not me) who was deathly afraid of wasps and who ran at an all-time record to get away from such small insects.

It was witness to almost daily squirt bottle water fights and red rag snaps that left four-hour welts.

It was the place where I learned to tear down a truck tire using only a sledgehammer and tire irons, and, if normal procedures didn’t work to bead that tire back up, then a good whoop of ether squirted into the tire at the end of a lighted match would normally get the job done.

And now, after thirty-two years, I find myself the owner of that place.

And when I walked into it to look things over for the first time, I was sixteen years old right away.

Because nothing had changed. 

The oil burner still hung in the southwest corner.

The same cash register that I learned to count change on was still there.

The same mirror I looked back at myself from to see a rather pale face after that puking episode was still on the wall.

The same lift, the same shelves, the same bulk oil building outside.

The same tire racks, and even a few leftover innertubes still lay on the shelves.

The same behemoth forced air unit for the office, the same counter, less the candy in the glass fronted shelves.

Even the same sounds and the same smell.

Except, it couldn’t be used for us as it was originally.

So, we set about gutting it to repurpose it for a new use as an electrical inventory warehouse/office building.

All the shelves came down. 

The oil burner got tossed.  (it took a skid steer to man handle it)

Conduit was ripped from the walls and ceiling.

Lights and ceiling fans were discarded.

Paint is being removed in a slow process that peels back the layers of history, one oil-based coat at a time.

The two bathrooms are no more.

The cinder block wall at the back of the original office has gone to smash.

The mirror I looked in and sink I washed my hands in were spirited away to the trash bin.

The candy counter is gone; a different cabinet and flooring is waiting to be installed.

And I thought I was holding up pretty well, and staying fairly enthused with the vision of the new project.

Until I had the boys unbolt the arms and base from the lift.

And even then, it really didn’t get me.

Until I had that car lift loaded in the skid steer bucket, and I looked down. 

There, I saw the form of what seemed to be an innocent one who had done his duty, and now lay in quiet repose, its arms and legs sagging in slumber.

And, I almost got me a little tear in my eye.

Written in Patrick Dugan’s, while I shared a coffee with Mama J.

P.S. Towards the end of this month marks three years I have met with you here. 

I have enjoyed it.

The Joke’s on Me #2

I had an epiphany the other day.

And since I don’t get those so very often, I figured I’d better jump on this one before it got away.

These dogs around here really suffer.

At least someone thinks they do.

Last couple of years we’ve tried to make do with a too small window unit in a too big garden shed.

I’m not sure if it was better or worse in there for those dogs.

By summer’s end we practically had to drag them over there, kicking and screaming as it were.

I was doodling around in the garage, messing with wire spools and pieces of wood that I attempted to draw on.

It was the tail end of spring, and I realized this cool weather was soon going to go away for good when I flashed with the idea.

Why not get a window unit, sized correctly this time, for the garage. 

The dogs sleep in there at night, when it is cool enough, that is.

I looked over to my right, and saw the exact spot it would fit in.  Just above the counter and off to the side.  I was sure it wouldn’t take up too much space.

I consulted the big box store websites and when the straws were all down and one drawn, I got ready to make my way over to Sutherlands.

Before I did, though, I told the boys that the next day they should keep one of the trailers in the yard, so they had tools to put this unit in for me.

“What unit?” They asked.

“The one I’m going to get from Sutherlands.”

“What kind is it?”

“One that blows cold air.”

“Is it a window unit?”

“Why not?”

“No way.  You need to go with a split unit.”

“Hardly.  They cost 2,000 bucks.  This one is 700.”

“Doesn’t matter.  You need to go with a split unit.”

“No.  I need airflow, and those don’t have it like I want it.”

I saw the vote they took between themselves, even though they never said anything out loud, and I saw that it fell in favor of a split unit.

But, having made my mind up, and considering it was my money, I got myself on the way to Sutherlands at the next available opportunity.

Those guys were good to me and went about installing my window unit without too much grumbling. 

They did a really neat job too, which is fairly normal for them.

And I soon had myself sitting in front of ice-cold air.  So cold that I finally had to redirect the vents so not so much blew on me.

One day, it was cold enough outside that I tried out the heat function on it and toasted right up in minutes.

As the days grew warmer, I ran it more, and the dogs were delighted.  They even told me so, and I consoled myself that I had done the right thing by them, because they needed that extra air flow and all. 

That A/C, paired with a new fly spray dispenser made it possible for those dogs to spend all day out there in comparative comfort.  But they said they still planned on staying in the house most of the time, just to keep us company.

I heard a noise, one day, that I didn’t like to hear. 

It was the fan kicking up water; I knew what that meant.  The drain for all the condensation had plugged.

Except when I went to unplug the drain, there was no drain that I could see.

So, I crammed a screwdriver in the most likely place, a rubber grommet that let a little water drip out by the screwdriver.

But it wasn’t enough, and the fan continued to kick up water.

I looked through the louvers and saw a place I could drill a little hole to let all that water out.  There were two freon lines that lay right next to where I needed to drill that hole, but it looked like I’d be able to fit it in easily enough.

I fished an extension cord out the dog door that was nearby and plugged my Dremmel tool in.  I fitted an eighth inch bit to it and set up to make this happen.

My Dremmel danced around a little too much for my liking at the start, but once I had a small divot started, it went to work nicely for me.

I eased upwards on it and was already envisioning the steady trickle of water that would drain out once I drilled through.

And then my hand rocketed downward with amazing force.

And I was in near danger of frost bite; all the air around my hand had turned freezing cold while frost was manufactured right in the middle of that 90-degree summer afternoon.

I kept telling myself it was all about making memories, like I always tell the boys when I try to encourage them, but it blew in hollow and empty somehow.

In fact, just as hollow and empty as the freon lines seemed to be.

And, upon looking into that brand new unit a little farther, I saw there were no ports to charge it back up with freon, should I have decided to braze the eighth inch hole in that line.

It took a little while to crank up my courage to ask the boys to leave one of the trailers home the next day, and it seemed a bit awkward when they asked me why.

Especially because I knew, down to the roots of my hangnails, that I would have right next to 2,000 dollars in this project, figuring their labor and all.

I wonder if a split unit actually would have been the way to go on this deal.

PT Works

I first met him some seven years ago.

It wasn’t my choice to meet him. 

But I heard he had high reviews, and so I found his address and crutched my way in on my one good leg to his building.

Admittedly he had the moral advantage.

He was in strapping good health, fit, with a nice stack of extra muscle on his arms.

I was in strapping good health, maybe not quite as fit, and, if my muscle didn’t make itself quite as evident, then let’s just say it was lying low, only showing enough when necessary.

My disadvantage was my leg. 

It was terribly wobbly.  I couldn’t make it do what I wanted it to do no matter how much good energy I conjured up.

I accused him, before my acquaintance with him was more than five minutes old, that his treatment of me was just to get the advantage of me.

Because the first thing he did was make me pull the leg of my sweats up to show him my leg.

And, as I don’t normally go around showing leg, this wasn’t exactly in my comfort zone.

Particularly since the leg in question had great green bruises, yellow iodine stains and extremely white skin, speckled here and there with what seem glaring protrusions of any shape and color.

I told him my surgeon had made me take a vow not to overdo what I put that leg through.  I told him this, because he grabbed my leg like he was going to run with it.

He went on and on about how my surgeon was one of the best; how his surgeries always came through smooth as butter in the rehab process.

I began to get the drift that this guy also knew his stuff.  He wasn’t as rough as I thought he was at the start.  I saw that he never extended my leg past the parameters that the surgeon had told me not to.

I saw, even though he acted like my leg weighed no more than your average golf putter, that he never made quick movements, for which I was very thankful.

I told him I felt extremely vulnerable, sitting there, letting another man bandy around with my leg like he was, when I had no strength in it to kick or fight back with.

He said, yeah, he knew I felt vulnerable.  He could feel it in my muscles.

I wasn’t sure if he really could or if it was another way to manipulate me.

The next visit to him, I quickly tried to get past my vulnerability by asking him all about himself and his family. 

He was obliging, but after about so long, one sort of runs out of questions to ask on that subject.

On another visit (I had lots of them) I asked him if he was Democrat or Republican.  I saw him skitter just a bit on that subject, and he soon told me why.  He said he tried not to be too outspoken on that subject so as not to offend his clients.  Which seemed thoughtful to me.

I found out on another visit that he is a really good fisherman.  At least that is what he told me, but once I knew he was a fisherman, I went back in my mind to all the visits we had had previously, fact checking them, because, like they say, you never know about a fisherman.

He said he went to church, so I asked him if he could remember what the sermon was about.  He did pretty well in telling me what his impressions were.

We talked lawn mowers on another visit, and cattle on several others.  He said he wanted to buy in to our cattle feeding business; I told him to wait to see if the experiment worked out.  I’m glad I told him that, or else he would probably own part of my house today.

It got to the point where I prided myself in thinking that I was a friend of his.

Almost like I was the only one he talked to.

We soon discovered that my knee wasn’t bending all the way.  He said a normal knee bends 135 degrees when it is fully bent.  He said with the way my injury was and the attending surgery, he wanted to see 120 degrees if at all possible. 

But we stalled out at 90 some degrees. 

He didn’t think that was good enough.

He wondered if I had been doing my exercises at home. 

I told him, off and on, maybe more off.

He said he thought those last few degrees were hanging up on scar tissue and that once we broke through that tissue it would be smooth sailing from then on.

He didn’t tell me he was going to try to break through that scar tissue on the very next movement of my leg. 

Those muscles of his flexed and the next thing I was aware of was some blinding pain.  Out of reflex, I guess you might say, my previously hidden muscle slammed to life, and I saw my fist flash out and bury itself in his unsuspecting solar plexus. 

I still smile at him landing some three feet away, eyes bulged out, and hands holding his gut.  Maybe that was one time I had the moral advantage on him, yes?

*****

I have stepped into his office, off and on the last few years just to say hello, and I’m always met with his firm handshake, and a query of how I’m doing. 

He always makes me feel good, and I guess you could say that with a double meaning, because whenever I need a little therapy for my back, he makes that feel better too.

But I had a bit of a letdown the other day.  I was waiting for my appointment regarding my back, when a well-put together gentleman steps in and asks where Jeremy was.

They called him out from in back, and that’s when this gentleman said, “I just wanted to step in and say hi.” 

Whereupon I saw him get the same firm handshake and interest in his life. 

But I think I know better than to be letdown. 

There are some people, I have discovered, who are like him.  They have a genuine sense of interest and care about them that makes anyone they talk to feel better about themselves.

And me?  I’m glad I have the privilege of knowing one of them and where he does business. 

Because I plan on stepping in every now and then to say hi.

Sisters

I glanced up and saw them walking towards me.

A teacher, and her student.

They were walking slowly, gracefully, like women always do.

They were holding hands, and, I saw them draw closer together as they drew nearer.

I stood back a little, to give them space.

And in that instant, they were both the same age, united by the sadness of parting.

They hugged.

And the teacher came towards me, while her student stood, each of her hands holding a tuft of her skirt.

Each face etched with sorrow; each face softened by tears. 

And it was beautiful, and poetic somehow.

Used

I had my attention on picking out what I was looking for at the local Big R store.

I may not have noticed her if I hadn’t heard her labored breathing and smelled a whiff of stale smoke and sweat that followed her as she walked by me.

She was looking at Milwaukee power tools, I was looking at Dewalt.

 I heard her muttering “Which one . . . where is it?”

And then I heard her say, “This is the last time.”

That remark didn’t make sense, and, as she left the area I was in, I thought a bit on it but soon dismissed.

It wasn’t long and I was walking to the front of the store to check out.

I noticed she and I were walking side by side to the front of the store, and I also noticed she was empty handed.  I figured she hadn’t found what she needed.

But I noticed something else.  She kept looking at me in a nervous sort of way.  And the closer we got to the front of the store, the faster she walked.

I breezed right through the checkout line and was walking out the front door when I saw her again.

She was walking to a very old and tired looking Ford Bronco.  She kept looking at me in that same sort of way,

It was only as she stepped into the car waiting for her, that her hand bag opened a little, and I caught a flash of a red box within.

And then I knew. 

She had found what she was looking for after all.

And I knew she hadn’t checked out because I was the only one at the register.

I felt sorry for her, then.  Because then it made sense why she had said, “This is the last time.”

The man she had lifted for didn’t look like he sported very many gentlemanly traits, if any.

She gave me one more guilty look as they drove away.  I thought about snapping a pic of their license plate, but I knew that the odds would be against her rather than him.

Because she looked pretty much used up the way it was.

I think, according to a recent test I was required to take, there was a good chance that she was either being trafficked or at the very least was an abused woman. 

According to the info in that course, I didn’t have a chance to help her, because by the time I became aware of her plight, she was already with her perpetrator. 

But had I known back in the power tool aisle . . .

I wish I had.

Written in my truck while waiting for my lovely at Walmart

You

I see you, just a few years ago it seems, in a store that sold baby things.

You lingered the longest in the crib section, looking at this mattress and that.  You distressed yourself wondering if the mattress actually would be comfortable enough. 

And then it was the bumper pads you looked at next; you wanted pretty ones, but you wanted really soft ones too.

Later, we moved to what I thought was cheaply put together tinsel, and I complained within myself that maybe not all of this was necessary, that we could come back after the baby was born.

I see you that one evening in the local café. 

You were tired beyond description when I stepped in from my day’s work, and I suggested we should eat out to give you a break. 

You said yes instantly; you forgot to worry about our finances that evening.

I see you as your little one got hungry just when our food arrived and, I couldn’t help but notice that your food got cold and was uneaten while I leaned into my food.  When your baby was finished eating, I saw you eat your cold meal, and later as we left, I saw you grab a few more tidbits from my plate as you stacked everything neatly for the server to pick up later.

I see you in just a couple more years it seems, as your little family pitter pattered around the house and in the yard.  I see you stop your work to look at a picture your son drew for you.  I see you go outside to marvel at a rock collection. 

I see you, with tears brimming in your eyes, as you take one of your little ones to the back room to be disciplined.  You were always so kind to them when you disciplined them, and you never shouted at them or called them out in public.  Rather, you led them gently away to a quiet spot where you could speak to them without distraction.

I see you, laughing in a concerned sort of way, when your daughter showed up at the back door with her mouth chock full of dogfood.  You knew the only place she could have found it was in the dogs dish.  Later, when you used your finger to dig all of it out, you fished out a half chewed up bone, and I was so thankful you stopped what you were doing to help her.  Because what if that bone had gotten lodged in her throat? 

I see you, late one afternoon, tired and a little pushed out of shape because you had to start your washing machine again, for the second time that day, to run a load of muddy little boy jeans through. 

I see you, eyes brimming with tears again, as you walk your firstborn to his first day of school.  I thought it a little excessive when you stayed quite a while, in the empty school auditorium, after he had disappeared into his classroom.

In another three years, I see you take your youngest child into that same school for her first day of school.  Was she wearing a yellow dress?  I almost think so.  She always looked good in yellow.  And her two braids were so very neatly done.  I knew her hair wouldn’t come down by first recess like it always did when I tried to comb it when you couldn’t.  And you stayed there a little longer, after she had disappeared into her classroom, just like you did with your firstborn.

I see you, face torn with terror, as we raced towards school to fetch your second born from a skating accident.  I see you as you hold him and his bleeding face while we drive to the clinic to get him stitched up.  I see you, a few months later, walk with him to the back when that same son required extensive dental work to fix ongoing issues from that accident.  And again, some years later, when the panic of those first dental visits was too much to bear, you walked to the back again with him, even though he was easily old enough to go back there himself.  But somehow you knew he needed you back there, so you went there.

I see you, cheering your children on as they cross each milestone and finally graduate from school.  They each did well in school, and I am convinced that they did so because they knew you were completely supportive of them.

I see you, late at night, when I was too tired and had gone to bed, waiting up for your children to come home.  I knew a friendly, interested face would meet them when they walked into the house, even though they may have slipped past curfew a few minutes.  Because you saw their heart, and you knew their intent was to do right.

I see you, taking those same pains as you always did with your boys and their clothes, on their wedding morning.  (Because you knew half the time they forgot how to dress properly).  But I think more than their clothes, you wanted to touch them, and I know they wanted you to touch them on that most important day of their lives.

I see you, as your daughter leaves home to teach school in a place so far away.  I see you do your best to hide your sadness and loneliness as she leaves.  And you do quite well at hiding it, until we got in the car at the airport parking lot, and then I saw the quiet tears as they coursed down your face.

I see you, as you wait up late into the night, waiting for the phone call that you think will happen yet, from your daughter so far away.

I see you, in each meal you have ever made, and in the clean, tidy house you have kept for all of us.

I see you, as your face lights with joy when your nieces come over after church.  Each of their little ones is a grandchild to you, and I see how quiet and secure they become when you hold them in your arms, or read them a story.

I see you, as a mother, in pretty much every moment of the life we have shared together.