trouble magnet

I have several friends who’s writing makes me smile on a regular basis. Bisslington is a young phenomenon just coming into his own, Dozzegier’s refusal to use punctuation is mind blowing, and Saint Elmach of Rysvk can mix a metaphor on dime. (Incidentally, I feel that was a strong mixed metaphor. Good work Birddog. B-)

One of these storied tellers wrote a piece that I very much enjoyed. It involved the running over of a monk on a winding country road. Front and Back tires were involved. A name was dropped. As always, it left me puzzled and amused. Much to my surprise, this bit of quality literature was no where to be found when I returned to the blog to reread and extol it’s virtues to the writer himself.

It was a phone conversation. He hinted that some serious trouble had come his way as a result of the writing. He laughed nervously. It was tense. He didn’t have the time or privacy to give his experience justice he told me. He spoke in hushed tones, his speech erratic, and his phrasing cryptic. I think the phone was tapped. He promised to tell all in person. I’m to come alone. No bugs, no police and no media.

One can’t help but wonder.
My steel-trap of a mind goes into overdrive.

My friend writes a story about hitting a monk with his car.
He identifies the monk by first and last name.
He posts this all on his blog, (which is on the internet, which, as we all know, is a veritable web covering our wide world with informational access).

It’s obvious now…
Opus Dei found the story and made erroneous assumptions. They’ve assumed that the story my friend wrote is true and that the man named is actually one their own. They have threatened my friend and sent that crazed albino from the DaVinci Code to hunt him down and avenge their brother’s death. My friend knows there’s no way of explaining to them it was a work of fiction – to make contact is imminent death. It may go all the way to the Pope.

I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening.

arnie’s poem and a shaggy dog story

I work about a shift a week at The Gathering Place, a program run by the Salvation Army in partnership with the city of Kingston. The Gathering provides a meal and place to hang out for the folks of Kingston who may be without homes, money, support or other such staples that many of us take for granted. I love it there. I love meeting the people I meet and getting to know them better.

A few weeks ago I found out my friend Arnie (almost his real name) has done some writing in his previous life. Arnie’s awesome. He’ll talk the hind end off a donkey as my Gramma has been heard to say. Half the time I have no clue what he’s talking about. We make each other laugh and that’s about all that matters. Arnie and I got to talking the other day and he told me he likes to write, so we decided the next time I was working we’d sit down, pen and paper in hand and do a little sentence crafting.

Here’s what Arnie cooked up…

The Right Wright Day
As it was said – get some paper and write:
Something
Stuff

One man’s basic look at life
One model
Two designs
Young and Old
Large and Small
Good and Bad

That which is mine is mine.
Everything else belongs to someone else.
Though there is the stuff we share, like the roads, sidewalks and parks
I will try to owe nothing to anyone but myself.
I will try to prove nothing to anyone but myself.
If someone should ask me for help, I will help if I can.

Arnie signed it with a special insignia of his initials overlaid on each other and a light bulb. As we talked, I discovered that this was a piece he wrote for the newsletter of a local agency. He couldn’t remember all of it but he’s going to get back to me…

This is what I cooked up… Well, I started it with Arnie and finished the rest later…

Brona was our Irish Setter. A full grown male, he was tall, lanky and had the shaggy dark copper coat for which the breed is known. I’m not sure how he wound up at our house and I really couldn’t tell you who gave him that stupid name. Always reminded me of the town Verona. The association remains in my mind to this day.

Brona wasn’t with us very long. Couldn’t have been more than a year, two tops. He was bright eyed and energetic enough but his hips gave him trouble. Brona suffered from hip dysplasia, a genetic defect common to setters, apparently due to excessive inbreeding. It wasn’t so bad at first, but he got steadily worse. He couldn’t get around without great discomfort, his hindquarters moving erratically as he walked, the pain obvious with every step. It was only a matter of time.

One day Brona went missing. We came home from school and he wasn’t anywhere. Apparently dogs will wonder off to find a place to die. That’s what Dad suggested must have happened. An 8 year old doesn’t take the disappearance of his dog very easily, but try as I might to engage my parents in the search effort, I couldn’t motivate them into action. The whole Brona conversation tended to get shut down rather efficiently. Yet I held out hope he would return – that everything was still ok.

A few days later, my younger sister and I were playing out back. Behind our house was a bit of a dumping ground for discarded building materials and other junk. One of our forts was down there. A pile of old cinder blocks we stacked into a small room of three walls a few feet high. We hadn’t been for a while and wouldn’t go back for a lot longer.

As I rounded the corner into the fort something caught my eye. Something red. Something hairy. Something that looked a lot like Brona… only stiffer… with flies buzzing around. Recognition came fast and furious. Tears flowed as I ran past my confused sister up the hill, yelling for Mom the whole way. Into her arms I ran, choking out the story of my discovery with sobs and snot and a whole lot of hurt.

There’s a fair distance between that hurt and how I feel today. In this matter, time had a way of healing the pain of loss. Time also had a way of revealing details and back-story to the events surrounding Brona’s disappearance and death. In an offhanded conversation with my Mom, I find out more than 20 years later that Brona didn’t wonder off to die at all. Turns out, he had some help. Dad had taken Brona for a walk. Going for a walk involves an ailing family pet, a tired family patriarch and a hunting rifle. It’s a practice common to rural life though it had never occurred to me that this was what happened to Brona. Apparently Dad was going to go back and bury Brona but hadn’t gotten around to it. Mom said she was so mad at Dad when I told her where I found the dog. Now, whenever I think of this event in my life, I can’t help but smile as I picture the tongue lashing my Dad received for the emotional trauma he inflicted on his first born.

carwash

My friend said he used to walk by a do-it-yourself carwash everyday on the way to and from school. He was in high school. I think it was the sixties but it could have been the eighties. His age is elusive and carbon dating isn’t giving reliable figures. The setting is small town.

He told me one day he was walking the well-traveled route when something happened. It’s at this point that I get the image of faded jeans worn at the knees. They’ve been worn for at least a week straight, possibly two. The shoes are blue chuck taylors that his mom has tried to throw out more than once. The jacket is leather and lettered, maroon and yellow. His shoulders are slouched, he walks with a hint of shuffle, eyes watching the lines of the sidewalk slide by. He’s definitely skinnier. And with more hair. But the same mind. Even then his thinking is all at once intense, absurd and contemplative.

So this day something happens. His eye is caught by movement in the car wash. He looks up and sees a man washing his car. His far away thoughts recoil in slow motion and the actuality of the situation registers. In a long moment he sees the man’s wide eyes and white hair, one arm held bent in front as if warding off a blow. The other is reaching out and down. His pants are more wet than dry and his sleeveless undershirt is showing through his soaked button up. It’s western styled and light yellow. The moment continues. At the man’s feet the hose is coiled and tense, wand is elevated to the man’s waist but just out reach. Nozzle is aimed his direction. A snake charming gone way wrong.

And the moment of realization comes quickly to completing. Everything springs into motion. The hose wriggles snake-like on the ground and the wand whips erratically. “Hey kid!” A blast of water catches the man in the side of head as reaches. My deep thinking friend is running. The wand scrapes along the passenger door. My friend is bending, reaching now. The wand bounces off the bay wall and hits a window. The sound of metal on glass is sharp and loud.

At this point my friend’s jeans and lettered jacket are wet but the hose is in his hands. Time on the meter runs out. The hose goes limp and the blast becomes an arc and then a dribble.

“Thanks kid. Sorry ‘bout your clothes.” Says the man.

“Welcome sir. Sorry ‘bout your car.” Says my friend.

D’ya like degs? (Part 1): The Hounds

Dogs. We always had a lot of dogs. Dad insisted that the hounds have standard old person names. Most were born to run deer. Dad kept them on behalf of his hunting camp. Since whitetail are only in season one week a year, they spent the better part of their lives chained to plywood houses in our back yard. They lived for November. They could smell it. Drove them crazy. Dad would run them behind the truck to get them into shape. 20 feet of nylon rope from bumper to collar and away we’d go. Tongues lolling. Eyes bugging. Bits of saliva would whip back as their paws pounded the dirt road, flicking rocks out behind. Dad kept a steady foot; I craned in the cab giving him regular updates. They lived to run, them hounds did.

Nothing but chains, kennels, and one meal daily for all but a few days each year. This was their life.

Tom might as well have been a horse. He was as big and loud and friendly as they come. A blue tick and black and tan cross, Tom would lick your face off if he didn’t wrap you to his tree first. His chain almost cost me my life on more than one occasion. I liked Tom. One year, someone else from hunting camp took care of him. That year a wolf killed him in the night. Dad said he would have had a chance if he hadn’t been tied.

Judy was a beagle. Lower to the ground, she was far less intimidating and would trot out of her house to greet whenever I came around. She ate a lot slower than Tom did. Her innocence was betrayed by the fact that she’d disappear for days if she ever got loose. I liked Judy. One year at camp, Judy ran away and never came back. Dad said she was hot on a scent and took off and was probably found by another gang.

The second Judy was hardly distinguishable from the first. I like her too. I can’t remember what happened to her. She had two pups, Sam and Jim. Both were lanky, light-coloured things that looked far too dumb to do anything useful. That’s probably why Dad said he gave them away. All I know is one year the brothers didn’t come home.

Willy was a coon dog – beagle crossed with a black and tan. He had a sad face but loved life. His ears hung so low I always thought he was going to trip on them. He had a voice ten times his size. Dad said he wasn’t much good for hunting deer. As far as I know, Willy lived out his days treeing coons on the farm of the friend across town we gave him to.

I think that was all the hounds we had. There could have been more. We’ve had some many freakin’ dogs…

requested writing

I was asked to write a biography for my friend Todd. An on and off blogger of several decades, Todd has been offered a spot with the world renown writer’s collective known as Crooked Letters. They write stuff, they post it, we read it. Good times. Here’s a link to Todd’s first post.

And this is how I introduced Todd…

Todd Stelmach. Born of the virgin Shirley. Pompous ass of Apple Hill. Lover of the round ball, the full nelson, and the dark brew. Farm country could not hold him and academia would not fold him. He has walked away from sainthood and run headlong into legends of his own making. A burly blacksmith of the written word, Sir Stelmach pounds out fables with a heavy hand and unbecoming speech. Deft and sure, he crafts tales from the asinine and ridiculous fodder of life. His parables have founded kingdoms, crushed empires, and subdued men of strength and intellect. He has also wooed a woman. She hangs on his every word. As will you. Behold, the quill of Aesop has returned!

You can lead a horse to family…

I’ve heard it said that home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you. Others call this family. Home. It’s who not where. Less about geography. More about community. (Community is a word that stands on tired old legs I know, but it still does the trick.) Call it what you will, there’s something special about folks with a sticky faithfulness to each other. It seems my whole life I have had the privilege and pleasure of life with such as these. Kindly grandmothers. Wisecracking uncles. Parents of the most supportive variety. Cousins and siblings, nephews and nieces. Some of these good people share DNA with me while others couldn’t be more unrelated. I find myself well networked. More than a handful would take a bullet for me. I’ll save you Mr. President! Gravity continues to pull me into the orbit of these dear ones. It just happens.

Why is that some of us can’t help but fall into family of best variety while others have yet to taste such goodness? There are several in my circle who don’t even know they are in my circle. (Please don’t ask for me to draw this circle as I am convinced it is actually more amoeboid and I can hardly see the edges in some spots) I sit there perplexed. I see mouths move. Sound waves must still be flowing but I am fading somewhere else. She says she doesn’t fit in. He says he has no friends. They say it’s always been like this. Some say this. Others say that. And you. You say what you say what you always say.

Would you know family if it knocked on your door? Slapped you fierce on the face? Punched you in the guts? Took hostage your heart? Seriously, could you recognize community if you saw it, heard it, felt it, got a good whiff of it?

In the place I’ve drifted to I come tearing out onto the beach. I wave like a madman and yell at the horizon. I run as far as I can in your direction. I light the signal fires and carve HOPE in the sand. The letters are big so you can see them a long way off. There I stand, peering through the smoke, following your line, praying you’ll change direction. I don’t want to leave but I sure think you’d like to stay.

There’s enough family for everyone. I’m sure of it. Abundant. Lavish. Vibrant. No one need go away empty handed. Gramma on my dad’s side always sent us home with doggy bags. Apparently I always requested one. Can’t remember what they contained – jam jams, plant cuttings, leftover spare-ribs, whatever she could throw together in the minutes it took to get shoes velcroed and jackets zippered. This I know, lots of love went home with me during those days. It was so good to be there that leaving felt right. I’m convinced there’s family like that that for her and him, they and them. It’s there for the taking. Seriously, here’s a little something something to take with you. Take it. For God’s sake, take it.

lightning, inspiration and my draft year

I’ve heard it said that inspiration is for amateurs. Apparently, professionals are able to continually churn out artistic brilliance because of self discipline and daily creative diligence. That is to say, they consistently apply themselves to their craft whether or not they feel the music of the muse. Interestingly enough, these self-same people tend to cook up more and better crap then those who simply wait for inspiration to strike. Meterologists say to avoid an incident with lightning it is best to stay as low as you can. Not so for the coursing shock of inspiration. The geniuses taunt the storm. They dance in open fields wearing naught but tinfoil, feet firmly planted in frying pans, golf clubs waving at the sky. And not those new fangled fiber glass jobs, but old school nine-irons of the finest stainless steel. Lightning rods they are. You act like that and you’re going to get hit.

Stuff happens around these people. Pages become stories and stories hatch into magazines. Canvases turn into paintings and paintings pile up into galleries. Clay is shaped into bowls, plates, and odd looking vases. Notes collect into songs and then albums. Wood finds its way to furniture. Seeds are coaxed to gardens bursting into life. Beloved hobbies become bread and butter. Cue the arena anthem of your choice right about now… And let it play…

And a stage tech trips on a cord and the whole thing comes to an unfortunate halt complete with feedback and last off chord ringing.

By all accounts I am an amateur. The blank page frightens me so. In the name of inspiration, procrastination is an easy option. Funny thing, when the last hour approaches amazing things come out of me. Pressure forces me to action and action brings out ideas, insight, creativity. Birddog cooks up his fair share of good crap when he actually gets down to business. Then the buzzer goes, time is up and things are left undeveloped.Here’s what I got…

Well, I plan to go pro in diligence. It is my draft year. I will wait on lady luck no longer. Get behind me internet. Email you are no friend of mine. To hell with Facebook. I will climb the mast, face the driving rain and put myself directly in harm’s way. I will yell. I will curse. I will do what needs doing. I will live atop shrimp boats, on dance floors, quiet chapels and anywhere else life lives. Time is to be spent with good books and better conversation. Pen and notebook factor in. Desk chair and laptop too. White boards, telephones and to do lists all have their place. Whatever means necessary.

I want to create. I want to inspire and be inspired. I want to live. Someone’s gotta make this happen. My name is called. I’ll don the jersey. Welcome to the team son. Lightning will strike twice.

Kick the tires and light the fires.