Melvin’s* voices

*almost his real name

Melvin hears voices that coach him. They tell him to do different things. I know ’cause he told me. Lately they’ve been saying he should eat a lot of sweets and he sure does. He has a fondness for the sour cream glaze. I hear voices telling me to drink more beer. I’m partial to the ales. I question those voices. Melvin doesn’t. He tells me about them with utmost sincerity.

Along with the voices in his head, Melvin carries his bible everywhere he goes. I’m pretty sure it’s a Gideon model. Gold cover and dog-eared as they come. I always ask him what he’s reading. Lamentations is a perennial favourite. I’ve seen Melvin weekly for about a year now and 7 times out of 9 he’s reading Lamentations. Ecclesiastes gets in the rotation, sometimes Proverbs, and once he even dipped into Revelations

Melvin may or may not eat when ever he comes around the Gathering Place from which i know him, but he always cracks the good book. The Lord must be cracking jokes in the wisdom literature because he laughs aloud on a regular basis. He’ll be reading by himself and chuckles will come drifting over the room from his direction. People will look up, realize it’s just Melvin, and go back to whatever it was they were doing.

Today I thought it was high time I got in on the joke.

“What’s so funny melvin?”

“Oh, I just heard voices from Israel.”

More chuckles

“See you later Garry.”

My coworker and I exchange puzzled glances as Melvin graciously excuses himself. I didn’t have time for a second question. As far as Melvin was concerned, there was entirely no need for any follow up. Voices from Israel are just par for the course.

As far as I’m concerned it’s time for a beer. Then I think I’ll read the bible.

of watermelons, storms and summer evenings lost

She always did well at the county fair. Her cherry pie was to die for and her long-haired heifers were the envy of the ol’ boys.

“That there’s a cow.” They’d mutter, leaning on the fence while gazing soulfully at yet another one of her winners.

This year the grand prize was no less than an all expenses paid trip to Las Vegas. She intended to win it all. She always did, and they loathed her for it. She’d gloat in their faces and strut around the grounds with an array of blue and red ribbons across her dumpy bosom. A sore winner to be sure.

That summer she tended to her watermelons as if her life depended on it. They grew large and green and were destined for greatness. She would croon and purr over them. They were her beauties. I wish I could have found such favour in her eyes. She was my aunt and most evenings I would peddle over to help her roll the melons so that they wouldn’t grow flat spots.

“Put your back into it boy or next time send your sister.”

I’m certain her bark was worse than her bite but it didn’t make those summer evenings anymore enjoyable. She’d cuss and cluck and hiss at my work and then turn around and lovingly stroke the green monster I was heaving. She had a lot of love for the fruits of the vine. Every so often I’d give a melon a good kick just to spite her. I’d cry out as if I tripped and show her the dented rind.

“God help me child! Can’t you even walk, boy? I’ve half a mind to do it myself.”

I wished she would do it herself and send me home but she never did. Strong as she was, she really did need my help to roll the big one. Her prize was growing at the edge of the patch nearest the gate. Bitter as I was at missing out on evening of swimming, baseball or watching tv, I knew better than to mess with that melon. No fake falls around that one.

One hot summer night as I biked over, the sky grew steadily darker. One of those freak thunderstorms was moving in and fast. The air that had been so thick and still was beginning to stir. As I turned off the main road, I could see her down at the end of the lane working feverishly to get as much done before the storm broke. Her sturdy frame bustled here and there throughout the patch, snipping a vine then turning around to pinch a bud. She would be waiting for me to help with the heavy work.

I pedaled faster as the black clouds stacked above me. The wind was kicking up, I could see the fields waving as I hurried past. Thunder was rolling and close too. Big drops began to fall. As I approached the gate all hell broke loose. Thunder cracked right over head and lightning licked earth. It lit up the gate as I shot through, lugs pumping, eyes wide with surprise, every hair at charged to attention.

I couldn’t stop. My tire hit a small melon at the edge of the patch, front wheel twisting. Time seemed to slow. I could see my bike stop beneath me and recede behind. I was airborne, the vines of the patch passing underneath. Looking up I see two things very clearly – my Aunt’s horrified expression and an incredibly large watermelon in my flight path. Rolling and tucking my shoulder, I braced for impact.

I came to a few moments later, the cool rind of her prized melon against my neck. The sky was still dark, the rain still fell, but the frenzy of the storm had receded over the fields. I lay there, surveying the damage. Front bike tire severily bent, lodged in a small melon. Left shoulder very tender, wedged in a gigantic melon. Aunt’s face expressionless, eyes riveted on a her precious punctured melon.

“Com’on boy.”

With just a hint of tenderness, she helped me extricate myself, watermelon innards reluctantly releasing me. We walked slowly to the house to call my mom. With every step her hope of glory faded.

—-

another piece birthed at storytellers anonymous. this one from an exercise that had everyone submit a word, phrase, place name to a list. the object was for each person to write a story that included all words on the list. this time around we had to use the following: watermelon, Las Vegas, a grumpy aunt, thunderstorm and any form of the verb to fade. and there it is…

restless…

ever want to be part of something great?

ya, me too.

“there are no great things. only small things done with great love.”

mother theresa

literal issues

I’ve heard it said that you are what you eat. At first blush, the phrase strikes me as rather stupid. It doesn’t compute. Consuming some food product or another does not magically transform a person into its likeness. Seriously, does anyone really think that having a bbq’ed steak makes one a cow or a t-bone or what have you? See – stupid saying.

That’s the literalist in me. Always on someone’s case about the exact meaning of their words. Usually the case I’m on is Shan’s. Usually she shoves me off with considerable efficiency. I would too. The literalist in me is a real ass.

The literalist in me is also a fan of steak, but I digress.

This blog post is going south in a hurry (Not actually south). I’ve written myself into a corner (You won’t really be able to find a corner anywhere in this paragraph other than the two times said word was used) and there’s nowhere to go. I hate it when that happens.

Here’s the long and the short of it… (Incidentally that is another stupid phrase that gets Literal Me all fired up. How can something be both long and short at the self-same time? Dumb.)

Take a hike.
Seriously, I need to go for a walk.

There’s something to be said here, but I’ll have to give it another shot when I get back.

Kid

at Storytellers Anonymous one of our assignments was to write for ten minutes using a picture for inspiration. i used the cover of our first edition of Hatch as i arrived late and it was the only thing handy. incidentally, hatch is not available on the internet. please contact me if you’d like a copy.

The war had taken it’s toll on Allied pilots. Thousands shot down over enemy territory, thousands more too afraid to return to the skies. Morale was at an all time low. Even officers were unable to hide the hopelessness they carried in their hearts. All seemed lost.

Until he came along.

He walked through camp with the swagger of youth. His dark eyes held a fire that ignited men’s bones. His words called out courage where ever they landed. He was stalwart. He was steadfast. And he was the ace who would turn the tide of that terrible war. We called him Kid. He was anything but.