A thumbing through our file told me we've been doing these letters since 1989. That's a while. In the first one we come right out and say most everyone's letters suck. We sure were bolder back then. The contents weren't quite a weird. Then again, maybe they were. here's the one from 1993:
On the 27th of November I had the following dream: The location is obviously Hell because most of the attendants are 13 year old boys. - a count on my fingers and toes tells me my son was about that age back then. Probably not a coincidence - I am skewered and on a spit above a large pile of charcoals, nicely glowing, perfect for that Saturday night summer barbecue. I don't believe I was being turned by Satan himself but instead by one of his myriad of minions who all looked like Dr. Schwartz my childhood eyes, ears, nose and throat doctor who was always running late. I really used to hate having to go there. I'd sit for hours with nothing to do but page through National Geographics. Could be the reason why the Sandman gave him the role over Clark Gable. Anyhow, as the meat thermometer in my side reached 130 degrees he says, "Well, it was your choice crybaby. You could have quietly written the Christmas letter but no, you'd rather have the joy of eternal suffering."
Upon awakening the following morning the dream entered my mind again and I realized an hour or two of infernal suffering on a Saturday afternoon was marginally preferable to the above. Therefore, and hence, the Peters family has compiled a list of things we did not do in 1993:
1) Mangle of maim anyone in our car accidents,
2) Go swimming in the pool - not sure what the hell that was about,
3) Sorry, at least we were, no winning lottery tickets,
4) No broken bones,
5) Go more than twenty miles from Minnesota,
6) Grow new digits, either foot or hand,
7) Cut the neighbors maple tree down but considered it,
8) Fail school,
9) Get caught. The truth be known, Annie did,
10) Amount to anything (daughter might and son is only 13 and already has a future in Hell;
see dream introduction),
11) Do illegal drugs (the times they are a-changing),
12) get free HBO,
14) Learn cleanliness from finches - we had a pair of the filthy little beasts,
15) Go one day without a family fight,
16) Enjoy or even tolerate the black flies in the Boundary Waters,
17) Have Michael Jackson over as a baby sitter - mea culpa, bad humor at the expense of a sitting
sitting duck,
18) Kill the kids (came close) - for sure this letter was written at a time of familial strife,
19) Fully appreciate life in the inner city - ain't gettin' any easier but we still live there,
20) Believe anything that came from the mouth of a government official - the times they ain't
a-changing.
There were many, many other accomplishments that weren't ours this year. However, one round score provides flavor enough. We end the year with a future pharmacist in our family and a hope that she will provide us with all the prescription medicine we will ever need.
This concept had a lot of potential and more or less fell flat on its face. Such is life. They can't all be winners. A couple woulda been nice. On the other hand it did continue to go against the grain.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Part III - finish
Marco left this world behind last Tuesday in a blaze of glory at the Griffith Park Observatory in Los Angeles, CA. Ambition was his downfall. An appropriate theme and lesson for that corner of our nation.
It was there on Tuesday evening he intended to move onto new levels of attainment by introducing what he billed as 'Super Nova.' Though his character lacked flamboyance and though strange, was deemed beyond reproach, perhaps a bit of his parochial school youth remained with him on that fatal day. That, like so many things in life, we'll never know for certain. Eye witness accounts had Pietro dining in East Los Angeles at a street side taco cart of questionable cleanliness on that fatal day.
What transpired between that moment and Marco's eight o'clock showtime is unknown. The lone survivor, upon reaching consciousness on Thursday said the show went well in it's usual understated manner. Informative, engaging, well orchestrated. She went on to relate that the words 'Super Nova' had barely escaped Pietro's lips when the fireball he unleashed leveled the mountaintop and incinerated all those in attendance including several of the world's finest minds. The light from the blast was reported by the first Samoan in space while aboard the International Space Station. Wild fires continue to burn in the Laguna Beach area. In conclusion the survivor simply breathed "Oh, the humanity."
A single index finger found at the scene was identified by DNA testing as having belonged to Pietro. Plans are now afoot to construct a memorial of this catastrophe featuring a marble replica of the finger under which will read "Don't Pull Me."
We've got mixed emotions how this whole thing turned out. Pretty juvenile eh? A friend of mine wrote a comment on my writing a year or two ago. Said it hadn't really changed since we were back in eighth grade. Can't say he's wrong. At least about the content of this drivel. I'd like to be a wise old man but that just ain't happening. Blame it on Uncle Emil. At least that's my excuse and I'm stickin' to it.
It was there on Tuesday evening he intended to move onto new levels of attainment by introducing what he billed as 'Super Nova.' Though his character lacked flamboyance and though strange, was deemed beyond reproach, perhaps a bit of his parochial school youth remained with him on that fatal day. That, like so many things in life, we'll never know for certain. Eye witness accounts had Pietro dining in East Los Angeles at a street side taco cart of questionable cleanliness on that fatal day.
What transpired between that moment and Marco's eight o'clock showtime is unknown. The lone survivor, upon reaching consciousness on Thursday said the show went well in it's usual understated manner. Informative, engaging, well orchestrated. She went on to relate that the words 'Super Nova' had barely escaped Pietro's lips when the fireball he unleashed leveled the mountaintop and incinerated all those in attendance including several of the world's finest minds. The light from the blast was reported by the first Samoan in space while aboard the International Space Station. Wild fires continue to burn in the Laguna Beach area. In conclusion the survivor simply breathed "Oh, the humanity."
A single index finger found at the scene was identified by DNA testing as having belonged to Pietro. Plans are now afoot to construct a memorial of this catastrophe featuring a marble replica of the finger under which will read "Don't Pull Me."
We've got mixed emotions how this whole thing turned out. Pretty juvenile eh? A friend of mine wrote a comment on my writing a year or two ago. Said it hadn't really changed since we were back in eighth grade. Can't say he's wrong. At least about the content of this drivel. I'd like to be a wise old man but that just ain't happening. Blame it on Uncle Emil. At least that's my excuse and I'm stickin' to it.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Part III continued
He remained a waste until a simple quirk in his everyday behavior evolved into a nationally celebrated source of a joy that is purely American. Should one have met Marco in his earlier years, during normal normal conversation, it mattered not where to him, he might casually produce a strike-anywhere 'farmer' match, the kind with the wooden shaft, from his shirt pocket, strike it on his upper front teeth, hold the torch behind himself below waste level to there ignite a silently expelled cloud of flatulence. And accompany this with a simple "skuza," much as he'd heard his parents utter a thousand times in their broken English.
That in itself, though a bit odd, would never have been a reason for nationwide celebrity. However, Marco did not stop there. As the years passed, Pietro noticed that seemingly insignificant changes in his diet led to alterations in the hue and intensity of his ignitions. Scientific curiosity and artistic sensibility led him to experiment with an accurately measured and carefully documented variety of food stuffs. Combined with a yogi-like method of bowel control Marco could produce at will a rainbow of colors from magnificent magentas to captivating chartreuses. On the 4th of July he would entertain the children of his neighborhood with his version of fireworks. A small but appreciated skill.
Small that is until the fickled finger of fate lent a hand. And Marco was up to the task when his opportunity knocked. In 1979 a chance encounter with Carl Sagan in the King of Clubs Bar in NE Minneapolis led to a moment of improvised genius. Approaching the noted physicist, author and television personality, Marco introduced himself by simply pulling out one of his ever-present matches, snapping it aflame on his teeth and calmly saying, "Hey Carl, check this out."
To say the Sagan was flabbergasted, even awe-struck, by the momentarily glowing reproduction of the Horsehead Nebula in Orion, would be an understatement of the first magnitude. In a moment the image was gone. Sagan was speechless. Then recovered to say, "Encore."
At that moment Marco's new life as a touring member of Sagan's entourage was born. Planetariums, astrophysicist conventions, an appearance on the Tonight show and a segment of Sagan's PBS series Cosmos in which he illustrated one of Sagan's points with a detailed, rotating, full color reproduction of the spiral galaxy in Andromeda.
That in itself, though a bit odd, would never have been a reason for nationwide celebrity. However, Marco did not stop there. As the years passed, Pietro noticed that seemingly insignificant changes in his diet led to alterations in the hue and intensity of his ignitions. Scientific curiosity and artistic sensibility led him to experiment with an accurately measured and carefully documented variety of food stuffs. Combined with a yogi-like method of bowel control Marco could produce at will a rainbow of colors from magnificent magentas to captivating chartreuses. On the 4th of July he would entertain the children of his neighborhood with his version of fireworks. A small but appreciated skill.
Small that is until the fickled finger of fate lent a hand. And Marco was up to the task when his opportunity knocked. In 1979 a chance encounter with Carl Sagan in the King of Clubs Bar in NE Minneapolis led to a moment of improvised genius. Approaching the noted physicist, author and television personality, Marco introduced himself by simply pulling out one of his ever-present matches, snapping it aflame on his teeth and calmly saying, "Hey Carl, check this out."
To say the Sagan was flabbergasted, even awe-struck, by the momentarily glowing reproduction of the Horsehead Nebula in Orion, would be an understatement of the first magnitude. In a moment the image was gone. Sagan was speechless. Then recovered to say, "Encore."
At that moment Marco's new life as a touring member of Sagan's entourage was born. Planetariums, astrophysicist conventions, an appearance on the Tonight show and a segment of Sagan's PBS series Cosmos in which he illustrated one of Sagan's points with a detailed, rotating, full color reproduction of the spiral galaxy in Andromeda.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Letters - part III
This one will take a while. And you've gotta cut us some slack. It's definitely a stretch of the imagination and occasionally steps outside the bounds of the possible. Like we give a rat's ass.
Also, it was written for Bruno and mailed to him only. All three of us loved it so much it had to be read aloud. And it was, both by me and Bruno. Me to anyone who didn't appear to be armed. Bruno read it to a group, including a nun, sitting around a dinner table. We're considering changing the name of the main character to protect my innocence. More on that tomorrow.
I gave the main character an Italian name to poke fun at Bruno. But used my own name as a base with the idea being I can make fun of myself and it doesn't piss me off 'cause I know I don't mean it. I considered writing a letter on the life of St. Bruno in the style of Lives of the Saints. A close look at da Vinci's The Last Supper reveals the only image of Bruno ever portrayed. There, in the background, is the hazy image of a man entering a wash room. For years the washroom was thought to be for women and the figure entering, Mary Magdalene. A cleaning of the fresco in 1971 restored what appeared to be Harpo Marx leaning against the room's sign making it appear to read Men's Room. Bruno, a holy innocent klutz, and a sight gag for da Vinci, is now thought to have been caught in mid-stride on one of his many trips that evening. Today he is no longer found in the Lives due to the adoption of the Gregorian calendar in the Sixteenth Century. Should he ever be reintroduced, Bruno's feast day would fall on every thirteenth February 29th unless it was an odd numbered year. A vial of his urine lies within an altar in Krakow.
Last note, like I've said, these things write themselves. No outline, no plan. Start with a seed and it grows:
Marco Pietro (1937- 2007)
Marco Pietro, born during the Great Depression in Less Evil, New Jersey, was the only child of Italian immigrants. One look at the lad let them know this was a mistake that needed no repetition. Marco attended grade school at St. Bruno, the Incontinent - where he made an early and continual impression on the teaching nuns.
"Filthy, filthy, filthy!" sighed Sister Mary Laborious, his 6th grade teacher. "One day he was acting up in class, I believe that the time I singled him out as one of the untouchables. Of course his acting up was an everyday occurrence. However, this time it was simply more than I could bear. I'm a nun, not a saint after all. I... to this day I regret having ordered him to get a grip on himself. His response? Simply disgusting! Marco could turn the most innocent of moments, moments meant to set him on the right path, into a demonstration of his peculiar and unique form of perversion. A twisted genius? Perhaps.
Sister Mary added in quiet finality, "May God have mercy on his sick, undeserving soul."
Reaching his early thirties, a miracle in itself, Pietro had developed into a kind of 20th century anti-Renaissance man. Marco exhibited extraordinary and completely unfulfilled abilities in a vast array of the unattempted. His were some of the most profound, meaningful and creative paintings never imagined or put to canvas, skyscrapers and domiciles that never left the end of his unsharpened pencil, brilliant hypothesis in physics he never quite got around to and captivating literature never written except in miniature on the grout between the eye-height grout in public restrooms. Some, no, make that most, would agree he was a complete waste of molecules.
Also, it was written for Bruno and mailed to him only. All three of us loved it so much it had to be read aloud. And it was, both by me and Bruno. Me to anyone who didn't appear to be armed. Bruno read it to a group, including a nun, sitting around a dinner table. We're considering changing the name of the main character to protect my innocence. More on that tomorrow.
I gave the main character an Italian name to poke fun at Bruno. But used my own name as a base with the idea being I can make fun of myself and it doesn't piss me off 'cause I know I don't mean it. I considered writing a letter on the life of St. Bruno in the style of Lives of the Saints. A close look at da Vinci's The Last Supper reveals the only image of Bruno ever portrayed. There, in the background, is the hazy image of a man entering a wash room. For years the washroom was thought to be for women and the figure entering, Mary Magdalene. A cleaning of the fresco in 1971 restored what appeared to be Harpo Marx leaning against the room's sign making it appear to read Men's Room. Bruno, a holy innocent klutz, and a sight gag for da Vinci, is now thought to have been caught in mid-stride on one of his many trips that evening. Today he is no longer found in the Lives due to the adoption of the Gregorian calendar in the Sixteenth Century. Should he ever be reintroduced, Bruno's feast day would fall on every thirteenth February 29th unless it was an odd numbered year. A vial of his urine lies within an altar in Krakow.
Last note, like I've said, these things write themselves. No outline, no plan. Start with a seed and it grows:
Marco Pietro (1937- 2007)
Marco Pietro, born during the Great Depression in Less Evil, New Jersey, was the only child of Italian immigrants. One look at the lad let them know this was a mistake that needed no repetition. Marco attended grade school at St. Bruno, the Incontinent - where he made an early and continual impression on the teaching nuns.
"Filthy, filthy, filthy!" sighed Sister Mary Laborious, his 6th grade teacher. "One day he was acting up in class, I believe that the time I singled him out as one of the untouchables. Of course his acting up was an everyday occurrence. However, this time it was simply more than I could bear. I'm a nun, not a saint after all. I... to this day I regret having ordered him to get a grip on himself. His response? Simply disgusting! Marco could turn the most innocent of moments, moments meant to set him on the right path, into a demonstration of his peculiar and unique form of perversion. A twisted genius? Perhaps.
Sister Mary added in quiet finality, "May God have mercy on his sick, undeserving soul."
Reaching his early thirties, a miracle in itself, Pietro had developed into a kind of 20th century anti-Renaissance man. Marco exhibited extraordinary and completely unfulfilled abilities in a vast array of the unattempted. His were some of the most profound, meaningful and creative paintings never imagined or put to canvas, skyscrapers and domiciles that never left the end of his unsharpened pencil, brilliant hypothesis in physics he never quite got around to and captivating literature never written except in miniature on the grout between the eye-height grout in public restrooms. Some, no, make that most, would agree he was a complete waste of molecules.
Letters - part II
And lo it came to pass that I found the Reed's Mill letter. Two things: We have friend's with the last name of Reed. And one of the cards we sent out had a primitive, New England cover in the style of grandma Moses. Pure coincidence but one me and Uncle Emil were quick to jump on.
Aside: Every year we still send out Christmas cards for we like to receive mail and also force people to find a ball point pen. Good for both the Postal Service and the economy. Mostly we do it 'cause I like to write. So does Lois. Most years we hand out or mail about eighty of our letters. This year we didn't bother to include a card. Screw the greeting card industry. Hope that's not part of the Butterfly Effect.
Like I'd written earlier it was my friend Bruno who received very personal and insulting cards from me. I truly loved to write them. The worse they were, the more he liked them. Masochistic Wop Syndrome at its best. If you read this Bruno, put the shiv away, you know I love you. But not in that way.
No more than twenty of the Reed's Mill letters went out and accompanied the actual Christmas letter. Didn't do that but once. The postage was a killer.
Reed's Mill (Don't remember the year)
It's Christmas time at Reed's Mill (see card - guess you'll have to imagine the dam, frozen pond, kids skating and the mill above), a time to celebrate, relax and reflect on all the wonderful years gone by. It was the invention and patenting of the Cadaver Press that gained Joshua Reed his international renown. In the beginning, the press' intention was to conserve the native hardwoods of New England. Both burial space and wood were at a premium during the first half of the 19th Century in the Northeast. Reed quickly realized that by crushing the remains of an expired loved one into a one foot cube, casket construction would be greatly simplified and the material needed, reduced several fold. A fine example of Yankee ingenuity and frugality.
With the coming of the Civil War in the next decade, Reed patented and added the Precious Bodily Fluids wheel. When the loved one's body was pressed, rather than waste the water, mucus, blood and urine, Reed used the fluids to drive a second wheel. The war proved a boon that drove the machines in both Reed's cabinetry shop and grist mill.
In 1863 a more powerful and efficient press was added which allowed the Cherished to be compressed into a queen sized brick. A touch of portland cement, a dash of red coloring and, voila!, Reed had the makings of a truly fine and sturdy building material. Few know that many of the monuments, Gettysburg and Antietam for example, were made from the very men who perished there. Knowing this adds both meaning to each site and comfort that none died in vain. Our hats off to you Joshua Reed!
The Reeds, our friends not Joshua, seemed to enjoy the note. Even responded about finally having been found out. I should give this style of letter more thought about its decorum. But if I did, they'd never get mailed.
Aside: Every year we still send out Christmas cards for we like to receive mail and also force people to find a ball point pen. Good for both the Postal Service and the economy. Mostly we do it 'cause I like to write. So does Lois. Most years we hand out or mail about eighty of our letters. This year we didn't bother to include a card. Screw the greeting card industry. Hope that's not part of the Butterfly Effect.
Like I'd written earlier it was my friend Bruno who received very personal and insulting cards from me. I truly loved to write them. The worse they were, the more he liked them. Masochistic Wop Syndrome at its best. If you read this Bruno, put the shiv away, you know I love you. But not in that way.
No more than twenty of the Reed's Mill letters went out and accompanied the actual Christmas letter. Didn't do that but once. The postage was a killer.
Reed's Mill (Don't remember the year)
It's Christmas time at Reed's Mill (see card - guess you'll have to imagine the dam, frozen pond, kids skating and the mill above), a time to celebrate, relax and reflect on all the wonderful years gone by. It was the invention and patenting of the Cadaver Press that gained Joshua Reed his international renown. In the beginning, the press' intention was to conserve the native hardwoods of New England. Both burial space and wood were at a premium during the first half of the 19th Century in the Northeast. Reed quickly realized that by crushing the remains of an expired loved one into a one foot cube, casket construction would be greatly simplified and the material needed, reduced several fold. A fine example of Yankee ingenuity and frugality.
With the coming of the Civil War in the next decade, Reed patented and added the Precious Bodily Fluids wheel. When the loved one's body was pressed, rather than waste the water, mucus, blood and urine, Reed used the fluids to drive a second wheel. The war proved a boon that drove the machines in both Reed's cabinetry shop and grist mill.
In 1863 a more powerful and efficient press was added which allowed the Cherished to be compressed into a queen sized brick. A touch of portland cement, a dash of red coloring and, voila!, Reed had the makings of a truly fine and sturdy building material. Few know that many of the monuments, Gettysburg and Antietam for example, were made from the very men who perished there. Knowing this adds both meaning to each site and comfort that none died in vain. Our hats off to you Joshua Reed!
The Reeds, our friends not Joshua, seemed to enjoy the note. Even responded about finally having been found out. I should give this style of letter more thought about its decorum. But if I did, they'd never get mailed.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Christmas Letters - part I
Over the years me and Uncle Emil have parked our carcasses and written a small library of them. Started when the two of us agreed most of those newsy ones about wonderful children and open heart surgery sucked to high heaven. Then my wife Lois piped in with a "Me too" and we were off. Odd thing was Lois wrote a few our counter culture ones herself. Yup, all of ours mentioned family but only in passing and rarely as the focus.
The best ones were simply hand written on the cards we sent out. Written and never seen again. Then a few months, or years, later someone on the list would pop up with a "What you said in your card this year was really strange, funny for sure, but strange. What did it mean?"
Me, I wouldn't have a clue what they were talking about. The brain moves the hand, the hand the pen and the words flow onto the card. No two the same. What I'd written was gone from my mind within seconds of sealing the envelope. So they'd have to clue me in. And I'd laugh. I love my sense of humor though I suspect it isn't mine. Figure me as a conduit for my Uncle Emil. He's the one with a sick mind. I'm just a bozo who can hold a pen and find the keys.
We've kept them all except maybe the Reed's Mill one. That was seriously gruesome in a constructive kinda way. If I find it I'll definitely throw it in. As for the strangest of the strange, my buddy Bruno Scarzinni has all the cards I've sent him over the last score of years. My Uncle Emil might seem strange but compared to Bruno he's Mother Cabrini.
So here goes, starting with this year's:
Christmas 2012
So, the other morning I wandered out to the compost bin (ain't we organic?) with the usual bucket of garbage and found the following note inside:
We're tyred of having to eat the labels off the banana peelz even
if they thay say thay r Brain Food. Take them off or we'll choo a
hole in yur roof and moov in.
The Skwirrels
P.S. We r also sik and tyrd of taking the lid off this feedr. Leev
it off or else! We meen bizness!!
Sounded like war to me. Damn ingrates! They steal corn and seeds from our bird feeder and raid the apple tree from budding time on. There's no way we owed those tree rats a thing. In a fury I wrote the following note and taped it to the bin:
Scumbags,
Take a look in the mirror. Yes, the food you've been stealing from us
does make your asses look big! It's a wonder you can still climb trees!!
We figure you owe us!!! Also keep in mind you taste like chicken!!!!
The Owners
P.S. Any wrong moves on your part, we'll live trap you and ship your
useless carcasses off to the north woods where the foxes and coyotes
will gobble you up like like Milk Duds! By the way, learn to spell!!
This morning, in the bin:
Skritch, skritch, skritch. Wat's that? Cud that sownd u heer up on the roof
be the skufling of Santa's ranedear? Think agan idiot! Enjoy the beech
in Alabama as much as we wil enjoy r nu hom. Live traps, wat a joke.
How stooped do u think we r?
Yur Wurst Nitemare
Long story short, took but a second to realize any time I'd lose trimming off the labels would be neatly offset by never again having to remove the compost bin covers. It ain't an uplifting thought realizing that squirrels are now smarter than you are. I wonder if Donald Duck ever came to that point with Chip and Dale? If not, that puts me somewhere between birds and rodents on the scale of evolution. Could be worse.
I'm almost apologetic about this one. Too cute, way too cute. Only threats, no real blood. But sometimes you write 'em for general audiences with the idea they can be stuffed in anyone's envelope and not given a second thought. I'll dig around in the ghosts of Christmas' past to see if there's something I am proud of for the next entry.
The best ones were simply hand written on the cards we sent out. Written and never seen again. Then a few months, or years, later someone on the list would pop up with a "What you said in your card this year was really strange, funny for sure, but strange. What did it mean?"
Me, I wouldn't have a clue what they were talking about. The brain moves the hand, the hand the pen and the words flow onto the card. No two the same. What I'd written was gone from my mind within seconds of sealing the envelope. So they'd have to clue me in. And I'd laugh. I love my sense of humor though I suspect it isn't mine. Figure me as a conduit for my Uncle Emil. He's the one with a sick mind. I'm just a bozo who can hold a pen and find the keys.
We've kept them all except maybe the Reed's Mill one. That was seriously gruesome in a constructive kinda way. If I find it I'll definitely throw it in. As for the strangest of the strange, my buddy Bruno Scarzinni has all the cards I've sent him over the last score of years. My Uncle Emil might seem strange but compared to Bruno he's Mother Cabrini.
So here goes, starting with this year's:
Christmas 2012
So, the other morning I wandered out to the compost bin (ain't we organic?) with the usual bucket of garbage and found the following note inside:
We're tyred of having to eat the labels off the banana peelz even
if they thay say thay r Brain Food. Take them off or we'll choo a
hole in yur roof and moov in.
The Skwirrels
P.S. We r also sik and tyrd of taking the lid off this feedr. Leev
it off or else! We meen bizness!!
Sounded like war to me. Damn ingrates! They steal corn and seeds from our bird feeder and raid the apple tree from budding time on. There's no way we owed those tree rats a thing. In a fury I wrote the following note and taped it to the bin:
Scumbags,
Take a look in the mirror. Yes, the food you've been stealing from us
does make your asses look big! It's a wonder you can still climb trees!!
We figure you owe us!!! Also keep in mind you taste like chicken!!!!
The Owners
P.S. Any wrong moves on your part, we'll live trap you and ship your
useless carcasses off to the north woods where the foxes and coyotes
will gobble you up like like Milk Duds! By the way, learn to spell!!
This morning, in the bin:
Skritch, skritch, skritch. Wat's that? Cud that sownd u heer up on the roof
be the skufling of Santa's ranedear? Think agan idiot! Enjoy the beech
in Alabama as much as we wil enjoy r nu hom. Live traps, wat a joke.
How stooped do u think we r?
Yur Wurst Nitemare
Long story short, took but a second to realize any time I'd lose trimming off the labels would be neatly offset by never again having to remove the compost bin covers. It ain't an uplifting thought realizing that squirrels are now smarter than you are. I wonder if Donald Duck ever came to that point with Chip and Dale? If not, that puts me somewhere between birds and rodents on the scale of evolution. Could be worse.
I'm almost apologetic about this one. Too cute, way too cute. Only threats, no real blood. But sometimes you write 'em for general audiences with the idea they can be stuffed in anyone's envelope and not given a second thought. I'll dig around in the ghosts of Christmas' past to see if there's something I am proud of for the next entry.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Sometimes it Gets a Little Weird in the Woods - White Guys part II
It's all about freedom Markie. Emil likes to call me Markie like he did back when I was six. Makes life worth livin'. Now I ain't talkin' about doin' anything you want 'cause some of that steps on toes. Gets in the way of other people's lives. Like some of that NRA business. Not that I've got anything carryin' a gun. Shot a few deer and ducks in my time. But those boys go overboard.
But that's not the freedom I'm talkin' about. Sometimes the mood hits me. Might be a throw back to the days when I was up and walkin' but still in diapers. Nothin' like the feelin' of runnin' buck naked through the house with my mom or dad chasin' after me. Yellin' like they think I'm gonna soak the wool Mohawk carpet and literally raise a stink. Me giggling', knowin' all the while how much power I had danglin' right in front of me. I knew I wasn't gonna pee on anything. But they didn't. Power and freedom all rolled into one.
Now that same mood still hit me when I was in my fifties. Up in the woods. No one around. Indian Summer. No bugs. Lord knows you don't want any 'skeeters or ticks around when you're gettin' weird. Me, I like to do it when I'm gatherin' fire wood. Buck naked. Well, not completely. Ever since I took ten stitches in my ankle I never fired up the saw without leather boots on. Also wore gloves and headphones. But that's about it.
Lena never caught on. But she did find it odd that I could spend eight hours droppin', sawin' and splittin' oak then come home in clothes near as clean as they were in the mornin'. Now that I think about it, maybe she did and was smart enough to not complain about havin' fewer clothes in the wash.
But that's not the freedom I'm talkin' about. Sometimes the mood hits me. Might be a throw back to the days when I was up and walkin' but still in diapers. Nothin' like the feelin' of runnin' buck naked through the house with my mom or dad chasin' after me. Yellin' like they think I'm gonna soak the wool Mohawk carpet and literally raise a stink. Me giggling', knowin' all the while how much power I had danglin' right in front of me. I knew I wasn't gonna pee on anything. But they didn't. Power and freedom all rolled into one.
Now that same mood still hit me when I was in my fifties. Up in the woods. No one around. Indian Summer. No bugs. Lord knows you don't want any 'skeeters or ticks around when you're gettin' weird. Me, I like to do it when I'm gatherin' fire wood. Buck naked. Well, not completely. Ever since I took ten stitches in my ankle I never fired up the saw without leather boots on. Also wore gloves and headphones. But that's about it.
Lena never caught on. But she did find it odd that I could spend eight hours droppin', sawin' and splittin' oak then come home in clothes near as clean as they were in the mornin'. Now that I think about it, maybe she did and was smart enough to not complain about havin' fewer clothes in the wash.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Old White Men Talkin'
Not sure where this is gonna go. That's what makes it fun. It's election day 2012. And am fillin' out a living will form so that when I can't wipe my own butt anymore there'll be someone there to pull the trigger for me.
I've been sayin' for many months that I'd write my own funeral. But till now I've put it off. Hard to tell when the right time to grind it out will come. Put it off long enough and I'll be a droolin' idiot. Pullin' up the Emil blog seemed like the thing to do. Askin' the dead seems like the best way to get a sane perspective on life. After all, Emil's been there, done that and had time to let it compost a bit.
It ain't easy gettin' Emil to start talkin' again. Since he died he's slowed down a might. S'pose time doesn't mean as much when you're beyond it. So the planning and preparing for the trip is on my shoulders. Somehow I've got to get him on good water, not another soul in sight - oops, I guess that's an accidental joke seeing as how I'm gonna be floatin' my boat with a dead man - and a pack of Luckies in his shirt pocket. Also better not forget to put fluid in the Zippo. Emil says a waft of lighter fluid adds a little something special to that first drag.
"What say we fish Wedge Lake? It was good water back in the '60s and seems to be even better since they put size limits on the pike. Since it's my call I'm thinkin' we try the year 2000. Finish out that last night when you wimped out. Said you're ribs made you a danger in the canoe. Hell, the sun was out. Two and a half hours of it left before twilight on the best water either one of us has been on. Sound good to you?"
Who was I to say no? It was a fine night. Only problem was not bein' able to fit Al in the canoe with us. Sure is kind of odd. We were gonna leave Al back in camp but just couldn't do it. So we conjured up a bigger canoe, a twenty foot Minnesota III. Seein' as how this was to be Emil's story and both me and Al would mostly keep our mouths shut and throw spinners, why keep Al off his favorite lake?
So the three of us paddled off, up lake to the northeast, past the birch where Al's red and white Mepps still hung after waiting patiently for thirteen years and started fishing the little point where I caught my first Canadian walleye. Then Emil started talking about bein' dead.
"Gotta tell you it's some kinda weird shit over on the other side. If it wasn't, nobody'd wanta be born. Don't be lookin' at me that way. Ain't nothin' new in infinity. Everything's always been there. Always will be. Churns around, gets recycled. I'm here now. There now. Everywhere now. All at the same time. That's what infinity's about you see. Everything's infinite. Except it don't look that way when you're lookin' out at the world through a pair of eyes.
It's a lot like dreamin'. Nothin' on the other side seems to make sense unless you think about it a lot. Even then it's guesswork.
That don't make much sense does it? Let's try 'er this way: Remember what you said about Vietnam? That the only ground us Americans controlled was the mud under our boots? Well, bein' dead's a lot like that. You can't see or know nothin' except what's right where you are. And let me tell you, there are some serious problems with that.
You see, it's also doggy heaven on the other side. And raccoon heaven, wolf, coyote, you name it, if it craps on the ground it's over there. And if you can only see where your foot is at the moment, not where its comin' down... let's just say you step in it a lot. Don't always smell like roses when you're dead.
And that's why there's such a long line to be born again. Life in the light might have its shortcomin's but at least you've got a pretty good idea what's on the road ahead. I'd let on more than that but I ain't got it figured out yet.
So here's the kicker. Most every religion has its Holy, its Heaven, Nirvana, somewhere out there on the other side that's better than here. But it ain't. No sir. You want the holy? Well, she's right there on the upside of the sod. Right now. Ain't nothin' any holier than floating on Wedge Lake, black water below, spruce and birch risin' above. Or splittin' wood. Sittin' on a stump with a cup of steam-risin' coffee in hand, on an early spring mornin', a grouse off a hundred yards drummin' away 'cause he's lonely. You want holy? Clean the house, eat an apple right off the tree."
The deep chill of the rain cleaned air went right into my bones. Damn the ribs hurt. But seein' as how Emil was in the canoe we fished 'er out. And darned fine fishin' it was. Remember that Emil was a died in the wool pike fisherman. But we couldn't get away from the walleyes. One bay to the next. Walleyes all the way. Past the rainbow reeds and into the deep cut bay where there's never any fish. But it's just so darned pretty we worked it anyhow.
She's a half bowl. Steep sided from the black water level up. The sunlight bouncing off the glassed out lake lit the spruce trees from the bottom up. An explosion of jade. We reeled in and simply sat there. Spellbound. Nothing to say. The only sound, Emil's zippo clacking open. I could swear the soft crackle of burning tobacco actually echoed off the wall of trees. Then Emil's popping inhales. Felt like we could sit there forever.
I have days like this now and then. Used to have them a lot. Even when I was a kid I took the ideas of fair play and we're all in this together as the way this country was supposed to operate. Why not? That's what we were taught in school.
Two years in the Army, especially my time as a grunt in Vietnam gave those feelings an explosive boost. Then decades on the job did nothing so much as expose what we'd been taught as no more than lip service. Thats just the way she was and just the way I felt about it. For about fifteen years I constantly floated in hot water. Couldn't keep from shooting my mouth off.
Then it changed. Not so much that I felt any different but my head was sore from beating it on the wall. With no obvious effect.
" What happened? I used to get a kick out of your spunk and then watching you go down in flames. Didn't have much effect I know. But you sure as hell got the little big boys to sweat on a regular basis. Even Fred Smith, the big man, that one time. Yeah, you were chicken but not gutless.
So what does happen to the ordinary guys who see the truth but don't want it to bring them down? Guess they go fishing and take a leak in the woods now and then.
By the by, I ever tell you how I used to spot fish before the days of electronics? Easy as pie so long as your glasses are tied on and you don't mind a wet head. And don't ever try it when the boat is movin' , 'specially near a reef. Not only did I end up seein' double but learned it ain't only sharks that are drawn by the smell of blood. 'Course the leeches came in handy for walleye fishin'. The good with the bad I guess."
I've been sayin' for many months that I'd write my own funeral. But till now I've put it off. Hard to tell when the right time to grind it out will come. Put it off long enough and I'll be a droolin' idiot. Pullin' up the Emil blog seemed like the thing to do. Askin' the dead seems like the best way to get a sane perspective on life. After all, Emil's been there, done that and had time to let it compost a bit.
It ain't easy gettin' Emil to start talkin' again. Since he died he's slowed down a might. S'pose time doesn't mean as much when you're beyond it. So the planning and preparing for the trip is on my shoulders. Somehow I've got to get him on good water, not another soul in sight - oops, I guess that's an accidental joke seeing as how I'm gonna be floatin' my boat with a dead man - and a pack of Luckies in his shirt pocket. Also better not forget to put fluid in the Zippo. Emil says a waft of lighter fluid adds a little something special to that first drag.
"What say we fish Wedge Lake? It was good water back in the '60s and seems to be even better since they put size limits on the pike. Since it's my call I'm thinkin' we try the year 2000. Finish out that last night when you wimped out. Said you're ribs made you a danger in the canoe. Hell, the sun was out. Two and a half hours of it left before twilight on the best water either one of us has been on. Sound good to you?"
Who was I to say no? It was a fine night. Only problem was not bein' able to fit Al in the canoe with us. Sure is kind of odd. We were gonna leave Al back in camp but just couldn't do it. So we conjured up a bigger canoe, a twenty foot Minnesota III. Seein' as how this was to be Emil's story and both me and Al would mostly keep our mouths shut and throw spinners, why keep Al off his favorite lake?
So the three of us paddled off, up lake to the northeast, past the birch where Al's red and white Mepps still hung after waiting patiently for thirteen years and started fishing the little point where I caught my first Canadian walleye. Then Emil started talking about bein' dead.
"Gotta tell you it's some kinda weird shit over on the other side. If it wasn't, nobody'd wanta be born. Don't be lookin' at me that way. Ain't nothin' new in infinity. Everything's always been there. Always will be. Churns around, gets recycled. I'm here now. There now. Everywhere now. All at the same time. That's what infinity's about you see. Everything's infinite. Except it don't look that way when you're lookin' out at the world through a pair of eyes.
It's a lot like dreamin'. Nothin' on the other side seems to make sense unless you think about it a lot. Even then it's guesswork.
That don't make much sense does it? Let's try 'er this way: Remember what you said about Vietnam? That the only ground us Americans controlled was the mud under our boots? Well, bein' dead's a lot like that. You can't see or know nothin' except what's right where you are. And let me tell you, there are some serious problems with that.
You see, it's also doggy heaven on the other side. And raccoon heaven, wolf, coyote, you name it, if it craps on the ground it's over there. And if you can only see where your foot is at the moment, not where its comin' down... let's just say you step in it a lot. Don't always smell like roses when you're dead.
And that's why there's such a long line to be born again. Life in the light might have its shortcomin's but at least you've got a pretty good idea what's on the road ahead. I'd let on more than that but I ain't got it figured out yet.
So here's the kicker. Most every religion has its Holy, its Heaven, Nirvana, somewhere out there on the other side that's better than here. But it ain't. No sir. You want the holy? Well, she's right there on the upside of the sod. Right now. Ain't nothin' any holier than floating on Wedge Lake, black water below, spruce and birch risin' above. Or splittin' wood. Sittin' on a stump with a cup of steam-risin' coffee in hand, on an early spring mornin', a grouse off a hundred yards drummin' away 'cause he's lonely. You want holy? Clean the house, eat an apple right off the tree."
The deep chill of the rain cleaned air went right into my bones. Damn the ribs hurt. But seein' as how Emil was in the canoe we fished 'er out. And darned fine fishin' it was. Remember that Emil was a died in the wool pike fisherman. But we couldn't get away from the walleyes. One bay to the next. Walleyes all the way. Past the rainbow reeds and into the deep cut bay where there's never any fish. But it's just so darned pretty we worked it anyhow.
She's a half bowl. Steep sided from the black water level up. The sunlight bouncing off the glassed out lake lit the spruce trees from the bottom up. An explosion of jade. We reeled in and simply sat there. Spellbound. Nothing to say. The only sound, Emil's zippo clacking open. I could swear the soft crackle of burning tobacco actually echoed off the wall of trees. Then Emil's popping inhales. Felt like we could sit there forever.
I have days like this now and then. Used to have them a lot. Even when I was a kid I took the ideas of fair play and we're all in this together as the way this country was supposed to operate. Why not? That's what we were taught in school.
Two years in the Army, especially my time as a grunt in Vietnam gave those feelings an explosive boost. Then decades on the job did nothing so much as expose what we'd been taught as no more than lip service. Thats just the way she was and just the way I felt about it. For about fifteen years I constantly floated in hot water. Couldn't keep from shooting my mouth off.
Then it changed. Not so much that I felt any different but my head was sore from beating it on the wall. With no obvious effect.
" What happened? I used to get a kick out of your spunk and then watching you go down in flames. Didn't have much effect I know. But you sure as hell got the little big boys to sweat on a regular basis. Even Fred Smith, the big man, that one time. Yeah, you were chicken but not gutless.
So what does happen to the ordinary guys who see the truth but don't want it to bring them down? Guess they go fishing and take a leak in the woods now and then.
By the by, I ever tell you how I used to spot fish before the days of electronics? Easy as pie so long as your glasses are tied on and you don't mind a wet head. And don't ever try it when the boat is movin' , 'specially near a reef. Not only did I end up seein' double but learned it ain't only sharks that are drawn by the smell of blood. 'Course the leeches came in handy for walleye fishin'. The good with the bad I guess."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)