Sundays Conversation

This morning’s weekly call was special.

Maddy had Veronica with her.

It’s been years since we’ve spoken.

Veronica had lived with our mother over Mom’s last years.

I suspect that my memory of watching

From an unlit back porch, is transfixed.

Mom and Veronica sat at the corner table

Entirely engage in their Rummy game.

Mom knew the game Veronica not so much.

My mother, at 93, was transitioning

From a believer in racial opportunity

To having a black keeper and dear friend.

Maddy and I were not there when Mom died

Holding tight to Veronica’s hand and encouragement.

We were not part of the Thanksgiving celebration

When Veronica brought Mom to her family party.

In yesterday’s conversation the warmth

That flowed long after we said goodbye

Took me to a place I have rarely visited.

I hope my mother experienced those moments.

A Dogs Life

 A Dogs Life                  1/3/17

Diana, has been my wife for 35 years

And I love her, 

Maybe not every minute of everyday,

But well over 90% of the time.

Rose had been part of the family for years

Between Homer, Rose and Doobie

We’ve had at least one dog,

For the last 25 years…until today.

None of those friends was perfect,

But all of them added to our lives.

Homer was first and surely the most handsome.

A tall 85-pound brown/white Dalmatian,

He understood his nightly trip to the backyard.

Peeing was mandatory. But if the well were dry

He would lift his back left leg and pretend.

That was enough to gain him reentry. 

Rose lived 15 years, and was a 40 pound black runner.

She could accommodate upwards of a 10-dog chase.

She was always the target,

With long legs and excellent eyesight she could hunt squirrels,

Never successfully, from over 200 feet away.

For years she shared our bed, always as family, never as guest.

She had 2 female buddies, both substantially larger.

Her German Sheppard buddy discouraged any interest from males.

Doobie was 9 when we adopted him. 

A quiet fat mutt with legs designed for a 5 pound body.

He weighed upwards of 17 pounds, would bark whenever he was

Hungry, and was always hungry.

He was not designed for, nor interested in,

Playing with Rose, or any other dog.

In his last month Doobie’s walk

Was transformed into a daily stroller ride.

He never asked out of a chauffeured tour.

Do we get another dog?  There are many dogs that need a home, and we are not accustomed to a house with out an occasional bark.

Will see

  

How to deal with guns and curly hair in inclement weather

How to deal with curly hair in inclement weather?  That was the point of a video that featured 5 females, ranging in age from about 10 to 70. The "star beautician" and the show’s host prompted the women to smile, with marginal results, and thought it desirable to rearrange the ladies’ right hands so that the product being sold was getting plenty of viewing. Meanwhile the "star beautician" explained how each lady's curly hair might be truly glamorous.

With typical male intolerance I turned the TV off, cursed God for allowing this balderdash to be broadcast to innocent victims across the nation. But then I thought, maybe it held the answer to "gun control"?  If millions of people saw enough of this banal TV show or one just as silly, surely gun enthusiasts sitting in their customary TV living room rocker, with a loaded buckshot gun across their truly ugly knees, could not contain their rage and find it biblically mandatory to blast the be-Jesus out of the abomination.  That in turn would bring the whole family down on the TV killer, demanding that he or she destroy the weapon before a replacement TV could be purchased. And word would spread. Families hearing about the TV killers would confront other potential TV killers, bringing tens of thousands of homes across our great country to cease buying guns.  

Our New Resident

Rudy is only 80% housebroken.

On the other hand he loves our bed

And we’re allowed to share the big blanket.

Unlike Rudy, we don’t necessarily bounce off the mattress

Or use our teeth to rearrange the pillows.

After evening calisthenics Rudy will settle

All 12 pounds against Diana, mess his share

Of the cover, curl into a tight circle,

With just a bit of head visible.

He is not a loud dreamer, and won’t wake before dawn,

Some time before the sunrise I awake,

Check my arms for dog scratches,

And carry Rudy to the backyard,

Giving him no choice as to where

He should take care of business.

The Other Side

There is a wish? No, a plea.

Yet the hats say otherwise.

They speak of smiles and risk.

Words, stretched and delivered

From a cauldron of hurts

That needs expression and acceptance.

Still the hats are expansive.

What Matters: The Sun

Never lived in Fresno or Stockton,

The food-basket of the United States

Surrounds those towns: North, South, East and West.

Both places get Tully Fog in the winter.

Tully fog stays close to the grown.

Not much sun below 10 feet.

The coast never gets Tully Fog, 

or 100 degree summer days.

Fresno and Stockton do get lots of suicides.

I know this lady with family in Fresno.

She wants to go back there.

Leave San Diego for Fresno.?

Watson, Where Are the Keys?

It’s happened before

Misplacing my key ring is nothing new.

With a yawn I start the hunt.

The office desk, or the hall shelf ?

Of course! The kitchen table, my nightstand,

Or the cars’ ignition switch could be the culprit.

I like to think that where I leave things

Is not of my doing, the fault lies in the location!

Ok, this time it’s getting a little tricky.

I’ve looked under the car, and on the garage floor.

Oh hell, I’ll find it when we get back from dinner.

Diana has a copy of the car key.

Now back from dinner we review and repeat the search.

An hour later I’m thinking of the cost of replacements.

One last check in the car trunk and I slam the lid

And notice the key ring is in the trunk key-lock. 

I had failed to see the #$%* keys in my earlier inspection.

The key ring could have fallen when we drove to dinner.

It might had been taken by someone who saw the keys

And decided he might as well take them,

Along with the car!

There is a moral lesson to be drawn.

People who leave keys in car trunk doors

Should probably be subjected to a critical review.

Like “You cannot enter the house if unable to spell your name”.

Rose In The Wind

Fourteen years ago Rose was special.

She would race any dog

Encountered on the beach.

Her advantage was a built in move machine.

She was capable of using any leg as a pivot.

When the game was “catch” Rose

Whether chased by one or six dogs,

Would invariably double back,

Leap one of her pursuers and create utter chaos.

A five or ten second reorganization

Was followed by another attempt

To put the long-legged black mutt

In the “gotcha” column.

Now that mutt has arthritis,

Moments of lost orientation

And cannot walk more than two blocks

Except when the wind is hollering.

That calls her back to 360 degree leaps,

And a need for speed.

It matters not who holds the leash

That person is part of the game

And can expect to be strongly prompted

To counter a chest leap.

This morning our sleepy,

Somewhat deaf, fifteen year old Rose

Heard, saw and felt the call

Of a forty mile-an-hour gale.

It was her time to dance and fly…

A sight I shall remember.

Forgetting

Half way between our house and the restaurant

Someone was running in our direction.

Not again? I didn’t leave my credit card…again?

Our waitress was breathing heavily

When she reached us.

In her right hand she held the goddamn card.

This was not the first or fiftieth time I forgot the damn #%&%#$%.

But this was the first time I left my card on her table.

Of course this was the first time she had been my waitress.

I am not a collector of much, so the thirty baseball caps and 100 pens

That I never recovered have not caused sleepless nights.

My subconscious is doing its job.

Notwithstanding the many prompts that have

Encouraged closer inspections, I leave things behind.

I cannot attribute this personal flaw to inheritance.

No family member that I know, or know of,

Has been marked by this need.

There is no basis for believing I am

Manifesting a generous nature.

Whether returned or not there is no conscious choice involved.

Perhaps I am a victim of a strange study started at my birth?

Signs of Life

There are times when tomorrow has no anchor.

Nothing I must do, no place I should be.

Of course there will be mail and email.

Yes! there maybe an intriguing email,

Or a last minute open seat at poker.

In any case there are signs of life.

I open our mail and decide on its fate.

To toss or not to toss?

I make breakfast, if cereal and coffee are the order.

Dinner dishes are my responsibility.

I regularly have to mitigate damages.

I often foul a planned engagement,

A day late an hour early, pick, pick.

Yes, on reflection I am very busy.

A regular energy machine.