A Castellation of Pine and Sky

From the kitchen window it looked like a couple cows out nosing around my new erector set in the south field.

Hey...that look like cows to you?

What?

I pinched up my face in frustration. Good thing I had my back to the man. I silently wished he'd learn how to structure a sentence, a few more words at least. My inner martinet threatened catharsis.

He looked out over my shoulder and chuckled, That's yer lumber.

I know that, I just was asking if you thought it looked like cows from here.

The lumber lay silently in two tidy heaps jutting above the clover in the field. That was my store...rather...it was gonna be my store when it got done. The weather had turned on me from the start. As soon as we had the lumber delivered, the dry spell ended.

That was a couple weeks back. Today I looked out the same window, and saw a castellation of pine and sky. Even in the face of piggy-backing storms, my dream was taking shape. Mass (materials) times velocity ( hell-bent volunteers on a pressing schedule), equaled the skeletal beginnings of A Divine Little Curiosity Shop, to call my own. Since I can't eat on what I make as a writer, I've sunk everything into this venture. My online sales have been faltering at a bad time. That's been funding my building. Now I'm just concerned that I won't have enough to close it all in before the onset of winter. At times like these, it makes my need for a vehicle with air-conditioning seem small and inconsequential.

It all comes down to faith. I have enough of it to know that if I work hard, my needs will be met. So I will keep hammering away. I'll also keep my whimsical observations to a minimum if I don't want the single-syllable wonder to start commenting on his perception of my mental state, a naturally occurring exultation he savors at the mention.
Men!
8/18/2005 1:21 AM
word count 327

An Agressive and Horribly Stinky Scourge

After the Tsunami and other weather irregularities, I'm guessing that John was not the only person to run out and buy the movie, The Day After Tomorrow. He was so intent on seeing the film that when the sales girl informed him that they only carried it in DVD format, he purchased a DVD player on the spot. I about had a stroke. I thought he'd never give in to the DVD phenomenon. Those little goodies were just too upscale for the likes of him. Curiosity got the best of him. He wanted to see what kind of atmosphere altering anomalies Hollywood was predicting. I didn't have to point out to him that the world-wide weather in general has altered a great deal during our life times.
John never liked reading, he avoids it at all costs...unless money is involved. He tends to dote on his green-backs. I figure if he'd of had a TV growing up, that he would have been one of those kids that would see writing a book report based on a made for TV movie as a logical alternative to the otherwise unavoidable literary confrontation.
This last week, we've had an abnormal cooling trend. Instead of the usual August pressure cooker, we've had rain, and lots of it. It's so weird to be able to go for a walk in mid-afternoon this time of year without becoming partially cooked. I haven't been the only critter taking advantage of the late spring/ early fall weather.
My garden has become overgrown and out of control. A very appealing homestead to a wandering badger. The fence didn't deter him. He had no problem nosing open the gate and finding a large rock to burrow under in the sage patch. He didn't get to enjoy it for long. John put about nine rounds into his head and stuffed him in a hefty bag.
My sage is now all trampled and uprooted. John did more damage than the foul creature that indiscriminately defecated on my holy ground. I had no problem forgiving the old coot that, as a man can't be too careful when confronting an aggressive and horribly stinky scourge. The badger, I'm sure, viewed him much in the same manner.
Now I'm feeling guilty about telling Merlin to be quiet the last couple of nights. I thought he was just being stupid, barking at shadows. I should have been commending him for his bravery and shoving Scooby-snacks into his face. Dogs are so forgiving.
I haven't had much time to write lately, with my planning my store and all. I have finally decided on a name. I shall call it A Divine Little Curiosity Shop. Flea Market is much too generic, The Corner Store is too boring, and I decided that The Hedge Apple sounded much too much like a horse turd, and face it, The Hedge Witch could restrict my patronage considerably, because, after all, not everyone has a sense of humor, especially those bible thumping old fart's that drive 15 miles per hour down the center line of the highway.
I'm going to enjoy the interior and exterior design work and even more fun will be the purchasing of interesting oddities and seeing how many I can cram into it without violating any building codes.
8/17/2005 1:24 AM
word count 547

Shoot 'Em Real Hard, Okay Papa?

I'm a grandmother, like it or not. I love the kids, really I do, it's just the being called grandma part that is hard to swallow. However, I find it much more appealing than the locally accepted alternative form, Nanna, as the name carries heavy connotations if you're from Iceland. Granted, I am not sure of the pronunciation, but Nana is the name of the Armenian pre-Christian Mother goddess, and being blessed with the title of that omniscient one is an honor. However, the latter spelling, Nanna, can refer to the Mesopotamian moon god or the Nordic vegetation goddess. According to some legends the goddess of green died of a broken heart after her consort, Balder, was slain. A real downer of a story.

Since my companion is bald, and maybe even bald-er than most, I make the connection on a conscious level and fear carrying the title since it could mean his demise and a messy end for myself. So it's no wonder he doesn't mind being called papa. It has no weighty karmas attached to it that I know of, unless of course, if you consider the Spanish word for french fry (papa) might land you in some hot oil. Grandkids are great. My favorite thing about them has to be the things they say. My grandson, Haven, spent the better part of a week with us recently and the buz word this go 'round was fight.

You wanna play fight?

Let's fight!

I fight bad guys like Spiderman only I got no web...see. He said this as he flicked his wrist back in the classic Spidy manner.

I had to ask him why he was exploring this particular word so thoroughly. Only I worded it in 4 year old hip-hop slang, Why you be trippin' on fight homy?

Somebody got's ta git mean peoples...I'll do it...like this! He did his little Jackie Chan dance of death, complete with sound effects.

Child, there's other ways to deal with problem people you know.

Like shoots 'em? Pappa you got guns?

Yep ( A man of few words).

Then you can shoots 'em okay papa? An' I'll do this, as he chopped the air and kicked an invisible foe in the knee caps.

Grandpa grumbled, not knowing what to say and trying to stymie a laugh.

You shoot 'em real hard okay Papa?...an' grandma can git me some web shooter an' I'll tie 'em up all sticky.

So, if a 3 foot tall spider-chan-man hauls off and clobbers you in the lower extremities out of nowhere, you best reflect on what you were doing. It could be My Hero to the rescue!
8/10/2005 11:26 PM
word count 389

It runs in the family

A Flicking, Yanking, Switching, Jerking Test of Wills

I know I'm always commenting on farmers...John in particular. I can't help it. They're so darn entertaining. I feel like I was born on another planet. In a way, I was. We had indoor plumbing, cartoons and Disneyland. John, and so many others had chores, much the equivalent to that of a chain-gang doing hard labor. Television was for lazy people with more money than sense and the word Disneyland left a bitter taste in the mouths of those that were raised to accept that the Magic Kingdom may as well of been in a galaxy far-far away, since they'd never set foot in the grand brick entry paved in loving memory of family vacationers from around the world, excluding poor farm children.

Now honestly, there has to be folks around here that grew up much in the same fashion as I, I just haven't met them yet. I was working for a particle board furniture factory in Utah, which I hated. While I was there I discovered that the main office was in a place called Lamar, Missouri. A name I'd only heard about in an exhausting Kevin Costner saga about Wyatt Earp. The people that had all the key positions were from that place. They seemed nice enough, and they sure missed home. It got me to thinking about how I cringed every morning when the alarm would go off. I hated to be single, living in an area speckled with polygamous communities and run by the second largest cult in the US. Those Mormons left me uncomfortable. They were nothing like the Mormons back home, they were normal in California (that comment being relative to your geography). I even frequented the churches myself and had many friends in the ranks. They were just plain scary in Utah.

The people in Missouri are a hard working, brave lot that work their lives away, six days a week in a sweaty, dirty, plant where their only fringe benefit is a yearly picnic that bored me into non-existence. I admire their tenacity and humble demeanors and I get a kick out of the unique brand of humor that emerges. Blue Collar TV is a classic example.

I have never regretted the move here. No, let's be honest...hell yes I've regretted it! Every time I bash into a piece of furniture while groping for the ceiling fan pull chain in the dark, on account of Mr. Weber refusing to allow me to use the wall switches. When we first moved into this house everything was fine...until we installed ceiling fans everywhere. It put him at peace, reverting back to the familiar danglies. I, on the other hand grew up flicking switches and can't learn to blindly nail that cord no matter how well I know this house.

I'll never forget the day John came home all grumpy and stinky (the norm) and yanked the chain, nothing happened (not normal). He flipped out. He started a ranting about circuits shorting out and kept pointing his finger at me and began the barrage of ridiculous accusations about my office equipment and attempted some Nazi interrogation techniques. I just stood there, mouth shut, Windex and paper towels slipping through my fingers. When he stopped for a breath, in my annoyance I let the cleaning supplies fall and walked over to the switch and flicked it on and walked out. I took a long hike through the woods that day. It was the first of many.

I don't let him bother me anymore. If he were to do that now, it would start a war. A flicking, yanking, switching, jerking test of wills. Neither one of us have that kind of energy to spare so he'd just turn the switch and let the moody old hound lay these days. The powers that be have instilled a will in me that can leave cobwebs gather, the dust thicken, and the the laundry untouched if I am so affronted. I become instantly much too busy for domestic servitude.
I still try to placate the man suffering from chronic fear of change by leaving the switches alone... unless I'm cleaning the lights and blades like that day, and he doesn't get excited anymore...about anything. We'll explore the flip-side to that coin another day.
7/30/2005 1:51 AM
word count 737