Twas The Week Before Christmas

Twas the week before Christmas and all through the days

the good folk prepared in peculiar ways.

They hung coloured lights strung from here to there,

not a corner neglected, not a tree left bare.

Hydro lines hummed, electricity surged,

the night sky illuminated and the darkness was purged.

Electric Jesus' glowed, ostentatious and fine.

Mary, Joseph and peeps in a Vegas chorus line.

Hot air blow-ups replaced real snow women and men.

Twinkling deer sat in decoy between Grinch and penguin.

All this fanfare, I find, makes my head spin a little.

When it started, I muse, is a bit of a riddle.

One thing's for certain, makes me miss days of old

when we strung paper chains in red, green and gold.

Merry snow folk gathered in the fronts of our yards,

donning carrots and sticks and old mittens and scarves.

Our trees weren't manicured; no spray painted limbs.

They glowed proudly with tinsel, glass balls and homemade things.

I'm not saying it was better, just simpler and gentler.

We didn't need glam, glitz and pomp at the center.

The Kid That Hated Halloween

They say that sex sells.  The truth is that fear sells too.  That's why Halloween takes a close second to Christmas in most anticipated holidays.

Some might say it's about the candy.  True, it is the one night of the year that our moms encourage us to horde semi-truck loads of sugary poison wrapped in pretty packaging inside our pillow cases.  It's the only time our mothers will grin an approving grin while we gorge ourselves into a diabetic stupor.

But if it were only about the candy, heck, we could avoid all of the hassle of hunting the Value Village costume, risking our lives on the dark, forboding streets at night and the humiliation of begging door to door in the acquisition of sweet stuff that our neighbours payed good money for.

We could just convince Mom to hire the same front-end loader filled with candy for the neigbours kids, turn out the front door light and induce the same approving grin on Mother's face.  (Likely, though, her approving grin is directly attached to the fact that her kids are busily stuffing their faces at someone else's expense for a change.  If so, she likely failed economics 101).

No, it's about the thrill, the blood-curdling cries of werewolves at night, the headless monsters and the 50 pound spiders that creep out of hiding on Halloween night.  It's about spiked levels of hormones from the medulla of the adrenal glands - adrenaline.

It was just such a high that brought these adrenaline seeking adults - myself,  my son, my daughter, my husband and a few friends - to a historic all-time low.  Creating the haunted house that would make those little ones drop their bags of candy and run home to momma.

It began with creepy music pumped out at ear-piercing decibals, drawing zombies from near and far.  It continued with gore - not the real kind - your average party store variety.

It included sophisticated gimmickry to make snakes hiss, skulls jump out at you, floors vibrate and ugly masks pop out of boxes...

...that 2 people dressed in black would control from their Nasa inspired control panel within a hidden perch.

The stage was set, the sun descended and the deranged adults took their positions.  I, likely being the most gullible, was assigned to Hanibal, the overstuffed dummy-come-to-life-who-grabs-at-your-legs-and-shrieks-as-you-whimper-past.  I had a cold, giving my shrieks a level of authenticity as the pain seared through my raw throat with every howl.  I was committed to the task.

Things were going well; screams were filling the air and bladders were trickling uncontrollably.  Young boys approached me with feigned bravado, sticking a foot out to jab at my knee, taunting me to flinch, then leaping into their friends clutches as I made my move at just the right moment.

The girls feigned no bravado.  They revelled in the way their own screams cut through the night air, reaching far into outer space, being picked up by satellite dishes and sent back to Earth.  They would come around again for more, and more and still more.  

Then, one fateful moment that couldn't have been predicted by myself or the best psychic in Amityville.  She was a girl of about 10, sandwiched neatly between her terror-stricken friends, whiter than my nuclear-waste-site costume, fear refelecting from her eyes.  She would become my next victim.  I waited until the pretty little damsel came just within reach, then grabbed...and howled.  

I whipped off the gloves, the gauntlet had been dropped, and my hands flew to my nose, pain coursing through my head.  "I'm sorry."  She giggled somewhere beyond my blurred, teared vision, then continued on in a sugar-hungry quest.  

She'd hit me, right square in the schnoz, like an effeminate Rocky Balboa.  I mused at the power packed into that tender little hand as the stars made their dizzying course around my head.  

If you're reading this, young lady, I'd like to speak to your mother some time.  I'd like to tell her what you did to that innocent Hanibal, who could have been spending a relaxing evening drinking tea with a lovely book, but instead forfeited an evening to bring you a little Halloween mirth.  

I'd like to tell your mother that she should be proud.  She's raised a daughter who won't quickly be taken advantage of in a cruel, ugly world.  

As for me, well, I think I'll retire my spooky threads and dish out the candy next year.

Into The Womb of Mother Earth

 There's a first time for everything, I suppose.  For me, it would be my first sweatlodge experience...and I was moved.

Actually, it started with a weekend yoga retreat.  Restorative, meditative yoga.  The kind of yoga where even a novice such as myself could find her place.  Where, if you didn't know what a "downward dog" or "proud warrior" was, you could fake it and still walk away enriched.

And so it seemed only fitting that a sweatlodge should be a part of such an experience, set at the beautiful, tranquil lakeside resort of Falcon Trails.

We had come together, my friend Ellen and I, to unwind and take the edge off our busy lives.  It didn't hurt that the package deal included a private cottage with fireplace and hot tub, organic, locally grown meals and homespun bluegrass entertainment.  Not to be dismissed, either, was the camaraderie of a small collective of like-minded women from as far away as Montreal.

Day 2 of the yoga retreat centered on "embracing the sacred" and "grounding and gratitude."  From the chalet overlooking the lake we headed up to the summit of the ski hill, where the sweatlodge had been constructed.  The women had been forewarned to wear a skirt out of respect for this native tradition.

We gathered around the hot embers of the fire, located strategically near the entrance to the sweatlodge as our ceremonial leader instructed us in the significance of the event we were about to participate in.  This would be a teaching "sweat" as opposed to others which might focus on purification and healing or seeking a spirit name.  This meant, I understood, that we could ask questions, of which I had many.

The lodge itself was constructed simply, out of bent Tamarac limbs (needles still attached) into an igloo shape.  A green canvas cover had been pulled over the frame with one end tied up into the only opening, facing the fire.  The lodge represented the womb of Mother Earth, into which we were about to enter.

It is within that sacred place that one could commune with The Creator and find healing, clarity, peace and one-ness with Mother Earth and the ancestors who have gone before.

A ceremonial bowl of smoking sacred herb was carried to each participant and, without instruction, we all instictively drew the smoke over ourselves in a demonstration of cleansing before entering the lodge. 

The next step was to toss a small handful of cedar shavings onto the fire which housed, at this point, the rocks (or the ancesters), smouldering beneath the burning logs.   We then stripped down to our barest possible layers - a skirt and tank top - no socks or shoes.  The temperature outside was hovering somewhere near zero celcius with a light, bone-chilling wind rising up from the lake.  The ceremonial leader wore swimming trunks and I wondered at the appropriateness of that.  I would later find out.  

We entered the lodge on all fours, circling around the perimeter of a hole dug into the ground in the middle of the structure.  We seated ourselves cross-legged on a circle of woven blankets, snuggling close to our neighbor to fit 15 participants into the tiny lodge. The ceremonial leader took his place across from the doorway, accoutrements at his side - bucket of water, ceremonial pipe, drum, rattles, a collection of herbs and an eagle feather.   

The Fire Keeper, a young native lad, introduced 7 hot rocks from the fire outside into the center of the lodge, dropping them neatly, one by one into the awaiting hole.  Onto each rock, the leader sprinkled cedar shavings, sparking and filling the lodge with an earthy aroma.  With each sprinkling came a quiet message of thanks to the ancestral rock that had entered our presence. 

The Fire Keeper (Sabay - his spirit name) dropped the canvas to the opening, plunging the lodge into complete darkness, save for the glow of the red rocks at its center.  

The rocks, it was explained, represented the great Grandmothers and Grandfathers, come to speak and heal as the ceremony unfolded; there to administer to the unspoken needs of each participant.

  

The ceremony consisted of movement through 4 metaphorical doors, each door representing the 4 poles of a compass and indicative of the life experience of the human animal, from birth to death.  The movement through each door was celebrated with drumming and ancestral songs by our leader, sung in his native tongue. 

I was glad to have been bestowed the honor, along with 3 others, of the shaking of the rattle.  I might have been tempted to sing along had I known the words.  Through the rattle (mine representing Fire - the others Wind, Water and Earth), I was able to release a little of the pent up energy building in me like claustrophobia, squirming inside me from the sheer joy of the moment.  

The leader prayed and doused the hot rocks from the water bucket, raising the heat level inside the lodge exponentially with the rising plumes of steam.  

Four times the door was opened and 7 more rocks passed to the center by the Fire Keeper.  The pile of glowing rocks grew and the heat within the lodge grew with it.  Four times the door was closed again and the ceremony continued in pitch darkness.  The sweat poured from my body with greater intensity than I'd experienced in any sauna.  At times I'd pull my cotton skirt to my face, sheilding my nostrils from the intense heat and mopping up the stream running from my face and neck.

The leader spoke in low, hushed tones guiding the ancesters into this sacred place and encouraging them to move as our spirits bid them.  "Sayma," our wisened yoga instructor called into the darkness, cuing the Fire Keeper outside to throw some sage to the fire in thanks to the Grandmother that had moved her spirit.  The rest of us remained silent, awed by the intensely spiritual encounter we were all silently experiencing.  

I can't begin to say, even now, why this cross-cultural experience has moved me so deeply.  I don't consider myself intensely spiritual.  I don't prescribe to any particular faith.  I don't necessarily believe in spirits.  I do, however, know that I was uniquely blessed to participate in a rite that was as old as the earliest Native Americans.  Allowed a small window into their deeply spiritual world.  

I know also, that, for those willing to embrace the experience, or something like it, healing and peace and wholeness are completely possible.  And when I witness the plight of an ailing humanity, I believe the sweatlodge could be a panacea for us all.  

First Kiss

i

There's a chill in the air this morning that I haven't experienced since last fall, and I subsequently thank the needle on the thermometer just outside my bedroom window, cautioning me earlier in my mother's soft voice, put on a toque – the long pants today – it's a cold one. Bursts of moist, cloudy breath warm my cheeks, the only body part exposed to the early morning ice grip.

     I can, I have, I will. I can, I have, I will. This is my morning chant; at least until I find my rhythm, break into auto pilot. Like some technique from Norman Vincent Peale's Power of Positive Thinking, it has become my running mantra. I prefer to think of it, though, as more the victory cry of Julius Caesar: vini, vidi, vici - I came, I saw, I conquered. Julius Caesar has two feet solidly planted in history, his mark left on every calendar month. Norman Vincent Peale, well, he wrote a book or two – hardly the makings of a hero.

     I marvel, as my feet hit the pavement, how the sun rolls out of bed to greet me, all peackocky in her showy pink and purple robes. I experience a tinge of vainglory knowing I beat her to the punch. Lights are slowly beginning to flicker in the kitchens and bedrooms of the houses I pass and the traffic is making a steady exodus toward the city.

     Across my path ambles a young Golden Retriever, her jaw stretching wide into a yawn then snapping shut. She shakes it off, a full body shake, hurling strings of saliva from her lips. On the other end of her leash a middle-aged man drags his sneakered feet across the sidewalk. They head toward the green space of the high school baseball field, seeking a place to discharge a bloated bladder.

     The man's shoulders are drawn up, his chin tucked into his chest, providing a windbreak. As if by intuition his head swivels and we make eye contact. A single take, a double take, holding the gaze longer than prudent in over-polite society. My feet are still running and my neck sling-shots back.

     They say that when you're drowning your life flashes before your eyes, an entire lifetime relived in mere moments. I know only seconds have passed after that initial glance, but thirty years just fall away and my feet stop stubbornly on the street refusing to go further, willing to risk an embarrassing mistake.

     “Dave?” I turn to see him standing ankle deep in frost-bitten grass, his Retriever's hind leg a ninety degree angle to a signpost.

     “Yeah.” A smile slowly creeps across his face. He approaches timidly, giving Goldy a tug on the leash. “Brenda?”

      His hands push forcefully into the pockets of his coat, causing his shoulders to slouch forward, making him look older. He rocks gently back and forth on the balls of his feet, determined to keep eye contact. “How've you been?”

     I grin. He's lost his nerve. His Casanova charm is out of practice.

ii

I blinked hard, attempting to suppress the wash of humiliation that had been my morning, watching impatiently for the familiar yellow 1970 Ford LTD whose rusted fenders, today, would be a welcome sight rather than a reminder of my parsimonious heritage. The knot in my gut tightened and I pressed closer to the door, closer to invisibility. My rescuer was taking too long. I wanted to be a child again, please God, if this is what womanhood meant. I wondered how this day could get any worse.

     “Hey.”

      And then I knew. My shoulders stiffened, hands moving gingerly to the jacket wrapped around my waist, worn today like a backwards apron, casually, like I had no better place to put it.

      “Hey, you.” I turned as he approached, watching him warily, hoping he'd mind his distance.

      “You okay?” He was good-looking. Not athletic. I didn't go for that kind. Rather short in his high-top sneakers but seemingly unaware of his disadvantage in a platform-shoe world. I recognized him as the new boy in grade 8 – an older boy – from the city.

     I rubbed my mid-region. “Not feeling well. My dad's picking me up.”

     “Sorry.” He shuffled his feet on the dirty black indoor-outdoor carpet then stepped closer. “I see you in the hall sometimes. Wanted to tell you...you have really blue eyes.”

     “Thanks.” I discreetly brushed a strand of dirty blond hair from my face, astounded at his undeterred audacity.

     “Maybe, when you're feeling better...we could eat lunch together...on the picnic table.”

      He pointed to a group of tables on the lawn near the front of the school, chained like inmates to a concrete pad.

      “Sure.”

      The awkwardness was broken by a big yellow blimp with rusted fenders. It jerked to a halt near the school's front door. My dad's fingers tapped out a silent rhythm on the steering wheel as he waited.
       “Gotta go.”

      “Okay. See you tomorrow...maybe.”

      I made a break, swinging the door open more vigorously than necessary. God, I hoped the stain hadn't leaked through.

      “Get better,” He called after me, his voice cut off by the clunk of the slamming door.

      A thick silence filled the car for which I was thankful. I'm not feeling well would be an understatement and any further query might have tipped me over the emotional edge, causing any male within my vicinity to have a spike on his guilt-ometer, wondering what he'd done. Mom may have warned him, suggested it's a “woman thing.” She was the only one who knew I'd been visited by “Aunt Flo” for the first time that morning.

iii

“So you're living in town again. How many years has it been?”

     He's examining an apple, turning it over in his hand before dropping it into the waiting produce bag.

     “Thirty.” He shakes his head, mulling over the enormity of the number in man years. “Town's grown a lot since then. Other things haven't changed at all. Can you believe that high school. Still the same as it was in 1976. Only thing different are the teachers, most of whom were once our classmates.”

     We laugh in unison.

     “How about you?” his voice squeaks as he works a twist-tie noose around the rim of his bag of apples.

      I recognize that squeak for what I once considered a sexy male puberty phenomenon. It's funny how the body changes so drastically over the years but the voice remains the same, betraying us while we hide behind middle-age bulges and greying hair.

     “Got married, moved away, started a family and moved back again. There's something to be said about roots, you know? This is a great place to raise kids, I guess.”

     “Yeah.”

     I squeeze a mango, then another, finding one fit for my basket.

     “Do you remember that time a bunch of us petitioned Mulder to let us have a dance in the school gym?”

     We stop fondling fruit for the moment and search the others face for recollection. His eyes are smiling.

     “I don't know how he did it. It was against school policy for eons before that. We really broke ground that day, didn't we?”

      “Mm hm. Remember how mad those girls were when we refused to play Bay City Rollers? I thought they'd end up shutting the party down with their sissy-whining.”

     “Oh God, yeah. Bay City Rollers. Those girls were decked out in plaid scarves and caps like a bunch of boy band groupies. Wow. That was crazy.”

     Words wane as we both drift back from 1970-ville to the present. I check my basket for evidence that I've procured what I came for.

     “I'll see you around, I guess. Take care.”

     He nods, giving me leave.

     Rounding the aisle I hear his familiar voice raised over the grocery store fracas.

     “Hey...who'd you marry, anyway?”

     A warmth rises to my cheeks. “Nobody you'd know.” It sounds rude and short in my ears. “From out of town. I'll introduce you next time I see you.”

     He smiles and gestures farewell.

iv

“Brenda...phone!”

     I could tell by his voice that the caller wasn't among the regulars. Tripping over my stuffed crocodile, Eddie, I stumbled to the kitchen, shifting quickly from ebullient to casual as I rounded the corner.

     My brother was sashaying from foot to foot, dodging my attempts at the receiver; a running back, taunting his opponent with the ball. The receiver was tucked into his armpit, his right hand over the mouthpiece.

     “It's a boy,” he goaded, the words slithering from his tongue like the serpent in the garden, daring me to eat the apple of impropriety and risk my father's wrath.

      “Give that to me!” I was becoming increasingly impatient with his childish needling, forcefully dislodging the receiver from his sweaty armpit. Jamming my own hand over the mouthpiece I shewed him from the kitchen, threatening him with fire-glazed eyes.

     Stretching the cord to full extended length I slunk down in the shadowy hallway, keeping my voice low.

     “Hello.”

     “Hey, guess who. Remember me?”

     How could I forget. I'd been home for three days now, and thought of no one or nothing else.

     “Yeah. Dave, right?” Coolly, like he wasn't the only boy who'd ever called for me.

     “Feeling better? You haven't been in school.”

     “Mm hm. Feeling better. I'll be back tomorrow. Have I missed anything?”

     “I hope you've missed me.”

      Was he pompous or playful? He certainly was forward for a small town boy. I rolled onto my stomach, resting on my elbows with the phone glued seductively to one cheek, my other ear tuned for my brother's movements. I could hear the plink plink of  the Atari game in the rec room.

     A flirtatious colloquy continued for the better part of an hour, interrupted only occasionally by a click from the party-line neighbours, checking for a free phone line. I hoped to heaven that it wasn't Mrs. Derksen, neighbourhood snoop and self-designated snitch. I could see her – cat eye glasses, sphincter lips, reporting my misdeeds to my father, her hands on her hips and a gleam in her eye. She was the embodiment of the corn field scarecrow come to life, bristly and menacing.

     As if on cue, my father's heavy footsteps ascended the stairs and the front door sighed.

     “I've got to go.” I brought the conversation to an abrupt close. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

v

She's very attractive – his wife. I long for a closer look but try not to get caught staring. It somehow becomes important to me that the years won't have been as kind to her face as they have been to her figure.

     I can see them coming down the block. I recognize the Retriever first and then Dave's casual gait. She's got long blond hair that bounces ostentatiously when she walks. She seems to be enjoying his company. I guess he did well.

     “Obie.” I call my dog from the front steps. Maybe I can get him to come inside before he sees the Retriever; before I have to acknowledge them from the front yard and make Dave awkwardly explain my connection to his past.

     “A childhood fling, nothing more,” he'd explain. “Then I found a real woman.”

     “Obie!” I call more compellingly, but it's too late. Obie drags his nose from the fire hydrant, sniffs the air and makes a courageous dash for the Retriever, three times his size. I'm forced to intervene lest my dog become fixated with the new friend and follow him home.

     “Hey.”

     “Hey, you.” I reply.

     “Your dog?”

     “My daughter's, in theory. Mine when he needs something.”

     “This is my wife, Jeanie. Jeanie, this is Brenda, an old...friend.”

     “Nice to meet you.”

     I accept her extended hand and for a fleeting moment we make our subconscious assessments, as only women do, noting measurements, general age and each others ability to stand up to the tests of stress and time.

     “Beautiful evening. Enjoy your walk.” I make a stealthy, experienced swipe for Obie's collar, collecting my dog and marching him back to the house.

     “What do you think, Obie? Would you rather have her for a mistress or me? Be honest now, this is important.”

     Obie gnaws at my thumb, squirms out of my arms and sprints for the front door. Once inside, I stand at the picture window and watch them continue down the street. The Cleavers. There's a little part of me that would like to begrudge him of that happiness. A little part that wishes he'd regret having broken up with me – all those years ago. We were children. I'm being ridiculous.

     I think about the cryptic poem he gave me just before he broke it off.

If you love something, set it free.

If it comes back, it's yours.

If it doesn't, it never was.

vi

My heart thrashed in my chest, either from peddling at break-neck speed along rough gravel terrain or, more likely, the thought of Dave waiting somewhere within the next mile road. I'd pushed my green Sekine to its limits. Time was of the essence. I needed to be home before sundown.

     I saw a bicycle on its side, just on the periphery, where grass met road. A little lower into the ditch was a head, and then torso, and soon he was standing and waving in the deep grassy weeds.

     Catching a swath of fresh stones, my front wheel swerved, nearly toppling me to the ground. A close call but I regained traction, bringing the bike to a stop beside his.

     “Hi-ya good-looking.” Dave met me and took my hand, leading me to a spot in the grass, freshly trodden and awaiting the mysteries of young love. It was our half-way point, beyond the reach of hovering parent and annoying sibling.

     The smell of canola and clover filled my nostrils as we curled into the grass, lying on our backs, hands behind our heads, watching the birds flit from grain stalk to grain stalk. This was the first time we'd been alone.

     Time moved swiftly while we talked into the clouds – disparaging teachers, trading gossip: who likes whom. A red Ford pickup ambled past and we ducked deeper into the weedy trenches, rubbing dust from our eyes as it passed. Dave sat up and hoisted me to to a sitting position next to him. He stared at our feet for a long time then turned to gaze recklessly into my eyes.

     “Can I kiss you?”

     A familiar heat rose to my face. I nodded. He leaned in and we fumbled a moment with the dynamics of head tilt and angles before his lips reached mine and lingered there for a moment. Pulling away we opened our eyes, unsure where it ranked on good, better, best.

     “Have you ever kissed anyone before?” His eyes searched mine, hoping he'd broken an inexperienced mare.

     “No. You?”

     “Yeah. Sure.”

     I doubted his expertise in the carnal pleasures but held my silence. He placed an arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer. An orange orb sun balanced precariously just above the horizon, like a tightrope walker set ablaze. Inside me, the entire accompanying circus was performing its best show ever. I shivered at the thrill.

     In the distance a dust ball gathered thick and heavy, growing closer, outwitting us in our reverie. We dropped to our backs at the first impending growl of a two-stroke engine, a giant steroid-hyped bumblebee, advancing suddenly from the cloud of dust. A dirt bike stopped near the abandoned bicycles; the engine cut out.

     I peeked cautiously over one shoulder. My brother glared back at me from the seat of the dirt bike, tipped to one side balancing the weight of the bike, rebuke on his face.

     “Dad says you're supposed to come home. Now.”

     I sensed the duplicity in his demeanour, the somber messenger in his stance, the you are sooo busted intonation in his voice.

     “How did he know?” I sat up, incredulous.

     “Old Abe Wolfe drove by in his red pickup. Stopped at the house to tell Mom and Dad he saw you here with a boy. I suggest you don't keep them waiting.”

     The circus tent had collapsed and the revellers were gone home. My balloon was deflating, popped by an old clown who'd likely never been kissed. Dave stood and helped me to my feet, brushing incriminating grass blades from my clothes.

     “I'll see you tomorrow,” he spoke gently, under his breath.

     “Yeah. I only hope there'll be a tomorrow.”

vii

He's moved on, so I've heard. Packed up his Leave-It-To-Beaver family and moved to the city. He came back into my life long enough for me to remember; for the past to be unearthed and a host of fossilized memories dredged up, then walked away – again.

     I don't mean to suggest that I long for what might have been. I don't. Seeing him again confirmed that. I'm happy, I've lived well and without regret. But there's something about the past that appears more romantic now than when it was the present. Something titillating about a hazy memory come back to life in human – feel it, see it, experience it – form. Something extraordinarily unforgettable about the very first kiss.

The Headless Phenomenon (or The Really Bad Photographer)

Call me old-fashioned...

but there was a time when a picture like this 

meant one of a few things.  Please choose the best answer.  

The photographer:

a) was short

b)  found the bride's secret flask

c) was the groom's zany, laugh-a-minute Uncle Morty (pull my finger, kid)

d) wasn't a photographer at all

e) all of the above

If you chose a, b, c, d or e...you'd be WRONG!

Unlike the Headless Horseman...

or the Headless Chicken...

the Headless Human is an ARTFORM 

in Picasso-esque photo wizardry.

But before you mock this creative genius, just think about the possibilities.

Imagine, if you will, the usefulness of such art in the hands of a certain segment of the population:

*Living in sin and can't find a way to tell Mom & Dad?

*Lost your wedding photos in a freak vacuuming incident?

*Want to show your ex that he/she is soooo yesterday?

THE INSTA-WEDDING

Just download pics...insert heads and...VOILA...

Instant Bride & Groom

Instant Groom's Family

Instant Bride's Family

Instant Bridesmaids

and you guessed it...Instant Groomsmen.

Instant Aunt Greta

and Instant Revellers.

The only humans exempt from this headless atrocity are...

The Children

with their Cherubic Faces! (thank heavens)

But just when you think this will be a FACELESS, HEARTLESS, HEADLESS BLOGPOST...

even Picasso couldn't have captured SOUL like this...

or MIRTH like this!

Moral of the story: Don't forget to INSERT the heads.

It wasn't a fairytale...

We are all a little weird and life's a lttle weird.  And when we find someone who's weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness, and call it love."  Dr. Seuss

     Once upon a time, there was a young maiden, skin as fair as an April dewdrop.  She lived in a castle high atop a hill, deep within a turret of her own imagining, whose apex reached high into the clouds, keeping her young and untainted, for she could not witness the world through her milky-white window.  
     Distraught, was she, for, though she loved her home and the winged creatures who brought birdsong to her perch each morning, her heart knew that there was more, so much more, awaiting beyond the castle walls.  
     Against the King's wishes, she set out one day, barefooted and dreamy, lowered from the turret window by her four-footed companions, unsure of what awaited her below the whispy canopy of cloud.  
     

     
     Far beyond the castle, in a kingdom just beyond the river, there lived a young apprentice, tawny and rugged, having labored in the fields of his kingdom.  His eyes were bright and curious, for, as the horizons disappeared over the endless golden fields, he knew, for certain, that there was more, so much more, awaiting beyond his kingdom borders.  And so he set out, in search of what he did not understand, but felt compelled to find.

      The fair maiden was transfixed with all that she saw.  She ran barefoot through the meadows, swam in pools of water and sang melodies to the creatures she encountered along the way. 

     The young apprentice, too, spent his days wandering the hi-ways and bi-ways, skipping stones in the brooks and gazing up at the stars.  Little did he know, as his face was turned up to the fullness of the moon, that a maiden would cross his path, lost in the enormity of the star-filled sky.  

     Their worlds would collide.  They lay there until dawn, until the fog cleared and the scent of jasmine filled their lungs.  The young apprentice reached for the young maiden, took her hand and led her to the edge of the meadow, where the horizon could be seen just beyond the heather.  The maiden smiled at him, and they set off, seeking whatever lay beyond, in distant lands...together.

          It wasn't a fairytale, but it had all the makings of one.

      

Of Four Letter Words and Other Happy Things

    

     "How's this job coming?"
     His left eye is clamped tight shut, channeling vision through his right into the lens of a hydrometer.  "This guy's coolant's too weak."
     "All right."  I suppress the urge to tell him that his 'Buick's not all the way in the garage' for the second time today.  He seems to appreciate the added air conditioning in the nether regions.  "But how long will you be?  You've got plugs to do on a Ford pickup and only 2 hours left in your day."
     He peels his eyeball from the lens and glares at me like I've just loosed a stinker in church. 
     "Aw for cripes sake!  Give that job to Gil.  Damn Ford's are gonna drive me to drinkin'...heavier."
     "Job's in your slot.  Gil's fighting with an alignment.  Customer wants his truck by 5.  I'll call this customer to see if she wants her coolant spiked."
     Kachang...kachang!  The raw impact of solid steel on steel cracks in my head like a detonation in a bell factory.  I clamp my hands tight over my ears, rolling my eye balls back into their sockets, while Quasimodo takes another swing at a rebellious rotor.  
     "Really?" I exclaim into the racket, my voice dissolving into a million splinters and dropping at my feet.  "You could warn a person."  Kachang...kachang!  
     In bay 3 Gil has commissioned the air gun at mach 1, breaking the sound barrier and any crystal that may have the misfortune of being within 100 feet.  Together they sound like a redneck symphony.
     I seek refuge in the office.  If they're trying to get the boss from breathing down their necks they know how to do it.  
     The office door swings open and Walt shuffles in.  By this time of day he's covered in greasy splatters and tire tread marks.  I often muse at how he can look like he's been run over by a truck...every day.  
     He grabs the waiting keys and slaps a work order into his clip board.  "Son of a freaking bocce ball, gold damn plugs..."  The colorful expletives follow him out the front door and into the parking lot, leaving a thick black ooze behind him, lingering like the stench from a sewer back up in spring.
     "Walt is feeling rather loquacious today.  What's got his knickers in a knot?"  Cody is talking into the computer screen, his generation Y fingers moving on the keyboard faster than humanly possible.  
     I smile.  Having grown up in this shop and spending a few years himself in the automotive trenches, Cody had learned to knit together a few experimental rows of superlatives himself.  Still, as a service writer, a few slip in here and there when the necessity for a 'bring it home' adjective arises.  Knit, knit, knit, purl.       
     We never forbade the use of bad language at home.  If we had, their father would have had a bar of Palmolive in his mouth on more than one occasion.  What seemed more effective, at the time, was to inform our kids that people who intersperse truck stop language profusely throughout their sentences come across to their listeners as Kindergarten drop-outs.  Knit, purl, knit, purl - or more appropriately, knit, hurl, knit, hurl.
     If you want to shut the potty mouth up (and everyone does), use intelligent words.  It'll throw them from the vulgarity train onto their cocky keesters real quick.  
     "Plugs on a Ford F150."  I respond.
     "Aah.  Damn, that's too bad."  
     "Yup.  For all of us."
     Working in a world of kinesthetic males performing gruelling, sweat-inducing tasks means frequent releases of oral diarrhea and lingual gaseous explosions.  After a while it begins to take on its own vernacular.  
     Occasionally I slip and, for a fleeting moment, sound like one of the boys.  It's like living with an Aussie.  Eventually you're going to start to talk like one, mate.  And that's okay.  Outside of the profanity and belches that break the needle on the richter scale, they're just good old boys.  
     I'm a little out of my element in their world.  But when they slap me on the back or email naughty pictures to my inbox, I can't help but grin.  Sometimes its alright being 'one o' the boys.'

     

The Pollyanna Principle

"I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the

 world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to 

plan the day."

For years I've been trying to draw a line in the sand but the tide comes in and washes it away.  Sometimes a fair west wind bends down to blow loose grains over it and covers all traces of its existence, fragmenting my desire for juxtaposition.  How am I supposed to objectively analyze and separate when the line keeps disappearing?  

Our world is a complex web of goodness and heinousness and each day, as a citizen of it, I have choices.  The goodness is the easy part.  It's what to do with the heinous that troubles me.  

My line in the sand would separate the "fear, fight and worry" instinct in me from the "ostrich" instinct: a head in the sand keeps you blind to it all.  How does a body know on which side to stand when the line keeps drifting, disappearing from view.  

I naturally gravitate to "ostrich", or at least suffusing the ugly with rose colored glasses.  Not always safe or realistic but it makes me feel good in the short term.  In reality, I can be a lot like a child, covering my ears and "la la-ing" loudly, hoping it will all go away.

On the other hand, fear can stimulate anger which, in turn, should stimulate positive action.  But where is that line?  How can I strike a healthy balance?  

Many days the voice of the doomsdayer closes in on me, like walls in a night terror - economic collapse, the imminence of a world war, political deceipt and corruption, big corporation control, environmental destruction, my children's world going ass over tea kettle.  

I don't have the answers yet.  I listen ever so carefully to my heart and my head - they usually disagree.  So I wait, rose colored glasses propped vigilantly at the end of my nose. And I look in the rear view, believing that, in the end, goodness always prevails and something fortuitous can arise from the smoke of any situation.  

Call me a dreamer, but I happen to be an optimist.  I don't believe in arbitrary happenstance or a capricious god.  I believe in humankind.  Life is too short for anything less.