The Beacons are Back

Leading a life of crime, I’ve been thrown out of many establishments.  I’ve been thrown out of bars, restaurants, classrooms, and campgrounds.  Never, up until this last week, had I been asked to remove myself from a beach………two days in a row, by women twice my age.  I’m forty two.  I guess I need to grow up.

Taking a leisurely stroll with our dog, Etta, on a surprisingly cloudy day in Seattle, Washington, we decided to take the trail leading to the rocky beach of Puget Sound.  The trail was quiet and the beach was nearly empty of Seatown humanity, save for, from a distance of about a half mile, three white beacons glaring in our direction.  Etta and I thought nothing of it.  Since there were no other dogs or people nearby, I released Etta (a bernese mountain dog) from her leash and enjoyed watching her chase the tennis ball and sticks I threw to her as though she was my black and white receiver.  Since we have no human children, watching her run, jump, wag, and smile on the beach is about as close as I can come to being a happy father.  When I was a child, I remember countless times begging for brothers, sisters, mother or father to throw me a baseball, football, shoe, a rock, or ANYTHING in my general direction so I could possibly catch it like a Major League center fielder or an all-pro NFL wide receiver.  I also remember them smiling watching my tail wag in the process.  Just like this day with Etta, harmless family fun.

Continuing our fun, we moved along the beach heading south towards the white beacons which seemed to be moving back and forth like wounded, frustrated chickens.  Finally, I surmised that these beacons were humans. Out of respect for the general public, when people are around, I commonly place the leash back on Etta’s collar just so they can feel at ease around our dog.  (Etta is very large, but is as sweet as a Hermiston Watermelon.)  Proceeding along the beach, we were heading back to the trail leading us to the wooded area of the park  when the beacons attacked.   Waving their arms wildly with their triceps flopping back and forth with the breeze, they were trying with all their might to speed walk in our direction before we made it to the trail.  I smiled and knew what was coming.  These three old ladies, or Q-Tips, as I and others affectionately refer to them because of their glowing white hair, were dead set on kicking us off of one of God’s glorious beaches.  Now, to their benefit, there are signs reminding us common canine owners or “criminals” that dogs are not allowed on the beach, but I thought this day could be an exception for bending the law.  (On weekends, there are usually more dogs than people on this particular beach.)  Nervously, Etta sat down on my feet where she seems to feel the safest.  As I pet her head and told her not to worry, I allowed the ladies ample time, about three minutes or so, (thirty feet away) to finally arrive and provide the proper lecture, thus probably making their day while fighting for justice the AARP way.  With a smile on my face, I said, “Good morning, ladies.”

A little rattled by my kind greeting, old bag number one,  excuse me, “Queen of the Q-Tips” bellowed, “YOU CANNOT HAVE THAT DOG ON THIS BEACH!”  It wasn’t really a bellow, but the tone was clearly sharp as a fowl’s beak.  I truly believe she wanted me to argue since she had her younger hens staring me down from behind her in case I made a move to strike.  Simply, I said, with a smile and eyes swaying back and forth from her’s to Etta’s, “I know.  We’re sorry.  We were just trying to find the best spot to get over that rock embankment so we can safely get back on the trail.”

“Good.  There’s a spot right over there.  You best be on your way.”  She turned toward the others, only in their spring seventies, and looked at them as if to say, “See, I told you I could teach this young man, thinking he’s Marlon Brando, a thing or two about breaking the law. ”

Since Etta and I had successfully committed our misdemeanor for the day, we happily returned peacefully to the trail without so much as a fine, or proper explanation as to why they couldn’t apply a little rational human discretion.  “Have a nice day ladies.”  Yes, I said it, and I meant it too.

The very next day, Etta and I took the same walk under the same circumstances.  This time, the Queen sent one of her younger beacons to catch us as soon as we set foot on the rocks and sand.  We were probably ten feet into our walk when this beacon of mass destruction of fun arrived.  She was a little nervous, but she did her best to keep us from spreading the wrath of Hell unto God’s beach and stealing all of its natural beauty.  We didn’t wish to steal anything from the beach. We merely wanted to harmlessly lease it for about fifteen minutes.  With a pair of binoculars dangling from her neck as though it was her weapon of choice, she stated sternly, “You know, you really can’t have your dog on this beach.  You both need to get back on the trail.”  This time I gave her another smile, and said, “I know.”  Etta and I just kept walking along the beach as though it would be worth the fine if proper law enforcement stormed the beach and seized the two of us.  She provided the necessary old lady gasp and “Well I NEVER!” expression as Etta galloped on the beach while I gave her encouragement by shouting what a good dog she is.  We had our fun until we came to a spot where God, the only one I was going to pay attention to on this day, would say, “Ok, Son, you’ve gone far enough.  You’ve proved your point.  Now, you and Etta get back on the trail, and have a terrific day.”

Etta and I did have a terrific day, and not a soul was harmed.  One of these days, perhaps I’ll grow old, broken, surly and grey, and begin enforcing the law instead of breaking it.  Then again, maybe I won’t.

 

 

Christmas Trees (All Life Long?)

My wife and I set up our first fake Christmas Tree last year. It was a marital bickering display at its finest and funniest.  According to friends and relatives, I was convinced fake trees were the easy way to go.  After five hours of finding the correct tree, I didn’t know it would take an addition five hours to make it stand without falling.  Collectively, after successfully accomplishing our goal of respecting Jesus,  we decided to not break it down after New Years to save our marriage.  Unless our dogs, cats, or raccoons decide to rip it down, it will remain in our living room until next Christmas, happy new year, or perhaps, forever.

A Modern Holiday Proposal

(After I read this ridiculous piece, I thought of how it should be properly heard. If you can remember Barney Fife from the old Andy Griffith show, it may be more appreciated.  Imagine him delivering this proposal to a group of adults.)

There lies a unique unfairness and inequity amongst most holiday traditions whether you celebrate them or not.  Holiday mascots are accepted with grace, except at the Thanksgiving table, where it should be the most applicable.  I’d like to change that.  Let me begin with the most ridiculous before making my proposal.

St. Patrick’s Day and the Leprechaun, or Lepre “con” Artist:  The day itself, other than getting pinched by greasy fingered little boys and girls if you’re not wearing your best emerald green on that day, can be a hoot.  With terrifically high probability, you may also end up in the hoosegow (local jail)……not such a hoot.  This is especially true when, being released, the officers only hand you back your wallet filled with mandatory counseling sessions instead of the pot of gold promised at the end of that phony rainbow by an even phonier dwarf.

Easter and the Easter Bunny:  At least this has some religious redemption, but personally, as a youngster, I have sprained more ankles trying to find hard boiled eggs, only for those eggs to be consumed angrily by uncles and aunts concluding their pious vows of Lent, while fasting and then feasting off of deviled eggs and alcohol.

The Tooth Fairy on any day of the year:  Get the hell out of here!  I wish my parents would have just told me this one didn’t exist.  Any form of ghost, even if they wish to give me a quarter, is not welcomed into my bedroom.

Santa Claus, A.K.A. Old St. Nick and Christmas: This is a tough one for those of us old enough to recognize him before Jesus.  But, just ask anyone younger than the age of eighteen, and I’ll bet you they acknowledge the big guy with the presents before the baby sacrificing his life for us.  Dispatch the three kings delivering a bunch of presents to those who have been with or without sin for a year, and you are left with one fat bearded guy cramming himself down your chimney annually, and quite generously, for the rest of your life.  Look what the milk and cookies dragged in.

This brings us to Thanksgiving and my holiday proposal.  For centuries, not ONE of the former fictional holiday mascots I’ve written about brings us a pot of gold, quarters, eggs or gifts on Thanksgiving.  As adults, we don’t really give a damn.  Thanksgiving is the only natural holiday where we don’t forget the food, but we do forget the children.  We thirst upon mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, stuffing and turkey as though we are too old for candy on Halloween.  Our children only witness our gluttony with pain and anguish waiting for the pies and “a la” anything rich with sugar to be unveiled from the oven.  Do they dream of anything the night before Thanksgiving?  No.  If only they had something to believe in which has been shrouded in mystery.  Therefore, I propose, only as a write-in, “Sasquatch” or “Bigfoot”, to be the official, 2015 and beyond, Thanksgiving Day Mascot. My agnostic views regarding this subject only provide further substance to the, otherwise, outlandish topic.

What will Bigfoot bring to the Thanksgiving table? Probably nothing, other than the cornucopia presented by them to the natives and pilgrims centuries ago.  However, your children will either be terrified and/or excited straight down to the britches at the possibility of this creature strolling through their back yard the night before the feast.  In order for the children to get excited, they need more than turkeys, pilgrims and drunken uncles to dream about the night before Thanksgiving.  They require something as universally recognized (or sometimes unrecognizable) as the elusive eight to ten foot tall hairy Sasquatch to dance and stomp on their roof on Thanksgiving Eve.  As peaceful as that may not seem, rest assure, your children will be wide awake the following day afraid to speak to their elders regarding such a preposterous idea.   This is precisely what the elders wish.  On Thanksgiving, the children should be afraid and not heard.

What shall the children place in the yard for Sasquatch as a form of acceptance?  Since this a professional study, according to scientific analysis, they eat mostly roses, blueberries and blackberries when in season.  Seeing as November is not the season for such ruffage, Sasquatches will settle for mashed potatoes and gravy.  They are particularly finicky about their gravy.  Lumps will only agitate them, and since they are also particularly interested in throwing large rocks when agitated, I would advise you keep the gravy smooth.

How does one know a Sasquatch is present during the holiday gathering if one of our bipedal brothers from other hairy mothers doesn’t arrive?  Physical evidence does not only rely on a dead specimen.  This evidence may be gathered by hair samples, scat, (bigfoot droppings) or even voice recognition, save for the text version.  The colorful and hair raising “whoop whoop whoop” disguised gracefully by Bigfoot’s second cousins, “the Swinging Singing Siamea,” can only be heard in its most natural of habitat, “AnyZooUsa”.  However, they can’t be heard on the last Thursday of  each November.  According to legend, those “whoops” on Thanksgiving are a guttural cry which can only stem from the belly of a Bigfoot.   If one is fortunate, the “whoops” can be heard when the human family is eating dinner, but, much like leftovers, they are only left for the believers.  Some naysayers believe the “whoops” are contrived from human relatives singing their praise for the smooth gravy and moist turkey.  Yet, when the “burps” arrive and the “whoops” subside, there is only momentary silence.

That’s when the legendary “whoops” remain.  Just like an angel receiving her wings when a bell rings on Christmas, when a person gives sincere thanks for the beautiful meal provided on Thanksgiving, arriving in the form of a burp, the Sasquatch and his family grows another beard; thus, keeping itself hidden within the trees and brush where it perhaps belongs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hit ’em Where it Helps

Don’t wait until they die.  While they’re still here… hit ’em where it helps.

There is no better way to send someone to their grave just prior to death than telling them, years before they parish, how much they mean to you. (That is, if the person has affected you positively or even profoundly. Otherwise, you may just let them rest properly and get the hell out of the way.)

We lose many, unexpectedly, without having the chance to outwardly express our appreciation for them.  To me, this isn’t tragic, just a little unfair.  On the same stage, we all wait patiently, or impatiently, for loved ones to pass on to what we wish for them to be a better life.  We then wait until the ashes are distributed, and sadly wish to have said  or written anything to them providing meaning above and beyond their call of beauty on this earth.  Don’t wait.

Even as a young boy, I recall attending funerals when the eulogy was provided with terrific passion and respect, only for the widow or widower to have stated, following the procession, “I wish ‘he’ or ‘she’ could have been present to hear that”, or “I wish ‘he’ or ‘she’ could have heard those beautiful words commemorating such a graceful life.”

Don’t wait.  It’s not too late.  Hit ’em where it helps.

Hey, Bartender…..Thanks.

As a very fortunate person, I have an enormous amount with which to be thankful.  When possible, I enjoy giving thanks in person.  It seems less contrived. When I text someone an apology or a thank you, it usually requires many edits.  Most thank you letters or texts seem to be preceded with or followed by an apology and an unreasonable excuse.  This makes giving thanks at the dinner table on Thanksgiving a little uncomfortable, if you wish to be sincere.

Some people don’t like, in the least, being forced to give specific thanks around a table of friends and family on Thanksgiving, and I believe holding hands around said table should be, in a written invitational agreement, optional.  I’d prefer to just say thank you and be on my eating way.  (I do understand these requests won’t get me invited to Thanksgiving dinner, and I’m ok with that.) However,  I will be forthcoming in giving thanks to someone through a blog.  It’s genuinely peaceful not being forced to do something against one’s wishes.

With Thanksgiving just around the corner, I’d like to give thanks to the bartender who kicked me, along with three of my brothers out of another one of my brother’s tavern years ago.

Dear Bartender,

Sorry you had to kick us out of our brother’s tavern the night before Thanksgiving.  I am additionally sorry if the owner wrongly terminated you because of the unfortunate turkey wrestling incident.   We deserved to be thrown out and had no idea you were placing the stuffing inside the turkey precisely when the incident transpired.  We thought it was dressing you were carrying out to the table, commonly mistaken for turkey stuffing.  Never will we make this mistake again.  Thank you for teaching us a lesson.  I have not been thrown out of my brother’s tavern since.   By the way, having a bunch of brothers, I will say it was mostly their fault.

Sincerely,

One of their brothers

 

Is She Dead?

Etta&Grandma

Smiling with Etta, the only Grandchild I’ve produced for her.

My mother is old.  Just ask her; she’s ok with it.  Don’t ask her how old she is; just ask, “Are you old?”  She will respond with a simple, “Yes.” Although she doesn’t act it, I would guess she is somewhere between ninety to one hundred and three.  My range of age theory is only supported by the fact that I know I was born when she was somewhere between the age of forty five and fifty three.  Despite her diminished hearing, poor eyesight, lack of mobility, inability to drive a car and rigid eating schedule, you wouldn’t say she was a day over eighty.   What keeps her alive and snoring?  It’s simple.  She has a terrific sense of humor.  Someone will read this drivel to her and she will chuckle, charge up her hearing aid battery, and call me.  Her call won’t be to reprimand me for making light of her age, but rather to invite me over to my sister’s house (currently my mother’s squatting residence),  so we can laugh together while she provides a misinformed yet detailed update regarding what her other twelve children are up to these days.

Quite recently, I visited my mother, and I left my fossilized quips in the freezer at home.  Thankfully, I knew my sister, Anne, could fill in the gaps when nonagenarian and centenarian jests may apply.  (They only live about forty minutes to four hours away, depending on Seattle traffic, so it’s quite convenient.) We had a wonderful day, and I was prepared for receding hairline observations, and comments that I may be sponsored by Old Navy and Target given my attire.  However, my mother preferred to say kind things such as, “My, you look nice” and  “Your hair seems to be getting darker.”  (I guess that’s not a compliment, but at least the adjective wasn’t thinner.) She even made a remark about my height.  “You look tall…….how tall are you?”  I told her I was six foot two.  Of course, my sister quickly snorted laughter at my response, and I corrected my height to six two and a half, creating more sisterly laughter.  (I’m only five foot nine, but many doctors would say five foot eight and a half.)  I finally let her know that I was stretching the truth regarding my height and that it is my attitude which makes me look tall.  More laughter from my sister, whose age I won’t disclose.  (She fights fire with hand grenades.)   As always, when mom chooses to hear, she and I converse with smiles on our faces and I thoroughly enjoy her company.  Hopefully, the feeling is mutual.

Before leaving, I informed my mother she had to wait four full days until the World Series would begin. I wandered into the kitchen, allowing her time to ponder what television show could supplement baseball.   Turning around to ask her if  the “Dancing With the Stars” season had ended, I noticed her chin was collapsed upon her chest, her eyes closed and her glasses had fallen to the floor.  Looking to my brother in-law, Minh, who was cooking in the kitchen, I asked, “Hey Minh, is she dead?”  With a deadpan look on his face, Minh replied, “Oh yeah; she does that two or three times a day.”  Anne and I awakened mom with our laughter, and mother quickly asked, “Did I just fall asleep!?”  I replied with a sharp, “Heavens no, mother, you just died.  Minh says you do it two or three time a day. But, sooner or later, you always return.”  She laughed with me, we hugged, I picked up her glasses saving my sister from finding them in rubble, handed them to her and bid my adieu.  When closing the door, I heard her bellow from the living and, evidently, dying room, “SEE YA LATER!”  I thought to myself…….. hopefully, sooner.  She always makes me smile.

 

Cats Puke on Humans Too

My mother requested I write a blog today.  She is the only person, other than my wife, who can request a blog and receive it.  (That’s not completely accurate.)

With my wife on vacation, and me being the most boring bachelor of the next millennium, mom called wondering how I was doing.  I said I was doing fine.  Fine is a natural synonym for “miserable”, “terrible”, “dreadful” or “dead”.  I was feeling all but the latter.  It was quite clear, when answering her phone call, I wasn’t dead.  That made her laugh. It is my genuine belief she wishes me to be alive.

She knew I was missing my wife and asked about our family.

Our family consists of two large dogs and an inherited cat I was hoping not to love when she strolled into our house.  Well, for some odd reason, now I love her.

After our cat was catting around outside last night, I was pacing around as if one of my children may be dead or working at an ice plant or teaching middle school for the rest of his or her life.  It was that stressful.  Eventually, she showed up, and since I am currently a bachelor, I attempted to give her the ninth degree without someone shaking me and telling me, “Ben, cats don’t speak your language!”

All being written, she was safe, and because of the sweltering weather conditions, we all slept on the downstair’s couch.  Lucy, our cat, hunkered in on my lap.  It was very cute until she puked on my chest.  Instead of getting angry, I thought of my mother who dealt with thirteen children doing the same thing for sixty years.  Mom was probably just happy when we made it home.  And, we all did.  Amen.

 

A Six Year Itch (The Scent of an Owl)

(Written with respect to the television show, “In Search Of”, narrated by Leonard Nimoy)

Some of us earthlings reach a certain time in our lives when we must be given the formidable task of searching for the chair which is most comfortable in the living and dying room.  Some wonder when the Early Bird Special price and time will drop, instead of rise, with inflation.  Some just wonder when.   Others search for an owl.  Now, that’s living.

Personally, I’ve given up the hope of finding a Sasquatch on T.V..  It’s not that I have little faith in seeing one on our color set.  Rather, it’s just that I have no faith whatsoever.  I believe that provides me the right to simply give up and search for something more fathomable, like a bigger t.v. set.  All I have to do is wait for the next tax refund to do so.

My sister, Anne, has asked not to be named in this simple story of exploration, perspiration, gallantry, mockery and photography.  She only wishes for me to send a truthful message to those doubting her for those six expensive, time consuming, and wet years of her life, searching for the elusive and alien like barred owl.

AnnesBarredOwl-1

Catch me if you can, B@#%h.

The barred owl is as intimidating as any winged and eerily taloned bird of prey.  Unlike the Sasquatch which is considered a “cryptid” (animals  believed to exist by those using narcotics, but never proven to exist in the sober world of science) the barred owl has been accepted by the scientific community, even if most of those scientists never actually observe them in the wild.  They are wildly difficult to spot, especially, like anything else, when one is specifically searching for it.  Armed with a kayak, paddle and a camera, my sister was determined to capture a picture of this shrewd marvel of aviation.

Kayaking, for my sister, began as exercise and continued to blossom, along with her well toned arms, into a blessing.  It was a blessing of outdoor beauty, a beauty some imagine only while watching the Discovery Channel, Jurassic Park, or Gilligan’s Island.  Waterfalls, sinister trees, hidden caverns, and birds……..yes…..those majestic birds.  Many of these birds she would witness on a daily basis, but there was one she heard too many times just before dawn and dusk.  The sound she heard became a dream for her and a nightmare for others.  Much to her husband’s dismay, she would hum the notes in her sleep.  Leaving her cabin each morning and evening in search of the barred owl, she was determined to find one sooner or much later.  The search was on.

Six years of building your muscles on a kayak, while failing to capture a picture of your bird of prey, can drive anyone insane.  For her, it became her Winged Whale.  My sister became a woman of prey.  It was enough to create skeptics amongst her Lake Cushman community.  She tried to ignore the naysayers when they’d whisper, “Poor Cao.  (Cao is her last name.) People have wasted their whole lives trying to find that bird only to spend their last remaining years in a nest eating mice and mimicking the notorious warning cries of the barred owl.”  Others were less discreet.  “Poor Cao, my talon!  She’s got Owl fever and she needs to get over it.  The whole lake is making fun of her.”  Each member of her family would look at her with concern.  Had this obsession gone too far?  Six long years of waking up at five in the morning to the hooting of this owl.  Six years of paddling away in her kayak while her family waved goodbye, wondering if she’d ever return.  Six years.

(Years in a bird’s nest):

Year one:  HoohooHOOaaw!  She hears it each morning, and most evenings, but no physical evidence.  Family and friends support her quest and commonly ask her if she has found it.  Encouraged by their interest, she explains how difficult it is to find one in the wild.  She looks forward to finding it by year two.

Year two: HoohooHOOaww!  No physical evidence.  Friends and family members continue to ask, enthusiastically, if she has finally captured a picture of her puffy headed woodland friend with large brown eyes.  Still, she only hears it.

Year three:  HoohooHOOaww!  The cry remains, but no physical evidence.  Because of its unique war cry, some people call it the “Al Pachino Owl” when it only can stammer a “Hooahh” stolen from the critically acclaimed movie, Scent of a Woman.  Some scientists interpret this cry by documenting the sound as reminding them of a question. “Who cooks for you?  Who cooks for you all?”  My sister takes this literally and responds while entering her kayak, “I cook for me!  I cook for them ALL!”   Her husband starts to believe she is crazy and begins taking longer shifts at his place of employment to avoid questions from neighbors.

Year four:  Still no physical evidence.  Quietly, she presses on.  People stop asking questions.  Even her own mother, living with her for support, begins to doubt her daughter’s quest.  But, as long as mother is fed and put to bed at the proper times,  mother simply resorts to prayer.  “Dear Heavenly Father, if you give a hoot, please allow my daughter to catch just one photo of this bird for crying out loud!  I’ll say AMEN when this happens.”

Year five:  Mom’s prayers have not been answered, yet her prayers are as consistent as her daughter’s daily voyage. The incessant hooting continues.  People in the community avoid the subject of wildlife all together when she is present.  This motivates her further.  She feels as if  she is catching a fifth and sixth wind beneath her paddles.

AnnesBarredOwl-2

Photo by Anne Cao

Year six:)  HOOHOOHOOAWW! HALLELUJAH!  Darkness was falling in late May 2014.  Her husband, fishing from a distance, calls for her to come back to the cabin.  She tells him to go to Hell.  (She didn’t, but wanted to.)  Although her heart was dancing, her body, every last bit but her hands, remained still.  Her dazzling blue eyes stared directly into those of the elusive barred owl.  One snap away from physical evidence.  One click away from completing her journey.  One iconic forefinger depression from proving her sanity to all those skeptics.  This was her purpose.  It was only a matter of when.

I’d like to tell you she tipped her kayak over while succumbing to shock and ruined her three thousand dollar camera in the process.  Her husband would like me to write that he saved her from the lake’s frigid waters while she shouted above his outstretched hands, “Look, he’s flying away,…….forget me…….get the camera!!!!”  But, I can’t.  She got her shot, and she took it.

When my sister gets an itch, she scratches it, even if it takes six years to relieve it.

The Sacrificial Pew

Church pews are always hard to come by during the holidays.  I hadn’t heard the term C and E’s until I was in my late teens.  These are individuals choosing to attend a Holy Ceremony only on Christmas and Easter.  Pews are reserved for C and E’s two days out of the year.   I have no problem with this.  Maybe that’s because I don’t go to church  anymore.  Perfectly understanding and supporting our 1st amendment, exercising Freedom of Religion, I believe some Christians took liberties with that constitutional right.  Christians attending mass only on Christmas and Easter conveniently interpreted  it by thinking it stated “Freedom of Timely Religion”, or perhaps, “Freedom of Intermittent Religion”.

Around the age of six or seven, I began noticing this sacrificial pew phenomenon, also known in the liturgical profession as SPP.  Personally, I didn’t really mind getting to church early.  I’d sit in a pew in the back row with Dad, Mom, and several brothers and sisters until being kindly forced minutes later by Dad to sacrifice our pew to some poor old bag who showed up late with her deadbeat nephew.  Looking at the bright side, I thought standing up was actually better than sitting, then standing, sitting then standing, and well, you know the Catholic drill.  Standing during the entire ceremony seemed to simplify mass.

Usually, during the non holiday season, I’d tend to drift off in the pew only to be gracefully awakened by brothers who understood when to stand and when to sleep.  Avoiding sitting next to my father, the bruises my brothers provided were well worth it.  If Dad caught you snoozing, it was Liturgy Lecture time after church, extending the mass an extra 15 minutes in the parking lot, thus cutting into my Sunday football.

By age eight or nine, I begin questioning the sacrificial pew, but I’d bite my tongue because I was not quite religiously educated enough to make a proper argument with my father.  Even if I had been, Dad’s glare was the only argument required for him to succeed.  To his benefit, after church, he would make his best attempt to explain why this is the right thing to do for these poor elderly C and E’s who needed the pew more than I did.  I thought, and again, only thought, these Q-Tips who needed this pew should learn the virtues of “punctuality.”

ElderlyPew

There were those random years when I’d be teased by the pews when the last two rows were empty.  We’d sit down blissfully, only to have our hopes crushed fifteen minutes into the church service when a bus full of cotton tops would bust open the doors, bingo blotters in tow, demanding to be seated.  The ushers would do their best, but we knew our row would be the first to go. (Our family did, on occasion, take up an entire row.)  It was like a hockey game when the players, right in the middle of action, are allowed to make substitutions by leaping over their bench railing.  Similarly, we’d have to jump over the back of the pews to avoid a walker cracking one of us in the shin.  Dad acted as our hockey coach.  “Greg, you and Tom are the first to go.  Ben, you’re next.”  Fruitlessly, Greg would argue.  “We’re not even the oldest!”  What about Patricia, Dorothy and Maggie?  They’re all older than us!”  Dad craftily explained to Greg why the AARP members, and other females, always come first, even if they show up last.

Attending Catholic classes at the age of ten and eleven, I began to learn about items such as The Ten Commandments.  One of the Commandments shouted, “Thou Shalt Not Steal.”  Aha!  Now I have a piously educated argument with my father.  I tried to convince him that sacrificing pews was just allowing the untimely and unjust to steal from us.  Instead of kindly reinforcing the differences between right and wrong, or sacrificing and stealing, he told me to get in the car and stop questioning His Commandments or he would be forced to kick my ass up between my shoulder blades.

Between the ages of twelve and thirteen, I had matured and finally understood why we all have to make sacrifices.  No, it’s not just to avoid getting your ass kicked up between your shoulder blades, but rather, it can merely mean saving a dying art which was once called chivalry:  courtesy, generosity, and valor.  My father had his own misgivings, but he always reinforced, by example, the importance of courteousness, generosity and valor.  So easily these can be displayed by simply sacrificing a pew.

 

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Formula 409 and the Bi*ch who Stole Christmas (a bedtime story)

As most folks do, my late father used to tell me bedtime stories.  They were commonly dreadful.  Prince Gingersnap and the Three Rubber Bands was always his favorite. It wasn’t mine.  There were tactical problems: boring, weird and no conclusion.  It did put me to sleep, but I was always looking forward to a story having a proper conclusion.    That’s when he told me the story which he titled, “Formula 409 and the Bi*ch Who Stole Christmas”.

It was a story about a wife who wished to poison her husband on Christmas Eve.  This had me intrigued, and little did I know at the time, it was a prophetic story about my own life.  Here is the bedtime story.

Me: Tell me a different bedtime story!

Dad: Ok.

Dad:  Bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches were sacred in this family.  If they took the time to grow a tomato, and then proceed to use those tomatoes on white bread, the tomatoes should not be honored as jesters, but Kings.  (At a young age, my father taught me of the importance of a good BLT, especially a ripe tomato.)

Me: Proceed.

Dad: Well, one Christmas Evening, the husband took the time to provide a wonderful dinner of bacon lettuce and tomato sandwiches for he and his wife.

Me: Sounds great!

Dad:  Not so fast.  His wife tried to poison him.

Me: With what?

Dad: Formula 409.  She sprayed it on his bacon lettuce and tomato sandwich.

Me: So far, this is a terrible story.  Why would she do that?

Dad: She had a bit of an evil streak in her.  He deserved some of it, but he didn’t deserved to be poisoned.

Me:  So far, unlike the bible, this is the worst story ever told.

Dad:  No, it gets better.

Me: You mean worse.

Dad:  No, they got a divorce.

Me: That’s the ending?!!  I will never get married, nor will I eat another bacon lettuce and tomato sandwich for fear of getting poisoned.  Thanks a lot.

Dad: Wait a minute.  It has a happy ending.

Me: You’re full of it, Dad.

Dad: He remarried.

Me: Why?  So, he could get poisoned  again and suffer an additional divorce?  I am going to have nightmares tonight.  I may as well become a rabbi.  (Since we were Catholic, I thought I could give him a taste of his own nightmare.)

Dad:  Benjamin, there is a happy ending.

Me: Do tell.  I think you are messing with me again.

Dad: He married the BLT Fairy.

Me: I’ve never heard of the BLT Fairy.

Dad:  With his new wife, she promised to never poison his BLT’s.  Additionally, she promised to block out, much like rebounding in basketball, anyone who could poison him … or ruin a precious tomato.  She gave him the safe gift of protection for Christmas.  It’s fun not to get poisoned…especially on Christmas.  Good night, my son.

Me: Now I want to eat BLT’s and get married.  Thanks, Dad.

Dad: You’re welcome.  Now get the hell out of here so I can go to sleep.  God Bless.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a very interesting night!