The Tearing Of The Bagels

Friday morning is bagel time with my daughter.  The ritual began soon after she was big enough to toddle.  She was once enthusiastic, even demanding, when it was still fresh and new to her.  Lately, she likes to go, but she often seems noncommittal.

Me, I don't want to give it up yet.  The capstone to my week, and my girl she is growing swiftly.

One aspect that took root early on was that the plain bagel she always requested had to be rendered into smaller bits, to fit her wee mouth.  It was done out of necessity when she was much smaller.  At first I had to cut the bagel into pieces, she insisted, and they had to be wedge shaped.  She would use them as tiny shovels to scoop cream cheese out of the container and into her mouth.  Later, I convinced her that tearing the bagel into bite-sized pieces was better (have you ever tried to saw apart a chewy bagel with a bendy plastic knife? Tedious and tiresome), and much to my delight she agreed.  So for the longest time I would tear the bagel into bites, and she would eat.

As with many of these things we do for our children because they can't do for themselves, there comes a time when we grow tired of performing these tasks.  That time usually occurs about the time the kids can manage these things for themselves.  Seat belt fastening and bagel tearing, yeah, I've hit limit.

So it was last Friday at the bagel shop.  Bagels arrived at the table and as usual before I could sink teeth into my hot, crispy, fresh bagel, Her Royal Cuteness asked me to tear up the bagel.  I was annoyed, more so than the situation warranted.  But I complied as I always do.  I did wonder when she was going to start doing this for herself.

I watched her as she ate.  She seemed content, scooping cream cheese like a boss, and pushing the fragments of the now sundered bagel around the napkin on the table.  She didn't eat that much.  I polished off my bagel and wondered at this progeny of mine, and why it has to be my hands that tear the bagel.

It became clear to me, when she looked up at me with those stained glass eyes of hers and a small grin on her face.  This thing we have, the trip we take every Friday morning for the ritual "Tearing Of The Bagel"...maybe it matters to her.  Maybe it isn't so much that she doesn't want to do it herself.  Maybe she thinks this time we share together is incomplete if Daddy doesn't make the big things small.  Because that's what daddies do.  They help make the big things small for their precious ones, and that is as it should be.  I look on that angel face and believe it to be true.

I wish I could tell her, explain so that she may understand, that I may make the big things small for her...but by her presence sharing this ritual, I am a bigger man.

On Reading Together

If ever I needed any reminder that I am a lucky man in some ways, it would be this:  I learned to read at an early age, and I still love it.

If I had not received a glowing reinforcement of that reminder, it was tonight.  Her Royal Cuteness wanted to see some funny animal videos before bedtime, so I indulged her.  When I informed her that we would have to cut it short if she wanted to read some books before lights out, I was expecting a little of the ol' "whine and jeez" party.  Much to my delight, she didn't fuss.  She said straight away that she wanted to read, and she leapt off the couch to pick out some books.

Tonight, we had time for two.  Wee Lass said I should read the first one, but that she was going to read the second one, to me.  So she did, in its entirety, with minimal input from myself.

I can unequivocally say that this was one of the greatest gifts I have received as a father.  I can't quite put into words the pride and joy I felt listening to my daughter read.  She did a great job, with some flair, and we had some giggles along the way.

Voices are powerful instruments, and I was blessed to hear a concerto of words.  This is the stuff of life.

On The Flight of Certain Bees

 
I noticed the toothbrush holder askew on more than one occasion.  As it put an elbow in the rib of my neurotic architect obsession with plumb and level, I always adjusted it back to its upright position.  It never looked right, to my adult eye, and I could not explain it.

Just as many times as I adjusted it, I always returned later to find it an angle.  Must be leprechauns I thought.

Little did I know.  Wee Lass set me straight, and it crooked, last night when she came to brush her teeth.  She opened the holder, took out her brush, and then carefully twisted the bee so it was slanted.  She then said to me, in a casual aside, "I like it tilted, 'cause that's how bees fly."

Well, then.  I could not refute her aesthetics, or her observations of the natural world, so the bee remains as you see in the photo.

The more I looked at it, the more I decided she was right.  I like it, too.

What the Princess Said to the Captain

Sunday afternoon.  It's cold, lots of snow still on the ground, but the sun is out, finally.  Perfect time for Wee Lass and the Captain to log some outdoor time after being cooped up.  The Captain advises Her Royal Cuteness to enrobe herself appropriately for a winter excursion:

Captain: "We should go to the park."
Wee Lass: "I wanna stay inside."
C: "We've been inside almost all weekend.  Let's go to the park with the swinging bridge."
WL:  "I want to go to the big playground!  Can we go to the big playground?"

She wheedles well.  Plus, she looks at the Captain with those baby blues...

C:  (sighs)  "Okay, we can go to the big playground.  Get your shoes on."

Wee Lass skips to her room, returns carrying her favorite "sparkly" shoes.  They are indeed sparkly, festive, even, but not even good shoes for tromping in snow.  Her boots were absent, with only sneakers as backup.  Better than the sparkly shoes, though.

C:  "Uh, please put your sneakers on.  There might be snow, and sneakers would be better."
WL:  "I don't want to wear sneakers."
C:  "Sweet pea, those shoes will get wet and cold a lot faster, so the sneakers..."
WL (staring at the Captain with a withering look):  "But, Daddy...they don't go well with my tights!"

So that is how it came to pass that the Captain lumbered along in his winter boots, while Her Royal Cuteness frolicked on the slides and in the snow with sparkly shoes a-glitter in the winter sun.  She was right, they did look good with her tights.

And she didn't complain at all about the wet, cold feet...

My Skill Set Has A Few Holes

Revelations, brothers and sisters!  This week, I was brought up short at the end of the chain.  Yes, indeed, the light of Mildly Bothersome Truth has glared into the Shed of Secrets that resides in the back yard of my mind.  Consequently, there is a vexation upon my heart.  Ladies and gentlemen, there are two things I cannot do.

I cannot sew on a button, and I cannot make a balloon animal.  Specifically, a dog.  I live in small shame at these revelations.

Why does this matter?  Recently, I have encountered situations where possession of those particular skills would have served me well.  In the case of buttons, it would save me some trouble.  In the case of balloon animals, it would have made my Wee Lass all the happier.  (sigh).

The buttons I can live without a little longer, but being able to make my daughter smile by fixing a balloon animal?  Well, that would be the bees' knees.

Time to man up, I guess, and get that "Balloon Animals for Dummies" manual.

Little Acorns

A finer scene I am unsure I could have made up, playing out on the couch in my living-dining room combo space, as the Wee Lass and I sat side by side on a fine Sunday morning.  It is that special time of year for those of us who are, or like to pretend they are, gardeners what can grow the good stuff.

You know what I'm talking about: that is right, the seed catalogs are here!  You remember that scene in "The Jerk" when the new phone books arrive?  Yeah, that's what it is like.  This year, anyway.

I get two seed catalogs* from major suppliers, and I look forward to perusing them at my leisure in the depths of winter.  Now that the Lass is a little older and enjoys plants and flowers, we have started what looks to be an annual tradition of our own.  When the seed catalogs arrive, she and I set aside some time to leaf (leaf: get it? ha!) through them to pick out stuff to grow in the spring and summer.

Our interests are complementary in that I am drawn strongly to the Things That Are Good To Eat, and she is drawn to the Things That Make Pretty Flowers/Have Pretty Names.  I like flowers too, but can't help the appetite.  If I can find something that looks great and produces tasty stuff, well that is just double plus good for me.  The Wee Lass is on a pink kick, and she is drawn like a bee to the flowers that do just that.  She also likes big showy ones like sunflowers and marigolds.

So this past Sunday morning, we parked ourselves on the couch, catalogs in hand and sticky note tabs at the ready.  I had some music playing, streaming on the laptop, mug of tea nearby.  She snuggled up to me and we set to.  

Fruits and vegetables came first, followed by the flowers.  As we made our way through the peppers and tomatoes, impatiens and sunflowers, Wee Lass carefully wrote our first initial followed by either 'V' for vegetable or 'F' for flower on each tab, and we affixed the note to each seed we liked.  In the end of course,  we ended up with far more selections than we could possibly manage, but it sure was great fun.

This year was extra special, because of what happened as we searched and marked.  Shortly after we started, I noticed Wee Lass bobbing and moving to the music.  It was either "The Long Cut" or "Chickamauga" off of the Anodyne album by Uncle Tupelo.  She seemed to really be getting into it, and I was amazed.  I didn't say anything because I didn't want to make her self-conscious about it.  A short while later, the song "We've Been Had" came on, and she started a little seat dancing.  I couldn't help but grin and laugh, and I asked if she liked this music.  She said yes, and wanted to know the title of the song and who it was by.  She kept it up into the next song, "Fifteen Keys", and I thought my heart was going to overflow, it was so full.

It felt so good sitting there in the sunlight bouncing from her bedroom windows and into the living room, sharing some things I care about with the vein of my heart, and basking in the wonder and joy of her discoveries.  We have something we can grow together, literally and figuratively.  We will plant some seeds later in the early spring, and maybe learn some new songs along the way as well.

We will grow together, and sing the joy of sunlight and music.  We will know love.

---

*Fedco and Burpee.  I am not receiving compensation of any kind from either company, I just like them.  I have had great success with Fedco seeds (love their catalog in particular) and I even have a cool Fedco shirt.  Burpee was my late G-maw's seed purveyor of choice.  When I was a boy I avidly looked forward to reading the catalogs when they arrived at her house.

she is my am.eric.an girl

Walking from kitchen to the next room,

the voice of an angel singing softly,

I turned the corner and my heart burst

into crystalline vapor in the Christmas air

North light through the windows, opaline grey,

the flower of my heart stood, singing,

a doll in her arms, held like a sibling

and I managed not to raise hand to heart

A nursery rhyme of unknown origin, cherub smile

to melt glaciers and split stone: I did not gasp

but stood, dumbfounded, to see such grace,

fighting the lump in my throat and tremor in my lips

She holds the doll tenderly, brushes a hair from its cheek

I chew the insides of my cheeks:  Please, my girl

never forget this, never forget such care, such bliss,

someday when you found your own dynasty

She sings, my composure slips its fragile leash,

the room blurs,  I find a space she cannot see,

will not know my heart has shattered, instantly,

refired in the kiln of her innocence

Dabbing at liquid eyes, towel between clenched teeth,

I hear her say "You are so pretty, the doll I always wanted"

knees near to buckling, overwhelmed by beauty:

I resolve to live forever.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have to say, the above prose poem (is that a phrase?) is not yet the piece I wanted to write.  It is crude, unrefined, compared to that which was in my head and inspired me to write.  I want to try it again.  Writing it over might do it justice.  Then again. it might not.  This is the dilemma.  It is almost a certainty that there are no words, no matter how skilfully arranged, that could do justice to what I saw Christmas morning.  I am also glad I had no camera with me at the time; to stop and photograph that angelic countenance, in such a golden moment, seems to me to border on a minor blasphemy.  The look on her face, the softness of her voice as she sang...

If I could truly describe, dear readers, the glimpse of the divine that I was granted I think you would agree that words sometimes fall far short.  I am reminded of "High Flight",  a poem by John Gillespie Magee, Jr., the last line of which reads:

"...Put out my hand, and touched the face of God."

That poem is about a brush with the Divine in an entirely different setting, but it comes very close to what I mean.  Perhaps that is the essence of all genuinely moving experiences in life.  Words can bring us right to the edge, but in the end, we stand mute before Beauty.

Seven Views of Mount Gumbo

Connect: Unit on. Signal acquired. Broadcast NOW:

ONE
Today my favorite local radio station, WTMD, did a continuous broadcast of the "Top 100 Beatles Songs as selected by Rolling Stone Magazine".  They literally took the Rolling Stone list and played them all.  The number 2 song was "I Want To Hold Your Hand".  Wee Lass and I heard it on the way to dinner.  Rather, she heard a version of it.  The part where they sing 'I can't hide'?  She said to me "Daddy, is he saying hyena?".  I am amused.

TWO
At the bookstore tonight after dinner, we were sitting on the floor in the art section, looking through books on artists. Why? Because my lively daughter has already learned about Wassily Kandinsky in her kindergarten art class, and she wanted to see some more of his paintings.  I am amazed.

THREE
Later in the photography section, we are again sitting on the floor, paging through a book on Ansel Adams because daddy secretly wishes he had been Ansel Adams.  Wee Lass is fascinated and begins commenting on the photographs.  We both were engrossed and entranced.  She begins to understand why I take my camera so many places.  I am humbled and realize I'll never be Ansel Adams.

FOUR
It is bedtime, and Her Royal Lightness asks to read some books.  We have two old favorites (well, two for her; "The Little Mermaid" has become a Sprockets guest, and I am Dieter) and a new book: "Skippyjon Jones and the Big Bones".  I blaze through the Little Mermaid, settle in with "Wabi Sabi" and really hit the big time with Skippyjon Jones.  I really dig the Skippyjon, and I really, really dig her laughter as we read with the silly accents and clap our way through some of the singing bits.  I am calmed.

FIVE
Earlier this afternoon, I had occasion to hang upon my bare walls, three framed photographs of mine.  Suddenly, this house of mine changed character, and some of the echoes faded away.  Standing there in the afternoon light, adjusting the prints to level, I held my breath with the realization that maybe, just maybe...this place is becoming a home.  I was soothed.

SIX
Bouncing around on the digital ocean tonight, I had occasion to laugh, cry, smile and testify.  Truly a grounding, humbling and pleasing experience.  I was slightly overwhelmed at the number of stories that have come to intersect with mine, and I really felt the need to jump in the car and go visit some of the people who have come to enhance my life.  I was again humbled.

SEVEN
Sitting down to write, a strange sensation washed over me.  Part anxiety, part exhilaration, at the realization of just how important to me words and music and pictures have become to my, to my life.  Today I discovered that Wee Lass finds it hilarious when I sing Beatles songs in a voice like that of Eric Cartman.  Today I discovered that I like it when she laughs at me.  Today, side by side with my daughter and reading books...that was a good day.  Read, sing, write: this is a good life.

My Daddy, My Template

Let me state up front that never in my life have I wanted to be a template,  nor did I realize that I could be a template.  That is, until now.

I have read in more than one place, and have heard from more than one source, that I as the father will be the template by which my darling Wee Lass will form her opinions thereby and make judgments thereupon, on the all the male figures in her life that are destined to come after me.

Whee.  Lucky me.

I don't say that because I wish to shirk my duties or responsibilities as a father who loves his daughter more than can be described in words. Far from it.  What it does do is make me very nervous.  I flashed on it tonight, after an episode of whining from Her Majesty that left me gritting my teeth and in less than good temper.  It left me feeling bad, too.

My time with her is precious, because, well, life is precious and when it is constrained by arbitrary boundaries such as the ones that leave us at seeing each other far less rather than  far more, it becomes all the more crucial to enjoy every minute.  It is imperative to not waste the resource.

So that is where I found myself, irritated and impatient at running smack dab into the semi-structured illogical, non-cause and effect universe of the six-year old girl-child mind.  Kids know how to push buttons, and mine were being hammered.  For every decibel my voice began to creep up, I felt my self-respect starting to go down.  I'm an adult, I should be able to handle this with no problem.

I can only hope that Wee Lass does know I love her, even when I'm being a cantankerous ijit.  I hope I can set a high and good bar, so that she knows enough in the future to only give her heart to a man who knows just how lucky he is to receive it.  A man who will treat her with respect and with love to the ends of the earth.

A man that knows, no matter how she can wind him up...he is fortunate that it is he whom she is winding up.

Candle In The Window On a Cold, Dark Night

Candle in the window,

On a cold, dark night,

Her hands on my heart,

She draws me toward the light...

Photo credit: Irish Gumbo

In The Land of Goofball Squirrels

Cool title, yes?

I have no idea what it means, but herewith is my subject du jour: cause and effect. This concept is causing me some head pain. Not because I don't understand it. I understand it all to well. No, the head pain comes from my daughter not quite understanding it.

I know, I know...she's in kindergarten, so some slack shall be cut. Still, there are times when not really connecting the dots makes me want to tear my hair out, or run around in circles. I think this is because I have spent more time in the country of CauseandEffectistan than I have spent out of it. A common side effect of being an "adult", more's the pity.

The anxiety arises because I understand it, and I am accustomed to those around me understanding it. This is a wonderful thing, because it means I do not have to spend any time explaining things. Well, most of the time I don't, can't say it has never happened. Simple things, like a gas flame is hot, ice is slippery and water is wet. I am just not used to having to spell these concepts out.

I was reminded of this principle recently on a foray to a local park. A park that is still mostly under a very thick layer of snow, and was undergoing a rapid melt under the effects of a run of above freezing temperatures. To wit:

"Look, daddy, the snow's melting!"

"Yes, it is, sweet pea."

"Look, daddy, I'm walking in the mud!" That bit was said with great enthusiasm and a grin.

"I see, sweetie. Your boots will get muddy." A minute passes.

"AIIIIEEE! DADDY! THERE'S MUD ON MY BOOOOTS! AIIIEEE!"

Yes, dear. I'll alert the media.

Monday Sunshine: Haiku

Gold light, watered sun,

By the window she giggles

Heart bursting with joy!

Music To Warm The Heart

Last Friday was the south end of a north bound donkey. It sucked. I hadn't slept well the night before, and traffic was horrendous on the way to work (40 minutes late because of another accident), the workday was bumpy, I was dealing with a leaking roof, dealing with some stressful family news, and I got stuck in traffic AGAIN on the way home from work to pick up my daughter for the weekend.

So, yeah, it was a 5-gallon bucket of homemade suck. Hot, bitter and irritating. 

But...remember I said I was picking up my daughter? Well, I did, after an hours' drive to get there. Being too tired to deal with cooking, we stopped at a local beans-and-cheese-and-rice place (rhymes with "Skiboat-lay") for some, well, beans and cheese and rice. Oh, and chips.

A nice dinner with the Wee Lass definitely smoothed some of the edges off the day, but what really put me in the happy zone occurred on the drive home. I had the radio on, and "Rock The Casbah" by The Clash came on. I was singing (badly) and trying to get her to join in on the chorus. She thought it was funny, but I could tell she wasn't exactly seeing the light about The Only Band That Matters. Not to worry, I'm sure she will come around...

After asking me what a 'casbah' was, she says "Daddy, do you know what song we haven't heard in a while?"

"What's that, sweetie?"

"The wearing purple song."

"Huh?"

"The start wearing purple song. Can we please listen to it?"

My jaw dropped a few inches. My daughter, the light o' my life, apple of my jaundiced eye, just asked to hear "Start Wearing Purple" by Gogol Bordello. I was stunned. And proud! *sniff* My little alt-rocker *sniff*.

How she remembered it I'll never know. I had played it in her presence a grand total of once, in the car, and at the time I was singing loudly (and of course, badly) and was cajoling her to sing the chorus with me. No dice. Not even copping a pirate voice and singing it with a few "arrrrs!" could do it. She just kept saying "Dadd-eee, stop singing!". Good thing I don't have an ego about my singing ability.

I did the only thing I could do: at the next stoplight, I grabbed the iPod and iTrip from my briefcase and queued up "Start Wearing Purple". This time, she started laughing and clapping some in time to the beat. She even joined in on a chorus or two, with me and my faux Eastern European or maybe its a weird pirate voice.

Somehow, driving home with food in the belly, a song in the throat and good company made all of that nonsense from the day just disappear. It was beauty, it was just what I needed. 

In honor of our songfest, I leave you with this live performance. Ladies and gentlemen, put on your best purple finery and sing with us now...

Some People Need Practical Advice

 "Don't get run over by a bus!" 

- George Carlin

My daughter is nothing if not observant. She is very quick to pick up on the wrongs of others (witness the recent "language incident" involving a deity and an exclamation) and she is a keen student of what people and animals can do. She gets a lot of conversational mileage out of commenting on birds flying, squirrels and chipmunks eating nuts, and all sorts of animals running. She will very often mime the actions she has seen or compare herself to whatever furry or feathered beastie happens to be the topic du jour. In turn, I get to hear some unique commentary from the mouth of the princess. To wit, on the way to school earlier this week:

"Those birds are fast, daddy."

"Yes, they are."

"You know who is fast, daddy?"

"Who, sweetpea?"

"Bongo. (Bongo is her cat) He runs really fast!"

"Yep, he's speedy sometimes."

"I am too! I'm fast, but not as fast as Bongo. He's good at running up the stairs, daddy. That's because he has four legs. But I don't run up the stairs."

"No, sweetie, you should be careful going up the stairs."

"Daddy, you should be careful going down the stairs, too. Don't run, so you don't crash your face into the rail."

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, your Wee Lass safety tip of the day. No one wants to crash their face, into rails or anything else!

Wet Shoe Wisdom

The weather finally agreed to let us out
so we hied ourselves to the swinging bridge
A favorite place of ours, crossing the river
Which was now swollen, high and fast

Rain, rain and meltwater cascading downhill
spurting joyously from the rocks to anoint
our pathways as we skipped (yes, skipped)
across the road and onto the planks

In our elated rush our boots were left behind
sneakers it was for us, but not to worry
There was surprisingly little mud and we grinned
As the slush oozed from beneath our feet

It was on the trail to the tunnel under the tracks
that I began to wince and gasp at her exuberance
She was running, running on the small bergs of ice
Spining the pavement like a subterranean dinosaur

The adult in me kept calling warnings, go slow, be careful
Visions of a stumble into a heart-stopping arc to the ground
I want her blood to remain in her veins, my heart in chest
But she laughs that silver bell laugh and says "Dad-dee...!"

The tunnel under the tracks, stone settling, disgorging stream
As we turn down the trail, she chirps, a happy little bird
"I wanna go through! Careful, daddy, its wet, and drippy!"
Again my heart twitches as my grown up cautions again

She navigates the tunnel, over the swollen stream on the end
That megawatt smile as she declares she is a big girl
and has no need of my help, "I can do it!", and she refuses my hand
I sigh, and send up a weary small prayer to keep her standing

It was the third trip through the tunnel, that enlightenment came
She took the path I hoped and warned that she wouldn't
But she is my progeny, after all, and hard skulls sometimes need
Hard lessons to teach; my cautions then for the sake of form

The rock I said not to take, across the stream bed I warned against
She windmilled and flailed, I gasped, knew the lesson at hand
This hard-headed angel says "I can do it!" and she does it:
Her left foot landing square in a cold pool up over her ankle

She squeals and hops, frantic and stumbling, and I bite my tongue
Hurrying up behind to pick her up from the slick rock bed
"I'm sorry, daddy, I'm sorry" the mantra of the moment
catches me off guard and struggling not to laugh 

My angel stands up and brushes her palms together, exhaling relief,
Those rose window eyes look up at me, serious as a saint
Adult heart contracts in advance of the deluge of tears anticipated,
The mouth of a cherub breaks into a crooked smile, she says,

"Daddy, my foot is wet. And cold."

This heavenly creature and I tilt our heads back and laugh, echoes
from the mossy brick melds into the chuckling of the stream
She turns, skipping away over wet stone as if nothing had happened
While I ponder the wisdom of a mind learning everything afresh.

 

Sculptress

Hands just smaller than a deck of cards, and they could break stone, move mountains and uncover love where only ice used to dwell. She wiggles her fingers to melt glaciers. A curious sensation radiates from just under my breastbone, a blood-warm bow shock racing ahead of the calving bergs of my heart.

Her hands, those soft chisels, are running through the sand in front of us. She is giggling. The sound makes me laugh and swoon simultaneously. So absorbed in the task of finding sand dollars and crab shells, the artist is oblivious to the meltwater gathering in the corners of my eyes. Those hands. Beauty created and creator, like that Escher drawing of two hands opposed, each drawing the other.

I muse to myself: is she drawing my heart, filling the void I had carried so long like a geode that had never been opened? Or was she chiseling away the gray-white stone around it, long buried under calciferous strata of ossified love and life? Hope flares up, I wonder if the stone of my heart still carried a molten core. The warm waves pulse and multiply. She looks up at me and smiles.

Plate shift. The fault slips, the halves of my heart groan and scrape with the release of tectonic energy. The warmth in my chest threatens to overwhelm me. I laugh nervously fearing that if I do open my mouth, lava will pour forth rather than the words I really want to speak. I peer into pale blue diamond eyes as the sculptress holds up her treasure, a sand dollar worn smooth by the affections of countless eager children.

"Daddy, I found a shell!" Enthusiasm beams from an angel face that quickly turns its attentions back to the touch and explore display to find more shells. "Yes, you did, sweet pea!" I reply, watching those alabaster hands sift through the sand.

The hammer rises, an iron-grey blur landing with the sound of a bell on the head of the chisel. The stone splits wide, jagged halves falling away. The sculptress laughs, all soft chimes and sugar. Her hands cradle my new-born heart, gently brushing off the sand as she holds it up to the light.

I wipe the liquid prisms from my eyes, love warming in the hands of the sculptress.

Corona Borealis, My Heart

Hers is a mind that knows nothing of spreadsheets and billables and contracts. As I stood there watching corn silk hair waft about in the wind, I told myself this is as it should be.

A mind like the second coming of the Hope Diamond, sharp, brilliant and captivating. Me, I felt dull and lifeless next to her. Picture a comet on the outbound swing of its trajectory. Time and distance pile up and the sphere of ice and rock grows colder and dimmer, the glory of its tail fading into the intergalactic black. The comet is servant to gravity, and the sun doesn’t know its own strength. It gazes upon those who orbit with the wonder of a child, fascinated and reaching out with invisible arms to pull them in.

Just like me, that sunny fall day in a small patch of pumpkins. She carries her treasure, confident it is the finest in the field, and I cannot refute her claim. The sun clutches the orangey globe, a solar presence writ in miniature.

The wind kicks up, hay and leaves awhirl around the shining brow of my queen. She turns to me with that megawatt smile, her eyes wide open and gazing at me. My heart leaps, the Universe unfolds around me as her gravity pulls me in. I dive headfirst into an azure sky studded with diamonds. She laughs as a crown of light rises from her brow, into the blue…

…My God, she’s full of stars…

Fireman, Ring the Belle

Is that toast?

"Daddy..."

Did the heat come on?

"Dad-dee..."

Smells like hot dust or something. Hmm.

"DAD-DEEE!"

"What, sweetie, I'm almost done reading the story."
"Where's my Belle doll?"
"I don't know, what did you do with her?"

(small voice) "I dunno."

"Well, we'll look for her tomorrow. G'night, sweet pea."

(goes to turn out bedside lamp) "AIIIGGGGHHH!"

LIGHT BULB 1, PLASTIC BELLE FIGURINE 0

The black-brown oval in the center? That used to be little rubber feet. Fortunately, the rest scraped off the light bulb pretty easily. No one was injured, no open flames. But, man, it stank.

I Was Gonna...

I was gonna rip off another screed on politics, because there seems to be no end to the idiocy showing up in the news.

I was gonna write a hard-hitting, insightful and well-researched essay about Obama being the Man, and McCain being the Un-Man (sorry, John, not your election cycle).

I was gonna try to get some of the noise about the election out of my head, really lay it all out, and make sure the world could dig where Mr. Irish Gumbo stands on the matter. Testimony out there, my friends!

That is what I was gonna do. But earlier this afternoon, Mrs. Irish Gumbo and yours truly took the Wee Lass to a Halloween fall festival over at Centennial Lake here in Howard County, Mare-ee-land. It is a beautiful park, around a lovely lake with good walking trails. The sun was shining in a clear blue sky. The trees were carrying a lot of color and it just felt so damn GOOD to be outside. Especially with the wee one. She decided that she would wear her Sleeping Beauty costume, a few days early, complete with tiara. A plastic jack o' lantern bucket completed the ensemble. She looked lovely. We rode a little train, took her to the moon bounce, and walked the Trick Or Treat Trail. We didn't have time to do the pony ride, but we all had fun.

PHOTO REMOVED BY AUTHOR

Sleeping Beauty Surveys The Kingdom

The combination of fresh air, sunshine and Sleeping Beauty's antics was quite the tonic, as they used to say (back when people actually drank tonics); by the time I got home all the piss and vinegar had left me and I didn't want to fire it back up by writing about politics. How could I?

So what I was gonna do became what I oughta do, which was unwind myself, take a deep breath and recognize that the good stuff in life is most often right in front of me. It isn't too late for me, or for anyone, to remember that and put it into practice. Time for some good vibrations...