Classically Trained- Currently Adjusting...

It's been a while, good and valiant readers...

I've taken notice that there's a few in the Blogosphere who've included me in their own writing repituar- for their prescience and favor, I'm greatly humbled- hopefully I'll continue to be a contributor to their sites as I hope they will be to mine.

There's an old saying- who exactly made it, I'll ask you to help me remember; it went something like this:

"A man can truly consider himself old when his regrets far outweigh his aspirations."

I'm not "old" yet- but there's days when I doubt my age.

I've looked reflectively on my life this holiday season- patching together fading memories of younger days- wondering where the time had gone and perhaps this first Christmas without my Grandfather's well-wishes stinging worst of all.

As my earlier entry would have you presume, I thought the greatest of things concerning my Grandfather- both of my grandparents actually.

Do I wish for another chance to say some monumental thing that I can know will fill my remaining decades with the pride of a man who's love for the familial patriarch would be forever resounding..?

Who wouldn't.

The thing is, though- I'm not going to regret having not had that chance.

Oh, I'm still stewing over it and moping from time-to-time; this particular holiday season being the most notable exception. As much as my Crappaw would express earlier in life that he'd "want us all to get along in our lives- no sense worrin' about his carcass" no man wants to be trivialized, nor forgotten.

So- though rather belated- Merry Christmas, Crappaw!

I couldn't think of anything I could give you this year, seein' as you're all "Halo'd" and all... Never could figure out what went good with wings and a halo- 'cept for maybe a silly grin and a warm welcome.

And to you- my readers, my online friends- to you a Merry Christmas and/or any other belated form of holiday merriment your heart desires.

To the rest- who have no desire or intent to the holidays [and I actually knew a few very wise individuals who's ideals of what was and was not a "holdiay" in the true sense of the word were quite remarkable] I wish you good tidings- no more or less tied to the trappings or rituals of a faith you neither want nor percieve- simply "peace on earth and good will".

To those venomously opposed to anything even remotely akin to what you might call my "neandertal beliefs in a fairytale legend of mythological faith and redemption" who nearly recoil with the kind of revile befitting a Romero Zombie; I still offer you the hand of friendship.

But feel free to kiss my ass all the same.

"Still Adjusting" and continue to be...

Russ

Did You Hear the One About the Travelling Salesman..?

As most burly jokes start:

There was once a travelling salesman who drove the 'undriven' lanes and highways of America looking for opportunities to sell his wares outside the mainstream.Running low on fuel, the salesman stops at what one could only term the quinisential 'ramshackle' gas station with the tatty roof, off-set screen door and old cylinder style gas pumps with "regular" and "ethyl" in stark, faded print on their faces.

As our protagonist steps from his vehicle and waves to the old codger on the front porch of the ancient petrol oasis, he waves and imparts a congenial 'hello'...

"Howdy, old timer!" exclaims our hero,"I'll pump if you'll be kind enough to grab me a Coke?"

The old man waves back and knods, slowly lifting himself to saunter into his ramshackle store and produce a frosty bottle [!?] of Cocoa-Cola...

Once the salesman has finished fueling his car and popping the pop-top off his drink, he takes a moment to make small talk and pleasantries with the native he's newly met. During the course of his chit-chat with his new-found elderly friend, he notices an old hound-dog laying next to his ancient master.

What makes the dog even more noticable is suddenly, the canine belts out a blood curdling scream that truly only those falling to hell could possibly summon.

The old codger no more than taps on his pipe and continues his story, completely noplumed concerning his seemingly haunted pet. The dog then licks its chops and places its head back to the rickety floor and lays still, blinking placatively.

A pregnant pause later and the conversation picks back up, the salesman looking to gleen a possible lead to his next sale- the least of which might be his conversational partner.

About 10 minutes into a heated conversation, the crecendo of which sounds like a dubious sale- the hound SCREAMS as if it's had every pound of meat stripped from its bones.

The salesman looks dumbfounded to the dog as it yet again licks its chops and settles back to its undisturbed original rest.

"Um... Old man?" stammers the salesman.

"Yes?"

"Just what in the hell is wrong with that dog of yours?!" he exclaims. "I've never heard a dog scream: Bray, moan, grunt, bark, howl and even yodel- but never scream!"

The old man looks down near his feet where the dog lies- never having moved. "You mean Boe there?" asking as if he'd just noticed the canine.

"Boe? Yes I mean BOE! He's the only dog within miles of here!"

"Screaming?" quizzicly the old man knods.

The dog belts out another ice inducing, vein shrinking screech.

"YES! That! That, right there!" exclaims the salesman.

"Oh! That! Yeah, ole Boe's sittin' on a nail." states the old codger.

Every bit of color falls out of the salesman's face. How could it be such a damned simple thing?

"A nail?"

"Yup"

The salesman points at Boe, who simply lays where he's been since...

"Nail..?"

"Yep."

"Great googly Moogly, old man- is that dog so shit fired stupid he doesn't know he's laying on a nail?!"

"Nope. Quite intelligent that one..."

"Then how do you explain all the screaming?"

"You see son- there's two sets of mind in this world..." starts the old fellow. "Boe here is a perfect example of those two minds."

"Okaaaaay..." waits the salesman.

"You see... Ole Boe here knows the nail hurts- but it don't hurt 'enough'..."

"It doesn't hurt enough?"

"Nope- doesn't hurt enough to move." tisks the aged store owner. "That's the 'two minds' in this world. Lotsa people come past me buyin' gas, drinkin' a Coke and they tell me their stories of their travels and then grouse about having to go back to sittin' on that nail in their lives."

The light goes on in our salesman's brain...

"How many lives gone by; how many people have come by here that even though they have the freedom to get up and walk away from the one thing that pokes them into misery... How many of them realize how much their nails hurt before they're uncomfortable enough to get up and move?"

So...

Granted it's a long way to go to make such a simple point, but much like our older gentleman in our story, sometimes it's the pause in the music that is part of the music itself...

What kind of nails have we been guilty of sitting on and just how uncomfortable do they have to be before we're willing to get up and do something about them..?

I continue to be...

Russ

Re-Born on the Fourth of July

The usual rounds on the forums always has a flair for somebody at some point asking the ubiquitous [and often cyclical] question- obviously this one baited to this month:

"What's your favorite 4Th of July memory?"

Chalk my answer up to age. Chalk it up to melancholy. Put whatever label, impetus or chronicle you'd like to my choice but my choice today may stem to something different a day, week, month or year from now...

Memory is a fickle thing. Perhaps molded by the exhuberance of youth, the temperance of age or the ire of hard lessons or experience earned.

My 'perfect' memory itself is actually quite simple;

It was 1971, I was 6 years old, I was spending a two week stay with my grandparents.It was my first time with sparklers that holiday evening...

If one can reach to the vestiges of such past ghosts; imagine the awe of such glittering pyrotechnic splendor as the flint and saltpeter mixed wires spark, lighting wherever your little feet could carry you...

I was given the possibility of self mutilation. But it was also the first big responsibility of entertaining myself with something far more dangerous than the blunt helmet of Major Matt Mason swung in anger over my brother's head.

I remember my grandmother questioning each and every wire being lit by my grandfather that "it wasn't a good idea" or that "this seems to dangerous for a six year old"- all the while my grandfather consoling her worries and repeating with each new sparkler the need to "be careful or you'll light yourself on fire or melt your fingers off..."

It was my Trial By Sparkler.

I remember the day; perhpas not "as if it were yesterday", but as a tenaciously held memory I pray never escapes me...

I remember my grandfather had to go to work in the mines for the day, and my grandmother watched over my twin and me between gulped-down breakfasts and lunches. Within bites of whatever was passed in front of me [nothin' beat Gran-ma's cookin'- who cared what it was, we knew it was good!] I can still recall the desperate, innate need of little boys to get back to the immediacy of a giant cardboard box or GI Joe exploration of the 'lunar surface' of the local dirt mound.

I even remember "quiet time" naps to the sound of the droning window mounted air-conditioner and constantly asking where Crappaw was and when he'd be returning...

Now- where I'm going with this long-winded rendition of past experiences, one has to understand where I am today. I've seen firework displays to end all in Washington- even in my hometowns; I've been the part of massive displays that have been the conversations of many all over the world; to be a part of something bigger truly one seldom forgets- but that which stands out greatest in our minds are those things most tangible and most intimate to who and what we are to become...

So, times change; notions evolve and memories one would pray remain fluid begin their inexorable and damning fade. My time now is vastly different and gone to me from my yester-years- leaving a space that only etherial images and vaunted smells and sounds tantelize me with it's inconsiquential nature then- now made so much more desirable; as well as bittersweet.

My grandfather; he's gone now.

Age and health having given way to the spirit roughly 2 months ago...

My grandmother's health these days is stoic, but I gather questionable; a nursing home and a body unwilling to bend to will and desire rending her time away from her beloved home, usually full of talkative adults and squeeling children.

That home I desperately couldn't get enough of- the squeeking floors, sticking doors and the real wooden blinds- now stands a sad and screamingly silent vigil...

Yes, perhaps by some personal laconic need for identifiers of my past I'm so nostalgic- perhaps the still-recent loss to my family entreats the selfish portrait I wax poetic...

Still, for this time- this 'now'- nothing may yet beat the intimacy of my grandparents' undivided attention and the flittering lights and acrid smoke of those first tiny flares of magnesium and flame...

Even at that tender age of six, I cherished that day, that evening- those weeks. I knew my time was special with my grandparents. I want to think that my observations then lend character and credance to the bittersweet notions of this '4th' I feel today

I look back, perhaps with the hope that my six-year-old will one day remember me, like I did those who molded me so long ago.

This will be his first Trial by Sparkler...

I continue to be...
Russ

WWWD

It’s times like these in life when I’m often reminded of the cottage gospel industries acronymic moniker “WWJD- What Would Jesus Do?”

My guess is that he would be laughing, praising All Mighty God and welcoming Russell Woodrow Rose into his arms. In that same breath, I would think that with a morose and empathetic nature, his hand would also touch the hearts of those who have awakened and begin to mourn Woodrow’s passing this morning.

Most people called Woodrow “Russell”- it was, after all, his first name. Having been named after the 28th president of the United States and arguably one of the greatest presidents of his time, perhaps it would have led to another form of greatness within the Rose clan- one will now have to leave that notion to both histrionics and to his son’s and grandson’s verbal legacy...

If I reach to the furthest reaches of my memories- pushing past birthdays, holidays, school-times and those “fertile years” when the conquest of women was more the stuff of self gratification than fulfillment, I remember my grandfather by his blessed moniker. A name he refused to let go of for all his days once uttered by his cherubic twin grandsons- a name he wore with the tartan pride of a Midwesterner who’d just been knighted- certainly “Woodrow” being that of “lesser stuff”...

Crappaw!

My mother was incredibly embarrassed by our inability to call him “GRAND” pa. My grandmother was quoted as saying, “Yeah- those two are definitely your grandbabies!” and Woodrow/Crappaw? He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The name stuck to him like the excremental element that his nickname developed from and he absolutely relished the aroma of it!

The coal miners whom he worked with absolutely roared when they learned of his grandbabies bestowal to his already lengthy name- but as they’d chide Crappaw, they were also inwardly jealous as hell that their grandkids weren’t as ‘inadvertently clever’ as Woodrow’s...

As of this writing, he’ll have been “gone” no more than 12 hours ago; though it could be said that in the week of his declining health, perhaps he’d left all of us much earlier than my self imposed timeline would suggest.

Russell “Crappaw” Rose worked for 60 years [yes, I said “sixty”- no stuttering here] in the coal mines of Illinois. He was the only boy in a gaggle of 8 children and by the tender age of 13. His mother having died far long ago, his father was both sole provider and ‘mother hen’ to 7 girls and one boy in the foothills of the Ozarks. With the Great Depression looming over most everyone at that impressionable time in my grand-pa’s life; the best way to keep a single parent house warm in the winter was to either pick up coal off the railroad tracks, or go to work for the coal company. He chose what made the most sense even though that meant missing out on a high school education.

Never shirking responsibility, inevitably he would go on one day to get his high school diploma- at 40 years of age he was the first man to do so in the nation. He didn’t stop there though- he went on to attempt his doctorate only to miss it by one thesis paper. His “failure” was not because of lax time, attitude or ability... Crappaw’s professor, who would have inevitably [and by his own admission] aced the paper, pleaded that Crappaw simply “slap the damn bibliography on this thing and get your diploma!” The paper wasn’t good enough for Crappaw though- invariably it was never ‘finished’ in his eyes.

With this notion of “business left unfinished” perhaps that sums up the passing of Crappaw. He planned well in advance for his own demise- no illusions of immortality or some fantasized Fountain of Youth. But there’s the most troubling for me personally his written [and verbal- as he’d told me more than once some time before] that he have no funeral. He wanted no words spoken on his behalf and he refused any manner of wake or memorial. One could chalk up this requirement to his generation- practical, pragmatic and matter-of-fact. Or perhaps there’s some martyrdom left untapped.

Perhaps his refusal to all the trappings of death was his last life lesson to teach not only his son, but his grandkids as well...

He had come into this world unknown- one day his mother only a scant few years gone and his father remarrying not once but twice. With such historic events as The Great Depression, WW II, Vietnam and man landing on the moon, the only thing he ever mentioned that he felt newsworthy was his grandsons coming into this world.

Now, with his time spent, his job long since done and his grandchildren safely and competently fending for themselves- like the robin of spring one day falls to the earth, it’s soliloquy that of his progeny taking flight; he passes on from this mortal coil, his legend more than satisfactorily secure on the wings and song of his children.

“What Would Jesus Do?”

Most likely Jesus would ask in return:

“What Would Woodrow Do?”

I have missed my time with Crappaw. I’ve missed him based simply on homesickness- now I have moment to pause and realize that truly there is no going home anymore.

Though heartbroken today...

I continue to be...

Russ

But for the Want to Forget...

I'm a "contributor" for Gather on many occassions- think of this one mention as a shameless plug for Gather if you wish.

The site is actually an excellent source for those who want the immediate gratification of their posts being reviewed and/or interpretated by their readership. I'll admit to a certain 'whoring' aspect in my personality that wants to see if what I write earns the merit of understanding I'd want from my readers...

In this instance though, someone going by the moniker "JJack Midnight" postulated a question that just screamed reflection on my part. He simply asked that if science had developed a pill that would allow you to remove one memory for each pill taken, and the memory would be removed so perfectly and completely you'd never know it had ever taken place, would you be tempted to use the drug?

I don't know what I found more prophetic: The almost total response that everyone [except the two most shallow] wouldn't do it- or the reasons why.

The most base of reasons given was the ubiquitous "I am the sum total of my memories..." line- and that's entirely [universally?] true; but the ones that struck me the most were the ones that delved into a piece of their souls- myself included.

I could wax poetic about my life and the rights and wrongs perpetrated on me, by me or for me- but that's a banal assault on you dear readers into my own self gratification and need for exhibitionism.

No- I'd simply pass this question on to you, dear reader...

Given the original hypothetical: Science has the ability to let you specifically and perfectly remove memories [no matter what type] would you be willing to take it?

Where some might stop at a yes or no- I am far too iron fisted to let you off that easily- not only would you have to express what you'd want removed, you'd be required to reason why it's desirable and for what specific reasons.

The want to forget can be overwelming- especially in the realms of pain, grief and horror. I won't deny that.

But if we truly are the sum of our memories and the vessels of crude flesh we weild are nothing more than those vessels to thoughts, ideas and memories that are fleetingly here one day and gone the next- should we dare to remove even one piece if it means removing apiece of who we truly are?

I continue to be,
Russ