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
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
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
"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
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