Dick: Ba-boom, baby! I’m sitting tableside with the Jacobs tonight and it looks like Mom has cooked up another delicious and nutritious dinner! How does she do it!? Didn’t this beautiful woman just get back from triathlon training? Look at that figure! (Oops, sorry Dad!) And here come the two oldest boys now. Dad is shepherding them into the bathroom to wash their hands. Oh! They just executed a textbook scatter move to avoid hand-washing. But it looks like Dad’s got ’em cornered. I’m telling you, this man has the size and weight advantage and he’s not afraid to use it, baby! One under each arm — look at the determination on his face!
OK, hands are washed and they’re sitting down for the meal. Here comes the blessing... and Sammy jumps off his chair! He’s off to the races... but no! Brilliantly corralled by Mom, and I’ll tell you what, she had the foresight to strap Riley into his booster chair first to prevent another scatter play. This woman’s seen it all, folks. Oops, boys are fighting over who gets to say the blessing again. Let’s see how Mom & Dad handle this one. Yes, Sammy admits he said it at lunchtime, and he’s, he’s... calming down. Whew! This 5-year-old is really showing signs of maturity lately... could be the kindergarten class.
Dinner is served. Dad dishes up Sammy’s chicken casserole while Mom helps Riley. And Sammy’s off his chair again! There he goes! He’s off to the potty races folks. Boy, you get that body sitting still for five seconds and look what happens. Now Sammy’s back. He goes for the rolls---ooh! Rejected by Mom! No bread until you’ve tasted your casserole, young man! Meanwhile Riley uses the distraction to tip his chair backward—denied by Mom again! But good try. This is one 4-year-old whose competitive fire is only matched by his vocabulary! Was that an adverb he just threw out there like a champ? Maybe, but what do I know, I’m a sports broadcaster…
And now timeout is called by little Ezekiel (Zeke, baby!) who just pulled a hat trick by dumping dinner on the floor for the third straight night. Not to worry, he'll eat if off the floor later. Kid’s got moxie, I tell you! OK, Dad plugs him with a sippie cup and we’re back into action! Sammy and Riley still refuse to try the casserole... uh-oh baby, this one could go the distance! Mom and Dad are busting out all the moves: bribery, super-heroes and villains, cajoling, begging, pleading... Did Dad just threaten a college tuition blackout? Yes! Will it work...? No! Would you look at the recalcitrance on those angelic faces! The sheer defiance! Their lips are sealed tighter than Daddy’s wallet, and they COULD—GO—ALL—THE—WAY until bedtime!
But no! Christy pulls out the last-resort: dessert! We’re headed to overtime with double-chocolate-chip cookies! (Would you believe Bruce made them?) She and Dad are eating them in front of the kids... The boys are eyeballing the treats, now looking back at dinner. Ooh! Zeke has spotted the good stuff and he's screaming for a "ga-ga" as he calls them. I don’t know, I think the older boys' will is crumbling... and they’re... they're eating! Whoa! And just like that, dinner is devoured in unbelievable time and it’s all over but the face wiping. Another thriller! This has been Dick Vitale, and I’m out!
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
2008 Christmas Letter
For anyone who might have missed it:
Dear Friends & Family:
This year, in the spirit of Christmas giving, we decided to share with all of you our family’s Christmas wish list. And there’s a BONUS—each of us has a gift to offer YOU!
Zeke, Age 1
His greatest desire these days is to pull off and chew on the little white caps that cover the bolts at the base of the toilet. And what, exactly, is wrong with stirring the toilet bowl water with your bare hands, he would like to know? He’d also like to learn how to run and to take a break from being smothered by his over-affectionate big brothers.
Gift to you—Dark, dark hazel-brown eyes (where did THOSE come from?) and a winning smile that, so far, has rendered helpless all who try to resist it (most don’t try).
Riley, Age 3 (and eleven-twelfths)
He would love first dibs on toys (before big brother)… for once! Please! He also wants real glasses (like Sammy’s), four (yes, four) light sabers and four flashlights (for sharing). His favorite book, “Lightning,” makes him wish it were summer thunderstorm season (partly to bug Sammy; see below).
Gift to you—A non-stop stream of silly rhymes and songs. He rivals his dad as the poet laureate of the Jacobs clan.
Sammy, Age 5 (and two-thirds)
Books, books, books for our voracious reader (whose big goal for the coming year is to read Harry Potter). He would also love unlimited computer time and to receive as much attention as Zeke gets. He NEVER wants to go to Disney World, since it’s in Florida, the lightning capital of the U.S.
Gift to you—A surprisingly good opponent for a game of chess; perhaps he’s the next Bobby Fisher?
Christy, Age 29 (No, really!)
The simplest wishes are often the hardest to attain. She longs for a world with no dirty socks on the floor, especially since the ones with holes tend to multiply so fast. And is there any way Santa could eliminate the need for toilet bowls to have bolt covers at their bases?
Gift to you—She’ll read you stories, teach you piano, bake you a pie, or put a fresh Band-Aid on your ouchie.
Bruce, Age 35 (Half-septuagenarian)
His Christmas hopes are dashed this year, or rather, banished to Las Vegas for the third year in a row. Maybe just a nice, warm pair of socks?
Gift to you—He’ll do your dishes, cheer you up with witty banter, and happily provide you with a pledge form and pen as he tells you about a host of giving opportunities with local charities.
Jacobs Family Wish for You: A wonderfully Merry Christmas filled with the joy and light our Savior brought into the world. And a very happy New Year!
Dear Friends & Family:
This year, in the spirit of Christmas giving, we decided to share with all of you our family’s Christmas wish list. And there’s a BONUS—each of us has a gift to offer YOU!
Zeke, Age 1
His greatest desire these days is to pull off and chew on the little white caps that cover the bolts at the base of the toilet. And what, exactly, is wrong with stirring the toilet bowl water with your bare hands, he would like to know? He’d also like to learn how to run and to take a break from being smothered by his over-affectionate big brothers.
Gift to you—Dark, dark hazel-brown eyes (where did THOSE come from?) and a winning smile that, so far, has rendered helpless all who try to resist it (most don’t try).
Riley, Age 3 (and eleven-twelfths)
He would love first dibs on toys (before big brother)… for once! Please! He also wants real glasses (like Sammy’s), four (yes, four) light sabers and four flashlights (for sharing). His favorite book, “Lightning,” makes him wish it were summer thunderstorm season (partly to bug Sammy; see below).
Gift to you—A non-stop stream of silly rhymes and songs. He rivals his dad as the poet laureate of the Jacobs clan.
Sammy, Age 5 (and two-thirds)
Books, books, books for our voracious reader (whose big goal for the coming year is to read Harry Potter). He would also love unlimited computer time and to receive as much attention as Zeke gets. He NEVER wants to go to Disney World, since it’s in Florida, the lightning capital of the U.S.
Gift to you—A surprisingly good opponent for a game of chess; perhaps he’s the next Bobby Fisher?
Christy, Age 29 (No, really!)
The simplest wishes are often the hardest to attain. She longs for a world with no dirty socks on the floor, especially since the ones with holes tend to multiply so fast. And is there any way Santa could eliminate the need for toilet bowls to have bolt covers at their bases?
Gift to you—She’ll read you stories, teach you piano, bake you a pie, or put a fresh Band-Aid on your ouchie.
Bruce, Age 35 (Half-septuagenarian)
His Christmas hopes are dashed this year, or rather, banished to Las Vegas for the third year in a row. Maybe just a nice, warm pair of socks?
Gift to you—He’ll do your dishes, cheer you up with witty banter, and happily provide you with a pledge form and pen as he tells you about a host of giving opportunities with local charities.
Jacobs Family Wish for You: A wonderfully Merry Christmas filled with the joy and light our Savior brought into the world. And a very happy New Year!
Hope Wanted (song lyrics)
I wrote these words for a song that accompanied our 2008 CFC campaign. Our theme was "Hope Wanted: A little changes a lot."
You can see the video (and hear the song) on the homepage of the CFC Website: www.intermountaincfc.org (scroll to the bottom of the homepage).
Had a million things to do that day
No time for stopping in my hurried way
So even though I heard her cry
I almost passed her right on by
Then I noticed the sign in her eyes:
Hope Wanted. Hope Needed.
A second chance 'cause I'm defeated.
Will you reach out your hand
And lift me up, help me stand?
Hope Wanted. Hope Needed.
I am the poor, the sick or mistreated
In my need, will you be there?
Will you help? Will you care?
Hope Wanted.
Life was hard, living day to day.
I didn't know if I could make it through
With him so far away.
No comfort my child's cries
ANd the bills were piling high
Then you came and cleared
the gray clouds from my skies.
Hope Wanted. Hope Needed.
A second chance 'cause I'm defeated.
Will you reach out your hand
And lift me up, help me stand?
Hope Wanted. Hope Needed.
I am the poor, the sick or mistreated
In my need, will you be there?
Will you help? Will you care?
Hope Wanted.
There are so many people down and out
They're trying hard to struggle through
A mist of fear, and of doubt.
We can give them what they need.
We can all help them to succeed.
The hand of hope will set all people free.
Hope Wanted. Hope Needed.
A second chance 'cause I'm defeated.
Will you reach out your hand
And lift me up, help me stand?
Hope Wanted. Hope Needed.
I am the poor, the sick or mistreated
In my need, will you be there?
Will you help? Will you care?
Hope Wanted.
You can see the video (and hear the song) on the homepage of the CFC Website: www.intermountaincfc.org (scroll to the bottom of the homepage).
Had a million things to do that day
No time for stopping in my hurried way
So even though I heard her cry
I almost passed her right on by
Then I noticed the sign in her eyes:
Hope Wanted. Hope Needed.
A second chance 'cause I'm defeated.
Will you reach out your hand
And lift me up, help me stand?
Hope Wanted. Hope Needed.
I am the poor, the sick or mistreated
In my need, will you be there?
Will you help? Will you care?
Hope Wanted.
Life was hard, living day to day.
I didn't know if I could make it through
With him so far away.
No comfort my child's cries
ANd the bills were piling high
Then you came and cleared
the gray clouds from my skies.
Hope Wanted. Hope Needed.
A second chance 'cause I'm defeated.
Will you reach out your hand
And lift me up, help me stand?
Hope Wanted. Hope Needed.
I am the poor, the sick or mistreated
In my need, will you be there?
Will you help? Will you care?
Hope Wanted.
There are so many people down and out
They're trying hard to struggle through
A mist of fear, and of doubt.
We can give them what they need.
We can all help them to succeed.
The hand of hope will set all people free.
Hope Wanted. Hope Needed.
A second chance 'cause I'm defeated.
Will you reach out your hand
And lift me up, help me stand?
Hope Wanted. Hope Needed.
I am the poor, the sick or mistreated
In my need, will you be there?
Will you help? Will you care?
Hope Wanted.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Testimony Envy
I hate to admit it, but I have testimony envy. You know, when you hear someone speak in church and their testimony seems much better or stronger than yours, and you think to yourself, "How come I haven't had an experience like that?" Or, "Why does she have such a strong witness of the gospel and I still have doubts from time to time?"
Today a new couple in our ward spoke in church, and they gave two of the most inspiring talks I've heard in quite a while. They are converts who joined the church in their mid-twenties in California, during the '70s. They'd both been previously divorced and were trying to make their marriage and 'blended" family work, but were struggling. So they decided they would try church, but didn't know where to go. A friend from work suggested they meet with the missionaries, and a few months later they were baptized.
The thing that impressed me most was that when they prayed to find out whether the church and Book of Mormon were true, they did so together. At the same time, in the same way, they both received the same answer -- and they said they knew joining the church was what God wanted them to do. At the time, between the two of them, they knew just five members of the church, and they hadn't even attended a meeting yet. They didn't know anything about "lay-clergy" or what being a Mormon would require of them. They just knew that they had to do it.
I loved their story, but at the same time I felt a twinge of jealousy as I listened to them. I was born and raised in the church, and for most of my life I just took for granted that the church was true. Everything made sense, and the testimonies I heard were impressive and inspiring. When I was 14, I read the Book of Mormon from front to back in just three weeks, in response to a challenge from my Sunday School teachers to finish it by the end of the year. I'm sure a lot of it went over my head, but I think enough of it stayed with me that I comprehended the basic message. I knew all about Moroni's challenge in the last chapter of the book, even before I got there. But now I'd finally read the book and I felt ready to take the challenge and receive the same answer everyone else talks about ineir conversion stories. So I prayed -- as sincerely as my 14-year-old mind knew how. Nothing.
I was really disappointed. I thought maybe I'd done something wrong. I studied more and tried again. Nothing.
It bothered me, but I didn't stop praying, and I didn't conclude the church wasn't true. I just thought somehow I wasn't ready or able to receive an answer from God. In the meantime, it was about this time of my life that I began to be a more spiritual person. I sought out and received my patriarchal blessing, which was probably the most spiritual thing to happen to me at that point of my life. There was definitely a strong, warm, comforting spirit in the room at the time the patriarch blessed me.
About a year later, my family moved to Norway. I was young, lonely and a dumb teenager. But I was also very sensitive to the idea of "sin" and began to feel very guilty about some of the things I'd been involved in. I felt the need to confess and repent, and I took what I felt were the right steps to do it. It was hard, but I'll never forget how relieved and "light" (in both senses of the word) I felt afterward. It was amazing.
Still, whenever I prayed and asked for specific answers to questions, or to know whether the church was true -- no response.
At least, the responses never came during or right after prayer. But it as during this time in my life that I began to have more frequent spiritual experiences. Sometimes in sacrament meeting I'd feel the Spirit strongly, or while singing hymns or church choir music. I would occasionally bear my testimony, and often during or after I had strong feelings that seemed to confirm what I was saying was true.
It's sometimes still discouraging to think about on all the times when I've prayed for a specific answer and nothing came. But then I remember all the times when God seemed to speak to me during other times or in other, unlooked for ways. I've come to realize that God speaks to me on his terms -- not mine. During my mission, there was the time my greenie companion and I bore testimony to a woman we were teaching in Norway, and the Spirit came so powerfully into the room that it really felt like the temperature increased and I thought my chest was on fire. She didn't just notice it -- she stopped and stared at us and said, "What is this? I've never felt anything like this before." I think it actually scared her a little, it was so powerful.
There was the time I was coming back from Las Vegas, of all places, and my friends and I had stopped for church in St. George and attended a local sacrament meeting. I wasn't feeling particularly spiritual at the time, but suddenly during the administration of the sacrament I could feel the Lord's love, forgiveness and (perhaps best of all) awareness of me as an individual. It was completely unexpected, and it seemed to come as a gift, "just because."
I could cite several other experiences throughout my life when the Spirit touched me strongly. When I look back know, I'm grateful those experiences haven't come when I was asking for them. I think God knows me well enough to realize that I might second-guess or doubt answers or feelings that come when I'm "waiting" for them. I would be prone to think I'd imagined it. But it's much harder to rationalize away a feeling or experience that comes when you're not necessarily looking or waiting for it.
And so I thank God for knowing me, and speaking to me at times and in ways that are best for me personally. I'm sure I'll still experience a little "righteous jealousy" when I hear people talk about God answering their prayers in the moment. But I also know He answers my prayers and talks to me -- when I'm ready to receive it, but not always when I place the order.
Today a new couple in our ward spoke in church, and they gave two of the most inspiring talks I've heard in quite a while. They are converts who joined the church in their mid-twenties in California, during the '70s. They'd both been previously divorced and were trying to make their marriage and 'blended" family work, but were struggling. So they decided they would try church, but didn't know where to go. A friend from work suggested they meet with the missionaries, and a few months later they were baptized.
The thing that impressed me most was that when they prayed to find out whether the church and Book of Mormon were true, they did so together. At the same time, in the same way, they both received the same answer -- and they said they knew joining the church was what God wanted them to do. At the time, between the two of them, they knew just five members of the church, and they hadn't even attended a meeting yet. They didn't know anything about "lay-clergy" or what being a Mormon would require of them. They just knew that they had to do it.
I loved their story, but at the same time I felt a twinge of jealousy as I listened to them. I was born and raised in the church, and for most of my life I just took for granted that the church was true. Everything made sense, and the testimonies I heard were impressive and inspiring. When I was 14, I read the Book of Mormon from front to back in just three weeks, in response to a challenge from my Sunday School teachers to finish it by the end of the year. I'm sure a lot of it went over my head, but I think enough of it stayed with me that I comprehended the basic message. I knew all about Moroni's challenge in the last chapter of the book, even before I got there. But now I'd finally read the book and I felt ready to take the challenge and receive the same answer everyone else talks about ineir conversion stories. So I prayed -- as sincerely as my 14-year-old mind knew how. Nothing.
I was really disappointed. I thought maybe I'd done something wrong. I studied more and tried again. Nothing.
It bothered me, but I didn't stop praying, and I didn't conclude the church wasn't true. I just thought somehow I wasn't ready or able to receive an answer from God. In the meantime, it was about this time of my life that I began to be a more spiritual person. I sought out and received my patriarchal blessing, which was probably the most spiritual thing to happen to me at that point of my life. There was definitely a strong, warm, comforting spirit in the room at the time the patriarch blessed me.
About a year later, my family moved to Norway. I was young, lonely and a dumb teenager. But I was also very sensitive to the idea of "sin" and began to feel very guilty about some of the things I'd been involved in. I felt the need to confess and repent, and I took what I felt were the right steps to do it. It was hard, but I'll never forget how relieved and "light" (in both senses of the word) I felt afterward. It was amazing.
Still, whenever I prayed and asked for specific answers to questions, or to know whether the church was true -- no response.
At least, the responses never came during or right after prayer. But it as during this time in my life that I began to have more frequent spiritual experiences. Sometimes in sacrament meeting I'd feel the Spirit strongly, or while singing hymns or church choir music. I would occasionally bear my testimony, and often during or after I had strong feelings that seemed to confirm what I was saying was true.
It's sometimes still discouraging to think about on all the times when I've prayed for a specific answer and nothing came. But then I remember all the times when God seemed to speak to me during other times or in other, unlooked for ways. I've come to realize that God speaks to me on his terms -- not mine. During my mission, there was the time my greenie companion and I bore testimony to a woman we were teaching in Norway, and the Spirit came so powerfully into the room that it really felt like the temperature increased and I thought my chest was on fire. She didn't just notice it -- she stopped and stared at us and said, "What is this? I've never felt anything like this before." I think it actually scared her a little, it was so powerful.
There was the time I was coming back from Las Vegas, of all places, and my friends and I had stopped for church in St. George and attended a local sacrament meeting. I wasn't feeling particularly spiritual at the time, but suddenly during the administration of the sacrament I could feel the Lord's love, forgiveness and (perhaps best of all) awareness of me as an individual. It was completely unexpected, and it seemed to come as a gift, "just because."
I could cite several other experiences throughout my life when the Spirit touched me strongly. When I look back know, I'm grateful those experiences haven't come when I was asking for them. I think God knows me well enough to realize that I might second-guess or doubt answers or feelings that come when I'm "waiting" for them. I would be prone to think I'd imagined it. But it's much harder to rationalize away a feeling or experience that comes when you're not necessarily looking or waiting for it.
And so I thank God for knowing me, and speaking to me at times and in ways that are best for me personally. I'm sure I'll still experience a little "righteous jealousy" when I hear people talk about God answering their prayers in the moment. But I also know He answers my prayers and talks to me -- when I'm ready to receive it, but not always when I place the order.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Zeke Zooter - Chapter 1
My name is Ezekiel Marvin Zooter, and I’m cursed. No, I’m not talking about my name, wise guy. But you’ve got a point. I go by Zeke, which isn’t so bad, but combined with Zooter it sounds, I dunno, like a brand of cheap firecracker or something.
I guess the first thing you should know is that I’m an Irish American. Why? Because it’s an important part of this story, that’s why. There’s a good chance you’re part Irish, too. Did you know more than 40 million Americans are direct descendants of Irish immigrants? Millions of people in England, Canada, Australia and other countries have Irish blood, too. If I were you, I’d go ask my parents right now, because if you have Irish blood, you could be in big trouble. And anyway, like my Grandma Deidre says, if you don’t know where you came from, you probably don’t know who you are or where you’re going either.
But like I said, I’m cursed. I’m not talking about being stupid or ugly or anything. I get decent grades, and aside from my wavy reddish-brown hair and freckles, I’m pretty normal-looking. No, I’m talking truly cursed, like someone who insulted a gypsy or opened a mummy’s tomb.
Whoever said the Irish are lucky never met me.
What’s my curse? It’s this: I get what I wish for. Oh sure, I bet you’re thinking, “Why can’t I have a curse like that?” If that’s what you think, then you don’t get it. I’m not talking about wishes like “I-wish-I-had-a-million dollars” or “I-wish-I-were-a genius.” Believe me, I’ve tried those and I’m still stuck with 37 cents and a C in pre-algebra. I’m talking about those spur-of-the-moment wishes you make before you’ve had a chance to think through the consequences. Let me give you an example. You know how sometimes you’re dreading a test the next day in school because you’re not ready? So then you think, “Man I wish I could get sick so I wouldn’t have to go to school tomorrow.”
Bad idea. Imagine the instant the words are out of your mouth, so are the school-cafeteria spaghetti & meatballs, tater tots, green beans and chocolate milk you had for lunch. Oh yeah, accompanied by a 103-degree fever, chills, coughing and a runny nose. That’s the kind of numbskull wish I’m talking about.
That’s exactly what happened to me the first time my curse kicked in this year. Of course, I thought it was just some freak coincidence. I didn’t realize what had really happened. It didn’t take long to find out, though.
It was only two days after puking in front of the student body that I got my second dumb wish. And it was ten times as bad. See, I had this mega crush on Melinda Rosengloss, the finest babe in the seventh grade at Stubtoe Middle School. She has this mesmerizing way of cocking one eyebrow and wrinkling her nose when she smiles. Don’t even get me started on her eyes unless you’re in the mood to read pages of love poetry. (I didn’t think so.)
Yeah, Melinda was hot stuff all right. Too bad she didn’t know me from the classroom pencil sharpener. Well, she and her crowd of giggly friends were walking by, not seeing me as usual, when I happened to mutter under my breath, “I wish I could get Melinda to notice me. She could at least give me the time of day.”
No sooner had the words escaped when suddenly her head whipped around and not only did she look at me, she stopped short and stared. So of course the whole flock stopped and stared at me, and then looked at each other like, “Huh?” Then Melinda actually walked up to me, looked me up and down, and made a public service announcement.
“You’re freckly and your hair’s a mess and how come your pants are so short?”
(OK, in fairness, my pants were too short but I thought the rest of it was a little harsh.)
Of course the entire gaggle of girls burst into goose-honking giggles. Melinda started to walk off, looking confused, but then she suddenly looked over her shoulder and added, “By the way, it’s 10:44 a.m.”
I stood there with my mouth open. My best friend Dex, who was standing right next to me, tried to smooth it over.
“You should thank her, Zeke. Now you can go home and log the exact moment in time when Melinda Rosengloss obliterated your social world forever.”
I would have answered him, but I was too busy staring at my jeans and wondering why I hadn’t noticed that my socks were showing.
It’s a good thing I had a friend like Dex Moosbrugger. I don’t think anyone could have survived the Rosengloss fiasco if he didn’t have someone like Dex to rely on. He had this uncanny way of laughing stuff off and making you feel better.
Dex could also get out of anything. Seriously. He was slicker than a waxed banana peel on ice. For instance, the next week we got caught lining Dirk Camacho’s jockstrap with superglue (I was still upset about my social disgrace and Dex thought it would cheer me up). We were just touching up the edges when the voice of Mr. Barthorn, our gym teacher, suddenly boomed out from behind, “What the blazes do you two think you’re doing?” If someone had been there to measure, I’m sure I set the school vertical leap record right then. But Dex? He coolly smiled at Barthorn and managed to convince him it was his own jock and that Ms. Watts, our science teacher, had told him superglue made a great stitch substitute. I doubt the alibi would have fooled anyone else, but ol’ Barthorn wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box. On top of that he hated Ms. Watts, who was always dropping hints to the school principal that gym wasn’t a necessary part of education.
“Watts told you that, eh?” Barthorn growled. “She should sign up for Home-Ec. Now get dressed for class.”
Yep, it’s a good thing Dex was so silver-tongued, or we never would have had the pleasure of watching Dirk, the school prima-donna, try to separate himself from his shorts after class.
I often think it’s strange that Dex and I got to be friends in the first place. We’re about as different as caviar and peanut butter. For one thing, I’m a little on the short side, while Dex is tall and lanky. I like sports and outdoor stuff, but Dex is more of a book guy. I guess our friendship has something to do with our last names. We first met in second grade, after Dex and I were the only kids in class who got laughed at when the teacher called role. Let’s face it, when you’re stuck with last names like Zooter or Moosbrugger, you’ve got to watch each other’s back.
Where was I? Oh yeah, the curse.
It wasn’t until my third wish-gone-bad that I suspected something was wrong with me. It happened the next afternoon in Ms. Janowski’s world history class, while she was droning on about Napolean and Waterloo. She had this horrible, nasal buzz to her voice, like a fly that keeps buzzing at your ears when you’re trying to sleep. Now, I knew dozing in Janowski’s class was asking for trouble, but I hadn’t been sleeping well at night since the Rosengloss incident. (I kept dreaming that Melinda was chasing me in the halls yelling, “It’s 10:44, Zeke! Time to buy new pants!” Ugh.)
Besides, the sunlight was streaming through the window on this afternoon, covering my body in a warm blanket of light. If you’re a middle school student, you know that a warm room after lunch in history class is a sure-fire recipe for waking up unexpectedly with your cheek in a puddle of drool.
My head nodded. “I wish it were Friday,” I mumbled under my breath.
Out of nowhere the room grew darker, as if someone had pulled a black curtain across the windows. Lightning flashed, followed by a window-rattling peal of thunder. I jumped in my seat.
“What was that!?” I blurted out.
To my astonishment, everyone else in the room hadn’t seemed to notice, but now they were looking at me like I had cornstalks sprouting out my nostrils.
“Have we never seen a thunderstorm before, Ezekiel?” sneered Ms. Janowski.
I felt my face grow warm. I hate it when grownups use “we” when they mean “you.”
“Yes, we have,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even. “That lightning just came out of nowhere, that’s all. It was bright and sunny a second ago.”
A few students snickered. A smirky smile played at the corners of Ms. Janowski’s mouth.
“Is that so? We haven’t been dozing in my class, have we, Ezekiel?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then I suppose you can offer the class a brief recap of the last 15 minutes of discussion? That is, if you’ve finished with your weather report.”
More students laughed. Most of them hated Janowski as much as me. They were just relieved that she had chosen a different victim for the day.
Determined to show her up, I began a very detailed description of the Waterloo battle, including a few dates from the reading assignment. I hadn’t gotten far, however, when Janowski cut me off.
“Very amusing, Ezekiel, but Miranda enlightened us on that subject on Wednesday. Now, tell us how the Southern States’ cotton trade nearly brought England into the American Civil War.”
“But that’s not until Friday’s reading assignment.”
Janowski’s eyes narrowed. She looked like a raven ready to pounce on a worm. She always wore black, and wore her ebony hair pulled back into the tightest bun you’ve ever seen.
“I see,” she smiled. Now that you’ve brought us up to speed on the weather, perhaps you would like a news flash, Ezekiel. This is Friday.”
The old bird had finally cracked.
“What are you talking about? It’s Wednesday. We were just discussing Waterloo.”
Janowski’s voice turned menacing.
“Enough. I suppose you find this all very amusing, Ezekiel, but you are wasting our time. Next time you fall asleep in class you should try to find a more creative alibi. You get a zero on today’s assignment, and an hour’s detention after school.”
My head was swimming. I looked around and couldn’t believe it. Everyone was looking at me like I was a lunatic. I turned to Dex but even his jaw was hanging open in bewilderment. I felt something rise in my throat, but choked it down and tried to breathe normally. Today was Wednesday. It had to be. Could the entire class be playing a practical joke? But Janowski was no joker, and everyone else was staring at me with a genuine look of alarm.
I remained quiet for the remainder of the lesson, but I didn’t hear any of it.
Finally, the bell rang to change classes.
As soon as I got into the hall, Dex pulled me aside.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you weren’t faking that stuff in there.”
I only half heard him.
“Dex, is it really Friday?”
“Of course it is. Where have you been the last two days?”
“In world history class.”
“Huh?”
I was starting to feel dizzy again.
“Let’s go outside. I need some fresh air.”
“Zeke, it’s pouring rain out there! We’ll be late for class.” But I was already halfway out the door. I headed for the great big maple tree at the corner of the building, which offered some shelter.
“Now are you going to tell me what the deal is?” Dex asked.
“Yeah, it’s Friday.”
“Oh, you finally noticed?”
“I thought somehow everyone was playing a joke on me. But the school marquis has a new stupid slogan of the day, the weather forecast was for rain today and you’re suddenly wearing a different t-shirt.”
Dex just stared at me, then his eyes narrowed.
“Look Zeke, I’m all for smarting off to Janowski and even getting detention for the chance to screw around now and then, but the joke’s over now, OK?”
“Dex, I swear. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because I’m really scared!”
He paused, the rain dripping down his cheek and off his chin. “You know what? You’re good. You really do look scared.”
“Dex, I’m telling you, Wednesday afternoon never happened. I went right from Wednesday to Friday, and it’s really freaking me out that Thursday bailed on me!”
“Uh, Zeke, I think your brain has bailed on you. You were sitting right there in world history yesterday. And yesterday in gym class, you scraped your knee on the hardwood when Dirk the Jerk tackled you during that lay-up.”
“He did? That dumb jock... Wait a second! Which knee?”
“Huh?”
“Dex, which knee did I scrape?”
“Your right knee. It bled pretty good, too.”
I started to pull my pant leg up but my jeans were tight and wet and I couldn’t push the denim up far enough. Desperate, I looked around, saw no one, and started unbuckling my belt.
“Whoa, hold it! What are you doing?” Dex yelled.
“I’m proving it.”
“Oh, hey, no need for that. I’ll take your word for it.”
“You don’t understand. If there’s no scab on my knee, then yesterday didn’t happen.”
“Hang on. At least hide the display from the whole school.”
We moved around to the far side of the tree, and I pulled my trousers down past my boxers to reveal two clean, healthy-looking knees. There was no sign of a scratch. Dex knelt down and examined my right knee. He gave a low whistle.
“I don’t get it. There was this really nasty gash yesterday right there. You should at least have scratch marks or something today.” he said.
“But I don’t, because yesterday never happened for me.”
“So, what did happen?”
“I’m not sure. I was just sitting there, looking out the window. It was sunny outside and I was wishing…” I stopped. “Holy ___.”
I’m sorry to say that a not-so-nice word escaped my mouth at that point.
“Wishing what?”
“Wishing it was Friday.”
Dex’s eyes got wide as doughnuts.
“Yeah, and the next thing I knew it was black outside, with thunder and lightning, and Janowski talking about cotton exports.”
“You mean, you got your wish?”
I nodded.
“Has anything like that ever happened before to you?” he asked.
“Of course not. I … wait!” I had just remembered Melinda Rosengloss the week before, and getting sick the week before that. I told Dex all about how I had wished for both of them.
“Dex,” I finished, hardly daring to believe my own fortune, “I think my wishes are coming true!”
“OH THEY ARE, ARE THEY? DID YOU JUST WISH FOR A WEEK’S WORTH OF DETENTION?”
Dex jumped up and we whirled to see Barthorn standing there, his waxed moustache quivering in a mixture of rage and glee.
Suddenly, I realized my pants were still bunched around my ankles. I’d been so excited that I’d forgotten to pull them back up. Horrified, I looked at Dex for help, but his escape-artist powers seemed to have deserted him.
“Mr. Barthorn, you don’t understand,” I stammered.
“Oh, no need to explain, Zooter, I can see it all real clear. Your pants wouldn’t stay up today so Moosbrugger here was just going to hot-wax ‘em to your hips, weren’t you Moosbrugger? In the rain. On the far side of the school grounds. Behind this oak tree.”
“Maple, sir,” Dex ventured.
“Don’t correct me, you jackanapes. I just came from the nurse’s office. She just spent the better part of an hour separating Camacho from his athletic supporter. Had to use sandpaper in the end. Apparently it’s been stuck to his waist since Tuesday, but I’m sure you two wouldn’t know anything about that, right?”
Dex and I suddenly had a fit of coughing.
“Think it’s funny, eh? We’ll see how hard you laugh running laps for the next month and sitting in detention after school. We’re going back inside, now march!”
Now, you see what I mean? Cursed. What worse luck can you have than to get caught with your pants down in front of your friend on the far side of the school building? It wasn’t my most stellar moment. But it was just the beginning.
Trust Dex to see the bright side, though. He pointed out later that it could have been ten times worse. If you’re in middle school, you’ll agree that it was a good thing we’d been caught in that situation by a teacher and not a student. See, a teacher could more or less just ruin your day. But if you find yourself on the wrong end of a junior high rumor, it can ruin your life.
I guess the first thing you should know is that I’m an Irish American. Why? Because it’s an important part of this story, that’s why. There’s a good chance you’re part Irish, too. Did you know more than 40 million Americans are direct descendants of Irish immigrants? Millions of people in England, Canada, Australia and other countries have Irish blood, too. If I were you, I’d go ask my parents right now, because if you have Irish blood, you could be in big trouble. And anyway, like my Grandma Deidre says, if you don’t know where you came from, you probably don’t know who you are or where you’re going either.
But like I said, I’m cursed. I’m not talking about being stupid or ugly or anything. I get decent grades, and aside from my wavy reddish-brown hair and freckles, I’m pretty normal-looking. No, I’m talking truly cursed, like someone who insulted a gypsy or opened a mummy’s tomb.
Whoever said the Irish are lucky never met me.
What’s my curse? It’s this: I get what I wish for. Oh sure, I bet you’re thinking, “Why can’t I have a curse like that?” If that’s what you think, then you don’t get it. I’m not talking about wishes like “I-wish-I-had-a-million dollars” or “I-wish-I-were-a genius.” Believe me, I’ve tried those and I’m still stuck with 37 cents and a C in pre-algebra. I’m talking about those spur-of-the-moment wishes you make before you’ve had a chance to think through the consequences. Let me give you an example. You know how sometimes you’re dreading a test the next day in school because you’re not ready? So then you think, “Man I wish I could get sick so I wouldn’t have to go to school tomorrow.”
Bad idea. Imagine the instant the words are out of your mouth, so are the school-cafeteria spaghetti & meatballs, tater tots, green beans and chocolate milk you had for lunch. Oh yeah, accompanied by a 103-degree fever, chills, coughing and a runny nose. That’s the kind of numbskull wish I’m talking about.
That’s exactly what happened to me the first time my curse kicked in this year. Of course, I thought it was just some freak coincidence. I didn’t realize what had really happened. It didn’t take long to find out, though.
It was only two days after puking in front of the student body that I got my second dumb wish. And it was ten times as bad. See, I had this mega crush on Melinda Rosengloss, the finest babe in the seventh grade at Stubtoe Middle School. She has this mesmerizing way of cocking one eyebrow and wrinkling her nose when she smiles. Don’t even get me started on her eyes unless you’re in the mood to read pages of love poetry. (I didn’t think so.)
Yeah, Melinda was hot stuff all right. Too bad she didn’t know me from the classroom pencil sharpener. Well, she and her crowd of giggly friends were walking by, not seeing me as usual, when I happened to mutter under my breath, “I wish I could get Melinda to notice me. She could at least give me the time of day.”
No sooner had the words escaped when suddenly her head whipped around and not only did she look at me, she stopped short and stared. So of course the whole flock stopped and stared at me, and then looked at each other like, “Huh?” Then Melinda actually walked up to me, looked me up and down, and made a public service announcement.
“You’re freckly and your hair’s a mess and how come your pants are so short?”
(OK, in fairness, my pants were too short but I thought the rest of it was a little harsh.)
Of course the entire gaggle of girls burst into goose-honking giggles. Melinda started to walk off, looking confused, but then she suddenly looked over her shoulder and added, “By the way, it’s 10:44 a.m.”
I stood there with my mouth open. My best friend Dex, who was standing right next to me, tried to smooth it over.
“You should thank her, Zeke. Now you can go home and log the exact moment in time when Melinda Rosengloss obliterated your social world forever.”
I would have answered him, but I was too busy staring at my jeans and wondering why I hadn’t noticed that my socks were showing.
It’s a good thing I had a friend like Dex Moosbrugger. I don’t think anyone could have survived the Rosengloss fiasco if he didn’t have someone like Dex to rely on. He had this uncanny way of laughing stuff off and making you feel better.
Dex could also get out of anything. Seriously. He was slicker than a waxed banana peel on ice. For instance, the next week we got caught lining Dirk Camacho’s jockstrap with superglue (I was still upset about my social disgrace and Dex thought it would cheer me up). We were just touching up the edges when the voice of Mr. Barthorn, our gym teacher, suddenly boomed out from behind, “What the blazes do you two think you’re doing?” If someone had been there to measure, I’m sure I set the school vertical leap record right then. But Dex? He coolly smiled at Barthorn and managed to convince him it was his own jock and that Ms. Watts, our science teacher, had told him superglue made a great stitch substitute. I doubt the alibi would have fooled anyone else, but ol’ Barthorn wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box. On top of that he hated Ms. Watts, who was always dropping hints to the school principal that gym wasn’t a necessary part of education.
“Watts told you that, eh?” Barthorn growled. “She should sign up for Home-Ec. Now get dressed for class.”
Yep, it’s a good thing Dex was so silver-tongued, or we never would have had the pleasure of watching Dirk, the school prima-donna, try to separate himself from his shorts after class.
I often think it’s strange that Dex and I got to be friends in the first place. We’re about as different as caviar and peanut butter. For one thing, I’m a little on the short side, while Dex is tall and lanky. I like sports and outdoor stuff, but Dex is more of a book guy. I guess our friendship has something to do with our last names. We first met in second grade, after Dex and I were the only kids in class who got laughed at when the teacher called role. Let’s face it, when you’re stuck with last names like Zooter or Moosbrugger, you’ve got to watch each other’s back.
Where was I? Oh yeah, the curse.
It wasn’t until my third wish-gone-bad that I suspected something was wrong with me. It happened the next afternoon in Ms. Janowski’s world history class, while she was droning on about Napolean and Waterloo. She had this horrible, nasal buzz to her voice, like a fly that keeps buzzing at your ears when you’re trying to sleep. Now, I knew dozing in Janowski’s class was asking for trouble, but I hadn’t been sleeping well at night since the Rosengloss incident. (I kept dreaming that Melinda was chasing me in the halls yelling, “It’s 10:44, Zeke! Time to buy new pants!” Ugh.)
Besides, the sunlight was streaming through the window on this afternoon, covering my body in a warm blanket of light. If you’re a middle school student, you know that a warm room after lunch in history class is a sure-fire recipe for waking up unexpectedly with your cheek in a puddle of drool.
My head nodded. “I wish it were Friday,” I mumbled under my breath.
Out of nowhere the room grew darker, as if someone had pulled a black curtain across the windows. Lightning flashed, followed by a window-rattling peal of thunder. I jumped in my seat.
“What was that!?” I blurted out.
To my astonishment, everyone else in the room hadn’t seemed to notice, but now they were looking at me like I had cornstalks sprouting out my nostrils.
“Have we never seen a thunderstorm before, Ezekiel?” sneered Ms. Janowski.
I felt my face grow warm. I hate it when grownups use “we” when they mean “you.”
“Yes, we have,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even. “That lightning just came out of nowhere, that’s all. It was bright and sunny a second ago.”
A few students snickered. A smirky smile played at the corners of Ms. Janowski’s mouth.
“Is that so? We haven’t been dozing in my class, have we, Ezekiel?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then I suppose you can offer the class a brief recap of the last 15 minutes of discussion? That is, if you’ve finished with your weather report.”
More students laughed. Most of them hated Janowski as much as me. They were just relieved that she had chosen a different victim for the day.
Determined to show her up, I began a very detailed description of the Waterloo battle, including a few dates from the reading assignment. I hadn’t gotten far, however, when Janowski cut me off.
“Very amusing, Ezekiel, but Miranda enlightened us on that subject on Wednesday. Now, tell us how the Southern States’ cotton trade nearly brought England into the American Civil War.”
“But that’s not until Friday’s reading assignment.”
Janowski’s eyes narrowed. She looked like a raven ready to pounce on a worm. She always wore black, and wore her ebony hair pulled back into the tightest bun you’ve ever seen.
“I see,” she smiled. Now that you’ve brought us up to speed on the weather, perhaps you would like a news flash, Ezekiel. This is Friday.”
The old bird had finally cracked.
“What are you talking about? It’s Wednesday. We were just discussing Waterloo.”
Janowski’s voice turned menacing.
“Enough. I suppose you find this all very amusing, Ezekiel, but you are wasting our time. Next time you fall asleep in class you should try to find a more creative alibi. You get a zero on today’s assignment, and an hour’s detention after school.”
My head was swimming. I looked around and couldn’t believe it. Everyone was looking at me like I was a lunatic. I turned to Dex but even his jaw was hanging open in bewilderment. I felt something rise in my throat, but choked it down and tried to breathe normally. Today was Wednesday. It had to be. Could the entire class be playing a practical joke? But Janowski was no joker, and everyone else was staring at me with a genuine look of alarm.
I remained quiet for the remainder of the lesson, but I didn’t hear any of it.
Finally, the bell rang to change classes.
As soon as I got into the hall, Dex pulled me aside.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you weren’t faking that stuff in there.”
I only half heard him.
“Dex, is it really Friday?”
“Of course it is. Where have you been the last two days?”
“In world history class.”
“Huh?”
I was starting to feel dizzy again.
“Let’s go outside. I need some fresh air.”
“Zeke, it’s pouring rain out there! We’ll be late for class.” But I was already halfway out the door. I headed for the great big maple tree at the corner of the building, which offered some shelter.
“Now are you going to tell me what the deal is?” Dex asked.
“Yeah, it’s Friday.”
“Oh, you finally noticed?”
“I thought somehow everyone was playing a joke on me. But the school marquis has a new stupid slogan of the day, the weather forecast was for rain today and you’re suddenly wearing a different t-shirt.”
Dex just stared at me, then his eyes narrowed.
“Look Zeke, I’m all for smarting off to Janowski and even getting detention for the chance to screw around now and then, but the joke’s over now, OK?”
“Dex, I swear. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because I’m really scared!”
He paused, the rain dripping down his cheek and off his chin. “You know what? You’re good. You really do look scared.”
“Dex, I’m telling you, Wednesday afternoon never happened. I went right from Wednesday to Friday, and it’s really freaking me out that Thursday bailed on me!”
“Uh, Zeke, I think your brain has bailed on you. You were sitting right there in world history yesterday. And yesterday in gym class, you scraped your knee on the hardwood when Dirk the Jerk tackled you during that lay-up.”
“He did? That dumb jock... Wait a second! Which knee?”
“Huh?”
“Dex, which knee did I scrape?”
“Your right knee. It bled pretty good, too.”
I started to pull my pant leg up but my jeans were tight and wet and I couldn’t push the denim up far enough. Desperate, I looked around, saw no one, and started unbuckling my belt.
“Whoa, hold it! What are you doing?” Dex yelled.
“I’m proving it.”
“Oh, hey, no need for that. I’ll take your word for it.”
“You don’t understand. If there’s no scab on my knee, then yesterday didn’t happen.”
“Hang on. At least hide the display from the whole school.”
We moved around to the far side of the tree, and I pulled my trousers down past my boxers to reveal two clean, healthy-looking knees. There was no sign of a scratch. Dex knelt down and examined my right knee. He gave a low whistle.
“I don’t get it. There was this really nasty gash yesterday right there. You should at least have scratch marks or something today.” he said.
“But I don’t, because yesterday never happened for me.”
“So, what did happen?”
“I’m not sure. I was just sitting there, looking out the window. It was sunny outside and I was wishing…” I stopped. “Holy ___.”
I’m sorry to say that a not-so-nice word escaped my mouth at that point.
“Wishing what?”
“Wishing it was Friday.”
Dex’s eyes got wide as doughnuts.
“Yeah, and the next thing I knew it was black outside, with thunder and lightning, and Janowski talking about cotton exports.”
“You mean, you got your wish?”
I nodded.
“Has anything like that ever happened before to you?” he asked.
“Of course not. I … wait!” I had just remembered Melinda Rosengloss the week before, and getting sick the week before that. I told Dex all about how I had wished for both of them.
“Dex,” I finished, hardly daring to believe my own fortune, “I think my wishes are coming true!”
“OH THEY ARE, ARE THEY? DID YOU JUST WISH FOR A WEEK’S WORTH OF DETENTION?”
Dex jumped up and we whirled to see Barthorn standing there, his waxed moustache quivering in a mixture of rage and glee.
Suddenly, I realized my pants were still bunched around my ankles. I’d been so excited that I’d forgotten to pull them back up. Horrified, I looked at Dex for help, but his escape-artist powers seemed to have deserted him.
“Mr. Barthorn, you don’t understand,” I stammered.
“Oh, no need to explain, Zooter, I can see it all real clear. Your pants wouldn’t stay up today so Moosbrugger here was just going to hot-wax ‘em to your hips, weren’t you Moosbrugger? In the rain. On the far side of the school grounds. Behind this oak tree.”
“Maple, sir,” Dex ventured.
“Don’t correct me, you jackanapes. I just came from the nurse’s office. She just spent the better part of an hour separating Camacho from his athletic supporter. Had to use sandpaper in the end. Apparently it’s been stuck to his waist since Tuesday, but I’m sure you two wouldn’t know anything about that, right?”
Dex and I suddenly had a fit of coughing.
“Think it’s funny, eh? We’ll see how hard you laugh running laps for the next month and sitting in detention after school. We’re going back inside, now march!”
Now, you see what I mean? Cursed. What worse luck can you have than to get caught with your pants down in front of your friend on the far side of the school building? It wasn’t my most stellar moment. But it was just the beginning.
Trust Dex to see the bright side, though. He pointed out later that it could have been ten times worse. If you’re in middle school, you’ll agree that it was a good thing we’d been caught in that situation by a teacher and not a student. See, a teacher could more or less just ruin your day. But if you find yourself on the wrong end of a junior high rumor, it can ruin your life.
The Lifeguard
The Lifeguard
Would a lifeguard ponder to himself
perched high upon his chair,
“Is he really worth the rescue,
that man who drowns out there?”
No lifeguard that I know of
would employ such cogitation.
A lifeguard’s duty is to save –
that is his task, his station.
Would a lifeguard ponder to himself
perched high upon his chair,
“Is he really worth the rescue,
that man who drowns out there?”
No lifeguard that I know of
would employ such cogitation.
A lifeguard’s duty is to save –
that is his task, his station.
Who is this me?
Who is this me?
Who I am I do not know.
My thoughts are teeming bees, and so
When time allows the chance,
I intervene, and try to slow
The frenzied motion of their dance.
For just as someplace in the hive
A queen sits – calm – but quite alive,
I too am there, though far below
The depths I’ve been content to dive.
Who is this me, a friend or foe?
This me who causes joy and woe,
This me within who run the show,
This me within. Who runs the show?
Who I am I do not know.
My thoughts are teeming bees, and so
When time allows the chance,
I intervene, and try to slow
The frenzied motion of their dance.
For just as someplace in the hive
A queen sits – calm – but quite alive,
I too am there, though far below
The depths I’ve been content to dive.
Who is this me, a friend or foe?
This me who causes joy and woe,
This me within who run the show,
This me within. Who runs the show?
Gas Station
Gas Station
Sweet tickling fumes,
Rain-soaked wheel dripping mud
on white sneakers.
Beeps the pump, “Pay pay pay!”
to the purring world of rain.
Sweet tickling fumes,
Rain-soaked wheel dripping mud
on white sneakers.
Beeps the pump, “Pay pay pay!”
to the purring world of rain.
Loneliness
Loneliness
When you have no one
I am there,
Stroking your heart with
cold, hollow fingers,
Whispering strains of a fading song
into your unwilling ears,
Breathing barbed memories
into your dull brain,
Flirting with your past,
Jilting your future …
When you have no one,
I am there
to comfort you.
When you have no one
I am there,
Stroking your heart with
cold, hollow fingers,
Whispering strains of a fading song
into your unwilling ears,
Breathing barbed memories
into your dull brain,
Flirting with your past,
Jilting your future …
When you have no one,
I am there
to comfort you.
Inside n' Out
Inside n’ Out
“Why on earth would you want to marry Jed?”
her mother rebuked with a frown,
“When you could have Johnny Rosengloss —
the finest boy in the town!”
“At twelve John was deacon’s quo’rm president,
at fourteen an Eagle Scout!
While Jed spent his time bronco-bustin’
an’ just plain loafin’ about.”
“Young Johnny went off to Aw-stray-lia
an’ served an ‘onrable mission.
An’ what did yore Jed do all them two years?
He was up at Lake Turley, fishin’!”
“You could live the rich life with Johnny,
A-sellin’ his Daddy’s cars!
But you’d rather stay up late with Jed
talkin’ an’ watchin’ the stars.”
“I’m telling’you, Mary-Sue Buckley,
yore wastin’ yer time with that lout.
Don’t give me them protesterations!
Jed’s no good — inside n’ out!”
Mary cried and she pleaded and tried to explain:
(“Jed’s done him a turnabout!”)
But her protest was weak, and in the end
she gave in to the motherly clout.
So she married our good John Rosengloss,
and packed all her dreams in a trunk.
And she soon learned to stay in the corner
when her Johnny came home at night drunk.
“Why on earth would you want to marry Jed?”
her mother rebuked with a frown,
“When you could have Johnny Rosengloss —
the finest boy in the town!”
“At twelve John was deacon’s quo’rm president,
at fourteen an Eagle Scout!
While Jed spent his time bronco-bustin’
an’ just plain loafin’ about.”
“Young Johnny went off to Aw-stray-lia
an’ served an ‘onrable mission.
An’ what did yore Jed do all them two years?
He was up at Lake Turley, fishin’!”
“You could live the rich life with Johnny,
A-sellin’ his Daddy’s cars!
But you’d rather stay up late with Jed
talkin’ an’ watchin’ the stars.”
“I’m telling’you, Mary-Sue Buckley,
yore wastin’ yer time with that lout.
Don’t give me them protesterations!
Jed’s no good — inside n’ out!”
Mary cried and she pleaded and tried to explain:
(“Jed’s done him a turnabout!”)
But her protest was weak, and in the end
she gave in to the motherly clout.
So she married our good John Rosengloss,
and packed all her dreams in a trunk.
And she soon learned to stay in the corner
when her Johnny came home at night drunk.
How to Procrastinate
How to procrastinate
“Busy” is not enough, we’re all
too busy to sluff it, but
you’ve got to try
to think about your homework in advance,
consider doing it now,
you’ve got to
feel the throb of guilt
thump you again and again,
but ignore it, and choose
some worthless thing—
(Minesweeper is my favorite)
you’ve got to
play Nintendo, sofa-loaf
for Regis and Alex, take
Monday afternoon naps,
you’ve got to
forget that you remember,
let lazy whims and habits
override you, teach you
how to do nothing well.
There, this poem's enough.
“Busy” is not enough, we’re all
too busy to sluff it, but
you’ve got to try
to think about your homework in advance,
consider doing it now,
you’ve got to
feel the throb of guilt
thump you again and again,
but ignore it, and choose
some worthless thing—
(Minesweeper is my favorite)
you’ve got to
play Nintendo, sofa-loaf
for Regis and Alex, take
Monday afternoon naps,
you’ve got to
forget that you remember,
let lazy whims and habits
override you, teach you
how to do nothing well.
There, this poem's enough.
Wind
Wind
Oak leaves’ mad ruffling,
the fluster in a robin’s nest,
a coarse trunk creaking.
Rushing through leafy tunnels—
the howl of a thousand whispers.
Oak leaves’ mad ruffling,
the fluster in a robin’s nest,
a coarse trunk creaking.
Rushing through leafy tunnels—
the howl of a thousand whispers.
Winter haiku
Winter haiku
Cold blueberry sky
Mountain dipped in white chocolate
Marshmallow cream clouds
Cold blueberry sky
Mountain dipped in white chocolate
Marshmallow cream clouds
When your friend
When your friend
When doubts swirl like mist before you
And gloom robs color from your sight,
When your inward gaze finds blackness
And mirrors shove demons back at you,
Distorting truth, reflecting lies —
Borrow my eyes.
When fear hunts you like a midnight wraith
And comfort is a stranger never met,
When loneliness settles on you like a soggy shroud,
Sadness, depression your only friends,
When you and Love are leagues apart —
Borrow my heart.
When foreign guides would tell you where to roam
But all about you tries to make you stop,
When weakness drains the vigor from your step
And falsehoods shake the ground beneath your feet,
When faltering, you feel you cannot stand —
Take my hand.
If hell itself should try to get inside you
And you feel that all is coming to an end,
These eyes, these hands, this heart and I
Will be your constant friends.
When doubts swirl like mist before you
And gloom robs color from your sight,
When your inward gaze finds blackness
And mirrors shove demons back at you,
Distorting truth, reflecting lies —
Borrow my eyes.
When fear hunts you like a midnight wraith
And comfort is a stranger never met,
When loneliness settles on you like a soggy shroud,
Sadness, depression your only friends,
When you and Love are leagues apart —
Borrow my heart.
When foreign guides would tell you where to roam
But all about you tries to make you stop,
When weakness drains the vigor from your step
And falsehoods shake the ground beneath your feet,
When faltering, you feel you cannot stand —
Take my hand.
If hell itself should try to get inside you
And you feel that all is coming to an end,
These eyes, these hands, this heart and I
Will be your constant friends.
There is an old lie
There is an old lie
There is an old lie
So subtle, so sly:
“When I finally get
What I don’t quite have yet,
When I finally breach
The wall blocking my reach,
I’ll be happy, content —
My efforts well spent,
All my labors will cease
And I’ll rest, Rest In Peace.”
But let it be known
That upon the tombstone
Of all such enslaved
Will one day be engraved:
“For all of their fretting
It wasn’t the getting,
But only the wanting they craved.”
There is an old lie
So subtle, so sly:
“When I finally get
What I don’t quite have yet,
When I finally breach
The wall blocking my reach,
I’ll be happy, content —
My efforts well spent,
All my labors will cease
And I’ll rest, Rest In Peace.”
But let it be known
That upon the tombstone
Of all such enslaved
Will one day be engraved:
“For all of their fretting
It wasn’t the getting,
But only the wanting they craved.”
Traffic passing in the rain
Traffic passing in the rain
I sit and think, and traffic passes by...
‘til tires, lights and rain have all converged
this numbing of my brain, this wondering why
the drizzled, spinning wheels sound like a sigh.
Will these reigning thoughts be never purged?
I sit and think, and traffic passes by.
At first too bold, but afterward too shy,
hesitation’s hundred voices slowly urged
this numbing of my brain. This wondering why
the summer months without you were so dry,
and why I left you waiting, on the verge...
I sit. And think. And traffic passes by.
It rains and rains, and drowns your new goodbye--
‘til floods of freezing water have submerged
this numbing of my brain, this wondering why
my life has paused; the irony puddles high.
The lanes we travel now will never merge.
I sit and think, and traffic passes by
this numbing of my brain, this wondering: "Why?"
I sit and think, and traffic passes by...
‘til tires, lights and rain have all converged
this numbing of my brain, this wondering why
the drizzled, spinning wheels sound like a sigh.
Will these reigning thoughts be never purged?
I sit and think, and traffic passes by.
At first too bold, but afterward too shy,
hesitation’s hundred voices slowly urged
this numbing of my brain. This wondering why
the summer months without you were so dry,
and why I left you waiting, on the verge...
I sit. And think. And traffic passes by.
It rains and rains, and drowns your new goodbye--
‘til floods of freezing water have submerged
this numbing of my brain, this wondering why
my life has paused; the irony puddles high.
The lanes we travel now will never merge.
I sit and think, and traffic passes by
this numbing of my brain, this wondering: "Why?"
October Breakfast
October breakfast
The fitful October wind
lurches the trees awake —
shaking them like cardboard
‘til great crackled corn flakes
come
drifting
to
the
ground,
and shift uneasily
to think of the wet, new snow
that will follow tonight
like milk.
The fitful October wind
lurches the trees awake —
shaking them like cardboard
‘til great crackled corn flakes
come
drifting
to
the
ground,
and shift uneasily
to think of the wet, new snow
that will follow tonight
like milk.
This Old Projector
This Old Projector
It hums in the darkened room,
this old projector—
E.T.’s petrified head
and metal neck, hunched
over a stumpy body, warm
from its white-glowing heart
beaming, radiating
Information
like clear magic dust
scattered across the room,
filling the emptiness
with e=mc2 and vector products,
factors and formulas,
filling overstuffed heads
with ATP and lysozymes,
icons, letters, symbols
Information
about the world
and workings
of this galaxy,
reflected like
sunlight thrown skyward
from a horizontal mirror
and filtered out to students
who, like E.T.,
are strangers here
and long for nothing more
than home.
It hums in the darkened room,
this old projector—
E.T.’s petrified head
and metal neck, hunched
over a stumpy body, warm
from its white-glowing heart
beaming, radiating
Information
like clear magic dust
scattered across the room,
filling the emptiness
with e=mc2 and vector products,
factors and formulas,
filling overstuffed heads
with ATP and lysozymes,
icons, letters, symbols
Information
about the world
and workings
of this galaxy,
reflected like
sunlight thrown skyward
from a horizontal mirror
and filtered out to students
who, like E.T.,
are strangers here
and long for nothing more
than home.
Memories of Summer
Memories of Summer
Hands jammed deep into my jacket,
I walk home through the crispy wind
and watch a lonely, rusted leaf
scratch its way down the empty road.
Last time the wind was so cold
you and I huddled under a blanket
on a mountain peak at night.
The sky above was a dark mirror
reflecting city lights far below, where
The Great Salt Lake gleamed faintly at our feet.
Just days before, with rolled denim jeans,
wet and tight around my knees,
I followed you into that brine which
bit our legs, stung our noses, and salted our lips.
We splashed and sparred and dueled . . .
like our dueling forks had fought for
the muddy chocolate pie at Applebee’s.
They clinked and scraped, scraped and scratched . . .
scratching, like a lonely, rusted leaf
blowing down this empty road.
Hands jammed deep into my jacket,
I walk home through the crispy wind
and watch a lonely, rusted leaf
scratch its way down the empty road.
Last time the wind was so cold
you and I huddled under a blanket
on a mountain peak at night.
The sky above was a dark mirror
reflecting city lights far below, where
The Great Salt Lake gleamed faintly at our feet.
Just days before, with rolled denim jeans,
wet and tight around my knees,
I followed you into that brine which
bit our legs, stung our noses, and salted our lips.
We splashed and sparred and dueled . . .
like our dueling forks had fought for
the muddy chocolate pie at Applebee’s.
They clinked and scraped, scraped and scratched . . .
scratching, like a lonely, rusted leaf
blowing down this empty road.
Friday, February 20, 2009
These Ordinary Days
These Ordinary Days
Our days are no adventure.
We groan them into life
Each morning
When our little alarm clocks
Nudge open the door
(Too early!)
With the metallic whine
Of a slow-twisting knob.
We shuffle these days
Like newspaper pages
Seeing only life's headlines
Fly across our eyes
Atop a blur
Of black smudges
Before fading, folded up
To await recycling.
But there are days, when
waking,
I see you, like
A world transformed
By fresh-fallen snow.
And I open the door
Feel the flash of air
(Cold and clean!)
Close my eyes
And breathe
Thanks
For these ordinary days
Of love.
Our days are no adventure.
We groan them into life
Each morning
When our little alarm clocks
Nudge open the door
(Too early!)
With the metallic whine
Of a slow-twisting knob.
We shuffle these days
Like newspaper pages
Seeing only life's headlines
Fly across our eyes
Atop a blur
Of black smudges
Before fading, folded up
To await recycling.
But there are days, when
waking,
I see you, like
A world transformed
By fresh-fallen snow.
And I open the door
Feel the flash of air
(Cold and clean!)
Close my eyes
And breathe
Thanks
For these ordinary days
Of love.
Six-bachelor Kitchen Counter
Six-bachelor Kitchen Counter
Three bars of drooping butter,
one in a Rubbermaid dome, another bare,
the third with silver foil curling out
from lumpy gold, the way wadded-up paper
snakes away from a flame before shriveling in brilliance.
Two pitchers—one empty,
the green one half full and splattered
with blood-dark drops.
A black coffee mug,
its oversized handle a great, hollow ear.
Spilled corn flakes, some glued
around the trunk of a syrup bottle,
others drifting toward the counter cliff.
A white toaster oven, its foil-covered tray growing spores
of burnt cheese.
Three cups: olive green, burnt-orange, purple.
A green rag,
greasy butterknives,
a yellow sponge.
And under the faucet,
as if growing from the drain—
a houseplant.
Three bars of drooping butter,
one in a Rubbermaid dome, another bare,
the third with silver foil curling out
from lumpy gold, the way wadded-up paper
snakes away from a flame before shriveling in brilliance.
Two pitchers—one empty,
the green one half full and splattered
with blood-dark drops.
A black coffee mug,
its oversized handle a great, hollow ear.
Spilled corn flakes, some glued
around the trunk of a syrup bottle,
others drifting toward the counter cliff.
A white toaster oven, its foil-covered tray growing spores
of burnt cheese.
Three cups: olive green, burnt-orange, purple.
A green rag,
greasy butterknives,
a yellow sponge.
And under the faucet,
as if growing from the drain—
a houseplant.
Up Just Ahead
Up Just Ahead
Aimless, uncommanded feet
move me along the shore,
and take me closer to nowhere—
up just ahead, where more
saltwater waits to roll fizzing
up the beach among
my toes – to burble, sigh, leave—
licking my soles with its raspy
tongue.
Another fifty yards and
I pause to look around:
still somewhere, short of nowhere,
And forever nowhere-bound.
Looking back to see the footprints
of the places I’ve been wading,
I find that my past somewheres
are, slowly, to nowhere fading.
There’s no retreating to the past
I’ve passed. So I move on—squelching
over foot-sucking sand to the vast,
ominous future. It waits
up just ahead—grinning among
the somewheres—and teases, taunts, flirts …
licking my soul with its raspy
tongue.
Aimless, uncommanded feet
move me along the shore,
and take me closer to nowhere—
up just ahead, where more
saltwater waits to roll fizzing
up the beach among
my toes – to burble, sigh, leave—
licking my soles with its raspy
tongue.
Another fifty yards and
I pause to look around:
still somewhere, short of nowhere,
And forever nowhere-bound.
Looking back to see the footprints
of the places I’ve been wading,
I find that my past somewheres
are, slowly, to nowhere fading.
There’s no retreating to the past
I’ve passed. So I move on—squelching
over foot-sucking sand to the vast,
ominous future. It waits
up just ahead—grinning among
the somewheres—and teases, taunts, flirts …
licking my soul with its raspy
tongue.
Once
Once …
While wandering down the hallways of my mind,
I came across a rusted metal door —
And after pausing — finally designed
To grind it open, venture in, explore
The chamber waiting silently beyond
Its dusty threshold. With force I applied
My shoulder to its frame: it did not respond.
It was then above the doorway that I spied
The faded sign: “Attention all
Who enter! Be sound in mind and health.
Within lies that which brave men can appall —
For he who enters here must face himself.”
It has been a long time since the fateful day,
When I left that door behind and walked away.
While wandering down the hallways of my mind,
I came across a rusted metal door —
And after pausing — finally designed
To grind it open, venture in, explore
The chamber waiting silently beyond
Its dusty threshold. With force I applied
My shoulder to its frame: it did not respond.
It was then above the doorway that I spied
The faded sign: “Attention all
Who enter! Be sound in mind and health.
Within lies that which brave men can appall —
For he who enters here must face himself.”
It has been a long time since the fateful day,
When I left that door behind and walked away.
Savannah Elise
Savannah Elise
Savannah Elise, your little eyes are crying.
Your world is all confusion and pain.
I see your body shudder on the table where you’re lying,
And my hands reach out to steady you in vain.
Savannah Elise, your little hands are shaking.
How I wish that I could hold and comfort you!
Oh can’t you see the tragic toll your fragile life is taking?
Your broken heart is breaking my heart too!
A broken heart, A broken heart
Oh Lord, why was she born this way to me?
She does not know, I cannot show her
Just how wonderful this life can be!
I’ll give all I have to give, if You’ll just let her live!
Dear Lord, don’t take this little one from me.
Savannah Elise, your little heart is dying,
But each fading beat impresses on my soul
A lesson sweet and gentle upon which I’ll be relying
All my life, to make reunion as my goal.
A broken heart, A broken heart
A heart must break to spill all pride within.
For when it’s broken, it becomes the token
Of a spirit that is sanctified from sin.
Lord, I’ll give up all of me, to leave room enough for Thee!
For when You’re there, my heart is whole again.
Savannah Elise, your little eyes are crying.
Your world is all confusion and pain.
I see your body shudder on the table where you’re lying,
And my hands reach out to steady you in vain.
Savannah Elise, your little hands are shaking.
How I wish that I could hold and comfort you!
Oh can’t you see the tragic toll your fragile life is taking?
Your broken heart is breaking my heart too!
A broken heart, A broken heart
Oh Lord, why was she born this way to me?
She does not know, I cannot show her
Just how wonderful this life can be!
I’ll give all I have to give, if You’ll just let her live!
Dear Lord, don’t take this little one from me.
Savannah Elise, your little heart is dying,
But each fading beat impresses on my soul
A lesson sweet and gentle upon which I’ll be relying
All my life, to make reunion as my goal.
A broken heart, A broken heart
A heart must break to spill all pride within.
For when it’s broken, it becomes the token
Of a spirit that is sanctified from sin.
Lord, I’ll give up all of me, to leave room enough for Thee!
For when You’re there, my heart is whole again.
Haiku Poetry
A Few Haikus
Sky iced with gray,
crow perched in a bare aspen—
a silhouette scream.
This cold, iron pole
swingset on snowy asphalt,
chain’s clanking echo
Parched, rasped sidewalk
Smells of wet dust on the wind,
Dark, smudged horizon.
Black mountain mass
twitter of a morning robin—
silver-ribbon peaks.
Sky iced with gray,
crow perched in a bare aspen—
a silhouette scream.
This cold, iron pole
swingset on snowy asphalt,
chain’s clanking echo
Parched, rasped sidewalk
Smells of wet dust on the wind,
Dark, smudged horizon.
Black mountain mass
twitter of a morning robin—
silver-ribbon peaks.
Driving to Mexico
Driving to Mexico
With hot air blowing by,
The pillow case flap-flutters
To the hum of rubber tires.
A buzzing fly tickles,
Pink arms peel from hot vinyl,
Outside: pole…pole…pole...
Clear flames waver…rising
Over mercury pooling on the road,
As our car cuts through the desert.
With hot air blowing by,
The pillow case flap-flutters
To the hum of rubber tires.
A buzzing fly tickles,
Pink arms peel from hot vinyl,
Outside: pole…pole…pole...
Clear flames waver…rising
Over mercury pooling on the road,
As our car cuts through the desert.
Albuquerque twilight
Albuquerque twilight
I wish
I could sit there, high on West Mesa—
just beyond dusk—
and bathe in the warmth
and breathe the soft earth-air
and watch the city …
its jewel-encrusted megaliths
besieged by an army of campfires
that stretch away to the foot of the Sandias,
standing there silent and solid
under chalk-dusted peaks…
and I would look and breathe
and feel and think until I
and the city and the fires, mountains, air
all fell asleep…
tucked under a warm
indigo sky.
I wish
I could sit there, high on West Mesa—
just beyond dusk—
and bathe in the warmth
and breathe the soft earth-air
and watch the city …
its jewel-encrusted megaliths
besieged by an army of campfires
that stretch away to the foot of the Sandias,
standing there silent and solid
under chalk-dusted peaks…
and I would look and breathe
and feel and think until I
and the city and the fires, mountains, air
all fell asleep…
tucked under a warm
indigo sky.
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