The Magic of Your Life

What is it about magic that seems to draw out hope, or at least attention, from even the very most ‘serious minded’ of people?  I don’t know. But let’s put it this way: while women have the power to turn necks and heads-magic can straighten both; show someone a feat that appears to be magical and their neck stiffens, their jaws tighten while their eyes narrow. Magic seems to make one wish to peer through the unknown into a consciousness of revelation. I’m thinking our interest in magic mirrors a hope within us to believe we are a People who ‘know’. And, in many ways, magic does mirror the truth, as it may currently best be defined, about our existence as a people on a world within the universe. Our existence is as awesome to think about as it is impossible to truly understand-indeed, it’s magical.

It’s not just the sleight of hand, pull the cards or count the numbers trick I’m writing about when referring to ‘magic’. It is also ‘bumping’ in to the friend we haven’t seen in twenty years on the very day we were for the first time in along time thinking about them; it’s about finding the very thing you will need before you even know you will need it. In fact, many moments in life may be thought of as being magical: a three day sky of rain breaks with a rainbow for a ceremony; money arrives when it is most needed; a friend pats you on the back when yours is sore from stress and worry; a heart turns your way and you realize they love you too; a lost kitten is found; a friend is o.k.; your loved ones arrive; a baby is born. And the best part of life’s magic is it is free for the viewing-we just have to take time to notice when it happens.

Disney may have had it right after all? Remember Snow White talking to the animals? Well, the more we learn the more we understand birds do recognize us and know who we are, the trees do communicate to one another through the use of pheromones, hearts do change lives and courage does build bridges between people, if not pumpkin coaches to ride to castles in. Simply, Disney’s’ ‘pitch’ on our magical universe turns out to be much like the ‘curve ball’ our reality is made of. Cartoon characters often remind us the ‘art’ of communication, of loving and living is to understand the magic in it all. We all know any internal fear we feel waits to be freed from worry and washed in certainty. So, as a people we should never meet a stranger; in our world we should never meet anything and think it ‘strange’.

Sure, that beetle or even that rock may look strange but both have, as much as any person, place or thing has, a time, a space and a place of their own. In this way, magically, everything has a Life, of sorts, of its own: our Native American brothers have known this forever; the Tao wrote it so. It’s this magical presence which should bind us together as like parts of our planet. And this binding time of ours, this time now, is a theatre of magic.

O.K.-so I’m not saying you need to run out into our yard, dig up a worm and start talking to it. You could wait a long time for a reply. Talking to lampposts, trees, rocks, mountains, lakes-none of that stuff works. I’ve tried it.  And don’t go ask your dog how they like your report unless you’ve left peanut butter prints on it. Is magic limited then? No, not really. Magic is only limited to the extent  our understanding of it is.  And, it’s important to note, our understandings are always changing. Think of magic as being much like our Universe or like our notion of Time-all three being infinite in their possibilities. Why is this important? It is important because this is Christmas. This is the time of stories about magic and a time of many questions too.

I’m asking here the next time you hear someone ask about Santa from eyes that do not know what you know, please, before you answer, think about what you really do know? First off, on the face of it, we all agree Santa doesn’t exist. Heck, I’ve been wrapping gifts long enough to feel pretty certain about this. But then again, Santa does exist in many ways. Certainly more has been written about Santa than will be written about, say, the life you or I will live. More people will believe in Santa sometime during their lifetime than people will believe in most any of us during ours. Santa moves in our collective consciences more hearts to hope, more spirits to rise, more joy to spring forth than, again, most any one ‘real’ person could ever hope to make do so. Santa has, after all, at least as much presence in our lives as a forest, waterfall or mountain range we have never seen and never expect to visit.

Can’t you just hear the jolly guy laughing ‘HOHOHO’ as he asks: “First tell what existence is and lets see if I ‘fit’ the bill?” If we were to balance everything that Santa can’t do with all the belief in his spirit provides, to which side would this scale tip? No, we may not be able to touch Santa, but you know what-more than likely, he has ‘touched’ you. Is Santa real? In so many ways, the ‘real’ answer is “Yes”.

Merry Christmas.

(Note): This is the last post in this blog for 2009. May Peace be with us all and may we all have a joyful time throughout all of our following years. Remember-watch for magic!

Franque

Holiday ‘Bulletin’ for You

I wish you the best of Holidays!

HOHOHO!

(click on the pictures for a better view)

I really loved doing this bulletin board this year and having you all read this blog as well! Thank You so much for reading.  Have a wonderful, safe and fun time.

Franque

Part 2: Day raids; Night raids. (Apples ‘on the side’)

The first thing I might hear while sitting inside would be various branches  swishing outside as if it were a windy day. Then the tales tell ‘snap’ of apples as they were yanked from their stems would drum roll my mind… I’d put down my soda float, chips and mad magazine to venture away from the TV, moving to a nearby lookout window while investigating further. Sure enough-a ‘raid’ would be in progress.

Night or Day neighborhood kids would run in ‘attack’ gangs performing daring ‘apple raids’ in our yard hoping to run away with shirts stuffed full of apples. For years we’d charge out the house, dog and all, ending this apple ‘slaughter’ until one year I came to a realization: heck, they could ‘raid’ apples from our yard till doomsday and we’d still have enough left over; they could back up a Sherman Tank for defense, load up a truck full of apples and my family would still be swimming in apples, pies and cider! So the ‘race’ was on.

I remember the day I charged out of the house and continued to chase the raiders past our property line-a highly unusual event. Finally, about two blocks later, I caught up to the ‘ring leader’. His eyes were as big as some beetles I’d smashed early that day and he seemed scared. Odd thing about this was we both knew he could ‘take’ me but this momentum thing they talk about in sports came into play here-he was running away and I chased, making me have an invisible upper hand on the matter. I grabbed his arm as my mouth ushered out yet another one of the dumbest things I’ve ever said. I told him about the one ton of apples in my basement and how he could just come and get some apples anytime. “Merry Christmas!” He turned to me with the most solemn expression. Slowly his gaze turned downward as I heard him whisper, “now you’ve wrecked everything.” “Oh great,” I thought, ” they LOVED stealing the apples!! Now I’ll have to pick all of them instead! What was I thinking?”- Oh ‘Mister Nice’ guy me! And I knew it wouldn’t be long before I’d hear my Dad’s voice call: “Son, I think there’s a bushel or so left on the Wine Sap.” Perfect.

Those were the days of apple picking, throwing and catching. One would be in the tree picking while the other would wait below with a baseball mitt catching the picked apples as they were thrown to the ground. The catcher would lay the apples in the bushels: one after the other, for hours on end. I did learn you can do a lot with an apple stuck between your top and lower jaw though, kinda looking like a stuffed roasted pig might with an apple in its mouth. I walked around like that often as I consumed 5 or 6 apples a day during picking time. And, of course, we rated each apple on its color, perfect shape and crispiness. We’d shine the apples on our shirts until we could see our reflections in them-this made the apples taste better.

In all I’d say none had a better time of it than we did as kids during apple season. But then, and of course, I’m speaking apples to apples here-our apples. It goes without saying that I now live in ‘Apple Hell’-a place where never again will I buy an apple that tastes much like a fresh one. Oh sure, sometimes in a great while, hopefully in late October, I can buy an apple that is edible. Mostly though, I just see apples in stores as table decorations of sorts. But I often recall those climbing days with the greatest of happiness as I pass rows and rows of apple decorations in stores. I guess, looking back on it, my Iowan Dad knew what he was doing? I’m thankful for that. I am surprised though, sort of, he didn’t try and stretch me at night, like put me on a rack or something, so I might be able to reach a little further out those apple tree limbs?

I guess I’m thankful for that also.

Franque,   ‘apple patroller’.

Christmas Apples to Apples

I’m not certain what my first job ever was. I’m thinking it might have been just after I was born. I can hear my Dad now, “Son, look at the mess you made! Get crackin’ and clean this after birth stuff up!” You see my Dad was from Iowa and although he hadn’t been raised on a farm he somehow got it into his system that young sons were meant to work the land. And work we did. Our house sat on a plot not much more than a ½ acre. Still, I believe my Dad had a growing assignment for every pebble found on our property. And I bet he kept a ‘little black book’ just to note the productivity of each pebble in comparison years as they passed. Even my friends knew there were times when I was just, well, busy.

We had rose gardens in both front and back yards with assorted Japanese silk trees, honey suckles, mums and other flowers surrounding our house. It was the rose beds, however, which provided my friends and me hours of entertainment. We’d sneak up on the roses (for no apparent reason) and snatch Japanese beetles out of them. After having examined the size and shear glueyness of each beetle we would without much ceremony slam the beetles onto patio bricks. You might not think beetle slaughtering can ‘glue’ kids together like peanut butter and jelly on warm toast, but it did. Clearly, we all had agreed, squashing beetles was immensely more fun than dropping hot wax on to ants as we could do any time of year-but these were good reasons to seek help back then, not to write a blog about now. In our defense, however, I have to say we were tortured-the ice cream truck came but once a day, TV featured only 13 channels and school had already been invented. Still, as bonded as my friends and I were, I did notice when it came harvest time they all were too busy squashing beetles in other yards to help us.

My Brother and I worked mostly alone as the apple trees waited. Inside, via an internal voice we both heard, our Dad’s voice would be calling us to get the job done while each of us knew full well Christmas was just ‘around the corner’. Our main task centered on harvesting our family’s vast array of apple trees which made our yard ‘famous’ in our community. I’ve spent years of my life dangling from, crawling on, falling out of, stretching out a limb on, and hanging on for dear life in these trees. There’s an art to hand picking apples and our full size McIntosh and Wine Sap trees along with two red dwarf Delicious trees plus the miniature ‘cooking ‘ apple tree gave us plenty of time to practice this ‘art’. This ‘art’ sounds like this: “AAAAaaaaarrrr” as my brother and I would balance falling with bouncing off of limbs while hearing, “Son, there’s a good looking one out on the end of the limb above your head.” Nice.

Our harvest was to the tune of about 30 plus bushels a year. We kept these apple bushels in our basement and ate them hard and crisp through Christmas time. Some we’d take to a nearby apple press, exchanging so many bushels for so many quarts of fresh cider. Lastly, the aroma of Mom’s apple pies would fill our house most weekends as she would make enough to last a week. Thanksgiving and Christmas time always take me back to the scents of apple pies cooling in our kitchen. Mind you, even at my young age, I could eat ½ of a fresh apple pie at one sitting. And oddly, my beetle squashing buddies seemed to have a nose for when to come back around to eat pie. All through the Fall and late into winter my family, friends and me simply ate a heck of a lot of apples. It was good- the neighborhood kids thought so too. And, as our stocking were hung at Christmas time, my family could all count on an apple being at the bottom of each Christmas stocking.

Many seasoned scents to you!

Franque

PS. part two ‘Apple Raids’ up next.

Sleighing and Sloshed

“ Please! Can we go sledding?” Heck, I’m sure all of us ‘kids’ now asking to get pulled behind some Dads car look like dogs asking for bones. But what’s the point of us having various types of ‘Lightning’ brand sleds with cross bar turning capabilities and dual action spring suspensions if we don’t go out sledding every possible moment? We are betting as a group of kids this is simple logic even our parents will understand. And, if we time it right, this question will hit our parents at about the same time the double martinis do. Too early and your parents will still have stuff to ‘do’ (drink), too late and you’ll be talking to a bag of spud potatoes slowly roasting with Perry Como by an open fire. Tonight at least one of us got the timing right. Quicker than we can change clothes when school is called on account of a Nor’easter a group of us gathers out by a street light waiting for our balding parents to get ‘a move on’. Finally the tire chains come out, the car pulls up and we tie our sleds into a line of sleds now hooked by a rope to a leading car.

I’m one of the smallest in the group so to me, after coaxing, it seems logical that I be the first one in line tied on to the pulling car. Now, looking back, I see this positioning as just another example and proof of my Dad having taken a very large insurance policy out on me. Gee, he may have had several policies? I mean let’s face it-if I’m the first one in a line of many sleds being pulled by a car and  I fall off my sled, how many sleds do I get run over by?  Sure, maybe one or two might miss but those would be well offset by the ones who run me over on purpose!  I’m tellin’ ya-I’m a living miracle, just ask my wife. “Doctor, is it odd to remember the holidays by thinking in terms of how much I might have been worth, well, dead?” Anyway, as you read now, none of these policies paid off. I can still hear the laughter’s of the parents who watch us as we pull away for a sleigh ride. And, as I’ve mentioned, I’ve little doubt they are taking bets on which of us might not ‘make it’ back. But now, on to sleighing.

“Am I in as much danger of sliding underneath the car ahead of me as I think?” is the mantra my mind mulls over as I stare ahead at a cars rear end exhaust pipe. Puzzling this question fades from my thoughts as the snow flings from my waxed runners. Our groups frozen hands hold tightly to our steering bars as our bellies bounce on top of our wood boarded sleds. “Most likely”, I continue to guess, “the driver of this car can not find the brake peddle even if they have to”. You see, by rule of thumb, the men of our community who routinely take us ‘kids’ out to sleigh ride are toasted, pickled, juiced up ,totally sauced, soused, under the table but still standing, intoxicated, stinko drunk, snockered not to mention cockeyed, 3 sheets to the wind inebriated as they do so. No doubt about it- as the children sleigh, the parents slosh!

Now, looking back, part of me thinks it’s just the way it was then; in part, I think the type of drinking my community of parents did then was  somehow a continuation of the past War-a psychological release from and, at the same time,  a return to the War. Tonight, however, the street lights flicker as we pass them and we hang on for ‘dear life’- it is no matter to any of us what the parents are ‘up’ to. Turns are only for the brave at heart; hills are unbelievably fast and slippery. Legs bobble about as stretch knitted hats begin to droop over our eyes. No time for adjustments, this is a ride of a lifetime-this is fun! “Step on it Dad”!!! “And hey, can I be in the middle next time?”

By nine PM it is all over. I take my frozen toes, nose and eyelashes inside so I can peel off the several layers of wet pants I have on. The hot bath first feels funny to my cold skin.  It’s still snowing outside. I can watch through my bedroom window as snow falls outside down below beneath the street light. “This could be good” I gander, “School might be closed tomorrow? That would be like Heaven-more sleigh rides!” Soon I’m in my pjs and in bed to sleep, perchance to dream of sleighing rides yet to come. I can still hear, as a faint whisper,  the sound of  us ‘kids’ praying for them.

Franque

The Heart I Had To Give Away(Seasoned Story)

Being a fifth grader is a good thing. First off-you are young which means you most likely can see where you are going and what you are doing. It’s a benefit in life to be meeting a person and not a lamp post when saying “It’s nice to meet you.” Another added benefit of being this age is one can easily wiggle above, beneath and through crawl spaces while also being able to hear trains coming from a mile off if need be. You know there’s nothing like getting stuck in an elevator door and then later in that same day having your car flattened like a Pillsbury pancake because you forgot what those cross bars and flashing lights mean while never hearing a thing: “What train?”.  Plus in fifth grade you are still made of rubber-able to bounce off objects as you will never be able to do later on in life. Life is good in fifth grade-remember, at this age, dogs still can eat your homework too!

Why I chose this time of life to enlist as a paper boy I can’t tell you. It could have been those hand painted plastic knights I loved to collect back then which led me into this life of wrapping, throwing, collecting and bicycling heroics.  Or maybe those milkshakes and egg cream sodas had a special knack when talking to my stomach? It’s hard to say from now. Anyway, soon I found myself teamed up with a bike I called ‘The Brown Bomber’, a bike featuring the World’s largest front end basket, reflectors, friction powered lights and large, wide tires. And most importantly, this bike had only one gear-up hill.

The ‘drill’ was simple enough. I’d bike to school and upon leaving school I’d pick up papers for my 65 house paper route as I made my way home. My route was basically my whole community so it was not tough commuting in this regard, unless it rained. Then I’d have to spend extra time in the paper ‘office’ wrapping each paper in those plastic wraps, guaranteeing each paper would be soaked through by the collection of water inside these ‘water proof’ linings. I’d throw the papers as I biked by houses on to lawns, in bushes, puddles, bird baths, trees and on the wrong lawns as well. The important thing was not to stop. That would cost time and even I knew ‘Time’ was money. But when did Time become money? I mean who was the first person anyway to tell his neighbor there was now a charge for them to be breathing, sleeping or taking a dump in the woods? Didn’t we kind of like just start out getting born for free and stuff? Anyway, I guess through a long chain of fiascoes Mankind decided that Time was really the same as money. I suspect this decision might trace back to the same ‘guys’ who back in a zillion BC thought it better to make mince meat out of their neighbors rather than move because the Earth wasn’t big enough for the ten people living on it.  Never-the-less, with Time being money, it most assuredly didn’t matter to me where the papers ended up once I threw them unless, of course, it was collection day. That day, on collection day, I hand delivered and collected at the same time, recording each payment in the book I always lost by the middle of the following week. This is why that one Friday happened as it did.

I’m not certain who had my brain most of those years I spent growing ‘up’. I just know it wasn’t me-couldn’t have been. The thousands of reasons I say this for are the same reasons I won’t ‘run’ out of blog material for the next two thousand years. These ‘reasons’, however, don’t have anything to do with this post but for this one shinning example:

I’d hurried home on collection day cause the “can’t find my change”, “where did I leave that envelope?”, “oh let me go see if I can find the money”, and flat out hiding costumers always slowed down the delivery process on this day. The Friday collection day in question soon found me half way through my route and collections, having noted several strange behaviors and looks along the way. But it wasn’t until I approached the brown house with the always well dressed man in it that I faced the stark, embarrassing, yet highly profitable ‘new’ invented angle I’d come up with completely by chance on that day!  “Didn’t you just collect yesterday?” came the voice below glasses from inside a dark suit.  “Gee”, I stammered searching my record less record book. “I guess so!”  I walked away knowing I’d just reaped a financial windfall backed by no traceable account what so ever! But I had a conscience, you know that voice you always think is either someone else talking or just the bantering of a lunatic, which I knew would insist on haunting me if I didn’t try to ‘make this right’. I did the best I could, which was hopeless, at returning twice collected monies. Happily, all said and done that week, I came out several dollars ahead. And although this could have started a long life of crime what really happened was the man in charge of all the paper distributions’ at my center was arrested about a year later for stealing profits from the paper boys,-err, that would be me in part. I have to say I did wonder why when he told me what I owed him each week I’d have so little money left? But what I did have left I saved: I had a plan.

It was Christmas. Previously I’d made myself ’famous’ of sorts by buying presents for my family I hoped to actually use. Oh there were many of these but who could forget I gave my sister building blocks I secretly hoped to play with? And what about all those grade level one model planes I bestowed upon my 5^th grade brother? Really, up to this Christmas, I hadn’t even spent my own money buying gifts for my family. But this year was different. Somehow I got the notion that my apple pie bakin’ Mom, you know the one who always fed me, clothed me, hauled me around to movies with friends, changed my sheets and band aided my wounds deserved something back. Go figure?

So this was it. I took my saved 27$ and went with my Dad to a Jewelry counter, intent on what I was looking for. And there it was. A 14 carrot gold heart opening locket and chain became my first lust in life- I had to have this for my Mom. Dad reminded me it cost 23$ plus tax, (which by the way I knew even then was a stupid made up idea and way of charging more for something-this ‘tax’ thing), and that I wouldn’t have much left for my siblings. This is why my brother this Christmas got the model plane I’d later fly (throw, actually) inadvertently into a wall and my sister got a battery that might fit the transistor radio she had given me. Still, I walked out that day with the locket heart. This gold heart shimmered on the soft white cotton fill its box came with. I’d often open it and inspect the dazzling glimmer of the lockets etched golden surface during the days before Christmas.  At last I wrapped this box and gift myself, making it look like a thrown out piece of torn wrapping paper attached to a huge bow. Finally, Christmas day arrived.

My paper route days were soon over  after this Christmas and it’s happy to image people throughout my community could once again find their newspapers.  My Mom unwrapped my present to her and she would wear this locket often during the following years. I believe it held a picture of my Dad in it. I liked that she seemed to treasure this heart and that she held on to it as such. I ‘moved on’ from this day feeling my debt of gratitude somehow paid. It seems giving this gift gave me a confidence in life, but I suppose I’d need a couch and Doctor to answer why this would be. All I know is giving this heart was worth more to me than my entire hand painted knight collection as well as an endless row of milkshakes or egg creams. I can’t even say today I know what has become of this locket. And, with my Mom now suffering from Alzheimer’s, I doubt I could find out what happened to this heart. Too, it is possible, even if I did find it, she might not even remember it. But this doesn’t matter. This was the ‘The Heart I Had To Give Away’. Mom got it-she got it for ‘keeps’. That was the matter of it to this paper boy.

Merry gift giving this year-some gifts do last forever.

Franque

Seasoned Stories

Stairway to Christmas:

The Winter Holidays never came soon enough for me and, like most people I suspect, I’ve a myriad of fond memories encapsulated by these times. Choosing which memory to write about is the toughest part when starting to tell of just a few.  Still I’ve finally made my way to choose this story  based on several factors: 1) this is the story which clearly illustrates what a miracle it is the youngest of any family survives Holiday ‘pecking orders’; 2) this one might derive the most empathy for me from the reader which I might ‘cash in’ on someway somehow down the ‘line’ of time; and 3) it’s fun to recall knowing all the bruising, cuts and knots have since healed-though some may say the ‘knots’ on my head have been permanent.

The tradition I remember most simply starts with breakfast. My parents invented here a marvelous way to keep us in bed, or at least out of their hair, for the early morning hours of Christmas Day. The ‘rules’ of the morning were straight forward. First and foremost me, my sister and brother, my sister and brother being 7 and 4 years my senior respectively,  could NOT go downstairs to where the Christmas tree and presents were known to be until we ate a full breakfast upstairs. We had to eat this meal together, being served toast, eggs, orange juice along with a side of waffles and syrup. Think of this as a TTTM: a tortured ticking time meal. Any other day it would not be possible to get two eggs, toast and a waffle in my mouth all at once. This morning, however,  I could do it. Heck, I had too. My sister and brother had huge gobbling mouths while my small mouth had to eat twice as fast just to keep up. Trust me: this is just the start of my tale of woe!

Mom and Dad decided on how long it took to serve this meal and I imagine them using this time downstairs to enjoy the visual of a fully decorate tree surrounded by presents and perhaps also to be sure Santa’s milk and cookies had been eaten the night before. All this time we three would be upstairs waiting for the food while flopping about like fish out of water. Finally the meal would be done and the time would arrive for ‘the line up’. The ‘line up’ consisted of the three of us standing in ascending order of height holding our places as if at attention at the top of a semi circular stairway. Pictures were taken until we couldn’t stand it any longer. My parents would give the signal for us to begin our descent down the stairs. We immediately ran as fast as we could. Reaching the bottom of these stairs we would swing ourselves on the banister, whipping about to the living room rug and into sight of the Christmas tree. It was great fun, those runs, but for a couple of things. You see I was the youngest, the slowest, the smallest and also the one in front of the ‘line up’.

Now I know my brother and sister loved me. Heck, I was adorable. Anyway, somehow during the first couple of years of this ‘line up’ and run an elbow or three along with many feet always found their way to my face, sides, back, legs and hands as I lay trampled on the stairway. It was nothing for me to spend those few hurried minutes being banged, bounced and crushed along the wall and on the stair steps. You’d think I might have asked to be last rather than first but always, as this day approached, I’d feel certain I could make it first down those stairs. Young hope dies hard. You know, thinking back, I have to wonder if my parents had a particularly large insurance policy out on me? Anyway, this is my memory- Boy Scout’s Honor.

Of course I’d give anything to share those moments again with my siblings. And I don’t wish to be there again just to be as children again with them-I still want to make it down those steps first! Really, I think I could do it! “Oh Yeah? Could too!”

Franque

And-

Christmas Eve Poor:

Where I lived it could easily be snowing on Christmas Eve and it may have been this night- that I just don’t remember….

The knock on the door alerts our ever present dog, Socks, me and my family  to the arrival of visitors. My Dad and Mom shadow the hallway leading to our front door with my sister, brother, me and Socks close behind. Cool air ushers in with five people appearing as though they have not even eaten a last meal within several weeks. The visual of these people strikes a silence for a second among all of us. You know young hearts ‘break’ too- and this family’s appearance plays a chord of need so deeply and profoundly upon my being they could make Beethoven proud.

Eyes dart between us as we turn our heads back and forth towards one another while taking in the view.  You have to feel for these people dressed in dark, shabby clothing, standing as they are in the hall; poverty holds odd company to the warmth of our fireplace, shag carpet, night robes and fleece slippers. I’ve never lived the life of poverty but their appearance has a familiarity to it as they hold a resemblance to poor families I’ve seen in some Disney Christmas shows. Darting a glance through the front door opening I catch a glimpse of the old, black, perhaps model ‘T’ ford this family obviously owns. Sadness almost finds its way to my heart, but then I remember and I laugh out loud.

I laugh with all here this night because this is Christmas Eve and this motley crew of torn clothing, faces of soot, bared toes sticking through frayed split open shoes while driving up in a heap of junk from the turn of the century is none other than our better than average to do neighbors from down the block! You see this is their family tradition. Each Christmas Eve this family tatters themselves to all lengths imaginable, hops in their classic antique car, and proceeds to see how low a priced Christmas Tree they can manage to ‘appearance’ any local Christmas Tree seller into giving them. They love the ‘act’ as a family and they really get into it.

They stay long enough to have a hot wassail drink or two. All the while I’m watching their daughter and two sons interact with my brother and sister while I feel transported back in time by their face make-up and elaborate clothing disguises. It is pure fun. And if I know them, the Mr. of this family will be sure to go out the next day and make ‘good’ with the Christmas tree seller. This, I suspect, is their point: to give someone a chance to express an act of kindness to a ‘poor’ family in need.

Long ago these times took place but each Christmas now I can envision my family’s friends rumbling up in that old Ford. I see them loading out of the crowded car in silence, wearing torn clothing, all so intent on their ‘mission’ a head.

Happy Holidays.

Franque

Snow in the Adirondacks: the walk that waits

Snow flakes fall every day we visit. Inside, below in the basement, an 80 year old stove burns wood rising heat through floor iron grid like vents. It seems to be about 65 degrees inside, warming the comfort of daughters, cousins, brothers and of their wives. Outside, at night, temperatures fall to 30 to 40 below on a quiet silence of blanketed snow drifts along plowed roadsides. Touching frozen glass pains is to touch two worlds at once; it is almost as if night and day coexist simultaneously as two worlds collide but for the thinnest see through layer of brittle window. Inside lit halls cast shadows hewed in laughter while outside reflective snow born moonlight sets eerie branching patterns bent by trees along its darkening edges. It seems right to go out there.

“Don’t stop moving” I hear my brother say from his twinkling face and nodding jester. I lace up sturdy leather ‘breathing’ shoes and wrap around a thick woolen scarf he had woven. I ask, “Any one else along for the walk?” I spin my view to family members so accustom to these temperatures and snow it is as if I’d offered water to fish as a novelty. No ‘takers’ means I’ll travel the three blocks alone in the crystal night bound by sub-freezing air. Breathing through a scarf will warm this air before it hits my lungs.  But all of this is of no matter to me-I’m all about venturing out, just got to do it. Why? Well, this is a chance in a lifetime for me. Oh sure, I’ve been in snow before and walked at night in it as well. But this is Up State in the Adirondacks where wild animals out number the people! Besides it’s 30 below and the day’s previous snow fall lies as a clean, crystal white powder waiting for my footfalls. “You can’t buy this kind of night”, I tell myself, “It just comes as if it were a gift from God”. Shutting the door I wait for my eyes to adjust to the transfusing refracting full moonlight I now find myself awash in. Finally I can see.

There’s a bond between the people living here-come from anywhere else to here and you know it. “Perhaps”, I wonder “It’s the cold that brings these people together as they are?” My foot falls are crunching, almost sounding like popcorn being made, as I walk into cloud castings my warm breath makes as it disperses into the wind. I am the only sound. I’ve ventured way beyond the hearing of my brother and cousin, each now diagnosed with different but lethal medical conditions. I quickly call out into the darkness to see if there is a reply, to see if, perhaps, someone or thing will answer? My thoughts begin to travel: “We’ve all come together here tonight as a match to this harshest of weather”, I speculate further, “We live today-it’s what we manage to do before we don’t that matters”.  I almost mention out loud while lifting my eye brows, “All the rest, our ‘ifs’, ‘ands’ or ‘buts’ of philosophies, will fall as they may after that. I guess this is my answer:  this kind of thinking is what bonds the people here together as they are. ” My head turns towards the diamond sky lights.

All my life I have been known to watch stars as I walk at night with my head bent upwardly in such a fashion so that I might, with any step, walk into a car, tree or wall. This is why I most frequently like to walk with a partner so they might warn me of coming danger- “Look out for that moving building!”. But tonight’s walk is different. “It is an experiment”, I muse. I venture forward tonight without these two, my brother and cousin, as I know I will have to later. Perhaps this is why they didn’t join me-they know I’ll be walking again this way soon and, just maybe, they are trying to say that it is ‘alright’. I don’t know. I kick snow particles into the air and watch these air born ice slivers  refract moonlight into bright gold and yellow tones along with mellow blue and dazzling purple hews. These colors fly as if dancing in the wind before settling upon the Earth’s crystallized snowy surface.

Soon my walk is over. Entering the door I feel the laughter and shared stories of our lives freeze inside my mind as my thinking casts the fates of those before me. It is as if my heart is shadowed by these thoughts much like the walls of this house are now flickered by my loved ones silhouettes. Briskly I brush Snow off my jacket and pants  watching as it falls in fine powdered puffs of white upon the rug. But as I glance about smiling faces I know it isn’t the snow that had called me out there tonight. It’s not the night, not the stars, not even the full moon which beckoned me to leave here and tramp outside: it was the knowing and the comparison. It was the warmth to cold, the Light into Darkness as I left followed by the cold to warmth and Darkness to Light as I returned which held me to this task. “I needed this walk”, I heard my soul speak. I’m happy to sit now having made this walk alone. “It is”, I remind myself “One walk each of us should make before we have to”.

Winter is a great time to recall our lives and to ponder our future during our present. This Season I hope each person will ‘find the time’ and take a walk while reviewing all the wonders and potentials of their lives and of the lives of their loved ones. You know, the future remains silent until we speak into it. Take a walk; call out to your self. See if you hear an answer-see if you hear the future.

Franque

Getting To The Point!

It’s a beautiful day at the lake. I’m standing  on our bluff looking out over a deep blue water smoothly resting beneath what has been a cloudless sky all day. There goes some boaters smiling, laughing and pointing my way as I smile and wave back. This is a happy time. I find myself thinking about all the articles and things said about fishing-it’s amazing how much people have to say about such a simply subject.

“It’s getting to the point”, as Crosby, Stills and Nash sing, or finding it, that matters in fishing. Sure, the point is to get fish. And most agree in order to do this it helps to know the bottom:  the structures in it, the shore line depths and especially the submerged points within your prospective fishing zones. But, first off, let me tell you the most important thing to look for when going fishing- look for Water. You’ve just plain, flat out, got to have Water. Trust me on this. I know you may see guys casting taped up lures on their lawn, but they’re not catching fish this way. And yeah, I know some desperate fishing people may fill their child’s plastic circular swimming pool with water hoping to fish in it, they may even be using bobbers, but they’re not gonna land a big one this way. Nope, not going to happen. You first and foremost must have the real wet stuff-Water, as in Lake, Stream, River or Ocean. So I recommend, first off, looking for one of these.

There goes another boat filled with happy, laughing people. We wave and m0tion to each other as they pass by. This is really a lovely day. I find I continue my thoughts on fishing.

Secondly, when fishing, it helps to have time to do it. It’s nice to have a house in the Alps on a clear blue lake but if you’re Hitler stuck in a bunker in Berlin you just can’t fish. You might think about it, but you can’t fish this way. If you run a billion dollar empire you most likely have little time to fish, unless you build a lake by your house. So little fishing gets done by the ‘too busy to do it’ people.  BTW I should point out here rich, busy people who build lakes by their homes understand principle #1=you gotta have Water. So it’s nice to have Water and Time.

I’m  seeing more neighbors outside this time of day than usual. Many of us here certainly have the time to fish. It’s nice to trade glances and quick waves with the people who live nearby. I can’t recall seeing so many happy, laughing people in such a short span of time as I see today. It’s just wonderful. Now, again, my mind wanders back to fishing. 

Countless fishing magazines will endlessly stress rock structures as a great way to begin a search for fish. Others focus mainly on water depths, temperatures and clarity. Still others expand on the time of day, the season or moon phase as conditions to consider when orienting your fishing search. And I’ve read many of these articles, thought much about all of them and I’ve come to this main conclusion: try a fish market-there’s plenty of fish there. Really, just go on Google, read map quest and you’ll be in one in no time. But if it is not so much the fish but more so the hunt of prospective wild caught fish frying pan volunteers you are wanting then you need another thing: the Will.

Yeah-you’ve gotta have the Will. It takes guts to realize you’ve so many unpaid bills from buying all those rods, reels, lights, nets, boats and one ton of deep woods insect repellant you might as well go float on top of water instead of being buried alive by bills; it takes courage to realize you’ve actually no idea where the fish are but, for the zillionth time, you’re gonna look anyway; it takes strength of character to realize people will say you’re just a jerk on one end of the line looking for a jerk on the other when actually, you know deep inside, if only you could feel even the slightest jerk on your line it would  be a pick-up from your last outing; it takes a real man to pull the hooks out of your fingers while sitting on others as you tie on the sinkers you haven’t yet dropped over board; it takes real no doze to make it through long fishing nights and doctor visits to clean up the bronchitis you will develop from your current chest cold. This is what real fishing is about! You’ve got to have the Water, the Time and you’ve got to have the Will.

An eagle flies high over head now as a skier crosses my bay waving. Blam! She hit the water hard and now is calling something out while laughing as the rest of us are. The water can be cold when you first ‘hit’ it and I suspect its tickling her toes right about now. Oddly a police car goes by behind me past our dirt road turn off and further on up the hill. He obviously is lost-first off he’s got a 911 map in front of his face while he’s driving and secondly that hill road leads to nothing but swamp.  Well I’ll certainly hear about him tonight down at the local tavern. That’s one thing about the lake-everybody knows what anybody is doing. I do hope no one needs that policeman badly though. Hmmm, more about fishing now mulls through my mind.

Lastly, to be a good fisherman, you’ve got to be nuts. Well, at least partly nuts. I mean, to be clear, this is what my wife says and I believe her. Sure, I know it might seem odd to be sitting warm, safe, comfortable in front of a fire place and then to jump up, yell indiscernible words, frantically lace rubber shoes on, grab a flashlight, fail through the door into the driving rain while promising to be back by 11PM; it might seem disconcerting to have someone sitting down before a wonderful dinner whose glazed eyes search the watered horizon while mumbling fish limits and lengths; it may even seem strange to once in a while be called a fish name like Walleye by mistake: “ Honey I Walleye love you” or to buy a new hat and hear, “I love your new brim” or be directed to  “ just pickerel what you want and lets go” or  while alone hear “ you have a good looking bass”. I know these things happen. But don’t let any of this seem ‘odd’ or be disconcerting or strange. Heck my wife has it right! Fishermen-we’re nuts!

Now, with these thoughts in mind, any fisherman, hopefully, becomes a lot easier to understand. So I’m sticking with this ‘Partly nuts’ theme.  But like a weather report we remain as a group, I profess, correct only 50% of the time as to what we should really be doing.  I’m thinking, however, things are lining up pretty good for me right now-I think a fishing trip has arrived! And right now as I stand on our cliff in front of our house, with a full view of the lake in my binoculars, I can see I definitely have the Water! I’ve put off all my jobs for the last three days and I’ve already burned the steaks, so I have the Time to spend in the bright sunshine. There’s sweat building up in my palms and on my forehead because I’m just itching to get out there-oh yeah, I’ve got the Will, no doubt I’ve got that.  So I’m ready to go. Still I’m thinking I should go back inside and put my pants on. I should, I guess, have done that first -yeah, that would have been better. See you out there!?

There’s that police car again now going the opposite way! He’s completely lost.

Franque

HOLD THE CELL PHONE!

Did I just read it will cost the U.S. one million dollars per year for each soldier stationed in Afghanistan? Holey Jumping Jo Sassafras! Ye gods and little dill pickles!  Come on! You gotta be pulling my leg? Here pull the other one so I can at least stand up. Was that one million dollars as in one million dollars? What in tarnation? That’s more money than all of our Grandpas put together could shake a stick at! I mean Jeez and Yikes! Jeepers Creepers! Good Grief!  I’ll be hog tied: look who just became the cat’s meow-the military, sort of. I can hear the first day of inspection now: “Excuse me sir but you’ll have to take those cotton boxers off. We only use imported Irish Linen here-fuchsia, branch or leek of course.” You know the saying –‘to be the best you’ve got to dress your best-U.S. Army!’. I’m just saying someone must be charging an awful lot for shoe shines, smokes and gum over there don’t you think?

There are a couple of basic problems with US soldiers stationed in Afghanistan costing us one million dollars each per year. First off, have I mentioned the money? The entire US population is not a ‘monkey’s uncle’. And this leads to the second ‘problem’ which is once the general US population hears about this our soldiers will have no one left to fight for-we’ll all be dead from heart attacks or from laughing too hard. This price takes our holy cow, holy mackerel, holy smoke and rolls them into one huge holy moly buffet -I can’t believe we’re gonna ‘eat the whole thing’! Blimey on that. It’ll be a great day in the morning when we as a People  fancy that.

I think I know what happened here. The minute this country shipped plane loads of stacked US currency to Iraq without knowing who would actually pick it up or what would be done with it, while at the same time keeping no track of the money, light bulbs went off in enough heads back home to light NYC for a week. “Hey, Billy Boy and Gertrude!  There might be some loose change laying around in these them war ‘theaters’ over there!” You can almost hear the walls speaking: “Look. There has to be somebody we can bomb. I need the cash and you know what we say- the early bomb gets the wad” Wad of cash that is. Can you say “nuts” or are we sticking with expialidocious as the first call letters for every walkie talkie man we have?

I’m saying ‘hold the cell phone’! There’s a call from sanity coming in. And Sanity has solutions. First things first so bring every last soldier, advis0r, administrator, general, sub-tractor general, head brass, lesser brass and pot metal person back home. About Face please! I know that might cost a bit but not one million each-no way. So instantly we have ‘savings’. Next, let them go yes, but then hire everyone of them that was in the military and still wants a job for 35,000 per man per year to start rebuilding our bridges, roads, dams, everything. Generals, contractors, everyone on up and down now become American employees helping rebuild America. “But wait!’ you say, “There are real live enemies to deal with!” That’s true. And that’s where Wal-Mart comes in. We need a half price Army and we need it now! Where else can we get an additional 10% off on the day we buy it? Wal-Mart will deliver. Trust me. Give me Wal-Mart teamed up with Google and I’ll show you a half priced Army waiting on the shelf ready to be shipped in less than ½ a year. Period.

You see we can win a war without going the filet mignon rations route. Our helmets can be less shinny, our boots less polished. We need weapons from the sale rack that work but don’t carry designer labels. Let’s face it: our soldiers over there are fighting an army made up of people who might not earn a buck a day! Balance our projected cost of a million bucks per year for our soldiers against their buck a day system and I say we have a ‘tilt’ in this ‘pin-ball’ theater. And I know it’s NOT our soldiers fault-they really aren’t getting those thousand dollar massages over there. I just want to see the people who made this happen to our country mixing cement over here. I know people in the ‘know’ will say I don’t know what I’m talking about and that I should bite my tongue. But my word Man! Jiminy Crackers fella! The cost of this war makes it a loss before it’s begun! We can’t afford it and we shouldn’t pay it. People may say this is the ‘cost of doing businesses’. Well holy Toledo! Why then does it smell like a bunch of bull from the head pasture?

Someone get on the cell to their representative and ask them to call Wal-Mart. Do it for our Country.

Franque