From the fricken on the roof

Two things, no, make that three distinctly separate forces have driven this fricken to a roof top perch. An aerie of imagining if you will for i have come here with but one purpose caught in the craw of my kidney bean brain:

To write!

Three forces conspired to drag me from the breezy beachhead encampment i have occupied since our arrival here in the sun soaked lands of saute'd N'Yawkers. First came hordes of fearsome dark clouds from the west. Grim and laden with malice they swept over bay and the flimsy rows of homes between and reminded me that a beach is an awfully foolish place to tempt a storm. So with perhaps more caution than valor i retreated to the relative safety of the house. Frickens are big chickens.

There, in the cool but unreliable comfort of the air conditioning, i encountered the second force to move me heavenward. More of a shock than a relentless storm. More thunderbolt than wind. More fart than food poisoning. i was eating my lunch and wishing for bacon when it hit me. No, not food poisoning. The nasty realization that i was nearly done my thousand page book! With two more days of beach bummery ahead of me, this would be a tragedy! i might be forced into desperate action! To borrow one of the house books which i may not be able to finish (a small blessing since the vast majority seem to be romance novels.) But unless the novel be fetid drumfish then it is abhorrent to me not to finish it and i've even choked down my share of rotting fishflesh. My only other option would be to go get another book but that presented an even more abominable choice: a quest into Rehoboth! While certainly a step up from its vile cousin city Wildwood. They are of the same ilk and bear no joy for a fricken for whom filth, fools and frivolous frittering are fiends most foul. What loathsome lout designs a tourist city in a America with no parking? It boggles the imagination and that is but the beginnings of it's bilious boorishness.

No, drastic measures must be taken! i would have to ration my reading time. But what must i do instead? This is where the third force came. As is sometimes my habit, i looked over my blog. As a rooster inspects his hens to see how their getting along. In this way i decide whether i've been remiss in my writings. Usually i find there is a shortfall in the storehouse. Not much fodder for the flock. This is ordinarily the result of two other shortages: time and shmarts. But today i found, not a shortfall, but a windfall! Like a storm at sea that washed up all manner of refuse i found the Coop littered with lines, polluted with poesy, varnished with verse! Where had all these poems come from? Nearly a whole month's worth of it?! Was i going soft? Was there nothing to rail at? No humorous anecdotes to stretch into longwinded stories with no point? No aimless alliterations to assmeble? As i pondered these questions the answer rose like an angel from her nap...

nope. But that's never stopped you before.

Misnomer

Dragonfly over a concrete pond

Chilly welcomes on sweaty days

the sweetest place on earth

Strangling the choking urge

Permissive peasant's child royalty

the sweetest place on earth

Locked doors in ugly walls

Acrid fumes in yellow air

the sweetest place on earth

Babble interrupting public address

Noise interrupting noise over noise

the sweetest place on earth

Savoring the magic moments means

Retreating into fair fiction's leaves

in the sweetest place on earth

The Fricken Blues

(This took several days to thump out. Think i could have gone on writing this forever. For y'all's sake, i stopped;)

Oh, Jeremiah Fricken was a sad, sad chicken,

there was no one sadder than he.

He was bluer than the sky before a storm in July

He was lower than a worm's left knee.

No, no one could lament like old Jerry would vent

he was the king of melancholy.

There was just one hitch in this chicken's dark pitch

He had no cause for his malady.

He was married to a hen that was the envy of men

All over the vicinity.

Who thought she was no prize (but she was in his eyes;

Just cause she tried so hard to be.)

They had two fricks of their own, one big, one just half grown

they were proud of quite naturally

There were never two roosters ever more true, sir

Than ol' Jerry's fine, young pro-di-geny.

The Coop that they lived in wasn't that grand but then

It had spare room for company

So they shared it with a duck who was down on his luck

And his bevy of fair chick-a-dees.

Though his friends numbered few, in his heart Jerry knew

They were of a breed most trustworthy

And he could count on them all to come if he called

In blessing or adversity.

He worked hard for his money, gave it to his honey

And had enough for necessity

But what he could never find was a job that worked his mind

spirit and soul with vitality

All he does is survive, only one-eighth alive

dying incrementally

Trading in his health for a paltry sum of wealth

hoping someday to be free

Y'see Jeremiah Fricken is a praying chicken

to the God of Mystery

And he knows that he is loved by his Father up above

So he can wait for something he can't see.

But while Jerry waits for Him he's been growing kind of grim

patience ain't his speciality

and the tunnel he's going through has a light, that much is true

it's the gap before the next one he can see.

But he'll keep slogging on until this life is gone

With a heap of grace and charity

Then once he stops a kickin', Ole Jeremiah Fricken

Will find peace in eternity.

i'll have what the gentleman on the floor is having.

i just read a couple of my posts from 2006. And you know what i realized? i haven't grown an inch. i am still complaining of the very same things that i was whining of then. And i'm willing to bet that if i could find some of the posts i wrote back when posts were sent to people instead of tacked up willy nilly on the easternet for any poor fly to get sucked into i would see that i have been runnin' this rut long enough for this to be considered a permanent condition.

And that's why i've decided to become a raging alcoholic. Y'see, i figure a downward spiral will at least be something different.

preachin' to meself

Wrote this for a friend a while back. Found it today, kinda like my rock. Wonder if isn't what i need to hear right now.

Arise Ponderus!

Shake the dust from thy cloak.

Now is not time for sleeping.

Though the Sun set before the hours granted our grandfathers

And may not yet rise again

Till our children’s children be in their twilight.

Though the night may last our whole lives,

Let us keep to our watch

And never let it be said

That we were found shirking.

What news, brother?

What shivers thy shoulders,

And folds them towards the campfire?

Be it not tears moistening our eyes but dew preceding the dawn.

Let us not wail in the darkness

Like those who live without hope.

Though the night may last our whole lives,

Let us sing on our watch

And frighten the devils

That at our hems be lurking.

Look up, Ponderus!

Night spreads lies of isolation,

Yet can we see the stars.

We have not the eyes of the owl nor the ears of the bat

But let us share our lanterns

And hear again the truth of the Light.

Though the night may last our whole lives,

Let us shine on our watch

And be moons of our Son

From which all heat and light are drawn.

Well met, brother!

There are many camps

And a fire in the center of each.

Though the footsteps between them be many and the shadows deep

There is but one mission for us all

And only one East that we face.

Though the night may last our whole lives,

Pray we be the last watch

And until we bask in the Son,

Good night and God speed the dawn.

Raucus

i got a rock.

This is the story of a rock. Maybe two, if you count the one in my head. It begins with a prayer meeting. A prayer meeting with visual aids. There were stations around the room and one station was a bowl of assorted rocks. The rocks, a 3x5 card told us, represented God's faithfulness. God's faithfulness is rock solid, his promises secure. We were invited to pick a rock and meditate upon these thoughts. As i did the rock in my hand became warm. i liked the imagery. i liked the physical token.

Some time later. i came across a smooth little rock at a time when the reminder of God's faithfulness to His promises, His trust-worth was a welcome and much needed thought. i took the little stone, smooth and black, nothing spectacular in itself, and put it in my pocket.

There it stayed. One of the four things i always carry in that pocket. A lighter- one must always have the ability to make fire. See Cast Away. Chapstick- if you work outside you go through a lot of these or you have bloody lips. A multi-tool- the swiss army knife of my generation. And a rock, smooth and black. Possibly the most worthless weight i could carry but in some ways, my greatest treasure. Whenever things get tough or the pointlessness of life becomes crushing i put my hands in my pockets and there is a warm, solid little prompt. A prompt to see things differently. To rest on something, Somebody else. To remember the promises and the Promiser and that i have a faith in something beyond my own skills, devices and preparation. Which is a darn good thing. Cause i'm a'lacking. That little rock is getting smoother.

The Memorial day party at the Coop. Darkness falls and somebody starts giving all the kids glowsticks. My nieces run around "selling" them. One of the blonde haired, blue eyed Sirens comes up to me, "we'ah sellin' gyowsticks, want wun?"

"Sorry, honey, i don't have any money." i fish around in my pockets to prove the point since she's not old enough to know that married men don't carry cash. "All i have is a rock." i show her my rock. The rock which has reminded me of my Lord's faithfulness since before Christmas. She inspects it, approves it as currency and peels off a glowstick for me. Then she skips away. i'm left holding a glowing piece of man's cleverness which will fade before the night is over, longing for the lump of earth i gave up. Oh well, i think. It was only a symbol. i probably should have taken the opportunity to explain the significance of it to her. Maybe she even would have gotten it.

Today. A day of rest. i decide that the best way to recover and relax is too spend hours working on the idea of going fishing. We haven't used any of our tackle since Canada, two years ago. i go outside to collect, repair and refit, a task more suited to a team up of Indiana Jones and MacGuyver than a grumpy little fricken. After the perils of the Temple of the Tastykake toolshed/truck, the excavation through two years of rodent scat, i finally have all the gear. The broken down, next to useless gear. Perseverance being an angler's only virtue i press on. As i finish stringing the last rod in the driveway. The rough, gray, stone driveway. i happen to look down. Naw. i bend down and pick up a rock. It's warm in my hand from the sun. Smooth and black. i had to laugh. i think somebody is trying to explain something to me. i hope i get it.

A gravedigger's thoughts.

We all deal with grief in our own way. Some care for the dying. Some weep. Some get angry and then try to figure out why they are angry. Others feel nothing but a need to do something. Something necessary for those who died and for those who grieve.

So we dig the grave. And realize that our sin caused this. And that it didn't just bring death to us; it brought it to the whole world. All of life was cursed because of us. Plants die. Animals die. The Gulf is dying. A pet dies. Because we rebelled, innocents now die too. And the guilty dig the graves.

But not forever. One innocent willingly died to pay for that curse. All life will someday be free of death. In fact, is free of the real penalties now if they are willing to accept that gift of a death in our place. i don't know how to understand death, how to deal with it, but i do know it's helpful to do it in the shadow of a cross.

RIP Tobasco.

Leader or loner?

How does one lead?

Sometimes i know what i want to do, but i don't have any compelling need to compel others to do it too. If you want to come, fine. If not. More for me. Sure, some experiences are better shared but only if those with whom it is shared want to be there. They come of their own free will. i also realize that in certain circumstances, certain folk need to be coerced into doing something good. i personally agonize over this. i don't like forcing people to do anything. i'd rather not have ye if ye don't wanna help. i've noticed a lot of other people don't seem to struggle with this. Many seem to have no problem telling me what to do or at least think they know better what i ought to be doing.

Looking at the big picture, i see there are some responsibilities i have to God, to my family and to my neighbor, but there really seems to be a lot of free ground in which to explore how best to do this. And what might work for me might not work for you or my neighbor. In fact, the discovery may just be part of the process. But i wouldn't throw a lot of what i do into the category of "redeeming creation for God." No. Most of it would have to go into the "keeping busy" file. i think that's what i'll print on the side of my trash can, "busy file." So how does one lead? How does one know that what one is heading for is so noble or true that others need to feel compelled to follow?

How does God lead? God took two perfect people. Put them in a perfect garden. Loved them perfectly and then .... gave them the choice to follow Him or follow their own path. Why? He could have left out the temptation. He could have locked out Lucifer. He chose not to. He chose to give us choices. God doesn't destroy the evil in the world until all we have to choose from are salad and bran muffins, Pat Boone and Sandy Patty, church and children's playgrounds with none of the really fun, injurious machines on them. He allows, tolerates all the wrong paths and just inserts one little, winding, slightly overgrown path and calls it good. Why?

Because that's the path that leads to Him... and He really want's us to choose it ourselves.

Dunno if i answered my question, but i know where i want to go now.

Hangin's too good for 'em.

The theme of the day seemed to be justice.

My partner doesn't believe in rehabilitation. He's an eye for an eye kind of guy. i think if he had his way, any violent crime (and quite a few less than violent ones) would be punishable by death. Preferably to be carried out by the arresting officer right after slapping on the handcuffs. He spent a good portion of the ride home today yelling at the radio. Well, more the ex-con on the radio who committed manslaughter (shot three of his hostages during a hold up and one of them died) as a teenager, went to one of the worst jails in the country for forty-four years and completely rebuilt his life there. The man's free now, apparently a model citizen and that seemed to really bother my partner. He didn't feel that justice had been done. The man hadn't been punished enough. And that made me wonder? Why do we have jails? Can anyone be rehabilitated? How much is punished enough? How can we forgive?

Earlier in the day, i heard an interview with a man who had been sexually abused by a priest as an altar boy. He described how it would even take place in the chapel, at the altar. It was very vivid and for a moment, i was not driving in a truck going to work. i was held down, before the altar of God with all the sacraments and sacred imagery before me, being violated and i thought, what kind of monster? How does a child go on after this? That man took so much from him and then left him to find his way in life with the very thing that should anchor his soul tied to the very act that rent it to pieces. What kind of justice is there for that boy? What kind of punishment should there be for that man? i can't bring myself to call him a priest.

And then i knew. String him up, Wrath said. No, hangin's too good for him. Too quick. Beat him first. Beat him until their ain't a square patch of skin on him that don't look like hamburger. Beat him till his own momma don't recognize him. Flay him alive, truss him up and then drag him through the streets so everyone can spit on him and kick him and call him every vile name in the book. Drag him out to the highest hill, then nail him to a board and crank him up where all can see. And hang him in such a way that his lungs fill up with fluid and he drowns in his own spit and every last moment of his miserable, wretched life is pure, fiery agony! That's what his sin deserves!

Course, that's what all sin deserves. And that's just what all sin got. Once. And for all.

Why do we have jails? Can anyone be rehabilitated? How much is punished enough? How can we forgive? i don't think any society will ever be able to answer those questions unless they start from the foot of the cross.

Away message

On safari, hunting down the elusive Timetowrite. Be back soon.

Pappy Fricken

Witnesses

The children of God gathered in a musty, decaying hall but the lights were too low to see. Shadow hid what was undesirable and flashes of color sparkled in whirling, unceasing motion that made focus impossible. Conversation and communion were given up as the thumping music drowned out all but the shouted exchange. Alcohol dulled pain, lowered inhibitions and substituted for brotherhood. The creatures designed for glory chose to hide in darkness and noise and drunken revelry. The bride of Christ gave up her husband for a grope and bad dancing.

It’s their right to choose. A right they’ve been given. It just made the witness sad. So he wandered out into the night where the moon seemed bright in comparison and bird and frog spoke in more reverent tones. Away, away from the revelers, away from the noise, from the shouting, from the over-stimulation, from the false camaraderie, away from the bad dancing, he found a refuge beneath a great and ancient oak. Leaning back he gazed up at its proud height and strong, still branches and in its quiet way, it seemed to him that the tree was a wise old witness too. Here was a living thing that though without thought or self-awareness, fully knew its Creator, what He expected of it and its place in creation. That a tree could, in the very act of being what it was meant to be, shame those of us in rebellion.

Two thousand years ago, witnesses threw their clothing and branches before their King, their Creator, their Husband and shouted and sang his praises while they danced for joy in broad daylight even though they didn’t understand his Kingdom and that, in just a few days, he would soon hang on a tree for them. The grumps of their day told Jesus to make them stop their unseemly display. He told the grumps that if the revelers stopped, then the very stones would cry out. Creation was so intoxicated with the Holy Spirit that even stone witnesses would cry out. I wonder how often creation looks at us and just wants to cry?

first things first

i got up to write at a quarter to four

but it turns out i had nothing to say

so i bowed my head and took it to God

and it turns out i had plenty to pray.

Something i lack the talent to say...

From his lofty perch

in his tower of bone

He thinks he wields

power alone.

All that he sees

and all that he hears

is tested and weighed

against the wisdom of years.

His scales are just.

His vision is pure.

His library vast.

His verdict is sure.

Cold knowledge his counselor,

decisions of steel,

based on what's firm,

proven and real.

But alas, his nose tickles

with the scent of perfume;

A warm, rare aroma

rising up from her room.

A ballad of destiny

with a drumbeat for dance

of risking it all

on a sliver of chance.

Passion blind, she knows

only what she can feel.

Feathery touch, silken skin

quickly bruised, slow to heal.

She keeps the fire.

She feeds the fuel.

Hers is the longshot,

the feud and the duel.

Who rules the kingdom

will it be fire or steel?

What he can know

or what she can feel?

Peek-a-boo with Dad.

It's a dirt road switchbacking through the besieged Pennslobovian wilderness. The last island of natural wonder in the Commonwealth Sea of Humanity. And even it has an old trainbed converted to yuppie bike trail snaking through it. Ease of access. It lowers, cheapens the experience. One no longer has to work just to get here. Daytrippers can cruise up, snap their pictures and leave in a carbon monoxide fog and say they've been there, done that. They can be back in a "quaint" (their code word for anything not a Starbucks) coffee shop in less than a half an hour congratulating themselves for experiencing nature AND alternative cultures in the same day.

The dirt road has a number given it by the state. It also has a sign warning travelers that the road is not "maintained" (their code word for occasionally sending some guy up there with a chainsaw and a winch to get the fallen trees out of the way) for three months during the winter.

It was winter. Rascal and i drove right in.

That's right, we drove. We daytripped through with our cameras out the windows, like gang-bangers on foreign turf. It was our last day of camping and we had to get home. There was no more time for nature, money had to be earned, state-approved lesson plans had to be learned, so fuel and film were burned.

But we went slow. Not just because the dirt road is one lane of potholes, downed trees, crazy hairpins and sloped to boot. We wanted to go slow. It was the four-wheeled equivalent of dragging our feet. We may have been daytrippers, but we were Sunday daytrippers. There was so much to see in the golden, stained glass glow of sunlight through the leaves. Actually, there was really only one thing to see: trees. i can be realistic. We were in awe of dirt and trees but maybe what we were really in awe of was the artistic arrangement. God's a florist.

Then it would happen. i would stop. Put the Tick (my name for my little, black blazer) in reverse, back up and just sit in wonder. There were tears in the veil. Windows where the trees parted enough to see the valley below and the mountains beyond and gain a glimpse of the deeper, wider story through which we journeyed. An oh, so, narrow window into how the beauty up close fit into a beauty all around. How the vignettes fit into the epic. Vistas that made your breath catch. God is a showman. How i longed to get out and disappear on foot into that wonder. To explore, not at thirty five miles an hour. But at a mile a day. Or maybe even slower. To sit in it and give glory to it's Creator.

It's a desk in our living room/foyer/kitchen/office. i wanted to scan something into the computer. Some artwork. Just a quick sketch, all i have time for but make time for every day. My life is a regimented repetition of requisite responsibilities. i need art.

Then it happened. i stopped. i picked up the picture that Happ the Elder had drawn and left. An explosion of weirdness that wasn't an aching attempt at something he thinks he should draw and struggles with but a free expression of just something he thinks is cool. Incomprehensible and complete, cute and cartoonish yet wicked and sinister. Marveling, i continued on. Then, astoundingly, it happened again. i reversed. Backed up to the frame on the computer where Rascal the Younger had written the beginning of a story. It was him but so much different. An uncanny voice that i at once recognized but didn't. It was so much more mature than my eleven year old. There, in my daytrip, glimpses of the wider, wilder, deeper stories that i was journeying through. Vistas that make me catch my breath and want to get out of the rut and meander, explore and savor these creations, their creators and their Creator.

Maybe we can talk about that sometime in a quaint, little coffee shop.

its the end of the world as we know it

This is for anyone who ever attended Christ Church, Peace Valley Church, Peace Valley Community Church or New Life at Five Points. Alright, here's what you do...

Put on REM's It's the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine). Don't have it? Go get it, it's worth it. Good song. Now, turn the sound down just enough that you can hear the beat but not so much the words and then read really fast.

God’s Great,

It starts with a Sunday, leap of faith, PCA,

Christ church is not afraid.

Plumstead Elementary, turn a gym into a church

Here to serve each other’s need,

Regardless of your own need

Barely getting up to speed

Oh no, gotta go

Getta pastor, finda pastor, New Life Sonship

Suddenly there seems to be Jack Miller’s whole family with an overhead projector and felt tip pen

Some Left, those that stayed

voted to change our name

and join New Life

Say Hello to Alan Lee, Now we’re called Pvc,

Worship goes to tennessee

What then…Uh Oh, Gotta Go

Finda building another school, but it’ll do

Blind side, lake side

Pine Run, Lenape, CB west, Unami,

Buy some land but lose it in a pyramid scheme-What?

Ran the Gamut, door slam it, shut, Trust Christ’s cross, Feeling punched in the gut

It was the end of the world as we knew it

It was the end of the world as we knew it

It was the end of the world as we knew it

And God is fine

Tabernacle – Blue Van.

Still trying to buy some land.

Funerals, weddings, Go to Landis cabin

Wexford, West Virginia, Team goes to Uganda

Saint James, Square the C,

Sherry bird is cancer free

Alan’s weary, Alan wants to

Step down, step down

Bought some land, lost some land

Alan comes and goes again, oh dear, Blair’s here, Why that sudden look of fear?

On our own, on our own, on our own again,

We need solutions, we need alternatives, two years go by

It was the End of the world as we knew it…

It was the End of the world as we knew it

It was the End of the world as we knew it

God’s still fine

God’s still fine

It was the End of the world as we knew it

It was the End of the world as we knew it

It was the End of the world as we knew it

God’s still fine

Bill Senyard, Movie clips

Kissing God on the lips

Sanctuary, Broken Bread

What the heck are pickleheads?

Have communion every week, N-L-F-P

Theater has comfy seats, Children’s pageant lost a sheep,

You Incendiary, Misfit toys, get slammed but Trust God, right? Right.

It’s the end of the world as we know it

It’s the end of the world as we know it

It’s the end of the world as we know it

But God’s still mine

Yes God is fine

From the skeleton collapsed upon the moldy laptop.

i need lunch. i need sleep. The Ballyhoo need a push. The snow needs a sled. The house needs cleaned so badly that men in full biohazard gear are assembling in the driveway. My ipod needs the Christmas music taken out of it. And i am writing in a blog.

i think it comes from somewhere up the river of doubt. i don't know what i am. i have some clues. i have a wife but judging from our relationship lately i haven't been a good husband which is really too bad because i've been here when things were going well and she's really a fun person. There are some kids who live here that call me 'dad' so i'm pretty sure i'm a father. One is taking a nap and has a job at McGargleds and the other is in a Mario World induced coma, so i must not be a very inspiring one. i work as a carpenter but the thought of being a carpenter makes me want to weep. In fact, my stomach does this Bill-Murray-Groundhog-suicide thing from just writing the word 'carpenter.' Nng, there it goes again. They say you are what you do. If that's true than i am a Nauseator. Which sounds like one of Doofenshmirtz Evil Inc.'s creations. Greetings Perry the Platypus.

If, by some small chance, i am what i want to do, then i am a creator. Small "c." i love art. i love making things. i love crafting words, lines, notes and small plastic bricks into something they weren't before. i love telling stories.

And so i forget my stomach. i fight off the drowzies. i let my eldest sleep and my youngest bounce turtle shells into various cute little opponents. i listen to the snow melt. i watch, only mildly interested as the men in the driveway in the biohazard suits decide a frontal assault is too dangerous and call in an airstrike. i let another rendition of Little Saint Nick play and i write.

Maybe that's it. Maybe i'm a Hoper.

Mom, Dad? What's with the For Sale sign in the yard? Hello?

The person stumbling through darkness has seen a great light.

With the juggernaut ferocity of a blizzard, God has broken into my world, stomped all around, knocked over my monopoly game and said, "Get your boots on, we're going on an adventure!"

My church is closing.

Sentences are funny things. That last one, four words long, sums up everything i need to say. It conveys all of the pertinent information. And yet, unless you've spent time in my moccasins, and i wouldn't recommend that; they smell like La feete vinaigrette, you would not understand anything i'm trying to say with that sentence. Well, you might, IF you were one of the following:

• An astronaut who has ever had his tether come loose.
• A diver who has looked up to see his boat leaving.
• A Yonkers socialite, who after a great party, wakes up... in the Serengeti.
• A traveller who arrives home to find their house burned down while they were away.
• A Manassas farmer who realized the civil war broke out by seeing the opposing forces out opposite windows.
• A child who came home from school to find your parents have moved. (man, that day sucked!)

Barring that or the vinaigrette, there is no way that those four words can sum up the fact that this has been my church since i was fifteen. i have grown up in this church. Grown in the Word in this church. Been counseled in this church. Wedded in this church. My eldest baptized in this church. Brought into the worship ministry in this church. Given a voice in this church. Given something to counter act the necrotic of my work life in this church. In essence, i have been shown how "in this church" means "in this family."

"True," Dad is saying, "and now, time for something completely different." Life is change. Change is weird. You want it when things are hemorrhagically boring. Then it announces that it'll be here on February 28th and you get a little tweaked. Faith gets tested. Will the shuttle get to you before gravity takes over? Will another boat come along? Are those lions? Where are we going to live now? This is just going to be a short little disagreement, right? Dang it! i hope the neighbor lady has good cookies. (she didn't. Just those stupid fake lemon oreos)

Oh, well. Dad knows best. Guess i'd better find my boots.

XVI

i thought i knew what it was to have a sixteen year old son. i figured it was pretty much the same as having a teenager only with complications. Sort of like Hemorrhoids and a case of poison oak. Then Happ (the fashionable son) went and passed his drivers' permit test. i knew the Ballyhoo gang had to celebrate this rite of passage of it's most fashionable member in true Ballyhoo fashion. So i collected Rascal and we plotted to greet Happ in a manner befitting the occasion as soon as the conquering hero emerged from his motor chariot. As we prepared our arsenal of snowballs we fleshed out our plans. "After he yells at us for messing up his new clothes we can all go out to dinner!"

"Yeah!"

The vision of a break in the holiday madness with a family night together danced in my head as my cell phone rang. Mynnie, (the pretty one) informed me that she would be dropping off our new driver at the restaurant where he and his buddies get Cheesesteaks every Tuesday.

Oh. Of course. He wishes to celebrate with his friends. Perfectly understandable. i hung up the phone and my dream of a family celebration and a traditional Ballyhoo Snowball Huzzah with an audible click. That's when i decided that now i knew what it was like to have a sixteen year old. It wasn't Hemorrhoids and rashes. It's more like dreaming of a steak dinner and getting a steak dinner. A Salisbury steak in a TV dinner.

Broken dreams and eight inches of snow don't mix so Rascal and i took our sleds and re-inflated our spirits in Carcass Basin. The hill is perfectly groomed and the pond frozen and disappointment cannot survive in the harsh glee of high speed runs across a frozen pond.

Time slurps on into the future, it is time to pick up Happ, so i venture out in Mynnievan to fetch him. He, not unexpectedly but not anticipated with delightedly, asks if he can drive home. To his surprise, i unexpectedly but received with much delightedly say, "sure."

Riding home. Trying to unclench my hands and keep my voice calm with the sensation of sitting in the dentist's chair with the needles, knives and skewers all laid in plain sight, i chuckle softly to myself, "no dummy, NOW you know what it means to have a sixteen year old son."

Just like every year since year 34.

In path of the Nor'Easter, the soon to be trampled discussed their doom...

"So they're going to decide tomorrow whether or not they will have to cancel church," informed the Informed.

"Cancel Christmas? Wow!" remarked the cynic.

"A year without Santa?" questioned the incredulous.

"No no," soothed the cynic, "it will just be a year without Jesus."

"Oh," sighed the much relieved, "that's okay then."

Happy Hunting

The Plains of Sabbath. The wide open spaces between the thickly, prickly forests of Necessity, the foggy Deserts of Dream, the stormy Seas of Calamity and the hyper-bustling Cities of Man that make up the rest of the hunting range. Here a hunter can ease down in the tall grass, test the wind and relax a little, knowing that his quarry cannot pass by unnoticed. Like a lion surveying the savanna, all the herds must pass a nervous day under his eye, predator and prey in full sight of each other. There is nowhere to hide until you reach the other side.

Thanksgiving Valley is this plain's name. And it marks the mouth of the Advent Race. A peaceful stream that flows through this fruitful field gathers speed and power as it pours over the precipice at the end of the vale. From there it's down, down, down the mountains in a tumbling, pell-mell fury of thunder and chaos until it finally bursts over Christmas Falls and into the Pool where some drown and others bathe and finally it slips out the other side and the quarry will be gone, never to return. Another Year gone, another Yearling straining at the gates in agonizingly youthful exuberance ready for its hunt. Its chance to run the gauntlet.

But the hunter is still thinking about the last hunt and all the hunts before. How to capture a year? How to hold on to that powerful beast? How to best use every bit of the members he managed to pull down? What did he learn? What worked, what didn't?

For this hunter, this valley, this morning of Thanksgiving has been a good place to slow the critter down. It's the last good grazing spot before it's dash down Christmas Ravine. Here i can walk among the herd, even run my fingers through their wooly manes. It's a sacred spot. A place to count blessings.

• Such as homes given...to us, to Clan Bubba, to the Cats.
• The departing of a Shepherd and a partner, hopefully both to happier hunting grounds.
• The arrival of a new partner and all the adjustments that means.
• For a camping trip, a beach trip, a reunion with my brother's family.
• For seasons of growth in the Ballyhoo.
• For more proof that God will provide, even in recessions, democratic presidencies and swine flu pandemics.
• Reconnecting with family, some i wasn't aware i had.
• For sins forgiven.
• For a few more sign in my larger hunt for joy and contentment.

And for knowing when to end a post that has buried itself in poetic metaphor without a single joke, laugh or snicker. Happy Thanksgiving to All and to All a good Hunt!

A Jeremiad.

Two days ago, at work in a basement, stuffing puddy into a thousand thousand little nail holes, i had at least six ideas for art work, nine for a story and three for a post here on the Coop. Here i sit in front of a laptop and there's more action on the static screen than in the oblong pumpkin. (Calling it the squash would convey it's lumpy irregularity more efficiently but then i don't think folk would get that i'm talking about my head.)

i've been thinking about change lately. As in: Can people change? Specifically for the better. For you see, in my experience, people don't. Change for the better that is. Once they reach some semblance of something we can label cynically as "maturity," they're personalities are fixed. The ingredients of traits, quirks and habits that make them able to be differentiated from the other primates in the herd have settled into the shape that they will only harden around as they age. From there on until the Big Chemical Breakdown, they will take that palette of colors and let them dry and darken with age. The most change i can say i've witnessed is when one of the colors, usually a particularly dark one to begin with, starts to take over. But this isn't change, this is just a natural progression of possession. We sell our souls to something and sooner or later or in most folk, gradually, it takes more and more of that real estate. Until all that's left is the slave and the master. The fearful person becomes the shut-in, the party animal burns out, the cynical philosopher becomes a grumpy blogger. Slaves to their sinful addictions.

Now my problem with this is this: i believe in the God of change. The Father so loved the world (euphemism for all of the little yellow, brown, red, black and pink idi-ants running around on it) that He gave His only begotten son. That whosoever, (or who ever wants to) believe in Him, shall not perish (die a worthless life and then spend an even more tragic eternity) but have everlasting life (life here should be capitalized. Life. Not the life that we suffer through here and is but a pale shadow of truly Living as it was meant to be, fully in God and He in us. No questions about purpose. No coping mechanisms. No incessant search for love and fulfillment. No lies.) That God has told me that He came to free people from their sins. Those that believe are no longer slaves, they are truly free. One of the evidences of this is that they shall live differently, different from how they lived before and different from all of those who have chosen not to believe. They shall truly change! This is my hope. Or i hope to make this my hope. Being a cynic, hope would be a change. This is what i pray for everyday. For myself and for others.

So how come i'm not seeing it happen?

A country for cur-mudgeons.

There was a man. He took a trip to a far off country and there he settled for a short while. While he was there he found a puppy. The puppy was starving, badly beaten, diseased and living on the streets. The man sought out the puppy's owner and stated his intentions to buy the dog. The owner demanded a high price and without batting an eye the man paid it, even though it was far more than the puppy was worth.

The man nursed the puppy back to health. He found him a home where the puppy would be looked after and gave him a name and a tag so everyone would know who the puppy belonged to. One day he took the puppy for a walk, told him how much he loved him, told him he was going away for a while and that when he came back, he would take the puppy to his new home where they would always be together. He told him that while he was gone, he wanted the puppy to be a good dog.

And then he left.

The puppy waited. And waited. And waited. After about an hour, the puppy realized that this was going to be a long wait. Puppy's have no real hard ideas about time. The puppy grew up. He did his best to be a good dog. He got along all right with the other dogs. He worked hard for the people who took care of him. He enjoyed walks and hunts and riding in cars with the windows open. He even settled down with another dog who had a tag as well and they had puppies of their own who he told about the master and country that they would all go to someday. And life went on.

But every now and then, the puppy would catch a scent of his true master. It might be on another person or another dog. It might be on something like a tree or wooded path. It might even be on the wind at sunset, as if carried there from some far country. The master's country. His country. At first the puppy would be excited. He would jump up and look, expecting any moment to see the master. And he would wait. And wait. And wag his tail. And wait. And sniff around trying to find more. And wait. And after about five minutes he would realize that this wasn't the time. The master wasn't coming. Again.

Then the puppy grew sullen. The puppy would retreat to dark corners and lie there. As he grew older, he grew less patient. No longer would he jump up. He would test the scent and if nothing changed he would go back to what he was doing. He still tried to be a good dog, but something had changed. His caretakers did not know what to do. His mate did not understand him. His own pups avoided him when they saw that familiar set of his jowls.

The other dogs made where ever they were at, their country. They dug holes and spread around smelly things. They lived in houses and acted like children instead of dogs. They chased their tails and bit whoever they pleased and barked and barked and barked. But the puppy thought they were all fools. He knew where he belonged and who he belonged with and this wasn't it.

Now is about the time in most stories that the Master should come or the puppy should take matters into his own paws and start off to find the Master or become a bad dog. But that didn't happen so i can't say that. The puppy is still working hard for the people who take care of him, he is still teaching his puppies about the Master, still trying to be a good dog. In short, he is still waiting.

Lately, he's been trying to wait in a more puppy like fashion. 'Cause puppies believe!

Teach your children well.

Does the Holy God have specific plans for us or does Jesus not care what we do as long as we do it all for the glory of the Father?

i have two sons, the Ballyhoo, Happ and Rascal. They are both creators.

Happ is a philosopher. He has ideas that swirl on currents of emotion, they are ephemeral; solid in the moment and then fading before the strength of the next minute's passion. He is a drummer and it seems to me that music fits his building style. He has much to say, too much for static mediums. Paper lacks the acreage to contain his spiritual pilgrimage. Too many borders, too many boundaries. He is the cowboy and only the wind can encompass his art. And so i think he will most likely build with the wind and on the wind and the wind will take his creations to the world.

Rascal is an architect. Rascal builds ideas upon ideas. Carefully selecting the next stone, the next brick from among the pile. Then shaping it, knocking off sharp corners or fitting it into the construct. Rascal aspires to perfection and permanence BUT only what is perfect must gain permanence. All failed attempts must be learned from and wiped away. Only what is good, what is solid, what has obeyed and fit the design in his dream can be seen through and then seen by the world. Rascal is young, blocks are the mode for now but blocks are the foundation of the man he will become. It seems to me that he is methodically choosing and learning and experimenting with what will become the building blocks of his own soul, his own direction, his life.

As their father, i love seeing them grow like this. i love answering their questions and seeing what they choose to do with the things they learn. Do i care what they do with their lives? Hell yeah! i'm going to be a lot more proud of them if they truly follow their dreams whatever those dreams may be. i'm going to be a lot more proud of a musician and an engineer than a male prostitute and the front end loader operator down at the dump. They don't have to be famous or particularly successful. i just want to look down the table at Thanksgiving someday and see two guys who are living, not just surviving. Two guys who are pursuing something, not running from something. Two guys who are investing their time here and not burying their talents so as not to lose them.

But that's me, what does the Almighty Maker of the Universe think?

The Black Sheep Rebellion (or What the Flock?)

"....and on the pastoral front, bloody fighting has again erupted in Cooper Nation. For more on that story we take you to our correspondent on the ground, Don Noemutch. What's the situation where you are Don?"

"It's becoming known as the Black Sheep Rebellion, Steve and up until this morning there was hope of a lasting truce, maybe even a return to the negotiating tables. But that dream of peace ended sometime last night when the shelling began and folks around here woke up to the war in earnest ..again.

Every year, many of the sheep in this wide flung flock gather here, in the traditional fold of the Cooper Nation to picnic, embarrass themselves at softball and horseshoes and do their patriotic part to deplete the local beer surplus. But it is not a complete gathering. Many of the flock could not make the annual pilgrimage. Scattered abroad, with young lambs being apprenticed to local shepherds, the diaspora quietly suffered alone. That is until the invention of the Easternet.

The information superhighway has brought millions of sheep together and that togetherness has brought something else... civil war.

Through a series of misinterpretations, hurt feelings and sidelong insults over the computer, a war erupted over the summer between the Cooper Nation sheep that remained in the fold and the many smaller, pocket flocks that lived in the surrounding hill country. These separate groups banded together and called themselves the Black Sheep due to the color of their wool. They rallied to the cause of having their own gathering in a place of their own choosing and had even formed a secret society to plan that new pilgrimage and it's meeting place. When the unexpected happened.

The shooting stopped. The two parties agreed, tenuously at first, to cease fire and start working through diplomacy on their mutual disagreement. This baby step was seen as a giant step forward and a welcome leap away from violence."

"What happened to renew the hostilities Don?"

"We can't be sure exactly but it seems, Steve, that the Nation sheep in the fold found out about the secret Black Sheep meetings taking place. Now the Black Sheep maintain that they had adjusted their plans to include the Fold Sheep since the truce but be that as it may, the shooting has started again anyway."

"Let us hope for another miracle truce, Don. Especially since I hear there's a bit of irony involving the name, "Black Sheep." Isn't that so?"

"It is Steve. The name Black Sheep is particularly an odd choice since All the sheep of the Cooper Nation are black."

"Haha. Will those sheep ever learn?"

"Only time will tell. Until then, there is very little co-operation in Cooper Nation. I'm Don Noemutch reporting from No-Sheeps-land. Back to you Steve."

Labor day strike

Labor day. How aptly named thou art.

So much to do, don't know where to start.

There's wood to stain and walls to finish,

A mess to move that just won't diminish,

A staircase to build and bedrooms to paint,

A bathroom that would make a sewer rat faint,

Floors to patch, windows to mend,

A honeydoo list that never will end,

So much to do that i sit here not doin'

Cause i ain't doin' squat till the coffee's done brewin'!

This is the Promised Land???

"You seem like you're in a really good place..."

My friend Panzer said that to me the other day.

Me. Good place.

If i was in the Hundred Acre Wood, Eor would tell me to lighten up. If i was one of the seven dwarves, the other six would trigger a cave-in and bury me alive and Grumpy would lead them. B.A. Baracus thinks i have a bad attitude. But enough about me.

Let's talk about Abraham.

Abraham got the direct word from God Almighty to up and move. "Go to the land I will show you." Not, go north on i 58 to the Mesopotamian Turnpike, hang a louie and head West until you see the sea, then bang South again on Egypt 501 through Palestine, Canaan and Assyria. Take the Mount Moriah exit and you're there! Just go. I'll tell you when we get there. Jesus would echo these words centuries later with, "you there, in the boat, follow me."

And Abraham went. And he got there... eventually but i'll bet there were times when he wanted to ask, "am I nuts?" And you know Sarah gave him crap every gosh darn day about listening to strange voices and uprooting the family and all and what were they going to eat and where would they live and how long would they live in a tent and did you just do this to get away from my mother and i'm tired of smelling like camel, when are we going to stop somewhere with proper facilities? And if Lot asked him one more time, "Are we there yet?" I kid you not! The boy is Lion chow! I will bury him up to his neck and cover his face with honey just to see what comes to lick his skin off!

Fourteen million bathroom breaks later, they arrived... dah-dah-da-dah-dah-da-DAH...big Charleton Heston voice over...which works even better cause he's dead...The Promised Land! Brass ensemble blows fanfare! Followed by kazoo solo. See, there were already people living there and it turned out to be sort of a future inheritance kind of deal. And the folk there weren't really Abraham's kind of folk. They were a touch sleazy. And then there were droughts and famine and they were still living in tents and there were well disputes and Sarah was barren and there was all the regular work involved in moving an army of sheep and shepherds from place to place. Oh, and then there was the little issue after Sarah finally did have a son, of God telling him to take him to a mountain, slash his throat and burn him, psyche. Get to know God, He's got a wicked sense of humor. You think following God means no troubles? Look at His Son Jesus. The guy was a homeless carpenter who willingly allowed himself to be tortured and executed. You think that if things aren't going slick as snot then you must be missing your divine cues? You better think another think, my buddly bud. God's replanting Eden. And all those fruit trees and jalapeño plants and flowers need soil that has all of its rocks dug out, its weeds ripped from it, its surface ground up, tilled, plowed over, rained on and guess what? We're not just the workers, we're the dirt.

"Lord?"

"Yello."

"Um, we're here."

"Yep."

"Um, here in the Promised Land."

"Yep, all of this, I give to you."

"Yeah, bout that, bit of a fixer upper, huh? Kind of a handyman's special."

"You should see it from my point of view."

"Yeah, did you happen to notice Sodom and Gomorrah right smack dab in the middle?"

"Yep."

"Right. You saw that. It's just that, there's a lot of work to do here."

"Why did you think I sent you here?"

"Well, i dunno, i just sort of thought .. that.. you know..."

"What?"

"That i was being rewarded or something."

"Rewarded?"

"Yeah, for being good."

"You should see you from my point of view."

"Right, touché. It's just that, i thought this would be a good place."

"It is a good place."

"How so? i mean, look around. It's falling apart. The taxes are horrible. There's mold, bugs, vermin and the neighbors smell of Rottweiler dung. The village wasn't happy with one idiot so they all applied for the job. There's poverty, lousy weather, over population, drunkenness, noise, pollution, wretched depravity, corruption, reality television. It's a flippin' mess! There's more work here than one man can do in two lifetimes! How, by any stretch of the imagination is this a good place???"

"I'm here. Here take this hoe, we got some work to do."

The story of the station

July 4th, 1998-- The frickens move into Elwood Station. A sixty year old former summer cottage. Having gutted the upstairs, they are sleeping in the utility room. Mama Mynk gets the only bed as she is eight months pregnant with Rascal. Churchmouse and Papa camp out on floor. Their first house, delirious joy is evident.

July 4th, 1999-- Deliriousness still evident, joy, not so much. The frickens come to the conclusion that the cottage is in no shape to survive raising another family in. Papa and his pal Ballisticat take shovels and picks and begin digging foundation for a new Station. Aspirations are high. So are naiveté levels.

Thanksgiving, many years later (i forget how many but i have the post around here somewhere and can prove that it was many years later if i have to)-- Frickens finally get upstairs of old station fixed up enough to use as bedrooms. New station is a skeleton getting soaked in the rain. Aspirations aren't so high anymore but weekend work parties are thriving and consume much beer at end of each Saturn's day.

Thanksgiving, 2007-- The frickens move into the bedrooms on new side of station. Not whole house, rest of house is bare studs and insulation, but they have bedrooms. Joy returns, work parties-not so much.

Christmas, 2008-- Drywall throughout! Papa frick has finally shook delirium. Hires outside contractors to finish new station. Station starting to look like house, plans are made for kitchen. Aspirations are high again. End may be in sight. Plans to raze old station to ground before it melts into it are formed.

By Labor Day, 2009-- Frickens' friend Bubba and three Bubbakins will need home. Emergency plans are made to convert Elwood Station into twin. Tobasco the Cat, possibly in anticipation begins hiding in banana box. Despite insurmountable piles of detritus still in old station, Summer windows (Sum are fuctional and sum are falling out) and a severe lack of kitchen in new station, Papa frick's faith and aspirations are high.

Or has Delirium returned???

When did i grow a beard???

i've been staring at the computer or "nothing box" (Mark Gungor, look him up, it's worth it.) as i will henceforth call it, for so long that when i looked up, everything around me was so bright and clear that i thought it was fake. That's what happens when you join facebook. You sign up one night in a moment of weakness, just curious to see what it's all about and two years later you wake up in a cesspool of your own filth sloshing around the sweats you now live in and clinging to your two hundred extra pounds you've put on by eating every snack food, condiment and end table in your house while you answered comments, looked at photos, posted photos, tagged photos, commented on photos, scrolled through lists looking for people you didn't really know but remember the names of to friend-request, confirm friend requests, do research on folks you don't remember but are friend-requesting you, answer chat balloons that pop up while you're checking your inbox, your wall, your profile, your homepage, your friend's homepage, wall, profile, all the while wondering what a HUG is, what Farmville is, why your friends are milking cows on it, why it needs to be able to see your friendlist, your profile, your bank account, your friends bank accounts and your closet all while trying to figure out how to poke, post and publish the minutia of your life and worrying over how much detail is too much and how much is too little.

Whatever happened to the good ol' days when there was nothing to do on the interwebs but surf for smut?

A muse moment.

A dark, hairy, gnarled, gnomish runt of a curmudgeon showed up last night. He nearly walked through the screen, he was so drunk. "Oh, you've come back," i remarked. He made a rude noise followed by a downright inappropriate gesture and then laid out his case in language that would offend a a particularly affable rock.

"Look, you (expletive deleted)! I give you idea after (colorful metaphor) golden idea and what do you do? You (completely impossible sex act with a mollusk) it up! You are so (hyperbolic reference to mental deficiency based upon location of cranium) that you (unhygienic practice yourself) no matter what I do for you, you (very, very, very stupid person)! So you know what I'm gonna do? I'm going to give it to you. The (fantasy night with famous celebrity) idea of all (nearly impossible sex acts with famous celebrities) of ideas. This is it! You (anatomical region specific to males nurse sharks) this up and I'm through! You understand, you (unwanted relative of a member of the bovine order)? This is it! Last (sex act between a non-consenting primate and toaster) chance you (rare spinal disorder contracted from inbreeding). You (...um, not sure..?) this up and I quit being your (i'd rather not say) muse! Got it? Hey, where are you goin', you (superfluous member of a large factory device)? I offer you fame, a chance to get out of your (fairly accurate description of my) rut and you walk away???"

"i'm gonna go see what my kids are doing." Feeling smug in my sense of values, i descended the stairs to find my family...

...watching teevee. Little (unclaimed orphan) couldn't have got far on such stubby legs, maybe i can still get that idea.

Oh, cause you're the mayor.

The breeze blows gentle in the trees. The charcoal is alight and better than any incense save the prayers of the saints. The wicker could use a cushion and the teenager could use a place-putting-punt-to-the-posterior and a cold shower. i am sitting in aforementioned wicker and waxing nostalgic about a scene out of the weekend last.

There too the breeze and i enjoyed the long rays of the sun. Though it were more the time of anticipation than reflection. There too, i sat. There too, there were teenagers in need of place-putting-punts. And that brings us to our story...

Lacrosse, like most sports, Carlin be wherever he's at, it is a sport and as such, is played by the young. And though the modern world seems to think them passé, the young often have fathers, for good or ill. Fathers who often, God bless 'em, think that their progeny, most of whom are walking upright, potty trained and old enough to shave, could not successfully make themselves a glass of chocolate milk without their fathers bellowing at them from the sidelines if it were to be accomplished on a playing field. You've heard these men. Everyone within a five mile radius hears these men. Berating their beloved sons in a spray of spittle laced fury like the slave drivers in Roman galleys during a losing battle.

There i and the breeze and everyone within a five mile radius sat, unwilling audience to a master slave driver practicing his craft. For fully thirty minutes of a thirty-five minute game he paced the sidelines as if he were the reincarnation of Vince Lombardi himself, telling every boy on the field where they should be, how they should play and asking in his best pleading martyr voice, why, o why were they not listening to him and trying to win the game??? So fanatical was he, i began to watch in the morbid fascination that he would soon have a massive coronary right there on the field and never having seen such a thing and being ambivalent to the outcome, i thought it might prove more entertaining than the game. Maybe now would be an opportune time to say that my son was not playing in this game so i had no personal stake. Insert joke about my own massive coronary here. i don't mind. i am not one of these fathers.

i save my wrath for the refs but that is another story and we're not talking about me.

We're talking about this guy... and the guy twenty foot down the line. The guy who looked like a retired teamster. Who talked like a retired teamster who did strong arm work for the Union back in the day. Who had apparently had his fill of the slave driver's vitriol.

"Hey (we'll call him Creo Sonitus, Soni for short) Hey Soni! Why don't you shuttup!" says, retired teamster knee breaker.

"I'm oveh heeya, (helpfully points to where he's standing) i'm not botherin' you!"

"You're bodderin' all of us! You're making us all nauseous!"

"And you're de mayor."

"You're out of control, you're makin' us all sick!"

"Oh and you're so loved!"

There followed after this exchange, five minutes of blessed, if somewhat strained silence as the game wound to it's inevitable conclusion and kneebreaker's and Soni's sons' defeat. And that would have been the end of it. There would have been no story except for the origin of why i will now refer to anyone who tells me what to do as, "the mayor."

Except that's when the real story began. For at that point, kneebreaker came over. He shook Soni's hand and gave him a one armed man hug. They made up and apologized and were both gracious in defeat. Now, for all i know, they do this every game. It could be ritual for them. But that one act of restoration and forgiveness, that picture of redemption, that holy moment almost made up for the fact that i had to drive to blinkin' Jersey three days in a row to watch my son's coach snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory five times in a friggin' row.

Almost.

The Two Rules extrapolated.

Y’see, the problem isn’t that I don’t have good ideas. I have great ideas. I just ignore them.

Wayward and I were in high school when the amazing, binary switch moment came. (I like that phrase, ‘binary switch moment.’ Got it from a book about robotics scientists. I’ll have to look up the guy to give credit where credit is due. Though it’s probably anecdotal in Geek.) Wayward and I were two of a kind. That kind being the kind of kid no one cares where and what they’re doing as long as they’re not in trouble. It had been that way more or less all our lives. Or at least since we had been able to change our own diapers. But the moment came when we realized that that not only applied to the few hours after school but it could be extended out over an entire weekend. Couple this epiphany with the fact that we had cars and like teenage boys had since Noah’s boys blew off the Ark, Ararat and Authority figures, we rediscovered the Road Trip. Oh yeah, we were flippin' geniuses.

Now, despite meticulous planning and packing Rachel, my Ford Bronco up to the windows (two kitchen sinks, just in case the first one broke) we soon learned that the quest to escape all rules, rites and regulations came with a few rules, rites and regulations of its own. You never, apparently escape societal constraints; you merely trade one culture’s for another’s. We learned this in less than thirty miles. At our first rest stop to replenish the coffee tanks and pump the bilges we returned to my lil’ mule to find that I had locked the keys in the ignition. After acquiring an expert in all things automotive with a slim jim and giving him a half an hour, I took the implement and opened the door myself. It was a pan of life’s mud that when sifted gave up a priceless nugget of experiential wisdom. And thus the two rules were born.

Rule one: When traveling, everyone has a key to the car.

Rule number two: When traveling, EVERYONE HAS A KEY TO THE FRIGGIN’ CAR!!!

Now it wasn’t learned right away. It was created right away but it wasn’t driven home until my lovely fiancée and I and again Wayward went to see Bad Company and Damn Yankees down in the city one night and it happened again. This time costing ninety dollars and a chunk of my evening to the nice locksmith. After THAT time we started making sure that Everyone Has A Key To The Car.

Now maybe it was the point that my son Happ doesn’t drive. And maybe it was because i’m no longer in the habit of locking cars. But for whatever reason, Happs or habits, I found myself in Piscataway, New Jersey this weekend, (yeah, I know, New Jersey.) peering through the windshield of my Chevy, looking at my key in the middle console. It was only then that I considered the two key fobs that I don’t use that were also locked safely away in the console. It took longer for the nice locksmith to verify my credit than it did to break into my truckette. You may think that hyperbole. And you’d be grossly mistaken, my cynical friend. The fobs went into Happ’s lacrosse bag and the knob went into my sleeping bag to wonder again at the fact that I carry around this heavy old brain that I never use. I wonder what they’re fetching on the black market these days. If I trade mine for a motorcycle I’ll never have to worry about being locked out again.

the two rules

the first law of travel is...

everyone has a key to the car.

the second rule of travel is...

EVERYONE HAS A KEY TO THE FRIGGIN' CAR!!!

Nomadittidy

Pick up my spirit as i pick up my pack

i get lighter as it goes on my back

Slip the shadows as i slip my roof

Climb out of my rut and onto the hoof

Wastes of Jersey, wilds of the West

My native place is the perpetual guest

Earthbound, waterborne, Heaven sent

Motion is my element