When the teen wonder dragged himself down from his bedroom he glared at the blank TV screen and said he was sick. Was he going to school? He shrugged.
When he was informed that the question required a Yes or No answer he mumbled and pulled a blanket up over his head.
Was he going to school? "Yes... No... Maybe... I don't know. Could you repeat the question?"
He was up.
I got the car keys.
He was down.
I put them back.
He was up.
I retrieved the keys
Eventually,I bullied him into going to school and and we ran through the rain to the car.
We made it a half a block before he began to vomit.
He was back on the couch before my feet hit the driveway.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Monday, May 10, 2010
Motorhead
Auto Man has returned from The Sunshine State. I saw him this morning.
Every year he and his wife head south for the winter and return when the leaves are back on the trees. He fixes cars in the garage behind his house, just down the street from Fuddsy.
After he repairs them, he parks the autos on his front lawn with For Sale signs in their windows.
He's a nice guy, skinny as a rock star and always glad to see me.
I saw him this morning tooling down the street in his hot rod, a hoodless black Ford pickup with a tiny cargo bay and a chrome engine and exhaust pipes that hang over the fenders
I waved as he passed by. He waved back, but he didn't sound his "aoogah" horn.
Every year he and his wife head south for the winter and return when the leaves are back on the trees. He fixes cars in the garage behind his house, just down the street from Fuddsy.
After he repairs them, he parks the autos on his front lawn with For Sale signs in their windows.
He's a nice guy, skinny as a rock star and always glad to see me.
I saw him this morning tooling down the street in his hot rod, a hoodless black Ford pickup with a tiny cargo bay and a chrome engine and exhaust pipes that hang over the fenders
I waved as he passed by. He waved back, but he didn't sound his "aoogah" horn.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mother's Day
The family unit took a trip over the river and through the hood to have breakfast at the railside diner. It's an Edward Hooper-esque eatery with big plate glass windows behind the hanger factory on the other side of the tracks. The diner has a counter with chrome and Naugahyde stools that separates clusters of low-backed booths and has a devoted clientele.
The smokers congregate on one side, the non-smokers on other. Smoking is no longer allowed, but the groups still maintain their distance.
An elderly woman in a walker shuffled slowly into the smoker's side, while her husband straggled in with her portable oxygen tank. A neatly dressed couple said prayers over their French toast while a biker dude in a sweaty T-shirt and a blue do-rag snorted at a joke.
Number One Son had the usual: a chocolate chip pancake. Mom was in a festive mood. She had the Monte Christo. I had the American Classic:a cheese omlette with hot dog slices. It was the name that got to me. I couldn't resist. But I wouldn't recommend it.
A train lumbered by dragging hoppers of coal north to the power plant.
The smokers congregate on one side, the non-smokers on other. Smoking is no longer allowed, but the groups still maintain their distance.
An elderly woman in a walker shuffled slowly into the smoker's side, while her husband straggled in with her portable oxygen tank. A neatly dressed couple said prayers over their French toast while a biker dude in a sweaty T-shirt and a blue do-rag snorted at a joke.
Number One Son had the usual: a chocolate chip pancake. Mom was in a festive mood. She had the Monte Christo. I had the American Classic:a cheese omlette with hot dog slices. It was the name that got to me. I couldn't resist. But I wouldn't recommend it.
A train lumbered by dragging hoppers of coal north to the power plant.
Friday, April 23, 2010
He's a lumberjack? Is he OK?
The neighborhood is all a twitter. Word on the street is that Fuddsy plans to cut down the pine trees that tower over his house. And he intends to do it himself.
It's probably true. He's spray painted yellow Xs on the trees he wants to remove, just like a real lumberjack.
The pines are about 90 feet high and might fall on neighboring houses, including mine, if they are dropped incorrectly.
There's no doubt that something has to be done. The trees have been falling branch by branch particularly during winter nor'easters when the limbs are caked with a cement-like layer of wet snow. We sleep on the couch in the living room during partcularly windy storms to avoid the The Big Bang.
A 90-footer with a trunk as wide as a coffee table fell in the front yard a few years ago. It fell away from the house and knocked down four telephone poles that went down like dominos when the trunk hit the wires. The electricity was out for hours. Luckily, it blocked the street so the town removed it. The load filled a flatbed truck.
After the excitement,Insurance Man, a couple of doors down, had his pines removed a at a cost of $3,000. The Southern Immigrants on the other side of Fuddsy had theirs removed at a cost of $10,000. Both jobs were done by professional lumberjacks assisted by a gigantic crane that towered over the trees and held them as they were removed piece by piece.
Fuddsy is said to have rented a bucket truck for the project. The smart money says its way to small for the project. We'll see. It ought to be entertaining.
It's probably true. He's spray painted yellow Xs on the trees he wants to remove, just like a real lumberjack.
The pines are about 90 feet high and might fall on neighboring houses, including mine, if they are dropped incorrectly.
There's no doubt that something has to be done. The trees have been falling branch by branch particularly during winter nor'easters when the limbs are caked with a cement-like layer of wet snow. We sleep on the couch in the living room during partcularly windy storms to avoid the The Big Bang.
A 90-footer with a trunk as wide as a coffee table fell in the front yard a few years ago. It fell away from the house and knocked down four telephone poles that went down like dominos when the trunk hit the wires. The electricity was out for hours. Luckily, it blocked the street so the town removed it. The load filled a flatbed truck.
After the excitement,Insurance Man, a couple of doors down, had his pines removed a at a cost of $3,000. The Southern Immigrants on the other side of Fuddsy had theirs removed at a cost of $10,000. Both jobs were done by professional lumberjacks assisted by a gigantic crane that towered over the trees and held them as they were removed piece by piece.
Fuddsy is said to have rented a bucket truck for the project. The smart money says its way to small for the project. We'll see. It ought to be entertaining.
Monday, April 19, 2010
pre-high school musical
The pit band struck up the familiar chords of "The Candyman" and the curtain jerked open to reveal a cardboard cutout of the front gate of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory.
As the music reached a crescendo, Willie stepped out onto the stage in a silver glitter top hat and Jiminy cricket coat. The hall shook with applause.
The gym/auditorium was packed with 300 hundred hooting and hollering theatergoers in folding metal chairs who cheered on their siblings and friends as they flexed their fledgling acting muscles in the middle school production of Willy Wonka.
The Candyman came. The Oompa Loompas' oompaed. Willie Wonka winked. Nary a line was dropped, and nobody was embarassed.
Everybody agreed the show was awesome.
Did I tell you Number One Son had a featured role? He played the video game fanatic Mike TV. He stole the show.
At least in this critic's eyes.
Who says Our Town has no clutcha.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
I confess
I steal pens. I just returned from a walk to the bank, where the haul was two TD Bank pens with retractable points. I got a thick stemmed beauty at the hair dresser's this morning. I've lifted ballpoints from auto dealerships, museums, restaurants and schools. A box on the coffee table in front of me holds writing instruments from a veterinarian, the town recreation department and the MSMA Alumni Association, whatever that is. I lifted them all. And I did it when nobody was looking. My wife and son think I'm crazy.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Dawn Patrol
At dawn on an unseasonably warm April morning fog hugged the river like a down conforter. I heard the distant honking of Canada goose before the motors of the commuters began to growl. As the calls grew louder and louder, it became obvious that a solitary goose had become separated from its flock while migrating north by starlight from Chesapeake Bay. As its voice grew fainter I snuggled under the covers. I still wonder if he found the flock.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Three Bags...
Spring is the time when a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. My fancy has more earthy concerns. My mind turns to thoughts of poop.
While the return of warm weather isnpires some to rake their lawns, tend their garden, or go for a long walk in the woods, it motivates me to grab a plastic grocery bag and venture out into the newly revealed backyard where like a giant Easter bunny, Mike the Labroador Retriever has been depositing spring surprises since the snow began to fly last November.
Buried by successive snow storms some of the little packages have been in the deep freeze for months. So like Groundskeeper Willie, I spring into action at the first sight of defrosted lawn, before my neighbors, or my nose, tells me that I've been remiss in my duties.
Consequently, yesterday morning while the neighbors power walked with dumbells in their hands and the dog cavorted in the sunshine, I was stooping over a fragrant bundle with a plastic bag in one hand,
"Enjoying the weather?" asked one sweat sujited stroller.
"Yes, sir. Yes,sir. Three bags full."
While the return of warm weather isnpires some to rake their lawns, tend their garden, or go for a long walk in the woods, it motivates me to grab a plastic grocery bag and venture out into the newly revealed backyard where like a giant Easter bunny, Mike the Labroador Retriever has been depositing spring surprises since the snow began to fly last November.
Buried by successive snow storms some of the little packages have been in the deep freeze for months. So like Groundskeeper Willie, I spring into action at the first sight of defrosted lawn, before my neighbors, or my nose, tells me that I've been remiss in my duties.
Consequently, yesterday morning while the neighbors power walked with dumbells in their hands and the dog cavorted in the sunshine, I was stooping over a fragrant bundle with a plastic bag in one hand,
"Enjoying the weather?" asked one sweat sujited stroller.
"Yes, sir. Yes,sir. Three bags full."
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
mike
The Hounds of the Baskervilles are baying. I can hear them now. The wind is blowing from the west, carrying the sound of their barking from the doggie day care center in the former factory across the river. It’s a sound you rarely hear, except perhaps in a fox hunt scene in a movie. Mike, the black lab, ignores them. He doesn’t realize he’s a dog.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Sunshine Patriot
Elmer Fudd is a patriot. At least he thinks he is.
When he moved into the house next door, the engine of his pickup truck had barely cooled before he began to put up a flagpole in the front yard.
He wore a camouflage suit and a matching baseball cap and had a handgun strapped to his thigh in case he had to defend himself from one of the neighborhood kids tooling around on their bicycles.
He dug the hole himself and wielded his shovel like a weapon.
The flag now flies 24 hours a day rain and shine. Today it hangs limply in a wind driven rainstorm.
Apparently Elmer never learned the rules about paying proper respect to the flag. That would take effort.
When he moved into the house next door, the engine of his pickup truck had barely cooled before he began to put up a flagpole in the front yard.
He wore a camouflage suit and a matching baseball cap and had a handgun strapped to his thigh in case he had to defend himself from one of the neighborhood kids tooling around on their bicycles.
He dug the hole himself and wielded his shovel like a weapon.
The flag now flies 24 hours a day rain and shine. Today it hangs limply in a wind driven rainstorm.
Apparently Elmer never learned the rules about paying proper respect to the flag. That would take effort.
The Morning Patrol
A Walk on the Mild Side
Like a mangy old coyote with more limp than swagger in his step, I begin most mornings by patrolling my territory.
I live on a pine ridge in a town I‘ll call Riverdale. My cottage sits on a corner overlooking a river. One street is named after the first European settler in the area. He made his farm on the corn fields of the Native Americans who had their summer encampment on the other side of the river where a milltown now darkens the horizon. The other street is named after the brothers, who operated a general where the ferry crossed the river.
One hundred and fifty years ago there were two general stores at the ferry landing. When a Republican was president the post office was in one store and when a Democrat was in power it moved across the street.The ferry was replaced by a trolley bridge and finally an automobile bridge that crosses the river into the mill town.
The general stores have been replaced by a chain convenience store and the gas station, where I buy the newspaper every morning.
On the walk to the store I stroll past winterized cottages under 80-foot white pines. On the way back I walk along the bank of the river at the base of the ridge. That street is named after one of the town fathers who made his fortune in California during the gold rush. Rumor has it when he was digging the cellar of his home, he had to dispose of the remains of Native Americans buried there.
Nothing that dramatic has happened during my morning stroll, but it the river’s mood changes with the weather.
Like a mangy old coyote with more limp than swagger in his step, I begin most mornings by patrolling my territory.
I live on a pine ridge in a town I‘ll call Riverdale. My cottage sits on a corner overlooking a river. One street is named after the first European settler in the area. He made his farm on the corn fields of the Native Americans who had their summer encampment on the other side of the river where a milltown now darkens the horizon. The other street is named after the brothers, who operated a general where the ferry crossed the river.
One hundred and fifty years ago there were two general stores at the ferry landing. When a Republican was president the post office was in one store and when a Democrat was in power it moved across the street.The ferry was replaced by a trolley bridge and finally an automobile bridge that crosses the river into the mill town.
The general stores have been replaced by a chain convenience store and the gas station, where I buy the newspaper every morning.
On the walk to the store I stroll past winterized cottages under 80-foot white pines. On the way back I walk along the bank of the river at the base of the ridge. That street is named after one of the town fathers who made his fortune in California during the gold rush. Rumor has it when he was digging the cellar of his home, he had to dispose of the remains of Native Americans buried there.
Nothing that dramatic has happened during my morning stroll, but it the river’s mood changes with the weather.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
The Last Woodfire
It was too cold for comfort the morning of last wood fire. The outdoor thermometer trembled in a wind that bent the birch trees when I dropped young Sam off at School.
The temperature flirted with the teens, but I held off. I didn’t crumble the newspaper and arrange the logs in the Franklin stove until late afternoon.
As I poked at the laptop warmth radiated from the iron stove like a warm hug. The smell of the smoke was more pungent, the flames more exuberant that in midwinter.
As I walked to the woodpile, I remembered stacking logs in September. The turquoise tarp stretched over the cord of wood like a tightly-pegged tent at an Army encampment. Now the slack canvas flapped in the wind over a paltry jumble of split oak. We’d made it through another winter.
The temperature flirted with the teens, but I held off. I didn’t crumble the newspaper and arrange the logs in the Franklin stove until late afternoon.
As I poked at the laptop warmth radiated from the iron stove like a warm hug. The smell of the smoke was more pungent, the flames more exuberant that in midwinter.
As I walked to the woodpile, I remembered stacking logs in September. The turquoise tarp stretched over the cord of wood like a tightly-pegged tent at an Army encampment. Now the slack canvas flapped in the wind over a paltry jumble of split oak. We’d made it through another winter.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The first day of spring is a time of new beginnings, but every beginning marks an end. It was also the day of Aunt Dot’s funeral. Time for the brown suit reserved for special occasions and a tie that didn’t clash.
At the funeral home a handful of relatives chatted awkwardly in front of the blue casket framed by floral bouquets and a cork board with a photo array. Aunt Dot the younger in her sun dress and floppy hat. Aunt Dot with her husband, who died long and hard of Parkinson‘s disease in a local nursing home. Aunt Dot with her only son, the Elvis Presley look-a-like who died in a fire on St. Patrick‘s Day more than 40 years before.
But few got to enjoy the pictures. The funeral home was nearly empty. She had lived to be 100 and had outlived all of her friends.
The funeral Mass was said a St. Francis Xavier, the church that I attended before I lost religion. It was the first time in decades that I saw the choir loft, where I had played under the pews with my brother while my mother rehearsed the Ave Maria and the marble table where I served as an altar boy when the Mass was said Latin.
The smell of incense wafting from the priest’s censor, reawakened memories of growing up in the neighborhood when traffic lights were rare. Sneaking into the nature preserve to go camping. Fishing in the reservoir. Ham and bean suppers at the grange hall. Running through woods to the Christmas bazaar on the day that President Kennedy was killed.
As I left the church and loosened my tie, I wondered what memories my 11-year-old son was making.
At the funeral home a handful of relatives chatted awkwardly in front of the blue casket framed by floral bouquets and a cork board with a photo array. Aunt Dot the younger in her sun dress and floppy hat. Aunt Dot with her husband, who died long and hard of Parkinson‘s disease in a local nursing home. Aunt Dot with her only son, the Elvis Presley look-a-like who died in a fire on St. Patrick‘s Day more than 40 years before.
But few got to enjoy the pictures. The funeral home was nearly empty. She had lived to be 100 and had outlived all of her friends.
The funeral Mass was said a St. Francis Xavier, the church that I attended before I lost religion. It was the first time in decades that I saw the choir loft, where I had played under the pews with my brother while my mother rehearsed the Ave Maria and the marble table where I served as an altar boy when the Mass was said Latin.
The smell of incense wafting from the priest’s censor, reawakened memories of growing up in the neighborhood when traffic lights were rare. Sneaking into the nature preserve to go camping. Fishing in the reservoir. Ham and bean suppers at the grange hall. Running through woods to the Christmas bazaar on the day that President Kennedy was killed.
As I left the church and loosened my tie, I wondered what memories my 11-year-old son was making.
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