Mike B. Writes!

The Amaryllis

2026-02-07T17:42:00.000-08:00

It was December, 1982 in suburban Minneapolis. Typical temperature in the teens. Cold enough for snow, there just hadn’t been much, so the frozen ground was a miserable brown and green mixture of grass and leaves that escaped an autumn raking.

It was my first night home after the college exams. The plans…to go out that night with high school friends. Everyone’s first night back. Check out our usual haunts.

For some reason, we ate in our dining room that night. It was brothers Kevin, Pat, and my parents. Plenty of room at the normal dinner table, but Mom chose full-on dining room. Kevin lived an hour north and was staying for a few days. Pat lived in Minneapolis and would go home after dinner.

I don’t recall what was on the menu that night, but Mom, aka Norma, was a very good cook. As long as she steered clear of liver and onions, it was going to be delicious. I sat at one end of the table, opposite my dad. Next to me, on a small table in the corner was something I’d never seen before. An Amaryllis.

A peculiar, foot-tall plant with a bright, lily-like white flower. Something out of Dr. Seuss. “What is this plant?” I asked. Mom went on to tell me what it was called, adding, “They’re really hard to grow…” What I remember was that you needed to put it in the dark for a while, then somehow it would grow and produce a single flower the size of my hand. My only comment after that was, “That is the coolest plant I’ve ever seen.” The story would be a little crazier if, at that moment, a rooster crowded in the distance. A biblical way of punctuating the importance of my statement.

After dinner, friends picked me up and we went out for a few hours. It started snowing and snowing and snowing. By the end of our night, everything was covered with a few inches. When I got dropped off, I wasn’t surprised to see my yard, driveway, and walkways pristine in their coverage of the white stuff. What did surprise me was that the garage door was still up.

The routine for my going out at night was that I entered the garage through a side door, and then into the house. The open garage just meant walking straight up the few feet of driveway and into the garage. I’d enter the family room, directly behind the garage, where Kevin would undoubtedly be watching TV and I would join him.

So about 10 minutes later, I wasn’t completely surprised when there was a knock at the front door. It was winter’s first snow, so car-things happened. Kevin assumed what I did. “They’re your friends.” I was surprised when I went to the door and there was no one there. Not much that I could do, so I just rejoined Kevin in front of the TV. “No one there.” I guessed some kids were having a sleepover, so me come home and decided I was fair game.

Things got annoying with another knock minutes later. A distinctive sound. To be more accurate, a hollow sound from one of the small, double-paned windows on the side of the door. This matters because it’s the only place from where this sound could emanate.

I turned on the outside lights, that illuminated the entire sidewalk and porch, running the length of the house (not a small slab). Interesting. Still pristine. No prints, no snowballs. Nothing. Checked the storm door on the 1% chance it was banging the wind, of which there was none. Advised Kevin, “Door’s locked and there’s no marks in the snow.”

“Tell me about this ghost again,” said Kevin.

A third knocking.

You see, stuff had been happening around the house for a few years. I can’t say they were happening to me, per se, because it was just my parents and I that lived there. Everyone else had grown up and out of the house. Lots of noises, a few lights turning on for no reason, and once I thought I heard someone whisper my name. Easily labeled coincidences, but after a while where’s there’s smoke…fire.

This time was different. There was a witness and there was no way to explain the lack of footprints. Remember, no one else was in the house, except for sleeping parents.

So, like what was now becoming clockwork, another knock. Six knocks. The same number of knocks every time. Knuckles on the shadow box window next to the front door.

This time we both got up and went to the door. Kevin turned on all the outside lights, like I had, and he also turned on the foyer light where he and I were standing. He looked out the front door. Out of the corner of my eye, something drew my attention to the living room on my left.

“Oh my god, Kevin, Mom’s plant!”

Twisted, like a rung out piece of wet clothing, broken in half, the coolest plant I’d ever seen.

The Bulbous-Headed Extra

2024-02-01T18:55:00.000-08:00

It was a fourteen-hour day. Well-fed, sore feet, often bored to death, sometimes in the middle of the magic, and occasionally treated like the delicate flower that I know myself to be. Such was my experience as a background actor. Aka, an extra.

My call time was Tuesday at 9A. I was hired a day or two before, cast as PEDESTRIAN. He’s a serious man with a hint of bad boy and a love of fruited desserts. Hey, every character needs a backstory. The only other information I got was wardrobe and appearance. Bring autumn colors and a suit, if you have one.

I learned quickly from a previous extra experience, if you wanted camera time, you needed to set yourself apart from other extras. This didn’t mean a rainbow afro wig. It meant, listen to their instructions. “If you have a suit, bring it.” I knew most men wouldn’t want to wear a suit on a warm day. When I arrived on set, I showed Wardrobe my clothes and she said, “Wear the suit.” Once my omelet was ready and I sat down to eat, I saw I was the only man in a suit.

“Did he say omelet?” said you. Yes, breakfast catering included an omelet bar, in a parking lot. A large tent was set up. Food at these things was superb. Gourmet superb. From extras to actors, everyone eats the same stuff. Granted, something tells me that Leo gets whatever he wants, cooked by someone who only cooks for Leo, served in his trailer.

My time in makeup involved sunscreening my shaved head and straightening some edges at my neckline, in case they used me as a cop later. I’m nothing, if not known for my range.

As I finished breakfast a production assistant (PA) grabbed me, some basketball players, and a few fake cops. From this point forward, you can assume anyone I mention (cop, medical, military) is pretend. Everyone is pretend except for crew.

We walked a few blocks to set. It’s set, not the set. A parking lot at the Atlanta Police Department. The scene was…well… actually, you often don’t know what’s going on in a scene. You’re told who you are and what you’re doing.

I was a lawyer walking across the parking lot into a building corridor to visit a client. I was given a briefcase, a to-go coffee (empty), and an assistant. The scene was… ”you’re a lawyer (a bad boy, of course) walking in to see a client…exchange words with your assistant as you walk…glance over at the pick-up basketball going on in the corner of the parking lot…chuckle…walk into the building.

As lawyer and assistant hit their halfway point, one of the show’s stars crossed behind us. My moment. That camera pointed right at me as I walked past. I knew my noggin’ would be fully featured on primetime network television. Well, The CW in 2016.

I mentioned basketball players as extras. I sat with these men. They were all former D1 starters. They were Atlanta cops playing pickup basketball at lunch. 3-on-3, shirts and skins. Never in the history of Atlanta law enforcement has a pickup game like this been played. Great play after great play, not to mention the player’s physique and conditioning. I’d challenge anyone to find ANY six Atlanta cops that were that fit!

Being featured like that was just the start. My part took a few hours on a sunny day. That’s a good amount of standing around. Suddenly, umbrellas appeared. As I waited for the next take, a young lady asked, “Sir, would you like an umbrella?” “Sure.” Rather than hand me an umbrella, she stood next to me, and held it over my head, shielding the Delicate Flower (my new SAG name).

Reverence met my expectations.

Finally.

Besides being repeatedly asked if I had on sunscreen, there was a rotation of crew who “umbrella’d” me. At one point, a white-haired gentleman took his turn protecting said talent. Since I was curious about a crew career, I asked questions…brief questions as there’s not a lot of chat time. Mostly, “so what do you do?” I came across a lot of PA’s. It’s where you start. A gopher.

I knew the white-haired, umbrella man was not a PA. “I’m head of hair and makeup.” Interesting. Seems people just stepping up to keep me from wilting.

Figure 1 The Lawyer Scene (Suncreened lawyer with Assistant(left) from news story I happened to see about Atlanta film industry)

My run ended and I was told most unlikely I’d be done for the day. I was closeup on camera a lot and they wouldn’t want me recognized later in the episode. “Hey, that’s the guy from the parking lot.” However, they didn’t cut me loose because they never know if they might just need you again, and the budget had my $10/hr wage covered.

That was fine. It was lunchtime and I knew what awaited. Filet mignon, shrimp scampi, perfectly prepared veggies, bombastic salads, vegan-gluten free-all kosher everything, fresh baked goods, and desserts that would make an Italian wedding reception envious.

Again…served in a tented parking lot.

The thing is these are always 12-hour days, five days a week. Cast and crew…feed them well and keep them healthy. I never saw a French fry. Except for the perpetual snack table on set, I never saw a processed, labeled food. The snack table offered your Cheez-Its and Oreos, but also granola bars and fruit. Stuff to keep everyone going well after midnight.

Day became night, and myself and a few other extras stayed in the tent, but were thirsty and hungry. Filming moved indoors by my earlier parking lot, and with them went refreshments. So we followed.

All the action was in a large conference room, so we found the snacks and the room where extras were held. Comfortable office chairs, air conditioning, and new friends: military, police, medical, and a few suited people for the conference room scene. It beat the tented parking lot. My day was over, so I just ate and chatted.

Minding my own business and someone comes in for some more extras. She asks for me, so I follow onto set. Again, a large conference room. Perfectly suited for a meeting of all the people you’d want in one room to discuss a killer virus.

I was still in my suit. Why change now? Classic two-piece business suit, white shirt, and a tie from wardrobe. I guess my clip-on didn’t cut it. However, I wore the wrong shirt. I had two white shirts. One was too small in the neck. I couldn’t button it, so I faked it. Cinch up the tie so I look like a proper lawyer.

I followed into the room. Equipment everywhere. Twenty extra, various actors, and stars of the show. I was sent to a corner and not really told what to do.

For me it never got that far. An AD (assistant director) came over and told me, as predicted, they couldn’t use me. Too much earlier camera time. No more wonderful words I’ve ever heard. My feet hurt and I’d already had my closeup.

Back into the big, extra waiting area I went. Fine by me. No sooner than I sat down, a woman came in and said, “Sir, they’d like you to come back.” It’s $140 and great food for 12 hours. Sir and Ma’am is nice.

I’m led back, but a woman from Wardrobe stopped in the hallway. “The Director would like your shirt buttoned.” The Director noticed me? When? The first time I came in and wasn’t used because I’d had too much camera time? He noticed my shirt wasn’t buttoned? Do I have a look? Is a star born? At the least, it’s impressive attention to detail.

I told the wardrobe assistant I couldn’t get it buttoned. We went into the conference room and she failed in her first attempt, then pulled out an elastic button extender. I noticed the room was still. Between takes it was always frantic with talking and moving equipment. They’d finished all that.

The production was waiting on The Delicate Flower™ to get his shirt buttoned. With the extender in place, the new issue was the button hole. Years of not buttoning and many dry cleans… and the hole was stiff like cardboard.

Time being money and all, the director came over and said, “Let me try.” Three-time Emmy Award winning (Game of Thrones and Band of Brothers) director David Nutter (https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0638354/) has taken it upon himself to dress me.

Things are finally coming together. I’m working on my spinoff’s title.

“Sir, am I hurting you?” “Anything for my craft,” is what I wished I’d said.

My guess is that Mr. Nutter made my $140 wage in the a few seconds working on my collar, then seemingly everyone in the crew said,” Sir, I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” When the director steps in to dress an extra, someone better jump in ASAP or hell will most definitely be paid.

Finally, the background actor formerly known as Pedestrian was ready for his closeup. Actually…pretty much what happened. Mr. Nutter took me by the hand and stood me with a cop and paramedic. Directly behind the show’s star. In the end, I had a few minutes of up-close camera time. It’s a lot of time for my bulbous noggin’.

For the next two hours, I joked with an actor from LA (fake cop) and a singer (twice solo musical guest on a late-night network show). Much time spent holding back laughing. If you’re going to be stuck in a spot for a few hours, I could’ve done much worse. The singer taught me a great lesson about breaks. We went on her smoke break. A lot of actors smoke, so I got to hang out with the cool kids. Granted, everyone just looked at their phones. I was given a prop phone for the scene, so I pretended to use my 1990’s Blackberry.

I had a few other extra gigs, but got very little, if any, camera time. I also didn’t try very hard to get booked. Being on a production ruined me for TV/movies for a while. Knowing how the sausage is made. That nothing is real. That decorated military man in the President’s Situation Room, who never speaks, is an extra. When someone on a sitcom walks into a bedroom complaining about the rain outside, not only was that person not outside, they were on the other side of the fake wall waiting for a cue.

In the end, I went from a character called pedestrian, to who I like to call the bulbous-headed man in suit. My hair trimmed, head shaded from the sun, a must for the big conference room scene. A man who held the hand of the man who’s likely held the hands of Hanks, Clooney, Tony Soprano, and the guy who flew on the back of the two-headed dragon from the kingdom of G’nip G’nop (I never watched Game of Thrones).

I did get some good screen time in the conference room, but my outdoor, lawyer walking scene?

Cut.

And with that, went my Golden Globe.

(Oh…the show? Containment (U.S. version) episode one.)

Figure 2 Our hero-bulbous-headed variety (far right)

You Ol’ Dog, You

2023-06-05T16:19:00.002-07:00

I lived the dream of being a mascot. One of a handful of Scottie Dogs at the Scottish Rite Children’s Hospital in Atlanta. Scottie walked the hospital offering hugs to one and all.

The costume was that of a Scottish Terrier, covering one head to toe in fur. Scottie donned a kilt, sash, and a tam-o’-shanter (a cap topped with a pom (orange-size version of thing cheerleaders shake). Scottie’s short tail poked out of a slit in his kilt. Everyone loved it when he reached for a little tail wag.

Scottie never spoke…never made a sound. He was escorted by a helper, a volunteer who did all the talking. Moving from patient room-to-room, in waiting areas, and even intensive care, the helper used discretion, asking, “Can Scottie come in and give you a hug?” He was rarely turned down. Occasionally, even hospital staff requested one.

Though I added my personal flair to the Scottie persona, the star was the dog. I was just fortunate enough manifest myself in it a few times a month. I was new in town and thought volunteering might be a way to people…nurses…women. When I found out about the mascot gig, I couldn’t resist. I never met any nurses, but there’s no crying in the mascot world.

In a hospital full of Scotties, mine was the coolest. I had the walk that told you I was the ~~man~~ dog. The best comment I ever heard was when an employee said, “Scottie’s struttin’.”

He was. Think the giant, dog version of Tony Manero walking the streets of Brooklyn to Stayin’ Alive.

I tried volunteering for non-costume, speaking jobs, aka normal volunteer positions---assisting in meal distribution, or just spending time with kids. However, I learned too much about the patients. Though rule number one was not asking anyone what was wrong. Usually, a parent told you, or worse, the patient was bald. No one ever told Scottie, or at least he never heard. He only understood hugs.

It was hard enough when you visited a bald child, or a patient who stayed so long, their room’s décor was like their room at home. The four-year-old girl who knew Scottie so well that when I arrived on her floor, she ran the length of the hallway to greet me. I didn’t need to know why she was a repeat customer. I needed to drop to my knees and hold my arms to gather her leaping embrace. She hugged me like a long, lost love returning from war. Led me by the hand to her room, she presented Scottie with a note written on her Hello Kitty stationary.

“I love you, Scotty Dog. Love, Heidi.”

Right back at you, Heidi.

Everything about it was priceless, but that mom wrote the note in light pencil and she traced over it with a red pencil. Perfect. It was a special project that had her so excited she couldn’t stay in her room, let alone her bed. You’re damn right I have that framed.

When the hospital asked me why I wanted to volunteer, I said, “There’s nothing worse than a sick child.” Goes without saying.

The courage I witnessed: the mom who nightly coaxes sounds out of her son, whose head-on collision with a soccer goal means he’ll likely never speak again; the husband embracing his wife, out-of-her-mind crying outside an ER room; a dad working at some normalcy by dad-joking with his bald, teenage daughter.

For Scottie, anyone visiting the patient was fair game. When the helper got the OK, Scottie entered the room and gave the patient a nice, careful hug. Then came siblings and parents. Especially dad. Scottie loved hugging dads. Dads weren’t always so sure, especially when Scottie towers over him at nearly seven feet tall. “You’re a lot taller than the last time I hugged you.” one dad said in my ear. The trepidation of dad about to be hugged by another man (in a dog costume) just made this Scottie’s hug linger. The child’s giggle that followed was a worried parent’s best medicine.

Believe it or not, the intensive care waiting room was a favorite place. Parents were always with their child, so this was a place for relatives and friends. Once Scottie visited a full room. Must have given out 50 hugs, because no one declines this Scottie! Half way through we came across some rather interesting characters. The kind you imagine having a moonshine business in the Appalachians. It didn’t help that the man in overalls had a spider web tattoo on his scalp. I was leery, but Scottie’s realization was immediate. They were visiting a child in the hospital, not a dive bar. When it was his turn for a hug, Spiderman stood up, held out his arms and said, “Come here, you ol’ dog, you.” He hugged Scottie dog off the ground.

Another visit to the same waiting room couldn’t have been more different, or more fun. Maybe 10 people. One man sat in a far corner, no one within 25 feet. Head down in the newspaper the whole time, ignoring the commotion. Scottie responded by sitting a few seats away, crossing his leg, and perusing the business section. Without looking up from his paper, the man said, “I suppose you want a hug, huh?” Scottie nodded.

Hug achieved.

My favorite Scottie was with a mother holding her screaming baby. I mean screaming. Inconsolable, hysterical crying of a one-year-old. The younger the patient, the slower Scottie moved. In this case, Scottie didn’t move. He just held out my paw and let mom bring the baby over. The baby’s eyes got huge and mom guided his hand to touch the furry paw with calls of “puppy…puppy”. His mesmerized look said, “What---are---you?” However, there was silence.

As we departed, the exasperated mom told the helper, “Thank you. That’s the first time he stopped crying all day.”

Bearing silent witness to the typical family doing their best to tolerate the unbearable, while Scottie did his best to briefly lighten their load.

The Messengers of Clarksdale

2020-12-14T12:33:00.000-08:00

In the Earth’s early days, at some locations the Mississippi River was ten miles wide. Today it’s more like a half mile. One of these locations is the Mississippi Delta. Rich in farmland and a unique history, in 2018, I spent time in the heart of the Delta. Clarksdale, Mississippi. A place of which you’ve never heard.

Clarksdale has a niche tourism industry. The Blues. Legend has it that Blues guitar great, Robert Johnson sold his soul at the Devil’s Crossroads, to said Devil. A friend of the town’s mayor is Morgan Freeman, was kind enough to open a blues club there. Blues pilgrims continually flock to Clarksdale. There are a handful of blues clubs there. Without Freeman there would still be blues tourists, but his name created a bigger economy. Butts in seats and locals punching timecards. The wealth has spread…a bit. I'm sure some businesses benefit the trickle down of his club’s impact. Some many are on their own.

One such beneficiary is the Shack Up Inn. The coolest place I’ve ever stayed.

Ever. EV-ER.

Shack Up Inn. Look it up. I stayed in the cabin that once housed Blues great, Pinetop Perkins. Along with most creature comforts, my former sharecropper’s cabin included the piano where Pinetop taught a certain Ike Turner how to play. If that doesn’t get you to their website (below), then I just can’t help you.

My first full day at the inn, I was sitting outside of the main building, trying to get some sort of cell signal. I was enjoying a cocktail and marveling at the grounds when I saw a woman taking pictures. I said, "I assume you're visiting, too." She wasn't. She was local, taking pictures for the Shack Up complex’s marketing plan. We talked about the town a bit and she told me how people are working towards a resurgence in the less-trafficked parts of town, especially the historically black business district.

The previous evening, I drove around town after leaving Morgan’s blues place. I saw a bar with some black men gathered outside the entrance. I hadn’t planned to stop, so it didn’t faze me. Truth be told, I wasn’t so sure I’d be welcomed there. It’s not like I thought I’d be stabbed, but I was in a strange town, seeing a place that wasn’t listed on any tourist websites as a must-see. However, I was drawn to the sign by the door.

Ping Pong Nightly.

Say no more.

I chose to not go in, but made a mental note about the place and investigating it the next day, which is what I had been doing before talking to the photographer.

She continued, "You know, if you want a great Clarksdale experience, you really have to go to Messenger's." I couldn't but interrupt. "PING PONG NIGHTLY!" I cheered.

"Yes!" she said. I told her I'd seen it and wasn't sure about it. She gave me the full story. The oldest, singularly-owned bar in Mississippi. The Messenger family has owned the pool hall and cafe since 1907. I knew where I'd start my evening.

Messenger’s is located in a section of town called The New World. In the early 1900’s, when Clarksdale flourished as a cotton town, it was a multi-cultural breeding ground for jazz, blues, and ragtime music, of clubs, bars, juke joints, and, of course, brothels. Like most cotton-rich Southern towns, times got tough when farming changed. Today, the New World exists mostly in historical markers. Most brick storefronts are boarded up and some just look so dilapidated it’s looks like a rundown movie set. There are plenty of churches though. Few businesses remain, but recently a few new places opened near Messenger’s.

I walked in, hoping for multiple ping pong tables with some decent games in progress. My game was rusty, but in a short time I felt I could lose respectably. Sadly, one table and it folded up against the wall. I knew it was a pool hall, but it was really a pool hall with a ping pong dream. Still, it was pretty cool. Imagine a pool hall from The Hustler. 1950’s. Paul Newman. The place was fitting of men in suits with skinny ties and fedoras, engulfed in cigar smoke. Instead, I saw empty tables and a couple of older black gentlemen watching NBA playoffs on TV, and a woman at the bar. A Messenger. I told her their local friends said I needed to come there for the Clarksdale experience. I didn’t mention “great”. No need to put pressure on anyone.

I bellied up for a beer. The place drew me in right away. The bar was more like a counter. No liquor, no beer taps, but an Enjoy Coke wall menu from decades ago. The kind where you change the menu one letter at a time. Drinks were kept in a picnic cooler. I ordered a bottle of Bud. The going price was $2 and each came wrapped in a paper towel. Like a paper towel koozie. I met the husband when he came up to the bar, then he left to puttered around the place. The wife stayed and became my friend.

To give you an idea of the quality of my visit, after a couple of beers, I told the wife/owner, “I had planned to leave and go listen to some live music, but I’m having too much fun talking with you.”

Truly a great Clarksdale experience.

Messenger is the family name of the bar owners. 113 years’ worth. It started with the father. He died and later his wife was murdered. Messenger’s closed.

Their daughter and her husband own the place now. Marthella and Sherman. Marthella was a teenager when Messenger’s no longer had an owner, and her and her siblings were headed to foster care. However, her older brother George left a good military career in Germany to save the day. “He gave up his future to make sure we were ok,” she said. Messenger’s was back.

She offered me a tour of the bar and their next-door café; walls covered with photos from the many eras of Messenger’s. I passed.

Right. Do you think I’d really pass? Have you met me? I was ready to move into the second story apartment and run their online presence! There’s none, except for a rather splendid Yelp review. Wink, wink….

She showed me around the place. Most of the pictures and some news clippings involving George. Beloved in Clarksdale. Involved in the community. An avid runner and athlete. In January of 2018, George died. He was 78 and Messenger’s closed…again.

George’s sister and her husband reopened Messenger’s in April 2018. It’s slow going, but they’re committed to bringing it back.

There was a point in my visit where I really wanted to get beyond the Messenger’s history and to Mississippi’s 1950-60’s notoriety. A few miles from Clarksdale is a very small town called Money. Money, Mississippi is where Emmitt Tills, a teenager visiting from Chicago was brutally murdered. Some say it launched the Civil Rights movement. Two white men were arrested. In classic fashion, an all-white jury found the two white men not guilty. A short time later, their confession was printed in Look Magazine (below).

“There’s something I would like to ask you about,” I said to Marthella, “and if you don’t want to discuss it or it’s none of my business, just say so…but you lived here in the 50’s.” I just left it there. She paused for a moment and said, “Well we knew to not be on the other side of the railroad tracks after sundown. If we were, we’d get killed.” Her voice tailed off and she said, “Things aren’t like that anymore.”

I trusted she meant the literal over the figurative.

In the 1950’s and likely some of the 60’s, if the owner of Messenger’s walked a few hundred feet and crossed the railroad tracks, remaining after sunset could get himself killed, as would his young daughter. Because their skin produces more of a certain kind of melanin. Because they are black.

Hmm…if only there was a quote about judging by the content of one’s character, not skin color. There is.

More people should try it.

www.shackupinn.com

https://famous-trials.com/emmetttill/1766-confession

Spitting in a Plastic Tube: 23 and Mike

2020-04-22T21:28:00.001-07:00

Most of my results weren't a big surprise. My parents are both of British and Irish descent. That's what family stories would have me believe anyway. However, I have since learned that no one is 100% anything. People migrated all over Europe, taking their DNA and these things called Haplogroups with them. When asked, I'd tell people i was 100% Irish. Sure, I knew that wasn't really true, but saying you're roughly 75% is boring. plus, at 100 I’m allowed a lot more leeway with not tanning, drinking whiskey, and getting into fistfights.

Haplogroups. Yes, they’re a thing.

My mom is very fair-skinned. I am the same. Basically, I hate the sun. I’m also at the age where the dermatologist is prepared to slice chunks of skin off my favorite blistering spots. I’m hoping to keep some semblance of a nose, but hey, Michael Jackson got away with a stick-on schnoz, so who knows. Dad on the other hand, was a brown-eyed, bronze god. he never, ever sunburned...yet he was supposedly the purebred Irish one. I’d add that dad had very minimal on body hair. I, on the other hand, well...Chewbacca. I would say I get that from my mom, which is probably true. However, let's get one thing straight. My mom is not circus people.

My DNA breakdown is 99.7% European. 78% of that is British/Irish. I’m also 10% French/German and 4% Scandinavian. I guess the 10% explains my love of invading and promptly surrendering. The four...that part of me that is dead inside and cannot express joy? "But Mike, 78% is awfully close to that 75% you thought you were," you say. Yes, but after doing some family treeing, I think at best I'm 40% Irish. It seems that when my British ancestors weren't exploiting my Irish ancestors, they were busy in other ways. But, certainly, with the lights off.

In other news, my maternal haplogroup is H. From what I gather, it means that 18000 years ago a pretty good-sized group carpooled out of the Middle East to Europe. So why doesn't my DNA just say that I'm middle eastern? How the hell would I know? I'm just a sun burning/drinking/fighting/invader-surrenderer with a mostly alive soul." My paternal haplogroup is R-S661. It hales from just 3800 years ago, likely suburban middle east. 15000 years of urban sprawl and all.

Here’s something fun. The DNA report comes with something called Neanderthal Variants. As a refresher, Neanderthals were ancient humans who bred with anatomically modern humans before becoming extinct 40000 years ago. Anatomically modern. I’m guessing no tails. I'm happy to report that I have a total of 325 Neanderthal Variants. That means I am more Neanderthal than 98% of you. Can you say, “Tail envy?”

Without taking you on an archaeological dig, here's a bit of Neanderthals history. My people were a hearty people. We adapted well to cold weather. We created tools for hunting and tanned the animal hides to make loose-fitting clothing. Pretty practical since Spanx were a good 45000 years from invention. We lived about 40 years, mostly dying from fighting close-quarters with the animals we hunted. That and lack of good health care. However, referring back to anatomically modern reference, of which the Tail people were not, we were known for one specific detail.

Big heads. Large craniums.

Here goes. I have a huge noggin. Like, I have never met someone with a bigger head. Not like I'm issuing challenges at the bus stop, but when someone references a big head, I can settle it with one question. "Can you wear a hat off the rack?" "Well, yes, but..." Case closed. I win. I'm only able to buy hats online. Same place I buy my loose-fitting animal hides. www.neanland.org. Yes, it's a non-profit. After all, we're an endangered species.

Truth be told, though compared to the rest of you anatomically-modern types, I am all Neanderthals, it only makes up 4% of my DNA. That's interpreted into different sensory and physical characteristics. In my case, and I'm dead serious about this. My Neanderthal genetic marker indicates that I'm less likely to sneeze after eating dark chocolate. Yes, we Neanderthal like a nice, dark chocolate. We like it for the cacao, a provider of many minerals and flavonoids. Our non-sneezing was huge because wiping your nose with an animal hide hanky was brutal.
(Note: It's been awhile, but those days are over. All of this non-face touching has really freed up my schedule!)

To Pass or Not To Pass

2017-04-29T23:20:00.000-07:00

Durango was a cool town. Surrounded by mountains. Old west tourism meets the outdoor recreation. It’s a place I could have stayed another night and roamed the town. However, my next stop was a Kitty visit and we don’t keep Kitty waiting.

Durango is in southwestern Colorado and I was going to Evergreen. Foothills west of Denver, near Red Rocks. In March, you have to keep an eye on weather forecasts. Snow in the mountains can be a bit unpredictable. A forecasted flurry and a strong wind turns into zero visibility.

I traced out my route on a map. For the younger crowd, a map is a silent, paper GPS. I used my vast AAA membership benefits and got maps for my entire route. I did use the route GPS suggested, but needed the map when I lost GPS. If you lose GPS when driving in your city, imagine losing it on unknown mountain roads.

An hour out of Durango, I stopped at a saloon for a shot of Rye and a poker game. Ok, that didn’t happen, but when you say “an hour out of Durango“, you should run at least into a posse chasing rustlers, or a rye-serving saloon. In truth, I gassed up the Uhaul in Pagosa Springs. Was making small talk when the clerk asked, "Are you driving through the pass. “You know, I have no idea,” I said.

Turns out I was driving through the pass. She warned me of very high winds up there. I thought she said 85 mph. I don’t think my girl, Sacagawea does well with an 85 mph crosswind. She told me to take heed of the warning signs as I get closer.

One should always take heed of things locals tell you are worthy of such heeding.

I was 30 minutes from the accent into the mountains. Some might be hyper-focused on that kind of thing. Perhaps hurry and get through it while the getting is good, not that you’d know either way. I, however, don’t work that way. Remember, it’s the journey, people. So when I see horses at roadside, it’s time to stop and say hello. No such much me, but a certain Cranky Bunny likes to mingle with other species. Although, you’ll never convince me that horses aren’t really just two people in costume.

A pulling-over I did. There is video of the encounter (see link at end of story). Suffice it to say, there was love. There was bunny-horse love.

The coast was clear. An electronic sign at the final turnaround point advised that only wide-load vehicles were prohibited. I’m of the belief that wide-load vehicles should be prohibited most hours of the day on any road, but let’s not get political.

“If you want an idea of the accent you face, look to those who are descending.” - Me

As I drove up, the vehicles coming down where moving at a crawl. Kidding aside, when an SUV is creeping at 20 mph, Mr. Uhaul’s not going to screw around. Biggest issue I now faced, what’s going to be my accent/descent music.

Pretty obvious. Pink Floyd, live from Rotterdam.

The accent went well. When I peaked at Wolf Creek Pass (alt 11,000 ft) and it was a bit intimidating. Not so much for the current conditions, but for the plowing that must have taken place within the last 6 hours. From what I could tell, there was an avalanche that covered the road. At least the leftover snow…4 ft high and 10 ft wide, meant no 85 mph wind was blowing me into the abyss.

The descent was everything I expected. Not a place to screw around. 15 mph most of the way in a Uhaul with no one passing me. If someone was an asshole driver, they were at least smart enough to wait until they hit the foothills of Evergreen. Again, Coloradans are shitty drivers. Worst I’ve ever seen. At least with common sense to take another car with them though. Not going to skid off a mountain when you can cut someone off and cause a wreck.

As much as this Pass was uneventful, the next two were more interesting. It’s pretty cool when you’re on a very flat road for miles and miles, but on the horizon you see mountains, and even better you see a storm obscuring part of the horizon. It’s like driving right into, not just the storm, but the cloud causing the storm.

It’s on.

Early, Kitty texted to find out my location. I greeted her with an enthusiastic “Saguache!” My second time there, to which she replied, “Where’s that?” I wanted to tell her “it’s right where it belongs”, but there were cars in the ditches.

Instead I took a picture of the impending storm and said, “There are cars in the ditches. The Uhaul is handling fine. I’ve never felt more alive.”

Video of the Cranky Bunny finding love

A Navajo, Yoko Ono Cover Band

2017-04-11T13:20:00.001-07:00

When I flew into Phoenix I was surprised by snow-capped mountains as we approached the airport. However, I also knew that the Grand Canyon is sometimes closed because of snow. So a cold Flagstaff morning didn’t surprise me, but what did was the gale force winds. True, I’m not sure what a gale force wind is, but neither are you.

“Blow hat off your head and kiss it goodbye” winds.

I wasn’t sure of my route for the day, but I knew I’d pass through Tuba City. It was on the way, but even if not, who among us isn’t imaging a city named after the often mistaken musical instrument. People, you’re mistaking a tuba for the sousaphone. Leaving it at that. Tuba City also reminds me of something I’d see on a 1990 Late Night with David Letterman. Dave asking the clerk if they sells trumpets and the clerk saying, “No, just tubas.”

The drive would be all Navajo or Hopi Indian Reservations. Rather excited for Hopi, because if we all remember 6th grade, the Hopi Indian lived in Adobe huts. I learned maybe four things in my entire school career and that’s one of them.

1. Hopi Indians….
2. “Power tends to corrupt. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.” - Lord Acton
3. Iconoclast translated means “image breaker”
4. Brittania est insula.

Navajo country is rough on the radio stations. I found one. It was Navajo Public Radio and, when in Rome…they played Navajo music. Drums and chanting. Nothing against it, but I think it does better when included as part of tribal dancing. God bless the Native American. Seriously. We Europeans have screwed the shit out of them, but their music…it rivals Yoko Ono.

Hell is a Navajo, Yoko Ono cover band.

A signpost up ahead. Grand Canyon South Rim 79 miles. Never been, but I hadn’t planned on going there this trip. Just didn’t think a busy road full of tourists and a Uhaul would mix, but when I did the math a little bit later…30 miles from the Grand Canyon and not stopping? Just silly. The Brady’s would be very disappointed. Yes, referring to the episode where they road donkeys to the bottom of the canyon.

The Grand Canyon can best be described as grand. Like really, really grand. Best obvious decision I’ve ever made. I asked the Park Ranger where to stop if I only planned on spending an hour and he hooked me up. If you’re in Arizona or Las Vegas and don’t go to the GC, shame on you. Just shame. I wish I would’ve poked it with my finger because I’m pretty sure it’s just a painting. A masterpiece.

I should add that on the way I saw the greatest advertisement ever. A hand painted sign that read “Navajo handmade jewelry. Stop and say hello.” One of a few dozen roadside stands I’d see that day, but I had to say hello, right? The ad wasn’t a request. It was an order. For $5 I got a bracelet and talked to two very nice Navajo women. I told them I stopped to say hello. One said the sign was her late husband’s idea. The man knew his advertising.

I still haven’t checked a map, but I think I passed through the Painted Desert. I looked painted, but I was distracted by the still very strong winds that were now a sandstorm. My next option for really cool destination was Monument Valley.

Monument Valley is every cowboy movie every made and the jogging in the desert scene from Forrest Gump (I’ll include a link to a picture). The problem with this stop was timing. Burning daylight. A lot of this on the road.

Crunch time. Decided on Highway 163 to MV. Knowing I had a hotel booked for Durango, CO, if I skipped MV I wasn’t sure I’d want to backtrack the next day to MV. This was all very complicated map stuff, so just go with me.

Monument Valley at dusk is like being on Mars. Maybe cell service is better on Mars, but both places had the same number of humans. So cool. Intimidating. A lot of 90 degree angle geography that gets pretty creepy looking as the sun goes down. Reminds me of a first grader cutting out around the teeth of a construction paper pumpkin. They might want it to look smooth, with sloping foothills, but it ends up being a lot of jagged, random cuts that just don’t look like something nature would create. Nature created MV, but God only knows how.

I felt like the only vehicle on the road for the hours I had left. It doesn’t bother me. It’s kind of cool. It’s the time when I’m sure half of my face is going to get sunburned (movie reference you should know) or I’ll see Bigfoot.

I reached Durango just in time to enjoy all restaurants being closed, but the grocery was open. Just gave me that much more naked hotel time. Don‘t worry, I haven’t forgotten. We still have to discuss NHT. When I get to Kansas.

Forrest Gump in Monument Valley video

Sacajawea, My Sweet Ride

2017-03-27T17:20:00.000-07:00

Sacajawea was a Native American woman who accompanied Lewis and Clark on their expedition from the northern plains over the Rocky Mountains, to the Pacific Ocean, and back. On the side of my Uhaul was her picture. Love at first ride.

After a few nights in Phoenix, the first stop was Flagstaff. I’ve never been there. Not been to much outside of Phoenix. When weather is extreme…Minnesota is sitting naked on a giant bag of ice. Phoenix is being scalded with hot coffee. Winter in Arizona is summer in Minnesota. I'll let that soak in.

Ten minutes into my drive I find out that Sacajawea’s breaks are solid. An accident happened a few cars in front of me and everyone/everything survived. Biggest concern was the snacks my sister-in-law packed for the journey. Cheese & Sour Cream Ruffles intact!

I didn’t have a set arrival time for Flagstaff. I’ll get to Flag. Yeah, college town. If there was nothing for me to see on the way, then I get there before sundown (we measure things by sunup and sundown on the road). Flagstaff seemed to have some ok restaurants, a few Uber close to my hotel.

However, Mike and his lovely Indian maiden had a date with history in Prescott, Arizona. No Sedona stop. Whether it be -a Vortex or static electricity from a meditation rug, none of that held a candle to Prescott. It especially didn’t hold an ice cream cone to it.

Some won’t even recognize this history. That’s what the internet is for. Marino’s Mob Burger and Ice Cream. Forever it holds a place in Mike’s folklore. For in the 1960's, the movie Billy Jack was filmed in the surrounding area. Quite sure some don’t remember this movie, but might remember a few scenes. Mike remembers, and after all, it’s my folklore. So I went off the normal path for about 30 minutes into Prescott. I found appropriate parking for my sweet Indian legend and was on my way.

I found a seat right where I wanted. The counter. The kind where one gets a root beer float, a double cone, or a scoop of flour poured over their face. Yes, for I was sitting at the place where the young Indian students were refused service, and the bad guy proceeded to “make them white” by pouring flour on their faces. At this point in the film, the hero, Billy Jack arrives in his classic, straight-brimmed cowboy hat and tells our bad guy that this kind of treatment makes him go berserk. He uses his supreme martial arts skills to ruin some people.

A nice bucket list item for me and you probably understand why driving solo is often for the best. It was an excellent get. I wouldn’t go hours out of my way for it, but 30 minutes was a no-brainer.

The place had changed. We’re talking 50 years ago. Few customers even know about the movie, aside from the poster on the wall. I knew it. I sat in the same freaking spot where Billy Jack kicked ass! One tin solider rides away... Youtube links at bottom of story.

The young man at the counter knew the story and told me some history of the place. That’s what you get for two scoops of Gelato. I told him more about the movie and what happened in the restaurant. Also introduced him to TCB, showed him a video, and explained that history. He loved it.

Interesting thing about the Prescott Town Square, there were at least three ice cream places on the square. I actually had to compare Google Street View to the film.

It was a fun visit. No great, life-changing experience, not on my end, but perhaps on the counter guy. He got to meet The Cranky Bunny.

Billy Jack goes berserk.

Road Trip 2017 - Pretrip Preface

2017-03-24T19:48:00.001-07:00

I like road trips. I like solo road trips. Not because I want to be alone. Sometimes I do. It’s easier to do what I want, be on my own schedule, etc. However, the biggest thing it does is make me mingle. I like mingling. There are few strangers on my road trips. You can create memories traveling with someone, but you will create them when traveling alone.

Is it lonely? A few years ago I traveled by myself for 45 days. That got lonely towards the end. After a week? No way. It’s just nice to experience things on your own accord. Be your own boss. I’m to blame for stopping at the Navajo Jewelry stand, or regret not stopping.

Also, no one else snores. Once I close my hotel room door, the clothes are gone! More on that later, because I know you want to know more my hotel naked.

So this road trip. Sis-in-law mentioned moving her mom from Phoenix to Iowa City. I volunteered to help months ago, especially with my long distance driving skills. A few months later, she asked and I said I’d be interested if the timing worked out. I was asked again as plans were firming up. I was given the chance to bow out, no questions asked. Honestly, my initial reaction was “no, I better not do it.” What if something comes up? Like with a lot of people, for me it can be easier to just say no. “No” keeps me safe because it eliminates “what if”. I hate “what if”.

So for that exact reason I committed on the spot, period. I’ll do this road trip. Period. My only caveat, I could dilly-dally.

The art of the dilly-dally. I could have made this Phoenix to Iowa City trip in three days. Interstate all the way. I would have if it were required, but it wasn’t. So, I didn’t. The destination just ends the journey. Wow...

“The destination just ends the journey”-Mike Brennan.

There are interesting places along the way and some cool people, too. Granted, what I considering interesting, you might not, but still. Explore. Dilly-dally

“A life without dilly-dallying isn‘t living.”- Mike Brennan

Next - Off like a truck full of herds of turtles driven by a guy who isn’t used to trucks full of anything.

Hair today. Waxed Tomorrow.

2016-10-25T22:47:00.000-07:00

In the early 1990’s, I performed standup comedy. I did a good ten minutes on being hairy. The featured part of that was my hairy back. Lots of material there, literally. Just as much material when I got it waxed, figuratively.

A hairy back isn’t something playboy playmates list as a turn-on. It’s made the turn-off list a few times…I’m told. However, it’s not a relationship deal breaker. However, admitting to it early on is. Providing you avoid early dating beach and pool situations, you should be fine. Eventually, when your shirt is off, there’s a good chance hers is too, and the coast is clear. I’d be lying if it didn’t used to make me self-conscious though. Just that moment at the pool when the shirt comes off and people‘s thoughts go towards the great ape in the swimsuit. The thing is hair just means more testosterone (that‘s what we hairys say anyway). Nothing wrong with that. Yet, a hairy front is considered sexy. Why was a hairy back so…well, icky? And to the men who shave their chests…”men” (definite air quotes).

Still, like I’d rather not be bald, I’d rather not have a hairy back. If simply for easier living. Having a full head of hair makes it easier in the summer. A sunburned scalp hurts like a grease splatter during naked cooking. Mostly kidding, just wanted to give you the visual of hairy, naked cooking. Back to simplicity, not having back hair just means less shedding. If I don’t keep up on vacuuming, it’s pretty much guaranteed I can rub my finger a few inches along any part of any floor in any room in my house and pick up a hair. Not a ‘curly’ hair, just a hair. I shed. Less hair, less shedding. It eases this hairy man’s burden.

So I decided to pull the trigger, er…pull the hair, if you will, and get my back waxed. I had a long weekend at the beach coming up and figured I’d try it out. Rather than go to some fly-by-night waxing outfit, I made an appointment at a Spa. A mall spa, but still a spa.

The de-waxer met me at the reception area and took me to the room. A nice room. Typical new age music, scents, and dim lights. I took my shirt off and laid on the table. Larger than massage table with a high tech crock pot of wax nearby. It used to have leather straps when waxing was used as a torture method against the Italians in WW2.

The way the process works is a follows…
Step 1: Put warm wax on hairy area.
Step 2: Put a strip of cloth over the waxy area.
Step 3: Rub cloth a bit so it adheres to wax.
Step 4: One, two, three and yank the cloth hard and quickly.

The resulting yank pulls out the hair by the root. If successful, I should add. The first yank I experienced can best be considered a false start. The car engine didn’t turn over. She pulled and the cloth didn’t budge. “Sorry,” she said. Did it hurt? Think of it this way. With that yank, my skin made a better effort to be pulled off my body than the hair did.

“Where does my back rank in terms of hairiness?” I had to know. If you’re going to have a hairy back, you want to be top 10%. “You’re up there.” My bathroom rug-on-the-back badge of honor..

After the initial oops, she…we got into a rhythm. True confessions, I experimented with some at-home dehairing. Masking tape. Never limber enough to do more than my shoulders…and all it really did was thin things out. What it did do was prepare me for the pain.

There are places I would never ever wax. I also think there are places you can’t wax. Example, I’ve never heard of anyone waxing his head. I think your scalp would pull right off. I’d also never wax my chest. I had half of it shaved for shoulder surgery and it wasn’t pretty. Body hair tends to lessen the obvious. That I’m a quite pasty.

So we conquered the shoulders well enough. However, as I suspected, as she took the wax down my back…ouch. The rest of the back didn’t like waxing. At that point, I was ready for the leather straps.

There’s not a spot on a male that should ever, ever…ever get used to waxing. The closest a man should get to hot wax is when dripping it for placement of the candle in the carved pumpkin

But let’s get back to the horror. I’ve sugarcoated the experience and aftermath. It was a donnybrook of the back. By the time she was done, it looked like she’d had a banner day squirrel hunting and came away with a couple of dozen pelts. I can only imagine what her garbage can is like after a day of peak man-waxing season. She probably sells off her results to a Locks-of-Love group from hell. Perhaps a third world sweater manufacturer.

Hirsutes for the Angoraphobic! -TM

The waxing part was as expected. It wasn’t going to tickle. It didn’t.

The aftermath. Wow. The awful secret. Never again.

I wasn’t out of the mall when my back spoke, “You’ve done something weird and now you’ll pay.” It then screamed with waves of prickly sparks of heat. Hundreds of hot pins.

It mellowed out after a couple of minutes. The next lesson was that evening when I showered. Research shows the average person showers with a water temperature of 105F. On my naked back, 105F felt like 205F. I didn’t expect this and when the water hit my back, I screamed. I’m not a good screamer. I go from my normal baritone or my rarely-heard teenage girl.

The journey of surprise continued the shower. The shower had been surprise-free…hmm…for a long…long time. Toweling off. In my younger days, there was never an issue. And no, I wasn’t born with a hairy back. I’m not Curious George. However, once I was waxed, toweling off my back became impossible. Like using a towel on a wetsuit.

There was so much friction between my towel and back, I had a better chance of pulling my skin off than I did drying off.

Appearance. I thought it would look normal the next day. Friend told me it looked like I’d been strung by a hundred bees. Up close, I noticed that roughly 20% of the hairs weren’t truly removed. They broke off just above the root. That meant two things, that some hair would start growing right away, instead of the six months it would normally take. Also, it looked like a few hundred wood tick heads were stuck in me. Their little spines sticking out.

So, I tried it, but it was just silly. Who in their right mind believed it? I looked like the before photo of a home remodeling job. My front was 1970’s deep shag carpeting. My back, linoleum.

*Haven't posted anything in awhile because I'm working on long-term project. Thought I'd write a little something fun.

The Chintzy Sign

2016-03-13T18:21:00.000-07:00

The greatest benefit of spending years in the airline business was free flights. It allowed me to see the world. I love history, so I’ve seen history face-to-face. I’ve seen a lot. However, seeing a place and fathoming what occurred are two different things.

Big Ben, Eiffel Tower, the Coliseum. Toyko, Sydney, Madrid, Munich. One of my last overseas freebies was Amsterdam. Not my first trip there, but it was as good a place as any for a dart match. My buddy Mark and I have been playing against each other for decades. Since we both had flight benefits, we threw in the occasional international match. Yeah, we flew to Amsterdam to play darts.

Granted, we were still tourists. We hit museums, the North Sea, and a day trip to Arnhem, famous for the World War II, Operation Market Garden (the movie, A Bridge Too Far). Drank lots of beer, a bit of Jenever, their juniper-flavored, national drink. Bought tulip bulbs and went to a very interesting outdoor market. We skipped the Anne Frank house, Red Light District, and the herbal products. We’d both been there a few times. Not that we’d ever partaken in the last two, but we’d been in those parts of town.

Our last day, we stumbled on a nameless outdoor market. Not something designed to attract tourists, but the kind of thing you go to for that very reason. It’s where the locals go.

We walked around a bit, doing our own thing. Not looking for anything in particular, I saw a sign for sale. It was out of my reach, but it looked very interesting. Bronze, the size of a salad plate, with Dutch phrase on it. Of course, I had no clue what it said, but it looked cool.

I reached across the table to see how much it cost. To my disappointment it was very light, not the heavy bronze that I thought, but tin disguised with a bronze color with a weathered, cardboard back. So now I looked it over more out of curiosity, than as a potential purchase. Whatever it was, it only cost a couple of dollars. A man behind me said something in Dutch.

The German language is derived from an ancient people who had very bad sinus infections. It’s a tongue reminiscent of that guy who sits by you at work who is constantly snorting phlegm from nasal passages.

Dutch is the German language after the superficial relief of a lozenge.

My knowledge of the language is limited to a phrase that I was learned so I could yell it in a crowded Amsterdam bar, “Wanneer is het mijn beurt om te zingen ?” When is it my turn to sing?

I turned around and now knew he was speaking to me. “Do you speak English?” I asked. He was of senior-citizen age, smartly dressed in his leather winter jacket, nice hat, and warm boots. He was 80 but seemed much younger. The kind of person who’d be driving, accident-free when he was 100. In Amsterdam, he’d be riding his bicycle.

George spoke perfect English, which surprised me. English has been taught in the Netherlands for decades, but I’m sure he was long out of school before it was part of the curriculum. “I was asking if you knew the meaning of that sign.” he said, pointing to the chintzy disappointment in my hand.

“It’s a traditional sign we hung on our door as a way of welcoming guests. It means, ‘If you are a friend, come on in. If you are not, then you must go, go, go!’ That was the version put out during the war. The Germans came into our homes and took any metal that could be melted into weapons. People made cheap versions like this to replace what was hidden.” Of course, they came for people, too.

“You had to be there.” An expression we’ve all used. Mostly after telling a story and not getting the reaction you expected. I also see it as literal. Things happen in this world that cannot be comprehended unless you bore witness.

I love history. I’m more drawn to where things happened than where someone lived. The battlefield over the headquarters, the scene of the crime rather than the arrest location, and yes, where lives were lost over salvation found.

“The area we’re in used to be the Jewish part of town. It was destroyed during the war, and rather than rebuild it, a market and theater area was created,“ he said. By reading his face, you knew this was were he grew up and his mind’s eye returned him to those days whenever he visited. Everything he knew had been gone for over 50 years, but he still saw every brick of it. As a Jew in Nazi-occupied Netherlands, he’d lost more than buildings.

Mother, Father, brothers and sisters. Aunts, Uncles, and the like. George’s entire family was gone. “I spent the war living in people’s basements,” he said. “I ate nothing but tulip bulbs.” He was the non-conformist of his family and chose hiding over obeying. George hid for five years. Thousands of others did the same. Thankfully, one girl wrote in her diary about it.

At war’s end, George emerged from under ground to find everyone and every thing gone. Before the war, he was a teenager, had a loving family and many friends. His neighborhood, a comfortable place that he knew inside and out. No number of history books, documentaries, or guided tours gets me there mentally.

I’ve walked the concentration camp in Dachua, Germany and could not fathom that men, women, and children were murdered here en masse. I stood on Omaha Beach with no concept of the carnage of a D-Day invasion. I’ve walked the streets of London, rebuilt from the blitz.

You had to be there.

I cannot grasp the inhumanity of our past by simply being in the place where it occurred. It’s just a place. In truth, I feel very little. Witnesses feel everything, forever.

Now a sign hangs on my door, the same as it would have over 70 years ago. A great possession that reminds me of a brave man who survived with the help of support people worthy of entering anyone’s house.

I Love You, Too

2015-10-04T23:45:00.001-07:00

Her arms frozen, like leafless branches. Her eyes focused, but only she sees. Light as a feather. Lifted. Soaring.

Father pushes the swing
Mother smiles and claps
She gets the hang of it
From grimaces to grins and giggles.

Elevator music and her fingers wiggle.

Her first solo recital
A draw of her bow and a scrape across the violin strings
A scream or a song?
Her smiling parents in front row never been prouder

She’s loaded in back. Bounces jostle her. Focused with her arms locked and on task.

Fixing her hair for the school dance
Little brother bumping her in the narrow bathroom
Both yelling to get out of the way
Mother shouting over them about how a lady behaves.

Gurney up the sidewalk. Chilled from the breeze.

Sweating, exhausted and trembling
Her arms extending for her newborn
An unwed mother giving up to adopt
The nurse reminds, better to not get attached.

A car honk louder it passes and fades

She stands with him at his train
Their gold bands shine in the sun
A final goodbye
He’s off to Europe and the approaching D-Day

A yellow transfer form on the paramedic’s clipboard. Sign here with the date.

Quaking sobs.
Can’t stop reading
The telegram confirms
He’s not coming home.

An aide stops them in the hall. A stroke of her rigid arm and a smile. "Welcome home, Miss Jenkins."

Reunited nearly a lifetime later
He’s found her at last
The son she gave up
Both hunger for "Mom".

Lifted into bed and one paramedic stays behind. Her mind and body frozen, arms rigid and eyes stare beyond. He sings so quiet and strokes her white hair.

Her son and his family
Gave her great years
They visit her often though she’s not there
Drifts out of focus and grabs what’s not there

The paramedic feels her calm
And kisses her forehead
“Hi Grandma”
Their eyes meet and they both smile.

“I love you.”

I saw paramedics wheeling a very old woman into a Memory Care facility. Her mind and body weren't gone, they were just elsewhere. I wrote this for her.

A Grandfather's Letter

2015-08-20T20:32:00.001-07:00

Note: This was a writing exercise where the story's purpose was to apologize.
February 2, 1967
Dear Grandchild,

I write this letter to my unborn grandchild because I am of failing health. I’ve asked your father to give this to you upon your 21st birthday, as its content is better understood with an adult mind. It’s become evident that cancer will end my life before you will be born. This is my effort to apologize for what I have done, and to explain why I did what I did.

You certainly learned early in your life that your grandfather was a scientist. I became interested in the sciences at a very young age. I was blessed with a mind for science and passionate desire for mastering it. My hope for you is that you find such a passion in your life.

How I went from a passionate pursuer of scientific knowledge to being called The Father of the Atomic Bomb, I will try to explain. The fact that I was involved in such as project is something that I have regretted for decades. I’m not arrogant enough to think that without me, there would be no nuclear bomb. I just wish my name wasn’t connected to it.

For this I sincerely apologize to you, grandchild.

I apologize because you have to share the last name with my moniker of destruction and death. Your last name will be forever associated to mine. In my heart of hearts, I hope you’re a baby girl because then, perhaps you’ll marry and rid yourself of the Oppenheimer name and my curse to it.

I apologize for being part of a team that knowingly created a weapon that we knew would change warfare for lifetimes to come.

We knew that man had never, not used a weapon he’d created, and that using this one would leave its target devastated and reduced to uninhabitable, radioactive rubble.

I apologize because I knew that I was helping create a nuclear arms race. Giving one nation an atomic bomb meant that others would do everything they could to negate this threat by making their own. After that, it would be a numbers game. Governments and their militaries would think that the nation with the most atomic bombs had an advantage. Eventually, their stockpiles would number the thousands.

I apologize for giving you The Cold War, for leaving you with a world of uncertainty. A world that can be destroyed in minutes, by the press of a button, and entrusting that button to soldiers

You must be asking why I would I be involved in such a project? There are multiple reasons.

First, President Roosevelt asked me to help. During a war, when the President of the United States calls upon you to serve your country by developing a weapon that could save American lives, you do as you are asked. Sadly, the other two reasons why I took part in this project were not so patriotic.

I wanted a challenge. I thought it could be done and I wanted to be a member of the elite group of scientists that made the first atomic bomb. The cause was a weapon, but it could have been anything else of great challenge, and I would have wanted to be involved.

Ego was the second reason. I wanted to be involved because other great scientists would be taking part. I wanted to prove to myself that I was better than them, and that I could be chosen to lead the group. I was. I was the best of the best. As a result, history has forever linked the Oppenheimer name is to this weapon.

If you’ve studied the history, you know that we first tested the weapon in New Mexico. After I saw the successful results of our first test, I was quite relieved. Nearly speechless, I told a military officer, “It worked.” However, in my thoughts was a quote from the Bhagavad-Gita, “Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”[sic] As I mentioned before, I feel this bomb was inevitable. However, I’m very sorry I am known for its creation.”

Nothing can really make up for what I did. History carries with it some facts, fiction, and plenty of speculation about my life. What I have written in this letter is fact. I will not burden you with the veracity behind what else may or may not be fact. Any burden I wish to place on you would be that of using the Oppenheimer name to better mankind. Perhaps you’ll go into medical research and use the popularity of the name to secure funding for cancer research. Such a thing would not absolve me of my sins, but the thought does sooth this old man’s heart.

So grandchild, I close the letter by wishing you a wonderful life of love, joy, and peace.

With love, your grandpa,

J. Robert Oppenheimer

Two Voices

2015-05-04T14:10:00.000-07:00

(My writing mentor gave me a challenge. Write a story based on: an old fishing pole, cold lasagna, and sock suspenders. Enjoy.)

His lasagna was cold.

She licked the bits of it off her finger. Pretty good still, but when she left it was warm and ready to be cut up for him. Now it had a hole in the center where you could fit a substantial birthday candle.

She’d only been gone an hour. His prescription refills were ready and she wanted to be sure he had his medicine for the big day ahead. When she pulled into the driveway and saw their home health aide’s car gone, and her worrying began.

She called her husband’s name as she swept the house from room-to-room. Sometimes she’d find him sitting on their bed, staring at nothing. The only thing on the bed now was the black tuxedo jacket she’d put their earlier. She was too preoccupied to notice that the remainder of the outfit was no longer hanging from the doorknob.

She picked up the phone and dialed the number on the aide’s business card. She got her answering machine. “Voice mail,” she reminded herself. Her own cell phone peeked out of the wicker basket on the kitchen counter. It lay amongst the tape dispenser, Post-It Notes, address book, daily pill reminder, and sugarless gum…all the things she used daily and never quite put away. She intended to use her cell phone more often, but it always sunk to the bottom of the basket.

She finished leaving a message. Did the aide leave him alone? Was he with her? What happened? She was supposed to get him fed and dressed in his tuxedo.

She didn’t really care what the doctors called it. Alzheimer’s or dementia. In the year since his diagnosis, she knew it was getting worse. He’d gone from being a bit forgetful to needing help every day. Family’s subtle suggestions about moving to assisted living were increasingly pointed. She wasn’t ready. Her health was good and she wasn’t about to put him somewhere without her. Plus, there was this house.

They’d raised kids in this house. Spoiled grandchildren. It was beyond a dream home. It was the center of their lives. He built it with his bare hands. A log home on the lake decades before they were popular. Over the years, the pine trees overtook their view, but once you got the bottom of the log staircase, the panorama of the lake took awhile to take in.

“A million dollar view,” he called it, and this was back when a $10,000 view would have impressed. On a good day, like today, the only thing that kept the crystal clear lake from blending with the crisp blue sky was a brim of trees on the horizon. A bad day, perhaps a heavy rain and the family parked in front of crackling fire watching old movies. She knew better. Those were also the good days.

When she looked at the fireplace, she noticed right away. His old fishing pole was gone. The cane bamboo rod was his sole birthday gift that summer of 1929. He cherished it. “It was the only gift an eight year old boy needed,” he said most every time he used it.

Her heart pounded in her throat as her dress heels hit the log staircase. There was no use yelling for him. Unlikely he’d hear her, and if he did he’d try to come back up the stairs. It would be enough of a blessing if he’d gotten to the water without falling, she wouldn’t risk him climbing back up. “Oh lord, what if he made it to the dock?” she thought. Her mind raced with visions of him tripping and drowning. “Not today, God. Please, not today,” she pleaded. Not on their grandson’s wedding day.

Things had to go well today. He made a point of having the wedding in town, so they could attend. Afterwards, they’d return to their lives time zones away.

Slow and steady, she descended through the trees. As the sun crept through, she thought she heard a voice, but her hearing wasn’t what it used to be either. Two voices?

Relief swept over her when she saw them. At the end of the dock, a grandson taking the time on his wedding day to have one last fish with his grandpa. “Two peas in a pod,” she thought, shaking her head. Their neatly-pressed tuxedo pants draped over a bench. Each with a fishing pole, wearing tuxedo shirts, boxer shorts, shiny black rental shoes, dark socks, and sock suspenders.

She took in the moment, then turned back up the steps.

“…only gift an eight year old boy needed.”

Stood Up or: Learning How Strange Love Is

2015-03-29T18:13:00.001-07:00

Yes, I got stood up. You know what I mean. The only kind of stood up there is.

Five days earlier, I made the call. Not a call I’d done in awhile. I asked a woman out to dinner. A date. I know men sometimes do this in a backwards, fraidy-cat way, being vague and saying, “You want to hang out some time?” I chalk that up to a fear of rejection.

I was not vague. 52 years old is way past vague. Literally said, “I was calling to see if I could take you out to dinner.” No ambiguity. A date.

“Sure,” she said, no hesitation. Mission accomplished. I asked her on a date. I advised I’d call a few days before the date with the details. Schedules didn’t mesh until then. I was clear. Sunday dinner plan was in pen, logistics in pencil.

Mission accomplished? I’m not 16. What’s the big deal? When it comes to affairs of the heart, there’s some 16 in all of us.

As planned, I called on Friday. Got her voice mail and left a message about the plans. Asked her to call back with directions to pick her up. If she countered with meeting me at the restaurant, that would be fine. I was assuming the male dating role of the picker-upper. The gentleman caller. In a perfect world, she’d have a parlor.

By Saturday night, I hadn’t heard back. It didn’t give me a good feeling about the date. I texted her, referenced my voice mail, and let her off what I already assumed was a spit out hook, suggesting that her schedule must have changed.

The next day came and went. No date, but also no peep from her. I was a wee bit pissed, and rightfully so. In most situations, anger just masks the real emotion. Sadness. When someone makes you angry, they have usually made you sad. Anger is easier to admit.

My feelings were hurt and I did nothing to deserve it. That’s the worst. There‘s not a person out there who wouldn‘t tell me I had a right to be angry. What do I do? The other person is off living life with no remorse, and I’m left stewing in a realization age isn’t an indication of maturity and manners.

“It’s her loss.” I understand the gesture, but it’s my loss. I did it the right way. I put it out there. It was a god-damned mission for me and I got burned. Please don’t tell me “Everything happens for a reason”. All this calls for is some compassion, not a meme.

I did not see this coming. This was me, by god! Who wouldn’t want to chat with me over a free meal? I’m very entertaining and my table manners are top notch. My wardrobe would’ve been clean, perhaps even snazzy. I would have arrived showered and perhaps a fresh shave, but I wouldn’t want to give the wrong idea. I’m not a first-date kisser. I’m old enough to join AARP, and yet talking about kissing on the first date. I wince and wonder what the hell I’ve done with my life.

For a few days, I watched self-pity rain down on the yard of my life. Told myself I was right to not try. Look what it got me. Eventually, the sun broke through and a new growth of humor appeared. No matter how bad the storm, humor emerges.

I have forgiven. Let’s face it, she know not what she did. I feel for this the woman, whose hyphenated name will never contain Brennan. Now’s your chance, Connie Britton. Britton-Brennan would make for some fine alliteration and I’d look good on the red carpet.

Let’s clarify. This was someone I‘d met on numerous occasions, but hadn‘t seen in awhile. We had a good, group-setting rapport. She was sharp. Funny. A nice smile. After running into her a few days earlier, I decided to ask her out. At the very least, I looked forward good conversation and some laughs. We’d had that already. I knew date one would go well enough that I was mulling over the second date plan. Oops.

What remains with me is wonder. What is the thought process that says the blow off is the right way to go? Just vanish. Ignore. No call or text to cancel, or just a simple “Thanks, but you smell like plums and I’m strictly paleo.

Does she do this sort of thing in other aspects of her life? Does she carpool, yet skip someone on the route? A mail carrier who refuses delivering in rain?

Were there others like her in history? If a gender-neutral wise man, would the baby Jesus be without myrrh? If John Wilkes-Booth, does President Lincoln complete a second term?

Kidding aside, the bigger deal was the mission. This was the first time I asked someone on a date in years. Years. Think in terms of presidential administrations. Here goes…

I have not had a date since George W. Bush was president.

Trust me, I take no pride in that statement. Judge me if you must. I‘m being honest. I didn’t spend these years focusing on my career. I wasn’t the Secretary of State. No excuse. None required. I quit trying. It’s not like I ever pounded the pavement looking for the one. Never been the super-driven, planning type.

I appear to be easygoing. People say, “Mike just goes with the flow. He never gets riled up or angry.“ My still waters run deep. I come across that way, but the last 15 years have been influenced by fear and shame-based stuff. Worrying about what’s going to happen, and not quite feeling worthy of certain successes. It’s a whole other story. I’m fine. Just piecing together the puzzle for you.

I’m not afraid of rejection. I’m afraid of limbo, of not knowing what will happen. I’ve circled Yes on her “Do you like me?” note, but not knowing her answer. Asking one woman on a date is no cure.

Me asking a woman on a date was a big deal. I have never dated like some have job interviews, for practice. Nor do I look to a first date like she’s my future wife. Or do I?

After all, I am the model for Rodan’s lesser known statue, The Over-Thinker.

When I was dating during the G.W. Bush years, I often dated women I wasn’t interested in for the long haul. Before you think me the cad, I was honest and it was mutual. It was my way of shielding myself from relationship anxiety. Genius, I know. Like eating foods you don’t like so you won’t gain weight.

I’m not waiting another ten years for a date. I’ve dabbled with the online thing and just hate it. It’s hard to get excited about dating based on her interest in the outdoors, animals, and showing off her cleavage in a selfie. Definitely feels like a job search. It’s hard to approach it as a fun way to meet new people. Gee, maybe make a friend. Huge load of crap. How many of your current friends became so because of a lack of dating chemistry?. It just feels like torture.

Social waterboarding.

I’m exploring alternatives. Like in these days of terrorism, I am be aware of my surroundings. I will be on the lookout for someone interesting. Join a few groups, charity stuff, volunteer. You meet good people when doing good things.

As I look at the endeavor of dating, I am baffled. How do two people find each other? Trust themselves and each other to marry. Adam and Eve were kind of stuck, but after that? Leap of faith?

Given divorce rates, you’ll have to do better than that. You’re embarking on this life-long venture with someone who very likely refuses to fart in front of you. Should there not have been a Saturday morning or two’s journey into the Dutch oven? My god, you should at least know if your future spouse is putting out rotten eggs. If you find this out after the wedding, you’ll deal with it. However, 25 years later there’s an insurmountable resentment because your spouse put you off egg salad sandwiches.

I would like to love someone. Yes, it’s true. I don‘t enjoy being alone and do hold out hope for that fun, smart, crazy-cool chick who will call me on my shit. She’ll tolerate my occasional methane-tainted path, all the while embracing her own silent-but-deadlies.

On the other hand, when I called and texted, part of me expected her to cancel. Yes, even hoped a little. It would have allowed me to skip right over the limbo part. Granted, I didn’t hope for the silent treatment.

Any potential date reading this is figuring out how to automatically send my calls to voice mail. This confession honesty isn’t easy. It’s not where I thought I’d be at 52 years old. Might as well embrace it and poke a bit of fun at it.

Tongue and cheek approach. Two things my former date will never get from me.

Call me, Connie Britton.

Two Voices

2014-12-08T18:12:00.002-08:00

I typed away on my laptop, waiting for my burger. I used the time to catch up on my travel journal for Driveabout 2014. My section was pretty empty, so the only person I’d talked to was my waitress. “Are you writing?” asked the pony-tailed man in an apron, catching me by surprise. I explained that I was on a drive around the country and was just catching up on a few days of notes. “I’m writing a book,” he said. “That’s cool,” I replied, then excused myself to the bathroom. I really didn’t feel like inquiring any further.

It was then that I heard the voice.

Ok, I stole that line from Field of Dreams. In truth, the little voice in my head told me I should find out what his book was about. Not in so many words, but that I should be my father’s son and talk to the stranger.

I got out of the bathroom and saw him still talking to the waitress. “So what kind of book are you writing?” I said. I would never dismiss someone and say, “Well, good luck with that,” unless it was the dreaded Sci-Fi/Fantasy novel. Hearing about the hero’s journey atop his talking mammoth through the hills of blah-blah, in search of the orb of what-ever. Torture.

He was writing his life story. I was in no hurry, so why not hear about it?

The Luxury Diner in Cheyenne, Wyoming had been around for decades. High Yelp ratings got my attention. It was hard to find, but well worth it. My burger covered in green chili didn’t disappoint. Neither did anything else about the place, including this man’s story.

He was very tan, but I couldn’t tell if that was his complexion, a suntan, or both. Though he had no accent, his brown eyes made me think he was of south-of-the-border decent. His shoulder length hair was pulled back in a ponytail. His smile was bright, wide, and genuine. The scars on his arms…odd in their abundance.

I’ll call him Lonnie, but that is not his name. As a lifetime gang member, he‘d appreciate the anonymity. It was another life in northern California. In Cheyenne, he cooked at the diner and one of the happiest, most gentle people I‘ve ever met.

Our conversation covered an array of topics. Family, felonies, serial killers, the Latin language, and a certain bunny.

If he had a nickel for every scar on his arms, he’d have close to a dollar. My words, not his. “I was a member of [A GANG] in California,” he said. It’s global organization of which documentaries have been made. The name doesn’t matter, so I won‘t advertise it.

As is a common story, Lonnie didn’t have much of a family life. “My parents didn’t give a shit what I did,” he said, his eyes still carried the disbelief that parents could care so little about their child. Of course, he found others who filled the family void.

“It still amazes me that I never once got arrested,” he said. By arrested, I’m pretty sure he meant a felony. Too many scars to have not sat in the back of a police car.

“I treated it like a 9 to 5 job and my neighbors had no idea what I was doing.” He sometimes sold drugs out of his house, but anyone purchasing there arrived carrying a case of beer. “My neighbors knew I partied, so if you wanted to leave my house with drugs, first we’d sit outside and drink a few beers, then you’d leave with the drugs in the case.” We‘re not talking ounces. I then learned a kilo equals 2.2 lbs. Like a felony-sized bag of sugar.

At some point, his voice told him to leave, to escape and go far, far away. Perhaps it was the company he was keeping. “There were these three brothers and I think they were serial killers. They were always doing crazy shit,” he said. Obviously, some of the crazy was murder. He was pretty sure they were in prison for life. I volunteered to check online, but he couldn’t remember their last names. Better to just take his word for it. I never asked if he’d killed anyone. If he did, it was likely a rival gang member. No need to discuss things with no statute of limitations. Regardless, the man in front of me wasn’t a drug-dealing, murdering gangster. He was a gracious man excited about the future.

“I’ve always wanted to learn Latin, so I’m taking a class at the college this winter,” he said, smiling as if he’d won the grand prize. Reminded me of the child in a third world nation who is excited because he gets to go to school.

Lonnie was hungry for life.

After nearly 20 years, he made his first trip back to California. “I was afraid if anything happened while I was there, I’d get blamed for it.” Funny how I’ve never used that criteria when returning to my hometown. He was relieved to find that his former co-workers were either dead or in prison. He chuckled and added, “If I stayed, that’s where I’d be.”

So I took a picture with him, gave him my email address, and said farewell. Before I left, I had to have his picture with The Cranky Bunny, my puppet traveling companion. After a brief explanation, he put him on and I said, “Look at the bunny like he scares you to death.” He turned his hand so he and the puppet were face-to-face. With that he let out a laugh Santa Claus would envy. He laughed with no end in sight.

I laughed, too and finally, he shook his head and said, “I’ve been afraid of a lot of things in my life, I just can’t be afraid of a puppet.”

Everyone has a story to tell. Sure, some meatier than others. Had I not asked, I would’ve missed out on a scarred man healing his life, embracing each day, and most of all, laughing along the way.

It made for a much better picture.

Much More Than A Sandwich

2014-12-04T14:46:00.000-08:00

MC, Janet, and the vic

Good luck finding Crestone on a map. It’s a tiny town in southern Colorado at the base of mountains. A very small town with dirt roads and no stoplights. Depending on who you ask, you’ll also learn about conspiracies, UFO’s, and the drones.

Some say there’s a certain magic about the area. The Crestone vicinity is sacred to American Indians It is a spiritual and healing buffet ranging from over 20 monasteries, lithium hot springs, and energy vortexes. I’m not going to pretend to know what a vortex is, but I read it’s similar to the rotation left by a moving object, like the wake of a speeding boat.

I pulled in front of the pizza place in town just after noon. As if on cue, a half dozen people gathered, staring and pointing to the sky. I asked and a man said, “We’re looking at the UFO up there.” He went on the say that it’d been up there a while, changing shapes. I didn’t see it right away, but then saw what looked like a large, bright star. I wasn’t overly impressed, although I will say that it was way too early in the day for stars of any size. I got more interested when another appeared, and moved up and down. Someone showed me a close-up of the object taken by their big-lensed camera. It was egg-shaped, no windows or lights. Though certainly unidentified, I think they were of this earth. Just have to do better than floating orbs to convince me otherwise.

Someone pointed out airplane vapor trails very high in the sky. “There they are again.” To some people, everything is a conspiracy, even a Southwest flight from Denver to Dallas. UFO’s and drones be damned, I got tired of watching after ten minutes. I’m glad I did, because the real show was inside the pizza place.

“My name is Marilyn, but I’m now Monte Cristo because when I moved here that’s what the mountains named me.” For the next few hours, when I went to the bathroom I made sure my seat at the bar was saved.

The two women sat on one side of the bar’s corner and I sat on the other. Early 60’s, drinking white wine, I guessed they were retired, wannabe artsy types. More money than knowledge of western art, their houses filled with paintings of rodeo cowboys, bronze eagle sculptures, and the obligatory wooden totem pole in the yard. One wore a weathered and bent cowboy hat, probably exactly how she purchased it at Bob’s Cowboy Hat Emporium.

Oh, how wrong I was.

“Well, I’ll just call you MC,” I said. Told them my name, didn’t mention I hadn‘t heard from the mountains.

Janet was MC’s drinking companion. MC displayed her magic the minute she opened her mouth. It took about five minutes of conversation for Janet to spill, “When my mother died, I went to Florida to sell her house and I was institutionalized.” Only the UFO landing next to my car to offload Elvis atop a unicorn could pry me from my seat. I never asked, but I’m pretty she wasn’t institutionalized for moving pencils with her mind, like the Travolta character in Phenomenon.

Neither one was much for a single train of thought. Like talking to a couple of five year olds. No doubt the 60’s had its impact. A wave of panic swept through me when I thought of these two enticing me into a three-way, then murdering me. My dismembered remains would never be found.

Eventually, I knew someone would ask my sign. Janet didn’t disappoint, but when I asked her to guess, she gave up after five tries. “I’m Leo with Pisces rising,” I said. Years ago, someone told me the rising part. No idea what it meant. Just said it to fit in. When Janet disagreed, based on my birth time, Dave, sitting next to me, stepped in and did the math. I was correct.

Dave was the town’s jack-of-all-trades. Since Crestone didn’t have much in the way of industrial parks, I presume he wasn‘t the only one. Though it sounded like he made a living at it The longer we talked, I found that wasn’t necessarily so.

Dave could have made a few dollars as a Kevin Costner look-alike. He was divorced with a daughter, for whom, like any parent, he said would do anything. Unfortunately, during a tough financial time that “anything” turned out to be a federal crime.

He was arrested at a small airport by dozens of well-armed DEA agents as he tried to ship 20 lbs. of pot out of state. Friends set Dave up. He took a plea. It’s his first offense of any kind and so he hopes for a sentence on the lighter side of the seven years maximum. If there was ever someone in need of my buying them a beer.

I talked to Dave for quite a while and walked away knowing he was a decent guy who did something really, really stupid. I’m hoping the judge sees it the same way.

Next on the menu was a man and his two young daughters. He wore what looked like a knit turban. Dave told me that when unwrapped, his dreadlocks fell to the ground, something I imagine my back hair doing in another 10 years. I spent the next hour or so talking to his girls, who took Janet and MC’s places at the bar. Ice cream was their poison. Their dad mingled around the bar with the other locals, keeping an eye on the stranger talking to his kids. I went over and introduced myself, telling him that at least he’d know the creepy guy’s name. We both laughed. The girls were 10ish. Bright, funny kids who seemed to be doing rather well without Facebook, cell phones, TV, and I’m guessing, Sunny-D (the fake orange juice drink that’s loaded with high fructose corn syrup).

It was time to wave good-bye after talking with Chris. He was an EMT with a radio show on the local NPR station. Way too normal. Kind of creeped me out. Probably didn’t even know his rising sign.

The Scar

2014-02-01T13:27:00.000-08:00

Tom the intern knew his job
Watch the panel all night long
Should the red light start to blink
Call for help, no need to think

Hours into days
Was he being hazed?
Weeks into months
Not a blink, not even once.

Then one night, nearly his last
At a time best suited for a nap
Did he see a blink? Was he losing his mind?
Some kind of focus he had to find.

Blinking the light, a vivid red
He fixed his eye, focused ahead
Ear to the phone, he heard a ring
Someone picked up and said, “Oliver King.”

“Tom the intern…my last name is Fink
The red light before me just started to blink.”
The phone was hung up and an alarm sound
Strangers rushed in and circled around

Someone had a manual
Said his name was Samuel
Opened to a page that had a chart
Said, “Have to call Art. He’s pretty smart.”

“Oliver King, my name is Art
I’m the one who made this chart.
It explains the red light
That stayed dark ‘til tonight.

This was a project some years ago
We used a device that was just so-so
It was the first and was oh so small
But truth be told, it didn’t work at all.

Was to look at the human brain
To understand the thoughts it contained
We‘d learn how they think, that‘s the place to begin
But all it really did was get under their skin

Most just itched and then they’d scratch
And we thought to send out another batch
We just agreed the project would go to waste
This species perhaps wasn’t really our taste

It was easy enough those aliens we’d abduct
Not much smarter than the chickens they plucked
Just snatch them up while they slept
Never believed, always told it was dreamt”

This day on earth a man first shaved his head
He noticed a scar and watched as it bled
Art watched a screen as the light kept a blink
He knew what the man was about to think

The implant was working, should they turn it off?
All this because a man had shaved his coif?
Before deciding, he needed to know
What was this thought, the man could not let go?

From this idea the human’s brain was so perplexed
So Art asked other Martians, “What is sex?”

The Kid

2013-05-13T22:28:00.000-07:00

This round of NPR's Three Minute Fiction contest had the following challenge: Write a story in which a character finds an object that he or she has no intention of returning. It can be no more than 600 words. My Entry is titled above:

................................................................................................................................................

“Pardon me, Sir…” was how it started. It ended with him slipping a beautifully crafted piece of someone else’s writing into his briefcase.

Had he worn his ear buds, he’d have ignored the kid’s request for “an honest opinion.” Instead he replied, “Sure, I’ll read it.” He spent the next few minutes reading what he felt certain was the winning entry in NPR’s Three Minute Fiction contest. Problem was he was entering the same contest.

He was Dr. Leo McKenna, the self-proclaimed Dr. Grammar, Winona Community College’s healer of the grammatically inept. He also expanded students’ reading horizons from website blurbs, social networking dribble, and science textbooks, to the likes of Twain, Dickens, and Shakespeare.

He’d never seen the kid before, and he’d logged enough hours grading papers in that coffee shop, that he recognized everyone. Just a typical high school kid. Nothing noteworthy except he was the only one in the place without a book or laptop, opting for pen and loose leaf paper.

“Excuse me. Do you know if someone is coming back for these?” It wasn’t until an employee found it under some newspapers that he’d realized the kid had left, and without his story. McKenna took the pages and laughed, “My damn friend. He’s so forgetful.” He put the competitor’s work in his briefcase, adding, “I’ll hang onto them.” He laughed to himself about the baffling, still-developing, teenage brain.

“If not for me, the story would’ve been tossed,” he justified. It wasn’t stealing. He saved great writing from a landfill. Besides, maybe next time the kid would learn to check around for his belongings.

“It’s all for the best,” he told himself. His story might not be the winner, but when you’re already the second best entry coming out of the neighborhood coffee shop, things aren’t too promising. Besides, he was so sick of the comments. “It’s just NPR. Since when does a radio station know anything about writing?” But what really got him was when friends stated, ”Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.”

Maybe this was his chance.

So he checked and rechecked his entry, a masterfully painted, visual picture sure to captivate the reader, while maintaining a style that would reduce Strunk and White to joyous sobs. However, the simple fact remained. The kid was a natural and he was not. He had the gift the professor never had. McKenna struggled putting together the words to describe such talent, proving his exact point.

He pondered his options for awhile, but there wasn’t much McKenna could do, so he just typed. Without motive or purpose. No filtering or editing of any sort. Just putting fingers to keys, words to cyber-paper. His tunnel-vision focus muting all noise and movement.

He stared at the Save File screen. “Pardon me, Sir.” said the kid, having returned and pointing to his sheets beside McKenna, “Is that my story?”

McKenna stared at the handwritten sheets, then at the kid and replied, “No, that’s my story.” The befuddled kid stared as McKenna showed him his laptop. “You story is right here. I entered it verbatim and I’ve been trying to figure out how I could submit it on behalf of a brilliant, albeit, absentminded, young author. Now that you’ve returned, I’ll let you do the honors.” He spun around the laptop and the kid sat.

McKenna smiled and placed the handwritten story in front of the kid. He handed him a pen and continued, “But before you do, you’re signing my copy. After your first Pulitzer Prize, it’ll be worth big bucks.”

A Very Covert Christmas

2012-12-08T15:04:00.000-08:00

Note: The challenge by writing coach was, someplace in the story, to include the phrase "she couldn't help herself from planting the seeds of doubt."

“When I was little, we’d leave cookies and milk out for a Santa, and on Christmas Day there’d be nothing but crumbs.” Sitting across from her 9 year old niece, she couldn’t stop herself from planting a seed of doubt. “Anyone can eat cookies and drink milk, Aunt Jane.” Fiona countered dismissively. Though Jane never expected the kid to bite, it helped reinforce the career CIA operative’s belief in what she was up against.

Jane Davis accepted her situation and she really felt like she was growing into the role. Guardian to her niece, Fiona Davis, daughter of her only sibling, Jeffrey. She wasn’t able to make it back for the funeral, but knew the circumstances meant that her career would take a sudden turn.

At 40, she wasn’t holding her breath about marriage, but she never really saw herself as a mom. Just not something those of her gender did in this line of work.

She’d spent the majority of the last 15 years on various overseas assignments, all where she served as an Operations Officer in the Clandestine Service of the Central Intelligence Agency. Her official job description included “establish strong human relationships resulting in high-value intelligence.” She recruited and ran sources, paying people to spy for the United States, and she excelled at it.

None of that meant much now. With her brother and sister-in-law dying in a car accident, and their will naming Jane as Fiona’s guardian, Jane was on indefinite leave from The Company. Money from life insurance policies allowed her to focus on Fiona.

In just under a year, she’d grown to adore the child. It was why she was pretty sure her CIA career was over. Fiona didn’t need to be uprooted from the only home she’d known, and Jane had little interest in working out of DC.

With their first Christmas less than two months away, Jane got a feel for Fiona’s beliefs, or in this case, disbeliefs, and Jane decided, “Operation Save SC” was on. One of the great CIA spooks would leave no doubt as to the existence of Santa Claus. “Besides,” she thought, “this kid is growing up too fast already. She could use Santa in her life.”

With the cookie story failing to impress, she knew she needed to plant seeds of Santa in other ways. She had about a month to pull this off. As long as on 25 December, Fiona believed in the miracle of St. Nick, the Op would be a success.

She asked herself what things convince, or dispel, a child that Santa exists? Where were her exposures? So Jane started making her list, and she laughed, “Hell, yeah, she wouldn’t need to check it twice.”

So Jane created an employment application for the local mall, including the disclaimer that “the employee will respond as Santa Claus during all work hours”, and agrees to represent the true Santa Claus, listing specific traits of the man himself.

Santa getting down the chimney presented a few issues. She could hear it, “Auntie, some people don’t even have a chimney.” Fiona would also question anyone fitting down their’s. Jane would simply point out that, in the old days chimney’s were bigger and everyone had one to heat their house. Though Santa prefers a chimney, he can use a window or door. Sometimes he has to use a door because the toys are so big.

Next issue: time zones. Santa makes time stand still on Christmas? He’s so fast, he moves at the speed of light, and presents magically appear? This was a tough sell. She knew all the words in the world wouldn’t convince her of this one.

She needed to blow the kid’s mind. Luckily, she had connections with the greatest deceivers in the world.

When the time came, no one noticed when two vans, of various disguise, parked on Jane’s street and two on the street behind, forming the corners of a large square perimeter around her house. The technology inside so advanced that when operational, you’d never notice. Gone where the days of antennae or satellite dishes.

So when Christmas Eve came, Jane was glad Fiona slept soundly. Gifts were in place. Santa’s cookies were eaten. Feet wiped on the white rug, mimicking good manners the Christmas legend would certainly possess. Remnants of devoured carrots strewn on the roof, appreciated by his flight crew. Attention to detail. Doubtful Fiona would want roof access, but if she did, Jane had her.

Show time.

Jane leaned into her sleeping marvel, “Fiona….Fiona, he was here. Santa was here!”, she whispered with tempered elation as she rubbed her back, her adrenalin surge reminded her of when she infiltrated Hezbollah with a prized, high-level informant.

As they looked over the evidence and gifts, there was a clatter on the roof, that on any other night would make you think a repairmen where working overtime, but perfectly fitting for the night. “What the…is he still here!” Jane said, crouching eye-to-eye, then taking Fiona’s hand and charging out the front door.

The roof agent lay flat on the roof, out of view. When agents in the vans heard the Go word in their earpieces, they lit up the sky. The four holographic beacons projected perfectly on the roof .

When Fiona and Jane turned to look at the roof, they saw a sight that baffled the child for years to come. With a pull of the reins, a sled pulling by eight reindeer vaulted into the sky. Santa Claus looked to the side, saw Fiona, smiled and blew the girl a kiss. Jane, tears pooling in her eyes, smiled, then the agent in her kicked in. “Please God, don’t let her ask about Rudolph.” Noticing a certain red nose not guiding the sleigh tonight.

Teddy Bear and the Alaskan Bares

2012-10-03T20:06:00.000-07:00

Note: This is dedicated to John Carlson: a travel companion, drinking buddy, and former co-worker. He is a kind man, good friend, and simply a damn, good guy. John, I can't believe we lived so close to each other in Atlanta and saw each other so little. I know I speak for so many others---I just can't believe you're gone.

Damn it, Carlson.

If you’ve never been to Alaska, you owe it to yourself to check it out. The raw beauty will blow your mukluks clean off your feet. Glaciers, mountains, the Northern Lights, and for me…bares.

My Alaskan journey took place in February 1986, when some sunlight was returning to the area. I was joined by Maureen, Mark, and John. Maureen was a cool, easygoing chick who would’ve done well in the 60’s. Mark, the burly, offensive lineman type who’s good to have on your side if there’s a rumble. John’s a Long Islander who looks like an off-the-boat Irishman, forced to avoid the sun. He’s also quite flappable and prudish, like any good Irish Catholic.

Here’s some news, Alaskans like their alcoholic beverages; great, something in common. That weekend was Anchorage’s Fur Rendezvous (aka Fur Rondy), a festival featuring dogsled races, a parade, but from what I could tell, its purpose was to sell you a button and get the booze pouring.

During our first night on the town, I encountered two men that I’m pretty sure would’ve fought me for 1) Drinking a screwdriver, 2) Wearing a red shirt. I think the second guy was part bull. A learning experience for sure.

The population of Alaska is 99.4666% men and the remainder, some quite discerning ladies. Men without women, living in winter darkness, simply put---want to fight. Red shirt wearing, screwdriver drinking outsiders are evidently a prime target.

The morning’s hangover delayed our arrival at Portage glacier until early afternoon. That’s one big piece of slippery ice. A few miles down the road was the perfect thawing place called The Bird House Bar. The t-shirt I purchased noted its address as 33rd and Bird. 32nd and 34th were nowhere in sight.

The Bird House was part cabin, part shoebox. I’m not sure where its fame came from, but it’s a fair guess that freezing tourists from the glacier needed a place to recover. Everything inside was in some stage of the log to lumber transition. The bar was solid wood, bar stools were logs. It’s a staple stuff on the walls and ceiling place. Ceiling reserved for bras, of course. We found a table away from the bar and hoping clear liquids didn’t promote violence, I decided on a gin and tonic.

We nursed cocktails, wading back into the buzz pool. A barrel-shaped man in his 40’s approached, introducing himself as Teddy Bear. Let’s change that to a Teddy Bear-shaped man. He’s apparently the welcoming committee. I have to admit I didn’t listen too closely to him, not wanting to become too friendly with a local given my brief history. “Do you folks know the history of the Birdhouse bar?” he asked with not his first beer of the day in hand. Admittedly, I wasn’t versed in 33rd and Bird lore. He goes on, sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher to me(wah wah woh wah wah), until I hear “naked.” “Teddy Bear, could you repeat that last part?” He told us this bar has a history of people getting naked. About all he got out of us is a doubtful nod and Ok. “And my goal today is to get everyone at this table naked.” Awfully pie-in-the-sky, Mr. Bear. We laughed and wished him luck with that.

The day went on and so did the drinks. Teddy kept checking in on us, insisting naked was going to happen. In all fairness, I should be clear that Teddy Bear couldn’t have given rat’s ass about seeing us three males naked. Maureen was the obvious target. We were collateral, naked damage.

Out of nowhere, Maureen started negotiating with him. “If the guys take off all their clothes, I’ll strip down to my bra.” Now, I have no problem with naked, it’s just that Maureen in her bra was not incentive, nothing against her bust. Her ace-in-the-hole was John. There were not enough bra-clad women in all of the Yukon to get him naked and she knew it.

Joining Teddy Bear was his sidekick, Darwin. Seriously, a man who shares his name with the Father of the Theory of Evolution was using those much-evolved genetics to get strangers to disrobe. I’m sure Teddy and Darwin have an impressive, naked resume. They did show me a picture of some 20 naked patrons showing off their rear ends at that same bar, so there was precedence for naked at the Bird House.

Gin and tonics were my friend. Not like beer or whiskey. With the G&T, drunk gently slinks up on you, like a dog not allowed on the couch inching its way to your lap.

Drunk was definitely slinking. Although, Mark and I plotted against John, there was no way naked would happen. But as long as John didn’t know that for certain, we could still get some decent panicked blushing out of him. And did we ever.

Out of nowhere, Teddy Bear and Darwin delivered a whole bunch of naked to our table. These guys play the game like it’s meant to be played, shrinkage be damned. I almost feel obligated. I’m held back by the notion someone might want to fight me because I’m circumcised.

I should note that there’s nothing quite like tourists’ facial expressions when they walk into a dark bar, their eyes adjusting from the bright outdoors, and they come face to face with two naked, middle-aged men.

Even with no intention of playing the game, it’s fun to mess with John. Mark or I pretended to plot, then one of us would make a trip to the bathroom, causing John to blurt out, ”Oh my god, he’s going to do it!!!”

The look on John’s face when he emerged from the men’s room to see Mark and me in our tighty-whities was everything you’d expect it to be. His entire body just wilted, like his last line of defense had crumbled and the enemy was taking his clothes prisoner.

A small crowd gathered, in expectation of a very, very special moment. The crowd: a husband, wife (Mary, the self-proclaimed millionaire, real estate tycoon), and son. Yes, a son. Seems Alaska has its own brand of Hill People.

Mary was a big fan of men getting into their undies. She cheered as Maureen ordered John to his. She even helped with the process. All John could muster was, “There will be no pictures of this!”***

Maureen was a good sport, taking off her sweater to reveal a pretty sturdy bra, much to the chagrin of the undressed duo of Teddy and Darwin. Mary, openly hot and bothered at the three of us men, could not get her top off fast enough. Did she wear the sheer bra on purpose? Something told me this wasn’t Mary’s first Bird House-undressing-rodeo.

She after demonstrating a unique way of checking us for tonsillitis, invited us to her hot tub. Seemed we reached the intersection of 33rd and Weird.

John unveiled a seemingly brand new freak flag to fly as he announced he was all for the hot tub. Mark maintained a sense of reason. I found my limit was a hot tub event out of an Appalachian porno.

In the end, two bras were added to the ceiling, we got John dressed and back to Anchorage, and we all left knowing we had a real estate agent in the area ready to give us all she had. Certainly, Teddy Bear and Darwin lived on, seeking out nudity where one would expect none, like a log cabin bar at 33rd and Bird.

***-Maureen - scan and post to your heart’s content!

How France Got A Disneyland

2012-09-27T19:43:00.000-07:00

Note: National Public Radio's All Things Considered's contest has a simple premise: Write an original short story that can be read in three minutes or less (no more than 600 words). For this round, the judge, author Brad Meltzer required original fiction that revolves around a U.S. president, real or fictional.

This is my entry:

“Finally,” thought Bronco, Secret Service name for President Alexander Halsey, “the French Summit was over.” He didn’t have to talk about that crap for the rest of the day. It’s not unusual for someone to hate his job. It’s just a surprise when one is the President of the United States.

“Bronco is secure.” The newest member of Halsey’s detail listened in his earpiece, stationed in the guest wing of the Elysee Palace, home of the 1985 Summit. A senior agent approached, reminding him, “Even though it’s their guy’s house, they’ll leave us alone down here. Just us and our guy. Although, don’t be surprised should you meet ‘Busted’.”

The newbie just shook his head, still outside of this inside joke.

“You’ll know it when you see it.” he smirked, having witnessed plenty of first family foibles in his career.

“I really don’t mind these summits,” Bronco said to his wife, Candice as they relaxed in private. “I thought it went well, a meeting of two great nations.”

“Oh, spare me, darling. It’s just us. You’ve got the world fooled, but I know how much you hate this.”

“It wasn’t all bad,’ he persuaded them both , wishing to ring out decades of stressful expectations through his clinched hands. The only son of a billionaire father whose failed political aspirations anointed him the obligated, and reluctant, chosen one.

“Andre’s a sharp kid,” the French president’s 10 year old son, who spent a good 30 minutes at dinner insisting the leader of the free world put a Disneyland in Paris.

“He knows more about the Star Wars movies than you, that’s a rarity. Although, I doubt he’s been on as many roller coasters the last two years as my husband,” she added. Their laughter skirted the issues of a man whose childhood showed all the signs of a political candidate testing the waters. Although in his case, being thrown in it. “Alex, a president doesn’t do that,” echoed in his mind. Words he’d heard way more than “I love you.”

Those who knew him, knew he fought it.

The itch.

It came at night, like this night. A bug bite he couldn’t pinpoint. A nerve in him lit without fire. Only he could reach it, his way.

“It’s my one thing,” he pleaded to his parents growing up, and confided to his wife on their wedding night.

With Candice long asleep, he strolled the guest wing, Secret Service at a distance. Along with carte blanche at amusement parks, the job had other perks. He marveled at the places he stayed. This palace, a museum. His guests let him walk around at night, but they didn’t know of his itch.

So he meandered alone in his presidential bath robe. He was careful. He didn’t touch everything. Some things just scratched it though.

The first one slipped into his robe pocket so cleanly. An ashtray. His itch releasing with a sizzle, like molten lava into water.

One helps, another helps more.

So many ashtrays in this place. He salivated as he grabbed another. So consumed, he didn’t hear the commotion.

“Mister Alex, you took that.” He turned to see Andre at the table where previously sat the worthless ashtray. Did the kid not notice he left the table-sized Matisse sculpture? “I’m telling.”

Bronco, embarrassed like many times before, knelt down to the boy, leaning in his offer, “So Andre, let’s talk about this Disneyland thing.”

The new agent nodded as he watched from the doorway, whispering in his microphone, “Bronco’s busted.”

The Reality of Losing Someone

2012-07-02T13:50:00.002-07:00

I entertained this reality in my mind many times. When I saw it happen to others, I thought maybe I understood. However, no matter how much you try to imagine it, or prepare yourself, no amount of mental rehearsal comes close to the reality of losing someone you love.

First off, I’m incredibly lucky. My dad passed at age 84, after a decade of roller-coaster health and hospital stays. His old self was an expectation adjusted with each episode. The first time a doctor truly pronounced him as mortal, my mind projected forward to the voyage of a life without him.

It was hard to watch him deteriorate over the years, but we got to do just that. Enjoy his company. His two lung cancer surgeries flipped the egg timer on his mortality. Sand running from the full end, filling the empty lower half. That’s when I truly realized his time would eventually run out. Until then death was a nebulous concept, one that occurred in others’ lives.

A college acquaintance of mine’s parents were killed in a car accident. I didn’t know the guy well; probably didn’t offer condolences. I do remember thinking it was a colossal tragedy, and was baffled that he made it back to school. He looked normal, just as I remembered him before. I couldn’t imagine having the strength for that, yet I held my denial, my belief in my own parents’ immortality in an iron grip.

My dad isn’t immortal though. He’s deceased. Not of this earth. I will never see his face or hear his voice again.

I had tons of I Love Yous with my dad. No regrets. Nothing unspoken. He had ZERO doubt of how I felt about him and a MASSIVE vice versa. I also know he was proud of me, of the man I’d become. He was proud of all of his kids. He and our mom turned out honest, kind, decent people; qualities that mean a parent has done a good job. None of this changes the simple fact. Loss is still loss.

He’s just gone. No matter how hard I try, or where I look. Gone.

I think its human nature to prepare for these things. I know I played it out in my mind. Prior to his death, there were times when I’d look at him and sort of erase him from the moment. Him not saying grace before dinner. Him not sitting in his spot in the den. Not strong enough to think about holidays though.

So there’s nothing more. No more birthday phone calls, holidays, hugs, or kisses goodnight. No more anything, everything.

I remember being in 8th grade, getting up one morning and my dad in the living room. Just sitting, doing nothing. He just stared. “Did Mom talk to you?” No. “Papa died last night.” His dad died.

I know that stare now. I catch myself in it every day. At first, the stare is you thinking about the reality of what’s happened. Reliving the words in your head that someone you love is gone. Over time, it changes. Different for everyone, I’m sure. It’s approaching six months for me and the stare now is when my brain goes into a cloud. A cloud of perpetual wonder that death is something that affects everyone in the world, and happens every second of every day.

However, we continue.

Do people notice any difference in me? Do I look normal? When I stare, does anyone wonder what’s up with me? What about people who know what’s happened? Do they see a change in me?

Life goes on. There’s a reason for the cliché. Aside from a handful of people, the world won’t skip a beat when someone dies.

Though my dad is irreplaceable to me, there’s no great cavity in humanity. No streets of wailing citizens. No candlelight vigils. Even for some people who knew him, tomorrow was just another day. They paid their respects in whatever way they wished, and moved on. That doesn’t make them bad people. It’s just how things are.

Yet for some of us, there’s a hole in our lives. It is different. My family and I got a lot of extra years with him. Not to prepare--as much as I might have thought that possible--but to appreciate him. I know we appreciated the hell out of him. Still, there’s loss.

I feel different. I function fine. I’m sleeping ok. I eat. I exercise…well, as much as I did a year ago. However, I’m not the same. It’s like my emotions were in a car wreck. Like a body wracked with broken bones, a serious injury that requires rehabilitation. So I cry a little every day. I’ve always been a sucker for a tearjerker or homeless animal commercial, but this is extreme. You name it, it’ll make me cry. Songs. Sitcoms. Commercials. I well up. If I fight it, it’ll stop there. Sometimes, I don’t fight.

I find myself staring off into space. Not at anyone. At nothing. I’m not thinking about anything in particular. Just feeling how different things are.

How did I react when someone, an acquaintance really, told me that he or she has lost a loved one, especially a parent? In all honesty, looking back, I see myself as pretty indifferent and oblivious. Kind of an asshole. Maybe that’s harsh. Maybe the reality hit too close to home and I tried not to think about being in that person’s shoes.

I’d offer condolences, of course. I might ask for a detail or two, but once our conversation was over, I’d pretty much moved on too, not noticing the hole the person’s life, their stare. Even with friends, real friends, I didn’t have much of a follow-up. I never really kept tabs on how that person was doing. He or she seemed ok, and that was good enough for me. I never asked. I cannot believe I never asked. Having been on both sides now, I’m ashamed of myself.

The next time someone tells me about their loss, I won’t say, “I know how you feel.” I’ll never know how anyone feels. Our realities are different. Our relationships were different. However, I will have an understanding. I’ll ask, and above all, I’ll follow up. I’ll hope that they appreciated their loved one like I did mine. While I won’t know exactly what they are dealing with, I will know--absolutely know--that their loss is different, and much more than they imagined.

The Last Whisper

2012-03-26T00:15:00.000-07:00

When the phone rang at 1035pm, the caller ID read FAIRVIEW SOUTHDALE HOSPITAL. I listened as the caller spoke to my mom, who was awakened out of a deep sleep and a bit out of it. The nurse was trying to tell mom that Dad wasn’t doing well and did she want to come to the hospital? When I spoke up from the other line, the nurse said what I thought was the reality. My dad has passed away 10 minutes earlier.

From that point on, life took on a certain level of surreal.
He’d been in a rehab facility for awhile, following a partial hip replacement. So, for tracking purposes, my dad had: 1 and 1/3 lungs, 1/3 of his stomach, congestive heart failure and very poor heart function (maybe 25% of normal), a pacemaker, and a foot of intestine removed. So when I say that we were lucky to have him the last 12 years or so, you see why.

At this stage, rehab wasn’t going to bring him any increased quality of life. As he got older, and had more setbacks, his quality of life ceiling lowered. Meaning that he was never going to get the level of healthy back what he had before.

The rehab place wasn’t doing him any good. It was on the degrading side, which is the side where most health-related issues reside when you’re in that condition. I just tried to look past it all and see the man laying there. Just connect with him and bring any amount of comfort possible. I’d have gladly given him part of my lung at that point, because that’s what his world revolved around, trying to catch his breath. The slightest effort created gasping like he’d just finished sprinting. I wasn’t expecting conversation about how things were at work.

I was a bit relieved one day when Mom told me they’d taken him to the ER because his breathing was bad. No one really expected him to come home. We figured he‘d be in some sort of nursing home, so until then, at least he was comfortable at a place that treated him with more respect. Rehab places aren’t in the business of nursing ailments other than what causes you to be there. They get you back on your feet and functioning. Hospitals are for whatever ails you.
There’s no need for play-by-play. As much as the body that held our dad in place was crumbling, the tenant in that structure was same gregarious Irishman we all adored.

He got better in a day or so. He flirted with nurses, winked at grandkids, held hands with whomever was closest, and made a bit of conversation. He wasn’t ‘out of it’, but was still 84, a bit disoriented from being bounced from facility to facility, and certainly not as mentally sharp as his heyday. However, he knew who were and what our stories were. So when he stared straight ahead at the person not there and asked us, “Who’s limping?“, it registered.

Having a couple of siblings in the medical profession helped when, the next day, he was having an issue for which the doctor recommended a test. We were all in agreement, mom included. No more tests. No more procedures. His systems where what they were and no test would change that. We weren’t given up on him, but we weren’t going to put him through any more discomfort. If your car has a bad engine, mentions of a new muffler fall on deaf ears. Dad’s engine couldn’t be fixed. Once that message was relayed to the doctor, she advised me that they’d be moving him out of intensive care to another room.

He went from a room with lots of machines to one with hardly more than a TV. He was comfortable, quiet, and wasn’t speaking much because of a dry throat from lack of fluids. We went to our respective homes, and mom asked if I wanted to go back later. I said yes, since we were so close by. We’d stop by to tuck him in for the night, then go to dinner.

I talked to my sister a little while later and she asked that I call her oldest son in a few days. He’d just gotten back from his honeymoon to South Africa, and whether he’d be lucid enough to understand, he wanted to tell Grandpa all about it. When a 34 year old man still thinks of his grandpa as his go-to guy to tell a cool story to, like he did when he was six, you make sure it happens.
So when we got back to his floor a few hours later, there was more activity. Groups of people hanging out in visitor areas, and I’m pretty sure I smelled pizza.

Dad was sitting more elevated, at least a 45 degree angle. His condition changed. His breath rattled like a fan touching metal. His eyes were focusing, just not on us. He was looking at something I didn’t see. Like he was watching an action movie on a big screen. Normally, he’d hold someone’s hand, now he was busy, like he was moving things out of the way, brushing things aside and picking things up. He heard us and responded though. This is when that little voice kicked in.

We all hear it. The one whispers for you to do something. “Call Pat now because there might not be a tomorrow.” So I called that first grandson, told him what was going on…that grandpa isn’t going to sound too good, but he can definitely hear you. Holding the phone to my dad’s ear. Tough stuff. Whatever he was telling my dad, the oldest grandchild was saying goodbye. Grandpa absolutely knew who was talking, I could tell the voice in his ear got his attention.

Before we left we chatted with his nurse a bit, mom gave Dad a kiss and made her way to the door. I leaned in, kissed his cheek and whispered something in his ear. His body sighed.

So they called at 1030p to tell us he'd passed. Mom and I went to the hospital and Mom asked how he passed. The nurse looked at me and said, "I don't know what you said to him, but I’ve never quite seen anything like it...you whispered something in his ear and I saw his whole body calming. He just relaxed and I had a feeling it might not be long.”

He was still in his room, so we went to see him. I was honored to be there with my mom as she comforted her husband of 60 years. I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything, but to some degree it’ll always haunt me. No one wants to see a loved one deceased in a hospital bed. It’s not a funeral home open casket. Honor, sadness, pride, pity, love.

Heading towards the elevator, looking around, I saw where we were. This wing was for terminal patients. Rules were broken here. Visiting hours were whatever you wanted them to be. Families shared pizza in a room with a cancer patient. People congregated anywhere they could, perhaps rotating visits in and out of their person’s room.

I always wondered how I’d find out. Living out of state, someone would call me. I guessed my brother-in-law. My sister would get the call first and she’d be too out of sorts to make the actual call. It made sense. It could happen other ways too, but not 1% of me thought I’d make the call telling my siblings that our father died.
I never imagined I’d be the last family member to speak to our dad either. We knew his time was short, but we didn’t think it was just hours. We’d have had that pizza party. Instead, that voice whispered something in me that night, so I whispered in his ear for the entire family.

“You’re a great dad.”

His Holiness, His Eminence, and His Son

2011-02-15T18:13:00.000-08:00

There’s a time and place for breaking in new shoes. This particular visit to the Vatican was not one of them.

I backpacked through Europe for a few weeks over the summer before starting school in London. I spent a lot of time on trains, a few of them overnight, arriving in a new city the next morning. Pretty limited wardrobe, little of which was clean after the first week, about all that looked good at that point were my new Rockport walking shoes.

Like walking on baby duck feather-filled pillows, packed with the tender love of one‘s mommy. Very nice for old cobblestone streets, or up and down flight after flight of Hostel staircases. The shoes were great the minute I put them on. No blisters, which is rare for me. Usually within ten minutes, quarter-sized blisters have attacked my heels and exploded, revealing Mike’s raw, throbbing hide.

So after a restless night’s sleep on my train from Germany, I arrived at my pension, which is European for “severely out-of-date, noisy hotel with no hot water and drapery with the light-omitting power of a giant, worn out hanky”. After a miserably cold shower and very dull-razored shave, I hit the streets.

I should note some pretty splotchy shaving results, like when a ten year old kid gives his five year old brother a haircut. Not that it really mattered. I was just going over to Vatican City to play tourist and ask about my dad’s childhood friend.

Before I left the country, my dad suggested that if I was at the Vatican, I should inquire about his friend, William Baum, aka Cardinal Baum. They grew up together and he was the first American cardinal ever assigned to the Vatican. Dad instructed, “Go up to a Swiss guard and say, ‘Is Cardinal Baum in Rome?’” You can’t miss the Swiss Guard. They have a court jester, colorful, wide-striped pajama look, but actually are bad asses, assigned to protect Vatican City. Dad went on to say that I wouldn’t get to see the cardinal, but it might get some perk like a special tour. Figured it was worth a shot.

So after taking in some sights, I approached a group of guards. I said the magic words, “Is Cardinal Baum in Rome?” I half expected him to shrug his shoulders and say, “How would I know?” Instead, like he’d been ask the question 100 times, he pointed me to a building on St. Peter‘s Square. “Go in that building and ask at the desk.”

I pushed open massive, wooden doors feeling like I’d just gotten off my beanstalk, waiting for shouts of “Fe, fi, fo, fum”. The desk was a few steps inside. The receptionist referred me to a desk down the corridor, by the elevators. Walking towards the next desk, the area looked like a museum without any exhibits. Long, cavernous room, not much to speak of for furnishings. Plenty of room for those monthly Vatican dance parties.

No offer of a special tour at the next desk. “Go up the elevator to the third floor.”

Things were taking an interesting turn. I didn’t expect to get through the big doors, let alone up an elevator. I snuck a whiff of my arm pits, hoping I was properly scented. If I suddenly represented the Brennan people, it was best to not stink.

Ding. Elevator doors opened. Here’s a surprise, another staffer minding a desk.

This time when I asked the question, basically, the response was, “Who wants to know?” I gave details about my dad’s and the cardinal’s life long friendship. I waited as she disappeared off down the hall.

Finally, I got some movement out of these Vatican types! Walking with the determination of a holy man chasing the antichrist out of a bingo game, a religious type in a flowing, black cassock returned with the staffer, . He introduced himself as a monsignor, the cardinal’s assistant. “Now, who are you again?” I deliver the full version of the story. I just hoped he wouldn’t check my Catholicness. Unless “Thou shall not put ketchup on a hot dog” was a commandment, coming up with all ten on request was a long shot. I could say “Grace” though, but I’d only use that if I needed to throw…wait for it….a HAIL MARY!

I followed him down the hallway. Suddenly, my shoes squeaked. Pretty new, like I said, but they had a few miles on them. Was this floor more polished? All I knew was with every step I took on some of the most hallowed ground in the religious world, I sounded more and more like a dog’s toy.

I was escorted into a non-descript conference room for a wait. The monsignor excused himself, returning a few minutes later. As he took me to another room, my shoes chirping away, he explained, “We just got back from New York and are just going through some mail. Have a seat, he’ll be with you in a minute.”

Okay, not what I expected. I’d better get my mind around this. There would be no special tour.

“How does one address a cardinal?” I inquire. Your eminence. Very cool. That kind of title would definitely give one the upper hand in a job interview. “So your eminence, where do you see yourself in five years?” Personally, I don’t see a day when I’m addressed with anything past “Bub”.

Left to wait, I took in the room. Now this was a room. Very Popey. Ornate. Classic red velvet and gold furniture, paintings of past popes, and a pretty kick ass view of St. Peter’s Square.. Sadly, no balcony from where I could address my flock.

It was go time. In walked Cardinal William Baum, formerly Billy Baum of Kansas City. No hat. Cardinals get hats too, not just the pope. He dressed in his casual Vatican attire similar to his assistant. “Your eminence, I’m Mike Brennan and I bring you greetings from the Brennan clan.” Okay, not so much like that, but I did address him properly as I introduced myself.

Priest handshake. Never worked a day in his life as my brother would say. Hand spongy like a ring bearer pillow. Not that I expected bricklayer calluses. We adjourned to the velvet for a chat. I’m impressed that he remembered my four siblings’ names.

It wasn’t not a long meeting. Perhaps fifteen minutes. I asked him what it was like selecting a pope. He raved about the current and past pope. He then hit me with the line of the trip. “It’s too bad his holiness isn’t here.”

This sleep-deprived college student with patchwork stubble and shoes reminiscent of the tin man in The Wizard of Oz was a summer vacation away from having one-on-one time with the leader of the largest religion in the world. Had the Pope not been at his summer home, it would have been one hell of a Christmas card.

Of course, I imagined walking into a room to meet him, and him hearing my entrance, looking up at me asking, “New Rockports?”