Noah’s Car Ferry
Anyone had a car problem recently? What was wrong? Maybe a dead battery? A bad transmission? Worn or flat tires?
Well, did you know that cars can get stomach aches? Me neither. But the other day my three-and-a-half year-old granddaughter Natalie came to our house and told me things about automobiles that I never dreamed were possible. And it's a good bet that these things were never anticipated by Benz, Ford, Chrysler, Tesla, whoever.
After her mother dropped her off, Natalie and I went downstairs to play with toy Matchbox cars. This is when she explained that a red race car had a "stomach ache." She named the patient "Lightning McQueen," because it resembled the cartoon star of "Cars," her favorite movie.
So Lightning McQueen was rushed to the doctor's office in the bowels of Noah's ark. This gets complicated. When we play at my house, Natalie insists on multi-tasking: getting out a wooden toy Noah's Ark in addition to the Matchbox cars.
Look, I WAS TRYING ... REALLY, I WAS ... trying to engross myself in child's play, but my mind was flooded with serious questions. And concerns. Did Lightning McQueen have health insurance? Or did he need flood insurance? And how did he get a stomach ache? Drinking diesel instead of regular unleaded? Twenty weight oil instead of 30 weight? And how do I explain all this to a three-year-old?
Or was Natalie creating a post-apocalyptic world in which automobiles replaced humans? Y'know, this might have movie potential. And you know Hollywood likes the Noah story. Like when Charlton Heston parted the Red Sea and ... no, no, wrong story... No, we should ask whether Natalie was going for the Russell Crowe version of Noah, or the Steve Carell version. But still... how would the cars get fuel if a Great Flood covered the Earth and all the gas pumps in Thunder Hollow? But I stifled all my questions, and just went along because my granddaughter was busy playing and she seemed contented. So who was I to rock the ark?
But back to the patient. While Lightning McQueen was being tended by another car (Doc Hudson was his name, according to Natalie) ... by the way, I'm going to assume that "Doc" was short for doctor. But was this ark doctor an M.D. or veterinarian? Or a garage mechanic? Somehow, other cars found out that Lightning McQueen had been taken ill, and they decided to visit! But how do I explain visiting hours?
And a lot of cars ... let's see, Natalie called them Cruz, Jackson Storm, Mater, Mister Scurley ... and a lot of other vehicles just rolled into the bottom hold of the ark. And, Natalie flew some cars in! But c'mon, cars flying? And landing on the ark? Which I felt was dangerous because Noah's Ark was not an aircraft carrier, and it had no helipad or runways. But I said nothing, because there was a bigger problem on board.
In minutes there were so many autos in the galley and top deck that Noah's ark could have been mistaken for the Ludington Car Ferry. It looked like it was getting ready to cross Lake Michigan to Manitowac, Wisconsin. Wasn't there a load limit on this thing? And you can't dodge this question: If God instructed Noah to allow only two of each animal species aboard, why were 20 or more cars parked on our ark? Or do the Ford Bronco, VW Beetle, Chevy Impala, and Dodge Ram count as species?
At least the wooden animals were not booted off the ark. They remained in the top level of the carved wooden vessel. But they were packed into a little enclosed space. One on top of the other. Probably breathing in exhaust fumes. Does PETA know about this? Or what if Sarah McLachlan found out? You know, she's the one who narrates those TV ads against cruelty to animals. I envision a closeup of these wooden animals while Sarah sings "In the Arms of An Angel" with phone number superimposed.
Oh, do you know who else was in the same cramped space with all the animals — a wooden Noah and his wife! By the way, the biblical account in Genesis does not give the name of Noah's wife, but Natalie assured me her name is "Ava." Must be so, because the three-year-old said it with such confidence. You know, I would find out later that Natalie has a preschool friend in her neighborhood named Noah. Who has a sister named Ava. What a coincidence!
We continued to play Matchbox cars/Noah's Ark until Natalie's mother came back. Mom called for Natalie, and the little girl reluctantly set down a car and headed for the stairs. And here I was, left to contend with Lightning McQueen's stomach ache and where he would go for post-Ark treatment.
I yelled "goodbye" to Natalie, and managed to spit out one question: "How did the cars fly?"
The little girl stopped on the steps, turned around, and lowered her eyebrows at me in disgust. And she said, "Grandpa, pretend."
Oh.
Why Do I Create?
Why?
Why does a blank page
beckon me,
compel me
to mar the unblemished
with writings embellished
or serious or amusing
or one of my sundry musings?
Why?
Why do figures of speech
seek me,
call me
like an eager schoolboy
who wants an attaboy
for using his way to pass
or be recognized in class?
Why?
Why does theprose.com
intrigue me,
entice me
to enter a challenge
or write a word salad?
Do I do it for a few likes,
to test my literary pipes?
Why?
Why do the answers
elude me,
puzzle me?
Is defining creativity
the stuff of subjectivity?
With nothing in sight,
I guess I’ll just write.
Mom, Do You Remember…
Dear Mom,
Do you remember the Mother’s Day cards I gave you when I was little? I hope not. Because when Dad was grocery shopping, he bought them from a discount rack, and gave them to me and my brothers to give to you. And I don’t know where he got those vats of cheap perfume that he gave you. But you always thanked us.
That reminds me. Do you remember that you always made me thank an aunt for sending a gift? You would call one of your sisters on our rotary dial phone and say that I wanted to tell her something. I would take the receiver and cram all my words together – “Thanks for the present. Here’s Mom.” – and give the phone back to you. My brothers did the same thing. But you never stopped making us say thanks.
Do you remember picking up the phone and dialing a number when my brothers and I were bad? You said into the receiver, “Hello, Bad Boys Home, I have a pickup.”
Do you remember pounding meat on the kitchen counter to stretch the slab into meals for ten? Do you remember giving us haircuts in the kitchen to save money? Do you remember playing piano in the living room and calling out chords so we could strum along on guitar? Do you remember holding grandchildren?
Sorry for asking all these questions, but when last I saw you in the memory wing of the assisted living home, sometimes you did not remember your sons’ names. I just wonder if you got your memory back after you passed away.
That’s okay if you do not recall all these events. My brothers and I are keeping your memories for you.
Love,
Sandlot
Memories
The red glow
of a lit
cigarette,
a puff of a smoke, a joke, and a hearty laugh
all from the big man in a flimsy porch chair
on a summer eve on the street where I grew up.
A nicotine-
stained forefinger
tapping a beat
on the steering wheel of a station wagon
carrying me from grade school on a spring day,
back to the home on the street where I grew up.
A young boy’s
forefinger (mine)
pointing with pride
at the big man in the blue police uniform
stepping out of his car in the driveway
of the home on the street where I grew up.
The big man’s
proud smile,
firm handshake,
and warm gaze into my eyes at my graduation
from college, something he never accomplished
in all the years he was growing up and adulthood.
The retired
big man holding
my little child,
his first grandchild, up to his stubbled cheek
while wearing a brown security-guard uniform,
during my visit to the home where I grew up.
An organ plays
“On Eagle’s Wings”
at the big man’s
funeral. I touch his coffin, fight back a tear,
console my mom and brothers. It’s too painful
to recall events in the house I grew up in.
My son’s
forefinger
taps a beat
on the steering wheel of his car. “Just like Grandpa,”
I say from the passenger seat. We both laugh
as I recall life with Dad in the house I grew up in.
#
To Post or Not to Post (Hamlet’s dilemma in 2024)
To post, or not to post, that is the question.
Should I stop playing computer Solitaire
And tweet, I mean post, a delicious dollop
of gossip under my username on X
In a sea of virtual anonymity?
Or should I first weigh the harm that my missive
Might bring to another, not to mention
Consequences to my handle’s rep, if false?
Is it better to post and watch my thread grow
With agreeable replies flooding in like
A jackpot of coins in an old slot-machine,
Not to mention all the prospective reposts?
But what if the replies are just so hateful
That I cannot live with myself anymore?
To post or not to post? I am so consumed
With this existential question that I
Cannot be bothered with world news of wars
And national reports of strife and injustice.
Sigh, I will put off my posting dilemma.
Right now, I will put the red six just below
The black seven, and move my King of Diamonds;
It is easier to ponder Solitaire.
A Rejection Letter
From: WSQPA
To: Mr. Baruch/Benedictus Spinoza, philosopher
April 10, 2024
Dear Mr. Spinoza,
Stop.
Do not bother us again.
We, the Board of the World Status Quo Protection Agency, reject your unsolicited critique of our twenty-first century.
You were the seventeenth century’s problem. Not ours.
How dare you ask questions and seek to arrive at beliefs and truth individually through reason. Citizens today have banded together in groups to hear the truth and facts from sources that comport with their worldview. We have no need of philosophers in 2024.
Thus, our status quo is groupthink.
Yes, our groups clash and there are wars that are political, spiritual, and militaristic. But they are part of our status quo.
You are free in your ivory tower to sneer at our way, and claim we are pursuing false “knowledge from random experience.” It is no wonder that you were excommunicated for your radical ideas.
We know that you worked with lenses for microscopes and telescopes. But you have no right to put our status quo under your microscope.
Warmly,
WSQPA
Bedside Manner
“Awaken, dear sir.”
Not again! I turn over in my bed, eyes still closed, and hope the disturbing voice disappears. But I know it won’t. I can’t seem to shake the strange thoughts and voices that pop into my head at 4 or 5 in the morning when I have to pee but I don’t want to get up.
“Whilst you sleep in this paltry room, my good man, ’tis…”
Oh, this one is a doozy. I got a woman with a British accent bugging me. Last night, it was a pro wrestler with a gravelly voice and an eviction notice.
I turn to the other side and my pillow falls off the bed. I reach to the floor and probe with my hand, but can’t seem to find it. Drat! I grudgingly open my eyelids. And I freeze.
A woman is standing next to my bed. She is in an elegant blue nightgown. Brownish-blonde tresses are falling over her outstretched arm, which is holding my pillow. But I won’t look at her face. I am afraid of what I will see in this nightmare.
I shut my eyes and rub my lids with my fists. When I slowly open them, the woman is still there. But the pillow is closer, inches from my face.
I summon the courage to turn my gaze upward. I see a narrow, pale-white chin. Lucious pink lips in the hint of a smile. Finally, alluring eyes with long dark lashes. She nods toward the pillow.
I know this image is not real, but I smile and move my hands toward the pillow. But she whisks it away. She leans down closer to my face.
“Tis right that I withhold your pillow, Mister Longworth, because on this morn you cannot sleep in,” the woman says in a flat, serious tone. “You must rush in to work, because at this very moment, a fly-rink colleague at Dorn Manufacturing is plotting with company Vice President Franks to terminate your employment and your division. Don’t lay there like a wooden spoon!”
I close my eyes, but I still hear her telling me to get up. “If you do not reach the president and put a stop to this codswallop, you will be condemned to this pigsty perhaps until death. Where is the fireplace in this bedroom? And your bed—is that a common wood frame? Where is the brass, good sir? You live like a Middle Age primitive, not a self-respecting Englishman in the enlightened nineteenth century.”
I try to think of other things. I try to sleep. I toss around and the sheets come loose. It seems like an hour has passed. Maybe two. She is still there and still talking.
Enough! I throw off the bedcover and sheet, bounce out of bed on the other side, and run to the bathroom. I hear her voice until I shut the door. At least I finish my business in peace. I cautiously open the door. The voice is gone—and so is she.
But the messy bed I left is now a picture of order, every cover and sheet smoothed and in place and the pillow fluffed—with two wrapped mints on the pillowcase.
I shake my head and sit on the edge of the bed. Before I know it, I am laying atop the covers. My eyes closed.
“Excuse me.”
The next thing I know those two words are tumbling from my mouth. I am standing at the foot of a grandiose brass bed in a sprawling room with a fireplace, a chandelier, ornate furniture, and flowing drapes.
Someone in the bed stirs and slowly peels back an ornate bedcover. I see the frightened but alluring eyes. Quivering pink lips. And that narrow chin. This is the same woman who visited me.
She asks, “What are you doing in my bedroom?”
I open my mouth, but only frightened silence comes out. I shut my eyes, cup my face with both hands, and shudder. I open my eyes and I am back on my own bed.
I close my eyes and open them again. I am standing next to a bed in the corner of a gymnasium.
“Ahem,” I say because I don’t know what to say.
Someone in the bed stirs and tosses aside an old green cover. It is the wrestler who tried to evict me just the other night.
“How’d you get in here?” the wrestler says in a gravelly voice. “And do you have that deed?”
Panic sets in and I close my eyes.
A phone rings.
I open my eyes and I am laying atop my own bed.
The phone rings again.
I leap out of bed, run to the phone, lift the device off the charger, activate the app, and shout, “Hello?”
“Longworth, is that you?”
“Yessir, Mr. Franks. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. Due to downsizing, I regret to inform you that your division has been eliminated along with your job. Effective immediately. Thank you for your service.”
The call ends. I shuffle back to the bedroom. I brush the mints off the pillow and lay on the bed. I wipe away a tear.
#
The Four-Legged Bother
Okay. If you must know about my dog, he is annoying. Or she. I'm not sure which.
Anyway, the little light-brown cockapoo hangs out on my couch. When I sit there to write or watch television or talk with friends, the dog sometimes stares at me. It does not move, but just glares at me with shiny marble-like eyes -- until I pick it up with one hand and set it further down the couch, so that it's looking at my wife.
After all, the thing was a birthday gift to my wife from her sister. And as you may have guessed, it does not have a name. The dog, not my sister-in-law. And she (the sister-in-law, not the pet) gave the gift knowing that dogs and I do not get along. I was bitten as a child while playing, drooled on, bitten again as an adult on the way to work, drooled on again, and... Sorry, back to the dog on my couch.
My wife says the little cockapoo can't hurt anyone. It is unable to move or bark or bite because it is only a stuffed toy.
But the dog on my couch is annoying.