The lure of the maraschino cherry, and other things I learned this weekend.

Here’s what my weekend was like. (Besides, busy). Because busy needs a body.

Friday started early, for me. I headed to Jackson to visit with my dear, sweet friend Lora. She’s staying for a week at this resort and spa known as the University Medical Center.  It’s all on account of her cancer diet (her joke, by the way).

Ah, the tasty goodness. (Sans turkey, plus seafood)

I stayed there for a good, long time, sharing stories with her about faith, the future, etc. She had quite a busy day: former students, new acquaintances (everyone knows and loves Lora), and pleasant doctors all stopping by to offer well-wishes, and to remark on not just how good she was looking, but also to notice how high her spirits were.

The only real negative of the day was the food. The hospital’s food. I couldn’t blame her: even the onion rings were soggy. I was sent to Subway for a Seafood Creations sandwich, six-inch.

Lora was my initial reason for going to Jackson. And after my visit, I decided I would swing by the mall. I think we only have three in the state of Mississippi.  But, as I’m starting my new job this week, I wanted a fresh look.

And underwear.

Amanda called me around 3:00PM and told me not to forget that it was tax-free weekend.

I said I couldn’t forget what I didn’t know. Elaborate, please.

Apparently, Mississippi’s governor heralded this past weekend as Tax-Free Weekend. But, just on clothes and shoes. God bless the woman at Wal-Mart in Starkville who misunderstood and piled several buggies (that’s what we call shopping carts down south) with a month’s worth of groceries and all the school supplies her four children would ever need from now until graduate school.

None of that counted. It was only shoes and clothes. Very New York of us.

Having not previously heard of this tax-free business, I was unprepared for the disaster that was the highway to the mall. It was ridiculous. The traffic was reminiscent of all those last-minute people at Christmas Eve, who foolishly wait until hours before the exchange of gifts to buy all their gifts and I had no choice but to buy the leftover detritus for even the babies that Christmas because I am not good with time-management.  And, so,  lesson learned.

But, this? This was insanity. I guess, in theory, it sounds wonderful, despite the fact that you’re really only saving upwards of 7% to every dollar you spend, so results only surface if you’re heading toward multiple triple digits. 

I don’t know. I’m not good at math, which is why I was elated to have a Tax-Free Weekend.

Until I got stuck in 45 minutes worth of traffic merely four lights from the mall’s entrance. It’s like driving by Disney World and pretending you were there simply because you saw the top of Thunder Mountain from I-4. You know, you saw enough to describe the ride, but it’s not quite the same, right?

I finally got to the mall, and at that point, had decided it wouldn’t be worth all the stress of getting here unless I bought a lot of things. (In retrospect, I think this type of groupthink is what motivates and maintains the economy in this state, if not the country).

So, I did my American/Mississippi duty and bought things. Lots of things. to be honest, though, I didn’t really feel like I was getting any sort of a “deal” just by not having to pay sales tax.  My wallet certainly didn’t know the difference. Besides, a gift by any other name is just a tax called an embargo.

It ain't easy living in a coin-operated economy.

(I’m hoping that that last sentence, whereas perhaps not logically correct could at least fool enough people as to seem funny).

I returned home, the next morning, laden with what I consider appropriate apparrel to, at the least, appear professorial in the classroom.

The drive home was ugly: rain and rain and rain and I think, maybe a tornado around the Goshen Springs exit. I didn’t stick around to find out.

I’m still not sure what I did Saturday night, aside from watching the musical revue, Let Freedom Sing, at the theatre, downtown. It was a USO-related revue, and the end of the thing was a real tear-jerker.

I admit it; I cried.

There was an entire montage of projected photographs featuring soldiers from the area, and also pictures of those who had already passed on. I mean come on, nothing gets a tear out of me more than true reality. It almost doesn’t even matter what song is being sung or played in the background: post pictures up of those who are risking their lives, on a daily basis (still!), to ensure my freedom to sit in a 45-minute jam a la traffic and get aggravated at the cars in front of me, and all for the sheer pleasure of shopping…well.

I cried because it humbled me. And embarrassed me. And shamed me. (At least, at first). I mean, I consistently return to it, but I almost always manage to misplace my focus, my attention on what’s important…temporarily, anyway.

After the show, I called Aggy, a friend of mine in the Navy, and I told him about the production, and about my subsequent guilt. Wood, of course, is already in Afghanistan, so I couldn’t call him. Aggy told me that it didn’t offend him that I had been shopping. That knowing that, sort of encouraged him all the more to defend my rights, our rights, etc. To him, it was a story that resembled normalcy. And that’s what he wanted more than anything else.

I went to another department store yesterday and bought him some underwear, socks, and T-shirts. Because I liked his answer. If for no other reason than because it assuaged my guilt. (FYI: The tax-free weekend ended at midnight on Saturday, so this was like a real gift).

It’s hard to know how to feel about things you can’t change.

I miss Ma Onie and her smokehouse antics.

I ended my weekend with two of my nephews, who were for the most part, well-behaved. Though, somewhere after the gallon of sweet tea (which in Mississippi has now supplanted breast milk – but don’t worry, Ma Onie for years fermented her own sugar syrup, and also another FYI: when you use the word “ferment” it automatically means healthy and good for you.  It goes down, swimmingly, you might say), the two boys, nicknamed Chunk and Bug, hit the top of their threshold of behavior and went berserk.

I was at a loss as to what to do, mostly because I was exhausted from my first half of the weekend.

Nana, then, from regions unknown in the second sitting room, emerged and declared that she had cherries. (Not the real kind, the Maraschino-style kind, coated in 100% sugar and 0% amaretto).

It was as if a miracle occurred. Both Bug and Chunk stopped their misguided revelry, and in a zombie-trance, worthy of kitsch, stalked to the nook table and sat down, like miniature adults, and ate two plates of staining cherries.

I’d never seen anything like it; never was made aware of the lure of a maraschino cherry.

I’ve filed it away for future playdates/babysitting responsibilities. And I can’t say I’m shocked, after all that sugar intake, that the first thing both of them asked for when they were finished, was a glass of ice.

Classic. Better ice, though, than what their mothers ate for a snack, back in their younger days: butter.

I just don’t know how Aunt Lola lived to be 98. Gamva turns 93 in October, and Uncle Pat died at 101. Gran just hit 92.

I don’t know much, but I know this: There’s no way it was on this diet.

How on earth do you wash a Fedora? [and other random thoughts]…

I have been intensely busy, lately. Not just by hand, either.

It's a cabal all right. Against me.

My mind…it often goes into Mach 7 when I attempt to procrastinate (by the way, the word “procrastinate,” itself, is ironic – I mean, by the time you write the word out, you could have done something already – it’s not a word for the lazy), and the only thing I can physically do to make it stop is to sleep (even though my dreams are usually full of anger when I do that – last night, for instance…ouch!), but if I don’t stop it, from time to time, it just runs all days with thought after thought after thought, and so what I’m about to do is a little experiment I engage in, every now and again: I’m going to pause, take a deep breath, and type out every single thought I have in my head right at this moment in an attempt to empty my brain.

Because I really want to take a nap…without feeling guilty about it.

Ok? So, here I go:

How on earth do you wash a Fedora…pancakes…the way Max sleeps with one open, staring…the other day when the tornado siren went off some student in the hall asked if North Korea was attacking and I was impressed because he didn’t seem the type to be that aware of the world around him, his clothes made that suggestion…why a city has the name of Scooba…Old Man Frank came by the house yesterday to tell me I’d left the water hose on and flooded his driveway, he’s an old man with scoliosis but my god he can knock loudly…that time I brushed my teeth with Cortizone-10…my glasses are broken – well the leg fell off but still it’s going to cost money to fix it better than I did with hot glue…apple juice gives me heartburn and so do onions and so do Tums which is ironic since they’re supposed to fix heartburn…I really like sweet potato pie…why can’t I start back working on my new script, I think it has potential, and I sometimes feel guilty doing other types of writing but Gary tells me just write everyday so I do, this blog if nothing else…why won’t I finish this other script I have because I know the deadline is looming…I’ve only once seen an actual loom and the word loom makes me think of a loon…Smoking Loon is a type of red wine…I’m allergic to red wine…how is too much water bad for you…I’ve switched mayonnaise brands, U.L. is shocked…I wish I’d planted those irises deeper in the dirt…where would I put a bicycle if I had one…I hate my cell phone…at some point I’m going to need new tennis shoes…my ankle still hurts…I am still angry because this morning I was almost finished with a new blog and then I hit some button and the whole damn thing was erased…what it would be like if I could magically freeze people and take off their clothes and then move them somewhere else and then unfreeze them and laugh at how embarrassed they’d be…how people can eat warm mayonnaise is beyond me…why I don’t have any pet fish, they’d be so much easier to handle until the cats found them…why some doctors don’t use anesthesia…I’m very glad my dentist did even if now I have a new health concern called synethesia and it feels like ice-cold water is running down my chin and neck several times a day…if people could float indefinitely…what would constitute a magic umbrella…would having sex with a centaur be bestial and illegal…why John Mark Karr would lie about JonBenet Ramsey…how to love through pain, and mean it…how do I manage to memorize all my lines each play I’m in…what would happen if I could disappear…how many people would come to my funeral…why I drink so much…if we’re all hiding something, what then are we all compensating for…why trust is so hard to get and so easy to lose, and doesn’t that imply a serious flaw in the nature of trust…what does God do when he rests…do I have cancer, or West Nile, or Swine Flu, or diabetes, or RLS…why can’t I focus on losing weight…how upset I get when the media overlooks the devastation of Katrina in Mississippi, even now four years later..should I give Olive Garden another chance…why does gorgonzola taste so bad when you melt it…I cannot abide any more of the heat…I cannot stand it when I sweat without purpose…should we build a bigger fence for Max…why can’t I find a handwriting that I approve of…when did I develop this paranoia…will I ever write a good play…how much of your identity is in your name…how many people did I upset this week…what would happen if I always told the truth…why are there so many bad spellers…why don’t people read anymore…what happened to conjugating verbs…how did Latin die…why do I have to have a favorite color, or food, or anything at all really…what will my next car be…why am attached to the name Cutter…I’m still mourning Bea Arthur’s death, but I’m glad we still have Angela Landsbury for now…how can one face death…what is a timing belt and how do I find it…who was the first person to stain glass…why do I have a desire to be famous…I’m not sure there’s such a thing as compromise, one will always retain the power…does anyone ever really forgive…is my first cat, Aristophanes, mad at me for leaving her at U.L.’s…I hate doing laundry…I can’t believe I’m almost 33…I’m afraid I’m losing words…what happens if I go crazy…I don’t like orange Powerade…why don’t I speak better French…why do I always pretend everything…I take back what I thought a minute ago, I think I may be partial to blue and deep reds…I hate the word “cubicles”…a young boy yelled at me one day from across Main Street and said, “It’s raining gayness today!” and I yelled back, “Well, we needed the rain, didn’t we?”…I need to buy more nose strips, for my apnea…what is it about men in uniform…why don’t I approve of steel top roofs, especially green ones…some days are so beautiful I think to myself, if I have to die, let it be on a day like this…I do not want to be put in the ground, though; I want to be in a crypt above it…I’m glad that even in my darkest days, I still believe in God…why can’t I bathe all day…I’d like to thank everyone that I’ve ever met…I can’t stand it when I go to the hair salon and they spritz my hair instead of shampooing it, that is a pet peeve of mine…sometimes I use room spray as cologne…was Jean Harlowe a more tragic case than Jayne Mansfield…

Whew…and just think, I didn’t even get to the part where I’ve invented a new form of poetry that I call a “tri-ku.” It’s a re-constituted, inverted version of a haiku, in three stanzas, each one goes 7-5-7.  I’ll leave you an example of one.  We’ll talk about it later, don’t worry. Each one is based on my belief that there are nine universal truths.

The Ancient Art of the Written Word.

Universal Truth #1: Berth

Other people would have left.
They might have laughed.
No, no they would have, I’m sure.

And not because of your face,
or indifference,
they didn’t care how you were,

All they would care about was
that your smile had flaws
and that your bite had no teeth.

Speaking of teeth…I can’t wait to tell you about Rasputin. The Kitten Who Lived and Had Teeth.

That’ll have to be after my nap, though.

The philosophy of Frogism.

One time, when I was small child, a friend of mine and I beat frogs to death with red, plastic shovels after a rain storm, mid-afternoon on a Saturday. It was just one of those things that you do when you’re a kid.

I was never a particularly violent child. Though, perhaps I skirted the state line of crazy for a band of years during my adolescence, like, ages Birth to Present…but, believe me, it’s in our blood.  I’ve managed to escape, cleanly enough so far, and that’s it’s own definition of success.

To this day, I pray for those frogs’ souls, though.

And, for good measure, I will not eat frog legs.  (But, that’s hardly penance since I wouldn’t have eaten them anyway).

I’m not even sure why I even thought it would be a good idea to kill those frogs, in the first place; I felt the same about Karyn White’s one hit single and tight-rolling jeans, but all the same, I bought the cassette tape and locked my denim firmly above my ankles every day for an entire year. And, of course, I picked up that shovel.

The things we do just to do them.

The opposite now has become a personal truism: I adore animals, all kinds, to the point of choosing them often over people, even in fictional terms. For instance, I felt so sorry for Jenny (the mule) in Richard Wright’s short story, “The Man Who Was Almost a Man,” that I ached for her as if the story were true, as if she’d been my mule. I began to question why I should even make my students read this story.  Despite it’s beauty and local color, why should they be subjected to such a piteous, if accidental, murder?  What was the point?

Uncle Larry said, “Because that’s what happened.  And happens still.” 

I said, “I don’t know of one person who has killed a mule. Ever.”

“Mules, men, what’s the difference,” he said.

And that right there is the hook. There really isn’t a difference, is there?  Except this: Wright’s lesson was made up, or at the least, embellished to achieve, elicit, a response from the reader.

But, I killed those frogs, that Saturday, without any point at all, without any reason whatsoever.  Just because.

It’s been a haunting flaw in my personality ever since, so entrenched a flaw that even publishing a poem about it didn’t erase the memory. 

frogism 

when we were fat

but never full,

& eleven years old

with cartoons,

& jelly,

& biscuits,

& sugar

& molasses

& butter

after Saturdays that

were just as fat

& never full

with rain,

the frogs

would pop up

& sit

on top of rocks,

in the drippings

& we would,

in our sugar high,

drag the shovels

from the mower shed

& sneak up

on the frogs

& beat them

flat until the

metal had gone

through the frog

& was only

hitting rock,

it’d be that

certain racket

that drove

Momma mad,

but she’d say, oh

boys are

being boys,

& that Christmas

is when Daddy

bought

us guns,

I never knew a shovel could do that to a kid, that such a rudimentary yard tool could carry so deep a scar, but this one did. I grew up in and at the speed of one swing of a shovel, and years later, when I realized that’s where the callouses between my thumbs and forefingers had come from, I saw that it was ugly and made handshakes just too difficult, and prayer nearly impossible.

Whatever thy hand findeth to do.

I didn’t want to be that kind of man. I wanted to be able to shake hands; to wave, at will; to be forgiven.     

For the longest time, I thought I’d simply have to keep writing until that happened.  I thought, Maybe that’s why we write at all – we’re driven to prove our worth, and what makes us worthy of being forgiven. I thought, Or, maybe that’s just me. 

Sometimes, it’s the art of retrospect, which for me comes with writing, that puts things in clear and plain perspective, regardless of where those things originate: whether in childish fancies, or neglect and abuse, or in innocent game-playing, or in absolute, all-out, and terrible sincerity.

I’ve learned what matters is that you know enough to recognize the origin, the root.

Like, today. 

Today, I’m sitting in a hospital, the cancer wing, with one of my favorite people on this earth, as she endures, with a grace and patience that must come directly from the laughter of the Good Lord Himself, is my hands-down best guess, yet another chemo treatment.

Me, I sit in over the corner, speechlessly typing this day’s blog, surrounded by several IVs and boxes of hypoallergenic gloves and needles and biohazard receptacles as red and plastic as that shovel was, sitting with every medical fear of the ages one could imagine, underneath the TV, the one, mechanical hand held out to anything I recognize beyond these white walls, I’m sitting here observing in her a soft and quiet strength that is so holy it causes me to pray, instantly.

Nothing I’ve ever done is as important as this moment, and it’s not because I’m here, in the role of a friend, but because she’s allowed me to see the price her plea for Job has cost.  She’s letting me see where it comes from, and my God, it’s a lot:  the loss and pain, the fear and worry, the reminder. 

I’m sure she’d rather you could get it at Target. 

But, it doesn’t ebb her peace of mind. 

And that’s when I’m truly reminded of the Whole Point , as the second IV bag empties, and she wonders what would work for a late lunch?, and I ask her if Mexican food for a late lunch would work, it hits me:  When all else fails, and you can’t write yourself to forgiveness, you can always ask.  I forget that, time and time again. Because,  if you’re like me, you feel awkward talking out loud in a hospital. If that’s the case, though, remember – you can just sit quietly in the corner and watch it in action, too. 

It’s going to hurt your eyes, at first, know that upfront. But after the glare of the panegyric fades, what you see, finally, in the end-glow is fairly nearly Damascan. 

It’s what you’ve been looking for all along – redemption.