Santa the Destroyer

                                                   

                                                            11/28/13 - "Santa the Destroyer"

     Blogger's Note:  WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM FOR AN IMPORTANT PARENTING WITH LIGHTSABERS ANNOUNCEMENT!!!!  THIS IS NOT A TEST!!!!
     When I wrote "Brookport", I had this idea of taking everyone on a tour of my home town on a typical day.  I wanted to escort the reader from my childhood home to school and from school to the "bustling", small-town marketplace we all knew as Pat's Market.  I threw in some random, whimsical memories as I recalled them to flavor the "journey".  I had no idea that my retrospection would arouse so many hearts or provoke so many questions.  So whatever happened to that Amy chick?  Did you really create a superhero named Vibrator?  Did you actually have a mayor named Gump? 
     So I've decided to rotate in a flashback series with my usual posts.  I'm not sure how much "material" I can get to surface from my sleeping past, but I'll ride this carousel until the music stops.  So tune in with my next post to catch the first installment.
     The holiday season is here.  I'm usually the pickle head that actually loves holidays.  I love the whole Norman Rockwell-picturesque vision of rosy cheeks, steaming cups of hot chocolate, and the portrait-perfect, laughing family passing gravy boats around the dinner table.  I actually have a CD in my car of my
favorite Christmas songs.  Sometimes, in the middle of summer, on a leisurely drive to work, I'll throw it in the stereo as a perk-me-up.
      But something happened this year.
     I'm not sure what it was.  I was listening to some Christmas music on the radio and started paying attention to the lyrics.  And I began to realize that Christmas is nothing like that.
     I don't know.  Maybe I'm over-thinking it.  But who roasts chestnuts?  I don't have any carolers at my door.  Who can afford all of these toys?  The Christmas that these songs describe isn't the Christmas that I know.  And everybody says, well, Christmas isn't about money or toys or gifts.  And, yet, those same people will be giving and receiving presents this year.  I guarantee it.  You may think Christmas isn't about all that material stuff, but try and have a Christmas without it.  Even a small amount of it.  And good luck with that.
     Christmas is the season of giving.
     I'm not judging anybody.  Hell, I'll be buying gifts for my family this year.  I'm just saying not to be self-righteous about it.  We're all guilty.  And that's not a problem that I would have any insight on how to fix.  But, I think that I understand why the suicide rate is so high this time of year.  And that's the people that I dearly hope know the facts.  We're all stressing right now.  You're in good company.  Try not to get too down.  Try not to get too deep in debt.  Try to find someone to spend the holidays with.  I'm not saying anything new; it's the same ol' song and dance.  And, after all of that, if you're still hanging by just a thread.  Then, just hang on to that.  And hang tough.  You can do it.  Piss on everything else.

   
     What I am about to share with you will make no sense.  I will contradict myself.  Please assign no logic to anything.
     I don't recall believing in Santa Claus.  I believed in Rudolph.  And maybe even Frosty.  But not Santa.
     But I knew that the real Santa resided at the old mall.  In Paducah, where the southside Walmart is now located, a humble mall with lots of character once stood.  I don't recall its name.  Once the modern Kentucky Oaks Mall opened, I began calling the original one the "old mall" (conversely, I'd call the KY Oaks mall the "new mall" for years to come).
     A K-Mart guarded one end of the "old mall."  I doubt if there were even ten stores inside.
     I remember a popcorn store.  It had all these magnificently flavored popcorn choices; and, if you bought one of their tins, you could have it refilled at a discount.  I remember a Radio Shack and a Woolworth's and this novelty shop that I would visit because of their selection of gag gifts.  The most terrific thing they sold  was this tube that had a spring-loaded snake inside.  When you took off the lid to this tube, the "snake" would spring free.  I fantasized about all the people I could prank if I owned that novelty!  I could have told my friends that I had some peanuts.  Just help yourself.  And then GOTCHYA!!!   Oh, that would've been a splendid prank.   Sadly, I'd never own the snake-in-a-tube prank.
     *sniffle*
     The most exciting thing about the "old mall" however was the arcade.  They had the coolest arcade ever.  I remember Pac-man and Ms Pac-man and Dig Dug and Donkey Kong and my favorite:  Donkey Kong Jr.  Mom would give me a handful of quarters and do some shopping, and I prayed that she would stay gone for a long, long time.
     During Christmas-time, a waist-high fence squared in a high-backed, festive throne in the middle of the "old mall."  On this throne sat Santa Claus.  Not just any Santa Claus (hell, there were Santa's all over Paducah).  This was the Santa.  How do I know that?  Because, one year, when my brother and I were quite young, we visited this Santa.  We each sat on a different knee, prepared to tell him our wish list of toys.  And before we could begin speaking, he said, "Have you been a good boy this year, Duane?"
     After the amazement that he knew my name passed, I found my voice.  "How do you know my name?" I asked.
     "Because I'm Santa Claus.  Ho-ho-ho!!!" he replied.
     I never stopped to think that Mom might have given him our names.  Hell, I might've been wearing a shirt that had "Duane" embroidered on my collar.  Maybe he had overheard my brother calling me by my name just before we climbed onto his knee.  I didn't consider any of that.  I was just amazed that he knew my name.  So, that was the real Santa.
     Strangely, however, I didn't believe in Santa.  I know, I know.  That doesn't make any sense.  Mom always supported the Theory of Santa's Existence.  But I just never subscribed to it.
     The thing was that Mom would hide our presents in the closet; and, then, when she'd have time, she'd wrap them and throw them under the tree.  I usually knew what I was getting before the Big Day.  The night before Christmas, just before we'd climb in bed, Mom would assert that we'd better stay in bed or "Santa might not come."  To which, I'd think, 'What in the hell are you talking about?  The presents are already under the damn tree!'
     Her half-hearted ruse didn't fool me or my brother.  But we'd play along; because, well, hell, she did buy us presents and all that.
     But, didn't I just say that I believed that the Santa at the "old mall" was the real Santa?  Well, yes.  Yes, I did.  And, I know.  That doesn't make any sense.  I suppose that I would suspend my disbelief while we were at the "old mall" just long enough to have a chat with Jolly, Ol' Saint Nick.
     But I did believe in Rudolph.  You know those red lights that flash on the top of radio towers.  I'd see those and wonder if that was Rudolph.  Thanks to the splendid world of claymation and some major network Christmas specials, I fell in love with Rudolph (and Frosty the Snowman, too).  What if that one Christmas Eve wouldn't have been foggy?  He would have still been picked on, and Santa would have been none the wiser.  Such a close call!  And thanks to the fact that red lights can apparently penetrate fog, my favorite reindeer friend was now a hero! 
     Unfortunately, elsewhere in the world, I had friends whose parents were a little more clever than my mother.  They really covered their bases when it came to the whole "believing in Santa Claus" mythos.  They would wait until Christmas Eve night after bedtime to put the gifts under the tree, to fill the stockings, to "eat" the milk and cookies.  And being good, honest, true-believing kids, they had fallen for it.
     DJ was one of the kids that had been heartbroken by the truth.  I had honestly not realized how much he had believed in Santa.  And I was as guilty of feeding the dragon as anyone.  I remember him asking me how Santa could get into my apartment when I didn't have a chimney.  I had told him "Santa was magic".  I only saw him every other weekend, so I didn't know how "deep" the hole had been dug.  I thought that he was just "playing" along with us to feed our parental desire to have fun with the whole idea.  I would find out later that he was crushed once he found out the truth.
     One of my closest friends told me stories of how he had wholeheartedly believed in Santa, and how badly his heart had been broken the day he had found out that it was all a big lie.  It was all a big lie.
     With clever-enough parents and some well thought-out "pranks", some children are fed the whole magic and mystery spoonful by heaping spoonful.  I know the whole "Santa is the spirit of Christmas" bologna.  But that's bullshit.  If you really want to tell your child that "Santa is the spirit of Christmas", then tell him or her the truth.
     The truth:  Santa is the spirit of Christmas.  He is not a real man.  He does not really live at the North Pole.  Flying reindeer do not exist.  Elves are from stories.  He is an idea.
     This propaganda has been on my mind of late.
     The other day, Joanna was at work, and I had taken Amelia and Roman to the "new mall".  As we passed the center of the mall, we noticed that the whole Santa's Workshop station had been set up -complete with waving Santa and helper-Elf lady.  For the first time in his life, Roman took a marked notice in Santa Claus.
     We passed at a rare moment when no other children were around.  "Saint Nick" saw Roman's starry eyes watching him with wonder, so Santa politely waved and motioned for my son to "come and see him."
     "Do you wanna go see Santa?" I asked Roman.  He emphatically nodded.  I pushed the stroller to where I could keep Amelia near; I took Roman's hand; and, we approached the Big Man in Red.
     "Come here young man," Santa encouraged.
     Roman got closer than I actually thought he would before his lips started to pucker.  He looked to me to help him out of this "mistake"; so, of course, I hooked him up.
     "Well, looks like maybe next year," I told Santa with a smile.  So keep your $20 Polaroid, I wanted to add.
     Of course, Santa was nice, though.  He gave Roman a coloring book, and Roman said thank you.
     So that's where we are.  I haven't even discussed this with Joanna.  But, I am seriously not sure if I want to trick my son into believing there's a Santa.  Maybe I'm taking this joke too seriously.
     I'd really like to do the wholesome approach.  I'd like to teach him about the importance of friends and family during the holidays.  Perhaps I'll lead by example and show how we can help the needy.
     More than likely, I'll put a big bow on a toy train and say "happy now?"
     Or, maybe I'll put a bunch of crushed, empty beer cans all over the kitchen, kick over the Christmas tree, hide Toodles, and say, "Look what Santa did!!!!"

Roman's first actual encounter with Santa

   
     

Chapter 7 - Spring

                                                   11/19/13 - "Chapter 7 - Spring"

     Blogger's Note:  Stop right there!  Before you go any further, do you love me?
     My last entry, "Brookport", shattered all of my personal records.  I've had nearly the same number of "views" in the last 48 hours than I've had since I launched "Parenting with Lightsabers" back in March.  I usually get about 150-200 people checking out an average post - which I thought was pretty cool.        
     But... "Brookport" netted nearly 3,000.
     I don't know what to say about that.  I've been on Cloud Nine for two days now.
     Thanks in no small part to Amy for getting that boulder rolling, to Kim and Kay Comer for the nod in their blog Bird's Eye View of the Katydid, to everyone that shared that post, and especially to all of my regular readers that have kept coming back since the virgin voyage of the S.S. Parenting with Lightsabers.  But I'll get to all of you in a moment...
     First, I want to talk to any new readers that might return after reading "Brookport."
     If you do love me... if you care anything at all about my wishes... if I have any hope to keep you coming back to see what goes on in here, then please, oh please, oh please...  DON'T READ TODAY'S POST!!!  
     I'll explain.
     Today's post is part of a continuing story that tells how my wife and I met and fell in love.  If you read today's post, you'll have no idea what's going on.  Furthermore, today's chapter is potentially going to be the most unexciting leg of the entire journey.  I've actually got this thing plotted out, and I'm struggling to make this one fun.
     The story is a romantic comedy.  And this is the heart of the story.  The pulse.  The sentimental song in the middle of the movie that shows clips of two love-birds doing all kinds of sappy things together.
     Now, I think my regular readers would tell you that this ride has had its moments.  My "viewership" graph indicates that they prefer this story to most of the stuff that I ramble on about in here.  So... if you'd like to know what this is all about (...and I really, really, really hope you do), then start here.  It's the first chapter titled "The Tea Monster."  Read it, and use the archives to navigate numerically through the chapters (it's not hard, they're listed just to the right.)  Then, you can come back here and continue on.
     Now, for my regular readers... step right up.  Let me unfasten the velvet rope for you.  Present your multi-pass and proceed inside.  Amber and Gina, I don't need to see yours, come on in.  Kristin and Crystal, of course you can bring your drinks inside.  McKenzie and Rachel, come on through, I'll bring you a beer in a second (in the meantime, I'm sure Kristin and Crystal will share.)  Ambrosia and Melissa, thank you for keeping my chin up, for believing in me.  For what is a writer without a reader?  And Steve, come on through... ignore the drunk guy wearing the Teletubby costume.  I was going to write a post about how crazy some of these toddler programs are, but that asshole got too drunk for me to finish.  And, thank you, Joanna.  Hurry up and get done breast-feeding so you can join those drunk-asses inside.  Love ya, bitch.  And, yes, the rest of you.  I was just starting to sound like that bitch from Romper Room, so I figured I'd better quit naming each of you one-by-one.
     Come on in...
   
     "Shit?"
     "Gowno."
     "And fuck?"
     "Kurwa."
     The Oldsmobile drifted mischievously along the county highway like it was keeping a secret that not even its occupants were privy to.  The dented, front bumper smirked at pastel, cherry blossoms that floated carelessly in a Spring breeze.  As patient as an old dog, my car gently stirred some roadside Easter flowers from a daydream, and they swayed to life like drunk hippies.  As we passed an old, farm house, an orange, tabby cat twitched its whiskers in the shade of a lilac bush preparing to arrest some yellow dandelions that had sipped a little too much of the intoxicating air.  Joanna and I couldn't seem to keep straight faces.
     The road I was following occasionally borrowed some of the bank along the Ohio River.  Sometimes we would crest a hill and get a scope of the river snaking through the green and honest countryside.  We'd bookmark our dialogue and hush for a moment as our heads would follow the view in unison, then we'd resume the conversation seamlessly after we fell away.  My air conditioner didn't work, and my windows would only roll halfway down, which was ideal.  Sometimes, Joanna's hair would catch the perfect breeze and skirt away from her neck before falling gracefully onto her shoulders.  The casual ebb and flow of the highway placidly bounced us like children as I tried to divide my attention evenly between the endless sky, the landscape, and the girl in my car.
     Joanna and I had been on several excursions over the past couple of weeks.  We had tripped around western Kentucky and southern Illinois going for strolls in parks, along downtown sidewalks, and through grassy country.  My car was unusually clean as Joanna insisted that we clean it on our first getaway.  Now, the fresh, Spring air was tinted ever-so-slightly with the faint scent of Febreeze.
     "How do you say bitch?"  I was trying to learn some Polish by starting with the important words first.
     "Suka," she translated with a smile.
     An expression of sudden understanding dawned on my face.  "Sooo.. when Kristina calls you 'biały suka' she's calling you a bitch??" I asked her.  Kristina was one of our co-workers.  She and Joanna were always cutting up.
     "Yeah.  That means 'white bitch.'"
     I smiled at the revelation as we rolled through the four-way stop in Golconda, IL.  We were on our way to the Garden of the Gods which is a raised plateau of clever rock formations from which one can see to the horizon.  A semi-circular, stone path graduates from shaded moss to the scenic, sandstone bluff that highlights the Shawnee National Forest.
     "I bet your father wouldn't want to hear you talk like that," I poked at Joanna.
     "Actually, my dad is very fun.  You two would get along," she insisted.
     "Oh yeah?  What does he do for a living?"
     "He made women's designer shoes his whole life.  Then, he retired and closed the factory.  But he grow restless and now he get a job as a construction foreman for a big company."
     "He made women's shoes?"  For some reason, that surprised me.
     "Yes.  They were very nice shoes.  Women liked them from all over Poland.  When we were still under communism, my father was making these shoes in secret.  They were beautiful.  I show you sometime," Joanna explained.  "What does your father do?"
     "My father died when I was four," I answered.
     She looked genuinely concerned.  "Oh.  What happened?"
     "Well, this was in January of '78, which is supposed to be one of the worst winters ever in this area.  He was a tow boat captain.  One night, in the middle of a blizzard, he was called out to fuel a small tow boat.  The winds and the waves were bad, and they overtook the boat.  He was wearing a life vest when the boat capsized, but the water was just too damned cold.  Hypothermia is what actually killed him."
     I could feel her look at me as I drove.  I adjusted in my seat and tried not to look uncomfortable.  "Why don't you have a girlfriend?" she asked me.
     I shrugged.  "I don't know.  I was married once."  I paused to get her reaction from that statement.  If  she was bothered, she didn't show it.  "That was over ten years ago.  I've had some on-and-off relationships since then, but nothing ever got off the ground.  I have an eleven-year-old son," I explained.
     "Really?" she interrogated.  "You don't seem old enough to have a child that old."
     I nodded.  "He's a good kid.  I'm proud of him."
     She smiled warmly as we returned our attention to the road.
     When we pulled into the parking lot at the Garden of the Gods, I went to open my door which got stuck on one of the hinges.  I put my shoulder into it once, then twice, and, finally, the third time it broke free and opened.  Joanna laughed.
     We ambled toward a flight of stone steps that introduced a path that wound around the park.  As we began climbing them, I was surprised by the feel of soft, lady fingers slipping into my hand.  I tried my best to act cool, but a rooster was crowing enthusiastically inside my heart - hungry and ready.  I've never been all that good at hiding my emotions; so, when my fingers laced into hers, I tried my best to close them gingerly.  Once we started into the forest, I turned to steal a glance at the Polish girl that seemed to like me.  Sunlight danced across her face as it playfully splashed from the canopy of trees overhead.  I willed myself to look away, and I wondered if she could hear my heart wildly pounding from such a simple gesture.
     The forest pathway ventilated into open air, and we stepped onto the edge of a warm sandstone bluff.  A teenage boy poked his head up from a crevice in the ground.  As soon as he saw us, he jumped out and walked past us.  He was wearing a black Slipknot tee-shirt and avoided making eye contact.  A funny smell wafted through the air as he passed.  Joanna and I laughed.
     We continued around the trail, hand-in-hand, spotting shapes in the rock formations and speculating wordlessly about interesting-looking people.  I could hear robins chirping from somewhere.  They've probably sang to me a thousand times, but this time I heard them.  We didn't talk much for a while; we didn't need to.  And besides, a Spring breeze would periodically whisper to us.
     We stopped at the well pump at the end of the circuit and got a drink of water.  I pumped the noisy handle while Joanna cupped some water with her hands and drank the best tasting water in the whole world.  Then, she worked the handle while I communed with the land.
     "Hop in the car," I instructed.  "I've got somewhere else I want to take you."
     She did.  Hell, we didn't have anywhere better to be anyway.  We pulled out of the parking lot and found ourselves back on the highway.
    "I'm going to take you to Bell Smith Springs," I informed her.  "I used to go there all the time as a teenager.  There's this place we would go where you could jump off a cliff into the water.  We'd hang out there all day getting drunk and swimming.  But that's not where I'm gonna take.you.  There's also this natural arch there.  You can climb these metal rungs to the top.  It's not perfectly vertical so it's not too scary.  That's what I want to show you."
     She opened her hands as if to say, 'lead the way.'  I winked confidently and drove us there.
     My old car chauffeured us back onto the highway.  Our carriage idled past attention-loving dogwood trees that were posing for our interest.  Young buds shimmered coyly and took turns kissing the sky.  We loosened the stitches on time; we simplified conversation; and, we rolled along unencumbered by responsibility like children leaving from the last day of school.  A cosmically preposterous revelation flashed us in a facile moment.  We realized that capturing it would corrupt it; so, we let it fly away like forgiveness.  As I unwrap my memory of that day, my fallible humanity grasps for that truth parsimoniously.  When I come up empty-handed, I shamefully feign virtuosity and assert that I was only playing.  But, in truth, I would love to see and feel it just for a moment, just once more.
     We left the conformed, painted-line highways and meandered through crater-filled side roads until we found a rutted shoulder next to a line of wooden posts.  A picnic table sagely rested next to a trail that disappeared into lush, green foliage.  The path was freckled with shallow puddles of water and muddied in spots - which might have explained the fact that no other cars were there.
     We paused for just a brief moment to gauge the practicality of navigating the muddy gambit.  "Still wanna go?" I asked Joanna.
     A diffident smile assessed the path before addressing me.  "I wish I had worn different shoes," she admitted.  I noticed that she was wearing some aqua-green, leather shoes that would almost certainly offer little to no traction if marshy ground became unavoidable.  "But, we're here now.  Let's do it," she insisted with sanguine punctuation.  I took her hand this time, and away we went.
     The footpath descended quickly until it followed precariously close to a bluff.  Moss-covered sandstone created a haphazard trek when it was wet, as it was this time of year.  I tried to help Joanna navigate the slippery ground, but I was sliding nearly as much as she was.
     Finally, we reached the long stairwell that was cut into the cliff-side.  The stone steps plunged into the canyon and emptied beneath a natural marquee of rock.  Water dripped somewhere deeper in the crevice, and the acoustic stone amplified the sound.
     We hunched free of the cliff's chilly maw and filed into the canyon floor.
     "If you go that way," I pointed off to the right, "you'll get to the place where we would go swimming back in the day.  We're going this way..."  I took a left turn at a fork in the trail, and we followed a creek that was more active than I had ever seen it before.  Perhaps I had never been here this early in the season.
     At last we came to the spot where the path crossed the creek.  Usually, stone steps bridged the gap by making foot rests just above the water's reach.  But, now, the water was up and just covered the steps.  If we were going to continue, we would have to get wet.
     "The arch is just up there," I explained pointing ahead.  "Once we cross the creek, we're basically there.  If you wanna go back, though, I'd understand."
     Joanna shrugged and smiled.  "Aw, fuck it.  I am wet enough already.  Let's go."  She reached down to slip off her shoes and carried them in one hand.
     I smiled and stepped to the first stone.  I reached back to take her hand and guided her across.  We were ankle-deep in cold water, and something about that just made us smile and even laugh a little.  We paused when we thought we heard a distant rumble of thunder and looked at each other as if to say, 'did you just hear that?'
     We dismissed the sound as Joanna put her shoes back on.
     The path clambered through fallen boulders, slowing our progress considerably.  But at last, we reached the cliff face and the first metal rung that had somehow been hammered into the stone.  I placed my hands onto it.  I looked up to where the rungs disappeared over a ledge and then at Joanna as if to say, 'you ready?'
     "Let's do it," she encouraged.
     And with that a single, deafening clap of thunder introduced a torrential downpour like none other I have ever seen before or since.  For a brief moment, we stood there, unsure what to do and looking at each other with water running down our faces - dumb victims to an ornery, practical joke.
     "What now?" I yelled over the sound of the monsoon.
     She had a determined grimace that faded as the rain washed it away.  Finally, she spoke.  "Uhhh.. oh, man!  OH, MAN!  We right here!"  She cupped her hand against her forehead to shield her eyes from the fierce rainfall.  "I bet now we will never come back!"
     A moment later she submitted to her sensibilities.  "Kurwa moć!" she swore,  "let's go back!"
     "Let's go!" I yelled my agreement.  We scrambled back down the rubble and made it to the creek.  We didn't even pause this time; we were already wet so delaying would have been pointless.
     As hard as the rain was coming down, I was soaked to the bone in no time at all.  Joanna was hopelessly the same.  We jumped at each crack of thunder and reacted by hunching and dodging as if the sound was tangible.  I motioned my insistence that Joanna lead the way, but she refused.  Asserting that I was the one that knew the way, she emphatically waved me in front of her.  I wanted to argue, but speed was paramount.       That bit of nonverbal disharmony hurt me.  I wasn't at all upset that she wanted me to lead the way; I could understand the rationale of that notion.  But, a sickness that this perfect, Spring day had just crumbled into chaos gutted me without remorse.  I slipped and fell in the mud; my hands mostly covered by the muck.  I knew that Joanna wasn't so petty as to blame me for any of this; but, after a day that was magically intoxicating, she was now almost certainly sober.  Even I hadn't been able to fuck up a day like today.  But Mother Nature decided she would ante up; and, when Mother Nature ante's up, you deal her in whether you want to or not.
     Joanna reached down to help me up, but I managed to stand by myself.  A frightening blast of thunder caused us both to jump.  As soon as I was on my feet, we resumed our mad dash for shelter.  I was slipping and sliding like a deer on ice, and Joanna wasn't faring any better.  My hands were caked in mud, but I couldn't decide if I wanted to wipe them on my clothes.  I held them out in front of me like a zombie, hoping the rain would have at least one useful purpose.  At last, we made it to the cliff's overhang at the base of the stairs and found a provisional refuge from the merciless torrent.
     We huddled there shivering and trying to catch our breath.  A curtain of water that fell from overhead encompassed our sanctuary, and I used it to wash my hands.  I didn't concern myself with getting splashed by the process.  My saturated clothes clung to me uncomfortably.  Shivering, I turned to see how Joanna was faring.
     She was drenched from head to foot.  Trembling from the cold, she was hugging herself.  She was watching me, perhaps waiting to see what we were going to do now.
     "Do you want to wait and see if it lets up, or do you want to make a run for the car?"  I didn't delay the obvious question.  Joanna's teeth were chattering, and I suddenly realized we weren't going to be able to wait here long.  It was damp and cool here, and we were freezing.
     Realizing the answer to my own question, I spoke before she could respond.  "Let me know when you're ready, and we'll make a run for it!" I construed.
     And that's when Joanna started laughing.
     She may have laughed at what I had said; she may have laughed at how I looked; or, she may have laughed at the absurdity of the whole situation.  But, the point is, she laughed.
     And, I tried not to, because it just didn't make any sense, but then I laughed, too.
     And that's when I got it.
     Mother Nature wasn't playing a practical joke on us.  Oh, no.  Quite the contrary.
     I grabbed her hand and led her carefully up the steps.  We climbed with urgency, but we weren't in quite the same hurry that we had been in.  We reached the top and cautiously crossed the moss-covered rock that capped the bluff with judicious steps.  I slipped and grabbed a young pine to recover my balance.  Once she ascertained that I was ok, she laughed.  Like a madman, I, too, was laughing.
     We finally made it to the car.  She quickly climbed into the passenger seat.  I tried to join her, but the driver's side was stuck...  again.
     I yanked on it until finally, after a couple of tugs, it broke loose.  I climbed inside, and we both were just shivering and laughing.  Soundless, breathless laughs erupted from our cores; and, the epiphany that this day was still perfect resurfaced.
     Joanna's face was marbled with droplets of rain.  She was trembling, but she was smiling.  I scanned  her for any sign of distress.  Her hair was soaked and magnificently pitiful.  Her clothes were drenched; they clung to her body and presented evidence of her womanhood.  And then, finally, her electric, blue eyes met mine.
      I leaned into a kiss.  I was ready, and so was she.  Two cold and thirsty souls weaved together by the forces of nature found asylum in a beat-up Oldsmobile.  The rain, so hated just moments ago, was a welcome noise to mask our hungry breathing.  Cool lips warmed against mine as cold, Spring rain dripped from her hair down my face.  We believed in each other, and we believed we were due some joy.  So we agreed to hold that kiss for a while.
                                           (...to be continued)
   
Continue our "How We Fell in Love" story:
                                              Chapter 8 - Enrique's Last Stand
   
   
     
   

   
   
          

Brookport

                                                                11/17/13 - "Brookport"

     Blogger's Note:  This afternoon a tornado destroyed my home town.
     I was at work when weather alerts started coming across the radio, and the town's siren began wailing.  My wife was also at work with me, so my concerns focused where my mother was babysitting our children at our home in Paducah, KY.  Fortunately, nothing significant hit there.
     Just across the river, Brookport, IL wasn't so fortunate.

     "I don't like Metal."
     My bicycle was a Mongoose.  The guy at the store where we had bought it said it was a very good bike.  I imagined myself being the fastest kid in the whole town when I saw it.  When Mom told me I could have a new bike for my birthday, I wanted the best one I could get.  Maybe then I could keep up with Brandon. Maybe even faster...  I chose this one.
     I was pedaling as hard as I could, but he was still a good distance ahead of me.  "Wait!" I implored breathlessly.
     "Hurry!  We're going to be late!" Brandon shouted back at me.  His collar was turned up, so I couldn't see his mouth moving when he spoke.
     He turned down Pylant St. beside the phone station where I'd sometimes hang out and bounce tennis balls off the brick wall there.  Determined to catch up, I gritted my teeth and pumped harder.  Mr. Abel was sweeping the sidewalk in front of his house.  When I walked to school (sometimes I just liked to walk), I'd cut through his yard.  I called it a shortcut even though it wasn't really shorter; I mostly went that way because he'd give me an apple off his tree when he saw me walk across his yard.  When I didn't see him around, I'd still take an apple off that tree.  I'd guiltily wonder if he knew I did that; but, if he did, he never let on.
     Brandon slowed a little, and I caught up.  "What'd you say?  I couldn't hear you!" I asked him.
     "I said, 'we're gonna be late!'" he clarified.
     "No!  Before that!  You said something about metal!"
     "Oh, I said I don't like Metal.  I don't like that name.  I was thinking Metal Man."  Brandon was referring to the comic book we'd been making.  We had been creating and drawing our own comic book over the past few days.  We didn't have access to a copier, so we were tracing each page.  So far we had traced six copies, but we needed twenty-one because there were twenty-one kids in our class.  We were going to sell each page for a quarter and save all the profits until we had enough to buy a copier.  Then, manufacturing a comic book would be a lot simpler.  Metal was the name of one of the characters in the comic.
     I considered Metal Man for a moment.  So many heroes had -man or -woman at the end of their name that I wasn't sure if the world needed another one.  However, Metal Man did have a nice alliterative appeal.
     "I guess Metal Man sounds better," I acquiesced thoughtfully.  Later, we'd also decide that the superhero Vibrator needed a name change, as well; all the delays in production became a bit too problematic and eventually resulted in the reluctant cancellation of the series.
     Aunt Shirley was walking to the end of her driveway to retrieve the newspaper.  She was in her housecoat and slippers.  When she waved, I waved back.  Sometimes, when I'd walk to school with my brother, we'd stop by her house and pretend to say hello.  In truth, we'd come by because we knew that she would offer us some pancakes for breakfast, and her pancakes were just so damn good!
     "Mom said she'd take us to see 'The Temple of Doom' on Friday," I informed Brandon.
     "Seriously??  Cool!  Aww, man, that's gonna be a good one I think!"  Brandon sounded genuinely excited.  I was pretty excited as well.  Indiana Jones sort of had that effect.
     "Are you going to Pat's Market for lunch?" Brandon asked me.  If you brought a note from your parents, you could walk to Pat's Market for lunch.  That's what the cool kids did.
     I reached in my pocket to see if I remembered the note.  I always tried to bring one in case one of my friends were going there.  I didn't like being the only one.  The note was there along with $8.  Five dollars for lunch and three dollars for the postage stamps that Mom wanted me to pick up on my way home from school.
     When we crossed the old railroad tracks by the old, tie yard, I could see Mrs. Burden's snow cone truck parked down her driveway.  Summer was coming, and I couldn't wait to get one those snow cones!
     The cross-guard lady held the stop sign once we got to the highway.  Once across, the school was just a block away.
     Everyone was waiting by the side door which unlocked at 8am.  We had made it with a minute to spare.  We locked up our bikes and approached the waiting mob.
     Joanne, Angie, Heather, and Amy were huddled together and giggling about something.  I tried to pretend like I didn't see them.  I still wasn't over the sting of Amy breaking up with me last week.  How could she so easily forget all the plans we had made in the First Grade??
     Susan and Helen were looking at something in a folder, and Mike was daring Costo to call someone 'Bootycon'.  Costo was shaking his head 'no' but smiling nonetheless.
     The school bell rang, and the crowd of children filtered into the side of the building.
     When lunch finally arrived, Brandon and I left for Pat's Market.  Joanne, Heather, Amy, and Angie were half a block in front of us.  I tugged Brandon's shirt and implored him to hang back with me.  I didn't want to catch up with them and have to decide on how to act around Amy:  pretend to ignore her, be mean, or nonchalantly pretend like nothing had ever happened and that I was the happiest person in the world.
     Heather looked over her shoulder at us; and Angie whispered something in Joanne's ear.  Joanne started laughing, and suddenly I was certain that they were laughing at me.  Amy just walked along innocently enough... or was she just pretending to be innocent?
     "I think it's purple horseshoes."  Brandon interrupted my paranoia with some random drivel.  I looked at him as if he was crazy.
     "Lucky Charms!" he explained.  Suddenly, I knew exactly what he was talking about.  In the latest commercial of Lucky Charms, the wily leprechaun promised to reveal a new marshmallow to go along with the pink hearts, yellow moons, blue diamonds, and orange stars.
     "Purple horseshoes?  Why in the world would you think that??" I had to ask.
     "At the end of the commercial, Lucky is about to be kicked by a horse.  On the horse's foot is a purple horseshoe.  And you know how horseshoes are supposed to be lucky?"
     Holy cow!  He was totally right!  Why didn't I see that?  It was so obvious!  I didn't want to give away my cover, so I acted nonchalant.   "Oh yeah," I began casually, "purple horseshoes.  Yeah, I know..."
     An old jalopy cruised by us on the street just as we passed under the awning at Robinson's Barber Shop.  I always liked to watch the spinning red, white, and blue pole there.  I could see Mr. Robinson inside buzzing off some elderly gentleman's hair.  In the passing car on the street, the mayor, Gump, had a couple of extra buttons undone on his shirt to display a rather unflattering amount of chest hair.
     When we finally arrived at Pat's Market, we went our separate ways inside.  I usually grabbed a comic book from the comic book rack; and, as fate would have it, once I got there, Heather and Amy were looking at some teen magazine.
      I grabbed the first thing I saw that might even come close to be interesting (which happened to be an issue of "Power Pack").  Heather smiled, and Amy politely said, "hey."  Whatever.  I wasn't going to be polite to her.  And yet, for some reason, I dumbly said, "hey" back.
     I went to the check-out line where Brandon was waiting.  I had a package of ham, my issue of "Power Pack", and a bottle of Coke (a glass bottle like they had back then.)  Brandon had some lunch meat and a Coke also.  He was scanning the candy for something good.  The absurdity that bubble gum chewing tobacco or candy cigarettes was politically incorrect had never crossed our minds.  He reached for a Heath candy bar.
     "I don't know why, but I always thought that Heath's and Skor's were grown-up candy..." I speculated.
     Brandon looked at me with a surprising visage of agreement.  "I know.  Me, too," he offered.  "But they're not.  I tried one and actually liked it."
     Now I had to try one.  I grabbed a Heath as well.
     Angie and Joanne were making an Icee where the machine was by the entrance.  I envied Angie.  Her father was Pat.  The very Pat that owned Pat's Market.  Trying to choose a flavor from the Icee machine was one of the most difficult decisions of my childhood.  I bet she could choose as many as she wanted!
    Pat's wife, Donna, checked us out.  She always asked me how my mom was doing when I went there.  Today was no different.  I grabbed a pack of Return of the Jedi trading cards from a box at the end of the counter.  Brandon did, as well.
     "She's fine,"  I politely answered as I paid.
     Pat, himself, was up in the raised office just by the Icee machine crunching some numbers in a calculator.  I heard him laugh and say something to Angie as Brandon and I walked out.
     "Hey man, wait for me while I run in the post office real quick."  I instructed Brandon.  The post office was just across the street; and, if I could get the postage stamps now, I wouldn't have to come back after school.
     Inside, the mail lady handed me a book of stamps and said, "I saw you got another letter from Mexico."
     I had a pen pal named Javier from Mexico.  I always pronounced it 'Jaw-Veer' until one day Mrs. Norwood explained that J's are pronouned like H's in Spanish, so it would be 'Haw-Vee-Air'.  I wrote to Javier until the massive earthquake that hit Mexico City in 1985, where he lived.  He had been writing pretty regularly, but after that, he never wrote again.  I always wondered what happened to him.
     "Baseball starts next week," Brandon pondered out loud on the way back to school.  I played on the same Little League team that he did.  He was really good.  I wasn't so much.  My favorite thing about going to the ballpark was that just over the hill, my friend Mike had showed me where a Playboy was hidden under the bridge that crossed the creek there.  The cover promised to teach men "How To Last Longer."  I found this quite intriguing.  I had already been told all about the birds and the bees, but the prospect that the Theory of Sexual Intercourse included time trials of endurance needed investigating.  I wanted to read that article while no one, not even Mike, was looking.  And I could always use a visual aid on what the eighth-graders called pussy.
     "Yeah, I know," I responded.  "I'll be at practice."  I liked batting, but I hated fielding.  I could catch a slow floater or telegraph throw, but the prospect of a high-hopping grounder just made me too nervous.
     "Look!!!"  Brandon pulled an Ewok Village from his pack of Return of the Jedi cards.  He knew that that was one of the three cards I needed to complete my collection.  If this were poker, my bluffing face would have cost me money.  I wanted that card.
     "I'll give you a Sarlacc Pit for that!"  I started the bargaining without hesitation.
     "A Sarlacc Pit and a Boba Fett," he countered.
     "That's two cards for one!" I complained.
     "Man, you've got 4 Boba Fett's and I don't have any!"
     Touché.  We shook hands; and, after school that afternoon, we made the trade.
     When we got back to school, we still had a little time.  The asphalt-supported playground boasted three merry-go-rounds, two swing sets, a slide, and a Jungle Gym that served as my Millennium Falcon when I was playing Star Wars with Amy or Ginger or whoever would care to join me in my Jedi land of make-believe.
     At the swingset closest to the street, Susan was sitting by herself, gently swinging with a thoughtful, distant expression.
     "What do you want to be when you grow up?" she asked me.
     "A writer," I answered.  'A writer' was always my answer to that question.
     "Who's your favorite author?" she asked.
     "Hmmm.  I don't know.  I've never thought about it."  It was a good question.  And I would give it some good thought later.
     "I like Stephen King," she said.
     "Who's that?" I asked.
     "He writes scary stuff.  He's a really good writer," she explained.  She smiled when she said that, and her smile lit up her whole face.  Her smile always did that.  She was someone that  made me feel like anything was possible.
     The bell rang, and lunch was over.
     We spent the afternoon learning about chlorophyll, erosion, and long division.
      After I got home, I ran across the field in my backyard to the creek that I called the Black Castle.  Back there, a fallen tree became a speeder bike; a stick became a lightsaber; and stumps in the ground became an obstacle course that I had to manipulate.
   
      A tornado ripped through Brookport this afternoon.  I was at work when it happened.  One of my co-workers left because his mother lived there.
     Another co-worker couldn't be found.  I had just joked around with her this morning before she left work.  She had just bought a house a year ago in Brookport.  She finally called to tell us that she was at the Emergency Room.  She would be ok.  But, her house was gone.
     I write tonight because I don't know what else to do.
     Brookport is my home town.
     I pulled this story not from some particular day.  But from every day.  Or any day.
     Somebody, somewhere is thinking, 'Yeah, right.  Like you really had a mayor named 'Gump.'  Like anyone would build a playground on asphalt.  Hell, kids would get a concussion every time they fell on a playground like that!'
     Customers asked me, "Did you know anyone in Brookport?"
     I didn't know how to answer that.  I didn't know anyone in Brookport.  Hell, I knew everyone.
     I wish I could do something.  And, while, I can't do anything directly to help yet; for now, I can write.
     I'll dip a bucket of imagination into a well of memories and share some of my life with you.  And I hardly skimmed the surface.
     For the well is deep, and it is magical.  And it comes from a time before internet and cell phones, before Jersey Shore and reality television.  And this well sits in the shadow of a rusty, gray water tower with the words BROOKPORT BULLDOGS printed across it.  It's filled with hearts and hopes and fears and dreams.
     We were all such foolish, little children.  We'd bicker and joke and get in trouble - the whole time thinking that we were classmates.  We never realized that we were, in fact, brothers and sisters.
   

   
   -- if you'd like to continue reading more Flashback episodes like "Brookport", then check out "The Simplest Lessons"
   -- please "like" the Parenting with Lightsabers page here.

The Polish Grandparents

                                                       11/15/13 - "The Polish Grandparents"

     Blogger's Note:  I know, I know.  I'm late.  October was quite the hectic month for our humble abode.  Joanna's parents flew from Poland for a visit.  Today's post will be about them, so I'll get to that in a minute.       I'm not sure why, but I'm nervous to start writing again.  I'm sitting here with a bit of anxiety and a phobia that I won't be able to shift in gear after a month's hiatus.  Joanna's parents deserve some inspired narrative, so I'm listening to (yep, you guessed it) Mason Jennings Radio on Pandora hoping to get in the right mood.  I feel like I've metaphorically fallen, and I'm clapping my jeans with frustrated palms to free meager dust clouds of doubt before I pick up my stride.  So, if my foreword feels disconnected or ambiguously unnecessary, then please understand that I'm trying to stretch before the workout.
     On today's subject, be aware that I had to dull the knife before slicing; because I need the deepest cut for our "How We Fell in Love" story.  (yeah, yeah, I know that's probably why you tuned in; it's coming next week...)  To clarify, some of the best examples of just how great Joanna's parents are are resting in a heart-shaped box next to my inkwell and crisp stationary waiting to be showcased in a future chapter.
   
     Of course we didn't think about this way back in 2007.  The novel romance between a Polish bitch and an American idiot budded without much consideration for the rest of the world.  You can divide property and assets and finances and responsibilities.  You can't divide hearts... or people.  We had talked about having children.  We agreed on having two.  And we would be living in America.
     Nestled high in a village where cheese still comes in wheels and sausages hang from strings above meat counters and glass bottles of milk are waiting on your front porch at dawn, a familiar pop and fizz announced the opening of another bottle of Hungarian wine.  Roman Madej stood beneath ivy-wrapped vines that crept through the rafters of his patio's overhang and began filling the glasses that surrounded the table.  Krystyna, his wife, stepped outside carrying another tray of cheese and grapes and crackers for her family and friends to consume.  Jimbo and Arek were looking at Roman's passport and cracking a joke.  Roman and Krystyna had just gotten their visas and their passports a couple of weeks previous.  They had never been out of Europe.  Dominika was chatting with one of her uncles.  Cousins and aunts and uncles inebriated with vodka and cheer communed half a world away, for a life that had no idea how celebrated his arrival would be.
     Krystyna set down the tray and picked up the cell phone that was sitting on the table.  Still nothing.  Her daughter in America had gone into labor hours ago.  She smiled and tried to appear unworried.  The task of playing host to her friends and family kept her mind busy, and she liked to stay busy.  A crackle from the fire pit reminded her to add more wood in an attempt to keep the moist, chill air from getting too close.  Everyone would be toasting the arrival of her first grandchild soon enough, she thought to herself.
     She would be by her daughter's side right now if not for some volcano in Iceland erupting and filling the north Atlantic air with so much ash that all the planes in that part of the world were grounded.  Their flight would be postponed until the air cleared.  Someday, her grandchild would never believe that her plans were delayed by an erupting volcano.
     And then the phone beeped.  She reached it first and immediately saw the text in English.  She quickly handed the phone to her son who knew that hesitating the translation would result in death threats.
     "Welcome to the world the newest Madej.  Roman Alan Edwards was born healthy on April 18, 2010 at 7 pounds 8 ounces and 18.9 inches long.  He and Joanna are both healthy and doing well," her son-in-law had texted them.
     Krystyna clapped her hands to her face and said a prayer of thanks out loud while the rest of the family raised glasses of wine and shots of vodka as a cheer of  "Na Zdrowia!" echoed through the otherwise sleeping Polish countryside.  Everyone was on their feet and hugging and crying and talking about what America must be like and how much that weight was in kilo's and congratulating Roman and Krystyna Madej on being grandparents.  They all talked about what their coming trip to America would be like.  And, soon enough....   ...they would find out.
     In fact, their latest trip marks their third visit.  They stayed with us after Roman's arrival and to spend Christmas with us one year.  After the second visit, they explained that they were getting a little old for such a voyage.  They might come for a third trip if and when we have another child.  And then Amelia came along...
     We picked them up in Chicago, because the transfer to get somewhere closer might be confusing for someone that doesn't speak English (hell, it's confusing for people that do speak English).  When they arrived, we suggested going on a real trip.  Perhaps to Florida, maybe a cruise.  They insisted they only wanted to stay home and spend time with their grandchildren.  We did manage a small get-away to St Louis at one point, however.
     Roman was a little slow to warm up.  He was used to "Fickles" (that's what he calls my mom).  She gives him cookies when he demands them and doesn't make him eat any of that nasty, healthy food.  Slowly but surely he got there.  Dza Dza (as he calls his Polish grandfather) ended up being pretty fun.  He actually spent time with him, and they made incredible things from his Lego's.  Together, they built a fire truck from wood blocks.  He fixed his favorite toy tow truck, Mater, with a way to actually tow his other cars.  He pushed him around on his bicycle and played catch with him outside.  Ba Ba (as he calls his Polish grandmother) would make him all kinds of different foods.  And once he got past the trauma of trying new things, he found out they weren't so bad.  She would keep him clean and warm.  She bought him new boots with Lightning McQueen on them and would read Polish bedtime stories to him.

    Amelia never lost stride.  She seemed to relish all the attention given to her by the new arrivals.   Ba Ba didn't put her down for long.  She kept her diapers changed and her interest peaked.  They went for walks almost every day, and when Krystyna was busy cooking or cleaning, Dza Dza would wrap her up warmly, and sit her in the stroller so that she could see Roman playing in the leaves outside.
     Joanna was the happiest.  Seeing her parents kept her mood cheerful.  When she wasn't working, she spent her days with her mom making pierogies to freeze or some homemade, organic baby food for Amelia or listening to advice on Polish remedies for sick babies or upset tummies or picky toddlers.  Other days, she would spend with her father at Home Depot buying parts to build shelves in the kitchen or to fix the scratched upholstery on our couch or to make the latch on our gate accessible from either side.
     I was trying to pick out words from the Polish conversations or trying to find an empty room to disappear for a while.  My biggest concern was that the bathroom would be occupied after finishing my morning coffee.  And I learned not to "like" their cooking too much.  The Polish food was just fine; but, if I were to say, "Wow!  This pork cutlet sure is good!" then I could expect it for lunch over the next 4 days.  They are polite and considerate to a fault, and they want to make me happy and feel like part of the family.  So, if they find out I like something, then I can expect it in triplicate.  I appreciate them so much, but I guess I'm just a spoiled American that doesn't like the same thing two days in a row.  Especially, when they come from a communist youth where food doesn't get wasted.  They rarely leave a scrap of food on their plates.  If and when they do, it gets put in the refrigerator and eaten the next day.
     They are workaholics that inspire me to be more.  They inspire me to be a good father, and a handyman, a good husband, an honest person.  The toughest thing about being around them is the constant reminder that I'm not half as tough as they are.  I come from a world of buffets and Nintendo's and mobile homes.  Now, don't get me wrong, I'm a proud American; but, seeing Joanna's parents in action reminds me that I can always be better, I can always do more.  Someday soon, I'll write about the things that I think we could learn from Poland (...and some things that I think they could learn from us).
     Saying goodbye to them at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago, IL was painful.  I know how much time they want to spend with their grandchildren and with their daughter.  I feel like the villain that took their family away from them.  But they don't treat me like a villain.  They hug me just as hard as they hug Joanna.  And when their red eyes wave their last goodbyes and round the corner to the security checkpoint, we always stand there until we just can't see them anymore.  Joanna must see them like freshly-strummed guitar strings through tear-filled eyes; I hug her and tell her we'll be seeing them soon.  In fact, we're planning a trip next June because that's when Joanna's brother will be getting married.  Until then, we'll talk to them everyday on Skype and on the phone.
     I know in my heart that my children's spirits are better after spending time with Joanna's parents.  Some days, Joanna and I toy with the idea of moving to Poland.  Who knows, maybe someday we will.  We will continue to visit as often as we can.  And Roman and Amelia will know the people that they are named after.                                     but for now...              Da Widzenia...