Looking down at my bruised, bloodied knees I sigh. While lunging for the tennis ball, my feet just couldn't keep up with my enthusiasm, and I fell. My brand new shirt was now stained with the dust of the clay court. I wiped the dirt off my perspiring skin, and the gravel from my palms. I'm not sure if we won the point, but it was certainly worth it.
I can recount the adventures I had as a kid, by the scars and the chipped tooth I still wear on my body. The chip on my front tooth, which I never had fixed, is from the time I was racing the guys in the neighboorhood on my Schwinn Sting Ray, ladies edition,with a banana seat, around a tight corner out of the alley. I was in the lead. First one home was the winner! Last one was a rotten egg.
I didn't see the loose gravel on the road, as my back tire skidded out from under me. I lost control and I came tumbling down, mostly on my face....mostly on my two front teeth. There was concern that I would lose them, but I didn't. Neither did I lose the story of why I have the chip.
The scars on my knees were from endless adventures in the neighborhood. Before the shopping center came, and the construction on all the new homes, our house was surrounded by orchards of various fruit, and tomato fields. Great places to fight the enemy, with endless supply of ammo.
I like my scars and imperfections. I like my white hair. It would be a shame to have todays lasers blast my skin to make it smooth again and dyes to cover my hair. It would be blasting out my past, as if it never happened. I don't want my skin pulled tight, or my chipped tooth fixed, or my boobs enlarged. It took all this time to become who I am. It would be a shame to lose all that history.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Pepper Steak
Last night my older brother Chuck and wife Kathy took me out to dinner at a fine restaurant by the ocean. We had to wait about an hour to be seated so we wandered around looking in art galleries and walked on the boardwalk. The smell of the sea, and the sound of the crashing waves were nice. I love the smell of salt air and the sound of the surf. In the near distance is the pier, where many early mornings Chuck and I would ride our bikes to fish.
As we ate we talked about growing up, and how different our perspectives were for being raised in the same house. Chuck remembers the silent treatment... I remember the yelling. He remembers a dad that would never do anything with him... I remember a dad who was always doing something with him in the Boy Scouts. "Do you remember the pepper steak dad used to make?" My glands started salivating at the mention of the words. "Yes, that was the best tasting meal I ever ate." "Do you think Mom still has the recipe?" I've looked for it and can't find it. We both knew exactly where the recipe was kept. That space is now filled with candy bars and treats.
It wasn't often that we had company over. I think it happened 2 or 3 times, but when it did, we had pepper steak. It was an all-day ordeal as my dad would prepare the 2-inch thick slab of beef and marinated it for hours. It sat on the counter, in an aluminum pan. The smell was something that tortured us with anticipation. The baked potatoes, wrapped in mud, in the coals waited until the steak was done, as we gathered to eat. What a meal!!!
This morning I was sitting at the kitchen table with my mom and this alien that has the name Dad attached to him. "Mom, do you remember the pepper steak Dad used to make?" "No, she said... I don't like beef." "You don't remember? Oh my gosh, Chuck and I were just talking about it last night. Do you have the recipe?" "I don't know.... but you can look." "It was a newspaper clipping that Dad used to keep right here in the space." So I started through the books, not really thinking I would find it. I flipped open Betty Crocker, and The Joy of Cooking.... nothing. I picked up an old yellowed barbecue cookbook and opened the cover. There, in the inside flap, my dad had hand-written the whole thing, and a few pages back, the newspaper clipping fell out. I just won the lottery.
I'm all excited now, and my dad is looking at me. "Dad, do you remember cooking outside?" He didn't and I went on and on about how good it was. I read him the ingredients. "I did that? How long ago was that?" "Many, many years ago." He started touching the page that had his writing on it. He wanted to put his name on it, and I told him his name was written all over it. Every time I laid the newspaper clipping on top of his writing, he moved it off. He didn't want himself covered up. "I think I need to take this out and put it with my pictures." He is looking at the shrine on top of the TV that displays pictures of himself from years past. My mom raised her voice. "No, it is not going on the TV. It is not a memory." "But, Mom, it is... and he remembers." "If you put it there, I will take it down." So it is not going up on the shrine, but I get to take the original newspaper recipe home with me. I've made a copy and put it back in the book, in case my dad goes looking for it. And the cookbook will go to my brother Chuck.
As we ate we talked about growing up, and how different our perspectives were for being raised in the same house. Chuck remembers the silent treatment... I remember the yelling. He remembers a dad that would never do anything with him... I remember a dad who was always doing something with him in the Boy Scouts. "Do you remember the pepper steak dad used to make?" My glands started salivating at the mention of the words. "Yes, that was the best tasting meal I ever ate." "Do you think Mom still has the recipe?" I've looked for it and can't find it. We both knew exactly where the recipe was kept. That space is now filled with candy bars and treats.
It wasn't often that we had company over. I think it happened 2 or 3 times, but when it did, we had pepper steak. It was an all-day ordeal as my dad would prepare the 2-inch thick slab of beef and marinated it for hours. It sat on the counter, in an aluminum pan. The smell was something that tortured us with anticipation. The baked potatoes, wrapped in mud, in the coals waited until the steak was done, as we gathered to eat. What a meal!!!
This morning I was sitting at the kitchen table with my mom and this alien that has the name Dad attached to him. "Mom, do you remember the pepper steak Dad used to make?" "No, she said... I don't like beef." "You don't remember? Oh my gosh, Chuck and I were just talking about it last night. Do you have the recipe?" "I don't know.... but you can look." "It was a newspaper clipping that Dad used to keep right here in the space." So I started through the books, not really thinking I would find it. I flipped open Betty Crocker, and The Joy of Cooking.... nothing. I picked up an old yellowed barbecue cookbook and opened the cover. There, in the inside flap, my dad had hand-written the whole thing, and a few pages back, the newspaper clipping fell out. I just won the lottery.
I'm all excited now, and my dad is looking at me. "Dad, do you remember cooking outside?" He didn't and I went on and on about how good it was. I read him the ingredients. "I did that? How long ago was that?" "Many, many years ago." He started touching the page that had his writing on it. He wanted to put his name on it, and I told him his name was written all over it. Every time I laid the newspaper clipping on top of his writing, he moved it off. He didn't want himself covered up. "I think I need to take this out and put it with my pictures." He is looking at the shrine on top of the TV that displays pictures of himself from years past. My mom raised her voice. "No, it is not going on the TV. It is not a memory." "But, Mom, it is... and he remembers." "If you put it there, I will take it down." So it is not going up on the shrine, but I get to take the original newspaper recipe home with me. I've made a copy and put it back in the book, in case my dad goes looking for it. And the cookbook will go to my brother Chuck.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Happy Meal
The well dressed man sat across from me in the crowded LA airport waiting area. The drone of humanity moving from one terminal to another was contrasted with the loud announcements of airline departures, boarding and lost people meeting other lost people in designated places. I love airports. Such a variety of cultures and nations. He was dressed in the typical Dallas style-leather jacket, cowboy boots. Such a symbol of Americana.
It was breakfast time, as he opened his McDonalds sack. Another symbol of America. Golden arches. He unwrapped his Egg McMuffin, opened his orange juice, and slowly without anyone noticing empty a bit of spirit into his juice. I smiled. Happy Meal.
It was breakfast time, as he opened his McDonalds sack. Another symbol of America. Golden arches. He unwrapped his Egg McMuffin, opened his orange juice, and slowly without anyone noticing empty a bit of spirit into his juice. I smiled. Happy Meal.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Menopause......So
so
my mother went thru the same thing
our paths now somehow joined
except she disappeared then
and wanted to die
and I was to blame
so
its time for the next phase of life.
when my body starts to slow down
and the eggs that it has so faithfully produce
shrivel up and die
I'm not to blame
so
the flashes of heat
from the inside
that warms my being, and wets my brow
reminds me
that life is constantly changing
so
my friends laugh at me
they have been thru it
others have paved the way
since the beginning of time
so
there's noone to blame.
my mother went thru the same thing
our paths now somehow joined
except she disappeared then
and wanted to die
and I was to blame
so
its time for the next phase of life.
when my body starts to slow down
and the eggs that it has so faithfully produce
shrivel up and die
I'm not to blame
so
the flashes of heat
from the inside
that warms my being, and wets my brow
reminds me
that life is constantly changing
so
my friends laugh at me
they have been thru it
others have paved the way
since the beginning of time
so
there's noone to blame.
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