My Writes

Lines from Lake Laeryn

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / Leave a comment

Wayne Michael DeHart  (June, 2024)

Writer’s Introductory Note:
In March of 2024, I was one of several veterans in a recreational writing group who were provided  a list of 56 random words from which to choose the “ingredients to develop a recipe for writing.” Prompts, if you will. A few months later, I decided to try my hand at working all 56 of them seamlessly into a short piece of fiction (not to exceed 1,000 words) to enter into a competition. I was able to do so, and enjoyed the heck out of the process. I have since made a few whimsical additions to the piece, pushing it up to 1,062 words, but all of the original 56  “ingredients” remain untouched and in their original format and placement, and all remain in the original form of each word as originally appeared in the attached handout. The first reading is the finished product, and the second reading has been added to show how each of the 56 words was used. Hope a few readers judge this word recipe to be, well, chef’s kiss !

***************************

“Oui, you need beaucoup sleep, more than a nap, to rest and recharge that captivating je ne sais quoi of yours. Bonne nuit, mon chéri.” (Cajun girl loves her some flirtatious français, for sure.)

It’s 12:12 AM, Saturday, March 20, 1999 – the opening minutes of Spring in the bayou.

She glances at the living room mirror to see if she’s still glowing. She is. In the soft candlelight, she sees a maiden fair, looking sweet but strong, innocent yet seductive. She nods, winking playfully at her reflection. “Yeah, baby.” The love train is beginning to leave the station, and they’re on board. Voilà – Victory!

Both have consumed a lot of wine. She’s beaming. He, on the other hand, looks like he ran into a beam. Hours earlier, they had unexpectedly busted out of the friend zone with their first romantic kiss, a limb-tingling humdinger, much like Astaire and Rogers in their reverie dance in 1938’s “Carefree.”

She plugs in two night lights, snuffs each candle, and pulls a comforter up around her shoulders, wedging herself onto the sofa cushion nearest his head. Then she closes her eyes, and goes looking for Fred and Ginger in dreams of her own.

*******************************************************

Lisette Rousseau and Ryan Garner had met the previous summer on the western shore of Lake Laeryn (“Wayne, be sure to tell ‘em it rhymes with Karen!”), in southeastern Louisiana, where both had gone to water ski on the 4th of July, at the persistent invitation of the marina manager. They bonded quickly, wasting no time in sharing likes and laughter. As the weeks and months rushed past, they kept things lively, but remained partners without passion. The opportunistic manager had invited them separately to the dock, hoping they would connect and become lifetime lovers. In appreciation for such Machiavellian matchmaking, Ryan would extend him deep discounts on all future purchase orders from his employer. But, thus far, the expected quid pro quo had been big no go.

Lisette, 25, a lifelong Laerynette, managed La Pâtisserie, an upscale, all-natural bakery for health-conscious folks in nearby Lake Charles. Confident and outgoing, she was never at a loss for words. Her smile was electric and energizing, lighting up many a room and opening many a door. She avoided relationships, tolerating neither fool nor folly. Quietly compelling, with enchanting green eyes, she could inspire a poet’s lyric, and craft wedding cakes with an artisan’s texture and touch. Her mother had boasted years earlier that Lisette “puts the light in enlightenment, and she’s only 17!”

Shunning showy glitz and glitter, she scorned the pretentious excess of tinseled tarts and tawdry teasers. Growing up a hardcore tomboy, she could kick butt, climb a tree, slay a dragon, finger poke the notorious middle school mini-monster, Billy “Bully” Bailey, into submission, and stare down Sammy the Slime, the teenaged tyrant from Stinker Street. In the spirit of FDR, she was afraid of nothing but fear itself, and, well, maybe being flabby at 40 and floppy by 50. Lisette was sometimes a lady, never a tramp, and always unflappable. She looked and moved in one direction – forward.

Ryan, 23, grew up near the LSU campus in Baton Rouge, where his mother worked security. Strict by nature, she sheltered him from the pervasive pitfalls of a major college town. His runaway dad, however, was a bootlicking backslapper who migrated north to Shreveport and cunningly cultivated friendships with men in high places. No one’s hero, and ever the traveler, George Garner dragged Ryan down to Mobile for splashy yacht fishing, up to Memphis for some Beale Street blues, then to the finest New Orleans eateries, using borrowed credit cards. When Ryan flunked out of LSU in his sophomore year, his mother was livid, and strongly advised him to smarten up.

He did.

Lady Luck soon gifted him a job as a marine supply salesman, working out of Port Arthur, Texas. Seems “smartening up” had gotten him a company car and an expense account. “You doin’ good, boy” his boss said two years in, and sent him sixty miles east to Lake Laeryn to sweeten and close a sale, then relax on the company tab through the Independence Day weekend of ‘98. There he smooth-talked the equally-cunning marina manager, who in turn smooth-talked the unattached dragon slayer down to the docks. Feeling instant kinship with Lisette, Ryan returned to the lake almost every weekend to hang out with her, unpressured, in a platonic partnership, the kind where neither answers if jealousy calls. Hugs – hello and goodbye – bookended each visit, though those embraces gradually lingered longer, and got decidedly tighter, on both ends, and from both sides.

********************************************

8:44 PM, March 19, 1999, the waning hours of Winter

As a cold, hard rain pummeled Lisette’s waterfront cabin, the couple relaxed in her warm and cozy kitchen space. They finished off a late Friday dinner of jambalaya, corn bread, and banana cream pie, made tastier by two bottles of Merlot.

From the CD player in the next room, wafted the opening notes of Dusty Springfield’s inviting classic, “The Look of Love.” Emboldened by the wine, Ryan stood and asked her to dance. Within moments, they locked eyes. He kissed her with passion and purpose, like Astaire, and she responded in kind, like Rogers. But the poise the wine giveth, the wine also taketh away. Suddenly tipsy and tired, they tumbled onto the living room sofa. They flirted innocently for hours, until their happiness quickly escalated – hers skyrocketing, his exploding, precisely at midnight, with no one near. Except you, the reader, who arrived minutes later, unnoticed – just as Cajun girl was whispering those opening …

lines from Lake Laeryn.  (Yes, the ones that welcomed you, way up there ↑)

*********************************************

Postscript:

Later that weekend, Ryan called me – yeah, I’m the marina manager a/k/a the scheming set-up guy – to express his gratitude for my perseverance in hooking them up and nudging them down the love track.

My pleasure, Ryan.

Deep down, young man, I’m a sucker for acts of friendship, for good deeds, for all things peace and love. That stuff melts my old, grizzled heart. Truly.

Anyway, about that discount on dock winches . . . can we bump that up to 30% next time around? That too would be kind of an act of love . . . actually.

No? Okay. Enough.

Enough now.

#

_______________________________

With the 56 words in yellow: 

“Oui, you need beaucoup sleep, more than a nap, to rest and recharge that captivating je ne sais quoi of yours. Bonne nuit, mon chéri.” (Cajun girl loves her some flirtatious français, for sure.)

It’s 12:12 AM, Saturday, March 20, 1999 – the opening minutes of Spring in the bayou.

She glances at the living room mirror to see if she’s still glowing. She is. In the soft candlelight, she sees a maiden fair, looking sweet but strong, innocent yet seductive. She nods, winking playfully at her reflection. “Yeah, baby.” The love train is beginning to leave the station, and they’re on board. Voilà – Victory!

Both have consumed a lot of wine. She’s beaming. He, on the other hand, looks like he ran into a beam. Hours earlier, they had unexpectedly busted out of the friend zone with their first romantic kiss, a limb-tingling humdinger, much like Astaire and Rogers in their reverie dance in 1938’s “Carefree.”

She plugs in two night lights, snuffs each candle, and pulls a comforter up around her shoulders, wedging herself onto the sofa cushion nearest his head. Then she closes her eyes, and goes looking for Fred and Ginger in dreams of her own.

*******************************************************

Lisette Rousseau and Ryan Garner had met the previous summer on the western shore of Lake Laeryn (“Wayne, be sure to tell ‘em it rhymes with Karen!”), in southeastern Louisiana, where both had gone to water ski on the 4th of July, at the persistent invitation of the marina manager. They bonded quickly, wasting no time in sharing likes and laughter. As the weeks and months rushed past, they kept things lively, but remained partners without passion. The opportunistic manager had invited them separately to the dock, hoping they would connect and become lifetime lovers. In appreciation for such Machiavellian matchmaking, Ryan would extend him deep discounts on all future purchase orders from his employer. But, thus far, the expected quid pro quo had been big no go.

Lisette, 25, a lifelong Laerynette, managed La Pâtisserie, an upscale, all-natural bakery for health-conscious folks in nearby Lake Charles. Confident and outgoing, she was never at a loss for words. Her smile was electric and energizing, lighting up many a room and opening many a door. She avoided relationships, tolerating neither fool nor folly. Quietly compelling, with enchanting green eyes, she could inspire a poet’s lyric, and craft wedding cakes with an artisan’s texture and touch. Her mother had boasted years earlier that Lisette “puts the light in enlightenment, and she’s only 17!”

Shunning showy glitz and glitter, she scorned the pretentious excess of tinseled tarts and tawdry teasers. Growing up a hardcore tomboy, she could kick butt, climb a tree, slay a dragon, finger poke the notorious middle school mini-monster, Billy “Bully” Bailey, into submission, and stare down Sammy the Slime, the teenaged tyrant from Stinker Street. In the spirit of FDR, she was afraid of nothing but fear itself, and, well, maybe being flabby at 40 and floppy by 50. Lisette was sometimes a lady, never a tramp, and always unflappable. She looked and moved in one direction – forward.

Ryan, 23, grew up near the LSU campus in Baton Rouge, where his mother worked security. Strict by nature, she sheltered him from the pervasive pitfalls of a major college town. His runaway dad, however, was a bootlicking backslapper who migrated north to Shreveport and cunningly cultivated friendships with men in high places. No one’s hero, and ever the traveler, George Garner dragged Ryan down to Mobile for splashy yacht fishing, up to Memphis for some Beale Street blues, then to the finest New Orleans eateries, using borrowed credit cards. When Ryan flunked out of LSU in his sophomore year, his mother was livid, and strongly advised him to smarten up.

He did.

Lady Luck soon gifted him a job as a marine supply salesman, working out of Port Arthur, Texas. Seems “smartening up” had gotten him a company car and an expense account. “You doin’ good, boy” his boss said two years in, and sent him sixty miles east to Lake Laeryn to sweeten and close a sale, then relax on the company tab through the Independence Day weekend of ‘98. There he smooth-talked the equally-cunning marina manager, who in turn smooth-talked the unattached dragon slayer down to the docks. Feeling instant kinship with Lisette, Ryan returned to the lake almost every weekend to hang out with her, unpressured, in a platonic partnership, the kind where neither answers if jealousy calls. Hugs – hello and goodbye – bookended each visit, though those embraces gradually lingered longer, and got decidedly tighter, on both ends, and from both sides.

********************************************

8:44 PM, March 19, 1999, the waning hours of Winter

As a cold, hard rain pummeled Lisette’s waterfront cabin, the couple relaxed in her warm and cozy kitchen space. They finished off a late Friday dinner of jambalaya, corn bread, and banana cream pie, made tastier by two bottles of Merlot.

From the CD player in the next room, wafted the opening notes of Dusty Springfield’s inviting classic, “The Look of Love.” Emboldened by the wine, Ryan stood and asked her to dance. Within moments, they locked eyes. He kissed her with passion and purpose, like Astaire, and she responded in kind, like Rogers. But the poise the wine giveth, the wine also taketh away. Suddenly tipsy and tired, they tumbled onto the living room sofa. They flirted innocently for hours, until their happiness quickly escalated – hers skyrocketing, his exploding, precisely at midnight, with no one near. Except you, the reader, who arrived minutes later, unnoticed – just as Cajun girl was whispering those opening …

lines from Lake Laeryn.  (Yes, the ones that welcomed you, way up there ↑)

*********************************************

Postscript:

Later that weekend, Ryan called me – yeah, I’m the marina manager a/k/a the scheming set-up guy – to express his gratitude for my perseverance in hooking them up and nudging them down the love track.

My pleasure, Ryan.

Deep down, young man, I’m a sucker for acts of friendship, for good deeds, for all things peace and love. That stuff melts my old, grizzled heart. Truly.

Anyway, about that discount on dock winches . . . can we bump that up to 30% next time around? That too would be kind of an act of love . . . actually.

No? Okay. Enough.

Enough now.

#

THE INGREDIENTS:

Group Writing Exercise: (One word prompts)

Choose your ingredients to develop a recipe for writing. Free write first, then edit for a new creative work!

Space        Friend       Monster       Look      Past     Green

Rain      Fear    Spring     Happiness      Smile     Climb

Health     Direction      Tree     Mirror      Rest       Loss

Victory     Inspire     Warm     Texture     Luck     Beginning 

Gratitude    Excess     Door     Enlightenment     Next   Ski

Glitter    Lake    Candle    Me    Dragon     Train        Love

Dreams    Goodbye    Time    March    Dance    Perseverance

Afraid    Light     Answers    Laughter     Recharge     Hero

Jealousy    Lyric     Water    Yacht    Traveler    Nap    Banana

Discussion: Share your creative work.

My Misplaced Life

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart  (July, 2024)

Writer’s Note:
This poem was written in response to the single word “Memories” –  the prompt for a 2024 international poetry competition that limited entries to no more than 30 lines.
_____________________________________________

Like thunder clapping across dark summer skies,
my muddled recollections of a seventy-year span
roll by angrily and ominously, behind closed doors.
On this blackest of nights, in this desolate cottage,
my emotions flare, my pulse races, and the sharp
blade of regret cuts deeply, ripping me to my core.

Once a cheap-suited underling, weary and fragile,
unwittingly and passively robotic, I’d wait for the
office clock to shriek, “Go home – now.” Yes, home,
to bare walls and sterile bed, where I sat and stared
and tried to revisit, to remember, my misplaced life.

My remembrances are devoid of shape and sound
and scent. Faces blur, and voices echo unevenly,
collapsing tone and tenor. Muted, murky visions
distort once-clear images, as chaos conquers all.

Flashbacks of fire still mock my scarred spirit,
so I revisit stale, maudlin songs of love and loss
to blunt their brutality and muffle their cruelty.
Does that coy, green-eyed Jersey girl reminisce
tonight, recalling Spring flowers in old Vermont,
or stolen kisses in the shadows of Boston bars?

Alas, I capture the frames, but not so their pictures.
These letters have yellowed, their words have faded.
Curse the folly of such idle musings. Will any remnants
remain when this night ends? I think not. Those who
rode life’s rails with me are gone, and won’t be back.

Enough, old man! Cease this bitter blather, this anguish.
Welcome morning’s light with deep breaths and quiet heart,
your dreams alive, your flame hot, your mind’s eye focused.
Despair is bearable. Defeat is not. So clap, thunder. Clap on!

#

Bar Belles & Dumbbells

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart   (May 26, 2024)

 

Writer’s Note:
This was my entry in the Mensa Bulletin’s 2024 annual fiction competition. It was published in the September, 2024, edition of the magazine, the third time one of my stories has appeared in that publication. (Yay for me and tired old men everywhere!)

_______________

October 5, 2018

Three they were, their futures bright,
noses in law books, deep in the night.
Fun forgone, they trained for the fight,
turned off the dark, turned on the light.
Tested two days, and wrote what’s right.
Awaiting their scores, with muscles tight.
Ten weeks of torment, no verdict in sight.

“I wrote a poem. Just now. Look.”
“That a girl. Nothing like a septet to calm the mind.”
“A what? They said ten weeks, right?”
“No, they said about ten. Maybe twelve. Possibly more.”
‘I’m gonna bust outta my skin here, Kerry. Can we go to Boston’s Brewin’ for just one drink, then come right back? We can just forget to mention it to Karly. No big thing.”
“You know our deal, Gwen – booze, you lose. It’s been a long haul, we’re almost there. Just go down to the exercise room to blow off steam. Do some crunches. Pick up a couple of dumbbells.”
“You mean like Lenny and Louie? Yuck. No, thanks. How many crunches?”
“About ten. Maybe twelve. Possibly more.”
“Kerry?”
“Yeah, hon?”
“Bite me.”
_______________________

Back Bay, Boston. An up-market, two BR, two BA, condo owned by Karly’s moneyed uncle, who sold a start-up for big bucks at the age of 31, then left Boston to hang with the Silicon Valley crowd. He had purchased several rental units at Trinity Crossing before heading west, and had offered his only niece and her friends a stunningly generous, below-market rate on his best unit when they moved in during the early spring of 2015. He knew they planned to begin law school that fall and, well, it was the least he could do for his late wife’s family. He kind of dropped a hint that, if they made it through and passed the bar, perhaps free legal advice for life might be a thoughtful return gesture on their part. They laughed that one off and always sent the check on time, and he never raised the rent.

Karly Drake, Kerry Loring, and Gwendolyn Lynn were each in their late 20’s as they awaited the results of their July bar exams. The liberal arts grads met in mid- December of 2013, when they began work as rookie hostesses at Red’s SawxHouse. The setting was a bizarre blend of an urban, urbane, baseball-themed cocktail lounge at street level, and a roadhouse-type bar venue, with a vipers’ den vibe, occupying the basement. Nestled in the resurgent fringes of Boston’s once-notorious Combat Zone, the establishment routinely turned generous profits, despite a lingering, below-the-surface culture clash between the white collars sipping bourbon, Bailey’s and Bordeaux up top, and the blue collars guzzling overpriced longnecks and gobbling free peanuts at the bottom of the stairs.

Karly, Kerry and Gwen (“KK&G”) were characters with character – intelligent, vibrant young women who had quickly tired of their mundane, entry-level jobs after graduation. They became fast friends, sharing long-term aspirations to be something more than degreed go-fers for smug guys in rumpled suits. Though highly astute and self-aware, they shared a sassy, silly side that was a hoot back at the condo, but in public, could be a wee bit embarassing among, you know, adults. Still, for the most part, they managed to conduct themselves in an appropriate manner because this was Boston, where sillies were sent to the end of the line, or to Maine.

During their ten-month tenure in the blue Brahmin haze of Red’s upstairs lounge, their quick smiles and polite playfulness were rewarded with a shipload of tips, and an equally generous level of respectful endearment from the patrons. Nevertheless, Karly wondered aloud what it would be like to dive headfirst into the murky mire below them, where rude, crude snakes slithered and slid, singing a siren’s song. Kerry rolled her eyes. “Sounds fabulous.” Karly persisted. “Six months. We walk the walk for six months, and then we’re outta there, the Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.” Kerry and Gwen exchanged puzzled glances upon hearing about the creek, but both were gung-ho and game. Red said he’d allow it, and wished them well “down in the pit.” He told them they could come back upstairs at any time if they missed the tips. Or the clientele. “They want you back, and you haven’t even left yet!”

The below-deck newbies were well-served by an instinctive, heightened vigilance in unfamiliar surroundings and circumstances. They were fun, but not as in floozy fun. They wore their strong intellect and confident poise comfortably, mastering the fine art of being flirtatious without being salacious. They knew how to maximize tips while minimizing close contact. They didn’t play the customers, nor did they play with the customers. It seemed there was no shortage of obnoxious dirtbags and grabby sleazeballs among the regulars, but the ladies artfully ducked and dodged the bad ones, while drawing out the best in the rest.

There was also a benign grouping that KK&G dealt with gently and compassionately, sensing an ever-present awkwardness and social clumsiness. These guys hung together, numbering fewer than ten on any given night, and Kerry was surprised they kept coming back. “They just seem so out of place and unhappy here.” They were mostly quiet and shy – unassuming, passive creatures who personified low self-esteem. The other hostesses were standoffish toward them. (“I don’t trust a man who doesn’t hit on me.”) To the rapscallions rejecting them, these subdued, gentle men were fair game – to be openly belittled, degraded, and labelled as dimwits, dolts, dorks, dullards, and the most piercing cut of all . . . dumbbells. It rubbed the ladies three the wrong way. As their six-month tenure there wound down, they did their best to prop up the outsiders, to learn about them as individuals, and to stand up for them openly and assertively.
_______________________________

April 18, 2015

On their last night on the job, a Saturday, they were delighted that more than twenty of the perceived misfits had turned out to see them off. Their shift was both sad and satisfying, a textbook mixed bag of emotions. Shortly before 11:00 PM, each of the three hugged every one of these special guys before departing, then broke house rules by having a quick parting glass with them. As they headed for the stairs and a final walk-through with the upstairs crowd, they heard, “Ladies, wait!” Those same guys gathered around them as each was handed a very small, rectangular box.

Looking unsure, the three of them hesitated. Many of the rambunctious regulars had taken notice. They watched in curious silence.

“Geez, OPEN them already,” someone blurted out in a deep baritone. Laughter. They did so, slowly and together, like kids on Christmas morning. Inside each was an engraved, sterling silver dog tag, resting on a bed of black velvet. Karly, Kerry, and Gwen each saw their name, next to a heart, shining back at them, above the simple words, “Thanks for giving a damn. Your friends, the Dumbbells.”

Well, shoot.

Another round of hugs ensued before the now-free three scampered up the stairs for their final goodbyes. Red was waiting for them. Karly showed him her dog tag. He bit his lip and nodded his head, approvingly. “Well deserved.” He suggested they mingle for about half an hour and then meet back with him at the main bar in the center of the lounge.

So mingle they did. They had spread out to touch as many bases (hey, it’s a baseball bar!) as they could before making their exit. Seemed like there were familiar faces at every turn. It was close to 11:45 when they heard Red on the mic, acknowledging their presence, and imminent departure.

They quickly worked their way through the crowd, into the spotlight. Red had the BBB (big burly bouncer) lift each of them up onto the smooth mahogany surface of the bar. They were clearly animated, bobbing their heads to the cheers. Red then lifted what appeared to be Boston baseball jerseys up to them, folded back side up. They held them up high to the crowd, each revealing a large number “1” and their own names across the top. None of the three had even noticed the front side that was staring down at them. Red, back on the mic, suggested they “turn ‘em around, ladies.” (Kerry playfully turned herself around before Red added “The jerseys, ladies, the jerseys!”)

As native Bay Staters, they had expected the familiar “Red Sox” lettering, bold and red, across the front. Smartphone cameras captured the moment that the expected became the unexpected. The letters were in fact decidedly bold and red, but boldly read: “BAR BELLES.” They quickly donned the jerseys as a couple of other upstairs hostesses suddenly appeared on the bar, one from each direction, both wearing those same tops. “Ladies and Gentlemen, please say hello, and goodbye, to your 2015 Boston Bar Belles.” The guys did what guys in bars do when looking at ladies in uniform – they got boisterous and went bonkers. Following Karly’s lead, her four wingwomen began to vigorously flap their jerseys up and down, making the letters jump and jiggle on the way up, then bump and wiggle going down. The bellowing Beantowners were feeling festive; high-spirited and high on spirits.

Red’s voice boomed across the room. “Listen up! Three runs down, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded. Who ya gonna call?” In response, a stoked Gwendolyn Lynn let loose her sassy girl, yelling “Bar Belles!” while putting her hand to her ear. A chorus of male voices took the cue, retorting with fist pumps and a glass-shattering “Bar Belles!” of their own. Gwen again, whipping her long, auburn hair from side to side – “Bar Belles!” And the guys gave it right back again. Meanwhile, Gwen’s festive friends kept shaking their shirts, fueling the fire in the frenetic faces below them. A few more rounds of the exchange ricocheted off the walls, before a fast-paced, full-throated, flurry of five more for the road closed out the revelry, carrying the farewell celebration to a rocking, rolling, rollicking climax.

Their fans had just witnessed a real world grand slam, and fittingly for KK&G, a breathless walk-off win.

A fitting finale, indeed.

The three friends waved one last goodbye before being helped down to solid ground. Once there, they headed straight to the door, and out into the cool night air of early Spring. They didn’t look back.

The ten months upstairs, and the six months downstairs, at Red’s SawxHouse had left its mark – on them, and on a slew of grounded regulars. Surely, in the near and distant future, many would tell a friend, a co-worker, or the person sitting next to them at Fenway Park, about the top-shelf, infinitely-cool, beloved Boston Bar Belles of days gone by.

Their midnight cab ride back to the condo, on the 240th anniversary of some other Bostonian’s quite different midnight ride, marked the end of an amusing adventure, and the beginning of getting down to business. For these rejuvenated women of the Back Bay, “Bar Belles” was about to take on a whole new meaning.

______________________

October 12, 2018

Just one week after penning her ode to impatience, Gwen let out a shriek in the early afternoon that could be heard in the Berkshires. It was a rainy Friday, and her roommates were down in the exercise room again, pumping those dumbbells. Bypassing the elevator, she scooted down the stairwell, missed a step, and nearly face-planted on the next landing. Recovering nicely, she avoided the hospital ER and arrived at the target “ER” undamaged.

She stood in the doorway, chirping. Karly saw her first, and immediately knew this was not a standard “I just had a brownie and it was sooo good!” kind of elation. Gwen had printed out the e-mail before descending the stairs, and waved it around like a $20 tip at Red’s place – “Who’s bad? I’m bad. Passed that sucka first time outta the gate.” Upon hearing that, Kerry quickly joined them, attacking her phone. Seeing Karly step away to towel down, Gwen simply assumed that the future managing partner of their firm simply had no sense of urgency, as she had been one of the top grads in their law class. She turned her eyes back toward Kerry, who, moments later, hooted “YEE-HAW, baby!!!” The two of them fist-bumped and chest-thumped, strutting and swaggering like bosses. “Two down.”

And then there was one.

Minutes later, there was still one, as an ashen-faced Karly turned away from her phone, sat down on the nearest bench, and buried her face in her towel.

Stunned at what was clearly happening, Kerry and Gwen shut down their antics and just waited. Karly removed the towel, but kept her head down as she gestured to them to sit down beside her. They did, lowering their own heads in a show of unity. Karly slowly put an arm around each one, and pulled them close. “Ladies, let me just say . . . Welcome to THE BAR, bitches! We did it!”

Back upstairs, they changed clothes, posed for a selfie, printed a copy, then framed it.

That night, for the first time since their grand goodbye, they went to Red’s SawxHouse. They knew that familiar faces would now likely be few and far between, but they felt compelled to mark the occasion by returning to the place where the seed had been sown. Kerry, hoping that they had not been forgotten, had called ahead to be sure that Red would be there. They wore their “Bar Belles” jerseys under their coats, and pulled Red, who was elated to see them, into a quiet corner. Kerry was clutching a laptop bag.

In unison, they pulled off their coats and flaunted the jerseys in front of him, in remembrance of that night. He was beaming. Then Kerry pulled the framed photo, signed by the three of them, from the bag and placed it in his hand. The selfie showed them in matching business suits, briefcases in hand, standing stoically behind a bronze statue of Lady Justice. It was a keeper.

They had a drink with him, told him he was a good boss and a better man, then everyone took turns toasting each other. Just before leaving, Karly pulled a small, rectangular box from her coat pocket, and handed it to Red. He lifted the cover, and saw something he had seen before – an engraved, sterling silver dog tag. It was inscribed with his name and a heart over the words, “Thanks for giving a damn. Your friends, the Bar Belles.” Just as he had done that night, he bit his lip and nodded his head. But this time it was Karly’s turn to say, “Well deserved.”

She removed it from the box, and stretched to hang it around his burly neck. They lifted their own prized tags out of their jerseys and coats, cuddled up to him, and while all four pointed at their own tags, a hostess used Kerry’s phone to record the moment. Karla promised Red a signed and framed copy of this photo as well. He then took a circuitous route while walking them to the door, taking pride in pointing out each of seven wall posters that captured the Bar Belles dancing his customers into a frenzy in an electric farewell. Indeed, they had not been forgotten.

In the months that followed, the trio put their dream of opening their own firm on hold, and all took jobs as public defenders for the Commonwealth. They felt a need to test their mettle early on by experiencing the hardscrabble side of advocacy, They wanted to defend people who they may not like at all, and to revisit their own mistakes in pre-judging others. Each of those presumed rogues and rascals in the basement bar had a story, just as their favored “dumbbells” did, but they never asked, and never listened. The astute self-awareness they had been so proud of, well, maybe it was time to work on that too.

“All rise.” On that note, for each of them, completing the challenging transition from bar belle to belle of the bar, really was something to stand for, and stand up for.

Three they were, their futures bright . . .

turned off the dark, turned on the light.

#

 

Let Us Fill HourGlasses With Love

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

Wayne Michael DeHart   (June, 2023)

Writer’s Note:  The late Leonard Cohen added many,  many unheralded verses to his cherished “Hallelujah” on his way to completing the classic piece, though only a few are usually heard. “Many, many” is likely wishful thinking in this case, but it is my intention to add verses to this open-ended poem over time, because . . . why not?
So we raise our glasses high, where love is in the air, and we fill them, the way we always dreamed we would, as a chorus of high-spirited voices endorse the moment – ”  Hear! Hear!”

♦

Lassie Lynn and Aladdin Finn
met years ago in the park
at the end of the road,
near the old sawmill
where their dads
hacked logs
on third
shift.
♥
Each
of them
fast taken
with the other.
As sunset drew nigh,
he held her hand in his;
she gently tousled his hair.
Lassie Lynn and Aladdin Finn.

∞

The widow Stone and Patrick Strong
danced a waltz at an Elks lodge
in Fort Wayne, Indiana,
on a Saturday night
last November,
nose to nose,
eyes shut,
awed.
♥
Love
grew fast
in their hearts;
breathing as one,
proclaiming their bond,
perceiving their closeness,
with lifted souls and high hopes.
The widow Stone and Patrick Strong.

∞

Nicole Gentry and Maggie Malone,
longtime lovers, lifetime friends,
condo-cohabitated in Wells,
“Maine’s Friendliest Town.”
They hiked and biked,
laughed and cried,
fished, swam,
talked.
♥
Kissed
at dawn,
and at dusk,
and in between;
cool, calm, spirited,
both secure, feeling free,
living the dream, their destiny.
Nicole Gentry and Maggie Malone.

 

∞

Till the Flames Burn No More

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart   (July, 2023)


When the Wrath raged at night,
with hot fire straight from Hell,
I disengaged from the fight,
too weary to break its spell.
My endless, painful, plight
wore on without farewell.
That spiteful source of fright
drummed dirges as I fell.

Vicious, vile, it stabbed my soul
with a searing, piercing spear.
It cut me down to half my whole,
it broke my will, it fed my fear.
I struggled to disrupt its goal,
to interfere, to persevere.
But I failed to seize control,
to make the terror disappear.

“Focus, Wayne, the Wrath’s surreal.
Your distress keeps it alive.
You’re the one who spins the wheel.
It needs you to survive.
You won’t get well, you can’t heal,
peace will never arrive,
if you don’t end this long ordeal.
Resist. Reflect. Revive.”

Whose voice was that? Can it be?
The words rang strong and true.
“Breathe. Be calm. You hold the key.
I did my best to strengthen you.”
She read my soul, she set me free,
cleared my mind, framed my view.
Her spirit opens this path for me,
lights my way, guides me through.

Though fury fans the blaze,
and trauma strains my core,
though chaos cuts both ways
through its unrelenting roar,
I’ll conquer this murky maze,
and begin to settle the score.
Then I’ll stare down the days,
till the flames burn no more.

When the Wrath rages tonight
with hot fire straight from Hell,
I’ll be ready for the fight,
and quickly crush its spell.
My dire, perpetual plight
will wane in fast farewell.
That intrusive parasite
will toll its own death knell.

#

 

Introspection:

Each night, every night, all night .  .  . long, mean, cruel .  .  . it surrounds him .  .  . then daybreak comes, the shadows fade, some faster than others, but all, and soon, at last .  .  . daylight hours bring sleep, relief, time to plan, prepare, persevere, before the next round descends as the sun dutifully drops, and the treacherous trek begins anew, as the weary, wary wayfarer resists throwing his hand, mindful that another dawn will come, just in time, to save him, as the circle cycles unbroken, but for now, as darkness knocks, the violent, visual loop plays fast and hard and the gut-wrenching sound echoes off bare, bedroom walls, and he sets his jaw, closes his eyes, and defiantly turns up the volume in his headphones, and hums along to “Let It Be.” 

–

The Aftermath – “Morning Mind, Mourning Mind” –  (Clean it up, or let it be.)

The Bitter Taste of Suite Deceit

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

Wayne Michael DeHart  (May, 2023)

It was almost 9:00 PM by the time Hannah Gray and Gary Glidden checked into the Commerce Hotel, in downtown San Antonio, on Thanksgiving Eve. Holiday traffic from Austin had been heavy, and their late arrival had already delayed the secretive session of privately-owned Harrison Foods’ nine-member Board of Directors.

The five men and two women had been sworn to secrecy regarding the time and location of the gathering and, for that matter, the fact that there was an ad hoc meeting at all. The remaining directors, brothers George and Jason Crane, had not been notified, and for a very good reason. Word was that their conduct had been deemed by The One to be detrimental to the company’s reputation. Their futures would be decided that night as they unwittingly gathered with their families back in Austin.

It would be fitting to say, in light of the fact that Harrison was rooted in the commercial baking sector, that the sugar was about to hit the fan, and no sweet deals would be forthcoming. The One was reportedly irate and unforgiving, and had issued a very harsh motion for the  seven directors to approve. All seven were based in Greater Austin, the corporate home of Harrison Foods; thus, the San Antonio locale, some 80 miles to the northeast, had piqued curiosity.

Gray and Glidden dropped by their room to don their mandatory Director Suits, then joined their associates in  Executive Suite 507, where Chairman John Horne’s escape bag rested conspicuously by the door. Horne cohabitated in a downtown Austin penthouse loft with The One — a powerful, enigmatic, magnate who always commanded the last word in company business.

In addition to Horne, Gray and Glidden, directors present were Elizabeth Murphy Durrow, Walt Schroeder, Barlow Giles, and Craig Traylor. All were properly attired in the traditional Harrison Director’s Suit, which was actually a yellow, cotton blend sweat-suit, adorned front and back with a baker’s dozen images, in various sizes, of the company logo – the brand’s  iconic dark chocolate chip cookie.  Scattered haphazardly across the yellow material, they looked like weathered sunflowers tumbling askew. The offbeat garments were informal, gender-neutral, and comfortable, and reflected the casual quirkiness of Harrison’s guru, who embraced eccentricity.

The One’s personal attorney was also present in the room, to everyone’s dismay. Even though he did not represent the firm, he had become an opinionated and unwelcome presence at company events for years, and was known to be a pain in the collective assent of the corporate attorneys.

The other directors had been firmly instructed by Horne not to communicate with the Crane brothers about the meeting. Their absence confirmed the weight, though not the substance, of the  innuendo and rumors. This was something big, and they relished the power they were surely about to employ.

John Horne called the meeting to order at 9:32 PM. The attorney immediately handed him a sealed and taped 9×12 Kraft envelope. Horne dramatically held it up, displaying it to the others as if it was a message from On High. After momentary frustration as he fussed with the tape, he tore it open with an air of grandiosity, and quickly skimmed through the single sheet of paper it contained. He breathed deeply, his nostrils flaring. Then he spun himself around, grinning maniacally. His eyes caught fire. He rolled them left and right, taking in the faces of his colleagues, then howled with a sick blend of contempt and elation.

He gleefully told them they were all fired, canned, sacked, given the heave-ho,  effective immediately, and that the new Board would operate with just three members, with George and Jason Crane having been absolved of their sins and retained in good standing. Gasps, then silence. He autonomously declared a 7-0 approval vote, then abruptly adjourned the meeting. He callously wished them each a pleasant holiday, and herded them out the door, like cats astray. His only regret was that he didn’t have a six-pack of symbolic, rubber axes to hand out as mementos of this special occasion. Parting gifts are always appropriately delicious. The boss taught him that.

The One’s attorney appeared to be stunned at Horne’s unexpected arrogance and incivility. He picked up the sheet of paper, perused it, put it back into the envelope, and tossed it at Horne in disbelief.  The Chairman had always resented this smug turd who acted like he owned the business and was always dismissive of Horne’s interactions with The One. He proceeded to usher the shit-bag out the door, with a parting shot –  the third cousin of the aforementioned parting gift. “Should have fired you too, asshole!”

The unfazed attorney looked back and offered a knowing laugh, before returning to his own deluxe suite, where a bottle of champagne was chilling and a female guest was likely warming up the sheets. He wasn’t about to let a buzzard in a cookie-covered sweat-suit ruin his Thanksgiving getaway. Still, he was puzzled over the Chairman’s bizarre response to The One’s directive.

Meanwhile, the severed six shed their silly suits and gathered in the hotel bar, where they drank themselves into a group stupor. Gray and Glidden slept it off in their room. The remaining fired four, suddenly in the role of irrelevant pawns, faded into the silent shadows of the Texas night.

John Horne was not, by nature, a people person. Buttressed by the events in Suite 507, however, he had further morphed into a cold-blooded cutthroat. He theatrically placed the envelope into his new leather attaché case, locking it for safekeeping, After donning jeans and a company hoodie, he swaggered out of the hotel. In the parking lot, he gently laid the briefcase on the rear seat of his prized ’65 Thunderbird, then headed back home to Austin, to inform The One that the deed was done. Surely, he would receive “Attaboy” accolades and the usual “special favors.” Images of pink SnoBalls and Kentucky Bourbon filled his head, and he pressed down harder on the gas.

When he got to the penthouse, the door was locked. He tried his key, but it didn’t turn. A recluse extraordinaire, The One rarely left the nest, so something was off. He knocked. Nothing, He shouted. Nothing. He called in on his phone. It went straight to voicemail. He texted. Nada. It was well past midnight. Worried, he placed calls to the resilient Cranes to fill them in and feel them out, suspecting corporate foul play.  Both answered, despite the hour. Both hung up on him. Not a good omen. As a three-member Board, they could overrule him on a whim, out of pure spite, despite his steering capacity as Chairman.

Reluctant to make waves that might anger The One, the despicable douchebag checked into a budget motel to get some much-needed sleep. He was certain that Thanksgiving morning would bring simple answers and a reunion with his housemate.  It didn’t. He left more voice messages, to no avail. Distraught, he had one too many at the only open downtown bar he could find, then foolishly tried to drive back to the residence.  Suddenly, WHAM! His T-bird was T-boned by an unforgiving  4×4 as he ran a red light. Just before impact, the briefcase still rested in peace where he had placed it the previous evening. After impact, well, it didn’t matter, because, in the blink of an eye, he had become just another irrelevant pawn, a jaundiced John, a silenced Horne.

Days later, The One eulogized him at a near-empty chapel.  Unsurprisingly, none of the six directors he had ridiculed and sent packing back in San Antonio were present at the brief service. Gerald Murphy sat alone in the back row, expressionless. Later, The One brought him home. Home to the penthouse loft, the one she previously shared with her late husband.

Seventeen years earlier, John Horne had gotten down on a knee in Paris, popped the question with a stunning, three carat diamond ring, and told her he knew  that she would always be “the one.”

Karma. Kismet. A Kodak moment in a selfie world.

A blind date with a 4×4 had deprived John Horne of a second reading of the letter, from which he would have learned that, in addition to the Crane Brothers (who had been  active participants in the upheaval), the revamped Board would include a new Chairman – the aforementioned Gerald Murphy, The One’s  personal attorney.

At 9:34 PM,  after he had wasted  more than a minute berating the buxom Ms. Durrow for making her sunflower cookies “prance around in a provocative manner,” on Thanksgiving Eve, in Suite 507 at the Commerce Hotel in San Antonio, Chairman Horne had scanned the page too quickly, jumping the gun with his assumption that he was to be the third member and retain his role as Chairman of the downsized Board. In his exuberance over the sacking of his fellow directors, he had  started waving the page around and doing a happy dance without reading the last couple of lines. ALL directors present were to be declared terminated, without cause, immediately upon the directive being read aloud to the attendees in the presence of The One’s personal attorney. On her authority, as sole owner of Harrison Foods, ALL, including the one who was about to receive divorce papers, had been kneecapped.

Gerald Murphy had indeed been baffled at Horne’s apparent celebration of his own dismissal. Even more so than the woman waiting for him with the champagne and warm sheets. Before their night of drinking and playing and giving thanks began, he initially feigned a serious tone, somberly and dutifully reporting the results of the meeting to her, including Horne’s obviously incomplete reading of the page, as well as his unhinged celebration. Then he grinned. “Olivia, get this. After they all left, the numb-nuts said, ‘I sure as hell Horne-swoggled them sunflower stooges to hell and back. Did you see their faces? Did you see ’em squirmin? Oh, man, revenge is sweet sayeth the Chairman. Now, time for you to hit the road, Skippy.’ He called me Skippy!  What a friggin’ hoot.”

From a dim corner of the room, clad only in a blue-velour Commerce Hotel bathrobe, The One slithered sensuously toward him, making a cackling sound, a blend of witch and hen, while letting out a howl of her own. “Show me, hon. I wanna see.” Then an impatient, “No, not that, that’s for later. The video.” The beaming Mr. Murphy, at her request, had stealthily, clandestinely, videotaped the meeting and the aftermath, just the way he had most of those company events (and affairs!) that he had routinely dropped in on. Poor John Horne. She had seen and heard everything, all of it, over the years, and kept the tapes as evidence in the upcoming divorce proceedings.

“See there, I specifically told him that when you handed him the envelope, he was supposed to actually read the order to them, not read it to himself and ad-lib an announcement. He never listens. Did he keep it as a souvenir?” “Probably, not sure.” “So he could be re-reading it as we speak? And realizing he’s out the door too?” “Yep.” They both imagined him looking at it again to recapture, and savor, the thrill of victory, only to be hit between the eyes with the real story. It was  a moment of shared ecstasy, and they hadn’t even begun to make love yet. She turned off her phone and salivated over the panic the old boy would feel when he got home and she wasn’t there. This would be her best Thanksgiving ever. “Serves him right for perving on Beth’s big tits just before the bomb was dropped.”

“Olivia, do you want to see that other thing now? It’s Murphy’s law, ya know.”

“What a braindead meathead I married! What a sap. Took his money right out from under him and he never had a clue. “

(Guess not, Mr. Murphy.)

“I give the chump a few bucks here and there,  let him cop a feel now and then, and the schmuck toes the line. Easy-peasy. Johnny Boy keeps thanking me for letting him use that clanky, old Ford the Governor signed over to me for giving him my, um, full-throated endorsement three years ago.  ‘Gee, the Governor is such an honorable and generous man!’ he says.  ‘Maybe you can do it again next time around.’ he says.  ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure I will, dear. Now fetch me my red heels, I’m going out for the evening.’  I swear, the clueless dipshit walks around in such a daze that I wouldn’t be surprised if someday he steps off a curb in front of a bus.”

(Well, Mrs. Horne, Johnny Boy wasn’t walking, and it wasn’t a bus, but sixteen  hours later . . .)

_____________________________________________

Weeks passed. On New Year’s Eve, at midnight, Hannah Gray and Gary Glidden, proud new owners of a party supply store at an Austin mall, tooted horns, lit sparklers, and danced spitefully on John Horne’s grave.

They wore their chocolate chip cookie sweat-suits, and they left dead sunflowers on his newly-placed headstone.

That done, they felt whole again. They no longer had an axe to grind, not even a rubber one.

Because the sugar had hit the fan . . .

and it was one suite deal after all.

#

My own sweet deal:

No Caterwauling Aloud !

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

Wayne Michael DeHart   (July, 2023)

Writer’s Note:  This poem was written as an entry in an international publication’s 2023 annual poetry competition. All entries had to respond to a unique, one-word, all caps, exclamatory prompt : “LOUD!” 

                                                          (Hmm, where should I go with this?)

⇓

Fiona Fay, our flaky, finicky, family feline,
goes gaga in the presence of a cute canine,
preening herself till she’s groomed real fine.

Her snivels and whines, common, well-known,
are low in volume, and nonthreatening in tone.
They arrive with a grunt, and leave with a groan.

But now and then, she’ll just holler and hiss,
squalling and bawling, like something’s amiss.|
We nuzzle her neck, and her blues turn to bliss.

That tri-colored, calico, mouser of ours,
paws for hours, sleeps when it showers,
plays on the lawn, pees on the flowers.

The amber-eyed creature is near and dear
to the five human beings who are living here.
Queen Cat makes the rules, and we adhere.

She listens to birds from the window sills,
then merrily mimics their chirps and trills,
their vibrant chants, and their piercing shrills.

As she chimed high notes in a morning salute,
she was hounded in our yard by a surly ol’ brute,
who nipped at her tail while in dogged pursuit.

Believe me when I say, in the here and now,
that the wail we heard, someway, somehow,
rang out like a squeal from a mating sow.

Riled by the mongrel’s growl and grumble,
our caterwauling gal was raring to rumble,
and make that critter stumble and tumble.

Fiona Fay circled like a lioness proud,
thundering strong like an angry cloud,
at the mutt that bit her butt, then bowed,
all ‘cuz the Queen had meowed too LOUD!

#

 

 

Hey, I’m Talkin’ Baloney and “Monk”-y Business Here

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart  (August, 2023)

Writer’s Opening Note:
The following wordstorm is the combined result of the joy of overdosing on “Monk” episodes, inadvertently being exposed to 20 minutes of the Cable Guy on a SiriusXM comedy channel while going for groceries, and trying to carry on a freewheeling conversation with myself using an accent – all in a 36-hour period. Mix in a lack of sleep and a sugar high, and this is the codswallop you get. The story, the wide swath of phonetic spelling, and the photos/tags are meant to be all in good fun.

A Note of Caution:  There are snippets of “spicy,” “crude,” and “irreverent” material in the mix, but very little of a nature that wasn’t heard on Seinfeld or Friends on network television in the ’90’s, or Two and a Half Men in more recent years. At no point does it cross into the “yikes!” territory of the South Park experience.  Be mindful that it was written as a parody of standup comedy club fare; that is, crafted to be heard, rather than read. The written word being absent the ability to employ facial expressions, hand gestures, body movements, volume fluctuations, etc., the exaggerated phonetic spellings used arbitrarily here are critical to project a “Larry Live” effect. Trust me, it’s so much easier to just “talk good” and spell words correctly! Deliberate misspellings create a “Where do I draw the line” dilemma. I wrote it like I imagined he, and those of a similar brand, would say it and, because it’s a one-off for me, I winged it. This should not be interpreted as an endorsement of the man’s style or content. It is not. Hatefulness is not my thing. Nor is it meant to mock the countless good folks who do struggle mightily with the written word, while standing tall in other endeavors. Stereotyping for laughs, behind the shield of “anything goes, it’s just jokes,” seems to go hand-in-hand with many comedy club performers of all social and political leanings, and is, in one form or another, just part of their schtick. No classes or groups seem to be immune or out of bounds these days, whether on the giving or receiving end, and depending on which XM comedy station one tunes into. (One features performer after performer doing routines that relentlessly use the F-word to a point of numbing the brain, from beginning to end.) Larry’s number, and style, came to mind simply because of the aforementioned, timely radio exposure, and the “earworm” it left in my head. I managed to avoid using “Git ‘er done” while getting this done!

It should be noted that no animals, except maybe a chicken, were harmed during this process. Because supposedly every possible joke has “been done” a dozen times already in the internet age, I swear on Nancy Sinatra’s walkin’ boots that I’ve neither borrowed nor stolen any of the following material from anyone, including Larry (or Moe, or Curly.) I actually baked this pie from scratch, and will let the chips, be they Ruffles or Ridgies, fall where they may.

7:16 PM
Stummick’s growlin’. Guess I gotta eat. Don’t need to. I just ate last night, what’s the deal? I’m old, and food has lost its appeal. Except for this banana. It has a peel.

I gave up fast food, cuz I swallow too slow.

Gave up cookin’ when I burnt that chicken two wintas ago. Little clucka sure did make a rackit. No wonda that guy in the green pick-up sold him (coulda been a her, I didn’t check real close cuz it didn’t seem kosha) so cheap-like. Bless his/her heart. The chicken, I mean, not the dick in the truck. (I knew he was a Dick because his license plate said “RICHERD”. But the joke’s on him, cuz he done spelt Ritchurd rong.)

Where’s my slippas at?

7:31 PM
My refrigaraider’s coolin’ box has ice cream in the top part, and proteen shakes, root beer, and Docta Peppa down below. And a jug of that fancy-pantsy allmin milk they show on the TV. (Are the people who milk them allmins trained right? Do they wear gloves? Is Peter Paul their boss man?) I keep it just in case the tall lady across the hall drops by. She’s very “a-vaunt-guard” as they say in Paris, Loozy-anna, and Whales. Wears Goo-chee, probably eats soo-shee. She’s lived there eva since that skinny, nekkid woman stopped cummin’ over here to borrow some sugar. When I ran out, she ran out, and kept on runnin’ like that Forest Gumper guy. Then this here tall lady moved inta the skinny woman’s spot, but she ain’t never knocked on my door for my sugar, or anythin’ else, so I figger she’s wayyy overdue. Maybe next week. Oh, and there’s some butta in there. Well, marge-a-reen, to be honist. The guy at the food store said he can’t believe its snot butta. After tastin’ it, you betcharass I can!

7:40 PM
There’s chew-up food in there too. Whippee pies with extra cream, cheesy fingers, about a pound of Mr. Mayer’s baloney slices, and a jar of sour dills that I opened the day I first watched that Buffy girl put a beet down on them neck-bitin’ dead people with the long teeth. I assed a guy at the VFW what happens if my pickles get too old and he chukkled on it a bit (funny old fella) and said, “Well, buddy, based on them face-rinkles ya got showin’, they’re probly gittin’ more sour by the hour.” How great is that? If I hadn’t assed him, I might have messed up and tossed my pickles at the same time I was tossin’ my cookies. The more ya know . . .

My former co-workers was SO snooty. They used that hi-brow talk when makin’ fun of my sandwitches. “Marvin, your  bo-low-nyuh is turnin’ green.” “No, its snot. This here’s real ‘Murican baa-lo-nee, it don’t never rot nor turn colors, and my first name is Melvin. My baa-lo-nee has a first name too, just like your Charlie tuna there, only betta.” Stanley, meenwile, nibbled on “toe food,” yuck, whatever that is. Brad, the foreman, wolfed down Waldorf’s salad one day while Waldorf was smokin’ in the can. Don’t smoke, kids, you could lose your lunch.

Where’s the dang remote at?

7:48 PM
Only 12 minnits till the next Season 5 “Monk” eppy-sode is on this newfangled TV plan I’m payin’ a leg and an arm for. “Screamin’ programmin’,” they calls it. I don’t mind that it’s screamin’ cuz I can use my remote, if I can find it, to skweeze the loudniss button to where the TV box ain’t really screamin’ at all. Still, I tried to get the non-screamin’ verzhin, figurin’ it would be cheapa. When I called, an ottomaticated voice said, “You are color numba 14,” so I put the phone peece down and assed that Siri gal what was up with that. (Gus says her real name is Siri S. Lee. Oh, please, Gus, seriously? Now, he might be fibbin’ at me, or tryna  butta my beans just fer chits n jiggles, but it makes all kinds a sense in my head.) Ennyways, she said color numba 14 was “grewsome gray.” Wow, she’s good. I was lookin’ at my mug in the bathroom mirror just last night, after my monthly bodywashin’, and sure enough, I had grew some gray hairs that was stickin’ strait out my earholes. It looked all gee-narly ‘n nasty. My mug, I mean, not them hairs. I mean, at my age, a man likes him some brissles on his brush, some pie on his plate, and some gas in his tank (instead of his gut.)

Time was whizzin’ by, so I hung up the phone peece and went to eat some homemade Bikkardi & buttabean ice cream I made in my blenda. Yeah, I made sure the beans got buttid (thanks, Gus) before I shook ’em up, I ain’t stoopid  stewpid dumm. Good stuff. Yummy in the tummy and rummy in the dummy.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. TV. My VA doc says I got the OCD thing bad, but I’m guessin’ he ain’t never watchd Adrian Monk for 44 minnits at a time. I like the guy cuz he makes me feel all normal and reglar. Monk, I mean, not the doc. Okay, yeah, alright, I’ll fess up –  and cuz I got a geezer crush on his helpa lady, Natalie. Monk’s helpa, not the docta’s. Keep up. But, I digress. (That means I’m ramblin’ sideways with a hat on.)

7:56 PM
Got even more grub in the pantree over there. It’s supposed to be a linnin closet, but I been usin’ it for food cuz I don’t wear linnins no more, not since they re-tired me early for missin’ work too much. (I says” I only missed 4 days” and they says “In one week” and I says “That stuff happins” and they said “17 weeks in a row?” and I says “Oh, ya got me there. Can I keep the shirts?”)  Hope the landlord man don’t find out, like he did bout the nekkid sugar woman, because of the smell and all. (Hmm. maybe I might best re-frase that.) The cans and boxed stuff sit there fine, but those taters and tamaters git grewsome gray (ha, ha) in the summertime! Stink City, man. Pee-yew! Skunks and manoor would be gangrene with envy. Speakin’ of which, the stentch cleans out my nose conjestchun better than those aim-n-squeeze drops from the dolla store. And that there’s my Docta Doogy Howza health tip of the day. (Best doc I ever had, even though he was younga then a goalfish. His nurse reminded me of Wunda Woman, so I payed dubble without him even askin’.)

8:00 PM
Monk’s on. Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

8:01 PM
First Cumershill’s on. Boo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

8:06 PM
Adrian and Natalie look tired already. I’m kinda draggin’ butt, myself. Could be a long show for all three of us.

What am I gonna eat?

Looky here.  Five cans a chili, four packs a crackas, three cans a pee soup, two jars a peanit butta, and a partri . . . never mind. I’d go with the chili, but I took an ex-lax bout an hour ago by mistake. Not chittin’ ya. Thawt it tastid funny for a Her-she’s square. My bad. My gut’s startin’ to rumble like that Mount Vez Soovy Iss over yonder in Italy town. Hear that? I ain’t heard sounds like that from my belly hole since I guzzled a whole glass of proon jooce my first mornin’ in basic trainin’, thinkin’ it was grape jooce. Yeah, I ten to screw up like that, bein’ humane and all. But no one’s perfict, well, cept maybe that Gennyfur Anustan woman who’s always braggin’ about havin’ so many friends in New Yawk City. And yes, Miss Genny, Raychell and that Ross feller WERE on a brake! 

We had hand-to-hand fightin’ trainin’ a couple hours after that proon jooce made me loose, and my own private (I kin spell private cuz I was an army one at the time, ya see) Vez Soovy Iss started eruptin’ just as I was fallin’ on some guy’s head. They took him to the infirmry place to try to wash the stank off. We didn’t see him for three days. The other guys all liked me after that cuz the guy was not only another Ritchurd the Dick, but he was the badassy drill Sgt. teachin’ the class! He was givin’ me a bunch of baa-lo-nee as he was slappin’ me around like a marshamellow, so I used my kneebones and kept wackin’ him hard just below his willypickle (seemed like it might be one of those nobby, minny-jerkins I seen at the Walmart) till he moned and groned and turned as green as month-old, importid bo-low-nyuh.  Then he flopped over backwids like a French pengwin in heat while he was still pinchin’ on my neckskin with his fat fingas, and that’s how I landed face down on top of the dood’s man’s nose canal. I just laid on top there watchin, like a Sleepin’ Tom, till he started chokin’ on my fewms of doom. In a flash, I’m tellin’ ya, he was out cold as a witch’s boobies. (They won’t let me say tiddies when I talk in writin’ like this. It’s OK. Goggle makes the rules and I follow rules so I won’t write tiddies again, accept when I have to explain why I wrote boobies instead of tiddies.) In the end, the Sarge was agassed at my gas, ya see. 

I bet you thawt the title line at the top of this crock of shiitakis was about food and my dinna tonight!  You never stooped to think there might be willypickles and baloney slaps at Fort Dicks, didya? Well, sir, you know what they say about assumin’. It makes rear ends outta both of us, just ass anyone that’s got good skoolin’. O yeah, and its just one of them co-winsidences about Fort Dicks name and all. Nuthin’ to do with the Ritchurd stuff I been talkin’ on. This here’s real Dicks at the Jerzey army camp, just look at that Webkwest map they show for free right cheer on the webby. Oops, looks like they spelt it rong, just like that guy in the truck. The map people wrote “Dix,” probly cuz Goggle got a rule agin it , like with the two witches things I just went on about. They sayin’ some rich fella killed some blue bird and now he gits a dolla every time Goggle shows an “x” cuz he just bought the letter for hisself from the alfabet gooroos. Nuff a that. But I was there at the fort place in live person and I can sware it on a bible (or on that Sinatra gal’s walkin’ boots. Didja see what I just did there? I stole that line from the very top, up there ↑⇑, from that guy whooze lookin’ ova my shoulder blades while I’m busy free-writin’ here, like a honist man in his undaware. Me, not him.)

The drill sarges kept yellin “I want all you swingin’ dicks to git lined up right cheer.” That’s why a long time ago it was named “Fort Swingin’ Dicks” cuz a that, but some of the traynees couldn’t spell swingin’ when writin’ lettas home to their girly frends to watch out for Jody the Molesta, so the army dropped that swingin’ part in what’s called an act of mercee.  And that’s the true, facshewil story on how the place got its name. I don’t fib (ha-ha.)

Well, enough of that gossipin’ down mammary lane for now, but if this belly don’t stop gurglin’ soon I may have to consult Docta Peppa over there in the  refrigaraider’s coolin’ box ’bout drinkin’ some fizzy and gettin’ busy, if ya catch my wind. It’ll probly be blowin’ in soon, comin’ north, from south of my Waste line, so might wanna grab a nosepin, which is like a closepin, but for the nawstrils. Breathin’ bad air ain’t good for your Atoms apple, unless you’re a lady person, and then it don’t matter none cuz Eve gave hers to a snake, or somethin’ like that. Neva mind.

8:23 PM

Gotta deside soon about suppa, so my food can settle before I hit the hay. (I wunda, when a farma tells his wife he’s gonna hit the hay, does she give him the key to the barn?) I know – yack, yack, yack. Some of us old foegeese who live alone can flap our gums till the cows come home (and maybe bring us some of that udder kind of milk.) Sometimes, we hum to ourselves in strange voices and diffrint acksents, just to have some cumpanee. I studied Rose Etta Stone (that’s Harry Stone’s wife, but he don’t care. The price was only $19.99 for a whole week, and Harry paid me all of it before he dropt her off.) She’s all old and rubbery-skinned and wears a pirate patch like that Lizzi woman ova east in them New Hampcheer woods. I read about it on some dweeb’s story-writin’ place on my desk-sittin’ computa. He’s not two good at it. He should let me write some of this stuff and pay me $19.99, like Harry did, and then pretend its his writin’. I won’t tell.

Movin’ on,  Now I can chew the fat in all 7 romantical langwidges: jabberwocky, jibber-jabber, hogwash, hooey, malarkey, poppycock, and the one I took to the best, bullchit. Pretty impressive, ness pa? (That’s Porchageez for “ain’t it, sucka?”)

Still, even after gittin’ smart, I don’t smell spell good. Life is hard. Talk is cheap. Rent is high. Sun is down. Time is up. Up is down. See what’n I just did there? 23 straight words with only one sillabill. Thelma Stoopins said she read on FacesBook that the reckerd is 22 and that if I could make 23, she’d make me a duzzen choklit cupcakes tomorra in exchainge for me fixing her pipes. So I guess the frostin’s gonna be flyin up in 36B. I don’t know how to fix pipes, but I’ll look at hers while I’m eatin’ on those treats cuz I’m a good ol’ guy deep down undaneeth my funnymakin’ outsides. Thelma lost her husbind about two years ago now. Wasn’t sad. He didn’t go belly up or nothin’ badlike. She just lost him in a poker game at that same VFW where I got the sour pickle tip. That’s better’n one of those devorces them cowboy musick singas are always belchin’ about. They’ll hook up agin someday at the ol’ buryin’ ground, or so she says. When they do, she should bring cupcakes as kind of a sorry-Clem-bout-going-all-in-with-just -a-pair- of-4’s kinda apologee. I’ll coach ‘er up on pokerin’ smarts if’n I need more cupcakes after her pipes are workin’ gooder than new.

8:31 PM
Monk’s back, but where’s my Natalie? She best not be messin’ round with that musselbound Albright fella or I’ll have to write another letta to the show’s editor to ass him her the persin to fire that guy, toot sweet.

8:37 PM
I already solved who killed the sailsman, so I got time to yammer at you guys a bit more. I think the woman in the pink hat with the orindge feathas . . . oh, crap, the ex-lax is kickin’ in hard, gonna have to eat and run. Eat and run. No? Neva mind, agin.

Time out. Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em. (That’s army talk from the olden days.)

8:50 PM
Monk’s about to do his “Here’s what happined . . . “ thingy, so I gotta haul my ass-(Oops, just farted. I hope.)-ets out of the fridge and pick my poysin, pronto. There was a mustid cumershill earlier that showed three mo-rons slatherin’ it on hot dogs and they smiled a lot. I wanna smile a lot, but I’m stuck without a weener. Or mustid. Or soshill skillz.

Anyway, hoss-puckery aside, I’m just hunkerin’ down now for the home stretchy with Adrian and Natalie. (She’s baaaaack, and I’m smilin’ like the mustid mo-rons.)

Guess I’ll unlawk the barn and hit the hay now and dream about the tall lady droppin’ by my place and doin’ the hoo-chee coo-chee in a red rubba ranecoat. That fantasee usually puts me in snewzville real quick-like, if you catch my driff. (I winked, iffen ya can’t see me.)

Nytol.

P.S. Looks like my new spellchecka was worth the five bucks, even though the instruckshuns are confusin’. Sumtimes, ya gotta stop bein’ cheep and role out the cash, dontcha know.

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Writer’s Middle Note:
Had I been binge-watching earlier seasons of “Monk” at the time I wrote this, and had I been exposed to 20 minutes of the likes of Bob Newhart, Trevor Noah, Chelsea Handler, Tina Fey or either of the Amys (Poehler, Schumer), before tackling this task – well, the content and tone of the delivery would have been light years different, and my geezer-crush would have smoothly transferred over to Sharona, Monk’s first “sidekick.”

Natalie and Sharona were opposites in just about every way imaginable – background, physical appearance, demeanor, temperament, hand gestures, etc. Over time, both developed a deep understanding of, and an amazing tolerance for, Monk’s many unconventional quirks, his phobias, and his OCD-related idiosyncracies; each of which, all of which, would have tested the patience of Job. Tony Shalhoub’s title character, a sympathetic figure who was oftentimes endearing, also struggled with a distinct lack of empathy and compassion that could sometimes be trying, even for the most circumspect viewer. Nonetheless, each episode was a satisfying slice of chocolate silk pie in a television wasteland with too many moldy muffins.

Thus, the purpose of this note is to provide some introductory context, insight, and background, for readers not familiar with the show, as they transition into the metaphorical allegory (or is it an allegorical metaphor?) that is the Writer’s Closing Note below. But first, take in the photos, clear your mind, and have some ice cream.

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“Okay, here’s what happened . . . You see, . . .  Wait, you there, yeah, you in the back, can you hold it down? We’re solving a crime here.” (Natalie’s flashing that “Melvin, I only have eyes for you” look.)

Scene: A 25-ish wiseacre and potential witness offers to disclose evidence if Monk and Sharona can chug two pitchers of beer faster than he and his buddy. Sharona accepts.
Monk: “But Sharona, I don’t drink.” Sharona: ” Don’t worry about it – I do!”
She outdrinks both guys, one turns over a key, and Monk stares at Sharona in disbelief. She looks at him and says, “Four years of Catholic high school.”

This YouTube link fully captures the range of emotions when  Sharona and Natalie meet for the first, and only, time. It takes place in the show’s final season, five years after Sharona went back home to New Jersey. Worth a watch (4 minutes) leading into the Writer’s Closing Note.

Tall lady probably wears Goo-chee . . .

This is toe food, if you ain’t never seen it before. Looks like fried Spam squares, spiced up with green wormlets on top. Stanley’s was squares too, but his was white and looked kinda half-pastyish and half-squishy. I’ve always known about finga food and it’s called that because you eat it with your fingas. So you see the problem, right? Notice there’s 10 pieces here ? Lots of us got 10 toes. Co-wincidence? I think not. Ennyway, takes all kinds, I guess.

And this is the result of Mr. Toe Food and Ms. Soo-shee gittin’ all boozed up ‘n throwin’ good cents out the winda. Twins. Both came in at 2 pounds, 2 ownces.

OK,  I didn’t menshin I had about five of these with the pickle and  baa-lo-nee,
but I figgered you’d just a-soom that I did, based on gawsip ‘n stuff like that.

Peter Paul, Boss Man of the allmin milkers, bringing clusters of joy to the health nuts in New Yawk..

Well, shit crap.

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The crude caveman scrawling the offensive and suggestive language above has finally left the room. He has a big day on tap for tomorrow in 36B. I, on the other hand, have no plans, as usual.
With that in mind, l’m going to  get my feet wet in the social commentary pool. It’s a wading pool, so I won’t be diving in headfirst. Just want to see what it feels like. If it bombs, it bombs. Life goes on.

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Writer’s Closing Note:
Monk ran strong for 8 seasons and 125 episodes from 2002 through 2009. During that time, he had two “caretaker/assistants.”  The first was Sharona Fleming, played by Bitty Schram, and the second was Natalie Teeger,  played by Traylor Howard. Sharona, a single mother, was a brash Jersey transplant with a young son.  A registered nurse, she went to work for Adrian Monk after he struggled for a long time following his wife Trudy’s untimely death in a car bombing. Street-smart and outspoken, she also  assisted him as he worked his way through his crime solving. When Bitty Schram left the show suddenly in Season 3, after 36 episodes, she was replaced by Natalie, a widow with a very cool, adolescent daughter who was able to connect with Monk in a way that Sharona’s young son had not. Natalie left her bartending job under duress and, though not a nurse, she accepted Monk’s offer to be his caretaker/assistant , soon becoming a very doting and caring force in his life, while assisting him with his investigations, just as Sharona had done.

Sharona called him “Adrian,” while Natalie always addressed him as “Mr. Monk,” even 5 years and 87 episodes into her tenure. Natalie tended to be more touchy-feely with him than Sharona was, not in a sexual way, of course, but in a comforting way. He was, by nature, a guy who very much did not like being touched, not only because he was a germaphobe, but because he needed his space in a world without his wife. Natalie was also far more of a gentle spirit than spitfire Sharona. In times past, one might have joked that Natalie was the girl you took home to your parents, and Sharona was simply the girl you took home. Both women were a blessing to Adrian Monk, who  said of Sharona, “When she found me, I was drowning. She saved my life.” In Season 5, he told an interim therapist that Natalie was “very much like Trudy,” a compliment of the highest order. In that same season’s finale, Natalie literally saves his life by pinching off an IV tube a few seconds before a drug, which he is severely allergic, to would have entered his body and killed him. Angels both, each in their own way, they were valued genuinely and immensely by the man who relied so heavily on them to get through each day in the “jungle out there.”

It was a television show, and a very good one at that. 

However, over time, it became the source of a destabilizing distraction to the masses, jeopardizing friendships, splitting families, inevitably leading to a bitter divide that unnerved the nation. It became all about blind loyalties and taking sides. All or nothing. No middle ground. A three-lane highway with no one in the middle lane. The same middle lane that used to be so crowded. Eventually, the powers that be simply closed it down. So what happened then?   Now overcrowded, the people in the remaining outside lanes began to lean on their horns and cuss out and flip off their fellow travelers, at first over minor things, but then with increased intensity and rancor. The more reasonable ones had enough of the infighting and longed for the return of the middle lane. But by then, it’s surface had become cracked and overgrown with weeds, and besides, it was closed off. Without that option, most double-downed on their initial choice of sides , not because it was the logical thing to do, but because the only option remaining was to move over to the other outside lane and look weak and compromised. A proposal was made to not only refurbish and open the middle lane, but to widen it significantly, in effect, resulting in two interior lanes. The two exterior lanes would be moved further apart as a result, but they too would be given an upgrade. Four lanes. The folks in the middle two could choose which exterior lane they felt most comfortable being closest to, having access to, if a situation called for temporarily moving over for one reason or another. A vote on the proposal is coming soon. But how did things get to this point? Who was in those two outside lanes? What was the driving force?

Again, it was a television show, and a very good one at that. 

Wherever human beings have gathered in the years since Monk ended, The Great Debate , i.e.,  “Sharona or Natalie?”, has eventually surfaced and intensified, with the two sides engaging in verbal  and emotional warfare. Long friendships have ended over such disagreements.  People have adopted colors for their favorite – jade green for Sharona and emerald green for Natalie.  In sunlight, it’s easy to tell the two groups apart, even from a distance. But under the streetlights, they blend into one. Who goes there? Friend or foe? Why didn’t one go for yellow and the other brown?  Why are the chosen colors different, yet so similar? Perhaps it is  because, deep down, most  (not all, admittedly) have the same aspirations and share one commonality; they are, first and foremost, fans of the show. Before Sharona left and Natalie arrived, they were all on the same team, because there was only one team. By the time the final episode ended,  the fissure had reached an unnerving width and depth. Arguments got downright nasty and personal as good sense got tossed out the window. I recall one guy defending Bitty Schram, saying if he were younger, that would be his lady of choice. The guy arguing with him asked what would happen when she is no longer young. “I’ll tell you what will happen (not even waiting for an answer), she will be just another OLD BITTY !” “That’s BIDDY, bub, with two d’s, not two t’s.” And that’s when the fight started.

During the show’s final season, the Sharona character returned to San Francisco, and the show, for one episode. Sharona and Natalie met for the first time, each having heard  a lot about the other via a variety of sources. After a momentary stumble out of the gate, upon first being introduced, they were cordial, even friendly, toward each other, but soon the two  found themselves competing to show which one knew Adrian Monk best and was the most attentive to him in the role of his assistant. Eventually, they sat down together and talked it out, each praising and acknowledging respect for the other for their work with him. Their joint knowledge about the guy led to them finding the missing Monk at his wife’s gravesite. By the time Sharona is saying goodbye and leaving to return to New Jersey, we see that the two women recognize and  appreciate the unique bond they share, and we see them part ways with a warm hug. There was the lesson for the masses, that respect and understanding leads to empathy, sympathy, and the willingness and ability to work together when the storm hits. We’ve traveled that road before, and not really that many years ago. It felt good. There were no colors, no teams. The ability to argue without animosity, to debate without discord, to stand on principle without judging others who do the same, all tend to make us stronger, individually and collectively. Not always. Not nearly always. But often enough to sustain a working peace – a working peace that  provides a framework for better communication and eventually . . . the re-opening of those middle lanes, while still maintaining access for all to the exterior lanes on opposite sides of the highway.

With Monk episodes running up to three hours a day on some cable networks, there are no signs that peace on our part of the planet will emerge anytime soon.  Sharona backers and Natalie supporters are constantly at each other’s throats and the vitriol is real.  Up until now, like many Americans, I have remained above the fray because who needs added confrontation in their lives. But after 4 or 5 whoopie pies, a man  gets to thinking. The healing cannot commence until heartfelt communication begins again across the divide. So, with this addition to the website, I have obviously and openly acknowledged my preference for Natalie – not to bait the Sharona side, but rather to open up a dialogue with them, and that begins with honesty, and not name-calling. Unlike many, I could have, just as contentedly, gone the other way. Because both groups, back before Monk came onto the scene, understood the concept of agreeing to disagree about this or that and moving on, without animosity. There. Natalie, with a side of Sharona? Great. Sharona, with a side of Natalie? Works for me. If I have a Celine Dion or “The Notebook” kind of Sunday, Natalie has the edge,  the “it” factor. If I’m listening to the Stones and streaming “Breaking Bad” reruns on a Saturday night, Sharona completes me. I choose to see the good in both characters, which is plentiful, and don’t search for, or focus on, their faults. Why? (1) Because that’s where I failed in my personal relationships, and (2) because both women equally bring comfort and a sense of safety to Adrian Monk, and that’s what sustains him, that’s what gives him strength to face the world each day without Trudy. 

(When I write “to face the world,” I mean it literally. The Natalie-Sharona conflict has extended to many other countries.  Italy, Brazil and Hungary come to mind, places where Monk viewership is high, and the arguments are heated.)

I can’t stress enough that the Sharona group and the Natalie group don’t have to compromise their principles, their beliefs, their morals, or their integrity, to be able to exchange warm greetings, to offer an appropriate version of a “Monk wipe” to someone in need, someone under duress, or to simply be civil with one another. One may be no more likely to switch from Natalie to Sharona than the next person is to switch from Sharona to Natalie, no matter how effectively either states their case, because the chasm may now be too wide, and everything is presented in absolutes. X can care about you, and you about X, even if either, or both, of you are knee-deep in your chosen side’s’ stream, because, in time, this crap will end and most will take a breath and understand, and agree, that it is in all of our best interests to lower the temperature, while recognizing the truism that we look at things from each our own vantage point and life experiences, and sometimes, oftentimes, see different things, but that we can feel the same sense of basic decency, humanity, and camaraderie that we did not all that long ago.  Someone has to be the first to put the saber down. The yelling is ineffective, it is just off-putting and fans the flames even more. The Natalie faction and the Sharona faction can co-exist if both sides will ignore the extremist fringes that distort their own side, the voices that stir the pot for sinister and self-serving reasons, the ones that thrive on conflict and chaos. The Natalie-Sharona clash will, hopefully,  taper down to  simple, agree-to-disagree, honest differences here and there, so that cooler heads can prevail and the shades of green merge into one. And then, just maybe, with a nod to Ms. Natalie and Ms. Sharona, the two sides will be able to close the deal with a handshake or a hug.

Let’s hope that the damage left behind will not be irreparable, that the wounds will heal, and that the scars will serve as reminders not to go down this road again.

Ever.

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Late Add-on Note: 
If you, the reader, reacted to the lengthy “Closing Note,” by thinking to yourself, “What a Bunch of Baloney,” trust me, I get it. Not my usual fare. But now that I’ve already served it up, all I can do is put some “mustid” on this here bah-lo-nee, smile, hit the hay, and wait for the tall lady in the red raincoat to join me in my dreams.

“Butta bing, butta boom, don’t mess with Buffy, save the whales, look both ways, eat slow, and don’t drink the prune juice.” – Siri S. Lee

Goodnight to the Fine Nine Jennifers, and goodbye to that 5 dollars currently en route to the Spellchecka people so I can finally learn to do the 2-step and keep up with Laura Bell Bundy and her buds :

And on that note, on those notes . . .
goodnight, Natalie, wherever you are.

♦♥♦

Their Youngest Kid

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

Wayne Michael DeHart   (August, 2023)

 

Their youngest kid, fifteen and fickle, wanted a drum for Christmas in 1963, a drum that they knew would make them edgy, drive them crazy. He said any kind would do and promised he would learn how to play. The old man heard that Ted Herbert’s Music Mart, down Manchester way, was the go-to place for any and all music-related items. He decided, with only two weeks left to get it done, that he, his wife, and the boy would make the trip down from Laconia after work that Friday.

Their youngest kid didn’t NEED a drum. He’d never played, he just wanted one to score points with Cyndy, literally the girl next door. The two of them couldn’t get enough of Sandy Nelson’s drum records like “Teen Beat” and “Let There Be Drums,” as well as the foot-stompin’ rhythm of other beat-heavy, instrumentals groups like Duane Eddy & the Rebels, The Ventures, and Johnny & the Hurricanes. Cyndy tapped on anything and everything, and wished the two of them had a drum and four sticks so they could “tear it up” together. The old man and his wife knew this was likely just a crush-based, passing fancy, yet were willing to set aside their better judgment and stretch their funds tight just this one time, in the spirit of the holiday season, as parents often do.


Their youngest kid made sandwiches after school on Friday, while they were still at work, so they could leave without delay, but he scored no points with his old man, who preferred a hot meal and not feeling rushed. As they left the driveway in the black Mercury Monterey that he would wreck eighteen months later, hitting the gas instead of the brake, just a week after he got his license, the old man looked back and gave him a quick nod and a reminder; “Long drive, drummer boy. Let’s hope we don’t come home empty-handed.”

Their youngest kid had ample time, as the miles passed in the darkness, to stretch out across the back seat and reflect on the moment. The two people in the front were simple, blue collar, right-minded folks, beyond weary after yet another taxing week of manual labor. Still, they mutually agreed to bust the budget because they didn’t know how else to show love to the teenager behind them, and they badly wanted to find a way to make up for that.


Their youngest kid hit the ground running at the store, erratically banging away on toms and snares and bass, because he couldn’t play. The frazzled salesman flinched, and rolled his eyes at the raucous racket, while his old man winced, and rolled HIS eyes at the price tags. The two men deliberated, discussing affordable alternatives, leading to a negotiated proposal that was laid on the table, and the weight of the world landed fast and heavy on the boy. He had to make a decision.

Their youngest kid assessed his unexpected options – a so-so set of boring bongos, or a humdrum, “headed” tambourine (kinda like a hands-on mini-drum with jingles, was how the kid saw it.) Each cost considerably less than any of the drums. The salesman pointed out that he could carry either one around with him, just about anywhere. Acutely aware that several waiting customers were growing restless, he summarily asked, “So, which will it be?” Though the boy understood his parents’ plight, he could muster only an indifferent shrug in response. His mother took note of his disappointment, and waved the salesman off.

Their youngest kid, sensing he had stepped in it, told his mother it was alright, he didn’t NEED a drum. He asked her to make the choice for him, but she was having none of it. She shook her head and glared at his old man, who took the cue and proclaimed to the salesman, “No deal tonight,” adding, “Maybe we’ll come back another time.” The long ride home dragged on forever in empty-handed silence, as the befuddled boy tried to understand what had just happened. He wondered what he should have said, what he could have done, to please them.


Their youngest kid maturely moved on in the days that followed, shaking it off, and putting it behind him. He woke on Christmas morning to the usual socks and underwear, a sweater, a few records (including the new hit 45, soon to become an iconic, though controversial, rock era heavyweight, “Louie Louie” by The Kingsmen – in retrospect, how sweet was THAT?), a couple of games, and some brownies. Overall, not a bad haul. When the old man sent him down to the cellar to get boxes for the discarded wrapping papers, he didn’t hesitate, He opened the door, and before he could take the first step down, he froze. Well, damn. On a stool at the bottom of the stairs rested a dazzling-blue snare drum, the one that he had liked most at the store. On top of the drum lay four wooden sticks.


Their youngest kid’s lips started to quiver with emotion as he bounded down the stairs, but he quickly suppressed that momentary breach of manhood by gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw along the way. At the bottom of the stairs, he looked back. His sneaky old man and his mother and his older brother – and Cyndy from next door – all smiled down at him from the top of the staircase, and clapped and cheered as he stood tall and proud by that stool and started to bang away, though he still couldn’t play. They had persevered and found a way, and that kid, six decades later, has never forgotten that day.


Eight months passed. He never learned to play. The drum had long since gone silent, relegated to a dark corner of the cellar, so he sold it, in pristine condition, to a guy from Belmont. He kept two of the drumsticks and gave one to Cyndy. Then he went to Greenlaw’s Music Store in downtown Laconia, where he scored a great deal on, what else – a killer set of bongos and a Ludwig tambourine. He even had a few dollars left over, so he brought milkshakes and cheeseburgers home for his mom and his dad, who laughingly, joyously, watched and listened as Cyndy Bongos and Mr. Tambourine Man teamed up to entertain them, at long last “tearing it up” together.


The father and mother knew he had learned lifelong lessons about recognizing the difference between wants and needs, about the importance of carefully weighing options and choices, and about the merits of making responsible decisions. Their efforts and their generosity had not gone for naught. They felt no betrayal in his sale of the drum – it’s pulsating thunder, though short-lived, had indeed driven them crazy, and they were pretty sure they could live with the less-resonant thumps and jangles of his new prizes. The exhilaration, inspiration, and positive energy in that room endured through the ensuing years. All in all, good on him, and good on them.

Their youngest kid knows, to this day, that THEY never forgot THAT day.

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“They had persevered and found a way, and that kid, six decades later, has never forgotten that day.”
(Taken in Winter Haven, FL, 1989 – just a few months before the “old man” smiled his last smile, way too early. RIP, Dad, and thanks for always finding a way. And Ma, there was a reason we had “Wind Beneath My Wings” played at your funeral service – “while you were the one with all the strength.”
Maybe on some quiet night, while watching the stars from a pastoral field of green and gold, I’ll hear the two of you on high, one on the bongos, and one on the tambourine, just tearing it up together, at the Top of the Stairs.)

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Ladies and gentlemen, the great Sandy Nelson

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uy_t4nQ9xMo


I think I’ve been on this road . . .

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OE5PcKFHw-M

TWO drummers !!! If only their youngest kid and Cyndy had YouTube back then!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjiOtouyBOg

 

Man, did I luck out finding this 2017 video of Johnny & The Hurricanes’ original version of “Red River Rock” integrated into Mamie Van Doren’s 1957 film, “Untamed Youth.” Though she co-starred in the movie, and is in this entire scene, we first really notice her at the 00:38 mark. I suspect that a lot of Gen Z’ers can’t envision their grandparents making these moves back in the day. The elderly drummer who appears in the superimposed setting is Don Staczek, the second drummer of the group. If the reader has not read the previous entry on this site about Ms. Van Doren, those lips were just 10 inches, 10 inches away from mine and closing in at a steady pace while singing, “My Way,” but she probably heard from the distant fringe of the universe about me pouting at the music store years before, and decided, perhaps rightfully so, that I wasn’t worthy, and instead turned and rested them softly upon those of a stereotypical tall guy from California – dadgummit and goshdarnit, grrr! If so inclined, you can tap this link to read about it and understand why I smiled big-time upon stumbling across this unexpected union of the song and the lady.
 https://thewordsyoucantouch.wordpress.com/2023/08/05/adorin-van-doren/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbt5uP9HkiM

 

Since I cheated a little just above, placing Mamie’s interest over the band, here’s another shot at one of their other big hits, Reveille Rock, performed in Belgium in 1997, with a mix of old and new members of the group. This one features more of the dauntless drumbeats that Cyndy and that damn kid liked. so much.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abG6viPwI70

 

Got lucky (REAL lucky) on finding this one too, just before adding this story to the website. Most of the story took place between mid-December and Christmas Day of 1963, the latter being the day the kid got the record. This American Bandstand clip is from January 18, 1964, just 3+ weeks later. Though it made #1 on Dick Clark’s Top 10, it “only” reached #2 on Billboard’s Top 100. Which artist stood in their way? Well, considering the notoriety achieved by “Louie Louie,” for less than heavenly reasons, it seems only fitting that it was The Singing Nun (“Dominique”) who blocked its path. Anyway, once I stumbled into this clip, I knew it was time to “go to press.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_pbWj152MQU

 Writer’s Note/Afterthought:

My dad played acoustic guitar and sang during his Navy days and continued to do so for a number of years after coming home from WW2. Sometimes, on a whim, he would play and sing for the family, but there was one “Western” song he would direct toward my mother. I can still hear it. The song was “Red River Valley.” Yes, “same-same” (as the Vietnamese ladies would say) song as “Reveille Rock,” just above. When I had him listen to the Johnny & the Hurricanes version back in the day, hardly the cowboy love song from long ago that he knew so well, I expected him to shake his head and express disapproval. Nope. “Guess I’m gonna have to learn to sing a lot faster.” I suspect he’s still singing it to her today – Gene Autry style, like the good old days.

 

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Lizzi, With an Eye

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 2 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart  (May, 2023)

“FORE”

Three men walked into a Barlow’s hardware store, bought survival knives, a compass, and a first aid kit, then drove north toward the White Mountains of New Hampshire on a raw, misty October morning. Their plan for the day was to breathe a lot of clean, country air, explore nature amid colorful, leaf-shedding trees, and keep those aging legs moving. Perhaps an idyllic back road would lure them into the obscure beyond, where bears and wolves might pick up their scent and challenge their manhood. “Bring ‘em on!” Brave men, indeed!

Each had his own small apartment in a sprawling retirement complex southeast of Boston. They had become close friends over a period of three years, often referring to themselves as Tom, Dick and Harry – inseparable, spirited geriatrics who walked their talk. They took kidding and kudos in stride, savoring attention in all of its flavors.

Curtis “Sonny” Logan, 71, was a retired Realtor with a “Cher” tattoo, long hair and an intimidating beard. Quipster extraordinaire.

Doug Wilkes, 72, was Kojak bald and John Wick bold. He was a career Marine with gout and a gut.

Both men were widowers and grandfathers, tall, and profusely opinionated.

Toby Jensen, 67, was the runt of the litter at only 5’6″, but lean and fit. Boyish smile. Belonged to something called Mensa, which impressed no one except Mona Lott, who liked anything that included “Men.” Spent years as a fraud investigator, and bragged that he could “smell a scam in the blink of an eye.” Favored dark chocolate, light poetry, hard puzzles and soft ice cream. Never married, but had a thing for women with big, beautiful, breathtaking… blue eyes, even more so when the bearer flashed and flaunted them, freely and frequently. Tried to avoid standing between his towering allies because they got off on patting him on the head like a puppy, to the delight of the ladies in the rec room.

Turning off I-93 at Exit 38, their stomachs growling under a clearing sky, they stopped to gas up, chow down, and ask for directions to winding back roads, preferably unpaved, with easy, accessible walking trails. While surveying packaged sandwiches and an array of snacks at Big Buck’s Bodega, Toby flirted a little with the 40-ish lady behind the counter while Sonny and Doug sniffed pine-scented souvenirs and contentiously debated Cheetos vs Doritos, and Snickers vs Kit Kat.

Toby told her they were looking for a secluded spot where they could traipse around a bit in the woods, pretend they’re serious hikers, and bring home exaggerated tales of derring-do to impress the women of Weymouth. “I can still knock out five miles in my sleep, but these other guys are kinda old and out-of-shape, as you can see, and I don’t want ’em to keel over and check out under one of Frost’s beloved birches.” Sweet-giggling like a schoolgirl, she displayed a stunning sparkle in her left eye that he found instantly intriguing.

Her right eye was covered by a black leather patch. She didn’t seem self-conscious about it until she noticed him focusing on that sparkle and mistakenly assumed he was staring at “it.” She called up her husky voice: “Ya like me eye patch, there, matey? Put it on for Talk Like a Pirate Day last month, ‘cuz me wooden leg was in the repair shop and I needed a prop. Got lots of raves from the knaves and scoundrels, I did. Went over so well, I just keep wearin’ it, sometimes even forget I got it on.”

She smiled at him, suppressing a sudden impulse to reach across the counter and pat him on the head. Toby smiled back but he wasn’t buying it and felt like he had inadvertently backed the poor soul into a corner. “Probably lost that eye in a car accident, or fighting off an angry customer or some other deranged assailant,” he surmised. That short, but tall, tale was apparently her go-to cover story for visitors passing through, like him, to make them feel more at ease around her. Brave woman, indeed!

When only the three friends remained in the store, the lady made Toby an offer. “Tell ya what. I’m outta here at noon, got nothin’ planned, can take you guys to a pull-off next to a short loop trail, maybe half a mile beginning to end, and you finish where you started. How’s that sound?” Then that tantalizing twinkle flared anew, and she fluttered her lashes (well, half of them) at him as the two too-talls joined them – Sonny chomping on Cheetos, and Doug unwrapping a candy bar. Toby shook his head at Sonny in mock disgust. “Those things will turn your skin orange for two or three days, man, hope you realize that.” “No, they won’t.” “Yes, they will. Maybe longer. Mona will razz your azz.” “No, she won’t.” The lady rolled her eye and wondered who Mona was.

Toby announced to his cohorts that the sweet-smiling, sweet-smelling attendant was going to be their guide in about an hour. The two men exchanged raised eyebrows and both nodded approvingly. “You fellas got names?” Shunning their “Tom, Dick ‘n Harry” shtick, Toby introduced Sonny and Doug, then himself. “Toby, with a y. And you, ma’am?”

“Lizzi, with an i. Lynne, with an e. Lizzi Lynne.”

“With an i” was all Doug and Sonny heard as they pondered her patch (the leather one.) Doug stifled a snicker while almost choking on a Snickers. Sonny smirked sideways.

A composed Toby focused on that sparkle. “Is it Mrs. Lynne or Miss Lynne, if I may ask?”

“It’s Miss Flynn. Lizzi Lynne Flynn, Texas-born and bred.”

Sonny swiftly went back to sniffing pine sachets in a far corner of the store, out of sight. Doug swallowed hard and haltingly sought a clarification. “Lizzi actually has two i’s. right?” “Um, yes, one near the front and one at the back.”

Doug mumbled, “I see,” before quickly escaping to the rest room to exhale and relieve himself, executing the classic flee-and-pee maneuver flawlessly. She gave him the eye and shook her head as he retreated. “Funnin’ with me is fine. Funnin’ about me ain’t.”

Sonny and Doug returned to the front just as a teenager, wearing a ring in her nose and sporting blue streaks in her hair, slithered into the store. Lizzi whispered, “light-fingered,” to the men. Doug began to offer a heartfelt mea culpa for his insensitivity, but she quickly cut him off. “Hey, zip it, Ziggy.” He was taken aback and abruptly stopped talking, then looked confused as she stared at his private area. “Ohhh, ZIP it! Sorry ’bout that.” “No problem, Snickers, I tend to notice every little thing.” Ouch! “Gotta watch that kid now. Come back at noontime and you can follow me out there.”

The men drove to a nearby ice cream shop, where Sonny and Doug licked two-scoop cones like they were twelve again. Toby abstained because they didn’t sell soft-serve. Doug asked him about the black patch and Toby said it was likely a traumatic story and not to go there. “If she starts talking like a pirate, hold your tongue. No one-eyed bandit jokes.” (Sonny thought he said “parrot” and mumbled “WTF,” the familiar internet acronym for “Women Talk Funny.”)

Lizzi Lynne Flynn occupied each man’s mind as they watched the clock on the wall. Mighty trusting of her to head to the wild with three male strangers. Sonny speculated she might have some sleazeballs lying in wait to bushwhack them. Doug scoffed. “It would take a whole lot of goons to walk away with THIS Marine’s wallet. Bring ‘em on!” Toby chose to believe she was simply being neighborly and nice, maybe wanting someone to talk to after her shift, a sad, lonely spinster with no one to go home to. Doug stood up and checked his fly, still smarting from her “little thing” jab and wondering if everything really was bigger in Texas. Sonny crammed the last of his cone down his piehole and headed for the door. “It’s go time.”

“AFT”

When they arrived at Buck’s, she was nowhere to be seen. The store was eerily quiet. No customers. No one at the counter. At noontime, with all those sandwiches. Odd. Doug’s thunderous, “Anyone here? Oorah!”, shattered the silence and ricocheted off the walls. “I’m comin’, hold on fer chrissake.” Out from the back came a burly, barrel-chested bloke wearing a freakin’ black leather eye patch!

“Buck? Big Buck?”

“There ain’t no Big Buck or no Little Buck, mister. It’s just a name. You the fellas supposed to scoop up Lizzi?” Doug heard “two-scoop” and he smirked and snorted thinking about the ice cream, but no words came out. He simply nodded. The man growled, “Ain’t anyone gonna ask me about this patch?” It was clearly time for Toby to take the reins.

“Of course, please pardon the flippant attitude of the a-hole to my left. We are trustworthy gentlemen on a day trip and Miss Flynn is going to take us to a quiet place where we can walk a bit and take in the essence of these rural surroundings. No harm, no foul, I trust.” The guy studied Toby’s face. “You talk kinda uppity for a half-grown man. I knew he was just funnin’ around with me, don’t matter how or why. I ain’t no uncultured, slow-thinkin’, dimwitted bozo, ya know. Got a TV set and a VCR back there, like other people. So no harm, and the only thing foul around here is your prissy speechifyin’.”

With that, Toby stepped back, and Sonny took over. “Namaste. dude. I can tell you’re an okay guy. So, what’s with the patch?” No-name told them he owned the place, which was struggling financially. He paid minimum wage and Lizzi was the only one who would work for him “because people say I can be a chippy SOB sometimes. She’s hard-workin’ and loyal. When that awful eye thing happened to her, she hardly missed a day of work, if you can believe that. What a trooper she was. Still is. I started wearing the same kind of patch over the same eye to make it seem like the store had taken on a pirate theme, if ya know what I’m sayin’ here. She felt more normal right away.”

The owner went on. “Gonna be straight up with you guys. Lizzi’s mouth churns faster than her thinkin’ sometimes. When I got here, she was sobbin’ a tad ‘cuz she made a promise to you that she can’t keep. She’s already at one of her other jobs, cleanin’ rooms and scrubbin’ toilets over at the fancy motel. That eye thing cost her a ton of dough and she’s way behind in her bills. I used to help her out a little but now I’m behind the eight-ball myself. The whole situation is a cryin’ shame, as my sweet momma used to say.” A crying shame, indeed!

The visitors huddled up just as Ms. blue streaks/light fingers returned. Doug led off. “I’m embarrassed, man. I misjudged both Lizzi and this guy. Let’s ditch the fresh air and the bear stories, give them something, then head home.” Sonny was not feeling sunny either. “I’m with you. That poor woman. He even said ‘one of her other jobs,’ with an s. We gotta take action. Right here. Right now.” And then Toby. “First, I’m neither uppity nor prissy. That said, we can help both these folks. Check your cash.” Credit card reliant, they only came up with $94 and decided to spend it all at the store, to help the guy who had been helping Lizzi, then send her a $750 check. Sonny: “$250 apiece? We can do better. I’ll go $400 if you guys will.” Both agreed.

After nose ring girl left, empty-handed, the guys approached the counter with armfuls of crap they didn’t need. It totaled $88 and they tipped him the other $6. They told him their plan and he gave them the store’s mailing address, said “make the check out to Elizabeth Flynn, with a y,” and thanked them on her behalf, seemingly holding back tears. He shook their hands and wished them a safe trip back to … “hey, where you fellas from?”

“Weymouth. Down in Massachusetts.” Off they went, southbound and down. He locked the door behind them. “Massholes, figured as much.”

His voice boomed, “Ahoy, lassie, the landlubbers have abandoned ship and the loot’s secured.” Out from the back came a beaming Lizzi, dancing around and waving her patch (the leather one) high in the air, her two big, blue eyes blazing like supernovas. Twirling his own patch, he asked if she heard everything. “Bits and pieces, Bart baby, tell me.” “Well, I sold them rovers a bunch of crap for 94 greenbacks. And blimey, me hornswagglin’ wench, we have twelve hundred more comin’ by courier. Not a bad day on the quarterdeck of the good ship Con-Heir.” “Blimey, indeed! That’s some major booty, and I didn’t even have to shake mine, nor shiver me timbers, much less (she took a breathy, Scarlett O’Hara pause) blow the man down, like I did with grinnin’ Jack from Nantucket last month.” (!!!!!)

Oops. A faux pas?

Had she spilled the beans, tipped her hand, dropped the ball, pulled a boner? Or … was she just yanking his chain?

Bart suddenly looked gassed and aghast, as a tense and awkward hush set in. He glared at Lizzi. She glared back. His face got real red, real fast. She waited. His nostrils flared. She waited. His forehead popped a vein. Whoa, timeout, she hadn’t seen that before! “Just joshin’ with ya, amigo. Now give me a hug.” Greatly relieved, he smiled and gave her a big one. “Ya had my belly in a blender for a minute there, little lady.” Together, they reveled and roared like rogues on rum, then Texas two-stepped toward the back room where her blue-streaked, “light-fingered” daughter, Lynne (with an e), was making tacos. The trio high-fived and bumped fists. Life was good at Big Buck’s Bodega on Exit 38.

Toby, Sonny and Doug were almost home, proud of themselves for stepping up and doing the right thing. The generosity and graciousness of these judicious gents won the day and deserved a proper toast. Chivalry, indeed!

They pulled the SUV over in Boston, and tapped an ATM. The trio high-fived and bumped fists. Then, triumphantly, the…

three men walked into a bar.

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“Funnin’ with me is fine. Funnin’ about me ain’t.”

***************************************************************************************

“Three men walked into a Bar ___________________________ low’s hardware store . . .”
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh  🙂

Adorin’ Van Doren

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 5 Comments

Wayne Michael DeHart    (June, 2021)

Two heads are better than one, it is often said. But over the years, I have noticed that it’s usually the second head on the scene who sings that tune. And more often than not, that tune is an overly-loud, off-key, in-your-face, rendition of “My Way.” Which reminds me of . . .

the night Mamie Van Doren, leaning forward on bended knee, sang that very song on what was reputedly her 40th birthday, her face hovering just 10 inches above mine, looking straight into my eyes. Then, as she crooned the final note, she suddenly swerved her head sharply to her left and kissed the guy who was right next to me smack dab on the lips, to a rowdy ovation from the tanked-up troops in the small club. Now, a cynic might say he got the kiss because Ms. Van Doren had determined, from 10 inches away, that I had been battered by the notorious Ugly Stick and so veered abruptly away and planted one on the snockered buck sergeant who himself was no Bo Belinsky, if you know what I mean. Regardless of the ignominy I suffered being suddenly shut out like that, she left quite an impression on me (had she gotten any closer, that impression would have been two big indentations on my forehead!), and so when I got back home and bought my first car, a yellow Mustang, I got a NH vanity plate that read – what else? – “MYWAY”.

To come full circle, that night just proved that two heads were NOT better than one for me, because had that guy’s head not been damn near ear-to-ear with mine while we both admired and practically inhaled the grandeur of the Twin Peaks, I would have been the victor and enjoyed the spoils. That would  lend credence to my point that the second head in is part of the problem, and not the solution, though I expect that kiss thief would beg to differ. These many years later, I remain certain there have been nights where a distraught Mamie couldn’t sleep and walked the floor back home in California,  sadly regretting that on a night long ago and far away, she chose to kiss that frog, rather than this frog. She recently turned 92, and when she plopped down to a piece of birthday cake, maybe, just maybe, she remembered that fleeting interaction more than 50 years earlier in a distant land, when she bit enticingly into a 40-candle cake in the midst of a boisterous bevy of admiring men. Perhaps she hummed a few notes of “My Way,” and wondered if I am still out there, somewhere, over the rainbow. And in my dreams, indeed I AM somewhere in a distant land – in Africa, with a different Toto, blessing the rains on the Serengeti, clicking my heels, and repeating to myself, “there’s no place like 10 inches from Mamie Van Doren’s . . . lips.” Then I wake up, shake it off, savor the sweetness of an inviting piece of airy angel cake, a tribute of sorts to the heavenly Ms. VanD,  and then go about my day, my way.

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Writer’s Notes:

(1) From what I have been able to determine in the years that followed, Ms. Van Doren apparently celebrated her birthday milestone at most of the stops she made on her three-month, sickness-curtailed second tour in Vietnam. I now know that her 40th birthday was actually February 6th of that year, which would seem to have preceded the very beginning of her tour, which research indicates ended in late May or early June. The experience described above took place on a night in late April, so I suspect she had regularly crooned “My Way” as a routine part of her in-country performances before that magical moment when she looked through my eyes into my very soul. (I tend to think she wanted the guys at each stop to know she looked THAT good at age 40 living her life her way and enjoyed the erotic imagery of blowing out the candles on the makeshift cakes that were presented to her onstage.)

And finally, I suspect there were more than a few of us who came under her spell from 10 inches away before she returned home after falling ill. But on the night of this encounter, we two enamored frogs both felt like princes in our respective ways. Here’s hoping my kiss-winning compatriot has not yet “croaked” and has, like me, been forever grateful for that light in the forest, that rainbow in the dark, that escape to remember.

(2) The Bo Belinsky reference is to Ms. Van Doren’s flamboyant fiance’ from the early 60’s, as featured with Mamie in one of the photos below. The late Mr. Belinsky, at that time a pitcher for the Los Angeles Angels, gained instant notoriety for a number of both on-the-field and off-the-field reasons, some good, some bad. The guy was scandalously charming and bigger than life, and was said to have Hollywood starlets for breakfast. No frog, that fellow.

(3) In my newly-assigned role as a DaNang-based classified courier, who always traveled alone in-country, I found myself bunked down at a MACV transient dive, near a barebones Saigon EM club, awaiting my itinerary for some up-country assignments. My one and only visit to that humble establishment followed a fortunate stumble upon its setting. I walked past the place in the early afternoon and saw a handwritten poster hyping Mamie Van Doren, who would be performing there that very night, about six hours later. Couldn’t believe it, coming out of left field like that. (Bo would have liked that baseball reference, I think.) I went in, and noticed there were only a half-dozen guys in the place. There was a slightly elevated wooden stage, some bar stools, and quite a few square tables, most with four chairs. A few of the tables were really close to the stage and were vacant. Since I was just killing time anyway, I decided to park my butt in the closest chair to the stage and wait it out. I mean, geez, this woman had been, along with Monroe and Mansfield, one of the celebrated “3M’s” – three renowned Hollywood blonde bombshells of the ’50’s and ’60’s. Six hours was nothing.

I got a Coke from the bar and plunked myself back down. Thought of home. Thought of the one that got away. Thought of Mamie Van Doren’s pair of golden globes. (The kind she kept front and center every day, not the film awards kind, though she was a presenter in 1954 and handed one to Foreign Press Association of Hollywood President Jose Haas. Handed him a Golden Globe, that is. Write that down. Might be a Jeopardy question someday.) I nursed that Coke for an hour or so. Still hardly anyone there, so I went back to the bar, risking my seat, to get another.

At some point, guys started to come in, and a surly NCO came over and told me if I wanted to keep that seat, I would have to order some food, or move to the bar. So I slowly sipped more Cokes and ate snacks and fries for the next four hours, until the place was full and the show began. Small-talked with the other three guys who landed at my table. They immediately began to swill down the beers and become boisterous, drawing glares from the guys running the place. (In that smoke-filled arena, an overt air of bravado and swagger overrode the mindless chatter that rolled from the tongues of these restless rogues and renegades. I smelled a lot of bullshit in that very same air.)

I found myself in the awkward position of trying to disassociate myself from them, lest they be thrown out before the show even started, and me along with them, via perceived guilt by association. I couldn’t distance myself physically from them because I wasn’t about to give up that damn seat, so I had to play it smart. The tables were all diagonal to the stage, thus two of the chairs could be strategically slid, from adjacent sides, to that point where a corner of the table abutted the stage. My slide into one of the two prime positions was a fait accompli even before the three stooges parked their noisy butts down. They survived the potential purge and the show started with all four of us still manning our positions front and center at that table. Eventually, and amazingly, the dazzling dame parked herself directly in front of my stage-touching chair after she blew out the birthday candles and announced the Anka/Sinatra song about folks always doing things their way.

She started singing on both feet, then dropped down to one non-knobby knee about halfway through the song. Then down she came onto the second knee, before gradually leaning in closer, to the aforementioned 10 inches from this New Hampshire guy’s face. There was cleavage aplenty spilling out my way (pun intended) and I think I had one eye on her eyes, and the other on the prize. She was so close, I was grasping for breast, er, I mean, gasping for breath. I was riding high and fast, approaching Boner City at a heart-racing pace. Just as she completed the last note of the song, she leaned in even closer to me, placed her right hand on my shoulder to steady herself (here it comes!), and then suddenly slid her head smoothly to her left, taking those lingering lips away, and planting them on the mouthy (pun intended again) invader from California (and there it goes!) He had managed to maneuver his head uncomfortably close to my own sometime during the song, into her peripheral vision, and thus reaped the rewards from the combination of her surprising swivel and his self-serving, sinister act of invasion of another man’s hard-earned, staked-out head space. The scoundrel stood and looked around, took a bow, then smirked at me as he plopped back down onto his seat.

“Smug bastard,” I thought. Six hours I had invested in that spot, hoping for some kind of souvenir moment, and all I got was a great view of the parting of the C’s (okay, D’s), the good vibe from her right hand gripping my semi-muscular shoulder (truth be told, it was a great right hand, many say the best right hand) and this sad story to bring home. But, as she seductively strutted her own butt back to the center of the stage after lighting him up, I quickly realized just how fortunate I was to have come that close to striking gold. I tried to joke good-naturedly with the A-hole, telling him that it must have been because I was too short for her pouty-mouth (not to be confused with potty-mouth) to reach mine. He stood about 6’2″-ish, making his equally fugly face more accessible to her at that moment in time. Simple. Logical. Makes sense, right? Then I added that I was thankful that she had been so concerned about me that she didn’t want to risk smothering me in her moon pies. I explained to him that she must have felt herself falling forward, and was actually just looking out for my safety and well-being, as well as her own, by balancing herself on me while making that sudden pivot to her left, where he and his beer mug just happened to be loitering. I said, “Imagine looking like that and being considerate as well.” His eyes glazed over. I think I lost him at “moon pies” because California and all. He stumbled away with his buddies.

Missed kiss aside, Mamie Van Doren, ladies and gentlemen, what a peach! What a pair! The lady of the night made my day – and did it her way.

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P.S. Re: the photo at the top: At the moment she made that turn to her left, I felt like that punching bag she manhandled, my ego beaten down and at risk of being deflated. If only I were taller . . .
____________________________________________________________________________________

Mamie is the one in white shorts.

Good things come in threes!

Mamie and her “Bo”

This is the way SHE thinks she was looking at me.

This is the way I think she was looking at me.

Of course, right?

Long Night on Willow Road

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 1 Comment

vsvcr2s

Wayne Michael DeHart   (April, 2022)

December 21, 1960

The blizzard arrived with a vengeance, hours ahead of time,
leaving the girl, who begged off the family supply run, alone.

The weathered, three-bedroom house of her youth,
which stood alone, like the girl, at the deadest of ends,
on the darkest of December nights, offered warmth.

Inside, lights flickering, she watched, and heard,  the
relentless storm lay vengeance on the wooded countryside.
Her mother, her father, her sisters two, her brothers three;
each of them, all of them, together in tow, were – somewhere.

Gritty she was, more resilient than most of fifteen years.
She wandered through both the boys’ and girls’ bedrooms.
Each had bunk beds, and a raised mattress for the eldest.
She touched each pillow with closed eyes while pretending
that her younger siblings were asking her to read to them.

She embraced the moment, then moved on to her parents’ retreat.
The welcoming, large four-poster with the burgundy bedspread
warmed her spirit and she bounced herself across it, once each
direction, as she always did when they were absent in the dark.
She caressed both pillows, giving each a hug before leaving.
At 84 Willow Road, at 7:39 PM, she settled into a kitchen chair.

Outside, fierce northeast winds rushed through the evergreens.
A swarm of snowflakes swirled furiously above the porch light.
Her family was way past due, and the young girl – well, she knew.
She made a peanut butter sandwich and opened a book of poems,
to page 56, where Frost told of woods on another snowy evening.

The phone had long since surrendered its dial tone to the fury.
Then came a knock on the door, and her name being called, loudly.
She froze, dreading the inevitable “Miss, there’s been an accident.”
Unlike the poet, they’d have no more miles to go before they slept.

But, the knock was her beloved uncle Ron’s; her family was safely
hunkered down for the night at his house in town. He had braved
the storm to “fetch her” in his Ford pickup while her Dad rested.

They gathered up the eight pillows. She grabbed the book of poems
and turned out the lights, then locked the door, at 84 Willow Road.

#

Write on Sight . . . in M-eye Words

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / Leave a comment

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Wayne Michael DeHart   (September 7, 2019)

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2 of 2:

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1 of 2:

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2 of 2:

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WordSleeves

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / Leave a comment

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Wayne Michael DeHart   (2020,2021)

Unlike the picturesque SnowSleeves of Winter, the poetic pieces constituting WordSleeves did not arrive, nor will take their leave, with the whim of the weather. They are for all seasons; responses to a series of unrelated creative writing “prompts” in 2020 and 2021.

Like the SnowSleeves of Winter, the selections appeared and accumulated at their own pace – irregular in size, sequence, substance and significance.  Each passage, like each snowflake, is distinct and different than the next – in the form of sporadic, disparate observations, thoughts and musings. Random and casual in presentation, the Sleeves meander and wander aimlessly in search of a friendly fit.

(All prompt poems below were written by Wayne Michael DeHart, thus the writer’s name will not appear on the  individual “Sleeves” that make up this post. The fifteen sub-posts appear in chronological order. Selections were chosen without rhyme or reason, time or season, blending form and format into the literary version of a potluck gumbo and jambalaya combo. Sample each, consume what looks good, pass on what doesn’t. Bon appetit!)

______________________________________________________________________

 February 2, 2020

In Response to a YouTube Viewing of Captain and Tennille’s “Muskrat Love”:

The Dragon said “Toni, my dear.
What crawls yonder – a rodent I fear.”
But she didn’t respond – his wife didn’t hear.
So he inquired again, drawing her near,
and whispering his ask into her ear.
She simply smiled, and said with good cheer;
“Worry not, dear husband, it’s perfectly clear.
It’s a sign from above,
it’s what songs are born of,
it’s a diamond, a dove,
it’s a …
muskrat, love.” ¹*

_______________________________________

February 2, 2020

In response to this long-ago page:

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Favonius, humming a hymn,
took to the sea, for a midnight swim.
But in the dark, became entwined,
in eight-ish threads, and lost his mind.
Struggle he did, for the rest of his days,
erratic in thought, engulfed in a haze.
Blinded in blackness, turned Brutish in view,
took his last breath . . . in ’42.

________________________________________

April 30,  2020

In Response to a Poetry Challenge Re: the following photo:

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Mike DUKAKIS, on a whim, went to France
one day in search of him.
“DUKAS?” they said, “you’re late my friend,
he’s gone, finis, he’s dead.”
Traveling on, you see, to find what’s lost,
he ended up in Germany.
He wined, he dined, at a DUISBURG pub,
fell into the river, sadly, Rhine-d.
Then he had an idea, after being rescued
by a friendly chap – from Tanzania.
“Let me, dear fellow, come home with you
to chill out, calm down – to mellow.”
And so, they flew, to Dar es Salaam
for him to make a memory or two.
They drove south, tout suite, toward Malawi,
then stopped at a cafe for something to eat.
They ordered, then talked, till the food arrived,
and Mike chewed on the meat but suddenly balked.
“Ugh”, said the Yankee, “what is this stuff?
“It’s DUIKER stew, my man, it’s what we eat,
when famine pervades this beautiful land.”
“Duiker, what’s that, sounds nasty to me”
“Well” said his friend, “it’s better than rat.”
The man from Mass. just sighed, and ate on
but that night his gut really hurt inside.
“Enough for me!, I’m leaving, I’m gone”,
he told his companion, then started heaving.
No Dukas, alas, and Duisburg was damp,
and the Duiker filled him with gas.
Then he came home, to his tank, and knew there
was someone he really should thank.
So he called me, today, and said “My friend,
I read what you wrote, and it was as you say!”

________________________________________

June 10, 2020

In Response to a Modernist Poetry Challenge Re: the following photo:

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Eliot and cummings woke me this morning
to tell me that nothing I will see today is real.
I listened well then told them both to go to hell
and step away from my view of the clouds and the sun that Camus
told me the day before weren’t really there anyway so
I now embrace the decorations of the sky
knowing that it’s not what The Greats of times past
promised me it would be in my youth, but only a
visual perception before my eyes only and not yours.
It is what I say it is, it is what I see it as, it is
my one and only reality as I drink my mourning tea.

________________________________________

June 15, 2020

In Response to a MENSA Poetry Group Challenge –  Re: the photo

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A wordsman of wisdom, born into the book,
he grew to know just what it took
to examine and study, to describe and define,
uses and meanings by intent and design.

A sculptor of sentences, a litterateur,
he Rambled for readers in his forty-first year.
Growing older and wiser, his standing unmarred,
he took the bold step of critiquing The Bard.

Now certain of purpose, aware of the path,
he chose to expose the poets of Bath.
From Milton to Dryden, from Swift to Hope,
he gave us the scoop, he gave us the dope.

When Boswell penned his story, with maxims galore,
his friend, his companion, added much to Sam’s lore.
But alas, as is written, in this history,
It was Walter not Samuel, who always struck three.

__________________________________________

August 29, 2020

In Response to a Mensa SIG Haiku Challenge  on “Colors”:

Tints and tones rained on
shades of hue and me in days
before darkness came.

___________________________________________

August 29, 2020

In Response to a Mensa SIG Haiku challenge on “Silence”:

First thing I could hear
were birthing screams whispering
aloud the sounds of …

________________________________________

August 29, 2020

In Response to Mensa Poetry Group Challenge from Bruce Miller- re: the photo

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Small of feature
is this creature
who poses for the camera lens
and artists bearing pens
to show the world – mankind,
that if ye seek, ye shall find
a woman that sits and rests
with pointed eyes and perky breasts
that beckon and stare, here and there,
at we who look and take the dare
of one Bruce Miller’s daily fare.

_________________________________________

September 25, 2020, response to Poetry Group Haiku prompt “Red”:

Cincinnati Pete
Burns the game he play’d and luved

like a Red, Red Rose.

Screenshot_2020-09-26 1974-topps-300-pete-rose-nm-mt-8-79017 jpg (JPEG Image, 357 × 600 pixels)

– Pete Rose, 1974
Screenshot_2020-09-26 Robert Burns Country A Red, Red Rose [Hear Red, Red Rose]
– Robert Burns, 1794
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– for “burning” the game
_________________________________________

January 24, 2021, response to Mensa Poetry SIG photo prompt:

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Lady dear, I neighed so long,
but no one came, to hear my song.
So I peeked inside, to see who’s here,
but saw no one, not a soul was near.
I’m hungry you see, with no hay to be found
so I poked my head through, and looked around.
But just as I readied to resume my plea,
A squirrel or chipmunk goosed me, you see.
So forward I pushed, to escape the attack,
but I couldn’t go forward and I couldn’t go back.
Stuck and confused, I twisted and turned,
my head spun around, and I was really concerned.
The attack had subsided, so my direction was clear,
and with one final burst, I fell back, on my rear.
Undamaged I am, but not so your door,
it’s not as stable as it was heretofore.
I’ll make it good, yes I’ll find a way,
then resume my song, my endearing neigh,
if you’ll do one thing, without further delay,

get off your ass, and bring me some HAY !

_______________________________________

January 29, 2021, response to Mensa Poetry SIG photo prompt:

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Picket fence of white, lawn of green,
flowers of gold, and a girl in between.
She sits so still, this maiden fair,
secured in place by the knot in her hair.
But what is the reason, what is the cause,
the story behind whatever this was?
A cynic might venture a guess it’s a pose,
a plot for a shot, that she herself chose.
But what if by chance it just fell into place,
as she took her seat in that serene little space?
If she lowered herself with style and grace,
and the post extended a simple embrace?
That would be charming to the nth degree
but what would happen if a bee stung her knee?
I fear she would rise, with uncommon haste,
her hair and the fence still interlaced.
Something would give, something would take,
and then we would know if it’s real or it’s fake.
But while we wait, we can imagine the scene,
fenceposts and ground, and a girl in between.
(If those last words sound familiar to you,
just look up above, to the end of line two.)

_______________________________________

February 16, 2021, response to Mensa poetry SIG prompt (based on original “Deer, Boy”):

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 Polish child, often reviled,

uniquely bred, with antlered head,
he counts the deer, as they appear,
across his dreams, and fields and streams.
His mother cries, his father tries,
in foot pursuit, to make him shoot,
to no avail, he won’t prevail,
the boy stays one, rejects the gun.
He runs in stride, eyes open wide,
sounds the alarm, miles from their farm,
for them to run, this hunter’s son,
true to his breed, so they won’t bleed,
from bullets fired, his call inspired,
they hear his plea, the deer run free,
buck with a rack, doe in the back,
one thing is clear, he holds them dear.
His father’s glare, and endless stare,
offset by wise, motherly eyes,
leave him alone, though barely grown,
to breathe relief, feel disbelief,
the day has passed, dusk comes at last,
he touches his head, prone on the bed,
one of a kind, mood undefined,
his tale is rare, his tail unfair.
_________________________________________

March 20, 2021, response to Mensa Poetry SIG Haiku Challenge for “BEES”:

“Excuse me, Honey,
but Hive wanted to Mate you,”
he Droned to the Queen.

________________________________________

March 26, 2021, response to Mensa Poetry SIG Haiku Challenge for “BLUEBELL”:

The beast from Bordeaux,
on the flowered forest floor,
asked, “Feeling blue, Belle?”

________________________________________

September 24, 2021, response to Mensa Poetry SIG Haiku Challenge for “SHADOWS”:

Non judgmental, fair.
Unlike mirrors and photos,
they conceal our scars.

________________________________________¹*

2 thoughts on “WordSleeves”

  1. This is fun. Just imagining having these assignments myself. You were so clever in the use of other information on the pages. You were busy and productive during lockdown, Wayne.

    Like

    REPLY EDIT

  2. Every time I go to your site I find something new…well, new 2020 & 2021. I enjoyed these. Anticipated which would be the biggest pain with the give and take: pony tail or fence.

Three Times Sadness

/ Wayne Michael DeHart / 3 Comments

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Wayne Michael DeHart   (August, 2022)

(This was written in August of 2022  as an entry into the 2022 National Veterans Creative Arts writing competition for a category described as “Military Experience – Not Poetry” with an 850-word limit.  I have since made a few small edits that slightly increased that stringent number, and very recently added a series of significant Writer’s Notes, with photos. (The competition was text-only.) The Notes complete and complement the narrative. I tried to lighten the mood at the end of the notes, for both myself and the reader. But the top of the hourglass is running low, and this one time I’ll “go there.” This is not a war-story website; never was and never will be. They’re a dime a dozen and enough is enough. An upcoming post, “Adorin’ Van Doren,” is also Vietnam-based, but it is light-hearted and hopefully witty and that’s the direction I’d rather go on this topic. The only thing they have in common is that both are first-person and fact-based.  This one touches the fringes of events which led to my poem, “Incoming” –  https://wordsyoucantouch.com/2022/02/22/incoming/. It describes in just 174 words the fear, the “crap,” that permeates my mind in the darkness and the depth of most of my nights and which has ruled my life for so many years. And will to the end. I recognize that the relentless river of severe panic that consumes and threatens to drown me can be disconcerting and misunderstood, and thus I generally live in self-isolation to avoid creating uneasiness for myself and others. “Incoming” was written in an attempt to convey the callous, controlling complexity of the poem’s Beast as succinctly as I could. The success or failure of that endeavor can only be determined by you, the reader.  WMD 12/27/22)

In the early evening of December 26th, 1970, at a small Army camp across the road from the Marine helicopter facility at Marble Mountain, just south of DaNang, five of us were kicking back with Cokes and beers and stale cookies someone had received from home. The conversation was rambling and the topics random, with multiple voices speaking at once. It was like we were all talking aloud to ourselves, unable to focus on the messages or the messengers in the plywood-partitioned, double-racked quarters.

An intermittent, light rain pattered across the Quonset hut’s tin roof, calling to mind the Lovin’ Spoonful’s “Rain on the Roof” and The Cascades’ “Rhythm of the Rain” – two well-worn 45’s of mine left behind in a New Hampshire closet, boxed into silence – amid fleeting flashes of familiar faces back in “the world.” 

“Dee, whatcha smiling about over there?”, came the thundering voice of “Baby-San,” still just 19 almost a year into his tour – a brawny, fearless Texan with boyish (hence the good-natured nickname) features and a confident swagger. He was physically intimidating and sometimes volatile, but was generally an affable and likable kid. “Sure ain’t that burnt beak of his,” jabbed Steve from Wisconsin. I had been one of two guys from our advance platoon whose names were drawn to catch the Bob Hope Show at Freedom Hill on Christmas Eve. I lingered so long under a scorching sun that it sautéed two layers off the ridge of my schnoz. I countered with, “Hey, no skin off YOUR nose, Sailor.” Pretty decent comeback, I thought, knowing Steve was still irked about being rejected by the Navy in the summer of ’69. He swigged some Pabst and tipped his boonie toward me in a touche’-like acknowledgment of shared, requisite rapport.

After a prolonged pause, Baby-San and I (the Coke guys) remained in the makeshift room as our beer-drinking compatriots adjourned to a sandbag bunker with the rest of the cookies. He and I exchanged thoughts on who we were and where we might be in ten years. He wanted to be a forest ranger somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. “Exchange this uniform for that one. Exchange this reality for that dream.” “Sounds good, man.” “Yeah, you got that right.” But he looked somber while adding that it was just as likely he’d be hauling trash for a living. “Ain’t no lie, there’s always bugs in the butter.” His tour was almost over and this outwardly-confident short-timer had revealed an unexpected uncertainty about following the path back home, and once there, finding himself. I could only nod and say the obligatory, “Don’t mean nothin’, man.” It was the go-to generic response when one didn’t know what to say, at that time, in that place.

“How about you, Dee. You’re always writin’ letters and stuff. Must have a pack of girls back home, you dog.” I tempted fate, feigning umbrage and giving him a poor man’s stink eye before good-naturedly shaking my head. “I wish.” I joked that this mutt had been kicked to the curb long before being sworn in, then described that “stuff” as what we called “prose and poetry” back in high school. “Would kinda like to be a writer sometime down the road, have lots of thoughts and ideas running through my head. But the truth is I’ll probably be working that garbage truck alongside you, clanging can covers to a Creedence Clearwater song.” He wasn’t buying it. “Seriously, you should write a book about THIS crap. Give ’em the dirty details – the reckless, anything-goes, no-holds-barred shit. Keep it real. No John Wayne jive.” I told him I was thinking more along the line of conventional “word fare,” as opposed to unconventional warfare. “Not looking to make waves, just rhetorically ride them.” He stood and flexed, striking an exaggerated bodybuilder pose. He grunted, “Mention the strong and righteous ‘BS’, as in Baby-San, and we’re good.” (Rest in peace, Al, and I just did.)

“Gotta come up with a good title, title’s everything, Dee.” I pulled out my wallet and handed him a folded index card with a proposed book title from two years earlier  – “Three Times Sadness.” “Jeez, man, sounds depressing. Ain’t gonna sell no books that way. What’s it about? What’s your sadness?” I shrugged, telling him I didn’t know yet, that I always write titles before I write stories or poems, then write the latter to fit the former. (His expression read, “Say again?”) I told him I might have a shipload of sadness to write about by then, but he seemed to have checked out.  “Dee?” “Yeah?” “Sometimes I wonder: do the guys treat me good because they like me, or are they just afraid I’ll beat their ass?” For a few brief moments, he appeared weary, fatigued, vulnerable – and old beyond his years. “Both, I think.” He let the words sink in for a minute, then his eyes came alive and he nodded approvingly. “Hey, nuthin wrong with that, works for me, brother man.” It was his turn to smile. “Twelve and a wakeup, GI. See ya on the other side.” And then he was gone.

Hours passed and then came the sirens. Showtime. The skies lit up. The images blurred. The night roared.

Christmas was over; the crap was not.

Today, more than five decades and seven seas of sadness later, the book remains an elusive pipe dream.

But I think I know where I can use that title.

#

WRITER’S NOTES:

********************
RIP “Baby-San” – Alfred “Al” John Kappus, 1951-2014

Thanks, “brother man,” for the ever-present banter and repartee, and specifically for that oft-remembered conversation. Yours was the classic “larger than life” presence, energy in overdrive. Though our paths crossed for only a brief period of time, your encouragement and your inspiration left its mark in a way that you would have wanted, and that I welcomed and understood. And, yes, I will “see ya on the other side”  –  and it will be my honor.

********************

 

(Artwork: Charlie Thibodeau / 2022 / painting in his own vivid colors, back here “in the world”)

Charlie is a Marine who came of age just down the road from me in a nearby NH town. We never met in our youth, despite the proximity of our age and location. Soon after first meeting at the VA about six years ago, we stumbled into an awareness that we had dated the same shy, brown-eyed girl way back when Hector was a pup. 
Bonnie’s smile made you instinctively smile right back, whatever your mood. And when he and I talked about her, of course we smiled too, remembering her fondly, respectfully, as older gentlemen remember a young lady from days gone by. She very recently left this world behind, but had she known that an unlikely pair of long-ago beaux still reminisced about her warmly, half a century later, I suspect she would have flashed that contagious smile one last time before departing, expressing  the sentiment and substance of Baby-San’s words: “Hey . . . works for me.”

Turns out Charlie was serving just up the road a bit from me there in I Corps on that December night described above. Now, despite 3,000 miles of America stretching out between us, we stay in touch, share some late-night laughs and catch each other up on news both mundane and meaningful, while mutually keeping “the crap” out of the chatter, though we both know it lurks like a cancer just below the surface – and always will.

Darkness be damned as we two remain thankful to be among the fortunate ones still blessed to breathe the air, catch the wind, hear the rain on the roof, and behold a sea of stars in the clear night sky. We fight against, and survive, the dangers of the night. Then we embrace the sweet, saving grace of  daybreak’s first light. And in those inevitable, recurring moments when the world is too heavy and our resilience is too light, he eats ice cream and turns to his canvas and I eat dark chocolate and turn to this keyboard – both of us coping and fighting the good fight, a day at a time, as best we can, each in our own way.
**********************************

These first four photos were taken by me, using a Kodak Instamatic camera, from a Camp Baxter guard tower fronting the Marble Mountain Air Facility (then home to Marines MAG-16, supplemented by an Army helicopter company & 5th Special Forces), with the South China Sea in the background. There are actually five fabled Marble Mountains, the northernmost of them standing strong in the distance in the first pic, which was taken facing south along the coastal road. (Seventeen Green Berets were killed at Marble Mountain on August 23rd, 1968 – the largest loss of life in a single attack in Special Forces history.) Several choppers can be seen “forming up” above the facility in the second photo. The two bottom pics show fortified, armor-plated, 10-wheel “deuce-and-a-half” gun trucks traveling north toward DaNang.  These trucks were rigged out  –  uniquely modified and equipped, each with a catchy name emblazoned boldly on the side. They primarily protected transportation units, serving as escorts for convoys, and were not to be messed with due to the trucks’ maneuverability and formidable weaponry, matched by the aggressive, “bring it on” mentality of its crew.

The last photo was taken by me from one of two towers that faced northwest into a tiny civilian/drug sales area next to a seemingly out-of-place and unattended temple. The camp’s “cursed tower,” visible just to the right in the pic and further away than it appears at that angle, was the site of several personnel losses during my time there, one of them highly personal and particularly distressing to me. Roger arrived in-country just days before his 19th birthday and took his last breath in that tower just two months later – on my own birthday, nine days before my tour ended. Though Baxter served as my “home base” for most of my 365 days in-country, my classified courier designation had me in unrestricted movement status, traveling alone around RVN for 5-10 days each month, which proved to be both a blessing and a curse. The blessing was simply time spent away from the camp, which gained a lot of notoriety for a series of reprehensible events and situations that coincided with my time there. The curse was feeling disconnected and isolated out on the road by myself, engaging in fleeting interactions with nameless faces in  unfamiliar places, with too much time to think but not enough time to understand. The saving grace was that I did my job and I did it well. Then I came home.

Thirteen years later, the Beast burst into my life, and I realized I had never left, and now I know I never will.
So be it.
*********************************************************************************************

The  eight heroic women who gave their lives in Vietnam. Each of their names appear on “The Wall” in Washington. Some 11,000 women served voluntarily in RVN during the war, and needless to say, none of them were drafted. They saved lives and provided support beyond their job descriptions.

**********************************************************************
Hitting some lighter notes . . .

That night it was Coke, but sometimes it was Pepsi, Tab, or a Fanta flavor. Depended on  A-V-A-I-L-A-B-I-L-I-T-Y !
( I have no clue what was going on with that center-forehead clump of hair. Looks like a burnt chicken leg.)

The occasional silver linings about being in RVN: avoiding haircuts, wearing weathered and worn boots, saluting maybe two times per month, with half of those being of the one-finger variety. Nobody cared, except on those one or two days a month when I was in Saigon. Some of those junior officers down there just couldn’t resist enforcing the saluting part of being a soldier. I humored them to avoid barriers because the warm, welcoming ladies of Tu Do Street were waiting and offered a far better evening ambience than the usually-empty transient barracks.
Silver linings, indeed.

“These Boots Were Made for Walkin'”
(Here I am pondering my existence while in a horizontal position. I got no answers.)

******************************************************

Taken right after I got back from R&R in Taipei. Reality check. Hard eyes. Cold stare.
Go ahead, make my day. “Frick this crap” mood. (I didn’t like this guy. Routinely cursed him out, to no avail.)

*****************************************************

Some recognition, some kind words, and a firm handshake from the Colonel.

–

(Top and below) Having said my goodbyes, sittin’ on my butt, waiting for a ride to DaNang Air Base from Massachusetts Phil, and smiling big with just a few days left in-country. Even cleaned up my weathered boots for the flight down to Long Binh for out-processing and was hoping to get back to the world with that hair, which no one had cared about up-country. My year was up and so was my hitch. I would become a civilian 24 hours after my arrival at Oakland Army Base, there to jump through the final administrative hoops. After several dirty looks from the lifers at Long Binh, a snarky Captain pulled me aside and told me they could “accidentally misplace” all my records, leaving me sitting there in limbo for a week or two, if I didn’t stop losing my way to the haircut line. If I left RVN as scheduled, I’d be home just in time  for Thanksgiving.  I “found” the line and gave the clippers guy $5 American to leave at least half of the hair. He did, but added, “it’s your ass, man.” I slicked the rest back, and made it onto that Freedom Bird, and then home, with no further hair hassles. It smelled like  . . . victory.

–

Harry Chapin in 1972 (must have read my mind a couple of years earlier):
“Cause ya know I’m goin’ nowhere, and anywhere’s a better place to be.”

And of course I still have those original, referenced “two well-worn 45’s of mine” – only now in a different NH closet. Bought both new from Greenlaw’s Music Store in Laconia, NH. “Rain on the Roof” in 1966 and “Rhythm of the Rain” in 1963. 

Even better with sound . . .

 

 

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