Lousy Dreams

Once again I had another lousy furniture dream. And I'm the only poor b****** in the whole world that has long, drawn out, totally annoying furniture dreams. I woke up roaring like a fat lion with a sharp clothes hanger in my ear. "Karen! This is not right!. Most of my uneventful working life was in the furniture business. I unloaded it, loaded it, put it together, took old sofas to the landfill which I immorally bounced off Ralph Nader's head. I made it, sold it, delivered it, fixed it, cried over it for thirty years. I observed a stylish sales woman try to sell another stylish lady a beautiful oak dresser when at that moment a raccoon decided to take a voluminous leak through a a ceiling tile right on the ok dresser! What are the odds of that? Who could ever believe again that God likes furniture? If I make it to heaven there better not be any furniture there! I need to believe that Jesus making furniture is just a bad translation!
Anyway, back to the dream. Most of the night I was trying to deliver some furniture and I could not make out the address on the sales slip. I went from one house after another getting increasingly frustrated. I went up to one house and rang the door bell. This old lady tells me "You have exquisite flesh" I know no one will believe any of this, but it is sadly ever last word true-"Exquisite flesh" who talks like that-even in a lousy furniture dream! I felt like mooning her, but then I would have lousy prison dreams for the next thirty years. Big breathe in. Big breathe out. Relax...relax.. go to sleep.

My daughter's advice.

We have serious children. Correction, we have serious children who have grown up to be serious adults. I suppose God will hold me accountable for this in the next world. Is there an appeal process in the next world? Johnny Cochran is taking a dirt nap. He got O.J. acquitted. Anyway, Laurel told me this morning that there is some house wife who no longer bothers to get dressed in the morning. She writes a blog every day about family life and gets a fortune for it. Laurel says she was invited to the White House for a visit with Michelle Obama. Laurel did not say if she was wearing a ratty bathrobe (the blogger, not the First Lady) with oatmeal stains to the reception. I want to make it clear. I write my blog fully clothed--proper clothes at that! Not like Dru Cederquist who writes her blog dressed like a sailor. I suppose if I wrote my blog in my skivvies the money would roll in--well forget it! I have my principles! I had not intended to write any of this today. I was in the waiting room of my dentist sitting beside a small, narrow fish tank getting bored (no pun intended). I told the long time receptionist that if if owned this place I would put a sign on the fish tank: "Please be advised that the fish tank will be closed April 24 for the required annual dental check up." The receptionist smiled politely. Laurel would say "Dad, you can't just respond to the voices in your head and amuse them. You have to write for normal people." She has a point. But how do I know if the people who read my blog are normal? Are they dressed properly? So, we need some rules. Post a photo of your self on Facebook reading my blog. Try to appear normal. The things I do to please my daughter.

Making a Living

Here we are in what is being called the worst crisis since the Great Depression and I am gainfully employed. Even got another raise and praise for my work ethic. Any day I expect the President to make a televised speech blaming the economic woes of the country on me. I can see his grim expression and pointed finger. "This man in Eliot is unemployable yet he is working! He has no discernible skills. He swims, works out at a gym and...and...(his face turning beet red) he received a raise the same day he played chair volleyball! The ball hit his foot , knee, head and he was heard to exclaim. "I have body parts playing volleyball without my knowledge." People with severe disabilities are in his care. All they do is laugh all day long." I need to go to an LSA meeting--see ya later.

Mt. Beacon

Something jarred my memory this weekend. Our grandchildren definitely need to know this story.
We grew up, as did the previous generation, in the shadow of Mt. Beacon looming like a friendly behemoth hovering over the town. "Woe to those who would harm my faithful subjects" he would bellow on stormy nights-or maybe it was all my imagination. My mother, when she was a child of eight, emerged one fine morning from the front door, turned around and had the most wondrous vision that caused her to become a starving seeker after truth (and donuts) for the rest of her life. On the side of Mt . Beacon, near the top, but not on the top, stood a beautiful lady next to two golden doors. My grandmother told her to cut it out or get a spanking. Visions, or anything that could not be put in the soup kettle, were not allowed in their house-not with eight mouths to feed and the wolf always howling at the door. Visions were for wealthy families with time on their hands. I doubt my pragmatic grandmother even turned around and looked at the mountain to see for her self. As a young adult my mother consulted a fortune teller on main street who told her that what she was looking for would not be found in Beacon.. So she moves to Iowa, becomes a chiropractor and a Baha'i and eventually goes on pilgrimage to Israel in 1970--about 45 years after her childhood vision. She walks up to the Shrine of the Ba'b rising majestically on the side of Mt. Carmel. She quietly stands and stares at the two massive golden doors --52 became 8 once again.
So what do I think of visions. They come in all sizes and shapes and they show you a part of heaven. I have never had a vision of two golden doors, but I have had a vision of two tiny dark eyes smiling at me from her mother's arms. This vision is named Samaya--which means "heaven" in Amharic. One day she will grow up to be a beautiful lady who will stand and stare at the two golden doors just like her mother, father, grandfather, grandmother and great grandmother and she will tell the story of the two golden doors to her children who will stand and stare...

history of disease

Television commercials are a video history of disease in America. My first awareness was viewing the horrific suffering of a young woman on tv in a black sweater. Her shoulders were covered with tiny white flakes called dandruff. I had been living in a dream world! This epidemic had been sweeping the country destroying the self esteem of young women who wore black sweaters and here I was--a young man in his twenties ignorant of the suffering of others. These commercials ran for years. The young woman looked more distressed as time went by. The flakes became larger causing her shoulders to sag under the weight and still no cure!! What was the government doing? What if I found an undiscerning young lady and we wanted to get married. Would I have been mature enough to overlook this disability-see the inner beauty? Luckily by the time I met Karen I was in my thirties and the epidemic had subsided because the dandruff commercials had stopped. I mean I still examined her shoulders when she wasn't looking, but she was disease free--whew! Time has flown by and other epidemics have come and gone. Restless leg syndrome comes to mind. After seeing nonstop commercials of some guy's leg karate kicking the covers off I had a hard time sleeping. What if Karen caught restless leg syndrome and kicked me to death? How is that for an obit--"Ronald Tomanio kicked to death in his sleep when his wife was overcome with restless leg syndrome." In lieu of flowers just have a good laugh at his expense.

orphans

More info on the stories. Both the Winter Cloak and Edith Rose run about 70 minutes and have breaks of a few seconds built in along away. They are suitable from about age ten to 110. THe Winter Cloak is available with a musical background-please specify. As long as I can afford it please send 15.00 for each cd. This includes shipping. Make tax deductible checks out to Educate These Children. This is Rose Cabot and her families non profit that sustains an orphanage and school in Malawi--one of the poorest countries in the world located in Africa. Much love to all.

71 Minutes After Midnight

A long time ago I made a promise to my dear friend Rose Cabot. She has emerged, not unscathed, from a childhood living in one foster home after another. On a rainy day when I thought I could cure a rainy day I promised her I would write a story about a foster child. I didn't want to know the details of her reality. It was more than the FDA's daily recommended daily dose of pain to hear the story of her typical birthday celebration-not on her real birthday, but added on as an afterthought when the "real child" in the family had a birthday. I was soon over my head and very little was falling off of it on to paper. I got stuck, unstuck and one day I had to put the story down. I had painted myself into a too odd corner. Then in the middle of the night after a hectic day I woke up in the middle of the night with the rest of the story in my head. I wrote it down as fast as possible through the dawn hours. I don't have that kind of energy anymore. I continue to write stories but get tired at the computer-it is a snail's life now for me. I have been fortunate-two books published and I know how lucky I am, but I always felt that this one story should have had a chance to be read-not only for this Rose, but for all the roses that never survived the harsh winters of this world. So now at least it is on a professionally recorded cd with a disc cover of Rose as a child waiting for her when she comes up this weekend. "Edith Rose"-71 minutes. So on the scales of give and take are we even? No, it can never be.
Years ago my brother was with us in Maine for a short stay-dying before our eyes-- refusing to see a doctor-him dying--friendless--legs oozing-Rose washing them--legs I couldn't look at--more than enough cleaning the bloody piss off the bathroom floor. He said to her. "Rose, you are a friend" New strange words from him--never heard before or after. A little while later back in New York they talked late at night. He promised not to take his life on her birthday. He waited until after midnight for her--to keep her birthday free of at least one lousy memory. Why am I telling you this story? Because Rose is a real pain the ass-always with that way too needy heart needing to be told by her friends that they really do love her. Rose, listen closely. I really do love you.