all about boo boos

I went shopping this Friday morning with Laurel, Violet and Samaya. As is our custom, I buckle Samaya into the grocery basket and Laurel takes Violet who looks very chunky happy Italian(that sounds like a new Ben& Jerry's flavor). I bask in all the oohs and aahs end exclamations "she is so adorable!" I acknowledge the strong resemblance explaining my noble African ancestors were captured by those troublesome Romans centuries ago. They were seduced by promises of pepperoni pizza for lunch everyday. Anyway, let me corral my wandering mind back to the supermarket before my friends wonder what this has to do with boo boos. We laze down the aisles with Samaya asking for cheese sticks and Mommy--at two years old, cheese sticks could be the favorite sometimes. My hands were steering the cart when suddenly Samaya leaned over and kissed the back of my hand. I was stunned and moved. Laurel explained that she was kissing the boo boo on the back of my hand to make it better. I thought of all the people down through the years who have kissed the unseen boo boos and made them better and I was filled with gratitude.

Xmas present

My grandmother lived with me for years in a three story house, but because of language and the fact that she lived in a different century, we often communicated from different worlds. One December I was struggling with what to buy her for Xmas. She had little and was content with less then little. She wore the same clothes, worked in her garden and walked to mass on Sundays. She was low maintenance until she was in her eighties--but that is another story. I went into a gift store on main street in Beacon and said no,no,no to myself until I spotted a small statue of a women that in the dim light of her eyes might pass for Mary, the mother of Jesus. I gave it to her before Xmas and she politely thanked me. Weeks later she came to me with a question that had been on her mind. "Why you give me a statue of some guy named "Art'"?

That threw me. Now we live not on just different worlds, now we live in separate universes. I shook my head and told her I didn't know what she meant. She turned the statue over and showed me a sticker that said "Art". It was useless to try and explain that it was a category put on by the gift store, but I tried anyway. She walked away puzzled by her unusual grandchild.

comets

Old friends are like long arcing comets. We came in contact decades ago and then went our separate ways. One night we looked straight up to we see an object trailing memories silently moving toward where we stand. All a mystery. Sentences carried on like one of us just left the room and then came back. The voices ask one question. "Are you still there?' Then they explain the curvature of space that accounts for their return after such a long absence and the gravity that drew them back to same corner of the universe. Separation will happen again. Comets move on, but the friendship remains for all time.

wedding

I woke up early on Saturday morning caught up in the minutia of wedding details. My age old worries surfaced that something would go wrong. The rented tent by the ocean would be carried out to sea by a gust of wind with the bride and groom hanging on for dear life while trying to say their wedding vows. Or the the caterer would forget my special meal and I would gain back 160 pounds in one day setting a universe record topping some poor slob on Jupiter whose daughter was marrying an octopus like fellow. All of these thoughts were coming and going while I should have been thinking about what to say at the wedding. I calmed down and meditated after saying some prayers and clearing my mind. A writers mind can be crowded place where fanciful ideas wait none too patiently in line to be considered. In the quiet I heard the words "two sisters'. I remembered a poem written years ago and I read it at Julia and Sina's wedding.

Two Sisters

Two sisters snacking on strawberry twisters

Dreaming of future misters

Two sisters playing on the sandy shore

Dreaming about the land of more

Two sisters sailing far away

Dreaming about their wedding day

Two sisters praying in the Holy Shrine

And me dreaming of when they were wholly mine

More New England jokes

I believe these classics were told to me by old friend Steve Thompson. I connected two jokes into one narrative. They show the unique view of life on old planet New England.

A traveling salesman was enjoying a drive through the Vermont countryside on a sunny but brisk cold fall morning when he stopped to admire a postcard view of an apple orchard. He spotted a farmer gathering apples from a tree and felt compelled to ask the man why he was also carrying a pig under one arm. First, he quietly observed the farmer picking apples and putting them in a bushel basket. Then to his surprise, he would take a break and let the pig eat some apples right off a low hanging limb. The big city time conscious salesman just had to ask, "Why don't you let the pig roam around and eat the drops on the ground?"

The man- of- few- words farmer replied, "Pig don't like drops" without altering his routine.

The frustrated salesman answered, "But look at all the time being wasted!"

The farmer turned to the salesman and replied--mildly annoyed that he had to explain something so obvious, "Mister, what's time to a pig?"

In my fantasy world the salesman shakes his head and asks if he could use a bathroom. The farmer takes a break because he also needs one also. They walk over to a two- seater outhouse and proceed to do their business. The farmer finishes first but when he stands up a quarter falls from the pocket of his bib overalls right into the hole. The farmer looks for a minute at his lost coin and then, much to the amazement of the salesman, takes out his wallet, crumples up a ten dollar bill and lets it drop into the hole. The salesman couldn't contain his shock. "Why in the world would you do something like that?"

The farmer quietly replied, "You don't think I'm going to put my hand down that hole for a quarter, do you?"

New England Jokes

I was recording last night with Larry. He wanted a sound check so I began telling him my favorite New England. They are about the fabled distorted view of life that results from having your brain frozen in the brutal winters and the shock of brief thawing period.

Two friends--Jim and Ollie were true Mainers. Men of few words do their penurious nature. Neither one had family or friends left in their declining years. Even between themselves they weren't that social, except for some fishing trips on the ocean--and fishing meant fishing, not talking about fishing. One day the end came for Ollie and Jim wondered what he should do. He went to the newspaper office and was directed to the obituary editor. "I want to put something in the paper about the passing of friend Ollie."

Pen in hand, the editor asked what he wanted to say. After some thought Jim said, "Put in 'Ollie died'"

The puzzled editor just looked at Jim. "That's all. There is a five word minimum. It's going to cost you the same amount of money for two words or five words."

Jim scratched his head searching for inspiration. " Add 'car for sale'"

I need to go to work. Will tell you some more tomorrow. I figure I have told you more than enough sad stories.

old towns in New England

I was traveling through Dover, New Hampshire a few days ago trying to connect with an old friend visiting the area. Sometimes I forget how old the earth is--especially New England earth. A lot of towns like Dover, Exeter, and Portsmouth are graciously borrowed (I would like to think) from their namesakes England. I work in Exeter on the weekends and Phillips Exeter Academy had banners up proclaiming their 231 st graduating class. The son of Abraham Lincoln went to this school and George Washington stayed in one of the old houses. Down the street is a Dunkin Donuts.I can imagine Lincoln's son and George Washington musing about life over a cup of coffee. That's my wonderful problem--imagining a whole bunch of absurd meetings and wild tales. Almost every day a story idea presents itself and finite fingers can't keep up the pace like traveling through Dover. Meandering down Main St. trying to locate where my friend was staying I glanced right for an instant and saw a building aching to tell me its story. I thought about this building over the weekend. It was a well preserved three story brick building with black shutters around white trimmed windows. Over time some of the white painted windows had bled down on the brick leaving faded pale streaks. The process has been going on for decades maybe a hundred years. I want to go back and lean against the bricks and gently suggest that enough tears have fallen. The drying sun is shining, I would whisper. Let it dry your tears. Love to all my brick building friends out there.