celtic_writer

A Skunk, The Lone Ranger and Some Demented Trucker

My mother, Dottie M., had a small sign in her kitchen. It read, "Bloom where you are planted."

It made sense to her, this wooden reminder, as she was a small town girl who signed on to marry a traveling lawyer man, a woman who never liked to venture out to foreign places, a lady who loved to stay put. She probably looked at that quote many times a day, when she was left alone in the suburbs most weekdays with four children. Bloom she must. As CSN&Y sing, "Rejoice. Rejoice. We have no choice."

But it sure made for some interesting stories.

Like the time a skunk walked through the open garage door to discover a chaise lounge in the form of a long-in-the-tooth spare GoodYear tire, a rubber round innocently resting against the garage wall, its inner space readily available for a skunk snooze. My sister, the then-four-year-old Kathy, witnessed this event, and reported it to the mater who was busy trying to make something-from-nothing for dinner one late spring afternoon.

Kathy: "Mommy, there is a bunny in the garage."

Dottie M.: (not really paying much attention, as a woman with many children learns to do, for her own sanity) "Oh? What kind of bunny?"

Kathy: "It's a black bunny, with a white stripe."

Sound the alarm.

My mother had the skill of turning a small event into the Poseidon Adventure, with a little Wreck of the Hesperus mixed in for what-the-heck-and-why-not. Neighbors were summoned, and soon there was a crowd that seemed like New Year's Eve in Times Square gathered on the driveway. My pop Frank J. motored the station wagon home to see the multitude witness my mother hurling mothballs into the garage through that sinister open door. Methinks he stopped the car, rested his forehead on the steering wheel and thought to himself, "Oh my God, the poor woman has finally flipped."

My mother had a simple explanation.

"I read in Helpful Heloise that skunks don't like mothballs."

To which my old man probably replied, "You all should have been sprayed for stupidity."

Frank J. had a solution. He suggested the crowd disperse, found a rake, threaded its long stick though the tire hole, and moved the rubber resting place to the woods. The skunk must've been hard-of-hearing, as it never stirred. Eventually it woke up, stretched its little skunk arms, and wandered off, taking its potential foul-smell to other tires and mothers. We all went to bed exhausted that night, as I recall.

Then there was the ugly "let's chase the semi and its demented driver" incident.

One winter evening, when all had gathered to partake of the evening meal, the typical question "So what did you do today?" was posed. My mother responded,

"Kathy and I chased a trucker."

That piece of information got everyone's attention. The clink of fork-to-plate was heard table-wide.

Seems Dottie M. was out conducting errands, Lone Ranger commandeering the Ford station wagon along Connecticut roads with little Kathy standing behind the front seat positioned as the faithful Tonto, already skilled at such a young age to hold tight to the fake naugahyde of the front seat top as my mother whipped along country roads, or it was "meet your maker time, kid."

An impatient, probably very-high-and-late-for-delivery trucker forced Dottie M., innocent daughter and trusty steed wagon off the road in the rush to get on with it. It got my mother's Irish up, so she regained her rightful position on the asphalt, and gunned it, catching up to the poor unsuspecting truckah. The consistent flashing of the Ford's headlights convinced the lad to pull his rig over into a gas station to bear witness to Dottie M's displeasure.

Seems to me we all sat at the dinner table that evening, chins to the floor, not quite believing our ears.

"He pulled off into this gas station, and got out of his truck, " Dottie M. announced. "He was mad at me. He said, 'Lady, what is your problem?' I simple shook my finger at him and said, 'Don't force me off the road!'"

"Jesus, Mom, you could have been killed," my brother Fran offered in response.

Dottie M. replied, "No way. I just talked to him like I talk to you kids."

Yep, you could've been killed.

Happy Mother's Day, Maw...wherever you are.

Easter, Emma & Clapton

It is Easter again. Another resurrection of the moveable feast.

And Emma likes Clapton.

Emma is my niece. She will soon be 14. Eric Clapton turned 68 yesterday. He is one of the world's greatest guitarists.

I saw Eric Clapton play "live" at some point during the 1970s. Went to the concert with a fellow who I remember was crazy about me, but at that point in my life, I had decided to remain clueless about anyone's ardor. When Clapton came on stage to play, the world fell away. We all know about flow, about losing yourself in your work, so much so that nothing else exists. Motorcyclists talk about the Zen of being one with the machine. When Clapton straps on a guitar, he is just who he is supposed to be.

The music.

At 11, I learned to play the guitar. It was spring, and I had inherited a red-and-black acoustic from my brother Kev, who received the instrument for Christmas, but held no interest in playing. I took a group class at the nearest YMCA. The first evening my teacher wore a rodeo dress with a big puffy skirt. She played a Hank Williams song, and hooted and yodeled and sang and danced around. It was then and there that I knew that that was what I wanted to do.

To learn how to become a song.

And Emma loves music. Not the latest popular sounds, but artists like the Beatles and Clapton. At 14, I wanted to go to Woodstock, a fact that caused my mother Dottie M. to believe I must be a drug addict. Music was the most important thing to me. I fell asleep each night with a square transistor radio in a brown leather case hidden under my pillow, tuned to the nearest rock station, a scratchy broadcast at best. But I learned what I thought sounded good and what was incredibly bad.

And Emma continues to teach me. I was there the moment she was born. As I have no children, she taught me what it is like to come into the world. I was kneeling behind her mother on the birthing bed. My sister leaned back against me, and gave a final push. There was Emma, eyes wide open, aware, with long Mohawk hair. She looked left, then right, pulled one shoulder out, then the other. Her mother simply reached down and pulled Emma up to her chest, doing what she was supposed to do. And I wept.

And Emma is an artist. She sent me an illustration of Eric Clapton she drew recently.

She has "the eye". Always has.

She sees the purple tinge in a Black Lab's coat, and knows how some pictures also need a story.

I can see her sitting at the dining room table, many layers down in her work. Lost to the world and anything else that is out there.

Soul

It is Veterans Day, 2012.

Back in March of 2006, I wrote a story about accompanying Doug to The Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, DC. It was a trip that took him 36 years to make. You can read the original here.

The story's synopsis: Doug was an Army Warrant Officer and helicopter pilot in Vietnam from 1969 to 1971. Shortly before Doug finished his tour of duty, a fellow Warrant Officer named Mark J. Robertson and crew switched missions with Doug and his crew. Mark and his men were shot down and the whole crew lost.

Doug found Mark J. Robertson again at The Wall that cold day in DC.

And Doug finally, finally wept.

It is a story that has happened often to so many in warfare...maybe not when flying through the air, but when boots have been firmly on the ground. But stories also have a way of turning themselves inside out for a different view. That's the thing about tragedy: it can start off at one extreme and then pivot and run in the opposite direction. Some people call it catharsis. I think it is also known as soul.

Five years after that day at The Wall and the publication of the original story, a comment was posted on this blog by a man named David P. Fella. He wrote:

"Mark J. Robertson is my wife's first cousin. The traveling Vietnam Wall was recently in our home town in Michigan. When we first heard it was coming we both knew that we wanted to go and see it and find Mark's name. When we got there we went into the information tent and were asked what name we were looking for. After mentioning his name, a volunteer named Lisa pulled out a information sheet with Mark's picture and what information she had and asked my wife, " Is this your cousin? " To my wife's surprise it was him. The volunteer was so excited and had informed us that they had a march for Mark over the Memorial Day weekend two weeks prior. This has brought much excitement to Mark's family and has sparked a renewed interest in finding out more about what happened to him and we came across this blog. What a mind blower. Doug, you and Mark will forever be linked together by fate and God's will. God chose to spare your life and bring Mark home that day. Mark is survived by his father, two brothers, and three sisters. We would like to thank all who have become a part of keeping Mark's memory alive as well as the many other soldiers and their families who have paid the ultimate price for our freedom. Thank you and May God Bless America."

A day later I received an email from Lisa, the volunteer David wrote about:

"Hello. David Fella was kind enough to pass on your email and share Doug Hoyt's story. Doug's visit to DC is such a beautiful story, and I hoped you would be kind enough to share this photo with Doug. This is the sign that was carried in honor of Mark during the Dearborn, Michigan Memorial Day parade in 2011. Additionally, the link below is to the parade itself. You can see the Boy Scout group marching in Mark's honor at approximately the 1:38:52 mark. His name was read aloud during our Memorial ceremony as well. The reading of the names begins at about 2:58 on the video.

Thank you."

So on this Veterans Day, I am thinking about how it would have felt for my own father to have lost a son at war and know nothing about what really happened for so many years. Then, one day, a relative comes to my father with a simple story printed out on a piece of laser paper that proves that his son was a very brave man, that his son is not forgotten, and is honored in thought every day by someone who was there, one of the last people to see him alive.

The soul never dies.

A few years ago Doug and I took a trip to New Zealand. We met an Australian on our travels named Max. Max owns a large station in Australia, and had recently purchased a helicopter to travel about his ranch. When Max found out that Doug was an Army Warrant Officer and flew helicopters in Vietnam, Max stopped, looked up at Doug and simply said, "You guys were legend."

Bimmy

Uncle John.

There was a popular comic strip so way back when called "Bringing Up Father."

Created by George McManus, it chronicled the life and times of a fellah named Jiggs, an Irish guy from the streets, whose life changed quickly when he won a million bucks in the Irish Sweepstakes.

Even though Jiggs became richer than Roosevelt, he still wanted to hang out with his pre-nouveau-riche friends, including Dinty Moore (yes, as in the stew), the owner of Jiggs' favorite tavern. This type of behavior did not sit well with Jigg's wife Maggie, who was constantly after Jiggs to act more "refined."

Jiggs also had a brother-in-law named Bimmy, who was a bit of a bum. The only time he stood upright was to head to the kitchen or the pub. But Maggie and Jiggs supported Bimmy's appetites, as Bimmy always added such comedy to the story line.

My father, Frank J., called you "Bimmy". After all, you were his brother-in-law, and one of his favorite people in this universe. You met at Fordham. Frank J. introduced you to his sister, our beloved Aunt Cookie. Bimmy and Cookie remained married for 50+ years.

You were never a layabout, but our hard-working favorite uncle, the one who would pile 20 kids - related or not - into a station wagon, careening dramatically around corners while yelling "wheeeeeeeeeeeee" out the window, hell-bent on reaching the nearest ice cream shop before we all starved to death.

The man who would try to escape for a nap in a hammock at clan gatherings, only to have a pig pile of kids jump on top of him, so many that the hammock gave way, with all humanity landing in a heap on the ground.

You loved Labrador Retrievers and circus peanuts, your children and refreshed kitchen floors, your wife and the New York Giants. Singing Irish songs and Dunkin Donuts coffee. And you never bought a un-used car in your life.

And you were my godfather. I still have a photo of you holding me in my christening gown, looking down at me as if I was the most special creature on earth. There wasn't a time in my life when I couldn't wait to see you.

And a storyteller...one of the best I have ever known. Listening to you and my father talk together at the kitchen table late in the evenings when our families would merge was writer's tutelage for me. A beginning, a middle, and an end. Timing is everything. Keep them laughing despite life's foibles...jobs, kids, elderly parents, and mother-in-laws.

I learned of your passing yesterday via modern technology. My niece Emma texted me a message, "You have to call Mom RIGHT NOW!" When I heard my sister's tearful voice, I knew we had lost a good one.

And you were one of those, Bimmy. No question.

Where the Words Are Said

The Celts believed that our heads, our minds, are part of our souls.

And that stories connect.

The journey stories, my favorites, told to me in childhood, felt nourishing, odd and brave.

Brendan the Navigator went on pilgrimages to unknown lands in a tiny leather boat. He said Mass on a whale's back on Easter Sunday. When the Devil showed him the pain of hell, Brendan was serene. He encountered a heathen giant whom he baptized, though did not civilize.

When he reached the island of his vision, Brendan found a hermit clothed in feathers.

Brendan was Leonard Cohen, centuries before.

They proclaimed him a saint. But I don't know any of those. I think he was just a guy on a trip who kept his eyes wide, wide open.

My friend Vicky Johnsen sent me a quote the other day. And it sums up the importance of stories told, the ones we remember, the ones we always knew. It is from a man named Michael Meade:

"There is this old Celtic thing, that there is very little difference between a song and a poem, between a poem and a story, between a story and a prayer, so that anytime someone is singing a song, or telling a story or reading poetry to a child, they are also inviting the child into a prayer. There's never a need to talk down to a child at all…because something in the child already knows all this and is waiting to hear it again.

So that parents and teachers who give great stories or poems to children are feeding this old soul that is in the child and are reassuring the child that they have come to the right world, that, yes, the world may be confusing and increasingly chaotic, but this is the world where the words are said."

-- Michael Meade

The Words of Men

When you visit Key West, there is a story you will hear.

It is a place in Florida...at the southern-most point...before you reach Castro.

If you are listening, you will be told that the writer, Ernest Hemingway, built a wall.

One around his house, down on Whitehead Street.

It is the most crooked wall you will ever see.

Story goes that Hemingway bought the bricks for a penny apiece, then engaged a couple of cases of beer, and one of his good friends, to help him construct the barrier to keep out the world while he wrote.

The buddy's name: Tennessee Williams.

Ernest Hemingway has always been a hero of words to me. And to visit his home in the January humidity, has been like a trip to Mecca.

As an Irish-American child, I learned how to tell a story from listening to the words of men. My father, Frank J., and Uncle John. They knew how to weave them. As a child I was allowed to sit in the kitchen of grown-ups, so way past my bedtime, resting my head on the table, listening.

In high school, I discovered For Whom the Bell Tolls.

And The Sun Also Rises.

A beginning. The middle. Then the end.

Everything is as it should be...as the story goes.

In middle age, I read A Moveable Feast. I continue to live it. So long after the author silenced himself, way up in Idaho, via a gunshot to the head.

When Hemingway was a child of nine, he wrote: "My favorite authors are Kipling, O. Henry and Steauart Edward White. My favorite flowers are Lady Slipper and Tiger Lily. My favorite sports are trout fishing, hiking, shooting, football and boxing. My favorite studies are English, Zoology, and Chemistry. I intend to travel and write."

Hemingway was a man of so many appetites. You see, and feel them, when you tour his southern home. The woman he loved, then left, there. The photos of safaris and fishing in far-off places. The ancestors of cats called Frank Sinatra and Marilyn Monroe, who still sleep on his bed.

And what amazes me most is how such a man of intense pleasure wrote so true, and so carefully.

How he got so much emotion, intention, and life, into such sparse sentences.

"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places," he wrote.

It is true.

And forever possible.

Walt, Jerry Lewis, and the Color of Leaves

Walt.

You were a Black Lab from Occoquan, VA, born of a young mother in a house high on a hill. You were six weeks old when first discovered, sound asleep in a pig pile of puppies, all fat, full and foolish from a recent meal.

When I asked to see the male Black Labs, you and your brother were pulled from the mob. Your sibling had a head like a cow, and was aptly called "Thunderhead." You, the runt, were more demure...for the moment.

When I inquired about your birth date, it matched the same as my mother's favorite cousin. Hence, you were named "Walter", and placed in a box meant for mayonnaise jars on the passenger seat of the van for the journey home. We weren't even out the driveway of your birthplace before you put your big puppy paws over the edge of the container to have a better look at me. And you started talking, in puppy-ese, letting me know what was on your mind as we motored along. And for almost twelve years, we kept the conversation going.

When we got home, Margaret slid off the couch, sniffed you, then looked at me as if to say, "Thanks, I'll take it from here." And she did. She hauled you by the neck down six stairs of a split level to the yard when there was ever a hint that you might have to pee. She taught you the ropes, growling low in her throat when you did something to displease her, always licking the side of your face when you came in from the yard, muddied, but happy.

And then there was The Kong, the red fetch toy bought back by Yvette from Germany for Einstein the Rottweiler. But you loved it, and, with Einstein's indifference, made it your own. In your early years, that toy encouraged you to act like a total jackass...Jerry Lewis in a Dog Suit. You were relentless in requesting the toy be thrown for you. And that same hard-headedness was on display again today, when, because the cancer had spread to your left hip and lungs, and you were in such pain, it took three shots of medicine to finally make you go to sleep. You kept trying to get up, to live. The vet, amazed, told me she has never seen an animal with a will like yours. So today, that spirit I loved so much, simply broke my heart.

It is Fall here in New England, and elsewhere, and the leaves are at peak color. The Zen Masters say that when we die, our spirits return to a big bucket of energy to become something else in the world. So Walt, are you now the color of leaves, the red, orange and yellow that I see outside the window as I write this? It makes sense to me that you are.

But, I have to say, my all-time favorite memory of you is the hike along the trail in Canyon Lake, Texas, when you, Doug and I happened upon the twin deer fawns, not more than a few days old, laying in the path. Their mother was trying to move them to a safer place when we happened upon them, and she ran the perimeter around us, frantically trying to distract us from her young. You smelled them first, and ran to where they lay, their little heads tucked between their front legs. I called to you, "Walt! Stop!" as you put your nose in between the fawn's heads to sense what they were about. With no intention of harming them, you looked up at us, as if to say, "Look at these beautiful things we have found."

Your absolute goodness. That is what I will miss most about you.

Baton Dreams, The Bomb, and The Swan Lake Sergeant

It's the end of summer here in New England.

Acorns are falling, and drum majorettes are out and about.

While motoring my bicycle along a country road the other morning, I passed a young baton-swingin' woman dressed in majorette costume, marching smartly down the street. A parade of her own, she threw a dazzling baton up in the cool air, and caught it, expertly, behind her back.

The baton.

An article of enthusiasm that almost got me arrested at a very young age.

HISTORY: My mother, Dottie M., always had it in her head that perhaps, maybe one day, I would be someone else.

That is...1) able to piece cloth together so it acceptably covers one's body fashionably in public, and, 2) to become a ballet dancer.

Please understand that grace is not my middle name. Dottie M. insisted on enrolling me, then age seven, in ballet class.

"You need to dance. We are going out to buy a pink tutu for you right now," she announced one day after school.

At that moment, I just wanted to go ride my bike.

But, I had discovered the night before that this ballet shtick was a "two-for-one" deal. The dance school brochure, lying naked on the kitchen table, shamelessly available for anyone's perusal, showed pictures of ballet students also learning how to twirl batons.

Sign me up.

I liked the enthusiasm of the baton twirlers I saw as a child. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade featured high-stepping young women wearing square sparkly hats, twirling metal batons fitted with a weighted bulb at each end, backed by a marching band playing "Stars and Stripes Forever".

They were fit, these participants in parades, and did tough things while smiling the whole time. I wanted to learn to be like them. So I endured the fitting of the pink tutu and tights and little soft shoes for the ballet part of the class, so I could get on the road to majoring in majorette.

The Saturday morning of the first ballet class, it was determined that my brothers also needed revision in the form of refreshed crew cuts, and that my father Frank J. would take them in the red Ford station wagon, with baby Kathy riding shotgun in the toddler seat.

That meant the method of transportation to ballet class would be in an additional family auto known as The Bomb.

It was a pea green 1946 Buick you could drop off a cliff and nothing would happen to it, a car Frank J. purchased for 50 bucks from a guy at work. It was embarrassment on wheels. It farted and choked and gasped its way down the street, its horsehair seats itchy against the back of your legs, its noise an audio warning of impending air pollution.

But it got you where you were going, and my mother was determined to drive me to culture, no matter the mode. I was glad to accompany her so I could join the big league of baton twirlers.

When Dottie M. pulled the car into a parking space near the front door of the dance school, The Bomb was particularly flatulent. As she turned the auto off, it backfired and sent a huge cloud of black smoke billowing out its tailpipe. Mothers moved quickly to usher their perfectly-pink children through the dance school front door to avoid the oncoming soot. Dottie M. and I waited for the proverbial dust to settle before leaving The Bomb.

When class started, I felt like Olive Oyl in a world of tinier childhood counterparts. I stood taller and sturdier than all the other girls. The Maternal Peanut Gallery sat in wooden chairs against the studio walls, each pointing out to the others the lovely student who was her tutu-ed offspring. They all cooed and clucked about how cute we children were, when secretly, each hoped her child showed such dancing skill as to pirouette the others into graceful oblivion.

Our instructor was a Martha Graham wanna-be, She had a flat, nasally voice and, seemed to me, wore more red lipstick than Bozo the Clown. She haughtily moved us through the five "positions" deemed important for the budding ballerina to master. Squat, bend, touch your heels, face those feet forward, form a straight line, keep your balance. The Swan Lake Sergeant moved us through our paces, snottily speaking, "one, and two, and keep your balance, and, girls, girls, you are much better than this, backs straight, head up, look at me, not the floor, gracefully, girls, graceful."

Finally, ballet hour over, Miss Sarge turned us over to a young, enthusiastic teenage girl named Beth who gave us each a baton, and spoke to us so loudly that I am sure she thought we were deaf. She showed us how to hold the baton and do a simple twirl, actions we fumbled with, some dropping the sparkling sticks, others catching a baton bulb under an armpit during a twirl.

Then Beth gave a demo, her baton spinning like a helicopter's blades, passing it from one hand to the other, twirling it behind her back, then throwing it up high in the air. "You can do this too," she said. Taking her comment literally, we threw our batons up towards the ceiling with wild abandon. Only problem was mine fell to earth to land on the head of the child standing next to me, knocking the kid out cold.

The little girl, whose name I forget, did come to, and in her dazed condition, held witness with the rest of us the utter chaos of the Maternal Peanut Gallery whipped into an emotional lather. She had a knot on her head the size of Nebraska, and a mother with a beehive hairdo who was not too pleased. Beth was reprimanded for giving such an enthusiastic instruction, and mother-to-mother, it was eventually agreed that it was an accident, the little girl would survive, and no harm was meant. Dottie M. and Miss Sarge eventually soothed all the ruffled feathers, and, needless to say, it was decided that my dancing days were over.

When Dottie M. and I left the dance school, the parking lot was empty. The Bomb was awakened from its slumber, and coaxed into starting one more time for the trip home. Since this was before the days of cellphones, my mother could not relate the dance hall happenings to my father until she saw him in person.

My parents always talked together in the kitchen, at the table, after we were all put to bed. I always loved to watch them do this, as they were in love then, and would hold hands as they talked. I snuck out into the hall of the split level that night to a place where I could see my parents talking in the kitchen a level below. My mother was telling my father the "baton falling from the sky" story, and relating the bedlam that ensued. My father laughed so hard he was crying, and finally wiped his eyes with a napkin. He and my mother hugged each other then, and kissed, parents of children who are characters.

Majorette Image: http://www.cratelabelsonline.com/orange3.html

Remarkable Things

A trip into nature taught me I could love something new.

I was six years of age, on a carefully-planned, permission-slip-OK'd excursion to a local farm.

Once off the bus, we were taken to a barn where there was a big iron circle that held lots of yellow things that moved.

Chicks.

The place where they huddled was golden. A tall man, wearing jeans, picked up a chick and taught me how to hold it gently in my hand, its belly supported by my small palm, tiny legs extended through the cracks between my fingers.

The chick looked up at me, chirped and chatted. I looked closely at its small face, its round, black eyes, studied how my breath softly rustled the yellow down on its head.

I knew then that this was a remarkable thing. I understood I could love something foreign to my current realm of knowing. That I could embrace a creature, or place, outside my family.

I sat there holding the chick while the others petted goats and stared at cows, climbed on hay bales, and laughed at the mud of pigs.

I simply listened and watched the tiny bird, cupping it like a gift. I imagined raising both hands to the sky, like the priest did at Mass, holding the chick up towards forever.

When it was time to go, a teacher was summoned to help convince me to release the chick, to let the man in jeans put it back where it belonged, with its kind, with the others.

I cried into the warmth of my teacher's coat as she patiently held me, waiting for the end of my upset before mixing me with the other kids for the trip back to school.

I stared out the window of the bus on the road back, leaned my face against the hard, soon-to-be-winter-cold window. I had held something unique in my young hands, a lesson that was warm, yet raw.

It was the first time I realized that life was about discovery, and also, became aware of its dichotomy. That if I wanted to get at life, I couldn't let any of it hold me back.

So, as time continues on, there are still remarkable things.

* My friend Phyll paints beautiful portraits of people. We have known each other over thirty years, and I never knew she loved to paint. Last year I stood in The Getty Center in Los Angeles and looked for a very long time at a painting called Portrait of Jeanne Kefer by Belgian artist Fernand Khnopff. It reminded me of a lovely, simple painting Phyll created of her granddaughter Claire.

* My mother had a beautifully-shaped head. I did not discover this until she was diagnosed with brain cancer, and lost her hair due to radiation treatments. My mother became a child again in the last days of her life, eating small green grapes from a white bowl held for her, turning her beautiful head to look at the remainder of her world with the utmost wonder.

* My old Labbie Margaret slipped and fell into a quick-rushing river in the western mountains of Virginia. Doug, without a thought, without considering that Margaret was old and past her time, that he had just spent $300 on a new pair of hiking boots, simply jumped in the water, and dove, and dove again until he found the old black dog who was struggling for air in the dark, swirling water, and hauled her safely to shore.

* In Burgdorf, Idaho, I heard an elk cry out, to "trumpet" some message into the cold, clear night. I thought it was a train, the sound so powerful. We were camped on top of a mountain that evening, with a glorious view of the curved sky, a spiral arm of the Milky Way, with stars so big and bright and numerous. Seeing our breath as we sat in the center of the globe of the world.

from the book Driving Mystic by Mary Gillen
Excerpt of chapter "Remarkable Things"
Publication Date: June 2011
© 2011 Mary Gillen

Images:
The Proud Mother Hen and Chicks 1852, by John Frederick Herring. Found at 1st-art-gallery.com

Portrait of Jeanne Kefer, 1885. Fernand Khnopff, Belgian, 1858-1921. The Getty Center, Los Angeles, CA

Happy Bastille Day & the Drunk Good Humor Man

My friend Penny left a comment on Facebook today, in response to a message of "Happy Bastille Day Everyone!" that I scribbled via keyboard on my Wall.

She wrote:

"Wow, someone else who remembers Bastille Day! I'm half French, what's your Irish-self excuse? ;-)"

I have to confess that it is all because of an issue of Mad Magazine and a real-time, usually-drunk Good Humor Man of my childhood that I remember Bastille Day.

When I was a kid, my two older brothers had a subscription to Mad Magazine, that goofy tome that made a point of making fun of absolutely everyone who deserved it, thank goodness, with bylines that consisted of "written and illustrated by The Usual Gang of Idiots."

Still being published today, Mad offers cartoon commentary on current affairs, such as the "Scumbag Billionaire", a full-color poster available for download.

I remember wrestling an issue of Mad away from Fran and Kev one afternoon when I was a young girl. I turned to a page where there was a cartoon of a rather inebriated Old Saint Nick character, stupified by some chemical substance found in his stocking, flying in his sleigh through the streets of a city, screaming "Happy Bastille Day" at shocked bystanders. I thought that was pretty normal, considering the Good Humor Man we had in the neighborhood at the time showed the same type of interesting behavior.

The ice cream man looked just like your vision of Mr. Claus, a tubby chap with rosy cheeks, white hair and snowy beard. But God help you if you actually wanted to buy some ice cream from him.

He would never stop.

Here's how it went:

It was usually a Saturday. Your father had just finished mowing the lawn. You would hear the enticing jangle of bells off in the distance. Good Humor Man! You'd run up to your room to grab that part of your allowance money you had hidden in a safe place, just enough for a Strawberry Shortcake or a Chocolate Eclair, then book it out to the curb to wait your turn to buy some frozen confection. You would see his boxy white truck off in the distance. All the neighborhood kids waiting with you would be as eager to buy a treat.

Soon the Good Humor Man was a block away. And then he was whizzing right past you, a DUI dream, going around the corner in his Good Humor truck at about 50 miles per hour, waving wildly and yelling something incoherent, then zooming away.

That's when my father, and some of the other neighborhood dads, witnessing the horde of their crying ice cream-less children, would run after the Good Humor Man, trying to get him to stop. But Old Santa would already be gone, dashing off to his next hangover.

Happy Bastille Day indeed!

Soon Jolly Old Good Humor was sent off to the Irish Alps to dry out, and we never saw him again. He was replaced by another driver, a skinny joyless fellow who did stop, and when directed by your order, opened a square door on the side of the truck, and reached through the cold steam to find your ice cream. He always held the ice cream back until you handed him your money. If he had to give you change, he pushed down angrily on the buttons of a metal coin changer he wore on his belt.

Perhaps he needed a copy of Mad.

Image of Alfred E. Newman: http://www.dccomics.com/mad/