The Front Porch Times

THANKS, GRANDMA

Frontporch — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 06:38:54 GMT

It is not a hard secret that this will be Grandma's last Thanksgiving.

What is hard is the knowledge of this bitter truth, facing this holiday of tradition for the last time with the one dear soul who has held together and defined the traditions of our clan in years longer than I can lay claim to in this life, and more than Grandma herself will admit to.

And as I watch my Grandmother in her dying, her battle to stay with this life is one of stubborn dignity, calmly fighting the determination of her afflictions. Grandma is hell bent on remaining ordinary with what little time there is left to her, despite the maddening skirmishes where normalcy must be surrendered to adaptation. Death, even without the mystery, is a big change.

In the anger of it all I had lost my religion. My faith has always been one of this world and this life, not of bibles and churches, but of believing in the reasoning of a higher power and finding my destiny within those reasons. I understand that Grandma has lived many years on this earth and that everyone has their time, whether short or long. But my sadness lies in the fear I have found suddenly, as I watch our world dissolve into a ridicules insanity, that just as we need her sweet strength more than ever before, she will be leaving us to deal with all the reasons without her.

I didn't want to know anymore that this was going to be Grandma's last Thanksgiving.

I didn't want to think about it, sitting at the table and trying to pretend that it isn't sitting there with us, the ache of death and it's promise.

“You need to cheer up, grandson,” she says, catching me on the porch in my consternation, “and you need to quit smoking. It causes cancer.”

“Well, I guess you would know, Grandma.”

“Ouch! Now go ahead, say something about my grumpy husband and really hurt my feelings,” she teases, whipping me with one of her thin, snow white dish towels, the kind I've always assumed that all grandma's use.

She steals a sit in Grandpa's rocker and we watch the world for a moment together.

I try to find words to say, anything – everything. I want to tell her so many things. I don't want to waste this moment. I don't want to lose this time. I realize then that she is staring at me, Grandma style.

“Quit reading my mind, Grandma.”

She closes her eyes, then smiles and says, “Do you realize that because everyone knows that these are my last holidays on this good Earth, everyone is coming home? This family hasn't been together as a whole since you were a little skinned knee boy, Duane.”

She opens her eyes against her tears and finds mine.

“Just imagine. The entire family together. It's like a dream, isn't it?”

“Just like a dream, Grandma.”

“Knowing certain things are better than spending the next holidays in regret, don't you think?”

“Yes I do, Grandma,” I agree, wiping my eyes with my shirt sleeve.

She struggles to her feet, waving off my offer of help, then stops a moment to squeeze my shoulder before heading inside the house. Feeling her touch, I try again to find the words, any words, to make a contribution to this future memory. I am magnificent in my failure.

“I have to start the cooking,” she says. “You're not going to spend all afternoon on the front porch, cryin' like a sissy, are you, Duane?” She laughs and makes a quick getaway inside the house.

“I don't like old people,” I call after her. “I never have liked old people!”

Grandma laughs herself all the way to the kitchen.

One day soon I will have to say goodbye to my grandmother.

I will continue with my reasons, and she will move on with hers. It will be a big change for both of us. She will have the immortality of my memories. I will have the comfort of her wisdom. I am thankful for this.

ARE YOU THROUGH YET?

Frontporch — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 01:49:16 GMT

“God, George, what you've done to us won't pass for lovin'.”

Is this really happening?

Law makers told their constituents that they needed to bail-out the financial institutions to help save the economy.

And that money isn't going to the folks in foreclosure, but the upper management people are getting their bonuses.

Ouch, truth hurts, doesn't it America. Merry Christmas – for some people.

Now the big three auto makers in Detroit are asking for 25 billion to save their uh, bottom end.

Yet there are several auto makers in other parts of the country keeping afloat. Sniff . . . sniff . . . sniff . . smell that?

Smells like some good ol' non-union cookin' going on.

Instead of the 25 billion, how 'bout $1.00 and hiring new management.

We won't play the lottery this week.

37 States are facing deficits next year. Governors are talking about cutting services and raising taxes.

Soooooooooo – no more social services for the out of work people, folks who have lost their homes or don't have health care. No more school sports or bands.

How about a Tax payer Bail-out.

AN AMERICAN PRAYER

Frontporch — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 05:30:34 GMT

It was a mild night as far as Autumn nights lay in Oregon, so the family spent the time on the front porch.

If the slack in the cable is taken up a piece, the television can be moved a turn, and with the screen door propped open with Chopper, Grandma's ferocious chihuahua, the election results could be seen Al Fresco, Sasquatch Springs style.
   In jubilation there was no parade, for the fear still lingered. A lot of talk and intentions doesn't sooth the oppression of the policies that the current administration imposed on it's own citizens.
   Our fervent hope is that our new leader can grasp the winds of change, for the winds of change blow whether one feels the breeze, or damns the storm that they seek shelter against.
   On the front Porch, we see a man who raised himself above all else and promised to bring US, back together as one. That is what we see, because we weren’t raised any other way.
   And the fear still lingers on the steps of the porch, not because we don’t believe in the visions of this man, but because those that don’t believe might take drastic measures.
   Let us hope, if that is the way that you pray, that our new President can rebuild our faith and our pride, and that he himself doesn’t fall victim to what we have become.

SUNDAY SERMON

Frontporch — Sun, 26 Oct 2008 05:17:56 GMT

"Very few established institutions,
governments and constitutions...
are ever destroyed by their enemies
until they have been corrupted
and weakened by their friends."
-- Walter Lippmann
(1889-1974)

People want the world to make sense.

They find their reasons in convenient rationalism

then mask their convictions behind brilliant disguises

so those with opposite opinions might express

their discretion in a sensible manner.

-- d.o. Foreman

(September 11, 2008)

Science has it's cause and it's result.

The only explaination for the holes

in the fabric of it's theories

is God.

-- Grandma

(Later that same day)

BULLETS & BLAME

Frontporch — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 06:42:01 GMT

“Whatever you say, people are going to label you. Whatever you believe, people are going to judge you.”

   She finds the morning cold, but thankful to find it at all. The smell of her husband’s coffee pulls her from the blankets and the Oregon October reminds her of just how many Autumns her life has seen.
   She catches him, leaning in the doorway holding a cup of coffee in his hand. The age of his days have seemed to quicken it’s pace these past few months, leaving it’s mark more deeply in the lines drawn across his face, and the furrow of his brow.
   “Good morning.”
   “Is it a good morning, Orval?”
   “Every morning that you’re still with me is a good morning,” he says, handing his wife of fifty-some years the cup of coffee.
   She smiles because he always makes her smile. He doesn’t smile anymore.
   “That’s hot,” he cautions, as she sips from the mug. He doesn’t know that the medications leave her numb and un-feeling. She hates the heart-ache that has conquered his eyes, and thinks that he doesn’t need to know every little detail of her demise.
   “I guess I’m taking too long to die, Orval. You have the weight of it written about your face.”
   He fumes some, because he doesn’t like being reminded of the elephant in the room.
   “You’re looking old these days, Orval. You need to cheer up a little. Go fishing or something - get out from underneath all this.”
   “I’ve been old for a long time, Ruby, as if you hadn’t noticed. And I can’t go fishing if I’m to finish that greenhouse you wanted built.”
   Sometimes Orval wondered if the cancer had found it’s way into his wife’s mind. She mostly kept to her ways, but instances of strange behavior would rise to the surface, usually when she was quietly enjoying the farm from the front porch.
   “I guess that greenhouse can wait a day,” she says.
   Sure it can, but can you? He thinks to himself.
   She had always wanted a greenhouse, though it had remained one of those things in life that time never found enough of itself to get around to. Suddenly, in her illness, it became a demand.
   “We need to get off the Grid, Orval.” It had been a hot August night spent waiting for a cool breeze to find the porch when she had said this. Between sips of lemonade he attempted the small talk that long-in-the-tooth couples engage in, but he couldn’t shake the words Ruby had used or the way she had said them.
   “Next you’ll be wanting us to move up to northern Idaho and start stockpiling our bunker,” Orval quipped.
   “A greenhouse will get our garden through the winter months, Orval. And you’re going to need bullets.”
   “I am?”
   “A lot of bullets, Orval. I got me a feeling.”
   Now, two months later, as Orval follows his beloved wife to the kitchen, he notices her gait to be a little more uncertain, her manner a little more stiff than the piss and vinegar swagger she held on that summer night.
   They found their grandson at the kitchen table drinking Grandpa’s coffee.
   “You help your Grandfather finish up that greenhouse today, Duane.”
   “I gotta look for work this morning, Grandma.”
   “I thought you were still sick.”
   “If the doctors don’t see anything on their scans and x-rays, then I guess there’s nothing wrong, Grandma. It doesn’t matter how sick I say I feel.”
   “Well, you help Grandpa this afternoon then, if you can. Are you still writing those stories on that Internet gadget?”
   “Not in a while, Grandma. Writing stories don’t pay the bills.”
   “Well, I liked those stories.”
   “Of course you did,” Grandpa cuts in, “you were the hero in all them stories.”
   The three of them laugh together, a good sound for the warmth of the kitchen to remember. For a moment, Orval forgets that his wife of fifty-some years is dying. And grandson Duane catches a fond memory to keep for the rest of his life.
   “You keep writing those stories, Duane. All hell’s gonna break loose before too long and your Grandpa’s going to need something to read while he’s sitting on the front porch with his shotgun.”
   Duane and his Grandfather exchange a puzzled look.
   “And you tell them people on that Internet gizmo,” Grandma continues, “that Russia and Germany are partnering up and going to sneak up our backside by way of South America. I got a feeling.”
   Orval grins and throws his grandson a wink. Duane sets his coffee mug in the sink then gives his Grandmother a hug.
   “You’re a spooky old broad, Grandma.”

PLUMBERS & PNN

Frontporch — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 03:49:31 GMT

‘Being American means still caring enough about your country to take a stand against the elements that conspire to eliminate the freedoms that define us.’

The summer of 2007 was spent being homeless. I originally became an Internet Journalist to document the experiences that a blue collar middle-class family endures after losing a business and a home to illness.

I am not going to tell the story again, I have been telling it for over a year now, here on PNN and a few Internet spaces before. Cnn wasn’t asking me for an interview, Presidential candidates weren’t reaching to shake my hand. I was merely another statistic, another case number, another plumber out of work, sick and in debt.

There are more people in this situation now, so more attention is being paid to this issue. Not people living 'just a paycheck away', or 'on the edge' as the media prefers, but American citizens that have fallen over that ledge, barely surviving.

Here is someone else living on the edge . . .

“This piece of Afghanistan reminds me of eastern Oregon. I guess you would call them both high desert places, though the streams and rivers in Oregon run with Rainbow, and the little creek at the bottom of the hill where I am hiding is festered with the casualties of our last battle.

“Once the dust settles and the screaming echoes away, I allow myself a moment to consider the sky. Crisp and light, but magnificently blue, the same sky that held up the towers for just a few moments longer before they fell into history.

“As I lay on this Afghan hillside waiting for reinforcements I embrace the possibility of death and what impact my life has left in this country whose people hide in caves and have never set eyes on America.”

CLOSE KNIT AGAIN

Frontporch — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 16:05:14 GMT

It is a tapestry of our family’s ancestry. Beginning seven generations ago in the Swedish countryside where an infant was christened AxelRod on the morne of his birth, and comforted against the drastic bringing of his soul into this world by his young mother, Sylvia, who embraced her first child with a simple patchwork of fleece and fabric.

The quilt was sewn of small squares which held all the colors of the rainbow, and woven with various scenes that depicted the family’s rural way of life.

Sylvia fretted that she hadn’t accomplished a proper proportion sufficient to cover her offspring, procrastination being a subtle practice sprinkled amid her Scandinavian manners, and AxelRod, before he was known as such, could not wait for the world to behold him and thus arrived on his own accord, forty days before schedule, making Sylvia’s first son and his first quilt a perfect fit in both their tiny magnitudes.

Being the first born secured AxelRod the privilege of keeping our clan’s first heirloom, the only article at that time which was crafted by a family member. Being of the poorer caste, most possessions then were of the bartered and ‘previously owned’ variety, especially garment and household things. Luxuries, if any, were procured for instruments that allowed the farm to continue to produce the crop.

Twenty-three years later when AxelRod and his wife, Karen, welcomed their first born, Brenda, the baby was swaddled in the quilt which was now larger with several newer squares fashioned by Karen during her pregnancy. And so it has gone.

The quilt migrated from the lands of our Viking heritage to live a piece of life in Germany. It grew right along with our family, becoming more than an heirloom, it settled as a tradition where not only the mother-to-be would sew her part, but also their sisters, aunts, grandmothers and cousins would join in circle and stitch in concert.

The quilt stayed in Scotland for a generation when Scotch was added to our pedigree, then migrated across the angry ocean to the Carolina’s. It has traveled across the mid-western prairies in a covered wagon, then traveled back east again aboard a steam train. From Arkansas it found Oregon, from Oregon to California.

From California the quilt, now large enough to cover two king sized beds, returned to Oregon when I made my way back home. Having left California in dire straights, I was forced to hock all of my inherited treasures for fuel. The quilt had never lain in another clan’s grasp, and though it was now a magnificent tapestry of our colorful history and would be coveted by collectors, such a treason as selling it to the highest bidder was never an option, even with knowing that I would be forgiven this sin by my Grandmother.

"If you were in need, then it would serve it’s purpose and the care of those before you would stand along side you," she told me upon my arrival home.

But I don’t believe that the love and pride of my ancestors would survive through so many years just to afford me a few tanks of gasoline - but, I don’t believe in arguing with Grandma either!

I approached Grandma with the news that my now ex-wife had not added any squares to the quilt when our son was born. I was filled with trepidation because I had broken the tradition and despite the fact that I am basically the black sheep of the family (if there is such a thing in our family), our heritage is very important to me.

"Well sir, you just go and grab that son of yours and we’ll sit down and I’ll show you how it’s done," says Grandma. "Just because you’re menfolk doesn’t mean that you can’t take up the needle."

"That’s not what I’m getting at, Grandma. It’s just so big, I don’t know what J.J. is going to do with it."

Grandma thought a spell on this. "Now, I don’t know if this will go over kosher with the ancestors, but I believe I have an idea that will fit this problem."

With the care of a surgeon and hopefully the blessings of the spirits of many dead ancestors, Grandma divided the tapestry into six equal sections. One section she gave to me so in turn that I can give it to my son, J.J., when the time comes for him to welcome his first born, the time for me to pass it forward into the future of our clan. The five remaining sections she will bestow upon the first born cousins.

"I hope I didn’t lay down any bad Juju by doing this," Grandma said, as she taught my son the needle, repairing the edge where she had done the cutting.

"Oh, Grandma - there isn’t going to be any spooks coming to get ya," my son chimed in, his religion bending more towards the alien theory of a higher power. "Besides, it just grew, like the family does. The family doesn’t have just one thread - or one branch, why should the quilt? It’s like that family tree crap they try to teach you in school."

My son smiled at his Great-Grandmother, and she smiled back, one of the few times an answer of hers didn’t involve words. I watched the two of them at their chore together on the mending of our family history and I thanked whatever spirits that I’m not sure I believe in, for allowing me to see their two souls meet on this plain.

Another special note.

My former partner, Preston Law, is posting some of his stories and musings HERE while he is finishing his debut novel. He just began working on this, but I believe he has a story posted for your reading pleasure. If you have a moment or two, stop on by and knock on his door. Thanks.

CLOSE KNIT part 2

Frontporch — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 17:40:46 GMT

Well, one weekend turned itself into three weeks.

Uncle Henry, (actually, no-one calls him ‘uncle’ because he is aunt Susie’s fifth husband), couldn’t pull his Plymouth back from the clutches of vehicle perdition where it caught hellfire in the middle of our driveway.

Unfortunately, it also sparked up the grass of the front 40 and lit up the night in such a manner that folks living some eight miles away saw the glow. Fortunately, it was a windless summer night and we had the flames under control by the time the fire department arrived, about thirty-five minutes after the call went out.

"Hey, that fire fightin’ job looks like a sweet deal," said Uncle Henry, a state worker for the office of such & such, down Lane County way.

"[ language blocker ] - Henry," Grandpa yelled, chasing Uncle Henry clear up a holler where the night spooks and Boogens lay in wait, just itchin’ for a chance to have a go at a chubby city boy.

"That man doesn’t have the sense God gave a turkey," Grandpa muttered when he got back to the porch an hour later and still in a lather. "He can just stay up there for the rest of the night."

All right, calm down Grandpa. Now, where was I? - That’s right, the fire - anyways, the Captain of the ‘responding’ fire department said that they were going to send Grandpa a bill for burning down his own hay and causing them to show themselves up in the wee hours, disturbing the general peace, disturbing the serenity of a calm summer night, and disturbing the restful sleep of the firehouse.

"You dumb sons of - [language blocker ] didn’t get here until after the fire was out! Everybody was headin’ back to bed when you all came blarin’ in with your sirens screaming!" Grandpa chased the firemen also, except they had enough good sense to jump on their fire engine and head down the driveway.

"I didn’t realize that I would be gettin’ so much exercise tonight, when I went to bed five hours ago."

Grandma had breakfast ready as the new day dawned upon the farm. We never did get back to bed after all the commotion, so when the smells of her biscuits and gravy filled the house, everyone realized how hungry they were and a stampede ensued toward the kitchen.

Nearly the entire family was there, five generations under one roof, and a few of the neighbors who had helped fight the fire, when I saw something I had never seen before - Grandpa grasping hands within the prayer circle for the giving of thanks before the meal.

In our family, prayin’ before a meal is usually only done during the holidays and Grandpa always waited in another room until he heard the ‘amen’.

But lately, since the cancer has begun taking it’s toll on Grandma, she has been seeking the strength of her God and giving thanks at every meal.

I saw some tears in Grandma’s eyes as she saw Grandpa join in the circle ‘round the table, and I believe he did so for Grandma’s sake, because he doesn’t know how else to help her fight the cancer other than calling on a higher power to send down some miracles. I don’t believe Grandpa has ever liked God, and I’d like to hear the story behind his reasons why, but he’s never been face to face with a force more stubborn, stronger or deadlier than himself - until the curse of cancer found our home and family.

I’m not going to repeat the words that Grandma prayed that morning, they will only be for those of us who were there. But Grandma has always said that, "it doesn’t matter who your God is, just as long as you give thanks when giving thanks is called for."

I can tell you what I believe, though. I believe that Grandpa is the second strongest being on this earth. Right behind Grandma.

Amen.

Special Note:

Our hometown hero, PBR champion bull rider Ross Coleman raised $50,000 for the Make A Wish Foundation with his Ross Coleman Invitational Bull Riding event in Molalla, Oregon. Please donate to this very special organization if you can. A link to them is on Ross Coleman’s site, rosscoleman.com Ross Coleman is one of America’s top athletes, and a good guy who helps his friends and his community. Cruise his web site and show your support.

CLOSE KNIT (part 1)

Frontporch — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 19:35:09 GMT

2:33 A.M., this morning. The farm was settled into sleep when a ruckus erupted out on the highway. Since our property borders a particularly deceiving bend of the road, we are accustomed to hearing the occasional skid and crunch of vehicles launching into the Front Forty where they may be introduced to any one of an assortment of stationary objects.

(Except in winter when Grandpa puts Steve, his prized bull in the front 'yard'. Steve is possessed with deceptionaly quick movement)

Our barbed-wire fence is usually the first member of the family that these errant individuals say howdy to and are considered lucky if the introductions stop there. Asphalt astronauts who insist of getting a closer look at Grandpa's tractor or Grandma's apple orchard (or Steve the bull, in winter), are more than likely to require some sort of assistance with various consequences which might include extraction from twisted metal, reconnaissance of eyes, teeth or limbs, and or relationship issues with a 2000 pound ill-tempered bull. (in the winter months).

Dubbed the Drunk Catcher, or The Tourist Teaser, this piece of the highway is often the last conscience part of an individual's trip before making their aquaintence with Grandma and her first-aid kit, Grandpa and his welder or chain saw, or me with a pair of handcuffs from my bounty-hunting days. (I've no tolerance for drunk drivers)

So this morning, with the din of destruction ringing in our waking ears, the adult folks of the household jumped from their respective beds in readiness. Then, something stopped us all in our tracks. Something different. Upon hesitation, we heard the sound of the catastrophe continue. And not only were these hideous crash sounds not coming to an end, it sounded as if they were moving up our driveway!

Grandpa headed for the front door and the porch beyond, Grandma right behind with her first-aid kit and her newest piece of equipment, the Pulse Paddles.(Clear!) I grabbed my shotgun and followed them both.

"What in tarnation are you gonna do with that scatter gun?" Grandpa asked me.

"I'm going to put whatever is crawling up our driveway out of it's misery," I said.

"Just put it away for now," Grandpa advised, "I doubt anything that loud and ugly sounding will require firearms to subdue. Whatever it is, it sounds like it's dyin' already."

From the front porch we saw come, from out of the darkness at the end of the driveway, in a sickening cloud of smoke and screaming metal, one of the most blasphemous of contraptions - a 1973 Urine Yellow Plymouth station wagon.

"Who the hell is that and why are they coming here?" I wondered.

"Fetch back that scatter gun," said Grandpa.

The beast of a machine smoked, screamed, retched and hiccuped it's way up the driveway toward the steps of the porch where it died thus, farting out a plume of smoke, the color of which I'd not experienced before.

"Why, that's Susie Sharon and the family," Grandma exclaimed, heading for the car.

"Hi, ya'll," Susie Sharon said, waving her arm out of the passenger window, apparently oblivious to the chaos unfolding around her. "We've come for the weekend!"

Grandma, already at the car, bent through the window to hug Aunt Susie. Susie Sharon's husband, Henry, merely sat behind the steering wheel of the vehicle, grinning through the windshield like an insurance salesman. In the backseat slept Carol Alice, Aunt Susie's twenty year old daughter, and Camry, Carol Alice's baby and the newest edition to our clan.

"It's going to be a long weekend," I said to Grandpa.

"Let's hope that it's just a weekend," Says Grandpa. "Come on. We better get them kids out the backseat before that car catches fire."

SASQUATCH SPRINGS

Frontporch — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 17:39:19 GMT

Just a wide spot on the highway. The forest has left enough room at the edge to fit a market and a couple of fuel pumps. About 'round are the farms and fences of folks and the lives they carry in this world.

It's Cascade foothill country. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer and close enough to the city for a visit, just a sliver too far to commute. The mail man can always find us, the pizza dude doesn't even try, but we don't care because Grandma cooks every night.

People usually pass through here on their way to somewhere else. A stop lasts as long as a tank of fuel and a snack. We'll lend first aid, directions, advice or a hand. If we don't have it here, just follow the river and more than likely, you'll find what you're looking for. We're almost certain you'll find what you need.

Country don't mean trash. Simple don't mean stupid. (That time cousin Donnie Daryll shaved his head, put on his dirtiest cover-all's and sat on the front porch playin' Grandpa's banjo was just a joke for you weekend highway tourists) - (p.s. if one of ya'all got a picture of Donnie Daryll that day, could you maybe send a copy our way). We mind our manners when treated with such. Just remember, if you're not from here, odds are, it's a long walk home. And that old codger in that beat-up pickup you cut-off on the highway last weekend? Well, Grandpa can draw his scatter gun as quickly as that finger. Rural that.

The name that stuck was a 70's thing. Neighbor Nielsen thought it would be hoot to have his name in the news. But back in 1974, if you weren't Elton John or Evel Knievel, the only way to make headlines was to spot Bigfoot. Some footprints behind the barn. Mister Nielsen surmised a little publicity could generate some tourist revenue. Snacks and Souvenirs. No lines at the fuel pumps here.

And like the icons mentioned above, Neighbor Nielsen caught a moment in time. About two minutes of it. The great Bigfoot scare of '74 faded to myth but the name of the spectacle stuck to these hills. 34 years later and you still need a magnifying glass to find us on the map.

So if you happen to be in Oregon looking for perfection (Perfection is 12 miles south of Boring off of highway 214), you're probably lost if you're standing in The 'Springs. We'll wave if we see you passing by.

BOO BOO & THE BOOGER MAN

Frontporch — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 17:53:27 GMT

My son was only four years old when my wife and I divorced. For financial reasons my son and I moved 2000 miles away to San Antonio where I had family. Needless to say that at such a young age this was a drastic change for the little booger. Not only would he rarely see his mother, but he was leaving behind his friends from day care and thrown into a completely different environment.

Oregon to San Antonio is a long drive. After saying goodbye to his mother, my son cried his tears and fears into the embrace of his stuffed bear, Boo Boo. During the three days it took to drive to Texas, Boo Boo made our family a threesome and rarely left the grasp of my son.

Boo Boo became a surrogate that filled the void of transition and I will admit to a bit of jealousy over this, but Boo Boo weathered with us that tough year, through feast and famine- and, a day care director who thought that Boo Boo shouldn't be such a large part of my son's life.

(NOTE: don't ever mess with Papa Bear's cubs!)

After a year life grew better for us. Boo Boo had stood fast as friend and comforter. It was then a new member of the family joined us. A Gray and white kitten named Simba.

My son instantly fell in love and ran head first into his new role and responsibility as caretaker of an actual living creature. And, slowly but surely, Boo Boo kinda fell by the wayside.
It struck me one day as we were heading for the grocery store. Unlocking the pickup I proclaimed our usual cheer of "buckle-up the bear!".

   My son looked at me then lowered his eyes as if he had done something wrong. "I left Boo Boo in the house, Daddy," he said, still looking down at his feet.
   "Well, that's okay, Booga' man, " I assure him, "he will be fine alone."
   "Do you want me to go get him, Daddy?"
   "Only if you want to." My son looked from me to the house, then back to me again. "Naw," he tells me, "lets buckle up and go by ourselves."

I guess Boo Boo the bear's job was done. He kept a place of honor atop our television set for the next six months where he could still watch over us.

After six months, Boo Boo the bear met his fate at the hands- er, claws of Simba the cat. We came home one day to find poor Boo Boo's innards fluffed about the living room. It had been a massacre. Seeing the carnage, my son attempted to heal the bear, but the damage was too great. I think I was more upset than my son.

He cursed the silly cat in boy language for having to pick up the mess. Eleven years later, my son and I still reminisce about that bear.
And to this day, Simba the cat has never had to share his affections for the Booga' man with anyone else.
I will say, though, I was always a little jealous of that bear.

JG8D69D

PITCHIN' (part 2 )

Frontporch — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 17:59:55 GMT

Grandpa kept himself busy in the barn, finding little chores - the ones that always need doing but mostly aren't important enough to hem and haw about. But a stir in his worry over Grandma has brought the barn's atmosphere to a sticky weight, and he lost his patience for inventing time killing reasons for not doing these things.

Unable to bare the anxiety further against his concern, he surrenders what he thought was better judgment to the distraction of his heart. He finds Grandma in her kitchen, apparently busy with the same inventions as his in the barn. He watches her quietly from the doorway, a wonderful habit of his that she loves because he knows that she knows he's there.

'Did you finish up your business out there?" She doesn't need to turn around from the sink where she had been keeping herself busy, and it was still too light outside to see his reflection inside the window but she looks for him there when she asks him.

"Oh, you know - a bunch of nothing special things to forget, I guess. I thought you might need some help cutting vegetables or something."

"No sir," she says, taking a sponge to the counter top tiles, " I just heated up some left-over soup."

He sat himself down at the kitchen table not knowing exactly what to do. Hearing her Husband's chair drag across the linoleum, she tossed her sponge into the cleanest sink in the county and took her own seat at the table.

He saw that she had been crying. They reached for each other at the same time. Their hands came together at the middle of the table. She squeezed and he squeezed back.

"I'm sorry about your truck," she said.

"Oh, hell. I got more miles with you than I do with that old truck."

"A lot of good miles, old man."

"More than not," he agreed.

Her smile brought him back a little bit, back from the shadows of life that he had hoped would dissipate over the course of time. But living never seemed to get any easier with age, a tragic mis-conception among twilighters expecting smooth seas and cotton underwear.

"Let's lay our cards on the table, Orval. You and I have been dancing around the elephant in the room and the music stopped a long time ago."

"I reckon you beat hell out of the elephant earlier this evening," he said.

She chuckled through the seriousness of the day and said, "I admit that it's been awhile since I've done any pitchin'. But I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. I'm sick of the doctor's and their needles and pills. But I'm mostly sick of the bills."

"You can't worry about the bills. You just have to concentrate on getting better, Ruby."

"Life has gotten too expensive, Orval. And the pills aren't making me any better, they're just giving me a little bit more time."

"Isn't that what life is all about? More time?"

"Not if it's more of the sickness. Not if it means hocking the farm to pay for medicine."

"The farm isn't anything to me without you here, Ruby."

"This farm was here a hundred years before I was born and it will be here a hundred years after I'm buried."

"There's too many ghosts 'round here anyways," he quibbled.

"This family needs a home place, especially in times like these, Orval. And one more ghost might cheer the place up," she said, playfully giving her husband a kick underneath the table. She's finally able to pull a smile across her husband's face.

"I don't mind dyin', Orval, but I do mind leaving you."

"Well, I mind you dyin'!" I've got sixty-some years put into you, Ruby."

"I hope you aren't expecting sixty more! I'm near worn out by now and you're a sight south of the Prom King I took home to meet the folks, Orval."

Outside, the darkness of the evening found the kitchen. The breeze brought it's coolness through the screen door.

"Almost another day done, eh?"

"Just two crazy old coots sittin' in the dark," she says, leaving the kitchen table for the stove where the cook pot waited. "How about some soup, Orval?"

"Soup sounds good."

Three copies of the same picture hang in three different homes across the States. Taken from the end of the driveway looking south up a gentle slope, it is a moment in time that was caught in the younger years of a little Oregon farmhouse. Dominating the front section of the home is a Victorian style porch that Great-Grandpa 'Swede' had built himself with lumber milled from a patch of pine that stood down the holler.

If you grab a closer look, you can see the porch swing where Grandma usually sits, Grandpa next to her when no-one else is about, but his rocker just a step or two near when folks are spellin'. Grandpa's rocking chair, handcrafted by his father's father, creaks along with the floor boards of the porch - and Grandpa's bones when the winter throws cold.

Grandma and Grandpa raised three children here and worked hard doing so. The parents didn't want the farm to be their limitation and the soil and the seasons, the blood, sweat and tears of then and previous generations, allowed them their choices.

So from the farm, three other homes were born and from those others still, beyond the fields and fences, all the children of these pictures whose roots reign here, are remembered.

Some have strayed, some have stayed. Some live in the difference, and some have found their way back home.

PITCHIN' (part 1)

Frontporch — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 21:22:05 GMT

It takes alot to piss-off Grandma.

"You hitch up the wagon to an ornery mule, well after you ride to town a time or two, the orneyness just becomes a fact of life."

Grandma had her 'usual' doctor's visit yesterday, a requirement when you live with cancer. We knew something was amiss when Grandpa drove up the driveway after picking up Grandma in town. My cousin and I watched from the front porch as Gramps parked his pickup (still 4 sale) hopped out, then made a beeline for the barn, leaving Grandma inside the truck to fend for herself.

"Did that old bastard just leave Granny in the truck?" This is my cousin, after the fact and obvious as he usually is. And no, we don't talk that way when the old people are near, but it makes us feel important when they ain't around.

"Well, she's still just sittin' there. Maybe we should go fetch her?" I wasn't sure what fetchin' her would involve, bit I knew that if Grandma was in a temper, I wasn't about to get within striking range of her.

"I don't want to rile her any more than that old man already has," says cousin Henry, " and it's to hot a day for more chorin'." When provoked, either by your own transgression, or Grandpa's, or God's or whatever the heck is happening in Outer Mongolia, Grandma can throw a chore list at you quicker than a chicken chasin' fox.

"Let's wait her out," I suggested.

"This afternoon heat will do her in before long."

"Then I'm goin' in," I announce bravely, stepping down from the porch, heading for the pickup.

Grandma had her window down, but was just staring straight ahead through the front windshield. She held some paperwork in her hands, and if I wasn't mistaken at the time, I know the difference now, I believed her to be humming a hymnal.

"You all right, Grandma?"

Grandma slowly turned her head until her eyes met mine.

"Goddamn doctors," she hissed, and I don't mind sayin', even in front of Grandma, that her manner raised the short hairs.

"Y -y- yo -you got the cancer bad, Grandma?" But she didn't hear me. I saw it in her eyes. Grandma had gone over to the other place.

She said then, "God knows I love you, Duane, but if you don't clear away, I'm going to do something that'll leave a scar on your great-grandchildren."

"Yes mam, I'll be right up there on the porch." I don't now, recall walking, or running back to the front porch, but I remember this - the fear across cousin Henry's face as we stood together at the porch railing, both of us with an eye toward's Granny.

"Good news for Grandpa," I said.

"What?"

"She's mad at the doctor for some reason."

"Scary mad?"

"John Henry, I'm not to big of a man to admit that during my talk with Grandma, a little bit of pee ran down my leg." I confessed right there.

"Just a little's too much for me, cousin," he said, hopping the railing and taken to a run across the ten acre pasture between our place and his.

"You're a coward, John Henry," I yelled after him, "you and yer daddy!"

By this time Grandma had stepped from the pickup, stood a moment on the driveway, it seemed, to consider her options. Then she picked up a dead oak branch that she had been asking me to pick up and throw in the wood pile for nearly a month past. That wasn't a good sign. I waited a moment. Then a moment more. Then it happened. Right out there in the front yard. Grandma pitched a fit.

She proceeded to take that hunk of wood to Grandpa's pickup in a surly manner, denting and dinging and raising a ruckus to rival the fourth of July fireworks. So much so, that Grandpa ran up from his haven in the barn to see about the commotion. I jumped from the porch to stand by Grandpa, both of us feeling powerless.

"Least she's only knocking one side of that old truck," Grandpa mused.

It ended as quickly and as quietly as it began. We waited there, my Grandfather and I, as Grandma took in a deep breath and approached us where we stood.

"Life's just a race," she began, telling us, " a body starts dyin' as soon as it's born. It's all about how much a soul can accomplish before the end of the race." There were almost tears in her eyes, but I knew she wouldn't let herself spill over in front of me. Tears weren't for the children, or the children's children to see. She would hold them for herself - and for Grandpa, when they were alone with each other.

"Orval." she said to Grandpa, " I'm going to need a little while before you come in for the night."

"I guess I can find some chores to do," he told her, giving her a smile. She gave me a smile and went inside the house.

Grandpa walked over to his truck to inspect the damage. Grabbing the '4 sale' from the windshield, he found his grease pencil in his cover-all's pocket and crossed out the $2500 part of the post. Finishing his chore, he put the sign back in the window with a shrug and asked me to park the rig back down at the end of the driveway where folks could see it better. Then he took a long moment to look at the house before wandering back to the barn.

I parked the truck where Grandpa preferred it to be parked and walked back up to the front porch trying to remember if I knew of anyone who wanted a Chevy pickup for $1500.00 . . . . .

Love is Holding Hands

Frontporch — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 18:25:22 GMT

It wasn't until mid-life that our lives finally found each other.

Suddenly, it seemed, we discovered this giddy, adolescent butterflies-in-the-stomach kind of thing. Thick and sappy. God, it wrapped itself around our worlds and accelerated into one gigantic collision that touched everyone and everything we knew.

Both of us, Carrie and I, were standing in our early 40s and could look back on a long road full of hard miles. Nothing really spectacular, I guess, just the normal single parent bumps that at the time felt like tragedies. But we survived. And then this fairy tale thing - our love was tangible. We could hold it in our hands. We were lucky. We both had stopped believing in forever a long time ago.

The doctor says - what did the doctor just say?! He continues to speak (his lips are still moving), though I'm not hearing any words. He is sitting behind a huge desk, wearing his sad face. Carrie and I are sitting together on a couch, opposite the desk. We've been here before, too many times, it seems, over the past month. The doctor is younger than we are. Why does this suddenly piss me off?

I begin to catch words here and there. Metastasized ... inoperable ... three months.

No. No. We've been together three years! I realize that I'm standing. I look down at Carrie and see tears pouring out of the love of my life.

"I'll be go-to-hell if I'm gonna change your diapers," I tell her through my own tears. She nods, smiling. "I love you, too."

Carrie tells me she is more worried about me than anything. "What about the kids," I say. "Mostly grown. They're young and strong. You," she says, "need a soul to squeeze." "I never needed anything before I met you," I tell her.

Carrie believed that she and I had been dancing around each other's destinies through several past lives, our souls never being able to connect on the human level for one reason or another. "The cancer is just taking my body. My soul will always belong to you. Just to you."

"Then why is fate taking you away from me just when we finally found each other?"

I'm angry. Again. I'm yelling. Again. She is at the computer, e-mailing friends, trying to keep the connection to this life alive. I'm standing next to her, trying to understand everything at once. I'm not getting it. The only thing I am getting is pissed off, once again. Plus, she said the 'C' word. I never say that word. I'm determined not to let it rule our life. Carrie giggles into her hands like a school girl would, listening to a secret.

Looking at her then, I realize that I've loved her my whole life. For her whole life. I feel cheated and I have to start believing in God again because I need something real to throw my hate against. She giggles some more. I'm standing there with my pain, wearing nothing but an old cowboy hat. "You make me laugh," she tells me. "I love you most for that."

"OK," I say. "Don't make me cry when I'm naked."

Two months after getting the news from Doctor Sad Face, Carrie tells me that after things settle down I shouldn't close myself off to meeting someone else. She is tired and in a lot of pain all the time. Tears again - mine.

"You're my medicine," she says.

"Just shut up, Carrie!"

She giggles - my medicine.

"I've had enough of this love crap. I'm done with it," I tell her. She is laughing now.

"You're too horny to give up on love, Duane."

"Sex has nothing to do with love and you know it!" I'm laughing, too.

"Love is holding hands," she says. Our definition.

"No, no more love for me. Maybe I'll just be a big 'ol man-whore."

"Hmmm," she purrs. "Remember, I'll be watching you!"

I'm keeping Carrie's last words. They are only for me.

When we say goodbye to each other, we are holding hands.

HOPE

Frontporch — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 21:53:29 GMT

We fell to sleep, our last night as normal people, in the house that had been our home for three years, listening to the difference of it's emptiness. Barren of the things of life within, even against the wind and the rain, the sound was un-familiar . . . .

This morning brought a blue sky beginning, the rain having followed the wind, left with the night to roam other places, leaving us behind also, for the rest of the day and it's contentions. No-one hears the noise of the crash, the sound of a family slipping away. The commotion of other lives still seems to find purpose beyond our tragedy. We are alone in this wreck.

I am no longer entitled to appreciate the beauty of the Oregon landscape nor the smells of a Cascade Spring. My reasons can only settle upon the concept of punishment, a retaliation of the Gods for my past sins. I thought surely my debt with Karma had been paid. I've lived life through times that seemed bent on my destruction and I have persevered. Venomous habits were put to pasture, standing in the past to remind me that a man's reflection is only as noble as the shadow he leaves behind.

"Dad, are you okay?" This is my son. The light of my shadow, stepping out of which to cast his own.

"I'm good," I lie. Above all else now, I feel that my mission is to ease his worry. Our lives have become a clearinghouse, a mass liquidation of our possessions and his main concern is for me and my waning health. I am humbled by his capacity to look beyond this disaster that has befallen us.

Everyday things of a fifteen year old's life are lost to the storm and still he stands in battle against his own despair, a soldier ready, to lighten my load. How much does the world weigh?

We had spent the weekend placing price tags on belongings once coveted, desired only for their second-hand value now. A sign at the end of our driveway told our story to the strangers of the highway and they came, seeking the cheapest deals that they could procure against our desperation.

I spent some sixteen years being Superman. I raised my son alone and I stood proud in the happiness he found in life. In his happiness, I found my own. But I am defined by this illness now.

An un-named alien that stole my power, my desire and my meaning. It's Kriptonite, poisoning the bottom line of my existence, disregarding the rules and boundaries of normalcy. I face a bitter landscape riddled with a stigma that I, myself, once subscribed to. I am dealt with indifference by my own government which spends billions on overseas aid and to bomb other countries into democracy but ignores it's own citizens living in poverty.

My son and I are haunted statistics of a myth that has been perpetrated upon our society. Pictures of the downtrodden on the evening news show the vagabonds, but don't tell the stories behind the reasons.

Our middle class has turned into the working poor. I was able to pay my bills but I couldn't afford health care. If this can happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

"Well, I guess we better be hittin' the road, buddy," I say. We shoulder our backpacks.

A son sees his Father's tears.

"There's always hope, Dad," he tells me, slapping me on the back, man style. Tomorrow is his sixteenth birthday. "Cheer up."

We close the door.

Our driveway runs downhill to the highway and is just long enough to allow a short slide show of memories to stroll across my eyes. A dusty montage of my Grandmother's things, treasures from a long life past handed down to me, sold in dire straits to the highest bidder. My son's computer, a financial milestone for education - and happiness, became an investment in camping gear for our new journey. How many seasons circled on the calender of this home? It is left, for another family maybe, where dust gathers, on forgotten dreams and words that are prayed.

We left our home like criminals leaving the scene of a crime. Broken pieces of a machine.

Ghosts on the side of the road.

[please note that this story appeared in another site that is now no longer in use. I hope it says something to you - again. Thanks - d.o.]