A BOOK BY ANOTHER COVER …

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One of my “I need a break” pastimes is a game I call “matching.” I drive to a small to mid-sized parking lot and try to match the people coming out of the store with a car. Or I will try to match the car with what I think the person will look like. Grocery stores are really good for this because they have a lot of customers who go in for a few things and then pop right back out. And it’s as much fun getting some of them almost right as it is when they are really quite wrong. In fact, I find the really wrong matches the most fun.

For example: A guy walks out of Home Depot. He’s kind of a big guy, balding, salt and pepper beard, pot belly. He’s wearing well-worn bib overalls and an equally well-worn tool belt. He has three shopping bags in his cart, a couple short pieces of crown molding, and some copper pipe. I guess him to be a handyman and peg him for the older, white panel van with the three H’s on it (Housewife’s Handy Helper).

He heads straight toward it. He’s almost there. He’s walking by it. Three cars past the van, he opens the hatchback of … wait for it … a Mini Cooper. I bust up laughing. That probably would have been the last car on the lot that I would have matched to Mr. Handy Helper.

Or how about this example: Still at Home Depot. Looking to match the driver of the triple-H utility van. A few people come out. I give them the once over, but guess none of them for the match. None of them were.

A guy in a suit. No.

A harried looking thirty-something mother with two crying kids in tow. No.

A few day laborers, heading in the wrong direction, so … no.

A construction worker-type brute, heading in the right direction. Maybe.

O-o-o-oh-h-h no-o-o-o-o. Did not see that one coming either.

It’s the harried looking mother with the two kids. I love it when I get them that wrong.

And finally, let me share the following: I’m sitting at my favorite corner table at my local Borders Book Store, when I look out the window and see this massive looking black Ford Excursion, with at least 24” of lift, probably 33” tires or so, obviously custom suspended, custom grill, and custom paint job of an eagle grasping a cobra in its claws. This thing looked big, angry and mean. It made my Toyota Highlander look like a Mini. There was an etching in the almost black rear window. It simply said, “Semper Fi.”

So I can’t wait to see the marine who gets out of this bad boy’s toy.

The door swings open. I realize I’m not the only one waiting inside Borders, looking out the windows, to see who gets out of this DFWM behemoth.

The driver stands squarely in black leather military boots, properly spit-shined, next to the open door. At the push of a button, the door closes. “Nice touch,” I thought.

The “uniform” is a pair of Desert Storm camo pants and a black tank-top, emblazoned with a similar-looking eagle and cobra as painted on the Ford. Colored tattoos ran the length of both muscular arms. Square-shouldered with jet black hair, pulled into a ponytail, hanging almost to the waist.

Red lipstick.

Wha-a-a-a-t?!? Bet you didn’t see that one coming, because I sure didn’t.

About four feet tall.

Wha-a-a-a-t?!? Definitely didn’t see that one coming. Wouldn’t even have guessed that one was coming in a millennium.

That’s right. The driver of that big bad boys toy was a not-so-big bad girl. In politically correct terms, she was a “little person,” also known as a dwarf (no disrespect intended.)

It’s doubtful she was a Marine, since they do have a minimum height requirement, but she was definitely Marine-like. And I had to admit, “Man, I love this game.”

WHICH CAME FIRST, THE PONDER OR THE POOT …

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“Daddy?” the innocent little voice asked. “Will God be mad at me if I poot in his church?”

“No, honey,” he told her. “But you should try not to so that it doesn’t distract others.”

She seemed content with his answer, even though she seemed to continue deep in thought.

A few minutes later, she asked, “Daddy, will God be mad at me if I poot twice in his church?”

I couldn’t help but smuckle (A word I made up meaning to smile and chuckle simultaneously), but I did so as quietly as I could.

Her father looked at her, a half-smuckle appearing on his face as well. Then he looked at me as my own smuckle was getting dangerously close to an audible laugh.

He looked back at her, and said, “No, honey. But he might get a little perturbed if you do it three times. Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

“No, Daddy. I think I’m done.”

She looked at me, and with big eyes as innocent as her little voice, said, “Sorry if I detracted you. Sometimes my butt can’t help myself.”

“That’s okay,” I told her. “I have the same problem some times.”

Apparently the smuckle was contagious, for with my answer, one seemed to be finding its way to her face. Although hers was more a cute little smiggle (that’s right, a simultaneous smile and giggle) than an outright smuckle.

Fortunately, we all settled down quickly enough, and if she had any more poots she let no one but God know.

I’m not sure what the preacher’s message of the day was, because I found myself lost in my own reverie of possible holy irreverence.

Did Jesus fart? Did he think it was funny, when He was a kid? Did He engage in fart jokes with His friends?

When He was presenting the Beatitudes, in between the “pure of heart” and the “peacemakers,” did He in a moment of silliness, ponder about “the pootmakers”? For theirs is the laughter of many? (Yeah, that one is definitely borderline.)

Is God up in Heaven right now, looking at what I’m writing, and smiggling or smuckling? Or is He shaking his head and thinking, “Really Mr. E.? This is what you’re doing with the gift and passion of writing that I’ve given you?”

And for those who are wondering what I’m wondering, my answer is, “Yes.”

I think Jesus farted. As to the rest of it, not so sure.

But one thing is for sure. God was not mad at the double-poot of an innocent little girl.

ROLL CALL IN MEMORIAM …

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1861 – 1865: The Civil War

1898: Spanish – American War

1914 – 1918: World War I

1939 – 1945: World War II

1950 – 1953: Korean War

1960 – 1975: Vietnam War

1961: Bay of Pigs Invasion / Cuba

1983: Grenada Invasion

1989: Panama Invasion

1990 – 1991: Persian Gulf War

1995 – Present: Bosnia, Kosovo, Somalia, Afghanistan, Iraq

Lest we ever forget.

“After the battle, we lay down our weapons and weep at what has happened”

Lao Tzu

HOW NOT TO BEGIN A STORY …

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“He stumbled, bumbling and crumbling through the closed door strutting through the mattened crowd with his very good, handsomely good looks, looking like some mallianable mallard hen on the make, but in the end, after all was said and done with, so everyone else knew he wasn’t much more than just a shark of whom was wearing wolf’s clothing.”

Wow. Really? I mean, a well-turned simile and metaphor are great tools in the writers toolbox. And I’ve been known to intone a good piece of assonance as well. But, really? There are just so many things wrong with that first sentence. So many things.

I was giving a workshop on literary terms and devices in creative writing. It was for adults. Adults. Grown-ups who already considered themselves writers, but who were looking to improve their skills.

We worked through them all, from allegories to zeugmas, with examples of both good and bad usage. We talked through the question and answer segment, and it seemed everyone understood everything we had covered.

The final exercise was to write an opening sentence, using a few of the devices we had explored.

And someone, I’m assuming seriously so, turned in the sample above.

Yes, really.

An adult … who considered herself a good writer. Or as she might say, “a goodly woman with competence of writerly skills for which I consider myself to have them.”

So let’s start at the beginning.

“He stumbled…” is okay.

“…stumbled, bumbling and crumbling…” is actually a nice piece of assonance (i.e. – repetition of vowel sounds). And someone could stumble, bumble and crumble, although I’m not a big fan of the crumbling in this instance.

“…through the closed door…” presents a conflict for me. One can go through an open door, and one, upon finding a closed door, can open it to then go through, but how does one go through a closed door, except perhaps by crashing through or breaking it down?

“…strutting through …” seems contrary to stumbling, bumbling and crumbling. Can one really simultaneously stumble and strut?

“… the mattened crowd …” is either misspelled or misunderstood. I’m assuming she meant to say the “maddened crowd,” although it is more familiar to say the “maddening crowd.”

“… his very good, handsomely good looks …” is obviously redundant.

“… mallianable …” is not a word. I’m not sure if she is trying to say mammalian, or inalienable, or malleable, or what.

“… mallard hen on the make …” has suddenly switched from a he to a she? A hen is a female duck while the male duck is called a drake. It would have been so much nicer if she had said, “a drake on the make.”

“…but in the end, after all was said and done with, so everyone else knew he wasn’t much more than just …” is just wrong. Stop it.

“…a shark of whom was wearing wolf’s clothing ...” is a really weird mixed metaphor, but is somewhat intriguing. If she were intentionally using the mixed metaphor, she should have said, “a shark in wolf’s clothing.” I know, it really should be “a shark in sheep’s clothing,” but I actually like the notion of a shark in wolf’s clothing.

And did we mention that it’s a run-on sentence?

So let’s review.

Re-read the first line.

Follow this advice: NEVER WRITE LIKE THAT !

Unless you’re giving an example of how NEVER TO WRITE.

Thank you.

BREATHE IN THIS MOMENT AND LIVE IT TO THE FULLEST …

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“Could someone please turn off the world, I’m trying to think. Thank you.”

It was the unmistakable voice of Jimmy, a rather intense eight-year-old who was never shy about expressing his thoughts or feelings. And he was the most unusually passionate kid I had ever met. When he played, he did so with remarkable enthusiasm, as if it were the last game he would ever play. When he was reading, he seemed to get absolutely lost in the pages of whatever world was waiting to invite him in between the book’s covers. And sometimes it would take minutes for him to re-acquaint himself with the real world when he was done reading. It was as if each experience was for him, something to commit to and savor.

Except for nature shows, he eschewed television, making him even more unusual, but in a very admirable way. And he loved storytelling, whether it was his to tell or someone else’s to listen to.

To say his imagination was fertile was like saying the sky was full of stars. His drawings were as full as his writing, but never cluttered or unwieldy. He seemed to exhibit an uncanny awareness of balance and boldness.

I always looked forward to telling stories in his classroom, because of his simple yet deep appreciation for my humble offerings. It was as though he could really see the pictures I painted with my words. Even the pictures of words unspoken, but part of the story nonetheless.

So I was deeply saddened when I heard that he had died, the innocent victim of a gang shooting.

Deeply saddened.

And I wondered what the world would miss because of his absence. But I realized it didn’t matter, because to Jimmy, it wouldn’t have mattered.

He was not concerned with his legacy or making his mark or uncovering the ultimate purpose of life. Jimmy was concerned with living in whatever moment he was in. If he got angry, he was angry in that moment and when it had passed, for Jimmy it was over. If he laughed or cried, it was felt intensely and shared loudly, but again, when it had passed, it was over. He played, and learned, and touched lives always in the moment. And then it was over. He moved on, leaving only his footprints for someone else to see and remember.

So here’s to you, Jimmy. Someone turned off your world here, leaving you to explore and think in the next. And knowing you as I did, I’m confident you’ll explore your new world with remarkable enthusiasm and live in each and every moment of it.

SOMETIMES A BUM IS A BUM …

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“Hey, can I have your spare money?” he asked, hand outstretched in anticipation.

“Excuse me?” I replied.

“Your spare money,” he said. “Can I have it? I saw you pay for that $1 cup of coffee with a five dollar bill, so I know you got change. I need it to buy some food.”

“But if I give my change to you, what will I use to buy my lunch?”

“You got more man,” he said. “I know you do. People like you always have more money.”

“So where do you work?” I asked him.

“Work?” he repeated. “Man, who you kidding? I don’t work. That’s why I’m out here asking people for their extra money. If I was workin’, you think I’d be here doin’ this?”

“So why do you think no one wants to hire you?” I asked, the answer standing right in front of me.

“I don’t know man,” he said with growing frustration. “You gonna give me your spare money or not?”

“I think the reason you don’t work,” I began, “is because you don’t really want to. Your clothes are as dirty and rank as your body. Your teeth look like they haven’t been brushed in ages. You reek of alcohol, cigarette smoke, urine and wet dog. Your attitude sucks and the way you beg is downright offensive.”

“F#ck you man,” he angrily shouted at me, as he approached another potential contributor.

I don’t usually confront street beggars like that, but there was something about him that triggered it. Usually, I either look them straight in the eyes and simply say, “No,” or I’ll give them a buck or two.

Sometimes even ten or twenty bucks. It all depends on how ripe the money tree is that day. Because people like me always have more money, right?

NO ONE IS USELESS IN THE WORLD WHO LIGHTENS THE BURDEN OF IT FOR ANYONE ELSE.

CHARLES DICKENS

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Atlas was tired. Very tired. And in a moment of either supreme strength or weakness, he shrugs. And the world … goes on.

Oh, not the metaphorical Atlas of the Ayn Rand novel by the same name, but the mythological Atlas Telamon, who, as punishment for supporting the Titans against the Olympians, was made to hold up the heavens.

There is of course, no mention of Atlas really shrugging, but in terms of what the phrase means to those enduring souls who feel the weight of the worlds upon their shoulders, perhaps it’s time these Atlases shrug.

How many of us know someone who carries the weight of their world. Day in and day out, they prevail. Yet every day they grow more and more weary. For the weight of their real worries is as heavy as the imagined weight of the heavens.

And it is time to let them shrug. In fact, to encourage them to shrug. To let the weight of the world roll off their shoulders. To let them stand straight once again. To let them run. And dance. And do cartwheels.

Let them feel the warmth of the sun upon their shoulders. Let them twist and turn. Wiggle and giggle. Walk and talk. All unencumbered by their former burden.

For the world will indeed, go on.