spud

Well, that time of year is here again. Time to start throwing Christmas Potatoes. The site I had up for the last 3 years went dark because 100 bucks a year was stretching the budget. I will do my best to provide some more resources like PDF versions of the story and spud notes. 2010 marks the 29th year for the fact of throwing potatoes. Kinney's telling of the tale has been around since 1984.

I found out also that someone else published a book for children called "The Christmas Potato." The author even has a Facebook page. As far as our two stories I don't think they are anything alike. I wish her the best

Our version of the story is meant to be shared and the tradition passed from generation to generation and friend to friend much like a mug of weasel broth on a frosty winter's morn.

The Story of the Christmas Potato
as told by Kinney Isaacs

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Riley. He lived in a town called Topeka, which means, "a good place to dig potatoes."
Riley had three favorite things, and as long as he had those three things he would always be happy.








El Beano was one of Riley's favorite things. El Beano was a green toy army truck that Riley got for Christmas when he was two years old. Riley never had a pet when he was growing up. He didn't need one. He had El Beano. Riley played with him every day. El Beano was better than a pet. He didn't talk back. He never had to go outside. He would play whatever game Riley wanted to.






When Riley wasn't playing with El Beano the little truck rested on Riley's bed with Pepper, the teddy bear, and Riley's three lucky pillows.



Another one of Riley's favorite things was his toy space helmet. More than anything else in the world Riley wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up. Back then no one had gone to the moon, and the space shuttle was just something out of a science fiction movie. At night Riley dreamed of life as an astronaut. He imagined visits to strange and weird planets. He dreamed of beings from other worlds and visits from the alien saucer people from outer space. Riley dreamed of saving the day and of the hero's kiss he would receive from Annette who was his favorite Mouseketeer.


If Riley couldn't be an astronaut he wanted to work in his grandfather's grocery store.

Riley's number one favorite thing wasn't a thing at all. It wasn't something you could have every day.












It was something you had to wait almost an entire year for. You could dream about it, but you still had to wait.






You had to wait all the way until Thanksgiving. It wasn't turkey. Riley's number one favorite thing was a feeling, and only one thing caused it.















Christmas lights! Every Thanksgiving meant it was time to flip the switch that meant a whole month of Christmas lights.











Christmas lights made Riley feel his number one most favorite thing. One time Riley tried to explain to his big sister and his little brother how the Christmas lights made him feel.

"Well it's like this," he said, "a lot of different things all mixed up. You know how you feel when you hug Mom or Dad, well, it's like that and more. It's like when you wake up from a good dream or eat a big hunk of fudge. It's like lying in front of the fan or jumping off the fence. It does to your brain what songs do to your ears. It's all the best things jumbled up together into one big ball of stuff. It's just that Christmas feeling."
When Riley tried to explain they just looked at him. He knew they understood even if they didn't think they did. They must.












Once the Christmas tree was decorated, Riley didn't need TV or books or relatives. With the lights on the tree all you had to do was stare,and your brain took over. The lights let Riley see the feeling and not just feel it.

Riley would place one of his lucky pillows under the tree and don his space helmet. Clutching El Beano Riley would gaze up into the tree and watch the lights. Thoughts would flood his brain. Plain and simple he just liked to looked at those lights.


Sometime before Christmas the whole family would go for a car ride. When Riley saw the lights all over town he wished there was some way he could say thank you to all the people who put up lights and let him feel his favorite thing.












The best way to say thank you would be to march up to the front door, knock, and tell the people. Because he was little boy, Riley didn't think his parents would let him do that.







If his handwriting was better than a C- he could send thank you cards. But even if people could read his handwriting, who would pay for all the stamps?
Riley wouldn't admit it to anyone, but for once in his life he was stumped. Every year at Christmas time Riley would try to think of a way to say thank you only to give up and say instead, "Maybe I'll figure something out next year."














Years came and went and Riley kept getting older. He lost El Beano and traded his space helmet for a movie camera. Riley found out that his life was different than he planned. He accepted it. But no matter what happened Thanksgiving came and brought with it the lights that Riley loved to watch. At least that didn't change and Riley never forgot about wanting to say thank you.

Then one November as he was driving home from work, he saw the first Christmas lights of the year. It was like getting hit in the head with a hammer or having a big rock fall on you.



If, when you got a good idea, a light bulb really formed above your head, Riley's light bulb would not have fit in the car-the idea was that good.







Riley thought, "Why not a potato?" And that's when the potato part of the Christmas potato started. Why not throw a potato into the yard of a house with pretty lights?







Riley realized that if someone came out in the morning and found a potato in the yard it would be a mystery. The people would say, "Who put this potato in my yard?"














So that people would know what the potato meant Riley made little Christmas cards that explained he just wanted to say thank you and "Merry Christmas." He wrapped the card and the potato in plastic wrap and tied each end with ribbon.



On Christmas Eve Riley filled a basket with potatoes and drove all over town. When he saw a house with Christmas lights he threw a potato into the yard. Finally, after years and years of trying and never really giving up Riley had found a way to say thank you.




Today, Christmas lights still give Riley that "Christmas light" feeling. Each year more and more children and adults around the country throw Christmas potatoes so that friends, neighbors, and even strangers know that their unselfish efforts during the holiday season are appreciated.
A big part of Christmas is letting people know how we feel. Wouldn't the world be a better place if some of our "Christmas feelings" stayed around all year long and spread to everybody? Maybe we can all work on that one next.

So, remember, if some morning you wake up and your yard is full of potatoes, it's just people saying, "Thank you and Merry Christmas."
Peace.
The note we attach to the spuds goes something like this:

No one is quite sure how the tradition of the Christmas Potato began. Many believe it began in the later half of the 20th century when a young man tossed seasonal greetings wrapped around uncooked potatoes into the yards of houses decorated with Christmas lights. It was his way of saying thank you and Merry Christmas.
Before the advent of the Christmas Potato there was no way to easily thank those who brighten our holiday season with their unselfish efforts. Now each year children and adults alike look forward to the annual pitching of the holiday spud.
But why a potato? The young man grew up in a town called Topeka which means a good place to dig potatoes.

In my opinion...

Today would be my mother's 84th birthday. She died back in '94. I'm not sure I will ever fully understand the relationship between my mother and her children. For each of us it was a different ride, yet always that "A" ticket. Looking back I always think it should be the stuff of a great movie or book. Maybe everybody feels that way about their folks. I know I can guarantee I saw some stuff, experienced some things that none of my friends did. Likewise, I'm sure stuff happened to them too that I've never thought about.

Late last night, while shivering without a working furnace, I put some thoughts down. Why I feel the need to share them I don't know. Maybe I think that if I just start that unpublished book or non-produced screenplay will show up in the future. Trust me, if I ever got it done it would be a bestseller, not because of anything I did being the conduit that got the story told, but because of the story and character that was my mother. I never met anybody else like her. Let me just say, we were close, very close for almost 9 months, and from then on I was pure aggravation for her.

Happy birthday, Mom!

.

My mom was... an enigma, a will-o'-the wisp, A flibbertigibbet!, A clown! Cut the clown part.(Mom if you are checking this, note that I said very clearly cut the clown) That does not describe her at all. Still, she was as much a conundrum as Maria ever thought about being. Trying to be one of her kids was an adventure. A-D-V-E-N-T-U-R-E, right here in River City, and that rhymes with P and that stands for...

Looking back I think I can say I knew 10 or 11 different mom(s). There was:

Prior to State Hospital Mom, Mom until Kansas Farmer, Kansas Farmer Mom, Capper’s Weekly Mom, Austin Mom, Post Cancer Mom, Dialysis Mom, Understandably Bitter Mom, Widow Mom, then of course the late Mom. Late mom segues into Saint Mom, which happens to most normal people when they die.

Casual sainthood occurs when we finally forgive those we love for all the perceived slights and peevish behavior that always made us so mad at them. True, there are folks who are truly unforgivable and they don’t get that benefit of a cleaned slate after death. I have a cousin, he and I are never hesitant to critique or criticize our fellow family members, we talk often and joke about the family habit of “beatification” of the dead. Complain and moan about them all the time when they are alive and as soon as the heart has stopped beating time to treat them like a saint and forget all the bad.

Thinking about Mom there is so much I’d like to say about her. Lots of stuff I’d like to talk to her about. I could talk about how she always favored my brother and sister over me or how she could be so pig headed with her strong opinions or how she and Dad fought just to pass the time of day. And what was the deal with her pills, there were so many of them...okay, she had no control over that and as much as helping her with her pills would frustrate me then, now I consume more than she ever did every single day. My years of training at the edge of her pill can prepared me for dealing with the handful I take each day. As I think about the aspects of Mom that frustrated me I am forced to admit, cliched as it might be, that those traits that bothered me the most, that drove me nuts, are behaviors I see in myself.

I got so much from my parents. Yes, there is both good and bad when I review my list of “gifts.” I remember the good the most, although I’ve never shied away from discussing the negative. It all goes into the whole of what folks mean to us.


my mother, Sammy, not Sammie or Samantha, but Sammy

I cannot recall that she was ever wrong about anything, in my opinion

Help is gift we offer no matter when, where, who, why, or what, in my opinion

Doctors and garbage-men should be paid the same, in my opinion

If it is a book, read it, in my opinion

Support the arts, experience them, in my opinion

Take walks with children, in my opinion

Be respectful, gracious, kind, say thank you, in my opinion

Read the paper, keep up with current affairs, express ideas, use reason, defend positions, in my opinion

Be only intolerant of intolerance, in my opinion

Take notes, wear powder and lipstick so you won't look like a ghost, in my opinion

Hope to not be disappointed, in my opinion

Be nicer to your siblings, in my opinion

If you wash feet, change socks, they won't smell so bad, in my opinion

Avoid electro shock if you want to remember French, in my opinion

Always say, in your opinion, in my opinion

In my opinion she remains an iconic character who deserves to have her story told, she was a scraper, a fighter, time traveler, a champion of lost causes and souls, she always asked the question others steered clear of, she was short tempered, used profanity artistically, believed in the truth, she was filled with indignant rage at times, a saint to have lived forty plus years with my father. When I saw her after I was an adult I could count on being told, "Rile, you are crazier than hell!"

She was forced to face the trials of a she-Job and kept going, she was that pink rabbit on television until finally that last weekend’s family gatherings in Graford zapped and drained the battery, she was tired, worn out, whipped and I'm thinking when she got in bed that night she prayed the prayer of the supplicant seeking relief,

Dear God, it has been a good life, I’ll give you that. I'm tired, very tired. I really don't want to take all those pills and fight the battles I do. You try dialysis for nearly a decade, and cancer, depression, living with that...s.o.b., god I miss him, Forgive me, but could I just get a break. Just one, I just want to go to sleep and rest. I mean really rest, I mean rest the rest of the just and head on to into the sunset and take on what's next in the fullness of time. If I've done my job, and I think I have, god only knows, I mean I hope you are aware that I've tried, those I leave behind can handle what they have to face and if they can't by god, they ought to. I just hope they aren't disappointed. So, let me rest. If that isn't workable, well okay. but think about it. I will keep doing what you want me to. Amen

My mother, she never gave up.
My only regret is that while she was living I never did anything right, in HER opinion.
I tried.

Her headstone stands at McAdams as the last memorial to her life
An unmovable stone she must share with my father, her husband, when she and everyone else knows she should have gotten her own
She deserved at least that
I think it is pretty decent as headstones go
a Doig quote, "here lies all of them that could die"
a sentiment I find comforting
one minor detail
her birth-date is off by one year
once again I failed her
I mean the mistake is etched in stone
It seems fitting that even at the very end, it is always something, a screw up, a hassle, a trial
She didn't complain, she accepted it and moved on
So far, at least, she hasn’t said anything to me about it

Her name was Sammy
she was the only mother that could love a son like me,
in my opinion

the last of the bear...

the last of the bear...

Today, marks 17 years to the day that the Bear checked out, went on, ambled away, passed, died. September 29, 1993, my father, Jack Couger, died 3 days after bypass surgery. It was just about two weeks after a massive heart attack during a simple hernia surgery. He was a month shy of 71. Sadly, for a man of science, a verterinarian, an Aggie, somebody who knew better, he neglected to tell his surgeon about the chest pain he'd experienced the previous Sunday while mowing the yard. It was a mistake that very literally cost him his life.

It always pissed me off that he had to endure the trauma and pain of bypass surgery, the cracking and spreading of the chest, the ice cold water poured into the open chest cavity, the attachment to the heart/lung machine, only to wake up up hurting like hell in ICU. Don't let anybody tell you that it is easy. There are some hassles but it is a remarkable feat. When I had my own bypass 4 years later I got some measure of relief because, even though I hated it, wished I'd die, lived with that guilt of wanting to give up, in a month's time I could walk 4 miles again with no discomfort. My anger about my father's anguish was eased to an extent.

His last words to me were, "Not if I die first." I'd spent a week in Austin trying to follow his directions and take care of things for him during the week they waited for him to get strong enough to endure future procedures. His heart attack was on a Tuesday and by that Friday I was called in the middle of the night and told to get the family there. Somehow he pulled through and by the next Monday was in a room waiting. At the time I credited his ventilator, a machine labeled Bear 2000. My father was called Bear for 2 reasons. He claimed his friends gave him the nickname after marching behind him and/or seeing him the shower. That always made sense to me.

As I left the last morning I saw him alive I'd said, "Well, I'll see you next weekend." There was no way to know his last words would be so accurate.

I still remember that 29th vividly. I was in a team meeting of 4th grade teachers. From out of nowhere I knew my father had died. I tried to tell myself that the premonition was silly. I was being dramatic. I didn't really focus on what was being said and instead watched the clock. When the bell rang I left the room headed for the office hoping I was wrong.

I remember entering the office and being ushered into what was then called, "the phone room."
Crager was on the phone, calling from Austin, doing his best to convey a message that few want to express and even viewer wish to hear. Haidee entered the room figured out what was going on when I said into the phone, "So, Crager, what you are telling me is that Dad is dead." Haidee, almost 6 months pregnant with Isaac lost all color and began stomping her feet like a small child, repeating the word, "no" over and over. The pain of watching her reaction, knowing she felt that much fear, anger, and depression all at once almost equaled the pain of knowing my father was dead.

Within minutes, Clarence Holliman, our former principal and friend, came and sat with me until we were able to leave. In my office he held my hand and said a pray. At that point in my life I didn't really have everything sorted out. Mr. Holliman's words comforted me in ways I had learned as a child. I was resolved to discover just how I felt I fit into this world.

In America we have become spoiled when it comes to death and dying. We have seen medical marvels keep people alive beyond what might be in their best interests. Advances in medicine have allowed those that would have died earlier just generations prior to live on at a high price. Too many of us have never taken the time to square ourselves with the reality that each and everyone is gong to die. It is going to happen. We can prepare ourselves or not. For me it took reading a book by Thich Nhat Hanh to piece together and express what I felt I understood. After reading his, No Death, No Fear, I experienced a personal clarity that has helped me almost a decade in dealing with the deaths of those close to me.

Understand, I don't suggest that the book will benefit anyone but me. I don't suggest my views aren't subject to change or that my answers are any more valid than what anyone else might claim. It works for me. The finger is pointing at the moon. However you find to come to grips with the subject is fine by me. I just think folks ought to get that taken care for no other reason than it might help when you face it.

During the last week I spent with my dad he reminded me of what he had told barely a month earlier as we worked on the house in Graford. I had asked him if he was serious about his often voiced request to be cremated and his ashes spread in the Brazos beneath the dam at Possum Kingdom. He laughed and told me he was just, "popping off." Whenever he said it he got such interesting reactions he just couldn't stop saying it, but he wasn't serious. During the days between his death and the funeral I was reminded of his "wishes" by too many folks to recall.

I was a rookie when it came to dealing with the death of someone you couldn't imagine dying. Even with the two week notice of his impending passing I didn't force myself to confront all that goes with death. Maybe I was lazy, in denial, or just to scared to try and wrap my head around death.

I remember thinking that there was no way I could survive without my father in my world. Okay, true, when I was a kid I hated his guts. I couldn't wait for him to need to go out of town so there would be peace in the house and a little quiet. My father was an emotional man, big emotions to match his big persona. For such a short guy he seemed larger than life. He was the Bear. He was very physical, both in a loving way and in a mean way. One of my proudest moments as an adolescent was when he broke his foot kicking me in the ass. I thought that would teach him. It didn't. When he died I asked my mom for his Aggie ring. I told her I had an indention on my forehead from being backhanded with it so often.

By 1980 when I was 25 I had matured and I was friends with my dad again. The last 13 years of his life we shared many adventures. He gave me Big Bend. He needed a driver to cart him down there on Government business when his cataracts made him afraid to drive long distances or at night. It changed my life forever. I got lots from him. I got a temper, a love of profanity and vulgarity, the inability to shut up and just not say what is on my mind, the ability to shout, but he also taught me an amazing thing that is hard to describe.

Looking back I remain amazed that somehow he was able to manage and juggle life with three kids and a wife who was "mentally ill" before it was fashionable. There were great chunks of time when he relied on family and friends to get by. My mom wasn't just crazy she was state hospital crazy and it seems to me to be a defining factor in how I grew up. She gave me some of the best lessons I learned because of her situation. Dad did too. I might not have appreciated them until much later, but there is nothing that makes me prouder than to say I am the son of Jack and Sammy. With all that was against them they made it.

After the Dad's funeral Haidee and I saved flowers from the casket and the arrangements. We dried them and filled a mason jar, a quart one, with the dried petals. On October 29, 1993, what would have been his 71st birthday, we drove out to the bridge beneath the dam at the lake. It snowed that day. I'm not joking. It was cold and the wind was blowing. By the time we got to the lake it actually was sticking to the grass. They were big giant flakes, wet and special, coming down hard, blowing frantically in the headlights at dusk. Both a trick and a treat and it wasn't even Halloween, yet. We spread the dried petals in the Brazos and said a prayer for my father as they floated away during an excellent McCabe and Mrs. Miller kind of day.

The Bear was something. His life and his death blessed my own life. His genes jacked me up big time, but I'm not holding that against him anymore. Facing what I have with the heart and lungs has made me a much better happier person so I guess I owe him. I love him and my mom too much to get mad about it now. In 1994, 14 months later Mom died after teaching us a lifetime worth of lessons in such a short time. I still see them all the time in my dreams. Just last night I saw Dad. He was giving me grief about cleaning up a mess at Granny's he thought Paul and I made trying to feed Armadillo World nachos to a bunch of little kids we were watching. Last time I saw Mom she still hoped I wasn't disappointed. I never was.

Here's my poem about Isaac and Winfield and the FreeState InterFaith Council and the wind that couldn't beat us

This photo taken by Sam Stratton just moments before we blew that pop stand and flew to Ark City. The shot is looking north toward out oncoming adventure. Needless to say, none the awnings or flags were standing when we got back.





WINFIELD BOUND

Winfield bound,
by wind
and rain
and mud, oh, the river of mud
the tenacity of the one that laughs
yet panics in reasonable acknowledgment
at first sight of the fury and force, power, and pride
of extreme Kansas weather playing late summer
last practical jokes on the unsuspecting

Later, after reluctant tangled wet acceptance of those things we cannot change
mute late night desperation tempered by Midwest determination and commitment
as if to say, “That William Clarke Quantrill shall NOT destroy nor steal of the soul of this town!”

Sleeping not sleeping soaking
on beds of moisture chilled by the despair of sodden hopes
first light’s inspection demands coffee fuel to forge ahead with determined re-encampment
melded minds seeking uneasy complicated solutions to undeniable frustration

and then...
as elder statesmen pontificate
a voice seldom heeded speaks with Mr. Smith’s Washington resolve
Listen...
I have...
HEY!
Listen, just listen to me, QUIET

heads turn
focus
the youngest moist survivor speaks
Our tent is finished, gone, done
over the rabble he states the only logical possibility
If we trash our tent, release it from the frame, the fly remains, stable enough to stand
and if and when...
until the other wagons arrive
at least we have some shade of sorts and the larder, the liqueur, and the ammo stays dry

And it was done
for some the longest 48 hours of relaxation ever known

By nightfall, the adventure team was settled, prepared, and waiting
Exchanged looks prior to dispersement to lands charted
yet annually unknown
having been challenged by winds of disheartenment, responding with resolve
as if by signal
the team scatters to the grove, grounds and beyond
leaving behind this lone exhausted old grandmother
now silent, sitting among what was, then was not , and now, is once again
remembering the night prior
his only salvation a late night campgrounds jam gifted by travelers from not Georgia, but South Carolina
waiting to find energy enough
to rest, play, nap
willing to watch
contemplate
cogitate
record
as others fly
Winfield bound

update and thoughts on dying

hello,
Again I'm feeling lazy for not posting as frequently as I could or should. I know folks like me are encouraged to refrain from using either of those words, but sometimes they am what is. I want to post more often and as I type I've decided to at least peek in every Sunday. As we start the new school year that appears to make sense to me for reasons that I don't even think can count as such.

I have been busy and working on things as I let other things work on me. The politics and inner workings of any large organization are an interesting behavior to observe. It can make you laugh, cry, curse, and sometimes shout. One must often apply a good slap to your own face and refocus on what is the only reason we bother, the kids. No longer a classroom teacher every single time I help a teacher in some way that in the end helps students, makes me feel good. That's why I do the job. My district isn't perfect but has many dedicated teachers and staff members who want to help shape a better world for the students. I have a peer who repeatedly tells me that in his opinion about 80% of the teachers are just here for the paycheck and summers off. Every time I hear that it is like a fist in the gut. Offended and puzzled on every level, I disagree.

I honestly wonder what does it say about someone if they believe so little in the organization they work for? With that perception are they just taking a paycheck as well? Why bother to be involved in a system that is such a dismal failure. By the only standard we have, imperfect as it might be, test data suggests more success on our part. It bothers me that someone without objective criteria would verbalize such a statement. How can someone without a teacher's certificate(he has his own area of expertise and does his own job well) feel that they are qualified to make such a negatively emotionally charged statement? I guess it also shocks me that someone I respect to such an extent could seem so far off base and make such hurtful remarks without qualification or factual evidence. Let's all shout fire in a crowded theater, shall we.

If anyone with children in the district reads this let me just tell you that your child, no matter who they are, has been assigned to one of the 20% that try. I'm proud to work here. My own children are students here. I hope that says something.

Now to thoughts of death.

Almost two weeks ago my uncle died. He hadn't been doing well with his variety of ailments. When the phone rang and caller ID showed me it was my cousin I knew what the call was about. I just knew it. I had very similar feelings when they called me about my mother between 5 and 6 one morning. I was sitting in a meeting at school when my father died. I remember looking at the clock and thinking Dad died at 10:45. Immediately after the meeting I was called to the phone in the office to get the news from my brother. It is a very cathartic process to work through.

Back to the phone call, due to all sorts of things, my uncle was to be cremated within 24 hours and a service was planned for late the next week. I had almost a week and a half to stew about death.

I did.

When I was a child I was terrified to death about death and dying.(I did the terrified to death about death on purposed because I'm not terrified about cliched writing, obviously) I grew up Church of Christ and just knew I was going to die and go to hell. I think it was to be expected. It happened in every single dream about death and judgment day I ever had. Trust me, I had lots of them. Loud bang, spirits rising from the graveyard, big gatherings in the shadow of a giant Jesus, throwing our shoes on a big pile in a wagon others sifted and sorted. Standing in line as the giant Jesus sorts us like the shoes in that wagon. No matter how the dreams started, even with all signs looking good for me, I always got the wrong nod, the sign I wasn't seeking, and headed anywhere but to the right.

As I grew older I become so frightened some nights I couldn't sleep. Once I became so scared I got up and wandered into the living room. Dad was out of town. Mom was watching Johnny Carson and reading the New Yorker.(no mysteries about where she was headed). Worried about my tears she was quick to hold me and ask just what was the matter. I told her all. Not my specific sins but I explained just how the cards were stacked and how the rows of dominoes spelled out, headed to a hot spot, and were just waiting for a tap from the giant Jesus' finger.

She hugged me, comforted me, told me not to worry. Besides that was something that would be decided long after we were dead and I wouldn't need to worry. Wow, that made me feel good. Then I remembered this was the same woman who only years ago in the midst of a massive breakdown from reality explained that vomit was only us casting out all of our evil and babies are tools of Satan to convince us of the illusion of the possibility of renewal and how periods of great war and turbulence led to the false hopes provided by periodic ages of peace and love and on and on. I went back to bed remembering that and was even more confused and frightened than I was when I woke in a panic a half hour earlier.

Luckily, by now fear of death isn't a concern. Folks cringe when I say it, but in lots of ways I look forward to and welcome it. All of my rambles down the road of dealing with the adventures brought on by faulty arterial pipes has led me to lots of meditation on that which I once feared. In the early part of this century I read, "No Death, No Fear," by the wise man known as Thay Hanh to many. One of the most helpful books I've ever read it set me straight in my own head about many things.

My uncle Charlie gave me the chance to revisit a topic that sooner or later will consume almost all of us. He did me a big favor. The night before the service we'd been to see my cousin and as I was trying to go to sleep I typed out with one finger a short email to him. The next morning less than an hour before the service he asked me if I'd read what I'd written. I tried to remember if it was something I could read in a church. It was and I agreed. I wanted to help and if PDub wanted me to read it I would.

However, I made the mistake of following his three kids. GranCharlie's(probably not spelled right)only grandchildren. The three of them, Lydia, Frances, and Charles, stood together in a group, a team, like I remembered them, a unit, while Lydia said her piece and Charles read a short incredible poem he'd penned. Frances saved her poem for cemetery where we had no hole to place him(come December's Christmas visit and his ashes will be placed with much of our family that is already gone).

I made my way forward wishing I'd declined my offer to read now. I knew it would be rough. Carson said, "Dad, everybody knows you're a cryer" Well, I got through it, and even with the crying everybody said they could hear and understand me. When I went back to my seat, my cousin, Mary Fran, who I always thought was so cool when I was growing up, she was the beautiful one of the big girls, reached back from her pew in front of us and gave me one of her smiles and one of the best hand hugs I ever had.

My extended family is simply put,one of the best there ever was.

So...

For my cousin Paul, because he liked it enough to ask that it be read at his father's funeral, my thoughts about my uncle Charlie.


We bury my uncle Charlie tomorrow
Only what's left of him
The leftovers that don't even begin to tell his story that we will
keep alive gathered around the fire pit on days that only echo the
glory days of regular trips from the valley for Couger encampments
with odds and ends thrown into flames stirred by non regulated sticks
that maybe should have been
Many ways he had been absent even when he was here these last few years
but there was a time when autumn brought them north of the Brazos
To a spot on the top of a hill that was a kingdom unto itself ruled by
former river folk who came to town for education and stayed
If Charlie hadn't married in he would still have fit the same
The bear would have seen to it
On reaching the house Charlie came to see my other uncles
Different family but not really
He bought the round he would spice and hang from small wire hooks
attached where once the family wash dried in the same west Texas
breeze and sun that now transformed beef to jerky that would be
savored around the pit and washed down after a journey half way to the
lake for supplies best kept in a cooler in the back of his vehicle
That is how I remember him best
In November and the three week thanksgiving celebration
Where the family played out the melodrama he did his best to avoid
With books and radio and days in clear autumn light
By the fire
Being Charlie
My uncle, we bury tomorrow

The Trauma of Serial Napping and Font Addiction

It intrigues me how lots of times I can sing a good song in the car, making it up as I go along, good images and rhymes with potential and then when I get to a pen and paper I can't remember tunes or words. The same things apply to stories. So I thought what if I started just jotting down just the first paragraphs of my books I want to write with a title and then the reader can piece the rest of it together in their head. Sort of like a word doodle. I invented that, "word doodle", send all royalties to me.

A quick aside, the inventor of the "cheese doodle" died recently. Here is the URL of the details:

http://www.nydailynews.com/money/2010/08/02/2010-08-02_morrie_yohai_90_inventor_of_the_cheez_doodle_dies.html


Read it and feel free to add comments and keep in mind I try to run a respectable blog. So here is one I call:

Serial Napping and Font Addiction

I’m not sure if either caused the other or vice-versa. Now, it all just seems confusing. Sixth months ago if I you asked me if I’d become an addict or develop a sick and tragic habit I probably would have laughed in your face. That’s not like me, never has been. I’ve always been a straight Joe, the kind of person you called on if you needed somebody on a committee or to coach a little league team. Man oh man, if my Cub Scout den saw me now, accused of the things I am and those sordid things others have whispered that I’ve done. It just makes me sick, that’s what it does, makes me sick. Then when I sit down and shut up long enough to think and to just sweat in my chair and stew in my own juices I start to wonder. Even if I have no memory of it doesn’t mean I didn’t or couldn’t have. Then I think of my girl and wish she was here to help, but I know if she was, she wouldn’t, she’d just spit in my face, or maybe worse. This is crazy I tell you, just flat out hinky and I’m gonna get to the bottom of it if I have to sit here all night.

Tesla and his weasel

Recently while continuing with my research into the viability of weasel power I discovered an early proponent was none other than Nikola Tesla. He was introduced to the concept by his cousin, Rodney, who was a carny and sideshow performer. During Rodney's travels with the carnival he was forced by necessity to make do as best he could. He was a card shark, fortune teller, barker, and occasionally was said to fill in for the exotic dancers, but only when absolutely necessary. His light build and youthful complexion allowed him to do a reasonable attempt at a fan dance. With gas lamps turned down low he captured the hearts of many an unsuspecting farm hand or tradesman.

When the first hand cranked movie projectors appeared Rodney saw this as a stepping stone to a better life. He predicted that the "moving picture will change the carnival world as we know it today and our children's children's fathers' will no longer gaze upon the true human figure for titillation but will view one created by the illusion of the moving picture."

He invested in several projectors and using a homemade camera created short "specialty moving picture plays" which consisted of his interruptions of the fan dance and a simple story of seduction of the dancer by a cooper who has followed "her" to her caravan.

With the popularity of his films he no longer could waste his time cranking his own projector. He needed a way to power them lest he be forced into to hiring young "carny crankers." During an after hours poker game Rodney cleaned out a troupe of traveling little people known, "The Many Merry Mini Midgets of Mannheim." When they couldn't back their markers they began offering Rodney most of their professional equipment to stave off an ugly beating at the hands of Rodney who not only could dance like a woman but settled scores more often than not with fisticuffs. Finally the titles to everything but the clothes on their backs were turned over to Rodney. Upon inspection of a 3 wagon show, costumes, equipment etc, Rodney found he now owned the entire cast of the Midgets of Mannheim's weasel circus.

Never having dealt with least weasels Rodney was soon surprised and elated at what you could do with your own weasel. The lithe furry creatures are incredibly intelligent and this weasel circus was so well drained that 3 of the bulls could actually brew a decent cup of tea and serve toast squares as well. Rodney ignored the toast squares which they held between their teeth to serve while standing on their hind legs,but enjoyed a delicious if somewhat weak cup of tea.

Now owning nearly 75 highly trained weasels he first considered teaching them the fan dance. After meeting with an early form of focus group it was decided that erotic weasels would most likely be a limited draw to a small, but dedicated audience. Had the weasels been able to sing while they played their instruments the act might catch on but only in the bigger cities where bookings were always tougher. You had to have a show that was truly unique.

Rodney finally made the decision to attempt to use the weasels to create hands free projection. After a week of experimentation Rodney had created a very workable system of wheels and pulleys and and belts and clothes pins and weasels running in circles. It was a success and Rodney is credited with having the first all weasel powered erotic moving picture palace.

While visiting his cousin Rodney shared his designs and drawings and suggested to Nikola that there might be a future in weasel power. There was mention made of storing the power generated by the weasel. A weasel battery if you will.

Designs were drawn for personal weasel power generating devices known "box o' weasel energy." Records show that Tesla was intrigued. Although consistent documentation is lacking, there are casual references in several personal letters. It is thought that Tesla was able to create artificial lightning with a massive 3-story generator powered by specially bred weasels from Rodney's stock.

These experiments took place during his Colorado days. Anecdotal evidence from a limited number of scholars believe the "great Colorado laboratory fire" was caused by an over generation of power fueled by amphetamine addicted weasels. No one will ever know because shortly after the fire that roasted every last least weasel prompting an infestation by cats seeking weasel meat morsels which they love and have a primitive affinity for, concerns by city fathers began circulating. Just what was going on? Several of Rodney' experimental weasel stag films had found their way into the hands of local clergy. Locals gathered to eliminate the hyper felines and beat most to death with sticks and brooms. Tesla left the area shortly after.

This suggest the possible possibility of plausible sustainable weasel power exists. If Tesla's weasel notes could be found naysayers might be forced to give this option a second glance.

I want to publish a poem

During the month of April(National Poetry Month) my running buddy, the Skeeter, and I challenged one another to write a poem a day. Challenged is too aggressive a word. We cajoled one another to create focused work in an art form I am admittedly not the best at. Skeets on the other hand has been writing songs and poems since as long as I've known him. For me it was an act of actually working to write something. I didn't want to just dash off a dirty limerick, once driving back to Topeka from Texas with El Skeetman, Markle Farns, and my brother, Cockroach we entertained ourselves in between games of Mattel elecronic football, Markle told the girls at Soap Creek he was doing a test marketing for Mattel, with suggestive limericks. It was less than 10 degrees outside and maybe 38 in my Toyota. The road from Graford to Topeka was one lane and slow. Luckilly it wasn't bright sunshine or all of us would be wearing dark glasses to enhance the telling of the tale.

Somehow that brings us back to the first of several poems I plan to post. I present them for what they are. About this first one, Richard Brautigan was one of my favorite writers when I was younger. His stories and poetry were things I could understand. He said a lot with few words. The news of his passing, alone in a field, next to a tree saddened me. When he was happy...he was a blast to read and think about


for richard brautigan


last night after decades of dormancy
I found myself dreaming of Babylon
there were 2 outs, 2 strikes, 3 odd balls with the score tied
in what might be the last at bat of the game

just as suddenly I pulled the car to the shoulder of the road
awash with the colours of the rainbow
and at the very least spritzed with a sheen of oil on wet black hole asphalt
flashing lights of neon tolled loudly
sizzle-ping, sizzle-ping
TONIGHT ONLY, ALL-NUDE, ELVIS WRESTLING
over and over and over again
brought to you by the Tri-County Kiwanis & Sheriff's Posse
most proceeds go directly to offset costs of future
fund raising

on our backs, hidden from the world
in a copse(thank you Count No Count) of trees deliberately planted by the city
with a secret candy coated center
no visitors after ten p.m.
curfew strictly enforced by too few
undisturbed
on my right is an obsession never to be realized
but dreamed of often
on my left
her best friend and confidant
who for me will someday be that
and more.
That now, nearly forty years then,
not one of us knew even a smidgin of what...
our lives would grant us
what was ahead
lay in store
cliche after cliche
built upon over used images and
then some and excetera
anymore than we could have counted
the number of stars overhead
even if,
we weren't higher than kids should be on a school night

I turned to her best friend and kissed her chastely on the tip of her nose
I turned to her
and did the same
in that, the single best moment of a lifetime
I found myself dreaming of Babylon

and the ball swoofed by me, strike three
I saw it all in super super slo-mo replay vision
I still think if I could have just turned slightly and let it hit me
got to first
but Babylon was calling

and I wanted to count the stars until we got it right

soon, very soon

"To harness the power of the weasel is to see our nation's dependence on fossil fuels decline" - Dr. Randall Barrett Wallace-Jones

Is weasel power the key to surviving the next century? With the recent events in the Gulf it must now be given serious consideration. If we can reduce the strain on a coal based grid using alternative forms of "critter-based power" even the smallest amount, the cost of the research out weighs most other considerations. My work proves this to be a possibility. The challenge is getting those in charge to listen.

A positive development as recently official representatives of your government graced my doorstep. Claiming to be law enforcement officers they reeked of "Energy Dept." careerist hack. After snooping about for what I can only assume was my research notes they read some papers about attempted presidential communication or some other nonsense and left me to my studies. Luckily they did not request to see the bomb shelter. My research is safe. As my lights flicker I'm reminded of the remarks of Pope Ludicrous IV, "even the least of least weasel yearns for his kibble and we yearn the lessons of righteousness."

long time no see

I must apologize for the lack of posts and creativity. Let's just say my duties as the the assistant to the assistant cart monkey in charge kept me busy to such an extent I let the creative nature of life slide by.

As some may know it is, has been, National Poetry Month during April. The Skeeter and I made a deal to compose a poem a day. I am no poet. Getting ready to celebrate the month on our school's website I reread many of my favorite poems from ages ago. It rekindled an interest of sorts.

The Skeeter has been a poet and song-smith as long as I've known him so his end of our bargain has gone quite smoothly. Mine, well....

Here is the first one I'm not afraid to share.

AFTERTHOUGHT: Next year during April we should get everyone we know to write and share a poem a day. That's a cool idea.




spring 1969

flint hills burning
thick smoke tasting of last years grazing
the cattle fattened
where great herds of bison roamed
mere generations prior
a setting sun turns the horizon to
an aurora borealis of high-stepping flames, a smoldering fence from hell
leaving nothing but black and smoke and a single tree, survivor of the ages
the night sky reflected from scattered pools of water
worth driving south all the way from Topeka
on a Thursday night after school
without even thinking
you wanna go see some fire
eighty plus, no seat belts, windows open
the scents of spring, cigars and gasoline
and passing diesels
W-B-A-P coming through
clear as if you were in Possum Kingdom
I still remember the year Clayton Delaney died...
once asked to describe the smell
the only thing to come to mind was
history, maybe it smells just like
the great plains firestorms of the past
history

later parked at a high spot on the shoulder
near empty loading pens
turnpike traffic slows thinking we are in a bind
my father waves them on
silent
never sure what's he's seeing as he stares
leaning, elbows on the hood of the pickup
me not really tall enough to mimic his movements
he sips his beer from the cooler in the front seat
a Cragmont cola tastes as good as coke and cheaper
close enough to feel the heat
hear the crackle as stubble makes way for new spring grasses
and that black pasture that with each step
raises small clouds of ash and soot and prairie dust
aromatic incense perfuming the air
if I were forced to pick one smell for the rest of my life
it would be the flint hills burning

he rolls a cigarette, Prince Albert, like his father did
a new habit started last fall
when his father passed
my blackened sneakers
not a problem, mom will never know
before her weekend pass we'll wash them
our secret
after smoking, it is time to load up
drive south to a rest area
where they will mark our turnpike ticket
my father will save thirty-five cents
drinking my turnpike malt we head north into the dark night
illuminated by
flint hills burning