The Rains of Time

Falling

tears on

rusted empires

baptize memories;

green bathes brown as

gray broods blue.

Fires smolder until sauce,

then churned into a porridge

frescoed with revolution.

Phantoms of dust flooded,

teardrops sprout to animation;

fresh heirs reign until the

fires rekindle—the rains

of time return.

Food for Thought

Amongst four couples waiting for a table in an Olive Garden foyer, I was the single person not dialed into a cell phone. As such, I was disconnected adequately enough to connect with a woman on crutches. I helped her through the two sets of doors. Returning, I think my wife was the only person who had even realized what happened.

Pat on the back? Nah. Slap on the hands for seven? Much more the point.

Time for people to disconnect to reconnect. 

Out of the Mouth of Babes, 11/15/13

9/13
A wild hair drove me to buy each kid a $2 carousel ticket while at the Hogle Zoo. What a splurge! As the music faded in and we began to turn, Torin exclaimed, “Oh, no! Where’s our helmets?”

9/13
Ah, the joys of potty training. It was comical when Torin began using his "part" as a gun and made shooting sounds effects. It was another thing when he pushed it and said, “Look, Daddy. It’s a doorbell. Ding-dong!” Now that’s just plumb strange.

9/13
As Torin grows, so does his attitude at times. He recently inquisitively queried, “Daddy, and where do you think you’re going?” Geez, who’s the boss?

8/13
It wasn’t spectacular, but it was completely memorable. His timing and intonation were impeccable. Torin dropped a lady bug and with all the sincerity he could muster, he bent down and delicately spoke, “Hey, are you alright?” It was a delightful, non-reproducible moment.

9/13
Torin to Mommy:
“Mom, your legs are sharp like dinosaur teeth.”

10/13
A crafty tactic of Dad’s has been to tell Torin he must sit in his car seat and buckle up when driving in order to avoid making the policeman mad, and a mad policeman will take Dad to jail. He recently insisted we buckle him up or else Daddy would go to “Jell-O.” I reminded him it’s “jail,” but trying to convince him of truths is often futile. He is, however, usually willing to compromise. Dad now goes to “Jell-O jail” if we don’t buckle up.

This practice of combinational compromising can be logical and work out well. Torin asked me about the Sinatra-like penguin on Toy Story.

“Dad, what’s that?”
“It’s a penguin.”
“No, Dad, it’s a rubber ducky.” It was a reasonable belief. The penguin in the movie has that basic shape and composition.
“Yeah, it kinda looks like a rubber ducky, but it’s a penguin.”
“No. It’s a rubber ducky.”
“Penguin.”
“Rubber Ducky.”
“Penguin.”
“OK, Dad… it’s, it’s a rubber penguin.”
“Yeah, that’s true, Pooks. That’s true.”

11/9/13
I submerged myself in the tub, came back up, and Torin exclaimed, “Dad, it’s like you’re being baptized!” He attended his cousin’s baptism a week or so earlier. I was shocked though that he picked up the word and remembered it.

The Wiser Geyser Disguiser

Was that Good Samaritan unscathed? Did any bad come to him for aiding the needy? A contagious disease? Did friends desert? Was he looted? Lost reputation? Misplaced raiment? Did a prior engagement go unattended, or at least was his punctuality punctured? Surely something was traded—kindness for misfortune.

 

On 9/19/13, while in the area for “Bree-manna’s” ceremony, Torin and I took a dip. Not long after our arrival, a mother, son, and granny joined our low-budget, this-is-to-us-actually-and-sadly-a-splurgingly-luxurious-vacation-treat swimming pool. The smallest stranger was a four-year-old and either fearless or brainless. In quick time, I determined the latter. Mother sat 10 yards distant, fully-clothed, feet drooping in the water while her dreadfully-overweight, saggy-skinned elder sloshed about, frantically laboring to fence her feisty grandfish. It was not dissimilar to observing an orca’s effort to capture a seal. In fact, it was much worse. Imagine observing in a tight enclosure—one with wall-dripping humidity—an obese and gray, over-aged orangutan (hair-raisingly accurate portrayal) flopping and flabbing, bobbing and flipping to pin a penguin scooting about in waist-deep, violently-gurgling water. A sore sight.

And so we watched—out of awe and also responsibility—with bridled horseplay, my attention obligatorily diverted. I was on disaster patrol. Kneivel would have had better luck at the Grand Canyon than this young fellow did at not drowning. And then inevitability struck when the lad hopped from the hot tub, sprung down the pool steps, and soon began oscillating wildly in open water. I lunged through the tub, reached across the tub/pool separator, and snatched up the obliviot (oblivious idiot). He was scolded with punishments while I was showered with praise.

And then the misfortune.

Turning back to the tub only revealed the top of Torin’s head; the tike had tipped his top or tripped his toes, and I was drenched in terror. The flood of fear which bathed my senses froze all but my whirling mind. How much time had my rescue absorbed? Will he be breathing? How did this happen? How could this happen? What trauma would I pull from this turbulence? This can’t be fair. Do I pound his back? CPR on my own child? Those careless wretches caused this. Is this my Abrahamic trial?  Where’s my phone? I am irresponsible and unfit to parent. And more that cannot be expressed swam through my mind.

Time thawed. I jetted to him, jerked him skyward, and immediately and repeatedly smacked his back. No water was coughed up. Not much panic was expressed. And then to my apogeeic astonishment—out of the mouth of my guppy who disgusts even a simple bath-time hair-wash—it was gaspingly spoken, “I’m just blowin’ bubbles, Daddy.” Needless to say, this was unexpected. The harsh effects of this event were extinguished as quickly as a sear sopped in a barrel, yet my soul had been burned nevertheless.

No tangible damage, not worse for wear, we clasped for a lengthy period. And in that and since that time, a well of watered-down regret has risen inside. I have drowned over and over again in what-could-have-happened thoughts. How can one know the trade-off for kindness? Let me quiz that Samaritan. Was it worth it? If one sows kindness, does there exist a probability of reaping more misfortune than fortune? Are we perpetually playing slots to weigh the scale of fate? But of course, I suppose—as the Wiser has told—charity never fails. I guess I’ll keep taking my chances.

Get Some More Power

We are a nation of consumers.

 

On the most part, when a good is wanted, it is promptly invented, manufactured, grown, engineered, erected, fabricated, cooked, processed, performed, built, textiled, formulated, or designed. It is then available to be bought, borrowed, rented, credited, stolen, inherited, harvested, awarded, or received. The ease of access to the end consumer is remarkable, and the degree of ease is unassailably unique and distinctive to our nation.

 

"Poverty" in America is unalarming (see in particular Appendix Chart 1 • B 2607).

 

The supposed "least" among us has extraordinary accessibility and obtainability of a vast variety of goods. I now suspect this condition of life has existed for sufficient time to allow related evolution to cure (set up) in America’s offspring. For example, power was recently lost in my and several neighboring subdivisions, and Torin, my two-and-a-half-year-old toddler, was forcefully—and seemingly endlessly—insistent on buying “some moh powuhr at da store.” He innately “knows” that anything can be retrieved from the store.

 

So as this evolution further cures, it appears to do the opposite of curing (healing, making better) our society. We only ever become weaker (prideful, unappreciative, pampered, dependent, complacent) in our perceived prosperity. America is devolving into a flock of newborn chicks—he who helplessly chirps the loudest attains the handout. As a chick naturally squeaks for its subsistence, so too do people now congenitally cheep for fulfillment of their desires.

 

Grow some... wings, and earn some power.

Triumph!

Torin Young has successfully made it through nursery without suffering from the following:

Typical symptoms of acute myocardial infarction include sudden retrosternal chest pain (typically radiating to the left arm or left side of the neck), shortness of breath, nausea, vomiting, palpitations, sweating, and anxiety (often described as a sense of impending doom).

This description is very fitting to Torin's nursery experience, but worry no more--he has conquered with a thumps-up! We now have hope that Torin will go to Kindergarten!

– BMY
 

The Nature of Blame, Part III

In a way, I can't blame them for trying.

“The search for a scapegoat is the easiest of all hunting expeditions.” 

― Dwight D. Eisenhower

The Nature of Blame, Part II

When I was still in single digits, I stole Dream Team tattoos from supermarket sodas. I knew it was wrong, but I blamed Brandon’s peer pressure.

In my very early teens, I scribbled notes on school desks to communicate with Landon’s luscious ladies. (Speaking eye-to-eye was unimaginable.) I knew the act was wrong, but societal guidelines were to blame.

A mid-teen decision was to hide my friend’s quad. His brother, Little Sweetie, habitually parked it in an empty field adjacent a busy Broadway, causing crooks to salivate. I knew it was wrong—and a subsequent police report confirmed this—but I placed blame on the naivete and irresponsibility of his brother.

Thank heavens humans grow beyond this childish blame game. Otherwise, we'd never hear the end of blaming the likes of Katrina or Sandy, Fannie or Freddie. It would become languishing listening to blames on bosses or Barry, government or gun owners. The 1% would be blamed nonstop! And every other poor decision or misfortune would be blamed on parents, kids, competitors, Wall Street, the devil, discrimination, fame, inequality, God, gas prices, weight, war, love, hate, limited quantities, debt, disabilities, genetics, aesthetics, schooling, weather, marriage, heritage, sleepless nights, the sniffles, or the cough.

It would grow old.

The Nature of Blame, Part I

On busy workdays, hours can pass without a single has-anyone-of-importance-contacted-me phone check. This can be unfavorable, because a timely response is nearly always desired. Some days ago, work was like sailing into the teeth of the gale, and as I returned to my three-and-a-half walled slave station, I longingly took that glance to quench my contacts (not-so-) long-forsaken inquiries.

I discovered that only moments ago Brooke had called six or seven times within a few minutes.

This was abnormal; I was nervous.

I promptly returned her call to discover Torin had locked himself in one of the basement rooms. It was dark and gloomy (and maybe even damp and smelling yucky), and he was frightened. Brooke felt helpless, as she was unable to release him from his prison. Decker was wailing. I zoomed homeward.

A flat-head screwdriver and cool turn of the wrist uncaged the innocuous convict. I had ridden in on my silver horse and emancipated the distressed. Dad had saved the day! (That’s what we do.) Maybe there would be milk and cheese for dinner after all. Hooray! Surely a giant bear hug was in order.

But, no!

While shoving my hands back through the opening door, Torin shrilled and impetuously smashed it shut. Huh? He was mad at Dad. His instinct was to blame his imprisonment and pain on another. His discomfort and confinement were of course not the fault of his own. He’s two and naturally blaming.