Driving Arthur

  

 

December 27, 2021

 Greetings from one indeed,

 It is interesting to notice how friendships form.  Not all of them look the same, which is a helpful thing to remember when you wonder where the next one will come from. 

 I thought of this as I spoke to my friend Ron.  I hardly saw our friendship growing until it was all around us.  I called him last week and told him I think of him every time I drive to Ann Arbor, and we both chuckled at that.  He told me something that he has said before, a bookmark of our relationship, and it brought tears to my smiling eyes.

 Several times a year for several years, I drove Ron to his appointments at UM Hospital.  It takes a little over an hour to drive, and sometimes a whole lot over an hour.  We did it dozens and dozens of times.  During those drives, and in waiting rooms and exam rooms and changing rooms and labs and clinics, we assembled a friendship.

 When we were in Ann Arbor Ron would tell me how much it had changed since he went to University of Michigan, some six decades ago.  And yet he could remember the main landmarks, most of which still exist.  He told me the stories of the places he worked, or this car he drove, or where he would go to get cheap food.

 At every appointment the staff would ask Ron to confirm his information and he would say his name was Arthur Watts.  This would always cause me to look up, since we only knew him as Ron, but Arthur was his given name, which seemed so much more dignified, nearly regal.  Ron is a gentleman, and dignified, but he will always be Ron to us.

 Ron is an excellent patient.  He has a nearly perfect memory for every bit of what is an extensive medical history.  He participates in the interviews with the nurses and assistants and doctors and specialists.  He knows his weight and blood pressure, how much water he drank yesterday, what his prescriptions are, to the milligram.  He speaks precisely and answers questions with remarkable clarity, a bright mind of nearly nine decades, which amazed nearly every doctor who sat with him.

 “Ron is really smart.” my Mom used to tell us.  He knows biology and chemistry and other smart things because for years he taught high school students the realities of science.  In fact, I learned more science sitting in exam rooms with Ron than I learned in my internment at Central High.

 When we drove to Ann Arbor Ron would tell me about fishing in this river or that lake, or going to high school in this town or stories about his father or his brother.  He shared a generation of life with me in samples of a few minutes at a time.  When I heard them the first time, and the third time, I didn’t always give every word the respect it deserved.  But I learned the stories and soon it was similar to hearing a favorite song on the radio.

 I sat in the exam rooms with Ron, helped him off with his clothes, and on with the ridiculous gowns.  I sat and listened, looked at the institutional art, read the notices on the wall, waited, talked about fishing and high school teachers and the Navy and my Mom and his grandchildren.  We waited together, which was something we wove into our friendship.

 The official people would come in and ask how Arthur was doing and they would take notice of me, and they would always ask: “And who is this?”  After ten or twenty times, we stopped trying to explain.  Ron would just say: “This is my son.”  In time, we both simply accepted it as the answer. When it was necessary for me to help, to answer, to be family, I was his son.  After a while, we simply created that truth as easily as our friendship.

 We drove to doctor’s appointments and chemo and radiation and surgery and check ups. We drove to pharmacies and to the barber shop.  We drove to the hospital to visit my Mom, and in time we drove to the funeral home to decide things there.  We drove to the place we scattered her ashes.  We drove to banks and the post office and lawyer’s offices.  I helped him into the car and buckled his seat belt, and we stopped somewhere and I unbuckled him and helped him out.

 Ron and I are from different histories, raised in different eras, we have different views on the world, on how things should go.  If you put it all on paper, you might question the potential to create a friendship.  I don’t know the solution well enough to share, except we didn’t try to fix each other where we were different, and somehow the differences just became like an unusual seasoning in some really good chili.

 When he married my Mom, that was our family intersection, our affinity.  But in the years of driving and waiting and listening and talking, we created a new bond, and there isn’t any better word to describe it than friendship.

 Ron moved to Texas and began a new life.  He says the people who work where he lives take good care of him, and one of his daughters is close by.  I don’t think I’ll ever drive him anywhere again.  You can fill in the blank that leaves in my life. 

 Friendships are unique, it is almost impossible to describe them in one way.  It’s as if two people were painting a picture together; each is contributing something that makes the creation different from any other combination of people.  What I have learned from Ron, along with a host of other lessons, is that creating this gift is often done when your hands are busy doing something else. Driving, for example.

  

Hope this finds you missing your friend,

 

David

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith

1st Moanin' of Christmas

 

 

December 21, 2020

 Greetings from the telling,

 The sun had already dipped beyond the foothills, and the land left behind lost the color it wore that morning, and soon turned grey.  In the low places the dark already took hold.  Hoke nosed his horse through the sage until he found a clear spot he liked, and tugged the reins and Paco stopped.  They had been riding for most of the day, not in any hurry, but they were both tired.

 He swung down from the saddle, grunting a little as he stepped into the hardpack.  He patted Paco’s rump and then led him near the stand of Pinon pine trees and tied him off.  He pulled the saddle and dragged it a ways and flopped it into the dust.

 “Here we are, home again.” he said, loud enough to cause Paco to look up.  Hoke went about gathering wood for his fire, and then rolled a chunk of a deadfall a few feet to give himself something to sit on.  He crouched over the litter of dried wood and struck a match, held it to the shavings he put under the kindling.  The knuckles of his hands were scarred and swollen, a history of ropes and fights and hammers and horses and steer.  One finger was missing on his left hand, a crude ending to a disagreement in Nogales. 

 The fire came to life.  There was a moment of smoke but then the flame surrounded its prey, devouring it slowly.  The orange and yellow fingers caressed the wood, changed the twigs to light.  The yellow flickering glow showed Hoke’s face, creased with years of life out on the range.

 “How are you my old friend?” Hoke asked the fire.  Sap hissed and popped on one of the logs.  Hoke turned to his rig and pulled out a pan and his coffee pot, dug around and found coffee and hardtack, and in the bottom of his stained saddlebag, some jerky.  He filled the pot and set it on rocks at the edge of the fire and waited for his coffee to boil and chewed on his leathery repast.

 He spoke into the flames; “Yusser, this is about as good as a man could want.  Purty night like this, nothing but the world around me, I can’t imagine a better life.  Well, no sense in it otherwise, being this is where I am.”  He and the fire nodded in agreement. 

 Above him the constellations formed ribbons of light against the velvet roof.  A few stars launched themselves into streaks of life, off to places none below could imagine.  Hoke looked up, smiling at the show.  “I’m the mayor of Twinkle Town.” he said to the fire, laughing, cocking his head at the sky.  “Sovereign over all I survey.”  The fire chuckled with him.

 The night cloaked the world.  Hoke soaked in the silence and the isolation, kept company by his tin cup filled with coffee, and the soft whispers of the fire.  He chewed his meal, washed it down with the coffee, and then stopped. 

 Hoke looked at his hands, tried to sum up when the last time he knew a date, and then came to a firm conclusion, rooted in mostly instinct.  “Sumbitch, it’s Christmas eve.  Or purt’near.”  He slapped his knee and laughed.  The fire sparked at him.  The two of them delighted in the discovery. 

 “We should celebrate.” he said to his friend, and reached to the leather bag, pulled out a metal flask.  He unscrewed the top and ran his sleeve over it, tipped it back and felt the hot taste coat his throat, warm his innards.  He breathed in the night air, felt the heat of the corn whiskey.  “Now,” he said to the fire, “this is a thing we should mark.  Only the finest cognac fer us.”  He spilled a little on the fire and watched his friend lick it in.

 Somewhere in his saddlebag was a bible, or what was left of it.  He couldn’t read any of it but liked the feel of it so kept it with him.  And glad of it, because on a few nights he needed to tear a page out to start a fire.  He always took off his hat when he did, outta respect, and all.  He knew some of the stories in the Good Book, his Ma had told him enough times.  Tonight, it seemed like he should say some words about it.  “Listen here,” speaking to the flames, “I got a story to tell.”  He took a deep breath, and told it.

 “So, this same night, long before us, or railroads or telegraphs,” he said to the fire, “there’s these fellas, a keepin watch over their herd.  And, uh, angels come on ‘em and scairt the tar out of ‘em.” Hoke stopped to laugh, then: “And these fellas evidently weren’t armed.” He laughed again and slapped his own Colt on his hip. “Lest them angels mighta ended up holier than thou.” 

 “Anyway, these fellas, I tell you, were just drag riders like us’n.”  The fire seemed unsure, but flickered interest, and so Hoke continued.  “Yessir, there they was, watching their herd, biding their time, and the angels come up, and they were shore afraid.  And the glory of the Almighty shone around ‘em, just like this here.” Hoke waved at the whirling constellations above him.  He took another pull on the whiskey.  The fire leaned in, quavering in anticipation.

 “They said, these here angels, said to these cowpokes, ‘Fear not, we bring y’all good tidings.  Tonight a savior is born.  And there’s gonna be peace on earth, and good wills for men.’  Is what they said.  And then them angels all flew off like a flock, and went on up to heaven.”

Beyond the ring of light the fire made the earth was dark and quiet.  The rocks and the trees and and the sagebrush waited, wondering where the story would go.  Hoke took another pull, and pushed his hat back a bit. “And these boys, they was a whooping and hollering, on account of what the angels tole.  They set out to town to see the baby Jesus.”

 “And they come a ridin, into town at a gallop and found that Jesus was born right out in the shed behind the saloon.  ‘Magine that.  Savior an’ all, right there in the shed, long side donkeys an’ what have you.  Not putting on airs.  And these cowpokes was just flat footed, and they took off their hats,” Hoke pulled back his own tattered Stetson, “and they paid respects.”

The fire flared brighter, swept up in the story, the flames leaping up into the cool night air.  Hoke pressed his hat back in place and took another tug at the whiskey.  He leaned in toward the fire.

 “And these boys went out and told the world what they seen.  Yusser, they was the first messengers, like Pony Express riders for the Lord.  These regular cow punchers, not a silver dollar between ‘em, and them angels picked ‘em to tell the world these here good tidings.”

 “See, these boys knew that this savior was for them too, not just the bible thumpers.  They was all sorts of bad, some outlaws, truth be told.  But they saw this little baby Jesus, come right in where they live, and tell them they was all right.  And peace on earth.  Mebbe there wouldn’t be no wars, or no more settlin’ hostiles, and maybe people would just be neighborly.”

 “And wouldn’t be no strawboss talkin’ poormouth to you, and no townfolks telling you to move along. And if a fella found a piece a land he liked mebbe some would let him put up a cabin, have a garden an all.  And wouldn’t no one come tell him he had to go sleep in the sagebrush.”

 “Wellsir, that’s what them fellas told.  They went around saying what they saw, and you know, people liked hearin’it, and them what told it felt fine saying it.” 

 The fire shone, smiling at its friend, lit the joy on his face for the night to see.  Hoke smiled broadly and leaned in once more.

 “And me and you, we’s just like them fellas that told the good news. Just saddle bums, mebbe, on our last plug of tobacco, mebbe, but we was worth telling this great thing first.  And we was plenty good to tell the rest of the world too.  And that right there’s a dang good thing to say about a fella.  Makes a fella proud to be what he is.”

 Hoke leaned back and took a sip and offered the last to the fire, and capped the flask.  He looked up from the flames and saw the cloud of witnesses form above him, galaxies of light and life.  He took off his hat, and paid respects.

 Hope this finds you sharing the news,

 

David

 

 

 

Copyright © 2020 David Smith

2nd Moanin' of Christmas

 

 

July 20, 2020

 Greetings from the messengers,

 God has a friend named Henry.

 When Henry was grown up, God sent him a message, which he didn’t get, and so he sent him several more, all of which were missed.  Finally, God lifted him from his little village, and they had a long talk.  From that day on the two of them were lifetime friends.  Which means a lot when you consider it.

 Henry caught God’s attention because of the way he prayed, which always included questions, and strangely, laughter.  Henry was not a devout man, he had his frailties, but there was a peace about him that drew people to him, he was kind, and above all he was a good listener.  Plus, he had a great laugh.

When Henry first met God it was awkward, of course, but over time he grew comfortable with having coffee with the creator of the universe.  After a while, Henry realized that he had been chosen, at first as a prophet, which didn’t work out, and then as a messenger of a different sort.

 “What do I call you, I mean, I feel like I should say Mr. Something, or Your Majesty.  You know?” Henry asked.  God thought this was funny, and reminded Henry that people used many names, from many faiths and beliefs.  “Don’t get too twisted up in formalities.  We’ve known each other a long time.”

 Every so often God would ask Henry to visit Earth.  Henry would walk around and listen to people, get a feel for what they were feeling and thinking.  He would stand in lines with them, ride subways, bale hay, do grocery shopping. One summer he stayed in an internment camp in California, another time a sweat shop in New York. For a while he lived in a Maori village and learned all manner of beautiful words, which he memorized to tell God.

 When he sat with God later, Henry would describe what people were doing, and use the words they used.  Henry was very good at expressing the feelings of the people he met, because they were imprinted on him.  He understood them because he listened and wanted to understand.

Henry would dare to go anywhere there were people to listen to.  Henry listened to people who were in hospice, he listened to people working in factories, listened to the homeless, the desperate, the prisoners, the addicts.  He listened to the people who were afraid to pray, or didn’t for other reasons.  He listened and asked simple questions. And in between he laughed with people.

Some days he listened to children exclusively because it was refreshing. 

Henry visited with everyone and he was everyone. Henry was a Masai hunter, an Irish peat farmer, a woman in a refugee camp, a hairdresser in Brooklyn, a politician in Colombia.  He marched with protestors in Biloxi, in Tiananmen, he stood near barbed wire at borders, in prisons, in drug houses.  He worked on a farm for a few years and heard about raising crops and raising children.  He listened to the corn.

For generations he listened, and then came back and sat with God and told him what people said and felt.  God said: “What are they afraid of?”  And Henry said; strangers, death, snakes, going hungry, being forgotten.  Sometimes You.  “What makes them happy?”  Loving and being loved.  Chocolate. Living an interesting life. Creating things. Sometimes You.

 Henry knew that God already had these answers, but somehow it was good to hear them out loud. And then they would visit, elbows on the table, steaming mugs of coffee in front of them.

 And God would talk to Henry.  He told him about apteryxes and black holes and how science and religion both are sometimes disappointing.  He told him about how time really passed, and how hard it was to watch people suffer.  He told him the secret of light.  Some days it was simple things like laundry, and other days it was harder things like the lost sheep.  But what Henry realized was that God just liked having him to talk to.  He really was a good listener.

 Henry brought the messages back from the people he listened to and listened while God sifted through things, and asked the questions.  One day Henry asked God if he was ever lonely.  God laughed, which he did often when they were together, because Henry had a good laugh, and it inspired others.  “No, Henry, why would you ask that?”  Henry was a little self-conscious, but said: “I just wonder how you feel when I’m not here.”

 God said, gently; “Henry, you are not the only one I send to listen.” 

 

Hope this finds you listening,

 

David

 

Copyright © 2020 David Smith

3rd Moanin' of Christmas

 

 

December 24, 2012

 Greetings from over the river,

 My Dad is driving the Buick, gripping the steering wheel, wrestling the machine, willing the four tires to stay in the two black slots carved in the snow in front of us.  The windshield wipers are whipping back and forth, cutting half ovals in the snow on the glass.

 The car is hot, the heater blowing at maximum hellfire to fight back the fog of our breathing on the windows and melt the ice and snow outside.  The powder whirls around us as the car barrels along the vague outline of the road.  There are no other cars; it is Christmas Eve, already dark, and other families are already observing the curfew.  Our headlights broadcast in front of us, as if to emphasize our singular defiance.

 We are driving the two lane road that cuts through the farmland south of our town, the twenty mile space that separates the city mice and the country mice.  I press my face against the glass, watching the houses go by, a few of them with lights on the porch, my five year old mind marshaling my limited attention span on one thing.

 I am in the back seat, loosely packed in with various wrapped gifts along with my sisters.  One is old enough to torment me, the other too young for me to torment.  I am trapped by circumstance and the pressure of Being Good, imposed by an omniscient elf somewhere north of us. 

 When I become bored I crawl up into the package shelf, wedge myself against the rear window of the car.  In some other circumstance my Dad might have commented about being able to see out the back, but the windows are frosted by the snow and there are no cars behind us so I am spared.

 I climb down into the seat again, pushing up to the door, toying with the little ashtray lid built into the upholstery, flipping it open and letting it snap shut until the noise becomes irritating enough to elicit a comment from the front seat where my mother sits.  The car windows are steamed up and I draw circles in the condensation, making stick figures running across the glass.  They dissolve before the piece is complete, running in drips down to the edge of the door.

 When we reach the village where my grandparent’s live, the gas station is closed, the few shops are dark.  Only the flashing yellow signal at the intersection offers any suggestion that people have not completely abandoned this remote place.

We turn down the narrow road to my grandparents’ house, a risky maneuver but the snow is no match for the Buick.  We blow up white clouds as we plow down the little road and turn into the long driveway, already crowded with powder covered cars.  The four doors open and we spill out, children and parents and packages and bags.  I am hurrying through the shallow snow to the front door, wanting this to be done as fast as possible, my mind on that one thing.  The sooner I am in bed and asleep, the sooner Santa will come.

 My grandparent’s living room was crowded with people.  Some are my relatives, some are neighbors, I stop trying to figure out who is who.  There are lots of kisses, starting with my Grandma’s, leaving red tattoos from the latest Avon red. The air is thick with perfume and cigarette smoke. 

 There is loud talking, laughter, as we listen to the Vaughan Meder album about the Kennedy family at Christmas.  I only vaguely understand why this is so funny, and laugh along with the adults, hoping that if I participate we can finish this sooner. 

 I am polite but after a while I am too tired to keep up pretenses. Even the pressure of Being Good falters, and I find myself losing interest in the adult questions about how old I am or what Santa might bring me.  Just the reminder of Santa quickens my heart, and I am impatient to get home to complete the sequence required for him to appear.

 The rooms are small, more crowded with a Christmas tree now, and a few extra chairs pulled in for company to sit in.  I maneuver through knees, exploring little dishes on the tables trying to find chocolate, but Grandma’s treats are taffy and ribbon candy.  I frown but remember to Be Good and put a hard candy in my mouth to show my selfless spirit.

 There is a TV in the corner, but it is only turned on for boxing or the news.  Now the hi-fi is playing Christmas music. I can sense Santa’s impatience, almost feel him drumming his fingers on the edge of his sleigh, waiting to take off but held in place by me.  He knows when I am sleeping, and knows when I’m awake.  And I’m awake.

 The pre-Christmas tension is almost too much.  The children are given token gifts to open but it seems as though they are like apples at Halloween.  Practical things like pajamas and underwear, as if we needed more of those, as if no one had ever asked a child what they wanted to for Christmas.  I smile, holding up another pair of white sox with the little stripes around the top, giving my most earnest impression of Being Good. “Look!” I say, projecting Academy Award winning enthusiasm, as if I had just received a GI Joe or a Matchbox car.

 The evening stretches out into infinity, and I am chafing in my good clothes, fidgeting under the pressure of Being Good and finally my resolve cracks.  I want to go home, and somehow being subtle is not working.  I express my impatience and am warned and reminded about the rules.  I sit in insolence in the corner by the tree, shielded by the fir, my hot tears burning my eyes, roiled in five year old angst, knowing that the reindeer will not pull the sleigh until I have lived up to my responsibility. 

Finally, mercifully, the time ends and we are bundled up and kissed again and sent out into the polar breeze with a new set of gifts traded for those we brought.  We crowd into the car, shivering on the vinyl seats, begging for the Buick to warm up.

 My Dad urges the car down the snowy roads, surrounded by dark, the landscape dotted with the occasional house light, a few doors lighted with colorful bulbs, a few Christmas trees visible from picture windows.  I don’t know if it is a hundred miles or a thousand, but we cannot drive fast enough for the time to pass as I hope it will.

 Before long the car is warm, and my Dad turns on the radio, the volume low so we can just make out the strains of Bing Crosby dreaming.  I peer between the seats at the dash lights, a cozy glow against the blackness outside the windows.  I lean against the door, letting the warmth soak into me, wrapped in my winter coat and hat, my anxiety lessened now that we are pointed in the right direction.  Surely Santa will see I’m making an effort.

 The car pushes on through the dark, toward the big city where we live.  The drone of the car and the soft crooning combine to lull me, and the heat makes me drowsy.  I close one eye, just for a moment, and feel the pull of sleep, inexorable, a weight on me that I am powerless against.  I drift for a moment. And the world changes.

 And then I am somewhere, a room filled with toys, my heart racing as I open a gift, and another, and here is a stocking filled with chocolate, and then I am being carried, I am vaguely aware I am outside again, and I see our front door, the little fire truck over the porch, and then I am next to the Christmas tree, and look at all the gifts, wrapped in red and green, and now I am in my bed, magically clothed in my pajamas.  I ask if I am Being Good and am assured that I am.  The pronouncement is ratified with a kiss just below my cowlick.

 I smile and turn on the pillow, and in my five year old mind I sense the release, the moment when I am synchronized with Santa, when he knows he can snap the reigns and begin the journey.  He knows when I am sleeping.

 Hope this finds you Being Good for Goodness Sake,

 David

 

Copyright © 2012 David Smith

Time Tree

 

 

December 20, 2021

 Greetings from the transtemporal,

 Children and photographs are time machines, truths you’ve read here more than once.  And now you may add this to that list; Christmas trees.

 There is a pine tree in our living room, such a comedy if you didn’t understand the context.  It is lit with the correct number of lights, has the appropriate candy-cane to crochet-snowflake ratio.  It is also adorned with portals to other times.

 The tree itself is a descendant of nearly forty of its kind.  Different sizes and shapes, needles of different lengths, but the lineage is clear.  Just looking at this conifer, you can sense the presence of others before it.  The crooked one, the spindly one, the one that gave up and simply laid down.  Generation after generation of proud pines drafted into this honorable service, represented at this gateway in time, by this fine specimen of concolor fir.

 It's simple for me to look at this space and see the long corridor of experiences stretching behind it.  I see the people in the shadows, the gifts, other holly, other decorations, dancing, I sense love gathered in the movement of life. 

 There is a certain history, not all that dramatic, that is easily seen.  I can glance at the tree and be carried to other years when these same tiny decorations were hung up.  This one snowman that I think looks like me, various Santa iterations, the little frame with a baby’s picture, whom none of us can identify. There are the usual decorations, and a few unusual.  If you stood here long enough to allow it, I would tell you the story of the trees before this, and the adornments that made them special.  In those stories are the key to the time travel.

 Among the sundry decorations we have packed and unpacked for all of these winters, there are several glass bulbs that were given to us. Some are frosted, some have glitter attached, some are opaque, some are painted.  They are round or teardrop or oval.  They are from a different era, a different style, and while they are not unattractive, none of them are what I would have chosen.  They chose me, so they could be here to allow other times to be here too.

 They are brittle, fragile, with tiny hoops looped into their necks by which they may be hung from the branches.  This little device by itself has a story, this tiny tin collar with a wire shaped to hold a hook.  It is something from another time, and when you touch it, you are transported there.

 These ornaments were held by my grandparents, for a while by my parents, and then hung by my family on this tree, and the three dozen ancestors before it.  When you see their shapes, their texture and colors, you automatically move to the time they were created, back when Dwight D. Eisenhower sat in the oval office.

 I stood in the glow of the tiny lights and looked at these decorations from sixty plus years ago, and heard what it was like at my grandparent’s house, felt their company coming at the holidays, felt the warmth in the room, the noise, the laughter.  Martini glasses, cigars, phonograph records on the hi-fi, carolers at the front door. 

 The phones were heavy black instruments where you would often interrupt your neighbors on the ‘party line’.  When the TV appears, it is a piece of furniture the size of a small refrigerator, festooned with outlandish antennae to capture broadcasts from the three channels.  Men wore fedoras. 

 The faces of people I love are reflected in the glass ornaments, many of whom are celebrating in another place now.  Their images, still held in the glittering globes on the tree, look out from their time, smiling, celebrating, inviting me to feel them again.  My grandparents move away and my parents are there, and uncles and cousins.  Here is Leslie, still a child and brimming with a rich life ahead of her.

 Other Christmas mornings, with my sisters and brother, crowded around the packages in our tiny living room.  I can see hectares of wrapping paper that have passed these bulbs, I see crowded rooms of visiting friends, hear the sound of laughter, of music.  My own children, impatient to see what Santa brought, waiting for the first prayer to be said so they can unwrap things.

 Time travel can go into the future as well.  I can already see other Christmas mornings in this tree.  These needles in the carpet will be place holders for the next litter of green.   There will be other trees that take this one’s place, and the ornaments will be brought out and hung where they can catch the light, and reflect the living that happens in it.  Friends, my children, new sounds, new smells that remind us of other Christmas moments.   My granddaughter, Ila, has added an Elmo character that is resting in the lower branches, where she can take it off if she chooses to.

 As I wrote these last words I stood up and walked out of my den to the living room where the tree is.  I stood and looked into those timeless shiny things, and saw my five-year-old eyes, felt the rush of excitement of Christmas morning.  I saw the smile of this morning, and of next Christmas and those after.  I saw all of those I love in that long hallway of light behind me, countless rooms filled with myriad lives, dancing in the time before and to come.

 Merry Christmas

 

Hope this finds you transported,

 

David

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith

5th Moanin' of Christmas

January 2, 2012

 Greetings from the tips of my wings,

 I have this list.  I have been carrying it around for a month or so, adding things and scratching things off.   I left it in a pocket and couldn’t find it for a few days but it doesn’t matter.  It is under my skin.

 Murmuration.

Last week I saw clouds of starlings, swarming back and forth, creating shapes in the sky.  Sweeping across the road out over a field, doubling back and forming dark waves, then spreading out almost invisible in the grey sky then reforming in dark living pools over me.

 You’ve seen this phenomenon, I hope, somewhere in the sky around you.  It is one of those events for which the word ‘awesome’ was originally created, before surfers kidnapped it and made it as common as Kleenex.  When you see it for the first time you are amazed and perhaps frightened and then….inspired.

 Ornithologists might explain this swarming in dry bird words, but I like to think the starlings do it for a far more poetic reason.  You think so too, because when you see it, you want to join them.

 A flock of starlings is a murmuration, a word I love rolling around in my mouth.  Makes me smile to have a word so unusual to describe something so awesome.

 I think that starlings swarm and swirl and make shapes in the sky because it’s what they do when they have a reason to celebrate.  Like when you hear Sly and The Family Stone play ‘Thank You Falletinme Be Mice Elf’ and you either dance or explode.

 When you are brimming with whatever is inside you and something pushes you over the edge into doing what you absolutely must do, must express, must say because it is the natural outlet for who you are, possibly who you are when you are at your best.

 I have a list in one of my pockets that starts with ‘What I am doing when I’m at my best.’  It is something I have circled back to again and again, and as the year closed I started the list once more.  One of the things on that list is ‘Celebrating’. 

 A few of you might be tempted to roll your eyes here.  Might seem a little superficial to you at first glance.  But, any of us probably feel at our best when we are celebrating.  Having a reason to celebrate and doing something about it.  Not just making a cake or decorating with balloons, or putting on party hats and throwing confetti, although I’m in favor of any activity that involves cake.  Celebrating in the traditional sense is just one part.  There is more waiting to be discovered. 

 When we are children and everything is awesome we are inspired to celebrate more often.  That wears off; it’s not sustainable as adults.  Life is hard.  There are taxes to pay and stains to wash and people to correct.  We have serious responsibilities and it is frivolous to bounce all over creation like life is one big birthday party.  Right?

 Every one of us is given gifts, and the tools to use them in some way.  We are put here for reasons we don’t always understand, but I think we come closest to knowing when we find ourselves where we are at our best.

 So, when do you feel you are at your best; when you are complaining about how hard things are, or when you celebrate a moment that elevates your heart rate and your smile can barely keep from turning into laughter?   So, pretend you get to choose: how do you want to spend your day today? 

 Perhaps not every moment inspires celebration, but the further apart those moments are, the more your life can feel like someone else’s ‘To Do’ list.  And we choose, no matter what your day is like, what we celebrate.

 The other great lesson from the starlings is that when we celebrate, and really express it, the joy becomes contagious, it is fluid and natural and overwhelming and soon you find others around you pick up on it, and swarm and swirl with you.  That’s one of the moments when I feel I am at my best.

 So here is what it is: first, I am challenged to really look at what I do in each day, and then push myself into places where I am doing what is the best expression of my gifts and my passions.  To live where I am at my best.

 And on that list is to Celebrate.  To find the moments that are valuable and important, those that I decided, not the calendar, not Hallmark, and hold them up and laugh or sing or eat a piece of cake, find a way of marking the moment.  And share it.

 I am looking over the leading edge of this year, thinking of how I would make this calendar better than the last, this chunk of days more satisfying, challenging, fulfilling.   I am determined to shape what I do intentionally, not let the days accumulate around me like lint.  I will figure out where I am at my best, and be there.  It starts with this list.            

 Among other things on the list of ‘… at my best’ is when I am writing to you each Monday.  I want to thank you for that privilege.  I hope it gives you as much pleasure as it brings me.  Happy New Year.

 Hope this finds you swarming,

 David

(If you’d like to watch starlings in action, you can watch a good example here: http://vimeo.com/31158841?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=twitter )

 

 

Copyright © 2011 David Smith

6th Moanin' of Christmas

 October 31, 2011

 Greetings from my secret identity,

 The sign on the door said “Open” but the building hinted otherwise.  No lights shown in side, no sign of anyone around, dried leaves gathered in drifts around the door.   It was a narrow storefront, three panels of glass, frosted halfway up to obscure the interior.  The small wooden sign bolted to the brick below the glass had two words:

Superpower Store

 I pushed the door open, heavy wooden frame, leaded glass, so heavy I only got the door partway open, and had to reset my feet to push the rest of the way in.

 The man behind the counter was leaning on his elbows, head down over a newspaper, idly flipping the pages.  In one hand he held an unlit cigarette.

 “Afternoon.”  I said, walking across the wooden floor, the boards creaking. “Kinda quiet here today.”  I ran my hands over some boxes on the counter and looked at the dust on my fingers. 

 The man looked up.  “Yah. Usually Halloween is packed, but funny, all the kids want to be ‘Angry Birds’ or Sara Palin.  Not much call for all this.” He waved one hand vaguely at his inventory and went back to his paper.

 “Yeah.” I forced a little laugh, which sounded forced and little.  “So, you sell, ..uh, ..”

 “Superpowers.  Yessss, you can say it.  If you’re in here it’s not a joke. Yes I sell superpowers.  What’d you have in mind?” He licked his thumb and turned a page.

 I smiled a little sheepishly, watched my toes for a minute, “Well, I don’t know, I just …”

 “You know, don’t kid me.” he said, not looking up from his paper.  “Look, all the good stuff is mostly taken; invisibility, elasticity, telekinesis, along with being able to leap tall buildings.”  He looked up suddenly.  “And don’t even ask me about X-ray vision.” 

 “Ok, ok!” I said and I held my hands out in defense, and looked directly at him.  “That’s too bad.  I was kind of hoping, maybe, that I could turn into fire, or run super fast.  Maybe have incredible strength.”  The memory of the front door taunted me.

 He leaned on his hands now, stuck his chin out a bit as he talked.  “You guys all want to be heroes or something.  Superpowers won’t make you heroic.  If you’re a jerk, you just become a super jerk.”

 I waited a second, pressing my lips, trying not to say the first thing on my mind. “Seems like you should know me a little better before you insult me.”  I said, already wishing I had a superpower of some lethal ilk.  Wishing I didn’t already think he was right.

 “Sorry, I just get a little…” he was shaking his head.  He waved the unlit cigarette at me as an explanation.  “Well, I can show you what I’ve got.  I might have something’ll fit.”

 I glanced around the room, hooks holding leather helmets, wings, metal breastplates, bright uniforms on hangars, and capes everywhere.  I almost pointed to a shark fin cap.

 He pawed around behind the counter and then brought out a cardboard box, flipped open the flaps and pulled out a costume with a bold “I” on the front.  My heart skipped a beat. 

 “How about this?” he said.  “Ironic Man.”  He looked at me and smiled.  “Only problem with this superpower is your always explaining yourself, it’s kind of a pain.”  My shoulders drooped, hoping for invincibility.

 He slid the box aside and pulled out a smaller box with bright orange gloves.  “This is pretty cool, these gloves give you the power to hold really hot objects in your hands.”

 I pulled them on, felt no real difference in my powers.  “Aren’t these just potholders?”  I asked.  He shrugged.  I was growing impatient, wishing Apple had a superpower franchise.

 “What are those boxes in that big pile?” I asked.  Dozens of identical boxes stood stacked nearly to the ceiling.

 “Kinda forgot about those, not many people ask about those superpowers.”  He pulled a few boxes and held them up to the light to read the label.  “This one is ‘Patience’. I remember selling a lot of those, but not lately.  And this one,” he held up another larger box in his other hand, “this one is ‘Compassion’.  Not many orders for these either.  Comes with an Empathy Cape.”  He looked at me, his eyebrows up hopefully.

 I waited, still hoping for something incendiary, or involving laser vision or blades that shot from my wrists, or time travel, or anything super-duper.

  “Well, now, here we go.  Here’s some that I think would work for you.”  he said.  “Odd, these always get returned by little kids, never really understood why.  Right about when they become teenagers and want X-ray vision.”  He chuckled.

 He turned the small box around and showed it held a signet ring with the letter ‘A’ on it.

 “What is it?” I asked, hoping for Astral Projection or something.

 “I should warn you, this is a superpower many people cannot handle right at first.  It is hard, especially for guys your age.  You have to take it slow, give yourself some time to adjust.  I’m just letting you know, it changes things.”

 I felt something run up my spine and tickle the hair on the back of my neck, and my heart rate climbed.  “What is it? What superpower does it have?” I almost whispered.

 “Awe.”  he said, holding the ring out toward me.

 Just holding it, I could feel my first reaction slip away, feel the cynical impulse ebb, the sarcastic thought disappear.  I slipped the ring on my finger and something tipped over in my head, and my vision blurred, and then became clear, almost painfully clear.

 

The room suddenly was brighter, the sound of the ceiling fan louder, the warmth more intense.  The man behind the counter seemed taller, I noticed him.  There was a look on his face that was not there before, a subtle look of wisdom.

 

I looked at my hands with wonder, the intricate lines, the incredible coordination of sinew, muscle, bone as they worked together flexing, the ring glinting in the light, a perfect fit on my finger.

 

Shadow and light stood out to astonish me, every texture, every mote of dust in the air, every cobweb was miraculous.  I stood in the middle of the shop looking around me in wonder, and I found I was holding my breath.

 

I moved toward the door and could not wait to see how it opened, and then felt the fresh crisp air rush in around me, the smell of the season, the feel of change in nature.  Sounds came pouring in to me, astonishing, I could almost see the waves in the air from a car honking its horn.

 

“Wow.” I said, my voice with a new timbre I had never felt. 

 

The man from the store was next to me his hand on my shoulder, his other hand holding out a pair of chrome plated goggles, tiny ‘A’ embossed on them.  “You may want these at first.” He said. “Blocks out a little of what you see.  It’s too amazing out there to take it all in at once.”  I took the goggles and let them dangle from my fingers.

 

I stepped out into the street and watched the world unfold in front of me, the incredible colors in the trees, the cotton sky, the complexity of the plants, the richness of the brick, the grain in every piece of wood.  Architecture stood out, the plan and order and creativity of someone expressed in the buildings around me. 

 

I walked for miles, astonished, my mouth open, unable to express myself at the wonder  around me, nature, things growing, evolving, passing on and becoming part of the next things.  People moving, interacting, expressing, each of them miraculous, almost impossible to believe.   I felt the gentle rush of the earth spinning beneath me, gravity holding me in perfect balance. 

 

“Wow.” I whispered. I blinked and the world rushed back at me, and I knew I would never want to go to sleep, never go inside, never leave this moment.  I felt the connection between things, the sense of it, the beauty in flaws, understood that I did not need to understand what laughter meant, the purpose of black holes and the origin of anything, only that it existed and it poured into me and around me and I could feel it lifting me.

 

I opened my arms wide, felt the air course by me, and I flew into creation.

 

Hope this finds you powerful,

 

David

  

Copyright © 2011 David Smith