Three Views of Catholic School
By S. Reynolds
The scared first grade me says:
It’s so hot out here! We have to stay in these lines—one arm’s-length apart. I hope my arm is the right length. I don’t know the words to this song. I know it’s about America. I know the first part. O say can you see. I don’t think anyone knows the words. I can’t understand what they are singing, something about bottles in the air. We get to play after this, and I’m afraid of the schoolyard. I don’t know about their games either. Mrs. Brumba said we can’t talk during flag salute, even if we raised our hand. She said the only time we could talk was when we found a revolver, or something sharp and I don’t know what a revolver is. Everyone else must know because no one asked about it, so it must be something everyone knows, like this song.
Hey what’s that on the ground?
It’s big with a bright blue bulb on the end, and, … it’s sharp, just like she said! Maybe she put it there as a test. The blacktop is so hot and now I have it in my hand. She’s looking at me and now I can talk, because that’s what she said.
“Mrs. Brumba Mrs. Brumba,” she looks really mad and she’s almost running at me. She’ll be really happy because I found this sharp thing and maybe she’ll give me something, or be proud of me because someone in her class found something sharp.
Maybe someone else will find a revolver
Now she’s grabbing this long sharp thing from me and she’s really, really mad. Ouch! She stuck it right in my forehead, but I know she didn’t mean it. It was just the way she grabbed it and now I’m glad, because she’s not mad anymore. She’s really nice, because she thinks she hurt me, and even though I think I’m bleeding, it doesn’t really hurt. It happened so fast. She has her arms around me now, and she is calling me sweetie. She’s saying she is sorry.
I wonder if I’ll find a revolver?
The Adult me says,
I attended first grade at the same Catholic school as my three brothers and two sisters before me. I hadn’t gone to pre-school and that was my first experience away from home …away from my mother. I had a lay person, Mrs. Brumba, as my first grade teacher, not a Nun, like mean old, Sister Mary Rose of the Cross, which was probably for the best since my brothers, especially Tim, were considered trouble makers (authors note: Tim is now the VP of Technicolor.) The Reynolds’ family reputation was—In a parochial school sense—tainted by wanton acts of originality, like (Oh my God) joking around. In the first grade I knew nothing of appropriate social interaction, (and just look at me now) so many of my early weeks in room 103 were spent in the corner by the heater, (not such a bad place on winter mornings) because of my loquacious outbursts.
One day, Brumba told us that at flag salute (and mind you this warning was intentionally directed at me) we were never to speak, under no circumstances, (a pure challenge) unless we were to find, A.) a revolver or, B.) something sharp. Well, what the hell does “revolver” mean to a six year old? You could say a six-shooter, or a handgun even, but a revolver? It sounded like some sort of top, or one of those glass doors at the department store, but that’s as far as I could imagine. None of the other kids questioned this object, so neither did I, but a sharp object, yes I would be on the lookout for that.
And, lo and behold, on a hot Spring morning, there at my feet, lay the largest hat pin you ever saw.
I mean this thing looked huge, and very, very sharp. I believe, at the time, they were singing “And the bombs bursting in air,” which I thought sounded more like, “bottles in the air,” so that’s how I belted it out. But, in mid-verse, I waved and shouted, “Mrs. Brumba, Mrs. Brumba” and boy did she notice. She came at me like a hurricane, and grabbed the outstretched prize so fast and abruptly that she jammed it right into my tiny six year-old forehead.
She was far more stunned than I was.
Instantly her rage turned to sympathy, which, after all, was what I was looking for I think. She quickly spirited me away to the nurse’s office, where, for once, because of the attention, I had no desire to talk. Instead of the usual corner-heater sentence, I was treated to a sucker.
… and now to find that revolver.
Mrs Brumba Thinks:
They warned me about those Reynolds kids. This one is a piece of work. He is a precious little thing, but he can’t shut the hell up. What are they feeding this kid? I think he spends more time by that heater than little Ann Lawler … always wetting her panties. Can’t that girl ever get to bathroom on time?
Rose of the Cross says that she wants to make sure none of these little brats spoil flag salute.
Why is a woman of the Lord such a bitch? They’re just kids for God’s sake, anyway Reynolds is going to be trouble, so I’ll tell all of them to keep it quiet unless they have a good reason. A real good reason, something they understand, comic book stuff, or something like finding a gun or a knife. Better keep it polite say, something sharp or a revolver. That’ll keep them in line. Still don’t know about the Reynolds kid.
Okay they’re being good, and old “Iron Cross” looks happy enough. Oh no what the hell is that idiot doing ? What has he got in his hand? “Hey you little… give me that…Oh ! Oh! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry sweetie, you’re bleeding. Come on lets get you to the nurse.” Oh God what is she thinking now? Rose of the Cross will have my ass for this. Poor little guy.
He’s taking it well, but I sure hope he never finds a revolver.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Crush
It's harvest time and the crush is on.
For small wineries it’s everything that you can image. Winemakers scramble for picking crews in the stinted season, promises are made, old friendships are rekindled and brought to bear fruit in the scramble for just the right moment.
And that is it: the right moment; because the winemaker waits for exact sugar levels to predict the outcome of the vintage. In these closing days of summer he can be seen in the vineyard, head raised toward the sun, squinting through his refractometer like a ship's captain searching for safe passage. A drop of juice squeezed upon the telescope-like instrument reveals the brix. Too little and there isn’t a chance of greatness, too much and the wine turns “hot” with alcohol.
At last he gives the word, arranges for the picking crew, assembles the extra manpower needed for the frenzied process and prepares for the long, hectic hours of the Crush.
Meat and skin turned to "Must": the slurry of berries dumped, by the ton, from sticky gondolas full of ripe amber and purple grapes, stems, sweat, ants and anything thing else cut by the migrant worker's sharp knives into the crusher-de-stemmer and pumped into the cellar.
Some varietals flow directly to the fermentor, others first go to the press, where free-run juice pours from the bottom and the mangled berries are pressed, just so, leaving behind a heap of grape corpses called, pomace.
After the crew leaves, in the quiet wan light of a long day, he mixes a batch of dry yeast in warm water waking the cells, reminding them of their impending responsibility. They are alive in every sense of the word and their task is no small undertaking, however simple it may be. Their obligation is only to eat and thrive. Within that colony of cooperation, a miraculous transformation takes place. Devouring sugar, the colony does two important things: belch and eliminate.
Their burps are CO2, the stars of Champagne.
Their waste is alcohol, the stuff of dreams and nightmares.
Another byproduct of fermentation is heat but it can be deadly to both the colony and the winemaker. This is one of the many terrors of the crush: a “Stuck” fermentation. If the heat rises to an intolerable temperature the yeast colony will die and restarting the process is all but hopeless. Even if successful, it will taint the wine, at best, preventing greatness, at worst, destroying a career.
TMD
###
Must
When the September vineyards are heavy with fruit,
in the shallow hills
beyond our town,
I think of the winery.
Autumn afternoons
in the cellar tasting wine;
migrant workers with dark tan faces
drinking cold beer.
The crush:
sticky berries
drawing bees
in the fading light.
Meat and skin crushed to must.
Dark plums and wild roses
staining my past
with vintage memories.
—Sean Reynolds
For small wineries it’s everything that you can image. Winemakers scramble for picking crews in the stinted season, promises are made, old friendships are rekindled and brought to bear fruit in the scramble for just the right moment.
And that is it: the right moment; because the winemaker waits for exact sugar levels to predict the outcome of the vintage. In these closing days of summer he can be seen in the vineyard, head raised toward the sun, squinting through his refractometer like a ship's captain searching for safe passage. A drop of juice squeezed upon the telescope-like instrument reveals the brix. Too little and there isn’t a chance of greatness, too much and the wine turns “hot” with alcohol.
At last he gives the word, arranges for the picking crew, assembles the extra manpower needed for the frenzied process and prepares for the long, hectic hours of the Crush.
Meat and skin turned to "Must": the slurry of berries dumped, by the ton, from sticky gondolas full of ripe amber and purple grapes, stems, sweat, ants and anything thing else cut by the migrant worker's sharp knives into the crusher-de-stemmer and pumped into the cellar.
Some varietals flow directly to the fermentor, others first go to the press, where free-run juice pours from the bottom and the mangled berries are pressed, just so, leaving behind a heap of grape corpses called, pomace.
After the crew leaves, in the quiet wan light of a long day, he mixes a batch of dry yeast in warm water waking the cells, reminding them of their impending responsibility. They are alive in every sense of the word and their task is no small undertaking, however simple it may be. Their obligation is only to eat and thrive. Within that colony of cooperation, a miraculous transformation takes place. Devouring sugar, the colony does two important things: belch and eliminate.
Their burps are CO2, the stars of Champagne.
Their waste is alcohol, the stuff of dreams and nightmares.
Another byproduct of fermentation is heat but it can be deadly to both the colony and the winemaker. This is one of the many terrors of the crush: a “Stuck” fermentation. If the heat rises to an intolerable temperature the yeast colony will die and restarting the process is all but hopeless. Even if successful, it will taint the wine, at best, preventing greatness, at worst, destroying a career.
TMD
###
Must
When the September vineyards are heavy with fruit,
in the shallow hills
beyond our town,
I think of the winery.
Autumn afternoons
in the cellar tasting wine;
migrant workers with dark tan faces
drinking cold beer.
The crush:
sticky berries
drawing bees
in the fading light.
Meat and skin crushed to must.
Dark plums and wild roses
staining my past
with vintage memories.
—Sean Reynolds
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Lost in the Cosmic Gossip
They are only words.
The Eskimos have 20,000 words for snow (or is it 21,000?)
Let's place two ideas on the page. On one side,love. On the other, everything else, the Cosmic Gossip.
Energy, (Love?) the spinning flywheel of spirit, is ever-present.
Should we quantify/qualify this phenomenon: energy separated by Duality, Good/Evil, Light/Darkness, or is energy universal, simply manipulated by words and reason? Does it stand alone or seek connection?
“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin.”
Do lilies…love?
Can it be possible we are forged from different energy than other life forms?
“What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?”
There is so much chatter, so little communication. The Cosmic Gossip has its place, but it is, after all, just talk. It cannot usurp the energy firing the kiln. Evolution has equipped humanity with reason and ingenuity, but is love evolutionary?
Why does the artist create? Did cave dwellers paint pictures just to leave their mark?
Consider: Energy is universal. Love is energy. Love seeks connection.
The artist creates an image, not of simply being alive, but of life itself, an affirmation that love is greater than gossip. Art is a gift, a miraculous human experience, which, when successful, transcends the mechanical conversations of evolution to reach a greater understanding of spirit.
How many words do Eskimos have for Love?
TMD
Conversation
I spoke to a friend
About you
Pleading the case
Of a seemingly desultory
Life
They asked me why
I feel the need to defend you
Why
I’m so captivated
With your moribund fascination
Of backyard fences
Why you crave connection
the need to be understood
I told them
For a moment
Just for a moment
I thought you were God.
-Sean Reynolds
The Eskimos have 20,000 words for snow (or is it 21,000?)
Let's place two ideas on the page. On one side,love. On the other, everything else, the Cosmic Gossip.
Energy, (Love?) the spinning flywheel of spirit, is ever-present.
Should we quantify/qualify this phenomenon: energy separated by Duality, Good/Evil, Light/Darkness, or is energy universal, simply manipulated by words and reason? Does it stand alone or seek connection?
“Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin.”
Do lilies…love?
Can it be possible we are forged from different energy than other life forms?
“What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?”
There is so much chatter, so little communication. The Cosmic Gossip has its place, but it is, after all, just talk. It cannot usurp the energy firing the kiln. Evolution has equipped humanity with reason and ingenuity, but is love evolutionary?
Why does the artist create? Did cave dwellers paint pictures just to leave their mark?
Consider: Energy is universal. Love is energy. Love seeks connection.
The artist creates an image, not of simply being alive, but of life itself, an affirmation that love is greater than gossip. Art is a gift, a miraculous human experience, which, when successful, transcends the mechanical conversations of evolution to reach a greater understanding of spirit.
How many words do Eskimos have for Love?
TMD
Conversation
I spoke to a friend
About you
Pleading the case
Of a seemingly desultory
Life
They asked me why
I feel the need to defend you
Why
I’m so captivated
With your moribund fascination
Of backyard fences
Why you crave connection
the need to be understood
I told them
For a moment
Just for a moment
I thought you were God.
-Sean Reynolds
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
PC Kitty
Political correctness has been maligned and ridiculed, but in many ways it is simply consideration and common sense. Admittedly, there are times when the “Rules” are ticky-tack, e.g. the journalistic practice referring to firemen as firefighters. They’re postal workers not mailmen. One should write humanity not mankind.
Some PC terms aim for gentler rhetoric: overweight instead of fat, challenged rather than handicapped, but others are the righteous blowback of bigotry and ignorance. Mel Gibson, Michael Richards and Imus can attest to the repercussions of speaking a hurtful boorish mind.
Sometimes PC can sneak-up and bite you in the ass, or is it butt? Once, in mixed company, I referred to the opposite sex as, “this chick I know” and was immediately reprimanded by more than one woman for the fowl reference.
However, one day, I learned my lesson that one man’s… er… person’s, ceiling is really another’s floor and that even “trying to fit in” can be extremely embarrassing, if not down right dangerous, when you don’t think before you speak.
I consider myself a progressive, modern man, all inclusive and unbiased. I have friends from different ethnic and racial backgrounds and one day I was at a kickback with some of my cat friends.
It was down the street from my house. Yeah, that’s right, there are cats in my neighborhood, I’m proud to call them my friends, but I’m not cool with how I acted that day.
Fluffy Williams invited me over to watch the game with a few of his friends, mostly cats. There was this one turtle, but I didn’t catch his name. Anyway Fluffy’s wife had set out a nice spread, some meow mix, bowls of milk, a few chips, that sort of thing. She purred and rubbed against my leg a little before leaving. I was a bit uncomfortable and was glad Fluffy didn’t notice. A couple of Toms were hanging around the scratching post and me and Fluffy were watching the tube with three or four other cats. They passed around some “nip,” but when I said I was a lightweight they just wrinkled their noses.
I was sort of uncomfortable and I guess that’s where I went wrong because, obviously they knew I wasn’t a cat, no fur, tail, but that’s not why Fluffy invited me, so why did I feel I had to try to fit in? I started telling some off-color jokes about mice. You know Mickey didn’t say Minnie was crazy. He said she was fuckin Goofy, just silly stuff really. Then it turned more specie-ist. I was baggin’ on their little whiskers, how they had those beady eyes, weren’t getting anywhere in those mazes stuff like that. I said all they like to do is eat cheese and lay around their holes.
I had those cats cracking up, until this one big Calico starts really hatin’ on them. Calling them rats and science experiments, saying how he’d like to trap them all and make a mouse sandwich, hold em up by their tails and swallow em whole. It was pretty ugly. Fluffy looked at me like I was a jerk for starting it and I felt like one too, but not as bad as when the door opened and this big Tabby came prancing in the room meowing really loud and twitching his tail in the air.
His name was Sylvester. I know funny, but no one dared call him that. He was Sly. Everyone knew that cat. You could hear him any night of the week at midnight out on the fence fighting and scratching, and you know what. Well, he makes this big entrance after the party is really going strong. I was feeling like one of the litter. Fluffy had just come back from using the cat box and was grabbing a ball of yarn when I yelled over to Sly.
I don’t know what came over me. I guess it was the excitement, maybe the catnip floating in the air, but I shout, “Hey Sly, What’s up Puss?”
The room went silent. The only sound was some Persian tossing around a sock toy with a little bell on it. Man those eyes give me the willies.
Sly’s ears drew down. He arched his back and hissed, “What’d you call me?”
I tried to blow it off and said, “Hey cat pull your claws in. Just being friendly that’s all.
Sly Pounced. In a split second he was on top of me, nose to nose, growling in this low moan. I thought he was going to scratch my eyes out and then he let me up. “Don’t you ever call me that MAN. You get it? Ever.”
“Listen,” I said. “You cats call each other the “P” word all the time. We're friends aren’t we? Don’t I scratch you under the chin and behind the ears? What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Dude. You ever seen your kittens tied up in a bag and thrown down the well? You ever have your friends rounded up and the air sucked out of them just because they weren’t somebody’s kitty? Ever been chased by a pit bull and cornered in the ally fightn’ for your life? Didn’t think so bro.”
He pushed his front legs out and stretched, then straightened up and told me, “Look man, I just did you a favor. Think before you blurt out something you know nothing about. Yeah we talk like that sometimes but you got no idea how it is to be called ‘pussy this and pussy that, here pussy here pussy.’ Screw that man. Just think of it as a learning experience. Were all equal man, but we ain’t the same. Respect dude. That’s the name of the game”
The party got back to normal and I slipped out after a bit, but that’s one lesson this cat’s never going to forget. PC has it’s merits.
Sean Reynolds
TMD
###
Some PC terms aim for gentler rhetoric: overweight instead of fat, challenged rather than handicapped, but others are the righteous blowback of bigotry and ignorance. Mel Gibson, Michael Richards and Imus can attest to the repercussions of speaking a hurtful boorish mind.
Sometimes PC can sneak-up and bite you in the ass, or is it butt? Once, in mixed company, I referred to the opposite sex as, “this chick I know” and was immediately reprimanded by more than one woman for the fowl reference.
However, one day, I learned my lesson that one man’s… er… person’s, ceiling is really another’s floor and that even “trying to fit in” can be extremely embarrassing, if not down right dangerous, when you don’t think before you speak.
I consider myself a progressive, modern man, all inclusive and unbiased. I have friends from different ethnic and racial backgrounds and one day I was at a kickback with some of my cat friends.
It was down the street from my house. Yeah, that’s right, there are cats in my neighborhood, I’m proud to call them my friends, but I’m not cool with how I acted that day.
Fluffy Williams invited me over to watch the game with a few of his friends, mostly cats. There was this one turtle, but I didn’t catch his name. Anyway Fluffy’s wife had set out a nice spread, some meow mix, bowls of milk, a few chips, that sort of thing. She purred and rubbed against my leg a little before leaving. I was a bit uncomfortable and was glad Fluffy didn’t notice. A couple of Toms were hanging around the scratching post and me and Fluffy were watching the tube with three or four other cats. They passed around some “nip,” but when I said I was a lightweight they just wrinkled their noses.
I was sort of uncomfortable and I guess that’s where I went wrong because, obviously they knew I wasn’t a cat, no fur, tail, but that’s not why Fluffy invited me, so why did I feel I had to try to fit in? I started telling some off-color jokes about mice. You know Mickey didn’t say Minnie was crazy. He said she was fuckin Goofy, just silly stuff really. Then it turned more specie-ist. I was baggin’ on their little whiskers, how they had those beady eyes, weren’t getting anywhere in those mazes stuff like that. I said all they like to do is eat cheese and lay around their holes.
I had those cats cracking up, until this one big Calico starts really hatin’ on them. Calling them rats and science experiments, saying how he’d like to trap them all and make a mouse sandwich, hold em up by their tails and swallow em whole. It was pretty ugly. Fluffy looked at me like I was a jerk for starting it and I felt like one too, but not as bad as when the door opened and this big Tabby came prancing in the room meowing really loud and twitching his tail in the air.
His name was Sylvester. I know funny, but no one dared call him that. He was Sly. Everyone knew that cat. You could hear him any night of the week at midnight out on the fence fighting and scratching, and you know what. Well, he makes this big entrance after the party is really going strong. I was feeling like one of the litter. Fluffy had just come back from using the cat box and was grabbing a ball of yarn when I yelled over to Sly.
I don’t know what came over me. I guess it was the excitement, maybe the catnip floating in the air, but I shout, “Hey Sly, What’s up Puss?”
The room went silent. The only sound was some Persian tossing around a sock toy with a little bell on it. Man those eyes give me the willies.
Sly’s ears drew down. He arched his back and hissed, “What’d you call me?”
I tried to blow it off and said, “Hey cat pull your claws in. Just being friendly that’s all.
Sly Pounced. In a split second he was on top of me, nose to nose, growling in this low moan. I thought he was going to scratch my eyes out and then he let me up. “Don’t you ever call me that MAN. You get it? Ever.”
“Listen,” I said. “You cats call each other the “P” word all the time. We're friends aren’t we? Don’t I scratch you under the chin and behind the ears? What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong, Dude. You ever seen your kittens tied up in a bag and thrown down the well? You ever have your friends rounded up and the air sucked out of them just because they weren’t somebody’s kitty? Ever been chased by a pit bull and cornered in the ally fightn’ for your life? Didn’t think so bro.”
He pushed his front legs out and stretched, then straightened up and told me, “Look man, I just did you a favor. Think before you blurt out something you know nothing about. Yeah we talk like that sometimes but you got no idea how it is to be called ‘pussy this and pussy that, here pussy here pussy.’ Screw that man. Just think of it as a learning experience. Were all equal man, but we ain’t the same. Respect dude. That’s the name of the game”
The party got back to normal and I slipped out after a bit, but that’s one lesson this cat’s never going to forget. PC has it’s merits.
Sean Reynolds
TMD
###
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
A Small Good Thing
On Saturday morning, at the local farmer’s market, the tables spill over with color. The cool air is scented with breakfast crepes, gyros, fresh baked bread and bowls of menudo…Small Good Things.
There are good reasons to eat organic fruits and vegetables. Primarily, the lack of pesticides, but there are also secret, unique motives that (when discovered) release the magic properties of a savory, connected life.
Small Good Things.
And when the connection is made, it seems as if it was always there waiting, the natural thing to do. A fat plum, ripened to perfection, purple as a king’s vestment, tastes like a sweet dream in the backyard of an everlasting summer. That first bite bursts with a trickle of juice from the corner of your mouth and is met by the grin of the woman standing behind the table. She tells you she knows her orchard. She knows just when to pick them. “You can’t buy them in the supermarket,” she laughs. And you smile also, but not too wide, because they are so juicy.
The farmer’s market is a place to gather your senses and expand your spirit. You can taste life.
Raymond Carver’s famous short story, “A Small Good Thing,” zeros-in on this unique secret. Carver keeps his words close, his prose so efficient that when we meet the emotion (he vitally wants to extend) we are just as delighted as that first bite of delicious fruit.
It is a sad, troublesome story about the death of a son, close to his birthday no less, but Carver knows us. He knows we long for connection. He knows we want to unite with our senses, our emotions and our faith in all that is alive. He leaves us, (in the story) spent and empty at a warm bakery, early in the darkness before dawn. Then he feeds us, fills our souls with fresh baked rolls and pads of melting butter and the soft connection of grief.
Small Good Things.
It is that way with wine also. The large wineries produce thousands of gallons fermented in huge stainless steel tanks, barely having the chance to smooth the bite of ancient zinfandel vines or thick cabernet clusters that ripen in the central valley sun. But take these same noble grapes and crush them in a small, competent wine cellar, let them ferment in open casks and age in cool oak and you will taste the vineyard, the toasted barrel and the skill of the impassioned winemaker.
Perhaps it is not simply taste or competency nor even quality that supplies the secret, unique aspects of a connected life. Maybe it is desire, emotion, patience and love that turn these things to magic, but it is worth the effort to seek out the Small Good Things.
TMD
###
There are good reasons to eat organic fruits and vegetables. Primarily, the lack of pesticides, but there are also secret, unique motives that (when discovered) release the magic properties of a savory, connected life.
Small Good Things.
And when the connection is made, it seems as if it was always there waiting, the natural thing to do. A fat plum, ripened to perfection, purple as a king’s vestment, tastes like a sweet dream in the backyard of an everlasting summer. That first bite bursts with a trickle of juice from the corner of your mouth and is met by the grin of the woman standing behind the table. She tells you she knows her orchard. She knows just when to pick them. “You can’t buy them in the supermarket,” she laughs. And you smile also, but not too wide, because they are so juicy.
The farmer’s market is a place to gather your senses and expand your spirit. You can taste life.
Raymond Carver’s famous short story, “A Small Good Thing,” zeros-in on this unique secret. Carver keeps his words close, his prose so efficient that when we meet the emotion (he vitally wants to extend) we are just as delighted as that first bite of delicious fruit.
It is a sad, troublesome story about the death of a son, close to his birthday no less, but Carver knows us. He knows we long for connection. He knows we want to unite with our senses, our emotions and our faith in all that is alive. He leaves us, (in the story) spent and empty at a warm bakery, early in the darkness before dawn. Then he feeds us, fills our souls with fresh baked rolls and pads of melting butter and the soft connection of grief.
Small Good Things.
It is that way with wine also. The large wineries produce thousands of gallons fermented in huge stainless steel tanks, barely having the chance to smooth the bite of ancient zinfandel vines or thick cabernet clusters that ripen in the central valley sun. But take these same noble grapes and crush them in a small, competent wine cellar, let them ferment in open casks and age in cool oak and you will taste the vineyard, the toasted barrel and the skill of the impassioned winemaker.
Perhaps it is not simply taste or competency nor even quality that supplies the secret, unique aspects of a connected life. Maybe it is desire, emotion, patience and love that turn these things to magic, but it is worth the effort to seek out the Small Good Things.
TMD
###
Sunday, May 23, 2010
When Jack exited the freeway, he could just make out the figure on the end of the long off-ramp. There was a line of cars waiting at the light as he watched the round, thirty something man in shorts holding his little sign. Homeless, no doubt. Shiftless, lazy, no way to tell, he thought. Jack shifted his attention as he drove past, to the sign which said only one word, “Help.”
He could be more expressive, for Christ’s sake. Something to get their attention, he thought. If he needs something, he should be more to the point, “Will work for food,” that’s a standard. “Homeless, God Bless,” at least that appeals to Christians. Who identifies with just, “Help?”
For the first few mornings, Jack was lucky, never winding up at the intersection (in front of the homeless man) at the red light, until, eventually, it happened. The man was only a few feet from him, but it felt much further. From his car window the man looked like a little picture, just a face really. That’s all Jack allowed himself to see. The image burned on the side of his head, as he waited for the light to change, and the little sign wrote it’s letters across his mind... HELP.
He didn’t look homeless, Jack thought. His clothes were clean. He was well fed. That’s for sure. What was his story? Jack didn’t want to know, just get to work. After all, he had a family, a car payment, his daughter was preparing for college, and his wife was on vacation with their youngest in Vermont. So much to take care of, he thought. Life on the off ramp had its appeal. No worries, just hold up a sign.
It never occurred to him to give the man a dollar or even a smile. He was not his friend, no connection what-so-ever. In fact, a week went by until Jack actually saw someone give the man money. A young woman rolled down her window and held out a bill and then the car behind her followed suit. Jack drove on through, eyes forward, with a mixture of guilt and curiosity. I guess I could help, he thought, For the Grace of God, and all that, I suppose. After all, the people smiled when they offered up their change. It made them feel better about themselves.
The next day Jack had his dollar ready on the seat next to him when he pulled up.
“God Bless you,” was all the man said, but it was enough to make Jack feel proud. He thought about it the rest of the day. When he mentioned it to his friends, they had their opinions.
“I can’t stand them,” some said. “Leeches, freeloaders, why don’t they get a job?” Others were empathetic, but less vocal. Jack was hooked. Each day he gave the man a dollar, got his, “God Bless You,” and went on his way, until one day, at a fresh red light, the man commented on a snapshot of Jack’s wife and kids on the dash.
“Nice family,” he said. “They are lucky to have you.”
The light turned green and Jack felt a strong new rush of pride. Yes, they are lucky, he thought. I guess I am lucky.
In the weeks that followed, the two men widened their relationship with short comments of gratitude and concern. The man learned of Jack’s job as a computer programmer. Jack explained how he had to keep going to put his kid through school, how his wife liked vacations. The man was there every day. Sometimes, they could chat for a minute, and at other times he would just smile. In a strange way Jack felt they were good friends. He gave his dollar and the man asked nothing more from him. Jack relied on the gratitude. It was simple. An act of kindness, he thought, a good deed.
Things began to change when it occurred to Jack that he knew so little of the man and one day at the red light he asked very quickly, “What line of work were you in?”
“Architect,” the man said, raising his voice over the wind and traffic, before running to grab another bill from the car behind.
An architect, Jack thought. He mustn’t be a very good one, probably a drunk or druggie, probably his wife left him, something like that. It’s better to have a steady job. Computers, we’ll always have those.
The next blow came when the man pulled a photo from his shirt pocket, obviously waiting to see Jack. “This is MY family,” he said. They were lovely. “We were on vacation in Hawaii,” was all he could add as Jack pulled away. The picture was disturbingly serene: a beautiful wife and daughter. Could he be lying, Jack wondered? The man was in the photo. They were at a restaurant on the sand. It looked recent.
This really had Jack thinking. His compassion evaporated with each mile, the feelings of pride replaced with doubt and betrayal. We were friends, he thought. He wanted my help. His little sign said as much. Now he tells me he has a career and a family? What about me? Where’s my compassion, where’s my support?
That weekend Jack turned it over and over in his mind. It had been nearly six months, and who knows how many dollars. The more he thought about the brief comments waiting for the light, the more he realized it had been a one-sided exchange. Jack had told the man about his promotion and how his daughter was accepted at USC. He told him how he wanted to change careers and joked that maybe he would join him on the off ramp. He told him how he had high blood pressure and how his youngest had ADD, all in short sentences, little comments over the weekday commute. He showed the man pictures, holding them up briefly as he passed the dollar, one of his boat, another of his trip to Lake Havasu, and so on.
All that weekend he thought about what he would tell the man. He would pull over and park, get out and confront him. Maybe even ask for his money back. Who was this guy? He has a lot of nerve. He’s homeless, for Christ’s sake. We’re friends. I’ve helped him. He needs to know this was a sacrifice for me. My kindness, doesn’t that count for something?
Monday he would find out, once and for all.
Monday morning the cars were backed way up on the long off ramp. Jack’s heart beat faster as he searched for the tiny figure on the side of the road. He looked for a spot to park, while arranging the words in his mind, but the closer he got, the more he realized something was different. The man was not there, but Jack parked anyway and walked across the busy intersection to the corner where the man had stood day after day in the heat and rain, in the cold and wind.
It was a new perspective outside of the safety and solitude of his car. He felt alone and nervous, somewhat disoriented. The cars raced by, oblivious, bumper to bumper, speeding to catch the light, then waiting for Jack as he crossed to where the man had stood.
Empty and alone, Jack searched the desolate overpass for his friend until he saw the little sign facedown in the dirt. When he turned it over the word “Help,” thickly scrawled in black magic marker, leapt out at him. Picking it up, Jack’s knees buckled slightly, his stomach growled and his nose ran in the cold morning wind. The friendless sound of the freeway buzzed in his ears as he held the sign, while starring at the long line of morning commuters on the off-ramp and an outstretched hand thrusting a dollar bill toward him.
Sean Reynolds
He could be more expressive, for Christ’s sake. Something to get their attention, he thought. If he needs something, he should be more to the point, “Will work for food,” that’s a standard. “Homeless, God Bless,” at least that appeals to Christians. Who identifies with just, “Help?”
For the first few mornings, Jack was lucky, never winding up at the intersection (in front of the homeless man) at the red light, until, eventually, it happened. The man was only a few feet from him, but it felt much further. From his car window the man looked like a little picture, just a face really. That’s all Jack allowed himself to see. The image burned on the side of his head, as he waited for the light to change, and the little sign wrote it’s letters across his mind... HELP.
He didn’t look homeless, Jack thought. His clothes were clean. He was well fed. That’s for sure. What was his story? Jack didn’t want to know, just get to work. After all, he had a family, a car payment, his daughter was preparing for college, and his wife was on vacation with their youngest in Vermont. So much to take care of, he thought. Life on the off ramp had its appeal. No worries, just hold up a sign.
It never occurred to him to give the man a dollar or even a smile. He was not his friend, no connection what-so-ever. In fact, a week went by until Jack actually saw someone give the man money. A young woman rolled down her window and held out a bill and then the car behind her followed suit. Jack drove on through, eyes forward, with a mixture of guilt and curiosity. I guess I could help, he thought, For the Grace of God, and all that, I suppose. After all, the people smiled when they offered up their change. It made them feel better about themselves.
The next day Jack had his dollar ready on the seat next to him when he pulled up.
“God Bless you,” was all the man said, but it was enough to make Jack feel proud. He thought about it the rest of the day. When he mentioned it to his friends, they had their opinions.
“I can’t stand them,” some said. “Leeches, freeloaders, why don’t they get a job?” Others were empathetic, but less vocal. Jack was hooked. Each day he gave the man a dollar, got his, “God Bless You,” and went on his way, until one day, at a fresh red light, the man commented on a snapshot of Jack’s wife and kids on the dash.
“Nice family,” he said. “They are lucky to have you.”
The light turned green and Jack felt a strong new rush of pride. Yes, they are lucky, he thought. I guess I am lucky.
In the weeks that followed, the two men widened their relationship with short comments of gratitude and concern. The man learned of Jack’s job as a computer programmer. Jack explained how he had to keep going to put his kid through school, how his wife liked vacations. The man was there every day. Sometimes, they could chat for a minute, and at other times he would just smile. In a strange way Jack felt they were good friends. He gave his dollar and the man asked nothing more from him. Jack relied on the gratitude. It was simple. An act of kindness, he thought, a good deed.
Things began to change when it occurred to Jack that he knew so little of the man and one day at the red light he asked very quickly, “What line of work were you in?”
“Architect,” the man said, raising his voice over the wind and traffic, before running to grab another bill from the car behind.
An architect, Jack thought. He mustn’t be a very good one, probably a drunk or druggie, probably his wife left him, something like that. It’s better to have a steady job. Computers, we’ll always have those.
The next blow came when the man pulled a photo from his shirt pocket, obviously waiting to see Jack. “This is MY family,” he said. They were lovely. “We were on vacation in Hawaii,” was all he could add as Jack pulled away. The picture was disturbingly serene: a beautiful wife and daughter. Could he be lying, Jack wondered? The man was in the photo. They were at a restaurant on the sand. It looked recent.
This really had Jack thinking. His compassion evaporated with each mile, the feelings of pride replaced with doubt and betrayal. We were friends, he thought. He wanted my help. His little sign said as much. Now he tells me he has a career and a family? What about me? Where’s my compassion, where’s my support?
That weekend Jack turned it over and over in his mind. It had been nearly six months, and who knows how many dollars. The more he thought about the brief comments waiting for the light, the more he realized it had been a one-sided exchange. Jack had told the man about his promotion and how his daughter was accepted at USC. He told him how he wanted to change careers and joked that maybe he would join him on the off ramp. He told him how he had high blood pressure and how his youngest had ADD, all in short sentences, little comments over the weekday commute. He showed the man pictures, holding them up briefly as he passed the dollar, one of his boat, another of his trip to Lake Havasu, and so on.
All that weekend he thought about what he would tell the man. He would pull over and park, get out and confront him. Maybe even ask for his money back. Who was this guy? He has a lot of nerve. He’s homeless, for Christ’s sake. We’re friends. I’ve helped him. He needs to know this was a sacrifice for me. My kindness, doesn’t that count for something?
Monday he would find out, once and for all.
Monday morning the cars were backed way up on the long off ramp. Jack’s heart beat faster as he searched for the tiny figure on the side of the road. He looked for a spot to park, while arranging the words in his mind, but the closer he got, the more he realized something was different. The man was not there, but Jack parked anyway and walked across the busy intersection to the corner where the man had stood day after day in the heat and rain, in the cold and wind.
It was a new perspective outside of the safety and solitude of his car. He felt alone and nervous, somewhat disoriented. The cars raced by, oblivious, bumper to bumper, speeding to catch the light, then waiting for Jack as he crossed to where the man had stood.
Empty and alone, Jack searched the desolate overpass for his friend until he saw the little sign facedown in the dirt. When he turned it over the word “Help,” thickly scrawled in black magic marker, leapt out at him. Picking it up, Jack’s knees buckled slightly, his stomach growled and his nose ran in the cold morning wind. The friendless sound of the freeway buzzed in his ears as he held the sign, while starring at the long line of morning commuters on the off-ramp and an outstretched hand thrusting a dollar bill toward him.
Sean Reynolds
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Separation
The saddest dilemma is separation, dealing with loss. Life is dynamic. A longing for peace yearns for certainty, but leads to life’s most puzzling paradox.
Separation begs connection.
Connection sustains separation.
Separation results from connection.
-Insert dogma, belief, philosophy or ultimate truth here.-
TMD
###
Frame of Reference
The edges trail across my wall, black on sea-green foam; a rectangle holding the pane that holds you.
The frame insults the curve of your mouth, your smile stilled by time, your eyes staring through the moment asking, “When will we see each other again?”
The sly lines of your face oppose the rigid polka dots on your shirt. A photo refuses to describe the beauty within your smile.
A daughter so far away.
Oregon may as well be Mars tonight.
A frame carries you from the glossy world of memory. A frame that holds the photo you said caught your mood.
And my mood, when I see it, mixes with the lines and polka dots and connects the silence behind your eyes to the emptiness I feel.
A picture is only a few words uttered alone in the night, hanging over a phone, too late to pick up. It holds my words in silence until we connect again, until the highway brings us back together, until the sky brings you home.
Oregon is just a word, just a feeling, just a frame of reference holding the promise of connection that can’t replace a daughter’s touch.
—Sean Reynolds
Separation begs connection.
Connection sustains separation.
Separation results from connection.
-Insert dogma, belief, philosophy or ultimate truth here.-
TMD
###
Frame of Reference
The edges trail across my wall, black on sea-green foam; a rectangle holding the pane that holds you.
The frame insults the curve of your mouth, your smile stilled by time, your eyes staring through the moment asking, “When will we see each other again?”
The sly lines of your face oppose the rigid polka dots on your shirt. A photo refuses to describe the beauty within your smile.
A daughter so far away.
Oregon may as well be Mars tonight.
A frame carries you from the glossy world of memory. A frame that holds the photo you said caught your mood.
And my mood, when I see it, mixes with the lines and polka dots and connects the silence behind your eyes to the emptiness I feel.
A picture is only a few words uttered alone in the night, hanging over a phone, too late to pick up. It holds my words in silence until we connect again, until the highway brings us back together, until the sky brings you home.
Oregon is just a word, just a feeling, just a frame of reference holding the promise of connection that can’t replace a daughter’s touch.
—Sean Reynolds
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