The Welsummer cockerel was the original Kelloggs Corn Flakes rooster. As soon as I saw him, I purchased a half dozen chicks and that little cock of the walk.
Our chicks were free-range, so as soon as they were big enough to fend for themselves they were turned loose. My boy Pie assumed the mantle.
Chicken Pot Pie.
Don’t ask me why I named him that, I honestly don’t remember. It seemed appropriate at the time, and Pie grew into it.
He ruled the roost like a sheepdog. Chasing after all that errant chick hiney had a serious effect on K-E-Double L-O – Double-Goods libido.
There was a certain Welsummer girl, Madeline, that was naughty by choice. Her upright posture and sleek physique was an eye-catcher.
A Pie eye.
Pretty Boy was like a 14-year-old on Viagra . There was no other subject. The deed only took about ten seconds but I guess that’s what passes for L’amour Aviaire. She never had a chance to resist. Maddy submitted with a sigh and a ruffle.
Madeline was a curious bird. While the other girls were, head to the ground, looking for seed, Madeline was checking out the environment and dreaming of flight.
And Pot Pie.
Madeline – Welsummers Hen whistledownthewinddotorg.wordpress.com
All was right in chicken land, except for production. One chicken out of six was a laying machine, the rest were infertile. They were filling out like roasters.
It was an economic decision.
I took a trip to the Summerville market looking for egg producers and picked up eight Buff Orpington juvenile hens and a young strutter. When the farmer reached into the cage, that little bastard pecked his hand 6 times before Farmer John got his hand around its neck.
“How many chickens you got now?”
“6 Wellsummer chicks and a roo.”
John chuckled.
“You’re setting yourself up for barnyard warfare. This little Buff won’t be little in 3 months. They grow big and fast. Your little Dandy is headed for an ass-whooping. You just bought the next boss..”
I tipped my cap, loaded the cage into the bed of the F-150, and headed back to bliss on Little Sand Mountain.
When I pulled up in front of the barn I noticed Pie eying the bed of my truck.
Pie – whistledownthewinddotorg.wordpress.com
I strung chicken wire across the drive-thru and tacked it up to the old fence posts that lined the orchard. It was enough to keep the Welsummers away from the newcomers during that initial adolescence.
The Buff roo evolved into Boofer within a month. He was a barnyard version of Hulk Hogan.
On the first day of July, I took down the chicken wire. Pie perched on the fence eying the new girls. One of the Buff babes turned her head to measure the boss.
That was all the invitation that Pie needed. He took the leap. An aerodynamic assault on the gold.
Pie was a dead eye. No foreplay, straight to business. No concept of barnyard gender equality.
Fifteen seconds later he was lighting a Camel when Boofer landed claws first in his tail feathers, tossing Pie head first to the fence.
Pie was not amused. He had never been challenged before.
He lit into the new roo like a Ninja. Boofer stood his ground, pulling a spin move as Pie made contact, tossing him to the grass. Big Buff was on Pie’s ass in an instant, all claws and beak. Pie managed to break loose and took flight to the lower branches of the hickory.
WTF?
Who died and made this yellow bastard king? Who rewrote the script. This is my barnyard.
Sometimes fair, isn’t.
Boofer grew to twice the size of Pie in three months. He kept to the ground, always on the job. The only time I saw him elevate, he was putting a tail whooping on Chicken Pot Pie. He cruised the perimeter of his flock, now including a half dozen wispy Welsummer poulets’.
Chickens have no loyalty and no conscience. They follow Big Boy.
Big Boy was non stop, always on the job. He kept one eye on the sky and one on the girls. A Red-Tailed Hawk made the mistake of cruising for chicken and dumplings in Boofers front yard. Big Boy hit him with a shot to the left flank, claws first. The hawk did a 360 roll straight up, leveled off, and turned his laser eye on the interloper.
stock photo. unknown origin
Where did that big yellow SOB come from? What happened to Pretty Boy?
Pretty Boy?
He was holed up in the lower hickory, licking his tail feathers. His life had changed before his eyes. He liked being King. Now he was out on a limb with no benefits and no friends.
Pie would bide his time.
Chicken Pot Pie was living in a barnyard purgatory. Not only had Boofer usurped his crown but he dealt daily with the little canine from Hell. There was a reason he was a rooster. He roosted atop the fence, in the hickory tree, and atop the Yanmar tractor by design.
Bogues had a predilection for Pie’s tail feathers.
In Bogues world, it was all just fun and sport. He didn’t try and maim Pie, just rip out that gorgeous plumage. Pie was a sorry sight with a bare rump. He was no match for the little hooligan. At 10 months, Bogues already topped 80 pounds.
Pie plotted a return to glory.
Madeline dreamed of flight and a Pretty Boy strutter. Boofer just didn’t make her heart flutter.
It was 95 degrees in the shade. I stripped out of my sweat-soaked t-shirt and reclined on the rocking chair porch sipping a Two Hearted Ale. Plowing could wait until the morning.
Boof and the ladies were pecking for seeds under the magnolia while Bogues settled his belly into the cool earth beneath the ancient elm. Pie perched in the lower limbs of the hickory, his eyes darting from Bogues to Boof.
Chicken Pot Pie took the leap. He took a beeline straight for Bogues head. Beating his wings frantically. he managed to lodge his claws into the little hooligan’s head before veering off to a fence post.
Bogues went nuts, charging at the fence and barking his head off. Luckily for Pie, Bogues was not a leaper. The barnyard prince was just out of his reach.
Pie flew back to his perch in the hickory.
“Keep it down Bogues. You’ll scare the rabbits. Now go lie down.
You had that coming you little bully.”
Bogues settled in.
As soon as the pup closed his eyes, Pie launched assault #2. A pinpoint landing on the snout and a hasty retreat to the hickory. Bogues was howling mad.
He was so incensed that his feet were leaving terra firma with every bark. He paced back and forth, never taking his eyes off the hickory perch. This affrontery would not abide.
Pie checked the angles, spread his wings and dove from his perch. It was all or nothing.
He headed straight for Bogues head, maintaining just enough height for clearance. When Bogues pivoted for the attack, Pie veered to the magnolia.
Straight at Boofer.
Pie lodged his claws in Boofers back and immediately changed his direction. Boofer wheeled in defense of territory and harem. It was too late.
Eighty pounds of snarling menace plowed straight into the barnyard king. He was no match for an aggravated Bogues.
I jumped off the porch in a vain attempt to separate the two combatants. Blood was dripping from canine jaws.
The farm mistress was standing in the doorway to the farmhouse with a glass of wine in her hand. She set her glass down, went back through the door and returned with the .38 in her hand.
I was standing with Boofers mangled body in my hands.
“Put him out of his misery. You can’t save him.”
She called Bogues to the porch and locked him in the house.
Madeline stood wide-eyed observing the confrontation. Her Pie was heroic. He flew like an angel.
The red-tailed hawk took advantage of the brouhaha and swooped down, lodging his claws into Madeline’s back and taking flight.
She was flying. Flight, glorious flight, at long last. Love, pain and euphoria all in one glorious moment.
In a barnyard fairy tale, one could imagine Madeline taking up residence with a bird of a different feather, atop some pine tree in the woods, a magical L’amour Aviaire. But I know better. Red feasted on chicken and dumplings that night.
Pie reclaimed his throne, though it was now almost permanently lodged in the lower branches of the hickory. Bogues held a grudge. It was no longer play.
It mattered little. Life was not the same without his frisky Maddie. The other girls just didn’t know how to shake a tail feather.
On a farm, there is a fine line between ‘just meat’ and cock of the walk.
Brought to you by ‘Taco Billy’ whistledownthewinddotorg1.wordpress.com
Editors Note: Spanish Translation can be found after the YouTube video. Many are not aware of the Detroit connection to Frida. Diego Rivera’s most famous work was the Detroit Institute of Arts mural commissioned by Edsel Ford, the son of the most prominent Capitalist of his time, Henry Ford. Diego was a Communist as was Frida. That fact did no go unnoticed by Senor Ford.
By Pudge Kosloski
Editors Note: this is another in the Pudge Kosloski series. The ‘Pudge tales are set in the Cass Corridor, a quarter-mile wide swath that runs from Grand Blvd. (the Fisher Bldg. and GM’s former World Headquarters.) to the District and the Fabulous Fox.
Francisco was sitting in an area, cordoned off by yellow evidence tape, in front of Frisco’s Smoke Shop. Twelve feet by six feet. Passers-by had to detour off the sidewalk, out into Cass Avenue, There was so little traffic, it made no difference.
“So you’ve decided not to wear the mask.”
“I understand the social distancing thing but you can’t wear a mask and smoke a cigar. Besides, at this point, it makes no difference,”
Francisco looked my way.
“The doctor says I’ve got 2 months to live. I’ve got a tumor the size of a golf ball lodged against my larynx. It’s already hit the lymph. Inoperable.”
“Holy shit, Frisco. I don’t know what to say.”
“No need, Pudge. I made my choices. I made a good living, made a lot of friends.
I’m 82 years old. We’re all going to die eventually. Might as well die doing something that pleases you.
I’m closing Frisco’s come Monday. Angela isn’t interested in running the place alone. She’ll probably move to Tampa.
I talked to Delores Guzman last week. She’s closing up too. This pandemic has been brutal for small businesses. ‘Feel Frida Linger’ was open since 1936? 84 years at the same location. There’s a story for you.”
Frida Kahlo at the DIA DIA Archives
Delores Aguado paused to watch Senor Rivera line out figures on the stucco wall. A large man, in baggy canvas pants and a sleeveless t-shirt, he bore a sharp contrast to the Arts Council stuffed suits, that passed through the gallery daily.
The suits never saw her. Her broom, mop, and dustpan functioned as an invisible cloak. They would step to the side of her bucket but they never caught her eye.
Delores looked up the wall of the gallery at the outlines of machinery, airplanes, and faces that were yet to bear features.
Then she saw her.
She was standing on the second-floor landing, overlooking the gallery, clutching a coffee mug in her hands. Her hair was parted and braided atop her hair, Danzo’n style, a shawl snug around her shoulders. Senora Frida was not interested in blending in.
Frida Kahlo was not well since her miscarriage. Her physician told her she would never bear children. Then her mother died at La Casa Azul.
Her husband Diego Rivera, worked 15 hours a day on the mural. He refused to listen to her pleas to travel back to Coyoacan.
Frida thought of Detroit as cold, sterile, and ostentatious. When Diego toured the Ford River Rouge plant, the company sent around a car with a driver. She winced at the memory. Two communists riding in a limousine.
This city represented everything she despised.
Delores stood gripping the handle of her mop and gazing up at Frida. The pain, the pride. All reflected in her eyes.
Frida glanced toward the woman in the gallery. She was not Mexican. More likely Caribe.
Delores, embarrassed that Senora Kahlo caught her gaze, shifted her eyes to the floor. She rolled her bucket to the far side of the gallery, away from the scaffolding, and began mopping.
“Hermana. Reinventan el mundo pero no pueden preparar una taza de café.”
Delores, startled, raised her head. Frida Kahlo was standing beside her, a coffee mug in her hand.
“Si. Si Senora. Compro mi café en la cafetería de la Habana. It is like home.”
“Where is home? You are Cubano?”
“Si Senora. Matanzas.”
The faintest of smiles.
“City of artists. It must be beautiful.
I am Frida Kahlo. The little wife that dabbles in works of art. Dime hermana, ¿cómo te llamas?”
Freep.com
“Delores Aguado.”
Frida’s lip curled slightly. She raised her eyebrow.
“May I call you Lolo?”
The next morning Delores left home early. She hopped the Michigan Ave. trolley in Mexicantown and got off at Bagley. She rushed into The Havana Cafe and ordered two Cafe Cubano. When she told Jorge who it was for, he doubled the order and waved off her payment.
Diego Rivera was not pleased. His assistants threatened to strike over pay and the long hours. He was on a deadline.
Edsel Ford had politely requested a completion date. Prominent Detroit clergy were suggesting a boycott of the Arts Council if they were to allow the completion of the murals. Henry Ford refused to visit the DIA or to attend any social gathering that hosted Senor Rivera.
Henry’s son Edsel stood firm.
On the murals and on the completion date
A little bird,stood in the middle of the gallery, clutching a brown paper bag between the thumb and forefingers of both hands. She was trying to get his attention, yet fearful of his reaction.
Diego smiled. Frida told him about Lolo.
Lovely, tempestuous Frida was not happy. She hated the social isolation. Since her miscarriage and the death of her mother. Una hermana podría ser justo lo que necesitaba.
“What is in the bag Senora?”
“Cafe Cubano Senor Rivera. For Senora Frida. I can not find her. I am afraid it will be cold soon.”
Diego turned to a makeshift desk against the far wall of the gallery. He beckoned the student assistant and spoke to her briefly. The assistant rushed out the door of the museum.
“Senora Frida is at the Library today Mi pequeño pájaro. I sent someone to retrieve her.”
Diego bowed slightly,
“Now, if I may be excused.”
DIA Archives
Fifteen minutes later, Frida Kahlo took Delores’s hand and led her to a small cafe on the lower level.
They sipped Cafe Cubano from paper cups and spoke of their homes and families. They talked about their dreams. They talked like hermanas de sangre.
Three days a week Delores took the Michigan Ave, trolley to Havana Cafe. Three days a week, Frida was able to escape. If Capitalism meant success, why was the palette so grey?
Three months later, the scaffolding came down. Senor Rivera took to wearing a tropical suit that now hung loosely on his frame.
Delores stood pigeon-toed in the center of the gallery.
Diego turned toward her holding his coat open.
“Nine months slaving in Detroit and I have lost 100 pounds.”
He laughed.
“This town works a man to the bone.’
He put his hand on Delores’s shoulder.
“She has not left mi pequeño pájaro. She could not leave without saying goodby.”
The next day Delores was charged with cleaning the gallery floors. She kept her eye on the clock and the entrance in equal measure. At 4:00 p.m. a black Lincoln Model K pulled to a stop on Woodward Ave. in front of the main entrance. The driver stepped out to open the rear door just as it swung open. Frida Kahlo stepped out holding a rectangular package.
“I finished this painting yesterday. I wanted to give it to you before I left.”
Frida wrapped Delores in her arms and kissed both of her cheeks.
“Follow your dreams Lolo. A cafe is a good dream. Detroit needs a decent cup of coffee. I will write to you.
Goodby Lolo.”
For two years Delores received a letter every four weeks. The 26th letter arrived in a large manila envelope. Enclosed were the preliminary drawings of her painting and contact information for an art dealer in San Diego, California.
“Ahora es el momento de mi hermana. Vende la pintura y sigue tu sueño. Do not let your dreams fade away. Sell the painting and open a place where people can talk. A place without clocks. A place with good food and good coffee. A place where people feel free to linger.”
Pudge was in a state of shock. Everything he knew about jazz came from Francisco.
He was walking past the DIA in hopes of catching Delores before she closed ‘Feel Frida’. He was keenly aware that in the 20 years he had been stopping at the cafe, he had never talked to Delores about her grandmother. He had never gotten her story. How could he look at himself in the mirror?
When Pudge looked through the window, she was taking pictures down from the walls. He knocked on the glass with his knuckles. Delores looked up and smiled, reached in her pocket and looped the isolation mask around her ears.
“The masks shield our identities. Had it not been for the Tiger cap and the gravy stains on the sweatshirt, I would have thought of you as a masked intruder.
How are you Pudge?”
“Can we talk Delores?”
“My Abuela Lolo opened the cafe in 1936 with the money that she got from selling the painting. $26,000 was a lot of money then. The Park Shelton had a space available fronting Woodward Ave. She went from janitor to entrepreneur overnight. She had many friends at the DIA. They would steer museum visitors to the cafe when they were looking for a cup of coffee or a bite to eat.
The cafe was very popular for many years. Lolo never cared about the dollars as long as she could pay the bills. During the ’60s and ’70s, it was a hotbed for the radical students at the university. Lolo would come in every day to sit and talk with the students. It was my Mother Magdalena that ran the business.
Lolo passed away in 1990.
It was never the same after that. The business slowed to a trickle after the DIA opened its cafeteria.
My mother stopped selling Cuban sandwiches after Havana Bakery closed. How can you make a Cuban sandwich without Cuban bread?
The world has changed Pudge. No one talks anymore. They bury the faces in laptops and smartphones. I offered free Wi-Fi for a while, but that made it worse. Now no one is talking or giving hugs. You can’t even smile at anyone anymore. No one would know if you did.
I know I won’t see Francisco again Pudge. Please say goodby to him for me.”
They laid Francisco out at the Perry on Trumbull. A beautiful mahogany casket with half doors. A Montecristi with a black silk headband crowned a Cuban flag draped over the lower half. John Coltrane’s ‘Love Supreme’ played in the background.
Frisco was smiling. It was a whisper but nonetheless, it was a smile. There was a suspicious lump in his inside breast pocket. Pudge reached out and grasped the lapels and peeked in.
A slow grin crept across his face.
Angela was standing beside him. She slipped in her hand and pulled a Cohiba Splendido from Frisco’s pocket and handed it to Pudge.
“Best cigars in the world.
A good cup of coffee. A great cigar. Good conversation with friends. That’s a good life. Smoke it slowly, remember the good times. Francisco would have wanted it that way.”
One more cup of coffee?
whistledownthewinddotorg1.wordpress.com
“Hermana. Reinventan el mundo pero no pueden preparar una taza de café.” – “Sister. They reinvent the world but they can’t make a cup of coffee.”
“Si. Si Senora. Compro mi café en la cafetería de la Habana.” – “Yes. Yes ma’am. I buy my coffee in the Havana café.”
“Dime hermana, ¿cómo te llamas?” – “Tell me, sister, what is your name?”
Una hermana podría ser justo lo que necesitaba. – A sister could be just what she needed
Mi pequeño pájaro – My little bird
Hermanas de sangre. – Blood sisters
“Ahora es el momento de mi hermana. Vende la pintura y sigue tu sueño.” – “Now is the time for my sister. Sell the painting and follow your dream.”
Isolation Film Festival – My Favorites Of The Last Year
By Max McCarty
Editors Note: The following is a guest post by Max McCarty. It would have taken me a week to put this together. Max did it in one day. I collected the Trailers and did minor editing. That’s it.
Max A McCarty whistledownthewind.org.wordpress.com
“For a year populated by Marvel films and Pixar sequels, 2019 was ultimately won by character dramas, arthouse, and foreign films. Streaming, finally giving audiences more access to titles they otherwise wouldn’t be able to see, helped make Korean and French-language films big cultural touchstones. With stay-at-home orders still in effect, there’s no better time to dig into the offerings from last year. These were my favorite. Your mileage may vary on these titles, with genres ranging from animation, drama, and horror, but all are memorable and distinct. I hope you enjoy.” – Max
The Lighthouse (Prime)•
· The Lighthouse- There is no other film I watched in 2019 as memorable, beguiling, or thrilling as Robert Eggers’ The Lighthouse. What starts as a simple two-hander about a tyrannical lighthouse keeper (Willem Dafoe in the most astonishing performance of the year) and his young, elusive apprentice (Robert Pattinson, also riveting), evolves into a terrifying and hilarious sea yarn about madness, guilt, masculinity, and Promethean myth. The photography, shot in black and white on silent film era lenses and framed in a square aspect ratio, is gorgeous. The era-appropriate dialogue is pure poetry by way of Melville. It’s arthouse cinema weirdness, but if you can get on its wavelength, you’ll be in for an unforgettable ride. (On Prime)
Portrait of a Lady on Fire (Hulu – YouTube Films) •
· Portrait of a Lady on Fire- Portrait is Celine Sciamma’s elegant period piece about the intimacy of seeing and being seen. Dialogue is sparse. Every interaction is parsed through slight expressions, body language, and an expressive color palette. A centerpiece musical number may be the movie moment of 2019. (On Hulu and YouTube movies)
The Nightingale (Hulu) •
· The Nightingale- Director Jennifer Kent follows up The Babadook, the film that singlehandedly reshaped arthouse horror in the 2010s, with a staggeringly brutal and beautiful meditation on violence, revenge, and redemption in the 19th century Tasmanian outback. Aisling Franciosci stars as an indentured servant in a British penal colony hunting down the marauding soldiers that terrorized her family. The monster in her previous film was supernatural; here the monsters are human and all the more terrifying for it. A truly hard watch from a tremendous talent. (On Hulu)
Marriage Story (Netflix) •
· Marriage Story- Noah Baumbach’s love story about divorce manages to be one of the warmest and most empathetic films made about a separation. I’ve seen the film three times now, and with each viewing come away appreciating something different: Randy Newman’s score, the acting, the patient and invisible craft in every scene. Baumbach has often toyed with broken people and familial trauma in past work, but as he gets older, what once felt glib now feels wholly mature and sincere. (Netflix)
Waves (should be on Prime soon) •
· Waves- Waves does something remarkable. Its first half, all frenetic camera work and a pulsing soundtrack charts the events that lead to the unraveling of a suburban family. Its second half, with cascading colors, changing aspect ratios, and stillness interrogates what it takes to pick up the pieces and heal. The experience of watching Waves is not so technical. It’s profoundly moving, and for a drama about a family in crisis, anything but ordinary. The most overlooked drama of the year. (Available to rent)
The Last Black Man in San Francisco (Prime) •
· The Last Black Man in San Francisco: A charming and gentle film about both gentrification and male friendship. The less said the better. Jimmie Fails’ autobiographical debut story and lead performance is muted in its presentation, but the accumulating effect is powerful. A beautiful piece of work. (Prime)
Under the Silver Lake (Prime) •
· Under the Silver Lake- One of the most divisive films of the year. Unceremoniously dumped by its distributor and booed at Cannes, David Robert Mitchell’s Under the Silver Lake still deserves to be seen. An absurdist puzzle box of a film about a scuzzy amateur detective (Andrew Garfield) trying to track down a missing woman in a hyper-realized Los Angeles, it both serves as a celebration of Hitchcock and Lynchian noir, and a grand satire on Hollywood and hipsterdom itself. Every scene takes place in a new location. Every character is strange and memorable. Every viewing reveals more layers. Under the Silver Lake is a rabbit hole worth falling into. (Prime)
The Irishman (Netflix) •
· The Irishman- Much has already been said and written about The Irishman, so I will keep this brief. It’s a grand experiment that works, using technology to de-age his actors and tell a decades-long tale about aging and the corrosive effect of regret. If this was the last film Scorcese, Pesci, DeNiro or Pacino made, it would feel correct. (Netflix)
Monos (Hulu) •
· Monos- A Lord of the Flies for the 21st Century, Monos is a singular story about a band of child soldiers in an unnamed country, and the American doctor they’re keeping as a prisoner. Monos starts out disarmingly playful (characters have names like Smurf and Rambo) before the film seriously interrogates the horror that happens when you give children assault rifles. The cinematography is stunning, but Mica Levi’s score is the real star here- at once hellish, beautiful, and other-worldly. The final shot left me breathless. (Hulu)
Chained For Life (nowhere yet) •
· Chained for Life- A slight but idiosyncratic ode to independent film (read: an independent film about making an independent film) and the “freaks” that occupy them, Chained for Life casts people with real deformities and manages to give them a perspective and a voice. The film falters with a third act fake-out, but the overall effect is meta and oddly charming.
Bait (Mark Jenkin) •
· Bait- The lowest budget film on this list also tackles gentrification, this time about the escalating tensions between a Cornish fishing village and the wealthy families pricing them out of their homes. Bait evokes the silent era by dubbing all of the dialogue in post-production. The result, for a movie about failures of communication, is uncanny yet authentic. The characters feel plucked out of real life, and their small-stakes conflicts seem both monumental and timely. (Available on DVD)
Little Women •
· Little Women- Greta Gerwig, who directed the marvelous Lady Bird, returns with a new take on the often adapted Louisa May Alcott novel. What could have been rote is instead updated just enough to feel contemporary and new again. You’re unlikely to find a movie as playful or kind-hearted on this list.
Atlantics (Netflix) •
· Atlantics- An import from Senegal, Atlantics is difficult to pin down. Starting as a labor dispute drama before becoming a love story with ghosts, the film from first-time director Mati Diop manages to juggle many things effortlessly. A memorable film from a new perspective. (Netflix)
A Hidden Life •
· A Hidden Life- Terrence Malick’s best work since Tree of Life tells the true story of an Austrian farmer who refuses to fight for the Nazi army and is punished severely for it. At nearly 3 hours long, A Hidden Life is both a gorgeously rendered refutation of fascism and a celebration of faith and conviction in a time that unfortunately calls for it. (Available to rent)
I Lost My Body (Netflix) •
· I Lost My Body- The only animated film here, I Lost My Body is the story of a young man’s life as experienced by his now severed hand. As the disembodied hand makes its way through the treacherous Paris streets and back to its rightful owner, flashes of memory reveal depths of disappointment, sadness, and unrequited love. A high-concept premise that unfolds like a mystery, and manages to feel deeply personal. (Netflix)
Pain and Glory (Google Play)•
· Pain and Glory – Pedro Almodovar’s quietly rapturous return to form stars a never-better Antonio Banderas as an aging director reckoning with legacy and decay. Pain and Glory is structured around a series of reunions- with former lovers, muses, and art itself- that jump through time elliptically. Piece by piece we begin to understand this main character as he seeks to understand himself. A subtle, beautiful work. (Available to rent)
Midsommar (Prime) •
· Midsommar- A psychedelic folk-horror film about a group of unwitting American tourists lured to a Pagan cult festival in Sweden. Nothing in the above description sounds original on its own, but Ari Aster and his cast (especially his lead, the wonderful Florence Pugh) manage to find substance and pitch-black humor in familiar material. I have never seen horror this drenched in sunlight, or this rewarding on repeat viewings, details are hidden in every frame. The gore-averse need not apply. (Prime)
Honey Boy (Prime)
· Honey Boy: Shia Labeouf, the child actor turned action star turned cautionary tale, wrote this autobiographical film as a prescriptive exercise during rehab. In parallel, Honey Boy chronicles Labeouf’s life as a child actor with his abusive rodeo clown father (played with courage and empathy by Labeouf himself), and his troubled early adulthood. It is not perfect, but for a film grappling with abuse, it never feels aggrandizing or accusatory- it feels cathartic. (Prime)
Parasite (Hulu)
· Parasite- Bong-Joon Ho finally found mainstream recognition with Parasite, the Korean film that won Best Picture at the Academy Awards. It’s no Oscar-bait. Parasite casually defies description, starting as a dark satire about class before turning into a twisty thriller that is impossible to out-guess. Nothing in this screenplay is unnecessary, and no moment is unmemorable. I dare not spoil the rest here. (On Hulu)
Transit (Prime)
· Transit- Christian Petzold’s retelling of Anna Seghers’s 1944 novel transports that story’s Nazi invasion plot to modern-day, and to startling effect. Petzold isn’t going for subtlety with his messaging, depicting fascism and refugees in the cellphone era, but the heavy-handedness ends there. Transit follows Georg (Franz Rogowski, a new talent to watch for in the future), a German refugee who assumes the identity of a dead man to procure transit to Mexico. While awaiting rescue in Marseilles, Georg meets the wife of the man whose identity he stole. For a film that rarely raises its volume above a whisper, it lingers long after it ends. (Prime)
Uncut Gems (Netflix)
· Uncut Gems- The Safdie Brothers’ breathless, frantic character study of a gambling addict jeweler (a transformed Adam Sandler) incapable of saying no to a side bet. Like their earlier, better Good Time, Uncut Gems feels like a two-hour panic attack shot in close up. The Safdies populate their film with real thugs and jewelers and manage to shoot New York from angles rarely seen. (Available to rent)
Obviously, you are going to need a soundtrack. Max sent this one along.
Brought to you by ‘Taco Billy’ whistledownthewinddotorg1.wordpress.com
Time for a rerun. Sometimes the folks inside your head are all the company you’ve got.
All In The Family
“If you are a dreamer come in
If you are a dreamer a wisher a liar
A hoper a pray-er a magic-bean-buyer
If you’re a pretender com sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin
Come in!
Come in!” – Shel Silverstein
Jean Stapleton, concerned that she would be typecast, called Norman Lear a few years into ‘All in the Family’ with her desire to leave the show. She suggested to Norman that he have Edith die off. Norman was dumbstruck. “But Norman, she’s only fiction.”
There was a long pause on the phone, a sniffle and then Norman spoke. “Not to me she isn’t.”
Edith Bunker – BostonGlobe.com
“I love driving the mountains in the early morning. The sun slips over the hills and illuminates. Gives everything a surreal slant. Kinda like your head.”
“What do you know about my head Mose? I still haven’t figured out how you got here.””
“Well, well, well. I been riding shotgun for two, three years. I hopped in today when you stopped for gas in Asheville. Wasn’t my idea. You’re the one held open the door.
You got a very short attention span.
You never grasped one simple concept. Some questions don’t need to be asked.
I live in your head. Lately it’s been a little crowded. I like most of them, though I wasn’t sad to see Devil Ray go. If Si hadn’t taken him out, I would have.
Maise comes by and gives me a hug every day. Now that’s a highlight.”
“Mose, I just wanted a little one on one. I may not see you again. I’m not sure that Tennessee is really God’s country.
I’m in this transition period, I’m sifting my fingers through the dirt looking for some roots.”
“Well Daniel, you been transitioning for some time. Little bit of advice and then you can pull over in Hartford and let me out. Plant a garden. Stick around for the harvest.”
“Thought I had one a couple of times there.”
“No Danny Boy. Those were owned by a couple of the folks in your head. Actually three or four. You ever eat one of them tomatoes?”
“That’s a hard truth, Mose. Thanks a lot.”
“That’s your own hard truth Daniel.”
Blue Ridge
“Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions” – Albert Einstein
I came out of the Knoxville Gas-N-Go and found her sitting in the passenger seat, Thump-Em and Bump-Em propped against the dashboard. She looked my way and grinned.
“Hey fuzzy face. Nice to see you again.”
“Maise! You look wonderful. I would have never expected. . . .what? 35?”
“Well it’s the one good thing about this new gig. I get to be any age I want. I chose 35. No love handles and luscious memories of both Woody and Fergy..
That’s why I’m here. A little sensory overload.
I ain’t complaining, just gotta get away for a few days. Them boys shure did miss me.
A lot.
Just give me a few days to shivaree and I’ll be back wearing lipstick and lilac. Oh, and Thump-Em and Bump-Em. Wouldn’t want to catch a cold.”
She was giving me the side eye and sporting a full-blown Woody. She let loose a giggle. Maise did not know embarrassment. Or was it my imagination.
“Come on Danny Boy. It’s all your imagination. I only do what you imagine me to. . . . . . . . . .Come on Goosebump. Sometimes you’re in overdrive.”
“So where are you staying these days?”
“Anywhere you decide sweetie. Right now we’re still celebrating Topehs wake. Everyone that came before has settled in. Some days Toneh and Scotlyn come sit out by the edge and watch.
I still get a flush when I see that man.
Us Dubois girls do all right, don’t we? I want to thank you for that.”
“So what brings you here today Curly?”
“Well, I was gonna say you tell me, but the truth is I thought you needed a hug.”
“Well, I called the right girl, didn’t I?”
“Bonafide Hug Hussie to the rescue, sweetie. Why don’t you pull over at the rest stop. I’ve been saving one up for you.”
This is a mood piece. Jackie Wilson it is.
Brought to you by ‘Taco Billy’ whistledownthewinddotorg1.wordpress.com
He met me in the parking lot after I locked up. He was standing by my car and wearing a women’s nylon stocking over his head, in his hands a sawed-off shotgun pointed at my gut.
“We’re going back inside and you are going to open up the safe and empty out the cash drawers.”
He was broad in the shoulders and arms. He looked straight at me as I memorized his features.
He showed no signs of anxiety. He was in charge and used to that. He had done this before.
He wasn’t the kind of man that measures another. He felt no need.
“If I go back inside, it sets off the alarm. I’ll have to call the police and the alarm company to explain why I’m reentering the building. The safe has two locks and two keys. The Wells Fargo boys hold the other key. They’ll be here about 9:30 in the morning.”
He was no fool. He understood me perfectly.
“Open your passenger door. You’re driving.”
He held the door open with one arm and kept the shotgun on me as I circled around to the Driver’s side. As I slid behind the wheel he ducked down into the passenger seat and nudged the barrel of the sawed-off into my ribs.
“Make a right out of the parking lot and then take the first left. Don’t speed, don’t attract no ten-tion.”
He nudged my ribs twice in time with the ‘ten – tion’.
The left was a narrow two-lane asphalt that headed uphill. It dawned on me that he may be taking me out into the woods to shoot me. I sideglanced looking for clues. His ten-tion was just ahead and to the right.
“Stop the car.”
I hit the brakes and pulled slightly to the right. He was already opening the door.
“Give me your wallet.”
I reached in my hip pocket and handed him the wallet. He opened the wallet and pulled out the three bills. He looked my way and said, “Shee-it.” He tossed the wallet and the three bills back my way. I watched $7.00 settle to the floor. When I looked up, he was nowhere to be seen.
I put the Rabbit into gear and did a quick 180. I was calm and measured through the whole ordeal. 100 yards down the road, I was grinding gears and shaking like Jello.
Two cops sat at the counter of the Tastee donut shop a half-mile up the road. I spent the night doing a witness composite.
Three days later two Winston Salem detectives came to the restaurant and laid 8 pictures on the table in front of me. The 7th picture was shotgun man. The detective pulled the composite drawing from an envelope and laid it beside number 7. It was amazing how accurate it was.
Detective number 2 exhaled slowly through pursed lips.
“He’s the suspect in a robbery two weeks ago at the Steak and Ale across town. He’s a professional killer. The dishwasher was running trash out to the dumpster and left the back door wide open. Your boy followed him back in with a sawed-off at the small of his back
He robbed the place then had the dishwasher, assistant manager and a manager trainee, kneel on the bar floor. He shot them in the back of the head with a 12 gauge, gangland-style. This is God damned North Carolina for Christ’s sake. What’s the world coming to?”
“I love, I love to do my thing
Ha and I, and I don’t need, no one else
Sometimes I feel so nice, good god
I jump back, I wanna kiss myself
I’ve got soul, huh, and I’m super
Hey
I said I’m super bad.” James Brown, ‘Super Bad’
It was a pretty ghastly accident. I was driving faster than I should have. It was 0200 and raining. Sure, I had a few beers. But, man, I was in control. At the end of the bridge, the road turned.
Why the hell would a road take a sharp right turn as soon as you headed off a bridge? That Duke Power truck…….I couldn’t even see it until I was into the turn. As I sailed through the windshield, my arms began pinwheeling, instinctively grasping at anything in my line of sight.
I splayed forward on the blacktop, sizzling like bacon on a griddle. Clutching a gazillion gauge power line and doing a horizontal Samba.”
I woke up in ICU, Grady Hospital, Atlanta, Georgia. They Medevaced me to the trauma center. My entire trunk and arms, blackened and sautéed …..except for the four fingertips of my right hand.
Pink, vital and emollient-rich, they not only survived the ordeal but were translucent.
I felt an itch through the charred skin of my left arm. I reached across to scratch and encountered thick layers of Kerlix. I looked like a Sock Monkey.
What the Hell was that?
The four fingers were pulsing in short bursts. bzz bzz bzz bzz.”
“Isaiah, are you OK?”
My favorite nurse, Portia. All 5 feet of her. She was as big around as she was tall. Curly Afro and coke bottle glasses. She was the nerdiest sister you could ever hope to meet. She was bonafide and blind as a bat. Not a pretentious bone in her body. She just couldn’t fathom how anyone could dislike her for what she was.
She was right.
Portia removed the dressings from my abdomen and probed the wound bed with a gloved right index finger. She hit the HLAMFer spot. The pain shot straight through to my back and up my spine. I went rigid on the bed. My right hand shot out and clutched Portia’s arm.
What the Hell was that? The four fingers made a connection with Portia’s arm.
Then I noticed.
The room had frozen……….frigid……….still. Portia’s coke bottle glasses were shards at the base of the far wall. Her eyes were bugged out like Marty Feldman or Tex Avery’s wolf.
“Printed in Bloomingdale, Indiana. Hardeman’s Optical.”
“What? What are you saying, Portia?”
“Hardeman’s Optical, the line on the eye chart.”
“Portia, the eye Chart is on the far wall of the ICU. It’s 40 feet away. Besides, it starts with E.”
“I’m reading the bottom line.”
“No you’re not, the bottom line reads LEFCDPCT.”
I memorized the entire eye chart at the age of 11. I had Rheumatic Fever and spent a great deal of time in Dr. Shapiro’s office.
“No the line below that one.”
The line below that one? Holy Shit, she’s talking about the name of the printer. It was 1/8 of an inch high and 40 feet away.
“Sweet Jesus Mr. Isaiah, you wouldn’t believe the things I can see right now. I am trippin’, seeing things I have never seen before. I can see the spirits of the dead floating through the ICU. It’s like the fourth of July. They’re not scary, they’re beautiful and happy. It’s a parade of those that came before”
She was grinning like a toddler with a six-pack of popsicles.
Isaiah Sanders. Son of the Colonel and an illicit affair with his kitchen maid. (Something about 12 secret spices.) I believe the Colonel truly loved her. Isaiah was possessed of a pleasant demeanor. Since the episode with Duke Power, he was capable of yielding amazing powers….superpowers. Unfortunately, that power only worked to the benefit of others.
You see, that gazillion volt jolt, endowed Isaiah’s four fingers with the ability to grant the immediate desire of whomever they touched in unison.
Not himself.
His own skin was a solid mass of scar tissue, blocking the synapses to his brain. The stimulus just couldn’t bridge the gaps.
Portia desired more than anything to see the things she’d never seen. Those little things that we all took for granted. Fortunately, Portia had a pure heart.
You can’t say that about everyone. Careful what you wish for. Never take the four-finger discount.
Unless your heart is pure.
“Dreams are like paper, they tear so easily.”
― Gilda Radner
There were no helicopter parents in my neighborhood.
I grew up in an 800 Sq. Ft. house with 4 siblings. My Mother kicked us out of the house right after breakfast and curled up on the couch to watch General Hospital, Guiding Light, Another World and an assortment of game shows. We were allowed back in at dinnertime and then out the door again until the street lights came on.
I was the youngest of three boys and the fourth in succession for the crown of thorns. Being the youngest and smallest has its advantages. I developed a rapier wit and the knowledge that adrenaline can mask pain. At least until the next day. My motto became,
“If you can’t make them laugh, then just don’t quit. You may get your ass kicked today but there’s always a tomorrow and they have to sleep sometime.”
Jerry Mathers as The Beaver
My oldest brother, Willie, began to grow eyes in the back of his head. But he was just too stupid to learn.
Being 4 of 5 brings into play that old adage, ‘The apple that grows furthest from the tree’. I was probably from a whole different tree. My siblings and friends were more of an influence than my mother ever was.
Dad camped out in the basement, in his woodshop. He turned out beautiful cabinets and table legs. Well fashioned children? Not so much. He grew up on his Grandfathers depression-era farm with an absent Father, an invalid Mother and a sunup to sundown, no-nonsense Grandfather that had no time for play.
Mom and Dad believed that if you immersed your children in the baptismal waters and held them under until the last bubbles escaped from their lungs, that enough of that Holy Trinity would sink in. It worked for 4 out of five. 80%. Not bad.
Dad didn’t even know who Dr. Spock was.
As I was saying earlier, perhaps it was a whole different tree. Some ancient and abandoned old crab apple, deep in the woods.
Some of that tart little fruit polishes up nice.
. . . . .
Symes Ave was three blocks long. My block anchored the South end. Post-WWII, working-class bungalows. Stately ‘30s era homes in the middle block and on the north end, a late ’50s collection of bilevels, on a cul de sac.
The end of the cul de sac had a walkway that opened up onto the St. Dennis parish parking lot. St Dennis had an elementary school, a modest working-class cathedral, a garage, a Rectory, a nunnery, and Father John.
Father John was a tough SOB, a former Golden Gloves boxer, skilled at back of the head altar boy shots. He had a wicked sense of humor, as equally effective as a right hook.
Unlike my family dynamic, in the gang, I was the oldest, quickest and most manipulative. By default, I was the gang leader.
Derek, Pretty Boy, little Mike (the Floyd Brothers)and Fat Jack, were all members of Fr. Johns congregation. Jack, Pretty Boy, and Derek were altar boys.
Davy was a Lutheran. A firstborn mama’s boy. He was incapable of larceny. His Mama had planted the guilt factor deep in his marrow. If we had questionable plans, Davy was out of the loop.
I was just a ‘Fookin’ Protestant, that showed the good Fr. respect but was well aware that he had no profound sway over my behavior.
I liked the guy. He would come out and pitch for us when we got up a game of 5 man baseball. He pitched both ways, so it allowed us to put an extra man in the field. He would chuck the ball twice as fast when he was pitching to me. I didn’t mind, the faster it comes in, the further it goes when you make contact.
“Father John, you throw it in that fast, I’m going to smack the Hell out of it. You might as well draw a bullseye on that dress because I’m aiming right for the center of it. You don’t need them balls anyway.”
You may chalk that up to grabass with a priest but I can assure you he gave it back just as wicked. It was only between Fr. John and I. The others were too scared of him.
Leftfield was closed off due to lack of personnel, so you squared your stance toward Right. The next ball came in at 80 MPH and smacked me right in my skinny ass hip bone. Had I been squared away toward the pitcher, it would have hit the intended target.
I needed my balls. Maybe not yet. I was thinking down the road.
He stood on the mound, licking his chops with a big ass grin on his pious mug. The pious bastard may have dropped from the same crab apple tree.
. . . . . .
For kids that never got a dime from their parents, we always had money in our pockets. No folding cash, but enough to put a jingle in your jeans. We were a resourceful bunch.
We delivered The Detroit News, mowed lawns for 50 cents and shoveled sidewalks in the winter. Collected pop bottles for the 2 cent deposit and took old newspapers to the mill for 10 cents a hundred pounds. And we waited for Halloween.
That was the money maker.
. . . . .
We waited in the weeds, on the edge of the DiGiorno farm at 12 and Dequindre. The farm was a family operation. Derek and I would slip out and grab as many pumpkins as we could carry, passing them off to Jack and Pretty Boy who loaded them into the Radio Flyer stake wagon. We quickly slipped down for another load, repeating the process until we had a full wagon.
Little Mike kept his eye out for passersby.
The plan was to stash the pumpkins in the Floyd garage and then sell them on Saturday, at the A&P. Mr. Floyd was a long distance truck driver that was seldom home. His wife an afternoon shift waitress.
The South Symes gang suffered little oversight.
The quickest way home from the Pumpkin fields was through the St. Dennis parish parking lot. Any other route added a block to the trip. As we rounded the elementary school and into the parking lot, we noticed Fr. John exiting the door of the Rectory. Fat Jack, Derek, and Pretty Boy quickly changed direction and disappeared into the woods. I was pulling the wagon as Little Mike balanced the load.
Fr. John raised his hand in greeting.
“What do you have there Danny Boy?”
“Pumpkins Father. We sell them outside the A&P to raise money for Christmas presents.”
Mike stood silently at my side. he was still too young for the altar boy gig. He hadn’t dealt with Fr. John to the degree that Derek, Jack and Pretty Boy had.
“Wheres your brothers Mike?”
“They took the long way, Father. They’re with Fat Jack, so I figured they needed the exercise. Danny and I have this under control.”
“You know, I’ll be needing pumpkins for the classrooms. How much are you asking for the whole wagon load?”
“You know Father, since its for you and the Lord’s work, I’ll let you have the load for $10.00.”
“That’s a bit steep, Danny. I’ll give you $5.00 for the lot.”
“$5.00! That’s highway robbery. The big pumpkins will fetch a buck apiece at the A&P. We got maybe twelve bucks worth of pumpkins here.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to spend half your day sitting outside the A&P. Going once . . . going twice. . .”
Mike jabbed his elbow into my side, looked up at me and shook his head yes.
“You got a deal father. Where’s my five bucks.
Fr. John chuckled.
“Stash them in the garage and then knock on the Rectory door,Mrs. DeRossi will pay you. Have a good day, boys. I always support young entrepreneurs.
It wasn’t quite dark yet. I sent Mike off to the woods to round up the chickenshits while I headed for the garage and Mrs. DeRossi. We could lift another load before dark.
.....
The next year, we expanded our business with two wagons. Business was looking up.
We were on our way back to the Floyd garage, taking our usual shortcut. Lo and behold, here comes Fr. John walking from the school toward the Rectory. Would miracles never cease?
Derek, Pretty Boy, and Fat Jack took off at a clip towards the woods. I didn’t even know Jack could run. Father John glanced towards the woods just as Jacks fat ass disappeared between the saplings.
“Father, you be needing pumpkins again this year? I’ll give you a good deal. Same as last year, ten bucks a load.”
“You got a short memory Danny Boy. It was five bucks.
Yeah, I could use a load.
By the way, where do you get these pumpkins?”
“The pumpkin farm, down the hill behind the Hudson’s.”
“Does Mr. DiGiorno sells them to you at a discount?”
“Well, not exactly. It’s more like The Gleaners. We get what’s left in the field after the harvest. You know The Gleaners, right?”
“Yeah, I know the gleaners.”
He looked from me to Mike and then at the two wagon loads of Grade A pumpkins.
Mike thrust his hands deep in his pockets and looked down at his Keds.
Little putz. Never show the guilt face when you’re negotiating your way out of a tight spot.
Fr. John turned on his heels and started walking away.
“OK Father, $5.00 it is. We’ll even stack them in the garage for no extra charge.”
He turned his head my way.
“Don’t push it, Danny. Stack them in the garage and go see Mrs. DeRossi. But this is the last time.”
He started walking away and started laughing. he bent over and slapped his knee.
“A priest fencing stolen pumpkins. Wait until Father Coughlin hears this one.”
....
Time moves on. A year later, Jack moved away. After he graduated, Derek went off to WMU. Pretty Boy got picked up by the cops after a series of B&E’s. They sent him off to Jackson State Penitentiary for a 2 to 4-year sabbatical.
Little Mike wasn’t so little anymore. He was wearing the Demon colors, riding a Sportster and working as a bouncer at The Manchester Gentleman’s Club.
It was the end of Summer, 1971, I was home on leave from the USMC, shipping off in three weeks to The Med for a 6 month NATO operation. Smack dab in the middle of the Viet Nam conflict and I had scammed a trip to the French Riviera.
The Lord does work in mysterious ways.
I had a date at The Starlight drive-in with Judy Renfroe. Her dad was retired military and Judy had a wet spot for guys in uniform, a rare equation in ’71. My buzzcut just didn’t fit in on the Woodward strip.
So I headed to Hudson’s for a polyester disco shirt and a bottle of Old Spice. Smelling like a cheap barbershop. It was 1971.
Woke’, I was not.
I pedaled my bike down 12 Mile and turned into the drive between St. Dennis Elementary and the Rectory. I glanced to my right at the Rectory garden and noticed an elderly man stooped over a cane, snipping roses with a pair of pruning shears.
The posture stooped, but the shoulders intact.
“Yo. Father John. Love the dress. Collecting roses for your sweetie?”
He turned my way with a look of confusion. His right index went up to slip his bifocals to the end of his nose. A smile spread across his face as he walked my way.
“Danny Boy. I didn’t recognize you without the ponytail. I was never sure if it was you or your little sister. Now, there’s no doubt.”
“I lobbied to keep it but Uncle Sam is old school. It lasted about 15 seconds.”
“You’re in the Army now? Heading over to Nam?”
“No, no. Marines. My lottery number was 69 so I knew they were going to take me. I didn’t want some pissed off draftee behind me in a firefight, so I enlisted in the Corps. The irony of it, I drew a 6 month Med Cruise instead of jungle boots. The Riviera, Barcelona, and Rome, instead of Da Nang.”
“Well, thank God for that. That’s a corrupt, nasty little war they have over there.”
“I can’t disagree with your assessment Father, but as far as who to thank, I think I’ll stick with Sgt Jefferson Love. He’s the one that checks the boxes. There was no Jesus H. in the room.”
His right hand came up in a flash. An altar boy smack to the back of my head.
I turned my head to look him in the eye. He had a slight grin, no malice present.
“Some things you have to accept on faith, Danny.”
“Well Father, I’m a firm believer that if you can’t see it, can’t hear it, feel it or smell it, then it probably doesn’t exist. My father lives with faith, the same as you. I have no problem with that. It just doesn’t work for me.”
I was about to stand on my pedals when I stopped and turned back to him.
“Father John?”
He turned and looked at me over his bifocals.
“God bless you.
God bless you and everything that you ever did for us when we were kids.
God bless you, Father John.”
A slow smile crept across his weathered face. His right index came up and wagged at me slowly.
“Danny Boy, I’m going to say a prayer for you tonight. It might take two or three. Maybe more. . . . . A lot more.
It’s looking like a long night. A really . . . really . . . long night.”
‘Maise has vacated the premises in the sweet embrace of a handsome red-haired cowboy from Red Bluff. Please let me know what your plans are for ‘Jack’s Roadhouse’. People round here need a place to eat and I have no business sense. I’m guessing the wake should last another week at least. More arriving every day. I got the kitchen closed and the bar open. Sorry for your loss Honey. She was a Sweetie. I sure am going to miss her.’
Carmelita Sanchez
Scotlyn’s heart skipped a beat. How could she possibly manage to get away? It was peak season in Provo. She was the chef at Casa Luca, the hottest restaurant in town.
A Head Chef’s position was her dream for thirty years.
Scotlyn was a presence, the culinary artist Luca had been looking for
Luca Genovese had great taste, deep pockets and a huge appetite. He wore suspenders under Amalfi suits cut to disguise corpulence. It didn’t work, Luca was still a fat mysoginistic troll.
He spent a great deal of money to finance his ego. Beautiful friends don’t come cheap.
. . . . .
Scotlyn’s father Wade sold his Dodge pickup to send her to Johnson and Wales. A culinary degree does not command a generous paycheck. She worked 25 years as a sous chef in restaurants throughout the Carolinas and Georgia, slogging in the trenches and learning.
When she got the invitation to audition for head chef in Provo, Scotlyn emptied her bank account, made a token payment on her Visa card and threw her suitcase in the back of her ancient Nissan Sentra.
2000 miles to Utah. She’d never been out of the Southeast in 54 years.
She had $942.00 in her purse and life lessons learned on Grandma Joonie’s lap.
She was a Dubois. Life wasn’t supposed to be easy.
. . . . .
She had 11 months in at Casa Luca. Luca was not an easy man to work for. Most days she marveled that she was still there.
Six months ago, Provo Magazine named her the hot new chef of the Rockies. It’s amazing how an ego will sustain you.
She was carving carrot and pepper garnish when Luca sidled alongside and snaked his arm around her waist and pulled her snug. He was scarfing down a cannolli with his free hand. He smelled like Scotch and cigars.
“Got a party of 24 just walked in. Got enough veal? Just giving you a heads up.”
“Without a reservation? Luca, this is like the tenth time you’ve pulled this on me.”
“What can I say. I got a lot of friends that like to ski. You need to dip some of these cannolli in the dark chocolate.
Besides, what do I pay you for? The name of the restaurant is Casa Luca, not Casa Scotlyn. I made you the hottest chef in the Rockies.”
Luca brushed the crumbs from Amalfi and checked his goatee in the waiters mirror before he waddled through the swinging door.
Scotlyn stood gripping the edge of the butcherblock prep table with white knuckles before raising her chef knife to shoulder level than thrusting Wusthof Classic, forged high carbon German stainless steel, 1/2 inch deep in Hardrock Maple.
Sous Chef Miguel Ferrara and Assembler ‘Tastee’ Freemont turned and rested their tattooed forearms on the stainless pick up shelf. When you work in a 110 degree kitchen with volatile artists, you become used to flying chefs knifes and emotionalism.
They watched Scotlyn walk to her office, remove her chefs tunic and place it on a wooden hanger. She pulled out a Post It pad and a Sharpie and wrote a note, pinning it to the corkboard on her door. She spun on New Balance cross trainers, smiled at Tastee and Miguel and thanked them for,
“Everything that you guys do. I wish you both the best. If you need a reference, whistle. Make sure you whistle loud, I’m heading for the Lost Coast. Miguel, would you mind getting the back door?’
She reached in the pocket of her trousers and fingered the telegram as she hit the back door alarm. She watched the heavy metal door swing open. She tossed Miguel her keys.
Miguel locked the back door, turned on his heels and stopped at the office door to glance at the yellow post it.
Scotlyn doesn’t live here anymore. Please forward all mail to general delivery, Mendocino post office.
. . . . .
Along Seashore Dr., Cuffeys Cove
It took 2 days for Scotlyn to make it to Cuffeys Cove. When she arrived, the wake was still in full session. The street was filled with vehicles from as far away as Half Moon Bay and Seattle. A collection of old Pickups, a 64 Chevrolet Station Wagon, well-tested Broncos, a 1950 Indian Chief, a 68 ‘Electroglide’ and directly in front of the ‘Jacks’, an ancient and weathered red Willys parked next to a well maintained ’73 Norton Commando.
Maise made memories and they were all coming home to pay homage.
Carmelita directed Scotlyn to Red Dog. He was in the back corner in deep conversation with a lanky gentle man that was either a very tall Frenchman or Navajo. When she offered her hand in greeting to Red Dog, both gentlemen rose to pay respects . Red Dog introduced himself and then,
“This is my amigo Toneh Dele.”
Toneh offered his hand palm up to Scotlyn. His eyes were locked down on Scotlyn’s pupils, a message that went straight to her center. She reached out to steady her fingers in the palm of his hand. Heat lightning crackled through the haze of little smoke.
. . . . .
Scotlyn took to the “Jacks ‘ with a vengeance. A fiery spirit ran crimson through the blood of Dubois women. She eyed the storeroom next door. She took to cleaning it out and converting the ramshackle space into a prep area. She called Ft. Bragg and ordered a new sign,
‘Jacks California Fusion Roadhouse’.
There were raised eyebrows and smiles for a day or two. But this was ‘Quirktown’.
Scotlyn was hard at work stripping the old paint from the walls when she heard the rumble of the Norton. She stood to the side of the window and watched him park the bike across the street at ‘Henson’s Hardware , General, Bait and Tackle.’
Jess Henson met Toneh at the steps of the store with a paper bag and a hand written receipt. Toneh’s hand rose and when his finger pointed at the receipt, Jess’s eyes dropped to the paper and Toneh’s head turned swiftly to eye the window of the storeroom.
His eyes locked with Scotlyn’s. He quickly returned his gaze to the bag and then nodded at Jess and turned to mount the Commando. Jess stood on the steps to watch him as he hit the kickstart, just one plunge. The motor growled instantly and then settled into a pur, even and anxious. Toneh turned the wheel and let out the clutch and the big Norton just kissed the black top as he eased to the stop sign and then accelerated through to Rue De Miserable.
Scotlyn took in a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm herself.
He had seen her. She thought she had hidden herself in the shadows. He read her eyes. She knew this. Her hands were tightening on the hammer. She needed wine.
Now.
She had a bottle of Driven Cellers Primativo in the kitchen. She turned to go to th………..
He was standing in the doorway. With the Primativo in his hand.
“I wondered if you would like to take a ride with me. To Tonopahs bluff. I’ve got French Bread, strawberries and Swiss cheese. I wasn’t sure what a Chef would eat for a picnic, so I kept it simple. No fancy cheese or truffles or any morning vegetation.
Jess Henson ordered me a new fuel line. Uh, I’ll have to change it first, uhm, if that’s OK.”
She smiled. Mr. Control was stuttering and his eyes were on her breasts and they were unwavering.
And she realized that her T-shirt was soaked through with perspiration.
And he was very aware.
She started to raise her arm to cover her chest then thought twice and dropped her thumbs into the back pockets of her Levis. She drew her shoulders back.
Oh Hell, let them say Hello. They’ve already made up their mind.
Chapter 2 – Good Vibrations
Toneh had the fuel line changed in minutes. It was simply a matter of loosening clamps, prying dried and cracked rubber and reinstalling. Scotlyn didn’t even have time to freshen. Perhaps Toneh planned it that way.
Toneh gave a single kick to the ratcheting lever and it settled into idle. Norton was known for its isolastic anti vibration system. . . .but not at idle. Scotlyn swung her right leg over the saddle and settled in behind Toneh.
‘Where to put my hands. His shoulders?. . . .he’s so tall. Lightly grasp his waist?. . . .seems so prim. I am NOT feeling prim.”
Toneh revved the engine slightly and scooted his bottom back barely an inch. . . .just enough to close the gap between their bodies.
“You best wrap your arms around me fairly tight. We are going to traverse some fairly rough terrain as soon as I pull off Shoreline. Scotlyn, you can call me Tony if you prefer.”
“No I like Toneh better. It fits you.”
Toneh smiled a small one. Meant only for himself but she caught it too. He could feel her t-shirt damp against his torso. He smiled again. Worn denim has its advantages.
The big 828 cc Norton engine was vibrating through the vinyl seat, ignoring her Levis, sidestepping white cotton and heading straight to her center. It hadn’t even introduced itself.
She wrapped her arms a little tighter around Toneh’s waist. He grasped her right wrist and pulled it tighter around him.
“I don’t want to lose you on the way to Tonopah’s Bluff. I couldn’t finish the wine by myself.”
Toneh pulled a length of sisal twine from his shirt pocket and gathered his greying locks in his hand. Scotlyn reached up and pulled the sisal from his fingers.
“Let it fly Toneh. I’ll tuck my head down against your back if it gets too much.”
She pushed her hands down against the saddle to slide her buttocks back slightly as she leaned into his back. Oh my! A shiver started between her shoulder blades and hop scotched all the way to her tailbone where it dissolved. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second. Scotlyn shook her head slightly and grinned.
“This man. . . . .Oh my. This beautiful man.”
Norton climbed Shoreline to Tonopah’s Bluff. A 250′ elevation that surged to 70 mph in a single mile. Norton just purred. Was Toneh showing off?
Or was Norton?
Scotlyn leaned in, burying her face into Toneh’s upper sacrum to avoid his locks, whipping in the wind. She was grinning.
Toneh sat upright as he turned the bike onto a two rut that lead straight to the peak of the bluffs. His eyes scanned left to right, than took in the sky. His breath came slow and even through his nostrils.
Toneh’s hand dropped to Norton’s key. Norton eased down. Toneh dropped his boots to the ground.
This was where Tonopah had left this world when Toneh was just seven. He had returned here the following morning with his grandfather Topeh to carry Tonopah’s body to a bier they had built at the edge. That night many friends came as the flames carried Tonopahs spirit.
Scotlyn spread her fingers wide on Tonehs chest as she felt him stretch every muscle and arch his arms to the sky. He had brought her here. He transformed the second he had turned on to the two rut.
He had brought her here.
This was Dele.
Toneh was two days late to his Grandfather Topeh’s departure. He was in Cambodia. It took him 4 days. He went directly to the site of Tonopahs funeral bier and gathered grass for a cushion. He did not move though sundown, sunrise and down again. He made his way under moonlight back to Tonopahs cabin. Now it was Tonehs home. He informed his employer the next morning that he would no longer be theirs.
Tonehs right hand slid back along Scotlyns right flank and patted her thigh.
“You have to get off before I can park Norton.”
“Oh. I’m sorry Toneh. I was lost in the moment. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive Scotlyn. I am in the same moment. I have been since I met you. Maise told me about you. I knew your blood. I had been waiting to meet you.”
Scotlyn was stunned and doing everything in her power not to show it. She leaned left and slid her right leg off the saddle and settled into an unsteady assemble’ on powder blue All Stars.
She pulled it off. Maybe not in her mind, but he seemed OK with it.
His eyes took in laughlines in all the right places, freckles and a mane the color of slow fire. She had little crows feet that made her eyes crinkle and buzz at the edges. Her thumbs were hooked into the front pockets of her Levi’s. Bent just slightly at the waist anticipating.
He could see it. It wasn’t planned. That’s what she was.
It was good to be a tracker. He could see the real deal.
Scotlyn reached out her right hand to his shoulder. She wished to calm herself. She could feel what this place was to Toneh.
This was Dele’.
Toneh parked the Norton and swung his leg clear. She was standing at the edge, eyes wide to the Pacific, directly over the site of Tonopahs bier. Her left hand grasped her right wrist behind her back. Just like his friend Maise. She was Dubois.
Toneh scanned the horizon and smiled.
“E’e’aahji To’nteel. My mother.”
“I have not shared a relationship with a woman in 40 years. It was never safe. There is evil in this world and that evil always looks for your weakest link. In the beginning I had no qualms with eliminating that which I felt jeopardized the safety of my people. In so doing, I grew further and further away from them. I was alone in the world. I took comfort with soft hips in Majorca or Phnom Pehn but I never owned their lips. We never exchanged names.”
Scotlyn was silent. Her eyes scanned the waves trying to take them in, the way that Toneh did. She sideglanced. She was amazed at his posture. His back was ramrod straight and his palms cupped upward in a perfect Sukhasana. His eyes taking in the horizon, his breathing slow and even.
This man was 64?
“I became aware of what I was missing when Topeh left this world. He was the last connection I had. My mother died 10 tears earlier in Utah, she never left the reservation. My Mother taught me to always speak truth even if it brought pain because that was pain necessary for growth.
My employers were demanding that I act without answers. It was time to go. I no longer had a personal connection. When I came back here for the celebration of Topeh’s passing, I sat on the porch of Tonopahs house. I listened as the walls spoke to me. A black dog curled up at my feet. He has not left. I call him Ezekiel. When I leave he curls up next to my chair.
He knows I will return.”
“You said you had been waiting for me Toneh. Why would you wait for someone you didn’t know?
“I knew Maise. I could see her spirit.
She told me stories of her family in Carolina. There was evil in the blood of her Father. her brother Wade took after his Mama Joonie just as I followed the blood of my Mother. I knew the lessons you had been taught. Maise kept every story that Wade wrote her. I knew you embraced life and that you were not afraid to be alone. Maise would smile when she talked of your detours because you would always gravitate back to center. You learned at Mama Joonie’s knee but you also had the love of a strong Father.
Does that sound calculated Scotlyn. I am afraid it is part of who I am, who I have been. I need to change that. I have learned that.
I want you Scotlyn. I knew it when I offered you my palm the night I met you and felt the electricity. I hope this is the last calculation I make.”
Scotlyn raised her right hand and allowed her fingertips to drift the length of Tonehs forearm and nestle into his upturned palm. Fingers entwined.
“I don’t calculate. I go with my intuition. Yours is strong as well Toneh. I felt the electricity too. For a moment it was only you and I that night and I trust that.”
“I want you to teach me Scotlyn.”
The sun was setting over the waves. She could feel the beat of his heart through his fingers. A beat slow , even and pure.
“I want to take you to Tonopahs cabin and make love to you. I have never made love to one woman before, I have only shared bodies. In a good life, one woman is enough.”
Scotlyn was silent. If that wasn’t the weirdest, most heartfelt proposal that she had ever had. So direct.
So sweet.
“I always wanted to be a teacher Toneh. 56 isn’t too late for a new turn. One thing though Toneh. Can we take the long way home on Norton? He just puts me in the mood.”
“Norton would like that.
Chapter 3 – In The Pocket Of My Bluejeans
Editors Note: The first three chapters borrow heavily from chapters that were deleted from Cuffey’s Cove with some additions and editing. Then it’s all new and better than before. Trust me. These are good characters. After the Moosh, we get down to business.
DHM – Elk
His fingertips traversed the nape of her neck to soft down at the small of her back. She placed hers to his face and then spread her fingertips, eyelash to jawbone. The most subtle movement, not pressure just fingerprints slipping south, drawing his face to hers.
Feeling. Not kissing. Just feeling his lips on hers. Moist, the most subtle pressure drawing his mouth to hers. Learning his lips. Tasting them.
Toneh smelled like Earth and salt air.
“I don’t know where to start. I never learned that.”
“I know Toneh. Teach yourself how I feel. Don’t close your eyes. Drink me in.”
The windows submitted to breezes that followed the creek, drapes undulating.
Toneh was propped on his left elbow his right fingers lightly brushing her inner thigh. His face hovered over hers, locks brushing her cheeks.
A gull sang. Toneh cocked his head toward the window. Scotlyn guided his head back toward her.
“You belong to me. Forget the world, listen to me. Pay attention to how you change me, every touch of your fingers.”
“You are a poet Scotlyn.”
“The bard of love Toneh.”
Scotlyn laughed and nudged Toneh over on his back. She grasped his waist line in her palms and did a ‘slip-n-slide’ the length of his body. She ran her palms up his flank, encircling his neck, thumbs to jaw line and collapsed her lips on his. Her tongue found a crack and planted its flag. She slid her right hand back to his thigh and pulled his leg around behind her until Toneh arched his back and they settled in as one.
“I thought I was going to learn you tonight.”
“Well, that was the plan, but Norton slipped an obscene note into the back pocket of my jeans,” she said between nips of his lower lip, “I believe it was the screenplay for tonight, but it was such a soggy mess that I couldn’t read it, so I figured we’ll just have to improvise. I’m falling back on old habits and letting you take the lead. Now show me how you finish.”
DHM Elk, CA
Scotlyn awoke in Tonopahs bed with a tingle in her toes and a wet muzzle cupped in her right hand. Ezekiel saluting the morning.
“Morning Boy. Wheres Big Papa?”
Scotlyn smelled the scent of hickory and heard the crackle of pine knots. Toneh was standing in the doorway, hands grasping the overhead.
His chest was bare. His Levi’s low on his hips. He had woven wild flowers into the string of beads that held back his mane.
“I’m warming water for you. I have an old clawfoot tub next to the creek. I bathed in the creek this morning after I started the fire.
I have lavender wash that Sheba left. It makes me think of your Aunt Maise. Would you like some breakfast? We still have bread and strawberries and cheese.”
Scotlyn was wearing the grin that didn’t know how to quit.
“Uh, Toneh. We skipped your lesson last night. I feel bad about that. Can I have breakfast and a bath later? I think I just heard the school bell ring.”
“Oh, that sound. I thought that was the dinner bell.”
“Uhm, that could be arranged.”
A brisk breeze crossed the windowsill, found its own way out the front door, followed the creek to Shoreline Drive where it caught a ride with a girl, in a flatbed Ford.
I believe she was headed to Winslow, Arizona.
Scotlyn reached her arms out to Toneh,spread her fingers wide and grinned.
“Come here Big Papa.
“It is an absolute human certainty that no one can know his own beauty or perceive a sense of his own worth until it has been reflected back to him in the mirror of another loving, caring human being.”
John Joseph Powell
Chapter 4 – Norton
“Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it. Mark Twain
Editors Note: Throughout the story I refer to Toneh’s motorcycle in the first person. I feel Norton is as much a character as Toneh and Scotlyn. Norton feels he played a role in the seduction of Scotlyn. Is it seduction if the player wishes to be seduced? I’ll leave that to the reader.
You can take the long way home.
Toneh was doing repairs to his waterwheel in Greenwood Creek. He was using an adze, a small handsaw, Tonopahs elkhorn handled buck knife, a 5# hammer and an eggbeater hand drill. He would shape the board, attempt to fit it into place and then make adjustments. When he was satisfied with the fit, he drilled two holes in the side of the wheels and pounded the dowels into place.
Scotlyn was sitting on a rock and dangling her feet in Greenwood Creek. She was wearing Toneh’s denim shirt and a smile.
“Toneh, how long have you owned Norton? Did you buy him new. He looks like he never left the showroom.”
1973 Norton Commando 850 wikimedia.org
“I didn’t buy him at all. He was given to me by Staff Sargent Ezekial Rawlins.”
“He just gave you Norton?”
“He was severely injured in Viet Nam. He was my Platoon Sargent on my first tour. They sent him back to the states to Walter Reed. I went to see him when he was rehabbing. He handed me a note that he sealed in an envelope and asked me to give it to his Father Isaiah when I returned to California to see my Grandfather Topeh.
When I knocked on Isaiah Rawlin’s door in El Segundo, he read the note and then wrapped me in a bear hug.
“I been wanting to thank the man that saved my boy’s life. Come in, come in. Don’t know how much Easy told you so I’m just going to show you. Come out to the garage with me.”
He pulled the tarp from Norton and there wasn’t even a speck of dust on it. He told me that he had ridden the bike once but found it too powerful and ‘twitchy’ for a man of his age.
“Thats a bike that requires a rider whose feet and hands react in perfect synch with his eyes. My brain hasn’t worked that way in years. I’m smart enough to know my limits. I start him up once a week to cycle the oil.
I purchased the first black 850 that hit the dealer in L.A. Easy was already in the states by then. I thought it would give him incentive in his rehab. When he told me there was too much nerve damage, I knew what he was talking about. War and old age can get the best of a man.
Anyways Tony, I got the title in my desk drawer. Nothing would please my boy and I more than to see you take the bike.”
“Scotlyn, I wasn’t in Cuffeys Cove for two days when I got the word that my government wanted me back in Washington. I left Norton in the storeroom of Grizz Barnes Livery. I knew that Grizz and my Grandfather would give Norton the respect he deserved.”
“Where did you go when Washington called. Viet Nam must have been over by then.”
Toneh was standing in the creek in front of Scotlyn. He lifted Scotlyn to her feet. She stood on the rock looking Toneh in the eye.
“Scotlyn, I had been discharged from the Marine Corps. I was called to Quantico, Virginia. In the next few months I made some difficult decisions. I need some time to think this through. There is much that I can not tell you. I have separation from my former employment. I’m just not sure how much. I will never put your safety in jeopardy. There is part of you that is mine now.
Young men act with a sense of duty. there is more to truth than meets the eye. Patriotism may be noble but it has to meld with your conscience.”
“Toneh, I want to understand you but I realize there may be things that I may not comprehend.”
“You will understand what you need to. I promise you that. Now lets wrap this up and take Norton to the Roadhouse. I’m hungry for more than swiss cheese and strawberries.”
Scotlyn wrapped her arms around his neck and jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs tightly around his torso. She grinned.
“Should I get dressed first? A stiff breeze and we’ll have a town scandal.”
“Well, I know Norton wouldn’t mind but we don’t need to set any tongues wagging. I can just see the headline in ‘The Coastal Tattler’.
Stiff Breeze exposes sweet truth. Norton rider goes full Commando on Rue Miserable
“Uhm Toneh. I think we best stop at the cabin to pick up my jeans. The new girl in town isn’t ready to make a scene quite yet.”
Carolina girl? Sure. Wonder if she has Brown Eyes? That was my second choice.
Editors Notes: This title was given to me a long time ago. I used it then. I just liked it so much that I decided to recycle it
Looking At Life Through A Zoom Lens
By DHMcCarty 7/19
“Where do you get all of these stories, Benny?”
“Livin’. Lovin’. Dying a little inside.”
“You sure have lived some kind of life.”
“Not really any different than any other man or woman that walked this life. Our lives are just a million small stories piled end to end and tied up with a red ribbon. Or maybe barbed wire.”
“You’re talking about your life now. My life was getting up, feeding the kids breakfast, packing them off to school then getting dressed so that I could make it to work by 9:00.”
“You ever talk to the lady at the convenience store when you’re paying for your gas? Ask her how her day is going?”
She smiled and took a sip of her coffee.
“I don’t have time for that. I’ve got twenty minutes to get to work.”
“Leave 15 minutes earlier. Smile and wave to a traffic cop. Slip a thank you note into the security guards breast pocket. He thinks you don’t even see him.”
“But you remember all those things. You write them down and put a smile on it.”
“What’s Stephanie’s birthday? What year did your Dad pass away? What color was the corsage that Harry Hardon gave you for the prom? What was your second choice name for your son when he was born?”
“But all of those things are important. That’s family and friends. And his name was Henry Harden not Harry Hardon.”
“Yeah, but Harry Hardon is funnier and a lot harder to forget.
Leslie, I can’t argue with what you say. Family events are important. The corsage wasn’t family, just a milestone in a young girl’s life. You made it important and filed it away in a safe place in your cortex. What if you did the same thing for every little moment? Gave every chance encounter a life of it’s own and filed it away.
Believe me, there’s room up there.”
“I get what you’re saying but that doesn’t explain the writing. Your writing puts a smile on my face. It reminds me of events in my own life. I can’t do that.”
“Les, what if you put a tape recorder down on the table and then took it home and typed it up. That’s a story.”
Editor’s Note: This one has been sitting on the shelf for three years. I felt it was time for a resurrection.
We worked out this thing between us. Out of respect for . . . time.
Time spent married . . . . . time spent before marriage . . . . . time spent parenting.
I have no bad stories about her. No horrendous occasions to mark memory.
Just slow immersion in sameness.
She may have been a part of that, but she wasn’t the reason.
.
She drives Bella and Lucy to the beach on Friday, after school. That way she gets a head start on her own week. The following Friday I drive them out to Lakewood Ranch, to start my seven days.
Anna Maria Island-media-cdn-tripadvisor-com.jp
We bought the beach house from my Grandmother when she went to the nursing home. 6 of the 8 homes on 68th are owned by retirees, half of which live out of state. The other two are rented out in season.
Candace Cunningham lives next door. She was a teenage friend of my Mother. We have dinner and drinks on occasion. It’s good to have a friend next door. She tells the crowd at Duffy’s she’s a Cougar. She’s 72.
Devil Ray at Siesta Beach – mv-minnow-1a-mvminnow-com1.jpg
Rachel teaches at Bayshore High School and the girls both go to Bayshore Elementary, so driving the kids to school during season, is no real chore.
I have a ’63’ Karmann Ghia convertible. It’s on its 3rd engine. The girls love the attention it gets. When I pull up to their school, Bella and Lucy wave like they’re in a parade.
1963 Kharmann Ghia convertible goldbug.com
.
I like to plan little trips.
A Saturday fishing excursion (the short one) makes them sunny and happy, but tired afterwards. They stay in the shade when we get back to the beach.
They like going to St. Armands Circle, I hang in the doorway to let the shopkeepers know they’re attended. The girls are smiley and polite, so the proprietors don’t mind.
Siesta Key Beach, sand as fine and white as talcum powder -florida-siestakeybeach-org.jp.
Our private little beach is tucked into a tiny alcove on Anna Maria. The girls love the active scene at Siesta Beach. Bella pretends she’s in Malibu, ‘Swimmin Pools, Movie Stars’.
They love the Mote, the museums and community theatre productions in Sarasota. Ringling is such a treat for them.
‘The Greatest Show on Earth.’
Strip built sea kayak-646513-lumberjocks-com.jpg
I built my first kayak in the garage in Lakewood Ranch. About 800 labor hours. I still have the boat, know where every mistake is.
Now I rent an abandoned gas station in Palmetto, just across the 8th street bridge. I construct strip built kayaks and canoes there.
‘Dayton Griswell’s Strip Built Design’s’
I’ve got 3 forms going on continually. I used to build 2 kayaks at a time and one canoe. Now its more canoe than kayaks. I’ve sold a total of 16 canoes in New York alone, all upstate.
The kayaks are commission these days. The designs have grown more ornate. I’m building one for a lawyer in Minneapolis. So far he’s paid me $28,000, $23,000 of that is labor.
Canoe with seat-1280×853-blackwaterriverguitars-com.jpg
Rachel and I were married for 12 years before we had children. We spent more and more time apart. We thought children would recharge us. It was time.
I worked as a City Planner for Sarasota. I hated it. An endless series of Sarasota social events that Rachel just stopped attending. I was jealous.
.
I met Sean Dennis at a C of C dinner. He’s a Marine Biologist at the Mote. He saw me showing pictures of my kayak progress to Andy Devine.
Sean was working on a canoe. We became friends.
I was sitting on Sean’s dock on the Upper Manatee when it hit me. I’d been thinking about coming out here for three days.
.
I never anticipated seeing Rachel anymore. I thought about her but there was no anticipation.
After dinner she would retire to the living room to correct papers or work on her manuscript. I worked on my kayak.
On Fridays we would make love by the numbers.
We smiled at each other, we just never grinned.
.
When I moved to the beach, I quit my City Planning job and started doing contract work for Bradenton and St. Petersburg. Far less hours and more time working at the beach. The income didn’t drop much and I had more time for my interests. Sean suggested I rent the gas station. He knew the owner. It sat empty for 2 years, so, rent was cheap.
It took me three days to clean out the building. Pressure washed from floor to ceiling. I painted the floor and walls a Misty Blue. Suits my mood.
For years I told myself that if you’re not in love, you’re just living. Life is too short to miss out on love.
Now I worry that I’m settling for a strip built love.
Whistle Down The Wind 