Verbose Orations

Midnight

Low tide

I’m sleepless

Dreams escape me

Holding on

‘Til dawn comes

Blowing in

On a cruel wind

When did love go away

In the night I long for you

Been down

In lonely town

Cold streets

Empty faces

I’m broken

The night rolls in

Blowing in

On a cruel wind

Who hears me when I cry

In the night

I’ll cry for you

So tired

Another mile

I’m hopeless

Peace escapes me

Hanging on I’m fading fast

I’m blown along

By a cruel wind

When did you go away

In the night I searched for you

Rainstorm

Coming on

Blinded

Sight eludes me

My heart aches

Someone speaks

Small voice

On a cruel wind

“I’ll never leave your side

In the night I’ll carry you”

Through the pain of a broken heart

When my world is torn apart

Your love goes on and on

Down a string of empty years

Through the night

Through all my tears

Your love goes on and on

I was sitting in the LAX International terminal waiting impatiently for the departure of my flight to Sydney, Australia. It was already a good thirty minutes late and I had started to worry since I had an interview in about 23 hours for the most important position of my twenty-four year-old life. 

My name is Bree Simmons. A multi-national marketing firm based out of Sydney saw my resume on some website–hey, I papered the Internet with the thing–and called me personally to see if I would be willing to fly to Sydney for an all expenses paid interview. Sydney. All expenses paid. It took me all of about three seconds to say yes. That was two days ago. I don’t mind telling you it’s been a whirlwind since. 

This interview means everything to me because, well, an MBA in marketing from Stanford just didn’t open all the doors I was promised by my advisors. Take away the intrigue of living and working in Sydney, if you want to know the truth, I’m floundering and something has to happen soon or I’ll be in real trouble.

“Attention in the gate area. Those of you awaiting the departure of Flight 1584, non-stop to Sydney, Australia, due to a mechanical malfunction this flight has been cancelled. Please see the gate agent for further instructions.”

At first I didn’t think I had heard the announcement correctly. I mean it sounded like someone just said my flight was canceled, but that just couldn’t be. 

I was sitting quite close to the gate agent’s desk so I jumped up first in line and said, “Did you just say that this flight is canceled?”

“I’m afraid so, miss,” the agent said with an appropriate amount of concern. “Do you want me to see if we can place you on another flight?”

“Of course. I have a very important interview in about 23 hours from now that I simply cannot miss.”

She pecked away on her keyboard, making the same kind of clucking noises with her tongue that a dentist makes right before he tells you you’ll need about ten thousand dollars of dental work.

“Hmmm,” she said.

“Is that a good, hmmm, or a bad hmmm?” I asked.

She glanced up at me and said, “Not good. Every other non-stop to Sydney is booked solid.”

“How about other airlines?”

“Those ARE the other airlines. This was our last flight until tomorrow morning at, ummm, 6:10 AM.”

The first icy tendrils of panic began a slow and deliberate climb up my spine.

“Well, how about direct flights? I mean I don’t have to be on a non-stop, I guess.”

She sighed deeply and said, “Nope. No direct flights either. In fact, the absolute best I can do is get you on a flight to San Francisco that leaves in,” she paused to check something, “Ooh, about thirty-five minutes. You’d have a four hour layover in SF, but there is a bit of room on a flight that would put you in Sydney just about three hours later than your original arrival time. But I can’t guarantee your luggage will make it at the same time.”

With my head spinning I blurted out, “Do it! Let’s do it. If necessary I’ll buy new clothes.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said cheerfully and began attacking the keys with renewed vigor.

I turned around to check on my fellow passengers to see how they were handling the bad news. And that’s when I saw him.

Three people back in line. All six-foot something of him in his very Euro suit and his very Euro glasses and his very Euro haircut. Did I mention his smile? The smile was the only thing about him that wasn’t Euro. The smile was other-worldly.

“Miss?”

The gate agent’s voice seemed to come from a place far, far away. 

She actually had to tug on my sleeve.

“Oh, sorry. Yes?” I said, hoping the god among men would still be there if I turned around again.

“You’re all set,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“If I pay you a lot of money, can you get him,” I jerked my head in the direction of my newly formed obsession, “on the same flight with me?”

She peered covertly around me and said, “No, but I’ll let you have my job and I’ll go on the flight.”

I smiled and walked away, making sure to stray as close as possible to my guy. Did I mention that he was also wearing a very yummy, very Euro cologne?

“Excuse me,” he said in a voice that rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. “But did you have any luck in getting on another flight?”

I stood there with my mouth opening and closing like some poor beached amphibian for several seconds before I was able to utter, “Uh, yes. But you’ll, uh, have to go to San Francisco and get on a flight there.”

His smile was electric, “Is that where you’re going?”

I returned his smile and said, “Yes. Yes, I am.”

He leaned in and said conspiratorially, “I don’t suppose we’ll have a layover, will we?”

What I wanted to say was, “Excuse me while I go over and ask that nice looking gentleman to pinch me good and hard because this just can’t be happening.” What I said was, “Fo…four hours.”

Without ever taking his eyes from mine he said, “Well, then, this is fortuitous.”

“You want some of this Cinnabon or not?”

My best friend Gloria was nudging me in the ribs and waving half of the delectable decadence in front of my face. 

“What?”

“I asked if you wanted some of this, because, lord knows I don’t need it.”

I looked at the gate information which indicated that our flight was right on time; scanned the gate area in search of His Handsomeness, spotted him sitting a few seats away and said, “How’s my makeup?”

Saturday morning.

I had my steaming hot medium cup of coffee raised part-way to my lips, already anticipating that first lovely sip when out of the corner of my eye I spied a woman of uncertain age in shabby attire enter St. Arbuck’s leading two small dogs on leashes.

She sat in a wing chair just a few feet from my table.

The dogs, obviously mixed-breed, immediately jumped up into her lap where they sat quivering, their heads darting here and there, noses working as if trying to filter all of the olfactory stimulation.

A guy in an adjacent seat leaned over and said, “Do you know it’s against the law to bring animals into a place where food is served?” As if to reinforce his assertion he pointed to a prominently placed wall sign that said clearly, “NO DOGS ALLOWED!.

Glancing at the sign the woman replied, “Oh, but these are service dogs.”

“Service dogs?” the fellow said, eyeing the dogs suspiciously.

“Uh-huh,” the woman continued. “Therapy dogs, actually.”

Just then an employee approached and said, “Ma’am, we don’t allow dogs in here…it’s the law.”

“But they’re therapy dogs.”

The Barista looked closely, shaking her head.

I know what she was looking for, as service dogs are required to wear a blue vest upon which is clearly stenciled, “Service animal,” or, “Service dog in training” and a little badge sewn into the fabric.

“Therapy dogs, service dogs, whatever, they have to have badges.”

At this point most of the customers seated in close proximity had stopped their conversation and had turned their attention to the developing drama.

Looking a bit wild-eyed the woman said, “What am I supposed to do, tie them up outside?”

The man in the next chair said, “Hey, now there’s an idea!”

Casting a sharp glance his way the woman put her arms around the trembling animals and hugged them tightly.

“Let’s go, ma’am,” said the Barista respectfully. “The dogs have to leave.”

Glancing at the Barista and then at the mean man in the next chair the woman leaned down as if to engage the dogs in conversation.

“We’re going to have to go, you guys. These people don’t want you in here.”

In reply the dogs licked her face and then their hind-ends.

At the time I recall thinking that she was quite fortunate that it hadn’t been the other way around.

Exiting huffily she called out loudly, “You won’t be seeing us in here again!”

“Promises, promises,” said the guy in the adjacent chair.

The Barista went back to work and I heard someone say to the man, “You happy now?”

To which he replied, “What?”

The query had come from a twenty-something young woman seated behind me.

“I asked if you were happy that you got that poor woman and her dogs kicked out.”

He said, “You’re kidding, right?”

The young woman said, “What you just did was needlessly cruel.”

“I just asked her if she knew that it was illegal to bring dogs in here. It was the Barista who kicked her out!”

“Yeah, but it was your fault.”

They continued to argue for a good five minutes, which gave me time to think about the woman. I mean, I’m no fan of animals being inside public places (unless, of course it’s Petco) but for some reason I felt sorry for that woman as the dogs were quite obviously the only companions she had.

I walked outside and looked up and down the sidewalk.

I spotted her at the corner, leaning against a lamp post with the dogs dancing around her feet.

Walking slowly toward her I said, “Those are really cute dogs.”

She turned around, saw me and smiled, “Oh…oh, yes. They are just the sweetest things.”

Stooping down I patted the dogs heads and allowed them to lick my hand, remembering well where those tongues had just been.

I didn’t care.

“They like you,” she said fondly.

“Most dogs do. My son tells me I have a way of dogs.”

“He’s right.”

Standing to my full height I said, “Gotta’ go. Have a great day.”

As I walked off I heard her say, “I will now.”

It was predictably hectic at St. Arbuck’s with customers coming and going in a nearly unbroken chain of poor souls whose morning just wouldn’t be complete without the obsessive indulgence.

According to the neighborhood weather (available by dialing a three digit number on a land-line) by 7:30 AM the mercury was still hovering around forty-five degrees, not atypical for the first of March, but a bit too chilly for my taste.

That’s Vegas for you: we long for the cold of winter when it’s summer, and then all winter long all you hear is, “Well, it’ll warm up soon.”

I opened my laptop and was just about to dive into writing when a young couple came through the door. He, Caucasian and she, African-American. Both extremely good-looking. Well dressed, as if enjoying the fruits of financial success.   

He had piercing blue eyes and light brown hair and she that rare combination of facial features that lent an exotic and mysterious quality to her appearance.

While they searched for a place to sit, two children, both under the age of two, contended for their parent’s attention. They chose an empty table a short distance from my usual corner spot and the parents began off-loading kids and enough baggage to justify a cross-country trip. It made me remember the days when it required just as much effort to make a five minute trip to the convenience store as it did to make a trip lasting several hours. Now that I think about it, the long trip was actually much easier. Anyway…

They got everyone settled—a statement that begs the question of whether “settled” is something parents of young children ever get to experience. To be accurate, I should say that everyone was settled except for the little girl, she of the oh-so-cute pigtails and impossibly large brown eyes which, oddly enough, happened to be locked onto me at that moment.

The father took his wife’s order for a skinny mocha, the little girl’s order for milk and headed for the counter. At least I think the little girl ordered milk. Actually I couldn’t be certain, for what I had interpreted as “Milk,” could just as easily have been interpreted as, “Moke; Meek; Mao; Muck” or one of several other vocabulary annihilations.

The other child, a baby of no more than five or six months, began to squall prompting the mother to reach for a bottle from the most high-tech diaper bag I’d ever seen.

By then the father had returned and the four sat in familial bliss sipping their beverages of choice, simply comfortable being together.

It was then that I found my imagination captured by something.

I began to look at those children wondering how I would describe them to my wife, other than the fact that they bore a striking resemblance to my own grandchildren.

I mean they weren’t Caucasian.But they weren’t African-American either.

How does one ascribe a color to offspring such as these?

And then I knew. It had been right in front of me all the time.

Those two adorable little children were the color of love—love between a man and a woman manifested in their progeny.

The little girl turned part-way around in her seat, pointed at me and said in her tiny little girl voice, “Poppa.”I heard her mother say, “You think that man looks like your grandpa?”As if in answer, she turned around again as if to make sure, pointed my way and repeated, “Poppa.”

She then climbed down from her seat and ran over to where I sat, looked up at me in infinite cuteness and proceeded to start talking up a storm.Not that I understood a single word, but to be polite I lobbed a few well-placed, “Really?” “Is that right?” “You don’t say?” replies which kept her going for a good ten minutes.

Finally, the father walked over, scooped up his treasure and said with wink and a smile, “We’re, uh, working on her shyness.”

“Right,” I said knowingly as the two rejoined the mother and little brother.

Over the course of the next thirty minutes, I was so captivated by that beautiful little family that I didn’t get a scrap of work done.

“The color of love.”“Excuse me?” said an industrious Barista who happened to be wiping the table next to mine.

I didn’t realize I had spoken the phrase out loud.

“Oh, nothing,” said I dismissively hoping I wouldn’t have to explain myself.

Thankfully, she moved off to another table leaving me to my musings.

While we were sleeping a whole, new race has been born here in the midst of our years. They are children who are neither black nor white, yellow nor brown but children of a different color.

The color of love. And to quote the late Charlie Chaplin, “What a wonderful world.”

The wind whipped at her hair as she stood gazing out to sea, far past the blue horizon.

Not a violent wind.

Not like some that had visited her island paradise lately. 

This wind was more playful than anything, tossing her hair to and fro much in the same way her little sister had done when they were children and used to sit for hours “doing” each other’s hair. 

The wind may have been playful, but she wasn’t feeling it; not today nor any day in recent memory.

Squatting so that her weight balanced on the backs of her heels, she picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle through her fingers, fascinated by the way it sparkled in the sun.

A sudden gust blew her long, sun-streaked auburn hair across her face momentarily obscuring her vision.

Swiping at it with her free hand, and spitting a few stray hairs from her mouth, she stood and looked once more toward the ocean.

That’s when she saw the stranger, he of the long and lithe, impossibly well-tanned physique standing not more than twenty feet away.

A golden thatch of longish hair crowned his head and even from this distance, she caught the piercing blue of his eyes.

Giving her a little, almost shy, half wave he sauntered in her direction, his feet digging deep holes into the freshly wet sand.

“Hi,” he said simply, his voice reaching her ears only to be quickly snatched away by that playful breeze.

She liked his looks right away.

Liked them quite a lot.

She said, “Hi, yourself.”

As he got closer, she realized that he was taller than average, but not so much so that it made her uncomfortable in the way that large men often did.

Smiling broadly he said, “This day is almost too perfect to believe.”

She found herself immediately taken in by that smile and the rows of perfectly white teeth it revealed. 

“Yes, yes it is. And not having anywhere else to be makes it even better.”

“Oh,” he said slowly, “I’ve got somewhere to be, but not right now.”

For no other reason than being unable to summon anything else to mind that was even remotely and conversationally clever she said, “Do you come here often?”

He nodded.

“Yeah, I do,” he said somewhat nervously. “Almost every day if I can possibly swing it. You?”

Smiling as if at some secret joke she said, “Actually I do, but don’t think it’s because I put out any special effort. You see, I live just over that little rise there.”

His eyes followed her gesture.

Laughing he said, “Want to hear something funny?”

“Sure.”

“I used to try and figure out who lived there.”

She laughed in return and said, “Oh, and what did you come up with?”

“Well, my latest guess was that the house was owned and inhabited by an eccentric writer from the mainland who lived there part time and the rest of the time he lived in someplace like, oh, Portland or Seattle…somewhere not as nice as here.”

Batting her eyes she said, “And are you disappointed? You know…now that you know the truth?”

His gaze seemed to pierce right to the center of her soul.

“Oh, no. Not at all. In fact, you were who I wanted to live there, but I just couldn’t bring myself to believe that it could be true.”

“What do you mean?” she said, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

He hung his head as if too embarrassed to meet her eyes. 

“I have a confession to make,” he said softly. “I, well, I’ve seen you down here quite a few times and, to be honest, I’ve watched you.”

She said hesitantly, “Watched me? Maybe you’d better explain what that means.”

“I’m not talking like peeping tom stuff. What I mean is I’ve seen you here on the beach and, well, to me at least you seem to have such a connection to this place that it’s hard to even think of one without the other. And I’ve wanted to talk to you for the longest time, but never got up the nerve to do so until today.”

Nodding slowly she said, “I do have a connection. My husband and I bought this house—he was a writer, by the way. It was with the money he earned from his first big advance. He’d always wanted to live by the ocean and we found this house completely by accident.” She paused, suddenly awash in memory, and when she continued her voice was almost too soft for the man to hear. “He loved to swim. And one afternoon, right about this time, he said he was going for a swim. He kissed me good-bye, and I watched him jog down the beach, jump in the water and start swimming out to sea.” She stopped speaking and cleared her throat lightly. “They searched for three days, but his body was never found.”

The man said, “Oh, man, that’s…I’m so sorry.”

With a sad and world-weary smile she said, “So I come out here every day and watch the ocean thinking that maybe, just maybe someday I’ll see him come swimming back in like he used to do—run up the beach and shake the water from his hair getting me all wet.”

At a complete loss for words the man said, “Listen, I’m…that is, I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” she said. “Don’t be sorry. The truth is it’s been two years and I…well, I guess I kind of need to get on with things.”

They both stood in silence, staring out past the breakers for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, he said, “Well, I guess I should be—”

“Listen,” she said, cutting him off.  “I realize this is probably completely inappropriate, but would you like some ice tea? I just finished making some right before I came down here.”

Blinking his eyes rapidly he said, “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to intrude or…”

She turned quickly as her steps fell onto a well-worn path and called back over her shoulder, “Sweetened or unsweetened?”

He hesitated for a moment and then the strangest thing happened: a larger than normal wave crashed into him propelling him forward. Turning to look behind him, an even larger one followed nudging him a good six feet up the beach.

With a smile and a silent, “Thank-you,” toward the ocean he shouted up the beach through cupped hands, “Unsweetened.”

RG…out!

For some reason a hay ride sounded like a great idea, especially so since Abigail Weaver was going to be there—she of the golden, curly tresses, the flashing blue eyes and the I-know-something-you-don’t-know smile. We were both 14; both freshmen in high school at Valley High School in Spokane, Washington; both members of a local church youth group the leader of which was the one responsible for the hay, the wagon, the two amazingly smelly horses and the hay riding/Christmas caroling idea. I didn’t find out about that last part until I had been dropped off at the church parking lot by my parents. Had I known in advance, it would’ve been a deal breaker because I didn’t like singing. If you want to know the truth, I basically despised the practice and avoided it whenever possible.

But Abigail? Now that was another matter entirely. I loved the girl. That she barely knew I existed mattered not in the slightest. Her presence on the hay ride—did I mention that there was only one other boy besides me and he a mere lad of 12—had the potential to provide me with the proverbial golden opportunity, as they say.

Well, would have provided a golden opportunity had it not been for the presence of Mildred Barnett.

The girl next door.

The evil-eyed, sharp-tongued harpy next door would be a more apt description.

It wasn’t my fault that she thought she was in love with me. I mean how could anyone expect a guy to be interested in a stinky-breathed girl like Mildred when a goddess like Abigail was around?

We were a few days into Christmas break when the hay ride in question took place.  Two days earlier stupid old Mildred said—after I had told her for the ten millionth time that I didn’t love her back—that she was going to make sure I never had a chance with any other girl besides her.I was pretty sure she meant it, because when Mildred made a statement like that, especially when it was punctuated by, “I swear by God and everything that’s holy,” it was beyond a promise. More like a solemn vow. And that’s exactly what she had said.

So there we were. Me, Abigail, Mildred, that twelve year-old kid and three other girls along with Sammy, the youth leader, his wife Kathy and an old guy who steered the wagon.

It was cold, even for Spokane and by the time we had gone about a mile we were all snuggled together under a couple of blankets. By some strange stroke of luck, Abigail was right next to me.

Life was good.

Then we got to our first stop, which was the house of one of the church deacons, a sour-faced man named Johnson. I’ll be honest with you, on our best day seven adolescents wouldn’t have done “Hark The Herald Angels Sing” justice. Throw in hypothermia, trying to look cool in front of the girl of your dreams and not being real sure of the words and, well, let’s just say even Mr. Johnson deserved better than what he got.

To this day I’m not sure how it happened, but good old Mildred somehow convinced Sammy that I was a great singer and was just too bashful to let anyone know. In point of fact, even before my voice had changed I couldn’t sing to save my soul and it had only gotten worse from there. But Mildred, being the persuasive girl that she was, kept egging Sammy on and because I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of Abigail—who, by that point, was actually speaking words to me other than, “Get away from me, creepo!”—I crawled out from under the warm blanket, thinking, “How bad could this be?”

I found out.

Sammy suggested I sing the last verse as a solo, handed me a sheet with the words printed out all nice and neat, and Kathy, his wife, the one accompanying us on an accordion, started to play. She played half-way through the verse and I just stood there. I stood there because, to be perfectly honest with you, if I had moved or uttered any sound at all I would have experienced, well, bladder malfunction.

Apparently drinking close to a quart of hot apple cider before going on a bumpy hay ride wasn’t such a great idea. Of course accepting glass after glass of the hot and spicy liquid from Mildred back at the church hadn’t been such a great idea either.

I looked at Sammy, he looked at me; I looked at Abigail, who actually smiled; I looked at Mildred who poured a glass of cider and handed it to me at which point I turned, jumped from the wagon and ran. I don’t know how far I ran but when I got to where I was going I no longer had bladder issues.

Of course I no longer had Abigail Weaver sitting beside me either.

I can’t remember the last time a Christmas rolled around and my wife didn’t remind me of that story.

That would be my wife Abigail, by the way.

He was just a little guy.
Standing there in line between two extremely tall men, he looked terribly tiny and lost.
He wore jeans, bright red athletic shoes, a Los Angeles Lakers sweatshirt and baseball hat turned around backwards.
He kept leaning around the tall, tall man in front of him as if checking on how much longer he would have to wait.
I sat but a few feet away observing the scene, and at one point, his bright, inquisitive eyes found mine.
Raising his eyebrows as if in amazement, he smiled and held up a twenty-dollar bill for me to see.
I whistled and returned the smile giving him a thumbs-up in the process.
When he finally reached the front of the line, his eyes barely cleared the counter.
In fact, the two Baristas working the registers didn’t see him for the longest time and kept calling other customers ahead of him.
He turned a hurt and fearful gaze toward his father who sat a short distance away at a table along the window.
The dad nodded his encouragement and the little guy turned as if to make one more attempt at ordering.
It was a big day.
It was the day he’d been waiting for a long time.
The day when he would get to order the very manly drinks by himself.
With twenty dollars.
His twenty dollars.
Earned by himself through the labor of his hands.
And here he was in position to do just that, but the two cute young ladies towering above his head didn’t even notice him.
His lip began to tremble ever so slightly and he looked once more toward his father for assistance.
As before, the dad merely smiled and nodded his encouragement.
The boy stretched his arms straight out from his side and let them fall, slapping against his thighs as if to say, “I’m not having any luck here, dad. What should I do now?”
A kindly soul who was next in line noticed the young lad’s plight and said, “Ladies, I think you’ve got a paying customer down here,” as he pointed to the boy.
One of the Baristas leaned way over the counter and said, “Well, hello there, I didn’t see you. Would you like something to drink?”
With a grin that threatened to split his face open, he said in a very clear, grown-up voice, “One tall coffee and one tall decraff…decanated…” his brow screwed up in puzzlement and he turned to his father one last time for support.
“Decaffeinated,” his father provided.
“Yeah…what my dad said.”
“All right,” said the Barista. “And what is your name?”
“Andy,” said he.
“All right, Andy I’ll get that right up for you.”
I’ve never seen someone more eager to part with money except perhaps in the instance of going shopping with my daughter when she was still in high school.
She brought the coffees back and sat them on the counter, being careful to warn the youngster that the cups were extremely hot.
“In fact,” she said, “I’m going to double-cup those coffees and put sleeves on them.”
I’m not sure if he had the slightest idea of what she was talking about, but after paying for the drinks and returning his change very carefully to his front pocket, he accepted the drinks into his hands as if they were a treasure of great price.
“Come again, sweetie,” said the smiling Barista as he walked cautiously toward his dad.
And for the next half hour he sat there with his dad drinking a manly brew and talking about manly things, his grin set aside only for the sake of making faces when taking in a mouthful of the strange tasting liquid.
It made me recall younger days when, under my uncle’s tutelage I learned how to properly prepare and consume a cup of coffee.
Of course, no lesson in coffee consumption would have been complete without my uncle repeating one of his favorite coffee-time jokes which said, “Did you hear about the guy who went blind drinking coffee with sugar and cream?”
To which the other men would reply somewhat seriously, “No. How did that happen?”
And with scarcely concealed relish, my uncle would deliver the punch line.
“He forgot to take the spoon out.”
I didn’t get that joke until I was well into my high school years.
Of course, I always dutifully laughed right on cue because I was a boy among men and the men were laughing as if it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.
Gazing fondly at the big spender and his dad, I had such a melancholy ache in my soul and at first, I couldn’t figure out why.
Then I put it together.
My uncle was the most important man in my life.
Someone I loved.
Someone who was more of a dad to me than many biological fathers are to their sons.
I saw myself in that little boy as I saw my uncle in that loving father.
On my way out, I stopped and said to that young father, “You’re doing a good thing here, sir.”
He grinned and said sincerely, “Why, thank-you. I learned it from my dad.”
I bid them both a farewell and continued on my way.
As I climbed into my car, I recalled hearing someone say recently, “When someone is facing their last hours on earth, you never hear them complain about wishing they’d spent more time at the office.”
Nor will you ever hear them say, “When my son was little I spent way too much time with him.”
Driving out of the parking lot, I held my cell phone to my ear just in time to hear my uncle’s raspy voice saying hello in his easy-going way.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m doing pretty good,” came his typically buoyant reply.
Me too, uncle.

I have to do this.

I just can’t keep it quiet any more.

Hopefully after reading this post you’ll still like me as a human being and want to keep reading in spite of what I’m about to share.

Last night I got busted.

I mean good and busted.

My wife was downstairs doing something wifely and I took the opportunity to go into our master bedroom where I turned on the TV with the volume set quite low.

I knew I shouldn’t have turned to THAT channel…but I couldn’t resist.

I don’t know what to say except that it’s just something I enjoy.

Twisted?

Perhaps…but it’s a part of who I am.

I was just getting into the program when the bedroom door flew open, and there stood my wife, her mouth agape at the images cavorting across the screen.

SHE: (Horrified) What are you doing???

ME: (Fumbling with remote) Nothing. Ummmm…nothing.

SHE: Turn it back on.

ME: Turn what on?

SHE: You know what.

We stared at each other in frozen silence for what seemed like an eternity. Finally I did what she asked merely because there was no way I was going to talk my way out of this one.

I turned the TV on…and as big as life, there he was…Curtis Stone, the Take Home Chef.

I looked at her with a sheepish grin.

ME: Sorry, babe. I, uh, I don’t know what to say. I can’t help myself…I like watching this show.

SHE: (Hurt expression) You could’ve at least told me so I didn’t have to find out like this.

ME: I know, I know. And I wanted to…so many times, I wanted to sit you down and tell you. But I just couldn’t. Can you ever forgive me?

I knew this could go either way here, so I steeled myself in preparation for a negative outcome.

She crossed her arms, tapped one foot and stared up at the ceiling for the longest time.

SHE: Did you at least TiVo it?

ME: Of course!

SHE: All right then…you are forgiven. Now do you think you could tear yourself away from Curtis long enough for you to help me with dinner?

ME: No problem, we’ll just watch it downstairs.

SHE: No way, Mister. American Chopper is on in five minutes and I’m not giving that up for some cutesy Aussie!

Women! They’re so difficult sometimes.

I grew up on the Monterey Bay, which is about 75 miles south of San Francisco, in a small central California beach community where the mountains kissed the sea…and we were right in the middle of the smack!

Hey, I know it’s corny, but I couldn’t help myself.

It was a place where each morning was gently caressed by wispy tendrils of fog that wound their way over and through the redwood-forested foothills. A place where the afternoon sun rarely made its appearance before two and then, peeking through the fog, kissed the earth only briefly before retreating behind the verdant hills. 

A place where the beckoning of sand and surf was only minutes away…that is if one possessed a bicycle as formidable as “The Green Hornet,” my slim-tired, racing-handle-barred, hand-braked, ten-speeded wonder. 

Most often leisure time would find me at the helm of my faithful green beast of burden. Together we flew over the emerald slopes on meandering two-lane roadways, carefree and energetic in the perpetual pursuit of boyish fantasy. 

It was a good life.

I’ve never gotten over smelling the salt air every morning nor have I lost the wonder of staring far past the blue horizon for hours at a time, crafting boyish fantasies, weaving magical scenarios.

I lived in a single-parent home and we were quite poor, my mom and I, so pleasures had to be cheap or you had none at all. And the beach was an endless source of pleasure.

As a teenager I was all about the beach. “Surf City” was what they called my town.

I was also all about surfing.

Oh, I was never any good. But, dang, I looked the part—hair, longish and bleached blonde by the sun; skin bronzed and salt-flecked; Huarache sandals and a Volkswagen Bug with a long board jutting comically from the tiny window.

Each and every sentence was prefaced by, “Dude…” (Spoken, of course, with a slight vocal quiver).

And I said, “Stoked” a lot.

I don’t know why.

My undergraduate studies were done at a small parochial university about a thirty minute drive up into the mountains. It was as if the founders had picked out a spot, cleared away some space in a thick redwood forest and said, “Okay, let’s build it here.” Today the property is worth a phenominal amount of money.

I was a horrible student, mainly because I was too busy working on my career. I was in about four bands, which was distraction enough, but I also spent a lot of time recording up in San Francisco.

But it was there at that little university that I met my wife.

I will never forget the first time I saw her walking across the Quad. The earth paused in its orbit; everything within my field of vision blurred except for her image; and when she turned toward me and smiled…angelic hosts spilled over heaven’s edge and filled the atmosphere with joyous song.

Well, not really, but you get the idea. I mean, I am a writer after all.

If you want to know the truth, she still has that same effect on me today.

We got married in the midst of our senior year—something I wouldn’t recommend to anyone, by the way—and began our great adventure. And what an adventure it’s been.

Of late my mind has been traversing those crooked canyons of memory, pulling up things long since set aside—not on the basis of a particular need, but simply because there are things I never want to forget.

Like that day on the Quad.