Retool

Apr 042024
 

Well. March went out like a lion and so far, April hasn’t changed her stripes. Rain and wind have kept me mostly inside with my bored dog. Low evening temperatures have stopped buds in their tracks like deer caught in the headlights.

The weather hasn’t helped my mood. Neither has the long (by my standards) recovery period following my ankle replacement at the beginning of December. The process has been physically and emotionally draining. My entire body was affected. Being off my feet for six weeks was isolating. I couldn’t even play with my puppy. Pepper seemed happy with her assortment of caregivers. Still, I’ve wondered about all the chewed shoes, socks, towels, pants pockets, blankets, pillows, furniture…the list goes on.

Four months out, I’m up on my feet and walking, albeit with a lot less energy than I’d like. I do see green growth here and there, along with plenty of daffodils and forsythia. Despite grey skies, blustery winds, and flooded streets, April will eventually deliver the goods, along with my birthday. I’m now old enough to be firmly planted into the demographic journalists, script writers, and healthcare marketers describe as elderly. No way around it. To most people, age is not just a number.

By the way, it almost always rains on my birthday.

One early March morning that falsely promised an early spring, I decided I had to yank myself out of my post-surgery, pre-birthday slump. I started small, making the bed, doing the laundry, putting out the garbage, and walking the dog. A quick ride on the bike ended in ten minutes (it takes a fair amount of foot strength to pedal). One day I brought the back porch furniture up from the basement. My spine paid for that. I stained two wooden planters and earned several cramped fingers. Even a simple repair to my floor moldings (did I mention my dog chewed the moldings?) did me in.

At some point, I sat in my recliner with the heating pad at my back and an ice pack on my shoulder and decided I needed to retool. In a literal sense, that meant throwing out anything that was too heavy, too cumbersome or too challenging for me to use. Who uses a screwdriver anymore when there are lightweight power drills, not to mention fairly efficient electric can openers? Time for a quick trip to the hardware store.

It’s also meant retooling my attitude. I don’t need to become a fixer-upper at my age (there, I said it). I do, however, need to get back to the writing I’ve let slide. Future staining, painting, drilling, hammering, or lifting projects will have to be grouped together and offered to a handy person whose hands work better than mine.

Nor do I need to become the elite athlete I never was. I want to continue to walk my dog, throw her a ball, wrestle with her, ride my bike however far I can, take trips on occasion, and get back to Pilates. I want to eat, drink, and socialize in moderation and savor my alone time. I want to get better at meditating and better at both resisting and forgiving my nutritional transgressions. I’d like to wrestle my rage to the ground or at least push it into a sturdier container.

I’d also like to sharpen my skill set and add to it. Get back to writing, of course, maybe switch up the genres. Improve my French and my rudimentary Spanish. Start a couple of projects and see them through without worrying about their cost or chance of success in the wide world. Be more helpful to people who need help.

While I’m at it, I’m going to learn the Texas two-step. Beyoncé has a new song that’s got everyone kicking up their heels. All I need is some patience, some focus, and a hat.

Long Away and Far Ago

Nov 232020
 

Long away and far ago,in a time that the land forgot, a princess picked a pea from her mattress. Rolling it idly between her finger and thumb, she sighed and said aloud, “I wish I weren’t so bored.”

To her great surprise, the pea spoke. “Ouch!” was the first thing it said. “Keep rolling me around, and I’ll make sure you never get a good night’s sleep.” Then in a more soothing tone, “Here now, I can grant you three wishes except, well, I’ve already granted one by making your night less boring.”

“True,” said the princess gaily, “but I can make the best of the rest of it.”

She rose from her lumpy bed, went to the window, and gazed out upon the second star from the right.

“I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”

“Silly girl, now you’ve gone and used up another one,” grumbled the pea, whereupon the princess leaned over and kissed it, turning it instantly into a frog.

“There now, let me concentrate on my wish,” she chided gently.

“Ribbit,” responded the frog.

The princess began to imagine her fondest desire but was distracted by her image in the mirror next to the window. “Why, I really am the fairest in all the land,” she mused, admiring her reflection and fluffing her hair.

“Well, no, actually you aren’t,” replied a disembodied floating face in the mirror. “But one of these might help.”

The disembodied face, which was actually connected to a single arm in a loose-fitting gossamer sleeve, gestured behind it to a table on which appeared an apple, a lamp, and a spindle. “Take your pick,” the face offered with a sly smile.

“No!” cried the frog who had been a pea (and was doubtless something enchanted before that), but it came out “Ribbit!”

“Oh gifts, I love gifts!” cried the princess. “Let’s see, I don’t need a lamp and, even if it were enchanted, I’m not sure whether I’d get three entirely new wishes or whether the two wishes from the pea (which is now a frog) might count against my total. As for apples, I know they’re good for me, or at least that’s what my stepmother, the evil queen, keeps telling me. Honestly, though, I don’t really like them.”

“Would you make up your mind?” the disembodied face suggested, a tad querulously.

“I do love to spin,” the princess continued. “That’s a beautiful spindle, and it goes nicely with my hair.” She shook out her extra-long blond locks, pushed up a sleeve, and reached into the mirror.

“No!” cried the frog again (and again, it came out “Ribbit!”). This time, though, it leapt in front of the princess’s outstretched hand and was impaled upon the spindle.

The frog did not die, as the spindle passed through a superfluous membrane, causing nothing more than a flesh wound. It did, however, promptly fall into a deep sleep.

The princess lifted up the amphibian and gently placed it on her lumpy mattress as the disembodied face, muttering various indecipherable curses, disappeared in a puff of smoke. She picked up the spindle and was about to test it on her spinning wheel (she had been experimenting with turning hay into gold, to no avail) when she heard a cry from below.

Thinking it was the prince from next door, she began letting down her hair so he might climb up to the balcony. To her surprise, she saw a white rabbit gesturing at her to come down. In one furry arm, he held a basket, over the other was draped a hooded red cape.

“It’s your grandmother. She’s quite ill. You must go to see her. Hurry, there’s no time to waste. You’re already very, very late.”

The princess thought this quite odd, especially as her grandmother was asleep in the adjacent room. Then she recalled stories of a child being found in a pumpkin left on the steps of the castle at midnight sixteen years earlier. Was she that poor foundling after all?

Perhaps my grandmother really is ill, and I must go, she thought. She looked down into to courtyard and saw all manner of creatures crowded together besides the rabbit: knaves and ogres, a giant, a white unicorn, a black stallion, a werewolf, seven dwarves, three dragons, a dog, and two quite unattractive sisters.

Suddenly the castle walls shook, and white lightening tore through the night sky, obliterating the stars. A fierce wind blew out of the north, and an enormous funnel cloud appeared overhead. The crowd disappeared, leaving the princess alone on her balcony, save for the little black dog, who had leapt into her arms, barking furiously.

A voice boomed from within the cloud as a giant face appeared.

“I am the great and powerful . . .”

“Oh, stop it. Just stop!” The princess shouted over the screaming winds, cutting off the booming voice. “I’ve had quite enough of talking faces and deceitful rabbits and changeable skies and broken promises. I just wish I knew what was real.”

All at once, there was a clap of thunder—or perhaps it was a clapping of hands—and the princess was back in her room, which really wasn’t a long distance to go, sitting on her lumpy mattress.

“Was it all a dream then?” she wondered aloud.

“No, you stupid girl,” snapped the pea from within the folds of one of the blankets. “You used up your third wish. Now you are left with the reality of a lumpy mattress and a life of boredom.”

“But you are left without any life at all,” replied the princess, somewhat cruelly. Then she crushed the pea between her fingers, popped it in her mouth and exited her chambers in search of something to do.

A small frog jumped off the balcony, landed into the courtyard, and changed into an impossibly handsome prince. He cast a sad and longing gaze back up to the balcony, then jumped astride his white stallion and made his way home to the neighboring kingdom.

Seeing how despondent he was, his mother, the queen, asked gently, “Did you not find a suitable bride, my son?”

“I did find a princess, but as it turned out, she wasn’t sensitive to the pea, not in the least.”

His mother patted his arm. “Don’t fret, Charming. Somewhere there’s a girl for you, perhaps under the sea. Or she might be over the river or through the woods.”

“The woods!” cried the prince. “I must go to the woods in order to help the poor by robbing from the rich.”

“But darling,” exclaimed the queen. “We’re rich!”

“Don’t worry, Mother. I’ve arranged to have your assets distributed among several investment vehicles, which will maximize your profits, minimize your tax burden, and protect you from unwanted lawsuits. A designated amount, more than adequate to your current and future needs, will be deposited in a variable annuity, further shielding you from greedy sovereigns, unscrupulous sheriffs, and the predictable cycle of unpredictable market pricing. I’ve also got a little natural gas company I’d like to talk about with you.”

“Oh, son. With that kind of forward-thinking approach, you’ll find the woman of your dreams in no time.”

“Or man, Mother. I’m committed to keeping an open mind.”

The prince kissed his mother and galloped off to the forest where he won renown for his many brave and noble deeds. Eventually he did meet his life partner, for who wouldn’t be attracted to a man who is good to his mother, kind to those less fortunate, and looks fabulous astride a white horse?

Only a pea brain.

Bigger Than A Breadbox

Aug 282019
 

Part 1: THE VISITOR

“Where can I find the Italian?”

The old man might have been asleep. His beat-up and mud-stained cowboy hat was pulled so low his face sat mostly in shadow. Maybe he’d been watching my approach. I didn’t know, didn’t care. I’d been driving for hours. I was hot, tired, and irritated. And maybe a little nervous.

He lifted his legs off the blistered railing to bring his chair down with a thwack that sent tumbleweeds scattering. The wind whistled through the cracked pane in the old building behind him. Despite the suffocating heat, I shivered. I wanted to hightail it out of there. I stood firm, though.

Clearing my throat, I spoke again, steel reinforcing my every word. “I asked you if you’d seen the Italian. He’s got a package for me.”

The old man leaned forward a couple of inches. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could tell he was sizing me up.

“I’m here for my wife,” I continued, my voice like steel. “She met the Italian last year. They made a deal.”

He tilted his head back. Now I could see his eyes: slits the hard gray of granite set into a lean, weathered face above a hawk-like nose and grizzled chin. They took my measure. In a voice like dry dust, he spoke. “I remember your wife.”

Those four words froze my blood. He’d met her, obviously, and she’d made an impression. How did he remember her? As a formidable opponent? A no-nonsense negotiator? Her beauty would have been obvious, along with her keen intelligence. I knew her mettle, adored her resolve, counted myself lucky every day of my life that she’d come into mine. She’d gotten past the old man; that much I knew. She’d actually reached the Italian. No small achievement. That must have rankled the cowboy/sentry in front of me.

Too sick to travel this time, she’d tasked me with locating the Italian and bringing back what was hers, no, what was ours. We were in this together. The taciturn old man with the hooded gaze wouldn’t know the specifics of their arrangement, would he? No matter. His goal was to thwart me. Mine was to retrieve the package and return home to my beloved. I had to do this, no matter the danger or the discomfort.

Fear tightened my parched throat. I took a breath, blew it out with as much force as I could muster. “The Italian,” I growled. “He was supposed to leave us a package. He got his money. I’m not leaving until I get it.” I spread my legs apart and folded my arms to show I meant business.

The old man’s lips parted, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. He hauled himself out of the chair and drew himself up to his full height, well past six feet. Standing above me on the porch, he reminded me of a tree, unyielding and unbending.

“How ‘bout you describe this package?” The old man spoke quietly, weight in every word.

I held out my hands to indicate an oblong shape maybe twelve inches long, curling them slightly to represent a cylinder.

He chuckled, a harsh unforgiving sound. “Big as a breadbox, eh? You must want it bad to come here on your own.”

I ignored his veiled threat, kept my voice steady. “I’m more than capable of handling this on my own.” I gave him my best snake eye. “Deal’s a deal. I paid for it and I want it now.”

We faced each other for what might have been a minute, neither of us giving ground until he finally looked away. He offered a grimace, walked down the stairs, and clamped a hand on my shoulder. He indicated the house and I followed, determined to finish the job.

In the end, I walked out of there with my head held high and the package tucked under my arm. That’s what counts.

 

PART TWO: The Old Man

“Where can I find the Italian?”

(courtesy, the Everett Collection)

The man didn’t startle me, mainly because he’d announced his arrival long before he posed his

question. He’d shown up in a white Ford Fusion with a bad muffler and a couple of sad little dings—a rental, judging by the plates. He’d heaved himself out of that sorry vehicle with a grunt, as if the effort of standing were too much for him. Now he stood below me, peering from under the brim of his ridiculous white cowboy hat. I lifted my legs off the railing, setting down the chair with a thwack that sent tumbleweeds scattering.

“I asked you if you’d seen the Italian,” he repeated, his voice breaking.

I leaned forward, taking in his starched chambray shirt, pressed new jeans, pointy new boots, and oversized belt buckle. He looked worse than a caricature of a cowboy; he looked like a fool. Clearly not from around these parts.

“I asked you if you’d seen the Italian,” he said in a voice so choked I could scarcely hear him. “He’s got a package for me.” He sounded like a little kid asking for candy at the five and dime, poor fella.

“I remember your wife,” I told him. Indeed I did. Mouthy woman, real pushy. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Couldn’t scarcely call her pretty, she was so pulled and pinched. All bleached out, too. She reminded me of a lemon. She actually tried to flirt with me in that scratchy purring voice of hers, posing her skinny body like I’d be interested. When that didn’t work, she got kinda prickly, like the world owed her a favor. No more kitty-cat; she was all shrill business. Pushed right past me. I wasn’t about to hit a woman, though I was sorely tempted, let me tell you.

The city slicker kept yammering in his tight little voice.  Something about the package he’d paid for and how he wouldn’t leave until he got it. He stood there, legs spread and arms wrapped around like his torso like he had some kind of intestinal disorder. I had to work some to keep myself from laughing.

I stood up, mostly to stretch my legs but also to get a better look. I swear he cringed. “How ‘bout you describe this package?” I suggested.

Darn if he didn’t hold out his little hands like a schoolboy describing the lunch he lost. I guess I must have chuckled at that. “Big as a breadbox, eh?” I recall saying. “You must want it bad to come here on your own.” Without your pushy wife, I could have added.

““I’m more than capable of handling this on my own,” he replied with a quaver that gave lie to his words. “Deal’s a deal. I want what I paid for.”

He was trying to sound tough. Honestly, it wasn’t working. For one thing, he was practically shaking in his fancy boots. He tried to stare me down but he kept looking away.

Time to end this show, I thought. The Missus swears I’m trying to scare the tourists. Hell, I’m just having a little fun. Anyway, I flashed him my kindliest grin, walked down the steps and clamped a hand on his shoulder. He flinched.

“I reckon if it means bread enough to bring you out on a scorcher like today, you damn well deserve it. Pasquale doesn’t like visitors, as I told your wife last time she was here. Interrupts his creative process, or so he tells me. We can make an exception though, just like we did for your spouse.” Who almost didn’t get through the door, thanks to the Missus. I suppressed another grin. My wife is protective of her employees.

“Let’s get you something to drink. I’ll even give you a quick tour of the bakery. Then you can be on your way with the best prosciutto bread around these parts.”

 

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