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Sleeping Corgi

16-Jan-08

There is something about observing one’s dog while it sleeps that brings a calming effect — at least for me.

When I watch Rosie sleep, innocence comes to mind.
I think back to when she was just a pup.
My mind conjures up images of her that are imprinted in the neural paths of my brain.
Images I had long forgotten.

She dreams apparently. At times she has begun barking in her sleep as I watched. Paws mimicking a run toward whatever she’s barking at, they move only from her knee. The rest of her body lies still.
If it were me doing the dreaming, and I was running, only my big toe would wiggle.
That’s assuming I was doing the chasing.

If I were being chased in my dream, my legs would be flailing. Ask my wife.

In her dreams, I think Rosie always does the chasing because her countenance feigns a hint of aggression as she barks and moves her paws.

It must be nice to be the character who is in control when one dreams. To be any other character would qualify a dream as a nightmare I suppose.

Also filed in Animals, Pets, The Book of Rosie | | Comments (0) »

Innocent Until Proven Guilty

11-Jan-08

“I do not steal shiny objects!”

I’m still conjuring up crow images.

In the process of researching crows I remembered something I had long forgotten. They are pretty smart and they like shiny objects. In fact they find ways to steal them so they can hoard them away.

Reminds me of Emelda Marcos and her shoe compulsion — I’m sure they were shiny.

Anyway, I got to thinkin’ about how a crow might react to the media circus that would result if he were indicted on felony burglary charges. I mean indicting a crow would certainly be a first and the media jumps all over first time court cases.

What Would The Usual Suspects Do?

Nancy Grace would have an Ivy League legal expert on her show offering up his opinions on whether the case was even constitutional. Then she’d have an experienced female behavioral expert chime in on whether this was an in-born behavior or a choice the crow made. And of course the male legal expert and the female behavioral expert would get into a heated debate on the moral aspects of incarcerating a crow for in-born behavior — something he couldn’t help.

Now, since the crow is black, the NAACP would demand equal time on the airwaves and stage a peaceful protest outside Nancy’s studio.

If the case were in fact prosecuted and won by the feds, a precedent would be set and in short order every crow would be caught stealing, filling up our prisons with yet another apparently singled out group — ripe pickings for the American Civil Liberties Union and The Sierra Club — a Save The Crows coalition would be initiated by them.

People in large SUV’s would be driving around with little magnetic black ribbons on the back with “support our crows” written across them.

Then you’ve got your big money crows. The white collar burglars. They would assemble a team of flashy, high profile attorneys, most likely Parrots and Cockatoos. Each case would be a security nightmare because of all the socially deprived stray cats trying to get in and execute their own form of vigil ante justice on the rich bastards.

And The Big Question…What Would Oprah Do?

I can envision Oprah interviewing a defendant whose case was found to be a miscarriage of justice after spending ten years in prison. Eventually freed after the real perpetrator was uncovered, it turned out the poor crow was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oprah would naturally shed a few tears upon hearing his story told to America on her show — think tight close-up of Oprah here. Then, in an act of total generosity, in front of millions of American viewers, she would give the crow all her jewelry, free and clear, to hoard away any way he likes. The audience would rise and cheer and America would witness another first, a crow balling his eyes out in gratitude.

Bless her heart!
Bless his heart too!

Mmm, Mmm, Mmm…this is what I do in my idle minutes.

Also filed in Birds and Such, Nature, Stories, Whimsical Sketches | | Comments (0) »

Seen Any Worms?

06-Jan-08

Do you think there are “conversations” that go on in nature?

If there are, we certainly aren’t privy to them.

So that means there aren’t any right? I mean if there were, we’d surely know about them by now. I mean we WOULD know because we know everything…right?

Seems to me these questions fall into the category of:
Is there a Bigfoot?
Is there a Loch Ness Monster?

If one day we actually DO find a Bigfoot, Nessie…etc.
Then I would most likely be inclined to think these conversations, out in the woods, when nobody is around, between crows and toadstools, cows and ducks…heck pretty much everything…probably do go on.

And we will all simply be walking around saying “I’ll be dad burned!” when we find out about it.

Also filed in Birds and Such, Nature, Whimsical Sketches | | Comments (6) »

Crow Bar

04-Jan-08

A Play on words.

Ever wonder if other languages have the luxury of built-in humor in them?

I mean a crowbar is a tool. And a crow bar is a bar where crows get drunk.
At least the redneck crows get drunk.

I’m sure there are some cigar smoking, skirt chasing, “gentleman” crows that don’t exactly get drunk.
On second thought…they probably do get drunk but don’t let on.
They would be the lawyer crows naturally.

And then you would have the ravens that frequent Crow’s Place. They would be the politician, judge, doctor, professor, poet and artist crows of course. They aren’t going to be satisfied being called a crow. And they are going to drink expensive wine and talk about it a lot. Most likely they won’t get drunk though. Ravens are too sophisticated for that.

But I digress…

The language thing. I know zero about other languages so I do wonder if they have words that are the same but can be used in different contexts so as to make a pun or play on words…like crowbar and crow bar.

I’ve tried making plays on words with various foreigners whom I’ve met. That’s how I test their knowledge of the language. Most often they look at me oddly. Of course they smile politely, but that look is a dead give away that they didn’t get it.

I get the same result from them if I use colloquialisms in talking to them.

For Example:
I recently had a concrete block retaining wall built here at my house. Naturally, the four guys doing the work were Mexicans and the one supervisor (read translator) was an evil white Anglo Saxon male.

The wall was going along fine until I stood on the property in such a way that I could see it was leaning a teeny bit. Not good. Better to have them fix it early in the process.

So, I said to the four Mexicans working on the wall…”hey, that wall is leanin’ towards Miss Jones’es” as I swung my hand and arm in the appropriate direction.

They all looked at each other for support, then they all looked at me, and in unison said, “¿Que?”.

I went and got the translator. Obviously they didn’t know Southern.

See? Colloquialisms are a great test of whether a foreigner knows the language. Try it.

Now, if any one of you dear readers knows whether other languages are set up and ripe for puns, colloquialisms and plays on words, I’d like to know.

And if you don’t want to participate in educating the author, you might enjoy bidding on the illustration over at eBay if you think you’d like to have it as a souvenir.

Also filed in Birds and Such, Cartoons | | Comments (4) »

French Fry Watch

28-Dec-07

We have a bunch of crows in our neighborhood that wake me up every morning. I’m not appreciating that fact right now because they usually start cawing about an hour or two before I intend to get up.

This has set me to paying attention to crows a bit. I’ve never really watched them much.

Not far from me is a McDonalds…the one that can never get the tea order correct.
I was sitting in the parking lot enjoying my items from the dollar menu…and lo! I spotted a Crow waiting for a french fry.

How do I know he was waiting for a french fry? Because I tossed one out the window and he immediately swooped down and flew off with it.

It suited my mind at the time to believe I had communicated with the Crow in some sort of mental stream of silent man-to-bird consciousness, discerning that he wanted a french fry. And thus I gave to the Crow what he so longed after, fulfilling my repressed feelings of wanting to commune with nature on a level that our Native American brethren must have commanded when they lived here alone on this continent, in the wilderness, centuries ago.

That of course is B.S.
Truth be told, I could have thrown a five pound chuck roast out the window and he would have tried to fly off with it as well. Crows will eat anything.

But hey…it makes for a good story doesn’t it?

Also filed in Animals, Birds and Such, Landscapes, Nature, Restaurants and Such, Stories | | Comments (4) »

Happy Bike

27-Aug-07

I never had a basket on my bike when I was a kid.

I’m a guy.

I was a guy even when I was a boy. If I’d had a basket on my bike, you can safely assume there would never have been any hydrangea blooms in it.

I know what you’re thinking.
“Hmmmm…what has changed then Mr. Don? I mean you’re sketching a little purple bicycle with pretty little hydrangea blooms in the basket.”

Trust me. Nothing has changed. I’m still a guy. I sketched it to sell on eBay. People like little paintings of this sort of thing, flowers and stuff. Generally speaking, it sells well on eBay. I do like the picture, but that doesn’t make me “not a guy”. Understand?

Then a Story Came To Mind…

As I sketched the Happy Bike, a story from my past came to mind and I thought the sketch and the story would be ideal for Idle Minutes.

You see, from my early childhood I had a friend down the street who would’ve loved to go riding around the neighborhood on just such a bike…purple with hydrangea blooms and a little bell. The terminology back in the sixties was “sissy”. We had no clue as kids what “gay” was or what “queer” was. We were just a bunch of sixties suburban kids from Georgia; not very sophisticated and very naive.

I was pretty much the only kid in the neighborhood who would visit him. That was because he went to my church and none of the other kids did. So, aside from him living in my neighborhood, I also went to church with him and we became friends. We all went to the same schools but I was the only kid in my neighborhood who would consider him a friend. Everybody else just said “ahhh, he’s a sissy” whenever his name came up. I was convinced he just needed a friend to show him the ropes of how to be a kid.

I tried to get him to try out for little league. Nope.
“Come up the hill and play football with us.” Nope.
“Let’s go ride our bikes on the pipeline.” Nope.
And at recess…
“When you kick the kickball, put your whole leg into it and stretch out your stride when you run to first base. Run hard!” Nope.

As we grew up, at around age eleven or twelve, I thought it would be a fine idea if I invited him to go with us to Daytona Beach on vacation. Perhaps a lot of sunshine, a tan, and half naked women would snap him into shape. Besides, everybody else was headed off with their families and thus not available to tag along with me to Daytona. I was at that age where I wanted somebody to hang out with on vacation besides mom and dad. He was, I suppose, a last resort.

Mom said sure. He came along.

On the way to Daytona as we two kids sat in the back seat he warned me about something.

He said quietly, “I scream in my sleep.”
“Huh?”
“I scream in my sleep.”
“What kind a scream?”
“High, long and loud.”
“How come you scream in your sleep?”
“I don’t know I just do.”
“Well what are we supposed to do when you scream?”
“I’ll probably wake up but if I don’t just wake me up and I’ll stop.”
“OK.”

It never occurred to me that Mom or Dad might want to know this information. Hell, I still sucked my thumb. Screaming in your sleep didn’t seem too far out of line from my perspective.

Sure enough, on the first night, around three in the morning, in the Suez motel, in our ocean view room on the second floor, my family was awakened by something akin to what I imagine the screams would be like in Hell. It was a high, loud, primal, hurting, non-stop scream. A scare the hell out of you scream.

All three of us, Mom, Dad, and me, sat bolt upright in our beds and screamed too. We each screamed different things but all at the same precise moment.

Dad screamed: “Good god stop it! Hey! Stop that!”
Mom screamed: “What’s the matter! Whats the matter sweety?!”
I screamed: “He screams in his sleep! Wake up! Wake up!” And I shook him as hard as I could.

He snapped awake to all of us screaming, the neighboring guests thumping on the walls, and me shaking the hell out of him.
All in the dark.
From my parents viewpoint, we two kids in the next bed were but silhouettes sitting in the moonlight coming through the sliding balcony doors.

“I’m sorry!” he said. “I’m soooooo sorry!”
“Are you OK sweety?” my mom sighed.
“Yes ma’am. I scream in my sleep. I’m sorry.”
“Well you don’t need to scream sweety. You’re safe here with us.”
“You OK Don?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“OK, well then, let’s go back to sleep.”

He didn’t scream again the whole trip.

We hung around the pool and met a girl our age who had a little piglet sister. We walked the beach with them and lounged at the pool each day. I became smitten with the girl. Oddly (in my mind at the time), the girl liked him and snubbed me. They suggested I hang out with the piglet.

I was very miffed and confused by this. I wanted to say “Um, hello! He is a sissy. I am a Little League AllStar. Why are you finding yourself liking him and not me?” But of course I didn’t say that.

Instead I hung out by myself or with guess who at the pool…Mom and Dad.

Kind of defeated the reason for inviting him in the first place. After five days, it was a quiet eight hour ride home and I was not a happy little league allstar.

Through middle and high school I grew far, far away from all the kids in the neighborhood including him. I rarely spoke to them. It just worked out to be that way. I made other friends. After graduation I never saw the neighborhood kids again for several years.

Then at our first class reunion he was there. I felt inclined to ask everyone I recognized what they had been up to. When I worked my way over to his table his response was “I live in Dallas and I have my own hair salons and I’m doing really, reeeeally well.” Then, with a limp wrist, he snubbed me and flitted off to a conversation with the fellow sitting next to him.

At that moment, I came to the conclusion he was gay. Dunno what took me so long.

Also at that moment, I instantly understood everything I knew about him from age six onward. Why I could not convince him to try out for little league baseball. Why he was so timid. Why he didn’t kick the kickball very far at recess. Why he ran like a girl. Why he threw like a girl. Why he never went outside much after school. Why he liked to play “house” with his girl cousin. Why he never joined in the neighborhood shenanigans we kids were prone to get into. Why he dressed differently in high school. Why I never knew him to be interested in girls except as friends…giggly friends. Why the Daytona girl liked him and not me (he was harmless). And maybe, why he screamed in his sleep.

That was the first time in six or seven years I had spoken to him, and the last time I spoke to him.

Not long after that reunion, a year, maybe two, maybe less, I heard through church folk that he had AIDS. Then I heard he had died. Then I heard the funeral was at our old church and that they released a “zillion” balloons outside to symbolize that he had finally been set free.

I trust that he is. His life was certainly a riddle to me as a kid and young adult. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was a riddle to him as well.

Also filed in Machines, Stories | | Comments (2) »

Watermelon Table

13-Aug-07

Sometimes life is simple.

My grandfather kept a weathered, beaten up wooden table in his carport. It was kitchen counter height, about two-and-a-half feet square. It remained up against the red brick half wall surrounding the carport, in front of the white Chevy Impala, next to the decorative wrought iron corner post supporting the roof. Sometimes objects would be on it, like a bucket, or some fresh picked vegetables, or a stone, or hat.

The only time I knew that table to ever leave its assigned post was when it was time to cut up a watermelon. He would drag it away from the house out into the yard. On it he would place a large watermelon, ice cold from a galvanized steel tub of ice.

Then, from behind his back, stashed between his belt and waistband, would appear a very large, almost machete looking kitchen knife. With the compact and sudden swing of Babe Ruth’s bat, he would come down on the unsuspecting melon with that knife…and in the blink of an eye…it would lie in half on the table. He would proceed, less dramatically, to cut the halves into smaller, people sized pieces.

We would sit, family and neighbors…all ages, genders, and levels of refinement…and bury our faces in those watermelon pieces until nothing but hard rind was left. Slurping and spitting seeds and stopping for a breath, a chuckle, maybe a comment or two. It made for coolness on hot summer evenings. It made for wet faces, laughs and fine memories. It was simple entertainment…fun.

It is one tiny, maybe even mundane experience of many, that I associate with being a child of the South.

I know people all over this country have eaten watermelon outside in the summer and happily enjoyed it. They too have fine memories I’m sure. But to do so with the sweet, polite, drawled voices of Southern women bouncing comments back and forth…and the loud laughs and wheezing snickers of the Southern men sitting in a roughly formed circle of nylon webbed lawn chairs…and the cicadas buzzing loudly in the tall trees over our heads at dusk…that is what makes it a uniquely Southern experience for me and something I am very glad I can recall.

Also filed in Foods, Stories | | Comments (2) »