I lived next door to Fidel Castro. In Miami in the 1990’s. I know the neighborhood can attest to this truism. At the house two doors down, the only non-ranch style house. It appeared to have two stories and the the purple Mustang in the drive. I suppose there is no accounting for taste. Especially in a house where a Cuban dictator lived. Who wouldn’t have thought that a bearded man wasn’t Castro? Not when we roamed the streets in army greens. My sister and I swear we saw a cigar, Cuban no doubt, hanging from his mouth and peaking out from the grey beard. In those days too, Castro’s prominence was questionable. The media never showed him and there had been rumors that he died. Well, we knew the truth, he was alive and talking leisurely strolls down 70th Avenue. Residing amongst millions of Cubans exiles and lapping in the sun of South Miami.
In Tampa we moved to the golf course neighborhood. New to us, but there were old school Southerners. Rambling homes with oak trees, brick streets, and Muffys. One next to us who spent her days at the Yacht club, drinking beverages with tonic and lunching. Or we would presume. Possibly mostly the beverages. As her husband later went bankrupt – which would drive me to drink. To welcome us to the neighborhood she “made” a peach cobbler. People like her make things by paying for them. She daintily crossed the lawn careful not to ruin her silk heels or trip over her alcohol. She warmly knocked and welcomed us. A kind gesture no doubt. But for the chunk of cobbler missing from the dessert. “Oh, my husband was hungry so I gave it to him.” Welcome to the neighborhood.
In a few days I get new neighbors. As we are set to move into a house in a new area of town. Yeah we are moving. (!) Out of the condo and into more space, where we don't need a storage unit and we have grass and a kitchen. We will have tables and not just one but a dining room one too. This means no more eating on the couch and and it means room to spread out and cook and relax. It also means I get to meet a new breed of people. To me they are like co-workers. You have no idea where they come from and they are bizarre and strange with some questionable fashion sense. Yet they are there daily and you spend significant amount of time with and near them. Some how they also become the fabric of your life. Weaving in and out and sharing their witticisms with you - often without a choice. You standing there awkwardly waiting to exit the conversation and be polite. They do make for good storytelling and insane frustration, but hopefully in this instance some good friends too. We all dream of those blocks with parties, friends, and wonderful street life. Or at least a lack of drama. Let’s just hope Castro and Muffy stay where they are.
Labels: Everyday Life, Last Life, Practice
I have a sick day and a new friend helped me by sending some exercises.
***
We were not those kinds of friends that were considered us to be old. We considered ourselves to be good though. At least at one point. Having been there during a time when we both needed the company. It bonded us together until that necessity stopped needing. At least I learned that later. We pretended to continue to need, but we actually didn’t when we first met and we no longer do. So it has been easy to keep the grudge. It was my way of holding on and my way of taking control. As if admitting that our true friendship was gone. We had known each other for years before, never bridging a friendship. Not until we had to and then we needed to. So when those times passed it was not surprising the friendship ended with it.
I invited him to a party. I don’t have them for this reason. I can’t handle the rejection. The idea that no one will show up. That people will pass on something you are thrilled about wanting to do to; show off your home, your food and your love by inviting them in. And they say no. No to all of those things and no to your ego. Well he didn’t have to, he said yes. He just did not show up. Or call. Or apologize. Or call again. Not for several weeks at least. And then there was a failure to mention any of it. I was tremendously hurt. I put myself out there, and as my friend he agreed to it. By not showing, he showed me he failed to care. To even garner enough respect to cancel or apologize or make up a lame sickness excuse.
With him though I was not terribly surprised. This was not too far from his norm. I had come to expect this response. Which really was the problem, not the party. It is never really about the party is it? To me, it is not what friends were made of. But yet we maintained the pretense of a friendship, probably longer than we should have. So I held a grudge.
The truth was it had been dead for a long while for all those reasons. I could hold the grudge, but I was holding onto a long gone relationship. My way of ending something that was already on life support. This was my way of taking power over the situation and my feelings of loss, rejection and hurt. But his overall behavior that told me we were not going to remain friends. I couldn't do it with someone who didn't value me in that way. Didn't think about friendship in the way I try. Which is probably why were were not initial friends. Which was why this was never meant to be a long lasting one. Which was why were not supposed to be old friends. And why the grudge continues.
Labels: Friends/Family, Practice
…. Labor Day weekend; the start of the holiday, the end of summer. Technically. The calendar said it was time to start school, roll out the tweeds, boots, and oranges and tuck away the swim suits, beach towels, pinks and flip-flops. But it was Florida and we had months of sun to enjoy, even if white pants were forbidden. There was still humidity to contend with. With the air conditioning cranked down to simulate cooler temps and in a nod to the impending fall, we cozied in. Sharing space next to each other, we sat crossed legged at the coffee table. Able to do so as the dog had been dropped off that afternoon, at Fuzzie Buddies, in anticipation of the holiday trip set to begin the next morning. Otherwise, food at that level was perfect for her grasp and guaranteed to be gone in an instant. So we relished the holiday away from the jaws of a 30 pound beagle and set out three types of cheeses, apple and pear slices, dates and nuts accompanied by chicken finger slices. You insisted on them as their smell always permeates the Publix parking lot and draws you in. Normally abiding by the rules of the diet, this time though, you gave in, using the holiday as an excuse for gluttony.
There we sat, splitting a bottle of red and a movie we chose for the occasion. To me, nothing says the end of summer like The Big Chill. You had never seen it and it was on a list of such movies. A movie about friends on an unexpected holiday. I had seen it a dozen and a half times and memorized the soundtrack. It is really the music that makes that movie. Well, maybe not, maybe it is the acting and the actors. Or that compelling story line. Reminds me of my friends of the past and what I want from friends in the future. Well, minus the suicide and the adultery. But a compelling story and it draws me in no matter how many times viewed. Such a classically good movie, makes it impossible to pick one aspect that makes that stands out. It was chosen for all those reasons and more. I wanted to see those scenes through your eyes, seeing it for the first time. Which creates a new imagery and ideas. Sharing those with someone and learning their innocence. The essence of fall is present in that movie; the changing temperatures, the multi-colored leaves and football. That Michigan football game, is fall regardless of the state or decade. The outdated running shoes and hair do’s transcend the 1980’s and still today portray an spirit of fall. Those emotions tumble together into the first days of school, a slight crisp in the air, browns showcased on the cover of Vogue, new TV shows and football Saturdays. All kept me entertained with the memories of such. Smiling contently from those ideas and from the warmth of the wine, cheese and my company.
At the same time it all brought me to tears. During I Heard it Through the Grapevine, a small whimper of a cry forms. Tiny drops I was able to keep private. Even hidden by a smile and a few seconds of singing along with their performance. But by the end of the number, I sobbed and held my face in my hands. My chest heaved and loud sobs emanated from my throat. You looked over fearful you missed something to cause my convulsions. But this was not something; this was the moment of it all. We’d created a strong sense of peace and contentment. So thoroughly at ease that I enjoy myself so much I tear up. That perfect place captured with a perfect scene, and not the scripted one portrayed on the T.V. It was this scene, this moment with our knees touching, holding hands, laughing at the movie. I wanted to live in that and wear around me like a warm blanket used on cool days next to fire places. I feel at home in the emotion and that moment, where tears form without knowledge. Just pure bliss. The kind that gives goose bumps, belly aches, and heart palpitations. The kind made for T.V. and longed for in our best dreams. I had all of that in my hands during that moment and it made me smile and weep all at once. Letting me create a present perfect memory of a new type of Labor Day. The temps were dropping, the time would change and we would fall forward, but that night I wanted to sit in those last days of summer and enjoy the emotional holiday before the vacation began the next morning. Before we moved away from summer.....
In a free association moment, I saw a crushed cardboard coffee cup in the middle of the street with the words Joe written on the side in bold print and a few steps away was the black lid that once topped the cup off, now also smashed by the traffic. This triggered a memory of a guy I went to law school with. Whose name I cannot recall. He dated and eventually married an Anne. I remembered hers because, well, she was memorable. She wore plastic Notre Dame shower shoes, everywhere. Everyday. Including with a satin dress to the law school formal, or Prom as we liked to call it. I get the whole alumni thing and I know those Fightin' Irish are pretty passionate, but no one understood her. Chris. Thinking about her and those shoes, his name popped into my head. Chris carried the biggest coffee mug I have ever seen. It was white, with a red handle and top and must have been purchased at a gas station of sorts, as their logo was splashed on the side. He arrived every morning to Professional Responsibility with a cup of coffee the size of his head. Literally. It was enormous. I sat there wondering how he held it (I learned nothing in Professional Responsibility and this could be why). I know I would spill such a monster of a cup. Hell, I spill the grande size 'bucks without even taking a step. So I wondered. How did he transport it in his car? It could not possibly fit into those tiny cup holders. I also wondered how he made that much coffee? Did he have giant sized appliance at his house too? The big-as-your- head coffee maker by Black and Decker? And, and, how did he drink it all before it got cold? There was so much liquid in there, no way he could enjoy all that coffee. It could not still be hot coffee at the end. It did not seem possible. Which was why I always believed it was not actually coffee in that cuppa Joe. He was just like that. After all he married Notre Dame. Or maybe I was the one with the spiked coffee this morning.
If we had made it we would be living there, most likely. My clothes would be cramped into a guest room closet with an old comforter and our diplomas, down the hall from the bedroom. The house decorated like you, just you. With my ideas, tastes, and tokens of the past 27 years stored in the other guest bedroom, the one where your brother lived. You would still be attached to your parents, using their house for gym equipment and meals. Your after work routine. Not mine. I have to create my own, like it always had been. It would be unaltered by my presence or our seriousness. I would be a guest, but not welcomed. Your mother cannot handle the competition. So I would eventually avoid it and make excuses about work, my family and personal time. Which is the way they wanted it anyway. Despite that they would be just a mile away. I would see her at Publix as I am now the one buying you a toothbrush and diet coke and she will resent me because that was her role for thirty years and some how my choice in diet coke is wrong. Because everything I do will be wrong. When in reality it was us that was wrong. And it felt wrong. I hated your small toes. I sat nightly on the worn brown leather couch, watching terrible action movies, and wondered if those were feet I could look at forever. You later handled that inquiry and cut us off at the knees.
If we made it, would the linen covered table clothes have turned? Would the good start to out number the bad. When we were together, the bad was there living amongst us hanging in your closet next to the ties and dress shirts aligned neatly. It should not have been bad, not in the beginning, not like it was. There were moments of glimpses of good. Where I sought happiness and reveled in the gaps. I believed that would be what we would be. When it fell together coherently lined neatly like the books stacked on the shelf. I truly thought it would do that someday. I was wrong.
If we made it would you continue to bring me orange juice in bed while I lounged. Offering to make coffee and instructing I stay put. Sleeping in the bed you initially invited me into our first night. At that time I declined. Thereafter, it was the best sleep I got on the soft comfortable expensive sheets, next to you. I took it as a sign of us. But the bed was the only thing inviting in that relationship and the only time you let me in. I would relax in that bed until I have to tip toe through the kitchen to the bathroom and sneak a moment by the coffee pot. The day started with us laughing and embracing. Would it remain like that? Or would the relationship slide as the day progressed, as it always did. By night, we sat in silence, tired from the strain of the day and our burdens. I thought this too would get better. But we never made it that far, we lived in the strain, our waking hours spent spooning it out. We never got past that. Really, how could we?
If we made it would the small tokens continue; remembering the pearls and roses. Each a small gift that brought smiles and false promises. An innuendo that was not there, though I believed and willed it to be so. Carrying the gift and an image with me. Thinking that would be us when it all worked out. At times you meant it and expressed it as you could. The phone calls and text messages, "I am so proud of you" and teasing me about my quirks. But not really getting them right, since they weren't my quirks, since you never really knew me. You could not know me. To know me would mean to let me in. When it was your world all the time. You, you, you. And you never bothered to make room for me.
So, would we have made it? Would there have been an us, if we got the chance I wanted us to have. Would I have been given space in the guest closet next to the old musical equipment, when I was never given room in your life or your heart?
1984
I had a broken leg. As a kindergartener, I determined I was capable of climbing to the top of the fireman’s pole. Like my male class mates, once on top of the pole, I knew I could jump off. Forget shimmying back down, the boys dangled from the top bar and let go, landing on their feet. So I too dangled and let go. But I landed on my ankle, smashed it against a rock, and fell over onto the side. My mom was called to the school, as I limped off the playground. I waited, able to join the class back inside for the afternoon art project; rolling a marble, dipped in paint, around a shoe box. See, I’m fine. I don’t need any help. I was taken to Dr. Geoffrey. My parent’s dear friend. I hesitated at the idea of a cast. How was I going to continue to play? While of course it was necessary, I stood firm and refused the use of crutches. No way, I was not going to look weak. I won the crutches battle and even grew to love and accept my cast, letting my friends sign it. After six weeks I was healed. The doctor removed the cast and I ran freely through the playground again. Trying to catch up with the boys and match what they did.
1991
I had a broken finger. He was a crush and a friend of a friend and I determined he liked me. We must have been flirting. As much as 12 year olds can flirt in shorts, sneakers and our JCC camp t-shirts. This meant we tried to touch when we could. Passing each other at swim time or on our way to pottery class. He grabbed my hand, sending tingles down my spine. He didn’t let go as I passed by chatting with my girlfriends. Laughing and pretending I didn’t notice that he paid me attention. Also not noticing that he had yet to let go and in the process bent my finger backward. I hesitated reporting it. How was I going to continue to play? So I kept my mouth shut and proceeded to my sleep over date at Dani’s house, Dr. Geoffrey’s daughter. By night the pain was too much and the swollen finger was impossible to hide, especially from an orthopedic surgeon. He wrapped and splinted it. I was taken out of activities for two weeks. Not a way to spend your summer camp days. But the finger healed and the splint came off. I was able to freely hold hands again. By that time I had a whole new crush and someone else to chase around the camp grounds.
2002
I had a broken heart. He was a love and I was determined this was going to work. We planned and he promised. He whispered of my talents and my beauty, swearing it would be forever. Until it was not true anymore and forever came on a Saturday in June. This time Dr. Geoffrey wasn’t there to cast or splint. It is not because a surgeon cannot mend a broken heart; but because he passed away in 1996. That is a whole different broken and a terrible type of ache. This. Now this, was a broken heart that cannot be casted, splinted or repaired. Unless you count whiskey or even tequila. But those are temporary and not a fix. This is not the kind of broken that allows you to show it openly like a band aid or stitches. Unless you count un-washed hair and puffy eyes. Even those don’t excuse a broken heart. So really these pains and breaks cannot be treated by a doctor in a white coat. This is not the kind of ache that gets you out of work or special parking privileges. It does not mean you get to miss play time or sit out swim classes. Life has to go on. And it does all around you.
This time I had to accept the pain, I couldn’t refuse a cast or pretend it didn’t hurt. The pain was too much. A broken heart meant that blood stopped flowing and my body stopped functioning. With legs, I had two. With fingers, I had ten. This was my only heart and it hurt. That pain echoed in the empty of the broken space, while people danced around merrily enjoying their lives.
This kind of broken takes a cliché to fix; time. And that was the only way for this kind of broken to ever go away. The schism of heart gradually moves closer back together like a fracture unionizing. While the opposite happens; the boyfriend who created the break gradually moves farther away, the union you shared grows more distant. The schism between you grows wider. It has to happen that way. Otherwise, the heart remains broken and there is no room to mend. Kicking him and those memories out, means there is space for the heart to become whole again. Pumping and functioning properly. You move out of bed, away from the wine bottle. The tears stop, your hair gets washed and you can leave the house. You become part of that world again, it stops moving with out you. New people, new events, new ideas all take form. With time and distance the heart finally re-grows. Stronger, healthier and ready to pump out a greater stronger love. For someone new, who has something new to offer. Someone who makes it skip a beat and pump faster. It is healthy and strong now. It is a renewed heart that is primed to chase after a new boy. Ready for a time when you can keep up with their activities, with no broken legs, hold their hands with no broken fingers, and sustain the relationship with no broken hearts.
If we were in New Orleans, it would mean sweatshirts, library pants and the same t-shirt and bra for three days straight. Pulled from a pile in the floor where they were dropped the previous night. Well, morning really, since studying never ended anytime before midnight. Quitting any earlier meant we didn’t feel complete. It is the time of year you fall into bed, your mind heavy with theories and pneumonic devices derived to remember. So tired you can’t think; so awake because all you can do is think. We would awake and repeat day after day. For almost three weeks. We would Starbucks at ten, two and eight. Three times a day, each visit seeking a caffeine infusion, a break and a glimpse of the real world. Christmas tunes, blind dates and turtle necks. The trappings of how the other half lives. We would laugh, make promises of our lives post-finals and encourage ourselves to get through three more hours, one more week, or a single final exam. We would be there for each other. That is what friends do. That is what law students do. That is how it was in New Orleans.
If we were in New Orleans, we would be hunched over a laptop typing and recalling, analyzing, outlining and praying. The weather turned cool, but we never noticed. It was always cool on the fourth floor of the library. The lights were strung, but it was all a blur in the car on the way to our carrels. There, there in law school were generic stale fluorescent lights. The same people, the same faces and no one knew it was December. It was just, “what exam do you have next?” Monotony spiced with a change in subject; contracts, criminals and intellectual property. Despite this we would take solace in each other. Sharing jelly beans to pass the time and lap up the sugar. Agreeing to a noon lunch and place for a sandwich. Helping to hold books and computers on the long walk back to the cars in the dead of night. Asking each other those damned hypotheticals and attempting to sort out those questions with no right answers. Crying when the stress was too much and we just, “knew we failed our Torts final”. We would be there for each other. That is what friends do. That is what law students do. That is how it was in New Orleans.
These were the times we prepared for the rest of the semester. Otherwise, it was Sunday’s where you made homemade scones and hand whipped cream topped with fresh berries from the Whole Foods. We dine while preparing meatballs to stew for dinner. We then curl up on Ikea with a third cup of coffee, flannel pants and enjoy our friends in Beverly Hills. The 90210 gang are our separate memories enjoyed together to make new memories. We may part ways with plans to call our moms and go to the gym. Only to meet up in a few hours for study groups and planned meals of pasta with gobs of cheese. At the end of the day, at the end of exams, at the end of it all we would be there for each other. That is what friends do. That is what law students do. That is how it was in New Orleans.
The Smell of: the next day remnants of Angel perfume, morning air before sunrise – pre-humidity, grapefruit Khiels lotion, a leather jacket, freshly baked bread, Evergreen pine trees, Design, my dad leaving his car fresh with air and leather, Bumble and Bumble shampoo, brewing coffee, crisp ocean air, Jo Malone candles, Tide, bouquet of flowers, whiskey, Yogani Studio’s bamboo floors, chocolate, Old Spice deodorant, our bodies next to each other.
The Taste of: pomegranate black tea, thin slice NY style hot pizza, toasted bagel with gobs of cream cheese, Asian pan fried duck, vinegar, uber-hard Granny Smith apples, delicately soft chocolate chip cookies, crushed ice over fountain served diet coke, pad Thai noodles, undercooked brown rice, margaritas, warm goat cheese, sweet tart candies, freshly brushed teeth, Mexican rolls, crisp bacon, a tall glass of water, steak with gorgonzola cheese sauce, cleanly shaved legs, Ciccios and Tony;s Asian guacamole, ice cold dirty vodka martinis, your sweet kisses.
The Sound of: mom’s answer of, “hi sweetie”, Ray Lamontagne’s sultry tunes, the Monday Night Football theme song, silence, church bells, the bing of a text message, Indigo Girls, a train horn in the distant, Ginger’s belly grunts, a live samba band, Magoo’s “I love you’s”, a car returning home, confidence, our voices shared together.
The Touch of: Magoo’s arms wrapped around my neck, a cool pillow, a soft light cotton tee to sleep in, forehead kisses, my hair being washed, a cool soft breeze to relieve the heat, sand between my toes and fingers, a well told story, hot showers, my baby sister’s thick brown locks, a blanket while being curled up on the couch, Curel lotion after a shower, the esthetician cleaning my the pores, back scratches, warm feet placed in wool socks, a quick dip in a refreshing pool, my heart next to yours.
The Sight of: patent leather, green mountains of Vermont, Christmas trees, wreaths and lights, perfectly painted jewel like toe nails, complimentary job praises, fireworks on July 4th, new catalogs in the mailbox, a new bride, stationary, long eye lashes, patriotism, bold bright sunsets, daddies and their little girls, Ginger’s scrunched up head and perky ears, fresh flowers in a vase, monogramming, Sunday Times wedding section, a pregnant mommies belly, Publix Holiday commercials, my hand in yours.
Credit where it is due: One Word
Basket:
to hell in a hand basket. I just love that expression. it generally captures the days mood, when s*it goes down. i pictue a pig tailed girl-y holding a hansel and gretel type basket. i guess the imagery of the wolf leads me to the hell-ish idea. yet it is never, never that good and there is no happy ending.
Labels: Practice
As of tomorrow I will be a participant in the "blog-or-die" campaign. Me and one million other bloggers. Hey, its fun to be part of an invisible and large community and have an extra excuse/incentive to keep it up.....every day. Yup, every freaking day. That is the goal of the contest, one has to post every day in the month of November, otherwise you ain't eligible for 'dem prizes. Yes, to that too, there are prizes. Check it out here: http://www.fussy.org/nablopomo.html
Labels: Everyday Life, Practice
We lived in that house for 17 years. That childhood bedroom was my bedroom. Despite the changes, it was where I did my living. It was where I did my growing. To mirror my transformation into full on teenager it too got a make over. I went through puberty, it went through Hurricane Andrew. It struck in 1992, when I was 13. I got new boobs and a new bedroom.
The original bedroom was adorned with pastel striped wallpaper. They were thin vertical stripes. Pinks, purples and light blues. My family in Montreal had the same paper in a primary color combination, it is still in their guest bedroom today. I visit there and am taken back to these times and my little girl days.
To match the walls there were two pink and light blue bedspreads decorated with butterflies in a soft water colored way, made for the two twin beds. They were sitting on white four poster beds, placed under one of two windows in the room. All of the furniture was white. Including a large shelving unit placed on top of the dresser. It was across from my beds and next to the desk, which was wedged in the corner. It stood tall to the ceiling. Housed my books, my piggy bank collection and stuffed animals. Namely, a large pink elephant that was all the way on top of the shelves. To reach him I had to put one leg on the dresser and grab onto the shelves to pull my whole body up. There was always a fear the shelves would crash on top of me, but that never deterred my mission. I still grabbed onto the shelf for support. When I got up there, I had a very small space to stand on, where the shelves didn't cover the entire dresser. I reached gingerly up to grab the top up to the elephant. I would then quickly, in one move, reach for the elephant and throw it down to the floor then jump back down landing on my knees. My grandfather gave it to me. Over the years it became smaller and smaller, though that was my perception. I became bigger and bigger. Isn't that always the case, memories become less impressive and smaller with time? The same was true of the Raggedy Anne doll, also a present from my grandfather, she sat next to the elephant and given to me when I was a newborn. In honor of my chosen name.
The desk was in the corner next to the other window. I could look to the right and peer into the backyard. There was a playscape, a swing set and a small canal that ran the length of the yard. Nothing glamorous about living on the water. It was industrial like, teeming with cat fish. On sunny bored afternoons we fished for them using salami and left over stale bread. I don't recall ever catching one, because what would I have done with a catfish? Small boats and canoes traveled down the canal. Our neighbors enjoying the outdoors. The dog ran up and down the bank chasing after them and barking. Protecting her yard. I sat at my desks on Saturday listening to Christopher Cross and writing. The fan was on high and all the blinds were up. It was bright, cool and comfortable. The sounds of the lawn mower or my parents busy with weekend house hold chores, echoed in the background or outside the window. I made up stories and wrote a book at one point. I was in the fourth grade and pasted it over an existing book, cover and all. My story bound and “published”. I was proud of the book and that I created an entire story line; including three creative names of movie titles the characters wanted to see. That. That, I was very prideful of.
The closest was closed with rickety doors, painted white. There were two large doors and the wheels squealed when opened, often times sticking due to age, humidity and paint. They required a strong arm and a tug to get them closed. Above that there were two small doors used for storage. Up there, in the storage, were remnants of my past, drawings from preschool and arts and crafts projects completed in kindergarten, that my parents dutifully kept. Stored in boxes and old x-ray sheets to protect them and because that was what we had available to us. The green leaves holding remains of my even earlier childhood. I would take special pride and passion in bringing down those boxes and digging through my memories. Sitting on the carpet in the middle of the room, my legs crossed with dust covered paintings and first grade report cards surrounding me. On the wall next to the closet were two diplomas, one from kindergarten graduation and later one from fifth grade graduation. The room ended there, no more graduations to display.
The room ended there too, the summer before eighth grade it was ruined. The windows blew out, there was damage to the roof and water came in from all over. It smelled like rotten fish. I got a do-over. Same house, new room. Having to give that up, and not by choice, leaves it all as a fuzzy memory. Warm from the love my parents created, cool from my recollection of Florida air conditioning
Labels: Friends/Family, Last Life, Practice
Once upon a time there was a small tadpole. His friends teased him and called him Magoo, mostly because he could not see very well but also because it rhymed with shoe. And you see, small tadpoles often times need to wear shoes as they learn to become frogs and hop around. This tadpole, we will also call him Magoo, had a great deal of difficulty with the whole hopping thing, he kept losing his shoe when he would attempt to hop. So his friends, rather then making fun of him and calling him shoe (which arguably is not funny, but just random) opted for Magoo.
Well one day Magoo and his friends, tadpole #1, tadpole #2 and tadpole #3, got into a wee bit of trouble. As we all know snakes are the number one enemy of the tadpole. The tadpole quad had been warned on many occasion, by their lovely froggy mommies, never to go near the side of the pond where the big lily pads are, as it is where the snakes are buried. However, given the diligence of the froggy mommas and their thus far watchful eye over their brood, the tadpoles did not even know what a lily pad was or for that matter a snake. So be as they are, the tadpoles hopped (except for magoo, as you know the history there) over to the area with the lily pads. This was clearly the best spot in the pond to play leap frog. As they commented the same to each other "the pads are the biggest and strongest over here, this is the best place to play leap frog. No wonder our mothers did not want us over here - they want to kill all that is fun!".
Yet soon enough, without fail, the big ugly horrific slimy snake started to slither over. The tadpoles were oblivious to this event as they were so thoroughly enjoying themselves. Before you know it though tadpole #3 was inches away from the snakes big ugly jaws. Only Magoo himself saw what was happening. However, due to geography and timing the only way that tadpole #3 was going to survive in this world and make it as a frog was if someone saved him and that someone had to be Magoo. Wouldn't you know it, Magoo leaped over (shoes and all) and pushed #3 out of the way while boinking slimy snake on the head. After a dazed 5 seconds passed, all 4 tadpoles cheered Magoo. He rescued a member of their brethren and conquered his shoe hopping problem all in one afternoon. Before the slimy snake could come to again, all 4 poles hopped off toward the safe end of the pond and their mommies. None of them ever returned to the big lily pads after that, as they most definitely learned their lessons. More so, Magoo learned how to hop as a proper frog without his shoes falling off. Now he is called Jesus (pronounced Je-sues).
Labels: Practice
