A Tiger In The Hall

Funny things happen to people with imagination. Take Samuel B. Crowley for instance. Of course, he was born on the thirteenth of the month; that could have had something to do with his curious misfortune. And his mother did feed him broccoli (boiled, of course, along with beef broth and boiled potatoes. They never had butter either - bad for the complexion, his mother said.). But he had always had an active imagination, that cannot be denied. Samuel's childhood was nothing exceptional, as childhoods go; he had the usual bumps and scrapes, the playtime squabbles and the boyish desire for adventure. On some days he wished he was a safari hunter, stalking fierce lions through the tall grasses of Africa. Unfortunately, being born in Dayton, Ohio, and never having relocated from that fair metropolis, Samuel was forced to substitute for African plains, the neighbor's weedy backyard; and for fierce lions, the neighbor's paranoid cat. The cat had no imagination, and even less sense of adventure, and soon developed a strange nervous tic, and an absolute terror of red-headed boys with sticks. He was often misunderstood as a child - Samuel, that is, not the cat. (The cat may very well have been misunderstood, but he had little imagination and thus, this story is not about him.) His teachers called him an "unruly child" (Mr. Bromell, 3th grade homeroom), a "pest" (Ms. Salsbury, 4th grade science), or even "out of control" (this was Mrs. Cruz, his 6th grade Spanish teacher, but she had very little patience for imaginative pupils, so maybe we should leave this remark aside.) It wasn't that Samuel didn't try to be good, but when one is a young boy with a good imagination, numbers become fierce animals, science textbooks have little drawing, and Spanish... well, Spanish just wasn't his cup of tea. As Samuel's younger years faded into the mechanical aspersion's of adulthood, his lively imagination faded as well. He no longer spent time chasing unrealistic dreams; his free time was spent in laborious study, and Africa became just another page in the world atlas. Samuel began to pursue a Bachelors in Accounting; not from any romanticized drawing toward that occupation, but more because his influential relations thought that it would be a noble calling for him. He was well on his way to becoming a recognized socialite and a modestly rich single man, in much demand among elderly gentlemen with eligible daughters, when the incident to which I am now referring took place. The whole thing was a mistake, really. A poorly written memo, some mis-communications, and the stuffed tiger are mostly to blame. The memo wasn't meant to cause harm. It was hastily written, indicating that Samuel was to come to the house post-haste, and to bring all his wits with him. A rather busy elderly gentleman was looking forward to an enjoyable evening of discussion in matters of politics and religion. The hurried scribble was definitely not intended to indicate any sort of danger. In fact, Samuel would have easily recognized this, had he not been frightened by the mysterious circumstances involving the fisherman's ghost the evening before. His hasty assumptions were to have dramatic impact on the excitement of the evening, however. It was certainly quite fortunate that he was not armed at the time. The walls of the home were quite thin, and any sort of revolver round would have passed through several rooms, wreaking havoc on the home and turning the situation into a very serious one. Everyone agreed the umbrella did quite enough damage as it was. Nor that it was the tiger's fault; he was quite dead at the time. He really couldn't help looking imposing there in the front hall, standing tall and proud, claws outstretched, teeth bared... he was supposed to look regal and impressive, but in just the right light he could be down-right menacing. Everyone felt sorry for him afterwards. How was he to know? It was quite embarrassing for Samuel - he was the subject of every joke for months afterwards. He even heard about it during interviews for a job - They sounded so glib, so sarcastic... it festered for quite some time. Poor Samuel. Funny things can happen to people with imagination, you know.

Noble Basement

To you, the wary stranger,
the basement
is never appealing.
It's gaping entries
and inky corners yawn, hungrily
waiting like a sadistic recluse
for prey.
But we, the familiar,
treasure the memories enshrouding
this noble basement,
with chilled walls
and particular doors
worn by unforgiving years
and the rough use of family and friends
long past.
A feeble bulb sprinkles light, sparingly
illuminating the wreckage.
For us, the residents,
like ghosts of past lineage
gliding over the silky stones,
this is our blessed home.

What Scenery Is Like

I was digging through a box of old books and found a folder containing some of my writings from 2003-04. Most of them were pages of nonsense, but I came across this bit of poetry and thought I'd share it with you. I hope you like it.

Scenery is like an old quilt -
From a distance, the same as all the rest,
but up close, unique, different, with charm all it's own.

Scenery is like a cloud -
Silently shifting, moving, changing,
Almost imperceptibly, reflecting it's past, revealing it's future,
Yet never exactly either, but the present.

Scenery is like old age -
Always worn, venerable, noble,
But still friendly, comforting, caring, living.

Scenery is like the ocean -
Breathtaking, beautiful, awesome,
with wave on wave
rolling,
surging,
crashing,
breaking,
receding,
extending endlessly outward, onward, beyond the horizon.

To Love Is To Risk

A few words of truth from C.S. Lewis that touched my heart and strengthened my resolve:

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable." ~ C. S. Lewis

Remember that you're not truly living until you step out in faith, trusting God, and risk something. "No pain, no gain" isn't a motivator: it's a fact of life. Let's learn to open up to others, risking pain and injury; for with risk comes value, acceptance, and true, unconditional love.

National Limerick Day

'Tis National Limerick Day,
which we all should observe in some way;
So I tried a long time
to come up with a rhyme
but if I thought of one, I won't say.

Me, the Sun and the Cat (Mother's Day)

It's a beautiful morning, with just the slightest haze of cloud diffusing the sun in her brilliant elegance. I'm sitting on the front stoop, with a bowl of granola, an ice-cold orange juice and Unusual the cat. I just finished making breakfast for my dear mother, and it's time to contemplate the meaning of Mother's Day.

Sometimes I think we turn this day into more of a ritual, something everybody does so their mother doesn't feel left out. I remember my panic yesterday as I was reminded of the impending appearance of this day, and my impending doom to mediocrity... I didn't have a special present!

Taking advantage of my distracted state, kitty is tasting my granola. I shoo him away and return to my musings. My mother has always been good to me. Being the oldest, I enjoyed special privileges in my young years, but all of us siblings have gotten the same treatment: breakfast in bed, a massage when you're sore, someone to talk to when life gets rough...

The cat is gone, along with my granola. I don't mind the solitude; picking up the orange juice, I lean back and look up at the sky. I remember the times when I needed advice about girls, those strange, fair things who are so intriguing, yet so confusing to us males... she was such a help, patiently explaining that they never really will make up their minds. I think of the future and begin to feel sorry for the woman I will marry: she will have so much to live up to! I remember Mom's advice: Never compare wife's cooking to mother's cooking. I smile too, thinking of the fun the two will have: Mom has always spoken of future daughter-in-laws with so much anticipation. There is a tinge of envy too, as she knows how they will take her boys away from her.... but she is content, to see us happy.

The sun is lighting my face now, bright and warm, heralding the successful birth of a new day. I think of my own birth, my childhood, the trouble I caused and the grey hairs I have placed on her head. I remember my seven consecutive cats, all named Frisky, which she put up with for years; she didn't even like cats. I remember the empathy, the comfort, as one by one I said goodbye to my pets, her gentle embrace as I learned about death, suffering and pain. I remember the strength, the assurance she gave, as, dealing with the death of her own mother, she explained to all of us children to look to the hope we have in Jesus.

I remember what day it is today: Sunday. Mother's Day is always on a Sunday, perhaps as a fitting reminder of the faith that mothers pass to their children. I remember the lessons in Christianity that I learned from Mom, the unshakable faith she portrayed to us children, every step of the way. I think about the bedtime prayers, and realize how many, and how earnest, the prayers that would rise from her bed, long after we were soundly sleeping. I think about the times when my life was the hardest; whether friendless, or jobless, helpless or hopeless, she always let me know that she was praying for me. And I could feel it too, her prayers were making a difference. Thank God for mothers!

I get up and go inside, praying a prayer of thanksgiving, my heart light and my spirits high. I've figured out what I can give her for Mother's Day: the biggest hug a son has ever given. A tear forms in the corner of my eye, and I wipe it away... I love you Mom!

New Friends: Kit Taylor

The Hudson Bar and Grill was fairly empty for 4:30. I checked my phone - I should have enough time to get a couple of songs played on the lobby piano before the scheduled pianist arrives at 5 o'clock - time to get my name and talent out there!
Ah, but I forget that my plans are fickle. As I walked through the front doors I spotted him - sharply dressed, with a vest and stylishly unkempt 5 o'clock shadow, he was rearranging the tip jar and setting out his albums. I was too late to play, but just in time to talk to the pianist!
I we exchanged names and started talking about show biz. Like most pianists, Kit showed enthusiasm and passion for the the one thing we had in common: music. He encouraged me to continue to talk to pianists, and to hand out business cards whenever possible (I had some on the way, but they've been delayed - of all the luck!). He also encouraged me to learn the top 10 most popular solo piano songs - songs like Piano Man, Misty, and other classics. If you know these songs, and have a couple of others to add on in between, you'll be set for life.
Kit invited me to stay around until 5, bid me good day, picked up his copy of John Grisham's The Associate, and retired to do some reading. Not to miss the chance to drink in the music of a master, I sat down to wait for 5 o'clock.
I was not to be disappointed. As the hour arrived, the sounds of a jazz standard flowed out from the grand piano, turning the previously diconnected sounds of the restaurant into a symphony of joyful busyness. I closed my eyes and watched the music in my mind's eye....

Fireside notes float,
unnoticed, like a spark
borne on a puff of fairy breath.

Must music always drift away?
Or does it stay,
Like a lonely mist of forgotten love?