Tag Archives: spirituality

Leaf Laughter

While raking leaves the other day, I time-traveled back more than 20 years to when my little girl used to keep me company in the yard and play in the leaf piles as they accumulated.

My daughter’s laughter ranks No. 1 in the archive of audio clips in my brain. Leaf laughter had bit of a squeal to it as she dug out from being buried alive. Or threw herself on a mounded pile and burrowed down to hide. She was hesitant at first, until I dove in for a demonstration. After that, there was no holding her back.  Could never bag the leaves or put them in the recycle bin until after she was played out and inside napping.

She was so tiny back then, she used to hide behind  a rhubarb plant in my backyard flower bed. Her mom outfitted her in cute clothes, but really it was the girl who made the outfits cute. Rubber boots. OshKosh pants or overalls. Jacket or sweater, both with hoods on them, or some kind of hat with animal ears pulled snug over blonde hair, blue eyes and sweet smiling lips from which came that glorious, precious, carefree laugh.

Back then, I had only the leaves from one pear tree to contend with.  I’ve since added a pair of birch trees on north side of my yard, tripling the area of the red, yellow and brown leaf carpet and rising up closer to the house to fill my rain gutters, too.  There’s now a small maple tree in the front yard as well, adding scarlet leaves to the boughs, berries and brown shakings that blow down off the three cedar trees grouped in the southeast corner of my place. The cedars offer great foliage for Christmas wreaths, but we’re in no hurry for that, with Halloween and Thanksgiving still to savor. The magnolia trees that my daughter and I planted in her youth on the south side of our yard retain most of their leaves but still shed year-round.

Fall also brings to mind the sound of the cannon they used to fire at Snohomish High football games after every touchdown. You could hear it all over town. That tradition started when I was in school and ended shortly after my daughter graduated when the cannon, apparently stuffed with an oversized charge,  blew up and injured one of the ROTC kids manning the gun.  Great fun while it lasted.  Football fortunes have seemingly been down ever since.

The grown girl doesn’t jump in my leaf piles anymore, but, unlike the cannon, I still hear her live laughter on a regular basis, and my fortunes are reassured.

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Filed under Athletics, Memoirs

Taking Five

 “Jeez, I need a drink!”

“There, there, Annie, have some Kool-Aid,” June said cheerfully, as she filled a Dixie cup on the table in the bible school teachers’ break room.

“Jell-O shot would be more like it,” Annie shot back. “Where do these kids come from? Their parents must be zoo animals!”

“I hear you,” said Betty, holding a battery-powered fan near her neck with her eyes closed. “I got one boy who can’t keep his fingers out of his nose — unless they’re in his mouth. And he’s worn the same t-shirt for three days! Still has the grape juice stain from Monday, and here it is Wednesday! Who bathes this kid? Who dresses him?”

“Think you’ve got it bad? I’ve got pee stink,” chimed in Holly between puffs from a Marlboro, which she exhaled through a window. “Someone in my class wet themself, and it’s dried and I’m not sure who the culprit is. But in this heat, it’s like someone put a cat box under the table. Makes my eyes water!”

“Now, now, they’re just children. Everyone just relax and have a cookie,” June cooed.

“Children from hell!” Betty responded, with open eyes. “Snotty, noisy and stinky with the attention span of chickens. And I’ve got a whiner: ‘Everyone’s picking on me. Joey touched me! Trudy made a face!’  Little sniveler, I just want to tell her to shut up!”

“We’re just a free lunch and day care for most of these kids,” Annie added. “The parents don’t give a hoot about Christian education. Never see them in church. Just dump the kids off and don’t look back. Off to work – if they even have a job – or off to the salon, or the beach, or the couch or wherever there’s happy hour.”

“Ladies, please!” said the matronly April Strutt, June’s mother and the bible school coordinator, entering with a rush that threatened to turn all into pillars of salt. “We’re just three days into this, with two more to go, and we can’t lose anyone at this point.

“I’ve been doing this for 27 years, and, believe me, I’ve just about seen it all. Cranky kids. Booger eaters. Pee’ers and snivelers. But you know what? They’re all God’s creations, and we owe it to them to try to bring a little bit of Jesus into their lives. The fact that all of you are here, grumpy or otherwise, testifies to His power to call us to service. Nobody says this is easy, at least no one who’s ever done this before. It takes a truckload of commitment.  But if you trust in God and pray for His assistance, you can reap the rewards of  . . .”

“Oh, please,” Betty interrupted, “don’t feed us that heaven stuff. I’m not in the mood.”

“No,” the older woman said. “I was going to say, mojitos at my place on Friday!”

(Note: This was written as a Writers Kickstart prompt on the topic Group of Five.)

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Filed under Prompts, Religion

The Prodigal Shithead

(Note: This is a loose street rendition of a Bible parable for those who might be challenged by the King James version.)

OK, so there’s this Rich Dude that everybody knows and respects. Owns car washes in like five states where folks come in like once a once week and listen to good music while getting all shined up and feelin’ good about themselves.

And this Rich Dude, he’s got two sons workin’ in the family business, and he loves ‘em like crazy and says, “Boys, this is all gonna be yours one day.” But one of the boys  says, “I love you, too,  Daddy, but I ain’t into waitin’ around for you to get old or die. So how’s about you settle up with me right now and I’ll hug ya and say, ‘Thank you, Sir,’ and just take it on down my own road whilst I’m still young enough to enjoy it.”

So the Rich Dude says, “Son, you’re startin’ to sound like a shithead, but if that’s what you want, OK. ” And he hugs the Shithead’s neck and sends him off in a big ol’ car with a truck full of money.

Now the Shithead, he figures he don’t need to work no more, and he starts drinkin’ and smokin’ dope and partyin’ and buyin’ more cars and bettin’ on football and snortin’ lines off whore bellies, and before long, he finds himself all fucked up, out of money and basically circlin’ the drain. He’s desperate for work, but too proud to go back home to Daddy, who he ain’t even called since leavin’ with the money. So he takes a shit  job with an asphalt company, and they work his ass off, pavin’ roads in hot weather and kickin’ up dirt and dust and oily shit that raises hell with the paint on every man’s car that happens along whenever and where ever pavin’ is going down.

After awhile, the Shithead gets all the shine worked off and he’s low as he can go when he finally  comes to terms with the fact that he’s a shithead who’d be better off washin’ cars for Daddy than makin’ ’em dirty. So he decides to go back to the Rich Dude and beg him for a job holdin’ hose or wipin’ down cars or tyin’ to get puke and jizz stains off upholstery.

Well, the Rich Dude sees the Shithead coming when he’s still draggin’ ass up the street, but instead of being pissed, it’s like he’s just won the Super Bowl. He sends car wash folks to hose the Shithead down and get him a fine suit and some new shoes and some bling. Then he sends folks to the  best barbeque place in town to pick up  ribs, chicken, pulled pork, beans, potato salad,  corn, cold slaw and cornbread for a big ol’ party. And he buys kegs of microbrew to wash it all down, and hires a great dance band backed by a full orchestra to rock everyone’s socks clean off.

But now, the Shithead’s brother sees all this and wonders, “What the fuck?” and refuses to join the party cuz the Shithead ain’t been put in his proper place.

And the Rich Dude  sees this and comes outside the party and says, “What the fuck’s with you. Get your ass into the party.”

But the brother says, “Fuck, no, I ain’t  goin’ cuz the Shithead fucked all of us by just thinkin’ of himself and walkin’ out on the family business. And it’s all been in the papers, and now we all look like dummies for takin’ him back, no questions asked, just like he never left.”

And the Rich Man says, “Whoa there, boy, this ain’t about the Shithead. This is about you and me, and you feelin’ sorry for yourself for takin’ care of business and doin’ just what you shudda been doin’ all this time.

“Don’t be tellin’ me how a daddy should feel when one of his boys comes home after walkin’ off. I love all my family just the same. I love you and your brother and your mama and your sisters and every one of the folks that works for me and tends to business, and there’s plenty for everybody. I’m just glad the Shithead came back before he died snortin’ lines off some whore’s belly. And you should be glad, too, cuz he’s your brother, and me taking him back don’t mean I love you any less.

“Look at it like this: Any shithead or sorry motherfucker pissin’ and moanin’ about workin’ in our car wash or the service we give, he can be a pain in the ass, and sometimes it’s best for business if he just leaves for awhile. But we don’t bust his balls for comin’ back. We say, ‘Motherfucker, welcome back!’ And we wash his fuckin’ car and try to help him get his shine back.

“Now get your ass inside and have some ribs and cornbread, before Mama gets pissed and starts throwin’ shit.”

 

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Filed under Religion

Wad was that?

Woke up in church the other day when I heard the phrase “shot my wad” uttered from the pulpit.

Got to hand it to the pastor for grabbing my attention with that one.   I believe he used it in the context of simply feeling finished or spent, rather than losing at the casino or forgetting to put a ball in his musket load. But he opened the door to male ejaculation.  Slipped it right into the sermon and moved on without even pausing for a cigarette.

Offended? Not me, but I couldn’t help looking for reaction from other parishioners.  Nothing but blanks.  No one wiping their forehead. Perhaps they were sleeping, too, with eyes open.  Good trick to master for the early service following a late-night Saturday adventure.

Then again, I was sitting near the back.  Maybe it was “taught by rod” or “fought my god” or something like that.

No, the man does not mumble. It was clearly “shot my wad.”  Could’ve sought clarification afterward, but didn’t want to come off like Pee Wee Herman or some sophomore in phys-ed.  Might have suggested objection to the pastor’s  earthiness.

I like a bit of earthiness with my godliness. Talk to me in language that I understand. On my own level.  Even if I’m only half-listening.

Had been sensing wax buildup in one ear. Pulpit squirt cleared that right up.

Closing hymn in my head as a I drove home: “Wad a friend we have in . . . “

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Filed under Religion