The Eye in the Sky

Tags

bible, big brother, feds, government overreach, Humor, news, social commentary

You’ve heard it said that big brother is watching you. But who is big brother and who are they watching? While scanning the news recently, I noticed this headline: Alarming Surveillance: Government May Have Tracked Your Transactions at These Common Stores. Who me? I’m well aware that big brothers, Google and Facebook, are watching me and monitoring my transactions, but there is an even more powerful big brother than those two. The federal government. However, I’m not surprised that the feds are monitoring its citizens. Because, surely, this monitoring (done in secret) is constitutional, isn’t it?

Intrigued, I read the full article. From a congressional investigation, the House Judiciary Committee found that the government, with the aid of financial institutions, flagged transactions using terms such as “MAGA” and “TRUMP,” in an effort to sniff out violent extremists. But it didn’t stop there. The feds also flagged purchases made at Dick’s, Bass Pro Shop, and Cabela’s, as well as purchases of religious texts, such as Bibles. Bibles! Oh, my! So, the government is monitoring Christian fishermen? Uh, oh! That’s me. I wondered in which of my Bass Pro Shop transactions they were most interested; was it the purchase of fifty, 1/64 ounce, unpainted jig heads, or was it the Shimano Sahara ultralight spinning reel?

I also wondered, if at the same time they were checking out all the Bible purchasers, they were also monitoring purchases of the Koran, since that text has certainly spurred on some violent extremists. And if they were looking at Bible purchases and religious text, then they must certainly have it out for those publishing religious material. Uh, oh! Busted again.

Should I be worried? Should I be waiting for a knock at my door, no, make it a swat team breaking down my door at 5:00 in the morning, to be dragged away and thrown in prison, never to see my family again? And is this kind of surveillance even legal? And does that even matter anymore? The legality of an operation doesn’t seem to be a hindrance to this bloated, behemoth, government bureaucracy. It seems to me, the government, like the song says, is “Looking for love violent extremists in all the wrong places.” If it were me, and I’m no law enforcement expert, I would be looking for violent extremists in violent extremist movements and organizations, such as ANTIFA or BLM or radical Islam. But that’s just me. After monitoring all those transactions and spending all that money, I wonder what conclusions were drawn by our benevolent big brother?

So, this is a warning to all you Bible reading, trout fishing, Bass Pro shopping, violent extremists; big brother is monitoring your every move. Watch it! And if they come after me, I’ll hit them over the head with my fly rod.

Bastardizing the English Language

Tags

adverbs, editing, grammar, Humor, misused words, overused words, slang, social commentary, speaking, teenagers, writing, writing-tips

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” Inigo Montoya     (from The Princess Bride)

The misuse or overuse of words is ubiquitous in today’s culture. Because I’m a writer, or maybe because I’m not “dope,” this current fad likely irritates me more than it does most people. If our morals, standards of excellence, and currency have all been degraded, why not our words and language? Let’s take a look at some of the most obvious. Many of these examples might be considered hyperbole.

Like: Conversing with my granddaughter over the Christmas break, I tried to count all the times she used the word “like” in a sentence or paragraph, but because I didn’t have a calculator handy, I was unable to keep up with her. Like used to mean “similar to,” “to have affection for,” and “as if,” but today the word has lost all meaning. In conversation, it has become a lazy substitute for “uh” and “um,” a mere filler word. Trying to break someone of this habit is near impossible. In My Fair Lady, Henry Higgins may have transformed Eliza Doolittle from Cockney girl to sophisticated nobility with elocution lessons, but I think he would have thrown up his hands in exasperation trying to extract the word, like, from a modern day teenager’s patois.

F—: This is the four letter word (the f-dash-dash-dash word) that escaped from Ralphie Parker’s mouth in A Christmas Story, and which led to him sucking on a bar of Lifebuoy soap as punishment (I once let slip the four letter s— word as a young boy and suffered the same fate, only mine was Ivory soap- 99 and 44/100% pure). What was once a vulgar, slang version of sexual intercourse, has now come to mean almost anything. This word is so versatile, it can be used as a noun, verb, adverb, or adjective, sometimes having multiple uses in the same sentence. If you doubt me on the noun usage, observe this dialogue from the movie Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels: “You don’t look like your average horti-f–ing-culturist.” As I said, versatile. Once used by only the lowest, most ignorant men on the social strata, it is now not unusual for this word to be heard coming out of the mouths of the elite in government and the private sector, and trickling all the way down to small children. Because the word has become so common, I’ve vowed to never use it in my writings.

Insane (crazy): It used to be that insanity only applied to the human species on rare occasions, and was used to describe a mental illness. Today, however, this adjective can be applied to unusual events, objects, or ideas. I might say that what the Democrats, and their titular head, are doing to this country is insane, and in the case of old Joe, I may be accurate in my assessment.

Unbelievable: Watch any sporting event and you will hear this word used to describe a run, catch, throw, block, tackle, interception, jump, or any other athletic feat. During any football game, you may hear the word used thirty times to describe what just transpired on the field of play. If I’ve seen it with my own eyes, it therefore can’t be unbelievable. I will help the broadcasters here and give them more appropriate words to choose from in these instances: extraordinary, stupendous, fantastic, incredible, awesome, fabulous, amazing; the list goes on. Unbelievable? The Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot may be unbelievable, but what I’ve seen occur on the field of play isn’t.

Cool: Cool may be going the way of “boss,” but it still resonates across most generations. Once the antonym for warm, cool became an adjective that meant interesting, admirable, agreeable, and could be applied to people, “He’s cool,” things, “That’s a cool car,” thoughts, “Your idea’s cool,” with its use fitting almost all situations. Conversely, there are just as many things that are uncool, “That’s not cool,” with the foremost being someone’s parents. Sometimes, using the word by itself is sufficient. If your friend walks into the room wearing his new Jordan 4 Retro SB ‘Pine Green’ sneakers, your response might simply be, “Cool!”

Super: If a typical adjective isn’t strong enough, cool for example, just add super. Super cool is more impressive than cool, but not quite as amazing as super, super cool. You aren’t just excited, you’re super excited. Superman, the guy with the red cape and S on his chest, is an accurate use of the word. A substitute for super, super is so, so, as in, “We are so, so excited that you are here, and we have a super cool gift for you out in the foyer.”

Racist: Used as a pejorative to silence someone’s speech, with the people slinging this word around willy-nilly, usually projecting their own biases. The truth is, everyone sees the world through a racial lens, and even if you are inclined to go through life color blind, those aiming to achieve power will constantly remind you of your differences. These power mad demagogues use other things to divide and conquer, male vs. female, homosexual vs. heterosexual, rich vs. poor, and religious vs. non-religious, but race is still their number one option. This word is misused and overused, for those accused of it rarely fit the definition of racism from Merriam Webster: a belief that race is a fundamental determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race.

Gay: This word once meant merry, bright, lively or happily excited. It then transitioned to a description of a homosexual lifestyle. Today, it can be used as an umbrella term for any number of sexual proclivities, other than heterosexual. Because the word’s meaning has changed over time, this word is not misused as much as it is overused. Using multiple definitions of the word, this question becomes quite confusing: Can a gay guy be gay?

Adverbs: These words often end in ly. Using adverbs is akin to raising your voice to get your point across. Rather than say, “He ran quickly to the store,” (the speed is assumed from the word ran), “He ran to the store,” is a more precise description of the event. If you read any modern day writers, you will often notice the overuse of adverbs. The following advice on adverb use was given by my literary hero, Mark Twain. “Substitute ‘damn’ every time you’re inclined to write ‘very;’ your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.” If you want to say, “I’m extremely tired,” a more accurate phrase, without the adverb, would be, “I’m famished,” or “I’m starving.” The word, “actually,” which my granddaughter uses often, is an example of an overused adverb, as are super (see above), very, truly, really, and extremely. You will often see these words used as “clickbait” and in marketing campaigns.

Literally: OMG! Like, I literally posted this blog and forgot to add the word literally. Unbelievable! OMG! I can’t believe I forgot. That’s insane. Literally. I can’t believe I spaced. Literally, of all the words in this post that fit the Inigo Montoya observation, this is it. Literally. But everything’s fine. It’s all good. Super cool. Literally.

Mark Twain on choosing the correct word: “Use the right word, not its second cousin.”

When the Shoe Was on the Other Foot

Tags

having to confess, Humor, kids, learning a lesson, little boys, mischief, theft

“History doesn’t repeat itself, but it does rhyme.”

(Above quote often attributed to Mark Twain)

I have many memories from my twenty-six year retail career, but one in particular stands out. This incident took place at the Houston, MO, Wal-Mart, back in the early 1980s. At the time, I was an Assistant Store Manager and was often referred to as the MOD or Manager on Duty, which meant that the buck stopped with me, whatever the crisis. That day, I was called to the front of the store to see a woman who had asked to, “Speak with the store manager.” Being MOD at the time, I drew the short straw. I dreaded those calls, knowing that they usually turned out to be someone with a complaint. Nevertheless, I went to the service desk and met a woman there. Alongside her was a small boy, maybe age 5 or 6, clinging to his mother’s coat, trying to hide behind her leg. When she asked to speak with me in private, I led her and the boy up into the cash office, a few steps up and behind the service desk.

[Back in those simpler times, the cash office, where all the day’s receipts were counted, you know, the thousands of dollars in cash, was located at the front of the store, protected on four sides by a plywood wall, with no ceiling, making it easy pickings for someone intent on robbery. You might as well have hung a huge arrow, with flashing lights, above the office, with a loudspeaker announcing, “Cash office. Right here. Lots of cash. No security.” It’s amazing we were never robbed.]

The mother pulled me aside, away from the boy, whose eyes, full of fear, roamed the interior of the unfamiliar place. She whispered in my ear that her son had pilfered something from the store and that he wanted to confess to me what he’d done. After observing his dirty, tear streaked face, I suspected his confession was being made under duress. I imagined quite the scene out in the car, when the boy’s mother, while pulling out of the parking lot, realized that her son was clinging to an item from the store that was not on her receipt. She also let me know that she would appreciate it if I sent a strong message to the boy, so he wouldn’t be inclined to repeat his egregious offense.

*****

About that time, a scene from twenty years earlier entered my mind. It happened on my front lawn, in the town of Santa Fe Springs, CA. I was age 5 or 6 at the time. I was playing in the front yard with my new knife; no, it wasn’t a real one. It was made of rubber, with the blade colored gray and the handle red. My little brother, Timmy, wanted to play with the knife, but I was being stingy. Frustrated, he confronted me and said (he had trouble enunciating his Rs, Ls, and Ws), “Wonnie, wheh did you get youh knife?”

Struggling for an answer, I said, “I bought it.” I was a known liar.

He said, “Wonnie, wheh did you get youh money?”

I said the only thing left to say, “Shut up, Timmy.”

That didn’t faze him. “I’m tewhing Mommy,” he cried, and off he ran, into the house. As the front door of the house slammed shut, I did the only thing I knew to do; I threw the knife onto the roof of the house.

The next thing I knew, Mom was out in the front yard, with her finger pointing in my face, saying, “Your brother told me you have a toy knife. I didn’t buy it for you, so where did you get it and where is it?”

I lied again. “I found it.” I was not only a known liar, but I was also terrible at it.

Mom said, “Don’t you lie to me, or your punishment will be worse,” and I noticed her eyeing the nearest tree for a handy disciplinary tool, the dreaded switch. Now caught, I did what I usually did; I cried. But to no avail. “Ronnie, tell me right now where that knife is, or when your father gets home you’ll wish you had.” I had a feeling I was doomed whether I told her or not.

I tried to keep the knife’s whereabouts a secret, but soon my eyes wandered to the roof of the house, and so did Mom’s. “You climb up on that house, right now, and get that knife. I’m taking you back to the store and you’re going to tell them what you’ve done.” As I went into the garage to retrieve the ladder, I gave my brother a dirty look. He stuck his tongue out at me and giggled.

True to her word, Mom drove me down the street to the local 5&10 cent store. While she remained in the car, I guess she was too embarrassed to join me, I went inside to return the knife and confess. After the clerk called the manager to the front of the store, and he asked me what I wanted, I handed him the knife and said, “I took your knife. Here, you can have it back,” and ran out of the store, glancing over my shoulder the entire way back to the car. Upon entering the car, I said, “Let’s get out of here!”

When we pulled into the driveway, Mom stopped the car and pointed to the nearest tree. Having me choose the instrument of my punishment was brutal, as if taking the knife back to the store wasn’t punishment enough. And then Dad came home. Dad wasn’t a switch man. He had other methods.

*****

After the mom nudged the little boy forward, he finally approached me, so I scooted my chair closer to him, to better look him in the eyes. His hair was unruly, with several cowlicks sticking up, and his clothes were disheveled. He looked as if he might have been playing outside all morning. I smiled inside, knowing that I, too, had once been a criminal like him. When he finally overcame his fear, he spoke to me in a near whisper, so I had to lean in close. While he was in the middle of his mea culpa, I noticed something about him that I hadn’t earlier; his tennis shoes were on the wrong feet!

It took all of my strength to keep from bursting out in laughter, but I fought hard to maintain my composure, knowing my role and his mother’s expectations. I gently but firmly told him, “Son, if you start down that lost highway, living a life of crime, you’ll end up getting arrested and thrown into a dirty, stinking prison, rotting away the rest of your life, never to see your family again.” No, that’s not what I told him. But I did send him a firm message, while at the same time letting him off the hook, by telling him that when I was his age, I had made a similar mistake, and took something from the store that didn’t belong to me. When the two of them left the cash office, his mom was relieved, I was relieved, and the little boy nearly skipped out the door. I wonder whatever happened to that kid? You can guess what happened to this one.

Cyber Monday Gift Ideas

Tags

a very strange summer, Always a Little Heathen, books, Christmas gifts, cyber monday, holiday gifts, Little Heathens, Lost Highway, pondering God, the boat, the complete works (as far as you know), the gift of reading

With another holiday gift giving season upon us, and with Black Friday, or should I say, Black November in full swing, Cyber Monday draws near. Do you have your Christmas shopping done? If not, I have some suggestions. How about the gift of reading? Here are some great ideas.

Little Heathens is a hilarious retelling of my early childhood in Santa Fe Springs, CA, with me being the main protagonist and biggest challenge for parents and teachers, along with my three siblings being the remainder of the little heathens and my co-conspirators in mischief. If you like to laugh, and whether or not you enjoyed your childhood, you’ll like this book. Once upon a time, there were no helicopter moms and kids roamed throughout the neighborhood freely, not worrying about all things safe. The questions you’ll find yourself asking as you read this book are, how many hours can one kid spend in the principal’s office; how many hours can one kid spend standing outside the classroom, banished from the rest of the class; and what offense would a kid have to commit to be yanked out of school and driven home by the principal, to be dropped on his mother’s doorstep in the middle of the school day (he drove a Volkswagen bug, by the way)?

Always a Little Heathen is the follow up to Little Heathens and picks up where the first book ends. The summer after fourth grade, my family relocated to a small Missouri Ozarks town, and the contrast with sunny, southern California was, for me, like Dorothy leaving Kansas and discovering Oz, only in reverse in my case. Again, as in the first book, I’m the central character, but as I age, my friends take the place of my siblings, and the stories move from grade school into junior and senior high school. Still a challenge for parents and teachers, my mischievous hijinks aren’t as innocent as they once were, and much of the trouble I find myself in is no longer cute or funny. Many people will describe the teen years as full of angst and uncertainty, and they were certainly that. But I had a blast.

After writing the first two books, I ran out of material, or at least that which was fit to print. I then turned my writing efforts to fiction, with The Boat being my first offering. I found that all those stories I left out of the memoirs, due to embarrassment or not being fit for family reading, I could insert into my fiction stories, with no one being the wiser. The Boat, described in one word, is intense. It is the story of three best friends and their coming of age adventures in junior high and high school. The focus in this tale are Alec, Jason, and Robby, and their friendship and loyalty through difficult times, and later, how each of their lives inevitably diverge as they come to the end of their school days and grow into men. You’ll cheer for the boys and hate the bad guys and maybe along the way remember your teen years. Of all my books, this is my wife’s favorite.

If The Boat is an intense read, then Lost Highway is sentimental. This book was inspired by my father’s life (he died before it was published) and tells the tale of a family; a history, a lineage, a father, a son, and a grandson. Paths traveled, destinations met. Three generations of the Autry family and how their pasts have shaped their lives today. If you’re looking for the adventurous feeling and a story that traverses three generations, this is it! And don’t forget the Kleenex. 

One word to describe A Very Strange Summer is fun. Brothers Charlie and Reggie (ages 13 and 15) join their cousin Josh (age 13), along with their dad and uncles, on a summer canoeing/camping trip down in the Ozark Hills. At first, it’s all about swimming, fishing, campfires, and ghost stories. But things take a dark turn when the boys stumble upon a remote compound that stores a huge cache of weapons in hidden bunkers, along with a massive crop of illegal drugs. Along the way, Charlie meets Casey, a mysterious, elusive girl that only he can see, who persuades him to help her catch a murderer. This is a coming of age, mystery/thriller that you won’t want to put down once you start.

In the midst of my fiction writing, God called me in a different direction. Pondering God is the result. Hebrews 4:12 describes the word of God as “living and active and sharper than a two-edged sword.” The Bible is full of stories of people and their lives, not just words on a page. They are stories of living, breathing men and women, there for our learning, for inspiration, and to challenge us in our faith. My book describes how those stories and lives from God’s word have impacted my life over my 40 years of following Jesus. This is a book that takes the mystery and majesty of God and applies it to the life of a simple man. Theologians and seminarians won’t like it, seeing it as too low brow, but the common man will relate. And that’s the point. God spoke his word, written down by common men, so that the common man could relate to him. The life of Jesus was a life of God coming down to interact with the common man. If you want to see how God’s word and the life of his Son has impacted one man’s life, then this book is for you.

When my son, Ron, died in November of 2020, I committed to gathering his poetry, art, and music (yes, there is a QR Code inside the book giving access to one hundred songs) and compiling it into one volume. The Complete Works (as far as you know) is the result. If you enjoy free verse poetry, abstract art, and eclectic music and song, you will like this book. The cover of the book will certainly give you an idea of the art content. The proceeds from the sale of this book go to his daughter.

Although I’m a decent writer and storyteller, I’m a lousy self-promoter. I very much enjoyed writing all of my books, as well as reading each of them several times, and if you choose to buy one for yourself or someone else, I know you or they will also enjoy the experience as much as I have. If one of them catches your interest, just click on the link and it will take you to Amazon.

The Letter Jacket

Tags

Always a Little Heathen, Humor, junior high school, letter jacket, teenagers

On my early morning walk today, I noticed a boy standing on the driveway in front of his house, with the ubiquitous backpack slung over his shoulder. I suddenly realized it was the first day of school (which might explain all the school buses driving around the neighborhood). Guessing his approximate age, my mind drifted back to junior high and my seventh grade year. Most people remember their junior high years as quite a challenge, but I remember them as fun, and I find much humor in how I reacted to this tumultuous time in my life. This excerpt from my book, Always a Little Heathen, is the story of me, after making the football team and earning my first letter, wearing my letter jacket to school for the first time.

I ended up being a starter on the football team for the entire season, even though not at the position I desired. Being a starter entitled me to something that all boys who compete in school sports desire: the coveted “letter.” I informed Dad of my triumph, and he presented me with a choice, letter sweater or letter jacket, and explained the benefits and drawbacks of both. I weighed the options and chose the letter jacket. Bright-green body and white leather sleeves with green and white stripes around the cuffs. I could hardly wait for the letter to arrive so that Mom could sew it on and I could proudly wear it to school. Along with the letter, I also received a brass-colored football and single bar to indicate one season of credit, which were attached to the letter prior to sewing it on the jacket.

The day arrived for me to wear my new jacket to school, and my plans were almost ruined. Dad caught me as I was heading out the door for my daily walk to school, and he said, “Son, I see you’re wearing your letter jacket to school today. The weather forecast said it’s going to be a warm one today, topping out in the upper 60s.” The weather forecast didn’t faze me, and I would not be deterred, my mind was made up. I responded, “That’s okay, Dad, I get a little chilly this time of year. Besides, I’m wearing a short-sleeved shirt, so the jacket will come in handy.” Dad wasn’t one to miss an opportunity to let me learn from my mistakes, so he relented, and I wore the jacket to school.

In the hallway prior to class, I was aware of all the stares, or so I imagined, and the envious looks from those who didn’t have a letter jacket (the stares were actually from those who couldn’t believe I had worn such a heavy coat on a warm day). Prior to first hour, as everyone stowed sweaters and windbreakers in their lockers for the day, I decided that I would keep my jacket on—all day. It was a little warm in the school, but it was always possible that the weather could take a turn for the worse.

Most of the teachers allowed me to go about my business without making a comment, even though I was the only kid in class wearing an outer garment, and I made it all the way to seventh hour before I was exposed. Once everyone was seated after the bell, the teacher, Miss Biggs, approached me in front of the entire class and said, “Ronnie, isn’t it a little hot in here for that warm jacket? After all, your face is flushed, and there are beads of sweat rolling down both of your hairless sideburns.”

Like the Hans Christian Andersen tale, The Emperor’s New Clothes, with Miss Biggs as the little child and me as the Emperor, what everyone could see, but what no one dared to speak, was that I was wearing a letter jacket in a room where the temperature was seventy degrees Fahrenheit. The curtain was pulled back, and the truth was finally revealed. I was humiliated. I had desired attention, but not this kind. All the glory that I had basked in the entire day was suddenly turned to embarrassment. The spotlight had been turned up, and I melted under the glare.

The Deep End

Tags

high dive, kids, lifeguards, mischief, swimming pool

“Ron, you think too much.” 

How can a person think too much? And what happens to your brain if you do? And what differentiates a deep thinker from a shallow one? As an introvert, I’m naturally engaged in much introspection, and have a relentlessly running monologue occupying my mind. I frequently have thoughts of eternity, of God and Satan, good and evil, heaven and hell, of what my legacy might be when I’m gone, of why one man dies at age forty and another lives to ninety-eight, as opposed to shallow thoughts, such as what Meghan Markle wore at the coronation of King Charles III. When it comes to thinking, I’ve always preferred the deep end of the pool, as the following story illustrates (this story first appeared in my book, Little Heathens):

When we were kids, my brother, sisters, and I lived in sunny, southern California. To give herself a break and get us out of the house during the warm summer months, Mom would give each of us a quarter and send us walking up Dunning Street for two blocks, and then across Orr and Day Road to the public pool, located at the local high school. By the time we arrived, we were hot and sweaty, with the bottoms of our bare feet sizzling after hot footing it across the sun-drenched pavement, and the awaiting cool water of the pool kept us focused, and prohibited any dilly dallying along the way, something I’m sure Mom anticipated. 

Even though we referred to it as “the pool,” it was actually two pools, with a cement divider separating the kiddy pool, three to four feet deep, from the big kid’s pool, the one with diving boards, and a maximum depth of twelve feet (perfect for diving for rocks and pennies). You couldn’t swim from one pool to the other, but you could walk (I’d heard the lifeguard blow their whistle and yell, “No running!” often enough to get the point) from one to the other. In addition to the physical barrier, there was an invisible barrier that didn’t allow little kids access to the big pool, an unwritten law of sorts.  

At seven years of age, I didn’t get the memo and decided to sneak over there and join the big kids, with the high dive having a particular attraction for me. I saw the kiddy pool as boring, with moms and babies galore, and viewed the big pool as where all the action was, the laughing and shouting and diving and bombing off the boards. Being sure to walk, not run, across the demilitarized zone, I quickly tiptoed, unnoticed, past the lifeguard chair and got in line with the rest of the kids for the high dive (being smaller than the others in line, the lifeguard couldn’t spot me amongst the crowd). The looks I received from the teenagers, nearly deterred me from my mission. I heard grumbles, “What are you doing over here, kid. You belong in the kiddy pool,” but I said nothing in return, and just stood there wet and shivering, my lips purple and trembling, with my arms folded across my chest, and waited my turn. As each succeeding kid took their turn off the board, I climbed the ladder one nervous step at a time, and I made sure to avoid eye contact with the lifeguard, even though she was cute.  

My apprehension mounted as I finally reached the top step, and when I glanced down at the water below, it hit me. “This high dive is high!” I found myself in the same predicament as the dog who chased the car and finally caught it. Now what? Standing on the actual board, I was stuck, with one kid in front of me and a line of kids behind. When the last boy in front of me left the board, I inched my way out to the end. I guess in my excitement I hadn’t considered what I would do once I made it to my destination. I was too afraid to dive. I didn’t know how to do a cannonball or a figure four. Flips and other tricks were not yet in my repertoire, so I stood frozen on the end of the board, trying to convince myself to jump. 

About the time the grumbling from behind me escalated, “Hurry up kid, we ain’t got all day,” and overcame the rest of the pool noises, squealing kids, splashes, laughter, and the occasional yelling parent, I heard a loud blast from the lifeguard’s whistle, “Phweet! Phweet!” After a second blast, I looked around to see what was causing all the fuss and noticed the lifeguard pointing her finger at me. “Get off the board,” she yelled. It was as if a hush fell over the entire pool and all eyes were focused on me. Confused, I said, “Why? What did I do?” I received no answer, other than another blast from the whistle and a finger pointing at a spot beneath her chair.  

I found that climbing down from the board was much harder than climbing up, with turning around being the most difficult part. Did I mention that the high dive was really high?! As I slowly turned around, the other kids parted, much like the Red Sea for Moses, and let me inch my way down to the pavement, gripping the rail tightly as I went. Once on solid ground, I made my way over to the lifeguard chair. Shielding my eyes from the sun, and with tears streaming down my cheeks from embarrassment, I waited for my punishment to be meted out. The teenage girl said to me, for all the world to hear, “You don’t belong over here kid, you’re too little. Go back to the kiddy pool.” 

My heart was crushed, and I had no response other than to do what I was told. After I returned to the kiddy pool, I sat on the edge, bored out of my mind, and dangled my feet in the water, crying tears of disappointment and shame. Hearing and seeing all the fun happening over at the other pool made my purgatory worse. Before long, another lifeguard, on her break, joined me at the pool’s edge. She asked me why I was crying, and when I told her, she said something that lightened my spirit and gave me hope. She told me that if I could swim across the pool and back, I would be allowed to go back to the big kid’s pool. I’d never done it and wasn’t sure if I could, but I was motivated and made it on my first try. 

Soon, I was back at the big pool, standing in line once again, and the sneers from the older kid’s no longer bothered me. I was now one of them. I’d earned the right to be there, which led me to stand a little taller and stick my chest (what there was of it) out a little further. But the big test was yet to come. Jumping off the high dive. While the line progressed, I had plenty of time to think about it, which in some ways made it worse. But I wasn’t going to chicken out after coming this far. When I finally stood on the end of the board, I felt every eye in the pool was focused on me. The butterflies in my stomach were flapping their wings like crazy, but I was determined. I sucked in a big gulp of air and jumped. As my feet slapped the water and I plunged beneath the surface, a huge grin formed on my face, remaining there for the rest of the day. I resurfaced triumphant; I’d done it! I couldn’t help but notice that the previously hostile faces around the pool were now impressed. I quickly swam to the side of the pool and made sure to exit beneath the lifeguard’s chair. Climbing out of the water, I flashed her a grin. She returned my smile with one of her own and gave me a thumbs up. However, being in her good graces didn’t last long.  

As I ran (oops!) toward the diving board, I heard the familiar, “Phweet! Phweet! No running, kid!” and then a voice telling me to report to the lifeguard’s chair. “I told you there is no running around the pool. And since you won’t listen, you’re going to have to sit out for fifteen minutes.” She likely didn’t realize that sitting beneath her chair, for me, wasn’t really punishment. As I said earlier, she was cute. And so, I spent the next fifteen minutes casting furtive glances her way. When I was finally released from my temporary jail cell, I spent the rest of the day bombing and jumping off the boards, diving for pennies in the deep end, and generally having a blast.  

So, while others prefer to stay in the shallow end of the pool, thinking about Taylor Swift, Apple EarPods, and the newest sensation on TikTok, I’ll have a blast in the deep end, thinking about man’s inhumanity to man, the source of life, and why the universe expands.

*If you liked this story, you might like my book, Little Heathens.

A Lengthening Shadow

As I walk into the evening sun, I notice my shadow stretching out behind me. The shadow representing the life I’ve lived; that which lies behind. My shadow has now grown larger than me. As the sun lowers on the horizon, I see the end point, something that in my younger days eluded me, but is now drawing nearer with each step I take. As the sun sinks, my shadow lengthens, the more I leave behind. When the setting sun finally fades to ground, so too my earthly life will end. And the lengthened shadow will be all that remains.

Lover or Fighter?

Tags

Always a Little Heathen, fighting

I mentioned earlier, that in most of my fights, I was the underdog, and for the most part, that’s true. I usually didn’t start a fight, but certainly finished plenty of them. I realize that my pounding of Mike (from earlier in the chapter) makes me look like the bully, but based on what he and his friends had put me through, I felt justified in what I’d done. There is one notable exception to the underdog role, and it involved a boy named Steve. Steve and I shared an afternoon shop class, and for some reason, I decided to pick on him. Maybe I had finally come to the conclusion that it was better to be the tormentor than the tormented. Another possibility is that due to the domination of my most recent opponent, I was fourteen at the time and undefeated in all my previous fights, I guess I had become cocky and overly sure of myself, and began to think I was unbeatable, ala Mike Tyson prior to Buster Douglas (and we all know what happened to Iron Mike in that fight). Like me, Steve had a long fuse, and my taunting had been going on for weeks. I made fun of his last name, and was merciless in my teasing. Steve was silent and usually chose to respond by ignoring me. This, in turn, increased my aggression, as I now perceived him as soft.

One day, as we were leaving class and walking down the hall, I began taunting Steve, who was walking just ahead of me. He stopped and turned around, and with fists clenched at his side, he said to me, “Stop teasing me!” I was taken aback by his sudden aggression, but not enough to back off. As we stood toe-to-toe, I too was in a defensive posture, trying to decide just what to do. My decision, like many others, wasn’t a good one, and after a few more words were exchanged, I decided to strike the first blow. My aggressive haymaker missed its mark as Steve quickly pulled his head back out of harm’s way (rope-a-dope?), and I left myself wide-open for the punch that followed. Steve hit me with a solid jab that landed square on the bridge of my nose, and the pain that ensued ran down to my toes, and I dropped my hands to my sides—tears running down my cheeks. If Howard Cosell had been there, he could have done a reprise of his famous call in the Frazier-Foreman fight, only substituting Bay for Frazier. “Down goes Bay! Down goes Bay! Down goes Bay!” [Even though Frazier actually went down six times, I suppose Cosell figured three times was enough, not wanting to pile on poor Joe.] The doctor’s visit later indicated that despite the pain, my nose was not broken. A crowd had gathered around us, and the commotion drew the attention of one of the coaches. As the coach approached us and figured out what had happened, he offered to take us both into the gym and have us finish the fight with boxing gloves.

In the movie The Quiet Man , there is a climactic fight scene between Sean Thornton, played by John Wayne, and “Red Will” Danaher, played by Victor McLaglen. At one point, they take a time-out from the fighting and retire to the local public house to share a drink. As they quietly sip their beers, the topic of their fight comes up, and Danaher, in a defensive mood, says, “Mind you, I’m fresh as a daisy!” Thornton off-handedly interjects, “You look more like a black-eyed Susan to me.” At which point, the fight resumes, and Thornton shortly KO’s Danaher.

As far as I was concerned, the fight was over. I was definitely the black-eyed Susan, and Steve, having only thrown one punch, was as “fresh as a daisy.” Surprisingly, Steve, who could have taken advantage of the situation, much to my relief, declined the offer to put on gloves and continue the altercation. Joe Frazier would find out that same year that there is always somebody tougher or luckier than you; it’s just a matter of time.

From that day forward, I never teased Steve again; in fact, I don’t believe I ever said another word to him. My lesson had been learned the hard way. I knew all along that I had been in the wrong, but needed to experience how it felt to be on the receiving end of a good beating. Although I would fight again, never would I start the fight and never would I lose another one.

*This is an excerpt from my book Always a Little Heathen and a chapter titled “A Fighter Not a Lover.” If you like this story, you might like more. Find the book here.

Living a Dream

Tags

art, living a dream, poetry, ron iii, writing

Enjoy the art. Read along and listen to Ron as he sings, “Living a Dream.”

From The Complete Works (as far as you know).

(All proceeds from the sale of this book go to Ron’s daughter, Cara.)

Listen here.

Living A Dream*

and we’re living a dream

not everything is what it seems

like a vacuum a scheme

stuck inside this cloud

with me to call your own

elevating through the red line

icy breaths are seen

standing atop the waiting bench

warmth from the pseudo sun to receive

but the chills penetrate the bone

the loudspeakers want to send you home

ready to explode with political propaganda

into your ears to wake you from a distant sleep

distant chimes memories so kind

oxygen dreaming yearning tenacity

and we’re living a dream

not everything is what it seems

like a vacuum a scheme

stuck inside this cloud

with me to call your own

you’re soothed and warmed by her smile

the budded rose, you go, unable to refuse

the gram cracker could go stale with postponement

you must eat it while it’s in your hands

no longer a tear drop amongst the salty sea

swaying slow with a gently subtlety

just a continuance of possibilities

lift the vale throw away the scream

what will be they say will be

let her comfort you

in the times you feel alone

and we’re living a dream……………

Jibberish

Tags

art, jibberish, music, poetry, reggie dunlop, roniii

Listen to and follow along with Ron as he recites, “Jibberish.”

From The Complete Works (as far as you know).

(All proceeds from the sale of this book go to Ron’s daughter, Cara.)

Listen here

(Oh, and you be who you be, and I’ll be who I be)

jibberish*

it’s a joke shared between two

wrong or right is just another point of view

the city’s gray, the sky is creeping down

what will you say when it comes around?

a list of maybes and broken toys

a constant trend inside this perpetual noise

this time of year reminds me of…(a drug)…how they missed

i never caught a slug

who’s your fam, with all the strangers in your face?

frigid air from the clouds you can’t escape

the tools we use to create / destroy vacant words

to reflect the trap door

that’s right, this light is much too bright

airtight your bite, frightened by the height

invite the sight, ghost write then unite

neophyte despite the plight of electrolytes

amend the end, my friends are pretend,

unbend and defend, suspend and comprehend

ascend the trend, begin don’t depend

godsend this pen so to transcend

i wanna write myself a silly lil’ pop song

so all the kids can sing along

feel inside that they belong

smiling, saying “word”

a reminder of myself back then

nightmares and dreamscapes, it’s all the same

entertain this thought and see what remains

cause you be who you be, and I’ll be who i be, and they

be who they be, cause they be who we be