The Worst Dish

I love to cook. My cookbook collection while small covers the entire food spectrum. Some are classics that have been in print for years, while others are fad books, which have yet to stand the test of time. My personal favorite is "The New Wolf in Chef's Clothing", written during a period where men were not expected to know how to cook at home unless they were burning steaks on the grill. Each recipe is portrayed through the use of pictures very few words are thrown into the mix. I have not learned much about cooking from this book but I have had many a laugh.

Most of my cooking is done from memory and by discovery. I have many memories of hours spent in my grandmother and mother's kitchen. Watching them prepare dishes from all over the world. I can recreate most of what I learned but my mother still makes the best-damned fried chicken on the planet. Cookbooks and cooking shows also provide me with inspiration, which I take into the kitchen to add my own sense of pizzazz.

Like most chef's I believe that I have more successes than failures. But when I do fail I fail spectacularly. Several years ago I came across a recipe that called for baking a corned beef rather than boiling it. I figured what the hay and gave it the old cooking school try. Basically the recipe called for the corned beef to receive several baths as it was cooking to wash away the salt. I followed the recipe to a "T" and what I created was on of the truly uneatable dishes of all time. It was horrid. So horrid that even our dog Shasta turned her nose up at it and actually whimpered and hid in the corner after one taste.

Left Behind

He found her heart sitting on a bench in Golden Gate Park. It was right where the one before him had left it. When he first saw it sitting there it was hardly recognizable. Somewhat tattered, its edges would be caught up in the breeze coming off of San Francisco Bay and for a moment it seemed it would soar away, a kite with nothing left to celebrate. As he drew closer he saw through the dust and neglect, he saw the beauty hidden beneath the pain. Within his chest he could feel his own heart crying out with primeval sorrow at the damage done to this unique and fragile flower. Upon reaching the bench he saw that her heart was trembling, crying tears of what could have been. He wanted to reach out to her but he was afraid that in this state her heart would turn to ash and the ashes would dance with the wind only to be scattered upon the rocks of Alcatrez. So, removing the bandages that protected his own abandoned heart he offered them to her. He gently, and with tender loving care wrapped her heart for her and placed it back into her weary hands. Smiling, she softly kissed his still tender heart. As she disappeared into the fog she left but one word behind, "maybe".

A Dog Named George

He never wanted to have another dog. After Muffett died and Muffett II was stolen he said enough was enough. But than George wondered into their world. He just showed up in their backyard one day and never left.

George was a mutt. Even the vet was not sure what breeds had contributed to his creation. What little hair he had was short, stiff and brown. He was not a large dog, he weighed about 25 pounds soaking wet. He would have never won a beauty contest or best of show but he was a warm and loving friend.

He wanted to send George away but the children would not have it and their mother agreed. So George became part of the family. No one ever saw him pet the dog, or call the dog, or even acknowledge the dog's existence. However, he never chased George away.

The two youngest children were especially close to George. They wrestled with him, chased him and he always slept at the end of one of their beds. It was as if he felt on obligation to protect them from things that go bump in the night.

As the children grew older George would follow them everywhere. It was as if he sensed that someday the children would leave and he did not want to miss out on a single moment.

One night the children went jogging and George followed. They had an argument, as kids often do, so they were running on opposite sides of the street. George was not one to take sides so he was running back and forth between the kids when a car hit him.

They brought him to the vet and he said there was little hope. He told the family that putting George to sleep might be the best choice. The children would have none of that and their mother agreed. So finally, against his better judgment he told the vet to save him. Several operations later George was allowed to come home.

For the first month George hardly ate or moved about the house. The children tried everything but George seemed to have lost the will to live.

He never really asked about George and seemed to be indifferent to his condition. However, one night he returned late from work and he thought he was the only one awake. Quietly, he opened a doggy bag and removed a large piece of prime rib. He methodically sliced the meat into small dog-sized pieces. He got down on the floor and began to hand feed the meat to George one bite at a time.

Following, that evening George began to improve. Before long he was out and about catching up on the latest happenings in the neighborhood. He was never as spry as is younger self but he still lived life to the fullest.

I never mentioned to my step dad that I had seen him feeding George. What I had witnessed though changed our relationship in a subtle way. I had always thought of my step dad as being cold and distant, someone without emotions. But after that night I realized that he had a warm and loving heart, he just was not comfortable enough to share that heart with the rest of the world.

no more

emptiness
misunderstood
without thought or reason
turn away
the emptiness is
not for lack of thought
a place to hide
feelings and fears
from the ego
the internal self
grappling with desires
a need to express
dreams
lacking thought
what is the reason
for baring the soul
will the creator
be understood
reciting the words
inscribed on the stone
memories
of yesterday
a wasted youth
misspent years
no emotion
stoic and hard
for want of love
understanding and desire
unfulfilled
still swimming
against the current
no more

d.s. brueckner
2004

Nana Part 1

In November her memory began to fade. The TV left on when she went to bed. A burner still lit on the stove when she had finished her meal. Keys left in the door when she returned from the store. It is nothing she thought, just old age beginning to catch up with me.

She sat in the front window, with the late afternoon sunlight streaming over her shoulder and warming her bones. On her lap sat a bible, King James version, which she tried to read when the day's work was done. Often she would find herself looking around, frowning, and trying to recall what it was she had just read. Returning to the page did not seem to help, as she was no longer able to recognize the simplest of words. So she returned the bible to the book shelf promising to try again tomorrow.

She continued to attend Wednesday meetings at her senior club but the conversations became increasingly frustrating. A friend would ask her about yesterday's events and her mind would draw a blank. She remembered her childhood, she even remembered driving from Missouri to California in 1926, just her and her best friend exploring the back roads of America. For the life of her though her memory of current activities was nonexistent, which filled her eyes with tears of despair. So she withdrew from the club and began spending her Wednesday afternoons at home, sitting in front of the television watching reruns of The Golden Girls.

What scared her the most was not recognizing the friends and family that she was closest to. One Sunday she went to mass with her oldest grandson. He took her to breakfast and to the grocery store and helped her put away her purchases. She was sitting with him on her back porch drinking coffee when suddenly she had no idea who he was. Why is this person on my porch? Who is he? Should I scream? Should I call the police? Before she could act on any of these wild ideas her memory came back into focus and she remembered whom he was. It did not happen everyday but when it did she had to use all of her composure to sit with the person and pretend like everything was just fine.

Her life was becoming a daily battle, she was fighting as hard as she could to hold on to her memories. It was a battle she found herself losing more often than naught. She mailed her payment to the gas company but forgot to enclose the check in the envelope. One morning she found her glasses on the butter dish in the refrigerator and had no recollection of putting them there. The money counters from her church called asking about her most recent donation. The envelope she had deposited was filled with tissue paper, in looking around her house she found the twenty-dollar bill she had meant to place in the collection box wadded up and thrown in the wastebasket.

Now each and every night before bed she struggled to hold on to her most precious memories. When she said her prayers she begged God to spare her the loss of her sense of self. Please Lord, she would cry, anything but that. However, being a Christian woman who had always placed complete faith in her creator she inevitably ended her prayers with a solemn "thy will be done."

Grandma Spelta

I never knew her younger hands. The hands unscarred by life. When I was born her hands had already seen eighty-two years.

All the same they were beautiful hands. They represented all that she had seen and done in her lifetime. Each line, each wrinkle could tell a tale of a place visited, a road traveled or a home built.

Her nails were always neat, clean and trimmed. She never, ever wore nail polish. For, as she was fond of saying that is not how things were done in the old country.

Some of my first memories were of her hands at work. She was sitting in front of the fireplace her glasses perched upon the end of her nose. On her lap rested a skein or two of colorful yarn. In my young imagination she appeared to be a magician at work, her knitting needles her magic wands. What began, as a skein of yarn would before my eyes transform into a pair of socks, a scarf or a sweater.

I developed my love of cooking, especially Italian dishes, from watching her work in the kitchen. Everything she cooked she made from scratch and the food she prepared was seasoned with love. I can see her now with her sleeves rolled up, flour coating her arms to the elbow, while she gently kneaded the dough that she would bake into a savory loaf of bread.

My most treasured memories of her came from watching bedtime preparations. Her hands, those instruments of creation, would remove the pins from her white hair. When down her hair was in my mind as long as Rapunzel's. She would sit in front of her vanity and brush her hair with an antique silver brush; every night one hundred strokes no more no less. When she was finished her hair reflected the lamplight like the moon reflects the sun. Next she would open a bottle of her favorite cream, a gift from one of her son's, and she would rub it into the crack and wrinkles covering her wise hands.

Finally, she would kneel at the end of the bed. Her hands would come together, fingers intertwined; she would close her eyes and begin her evening prayers, in Latin. My sleep filled eyes would close and I would float away on the sound of those ancient words coming from her lips as she recited the Lord's Prayer.

Armageddon

ARMAGEDDON!!!

Armageddon had come to Southern California. A low-pressure system is stalled over the Pacific Ocean and is expected, "GASP", to bring rain to Los Angeles for the next three to four days.

I know, I know, those of you who live where there are real weather concerns fail to see the significance of this announcement. You may be digging yourself out from a blizzard. The river may be rising and the authorities may at this moment be imploring you to leave for higher ground. There may even be a tornado or a hurricane heading your way.

But this is Southern California the land of the Beach Boys, Baywatch and fun in the sun. People who live here pay their taxes expecting to see the sun 365 days per year. If there is even a threat of rain civilization as we know it comes to a standstill.

First of all every TV station goes on immediate storm watch. They break out their doplar radars and in hushed but serious tones announce that they are on STORM WATCH 2004. Even a single cloud is treated as if it were the precursor to the great flood. Cameramen and reporters are sent to locations through out the southland to report on the "storm". They have their heavy duty rain gear on even before the storm as arrived.

When and if a raindrop actually comes into contact with the ground the civilians freak out. Most of the drivers suddenly suffer a bad case of amnesia and forget how to drive. (Of course if you have ever driven here most drivers probably have very little skills to forget.) The freeways that surround the city become deadlocked. Nothing moves. Brake lights can be seen for miles. Commutes which normally take forty-five minutes take three-hours.

Basically life here becomes ugly, real ugly. Personally I would hate to see what would happen if a giant hand came out of the sky, picked up some Southern California natives and deposited them in the middle of New York City in the middle of a blizzard. They would probably curl up into little balls, put their thumbs in their mouths and cry for their mommies.

First Kiss

We spent the evening
At the Forum
Watching the Eagles
Soar across the stage
Our first date
My first concert
After
We parked in your drive
About midnight
Under a threatening sky
In the distance
Thunder
Or was it my heart
I was young
Naïve
You were younger
Worldly
Silence
Filled the car
Comfortable
But not
"I had…"
We both started
Stopped, quiet again
Rain began
To fall
Covering the windshield
In momentary rainbows
From the headlights
Of passing cars
Other couples
More experienced
Knowing the steps
To this dance
Nervously my hand
Reaches
Out to yours
Our fingers meet
Touching, intertwining
Eyes meet
Questioning
Soft smile, encouraging
I lean forward
Unsure, anxious, inexperienced
Our lips meet
Gentle, soft, warm
Lightening flashes
Electricity of the moment
The storm
Us
Forever remembered
My first kiss

First Drive

October 1975. I was sixteen years old and ready to conquer the world. Because I had a teenager's most important document: a driver's license. Not that the world or one Temple City policeman thought I was ready to drive.

After wading through the DMV bureaucracy and passing my driving exams, my mother had me drop her off at work and let me have the car for the afternoon. I thought I was so cool. Cruising Huntington Drive in her '63 Valiant, complete with push buttons for changing gears. The stereo was cranked to KHJ and I was thinking about going to Bob's Beef Burgers for lunch.

Than, just as I was becoming comfortable with my newly found freedom I saw that ominous flashing light in my rear view mirror. I panicked. This had to be a record ten minutes of driving before I received my first ticket.

I began to review all of my driving lessons trying to understand what had gone wrong. My hands were at ten and two o'clock. I had used my blinker while turning at the previous intersection. My speed was okay. If anything I was probably overly cautious. Driving slower than the surrounding traffic just to be safe.

While conducting my review I forgot about the policeman until he rapped on my window to get my attention. I nervously rolled down the window.

He looked down at me and said with a smirk, "Son aren't you just a little bit to young to be joy riding in your parents car."

To young to drive, didn't he know I was free? I am sixteen with a driver's license the world is mine and I am ready to explore? Of course while thinking the above I actually said, "No sir. I just turned sixteen."

He actually laughed at me, "Come on son you couldn't be more than thirteen."

Now I was turning red. Thirteen, right. But I had an ace in the hole. Sitting on the seat next to me was my temporary drivers license. The ink still wet from the DMV clerk who stamped it. I wish I could say that I handed it to him with great drama and a memorable comeback but I didn't. Because my hands were shaking and the butterflies were trying to fight their way out of my stomach. So I meekly handed him my get out of jail card.

Now it was the officer who was turning red. He went over all the data with me and realized that I indeed was sixteen. He told me to drive safely and have a nice day. Without comment he handed me back my license.

On his way back to the patrol car I heard him muttering, "These damn driver's are getting younger everyday.

Memory Box

She sat on the floor
Sifting through the remnants of her past
Some years so full they overflowed with love
Others so empty that she still felt their chill

She stumbled across wedding photos
Her own
Buried in a box of memories
With tear filled eyes her fingers searched
For her favorite
The one taken at sunset
When he still looked at her that way
What a couple they had once been
So young and filled with promise
But that was yesterday
Now
Today
She wondered
Where had they gone wrong
When did they stray from the path
Lost
Was the raging inferno
That burned in her soul
For that man
Now her soul was cold
Her heart was ash
Her mind
Was filled with the bitter taste
Of sun filled days
Of tequila nights
Of a wedding day
Of a gold ring inscribed "forever"

Now that ring
Was at the bottom of the Pacific
Somewhere off
Of the Balboa Pier
At the spot
He embraced
The other woman
Kissed her
With the passion that once was hers

Before the ring even hit the water
She was on the coast highway
Peddle to the floor
Wind drying her tears
While Henley sang all about Wasted Time.

d.s. brueckner
2004

Soldier

The soldier laid upon the ground a solitary witness to recent events. About him the earth had been torn and broken. Branches hung limply from nearby shrubs. Sound lay quiet upon the hill, nothing stirred. The dust had settled and the sun was slowly sinking in a blaze of glory.

The weary soldier had been left behind, hidden amongst the crevices of some large nearby rocks. He was unable to stand on the remnants of what once were his feet. Voiceless, he lay in solitude wishing someone would stumble upon him. As darkness lowered its veil he wondered what fate held in store.

Night settled and the crickets began to sing their evening song. In the distance a long mournful train whistle could be heard echoing through the canyons.

The moon rose and cast his resting place in an otherworldly glow. All about him shadows danced and shimmered bringing to mind visions of beasts that flocked like carrion to fields of blood. Glowing red eyes passed him, nose to the ground but none picked up his scent.

As the evening passed the mantle of time to morning, droplets of dew began to collect on his skin and clothing. Bringing the chill of predawn. The soldier patiently waited upon the damp grown for the sun to rise and bring the warmth of a new day.


Gently he was lifted from his resting place and cradled by loving hands. In moments he was returned to a plastic box where is brethren awaited his return. He was home. Stored away to await tomorrow's imaginary battle.

Doubt

She once believed it was better
To be alone
In a world full of strangers
Standing against the highest tide
Protecting her heart
From loves danger
She wondered if it was better
To cry alone at night
In a darkened room
Than to believe
In old fairy tales
And fall in love to soon
She thought she would rather face
The night
Alone with a bottle of beer
Than listen to another man
Spin a tale she couldn't bear
Many times she played the fool
Losing her heart
To big blue eyes
Her "friends" all thought
What a sorry state
Their disgust they would not disguise
But she kept on trying
And the tears
Just seemed to fall
Her phone was filled
With cobwebs
No one bothered to call
Thus the final nail
Was driven in
Her heart began to bleed
She found that love was lost
Doubt
Had planted its seed
She just wanted
To lay down and die
But she didn't know how
She contemplated
Suicide
It did not matter anyhow
Her heart was cold and frozen
Her eyes
Were forever dry
She tried so hard
To forget the pain
Caused by all their lies

So to the end
She stands alone
Defiant to the last
Even though
She forgot her lines
She still belonged to the cast

d.s. brueckner
2004

One Hand Clapping

Have you ever noticed how the people around you clap when you are at a concert or special event? I have, and I have come to realize that clapping styles can be distinctive and vary from individual to individual.

For example: a person who attends events out of a sense of obligation and with no interest or desire in the proceedings tends to clap very slowly with long pauses between each slap of the hand. This type of clap can also be used to display sarcasm. After a speech for instance, the clapper may acknowledge the speakers words with a slow drawn out clap. Kind of like the opposition party at a state of the union address.

A person who is warm and reaches out to others will clap enthusiastically for each and every performance. Their hands will create a staccato beat with the slapping of their palms. They use their applause to reach out to the performer or speaker and embrace them with their clapping hands.

Some people tend to clap with distraction. They never have a real rhythm to their clapping and the beat of their palms will change from super slow to fast without rhyme or reason. This tends to be the same person who does not stand for an ovation while everyone around them is on their feet.

Then there is the proper clapper. Hands arranged just so. The beat is never to fast or to slow. They conduct their clapping without much enthusiasm but with an obvious sense of obligation. They clap the way they pay their taxes on time and without much relish.

I am sure there are some types that I am missing. When they come to mind I will add them to this list. There is also a second theory I have that an individuals form of clapping can say a lot about how well they make love but that one is wee bit harder to investigate.

Granfather

My grandfather by definition was a member of a strong but silent group. One of those men who were born at or around the turn of the century and who never shed a tear or raised their voice. I can only remember one occasion in which his emotions got the best of him.

It was 1975 and I had just turned sixteen. I was working part-time at a local steakhouse, The Cask and Cleaver. I was a bus boy, which paid decent money and included tips. As a bonus for some extra work I had done I received a gift card from one of the manager's for two free dinners.

My grandmother's birthday was in December, which coincidently was when I received the card. I decided taking my grandmother to dinner would be a great birthday present. I was the oldest of thirteen grandchildren so this was the first time one of us had the means to take her out to dinner or anyplace else for that matter. She was very excited. She had her hair done that morning and she was dressed in her Sunday best. She even wore make up which was rare for her. I picked her up in my '63 Valiant and with the smile on her face you would have thought I was picking her up in a chauffer driven Roll's.

Our arrival at the restaurant was memorable. The manager, Tony, happened to be near the door and he greeted her like she was royalty. He took her arm, introduced her to the staff and gave her a tour of the dining room and kitchen. He personally sat us at our table and provided her with a complimentary bottle of wine. Which he opened and poured for her. My grandmother was a very down to earth person and she was not used to this kind of treatment. But the smile on her face told the story and she ate all of the attention up.

She had filet mignon with lobster. Accompanied by a baked potato with the works and an artichoke. She made several trips to the salad bar making sure to try each item at least once. Of course since I was underage she finished the entire bottle of wine herself. When she had finished eating, Tony had not only our section but the staff and the entire restaurant sing Happy Birthday to her. The smile that lit her face would have lit up the entire city of Arcadia for a month.

On the way home she went on and on about her evening. She kept the empty wine bottle and displayed it prominently on her mantle for years after. As I drove off she waved and thanked me again for the best birthday celebration she could remember.

I arrived home to the ringing of the phone. My mother answered and handed me the receiver. At first I was unable to recognize the voice. After a moments hesitation I realized it was my grandfather. I had not recognized him because he was choked up and I am quite sure shedding a few tears. He said he was calling to thank me for showing my grandmother such a wonderful evening. In his words he had not seen her this happy in years. Still choking up he thanked me yet again and said three words that I had never heard him say nor would I hear them again from his lips before he passed way. I love you.

Soul

Summer 1981

The Intensive Care Unit was a cold and sterile room. It was large and square with several beds and a nurse's station. Rather than brightening the room the fluorescent lighting gave everything a sickly pallor. Several chairs were scattered about for those awaiting the news.

I was there because my brother had recently been in a motorcycle accident. He had lacerations, broken bones and a ruptured spleen but he would survive. He was lucky. He was always lucky. He was in numerous accidents and he always came out of them alive. I sat with my mother who handled these moments very well. She has always been a pillar of strength at times like this. As my brother was resting comfortably my thoughts and attention began to wander around the room.

The bed nearest the door was empty and naked. A mountain of sheets and blankets were folded and piled on the mattress. They were cleaned, pressed and awaiting there next mission. Even the floor around the bed was clean. No discarded weapons of medicine scattered about after another life saving battle.

An elderly gentleman occupied bed number two. He was pale and gasping for air. A lifeline of oxygen ran from a gray metal tank to his ancient nostrils but appeared to provide no respite for him. He did not appear to have the strength to survive ten more minutes no less the entire evening. Even so his eyes were bright and he had a quiet dignity about him. His wife sat next to him, a silent sentinel clutching his hand. Her love filled eyes blinking back the tears.

Several people surrounded bed number three. The group appeared to be in a state of shock. They were pale and huddled together like a séance of ghosts. They whispered to each other, cried softly and did their best to preserve the peace of the room.

On the bed lay a woman no more than thirty years old. Her hair fell lifeless and dull around her head. Her face was pasty and her breathing was shallow. Her skin seemed to be translucent; I could almost see the blood slowly coursing its way through her veins.

As I watched the life seemed to leak from her body. I did not hear anything out of the ordinary. I did not see her spirit leave. However, just before she died I sensed (for lack of a better word) her soul leaving her body behind. Before the monitors erupted to life I knew she was dead.

Suddenly, the room had shrunk to the size of an old phone booth. My heart was racing and my lungs were struggling like a newborn for air. I felt like I was going to pass out. As I fled the room I was followed by the shrill alarm of the heart monitor and cries of sorrow coming from her bed.

After regaining my composure I returned to the ICU and my mother told me that the woman had passed away. Listening to the family my mother found out that she had recently given birth and developed a post delivery infection that went undiagnosed until it was to late. As we left that evening I imagined her spirit hovering above her bed in confusion wondering what had gone wrong.

Santa Monica

waves
crashing over
coral reefs
skeletons appear
remnants
of yesterday's armada
a cannon
without powder
no longer talks
to the sky
crabs scurry
over seaweed
rusted sabers
point toward
an empty grave
memories
from another century
pirates and cutthroats
rule the sea
mermaids moan
and mourn the season
the sun
dances
with the harvest moon
lost souls
listen
for the siren song
come to us
they cry
love us
they lie
moonlight exposed
them
for what they were
bleached out
sea hags
mourning the loss
of the last
bottle
of peroxide

d.s. brueckner
2004

Age

How old is old? What is the definition of age? In an astronomical sense the only definition of age or time for that matter is the orbit of our planet around our sun. Someone who has achieved fifty years has seen the earth complete fifty orbits of the sun. Does that make them old? We have an obsession with age in our society. This obsession rears its ugly head in many areas from advertising to movies you are either to young, to old, or just right. Which brings me to my rant on the subject of aging; age differences in couples.

If a man is dating a younger woman (by younger I am referring to ten years or more) no one blinks an eye. It is commonly accepted through out society. His friends all look up to him and they all secretly envy him. He is player. He is hip. He is sexy. Jack Nicholson, Hugh Hefner, Bruce Willis, Jerry Buss are all out there without a word of criticism.

However if an older woman is dating a younger man we tell a different story. She is robbing the cradle. She is making a statement. She is desperately holding on to her youth. No one seems to envy her. No high fives. No acceptance. No support. Nothing.

Why the double standard?

I am not sure where the double standard came from. I only bring up the subject because two women I know and respect are dating or about to date younger men. One is ten years older; the other is thirteen years older than the man. They both have already received advice from friends and family concerning the "mistakes" they are making. Each in their own way is having second thoughts not because of how they feel but because of peer pressure.

Frankly, everyone should mind his or her own damned business. It is hard enough to find happiness in today's world without undue pressure from those around us. People say that love is blind. In a way it is. When our heart falls in love it does not consider age, beauty, wealth, or anything else. The hearts only consideration is love, the love radiating from another soul and its own. It is when our minds and especially our ears get involved that love goes wrong. When we listen to everyone else's opinion and ignore our own heart. When we rationalize and analyze and twist into knots what our hearts feel. When love becomes a confusing maze rather than a path that two souls decide to travel for a while.

My advice to my friends, fly with your hearts and enjoy the ride.

gravity

drifting
without direction
floating
above the atmosphere
lost
compass broken
time
past or present
once
a moment held
dreams
a chance, hope
laughter
echoed voices
subtle
cries of fear
why
broken hearts
painless
empty days
orbiting
another black hole
gravity
gone for good

d.s. brueckner
2004

Tears not Allowed

My stepfather was born in 1928 and raised in Texas. Two lessons that he took to heart from his childhood were racism and what he felt defined a man. His views on race changed long before he died. He learned to accept his fellow man for who he was and not to judge them by their race or creed. However his definition of manhood never wavered.

We did not always see eye to eye. I respected and loved him but I did not always accept what he said as gospel. His definition of manhood was not complicated, fix your own car, pay your own way and never under any circumstances should you show your emotions to the world or for that matter even to your own family.

He used to tell his friends that I would cry at the drop of a hat. He would than drop the hat to prove it. Sadly, more times than not I would end up crying because I hated it when he teased me. I never took his teasing well. He would tease. I would cry, which only led to his teasing me more.

It used to bother me, but now as an adult I can better understand where he was coming from. Teasing was the only emotional tool he could use to show he cared. He could not come right out and say I Love You. It was not in his blood, he was not built that way. In a way his emotions were stuck in 4th grade mode. Where kids tease their friends and family to show they care. He just did not know any better.

As for myself I was and I still am an emotional being. I'm not ashamed to admit that I cry. I cried when Old Yeller died. I cry at weddings and I cry at funerals. I have cried in movie theaters and I have cried to myself while reading a good book. I cried when my heart was broken and I cried when my children were born. I have never hid my emotions and I never will. I wear my tears with pride.

The Movies

I am suffering from a severe case of writers block today. While I sat and stared at this monitor, my mind just wandered off. I looked for it everywhere but have been unable to locate the scoundrel. While I continue the search, I figured I would take the easy way out with today's post. The following, in no particular order, are ten movies that have real watchability for me. Not all of them are classics, but all are movies I can lose myself in. For good measure I tacked on four holiday movies that I can also lose myself in.

To Kill a Mockingbird
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
The Big Chill
To Have and Have Not
Bringing Up Baby
The Thin Man
Mary Poppins
Going My Way
Independence Day
Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Original)

Nightmare Before Christmas
It's a Wonderful Life
A Christmas Story
A Christmas Carol (Alistor Sim)

Dreams

Over the course of my life I can remember two instances of dreams that I revisited over several evenings. Each dream was triggered by specific events in my life.

The first instance happened when I was about seven years old. While playing at my grandmother's I was bitten by a black widow. Several hours passed before I or anyone else realized what had happened. That evening I was sleeping when my mother came into check on me. She found my arm swollen several times its normal size. She took me to the ER, where my arm was lanced and the poison removed. Upon testing they realized that I had been bitten by a black widow.

About a week later I had a dream where I was laying in bed asleep. I opened my eyes and found that my room had become filled with spiders. The walls and ceiling were an undulating mass of legs and fangs. There was no escape as even the door was covered. At that moment the realization came to me that this army of spiders had already devoured my family and I was next on the menu. I shut my eyes and when I opened them I saw that the light fixture was covered by a large black widow the size of a beach ball. As I looked on in shock its large glowing red eyes stared right at me. Than by some unseen signal they all began lowering themselves by their webs towards my bed eyes wide with hunger. At that point I always woke up screaming.

The second instance occurred when I was thirteen years old. My grandfather had recently passed away after a long illness. His passing was my first real exposure to death.

About two weeks after his funeral I began having the following dream. I found myself sitting in a railroad car. The train appeared to be traveling across the old west. There were several people in the car none of whom I recognized. In the center of the car was a coffin. Everyone kind of looked at each other but none of us looked into the coffin. A few nights later I had the same dream. Only this time there was one less person in the car. It took until the third appearance of this dream for my dream self to gather the courage to look into the coffin. Sure enough the person missing from the group was the person in the coffin.

For about a month after that night I had a very bad case of insomnia. I somehow convinced myself that if I kept having this dream the night would come when I was in the coffin and that when that occurred I would fail to wake up. Fortunately for my sanity I came to a somewhat reluctant acceptance of death before sleep deprivation drove me insane.

Mind Pollution

I have come to the realization that I am suffering from an incurable case of mind pollution. No, not because of the unannounced appearance of Janet Jackson's breast on the halftime show, but because of all the clutter I cannot seem to discard. The décor of my mind has more and more become a mismatched collection of old and useless memories. If only I could have a mind sale and make a profit from my personal scrap heap.

As I wander around the jungle that is my ego I am continuously discovering archaic ideas and outdated memories. Some of the memories may be worth keeping but for the most part they should have been taped over long ago. There are snippets of songs without titles. There are bits of dialogue without film. There are even pages of books with long forgotten plot lines.

Further back in the darker recesses of my mind lies a toxic waste dump. Filled with the tattered remains of broken hearts that can be seen clinging to the cerebrum like bats in a damp and musty cave. Here also can be found pools of pain and sorrow, collected and stored, a reservoir of half remembered tears.

If only God had thought about providing me with an alt-control-delete button so I could reboot my system and start over. Maybe something a bit more practical a memory scrubber of some type that I could use to remove the garbage, open a few windows and air out the place.

Of course if I could do that I would quickly run out of material to write about. All in all I guess this imperfect storage system is one that I will have to live with. I will continue to blindly tour the halls of my mind hoping to find my way beyond the mind pollution.

Reading

Growing up I was fortunate enough to have two mentors who picked me up and deposited me onto the road of imagination. They opened my eyes to the magic of reading and planted the seed, which eventually grew into the desire to put my own thoughts and dreams onto a blank page.

The first of these mentors was my mother. When I completed first grade I had done well enough in every subject but reading. Reading was my Mount Everest an obstacle that had proved daunting in my initial attempt requiring my return to base camp. The summer after first grade was the worst but most rewarding of my life. Every morning my mother sat me down for four to five hours and drilled me on phonics lesson after phonics lesson. I would cry, scream, beg and complain but her commitment to teaching me never wavered. She patiently sat with me day after day, drying my tears, calming my nerves and planting the seeds. Amazingly, half way through that summer something clicked, the seeds blossomed and began to bear fruit. My rebellion ceased and I began to enjoy the lessons and became eager to apply them to my every day world. We moved on from phonics, to Dick and Jane, to Dr. Seuss and beyond. By the end of that summer I could be found at the breakfast table with the local paper checking the standings to see how my beloved Dodger's were doing.

Thanks Mom.

I never new the name of my second mentor, if I did I have since forgotten it. She was a librarian at Live Oak Library in Arcadia, California. This was the library of my childhood. I spent many hours browsing the stacks in search of new adventures, new friends, and new lands to lose myself in. By the time I reached the fifth grade I had read all of the books in the children's section and my wandering eyes began to drift towards the adult section. One day the above-mentioned librarian discovered me browsing and promptly walked me back to the children's section. Upon my next visit I headed right back to the adult section. The same librarian discovered me but this time she sat down and asked me what was wrong with the children's section. I explained to her that I had read all of those books and that I needed something new to read. At first she did not believe me and she went and checked the cards. To her surprise she found that I had indeed read most if not all of the age appropriate books. So she made a deal with me. She said if I allowed her to help me pick out books that I could read all of the adult books I wanted. She smiled at me and we shook on it.

Thanks to librarians everywhere.

The Preacher

He was sitting on a broken, graffiti covered bench, a bible clutched in his hand. He was discussing God with everyone though no one stopped to listen. It was preaching to the indifferent but preaching just the same.

He wore a torn and tattered t-shirt, which may have been blue once upon a time, with the words Jesus Saves written in a childish scrawl across the back. His jeans were tattered and had been patched so many times that little of the original material remained. They ended two inches short of his sock less ankles exposing dirty skin and the scars of countless mosquito bites. Old-fashioned canvas deck shoes covered his feet, the laces were missing, and the tongues flopped about like the tongues on two old hound dogs.

He had a tattoo on one arm, a cross with a crown of thorns on the top and a serpent wrapped around the base. Where the other arm should have been was an empty sleeve a reminder of the price he paid in some forgotten war. His hair was a tangled mess, a rat's nest of twigs and leaves. His nose had been broken once and leaned to the right like an old weathered picket fence. His remaining teeth were yellowed from years of chewing tobacco and smoking cigarettes.

That being said it was his eyes that captured an observer's attention. They were a deep soul searching blue. Lit by the roaring fire of his faith, they seemed to cry out to passing crowd "I may be down but I have yet to be beaten."

Silence

Silence is no longer golden. We as a society are no longer capable of being alone with our thoughts. Wherever we go in life; our ears are bombarded with conflicting levels of sound. From car engines to sirens, from talking heads to loud music all are contributors to the surrounding noise pollution.

As I write this I am standing in the courtyard of the Paseo de Colorado, an outdoor mall located in Pasadena, California. In my immediate field of view are three restaurants and a movie theater. Each facility is broadcasting its own unique soundtrack competing for our attention by attempting to show how hip they are. However, the waves of sound emitting from each establishment have merged together into an indecipherable level of electronic pollution. If by some fluke, an actual song bleeds through the noise, the vocals are still lost in the surrounding babble. Even everyone's favorite past time of eves dropping on the juiciest of conversations becomes impossible as the best parts fade into the background.

What are we afraid of?

What thoughts are hidden behind these sonic vibrations?

Has it come to the point where we are so afraid of solitude that we have to clothe our loneliness in the artificial sounds of society?

It seems to me that now more than ever silence is as rare as and more precious than gold.