Hell (F)

Big-booted, golden badged, Sheriff Wallace "Buck" Sims rested his right hand on Tomas Held's shoulder. 

"Deputy, come over here."

"Yessir!"

"Deputy--Cook--I want you to go with these folks here down to the river bed. They are looking for a remembrance."

Deputy Cook's cheeks reddened. Tomas Held reached out to steady his wife.

"Can you do that, Deputy?"

"Yes. Yessir."

"And keep a watch out for snakes."

"Yessir."

"Alrighty then. I'll be driving over to Parks."

"Yessir."

"Y'all let Deputy Cook lead you down."

"Thank you, Sheriff." Laura Held glanced up. "Bless you, Sheriff."

He nodded and turned for his car.

"Okay, now." Deputy Cook led the two slowly along the boardwalk. "Careful, folks. Careful now. The steps down are a bit slick."

The staircase turned down toward the river bed. Handrails were mostly missing. 

"Just a step at a time. No need to rush, folks."

"We're okay, Deputy."

The three reached a viewing platform. Several boards were missing. 

"Watch your step. Take a moment if you need to."

"Laura?"

She exhaled. She glanced up into the late October sun, the blue sky. "I'm okay."

The descent steepened. 

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the couple locked arms. 

A Honda Accord was still wedged in the fork of an oak. Pieces of chain link fencing unfurled here and there in the mud. A bench broken in half rested on top of a small pile of bricks. Police tape swung in the light breeze.

"Careful now. It's rough walking."

They made their way step by step out on the river bed.  There, a white sundress with pink flowers twisted and caked with mud. And a baseball mitt held in place by a cinder block. 

Farther on, a charcoal grill, the wheels missing. 

Hammock netting.

Small cooler without the lid.

Volleyball, deflated.

Jumper cables.

Wallet.

Tennis racket.

Hiking boot, red laces.

Hammer, handle pointing up at the sky.

Canvas bag with "Tim" stitched below the zipper.

They side-stepped down into a deeper washout.

A few doves were pecking about.

Laura gasped.

Tomas stepped forward. Deputy Cook held Laura's arm as her knees buckled.

Tomas dropped to his knees. He scraped away the mud and lifted the backpack. He turned it over. 

Below the large unicorn, embroidered a name--Carrie.

Lyman 2025

   

Afterword

I know you,

too, love words

as I do.

Perfunctory

is one of your

words.

I may--may--prattle on about

Acer japonicum.

Pedantic,

you say.

Salubrious, joking like

I do, holding the u not unlike I'm booing.

Sententious.

Don't take basalt for granted.

Callous.

In the early evening, a gathering

of cumulonimbus.

Ass.

In the early evening, a gathering

of cumulonimbus.

Lyman 2025

 

Cubano

Road trip!

Well, 18.4 miles. One. Way.

Personal quest!

Okay, 35 minutes for a sandwich. One. Way.

When I was a boy--six-ish most likely--my father took me with him across the Gandy Bridge to Tampa from St. Pete for a short office visit. My reward for tagging along was a visit to a local sandwich shop. My recall of the moment includes walking along a row of older brick buildings and how inside the shop all the tables were filled with old men. And the sandwich. 

Roasted pork. Ham. Swiss cheese. Mustard. Pickles. And Cuban bread. And, maybe, another ingredient.

Saturday I walked into Roll-In Cuban Shack in Spartanburg, SC, and Angela--the owner's daughter--pushed a menu toward me. Forgot my readers, but no matter. "I'm here for The Cuban." 

A customer waiting for her order nodded. "Good choice. You'll be happy."

Happy? That's more than promising.

Angela: You want gravy?

"Gravy?"

"Yes, really the pork drippings."

Pork drippings? I love this place.

While seated, Angela and I chatted about the failures of technology, the loyalty of their food truck customers now that the business settled in this locale, and how young cashiers couldn't make change. 

Another happy tell. When Angela brought out my lunch, she brought a stack of napkins.

How good was this Cuban? I didn't cry, but I could have without shame. Hot, juicy, bread-perfect, and when dipped into the gravy--get out!

And I'm wiping my chin, the outside of my hands, and all the while Angela and I are talking modern cars, the music playing, and how great their old ovens are.

Then the owner comes out to makes sure I am happy.

Happy? Hell yes.

I told him how as a boy I ate a Cuban in Tampa. He said, yes, good food in Tampa, but different in Miami. No salami. 

I could not recall one way or the other on that issue. Regardless, Miami style works for me.

"When you come back, you will have the Cuban quesadilla."

"Really?"

"You will never have the Cuban again."

Road trip!

Commencing Countdown

Class of '25, let me begin with the timely words of American essayist Ralph Waldo Emerson--no, no let's not start there.

Rather, as my good friend, Bruce Springsteen sang--well, enough of that poppycock.

Confucius--

James Baldwin--

Dorothy Parker--

So, indeed, today for you is a sort of launching. A launching from where you have been grounded to up and out of here. 

But let's not reach for the stars. Let's not try to lasso the cosmic.  

Given my age--71--and yours, so young, to me at least, I wouldn't--don't--know how to talk to you other than to push my mind back 50 years through to the filing system that is my memories--not literally of course--and sweep aside the cobwebs and dust to my launching--metaphorically--different time and space--not that I trust the validity of my memories, but now I am straying.

Empathy is difficult given how differently you may think about the world--uncertain? Excited? Resolved? Bored? All at the same time? I may have been in all of those states. But it was half a century ago.

Elon Musk--

No, not-- I, I won't ask for your empathy. 

Instead, let's work instead on extending sympathy to those in need--in their sorrow, in their grief, in their disappointment, in their despair, in their loneliness, in their pain. 

Listen to one another.  Look one another in the eyes.  

And here's the clincher. Believe them.

Iris Murdoch--

Be good to yourself. Be good to each other.

Farewell.

A Love Letter of a Sort

Lately--

a lot lately--

I have thought of being offshore out of sight of land for days and days.

The swells come from faraway--a to-ing and a fro-ing,

but no comfort found.

When you are at the beach, do you think of me?

Do you shade your eyes as you look out to sea, 

thinking perhaps my sail might arise into view?

I know the course homeward,

but I have my doubts--

a lot of doubts--

should I bring my boat in,

will there be no hands to receive me?

Lately I have thought a lot of being offshore out of sight of land for days and days.

Lily and Dan (F)

Two o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, a sunny afternoon. Lily sat across from him--she in the recliner, he on the couch.  She glanced at her watch.

"I think--I think that this--we are not--"

"Not what?"

"We really don't want--we are not looking for the same things."

"Things?" Dan leaned toward her. 

She scooted forward in the chair. "Like children."

"You want children?"

"Maybe. And I want you to bring more friends into our relationship."

"Children and friends."

"I've been thinking about going to church."

"Wow."

"See."

"Well, just that we haven't talked about--ever."

"It's not just that. I want to move back to Chicago."

"What? We've been here seven, maybe just six months. I just got that big grant."

"I know. And other things. I want to buy a house."

"You mean you want us to buy a house."

"Yes, us. And I don't understand why you don't apply to be director."

"I just started the job. Being director is about knowing people--it's political. I just got here."

"I want to live downtown."

"Downtown? You know how expensive--"

"I know. I just want to be there. To be closer to everything. You would be closer."

"Wow, Lily. I'm not sure what to say. Are you that unhappy?"

"Don't ask me that."

"I'm not here in your life to make you unhappy."

Lily looked at her watch. "I'm meeting people at Creekside. From work."

"Oh."

"Do you want to come?"

"You want me to?"

"I think some of them might help you at the museum."

"The museum?"

"Yes. If you applied to be director."

"Why are we having this discussion?"

"I just want--"

"Want? Want what? More?"

"More than that. I want to go home."

"Honestly, I don't know what to say to that."

"Don't say anything. I'll be back in a couple of hours." 

Lily stood and looked at him. Slowly she walked away. Dan heard her pick up the keys. Then the door pulled shut.

Lyman 2025

 

Anna and Hobb (F)

Anna shivered.

"You're cold." Hobb reached down and pulled the bed sheet up to her shoulders. 

"Thank you. Not really cold."

"I can close the window."

"No, no I like hearing the waves."

"Me too."

"Are you going to move out here full time?"

"Yes. No one else in the family is interested. Except to visit now and then."

"Not even George?"

"No. He likes that grandfather thing. Besides he never really liked it here. Too damn hot. He'll come in February."

"And Christi?"

"After 35 years in New York? Not a chance."

Anna turned on her side and kissed him on his cheek. "I guess you remember summer camp?"

"Just like it was--like it was 47 years ago."

"Forty-seven?"

"Yes, 47."

"Are we that old?" 

Hobb laughed. "You're not."

She laughed too. "Oh, I am. I look in the mirror some mornings and think where did that girl get off to."

"You're still that girl.  You've been that girl since you were 16."

Anna shivered again.

"I can get a blanket."

"Just hold me."

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

"Hobb, why did you choose Tulane?"

He rested his forehead against hers for a moment. "To get away. To not be here, to be surrounded by the family. To always be reminded-- My grandmother fussed. A Rutledge goes to Vanderbilt. A Rutledge goes to Duke. A Rutledge does not gallivant off to a place like that."

"But she forgave you."

"Yes. But she was always going to forgive me because I came home."

"Did you think I would come back?"

"Ever?"

"No, the reunion I mean."

"I--"

"Never mind."

"You're here. We're here now."

"Happy?"

"Happy is a big word."

"Not happy?"

"Surprised. Curious. Content."

"Curious?"

"Curious about tomorrow. Curious about Sunday. Curious about Monday."

Anna's eyes widened. "Monday?"

"Yes. What it will feel like when you are gone."

"Oh." Anna kissed him. "Hobb--"

He let his hand graze her cheek.

"Oh look, the moon." 

Hobb rolled over to watch the fat moon rise over the ocean. The Pink Moon. Anna rested her chin on his arm.

She sighed. "It's so beautiful."

"Yes. Yes it's all very beautiful."

Lyman 2025

Don T's Circles of Hell

Poetic justice? Karmic justice? Creative sentencing? Oh, and don't worry, I'll get mine in the end.

Ninth Circle: Peeling and deveining shrimp for 40 hours a week--without gloves--in Morgan City, Louisiana

Eighth Circle: Field worker for Ferris Groves in Floral City, Florida

Seventh Circle: Dishwasher at the Shoney's in Florence, South Carolina

Sixth Circle: Park ranger at Zion National Park in Utah for the year

Fifth Circle: Groundskeeper for the season at Holmes Lake Golf Course in Lincoln, Nebraska 

Fourth Circle: Internship at the US Embassy in Lesotho

Third Circle: Custodian at Pituffik Space Base, Greenland

Second Circle: Elevator operator in San Francisco, California

First Circle: Grauman's Chinese Theatre ticket taker in Hollywood, California

A Very, Very, Very, Very Old Man (F)

I know what you're here for. Like the others.

My name is Gregario Fuentes and I was born on August 1, 1874. My birthplace was in the maternal home of my young mother located on Villere Street in New Orleans.

First things folks ask is if I knew any famous persons. Sure did. 

Mark Twain himself told me that all babies are ugly at first, but each is ugly in its own way. But that was in Manhattan when he lived on West 10th. I was working at the Fulton Market and Mr. Twain tipped me for fetching him an extra sack to carry some whitefish home.

The hard thing is still living after so many are gone. And being hard of hearing. That's a bad one, but better than being blind in both eyes. 

I do remember meeting Edith Wharton outside the library on 5th. I picked up her parasol for her and she thanked me and smiled very nicely as she walked on. Of course I didn't know much about her, but another lady told me who she was and what she was famous for. I was glad to do her a friend.

When I turned 38 I got it into my head that I would eat a serving of ice cream every day of my life. Had a spell when it was always chocolate but that got to me too much after several years. So I settled on vanilla with different toppings. Of late pecans have been what suit me most. 

I was told I was too old to join when our boys went over in '17. The ones I knew that made it back had it rough, a lot of them.

I saw Babe Ruth play one time in 1924. Saw one of his 46 home runs. Looked like it might not come back to earth.

I miss reading. My mother was very particular about learning to read. Last book I could get through was Last of the Breed by Louis L'Amour. That was some time ago. Now I just listen to the television and squint.

October 1st in 1940 I got my first social check for $23.67. 

Pearl Harbor, now that was a dirty one.

In 1989 three government men came out to see me because I was 115 and the social checks were stopped. They asked me a bunch of questions. Studied my birth certificate that I had in a Florsheim shoe box like it was from another country.

I got my first pair in 1896 by the way.

But the social checks started coming again and been getting them ever since.

And you want to know how much social I get each month.

Well that doesn't matter much as I am the sole heir of 52 wells in Vermillion Parish. 

Lyman 2025

Some Notes, In Passing

My first time sailing was aboard a Morgan 22 my father bought when we were visiting family in St. Petersburg.  The wind was light, 3-5 knots, and Tampa bay seas that morning 2' swells. In my father's excitement to take out his new purchase, we set off despite not having winch handles on board. Mercifully the wind stayed light, but sheeting in the head sail was still a chore. We spent 2 hours tacking back and forth. And I was hooked. At the time I was 12, my father 31.

My father's death came as a shock--an accident. He was 91. A very big number, I think.

The boat had to be shipped to our home port--Duluth, Minnesota. We built a small dock on an undeveloped spit across from Hearding Island. 

My father's standing request was there would be no formal funeral, no public notice, no obituary. 

One Saturday morning my father and I took the boat out into the harbor and before we were halfway to the lift bridge, a thick fog rolled in off Lake Superior. We were floating more than sailing. Behind us came the sound of mechanical equipment. Suddenly, to our shock, an ocean freighter came steaming by us no more than 50' on our port side. "Mother would be upset if she were here." I understood the message, loud and clear.

At a small family gathering, we shared stories and thoughts about my father and his life. Dutiful was the word I offered. He was a dutiful husband--72 years. He was a dutiful father for the 3 of us. He was dutiful in his efforts as an architect for his clients and as a college teacher for his students. 

And there would be no grave. No headstone. No epitaph. His body was to be cremated. I spread the ashes in a small garden he maintained at my parents' condo. 

Sometimes when sailing we would find ourselves close to other boats. There were 3 Cal 25s my father was keen to keep an eye on. Without much fuss, we would tack onto their heading and all engaged understood an informal race was underway. One time my father reported one of the other skippers merely said to him "Fast boat". He was pleased.

I envied my father's architectural career, to be able to in a real way see the fruit of his labor. Folks living in a residential building he designed, audiences enjoying performances in a theater of his, and the schools--all levels--full and thriving. But, I think he took just as much satisfaction from teaching architecture, and even simpler drawing classes. 

He was smart--very. He was capable. And he could cut to the chase. When I turned 16, he told me I was old enough to spend the night in jail. I understood that message too, loud and clear. As for going to college, he advised that by the end of the effort I should be something. 

He was bold. When he was 30, he moved us from Sarasota, Florida to Duluth. When he was 40 he left a successful private practice with my mother and younger brother and took up teaching at LSU in Baton Rouge. At 50, he accepted a teaching slot in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. He and my mother were in residence there for 5 years. He returned to architecture,working in Savannah, and then finished his career in Macon.

I believe he was as pleased for me when he stood in the companionway of my Pearson 26 as we raced in Charleston Harbor as when he skippered his own boat. 

He was a good man. To my way of thinking, his was a life lived. 

 

The Gulf of Mexico

Among my favorite childhood memories....

My mother took us out to Fort De Soto Park to play on the sandy beaches and scamper around the fort itself. Strategically, the fort was built to protect the entrance to Tampa Bay from the Gulf of Mexico. The fort is named for Spanish explorer Hernando de Soto, who led 9 ships in 1539 to the Florida coast on the Gulf of Mexico side. 

By the way, my paternal grandfather for a stint served as a pilot bringing ships from the Gulf of Mexico into Tampa Bay. He would guide them from Egmont Key, which sits in the Gulf of Mexico, safely into the bay. 

My maternal grandfather often carried me fishing--his way of phrasing it--with him up to John's Pass, which carries the tide in and out between the Gulf of Mexico and Boca Ciega Bay. Most often we would fish the incoming tide and catch dozens of speckled trout and sometimes saltwater catfish and less often small stingrays. Ebb tides flowing back to the Gulf of Mexico would bring good sized reds as well.

My paternal grandmother enjoyed swimming in the Gulf of Mexico and so she would take me, and sometimes my younger sister too, out to St. Pete Beach for a swim and a light lunch. She was diligent about keeping us out of the water for half an hour after we ate our tuna sandwiches. Many times we were close to the Don Cesar Hotel, which looked like a huge pink cake trimmed with icing. The hotel offered spectacular sunset views across the Gulf of Mexico. 

In the summer of '63, my family rented a cottage at Bradenton Beach, another barrier island separating the Gulf of Mexico from Palma Sola Bay and Bradenton. Often, when we went to the beach in the morning, no one else was there. Because we were the first most days, I would toss pieces of riprap out into the shallow water to chase off stingrays. Even early in the morning, the Gulf of Mexico water would be warm.

That year we moved to Sarasota and that meant multiple trips across the Sunshine Skyway Bridge to see my grandparents in St. Pete. The bridge, around five and a half miles long, separates the Gulf of Mexico from Tampa Bay. Coming home and sitting in the back on the passenger side provided a fantastic view from 180' above the Gulf of Mexico.

Living in Sarasota changed our favorite beaches to Longboat Key and Siesta Key, both barrier islands situated between Sarasota Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. 

Then in 1965, we moved away from the Gulf of Mexico to another good sized body of water, Lake Superior. 

Of course, at that time it never occurred to me that the Gulf of Mexico should be renamed to increase my pride as a citizen of the United States.

Guess I was not ready to set aside childish ideas.  

Senior Moments

Another "school dream". This time an English 4 class--Brit lit--seniors and I are reading Macbeth out loud. They are just several months away from finishing their public school years. They are feeling chatty. I am pushing ahead, reading the part of Macbeth and offering commentary along the way. I fuss--not too stridently. They settle for a bit. More chatting. I move to a student desk next to two of the more disinterested students. Some focus. More chatting. I address students by name. Less noise, more Macbeth. Then, more chatting. 

I wake, grumpy. Another school dream? Damn, I think, still after 11 years retired. I know, I've read dreams are a way to clean out memory files. But every school dream I have is underscored by frustration or some level of anxiety. How much more does my mind need to clear out? I'm 71. Will this type of dream still be part of my mental landscape at 81? Or 91? 

Will I still be around at 81? Even with 90-year-old parents, 91 seems preposterous.

Yes, such thoughts cross my mind. 

A couple of days ago I headed to the master bath to grab a spray bottle of glass cleaner for the front windows. Instead I went into the kitchen and opened the freezer.

Yes, that moment gave me pause. More than a pause.

Unconscious desire for blueberries battling the conscious decision to do a chore? A serious senior moment? I don't know.

I do know I fumble now more often than I remember with keys, silverware, small tools. With pencils and pens, eye glasses, coffee cups. Always thought I had pretty good hands and pretty good grip strength. Now, well I'm not so sure.

Yesterday a woman who looked to be around 50 took my empty grocery cart: "Hon, I'll put that up for you". Nice, of course, but I would call her tone one of helping-the-old-guy-out. 

It does occur to me that what I think of as defining news events in my life often took place more than half a century ago. JFK's assassination, MLK's and RFK's assassinations, Chicago 1968, the conduct of the Vietnam War, the moon landing, Nixon's resignation. 

Obvious moments, some of the jokey kind. Body a little sore for no reason I can explain. What I mowed in 90 minutes several years ago, now 2 sessions of nearly 60 minutes. Time steady by the day, fleeting by the week, the month, the year.  

Hey, at least I can still push the damn mower. 

Ah, victory!

Emotions are a little less in check. Not that I've been emotionless most of my life, but I seem quicker to feel sorrow, especially for others. Misty-eyed unexpectedly on news that is not mine personally. Especially parents pulling children from rubble. 

On the plus side, I rarely feel anger. Appears a waste of energy to me these days.  Besides, haven't I seen most situations resolve over time? These, too, most likely will pass is the vibe.

I have a friend of half a century who always reminds me of his wish to live to 115. I groan when I hear this. Another 45 years--47 for him--I ask: Why?

"I can't imagine not being here," he says. 

I think of all that has happened in my life since I was 26. Wow.

I'm going with my simple mantra that upright is all right. Each day. One at a time.