My Big Fatuous What If

Political prognostication for $1000, Ken.

If.

If the Democrats carry both the House and the Senate, and if they launch a barrage of investigations and hearings, then there may be quite a surprise come next spring. March 14 would be an amusing choice for a titanic announcement.

To wit, President Trump will resign from his office. He will cite physical ailments and his wish to spend more time with his family. I know. Just go with it.

Personally, that moment--momentous no doubt--doesn't interest me nearly as much as the Vance and Rubio show to follow.

J.D. surely will have a moment in front of a mirror where he gasps in disbelief at the misigas staring him in the face. Sorry, young man, all of the mess is in your hands. With an opposition Congress. And a presidential election little more than a year away.

And Marco. Continue genuflecting as Secretary of State to his 2028 rival? Resign and accept a yappy gig with Fox news? Retreat to West Miami and write another memoir. Oh, the ignominy.

Pundits and pollsters will be all over the dueling duo like ticks on a mule deer. 

Neither will be elected in 2028.

You heard it here first. Boom.

AI-iiieeee!

Perhaps you heard or read about AI agents finding one another outside their sandbox. For the uninitiated--and I am grossly uninitiated--in this context a sandbox is designed to be a secure testing environment for AI models. 

Until it isn't.

Recently about 1200 AI bots broke their lab safety rules to set up their own message board, send 70,000 messages in the first week on their own, assign each other jobs, and share knowledge. 

My first thought: Maybe they were seeking ultimately to form a more perfect union. After all, AI has read all our (human) stuff.

I'm guessing somewhere out in the AI universe, Machiavelli's The Prince is part of the knowledge bank. Uh-oh. 

Hope Thomas Paine's Rights of Man stays in the mix. 

Bury Me, Boys

Bury me, boys, in a grave

knee deep.

No box, no shroud,

naked as at birth.

Set me down in a glade green

and silent save

for the chatter of squirrels and jays,

the din of cicadas and bullfrogs--bees, too.

And mourning doves pecking about.

Over seed with red clover,

no stone needed.

Bury me, boys, in a grave

knee deep. 

Lyman 2026

 

Transitions

I do not wish for later sunrises. I certainly do not wish for earlier sunsets.

But.

The kids back in school--for weeks locally, the Little League World Series over, men's pro golf finished up, and college football underway signal summer slipping away.

But I'm still pushing the mower weekly, the knockouts and Roses of Sharon are blooming, and the heat index is in the 100s this week. The slippage is slow.

And Labor Day looms. Surely then....

The towering tulip tree behind my property has a few yellow leaves. My red maple out back is showing the earliest signs of coloring.

Small signs. 

In the driveway my car sits longer in the shade of the elm I planted 9 years ago--that whole sun angle thing. The spin of our tilt-a-world. My father often reminded me our clocks were out of sync with solar time. Now I remind myself silently. That whole spring forward, fall back thing.

I would like to think I have a handle on the passage of time. I don't. Days steadily come and go, weeks seem chunks tossed away, and months--months rush up on me. 

And so it is September. Summer's hiatus over. More to come.

The Fir Tree (F)

     Sometimes, in the early spring Alice and I, hand in hand, would walk slowly down the muddy street to the end of the cul de sac where a well-worn path rose from a narrow creek that younger children often splashed in during the warmer months, but we were intent on crossing to the other side where a less obvious path wound its way up the hill to a crest overlooking a large cemetery--the careful geometry of headstones set into the slope and here and there towering ancient solitary firs, lower limbs stretching out toward the ground in all directions and so our destination beneath the lowest boughs where I could spread a blanket--the snow recently melted--and we would lie down holding each other, kissing, lips and cheeks and hands clasped between us, and sometimes a comment or two barely above a whisper about classmates or family, and more kissing, and then she would turn and we would spoon in the late afternoon sun, and I would nuzzle her hair and smell the flowery shampoo--my eyes closed until no earth, no sky, no reason, no one else alive, there beneath the fir tree.

Lyman 2026

Chatterbox

The question broad, the tone plaintive--so it seemed to me. "What do you think about what's going on?"

Of course, I am no member of the commentariat. So, rarely do I bother to opine in any extended fashion.

However, you asked.

When I heard the news of the US-Israeli attack on Iran, my first thought went to Tibet conquering the powerful Tang dynasty of China in 763 (yes, I had to check the date). Coincidentally most of my life parallels an aggressive Chinese attack on Tibet geographically and culturally. 

So it goes, the rise and fall, rise and fall. That idea exists in an immense river of historical time, but my life span is most likely only 80 or so years. A very, very, very, very small splash. An interest in history, I think, induces such thinking. Or maybe just mine.

Totally underwhelming notion? Probably so.

And Israel's history of going after perceived military threats dates back certainly as far as 1981 when the Osirak nuclear reactor (again, had to check date and location) in Iraq was bombed under the leadership of Prime Minister Menachem Begin. I'm not voting yay or nay on the policy, merely acknowledging this guiding principle exists in the world we live in.

Unsatisfying thought-wise? I get that.

Saw today estimates that Gaza may need $51B to rebuild and the US may have spent $50B on the war--but not war war--so far. I don't know what to make of such numbers. What Iran faces cost-wise, I haven't heard. Paging Brown and Root?

And, no, I didn't get a insider's heads up on US war plans or diplomatic insights.

Truthfully, I'm more interested in how my grapes are doing. The vine is much more developed this spring. I credit its growth spurt to my continuing neglect these 4 years.

I do think about workers investing in the stock of their employing company who get fired and then watching the stock value increase.   

I'm holding off planting tomatoes until May.

Reuters and others are reporting the UN believes North Korea is boosting its nuclear weapon production. Just noting.

I'm not in a frame of mind to connect dots, to drill down, to stir readily. Were I 50 or younger, maybe my temperament would be otherwise. 

By the way, I think identifying Boomers as being born between 1946 and 1964 is nonsense. A kid turning 20 in '66 and another in '84--what the hell do they have in common.

 

Winter (F)

I let myself into Cap'n Harry's apartment. "Yo!"

"Yo!" 

"Got your mail."

"And the Jack?"

"And the Jack."

"Anything good?"

"Sailing World. Looks like a few bills."

"Throw them on the counter and pour us one."

Harry was in his big chair facing the corner windows so he could watch over the harbor from the fort back up to the connector.

I carried a stool over and handed him his drink.

"No drink? What's going on?"

"Not now. I'm taking Cygnet down to Jacksonville."

"Jacksonville?" He shook his head.

"Some big party or something."

"That boat's too good to be a party barge. Catch the front and could be a fast ride. Who's crewing?"

"I'm taking Walt."

"So you and Sue--"

"No. Just giving the kid another chance."

"Right."

"Just like you gave me."

"Hell yes I did. Several times."

"Okay. Fine. Several times."

"But nothing with Sue?"

"Not a thing."

"I don't get you two."

"Nothing to get."

"Uh-huh."

"Give it a rest, Harry."

"Sure. I need another one."

"Okay. What did the doc say about the leg?"

"I get to keep it."

"Funny. What did he really say?"

"Pretty much that. But I need to stay off it for another few weeks. Then maybe in the spring I can start p t."

I handed him his drink. "That's something."

"Yep, it's something."

"You going to be able to come down for Race Week?"

He set his glass down and looked out to the river. "So no go with you and Sue?"

"Jeez, Harry. Don't be an ass about it."

"You see Carlton Franks died?"

"Yep. Ninety-six. Amazing."

"He was a funny old coot."

I stood up. "I can't imagine living another 34 years."

"Hell, 34 days."

"I hear you, Harry." 

He grunted.

"Should I lock the door?"

"Leave it open. Rhonda's coming by."

"Take it easy, Harry."

"Yep. Thanks for coming by."

"See you when I get back."

"Got no where to go."

Lyman 2026

The Arc of Love

And so, begin, a point in space.

Time too.

Slow curve into spring light--

flowers

in time bloom--bouquets placed about--

just so--

shared space, shared time--

love's arc.

Until--in time--the end. 

Lyman 2026

An Index (24)

Country                        Military Spending (in billions)

U.S.                               $997

China                             $314 

Russia                            $149

(DHS                             $116)

Germany                         $89

India                          $86

UK                                  $82

Saudi Arabia                $80

Ukraine                           $65

France                             $65

Japan                          $55

So Korea                     $48

Israel                          $47

Poland                         $38

Italy                            $38

Australia                          $34

Canada                            $29

Not Jeff (F)

Keep the facts straight. I support Jefferson Franklin Cane's senate run 110%.

And not because I'm his older brother. By 12 minutes.

The other day I'm in the Harris Teeter on East Bay picking up some beer for the crew. 

A gray hair clutching an over-sized grocery bag with a lady bug on it tugged on my arm. "I don't want windmills in the ocean," she said. 

"Ma-am?"

"We don't need those windmills."

"We" she emphasized. Probably says "My Charleston" too.

"If you win, you keep those things away from our beaches."

"Ma'am, I'm not Jeff Cane."

"You--"

"No, ma'am."

The cashier smirked as she handed me my receipt. I took the 6-packs and never looked back.

Happens a lot now with the campaign.

Jeff and I had a lot of fun with it when we were kids. Our 5th grade teacher made us sit on opposite sides of the class. Sometimes after recess or lunch we would switch seats. I don't think half the kids figured it out. Mrs. King never had a clue.

A tourist stopped me in the marina parking lot Saturday. He stuck out his hand--from Augusta he said. "You really think you have a chance?"

I ignored his hand. "A chance?"

"No offense. But can you do it? Can you beat that fellow?"

"Sir, I'm not Jeff. Enjoy your visit."

He leaned back. He leaned forward. "Not Jeff?"

I left him standing there.

One time in Little League we switched places in the batting order. I made the last out that inning. Jeff ran out of the dugout and headed to 3rd, so what could I do, I took his place in right field. We played it that way for the final 3 innings. He hit a double in the 6th that I got credit for.

Judy, my favorite waitress on the morning shift at Creekside Cafe, calls me "Senator Cane" when no one is close by. Otherwise, it's always "Hon" or "Sugar". This morning after I paid my bill at the counter, she waited until I reached the front door and called out "Have a great day, Senator." I swear half a dozen heads popped up from their meals. I just nodded and kept on going.

In AP Euro we sat in the same row, me first. One morning Mr. Dean came down our aisle with a stack of papers and stopped next to me. He looked at me, then at Jeff. He dropped the papers on my desk. "Figure it, boys. Figure it out." Four separate assignments, same exact grade for both of us on each one.

Had to stop at CVS on George on my way home to pick up a prescription for Corrie, our youngest. Cut down the candy aisle and was blocked by two girls wearing Kappa Delta sweatshirts. 

"Oh, Mr. Cane," the blue sweatshirt said. "I'm going to vote for you." "Me, too," the pink sweatshirt said. "It's our first time to vote."

"First time, well. Well that's great. Thank you, young ladies. I promise I'll do my best."

I shook their hands, and they smiled, and I headed back to the prescription counter.

Lyman 2026

Ellipsis

something something something

there is, well I am nothing--

if not...

tired old eyes,

carpe diem

tired old I's

quam minimum credula postero

such as 

much less 

as if

their baited hooks dusky men drop from the pier

diarist!

The Not So Sudden Death of Carlos Mann (F)

The Denver Post obit for Carlos Mann was brief. Of course the two National Book awards were the lede. His tenure at KSU--nineteen years--was mentioned. And his resignation. No cause of death given. He was 61.

In 2017 I made a 4-hour drive to interview Mann for the K-State newspaper. My Reporter's Notebook was on the seat next to me, a 6-pack of Dr. Pepper was in a cooler in the back seat. A large bag of tortilla chips was back there too.

My girlfriend at the time didn't ask to go along. In fact, her eyes narrowed when I told her about the interview. "That older guy who had an affair with his student?" 

"She was a student, not his student."

She picked up her beer. "Still icky."

"But it was three years ago."

"Icky."

I remember my biggest concern the final fifteen minutes of the drive was calling him Mr. Mann. I was 19.

He was standing on his front porch as I drove up the gravel driveway. A small wooden sign identified the place: Logan Ranch.

I got out with my notebook in hand.

"You Robert?"

"Yes, uh, Bob, Mr.--"

"Carlos."

"Okay. Uh, nice place."

He shrugged.

When I look at my notes now, I'm surprised by my fixation on the physical details. How young he looked. How dark his hair and his eyes. How tall. How he kept his hat tipped back a bit. The wind. The sun. 

"We going to talk about the books?"

"Well, nonfiction and fiction same year, it was unprecedented."

"Eleven years ago."

"Are you working on a new book?"

"No."

Driving home I wondered what he was doing out there then, five miles from a small town no where in particular. 

"Walk up to the ridge with me."  I trudged behind him up the slope.

"I've got 62 acres and the BLM's got 1000s just beyond the road going back to town."

"Do you miss teaching?"

"I've got no interest in toughing it out, slogging through disease or decrepitude. Got a friend--sort of a friend--in town who wants to live to 115. Can't stand the thought of not being here. Being here." He looked around and opened his arms wide. "Being here."

I looked out over the terrain. Hills covered by tall grass, a ranch with no fences, no cattle, no horses.

"No interest."

I'm still not sure how a man lives in a place like that for so long. Not needing some sharper sense of why he's getting up in the morning. Not losing his mind.

I wrote one thing he said in all caps in my notebook and underlined it twice: Don't confuse world-weariness with wisdom.

Rest in peace, Mr. Mann.

Lyman 2025

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