Light

John stumbled down the incline. 

Wrapped presents fell to the wayside. 

The holiday paper separated from the vertical cardboard roll and danced softly around her. Printed side faced away. Whiteness swelled her vision. The paper wrapped the left side while John came down to the right. 

John nodded. "Yes, me too" he said. 

She felt comfort and guilt. "How long?" she uttered. 

"Two days. I have today and tomorrow."  

"Then what?"  she asked timidly.

"And then that's it. I'm done. Excuse me while I go and make the best of it." 

He walked away to the left into the white paper. She watched him with rue. 

I've done this. I did this to him. 

She felt her own time running out. 

Cat Swings

Ancient hunters would announce their kills by picking up the animal and swinging it lasso-style over their heads. Other hunters could see the propelled animal and, in hopes it was a cat, come running. The cat holds a feeding power: good meat for the men, and popular prey in their land. They anticipate more game present so they can feed all their kin. 

As new hunter boys learn this technique, their fathers do not tell them the results of swinging the dead cat. Instead, the fathers tell their young sons to swing their kill above their heads to prove their strength and to bless the game and tribe for food. Also, if they look to the sky while hunting and see a flying feline, they must go closest to the animal so that their families will eat well through the next season.

Meanwhile, other animals of the herd and in the area also come running. They pick up the scent of the carcass wafting through the air. The smell of a fresh kill gets their stomachs going and they race to the source.

In a short matter of time, men with their hunting tools, and hoards of animals gather on the savanna. They each want to get closest to the hunter swinging the dead cat; however, it’s a tough feat. The force of the propelled feline’s dead weight knocks the animals and men down like bowling pins.

The animals begin to realize there is easier game out in the grasslands and scurry off. The older men (who know how to avoid swinging cats) finish off the animals that got knocked out and help the younger men up.

The hunters trek home with their wealth of food for the winter season. The man with the initial kill doesn’t have to carry any of the new meat, as he showed his strength by swinging the cat. The newer hunters carry most of the load back to the village.

During the hike back, the young hunters grumble. The seasoned hunters remind them that while they want to get closest to the swinging dead cat, they must not get knocked down by it. A cat can stretch out awfully far and they must give the swinger room to spread the blessing around. They warn the young hunters that if not given enough room, the swinger may turn the blessing against them and their families will famish.

So with this cat tale, please be wary of anyone swinging a dead cat, or looking for room to swing one.

A Salad Situation

All day I have been thinking about having a salad for dinner. Now that it’s dinner time, I’m not sure what to do. Do I go to the store and buy salad stuff? Or do I go to my cupboard, and find something else to make?

I keep deliberating. Ever since I had my first salad, it has been on my mind. I want more. I have had some. But I’m not sure how to continue it.

If it’s there in front of me, I’ll eat it and be satisfied. However, times like now when it’s not right here, I don’t know what to do, or how to go about obtaining it.

Going to the store would be the easier part. I know mostly what vegetables I’d want - lettuce, tomatoes, etc. And I already have peppers and an onion at home, plus salad dressing.

It needs more. Maybe chicken? Maybe mushrooms? Maybe croutons? (The latter of which used to be all my ’salads’ consisted!) I can’t decide.

Then would come the issue of assembling to eat. What’s the lettuce to everything else ratio? Do I eat my salad in a bowl? Or on a plate?

All these questions made me realize, I am not yet ready to eat the salad on my own, never mind make one myself.

My first two salad experiences spoiled me. The first a good friend made unbeknownst for me. Due to my starving need, availability, and piqued interest in vegetables recently, I tried it. I was fascinated by the prep work and the sautéed mushrooms. Also, watching the simplicity of combining it into a delicious and colorful array calmed my anxiety instantly.

I was a little apprehensive through my first few bites. But it was love on fourth crunch. Tomatoes, arugula, onions, peppers, mushrooms, and cheese - I didn’t realize what I had been missing.  I even cleared my bowl!

My second salad came just a few days later at a family party. This time the salad was premade, so all I had to do was grab a plate full and add some dressing. It wasn’t as delicious nor as pretty and neat as my first, but the seconds never are.

The second one was just as filling though. I barely had room for cake afterward. Also, this time my parents, much to their shock and awe witnessed me eating a salad for the first time. It was well worth it.

So each time the ingredients were provided and the assembly taken care of. The only choice I had to make was if I was going to eat it, and how much.

I know the answers now to whether I want it, and to what extent. The questions remain, however, what ingredients to in/exclude, what platter to serve it in, and if I have the audacity to try it on my own yet.

It’s a salad situation.

Tricycle Tracts

Three is a good number, or so we like to think, at least in terms of things: three 7s, three of a kind, good things come in 3s, and the list goes on. But what happens when we turn those ‘things’ into people? – the cards change. 

It can suck being the third person. Dinner specials are often for just two. Doorways are wide enough for a pair to pass, but not for a triple to travel through. Heck, even in the car, someone’s got to sit in the back seat. Alone. 

At the bar in a linear seating arrangement, conversation is limited. One end is involved in the discussion, while the other end is intensely trying to listen and add to it. Questions from the unattended end often go unheard. The third person is constantly trying to play catch-up in the conversation much like a greyhound tries to catch the rabbit. 

 

The middle person may try to balance the two sides.  They may scoot their chair back a bit to create a triangle setting. Doing so, however, they risk losing the power seat and allowing the two ends to exclude him from the conversations. The middle person turns their head like watching a tennis match.

The bar is not the only scene in which three people creates difficulties. Just about any social scene involving three does. The dynamics don’t work because the social-physical scale is not designed to. 

However, the matter-of-course demands the trinity. First thing we do when we meet new people is find a common ground, a connection. We name-drop and realize we may know some of the same people. (The three of us must get together!) We meet someone so great; we can’t wait to introduce them to someone else. 

What we fail to see in this position is what person A and person B may have in common. Nor do we create a social situation ideal for three folks. (What that may be is beyond me.) The outside person may become any of the three people, and may switch throughout the event. 

So the other night, a friend and I made tentative plans for a meal. I was hesitant and didn’t want to be the third wheel. Again. Simultaneously though, the phrase occurred to me. Tricycles have three wheels.

Three wheels and success. Why – because the back two wheels support and carry the weight, while the front steers and controls. At any point the third, front wheel of the tricycle can turn or spin in its desired direction. The two wheels behind it are merely attached by the frame and follow by default. 

Once I realized this, my anxiety ceased and I woke the next morning ready to go. Whether dinner was actually going to happen or not, I was ready. I could be the third wheel because like the front tricycle wheel I was in control of my destination.

Dough or Crumbs

We all begin in a mixing bowl. As a species we also share some main ingredients and processes. Today we are making cookies.

Chocolate chip cookies. Delicious, easy, and various, yet common. Every baker has their own recipe and secrets. Every cookie-eating person has their own favorite and indulgence.

Each ingredient goes into the bowl as an individual part. Once all the flour, sugar, eggs, butter, and chips mix together, the body of the cookie takes shape.  The dough looks common and the average eye can’t see the flour from the baking soda. But we know it’s there.

Granted, your recipe may call for cocoa powder or walnuts and it looks different than mine. If you precisely measured each part of your mixture, and I only eyeballed mine, they may taste and bake different also. But that is part of what makes each dough its own entity and each of us an individual.

For full and shapely cookies, the dough should set in the fridge for a few hours. During this time, the flavors meld and the young cookies are easier to work. Dough at room temperature makes for dull, sticky, tasteless (except for the chocolate part) cookies.

Some people choose to stop here. Cookie dough is a sweet treat. Some can’t get enough; they want it to last and not become a full baked cookie. The craving and temptation overwhelms.

A scoop from the bowl disintegrates in your mouth. Sugar granules rub between your tongue and roof of your mouth while the chocolate chip crunches between your teeth. Before you can even swallow the delicacy is gone.

Those of us who choose the other path and want to see our  work through, line the cookie pans. Once the dough is ready, the oven heats up. The heat melts and dries out the primed cookie dough.

Fresh from the oven a handful of minutes later, the gooey cookies are transferred to a cooling rack. If not done right, this process can be just as messy as mixing the dough. Sometimes the chips like to stick to the pan burnt on, and the crisp edges may break on the rack.

Whether grabbed straight from the rack, or from a jar days later, the delectable cookie disappears into someone’s mouth. Most of it at least.  A cold glass of milk washes it down.

Evidence is always left behind a good cookie. Melted chocolate on the face and fingers waits to be licked or wiped. Crumbs fall to the ground unnoticed.

And in the end, all that’s left of us are the crumbs.

Coffee Court

Drip. Drip. Drip. I exist. I come into being.
Sip. Sip. Sip. I send your nerves fleeing.

Home. Work. Café. I belong where you go.
Morning. Noon. Night. I pick you up when you are low.

Staple. Surprise. Sudden urge. I am where you turn.
Mild. Medium. Dark roast. You mostly burn.

Steaming. Brewing. Percolating. I fill the empty air.
Box. Pot. Carafe. Enough of me, let’s share.

Glass. Ceramic. Styrofoam.  Are you a friend or a foe?
Mug to stay. Mug to go. Paper cup. Sometimes, I just don’t know.

Beans. Grounds. Syrup. Grind me. Filter me. Shake me up.
Black. Extra extra. Regular. Euphoria fills the cup.

Vanilla. Hazelnut. Mocha. We discuss the flavor.
Caf, Half-caf, Decaf. You and me, worth the labor?

Sugar. Milk. Ice. Make me sweet. Make me creamy. Make me cold.
Friend. Co-worker. Stranger. You meet. You scream. You unload.

Scalding. Frosted. Room temperature. Sensation draws pain.
Reheat. Fresh. Microwave. Don’t pour my grounds down the drain.

Dropped. Broken Shattered. I spill on the floor.
Shards. Slivers. Stains. You come back for more.

A Weathered Wall

As the country gleamed new machines and his neighbors took off for the city mills, he opted to stick around and fight the change. His land was important to him. Not only did it serve as his livelihood, cultivating land was also his way of life, something he dreamed about as a boy and knew he'd always do.

He remembers as a boy looking out his back window onto the land. His family has had this land as long as his father could recall. The land was lush and deciduous. Forever green in the young boy's eyes.

As his years added candles to his cakes, the sticks outside began to disappear. At first he didn't notice. Then one winter morning he gazed through the pane and could count the snow-covered trunks in his yard. The land was damaged and deserted.

Winter brought deep freezes followed by spring's heavy rains. Land that was left was washed away. Rich and fertile no more. All around him people begin erecting fences to help with the erosion.

The trees, like his family were gone. His land looked cold and deserted. The freezes and rains heaved large stones up from beneath the surface. They scattered across his acres replacing his plants and dreams.

The stones were the anchors for the many trees. Each tree wrapped its roots around the stones to grow strong and steady above all. Now with the trees gone, the anchors are all that is left.

With the threat of his land disappearing and becoming useless, he follows suit with his peers and begins his fence. Many had taken the stones from their tree-vacant land to build their fences. It's his chance to save his dream. He builds it up rock by rock. Boulders make the base and the smaller stones pile atop. He delicately places each one with purpose. They fit together intrinsically. Nature's own puzzle. ​

The wind blows and the rain pellets his back. He pulls the footing stones off the stone boat. ​No weather keeps him away. The wall must be built if he has any chance of preserving his land. It must be able to stand the test of time.

It weaves through the woods. Angles and intersections, corners and somewhat straight lines. The stones still rest atop each other. They settled where he placed them, untouched. The spaces he left in the wall are now filled with leaves and sticks the wind carried.

It's not a perfect wall. Some of the building stones could have been better placed. It does its job though, and that is the important part.

As the years pass by, the wall still stands. He admires it from the same window he looked out as a boy. Some of the trees and vegetation have returned, but the landscape is forever changed. Rocks, trees, and a solitary man. The wall stands as a reminder of another life.