Frenzied Daddy

So, I’m standing here, at Bipartisan Cafe at SE 79th and Stark. Miss B is reading from her comic book here; it’s an open mike with a program called “writers in the schools.” there are a lot of people to read here and a lot of supporters.

At Cleveland High, I was a writer, I ran the literary magazine my senior year (with Terri Hughes). I took an extra class after school across town at Benson. Both years, I went to the U of O for a writing symposium. I wrote lots, both prose and poetry. But I never got a chance to read my writings out loud like she is tonight.

I’ve been worried about how supportive this school will be, of her confidence in her art. We talked at the teacher conference about her talent and how the teacher is so impressed with her. But watching this and seeing this, I’m finding myself jealous of this experience and happy with our choices.

Came home from an interview today (not blabbing about it cuz I don’t want to jinx any of my possibilities) in a great mood and not ready to retire to the basement yet. So I made the TT go for a walk with me. She wanted to take the arthritic Perrin and the elderly Honor for a stroll. I was unable to find both leashes and decided to put them both on the same one with a splitter.

As we got to the other side of the block, a little grey cat went totally bunions-to-the-wall ape-poop. It rose up, hissing at my poor dogs, who couldn’t get away because they old and feeble. Then it walked toward them, hissing, and finally charged them, darting under Perrin, around over his shoulders, on his rump, hissing and spitting. He was so surprised he fell down.

Which is a problem. Now I have a bag of poop in one hand, the other is holding a leash with two dogs on it, the cat is angry, and the dog fell over and can’t get back up. I had to (gently, ‘cuz I’m being totally respectful at this angry yowling spitting demon) swing the dog poop bag at the cat to get it to slowly move away, lift Perrin’s hips up so we can slowly walk down the street from the cat. And while we’re going, the dastardly thing decides we’re not moving fast enough, so it chases us, spitting and snarling.

My poor dogs were so put out. Well, ok they weren’t. They forgot all about it by the time we got a house away and the cat left us alone.

It’s snowing; it’s really really snowing. And for all you worriers out there, we’re sitting at home around the space heater, toasting marshmallows and making smores.

Had fun playing in the yard. Not so much driving on it, in fact we aren’t driving on it. Maybe Monday I’ll make it to the post office to mail these XMas Cards.

You’d think I’d celebrate the solstice more. The return of the longer days has more meaning directly to me than the “first birth” of a “holy man.” But, “here I am”, in the words of Jubal Early. The presents are, for the most part, ready and under the Christmas Tree.

Christmas isn’t a religious holiday to me, but is more of a familial holiday; like Thanksgiving, it’s a good time to reflect and be with your loved ones.

The Solstice means more to me because the long nights of winter play into my depression and the link to seasonal affective disorder, and the days getting longer will help my depression ( hopefully ) recede a bit. It also means more to me because it, along with its sister in the summer and cousins in the spring and fall, remind me of the cyclical nature of life.

So light a candle for the solstice and look forward to longer days of sunlight. Err, rain and snow, because the solstice is the “first day of winter,” thanks to the tilt of the earth, and the cold winter is still to come.

The last few weeks of driving Ms B to work only to turn around and drive Miss B to school an hour later have been rough on all of us. Fortunately this is coming to an end.

Ms B’s folks found an elderly ford explorer, kept up well by its owners, in her home town. And her bio-mom sent us most of the money to purchase it. It’s apparently very clean, has a tow package, has a luggage rack, is blue and grey, and is in great condition for its age. It’ll be great for tooling around town and getting the kid to school, and it’ll have room for the four of us and the dogs ( which is always a problem when we go out of town ).

Suggestions for naming the car are welcome. I’m particular to ‘percival.’

I got a good laugh out of this; thanks, RJHoughton

There are just some things that a father shouldn’t teach his daughter, and at times like that, his sisters in law step in.

Do you remember, about twenty years ago, in college (thanks Alli && you’re welcome, Young Raven), when you could open up a Henry’s Ale, put it to your lips, turn it over and burble it down your throat? Alternating with some air, so you didn’t drown, but the whole bottle would wind up in your belly and you’d put the “dead soldier” up on the windowsill to catch flies? Yeah, me either. But I think Miss B has learned this trick too. She didn’t do this before she went to Klamath Falls and visited with her aunts T, K and M.

I put away the groceries, including a fresh can of “whip cream” for the strawberry shortcake and left the kitchen long enough to “shake the morning dew from the water lily” and wash my hands. As I return, wiping my hands on the back of my shirt, I startled a certain ten year old who was placing an empty can of whipping cream into the fridge and wiping a satisfied grin off her face with the back of her hand.

I swear that kid’s going on seventeen.

Twenty years ago, I was graduating from high school. Bon Jovi (Wanted Dead or Alive) and Debbie Gibson (Shake your Love) were on the radio. And I was suffering from teenage angst. I was darn good angst; I could have starred on MySpace, if that sort of thing had been around.

Check out this poem, kept for 20 years in Jabberwocky, our literary magazine…

I’m on the verge of losing the best thing
that’s happened to me.
I feel torn inside, and the only stitchery
is your handiwork.
I’m on the verge of becoming alone again
And I cannot stand the thought
of shouldering the world’s needs
(my needs)
by myself, without someone
to understand and help me.
I’m on the verge of being crushed by emotions
none mine, yet all mine
confusion, sorrow, others.
I don’t know which is worse;
losing you or giving up.
Either way, I hurt inside.

Yeah, I know. We all lived through our angsty period. This poem is a good example of what I would classify now as “raw materials” handed to me by the Muse, who expected me to do something more than … blapp it down on a piece of paper

Tongue & Cheek

Originally uploaded by Sara May.

Hmm, I may have to play with some spot color. This is a neat photo.