Reports From The Frontal Lobe

By Gil VanWagner

“Reports from the Frontal Lobe” was produced because of reading. Pieces written and shared freely over the years. Vignettes, rants, editorials, viewpoints, counter-viewpoints, must dos, should haves, episodes, blogs, and pick your word for writings ranging from a few paragraphs to a few pages. Pieces written for the sake of writing and sharing truth along the path of life. The sharing became important in my world.

A world changed by Facebook.

Facebook was a driving force for “Reports from the Frontal Lobe”. The social network became my neighborhood and my almost daily writings were the sharing with neighbors over a cup of coffee each day. I became a global citizen and grew to love people in ways that changed my everyday choices. Some days, the pieces were about my past. Usually, they were about things that mattered to me. Turned out, the same things mattered to a lot of people. A real lot. Each piece drew more readers and each reader drew more readers. The pieces became a clarion.

Readers said they liked them. They waited for the pieces and asked for some of the older ones and some newer ones. Soon, there were hundreds of them. Enough to assemble in one piece......more of a placeholder than an actual book. A file of fragments with a tentative name.

A surprising thing happened as the book said, “Hey, I am in here. Just kinda jumbled up. Get me whole. Get me whole soon, dammit.” (Seems even my books speak with a Jersey attitude.)

Soon, “Reports from the Frontal Lobe” showed itself.

“Hey, what about those pages of one liners? What are they? Chopped Liver? They belong in here, bozo boy, so get to it. Yeah, I know they were written separate. Don’t worry. They actually are my transitions. They were pieces of me before you knew I even existed. Go ahead, writer man. Do the work of assembling me. People are waiting.”

Years of bits and bobs and then weeks of flows and edits....and voila. “Reports From the Frontal Lobe”. Yours because readers said the pieces were important. Well, if the pieces are important, the whole thing must be too.

As a writer, this book is my soul. It is me in my entirety. It is scary to hang my soul out for all to see but the book became bigger than me. The book became important and first the readers said they wanted it and then it said I better get it done. I was pushed out of the way and then hung out here naked. That is how I write. It is best when I am out of the way.

Now, for eternity, I am. Here I am...whenever you want to look.

You can read it in sequence.

You can read it in bits and pieces with the sweet randomness of a page opened and enjoyed.

It is up to you. I am in here. Hope you like me. Hope it matters. It took on a life of its own....and that, my friend, is how books come to life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gil VanWagner
• Release date: Feb 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466075993

Gil VanWagner

I have been lots of things and am lots of things. My core is slave to writing, healing, sharing, believing, doing, including, and dancing in joy. Know me through my words...as I learn me through my deeds. Welcome. Born and raised in New Jersey, twenty-eight years traveling the world in the USAF, ten years in corporate America, several years running my own business, and ended up in Utah. Now I write, share, life coach, and do whatever feels right to be a self-sufficient global citizen.

Book preview

Introduction

Maybe my story matters. Maybe not. You be the judge. I am who I am and who I am changes as the days move to the nights and then back to the days. As I get older, I get wiser. Since I am basically clueless at times, that does not say much for how much I knew when I was younger. So be it. Too busy with now to focus on my thens.

Like most of you, I’ve tried to do my best. Just like you, that didn’t go so well at times. Kinda hard to do your best when you are doing all you can to make ends meet. That ain’t an excuse. It is a reality. If you don’t understand that, you hadn’t oughta be reading this cause it ain’t gonna mean shit to you. Life is trying to do your best, missing the mark, learning from the misses, and then doing your best again. Repeat as necessary and try not to get soap in your eyes.

Now, why would you take your valuable time to read about me? You could be hiking, sleeping, kissing someone, picking your nose, or any one of many wonderful options. Yet here you are. Reading this. I might be hoping to hear from you or I might be such a memory that you have to ask to see if anyone even knows who the heck I was. Life comes and goes that quickly. Yet, here you sit. Reading about me.

Guess it will help just to tell the story and see if you get anything out of it. If you do, cool. If you don’t, that’s alright, too. I hope you read on, of course, and hope even more that you get something out of it. Otherwise, this is a waste of my time. I could be hiking, sleeping…..you get the idea.

So, here goes. My name is Gil. I am a real guy. That is important to remember because I am a writer and I can blow smoke up your ass and you will think you were just kissed and really believe it. So, this story here, is me. All me. Nothing but me. Honest to goodness.

This is gonna be kinda jumbled. I could start at the beginning and end at the end but that ain’t that way two people talk to one another. Two people talk. If they talk enough and really are honest, the stories get told to make up one big story and it all works out really nice.

That doesn’t happen too often. People tend to wonder what they can say and what they can’t and who they can say it to and who they can’t. Me? I am beyond that. You don’t even have to tell your stuff. Just take all of my stuff in. Nice and safe and easy. I send. You receive. If you stop receiving, I will still be sending only it ain’t likely for you. I kinda hope it is for you though.

See, I know stuff about you already. You are a good person that sometimes doubts a lot of stuff. You live and love and laugh and cry and rise and shine. Sometimes though, you wonder if you really matter and if what you do is really the right thing. You are a good person. You just wonder if you can be better.

Yeah, I know that about you. ‘Cause, you can be better. We all can be better. I ain’t here to lecture you or show you the way or invite you to a seminar so I can share my message. I am here to say that you and I are a lot alike. Except I am telling my story and you are listening.

Nope, I don’t have your answers. I have mine and they change. Answers are elusive little suckers. Just when we think we found them, they change. Some folks do find answers that stay the same for them. That is called organized religion. You know those folks. My way is the right way and you are invited to get a fucking clue. That ain’t you. Not that you are against organized religion. If that works for folks, cool. It just seems kinda short sided to you. Like you prayed for a clue and then settled for the first one that made you feel all safe and warm. The next thing you know, folks are taking sides and have pissing contests about whose God is the right God and taking collections for conversion of the clueless.

See? I did know a lot about you, didn’t I?

~ You’re what’s in it for me. ~

Stories from all over the place flowed in some half-assed order so you can read it from the beginning, which is actually the end, or at random or in any way you choose. This is me, blemishes and all…….so laugh at me, learn from me, love me, hate me, but read me, damn it!

Death

Let’s get this outta the way now. We are gonna die. You. Me. All of us. No one gets outta here alive. We are gonna die. It’s a coming for you. The Grim Reaper. Contrary to anything you may have heard, or hoped, death does not take a holiday. It sure does take a lot of our time before it gets here though.

Seems we are obsessed with death while we are alive. We are handed images of heaven, then the Ten Commandments, and assorted other things in fine print of biblical proportion. Kind of a Here is what comes next and you damn well better be ready all the time or you are gonna hate being you forever and a day or so without any time off.

Death is a part of life. Making it too big a part of life, kinda wastes the living part of stuff. Death is a cliff that we will all walk right off of because it is the next step on our path from where we come from to where we go. It is there. We will walk off of that cliff. Some folks spend way too much time looking for the cliff. They walk tentative and easy and in fear as if a misstep moves the cliff closer. As if they will see the cliff and have time to kinda pause and say, hmmm……maybe I will just go back a ways and come back to the cliff later.

Well, boys and girls, that ain’t how it works. You walk off the cliff and you are gone. At least from here. You are back to where we were before Mommy and Daddy tripped their own light fantastic and made magic that grew up and can read big books now.

The cliff is kinda known though. We all hope it is our right to move off the cliff in old age while sleeping after celebrating tons and tons of birthday parties. Secretly, we all believe the other folks will get to the cliff while we wish them well and get on with our lives. Young folks run and dance and sing like the cliff is just a rumor. Old folks realize the cliff is real and likely even real close and start looking backwards at where they were. The cliff ain’t back there so it feels safe and warm there. Doesn’t work though. The cliff shows up between bites of Tapioca and then they don’t have to worry about the when anymore.

Death is big business. People do their best to buy longevity. It does kinda help since we can bring the cliff closer with stupid choices. That is an acceptance of the cliff that means eat, drink, and worry life to nothingness and the cliff sees you are excited about it and lets you jump off way too early.

I learned about death in a lots of places. Not by experience yet but I will handle that when it comes. As a kid, death was something for old folks. There was a kid in fifth grade that died and that was sad but seemed kinda unreal. His name was Tommy and he was a good kid. Then he died. I knew there was some important message there. I also knew it was not me and that was enough at the time.

One time, my buddy’s Dad died. That seemed harder and more real for me. My buddy and I were just kids. He was a kid. I was a kid. We each had a Mom and a Dad. Then one day, he didn’t have a Dad. I was supposed to go the funeral parlor and do something. Not because anyone told me. Just because I knew you were supposed to do that, like my parents did when people died and stuff. I didn’t go though. It kinda creeped me out so I just didn’t go. Could have, but didn’t.

A week or so later, my buddy came by the house and we sat on the front stoop. We didn’t say much to each other. Some times are like that. You don’t have to talk to know how the other guy feels. Only, I don’t think my buddy knew how I felt.

He didn’t know I felt guilty and weird and sorry for him and wished I had gone to the funeral home and knew what to say and had done the right thing and helped him and his Mom and his sisters and his brother and told his Dad’s body I was sorry and stuff. He didn’t know any of that ‘cause he couldn’t feel me. My buddy was in a place where all he felt was hurt and alone and confused and shitty.

We didn’t say much. We just sat. That was enough. My buddy missed his Dad. Death is like that for the people on this side of their own cliff.

Death is sickly kind in the way it enters our lives. At first, it is hardly even mentioned. Although, it is the one thing after birth that links us all. We are shielded from it for many years when we are children. Then, as our understanding of life increases, it begins to appear. Sporadically, so we can learn of it in bite sized chunks. From a human perspective, it begins small. Almost innocent. Goldfish. Perhaps a hamster. The family cat or dog. Remember how that felt? Aw, gee, why did Tippy have to die? That kinda sucks, Mom. Can I have another Twinkie, please?

Then it comes in smaller, although distant, forms. A Grandparent. Another Grandparent. Maybe an Aunt or an Uncle. It might even be a Teacher or a Neighbor. It kinda pops in to say, Hey, remember me? Just wanted to let you know I am still here. Enjoy High School.

In High School it arrives again. More impact this time. Usually involving two of our favorite forbidden fruits, cars and booze. Might be cars and drugs but that is pretty much the same thing. Actually, the very same thing but let’s save that for later.

Someone we knew from Gym class or home room dies. It is tragic. Sometimes it is grizzly. A beer bottle through the heart. A beautiful head found somewhere other than attached to the budding body. This death stays in our life longer. It is talked about at each party for months to come. Parents use it to remind us how lucky we are it is not us. School usually has a special assembly. Most tout out the worst safety movies ever made with a State Trooper visiting hospital beds, graveyards, junk yards, and maybe even morgues. We are fed the reminders of death to ensure we live well. At least that is the premise.

Usually backfires though. Gives a pretty a damn good excuse to party while you can when you are fueled by hormones and, when the hell am I gonna get laid?, concerns.

I remember the grizzly accident that claimed four young lives in my home town. I really believed the bit about the beer bottle and the severed head for a long time. Right up until I realized it really didn’t matter if that part was true. Four people died and they died too young and they would not have died if they had made other choices. Of course, at the time, I was sorry for them, glad it wasn’t me, and buckled down for Algebra finals and the Homecoming Dance.

There was one girl I met in ninth grade whose death touched me in ways that made me question things in much deeper ways. We went to the same school for one year and one year only. Ninth Grade. Thompson Junior High School in Middletown, New Jersey. Her name was Denise.

It was not that Denise and I were close. We had a few of the same classes and enjoyed joking around and stuff. We did not date. We were not an item. She came from Middletown and I was bussed in from Keansburg since Keansburg High School was under construction and wouldn’t be completed until the following year. Keansburg and Middletown were different. A lot different. That’s just the way it was.

So, Denise and I liked each other and lived very separate lives when we were not together in a few classes and school gatherings. I thought she was sweet and cute and a lot more. She was a really good kid.

In my Ninth Grade yearbook, she wrote a full page note to me. I still have it to this day. It stunned me. I really mattered to her. The note felt special. It reminded me how much we can mean to someone even when we might think we are just a friend or acquaintance. I read the note a lot. Part of me, the boy part, wondered how the heck I could have been so clueless. Why hadn’t I asked her out? That sort of thing. Another part was happy. Happy I could be that important to someone so sweet and nice. The note became a secret treasure.

Denise died two years later. I heard about it a few weeks after it actually happened. I didn’t get many specifics and didn’t ask. Dead is dead once all is said and done. The news saddened me in a deep…morose kinda way. It was like I lost her and never really had her. It made me see how much more she should have tasted and lived and enjoyed. It made me wish I had talked to her and known her more. It made me realize that she was more of a factor in my life than I suspected. She let me know I touched her life more than I knew and that made her touch my life more than she knew. More than she would ever know as it turned out. She shared and that linked us. As I share this with you I realize that Denise and I are still linked. She is still that girl that I knew a bit then and appreciated a lot more later. She is special and cute and went off that cliff way too soon.

So, death sneaks in to make sure we do feel it looming. It visits a friend or two and then we enter the adult world and death becomes daily news as strangers explode in the sky and lose all their air miles. War turns death to a number right up until someone dials ours to let us know that another friend from High School now has their name etched in marble at government expense.

~ "Life is pass/fail. Retakes allowed. Grading is not on a curve.

You can erase all you mistakes and ask each other for answers.

The work you turn in at the end will determine if you move forward." ~

My Life Stories

We tell stories. We hide in stories. In truth, we are the story. I know. I am a Storyteller. I can tell yours, your mother’s, your mother’s friend from the old neighborhood, mine, or just make something up.

Stories that are real, unreal, and all points in between…life is a story. Stories told, are lives re-lived. Stories are victory over death. We live forever in our stories. Ivanhoe…long dust, but alive because you just read about him. Uncle Tom and his cabin crossed time and space from my words to your truth just now. Stories live.

Words are that powerful. That is why I write. Writing was as much a part of my life as socks. White socks. Dress socks. Warm socks. New socks. Just about anything but Red Sox. Socks are things we have with us almost all the time. Barefoot is a time between socks. Socks are that important. We hang them by the chimney with care. We darn them. We roll them. There are drawers dedicated to and full with them. Sock puppets. Sock it to me. Socks are more important to you and your everyday life than you know. Words are like that for me. I like pairing them as much as I like sharing them. I wrap myself in them and go for walks.

Along the way, I wrote.  In school, in the military, in corporate America...my path included words.  I gifted, scripted, and encrypted.  Sporadic, erratic, frenzied and sparse...words came. Trickle, brook, river, flood. I am an ocean of words, and ports call.

Some moved to too little. More became not enough. And then, words were life. Death was keeping them inside. Along the way, I became a writer.

~ Sometimes I write. At the best of times, I watch as the words let me know what needs to be said. ~

Presto Lunch

Just tiles on a sidewalk and now even they are gone. An oddity. More joke than truth, we jumped on them as children and opened ses‘ame’d their name. Presto, Lunch! Tiles. Like bathhouses or something Greek or Roman or special. Marker. Someone thought it out. Permanence. Not just a Diner. Hope. Ambitions. Dreams. Opened to the public. Proof positive in cement of staying power and good food. Presto Lunch. Just off the Boardwalk itself. Right around the corner from the movie house. Feed the crowd before. Feed them after. Feed them well. Feed them for as long as you can and then your children will feed them and you will be the one that made it happen. Then their children will carry that forward and their children, too. Generations from now, they will know you. That first signed dollar bill by the cash register ordered special from Sears. Your first, not second hand thing. National. Nothing but the best. Then the tiles.

Art. Craftsmanship. Class. Presto Lunch. Weather any storm. Handle any traffic. This was more than a Diner. It was your Diner. A new life, in a new town.

You even hired a waitress. Not even family. You were an entrepreneur. She needed the job. She had the baby coming and all. It was the right thing to do. She was a looker. That helped.

She left after the baby was born. She married that guy Buddy. They came in now and then. Business wasn’t as good as you planned. Maybe a job on the side. Then that was not even enough. Soon, the bills were greater than the receipts. The Cash Register was the first thing to go. Paper and pencil did better…with negative numbers that is. Soon, you had to give it up. It was a big dream anyway. Too big for this town. It was kinda busy in the summer and damn near dead in the winter. Location. Location. Location. Three swings and a miss. The signed dollar went in a box. The box went in a closet. It was sad.

No one saw you cry that night. Standing on those tiles. The ones that felt so good and now felt so dead. No one saw you cry. No one saw you kick them. No one knew you wanted to rip them up. Ashamed. Angry. No one saw. No one would know.

Each time you saw them after that, you wanted to see them less and less. Soon you stopped going there. Soon you stopped talking about Presto Lunch at all. Soon you kinda talked about it but only the good stuff. The eggs that tasted just right. The burgers as good as any in those crap places on the highway. The dinners that were real dinners for real people in a real town. It was more than a Diner. It was your home and you knew the people that came in for coffee and a roll with butter.

You are gone now. The tiles lasted longer than your Diner. The tiles lasted longer than you. The tiles are gone now. So is that waitress you hired that time when you had the new hopes, the shiny cash register, and the signed dollar bill. You are not forgotten though. I remember. That is the magic of Presto Lunch even though I never went there. You tried. You did your best. That is enough.

I love Diners. Magic places. Good food. I like my eggs over easy, and hash browns. I bet your hash browns were awesome.

~ My world is rich with words. Words I share freely to feed anyone that hungers for them. ~

Home

They taught me about home. The feel of it. As I live it and share it now, it is what I learned under that roof. That house on the corner of Maple and Main. A place you just knew was there. Where you were safe. Where they loved you. I lived it back then and honor it more and more as I realize it was something as common for me as air to breathe. To be safe and loved and protected. That is what they did. They showed me what home was like.

I felt it in a dream this afternoon. Mom. Protecting me from harm. Hiding me even. I remembered that feeling. The knowing. The innate confidence that all would be well. The bad could not get me there. It was safe and warm and right and natural. Natural. Natural belonging. Where they protected yet pushed. Not a place of hiding. A place of learning and growing. A place of sleep and rest and food and being.

When you have home, you sometimes think that is how things are. Home is something everyone has because you have it and therefore it is natural. It is only later that you realize some do not have it. Some do not even understand it. They live on alert. They live in a state of unsafe and wonder. Not the good wonder. The bad wonder. Hard for me to imagine that feeling truly because I am a being of home. I was born into a home and understand home as sure as I understand my own heartbeat.

Yet now I realize more and more, the sweetness of home. It is a place we all deserve. A feeling we all need. A feeling of all is right. A feeling of a protective force that cares for you and will do all it can to make sure things are right. Home. Home sweet Home. Thanks, Mom and Dad. I understand a bit more every day and appreciate what you did every day so that I could live the life I lived and do live. Everyone deserves a chance to feel good about where they are. Everyone.

~ Say thanks while they can hear you. ~

First Day Of School

On the first day of school, I wore a tie just like Wyatt Earp. It was way cool. A crisp new red shirt, rarer than I knew at the time, along with new black pants, new shoes, new socks, and new underwear. It was a day of newness. Yet it was something other than newness I felt. It was special. Yeah, that’s it. I felt special. Even the haircut was fresh but looked kinda out of place on the normally crew cut head. It was combed hair with a part and everything. Just like the big boys. Not quite Wyatt or Roy but more grown up than a crew cut to be sure. On that first day, Mom even walked me to school. Along the way, we stopped and had a photo taken with Mrs. McGuire.

The picture became my most prevalent memory. Me cuddled to Mrs. McGuire on the front stoop of her house, just three houses from good old 1 Maple Avenue. Mrs. McGuire was a key part of the neighborhood. She was a wonderful, Grandmotherly woman that kept an eye out for me. She was like that. She was the one I went to when I broke my arm in a fight. She was the one who had the nickel candy bar stashed away when I came trick-or-treating to the door. She was a wonderful woman that made the boy feel special each time she watched me pass. That picture became my key memory of the first day of Kindergarten.

Yet, it was my mother I felt. She was there for Kindergarten and the first days. She might not have been working or might have arranged time off but the key thing is that she was there. She walked me to school. It was her that had the camera and took the picture of her little boy and Mrs. McGuire. It was her that thanked Mrs. McGuire for keeping an eye on me when she went to work. It was her hand I loved to hold and remember as the special thing that helped me make it to Kindergarten and onto life. It was her that made it all work and all worthwhile.

The picture is my memory of a wonderful neighbor. The feeling is my reality of a wonderful Mother. She got me to school in one piece and somehow I am where I am because of that hand holding, along with the occasional boot in the butt. My first day of school was long ago. I still learn. Every day. Thanks, Mom. I am still that kid…just a little bit older and maybe even wiser. Still love that hand and reach for it in my time of need. It was there today on my walk. School seems to be in session for this kid more and more. I learned a lot, Mom. I still have a lot to learn.

A modern-day warrior

Mean mean stride,

Today’s Tom Sawyer

Mean mean pride.

Though his mind is not for rent,

Don’t put him down as arrogant.

His reserve, a quiet defense,

Riding out the day’s events.

The river

And what you say about his company

Is what you say about society.

Catch the mist, catch the myth

Catch the mystery, catch the drift.

The world is, the world is,

Love and life are deep,

Maybe as his eyes are wide.

Today’s Tom Sawyer,

He gets high on you,

And the space he invades

He gets by on you.

No, his mind is not for rent

To any God or government.

Always hopeful, yet discontent,

He knows changes aren’t permanent,

But change is.

And what you say about his company

Is what you say about society.

Catch the witness, catch the wit,

Catch the spirit, catch the spit.

The world is, the world is,

Love and life are deep,

Maybe as his skies are wide.

Exit the warrior,

Today’s Tom Sawyer,

He gets high on you,

And the energy you trade,

He gets right on to the friction of the day.

(Rush)

My inner child still blows raspberries at some people when they ain't looking.

Ice Cream Man!

It was the chime of hope.  The music of possibility. Ice Cream Man!  Ice Cream Man!  Notes carried on a summer breeze fueled immediate passion for frozen treats.  My ears knew the sound, my heart buoyed with hope, and my feet beat a path to the house.  Urgency incarnate.  Begging and pleading skills honed over years of knowing my parents and understanding they had an Achilles Heel.  They liked Ice Cream too.

I ran with abandon.  Connected to the primal lust for sweets.  My young mind calculated the odds with each step.  If they were hungry, too…odds higher.  Run, boy, run.  If they were in the yard already…better chance.  Run, boy, run.  If they were with neighbors, shame those odds into my favor. Run, boy, run. If they were with relatives, ask for two!  Run!  Run, boy, run!

No one in the yard.  The cold breeze of reality tempered the joy but hunger flamed on.  Up the porch stairs and through the door with the call, Ice Cream Man!  Ice Cream Man!  Dad was not home.  Mom just got off work.  Maybe next time.  The music faded along with my hope.  Next time.  Maybe next time.  Just maybe.  That was enough to keep the hunger alive.  Ice Cream Man of my shattered dreams.  Tomorrow you will serve me well.

~ Unconditional is sweetened by tasting conditions. ~

Almost Iced

Near death. Back then. In between Mrs. Kinniman and Sister Matthew. Right around Iscabibilator time. Under the water of the Raritan Bay. Pulled from under the ice. Removed from cold alternatives. Saved. Treated by the guys in the ambulance and then a bunch of folks at Doctor Berman’s. Some guy warmed me up where he shouldn’t have but that was not important at the time. Some medicine I had to take and it came in a little red container shaped like a spaceman. Put in the paper but not on the Seven O’clock New York News with Kevin Kennedy and Gloria Okon as the Weather lady.

I thought for sure I would be in trouble but Mom and Dad didn’t even yell at me. Not even later. Glen was alright after that. He pulled me out. Some lady said she did. I felt something when it happened, a moment before I was sitting on the ice and then was under it. Something that comes back to me at important times. Something about making a difference. Something about using my gift. Something about being here for a reason. Something that comes back to me at times when I need it. Like today. When I need it. Kinda like I was touched and then pushed and......well, kinda special. Pushes me. Through the tough times. Cool. Just when I need it.

~ Hope your happy ending arrives long before the end of the show. ~

The Beauty Shop

It was really just a converted house behind the Keansburg-Middletown National Bank and across from Modern Pharmacy. Hollywood Beauty Salon…complete with its own neon sign and kinda pink shingles. It was the place the Ladies go. Ladies taking care of Ladies. It was all Feminine, all the time. Sights. Sounds. Even the smell. There was a smell there that was not nice. Yet it was that smell. That smell I adjusted to so I could be there and be told I was a good boy. Sometimes they noticed me. Mom was proud when they did. That was nice. Sometimes they did not notice me. Mom was Queen when they did not. That was nice, too.

I think that is why she liked going. Her and the other ladies like her. They liked being Queen once in a while. Hair done their way. Someone tending them. Kindred willing to wash their hair like servants to the Royal Court. No dishes in the sink. No dirty clothes waiting. No picking up after themselves. No floor supervisor ensuring the line ran smoothly. No din of the waxing machines at the Tulip. Nothing but sitting and being tended. Plus select offspring. Only those smart enough to sit quietly where told and read magazines that had nothing for men.

This was so different than the barber shop. Barber shop smells were mine. I was part of them. Barber shop smells are embraced. Beauty shop smells are endured. Here, I was outside the smells. Didn’t like the smells here….remembered them as pungent…even stinky. Adjusted to them like beast to the harness. Something to tolerate…for as long as directed.

The Beauty Shop was foreign. This was a Their place. I was tolerated here…if. If. One word……so many directives. If not, there were consequences. If successful, even the rewards were different. No lollypop. No baseball updates. No burp of man lotion on the neck. Here the reward was petting. A pinch on the cheek. A pat on the head. A hug to a strange bosom. They did not call you sport here. They talked about you more often than to you. Here you were on display. The Queen’s subject. Evidence of Her prowess. Proof positive of a good boy in a place where Ladies tended Ladies and maleness was watched carefully.

Mom went less often than she wanted and took me more often than she would have liked. She needed that time. She deserved that time. She included me…because I was her son. She sent me to the Barber shop and knew I would behave. She took me to the Beauty Shop and made sure I behaved. I was groomed, inside and out.

~ We are the seeds, we feed the seeds, and the Circle closes to begin again. ~

Dirt Forts

Built them as a kid. Usually Glen and I. Sometimes his brother Lindsay. Sometimes Joey further down on Seeley. Mostly, Glen and I. Dirt forts. Dug them in the field on the corner of Seeley and Main. The field is gone now. It is a back yard or under the house that is built where the field used to be. Wonder if the people there even know they are living over what once were some mighty fine dirt forts.

We dug them deep and long. Had to be deep enough for us to crawl in and hide once they were done. Covered them over with some plywood and camouflaged the top with bushes and stuff so only we knew where they were. A few comics, candles, and maybe even a flash light and we had a dirt fort. We stocked it with a half a box of Cheerios, two apples, and some crackers. Depended on what was available without getting caught and how hungry we were. Glen and I would eat orange peels under the right conditions but that is another story…one that took place somewhere between dirt forts and where did the time go.

The dirt fort became our place. Sometimes it was a bunker and we weathered the storm. Other times it was a foxhole and we were the guys of Combat…I liked being a Lieutenant. Grew up to be one but not like those guys on Combat. More like….well…..that too is a whole different story. We played a lot in our dirt forts. They were hang outs, playgrounds, club houses, and Fortresses of Solitude. They were very likely not as deep and nowhere near as long as I remember. They were also cold, damp, dirty, and leaked under even the driest conditions. We saw only the good. We saw only the greatness of our dirt forts.

Thought of the dirt forts yesterday and again today while on my morning walk. Cut across the field by the walking path. The field between where I live and where I walk. We call it Tinker’s field. I do at least. Tinker was our dog but Tinker did what dogs do and Tinker died. Tinker loved that field. As a Lab, it was Tinker’s nature to love any field and any lake and any place where Tinker could play. Guess Labs and Kids are a lot alike. We spread Tinker’s ashes in that field. Wonder if people will build on that field some day and if they will know they are living on Tinker’s ashes in Tinker’s field. Maybe they should just leave the field to be a field. When is enough building enough? Fields are great places and we need more of them.

So anyway, I cut across the field. There are a few paths and stuff on this field. Maybe a few too many. Took one of them and there was a hole. No reason. It was just there. Some holes are put there and some holes just kinda appear. This one kinda appeared. As holes go, this was a good one. A dirt fort sized one. I know for sure. Went into it and checked it out. It was big enough to swallow me up…once I squatted and bent over. So I did. Yesterday. Again today.

Brought home some good rocks too. Do that most days. Building a rock river in my yard. Have been for years. It expands every year. Rocks from Tinker’s field, from hikes, from here, and from there. It is a slow process. Rivers take time to become rivers. I ain’t in a rush. Gives me more reason to take walks. There are rocks out there aching to be part of a really cool rock river. There are hiking trails in the mountains waiting too, for me to see more cool stuff. Plus, there are dirt forts yet to be seen. Wonder if Glenny can come out to play? Maybe he has a field there in Hawaii. Maybe he has dirt forts waiting for him. If not, come see mine. I can use the help building my rock river.

~ "Sometimes I can be deep and soulful. This ain’t one of those times. Try back tomorrow.

While you’re here, want some loosey-goosey?" ~

Pony Boy

When it comes right down to it, I am pretty childish. At least, more childish as of late. Going out of my way to the dirt forts on my morning walks. Galloping. Just like I use to as a kid. Galloped everywhere. On Trigger, of course. My first bike, the Sears Red Machine written about in Jersey Sure, was Trigger more than it was a bike or a police car or the Man From U.N.C.L.E car, or the Batmobile…the real one….from the TV Show that otherwise sucked. I galloped a lot.

I galloped again the last few days. Only for a bit. More than most guys my age though and that is kinda cool in my twisted book of logic and magick tricks for