Week 583: Mama Mama Please No More Step Dads

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day in the U.S. of A. (In the UK and Ireland it was 15 March–a belated happy one to Diane and the rest of the Islanders), I am not a mother, but I had one and found her to be sufficient. She was the sort of Mother who would die for her children and often made this one wish she would do just that.

We are awfully unfair to our mothers. We either over praise them up to Mother Mary Poppins or we blame them for not just all the heinous shit we do but for all the heinous shit ever committed in history. Expecting mothers to maintain a higher standard than what we are willing to consider is one of humankind’s greatest failings. Still, objectivity is not something we associate with family members. But alack and alas, all in all, in the end, everything tabulated, I’m glad I got the mother I was stuck with (vice versa); I do not believe anyone else out there could have made me and–despite my plentiful laments on the subject of me–I am used to being the person I am, and I’ve never been one for wishing I was someone else.

As the retail push for Mother’s Day advanced I was surprised to learn that my mother has been dead for fifteen years; I know the date and all that, but I really do not keep a running tally of the years because that can get awfully depressing. It’s odd how we (at least I) track time–big news will be fresh then slowly fade into the indefinite state of being “a couple of years ago.” That phase can last for an extremely long time–then one day you will need to know the exact amount of time between now and a particular ago and a surprise sum like fifteen years will smack you in the kisser like a garden rake left waiting in tall grass.

Unless one is armed with a barrage of concise sentences, it is difficult to describe a human being you knew well to other people. If I had more time to put this together I might have come up with an effective list, but instead I think I will relate an odd event that took place when I was around twelve years old. Odd for two reasons 1.) the boy who lived across the alley as a person; 2.) It featured a compliment from my mother to me, a rare event that was usually issued on a “decadely” basis. To be fair, I was even fainter with my praise of her. We had identical personalities, which in our case was as lethal on the peace as a mixture of bleach with ammonia–stuffs that have similar purposes but when combined produce the air of Saturn.

I distinctly remember 1971. And although it had its fair share of big moments, I clearly recall that we lived across an alley from a luckless boy who was always in his back yard practicing athletics–he was a background thing in our lives, far off enough not to be a topic of conversation (nor do I recall ever speaking to him), but he quite often was a producer of “unique” moments. We could see his yard from our kitchen window and he (who must have been at least thirteen or so–at least in Junior High because I did not see him at my elementary school), rain or shine, would be outside, alone, after school, practicing stuff like throwing a baseball up in the air and pretending to call off invisible players so he could catch it (a few times he “caught it” with his face). I think it was his invention of invisible teammates that attracted Mom’s attention. Throughout my childhood, Mom (when home) was not to be found anywhere other than the kitchen. Oh, no, she wasn’t cooking, but it was just where you’d find her, talking on the phone to her pal Nora (who was often there in person), or reading one of her “gothic” novels, chain-smoking Winstons and drinking coffee (this was where I learned the beauty of spiked coffee–Kahlua was her favorite). Sometime in that run of activity she must have noticed the boy and discovered the joys of watching his world constantly go to shit on him.

(Hmmm, getting tired of calling him Then Kid–let’s give him a name, although I never knew it nor did I recall ever speaking to him. We’ll call him “Gil”–like luckless Ol’ Gil on The Simpsons. But his behaviour when it all went to shit on him was much more Homer as “Angry Dad.”)

One day brought the arrival of a basketball backboard. It was loosely chained to the crook of a Madrone tree and the rim couldn’t have stood more than seven feet high–Gil must have been five-eight, which meant he could grab the rim without jumping; and although he was extremely awkward, dunking became his passion. Gil would run up to the thing and jam the ball through the rim. That was amazing because he was not exactly a reminder of Michael Jordan. He couldn’t dribble the ball because his yard was uneven and you could plainly see roots poking through the soil. Attempts at dribbling produced wild bounces that invariably caused the ball to flee him and land:

“RIGHT IN THE FUCKING DOGSHIT!!!”

There was a fifty yard space between our kitchen window and his backyard and two lengths of link fencing separated the sides of the alley. A bit of distance, yet whenever something went wrong with the ball you could hear him curse the Dogshit as though he were in the kitchen; in that shrill tone perfected by teen boys. The shit was produced by a remarkably regular Retriever mix we’d often see in the yard (and wandering the neighborhood)–but never when Gil was there–well, not in person, but Fido definitely left his calling card. From what I could see, and, trust me, I didn’t try to see too hard, the Dog dispensed hearty volumes of “soft serve.” Firm enough to leave a pile, but soft enough to create a horrid mess when disturbed. (I apologize for what might seem scatalogical to sensitive readers, but I’m certain we will all survive.)

I believe Young Gil would have done better if he’d occasionally grab a shovel and clean the messes. But has any teen in history done such–or at least has any boy teen? Whenever I walked by his place in the alley I’d see piles in various states of decomposition; they were away from the tree; hence Gil “performed” on the side of the tree closest to us. And perform he would–he had a hyper-mixture of slapstick and grand guignol, something that many of us are guilty of when we think nobody’s watching.

Gil’s masterpiece took place not long before our lease was up ( a new harmless Step was about to witlessly take office)–a masterpiece I still (obviously) remember over a half century later. It was late summer, just prior to the start of Football season (the American variety). I recall Mom sitting there smoking and drinking her Hawaiian coffee. I believe she found Gil fascinating, not just mildly entertaining, but as a genius of pathetic behaviour. Mom did not have a sterling taste in members of the opposite sex; I have nothing damning to say about her row of husbands, but the only interesting person she ever married was my father (her musician boyfriend was a bit too interesting, but that will have to wait for another time). Mom understood that the one thing a person can try too hard to do and still succeed in doing is to look pathetic. Of course none of this was gathered from conversations with my mother–but I too have a knack for observing people. Anyway, one day I wandered into the kitchen and she actually spoke to me without complaint or sarcasm.

“You gotta watch this,” she said, motioning with a quick nod toward the alley. Mom had a psychic flair for predicting the little disasters that plague the-never-been-kissed crowd. She had many niche talents that I’ve never detected in another person.

I recalled hearing hammering earlier. I looked out the window and saw Gil setting aside his hammer. He then erected a wobbly arrangement of three washed out two by fours. Two were about the height of the backboard and he had joined them with one that was probably five feet long; a squint told me that the middle was actually two shorter boards he must’ve nailed together. Gil had constructed a letter “H” whose slightly uneven crossbeam was closer to the top than the middle; the crossboard was set at his eye level.

“He’s built a goalpost,” Mom said, with that subdued whisper of hers that was constantly loaded with humor and sin. She had been observing him for a while.

Anyway, Gil arranged the thing to stand by leaning it against a picnic table he had apparently dragged over from the shit side of the yard. He then set a football on a tee about twenty feet from the goalpost. I recall the faintest possible laugh coming from Mom’s direction, perhaps caused by Gil licking his thumb and checking the wind. I believe that Mom and I knew what was going to happen; and maybe at some level Gil understood that he was placed on earth to create his own special flavor of pathetic misery.

As some of you have already guessed, Gil actually kicked the ball, but it never got more than six inches in the air as it quickly tumbled to the goal post. The ball hit the thing which immediately fell to pieces. One board slapped the ball and directed it …

“RIGHT IN THE FUCKING DOGSHIT!!!”

Although it was not possible for me to have seen or heard what happened, my mind has created the image of the football landing squarely on a fairly recent pile of soft serve Dogshit, spraying it everywhere, and making a sound that I lack the talent to adequately describe. If it should be the last thing, its artificialness withstanding, I remember, I’ll be cool with it (sometimes I see it happen in slow motion).

Mom and I watched this happen with a mixture of awe and pity. Oh, and we laughed–one must do that, even if only in memory.

Mom looked at me and said, “Well, at least you’re normal.”

And although that is hardly material for my obituary, I chose (and choose) to remember it well. There’s nothing sad to be found here (unless you are of the Tribe Called Gil). It’s just how we were–and how I still am, a solo act, fifteen years gone by.

So on this Mother’s Day I wish the best to all you mothers and daughters and sons and spouses of such remarkable persons. Many of you are both mother and daughter, which proves toughness better than jungle warfare.

And here’s to Gil–who must be seventy. I hope he has ker-splatted fewer piles of Dogshit on the road of life, but I fear his route was decided early by whatever profane little god watches over his kind.

The Latest Week That Was

Frederick K. Foote, the all time living story leader on the site, who is not an Editor, appeared twice this week. The first was a Sunday Special called Style. Bukowski said that Cats have style in abundance–the same goes for Fred.

Another frequent contributor, Michael Bloor, opened the regular run of the week with Beware the Wild Geese. It is a lovely little thing that speaks of freedom. Livestock creatures are not free and yet maybe they dream of a circumstance much better than the pen, barley and the block. The MC was given much to consider. Poignant, and I’m glad he let the Cat in.

Frederick K Foote was quickly back on the job on Tuesday. One Monkey Don’t Stop No Show is a high example of his wit and sense of satire. I’m sure that some of his stuff will rub some people the wrong way. But that is one of the jobs of a writer. He makes you think–or at least he invites you to consider the possibility.

Geraint Jonathan appeared on Wednesday with Joshuana, or: Defender of the Silence. Geraint is another frequent contributor. For me he pulls the language apart, burnishes each piece then arranges the words in the only possible way for them to go, which is also known as the best way. So it happened again with this piece. Another thing he does well is cause the reader to immediately go to google armed with any names that appear in his work. It is odd when saying nothing at all drives a Main Character, but Geraint is a champion of the odd.

A Brief Interruption

The random fall of acceptances this week have brought together five fine writers as usual, but four happen to be contributors who combine for well over two-hundred stories–perhaps closer to three. And I’ve read enough of each one to know his voice instantly. That’s the ultimate goal (not being the owner of a S. King-like bank account–though I would not kvetch) of writing. Establishing a singular voice that identifies you as much as your face is the thing. Geraint, Fred, Mick and David Henson have all done that–and I should expect the same of Joel Bryant upon further exposure.

The Welcomed Return

Speaking of Joel Bryant, he shone a light on Thursday with Working Lunch With the Space Vultures. Joel quickly created a universe of its own and filled it with amazingly intricate characters–all well under three-thousand words. That is a tremendous accomplishment. Quite often our stories are complete little novels, like this one. And what we have here is your basic feckless space aliens going against the typical reckless space aliens to a fun-filled result.

The aforementioned David Henson closed the shop for the week yesterday with Danny. For years he has been steadily climbing the ranks of frequent contributors–and along with a select few others, no one has encouraged other writers better than he. Many writers attempt what David accomplishes with ease. He creates a perfectly normal person and then something extremely odd, yet at the same time believable happens. Odd as in past stories, which include a tech luddite literally turning into a dinosaur–or an economy driven by your willingness to handle a deadly Snake. You have to have the right kind of mind to do such things and have them work out. A bit of Vonnegut, a bit of Harlan Ellison and all David Henson goes into works like Danny, which I ain’t gonna tell you about, in case you have yet to read it.

That’s it for another week, and we continue to urge you to read, write and make comments. I’d also like to single Diane out for her wonderful header images–which are so in tune with the works that I take their brilliance for granted–a no on but that is often the cost of consistent excellence.

The Perfunctory List and Clip

This week’s list was going to deal with motherhood but I know less about that than I do physics. And I have probably said all I have to say on the topic. But I know the hell out of a woman (and the other guys) scorned, and I now present my favorite:

Top Ten In Your Face Songs

• Diamonds and Rust performed and written by Joan Baez (Unbelievably poignant and an eloquent in yer face Bobby Zimmerman. Great side note–When Bob asked Joan if it was about him she lied and said “Naw, some other guy.” That is quality in yer facing! Bob is a genius and they are friends–but you get the feeling he had it coming)
• You’re So Vain– by Carly Simon (Nothing can match Joan’s level of in your face, but Carly did well. I’m guessing that young Carly was not what you’d call an eyes wide open sort of girl. But she learned and got up to speed when she kicked James Taylor and his drug habit out the door. Gotta feeling that it is about Warren Beatty–he just looks like the heel in the tune; Mick Jagger is a suspect, but he sang backup on the record and I do not see him being that self effacing–but maybe she tricked him into it–I so, I am even more impressed)
• Joey by the great Concrete Blonde-(Not a in your face, but a true song about a guy the singer loved, but who drank himself to death–a scene played out plenty in life)
• Your Good Girl’s Gonna Go Bad-Tammy Wynette (no standing by her man here-most likely George Jones)
• The Pill-Lorreta Lynne (apparently her husband was a “challenge” and all her standing up to the man songs were dedicated to “Dewey.”)
• What’s Love Got to Do With It-Tina Turner (Ike, who may be the most abusive singer this side of David Ruffin…speaking of…)
• Take This Job and Shove it-performed by Johnny Paycheck (Not a lot of subtlety here–but since songwriter David Allan Coe passed recently, it will be included)
• Death on Two Legs by Queen (This one is a well aimed insult at record management. You can tell that the boys enjoyed both writing it and getting it out for public consumption)
• Goodbye Yellow Brick Road–Elton John–lyrics, Bernie Taupin. (It helps if you can read the lyrics knowing Big City Gay terminology. If so, then this tale about a young kid “Dorothy” being “groomed” (for once a modern term gets it right) by an older rich guy who “shares” with his friends is as clear as a slap in the face. Taupin’s great lyrics are certainly addressed to someone–or maybe a group of someones. Either way, they cut.)
• All yours

Leila

And now my favorite Mother’s Day song–at least one my brother and I can identify with.