No Escaping Dweebdom

I took her to the Scottish Highlands,

Just north of Santa Cruz?

I wanted to show her my daffodil farm.

We took Trisket along for the run

and on our way back, as we were facing the sunset,

it was mostly overcast, cool and wet from a recent rain,

I kissed her. 

She pulled away

and I went down.

My chin hit her knee

and knocked her down,

and we both landed in a big wet puddle. 

Trisket began to bark...

"I became a dweeb standing beside yourself," I mumbled, looking around to see if anyone else was watching.

"No. What? I'm just not ready for that, kind of,"

"What about all that wanting to say yes, yes, yes to the world? I thought you meant, something..."

We kept the ball flying around pretty quick for the next couple of exchanges, until we settled down and were both back on our feet. Then we started cracking up. We must of laughed for over 10 or 15 minutes. I helped her wipe the mud off her face and kissed a scrape on her palm.

Then as moinly as could be, she said, "you are a danger to yourself and others, you know? You could be locked up." 

After that there was no stopping us.



© Donald Grube, 2010

The Cross to Remember

When I was older than my younger brother in early life, we would dig holes. Anywhere, everywhere.

Early in the morning we would rise and quickly make our one eyed sandwiches or luftwaffes and head off to work. I approached this work like a job superintendent, making sure of location, and then depth and width, prescribing breaks at regular intervals, always training my team to exceed the low expectations of their young bodies that waited for age to teach them important lessons in life. I was patient but assumed my work seriously. At breakfast I would encourage reviewing talk to prepare them for the sometimes daunting day ahead. During the hard labor there were no gripes, only an occasional, "How much deeper?" or "When is the next break?" And I would considerately but firmly reply, "We are searching for hard pan. I am watching the clock. Do not lose concentration!"

My brother Charlie learned much in those days. He was like Psyche sorting the seeds but without help from the ants. There was no confusing knowledge of how many holes we had left to dig and whether or not there was any hard pan to hit, or what was hard pan? He had a the beginner's mind. Always wondering if a root or stone would inhibit his shoveling and demand a different approach or even more concentration. The key to his success was to love his work unconditionally. Not blaming me or the shovel or root or even the earth for lack of progress. He would simply dig with all his might.

One night I woke up from a bout of lucid snoring and found his covers pulled back and the bed empty. I wondered, was he in the kitchen for a snack, or had he crept into Mom and Dad's bed. Then I heard a sound. I followed the scraping to the back porch. Outside I saw Charlie in the hole working in his pj's. During our afternoon session he had only made it to the depth of his knees but now I could barely see his ribs. I thought, "What dedication. What a sense of determination." I stared at him for quite a while and then went back to bed.

On occasion we would stumble into an old outhouse hole and find cans and bottles. One small bottle I prized was made of triangular shaped blue glass. It was about three and a half inches tall with an owl on it. Later I took it to my youth group leader and he told me that it was an ant poison bottle and it laid on its side to encourage entrants.

The real occasion to dig for me was to find the clay that laid just on top of hard pan. There were precious rocks that filtered down to rest mixed up with this clay. I once strained the clay and made an ashtray in the shape of a mouth and my older brother fired it in his kiln. We were all surprised when it didn't explode.

Before me today I see four rocks and one marble. I see them in my pocket. I see them with the memories of time through the touch of my calloused hands. One represents my heart, one my liver. There is a black stone and a white marble to remind me of night and day. The fifth stone is a layered rock someone told me was whale bone. I carry that because I polished it myself in my rock tumbler.

These items take on different meaning at different times but they all well up at first touch the jealousy of digging with Charlie.



2002



© Donald Grube, 2010

Gott im Himmel

"Ouch! Fuck, shit, piss, hell, god damn, mother-fucker." Once again Penelope had stubbed her toe. "Fuck, shit, piss, hell, god damn, mother-fucker." This was Penelope's chant when ever she stubbed her toe, which was quite often. Maybe two or three times a week. "Fuck, shit, piss, hell, god damn, mother-fucker," she sang out loud again and again until that immediate pain subsided into a warm  sensation.

Penelope was in kindergarten studying her ABC's under Ms. Blatz, an unenlightended teacher who required mostly memory work from her students and the silliest art projects. Penelope was headed home from school after being chastised by Ms. Blatz for writing a mirror image of the letter "b." Penelope was within one block of home when she crossed the street and slammed her right foot smack into the rise of the curb.

"Fuck, shit, piss, hell, god damn, mother-fucker," she cried out at the top of her lungs.

This by-product of her physical awkwardness was enough to catch the attention of Mrs. Peru who looked up and seeing it was Penelope said, "And a fine day to you, too, Penelope."

When Penelope got home, her Father was waiting for her in the studio. "Well, hello my little Penelope." Her Father pronounced her name accenting the first syllable. This of course sent Penelope running into his arms with glee.

"Oh, fine Daddy. Is it all right if I make my 'b's' backward?"

"It's just fine with me. You know sometimes I confuse my 's's' for my 'z's"

Penelope looked around the room at the walls covered in pictures of male nudes. She finally located the new work. "Tell me about that one, Daddy?"

"Oh...I don't know. I guess it's me, accept my head is on backwards. It's kind of a state of mind piece."

"Daddy, it happened again." She sat down in the model's chair illuminated by the 100 watt, full spectrum lamps and began to untie her left shoe. "I just didn't see the bump."

"Let me see dear." He helped her pull off her thick wool sock revealing four toes with Band-Aids and a little toe with out, but the new abrasion was obvious. He went over and got another Band-Aid and said, "Well now, Penelope, you've got a complete set. You know, I'm not much for scrapes and bruises. All I can do is keep applying Band-Aids and more Band-Aids. Accept. Then he knelt down in front of her and kissed her little, little boo-boo. As far as coaching you on some prevention method I'm at a loss. But your Grandma Joan is pretty nimble. Would you like to ask her for some assistance?"

"At least we can have a good cry together. I'll call her, and you can take me over? Daddy? Keep up the good work."

***

"Grandma Joan, Grandma Joan?" Penelope screamed as Joan opened the front door.

"It's so nice to see you Pen, darling. I baked some snicker doodles right after you called. They'll be out in a minute. Come on in."

Grandma Joan's house always felt like home to Penelope. She missed a woman's influence in her life. "Dad's out in the car reading a playgirl. He thinks he needs help on his male figures."

"Is that so. Hmmm?. You know your Father's a great artist. And his most recent work, his focus on the male anatomy, he'll be remembered for that. I keep asking him for a picture to hang on my wall." Her voice trails off. "I think the doilies frighten him. Anyway, how many times this week?"

"This is the second and it's only Wednesday. I took your advice about cursing until the pain is gone. How's this?" Then at the top of her lungs. "Fuck, shit, piss, hell, god damn, mother-fucker! I collected them from school and around and strung them all together myself."

"Yes, that's quite creative of you." At a loss all of the sudden. "You know Pen, I was thinking...Would you be a dear and get that German dictionary off the shelf? That's right, the red one. Now bring it here, please? Okay, stand up straight, with your tookus in and your shoulders back. Now look off into the horizon and tilt your head forward a bit. I'm going to place this dictionary on your head. That's right! Feel proud as if your on stage and everyone is looking at you. Now walk about the room. Let your peripheral vision guide you past any obstacles. That's great honey. You know you remind me more and more of your mother everyday."

"She had blond curly hair like mine." Penelope runs her fingers through her hair.

"Okay, dear, you can take the book off now and put it on the table. I think the cookies are done. Be right back." 

Penelope sat there quietly looking at the room and decorations. The Hummel figurines and Meissen Porcelain, all the antique furniture, and the old yellowed landscapes. Everything seemed to be appropriate to Penelope. Not one thing out of place.

"Here we are. Now I want you to practice with a book at home."

"Oh, yes Grandma Joan. Can I take a cookie to Daddy?"

"Yes honey. Now run along. Oh, and Pen? Try 'Gott im Himmel.'" 

"Thanks Grandma Joan." And with the cookies she ran outside at light as a dove to the car window, banged on it and shouted, "Gott im Himmel, Daddy, try one of these."



1990



© Donald Grube, 2010

A Sunday Afternoon Drive

Despite the arguing, we got the windows up in time to save us from the red, brown dust that can clog your nostrils for weeks, or at least most of us survived. Chris was sneezing. That'll teach him to get the window up faster.

It was five minutes of hell everytime we passed a truck or car. To avoid choking, it was manditory to get the windows up before the automobile passed us. Both cars had to slow down and sneak by each other, avoiding the drainage ditches on both sides. Then the drivers had to trudge through the other car's dust for about four minutes, until the fog had lifted. Even rolling up the windows didn't stop the dust from coming in, we still had to tape the hatch back shut and stuff towels in the door jams.

Then Alice, my older sister, screamed, "There's a snake in the road."

"Oh, Les." My Mom said to my Father while she grabbed her seat belt. "Slow down! There's a snake in the road."

"Oh, boss!" said Chris, my younger brother.

"God, that sucker's big," I said, "Hey, Dad, what kind is it?"

My Dad's eyes opened wide, turned glassy, and got that look resembling those times when he used to spank us, all serious like.

"Go around it," My Mom said. "Don't run over it. Oh, Les! It may come up from the bottom."

Meanwhile an African woman, with her baby strapped to her back with a piece of Java print, had already anticipated the danger and had picked up a large stick out of the ditch. My Father was just about to squash the six foot snake--ba bump!

"It's dead," he said as he pulled over.

The woman, with the eucalyptus branch in her right hand, began thumping the still very much alive snake. It was crawling awkardly for shelter in the gutter. Then the baby began to cry. A short cry, then a long silence while it breathed. Then another series, always accompanied by the haphazard beat of the club. Then a young Aftrican man road up on his bicycle and saw that it was his job to kill the already mutilated snake. He ran over to the  lady, shouting at the top of his register, grabbed the stick and started pounding the snake into the ground, giving one loud cry for each hit.

The big bloody mess didn't even resemble a snake any more. The woman, sick to her stomach, began throwing up. Gobs of muck came spewing out of her mouth and splashed to the ground.

"Start the car, Les." Mom said.

"Wait a minute," I said. "Mom, I feel sick; let me out."

1979



© Donald Grube, 2010