Blog #22
Once
upon a midnight dreary. Those are the opening words of The Raven by
Edgar Allan Poe. You knew that, of
course. But did you know that I can
recite the whole thing? It has always
been my favorite poem, and a few years ago I just decided to memorize it. I might have been seeing a psychiatrist at
the time, which makes some sense. I
started with the first line, and when I had repeated it hundreds of times and
had it down pat, I moved to the second line.
It took me six or eight months to get all 108 lines memorized, and I
keep the memory fresh by repeating the entire poem every Tuesday morning at
9:00. Let me explain.
It takes me about six minutes to recite the poem at
the dramatic pace it deserves, but I can do it a little faster if I want. Shortly after perfecting the memory stunt, I
began to take light treatments from Dr. Skin.
It’s like a vertical suntan booth and gives me a timed dose of artificial
sunlight that she says is good for my skin.
And the time of the dose? You
guessed it – five and a half minutes. Thus, every Tuesday morning at nine, I stand
there, getting my suntan and performing The Raven. I know.
I know. I’m weird!
Welcome back to my Wonderful World of Weirdness. It’s an adventure, isn’t it? I’m so glad you’re on board, so let’s travel
to North Carolina. My daughter,
Jennifer, is an animal lover (three dogs, two cats and twelve chickens). A few months ago, I was driving and she was
in the back when I heard her say, “Oh-oh”.
I turned around and she pointed out a spider the size of a blueberry pie
resting on the back of my seat. I hate
spiders. I hate spiders worse than Trump hates CNN. Spiders and cement mixers, but that’s another
story. “Kill the damn thing,” I
shrieked. Well, Sister-Save-The-World
wasn’t about to destroy a fellow creature, so she coaxed the puppy-sized
monster out of the car and onto a nearby lawn.
So last night Jennifer and I were chatting long
distance while she was driving home. She pulled into her driveway and said, “Oh, I
can’t get in the garage; there’s a big frog in there.” A frog big enough to keep her car from
getting in the garage? A Colossal
Kermit? A tremendous toad? Let’s call Martin Scorsese and Leonardo
DiCaprio. Frogzilla! I can see it now – the biggest film
of the Christmas Season. Or maybe It
Came from Beneath the Lily Pad.
Or even Frog Day Afternoon or Revolutionary Toad. No, it was just a little frog and Jen
didn’t want to run it over. I can just see
her chasing the happy hopper around the garage until she gently scooped it up and
released it in the woods. That’s one of
the reasons we love her. Or maybe she
fed it to the chickens.
Those chickens live in a coop that, if it was listed
on Priceline would cost you $129.00 a night.
It has everything but cable TV. I
told Jen she should install cable and let the little cluckers watch some
movies. And what movies, you ask, would
I recommend? Well, Chick Flicks of
course. You know I like silly lists and
I know you do too, so here are my Chick Flick titles.
A Few Good Hens
The Maltese Chicken
A Flock-Work Orange
Some Like It Fried
Pulp Chicken
Don’t panic – I’m not going to make you vote.
When my little Austin was in pre-school, he was
proudly showing off his alphabet skills to me.
He was perfect until he reached “P”.
Then he stopped; he couldn’t remember the rest. “Poppy”, he said apologetically, “I only
could get up to P”. I told him it was
ok.
He
did all his letters just right
Then
he stopped, but I said “That’s alright
“You
got up to P
“And
that’s OK by me
“I
get up to P every night.”
I know that sounds contrived, but it is absolutely a
true story, and the last three lines of the limerick were exactly what I said
to him.
We went to The Muny Opera, a large local outdoor
theater to see A Chorus Line. It was a
clear, cool evening and we loved the show.
About half-way through, Carol nudged closer to me, her right shoulder
pressing firmly against my left, and she placed her hand in mine. Couples who have been married fifty years
don’t need overt demonstrations of affection to reinforce their love. Nevertheless, it was a touching and emotional
gesture, strengthening our bond and clearly meaning “I love you and forgive all
your transgressions.” At least I thought
so until I realized in a clarifying revelation what the actual meaning of her
action was – she was cold and would have snuggled up to a water buffalo if it
had been next to her. She was reaching
out not for sentimental reasons, but for warmth. Oh well, I’d rather be a water buffalo next
to her than a bird of paradise away from her.
Did that even make sense? It’s
the thought that counts.
I have a new idea for a book, a steamy, sensual,
scandal-filled exposé of a high-priced Texas accounting firm. I’m calling it Debit Does Dallas.
Speaking of books, I went to the library to pick one
up, a 900-page hardback called The Arms of Krupp. Nine hundred pages! I asked the librarian (do they still
call them that?) if I could have the book longer than two weeks as I didn’t
think I could finish the monster in that time.
You never know, she said, maybe you won’t be able to put it down. Put it down? I said. I can barely pick it up.
Women have this crazy yearning to invent what they
call Thought Questions, like “Would you rather be unattractive and rich or
gorgeous and poor?” They always answer
that they’d rather be rich and
gorgeous, thereby avoiding the thought component of the exercise. I was the target of one of those questions
the other day: Had I been a better father or grandfather? Well, I’d like to believe I am still a
good father. You don’t stop being a
father just because you become a grandfather.
I love my daughters. I hurt when
they hurt and smile when they smile and am always excited to see them or talk
to them. Even the two ingrates who
abandoned me and moved out of town. So
yes, I think I am a good Poppy, but I’m still a proud and devoted Daddy.
And please, if you happen to see me out in the real
world, don’t ask me to recite The Raven.
It’s happened before and I start and then they get bored and make me stop. That gets me Raven mad. Nevermore!
Stay well; come back next week.
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