Cedar Box

I have found a time capsule, of sorts, a small cedar box that I have not opened for maybe 25 years. The box was a giveaway item, offered by Lane Furniture through its dealers. I believe this box is from the mid to late 1960s. My grandmother gave it to me to put things in, when I lived with her. 

It is full of keepsakes and mementos. To my surprise I cannot remember why some of the items were saved or where they came from. I have selected a few to tell you about.

Several items were from my school days, like my high school ring. I did not order the one that was selected by my school and classmates. There was no particular reason, other than my need to buck the system. There were 310 kids in my class, I had the most beautiful class ring of all. Also, from my college days, there is my varsity letter from cross country, cut off of my jacket, and my TKE fraternity pin. I enjoyed all of my days at every level of school and am glad these items were saved.

There is a Benrus watch in the box. This watch is from 1969 and I wore it through high school and college. I stole this watch from Bargain City, a large discount superstore before WalMart or Kmart made such stores a major force. My cousin and I hitchhiked to the store and we each leaned over the jewelry counter, slid a door on one of the displays open and grabbed ourselves a watch. I am not proud of that, but we had very little of anything and everything we saw was appealing to us. The store has been long gone, or I would take the watch back and apologize.

There are two fountain pens and a letter opener in the box. I do not know why. Perhaps I realized the items were old and would one day be of great value. I shall keep them in the box and continue with that way of thinking.

There is a small collection of arrowheads. I have found many over the years, which are kept in my office on shelves. I do not know why these few are in the box, but I will remove them and place them among the others.

There is a small bag of volcanic dust which was given to me by a guy who was in the area at the time of the Mount St. Helen’s eruption. It is fine, like baby powder. He called me, when he got back to Orange County, where we lived at the time, and told me he had collected it for me, because he knew I would like to see it. I will keep this.

From December, 1972, there is an acrylic key chain with a scorpion inside. I went to Phoenix during winter break of my freshman year at Defiance College, to visit my mother, brothers and sisters. My brother bought this for me. It was never used. I have always considered it too valuable for that. It shall remain in the box, wrapped in a tissue.

There is a section of barricade tape from the 1984 L.A. Olympics. I cut this after watching the bike races in Mission Viejo, where we lived at the time. It has no value, no meaning, no anything to anyone other than me. For that reason, I will keep it.

I will tell you about only a few more items, because you will get bored reading about too many things that are meaningless to you. The first is my ID bracelet from high school. They were big at one time. Every boy had one. They were important, because it was the only thing you could give a girl if you wanted to go steady with her, if you were not an upper classman and had no class ring. Four or five girls wore this. The last to do so is still my wife to this day. This will be saved.  There is a pair of Wedgewood cufflinks. I do not remember anything about them, other than, like the pens and letter opener, I figured they would be of value someday. I will keep these also, with that same belief. The last item is a gold and onyx insignia ring. I was given this in 1970. It was purchased for my uncle, who died of a heart attack. He never wore it, and probably never would have, because it would have been to sissy-like for him. I replaced the R with an S and wore it for many years. It has served me well and its value to me is many times more than the value of the gold it contains. I shall keep this, too.

In fact, after carefully going through the contents I will keep everything and place the box back where it has been. Perhaps I will add some small items first, so that I can talk about them if I get the box out again in 10 or 15 years.

Although it is a couple days after Halloween, some things are still hanging around.

The Rogue Link of Bob Evans

There are several airplane graveyards in desert locations out West. In one is, perhaps, an Allegheny Airlines DC-9, the plane I took my first business trip on after graduating from Bowling Green State University. I had only flown three or four times my whole life up to that point. Most of my traveling, as a boy, had been by Greyhound, leaving Defiance for Toledo where I would catch a different bus that stopped in Findlay, Upper Sandusky, Marion, Chillicothe, Jackson, Gallipolis, Charleston and finally dropping me in Beckley, WV, to spend the summer with my grandmother. It was a great way to turn a seven hour trip into 13-14 hours, plus I got to see lots of farms and forests in both states and sample various versions of egg salad sandwiches at bus stops.

It was a chilly April morning in Dayton when I boarded the Allegheny flight for New York. I had never been there, so visions of Broadway, Times Square, Central Park, muggings and crime had me sky-high before we ever lifted off. Younger readers will have to follow me here, and believe it, when I say that airlines used to serve a small, but adequate, breakfast to fliers. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it is true.

The stewardess wheeled the cart to my row and asked if I would care for the eggs and sausage breakfast, the hot cereal or the cold cereal. Well, DUH!, like in 1976 a young man would choose Cheerios or oatmeal over scrambled eggs and Bob Evans. I was savoring a bite of my lukewarm  toast with grape jelly when the whole trip took a different turn. As I stabbed my plastic fork into a sausage link it slid across the tray and plopped into my lap, where no man of any age wants a two inch sausage-shaped grease stain. Then it fell to the floor and before I could move my tray and bend down to get it, it rolled toward the back of the plane. 

I have no explanation for the rage it caused.  I wanted that link, not to eat, but to capture it, cut into little pieces and dump it into the vomit bag that I hadn’t used for airsickness.

Seated behind me was an elderly woman, every bit over eighty-five, covered with a knitted shawl and clutching her purse with every last ounce of being. I stood and turned, plastic knife in one hand, fork in the other, and barked at her, “Did you see my sausage?” The creamy pallor drained from her skin. “I know it rolled back here and it is probably around your feet.”

As I think back now, she likely thought she was in one of those nightmares where something bad is going to happen to you and suddenly your voice is gone. You open your mouth to scream and even the hiss of the escaping air has no sound. Lucky for her the stewardess returned, pulling the food cart, and ask if she could help. 

“I am looking for my sausage.”

“Sir, could you please take your seat? I am sure the crew can get it once we land.”

I hate it when people can be so forceful using only a smile and a nice tone of voice. The alternative was being the first person on the “No Fly List” thirty years before it was even started. Then there is that runaway sausage, probably nestled in a crack or crevice enjoying eternity in the warm Arizona desert, as a slab of parts-is-parts pork

Yes, dragonflies have hair.

Mystical Find

I have come to The Place of the Cut-off Ears, others have called it Where the Bitter Melon Grows. Regardless of the name given to this spot, it is thick and unruly, crisscrossed with vines that choke the trees and shrubs, morphing them into wooden skeletons. There is an aroma of fall, all year, because of the dead and decay. The ground is spongy from bark and leaves and bodies that have crumbled to dust and layered for decades, maybe centuries; twigs and stems crush easily in the hand and pour off the palm like ground coffee. It is mostly silent. The dense growth swallows sounds. Insects are abundant. In turn, they attract birds and lizards, which attract snakes and the nocturnal hunters. There is always movement, in the trees, on the blades, leaves and flowers of the plants, and on the ground. But things disappear before their sounds reach the ear. One finds that they walk slow and cautious, without realizing it. I walk slow and cautious here, constantly turning my head, searching side to side and to the rear. Hearing and peripheral vision vastly improve in places like this. Adrenaline rushes, but remains suppressed and on call. A visitor glistens with sweat that forms from edginess.



 It is in this place, near the base of a dying oak, that I have found what appears to be a small crystal ball. I do not know how it came to be in this location. My foot scuffed into the soft ground and it appeared. I looked in all directions before I bent down to examine it. It has several chips, so perhaps it was discarded, because it lost its usefulness. Or maybe it was lost. I do not know. I wish I could tell you why it is buried beneath the layers of decay. I wish I knew how long it has been in this place, or be able to say it is the reason for my journey, that it was my intent to find this round treasure. But, in truth, I do not know if it holds any power or magic, or whether it can show me anything other than a fisheye view of what is current and proximate. I hope it was lost, rather than discarded. For its smallness, it appears genuine, if one believes that an item such as this exists, or could possibly exist. A first glance into its center seems to offer a view of our planet, as though I were distant, maybe as far as the moon.

After briefly gazing and examining I looked around and found a broken oak stem, on which the ball properly rests, as though they were crafted for each other. I pushed the stem, with the ball on top, into the ground. It looks authentic, but I am not sure. If it is genuine, it will share its magic wherever and whenever it is called to do so. There is no reason to leave it here, resting on this stem stuck in the ground, where it could fall into the possession of one who might not apply its power wisely. I will keep it, and the pedestal, for possible use and good fortune at another time, in another place.  I will gaze into it later, see if there is something to be revealed.


I think of all this because the ball reminds me of a kiss I received, when I was twelve. A girl, Brenda, and her mother moved into a trailer a few spaces away. They were from Mississippi, had hair dark as carbon-black. Brenda said her mother was a gypsy and knew magic. She told me more. I was fascinated. We played Ouija. At the end of the evening, she leaned her face to mine and our lips enjoyed an awkward encounter. It was, nonetheless, a kiss. Maybe my find will conjure an image of Brenda, as she is today. I hope she is well and that the answers she received from the Ouija Board came true.

A couple recent publications

 Thanks to the following for including my work!


http://scytheliteraryjournal.com/

http://www.boomercafe.com/2011/09/24/how-much-we-dont-know-as-baby-boomers/

The Bow

I do not know the woman who wears this bow. Though I have tasted the floral air about her, while brushing past, and I am certain the flavor runs along her neck, a delicate stem. Her fine hair is heavy with the scent. This I caught when she flipped the strands off her moist neck, stirring the flavor my way. She has blue eyes, pale to medium, and they smile at the corners. I noticed this when we simultaneously offered our wineglasses to the server at the wine tasting. She said, “I’m sorry, you were first.” She smiled and her eyes smiled. I responded, “No. Please,” and nodded at her glass. “Thank you,” returned as though delivered by a harp, with a slight nod of the head and glance downward. It seemed elegant, like something out of an old movie, maybe Casa Blanca or something of that lilt. Her glass was filled and she turned to her friends. Mine was filled and I took the photo. I thought of asking her first, but I did not want to interrupt. What I know about her is fresh, pleasant and sufficient. I have no need to know more about the woman who wears this bow.