I do garden a wee bit, though, on the patio. In pots. Twice this summer, I’ve emerged from my air-conditioned cocoon to find my pot-full of split-leaf Parsley reduced to a few hundred bare, green stems.  WTF?

  Stealth and luck solved the mystery this morning: Ah-Ha (see picture). One fat & happy cutworm wriggling around the pot’s rim, his friend heading for the exit.  A close-up through my Leica lens, however, had me firmly in a delimna: these are Childrens’ Storybook Worms, pretty and green, funny, loveable. We snuggled at bedtimes to read Eric Carle’s The Hungry Caterpillar, and, a few years later, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, illustrated with lovely, color drawings featuring these wiggley, giggley, adorable CUTWORMS!!

If an All Points Bulletin goes out to law enforcement of the dual-murder of both Hungry and Very Hungry by person or persons unknown, I’m hoping they won’t look for a cute grandmother with a flyswatter.

             I’d hear the murmurs rise and fall. The mixed cadence of voices around the kitchen table—our favored gathering place. A woman’s low alto would begin. A quiet baritone might interrupt; provide the year or the name. On it would go. Until I lost my way and slept.

              Soon, though, the leaving day came. Grownups hugging—that odd sight I never grasped—hugging and crying. Uncles, unnerved by tears, would quickly remind “the girls” of last night’s laugh-till-you-cry-and-begged-him-to-stop story and again laughter. Moist-eyed laughter. Long back-patting embraces. More tears.

               Today I understand. We must love until it hurts. We must laugh over shared stories until we cry, watch them on our inner movie-screens; be good brothers and sisters and, interrupting, correct the name or place or year or occasion. We must ache over the good-byes to have done our jobs well as human beings.

              I am old, now, the child I once was alive and well. At last, I understand my grandmother’s weeping for days afterward, washing dishes, laughing then crying, hands slipping deftly over each plate, rinsing beneath the scalding cascade that matched her, tear for tear. Granddad tightening the vise bolted to his workbench, blinks back tears and blows his nose. It’s the love, the laughter, the known sweet agony of hello and goodbye.

                We know we are eternal, or believe it’s so. Until we love enough to laugh until we cry, cling to one another and pat backs one-two-three—seven times—reluctant to turn loose, only then are we fit to leave life.

     Years passed. When I visited his mother, she talked about him, told me when they’d had a baby, but he never came. After a while, I morphed from kid to teenager, dived head-first into Rock ‘n Roll, fads and fashion, was maybe a little brighter than some, more intuitive than most, and was drafted onto the basketball team.  Life went on.  And on.  And on.

      The boy of my dreams came to love me; I gave him my heart and bore his children–fine, bright-eyed, healthy children; each in turn also grew up. Life continued its march. My children at university, themselves falling in love and making plans, shortly before I was 50, I learned my Dad had died. All hell broke loose inside me — it was so fucking final — anger alternated with sadness. Fade to black.

     None of us knew I’d be one of Them one day, one whom spirits visit.  Few know it now. One evening as I was falling asleep, a familiar shape appeared near the balcony door. I hadn’t seen it in decades: Dad.  It didn’t go well, certainly not what he likely expected. I screamed at him, swore, possibly gave him the dressing-down of his,  uh,  existence, unleashed my long-overdue anger at him. As surprised as he might have been, our encounter was brief.

     He has been back twice more.  I condemned him–in my anger–to stay the hell away from me and mine, insisted he never again choose to be involved in any future life I may have.  He made an extraordinary request of me. “Will you forgive me? Will you rescind your demand that I never again involve myself in your life?”

 I wish I knew more about the between- or after- life — when we are still who we are, but are not confined to being human. To tell you the whole truth, I need to think it over.

WAG Topic #30: “Broken”. This week write about something broken: toys, bones, hearts: it can be anything that just doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to any more.  Your piece can be as long or short as you want, using any form you like.  No Rules! Now Write! (You may add links to this list between now and 20 JULY 2010.)

The following 1895 eighth-grade final exam was taken from the original document on file at the Smokey Valley Genealogical Society and Library in Salina, Kansas and reprinted by The Salina Journal.

Grammar (Time: one hour)
1. Give nine rules for the use of capital letters.
2. Name the parts of speech and define those that have no modifications.
3. Define verse, stanza and paragraph
4. What are the principal parts of a verb? Give principal parts of ‘lie,”play,’ and ‘run’.
5. Define case; illustrate each case.
6 What is punctuation? Give rules for principal marks of punctuation.
7 – 10. Write a composition of about 150 words and show therein that you understand the practical use of the rules of grammar.

Arithmetic (Time:1 hour 15 minutes)
1. Name and define the Fundamental Rules of Arithmetic.
2. A wagon box is 2 ft. Deep, 10 feet long, and 3 ft. Wide. How many bushels of wheat will it hold?
3. If a load of wheat weighs 3,942 lbs., what is it worth at 50cts/bushel, deducting 1,050 lbs. For tare?
4. District No 33 has a valuation of $35,000.. What is the necessary levy to carry on a school seven months at $50 per month, and have $104 for incidentals?
5. Find the cost of 6,720 lbs. Coal at $6.00 per ton.
6. Find the interest of $512.60 for 8 months and 18 days at 7 percent.
7. What is the cost of 40 boards 12 inches wide and 16 ft.. Long at $20 per metre?
8. Find bank discount on $300 for 90 days (no grace) at 10 percent.
9. What is the cost of a square farm at $15 per acre, the distance of which is 640 rods?
10. Write a Bank Check, a Promissory Note, and a Receipt

U.S. History (Time: 45 minutes)
1. Give the epochs into which U.S. History is divided
2. Give an account of the discovery of America by Columbus.
3. Relate the causes and results of the Revolutionary War.
4. Show the territorial growth of the United States.�
5. Tell what you can of the history of Kansas.�
6. Describe three of the most prominent battles of the Rebellion.
7. Who were the following: Morse, Whitney, Fulton, Bell, Lincoln, Penn, and Howe?
8. Name events connected with the following dates. : 1607, 1620, 1800, 1849, 1865.

Orthography (Time: one hour)
[Do we even know what this is??]
1. What is meant by the following: alphabet, phonetic, orthography, etymology, syllabication?
2. What are elementary sounds? How classified?
3. What are the following, and give examples of each: trigraph, subvocals, diphthong, cognate letters, linguals?
4. Give four substitutes for caret ‘u.’ (?!)
5. Give two rules for spelling words with final ‘e.’ Name two exceptions under each rule.
6. Give two uses of silent letters in spelling. Illustrate each.
7. Define the following prefixes and use in connection with a word: bi, dis, mis, pre, semi, post, non, inter, mono, sup.
8. Mark diacritically and divide into syllables the following, and name the sign that indicates the sound: card, ball, mercy, sir, odd, cell, rise, blood, fare, last.
9. Use the following correctly in sentences: cite, site, sight, fane, fain, feign, vane, vain, vein, raze, raise, rays.
10. Write 10 words frequently mispronounced and indicate pronunciation by use of diacritical marks and by syllabication.

Geography (Time: one hour)
1 what is climate? Upon what does climate depend?
2. How do you account for the extremes of climate in Kansas?
3. Of what use are rivers? Of what use is the ocean?
4. Describe the mountains of North America.
5. Name and describe the following: Monrovia, Odessa , Denver , Manitoba , Hecla , Yukon , St. Helena, Juan Fernandez, Aspinwall and Orinoco.
6. Name and locate the principal trade centers of the U.S. Name all the republics of Europe and give the capital of each.
8. Why is the Atlantic Coast colder than the Pacific in the same latitude?
9. Describe the process by which the water of the ocean returns to the sources of rivers.
10. Describe the movements of the earth. Give the inclination of the earth.

Notice the time allowed for this exam was FIVE HOURS. 

Gives the saying, “He only had an 8th grade education“, a completely new meaning, doesn’t it? 

And….

sorry, but no, I don’t have the answers.  I only have a Masters Degree. Thanks to Austin, Texas sculptor and college lecturer Laurence McIntire (who also cannot pass the test) for providing this moment of humility.

The old woman seemed fancy to me

Here she was, this fancy hundred-year-old lady spending her days in long silky dresses swishing around her, living alone in a big movie-star-sized house. I’d drop in to visit–uninvited, of course–and Mrs. Burford would invite me right in, set me down on the good furniture and offer me a glass of iced tea. Aside from being the nosiest kid on the planet, she fascinated me. She wore pink rouge high up on her sharp cheek-bones, lipstick (although she wasn’t expecting anyone. Ever.) And she smoked! I didn’t know women smoked except in Hollywood.

While I talked and she listened, she’d put her fragile elbow point-down on the small table beside her chair, sip iced tea and smoke a filter-tip Herbert Tareyton. Couldn’t take my eyes off her.  She drew in a double lungful of smoke, but the last little bit, she nearly closed her lips, inhaled through her nostrils, pulling a silky cloud of smoke out of her mouth in through her nose.

When granddad learned I had been calling on Mrs. Burford, that I’d asked grandma why she never wore rouge and had she ever smoked, he forbade me from “bothering” her again.

I became a young woman eventually, sought sophistication above all else, so, naturally, I taught myself to French Inhale.

WAG Topic #29: “Habits”. This week let’s write about habits: yours, a characters, or someone you observe (we’re all such stalkers). It can be anything from the unconscious way someone touches their face when they talk, or a deep-in-their-bones addiction. Your piece can be as long or short as you want, using any form you like.  No Rules! Now Write! (You may add links to this list between now and 6 JULY 2010.)

Bear in mind that Granddad got religion in ‘42 — when his Momma died — and this was a religion with a trainload of rules: quite a long train. “Top of the list,” he’d warn, “don’t you never, ever tell a lie. God is watching you…He don’t miss a thang.”  No matter the lecture, he’d start with, “Top of the list” every time.  Tonight he relaxed.  Maybe this God was just watching kids, I’d think. Sure felt like it.

“All right, then,” Uncle Ural continued after some begging, “It was during the Great Depression and Jimmy Henshew, the old man,  lived up near Fallis–had a big place up there–mostly in cotton–but he kept milkcows for milk and butter and raised a few young ones for beef. The Depression wasn’t so tough this way.

“Anyway, one day he was re-stretching bob-warr fence along the milkcow pasture near the road and this feller came walking by going to town.” Here, Ural always paused and instructed us in manners, making eye contact with the younger ones, he went on, “In those days, you’d ALWAYS speak to a person passing; a person passing another, in turn, always raised his hat a little and spoke back.”  So this feller stops, walks over near the fence. Neighborly guy. He looked past old man Hanshew, noticed the cattle were a little on the thin side, and commented on it.

“Yep,” the old man said, “can feed ‘em but can’t overfeed ‘em these days.” He kept on turning the metal bolt he used to take the slack out of the wire, thinking the stranger might go on if he didn’t stop his work.”  To the kids Ural said, “You know it’s not polite to say things about another guy’s stock.”  The stranger wasn’t from around here and didn’t take the hint, “Looka that one over there,” he pointed at an old cow that had seen better days.

The boys all started laughing, trying to hold their breaths and not interrupt, but they knew what was coming.

“Yeah, looka that one over there,” he went on. Hanshew glanced at the cow as the stranger said, “Hell, you could hang your hat on her hipbone.”

Offended at his opinions AND the cussing, Hanshew stared the man in the eye and said, “Well, by God, a man’s gotta have some place to hang his hat.”

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WAG Topic #27: “Liar, Liar”. Everybody lies. Evil characters and even good ones do it too. For us, it’s a fantastic source of conflict.  So this week, consider deception.  …  No Rules! Now Write!

Maggie, the Cat and Big Daddy

The theater is dark and empty, but for a 20-ish guy two-thirds of the way up in E section, nearest the main entry. He’s careful not to make a sound, half holds his breath, hangs on the instructions, watches every movement, notes their responses. His eyes are bright and move from one to the other.

“Toilet break,” the Director says, “Back in ten” moving toward section E a bit. The two actors out of sight, he lifts his eyes to the onlooker.  “Can I help you with something?”

The young man, surely thought he’d be meeting people, even talking with them,  but his voice broke, “Naw — no — thanks.” Sweat beaded under his hairline. As the director strode toward backstage, he picked up his backpack, rose and made his way down the stairs and out into the night. Next time, maybe.

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WAG Topic #26: “Fish out of Water”. Sometimes it’s easy to tell when someone is out of their element. It can be their clothing, their manner, what they’re carrying with them… so many things give them away.

He held a plastic produce bag, weighted by a couple of large Sunkist. He obviously wasn’t shopping. Even this Wal-Mart–serving the wealthy neighborhoods to the north and west, college crowd, aging decrepit areas to the south and east–even here he looked a little out of place: too gaunt, no basket, hunkering posture. He worked his way back around to the grapes: 5-6 vanished into his mouth. His eyes reminded me of my uncle’s dog, Duke. Could look at you and scout the area without moving his head or drawing attention.  Good dog, Duke.  Examining the broccoli, I wondered about his age. He obviously spent a good deal of time outdoors, trimmed his own hair, and traveled light. 5-6 more grapes disappeared, his hands feeling the pears next to them; more grapes, a little movement, then more grapes.

The dance around the “All-You-Can-Eat” grapes buffet was well practiced, attracted no attention. Fifteen minutes of this and he laid the bag of oranges on the display, wiped his hands together and started for the door.  Afraid for him, I had to see him safely through the exit. The Day Manager near the express register eyed him, glanced to see if he was alone, eyes back to him in a flicker.  He made it. The relief I felt was disproportionate to what I may have been prepared to do had he been accosted. I felt somehow lighter and content as he slunk through the huge sliding doors empty-handed and alone.

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First off, I want everyone to know right now: I’m every bit as big a hick as he is. In fact–if I’m older–I’m a BIGGER hick. I take a back-seat to no one when it comes to rubbernecking in big cities, drooling over people with European accents, and being impressed by writers.

Had it not been for books and the picture show, I’d be married right now to Frank who runs the Circle K, living in the middle of the Oklahoma Hills in a double-wide, a pair of platform rockers on the porch and Frank’s dog, Blue, asleep in his. By the way, Keillor, our plains are just as wind-swept as yours and my nose was stuck just as far in a book as yours. There.

Think back to the earliest written records: clay tablets;  then someone split & dried lambskin, ditto calfskin; somewhere the ink industry sprang up, necessitating quills and pen points.  I doubt anyone foolishly wept over the future of preserving facts and fiction until, of course, the printing press. All agree that it, single-handedly, ruined things forever.

I fear Mr. Keillor wrote his argument on the bank of a Slippery Slope.  My further concern is where else his nose has been.

The mayor’s part-time clerk and full-time daughter, Marge, did a favor for me once. Since then, she’s asked several in return; recently, I’ve tracked prisoners’ graves/headstones, long dead and forgotten in the North Cemetery, which section soon will be moved.  A developer bought the parcel south of the cemetery stretching to the River; soon plenty of concrete and landscaped mini-mansions in the so-called Dallas Style will occupy the hillsides and most of the land.

To tell you the truth, I don’t mind.  I spent summers traipsing behind Granddad as he mowed and trimmed for the City; graveyards remind me of good cold lunches, iced-tea in a gallon jug, cool spots under trees, and freshly-mown grass.  So I walked up the rows then down again, mapped the graves on a plat,  photographed the stones–properly facing the East–then compared it with records in the City office. The easy part was over. Tomorrow the big machine would come, like they use in oil fields, that *see* whats underground. That done, the digging would start.  The developer was pressing His Honor over frequent lunches at the Club. Early Spring is perfect for groundbreaking.

After lunch, he walked into a swarm of conflict, Marge’s voice shrill & frantic, “That can’t be right — those people were buried from 1889 on into the ‘teens — ”

“The EM imager can’t be wrong, Ma’m,” his eyes showed relief when the Mayor came in the door, extended his hand for a shake and showed him through to his office.  There were no caskets, no bones, no nothing but rock strata some distance below the topsoil, he explained. The images were hard to read, but once adjusted to electromagnetic wave images, it was clear: no one was buried in the prison section.

Granddad dipped his chin and grinned when he heard it. He heard all the gossip but never passed it on, then or now. I asked what he thought happened; the stones were there. What about the bodies.

“Those days were different,” his dark eyes found mine to be certain I understood. “Lots of outlaws who’d gone straight were hired to keep the peace; that’s how the Kid came to be Marshall here. Things were rough out here — none of this modern business, phones and such — it took a guy like that.”  His Dad had told him, he said, that in exchange for a promise to move on West and not come back, plenty of prisoners were allowed to pay their fines, so to speak. The sheriff’s man dug a grave, put up a marker with the man’s name, year he was born and when he died. The fine money came in handy to pay for law-enforcement. Law and order prevailed.

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WAG #24 “Unexpected”