Honea Express

Archive for the ‘The Wonder of Me’ Category

The ground was frozen and it splintered like shards of glass when the log fell upon it. The log, itself frozen, was on its second fall in as many heartbeats. It had rebounded nicely off the side of my foot, followed its shot, and turned a 360 before landing with a loud “thud” across the aforementioned frozen ground that serves as my carport. On the weekends kids skate free.

My hands were full of other frozen logs that had shown the common courtesy to stack nicely within my cold, layered arms. Some wood is born unruly. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about.

I could feel my foot bleeding through my shoe. My very thick, very favorite shoe. I have another one just like it. However, the other one was standing firm against slippage and the subsequent ridicule that such occasions call for. One shoe stood tall and the other sacrificed all. It was a wash. With blood. My foot was bleeding and to put it in medical terms that you may be familiar with, it fucking hurt.

I was probably going to lose it.

But my family was cold and I’d left my beer inside and a whole list of other things that surely sound like reasonable excuses, so I made my way back into the house. A slip. A slide. A slip. A slide. One foot carrying the weight of the other. Medals for such things would be unavoidable.

When the healing began it was mostly due to the bubbles of peroxide and champagne. The bandage was purely cosmetic. The scab was long and thin, like fresh marker lines upon a barefoot drunk. Suddenly one foot had a mustache, and that, I believe, is where the jealousy began.

It used to be that my feet went everywhere together. They were always a step away from the other. They ran together, danced together — hell, they even dressed alike. Theirs was full of codependency and function.

Then came the scar and suddenly my left foot was out chatting up heels while my right sat home watching Daniel Day Lewis movies. The shoes, wisely, chose to stay out of it, but the legs seemed split on the matter. The whole thing just cracked my ass up.

My body was no longer a wonderland. It was a battlefield.

Last night the fire was waning low and I went out for more wood. My left foot was there, standing where shattered wood had met splintered ground, and my whole world had begun to melt without me.

My right foot said nothing. I stood there and gathered the wood. Carefully. The silence was awkward and the tension was thick. We walked back to the house together. Slowly.

They remained a foot apart.

Against the brightness of the rebuilt fire I could see that the scar was shrinking. It no longer resembled Boston Blackie. It looked more like Charlie Chaplin or an Obama poster. Or Hitler’s foot.

I fell asleep shortly after that and I didn’t wake till morning, despite the sound of distant dogs barking.

This post is part of a series sponsored by Shutterfly. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do.

I also blog with whiskey.

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I received your Christmas cards. All of them. They were fantastic, and your family is beautiful.  I see you got the sweater.

They are in a box of holiday cards from Christmases past, packed away with other seasonal memories. It’s something I do so that I never forget you.  They are somewhere between the snowflakes and the sleigh bells, just under the brown paper packages tied up with strings. Also, whiskers on kittens.

It seems like I just put the holidays away, and now my thoughts have already turned to unpacking them again. They are the things I remember, simply, when the dog bites or the bee stings — when I’m feeling sad. I think of the card you took time to send, and then I don’t feel so bad.

They are a few of my favorite things.

I’m writing this because my family and I are terrible about sending cards. We always have been and we always will. Sometimes we skip a year.  Other times they’re late. Often we lose an address or forget someone, or just decide we no longer like you.  That last part isn’t true, but it probably feels that way standing at your empty mailbox like Chuck Brown and that kid with the blanket.  Sometimes the things we don’t do hurt more than the things we did.

I’m writing this because I’ve been given an opportunity by Shutterfly.com to share their vast collection of holiday photo cards with you, the public.  They’re also giving me cards, which is nice.

The hard part is choosing the right card. This isn’t due to anything that Shutterfly does — they make it easy, but because when you care enough to send the best you want your best to be good enough.  That’s why my picture will most likely not be on it.  Man, my kids are cute.

Here are the designs I’m considering:

The Cheery Year Noir 2010 Christmas Card is simple and elegant. Kind of like me, but, as I mentioned, elegant. In a world that isn’t black and white, it still makes a great card.

The Wonder Trees Noir Christmas Card is fun, and the trees are a wonder, but you probably got that from the name.  It feels like family, and I hardly know these people.

The Family Letter Blue Christmas Card hits home on many levels. There is ample space for pictures of the kids and a whole sidebar for me to write stuff! I may just cut and paste this post.  Also, Blue Christmas is my favorite Elvis holiday song.

I’m not really considering the Retro Love Holiday Card, it’s not really my style, but doesn’t this dog look like a Muppet? Or ALF? Man, those nutty Sutherlands.

Here’s where you come in. Yes, you. If you’re a blogger and would like 50 Shutterfly cards for your own use, well, those people at Shutterfly will make it happen. It is the season and all that. Click the link above and you’re on your way. And goodbye, I’ll miss you.

So let’s pretend we’re close enough for me to send you a holiday card, which one of the above choices do you like best?

Cheese and wine are fairly good company.  We all improve with age and someday we will all be consumed.  Two of us by the other.  One by worms or hellfire.  It depends on who you ask.

This birthday started like most do, with somebody puking.  However, it was the wrong midnight and things were only technically so and not yet recognized by the committees and panels that decide such things. No gifts had been exchanged. That didn’t stop him from appearing in the hallway with a day’s worth of gruel caked to his hair, an ear full of corn and a body coated in shades of dinner.  His trail read like Hansel on a bender. We followed it carefully.

He was the second son in a matter of days to spend his night reliving that which was once glorious. Neither found the sequel to be nearly as appealing.

The first one woke in the wee hours with the cutting cries — the cries that cut through the stereo, TV, what passes for conversation and what’s left of the night, only to make your heart stop even as your feet start and you run through walls (not around them) getting to your child at the exact same moment that the scream began. He woke like that and he was covered with five pies worth of used blueberries.

The women in the audience screamed. Bossman Bob Cormier take one look at Bill Travis and barfed on Principal Wiggins. Principal Wiggins barfed on the lumberjack that was sitting next to him. Mayor Grundy barfed on his wife’s tits. But when the smell hit the crowd, that’s when Lardass’ plan really started to work. Girlfriends barfed on boyfriends. Kids barfed on their parents. A fat lady barfed in her purse. The Donnelly-twins barfed on each other. And the women’s auxiliary barfed all over the Benevolent Order of Antelopes. And Lardass just sat back and enjoyed what he created. A complete and total Barf-A-Rama.

That’s pretty much how it happened.

And then he was better and life went on and we healed and we lived and we fell down a rabbit hole, and then the other one was standing in the corner covered in tears and culinary memories. Everything is circular.

It’s been sunny since January.  Today it is snowing lightly.  The clouds are grey and slightly heavy and they catch on trees as they roll down the mountain.  It is a temporary melancholy.  A remembrance of what has passed.  It does not cut with cries or stand silently in the corner, but it too has come back from places we’ve long forgotten.  It too will be consumed.

Birthdays are like that — reminders of what once was glorious, a tease of what may be; a temporary slice of melancholy with candles lit upon it.  In between we heal and we live and we pour the wine more freely.  We hope it will all stay down.

The snow is a nice touch.

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Quote from Stand By Me

I’m filling in for Jason today over at ManTime. If you like your cursing to be filled with Zanger and dad-talk, come check it out! The show is on at 11am (PT) and will be available on podcast shortly thereafter.

And since this a poor excuse for a post, here are some things I’ve been doing on these here internets:

DadCentric:

“Amazing Tales for Making Men Out of Boys” a Book Review by My Wife With a Running Commentary by Me, a Man That Used to be a Boy

Dan Zanes and the Fine Friends DVD – The DadCentric Review

A Pot to Potion

The Art of Pointing Fingers

A bunch of stuff at UpTake.

My part at Polite Fictions.

MamaPop:

The Beatles and Disney – It’s On!

Twitter Fail Starring Jon Gosselin

And I Know God Because of KRS-One

FameCrawler can always use your clicks. That’s how the kids eat.

Then there was Twitter…

And here are some pictures Atticus took:

This is where I stand at the window and watch the rain against the twilight. There is a cup of coffee in my hand and a world in my reflection. There are layers involved.

This is where I’m standing in the kitchen and the loneliness echoes against the silence. I’m standing at the stove, eating leftovers from a frying pan.

Cut. I’m at the sink and I’m rinsing the mug and setting it aside for my next cup of coffee.

I go with a beer instead.

About here you start to sense that this a montage. You should read it in slow motion.

This is where I’m standing in the street, about an hour before the sun started to set and the rain was but a drizzle. I’m playing with the order of things. See me hugging my children and putting them in a car that is driving away for what feels like forever. Pan out as the car fades along long and winding roads. I am the small movement in the bottom corner, walking away and looking like an ant from here. My back is heavy with memories. My fingers are running through my hair. The moment is fairly dramatic. There is talk of an Oscar.

Flip to the other side of the car left running and see a boy peeing into the street just moments before a long road trip without his father. This is put in to balance the previous scene. Even melancholy enjoys a good laugh.

See time pass. This is done mostly with lighting and shadows. Also, a clock with the hands moving quickly. There are long hours and little sleep and the chilling confines of unlimited possibility. The TV is on. It is off. The mug is full. It is empty. It is resting against the bottom of my lip and steam is rising from it.

The rain goes on and it comforts me. Maybe I spin in it with my head back, laughing madly and smiling skyward. Maybe I walk through it with a face unshaven and eyes heavy with whiskey. Maybe walk is a strong word.

The last scene is a bed covered in dogs and a man sleeping on the edge as is his custom. The ceiling fan is slowly turning. It is the dance of the wallflower, but it is a dance nonetheless.

This is where you jump out of your seat and try to beat the traffic.