Honea Express

Archive for the ‘weather’ Category

The day left brown oak leaves littered across the orange brickwork like a dried and forgotten fire. Their shadows twisted and turned as they flirted with the lamplight and teased my tongue with longings of pumpkin, nutmeg, and the slightest hint of cinnamon. Then the rain fell and they curled up to reach it, the last grasp of an autumn laid dying. For that is fall, life going out in a blaze of glory through coffee steam and a lightly-frosted window.

My children are warm, and their bellies full. That is more than many may claim, but more often than naught it does not seem enough. We are spoiled by billboards and jingles. We want in waves, and going without turns desire as barren as winter. The tide swallows our footprints and we spend our lives walking in sand-washed circles.

Spring is a song I heard today. I danced despite myself and even hummed a few bars when only a memory lingered. It had a good beat and was as catchy as a firefly. I keep it in a jar in the back of my mind.

I know a man that lives his life in nothing but happiness. He has had one wife, eleven children, and a guitar shaped like the midday sun that twangs in echoes from every direction. He shines like summer on a postcard.

A sentiment of seasons rolls through me for but a moment, and then dreams become distorted by so much reality. The threat is this, all would blur into constant motion if not for the things we hitch ourselves to. For instance, when I tuck my children into their beds my kisses are many and each a soft anchor. They may float like parade balloons in the night, but they are safe from wind and fears. I am tethered tightly upon the curves of their smile, and I have no intention of ever letting go.

This old house is now an obstacle course full of twists and turns and too many boxes.  But it is new to us, and what we see as an overwhelming feat is overwhelming much smaller feet with adventure and promise. Overwhelming, it seems, means different things to different people.

There are stairs that never cease to go up or down, and light switches that turn day from night and shine small shadows upon walls unscathed.  Once there were echoes, but they are now endangered by a floor slowly covered with the filling, filling of so many things.

This old house was once a barn. The yard was once a ranch. The creek outside the backdoor was once running rampant from heavy winter rains. I am told it will rise again. I plan to place a wall between us and the now dry bed before two curious boys learn too many lessons. I have enough to worry about without the threat of sweeping currents.

There are rolling hills and countless canyons. There are coyotes, lizards and snakes that sound of a baby’s playthings. We have left the forest for the desert and instead of bears in our trashcan we now have spiders in our everything. Instead of clouds that sit heavy across the brow we have sunshine that leaves the skin warm and always blushing.

This old house snaps and pops like Bob Villa’s breakfast. The air is thick with the memory of horses. The trees moan against breeze and boredom as they coax the boys onto branches and tire swings. They have more to give than shade and apples. And it is good.

There are dreams quietly waiting and others that go boldly into the night. I have a seat beneath a window, nothing to say and words to write. Now and again I see a smile pointed in my general direction. And sometimes there are waves involved.

I do not need to see the paint to know it is there — a fresh coat of white where once grew the notches of their youth. Memories written in pencil tend to be erased, and those are the things you never like to think about. It was a trace of them, and it is gone.

The boys grow here, too. There is sunshine and warmth and toes sinking in sands ever shifting. The waves crash upon their laughter, and the boys wave back with salt-soaked smiles. Their hair is soft in strands of gold. Their shoulders brown and growing broader.

Somewhere in an overgrown garden are the fruits of their labor. Tiny leaves spring from seeds once carried home in love and paper cartons. They have been set free and forgotten — something new for countless raindrops to fall upon. They will grow and bloom and nobody will ever know that the boys were the ones to place them there. Only the roots will remember.

Here the ground is hot and it rolls towards the horizon. The boys are shouting as they run across it. There are paths worn in the hillside and their small steps keep the tall grass always parted. Rabbits dart, birds flock and the boys sing songs made of their own device. They glow in the midday sun and their brows glisten accordingly.

Such is the way of chapters closed, next and those being written. We have left pieces of us, some by chance and some with purpose. For example, there are places in the glen where our voices softly echo, and there are stories tucked away to tell when such things are needed. One is about an old dog asleep forever beneath the cherry tree, and it should be told fondly with just a hint of tears. Others are filled with countless bottles growing light and rather quick to empty. They should be told loud and often. We left all that, and a spot of quiet that wasn’t always so.

These are the things that fall from your postcard.

It’s a well-known fact that I live each week like it’s Shark Week. The only thing that changes is the shark. Or my underpants, depending on said shark.

This week is no different, but instead of contemplating the circle of life we’re looking at some of the other fish in the sea. That’s right, it’s review time.

Here’s what happened: A) My last post changed so many lives and made me so popular that I have more followers than I need. I figure a long review post should weed out the bandwagon. 2) While packing for the move I found a whole bunch of unkept promises behind the couch, and if there is one thing that Whit Honea almost always does, it is sometimes keep a promise.

For instance, did you know that Saturnian 1 Sport “… has the world’s easiest balls to grip.”

Seriously, it says that.

I know.

They are pretty cool though. The Fun Gripper Balls (what are you, 12?) are made from soft, durable material that makes “grasping, tossing, flinging…” Jesus, I can’t do this.

Here’s what you need to know, Saturnian 1 Sport makes sports equipment that is easy to hold and throw, and they make them in bright, fun colors. They sent my kids some footballs and soccer balls and they really do love them, and yes, they are much easier to grip than a regular ball.

Now grow up.

Speaking of fondling things, Freehands makes gloves with “flip back caps to expose your thumb and index fingers” so that you can text, email, game and pick your nose while you’re driving in the winter or a walk-in freezer. Except the driving part, don’t do that.

The good people at Freehands.com were good enough (that’s why I called them “good people”) to send me some gloves to check out. They also sent a pair for my wife, which was a nice touch. I really should have covered this during the winter, which, for the record, just ended here last Thursday.

And now…

The Arts

Seattle is well-known for its music, but did you know that one of the best genres here is aimed at kids? True story. In addition to my pal Chris Ballew (hope I didn’t hurt you when I dropped that name, see also “dropping babies“) there are a number of great acts. Take Recess Monkey, please!

Recess Monkey has a new album out this month (release date is June 21, 2011) called Flying, and it’s pretty darn catchy — in a good way. The Monkeys were kind enough to send me a copy, and my boys really dig their funky sound. In fact, now that I think about it, they kind of dance like monkeys when they listen to it. I’m going to assume that this is just a coincidence, but I’ll keep you posted.

Here is what I know about Bob Logan: He has a blog called boBLOGan, which is freaking clever, and he is the author/illustrator of the book Rocket Town. Emphasis on illustrator.

Mr. Logan has a day job as a story artist at Dreamworks, and as such he has worked on such animated hits as Madagascar, Open Season and Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs. As you can imagine, the pictures in Rocket Town are out of this world.

See what I did there?

If I Could Keep You Little… is one of those books that make people cry in the bookstore. I tend to buy things like this for my own mother so she remembers how awesome I am.  This book, written and illustrated by Marianne Richmond, is even more sappy than most — that is to say, if you love that sort of thing you will love this, and if you don’t you’ll try to write the nicest review you possibly can without saying it was just too much for you.

Like that.

Aron Nels Steinke is the talent behind The Super Crazy Cat Dance, which is, as you may have guessed super and crazy. There is also dancing. And cats. LOL.

The Super Crazy Cat Dance is for the inner crazy cat lady in all of us, and by all of us I mean my wife.

But seriously, folks, it’s good fun and written in a style easy for kids and enjoyable for adults. Who doesn’t love that? People that aren’t kids or adults, that’s who. Also, dogs.

And there you have it, gentle reader(s). Shark Week but without the sharks plus reviews. Next up, a visit from the Green Lantern.

Believe it.

I received all of the items mentioned above from the featured companies and/or artists (or an agent working on their behalf) for the purpose of review. I’ve also received other stuff, but I don’t write about items that I (or my kids) don’t like. Negative vibes make negative people, and I don’t have time for that crap.

I was fairly stationary as a child. I lived in the same house until college. Then I lived in the same area for another ten years. I was never more than 40 minutes away from anyone, friend, family or foe. Not that I had any foes, but I did have a love for alliteration.

I met my wife, and on a whim we hit the road. Once the moving started we couldn’t stop — kind of like dancing, except with less alcohol. My wife and I dropped pins all over the left side of the map. We were up, down and then up again. We had U-Haul on speed dial. Our last stop found us just outside of Seattle.

There are things here that we love. There are friendly people, incredible neighbors, wonderful summers, scenic beauty in every direction, fantastic schools and a sense of community that I haven’t known since my childhood. We live in a quaint town where roots are deep and well-watered. It is a perfect setting in which to raise a family.

But there are things that are dark and press against us, and the silver lining has become harder and harder to find within them. The clouds stretch from the sea to the summer, and their constant soaking leaves a layer of cold tucked tight between skin and bone. There will never be enough logs upon the fire.

Seasonal affective disorder comes and goes, literally with the seasons, but with each ebb it grows slower, and every flow seems more fond of shadows than sunlight.  Sadness grows like mold in the corners of our happy household.

The children do not go through bouts of depression, but rather sit beside them and grow restless and frustrated. They do not want to go outside into the cold and the rain, but they would enjoy it if we took them there.  The trips are few and far between. The children suffer secondhand, which is full of shame and lacking in justice.

We have tried to compensate with manufactured light, an overextended calendar and daily supplements, but all it has done is make us face the truth. It is time to pay heed to Harry Nilsson and go where the weather suits our clothes. It is time for sailing on a summer breeze.

Come June, when we are done with school and leases, we will follow our footsteps back to the sands of California. There is where opportunity awaits, and with it a warmth to bask in. Our running is equal parts to and from.

The leaving is bittersweet, and it packs a heavy heart, but the journey should find us nearly healed and the arrival somewhat lighter.

The ocean stretches from July to forever. We are the stones that skip across it.