Caffeinated Memories

God save me because I want to be ambitious, but I fear to wander from safety.  It is so thrilling to dream the dreams, but there's comfort in assuredness.   There's the fear of failure and it's unknown consequences.  If I can know, with firm security, the definite losses or the limit of losses to be incurred, then I would feel better about taking risks.  But dang it, that's the whole crutch about risk-taking that is so scary.  There's just no way to be sure and there's no guarantee.  It one thing to know that there is a risk of losing everything and it is another to suffer losing everything.  One is hypothetical, pure gamble and speculation; and the latter is a nightmare come true.

But worst then the fear of failure is the fear of success.  A man who loses everything will gain a world of friends.  The world will pity that fool and rush to kill him with kindness.  More money is to be made from misfortune than from good honest work.  But a man who gains everything will also gain ill-will and distance from the world.  It's so much easier to love those with less when you have more, than to even try to like those with more when you have less. 

Failure, success, or the status quo?  I don't want to lose what I have, but I also don't want to gain more just to lose even more.  So I straddle the status quo and convince myself to be content.  Things for me, are pretty good right now.  I have what I have and I do what I do.  If misfortune befalls me, then I would hope for the best.  If wild success is my fate, then I guess I will have to learn to accept it graciously.   But what would I do if I succeed beyond what I intended to do?  What if I become rich beyond my wildest dreams when I really only want to be mildly successful?  What will I do if my hobby becomes a monster that I can't tame?  Success can be a beast.  Those are the fears that have kept me from jumping in whole heartedly into small ventures that I would like to attempt.

One day I would like to venture out of my comfort zone and attempt at self-sufficiency - I want a little farm.  Nothing on the industrious scale because I don't want anyone to rely on this farm to provide anything but entertainment.  This would only be a hobby, something in the purely experimental phase.  I just want a farm because I think it would be fun.  I bet that sounds ridiculous and naive, and it is.  And that's the problem.

I just want a nice organic garden to eat out of,  hens to lay eggs, a rooster to make it feel like a farm, a couple goats for the kids to play, a small field of fruit trees, and plenty of bright sun to warm my days.  It's seems so nice and simple.  But it isn't.

I would be happy to only collect eggs and leave the hens alone.  I don't want to kill chickens.  I don't have the heart to do the killing, and my children absolutely refuse to even think of helping.  So if I do have this farm, it would be only to rob the eggs and spare the chickens.  The chickens would only be expected to lay eggs until they can't, and they would be free to roam until old age, death, and then a resting spot in the garden.  I know this isn't anyway to run a "farm" but it's the only way I know I can.  So eventually I would have a flock of retired chickens overrunning my land.  What would I do?  I don't want a chicken sanctuary, and that's what my farm would eventually become if I don't kill the chickens.  It would be woefully embarrassing.  And I certainly don't want to go into the  business of selling chickens.  I don't want a chicken farm - even if I could make millions.  I just want chickens for eggs and for my pleasure of waking up every day to collect the eggs.  Why am I so soft and cuckoo?

I've watched too many chicken deaths.  Vietnamese people can't just eat like everyone else.  They have to eat fresh.  They grow their own vegetables and herbs so they can eat fresh and  it's great that way.  Chicken can't just be chicken from the store, it has to be the whole dang chicken ALIVE!  Meat can't be just meat from the butcher, it has to be the whole cow or hog bought and killed at the farm and hauled home, chopped, and stored in the freezer for the year.  Seafood isn't seafood from the store, it's bought directly from the boat by the hundreds of pounds for the year, hauled home in coolers to be bagged and stored in a freezer.

I grew up knowing where my food came from.  Some people say that plants do have feelings and they hurt when you cut into them, but I would rather pull or pluck or wring or chew on  fresh plants than wring the necks of fresh chickens.   The methods to killing chickens are gruesome.  I had a friend in New Orleans who killed his chickens by wringing their necks using a broomstick.  I don't know how that is done because I refused to watch the one time he offered to demonstrate.  He assured me that it was a quick death.  I can only take his word.

Maybe I would feel better about killing chickens if my mother's method to killing a chicken was as quick as my friend's .  Chicken meat is good and sweet if it is fresh and the blood is drained from it, and so the death of the chickens were of course slow and painful as they literally bleed to death.  I could go into details with all the gory and blood but I will spare everyone, especially my inner child who had to hold the poor chickens while they were bleed, and hear their last breaths before they expired, and feel their rigor mortise set in.  I had other siblings but they were boys so they were entitled to skip out of this chore because it was women's work.

I remember one time when I must have been ten years old and we women had to kill another chicken.  I must have been daydreaming because my mother was screaming at me to hold the chicken tighter because I had lost my grip on the wings, and the bleeding chicken was thrashing around and flapping its wings.  It was a mess.  I was lost in thought sending up one of my crazy prayers to God.  Somehow I was wishing that God would send social workers to our house and have them give my mother the riot act.  Something like:

Madame, this is cease and desist order.  You must never kill another live chicken again, and your daughter doesn't have to hold the legs or wings anymore.  You are in America now, go buy stinky, dead chicken meat from the store like the rest of us. 

And of course, my mother would have complied because she would have believed every word.  

Where am I going with my thoughts?  I guess I am afraid to have my chicken and eat it too.  I just want to have some fun, raise cute, fluffy chicks, collect eggs, and eat veggies.  I just want to have fun.
 

I am one of those that live to eat, eat abundantly, and eat richly.  I should be fat, but I am not.  I'll eat anytime of the day, and I can eat as much as any man.  But, I won't eat just anything. 

I love Vietnamese cooking, home-cooking, restaurant cooking -  but not egg rolls.   No egg rolls.  Don't put it on my plate, I don't want to smell it.  I know the steps into making them, but don't ask me to because I won't.  I can't remember a time when I ever ate an egg roll even though my mother is famous for her egg rolls.  My brothers loved my mother's egg rolls.  Every time Mom served egg rolls, they shoveled that stuff down, and I become a spectator - a very distant observer removed to the far end of the table.  People asked my mother to make egg rolls for them all the time.   Everyone loves that  stuff, but me.

It's an unreasonable and really unfair dislike.  The egg rolls never did anything to me.  I never got sick by eating one.  My mother didn't enslave me to cooking duty to make them.  Maybe I just hate them because everyone loves them so.  I am odd and temperamental in that way; and very disappointing.

And I do occasionally disappoint non-Asians who meet me and expect a mafia connection to the eggroll express.  I can detect one before they can shake my hand.  Their eyes light up, and they smile.  They ask if I know how to make egg rolls, or if I know someone who makes eggrolls.  Then I tell them the hard truth:  I absolutely hate egg rolls, and I don't associate with people who make them (when they are making them), so there is no way I can broker a sale.  That's the sad truth.

And people don't want to hear the truth.  They look at me with genuine disappointment like I had failed my race, like I was their last hope for egg rolls.  So I tell them what I know: mix together ground pork, chopped cabbage, minced onion, salt, pepper, fish sauce; roll them inside an egg roll sheet, and fry in a deep vat of oil until brown.  Good luck.

"How much ground pork, cabbage, onion, salt, and pepper?" they ask.

"As much as you like: more meat than cabbage if you like it meaty," I say.

"Where can I get this fish sauce and egg roll sheet?"

"Any Asian market."

"Where's the nearest one?"

I always end up spending 10 minutes more giving directions, and praying for an escape.

"Can you come show me how?"

"I really hate that stuff.  And I don't cook Vietnamese," I beg off.

The light leaves their faces and I am a bad Vietnamese.

Little girls are born "little women" who plan, dream, and scheme of their dream man, their wedding day, and the home and kids that they one day will have.  Beginning with baby dolls, toy kitchen sets, then moving on to the princess costumes, shoes, and tiaras to the Barbie and Ken dolls.  Little girls play house, knowing the standard roles: father, mother, children, baby, and dog.  And they play this so often that the rhythm of adulthood is comfortably predictable - grow up, get a man, get married, have babies, be a housewife and mother. 

Little boys, on the other hand, grow up innocent and naive to the brewing plans of the little girls.  Little boys live in the present, they enjoy life as it comes.  They wallow in mud, slay dragons, kill ants, trap creatures, make forts, ambush sisters with snowballs, and play for the moment.  When the time comes, the once little boys become young men, and the young men  become aware of "girls". 

Then, when men and women meet, the women have the advantage.  By the time a girl becomes a women, she would have had her wedding dress picked out, the color theme of the wedding, the number of bride's maid, and where she wants to honeymoon - all this even before there is a man to marry.  They have the puzzle assembled, and all they have to is find the last piece that will fit.  And that last piece is the man.  Men, on the other hand, have no plans.  They want a woman in the same way that they might shop for a shirt.  Get one, get one quick, and go home.

So it is no surprise that men - who live and play in the moment - find themselves orchestrated through a symphony in three parts: seduction, courtship, and marriage.

Seduction employs the art of beauty and unspoken promises.  A beautiful woman is never an accident.  So much practice has gone into the application of cosmetic, so much coordination of the clothes, shoes, and accessories, and so much money into the sight, smell, and feel of the body that women are guilty of intentional entrapment.

Once a man is bitten by seduction, he succumbs to courtship.  There he falls victim to commercialism, and the beginning of the female desires: romance, poetry, undying love, flowers, chivalry, duty, diamonds, and a proposal.  Soon the man finds himself stepping a bit further than he intended, but the music continues and he is carried along.

He feels cold and clammy, quite unsure of what's to happen to him as he advances to the wedding day, but the woman feels familiarity and accomplishment as she runs down her checklist of Life Goals.  The years of playing house, playing with Ken and Barbie, playing dress up were not for naught.  And the wedding happens and the married couple enters married life.

The man expects married life to provide an abundant, overwhelming, dependable source of sex.  And that seems unbelievably true for the first six months.  He is happy to trade a lifetime of the chain and shackle for sex with a vixen. 

After six months, the beautiful, perfect, sexpot, bombshell of a temptress with the hourglass figure becomes the sweet, uninspired, distracted woman who dresses in comfortable clothing.   No more short tight dresses with dipping necklines, and plenty of cleavage.  The sexy high, high heeled shoes are no longer worn.  She replaces them with baby name books, parenting books, and baby furniture catalogs.

Then the avalanche of children cascade in, and life follows the pounding beat of: work, work, no sex.  But even with the lack of sex, the number of children quickly outnumbers the adults.  Life is not what the man imagined, but it is everything the woman wanted.  The man is not satisfied, but the woman is settled, and so begins the game called Chase.

The  woman has her children and she is settled.  She works hard and cares for the home, and at the end of the day, she wants to rest a well deserved rest.  The man comes home from work, expecting a warm welcome, a clean home, hot food, and plenty of good loving later.

But the good loving is elusive.  The battle of wits have engaged.  The man brings flowers, but she has had a hard day - the kids were constantly fighting.  The man tries to catch her attention early in the evening but she is noncommittal.  So the man offers her $20.  She counters with $100 and 2 hours of watching the kids so she can spend it Saturday.  Deal.

But as the years roll by, the woman becomes more cunning.  She becomes the swift gazelle.
In the game of Chase, the burden is always on the pursuer to be more cunning, and to learn from his mistakes.

Ask the man and he will say, "Never trust women - they are wicked."

A man that trusts a woman when she says, "Go to sleep, I will wake up  for sex when I am finished with work," will wake up in the morning declaring, "I've been lied to!"  And he finds himself wiser to the ways of women. 

Sex sells, and although I won't make a dime from this, I will at least fulfill a promise.

In a dark space, a low light illuminates a young woman standing.  A young man approaches her, takes her hand, and together they dance a waltz of romance as music swirl them around.  Their smiles and laughter sparkle and bubble like champagne, and love was so young.  Fresh love.  Young love.

They spend days walking on clouds together, holding hands, and never noticing anyone else.  Two lovebirds gazing into each other above the steamy mist of the coffee cups: dreaming of life together, and marveling at the beautiful inner goodness and soul of the being across from them.  It was heaven coming down to earth like sweet, warm rain. 

The music plays again and they waltz through a wedding, childbirths, and into the old age.

Into old age, the man one day stands by the kitchen window and look out at the sprinkling rain and sighs a wishful thought.  How he wishes the woman that he loved was more exciting.   She is kind and loving, but not exciting.  There is no story about her, nothing exciting to tell anyone.

He longs for the thrill of being able  to explain to people that she was a mail order bride from some Asian country that he picked out of a catalog of pictures.  The mail-ordered bride that didn't know an ounce of English, but knew how to love.  She would never object, and always acquiesce.  And how the neighbors would whisper - hee hee, he would love that.  How he would have love that.

As the man turns from the window to look at the tiny woman moving around the kitchen, he sighs.  The woman in the kitchen looks like an Asian but that's it.  She's too Americanized, too much talk.  There's no argument that he can win with her, and she's way too bossy.  She is a clumsy cook, indulging in odd dishes.  Although he appreciates her apple pies, he doesn't understand why she devoted years to master that one recipe but only recently started making more than one-dish meals and convenient meals .

He heaves another sigh as the rain splatter falls harder against the panes like teardrops of disappointment.  He looks out into the soggy world and dreams of running away to the Philippines where the women are plenty, and they know how to love a man.  Women there spend their days waiting for their men to come home, and the food is plentiful.  A man there is lord of his castle.  No more getting up in the mornings and pouring his own cup of coffee.  In the Philippines, his breakfast is served to him.  No more sharp orders for him to clean up after himself.  In the Philippines there would be no sharp orders unless they are from him.  He can order seafood everyday - lobsters for only a dollar apiece.  That would be nice.

The rain continues to fall.  The man is called out of his daydream.

"The coffee is made, come get some."

"Yes, Dear."

"Would you like some some melons with your breakfast?"

"Yes, Dear."

"Come get it."

"Yes, Dear."

"Bob, what is wrong with you today?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing my butt!"

"You don't talk right."

"I talk perfectly well."
  
"I wish you sound more Asian, act more Asian."

"Me no English."

"Helen, not like that."

"Me still no English."

Sighhhh

"Bob, could you stop all the sighing?"

"Sorry, Helen, I was just wishing that you could be more exciting."

"Like how?"

"You know that Russian woman at church?  She and her husband met through the internet, and he brought her over to the US."

"And?"

"And I was just wishing that you were something like that."

"I am something like that.  Call me your Immigrant Wife."

"But you don't act like one."

"Exactly!  I am the successful immigrant.  I have catapulted pass the looking like one and acting like one."

"You are not understanding me.  I want the gentle, and serving woman."

"Okay...  Give me back your plate and coffee mug.  You stay here.  I will go into the kitchen and come back out with a new plate and hot coffee for you.  Just wait a minute and then call my name."

One minute later...

"Helen!"

"Coming Bob!  Here's your breakfast.  And coffee."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, Dear."


(Sex may sell, but so do false advertisement.)

They say a sucker is born every minute.

On a warm night, at the end of the seventh moon, in the year of the ox, a woman gives birth to a little daughter. As the girl child wails her cries, the woman smiles in happiness. Her daughter escaped a miserable fate. To be born in the year of the ox is to be born destined to labor like the ox. But as oxen toil in hard labor, they also rest. A child born under the stars during the year of the ox will find life filled with work, but fate will bestow upon her a softer work under gentler hands.

As the girl child cries, the heaven opens. Angels peep down through the clouds, and tut-tuts.

"Ai-yah!" one says. "Another sucker is born."

On of my favorite joys in life is having wonderful mornings when I wake up from a sweet dream, and I walk through the day in blissful absent-mindedness, glowing from the cozy warmth of the wonderful dream, and sighing small sights of wishfulness.

Sweet dreams of flying with wings.

Sweet dreams of days gone by with long-lost loved ones.

Dreams of speaking fluently in Japanese.

Dreams of being a mermaid.

Dreams of an unexpected kiss.

Dreams of foreign countries.

Dreams of righting childhood wrongs.

Dreams of tropical sunsets.

Dreams of soft, warm summer evenings in Louisiana without a mosquito bite.

Dreams of winning a million dollars without having to worry about taxes.

Dreams...

In the past 12 months people have wondered why I don't allow comments to be posted on this blog.

There are reasons. But the most important one is because I like mystery.

Growing up, my mother made the best meals on this earth. My brothers and I devoured the food like beasts, only to look up occasionally to wonder why Mom was just sitting there not eating. We would always implore the woman to please eat, but she would just smile and say, "No, you eat. I am just happy to see you eat." My mother was really happy to see us eat. It delighted her to see us kids relish the food. We loved her cooking, but we couldn't understand why she couldn't appreciate it herself.

Now I am the cook for my own little family. The mystery of food is gone. Food is not the fragrant, steamy, dishes on the table that my stomach craves for. Food is the lump of bloody, dead meat that needs handling, cutting, salting before I sear it on the hot stove. Food is the standing grunt work that takes hours of labor, followed by the hollering for people to help set the table, the hollering for people to come to the table, the hollering for people to help clear the table. Ugh, food is the chore three times a day.

Take away mystery and everything becomes a chore. In this form, I want my readers as mysterious to me as I am to them. I do have email and accept emails at dvf@dvfmama.com.

There are people wanting to be heroes and then there are others that are looking for one. Heroes are for comic books and propaganda.

I remember watching this thrilling and intoxicating commercial for men's cologne called "Hero" back in the early 90s. The music was pumping, and the images flashing across the screen were of hot young men in heroic professions rescuing the world while a feminine voice sang "I want a hero..." I was sold on the spot. I was convinced that I would not settle for anyone less than a hero. I wasn't attracted only by the physical sexuality of the men. I was also attracted to the fantasy of a hero.

The powerful businessman changing the world.
The perfect-bodied fireman conquering fire.
And the dashing god sprinting through traffic with a doctor's bag to save someone.

I was just a teenager then. And when one is that young, life is viewed as a very hopeful, optimistic, and defiant stance to do the impossible . Surely, every teenager must at some point felt like I did at that moment. I was thinking, sure no one has found a hero yet, but I will be the one to first discover that heroic being that is beyond human. He will be a recurring image of fantasy encapsulated in an ideal. And no where within that ideal are factors like cutting cheese, laziness, bad hair days, fragility, and anything human. No one can defeat him. He will love me and only me. And I will be his only weakness.

I spent money like crazy on clothes, facials, and the upkeep of my body. I spent countless hours gazing into mirrors seeking and destroying all perceived flaws, plucking and sculpting my eyebrows, and fixing my hair. I had to look at any and every reflective surfaces that I saw. My standards were set to HIGH.

When an 18 year old girl sets her standards so high and she is hell bent on finding a hero, she will eventually fall in love with her Chilean karate instructor. Victor - Victor Smictor as my bestfriend called him. He was a dream: tall, dark, terribly handsome, Portuguese accent, long curly hair, 3rd degree Hapkido black-belt. Looking back, I can only laugh until my sides ache when I think about the silliness of it all. I don't know which makes me laugh harder: the silliness of myself and my bestfriend spending a summer before college scheming ways for me to woo this man, or the antics that were carried out to actually try to win his heart.

Looking at pictures of myself at 18, I would judge myself attractive, so at least Victor was spared the insult of dealing with an ugly, pesky, starstruck young girl. I was not ugly enough to be shy, but attractive enough to be bold. And bold enough to call him up after I had finished my 6 month course with him to talk. And then bold enough to invite him out for coffee, and then lunch.

At the time, I couldn't understand why Victor was hot and cold. He would entertain conversations with me but he also held me off at a distance. He would look deep into my eyes and let me talk, but that was all. He went to lunch but he also invited his friends along. When I wanted more, he would say, "Lexi, you don't want a guy like me. I am a wetback. I only date, never marry." That was disappointing to hear.

When I asked for a kiss, he only kissed my hands.

And I when I was thoroughly feed up with his hot and cold, I called him up and said:

"Victor, I am starting college soon. I really like you, but you confuse me."

"I know."

"What? Don't you like me?"

"Yes and no."

"Yes and no? What does that mean?"

"Yes and no."

"You really confuse me. Well, goodbye Victor."

"Goodbye Lexi, you will do well."

"Are you going to miss me?"

"Sure, but you will find someone else."

"What if I don't?"

"You will."

"What if I just want you?"

"Why do you want some one who paints for a living? I am always broke."

"I don't care about money."

"You are sweet, Lexi. If you still feel the same way about me in five years, call me up and I will take you out for dinner."


Victor was smart and kind. Although, I can't quite understand why he indulged a young girl's flirt, I am beginning to see a small part of the silly charade. I was clearly worshiping the hero, and not really seeing the person. Like a hunter in chase of a rare specie, I was ensuing a prize. The prize was a beautiful accomplished man who looked thrilling, and spoke with an exotic accent. When the chase wasn't producing gains, my hero suddenly became a disappointment.

I still want to see him as a hero of a different sort, a friend and protector. But the older and wise person that I am now is giggling with embarrassment because Victor must have felt like a teenage boy being followed by an adoring 8 year old that he didn't have the heart to cruelly shout "GO AWAY!" to, nor crush with blatant rejection. So he was as vague and irritating as possible until I made the decision to leave. I have the feeling that he allowed me to be the winner. And that is a wonderful ending.

My bestfriend, unfortunately, had a much ruder awaken. During the period that I was thoroughly infatuated with Victor, the love bug was infectious. Rachel fell in love with a co-worker at Popeyes Chicken. She was too shy to approach her dream guy. She adored George from afar. In the evenings she would stop by my apartment to eat dinner and chat. I had Victor and was obviously going nowhere with him. She had George and they were becoming friends. He made her laugh. George was this, George was that. George, George, George...

Rachel was falling and falling deeper in love each day. And so it surprised me on night when she came over for dinner with two cans of beer taken from her mom's fridge. Rachel only drank beer on dark days.

"Let's drink first before I talk."

"Okay."

We had beer with dinner. I just ate and waited for the explosion.

"Do you want to know what happened today?!"

"What happened?"

"I don't know what happened, but all I can say is 'What the hell?'!"

"What happened?"

"I walked into work and saw George reading the schedule posted on the wall - he was smoking a cigarette with one hand and scratching his ass with the other! Who the hell smokes and scratches his ass, and then goes back to work?!"

I didn't answer her rhetorical questions. Instead, I just listened to her ask me all night long, "What the hell?"

That was the stellar rise and instant death of a hero because heroes aren't suppose to be scratching asses.


What's the moral? Heroes are adored but never loved. Nothing knocks a hero off his pedestal quicker than disillusionment. And after disillusionment, the flaws are laid bare to scrutiny.

Spirits don’t scare me so much now like they did when I was little. I grew up perpetually followed by visions of deceased people. I must have seemed like a nutty kid telling my relatives about visions I had in their home.

My first vision was a late-twenty Vietnamese man dressed in linen white. At the time I must have been 12 years old, living in a trailer on a lot of land that is now 2116 Victoria Ave. At that time, my mother and Mr. Tran decided to buy land in the woods and build themselves a home - and they really did build themselves a house with just their own labor, and few contracted help to drive down tar, telephone pole sized pilings, and to pour concrete for the slab, and to lay bricks on the outside of the house. They did all this in all their spare time, skipping sleep. It took them about a year.

We lived in an old decrepit trailer during that long year. In this trailer, I saw a Vietnamese man out of the corner of my right eye every time I came to the kitchen window. The kitchen window, several feet over from the trailer door, had a strategic view of the steps to the entry way. I had to come to that kitchen window many times each day to prepare food, wash dishes, and anything else. And this man only appeared when I was alone without any adults around, and that was just about everyday. I was terrified for the longest time because he appeared when I didn’t have any adults to run to and scream “GHOST!” I dreaded going near that sink.

He would stand sentry in the grass, about 15 feet away from the entrance to the trailer, looking at me the whole time. And if I tried to look at him directly, he would vanish, only to return again on the edge of my peripheral vision if I shift my eyes away. He never did anything to really scare me, other than to just stand in a beautiful white linen suit and just looked at me in a peaceful way. I told my mother about this weird event, hoping for sympathy and relief. I was told, "It's your uncle that died in the Vietnam war." No sympathy. I never saw him again after we left that roach infested trailer. To this day I have peripheral vision that astounds my family.

Some years after we moved into that brick house, we had a house fire on a rainy, freezing New Year’s night. My mother and us kids spent the night at my aunt’s house. My aunt is my mother’s oldest sibling with a high degree in authority, and she was kind enough to house us in such dire emergency. She put my mother and my baby brother in one of the bedroom, and stuck me and my 9 year old brother on the pull-out sleeper in the den. We were thoroughly cold and exhausted by the time we laid our heads down and so we should have been sleeping tight. But not for me. Something woke me up. The corner of the room where the piano bench was had a bright glow. I blinked my eyes a few times to focus and then saw to my horror an old, wizened Vietnamese grandma sitting on the bench, hands on her lap, smiling at me. That’s all she did. She just sat and smiled at me. I must have stared in frozen terror for the longest time before pulling the covers over my head, and spending the longest night shaking in fear.

The next morning I told my very intimidating aunt that she had a ghost in her den. “What!” she barked. "There are no ghosts in this house!" And she ordered me to describe the “ghost”. I felt so foolish and stupid, but I described the old grandma in old time Vietnamese garbs, with a braid of hair wrapped in cloth that crowned her head. My aunt called for her husband to grill me some more. I felt like an idiot in Mrs. Mean Aunt’s house. But her gentle husband asked me to describe the old woman again. And I did. Then he pulled out a photo album with a picture of the old woman. “That’s her!” I yelled. And we never yelled in my aunt’s house. My aunt’s husband was very pleased that I had met his mother. He was touched that I saw her smiling. “Don’t worry”, he tells me. “She must have liked you.”

In the years between then and now I have felt my mother’s loving hand brush a goodbye gesture on my forehead followed by a wide-eye-wake-up knowing feeling that my mother passed away, an hour before the nurse at the hospital called, as I was dozing along with my two toddlers during their after-lunch nap. Then when a close neighbor across the street from my old home in New Orleans was diagnosed with cancer, she signaled her goodbyes to me in three consecutive nights of dreams. She was diagnosed with brain cancer one day and a month later she was gone. At first, the friends shared the diagnosis and asked me to watch their son during the day, but then they quickly withdrew into isolation and secrecy.

The close-knit neighbors were concerned and worried about the turn of evidents. I was a little bit hurt for me, and a whole lot of hurt for the couple and their son. Then I had my three nights of dreams. This couple liked to bike, and so in the first dream she came over and said, “I want to go outside. I want to go outside.” In the second dream she was riding on the back of his bike, on the flat surface that is used to carry things, side-saddle style, circling the front of her house, looking at me and saying, “I just want to go outside.” Then in the third dream, she is riding in the pull-along-caboose that parents have for their kids that resemble something like a tented trailer attached to a bike. She was curled up like a baby, and saying “I want to go outside” and waving to me.

In the early days of her diagnosis, my friend was dizzy and so she was bed-ridden. And the times that I came to visit her she would wish to go outside and see the sunshine again. So my dreams didn’t signal anything too important, other than maybe my hurt at being suddenly left out. But days after my series of dream, I happen to see her husband walking to his car. I approached him in a friendly chat and inquired about her. “She’s fighting it,” was what he said. He and I were equally close and so I took his word for truth. I told him about my funny dreams.

Then the beans spilled. He told me that my friend had gone into a coma a week earlier, and the same night that I had my last dream, he did indeed had put her into a tent trailer to bike her around the block for sunshine. Less than a week after that conversation my friend passed away.


That incident was 4 years ago, during March of 2003. And since then, my grandmother died and nothing happened. My gentle uncle, married to the intimidating aunt, had a heart attack the summer after my grandmother’s death, and he died and nothing happened.

But then in the spring of 2004 Hex bought the Victorian house that we currently are living in. He was compelled to buy it after seeing it on the internet. He knew nothing about the house, the condition, or where his next pay check was going to come from, but he was sure that he wanted that house. And he bought it. The first time I ever saw the house was moving day. And then I found out that it was an estate sale. I did not sleep well for at least a year. And to make me feel even more creepy, the backyard neighbor behind the high fence is a funeral home.

It took over a year for me to finally be comfortable in this house, and to reconcile myself to being such close neighbor to a funeral home. Nothing happened. I saw neither Mr. nor Mrs. Gordon. But we found evidence of Mr. Gordon’s handiwork around the house. Mr. Gordon was a music/sound engineer. He had a business in the house and so there were wires, phone jacks, steel shelving galore. If we did stumble on nuisance, we just shook our head, sigh, and mutter “that’s Mr. Gordon”. But there have been occasions when we found useful tools left behind in the basement and we would give a silly, “Yahooo! Thanks Mr. Gordon!”

Little did I know that he has heard us, and cared. Before I tell the following true story, I will warn ya’ll that this is a hair-raiser. Find a buddy to hold onto if you don’t think you should be by yourself for the next two paragraphs.

This incident happened last year - the fall of 2006 - when Hex was working for a start-up in New York City. One day during this fall season my 7yrs old son did something disobedient and computer privileges were taken away for a week. My son is responsible and mature beyond his years and so the punish was announced and accepted without any fuss. The next day, Hex had to go to NYC for a week - nothing to that. On the third night that Hex was away, I was startled awake in the middle of the night. The room was dark but there was light filtering in from the outside street lamps. I saw a man, in a dark suit, standing on the left side of the bed where Hex slept. I was paralyzed with fear - an intruder had entered my home and was standing beside my bed about to molest me. I tried to move and react, but the fear and shock was powerful and debilitating. Next, my mind race in panic mode as I thought about how to get the kids to safety. Then the unbelievable happens.

The old man, in clear solid form, standing with hands down at his sides, began to stretch upward and then bend over at the waist so that his face was looking down at my face. His stretched body was leaning over so that his face hovered two feet above mine. His gentle face just looked down into mine and stared intently. I tried to blink furiously to make the staring face go away. But he wouldn’t go away. His face and body retained their shapes. After what seemed like a good minute of furious blinking, I couldn’t deny what I was seeing. I thought I would suffocate in my own terror. Then lucidity hits, and I recognized the man I have never met. My mind said his name, “Mr. Gordon”. As soon as I identified his presence, I was released from the paralysis. Fully awake, I heard a command: “Wake up and check on your children.”

My legs were weak, and fear made me reluctant to want to venture into the dark hallway, but the command moved me. I tip-toed into the hall and saw a flickering glow coming from the dark room at the end of the hall. I walked toward that room with hesitancy and dread. As I stalked closer toward the door and peeked in I saw light from the computer shining onto the face of my son. He was quietly playing on the computer at 2:00 in the early morning. Being caught, he confessed that he had been doing that for three nights.

If I had not had such a determined spirit rousing me out of bed, then I would have fallen back to sleep, and never would have known that my responsible son was getting away with a lesson in deception. Thank you Mr. Gordon.

But let this not be a welcome call for spirits to come visiting. I am faint of heart, and my legs are unsteady.

A humble existence is the noblest of callings, but it is the bitterest of pills to swallow. If a person walked into our churches today dressed like St. John the Baptist and smelling like St. John the Baptist, would we recognize him for who he is? Or would we hold our noses, and remind him of our dress code? If baby Jesus cried during the service, and his cries drowned out the preacher, would we hush the voice of God if we heard it?

It's hard to be humble. A humble state is a lonely state that only God can see, and the world neither cares for, nor recognizes. And it's hard for a living soul to not want to be a part of the world that they live in. We all crave acceptance. And to find acceptance in the world, we must live to please the world.

If a pastor gave up the vain glories of the world, would his congregation still hear his message, or would the state of his humble possessions distract them to no end?

Today I read about a man who proclaims to be an atheist because, according to him, he "hates the sights and sounds of religion" because people have done ungodly things to each other for the sake of religion. He once believed in a god, but now he rejects the idea of any gods because muslin extremists blow people to shreds just to get into heaven, or the religious right/conservatives who would gladly condemn gays to hell, reject any science, and only want to force their brand of "God" onto everyone else. God failed him.

I feel for him, and I can totally see where he is coming from. I agree with his angry sentiments, and his disgust with humanity, and I ,too, can easily declare myself an atheist - except for one saving grace.

God gave me a brain. With this fantastic brain I can reason and think for myself. I can think for myself and make my own judgement. And that is so wonderfully beautiful.

With this brain I can think and question. I don't have to accept everything as it is given to me. The christian fundamentalists would like me to think that their shit don't stink. And at the other extreme end, the liberals would like me to think that yes, everyone's shit does stink but we should all embrace it, share it, and take a good whiff because it is all equally good. No thank you.

Right now I am thinking, and my thinking leads me to separate the creation from the Creator. I will admit that I find people disgusting. I am profoundly and continually amazed at the meanness, selfishness, and ugliness of people. Strip any person down from the fake layers and the essence of their depravity is the essence of man's evolution from the self-centered caveman to the self-centered modern day empire builder. People are self-centered. They pretend to serve God so that God will serve them.

God is as separate from His creation in as much as I am separate from my children. I have total sympathy for God. I, too, have had moments of extreme disbelief as the dumbest things that my children have done to each other. And I, too, have had plenty of people angry at me for the destructive things my children have done. There have been times when one child is so hurtful to another child, that the hurting child would wish total annihilation and banishment be imposed on the offending sibling. As much as I may have shared my hurt child's anger, I still deeply love the unpleasant child. My love for my children will always be there for them. But their interactions with each other are for them to work through, learn from, and live with. No parent can make their children love each other, try as they may.

It's easy to be angry at God for the evils of ones neighbor because anger at God is a release valve to a complicated world. People want someone to blame. It's like one of my children screaming and hollering at me because they were played a mean trick by another sibling. I am the release valve for them to vent the injustice of having to share a home with other irritating people.

Therefore, if I could beg God's case to the man who has rejected God, then I would ask him to reconsider and look from a different angle. Sometimes a shift in perspective can be as profoundly illuminating as shifting a prism to bend light to reveal it's many bands of colors.

Loose lips sink ships, and I may have sunk my own today. And I may as well kiss my wonderful dreams of the retiring years good-bye. Au revoir!

It was mid afternoon on another gray, dreary, winter day. Limp bodies were scattered around the den: some wilted on the couch, others just draped over arm chairs. The mood was dark and lifeless. The energy level had sunk to almost nothingness. Everyone was dying of boredom.

But even in the mist of despair, a mother's job is never done, and a mother never gives up.

"AWAKE!" I tell myself.
"AWAKE!" I command the startled youths.
"Attention! Attention everyone! I have a secret plan. Who wants to hear it?"

The lifeless bodies perk up at the news of a secret.

"Did you say, 'a secret' ?!"
"Ooooo...!"
"Tell us! Tell us!"
"Me! Me! Me! Me too! Me too! "

The air is now electrified. Everyone is yearning to know the juicy details of a secret. They crave it.

"Do you want to know what I plan to do when you all grow up? Close your eyes, listen, and picture this:

Imagine clear blue skies - blue skies on a warm, sunny day; a day warm like hot pizza right out of an oven; a day warm like fresh laundry right out of the dryer that makes you want to just curl up and soak up the heat. Now look down from the sky and you will see the bright sunlight filtering down on a cozy cottage, a spacious green lawn, and a white picket fence encircling it all. Open the picket-fence gate and say hello to the pink azaleas that line the brick path leading to my garden. And there you will find me for the most of the day.

But I won't be there in the early morning though. Look for me on the back patio at the end of the garden, under the wild wisteria trellis, as I eat my breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, croissant, mango in whipped cream, and hot coffee. I will take my time drinking my endless cups of coffee and reading the newspaper. The blue jays will chirp their songs to me, and the flowers will shine and sparkle for me.

When the blue jays leave and the dew evaporates, then will I be in my garden soaking up the sun, tending to the vegetable patch, weeding the flower beds, breathing in the fresh smells, and visiting all my favorite plants: I will first say hello to the beautiful, shy violet, and then admire the bright ginger blossoms. The smell of fresh basil puts a spring in my steps as it reminds me of goodness. And I never leave without checking up on the sweet lily flowers.

And when I leave it is for a brief lunch around noon. I dine out for lunch. I take company along if there are any, whether by appointment or not, but they must arrive by 11:45. The more the merrier.

After lunch I return to my garden for a light nap. Find me under the crepe myrtles. I will be there on a lounge chair enjoying hours of reading before I have to prepare a grilled steak, asparagus, baked potato, red wine, candle-lit dinner to be eaten under the wild wisteria trellis. And I will end my day with coffee as I watch the sunset, and listen to the cricket's lullaby. When the candle burns down, then I will go to bed.

Kids, that's my secret plan for how I will retire."

"That sounds fabulous! I'm going to live with you!"
"Me too!"
"Me three!"
"Me too! Me too! Me! Me! Me!"

I shouldn't hate anything because it's sinful to hate, but I can't help but hate chocolate. I don't like chocolate. It's sticky, it's gooey, it stains, it hurts my teeth. It's sweet, it's dark, it's unpleasant to my taste buds.

"Mama. Why don't you like chocolate?" my children asked.

"Because, " I tell them, "No one won a war against the communists by eating chocolate and sweets."

"Huh?" they said.

"Mommmmm! That's ridiculous!"

"That's the truth," I said, and they are unconvinced.

But what do my children know about war and the ways of war? They are born in American, standing on constitutional rights, living in cushioned comforts, sitting on the lap of luxury, and enjoying the security of safety nets. If someone tramples on their rights, the ACLU is there. If they are incarcerated, a free lawyer is afforded to them. They live in a huge Victorian, gingerbread house for free. Their meals are free. Their needs are met and more, and on top of that, they get free money to spend on themselves. And when their parents die, they are entitled to an inheritance. They are living the blessed lives that all children are entitled to. They have no concept of hunger - desperate hunger- and especially the desperate, dying hunger of a starving, war-torn country. They have no clue as what it feels like to live a real nightmare. For them, terrible things like war, bombs, killings, dead bodies, desperation, chaos are only in the movies. Those things are as unreal to them as the Greek myths, and they only happen in another time, in another world.

But once upon a time, in another world, I grew up in a country torn apart by civil war. I was born the in the year when the war was near ending, and battles were still raging. My mother remembered the bombings, and the desperate searches to locate her daughter, and the bizarre safe-havens that she found her daughter in. Angels my mother said. It could only be angels that knew where the bombs would land, and only angels could have covered me when shrapnel, debris, concrete, or anything could have ended me there in Vietnam. We were living in Saigon, and there were days when some mastermind must have gone mad with the bombing campaigns - the bombings seemed like last ditch efforts to win the war by simply killing everyone. The logic must have been that if everyone were killed, then there wouldn't be any enemies left. Anytime, anywhere, people could be doing anything when the bombs fell. No one knew what would happen to them. Life and death - the ending of one and beginning of another - sometimes happened so quickly that people never knew that they had died. And other times, people heard the planes coming, the bombs raining down, and they had time to taste fear and feel death. No one knew their fate until the earth stopped rumbling and wailing sounds of grief arose. Then would they know if they survived or not. If they survived, they would be the desperate ones searching and calling out for loved ones. If they were dead, they could look down and see their own body. Many times, my mother could have lost me, but she has found me under a car, under concrete slabs, and, one time, in a strange house. She couldn't explain how a toddler could have found shelter so quickly and so unexpectedly.

The Americans tried to help, and even with their help, the south lost. The communists won. In '74 my whole family escaped on a boat. They made it to America - everyone, except my grandmother, my mother, and me. And it was my fault. I was in the hospital with a potentially fatal illness. My mother couldn't leave without me, and my grandmother refused to leave without my mother. Despite all the protests and the pleadings, my grandmother refused to leave as long as she had a child left in Vietnam. So she stepped off the boat and stayed behind. And I think I remember that hospital stay. My earliest memory, a very young memory, was when I was in a hospital. I remember waking up one night in an empty room. I was on a padded mattress, and was surrounded by a square enclosure of steel bars that must have been a crib. I was young enough to wear diapers ,and my cloth diaper was wet and cold. I knew that my diaper was wet and cold, but I couldn't find the words to say it. I was too scared and confused by the strange surrounding and the sounds of Vietnamese voices. By the doorway were women in white uniform, speaking hushed voices about my medical condition. I didn't understand what they were saying said, but I knew that they were talking about me. Their discussion was brief and they left quickly without looking in on me. If they had bothered to just walk into the room and peek into my crib, they would have seen me awake, wet, and cold. But they didn't, and so I remember that lonely night when my diaper was wet and cold.

Because of me, we were stuck in Vietnam when everyone was trying to leave. My grandmother, who chose not to leave, was the mother to me. My mother came and went and I don't even have a memory of her during those years. Those were the years that I remember as the "Grandma and me" years. Those were the years when my grandma showed me a fighting spirit. We may have the lost the war, but the personal and private battles continued. The communists may have taken the land, but they haven't gotten us. We were to wait and leave Vietnam when the time came. And until then we resisted.

My grandma had money. I was told, later, that she stuffed all her money under a step. But we lived poor because everyone else was impoverished, and anyone could be a spy. We had a concrete home that was built before the war, but other than that, there were hardly anything left that spoke of wealth. Whatever she had, the soldiers stole. All the soldiers stole. They took her gold, they took her animals, the fruits and vegetables growing in her garden, and the cooked food off her table. And so grandma was careful, watchful and quick. And I was expected to keep my mouth closed, to keep my eyes and ears open, and to learn.

Grandma had a huge garden with high walls enclosing it. And a front gate made of corrugated sheet metal. Within her garden she grew fruits that I remember eating. She had huge papayas that horrified me with their thousands of black eyes that stared out when the fruit was opened. I remember the mangoes, the spiky fruits, the jack-fruits, and the sugarcane. We spent so many afternoons just sitting on the front steps of her concrete home, behind the metal gate, enjoying the fruits and listening for approaching footsteps on the other side of the gate.

And one afternoon, as my grandmother and I sat on the steps to eat a meal, we heard someone approaching the gate. Grandma got up quickly to hide our cooked chicken under the false bottom of the salt barrel, pinched some salt, and returned to me. I watched her return and sprinkle salt in her rice bowl, and then sprinkle the rest on my own rice bowl.

"Eat," she said. "It will make you grow."

And I ate the salty rice. It was white rice with a salty, grit taste.

The stranger went through our gate without knocking. He was a soldier. He stood before us with an authority to anything he pleased.

"Grandmother, could I kindly have a bowl of rice?" he asked.

"Have a bowl with us, son. We have little rice, but plenty of salt."

My grandma's body slowly got up, and she slowly hobbled her weak frame to the soldier and handed him a bowl of rice with salt.

"Grandmother, why are you eating rice with salt when I smell fried chicken?" the man asked.

"My son, you came too late." Grandma cried. "If you had been here earlier, then maybe you could have saved our chicken dinner for us. Two soldiers came by an hour ago and took our dinner. I begged them to leave me enough rice to cook another meal for me and my granddaughter."

"I would never steal from an old woman," the man said.

He finished the bowl of rice, thank my grandma, and left us in peace. And we continued to eat our rice and salt. I don't remember eating the rest of that chicken, but the rice and salt was memorable. And so was the lesson.

Eat rice and salt, it will make you grow. Chocolates and sweets are wasteful and dangerous. Rich people are the only ones that can afford them. And if people knew that you have money, then the soldiers will come to rob you clean. Don't touch chocolate, don't accept chocolate, and don't bring home chocolate. Chocolates can only come from American soldiers. And if people knew that you have chocolate, then everyone will think that you have worked with Americans - you are spying for the Americans now. Everyone is watching everyone else, and anyone can be informants for the communists. Touch chocolate and you will only have stirred suspicion and envy amongst your neighbors, and you will call attention to yourself. The communists have already taken the land and they will take you next. Don't touch the chocolate.

I wonder where Jason Ward is? I wonder if he would be upset to know that I have been married for twelve years. And even worst, how do I tell my husband that I still have a boyfriend?

Sometime during the second grade, I developed a crush on Jason. My first love had platinum blond hair, a smirky smile that reminded me of Popeye, a kindness that reframed from teasing immigrant children, and a quality of confidence that had him calling the most popular girls of the second grade dogs. All the girls were dogs to him, except me. And that was why I fell over the moons for him, and still am.

As a young Vietnamese girl, newly arrived to the US, I had the unfortunate blessing of the Catholic school system. Somewhere in the admissions process to the public school system, somebody thought I had something that deserved a Catholic school education. That meant I was to be separated from my younger brother, and that also meant that I wasn't going to join him and the other Vietnamese kids at Lincoln Elementary. Someone told my mother that being around other Vietnamese kids would ruin me, and that Lincoln was just a run-down, throw away school - a school that immigrant Vietnamese kids were just thrown into and mixed with the black kids. My heart was broken and my fate was sealed when my mother received a full scholarship for me to attend St. Anthony. I felt so alone and vulnerable, and I was scared for my younger brother who was to attend kindergarten without the company and protection of his sister. My mother didn't understand the consequences of sending me alone to a school where everyone else was a beautiful American child and I was the odd Vietnamese, immigrant child. If only she had realized her terrible mistake, and insisted that I be assimilated into the American culture the same way that other Vietnamese children were assimilated, then maybe I would have a better sense of a Vietnamese identity. In trying to give me an advantage, my mother lost sight of me, both literally and figuratively. And as a result, I too lost myself in the struggle to fit in.

Everything about me was odd and out of sort. I was the shortest. My hair was black instead of the varying shades of brown or blonde or red. And my skin was brown instead of the varying shades of white. My eyes were different. My nose was different. Life at school was one epic battle of the "me" verses the "them". But in Jason, I found a sense of balance and justice with the world.

Stacy, Danielle, and Jennifer were the popular girls in our second grade class. They were pretty little girls that came to school looking good, smelling good, and even in uniforms, they came looking fashionably superior to everyone. They had it all. They came from happy homes of wealthy parents. They were the best readers. The other little girls admired them, and the little boys adored them. No one picked on them - except Jason.

If life's blessings were unfairly balanced, Jason and lunch were the equalizers that righted the wrongs at St. Anthony Catholic Church. At lunch, no one had a choice as of where to sit. The lunch line was formed in the classroom, in random order, and remained so for the walk down the hall to cafeteria. No talking, no shuffling of feet, no switching, no cuts, no back cuts. It was much like being in the prison march, with wardens along the way to ensure order, but without the chain and shackles. Like the station of the cross, we had the stations: stop at the cafeteria door and wait for the signal to advance, walk across the length of the stage to the lunch woman waiting at the booth - state your name and present the lunch card. Wait for her okay, get your utensils and lunch tray, move along to the open windows, pick your food, find the next available seat. No one had a choice - God and the Catholic church did not recognize any constitutional guarantees. You had to sit at the next available seat, and manage with the people around you - the saints ate with the sinners and the sinners entertained the saints. We didn't eat until prayer was said. After the prayer, we were allowed to eat and talk. Our conversations weren't that extraordinary. The conversations swirling around me were about toys, my mom this, my dad that, birthday parties, clothes.

On that fateful day that I found myself seated at the same table with Jason, I found true love. At the table was Jason, the three beauties of second grade, several other girls, and myself - in descending order of self-esteem. I didn't talk much because I was unbelievably shy in the midst of fine company. But I sat and listened to Jason call out each girl and announce how ugly she was. "Stacy, you look like a dog." What? I couldn't have possibly heard that right. "Danielle, you look like a dog." Gasp! Methodically he worked his way around the table denouncing each girl. But he stopped at me and just looked. He didn't say anything about me. I certainly didn't want to be called a dog, but I really wanted to know what true love thought of me. So I asked, "What about me?"

So what about me? He didn't call me a dog. Instead he said the magical words: "You look like a Saint Bernard." The clouds opened and I was lifted to heaven. In my head, I envisioned this Saint Bernard to be a beautiful woman. A saint of piety, a defender of ugly children, the Catholic Church's beatified "ugly duckling" that grew to be the glorious swan. I saw hope for myself. Later that day I worked up the words to ask for his home phone number. And I nervously practiced my lines for days before daring to think about picking up the phone. When the time came, I dialed the numbers, and hoped that he would answer. When a woman answered the phone I fell to pieces and hung up. Then I tried again, and a man answered. I made myself ask for Jason. When Jason came on the line, I was about to explode with tension so I simply blurted out, "Will you be my boyfriend?" "Sure," he answered. "Okay, bye!" I said. "Bye," he said. And we hung up. We never spoke about that phone conversation at school. He was as kind and cordial to me as ever, but we had a sweet, secret understanding.

I carried those magical words for years, and I remember Jason best for that. But I don't remember anything more about him. We never said goodbye nor ended our relationship. So that means somewhere in this world I still have a boyfriend, even as I am twelve years married to another man. I have moved on with my life, married, birthed four kids. I have grown to appreciate me for me, and to dismiss conformity. I do have a warm, fuzzy, fondness for the Jason that I remember. I am happy to say that I don't find myself ugly at all. What I liked least about my looks have become my favorite. I still struggle to tame my hair, but what woman doesn't.

Jason, wherever you are and whatever you are doing, I hope you are living the good life. I'm old now, in the mist of raising little ones, and I've changed so much that you wouldn't recognize me if we meet again. I haven't become the beautiful Saint Bernard that I had hoped, but I think I have gotten better looking than the Saint Bernard that you once saw. Thanks for the memories, love always, your second grade girlfriend.

Winter is the long Sunday morning that saved children endure in white, starched attires, as they sit still in reverent prayer and worship. It is the long devotion under dimmed sunshine that filters through stained glass windows, under hushed voices, under the watchful eyes of the saints staring down from heaven, under the bloodied icons of the naked Jesus dying on the cross for their sins, under assurances that bucketfuls of Jesus' blood will wash them whiter than snow but their blood from a skinned knee that tore the new church pants will cause Mom to yell.

It is the long visit in a chapel, where, instead of milk and cookies, it's the holy blood and body of Christ that are served; where mothers who scream at bloodstains on clothes will want their children to "drink the blood" and "eat the body" of Christ. Winter is the stark contrast of children being burden with itchy, stiff, riches of clothing while Jesus is free to die with only a loin cloth wrapped around his middle.

Winter is the long, difficult time that children spend inside a building, trying to make sense of the adults' God when the little children's God is in the outside - in the sunshine, in joyous laughter, in the cool grass, in the little caterpillars and butterflies, in the fat worms under black dirt, in the juicy melons and strawberries, on the swings, on the slides, rolling down hills, splashing in puddles - where Jesus is patiently waiting for them to finish church.

Pronouns can not be taken at face value. When people use the "I", they really mean the accusatory "you": like when people say, "I feel...blah, blah, blah" when they really mean "you are...blah, blah, blah. When a person starts a sentence with the "I", they are masking their emotions behind a nice curtain of "it's just me" phrasing. It's a lie - like when someone ends a relationship with "it's not you, it's just me". " Yeah, it's just me...not liking your face, your body, your money (your lack of money really), your bad breath, your bald head, your anything that I am gutless to express - really,really, you are too good for me, and I do have feelings for you, but I know that I will only be in your way, and there is someone else out there that deserves you. It's not you at all, it's just me..."

Once a person uses the "I", the receiving party's radar picks up the unspoken "you", and anyone can see why there can never be any real, everlasting peace in this world. The "I am so hurt when you don't respond to my repeated request for you to pick up your shoes - like right way - and like, you know, the baby trips over them," is really the angry "You are really on my last nerve! I have asked you over and over again and you don't care! And I am tired of trying to be nice and tired of holding my tongue. Lord help me before death do us part!"

Until humans have enough guts to dish out what they really feel, and be big enough to accept the real truth about another's emotions, then the world will continue in lies and deceit with no hope for peace, and life is one big game of cloak and dagger.

Winter is the long, dreary, time trapped in some God forsaken hole with an ugly, old, hag, and having to hear her nag all the time. Hearing her day after day, as she nags, nags, nags. Day after day of being cooped inside with a frozen-fingered hag that nags, nags, nags. The days drag by evvvvvvvvv-verrrrrrrrr SOOOOOO sllllllll-o-o-o-o-o-o-leeee; with the relentless nag, nag, nag and no end to it in sight. That's winter.

The rustling of autumn leaves stirs the restlessness within me and brings forth the savage discontent of a caged beast. The leaves crackles like the whip, cracking the beast of want alive, and I can feel myself bursting with an energy to stalk something - something so quiet but so fierce that burns like a flicker at first that quickens to a rage. A rage of my mind for a thrilling stimulation to take me far, far beyond, a bursting of my soul for something higher, some distant blue that transcends the dirty brown clumps that I stand on, and a desperation in my limbs to leap outside of skin and bones to be of more substance.

I am taunt with a bursting, a pressure to escape, a desperate urging for me to elude the looming dullness. The dark clouds of dull days, stringent people, a staleness of stagnant gene pools of thoughs, ideas, and minds threaten to cloak themselves around me. I watch the dark clouds of them. They advance en mass like a black cape ready to encircle their ways around me. I pace in watchful suspicion and restlessness - the beast within me rumbling it's quiet menace - and I know that I don't belong here.

The days of summer are leaving me, and leaving me lonely, and making me wish for just one more day, just another day longer. Summer hasn't left completely but I am the jealous lover that can see the waning of his desires. I can see his gaze scanning the other side of the world for something else, and I can feel his heat cooling as he moves slowly away. There's no way for me to stop his golden chariot from its escape across the horizon. I know one day he will come back when his wandering ways makes him repentent, and sorry for leaving me so coldly.

No, he hasn't left yet. There is still some warmth left to my days. He still smiles his golden rays my way. I can still feel his heat burn my skin but it doesn't burn with the same passion as before. He wakes up later and later each morning with hardly a hello. Slows to warm the day, and then leaves me to set to bed earlier and earlier each night. I can't muster the joy to enjoy my last few days of sunshine, fresh air, and bliss. There's no joy in a lingering good-bye. Visions of days to come chill my bones, dampen my remaining happiness, and lay my love dormit.

When he comes back he will be sorry for what he has done to me. When he comes he will see me older, not the young blossom of life that spend days basking in the sun with him. He will see what his callous leaving has done to me, because the woman that he comes back to will be a bittered, ashen, dry wrath. I am almost destroyed with grief, but I will take him back because he always comes back bringing flowers - the delicate coaxing of Narcissus. After the flowers, he promises: he promises birds, little bunnies, warm, loving days again, days in the garden again. And he promises to stay longer, he tells me he's sorry for his ever leaving, and he promises to banish winter forever. And I am the lover that adores him, and foolishly believes.

Hats off to the lazy people because they work the hardest.

Lazy people carry life like a packed mule - everything is heavy and burdensome to them, but they do manage to get things done, eventually, and maybe after much nagging. They don't mean to be slow and reluctant, and they can't "do" with what they weren't given to "do" with. They don't come with a spring to their steps, extra umphs to give, a second wind to push them along, or even the all that they got. They are the misunderstood, and under appreciated side of humanity that lives within us. They aren't hard to find. There's at least one in every family, maybe none in yours, but you can find plenty on your in-law's side of the family and anywhere else that you look. And if there is one in your family, then maybe you can relate.

There really is never a spring to their steps, never a spontaneity to their movements, and never a urge to speed. Gravity's pull affects them greater than other objects on earth. An object in motion will stay in motion until a force is acted upon it, and an object are rest will remain at rest until a force is acted upon it, that's Sir Newton's law of gravity. But with lazy people, they are as motionless as possible so there's hardly a chance for any force to act upon them to cease movements. And when at rest, they will remain at rest even when a force to move. They are a wonder to boggle the mind, and a beautiful defiance to any laws.

When you don't have a pep in your steps, then life is hard. Without that little umph to umph you along, then all energy is your own. And we all know that start-up is the costliest of energy exertion. So lazy people are not really "lazy" for lack of trying, they are justing slower because they are working harder to pull their own weight. And a nagging spouse is not considered an "umph" push, he or she is more like the horn blowing it's noise at the slow cow blocking the road. For example: wind against the sail of a boat will move a boat quick, but only if it's outside force. Meaning, that if a wind comes along, then the wind's force will push the boat to movement. But if the wind is an inside force, like a fan on the boat, or a person sitting on the boat, blowing against the boat's sail, then movement is slow and inefficient - affirming the position that lazy people are "doing" and moving, but on their own wind, on low speed, whenever they get to it.


The notion that lazy people are no good, good-for-nothing, free-loaders is wrong. Lazy people have a valuable place in society - they are the backbone of what makes us a progressive society. They are the factors that keep our economy going. If everyone was content to break their backs working harder, then everyone would either be chopping wood or hauling water. Thank God for the conviences of electric-everything and indoor plumbing. Thank God for the lazy man somewhere who decided that he was too lazy to find the outhouse in the dead of night, in the mist of winter, and that his lazy wife shouldn't have to lay another finger on a nasty chamber pot for another moment.