School of Hard Knocks I can insert key to lock, peel an orange, squeeze foot to socks— but I didn’t earn a Harvard Law degree, or Stanford PhD— I’m not a Rhodes scholar, or Oxford Fellow— Cal Tech Engineer, or win Summa Cum Laude. Lacking even a house cat’s portion of common sense, I’ve had the common professors, Mr. Mistake and Ms. Miscalculation, suffered the lessons learned, passed the potholes by and taken my honors with pride in life's hard knocks. . . . j
Latin As A Second Language “Do you understand Latin?” Mr. Horace, the principal, asked. Standing my ground, I admitted to terra firma. After all, I was in the midst of seventh grade Latin. At twelve years of age, I was quite small then. The spilled marbles cascading about had tripped me up. Needle and thread. I must remember me to patch the hole in my jacket pocket. Crucial details. “Do you know what innuendo means?” Horace continued. He’d closed the door to his office. “Vaguely,” I replied. "Insinuating wickedness about a classmate?" "Close enough,” he said, torching up a cigar. When Ms. Strangle heard the marbles roll, every girl in the class swiveled and stared at me. How about ipso facto?” he asked. “Never heard of it,” I admitted, silently cursing my ignorance. “I may have been down with malaria that day.” I gave him a moment, then added, “Or something much worse.” “The enemy of one’s enemy, ipso facto, is a friend,” Mr. Horace recited. “Ms. Strangle accuses you. Ray Cole vouches for you.” “Ipso facto,” I said. “Bully for him,” I muttered. When the marbles rolled, Ray, stood and pointed at Lucky Lucy Rabbitz, a known felon. Lucky Lucy sat two desks behind me. She had done hard time somewhere in Tukwila. She sharpened her pencils as if honing butcher knives. The hair on my neck stood on end whenever she came near. “Are you at all familiar with locus delicti?” Horace asked. “Of course,” I replied. “The scene of a crime. But no crime was committed.” “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, blowing cigar smoke in my face. Mom smoked cigars of course, but I got carsick when she did, so I never took it up. I felt the familiar gagging deep in my throat. The air was so thick I could barely make out Mr. Horace’s face. I fumbled through my Latin note cards. “Nauseous here,” I said. “Not my problem,” he replied airily. “Do you play marbles during recess?’ he asked, his voice piercing the thick cloud. “Interdum,” I said. “When the mood strikes.” “Did the mood strike this morning?” he asked. He moved the cigar’s glowing tip close to my face. “No. I played tetherball with my colleagues to relieve the stress brought on by studying Latin under the clumsy guidance of Ms. Strangle.” “Odd,” he said. “She thinks otherwise.” “She has been misinformed,” I said. “An obvious instance of ad absurdum by a consortium of tattlers.” I added a footnote. “Let’s face it, some people are not cut out to teach seventh grade.” I paused for effect. “But she might make a jim dandy cafeteria supervisor.” Mr. Horace giggled. “I was thinking the exact same thing,” he said, stubbing out the cigar on his desktop. “Off with you now, kid. Stay out of trouble. Do no harm. Go to law school. You’ve a knack for cover-up. Et cetera.” . . . j from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
You've Been A Fun Crowd Should i but read my poetry to neglected fields and sagging fence posts i might be assured of a polite and attentive audience with soft murmurings of approval and spare grumbles of complaint. . . . j from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
In the Beginning Before a piece of writing is published, it is raw rhubarb, sour to the senses. Granted, editing is much easier now than during the quill and inkwell days when supplies were dear and research meant visiting a library. But editing is still more the chore than treat. There will always be a better word to be found, a more precise image to be described, and sweeter sound of rhyme. I suppose God wishes our useless appendix was so easily remedied. But then, that work took a mere seven days. . . . j from the Wonderments and Such collection
My Destiny The hall seethed. Movement. Noise. Teenagers herded between classes. He stepped in front of me, an adult out of place, white shirt and tie. Like me, he had two eyes, but one, rigid, stared sightless over my shoulder. His good eye, working for two, eyed mine. He minced no words. “I hear you can write.” He might as well have accused me of breathing. We all had been taught The ancient symbols of the alphabet— the letters, their shape, their sounds, the possible combinations. We’d learned together— See Jane run. See Spot jump. See Bob climb. Eleven years had passed in the turning of a page— one to go— Nouns. Verbs. Adjectives. Sentences. Paragraphs. We all could write. I’d told no one I treasured the books. Only Mother knew. She’d confiscated the flashlight more than once. “My name is O’Sammon,” he said. “I teach journalism. I’d like you to sign up. I think you’ll be good at it.” He’d singled me out of the herd. Someone had ratted me out. I did. I was. A one-eyed teacher made all the difference. . . . j from the Childhood Remedy and Other Such collection
Farmer's Market Little baby bunting Mother's gone a hunting for broccoli and garlic and onions and wine and cheese and bread and eggplant and ground beef and pasta and evoo. Evoo, Mama? Pay attention, Child. Extra virgin olive oil. . . . j from the Wonderments and Such collection
Unanswered Prayer When I was a boy Mother insisted I attend Sunday School and Church each Sunday, though she never once stepped through the door. I occupied a pew beside my sisters, and thought about baseball, rocks, golf, fishing, and just about anything else but our Lord and Savior. One fine morn there was a special feature—a woman came from afar to play glorious music on her harp for all to hear. Wait a minute, i thought. Harp is a light Irish beer, and I'd much rather have a cold glass of it right now than her and that danged harp. . . . j from the Wonderments and Such collection
A Royal Flush Even when hidden, a pheasant is never a peasant; rather, in color and plumage, he is always a royal, regal and ready to fly his throne when betrayed, and the whirr of his flight will both startle and delight. . . . j from the Wonderments and Such collection
Red Hummingbirds and men are haunted by an irresistible attraction to the color Red, but Women have an uncanny, almost instinctive, ability to sort out the two. . . . j from the Wonderments and Such collection
Unmerited Finery She said, "Open wide." I did. She said, “Close down.” I did. Even though I'm barely a commoner, more so the peasant or serf, she treated me as Royalty, placing a crown on an exhausted molar. "Thank you," I said, and hurried home toward Buckinghorse Palace lest I be found out. . . . j from the Wonderments and Such collection
