My Brother's Pool

I wake up today and discover my peace of mind has been hijacked. It’s being held hostage inside of a bubble and floating in the air of ‘elsewhere.’

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It dawns on me that I’ve been squandering precious time wandering around aimlessly in the world of others, in some ethereal wonderland of elsewhere. An escape back into the world of ‘now’ is essential. The freedom of ‘time well spent’ is fleeting.

I toss out the paper, turn off the cell and say goodbye to the news. Technology and info overload fade. The power of personal choice recovers. I decide to share some of it with my brother, always a good place to reclaim quality time.

He has just moved into his new home. I find him out back whistling, putting the final touches on his so-called pool. He’s as happy as if he’d just come from a meeting with God Himself.

“Check it out,” he shouts. “How do you like my pool?”

“Uh, well, this is a pool? Looks like the stone ruins of an ancient Roman aqueduct. But it’s big enough for a bird bath, I guess.” He ignores the comment.

I survey his ‘pool.’ It begins with a circular cistern about four feet deep. Water flows in a trickle over a make-shift waterfall. Its tinkling sound is sufficient to induce a deep sleep or coma, especially if he had popped a few tops.

It meanders about thirty feet down a narrow chute little wider than four feet and ends in another circular pool scarcely wide or deep enough to accommodate the washing of two big dogs.

“Brother, do you call this a pool?”

“Listen, pool is a relative term. A pool can be a puddle of water an inch deep. Or fifty feet deep. It’s all a matter of perspective.” He’s unflappable and keeps whistling.

“Interesting, but what’s the point of this dribbling caricature of a House Beautiful water feature?”

“Take a look at this.” He shows me a lime-green inflated water chair, complete with an adjustable reclining back, a miniature ice chest, two cup holders and iPhone cradle.

“What’s with this recliner? It’ll barely fit in your drainage canal.”

“It’s perfect for redeeming the time. Plus, I can float and nap without fear of drowning or being dismembered by sharks.”

Well, I have to agree. Time well spent is a matter of perspective. But I need some redemption of my own. So I head to the La De Da Salon for a haircut.

Salons are good spots to catch women in their natural, ‘before’ look and hear the latest gossip. Today’s subject was about a gypsy fortune teller’s ability to manipulate men. Time well spent, and instructive, too.

I stop at the pier and take a barefoot beach walk. No place better to spend quality time and let nature assuage the tightly-wound nervous system. Sand and water possess magical, restorative qualities and provide an interesting runway for the latest parade of ladies’ swimwear.

Work has ways of worming itself in on attempts to regain composure. Today’s toil takes me by the UPS drop-off spot. Bill and Jennifer show me photos of their tiny baby goats. What better way to break up a tedious work day than watching a video of tiny goats taking nourishment from a bottle?

They tell me about a yoga studio in Woodbine that specializes in a modality called ‘Goat Yoga.’ Seems the baby goats like to walk up the backs of those in the down-dog position. I guess my brother is correct…time well spent is a matter of perspective.

Soon my addiction to the cell will plunge me back into the world of elsewhere. So before my freedom-in-the-now ends, I make a stop by The Georgia Grown Emporium to pick up on local happenings, fresh organic arugula and a shot of inspiration.

Uncle Don is in rare form today. Vacationers from Michigan are gathered around as he pontificates on the pleasures and the culinary delights of his sweet pickled peaches and homemade chutney. They leave loaded down and someone remarks, “Now that was time well spent.”

I drop off some peaches to my brother. He’s still busy with his pool. “Whatcha doing now?” I ask.

“I’m stocking it with fish. Never know when I might want to float and fish.” He keeps whistling.

You know, maybe peace of mind is just not that hard to find…get out, look up and let go. And that’s not just whistling Dixie.


Bud Hearn
May 23, 2018

A Whole Lot of Dust

I’ve finally reached the bottom of ideas when dust is the only subject that comes to mind. But dust is a fact of life.

My History app said May 11th 1934 is called “Black Sunday.” A fierce wind whipped up a gigantic dust storm across the Midwest. It tore topsoil from the parched earth and hordes of broken people migrated to California. Same thing in 1935. The Dust Bowl was born.

My first experience with what I’d call a combination of dust and dirt was in first grade. Some lessons are learned early.

I had to walk to school. Walking home one day I somehow fell into a physical conflict with a kid twice my size. He promptly introduced my nose to the dust while sitting on my back.

Ever since this educational event, the highlight of my first grade, I have had a healthy measure of respect unto dust and how to keep my mouth shut when the subject of ‘fat’ comes up.

We were a family of farmers, agrarians since the late1800’s. We toiled on the same dirt and dust for over 120 years. We had great respect for this land and prayed fervently for it to yield more than thorns, thistles and weeds. It’s wise to be on good terms with the Higher Authority if you farm.

Eking out a living from this ground came only through sweat and hard work, following mules for miles down dusty rows. The advent of mechanical combines and the concept of ‘Gentlemen Farmer’ had not arrived..

Certain parts of our farm seemed hallowed. Other tribes had trod this land, lived off of it, died on it. Who were they? Where were they? We don’t need a sermon to remind us that from dust we come and to dust we go. That’s where they are now.

It caused me to wonder just how many people have ever lived on this planet. So I did some ‘rough’ calculations, totally unscientific, of course, that yielded an estimate of about 107 billion.

To test my equations, I consulted Google. Seems the Population Reference Bureau in 2015 came up with roughly 102 billion who had died. Imagine, all these coming from just two people. Now all dust. Staggering.

Such information should add some perspective to our self-centered egos, though I doubt it will clear the air of dust in DC anytime soon.

Several years ago I got interested in paleontology and read work by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Remember, he was part of the discovery of Homo erectus pekinensis, otherwise known as the Peking Man. Oh, you don’t recall? Peking duck is his recipe.

Anyway, he posited, among other things, that if we stand still long enough, cosmic dust would cover us entirely. Excavations the world over confirm this. In a sunlit room you can see motes of dust float through the air.

About twenty years ago we sold a portion of our farm for a golf course. It included a tangled area of swampy cypress trees and a pond. Often I had camped there, fished the pond, hunted birds and squirrels in the woods. And I knew I was not alone as I walked this ground.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was haunted, but spirits seemed to occupy the humid air. Especially at night. It’s the eerie kind of feeling you get in old cemeteries, like walking across ancient graves without tombstones. You ‘feel’ what you can’t ‘know.’

One day my mother wanted to say goodbye to this area. We took off our shoes and walked in a freshly-harrowed, red clay field. A fine mist of Dixie dew had fallen. The red clay squished between our toes. Tiny flint stones shone like small lights in the mud. It was the last time we ever walked barefoot in a field together.

A red-flint arrowhead protruded from the mire. I picked it up. It was marred by a harrow disk or discarded as unacceptable by its maker. I stuck it in my pocket. It reminds me of my history there.

Dust is a humbling excursion into nature. Carl Sagan synthesized the essence of our planet: “…(it’s) a mote of dust suspended on a sunbeam.” Photos from Voyager I some 3.5 billion miles out confirm his statement.

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Other souls were here before us, and others will be here after us. What will our dust reveal to them? Google can’t answer this. Only we can.


Bud Hearn
May 18, 2018

Stuck

"Sometimes it’s hard to know what to do.” Charles Bukowsky

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I wake up and discover I’m still stuck.

My morning mind is a fog. It hovers in the dangling inconsistencies of a fading dream that seems to have come from nowhere. It spins like a record stuck in a groove, relentlessly repeating its meaningless action. It leads nowhere but in circles, a merry-go-round of nonsense.

We’ve all been stuck before, many times. It’s easy to get stuck. Just showing up is all it takes to be assaulted by this malady. Life is a muddy ditch where your mental tires bog down in the mire. They spin helplessly in the muck, going nowhere fast.

Being stuck is like stumbling around in a carnival house of mirrors. You see yourself coming, or going, big and small, distorted and grotesque. You laugh but know it’s not funny.

Life is like that. Decisions are relentless assailants. This, or that, which? What will it be today? It will always be something that impedes your progress and laughs in the face of your best efforts.

Inertia takes over. Nothing happens. Limbo is the word; slacker is the feeling. Lifeless, listless, do something. Take a pill, today’s cure for everything.

Concerned about the after-effects of the dream, I resolve to avoid having to make any monumental decisions. I consider going to the beach where all decisions can be avoided. Procrastination and avoidance, the feeder sources for being stuck, can’t reach you there.

But unfinished details have a GPS tracking system. They hunt you down like an escaped criminal and shackle you in the chains of being stuck. I abandon the idea, turn the car radio on and drown it all out with some bluegrass music.

I crank the AC on high. The fan blows. Until it gets stuck on high. It lasts for days until I part with $400 to have it fixed. It always costs something to get unstuck, believe me.

I consider trying to think my way out of the mess. But, thinking is useless. Just compounds it. Opinions confuse us. The older we get, the smaller we think, the less we comprehend, the slower we move. Thinking is dangerous. Why think? Let Google and Twittersphere do it for you. They can synthesize all thought processes.

Sometimes you might get lucky and talk yourself out of being stuck. But conversation is mostly digital now. Nobody has time to hear about your dilemma. And if they do, they’ll only be looking for an opportunity to drag you further down in the pit of their own sink hole.

In the old days people sat in rocking chairs and talked. Or had martini lunches. Not now. Such is just a nostalgic throwback, supplanted by some sort of panacean app on your cell. It’s simply a diversion.

We’re afraid to step out, so we retreat, littering the way with excuses of inaction. We label it ‘pragmatism.’ But we know better. It’s just more evasion. We beat our chests with logic. But our algorithms won’t work. Our math is flawed. It’s grounded in elementary statistics. The universe lampoons our puny calculations.

Tonight, I find temporary refuge in one of Bukowsky’s debauched poems. They make me thankful I’m not alone on a dead-end decline. In the den the TV winds up its nightly evasion of reality. She walks by. It’s 11:00.

“I’m going to bed. Did you get it fixed?”

“Uh, not yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Looks to me like all you’re doing is reading.”

“No worry, I’ll get it fixed.”

“When? It’s been a week now.”

“I know. I’ll get to it. I promise.”

“Sooner than later, I hope.”

The room is quiet again. But the comatose torpor of being stuck remains. Suddenly I’m sleepy. But what the heck. Maybe I’ll just go fix the problem now.

It takes ten minutes or so to complete the job. I wonder why I put it off so long. And suddenly my fog lifts, my wheels gain traction and I’m out of the ditch.

It’s absolutely amazing how completing one simple task can break the logjam of lethargy and get a fellow unstuck.

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Who would have ever imagined the redemptive power in the replacement of an outside spotlight?


Bud Hearn
May 11, 2018

Skinny in the Land of Giants

The stigma of being skinny follows the Thin Crowd like ghostly shadow. It is a terrible burden to bear.

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We live in a land of behemoths. My 160 pounds clearly qualifies me for minority status. Yet I am not alone. Arise, O Army of Scarecrows, and unite.

I was born skinny. I was so thin at birth they mistook me for a skeleton. They wrapped me in a shroud for swaddling clothes. My mother even lost weight during pregnancy. Nurses asked if I were nine months premature. I have remained virtually invisible ever since.

Americans are enormous specimens these days. Look around: forearms the size of tires, legs like logs and trunks like Corinthian columns. The earth shakes when America walks. Steroids, HGH and hash browns work wonders. People pay attention.

Skinny folks go unnoticed. We evaporate into crowds. Without noses and feet we’d have no profile whatsoever. Our spindly arms dangle from the sleeves of Polos like strings of spaghetti. Our clothes detest us. Our suits look like they want to crawl off of our bodies. Our legs are vestigial reminders of another era.

The emaciated among us endure hard lives and much derision. Many are the perils of being skeletal. Scales mock us. We stare at them in horror while they seek to register each precious ounce of ever-dwindling body mass.

We’re afraid of scales. One day in the food store I popped a quarter in one of the standup scales. It laughed and gave me back change. Scales have no respect of persons.

Skinny people have colossal appetites. Our metabolism is a raging blast furnace. We eat relentlessly. We burn through our bank accounts supporting our habit. We consume vast quantities of carbs. Calories ooze from our pores.

Our hunger is rapacious. It’s a ravenous beast that claws our bellies like shards of broken glass. Our stomachs think our throats have been cut. Without us, the potato futures market would collapse.

We survive on snacks. We’re on a first-name basis at Dairy Queen. We have reserved seating in all yogurt shops. We are singly responsible for the profits of all Dunkin’ Donuts. We’re addicted to peach milkshakes. Even Ben and Jerry’s consult us. We’re enslaved by ice cream.

Our compulsive cravings hold us hostage. We’re shunned from party guest lists with buffets. Restaurants featuring all-you-can-eat buffets have time-limit signs for skinny folks. Our passion for protein has made us social pariahs.

The last invitation I received contained a PS: “Eat at home before coming or brown-bag it.” They obviously recall my last visit, the time when I slipped out the side door with their fruit bowl. After devouring three apples, I discovered the fruit was plastic. I’m still recovering.

We’re undernourished scavengers who swarm the natural health food stores, stocking up on whey supplements and elixirs that promise to flesh out our shrunken frames. Look at our faces. Are we smiling? Do we look healthy? No. We’re walking cadavers. Black hearses wait outside these stores like buzzards preparing for meals.

We bone-bags love to jog. No one can explain why this is. Normal people don’t have these compulsions. Have you ever seen a happy runner? They don’t exist. We’re not happy people. We’re tormented. We run to escape our wretched condition. Ambulances follow us in the distance, certain of the inevitable.

We don’t diet. We salivate over recipe books. No food is off-limits, unless it’s green. No lettuce, no veggies. Just red meat, bread and beer. Sugar is the staple, butter is the backup and cheese is the crown. Add eggs, white flour and a lot of Crisco to everything. It’s our primordial curse.

Life is boring beyond belief. It’s like living in a desert, a desolate existence in a world where nothing ever changes…same waist size, same weight, same clothes, same everything. Think about always having to hear, “My, you look the same. Are you ill?” Depressing.

The worst thing about being skinny is esthetic…wrinkles. The skin on our bodies sags and then finally collapses. No escape. Avon come calling daily with its lotion van. We grease up like Yankees sizzling on South Beach. Nothing works. We’re not pretty people. Even Wal Mart refuses us entry.

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Many are the lamentations and affliction of skinny people. The Fates have dealt us a very strange hand indeed. What can be said?

We are the voices of many, crying in the wilderness of plenty; “More waffles, more waffles.” And we wouldn’t have it any other way.


Bud Hearn
May 4, 2018