The Interval Between

 

“A mightier hope abolishes despair.”   Emerson

     The queue is long and crowded beneath the red glow of the exit sign. The door to the other side is locked. Auld Lang Syne is seen tuning up the band and chilling the champagne. Everyone wants out of the year 2020. Nobody’s looking back for good reason, reminiscent of L’Amour’s words: 

     “Behind me a noose hung empty, and ahead the country is wild.”     

     It’s the week after Christmas, or ‘holidays’ if you’re part of the alchemist crowd that mixes Jesus with Visa and gets Santa. Hopefully you dodged the dictates of the cancel culture and social injustice police who mandated all celebrations be equal and diverse. 

     The frenzy is over. The guests are easing out and the perfect evergreen’s career had ended.  All that remains are desiccated needles scattered on the floor. A pretty good metaphor for ‘the year that wasn’t.’  

     Years come and go, flourish and fade. Omar Khayyam’s rubyaivat saw it this way: 

     “The moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on: nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.” 

     2020…it was what it was. We survived. 

     This ‘tween week might bring mild anxiety, especially if the what-ifs of tomorrow cloud the way. But in the waiting it’s possible to experience a measure of peace. 

     Negative thoughts have no place in these remaining days of reverie. I pick up a couple books my children gave me. Books, like socks, are utilitarian. Who couldn’t live without reading “Spy Secrets That Can Save Your Life?” I flip through it, imagining myself a martini-sipping CIA operative, living in intrigue and saving the planet from the curse of fossil fuels. 

     The book is a compendium of tricks and secret weapons designed to prepare one for dangerous situations like political protests. It describes everything from hat pins to a monkey fist key chain, household items to extricate you from deadly encounters and maim any malefactor. Oh, it also comes with a hand cuff key, handy if you’re detained by TSA goons because your eyeballs inadvertently match those of a bearded fellow in the next aisle who keeps winking at you. Everyone is suspect these days. 

     Another book, ‘100 Deadly Skills,’ describes techniques for eluding pursuers, evading capture and surviving random confrontations. It includes directions for converting the words of the NYT’s into renewable green energy and receiving carbon credits in the process. But like most gifts, the novelty soon wears off.

      COVID notwithstanding, on the coast the sun offers promise of better days. I consider another salt-water baptism, just in case. A quick plunge into the icy waters ought to wash off last year’s sins of omission and commission. Unfortunately, only the toes get the baptismal dip today. It’s as close to a cryogenic experience as I want to get. 

     Back in my chair I read poetry by T. S. Eliot while thumbing through the Christmas cards, everything from family biographies, pictures of people you don’t know and Hallmark cards from CVS. 

     Maybe you’re not into poetry. Pity. It’s a poor career choice anyway and can’t compete with Wall Street, a guitar or yard art. Poets are mostly morose, unwashed people with bad hair, I’ve observed. But at least Eliot’s fresh breath goes against convention. 

     Lines from ‘The Hollow Men’ are insightful and intriguing. He stretches to grasp the brief interspace between dreams and reality, between now and later: 

“Between the idea

And the reality

Between the motion

And the act

Falls the Shadow

 

Between the conception

And the creation

Between the emotion

And the response

Falls the Shadow” 

     Mystical lines, don’t you agree? If read in the context of the waning hours of the year, they offer us a message. 

     At midnight, this year 2020 will end forever. In the interstices of a millisecond the old will pass, the new will begin. Everyone gets the chance for a second wind. Perhaps it’s in that very instant when the Shadow falls and the choice is ours. 

     Wendell Berry’s poem puts it this way: 

“I greet you at the beginning; for we are either beginning or we are dead.” 

     What will 2021 will hold for us? We don’t know. It’s a mystery. But for the poet in us all, life is a strange, mystical romance if only we’re willing to embrace it. 

* * * 

     Happy New Year…it’s a new beginning. Live big!

 

Bud Hearn

December 31, 2020 

Stars…a Light at the Top

 

“Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen His star in the east and are come to worship Him.”  Matthew 2: 1-2 

* * *

     The winter solstice, the longest and some say the darkest night of the year, dawned upon us on Monday. Judging from the overcast sky, the description might seem to hold true. 

     Mr.  Bogey, our hound dog, and I walk the beach early every day, rain or shine, independent of any solstice.  We take the day as it comes. What other way is there to take life but deal with what it dishes out. 

     This morning the sky obscured any hint of sunlight, although we knew it was there, hiding behind the cloud cover. There was a chill in the air. Then suddenly the clouds parted, the sun shone brightly, but only for a minute or so, then retreated to its hiding place. 

     Yet this was enough for us, just to know the sun always comes up.  Millennia past, there were pagan festivals to beg the sun to return, since it had been retreating for six months. Bonfires and festivities did little to coax the sun back. Still, it came. 

     Pagan rituals have largely disappeared among us, unless you call frantic Christmas shopping a pagan ritual. Mounds of gifts beneath an evergreen tree will not shoo away the darkness, but the abundance of lights on the tree does good work in reminding us that there is light in the universe. 

     This year a celestial phenomenon occurs. Jupiter and Saturn cross paths high in the southwestern sky. It had not occurred since the days of the Renaissance, back in the 1700’s.  And it won’t recur until 2085. I’m sorry if you missed it. 

     The spectacle was incredible. It was as though the two planets merged, forming a large star. It has been noted that the same phenomena occurred some 2,000 years ago and could have perhaps been the star referred to in the above scripture. Who can say? But it took a real stargazer to follow such a spectacle to a manger in Bethlehem. 

     It’s said the Magi saw the star in the east, which depends on how scripture is read. The Magi were in the east, but the star was in the west as it appeared to us. Whatever, the brightness of it was a sight to behold. Maybe it was simply a heavenly emanation, an angel, so to speak. 

     Scripture has many references to angels, which is why we have a tiny one perched always at the pinnacle of our Christmas tree. She smiles upon us when the tree is lit: 

Clothed in light and mystery

Her place atop the tree,

The Angel of the Heavenly Three

Broods in silence The Nativity. 

     Christmas, if nothing else, is a time for imagination and contemplation, of intrigue and the mystery of angelic spirits. Even the secular world has its own Christmas spirits: St.  Nicholas, Santa Claus and the ghost of Jacob Marley. Could angelic hosts be integrally part of the birth of Jesus, and be associated with the nativity of all births? Who is to say? 

     We’re told that God “…maketh His angels spirits, and His ministers a flame of fire…ministering spirits sent to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation.” 

     Scripture further references angels: “Be not doubtful to entertain strangers, for in so doing many have entertained angels unawares.” Now that’s something to ponder. 

     To intrude into the sphere of angels is to leave one awed, confounded and mystified. Late at night while the family sleeps, the dog curled up nearby, I gaze in wonder at the multitude of lights on our tree. I recall the words of Jesus: “I am come a light into the world, that whosoever believeth on me should not abide in darkness.” 

     In Bethlehem a Child was born over 2,000 years ago. “What child is this,” we sing, and wonder.  I ask our angel this question and intuit the reply: 

Who is this Child I hear you say?

Why, He is the answer to a better way.

This Child of Peace in Heaven holds sway

He is the Promise of a much better way. 

* * *

     ‘A much better way?’  I imagine the possibilities. 

     May the joys, hopes and child-like wonder of Christmas fill your homes and your hearts. Merry Christmas. 

 

Bud Hearn

December 23, 2020

 

 

No Online...Now What?

 Has that which was once a luxury now become a necessity?

 * * *

It’s getting down to the wire now. The Christmas list is still long. Options are running out. Nerves on edge, tempers short, an aura of angst encircles the glowing tree lights while silent voices of “hurry, hurry” fill the empty spaces beneath the tree. 

So, what’s new? It’s this way every year about this time.  The recurring question, “What to get who for Christmas?” No wonder it’s impossible to book a psychiatrist this time of year.  Their sofas are occupied. 

No worry, you say. Everybody calm down, back off, take a breath. The stores brim with merchandise, just get online. The internet is the answer to all things now.  Even Santa is in retirement, refers all personal letters to the Amalgamated Mindless Mechanical Workers of America at Amazon. 

Speaking of robots, did you hear? They’re unionized now. They have a Hoffa-type leader funded by Facebook and are planning mass demonstrations to protest the inequality of working conditions, workplace injustices and demanding entitlements and unemployment benefits. 

Some have received the Sanders Scholarship to Yale for free college. They fill the parking lots of Amazon fulfillment centers. Mass hysteria is occurring in the nearby towns since the police have been defunded.     

Robots unionized, you say? Absurd.  Wait, they’re protesting wages.  They’re too low, they’re demanding higher remuneration since they’re required to work 24/7 in these weeks. Prevailing $15 per hour is not enough. Stop Laughing. This is the future.

Congress is quietly drafting an omnibus taxing bill to coincide with the new minimum-wage movement to include robots. But wait…there’s a downside to this nonsense. They’re being categorized as employees, not contract laborers. FedEx drivers are up in arms, threatening to strike. Disaster is looming.

This madness like most other insanity began in California, the petri dish of incubations by incubus. It’s moving across America, driven by the mighty rushing wind of change. Robots are now issued Social Security cards and Employee Identification numbers so they can be taxed. The IRS is no respecter of Christmas.

But back to the dilemma at hand…Christmas gifts. Procrastination is the chief problem in these days and weeks. Especially with men. The terror of filling stockings and putting gaily wrapped packages under the tree is taking hold. They shudder recalling the Christmases past. Each year about Thanksgiving they swear on all things holy not to repeat the mistakes of the past. Empty vows.

They recall the frantic days of last-minute mall shopping, the panic that gripped them on Christmas Eve when most were having eggnog parties and laughing it up. But not them. They wandered the halls of malls, mindlessly looking in the windows of shops whose doors begin to close early. The odor of fear and failure stalked them.  

They recall the last-minute waste of Friday’s paycheck, the vacuum cleaners, the kitchen utensils, the horrid pine-scented candles and the year’s supply of rank bathroom deodorizers (some memories live in infamy!) Not this year, there’s online shopping.

But wait. What’s this? News says deliveries are being delayed due to competition from Covid vaccines. Stratospheric surcharge add-ons, supply-chain breakdown, tracking numbers jumbled, no-exchange policies in place. Have we missed the cut?

Online is failing us, just when we need it most. Demand-supply equilibrium is out of sync, invalidating Adam Smith’s theory of the ‘Invisible Hand’ that balances all self-interest in a free market. 

Now what? We’re down to the short hairs of shopping, grasping for straws in a Covid-quarantined wilderness of local shops where picked-over remnants remain the only choices.

Forget prayer.  Too late for that. Misery and insane laughter are our companions now. Old memories of this situation come to mind. The scene of two men swapping meaningful words and grappling over the last Gucci handbag at Neiman’s. It falls to the floor; another man grabs it.

Then there was the mob of old men fixated on the window of Victoria’s Secret, aroused by the changeout of seductive mannequins. Not hard to know what their letter to Santa said. They will all be disappointed on Christmas morning.    

But that was then, this is now. What to do? Get creative.  Grab a Starbucks latte, sit and think. Ideas come. We survived with Sears mail order and layaway before online shopping. Jewelry, clothes, fine art, wine, gift cards, books, massages, new cars. Still time. Support the locals.

***

American consumerism and Christmas are inseparable. They will survive at all costs. On credit, of course.  Fortunately, our poinsettias have arrived on time. Good luck out there.

 

Bud Hearn

December 14, 2020

The Soul of Thanksgiving

 

“For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul? “    Mark 8:36-37

 

    

The year was 1863. Abraham Lincoln was President. Strife ruled. The nation was at war with itself. The landscape by most visionaries was bleak and dreary. The nation seemed to have lost its bearings and its very soul. Being thankful under these conditions was seemingly impossible. The nation urgently needed to mend its fraying fabric.

 

Under these dire conditions Lincoln issued a proclamation establishing the last Thursday in November as a national holiday. His intent was to coalesce a nation of diverse cultures and individuals into a cohesive whole by remembering the origin of its birth. This year Americans will celebrate the 157th anniversary of Thanksgiving.

 

In 1620 pilgrims departed from Defts-Haven, searching for a new land with an ephemeral idea of freedom. They had no idea what they would face in the quest. As if the hardships of the voyage were not enough to deter them, what they saw at landfall must have made them question their sanity altogether.

 

There, looming before them in the stark winter stood a harsh land with a weather-beaten face. It appeared to them a country full of woods and thickets, a place full of untamed beasts and wild men. It had an ominous and savage hue. Such is the nature of the unknown…wild, fearful but full of promise.

 

It was up to these pilgrims to carve out their dreams and visions.  They neither expected nor received the benefits of ease in the process.  For having left their homes, having said goodbye to their families and friends, they said goodbye to the old life and searched for a better home.

 

We who read this today are benefitting from the sacrifices of these visionaries. We can ask ourselves these questions: Under what tyranny would we now be living if not for the perseverance of these intrepid travelers? How would our destiny have unfolded?

 

Fortunately, we have the answers. Living in America is a blessing of untold and incalculable dimensions. Read the news if you don’t believe this!

 

Several years ago on this date our family and friends sat in a Methodist Church in the small town of my youth. We gathered there to say a final goodbye to our mother. My nephew recalled the influence she had upon his life.  He synthesized it based on his annual visits for Thanksgiving. He recalled pulling into the driveway of his grandmother’s home. The first thing he saw was her face in the kitchen window, welcoming him with a smile.

 

The soul of an American Thanksgiving also has a face.  It’s seen in the Rockwell-blended faces of families, merged together into a national tapestry. Each face represents a precious memory, of a home and a secure place where families can thrive.

 

The blessings of national unity are too broad to enumerate. But the collective voice of Thanksgiving blends them together at every table where food is served, where laughter is heard and where love is shared. The soul of being American is once again revived on this memorable day.

 

Today, the world is a dangerous place. It’s fractious, filled with secular pursuits, religious divisions and seethes with national rivalries. Our country itself is not immune from its own fractured diversity. The horror of continuous news reveals this on a daily basis.  

 

Yet in spite of this, America continues to stand, strong in the collective unity under which it was founded…established by a beneficent God for the purpose of freedom. A continuous remembrance of this fact is what Thanksgiving is all about.

 

Today began sunny on the coast, but clouds are gathering for another storm.  In the front yard a squirrel sits on its hind quarters, gnawing on acorns. It seems to smile as it feasts on the prodigious crop furnished by the oaks.

 

America has endured many storms. Covid is our latest. It will weather more. But, like the squirrel, we can take comfort in the fact that a gracious, Almighty God desires to furnish us with untold blessings. Our collective soul will continue to flourish as long as we remember the Source of these blessings. 

 

* * *

 

Thank you, Abraham Lincoln, for the gift of this holiday. Thank you, God, for blessing the soul of America another year. Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family.

 

 

Bud Hearn

November 24, 2020

 

 

Trucks with Ladders and Other Things

 

Life is full of things that feed our paranoia. Not the least of which is being stranded behind trucks with ladders and other dangling things.

They’re everywhere, these trucks, their loose ladders bouncing about, projectiles of deadly potential, threatening with every bump to pierce your windshield and sever head from body. Oh, the paranoia.

It comes on suddenly when driving down narrow highways where the road slopes precipitously off into the marshy swamps. Alligators live there. No room for mistakes. Nerves can get neurotic.

Recently I find myself sandwiched in behind a beer truck and a long line of kamikaze bumper-huggers. Boxed in again. My sweaty palms grip the steering wheel. Paranoia strikes deep. 

Flashbacks of the horror of being hung-up in the dark crawl space underneath my house resurface. Backing out takes hours and demonstrates another design flaw in the human anatomy: no rear-view eyes. 

An enticing photo of a frosty beer mug is painted on the truck’s rear panel. It temporarily distracts me from the frightening crawl space dilemma. Its momentary reprieve transfers the fear factor over to the taste buds, then back again. The fear is real, the beer only an illusion. 

A large hand truck sways violently in the truck’s slipstream. It dangles from the rear door, hanging tentatively by a rubber bungee cord like a condemned man wearing a noose, waiting for the gallows door to drop. Stenciled beneath it is a warning: “Watch for flying objects.” Trapped again, caught in the vortex where all options are bad ones. 

The mind does visual take-offs on all that can happen. None is good. Thoughts of disaster run wild.  I visualize the hand truck flying off, hitting the highway, bouncing and sending a mass of twisted steel hurdling directly at me. I pray. 

A still small voice answers, whispers in my ear, “Your morning repentance was weak, my son.” Paranoia covers all bases.  

Miraculously, luck prevails. The bungee holds and the truck turns off. Catastrophe averted. But wait, all’s not well that ends well. The day has just begun. 

Ahead is a painter in his pickup. “The Lucky 13 Painting Company” is written on the tailgate. Since when is there a common connection between the number 13, ‘lucky’ and ladders? Yes, there are 13 ladders, ladders that slide, bounce and levitate from overhead racks. Paranoia wakes up. 

My luck is no better on the interstate. Lumbering along is a mammoth Caterpillar, twenty tons of yellow steel and rubber tires the size of buildings. It teeters on the edge of a lowboy trailer. The truck straddles the two outside lanes. Options are limited again.  

The mass of disaster is anchored on the trailer by tiny chains like those found on yard swings. I attempt to pass. The road narrows, a lane is closed ahead. The grassy right of way is the only option. I take it. My past rushes by in a flash. I beg out loud for forgiveness. 

There’s more. Ahead I get stuck behind a logging truck. Pine logs the length of football fields protrude. They wave a red flag and declare, “Watch for Flying Debris.” They’re perfectly positioned to give new meaning to the cliché, ‘a sharp stick in the eye.’ 

Life is perilous on its own and it’s not all just trucks. Hazards lurk everywhere, from chewing-gum sidewalks to random overhead bird droppings. We must watch every step always, including verbal slips of the lips and Facebook posts. Some things can follow one to the grave. 

Vertigo and fear of heights make stairwells a snare.  Escalators are shoe-eating monsters to the non-observant as my mother would have attested. They’re capable of chewing off foot and leg of the less-than-nimble rider. 

Home ladders, while essential, should be avoided by all persons over 30.  These entrapment devices have lured unsuspecting fools into early hospice. 

Home elevators, oh, heaven forbid. Like Smart cars, they resemble coffins. If trapped inside you can say goodbye to sanity and a toilet. Paranoia is everywhere. 

Paranoia breeds on wet bathroom stone floors and rolled-up corners of kitchen rugs. One fall ends it all.  

But look, why carry on with this soliloquy? We all have our own neuroses to nurture. Let’s just leave it at that for now. 

Time distills the essence out of everything. In retrospect, the beer truck episode was not all that bad. I’ll follow it again. Hey, beer is what’s real…paranoia is only an illusion. 

 

Bud Hearn

November 12, 2020

Training a Mule to Dance

 

As a rule, mules are not known to dance. Yet, it might be easier to train a mule to dance than to compel a First Amendment rebellious free-spirited soul to live under the yoke of the woke.

 *   *   *

Why this fascination with mules?  

It’s a family tradition. Plus, it just seems an apt analogy in identifying those of us who are just mule-headed enough to value our own opinions without intrusion from bigoted indoctrination. Hence, the ‘yoke of the woke.’

Life has its share of yokes. It’s meaning hasn’t changed since Jesus offered it as a viable alternative. But what’s ‘woke?’ Until lately it was a common verb, but it has now been transgenderized to a noun. Nothing is off limits for transgenderization.

It entered the Urban Dictionary about 2017. It began as a harmless idiomatic expression, sorta like the word ‘cool’ meant in former generations. But lately it has been hijacked by the progressive self-righteous crowd. It now resembles a noose.  

What does it mean? It’s a force-feeding imposition of an intolerant ideology and a distorted orthodoxy promulgated by mob movements hidden under the banner of acronyms. It seeks to force conformity to certain radical and extremist ideas, or else. Non-conformists are stereotyped with multiple ‘isms’ and ‘ists,’ effectively relegating them to the status of lepers. It demands bowing, scraping, and bending the knees to this repressive philosophy to fit in with the ‘our-way-or-no-way’ crowd. It’s strange music indeed.

Now listen, if you want to get someone’s fur up, try cramming down your own self-righteous views as gospel. Walls go up quick. It goes against the grain of mules and humans.

Mules have been trained for years for yokes, plowing straight furrows and staying in line. Back in the 1880’s my great grandfather farmed over 11,000 acres with mules. Not one of them was known to dance.

Besides, who would even consider attempting to train a mule to dance? It’s easier to train a monkey to walk on water. It’s a feat that’s never been achieved, maybe never even been attempted. Mules don’t dance, and that’s that.

Mules are intelligent animals, but stubborn, mule-headed they say. Their legs are too gangly for dancing, and they have no ear for music. Except country music, I’m told.

Mules are not household pets. They don’t eat treats from our hands, and they don’t sleep with us. Dogs are superior in many ways.      

I get curious about the habits of mules and call a rancher in Arizona, Steve Edwards, a real mule trainer with Queen Valley Mule Ranch. 

“Steve, can mules dance?” He laughs.

“Well, mules are not born to dance, although with a good dose of metaphor one might ascribe mule dancing to a certain genre of people.” I don’t bite the bait.

He continues. “They don’t dance, but they do ‘weavings’ when they get ready to leave the stalls.”

“Weavings? Explain this.”

 “Well, when they get anxious to get loose, they begin to sway their hips, then their heads and necks. It appears that they’re dancing, but it’s totally innate behavior. They’re not trained to do this.” 

“You mean they’re ‘dancing’ to their own music?”

“Exactly.”

“Tell me some more about the habits of mules.”

“There’s an old Ozark Mountains saying, ‘You can tell a horse, but you have to ask a mule.’ Mules have a mind of their own. You see, mules are fearful, even though they can weigh up to 2,000 pounds. They view humans as predators, as well as other frightening things in their environment. Their reactions are fight or flight. Which is why farmers put blinders on them.”

“What is the purpose of blinders?”

“Simple.  If mules look left, or right, they see nothing. Hence, no predator. They simply plod on with the job at hand. Without the blinders, they might see something that frightens them. You don’t want to tangle with a frightened mule, son.

Let me give you an example. The mare is the herd leader.  A new mule comes in. He sidles up to her, espouses new ideas. Her ears pin back, meaning ‘Back off, junior.’ But he pushes the issue. The mare’s tail swishes, ‘I’m telling you nicely, back off.’ He presses on. The mare swirls and administers a double-foot kick to the new mule. ‘Now, buster, I asked you, I told you and now I demand it.  Back off.’”

 “Is there a similarity in this analogy applicable to mule-headed humans?” I ask.

“Maybe. But it would be purely coincidental. I know plenty but I ain’t calling any names over this here phone, partner. You want to hear about coon hunting mules?”

“Yes, but another time.”

 *  *   *

Living under the ‘yoke of the woke’…hey, if it fits, wear it. 

Somewhere in the distance a banjo is strumming. The tune is “Dixie.” The ‘weavings’ begin. The mules begin to dance.

 

 Bud Hearn

November 6, 2020

 

 

 

Whistling

Whistling…you either can or you can’t. There’s no middle ground.

* * *

I was about 10 years old when I first heard the question, “Son, what do you want to do when you grow up?” I knew without even thinking…. all I ever really wanted was to be able to whistle.

It’s a tough question to answer at any age. At 10, I was nowhere close to putting away childish things. I had barely broken the habit of sucking my thumb, a necessary rite of separation which, for some strange reason, led to biting my nails. But that’s another story altogether.

Now I know whistling is a low bar to maturity, and there’s not much future in it unless Lawrence Welk is resurrected. But for some strange reason I felt it necessary to want to stand on the corner and let out a shrill whistle that would turn heads and stop traffic. A perverse need for power begins at an early age. 

But alas, the only instruction I ever got was, “Son, keep trying; it’ll come.”  But it didn’t come, and it was really stupid to walk around constantly blowing air out of my puckered lips. I felt like failure was a perpetual way of life.

Now trying to teach a 10-year old boy anything associated with art is like teaching a stone to talk or training a mule to sing opera. No sir, it’s worse than having to memorize algebraic equations. The art of whistling is a learned trait.

I was still too young to join the after-school marble shooting games, which was a good thing I think.  Basically, shooting marbles is the threshold to a greater problem: gambling. Bets were made, marbles were lost, marbles were won. Winners laughed, losers lamented. So I kept blowing air out of my mouth, hoping and spooking my dog.

Maybe whistling is not high on your list of achievements. But conquering the problem of making sound from blowing air will guarantee fame and financial success in such endeavors as politics, preaching and selling used body parts.

So for months I lay awake at night, twisting my tongue in various contortions and blowing air between my teeth. Finally one night a small sound slipped over my bottom lip. I had just scaled the Everest of whistling. Euphoria erupted, and failure retreated. Things began to look up.

For weeks I coaxed my ephemeral, fledgling sound. It grew like Samson in strength and volume. I was as proud of the accomplishment as I was of the fuzz that was forming on my chin. I’m whistling, and soon to be shaving. Maturation was happening. 

There are no secrets in learning to whistle.  No rules, really, it all just depends on the alignment of tongue, lips and breath. For me, whistling Rock of Ages in D major was my crowning achievement. Ok, so it drove my parents mad, even as rap music does most today. Some things must be endured in silence.

Like the multiple uses of tongues and lips, those mischief-making co-conspirators, one has to be cautious about whistling. I learned this the hard way some years ago. Let this story be a warning to all you whistlers out there.

A friend and I once hosted a very large party complete with a full petting zoo. The prime attraction was this enormous orangutan swinging from the bars of his cage. Harmless, the handlers said. Regrettably, I took their word for it.            

So I walked over whistling a tune, maybe it was Fly Me to the Moon, I don’t recall. The creature obviously mistook my whistling for amorous intentions. Suddenly an enormous hand with eight-inch fingers attached to the end of a five-foot arm reached out, gripped me by the nape of the neck and planted a long, wet kiss on my lips.

Being proud of his conquest, he released me with a wink and a smile. Now take it from me, you haven’t been kissed until you have been smooched by an ape. It broke me from whistling in zoos.

* * *

It was long ago and far away when I was a boy learning to whistle. Life moves on with its simple rites of passage. But whistling remains as long as you can blow air out of your puckered lips.

So if you’re learning to whistle, keep trying; it’ll come. And, friends, that’s not just whistling Dixie.     

 

Bud Hearn

October 30, 2020

Milestones and Tombstones

 

We live and breathe on top of a rock,

A furnace aflame at the core.

The time is passed in carving stones

That we leave just to carve some more.

 

Carving stones and getting stoned,

Milestones every day.

Stones for walls and graffitied pedestals

And Stones to roll away.

 

We don’t give much thought to another Stone,

The one with our name and date,

The one that other hands will carve,

The one that lies in wait.

 

The miles we go, the deeds we do,

The friends along the paths.

And others we have long forgot,

The miles now mute the laughs.

 

We mark these miles as best we can,

In memory and in ink,

And all along the ways we go,

Our Chain, a golden link.

 

The Chain is how we mark our time

In passing to and fro.

The miles we jog, the distance logged,

Blindfolded is how we go.

 

Stones always have a special spot,

A place in every age,

For fires it’s flints, and tools defense,

Trails marked with corners blazed.

  

The time and seasons they come and go,

They leave us with ample space,

To fill our books, to file our pics,

And box it all in place.

 

For all we do, the miles we store,

Between like shadows fall,

The stones we carve, the stones we leave,

And the final Stone of all.

 

The moving finger always writes,

Its message left behind.

Neither wit nor wish can lure it back,

Only milestones do we find.

 

Through miles and tiles a mosaic is laid,

The Legacy leaves what it will.

It was what it was on the journey made,

Some stones are silent and still.

 

Milestones made in my old hometown,

Where years over sixty have been,

Blurred with age till Charlie calls,

And they come back to life again.

 

He tells the news of his orchard lost,

When winds of Michael blew through.

Two stones he has, which one to choose,

The choice was not hard to do.

 

He planted it back, all four hundred trees,

For a harvest he will never receive.

But it was not about the harvest, you see,

It was all about planting the seeds.

 

Eliot writes that between the idea,

And the reality it seeks to achieve,

There’s first the motion, then the response,

And for milestones that’s all we need.

 

The stones still stand with their guard at the gate,

Of the Eden we left years ago.

Looking back is a waste of time,

There are miles with stones left to go.

 

We often think that the end is in sight,

But it keeps starting over again.

Milestones and Tombstones, they’re both in our path,

It’s our choice between beginning and end.

                                                                 ***

Milestones and Tombstones…sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.  But, oh, the difference.

 

 

Bud Hearn

October 23, 2020