Bud

When my grandfather died unexpectedly in 1995, I didn’t realize the void that was left in my life. My grandfather was known to be a difficult and stubborn man: a strict disciplinarian, at times, and a patient teacher during other times. I cannot recall anyone who enjoyed riding in a car with him as he was the perfect example of road rage. I recall cringing in the restaurants when he ordered his coffee black yet the server brought him cream on the side. When I moved to Georgia a few years ago, I discovered two old boxes filled with newspaper wrapped glassware in my parent’s garage that once belonged to him. I assumed the boxes ended up there after his death but the newspaper was dated in 1992 – the year he moved to South Carolina from Pennsylvania. Over the weekend I spent a couple of hours carefully unwrapping the glass to reveal the familiar etching of the family crest centered in each piece. I braved the dust and insect parts, all the while the memories came flooding back and I realized just how much I miss him.

He was the only grandfather I ever knew as my maternal grandfather died when I was very young. He followed my family from New Jersey to Pennsylvania and finally South Carolina.

When we lived in New Jersey, I remember a time he took my sister and me out of school so we could see the circus in New York City. Afterwards, he brought us to a restaurant for lunch and let us order pancakes covered in fresh blueberries.

In Pennsylvania, I had a standing dinner date with him every Tuesday night and I never broke it. I flew out to Pennsylvania in 1992 to help him move to South Carolina. He drove the U-Haul and I drove his Hyundai (Hi-Yoon- Dye) Excel. I didn’t realize that U-Hauls could go that fast and his little car couldn’t keep up with the pace he had set. He also had exactly two cassette tapes in the car: German Polka Dances and Beginning Spanish Tape 4. After several hours of practicing Spanish, I finally caught up to him just in time for a coffee (black) break.

He was a lifelong Rotarian and usually my sister and I were invited to his awards dinner each year. All of that changed the year Liz and I lit the centerpiece on fire at the Wilcox Inn. What can I say – we were old enough to know better but bored enough to not care.

He would take me to the opera in Augusta several times a year and I have not been to one since his death. I simply haven’t found someone who appreciates it as much as he did.

He would cuss at the dog in German, drive like a maniac, slip a few naughty slides in the carousal of the endless family slide shows, catalog all of his Playboy and Penthouse videos in a little notebook with a wish list to the side of the ones he was missing, swear that leaving a layer of dirt and grime on his car prevented the police from getting an accurate reading off the radar gun, force the family to eat goose each Christmas, claim to hate cats but be caught playing with our family cat and a ball of string, work on his never-ending novel, drink massive amounts of coffee each day, insist that burning his toast got all of the sugar out of it so he could eat it (he was diabetic), sneak off to another town to eat a cookie but still get caught, cook the best pork and sauerkraut I ever had, and insist that steak be eaten rare – bloody rare (don’t even ask for the A-1 sauce if you valued your life).

It’s been over 16 years – I can’t believe that so much time has passed. So many Christmases without him acting as Santa Claus. So many Tuesdays without my dinner companion. So many things I’d like to share with him. So many reasons to miss my Grandpa.

Running with Shovel, Dancing with Plunger

When I was seventeen, I was cruising down the main street of New Cumberland, Pennsylvania in my super cool station wagon at a top speed of ten miles per hour. It was a warm spring day and all of my friends were packed into the car hanging out the open windows. Suddenly, I heard a knock on my window and was ordered to pull over by a police officer on foot. My front-seat passenger was issued a citation for not wearing his seatbelt and I was given a stern lecture about how it was the driver’s responsibility to control the passenger’s actions. All of this occurred in front of a school and I was more embarrassed by the fact that I was chased down by the foot patrol.

Now that I have officially morphed from an irresponsible youth into an adult with responsibilities, I often look back with thoughts of “what was I thinking?” and “why was that even fun?” At my 21st birthday party, I recall seeing a friend on the dance floor thrusting a plunger into the air like a king of the porcelain throne commanding his subjects to perform. The 21-year old me, despite knowing that the plunger had been used, thought it was funny and even wished I had grabbed it first. The responsible adult me cringes at the thought of all the germs and pulls out her bottle of hand sanitizer.

A few days ago, a friend reminded me that things are different now. “It’s not like it was back when we were underage” she texted. Abruptly I felt as old as my parents and recalled the “back when I was your age we walked eight miles to school each way uphill in the snow” statements and my grandmother’s laments of how “you people just don’t know how easy you have it” and how she had to prove she knew English when she applied for her US citizenship. Not that this was a huge effort as she had moved from her French Canadian town before she could even crawl!

Everyone remembers the lies their parents told them and the vows we made to never turn into them. Oh the vicious circle and history repeating itself! Sometimes, just for a fleeting moment, perhaps in an effort to hold on to those days gone by, I would just like to grab a hold of something stupid, even a shovel, and run through the streets of my small Southern town shouting at the top of my lungs. No worries, no concerns, no purpose. Wouldn’t that be something to behold?

Barefoot Summers

Crushing rocks
and "Kick the Can"
Who runs faster
across the sand?

Barefoot summers
at the lake
collecting gravel
with micah flakes.

Restaurant owner
by the age of nine
had just two patrons
at "The Nickel and Dime".

Last one standing
on an inner tube
endless fun
with nothing to prove.

Walking in a line
down to Camp Waban
Buying penny candy
was the only plan.

Cousins on a raft
with the rain falling down
holding an umbrella
so we wouldn't drown.

Capture the Flag
climbing birch trees
hiding from enemies
and skinning our knees.

Childhood summers
with memories so fond
All of us together
at Bauneg Beg Pond.

Dark Places

You linger in dark places
clinging to my memories
like cobwebs long forgotten
in the corners of my mind

You haunt me in the sunshine
pieces of you passing by
shades of blue outside my door
but there's never enough time.

A snapshot in the palm tree
or underneath a country road
a lifetime in the cemetery
with the real world left behind.

An evening in another country
without ever leaving ground
endless walking, holding hands
time stands still, our souls entwined.

You linger in dark places
forging brand new memories
and grant me hope for brighter days
of you and me defined.

The Scenic Route

Six pack and a canoe at midnight
Moonless, star-filled sky
Inky creek surrounds us
Conversation at a high

Six pack and a canoe after midnight
Shooting stars in the sky
Stirrings in the creek around us
Listening to an owl nearby

Six pack and a canoe at daybreak
Faint light streaks the sky
Paddling toward a landing
Amazing how time flies by

(March 4, 2000 McClellanville, SC)

Highway 17

Driving on black bands of licorice
Morning commute.
I hate licorice.

Incessant pounding of bass
in my ears
I like it loud.

New light blinds me
as my window fogs.
I scan for bad drivers and
wolves in sheep clothing.

Arrogant - I refuse to slow,
Passing unfortunate victims.
Breaking laws.

Safe again, I reach my destination.
The sun moves behind me.
Rewind the day.
I hate repetition.


(Note: I wrote this years ago when I lived in Charleston, SC on a dare to perform for an open mic night.)

Field Days

The summer before I received my driver’s license was spent, in part, at my best friend’s house in Lewisberry, Pennsylvania. It was the last year that I road my bike as a valid form of transportation…the last hurrah to childhood trivialities.

She had horses and a vast fenced-in field. Too lazy for saddles and not wanting to risk losing more sunshine, we would hop on a horse bareback and head down to the front part of the pasture to cook in the sun. One morning, after an unsuccessful attempt to locate suntan oil, we resorted to Crisco cooking oil as a very poor substitute. Sunscreen or skin care was clearly not in our vocabulary and we were fortunate that we didn’t burn our skin in the pasture that day.

We tormented her goat, Frisky, by perching on top of his goat house. Giggling and whispering, the goat could hear us but never could find us until we leapt from our rooftop hiding place onto his back. Frisky was a clever goat and would tolerate his burden long enough to wade into the middle of his pond and deposit us into the muddy shallows.

Later that summer, we built a log cabin at the front corner of the property. It was a rickety structure created from old and weathered farm fence. The floor was brown earth and we built it four feet tall. We slept in it one night.

Returning home from church with her family on a bright summer afternoon, we discovered that someone had stolen the bus shelter from the bottom of the driveway! We had a hard time believing that someone had stolen the entire school bus shelter. A new one was constructed however she would only use it for a few months before the ability to drive a car replaced the need to ride the bus. The new shelter didn’t have the same character and all of the drawings and secrets that my friend had scratched into the inside walls were forever lost.

Five years ago I was in the area and drove by her old house, now owned by strangers. I saw the old log cabin in the corner of the field still standing despite all the years. Two years ago, my friend and I spent a weekend in Pennsylvania on a memory lane road trip and were sad to discover that all remains of our cabin had disappeared along with evidence of the horse pastures and fences. The “new” bus shelter stood watch at the end of the driveway looking lonely and neglected. It’s still hard to believe that my memories which seem so fresh in my mind happened all of those years ago and despite the overgrown fields, I can still picture two teenage girls riding together on a single horse on a lazy summer day.