2001-04-09 - 19:36 MDST

THE WONDERING JEW

Meandery

The weird state in which I am tonight. Like a river running through flat land, making a serpentine course on its trip to the sea. I wonder if the Grand Canyon was once a meandering river on old flat land when the tectonic plates clanged together and raised that part of the country up a bit. Then the meander cut its way deep. Any how I am in meandery, the state of confusion, Other World.

Eternal ?

Funny are the human race,

Can't stand the stress,

Can't stand the pace,

Caused by self made mess.

So, what to do ?

Fall back five and punt ?

Stumble through the goo ?

Clutch the bat and bunt ?

Get in a huddle,

Y'all figger what to do,

To work through the muddle

And then warp speed ahead, on cue !

End of doggerel.

It seems to me that in Journaling I see someone's heart before their face. Some cases never the face, I just know them from their words I think. Case in point, Kaycee and her Mom Debbie. (which is a story not yet told)

The next bend in my river recurves into the past. Mama had a piece of crockery with walls about 1/2 inch thick, maybe five inch inner diameter and eight inches tall, the bottom curved just right to fit an egg beater in. It was the magic container that Mom made my first "Egg and Milk," couple of spoons of sugar, nutmeg and a touch of cinnamon, two eggs and a glass of milk. Beaten till her hand and wrist tired and served to me with her love. Ambrosia no less. I would still rather have that than an ice cream soda, or Pepsi. Cholesterol be damned, but the increasing contamination of eggs by salmonella is a gun at my head.

My other love a double fingerfull of raw hamburger salted and peppered to my taste can be the shotgun at my head too.

Thinking about the Cushman scooter, boy I wanted one of those the worst way, they went way faster than my bike and further than my legs could propel me. The first time I drove one though cooled me off. The tires were of such a small circumference that every pebble was a jolt, a pothole if not possible to avoid almost guaranteed a flip. On a billiard table they were smooth and fast.

My maternal Grandma was a hotel housekeeper, between her linen duties and overseeing the maids, etc. she would mend clothes of the regular guests and do seamstress work for the ladies. The people would pay her well to do those tasks. But as far as I was concerned she had a vast treasure box, full of wonderful buttons. She trusted me to play in the buttons, alone. How puffed out my chest was, and how carefully I watched what I did. She had enough of the same kind of button that I could field several button armies all at one time. I would play, pretend and dream many neat things as I played in her button box. The metal buttons were Majors, the fancy, shiny ones were Generals. The pretty glass buttons had rank. The buttons made of shell were sergeants. And then I would spend time just looking at the beautiful colors and shapes.

My river now enters the sea and leaves me stranded in Meandery . . . . .

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