Loud as Snow Hitting Bare Branch

December 30, 2011December 30, 2011 / roughwighting / 12 Comments

As the snow fell like rain

soft and fast and serious

my family of four sat in front of the fire

warmed by the presence of each other.

Soft and fast and serious

our talk ran from weather to food to walks

warmed by the presence of each other

the sight outside was miraculous.

Our talk ran from weather to food to walks

and my grown-up son winked at me

the sight outside was miraculous

so he suggested a brisk walk in the woods.

And my grown-up son winked at me

as I pulled on heavy jeans and a warm coat

so he suggested a brisk walk in the woods

just mom and son braving the storm.

As I pulled on heavy jeans and a warm coat

I felt the frosty air and fierce snow billow round

just the mom and son braving the storm

walking into woods that quietly accepted this gift.

I felt the frosty air and fierce snow billow round

as our talk swirled round us likewise

walking into woods that quietly accepted this gift

of silence loud as snow hitting bare branch.

As our talk swirled round us likewise

my son told me his thoughts and dreams

of silence loud as snow hitting bare branch

of love and fears and theology.

My son told me his thoughts and dreams

as we crunched through tender white ground

of love and fears and theology

of a young man searching for answers to life.

As we crunched through the tender white ground

soft and fast and furious

a young man searching for answers to life

warmed by the presence of each other.

Walking the Human

December 22, 2011December 22, 2011 / roughwighting / 13 Comments

I’m happy to greet you all as a guest blogger of Roughwighting. My best friend (BF as I affectionately call her) is too frazzled with preparations for the holiday to write a post this week. So I get to put in my two cents here, or in my case, two kibbles.

During this season, I try to calm my BF down, explain the true meaning of the holiday, blah blah blah, but she still frantically bakes cookies, shops, wraps gifts, and attends too many parties.

I must admit I also enjoy the excitement and extra vibe in the air, and love the anticipation of the big day when Santa arrives. After all, I have my own stocking (didn’t you know that Santa loves dogs?). I was given a green felt collar with tinkling bells, but fortunately my BF doesn’t make me wear it.

The good news is that with all the baking, my BF feels she needs to walk extra miles to burn off the calories, and that’s just fine by me. I take her for a walk as often as humanly possible (it’s always possible for a dog to walk). My other dog friends and I laugh when we hear our best friends say that they’re going to ‘take the dog for a walk.’ None of us have allowed our BFs to walk us since we were puppies – we take them for a walk, and train them as well as we can.

For instance, my BF reads poetry and recites quotes about ‘stopping to smell the roses,’ but while walking, she only wants to ‘keep up the pace’ and check her pedometer. I, on the other paw, understand the meditative pleasure of stopping to sniff the bushes. It’s been a tough lesson to teach, but I’m patient with her and hope that one of these days, she’ll get it.

In the meantime, I hear the mixer mashing up some butter and sugar in the next room, so I’ll send my goodbyes quickly. I’m a good companion in the kitchen and sit by my BF’s feet whenever cooking commences. She says I’m too close and she’ll trip over me, but I know that, really, she loves my company. As a reward for my loyalty, my BF makes sure I get a lick of batter at the end.

And that’s my wish for you this holiday season. May you always get to lick the batter, sniff the bushes, and enjoy the company of your BF.

Happy Holidays from Henry

Open Mouthed Kisses

December 16, 2011 / roughwighting / 8 Comments

I want to blame someone for the horrible cold I got last week. My son is first on the list. We met for lunch in the city the week before. He was sneezing and sniffling and suggested we shouldn’t hug hello or goodbye. But how do you not hug someone you love?

Two days later I still felt just fine. Then I worked at the town’s Holiday Art & Craft Sale, where friends and strangers are all in the holiday spirit and shake hands and laugh and sip on warm spiced cider. After each hand I shook I shuttered – how many germs in that one little shake? I’m not mysophobic, although these days we’re all being bombarded with movies and stories and news articles about ‘the big virus epidemic’ sure to come.

How can we not cringe when we’re flying in a steel tube with 200 strangers and the one sitting next to us coughs loud enough to rattle the entire plane? Yuck! Or when we open a door to a bank or restaurant, following the germy handprints of dozens of others? Or when a well-meaning customer comes in to the office with a smile and a warm moist handshake?

But I believe in being friendly, so I don’t give an air pump or a touchless high five to the sweet neighbor who drops by with a plate of cookies, or the fireman who helps me, once again, turn off my smoke alarm. I give hugs.

Some people are now into the ‘touch-free’ hugs. Remember the ‘air kiss,’ a kind of European sweep to one cheek, purse lips but no contact, stand back and move to the other cheek? I see friends, mostly female, air kiss all the time. Maybe it’s the new hug of the future. Maybe it’s not a bad idea.

But it looks …. Unfriendly. Dare I even say, kind of fake?

Ahhh, now I realize who I need to blame for my horrible terrible no-good sneezing coughing sore-throat cold.

My sweet runny-nosed 18-month-old grandson.

Now he knows how to greet someone and make them feel special. Just a year and a half into this world, he’s figured out that to melt the heart of a human and own her forever, give her a kiss and a hug. But he doesn’t give them out indiscriminately. If you’ve shown him a good time, and maybe read him a book, played race car demon with him for an hour, and offered him a warm gooey chocolate chip cookie, then he dispenses that most precious reward.

The only problem is that he hasn’t figured out how to kiss close-mouthed.

So yes, I spent some time with the toddler on the Friday before ‘the cold,’ and when it was time for him to go home, he opened up his little arms and said, ‘me me kee,’ (interpreted as “Pammy, Kiss!”). While his mother held him, he leaned way out toward me and met my lips with a large wet “O” of a baby mouth. After a happy loud ‘MOWM’ sound, as if he’d just eaten a piece of high-end dark chocolate, he leaned back into his mom’s arms with an expression of serenity and happiness.

Did I mention he had a cold?

But I wouldn’t give up that open-mouthed kiss for all the germ-free touchless hugs in the world.

Would you?

Loving Shrimp

December 9, 2011 / roughwighting / 13 Comments

I’m not thrilled with shrimp.

I supposed they taste alright, but before cooked, they look like naked aliens. Or like the waste product of a whale.

So when my son-in-law announced “I’m making shrimp stew for dinner,” my stomach did a little ‘oh shit,’ dance, but my mind leapt in joy and my lips blurted out, “Wow! That sounds delicious!”

Whatever he prepared, I would have responded as enthusiastically and happily for three reasons:

#1 He cooked so daughter Nadine and I, the special guest for the weekend, could sit around the couch and drink wine while we watched. And on that Saturday night, my stomach would accept shrimp or lima beans or even sautéed liver, just because I was in the same room with my favorite New England family.

#2 While Dan cooked, my little grandchildren, Sophie and Clark, scampered in and out of the kitchen like soft fuzzy gerbils.

#3 And while the shrimp sizzled, my brother Chuck, who I see once a year if I’m lucky since he lives in Maryland and I live in California, found a way to Boston, and to this N.E. family, for a quick 24-hour visit.

The Cabernet he brought with him was too expensive: ruby red with expressions of cranberry and plum, which coated our mouths and minds like a soothing lubricant.

“My dog Oliver got in so much trouble this week,” Chuck complained as he petted Nadine and Dan’s sweet Golden Retriever. “He peed on the new rug, and he never misbehaves like that. I think he wanted to get in trouble.”

“Why would he want to get in trouble?” I asked, nibbling on the salsa and chips Nadine offered.

“No dog, or man, wants to be perfect all the time,” Chuck answered as if the comment made sense.

“Well, neither you nor Dan have a thing to worry about then,” Nadine said with a laugh to her uncle.

I gulped some wine as I looked for Dan’s reaction, but he was too busy chopping onions and green peppers and celery and throwing it all into his simmering tomato-based stew. Actually, right about then, Dan looked pretty perfect to me.

“I love shrimp,” my normally non-effusive brother announced. In fact, the more wine I poured in his goblet, the more he loosened up and the wider he smiled. I could have hugged Dan for making a dish I wouldn’t like, but that gave such joy to Chuck.

“I love shrimp too!” I said as I poured more wine into Dan’s glass and clinked it with my own.

“Cheers!” we toasted to each other, to shrimp, and to ordinary family get-togethers that are extraordinary in their ability to make us happy.

“Ordinary riches can be stolen, real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.” Oscar Wilde

Dying – an Unhappy Affair?

December 2, 2011 / roughwighting / 2 Comments

Why do we, as a culture, have such a difficult time discussing, respecting, understanding death?

In the past few years I’ve watched two close relatives die – my father and my mother-in-law. Neither of these deaths was pretty or dramatic, the only two ways I’ve seen death explored in our visual media – T.V. and movies. After being with my dad on the day he died, I now watch media death scenes with derision.

Yeah, sure, the character’s dying of cancer, but she’s wearing lipstick and can talk to her loved ones seconds before she takes her last breath.

Or, oh, watch the cowboy/drug dealer/policeman take a bullet and stumble, then look out at his rescuers or killers and tell them exactly what they want to hear before his heart stops.

Even our most gruesome shows, like CSI or Bones, show the dead person after he or she’s died. I guess it’s easier to go after the bad guy than watch the slow painful effects as the victim slowly succumbs.

Of course, there are a few exceptions. Meryl Streep plays a woman ravaged by cancer in Anna Quindlen’s book-turned-into-a-movie, One True Thing, about the death of a perfect mom. She slowly loses weight, and hair, and dignity as her life winds down to a hospital bed in the living room. Now that’s real death in America, though for some it ends in a sterile hospital room loaded with metallic devises meant to prolong the agony of dying. Either way, it’s not pretty. It’s hard, hard work. Like birth.

Are we meant to work so hard at dying? Granted, it should never be easy to die; most of us want to live forever, always able to enjoy a sunlit spring morning, a lover’s embrace, a child’s smile, a dog’s unconditional love.

But we weren’t built to last forever. Our bodies wear down, our hearts weaken, our minds turn vague. Back in the ‘old days,’ like a century or so ago, I think dying wasn’t such a slow process. We didn’t have pills to keep the ticker ticking, chemotherapy to keep the tumor smaller, long-term health facilities to keep the dying alive no matter what. My mother-in-law’s cancer had progressed beyond rescue, and at 84, she was aware that her life was at an end. But chemotherapy was used to keep her alive for ‘at most six more months.’ For five months, she suffered through bleeding sores in her mouth and esophagus, severe nausea and vomiting, weakness and debilitating fatigue. Was it worth it – those last five months of doling out poison to keep her alive?

I guess that’s the question we should all be asking ourselves, even when we’re in our 30’s and 40’s and 50’s and feeling blessed with the joy of life.