It’s a big day. Kerri has lived in this house more than half of her life. I am approaching a decade in our home. In other words, I’ve lived in this house longer than I’ve lived anywhere in my adult life.
The first moment I stepped foot into this house I felt and saw in my mind the word, “Home.” It unnerved me a bit since, after several months of correspondence, Kerri and I had only just met in person. Also, I was a dedicated wanderer, the kind that is never lost, so I didn’t believe I would ever experience the feeling of “home”. It wasn’t in my cards.
Life changes fast. That first night we crawled out a second-floor window, sat on the roof and sipped wine. It was cold so we wrapped ourselves in blankets. I’d been waiting my entire life to find someone who wanted to crawl out the window with me. Home. My wife and our house. Inseparable stories woven together through time. I am unbelievably fortunate that her house has become our house and it loves us as much as we love it.
Cris wrote that a bunny comes to their back door each day and Brenda feeds it by hand. “I want to feed a bunny by hand!” Kerri pouts and looks at me with the look, which means I am supposed to do something about it. My head fills with images of unsuccessful bunny wrangling, ridiculous bunny coercion techniques, failed bunny temptation – and then I race to write down my mad imaginings since they’d make fine smack-dab cartoons.
This is the year of the bunny in our backyard. We’ve never had rabbits-in-residence until this summer. As we wrote earlier in the year, we discovered a bunny nest in the tall grasses beneath Breck-the-aspen-tree. Dogga has been on constant sniff-patrol and is consistently outsmarted by the bunnies. My favorite was the day he stared intently at the last-known-bunny-location while the bunny circled around and sat behind him, watching Dogga watch.
The bird feeder is an attraction for all kinds of ammals (animals in Jaxon-speak). Chipmunks and squirrels are regular raiders. The wrens and finches and cardinals toss seed to the ground so there’s plenty for everyone. The bunnies are regulars, too. It’s a well-ordered united nations under the feeder. I am of the opinion that diplomats could learn a thing or two from this happy gathering of critters. The pie is not limited in the ammal-kingdom (I know, I know. Idealist…)
We have a suspicion that the mother bunny – or another mother bunny – is rebuilding the nest. Kerri quietly checks the tall grasses a few times every day. “Maybe you should sit there with snacks at the ready,” I suggest. “If you’re the first thing the baby bunnies see in the world they might take snacks out of your hand.” She wrinkles her brow, completely rejecting my bright idea. “Just a thought,” I say. “Hey, I’d bring you wine. And a blanket!” Her eyes narrow, a sign of imminent peril if I persist.
I race to the notebook to record another fantastic-true-to-life-smack-dab idea.
Often, when archiving her photographs, Kerri gives them a title. This one she named Delicate. “Like life,” she said.
Today we light a candle. We light them when we are commemorating an anniversary of loss, the passing of someone we love. The light of remembrance. “He’s been gone 31 years,” she sighed as we placed the candle in the jar, touched fire to the wick. Today we remember her big brother Wayne.
Our remembrance is rarely maudlin. We tell stories. We laugh. I’m particularly grateful for this candle-day because I never met Wayne. He was gone years before I arrived on the scene. But I feel as if I knew him because Kerri’s stories of her brother are rich in memory-texture. Visceral. Deeply rooted. And all roads lead to his love of coffee ice cream so I’m certain he and I would have been great pals.
As I’ve written in the past, the first words that Kerri spoke to me were “I don’t do nutshells.” It’s true. If you desire brevity you’ve come to the wrong place. She layers detail on top of detail in her storytelling of the world. And, she assures me that she is nothing compared to her brother, Wayne. His detail of details had details. An engineer’s mind. An inventor’s heart. An epic storyteller.
In the past few weeks we’ve had more than one reminder of life’s fragility. Dear ones wading through sudden, momentous and scary health challenges. A cousin passing. News of a friend too soon gone. More candle-days.
There’s the stereotype, old folks sitting on the porch recollecting days gone by. When I was younger I thought rocking chair reminiscence was inertia, life winding down. Nothing else to do. I had it all wrong. It turns out that elders tell stories of the past because they are verbally lighting a candle. They are keeping alive the memory of someone they loved. They are feeding the river of life. They are passing love forward.
Thirty one years ago. Today we light a candle. Today we tell stories of Wayne.
In the department of home repair I am mostly known for making things worse. I YouTube solutions and follow procedures. Occasionally I bumble into a triumphant fix but mostly I utter the words, “I think I broke it.”
Kerri, on the other hand, has the savvy. She springs into fix-it mode. And, she knows when NOT to spring into fix-it mode. She knows the line not to cross.
I lack the line so I rely on her to tell me when to stop, when to walk away. Since this particular cartoon happened yesterday, I’ll leave you with a bonus question: Before walking away, did I or did I not crack the sink? Hhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmnnnnn?
Here we are. Knock-knock-knocking on Medicare’s door.
First, I want to know who designed Medicare. I use the word “designed” loosely since this hot-mess-of-a-system is purposefully fragmented and filled with landmines meant to trip older people. It’s probably designed by the same team that orchestrated the tax codes. Daedalus, designer of the labyrinth that held the Minotaur captive, might have created something so stupidly complex. In government-program-design-school there must be a course entitled Over-Complicating Simple Systems.
Of course, the Supremes, in eliminating Affirmative Action, suggested that we already enjoy equal access under the law [insert eye-roll]. So, I want access to the same health program as Congress. I want to pay the same percentage of tax as the 1%. Or, I want them to pay the same percentage that I pay.
I’d write a nasty gram but I know there’s also a senior level course in government-program-design-school entitled, Tipping The Scales For The Few. You have to take it in conjunction with the class called Dumbfounding The Citizenry.
Never let it be said that I am incapable of learning. As evidence of the rare penny-drop, please note the absence of question or comment after the first panel of this cartoon. This implies that I am either listening without need “to solve” or that I recognize a comment in any direction might end my life. Either way, a remarkable demonstration of learning.
Also note that I am off-screen. I will leave the reason for my cartoon-suggestion-of-healthy-distance up to your interpretation.
This one is for my dad. Actually, this one is from my dad. He was in his happy place when he had a line in the water. Catching a fish was not nearly as important as the peace and quiet he experienced while fishing. He had a special spot on the lake; the door to his sanctuary was a fishing pole.
One of my favorite memories is of the day that Columbus taught Kerri to fish. I sat on a rock jutting into the water and watched two of my favorite people enjoy the mountain calm. Late summer breezes fluttered the aspen leaves. The ziiiing of the cast. The plop of the bubble hitting the water. Click. A slow reel in. Repeat. No place better to be. Being there – and nowhere else. What could possibly be better than that?
Pre-Covid we regularly had dinner parties or hosted gatherings of Kerri’s choirs and ukulele band. Each week the big dining room table was piled high with food and drink. People crowded into the kitchen and living room. People spilled out onto the deck.
Now, we use the dining room table when we have large projects that require space for organization. We use it as a staging ground when we’re preparing for a trip. Covid ushered in an era of reclusion and the necessity for space and quiet.
Last weekend we had a surprise large project to assemble. Tons of paper to sort. As Kerri prepared the plan I headed to the dining room to clear the table. I stopped in my tracks with what I found there. The table was covered with rocks. There were several gallon size ziplock bags with painted rocks and rocks ready to be painted. Mostly, there were paper towels spread like islands across the table surface, each populated by dozens of hagstones. Odin Stones. Adder stones. Magical stones of many names, all sizes, from tiny bead-size to fist-size rocks, each with a naturally eroded hole. The power of water working on earth.
I hadn’t realized that we’d collected so many. We’d inadvertently converted our dining room into a hagstone sanctuary, an epicenter of ancient folk magic: nature’s talisman of healing, protection and wisdom. I laughed. Apparently we could use a bit of ancient protection. I certainly could use a healthy dose of wisdom. I considered laying on the table, body across the bumpy stones and saying, “I’m ready! Do your stuff!”
We bumbled onto the secluded beach a few months ago. The power of the lake is palpable. The beach is a festival of wave-polished rocks and treasured hagstones. The gulls circle and chase. The portal to the beach requires crawling through trees recently burned. Fire. Air. Water. Earth. People have created whimsical structures, crude altars and twisted sculpture from the driftwood.
We’ve returned a few times to comb the beach for the miracle stones with holes made from years and years of their dance with water. A feather on the stone. Time disappears as we slowly walk the beach, heads down, sensing as much as looking for the rare hagstones.
According to tradition, only good things can pass through the hole in the stone, made magic by the watercarver. Our growing collection, a prayer-pile or incantation cairn. Good things.
I will, someday soon, lay on the beach after dipping into the cold Lake Michigan water, warm myself in the sun, and feel the large hole that life has worn through me, myself now a magic hagstone. Grateful, I will think, “Only good things. I’m ready. Let’s do it.”
I often tell Kerri that she’s beautiful and her built-in-response is to deflect or deny it. I believe her response is learned – I’ve yet to meet a child who is overly concerned with how they look. Kerri is not unlike most of the women (and men) I’ve met in my life: they’ve learned to not like their bodies. In fact, I just spent a few moments searching my vast memory banks for the women I’ve known who loved their bodies and I can recall a whopping two.
The message-assault on a woman’s psyche is intense and begins young. Change it, mold it, shape it, cut it, starve it, lift it…The industry demands that a woman continually strive for the unattainable shape, size, color…They can never-ever look into the mirror and think, “I’m beautiful. No changes necessary.”
If I had a magic wand, I’d ding Kerri and all women on the noggin and make it possible to grasp the natural truth of these words: you are unbelievably beautiful.
My favorite Smack-Dab cartoons are drawn directly from our conversations. This one happened verbatim. We howled when Siri replaced our “wilty” with “wealthy”. I’m shallow enough to admit that I hope to someday experience the challenge of being un-hire-aable because I am too wealthy. “We’d hire you Mr. Robinson but you’re too stinking rich”.
I’m already familiar with the wilty part.
This is, perhaps, the only time I will suggest that you keep your comments to yourself. Unless, of course, you have suggestions about making me too wealthy to hire. In that case, bring it on!
The Direction of Intention 