Something Missing

I was addicted to Shel Silverstein growing up. His poems taught me how to imagine, his cartoons taught me how to draw. I was reminded of my childhood addiction after I saw this:


The sun was shinning last week and people were taking advantage of it. One such person was a man riding his bicycle. His tie fluttered in the wind behind him, as did his navy sport coat that covered his blue collared shirt. His brown dress shoes were ill fitted for the pedals, I saw his feet slip twice. And from his shoes sprouted socks that were pulled up to the middle of his calf. From the middle of his calf up- bare leg.


I recited this poem in my head:

I remember I put on my socks,
I remember I put on my shoes.
I remember I put on my tie
That was painted
In beautiful purples and blues.
I remember I put on my coat,
To look perfectly grand at the dance,
Yet I fell there is something
I may have forgot----
What is it? What is it?. . .

I recalled the accompanying image (one that I had copied in my notebook once because I thought it was funny):

What a blessing from the deceased Shel Silverstein himself. I got to witness the embodiment of this poem as this man rode blissfully by on his bicycle. I wish I could attest to the reason for his lack of pants. Did he truly forget them? I certainly hope so.

Bomber Rabbit Fur Hat

It was cold on my morning run. My hands were numb and tingly the whole time. On my way home, I spotted a middle-aged woman in the distance.  Based on her business casual outfit and the stuffed totes that dangled from her folded arms, she was walking to work.  Her walk was slightly rushed in pace, my watch read 7:57am. And resting upon her head was a loosely fitted bomber rabbit fur hat.  The observation struck me as both fitting and odd. Fitting considering the frigid temperature. Odd considering the usual lack of interest in fashionable hats among women her age. The fur blew in the wind. The flaps flapped together as she walked.

As I got closer, the hat morphed into less of a hat. As I ran closer still, my eyes recognized the hat to be hair. Fluffed, feathered, teased, and hair-sprayed hair. While she walked, it bounced and moved together like one organism.  Like one rabbit furred hat.

Upon further reflection, I decided that if hair were to appear to be something else from a distance, it might as well resemble a current fashion fad hat. It could be worse. And even if from up close the hair is fresh out of 1983 with its mullet shape and feathered bangs, at least from a distance it remains fashionable.

The Lottery

I have developed a taste for talk radio.

I sat in my truck waiting for the segment to end or the rain to lighten up, whichever came first. As I waited, the windows started to fog around the edges and the view outside became blurry under the thin film of water layered on my windshield.  And yet, I saw this:

Inside the Blazer parked next to me there was a couple.  Like me, they took shelter from the falling water. A description of their appearances would not be kind to them, so I will refrain. But to give a vague yet accurate statement to that effect—the ‘70s were not kind to them either. Each held a cigarette between two of their fingers and a lottery ticket in each hand.  Four tickets between the two of them.  The woman lifted a lottery ticket to her mouth and gave it a kiss. The man mimicked her. She puffed cigarette and while the smoke lingered from her drawn out exhale, she kissed the other card.

Then, the kissing frenzy began. They both started rapidly kissing their cards and cigarettes in tandem. After 30 seconds or so, the kissing stopped.  They casually leaned closer to each other exchanged a real kiss and traded lottery tickets. The frenzy started again. Kisses were thrown out freely like Mardi Gras beads.  They landed on the tickets, the cigarettes, and each other until each surface was covered.  

It was clear to me that the rain wasn’t going to stop. I lost interest in the radio. The amount of kissing was becoming less of a spectacle and more awkward now that I was running out of time before they felt the heat of my stare. So I pulled up my jacket collar opened the door and braved the wet on my way into the supermarket for lunch.

On my way in, I was curious if they won anything at all. I assumed not since they did run past me to redeem the value of the tickets at the counter. They probably sat there after they vigorously etched off the gray boxes thinking, “We must not have kissed them enough.”  Yes, it all makes sense. This must be why they gave so many kisses to those small pieces of paper.  For every loss, they must have had this thought, “We’ll just have to kiss ‘em more next time.”

The Persian

The sky was white this morning.  Vast and empty of color like an incandescent light bulb.  The ground was dry, the air crisp and cold.  There was a considerable bustle around town, the combination of clear weather and the loom Christmas made it ideal for activity. As I sat in my truck waiting for a red light to turn, I noticed a man.  His hair was pulled though the back of his red ball cap, his blond curls bounced as he walked.  He was wearing brown flannel under his black down vest and an old pair of jeans that were nearly colored white from the amount of washes.  In his hand he held a leash.  At the end of the leash- a white Persian cat.

At first, I thought it to be a novel idea. But as I continued to watch the man with his cat, I determined that there is a reason why cat leashes are hardly marketable.

This is why:

 I watched the man walk forward about four steps and his fluff of a cat stopped and sat down on the sidewalk.  He yanked on the leash. The cat walked another step or so and plopped.  He yanked on the leash again. This time the cat didn’t walk. Yank. Nothing. Then he pulled. The cat slid across the pavement. Yank. Nothing. The man’s frustration was written all over his face.  He took a few steps backward and kicked the cat forward.  So, the cat reluctantly took a few steps, then another plop. Yank. Nothing. Slide. Nothing. Kick. Nothing. Double kick. Nothing.

The man bent down to pick up the cat, rested it on his shoulder, and then resumed his morning walk. After this little exchange, my light switched to green.  As I proceeded though the intersection, I glanced back once more to the odd pair and saw the Persian’s tail swinging in sweet victory.  This is when I determined the lack of value in a cat leash.  If you insist on taking your cat for a walk, they will make you carry them eventually.  Might as well forget the leash and leave your house with your cat in your arms.  It will save you both time and money.

Orange

It was a clear morning in the middle of September. A volunteer work crew lined the streets of Woodburn leaving trails of half full yellow trash bags behind them. All the volunteers were draped with generic reflective vests over thick sweatshirts and coats, no doubt to prevent any untimely deaths from the speeding cars that surrounded them.

However, one woman stood out from the rest.  Her shoes were yellow, bright enough to glow.  She wore a pair of freshly washed orange construction pants and a matching orange sweatshirt.  Over the sweatshirt was the orange and yellow reflective vest that was a sliver too large, so it hung down loosely past her waist.  Her hair was cut short, covered almost fully by a red trucker hat.  And if she was not visible enough already in her florescent color display, attached to her hat was an orange lawn marker flag that wiggled in the wind a foot above her head.

Yes, orange woman, everyone saw you.  Although, I am almost certain that no one would have seen you without the flag.  It’s a good thing you decided to add that extra touch.  Mission “Visibility” accomplished.

Fist Pump

Traffic was slow on my way home. There was someone in the bike lane. On a bike? No. Power wheelchair? Yes. 

His chair was medium sized and scarlet colored, dwarfed slightly under the weight of his large belly. A little feather attached to his brown fedora wiggled in the wind as he pushed the chair’s engine to its max- roughly 2.4 mph.  His cane balanced between his legs.  His front basket overflowed with plastic bags of groceries.  His sport jacket was worn and frayed at the cuffs.  As I swung wide to give this man a wide berth, he lifted his left fist in the air. I began to question my actions. Was my berth not wide enough? Was I proceeding forward too quickly? Was his heart exploding in a massive coronary revolt against his large midsection? As my mind raced with possible explanations for the very precarious fist pump, he made a slow right hand turn.

Glad to know you still obey the signals of the road buddy-- even if your vehicle does not meet the required specifications.

Old Timer

Maroon Ford Taurus. “Student Driver” magnet decal on the door.  Slowly and cautiously turning through the intersection.  I watched the timid car make its way past my truck and rudely stared at the driver.  It wasn’t a student at all.  Rather, it was an 80 year old man slightly hunched over the steering wheel, firmly gripping it with fingerless leather gloves.  Driver Instructor in the front seat, an actual student in the back. I guess this man always wanted to experience Driver’s Ed. Check that one off the Bucket List.