My expensive Boscov’s underwear are untidy in my old cherry dresser. They have never been straight. I haven’t the patience to finish the job–that has always been OK with me.
I’m not the boss though: even in my room, my dogs run things. Ruby, my Aussie has a bark so loud and shrill I must leave the room if she won’t stop. Louie the 14th, my Petite Basset Griffon Vendeen can have such a dreadful smell both breath and body that I have to clean and clean. It’s worth it to have their loving company and they don’t care about well-organized drawers.
My Aussie wakes me at 6 am with a wet lick to my lips. This is a reminder from my love puppy that if I don’t take her out she may pee on the bed. Twenty degrees, out I tread lightly across forty feet of icy ground. I praise the love of my life as she goes, reciting the words “poo-poo, very good girl, poo-poo.” Back into bed with my winter parka still on, snug as a bug in a rug.
We sat on a circle of rocks covered with moss a vivid green. The embers of our fire glowed red hot. High powered medicinal sour diesel OG kush lifted our spirits. A near nirvana moment. We celebrated the new season. Grateful for what we have. Strengthening our souls and minds for whatever comes next.
In my high school we rural kids would go out to a dark country road and get wasted. There was plenty of beer, usually I would have at least a twelve pack. We had weed, we had cocaine. When you couldn’t stand you could go sit in your car. Often a cheerleader, a quarterback or a big defensive tackle was right next to you. We were all bonding. There was a lot of love of living on that road. Soon we would graduate, go our separate ways, not realizing those were our glory days.
As Heavyweight for the TJ Patriots, I took on all comers. Jim was a big farm-raised brute from Westminster, six feet six and three hundred pounds. I was five feet seven, two hundred twenty-five pounds soaking wet. This brute had a thick beard and so did his mother in the stands.
I had eaten a whole sub in the locker room given to me by our 98 pounder. I didn’t feel like wrestling. When my teammates showed me who I had to wrestle I made a scared look and let out a fart. I was always clowning. The brute actually caused me to lose consciousness somewhere in the third round. Everybody thought I was clowning. When I came to I gave a thumbs up and hugged one of the cheerleaders.
My father’s assisted living home smells like poop. My father has been fading for five years. He now says very little. He will have a chocolate, a piece of fruit, a stiff Vodka Tonic. After his first sip he will say “this tastes good.” I have to keep the conversation going, and I talk about my girlfriend or my health issues. He does laugh and make expressions. He thinks I am a little nutty, like my mother and her Mother. He enjoys my visits.
Vance G was a crazy character. On the way back from away football games he would lead the team in singing, “spent the last year Rocky Mountain way,” then the team sang “ba na na na,” and then Vance, “couldn’t get much higher.” The team sang, “ba na na na.” This bonded us. He even sang it after a loss, which infuriated our head coach.
Later in life we shared a house. He was a womanizer which was fine with me. We had women coming and going. The sounds emanating from his room became a bit much, so I wore earplugs. When three of his rent checks bounced, we got into a fist fight. After that our friendship was never the same. He died several years back at the age of fifty from a brain infection. He will not be forgotten by me and not by many women.