As I was typing "Toy Soldiers" I began to think I'd typed this before...and not 43 years ago.
I searched my posts and found "Toy Soldiers" was a post in December 2010. I didn't remember it and that's on 3 and a half years ago. So not remembering it 43 years ago blushes in comparison.
If you read it before and feel cheated, I apologize.
If you read it before and enjoyed it again, I celebrate.
I often read books again and certainly poems.
So, forgive my forgetfulness and enjoy, if you did, reading "Toy Soldiers" a second time.....
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Toy Soldiers
(OK, this is nuts. I just came across a stapled together little magazine called "OFFERINGS 71", which was from Harvard Divinity school when I was there. It was part of 'The Festival of Religion and the Arts' and contained some poems and some fiction. And one of the stories was mine. I had totally forgotten it, it having happened some 43 years ago, after all. I read it and decided to share it with you from my 24 year old self.)
Toy Soldiers
I had hundreds--two shoe boxes full. One shoe box said NUN-BRUSH on the end. The other said BOSTONIAN. Both said 9 1/2 C on the end which, though I never thought of it then, must have been my father's shoe size.
Not all my little men were soldiers, though most were. I had a few baseball players on little platforms with names on them--Grany Hamner, I remember, and Billy Pierce and Ray Boon with his glove hand high above his head. And there were bright colored cowboys and brighter colored Indians. A knight or two, with their legs spread wide for either an unnatural sex act or for horses I didn't have. I didn't have horses for my knights, but I had a statue of George Washington that I found in a cereal box I thought was going to have a model racer in it.
But most were soldiers in various positions of war--throwing grenades, crawling under non-existent bob wire, shooting from prone positions, marching...things like that. They were mostly hard plastic which felt good to bite, so some of my men had a hand or arm missing, long chewed up and spit out, or else swallowed to keep peas and carrots company in my stomach.
My soldiers were an all-alone-time toy. I shared them with no one except my mother. I guess I didn't trust anyone else to know about them but I would talk about them often with my mother. She even remembered their names--I had named them from a box of books I found in the attic. Their names were Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, Will Durant, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Charles Dickens, Percy Shelly. Names like that.
But my soldiers never played soldier. I didn't play war with them because somebody had to die and then, when they died, I'd have to go to the attic and find a new name and that was a lot of trouble and sometimes I'd forget the names and wouldn't know who I was playing with--so, anyway, war was out.
Most of the time I'd get a piece of clay and shape it like a tiny football. Clay, if touched with the tip of tongue, will stick to plastic toy soldiers, just as if they were carrying it and running for a touchdown. Those who were throwing grenades were quarterbacks since they looked like they could have easily been throwing a football. And those who were marching were ends because they looked like they were about to break into a z-out pattern. And those who were crawling under imaginary bobbed-wire could just as easily be trying to crawl under guards and tackles and trying to get to half-backs.
After every game, played out on my bed, that was roughly the shape of a football field, I'd talk to my mother--sort of a post game wrap-up--and tell her what had happened. Slashing Sam Jonson was the leading rusher and Bullet Lord Byron was close behind. She seemed interested in their rivalry, but her favorite was Spinoza. Benedict Spinoza, as they say in the game, did it all. He was a quarterback, fullback and middle linebacker. He was the most charismatic of all my men since he stood nearly a sixteenth of an inch taller than any and was in a pose that reminded one of strength, character and leadership. He was red instead of olive green as most were. He just stood out. After a long game on a rainy afternoon, my mother would ask me, "How did Benny do?"
I'd tell her about her hero. Sometimes I even exaggerated, told her he caught a pass when it was really Thomas Mann, or made a tackle that belonged, instead, to George Elliot. But it made her smile to hear of Benny Spinoza's feats so I didn't think it mattered to lie a little.
And because she liked him, I liked Benny too. I would carry him around in my pocket and more than once he went through the washing machine. Once, I remember, I thought he was gone forever. He wasn't in my pocket when I came home from playing tag with Herbie Lowman and Billy Michaels and Arnold Butler. I finally got up the nerve to tell my mother and then burst into tears, thinking she would be angry that I had lost her favorite.
But the next day, he was on my dresser and she claimed no knowledge of how he got there though I heard my father ask her why Mrs. Lowman had seen her in the vacant lot on her hands and knees.
My mother said, "Shhhh!", which is what she said a lot when she wanted to wait until they were whispering in bed. I could hear the whisperings through the wall, but not the words, and may was the night that their soft music put me to sleep.
But the whole point to all this is that when I came home 20 years later, after my father and Aunt Lizzy had called me and told me what had happened in this: I just had to be alone and before I knew it I was up in the attic sitting in the dark. I moved to lay down on the floor and my hand touched a shoe box. I sat for almost an hour, taking each man out and looking at him, trying to remember his name, trying to remember something we had done together. Suddenly, red and strong, Benny was in my hand.
I don't remember too well what happened then, but I remember when Lizzy embraced me after my mother's funeral, she felt something in my shirt pocket and it was Spinoza. I guess I thought he would want to say 'goodbye' too. And I guess he did, in his own way. I wondered if my mother ever thought of him after I quit playing with the soldiers...if she ever explained why she was in the vacant lot on all fours...if my father understood...if they shared that in their whispers?
Toy Soldiers
I had hundreds--two shoe boxes full. One shoe box said NUN-BRUSH on the end. The other said BOSTONIAN. Both said 9 1/2 C on the end which, though I never thought of it then, must have been my father's shoe size.
Not all my little men were soldiers, though most were. I had a few baseball players on little platforms with names on them--Grany Hamner, I remember, and Billy Pierce and Ray Boon with his glove hand high above his head. And there were bright colored cowboys and brighter colored Indians. A knight or two, with their legs spread wide for either an unnatural sex act or for horses I didn't have. I didn't have horses for my knights, but I had a statue of George Washington that I found in a cereal box I thought was going to have a model racer in it.
But most were soldiers in various positions of war--throwing grenades, crawling under non-existent bob wire, shooting from prone positions, marching...things like that. They were mostly hard plastic which felt good to bite, so some of my men had a hand or arm missing, long chewed up and spit out, or else swallowed to keep peas and carrots company in my stomach.
My soldiers were an all-alone-time toy. I shared them with no one except my mother. I guess I didn't trust anyone else to know about them but I would talk about them often with my mother. She even remembered their names--I had named them from a box of books I found in the attic. Their names were Walt Whitman, Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, Will Durant, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Charles Dickens, Percy Shelly. Names like that.
But my soldiers never played soldier. I didn't play war with them because somebody had to die and then, when they died, I'd have to go to the attic and find a new name and that was a lot of trouble and sometimes I'd forget the names and wouldn't know who I was playing with--so, anyway, war was out.
Most of the time I'd get a piece of clay and shape it like a tiny football. Clay, if touched with the tip of tongue, will stick to plastic toy soldiers, just as if they were carrying it and running for a touchdown. Those who were throwing grenades were quarterbacks since they looked like they could have easily been throwing a football. And those who were marching were ends because they looked like they were about to break into a z-out pattern. And those who were crawling under imaginary bobbed-wire could just as easily be trying to crawl under guards and tackles and trying to get to half-backs.
After every game, played out on my bed, that was roughly the shape of a football field, I'd talk to my mother--sort of a post game wrap-up--and tell her what had happened. Slashing Sam Jonson was the leading rusher and Bullet Lord Byron was close behind. She seemed interested in their rivalry, but her favorite was Spinoza. Benedict Spinoza, as they say in the game, did it all. He was a quarterback, fullback and middle linebacker. He was the most charismatic of all my men since he stood nearly a sixteenth of an inch taller than any and was in a pose that reminded one of strength, character and leadership. He was red instead of olive green as most were. He just stood out. After a long game on a rainy afternoon, my mother would ask me, "How did Benny do?"
I'd tell her about her hero. Sometimes I even exaggerated, told her he caught a pass when it was really Thomas Mann, or made a tackle that belonged, instead, to George Elliot. But it made her smile to hear of Benny Spinoza's feats so I didn't think it mattered to lie a little.
And because she liked him, I liked Benny too. I would carry him around in my pocket and more than once he went through the washing machine. Once, I remember, I thought he was gone forever. He wasn't in my pocket when I came home from playing tag with Herbie Lowman and Billy Michaels and Arnold Butler. I finally got up the nerve to tell my mother and then burst into tears, thinking she would be angry that I had lost her favorite.
But the next day, he was on my dresser and she claimed no knowledge of how he got there though I heard my father ask her why Mrs. Lowman had seen her in the vacant lot on her hands and knees.
My mother said, "Shhhh!", which is what she said a lot when she wanted to wait until they were whispering in bed. I could hear the whisperings through the wall, but not the words, and may was the night that their soft music put me to sleep.
But the whole point to all this is that when I came home 20 years later, after my father and Aunt Lizzy had called me and told me what had happened in this: I just had to be alone and before I knew it I was up in the attic sitting in the dark. I moved to lay down on the floor and my hand touched a shoe box. I sat for almost an hour, taking each man out and looking at him, trying to remember his name, trying to remember something we had done together. Suddenly, red and strong, Benny was in my hand.
I don't remember too well what happened then, but I remember when Lizzy embraced me after my mother's funeral, she felt something in my shirt pocket and it was Spinoza. I guess I thought he would want to say 'goodbye' too. And I guess he did, in his own way. I wondered if my mother ever thought of him after I quit playing with the soldiers...if she ever explained why she was in the vacant lot on all fours...if my father understood...if they shared that in their whispers?
Monday, June 23, 2014
The little things
OK, I know I've been really focused on what 'is good' about life lately. I haven't ranted and raved about a Republican in a while. I've waxed loopy about the weather. I know all that. But the truth is, I'm in a time when the little things in life have a special meaning. Maybe it's the long days and the extra light that makes me a 'sunnier' (excuse the pun) guy. But given that or any other explanation, I've just been struck with how much little things matter to me these days...getting soft in my old age....
The last two evenings, I've sat in one of the Adirondack chairs our friend Hank helped Bern build and read until it was too dark to read any more. And I've had a string of wonderful books in the last couple of weeks so reading until the light leaves is a real joy. I've not been alone out there as darkness fell--our dog, Bela has been at my feet--and I've had a glass of wine and a cigarette or two to make it all so pleasant. No bugs, no humidity, no heat as such. What could be better than a wonderful book as night comes on to embrace me?
I'm sure I'll get back to ranting and railing or to pondering perplexing and confusing questions or to writing a poem or two...but for now, I'm just, for some reason, reveling in the wonder of the ordinary.
The question to ponder would be 'why don't we appreciate the gifts of the ordinary all the time' rather than being mildly apologetic about appreciating them?
There's a pondering for you to ponder as the light fails and the print on the page is not longer readable.
Take what life gives you and love it. That's what I'm doing these wondrous June days....I recommend it....
The last two evenings, I've sat in one of the Adirondack chairs our friend Hank helped Bern build and read until it was too dark to read any more. And I've had a string of wonderful books in the last couple of weeks so reading until the light leaves is a real joy. I've not been alone out there as darkness fell--our dog, Bela has been at my feet--and I've had a glass of wine and a cigarette or two to make it all so pleasant. No bugs, no humidity, no heat as such. What could be better than a wonderful book as night comes on to embrace me?
I'm sure I'll get back to ranting and railing or to pondering perplexing and confusing questions or to writing a poem or two...but for now, I'm just, for some reason, reveling in the wonder of the ordinary.
The question to ponder would be 'why don't we appreciate the gifts of the ordinary all the time' rather than being mildly apologetic about appreciating them?
There's a pondering for you to ponder as the light fails and the print on the page is not longer readable.
Take what life gives you and love it. That's what I'm doing these wondrous June days....I recommend it....
Sunday, June 22, 2014
What is so rare???
Why would anyone want to live anywhere besides New England. Sure, we get lots of snow in the winter--but that's what 'winter' is about. And there is nowhere where the leaves in Autumn involve people coming from all over just to see it.
I'll admit, the humidity of August is hard to put a positive spin on....But this day in June, how wondrous, how precious, how perfect can it be?
Temperature in the low 70's, a 10-15 mile an hour breeze, almost no humidity--how rare is that?
I read on our deck until the light was gone--almost 8 p.m. this time of year.
No fans on. Nothing feeling sticky. Just the rareness of a day in June. Several in a row now. Oh, I know August is just around a corner or two, and the snows of February will make me crazy--but for now, loving living in a four season place, give me Connecticut as the place to live.
I'll admit, the humidity of August is hard to put a positive spin on....But this day in June, how wondrous, how precious, how perfect can it be?
Temperature in the low 70's, a 10-15 mile an hour breeze, almost no humidity--how rare is that?
I read on our deck until the light was gone--almost 8 p.m. this time of year.
No fans on. Nothing feeling sticky. Just the rareness of a day in June. Several in a row now. Oh, I know August is just around a corner or two, and the snows of February will make me crazy--but for now, loving living in a four season place, give me Connecticut as the place to live.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Feeling punk, sleeping late
I woke up at 9:07 this morning, which is about average for me. I sleep well and long. I keep waiting for this old person sleeplessness to click in but it hasn't yet, not by a long shot.
But when I got up, I felt punkish--which is what I say when there is no discernible 'bad feeling' but just an overall malaise beyond definition. I took the dog out and had some oatmeal and a cranberry, banana, blueberry, raspberry smoothy that I have most morning...either with cold cereal or oatmeal or eggs and bacon or panchetia.
Bern took the dog to the Canal for the 'big walk' and I went back to bed to read the book I'm reading. When they got back, Bela found me, as he always does and we spent a couple of hours in 'the big bed' (a term he know and runs upstairs when we say it!) I honestly think he would stay in the 'big bed' all day, holding his bladder and alimentary canal for hours if one of us would stay there with him.
Anyway, we stayed there, dozing and reading (actually, Bela doesn't read and only dozes) with our cat Lukie with us for a while...well actually until 12:23, according to Bern's clock, so I got up and had a salad for lunch, still reading my book.
My punkishness had worn off by then.
So, for the rest of the day, I worked on my sermon for tomorrow, went to Big Y to get chicken wings, made potato salad, read some more, ate dinner with Bern and read some more and am now typing this.
Not the most exciting of lives, but it works for me.
I am a retired man who isn't anxious about being retired. I feel nothing but freedom and liberty and the ability to spend an extra two hours or so in bed reading with my Puli when I feel punkish in the morning.
What a life!
But when I got up, I felt punkish--which is what I say when there is no discernible 'bad feeling' but just an overall malaise beyond definition. I took the dog out and had some oatmeal and a cranberry, banana, blueberry, raspberry smoothy that I have most morning...either with cold cereal or oatmeal or eggs and bacon or panchetia.
Bern took the dog to the Canal for the 'big walk' and I went back to bed to read the book I'm reading. When they got back, Bela found me, as he always does and we spent a couple of hours in 'the big bed' (a term he know and runs upstairs when we say it!) I honestly think he would stay in the 'big bed' all day, holding his bladder and alimentary canal for hours if one of us would stay there with him.
Anyway, we stayed there, dozing and reading (actually, Bela doesn't read and only dozes) with our cat Lukie with us for a while...well actually until 12:23, according to Bern's clock, so I got up and had a salad for lunch, still reading my book.
My punkishness had worn off by then.
So, for the rest of the day, I worked on my sermon for tomorrow, went to Big Y to get chicken wings, made potato salad, read some more, ate dinner with Bern and read some more and am now typing this.
Not the most exciting of lives, but it works for me.
I am a retired man who isn't anxious about being retired. I feel nothing but freedom and liberty and the ability to spend an extra two hours or so in bed reading with my Puli when I feel punkish in the morning.
What a life!
Friday, June 20, 2014
Lil
I never met her but I helped bury Lillian today. That's not unusual, I've helped bury over a thousand people and I think I only met a third of them. Occupational hazard. Lots of people die that I've never met but who I help bury.
Lillian was 101 years old. I once buried a woman who was 103 who I knew well, but Lillian was the second oldest person I helped bury.
She was married for 70 years. Imagine that! She and her husband had no children but people at the funeral told me she loved kids.
She drove her car until she was 95 and some relative with good sense took away her keys.
She was an organist and pianist and loved to dance.
She's someone I wish I had met.
The two people who made the arrangements were a great niece and a great nephew. Good people.
When you live to 101 and only spend a couple of years in a home, along with the niece with special needs who you cared for for decades until you both went into a home, life has been good.
Ponder for a moment what changes someone born in 1913 saw happen. Mind blowing.
She and her 10 siblings rode into town on a horse drawn wagon.
Lordy, Lordy. Bless; you Lil, who I never met. Observer of a century of remarkable change.
Tell it all to Jesus when you meet up with him in the life to come.
(I'm not sure I believe in that particular scenario, but for Lil I'll keep an open mind....)
Lillian was 101 years old. I once buried a woman who was 103 who I knew well, but Lillian was the second oldest person I helped bury.
She was married for 70 years. Imagine that! She and her husband had no children but people at the funeral told me she loved kids.
She drove her car until she was 95 and some relative with good sense took away her keys.
She was an organist and pianist and loved to dance.
She's someone I wish I had met.
The two people who made the arrangements were a great niece and a great nephew. Good people.
When you live to 101 and only spend a couple of years in a home, along with the niece with special needs who you cared for for decades until you both went into a home, life has been good.
Ponder for a moment what changes someone born in 1913 saw happen. Mind blowing.
She and her 10 siblings rode into town on a horse drawn wagon.
Lordy, Lordy. Bless; you Lil, who I never met. Observer of a century of remarkable change.
Tell it all to Jesus when you meet up with him in the life to come.
(I'm not sure I believe in that particular scenario, but for Lil I'll keep an open mind....)
Creatures behind our house
A few weeks ago, Bern swears that a deer ran though our yard. Jumped the very short fence and vast foliage in the back and then, after running through our back yard, jumped the waddle she's built to keep the dog in and ran out toward Cornwall Avenue. Going where? There's no woods anywhere in that direction. Maybe going to the Congregational Church or to St. Peter's. A Congregational deer or an Episcopalian deer, who knows?
And such distinctions don't much matter any more. Thomas Moore, who was a Roman Catholic priest (I always say 'Roman Catholic" since I am a "Catholic Christian" and don't want to be left out of the catholicity of it all) is offering a workshop at Wisdom House in Litchfield (run by the Sisters of Wisdom) about how to design your own spirituality, either inside or outside of an existing structure.
Which sort of makes distinctions like a Congregational deer or an Episcopal deer seem rather antiquated.
Then today, I came out on the deck while our pork roast was roasting, and Bern told me she'd seen the biggest yellow cat ever run through the open field behind our back yard. It was so big she thought it might be a bobcat.
She was still there when it ran into view again. I thought it might be a fox with a withered tale.
But our neighbor, Mark, who is a forester and can be trusted on all things wild and wondrous, told us it was a coyote, God help us all.
I said to Mark, "we're going back to nature in Cheshire".
And he replied, "not the worst thing I can think of...."
Me neither.
And such distinctions don't much matter any more. Thomas Moore, who was a Roman Catholic priest (I always say 'Roman Catholic" since I am a "Catholic Christian" and don't want to be left out of the catholicity of it all) is offering a workshop at Wisdom House in Litchfield (run by the Sisters of Wisdom) about how to design your own spirituality, either inside or outside of an existing structure.
Which sort of makes distinctions like a Congregational deer or an Episcopal deer seem rather antiquated.
Then today, I came out on the deck while our pork roast was roasting, and Bern told me she'd seen the biggest yellow cat ever run through the open field behind our back yard. It was so big she thought it might be a bobcat.
She was still there when it ran into view again. I thought it might be a fox with a withered tale.
But our neighbor, Mark, who is a forester and can be trusted on all things wild and wondrous, told us it was a coyote, God help us all.
I said to Mark, "we're going back to nature in Cheshire".
And he replied, "not the worst thing I can think of...."
Me neither.
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