Do you have friends like this?

There is a tree in my yard that I hate. And maybe hate is a strong word to use against a tree, but every so often you come across one that really makes life difficult. Whether it’s at home, at work or even at church, it just becomes almost unbearable to deal with on a daily basis.

When we first moved to this house, we both contributed equally to our relationship. The tree sat there in my front yard doing normal tree things. Growing, photosynthesizing, hosting birds, flowering and whatever else trees do in their spare time. As the proud new homeowner, I did my time as tree owner. I raked leaves, picked up sticks, pruned the dead wood and even gave it some nice Christmas lights. As time went by however, things started to change.

Normally I’m a very tolerant person, but eventually those tree behaviors started to rub me the wrong way. For starters the tree won’t stop growing. It grew itself into a magnolia tree and is now entirely too big for the yard. In fact, I’ve had several visitors report that they almost missed the house because it’s hidden behind the tree. The shade has all but killed the lawn and those damn branches hang so low that if they’re not poking me in the eye then they’re scratching the top of my car. And I’m not just talking about normal external growth here either. The stories I have to tell about where sewage goes when it’s blocked by tree roots could be a whole new essay. Let me just say that I’m the president of the “sewer-snake” rental club.

This may sound a bit strange but I’ve spent quite some time analyzing this relationship. At one point I attempted fighting back against the tree’s natural tendencies. So I rented a chain saw and battled a few carefully picked lower limbs. Wielding this power tool actually made me feel good for a while. So good in fact, that I even considered chopping the whole thing down. Certainly this was an easy solution. Remove the offender forever. More work on the front end but certainly there would be rewards. Firewood, a new lawn, no more raking or cleaning the gutters, no more pokes in the eye and best of all, no more sewage where it didn’t belong. And while this seemed like a good plan at first, something was holding me back but I couldn’t quite tell what it was.

So I prayed for some guidance to find out if there was something wrong with my attitude. Maybe this tree suffered some childhood trauma like being an adult sapling of a late-bloomer and never learned proper social boundaries. Maybe it’s not my position to judge whether adult maple trees should cohabitate with magnolias. Or maybe I would be found guilty of tree-murder and the Sierra Club would have me arrested. But eventually however my eyes were opened and the truth was revealed.

There is ultimately one very redeeming quality about this tree that makes it worth keeping in my life. Granted, I have to wait patiently and the redemptive moment is always short-lived, but I’m never disappointed when the moment comes. Each and every fall my “friend” puts on the most spectacular and glorious display of foliage. The light greens, mixed with bright yellows and deep oranges would make you think you were staring at a picture postcard of Vermont. And eventually the entire show turns day-glow orange as the sun backlights the whole scene. Then the leaves fall and completely blanket the front yard in orange carpet. This is the day I love the tree in my yard.

----------------> Roger and Mary <----------------

my grandfather visited today
my Nana’s late husband
but he was early to his scheduled pick up

by almost 24 hours
he was driving a truck instead of owning a gas station
and he was black and alive not white and dead
though I still think it was him

in fact, I know it was him
I could tell by the way he laughed

when I called him Pappy

the last firefly

late this summer

when the sun was not so high
the year’s last firefly

flew down from the sky

he landed on my nose

close to my eye
so close i could see

he was starting to cry

my oh my!

why do you cry

I asked the fly

because, he said with a sigh,

summer is over
and I must say goodbye

try to stay dry

my bright little fly,
please tell me why

must you say goodbye

i will tell you he said

and I won't even lie

summer is over and

I must just say goodbye

if you stay, we can play

I will teach you to spy

and maybe my mom

will give you some pie

I would love to he said

but please don't try

summer is over

I simply must just say goodbye

then he flapped his wings

and started to fly

and away he went

high into the sky

GOODBYE

FIREFLY

please don't cry
I'll see you next summer

and we shall eat pie

RUNNING

As I walk down my street I notice the smell of pizza. I think maybe someone is cooking with garlic somewhere. Yet the smell lingers all the way down to the corner and hangs in the air like some distant memory from childhood. I am reminded of the beach for some reason. With the smells of fried food and ocean salt and suntan lotion. Certainly there’s a sunset that belongs in this scene as well. The kind that post cards are made of, but the though vanishes quickly as I my eyes study an interesting pile of trash that one of the neighbors has left. Broken shelves, old pictures, VHS tapes and twisted metal things. Normally I would stop and take a closer look but today’s journey is exercise.

By the time I get to the corner I decide I am ready to start running. My knees hurt. I stop and walk again. My head is cloudy but I run some more. My head seems loose as it bounces with each thumping stride. The whole street bounces in my vision like a bad home movie. My knees still hurt so I stop and stretch them a bit. I notice I haven’t gone very far at this point.

I walk past the house where the mailbox says Rosie and Ken. Then past the house that used to have a nice garden where some recent sewer-line work has been done. Feeling a little better about my knees I run past the next corner and straight down Spivey lane about ¼ mile. I am breathing hard now and slow to a walk again. Despite the lack of breath I am still not sweating. I walk past the Robinson’s house. Glad that they’re not outside, I break into a run again.

I turn right into the new development. The street has been newly paved and one house is almost finished. The other lots are still just weeds with construction signs stuck into the ground near the curb. Quite boring I think to myself as I walk up the hill to the end of the street. Fortunately the street is short and I turn around in the cul-de-sac and run back down to the main street.

I walk some more, half-heartedly waving to neighborhood cars that pass by. Forcing out a “hello” to the other walkers. I press on with the running and listen to my body ache. I slow to a walk again and look at trash and gardens or whatever catches my eye. I set goals, 5 mailboxes running, and then walk again. Run to the corner and walk again. I see a man with a green lawnmower. Must be a “Lawn-Boy” model I guess from my distance. As I get closer the noise confirms my suspicion, Lawn-Boy 21” same model as mine. The smell of the cut grass and the engine fumes remind me of my own yard as well. I walk past his house and break into a run again. My head seems less cloudy now; the road not so bouncy and my knees feel good enough to keep going the whole length of his street.

How is it I wonder, that I’ve come to know this man’s lawnmower better than the man himself?

Daylight Savings

sunlight during the fall deceives me
blinding me from such angles
where evil dark shadows try to entice me
into false warmth where there is no love

illuminated foliage tempts me
to keep the splendor for myself
yet this glory is a false prophet
rewarded with the empty message
of winter’s frigid death-grip
and the only truth I have left is the resurrection of spring-time

WRITER'S WRITE

Every since I was 15, I have been told that I should be a writer. Why these people keep telling me this I'm am not too sure. Some describe me as funny, others as weird. Sure, I like word games, scrabble, poetry and short stories. I even launched a career by avoiding math. Ultimately though, the older I get, the more the math makes sense and the writing becomes harder. Maybe that's just because math is functional, quick and perfect. Fast food for our instant society. Writing takes time. Time I don't have. As much as I'd like to ditch the busy city life, buy some flannel shirts and move to Vermont, it's just not practical. Not now anyway, maybe later.

In the meantime, I will write and you will read. I'm not even sure who "you" are as I currently have no audience in mind here. I don't have a voice or a style yet for that matter. Nonetheless, I thank you for sitting through the mandatory rough draft opening entry.