Once in a while, I’m called to put things in perspective, and inspired for remembrance sake to jot it down. This memoir, from back in ‘03, has a rather abrupt, yet happy ending.
The financial floor fell out from under us about a year and a half ago. We’re still treading water, working our way back to our bookmark in the “By Gawd American Dream!” During the darkest hour, we sold - and paid off - van number 2, leaving us with a ‘99 Chevy Venture Van. Then, we sank further in the hole over a second - second vehicle, which we acquired for $1,300, then hastily buried in a mound of cash, spending 2 or 3 times that amount on repairs before abandoning it.
Becky, once a stay-at-home Mom, took a job working 25 miles on the other end of town. So, one car life being what it is, I shuttle her to work and back on days when I’ve gotta get the kids to Scouts, Youth Orchestra, Church, Basketball, Baseball, Tennis, etc.. (etc…)
Luckily, I’m back working, traveling to Memphis for a couple weeks at a shot once a month or so. Luckily… I’ve had checks to cover the single remaining Venture Van’s recent $1300 overheating problem, it’s $800 brake problem, and the as yet undiagnosed ‘Onboard Diagnostic System’ problem. On a brighter note, yesterday, I finally found a ‟Haynes 1999 Chevy Venture Van” repair manual and bought a set of plugs planning to save some bucks!
Then today, my old friend and brother-in-law Steve called and asked if I wanted to use his deceased Father’s truck. It’s old, but Steve said he’d just paid a mechanic to put a rebuilt engine in it. Gratis to us - and greatly simplifying our lives by catapulting us back into ‘2 car family’ status!
So tonight, the 2 younger kids and I headed across town to pick up Ma from work, with a plan to pick up the pickup truck on the way back across town. A bitter north wind blew open the van door when I pulled up beside the old truck. I found the secreted keys, unlocked the creaky door and slid - skooched over the gnarled half-gone-missing styrofoam seat and shreds of remaining seatcover.
In darkness, I reached for the door knob to pull shut the door. My hand recoiled instead from a rusty nut screwed on skeletal stump remains barely protruding through the flimsy door panel. The old truck groaned and sputtered when I finally urged the frozen key to wake it from its cold dark slumber. After a handful of tries, it lurched and shuddered to a fitful, knocking lope. I couldn’t convince it to idle. Every time my foot let go the pedal, silence froze the engine’s knock.
Pumping madly, I coaxed it across the street to the gas station, where I force fed it carburetor cleaner and $10 worth of gas. Becky and the kids followed in the van as we plunged into traffic and roared north toward home.
At every intersection, the truck required rekeying, save for 2 where I was able to employ the old ‘rolling clutch pop’ trick I’d perfected with my ‘69 Camaro all those years ago. The Camaro was light enough, and I was spry enough (back then), to throw open the door, hop out, left shoulder the door jam, right hand the wheel, give running push along the pavement, then simultaneously hop back in, swing shut the door, clutch and shift, pop and GO! Tonight, I enjoyed the benefits of a couple of well placed hills. ;)
The EPA will never know the regulations we violated in the cover of darkness, loosing billows of octane enhanced smoke as we plunged north, ever northward, toward home. I whipped it to a frenzy of 45, then.. near 50 mph as we mounted the expressway.. where, 2 exits later, I acquiesced back to the frontage road, seriously considering a u-turn of submission. But, the shade tree mechanic in me would not have it!
In part, my reckless delusion was forged by remembrance of the play of the black knobby binding of Dad’s ‟Audel’s Engine Manual” in my grease grunged hands of youth. Certainly, I pondered - in tomorrow’s light of day, I could sort out these mechanical problems along the curb beside the house. Mebbe even give the boys a lesson.
For a moment, I relished the notion of seeing through to the ground between a wheel well and an engine. Especially since my long sought prize ‟Hayne’s 1999 Chevy Venture Van Manual” informed me that I’d have to free the van’s engine and ‘roll it forward’ just to replace the 3 spark
plugs sequestered in the darkness of its transverse mounted hell.
This truck.. This engine, I could work on! I could heal!
But it was not to be. At hill’s toe slope at the last crossing short of home, a quiet and lasting darkness found that engine compartment. Each twist of the well worn key brought shorter, sadder groans. I knew them to be death groans.
In left turn lane, the old truck came to rest. Becky in the van rolled close behind with flashers on, warning round more fortunate motorists who surely cursed us as they squealed past our bitter melancholy and sped into the crisp night air.
In perhaps our sole good luck stroke tonight, the kids found a worn yellow pages book under the van seat. Sprint beckoned phones rang unanswered in 2, then 3 wrecker offices, until Alberto answered my call in broken English and launched his muscled red machine into the cold dark night.
During the 20 minute wait, I knew my fullness would not last through Alberto’s ride. I crossed 2 lanes afoot between the headlight arcs, mounted the grassy knoll and strode beyond the right of way to stand above the bubbling stream steam.
And then, every 5 minutes or so, I returned to that sodden, shredded truck seat. Right hand clamped tight the frigid key and twisted out the last cold DC gasps in an exercise of vain glorious futility - in hopes that Alberto would arrive to find his faulty prize had vanished in a plume of acrid smoke. But, through no good merit of my own, I would not cheat Alberto this night.
As I sat fuming in the cold dark truck, happy helpful motorists blinded me flashing their lights to show me I had none. Left turning cars stopped behind the Venture Van’s flashing emergency lights and waited to be told to navigate around us. In the Venture Van, Becky flipped the radio’s dial in search of comfort - something, anything. Then, watching life’s bitter play unfold from the back seat, my sweet young daughter warned, ‟Mom, shouldn’t we turn off the radio? Times like this need prayer.”
After I’d Master Carded Alberto on his way, old truck in tow, Becky told me about Theresa’s prayerful handling of the fiasco. My God, how trivial my problems in light of my blessings.
Dear Lord, each day
I pray for your
continued blessings on this,
my corporeal shell.
From my dark perch,
I daily give you thanks
for strength and health
of this, my fleshy temple.
When surely, self-same strength
of earthen form, is that
which most denies
my sense of you.
What foolish bug am I,
trapped within this earthy cage,
wishing only for finer trappings
within the confines of my cell.
When, if my blinders were
thrown free, I’d marvel
at the vast expanse of your
magnificent grandeur.
I’d see the realms of possibility
as yet obscured
from this my fleshy vantage.
I’d know the blessings better prayed.
Shut up vent that pours forth light,
Shut it up against the night.
Deny the flickered flame to dance,
Snuff it out before it’s chance.
Sink fuddled head in pillowed down,
Shut up eyes tired cast in frown.
Cut loose ties to waking sense,
Hop~skip~bound o’er Freudian fence.
Slip surly bonds for cosmic bliss,
Daren’t this nite’s pleasures miss.
Cast off lines that tie to shore,
Sail ether clouds ‘yond conscious moor.
Mount up mares of night remuda,
Rope in schools of barracuda.
Scare up fright like covey’d quail,
Tack it’s force against your sail.
Fly in dream on eagle wing,
Canyon’d vista grande sling.
Like so much paint on canvassed frame,
Life by night’s a dreamer’s game.
My notes say this one came to life on July 7, 2002. At the time, I took inspiration from a poetry forum where authors were allowed a restricted number of new works every week. This one exceeded the limit.
A certain cool rush follows a left handed
scratch at the nape of my neck.
Almost like cold cream dobbed
on a light sunburn. Not quite.
Slightly jaggy left hand nails,
chewed short, not gnawed, just trimmed
sans clippers in church today. Reciprocal jags
secluded sacrificially in shag beneath the pew.
Right hand nails still long for string plucks.
Not that I’ve plucked lately, just in case.
Memory serves great dollups of joy in past plucking.
Joy, at best days away now, in my long disuse.
If consciousness is a stream,
today I choose not to wade, rather ooze my
barefoot toes into its muddy banks.
I love the schlurppy s~s~schuck of pulling free.
Are these the best of times, or worst? I can’t discern.
Or, are they just more pristine blocks
scratched through on the refrigerator calendar?
Best… worst, I suppose it’s my call.
With permission, today, I choose
to defer that call. And, yes, for you counters,
I’m vaguely cognizant of exceeding
the recommended number of weekly posts.
Today, I revel in the excess.
Every morning for over a month, I’ve peered longingly out the front window, through the bushes, across the yard… to the empty mailbox. I know the mail lady’s schedule. Darla fills it between 11 and noon, like clockwork. Mine, and 9 others for the neighbors who share compartments with my own. There are 2 big metal mailboxes actually, our 10 family sized compartments in one, and a second just adjacent with 2 big ‘bulk mail’ compartments. They sit anchored in the corner of my front yard, bolted securely to a concrete slab of their own, there between the sidewalk and curb in front of my house.
Lately, when Darla has filled the mailbox, she has filled it with an assortment of junk mail and bills. Not the check I’ve awaited so anxiously for, for so long now. Perhaps the mailbox has claimed too much of my attention of late. Perhaps that focus has grown beyond a good one in my life.
Five days a week in this season, my children, and others walk home from the school across the street… right down the sidewalk which runs the width of my front yard… passing not 2 feet in front of my coveted, closely monitored mailbox. Lots of days, my kids play at tennis, or catch, in the front yard, or hoop it up in the driveway. And a steady stream of other kids parade through on their ways home.
Today, Darla didn’t deliver the mail. She’s been absent for a couple of days, and the replacement comes later in the day - probably doesn’t follow Darla’s route. Today, I didn’t get my bills until just before leaving to take the 2 older boys to orchestra practice at 1:30. I had to take them, because Mom was going to take the little ones to the orthodontist right after they walked home from school… right after they walked in front of the empty mailbox and cut across the yard to the front door. So, there were no kids playing in the yard by the empty mailbox this afternoon after school.
As we rounded the corner in front of the school on the way home, I could make out a jumble of unfamiliar activity in the street ahead - in the street in front of my house. Drawing closer, I could make out a Sheriff’s car perched akimbo, halfway in my driveway, and a red truck parked along the curb, and the crumpled remains of my empty mailbox - bludgeoned to the ground and red with marks of red truck paint. The red truck sat immobilized - front tire gashed to breathlessness by mailbox armor. A lady stooped in my flowerbed by the jumbled mailbox remains, collecting the scattered shards of her turn signal and headlight lenses.
When I pulled up, she said her kids, just picked up from school in the red truck, had distracted her to such a degree that she managed to plow the red truck over the curb and apparently, well over my empty mailbox.
At the time, I didn’t think to stop and utter a prayer of thanksgiving at what, or whom might have been in the sidewalk just beyond the stalwart sentry mailboxes. Only later, did I visualize tire ruts across my front yard - beyond where the crumpled mailboxes lay.
Life is certainly a collection of odd coincidences at times. Orthodontist appointments, red trucks, and empty mailboxes.
Sweet child, she worked so hard
to capture every special moment
at the reunion where blue-gray hair and
doe-soft wrinkles may have made last visit.
And then, out to the fields where
flowers bloomed, toads hopped and
city slicker brothers took first aim and fired.
Through her lens she caught it all.
Home now, it is with great sadness and
futility that I must deny her plea to
‘undelete’ all those glorious pix, forever
lost to young cousin’s fumbling touch.
I’m ready now, to disembark,
To step free earthen grind.
To cast off tedious chore of life,
For quest beyond frail mind.
These wonders that my eyes beheld
Sparked light on dreams anew.
Scenes beyond the play of light
Far beyond pale dreams I knew.
So if you find me cold and still
As morning bids sun rise
I’ve only wandered over hill
To view with new found eyes.
Nose dials, awaits reply,
“Mouth, I smell something!”
“Beginning salivation sequence!” {quick hangup}
Mouth dials, awaits reply,
“Eyes, be on the lookout, Nose smells something!”
“Roger that, we have visual!” {quick hangup}
Eye dials, awaits reply,
“Legs, let’s get movin’!”
“We’re on the way!” {quick hangup}
Leg dials, awaits reply,
“Hands, you’re on your own!”
“Got it!” {quick hangup}
Hand dials, awaits reply,
“Mouth, incoming!”
“Bring it on!” {quick hangup}
Mouth dials, awaits reply,
“Throat, incoming!”
“Let me catch a breath…” {quick hangup}
Throat dials, awaits reply,
“Lungs, suck one down and prepare for standby!”
“Charged and ready!” {quick hangup}
Lung dials, awaits reply,
“Stomach, prepare for reflux grind!”
“It’s about time!” {quick hangup}
Stomach dials, awaits reply,
“Butt, I digest…”
Bubble
O
O
o
.
:
Sphere Clear
:
Ephemeral Shimmering
:
Torsion Tension
:
Prism Prison
:
Brainblow Rainbow
:
Stun Bright Sunlight
:
Diaphanous, Luminous
:
Radiate, Dissipate
:
*BURST*
:
Million Brilliant
:
Particle Sparkle
Wipe me down before we play
Lightly Finger E Z spray
Twist my tuners sharp or flat
Tune me tight from slim to fat
Curl my strap across your back
Plug me in quarter inch jack
Charge my coils with undercurrent
Crank me up till I’m near spent
Strum me down and test my tune
Twirl up knobs, high amp my swoon
Grab my neck and hold on tight
Last raw silence of pre-flight
Rip loose chords of power three
Blow out sparked~lectricity
Dance my frets then hammer on
Chase the night into the dawn
Fly fingered frets and take your pick
Slice out notes with grace ‘n slick
Tinitis ring like telephone
Grind the beat down to the bone
Slice ‘n dice your eardrum skins
Peel em up and pound em thin
Wrench your soul and serve it hot
Adrenalin’s my favorite shot
Lay me in crushed velvet bed
Drape soft cloth around my head
Gently polish up and down
Stow me till we blow next town.
I was young then,
Though I know I didn’t know it
Anymore than I know now
That one day I will look back at today
And know, I was young then.
Click here to hear my good friend Andy McClellan’s musical interpretation of I’m a…
I’m a screech owl baby,
with a promise to man.
I shake loose the thunder
like nuts in a can.
You’re the flavor of lust,
I’ll soon savor your dust.
I’m a soul thief baby,
with a promise to man.
I rake blue coals under
the souls of the damned.
I’m flame of your temper,
my name is your whimper.
I’m a bomb blast baby,
with a promise to man.
Your time slips by faster
than hourglass sand.
My blast, your concussion
Your last breath my mission.
I’m a shredder baby,
with a promise to man.
I rip souls asunder
And crush them in hand.
Darkest fear is my lair,
shed a tear, like I care.
I’m a demon baby,
with a promise to man.
Your nightmare in waking
your own worst laid plan.
Torment’s dream you can’t shake
I’m the scream when you wake.
I’m Death Master baby
With a promise to man.
In embers of hellfire
Your tinder I’ll fan.
Waste your life like a fool,
Quench your thirst on my drool.
Dear Lord,
You know my needs far better than I.
My infant soul is wrenched in vice of sin.
At best, my shallow prayers ramble and drift,
casting pinhole light midst
the shadowed depths of my needs.
Your will most assuredly shall be done,
despite the contradictions of my ignorant desires.
Better you should forge my desires
in alignment with your own, than for me
to pray blessings contrary to your will.
But it’s hard Lord.
I’m bound in flesh and
subject to the assault of an
ancient tormentor and his earthly legions.
For all my years, I’m but a babe when I dare
stand alone against this hellish throng.
My prayers seem feeble whispers,
rising to vanish in life’s gale.
Your peace, my confirmation.
You still the moanings of my soul
and circle me with angels.
Help me grow to call on you.
Evidence my weakness that
I might yearn for your strength.
Bless me with discernment
that I might shirk temptation.
Attune my heart to beat in chorus with your own.
Drag me kicking from my own will and
the vacuum of its power.
Align my will to match your own.
Where I’d make wild transgressions,
rein me in and guide me safely through.
Nurture me, heal me, lead me,
teach me to yield of my own accord.
My fancied needs rise up
like prison walls, barring me
from the path you‵d have me follow,
barring me from you.
Carnal lust, the chain
I’ve bound around my feet,
anchors me in mire of life,
denies my flight to you.
I linger here in fleshy cage,
drawn to the very flame of sin
whose denial must
forge my armor
and loose my chains.
I’m parched in thirst for love
while drowning in it.
Pray, grant my quench,
that I may know fulfillment
and love swell forth from me.
My weakness is immense,
my power infinitesimal.
My oversights so overshadow my insights,
there is no hope for vision
in these clouded eyes.
There is a vaster vista I cannot see,
so vast is my lack of divine perspective.
These fleshy blinders, forged at birth
deny me answers but do not quell my questions.
In these trials I’ve brought upon myself,
Lord, stand my counsel, sit my benevolent judge.
All my hope, my very life,
lies in your benevolence.
I cannot earn a single breath.
Uppermost Dear Lord,
these innocents in my shadow,
protect them from my foolish sin.
May they grow in your love through me, despite me.
For they’re the truest treasures of my heart,
my gold and wealth in poverty.
Lord your blessings most of all,
bestow on these in my feeble care.
Amen
“The Hands of Time” - Poem - © Mark W. Ballard
The hands of time,
once snuggled Mommy close and tight.
Tiny fingers twist up hair,
grasping love out of thin air.
The hands of time,
once played for hours with balls and jacks
cast about in playground dirt
gathered up for all their worth.
The hands of time,
once struggled hard with cursive arch
letters drawn between the lines
scribble scrawl to art refined.
The hands of time,
once skipped stones across the pond
caught up toads and seined tadpoles
slipping fish from fishing holes.
The hands of time,
once played football afternoons
up and down for hours on end
fingers always on the mend.
The hands of time,
once were new to guitar strings.
Tender tips to callous grew
and pick from slow to lightning flew.
The hands of time,
once slipped ring upon a bride,
her hand in his while vows were spoken
golden ring a lifelong token.
The hands of time,
once built home where there was none,
swung a hammer hard and right
brought up walls against the night.
The hands of time,
once snuggled babe so close and tight,
calloused hands against fair skin,
love renewed to start again.
“I Shall Miss…” - Poem - © Mark W. Ballard
I shall miss the writing
in that inevitable moment
when my spark wanders on,
when i linger mid thought,
then ramble on distraught.
When right words escape
and long queried thoughts
return nothing but blanks.
I shall miss the writing,
at least until the missing
as well wanders on.
