joyful!

AUGUST

Swoosh, BANG.

by

V. Edward Gordon

Our five year old condemned her kindergarten class to Hell last week. I think we can make some calls. No permanent damage done. Some good may even come of it.

She explained the situation to my wife on the way home from school. Apparently they had been learning about their tongues that day. The teacher set out items for each student to sample. On the Sour Desk were lemons. On the Sweet Desk, sugar. And on the Bitter Desk, a bold, robust cup of Folgers Medium-Dark coffee, roasted in the French tradition.  Of course.

As her classmates moved through the tables sampling items, our daughter stopped at Bitter and explained to her teacher that because our family is Mormon she didn't think she should sample the coffee. "Oh," said her teacher "That's all right." And I'm sure she made some note to herself in the grade book to watch for signs that everything was going alright at home for this one.

At this point in the story, my wife was sure that everything at home was going wonderfully. Looking at the rear-view mirror, she praised the girl in the booster seat for staying true to her beliefs even when those around her didn't share them.

"Yes," our daughter agreed, "this is because I follow Jesus, and everyone else in my class follows Satan."

My wife nearly crashed the car. She had one of those awful moments when a mother must teach a child something serious while trying not to pee herself laughing. The effect on my wife at these times is that her lips shake when she talks and tears stream down her face, which scares the kid. It also muddies up the point of the lesson pretty good too. Not that I ever manage any better.

Sometimes raising kids reminds me of a story I heard where people are trying to get a bird out of a building. They swish at it with nets and prod it toward the door, but despite their best efforts, the terrified thing scatters in every direction but out. "Go THIS way little bird," and (swoosh) BANG into a light fixture. "Go to the RIGHT, little bird." (Swoosh left.) THUMP into a banister.

Finally some wise old guy (who I'm sure is a very experienced parent), tells them to put down the nets, turn off the lights, and open the doors to the sun light. The bird flies right out. Dr. Spock eat your heart out. That's good parenting right there.

I'm nowhere near the status of "Wise Old Guy" yet. And it worries me. If such well-meaning instruction as "coffee isn't healthy for you" can be heard by a child as "Starbucks is an institution of the Dark Lord," then how seriously might I screw up my kids if I'm not careful? Who's to say I won't be explaining to them one day about how the moon is round like a ball, not flat like a dinner plate, and what they'll take from the lesson is (swoosh) "okay, so fat people have only themselves to blame?" (BANG.)

And most frightening of all, I think my kids come by that fault honestly. I can only hope for mercy when I say something like "all congressmen are incompetent obstructionists who should be broiled naked in their own pork barrels. This country would be run better by a retarded ferret." And God gasps, and his lips shake from trying not to laugh, because it is funny, but at the same time he's terrified that I might really be screwed up. At such times He pulls aside an angel and says "Ed made the most idiotic pre-judgment just now. I tried to clarify for him, but who knows what if anything got through."

How easily I scoop people into the most convenient of corners. I wave my net at folks every day, trying to shew them in the right direction. (Swoosh. BANG.) At some point, I'll grow the guts to put my net down. For now, I just need to remind myself that when I prod my daughter one way, and she goes swish in another and bangs into a wall, what she's really saying is "Just step back and show me the sunlight, Dad, so I can get out."

Eddie is a graphic designer from Peoria, Arizona and life long short story fan. Occasionally he'll crank one out himself and pester his wife for feedback. He enjoys learning how other people write, teasing his kids, and pretending he knows how to play the guitar.

The Bush

by

Sally Arango Renata 

When I moved to my small white house, I set about trying to tame the largely ignored yard.  In front, to the left of the front door, there was an ugly, brambled, evergreen I knew had to go.  It was totally out of control. I debated whether I should attempt to cut it down, or, as it seemed so large and rambling, attach a rope or chain and pull it out of the ground with my car.  But, it was so old. I could imagine the front of the house being pulled away by the roots.

I put the task off.  As I drove through different neighborhoods I searched for a plant or tree that could replace my eyesore.  I wanted something simple but distinctive.  One day, I passed a house with the most beautiful bush.  It grew like a cypress, the brown base curved randomly reaching out with accents of evergreen.  It looked Oriental, like a giant bonsai.  I wanted that bush!

I went to garden centers and nurseries trying to explain what I was looking for, but no one seemed to have any idea what t could be. I talked to friends, went through catalogues,  even considered trying to find the house where I had seen it.  But memory failed me.  I finally gave up.

Resigned, I took my clippers and began trimming the foundation plants away from windows, to give them shape.  I put the task of cutting the most difficult bush, my eyesore, last.  Examining the bush I realized the illusion of bramble came from dead branches that filled the middle, just under the green.  It looked like it had never been trimmed or tended.

I began cutting, not paying attention to anything except removing dead wood and branches.  I had no experience, no vision of the end,but it seemed a good way to start.  If it ended up looking like a fuzzy lollypop, it would be easier to take down with the bramble gone.

I began at the bottom, at times working by feel with what I couldn't see. There was a peacefulness in concentration, a  letting go of everything on my mind.  When one branch was gone, another showed itself.My hands worked skillfully, automatically.  Hours later, I had two black yard bags of prickly needles, dead twigs and branches.  I stood back to  assess the bush, to decide whether it would live or die.

I couldn't believe what I saw!  There before me was the very bush I had been looking for!  Free of dead wood, the graceful trunk reached out unpredictably with roughened shades of brown, it’s green, clustered evergreen feathers.


Sally Arango Renata is a folk artist, poet and writer who lives near the coast of South Carolina.