Near 500 words: The best of times

Charles Dickens begins his A Tale of Two Cities with “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.”  Often we spend our time dwelling on and complaining about the worst of times. Yet life is filled with so many opportunities to say thank you. So why not make everyday a Thanksgiving.

For the world is filled with wonder. No day passes without at least one Wow. Many’s the time I’ve stepped out of my house: The birds were singing. The wind was a cool breeze. The grass was all green. And the roses were blooming.

Many’s the time I’ve listened to a piece of music that took my breath away: Vaughan Williams’ “Fantasia on Greensleaves”, Ravel’s “Une barque sur l’ocean” and Maurice Jarre’s “Lara’s Theme” from “Dr. Zhivago”.

Many’s the time I’ve looked at a face and realized Time is a master sculptor. Before me was a great work of art.

Many’s the time I’ve looked into someone’s eyes and thought that there are amazing worlds inside this human being. An eternity of memories. Sadness and joy, wonder and tragedy.

Way too often I’ve forgotten to say, “Thank you,” for the feast laid out before me.

Thanksgiving day is a wonderful reminder of all the times I do forget

And I love the way Don Henley gets it all down in his song “My Thanksgiving”:

The Prodigal Father

Inspired by Shakespeare’s “Henry IV Part One. Have you ever wondered what happened after the Prodigal Son’s return to his father?

Twenty years or so after the Prodigal Son’s return, his father occupied a table outside a cafe on a small street near a city park. The old man lifted his half-filled wine glass, saluted the spring morning, touched the liquid to his lips, sipped the nectar, then smiled at his mouth’s delight as he waited for the younger of his two sons.

His thoughts elsewhere, he occasionally raked his fingers through his white beard, unknotting the long, fine strands. He lifted a pipe to his mouth and inhaled a slow puff of tobacco.

He remembered asking his son in that long ago time of the boy’s return, “Tell me. What was it like?”

“It was glorious. Until the money ran out. Stuck my thumb out and headed West, cause West was where the night life was. And I had one rip roaring time. There was down on my luck days and full house nights. Did the Vegas thing and lost everything, including the seat of my pants. Robbed a train or two. Me and my outlaw buddies. Spent some time out Siberia way. Cold so bad it froze the bones. Fell in love seven, eight, nine times. Prayed at the Ganges.”

Listening to the boy spill his stories out like he was tossing dice, he couldn’t help but wonder what it was like to just take off toward the horizon without a care in the world.

“So. What made you come back? The farm sounds like it’d be Boredom City compared to the life you were living?”

“Don’t know. Guess I got tired of mining for gold and coming up pyrite. When I tired of a life on the run, I got into my head to settle down. Thing is I didn’t have much job experience. Even for a swineherd job, I needed a resume. So I lied and made everything up. Then I got to feeling guilty. Lying just wasn’t in my blood. You’d taught me well where that was concerned.”

As his son talked, the father realized he’d missed so much. He’d taken over his father’s farm because his father couldn’t do the work anymore. If the farm had depended on happiness to prosper, it never would have prospered. But it had prospered as he sowed the seeds of his misery. That’s when he realized he had taken a hankering for the wondering life. It’s like they say. You don’t know you’re lonely till you glance at a happy couple.

That night he called his two sons into his library. Right there and then, he did a Lear. Handed his older son the deed to the farm with a check for enough money to manage. He gave his second son, the prodigal boy, another check. That left him with just enough cash to head for parts unknown.

He’d been places. He’d gone East when he could have travelled West. He’d wanted to find the place where the sky drew back a curtain and gave the opening act of the sun, a new day to play with. He’d never found that spot, though he tried. It was just as lost as the end of the rainbow.

Scanning the park nearby, he recognized his son, walking briskly toward him. The once-upon-a-time young man had put on some pounds but otherwise he’d prospered in the intervening years since the two had last seen each other.

The old man called the waiter over and ordered a second bottle of wine.

The younger man saw his father and hurried toward him. The two men embraced, then sat down. At the table, they took a long look at each other, and tears rolled down their faces.

“Where’s your brother?”

“He wouldn’t come.”

“Figures.”

“How are you, Pops?”

“Still ornery enough to kick your butt.”

“I bet you can.”

The old man poured out two glasses of wine. Then they sat silently gazing into the park. They had never been a talkative bunch, he and his sons. His long dead wife had done most of the talking, often carrying on both sides of the conversation.

The sun slipped out of the sky and slowly the evening settled into shadows. In the silence, the father reached across the table and squeezed his son’s hand.

“I love you, Son.”

“I love you too, Pops.”

It was close to midnight when the two stood up and embraced.

“You sure you won’t come home with me? For just one night. Liza would love that.”

“No, Son. It wouldn’t be right. Your brother would think I was playing favorites again.”

The Son nodded. He knew what his father meant.

“‘Sides I got to get on. There’s a whole wide world out there to explore.”

The two embraced one last time, kissing each other’s cheeks. Then it was goodbye.

The son walked away, glancing back at his father several times, each time a longing in his eyes, a longing for another time and place when the two had shared a meal with his brother, when the three had laughed heartily at bad jokes and good wine and a mother’s love as his mother served up a feast of a meal. That time was gone, only a memory that would fade into the dust of time.

The old man sighed, then finished the wine. He decided it was time to go West finally to the sun’s setting and catch a wave off to Avalon. He stood up, dropped his pipe into his pocket and strolled off to the park. He’d hitch a ride the next morning.

In the dark and under a tree nearby, his older son watched his father. He started to call out, but something stopped him. He just couldn’t do it. So he turned and headed back to the farm. He had cows to milk early the next morning.

Near 500 words: Joshua in Charge

Recently I read the Book of Joshua in the The Old Testament. It inspired this story.

After Moses died, Joshua was put in charge of the Israelites. He’d been around since Egypt and he’d never given Moses any lip. It was always “Yes, Sir” and “No, Sir” and “How high, Sir?” He was a Libra and he could charm the pants off the most rebellious Israelite. On top of that, he put on the best shows. His “Forty Years in the Wilderness Without Any Pants (‘Cause Guys Wear Dresses)” was a real hoot of a musical.

So God knew He had His guy when Moses suggested Joshua would be perfect for the job. Joshua wasn’t so sure.

“Why don’t you go with Caleb?” Joshua suggested.

“You know how he is. He’ll go off and shoot himself in the foot. No, you’re My guy.”

“I’ll give it a try but–”

“I have just the thing. Roll up your sleeve, Josh.”

“What for, Sir?

“I’m going to give you a shot of self confidence.”

“You know I don’t like needles.”

“There. Did that hurt?”

“A little bit.”

“Let me kiss it and it’ll be all better.”

“Well, okay. Do I get a lollypop?”

God kissed the boo-boo, then handed Joshua two lollypops.

“My favorites,” Joshua said. “Root beer and Wild Strawberry. Yummy.”

After a late night with the Almighty, Joshua went back to camp. He gathered everybody and said, “I have some good news, and I have some bad news.”

“What’s the good news?” Levi called out.

“The good news is we’re going to kick some Canaanite butt.”

“Aw right,” the crowd cheered.

Never one to take good news well, Judah shouted, “So what’s the bad news?”

“It’s not really bad,” Joshua holding back.

“C’mon,” Levi said. “We can take it. After all, what can be worse than the manna we’ve been eating for forty years. We’re ready for some of that milk and honey.”

“Yeah,” Reuben yelled. “Especially that honey part.”

“Okay, guys,” Joshua said. “You asked for it. We have to let our pee pees go.”

Boos went through the crowds. If this had been a movie, the soundtrack would have been playing Bob Dylan and “Everybody must get stoned.” Them Israelites had rocks in their hands and they were ready to rock ‘n’ roll.

“C’mon, fellas,” Joshua pleaded. “It’s for a good cause. After all, there are no free rides.”

“I knew there had to be a catch,” Judah said. “After all, it’s Friday the 13th. On top of that, it’s a full moon.”

“Yeah,” Reuben grimaced, “But circumcision. That’s gonna hurt.”

“So who’s going to do the deed?” Levi wanted to know. Not happy but still he was a Levite. And Levites were God’s Guys.

Joshua hesitated, then said really slow-like, “Brad.”

“Brad!” Judah, Levi and Reuben let out. “Not Brad.”

A roar went out from the crowd like an echo, “Not Brad.”

“He’s the only one with a knife,” Joshua said. “The rest of you have swords. And I gotta tell you, ain’t nobody going to take a sword to my…well, you know.”

“But Brad is blind as a bat,” Reuben said.

“And cross-eyed to boot,” Judah added.

“The Almighty’s got you covered on those two things,” Joshua said. “Brad’s got glasses now.”

“But what if he misses?” Reuben asked. “Even with glasses?”

“Let’s just say you’ll be eunuch,” Joshua said, then, “I’m going to need some of you guys to volunteer for trumpet lessons. We’re going to have a big performance at Jericho.”

De Mayor’s Election

No one knew De Mayor’s real name. He’d been in office for so long he was known far and wide as De Mayor. Or Sir. Even his wife, the Mayoress, didn’t know it. She knew him as Hon.

Over the years, he’d been referred to as the Teflon Mayor. Every scandal rolled off him. But not this year. His karma had finally caught up with him. This year he might actually lose the election and become known as De Ex.

That’s how unpopular he was. His poll numbers were a minus five. It looked like Anybody Else could have beaten De Mayor in a landslide.

Over the last twenty years of his leading The City, graft had developed into graft. De Mayor had figured a way  to collect taxes on all the money passed under the table. That money somehow ended up in his bank account. He was not only accused of being in bed with the local crime lord. He was literally in bed with the local crime lord,  Morgana Buzz.

For the first time in five elections, he had an opponent, a skinny thirty year old named Toby. He’d grown up in The City a poor kid, gone off to Harvard Law, started a business that was now employing several hundred local folks. And it looked like he might actually win. His poll numbers were 105 percent and no unfavorables.

De Mayor started off his campaign with the slogan, “Ain’t Things Nice.” Sure things were nice for De Mayor. His street had all the potholes filled in. They were nice for the Mayoress. She’d gotten a loan from The City to buy the local pro soccer team at minus five percent.

Things were nice for De Mayor’s brother. He was Chief of Police. They were nice for De Mayor’s sister. She was the local Tax Collector. And they were nice for De Mayor’s daughter. She took over the gambling concessions in the town.

When the slogan, “Ain’t things nice,” didn’t work, De Mayor started denigrating his opponent by calling Toby “the Candidate of Good Intentions.” But that only helped the kid with the nice smile. Toby kept saying, “We need a change real bad.” The poll numbers showed that the citizens agreed with him.

During the debate, De Mayor reminded the locals, “At least, I know where the graft is.”

Toby came back with, “Why do we need graft in the first place?”

“Why do we need graft?” De Mayor asked, then repeated himself, “Why do we need graft?”

“Yes, why do we need graft?” Toby asked again.

“America was built on graft. You think we would have won the American Revolution without paying off General Cornwallis. You think we’d have gotten Manhattan without paying off the Indians. You think Jefferson would have gotten Louisiana without paying off Napoleon.”

“Yeah, and Jefferson paid three times more than the French were asking. And that’s just the start. Panama Canal. World War I. The Great Depression. All purchased with graft. And why was Custer wiped out? He wouldn’t pay off Crazy Horse. Man, wake up and get to know your history.”

With that diatribe, Toby walked off the stage, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe his ears. And neither could the voters. It looked like De Mayor was done for.

After that, things went from bad to worse. Crime Lord Morgana Buzz quit taking his phone calls. She had gone on to the Governor for a bed mate. De Mayor’s police chief brother raided his daughter’s gambling establishments. De Mayoress’s loans were called in, and she was arrested by the FBI for bank fraud. Only his sister escaped scrutiny by raising De Mayor’s taxes.

On Sunday before the election, De Mayor went to his campaign headquarters.

Toby was waiting for him. “How did I get myself in this mess?”

De Mayor was shocked. “How did you get yourself in this mess? You ran. And I have to admit you’ve had a brilliant campaign. You haven’t done anything, and I’ve beat myself.”

“I don’t want to be mayor,” Toby said. “I don’t know how to be mayor. How am I going to keep folks liking me. I just wanted a little p.r. for my business.”

De Mayor reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He poured himself a glass, and he poured his opponent a glass. By the time they finished the bottle and started on a second, they came up with a new slogan for De Mayor’s campaign. And it worked wonders. De Mayor won in a landslide. The slogan was: “Vote for De Mayor. You could be stuck with something worse.”

Living Room Story: What the camera didn’t see

This one came after I went through an book of old photographs.

That summer at the farm was a perfect summer for the Davises. The camera stood waiting for one last photograph before the family headed back to the city for their winter life.

The camera saw the mother. Hope stepped through the front screen door and onto the porch. She took her place in the large wicker chair. She smiled at the camera’s eye, radiating the look of someone who had found the secret of happiness.

The camera saw Marty step behind her, a tall, lanky kid soon to be in his senior year in high school. He placed his long, thin hands onto his mother’s shoulders. She reached up and squeezed one of them.

The camera saw Marty’ sister, Grace, slide up beside her brother, wearing her engagement ring, thinking of the wedding to come. Standing there in her soft summer dress, she gave the camera a wink.

The camera saw Richard, the oldest son, join the others behind their mother. In his lieutenant’s uniform, he had that all-American look of promise that said he could accomplish anything he set his mind to.

George, the father, walked out onto the porch and sat down on the porch steps beside his wife. He looked around at his family and the camera saw the pride on his face. He was on his way to becoming the Ted Turner of laundromats, having inherited one from his father and turning it into five.

But the camera didn’t see Hope’s breast cancer and her death two years later. The camera didn’t see the knife plunged into Marty’s gut as he tried to stop a convenience store robbery. The camera didn’t see Grace’s three divorces and then her suicide from an overdose of sleeping pills. The camera didn’t see the bullet chasing Richard in the jungles of Vietnam.

The camera didn’t see an older George in a run-down motel, sitting on the side of the bed. He was left with only with an empty wallet, a half bottle of scotch and a cough that won’t go away. His accountant had embezzled him into bankruptcy.

And the camera didn’t see that time in the future when the family gathers for another perfect summer.