The Charmin Guy

I read that Dick Wilson, the man who played Mr. Whipple ("Please don't squeeze the Charmin!") passed away just before Thanksgiving. I remember myself as a kid, watching him as he shamefully, yet gleefully, ducked 'round the corner and squeezed the hell out of a toilet paper package after having chastised some woman for doing the same. Sure, he was being hypocritical, but I think even then I had a spot of sympathy for him. This poor man, an uncontrollable urge that to him seemed so inappropriate and socially unacceptable yet he JUST COULDN'T STOP HIMSELF. With the Larry Craigs and the Richard Curtises and the Mark Foleys of today, it makes Mr. Whipple's addiction seem so cute. "Please," I wanted to say even then, "buy yourself some Charmin, take it home and squeeze until you can squeeze no more." Actually, I remember Dick Wilson playing a character with an altogether different kind of addiction. Do you recall the latter-stage alcoholic constantly witness to Samantha Stevens' witchcraft on "Bewitched?" That was him. And just like many drunks I have known, he'd swear off the booze after having watched Sam appear/disappear/float/morph, then he'd toddle away down the sidewalk trying to convince himself that it had all been a hallucination. But a few episodes later, there he'd be again, stumbling out of a bar, car keys in hand.

Thanksgiving was a quiet affair at our house. Our neighbors, he of the sliced thumb and his partner, were to join us for turkey and fixin's. Yet, while awaiting tendon reattatchment surgery the night before Thanksgiving, a sharp pain in the side alerted him that something additional was wrong. Sure enough, it was an appendicitis. And not a moment too soon. So, in a sense, the slicing was a GOOD thing, since he might have had the attack and chalked it up to indigestion. Two surgeries later, he's on the road to recovery and has the late turkey, ironically named "THANKSGIVING" to thank for it all.

Warming up to the Cold

It seems like I can't get warm lately. We're beginning a remodel of our kitchen; the work's been going on endlessly and we've not even started the kitchen, yet. The mudroom is now (almost) the pantry, a door removed and outside leading doors nearly all glass. Maybe it's psychological, but with the open space I feel constantly chilled. My sons huddle up to the wood burning stove (in their thin shortsleeves as I nag them to put on sweaters) and I find myself jamming log after log into the stove's open mouth.

In our living room is a mountain of Ikea boxes, kitchen cabinets waiting for me to piece together. I imagine that hell might be like that. I think that if there is such a place, the cruelest punishment will be an eternity doing that very thing that in life caused you to break out in a sweat and become anxious, snapping at loved ones and strangers equally. For me, it would be sorting dozens of boxes by code, unwrapping and trying to find a place for the sheets of styrofoam (and feeling horribly guilty about the waste), crawling around on my hands and knees as tiny metal fasteners dig themselves into my kneecaps, being buried under giant rectangles of discarded cardboard.

My son caught me in the walkway at school today, proudly showing me a tower of river rock he'd made in the garden bed. Someone had dropped off a large pile of smooth, gray stones and several students had taken to making a zen garden of sorts from them. I'll miss that in another year, seeing my son each day, his beaming face as he moves from classroom to classroom, his joyful play on the big toy as he calls out to me by my teacher name. I hope he remembers those moments when he's my age and that when he does, he smiles.

A Leonard Cohen Morning

On mornings like this, when the drizzle hangs in the air like gauze, I'm reminded of one of my favorite films, "McCabe and Mrs. Miller." The soundtrack is a repetitive hum of Leonard Cohen at his somber best and it captures the dreariness of the Pacific Northwest in late autumn/early winter perfectly. Today is one of those days.

Last night I had my final class with Kathleen Alcala, "Historical Fiction" or titled something along those lines. It was a great class; though I think the best part (as I often find with writing courses) was the chance to share writing with others. It's wonderful to see what others are working on and make connections with those whose styles are in the same vein as your own. Two other writers--amazing at their crafts--and I have made a pact to continue meeting and discussing our current projects. We mean it, totally and for sure this time.

I caught some flack over the personal disclosure of yesterday's entry but I have to say that the animal karma is out in force. A coworker's husband shot a deer while hunting this last weekend and while preparing to gut it, he missed and stabbed himself in his knee bone. I've decided that I'm not even going to comb my dog until this curse passes.

The Day Thanksgiving Died

My neighbor and his partner adopted two little turkey chicks (turkeylings? Turkilettes?) some time ago. They'd planned to raise them as future main courses, naming one Thanksgiving and the other Christmas. This last weekend was to be the knell for both of them. The moment had come, a club was swung, a turkey hanged upside-down. A swift flick of a sharp blade and the recently deceased fowl lurched, like some zombie bird bent on redemption, on a refusal to go without a fight. The neck is cut, but overshot and along with it, the now guilt-ridden and distraught man's thumb. A phone call is made to the neighbor (me) with the not-so-cryptic question: "Where's the nearest hospital?"

When my partner and I went next door to help secure the scene (a hanging bird in the woods, with many chickens running around unsecured, would be too enticing for the coyotoes, bear and fierce racoons in the area), it was missing only police tape and chalk outlines. Besides the ominous sight of the bird (and the confused, but suspicious-looking still-living turkey named Christmas--because, even though they'd planned to kill both on the same day, Christmas still follows Thanksgiving), there was the bloody club, the bloody knife and various scattered gloves, some bloody, some not. Sensing a theme? There was also blood on the steps.

In the end, we offered to help secure the Meat of Christmas (NOT the title of an O Henry story), but alas, the thrill of the fight had left everyone involved. Karma draped over the town of Kingston like a thick, down blanket. Our neighbor is a changed man, humble and contemplative. A heart is renewed and while I'd offered so readily to come to his aid, to snap the handles of the pruning shears against the quivering waddle of Christmas, I know that I could no sooner do that to the bird than I could my own loyal dog. It was all I could do to stuff the bloated, feathery body into the safety of the Coleman cooler. I suppose that the sting of death is unexpected for many of us, even if it's in the context of supper. When I reach back into my memory, remembering the deer hanging from the rafters of my garage and the sharp hunting knife that my stepfather had given me to skin his kill, the dark eyes of the doe still resonate in my mind. I know it was dead, long before I began separating the skin from the muscle. But its eyes. Man, they were ruthless.

Back at the keyboard

It's been some time since I tried out this blog thing. On recommendation from my editor, I thought I'd pick it up again. Since my last entry, I've been hard at work editing my book and just this morning, I sent off what I'm hoping are my last edits to my editor before it goes to press. It's scary and a relief since the proofreader caught a couple glaring errors that would have been pretty embarassing had they wound up in the actual book. The final title is, "The Lyncher in Me: a Search for Redemption in the Face of History." I credit Rebecca Walker with the main title; it came out during a discussion of my work during a memoir workshop. It's great. The cover art is wonderfully powerful and my publisher at Borealis is standing behind it 100%. They've decided to make my title the headliner for the spring (sesquentennial) catalog. Amazing. I feel like I'm on the cusp of something big here and I'm not sure I'm ready for what's coming up.