Autumn

 

Carolyn J. Rose

There isn't a bite in the air. Yet. But on fog-shrouded mornings there's certainly a nibble. And even a gnawing.

Evenings bring a welling up of colder air from shaded areas of the yard.

Birds are gathering in flocks and nipping off berries. They're stripping leaves from sunflowers and watching squirrels chomping at the drooping heads.

Pine cones cluster in tight rows. Splotches of red and shadings of gold decorate trees soon to have their leaves stolen by a thrashing wind.

I start to see Halloween decorations in yards and start to long for simpler times when we cut out a few bat-like shapes from black construction paper to stick on the windows, carved pumpkins, and wore costumes scavenged from trunks in the attic. I rail inwardly about commercialization and jumping the season. But I say nothing to give myself away as a fogey, a curmudgeon, a stick-in-the-mud, a relic.

I think instead about my favorite things about the season. Not that ubiquitous pumpkin spice, but the scent of brittle leaves as I walk through drifts of color.

The first bite of a crisp apple. Candied pecans. Soups. Warm bread. The sound of rain on the roof after a dry summer. And the feeling of a sloughing off, a preparation for renewal, for spring.

The Great and Small Disappointments of Life

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

In my eight decades on earth I've suffered some major disappointments: shattered romances, jobs I didn't get, novels that were rejected, and the blows of mortality in general. Recalling them means a tumbling fall into the abyss of loss and pain. So lately I shove those thoughts aside and replace them with memories of smaller disappointments, those that stung at the time, but now conjure a  smile, a chuckle, or a wry laugh.

The brownies not meant for me. After a long day at high school and a 30-minute ride on a bus seemingly devoid of shock absorbers or significant ventilation to overpower the body odor of a load of teenagers, I'd arrive home ready to stuff my face. Apples, celery, cereal, and toast were always available, but I craved sugar. My mother, however, was a nurse and not keen on an endless supply of cookies or cake. So I'd be thrilled to find a pan of brownies cooling on the counter. The thrill, however, would be smothered by the sign next to the pan: “Do not touch. These are for the PTA bake sale.”

 To this day, the smell of brownies makes me wonder how much the PTA made from that pan and what they spent the money on. I can assure you that it wasn't put toward improving cafeteria lunches.

 The canned fruit cocktail with only one cherry: Any kid back in the day knew the best thing in that can was the cherry. And any kid with a sibling probably knew that the fight was on once the can opener had done its thing. It was a sad day indeed when it wasn't my turn to get that little red treat. And it was a day nearly as sad when I got it and discovered it was merely half a cherry.

 I haven't eaten canned fruit cocktail since childhood. I get my cherry fix in the kind of cocktail I can order where a bartender will nod at my request for more than one cherry and stick as many on the decorative toothpick as it will hold.

 A coyote could outrun a roadrunner: Years of believing the opposite, thanks to those cartoons, went down the tubes when I finally sought the truth. In a sprint, a coyote in good health could overtake and capture the bird. It was months before I tamped down my disappointment by considering that the cartoon coyote wasn't in the best of shape due to the unceasing traumatic failures of all those Acme products. Perhaps the coyote should have sought products from another company. Perhaps if he had, he could have caught that pesky bird.

But then what? Would the capture mean an even greater disappointment for me? Best not to go there.

I no longer wear size 6 shoes. Some positive things have come with aging: retiring, taking advantage of senior rates, and the appetite decline that means I now wear size 6 jeans. Unfortunately, aging also means feet spread and lengthen, so I'm now in a size 8.

Sure, I still gaze longingly at shoes on the racks labeled 6. And I linger as I pass the 7s. I consider employing a shoehorn, shoving and squeezing, gritting my teeth, and ordering my cramping toes to stop complaining. But I don't.

Aging, while bringing with it many aches and pains, has so far left intact enough brain cells to send a strongly worded message to my vanity to cease and desist.     

 

 

The (Lack of) Adventures of Recliner Man

  

Carolyn J. Rose

He doesn't wield a hammer like Thor, could never draw a bow like Hawkeye, and can't transform like the Hulk. But Recliner Man, armed only with a universal remote control and often wearing nothing more than pajamas, can travel the globe, steep himself in current events, jump back to days of Noir, or click forward to views of the future.

When he's not channel surfing or reading, Recliner Man relies on a unique set of superpowers to discourage assaults on his Citadel of Comfort. Forget the ability to hear sounds miles away, Recliner Man has the ability to not hear sounds emanating from within a few feet of his eardrums. Coupled with that is the ability to not see dust, disorder, and/or discarded clothing.

Procrastination is also in his skill set, as is the ability to wipe out memories. No name, occasion, or appointment is too vital to remain embedded in his brain cells.

Although his IQ is high, Recliner Man's mind can be muddled by rearranging furniture, reordering contents of kitchen cabinets, or reshuffling items in the refrigerator. His focus will blur if the mustard jar is moved to a lower shelf. He'll peer and blink and grope, unable to grasp it. 

Change the order of knives, forks, and spoons in the drawer and he'll suffer temporary paralysis, hand poised above the cutlery tray, a plaintive whine escaping his lips.

And just as Superman's physical powers can be drained by exposure to kryptonite, Recliner Man can be weakened by household chores no matter how trivial. Flash a paper scribbled with penciled tasks such as taking out the trash, vacuuming, or sweeping the patio, and Recliner Man trembles. Feet dragging, he'll exercise every ounce of willpower to accomplish a job, but immediately slumps into a restorative recline.

Like some superheroes, Recliner Man has a dog with superpowers. Sprawl, a black and white mutt, can levitate from Recliner Man's lap and spin in a tight circle. The resulting tornado of hair disorients and disarms an approaching enemy.

​And Recliner Man's foes are legion. Anyone who knocks or rings the bell and expects him to rise and trudge to the door. The postal worker who delivers mail to a box a hundred feet away across wet grass that soaks his slippers. The trash collectors who require containers be rolled to the street in view of neighbors, thus requiring Recliner Man to shuck his pajamas and don clothing.

And then there's me, his wife, his prime nemesis, his archenemy. I drain his powers by writing lists, rearranging furniture, storing grocery items down a flight of stairs, and making appointments that require leaving the Citadel of Comfort. And should I find my strength waning, I summon my ultimate superpower: the ability to find Recliner Man amusing.

The Department of Lost Time

 Carolyn J. Rose

First, let me say that the staff members I encountered at the 136th Street Department of Licensing Office in Vancouver were upbeat, helpful, and patient. They were also extremely efficient.

But now for the rant:

When I got the notice that my driver's license would expire in a month, Ihopped on the site to make an appointment. Because I'm over 70, I couldn't renew online. Apparently they want to make sure I'm ambulatory and have a pulse. And I think that's a great idea because I've had several close calls with drivers who . . .

But anyway, I found no appointment openings for weeks in my area, only available slots at offices an hour or more away. Given the price of gas thanks to that war with Iran, I quickly axed the idea of a hundred-mile round trip.

My husband—also helpful and patient up to a point if that point is within, say, a ten-minute range—called the state headquarters and was told that there were no openings in Vancouver before my license expired. When he asked what we were supposed to do, he was told we should show up at 8:30 when the office opened and get in line and wait and take our chances.

And so we pulled up at 8:40 and found the room dark. Seems that on Thursday mornings the drivers' licensing staff has a meeting that runs until 10. We groused a bit at the poor guy at the car registration desk who gave us the “don't shoot the messenger” talk, but then we slunk away.

After procuring a snack from a nearby grocery store, putting in fifteen minutes waiting in the parking lot and watching a dozen people forming a line, I went in to use the restroom. Posted on the door of the women's toilet was a sign stating it was closed and staff would direct us to the alternate location.

​Queried about that, the don't-shoot-the-messenger guy informed me there was no alternate location and a plumber would probably arrive later in the day. I groused again, this time louder and longer.

Since Mike's license won't expire until November, I suggested we go home and I'd return later. So we drove home, I emptied my bladder, and drove back. I arrived at 10:20 and was informed that I couldn't simply take a number and wait, but had to make an appointment. Fortunately, there was one available. At 12:45.

This is where I learned the secret that's apparently guarded so carefully by the folks answering questions at the state headquarters. A few minutes before the office opens—which seems to be 9 instead of 8:30—they open a same-day appointment schedule and you can scramble to get a slot.

Irritated as I was by the bureaucracy, I kept most of my cool and thanked the staff member for finding me a spot. Then, because the office is a 25-minute drive from home and gas, and I mentioned previously, is expensive, I went shopping. Not for clothes, but for chocolate and chips and cheesy snacks.

After a day at the Department of Lost Time, I'm two pounds heavier. But I now have a license good for 8 years. By that time, I hope to have enough brain cells still functioning to keep me from getting on the freeway. Or getting behind the wheel at all.

 

CAPITALIZING ON CRITTERS

 

Carolyn J. Rose

A recently opened cat cafe found feline lovers pressing their noses against the

windows and opening their wallets to secure seats inside. There, amid

twitching tails and tinkling bells on collars, patrons enjoyed coffee,

conversation, and the chance to be snubbed by a kitty.

The attraction to interaction with an animal—without 24/7 obligation—got

the capitalistic corner of my mind churning. I concluded there was money to

be made from close-up encounters with critters normally not considered pets.

Here are a few of my ideas.

Snooze with a Sloth. If you find yourself stressed out and physically exhausted, 

rent a hammock in an indoor jungle setting. Focus on the creature 

draped from a limb above you. Strive to achieve stillness. 

Painting with Pachyderms. Elephants enjoy creating works of art. For a fee,

and the thrill of clamping a yard of garden hose to your head, you can join

them. We guarantee you'll emerge with a one-of-a-kind original painting.

Baboon Buffet. If overeating is a problem, a visit to a baboon buffet could be

the cure. As you begin to load your tray, management will let loose a troop of

baboons. The resulting competition for chow will insure that either you get

nothing or what you're able to scavenge has been trampled, thrown, or

previously chewed. If you don't lose a finger, you'll certainly lose your

appetite.

Buffalo Banking. Need a loan? It's guaranteed if you can 

make it through the herd of bison milling in the bank 

lobby.

Jog with a Jaguar. Want to increase your speed but lack motivation? Lace up

your running shoes, strap a raw steak to your butt, and head for the Big Cat

Track. A sliding-scale fee determines the length of your head start.

​

Shark Swim School. If lifeguards leap to your rescue because you appear to

be drowning, it's time to stop flailing and improve your technique. Swimming

with sharks can help you develop a smooth stroke and cut through the water

faster.

Mambo with a Mamba. Having trouble with your footwork? A lesson at this

dance studio will keep you on your toes and keep those toes in seriously fast

motion. As there are no refunds, knee-high boots are recommended.

Anaconda Auto Sales. Naturally you want a great deal. But can you squeeze

one out before the snake squeezes you to the point where you're willing to

pay for undercoating and an extended warranty?

Obviously, given the number of species on earth and human inventiveness,

the sky is the limit. Also obviously, pursuing any of these ideas could result

in injury or worse. So bear that in mind and don't blame me if your car gets

damaged at the Gorilla Gas Station or if your Playdate with a Platypus ends

with a visit to urgent care.

Thunder

 

Carolyn J. Rose

A long rumble of thunder woke me shortly before dawn. Close. And low.

 

Rain hit the roof. A spatter. A splatter. A deluge. Then, a splatter once again. 

I listened for a time, remembering thunderstorms in the Catskill Mountains where I grew up. Cracks and booms and echoes bouncing off mountainsides. Overlapping. Crashing back on themselves.

 Streaks of lightning. Sheets of rain. Dirt roads awash. The brook below the house running high. The stream in the narrow valley between ridges a rusty red with clay washed from its banks.

 The sound of thunder there and then always evoked images of Rip Van Winkle. And images of the ghosts of Henry Hudson's crew, bowling somewhere out of my sight behind the clouds.

 As a child I would speculate about how large their bowling balls and pins would have to be to produce such impressive sounds. I may have asked the adults in my world about that. I may have gotten some kind of answers. I may even have thought the answers had merit because I believed in ghosts. Or at least the possibility of ghosts. 

I still do.

So as this morning's spatters ceased and the storm rolled away, I wondered if those ghosts regularly left the Catskills to bowl among other mountains. I wondered who reset the pins and who kept the score sheet and whether, like the rest of us, ghosts were required to wear special shoes.

 

But before I got to wondering about monogrammed bowling balls and bags, I fell asleep once more.

There's no business like . . .

 

It’s a little-known fact (so little known, it’s impossible to confirm or deny) that your humble blogger was the winner of the 1957 Bandon, Oregon, Cranberry Festival Talent Show. This was the precursor to the off-key marching band procession through all four blocks of downtown Bandon and the accompanying majorette-tripping free-for-all and cranberry fling-a-thon.                   

Being 9 years old, tubby and a born smartass, I’d selected “I’m a Little Teapot, Short and Stout” as my crowd-pleasing musical selection. Later, the other entrants claimed I had an unfair visual advantage being both diminutive and tubby, i.e. short and stout. But others, not so sour grapedly, admitted my arm motions accompanying “This is my handle, this is my spout” were things of beauty.

I won a $25 dollar savings bond, which I wisely cashed in for its face value of $14.37, and invested in a stack of “Captain Splurgo” comic books and a five-pound bag of Choco-Yummies. (Later banned by the FDA). Mmmmm, Choco-Yummies.

It’s a fact, America (and the world) does love talent competitions. There’s one streaming on TV somewhere as I speak. Uh, type. I recently stumbled across a news article about a live show held by our neighbors to the north, Walla Walla, Washington. You know, Walla, Walla, the city so nice they named it twice?

Cleverly, the amateur performance extravaganza was titled “The Walla Walla’s Got Got, Talent Talent Show Show. Clever Clever, no? No. I was stunned and/or amazed by the width, height and circumference of the acts that took the stage.

·      The Heliumaire’s: Apparently, this was a barbershop quartet who trilled helium-aided falsetto 4-part harmony of old-timey favorites.  Mid-medley they inflated long-nozzled balloons and twisted and tied helium critters for the kids. Apparently the crowd favorite was “Sweet Adeline” segueing into a balloon Labra-doodle licking himself.

·      Bucky, the tap-dancing beaver. A nature lover in full furry regalia, including enormous plastic teeth and repurposed spatula tail tripped (Literally. You try doing a time step in a Beaver suit) the light fantastic to the tune of “Up a Lazy River.” No word where he found size 28 tap shoes.

·      The Coagulators: A surly leather-clad all-girl group that snarled their way through a medley of songs from the Rolling Stones “Let it Bleed” album.

Other performers included “Marvin and his roller-skating Corgi,” “Lucious Lola” who pole danced while reciting a sonnet comprised of Donald Trumps’ lies and broken campaign promises, and the Varicoastal’s, an eighty and older chorus line who showed off their pulsing veins while low-kicking across the stage to the tune of “Funkytown.”

And the winner of the first and only Walla Walla’s got got talent talent show show? Ventriloquist Vinnie Vroom and his mumbling sidekick, Larry the lounge lizard. Which, apparently was a gecko hand puppet decked out in a custom tux. 

I wonder where Vinnie spent his $14.37. Maybe someone, somewhere has a hoard of mummified Choco-Yummies they’ll sell him.