I had a very disturbing dream last night.  It was disturbing for several reasons, the largest being not that which you might suspect.

The dream lasted all of five minutes, as it was too upsetting in the end and I awoke myself to end it,as I have so gratefully learned to do. 

The dream began with me running in a field.  I was a man.  I was dressed in army fatigues, carrying a gun.  My company and I were advancing up a hill and under heavy firepower from the enemy, bunkered in above us.  There were foliage lines on the left and the right of this field.  There were bodies of American soldiers lying all over underfoot.  We had to jump over them to make our advance, yet still keeping as low as we could.  I ran with my face down as much as I could so that my helmet could protect my head from incoming shells.

When we had advanced about halfway up this hill, the enemy began launching bombs.  They peppered the field, first behind us and then at us.  Our order was to keep advancing, though most of us wanted to retreat.  The bombs were coming now one right after the other and I began to watch the sky to try to interpret which direction the next few might land so that I could place myself as far away from them as possible.  I was zig zagging all over the place, like an angry drunken madman with no destination,  tripping over bodies as I ran.  Over whose bodies, I knew not.  It might have even been my own company, as I realized I was suddenly completely alone.  I had lost my company.  I suspected mostly to the firepower and bombs.  Our casualties were great.  I was now alone.

I felt hopeless.  The air was hot and dry.  My throat was swollen with what seemed like an infection, my eyes and face burned from the heat , dirt and ash in the air.  There were fires all around me.  The battlefield smelled of blood, smoke and sulpher.  The air was so thick with smoke it was hard to see the bodies I had to jump over.  I stood there for a moment, peering around me, to see if I could make out any of my fellow company men on the advance still, but I could see nothing but fires and ongoing bomb explosions all around me. 

I knew just then that I was going to die here in this place.  I still didn’t know who I was fighting, or where I was, but it seemed familiar to me.  I had been here before.  Perhaps a lifetime ago.
I came out of my daze and scrambled left, heading for the tree line.  As I turned and ran I heard firepower directed at me.  I picked up speed, still hurdling and half tripping over random bodies.  As I lept over one in particular, I was shot in the left leg.  I fell to the ground.  Not because my leg was shot, but because I was avoiding being hit again.  I lay low as I reached down to touch my leg.  My hand hit something and it was wet and hot. I looked down and saw my hand and leg covered in blood.  I could not feel my leg. 

I was lying on the edge of the tree line, in tall thick grass. I could hear others coming from behind me, but I could not see over the tall grass.  I prayed they were not the enemy.   My leg was bleeding pretty heavily now.  I knew if I did not get medical attention, I was going to bleed out and die in this grass.
 As they men advancing from behind me got closer, I heard a large number of bodies coming at me through the woods line.  I realized then that the enemy had bombed the field, driving us into the woods for cover, where the ground troops were waiting for us.

The enemy came out of the woods charging at the advancing soldiers.  I was stepped on and tripped over a few times.  I felt terrible for all those soldiers I had done the same to, not realizing they weren’t quite dead yet.  I left them there all to die.  I might have been their last hope.
I lay low as I heard thousands of shells hitting soft targets.  I could hear men all around me groaning and dropping to the ground.  They sounded like the sand bags we used to surround forts with, hitting the ground, one after the other.

Then a man in a hat with foliage on it discovered me.  He was Asian.  Was I in Korea?  Vietnam?  Japan? He held up his rifle to shoot, but before his finger hit the trigger, he was shot by arrant fire and fell to the ground.  I paused to curiously think about the bombs we were under fire from and the gun he held.  I think I was in Japan.  I was fighting in World War II.  

I had to get out of there. 

I pulled myself up and ran as fast I could.  I was dragging my left leg behind me, which was entirely numb from knee to mid thigh.  I ran and ran through the woods, which seemed at this point to be empty.
I came to a small village of sorts, where I hid behind a house.  I was feeling weak and faint, like people who haven’t eaten in days might feel.  I remember that I ate breakfast earlier that morning.  I knew it was that I had lost too much blood.  I was bleeding to death, and it might take hours to kill me.  I thought to myself then that maybe it would have been better to be one of those sand bags hitting the ground back on the edge of the field, shot in the head or heart by enemy gunfire.  Maybe they were doing most of us a favor.

Feverish now, I was in and out of reality and daydreams of sorts, when I saw a little girl.  I thought I was delirious at first, but there she was, a little Asian girl dressed in a white shirt and green bottoms.  She looked to be about 7 or 8.  She stood there with her head cocked, looking me up and down curiously.

She saw my leg wound and stepped back, cringing.  Her little almond black eyes met mine then and they softened with compassion and concern.  She left, returning with a long strap of fabric and she began to tie my leg up tightly, to stop the bleeding.  It was a very awkward moment.  I knew she was the enemy.  I didn’t want to trust her.  I wanted to get out of there, but lacked the energy to move any further.  I was stuck there. 

She sat back after she had wrapped the wound and looked at me.  She looked at my gun and then at my eyes.  I said “thank you” as I pointed to my leg and gave a nervous smile.  She smiled back at me, with her little head still cocked.  She left again and returned with a small bowl rice.  She wanted me to eat, she motioned.   I ate with my right hand because she had not brought me any utensils.  My hand was covered in blood, dirt and soot, but these things didn’t matter.

I could hear people inside the house and in front of it walking around and speaking in their native tongue.  I knew it was only a matter of time before I was discovered.  But I ate.  This might give me the energy I need to move on, to where I knew not.  Or this might be my last meal.  How better to spend your last meal than with the innocence of a child, I thought.  I told her I was a writer.  I made motions to open a book and write with a pen.  She seemed to understand. 

I told her I was going to write about her one day..if I made it home.  As I spoke this to her my eyes welled with tears. 

She took the empty bowl from me and went around the corner again.  She was gone longer this time.  When she returned, there was a large Asian man following her, with a gun.  He pointed the gun at me and started screaming at me in a language I did not understand.  I looked to her for help but her eyes were narrowed now, she was back to being the enemy.  She had told him about me to help me and he had explained to her why I was here.  He had come to kill me.
I looked from right to left, from the little girl to her father, and shook my head saying “no, no, please”.  And that is when I awoke.

I woke to a very quiet bedroom with the sun shining outside.  I lay there for almost ten minutes just looking around lazily enjoying the peace and safety there.  When my thoughts drifted back to the dream, I became very sad.  Not just for my personal strife that lie therein.  Rather it was because we have probably sent thousands of writers overseas to fight wars.  We have indefinitely missed out on so much wonderful literature that would have been written had the vast number of troops sent over not been killed.

We might even have a cure for cancer by now.

But I digress.  The purpose of this was to fulfill a promise. 

I told the little girl I would that I write about her, if I made it home.  And so, I have.

8.3.09; last Friday I visited the cemetery that my parents are entombed in, to do a photography project that I am working on for the Unseen America Project.  We are supposed to be working on a project about ourselves, which I am entirely uncomfortable with.  I signed up for the class thinking it would stimulate creativity and ambition in me to capture every day life around me and to make it beautiful.  I am okay at photographing landscapes but I wanted encouragement to capture everyday normal life things and making them art.  It has been a difficult project for me because I didn't know they were going to make us focus on our own lives.  I wanted to focus on others around me.  To make matters more difficult, the project is black and white only and film processing only.  No Digital images allowed.

My final project is about my family.  Or lack thereof.  I lost my parents in my early twenties.  One when I was 23, the other followed a few years later, after remarrying to a woman who took our entire estate and gave my sister and I nothing from it.  I miss my parents every day, my father especially.  Most of all, I miss being part of a family. 

Most people can not imagine what it is like to not have a home to go to for holidays.  There is no one calling to see how you are regularly.  It can be very upsetting at times, especially around the holidays.

This photo is one of a series that I took-digital first to test the lighting, then film-to represent my lack-of-and-search-for family.  Yes, my parents are in there, if you blow it up to full size they are viewable.

Upon leaving the mausoleum after my shoot, I saw the most extraordinary thing.  There was a man in his 70's, with cotton white hair, who arrived and parked alongside the tomb in front of me.  He made his way to the outside of the building next to this one, with a relaxed sense of familiarity and habit.  He walked slowly with a smile of anticipation and excitement on his face, as if he were going to visit a dear friend.  I paused for a moment to watch as he met up with a square and a name.  He pressed his hands against the cold marble and drew himself flush to the wall, pressing his lips tenderly on the stone.  He drew back slowly and moved his right hand to the name.  I watched in awe as this gentle man traced out every letter and number on that stone with his forefinger and middle.  He moved with the tenderness and grace that one would use while touching their long since lover bathed in the glow of a soft candle after a passionate moment was shared.  I suddenly felt guilty for watching this very private scene.  I turned away in great sorrow and grief for the man.

 I wondered in that moment what it must be like to love someone with such intensity.   It is rare in this day and age, I am sure.  I feel fortunate to have witnessed this beautiful significance.  It is a vision that will forever be burned into my mind.

........

This past week has been a
whirlwind for me, as I busily finished out
my contracted work
assignment at GE in Schenectady.  A little known
fact about
me, that I do not like to get out, is that I grew up there.

That's right, a born and bred Schenectadian.  We are a special
breed,
by the way, if you aren't aware.  And for those of
you scratching your
heads right now wondering what that might
possibly mean, I reference
the past famous TV show Will and
Grace, where Grace exclaimed on one
espisode that she "was a
good girl from Schenectady".  Which, by the
way, in our
teen years is not a phrase that we would ever put together

because we weren't very good girls...even the best of us..because it

was a tough neighborhood, even for the catholic school girls.


But I digress. 

I grew up in Northern Schenectady, but
once out on my own I moved into
the Stockade, below the downtown
area.  North Ferry to be exact.  It
was an extension of
S Ferry, which meant the buildings on my block
were newer than
the traditional buildings of the stockade.  But it
didn't
really matter to me; I was in love with the idea of living in
the
stockade, period.  And that is where I settled for the first
three
months of my solo adult life.

The past week at GE
I have been taking day rides at lunch to visit
some of my old
favorite and... not so favorite, places. 

On Monday, I
drove to the River Road Park and walked up and down the
walkway
there.  There have been some renovations since I was there

over 15 years ago now.  They have some observation areas that
are paved with brick pavers
now and a railing for tourists to
stand on and look out over the river on.  It
depressed me to
see the change because it was such a natural wild area
to walk
along back then, behind all the old houses, along the river.
 

As I strolled I came upon many a friendly dog and his owner,
which was
certainly reminiscent of the way it used to be way back
when.  I was
glad some things didn't change.

I sat
on a bench to rest for a moment and I had a sudden recollection

of my favorite house on that block.  I stood up and walked a
little
further, to see if it was still there.  Down a block
and on the right,
yes...yes, I could see the gates from 20' down
the road....my secret
garden. 

You see, my
favorite house there is not really my favorite house.  It
is
my favorite back yard.  The back yard has this huge stone wall

surrounding it, with large copper gates in the back, facing the
river
walk and with a magnificent view to the river.  There
are large stone pillars in
the backyard.  If you walk along
the right side of the back of the
house, you would see that the
stone wall has a single, oval topped maple door set in it,
with
iron detailing.

The garden beyond the gates is completely
overgrown and dead.  No one
has laid a hand in this garden
for easily 20 years now.   I remember
the first
day I discovered this yard.  I would spend hours in my mind

designing and constructing it to perfection.  The clematis I
would
plant, the morning glories, the white eastern pines, 
the begonias and
asiatic lilies, and of course the herb garden
somewhere just outside
the actual house for quickharvesting when
I would be cooking inside.  I never
really saw the yard as
it was; I only saw what it could be back then.
I had forgotten
about that place and also, about the person that use to dream it into
perfection.

On Wednesday, I drove down to Jumpin Jacks
(which is really like an
old Jack in the Box).  I had to see
if it was open yet because it is
an area favorite of mine. 
I was sad to see that it wasn't open yet
but excited to see that
there were cars there that seemed to moving
some equipment in to
the Buildings, as if the time of the season's
start was just
around the bend.  I smiled to myself as I slowly drove
past,
remembering Friday night dinners as a child where you would wait

in line for 45 minutes for your fast food and then sit under the
wood
umbrella's by the river in the dying scorching heat of a
July evening
while you shared your meal with what seemed like 30
different tame
sparrows but what was probably the same five that
kept coming back to
fill their bellies before sundown.  The
place smelled of revved
engines, hot pavement and grease, and it
was wonderful.  After dinner
most nights, my sister and I
would trounce down to the river and find
the flattest rocks to be
found and have a rock skipping contest.
Sometimes, we would walk
down past the soft ice cream building and get
on the small stage
that they had built there and pretend we were
actresses.  My
father really got a kick out of that.  That was one of
a few
worlds when I was a child.  Now, driving by, the place seemed
so
small to me.

On Friday, I drove down my old street. 
I paused in front of the
building for a moment, remembering how
terrible the parking on that
street was, especially in winter with
the odd even parking system.  I
had over 20 tickets when I
left that apartment, which my poor father got
stuck paying when he
tried to register his car the following spring
because, to his
dismay, my car had still been registered in his name. 

My first little apartment
was on the top floor of a third story building.  The best part
about that apartment, in my mind even now, was the roof.  I had
the fire escape ghetto back porch, which, at the time, was a real
find.  The roof was accessible by the fire escape which I
had discovered my
first week there.  I would go up there
sometimes and sit by myself and just
stare at the stars and ponder
life’s mysteries.  It was a place I could
be alone and
undisturbed because no one knew about the place but me.
Except
Brian, apparently.  One night in the extreme upper 90 degree
heat
and 95% humidity I climbed up to the roof with a beer to find
that I was
not the only roof dweller.  The second floor
story tenant had found my oasis and had apparently been going there
off and on to ponder his own mysteries late at night, with beer. We
became fast friends. There were many many hot summer evenings spent
together having late night talks while breathing in the hot tar off
the roof, combined with the other city smells, enjoying warm beers
and laughter. We never hung out or talked except on our rooftop
together and even those nights were always unplanned and random. He
was my secret rooftop friend. I wonder now whatever happened to my
rooftop friend. We exchanged numbers when he moved the end of that
hot summer, but neither of us kept in touch.

The worst part of
the apartment though, was the woman downstairs from Brian who had the
eight year old daughter. The little girl was about small for her
age, very shy with greasy disheveled brown hair, freckles on her
cheeks and she had those glasses that magnified her eyes. She picked
her nose when she was nervous, which was quite often I think because
the only times I ran into them in the hallway, she would start
picking her nose and cock her head sideways while she stared at me.
One hot night in June, I heard screams coming from their apartment.
Screams that carried over my stereo which probably was blasting some
Stone Temple Pilots song at the time. I turned the music down to
investigate. The screams were traveling from one end of the building
to the next, as if someone was being chased. You could hear very
clearly “OWW, no Mommy, OWW, stop it, owww” with shrieks and
cries. This carried on for about ten minutes the first time I heard
it, which seemed like an hour to me. This turned out to be an
episode that would happen once every few weeks. I finally called the
police in one night when the crying and screaming became unbearable.
Two days later I received a threatening letter from her mother in my
mailbox. I moved from that apartment shortly after that due to the
fact I was broken into and I didn’t feel safe there anymore. I
wonder what ever happened to that little, shy, nose picking
freckled-face girl. I hope she got out of that home as soon as she
could. I’ve thought about her a lot through the years.

So, my week working at GE is
now over and I will again go on to new and exciting things, which of
course I look foreward to. New experiences, new people, new
challenges; they are what makes us grow as individuals, stronger in
spirit and mind than the person we were even six months ago.

But I also think that there
is something to be said for revisiting your past now and then.

It is a good thing to
sometimes remind yourself where you came from, and who you use to be.

 "How do you like your balls?", I asked her.

It was a busy morning at the laundromat, as far as the 8am hour typically goes. I was looking for a little one on one stranger a stranger conversation as I sometimes do. I had secretly chosen my victim within ten minutes of entering the place.

She was a married woman, aged about 40 plus a few, with a short slightly bulky stature, glasses and a rounded jovial face. Her hair was dark brown. Plain, short, kinda curly and cut into something between a bowl and a bob which twisted and turned into her face in certain areas. She wore glasses slightly larger than this years fashion, or last years or 2006's, for that matter.

Bent over, pulling laundry from the dryer, she had a sneer on her face when she wasn't smiling that told me she had thoughts in that head of hers that were either making her laugh or making her grumpy. I liked her immediately.

She had the dryer balls, I saw, as she removed her laundry from the dryer next to the one I was removing mine from.

I have long been obsessed with the smell of fabric softener but have also been concerned with it wearing down my clothing faster than normal wear would.

"Oh, I love them", she said. "They really work just fine."

I told her that I had been meaning to try them but wondered if I would miss the fresh scent.

"Here, smell!" she said as she jammed her clean towel in my face and made that little sneer again. She was cracking herself up, I thought to myself.

We chatted about dryer balls and hotel towels and somehow moved into cats. She only had one but wanted more. I told her of the glory that was my life with three.

We folded and laughed, exchanging cat stories. We discovered we live in the same apartment complex. She was quirky, but I liked her.

"You dropped a thong there, it fell behind the counter" she said to me, again with the sneer.

How odd, I thought, that she had to say the word thong out loud. I glanced around as I bent over to pick it up to see how many people might have heard that I wear thongs.

"They are expensive, well, I hear thongs are, I don't wear them".

I cringed.

I told a witty cat story, to get her off the topic my underwear. She took the bait like a sunfish in shallow brown corner lake water during a slow and sweltering July summer day.

I combined some items that were still wet and reloaded them into a dryer.

The conversation continued and moved from witty chit chat to getting to know each other on a more intimate level, like when you get comfortable on a first date with someone. I learned she was an aide at a nursing home and worked nights. Her husband worked days. I wondered how happy they could be, never seeing each other in this way. But maybe that's just it. Maybe they were because of it.

We talked about our jobs then onto my hiking. I told her I got tired of waiting to find a man in my life to do fun things with, so I just started doing them.

"You don't need a man!" she retorted at that, sneering a little wider now. The sneer quickly turned into a friendly smile. "You really don't need a man to do anything, you just go and do what you want to. "

She said when the time was right, I would find the right man. She said Gloria Steinem got married at 66.

Her folding was done and we said our goodbyes and parted ways.

I sneered as she left, thinking about how our conversation had begun about her balls and ended with Gloria Steinum. My sneer quickly turned to a smile.

I looked around the laundromat and realized we had been the only two talking to each other. Including the people who came together and sat together waiting for their dryer to stop.

The laundromat got much quieter then. Like she had somehow breathed some essential breath of life into it for her short time there and that it had exhaled its final breath when she left, taking its spirit with her.

I folded the last of my things. The socks were last.

That day, for the first time ever in my entire adolescent and adult life, all of my socks pulled from the dryers had a mate.

Sign this petition if you feel the middle class should not have to pay in taxes for this government bailout of the banks!

http://sanders.senate.gov/petitions/?petition=Financial_Crisis_1

I had written this last summer and never got back to finishing it, until today.  So here it is...

My life in a box

I did some reorganizing this weekend, trying to make room in a closet for a filing cabinet. I started opening old boxes that had made each move with me over the past 16 years since I left my parents home, sorting through decorations, photos, memorabilia and the like to see if I could combine any boxes and lose some of my pack rat ware. One box in particular kept me occupied for over an hour of sorting.

I started pulling out photo frames both used and packed away and unused. I decided to toss out quite a few and put some others in a good will pile. I came upon a particularly ugly frame that had been my mothers, where she happily had framed a photo of me in my first year at college and my then fiancé. Knowing my mother like I did, I took off the back immediately; as it was a hobby of hers hiding memories behind memories behind memories in frames. And sure enough; behind the picture of us at his senior prom was a picture of us at my senior prom followed by a few other pictures, followed by a poem. The poem he had bought for me in Lake George 3 years prior to the newest picture, the summer we met. He had bought the poem and a ten dollar ring while I was in another store and proposed to me on one knee that night by the shore. The poem was generously romantic and sweeter than young love itself. It completely embodied how we felt for each other at the time. I had forgotten entirely about the poem after we split up in college; but my mother didn't and she clipped it to the size of a 5x7 and stuck it behind this photo of us. I read the poem and I cried. I remembered how we thought our love was the strongest there had ever been and how we thought we could conquer the world as long as we had each other. He adored me, and I him.

I cried for how our young love was soured by the young adult years and growing selfishness and the by the world and by life in general.

You never forget your first love.

Digging down further in the box was a little sealed envelope with something metal in it. I tore the envelope open and inside I found a dog tag. Ah, yes….. my real first love-was Felix. Felix was a miniature collie but quite overgrown for his breed. He looked just like Lassie and was every bit a companion as Lassie was too. He went everywhere with us. He ate all the veggies I hated, for me, secretly. Under the dinner table. He wore hats and sunglasses and got sprayed by the hose and chased balls and even pulled sleds in the winter sometimes. Felix was my best friend-and even at the tender ages of 6,7 and 8 when a young heart doesn't even know what betrayal and fear is; they still know a dogs love is genuine and can be trusted forever. Tears filled my eyes and I brought the old metal tag to my nose. I knew his scent would be long gone from the tag but I could at least imagine it as I breathed in and felt the coldness pressed to my nose.

Further down were pictures of forgotten high school acquaintances, college friends I've since lost touch with, concert ticket subs and movie ticket stubs, the fishing hat I wore when my dad and I fished together (ugly as sin I realize now)- and then there were some letters.

There were letters from my second true love. Oh, sure; there had been men in between my first and second of course and men I thought I loved but not that were as all encompassing as my first and second loves. I didn't know I had saved the letters; but there they were, all neatly packed together in one area of the box. The letters were from the friendship that carried on for a while before the actual relationship started; it was one of those things where you weren't sure when the real relationship started because you were so invested with feelings from the very beginning. I blew the dust off of one in the late afternoon sun, the dust settled around me as I opened it and read with the voice in my head. Tears began to fill my eyes as I recollected the innocence we carried in our hearts way back then as we bared our souls in notes and letters and emails and as we fell in love with the speed of turtles in Egypt but with the abandon of wild horses in the high tide of the noon day surf.

I swore I'd never love again after that. And I haven't; between my first true love, Felix, and my Second true love, I truly haven't. I suppose it was because I was so naive and young back then, before I let any bitterness, fear and jealousy enter my heart and reside there.

I started to wonder, if and when something happened to me, who would be going through that box of my life? So much of my emotional life, packed into one small box. No one would know just by looking, how much of my life's, happiness, joy, love, frustration, sorrow and anguish was in that one little box. I'm amazed it all fits in there. I hoped whoever it was wouldn't just toss the box out. Perhaps they might read the letters and gaze on the pictures to learn more about my little life and maybe even keep the box under their bed, as if it were an urn containing ashes of a different kind.

The box has had no new additions since 2000. Perhaps I should start adding new things to the box. Because it almost looks like I had stopped loving the year my father died.

Maybe I did.

It is with heavy heart I share with you that the founding member and saxophonist for The Dave Matthews Band passed away yesterday, unexpectedly.

This is a great loss for the music world.  I am very saddened by this news as this has been my favorite band since their formation and release of their first CD in 1993.  There has never been a band or type of music that has moved me so entirely with their life's work both artistically and politically.

My sympathies go out to the band and his family.

For me, live performances will never be the same.  He was an intricate part of what I loved so much about the band. 

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments
that take our breath away. 

Thank you, LeRoi, for taking my breath away, and thank you, for the memories.

You will be greatly missed.

The Lesson

The February air was bitter, perhaps even more so than most Februaries I have seen. I left through the back door dressed in my thermals because I knew I'd be out in that frosty weather for a while, but I didn't mind, it was going to be an adventure.

As I stepped outside, my black boots sunk into what seemed to be four feet of snow. It was the heaviest storm we had seen in about nine years, or so I was told. My dad says that I was too young to remember, but I keep insisting that I do.

The storm had calmed down a bit and we had decided this was a perfect opportunity, probably the best one we would get all night, or even all week with spring just around the corner. It was now or never.

White snowflakes kissed my cheeks and danced on my eyelashes as I glanced around the backyard. The blanket of snow looked picturesque covering the pines in the distance against the black night sky, so much so that I wanted to freeze myself in its frame forever.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, I'm over here behind the shed."

I had completely forgotten. Every winter since I was born in this house, one of us would venture out at least once during every snowstorm to knock the snow off the shed roof. I was told that the shed would collapse if we didn't, so every year we would take turns. I guess I just hadn't been around much in the past few winters, or maybe it was just that we hadn't gotten a significant amount of snow, because I had completely forgotten about this collapsing shed phenomenon. But dad hadn't forgotten. There he was; my dad, old faithful.

He smiled at me. "How much do you think we got altogether?".

"Hmm? Oh, I couldn't say for sure". I was remembering the time about six years before when he had helped me build a big snow bunny in this very backyard. It seemed so long ago.  He wasn't very young then, either. It made me giggle to remember that seven foot snow sculpture that towered over both of our heads. I wondered if he remembered it too.

"Alley? Are you too cold out here?"

"No, no...I'm all set, you done?"

"Yeah. You see where I put the flashlight?"

All I could see was his arm pointing out from the shed top. I looked around and saw the big black flashlight to the left of the path that he had blown in the snow only two days ago.

"Got it", I said.

I ran over to the front of the shed where he was standing. His pudgy pink cheeks smiled at me from under his glasses.

"Okay, hold it right like this. I think it may need some gas."

I watched him unscrew a cap and pour the yellow liquid into the machine. I was wondering why the gas never froze, being in the shed all winter like that. Our water pipes had frozen just last weekend and dad had to thaw them with the portable heater that he had bought for my sister when she had lived downstairs.

I hoped I was holding the light at the right angle. Dad had a habit of getting impatient sometimes. He never really swore at me, except in jest maybe. He was the type of man who firmly believed that if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself; and he never repeated himself, if you missed it the first time then you just plum missed it.

He out the cap back on and began the lesson. First, he explained, you put the gear in neutral, then you put the speed shift on fast. Then you pull the throttle out, then you press that button there, one, two, three...five times. Then you pull, like so.

The snow blower whirred into action and I shivered with excitement at the sound. He backed it out of the shed and spun it around.

"Mrfgrhh hig gad latum dat", he said, pointing to the orange machine.

It was a common occurrence, not knowing what dad had said. No point in asking. I moved closer to him so that I wouldn't miss anything important.

I followed him around to the back gate. We proceeded up the side of the house to the front and he slapped it in neutral.

"Okay, now you. Be sure to hold this lever down because...." his voice trailed off into the whirr of the blades.

I started too fast, but remembered to hold the lever down like he had reminded me. I went down the walk and he helped me down the step. I hadn't done too bad of a job,actually.

When I reached the driveway, he reached out and slapped the machine into low gear. The machine blades were suddenly slowed to a whisper. He must have figured out that I wasn't hearing a word he had been saying to me. It was impossible to hear anything over that beast.

He told me that I was holding the lever down too tight, explaining that this was lifting the blades off the ground and wasn't shaving as close as it should be. I shrugged in agreement as he showed me how to do it a second time.

I finished the driveway and pulled the cars back in. He took the blower from me and proceeded across the street to blow a place in front of the mailbox for the mailman.

I brought the car keys back in the house, forgetting to take my boots off, which by then had enough snow on them to build a snow bunny right there in our living room. "Wouldn't that be fun", I thought, "right here in the living room".

My mother must have heard my childish snicker.

"You think that's so funny, you can just clean it all up when your father comes back in".

She opened the door to check on his progress. Her hawk eyes formed little slits as she shook her head.

"Oh Art, honestly! Are you going to do the whole street? If he goes over to DeSorbo's I'm going to disown him".

I peered outside the window. 'Tha's my dad', I thought. He liked to blow out our neighbors driveway for them. They were a young couple who got along surprisingly well with my parents. I always imagined how great it must be to come home from work and find that someone has done your shoveling for you. It must be comparable to finding that warm toilet seat at 3:00am when it's still dark in the house and you're afraid that you might wake up the whole family if they hear you getting up to go to the bathroom.

I trotted back outside, my mother still bellyaching behind me. Something about how ridiculous my father was sometimes. You could always hear what my mother was saying to you, even if didn't want to. If she even suspected you missed a single syllable, she would repeat the whole thing. Sometimes she said things that would stick in your head for days, or even years.

Outside, the air was pure and clean. There were even a few stars visible now. You could hear the snowblower in the distance, and I began to wonder if he was tired yet.

I walked on the newly made path along the side of the house. Looking up, I saw the biggest icicle I had seen in years. Come to think of it, it may had been the only one I had seen in years.

I remembered how I use to love to pick them off the roof and eat them. Occasionally I would even dip them in snow, considering that an extra special treat. My mother had always tried to discourage me from this practice, reminding me how positively unsanitary it was.

I reached up and pulled a piece off the biggest icicle I could reach. I carried it to the front of the house, my ears following the distant whir of the snowblower.

I brought the savored treat to my lips, first kissing it a little, as I always loved the smooth feel of the ice on my lips. It was so cool and refreshing that I brought my teeth down on it as soon as its wetness reached my tongue. I ravenously crunched on the piece of ice in my mouth, just as I had every winter of my childhood up until I hit adolescence when thoughts of romance and boys crowded out my gentle innocence. Snowdays like these use to be such a big thrill to me, I thought.

I plopped down in the snow off to the edge of the path and made a big snow angel. The cold air filled my lungs as I laughed at how young this made me feel.

As I stood up carefully from the angel to admire my handiwork, I brought the icicle to my lips once more. This time though, it was covered in snow.

I smiled to myself as I crunched down the icy treat.

I had almost forgotten how good it tasted.

I was driving to the laundromat on the corner this morning when I saw the "Estate Sale" sign across the street, pointing down the road.

"Interesting", I thought.

I had never been to one and always wanted to check them out. It is another one of those things that I've been putting off until I find a companion to do those types of things with. I shrugged it off because I am short on money the next couple months with double weddings, bridal showers and bachelorette parties upcoming.

As I made my way through the task I hate most, I ; as usual, became overly aware of my singleness. There were no boxers or large socks or mens shirts in my wash. In my self pity, I forgot all about the sign. When the wash was all in; I cleaned my car in the parking lot. Twenty two minutes isn't much time to run home and get anything else accomplished.

But when I drove away during the dryer cycle; there was that sign again; and I turned down the road it pointed to into my favorite little neighborhood that I walk in almost daily. Why not, I figured. Maybe I could find some cheap golf clubs or something useful.

There were cars parked everywhere. It was a mob scene. I couldn't even get down the side street that the house was on in fact. I decided to abort the mission. I turned around on another side street and headed back towards the main road home; but something pulled at me. I went the back way towards the street and found parking easily there. But as I got out of the car and looked at the front of the house, I felt a strange sense of dread. The feeling got stronger the closer I got to the house.

It was a small home, as they all are in that neighborhood. Due to the size, in fact, they were only allowing 30 people into the house at a time. There was a line of people waiting outside the house to get in. There was a sign up to get into the line.

On the front lawn there were tables set up with jewelry. Now, I really don't need any jewelry. I'm not even a huge fan of jewelry as I have pretty particular and odd taste in jewelry. But I browsed anyway.

There was a buzz of conversation around me. To my right was a conversation finishing up about the woman who had lived in the house. I was a sentence too short coming in. The woman asked the sales girl if the house was for sale. That, she did not know, said the sales girl, who was aged about 20, with piercings, rings, chains, tattoos and a Gwen Stefani platinum blonde 'do pulled into pigtails with pale white skin and bright red lipstick. She was wearing all black with sunglasses on. Even though she was under a tent. She told the woman to ask someone inside the house about the real estate inquiry.

There were four tables of jewelry to look at. Costume jewelry, for the most part. Gwen told someone that the finer jewelry was inside.

I wanted to leave just then. I didn't want to see any more. But it was like that bad car accident that you drive by that you just can't stop looking at even though its upsetting you.

There was an entire table of gawdy pins and broaches. The woman had every animal on Noah's arc on a broach of some sort. I eyed a Giraffe pin with rhinestones all over it. He seemed to be crying little shiny tears all over his body there lieing on that table with all of his friends. I wanted to buy him, but I didn't have any animal pins at home and I thought he would be lonely with me. Then I wanted to buy them all, so that they could all stay together. It made me sad. I winced at the giraffe and moved away from the arc of broaches.

The next table was full of necklaces. This woman sure loved her jewelry. And colors. Both silver and gold. There were large baubly beads everywhere. It was like Maude's private little mardi gra table. I moved on to the next table. There I found two shoe boxes of rings.

Now, if you know me you may know that I have a thing for rings. Especially old ones or hippy ones. I strummed through the boxes one ring at a time, picking each up one at a time and appreciating its' individual style. The invisible host really did have some very good taste in rings. Classy, and boheim. She reminded me of me, only without the beads. I took a while going through those boxes. I didn't really want any rings. I sure don't need any more rings. But they were making me smile.

Every ring I own reminds me of a specific time of my life. I buy them at fairs, or on vacation, or when I am dating someone and feeling extra pretty and I find one that is extra ordinary and of a unique style. I wondered if these had meant the same to her. I pondered on the idea that each one was like a little piece of her life, really. I wondered which rings might be part of the younger her. I wondered if she ever put those rings on in her later years still and felt young again. I wondered if she lived a tragedy or a romance. I wondered if there was anyone left to tell it.

Just then I found a little silver ring with a medium light turquoise stone with brown markings on it. It was very earthy and young and fresh looking. I slipped it on my left hand. It fit like a glove. It seemed like it was made for me, in color and form and size. I bought it for five dollars.

By then the line to get inside was 25 long and I was overcome with some emotion that I couldn't quite define. So I left. Slowly, with my head down, I looked back at the scene that I had just been a part of for fifteen minutes of my life.

About 30 women were swarming the jewelry tables now under the small circus tent. Gwen was looking frantically from side to side, a little crazed, trying to keep her eyes on all the greedy hands that were quickly thumbing through all these little pieces of someones life.

It was a sad scene, I thought. Its bad enough to think abut how greedy your own family could be if you died – rummaging through and dividing up your life's little collections and memories, but to think about complete strangers doing it; well, thats just upsetting.

I'm thankful my sister and I didn't have to do that with my parents when they passed.

The Grapes of Wrath

Years ago, I had a friend , Kathy, who started seeing a man we both worked with at an area restaurant. He was quite a bit her senior by about 17 years; the strong, tall silent type. It was well known that the man carried a broken heart from a relationship that ended over a year ago with a married woman.

The woman had ended the affair with him to try to make things work with her husband. She later left her husband for another man, while our co-worker brooded day after day for some 18 months, wondering what had become of the love they shared and if it was ever true from the start. Did the vapored summer whispers that left his soft lips while they caressed her neck on candle lit nights ever haunt her as they haunted him? A large piece of him died when she left. He was an enigma, or at least to me. You could see the pain in his face, even when he smiled.

I secretly loved him for this.

Kathy, my friend who dated the man, was cheating on her boyfriend with the enigma. Being less spiritual and less experienced in life, I then often wondered why he would choose to get right into a similar situation as the one that had just threated to destroy every thread of his existence.

Kathy confided in me with many with secrets of their relationship. The one secret I remember most was the story of how the enigma didn't sleep in his bed anymore. He hadn't since the married woman left him. There were too many memories of their love and passion filled nights such that he couldn't bear to even lie where he had lay once with her. He often slept on the floor wrapped in a bed sheet with a pillow, as the couch had held too many memories too.

This vision has haunted me for most of my adult life.

I wondered, what kind of pain and hunger for a lost love could cause someone to give up something so essential, so familiar, so common, as a bed. I wondered what kind passion hid inside a man who felt such pain to have to live like that. It did, of course, made me love him more, secretly.

I envisioned him sometimes; curled in the fetal position, naked, with an ivory bed sheet wrapped around him, screaming so loudly that his vocal cords fell silent; body writhing in agony, with his mouth agape in despondency. Those strong hands were clenching his thick brown hair. The picture of despair. It pained me.

It still does.

Last night came the annual Dave Matthews Concert at SPAC. I had inside seats along the trailer side. I saw Dave, not 30 feet from me, playing with his two beautiful daughters. I love Dave Matthews. He is, by far, my favorite musical artist. I think he is an extraordinary human being, writer, composer and performer. I use to listen to him every day of my life; when I was younger.

I rarely listen to him much anymore.

This morning, with my head still in the quixotic cloud of last nights performance, I went about my morning routine, in silence. Suddenly I remembered the bootlegs my friend had given me as a belated birthday present. I decided to pop one in while I made my coffee. Radio City Music Hall; 'a fantastic show indeed', I thought, as I filled a pan with water for dishes.

Track five started and softly Dave strummed and cooed out possibly the best version of "Crush" I have ever heard. And suddenly, I was shown that enigma on the floor wrapped in an ivory sheet, writhing in agony, in my mind.

Only I was the one wrapped in the sheet, writhing on the floor in despair.

An epiphany hit me as memories of candle lit nights scented with lavender oil came rushing back to me. Hours of Dave Matthews played on a stereo in a room with 20 lit candles. Half filled glasses of red wine sparkled in the midnight hours while young lovers spent hours massaging each others arms and backs, learning every curve, every muscle and every knot on each others body. Night after night. For two years.

I thought; Dave Matthews was my bed, and it hurt me to lie in it alone.

It still does, sometimes.

As I pondered on how bittersweet the memories of that era are to me, I realized why I no longer watch TV. That is a ghost from another long term relationship that haunts me.

I realized that there are some things in life I am scared to share with anyone that I might ever be intimate with again.

I want to keep them safe from love's wrath. To enjoy always.