Do the actions of people and subsequent results from those actions serve to test our faith? Perhaps.
If you speak with a friend of mine her answer will be a resounding yes when it comes to the societal test. Actually, she’ll deliver her affirmation with a distinct tone of disappointment. Her faith in people is, by self admission, ebbing in small notches with each passing day.
As for me, I’m not sure how to answer the question, not just yet.
My friend was at work yesterday at Finn McCool's when a young man entered her establishment with a bit of a dilemma. He appeared to be a pleasant young man and, in explaining his problem, he seemed quite sincere. The details of his story were most specific, further upping the believability factor.
He informed my friend that he’d locked his keys in his Lexus a few blocks away and needed a locksmith. He wondered how much it might cost to pop the lock. My friend, having intimate experience with the locksmith world, told the man that it would be about $45 to $50. She apparently locks herself out a lot. I wonder if they have a frequent lock pop program?
The young man dialed the locksmith and confirmed that it would indeed cost $50. His second dilemma? He was short by $6.00 and asked if he might borrow the money from her. He assured that he worked for a very reputable establishment; he even dropped a few names of mutual acquaintance; adding even more credibility.
The young man promised my friend that he’d be back before the end of her shift to pay her and would even bring her lunch as an added bonus! She wasn’t concerned about scoring a meal as much as she was looking for this man to invalidate her growing sentiments about some people in this world. In a world where the lines of good and bad are ever increasingly blurred, she took a leap of faith and loaned him the money.
She told me what she’d done and openly hoped that this young man would not let her down. For her sake, I silently hoped for the same, but feared otherwise. I thought to myself that if this was a scam it was quite brilliant in its simplicity.
At some point or another we’ve all be panhandled for a buck here, a quarter there, maybe a cigarette here or spotting a beer for someone until payday. This guy, if it were indeed a scam, concocted a way to command SIX bucks! Not bad for 10-minutes of work.
When I saw my friend the following evening she immediately walked over to me. The jury was in…hopefully the actions of a stranded young man would prove to be an honest testament to a sincere story, thus propelling my friend’s faith in her fellow man to soaring heights. I waited for the verdict with a degree of anticipation as that of a young child on Christmas morning scanning beneath the tree.
And, much like the childhood feeling of receiving that pair of socks neatly wrapped in bright, festive paper, my heart sank. There would be no news to happily conclude this brief chapter in my friends life.
Perhaps, God forbid, he experienced some sort of an accident. Who knows? Maybe one day down the road he’ll burst through the doors in epic film hero fashion, riding a white horse with six dollars proudly raised above his head as the music builds to a triumphant crescendo. He might even pay her accrued interest AND have that lunch he promised!
Maybe he didn’t return because he was embarrassed about financial circumstances which have forced him to scrape together much needed money to support his family, or he must pay for an operation. Maybe his child needs new shoes. Or…he might indeed simply be a clever con artist.
Now that I think about it, events, and those people who bring them about,whether good or bad, both test and reinforce my faith in mankind.
While I accept the fact that there are indeed bad people in the world in which we live, my faith is a bit stronger today knowing that there are people such as my friend who took a $6.00 leap of faith. And I believe that there are many more like her.
With that in mind, I will sleep quite well this evening, and so should you.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
A Mother's Day Indeed
I have a friend in New Orleans (yes I do glance up from the laptop to make friends from time to time.)
My friend’s mother just passed; I believe she was almost 90! A long life indeed.
No matter how much time we have with loved ones, it never seems long enough. For that matter, losing a friend or a pet invokes the same feelings now that I think about it.
While there are obvious emotions which accompany such a loss, losing someone near and dear affects people in different ways.
My friend is rather quiet about his personal life and I respect his silence, especially since the loss occurred last week.
If he remains silent for months I might begin to worry, but I suspect that he’s reminiscing about the ups and downs sprinkled into his family fabric over many decades…a healthy reflection process indeed.
Over the past year I’ve spent some time reflecting on my mother’s life and my good fortune having had time with her in my life.
Mom forged her way through this world most unassumingly and graciously. I suspect that the humble backdrop, that was her childhood environment, had much to do with shaping her pure and simplistic demeanor.
Hers was a life of excitement, giving, laughing, loving and, yes, sometimes indescribable sadness.
If she were sad, one would never know. I always admired that quality.
Actually, as I sprouted my wings into a sometimes troubling world, her way of seeing good in every situation sometimes frustrated me.
When work wasn’t going well or if I'd had a bad day with the boss or a crappy day on the radio show she’d somehow find a positive. I didn’t want to hear positive…it was gripe, bitch and moan time…let me sulk for heaven‘s sake!!
Not a chance...If you came to mom looking for a willing pity party attendee you came to the wrong place. In retrospect, I’m glad.
She earned her living as a career beautician and absorbed experiences that are hard to imagine.
In her years of standing over that chair in the beauty shop, she worked her magic on everyday people like you and me AND the rich and famous. Mom was quick to tell you that celebrities are, in fact, no different from you or me.
Some of her notable regulars were Brenda Lee, Mae Axton (co-writer of Elvis’ Heartbreak Hotel), Patsy Cline...the list goes on.
She even had the honor of styling Sarah Cannon’s hair before she traveled to participate in the USS Arizona Memorial dedication at Pearl Harbor.
Note: Ms. Cannon’s more recognizable name was Minnie Pearl, a founding star/member of the Grand Ole’ Opry in Nashville.
When she retired, mom spent time on herself. She worked on her gardens, she sewed, she quilted, she relaxed and she bought TONS of crap from those late night info-mercials.
I always laughed when I’d visit as I surveyed her proud stash of magic can openers, knives that could slice through a Kevlar police vest or a boulder, yet delicately deliver a paper-thin tomato sliver for a tasty sandwich.
Because of her retirement “As Seen On TV” shopping activities I am the proud owner of every single newly U.S. minted commemorative quarter…mounted and framed mind you.
Her passion to be productive brought a short lived retirement; a second career came at age 61! This time, giving back to the world with her other indelible talent…cooking!
By the way, it’s a miracle that I didn’t weigh 400-pounds growing up in her culinary company.
She and another friend launched a catering service and through those years mom cooked for and served Presidents, Vice Presidents, Governors, Senators, A US Postmaster General and virtually the entire who’s who of a very star-filled Nashville, Tennessee.
Bench marked against her humble childhood, they were just people to her and she was proud that they enjoyed her food more than anything.
Then came retirement number 2...sort of.
After the death of her mother, and until mom became ill and unable to move around as she was so accustomed, she decided that she'd tend to terminally ill senior citizens.
I often wondered WHY in the world she would subject herself to such situations where the outcome was painfully obvious. Especially after experiencing the pain of losing so many loved ones over her years on earth.
I now know that she made the final days of those men and women most enjoyable.
She gave them care, friendship and comfort as they approached the end of their long journey in life.
Much like the runners in Chariots of Fire, she ran and ran and ran because it pleased God. It pleased her too.
She provided a sort of non medical hospice. The irony and the most difficult thing I've ever had to do was to explain to her what hospice meant and why her doctors recommended it.
She made it as easy on me as possible while never losing that optimism which had served her well throughout life. That same optimism which sometimes had irritated me when I found myself drowning in a pitty party about insignificant situations in life, love and work.
Up until the very end mom befriended a lovely, but lonely, lady with whom she shared a room at the medical care facility. Miss Alice.
It amazes and frustrates me to this day that Alice’s six offspring couldn’t drive 8-miles to visit their mother more than two times per month. I drove 500 miles every month or six weeks.
I simply can’t grasp it.
But, I’m most fortunate to have had such a wonderful influence in my life.
From her humble upbringing to a life fulfilled, mom may not have been monetarily rich but she was richer than any Wall Street tycoon ever known. A richness which carries no dollar value but effected immeasurable impact on those around her.
Even though it’s been commercially hijacked, Mother’s day actually dates back to Isis in ancient Egypt and is celebrated, in culturally appropriate fashion, throughout the world.
In The United States, Anna Jarvis quit her job and worked tirelessly to resurrect Mother’s Day in the early 1900’s. The Puritans tossed it out upon settling in America until Woodrow Wilson finally designated it a National holiday.
I still observe Mother's Day, and Father's day. I comfortably reflect on the fact that my parents chose me. They rescued me at birth from, what was almost certain to be, a difficult life. Yes, I’m adopted.
While I've never met her, on this mother’s day I also reflect on the unselfish and unimaginable love that my biological mother held for me in making that sacrifice.
Two days after returning my mother to the earth I received the final two quarters in the mail for the collection that she’d diligently amassed for me. I silently cried at that mailbox.
Now I feel that it was simply her way of saying that things are going to be okay and that life will go on…and she's correct.
It was her subtle way of saying hello, not goodbye.
I miss mom. For that matter I miss my father as well.
I realize that there are those who have, or have experienced, a tenuous relationship with a parent; maybe even both.
In some cases I appreciate that their feelings might be valid, however I also know some people who hold such feelings that are not justified.
In the meantime I’ll look at my quarters today, which are securely dismantled and in a nondescript little bag that I keep in a safe place.
I’m quite certain that I will smile today as I draw upon that optimism which my mother held so dearly, even when it irritated me.
I'll remember happy moments and laugh as I reflect upon the time when she and my father were called to a parent/teacher conference because I'd informed my 7th grade Social Studies teacher that he might want to consider auditing a history class at the local college.**
**I corrected him on the fact that it was not Columbus who proved that the world was round. It was Aristotle who proved the theory by pointing it out during an eclipse, noting that the earth casts a spherical shadow on the moon. Furthermore, he did so without raping, pillaging and spreading venereal diseases to natives of the Caribbean island societies in the Netherland Antilles, as Columbus did.
I truly wish I’d kept that waterproof shower radio mom ordered from the late night commercials.
Happy Mother’s Day. Most importantly, happy Sunday.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2010
My friend’s mother just passed; I believe she was almost 90! A long life indeed.
No matter how much time we have with loved ones, it never seems long enough. For that matter, losing a friend or a pet invokes the same feelings now that I think about it.
While there are obvious emotions which accompany such a loss, losing someone near and dear affects people in different ways.
My friend is rather quiet about his personal life and I respect his silence, especially since the loss occurred last week.
If he remains silent for months I might begin to worry, but I suspect that he’s reminiscing about the ups and downs sprinkled into his family fabric over many decades…a healthy reflection process indeed.
Over the past year I’ve spent some time reflecting on my mother’s life and my good fortune having had time with her in my life.
Mom forged her way through this world most unassumingly and graciously. I suspect that the humble backdrop, that was her childhood environment, had much to do with shaping her pure and simplistic demeanor.
Hers was a life of excitement, giving, laughing, loving and, yes, sometimes indescribable sadness.
If she were sad, one would never know. I always admired that quality.
Actually, as I sprouted my wings into a sometimes troubling world, her way of seeing good in every situation sometimes frustrated me.
When work wasn’t going well or if I'd had a bad day with the boss or a crappy day on the radio show she’d somehow find a positive. I didn’t want to hear positive…it was gripe, bitch and moan time…let me sulk for heaven‘s sake!!
Not a chance...If you came to mom looking for a willing pity party attendee you came to the wrong place. In retrospect, I’m glad.
She earned her living as a career beautician and absorbed experiences that are hard to imagine.
In her years of standing over that chair in the beauty shop, she worked her magic on everyday people like you and me AND the rich and famous. Mom was quick to tell you that celebrities are, in fact, no different from you or me.
Some of her notable regulars were Brenda Lee, Mae Axton (co-writer of Elvis’ Heartbreak Hotel), Patsy Cline...the list goes on.
She even had the honor of styling Sarah Cannon’s hair before she traveled to participate in the USS Arizona Memorial dedication at Pearl Harbor.
Note: Ms. Cannon’s more recognizable name was Minnie Pearl, a founding star/member of the Grand Ole’ Opry in Nashville.
When she retired, mom spent time on herself. She worked on her gardens, she sewed, she quilted, she relaxed and she bought TONS of crap from those late night info-mercials.
I always laughed when I’d visit as I surveyed her proud stash of magic can openers, knives that could slice through a Kevlar police vest or a boulder, yet delicately deliver a paper-thin tomato sliver for a tasty sandwich.
Because of her retirement “As Seen On TV” shopping activities I am the proud owner of every single newly U.S. minted commemorative quarter…mounted and framed mind you.
Her passion to be productive brought a short lived retirement; a second career came at age 61! This time, giving back to the world with her other indelible talent…cooking!
By the way, it’s a miracle that I didn’t weigh 400-pounds growing up in her culinary company.
She and another friend launched a catering service and through those years mom cooked for and served Presidents, Vice Presidents, Governors, Senators, A US Postmaster General and virtually the entire who’s who of a very star-filled Nashville, Tennessee.
Bench marked against her humble childhood, they were just people to her and she was proud that they enjoyed her food more than anything.
Then came retirement number 2...sort of.
After the death of her mother, and until mom became ill and unable to move around as she was so accustomed, she decided that she'd tend to terminally ill senior citizens.
I often wondered WHY in the world she would subject herself to such situations where the outcome was painfully obvious. Especially after experiencing the pain of losing so many loved ones over her years on earth.
I now know that she made the final days of those men and women most enjoyable.
She gave them care, friendship and comfort as they approached the end of their long journey in life.
Much like the runners in Chariots of Fire, she ran and ran and ran because it pleased God. It pleased her too.
She provided a sort of non medical hospice. The irony and the most difficult thing I've ever had to do was to explain to her what hospice meant and why her doctors recommended it.
She made it as easy on me as possible while never losing that optimism which had served her well throughout life. That same optimism which sometimes had irritated me when I found myself drowning in a pitty party about insignificant situations in life, love and work.
Up until the very end mom befriended a lovely, but lonely, lady with whom she shared a room at the medical care facility. Miss Alice.
It amazes and frustrates me to this day that Alice’s six offspring couldn’t drive 8-miles to visit their mother more than two times per month. I drove 500 miles every month or six weeks.
I simply can’t grasp it.
But, I’m most fortunate to have had such a wonderful influence in my life.
From her humble upbringing to a life fulfilled, mom may not have been monetarily rich but she was richer than any Wall Street tycoon ever known. A richness which carries no dollar value but effected immeasurable impact on those around her.
Even though it’s been commercially hijacked, Mother’s day actually dates back to Isis in ancient Egypt and is celebrated, in culturally appropriate fashion, throughout the world.
In The United States, Anna Jarvis quit her job and worked tirelessly to resurrect Mother’s Day in the early 1900’s. The Puritans tossed it out upon settling in America until Woodrow Wilson finally designated it a National holiday.
I still observe Mother's Day, and Father's day. I comfortably reflect on the fact that my parents chose me. They rescued me at birth from, what was almost certain to be, a difficult life. Yes, I’m adopted.
While I've never met her, on this mother’s day I also reflect on the unselfish and unimaginable love that my biological mother held for me in making that sacrifice.
Two days after returning my mother to the earth I received the final two quarters in the mail for the collection that she’d diligently amassed for me. I silently cried at that mailbox.
Now I feel that it was simply her way of saying that things are going to be okay and that life will go on…and she's correct.
It was her subtle way of saying hello, not goodbye.
I miss mom. For that matter I miss my father as well.
I realize that there are those who have, or have experienced, a tenuous relationship with a parent; maybe even both.
In some cases I appreciate that their feelings might be valid, however I also know some people who hold such feelings that are not justified.
In the meantime I’ll look at my quarters today, which are securely dismantled and in a nondescript little bag that I keep in a safe place.
I’m quite certain that I will smile today as I draw upon that optimism which my mother held so dearly, even when it irritated me.
I'll remember happy moments and laugh as I reflect upon the time when she and my father were called to a parent/teacher conference because I'd informed my 7th grade Social Studies teacher that he might want to consider auditing a history class at the local college.**
**I corrected him on the fact that it was not Columbus who proved that the world was round. It was Aristotle who proved the theory by pointing it out during an eclipse, noting that the earth casts a spherical shadow on the moon. Furthermore, he did so without raping, pillaging and spreading venereal diseases to natives of the Caribbean island societies in the Netherland Antilles, as Columbus did.
I truly wish I’d kept that waterproof shower radio mom ordered from the late night commercials.
Happy Mother’s Day. Most importantly, happy Sunday.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
The Long Phone Call
I had a conversation with a friend of mine on the phone today. She’s having some difficult times, both personally and professionally. It’s a rough time at work for her, combined with relationship troubles. Translation: this was not a short call. We’ve all found ourselves standing on one of the aforementioned porches of life at some point.
I abandoned my usual short phone call tendency and chatted for a while. It’s not that I don’t like talking with people, I simply dislike having a phone surgically attached to my ear. Now that I think about it, she’s a receptionist; one would think that SHE would think better of having a phone to her ear after work.
As my buddy Gino recently pointed out to me, no one sits down over coffee anymore. He hails from Seattle so I understand his affinity for the coffee chat as opposed to the cell phone.
Sensing that my friend’s feeling of self worth was rapidly spiraling over the course of our call I felt somewhat helpless. Especially so when she dejectedly announced that, perhaps, she was flawed.
Gentlemen, this is a moment in time when response must be carefully weighed with the precision of a neurosurgeon. I liken it to responding to that ubiquitous question that we all undoubtedly face at some point or another…
”Does this outfit make me look fat?”
I weighed my thoughts before uttering a word. I did so as quickly as possible since lag time speaks unintended volumes, but I answered honestly.
“Sure you are…we all are sweetheart”.
Does that make someone a bad person? Not necessarily. Does that mean that I’m bad? Not for me to judge.
At the end of our conversation I sensed that my friend felt better about her troubles, but our chat prompted me to think about a few parallels.
People, myself included, sometimes forget that it’s perfectly okay to lean on a friend in a time of need. We’re all busy as the world continues its steady march toward a microwave popcorn society. Daily supply and demand requisites in our professional lives leaves little time for quality personal experiences. A coffee in the park, sitting by the river, a nice dinner, a hobby…you get the picture. You have to set aside time for those things…that’s the roadblock that many don’t get past.
Chatting with a friend, even a total stranger sitting next to you, can work wonders in stimulating one‘s mind. Whether the person you’re talking with simply wants to vent or talk about something totally off the wall, I think it sort of qualifies as “down time“.
Speaking of down time and long conversations, back to Gino. Talking with Gino technically qualifies as personal AND professional time for me. Our chats usually, inadvertently, unclog my brief bouts of writer’s block; plus I ALWAYS learn something.
Out of the blue Gino asked if I found it increasingly difficult to hold conversation with some people these days. Make no mistake about it, he carries absolutely no air of linguistic or mental superiority. He will talk with you about any subject of choice and loves to learn from other people. He is one of the most unassuming people that I know.
His point being, there seems to be a swelling emptiness in conversation. It’s an email, laptop, text messaging world for some. Google is great, but sometimes there’s a wealth of knowledge to be mined from the person standing next to you, maybe even on the streetcar. Seriously! (Okay, NOLA commuters please refrain from wild laughter).
Gino further pointed out how so few people can answer a simple question that he poses from time to time. I could hardly wait to hear what little gem of a question this would be.
“What do you love? What’s your passion? What makes you get out of bed?”
Now, he doesn’t wander the streets tossing this question to random strangers…that would make him rather creepy. After talking with someone for a while, somewhere in the course of conversation, he airs his genuine interest in learning what lights the fires.
We’ve all heard the question “So, what do you do?” I DO what we all do… So does Gino and so do you. We work, we make money to support ourselves and our families. We earn money for the movies, the bar, buying DVD’s, groceries, our life our habits, etc. We subsidize life…That’s simply what we do.
Some folks are fortunate enough to love what they do and, for them, that is indeed their passion. If you don’t enjoy your job, you don’t necessarily need to walk out, unless your boss likes to casually stroll past your desk singing 80’s power ballads while wearing a fedora and thongs. Then you should investigate alternate employment options. Unless you happen to like that sort of thing. You gotta earn a living, but you better have a passion.
For another friend of mine, his passion is porn. He IS a rather creepy guy, but funny and enjoyable to talk with. It is definitely NOT one world. By the way, he loves his job to boot. Imagine how perfect life would be for him if he were a camera man for a porno film studio. I suspect that he’d die as the happiest person on the planet.
As for me, I love to write. I may never get rich doing it, but that’s not why I do it. It’s one of my passions. It’s one of a few things that makes me get out of bed…well, today I hated the alarm clock but that’s an entirely separate story.
Anytime someone tells me that they enjoyed something that I’ve written it gives me an indescribable feeling. For that matter, whether I receive feedback or not, I’m most humbled that someone took time to read something that I’ve written.
Perhaps each of us can think of at least three reasons not to get out of bed. One may, in fact, be “passion”. Okay, I had to sneak a positive reason in there.
Maybe stress from the latest financial climate, the terrible news to which we’re subjected every day (Author note: BP better get it in gear FAST!) Maybe it’s a troubling relationship situation. There are many shared and unique reasons that feasibly could force us to pull the covers high for protection.
But, as Gino aptly puts it, no matter what you’re goin’ through, it’s still nice to get out and take in the world and learn from the people who occupy it. Very timely advice for me indeed. I've used the sheets a few times recently as a kryptonite wall.
It occurs to me that it might be a good idea for my receptionist friend to sit down over coffee with Gino; I can join them and we’ll sit in different parts of the café talking with one another on our cell phones. That way we’ll blend in.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2010
I abandoned my usual short phone call tendency and chatted for a while. It’s not that I don’t like talking with people, I simply dislike having a phone surgically attached to my ear. Now that I think about it, she’s a receptionist; one would think that SHE would think better of having a phone to her ear after work.
As my buddy Gino recently pointed out to me, no one sits down over coffee anymore. He hails from Seattle so I understand his affinity for the coffee chat as opposed to the cell phone.
Sensing that my friend’s feeling of self worth was rapidly spiraling over the course of our call I felt somewhat helpless. Especially so when she dejectedly announced that, perhaps, she was flawed.
Gentlemen, this is a moment in time when response must be carefully weighed with the precision of a neurosurgeon. I liken it to responding to that ubiquitous question that we all undoubtedly face at some point or another…
”Does this outfit make me look fat?”
I weighed my thoughts before uttering a word. I did so as quickly as possible since lag time speaks unintended volumes, but I answered honestly.
“Sure you are…we all are sweetheart”.
Does that make someone a bad person? Not necessarily. Does that mean that I’m bad? Not for me to judge.
At the end of our conversation I sensed that my friend felt better about her troubles, but our chat prompted me to think about a few parallels.
People, myself included, sometimes forget that it’s perfectly okay to lean on a friend in a time of need. We’re all busy as the world continues its steady march toward a microwave popcorn society. Daily supply and demand requisites in our professional lives leaves little time for quality personal experiences. A coffee in the park, sitting by the river, a nice dinner, a hobby…you get the picture. You have to set aside time for those things…that’s the roadblock that many don’t get past.
Chatting with a friend, even a total stranger sitting next to you, can work wonders in stimulating one‘s mind. Whether the person you’re talking with simply wants to vent or talk about something totally off the wall, I think it sort of qualifies as “down time“.
Speaking of down time and long conversations, back to Gino. Talking with Gino technically qualifies as personal AND professional time for me. Our chats usually, inadvertently, unclog my brief bouts of writer’s block; plus I ALWAYS learn something.
Out of the blue Gino asked if I found it increasingly difficult to hold conversation with some people these days. Make no mistake about it, he carries absolutely no air of linguistic or mental superiority. He will talk with you about any subject of choice and loves to learn from other people. He is one of the most unassuming people that I know.
His point being, there seems to be a swelling emptiness in conversation. It’s an email, laptop, text messaging world for some. Google is great, but sometimes there’s a wealth of knowledge to be mined from the person standing next to you, maybe even on the streetcar. Seriously! (Okay, NOLA commuters please refrain from wild laughter).
Gino further pointed out how so few people can answer a simple question that he poses from time to time. I could hardly wait to hear what little gem of a question this would be.
“What do you love? What’s your passion? What makes you get out of bed?”
Now, he doesn’t wander the streets tossing this question to random strangers…that would make him rather creepy. After talking with someone for a while, somewhere in the course of conversation, he airs his genuine interest in learning what lights the fires.
We’ve all heard the question “So, what do you do?” I DO what we all do… So does Gino and so do you. We work, we make money to support ourselves and our families. We earn money for the movies, the bar, buying DVD’s, groceries, our life our habits, etc. We subsidize life…That’s simply what we do.
Some folks are fortunate enough to love what they do and, for them, that is indeed their passion. If you don’t enjoy your job, you don’t necessarily need to walk out, unless your boss likes to casually stroll past your desk singing 80’s power ballads while wearing a fedora and thongs. Then you should investigate alternate employment options. Unless you happen to like that sort of thing. You gotta earn a living, but you better have a passion.
For another friend of mine, his passion is porn. He IS a rather creepy guy, but funny and enjoyable to talk with. It is definitely NOT one world. By the way, he loves his job to boot. Imagine how perfect life would be for him if he were a camera man for a porno film studio. I suspect that he’d die as the happiest person on the planet.
As for me, I love to write. I may never get rich doing it, but that’s not why I do it. It’s one of my passions. It’s one of a few things that makes me get out of bed…well, today I hated the alarm clock but that’s an entirely separate story.
Anytime someone tells me that they enjoyed something that I’ve written it gives me an indescribable feeling. For that matter, whether I receive feedback or not, I’m most humbled that someone took time to read something that I’ve written.
Perhaps each of us can think of at least three reasons not to get out of bed. One may, in fact, be “passion”. Okay, I had to sneak a positive reason in there.
Maybe stress from the latest financial climate, the terrible news to which we’re subjected every day (Author note: BP better get it in gear FAST!) Maybe it’s a troubling relationship situation. There are many shared and unique reasons that feasibly could force us to pull the covers high for protection.
But, as Gino aptly puts it, no matter what you’re goin’ through, it’s still nice to get out and take in the world and learn from the people who occupy it. Very timely advice for me indeed. I've used the sheets a few times recently as a kryptonite wall.
It occurs to me that it might be a good idea for my receptionist friend to sit down over coffee with Gino; I can join them and we’ll sit in different parts of the café talking with one another on our cell phones. That way we’ll blend in.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
I Walk the Line
Sometimes I wish that I had my own private sidewalk…but, then again, I like to people watch too much so that much exclusivity would seem more like a prison than a perk.
I’ve somehow become more aware of sidewalk etiquette lately. Actually the expanding lack thereof. It’s interesting what catches one’s attention.
The sidewalks of New Orleans are not only quite narrow, dodging uneven pavement, gaping missing segments and uncovered utility access holes present an added challenge in getting from point A to point B.
Sprinkle the sidewalk hoarders into the mix and you have your own little urban obstacle course. You know who I’m talking about. Those couples who walk, hand in hand, from the curb to the wall. Or the group of three who traverse the walkways in an offensive lineman formation forcing you into the street with great likelihood of being hit by an inattentive tourist desperately trying to navigate the one way streets.
When I see the lineman walkers moving toward me I somehow have a strange urge to throw a football. But I temporarily step to the street, at moderate risk of being run over by some guy driving while attempting to do his taxes or perhaps a hostile corporate takeover entirely via text messaging.
I know that I’m not in the minority here; perhaps I must accept the challenge to speak for the silently frustrated…I hope to prove equal to the task.
For those who are quick to discount or naysay, citing the fact that I don’t OWN the sidewalks…as a matter of fact, I DO. My money, and your’s, pays for the upkeep of these public rights of way. (insert jaded wild laughter here if you‘re an Orleans Parish resident) Even the tourists temporarily own these narrow passages via the chunk of tax revenue that they bring to this fine city.
I simply choose to exercise common courtesy and yield to those who may be late for work, those who might need a little extra room, those with wheelchairs, those carrying groceries and, perhaps, those who simply creep me out to a level that sparks an inherent desire deep from within to allow them to pass…far away from me…quickly.
Being the proud part owner of a piece of historic municipality I simply exercise my neighborly duty and recognize that my co-owners need space too. Just because we all own a piece of the sidewalk doesn’t mean that we can do with it what we will.
One might make the argument that if you own something you can do whatever you want with it. Not true.
I solely owned properties over the years and it did not afford me the right to do with them as I pleased. For instance, if I were to decide to take my property and open an establishment named Johnny’s Deep Fried Frog Balls and Daiquiri Stand, I’m sure it would have been met with steep opposition and stymied before I could introduce my fellow neighbors to the potential delectable combination of balls and booze. As a side note, all of my servers would be hot girls wearing thong bikinis.
I also couldn’t, as a sole property owner, run an establishment which violated understood prurient community standards. Such as, say, a house of ill repute. For the record, my escort service would only employ midgets (sorry, I meant little people). Little people who are on crack and into S & M. Who knows? Perhaps there’s a market for such a service, but I have executed zero qualitative or quantitative research to confirm such a need in this market for those services.
On my private property, I also cannot whip it out and urinate in public view. It becomes a tort violation which would result in an indecent exposure charge. Try explaining that one to the special gems of humanity who regularly avail themselves to the New Orleans sidewalks for bladder relief.
I also own a vehicle, as do many others. There are things in which owning a car also does not give me an inherent right to do. Some Illegal, some common courtesy. Things such as drinking and driving (sharing the road is a lot like sharing a sidewalk). I can’t run over anyone as I please; sometime’s I’d like to, but you just can’t kill or maim people without consequence. Unless you’re on the Danziger bridge post Katrina…wait, consequences ARE indeed unfolding in that unfortunate situation.
I can, however, drive as close to the curb as humanly possible, within inches of the pedestrians in the Quarter. I can splash puddles of Bourbon sludge water onto everyone. I use the term water loosely by the way. Those puddles are filed with a lovely combination of rain, beer, nasty remnants of a horrible grain alcohol beverage served in an annoying, eco-unfriendly, neon green container fashioned in the likeness of a hand propelled military ordinate, urine and God only knows what else.
It’s not a legal violation to anyone if I so choose to do that; I simply choose not to do so…because it’s not right.
Which brings me back to the sidewalks. It’s simple actually.
We all appreciate the pure, undying, fairy tale, romance novel affection that two people share at such depths that they feel as though they’ve literally lost a human limb if, by chance, their hands become separated for a couple of seconds.
I promise, you won’t be traumatized to the point of throwing yourself to the curb in the fetal position. You also, most likely, won’t die (unless the guy doing his banking via text messaging loses control and drives onto the sidewalk). You two lovebirds will be swiftly reunited just as soon as the person who is also trying to share the sidewalk passes. Most likely vomiting from your public display of affection.
As for the three or four pals who form the human roadblock, placing the rest of us in harm’s way as we detour to the street….KNOCK IT OFF! It simply MUST be abundantly clear that you guys are just being downright greedy. Sidewalk whores if you will.
As for me, I will continue my tradition of making way while sharing the sidewalk. Sadly, I will probably continue to make the quick detour when someone chooses to be a pavement hoarder.
The bright spot is that when my business venture opens I plan to pay extra money to have the sidewalk widened in front of the place, no matter what the cost. A pedestrian oasis if you will.
Just watch your step so that you don’t accidentally step on one of my “little people” on their crack break while eating deep friend amphibious nads with a cool and refreshing daiquiri.
If I were a rich man…indeed. Sigh.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2010
(I'm not sure why, but a friend talked me into copyrighting this today)
I’ve somehow become more aware of sidewalk etiquette lately. Actually the expanding lack thereof. It’s interesting what catches one’s attention.
The sidewalks of New Orleans are not only quite narrow, dodging uneven pavement, gaping missing segments and uncovered utility access holes present an added challenge in getting from point A to point B.
Sprinkle the sidewalk hoarders into the mix and you have your own little urban obstacle course. You know who I’m talking about. Those couples who walk, hand in hand, from the curb to the wall. Or the group of three who traverse the walkways in an offensive lineman formation forcing you into the street with great likelihood of being hit by an inattentive tourist desperately trying to navigate the one way streets.
When I see the lineman walkers moving toward me I somehow have a strange urge to throw a football. But I temporarily step to the street, at moderate risk of being run over by some guy driving while attempting to do his taxes or perhaps a hostile corporate takeover entirely via text messaging.
I know that I’m not in the minority here; perhaps I must accept the challenge to speak for the silently frustrated…I hope to prove equal to the task.
For those who are quick to discount or naysay, citing the fact that I don’t OWN the sidewalks…as a matter of fact, I DO. My money, and your’s, pays for the upkeep of these public rights of way. (insert jaded wild laughter here if you‘re an Orleans Parish resident) Even the tourists temporarily own these narrow passages via the chunk of tax revenue that they bring to this fine city.
I simply choose to exercise common courtesy and yield to those who may be late for work, those who might need a little extra room, those with wheelchairs, those carrying groceries and, perhaps, those who simply creep me out to a level that sparks an inherent desire deep from within to allow them to pass…far away from me…quickly.
Being the proud part owner of a piece of historic municipality I simply exercise my neighborly duty and recognize that my co-owners need space too. Just because we all own a piece of the sidewalk doesn’t mean that we can do with it what we will.
One might make the argument that if you own something you can do whatever you want with it. Not true.
I solely owned properties over the years and it did not afford me the right to do with them as I pleased. For instance, if I were to decide to take my property and open an establishment named Johnny’s Deep Fried Frog Balls and Daiquiri Stand, I’m sure it would have been met with steep opposition and stymied before I could introduce my fellow neighbors to the potential delectable combination of balls and booze. As a side note, all of my servers would be hot girls wearing thong bikinis.
I also couldn’t, as a sole property owner, run an establishment which violated understood prurient community standards. Such as, say, a house of ill repute. For the record, my escort service would only employ midgets (sorry, I meant little people). Little people who are on crack and into S & M. Who knows? Perhaps there’s a market for such a service, but I have executed zero qualitative or quantitative research to confirm such a need in this market for those services.
On my private property, I also cannot whip it out and urinate in public view. It becomes a tort violation which would result in an indecent exposure charge. Try explaining that one to the special gems of humanity who regularly avail themselves to the New Orleans sidewalks for bladder relief.
I also own a vehicle, as do many others. There are things in which owning a car also does not give me an inherent right to do. Some Illegal, some common courtesy. Things such as drinking and driving (sharing the road is a lot like sharing a sidewalk). I can’t run over anyone as I please; sometime’s I’d like to, but you just can’t kill or maim people without consequence. Unless you’re on the Danziger bridge post Katrina…wait, consequences ARE indeed unfolding in that unfortunate situation.
I can, however, drive as close to the curb as humanly possible, within inches of the pedestrians in the Quarter. I can splash puddles of Bourbon sludge water onto everyone. I use the term water loosely by the way. Those puddles are filed with a lovely combination of rain, beer, nasty remnants of a horrible grain alcohol beverage served in an annoying, eco-unfriendly, neon green container fashioned in the likeness of a hand propelled military ordinate, urine and God only knows what else.
It’s not a legal violation to anyone if I so choose to do that; I simply choose not to do so…because it’s not right.
Which brings me back to the sidewalks. It’s simple actually.
We all appreciate the pure, undying, fairy tale, romance novel affection that two people share at such depths that they feel as though they’ve literally lost a human limb if, by chance, their hands become separated for a couple of seconds.
I promise, you won’t be traumatized to the point of throwing yourself to the curb in the fetal position. You also, most likely, won’t die (unless the guy doing his banking via text messaging loses control and drives onto the sidewalk). You two lovebirds will be swiftly reunited just as soon as the person who is also trying to share the sidewalk passes. Most likely vomiting from your public display of affection.
As for the three or four pals who form the human roadblock, placing the rest of us in harm’s way as we detour to the street….KNOCK IT OFF! It simply MUST be abundantly clear that you guys are just being downright greedy. Sidewalk whores if you will.
As for me, I will continue my tradition of making way while sharing the sidewalk. Sadly, I will probably continue to make the quick detour when someone chooses to be a pavement hoarder.
The bright spot is that when my business venture opens I plan to pay extra money to have the sidewalk widened in front of the place, no matter what the cost. A pedestrian oasis if you will.
Just watch your step so that you don’t accidentally step on one of my “little people” on their crack break while eating deep friend amphibious nads with a cool and refreshing daiquiri.
If I were a rich man…indeed. Sigh.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2010
(I'm not sure why, but a friend talked me into copyrighting this today)
Friday, April 30, 2010
Home Sweet Home
What do you wanna do today? What do you mean what do I wanna do? Let’s do something fun. I’m gonna sit here and do what I do every day. Lenny grumpily replied. With a lightening fast snap of his tongue, he snatched a fly out of mid air.
Lenny, Willie and Marvin spend day after day lazing around under the cool shade provided by thick trees that canopy their beautiful forest; this is their home. Nothing out of the ordinary, they are, after all, frogs. Not exactly a fast paced life, but a stress free life to be sure.
Marvin rarely speaks. He simply stares at the water, occasionally he’ll take a refreshing dip from his lily pad but he mostly just sleeps the day away. Lenny is the ring leader. A title with duty that he’d accidentally earned as a young frog. Lenny is the only one of the three who has actually been out of the forest! Not only had he been out of the forest, he lived in the big city for a while!
Lenny was captured a long time back by a curious little boy. He lived for almost a year as the boy’s pet before being released back to the forest. He entertained the others with magnificent tales of his adventures in the city. He’d been to baseball games, picnics, he was even once taken on a family vacation to the beach!
Lenny doesn’t talk about the old days much anymore. Long ago he grew weary of telling story after story, time and time again. He’s perfectly content with sitting around watching the lazy days pass; watching the world drift by from the comfort of his lily pad.
Willie, on the other hand, holds adventure in his heart. He‘s a dreamer. Willie longed for experiences that would expand his mind. What he would give to have an opportunity such as Lenny. Why couldn’t the three of them just go on a hike once in a while? Willie often wondered. On occasion, Willie hopped away to explore, sometimes returning late at night to Lenny’s scolding.
You’re gonna get hurt or snatched away one day if you’re not careful, Lenny warned. Or even worse, you’ll get hit by a car if you go near the highway! Lenny also had a darker experience in his younger adventures.
After returning to the forest, he found it nearly impossible to sit still. His time away from the forest made him feel as though he were bullet-proof. One day, while he was on one of his day trips, Lenny hopped across an animal trap. Before he knew what hit him the trap jaw swiftly closed around one of his hind legs, neatly severing half of it.
This marked the beginning of Lenny’s careful and, somewhat, sour attitude toward action and adventure in life. Plus, he looked different from the others now and it was difficult for him get around. Lenny was perfectly content with perching on his pad, nothing more, nothing less.
Willie always viewed Lenny’s worrying and warnings as being a party pooper. I don’t wanna sit around all day today; that’s all we ever do! Willie complained. Marvin…you wanna go with me for a hop? Willie begged. Marvin had been napping. He looked blankly to Lenny then back to Willie. He snatched a fly from a piece of nearby driftwood and fell soundly back to sleep. Willie sighed.
Why can’t you just sit still for a minute and relax? Lenny snapped. With age, Lenny had grown quite modest; he no longer felt the need to brag about his life experiences. He was most definitely done with adventure. What’s wrong with slow and boring? He reasoned.
Willie hopped from his lily pad to a nearby strip of land. I’m gonna go explore; you two can sit here all day if you want, Willie exclaimed as he hopped along the edge of the stream to his next conquest.
Later in the day Willie stumbled across a group of children who were on a guided hike through the forest. Willie hopped closer for a better look; this might be his big chance! Maybe he would finally have an exciting journey like that of Lenny.
He landed next to one of the children and let out a load croak. Cool!! One of the kids shouted. All of the other children quickly gathered around Willie; they took turns holding him until one of the scout leaders approached.
The scout leader bent down and scooped Willie into a small box filled with grass. We’ll take him back to the camp with us so you can study this little guy a bit more, the man said.
Lenny stared at the stream while Marvin spent the afternoon napping. He wondered why Willie hadn’t returned home; after all, it was late in the day. Lenny’s attention diverted as he heard quite a commotion high above his head. It was a little bird, briskly flapping around in his nest.
Be still up there! Lenny yelled. Your parents will be back soon, he assured. The bird grew restless in the confines of his tiny nest. He was approaching the age where he would soon learn to fly but the nest became most uncomfortable with each passing day. You’re going to fall if you don’t sit still, Lenny warned.
Suddenly, the little bird tumbled over the side. He flapped wildly all the way to the ground in order to cushion his fall. He finally landed on the opposite side of the stream…stranded! See, I told you! Lenny scolded.
Now you’re in a most difficult situation little bird. The Bobcats will find you for sure when the sun goes down, Lenny warned. The bird frantically flapped on the ground, he tried desperately to lift himself in flight. Be still! Lenny yelled. You’re going to draw attention to yourself!
All of the commotion rousted Marvin from his nap. Marvin spotted the bird perched on a small rock on the ground. He stared at Lenny for a moment then yawned and went back to sleep.
Back at the camp, Willie enjoyed an action packed afternoon. The kids took turns passing him around. Willie jumped and jumped, trying his best to entertain. He hammed it up with the children, enjoying the spotlight. Once in a while he would stop for a moment and let out a loud croak, causing the children to burst into laughter.
The camp leader finally announced to the scouts that the little frog needed to return home. The children groaned. The leader explained that they were only here to explore and learn, not to disrupt the natural cycle of life that made the forest unique and beautiful. He explained why Willie must return to the stream to be with his friends.
They scooped Willie up to the box and walked down to the stream and released him back to the forest.
Farther downstream, Lenny racked his brain trying to figure out a way to save the little bird from this most dangerous situation. He knew that unless the bird could fly, just enough, he’d never make it to the safety of his nest, or at least to a branch high enough for refuge from the Bobcats.
Try to jump little bird, Lenny ordered. It’s the only way you’ll be able to get off the ground. The bird tried and tried, each time crashing to the ground. Flap harder! Lenny urged. The bird tried again; he floated a foot from the ground for a few seconds before crashing once again. Lenny sighed. This is not going well, he mumbled.
If only there were a way to get this little guy farther from the ground, he might just be able to get high enough to flap his way to a safer place.
Upstream, Willie slowly hopped his way toward home. He stopped from time to time to snatch an occasional fly and to rest from his antics with the children. Lenny never has any fun like this, he grumbled to himself. I’ll bet those two are sitting there like bumps on a log…boring! Willie thought.
Out of nowhere, a Bobcat raced swiftly past Willie, nearly knocking him into the stream. Wonder where he’s going in such a hurry? Willy mumbled, before moving on.
Back at home, Lenny had a brainstorm. It was a long shot, but it just might work. He called for the stranded little bird to come closer to the edge of the stream. The bird hopped closer, hoping that Lenny had a solution. As the Bobcat inched closer, Lenny told the bird of his plan. When I say go, hop onto my back. I’m gonna jump as high as I can to get you farther off the ground. Flap as hard as you can and try to make it to one of those branches up there.
The bird readied himself; he knew that this would be his only shot at safety from the hungry cat. Lenny counted down. Get ready! He yelled. Get set! The bird readied himself to jump onto Lenny’s back.
Suddenly, a rustling sound came from a nearby bush. It was a Bobcat! The Bobcat spotted the stranded little bird and slowly crept toward the edge of the stream. His tail lowered, hovering an inch from the ground. A classic cat prowl, ready to pounce.
GO! Lenny yelled. The little bird jumped from the edge, landing squarely onto Lenny’s broad back. Lenny, even though he was missing half of his hind leg, used all the strength that he had to leap as high as he possibly could.
The bird flapped and flapped in circles. He hovered for a few seconds before crashing directly onto Marvin’s back. Marvin, startled from a deep sleep, leaped straight into the air, higher than Lenny had ever seen ANY frog leap in his entire life.
The bird flapped his wings feverishly, rising higher and higher above the stream. He soared awkwardly until he crash landed. This time, onto a small branch, far enough from the Bobcat‘s reach.
Lenny sighed with relief; the stranded bird was finally safe.
The Bobcat circled the tree for a few minutes, trying to figure out how to get at the bird. The cat soon realized that It would be impossible. The bird was perched too far out on a flimsy limb. Finally, the Bobcat moved on to search for his next meal.
Marvin climbed back to his pad, still rattled from this rude awakening. He looked up and down, to the left, then the right, trying to figure out what had just happened. Lenny sat, motionless, on his pad. He felt completely drained from the excitement that had long been absent from his quiet, boring little world. He smiled up at the bird. Now, you sit still! He yelled. I don’t think I have enough energy to do that again, and I’m most certain that Marvin doesn’t.
A few minutes later Willie hopped into the stream and climbed up to his lily pad. Marvin and Lenny stared at the stream. Willie broke the silence. So, what did you two do today? He quizzed.
Lenny thought of his days filled with big adventures but, for all of his earned bragging rights, he no longer felt the need to impress. He also gained comfort with what some would call a disability. Lenny proved today that, even though he was missing part of his leg, he still helped to save a little bird in need…simply by trying.
He was happy that Willie liked to learn about the world around him, for he finally realized that Willie came home each and every day with something new to share. Lenny also figured it was about time for him to share more of his experiences and knowledge more often than he did.
Well?? Willie pressed. Anything going on around here today? Nope…just another day in the stream, Lenny casually replied. He figured there’d be plenty of time to share the excitement with Willie soon enough; right now he wanted to hear about Willie’s latest big adventure.
The little bird happily chirped above the stream. Marvin stared at the branch and then looked at Willie and Lenny.
Lenny and Willie waited anxiously to see what in the world Marvin might say. After all, he hardly spoke at all! Was he about to share some important advice? Perhaps he would talk about some of his past experiences that no one knew about. Finally, Marvin spoke…
I’m tired, he said with a yawn. He snatched a fly from the air and resumed his nap.
copyright Pontchartrain Press
Lenny, Willie and Marvin spend day after day lazing around under the cool shade provided by thick trees that canopy their beautiful forest; this is their home. Nothing out of the ordinary, they are, after all, frogs. Not exactly a fast paced life, but a stress free life to be sure.
Marvin rarely speaks. He simply stares at the water, occasionally he’ll take a refreshing dip from his lily pad but he mostly just sleeps the day away. Lenny is the ring leader. A title with duty that he’d accidentally earned as a young frog. Lenny is the only one of the three who has actually been out of the forest! Not only had he been out of the forest, he lived in the big city for a while!
Lenny was captured a long time back by a curious little boy. He lived for almost a year as the boy’s pet before being released back to the forest. He entertained the others with magnificent tales of his adventures in the city. He’d been to baseball games, picnics, he was even once taken on a family vacation to the beach!
Lenny doesn’t talk about the old days much anymore. Long ago he grew weary of telling story after story, time and time again. He’s perfectly content with sitting around watching the lazy days pass; watching the world drift by from the comfort of his lily pad.
Willie, on the other hand, holds adventure in his heart. He‘s a dreamer. Willie longed for experiences that would expand his mind. What he would give to have an opportunity such as Lenny. Why couldn’t the three of them just go on a hike once in a while? Willie often wondered. On occasion, Willie hopped away to explore, sometimes returning late at night to Lenny’s scolding.
You’re gonna get hurt or snatched away one day if you’re not careful, Lenny warned. Or even worse, you’ll get hit by a car if you go near the highway! Lenny also had a darker experience in his younger adventures.
After returning to the forest, he found it nearly impossible to sit still. His time away from the forest made him feel as though he were bullet-proof. One day, while he was on one of his day trips, Lenny hopped across an animal trap. Before he knew what hit him the trap jaw swiftly closed around one of his hind legs, neatly severing half of it.
This marked the beginning of Lenny’s careful and, somewhat, sour attitude toward action and adventure in life. Plus, he looked different from the others now and it was difficult for him get around. Lenny was perfectly content with perching on his pad, nothing more, nothing less.
Willie always viewed Lenny’s worrying and warnings as being a party pooper. I don’t wanna sit around all day today; that’s all we ever do! Willie complained. Marvin…you wanna go with me for a hop? Willie begged. Marvin had been napping. He looked blankly to Lenny then back to Willie. He snatched a fly from a piece of nearby driftwood and fell soundly back to sleep. Willie sighed.
Why can’t you just sit still for a minute and relax? Lenny snapped. With age, Lenny had grown quite modest; he no longer felt the need to brag about his life experiences. He was most definitely done with adventure. What’s wrong with slow and boring? He reasoned.
Willie hopped from his lily pad to a nearby strip of land. I’m gonna go explore; you two can sit here all day if you want, Willie exclaimed as he hopped along the edge of the stream to his next conquest.
Later in the day Willie stumbled across a group of children who were on a guided hike through the forest. Willie hopped closer for a better look; this might be his big chance! Maybe he would finally have an exciting journey like that of Lenny.
He landed next to one of the children and let out a load croak. Cool!! One of the kids shouted. All of the other children quickly gathered around Willie; they took turns holding him until one of the scout leaders approached.
The scout leader bent down and scooped Willie into a small box filled with grass. We’ll take him back to the camp with us so you can study this little guy a bit more, the man said.
Lenny stared at the stream while Marvin spent the afternoon napping. He wondered why Willie hadn’t returned home; after all, it was late in the day. Lenny’s attention diverted as he heard quite a commotion high above his head. It was a little bird, briskly flapping around in his nest.
Be still up there! Lenny yelled. Your parents will be back soon, he assured. The bird grew restless in the confines of his tiny nest. He was approaching the age where he would soon learn to fly but the nest became most uncomfortable with each passing day. You’re going to fall if you don’t sit still, Lenny warned.
Suddenly, the little bird tumbled over the side. He flapped wildly all the way to the ground in order to cushion his fall. He finally landed on the opposite side of the stream…stranded! See, I told you! Lenny scolded.
Now you’re in a most difficult situation little bird. The Bobcats will find you for sure when the sun goes down, Lenny warned. The bird frantically flapped on the ground, he tried desperately to lift himself in flight. Be still! Lenny yelled. You’re going to draw attention to yourself!
All of the commotion rousted Marvin from his nap. Marvin spotted the bird perched on a small rock on the ground. He stared at Lenny for a moment then yawned and went back to sleep.
Back at the camp, Willie enjoyed an action packed afternoon. The kids took turns passing him around. Willie jumped and jumped, trying his best to entertain. He hammed it up with the children, enjoying the spotlight. Once in a while he would stop for a moment and let out a loud croak, causing the children to burst into laughter.
The camp leader finally announced to the scouts that the little frog needed to return home. The children groaned. The leader explained that they were only here to explore and learn, not to disrupt the natural cycle of life that made the forest unique and beautiful. He explained why Willie must return to the stream to be with his friends.
They scooped Willie up to the box and walked down to the stream and released him back to the forest.
Farther downstream, Lenny racked his brain trying to figure out a way to save the little bird from this most dangerous situation. He knew that unless the bird could fly, just enough, he’d never make it to the safety of his nest, or at least to a branch high enough for refuge from the Bobcats.
Try to jump little bird, Lenny ordered. It’s the only way you’ll be able to get off the ground. The bird tried and tried, each time crashing to the ground. Flap harder! Lenny urged. The bird tried again; he floated a foot from the ground for a few seconds before crashing once again. Lenny sighed. This is not going well, he mumbled.
If only there were a way to get this little guy farther from the ground, he might just be able to get high enough to flap his way to a safer place.
Upstream, Willie slowly hopped his way toward home. He stopped from time to time to snatch an occasional fly and to rest from his antics with the children. Lenny never has any fun like this, he grumbled to himself. I’ll bet those two are sitting there like bumps on a log…boring! Willie thought.
Out of nowhere, a Bobcat raced swiftly past Willie, nearly knocking him into the stream. Wonder where he’s going in such a hurry? Willy mumbled, before moving on.
Back at home, Lenny had a brainstorm. It was a long shot, but it just might work. He called for the stranded little bird to come closer to the edge of the stream. The bird hopped closer, hoping that Lenny had a solution. As the Bobcat inched closer, Lenny told the bird of his plan. When I say go, hop onto my back. I’m gonna jump as high as I can to get you farther off the ground. Flap as hard as you can and try to make it to one of those branches up there.
The bird readied himself; he knew that this would be his only shot at safety from the hungry cat. Lenny counted down. Get ready! He yelled. Get set! The bird readied himself to jump onto Lenny’s back.
Suddenly, a rustling sound came from a nearby bush. It was a Bobcat! The Bobcat spotted the stranded little bird and slowly crept toward the edge of the stream. His tail lowered, hovering an inch from the ground. A classic cat prowl, ready to pounce.
GO! Lenny yelled. The little bird jumped from the edge, landing squarely onto Lenny’s broad back. Lenny, even though he was missing half of his hind leg, used all the strength that he had to leap as high as he possibly could.
The bird flapped and flapped in circles. He hovered for a few seconds before crashing directly onto Marvin’s back. Marvin, startled from a deep sleep, leaped straight into the air, higher than Lenny had ever seen ANY frog leap in his entire life.
The bird flapped his wings feverishly, rising higher and higher above the stream. He soared awkwardly until he crash landed. This time, onto a small branch, far enough from the Bobcat‘s reach.
Lenny sighed with relief; the stranded bird was finally safe.
The Bobcat circled the tree for a few minutes, trying to figure out how to get at the bird. The cat soon realized that It would be impossible. The bird was perched too far out on a flimsy limb. Finally, the Bobcat moved on to search for his next meal.
Marvin climbed back to his pad, still rattled from this rude awakening. He looked up and down, to the left, then the right, trying to figure out what had just happened. Lenny sat, motionless, on his pad. He felt completely drained from the excitement that had long been absent from his quiet, boring little world. He smiled up at the bird. Now, you sit still! He yelled. I don’t think I have enough energy to do that again, and I’m most certain that Marvin doesn’t.
A few minutes later Willie hopped into the stream and climbed up to his lily pad. Marvin and Lenny stared at the stream. Willie broke the silence. So, what did you two do today? He quizzed.
Lenny thought of his days filled with big adventures but, for all of his earned bragging rights, he no longer felt the need to impress. He also gained comfort with what some would call a disability. Lenny proved today that, even though he was missing part of his leg, he still helped to save a little bird in need…simply by trying.
He was happy that Willie liked to learn about the world around him, for he finally realized that Willie came home each and every day with something new to share. Lenny also figured it was about time for him to share more of his experiences and knowledge more often than he did.
Well?? Willie pressed. Anything going on around here today? Nope…just another day in the stream, Lenny casually replied. He figured there’d be plenty of time to share the excitement with Willie soon enough; right now he wanted to hear about Willie’s latest big adventure.
The little bird happily chirped above the stream. Marvin stared at the branch and then looked at Willie and Lenny.
Lenny and Willie waited anxiously to see what in the world Marvin might say. After all, he hardly spoke at all! Was he about to share some important advice? Perhaps he would talk about some of his past experiences that no one knew about. Finally, Marvin spoke…
I’m tired, he said with a yawn. He snatched a fly from the air and resumed his nap.
copyright Pontchartrain Press
Thursday, April 29, 2010
NOT A Children's Story...But An Interesting Night From 2003
It’s particularly refreshing that all reminiscences aren’t necessarily deep. Some are downright funny and juvenile as a matter of fact. Such is the following little tale of a night gone terribly awry.
I was in a conversation recently about a pre-storm event that involved a friend of mine, an ex-boss and three NOPD officers. I happen to know that these officers are no longer protecting and serving our fine city; I will reserve speculation for those who may be so inclined. I shall not pass judgment as I happen to know many fine men and women who wear the crescent badge in this city.
While the story from the young woman with whom I was chatting turned out much darker, my story was much lighter in tone…thankfully.
It was January 31, 2003...perhaps February 1st since drinking was involved and I’m most certain we were out late. At least I’m in the ballpark with the timeline, which is impressive since I’m also thinking that a large expense account and some shots were involved that evening.
A large convention was in town for my industry and I, along with numerous colleagues, were in attendance. To say that we attended is another way of saying that we spent a lot of time in the French Quarter bitching about work and drinking.
My group happened upon a former boss. He had been an executive VP in our company and reviled by most of those in his stead; past and present…including us.
One of my co-workers, we’ll call him Marc. Mainly because his name is indeed Marc. Young Marc and I engaged our former cage master…uh, boss, in industry conversation. It was a decent exchange of pleasantries and professional courtesy which amazed me since I knew how badly these two despised one another.
Finally, feeling that Marc was able to continue this pattern of peaceful decorum with, we’ll call our ex-boss Brian because his name is indeed Brian, I decided to move about the room and chat with other groups.
Mistake number one on this particular evening.
After about 20-minutes had passed, I looked over to Marc and Brian and noticed that the body language was decidedly tense. Okay, by tense I mean that Brian’s forehead looked like a topographical road map. You could see every vein in his face. I excused myself from conversation to investigate. It took all of about 5-seconds to confirm my suspicions as I rejoined the duo.
Five rapid fire, nonchalant, abases spewed forth alerting me that this was going nowhere good…quickly. Then, the ultimate “dis”. Brian pushed his index finger to Marc’s nose to punctuate a point. Note: Nothing good can EVER come from placing your finger to someone’s nose.
Then, our warm and fuzzy ex-boss put his hands around Marc’s neck and began to choke him. In retrospect, it was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. It was a most bizarre chokehold…almost like something out of a zombie movie, stilted and stiff.
Marc politely warned Brian. No need to document the verbiage, as it was not, in fact, polite at all now that I think about it. When the warning went unheeded Marc punctuated it with a lightening fast punch to the face.
Trust me, you haven’t lived life to its fullest until you see a 25 year old knock the shit out of a 49 year old who, by most accounts, truly deserved it. We all wanted to punch this guy at some point or another and Marc decided to singularly act on the desires of the collective, thus becoming our hero.
The bouncers sprang to action and immediately tossed the nonsense to Bourbon street where three police officers intervened. To borrow a term from a friend, many Bourbon street doormen are part carnival barker, part pimp, all asshole.
Since Marc was quite vocal, as opposed to Brian, and the large red spot on Brian’s face clearly illustrated that he was indeed assaulted, the cops restrained my friend.
At this point I remember wishing for a rescue helicopter to land immediately and whisk us away. As it were, a stark realization set in that I’m Marc’s boss. As Operations Manager, I visualized the terrible scene of me standing in front of the owner explaining this situation by saying “What ha-happened was”. Thus, I immediately called for our Chief Operating Officer, who was enjoying the “tray man” (Sonny) work his magic at Pat O’s. I asked for him to come and inject his indelible diplomacy to an explosive situation. He was on the scene in 2 minutes. There’s a reason he rose to the level of COO I suppose. Oh, he also had some crazy ass snappy suits and ties. Another requirement of a COO I suppose.
He was able to talk the cops into letting Marc go free on the condition that he get out of the Quarter immediately. The officers didn’t put it quite that nicely, but we heard the message loud and clear. Fair enough and better than a 25 year old who looked like a Backstreet Boy spending a night in OPP. He would have been an appetizing delicacy in OPP to be sure.
We informed young Marc of his good fortune and he was so elated that he availed himself of another opportunity to punch our asshole ex-boss in the face again. I reiterate, it was deserved and amusing to watch but an unfortunate turn of events for Marc.
The old lamp posts on Bourbon are quite lovely, unless your head happens to make contact with blunt force at the hands of three cops shoving you to the sludge filled sidewalks.
It was abundantly clear that Marc’s plush hotel room would be traded for a bologna sandwich and a community bench at OPP. A decidedly far cry from his room at the Ritz.
Being the good friends that we were we did what anyone would do under such duress. We decided to go grab a drink. C’mon! It’s OPP, we knew he wouldn’t be processed till the following morning…don’t judge us!
Marc’s last battle cry on his way to the patrol car was for us to tell no one…to keep this incident completely quiet. We gave him our assurances.
The following morning we were all set to meet with the owner of our company. We awoke to the reality that Marc was in jail, we all nursed a massive hangover and the space shuttle had exploded over Texas. A lovely Sunday morning indeed.
I received a call from, what is now my ex, asking how the evening had gone…it was an exchange of pleasantries and I assured that all was well; holding true to my promise to Marc. A few minutes later my cell rang again…it was my lady calling back.
There are certain moments in life where time seems to stand still, this was one of them. The first words from the other end of the phone were: “When were you going to tell me that Marc is in jail?” My reply? “Um, I wasn’t. We all promised him, I assured. Then I quizzed, how did YOU know?
When going to jail you are entitled to a phone call, however, speed dial has virtually erased the necessity to remember phone numbers any longer. The only phone number Marc could remember, for some bizarre reason, was my land line! Now that I think about it, I'm wondering WHY I had a land line...but I digress.
And so, the land line rang as Marc finally got his turn at the pay phone in OPP as fifty very unfriendly inmates taunted the boy who looked as though he should be with NSYNC rather than in OPP. Maybe that was their way of flirting.
This is the actual automated call that came through from a very sober and reality stricken Marc: “You have a collect call from an inmate at Orleans Parish Prison from Marc, Marc, Marc!!!” And said cover was forever broken. What I would GIVE to have an audio recording of that phone call!
After about 18 hours had passed a colleague of ours collected bail money and took a cab to OPP to retrieve our co-worker. We, in the meantime, read the Sunday paper and had lunch & Bloody Mary’s. Don’t judge us…we were stressed.
Marc came out about $600 lighter. Funny how cash disappears while in custody huh? He also adorned two very nasty cuts around his wrists in the shape of handcuffs from which he’d been dragged once he was out of public view. The scars, most likely, remain to this very day.
Don’t get me wrong, my co-worker DID break the law, but he availed himself of an opportunity to teach a loud mouthed, egotistical, ex-boss a lesson. I’m sure, in retrospect, Marc probably figures it was a small price to pay.
One thing’s for sure…it was one HELL of a night in the French Quarter.
I was in a conversation recently about a pre-storm event that involved a friend of mine, an ex-boss and three NOPD officers. I happen to know that these officers are no longer protecting and serving our fine city; I will reserve speculation for those who may be so inclined. I shall not pass judgment as I happen to know many fine men and women who wear the crescent badge in this city.
While the story from the young woman with whom I was chatting turned out much darker, my story was much lighter in tone…thankfully.
It was January 31, 2003...perhaps February 1st since drinking was involved and I’m most certain we were out late. At least I’m in the ballpark with the timeline, which is impressive since I’m also thinking that a large expense account and some shots were involved that evening.
A large convention was in town for my industry and I, along with numerous colleagues, were in attendance. To say that we attended is another way of saying that we spent a lot of time in the French Quarter bitching about work and drinking.
My group happened upon a former boss. He had been an executive VP in our company and reviled by most of those in his stead; past and present…including us.
One of my co-workers, we’ll call him Marc. Mainly because his name is indeed Marc. Young Marc and I engaged our former cage master…uh, boss, in industry conversation. It was a decent exchange of pleasantries and professional courtesy which amazed me since I knew how badly these two despised one another.
Finally, feeling that Marc was able to continue this pattern of peaceful decorum with, we’ll call our ex-boss Brian because his name is indeed Brian, I decided to move about the room and chat with other groups.
Mistake number one on this particular evening.
After about 20-minutes had passed, I looked over to Marc and Brian and noticed that the body language was decidedly tense. Okay, by tense I mean that Brian’s forehead looked like a topographical road map. You could see every vein in his face. I excused myself from conversation to investigate. It took all of about 5-seconds to confirm my suspicions as I rejoined the duo.
Five rapid fire, nonchalant, abases spewed forth alerting me that this was going nowhere good…quickly. Then, the ultimate “dis”. Brian pushed his index finger to Marc’s nose to punctuate a point. Note: Nothing good can EVER come from placing your finger to someone’s nose.
Then, our warm and fuzzy ex-boss put his hands around Marc’s neck and began to choke him. In retrospect, it was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. It was a most bizarre chokehold…almost like something out of a zombie movie, stilted and stiff.
Marc politely warned Brian. No need to document the verbiage, as it was not, in fact, polite at all now that I think about it. When the warning went unheeded Marc punctuated it with a lightening fast punch to the face.
Trust me, you haven’t lived life to its fullest until you see a 25 year old knock the shit out of a 49 year old who, by most accounts, truly deserved it. We all wanted to punch this guy at some point or another and Marc decided to singularly act on the desires of the collective, thus becoming our hero.
The bouncers sprang to action and immediately tossed the nonsense to Bourbon street where three police officers intervened. To borrow a term from a friend, many Bourbon street doormen are part carnival barker, part pimp, all asshole.
Since Marc was quite vocal, as opposed to Brian, and the large red spot on Brian’s face clearly illustrated that he was indeed assaulted, the cops restrained my friend.
At this point I remember wishing for a rescue helicopter to land immediately and whisk us away. As it were, a stark realization set in that I’m Marc’s boss. As Operations Manager, I visualized the terrible scene of me standing in front of the owner explaining this situation by saying “What ha-happened was”. Thus, I immediately called for our Chief Operating Officer, who was enjoying the “tray man” (Sonny) work his magic at Pat O’s. I asked for him to come and inject his indelible diplomacy to an explosive situation. He was on the scene in 2 minutes. There’s a reason he rose to the level of COO I suppose. Oh, he also had some crazy ass snappy suits and ties. Another requirement of a COO I suppose.
He was able to talk the cops into letting Marc go free on the condition that he get out of the Quarter immediately. The officers didn’t put it quite that nicely, but we heard the message loud and clear. Fair enough and better than a 25 year old who looked like a Backstreet Boy spending a night in OPP. He would have been an appetizing delicacy in OPP to be sure.
We informed young Marc of his good fortune and he was so elated that he availed himself of another opportunity to punch our asshole ex-boss in the face again. I reiterate, it was deserved and amusing to watch but an unfortunate turn of events for Marc.
The old lamp posts on Bourbon are quite lovely, unless your head happens to make contact with blunt force at the hands of three cops shoving you to the sludge filled sidewalks.
It was abundantly clear that Marc’s plush hotel room would be traded for a bologna sandwich and a community bench at OPP. A decidedly far cry from his room at the Ritz.
Being the good friends that we were we did what anyone would do under such duress. We decided to go grab a drink. C’mon! It’s OPP, we knew he wouldn’t be processed till the following morning…don’t judge us!
Marc’s last battle cry on his way to the patrol car was for us to tell no one…to keep this incident completely quiet. We gave him our assurances.
The following morning we were all set to meet with the owner of our company. We awoke to the reality that Marc was in jail, we all nursed a massive hangover and the space shuttle had exploded over Texas. A lovely Sunday morning indeed.
I received a call from, what is now my ex, asking how the evening had gone…it was an exchange of pleasantries and I assured that all was well; holding true to my promise to Marc. A few minutes later my cell rang again…it was my lady calling back.
There are certain moments in life where time seems to stand still, this was one of them. The first words from the other end of the phone were: “When were you going to tell me that Marc is in jail?” My reply? “Um, I wasn’t. We all promised him, I assured. Then I quizzed, how did YOU know?
When going to jail you are entitled to a phone call, however, speed dial has virtually erased the necessity to remember phone numbers any longer. The only phone number Marc could remember, for some bizarre reason, was my land line! Now that I think about it, I'm wondering WHY I had a land line...but I digress.
And so, the land line rang as Marc finally got his turn at the pay phone in OPP as fifty very unfriendly inmates taunted the boy who looked as though he should be with NSYNC rather than in OPP. Maybe that was their way of flirting.
This is the actual automated call that came through from a very sober and reality stricken Marc: “You have a collect call from an inmate at Orleans Parish Prison from Marc, Marc, Marc!!!” And said cover was forever broken. What I would GIVE to have an audio recording of that phone call!
After about 18 hours had passed a colleague of ours collected bail money and took a cab to OPP to retrieve our co-worker. We, in the meantime, read the Sunday paper and had lunch & Bloody Mary’s. Don’t judge us…we were stressed.
Marc came out about $600 lighter. Funny how cash disappears while in custody huh? He also adorned two very nasty cuts around his wrists in the shape of handcuffs from which he’d been dragged once he was out of public view. The scars, most likely, remain to this very day.
Don’t get me wrong, my co-worker DID break the law, but he availed himself of an opportunity to teach a loud mouthed, egotistical, ex-boss a lesson. I’m sure, in retrospect, Marc probably figures it was a small price to pay.
One thing’s for sure…it was one HELL of a night in the French Quarter.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Bobtales
Bottom of the ninth, the score 3 to 2, runners on first and second. Chris, with a 2 and 2 count, this team needs to work some magic here. Yeah Jim, it’s a great but extremely stressful position to be in if you’re in a spot like Andre’ is right now on that plate. These guys train and prepare for a moment like this one all their lives but it’s not exactly where one chooses to be for sure. We’re seconds away from an outcome and one of these two clubs are gonna be champions. Medina could seal it up and make history, giving this team its first world series win in 60 years.
It’s a tied world series and Andre’ Medina finds himself in a spot like none he could have ever imagined as a child. Playing baseball in the backyard with his friends was just for fun back then, it was also a tool which helped him gain acceptance in a strange new world.
Andre’ had a natural talent in baseball; he’d worked hard all of his life honing his skills. Finally, he made a living with it. Yes indeed, a professional baseball player. His team, until this year, had one of the worst records in the league. A record that was earned long before he was born. The losing streak seemed almost like a curse, if you believe in superstitions that is.
Year after year the city endured such heartbreaking losses. Five years ago they almost made it to the championship, but a stroke of bad luck for an outfielder brought, yet another, dismal end to the season. That was before Andre’ was traded to the team. Even better, a team for which he’d always dreamed of joining. His adopted hometown!
When he learned of the trade his fellow teammates joked about it. Some offered their condolences, others hesitantly wished him well. Andre’ always smiled and told them not to worry, he was as happy as could be.
And now all eyes are on Andre’ on this October evening. Not only in the stadium…across the planet! Andre’ is a long way from that backyard on a lazy summer afternoon, this is the big league and a defining moment in his career, if not his life.
In an instant the TV cameras rapidly swung, turning their focus to an unscheduled player who made his series debut on the diamond. We seem to have an unexpected member on the team Jim! The commentators in the broadcast booth laughed loudly. Spectators in the stadium rose to their feet, wildly cheering.
Andre’s mouth dropped as he watched the rogue team mate scramble across the field. He slowly lowered his bat until it rested squarely on the tip of his shoe. He smiled to himself before looking to the sky, then back to the outfield . He laughed out loud.
The umpires, along with stadium officials, zigged and zagged across the field as the cameras documented every turn, every stumble and missed attempt to remove the player from the field. The antics of this rogue player had officially interrupted an historic world series.
The game was halted, giving Andre’ a moment of pause of his own. He used the break to reflect on how he came to be here, and how this particular team mate may have been destined to join him in the spotlight on this historic evening after all.
Andre’ grew up in a tiny village in Honduras. It was a troubling time for his country; a country which was divided by warlords. A group of organized gangs who preyed upon fears at a time when most Hondurans lived in poverty, making the gangland way of life seem that much more enticing. Loyalty to the homeland was a powerful tool that the warlords used to entice young, impressionable, minds. Andre’ fought temptations to join the fight with all of his might; many of his friends had no such willpower.
At the early age of 10 his parents, realizing that a better life awaited Andre’, finally made the toughest of all decisions. They must choose between he and his sister. A choice that would give one of the two an opportunity to make a good life, far from poverty and danger.
Andre’s parents gave him up for adoption to an American family. It was part of an outreach program which assisted those who wanted to help the children of this impoverished land. And so, just like that, Andre’ found himself in a strange new place far from his home. This was his new home.
Andre’ soon found that fitting in wouldn’t be easy. He looked different from the other children; he spoke differently, which made him stand out even more. He ate lunch alone everyday; no one in his class dared to befriend this strange new boy from, what they viewed as, a faraway land. It was almost as if he were from another planet.
Most afternoons found Andre’ swatting rocks with driftwood across a pond near his house. It was his solitary escape and it made him happy.
His home life was great; his adoptive parents loved him and showed their love and support in every way. He knew that he was fortunate to have such an opportunity, but he longed for friendship. He missed his friends back in Honduras.
The citizens here felt comfort and insulation in their tiny town. They felt well protected from the news and troubling events that they read about and watched on television. It all seemed so far away to them. It didn’t seem real if it didn’t happen within the boundaries of their city limits sign.
Andre’s classmates, and most certainly their parents, couldn’t imagine some of the things that he’d already witnessed through his 10-years in this big and, sometimes, scary world.
Wow! A voice rang from behind. Andre’ quickly spun around, spotting a boy from his class standing in the distance. He had been watching Andre’ swat, stone after stone, across the pond. The young boy walked closer.
That’s awesome! He exclaimed. Thanks, Andre’ said. I’ve seen you around school, my name’s Michael. I’m Andre’. You’re the guy from that island place right? Andre’ giggled. What? Michael wondered what could be so funny. It’s Honduras; it’s a country in Central America…not an island. I’m not real good with geography, only what I memorize for the tests, Michael explained. Well, it’s not as far off as you think, but I understand, Andre’ replied. I’m still learning the United States so don’t feel bad, Andre’ continued.
One of my buddies told me that your people eat folks who get lost in the jungle, Michael blurted to Andre’. Andre’ sat silently and stared at Michael for a moment. Andre’ wore a solemn stare on his face as he struck the bottom of his shoe repeatedly with the large piece of driftwood in his hand.
Michael broke the uncomfortable silence. Is that true?? Not anymore, Andre’ replied, with a straight face. Michael stared at Andre’, fear filled his face until Andre’ could no longer mask the laughter inside. Michael shoved Andre’s arm. That’s not funny! He exclaimed with a relieved smile.
We play baseball every Friday afternoon and Saturday morning if you wanna join us, Michael invited. I don’t think your friends want a man-eating islander on the team, Andre’ joked. I’ll talk with em’, c’mon, stop by this Friday, Michael urged.
After a few weeks of backyard baseball, Andre’ became part of the gang. It wasn’t easy at first, but Andre’ tried his best to educate his classmates about his homeland and culture. He also absorbed as much information as he could about theirs. His was a better gang than that which would have been available back in Honduras. He forged friendships while doing what he loved…passing a lazy afternoon away playing baseball and being a 10-year old boy.
One afternoon while the boys played, what seemed to be, a 30 inning game, a group of kids from the next block showed up. You call that baseball? One of the kids taunted as Michael swatted and missed a fastball. Michael tossed his bat to the ground after being struck out and replied. Yeah? You guys think you can do better? The two neighborhood teams talked trash until a challenge was issued. It was time to show the next block how baseball was played.
It was the ninth inning, the game had been close for the previous eight. The moment of truth. This game was either going extra innings or come to a joyous ending for one team, but a humiliating and painful end for the other. Bragging rights for the neighborhood block is EVERYTHING when you’re a 10-year old boy. This was the world series to these boys.
Andre’ headed to the plate. His defining moment with the gang, he thought. Suddenly, from nowhere, a black cat darted in front of him and scurried off to the nearby bushes. Andre’ gasped.
Superstitions ran deep in Andre’s culture. Until the time when he left Honduras for his new life he’d long heard tales of the unexplained, the curses and black magic. His grandmother was especially superstitious. A black cat!! Andre’ fretted, thinking back to the folklore that he’d heard from his elders.
Andre’ stepped up to the plate, he readied his bat for the pitch. The ball sped toward him at, what seemed to be, a thousand miles per hour. A loud crack pierced the late afternoon air on this tiny city block. A beautiful, dead on, hit! The ball sliced through the air to the outfield at lightening speed. His team mates roared with excitement.
The ball soared over the heads of the opposing team until it finally landed, firmly, in the mitt of an outfielder. A “noisy out” as it’s often called. The game was over, a humiliating defeat for Andre’ and his team mates. The prize of bragging rights went to the boys from the next block.
Andre’ was certain that it was the black cat! His team mates were sad, but they never blamed Andre’. It was a great hit, but a few feet short. The two teams shook hands, some grudgingly. Andre’ had learned two lessons this late summer afternoon. Good sportsmanship, and that black cats were indeed bad luck.
By the time Andre’ made it to high school, he’d caught a lot of attention with his incredible baseball skills. He was a shining star on the team and had been scouted heavily by college coaches until, finally, he was offered a baseball scholarship. He never dreamed that he could go to school for free, just by doing something that he loved to do. This truly was the land of opportunity, he thought.
Andre’ graduated college and, soon after, began playing for a minor league team in the city. He couldn’t believe that he was earning a paycheck for playing a game! It was a small paycheck, but it was money.
Andre’ was married now, with a child on the way. The land of opportunity, to him, truly was an American dream come true. Even though life was a struggle at times, it felt good to Andre’.
He often thought about his family in Honduras, but felt a sense of thankfulness. The incredibly difficult sacrifice that his mother had made was the most selfless act of human kind, he thought. A second chance.
Andre’ took an afternoon stroll through the neighborhood. He’d just returned from a 4-day road-trip with the team and felt quite happy to be home. He stopped occasionally to watch the neighborhood kids playing. He absorbed the sounds of a late summer afternoon as the sun lay low on the horizon.
In the distance, he spotted a little kitten limping along near the sidewalk. As Andre’ approached, he noticed that the cat’s tail was odd. It was about 3 inches long. Andre‘ stood over this pathetic looking little cat who let out a deep and haunting meow.
Wow! You’re loud. The kitten rubbed against Andre’s leg wildly, bucking his head against his ankle. Andre’ bent down and rubbed the kitten’s back until it fell to the ground, rolling on his back feverishly, as if to be begging to have its belly rubbed.
He noticed that the cat seemed to also be blind in his left eye. Andre’ laughed at the irony. A black cat! You’re an unlucky little one, he told the affectionate little kitty.
That cat has most certainly used up about seven of his nine lives, a voice echoed from the front porch with a deep laugh and thick southern drawl. An old man walked toward Andre’ as he knelt, still rubbing this noisy, ugly little cat.
Andre’ smiled at the old man. Yeah, I thought black cats brought other people bad luck, Andre’ said. Not this one, he’s been through a lot, that’s for sure, the man replied.
Is this your cat? Andre’ quizzed. Nah, we’ve just been takin’ care of him. He got hit by a car. We got him all fixed up and then on Halloween some kids hurt him pretty bad since he’s a black cat. We just been feedin’ him and now he won’t go away; no one seems to want him. The old man looked down to the cat at Andre’s feet. He ain’t pretty, but he seems to have taken a liking to you, the old man pointed.
Andre’ knelt back to the kitty and rubbed his scruffy head. The cat purred wildly. I’ll take him off your hands if ya’ don’t want him, Andre’ offered. He’s yours if ya’ want him, the man replied.
Andre’ scooped the ugly, crippled, half blind, bob-tailed little kitten in his arms and headed home. What is THAT? Andre’s wife asked as he walked up the driveway. It’s a cat. Yes dear, I can see that, why is it in your arms? She quizzed. He just seemed like he needed a friend, he’s had a bit of bad luck, Andre’ explained. Yeah, I can certainly see that, his wife laughed.
I thought you were superstitious; you realize this is a black cat Andre’? I know, but I figure this little guy’s had so much bad luck, maybe some good luck is ready to follow him around for a bit. You’re silly, come inside for dinner, Andre’s wife laughed as she went back inside.
Before Andre’ followed, he spotted his next door neighbor, an old Cajun man who kept to himself. He noticed that the old man was walking his way. A rare occasion indeed. What could this be? Andre’ wondered.
That’s one ugly cat, the old man laughed as he approached. Yeah, he’s nice though; he’s had a bit of bad luck I think. Yeah? Looks like little Menieu has had more than a bit of bad luck, the man teased as he playfully poked at the cat’s head.
Menieu? Who’s Menieu? Andre’ asked. Ah, Menieu is a great name for a cat my boy. Yeah? Andre’s eyes were wide, he eagerly held on to every word, hoping to learn the history of this “Menieu” that the old man spoke of. Could it be some ancient explorer? A notable leader; even better, a war hero!! Tell me more, Andre’ begged.
Andre’s wife cracked the door and called for him to come in for dinner. Just a minute, I’ll be right there, Andre’ assured.
Andre’ turned his focus back to the old man. Who is Menieu? He begged. The old man laughed as he walked back to his front porch. Andre’ stood still, watching as the man reached his porch. Andre’ turned for the door as the old man yelled out. Cat! What do you mean…cat? Andre’ asked. The old man laughed; Menieu is Cajun for cat.
Andre’ laughed and waved goodnight to the old man before heading inside to dinner. Inside, he placed the cat on the floor. Well, I suppose your name is Menieu. Menieu rubbed vigorously between Andre’s legs before falling squarely on top of his feet.
A seemingly unlucky little black kitten suddenly became a lucky little pet, thanks to a chance meeting with a superstitious minor league ball player who had decided that Menieu was due for some good luck. Andre’ knew what it felt like to look different. He knew what it was like to be an outcast in a strange new world. He also remembered that someone took him in when he needed it most. Perhaps Andre’ was looking for a little luck himself; maybe he was looking to simply return the love and acceptance that he was shown. Or, a little bit of both.
Andre’ was running late for the game. He had taken Menieu to the veterinarian and the appointment ran long. He tossed Menieu in the front seat and sped to the ballpark for the beginning of a three night home-stand against their team’s arch rival.
After screeching to a halt in the back parking lot, Andre’ raced into the locker room, Menieu firmly under his arm.
What is that? The manager demanded. It’s a cat, Andre’ replied. Yeah, I can see that…you’re late! Has the game started yet? Andre’ quizzed. The manager grumbled as he trailed away through the locker room. Get dressed out, he yelled back to Andre’ before slamming his office door.
Andre’ placed Menieu in his open locker and placed a small cup of water and a few morsels of food on a piece of paper. You wait here and stay outta trouble…I’ll be back soon, Andre’ instructed the kitten. Menieu looked at Andre and meowed. Wish me luck, Andre’ smiled at Menieu before running to the field.
The game was an absolute blowout. Andre’s team won by a landslide; Andre’ himself had four RBI’s. After the game Andre’ showered and got dressed to go home when two gentlemen walked into the locker room looking for him.
They were scouts from the majors. They were there to offer Andre’ the chance of a lifetime, the opportunity that he’d dreamed of since he was a kid.
Later that evening, Andre’ and his wife celebrated with a fancy dinner at a classy restaurant where they dined when they got engaged. They returned home to find Menieu sleeping upside down on the sofa. He's such a funny looking cat, Andre’s wife laughed. Andre’ leaned down, rubbing Menieu’s head. A good luck charm, he assured.
Early afternoon before heading to a game that Andre’ knew would be anything but easy, he packed his bag and sat at the foot of the bed in his hotel room. He always spent a few moments in silent meditation before hitting the field and today was no different…except for the fact that it was the final game of the world series.
Andre’ continued a tradition that he’d begun four years previous. Before grabbing his bag, he called for Menieu, who scrambled from the next room and pounced squarely in his bag. Andre’ drew the zipper halfway, leaving enough room for the curious little cat to poke its head through. Menieu surveyed the world through the opening as he’d done for years as Andre’ headed to the ballpark.
It had become such a well known tradition that there was always a cat bed waiting in the locker room whenever and wherever Andre’ played. Menieu was so accustomed to being in a locker room that it seemed like a second home to him. He curled up before every game in the tiny bed, always patiently waiting until Andre’ returned after the game.
Andre’ watched from the plate as the umps continued their clumsy attempts to remove the game crashing team member. He finally handed his bat to a nearby bat boy and walked to the outfield. It was time to finish this game, he thought. With a whistle he called out for his team mate. Menieu!! Come see!!
Menieu turned his attention to Andre’ and bounded across the field as fast as he could toward him; the umps raced closely behind.
Andre’ knelt down as Menieu stopped perfectly between his knees and plopped to the ground, rolling wildly on his back. Andre’ rubbed the kitty’s head and laughed before scooping him up to his chest. He handed Menieu to a game official and asked him to return the cat to the locker room.
You behave…and wish me luck, Andre’ told Menieu.
After the excitement of Menieu’s antics had settled, the game resumed. The pitch was fast and slightly to the right. Andre’ focused and swung. With a loud crack, the ball soared to the wall, where an outfielder eagerly positioned his mitt to catch, what he hoped, would be a noisy out. The ball grazed the player’s mitt just enough to prevent it from clearing the wall. It bounced to the ground where he quickly retrieved it and threw it as hard as he could toward the infield.
The runner charged toward home plate, hopefully drawing a victorious conclusion to this series for Andre’ and his team mates. The runner slid rapidly toward the plate like a runaway train, his shoes plowed the dirt deeply. The mitt touched the runner's foot with only an inch shy of reaching safety. The game was over. A noisy out.
Millions of eyes from around the world were locked on Andre‘. A heartbreaking loss for his team; the 60-year losing streak remained soundly in tact on this late October evening.
At a time when most would have hung their heads low, Andre’ couldn’t help but to be thankful for this moment. He thought of his family and friends in Honduras. He never saw them again, but he wondered about them quite often.
He was thankful for his adoptive American family and the friends that he’d made through the years. Especially those who shared many lazy summer afternoons swatting a baseball in the backyard. It was usually for fun, sometimes in competition, but always out of love for the game. Backyard baseball taught Andre’ many things about himself.
Andre’ took the second chance he’d been given and did something with it. Even though his team had just lost the world series, he was thankful for having made it to the biggest game in baseball.
Losing that game to the neighborhood kids years ago had taught him lessons, just as tonight’s loss did. It taught him, among many things, how to look at life and the curve balls that it sometimes tosses.
Sometimes you swing at the curve ball and get a hit, sometimes you miss. No matter what, you simply move forward, hold your head high and know that there will be another chance to step up to the plate.
Menieu taught Andre’ a lesson as well. Andre’ learned that being different from the others can be quite challenging, but it only takes one person to make the difference. One person is all it takes to break through an imaginary barrier. For Andre’ it was Michael. For Menieu, it was Andre’.
Even with the game loss, Andre’ was still convinced that little Menieu was indeed his good luck charm and, given the life from which the unlucky little cat was rescued, perhaps Menieu felt the same about Andre'.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2010
It’s a tied world series and Andre’ Medina finds himself in a spot like none he could have ever imagined as a child. Playing baseball in the backyard with his friends was just for fun back then, it was also a tool which helped him gain acceptance in a strange new world.
Andre’ had a natural talent in baseball; he’d worked hard all of his life honing his skills. Finally, he made a living with it. Yes indeed, a professional baseball player. His team, until this year, had one of the worst records in the league. A record that was earned long before he was born. The losing streak seemed almost like a curse, if you believe in superstitions that is.
Year after year the city endured such heartbreaking losses. Five years ago they almost made it to the championship, but a stroke of bad luck for an outfielder brought, yet another, dismal end to the season. That was before Andre’ was traded to the team. Even better, a team for which he’d always dreamed of joining. His adopted hometown!
When he learned of the trade his fellow teammates joked about it. Some offered their condolences, others hesitantly wished him well. Andre’ always smiled and told them not to worry, he was as happy as could be.
And now all eyes are on Andre’ on this October evening. Not only in the stadium…across the planet! Andre’ is a long way from that backyard on a lazy summer afternoon, this is the big league and a defining moment in his career, if not his life.
In an instant the TV cameras rapidly swung, turning their focus to an unscheduled player who made his series debut on the diamond. We seem to have an unexpected member on the team Jim! The commentators in the broadcast booth laughed loudly. Spectators in the stadium rose to their feet, wildly cheering.
Andre’s mouth dropped as he watched the rogue team mate scramble across the field. He slowly lowered his bat until it rested squarely on the tip of his shoe. He smiled to himself before looking to the sky, then back to the outfield . He laughed out loud.
The umpires, along with stadium officials, zigged and zagged across the field as the cameras documented every turn, every stumble and missed attempt to remove the player from the field. The antics of this rogue player had officially interrupted an historic world series.
The game was halted, giving Andre’ a moment of pause of his own. He used the break to reflect on how he came to be here, and how this particular team mate may have been destined to join him in the spotlight on this historic evening after all.
Andre’ grew up in a tiny village in Honduras. It was a troubling time for his country; a country which was divided by warlords. A group of organized gangs who preyed upon fears at a time when most Hondurans lived in poverty, making the gangland way of life seem that much more enticing. Loyalty to the homeland was a powerful tool that the warlords used to entice young, impressionable, minds. Andre’ fought temptations to join the fight with all of his might; many of his friends had no such willpower.
At the early age of 10 his parents, realizing that a better life awaited Andre’, finally made the toughest of all decisions. They must choose between he and his sister. A choice that would give one of the two an opportunity to make a good life, far from poverty and danger.
Andre’s parents gave him up for adoption to an American family. It was part of an outreach program which assisted those who wanted to help the children of this impoverished land. And so, just like that, Andre’ found himself in a strange new place far from his home. This was his new home.
Andre’ soon found that fitting in wouldn’t be easy. He looked different from the other children; he spoke differently, which made him stand out even more. He ate lunch alone everyday; no one in his class dared to befriend this strange new boy from, what they viewed as, a faraway land. It was almost as if he were from another planet.
Most afternoons found Andre’ swatting rocks with driftwood across a pond near his house. It was his solitary escape and it made him happy.
His home life was great; his adoptive parents loved him and showed their love and support in every way. He knew that he was fortunate to have such an opportunity, but he longed for friendship. He missed his friends back in Honduras.
The citizens here felt comfort and insulation in their tiny town. They felt well protected from the news and troubling events that they read about and watched on television. It all seemed so far away to them. It didn’t seem real if it didn’t happen within the boundaries of their city limits sign.
Andre’s classmates, and most certainly their parents, couldn’t imagine some of the things that he’d already witnessed through his 10-years in this big and, sometimes, scary world.
Wow! A voice rang from behind. Andre’ quickly spun around, spotting a boy from his class standing in the distance. He had been watching Andre’ swat, stone after stone, across the pond. The young boy walked closer.
That’s awesome! He exclaimed. Thanks, Andre’ said. I’ve seen you around school, my name’s Michael. I’m Andre’. You’re the guy from that island place right? Andre’ giggled. What? Michael wondered what could be so funny. It’s Honduras; it’s a country in Central America…not an island. I’m not real good with geography, only what I memorize for the tests, Michael explained. Well, it’s not as far off as you think, but I understand, Andre’ replied. I’m still learning the United States so don’t feel bad, Andre’ continued.
One of my buddies told me that your people eat folks who get lost in the jungle, Michael blurted to Andre’. Andre’ sat silently and stared at Michael for a moment. Andre’ wore a solemn stare on his face as he struck the bottom of his shoe repeatedly with the large piece of driftwood in his hand.
Michael broke the uncomfortable silence. Is that true?? Not anymore, Andre’ replied, with a straight face. Michael stared at Andre’, fear filled his face until Andre’ could no longer mask the laughter inside. Michael shoved Andre’s arm. That’s not funny! He exclaimed with a relieved smile.
We play baseball every Friday afternoon and Saturday morning if you wanna join us, Michael invited. I don’t think your friends want a man-eating islander on the team, Andre’ joked. I’ll talk with em’, c’mon, stop by this Friday, Michael urged.
After a few weeks of backyard baseball, Andre’ became part of the gang. It wasn’t easy at first, but Andre’ tried his best to educate his classmates about his homeland and culture. He also absorbed as much information as he could about theirs. His was a better gang than that which would have been available back in Honduras. He forged friendships while doing what he loved…passing a lazy afternoon away playing baseball and being a 10-year old boy.
One afternoon while the boys played, what seemed to be, a 30 inning game, a group of kids from the next block showed up. You call that baseball? One of the kids taunted as Michael swatted and missed a fastball. Michael tossed his bat to the ground after being struck out and replied. Yeah? You guys think you can do better? The two neighborhood teams talked trash until a challenge was issued. It was time to show the next block how baseball was played.
It was the ninth inning, the game had been close for the previous eight. The moment of truth. This game was either going extra innings or come to a joyous ending for one team, but a humiliating and painful end for the other. Bragging rights for the neighborhood block is EVERYTHING when you’re a 10-year old boy. This was the world series to these boys.
Andre’ headed to the plate. His defining moment with the gang, he thought. Suddenly, from nowhere, a black cat darted in front of him and scurried off to the nearby bushes. Andre’ gasped.
Superstitions ran deep in Andre’s culture. Until the time when he left Honduras for his new life he’d long heard tales of the unexplained, the curses and black magic. His grandmother was especially superstitious. A black cat!! Andre’ fretted, thinking back to the folklore that he’d heard from his elders.
Andre’ stepped up to the plate, he readied his bat for the pitch. The ball sped toward him at, what seemed to be, a thousand miles per hour. A loud crack pierced the late afternoon air on this tiny city block. A beautiful, dead on, hit! The ball sliced through the air to the outfield at lightening speed. His team mates roared with excitement.
The ball soared over the heads of the opposing team until it finally landed, firmly, in the mitt of an outfielder. A “noisy out” as it’s often called. The game was over, a humiliating defeat for Andre’ and his team mates. The prize of bragging rights went to the boys from the next block.
Andre’ was certain that it was the black cat! His team mates were sad, but they never blamed Andre’. It was a great hit, but a few feet short. The two teams shook hands, some grudgingly. Andre’ had learned two lessons this late summer afternoon. Good sportsmanship, and that black cats were indeed bad luck.
By the time Andre’ made it to high school, he’d caught a lot of attention with his incredible baseball skills. He was a shining star on the team and had been scouted heavily by college coaches until, finally, he was offered a baseball scholarship. He never dreamed that he could go to school for free, just by doing something that he loved to do. This truly was the land of opportunity, he thought.
Andre’ graduated college and, soon after, began playing for a minor league team in the city. He couldn’t believe that he was earning a paycheck for playing a game! It was a small paycheck, but it was money.
Andre’ was married now, with a child on the way. The land of opportunity, to him, truly was an American dream come true. Even though life was a struggle at times, it felt good to Andre’.
He often thought about his family in Honduras, but felt a sense of thankfulness. The incredibly difficult sacrifice that his mother had made was the most selfless act of human kind, he thought. A second chance.
Andre’ took an afternoon stroll through the neighborhood. He’d just returned from a 4-day road-trip with the team and felt quite happy to be home. He stopped occasionally to watch the neighborhood kids playing. He absorbed the sounds of a late summer afternoon as the sun lay low on the horizon.
In the distance, he spotted a little kitten limping along near the sidewalk. As Andre’ approached, he noticed that the cat’s tail was odd. It was about 3 inches long. Andre‘ stood over this pathetic looking little cat who let out a deep and haunting meow.
Wow! You’re loud. The kitten rubbed against Andre’s leg wildly, bucking his head against his ankle. Andre’ bent down and rubbed the kitten’s back until it fell to the ground, rolling on his back feverishly, as if to be begging to have its belly rubbed.
He noticed that the cat seemed to also be blind in his left eye. Andre’ laughed at the irony. A black cat! You’re an unlucky little one, he told the affectionate little kitty.
That cat has most certainly used up about seven of his nine lives, a voice echoed from the front porch with a deep laugh and thick southern drawl. An old man walked toward Andre’ as he knelt, still rubbing this noisy, ugly little cat.
Andre’ smiled at the old man. Yeah, I thought black cats brought other people bad luck, Andre’ said. Not this one, he’s been through a lot, that’s for sure, the man replied.
Is this your cat? Andre’ quizzed. Nah, we’ve just been takin’ care of him. He got hit by a car. We got him all fixed up and then on Halloween some kids hurt him pretty bad since he’s a black cat. We just been feedin’ him and now he won’t go away; no one seems to want him. The old man looked down to the cat at Andre’s feet. He ain’t pretty, but he seems to have taken a liking to you, the old man pointed.
Andre’ knelt back to the kitty and rubbed his scruffy head. The cat purred wildly. I’ll take him off your hands if ya’ don’t want him, Andre’ offered. He’s yours if ya’ want him, the man replied.
Andre’ scooped the ugly, crippled, half blind, bob-tailed little kitten in his arms and headed home. What is THAT? Andre’s wife asked as he walked up the driveway. It’s a cat. Yes dear, I can see that, why is it in your arms? She quizzed. He just seemed like he needed a friend, he’s had a bit of bad luck, Andre’ explained. Yeah, I can certainly see that, his wife laughed.
I thought you were superstitious; you realize this is a black cat Andre’? I know, but I figure this little guy’s had so much bad luck, maybe some good luck is ready to follow him around for a bit. You’re silly, come inside for dinner, Andre’s wife laughed as she went back inside.
Before Andre’ followed, he spotted his next door neighbor, an old Cajun man who kept to himself. He noticed that the old man was walking his way. A rare occasion indeed. What could this be? Andre’ wondered.
That’s one ugly cat, the old man laughed as he approached. Yeah, he’s nice though; he’s had a bit of bad luck I think. Yeah? Looks like little Menieu has had more than a bit of bad luck, the man teased as he playfully poked at the cat’s head.
Menieu? Who’s Menieu? Andre’ asked. Ah, Menieu is a great name for a cat my boy. Yeah? Andre’s eyes were wide, he eagerly held on to every word, hoping to learn the history of this “Menieu” that the old man spoke of. Could it be some ancient explorer? A notable leader; even better, a war hero!! Tell me more, Andre’ begged.
Andre’s wife cracked the door and called for him to come in for dinner. Just a minute, I’ll be right there, Andre’ assured.
Andre’ turned his focus back to the old man. Who is Menieu? He begged. The old man laughed as he walked back to his front porch. Andre’ stood still, watching as the man reached his porch. Andre’ turned for the door as the old man yelled out. Cat! What do you mean…cat? Andre’ asked. The old man laughed; Menieu is Cajun for cat.
Andre’ laughed and waved goodnight to the old man before heading inside to dinner. Inside, he placed the cat on the floor. Well, I suppose your name is Menieu. Menieu rubbed vigorously between Andre’s legs before falling squarely on top of his feet.
A seemingly unlucky little black kitten suddenly became a lucky little pet, thanks to a chance meeting with a superstitious minor league ball player who had decided that Menieu was due for some good luck. Andre’ knew what it felt like to look different. He knew what it was like to be an outcast in a strange new world. He also remembered that someone took him in when he needed it most. Perhaps Andre’ was looking for a little luck himself; maybe he was looking to simply return the love and acceptance that he was shown. Or, a little bit of both.
Andre’ was running late for the game. He had taken Menieu to the veterinarian and the appointment ran long. He tossed Menieu in the front seat and sped to the ballpark for the beginning of a three night home-stand against their team’s arch rival.
After screeching to a halt in the back parking lot, Andre’ raced into the locker room, Menieu firmly under his arm.
What is that? The manager demanded. It’s a cat, Andre’ replied. Yeah, I can see that…you’re late! Has the game started yet? Andre’ quizzed. The manager grumbled as he trailed away through the locker room. Get dressed out, he yelled back to Andre’ before slamming his office door.
Andre’ placed Menieu in his open locker and placed a small cup of water and a few morsels of food on a piece of paper. You wait here and stay outta trouble…I’ll be back soon, Andre’ instructed the kitten. Menieu looked at Andre and meowed. Wish me luck, Andre’ smiled at Menieu before running to the field.
The game was an absolute blowout. Andre’s team won by a landslide; Andre’ himself had four RBI’s. After the game Andre’ showered and got dressed to go home when two gentlemen walked into the locker room looking for him.
They were scouts from the majors. They were there to offer Andre’ the chance of a lifetime, the opportunity that he’d dreamed of since he was a kid.
Later that evening, Andre’ and his wife celebrated with a fancy dinner at a classy restaurant where they dined when they got engaged. They returned home to find Menieu sleeping upside down on the sofa. He's such a funny looking cat, Andre’s wife laughed. Andre’ leaned down, rubbing Menieu’s head. A good luck charm, he assured.
Early afternoon before heading to a game that Andre’ knew would be anything but easy, he packed his bag and sat at the foot of the bed in his hotel room. He always spent a few moments in silent meditation before hitting the field and today was no different…except for the fact that it was the final game of the world series.
Andre’ continued a tradition that he’d begun four years previous. Before grabbing his bag, he called for Menieu, who scrambled from the next room and pounced squarely in his bag. Andre’ drew the zipper halfway, leaving enough room for the curious little cat to poke its head through. Menieu surveyed the world through the opening as he’d done for years as Andre’ headed to the ballpark.
It had become such a well known tradition that there was always a cat bed waiting in the locker room whenever and wherever Andre’ played. Menieu was so accustomed to being in a locker room that it seemed like a second home to him. He curled up before every game in the tiny bed, always patiently waiting until Andre’ returned after the game.
Andre’ watched from the plate as the umps continued their clumsy attempts to remove the game crashing team member. He finally handed his bat to a nearby bat boy and walked to the outfield. It was time to finish this game, he thought. With a whistle he called out for his team mate. Menieu!! Come see!!
Menieu turned his attention to Andre’ and bounded across the field as fast as he could toward him; the umps raced closely behind.
Andre’ knelt down as Menieu stopped perfectly between his knees and plopped to the ground, rolling wildly on his back. Andre’ rubbed the kitty’s head and laughed before scooping him up to his chest. He handed Menieu to a game official and asked him to return the cat to the locker room.
You behave…and wish me luck, Andre’ told Menieu.
After the excitement of Menieu’s antics had settled, the game resumed. The pitch was fast and slightly to the right. Andre’ focused and swung. With a loud crack, the ball soared to the wall, where an outfielder eagerly positioned his mitt to catch, what he hoped, would be a noisy out. The ball grazed the player’s mitt just enough to prevent it from clearing the wall. It bounced to the ground where he quickly retrieved it and threw it as hard as he could toward the infield.
The runner charged toward home plate, hopefully drawing a victorious conclusion to this series for Andre’ and his team mates. The runner slid rapidly toward the plate like a runaway train, his shoes plowed the dirt deeply. The mitt touched the runner's foot with only an inch shy of reaching safety. The game was over. A noisy out.
Millions of eyes from around the world were locked on Andre‘. A heartbreaking loss for his team; the 60-year losing streak remained soundly in tact on this late October evening.
At a time when most would have hung their heads low, Andre’ couldn’t help but to be thankful for this moment. He thought of his family and friends in Honduras. He never saw them again, but he wondered about them quite often.
He was thankful for his adoptive American family and the friends that he’d made through the years. Especially those who shared many lazy summer afternoons swatting a baseball in the backyard. It was usually for fun, sometimes in competition, but always out of love for the game. Backyard baseball taught Andre’ many things about himself.
Andre’ took the second chance he’d been given and did something with it. Even though his team had just lost the world series, he was thankful for having made it to the biggest game in baseball.
Losing that game to the neighborhood kids years ago had taught him lessons, just as tonight’s loss did. It taught him, among many things, how to look at life and the curve balls that it sometimes tosses.
Sometimes you swing at the curve ball and get a hit, sometimes you miss. No matter what, you simply move forward, hold your head high and know that there will be another chance to step up to the plate.
Menieu taught Andre’ a lesson as well. Andre’ learned that being different from the others can be quite challenging, but it only takes one person to make the difference. One person is all it takes to break through an imaginary barrier. For Andre’ it was Michael. For Menieu, it was Andre’.
Even with the game loss, Andre’ was still convinced that little Menieu was indeed his good luck charm and, given the life from which the unlucky little cat was rescued, perhaps Menieu felt the same about Andre'.
copyright Pontchartrain Press 2010
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