I named him Woodstock.....

"He's just a bike" they said. Rolling their eyes. "But a good bike, Ma, a really good bike" she added, reassuring me that it was o.k. to bring him in the house. Ok to clear a room for his comfort and park him like art next to the piano. And then they laughed.

But, he's my responsibility, I thought to myself. I brought him home from the store, picked him out of crowd, with his peeling stickers lazily slapped on at the factory, his decals with air pockets, and his crooked seat. I brought him home and now I have to nurture him. Show him the world. I have to teach him to ride with the wind, to slide into the driveway, racing for homebase like the crowd is roaring. I have to take him where he feels as free as first love or a puppy that just climbed through the gate, knee high in trouble and romping on...and on....and on....

And so, on Sunday, after miles and morning miles of practice, we took off...."Take me to the River and I'll follow you anywhere" I whispered to his backside, clomping him out the kitchen door, and saddling up with lemoned water and a smile....and we rode on and on and on.....

Like Forest Gump running, we just kept going......

And I swear he pedaled half the way. I rode the wooden bridge hands free, blonde hair flying, tickety tickety tack, floorboards swaying...... the water chasing us under the planks, lapping at our shadow....

At Make-out park, we camped long enough to remember, to graze, to watch the faces of strangers watching us grow....

to stare into the rheumy face of the river and throw kisses at everything hidden under its leather colored skin.....

to smile at the Sun, freckle faced, and playing hide and go seek with the trees,

to climb over the "Do not cross the fence" sign

and snuggle into Peace Tree,

two fingers rising.....

long enough

to know

it was OK to turn around and go back home.

Ok to fly like the dickens down that driveway.....

crunching gravel all the way.....

A love story

I was in the third grade
collecting badges
and A pluses on papers that didn't matter.
I lined the cigar box,
ever just so,
Tipparillos gone,
with black velvet from the hem
of my Mama's dress,
and laid them to rest there....

the butterflies....

The glue didn't stick
and the teacher,
Miss Swanson,
"fixed" them for the fair....

I couldn't wait....
my torn pink ticket in my pocket,
to see my butterflies and the ribbon
she promised me....

But,
all I remember
are the green and gold and blue and red

hatpins through their hearts.....

If "what's her name" can do it, so can I......

I've been in hand-me-down cut-offs, bell bottomed jeans, and stove pipe scrubs for 7 weeks now . All my left shoes are piled in a heap on the bedroom floor, a thousand steps older than the right ones. I'm sure I'm gonna walk with a permanent gimp to the left, like a mama that's toted too many chubby babies on her jutting hip.

So I did what any peace~lovin' hippie would do...drug out my dancin' shoes (well, one!) and a little black dress (And a little black magic) from the back of the closet.....And went dancing!

Yup, you can swivel in a cast. Swirl, twirl, go up and down, hoop, holler, spin, and do it again.

Clink! These boots were made for dancin'.....

Ready to Fly.....

The fat little wren wobbled, teetered, fell over rolly-poly on it's side....little chicken feet scrambling straight up into the air. I tiptoed closer. No Mama in sight. A barely-grey plethora of feathers fluffed and puffed, accordian~like, gaining strength, and plop! He was upright again, waddling, swooshing the bent and broken wing to no avail. I gave him a little space, backed up two steps, and he charged!


Up, up, up and
down
again!

I sat on the bench and fished my cigarettes out, blew mindless smoke rings into the suburban sky. And watched him. Struggling. Imagined him cussing in toddler babble. He was so damned determined. I wanted to scoop him up in an old worn towel, fetch him on to the porch, and tell him......things I know.

And without knowing it, I daydreamed myself right out of the front yard and he waddled out of my "I'm gonna let you give it all you've got and then bring you in for the night" protective gaze.

This morning I saw dozens of them. Scurrying, hopping, flitting and flirting on the dirty front lawn. I tried to pick him out from the crowd. Squinted my eyes and searched for the tell-tell limp, the tiniest fold of the fluffy new wings....but, I couldn't name him in the line up.

He's strong now. Probably stronger than the rest. If the name wasn't already taken, and he wasn't really a little grey wren, he would probably call himself Jonathan Livinston Seagull and people the world over would talk about him over coffee and under the stars.

I tucked my crutches next to the broom I never use. Put my key in the door and said hello to the morning.

Me and ole Jonathan should be dancin' by Friday.....

The last hello.....

It's just a driveway....fifty feet of fifty year old gravel, limestone, river rocks lining the lane. Flattened pennies, heads down, are crunched into the mix, a poor man's coquina. There are no signs here. "Keep out" or "welcome" either. It's not one-way only. You're free to come and go. And welcome is a given....

But there comes a time.

I opened the window, the kiss of freedom, planted like a forever tattoo on his cheek, tracing-paper thin, and should have known......

He'd be back. Crunching the gravel....

Breaking up is hard to, letting go is harder.....

And I don't believe in the last dance, the last kiss, the last good-bye.....but rather the good film, the best movie ever, snapped, broken in the middle of the reel, and the ending never known, but imagined in everyway. And the story frozen. Just so and perfect. Not tainted by cliche's and punchlines. Destroyed by the very act of salvaging. And I told him so....

There at the river. Skinny legs dangling over the side of the makeshift embankment. Blue eyes and brown eyes together in the quiet, dragonflies dancing on the muddy water the only sound. And we smiled. At the enchanted ballet they played for us. Periwinkle and lavender girls, fluttering by in transluscent petticoats, shimmery sugary tu-tus, buzzing, splashing, on the rheumy dancefloor. They circled above us, waltz of the flowers, a halo of dragonflies.....and followed us to the car. I paused, with the door open, before climbing into the seat, as they passed in a pastel parade, and waited for their kiss....

The engine, as throaty and scratchy as our left over voices from the night before, took over the silence. Engulfed it. And we drove here, to the painted house, to the poor man's driveway where the engine idled, hovered, hot breath on the miles beneath us.

"Say the words" I whispered....climbing out , unfolding.

I watched him through the dusky swirls of lime, as he backed out. First gear. Almost second.
Right hands to our own lips,
the kiss...
right hands raised to the sky,
stretching,
fingers in a V.........

peace~love
we whispered to the wind....

Empty Closet

It was lousy Chinese take-out food, the noodles old and dry, but I was famished, hungry from accidentally fasting.....I twirled the lo mein with the plastic spork, and made little piles of soy stained snakes on my plate. The fortune cookie lay in it's plastic bubble, all perfect, and most probably stale, but keeping it's secret until dessert. I don't eat fortune cookies.


But I like the sound of snapping them open. One second in the life of a giant Rice Krispie. And I like the way the words fall out, perfectly printed in blue ink, and randomly selected from a box of a 1000 other fortunes, to land in my world. "The night life is yours".....


45 minutes later I was piled in the back of an SUV, heading for the double doors. It's homecoming night, every night, their faces smiling, up and down. "Glad to see you, Nice to meet you, How's about a beer, dear?" Friends. Lined up in a lazy circle around the bar. We play musical chairs. Where you are when the music stops, nobody knows. Telephone Tag. Stories passing between us like a party reefer, eyes growing bigger each time it's told until the truth is just a glowing ember in a pile of ashes. And we all know it. Throw our heads back and laugh. We'll fix it next time the story comes along....


"The night life is yours".....
Here in this windowless Friday night world, we leave our 9 to 5's, our coats, and our ghosts at the door. And for just a few hours...

we're free.....

At the barre......

I wanted to be a ballerina. I really did. "Seeesopewfect!" Mrs. DiMarco swooned, cigarette breath on red lips, into my face. My face started to blotch, to swell. I knew I was going to be tortured, jabbed with those long pointy fingernails, suffocated slowly. It was so hot in here. And my skint knee was bleeding through my pink tights, an abstract orange blossum spreading there. Why did I use all the bandaids to make book-binding for my soon to be best seller: "The Mystery of The Moving Pictures".......

I was five.

I wasn't the oldest and I wasn't the youngest. I was next to the thinnest. "It's never too late to start, dahling, you have the body of the swan at night......" she purred as she wrapped the sepia colored measuring tape around my neck, my chest, my 18 year old waist, my thighs, my shins, my ankles. Her teeth showed a little as I climbed up on the scales. Her teeth showed a lot three months later. And she hissed. And pounded that damn stick on the floor "One and two and one and two and one and two and three"......"Tuck your buttocks in, and suck your stomach in and point those damn toes!" I couldn't even pat my head and rub my tummy at the same time........

I was not quite 19.

There is safety in numbers. Three tuition bills. Three checks on the first of the month. Three late bloomers at the barre. They took our money. Kimbies was just there for the sport. She couldn't be bothered to be fitted for shoes, and wore pink Isotoner slippers instead. They let her. I hung from the barre. Stretched. Flew through the air. After class, we would stop in at the Oyster Bar next door, for raw ones on the half shells and a few cold brews, all balletesque in our leotards and cut-offs. It was wonderful. And then we got the bright idea, to meet at the Oyster Bar first. Before class. To loosen up. That was wonderful ,too. In our world.

We got kicked out.

I was 26.

He held me at the waist for just a moment. And twirled me around and around and around. A pretty plastic toy on the top of a blue velvet jewelry box. The band was banging out a remix of "Oh Suzie Q, I like the way you walk, I like the way you talk, I like the things you do"..... His eyes traveled back in time, to that year, to another girl, to another world. And I dreamed of being free.

It was just another Friday night at the bar. And he felt like he was 21 again.....

And I wanted to be a ballerina......

Plowing for Peace

There was only a tad bit of gas left in the lawnmower, and half of it was spent on cranking. I took a deep breathe and had to make a decision, the neighbors, I know, so wanting me to do this. O-kay, do I mow the property lines, the sidewalk side, around my wilting flower beds? Do I start diagonally, vertically, or horizontally? Do I start in the middle and work my way out or make a big loop around the perfect square and scooch my way in?

I drag the mower out into the street, precious fuel burning to the wind; and smile.

The white mustang slowed down.
Watching....
As a giant crop duster circle is born….

And I’m smiling bigger……
Feet flying out from behind the self propelled grass grafittier…

Ta!Dah!
The engine dies,
A giant peace sign perfectly scorched into the summer rye!

I flip him two fingers and he shifts into first.

Take my hand.....

We're doing it....



Bailing.....
Throwing it all in the back of the car and driving off...



May seven sunsets and seven sunrises.... be blessed....

With perfect strangers we fall in love with...
Ice cold bar beers...
Spicy chicken wings...
Periwinkle soup ,
Barefoot sandals,
Bloody Marys,
Grafitti in the sand.....
Band-aid tattoos,
Found treasures...
Moonlit nights and the cat that jumped over them,
Coolers full of melting ice,
Salty white sheets covered in sand,
A margarita now and then,
Frosty window units dripping through the night,
Sunburns that feel good....
Rock and roll laughter....
Slow dancing to fast songs...
Spooky seawall stories...
And the yellow butterfly.......

Clink!
Here's to getting the days and nights mixed up...



For seven days and seven nights!



Feel the love.......

The Highway Man

“Are you a transient?” I asked, leaning in…..laughing…..

“No, no, I just moved here…” the words spilled out of his Saturday night smile.

I asked to see his driver’s license. You never know. “Hmmmmmmm….” I toyed with it for a moment, scanning the picture for tattle-tales…. “Yeah., it looks like you”….smiling at the obvious tourist, with his polished deck shoes and button down shirt. I slid the laminated ID, face down, into his hand…..and he casually tucked it into his wallet, next to the pictures of his other world. Upside down.

That was a zillion years ago.....

Peace~love, baby.


Everything in between is a roadtrip......

Butterflies and Hurricanes......

I downloaded the song without a clue….And it freaked me out, kind of spooky at first, then I sunk into the 28th row of the orchestra pit and melted into it. I don’t know who the artist is, or where they were coming from….
just know my keywords….
that day, my feelings….
butterflies and hurricanes….


And that’s life….

The yellow butterfly, with her translucent wings, barely visible from the kitchen window, flits across the yard, dancing from blazing begonias to rotting pot of cigarette butts, she’s careless and wreckless and feminine and dainty, pointing her toes like a prima ballerina and strutting her stuff like Tina Turner….she spirals and twists and makes up her mind as she goes……


I lived through three hurricanes in a month’s time. And never saw the like of this. The damage done.

In the aftermath of the storms, the hot dirty days that followed, we drank hot beer and bathed in tepid water ladled from the neighbor’s garbage cans. We feasted on Slim Jims and hardened bagels. We slept with the windows open, the night air wailing through the broken glass, and awakened to the sun blazing and chain saws ripping through our borrowed peace. We filed insurance claims and waited, lugging our lives, as we once knew them, to the curb…

splintered, broken, waiting for the fix…..


Butterflies and Hurricanes…..

Sometimes, in the debris, stacked like pick-up sticks…we find what we were looking for all along….



The calm after the storm...
Thanksgiving leftovers…



The wish-bone .


And Butterflies are free……..