1. Egg Nog or Hot Chocolate?Egg Nog, you can't get shnockered on hot chocolate.
2. Does Santa wrap presents or just set them under the tree?Santa wraps all but the most special best gift. That one he leaves out for each kid to find.
3. Colored or white lights on the tree and/or house? Both. It's just more magical that way.
4. Do you hang mistletoe? Yes, especially if there is a hot babe there that I can have my way with when she stands underneath it.
5. When do you put your decorations up? When are they suppose to be taken down? This is especially fun when you live in a planned community and the association gets all pissy and tries to fine you for having Christmas decorations up all year.
6. What is your favorite Christmas dish? Sausage and Scrambled eggs on Christmas morning with a really good cup of coffee.
7. Favorite Christmas memory as a child. Playing with my RC plane with my dad after all the other gifts were opened.
8. When and how did you learn the truth about Santa? What truth?
9. Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve? Only when my dad's mom was alive and we would go to her house on Christmas eve and open her gifts to us.
10. How do you decorate your Christmas tree? When I had a potted Ficus Tree I would sometimes bring that in the house and do some up lighting on it.
11. Snow! Love it or dread it? Love it!!!
12. Can you ice skate? Yes. I skate until my ass is too wet and cold to continue.
13. Do you remember your favorite gift? No
14. What's the most important thing about Christmas for you? The magic.
15. What is your favorite holiday dessert? Candy coated Pecans
16. What is your favorite Christmas tradition? Spending the night with all the cousins then waking Christmas morning to the magic of lights and gifts
17. What tops your tree? What tree?
18. Which do you prefer, giving or receiving? I never understood the saying it's better to give than receive.
19. What is your favorite Christmas song? The instrumental rendition of Silent Night by Manheimsteamroller
20. Candy Canes! Yuck or yum? Yum
Monday, December 18, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
Father's War
I
November 26-December 13, 1950
40 29’N 127 12’E
Chosin Reservoir 30,000 Marines
Holding back 70,000 evil forces
It’s above the 39th parallel
it’s freezing
Jack Frost is no laughing matter
Losing limbs feet and hands to Jacks bite
In the dead night, fighting fear, fighting death
The Marine runs hard;
He drives fast from the Chosin Reservoir.
He’s a hard as nails Marine
He’s a father
He’s a husband
He’s a son
His life and his wife he does not know yet
Running, driving, dragging along
Slogging through mud and snow
With numb feet, weary legs and arms
He stops with calloused hands scoops
wounded Marines into his arms
He adds dead Marines to the GP
His head filled with words, sounds, smells
“…go, get out, run now!!! Don’t stop move, move, move.”
Boom tat tat boom bang boom
Smoke, blood, burned flesh, cries of pain and mommy
Wretch
Drive to safety or burial
Get them all
Losing limbs feet and hands to Jacks bite
In the dead night, fighting fear, fighting death
The Marine runs hard;
He drives fast from the Chosin Reservoir.
He’s a hard as nails Marine
He’s a father
He’s a husband
He’s a son
His life and his wife he does not know yet
Running, driving, dragging along
Slogging through mud and snow
With numb feet, weary legs and arms
He stops with calloused hands scoops
wounded Marines into his arms
He adds dead Marines to the GP
His head filled with words, sounds, smells
“…go, get out, run now!!! Don’t stop move, move, move.”
Boom tat tat boom bang boom
Smoke, blood, burned flesh, cries of pain and mommy
Wretch
Drive to safety or burial
Get them all
The Marine protector warrior father husband son man
He is the wounded wild man
The wound hidden deep
Buried in the frost of a war unfortunately remembered
Hopefully forgotten
And
Never spoken.
II
Giant, hard, strong, calloused, Lucky Strike stained smoke scented hands
Marine, Korean War in the Chosin Reservoir hardened
Frightened, pissed
Dad scoops up his son
A 6 year old boy crawling under a rough sawn
Splintered green shooting bench
Collecting shiny gold metal brass casings in front of the yellow firing line
Brass flying from every caliber
He is the wounded wild man
The wound hidden deep
Buried in the frost of a war unfortunately remembered
Hopefully forgotten
And
Never spoken.
II
Giant, hard, strong, calloused, Lucky Strike stained smoke scented hands
Marine, Korean War in the Chosin Reservoir hardened
Frightened, pissed
Dad scoops up his son
A 6 year old boy crawling under a rough sawn
Splintered green shooting bench
Collecting shiny gold metal brass casings in front of the yellow firing line
Brass flying from every caliber
guns exploding all around
A white thatched roof on the round old man
Shooting and loading another magazine
A father’s father hardened
From the second European
World War
Gravel clings to a little boys blue jeans and scatters as he flies up
and is ripped up off old, cobbled, hot, poorly laid asphalt
Father’s rough booming voice fills his son’s ears
Guns crack and boom and crash exploding in on everyone
Rounds burst, concussions pound chests
The smell of gunpowder and burgers frying fill the air
The boy’s stomach rumbles and he is afraid, sore and hungry.
Rubbing sore, hurt, red wrists
Cautious, hungry, lusting for more brass and a fried burger
But the boy is safe and won’t cross that yellow line again, no sir
Watching shiny metal capped cylinders fly and crash on the asphalt
He sucks it up he don’t cry
There’s just lust and a watering mouth
III
Father’s hands and arms
Wrap around the weeping 6 year old sobbing body
a little boy caught up in losing
His fringe-thatched, peach-throwing nemesis
Death takes his mother’s father
Death is evil, rough, not kind, not safe, ugly
Death is not part of life it is wounding and life ending.
This father weeps at this death; too
He weeps holding a grief filled boy
Death wounds father and son
It’s silence
Close death buckles those strong protective hands
Death softens them and those hands comfort a 6 year old again
while mother weeps in her bed.
VI
Filterless drag hanging from his mouth
Smoke burning his eyes
Giant calloused, smoke, nicotine, stained hands
Pushing the mower through tall summer’s grass
The sweet smell of fresh summer grass cuttings
Gasoline’s exhaust and smoke silently hanging in the air
Small soft hands gripping pushing the small plastic mower
Closely tracking dad
Imitating father work in father footsteps
What other work does the boy imitate?
VII
Father works, goes to school, holds down a job to stave off the bill collector
Dad’s family’s growing; Boy, Girl, Boy
He needs a bigger house
More lawn more room and
Uh oh, her
Then there’s just more
Isn’t there always just more?
Bills paid every other month
Living on
Casseroles, spaghetti, pancakes, waffles and leftovers
there is the struggle to make it
Father struggles to provide
Silent, wounded
VIII
Father work teaching, raising, protecting a son
Here press the magazine with your thumb
Release the bolt
No!!!
Damn it,
Make sure your thumb is outta the way
Or you’ll lose it
its one smooth motion
There ya go
Now shoot that thing
Don’t worry about it you can shoot
Yup, it’ll kick you some
Hold it tight against your shoulder
It’s rapid fire so shoot
You shoot the .22
The .45 will knock you on your ass
All right, two hands lean forward into it
Hey good job you’re still standing
IX
Images, sounds, stories, smell and touch
Father lessons learned and learning
the boy is a father now
The boy has his own boy
Father wounds are deep
they come from a war that rages to unsilence
Silence
A white thatched roof on the round old man
Shooting and loading another magazine
A father’s father hardened
From the second European
World War
Gravel clings to a little boys blue jeans and scatters as he flies up
and is ripped up off old, cobbled, hot, poorly laid asphalt
Father’s rough booming voice fills his son’s ears
Guns crack and boom and crash exploding in on everyone
Rounds burst, concussions pound chests
The smell of gunpowder and burgers frying fill the air
The boy’s stomach rumbles and he is afraid, sore and hungry.
Rubbing sore, hurt, red wrists
Cautious, hungry, lusting for more brass and a fried burger
But the boy is safe and won’t cross that yellow line again, no sir
Watching shiny metal capped cylinders fly and crash on the asphalt
He sucks it up he don’t cry
There’s just lust and a watering mouth
III
Father’s hands and arms
Wrap around the weeping 6 year old sobbing body
a little boy caught up in losing
His fringe-thatched, peach-throwing nemesis
Death takes his mother’s father
Death is evil, rough, not kind, not safe, ugly
Death is not part of life it is wounding and life ending.
This father weeps at this death; too
He weeps holding a grief filled boy
Death wounds father and son
It’s silence
Close death buckles those strong protective hands
Death softens them and those hands comfort a 6 year old again
while mother weeps in her bed.
VI
Filterless drag hanging from his mouth
Smoke burning his eyes
Giant calloused, smoke, nicotine, stained hands
Pushing the mower through tall summer’s grass
The sweet smell of fresh summer grass cuttings
Gasoline’s exhaust and smoke silently hanging in the air
Small soft hands gripping pushing the small plastic mower
Closely tracking dad
Imitating father work in father footsteps
What other work does the boy imitate?
VII
Father works, goes to school, holds down a job to stave off the bill collector
Dad’s family’s growing; Boy, Girl, Boy
He needs a bigger house
More lawn more room and
Uh oh, her
Then there’s just more
Isn’t there always just more?
Bills paid every other month
Living on
Casseroles, spaghetti, pancakes, waffles and leftovers
there is the struggle to make it
Father struggles to provide
Silent, wounded
VIII
Father work teaching, raising, protecting a son
Here press the magazine with your thumb
Release the bolt
No!!!
Damn it,
Make sure your thumb is outta the way
Or you’ll lose it
its one smooth motion
There ya go
Now shoot that thing
Don’t worry about it you can shoot
Yup, it’ll kick you some
Hold it tight against your shoulder
It’s rapid fire so shoot
You shoot the .22
The .45 will knock you on your ass
All right, two hands lean forward into it
Hey good job you’re still standing
IX
Images, sounds, stories, smell and touch
Father lessons learned and learning
the boy is a father now
The boy has his own boy
Father wounds are deep
they come from a war that rages to unsilence
Silence
and
to silence the unsilenced
they come from our father’s war
They come from a history of war
And
A war in history
They come from a war of life
They come from the father’s silence
They come from a war of wrongs done and taken
They come from a war of words.
Men of war don’t talk easily
most are silent and wounded
And the wound is passed on to the son
And the son…
they come from our father’s war
They come from a history of war
And
A war in history
They come from a war of life
They come from the father’s silence
They come from a war of wrongs done and taken
They come from a war of words.
Men of war don’t talk easily
most are silent and wounded
And the wound is passed on to the son
And the son…
Monday, December 11, 2006
Experimenting
Sorry folks for the sudden termination of The Father’s Presence blogsite. Since, blogging is relatively new to me, all of this has been an experiment. In this case I thought it best to scrap the whole damn thing and go back to the drawing board instead of trying to fix it. Instead of making it all my opinion on stuff I thought I would make my writing more research based where I can cite sources. The blog will still be on Father. A bit will still be opinion and some will be about conversations had at the Saturday night gathering. I will try to find research to back up what I write and if I think it's important enough to say but can't be backed by research I will state that it is opinion and/or anecdotal in nature and/or who said it at the gathering.
I do intend to include poetry on this site but I want to make sure I have written something publishable. I haven't written poetry since I was an English Major in college some 30 years ago. I'm a bit rusty.
I do intend to include poetry on this site but I want to make sure I have written something publishable. I haven't written poetry since I was an English Major in college some 30 years ago. I'm a bit rusty.
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