My Dog Snores by Mike Freeman

 My Dog Snores

By Mike Freeman

My dog's snoring really upsets me. It is not just because he keeps me awake; it is because he snores louder than I do, which enables him to keep me awake. The unwritten rule is the loudest snorer sleeps peacefully while everyone and everything else ponders the thunderous volume of sound.

My dog’s snoring is like an asthmatic horse with a sinus infection. He is louder than a trumpet stuck up an elephant’s nose. He can resurrect the dead before Jesus comes!

Ricky is 10 years old, which is allegedly 70 years in dog years. I am 71. Our bodies make various rumbly noises while we sleep. So far, I am winning the volume war in this new endeavor, but I am concerned he will rally past me as he ages more quickly.

Lately, he barks, growls, and makes weird doggy whimpering sounds in his sleep. Lord knows what is going on in his doggy dreams. I don't. I can't dream because he does.

He also moves around a lot. He plops down at my feet and then moves over to lie down on my bladder or stomach. Then he is up by my head. Lots of commotion. His continual body beatings keep me awake as I try to anticipate where he is moving next. He has a knack for lying on the TV remote, turning the TV off when I want it on and on when I want it off.

Dogs sleep 12 to 14 hours a day, every day. That means he gets more practice at doing all of the above. The trends are not my friends regarding any of the above matters. Sleepless nights are my future.

It is a wonderful thing that God created Ricky to bring so much love, joy, and fun to me when we are awake. Dogs being man's best friend should be the 11th commandment! 

The Extraordinary Spit Ball by Bruce Emard

 THE EXTRAORDINARY SPIT BALL

by  Bruce Emard

Father Grimes had his back to the class as her wrote a physics formula on the blackboard in white chalk, chalk dust drifting on to a ledge, some on to the floor.  Tiny spit balls were flying silently across the classroom from Bic pens, ink cartridges removed. Joe Brady sat in the desk next to me, his cheek bulging as he chewed.  At first, I couldn’t determine what he was chewing.  Then, as he opened his mouth a few times to adjust the contents to the other cheek, I realized it was a whole sheet of lined white note paper from his binder.    I expected Joe to heave the giant spitball across the classroom at Bill Zimmerman, the middle linebacker on the football team, who was staring intently at the formula.

Father Grimes continued writing the physics formula on the black board.  I watched as he raised his chalk-whitened hand to the top of the chalk board to continue the exceptionally long formula. Suddenly, a white disc-shaped wad about four inches in diameter appeared just below his bent, outstretched arm.  A loud “splat” echoed through the classroom, and it grew deathly quiet.  Father Grimes stood frozen at the blackboard, his back to the class.  He paused in mid formula, then slowly began to turn toward the class.  When he completed his turn, it seemed an icy chill enveloped the classroom.  Father Grimes’s face was bright pink.  His white teeth shone through purple lips in a devilish grin.  In a high-pitched voice affected by a bout with yellow fever as a child, Father Grimes said, “Alright gentlemen, I want to know which one of you threw that wad.  Speak up!  You have ten seconds.  If I don’t get my answer, the whole class will suffer.”

I took a furtive glance at Joe, not wanting to give away his identity.  Joe slowly raised his hand, “I did Father.”  Father Grimes saw his raised hand, then walked down the row of desks to where Joe sat with an impish smile on his face.  “Do you think it’s funny, Mr. Brady?”  “No Father,” Joe said, the smile still on his face.  Father Grimes’s hand slowly moved toward Joe’s head, then took a quick dive and grabbed Joe by the throat of his collared shirt.  Again slowly, he pulled Joe across the closed-in side of his desk until Joe lay across his desk on the floor.  “Stand up Mr. Brady,” Father Grimes said as he pulled him to his feet.  Wap, Wap!  The sounds of Father Grimes’s slaps across each of Joe’s cheeks stunned the class.  The smile on Joe’s face was gone.  “Do you still think it’s funny Mr. Brady?”  “No Father,” Joe said seriously.  “Now Mr. Brady, about a week ago when I entered my classroom, I found a stiff, yellow jock strap tacked to my message board.  Are you by any chance the culprit?”  “Yes Father.”  Wap!  “That was an extraordinary spitball, Mr. Brady. Now I want you to remove it from the blackboard and throw it in the trash.”  Joe walked meekly to the front of the class, his cheeks lined with red and white finger marks, peeled the giant spit ball from the blackboard, and carefully dropped it into the trashcan.  “Thank you, Mr. Brady. Now, if you ever act up in my classroom again, I won’t be so nice.  Do you understand, Mr. Brady?”  “Yes Father.”  

The next day in physics class, to my astonishment, Father Grimes wheeled in a cart on top of which sat three gallons of strawberry ice cream and three gallons of vanilla ice cream; announced he was mortified by his reaction yesterday to the extraordinary spitball; then asked us politely to form a line and come to the front of the classroom where he served each of us one scoop of strawberry and one scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Lards and Moles, Moles and Lards by David Molina

 

Lards and Moles, Moles and Lards

David Molina

The Servite High School faculty during our four years as high school students during the late ’60s was an odd collection to say the least. A marmalade salad consisting of Servite friars and lay people, most of whom would not last very long when faced with a Mongol horde of uncivilized eighth graders who never rose much beyond that level. Barbarians who aped the Lord of the Flies during a retreat wherein they beheaded an unfortunate cat.  Ne’er Do Wells who admired and emulated Charles Dickens's villains more than his heroes. Yes, we had our fair share of Fagins, Heeps, Sykes, and many Artful Dodgers.

The faculty list was constantly in a state of flux given these conditions, compounded by the extreme penury guaranteed by working at a private Catholic high school during the 1960s. The friars' vows of poverty were shared by their lay companions, and most moved on, both friars and lay persons, when they found a way out.

Yes, Servite High School was a first-class, Charles Dickens-style workhouse,  but with the tables turned. The Orange County enfants terribles took every opportunity to exploit the hapless, feckless adults.

Mr. Speas, Mrs. Phinney, Sister Agnes, Charles Smith, Mildred Roche, Brother Jiles, and Father Grimes, all were easy targets. There were a handful of teachers who managed their hordes with some success. The typical countermeasures featured a.) kinetics, such as a slap, a swat, or “The Grip!”; b.) banishment, such as a walk down the hall to the Principal or Dean of Discipline, detention after school collecting garbage. c.) humiliation in front of your classmates. 

That last one was the most effective, but could occasionally backfire.

Ed Quinn was a force of nature - the most brazen, cocky, “how many moles, lard!” paraplegic who ever rolled wheelies through the hallowed halls of Servite. Despite his claw-like frozen fingers he could twirl a test tube, yell out “Cushing, how many moles?, and then blow up anything he wanted. His front lab table was his kingdom, his domain, and he enjoyed chemistry experiments, particularly ones that produced explosions, fire, and smoke.

As a high schooler, he undoubtedly was as good a hell-raiser as any of our best, even after the crash that broke his back and put him in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. That never slowed him down. 

Ed drove a Hot Wheels Camaro that was improvised to drive hands only. A colleague asked Ed if he could help him get into his Camaro. Ed shot back, “Hell no, I’m running late. I can’t have you slowing me down!” Ed slid into the front seat slick as a salmon jumping upstream, dumped his two limp legs on the floor of the driver's seat, and in a single turn of his torso he seized his wheelchair with his curled-up fingers, folded it, and flipped it in the backseat as smoothly as a jiu-jitsu blackbelt would. 

Ed expressed his fondness for his students by calling us “lards,” and his term of endearment for us as a group was “a bunch of lards.” He had a habit of calling out a student’s name at random.  “Magula, any questions?” Or “Heywood, what’s the valence?”  I suppose it was his way of keeping people on their toes, to pay attention. But I found it annoying when he would call my name. “Molina, what’s on your mind?”

I didn’t have anything much on my mind, definitely not chemistry. Probably I was listening in my head to the long version of the Doors Light My Fire organ solo. You can’t imagine how many hours I spent tapping my imaginary keyboard on my desk and playing that song during my four years at Servite. It was the only way I survived the long hours in the classroom.

So I was kind of cranky to be roused out of my trip. I knew if I said “nothing” he would jump on that. So instead I asked a question that I thought might be useful to a Servite sophomore.

“Can you create a fart in a chemistry lab?”

He wasn’t expecting that, and I could tell he was a little taken aback.

Unsettled by my question, he said maybe, probably.

I continued. “How would you go about that?”

Still off the beat, he muttered something to the effect that one could get a sample from a gas chromatograph which would show the different elements and amounts, and then mix them.

I was satisfied with that and went back to my organ solo.

Mr. Quinn was still visibly shaken by my question and ended the discussion by saying something in the way of “Well, I hope you are asking questions with the right intention.” 

Mr. Quinn never again asked me one of his questions, which I was grateful for. Mission accomplished. Or was it?

 I  didn’t realize until years later that he must have taken my question as a rude commentary on his physical disabilities. Hitting under the belt was certainly not my intention. Owning a canister of lab-made fart gas could have been a game changer. But judging by his reaction I guessed that he must have deemed me a real A-hole. That was the reason he never messed with me again. 

It is long justice for me now, decades later, to realize he must have thought I was that evil. Most likely he had done far worse things in high school and knew I was too stupid to be evil, just another jerk.

Long lesson learned: 

Don’t be a barbarian, nor a ne’er do well… a person who acts without consideration.

Sunset in Aguanga by Ricki T Thues

 

As I stand in the living room of my modest red cabin, the vaulted A-frame ceiling begins to glow with the warm hues of the setting sun. Through the sliding glass doors on the eastern wall are cumulus thunderheads, painted in delicate shades of orange and pink, drifting in a cerulean sky. Bandit, my black-masked white cat, chatters at the house finches flitting past the patio doors. 

The day's heat has left the air inside stuffy and slightly humid, resisting the window cooler's whining fan.

I unlock the glass door and slide it open, welcoming the evening breeze that sweeps in and instantly refreshes the air. 

As I step outside, a bird darts past my head, catching a slow-moving fly in midair. It heads toward the large, fully leafed acacia tree, where it joins its flock in a lively chorus of tweets and twitters. The eighty birds share their stories of the day blending their song with the soft rustling of leaves. Whether they will return to this tree tomorrow or find another sanctuary depends on their collective whim.

Behind me, Bandit meows through the screen door, yearning to chase the birds. But such a pursuit would likely end in her becoming prey to the bobcats and coyotes that roam this mountain chaparral. 

A stray raindrop splatters on my head, and I inhale the earthy scent of damp brush and decomposed granite.

To the east, a cliff, edged with heliotrope overlooks Cahuilla Valley. In the midst of this rural community, the airport runway lights blink on, stretching down the length of the valley like red Tivoli. To the south, I glimpse Lake Riverside, where small, dark boats bob gently, their fishermen hoping for dinner. 

My eyes travel across the amber fields and verdant hillsides to Mount Cahuilla, a rugged granite cinder cone from an ancient volcanic age. Eons ago this south face blew away scattering boulders across the valley. The mountain is now adorned in native green Salt Bush, Red Shank, and Manzanita. It stands as a testament to time. The Salt Bush’s white blossoms lend it a pastel glow, while the Manzanita is heavy with berries. The Red Shank's bark peels away to reveal a vibrant magenta, and its sprays of white flowers begin to rust. The ground beneath is alive with flowering buckwheat, wild oats, mustard, and prickly poppy plants. Hot pink flowers adorn the beavertail cacti. A mother quail leads her brood from bush to bush while the male stands sentinel on a boulder. Rabbits dash about in their evening frolic.

I begin a leisurely stroll around the exterior of my house. Straight to the east, Thomas Mountain outlines the horizon, a summit of the San Jacinto range that separates my valley from Palm Springs. As my gaze follows the range southward, I see the peak of Santa Rosa, home to a Coachella Indian tribe. The Pacific Crest Trail meanders along this skyline, tracing the undulating ridge of the Beauty Mountains and Mount Palomar. The white dome of Palomar Observatory sits near the summit, a hand’s width to the west. Farther west lies the Fallbrook mesa of the Cleveland National Forest. Due west, Saddleback Mountain stands, where the sun's sharp point sinks into its saddle. The sun explodes into a brilliant green flash and bursts into vibrant reds, oranges and lavender. The clouds’ edges glow fluorescent with the reflected light of sunset.

The breeze cools, and the birds quiet down. Cactus flowers close as the first stars begin to shimmer into view. A band of coyotes howls nearby. Bandit whimpers softly as I turn and reenter my little red house.

The Sunset by David Molina

 

The Sunset

I was biking through the Sunset district at the westernmost edge of Golden Gate Park. Riding a bike at a leisurely pace, smelling the eucalyptus trees and the sea that evoked familiar feelings from half a century ago, I turned the corner, and there she stood.

The old girl was pushing 100. 

Like a few of her contemporaries, at some time in her recent past, she decided to doll herself up.  She changed her old paint job.  Back when we lived there, she had a proper Victorian gray with a conservative white rim. The salt and sand of the beach gave it a tired, weathered look, making her look aged and dingey. The boring look probably saved us some rent money.  Her most recent look was a psychedelic splash of pukey Ghostbusters-Green with a purple trim straight out of Haight-Ashbury. 

Some would say she was gaudy, but her brazen make-over did not bother me one bit. Half a century deserves respect. It is a badge of honor to stand tall and proud… and at the same time be a little bit weird. I was pleased that San Francisco could still blow my mind.

On the first of December, 1976, my $200 a month rent (half my monthly income) was due and paid. My flat was long and narrow, with a cute but tiny kitchen,  a very tiny dining room, a slightly but very slightly larger living room,  a minuscule bathroom, and a bedroom that allowed two feet to navigate around a double bed.

But that double bed…from there one could look out the window across the Great Highway and gaze at the roiling waves of the Pacific Ocean. That double bed which my bride would soon share with me, making it truly a double bed.

In the final week of a very busy December, I led my new bride of two weeks up the stairwell, unlocked the door, and showed her our new home. Of the half dozen places we lived during our next fifty years, the first was the only one with a sea view. Yes, our $200  bought a couple of starving students a front-row seat in the world's largest ocean. Half a century later I can smell and taste the dense sea salty fog. I can hear the mournful fog horns warning sailors to take heed.  I hear the clanging of the N Judah streetcar, the rumble of the tracks. I can see the sun slowly dipping into the endless ocean.

All these marked the adventure’s beginning. I stood in prayerful respect for a minute,  saddled up, and rode on.

 

Blood and Sand by Paul Delgado

 Blood and Sand

Paul Delgado

When I was thirteen, I wanted to be a Matador.

I must have read I’ll Dress You in Mourning by Dominique La Pierre a dozen times.

I was fascinated by the drama and spectacle of “La Corrida”…the bullfight.

Manuel Benitez, “El Cordobes”, was my hero. He was a young kid from a poor

neighborhood in Andalusia and became the greatest matador in history.

I remember when my grandparents told me about Manolete, a famous Torero in

the forties, and about the great Conchita Citron, a fearless woman who fought on

horseback in the fifties. The images were captivating, and I knew I was destined

for glory in the bullring.

I had posters of the great matadors in my bedroom and even built a small carreta,

a contraption with horns mounted atop a frame with a bicycle wheel to imitate a

bull. I would have my little brother charge at me in the driveway for hours.

My wonderful Aunties, Tere and Lucy, even bought me a matador’s cape from

Mexico. Day in and Day out that summer I practiced.

One day, for my birthday, my Uncle Benny and Aunt Alice took me to my first

official bullfight in the Plaza de Toros de Tijuana. Despite Tijuana’s image as a

reckless border town, it attracted big talent from Mexico City and even Espana.

My Uncle Benny indulged my dream and called me “El Californiano”.

“Someday you will be like El Cordobes and fight in Mexico City and Madrid!”

The “Cartel de Toreros” that Sunday was stellar. Joselito Huerta and the great

Jaime Bravo were featured. I was over the moon.

My Uncle and Aunt picked me up from our house in La Mirada about 10 AM and

we drove to Tijuana. Crossing the border was easy compared to the present day and

we went to one of my Uncle’s favorite restaurants where we had lunch.

We then drove to the new bullring by the sea on the outskirts of the city. To me, it

was spectacular. As we made our way through the crowds and past the many

food vendors, my uncle bought us delicious churros to snack on as we found our

seats.

All of a sudden, the sound of trumpets announced the entrance of the Matadors.

Dressed in their “suit of lights”, they strode into the arena with capes draped over

their shoulders. I was enthralled.

The trumpets sounded again and “el toro” burst in from the tunnel.

A magnificent animal…proud and strong…he charged around the ring…snorting

and daring anyone to challenge him.

Then from behind a wooden barricade in the arena, Joselito Huerta stepped out

onto the sand. It was a surrealistic moment. Everything I dreamed of was coming

true.

Chants of Ole! Ole! resounded from the stands as Joselito performed magic with

his cape.

I saw myself just like him…performing dazzling displays of bravery and grace.

“I Will be El Californiano!” I told my Uncle. He smiled and said “yes, you will”

The trumpets sounded again and this time the matadors strode out with their

bandilleras…Brightly decorated short lances with pointed steel tips.

As the bull charged, they struck the bandilleras into the bull’s neck and the

streaming blood brushed against their suit of lights as they agilely spun away. The

crowd cheered.

I began to feel a little sorry for the bull, but this was “la corrida” and so far, it was

everything I dreamed of.

The trumpets sound again and the “Picadores” entered the arena with long

lances. Riding atop horses covered in padding, they charged the bull and rammed

their spears into the bull’s neck…Man oh man…gruesome is an

understatement…The idea is to weaken the bull’s neck muscles and lower his

neck for the matador to stab it for the kill.

The bull that day was strong and although bleeding profusely, he ferociously

charged the picador and gored the horse. The picador went down and the horse

was kicking and screaming on the ground. The other matadors ran out onto the

sand and distracted the bull so the picador could be carried off.

Then somebody from behind the parapet came out and shot the horse and a guy

with a team of dray horses from the tunnel appeared and dragged the dead horse

out.

Oh man.

The trumpets began to play again and it was time for “La Muleta” the dance of

death.. Joselito Huerta was daring with his red cape and sword.

Ole!…Ole!…the stands reverberated.

But as he spun…the bull hooked him and tossed him like a rag doll in the air and

as he writhed on the ground the bull tried to gore him again.

Blood was everywhere.

The other matadors ran out to distract the bull and draw it away while the medics

carried him off on a stretcher.

Oh man!

Then the trumpets sounded again and Jaime Bravo, the next matador…steps onto

the bloodied sand in the arena.

The crowd erupts with a roaring cheer and applause.

The bull charges.… Pass after pass …the bull is captive to the magic of his cape.

And in the last phase of the dance of death…He strikes his sword into the bull’s

neck.

But it was not a clean kill…the sword is only in halfway…

The bull is coughing blood and struggling…An image from a bad slaughterhouse

kill.

The crowd starts to boo.

The bull staggers and falls but still is trying to stand.

Then all of a sudden, from the tunnel, a couple of guys walk into the arena and

shoot the bull in the head. Then a team of horses unceremoniously drags it out of

the arena.

The matadors then stride around the arena to a mix of cheers and boos.

Walking out of the bullring among the crowds, the sun was beginning to set on

the ocean, and I was lost in thought.

Man oh man

What an afternoon.

On the drive back to La Mirada I was quiet in the car.

My Uncle asked me what I thought of the day.

“Still want to be a matador?”

I looked out the window of the car as we passed San Juan Capistrano and replied,

I’m not so sure anymore Tio.

I think my bullfighting days are over.

LOL!

Writer's Choice - Rick Thues

 Little Gidding (getting it done)

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always-
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

from Collected Poems 1909-1962 (Faber, 1974), by permission of the publisher, Faber & Faber Ltd.

haiku

you take a moment

and see nothing happening

except everything

--rickiT

Rick Thues