Red Stairs and Fudge

The house I lived in when I was a toddler was right next door to my great grandmother’s home. I’ve been told that I would occasionally go AWOL from my crib and find my way over there.

My very first memory is a vivid memory of wood stairs. They were thick and rough, and painted red. They led up to my great-grandmother’s back porch. With knees on one stair and hands on another, I could see between each step in front of me. I could see the basement door, which was actually at ground level at the back of the house. The front yard was eight feet higher. I could see the grass slope up to the foundation, and above that I could see the old green siding of Grandma’s house. I remember looking up, and seeing more red stairs. I climbed, or rather crawled up one step at a time, looking at the drab green beyond each red board, as I pulled myself to the next landing.

Finally the back porch and a dark wood screen door appeared in front of me. I wedged myself between the screen door and back door and waited. Soon Uncle Eunice opened the door and I rolled into the kitchen. “Look who’s here!” or something to that effect, Uncle said as he picked me up from under my arms, and carried me to the front room where Grandma waited. I was set on the couch and rewarded with peanut butter fudge.

I only remember making this expedition once, but I’m told it happened several times. Grandma’s home-made fudge may have had something to do with that.

Inside

Inside the house all I can remember is that it seemed small. It had a hardwood floor, throw rugs, and dark wood furniture. Grandpa had one of those tapestries of dogs playing poker hanging on the wall above the davenport in the living room. The bulldog was cheating. Grandma would always make cookies when we came over; fresh warm chocolate chip cookies, served with whole milk. My uncle who was just a few years older than I was would often give me one of his old books. The Enormous Egg was a good one, and Jason and the Golden Fleece ...I liked that one too, and by the way, I’ve never trusted bulldogs.

Grandpa’s House (1966)

Into the back of the station-wagon I climbed,
With a shoebox full of green soldiers,
Because today we’re going to Grandpa’s house.
It's a place with a huge yard
Surrounded by scotch broom and oak trees,
And a swing-set with legs anchored in cement,
So you can swing as high as you dare
Without the whole thing coming down on top of you.
It’s a place with the biggest sandbox you’ve ever seen,
Where jeeps hide from dune crushing tanks
Next to a shed filled with tiles large and small
Of every imaginable color.
A shed with a weathered wood porch
Covered by a generation of mumbly-peg marks
But today it’s raining,
So the soldiers line up behind the davenport
Waiting for better weather
To wage war in the sandy desert

Rap on My Radio

The words are familiar, but not in that order

Likes bricks in a wall without any mortar

The old poet set every block in just right

Then vandals in bling switch ‘em ‘round in the night

New meanings are claimed as old meanings are lost

Just a late drive by shooting of dear Robert Frost

Then the cadence it stumbles, the rhyme become weak

Still it’s different and new, and there’s something unique

But it isn’t for me, so I’m turning the dial

Think I’ll put it back on N.P.R. for awhile

In the Land of Guns and Vitriol

When peaceful people feel too intimidated to speak up, it’s GAME OVER.

Democracy and civilization lose.

Green Before Green was Cool

Todays generation thinks it invented the hybrid car.
Ha! Not true! My first car was a hybrid.

Half the time it ran on regular gas,
and half the time we pushed it.

What's Your Prize?

They say that we all have the same opportunity here in America, and maybe they’re right. I hope they are, but opportunity for what? …? Exactly! And that “?” is the very thing that may just make them right. For the sake of argument I’ll agree that we do all have the same opportunity, just not the opportunity for the same. You see there are as many different good outcomes, and as many different bad outcomes to life as there are people in America. We just shouldn’t define what a “good outcome” is too narrowly, or we may not recognize it if we happen to achieve a good outcome of our own.

Remember, there are “prizes” for all of us during our lives, but what those prizes are varies widely, and if we fixate on someone else’s we may not recognize our own when they're right there within our grasp.

What’s your prize? I hope you find it.