September 28, 2010 § 4 Comments
We call people we don’t like lowlifes, deadbeats, trash; places we don’t like slums. And we call plants we don’t like weeds. There is no biology to back up the term, just a judgment call.
September 25, 2010 § Leave a comment
I’m bad at change. If it weren’t for Ray, a sofa would never change location in our living room. If not for Ray we wouldn’t be signing a mortgage on 9.72 acres in Wakulla County.
The beauty of the project comes to me in flashes; a pair of bench seats hangs by chains from the limbs of a Live Oak; a sand road winds through the many gates on this property that was once a farm.
September 22, 2010 § 6 Comments
My mother’s death was the most difficult question life ever posed to our family, especially for my father who did not believe in the escape clause, “until death do us part.” He had no desire to remarry. He had three grown children and their children. He’d make do with what family he had left.
After her death he spent winters in Tallahassee in the house across the street from ours, and summers “up home” in New Jersey. When we called him there his voice was rusty from disuse. “You need a dog, Dad,” I said. He squeaked out the logical reasons why he could not have a dog. « Read the rest of this entry »
September 20, 2010 § 1 Comment
Journal Entry written November 30, 2001: This morning when the TV came on they were showing a clip of George Harrison, bearded and singing, “My Sweet Lord,” and I said, “Ray, George Harrison must have died.”
And he has.
A middle-aged woman, one of many who have gathered in the Strawberry Fields section of Central Park, was crying.
September 18, 2010 § 1 Comment
Fresh out of art school I got a job as the illustrator for The Baltimore Zoo.
Orgie Kimball worked there too, and had for many years. When I met her she was a stooped and tired woman who wore a powder blue smock with cigarettes in the pocket and a shiny wig that had faded to a brownish-lavender. When asked what she did, her response was blunt. “I clean toilets.”
But one day, bird keeper, Leon Dunn, said, “Orgie, tell Adrian what you used to do…”
She sighed and waved a hand. “Oh, back in the day I was a blues singer over to The Club Orleans.” She reached inside her smock and pulled out the wallet she kept tucked under her bra strap. She flapped it open and handed it to me so I could see a photo taken when she was big and brassy and all-that.