Fireworks

The sound comes; a distant thumping, the dull falling of running feet, a low voice barking, then feet on the veranda, then John exploding out the screen door slamming:
“YOU COMIN’ OR NOT!!!”

I lean awkwardly into the heavy wooden lawnmower and turn to watch John vanish around the side of the house. I look back to the veranda, half expecting to see the old man’s chair roll up but no one comes. Sweat streaks down my red face, my stiff stubby fingers tight and cramping on the handle. The lawnmower sits silent, patient in the morning heat, its shadow long on the grass and dandelion. Above, the sun burns a white coin.

Down the lane, I catch up to John. He’s stopped to pick up small red racket that has fallen from his pockets. The air smells of mint and over-packed garbage cans, the heat of the day starting to take hold of the waste.
“You got matches?”
John pulls a small box from his waistband and hands them to me.
“I brought this too,” he says.
He holds out a bright yellow pool ball. He presses the side. A spark. Again. A flame.
“Pop’ll kill ya if he finds out.”
“He woan,” John says. “Here, I got some string too.”

We cross the road to Higgins field and wade through the waist-high grass, thistle-burrs hitching to our socks and jeans. We climb a long slow hill. Below lies open land, sporadic trees to the west, the town a brown cluster in a wheat yellow patchwork. We lurch in the morning heat, and then come to Pinkers, the stink smoldering at the top of the hill. Somewhere off, a dog barks but nothing else stirs. We kick through fly mounds of trash and debris, old furniture, boxes, paper, black plastic.
“Here,” John says. He picks up a cracked glass jar. Inside are a few green plastic soldiers, a blue bowlegged cowboy, a faded gray aluminum horse, stubby bits of used crayon.
“Yeah these. Let’s do these.”
In a shallow dirt ditch next to the field, he dumps the contents of the jar in the dirt. I sit, pulling the box of matches and string from an oversized pocket.

We blow up everything. John handles the fused red shells with precision, his hatchet face shiny, jubilant, blasting foam cups, tin cans, soldiers, and crayons. When the matches are done, we switch to the pool ball lighter, its flame orange and pointed. We set fire to a small village of milk cartons. We watch an old cigar box full of derby ticket stubs burn and smolder. We blow apart a bald plastic doll. Later, with our artillery exhausted, we lay still in the ditch, surrounded by mangled Marines and a now blackened horse. I flip through the odds and ends of bundled colored paper from the cigar box; quinellas, exactas, stained paper like a foreign currency.

“We goin’ to the parade?” I say, handing John our spoils of war.
“Naw. There’s not much of a show ‘less you like lame fireworks. It’s the old man’s thing down at the firehouse anyway.”
The heat of the day simmers in the dirt around us. John paws the sweat from his thin face. He slowly rotates the lighter in his hand. “You ‘wan any of this stuff?” he says, nudging one of the fallen green Marines with his toe as if it might be somehow alive.
“These here ain’t too bad. I used to like them. Tough guys.”
I pick up the plastic cowboy. A leg has melted to a twist. “This one’s pretty banged up. Kinda like Pop’s.”
“Shut up,” John says. “It ain’t like that at all.” He stares at the lighter. “It ain’t.”

We sit in silence and watch the horizon. A light wind now moves over the wheat fields below. I cup a hand over my brow and squint at the sun.
“It’s gonna be some h…”
WHUMPT!
The grass behind us suddenly shoots up, orange and white crackling fast. Fat smoke plumes gray then turns black. The wind picks up and the fire explodes. I jump, stepping back as John leaps away, dropping the lighter.
“Pop’s gonna kill us.”
“He woan find out,” John says. “We weren’t here.” The flames leap higher.
“Ya hear’n me. I wasn’t.”

I watch as John races down the hill, his own shadow chasing after him as he plunges and disappears into the tall dry chaff. As I turn to run, I step on something hard. The lighter. Jamming it in my pocket, I run into the dump, a shadow myself, quickly swallowed whole by Pinker’s smoldering landfill.

On the road, the engines go up the hill, their red racket rumbling, their sirens blaring around the melting morning sun.

Muddled Thoughts of Woodstock Remembered

Twang…twang…hummm…twang…buzz…
oh hello, didn’t see you there. I was just flubbing around here on the old guitar trying to remember that song by that group… what was there name? They were at Woodstock. Country Joe and something. Canned Tuna?
A Tin of Tuna? Mmmm.. that sounds delicious.
Something about a fish. I forget how it goes. twang…buzz…

This guitar here, I’ve had it for over forty years. It’s the size of a baby cello. twang…bzzz...twang. Cliff, one of my friends in high school, made it in shops class. He wasn’t very good at math or deciphering scale measurements. He was more of an abstract thinker. Psychedelics I remember. I’ve been practicing this opening riff to the old Who song, “I’m Going to Explain” or whatever it was called. “I’ll Explain Later”, that’s it. Remember…Bah!…Bah-ba!… Bahhh! Bah-ba! I think they did it at Woodstock.

Oh boy, yeah Woodstock. August 1969. twang…twang…buzzzz…
This year is the 40th anniversary but it seems like it was just yesterday. Or the day before. What is today, by the way? Wow those memories come seeping back man. Three days of peace, music and mud. A lot of mud. That’s what I remember…the mud. And the music, it was something else. It was muddied too and distant but I still heard them all… Jimi, Janis, the Who, Canned Tuna, Santa Anna, the Doors, Dylan. twang…twang…hummm…


I was, let’s see, ha, the mind seems to be slipping some these days, oh about eighteen back then…. twang…twang…
I do remember looking up through my parent’s basement window and seeing my best friend, Jorge on his knees growling, “hey Desieldorfor, grab some dough and a sleeping bag. Yasgur’s farm awaits!” I was puzzled because it looked like a large cat with a rat’s face peering in at me. I had just dropped some acid. “Farm?” Okay I told him.
We took off with some guy Jorge knew from school who had wheels. I think his name was Roscoe or Rothco, something like that. Off we went on this unplanned adventure to New York and an ‘Aquarian Festival’. It was the ‘Age of Aquarian’ or some crazy thing. Remember that song?… twang…twang…hummm… it is a drowning of the age of Aqu…anyway, it was a chance to get away from the SS back on the home front there in North Dakota. The ol’ Herr Fuhrer and Frau never said anything. I don’t think they knew I was gone. I did say bye to my little brother Mark who came chasing up behind Romeo’s car with my sleeping bag. Thanks Mark. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

To tell the truth, I don’t remember much about the trip having just dropped that acid. twang…twang…twang…buzz… We dropped another tab just as we were leaving the city.
I do remember lying in a field and it was raining pretty hard. I was trapped in my mudbag, damn that cheap bag and zipper… twang… and I could hear music playing off somewhere down a hill. Mostly I recall some farmer guy plowing by in a tractor, zig-zagging around a couple of us sleepy people. He was yelling at us, “fuck hippie, git outta here!” then,“OOOOH SHIT.” The rest is foggy. Twang…twang…buzz…

I guess Woodstock was a huge happening and there were drugs and music and plenty of bands to see and a ton of them got even more famous but I didn’t see them. I didn’t see anybody. We never did get to Yasgur’s farm.
We got as far as old farmer Rawley’s potato field about five miles from my house. Appears that acid was a real mind-bender.
I remember waking up in a rather comfortable bed…my own. And there was little Mark standing beside it holding my muddy sleeping bag. He told me I had been gone a day. twang… twang…Old Rawley had called the cops. Seems he ran over Jorge in his sleeping bag. The ground was so wet and mucky; he sunk into it like a log in quicksand. He was okay. Not a dent. And apparently all that music I heard…KCSN-92.5 FM blaring from Roy’s car, which had somehow found its way into Rawley’s ditch. Man those were some crazy times but I think most of us turned out all right. Twang…twang…buzz…twang

My little brother Mark called last week and asked if I wanted to go out to New York to celebrate the 40th anniversary. A lot of things have changed since the 60’s but not Mark. He’s still looking out for me. He’s like that Who’s song, “The Kid is Alright”. He even bought me that Woodstock DVD for Christmas. He said he didn’t want me to ever forget the experience. twang…twang…hummm…twang…buzz…

I’m now just a regular family man and I don’t need too many drugs these days to enjoy myself. I mostly get my high at my job landing airplanes. Maybe Mark’s right. We should go to the celebration and I’ll bring along Janine and the kids too. And when they ask, “Gee, were you really here?” I’ll pull out this baby cello and twang that wonderful old riff from that Who song, “I Can Explain”.
I really can.
Twang…twang…buzz… Twang…twang…buzz…

30A Series

I live in Santa Rosa Beach, a wonderful beach resort area situated on the Gulf Coast along the Florida Panhandle. The area is strung together with small seaside communities- Blue Mountain, Grayton Beach, Alys Beach, Rosemary Beach and Seaside which was featured in the Jim Carrey movie, 'The Truman Show'. The scenic highway running through it all is County Road 30A.

The icons I've created are available for purchase- there are 2 sizes; 11x14 digital prints are $30 and the 24x36 digital prints are $120. Shipping is additional (rolled and sent in a tube)

From left to right- Click images to enlarge
Red Heron - Seaside Church
Alys Beach Architecture

Alys Beach Fonville Press - Heron Moon
Pelican - Rosemary Beach Pensione Hotel

Watercolor Clocktower - Alys Beach Cone
Rosemary Beach Town Hall - Rosemary Beach Barbados Pool

If you're interested, just email me at metheothertwin@aol.com

Of Gods and Men (Part 1 &2)

Part 1: Of Gods and Men

Pink!
Ahh, I love that. Not the color. The sound. The sound of a well hit golf ball.
Golf is a mystery to me. It’s a wondrous sport that we sometimes love to hate, yet it keeps calling us back no matter how bad things get. It’s a simple premise that takes a tremendous amount of skill and patience to play well. It can be very frustrating. It’s essential that we mere mortals leave certain things at home before going to the course. These things include expectations, emotions and guns. You need bring only a keen sense of humor. I tip my hat to anyone who, by the end of playing a round, can say that they still have all their clubs in their bag and a stable enough mind to operate a motor vehicle.

I believe you need to be super-human. Take the men and women on the professional tours. These are not mere mortals. An unseen hand has touched them. Butch Harmon's perhaps? A David Leadbetter? They play with such control, such certainty. How is it that they can hit a drive without taking up two feet of prime real estate or shape a shot that drops fifteen feet past the hole, then mysteriously reverses back to within three. No magic. No strings. It’s just divine.

I enjoy the game of golf especially when I’m eyeing every putt from the undulating green of my couch. I haven’t played in months. I’m not very good. Perhaps there are easier recreational endeavors that are not so taxing on the mind or body; things like log rolling or zoo docent. My commitment and faith to the game has dwindled so much that I’ve considered giving it up. Almost.

A while back, I attended a Champion's tour event, the one held by the senior PGA players. It was exciting to watch so many legends, these gods of the game, and in such an intimate and beautiful setting. When I arrived, Lee Trevino and Tom Watson were chipping on the practice tee. Bruce Lietzke and Andy Bean were further down, effortlessly hammering straight shots that disappeared into oblivion. Gary Player was already out on the course tending to his devoted flock of followers.
I watched them practice for a while then made my way down to the first tee. A crowd of fellow seekers had bunched around the tee box so I made my way up the fairway and waited at the dogleg with another group of believers. It was amazing how quiet we were, serene and silent, waiting for that unseen object to drop out of the sky. The people around me talked in low whispers as if in a holy place. The few that were disobediently using cell phones were unaware that they were setting themselves up for a sudden public stoning.
Then out of nowhere, I heard that sound again.
Pink!

It’s what you pray for. The thud of the ball landed safely on the fairway about ten yards in front of us. In golf, there's always a chance that someone might drop suddenly, an unwitting recipient of an errant ball to the left frontal lobe. Two more thumps nearby indicated that things had gone well for the threesome teeing off and no calls for medical assistance were needed from any of us. Our threesome featured Trevino who hit a nice shot into the green up ahead. He made zigzag hand gestures to his caddie as though he had expected the ball to do something different. I would have been pleased with still having a ball to hit. Oh, these gods; so demanding.

As the crowd moved on, I waited. According to my schedule, Tom Watson was part of the next trinity, along with Doug Tewell and Peter Jacobsen. I decided to follow them. All of their tee shots landed in the same proximity as the previous group. While the players hovered with their caddies, we stood as still as lawn gnomes, our ears sharp to the hushed utterances on the fairway. We listened for a suggested path, a defining word. Any small crumb of truth that might help us unlock the mystery of this game. The trinity continued on, seemingly oblivious to our presence. They proceeded to create their own little universe, miraculously dropping balls around the flagstick like planets around the sun. I followed them on their pilgrimage for three holes and then decided to leave.
On the way out, I passed Raymond Floyd on the practice tee. He was going through his routine. I stopped and watched the way he stood over the ball, the form of his back swing and his classic finish. I seared the image in my mind. Was it possible to believe that I could shape myself in that image? Transform myself from mere mortal into...one of them? I was feeling a sudden renewal, a rebirth. Was there hope? Three holes of perfection had been enough to actually make me consider retrieving my golf clubs from the thrift shop. All the way home, I searched my spirit for an answer to the question: Could there be salvation for my game?

Later, as I dozed on the couch, I heard that beautiful angelic sound again. Pink!
Reaching for the remote, an undeniable truth revealed itself to me. God no. I realized then that if I were ever going to reach salvation, I would have to completely surrender and submit my life to golf’s siren call.
Starting from scratch, I was willing to renew my spirit, reclaim my clubs and with absolute free will, deliver my body and soul to golf’s ultimate madness.


Part 2: Of Gods and Madmen

I began with a basic fundamental: etiquette. Understanding that the game of golf is first and foremost, a gentleman’s game, I came up with five simple rules of etiquette to ensure a great round of golf. When out tearing up the course, I thought it might be useful to remember this acronym: OCRAP, which stood for Observe, Courtesy, Repair, Attire and Pretend.

#1 Observe
Golf is a game of observation. From the first tee to a rough fairway to the smooth surface of the green, the goal is to observe and follow your ball, your fellow foursome’s balls, and even other foursome’s wayward balls. You must always be observant for the game of golf is fraught with hazard. Water, sand, wildlife, marshy thickets, wandering elderly, well, it’s a real challenge to the full-of-himself golfer in his colorful attire. Try to forget for a while your own ‘look at me’ attitude and start looking around. You never know what’s lying ahead or for that matter, what’s tracking behind. Always be on alert. Golf is full of surprises. For instance, you may come upon an elderly couple quietly tending their tomato garden in a bunker on the eighth hole where unfortunately, your ball has landed. Senility may have led them to this place but they are more likely than not, harmless. Is it a surprise? Of course it is, quite frightening really. But if you’re observant, you may see that there are a bunch of discarded tomatoes littering the crooked path up to a house just behind the bunker. Suggest to them that you would like to purchase a few tomatoes and when they head off to the house to get you “a nice brown paper bag”, pitch your ball out (careful to avoid the scarecrow in tam o’shanter cap and knickerbockers) and move on quickly before they come back.


#2 Courtesy
Golf is played in the wonderful wonderland of nature. Lost in the wild, you’ll need to be aware and respectful of sharing this carved out piece of natural habitat with its current rightful inhabitants: eagle, rabbit, gofer, fox, snake, homeowner foolish enough to have purchased along fairway. All reside in your field of play and are potential targets for your unskilled gaffs. Yes, it is possible for your wayward tee shot to de-beak an unsuspecting falcon that was peacefully dozing in its nest deep in the woods some thirty feet off the fairway. It’s not unheard of to inadvertently scorch the top of a rabbit‘s skull or even blow a lizard in half that was minding its own business sunning on a rock near the thirteenth hole. (Oh, unlucky 13!)

These things weren’t planned but they happened anyway due to your unforeseen actions. There’s really nothing you can say other than “Yikes!” but if you find yourself stepping in and falling down this all too common rabbit hole of course discourse then listen up especially if you encounter that unpredictable homeowner. With him, you will need to muster all of the courtesy you can get.
Golf will test all of a player’s mental, physical and emotional considerations. The trick here is temperament. Don’t let these needless maiming and deaths affect your play. Just let it go. Yes, express a heartfelt apology to Mother Nature but then quickly move on. (run if you’ve only winged the coyote) It’s understandable that you’re upset at the loss. That ProV 1 cost bucks! If it’s that crazy homeowner that you encounter remember, it was he who fell for that real estate agents “Location! Location! Location!” bullshit and so tactfully inform him that damage to his broken sunroom window or headless ceramic lawn gnome should be settled with his HOA and not you. Remember, be courteous but pick your fights. There will always be something or someone just around the next dogleg that will challenge your sense of good golf etiquette.

For instance, out of the blue, a ball lands on the green just as you are about to putt. What is your response? Your initial reaction probably goes something like this: reason tells you golf balls don’t grow on trees so it didn’t just drop from that annoying knotty pine overhanging the green. Searching the horizon, you zero in on the asshole that had the luck to hit her ball some three hundred plus yards. You simmer as the foursome of silhouetted cavewomen dance and high-five each other. If this tribe of hostiles had any understanding of golf etiquette, they would know that all players currently on a green should be clear of it before the next group can hit. Did they extend you that courtesy? I think not but perhaps it was just an unfortunate mistake on their part. When a second ball lands even closer to the hole, follow this helpful rule. It’s called Burying the Hatchet.
Using a sand wedge, hatchet deep furrows in the green where their balls landed and then bury them deep using your heel to really get them down there. This should delay them for a while and allow time for some welcomed breathing room.
As the day wears on, you may grow tired and impatient and your genial spirit may start to suffer. Try to refrain from setting your clubs on fire. Instead, focus on your fellow players and offer courteous words of encouragement. Phrases like “Nice shot!” or “Great putt!” are cliché but always prized. Friendly warnings such as “Watch out for that OB marker or rattlesnake” are helpful too. Though most players don’t really mean it when they say it, it’s better than hearing, “ Nice shot…asshole!” or “Great putt…putzinberg!”
Courtesy is essential, a gift really and as with any gift, it’s the thought that counts.

#3 Repair
This rule is less of an issue mainly because you’re surrounded by nature and not in an environment that can be easily controlled or readily fixed. You can’t just turn off the wind. That huge sequoia rudely planted in front of your ball can’t be moved. That nutty squirrel running down the fairway with your ball can’t be arrested. What can you do? Just understand that the leaves, acorns and vermin strewn about can be a good thing, a logical reason as to why you didn’t play well. Replacing divots, plugging ball marks, raking bunkers; these minor disturbances shouldn’t bother you too much for they take very little time or effort to fix or ignore. Now if you come across, for instance, an unfortunate ‘Burying the Hatchet’ incident…

#4 Attire
Attire covers everything from what you wear to the clubs you use so be conscientious of how you appear on the course. Loud is a good way to start. I believe, depending on your handicap, following a color code similar to that of Homeland Security. It’s a safety issue. A bright red jumpsuit for a high handicapper tells fellow golfers you’re a clear and present danger. A serene green for a low scratch player suggests an incident-free round and just a hint of envy from others. Your golf clubs should also match your playing ability though this is usually not the case. Many players feel the fancier and more expensive the club; the better they will play. This truth is not always true. For instance, I was once paired with an imbecile dangerously waggling a shiny new Cobra. His ensuing tee shot traveled ten feet and forty-five degrees right, squarely into an unaware Palmetto bush. He had several immediate excuses ready. The day before, he had moved his three- bedroom apartment and he was currently nursing a hangover. I would suggest he wear a Caution yellow outfit that screamed “Liar!” Our round became nothing more than an advice column. “You should keep your head still when you swing,” he said while searching the water hazard. “You keep looking up.” On the next hole, a disembodied voice floated from the woods, “So you’re thinking a pitching wedge eh…from here?” This from a fool who, while on the way to the par five third, asked to borrow my extra golf balls and 3-wood.

#5 Pretend
Golf for most enthusiasts is a fantasy. It’s beautifully marketed on the idea that if you spend enough money and time on gizmos and gadgets, videos and lessons, practice and practice, you will eventually be able to break that magic number of 200. Yes it’s fun and good exercise and a way of escaping the family but ultimately it’s a chance to imagine possessing an improbable skill. Miraculously, that elusive skill will actually show up sometime during the round when by chance, one in your delusional foursome will fluke a magical shot. Congratulations will abound and all will pretend to buzz about the shot as if it had actually been planned. Try to remember that moment because it may be the one thing that will keep you all coming back to the course to try to recreate again.

* * *

My last round of golf was a disaster. Though I did try to renew my spirit by following my rules of etiquette and wearing something green, nothing worked. I lost all my balls on the front nine and walked away.

I periodically have thoughts of playing golf. I periodically have thoughts of purchasing a new set of Cobra golf clubs. My non-playing wife disagrees. A new washer and dryer have been suggested instead. Honestly, she may be right. I now think that golf may be a waste of time, money and valuable real estate that would be better used for building a state prison or a Costco. I’m realizing now that maybe it’s all bullshit. My clubs are down at Gig’s Thrift and Rifle Repair. I don’t care if he sells them or forges them into gun barrels or musket balls. They are out of my life! There will be no salvation for me.
No, get the washer and dryer combo. I’d rather sport a clean pair of shorts than a lingering foul mood.