FORGIVENESS

"Sometimes its easier to get forgiveness than permission"

SEPARATION, SIN AND ATONEMENT

SEPARATION, 1961
We were lined up at the starting line when the man fired the pistol.
I took off clean, then fell and scuffed my knee in my little Easter shorts, ripping my jacket as well. I thought my chances were slim, but I recovered and ran like a deer, scooping up candy and eggs into my basket like Deon Sanders on a loose ball.
Before long I was way out in front of everybody.
There was a line of trees in front of me.
Then I found it! The Grand Prize of the Easter Egg Hunt! The worlds biggest Chocolate Bunny! It must have been 2 feet tall.
It came with $20 and I got my picture made with the Governor and Miss Texas, 1961. I looked out over the crowd from on the stage, all those kids out there with their little Easter Baskets and sad envious looks on their faces. They were all looking at me.
I’d have gladly given that Chocolate Bunny away.
It seemed like all the kids hated me forever after that.

SIN, 1962
That Easter of 1961 was the first time I truly felt separated from other people.
And it was all because I found that damned Grand Prize Bunny.
I can still see the pouty little envious faces of all the kids there that day.
I can still feel the anger and resentment of all those little child hearts as I stood between the Governor and Miss Texas, holding 4 pounds of Chocolate Rabbit, getting my picture taken.

Make no mistake about it, us humans learn to hate and resent and despise at a very early age.
We also learn to feel separated, isolated and alone.

Anyway, over the years Easter did not get much better for me.

The next year, in 1962, my little sister got a little baby chick that the Easter Bunny brought for her. It was dyed pink and I do not know what future it may have had if me and the big kid from across the street had not got a hold of it. His name was Dan, and he and I took an Axe and cut the little birds head off and buried it in the front yard. Later that evening, when the chick came up missing, I lied and said I knew nothing about the whereabouts of my sisters little pink chicky.
It was a mystery, but mystery’s never last too long in my life.
The very next day my dad pulled out a Rototillerto prepare the yard for sod found that little chick , headless and buried in the front yard.
Busted.
I got a whuppin’ all right, even though it had not been my idea, nor had I held the axe, or dug the hole or placed the little chicky in its grave.
No, I had not done any of that, but I understood fully that I had been a most willing and delighted accomplice to this macabre little episode.

What I did not understand at the time was that I would never really ever get away with anything my whole life long.

ATONEMENT, THE WORSE DAY OF MY LIFE, EASTER 1966
Yes, Easter has been a tough holiday for me.
The year after Dan and I murdered my sisters little Easter Chick, my family moved to Detroit. In 1966 we flew to Texas for vacation at Easter time. Our return flight back to Detroit was late in the day on Easter Sunday.
My little sister, who 4 years prior had lost that poor little chick, was about to pay me back for the vile deed.
Early Easter morning she went to the little nest that our mom and dad always had us make to find what the Easter Bunny had left.
There was a huge yellow Easter Basket, about 4 feet tall, with all that fake green grass spilling out, and all those marshmallow Rabbits, and Candy Eggs, Stuffed Bunnies, with little feathered bird-toys going all around the handle, all wrapped in clear-green cellophane.
It was enormous, totally cute and bigger than she was.


It could not be checked as baggage, and it was way too big for my sister to carry.
Do you know what that meant?
It was time to atone for the murder of that Baby Chick 4 years earlier.
I had to carry that Basket through the Dallas Love Feild and onto the plane!
I was 10 years old, all boy, and I’d rather have died a thousand deaths than to carry that very gay and bright pastel pink and yellow nightmare.
I was embarrassed, I was pissed, and what I found was that if I tilted that basket the wrong way music would play right out of one of those stuffed bunnies arses.

“Here comes Peter Cottontail
Hoppin' down the bunny trail
Hippity-Hoppity
Easters on its way”

I was daggers!
Daggers!
DAGGERS!

Women and little girls in line to board would compliment me on what a nice Easter Basket I had.
It seemd like the whole Airport was smiling and pointing at me.
I would scowl. I was almost in tears. I wanted to kill somebody.
DAGGERS!
And when I looked to my Mother, she would just give me that look like I better not say a thing.
I could not wait for this plane to hippity-hoppity off the ground and land in Detroit.
But that would prove to be too good to be true.
What I found, as part of my atonement for the sins of Easter Past, was that we had a three-hour layover in the lobby at Chicago O’Hare!
DAGGERS!

It was the worse day of my life.


HAPPY EASTER EVERYONE!

"PRACTICING BEING"

I learned this weekend that there is a difference between "Practicing Open-mindedness" and 'Being Open-minded".

In the spirit of prcticing being open minded, I went to church this weekend. Friends had invited me, and I figured it couldn't do any harm to practice a little open-mindedness. After all, being open minded that maybe I never have to do any drugs again has brought me a long ways, and being open minded about a higher power and God of my misunderstanding has been a right and good thing in my life and given me a new way of looking at some things., like paying my bills on time, and having Inspection Stickers, and not stealing batteries from the Walgrens.

But once I got there and they started talkin' about Jesus I remembered how much I hate talking about Jesus, and hearing about Jesus, and how closed-minded I really am about making Jesus the most important thing in my life, but I didn't get up and walk out, not so much because I was practicing being open minded, but more because I was practicing being polite, and I stayed through the benediction and everything. And I couldn't wait to get somewhere else, to crawl back into a simple place without all the agricultural metaphors and holidays celebrating events that may not have actually taken place, a place where all that I have to really be is open-minded about not using any drugs today, express some desire to not use, and find some new ways to live and think about things.
And I’ll probably go back to that Church again next week, as a way to practice all this new found good-mannered open-mindedness, and because even though I don't believe THE STORY, its still a GOOD STORY, this story about the son of god who was a real cool dude but they killed him, and you come to find out that was sent to die for everyone's sins like its really going to change anything except as an opportunity for me to be Open minded, but I really don’t expect I’ll get saved or start believing in Jesus no matter how cool a dude he may have been.
That would take a miracle, and I’m a bit close-minded about those kind of miracles.
Its all I can handle just to practice being.

DRUM CIRCLES

"Typically, people gather to drum in drum "circles" with others from the surrounding community. The drum circle offers equality because there is no head or tail. It includes people of all ages. The main objective is to share rhythm and get in tune with each other and themselves. To form a group consciousness. To entrain and resonate. By entrainment, I mean that a new voice, a collective voice, emerges from the group as they drum together."
Mickey Hart


Here a man plays Air-Accordian in Drum Circle

PASS THE BISCUITS

We were standing on a corner in Dalhart Texas when Rucker flagged a carload of girls down. They pulled over to the side walk and Rucker sets the date with them…
“Meet us here at 2AM, don’t be late”
and he and I went back into the Poolroom where the 50 boys of Troop 345 would be spending the night on our way to Red River New Mexico for Summer Camp.
I don’t know how we did it, but somehow Rucker and I crawled past Chan, the grizzled old Scoutmaster; past Mr. Hill, the Assistant; and even past Owen Kaiser, a great big grouchy bear of a man who likely would have skinned us alive had we made so much as a squeak and woke his brawny  German ass up.

When we made it to that dark Dalhart street corner at 2 AM there was no carload of prime Dalworth pussy waiting for us. We still had to count ourselves the luckiest kids there could have ever been because we didn’t get thrown in jail and we managed to get back into that Pool Hall undetected by ol' man Kaiser.
Later that trip, Rucker would take on a fever and talk deliriously, sequestered and quarantined in the tent and near death on his cot, shouting "bring biscuits and whores" untill we finally found Chan's beer in an icy New Mexican stream and carried it to share with poor Rucker in order to break the fever, which it did quite well.

Of course, within about a year or so we would find ourselves in a bit of a bind with some runaway shavetails and a pack of Swisher sweets in Southlake Texas, a small town that they roll up the streets at 6PM, back when the entire Jail was made of chicken wire, where we waited till our parents came to get us at 5 O'Clock in the Texas morning.
Ol' man Kaiser was there by virtue of his son John having been an accomplice. My good friend who lived across the street, John.
Herr Kaiser simultaniously held John by the ear and kicked him in the ass all the way from the chicken wire jail to the car.
Poor John got it the worst, and never hung out with me much after that.

BUBBLE-GUM NIPPLES

I was on roller skates at a Skate party and I actually made it five times around the rink before falling, balancing like an overeaten bear, fantailing as a whale on wheels might to "Saturday Night Fever", and when I finally fell I was not hurt but I was so out of breath a little girl (I think it was Brandywines daughter) brought me a "walker on wheels" that you skate with and it is exactly as it sounds, this walker, and many pictures were taken as I went around the rink the way very old people might get down the hall at the Nursing Home or at the Walmart before they make it into the store and get a Motorized cart, but that didn't stop me or slow me down one iota; I even did some tricks too, ham that I am, lifting my leg high like a ham and extended out behind me like a ham as I held onto the walker for dear life and twice passed by where the camera was set up, it was ham and cheese and smile for the camera and this led to a most magnificent fall, a flying freefall that lasted at least a ten-count, with a twist and a triple-toe loop and ended with a big echoing "Thoomping" sound like a watermelon the size of a Volkswagon had rolled off the countertop, whereupon the guy with the whistle was called and there were many concerned faces that appeared in my field of vision while I was flat on my back and completely gassed out of breath but I wasn't really hurt like from a cracked skull or a broken neck I was just completely gassed and I was carried from the Skating surface and placed on a bench the way OD'd guys are put on cots in the freak-out tents at Dead concerts, or the way a fish is set on the board gasping before being gutted, breaded and fried.

No bones were broken, but I was terribly out of breath and after a few moments my heaving labored way of breathing subsided and I looked up to see the most beautiful girl in the world looking down upon me and she was backlit by some Heavenly Light, and there were violins playing and birds chirping and it seemed like she had a halo of stars around her head and Angel Wings tucked under her blouse, her sheer cherub blouse with the big bubble-gum nipples, and I got my second wind, my strength returned, so I motioned for to her "come closer" and she bent down and in my best deepest sexiest Leonard Cohen/Barry White voice I whispered softly into her ear:

''Monique, baby, how would you like to get me out of these skates"

She saved me!

TROGOLODYTE

AS I COOKED DINNER AND THE EX TALKED TO MY SON IN THE LIVING ROOM

“Rip, your Dad has the most addictive personality I’ve ever seen. He’s been addicted to Bubble-gum, Model Rockets and Boy Scouts. He had a fifty dollar a week Raisin Bran habit till he burned himself out, then he started hittin' the hard stuff, the Grape Nuts.
He has been addicted to Hearts, Golf, Bowling, Bob Dylan, Fishing, and Gardening. I caught him playing Risk all by himself one night. He has been addicted to Badminton, for Gods sakes!
And now... your dad is completely addicted to Narcotics Anonymous!”

It was at this point that I had to come out of the kitchen, flailing my hands about and shrieking like a madman:
“I’m addicted allright, and I just can’t stop !!! Its too late, I am hooked on NA, and I just keep going back to meetings almost everyday! I have it bad!!”
It was then she said what she always says at times like that, which is:
“Are you going to let me finish?”

ART WILL BREAK YOUR HEART

This is like a Film Noir in color. It depicts an utter hopelessness that is exceeded only by the incompetence displayed due to the fact that the subject cannot seem to get the bullets into the gun.

It is the anti-thesis to the movie "Dirty Harry" where Harry and the Perp have lost track of how many shots were fired.

Here it looks athough there are 9 bullets out of the gun, and the Observer is left to wonder:"Is there one in the Chamber?"

Truly, the question appears to be moot because we have what appears to be a bomb, styled in the classic "Spy vs. Spy " Tradition, the fuse already lit and about to blow. So the question has to be:

"Is this my lucky day? Well, is it, Punk?"

Which might make a great title were it not a bit lengthy.

I call this one "Dirty Harry".

HONOR ROLL

March 2nd was my first visit to Jail.
I was in the Ninth Grade, stolen car, two 14 year old chicks that would come out their window at 2AM when you knocked, and me driving down a country road smokin' Swisher Sweets and honking the horn at 3AM.
They were wearin' skinny little Halter tops and them cut-off britches and too much mascara and my God were they built for bein' 14.
I was wearing white hip-hugger jeans and a jean jacket 2 sizes to small unbuttoned to expose my 14 year old chest.
Cops pulled us over and took us to Jail; no DL, no ID, we looked like runaways and we had to call our folks to come pick us up.
If I'd have been my Dad, I'd have killed me.
The car?
It was my Aunts. Somehow, I had mananged to have a key made.

I never made the "A" Honor Roll again.

WEDNESDAYS CHILD

I got a crush on a Redhead.
She is a writer of some sort. Took me to a Writers Workshop last night. They recognize everyone that got rejected, then they recognize any one that mighta got accepted then they announce all these contests to enter and talk about the upcoming “Conference”.
Then they break into small groups and people read what they wrote, and then people critique them.

The first one was a lady writing a story about a troubled teen that was starting to do drugs. I don’t think that this lady has ever done any drugs, but she has 8 books published, so I guess she must be good. In her story the drugs wind up in a pond and she says the fish in the pond will be "happy". If she had ever done any dope, she could find a better word than "happy".
The second lady wrote about an actress at an audition that fell off of the stage and went to the hospital and fell in love with the Doctor…"Dr. Smith" to be precise. She had a lot of incomplete sentences like
“There it was. A tree.”
I think maybe it might have been for dramatic effect, but run on sentences seem to work better for that I think don’t you?
The third was a grey haired man that wrote about an Airline pilot that women found irresistible; his latest girl, Jody, had a layover in Houston, and he couldn't help himself…
I think he might have been writing about himself, only lying, the way I do.

Anyway, it did not cure me from wanting to write, but it sure did almost cure me from wanting to read…
Its hard to listen to someone read.
It is for me. I mean, I haven't had anyone read to me in a long time. When I read, I have to re-read some words, even some sentences in order to chew the story I guess. If I find a paragraph I like, I'll re-read the paragraph.
Maybe I'll learn to listen better after a while.

The other funny thing was this dude that introduced himself as a "Highly successful blogger". He said the name of his blog. I just now went to see what his highly successful blog looked like. He only had 12 entries since he started his blog 3 months ago.

But I’ll go probably go back; the redhead is my cup of tea.


So heres what a chickenshit wimp weiner I am...

After the Writer Conference the redhead and I are talking in the parking lot:
I'm like "Well, I guess we better get home, long day tomorrow and all"
And she's like "Yeah, I have to be up at 5AM"
So I say 'Well, I'll like... call you before the weekend... and maybe we can get Angela (our friend that introduced us) to come and hang out or something"
And she says "This weekend?"
So I'm like "Yeah"
And she gives me this funny look and says like "Its Wednesday, you know"
And I'm like "Um, yeah, Wednesday, I know"
And I get in the car and drive off.
What the hell am I waiting for?
Thursday?

DANCE TIPS AND ETIQUETTE FOR MEN

"Rule #2. Lead her off the dance floor, and return her to where you found her."
(CLICK HERE FOR MORE)

THE HIGHWAYMAN

I was a highwayman.
Along the coach roads I did ride
With sword and pistol by my side
Many a young maid lost her baubles to my trade
Many a soldier shed his lifeblood on my blade
The bastards hung me in the spring of twenty-five
But I am still alive.

I was a sailor.
I was born upon the tide
And with the sea I did abide.
I sailed a schooner round the Horn to Mexico
I went aloft and furled the mainsail in a blow
And when the yards broke off they said that I got killed
But I am living still.

I was a dam builder across the river deep and wide
Where steel and water did collide
A place called Boulder on the wild Colorado
I slipped and fell into the wet concrete below
They buried me in that great tomb that knows no sound
But I am still around..I'll always be around..and around and around and
around and around

I fly a starship across the Universe divide
And when I reach the other side
I'll find a place to rest my spirit if I can
Perhaps I may become a highwayman again
Or I may simply be a single drop of rain
But I will remain
And I'll be back again, and again and again and again and again..
WRITTEN BY MR. JIMMY WEBB

GRAZIN' IN THE GRASS

Have you ever been to one of these Metaphysical Shops? They have stuff like big plastic Green Buddha’s, necklaces with Unicorns and Fairies made from silver; Incense, Voodoo pins and Salvia.
You can buy a Crystal Ball, a Wizards robe, books on the Occult and candles black or white to go with the books.
Somewhere in the back of the shop they probably have a used Magic Carpet they would love to sell you.
My friend Kissyface wrote about one of these places last year.(CLICK HERE, REALLY, DO, ITS GREAT!)

They also have Magic Rocks. They have little ones, big ones, polished and unpolished, all the colors of the rainbow that will bring you all manner of peace and healing and relief.
The really nice rocks are the crystals, Quartz and Amethyst and such, nicely sitting on a wooden stand that will keep them from scratching the glass of the counter or once home, the top of your table. The thing is, if these rocks were truly magic, they wouldn’t need the stand but would levitate all by themselves, floating on air just like I did in my Recovery Dream.
Before I got clean, I used to buy Magic Rocks that came in a little bag. They were more magic than the ones at the Metaphysical Shop.
When they get a magic rock that floats on air, I’ll buy that.
I am glad that they don’t try to sell me that stuff down at NA. Instead what they try to sell me is a set of principles written so simply that I can apply them in my everyday life.
They call them ‘Spiritual Principles”.
I used to be a pretty good little Church boy, I sang in the Choir and everything.
I have heard the whole long list of the Ten Commandments.
I’ve heard the 23rd Psalm and the story of Job; I've even heard the Sermon on the Mount, but I had never heard of a Spiritual Principle before I came to Narcotics Anonymous.

So here they are:
HOPE, SURRENDER, and ACCEPTANCE;
HONESTY, OPEN-MINDEDNESS, and WILLINGNESS;
FAITH, TOLERANCE, PATIENCE;
HUMILITY, UNCONDITIONAL LOVE, SHARING AND CARING.
Each of the 12 Steps coincides with one of these Spiritual principles. These steps seem to be not only keeping me from buying the little Magic Rocks that don't float, orthe ones that come in a liitle bag, but they are providing a sense of peace and healing, and a sense of relief. My life has become fuller and richer because of this program. I have found faith in people that believe in me and want to help me with my recovery.

There was a sentence in a reading that jumped out at me a few weeks ago.
It said that:
“The true measure of our recovery is in the daily maintenance of our Spiritual Condition”.
Man, they got all this Spiritual shit going on down there all the time. The truth is when I came to NA I had no Spiritual Condition. I thought that we were all just carbon compounds and noble gasses, and when we died we were dead, and we were dead a long fucking time.
It made me think of when I was 18 and what Spiritual meant to me back then.
Spiritual to me in 1975 was a mountainside in Oregon with a group of long haired freaky people wearing Earth Shoes, grokking in fullness with the forest, growing vegetables, living without electricity and plumbing in a Tepee, smoking a lot of pot and having a lot of free sex, singing John Lennon songs around a fire every night.
John Lennon might even be there, because, well, it would be such a groovy place that John would want to be there.
Spiritual to me back then was smoke rings and mushrooms, paisley and patchouli, incense and peppermints.
It would be beautiful man, at least until it turned ugly and spawned a modern day Charlie Manson or two.

And even though I used to be a pretty good little Church boy, sang in the Choir and everything, I’d never really heard the term “Spiritual Condition”.
I referred to my Recovery Dream earlier in the post. (Click here) The dream may have been partly explained with a reading the next day that said:
“The gift of the 12 Steps is coming to believe in a God of our own understanding”
I have to be honest with you, you who may think I’m getting all spiritual and shit. There is something about this idea that seems to be more of a threat than a blessing.
It scares the shit out of me.
But its keeping me away from the Magic Rocks man. And I’m not just doin’ it…I’m diggin’ it.
I’ve got 565 days clean now. I might could have done it without meetings and the 12 Steps and a power greater than myself, but I seriously doubt it.
And even if I had.. I’d be miserable.
My life has become fuller and richer because of this program. I have found faith in people that believe in me and want to help me with my recovery.
Its a gas, baby can ya dig it?

WE ARE SPIRITUAL BEINGS HAVING A MORTAL EXPERIENCE

This life is just a flash, just a moment, just a painful orgasm.
There are mountains, long conceived, still being born into this Mortal Experience.
A Mountain so large it creates its own weather system, Named 'The Ancient One" by the Indians, it is the highest point on the continent.
There is a river that has patiently carved a gorge into the earth over the last 2 billion years; a canyon that is a mile and a half deep and 18 miles wide.
And another river whose mortal experience disappears into burning sand 280 feet below Sea Level: the hottest, lowest and driest place on the continent.
There are forests of trees so old they have turned to solid rock, a mortal experience in a forest immortal; And trees still growing that were saplings during the time of Christ, long before Rome ruled the world, before the Greeks built the Parthenon, before the Egyptians built the Pyramids.

Tress that are the trallest, largest and oldest living things on the planet.

Our brief mortal experience spins on the surface of the earth at 1,000 miles per hour, 24 hours a day as our solar system glides around the galaxy at 550,000 miles per hour.
Who is to say how quickly the Galaxy moves through the universe?
Who can say when it began, and who will be there to note the time that it shall begin again?
“We are Spiritual Beings having a Mortal Experience”
This life is just a flash, just a moment, just a painful orgasm.

Credit to my friend Greg U., John Muir, and the Ken Burns documentary for most of the assembled verbage for this post.

SCOTT AND I

FRONT ROW CENTER

I was a 98 pound weakling at the start of the 7th grade year. In the locker room after Football practice there was a big kid picking on me.
A guy I barely knew stood up for me. Even though he wasn’t much bigger than me and wasn’t near as big as my antagonist, he shook his fist right into the bully's face and said:
“Why don’t you find somebody your own size to pick on.”
It was not a question.
That is how Scott Thompson came to be my best friend.
Scott introduced me to Model Rockets and the Beatles all at the same time.
On Friday nights, he and I would stay up till 3am building a Model Rocket, then we would ride our bikes down Hurstview to the 7-11 for an Apple Beer Soda. By the time we got back home we were so giddy-drunk, laughin' and fallin' off our bikes. We could barely stand up. We would turn Scotts record player up full blast and listen to ‘I am the Walrus” one more time, dancing around the room like a Walrus might, before finally crashing on the floor of Scotts room.
And somehow between 7 and 8am we would manage to drag our tired, Apple-beer hungover asses out of bed and truck our bikes and Rockets to Bedford Junior High to launch.

My very first rocket Scott helped me build had a little flight problem. As I set it up on the launch pad, one of the four fins fell off. I had waited all night for the glue to dry, and I wasn't going to let something like a little loose fin deter me or force the mission to be scrubbed. I took the fin, licked it, and stuck it back onto the rocket, held it for a moment and let go.
It worked!
The fin stayed on the rocket as I gingerly placed it back onto the launch pad.
We were good to go!
I ran back to my launch button and said to Scott "Here goes nuthin!" and flipped the switch.
SSSSSHHHHHRRRRRRUUUUPPPP!
Into the sky it burst, a white cloud streaming from the exhaust. It got about 10 feet off the pad, took a right hand turn and headed straight for Scott and I.
"GANGWAY!" I yelled and Scott and I hit the deck.
It all happened in less than a second.
I was hooked!
The next year I was President of the Rocket Club. They called me "Rocket Renfro".

And Beverly, the Secretary...man, she was hot!

Check out Mr. McNatt's legendary comb-over. After 38 years he is still at the same scool, teaching the same classes, sporting the same hairdo. They say he looks exactly the same!



Check out the High-Water Straight Leg Jeans and my "Rifleman" Belt Buckle!


Sometimes Barbara wonders how much of my satories are true. Let these pictures serve as substantiation that this one happened exactly as I say!
I didn't even need to re-name McNatt! We used to call him "Superfly".

SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE

I'm sorry to say for the three readers I have left that I am forced to add one of those verification things for the comments in order to filter out all the Spam coming this way, even though in some measure the Spam is more interesting than what I have posted. You should see it all that has come in bulk on posts from a year ago.
No, you shouldn't.
No, I do not want a Russian Bride, I am not familiar with the Forex-Nurma-Biopic Formula, I will not follow the linky in order to increase my virility, nor can I by any stretch of the imagination offer any aid towards getting a fortune in platinum ingots out of Lasa-Apso.
But I wishing the many of you to be good luck and improving well.

"Maybe you're just too blind to....see"

I used to tell people that I had seen Leon Russell at Market Hall in Dallas on New Years Eve in 1973 and the floor was dirt and the beer ran like a river and everybody got muddy-drunk, and you couldn't see the stage for all the smoke, and that Leon was at least 6'5" and weighed 300 pounds and he could bench press both Elton John and Billy Joel at the same time. I thought his song "Tightwire" was the coolest song in the world, because it sounded like maybe he was so stoned that he forgot what he was singing and playing in the middle of each chorus, which really appealed to me.

But none of this was true.

I actually spent New Years 1973 at Smilin' Tony's parents house in a closet underneath the stairs making out with a roly-poly homely lookin' girl with a mole as big as a nickel on her left breast.
She was a great kisser, and that mole was her second best feature.

'Cept Smilin' Tony says his parents had no stairs.

Whatever.

HAITI CALLING

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

bob dylan, a hard rains a gonna fall, 1963

ROCKET RENFRO

My very first rocket I built back in the 7th grade had a little flight problem. As I set it up on the launch pad, one of the four fins fell off. I had waited all night for the glue to dry, and I wasn't going to let something like a little loose fin deter me or force the mission to be scrubbed. I took the fin, licked it and stuck it back onto the rocket, held it for a moment and let go.
It worked!
The fin stayed on the rocket as I gingerly placed it back onto the launch pad.
I ran back to my launch button and said to Scott "Here goes nuthin!" and flipped the switch.
SSSSSHHHHHRRRRRRUUUUPPPP!
Into the sky it burst, a white cloud streaming from the exhaust. It got about 10 feet off the pad, took a right hand turn and headed straight for Scott and I.

"GANGWAY!" I yelled and Scott and I hit the deck.

It all happened in less than a second.
I was hooked!

The next year I was President of the Rocket Club. They called me "Rocket Renfro"