I used to have hair

I used to have hair.

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

Growing up my hair was nothing spectacular. Blonde, kept short as was the style back then. Straight, until it was not. When I was about seven or eight years old, my hair started to curl. It seemed as though it got a little more curly every time it was cut. Almost all of the boys my age got a haircut about three times a year. August, just before school started. December, just in time for the holidays and holiday pictures. Then again in the spring, maybe closer to the end of school. Probably easier to say sheared by then, but it was cooler and easier to take care of over the summer. 

As I got old enough to start to take care of my own hair, I would let it grow a little longer once in a while. Junior high and high school frequently saw me with an afro. I kept it clean, I kept it neat, but it was an afro. When I got it cut, it basically stayed an afro, just shorter. My senior year it was long. Long enough that if I shook my head, I could feel my hair still moving after I stopped shaking. 

I grew it out even though it was not the style of the day (my amazing rebellious attitude…) and even though I got all kinds of hell from a lot of the kids. Kids, like chickens, will target anybody else in the flock that is different. And, like a chick with a black dot on its head, my afro made me different from just about everybody. “Crotch-head” was one of the names I was called. Lucky me. I would get spit wads and chewed up gum thrown into my hair. Kids are lovely. 

Later, when I started to grow into my hair and was a little more likely to be large enough and likely enough to fight back, things settled down into mostly just name calling. People are lovely. Then again, a six-foot tall orange dandelion gets attention.

Even more later, I grew my hair out long enough to pull it back into a ponytail. I would get it wet in the morning after I got up, brush it out, then put a holder in to keep it in place. Even used hairspray to help tame flyaways. It was long enough that it almost reached the middle of my back. But since it was curly, as it dried my ponytail ended up looking like a curly pigtail. I did not do it for any kind of look, it was just on a whim. When I rode my motorcycle, it was a six-foot tall, leather-clad Mario Batali look-alike. By the end of the day after being in and out of a motorcycle helmet and taking it out of the hair-tie, my hair would take on a life of epic proportions. It was possessed. It was majestic in the rage it showed.

I cut it short again later. Long hair is a lot of work, very curly long hair is more. Plus, I did not like the idea of having a “handle” on my head, in which someone in a less-than friendly manner may try to get my attention. So, long hair and long beard were trimmed. Easier to maintain. I may have cut in in self-defense, but it really is just simpler. It also dries faster when it gets wet. Now, every few weeks I get out the clippers and cut my hair and trim my beard. I have had my mustache for almost four decades now, and my beard for over thirty years. Sometimes I think I will shave them both off, possibly my whole head, just to see what I look like. 

It would probably scare the dogs.

Family reunion

This afternoon I went to a family reunion. It was an interesting event - unscheduled and unplanned, I wasn't even expecting to be there. I got to talk with my dad and we were talking about some email we had exchanged. Mom was there but didn't say much, just kind of quiet and smiling. Uncle Ron, mom's brother, was there laughing his huge laugh that I remember so well and holding hands with Aunt Geneil (dad's sister) who was laughing with him.

My sister Sam was around, but again, most of what I remember is her laughter. It's such a good thing that most of my family memories are full of laughter. She chuckled as she walked past, scratching my dog under the chin and teasing me for holding him so close and tight. I was watching my daughter's children as she was playing with them over by the window. Doug and Emma were in some kind of battle which isn't new. DJ was building something.

I can remember the smells of the food - our family events always had laughter and food. I remember wondering where Jeff was because I could hear him somewhere. I always wanted to have Jeff as a brother as I didn't always get along with my two sisters. Jeff and I didn't always get along either, but it we always had fun together.

Javert, my dog, put his head on my shoulder and I remember hearing some kind of beeping or horn and thinking that it sounded odd, like it didn't belong. Then the electronic sound of something like coins dropping into a glass, maybe ice cubes? Then I recognized it as Kerry playing some game on her computer and slowly realization started to slip in.

As wonderful as my reunion was, I began to realize that it was just a dream. Dad died in '89, mom last year. Sam several years ago and Geneil back in the early '80s. I'm not sure what it means that I had both family that has passed away already and family still living with me.

I don't read much into dreams, although I love to have them. I usually dream very vividly, very graphically. I tend to smell scents and odors and can feel and touch in my dreams. And as I rose from the bliss of sleep and dreams, the smells of the food waning and the sounds fading, the laughter slowly growing quiet, I was left with the feeling of peace and warmth as the last of the dream left to me.

I miss them all, each of them. I am thankful for the memories that I have and remorseful of those that I missed. I wish I had been able to spend more time with the family although it seems like this family has a hard time getting together. Everybody wants to, but these plans never seem to come to fruition. I'm as bad as any other.

I am thankful for the opportunity that I have had the past couple of years to re-unite with some of my extended family, and friends as well, and have been blessed with renewing these relations. I can only hope that I provide something in kind back to each of them.

Memories of corn

About a week ago someone left a package on my porch. this being zucchini season, I was just a little bit leery, but it wasn't squash this time, but it was a half-dozen ears of fresh sweet corn.

Guess what dinner was...

Later, as I was shucking the corn, I commented that I hate shucking corn, then stopped to think why I hate shucking corn. Suddenly, with all the clarity and impact of an Alfred Eisenstaedt photograph, I remembered the catalyst for my dread of corn silk and husk. I don't remember how old I was at the time, maybe eight or ten years old, but my mother and her best friend Barbara Cartwright had decided that they were going to can corn to preserve it for later use. That was back in the day when most households preserved fruit and vegetables to save money and add variety to the diet during the winter months.

Mom and Barbara bought a load of corn. In my mind, for years, I would swear that it was a dump-truck load, but I'm sure it was just a pickup truck. The image of that mountain of corn, green and bright and smelling like, well, corn, is burned into my mind's eye.

At any rate, they had the corn delivered to our driveway and then mom and Barbara went to work. They also recruited help, and since they were saving money, they didn't pay the help. What they did was use indentured labor - i.e., their kids. The memories of this time which I hold are of me and my sisters Sam and Chris, mom and Barbara and her boys Steve, Tracy and Perry. All of us together shucking corn, removing the husks and silk, battling the worms and earwigs (how many do YOU think we found in a million ears of corn?) and laughing.

We laughed and we talked, and talked and laughed. There were jokes and people throwing bugs and corn. Lots and LOTS of corn. And if you thought you could get away from the corn by going into the house, then you got drafted to help dad and using the cutters to take the corn off the cobs. The cutter looked like a metal U-shaped wire with what I thought was a bent saw blade rolled into a circle to slide down the cob that was impaled on a board with a nail to hold it in place. Wet, messy and smelling of corn. (I detect a theme.)

Mom is gone, and I haven't seen Barbara for way too long. Tracy I run into once in a while and Steve and Perry are still out there. Sam was taken a few years ago and Chris is another story altogether. I can still hear the laughter. I can still feel the heat of summer in Logan and hear the crickets as we worked way into the night.

I still like to eat corn, I just hate to shuck it. But I love the memories of the friends and families that I miss.