Shoe in the Road

On a day like today and like yesterday too
Marcy Hello saw another lost shoe

It lay there alone without its sole mate
She thought a size ten - perhaps maybe an eight

On the side of the road or the middle sometimes
They're easy to spot, not hard to find
They're everywhere, anywhere all of the time
Shoes of all makes, all sorts and all kinds

She saw one today and yesterday two
She sees them most days
If you look, so will you!

There must be a story
There just has to be
Shoes don't just fly off ones feet to be free

Shoes don't belong on the side of the road
They should be on feet, that's what she'd been told

And then a small voice from in-side her head
piped up and she listened to what the voice said

There must be some meaning to why this is this
There must be some reason for this to exist

So THINK
Use your noggin
That's what you do best
You must find the meaning
There's no time for rest

Her mind started ticking
A retort must be found
As to why these stray shoes lay alone on the ground

So she asked the one person
She thought might just know
Of course he thinks like me
He's my mate of soul

But as soon as the words left her lips-hit the air
He rolled his eyes 'round and then paused in mid stare

Why do you always think

There has to be more?
It's like what I've told you

And told you before

You dig for something that's nothing at all
You look for meaning in things big and small

You women need answers when there really are none
It's too much to handle
It ruins all the fun

A shoe's just a shoe
There's no story to be told
A shoe's just a shoe on the side of the road

Quit wondering and guessing
Don't analyze so
There's no time for this
I have to go

At first she was hurt that he didn't much care
She started to argue then out of thin air
A notion emerged-she clung to it tight
The shoe did have meaning
She knew she was right

Just because I like him
Well, most of the time
We're nothing alike inside of our minds

A shoe is to foot as a man is to chair
But women all know there's more meaning out there

Lucky Duck

He was anticipating my return, waiting at the door with an expression I couldn't quite decipher. Pride? Excitement? Yes and yes.

"Look Hun...won't these look great here?!

The these that he was referring to are two mounted ducks and the here he directs my stunned gaze to is the front wall of our formal living room.

"Ok...well...maybe...but....", I stammer, trying not to verbally paint myself into a corner.

The ducks had met with their untimely death last fall during a weekend of coastal hunting. They had been recovered, cleaned and stuffed by an expert taxidermist and they now sat perched on pieces of driftwood; their cold glass eyes staring at me without feeling.

"Don't you think maybe they might look more...uh...ummm...appropriate at your office or even the deer lease?" I ask trying to sound encouraging without being too pushy.

"No, they would never last there. It's too hot and dusty."

"But they're already DEAD sweetie- they can't suffer anymore," I say in my most empathetic voice.

I could tell by his deflated body language that was disappointed, maybe even a little hurt by my recommendation. This discussion was taking on the tune of a bad country song with a title something like...My Wife Is Gone But My Ducks Ain't...or...This Ain't Duckin' Fair! I didn't feel good about moving in for the kill when he seemed so vulnerable, but it had to be done. I had to finish the job. Like a hunter putting a wounded animal out of its' misery.

"I really, really, REALLY don't want those hanging in here-they just don't go with the rest of the decor." There, I had administered the lethal dose that would put this discussion to rest with all the swiftness and precision of a sharp shooter. A twinge of guilt bubbled up inside me. I am no friend of PETA. I don't condemn hunting, fishing or circus trainers. I'm more than a little proud to carry a leather handbag and adore the supple, hand-tooled leather on a pair of Michael Kors peep-toe pumps. But these unfortunate fowl with their fixed expressions do nothing to stimulate my artistic senses. Especially here, in the formal living area of my abode.

In my dream house, I would have a special room built just for him. He could do as he pleased there in his sanctuary of testosterone. I imagine that there would be pieces and parts of once living creatures crowding the walls. Trophies brought back from great hunting expeditions, lit by flashing red neon. A pool table centered under a Budweiser-Clydesdale themed light fixture and a urinal in the corner for convenience sake. Vintage Smokey and the Bandit posters will give a visual to the Jerry Reed theme song on continuous play blasting from the coin-operated jukebox on the opposing wall. And a 10 inch thick security door installed to contain the smell of a deep fryer, preventing this and other offensive odors from permeating the rest of the house.

But at the moment, this dream house is a pipe dream. So we do what we must to ensure the future of our 22,995 (but who's counting) days of marriage. We compromise. Our feathered friends will reside at his office and I will keep the title of Interior Decorator. In return for his sacrifice, he is granted unlimited excursions to his make-shift sanctuary of testosterone. He may take his weekly sojourns to Dodge City with his buddies at his leisure. All the while, collecting more relics to one-day adorn the walls of his sanctuary.

The sport of compromise must be practiced and concessions have to be made for a relationship to endure. In this aspect, I am one lucky duck.

Christmas In July

I can't write when I'm sad. Words don't come easily and my thoughts are jumbled. There's a limbo factor involved; an accountability to take control and pull myself out of the funk. Think good thoughts and be positive. I alone claim this responsibility. So today I am glum, but have decided to make lemonade and pull myself out of it one word at time. I'll rely on memory to help me along.

Memories are self editing. They are remarkable windows into a place and time that leave an indelible mark on your soul without out you being completely aware of it at the time. The sharp, jagged corners of pain are ebbed by time and are safe to be around again. Happy, gleeful moments are snapped up, frozen in time with smell, sound and texture to add volume and weight. One such memory that instantly provides me with the contentment that I lack today is Christmas.

Anticipation and excitement hang thick in the air, making it hard to sit still or even finish my meal at the kids' table. Every corner of the room is steeped in laughter and incomprehensible vocabulary to the ears of a young girl. Smells of pine, sage and pumpkin linger as I sit cross-legged on the rug, fingering the heavy weave that blankets the wooden floor. Then a voice whispers in my ear, "Go tell 'em it's time to open presents!" This is what I've been waiting for. It's my cue to initiate the clean-up, take-down portion of the evening. Like little elves, we scamper around with wild, lit eyes telling the grownups, "It's time!" Tables are cleared, folded and chairs pushed back, revealing the oval rug outlined by those about to receive. Gifts are handed out by those old enough to read name tags, and soon, I am surrounded by a mountain of colorful paper bound by scotch tape and ribbon, begging me to free the treasures that lay in wait.

The best loot is always from my Aunts. They are biblical figures in my childhood Christmas memories. They are the wise-women, traveling from afar, bearing gifts more precious than frankincense, gold or myrrh. The whispers had been theirs. The fuel to spark the magical change from adult world to the fantasy universe called Christmas.

Tulle and sequence, that of which I had only admired in the Sears Holiday Catalog, are now mine. "I always wanted to be a ballerina and now I are one!" I exclaim with a four year old command of the English language. I twirl and whirl through the room with the excitement and assuredness of one who has finally had her dreams acknowledged. But there's more. Toys with a million pieces have already been assembled and loaded with the correct voltage to make them come alive...ready for play...no more dreadful wait to follow.

The wise-women had foreseen the spectacle that was to unfold. They had no prior knowledge or experience to guide them, yet they were experts. They still are.

Anyone who knows me well, has heard me speak of them. They are the Mary Poppins figures in my life. They seem to appear out of nowhere, perform their magic and drift away quietly without much fan-fare.

I am making lemonade today because she has left. After an enchanting visit, indulging in tea sandwiches and a swim in the rain, I am sad that she has gone. But, I am left with the sweetness that I will always have my own personal Mary Poppins...doesn't everyone?