johnvano.com

grape juice

I'm staring at a thimble's worth of grape juice, contemplating the lingering, chalky taste of a bread Chiclet. I pray, trying to make sense of this centuries-old ritual. Then, in visualizing threads of thorns, pressed into his head, cutting him and making him bleed, I begin to see the import of what I hold in my hand. 

I dwell on the pain, the excruciating, senseless pain of one who was born perfect, who lived perfectly, whose life was formed in this world so that I could be made perfect.

Blood splashes on the walls of my mind, from the snickering guards who whipped my Savior, weakening him for the sacrifice, to the blood of countless sheep shed for acts of contrition long forgotten.

I take this plastic cup, it's dark red fruit, and I drink in remembrance.

Happy Sick People

 I was dismayed to find myself the lone sick guy when I arrived for my 3:45 doctor's appointment this afternoon. Is it not December flu season? Is the world not racked with an H1N1 frenzy? 

Today I spoke like Scooby Doo, an improvement over my eerie silence on Sunday. My doctor and I chattered away, he like a jolly Christmas elf, as he rose to the challenge--getting me to talk professionally for my taped interview in the morning. I gave him 16 hours to get me in shape and so I endured a shot, and a double-dose of mixed drugs. 

While I waited for a nurse to prick me in both the butt (throat super solider serum) and arm (cholesterol screening), I looked across the room at the racks of informational brochures on all that ails the middle-aged patient: Acid reflux, frequent bladder urges, heart disease, diabetes, H1N1, restless leg syndrome--you name it, they had a smiling face on the front cover. Each diagnosed condition warranted a delighted model, but I was unsure if these indicated joyfully recovered individuals, or hopeful soldiers ready to endure with joy in their hearts.  

In the end, the doctor told me not to talk until just before interview time, so I've nodded gamely at question upon question from my five kids, sat quietly in the corner during my son's Cub Scout meeting, and comforted my wife with listening eyes and a hug. I've just finished a chaser of lemons upon lemons with honey, it must be doing something--my throat reacted with ferocious gagging. T-minus 10 hours now.

I Know What She Did

I know what she did. Maybe she didn't intend to leave me in the dark, but that's where I was--nestled in my glorious bliss. She calls me a packrat. But are memories only to be imagined? Or can we hold them in our hands and smell their faded glory?

It may seem like nothing, but it was my boy's wallet. More like a coin purse, but do you think I'd tell him that? He inherited it from his brother, the mesh-sacked Zebra with the zipper down the back, and he carried it with his pennies and nickels--all of them quarters to him.

He has a new wallet now, one that folds into velcro, but this was his first and it embodies him. Tonight it toppled out of my trunk, an unsold offering at the community consignment sale. She had tried to pawn our memory for a dollar. My tears for this memory are worth more than that.

You Don't Want Me as Your Neighbor

I'm one of those terrible neighbors. We have no grass in our front yard. Well, that's not quite true--there's crab grass here and there, mostly by the sloping curb, and it makes my chest swell. It's long and reed-like and needs to be mowed, but sadly, it's the best part of our yard.

The rest of the yard is a dusty chalk of mud, but it's not even good mud, because there are no mounds or texture, only a smooth surface that looks like the work of a paint roller. The worst of it sits at the top of our upward climbing yard, so that this eyesore is all the more visible.

In April I planted a weeping willow in the middle of this square of a yard, with the hope that--in a year or two--it would cover at least some of my sins, with pinestraw or mulch and a little rounded wall lying beneath the tree in its shadow.

The bushes on the perimeter of the yard would look better if I could keep them from their Amazonian sprawl. But this impossible as I keep cutting through the power cord with my hedge trimmer each time I started in on them. It gets expensive when you pay $36 for a 10-minute, incomplete session.

When we moved in seven years ago, there was grass, but as we hit our first spring I realized that the shoots were merely dusty grafts clinging to netting. I tried to improve the situation, but in my eventual frustration I tore everything out to start fresh. Then nothing grew. We've sodded, scattered, and raked in seedlings, but our success is very modest and quickly dies. We've cut down trees to give ourselves more sun, then wished we'd left them up so the yard didn't get so dry. I've destroyed bushes to plant flower beds, only to discover robust gardens of grass where the bushes once sat.

Our meager shoots and burgeoning crabgrass have grown long and scraggly, and are sorely in need of trimming. The lawnmower I bought for the house stopped working after one season, and rather than hunt down a mechanic or buy a new one, we've been weed-wacking the grasslings and dragging a spinning, chopping machine at the grass. It doesn't work, and now the handle is coming off.

It's hard to believe I'm descended from a mechanical family--my paternal grandfather the proud owner of a small engine repair shop where I whiled away the hours as a young boy, sitting on lawnmowers, listening to my grandfather's belly laughs.

Another 10 Things I've Never Done

You may remember this little listing game I used to do. Here are ten more to add to the list.

1. I have never had a mosquito for a personal friend

2. I have never had a pedi

3. I have never been to Mrs. Winner's Chicken & Biscuits

4. I don't believe I've ever had a kumquat

5. I have never been the Biggest Loser

6. I've never made it through an award ceremony without a sharp lump in my throat

7. I've never been over Niagara Falls in a barrel

8. I've never even put a toe in Asia

9. Algebra was easy, but I never could get trigonometry 

10. I haven't stopped loving you

Sick Day

It's striking how fast the day goes by when you spend it in bed--asleep and nursing a nasty headache. Well I did spend 45 minutes on ESPN.com, catching up (the Braves will not be .500 at the All-Star break by the way). Nonetheless a few items did capture my interest.

My six-year-old twins (Halle and Emma) kept popping in and out of the room (the two oldest children were at camp, the youngest with my wife), asking me to resolve their conflicts, address their letters, and authorize their candy consumption. One of these disputes involved the following exchange: "What's wrong?" / "Halle said India is just a big ball of poop." / "And that makes you sad? (nodding). Why are you interested in India?" / "Because Aladdin lives there." / "I think he's from Saudi Arabia, but close enough." / "I want to go there someday."

Later I was off to the doctor's office where again they insisted I stand on the scale, fully clothed, with my shoes on, and my wallet, keys, and phone in my pocket. Why? Nothing about a headache diagnosis asks, "how much do you weigh?" But since I knew this would happen, I made sure to wear sneakers, not boots; shorts, not jeans; and go sans ballcap. And as usual, I weighed five pounds more than I do at home. I got the female nurse-practitioner and in the interest of full-disclosure had to reveal something to her I'd rather have shared with a dude. Ah well, I'm getting pretty good at that now. 

At dinner time I took Madison and Marshall (10 and 8) to Target because Marshall had $36 burning a hole in his pocket. While I was there looking at sunscreen he launched into the following conversation (names have been changed), both of us talking at full volume: "Dad, do you know Xavier McDoo from church?" / "Xavier, from our church? No. Is he in your class?" / "Yeah, he has kind of short, scruffy hair..." / "Is he chubby?" / "No." / "But he's in your class? Have I taught him during children's church?" / "Yeah." / "Do I know his parents?" / "I don't know." / "Well, I think I've heard the name Xavier McDoo, but can't think of who that is." 

Once we had moved further into the store, I asked Marshall why he had asked me about Xavier. "He was just over there," Marshall said, indicating an area clearly within earshot of my big mouth. "He was standing there?" I said, "...while we were talking? So he heard the whole conversation? I asked if he was chubby!" 

After comparison shopping at K-Mart where I gave the kids a history lesson on why the Big K just wasn't cool back in my day, we headed home listening to Madison's grand soliloquy on the reasons why 10 is such an awkward age: "You're too old for toys, and all the good stuff is so expensive and all you can see is kids' movies and I really want to see 17 Again and Marley & Me and..." 

Domestic Disturbance

It wasn't long after my nap, and my dream about waking, that I was shown the door. Sure I had it coming, even if it was a little early for that. But the kids were asleep and she was shuffling off to bed, so why expect anything more. I shouldn't have left my food untouched, but it was dry and I hate to eat alone.

Outside I was like an ancient forager, hunting but never killing, my stomach a chortling mess of regret. I laid on the porch (it seemed like the best place to go) and felt the moisture of the evening gather itself about me as I watched the stillness. Movement captured my attention, it always does, but tonight it stayed away as I took in the dancing critters of the night. 

I don't know how long I slept, but when the shower came on inside the house, I stretched and yawned my way to the door, watching for the first light in the kitchen. When that flicked on, I stood by the window, expectantly. This is usually enough, though sometimes I have to tap. It's typical the way he ignores me, and obvious to the point of cruelty. But when he's finally done with his fussing and packing for work, he lets me in and forgets that my bowl is empty.

Between Ages

Gift card in hand, with my five children and their mother, I took a left and headed for the men's section. Eschewing the oxfords, trousers, and ties, I made a beeline for the short sleeved pullovers, graphic tees, and officially merchandised products. As I held up an orange, horizontally-striped shirt and noticed the signage indicating the "young men's department," I wondered about myself.

Here I stood, salivating at the prospect of a new Pepsi t-shirt or a Brian McCann faux-jersey, while more age-appropriate attire cleared its throat in hopes of getting my attention. I wished the store hadn't decided to categorize men who wear clothes into groups of young and mature, because it left me wondering if I should be feeling my age. I thought about it, then shook it off, feeling as 26 as I'd ever been, kids or no kids.

The next morning, on our way to church, I stopped at the grocery store to purchase some sweet tea for the potluck. Waiting behind a 50-ish man at the customer service counter, I couldn't help but stare at his aging befuddledness. He was inordinately slow about things, carefully placing his cakes and candles and treats on the counter, then, after things were run up, realizing he'd need his wallet. He rooted around in his back pocket, pulled on his bifocals, and laboriously counted out some bills, insisting on pinching out the correct change. But to his surprise, the cash he got back was more than the total due for his purchases. He had somehow mistaken a fifty for a twenty, paying 70-some dollars for a 33 dollar purchase. The clerk was too kind to point out the error, but the man swallowed and gulped and grimaced when he realized his mistake, dropping a dime on the floor as he scrambled to get his bags.

As I bent to the floor, I spoke up that he'd dropped some change, but he didn't hear me, toddling off so that I had to catch him in order to return it. Watching him leave, I wondered about my age, now closer to birthday cake man than to the guy I see myself as, the one who buys Smokey the Bear t-shirts in the young men's department.

Short Night's Sleep

Throat's tightening up yet the window stays open. Probably shouldn't have had that blackberry yogurt, I think the clusters aren't clustering like they should. Need more water but don't want to get up. Not that I'm all that comfortable, my butt's kinda numb if truth be known. 

My alarm has been set for five hours in the future, but I'll be getting up for the only thing that gets me out a bed--finishing this blasted novel I've spent four years writing. I tell myself four years because it feels like a lie I can swallow, really it's longer but I have no documentation for that. We're getting close, the third draft's a charm. 

Feels too early to go to sleep when the Braves could still win this thing in the top of the ninth. 

What is Wrong with Me?

I stumbled out of bed this morning to join my kids on the couch where my eldest, Madison, was watching the finals of the American Kennel Club championship on Animal Planet. I don't care a lick about this stuff, but didn't mind crouching with the young ones, staring at the TV while I worked through my cobwebs. 

I got there just in time for the best in breed promenade--each dog and its handler taking the short, quick stroll before the dame of dog judges. The announcers told us she would select the winner by walking to a table, marking her notebook, turning, and pointing to her selection.

Then, before I could take it all in, Bob Goen--formerly of Entertainment Tonight--was gasping, "It's the white terrier! Oh, (name of handler) worked so hard!" 

I felt a catch in my throat and my eyes welled with tears. What am I doing? I wondered, as I suppressed the tide of emotions wanting to spill out. 

This kind of thing happens to me more and more often--I must have an overactive empathy gland.