God’s Socks

            “See, the good sock, with the good elastic, is the one being eaten by my shoe. The one with the crappy, worn out elastic is the one staying up. Isn’t that crazy,” asked Rob.

            “Uh, that is weird,” said Carl.

            They both looked at Rob’s outstretched legs and at his white tube socks poking from the inside of his well worn sneakers. They socks were as white as his bone white legs and it was hard to tell really where the socks began and the legs started. Only because of Rob’s khaki shorts could Carl tell that Rob’s legs actually weren’t just huge pieces of chalk.

            “Yeah. Weird. You might consider getting a little sun on those legs,” said Rob.

            The bus rocked over the rough surface of the street and Rob and Carl bounced along with it. Rob lowered his legs and put his feet back on the floor. Carl shook his newspaper like the old timey movies always showed men doing to straighten it out. He cleared his throat.

            “It’s just that I don’t understand why the universe would choose to pull the good elastic sock down while leaving the clearly worn out elastic up where it’s supposed to be on my leg,” said Rob.

            “It’s a mystery alright,” said Carl.

            “I mean, what does it say about this crazy universe? That everything is completely random without any form or function? Those things just happen just because?”

            “I don’t know if there is any higher significance,” said Carl.

            “Does the universe care about socks,” asked Rob.

            Carl lowered his newspaper and sighed slightly. He looked over at Rob and the disheveled state of his left sock. Rob looked up at Carl.

            “I don’t think the universe cares about socks; other then when it needs to feed on them from the dryer. I think that you knew when you put those socks on this morning that one of them would wind up getting sucked down into your shoe as you walked. You selected those socks from your drawer and consciously placed them on your feet. I don’t think the universe had anything to do with your socks. You picked the socks, not the universe,” said Carl.

            Carl returned his glance to his newspaper and Rob just stared at his own pasty legs. The bus continued to roll along and Carl and Rob jostled in their seats as the moon sized potholes were traversed by the steely armed bus driver.

            “So what you’re saying is, I’m the instrument of the universe,” said Rob, “the universe placed that choice in front of me and practically commanded that I become part of its randomness,”.

            “I’m not going to get through to you am I,” asked Carl.

           

            The bus rolled toward Hamlin Street and Carl reached up for the cord to request his stop.

            “I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Carl.

           

            Rob looked up at Carl and started swinging his legs like a child in a chair that’s too big.

            “Only the universe knows for sure,” said Rob.

            

Affection for Memory

Some might call it nostalgia,

others might say the good

old days. A few more might

call it the Salad Days, or

Days of Wine and Roses.

Back when I was young,

or before you were yet a

twinkle in your mother’s

eye. Or you were only

knee high to a grasshopper

or that’s just how things used to be.  

There was an existence

before your existence and

it’s remember it in so many

different and shocking ways,

by so many different people.

I’m afflicted with memories

of an ever growing past

and a fear of the shortening

future. Remember whens are

becoming more frequent than

the soon to be seen.

Perspective on the past can

lighten the darkest history.

I called you terrible names and

felt a deep anger about how

you treated me, but now, after

time has dealt its hand, I don’t

feel that way so strongly.

Memories are softer, smeared

with Vaseline over the

lens of history, smoothing the

rough edges and tenderizing the

original anger into milder

annoyance, then into nearly

nothing at all.

All that is left is the a vacant

feeling that you’ve seen this

before, but know how to handle

it deftly and without too

much kerfuffle. The benefits

of memory, stretched out

in front of you like a familiar

road home.

Home, where your heart is,

beating your own drum to

the melody written by

your memory. 

I dance through the

past with a wry eye on

the future. The tune resembles

one I’ve known forever, but

learn new ways to hear.

Faster and with Alacrity

I don’t have a lot

of time today

to fill the page with

all sorts of

crazy words.

I’m a cubicle guy

with appointments

and meetings and

paper to push.

Coffee to drink and

hands to shake.

I’ve got my tie on,

tie clip too, ready

to make a good

impression on the

client.

The dastardly bit is

that I don’t really

care. The office life

makes the meaning

of my life somewhat

less than meaningful.

And yet I’m compelled

to hurry, to rush, to march

forward against my will

toward the towering cliffs

of mediocrity and graying

hairs.

I must go. I must get there.

What’s that boss?

I don’t have to go?

But…. the tie? I’m all

ready and dressed.

Won’t take long?

Not worth me going?

Cough… um… okay.

I’ll just sit here, and do

nothing because I

did everything

yesterday in anticipation

of the meeting.

I’ll just stare at these

cubicle walls and

try not to let myself

go crazy.

Hurry up,

to do

nothing.

A Personal D-Day History, plus.

            June 6, 1944 – My grandfather was part of the third wave going ashore at Omaha Beach with the 30^th Infantry Division 117^th Regiment. They were sent in to replace units of the 29^th Infantry which had become lost during the initial attack. How they became lost is not quite clear. By D-Day plus four the remaining balance of the Division arrived on the beaches of Normandy. They were immediately thrust into heavy action against the Germans. The Nickname for the 30^th was Old Hickory after Andrew Jackson. They were tough and gritty.

            The German High Command named the 30^th Infantry “Roosevelt’s SS Troops” because of their vigor and the terrible pressure they bore on Hitler’s elite 1^st SS Division. The 30^th tore through the elite 1^st SS Division at St. LO and again at Mortain allowing General Patton’s armored forces to race across France.

            Throughout the war there was struggles for the 30^th, including accidentally getting bombed by the Air Corps and suffering a high casualty rate. They kept up the fight however and by September-October 1944 they had made their way to the Siegfried Line. The Siegfried line was a literal wall of German pillboxes, entrenchments, road blocks and various other obstacles designed to keep Allied forces out of Germany. 

            The 30^th continued their push through Europe and again faced the 1^st SS Division in the “Battle of the Bulge” during the Ardennes-Alsace Offensive near Malmedy Belgium in the winter of 1944-45. The 30^th decimated the 1^st SS Division and they never returned to the war.  January 13, 1945 they launched a counter offensive and drove 2 miles south of St. Vith and left the battle by January 26^th. I can only imagine the hell that must have been in one of Europe’s most brutal winters.

            By February of 1945 the 30^th crossed the Roer River as part of the Roer offensive. After a short rest and rehabilitation they were returned to action by March and made their crossing of the Rhine River. They continued their push, taking Hamelin, Braunschweig and Magdeburg by April 17, 1945. They met up with the Russians near Gruenwald on the Elbe River. There they began their occupation and were rotated out of Europe by August of 1945.

            The 30^th was designated as the number one Infantry Division in the European Theater by General Eisenhower’s Chief Historian, Col. S.L.A. Marshall and the 117^th Regiment was awarded 13 Meritorious Unit Citations, as well as numerous other citations for the whole Division.

            The trouble with a lot of the information on this distinguished unit is that in July of 1973 there was a fire and the 30^th Division combat records were destroyed. However the Silver Star records are available and my Grandfather’s information is available.

Heffernan, Daniel J.      Rank:   S/Sgt.   Regiment: 117  - However, it appears the records are somewhat incomplete and I will have to contact the editor of the website with more information.

            Whenever D-Day comes around I get very nostalgic about the WWII years. Not for the sensationalized Hollywood versions of the War, but for the actual men that fought so bravely for a just and right cause. They were truly heroes and I hope we never forget what price they paid. A price paid not only in death but in the long term affects a war like that can have on men that returned home.

            Back then there was no treatment for Combat Fatigue, you were just Shell Shocked and told to suck it up and deal with it; which a lot of men did, with troubling consequences for their growing families. It doesn’t diminish their accomplishments however and I always feel a deep sense of pride whenever I think about what men like my Grandfather did. Both my Grandfather’s actually, since they both served in the same division without ever knowing each other.

            On this D-Day 2013 I ask that we remember those men who bore the mantle of freedom so heavily on their backs.

Realized

            Elle wasn’t pleased with the way his hands felt on her exposed shoulders. He was like some sort of kitten playing with a ball of string. He kept pawing at her skin, reaching down and kissing her neck. The attention was welcomed at first but now, in this crowded concert hall it just seemed awkward. Elle felt like the eyes of the room were all over her as this complete tool bag dragged his hands all over her body. Elle wondered at what point she let herself get into this type of situation.

            “Stop it,” said Elle to her older companion, Dave.

            “Stop it? C’mon baby. I thought this music turned you on. I know it turns me on,” said Dave.

            He continued to run his hands over Elle’s body. He pulled her close and she could feel through his pants that he was indeed turned on. Dave was 12 years older than Elle. He dressed like the current trends; he had sunglasses on the top of his head, at night. He wore a gold chain around his neck that poked through his black tight tee-shirt. He called it his muscle shirt and admired the way he looked in it. In every mirror, every chance he got.

            “I’m just not feeling it tonight. Can we go get a drink,” asked Elle.

            “Aw baby, c’mon, let’s just groove with each other for a while,” said Dave.

            “Groove?”

            Elle rolled her eyes and pulled away from Dave’s touch and groin and fixed her short skirt. Dave had managed to slide it up to the point that it was barely covering much of Elle’s bottom. She felt a wave of disgust come over her. She was sorry she made out with him earlier. Now he just expected it. She walked toward the concert hall bar and caught the attention of the bartender. It wasn’t hard; bartenders always flocked to Elle because she was a rare beauty, that and she was showing a lot of cleavage.

            “Vodka tonic,” ordered Elle.

            Dave squeezed in at the crowded bar next to Elle and sat down. He pulled her close again and started kissing the back of her neck by her ear. Elle continued to just let him do what he wanted while she looked around the packed bar. She felt the judging eyes of the people around her. She thought she could see people’s lips forming words like, ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ as Dave continued to grope her. She shuddered.

            “What’s wrong baby,” asked Dave.

            He stopped kissing her long enough to notice that she wasn’t exactly in his sexual power.

            “You don’t know do you,” said Elle.

            “Know what baby,” asked Dave.

            “How ridiculous you are,” said Elle, “and how ridiculous I am.”

            Dave was looking at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He fixed the sunglasses on his head.

            “I am not ridiculous. I’m hot. You know I’m hot. You like me. Just wait till we get out of here. The sex, now that’ll be ridic. I’m gonna to make your toes curl baby,” said Dave.

            Elle realized Dave was actually talking to his own reflection in the mirror and not to her. He still had his hand on her butt though and he gave it a pretty hard squeeze. The bartender brought over Elle’s drink and looked at her right her eyes. It startled her. She couldn’t remember the last time a man looked her right in the eyes. She thanked the bartender and paid him. Dave couldn’t be bothered to pay for a drink. The bartender, with sweet brown eyes, nodded and smiled at her and walked away without a word. Elle picked up her drink as Dave started gnawing at her shoulder.

            The cold drink wasn’t enough to cool the bubbling rage Elle was suddenly feeling and she wanted nothing more than to just go home and crawl into her bed and hide away from the world forever. Dave said he had to urinate in an elegant fashion.

            “I gotta piss,” he said.

            He got up and moved through the bar, checking out the other women as he walked to the washroom. Elle moved into the seat he left vacant. She considered that he didn’t even offer the chair to her. He just sat down. As soon as she settled into the uncomfortable bar stool the vultures appeared. They swarmed her out of nowhere.

            “Can I buy you a drink”, asked vulture number one.

            “Are you a model,” asked vulture number two.

            “My friend thinks you’re the hottest chick in here and he wants to know if you’ll screw him in the bathroom,” said vulture number three.

            “No thank you.”

            “I was, still trying.”

            “My boyfriend will be right back,” responded Elle to the vultures.

            They continued to circle her and were clearly undressing her with their minds. Elle pulled her skirt down over her legs a little more and looked away and to her own reflection in the mirror. Her reflection was tired. Tired of being a thing.

            “You ready to see this show,” said Dave as he returned from the bathroom.

            The vultures scattered as Dave put his hands on Elle’s shoulders. He leaned in to kiss her neck and nibble her ear. Elle pulled away.

            “Take me home. I don’t feel well,” said Elle.

            “What,” asked Dave.

            “Take me home or I’ll take a cab. I don’t care. I want to go home,” said Elle.

            “Do you know how much I spent on these concert tickets? You owe me,” said Dave.

            “A cab then,” said Elle.

            “Whatever, slut,” said Dave and he walked away from her at the bar.

            Elle stood up and started for the door. She looked back and saw the brown eyed bartender watching her. He waved. Elle didn’t wave back. She opened the door to the concert hall and hailed a taxi.

A Fitful Night

I longed for sleep after
tiring my heart with
long conversations
of yesterday and
the things that could
have been or should
have been.

I was brought to the
edge of the grave
where I thought it
was buried and I
laid flowers on
the headstone.

I said a prayer for
the old pain, so
often the same pain,
that never will stop
being a pain.

The ache of it is so
resounding and full
that sleep, so needed
and wanted is forced
away in tossing and
turning.

The pillow my
tombstone for
my love addled brain.

I Dream in Color

I was not living in a hotel

with a faceless brunette or

feeling frustrated by the

pressures of some job

I’ve never had.

I was flooded with feelings

of loss, of love, of regret, of

joy and deep sadness. The

feelings lingered as I woke up

and I had a hard time realizing

I had only been napping deeply on

my couch on a Sunday.

I know the dreams were in color

and vibrant. I somewhat recall

feeling mournful love in one

dream. Then it changed to

an icy coldness in my heart.

I was no longer invested

in whatever I had been so

deeply invested in as the

dream had started with.

The colors added to

the rawness of the

dream, like seeing the sunlight through

a prism and seeing the rainbow

colors swirl against the wall

and change depending

on where you’re standing.

You don’t see red, it is crimson.

You don’t see green, it is emerald.

You don’t see blue, it is indigo.

The true cruelty of dreaming

is the inability to describe it

or explain it to the non-dreamer.

My dreams had all the color

intensity of a salt water fish

tank bursting with tropical

fish around a sun dappled coral

reef. It’s all a jumble however.

And Sunday napping on the

couch can lead to all kinds of

early afternoon confusion. Who was

she? Why was she there? Why

was I with her?

The answers are further away

as she fades into the colors

of reality. Will she wait for

me to return to sleep and

swaddle me in the rolling

blanket of dreaming color?