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Black Ice

Thursday, March 4th, 2010

It had been snowing off and on for the past week. It was cold, not Wyoming cold, but cold. Snowplows cleared the roads each day revealing the black asphalt, while I cleared the sidewalks revealing the gray concrete, everywhere else was snowflake white. When the sun was shining the roads were wet but not slick, later when the clouds returned and the skies darkened there was no guarantee.

“Can I borrow your car?” he said.

“Sure,” I said.

“Mine’s not reliable,” he said.

“Which one?” I said.

“What?”

“Which car do you want to borrow, the Subaru or the Infiniti?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.

My son was being polite.

“Your choice,” I said.

“The Subaru then,” he said. “I’m in charge of the music at the wedding. You’re coming, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“The wedding’s at Log Haven in Millcreek canyon,” he said. “It might snow.”

“The Subaru is a good choice then,” I said. . .

The wedding was lovely. We left after the bride and groom danced, but before they cut the cake.

The road was covered with snow on the trip up the canyon, but it was clear as we started back down. I wasn’t driving fast, no more than 25 or 30 miles per hour. We came around a corner, and I felt the car losing traction, I knew instantly it was black ice, and not just a little. It was like finding yourself on an Olympic sized ice rink when you thought you were in an easy chair just watching the show. (more…)

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Posted in Family, Friends, Marriage | 2 Comments »

The Old Gray Mare

Tuesday, February 2nd, 2010

“I can’t believe it,” she said.

“Can’t believe what?” he said.

“I’m getting gray, my hair is turning gray,” she said.

He reached out and touched her hair, “I know,” he said.

“Yes of course that, but also down there,” she said, and looked down.

“Down there,” he said.

“Yes down there,” she said.

“I guess our hair turns gray wherever it is,” he said. She laughed.

He laughed and started singing—the old gray mare she ain’t what she used to be, ain’t what she used to be. . .

She frowned, and then she smiled, and then they laughed.

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The Magpie

Saturday, November 14th, 2009

I don’t know what Grandma thought I was going to do. Was there something in my genes only she was privy to? Did she think I was a nascent exhibitionist? Whatever the motivation, the threat was one I’ve never forgotten.

The Magpie is a very intelligent bird. It is reported to be able to recognize itself in a mirror. And so when my Grandmother told me that if my zipper was ever down a Magpie would see it, I believed her.

“It’ll be on you in a flash,” she said

“It has a long sharp beak,” she said.

“Mark my words,” she said.

I think she was fibbing about the beak being long, but I had no doubt that it was sharp.

I wasn’t going to take any chances. I knew I’d rather wet my pants than pee outside, and skinny dipping and streaking were out too. Streaking is a loser’s game. Who thinks they can run faster than a magpie can fly?

Years later, I’d overcome the fear, but I still kept an eye out for magpies. I was also leary of crows— they’re close relatives of the magpies. You never no what information they might share at their family reunions.

It’s a father’s duty to protect his children, to pass on important knowledge, and so I’ve recounted the story of the Magpie to my two boys. But, I think I’ve told it too many times.

“Oh no, not the Magpie story again,” they say.

“It’s important,” I say, “wisdom for the ages.”

“Dad”

“Yes”

“Just zip it.”

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Posted in Animals, Family, Memories | 1 Comment »

The Shopping Cart

Sunday, May 3rd, 2009

I stole an old lady’s shopping cart today. I didn’t plan too. It just worked out that way.

My accidental entry into a life of crime started ordinarily enough. . .

“Do you need anything from the store?” I asked. “We’re out of diet-coke. I’m going to get some. I’ll pick up some bread and cat litter too. Anything you’d like me to add to the list?”

“Buttermilk,” she said in an uncharacteristically insistent tone, “A small carton of buttermilk. And if you come home without it you’ll be taking me out to dinner.”

I sometimes forget an item or two when I go shopping.

I like going out to dinner, but I didn’t want to go today. I was reading “How to Breathe Underwater” a collection of short stories by Julie Orringer and wanted to get back to it.

When I got to the store, I headed straight for the dairy department and put the buttermilk, a small carton, in my cart.

Next, I headed for the bakery department. Everyone’s favorite place. And today the scene of the crime. When I got there, it was gridlock and no traffic cops in sight. There were carts parked everywhere.

I parked my cart walked over and picked up a couple of loaves of bread. I went to the next aisle and picked up some cat litter. I skipped the paper products and frozen food sections and turned into the beverage aisle and picked up the diet-coke.

As I left the aisle, an old lady, a loaf of bread tucked under her arm, came around the corner without her cart.

She walked straight to the nearest store employee, poked him in the arm, and said, “Someone stole my cart.”

“What?” he said.

“Are you deaf,” she said. “Someone stole my shopping cart, what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll help you find it,” he said. “But we might have to get you a new one. Someone might have accidentally taken it.”

“What kind of an asshole steals an old lady’s cart?” she said, and poked him again.

I started laughing. Yes, what kind of asshole would steal an old lady’s cart, I thought.

I finished up in the produce department adding Brussels sprouts, broccoli, oranges and bananas to my shopping cart and headed for the checkout.

When I got home I put the bag of groceries on the kitchen table and headed back to my favorite chair and to my book.

A minute later my wife said, “Where’s the buttermilk?”

“It’s in the bag,” I said. “Are you blind?”

“No it’s not,” she said “and since when did you start buying Metamucil?”

“Metamucil, I didn’t buy any Metamucil,” I said.

“Then what’s this?” she said. “And come in here and show the blind lady the buttermilk.”

I reluctantly got up and went into the kitchen.

I looked in the bag. There was no buttermilk. There was however a canister of Orange Smooth Texture Sugar Free Metamucil, 220 teaspoon doses.

“You’ll never believe what happened,” I said.

“You can tell me at the restaurant,” she said.

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What Were You Thinking?

Sunday, April 26th, 2009

It’s not Mr. Roger’s neighborhood. You’ll never find yourself on the corner of Grant and Royal.

The squares are each designated by a letter and a number, sixty-four squares. The rows are labeled “a” through “h” and the columns “one” through “eight.” The square in the lower left is a1 while the one at the top right is h8

They’re tough streets. Just last week a Bishop was slain at the intersection of Avenue C and 4th Street. And a few days ago, my son, Chris, was there. He got there through the Internet Chess Club portal. I was watching him play.

The Internet Chess Club attracts the best players in the world, and it attracts the rest of us too. Chris was playing a fifteen-minute game. His position was better than his opponent. His opponent had a light square weakness. Chris was exploiting it nicely.

I was watching, and commenting as the game proceeded (talking to myself). Chris couldn’t hear me, but the game would have turned out differently if he had.

The game reached a critical point. His opponent played his Knight to e4 blocking his Queen’s defense of critical light squares. Chris didn’t hesitate, he immediately played his Queen to f3 threatening mate on g2.

chessposition

His opponent moved his Knight to g5 attacking the Queen and the Bishop, and preventing the mate on g2.

The move Queen takes the pawn on f2 checking the White King followed.

The King forced to retreat moved to the only legal square, h1, allowing a forced mate.

I was talking out loud again.

“Queen f1 check,” I said. “Rook takes Queen. Rook takes Rook mate.”

He didn’t play it immediately. “Queen f1,” I said, a little louder. I was trying to stay calm—it wasn’t working. “Queen f1,” I shouted.

I kept thinking: He must see it. Why isn’t he moving? What’s he waiting for? He has 12 minutes on the clock, if he’ll just take a minute he’ll see it. It’s a simple calculation—it’s a Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess position.

Finally, he made his move.

“No! Damn I can’t believe you missed that,” I said, as I watched him retreat the Bishop. I couldn’t watch anymore. I disconnected from the chess server, but continued yelling at him. Asking him what the hell was wrong with him.

My wife, hearing the commotion, hurried into the room.

“What’s the matter,” she said, “are you okay?”

“It’s Chris,” I said.

“Is he hurt, what’s wrong,” she said.

I quickly assured her that he was okay.

“He had an easy mate and missed it. I can’t believe it. Two moves I couldn’t watch anymore,” I said.

“A chess game?” she said.

It took me a minute to calm down.

I said, “Chris is coming over later tonight for dinner and a movie. Why don’t you call him and see what he wants to eat. Oh, and while you’re at you could say this. . .”

I wrote down a list of the moves he missed along with my comments, on a slip of paper, and handed it to my wife.

“I have no idea what the moves mean, she said, “but I get the point, he screwed up.” She laughed, picked up the phone and dialed.

“It’s your mom.

“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

“Jesus Christ Chris, Queen f1 check!” she said. “And Rook takes Queen, Rook takes Rook mate! What were you thinking?”

I had to laugh. What must my son be thinking, “What fucking game is she talking about? It has to be the one I played on the internet earlier. Dad must have told her what to say.”

“Funny, real funny, mom” he said to her. “Oh and tell dad two can play at this game.”

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