Soapbox

                                                It's easy to forget what legs are for,
what sinew and muscle and bone are for
until yours grow molten
and every fiber in them speaks to you,
until 'up' becomes the biggest word in the English language.
It's easy to forget the life force of a hundred millions tons of rock,
when after all- it's just been sitting there for the last epoch or so-
until you have the time to notice how it's skin changes
from sandy feet to its bald, granite head.

It's hard to know what wet really feels like until
you wander for hours
inside a cloud:
wear it, breathe it in, feel it slip between your toes,
and expell it again through your own pores.

It's easy to forget, as we sit, locked up tight 
in our offices and living rooms, encased in our car-cocoons,
what the world is supposed to smell like:
damp, and stone, grass, and bone, tang of fir and cedar height,
musk of death, and flash of life.
We seal our doors and windows tight wear chemical masks of simulated reality.
We log and mine, drill and frack our wild places
and then name air fresheners after them.

As we pace within the lines we draw for ourselves,
set our fence posts and rake our lives into tidy rows
we forget the splendor of disorder,
the true peace of letting go.

It's easy to forget what the earth actually sounds like  
when all we know is the argument of traffic,
shriek of synthetic televised laughter,
click of locking doors, humming pump of artificial air.
It's easy not to recall the chuckle of stream over rocks,
piping of the Carolina wren from across the hollow,
the scrape of a footstep through leaf litter,
cathedral silence of the hemlock giants. 
We forget about the sound of the wind
telling the secrets of its journey to the patient trees,
so that on winter nights they might dream of far-away places.

We forget, in our blinking digital age, staring at LCD images of water and sky
what light is supposed to look like-
forget the way it slants through branches in the early morning,
illuminates each fold and undulation of the mountains at dusk,
the infinite varieties of purple it paints on the underside of an evening thunderhead
or the way it glitters off restless water like God tossing a thousand flashing coins down to earth.

It's impossible to know what dawn really means until you stand above everything else
so there's nothing but you and the sky and the edge of the world
and watch the sun come up, and wonder how it is
you ever slept through such ear-splitting beauty.

It's impossible to know how many colors there are until you stand on the mountain
and watch a thousand of them thicken and drip and fold in on themselves
as the sun goes down.
It's easy to forget you even have a heart
until the perfection of a single drop of water
tears yours from your body and offers it, laughing, to the four winds.

The gift of the mountain is a new understanding of these old things,
a re-acquaintance with the primal force of your own pulse,
a remembering what life is supposed to be.

Because it's esy to think that mankind is the master of our universe
after all we go Roving on Mars, baby!
but we are masters of our own little stinking caves, nothing more.
It's easy to forget, from the bowels of cities where the lights never go out
and the sky is a pale, silent thing
what the universe really feels like-
what it means to throw your head back and hear the roar
of a carpet of stars and galaxies both black and bright, 
so massive it could crush you,
so vast you could just spread your arms and float away.
 

   Despite its being a long-held tradition, there was some debate about whether Ted and I would go to the State Fair this year, You've seen one deep-fried twinkie/pickle/cheesecake, you've seen them all being the general argument against. In the end, the Sky Glider decided it for me (aided, it must be confessed, by the thought of all the yard work that I should probably do were I to stay home) and so yesterday afternoon, off we went.

   "Amy, where are you?" was the voice mail message I left for a friend who said she was working a booth near the big Cardinal entrance to the fairgrounds. While waiting for her to reply, we decided to lok at the exhibit of quilts, cakes and other crafts, that    building being near her general area. I was hoping to see one of the cross-stitch pieces I had mounted and framed for people who claimed to be entering them in a fair competition but didn't see any cross-stitch work at all.
    I pointed out a rather nice Tole painting in dark colors of a boat on an evening lake.
    "That is nice" Ted agreed "but I never would have put that awful green mat on it."
I turned to look at him in amazement.
    "Well there are some nice blue-greens in the background there, but that bright kelly green mat just doesn't work" he insisted.
    "I don't think I have ever loved you more than I do at this moment" I said with the beginning of a tear in my eye. For of course, he was exactly right.
     Amy called back and explained where her booth after we'd already proceeded to the mock civil war encampment so and we agreed we'd stop and see her on our way home. 
     We decided to proceed backward from our usual pattern and work our way to the other end of the fair and then ride the Sky Glider back rather than starting off with a ride. Passing a small stage we heard a band being introduced whose lead singer used to be the singer for McGuffey Lane, a group any college student in Athens in the late 70's and early 80's surely heard many times. We spent a few happy minutes listening to them and singing along with "Long Time Loving You" and remembering a long time ago.

     State Fair food has, I believe, "jumped the shark" so long ago that it's not possible for anything to surprise me any more. (I did see a booth advertizing "Aspirin Snacks"  which I thought sounded useful if unappealing and wondered if the aspirin at the fair are deep-friend. I also noticed that the booth featuring cheeseburgers that use Krispy Kreme doughnuts for a bun assured us "Fresh, never Frozen". This was was a real relief. Because a glazed-doughnut-cheeseburger with frozen meat would just be icky, don't you agree?) Without too much fuss we settled on chicken sandwiches and lemon shake-ups, which we took into the nearly empty Stackhouse Coliseum to eat in it's cool depths while we waited for the next round of horse competitions to start.
    I find something very zen in watching the big John Deere zamboni as it circles the arena, erasing hoof prints, smoothing out rough spots, bringing order to chaos.
    The evening's program was all draft horses, which I enjoy and Ted particularly so, growing up with his grandfathers' horses working the farm. (It seemed that we were a day late to see the jousting exhibition, though. Too bad. Nothing livens up a fair like a good joust.) Can I just say that I am impressed by anyone with the wherewithall to even own 6 draft horses these days, let alone to show them. What kind of money must that take, for the food, the tack and wagon, and transporting all that to a fair! I hope there are always people willing to invest in these lovely, stately creatures, even if they're just for show and not working teams any longer.
    The competition was made more entertaining by a certain 3 or 4 year old young lady behind us and her take on the proceedings. "Why aren't their seat belts on?" she inquired of the wagon drivers, which her mother agreed would be something any sensible driver would do. She also thought it scandalous that people were still walking in and out through the west gate when the announcer had just told them not to because teams would be comeing in (a child after my own heart).
    But my favorite comment came at the end of the first competition when she asked excitedly "Oh- what's that princess gonna do?" when a girl walked out to present the ribbons. Dressed in a short sun dress and cowboy boots, she didn't fit my idea of a 'princess' but the little girl had spied the small tiara and sash reading "Percheron Queen" and knew royalty when she saw it.

    To assuage the disappointment of a friend to whom I had mentioned that I never do this, we went to see the butter cow next. Ted bought an ice cream cone while I contemplated the 1,800 pounds of butter used to sculpt a cow with a birthday hat and "Happy birthday Ohio" cake. I tried briefly to lament all the hungry people who could have used that butter, but really, I don't think many children go to bed hungry in Ohio for lack of butter. Still, it seems a bit silly.

   In order to get from the dairy barn to the Natural Resources area we had to cut through the midway. I usually try to avoid this area like the plague, and our brief trip reminded me of why. It's like accidently getting off the freeway at the wrong exit and finding yourself in a sketchy part of town. The folks running the basic games remind me of street preachers eager to convince us all to come to Jesus, and the guys with the "Guess your weight" booths are like so many meth addicts looking to score. Plus it smells really skeevy over there.
    We made it through the midway without being mugged and walked through the Natural Resources area. (I did not know that there are parks where you can rent a teepee to camp in!) I was entranced by a little fox who regarded me intensely in the twilight from behind a log. All huge eyes, twitching ears and graceful little black feet- he looked like a  fairy spirit.

    "Shall we just make plans to not do this next year?" Ted suggested as we walked to the Sky Glider for a bird's-eye view on our way to the exit. I shurgged.
    "I don't know. I didn't have a bad time" I said. "It's just… the same old thing." 
    A woman and young girl got into a car before us, and as it took off, the child little wriggled with excitement and delight.
    That's what's missing I thought. That's why the fair isn't fun any more. When the kids were little, when we put them on the little dragon roller coaster and they giggled and waved at us all the way around, when we trudged together up those steps and held them close down the giant slide, felt their awe as they beheld the huge, sweet-smelling cows standing placidly next to their doe-eyed calves… the fair was fun, because we saw it through the eyes of someone who found it easy to see joy and wonder in the world.
     Several times during our ride, the Glider stopped, as it does from time to time. The third time I leaned forward and saw, standing below and right in front of me– my own brother, eating a french fry.
    "Andrew! Hey, Andrew!!" He looked up, surprised. And there with him were Kelly, Grace and Emily. There was a time when we would all have been at the Fair together, our children holding hands and dashing through the crowds. Now, I never even know when they come to town.
     "Aunt Tracy!" Grace called. "Hi! This is Joel!"
      "Hi Joel- it's nice to almost meet you!" I called back to her fiancee, whom I only know from Facebook. And then the Sky Glider started up again and our hello waves were goodbye waves.
      Part of our State Fair tradition h always involved getting a funnel cake as we're leaving. As I"ve gotten older I've needed to skip lunch and not buy any snacks at the Fair to try to allow for all those calories, but it was just a once-a-year indulgence, so why not? Tonight neither one of us thought we would even want more than just a bite or two of a funnel cake, so I got a belgian waffle instead. Not quite as good, but between the two of us old folks, we were able to eat the whole thing.
     "Amy, where are you?" I left on her answering machine when we still couldn't find her at the booth near the entrance, and with that bit of symetry to the day, we decided to leave.

     Maybe next year we could borrow somebody's children to take with us to the fair.

   I refuse to be That Person.

    I refuse to be the guy who is always on Red Alert, who spends my entire life watching my back, who cannot pass a simple day at the beach without seeing a terrorist behind every tree and regarding every cloud in the sky as a possible tornado.
    I refuse to be the person who always carries a gun.
    I refuse to take along a loaded weapon and a kevlar vest on a trip to the grocery store  just in case someone who calls himself the Jolly Green Giant-Killer decides to shoot up the produce section because he hates vegetarians. I will not live on mental lock-down, constantly on alert for riots in the street.

   If only some sensible person had thought to bring a weapon that night….

   I refuse to be the 'sensible' kind who prepares for a fun night out with friends by saying "Hang on- I"d better grab my Glock, with armor-piercing rounds, just in case someone decides to  shoot up the midnight movie tonight! It has never happened before… but it might!"
   It might. And last week, it did. And a tree once fell on a girl in my hometown who was simply walking across campus, and it killed her! But I refuse to arm myself with a chain saw and walk only in parking lots from now on just in case. I refuse to turn my own heart into an armed camp, locking out joy, and trust.

    If only someone else had brought a weapon, so much tragedy could have been avoided.

    Cry cry, the beloved, foolish, country!  So many of you are too trusting, will not bend your knee and tithe to the Second Amendment, and look where it has brought you!
    You walk down the street just talking with friends and enjoying yourself, completely unprepared for mass carnage! You go to art galleries, to clubs and take the kids to the zoo without a loaded gun, when at any moment an anti-tiger zealot could start shooting!
    With such a negligent attitude, it's no wonder a dozen people are dead. It is really your duty as a citizen to buy and carry a weapon at all times. The only way to stop the killing is to be prepared to kill on a moment's notice.
     It takes a madman to  stop a madman.

     I refuse to join the madness.

    When are you going to recognize that it is the American way to avoid paying taxes on money that you got by raiding your neighbor's pension fund, but it is quite unpatriotic not to carry a gun to church, to school, to your local bar!
     Ah yes. Because when people– people who are twisted enough to stockpile ammunition for weeks and booby trap their own apartment before heading off to gun down a theater full of innocents… if those people knew that someone in that theater might also have a gun… in their lap, ready to fire… well, that would keep them from shooting, right? Surely  the sensible, rational brains which potential mass murders have would stay their own hands if they realized the good citizens sitting through a screening of Bambi would be packing heat!
    Yes, just as the extremely low murder rate in this country proves what a fantastic deterrent the death penalty is, too! Keep up the good work, citizen!

     And the answer can't possibly be to try harder to keep guns away from violence-prone mentally ill people, because Freeeedom!!
     And God knows, we cannot restrict the freedoms of our citizens!
     Well, except restricting birth control, I mean, sure. And voting… and access to marijuana-  oh, we can't have people getting their hands on that! That shit is damaging to society!
     And food stamps- can't be giving them out without drug tests. And we ought to restrict people who are gathering in public places like sidewalks and parks and saying things that we don't like.  Cause it's not like the right to peaceable assembly is in the Constitution or anything.
     But if even one person might be deprived of their right to unlimited guns by  banning assault weapons and massive purchases of ammunition… well, that's too high a price to pay. It's anti-democracy. It makes the American eagle cry, just thinking about it.
     There are no gray areas among the NRA crowd, either. The only possible choices before us are unrestricted access to any weaponry you want- OR taking away all guns forever. Which is why the proper response to any proposal at all, even trigger locks or safe storage laws will be "You stupid cowardly fairy liberals are trying to take away all our guns!"
    In America, the only sane response to all this gun violence is more guns. You owe it to your family, your community, and the guy in the produce section to carry a gun at all times. Just in case. Because horrible, terrible things  could happen! And you have to be prepared!

     Well I refuse to be that person. I refuse to face each day worried that a lunatic is going to leap out from behind a mannequin at Macy's at any second and gun me down. I lock my doors and don't walk alone at night, but I will not approach a simple trip to the library as if I may have to storm the beach at Normandy. I won't live llike that.

     Yes- I suppose something awful might happen. But that… that's not living.

   You know that moment when you get something from a bin at the grocery store with your mind somewhere else, and when you step back to your cart, for a second or two you just look at it, trying to process what is wrong with this picture…
    ...Balsamic vinegar… avacado..huh?…. broccoli… wait- I don't even eat frozen shrimp…
    And then your brain catches up-   Oh! this isn't my cart!
   Whew. And you step to the other side of the aisle, where your own cart of processed, preserved crap waits, throw in a bunch of bananas so it doesn't look so nutritionally bankrupt in comparison- and move on.

   That's kind of how it feels sometimes when I see myself. I'm putting on my face lotion and I see all those white hairs growing next to my widow's peak and for just an instand I am confused.
I think     ….? What is that doing there? 
I notice the slight creping of the skin on my forearms as I'm buckling on my watch and something says-
     What the hell- this isn't my arm. I don't have old lady skin!!
    And then I remember, Oh, yeah, I do. Now.

   I think it's the hands that bother me the most, probably because I see them every day, watch them work the mat cutter, the computer keyboard.  I never had a lot, but I had nice hands: well proportioned, rather graceful, neat, if unadorned.
    Now railroad trestle-tendons bridge slightly sunken valleys of flesh, and veins, like restless blue worms writhe and hump across the landscape of what I once considered my best feature.
   Ah, my slender, clever hands. They wrote love letters, composed music, signed my marriage license and soothed the sweaty brows of my children. Planted and harvested so much of what my life has grown to be. Now the occasionally twingeing joints and two weird brown spots remind me that while I may have felt the same for the last 25 years…. I am not.
    And I feel…. a bit used. Like thrift store goods: still functional, but worn, faded, my newness and much of my value gone. OK, vintage, maybe, but more than a little worse for the wear. Today only: all orange tag items only $2! 
    Well OK then. That's how it is.

   So I try to walk the vanity tight-rope: fuss just enough to not be 'letting myself go" but not so much that I look desperate and pathetic. I pamper my skin with nice lotions- but I refuse to spend over $20 for a bottle. I put a colored rinse on my hair from time to time- but only just a touch, and use hand weights to keep from getting those old lady flappy arms any sooner than I must. Try to dress in clothes that are reasonably bright and attractive but don't make me look like I think I"m still 22.

     Because no matter how much I wish it wasn't, this IS my shopping cart now: varicose veins, crows feet and all. Best to just throw in a bag of salad greens and move on.