On The Road With Denny D

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Baby Boomers

I am a late blooming baby boomer. That just means I didn't get busy until I almost couldn't get busy. What a weird name. Baby boomers. What if one day we died of natural causes: Exploding. Just random people walking down street. Exploding. Zombies you can outrun but that overweight bald guy walking beside you. A ticking time bomb. Nothing but booming boomers everywhere. No mask is going to save you. Better pack a slicker. The hell with the weather, you got bigger unnatural, natural disasters waiting for you. And walking down the street is no walk in the park. Hey look! there's my old pal George. You shake George's hand and boom , he explodes. The only thing left of George is in your hand, his hand. Texting while driving suddenly doesn't seem like a big deal. Waiting at a red light, is a bigger deal. Especially, if the windows are down. The punk with the boom box that's sounds like he's trapped someone in his trunk is tolerable. That old lad...

For The Birds

Lawn maintenance is for the birds I didn't want to do it, but it was my turn to cut the grass. It was a cold day, and the threat of rain forced me to kick myself in the butt. Our property is huge and weirdly shaped, and I never know exactly where to start. It is like most daunting jobs; I got to get it out of the way and let momentum kick in. I feel the same way when I go for my outdoor walks. The first lap I'm feeling stiff and uninspired. The second lap is better but now I have caught the attention of overprotective red wing black birds. I pretend not to notice but I can hear them as they swoop down just above my head and yell at me with that annoying call. I convince myself, "only four laps to go" Lap three yellow jackets decide they want to have fun too. Now I have birds and bees swarming me. I walk to help me with my stress and it's not working!!! In fact, I'm about to freak out ! I just want to exercise damn it! Leave me alone!!! I would lik...

The Hose-Man of Buckingham Drive

My father had a hobby. I could have called him a hoser -he liked hockey and the odd beer- but he was over-educated for the slang, so I'll call him the man with a hose. The hose-man of Buckingham Drive had an obsession: Washing cement. Dirt and pebbles had no place to hide. And every little tree trying to grow between the cracks stood no chance against the hose-man. Have hose will spray His routine started with a car wash, next he watered flowers, the lawn, and then he finished with tree plucking, cement washing. It could have been ninety-five degrees, but there he was wearing his faded blue foundry coveralls, courtesy of Ford Motor Company. Underneath he wore a Pepe’ Joe standard issued white (fruit of the loom) tee shirt. The boxers I won't mention. Somethings you just don't talk about more than once. I went into detail in my post about laundry day at Wassi Lodge. To complete the attire; slip-on black safety boots. There was only one thing missing: A be...

The Old Painted Porch

Our friends painted-wood-porch was our shelter from the storm. Most storms came from the west, and we could see them approaching from our porch. Our front porch was cement and had wrought iron railings, so it was a no-brainer; safety was across the street. The old wood porch was painted gray, and it was on an angle just enough to allow water to roll off like little waterfalls. We would wait for the flash of light and block our ears, but we felt the thunder in our bones. Between the flash of light and the rumble we counted Mississippi's, trying to guess how far away the lighting was; of course, when it crashes beside you, there's no need to tell time: Time stands still when you're shitting your pants. We watched many summer storms from that porch. But eventually, all storms end. We waited for clear skies, so we could play in the puddles. A rainbow's promise was God's way of saying “Okay boys make a splash” and we did. Camp fun and games Some storms took us by...

Come to the water

Be real. I'd love to see life as gentle ripples but the truth is, (I don't want to admit it) I know sometimes I make waves. Instead of skipping stones; I throw boulders. I have stood on the shoreline of my life. The reflection looking up is an unrecognizable face. Im looking down trying to find ways to smooth out the surface but the waves are crashing in. My feet are sinking in the wet sand. I stand naked before God and ask, Who am I? The answer comes in a whisper: I am like all God's children: I am chosen. I am alive. I am here. I am blessed. I am called to love and to be an example of God's love. I am human and therefore, not perfect. But I will try to aleast be kind to others and to find a way to be kind to myself. I don't wish to be understood but to be given a chance to be me. I don't wish to be judged but I know that escaping judgment is a waste of my energy. Instead I will have courage against hate, encouraged by love. I have come to the wate...

The Lake

A cedarstrip canoe floats on the tea stained waterway known as Wistawasing aka wassi lake. Two brothers paddle effortlessly toward the island across the way. The morning sun is hovering just above the horizon, illuminating a path on a mirror-smooth lake. The only conversation is that of paddles entering and leaving the surface. We are both lost in thought or maybe a silent prayer. I think of that lake often and when I think of him. We were young, alive and had all the time in the world. We didn't know how little time we had. Who would be first or who would be last was always decided on the races we run, not life and death. I go back to the lake, to a huge rock on the shore. The place where I received lectures every time I saw my brother. I was older than he, I should have been giving them instead of receiving them. Old doesn't mean wise. He asked me the same question “What...