Chapter Two, Part III
Morning Java
You can imagine how KJs are plagues by the Great American Songbook. The next morning, as I dangle my legs off the edge of my back deck, overlooking the Carr Inlet, my internal CD changer clicks automatically to “Dock of the Bay.” I’m soon into that whistling solo that my singers are chicken to try – and whistling guarantees the end of my solitude. The blackberry vines give out a rustle, and out from his tunnel pops Java, world’s tallest standard poodle. He lopes my way on basketball player limbs, and I put him through the standard drill.
“Sit Java! Okay. This hand. Now the other.”
He sits and whacks my palm with either paw. It’s a poor imitation of a proper handshake, but this is the only trick he’s got. I grab a hank of his coffee-colored dreadlocks and reach down to thump his ribcage like a ripe melon. Then I go for the look.
“Listen carefully, Java. If someone – say, a poodle – wanted to describe the mass of an object, what unit of measure would they use?”
He peers down his long snout, but refuses to take the bait.
“Why a newton, silly! Now, a lot of people think the newton was named after Isaac Newton, but I happen to know it was Wayne Newton. You know, ‘Danke Schoen’?”
I sing a few bars, but still, nothing.
“He also invented the fig newton.”
Ah, that did it. Java cocks his head to the right like he’s actually, humanly puzzled. I’m sure it’s a trick of evolution – a hundred canine generations figuring out that humans dig the tilted head thing – but I wouldn’t trade the illusion for the world.
“Good Java!” I yank his moptop, and he gives me that slightly fierce V-shaped grin.
Another rustling comes from the human entrance, a trellised archway covered in passionflowers. It’s Floy Craig, and naturally she’s got baked goods, a plateful of apple turnovers.
“Floy!” I complain. “How am I supposed to keep this weight off if you keep tempting me?”
“Ha!” says Floy. “‘This weight.’ she says. I am surrounded by skinny people who don’t realize they’re skinny.”
This is all ritual, of course. If Floy opened a bakery, I would be first in line. But female custom demands protestation before piggery.
All the interaction gets Java barking, a lyric “woof!” that sounds exactly like Lassie.
“Now Java,” says Floy. “Don’t even start. This is not your carbohydrate of choice. So cliché,” she tells me. “A poodle who loves French B-R-E-A-D.”
“Come on up,” I tell her. “Dangle your legs off my deck. I’ll get you some tea.”
“That’s a deal.” She engages the steps as I head inside for a mug.
Everybody needs a guardian presence in their life, and the Craigs are certainly mine. John’s a retired Navy pilot out of Whidbey Island who retains his military discipline, fighting off Floy’s baking with daily commutes to the Navy gym at Bremerton. He’s in ridiculously good shape. Floy works as a maternity nurse and is, by any standard, the first person you want your kid to see on her entrance into the world. She’s got curly gray-blonde hair that thickens and thins with the weather, and an animated face forever touched with pink, as if she’s been out sailing. I return to the deck and hand her a Ruby Mist.
“Thanks, Channy. You’re a doll.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“Oh! Another suitor?”
“Yeah. One of my regulars. Great guy, but I do have my rules.”
“That’s very smart of you. We’ve had some affairs at the hospital, and believe me – you may as well make a video and put it on the Internet. Still, it must be nice, surrounded by all those handsome crooners.”
That gets me laughing. “Most of them are just handsome drunks. But I guess they make a decent substitute.”
She flashes her pale blues in a thoughtful way. “Substitute for what?”
“Well, I, you know…” There is no way in hell I’m finishing this sentence.
She takes a long sip, giving my embarrassment time to vaporize. That’s one thing I love about Floy: she plays fair. Not that she’s letting me go scot-free.
“Well, Channy. You know John and I love having you here, but sometimes I feel like we’re hiding this great, beautiful secret from the world. And we worry about you. Especially…”
“Especially” is a word containing far too many newtons to leave dangling in the air, but Java is unhappy with the way this conversation has left him out of the loop. He pries his snout under Floy’s hand, demanding a head scratch.
“Well!” she says. “All right, sillydog. Um, well… the other night, Java started that nervous muttering of his…”
“I love that! He sounds like an old Jewish man.”
“Well, yes,” says Floy. “But then he worked into a howl, which he never does. So I went out on the balcony to check and, well… We try not to be nosy neighbors, Channy, but you are just below us, and I heard you moaning. It sounded painful – and believe me, I know pain. And then you let out sort of a half-scream, and I guess that’s what woke you up.”
“Oh.” Now I’m really embarrassed. I hold my mug higher, hoping it’ll hide my face.
“I’m sorry, Channy. We both understand that there’s something you can’t tell us about whatever it is that brought you our way. But if you’re having nightmares… well, we’re just concerned, is all. And you certainly don’t have to tell us about it, but I do know some excellent counselors at the hospital.”
Again, Floy knows when she’s made her point, and when to let off the gas.
“By the way, a little fair warning: the little terrors will be by this afternoon.”
“Joey’s kids?”
“Yep.”
“Thanks. I’ll make my usual foster aunt appearance, and then I’ll do a little boating.”
“Good plan.”
Floy’s like me – she loves the grandkids, but she also knows her limits. And today, mine are pretty low.
I take a back trail to the waterline, carrying visions of Kylie and Jo-Jo in their Cubs outfits (a family affliction). My visits to the boat shed became so regular last year that I concocted a deal – sort of my own season pass – with Manny, the teenage ranger. When I enter, he’s outfitting a couple of twelve-year-olds, so I nab a life jacket and paddle and head for the dock. My regular vessel is Blue Pistol, a sporty fiberglass number small enough for single-pilot navigation. I paddle backwards, swing around with a right-hand stop and head out. Halfway across the inlet I gaze into the clear water and find thousands of sand dollars, fuzzy purple Frisbees scattered along the blue-green stones. What they’re doing here, I have no idea, but then I could say the same about myself.
Two years ago, a young woman sails out of her shock across the the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, drives into Gig Harbor and finds a bakery called Susanne’s. Settling at the back table with green tea and a lemon scone, she looks across the harbor and discovers a bald eagle, sailing on enormous wings, his spiky white head slicing through the evergreen background. On a nearby bulletin board she finds two ads: an apartment on the Carr Inlet, a bar looking for a KJ, and she knows that she is part-way home.
Next: On the Rails with Hamster
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Hear the audio podcast at: http://www.gcast.com/user/michaeljvaughn/podcast/main?nr=1&&s=198404806
Image by MJV.
Morning Java
You can imagine how KJs are plagues by the Great American Songbook. The next morning, as I dangle my legs off the edge of my back deck, overlooking the Carr Inlet, my internal CD changer clicks automatically to “Dock of the Bay.” I’m soon into that whistling solo that my singers are chicken to try – and whistling guarantees the end of my solitude. The blackberry vines give out a rustle, and out from his tunnel pops Java, world’s tallest standard poodle. He lopes my way on basketball player limbs, and I put him through the standard drill.
“Sit Java! Okay. This hand. Now the other.”
He sits and whacks my palm with either paw. It’s a poor imitation of a proper handshake, but this is the only trick he’s got. I grab a hank of his coffee-colored dreadlocks and reach down to thump his ribcage like a ripe melon. Then I go for the look.
“Listen carefully, Java. If someone – say, a poodle – wanted to describe the mass of an object, what unit of measure would they use?”
He peers down his long snout, but refuses to take the bait.
“Why a newton, silly! Now, a lot of people think the newton was named after Isaac Newton, but I happen to know it was Wayne Newton. You know, ‘Danke Schoen’?”
I sing a few bars, but still, nothing.
“He also invented the fig newton.”
Ah, that did it. Java cocks his head to the right like he’s actually, humanly puzzled. I’m sure it’s a trick of evolution – a hundred canine generations figuring out that humans dig the tilted head thing – but I wouldn’t trade the illusion for the world.
“Good Java!” I yank his moptop, and he gives me that slightly fierce V-shaped grin.
Another rustling comes from the human entrance, a trellised archway covered in passionflowers. It’s Floy Craig, and naturally she’s got baked goods, a plateful of apple turnovers.
“Floy!” I complain. “How am I supposed to keep this weight off if you keep tempting me?”
“Ha!” says Floy. “‘This weight.’ she says. I am surrounded by skinny people who don’t realize they’re skinny.”
This is all ritual, of course. If Floy opened a bakery, I would be first in line. But female custom demands protestation before piggery.
All the interaction gets Java barking, a lyric “woof!” that sounds exactly like Lassie.
“Now Java,” says Floy. “Don’t even start. This is not your carbohydrate of choice. So cliché,” she tells me. “A poodle who loves French B-R-E-A-D.”
“Come on up,” I tell her. “Dangle your legs off my deck. I’ll get you some tea.”
“That’s a deal.” She engages the steps as I head inside for a mug.
Everybody needs a guardian presence in their life, and the Craigs are certainly mine. John’s a retired Navy pilot out of Whidbey Island who retains his military discipline, fighting off Floy’s baking with daily commutes to the Navy gym at Bremerton. He’s in ridiculously good shape. Floy works as a maternity nurse and is, by any standard, the first person you want your kid to see on her entrance into the world. She’s got curly gray-blonde hair that thickens and thins with the weather, and an animated face forever touched with pink, as if she’s been out sailing. I return to the deck and hand her a Ruby Mist.
“Thanks, Channy. You’re a doll.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“Oh! Another suitor?”
“Yeah. One of my regulars. Great guy, but I do have my rules.”
“That’s very smart of you. We’ve had some affairs at the hospital, and believe me – you may as well make a video and put it on the Internet. Still, it must be nice, surrounded by all those handsome crooners.”
That gets me laughing. “Most of them are just handsome drunks. But I guess they make a decent substitute.”
She flashes her pale blues in a thoughtful way. “Substitute for what?”
“Well, I, you know…” There is no way in hell I’m finishing this sentence.
She takes a long sip, giving my embarrassment time to vaporize. That’s one thing I love about Floy: she plays fair. Not that she’s letting me go scot-free.
“Well, Channy. You know John and I love having you here, but sometimes I feel like we’re hiding this great, beautiful secret from the world. And we worry about you. Especially…”
“Especially” is a word containing far too many newtons to leave dangling in the air, but Java is unhappy with the way this conversation has left him out of the loop. He pries his snout under Floy’s hand, demanding a head scratch.
“Well!” she says. “All right, sillydog. Um, well… the other night, Java started that nervous muttering of his…”
“I love that! He sounds like an old Jewish man.”
“Well, yes,” says Floy. “But then he worked into a howl, which he never does. So I went out on the balcony to check and, well… We try not to be nosy neighbors, Channy, but you are just below us, and I heard you moaning. It sounded painful – and believe me, I know pain. And then you let out sort of a half-scream, and I guess that’s what woke you up.”
“Oh.” Now I’m really embarrassed. I hold my mug higher, hoping it’ll hide my face.
“I’m sorry, Channy. We both understand that there’s something you can’t tell us about whatever it is that brought you our way. But if you’re having nightmares… well, we’re just concerned, is all. And you certainly don’t have to tell us about it, but I do know some excellent counselors at the hospital.”
Again, Floy knows when she’s made her point, and when to let off the gas.
“By the way, a little fair warning: the little terrors will be by this afternoon.”
“Joey’s kids?”
“Yep.”
“Thanks. I’ll make my usual foster aunt appearance, and then I’ll do a little boating.”
“Good plan.”
Floy’s like me – she loves the grandkids, but she also knows her limits. And today, mine are pretty low.
I take a back trail to the waterline, carrying visions of Kylie and Jo-Jo in their Cubs outfits (a family affliction). My visits to the boat shed became so regular last year that I concocted a deal – sort of my own season pass – with Manny, the teenage ranger. When I enter, he’s outfitting a couple of twelve-year-olds, so I nab a life jacket and paddle and head for the dock. My regular vessel is Blue Pistol, a sporty fiberglass number small enough for single-pilot navigation. I paddle backwards, swing around with a right-hand stop and head out. Halfway across the inlet I gaze into the clear water and find thousands of sand dollars, fuzzy purple Frisbees scattered along the blue-green stones. What they’re doing here, I have no idea, but then I could say the same about myself.
Two years ago, a young woman sails out of her shock across the the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, drives into Gig Harbor and finds a bakery called Susanne’s. Settling at the back table with green tea and a lemon scone, she looks across the harbor and discovers a bald eagle, sailing on enormous wings, his spiky white head slicing through the evergreen background. On a nearby bulletin board she finds two ads: an apartment on the Carr Inlet, a bar looking for a KJ, and she knows that she is part-way home.
Next: On the Rails with Hamster
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Hear the audio podcast at: http://www.gcast.com/user/michaeljvaughn/podcast/main?nr=1&&s=198404806
Image by MJV.
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