The Wonder of Words

For the three years that we were in middle school, and even beyond that, my sister had a secret weapon. She would sing these words, “Ching chong, ching chong, boop scala vatske, gilly-gilly-gilly vitch on vo, vitch on vo.” That’s nonsense you might say. I was convinced the taunt had meaning. It was some sort of curse or an insult. What made it worse was when my sister sang it in unison with her friend Sylvia, the one who made it up or shared it.

My strength was no match for those words. Is the pen truly mightier than the sword? Perhaps not if the sword has insecurities or feels mocked. I still don’t know the meaning of that chant. It certainly says something for the power of words. “By our speech we can ruin the world, turn harmony to chaos, throw mud on a reputation, send the whole world up in smoke and go up in smoke with it, smoke right from the pit of hell.”

That same chaos can be turned to harmony. Even that ching-chung was a song sung by my sister. Who can not be flabbergasted at these words, “’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe…” Or those deep lyrics of the Beatles, “I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob.” Image bearers are we and we can create complete new languages like the Quenya and Sindarin spoken in Middle Earth.

One wonders, if we’d had different songs sung over us as children if the taunts and blows we’d dealt each other would have happened. Certainly my sister understood that by flinging ching-chung boop-ska-la-vatski she was only making me feel more helpless and angry. I had no magic words. Only anger and force. It could have been worse.

Words and language are wonderful mystical things with great power. I wish our politicians understood that. And our bosses. And some parents. We could sing silly songs over each-other to make us laugh (There once was an old lady who swallowed a fly—perhaps she’ll die). We could sing spiritual songs, songs of blessing and peace. Romantic stories (No more Mr. Darcy please) about deep love and heroic tales. Legends that married the two together.

My sister called today to wish me well. The words we speak to each other now are to bless and encourage. We speak of wine and art and love and life. Life is short we realize. So we sing a different song.                                   

Photo by Glen Carrie on Unsplash

The Wounds Of A Dishwasher

 How could such a simple chore,

Escalate into a war?

Whines, whimpers and well-reasoned pitches,

Was Sis or I forced to do the dishes?

Not hours and hours breaking our backs,

Just loading them into dishwasher racks.

Scarred I was; I’d learned to hate,

Washing and loading pots, cups and plates.

In my first marriage, might I mention,

Dishes became more than a point of contention.

Her every need stirred with bent of lies,

Wished I’d do that which I did despise.

It so inflamed her every nerve,

Soaping ceramics was not the way that I served.

My dearest one-we've walked 'along side,'

Our rings scriven from Princess Bride.

That travel mug with rings of pink,

Sits unwashed next to the sink.

You rise with the sun, Oh heavy toll,

Not much left in tank, barely in soul.

Might Westley have meant; in his "As you wishes,"

That he would gladly do the dishes?

Road Tripping Baja

The Mexican Federal Highway 1, was completed in 1973. Google maps claims that’s twenty-one hours of driving to La Paz (click on the ‘family road trip’ icon and that time doubles). Their marriage tenuous, my parents seized on the idea of going south through Baja. I was thirteen, my sister eleven. Was this road trip borne out of an article in Westways magazine? An aching hope that peninsular beaches would wash away present pain? For the kids? Adventure called; Baja beckoned.

A seed of the wild was at work in my folks. Evident in each parent when separately seen. Mom took us to the mountains. Dad played with photography. Somewhere in them, between them, this connection. A seed stifled.

An album in a box contains black and white photos from that trip. Taken with my Brownie camera; mom, dad, sis, a statue celebrating the 28^th Parallel. I have few memories of that trip. Fighting to stay awake---the rocking of the car lulling me to sleep. Watching the scenery in-between fights with my sister. Many bathroom stops—mom was taking a diuretic. Pemex gasoline—that’s funny when you’re thirteen. Roadside shrines, and ribs at Senor Frogs. I can’t say what the trip stirred in my parents. Still a portal opened, a seed planted. 

Is this hankering for road trips my nature? The same DNA driving my parents to drive? That same DNA motivating my grandfather to flee Russia—the most grandiose of road trips. Or was I nurtured by highway? Solid and safe the car takes care of all my needs.  Transporting me to a place where hope is just in the distance. A seed takes hold.

I've seen countless backroads since then. Cresting hills and plummets into washes. Hours in the cab with close friends. Honeymoon with the wife. Weeks in the summer with the daughter checking out ‘America’s best ideas.’ Every October and Summer seeking adventure. Other people’s stories. Vistas and visions of beauty around every turn. Hope just beyond the horizon. A seed blooms. 

Ninety Nine

A desolate drive,

Not desert,

Farm after farm,

Occasional tree,

Two hours in,

Choking smell of cow.

Sister studied there,

Rural school,

Miles from home,

Chasing art and wine,

Five years in,

Fleeing parents’ grasp.

Truck stops and fast food,

Each off-ramp,

Bathrooms aplenty,

Billboards boast lawyers,

Eight eight eight,

Marring the landscape.

Dinuba Reedley,

Nuts, raisins,

Short stretch to sis,

Where’s the Kings river?

One short hop,

Sweet time with sibling.

A regal river,

Citified,

Time changes all,

Images remain,

Fifty years in,

Cherished moments still.

Bodies In Motion-An Overview of Last Weekend

The Friday morning bike ride:

“I can’t go on,” Darryl said, his face bright red, his body sagging against a tree for support. I handed him the last of my water.

“I won’t have you dying on my watch,” I said. “Can you muster the strength to go on for the remaining three miles?” I coaxed him back onto his bike, after we’d walked our bikes the last half-mile. We finished with a slow and wobbly ride, cresting the final hill and descending down.

The Friday night phone call to my sister goes worse than the morning bike ride:

Trying to communicate and move forward on my mom’s estate becomes increasingly difficult.
Me: “The last conversation we had I felt you were very derogatory.”
Her: “Here are the reasons I was derogatory.”
Overall, the whole phone conversation modeled Newtons Third Law of Motion:

“Whenever a first body exerts a force F on a second body, the second body exerts a force −F on the first body. F and −F are equal in magnitude and opposite in direction.”
Or, as the Beatles penned it, “I say high, you say low, You say why, and I say I don't know Oh, no…You say goodbye and I say hello.”

Saturday night date:

Dinner and a movie (Julie and Julia), and then chilled at Fridays’. The evening flew by and before we knew it, it was one o’clock in the morning. I drove home, barely making it alive---the two Cokes didn’t help stave off my fading while at the wheel.

Sunday at work:

A unique individual from another store filled in at my store on Sunday. When I met her, she told me, “You sounded taller on the phone.” Hmmm. She brought her own rubber gloves, and her own cleaning kit. To work in a coffee kiosk?

Clashing, aligning, realigning…bonking, eating, laughing; and cleaning. Bodies at rest, bodies in motion, bodies colliding, bodies reacting.