Columbusdelphia / In the City's Shadow

I’m not too sure I’ve ever been as happy to see a new month come as I am for you, November.

May your time we share together be as beneficial to you as it is to me.

Cheers.

All is quiet on the Midwestern front today. The birds are chirping, the tulips are blooming and we’ve managed to survive once again, through that cruel mistress of which we call “Winter”. No, it wasn’t a terrible winter in my hometown by any stretch of the imagination, save for the annual January bowl game loss by the University’s football team. We survived. Not unlike we do every single Winter. Everytime the devlish harlot rears her ugly face in Central Ohio, we say we can take it. By mid-January all the stores are out of salt, shovels and canned meat. By mid-February, the stores are already shoving bikinis and sandals down our throat, even though there is a foot of snow outside, and poor Mrs. Berkshire can’t find a new pair of Duck Boots that will fit properly due to her bunyon. Then, here we arrive, at Mid-March.

Yes, we made it. Just as the morning sun rises in the east, so will we survive. In fact, my street has already begun our annual spring anticipation of Summers impending arrival. Why, just yesterday, Mr. Dixon was outside spreading fertilizer around his lawn – and in typical Central Ohio fashion, Mr. Isiah was there shortly after spreading it around his Kentucky Bluegrass. Before long, Mrs. Whitmire’s grandson Jesse was spreading her fetilizer. Not to be outdone, the young, single, busty, Dental Hygenist that moved into Mrs. Watson’s old house was outside as well preparing her yard. In true “Welcome to the Neighborhood” fashion, Mr. Dixion, Mr. Isiah, Chuck the Orkin Man and even little Jesse were sure to supervize the situation.

Yes, Spring has arrived. The robins and finchs have invaded our neighborhood like little… feathered ninjas. Sneaking it when it’s dark, only to wake you from your peaceful slumber as they camp outside your window. Some may say these… these… creatures are there to sing their praises to God, or at least that’s what is taught in the Sunday School classes down on Rosehill Brethren Church. However, Pastor McGee seems to feel quite the opposite, that they are in fact, God’s hired guns to remind us of the tennants of waking before the sunrises and… that a proper washing and faxing of a vehicle is mandatory to get into Heaven it would seem. Oh yes, but the robins and the finchs love our blessed home. They hoover over our house surveying the property before making their landing in one of the many birdhouses, feeders and bird baths that populate our backyard. For years, upon years, that my wife’s granparents lived in our house, they birds and squirrels owned the lawn in fact. I’m sure that on their way flying north from Panama City every year the birds would discuss with eachother “Oh I cannot wait to get to The Peyton Place… oh how I love the Peyton Place”. This was all, however, before we moved into the house last fall, and a new dictator of the lawn… our one year old Welsh Corgi, Matilda took over.

You see, it’s really not that different than finding that one vacation spot you always enjoyed somewhere along the coast. You find that one, perfect, little mom and pops restaurant… “The Mermaid of the Seas”, and year after year while on holiday, you’ve experienced some of the most mouthwatering crab and scallops you’ve ever tasted. Then one year, after telling all your friends and family of the wonderful “Mermaid of the Seas”, you pull into the parking lot – only to discover that where once stood such a lovely restaurant, it’s now actually a gift shop. Not just any gift shop, mind you, but one full of those t-shirts that say things like “No Fat Chicks Allowed” and t-shirts with the design of a woman in a bikini on them. It’s a terrible feeling really.

I can only imagine that is how our poor birds must’ve felt as they swooped into our yard for the first time, by the bird bath, past the shrubs and tulips, to land on their feeder… only to be chased off by a rabid, short legged, big eared creature, barking and wagging her stub where her tail used to be. She jumps, they scatter, she circles back around and sits down proudly protecting her lawn.

I can almost hear the conversation between the birds as they fly away. “What was that thing?” one bird may ask to another. “I’m not sure!” the other would proclaim. A third bird would fly up and reply, “I think Sgt. Peyton fertilized his lawn too early this year, because that’s the most ferocious squirrel I’ve ever seen!”

Yes, Spring has arrived. The days are getting longer. The trees are getting greener. My squirrels are starting to look more like Welsh Corgi’s. Such is life in the Mid-West. Or so I hear.

So as the cruel mistress herself, Winter has exited our lives for the next 6 months, I raise a toast.

Don’t cheat, steal or lie. However, if you must – Cheat death, Steal a kiss and Lay with the one you love.

Cheers, old friend. Cheers.

All is well on the Midwestern front on this cold, depressing winter day. The bird has up and headed to the land of Elvis and NASCAR, leaving us lowely Buckeyes to fend for ourselves to create the music the fills the morning sky.

It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken with you. I wish I could say it was due to some sort of marvelous adventure that has taken me to far away lands, far far away from the congestion of these city highways and away from all sorts of communication, in search of some wonderful piece of treasure. However, to tell you such a tale would surely be one of the more elaborate hoaxes I’ve ever contrived. No, in fact, I have been here all along, swaying in my easy chair to the sweet sounds of Ella Fitzgerald and wishing for brighter days.

I always thought that Winter was depressing. That lonely time of year, when the skies are as grey as my grandfather’s sport coat. The trees are bare. Everything is dirty and ugly with the thin grimey coating of road salt that seems to overtake us all. The same road salt that is overused on the very first light coating of snow in early November. The very same road salt that the city is out of by the time our last snow lands sometime in late March or early April, just before the tulips arrive late to the party.

Yes, it is winter. That same winter that all of us in my little town were looking around at each other saying “Ya know, I think I’m ready for winter…” as we raked our leaves and cleaned our gutters. How can anyone truly be ready for winter? That’s as reasonable of a saying as suggesting that one is ready for a stomach flu or for some sort of loss of limb.

No, winter is a cruel, terrible mistress. One who sweeps in with dazzling beauty, white and pure but in fact leaves behind an ugly brown, dirty mess that we must work to clean.

In my time away from you, I’ve experienced many joys. I’ve experiences many triumphs. I’ve also experienced many regrets and heartaches. Some that have left many people hurt, some that have brought few people joy. I don’t know if I will ever share with you the details of such situations, but I’m glad to know that when I need you, old friend, you’re here to listen.

Until we meet again. Cheers.

All is well on the Midwestern front this brisk, rainy autumn eve in my wonderful home. The Elm tree is finally just about bare, and soon very soon my yard will be leafless. They’re calling for snow flurries over the weekend, which is just what you expect here in my hometown. It’s one of those odd cities in America where we do still get four seasons, however every year Summer and Winter seem to last longer and come earlier than ever. Oh but yes, soon, and very soon the snow will blanket the ground and Old Man Winter will show his face to the Buckeye State once again.

It should be a quiet weekend at home with the wife, the two felines and Matilda, our Welsh Corgi. There are plenty of songs to be sung, drinks to be had and moments to be shared. Its the perfect weekend to curl up on the couch with a cup of hot cocoa, a decent book and celebrate life.

Now I make mention of the other members of our home, the real rulers of the roost if you will. There is of course, my wife’s pride and joy, our six month old Welsh Corgi, Matilda. She very well may be the most rotten thing you’ve ever laid eyes on, however it’s impossible to stay angry at her, with her large ears that look slightly like over sized elm leaves, her short stubby legs – like the legs on my grandfather step stool, or the stub to where her tail used to be until it was docked as a baby. Many a nights, Matilda, or Maddie if you will, have spent in this very room of our home, rounding out the midnight hours as my wife dozes to sleep in the other room. I know Maddie is sleepy, she can barely hold her head up, her ears lose some of the perk that they had just hours ago, but she keeps her eyes on me – being sure that she doesn’t miss a moment of our time together. If I catch her dozing off, she’ll quickly lift her eyes to look at me, sort of how my grandfather did all those late nights on the farm. After a hard days work, all he would want to do was be in the same room with me as I watched TV. He couldn’t stay awake, but he did. Because he cherished his time with me. I tend to believe Matlida cherishes her time with me.

We tend to have one sided conversations about a great flurry of things, ranging from the Boston Red Sox, to theology to politics (although, I tend to believe Matlida very well may be liberal. She’s just afraid to tell me). She just stares at me when I talk, with her tongue hanging slightly out of the side of her mouth, sort of like “Ed” from “The Lion King”. We share a special bond. She is my dog. I am her master. She is loyal, through and through. With everything that has happened in my life in the last several months, her loyalty means a lot.

As I suspected, The time has come and Matilda no longer seems to want to discuss the long debated, and oft on my mind topic of “How does Socialism fit into the Kingdom of God here on earth”. It’s time for us to end the night. Here eyes are heavy. Her ears have fallen – and right about now I know she’s thinking, “Dear God, can we just talk about baseball again?”

Oh Matilda.

All is well in the midwestern front. The leaves on the trees have all turned and are now littering my front lawn. My old Elm tree serves as a reminder that work does not end at 6:30 when I clock out from my job. In fact, work is only beginning.

It’s October in Ohio (as I suppose it is in the rest of the world). It’s not just any October though, it’s October – in an election year, in Ohio – the swing state.

I can’t help but be completely turned off to politics at this point in time. Being asked if I support the Old Guy with Yellow Teeth or the Young Guy with Big Ears is like asking which way would you rather die, being tickled to death or dying of laughter. They both cause the same result in the end, it’s just one is a little less invasive.

For the first time that I can remember, I’m going into November with entirely no one to vote for. I may only vote for the issues this time around.  Even on those, I’m so confused. Do I want a casino in Ohio or not? I tend to think I do, if only to keep those gamblers in Ohio from going to Indiana or Michigan or West Virginia to engage in dirty deeds done dirt cheap. It really has nothing to do with the morality of it all, or even the taxes – but more so in saving a life. I figure the more stupid Ohio drivers I can keep from leaving the state, the less casualities will be caused on foreign highways.

Yes, it’s campaign season. There is nothing more divisive than politics I’ve discovered. Politics is much more divisive than religion. I must say, as a youngster, I was always intrigued by politics.  I was always intrigued by religion as well, I would assume. I’m pretty sure as a child, my purpose in life was to grow up and be divisive – however, being entrenched in both at such an early age has left me more indecisive.

I was a homegrown Republican. I grew up in a home where I was lead to believe that Mt. Rushmore had the unmistakable busts of Abraham Lincoln, Ronald Reagan, Clint Eastwood and Jesus.  There was nothing at all wrong with the way I grew up, or even those convictions of my folks. It was definetely a conservative home. I grew up thinking the Clintons were the most terrible people in the world and the only thing that was to be respected with the word “democrat” in it was “The Putnam Democrat” newspapper my grandparents got every week in the mail.

Now, I’m not so certain it’s the right life for me. Being so engulfed in politics. It’s made me a very bitter person and has even made me look at those that I respect – who view things differently than I – with a hint of disgust.

So, for now, I’m going to turn off the TV. I’m going to to turn off the radio. I’m going to pop in that old album that I haven’t heard in years and wave at my neighbor – the one with the donkey sign – and let them know I wish them well. I’ll help my Republican friend move into a new home.  I’ll ignore maps that depict the United States as Red and Blue.

And come that Tuesday in November. I’ll go to the ballot and vote. Not for Ol’ Yeller Teeth. Not for Big Ears.  Not for anyone. That’s the best change I can think of.

(Just kidding, you know I’m totally voting for the old dude.)

There are some people in life you just never forget. Many people have impacts on your life. Some in big ways, like teachers, pastors, Nitro from American Gladiators. Then there are those who have those subtle little impacts on you. You may not realize it at the time, but they shape you in a way you wouldn’t expect.

For me, one of those people was an old man from my hometown in Beckley. I don’t even really know his name. I’m not sure if today I could pick him out of a lineup, but I remember him.

I was probably only about 14 or 15 years old at time, working at a soup kitchen our church put on in the coffee shop where our church met. (Confused?) He was sitting in the corner playing checkers. Playing checkers with my mom of all people.

He was big and thick, gray hair peaking through his Cincinnati Reds hat. In fact, that’s what everyone called him. Cincinnati.
Every Tuesday afternoon, Cincinnati would stroll into the old department store that was now a coffee shop (that was then a church – which later became a gay bar – and is now a hole in the ground, but that’s a different story for a different day, any who as a I was saying…)

Cincinnati would stroll into the old department store, get some food from the counter and sit down in the corner for his weekly checkers game with my mom. It was through mom I learned an awful lot about Cincinnati.

I learned he was a Cincinnati Reds fan (not that the hat and jacket were any indication). I learned that, unlike the majority of people who came into our soup kitchen, Cincinnati wasn’t homeless. He lived directly above the Water Company in an old apartment. He was single, never been married, never had any kids. Just kind of a loner. He worked for the courthouse, cleaning in the evenings, and spent a lot of his time, walking around downtown with his headphones on, listening to… what else… Cincinnati Reds baseball.

I often wondered what his apartment must be like. Would it be a shrine to the Big Red Machine of the 70’s? Would it be a giant checkerboard with different furniture sitting in different squares? Possibly bunkbeds in the backrow, where the piece had been “Kinged”? Perhaps would it tell a different story?

Would it possibly tell the story of an older, white haired man who had been in the War, fighting for freedom, fighting for something he believed in? Or perhaps, it may be full of books, shelves upon shelves of books, like William Forrester’s apartment in the movie?
And just what did he do in the courthouse after hours when he was in there cleaning? Could the courthouse possible get dirty enough that it would need cleaning for 8 hours a night, every night except for Sundays?
Maybe he spent his time searching through Public Access information, looking for dirt on the latest politician to try to gain his start. Maybe he was looking over the voting records of every person in the county. Who knows… Maybe he was hosting a giant checkers party and gambling ring on the county government’s dime.

Cincinnati made an impact on me though. It was subtle, something so slight as looking at people differently. In a different light. Like maybe, just maybe, everyone had a story to tell – and they were just waiting for someone to tell it for them.

It leads me on an introspect of sorts, thinking of my story. What will the chapters of my life truly be like? Will it be a comedy? Or a tragedy? Who will be the minor characters? The major? Will my setting change? Or will I adapt more and more to this midwestern mentality? Will it be short? Or long?

I’m not really sure. I’m not sure I care to know. Just as it is no fun to read a story when you already know the ending, it’s even worse when you play the lead role.

It’s been years since I’ve seen Cincinnati. I’m not sure where he is today. Things changed. The city came in and tore down the Water Company, which also tore down his apartment. They came in and tore down the soup kitchen too. One thing I know for sure is – he still listens to Red’s games… and he probably doesn’t like Dusty Baker, either.