Norm

I want to be Norm Abram. Well, maybe I don't want to be him, I mean I don't want to look like him, or be married to Mrs. Abram (not sure there is one) or swap kids with him. But I want to be able to do the things he does. Who, you ask, is this Norm? He's the host of PBS's New Yankee Workshop, and, in his day gig, is the master carpenter on This Old House, ever since the Bob Villa days. New Yankee Workshop is sort of the Martha Stewart Show for men. Like Martha Stewart, the real purpose of this show, and hers, is to make us feel like inadequate, talentless schmucks. We watch Norm crank out pie safes, and highboys, and Adirondack chairs, and roll top desks from some boards on his shelf, just as Martha nonchalantly whips up a centerpiece made from recycled socks for tonights dinner party of 12, while the Beluga and Shitakke (from her garden) appetizer settles. Yes, the point of these shows isn't to teach us these skills, but to remind us, me specifically, that my gene strand is missing the beads that make such projects possible, even conceivable. I'm just not handy. I delude myself into thinking that with enough time, the right tools, and adequate planning I can actually do the summer projects I've been daydreaming about. Heck, I can enlarge a deck. I can build an outdoor fireplace. Can't I? Well, probably not. I have had some rare successes at handyman, do-it-yourself projects. I added a set of steps to a deck a couple years ago that haven't fallen down yet. It took me most of 5 days, and when they were done, everyone I knew had to come see the newest world-wonder I had built, as if these 3 steps were one of the great pyramids. Norm would have built those steps between breakfast and lunch. He does have the advantage of a workshop equipped with at least 100 grand worth of power tools, many of which I have no idea what they do. I know what a table saw is, but that's about all. It's the place you lay the hammer you used last week, and that triangular shaped measuring thing with hieroglyphics all around it, and the owner's manual to the weed eater. In fact, I often feel like I need a glossary to understand what Norm's talking about. Dado? Biscuits? Joiner? Huh? The realty is, tools or not, these are skills we either have or do not. That old saying, “measure twice, cut once...”....I can measure twelve times, but when I cut it will be too short. When I try to drive a screw with a drill, like Norm, it goes about 2/3rds of the way in, then the bit slips, mauls the screwhead, and I spend 45 minutes getting that screw the rest of the way in, or back out. If I were to glue some boards side to side, then clamp them together to dry, like Norm often does, they could dry for a week and they'd fall apart as soon as the clamps were removed. I recognize my limits. Thankfully, this isn't as sensitive an area as some inadequacies are to males. Thinning hair often leads to comb-overs, and questionable machismo might lead to Harley T-shirts. My Norm envy could lead me to carry a belt sander around, but it hasn't as yet affected my psyche to that point. In fact, I'll probably take on one or both of those summer projects. Next summer, or the following, when they're done, there will be a bus trip to our place to see them. Feel free, then, to call me Norm.

speedin'

No matter how long
I've known that it's true,
It's hard to believe
that we move as we do.

Our Earth spins like crazy,
One whole turn each day.
800 miles per hour,
for us here in Pa.

You'd think we could feel it.
You'd think we could tell.
But I'd probably get carsick,
so it's just as well.

But that's not the end
of our ambient speed.
We're lassoed by Helios,
Flying round fast, indeed.

Astronomers tell us,
can this be right?
67000 miles per hour
all day and all night.

How can we stand still?
Why don't we fall?
Why aren't we hurled off
this blueish green ball.

Amazing. Fantastic,
yes that's For sure.
No, not the end, though
we're hurtling still more!

Our Sun's little family,
minus Pluto there's eight,
Zoom 'round the Milky Way.
Miles in a second? 158!!

Now, that's just crazy!
I can't grasp the pace
that my chair and my keyboard
are flying through space.

Yes, still more madness.
No, were not through.
Our Milky Way's zooming
at over half a mil, too!!

That's all I can handle,
I need to slow down!
All these big numbers
have my head spinnin' round.

But if you get stopped
for driving too fast
the policeman will look
in your window and ask...

You're moving quite fast, sir.
Do you know your speed?
Oh, yes I do sir.
Oh yes indeed.

Astronomically speaking,
per second one eighty five.
But my car's speedo
never passed 65.

hush, little baby

It was so much easier, then, to comfort him, to help him calm down, to soothe his spirit when he was upset from a belly ache, or just too tired. He's nearly 17 now, closing hard on 6 feet, and the hurts are so much deeper, so much more complex, and often inflicted by forces and influences out of my reach. But I wish, like sixteen and a half years ago, I could just pick him up and park his little diapered butt on my forearm, and press his little head against my shoulder. He'd be sobbing hysterically, gasping, out of control upset. I would put my mouth right next to his little ear, my lips brushing against him when they moved. Then I'd whisper a silly little made-up rhyme and he'd fall almost instantly silent to listen, distracted from his demons. I'd whisper, ''Hush little baby, don't you cry, Daddy's gonna buy you a punkin' pie...if that punkin' pie's not good, Daddy's gonna buy you a piece of wood...''. My opened hand, then, could reach all the way across his little back, and I'd start to slowly, firmly, rhythmically pat his back-full hand, whole back pats- while we whispered, and his breathing would gradually slow to match the rhythm of the patting. ''...If that piece of wood's not fun, Daddy's gonna' buy you a bang-bang gun. If that bang-bang gun won't shoot, Daddy's gonna' buy you a whistle toot-toot...''. I'd emphasize the ''shhh'' sounds, and the ''sss'' sounds, and blow on his ear just a bit with the ''wuh'' and the ''puh''sounds. I think I have the first 3 verses of our silly song right, but beyond those three, it was probably never the same twice in a row, because generally by the 3rd verse, he'd heave a big sigh, and surrender his troubled spirit to sleep. It always worked. Then,we'd lay on the bed, with him sleeping on my chest, or Lori would lift him into his crib, his demons vanquished and his little mind at peace. Now, his dragons are real, and whispering in his ear is insufficient to comfort his troubled spirit. If only, for as long as we are a parent, if only our silly words, or a song, or comforting arms would send the troubles away! It is a dangerous, scary time to be 16 or 17, and I just wish he could sleep on my chest until it passes.

Storms

First there is, in the distance, near the horizon to the northwest, an ominous darkness. Overhead, and in every other direction the sky is pale blue and bright, with some talc-like streaks of white, but from that northwest direction darkness approaches. As it moves nearer and covers more of the sky, detail becomes visible. These are mountain sized clouds, like charcoal colored smoke, that swirl and tumble and climb. At the leading edge, and in the semi-circle of visible perimeter the dark veil is translucent, letting some of the bright, light blue leak through. Toward the center, though, the storm is dark as ink, opaque, eclipsing the brightness behind it, and full of rage. There is, as yet, no thunder, no lightning, or rain. As the black mass overtakes all of the sky, the air outside takes on an unnatural blue-green tint, like viewed through a photographic filter. The bushes begin to sway, some in contradictory directions, the trees become animated, curling and waving their limbs, the air gets noticeably cooler, dried leaves scurry across the driveway, then eddy at the porch steps, but still no rain or thunder. In the heart of the blue-black swirls, writhing, violent fingers remind that one funnel shaped finger could, at any time, reach down to the ground and draw a swath of destruction. Then, as if an unseen hand yanked the chain, the rain bursts out in marble-sized drops, then a sheet. The sky flashes, thunder follows immediately, startlingly loud, quick, and near. The passing cars drop to slow-motion, their wipers not up to the task, and the gutters now curb high torrents extending out, inches deep, into the lanes. To the north, near the horizon, a semi-circle of bright blue reappears, reminding that it isn't nightfall yet, that the darkness is passing, and the sunlit late afternoon will return. As abruptly as the rain began, it now ceases. The cars speed up, sending a wake of water over the sidewalk. Thunder rumbles, in the distance now, as somewhere else someone else looks up into the heart of the dark violence. But here, now, the light blue regains control, and the soaked driveway and sidewalks steam as the warmth returns. The foreboding has passed, the anxiety has been dismissed, and the darkness has moved out of sight.