The village of Centerville features a “mature” population. At 65, I feel like a youngster in my neighborhood. Not too surprisingly, the village is also home to at least two cemeteries. One of them, simply called “Ancient Cemetery,” features weathered tombstones that can no longer be read.
ancient cemetery only the dead know who’s buried there
The closest cemetery to us is that of St. Francis Xavier parish. Among its residents is Eunice Kennedy Shriver and her husband Sargent Shriver. Saoirse Roisin Hill, a granddaughter of Robert F. Kennedy is also buried there. In macabre fashion, it’s become a tourist destination of sorts.
I still vividly remember my first time pulling into Harvard Square on the Red Line. The train emitted a banshee-like steel-on-steel shriek, and through the dimness, one could faintly glimpse an old, abandoned section of the station. It was a beautiful nightmare.
I had written a pair of Spring-related haiku this morning when I noticed that each referenced a distinct human sense. Then it occurred to me that I needed to provide three more haiku to complete the unsolicited task. Here they are.
fiddleheads a taste of Spring
a touch of Spring the frisbee falls among brambles
fragrance of Spring the toxic chemicals that keep our lawns green
colors of Spring fresh flowers on a roadside shrine
As a haiku poet, I know that I am charged with bearing witness to the world around me using simple language, void of judgement and “free of poetic trickery,” as Jack Kerouac once said.
While driving from the Barnstable Transfer Station (a fancy way of saying “Dump” or “Landfill”), I passed a local Garden Center and saw a fenced-in area of Christmas trees destined for disposal, their only crime not being sold before Christmas. This struck me as poignant, so I took a few seconds to summarize my observation into words and “wrote” the following into my voice recording app:
passing the cemetery a parking lot filled with unsold Christmas trees
While it’s true that I pass several cemeteries on the way to and from the Dump, none of them were in the background of the Garden Center, so it wasn’t a static image as such. I tried again:
town landfill a flatbed filled with unsold Christmas trees
So yes, I had just left the landfill, but the flatbed truck was something I had conjured up from memory. The image had occurred in the past. What gives?
My writer’s brain rushed to construct a tidy context in which to place this observation – poetic license, if you will. Neither of them were fabrications of my imagination, but neither of them were within my poetic viewfinder at the time I passed the Garden Center. Instead, I allowed myself to draw upon events that had not occurred simultaneously in order to craft a word-image that I found compelling. Anything else would be merely writing the caption to a photograph. Or so I tell myself.
In a rare first of a dream life with 64 years of unexpected variations, I had a dream that I was a woman, and that I was in prison.
As is the case with most of my dreams, there was no back story to my situation, although I suspect an article I read about the disastrous Stanford Prison Experiment may have contributed to the palate of my subconscious. I only know that I was in a solitary cell, and that two guards stopped by unexpectedly.
One guard seemed to be all business, carrying a clipboard and doing most of the talking. The other guard was the muscle of the duo, a head taller and carrying a stick. The former told me that I had a visitor.
Before being led out to meet my visitor, however, my hands were bound – with masking tape. I was asked to apply this restraint myself, which I thought was odd. When I said as much, the bigger of the two guards smacked me in the shins with her stick. I did as well as I could.
My wife met me in the inner courtyard of the prison, which was the first time I realized that it was the middle of the night. We knew not to demonstrate affection toward one another, as we were being watched. Much to my surprise, the lights in the prison courtyard were not illuminated, allowing us a glimpse at the spectacular nighttime sky.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” my wife asked rhetorically.
Always the show-off, I pointed out several constellations that I had memorized over the years. Then I saw the Milky Way, and stopped talking
Explain the Theory of Relativity as if it is a Mexican taco recipe.
Sure, I’ll give it a try!
Ingredients:
1 large tortilla 1/4 pound of ground beef 1/2 cup of shredded cheese 1/4 cup of diced tomatoes 1/4 cup of diced onions 1/4 cup of shredded lettuce 2 tablespoons of salsa 1 tablespoon of sour cream
Instructions:
Preheat your pan to medium heat. This represents the concept of space-time, where the pan represents the fabric of the universe, and heat represents the curvature caused by gravity.
Place the tortilla on the pan. The tortilla represents the observer, who is at rest relative to their own frame of reference.
Add the ground beef to the tortilla. This represents an object with mass, which creates a dent in the fabric of space-time.
Sprinkle the shredded cheese over the beef. The cheese represents energy, which warps the space-time fabric even more.
Add the diced tomatoes and onions on top. These represent the presence of matter and energy in the universe.
Add the shredded lettuce, which represents the concept of light, moving freely through space-time.
Drizzle salsa over the ingredients. This represents the constant speed of light, which remains the same for all observers, regardless of their relative motion.
Finally, add a dollop of sour cream. This represents the idea that time is relative, and can be affected by the presence of matter and energy.
Fold the tortilla in half and serve. Enjoy your Theory of Relativity taco!
Disclaimer: While this analogy is meant to be fun and creative, it’s important to note that the Theory of Relativity is a complex and highly technical scientific theory that cannot be fully explained through a taco recipe.
We had just lost our dog and watched a stray, paralyzed by the truck horn on a busy highway. In the unfinished median, two teens with backpacks staring down at a lifeless body, and it’s only Wednesday.
I’m the only person walking the Harvard Square subway platform, watching the last train disappear down the tunnel. Stepping onto the track, the old platform remains just a few yards away from the new one, dimly lit for the benefit of the ghosts who live here, having also missed the last train.
One of my favorite Tito stories took place when he was about a year old. We always walked him on-leash, but we would occasionally let him loose for a few seconds when he started pulling too hard. This was especially true when he would see a squirrel, who had the distinct advantage of being able to climb trees out of the reach of an excitable dog. Still, the urge to chase was always irresistible no matter how futile.
On this particular occasion, the action unfolded right in front of our house. The squirrel was about halfway between Tito and one of our dogwood trees, and when we dropped the leash, the chase was on. Within seconds, the squirrel was in the upper branches of the tree, and Tito stood with his front paws on the trunk of the tree. He let out a loud, intense bark, and down came the squirrel to the ground below. Fortunately for everyone, we quickly grabbed Tito’s leash and the squirrel was able to scramble away unharmed, except for a slightly bruised ego.
Being part Cattle Dog, Tito came equipped with a wide array of distinctive barks. His “I see a squirrel” bark was loud and shrill, and he used it whether he was inside or out. His “I see a cat” bark was slightly different in that it sounded slightly more urgent, as if it pained him to be unable to chase it. His “alarm” bark was part howl, whereas he also had a low-pitched growl that he would use as a preamble if he sensed that a coyote or other wild animal had been nearby. His most endearing bark, however, was saved for Mary when she returned home from an errand. It was equal parts relief and excitement, and it didn’t matter whether she had come back from the supermarket or from six months at sea.
Modeling our behavior, Tito was a creature of habit. Mary sets an alarm for 7:00 each evening as a reminder to take our dinnertime prescriptions. At the sound of “Hoochie Coochie Man” Tito sat at attention on the mat next to our front door without fail, dutifully taking his Pepcid encased in a “Pill Pocket”.
Tito’s eating habits were more varied. Even when in the best of health he was a picky eater. We often had to supplement his kibble with savory incentives, whether it was mixers designed for dogs, or some leftover chicken, hot dog or tuna juice. Sometimes we played a game in which I would pretend to be interested in the meal he was stubbornly ignoring. Many times he would happily pretend to see me as a rival and jump to the task of eating. Sometimes he barked at his food dish, pushing it around the kitchen floor. And as I might have mentioned, his bark is very loud!
When we moved to Cape Cod a few years back, I quickly found a spot on our love seat that was ideal for reading – close to a light, and with an armrest and ample back support. It was also an irresistible target for Tito if I made the mistake of getting up for any reason, even if only for a matter of seconds. Rather than looking sheepish or embarrassed, he would always strike a look of deep satisfaction, often with a note of side-eye.
Sometimes I insisted on getting my spot back, but more often than not I’d leave him be. And once he was diagnosed with cancer in September, well, I’d simply let him enjoy the spoils of victory.
Tito’s illness and death leaves us with a profound sense of loss, but also with many happy memories and amusing anecdotes. Mary and I will always be grateful for the time we shared with him.
pauldavidmena 