PRESS RELEASE: COUNTRY SIZE, COUNTRY-CLUB FEEL
Seattle-based Boeing Company reported the sale Friday of three colossal custom jets of the new 777-77 Series.
Spokesperson Lee Whittock says they will surpass the 747 fleet outfitted for the Saudi Royal family and the 769 created for Oracle Executive Chairman, Larry Ellison.
The buzz centers on the addition of on-board golf and swimming.
Par Three Air-Golf with actual balls and real grass became a reality with the inclusion of two holes with hour-glass shaped greens at either end of a banana-shaped fairway inside the aircraft. Tail-ward, the pins are 100 yards left of the tee. Teeing off toward the nose, the flags are 110 yards to the right. The detachable belly of the plane allows the course to be watered, mowed and occasionally patched. Groundskeeper Julio Marquez thinks their course is the equal of any par-3’s on the ground. “The in-flight turbulence is an equal handicap to all but the veteran space traveler.” Says Marquez: “Those astronauts really know how to use gravity.”
first published: Halfway Down the Stairs, June, 2013
About six years ago, a dark-haired, thirtyish man in a white T-shirt pushed an arresting young woman in a wheel chair up the main aisle of the hardware store. She had intense brown eyes, smooth tan skin like her companion, and exuberant, thick eyebrows.
He approached me. “Do you have a little time you can spend with my sister? Anna has a few questions.”
“Sure. What can I help with?” I said. I was grateful. I am a rover in the store, free to help almost anybody with pretty much anything, but especially a pretty girl.
The girl had the same shiny rich, black hair as her brother, shoulder length. Her upper body was brown and broad; her legs were in jeans, but Velcro-wrapped to the foot rests of the chair.
“Well, I hope you can help me with pulleys, because I have to invent some things. I can picture it, but I need help to get the pieces together.”
Her eyes were mirrors into which I didn’t dare look. “Okay. Anna, I’m Jerry. What are we building?” Continue reading
MARRIED LOVE, YEAR THIRTY by Erik Svehaug
first published: UMM Binnacle Ultrashorts, 12-12-12
Fading memory is now our little family’s art,
And gravity unwraps the careful packaging of youth;
So let’s meet in serenity, embracing grief and joy,
In the mercy of moments that dawn perpetually.
When you quit pressing weekdays into weeks,
And I stop scraping flotsam into heaps,
We’ll come together in the unmapped dark
And shine our flashlights at the moon.
Willy was born delighted in the middle of a rainstorm that threatened to flood the root cellar where they were hiding from the lightning. She had wide-open blue eyes. Her tiny expressive face soundlessly oohed and aahed and grimaced and startled with each feeling from the very beginning and, soon, she had a coo of contentment that nurtured her mother and then a three-tone song of a laugh that always made her siblings smile. Thunderstorms and floods threatened them so often but Willy’s birth let Mama engage with them easier from then on.
By age two, she had become the sixth oldest for the second time when her mama got sick in child birth and by four she was fifth oldest again when she stopped seeing Ezreel, who used to feed the pigs. She knew every inch of the farmyard and garden, had her own names for every chicken, pig, cow and horse on the place and could boil water on the stove, if mama was there. Continue reading
Hey, is anyone out there a chiropractor?
I think I’m going to need you to come over. My shoulder is so bad I can’t even tuck in my shirt, anymore. Well, I can, but it hurts like bulldozers and that scares me. Don’t ask me to reach the Wheaties. In fact, if I don’t get better soon, we’ll have to move everything down a notch: the coffee cups, the Frosted Flakes, the juice glasses; you know.
And we don’t drive.
I started needing a doctor when the roof leaked. Mid-morning, Wednesday, my mom was cleaning up the water from the leak in the kitchen, where what looks like a tiny orange freckle in the ceiling feeds the Great Lake, she calls it, right in front of the fridge.
She bent down to wipe it, when her feet started going out and she sat down hard, just missing one of the cats. Momma’s built for town, you might say, so I thought somebody had thrown a boulder against the house. When I found her I was on my way to yell at the neighbor kids again. She was clutching her robe shut and missing a slipper, where four little toe robins were begging from a big hooky-beak momma toe. Her eyes were still big with pain, while she accidentally did fat lady yoga.
Be blunt: rip the Band-Aid off the truth.
Share: it makes your ownership complete.
And laugh: some days refined, some days uncouth.
Bad news? Scream ugly once, then turn the page,
You are the writer at this theater, not the show.
No bragging rights unless you scar with age;
Drive off the cliff, if what you want’s below.
During the blink of light, the gasp of breath, that’s life,
Some brothers lock their doors, seat belts secured.
Back from the edge, to stay unhurt, to just survive,
They never climb the railing, jump the curb.
But some things aren’t revealed at a distance.
Fledgling egrets or nursing otter pups,
Cliffside terns or parading pelicans,
Fluttering monarchs or rhythmic waves of kelp.
Each day’s unique and sunrise is the proof.
One buffets the beach, like storms attack a boat.
Another fades to gray, with sun aloof.
Then, clouds and sea in stained glass seem to float.
Pete, the image of you that is going to last:
You let each and every morning have its day.
You take the good from all you see go past.
You love, and are loved, more than words can say.
aired on: KZSC radio 6-8-2010