In Rockville: The Rolls

The scent of his mother's cinnamon rolls in the oven always tugged him from sleep, hopeful that he could get to the pan before his sister and father and mother marred the perfectly iced surface of the golden rolls with their greedy damn hands.  He grabbed what clothes lay at the foot of the bed, and dressed wildly as he moved through the house to the kitchen.  His bare feet landed on the cold linoleum as he pulled the raggedy t-shirt over his head, backwards.  Fashion mattered little to a boy of seven, especially when he needed to focus on the grim battle of attrition that faced him with each new batch of rolls.

His mother stood at the counter, spreading the icing across the surface of the soft, perfect warmth inside the pan, and they were untouched.  Big sister was at mother's side, eager to take her share and ruin the entire pan with her clumsiness.  His father sat at the table with the paper, nodding his head at the box score of last night's Cardinals game.  He looked over the top of his paper at the ragamuffin loitering in the kitchen.

"Hey.  Shirt's on backwards.  Where's your other sock?  And what the hell is on your pants?  Boy."  He repeated himself for the final time, firmly.  The glare blazed into his sky blue eyes, "Boy."

"Mornin'."  He walked slowly to his mother's side, eyeing his sister's movements as he approached, lest he need to tackle her to prevent her from being The First to take a roll.  "Hey ma...how many did you make?"

"Answer your father," she reminded, softly.

He stood at the counter, transfixed, fumbling within his shirt to right it.  He pulled a crumpled gray sock from his back pocket, stood on one foot and hopped as he struggled to slide it on without breaking eye contact with the gift of heavenly nourishment.  "Hey dad.  I told you The Man hit one out last night.  Number 33, I think it was."  The boy looked down, quickly, remembering the question and rubbed the stain.  "It's oil.  Mr. Huff was changing his oil yesterday and I was watching and got some on me."

"Hm."

Just as his mother started to lift the pan from the counter, his sister grinned at him, and made a grab for a roll.  The boy's eyes widened in horror.  Mother barked, "Will you stop?  You know he'll throw a fit.  Just stop.  Or you can go without."  Sister retreated to sulk in her chair at the table.  Rolls were distributed, to the boy first, of course, and everyone was silent.  Eager.

Forks clinked against the plates, glasses rapped against the table, and appetites were sated.  The boy smiled as he swallowed, thinking of the day to come.  Baseball with Charles and Larry.  Maybe a trip down to Panther Creek for some catfish, or to his uncles for some leftover fireworks.

This was going to be the greatest day ever.  Glorious, even.

He swallowed the remnants of his fourth roll and patted his little stomach.  His father wiped his mouth, folded the paper, and rose from the table.  "Thank ya for the rolls, baby.  Come on, bub.  We need to get moving."

Things began to rattle and shiver in the boy's mind, teetering on the brink of ruin.  "What?  Get moving where?"

Father shook his head.  "Jesus, you really don't listen do you?  Chickens.  We're picking some up for the store out at the Davidson's.  And you've got a coop to clean.  Move."

This was going to be the worst day ever.

A Brief Conversation and Other Things

(Apologies for the lack of blog consistency as of late.  Between illnesses and time being strangely elusive for the past two weeks, I've felt horrible for the legion of readers who might have been wondering if the author was trapped under something heavy or perhaps frozen dead in the wilderness after failing to recreate scenes from an episode of Man vs. Wild.  So, for the two of you reading this, the consistency will return.)

The little boy with the blond-white hair, big eyes, small chin, enormous smile, and who is oddly-reminiscent of Bullseye the horse from Toy Story 2, was drawing.  Well.  "DrawLing," as he sharply corrects me.  I sat down next to him and watched him scribble and add sharp things to what looked like an angry Christmas tree.  Or a sharp tornado.

Me:  "Hey.  What's this?  What's going on there?"
Him:  No reply.
Me:  "Hey.  You.  Boy.  Whatcha makin'?"
Him:  "Huh?  Oh!  This?  Just makin' some Army guys."
Me:  "Ah.  So, this big dark thing in the middle.  What's this?  A hairy ninja?"
Him:  Rolls his eyes.  "No...he's THE Army guy!"
Me:  "Why is he so sharp?  What's all of the pointy things everywhere on his clothes?"
Him:  "Those are the sharp things to protect him from the killer whales."
Me:  I nod, approvingly.  Because, you know.  If you're in the Army, you never know when you'll get dropped into a sea teeming with ravenous killer whales, so being sharp is always a damn good idea.  I continue, "So, what are these round things growing out of his shoulders?  Golf clubs?  Weapons to use against the killer whales?"
Him:  "No.  Those are mirrors, so he can see stuth behind him."
Me:  "Stuth?  What are you talking about?"
Him:  "StuTH.  You know...like, things.  Stuth."
Me:  "Ahhh.  StuFF.  I get it.  Mirrors to see stuff behind him.  Like the mirrors in a car, right?"
Him:  "Yup."
Me:  "What kind of stuff?"
Him:  Stops drawing and looks at me.  "Killer whales."
Me:  "Oh.  Sorry.  Dumb question.  And what's that thing growing out of his head?  A poisonous tree to keep the whales away?"
Him:  "Nooo!  Jeez!  It's his kniiiife!!!"
Me:  "Ohhh nice.  To attack the whales if they get too close."
Him:  "Ugh, no.  This is a fire knife to use against the robots."

I was completely lost now.  I pity the poor bastard who has to plan to fight killer whales AND robots in the same day.  I laughed and said thanks for the chat, patted him on the head and walked away.  Later, when it was colored and complete, he brought it over to me to show it off.  He's a good 'drawler.'

________________

Currently reading The Tender Bar by J.R. Moehringer and I'm loving every sentence.  During college, I had a terrible habit of asking for or buying books to read before I finished the current one, which resulted in a massive backlog of unread things choking out all of the space on my bookshelves and desks.  Over the past few years, though, I've read quite a few of them, donated the ones I'd read to friends or libraries, and remarkably, the backlog is shrinking!  The next three on the menu:
-Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy.  I've tried this one twice before, but lost the momentum needed to get through it.
-The River of Doubt, Candace Millard.  Teddy Roosevelt in South America.
-A Confederacy of Dunces, John Kennedy Toole.  This one is a maybe.  I'm nervous that it's overrated.

Lastly, it's February 18th.  Pitchers and catchers reported to Spring Training in Arizona today!  Woohoo!

Where Is Home?

My family moved from here to there as I grew, and while it never felt like we were nomads, the question still arose.  Each new home of ours was within the same five-to-ten mile radius as the one previous, and in that subconscious way of maintaining normalcy, we remained customers of the same grocery store.  The look of the neighborhood may change, but we'd be damned if we'd go to a new store and get lost looking for food.

We stayed in each house long enough for me to develop thick, knotted friendships, to feel like this place was uniquely mine, and to attach a distinct identity to each time.  One recent night, I drove slowly through each of those neighborhoods of memory, gliding past the yellow-orange porch lights dangling on the fronts of those containers of my youth.  And it felt very, very strange.

Experiencing memory in the places they were born immediately feels like one massive cliche.  Once I was able to accept what was happening and sift through all of the scenes from film and television that have recreated such a trip, the connection to these places felt familiar yet...remote.  I watched the football games we played in the street, felt the bloody rips in my hands and knees and elbows as I tumbled to the asphalt.  A tornado howled beyond my neighbor's fence.  The concrete was warm against my legs in summer as we sat in driveways and traded baseball cards.  Walking home from school, kicking rocks, strolling up the gentle hill to the snack and cartoons that were inside the house.  The girl next door.  Everything.

Eventually, I pulled back from it all and drove away wondering, Was that my home?  Or was it this one?  It wasn't all of them, I knew.  'Home' felt like a singular term.  Some had it easier, I thought.  They grew up in another city, and were forever a part of its culture, regardless of the address on the front of their house.  That city was home.  Others grew within the walls of the same house for their entire lives, and identified with that place.  I thought it over as I drove through the frost, and it caught in my head:  Home is about finding a constant.  A place that feels completely familiar to your heart, regardless of the names on the street signs.  Home, therefore, can be just about anything.  A city, a house, a school, a career, or in my case, a person.

Realizing that my home was not somewhere, but someone, made me smile at the resolution of it all.  The fog crept up the windshield from my breath and snatched me from the daydreaming.  I switched the heater over to defrost, once again irritated that winter still held everything beyond captive in the goddamn cold.

Strangeness At The Pepsi Center...

A while back I wondered what keeps the Denver Nuggets from winning a title and decided that it was The Black Mamba.  I've thought it over the past few months, and realized that though he still plays a huge part in it, the more painful answer lies within:

The Abbot and Costello of the Nuggets organization, J.R. Smith and Nene.

During the course of the past three to four years, the Nuggets have been consistently dangerous in the regular season (ignoring their tendency to take nights off against the uglier teams), and are always part of the mix in the playoffs.  There are plenty of cities who haven't had a sniff of a post season in a long time, and would love to be in our situation.  Minnesota, Washington, New Jersey, and the L.A. Clippers quickly jump to mind.  This season, I promise you, dear reader, will prove no different.  It is not beyond the realm of possibility for the Nuggets to finish the season with the best record in the Western Conference.  And yet, I fear the result will be the same, due largely to the crippling effect that J.R. and Nene have on the structure of the team.

That J.R. is 24, and entered the league straight from high school is no longer an excuse.  He's had two full seasons to watch and learn from one of the game's best leaders, Chauncey Billups, and has little, if anything to show for it.  Chauncey is as classy, team-first, intelligent, and composed a player as the Nuggets organization has ever been lucky enough to have.  That J.R. still thinks it necessary to celebrate like a madman after every dunk or big shot is a huge sign for opposing players:  This guy is emotional, and you can get inside his head with ease.  Attack at will.

Nene still has the ability to be one of the strongest, most powerful big men in the league.  He's fought his way back to his monster physique after his struggle with cancer, but he spends an exorbitant amount of energy hoping the officials can improve his game.  Looking for a call every time down the floor is lazy.  They're not going to help you, big fella.  Get back on D, please.  He's never displayed the ferocious 'get the hell out of my or I'll turn you into a stain' mentality that many of his dominant front-court brethren display.

With Nene and J.R. playing consistently, doing what they do, you can be assured that the Nuggets will have an exceptional regular season.

With Nene and J.R. playing consistently, doing what they do, you can be assured that the Nuggets will not win an NBA Championship.