Corkie, Yorkie, and Cicadas

In Chicago, it was just early August but the dog days of summer had arrived many weeks too soon, along with weather from a Louisiana swamp. Windless and hot, time dragged as slowly as the few molecules of air that blew across the city.

Among the rows of bungalows in Beverly, sprinklers were working hard; spraying comb-teeth waves of water across the browning grass.  And, as afternoon inched forward, the shrill sounds of the cicadas would begin - a deafening backdrop of insect chatter from a million tiny voices that would mercifully drown out the sounds of the city - the sirens and traffic and planes.

This particular afternoon, it was hot.  And boring.

So we sat inside Meg's bungalow on Bell Street, where it was quieter and cooler.  My neice Eliza and my daughter Katie sat cross-legged in front of the sofa next to the coffee table.  Eliza's Barbies were scattered out across the floor.  Sponge Bob was talking to Gary in the background.  The fan pointed up at the ceiling where someone had probably kicked it.  So I curled up in front of it, near Eliza and Katie and the dolls.

Eliza knew about Elizabeth Freckly Dawn Ron, a Barbie from Katie's childhood that was legendary in the Simmerling family.  Dawn Ron was a creation of our imagination, a pretend teenager that overcame her challenges to become an overconfident olympic skater who won the gold medal (under dubious circumstances).  

"Why don't you guys play Barbies?" Meg asked, as Eliza stared in a zombie trance at the television.

"Me?" I asked, yawning.

"Yeah, you two can do a show or something," she said.  Meg probably remembered the dance contests and skating events Katie and I held with Dawn Ron and her friends on our own living room carpeting.  I was a grown man (I think), so it should have been kind of embarrassing.  But Eliza was now snapped out of her trance and latched onto the Barbie idea.

"I don't know, I'm kind of tired from working for the Bobs all day and everything," I said, stretching out and closing my eyes.

"Please, uncle John?"

"Yeah dad, come on, it will be fun," Katie conspired.

So we gathered all the dolls together to get them ready for an organized event, which involved a lot of pulling pants up and dresses down, and un-matting wild hair.  As we sat them in rows, stadium like, I wondered what we could come up with.   I needed some coffee. 

"How about a magic show?" I offered.  That seemed interesting, in a David Blaine kind of way. 

"Cool," Eliza agreed. 

So, as the seating arrangements continued, I asked for the names of the dolls.  While Katie had names for all of her Barbies growing up, Eliza's Barbies were virtually anonymous.  So we had to come up with some stage names.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I announced,  "I'd like to introduce Corkie and Yorkie!"  Picking two dolls (a Ken and Barbie) from the crowd, I dramtically held them up, "And they are starring in the Corkie and Yorkie Magic Show!" 

The names were pulled from nowhere, but oddly they had a certain gypsy-caravan kind of feeling.   And with the wild hair and outfits in the crowd, it seemed appropriate.

And with that, the Corkie and Yorkie magic show was born. 

The early acts of the show featured a flashy trick called "The Magic Kimono", where an assistant would be made to disappear from under a large silk robe, but only after the audience was told to close their eyes because of the danger from powerful magical rays.  The assistant would reappear after much backstage talking and arguing - but again only after the audience would obediently close their eyes. 

There was also the popular fortune-telling act (also gypsy-like), where an assistant named "Miss Magic" would answer audience questions about their future.  Unfortunately, the questions were too simple and the answers too vague. 

"What kind of car will I get when I am older?" 

"A fast car - thank you very much," Miss Magic would curtly answer.      

That first afternoon, after the acts had developed, we went into the backyard and cut pieces from a cardboard box, which we used to make props for the show.  As we cut and taped and painted, we laughed about the funny characters and the silly questions.  We made a booth for Miss Magic, which included a sign that read, "Magic Tricks and Good Advice."  Katie made a sign for the Barbie Minivan that said, "Going to the Corkie and Yorkie Magic Show." 

The Magic Show was a hit.  Eliza would do her best to re-create it for other family members, but Katie or I would need to add the bungling and innocent complexity (and humor) that made it so fun.  More props were added, and daily showtimes were posted on the side of the kiosks.

Late one night, I received a text message from Meg, telling me that the audience was now camping out in her living room, waiting to get tickets for the next day's show.  "All these teenagers are sleeping out in my living room," she wrote.  "And I think I smell someone smoking," she added in a later text. 

In daily conversations and texts, we would refer to the different Barbie characters, such as Brian, Chad, Miss Magic, Corkie, Yorkie, etc.  They would be late for work, headed to Great America, in the backyard sitting on the picnic table and smoking, looking for jobs, off at Starbucks, and all the other things teenagers do. 

We laughed about it late at night as we texted each other.  In the mornings, we would discuss the previous night's misbehaviors - how the carnies and the groupies were a bad influence on each other.  I'd drive over to the Gallery and Vicki would be laughing as I walked in - she'd ask for the latest on Corkie and the gang.  If you were in on it, you'd have to help build the story.  So the Magic Show misadventures were as creative as the show itself - and almost as funny.

Like the heat and humidty that hung over the city this summer, our emotions were pressed and twisted and tested in unpredictable ways every day.  But we were lucky, we had each other.  We relied upon each other, learned about each other, and I know we became closer than ever. 

But during those summer days, Corkie and Yorkie also gave us something that we didn't know we needed - an escape.

An escape, like the deafening but welcome sound of the summer cicadas.

**

Vicki and Katie

Creating centerpieces for the wedding tables

On the moon

You know I care for you
But pretend and lead me on, that's all you do
I try to still believe but now I'm through

And the only place I see
is calling out to me
It's the only place I know
It's the place where I must go

On the moon, that's where you'll find me soon.
I'll be alone again
That's okay, I must be on my own again.
I'll be waiting on the moon for you

I sit and reminisce for many hours
I miss the rain and all the pretty flowers
I dream of all the cities and their towers

And I hope you wonder why
I'm lying in the sky
I'll even let you in for free
If you come and visit me

On the moon, that's where you'll find me soon.
I'll be alone again
And all I'll do is to lie there till I die there
Waiting on the moon for you

Would you ever even dream
to go to the extreme?
And would you ever want to be
the one to rescue me?

On the moon, that's where you'll find me soon.
All alone again
Unwinding there and praying that you'll find me there
Waiting on the moon for you

On the moon, that's where you'll find me soon.
And still your face will be haunting me
So if you're ever wanting me
I'll be waiting on the moon for you

Citation credit - From Peter Cincotti
http://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/peter-cincotti/id3695561

By any other name

The heat was rising in waves off the faded asphalt on his left and past the curb.  He pedaled his rickety beach cruiser bicycle along Macintosh Road, cruising the pebbled and sun-bleached sidewalk, weaving now and then to avoid the weeds growing like Southern corn stalks from between the cracks.  

It was not easy to tell his age, his skin being folded and wrinkled from the sun; brown like the cigarette stains on his hands.   His eyes were shaded under a gray baseball cap - a Walmart selection that had a #3 on the front bill.   Blue jeans hung loosely on his skinny frame, short and faded and sagging down in the back.   And for the dual purpose of keeping cool and looking cool, he had on a ribbed and sleeveless t-shirt.

Balanced on his handlebars was a boxed set of beer, twelve cans precariously perched; sliding from side to side as the bike tried to keep a straight line in the dizzying sun.    As if performed in a ring at the nearby Circus, the act featured a masterment of physics - the bicycle, the shifting and flimsy collection of cans, the weeds and the light poles, and the brilliant solar spot light.   Only Ringmaster Ned was missing.

It probably wasn't easy to keep those cool beers in their box.  Already the blue and white cardboard was becoming soft and loose with condensation.   And the effort expended to keep the whole complex process in motion was no doubt creating a gigantic thirst.  One way or the other, it appeared inevitable.

It wasn't long before the beach cruiser 's front tire met a crack in the pavement.   The end of the box popped open and several beers tumbled out to the ground.   As the man reached for the falling box, he lost his grip on the handlebars.   Bike, man and box all tumbled on to the hot concrete.

I muttured to myself, "Are you kidding me?"

I watched as the cans spun around on the pale concrete, their streaks of water instantly evaporating as they rolled..   The man stood up over his bicycle, took off his hat and waved #3 around in frustration.   He shook his fist at the cans lying there, cursing his bad luck and the cheap glue used at the Keystone factory.

The lights at the intersection changed and cars began to move.   I felt sorry for this man on his bike.   Ok, it was a little humorous, but I felt bad for being entertained at his expense.   And as much as I want to call him a redneck, I think it would be kind of mean, given his personal tragedy.

But come on, if not that, then what?

Your best day

It was a day that surprised all of us.  It snuck up like a treacherous thief, waiting behind a tree in the backyard; grabbing your bicycle and disappearing with a sneer.   A thief of innocence, too.

Some days in our lives can be so rare and significant that they endure; remembered with a permanence.  They linger through the years - though blurred and remembered perhaps only in bits and pieces.   Framing our lives.   This was a day like that.  

A day when character is tested.

That evening, I looked into the tearful and red eyes of my sister and knew she had one of those days.  My sister, who we remember cooing and kicking and rolling on her blanket when we were teenagers. The one whom we bathed in the kitchen sink as we sat laughing with our high school friends.   Little could we envision then that one day she would be there when we needed her most.

I told her that it was a day to remember; a difficult day by any measure.  But it was over now - passed by as one of her life’s great challenges.   But I also told her that I knew when she met God in heaven, he would say it was one of her best days ever.

It was.   And we love you Meg.

A mother's summer

Growing up, we always knew when summer was around the corner.   The window screens, chalky and grey, would appear from the basement, smelling musty and faintly of past summer storms.

Magnolia blossoms filled some of our backyard trees with their delicate pink petals; like soft, flushed skin.  Their perfume was a reminder, deeply felt, of the coming season.  The flowers were fleeting – they’d wilt with the first cold rain.

In circles around the trees, lime-green shoots pushed up through the litter of unraked leaves and brittle branches left from the fall.   Exotic plants, forgotten under the winter snow, also began to emerge.  They transformed overnight in the first warm days of May, a photoshopic change in hue from brown to deep green.

We’d escape outside with the new season, and we were filled with the same excited emotions as if we’d found a favorite toy that had been presumed lost forever.   It was back.

Out on our front sidewalk, next to a giant elm tree, there was a section of slab tilted up like a small step, where a root had lifted it.   Its surface pocked and pitted, it was several inches thick, heavy and immense and immovable.   None of us could lift it an inch - and we often tried.   Although the tree was eventually lost to Dutch elm disease, its roots left their mark long after it was cut down by city workers.

Summer also marked the beginning of my mother’s annual but unofficial camp program.  We all learned at an early age that the agenda for our summers wasn’t really ours.   It was all hers. 

Vacation Bible school was a frequent offering.  It wasn’t Catholic, but since they used the Bible and it kept us busy, it was just as good. Besides, our memories of the school are exclusively about the packages of ice cream they distributed - with their own wooden spoons.  Rarely did we remember what was said about the New Testament.

An important and imperial rule was about television.   There was strictly limited access.    Sometimes, my mother would make good on her threats – she really would cut off the cord to the television.   To her, it was “canned laughter” and crap, and not part of the summer program.   Now we agree.  But we didn’t think so at the time.

The campers liked sleep overs, but they were infrequently allowed.   When Meg would be allowed to sleep at a friend’s house, family legend has it that Marge would show up early the next morning to bring her home.   She’d arrive at the friend's front door and say, “Meg, time to come home, you have chores to do.”   Like we were Amish and worked on the family farm.

My mother registered all of us for swim lessons every year.   They were held at Memorial Park.   We rode our bikes there, and it was miles away (really).   Sessions began in early June, and started with students sitting lined on the edge of the pool, shivering and fearful.    The Park District somehow managed to get the water colder than actual tap water – which in Chicago was frigid.   Even by August, we all needed to “get used to it” before it was tolerable.  And that meant goose bumps and purple lips.  

“Get Meg out of the pool, her lips are blue,” my mother would announce to any nearby sibling.   Meg would be shivering, arms across her chest, but saying she was fine.   Mom knew.

Sports were encouraged.   We erected a basketball hoop against the coach house.   The backboard was held in place by two-by-fours, which needed to be re-nailed every year to keep the whole structure from swaying each time the ball hit the rim.   We’d compete for playing time on our own court with the neighborhood brothers, who taught me my wicked turn-around jumper - one that I can still hit even today.

As summer progressed and the days became hotter, the box fan would spend more days standing in the doorway, thrumming along with the cicadas.   We had spent the humid days doing chores, riding bikes, caring for infant siblings, and a thousand other things.    As the years progressed, my mother had us working various jobs (to which she had applied for us).   In high school and college, she had us enroll in volunteer programs in Central and South America, and our curriculum was advanced to a level none of us thought possible.  

One of my mother’s greatest legacies is her boundless and remarkable energy.   It was enough for everyone.   She created endless projects and endless opportunities to fill our days and our minds.   She was the principal, the teacher, the den mother, the head nurse, the groundskeeper, the game warden, the mother nun, the librarian, the counselor and the gym coach.   She could do it all – and she did.    And we followed.   Ok, we resisted much of the time.   But we learned to appreciate it - and we learned to love her for it.

Those summer months flashed by so quickly that many are lost to our memories.   But some moments are clearly remembered.   Like riding our bikes over the crack in the sidewalk that had been lifted by the giant tree, its branches reaching high over our street in a panoramic and protective arch.

The summers my mother created for us helped us build roots like those.   And today we push through life’s challenges as if they are the lightest of concrete blocks.

Each of us has been filled with energy and purpose - vividly so.   As artists, scientists, teachers, businessmen, or just especially good mothers and fathers, we can look back on our summers and, in part, understand why.   

And we’re glad she cut the cord to the TV.   Even if we didn't seem so at the time.

Hey Ghost

Hey ghost
you really don't fit in here
in that Victorian costume
of see-through, sepia design

It might have been cool once
Now it's not to wear drag
Clinton and Stephanie would both tell you
it's not for the ghost about town

Those pale ivory buttons on your brown shoes
are quite out of style unless you're name Ida
But they make for good thumping
up and down the front stairs
 
And the orb
yes, the orb that you sent to my room
How couldn't I notice that thing?
It scared my cat crazy - she scratched my right arm

Come on
I know you can talk
Basement and attic, you murmur and moan
So, "Meg...." in the white noise
won't really scare me
when I tune in my Sony TV

And don't think I'm psycho
No matter how much
you wish and you whisper
you won't get me anywhere near
The coachhouse upstairs

I'm happy and normal
with people from around here
I don't miss Ms. Jacobs or Riley or Gen
And don't want to talk to the girl they say jumped

Hey ghost
You are starting to really annoy me
I'm about ready to call
my friend Father Kret
And then who will be scared?

My green Scwhinn Varsity

From Memorial Park

On the fourth of July

To Beverly Bank

And hot August skies

Flinging on down

old Devil’s hill

Gripping green tape

And ready to spill

And I shouldn’t have left

my favorite 10 speed

My varsity bike

all shiny and green

On the Prospect back porch

unlocked for the night

Without a mean dog

or even a light

To keep out old Charlie,

Fulloflove indeed

My bike in exchange

for a bagful of weed

Jesse's Paint Shop

Out on the key

at a paint shop named Crow's

There's an artist named Jesse

With a pin through his nose

He sits on his stool

and works his designs

lost in his thoughts

to the tunes of Rammstein

At the beach and the bay

the dock and the pier

you see works by Jesse

everywhere here

Butterfly wings, looping and flowing

alien faces, teeth and eyes glowing

Dear mother Alice, in memory of

lost to the seaweed out in the gulf

Girlfriends and wives, now past their best

are recorded on forearms

and painted on chests

Now raising their babies

In Venice and Port Charlotte

The girls have tatts too,

from their days as beach harlots

Wanna be cowboys with testosterone threats

spelled out by Jesse

there on their necks

Crosses galore,
thorn rings and thorn roses

they're part of the band
on their bellies and noses

Jesse's own gallery, in stores and in shops

in high concentration

in the IHops

At the beach, in the sand,

in the sweat and the brine

the tattoo creations, they swim and they shine

There isn't some skin

no matter how teeny

that Jesse's not painted

in a bikini

In a black Scorpions tee shirt, his industry grows

and Jesse's the king - he makes it up as he goes

And Jesse's great helper, what makes it all run
is a sharp clear brown liquid
known around here as rum

As it flows through the crowd on the key and in bars
folks think of Jesse
and get into their cars

They come out to Crow's, open 24 hours
and start out with thoughts of a tiny red flower

Then they get almost naked and pass out on cue
and Jesse starts working
with greens and with blues

By the time they awake,
the confederate painter
has painted himself
a huge alligator

It's there on his calf,
right there on her thigh

It must have looked cool
When they were high

Wake up, my boy

Wake up, my boy

it's time you get started

the coffee pot's on

and the cat has departed

It was a long x-box night

dead cowboys and soldiers

dancing in death

at your wireless controllers

But now here's today

it's here, it's right now

the sun has come up

and so have the cows

And if I have to, I'll say it
on this morning so clear
the perfect alarm clock
"Hey, lookie here"

Tucker's hotel

Out on the highway
on the old Tucker place
Past the faded red barns
and the old missle base

There's a brand new hotel,
built just last year
And it's really not far,
but it's really not near

The Bobs looked at prices
and decided they needed
a place not too fancy
the lot not too weeded

So I drove my white rental
down the straight asphalt track
Past a barbed wire fence
and the weathered old shack

Past the tall skinny pines
and gnarled oak trees
And way past the sign
for the new Applebees

I looked out the window
at the browns and the grays
And the light yellow greens
soon to be maize

They flashed past the windows
in a blurred country scene
Complete with the cattle
and the pigs that looked mean

The black and white cows,
well they just didn't move
They stomped muddy hoofs
and they snorted and stewed

They stood and they stared,
and they chewed and they chewed
They stood in the grass
and they moo'd with their mood

I stepped from the car
and into the gravel
And cursed out Obama
for making me travel

Its healthcare reform and ARRA!
That has me out here for almost no pay...

The lot was deserted
and smelled like manure
which must drift across
from Tucker's, I'm sure

He sold a small corner
of his vast fields of green
Now he's got cows on both sides
and this hotel in between

It's a Holiday Inn,
no wait, it's not that
It some kind of new place,
generic and flat

With carpets and curtains all shipped in pre-made
They're flimsy but cheap, just the right grade

It's a Stay-Inn-Motel
it says on the sign
And when the Bobs saw the prices
they thought it'd be fine

It's not, after all, Miami or Spain
Just a little hick town, without even a train

The front desk was spartan,
one phone and one clerk
and she stood there and waited
and smiled with a smirk

The Stay-Inn was empty
she said it was growing
And that would help Tucker
cut back on his mowing

With my bag and my laptop
and a hope the key fit
I trudged up to my room
like it was the Ritz

It had little shampoos
a cheap plastic alarm
And a full view of Tucker's
his cows and his farm

I went to the window,
looked out it and sighed
They Bobs aren't just cheap,
they're also quite blind

I'd find a way out, get past all those rules
That had me out here, a country-bound fool

Then I saw the old man,
on top of his rig
A green John Deere Lexus,
really quite big

He leaned back and he smiled
and winked up my way
And he turned and he laughed,
and I knew right away

That Tucker had been out here
alone with the birds
With only his pigs
and the cows and the turds

And for just a few acres
of grass and of dirt
he bought off the Bobs
and the Stay-Inn white shirts

So I look out the window
and think, "ain't it a bitch?"
how that old farmer Tucker
got himself rich