The Statuette

He unearthed it while removing the weeds from his garden. It was a ghastly figure about four inches tall. It was made of clay and had been fired in a kiln. Maybe it depicted a primitive god or a demon, but how ancient could it be if it was fired in a kiln? And why would anyone go to so much trouble to create anything so ugly? God only knows how it got in Don’s garden, and God was not telling.

“It looks like a troll to me,” he told his wife, Alice.

“I think it looks like a gargoyle.”

”A gargoyle?”

“Yeah, you know, one of those hideous creatures they put on medieval churches and such.”

He knew what gargoyles were, but he had not thought about this thing looking like one of them. Maybe it would look more like a gargoyle if he washed some of the dirt off it. He washed it in the kitchen sink. It had the bulging eyes and mirthless grin of a frog, but it also had the high forehead and the equatorial nose of a human. Furthermore, it had big ears. Is that what gargoyles looked like? He was not sure.

He looked up gargoyles in the encyclopedia. He could understand the gargoyles that drained rain water away from the block walls of buildings; they were ugly but at least they served a purpose. What about the other gargoyles, the ones that were strictly ornamental, the ones that supposedly depicted a mythical creature? Why were they made a part of buildings? And why was there no consistency? One would think that a mythical creature would be described in the myth and that artists wishing to depict it would make the sculpted figures conform to that description. This did not seem to be case. From the few pictures in the encyclopedia he determined that gargoyles could be any number of different creatures. The only rule seemed to be that they should be repulsive, but even that rule was broken sometimes. He was curious about why this was so, but he was not curious enough to read the entire article. The one positive thing he could say about calling such a variety of creatures “gargoyles” is that it prevented arguments about whether something looked like a gargoyle.

At any rate this figure was too small to be a part of any building. He still thought it must be a demon of some sort. He carried the statuette into his bedroom. As hideous as it was, it was a gift from the earth. He did not want to hastily discard a gift from the earth. He set it on his dresser where he would see it every day. Seeing it would make him think about what he wanted to do with it.

Alice waited until he was asleep. If churches put gargoyles on the buildings to scare people into righteousness it was certainly a good strategy. She thought there was something disturbing about the eyes of the gargoyle her husband found in their garden. She could not stand to have those eyes watching her sleep. She took the little statue into the kitchen and set it next to the coffee pot. “He’ll it see there everyday until he decides to get rid of it,” she thought.

When he woke up the next morning the last thing on his mind was the little statue. The coffee pot was on a timer and he could smell the coffee brewing as he dressed. He walked into the kitchen. There he cut a bagel in half and spread cream cheese on both halves. He put the bagel on a small plate, reached into the cupboard and removed a coffee cup. He saw the demon when he went to pour the coffee. The sight of it startled him so much that he almost dropped the cup. “It’s not a demon,” he told himself. “It’s just a small statue, a mere lump of clay, but this is not a good place for it.” He carried it into the living room and set it on the table next to the end of the couch where he normally sat. Then he turned on the television and walked back to the kitchen to retrieve his coffee and bagel. It was his practice to watch the morning news while eating his breakfast.

Alice came into the kitchen after he left for work. She looked at the coffee pot and smiled. “Good,” she thought. The gargoyle is gone. He must have thrown it out.”

She ate breakfast then went into the living room to watch her favorite soap opera. The sight of the gargoyle on the end table startled her. She brushed it off the table and onto the floor, hoping that the fall broke the ghastly thing. It did not. By the time the show was over she had forgotten all about the statuette. Her mind was now on the list of items she was going to purchase at the grocery store.

The dog entered the living room after she left. He gave the statue on the floor a few critical sniffs before picking it up. He took it to the kitchen where he dropped it on the floor. It is too difficult to know what a dog is thinking to say that he was making a critical comment, but after giving the little statue a thorough sniffing he peed on it.

Alice now returned with the groceries. She quickly put the perishable items in the refrigerator. Since it was a hot day and her feet were uncomfortable she took off her shoes. Not surprisingly, that is when she stepped in the dog pee and saw the wet statue. One would think she would have blamed the dog for peeing on the floor, but that is not what she did. She loved the dog and hated the gargoyle. In her mind there was obviously something bad about the gargoyle that made the dog pee on it. She washed the pee off of the statue and off of the floor. She decided that something had to be done about that evil statue. She had to find a way to get it out of her house. She put it in front of the door between the house and garage. With any luck her husband would step on it and break it when he came home. She could always say the dog must have carried it into the kitchen.

Alice was leaving the house again as the house keeper, Connie, arrived. Connie almost broke her neck tripping over the little statue. She took one look at it and made the sign of the cross. She did not know if this thing was supposed to be a gargoyle or not, but she was taking no chances. She picked it up as though she knew it was contaminated. She did not want to risk tripping over it again. She thought it might be one of those ugly things people put in their gardens or on their front porches. So she set it on the porch next to the front door.

Don did not notice that it was missing from the end table that night. The next morning he saw his dog standing in front of the front door. Don put a leash on the dog and led it outside to do its business. When the dog finished Don turned to walk back to the house. That is when he saw the statuette sitting on the porch. That is also when the wind blew the door shut. It was locked and he did not have his keys. He angrily rang the doorbell. He nudged the repulsive statue with his foot as rang the doorbell again. “That damn thing never stays where I put it,” he thought. He knew it had to be his wife who moved it, but the ugliness of the thing is what made her do it. He rang the doorbell again. He was very much in the mood to blame someone or something for being locked out of his house. He looked down at the statuette. “Anything that hideous has to be bad luck,” he concluded. When Alice finally answered the door he said: “That does it, I’m getting rid of the statue of that damn demon!”

On his way to work he stopped at a store that sold curios, figurines, vases and such. Some of the merchandise was new, but the store also carried antiques and collectibles. Don thought the owner of the store might be able to tell him what the statuette was supposed to be. Better yet, he might buy it.

“Do you know what the hell this is?” Don asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Is it very old?”

“I doubt it.”

“What will you give me for it?”

“I’d be lucky if I could sell it for a dollar.”

“Then I guess I’ll just throw it away.”

“All right, I’ll give you a dollar for it.”

Don took the dollar and left. The owner of the store wrote out a price tag for a dollar fifty and attached it to the statuette. He set it on a shelf thinking it was very unlikely that anyone would ever buy the thing.

That afternoon Dale entered the store looking for a vase. He had bought flowers for his wife for their first wedding anniversary, but he wanted the real gift to be a vase. It had to be something unusual and beautiful.

“May I help you?”

“Probably, but I want to brows a bit first.”

The owner of the store smiled. “Be my guest.”

Dale looked over at a shelf containing curios and miscellaneous bric a brac. He took several steps toward that shelf and stopped dead in his tracks. He could not believe his eyes. It must be a miracle! Sitting on the shelf was a statuette he had not seen since his early teens. He had lost it when he and his parents moved out of the house where he had grown up. Vivid memories sprang to his mind. He was only ten years old when he made that statuette. He had disobeyed his mother by entering her potting shed when she was not there. He had just seen King Kong, and he wanted to make a statue of the beast. He took a large lump of clay and began working it into the likeness of the ape. He was nearly finished when his mother caught him.

“What are you doing here?”

“Making a statue.”

“You know I’m going to have to punish you for this.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let me see what you’ve made.” He showed it to her. “That’s not bad, not bad at all. Do you want me to fire it for you?”

“Please.”

His punishment was that he had to miss his favorite television show that night, but it was worth it. Now this wonderful statuette of King Kong was sitting on a shelf in this store with the price tag of a mere dollar fifty on it. Dale picked it up with a big smile on his face. To others it was a grotesque figure with malevolent eyes. To him it was a beautiful figure with eyes that reflected a mother’s love for her child even when he was naughty. In addition to the statuette, he bought a beautiful vase for his wife, and he shared with her the miracle of unconditional love.

Mother’s day in the U.S. is May 8. Let your mother know how much her love means to you.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Mar. 27, 2011

Obviously dates are a problem when entering something written years ago.  Mother's day is May 10, this year.  I must say this story packed a punch for me because my mother died last year just before mother's day!

Thinking of Nature

I grew up in a neighborhood where people were fond of planting fruit trees in their back yards. The plumb tree and the apricot tree in our yard did what they were supposed to do; they produced fruit.   Not that it did us any good. The only thing we got out of it was the sight of some very colorful bird shit. It is unlikely that the birds even noticed the color of the guano they randomly dispersed throughout our neighborhood or the mangled portions of fruit they left uselessly hanging on the branches of our trees. Birds do not care about such things. Nor do they care about the expectations of the people who planted the trees or why the trees are growing where they are growing. Birds focus on consumption rather than production. Given their ability to deprive us of the fruits for our labor we are inclined to view them as being destructive, but this does not mean they are unproductive as far as nature is concerned. Nature’s more favorable view of this matter is based on the fact that what we have in birds is the vehicle for a random distribution of flora. That this method of distribution might seem wasteful to us or might conflict with our best interests at times does not matter. It is not about us. I am tempted to say the birds do not give a shit but that is obviously not the case.

The role that birds play in planting vegetation is automatic and requires absolutely no thought on the part of the birds. What is digested nourishes a bird. What is not digested is dropped wherever and whenever a bird feels the all too frequent urge to lighten its load. In undeveloped areas where a large amount of the soil is exposed to the birds those feathered dispensers of undigested seeds are an important part of a reasonably efficient planting process. In developed areas where far less soil is exposed to the birds this method of planting is a hit or miss proposition at best. It does not matter that the seeds are well fertilized by the guano in which they are encased, the seeds that land on my car are wasted. I will admit I do not wash my car as frequently as I should, but it is never covered with enough dirt to allow the seeds to take root. The seeds that land on buildings, sidewalks, streets and other surfaces covering the soil are not going to take root either. I might add that, in spite of the coloring provided by the fruit, guano has never caught on as a fashion accessory or a decoration. This last comment is my way of reminding my self to wash my car and to avoid parking it under tree branches where birds are inclined to roost.

One thing that quickly becomes apparent is the conflict that often arises between what we want to grow and what nature randomly plants. We may be able to manage our environment but we cannot control it. If we could control it subscribers to gardening magazines would not send nearly as many letters and pictures of strange plants to the editors of those magazines.

“What the hell is this plant I discovered growing in my garden?” is a question frequently asked in those letters.

To which the editors are tempted to endear themselves by saying: “Oh that? That is plant son of a bitch, and you better get it out of your garden before it takes over your entire yard!”

“Why can’t the damn gophers eat plant son of a bitch rather than my daisies?” is another question frequently asked.

“Because the only creature that eats plant son of a bitch is the one that blew that plant’s seeds out of his ass in your garden, and boy was he glad to get rid of them!”

Occasionally nature’s random plantings will provide a pleasant surprise. Wild strawberries suddenly appeared on my property one day, much to the delight of the gophers, ground squirrels, and birds that devoured the fruit before it was ripe enough to appeal to me. The first creatures to arrive at the banquet frequently eat all the food. Nature was never known for its manners or sense of fair play.

In all likelihood the plants that will make an airborne invasion of your property are the most prodigious ones growing near your property. There are not many birds that can fly with their legs crossed. The uninvited plants that settle down on my property are usually the most undesirable ones. Ragweed, cockleburs, and foxtails are not my idea of a garden. Gardens should contain plants with vibrant, fragrant blossoms. This is why my neighbors and I are often prone to fits of optimism that cause us to plant flowers that are not indigenous to the mountain. Doing this is not a good idea. The few flowers that are not eaten by gophers and ground squirrels are usually fooled by the weather and bloom too soon. You can almost hear the native plants laughing at them.

“Hey, fool! This warm day is just a teaser. It ain’t the end of winter, and the next storm is going to freeze your stamen off!”

The human equivalent of that is too unpleasant to contemplate. Fortunately plants can re-grow reproductive organs. Unfortunately they cannot do it fast enough to reproduce in the same year that their blooms were frozen off. Much to the annoyance of gardeners, the plants do not learn from this. So they continue to bloom too early until they are too old to bloom at all. And we, being of superior intellect, make the mistake of planting new flowers that repeat this behavior. I guess we just want to get our hands dirty and amuse the indigenous vegetation. This should serve as a reminder not to plant any flowers that may or may not survive the gophers and ground squirrels long enough to have their blooms frozen off next spring. I am using this reminder as my justification for not planting anything at all this year. Parking my butt in the shade with a cold beer in my hand might not be a better idea than planting new flowers, but it is a lot less frustrating.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Apr. 19, 2011

Put it in writing

I was discussing a rumor floating around the work place with several of my friends. We were laughing over the fact that each of us had a slightly different version of the rumor.

“Well,” I said, “if you want people to get an accurate account of what happened I guess you have to put it in writing.”

“That may not help,” Deborah said. She then told the following story:

An elderly relative of hers, Ruth, fell and broke her hip. When Rabbi Rabinowitz visited Ruth in the hospital she asked him to write to her brother, Slava, to let him know what happened. “But,” she said, “bear in mind that he does not know much English.”

The Rabbi assured her that that would not be a problem. Since Jewish males are expected to know at least some Hebrew, the Rabbi wrote the letter in Hebrew. Slava had lost track of many of the relatives. His brother had died several years ago, but his brother’s wife, Rebeca, would know where other members of the family were. He had no reason to believe that Rebeca, a woman, would know Hebrew. Ah, but most Jews also spoke Yiddish. Although Slava’s knowledge of Hebrew was less than perfect, he translated what he could understand of the letter into Yiddish and mailed the translation to Rebeca.

Rebeca, however, was from a family that had been in this country for several generations and had a limited understanding of Yiddish. She understood many of the words, but would have been hard pressed to write correct sentences. Furthermore, this was a family matter. She did not want to appear uncaring by simply forwarding the letter to her husband’s cousin, Saul. She had to write a cover letter at the very least. She had only met Saul once. He was from Russia. Was he fluent in Yiddish? She did not know. So she did her best to translate the letter she received into English. She knew that Saul had a son. He could translate the letter if Saul did not understand English.

Saul’s son, however, was at college. What Saul could understand of the letter was that Ruth was gravely ill. He should let Ruth’s niece, Natasha, know this. Natasha, however, was a recent arrival to this country. So he translated what he could understand of the letter he received into Russian.

Natasha was fluent in Russian, but her vision was so bad that she could not read the letter. She gave it to her neighbor’s son Benjamin to read to her. What he saw on the page looked like chicken scratching to him. So he took the letter to the synagogue hoping that Rabbi Rappaport knew someone who could translate it. Fortunately, Ruth had told Rabbi Rabinowitz about her niece and gave him her niece’s address. He then called several of the synagogues near that address. When Rabbi Rappaport told him that he knew Natasha, Rabbi Rabinowitz mailed Rabbi Rappaport a letter in English. Benjamin received that letter when he went to the synagogue to have the other letter translated. He and Rabbi Rappaport then became the only people who received letters they fully understood.

Deborah ended the story by saying: “Oy vey, such a family! Everyone has moved away, and nobody writes anymore. Do they all have broken hands?”

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Mar. 29, 2011

Consumer Revolt

I am not a morning person. I am not a person who rolls out of bed and is ready to run the moment his feet hit the floor. I am a person who depends on advanced preparation and a routine to navigate through the mental fog of my first waking moments. Before I go to bed at night I set up my coffee maker, and I plan my breakfast. I then lay out the clothes I am going to wear the next day. The next morning I turn on the coffee maker on my way to the bathroom. I do not depend on the coffee maker to turn on automatically for the same reason that I do not depend on an electric alarm clock. Power outages are frequent enough to make electric clocks and the clock on the coffee maker too undependable. One would think that my caution would assure me of a nice, hot cup of coffee when I finish in the bathroom. For most of my adult life it did, but of late I have been sabotaged by the shoddy quality of coffee makers. There is nothing more frustrating than finding that the damned coffee maker has failed at that hour in the morning. This is particularly true when the woman of the house has had one of her occasional fits of neatness and the system used to make coffee when the power goes out is no longer where it has been stored for the last thirty years. Believe me, I am in no mood to search for such things at five o’clock in the morning!

The thing is that I have not been able to find a coffee maker at any price that will last longer than a few months. It is not just the price of replacing those devices that has made me so angry it is also the disappointment and inconvenience. Coffee makers are not convenient when they do not work! I believe the frequent failures of coffee makers are intentional efforts to make you replace them frequently. My response to this is an extended middle finger. I have now bought a French press. There are few parts in this devise that can fail because you heat the water for them on the stove. I might add that they are also considered the best way to make good coffee. The one draw back is that they do not make many cups of coffee at the same time. I am solving that problem by using my old camping equipment when I want to make more than a few cups of coffee at the same time. I have a pot in which I heat the water on the stove. I then pour the hot water into a funnel that contains the filter and the coffee grounds, and the liquid seeps down into the pot from which the finished product can be poured. It is primitive, but the coffee thus produced is as good as the coffee produced by modern drip style coffee makers.

I know not what course other consumers will take, but give me dependability or lose my business! May the companies who manufacture a planned obsolescence into their products suffer an unplanned loss of their market.

First published in macsbackporch.com on Jan. 26, 2011

The Wedding Gift

Matt and Bob had been roommates in college and quickly became best friends. There were the freshman and sophomore dorm years. Then they found an inexpensive apartment to rent. It was not exactly a Hugh Hefner bachelor’s pad, but it was good enough. To them it was freedom. The two bedrooms were small with barely enough room for a bed and a dresser. Having their own rooms, however, offered them some privacy on those nights when one of the boys got lucky. The kitchen was cramped and they used a card table to dine on when they had quests over for dinner, which was a rare but significant event. Their living room would have been fairly spacious if it were not for the two desks and computers. It was shame to put those items in the living room, but that was the only room large enough for them. The living room also contained a sofa, a chair, a television and a stereo. The walls were decorated with posters of rock bands, and the bookshelves were pine boards resting on cinder blocks.

Matt was almost the perfect roommate. He was neat and well organized. Bob was the messy one. Matt was always chiding him about the clutter. Bob responded by putting the unsightly papers in a large packing box he decorated with self-sticking shelf paper. Ironically it was the messy one, Bob, who was the better cook. Not that he cooked very often, once or twice a week at the most. Their primary diet consisted of pizza, Chinese food and beer. The only fault Bob could find with Matt was the fact that Matt occasionally played some really rotten practical jokes. Bob would never forget the time that Matt had screwed up Bob’s night with Sally. This was only Bob’s fourth date with her, but he brought her back to his apartment. They sat on the couch and were soon indulging in some rather heavy petting.

“Why don’t we go to my bedroom,” he said.

“All right, but I need to use the rest room first.”

She walked into the bathroom. She could not have been there more than a minute when Bob heard her shriek. She came storming out of the bathroom and demanded that he take her home immediately.

“What happened?” he asked as he drove her home.

“Don’t play dumb with me!”

“I don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Can’t we talk about his?”

“Not now.”

He pulled up to her place and stopped. She got out of the car and ran to her apartment without bothering to shut the car door. Bob noticed a wet spot on the back of her dress as she disappeared inside. When he returned to his apartment he discovered that Matt had taped plastic wrap under the toilet seat. It did not take much imagination to picture Sally’s urine running off the plastic wrap and down onto her panties. He confronted Matt the next day.

“That wasn’t funny!”

Matt laughed. “Got you, huh.”

“No, you got Sally, and it cost me a lay.”

Matt struggled to control his laughter.

“Payback’s a bitch, pal. I don’t know when or how I’ll get even, but I will.”

It had been years since that event. Both boys had graduated from college. They were no longer roommates, but they were still best friends. When it came to women Matt was one of the strangest people Bob had ever met. He never went to any effort to pick women up. He did not have to. Women found him irresistible if they were near him for any length of time. It took some effort on their part, but when they made their interest in him obvious he would ask them out. The one thing he had in common with the playboys was his aversion to commitment. The moment a girl became serious about him he would find some excuse to end the relationship. It was hard to believe he was now getting married. But Gwen was no ordinary woman. She was beautiful and cheerful, the sort of girl who really lights up a room. She also had some artistic talent, but she was too sensible to try to make a living painting. The one thing that kept her from being the complete pragmatist was the fact that she was so sentimental. She went all out to celebrate the holidays. Matt had proposed to her in October, and she had insisted on a November wedding so they could celebrate Christmas as husband and wife.

Bob was in a department store shopping for a wedding gift. It was not even thanksgiving and the store was already decorated for Christmas. Bob found that objectionable. “One holiday at time, damn it!” That was his attitude. He was sure Matt would concur. Bob could remember when he and Sally brought a small Christmas tree into the apartment. Yes, it was that Sally. Bob managed to convince her that the plastic wrap was Matt’s doing.

“Where are going to put that?” Matt asked.

It was not the question that got too Sally, it was his tone of voice.

“I thought we’d put it in front of the bookcase if that’s all right with you, Mr. Scrooge.”

“I’m not a scrooge. I just don’t get all goofy about it.”

It was the rolls of outside Christmas lights the department store had placed on display that reminded Bob of Sally's reply: “Ho, ho, ho! And a merry fucking Christmas to you too, Gov’nor!”

Bob started laughing. “A merry fucking Christmas indeed,” he thought. He had not tried to get even for the plastic wrap prank, but he had not forgotten it. Two strands of lights, each fifty feet in length ought to do it. It was a rather novel wedding gift but not inappropriate given the season. He was sure it would appeal to Gwen's artistic nature, and the thought of Matt putting up and taking down all those lights was too amusing to resist.

Gwen was delighted with the gift. “Let’s put them up tonight!”

If a look can call you a bastard the one Matt cast at Bob certainly said it. “I’d rather not do it in the dark. I’ll do it tomorrow,” Matt said.

“Okay, but don’t wait until the storm comes in.” The forecast was for snow.

People in the mountains did not have rain gutters because the snow and ice the gutters collect add enough weight to tear them off the roof. This meant that Matt had to find a way to attach the lights so they could be strung along the roof line. He decided to drive small nails into the eaves. Gwen was dancing like an excited puppy as she directed the placement of the lights. He was freezing cold by the time he had the lights were in place.  She looked at them critically.

“I think we should also run them down the porch posts to frame the entry,” she said.

This meant he had to move all of them. It also meant that each string of lights would be plugged into separate sockets that were on different breakers. That may not sound like a bad thing, but he was hoping the lights would blow the breaker so he would not have to put them up again next year. Ah, but hope does not die easily; fifty feet of lights still draw a hell of a lot of juice. There was still a good chance the lights would trip the breakers. Unfortunately for him, the manufacturer had thought of that. The lights blinked in a sequence of that caused them to draw a maximum amount of electricity without tripping the breakers. Several days went by. The buildup of ice on the cords of the lights soon started tearing out the nails. This was made evident by the way the lights were drooping. So he was now standing on a ladder, out in the cold, as he put in screws to hold his lights in place. Bob drove by in time to laugh at the sight of Matt restringing the lights.

The next day there was a message from Matt on Bob’s answering machine at work. “Peace on earth and screw you! Where were you when I was hanging those damn lights?”

The message made Bob’s day. He went to a Christmas party at Matt’s house on Christmas Eve. Should he remind Matt that payback is a bitch or should he play innocent. He decided to play innocent.

“Hey, Matt! You did a great job of stringing your Christmas lights.”

“Fuck you!” Matt silently mouthed the words.

“Aren’t they lovely?” Gwen said. “I really want to thank you for giving them to us.”

Matt forced a smile when she turned to look at him. Bob had to struggle to keep from laughing. Matt would eventually forgive him. They were still best friends, but there was no doubt that Matt’s Christmas thoughts would be a bit less cheery as he strung those lights every year. Gwen, on the other hand, would always be pleased by the festive appearance they added.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Dec. 3, 2010