NakedSunfish.com - Spontaneous and Sporadic

Rat

by
Rick Brown

I must have been maybe 10 years old … 11 tops. I was sitting in the living room of the old farmhouse … my mother’s family home and mine as well. It was a torrid, scorching, dog day of an August afternoon. I was watching T.V. And sweating profusely. But going outside was hardly a cooling option. Even the handful of stores in uptown Olmsted Falls had no air conditioning. Only the Nouveau riche … the obviously affluent … had A/C in the early 1960s.

Oh sure, I could hop on my trusty Schwinn Hornet and ride across town to Leader Drug. It was ALWAYS “Kool” inside there. And I arguably would be as well. But the “Kool – ness” would last only for the duration of nursing a Coke Phosphate. The excursion to … and ultimately the return ride … would negate any break in the heat.

As I watched Gene Raeburn unapologetically schmooze with contestants on Match Game, I suddenly heard my father on the back porch … seemingly in the middle of some sort of brouhaha … making a slight thumping noise and seasoning this simmering dish with sporadic but colorful expletives. That was not surprising. It was my Dad’s usual … daily schtick.

I should point out that while my family referred to the space as a back porch, it was not your run of the mill, screened in area … or a trendy quasi – 1960s “breezeway”. Not by any means. Because there were … in the not so distant history … quarries dotting the area on Cleveland’s far west side … quarry stone was used everywhere. Enormous chiseled slabs of stone served as the floor. Deeper … thicker … unmovable blocks of stone were stacked to make stairs coming down from the kitchen backdoor. I was convinced … even as a child … that while the groaning old farmhouse might easily blow away during a tornado, the floor and stairs were going nowhere. Ever.

I made my way slowly to the porch door and pulled it open wide. The bright August sunshine made for a severely stark contrast to the steel gray … almost pewter – ish stone. The burning yellow sun trying hard to heat up the cold, gray slabs … both extremes fighting their own physical, dying … and ultimately losing battle. My father was standing tall next to the aging, long … shockingly white … chest freezer. Like a tired, sweating warrior, he held a 5-foot-long … somewhat rusty crowbar in his calloused hands. Periodically, he would bring his weapon up a few feet in the air … then smash is down to the stone floor behind where the chest freezer set. A painful squeaking “EEK!” rose from behind the freezer each time Dad’s steely crowbar struck. Between the bright sun … cold, white freezer … massive steel gray slabs of stone … and the creepy “EEK’ – ing … it was quite the surreal scene.

Especially at 10 years old.

“Hi Dad. Watcha doing?” I cautiously asked.
“I’ve discovered a RAT out here Ricky.”
“A rat?” I replied … even more cautiously.
“Yes. And I suggest you get your butt into the house … NOW!”
He again raised his weapon and brought it down … hard.
“EEEEEK!!!”
“It sounds like it’s in pain. Can’t you just let it go?” I said in my best Saint Francis of Assisi impression.

My father looked up at me …. shifted his weight onto one hip … and rested his hands on his trusty, rusty crowbar. His eyes softened for a minute … then focused fiercely, freezing me in my tracks.

He then gave me his “I’m going to dispense some wisdom on you now” look. Except this time, he embellished his decree by wagging a stern finger in my distinct direction.

My father then said authoritatively … as if it were Yahweh’s 11th Commandment … all the while wagging his index finger for effect, “RICKY!!!! … NEVER!!! … NEVER!!! … EVER … feel SORRY for a RAT!!”

I stood there for a minute taking the entire scene in. As Dad again began pouncing and the rat continued “EEK”- ing … I slowly turned through the backdoor. And as I made my way back to Match Game purgatory I realized my father wasn’t talking specifically about rats or rodents.

My rat killing father was being philosophical.

AND … he was killing a rat.

Bunker Boy

History
is overflowing
like a closet
bursting at it seams.
Creaking loudly
like a wind tossed
ship floundering
against
the waves.

Where are you
bunker boy?
In which bunker
do you play?
Did your Tonka tank
just roll away?
Is your cap gun
out of pops?

Madam Defarge is
knocking at the door.
Focused on her knitting,
fueled with her rage.
The tumbril wheels
are moving
from the bunker
to the blade.

Dennis Toth

http://leavesofcrass.blogspot.com/