From a Lawnchair

We sat on the driveway in cheap lawn chairs, looking at the first edge of the sunset. She seemed timeless to me then, like parents do to their children, but I know now how young she really was. She had been throwing the ball to me so I could learn how to catch. Then we sprayed the driveway with a hose to clean it. Then we sat in those chairs, smelling the cool, clean water clinging to the air.

The grass, the whole front yard was immaculate. She took pride in it. She had a green thumb, just like her mother. So there were flowers. It was all very green, very alive. And so were we.

I looked up and down the street. I knew the people there. Most were okay. A few were risky to know. Unpredictable. One house, across the street, at the end of the block, was rumored to be a drug house. In the middle of a small, suburban neighborhood. And it probably was. But people weren’t so ready to shoot each other over drugs back then. It was much safer to sell or use drugs than it is now.

For the most part, though, the neighbors were nice people who ate spaghetti and fried chicken and meatloaf and potato salad, who went to work long hours and came back home looking for a little quiet. Just like us, they watched M.A.S.H. and the Carol Burnett show and Happy Days. We waved at each other and smiled. It was the right thing to do.

We were floating in this place, at that time, drifting slowly from day to day. Being. Doing what seemed right to do at the time. We had our place. There were shadows there, but we learned to live with them.

We sat on those chairs on that summer evening, looking at the sunset, wishing the day would last just a little bit longer.


Psalm 39:4-5
Peace to you.



© LW Publishing 2011

When Knievel Was King

Oh yeah, I was totally and completely an Evel Knievel fan.

What? Like you weren’t? Right. Only if you weren’t born yet. And still, even then...

Of course, at first, my mom wasn’t too sure about this . . . fascination. After all, his name was “Evel.” It couldn’t have been more clear. But it wasn’t clear at all. Turns out his name was more of a gimmick. Hyperbole. And it wasn’t actually “Evil,” right? It was “Evel.” Vowels make all the difference. Turns out he was a nice guy. At least as far as Evel’s connection to me as a kid, he was an all American daredevil who jumped motor cycles over rows of cars, trucks or whatever else he could find, in ever increasing numbers while telling us kids to stay clear of drugs.

He set world records, jumping over things with that motor cycle. It was magical, my friend. Magical.

I didn’t know much about what he did with his private life. That was the stuff of legends. All that mattered was the joy of waiting for him to jump, then the joy of watching him approach the ramp, then the joy of seeing the jump and seeing him land. When he crashed, it really upset me. I wanted him to make it. I didn’t want him hurt. It really was all about the jump, the risk, the daring do, and the flash of a smile when he was through.

For Christmas one year, I received a treasured gift. It was an Evel Knievel action figure with stunt bike. The most popular toy in the land of America at the time. It made the toy company over 300 million dollars. Viva Americana! Oh yes. It was a little Evel on a little motorcycle that you wound up with this round lever on a little red plastic platform. Zim zim ZIM, louder and louder. You would launch Evel and he would ride and jump over a ramp, over whatever you might put in his path.

Here’s what happened.

Someone broke my Evel. And when they did, they just shrugged their shoulders and walked away, like it didn’t matter. And no one did anything about it. It was not replaced. It was not fixed. I was left holding the sad and tattered remains with no hope of justice.

Now THAT was evil.

Peace to you.

© LW Publishing 2011