Last Call Laundromat with the People

At the laundromat on a late Saturday afternoon. This is what 'people' do. I realize as these words topple and tumble onto the page that, indeed, I am now officially part of this group so many of us scorn: People.

People. People suck. Why? While driving, it's the people who get in our way, the slow drivers, or 'those people' who drive aggressively and fast. It is those 'people' who speak on their cell phones while riding mass transit such that we non-people hear one-half of the conversation, although the phone's often on speaker due to the squealing brakes and noise; we're hearing the people on the other end of the phone too.

It is 'people' who use the term "people" when they are attempting to get our attention. For example, "People please. Pee-puhl, pleeeze listen to me." These unheard leaders raise their hand into the air and attempt to address the multitude of us muttering non-listeners. All of us chatting together, all of us, um, people. Mr. Meek, my seventh grade social studies teacher referred to us adolescents as People. That was 35 years ago, far ahead of his time.

We are called "people" because it's socially acceptable to do so rather than the age-old, quasi-sexist "Ladies and Gentlemen." This has gone to the wayside probably because more and more men rarely act gently, let alone as a gentleman might, which may be known as chivalrous. You know, holding open a door or laying down a trench coat over a curb-cut's puddle. Who would do that latter act anyway, other than, say, Popeye for Olive Oyl (skittle-lee-doo!)?

And ladies? Well, hard-fought (thank you Phyllis Schafly of Nancy Reagan era, who headed up Ladies Against Women), but this has held on much moreso than the gentleman thing. The feminist movement has keenly nudged the Lady title towards the door, though. Yet, even among my contemporaries, we women, that is, I still hear referrals to our gender as, "That lady over there," or, "Some lady nearly drove her shopping cart into me." We struggle to use the term 'woman,' and 'young woman,' and know well enough to occasionally not refer to our female sistahs as 'girls.' Alas, we fall back to the 'lady.'

At the very least, it's sad I know, since I am, I can honestly say, no lady. A woman yes, but definitely not a lady. Sure, I can don the heels-and-hose, wear the dangly earrings, and hand over an unopened jar of preserves to some guy to twist open. However, when an errant youth hollers out, "Hey lady!" when trying to get me to move off the sidewalk, my head does not turn towards his voice. Ladies have poise and . I lumber and work terribly hard not to knock things over. As my mom once said to us as she took us into an overpriced crystal and finery shop, "Hands By Sides." To this day, I try to adhere my elbows to my ribs when walking near someone's China hutch. And as such, as a loose deduction of not being a lady, and not being part of Tom Jones' iconic tune, "She's a lady, whoa-oh-oh!..." I am officially people.

People in laundromats -- we're all doing a cleaning job with our most intimate clothing and our basic outer wear. When people fold clothes, they hold them up, find the seam, gather the fabric together in a cloth-form of origami. This is true for every article but underwear. Men who fold boxers, or those male people, yes, they hold them up for all to see the snappy plaid or Garfield and Odie pattern. When it comes to their briefs? No. We don't see them at all.

Women with bras and "panties," (I've never been fond of that term), me included, do a quick grab-and-clasp fold, like it's a taco shell snapping in half. There the undies are on top of the wheelie-basket pile. We grab them by the waist band, quickly pull taut along the hips (holding them low, near our own hips, away from the general public's eye), snap them shut, and jam them into a mound of other undies. It's as if nobody has ever seen a pair of undies held up in the air or tossed to the side in a mad fit of passion. Underwear folding is personal, though.

And it's a horror movie if any of them should flit and flutter off the pile and onto the floor. Then what? Make a mental note to wash them at home or do we assume that mythical food-on-the-floor five-second rule? That is, we speculate that no cooties scampered across the linoleum and into the waistband if scooped up within five seconds? Uh huh. Scientists have proven that it could be on the floor for two seconds or ten: the outcome's still the same. Snatch those panties up, shake them out, roll them up, plunge into the pile, and move on.

When the sun drops, as it does earlier and earlier on these winter days, the laundromat lights illuminate us in a way that parallels the piercing lights of a darkened disco bar after Last Call. We appear less appealing, we're here, alone in a barren place, on a Saturday, doing something we'd rather not do, and, worse, we're not necessarily going home with someone savory and lusty. Instead, our arms are filled with folded towels and rolled socks all stacked into a basket, rolling cart, or wheeled luggage.

We here in the end-of-day Laundromat are the post-Last Call people without a Saturday night date - we are the ones glancing around the room, reading skewed flyers on the walls, staring at our unringing cell phones, or sucking down the final droplets of our over-priced melted ice drinks. We are the pale ones under the blaring lights who've not danced or moved much during the past couple hours. We, us Saturday evening laundromatters are the post-Last Call singlets and instead of smelling like sloshed gin and dancefloor sweat, we smell fresh and clean like Bounce.

No ladies or gentlemen here, I have become, as a result of incidences and unexpected disconnections am one of them, a member of the group known as The Evening Laundromat People. As a sidebar, I'd like to request that nobody think of that famous Charlton Heston phrase, "Soylent Green is People!" Instead, think of it simply, as Mr. Meek hollered in advance of us really understaning his meaning, that I am people.

chix again

I recently moved to a neighborhood with many apartment buildings, a bit of outdoor recreation, and plenty of shopping opportunity. I thought I'd blend in with the woodwork, not really be seen as I toodle around hither and tither. Just another Common Man, apple in the face and all, walking and shopping among the masses, unremarkable, nondistinct. Who would've thunk that they'd be hanging around Trader Joe's, milling in hair product stores, or sitting idly on park benches heads up, watching?

There they are: the singlets, the women who shop while scanning who's behind them, the ones with eyes seemingly on the backs of their heads, or maybe concealed in their oversized watches or Timbuktu biker bags.

I've been walking around my neighborhood lately, occasionally purchasing products, often pawing a cup of Peet's that ignites my system. Once in a while, I find an open stool there upon which I place my watchful self, and there I plop and view the world that strolls by on the sidewalk. The families are plenty, single dads and moms, buddies who yammer over a slice of pizza across the street, or the homeless dudes who hold out mottled Street Sheets and an empty donation Starbucks cup. Even the occasional EMTs or police officers all hot and confident in their deep blue wool and shiny leather uniforms saunter the street and nearby cafes embuing us with that sense of protectiveness and precautionary safety. Those who are women in uniform are often ensconced in conversation with their uniformed brethren. They are not the ones with the eyes.

It's the women, the chix, the bespectacled woman with the wandering eye who I see scanning the crowds, the aisles of cereal, the card shop's humor section, the rows of hair products before me. They are the watchers. I know this sounds paranoid, but it's happened on a number of different occasions.
It's like a porn movie without the cheesy chika-bow-wow music: she's taller than I, a page-boy cut brunette clad in a navy waist coat, hipster jeans and cool Adidas shoes. Her skin tells me she's younger too, none of the crows feet age lines that carve up my eyes. She reaches up, over her head for a 24 ounce bottle of Biolage spray and examines its contents like it's a nutritional chart. Then, as she replaces it, she tilts her head slightly in my direction; is she wondering if I need to pass by, is she really reading labels, or she peering in my direction?

I'm searching for a mousse, preferably Paul Mitchell; all the white bottles look alike to me and because I'm officially in the reading glasses age, I squint to read what each 12 point font indicates upon the labels. As I see her cocked head, I worry the product I seek will be near her and I'll have to interact. I sniffle from unease. From my sketchy peripheral vision, I see that she's reached towards a hip-level shelf and withdraws some other brand, some other type of bottle, this time it looks like a molding gel. Far from the spray she originally sought.
I find my product, look in her direction and see that she's smiling. I give the ole 'up nod, sniffle and turn. She smiles again. I'm uncomfortable. This is a hair product store. I pay and leave. About eight paces beyond I hear the tinkling bell of the shop; she's leaving too.

I went for a run the other day and saw in the near distance sitting on a park bench a solo chik. She was cool too, with her dark her pushed up into a peak - she needed a haircut - oversized jeans, boarder sneakers, and a black leather jacket with yellow hoodie poking out behind her neck. Her eyes were partially concealed by sun-shade glasses; nerd glasses I like to call them (only the nerdy kids wore them, even if I do understand their practicality). Beside her was her reusable TJ's bag and in her hand some sort of multi-purpose phone, perhaps a Droid, maybe an iPhone. She stared at its shiny, black face; her own bland, sealed lip expression demonstrated her boredom or dismay with it. It appeared as if she wanted it to ring or do something significant like expand into a tool, a skateboard, or a piece of cake. Young enough, cake would not affect her metabolism or weight. She glanced up as I rhythmically huffed towards her. She watched me plod by.

As I passed by, I hoped that she didn't call someone to report that she'd spied a lezzie sporting tights and a mismatched long-sleeved shirt jogging around the lake or that she wanted to hang and see if I'd return. I didn't want to know that the glance she gave me as I approached followed me as I curved the edge of the lake. About 30 minutes later, when I rounded the final corner, she was walking opposite me. She looked up, gave me the up nod and smiled. I breathed a 'hi' and kept going. Despite my fatigue, I actually quickened my pace.

Tonight, I encountered one outside my building. I haven't lived here long, but in the short time I've never seen anyone but my landlord hover in the perimeter of my building; he lives in Fresno, a land far, far away from this dwelling. I worked late and approached my walkway with the same nonchalance as always: I never see anyone so I'm not usually on alert. The sensor lights illuminated before I approached my door's steps which I thought odd. They're sensitive but not that sensitive. As I plodded up the walkway, I was mildly startled by the presence of a tallish blond, wrapped in a thick, western leather, sheepskin coat, the kind the Marlboro man would wear. Sky blue scrubs and clogs covered her legs and feet. She appeared as surprised as I to see someone approaching; she croaked into her cell phone, "Hey, it's me. What's up? You okay?" I didn't know if I should've said hello in that moment or ignore her. Seemed an odd place to be having a rather personal phone conversation, unless of course she was really speaking to me. She stood, head downcast on the walkway just beyond my front steps, between the two rose bushes where the pathway light shone upon her plastine shoes and cast a eery glow upon her face. She lifted her head as I stepped up the steps. Ill at ease again, I of course pulled out my key which unlocks my office door. This does not fit into my lock. After taking a moment to stare at its incapacity to open my door, I swung the appropriate key around my finger, slid it into the lock and entered.

I didn't know what amazed me more, that there was another human who lived here in this building or that she's a chik, like me, or so my gaydar tells me.

These women, these ogling singlets with their sidelong gazes imbalance me. It's not the same nervousness I get, those crazy swarming butterflies when there's whoosh! beauty before me. Oh, no, that's one of those blushing sensations and I do my best not to stumble and fall all over myself with an introduction. That's an okay feeling.

These are different, like a visual Craigslist Personal ad, without the aggravating text script ("U r 1 hot bayb") or self-aggrandizing descriptions that often result in a well worn self-help book summary or an external appearance not unlike those wacky, wobbly fun house mirrors. These are the ads on the sleeves by way of the furtive, coy glances, the pawing of same-brand products ("I like peanut butter stuffed pretzels too!"), and cupped hands around half empty containers of chai tea while peeking through their mod glasses. These are singlet chiks, singlet women and they are everywhere - as I discovered before - but now I'm noticing that they are in places I least expected: where I shop and live. And I feel funny around them, awkward.

It's funny, but now that one has spotted where I live, not that I'm famous or anything, but just that I'm another in the statistic of a few, I feel like I'm going to have a little Yelp numbered pin poking out of my building that denotes An Older Chik Lives Here! Marked for all to see and discover.

And I thought I was anonymous among the masses.

Surgerical Removal and Loss

We're always talking about surgical removal of wrinkles, bunions, tumors, warts, and extractions of impacted teeth. I'd like to discuss the surgical removal of space.
Not as in Space, The Final Frontier, but space, as in the gap between bone and tendon,the crevasse between at-rest and forward movement.

Last week, I subjected myself to the closing of a 3.5cm gap between my right humerus and my supra- and infraspinatus tendons and muscles. Shorn right off they were, nary a tab hung in the wind to which my surgeon could reattach. He opted for four titanium - Super Power I like to call them - screws and a bunch of Kevlar suture by which to lasso these muscles to their metallic pier. Second time I've had some Kevlar sewn into this shoulder. I should, essentially be bullet proof by now.

But it's the gap to which I refer here. The gap that allowed so much to occur and fall to the wayside. The cavern of air in which energy was lost and desired outcomes not completed. I had no idea how large this was until I was told recently, and by then, it seemed that there was so much damage, a repair seemed delayed, essentially late. Like wanting to see the tide roll in at dawn but waking up after the sunrise and discovering the beach and all cool shells are already swimming under water.

It has been repaired, though. And now, the pain ensues. The sutures have closed the gap, healing must follow, but not before so much damage has already occurred behind it. Closing the trench only seals a part of the wound that ripped apart long ago, little by little until, at last, it laid, open-mouthed, untethered, and basically ignored or unnoticed. Loss of life in this forward moving structure during these past couple years has made the recovery and rehabilitation a little more painful.

Look ahead, don't forget what occurred in the past to make this injury come about, learn from it, grow from it, and renew. It hurts, yes, but, ideally, it will get better and ultimately, the ache, loss, and pain will subside. Like a surgical removal of loss, perhaps now I can have a surgical removal and replacement of what disappeared in this vacuous gully.

I want to heal this wound and recover and grow from what still remains.

Birthdays

Friends, siblings, doggies are aging. Even I'm getting older. Of course, I'm thinking of all the peops I know who celebrate -- or don't -- this annual step towards maturity or Medicare.

I wanted to say that the collective birthdayers -- or 'we' -- are headed towards graying, but many of my friends aren't gray, or, perhaps those melanin-lacking hairs don't show for one reason or another. I need to mention the unintended step towards wrinkling, not in a bad, but because this is what age brings us. Most of my shriveling posse leans towards the contented side, which usually means they're not knitting their eyebrows together in typical angry fashion to earn those forehead wrinkles. They're a pleasant crew, aging well, aging steadily. I, too have discovered the facial caverns on myself: Crows feet from too much laughter may crevasse on the outer perimeter of eyes, but again, this results from smiling, not bitterness nor a history of (ew, yuck!) smoking, although I may admit I am headed toward a juvenile version of elderhood.

Basco's ten years old. A good age for a doggie. I'd say a great age for a dog who went blind three years ago. He's graying a bit, mostly on his hind legs, just over his knees. He's always been an old soul, even when he was a puppy he had a gently whitened, muzzle. He seemed okay with whatever life presented to him. I'd like to age gracefully like him.

Mom made sure that each of us celebrated our birthday, one way or another. My brother John was usually shafted: his day fell in mid-December when most of us had school plays, concerts, and other events that trumped his special day.

Mom's birthday was one never to be missed. She wasn't the biggest fan of Mother's Day, thinking it a useless reminder of her motherhood. But her birthday? Never Forget her day. Never. Call, send a card (in advance), order flowers or a gift to arrive early or on the day of. She loved yellow roses, but as an 8 y/o, I stole her heart when I gave her a bouquet of 3 dozen pink carnations which the florist sold me for a wrinkled dollar. I'm certain I looked like a street urching and he simply wanted me out of his boutiquey store.

She once said to me that celebrating her birthday was a way to show her she mattered, that she was loved, that we honored her presence. Her day is coming up and believe me, even at rest, I know that she's hoping for us to toast her on May 22nd. I will. I always do.

Alas, the birthday is unavoidable. It arrives a mere 12 months just after the last one. Even if those around us do so, it's one of those dates that we simply cannott forget, unlike Jury Duty obligations or the semi-annual dental appointment.

Thus, I suggest we toast the day of aging. Raise a glass to those who are avoiding another year and to those who embrace the day (or month) of their birth. Glad you're here getting old with me. I raise a tasty, frothy beer to each of you and to those whose birthdays are upcoming. Many good wishes and best of luck during your year.

Atrocious Acts

Unreported in Alameda County:

An evil cat hoarder had three -of 15- cats (that I know of) taken from her home. Basic abuse of innocent animals, this is a recurring legal and, obviously, ethical issue with her. She's been previously cited by Animal Protective Services numerous times yet finds a way to scoop up more felines and destroy their simple, unsullied short lives.

The cats were ill: one whose face bore a huge,uncared for mass that extended from nose tip to lacrimal corner of the eye. Another sported matted, clumpy fur and appeared malnourished, and an essential flea haven. Fluid poured from the third's nose. If they survive, how long will it take for their feral, survival instincts to soften before they're willing to trust another human?

Sadly, this isn't one of those Animal Planet/Animal Cops shows. Real life, real abuse, real sickness for the kitties and resulting from a reproachful, poisonous woman. She lives alone - is that a surprise?

It leads me to wonder what drives the human mind to such measure? Why don't we protect the innocent a little more and burn more fire under the offenders, especially repeat offenders? We let rapists out of prison in 7 years or less ("good behavior") only to find them lurking and assaulting women again; it's up to her to prove that she didn't provoke him. We move molesting priests around from parish to parish to hide their heinous, life-damaging acts. A college professor molested a baby --yes, a baby--with the approval of its mother. I don't know what's worse here: the molestation or the mother who allowed this to happen. A woman who takes in kittens and roving cats only to kick them, snap their legs, and/or ignore their medical & physical needs? What kind of people do this?

We say that the laws to protect animals are 'good enough' because, well, 'they're just dumb animals.' I have to say that sexual predatory laws are equally as ineffective. Who upholds these lame laws, these sweep-under-the-carpet molestations, these 'good behavior' gives you freedom options? Obviously 'prayer' and a good chastisizing waggly finger does not make the priest change his ways. I can't help but wonder, if it make the defendant/offender/convict feel better to know that he/she has gotten away with something and will only receive a slap on the wrist?

Oh, it just irks me. And then there's the Tea Party idiots.

Olympic Reflections: 2 tiny similarities

I watched some of the events of the Winter Olympics this year with great zeal, others with mild curiosity.

The bobsled, skeleton, and luge are all engaging 45 second runs. However, after seeing three in-a-row, I was bored. The focus of the boring NBC commentators was on Curve 16, the deadly, rupturing curve that cast a dark shadow on the Games before they began. I was reminded, though, why I do enjoy watching some of these sledding events.

In my childhood neighborhood, during the worst of snowy-icy snowstorms, many of us took to the 10% grade hills for Skeleton-like sledding. As we all know, the best time for Mach 5 sledding is at night, when the temperature drops, the ground hardens, and, of course visibility decreases (especially if it's snowing or foggy). Toss these latter factors in and multiply times 20 if a passing car travels along the sledding route. At that point, there's a bit of quick-action decision making, given the fact that most cars have little control under such wintry conditions.

My sister owned the best sled: light, small, and always waxed on the rails, it tore down Council Crest Drive and with intensive full-body steerage elbowed into a right turn down Beaverton Avenue. Major ice, velocity, and non-stop leg-pumping (just like on a swing) enabled the sledder to continue down the 100 yard, 12% grade Himes Street. This was a true vertical slope, similar to the ski-jumping hill, but without the open space at the bottom: a road, a guard rail, a bunch of icicle-laden ivy that crept out underneath the metal barrier, and a grove of barren maples and firs just beyond.

And if the thrill of zooming down Himes wasn't enough, there was always the thrill of the curb on one side (often with parked cars) and the 15-foot cement wall on the other. Due to the laws of physics, motion, and gravity, these hazards presented themselves as reasons to Bail Out. Take the Tumble. Let the unmanned sled plow into the asphalt while the rider rolled and Supermanned down the hill, coat zippers and boot toes serving as the only frictional tools towards reduced speed.

At the bottom of Himes, once the sled was retrieved or the ride savored a choice was made. Take Chesapeake or trudge back up the 1/2 mile and repeat. Chesapeake was a snaking, 10-foot wide, potholed, sparsely-lit road that simply tore down hill. In the multiple I took the hill, (with an Olympiad's running start, legs pumping, and knuckles clawing at the ground) twice I made it to a point far enough to not know where I was and rather than take some road to a neighborhood unknown, I plodded back up in the blackness of the night. Most times I spilled off the right edge on a maniacal left turn that dumped me into hill of ivy and ferns.
I suppose that it's here in these wild-night memories that I find myself drawn to the luge track.

On another note, I would like to point out that I watched some of the snowboarder events. And each time Shaun White's face appeared, I kept thinking, "Who does he remind me of? Who is this person?" Well, there are those internet 'similarity' photos between people and dogs: Carol Channing and a pug, Joe Lieberman and (Deputy) Droopy Dog, Wilfrd Brimley and some grouchy-faced fat cat.

Shaun White rang a similarity in me that was equated with a human, not a 4-legged. Today, it came to fruition with the article and adjacent regarding a potential inter-denominational marriage. Shaun White and, yes, Chelsea Clinton are veritable twins. Same hair, same face (hers appears a bit cheekier), same height. Sure, she might be a Rhodes Scholar with some sort of intellectual awards and he a two-time gold medal Olympian, but one could easily step in for the other if the paparazzi aren't sharpening their focus.

And there, my friends, sans the fire place and snowflake-patterned turtleneck are my Olympic reflective moments. Shaun White doubles for Chelsea Clinton, and vice versa. And skeleton and two-man toboggan syncs with nighttime, streetlamp sledding (and pigpile sledding) on Portland's west hills' icy streets.

The Walk

When I stepped into the unit, I found Mom walking down the wide, 25 yard-long hallway. As if blind, she bumped against the right wall which caused her to straighten her inner steering mechanism and veer back towards the center. Her gait was driven, forceful, not fast but definitely furtive, her head bent slightly forward like when we're drunk and our bodies are drawn by some green exit sign to the world beyond or a faraway lavatory's magnetic pull towards relief. The difference being that she didn't stagger. She wasn't inibriated.



Lacking shoes, I saw that a flap of extra blue sock hung out beyond her right toe like a tiny, cozy flipper while a thick red sock snuggled around her foot perfectly. Her definitive step thumped out a clear drum beat across the carpeted plywood flooring. I worried in that moment that walking without foot support would hurt her, cause the bone spurs in her heels and the bunions on the lateral left to scream out. She only grimaced slightly, perhaps because when I caught up with her, she'd reached the end of the hall, the locked exit door, the closure of any escape her mind might have conjured in some single, or, perhaps repetitive moment.

Was she trying to get out? Or, was she trying to get out of the disease that seeped into her intelligent mind? She'd tried on numerous occasions to escape: once she saddled up next to the nutrition staff who carted in an 8-foot metal box filled with hot food trays for the residents. As he wheeled out, Mom stepped in line with his cart and slipped out the door to freedom, to the unlocked, assisted living area where the senior aged front desk woman caught her heading out the front door. "Mary! Are you going out for a walk?" She knew that Mom was a Houdini of sorts. "You'll need a coat. It's quite cold outside." And from there, she escorted Mom back into the locked Alzheimer's unit where she could take a stroll within the confines of the locked courtyard and gardens.

Walking kept her going. She wasn't idle until the disease began to affect her balance -- about a year later. Her muscles and tendons stiffened and she spent a lot of time in a love seat rocking up and back in ab-killing half-crunches. I tried these at home and couldn't accomplish even half the amount she did during one visit.

Who needs an Ab-Cruncher (for three payments of just $19.95 + shipping & handling if you act now!) when you could simply try following the Mary Strohecker exercise regimen? She did half-crunches from the cushiony couch, like a rusty bear trap's jaws that opened only slightly before slamming shut again. She was a Jack LaLanne fan forever, starting many mornings with his 5am televised exercise routine before she headed off to work. While I sat beside her in the over stuffed couch, I wondered if this was one of the episodes he recorded: non stop crunches during a cocktail party.

Mom walked. She walked endless laps in the hallways, she once told me 'to keep her muscles loose. Everyone here is so staid and stale! Nobody moves!' She'd windmill her arms then tuck her elbows in and ante-up her velocity in a power-walker mode. For as long as possible, she walked away from, or perhaps, tried to escape the Alzheimer's that crept up on her and nibbled away at her life, intellect, love, and energy.

That green EXIT sign never allowed her to get away from it.

Dead Stuff

In order to break through 'writer's block,' one guidebook suggests to open a drawer and write about the contents inside.

I haven't had the block for a while now, but I did open my lil' desk drawer today to withdraw a pen. My desk only has one, slim drawer, in which I've packed in a standard, black desk tray complete with three small divots that hold paperclips, clickster pencil refills, and other sundries, and a longer, scallop that's filled with writing implements. I have another, undivided white plastic tray that's filled to the one-inch brim (the drawer's height is only 2 inches so I need to be a good packer) with important items including white-out (important while working on a computer), an unpeeled Bandelier National Monument sticker with Kokopelli figurines, a tiny, jawbreaker-sized orange iMac computer screen with "hello (again)"

Back to the sectionalized tray. Funny, it's really a black, plasticine version of our old school lunch trays, minus the rails on the bottem used to slide along the lunchroom's stainless steel bars when selecting a square of overcooked spinach mush or salisbury steak & an icecream scoop of mashed po's. Intelligent design, I suppose, using all those long lost trays as tool and trinket holders in our desks. Portion sizes prob became too small for the American appetite, just the same.

Inside my drawer, beyond the moat of unused wallet, memory sticks, and broken-armed reading glasses, the left, corner tray cup draws my attention. Life forms, or items that once were life forms lay upon each other like ancient carcasses. A sickle-shaped tooth, capped on the root end with silver intended for a key ring or necklace with a silver tip covering the point. It's smooth, like a polished stone yet without the polish. Years of pocket time or endless nights spent beneath a handkerchief in my mom's jewelry drawer wore it to a sheen.
Beneath it rests a tubular antler piece, calamari-sized, sans the breaded edges. It, too is smooth, but the grooves of time and age are darkened, like rings on a tree. Two opposite holes bored through it, ideal for a string tie or a very eager worm working in one direction. It peaks on one side, such that when it's resting on my desk like a standard ring, and I look down at it, the pointy edge becomes a nose a beneath it, the gaping hole a mouth. Behind the mouth, of course, is that cavernous ring, then on the backside, the opposing hole or mirrored mouth: the backdoor for that hungry worm.
To its immediate left is a postage stamp sized square of what I'm assuming is tusk. It's wafer thin and yellowed from at least 75 years of ownership in Mom's jewelry drawer. She showed it to me once when I was a curious little first-grader digging through her strings of artsy necklaces and clangy bracelets. "Alaska" sweeps across the top of a single-line mountain ridge in 10-pt cursive engraved font. Beneath is an etched caricature of a hooded musher - his back to my eye - leading a packed sled with distinct rail lines which slices across the curved, ivoried snow. A perfect hole, just wide enough for a b-b sized brass ball keyring punctures through the upper left corner above musher's head. It's smooth on its underbelly in the small concave arch. The etching, though, is rough like an Alaskan winter. The chiseling is deep and time-defying.

Mom told me once that her Uncle Charles gave this to her when he traveled up to Alaska. She loved her Uncle Charles and he doted upon her even from across the country.

Sand-blasted snail and clam shells and a miniscule, urn-shaped seed small enough to fit through a buttonhole round out my drawer of non-living items. The seed's gradation in color from desert tan at its round base to its rich mahogany tip shows how time and change affects even the tiniest of life forces such as a seed.

There's a certain comforting strangeness to all these dead things, these bony relics that fill my little square cup in the corner of my desk drawer. This is especially odd when I contrast those once-livings with the tiny broken string of baby blue beads, some the size of tapioca and others a slightly larger, say, blanched papaya seeds. An embossed 'W' on a pearly papaya bead separated by single blue tapioca, then ten more pasty whites spells out my last name and reaches out to the tail of five baby blues again. This was my father's i.d. bracelet when he lay in the maternity ward just after his birth. His name, his life denoted by this tiny 10-inch bracelet which wrapped around his pudgy infant wrist two times showed passersby and the nursing staff who he was, who he'd become.
Now, it's a simple sign of life that snakes around these little momentos of once-life in my drawer and reminds me of how the past steps into the present and back again.