DRASH PIT - A literary theme park for readers & writers

Smashing Innocence

Fri, 5 Mar 2010 23:44:12 -0600

Getting an Education

Kathleen Trail

“Daddy, what does PMS mean?” Emma looked up at him as she walked along the sidewalk, no apparent awareness of what she was asking lurking behind her sweet 6-year-old eyes.

A little flustered, Tom tried to process the ramifications of the request quickly. Um, okay. Where is this coming from and why isn’t Kathleen here to field this particular question? “Where did you hear that word, sweetie?” Time to stall. There were only a couple of minutes before they reached the front door of the school.

“You know, it’s in that karaoke song?” Tom scanned his memory bank of the various inappropriate songs he had heard his daughter singing along to in the car recently. Ah, yes. Figures it would either be a Lady Gaga or Katy Perry song causing this problem. Pop-music wenches. Thank goodness the B-word in that same song was bleeped out.

“Oh, I think I know which one you mean.” So let’s see if she notices that I didn’t answer her question. Emma adjusted her oversized backpack as she walked and, after a moment, looked back up at him with inquisitive eyes. “Oh, um. Well, it actually stands for Pre-Menstrual Syndrome.” His raised eyebrows punctuated the hope that this multi-syllabic and unfamiliar phrase would end the conversation.

“Oh,” Emma replied with a mixture of understanding and confusion. Pause. “What is that?”

Hmmmm. Keep it simple and scientific, that’s your best bet. “Well, it’s... It’s just something that happens to adult women,” he concluded, the glass doors finally in sight.

“Oh, okay.” As she nodded, the push of kids started to sweep her toward school, but she stopped and turned in the midst of the crowd. Tom bent down, ready for an in-depth discussion on the powerful effects of estrogen.

“Have a good day, Daddy!” Emma said with a hug. “You too, sweetie,” he said as he gave her a kiss, his day already a little better. Bullet dodged for now, but I guess we’d better get ready for more questions like that in the near future. Maybe I should start asking Kathleen to walk Emma to school?

Even though Kathleen knows she’ll be in charge of answering most questions like this with her two daughters over the coming years, she likes that her husband gets to handle the duties occasionally, too. Kathleen can be reached at ktrail@alumni.rice.edu.

--

Of Cows and Calves

Fri, 5 Mar 2010 22:50:41 -0600

Asking for Pardons

Laura Kooris

The calf bawled for its mother. Mary and I rode our horses over to investigate the plaintive voice.

Bored with riding our fence line all morning, we decided to visit the Tucker ranch and ride in their open pastures. Most of the Tucker land covered Pushmataha County. It had been open range, wild as it was meant to be, until increased traffic endangered the livestock and drivers. They purposefully kept the pastures large and open, which the cowboys loved; it not only made their cattle drives easier crossing them, but maintained their fading lifestyle. It was a lifestyle Mary and I, two young city-girls, yearned to share.

Our ranch was a weekend getaway. The Tuckers invited us to round-ups and ranching events at their place year-round, but Mary and I remained dudes and outsiders no matter how earnest and sincere our intentions were. We’d never earn our stripes in their eyes. They liked us riding their distant pastures. Four more eyes overseeing the ranchland were a bargain in exchange for our pleasure. We reported any problems we found.

This lush, spring pasture held expectant cows and newborn calves. The cowboys left this herd alone during their dropping season until it needed veterinary dosing, weaning, and branding. The heifers banded together as defensive tanks for their offspring.

The new calf stood in a clearing, tongue hanging from his panting mouth. His eyes were white with fear. He wasn’t lost; a lone wolf loped around him. It had been circling the baby bull, cutting it from the herd for a kill.

Buck, my elderly cutting horse, watched the scene. I gave him his lead; this horse knew more about cow-punching than I did. He laid back his ears and lowered his head as we galloped to the rescue. With nostrils flaring, he went straight toward the wolf. As this buckskin fury of hooves approached, the wolf tucked his tail and forfeited the hunt. Buck pulled up short. Mary and her horse, Sunny, joined us as I slid off the saddle.

The drooling and glassy-eyed calf had dropped to his front knees, ready for sacrifice. Exhausted, it didn’t have the energy to bleat anymore, much less run away. We looked around for the calf’s mother or her carcass lying nearby. Nothing.

“What’ll we do now?” Mary asked. “That wolf will return.”

“We’ll get help,” I said and moved to pick up the creature.

We’d seen cowboys carry calves on horseback many times. It seemed easy. I gathered the days-old baby in my arms. Its body melded into mine; the sweaty russet skin, imprinting my shirtfront, smelled of grass and warm leather. I struggled to lug the calf over to Sunny. The legs splayed around me as I lifted and shoved him across Mary’s lap.

She rode to the gate while I galloped to our ranch house for help and then returned. Soon the Tuckers’ truck arrived with saddled horses, ready to ride. As they tightened the cinches, one of the cowboys put rifles in their saddle holsters.

“Are you gonna take this calf back to its momma?” Mary asked.

“Wall, that Momma musta left it fer some reason. Either it’s sick and dying or she just ain’t a good muther. We’ll try to fit it back in, but chances are no cow will take him.”

“He’ll die.” I said. Mary’s eyes blinked with tears.

The cowboy placed that doggie across his saddle like a duffel bag and swung up behind him. “Yup. Nature has it ways with these things. Thanks,” he smiled. “Ya done good. We cain’t have wolves around; gotta get ‘em.”

They touched their hat brims for goodbye, and spurred their horses off to collect a pelt.
We hoped Nature had a way with their thing, too, so that dark angel’s good deed was left unpunished.

A Deals A Deal

Fri, 5 Mar 2010 22:20:34 -0600

Looking For Work
Vanilla Thunder
Two and a half years ago I signed a document that enabled my employer to terminate me at any point without cause. I was unceremoniously walked out Tuesday night with the “opportunity” to sign a severance agreement (removing all my legal recourse) in exchange for two week’s wages, and I’m eligible for COBRA.
The man sitting across the table from me is not George Clooney. When the HR representative joined us, she actually used the term, “this is an opportunity.” I confirmed that neither party had seen “Up in the Air,” yet they were reading straight from that playbook.
I did not blame these pleasant messengers who in another life might have been my friends.
I told them that what they were doing may be legal but it was completely immoral and unethical. They promised to relay that message to their bosses. They certainly did not deny my factual statement. In two and half years the company netted a quarter million dollars from my billable services. I traveled to Houston over fifty weeks when I was not supposed to travel. They promised to market me to future clients to justify their 100 to 150% market. They gave the Houston client to a local hack trying to build a practice there, because I believe they are trying to sell the company and are mainly trying to grow the top line (increase revenue). Two weeks ago I billed 37 hours, last week I billed 20 and had a similar forecast for the pending future if they could not get me in front of some new clients. In the last fifteen months they put me in front of one potential client for a new engagement interview. Unfortunately, they over priced us and we lost the bid, but I was still busy working out of town and making them money.
I am a 48 year old healthy white man so I am not a protected class and this is the State of Texas where business is rules but telling the truth sure feels good.

VT is now a self employed CPA living in Austin. Besides being a sometimes decent writer, he may be the most efficient, ethical accountant in the city. If you are looking for interim contract accounting help (especially due diligence and year-end financial preparation) without overhead burden contact Neena through the Drash Pit

Last Weeks Leftovers: Defender of the Faith

Fri, 5 Mar 2010 21:35:54 -0600

Wind Resistance

By Aaron Hauser

Mrs. Stout was every bit her name. The corpulent English teacher wore a black tent of a dress. She bobbed her globular head with greasy straightened hair and screamed at the boy.

You ain’t tellin’ me to be prayin’ no different. Jesus is our savior. He’s our lord, child. Stand, child, and join us. You be abiding my words or you goin’ straight to Mr. Pendergast. This is blaspheme, boy. Stand right this minute, hear! You’ll face the paddle. Understand? You’ll face the paddle and good. Go. Go now. Get out of my sight.

The boy’s chest heaved, and he stood up. He was a tall boy and tears had left dark streaks down his shirt. The boy walked to the door and turned to face Mrs. Stout.

The Constitution says you’re wrong. I say you’re wrong. You and I both know you’re wrong. My mother knows you’re wrong. Everyone knows you’re wrong. I’ll go to the principal. I’ll go, but it won’t change a thing.

Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack.

Mr. Pendergast, a tall man with a thick helmet of hair and an angry moustache, left his door open so the whole school could hear his justice. He had bored several holes in the paddle to reduce wind resistance.

The next morning, his mother called the principal, who explained that he punished him for insubordination and that was reason enough. She asked about the prayer, and he said he would talk to Mrs. Stout. She asked that he not hit her child in the future without her permission and he agreed.

I hate her. I really hate her.  
His mother admonished him. He shouldn’t use the word hate. He should show respect for his English teacher even if she was wrong.

If you had been there you would have been proud of me.

I’m not so sure. Please don’t do anything more on this. His mother prepared his lunch.

English class… All stand. The boy remained seated. Mrs. Stout ignored him and started her prayer.

In your name we do pray. Lord Jesus, keep us and protect us, allow us the strength to learn—

The boy stood and approached Mrs. Stout.

I stand with the founding fathers and they stand with me. They demand you stop immediately. Stop or feel the wrath of American justice. The ghosts of Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin stand with me. They keep me. They protect me. I will use their words to guide me, not your Jesus.

Blasphemer. Blasphemer. Mrs. Stout screamed over and over to the ceiling. As his tears once again flowed the boy spouted off lists – the founding fathers, the states, state capitals, every member of their English class, the sports he enjoyed, the contents of his lunch, until the principal came into the classroom and pulled him from his desk and dragged him to his office.

Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack.

Aaron Hauser is a database manager, teacher and freelance writer in the Austin area. He can be contacted at house66@austin.rr.com.

Last Weeks Leftovers: Passing Time

Fri, 5 Mar 2010 21:17:13 -0600

Destination Delayed

Neena Husid

Yesterday
we delivered
our loved one

gingerly
into
Earth’s embrace.

Swathed,
cradled
his soul readied for a fecund trinity of possibilities.
Rebirth. Renewal. Re-imagination.

Ignoring experience,
we,
the arrogant survivors,
checked watches
opened car doors
buckled-up
and
sped
to the frigid planet
of the unredeemed.

Bound by baggage and burdens
we entered
the
Waiting Place.
the
In-Between.
the
Airport.

Life
rolled by us -
a flight attendants
efficient valise.
McDonalds, Lacoste, Bon Au Pain, Borders, bathrooms
packed in and at the ready.
We sat. We succumbed.
We stared
at the screen altar
waiting.

A pulse.
A flicker.
A groan.
St. Peter’ s celestial decree
televisioned us the news.
“Deliverance Denied.”

Until. . .
we
numbly massacred,
in artificial light
and reconstituted atmosphere,
amongst clammy strangers,
wasabi flavored snacks,
and the robotic thrum of
TSA regulations,
the only thing we truly have.

Have I ever told you how much I detest waiting in airports? neena@drashpit.com

Pointed Heads and Funny Hats

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 23:49:42 -0600

Do You Like My Hat?

Neena Husid

If memory serves me, and occasionally it still does after the am dose of fish oil takes hold, some tasks associated with raising young children were downright gross. Think, amoxicillin inspired diapers. But other parental duties were as sublime as a sunny day on Sesame Street.

Recalling my wide-eyed toddlers, euphorically nested into opposite sides of me as I reenacted the great works of literature for them gunks up my emotional works with a maternal sludge so viscous only the excessive use of adjectives can cleanse is from my system. In the interest of time and turgidity overload, I think it’s best I spare you the goo of my sentimental reminiscence. Rather, I’ll give you the straight scoop – sans poop- on how one masterful work of children’s literature informed, and elucidated, my two offspring and me during our earliest years together

Go Dog Go, it’s ins and outs, ups and downs, overs and unders, were, to the three of us, a kind of Tao: our natural order of things. Play day after play we zipped up its roller coasters, floated in its boats and zoomed off into the sunset in it’s chubby primary-colored sports cars. We were rakish canines in goggles and ascots ready to rock-n-roll when spontaneously prompted, “It’s a party! A dog party!” We were equally prepared, given the book’s prescription, to be blunt when it came to barking out our preferences in millinery options. “Do you like my hat?” “I do not.”

Spurred on by P. D. Eastman’s four legged revelers, my litter and me were some partying pooches. We barreled into frigid bodies of water and shook our freezing wetness off on any who stood too near. Scampering over hill and dale, we’d only stop for tempting snacks, and come running when our names were hollered in the breeze. And we always peed in public, whether necessary or not.

When exuberant, ungainly paws pushed baby sister down on the ground to shower her with laps of unwelcome affection, or when her own wagging tail carelessly toppled our Lego creation, all was made okay in doggie land with a sideways cock of the head, a currish grin and a comical rephrasing of our behavioral coda. “Do you like my hat?” “I love your hat. And I love you too.”

I wonder if my kids are reading this and thinking, “Are You My Mother?” neena@drashpit.com

Her Majesty For One Majestic Day

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 23:35:10 -0600

Crowned Queen

Julie Berwald

Deadlines to meet,
Lunches to pack,
Papers to read,
Laundry to fold,
Appointments to make,
Calls to return,
Dishes to wash,
Stories to edit,
Groceries to buy,
Invoices to write,

One strange, vacuous morning,

Deadlines complete
Kids buying lunch
Papers filed
Clothes folded
Appointments scheduled
Calls completed
Dishes clean
Stories submitted
Groceries bought
Invoices sent

I am queen, crowned by the luxury of time.

What next?

When not performing royal duties, Juli Berwald spends her days writing about science in her castle in Austin, TX. Look for her short pieces in the April and May editions of National Geographic.

Defending The Faith

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 23:00:35 -0600

Beat Down or Back Down
Vanilla Thunder
My Texas Longhorns were taking care of business, stomping the Oklahoma State Cowboys (lead by five foot two guard Keetan “Frodo” Page) when I saw two young men in the stands on the big screen with paper bags on their heads. I started to boo them but nobody joined me.
Was I the only fan who found it completely offensive that two moronic undergrads thought it would be funny to wear bags on their head like some retro New Orlean’s Aints fans from the late seventies? I was hoping that they somehow did not know the symbolism of their “fan” art (wearing a bag over one’s head because you are ashamed of watching an underperforming home team).
I looked around and there they were, only two sections from me - live, arrogant and ready for a verbal beat down. I asked my brother-in-law if he had my back just in case my confrontation came to blows. The game was getting exciting and between yelling at the undersized Page and the awful referees I started to realize that some of the “real” ticket holders were giving me the stink eye. We had purchased seats in the nose bleeds but moved down at half time because most of the big donors with good seats barely show up and always leave early.
I started to play the confrontation in my head. If they mentioned free speech, I’d tell them “you suck.” Then I realized a 48 year old man verbally sparring with two nineteen year olds in a section he snuck into might lead to an early exit.
Did I do the right thing? I should have said something because it is not right to publicly humiliate your 18-21 year old classmates. If you want to boo professionals or the coach making $2,000,000/year have it, but spare the kids (especially your kids).
I knew I was too emotional last night so I waited, but I’d give anything to show up at those d-bag’s next Chemistry test to wear a bag over my head in their “honor.”
If only life was that sweet.

Vanilla has been going to University of Texas sporting events since 1978, has never had expensive season tickets and is holding steady at 101 straight games without being thrown out.

Not Just Any Queen for a Day

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 22:14:03 -0600

To Be Queen

Esther Mizrachi Moritz

I looked forward to Purim for at least a month each year. The anticipation made me stand up straighter, behave better at home and try harder at school. Anytime anyone mentioned the upcoming holiday, I would smile smugly. Purim was my holiday and I loved it.

The reason for my love of Purim was not my mother’s baking frenzy. She would work for days making Syrian pastries such as baklava drizzled with rose-water and tiny mamul stuffed with pistachios and sprinkled with powdered sugar. She arranged plates for all the neighbors but always saved plenty of treats for me. I indulged happily but that wasn’t the best part of Purim.

The reason for my love of Purim was not that all of our friends and neighbors rang the doorbell bearing plates of goodies—rock candy that looked like pieces of glass attached to a string, Hershey’s kisses and chocolate coins, moist vanilla cake with marshmallow topping. I filled my belly with these sweets but they were really beside the point.

The reason for my love of Purim was not that we went to shul to hear the megillah read though it was fun to get a brand new colorful groger. I loved to listen carefully to each word of the Purim story so that when I heard the name Hamen I could spin the groger and try to make more noise than the other children. It was the only time we were allowed—no encouraged—to make noise at shul. But that wasn’t the best part.

The reason for my love of Purim was not the parties that we went to each year though I loved dressing up in costume and being allowed to wear my mother’s red lip stick and black eye-liner. I felt beautiful when I saw my face all made-up like a grown woman, my curly hair pulled back off my face in a queenly bun—I always dressed up as Queen Esther.

What I loved most about Purim is that I did not have to pretend to be Esther. I was Esther! I was the beautiful, brave and cunning heroine who everyone respects and admires on Purim. I was queen for the day.

If I don’t see you on Saturday, happy Purim dear subjects!

Esther Mizrachi Moritz still loves being Queen but regrets that she can no longer eat all those sweets. . .Queen Esther can be reached at emoritz@austin.rr.com

Just Desserts

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 21:26:51 -0600

First Kiss

Pat Abrams

The old man walks down the road, a gaggle of geese trailing him. His flock charges as I run to greet him; I defy their malevolence as they squawk and hiss their displeasure at my intrusion. He shoos the geese away, talking to them in German and commanding them to settle. They eye me suspiciously but clear a path to allow my approach.
Though the day is warm, a brown woolen sweater vest, primly buttoned, hangs from his barrel-chested frame. His grizzled hand fumbles in the knitted pocket too small for his fingers. He produces an ancient Kiss. The clamor of geese rises with their flapping wings as they vie for the morsel but he waves them down again. With a smile, he offers it to me.
Retreating now to the top step, I carefully unwrap this proffered gift. Small flecks of silver foil stud the moth-ball scented, soft brown dollop. I place it on my tongue, relishing the gooey and malodorous mound.
He and his geese continue on their journey. I try to make it last until they are out of sight. It would be many years before a Hershey’s Kiss would taste better than that. It would take a Kiss Revolution: dark chocolate in gold foil, with or without the bits of almond.
Thank you Grand pop and Mr. Hershey.
Pat can be reached at PLAbrams@austin.rr.com