Bloggy, no. 2
Today's Blog's Opening Monologue:
Hi, Bloggies. I actually survived my first-ever blog yesterday and have returned to the scene of the crime, ready to publish my second, but 'for reals first' blog. (See? Kids have increased my vocabulary, but not (hopefully) as much as I enriched theirs. However, Important Note: Kids enriched my life more than I likely ever improved theirs.
Introduction to Today's Main Article / Blog / Whatever: So, kids, I'm currently writing a twenty-years-later sequel this month to accompany the 63,000-word novel I wrote in 30 days of November three or four years ago, which will likely be published with its sequel sometime in 2019, Lord willing.
I have two samples or "swatches" I'm trying to decide between that best represents the wood project I completed 52 years ago that you hopefully can see above.
Instructions: Read both and leave your comments as to whether you prefer Choice A, Choice B, or Both. I love getting feedback, but this will be my first time getting it publicly or bloggily, whichever your word preference.
And now, Choice A for your perusal.
A Mahogany Duck (Choice 'A')
To the casual observer, it’s a primitive rendering of a
duck. This 18-inch figurine, crudely fashioned from mahogany or one of her
close cousins, sat on an inch-and-a-half high kidney-shaped stand of the same
wood. Both duck and stand were stained with a clear coat, so the natural brown
of the wood was “unadulterated” – like I was while navigating the bridge
spanning eleven and twelve. The first obstacle I encountered on that span was my
7th-grade woodshop class teeming with 33 squirrely preteens.
The simple duck silhouette - an inch and a half thick - I
cut out with the shop’s band saw, the first electric-powered machine I’d ever tried
to operate. This mahogany mallard, my first-ever wood project, was also Mr. S’s
qualifying test for operating the larger-than-life-itself saw with the vertical
saw running through its gray chassis at a dizzying speed. I’ll probably always remember
the symphony of sound, smells, sights, and even textures playing around me as I
pushed my block of wood onto the penciled path outlining my design.
During the 1965-66 school year my classmates and I from the
K-6 side of campus occupying the northern half to the junior high side
inhabiting the southern section, where only seventh and eighth graders dare set
foot no longer than to retrieve whatever object had broken the invisible line
between the two campuses. And, although we moved no more than a hundred yards
from one bank of red-brick buildings to the other, I might as well have been
transported to a foreign country to receive my next tier of public-school educational
instruction. What changed so radically was the culture and its elements,
including rules, clothing attire, language, and boundaries. The first
noticeable difference was the play equipment for recess and lunchtime. So,
instead of big red bouncy all-purpose balls used for Four-Square and handball
and the painted Hopscotch courts on the K-6 side of the blacktopped playground,
we had either basketballs (one each for the four courts) or two footballs with
which we’d been instructed by playground adult aides to schlepp to the vast lawn
to the east, unadorned save for the metal baseball backstops towering in each of
the four corners – two next to R Street as well as the two alongside the
walking path connecting Sagebrush School to Cactus High. Now that I’ve written
that sentence, it occurs to me that – at least from the perspective of us kids
at recess – the unspoken message was ‘all paths lead to high school, but only
one is properly paved for less pedestrian travelers.’
Time and space won’t allow an in-depth description of my new
educational home, so we can better focus on my wood shop duck. Now that I’ve
described the visible part of my first-ever project in “Uncle Schmomer’s Shop,”
let’s examine the underside. The unstained, kidney-shaped bottom had two metal
screw heads connecting bird with stand. Aside from the natural wood grain, the
only distinctive details were three different capital letters engraved crudely
on its surface – Y, G, and an almost imperceptible M. There are not one, but
two Y’s meant to designate my first initial (for ‘Yorick’), the single capital
M, and not two, but three G’s representing my last name. Why two Y’s and a trio
of G’s? My best guess, seventy-two years after its conception, is that Yours
Truly was so unsure of himself that he made more marks than needed to properly
identify ‘himself’ as the maker. I probably was so afraid of making a false
move that I made four false moves instead – etching one redundant Y, two
unnecessary G’s, and an M I still cannot figure out how it joined the others on
my duck’s wooden bottom that will last for posterity.
One last note, S & D, is this: Your first clue about one
of my life’s greatest lessons learned is embedded all over this memoir too long
to qualify as a mere ‘vignette,’ ‘sidebar,’ or ‘fragment.’ So, that’s it for
Day One of ‘What Makes Uncle Ricky Ticky Tock.’ My advice for you if you really
want to learn something valuable for yourselves is go figure this out together.
Class dismissed.
* * * * * * * * * *
The Wooden Duck Thingy Sitting on a Piece
of Wood (Choice B)
Deena: Okay, I have no idea what kind of clue
we’re supposed to get from this …… chunk
of wood. What is it anyway - birch? maple? teak, perhaps? ebony… ivory? (Okay,
I know – beyond a shadow of a doubt– that I, Deena Garrity, have exactly zero-point-zero
knowledge about wood… of any kind. In fact, I’m not sure ebony is even a wood. Isn’t
supposed to be a rock or gemstone… or some species of coral?)
And speaking of possessing knowledge
relating to wood, from the looks of this wood duck thingy sitting on another
piece of wood shaped like a kidney bean, its maker obviously is “on a par” with
Yours Truly. There is seriously, Steve, only ONE other sad individual in this whole,
wacky world capable of such a shoddy, downright sucky job of sculpting or
woodworking the Pagan Duck God as... our dear Uncle Ricky. Yeah, only Your Icky
could turn out such an object d’ fart; errrr art. Am I right-o, Bro-O?”
“Uh… NO NO, BOZ-O.” Instead of Steve being
the one responding to Deena’s question with a rhyming, childish retort - a
richer, grittier, more guttural voice uttered the silly phrase, which invoked
also the memory of the infamous show in which Bozo had to tell a kid flipping
the TV clown star off. (“That’s a Bozo no-no.”) Steve and Deena half-jumped, raising
up on their tip toes before looking around them – first at the three walls
covered in Uncle Ricky memorabilia and then at each other. The disembodied voice
then shifts back from laughter to speech: “I do beg your pardon, Deena Hyena,
but I must speak for myself in righteous defense at this juncture. This wooden
object of art, of which I am as proud as the proverbial punch” is the first project I ever completed - by
myself - without more than a word or raised eyebrow from the adult in charge, my
junior high wood shop teacher named Mr. Lloyd Schnone, but also known as Unca
Schnone, The Schnoner, Sir Schnony, and Sir Schnonykins, among many others.
Mr. Schnone, I must acknowledge, provided
me my first opportunity to build something without the intervention of anyone
else, which had always been intervention disguised as help from an adult.
Heretofore, dozens of men and women in the greater Mojave Valley region - designated
by the Cub Scouts, Webelos, Boy Scouts, Indian Guides, Cactusville School
District, or other kid-oriented organizations through my boyhood - had always hovered
near me, on alert to rescue someone when – not
if – I’d either maim myself, other kids, innocent bystanders, or whatever “project”
they’d foisted on me for the day’s lesson: Either (A.) a three-dimensional
object requiring pine cones, twigs, and other natural materials; (B.) a 2D
rendering in the usual kid mediums of pencil, crayon, felt marker, watercolor, or
spray paint; or (C.), one of a score of craft gifts commemorating holidays and birthdays
throughout the year requiring pine cones, unbaked macaroni noodles, colorful
foil bits of glitter, girly sequins, other, non-macaroni varieties of pasta, and
/ or a large bottle of Elmer’s white old-fashioned glue with which to hold the
handmade monstrosity together.”
(Throughout the forgoing speech delivered
ostensibly by their favorite uncle, who might or might not be alive, Deena and
Steve stood as still as statues. Their respective minds had been so blown that
it would be no surprise to any observer if both sought psychiatric assistance in
the immediate future or, at the least, emotional respite by imbibing a slew of
adult beverages, preferably with a strong dose of gin or vodka to give them
courage to continue on or to numb themselves from the pain of dealing with
their Soupy Sales of an uncle.)
(Note: I hope you enjoyed at least one of these, but if neither, please privately message me on Facebook or email me at rowleep@comcast.net)
Thanks, Blessings, Vaya con Dios & Shalom / Peace,
Patrick R. Rowlee
(Another blog bites the dust, but only in a positive way.)
"Say 'good-night, Gracie." - The late comedy legend, Mr. George Burns.
