TWO POINTS SHORT: A Poem for Wilmer

You do not need to know who I am to hear my voice.

I am obscured from you by an absolute choice.

You may want to start spending your efforts and your time

But if you do the meaning will be lost in the rhyme

Getting old and realizing your name becomes the focus of the day

You haven’t lost it; it is just located further back than you can say,

Having your bloated body plucked, sucked, poked, and rolled in a loop

Life has become centered on the waking moments giving way to pee and poop

You wonder and wander back to a remembered time when you were the king of the ball

You remember it well, that foggy hog stealing your memory; all

Changing the order of things blocking thoughts, ideas, and dreams

You are strapped to the mattress, but they don’t have your mind, but neither do you.

It can’t be night again, what happened to the events of the day, your debut

Was it yesterday or the day before when you arrived here in this cave, a tunnel of being?

Peace and hopelessness resigned, calming your mind leaving your ears to ring.

You have given of your time and moved along as they have prescribed,

Where’s the light at the end of this event. You’ve certainly tried.

Ahh, here is the help, here is the light, it shines on somewhere; it is waiting for you.

You see the light shining in prisms, you and the others in the room, here’s your crew

You move towards the line that is forming, as you are whisked along to the front

You are the center of attention. Are you the only one?

You hear the voices discussing all that you have done.

Your deeds, contributions, indications, hesitations, retributions and tribulations

Your strivings generate peace through instruction, love through modeling, contributions

Your prerequisite for truth and honesty shine through the assemblage piled high

Your cooperation in matters concerning the masses is legendary, essential, will never die

Your quest for trustworthiness and loyalty among all is illuminated time and time again

Your visions and hope for humanity won prizes, awards and claims a distinction; Bien.

Your responsibility towards justice and mercy for all mankind gave you benevolence

Your charity and kindness have been rewarded by never keeping us in suspense,

But through the loving, guiding, teaching, training, giving, hoping, and caring,

Doing and saying the right thing came as naturally as the load you were bearing

You find out you are two points short for eternity’s entrance fee.

Pearly Gates sure looked good all along the way, the ones now you can actually see.

No entrance fee dear soul not for you or me, go back, do it again for an eternity.

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“Hail Mary, full of grace; the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb . . .

Restroom conversation

“She told you to dumb it down. Why for heavens sake?”
“ The public does not like things complicated and complex. They like you to lay it out there in third to sixth grade language.”
“Then, that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“It is hard. You have to think about it in a complex, complicated way and then, present it as a teacher to your students.”
“Like I said, not hard for you, you are a teacher. Dumb it down is your bag, lady.”
“Maybe, but, who wants to spend the rest of their life in the third grade?”
“You’ve got a point.”
“So where do I go from here?”
“ I guess you start with the most complicated things you can think of and then, begin to dumb them down.”
“Okay, thanks, but then again, no thanks.”
Both conversationalists left the rest room and I am left pondering their tiny bits of information. I am tired of people, books and writing classes telling me what to do, how to do it. They say you have to have a beginning, middle, end, and you have to write it for the market. Damn, the market changes every time you get the book lists, so I enrolled in a writing class at Beverly Hills High School Adult School. I lovingly wrote my heart out onto the pages and a manuscript began to grow. It was truly ecstasy. I acted, felt deeply and wrote about it. The directions were to complete only a few chapters for evaluation. The evening came where we all laid our manuscripts on the desk of our writing guru. There was an air of tension in the room. The air began to feel used and stale. The participants began to squirm in their seats, rubbing their hands, wiping their faces and noses too often. The teacher thanked us all for the work and said that next Monday was a holiday and he would see us back in two weeks. I was thinking to myself, two weeks is a damn long time. I can’t stand one day, how will I get through the two weeks? Is my writing good? Will I publish, perhaps become well known?
I am not going to say that the two weeks flew by like normal two weeks always seem to do, but these were filled with hope, desire to be the greatest, anticipation of the news of my writing skills, fear of rejection and I will stop the flow right here because of fear of not being dumbed down enough. The days came and went in some sort of a fog of eagerness.
This is the night we all find out about our brilliance or lack thereof. The teacher slowly and deliberately handed out the manuscripts, looking into each ready face, giving a quarter smile. Mine he saved for last. He looked into my eyes, laid the manuscript down with a full toothy smile. My heart began to beat wildly and my breath came in gulps. He moved on towards his des. My hand found the paper pile, I slowly sole a glance. Large, unusually large black print popped into my brain. My eyes blurred from the excitement and I could hardly see. Finally, I settled back and was able to read the oddly large script. It said, AN UNPLOTTED PSYCHOLOGICAL QUIRK, VERY THERAPEUDIC WITH NO SALABILITY. It has taken me over thirty years to fully understand his meaning. I do not think in all of these years I have perfected the theory of dumb it down enough to get out of that category. I don’t even understand it myself, but I do know that if you dumb it down far enough, people will understand and perhaps you will understand it yourself.

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To: The Huntington Park City Council
Ofelia Hernandez, Mayor

From: SheilaClapkin, President, Jos. Levin Realty Corp. of L.A.

Re: Amending The Zoning Designation from Industrial/Manufacturing to General
Commercial

Huntington Park is my Hometown. I was born, raised and educated here. My family has been in business in Huntington Park for sixty-nine years in pretty much the same spot. We built new buildings on the corner of Soto and Slauson fifteen years ago to the specifications set by the city of Huntington Park. Our buildings made a significant improvement to that corner in appearance as well as the use of this prominent corner.
We have been able to successfully rent all of our units during these years. Now you want to make changes that will impact and perhaps destroy our present Industrial/Manufacturing complex. You will hinder our abilities to rent and do business in Huntington Park. We do not want you to do this rezoning to General Commercial.
Have you looked at Pacific Boulevard in order to revitalize and enhance its commercial capabilities? In the northern sections, there are blocks on that street that if revitalized would add to the drama that has always been part of the Boulevard. It is already a built in commercial district. Why do you want to go after us, the little guys that have served this community for going on three fourths of a century? Why just these few blocks, I ask you and not Pacific Boulevard which is already commercial? Why not a revitalization,, rather than a destruction and obliteration of what is already working well and serving our community in its Industrial/Manufacturing needs?
Sincerely Yours,

Sheila Clapkin
President, Jos. Levin Realty Corp. of L.A.

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Dear Colby: This is your story.
I DON’T FIT UNDER THE BED ANYMORE
Once upon a time there was a little boy who used to love to crawl under his mom and dad’s bed. He loved seeing the things that were deposited there by the dog or the cat. He used to think it was a dark cave where he could see all kinds of strange animals and fierce people with long hair and some beards.

He used to think that under the bed there lived a world that no one else ever saw or even knew about. He saw castles, kings, queens and his favorite friend was a prince named Joel. Every day he and Joel would meet under the bed and have a long journey. The mom could not understand why the little boy was always so tired everyday. How could he explain his daily journey into a world no one ever knew or would believe? So he didn’t say anything for many years.

As the years passed by, the boy grew bigger and bigger. Every day he squished under the bed and enjoyed his journey. One day a big surprised happened to this boy. He barely made it under the bed for his journey into the unknown. He just thought how strange. He checked the bed and found that it was pretty much the same as it always had been, but what he didn’t realize is that he was growing up and getting bigger.

It happened! One day the boy could no longer fit under the bed. He pushed and squeezed himself. Nothing he did worked and he could not get under the bed. He found his mom and blurted out to her, “Mom. I don’t fit under the bed anymore.” He took his mom to show her and began to tell her the tales of his under-the-bed adventures. He told her everything. She smiled and said she understood how sad he must feel that he had grown too big to get under the bed, but that it was the growing up process and that means when you grow up, you have to leave some of your old adventures behind to make room for new ones. The boy understood and believed his mother, but every time he goes by the bed of his mom and dad, he smiles and remembers all the times he crawled under the bed and enjoyed the adventures that waited there for him.

Love, Grandma

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I received an email that I am pasting here for you. Before you read it let me tell you my experience with it. I received it, like I said, I read and re-read it. I sent it on. Hey, how about making it I said to myself. Okay, so I printed the recipe and went down to make it. I had all the ingredients except my flour was self- rising and the recipe said, no self-rising flour. So what. I don’t follow anything in total. Most often, Usually, Probably.

I did exactly what was prescribed in the recipe and it turned out majestic. Really. The cake puffed up way over the rim of the cup. It stayed there like a mountain. I dusted it with powdered sugar, I was thrilled with the experience and wanted to pass along to you the possibility of joy in accomplishment and the fun of following through. Here you go: Let me know how you do with this project. Do it now. Why wait. It is really awesome.

Most Dangerous Chocolate Cake Recipe in the World

MINUTE CHOCOLATE MUG CAKE
1 Coffee Mug
4 tablespoons flour(that’s plain flour, not self-rising)
4 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons baking cocoa
1 egg
3 tablespoons milk
3 tablespoons oil
3 tablespoons chocolate chips (optional)
Small splash of vanilla

Add dry ingredients to mug, and mix well . Add the egg and mix thoroughly.
Pour in the milk and oil and mix well.
Add the chocolate chips (if using) and vanilla, and mix again.
Put your mug in the microwave and cook for 3 minutes at 1000 watts. The cake will rise over the top of the mug, but don’t be alarmed!
Allow to cool a little, and tip out onto a plate if desired.
EAT! (this can serve 2 if you want to share!)

And why is this the most dangerous cake recipe in the world? Because now we are all only 5 minutes away from chocolate cake at any time of the day or night!

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This is a story I would like to finish, but am stuck on the lessons they/you will learn. Read the attached story and then, please contact me with a good lesson you have learned and I will add it to the story. The most recent lesson was told to me this morning. An aging beauty queen had a date with an aging leading man. He finally kissed her and she said it was a kiss you give to your child. A quickie peckish kind of thing. Her lesson was that if the kiss does not send you and the spark is not there, it is over until something else worthwhile surfaces.

Here is the beginning of the story:
What are the Lessons of Forest Gnomes?

I opened the back door and found small footprints in the sand. The wind immediately blew and covered them so quickly that I only have my memory of them. What were they doing at my back door? Who made them? Why were they covered up so quickly? Was there some sort of message they were delivering? How can I begin to find out?

In my mind, I began imagining about those small footprints and how they disappeared almost as fast as I saw them. The next morning I opened the door just as I had done the morning before and the small footprints were there. They were there in the same way and the wind blew exactly at the same moment I saw the little prints. They were gone almost before I had time to remember them. Was this my dream? Was this my imagination? Were the footprints real? How did they get there? Who would be so tiny as to leave such prints?

On the third morning there was a note left through the little crack between the floor and the ending of the door. It was written on the bark of the tree in our back woods. It said:

You who have seen our footprints will be given a party at dusk. Please follow the pebbles, hard pieces of moss and pine needles leading the way to the tree that shines brightly just before the sun leaves the horizon. You will visit us and someone like you will see that there are many things to be discovered with us. You will stay until daybreak, the dawning and then you will be led back to your home with new understandings of the forest and the gnomes that live here. Do not be afraid. You may bring Mega and Pixel. They are very welcome to come our party. Certain dogs will not be allowed, but yours are welcome. They are not afraid. They will be your guides. Remember, before the sun goes down and before the dawning will be the main guest at our party and the lessons you learn, you can tell the world.

In the days preceding the gnome party invitation, many things happened at home. My broom was missing from the cabinet and all of the spoons were out of my silverware drawer and put in corners of my house. The wood on the furniture became polished and shone as brightly as a mirror…………….

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July 30, 2008

Dear Tarzana Fireman,

I want to thank you for saving my life last Monday night. We could not make it to the hospital because it was during high traffic hours and the last thing I remember saying was, “ Take me to the Fire Station.” It worked.
I have searched the English Language for words to better describe thank you and I cannot find any others. So, I thank you.

For nearly forty years I have driven by your station with respect. Now and forever, I will drive by with reverence, love, admiration and great appreciation.

I have put together some items for you that represent some of my favorite things to eat. I hope some of them are yours as well, or perhaps they will become a favorite. I have also enclosed several copies of my most recently published book, which by the way just won an award.

I thought this would be an easy letter to write, but it is the hardest. I do want to say that I was not and am not done with my life and want to continue in the realm of service and a lot of paying back. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to continue with my work and in the last few days I have looked at the world differently. It is so much brighter, more beautiful that ever, people are more understandable and it is as if a crystalline wall has been lifted. I am grateful, thankful and indebted to all of you.

Sincerely with respect and gratitude,

Sheila Clapkin

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The Benny Hinn Ministries have been hounding me and I call it harassment. They call about three or four times a week. When you answer the phone there is an elongated taped message. I am by no means opposed to the ministries, just opposed to harassment.

I called the phone company to ask if they would block the ministries phone number and they said it is a 6 dollar a month charge to block that number. I said that I pay a fortune already for your service and I want you to protect me. So, the operator reluctantly said she thought she would listen to the tape to see if she can help in another way. She asked me to hold on.

The operator came back on the line and said she listened to the tape. She also said there was a number the ministries give you to call at the end of the tape to set up an appointment. I took the number down and put it in my top right kitchen drawer, my catchall drawer.

So, Benny Hinn called again today and this time I listened. Sure enough they gave a number where I could reach them. I called the number. I begged the lady to stop calling my number and to take my name and number off of their calling lists. She asked if I was Alberta Hercules. I said, “No but that is our cleaning lady.” Now I know how they got my name in the first place. I said again, “ You HAVE to stop calling here. She was very polite throughout our conversation and said she would take my number off, but I had to tell her my name. So I did. I said, “My name is Mrs. Hinn.” She stuttered and was silent and then said, “Well, Mrs. Hinn, will you give me your address?” I said, “Which one do you have listed?” She gave me an address downtown L.A. I said, “Fine, that’s it.” I thought to myself, am not about to give her my name and address as I imagined the printed parade of Benny Hinn paperwork coming into my mailbox. The woman on the phone at the Benny Hinn Ministries finally ended with, “Have a Nice day Mrs. Hinn” I haven’t stopped laughing, but time will tell if they stop the harassment.

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My Labor Intensive Dinner Party

I know many of you will relate and some will not. The ones who will not relate do not cook and the ones that do, cook.

We have a dinner date for this evening and I thought, well, I am not particularly busy, so I will prepare dinner. I made a deal with myself. No bought prepared items. All of this dinner would be from scratch. Okay, here we go. I baked bread from a friendship starter which I take half of and replenish the starter with milk, flour and sugar, then continue making the bread. I made that first to give it ample time to rise. Then I started with hors-de-vors. I made egg salad, which turned out especially good. Then, I pitted and pealed avocados and made homemade guacamole. I ground up chickpeas, oil and spices and there was a creamy, deep tasting humus. Now I am on a strict schedule so that the guacamole will not darken. Lemon juice is a good deterrent, but time is still of the essence. I have the French Onion soup already made. I toasted the bread rounds, place them on top with cheese, thickly placed. They are put on trays to brown under the broiler for a few minutes.

The lobster is boiled and it only takes a few minutes. They are ready to be shelled. The veggies have been chopped and all of the fresh herbs are chopped as well. Bell peppers, carrot slivers and onions are chopped and put in the wok ready to be sizzled. Oil is drizzled and cooking begins. As this mixture is stirred, I add curry and special secret spices from distant lands. I locate my secret sauce (yogurt, various grated cheeses, sherry, white wine, curry, and anything I find I might like to add). I shell the lobster and cut up a chicken breast from last night to be added at the last moment to the mixture. This is a lobster/chicken, curry sauce extraordinaire, usually and hopefully for tonight.

I scurry to set the table with beautiful glistening glasses, leather placemats, fluffy napkins, my every day dishes with a gold charger, modern silver settings, I add a dramatic two tiered dish, low enough for a centerpiece filled with yellow and orange fruit. I dangle a few cherries for drama. I have cut dramatic leaves from the garden to strategically place and the table looks beautiful.

I run back and forth stirring, placing and re-placing. I start water for Pasta. If I cook it a little bit ahead of time I can re-warm it with the sauce or if necessary nuke it for a minute. I pull off of the top shelf some dainty little bowls I brought back from Japan. I have several homemade cakes not finished that are great for an evening like this one. The dessert I have planned that I will put together last minute before serving will be tiny squares cut of each cake. I have cooked apples as you do in apple pie only I do not have the crust. Delicious. Anyhow, I will place several spoonfuls of the apples on top of the little cakes, drizzle caramel sauce over the lot and then top with a dollop of whipped cream. On top of the whipped cream there will be a dot of plum jam I made Friday with plums from our tree.

The guests are parking their car. I have to dash.

After the party: I have had a chance to realize that the wine and hors de vors were wonderful. The soup drenched in flavor and cheese was a treat. The lobster and chicken breast over pasta tasted so well, actually one guest had tears in her eyes because she said it tasted so good. It was good to have a little mound of fresh fruit compote next to the lobster, chicken sauce over pasta to help sooth the spices. I had tears in my eyes, too. The homemade bread was fantastic. Butter from Challenge. Now let me discuss the dessert. Skip tasted it before all the extras were added and he said, “Not good enough.” What happened after the apples, caramel sauce and whipped cream with a dot of plum jam was added? Legendary.

What can I say except, bravo? What I can also say is that it is labor intensive coming, during and going. It has to be a labor of love because you cannot pay me enough to stand up all day and all night to make this dinner. I must add that it was nice to be able to talk and not have to yell to be heard. It was nice not to wait for a table. It was totally nice not to have to pay the check, nice not to worry about valet parking, nice to visit, go from room to room and have the freedom to enjoy our meal at our own pace, not one set up for maximum seating at our table throughout the night.

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I spent two days in the hospital recovering from Anaphylactic shock.
This is all new to me. Fifteen minutes after I took my last Keflex pill, I started to go down. I was also peeling apples for a pie and maybe there was some pesticide on them, but I don’t know. My hands and feet started to itch. Before the itch I popped an anti inflammatory pill which has always been fine. Was it one thing? Was it the combination? Am I too much of a pill popper? Yeap. Whatever it was, it took me down.

Any four year old knows how to call 911, and I did not. I asked Skip to take me to the hospital because something really bad was happening. Half way down the hill I realized I was not going to make it. A picture of the fire station, which is just at the end of our hill flashed into my mind and the last thing I said was, “ I am having a stroke, I am going blind, I won’t make it to Kaiser, take me to the fires station.” For the second time in our long relationship he listened to me, and it is a good thing, too.

I don’t remember anything, but I was told that they dragged me out of the car, put a blanket on the station floor and got me going. Even in my state of shock, I opened my eyes to a group of the most adorable men on earth. Those pictures of the firemen’s calendars popped into my head and I had an internal smile. These guys huddled around me were better than any calendar I have ever seen. WOW. Now I do digress. After stabilizing me a bit more, they transferred me to the nearest hospital. I stayed there for about 6 h ours and then, they transferred me to Kaiser because I am a Kaiser member. Kaiser further treated me and then sent me home with continued steroids. I now understand the lure of steroids. When taking them, every pain ever known disappears and you feel like brand new. I only have a three-day supply, so I should enjoy the next few days of pain free living.

You would think I would never want to go into a fire station again, but it is a funny thing, I have now become fixated with fire stations, fire trucks and firemen. I am like a 5 year old. I am going to fire station #93 this afternoon with two great big bags full of goodies I have bought which represent some of my favorite eatables. I do want to thank them for saving my life and show them that they are greatly appreciated.

I now will have to take my epipen wherever I go according to the doctor. It is a pen that gives an epinephrine dose when punctured into the thigh. I think this is to help the shock and give you more time to get help. I am pretty sure you can die from an Anaphylactic shock episode. I know I almost did.

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