OTHER WRITINGS & MUSINGS
I am currently working on a second novel about a mid-western teenage girl who is never seen without the ice skates her mother gave her as a gift before she died on Christmas Eve.
Articles, Short Stories, Essays
Thanks For The Lift ©2008, 2017 Bruce Katlin
Elizabeth Anne Coddington replaced the telephone receiver back in its cradle and looked past the rain streaked kitchen windows to her small garden of yet-to-be seeded spring soil. Having lived her entire eighty-two years in the house with the gabled roof in northern Maine, she knew the soil well and what it could bear.
Her decision to answer the incoming call was born from a voice she heard in an early morning dream nine months ago. Strong and clear, the voice instructed her to be available Monday, May twenty-first.
Elizabeth sat down gracefully in the rose print, cushioned window seat and looked around at the various items she had colleted over the years. Her favorites, two hand-cut, rusted tin pigs nailed to the wall above the sturdy Norge stove, winked their love to her.
Apart from conversing with the pigs, Elizabeth kept to herself except the occasional and sometimes unannounced visits from her oldest friend, Sally Ednard Smith. Elizabeth didn’t tell Sally about the dream and the phone call. Sally wouldn’t take the news well and would probably put up quite a fight. “I don’t know how I am going to avoid Sally,” Elizabeth wondered. “She’ll probably say, ‘Betsy, are you out of your northern mind?’”
On the morning of May twenty-first, Elizabeth woke to her bedside telephone screaming to be answered.
“Hello?”
“Miss Coddington. This is Ms. Columbiddy.”
“Who?”
“Ms. Columbiddy with U.S.A.F.”
“Yes, yes. I’m sorry. Is everything okay?”
“Miss Coddington, this is your courtesy call. You have exactly one hour to report to your assigned location.”
“One hour? What time is it?”
“It is seven a.m. on the twenty-first of May. Happy travels.”
“Wait! I want to make certain that…Hello?”
Elizabeth threw the chenille bedspread off her slender frame and rushed to get dressed. “Please God, don’t let me be late!” She made her way to the kitchen and said her goodbyes to the pigs, threw a scarf around her neck and rushed out to the garage to where she kept the old Ford Fairmount. Sliding into the car she heard a loud horn honking followed by, “Yoo who? Hiya’ Bets! Where are you off to so early?”
Sally pulled her reliable red pickup into Elizabeth’s driveway blocking her exit. “My, oh my! Where are you going in that pretty dress Betsy? I didn’t know there was a party on today.”
“Sally, I can’t talk now. I’ve got to get to an important appointment.”
“Well, let me drive you. That old Ford is as reliable as ninety degrees in February.”
“Thanks just the same. I’ll drive myself.”
“Let’s just see if she starts Bets.”
There was no shaking off Sally now. Elizabeth put the key in the ignition and gave it a turn. The aged machine grunted like a sick, suffering moose. She glanced into the rearview mirror where Sally was beckoning her to the pickup. Elizabeth cranked the engine repeatedly with no luck. She looked at her wristwatch and started to panic. “Darn it!”
“Come on Betsy. She’s not gonna start. I’ll drive ya wherever you’re going.” Elizabeth grunted, left the keys in the ignition and slammed the door shut. “Where to?” Sally asked.
“Oh, just drop me at Harold’s Taxi.”
“Harold’s Taxi? Why on earth would you take a taxi when I’ll drive you wherever you need to go?”
“Sally, I don’t mean to be difficult it’s just that I need to…”
“What, what is it Bets?”
Elizabeth’s face contorted, wrestling with what to tell Sally. “I need to get to the top of Old Log Road by eight.”
“Old Log Road? There’s nothing up in that part of the forest. It’s been clear cut years ago. What on earth do you want to go up there for and dressed the way you are?”
“Please, Sally. It’s personal and it wouldn’t be right to burden you.”
Sally abruptly stopped the car and turned off the engine. “Elizabeth Anne Coddington, tell me right now what you are planning or this car will not move another inch with you in it.”
Elizabeth looked at her watch and it read seven forty-three. “Please Sally, it’s a matter of… look, I don’t need to tell you anything.”
“Well, that’s a fine ‘how-do-you-do.’ Get out of my car please.”
“Sally, please…”
“Out!”
“If I tell you, will you start the car and get going?”
As they drove south towards the forest, Elizabeth was unable to invent a lie and told Sally about her appointment.
“Are you out of your northern mind?!” Sally shouted. “This is insane, just plain insane. I’m taking you to Doc Phillips this instant. He’ll know what to do.”
“Sally, I don’t expect you to understand but please, respect my wishes and get me to the top of Old Log Road by eight o’clock.”
“Elizabeth, you’re only eighty-two years old. You look great and you have a beautiful garden, so why on earth would you do such a crazy thing? And besides, who would be our fourth hand?”
Elizabeth looked Sally squarely in the eyes and said, “Sally dear, there’s more to life than playing Bridge. Besides, I lost interest in it years ago when we caught Elaine cheating.”
“But why now? Why not wait?”
“Because…” Elizabeth paused. “Because it just feels right.”
Sally continued without success, to persuade Elizabeth to see sense, all the way to the top of Old Log Road.
“Over there Sally,” Elizabeth instructed. “That shack on the left. That’s the place.”
Sally’s eyes were swimming in tears. She grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and pleaded, “Betsy, please reconsider. Don’t go in there. You’re making a big mistake.”
Gathering Sally’s hand in her own, Elizabeth said, “Thanks for the lift.” She stepped out of the car and hurried to the paint peeled shack. Sally was struggling to get out of her seatbelt but the latch was stuck. She screamed, “Betsy please don’t…I’m begging you!”
Ignoring Sally’s pleas, Elizabeth ran onto the sagging cabin porch. The door creaked open and a slender woman dressed in a pale yellow dress greeted Elizabeth with a warm smile.
“Miss Coddington, Welcome to the Underground Suicide Assist Foundation.”
Huffing and out of breath Elizabeth asked, “Did I make it in time?”
“You’re just in time. Come right this way.”
Man Eats House ©2013 Bruce Katlin
Brick by brick a man devoured his house last week in an attempt to keep his bank from reposing it. Walter Briggs of East Elmhurst Queens got the idea after he was turned down for the tenth time trying to refinance his 1950’s cape style home. After the bank took him to court Walter said, “Fuck em’. They ain't getting my house even if I have to eat it.”
Walter started on the obvious place, the shingles. “I knew it wasn’t going to be easy so I started with the roof cause’ that’s what I did when I ate my first house. That one was a three-month old gingerbread house that was left on the windowsill in our fifth grade class. The real one was just as hard and stale as the gingerbread one.”
Walter’s building materials binge started on the day that a sheriff’s vacate notice was nailed to his front door; one of hundreds of thousands that were posted on front doors around the country. The lender, Bank of America was all too eager to repossess Walter’s house even though they knew they weren’t going to be able to sell the house for a profit and it would remain empty for a long time. A spokesman for BOA said, “We'd rather let it rot than have someone living it for less than the monthly mortgage payment.”
Walter just couldn't make the monthly payments after he lost his job at the local supermarket due to other homeowners losing their homes and having to leave the neighborhood. Walter’s wife and four children took the car and the family dog to live with relatives in Monroe, NJ.
“I just didn't see any other options,” Walter said from his bed at Elmhurst hospital where he’s recovering from internal injuries. “Besides, the fridge was empty and I was hungry.” When reminded that there were other safer options, Walter proudly said, “I thought of torching it but I knew I’d end up in jail. But I just didn't want those bastards to have the satisfaction of takin’ my home from me, especially since I worked so hard to get and keep it.” When asked which was the hardest portion of the house to consume Walter responded, “The front porch. It’s where we laughed the most. It made me cry thinking that we'd never be able to sit and rock as a family again on that porch.” Walter didn't seem to mind that he lost most of his digestive system and would never be able to eat solid foods again. “It was worth every single nail and piece of wood I swallowed. Whadda’ those bastards gonna do now, foreclose on my ass? Fuck them!”
The Gym ©2008, 2016 Bruce Katlin
Steven Lippy’s ass the size of the Grand Canyon came crashing down on my head with the force and velocity of a locomotive.
Mr. Molsen, our fifth grade gym teacher taunted and cajoled overweight and under muscled Steven to climb the gym ropes in no uncertain terms. “Get your fat butt up those ropes Lippy or you’ll be staying after school again today.”
Everyone, including myself was afraid of Mr. Molsen. He had a flat top that he brought with him from his World War II service and when he barked orders it sent a shock up your spine.
I was an athletic kid but small in stature, which made me work even harder at proving myself to everyone taller than 5’1”. I could climb the thick-corded ropes that hung twenty-five feet from the gym rafters like a spider monkey ascending a fruit tree but it was a surprise that the sadistic Mr. Molsen ordered little, wiry me to act as a spot for the lumpy and obese Mr. Lippy as he attempted to pull all his weight up the ropes.
Steven was a weird kid and as is the nature of children we could be really cruel to him. It didn’t help that he was the fattest kid in the school or the youngest to grow tufts of hair on his chest. Name-calling was our first line offensive and they ran the gambit from “Two Ton Lippy” to Skuzzy, Tubby Lippy. I too, was guilty of having fun at Steven’s expense and even though I knew it was wrong, my developing ego would not have it otherwise.
But this time as Steven stood looking up the long, dangling rope, his round face sweating with anticipation, I genuinely felt sorry for him and wanted to see him succeed. Even though the odor that emitted from his now grey and under washed white t-shirt and gym shorts was overbearing, somehow I saw myself in Steven’s high top Beta Bullets sneakers and encouraged him.
“You can do it Steven. Just put one hand over the other.”
I thought he was going to cry and I'm certain that he further soiled his shorts with a small amount of nervous pee.
“Get a move on Lippy.” Mr. Molzen barked.
Steven looked at me then to Mr. Molzen and then to the gym’s rafters where the ropes where secured. He rubbed his chubby hands together and said, “This is going to be awful. I know this is going to be just awful.”
Mr. Molzen blew his silver whistle and Steven put his hands on the rope just above his head. His t-shirt lifted out of his shorts allowing his belly to tumble down over his waistline causing pockets of giggles from the girls and a wave of laughter from the boys.
“Quiet!” Mr. Molzen ordered. “Let’s give Mr. Lippy our full support. He might just surprise us today.”
Steven passed a small amount of gas that was barely audible. “Focus Steven,” I whispered. “Make yourself as light as a feather. One hand over the other. Pull with your hands and push with you feet. You can do it.”
“I can't do it,” he whimpered. “I'm too fat.”
“Now Lippy! Mr. Molzen barked.
Steven squeezed the ropes tightening his grip. His hands turned red and purplish blotches covered his face and neck. Nevertheless, he started pulling himself up the rope until both feet lifted off the padded blue mat. He was up the rope about two feet when he said; “I can't hold myself much longer.”
I reminded him to use his feet to push and he said, “Oh ya’ I forgot.” With his feet pushing and his hands pulling everyone started to notice his slow ascent. The gym quieted as first the girls then the boys took notice. Skuzzy, Tubby Lippy was actually climbing the ropes.
When he climbed to about five feet Mr. Molzen’s whistle fell from his lips and his mouth became a gapping hole. Equally, the boys in our gym class were amazed and stood fixed. Halfway to the top, panting heavily and with sweat dripping down his legs and calves he stopped and looked down.
“Don't stop Steven. You're almost to the top.” He looked to the rafters and then down to the padded blue mat. His eyes started to flicker and he looked like he was going to be sick.
“You can do it Steven, keep moving.” I felt like Gail Sayers in Brian’s Song encouraging the weak Brian Piccolo to fight for his life. “Don’t give up Steven!” But he was in some kind of suspended animation.
You could hear a pin drop on the gym floor. All eyes were fixed on Two Ton Lippy and I had to get him moving again just to prove Mr. Molzen wrong. So, I started chanting, “Ste-ven, Ste-ven, Ste-ven.” The rest of the class joined in and together, we knocked Steven out of his stupor giving him newfound strength lifting him higher and higher with the class now screaming, “Go! Go! Go! Go!” And with one last push-pull of strength Steven touched the top of the rope, reached out and grabbed the iron rafter and the gym went wild!
Mr. Molzen face was now red with anger and embarrassment. He blew his whistle and commanded silence. “Get down here right now, Lippy!”
Steven’s jubilation quickly turned sodden and panic quickly set in. I knew immediately what he was thinking, ‘how do I get down?’ Once again he was stuck on the rope petrified to the spot and I could tell that this pleased Mr. Molzen to no end. “What’s the matter Lippy can’t get down?” I wanted to scream at him, “You bastard, you know that he doesn't know how!” But I didn't, I couldn’t. Mr. Molzen was too big, too quick, too cruel. He fired off one final crushing blow: “Lippy, it’s true; once a loser always a loser.”
Steven’s face fell ashen. His entire soul crushed under the weight of his teacher’s insults and he gave up right there and then letting go of his perch towering above the class. He dropped like a lead balloon with me standing directly in his path. And in an instant his grey stained gym shorts filled with his absolute weight and hopelessness crushed onto my head.
I was laid out on the sticky and smelly blue padded mat like Wiley Coyote. Steven’s dead weight prevented me from moving even an inch. His body was so all encompassing and heavy that I couldn't even blink an eyelash. “Am I dead?” I wondered.
The floor started rumbling as rubber soles squeaked across the hardwood. Steven slowly stirred and then there was light. The boys in the class pushed him off me and the first thing I saw were the tips of Mr. Molzen’s black leather shoes inches from my nose. He asked if I was okay without the least bit of concern. I looked over at Steven who lay beside me bruised and battered from the fall.
Suppressed squeals of laughter found their way past Mr. Molzen and surrounded Steven and myself. (Apparently, the seam of Steven’s gym shorts imprinted itself down my face from forehead to chin.) The laughter grew in intensity and Mr. Molzen did nothing to stop it. This time it wasn't cruel or malicious laughter. It was like they were laughing with and not against. I started laughing too and I looked over to Steven to include him but he wasn’t able. He started crying which turned to sobbing which caused the gym to stop laughing until all that could be heard was Steven’s whimpering, heaving breathing and crushed spirit.
What I See ©2015 Bruce Katlin
I was first shown the light that blankets the mountains and canyons of the valley that is called Taos through the words and stories that trotted over the pages of Frank Waters’ novels. Like so many deer and elk that inhabit the Sangre de Cristo range, this Nuevo Mexico light has remained elusive and intoxicating for over forty years. But now that these mountains 1.8 billion years old in the making and the light that fills them are at my fingertips, I look up at them with awe and wonder - then filled with exhilaration and busting lungs and aching legs, I run up their backs towards ridges filled with even heavenly grandeur.
Atop these queens and kings of the Elements, I see a vast valley of farmers, artist, machinists, landscapers, roofers, painters, ranchers, plumbers, and more, all who toil with hands and hearts and mostly with souls. I see and feel the histories and fables, which have folded themselves into a fantastical mix called fact-lore. And although I see democracy in the furrows there is no lore or anything fantastical about the gap that divides a valley of haves and have-nots. Color blinds justice and cleaves equal opportunity. Fear is masked by hatred and resentment.
I see and feel the judgment that others make upon viewing me. Their internal proclamations are made in less than fifteen seconds. Judgments begin as light that passes through the eyes. The brain and its ever-present companions, emotions call forth their life experiences to press pronouncements onto their object. Their frequently near or farsighted opinion is rarely accurate or in clear view and is determined by the object’s shape, size, color, gender and the clothes he or she is wearing. And even though I won the gene pool lottery, being white and male, they can't see the scars of childhood abuse, that sprouted low self-esteem, doubt, depression, anger, addiction, lies, theft, bankruptcy and hopelessness. They can't see the contradictions that is part of the foundation of my birthplace: the City of Love holds hands with bigotry, bigotry that cuts deep; deep enough to reach the tunnels of the Underground Railroad that once crept its way under its belly. Violence and the Philly Sound helped shape my deeply rooted egalitarian beliefs.
These democratic beliefs have travelled with me for over four decades and have found a home here in Taos. As much as I see the County’s gaps and challenges, I too see the generosity, kindness, compassion, empathy, and love that the people of the Valley offer to each other on a daily basis.
I want what most of us want: to get by with as little friction as possible; without being harassed, humiliated or harmed. Money isn’t everything. It can buy a larger t.v., a first class seat and a higher place on the hill to build your mansion but it doesn’t provide peace, joy, love, and serenity. And if you do build that house high up on that hill remember that, objects appear much smaller from afar and may not be what you thought they were. And if I hear one more time that, “The Mountain either accepts you or tosses you out” I will scream! The first time someone imparted this bit of lore-fact I replied, “Why would the Entity that created such beautiful Blue Mountains give birth to one so randomly prejudice? And if the mountain is so high, mighty, powerful and discriminatory, then it can pay my rent, wash my clothes and put food on the fucking table.
The light that brought me to this beautiful valley several months ago still remains intoxicating. Its elusiveness lies only in its ability to shift and change minute by minute and if I pay attention long enough, I may just see its what it’s truly trying to illuminate.
Mother Earth ©2016 Bruce Katlin
“Fuck you mother earth!” Many men screamed as they viewed the last patch of green earth. “We will dump, frack, plow, exploit, drill, burn and drain your life to our hearts content. We know the history and we know where we're headed but we do not care if you die of thirst so long as our belly’s are full. So again, we holler, "Fuck you mother earth.”“ Mother Earth bent, bowed and swayed to accommodate their cries, but after centuries of arrows in her back she could do no more. Only a painful death awaits her. The hairs on her back are withered and cracked. The blood that courses through her veins has slowed to a diseased trickle. Where once bulged beautiful muscles now there is only torn and tattered flesh. “Fuck you mother earth, fuck you!” They continued to yell unabated.
Thanks For The Lift ©2008, 2017 Bruce Katlin
Elizabeth Anne Coddington replaced the telephone receiver back in its cradle and looked past the rain streaked kitchen windows to her small garden of yet-to-be seeded spring soil. Having lived her entire eighty-two years in the house with the gabled roof in northern Maine, she knew the soil well and what it could bear.
Her decision to answer the incoming call was born from a voice she heard in an early morning dream nine months ago. Strong and clear, the voice instructed her to be available Monday, May twenty-first.
Elizabeth sat down gracefully in the rose print, cushioned window seat and looked around at the various items she had colleted over the years. Her favorites, two hand-cut, rusted tin pigs nailed to the wall above the sturdy Norge stove, winked their love to her.
Apart from conversing with the pigs, Elizabeth kept to herself except the occasional and sometimes unannounced visits from her oldest friend, Sally Ednard Smith. Elizabeth didn’t tell Sally about the dream and the phone call. Sally wouldn’t take the news well and would probably put up quite a fight. “I don’t know how I am going to avoid Sally,” Elizabeth wondered. “She’ll probably say, ‘Betsy, are you out of your northern mind?’”
On the morning of May twenty-first, Elizabeth woke to her bedside telephone screaming to be answered.
“Hello?”
“Miss Coddington. This is Ms. Columbiddy.”
“Who?”
“Ms. Columbiddy with U.S.A.F.”
“Yes, yes. I’m sorry. Is everything okay?”
“Miss Coddington, this is your courtesy call. You have exactly one hour to report to your assigned location.”
“One hour? What time is it?”
“It is seven a.m. on the twenty-first of May. Happy travels.”
“Wait! I want to make certain that…Hello?”
Elizabeth threw the chenille bedspread off her slender frame and rushed to get dressed. “Please God, don’t let me be late!” She made her way to the kitchen and said her goodbyes to the pigs, threw a scarf around her neck and rushed out to the garage to where she kept the old Ford Fairmount. Sliding into the car she heard a loud horn honking followed by, “Yoo who? Hiya’ Bets! Where are you off to so early?”
Sally pulled her reliable red pickup into Elizabeth’s driveway blocking her exit. “My, oh my! Where are you going in that pretty dress Betsy? I didn’t know there was a party on today.”
“Sally, I can’t talk now. I’ve got to get to an important appointment.”
“Well, let me drive you. That old Ford is as reliable as ninety degrees in February.”
“Thanks just the same. I’ll drive myself.”
“Let’s just see if she starts Bets.”
There was no shaking off Sally now. Elizabeth put the key in the ignition and gave it a turn. The aged machine grunted like a sick, suffering moose. She glanced into the rearview mirror where Sally was beckoning her to the pickup. Elizabeth cranked the engine repeatedly with no luck. She looked at her wristwatch and started to panic. “Darn it!”
“Come on Betsy. She’s not gonna start. I’ll drive ya wherever you’re going.” Elizabeth grunted, left the keys in the ignition and slammed the door shut. “Where to?” Sally asked.
“Oh, just drop me at Harold’s Taxi.”
“Harold’s Taxi? Why on earth would you take a taxi when I’ll drive you wherever you need to go?”
“Sally, I don’t mean to be difficult it’s just that I need to…”
“What, what is it Bets?”
Elizabeth’s face contorted, wrestling with what to tell Sally. “I need to get to the top of Old Log Road by eight.”
“Old Log Road? There’s nothing up in that part of the forest. It’s been clear cut years ago. What on earth do you want to go up there for and dressed the way you are?”
“Please, Sally. It’s personal and it wouldn’t be right to burden you.”
Sally abruptly stopped the car and turned off the engine. “Elizabeth Anne Coddington, tell me right now what you are planning or this car will not move another inch with you in it.”
Elizabeth looked at her watch and it read seven forty-three. “Please Sally, it’s a matter of… look, I don’t need to tell you anything.”
“Well, that’s a fine ‘how-do-you-do.’ Get out of my car please.”
“Sally, please…”
“Out!”
“If I tell you, will you start the car and get going?”
As they drove south towards the forest, Elizabeth was unable to invent a lie and told Sally about her appointment.
“Are you out of your northern mind?!” Sally shouted. “This is insane, just plain insane. I’m taking you to Doc Phillips this instant. He’ll know what to do.”
“Sally, I don’t expect you to understand but please, respect my wishes and get me to the top of Old Log Road by eight o’clock.”
“Elizabeth, you’re only eighty-two years old. You look great and you have a beautiful garden, so why on earth would you do such a crazy thing? And besides, who would be our fourth hand?”
Elizabeth looked Sally squarely in the eyes and said, “Sally dear, there’s more to life than playing Bridge. Besides, I lost interest in it years ago when we caught Elaine cheating.”
“But why now? Why not wait?”
“Because…” Elizabeth paused. “Because it just feels right.”
Sally continued without success, to persuade Elizabeth to see sense, all the way to the top of Old Log Road.
“Over there Sally,” Elizabeth instructed. “That shack on the left. That’s the place.”
Sally’s eyes were swimming in tears. She grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and pleaded, “Betsy, please reconsider. Don’t go in there. You’re making a big mistake.”
Gathering Sally’s hand in her own, Elizabeth said, “Thanks for the lift.” She stepped out of the car and hurried to the paint peeled shack. Sally was struggling to get out of her seatbelt but the latch was stuck. She screamed, “Betsy please don’t…I’m begging you!”
Ignoring Sally’s pleas, Elizabeth ran onto the sagging cabin porch. The door creaked open and a slender woman dressed in a pale yellow dress greeted Elizabeth with a warm smile.
“Miss Coddington, Welcome to the Underground Suicide Assist Foundation.”
Huffing and out of breath Elizabeth asked, “Did I make it in time?”
“You’re just in time. Come right this way.”
Man Eats House ©2013 Bruce Katlin
Brick by brick a man devoured his house last week in an attempt to keep his bank from reposing it. Walter Briggs of East Elmhurst Queens got the idea after he was turned down for the tenth time trying to refinance his 1950’s cape style home. After the bank took him to court Walter said, “Fuck em’. They ain't getting my house even if I have to eat it.”
Walter started on the obvious place, the shingles. “I knew it wasn’t going to be easy so I started with the roof cause’ that’s what I did when I ate my first house. That one was a three-month old gingerbread house that was left on the windowsill in our fifth grade class. The real one was just as hard and stale as the gingerbread one.”
Walter’s building materials binge started on the day that a sheriff’s vacate notice was nailed to his front door; one of hundreds of thousands that were posted on front doors around the country. The lender, Bank of America was all too eager to repossess Walter’s house even though they knew they weren’t going to be able to sell the house for a profit and it would remain empty for a long time. A spokesman for BOA said, “We'd rather let it rot than have someone living it for less than the monthly mortgage payment.”
Walter just couldn't make the monthly payments after he lost his job at the local supermarket due to other homeowners losing their homes and having to leave the neighborhood. Walter’s wife and four children took the car and the family dog to live with relatives in Monroe, NJ.
“I just didn't see any other options,” Walter said from his bed at Elmhurst hospital where he’s recovering from internal injuries. “Besides, the fridge was empty and I was hungry.” When reminded that there were other safer options, Walter proudly said, “I thought of torching it but I knew I’d end up in jail. But I just didn't want those bastards to have the satisfaction of takin’ my home from me, especially since I worked so hard to get and keep it.” When asked which was the hardest portion of the house to consume Walter responded, “The front porch. It’s where we laughed the most. It made me cry thinking that we'd never be able to sit and rock as a family again on that porch.” Walter didn't seem to mind that he lost most of his digestive system and would never be able to eat solid foods again. “It was worth every single nail and piece of wood I swallowed. Whadda’ those bastards gonna do now, foreclose on my ass? Fuck them!”
The Gym ©2008, 2016 Bruce Katlin
Steven Lippy’s ass the size of the Grand Canyon came crashing down on my head with the force and velocity of a locomotive.
Mr. Molsen, our fifth grade gym teacher taunted and cajoled overweight and under muscled Steven to climb the gym ropes in no uncertain terms. “Get your fat butt up those ropes Lippy or you’ll be staying after school again today.”
Everyone, including myself was afraid of Mr. Molsen. He had a flat top that he brought with him from his World War II service and when he barked orders it sent a shock up your spine.
I was an athletic kid but small in stature, which made me work even harder at proving myself to everyone taller than 5’1”. I could climb the thick-corded ropes that hung twenty-five feet from the gym rafters like a spider monkey ascending a fruit tree but it was a surprise that the sadistic Mr. Molsen ordered little, wiry me to act as a spot for the lumpy and obese Mr. Lippy as he attempted to pull all his weight up the ropes.
Steven was a weird kid and as is the nature of children we could be really cruel to him. It didn’t help that he was the fattest kid in the school or the youngest to grow tufts of hair on his chest. Name-calling was our first line offensive and they ran the gambit from “Two Ton Lippy” to Skuzzy, Tubby Lippy. I too, was guilty of having fun at Steven’s expense and even though I knew it was wrong, my developing ego would not have it otherwise.
But this time as Steven stood looking up the long, dangling rope, his round face sweating with anticipation, I genuinely felt sorry for him and wanted to see him succeed. Even though the odor that emitted from his now grey and under washed white t-shirt and gym shorts was overbearing, somehow I saw myself in Steven’s high top Beta Bullets sneakers and encouraged him.
“You can do it Steven. Just put one hand over the other.”
I thought he was going to cry and I'm certain that he further soiled his shorts with a small amount of nervous pee.
“Get a move on Lippy.” Mr. Molzen barked.
Steven looked at me then to Mr. Molzen and then to the gym’s rafters where the ropes where secured. He rubbed his chubby hands together and said, “This is going to be awful. I know this is going to be just awful.”
Mr. Molzen blew his silver whistle and Steven put his hands on the rope just above his head. His t-shirt lifted out of his shorts allowing his belly to tumble down over his waistline causing pockets of giggles from the girls and a wave of laughter from the boys.
“Quiet!” Mr. Molzen ordered. “Let’s give Mr. Lippy our full support. He might just surprise us today.”
Steven passed a small amount of gas that was barely audible. “Focus Steven,” I whispered. “Make yourself as light as a feather. One hand over the other. Pull with your hands and push with you feet. You can do it.”
“I can't do it,” he whimpered. “I'm too fat.”
“Now Lippy! Mr. Molzen barked.
Steven squeezed the ropes tightening his grip. His hands turned red and purplish blotches covered his face and neck. Nevertheless, he started pulling himself up the rope until both feet lifted off the padded blue mat. He was up the rope about two feet when he said; “I can't hold myself much longer.”
I reminded him to use his feet to push and he said, “Oh ya’ I forgot.” With his feet pushing and his hands pulling everyone started to notice his slow ascent. The gym quieted as first the girls then the boys took notice. Skuzzy, Tubby Lippy was actually climbing the ropes.
When he climbed to about five feet Mr. Molzen’s whistle fell from his lips and his mouth became a gapping hole. Equally, the boys in our gym class were amazed and stood fixed. Halfway to the top, panting heavily and with sweat dripping down his legs and calves he stopped and looked down.
“Don't stop Steven. You're almost to the top.” He looked to the rafters and then down to the padded blue mat. His eyes started to flicker and he looked like he was going to be sick.
“You can do it Steven, keep moving.” I felt like Gail Sayers in Brian’s Song encouraging the weak Brian Piccolo to fight for his life. “Don’t give up Steven!” But he was in some kind of suspended animation.
You could hear a pin drop on the gym floor. All eyes were fixed on Two Ton Lippy and I had to get him moving again just to prove Mr. Molzen wrong. So, I started chanting, “Ste-ven, Ste-ven, Ste-ven.” The rest of the class joined in and together, we knocked Steven out of his stupor giving him newfound strength lifting him higher and higher with the class now screaming, “Go! Go! Go! Go!” And with one last push-pull of strength Steven touched the top of the rope, reached out and grabbed the iron rafter and the gym went wild!
Mr. Molzen face was now red with anger and embarrassment. He blew his whistle and commanded silence. “Get down here right now, Lippy!”
Steven’s jubilation quickly turned sodden and panic quickly set in. I knew immediately what he was thinking, ‘how do I get down?’ Once again he was stuck on the rope petrified to the spot and I could tell that this pleased Mr. Molzen to no end. “What’s the matter Lippy can’t get down?” I wanted to scream at him, “You bastard, you know that he doesn't know how!” But I didn't, I couldn’t. Mr. Molzen was too big, too quick, too cruel. He fired off one final crushing blow: “Lippy, it’s true; once a loser always a loser.”
Steven’s face fell ashen. His entire soul crushed under the weight of his teacher’s insults and he gave up right there and then letting go of his perch towering above the class. He dropped like a lead balloon with me standing directly in his path. And in an instant his grey stained gym shorts filled with his absolute weight and hopelessness crushed onto my head.
I was laid out on the sticky and smelly blue padded mat like Wiley Coyote. Steven’s dead weight prevented me from moving even an inch. His body was so all encompassing and heavy that I couldn't even blink an eyelash. “Am I dead?” I wondered.
The floor started rumbling as rubber soles squeaked across the hardwood. Steven slowly stirred and then there was light. The boys in the class pushed him off me and the first thing I saw were the tips of Mr. Molzen’s black leather shoes inches from my nose. He asked if I was okay without the least bit of concern. I looked over at Steven who lay beside me bruised and battered from the fall.
Suppressed squeals of laughter found their way past Mr. Molzen and surrounded Steven and myself. (Apparently, the seam of Steven’s gym shorts imprinted itself down my face from forehead to chin.) The laughter grew in intensity and Mr. Molzen did nothing to stop it. This time it wasn't cruel or malicious laughter. It was like they were laughing with and not against. I started laughing too and I looked over to Steven to include him but he wasn’t able. He started crying which turned to sobbing which caused the gym to stop laughing until all that could be heard was Steven’s whimpering, heaving breathing and crushed spirit.
What I See ©2015 Bruce Katlin
I was first shown the light that blankets the mountains and canyons of the valley that is called Taos through the words and stories that trotted over the pages of Frank Waters’ novels. Like so many deer and elk that inhabit the Sangre de Cristo range, this Nuevo Mexico light has remained elusive and intoxicating for over forty years. But now that these mountains 1.8 billion years old in the making and the light that fills them are at my fingertips, I look up at them with awe and wonder - then filled with exhilaration and busting lungs and aching legs, I run up their backs towards ridges filled with even heavenly grandeur.
Atop these queens and kings of the Elements, I see a vast valley of farmers, artist, machinists, landscapers, roofers, painters, ranchers, plumbers, and more, all who toil with hands and hearts and mostly with souls. I see and feel the histories and fables, which have folded themselves into a fantastical mix called fact-lore. And although I see democracy in the furrows there is no lore or anything fantastical about the gap that divides a valley of haves and have-nots. Color blinds justice and cleaves equal opportunity. Fear is masked by hatred and resentment.
I see and feel the judgment that others make upon viewing me. Their internal proclamations are made in less than fifteen seconds. Judgments begin as light that passes through the eyes. The brain and its ever-present companions, emotions call forth their life experiences to press pronouncements onto their object. Their frequently near or farsighted opinion is rarely accurate or in clear view and is determined by the object’s shape, size, color, gender and the clothes he or she is wearing. And even though I won the gene pool lottery, being white and male, they can't see the scars of childhood abuse, that sprouted low self-esteem, doubt, depression, anger, addiction, lies, theft, bankruptcy and hopelessness. They can't see the contradictions that is part of the foundation of my birthplace: the City of Love holds hands with bigotry, bigotry that cuts deep; deep enough to reach the tunnels of the Underground Railroad that once crept its way under its belly. Violence and the Philly Sound helped shape my deeply rooted egalitarian beliefs.
These democratic beliefs have travelled with me for over four decades and have found a home here in Taos. As much as I see the County’s gaps and challenges, I too see the generosity, kindness, compassion, empathy, and love that the people of the Valley offer to each other on a daily basis.
I want what most of us want: to get by with as little friction as possible; without being harassed, humiliated or harmed. Money isn’t everything. It can buy a larger t.v., a first class seat and a higher place on the hill to build your mansion but it doesn’t provide peace, joy, love, and serenity. And if you do build that house high up on that hill remember that, objects appear much smaller from afar and may not be what you thought they were. And if I hear one more time that, “The Mountain either accepts you or tosses you out” I will scream! The first time someone imparted this bit of lore-fact I replied, “Why would the Entity that created such beautiful Blue Mountains give birth to one so randomly prejudice? And if the mountain is so high, mighty, powerful and discriminatory, then it can pay my rent, wash my clothes and put food on the fucking table.
The light that brought me to this beautiful valley several months ago still remains intoxicating. Its elusiveness lies only in its ability to shift and change minute by minute and if I pay attention long enough, I may just see its what it’s truly trying to illuminate.
Mother Earth ©2016 Bruce Katlin
“Fuck you mother earth!” Many men screamed as they viewed the last patch of green earth. “We will dump, frack, plow, exploit, drill, burn and drain your life to our hearts content. We know the history and we know where we're headed but we do not care if you die of thirst so long as our belly’s are full. So again, we holler, "Fuck you mother earth.”“ Mother Earth bent, bowed and swayed to accommodate their cries, but after centuries of arrows in her back she could do no more. Only a painful death awaits her. The hairs on her back are withered and cracked. The blood that courses through her veins has slowed to a diseased trickle. Where once bulged beautiful muscles now there is only torn and tattered flesh. “Fuck you mother earth, fuck you!” They continued to yell unabated.