The Exorcism of Volvo

I believe in the possibility of demons.

I'm a natural skeptic. I hear stories of ghosts, demons, and possession, and I raise an eyebrow. Ouija boards, in my opinion, are bogus. Horoscopes and fortune tellers are so vague and generic that they get it right most of the time.

But something inside me still believes that there is a possibility that the supernatural world is real. That there is validity to some of the paranormal things going on in this world.

A priest once told me that we have a Diocesan Exorcist. One priest is appointed as the exorcist for the entire Diocese, which is a large region, geographically. If another priest is faced with a possessed soul, they call the exorcist, who will come and pray over them, performing rites in an attempt to remove the demonic presence. This happens! The Linda Blair, split pea soup-spewing, spider-walking, head-spinning images of the 70's are still happening today.

It's kind of hard to believe. That being said, I do have a personal story of exorcism. The tale is true, although the demon is questionable.

Foreign Cars are the Devil

Growing up, I was a member of St. Boniface Catholic Church in Farmington, Iowa. It was a quaint church in a town of 750. A few times each week, we'd travel highway 2, through the stoic evergreens of Shimek forest, from Donnellson to Farmington. The town was tired and dilapidated. Once a vibrant river town that took advantage of the commerce that traveled the shallow waters of the Des Moines River, Farmington had begun to dry up when the railroads and highways began etching their way into the rolling hills of Southeast Iowa.

The church was a potpourri of families that lived in and around the dirty little town. Some older couples, tottering in on canes and replaced knees. A nice man named Gerhardt, who was missing one hand, everything from the forearm down. A few of my classmates' families, although none the really cared to associate with me. One woman distinctly stands out in my mind. No one knew how to take her. Her name was Christie.

Christie was around my moms age. Sandy brown hair laid plainly on her head. She was extremely tan, with wrinkly-leather skin pulled across her petite frame. Christie dressed plainly, with white canvas shoes and smudged khaki pants that were too short for her wiry legs. She often wore some type of button down shirt or sweater that seemed as thought someone thrown it out. Christie believed in demons.

The story goes that Christie moved to Iowa from Washington state, to attend the Maharishi School of Enlightenment in Fairfield, Iowa. Something happened while she was there, and she left the school to live in Farmington. Again, I do not know what the incident was, but the Christie I knew was both physically shaken and mentally distraught.

She walked with a timidity that reminded me of a nervous rabbit, arms pulled in tight and eyes nervously glancing back and forth. When she prayed in church, she folded her hands beside her head and laid her cheek against them. Her face was wrought with distress over silent pleas that no one else knew. Every time she spoke, it was with a whispered cadence that sounded as if she was trying to sing, but afraid of how it might sound. The result was a haunting voice that hung in the air like a fog, settling on your memory and turning to dust.

Christie was the point of much pity in our church and my mother made a point to make her welcomed at every opportunity. We had dinner with her, sat with her at church functions, and helped out with things she had trouble handling on her own. That's where this story picks up.

It was a brisk October day, not over 40^o Fahrenheit, when my mother got a call. The voice on the other end was breathy and sing-song. When she hung up, my mom turned to me,

“Christie called. She said she needs her car cleaned. I guess she drove through something.” There was more to the story than this, but my mother wasn't divulging any other details.

“Isn't it a little cold for a car wash?” I asked. I was not looking forward to any part of this mandatory charity event.

“Just go out there and help her.” She commanded with a roll of her eyes. After some cajoling, I got the truth out of her.

“Her car is possessed.”

“What?”

“I guess she drove through...something, and now her car is possessed.”

“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ABOUT THAT!?! I don't know how to cleanse demons! I am not an exorcist! Come on, mom!”

My pleas for reason fell on deaf ears. Begrudgingly, I set out to deal with the demonic Volvo.

The Tools of the Trade -- Lime Away and Carpet Cleaner

When I got to Christie's house, she was waiting for me at the door. She led me to the dingy silver Volvo wagon and explained to me the process that I was to follow:

Step 1 - Pour Lime Away pipe cleaner onto floors, seats, and any other surface, until thoroughly soaked with green goop.

Step 2 – Vainly attempt to soak up the verdant, viscous liquid with old towels.

Step 3 – Pray to God that Christie is satisfied before my hands freeze off.

When I opened the driver door, I was greeted with the project already in progress. Christie had unloaded two bottles of Lime Away onto the floor of the car. It seemed that this had happened some time earlier in the day, as the liquid was a semi-frozen slush. As the mid afternoon sun started lowering itself behind the scraggly trees, I began the process of exorcising the demons.

The first step was to remove the icy liquid from the floor. I checked the back for an ice scraper. No such luck. I attempted to chisel the corrosive liquid from its hold on the carpeted floor with a pen, but got nowhere. Then I got smart. Requesting a bucket of the hottest water available, I proceeded to besiege the Lime Away with scalding water, thus successfully liquifying the frozen cleaner. Objective completed. As I looked down triumphantly at the floor boards of the vehicle, my mood quickly changed from triumphant to disparaged. While I had melted the frozen muck, the car was now even swampier and, with the sun going down, the potential for another frozen floor was imminent. So I began bailing out.

After the majority of the liquid was removed from the floor, I was able to soak up the remainder with some old towels that Christie had provided. About the time I was finished with that project, Christie came out with a Shop-Vac and a can of carpet cleaner.

“Spray this on the seats. We need to get rid of it all.”

Ignoring the fact that a vacuum would have made the floor job much easier, I tried to think of a response to her request. Finding none that would meet Christie's irregular logic, I sighed and proceeded to coat the seats with an expanding white foam that smelled of old rubber. After vacuuming the upholstery, I returned triumphantly to Christie's door.

“All finished!” I proclaimed with vigor and chattering teeth.

Christie sidled up to the car with some trepidation. She peeked into the backseat, opened the hatchback, and seemed to be satisfied with the job I'd done. But then she sat in the drivers seat.

Immediately, she turned and looked me straight in the eye.

“You need to do the dashboard.”

“Christie, what do you mean? How do I do the dashboard?” I responded reluctantly. The methods used thus far were not utilizing electronics friendly cleaning agents, and this worried me.

She looked around a moment, then reached down for a bottle of Lime Away. Handing me the bottle, she pointed at the electronic panel of dormant meters and lights.

“If I put this stuff on the dash, It could ruin the car. There are electronic controls up there that – ” She cut me off,

“You need to do the dashboard. That's where they are. Please just do the dashboard.” She was adamant, but I realized the implication of this decision. I tried one more time,

“Why don't I just put it on like this?” I squirted the liquid onto one of the towels and began rubbing it into the vinyl.

In a surprisingly quick motion, she snatched the bottle from my hands and pushed me aside. As she sporadically squirted the cleaner onto the control panel, she ordered,

“Like this! You need to do it like this!” then she darted away and disappeared into the darkened doorway of the house. As I assessed the situation, I noticed her silhouette in the kitchen window, watching me as I stood in the frosty dusk. And so I began to dump the remainder of the bottle onto the dashboard.

The green liquid poured into the defrost vents. It seeped into cracks and ran over the edge, dripping onto the steering column. I did my best to mop up the goo, all the while my stomach sank lower and lower with the realization that I may be destroying a perfectly good vehicle. A perfectly good, potentially possessed vehicle, but none-the-less, a perfectly good vehicle.

I finished mopping up the mess I'd made, collected all the empty bottles, rags, buckets, and left them with the vacuum by the front door. Christie didn't come to the door when I knocked, so I closed up the soggy car and drove home, reflecting upon the task I'd just completed.

I don't know if the car was possessed. I don't know what Christie thought she'd caught in the engine of her Swiss-made hatchback. I do know that she had the entire dash replaced a few days later, due to an unknown failure in the electronic systems. But of some things, I can be certain.

Something had affected Christie. Whether it was in her car, in her house, or in her head, something had definitely upset her.

And that is real.

Making love - Giving Gifts That Don't Suck

I love sweater tees.

I have simultaneous exuberance and loathing in my heart when it comes to Christmas gifts. Giving, receiving, buying, wrapping, exchanging, returning – it does not matter. There are few things in life that cause anxiety like Christmas gifts.

The Gift of Gift Giving

It may be hereditary, this holiday humbuggery that befalls me. Last weekend my father and I wandered aimlessly through stores as we sought out obligatory gifts for the ones we care for. We finally settled upon a few items that fit the people on our list – candy and trinkets, mostly. As we drove home, we agreed that the whole gift giving concept was flawed.

We are so fixed on the act of giving, we forget that the gifts we impart should actually have meaning. And that is where I fail. I can think of great things for people throughout the year, but when it comes time for Christmas shopping, I am vapid. I wander stores in a daze of lights, people exuding peculiar odors, and the impending doom of an empty-handed Christmas.

My grandmother, on the other hand, is so caught up in the gift giving conspiracy that she calculates, down to the penny, how much she gives each of her grandchildren each Christmas. We all get at least one gift, then, for the older among us, cash. The gifts are, at times, the most asinine trinkets and trivial bobbles ever dreamed of. In the past, I've told her,

“Grandma, just give me money. I don't need any gifts this year.”

But she insists that if everyone doesn't have a physical gift to open on Christmas, we'll feel left out, and probably cry ourselves to sleep while visions of familial guilt dance in our heads. So we get our gifts on Christmas. Regardless of their limited utility, I appreciate the gesture. She wants us to feel loved. While we may not always love the gift, I do love the love behind the gift.

What Do YOU Want For Christmas?

Don't ask me what I want. I know you have the urge, but restrain yourself. If I were to compile a Christmas list, it'd consist of the following:

A hand-held, digital audio recorder

About a dozen music albums

A few films, mostly underground or silver screen

A new pair of brown dress shoes

An FM transmitter compatible with my Blackberry

Multiple bottles of top shelf Bourbon

The Pabst Brewing Company

DO NOT GO OUT AND BUY ME ANY OF THESE ITEMS.

With all of these Christmas wishes, there are specific models, styles, and specifications to my desires. I have an esoteric love of non-mainstream indie music, I love older films, and am pickier about my shoes than most women are. The technology that I want, I want the specific models that I have researched and determined to be the best item for the job. Worst of all, most of the things on my ramshackled Christmas list are expensive.

When I attempt to explain any of these requests, it generally elicits an annoyed or bewildered look and the person buys the closest thing to my desired item. They find the most inexpensive equivalent, slap a bow on it and hope for the best. Upon opening it, I smile, feign excitement, and then try to figure out how I can buy the one I want without making anyone feel bad.

Upon proofreading this, I realize that I may come across as an ungrateful prick. That is not my intention. Nor am I trying to sound like a Scrooge. I am merely trying to avoid the quagmire of awkward gifting that inevitably occurs this time of year.

Seasonal Origami

Would you expect a cross-eyed five year old to successfully wrap gifts without using three rolls of tape and a healthy dose of saliva to keep everything adhered?

Then why is it that every year, regardless of my vehement protestation, I am forced to create these works of ephemeral abstract art that will inevitably be ripped to shreds by the recipient.

I am not in any way comparing myself with a visually impaired child who is 1/5^th my age. I am, however, comparing my ability and desire to wrap gifts with that of a preschooler.

I prefer newspapers and electric tape, garbage bags and zip ties. Or the old 'Close your eyes and hold out your hands!' routine.

Making Love

There are exceptions to my disdain for gift giving. When I receive a homemade gift, my Grinchian heart grows three sizes. Whether it be culinary treats, fashionable yarnwear, or refabricated trinketry, I appreciate the thought that goes into a gift that is from the hands and heart of the giver.

My other grandmother gives out Christmas cookies every year. She must bake 500 cookies, from sugar cookies to turtles to traditional German anise cakes. I love them all, and they never last more than a week. One of my favorite cookies from oma's kitchen are the sugar cookies. There is something about those powdery morsels, slathered with pastel frosting and shaped like reindeer, Santa Clauses', and Christmas bells, that make my mouth water at the thought of them.

But after I was diagnosed with diabetes a few years ago, my grandmother decided that she was going to give me a healthier option for Christmas. So now, nestled in with all the other carb-filled delights in my Christmas package, I am chagrined to find my sugar cookies naked as Jesus in the manger – Not a bit of frosting on the poor little angels and stars.

Although I've tried to explain it to her, grandma has yet to grasp the concept of carbohydrates versus sugars. The cookie is chock full of carbohydrates, so is just as deleterious to my health without frosting than it is with the creamy delight. Do not spare me the savory experience of my youth, in an attempt to keep me healthy! They're cookies! Frosting or not, they will still raise my bloodsugar levels, so let them raise in peace.

Again, I am grateful every time my grandmother sends those barren cookies my way. As I crunch into the lacking treat, I smile. Grandma, in her own misguided way, is showing me she cares.

The Never-Ending Scarf

The all time best homemade gift I've received is a scarf from my wife. It has to be the only one of its design, and that is why I value it above every other neck protector I own.

Annie learned to crochet, specifically for this project, and set to work on a scarf for her beau. She chose a multicolored yarn that transitioned from red to orange to green, reflecting the autumnal ambiance that she knew I loved. Annie labored over the needle and lambswool for days, fervently looping and tugging, ensuring that every miniscule know was even and tight. My giraffe neck deserved only the best, and that was what she set out to deliver.

Somewhere along the way, Annie forgot to look up and check her progress. Before she realized it, she had created a scarf that was 15 fee long, but only 3 inches wide. More a snakes blanket than a human's scarf, Annie was nonplussed. But she was not defeated. In a move of pure ingenuity, Annie folded the scarf in half and proceeded to attach the two segments along the edge. The end result was a beautiful, thick scarf that has provided warmth and comfort to my neck for several years.

'Tis the Season

I know I shouldn't fight the inevitable. People are going to give me gifts. I want to show people my appreciation and reciprocate with my own trinkets of seasonal cheer. I will bear the anxiety of this tradition in stride, and, with any luck, I'll get better at it.

So don't feel bad if I give you a crummy gift. I really did try. And don't worry about giving me a crummy gift. I'll love you all the same for it.

And then I'll give it to Goodwill.

Seasonal Affect

It's cold. For those of you who are not in in the Midwest, take my word for it.

My car thermometer read a balmy one degree Fahrenheit this morning as I mad my way out of the parking lot. I backed into the alley and, as I shifted into drive to begin my commute, continued to slide backwards. No matter how much my tires protested the backwards motion, I continued to move in reverse. After a few failed attempts to gain yardage, I opted to work with the forces of physics. As I backed down the alley, I hoped no one would come out of their garages and see me creeping down the lane in reverse. Once I reached the street, I was able to continue my journey facing the proper direction.

I've spoken to many people over the last month who've all made similar claims about this inclement iciness.

“The weather puts me in a foul mood.”

“I'm tired of being cold all the time!”

“It gets too dark too early.”

“I can't feel my fingers.”

My father, a born and bred Iowan, even left last week for the warmer climes of Houston Texas. This ardent opposition to winter got me thinking about seasonal affect disorder, a psychological disorder that has come to my attention in the last few years. Here is what the Mayo Clinic has to say about SAD:

“Seasonal affective disorder (also called SAD) is a type of depression that occurs at the same time every year. If you're like most people with seasonal affective disorder, your symptoms start in the fall and may continue into the winter months, sapping your energy and making you feel moody. Less often, seasonal affective disorder causes depression in the spring or early summer.”

Definition taken from www.Mayoclinic.com

From this idea, I started creating a person that not only experienced mood swings or lethargy during the winter months, but was so brought down by the drabness of the snow and slush, that he actually detached from reality. The only thing that kept him attached to some semblance of this world was a woman he loved. I don't know if her love was reciprocated, or if she even knew of his existence, but his belief in her attachment is what keeps him tethered to reality, if ever so slightly.

As our disconnected character wanders through life, he gets lost in the monochromatic gray, misplacing the horizon and falling off the sidewalk, into the ashen ether. He is brought back to earth by a prescription, but whether that medicinal solution in actually a productive addition to his life is questionable.

I don't know where this character goes from here. The story may continue with another song, or essay, or some other medium. But for now, it's just seasonal affect.

Seasonal Affect

Powered by Podbean.com

Drive around the town I don't know where to go

Stare at twinkling lights, amid the falling snow

I don't know

Lets run away

I don't know

Let's run away

Together

Frustrated with all this madness

Curtsy the world insincere gladness

I don't know who

Lets get away

I don't know who

Let's get away

Together

The land the sea the sky they fade to gray

Unsure of where to step, of what's terrain

I don't know who this life is for

Let's float away

I don't know who I am any more

Let's float away

Together

The frozen ground it falls away beneath my feet

Barren tree tops they shrink away in this retreat

I don't know anything for sure

Let's fly away

I don't know where to find the floor

Let's fly away

Together

The pastel doctors reign me in prescribing rope

Tie me to a lamppost in the park force-feed me hope

I don't what to do any more

Let's break away

I don't what I'm fighting for

Let's break away

Together

Greeting cards wish peace on earth good will towards men

speak to me in foreign tongues and unfamiliar pen

I don't know who you are anymore

Let's fade away

I don't know how I've come so far

Let's fade away

Together

Hot Pants and Common Sense

When I walk my dog in the mornings, I rarely see anyone on the street. I pass the brick cottages and neatly trimmed lawns, my inquisitive Basset Hound in one hand, a plastic bag in the other. We groggily meander the sidewalks, sniffing out traces of squirrels and Taco Bell wrappers. Listening to podcasts syndicated by NPR and PRI, Ellie and I generally make our way back to the apartment without event or catastrophe. Sometimes we encounter a stray dog, or a child on their way to school, but for the most part, it's a solitary journey.

This morning we saw something worth noting. It wasn't so much an interaction as it was an observation.

The White Mile

As we exited the apartment this morning, we were blasted with the frigid wind of a twelve degree morning. Ellie dove into the snow, painting it yellow as she relieved herself in the three inch powder. We then began our trot down the alley. Our brisk pace was not due to any love of exercise, but rather a vain effort to keep from turning into living ice sculptures.

As we rounded the block, we jogged passed a house that bore signs of life. On the concrete front porch of this two story brick bungalow, a frumpy woman, mid 30's, stood stoically smoking a cigarette. The woman in and of herself was not notable, except for her chosen wardrobe.

Hot Pants in the Cold Dawn

Her head was covered with a nondescript stocking cap ('toque' for the Canadians out there – or a 'tousle cap' if you are my grandfather). She had an over-sized ski jacket on that draped over her shoulders and overshadowed her mittened hands as she tried to light the tobacco stick. 

The woman's bottom half was clad in naught but a pair of hot pants. No shoes, socks, or slippers. No jeans, snow-pants, or even pajama bottoms. It seems that her need to ingest that cigarette had overwhelmed her desire to avoid frostbite. I realize addictions are fierce masters, but I always assumed that pants would take priority over cigarettes. 

I may be making some unfair assumptions. Perhaps, in her rush to put on her down jacket, gloves, and a hat, she left her pants sitting on the floor of her bedroom. Right next to her common sense.

I tried not to stare as she stood in the doorway of her home, seemingly not phased by the biting cold. Hopefully the incredulous look on my face was masked by my own teeth chattering.

The Smoker's Motto

I've always wondered about a smokers audacious ability to brave any weather for their cigarette. It's commendable, that dedication. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these smokers from the swift completion of their addicted vices.

But most have the common sense to put on pants before inhaling. Maybe there should be a new warning on cigarette cartons:

Warning: Excessive use of cigarettes can lead to a loss of common sense. And pants. It will eventually lead to frostbite, if the first two conditions occur.

This is what I take away from this naked legged woman from the suburban tundra:

Smoke. Smoke whatever you want. Smoke wherever you want. Smoke with whomever you want. Just wear pants while doing it. For everyone's sake.

The Holiday Buffet

I've recently discovered an amazing new restaurant in the Quad Cities' – Capriotti's. The one singular item that makes this sandwich shop stand out above the half dozen other sandwich shops in the metro area is a delicatessen treat known as “The Bobbie”.

“The Bobbie” is the general equivalent to the sandwich one might make on the day after thanksgiving. The start with a supple, sweet, hoagie bun. Adding in a generous helping of shredded cold turkey, they dollop on a succulent cranberry sauce, followed by just the right blend of stuffing, and top it all off with a generous slathering of mayonnaise. It is one of the most enjoyable sandwiches known to this man.

I was conveying the awesomeness of Capriotti's to my friend Dan one evening, when we stumbled upon a brilliant idea for a restaurant – The Holiday Buffet.

It would be rows upon rows of buffets, each with a festive holiday theme. At each bar our beaming patrons would find their favorite foods from that corresponding day of celebration.

There would be watermelon and fried chicken at the Independence day buffet. At the Easter buffet you'd find ham and colored eggs. Thanksgiving would have the obligatory turkey, with all the stuffing, cranberries, potatoes, yams, and the like. We might have a Presidents day buffet, with some of the past oval office food favorites. Memorial day deviled eggs and marshmallow fluff. You get the picture.

We wouldn't be selectively American and Christian in our holiday selection. We'd have matzoh balls for passover, baba ghanoush and hummus for Ramadan (this buffet would only be open between sundown and sun rise).

From this conversation grew the spark for a song.

A long distance truck driver, stuck far away from his family on the night before Thanksgiving. He stops at a mysterious restaurant to clear his head and recharge – The Holiday Buffet. There he finds an impressive array of foods from every holiday of his past. The emotional connection to this food is magical – the reminiscence makes this hard old truck driver want to stay and eat forever, safe from the cold, lonely road.

But the Holiday Buffet isn't the real thing – the food we eat on these special days is not what makes the festivities memorable. It's the people we're with. It's the stories we share. It's the love of family that makes the food such a powerful force.

So the trucker tears himself away from the buffet and trucks on, drawing ever closer to his family, his real holiday experience.

Call it a Christmas take on The Eagles' “Hotel California”.

Listen, enjoy, and comment.

Holiday Buffet

Powered by Podbean.com

I'm out on the road again

This cold November wind, sure ain't no ones friend

Haulin' 30 tons down the line

Tryin' to get home this holiday to be with mine

My eyes are bleary, head is groggy - way up there

I see a shining light I see an answer to my prayer

The neon warms my soul tells me everything's OK

As I break these 16 wheels at the Holiday Buffet

Oh my soul

I don't know

I ain't never heard of

No Holiday Buffet

Oh my soul

As I slow

I think I like the looks

Of this Holiday Buffet

I strolled down the aisles

I could hardly believe my eyes

I saw festive treats

All color shape and size

Began to fill my plates

Those memories return

Pullin' at my heart strings

Makin' my stomach yearn

Oh my soul

Where'd you go

Those memories come floodin' back

At the Holiday Buffet

Oh my soul

Row by row

This food it takes me back

At the Holiday Buffet

Independence watermelon

A slab of sweet Easter ham

President's day cherry pie

Thanksgiving yams

Tacos for Cinco de Mayo, corn beef & cabbage for Patty's day.

I keep fillin' plates

Tryin' to eat my blues away

All this food around me

Sure is good but it ain't right

Fillin' up my belly

on this lonely winter night

This feast ain't what I need,

Gotta get away

Gotta drive all night

from this Holiday Buffet.

Oh my soul

Where'd you go

You cannot fill that hole

with a Holiday Buffet

Oh my soul

Row by Row

Flyin' through the snow

From the Holiday Buffet

Every now and then

Haulin' through the east

I think I see a neon sign

I think I smell a feast

Although I wish I could

Sometimes I think I might

Can't find that Holiday Buffet

From that cold winter night

What do I want for Christmas? For you to get on Twitter and Facebook and tell your friends about Musings of a Renaissance Man in Training. 

Oh! look here - a button for you to do that right now!

Dearest Annabelle

Christmas music is in full force. On the radio, in department stores, and in my head. I have a confession to make.

I love Christmas music.

I know I may come across sometimes as a curmudgeon who hates all things beautiful - Top 40 Radio, Reality TV, Justin Bieber. And while I will rail against the commercialism of this season, I do love Christmas music.

So here is a Christmas song. No it's not your traditional fa la la la la, but it has some nods to a few of my favorite carols.

Football on Christmas, 1914

The impetus behind Dearest Annabelle came to me when I heard someone talking about the unofficial truce's that happened during World War I between the British and German soldiers on and around Christmas. The details vary by incident, but the gist is that the soldiers stopped fighting, exchanged gifts, sang carols, and in at least one case, played a pickup football game. This ability to step outside of themselves and find some human decency amidst such a horrific conflict is something from which we can all take some pointers.



Dearest Annabelle

Powered by Podbean.com

Oh my dearest Annabelle
with frozen fingers fingers and a heart that's true
I write to you.

How I wish for sunny days
when warmth above would cast its rays on you
all dressed in blue

Its Christmas eve tonight on the battlefield
My rifle I will rest, my pen I'll wield

Though so many men have died 
in brutal bloodshed from the other side
I live for you

Strip away this uniform
and I will stand here unadorned, the man
that you once knew
 
This Christmas night is shining, bright and blue
Star of wonder and might bring me home to you

Through the crispness of this 
bitter night we hear O Tannenbaum and Yule
ring clear and true

Candle clad and arm in arm
they march across the death fields bearing truce
a peace filled fruit

Stille nacht, Heilige nacht
Alles schlaft, Einsam wacht

As I pen these words
with frostbit hand I hear the Christmas bells ring through
the dawn is new

Close my eyes I'm taken back
to Sunday morning snowflakes landing on 
turn into dew

Peace on earth, good will towards man
Father son and ghost have mercy on this land

Stille nacht

Heilige nacht


Tell your friends! Tweet it, Facebook it, spread it around like the flu virus!

I've never ridden in a Cadillac

Listen to it as a Podcast!

Powered by Podbean.com
 I'm going to start taking select essays and developing them as podcasts. Stay tuned for more radio versions of my laughable tales of oddity and self deprecation.

It was one of those winters that you'll never forget. One of the first winters I spent in Davenport, so one that will stick with me forever, branding Davenport Iowa as a city that has horrible, icy winters. In reality, the 3 years that I spent in davenport had fairly mild winters, but this was the first, so this was the one that had a lasting impression.


This winter was not bad because of the amount of snow. It was not even bad because of the temperature, which was frigid. The prevailing aspect of this winter that, to this day brings dread to my heart, was the ice. There were multiple ice storms and intermittent warm spells that would melt and refreeze, leaving ice as much 12 inches deep in some streets. The cars would drive through and create ruts in the ice, forming inevitable tracks through the streets that would lead your car, as if beyond your control, where the last car had gone.


It was on a particularly frosty morning that I came across Rita. Rita was a leathery woman with a scowl that shown through the most toothy grin. Her hair was a frazzled yellow gray mane that refused to be tamed by brush or hat, even in this arctic clime. Rita was known around the neighborhood as being crazy.


The story goes that Rita used to be a flight attendant. She would travel the country with her job, and was very good at what she did. But one day, the flight she was on didn't reach its destination. The pilot crash landed the plane, and while no one died, Rita was diagnosed with post traumatic stress syndrome. This affliction has manifested itself in many ways.


That cold winter morning, Rita's illness appeared in an interesting way. As I was driving to work, I noticed Rita on the street. She was wearing a sundress, a raincoat, and sandals. No winter coat, no sensible shoes, no hat. She didn't look miserable, but I could not fathom how she could be anything but hypothermic. So I pulled up along side Rita and asked if she needed a ride.


“Oh sure! I'm headin' to down to 3rd and Iowa Street.”


Her voice was vaguely southern in dialect, with a whimsical quality that could only be described as Blanche DuBois after smoking cheap cigars and drinking a fifth of whiskey. A lovely singsong cadence on an instrument that had long given out and only worked in screeches and rasps.


As we exited the parking lot and jostled over the uneven ice, Rita let out what I can only describe as a cackle – an unbridled giggle that, in another body, could be contagious, but coming from Rita, it was simply eerie.


“Are you a St. Ambrose Student?” She asked with a half grin.


I replied “No, I graduated from Monmouth College, last year.”


“Oh, Monmouth! I had a girl friend who went to Monmouth... She had a boy down there... I never went to Monmouth, but I visited... They were such beautiful people. I loved watching all the beautiful people...” her sentence trailed off as her eyes glazed and stared out the window.


At this point her eyes caught a panel on the door. My 2004 Toyota Corolla was equipped with automatic windows that were controlled from a faux wood panel on the arm rest. Stroking the poor mans mahogany accent, Rita mused, “I never thought I'd ride in a Cadillac...”


Unsure of what to say, I sat quietly, focusing on navigating the icy side streets. Rita's gaze floated from me to the wood on the door to a point in the distance. Under her breath she mused, “To dream the impossible...”


“DREAM!” I thought. The tension of here unpredictability was unnerving. Rita had always made me uneasy, but I was beginning to regret offering her a ride.


Luckily we we're nearing the place where I was to drop her off. Still a few blocks away, she turned to me and asked “Well, do you have any...Last requests?” then let out another cackle, solidifying the feeling of dread.


I couldn't tell if she thought she was a lounge singer or an executioner, but her instability was not something I wanted to test. I quickly found a space along the side walk and put the car in park. She sidled out of the vehicle with surprising fluidity and grace. As she wandered away from me and towards the warehouse on the corner, she turned and gave me one final toothy grin and a wiggle of her fingers, then laughed as she turned the corner.