“Jimmy, go check to see if we got any milk today,” ordered Don in his slow, gruff voice.
“I’m sorry Pa, but you know the milkman hasn’t come by for months now,” said Jimmy in as much of a sympathetic voice as he could muster. Jimmy was well aware that he was sending him on a mission to which Pa would only turn his anger of not being able to afford milk for the family onto his only son.
“Dammit Jimmy, that’s not the answer I want to hear from you, boy! If there’s no milk for us, you better do something to fix that problem before I fix you!” Having no milk was a constant reminder that his more than capable son could never help him with supporting the family. Milk became the symbol of his obvious failure as a father.
“I’m doing what I can Pa. My school exams are almost complete and then I can…” but Don abruptly cut him off as he jumped to his feet, his fist crashing onto the kitchen table.
“Boy I swear I hope Mary and all the saints are watching over you, because if here you say the word ‘school’ one more time, you’re sure as hell are going to need them to protect you!” Don’s unyielding gaze met Jimmy’s and seemed to physically force him backward. And for what felt like the entire morning, Don finally cooled down and finished his milk-less cereal. Jimmy lost his appetite and left for school.
The school was about five miles from their home, uphill both ways. The tedious walk gave Jimmy ample time to think about yet another scolding his father paid him. It was becoming too perfunctory for him to put up with these morning tirades from his father. Did Pa even understand what he was doing? Was he so myopic that he didn’t realize what an education in banking would mean for them? Two more weeks and I will make more money in one year than he has ever made in his lifetime…
Just thinking about his son, his pathetic, failure-at-life son, was enough to get him riled up again. Have I not fathered him well enough to show him what twenty-five years of hard labor can do? Sure there are times when we barely got by on what we had, but all in all, if you work hard, you get paid. But if you’re in school, you make nothing. An erudite son puts no milk in my cereal! His incarnadine face wasn’t going to cool down any time soon. He tried to think about the job he was assigned for all these years. He would be a part of history, working on the world’s largest building in the greatest city on earth. It made him proud. Two more weeks and his life’s work would be complete.
The two weeks went by and Jimmy and his father barely saw each other. They were so engulfed in their respective work that Don had no time to quarrel, or rather, deride his sons’ decisions. They sat awkwardly beside each other at church, counting the seconds when this family formality would end and they could hide behind their work again. But after the closing hymn finished and they exited the church, neither of them knew what to do. Don had no work to do on a Sunday, and Jimmy finished his exams. They were forced to spend time together until tomorrow.
Tomorrow came, and not a minute too soon. They both lumbered into the kitchen and sat at the table. Don had completed work on the Empire State Building, and he had no desire to see the fruits of his labor as it meant no more source of income for himself. Wishing his son would maybe earn a few pennies for once in his life, he fixed his eyes on his son and was about to begin their old morning routine until he notice something on Jimmy’s face. Was he smiling? Does my son have the audacity to smile at my impoverished predicament?! But before he could launch a slew of invectives, his son began to speak.
“Pa, I want to thank for all your hard work. I know you hate me, and I am beginning to understand why. You could have had a strong, intrepid son to work at your side, to take breaks with while overlooking the entire city, to have pride as my mentor. I was none of these to you. I was a failure in your eyes. But I am sitting here, ebullient and proud, because I have something to give you.” He practically gamboled to the front door, opened it, and hauled in ten cases of milk. Don was aghast, his eyes wide, his jaw to the floor. “Because of your work Pa, I was offered a job in the building you built. And with my signing bonus, I wanted to offer you more milk than you could possibly drink. And I figure since you are out of work now, it will give you something to do.” His father could have beaten him to the ground if he wanted to, but he didn’t. And even if he did, Jimmy would probably still have that fatuous smile on his face, knowing full well that he either paid his father the most loving compliment or the most insulting jab he would ever be able to make. Suddenly, tears came down Don’s face. He knew Jimmy was right, but he still didn’t know whether his son would forgive him. But before he could think any further, Jimmy embraced his father. For at that moment, they finally understood each other and were happy to be a part of the same family.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Asses
The men didn’t know what to do. They had rented him for a handsome fee for the afternoon to move the tall one’s belongings across town. Tomorrow was his wedding, and following custom, he had bought a house of his own and was moving out of his parents. Tradition held that the marriage could not be consummated unless it was done in the shared home of the new bride and groom. The donkey knew all of this because he had been listening to the man talk animatedly to his brother who was helping him move. The tall man’s name was Saoud, and the other man, his brother, was called Raj. Raj had apparently already been married, because he kept warning Saoud that after they were married and comfortable, women just got fat. But his warnings were falling on deaf ears; Saoud could barely concentrate on packing the cart. He kept forgetting items inside, and they were perpetually distracted by their mother coming out and offering snacks of naan and hummus. At one point she started to cry, and the men had to spend a half hour consoling her. The father walked out of the house, but all he did was grunt, spit tobacco, and go back inside.
He was starting to get anxious as the men were taking too long to load the cart. It would be wiser to make two trips, but the men didn’t want to do that. He had heard Saoud say he was in a rush, because apparently tonight there was to be a feast in his honor, where his friends would provide endless food, drink, and women. Raj started to laugh, “See how much you like it when you consistently get your honey from the same bee,” he jeered. Saoud ignored him and finished loading the boxes onto the back of the cart. Their mother let out a wail, and began to cling to Saoud, crying about losing her baby. Raj gently pulled her off, and reminded her that he came to the house three times a week, and had been married for seven years.
Raj hit him with a whip to make him move, and he took off with all his might, straining against the load in the cart. He felt as if he was pulling the weight of the world, but he wasn’t moving. Raj hit him again and yelled this time, but to no avail. There were too many boxes in the cart. Saoud came up behind and gave a futile push, hoping to jump start momentum, but all his movement did was upset the boxes, and they started to shift. Suddenly they started to fall out of the back of the cart, and the weight lifted him up in the air, so that he was an ass with his ass in the air, surrounded by two asses.
He was starting to get anxious as the men were taking too long to load the cart. It would be wiser to make two trips, but the men didn’t want to do that. He had heard Saoud say he was in a rush, because apparently tonight there was to be a feast in his honor, where his friends would provide endless food, drink, and women. Raj started to laugh, “See how much you like it when you consistently get your honey from the same bee,” he jeered. Saoud ignored him and finished loading the boxes onto the back of the cart. Their mother let out a wail, and began to cling to Saoud, crying about losing her baby. Raj gently pulled her off, and reminded her that he came to the house three times a week, and had been married for seven years.
Raj hit him with a whip to make him move, and he took off with all his might, straining against the load in the cart. He felt as if he was pulling the weight of the world, but he wasn’t moving. Raj hit him again and yelled this time, but to no avail. There were too many boxes in the cart. Saoud came up behind and gave a futile push, hoping to jump start momentum, but all his movement did was upset the boxes, and they started to shift. Suddenly they started to fall out of the back of the cart, and the weight lifted him up in the air, so that he was an ass with his ass in the air, surrounded by two asses.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The Donkey That Counldn't
The Iranian landscape is rife with natural impasses to even the most intrepid of travelers. From the mountainous terrain surrounding the nations’ borders to the arid dry lands at the heart of the country, it was a remarkable feat for Mansoor to travel by donkey across the Lut Dessert. The first time he attempted the perilous passage through the dessert plains, his friends and family were doubtful he would last three days into his journey and harshly criticized him for his complete disregard of his own life. “The Deranged and Foolish Son of Khosrow” he was called, and Mansoor didn’t really deny that.
Mansoor always excelled at endurance sports and never met a challenge he could not meet. After accepting a challenge to live for two weeks in the remote mountains of Kerrnan and successfully living there for not only two, but three weeks, he was known and respected for being the most daring young man of Kerrnan, with unparalleled survival skills and instinct. And holding this unofficial title – since his official title to the locals would always be “The Deranged and Foolish Son of Khosrow” -, Mansoor looked push himself to the limit if not to prove it to himself, then to prove it to others. By the age of twenty eight, he had successfully crossed the Lut Dessert from Kerrnan to Birjand eleven times with nothing but what he could carry by donkey; no one else has reported even doing it once.
By the time Mansoor was thirty, possessing only his limited schooling and brave dessert excursions, he began to worry about his future and reputation. He was single, had no job, and knew nothing of the world outside his home – aside from the dessert. “The scorpions in the dessert know more about you than even I do, let alone anyone outside Kerrnan,” teased his mother. Of course his name had spread through the local cities as “Mansoor: Conqueror of Lut,” but there was no face, no personality behind that name. No one would recognize him on the streets accept his old childhood classmates who were now preoccupied with marital and business matters. His name was a legend, but he was a fading memory.
One morning his mother woke him from his sullen sleep, handing him the local newspaper. This aggravated him because she knew very well he would not be able to read more than a few words. But before he could thwart his mother’s teasing and turn his head, Mansoor caught a word he knew in the headline: TERRORIST. He glanced up at his mother, and through his confusion, she completed the sentence: TERRORIST IN HIDING, REFUGE IN LUT. After his mother had his full attention, she explained to him what was afoot. Ahmadinejad had won the presidential election, and the runner up, Mir-Hossein Mousavi, was livid at the voting results, accusing Ahmadinejad of fraud. Despite proving the election was legitimate, Mousavi advocates called for a civil war, forcing Mousavi into hiding for his life. And as long as Mousavi lived, his supporters would rise up in rebellion. Mousavi was last seen entering the Lut Dessert. Mansoor, his eyes wide with anxiety, understood what his mother was telling him. He was the only one who knew the Lut Dessert. He was the only one who could find Mousavi.
Mansoor could barely clothe himself with his trembling hands. It was all starting to come together for him. Mousavi was the reason there was war and death in neighboring cities, and Mousavi was the reason his father, Khosrow, stayed up at night keeping watch over his family. Deep in his soul, Mansoor knew he must accept what fate presented him. He must go in search of Mousavi and end this rebellion. Fate prepared him, and Mansoor could never turn down a challenge.
The townspeople caught wind of what Mansoor had decided to do, and provided him with the best donkey they could offer. They also procured a cart with enough C4 explosives to blow up the whole city of Kerrnan. The sound of the blast would send a message to all that Mousavi has been killed. But when they affixed the cart to the donkey, the donkey could not produce enough leverage to balance the cart. And like a seesaw, the donkey was lifted into the air. This posed a small logistical problem for Mansoor, and he quickly called for the largest camel in the city to replace the now bewildered donkey. Within an hour, Mansoor was ready, and headed for the dessert.
Weeks passed with no sign of an explosion, and the town feared the oncoming onslaught of the rebels. They had nothing to defend themselves and knew Mansoor was their only hope. The sound of a horn was heard at the city gates, heralding the unwelcome rebels, and the entire city fell to their knees, with their final prayers on their lips. As the first rebel entered the city, their prayers were answered. An explosion was heard in the east. The rebel halted, paused, and fell to his knees. As he did so, the whole city rose up and looked to Khosrow for affirmation. And in a voice like that of a prophet, he exclaimed, “My son. My hero. Our savior!” The crowd broke into cheers, shedding tears of joy for Mansoor’s sacrifice and their own freedom.
Khosrow would later say of his son that there was a reason he named him Mansoor. For it means “Protected by God.”
Mansoor always excelled at endurance sports and never met a challenge he could not meet. After accepting a challenge to live for two weeks in the remote mountains of Kerrnan and successfully living there for not only two, but three weeks, he was known and respected for being the most daring young man of Kerrnan, with unparalleled survival skills and instinct. And holding this unofficial title – since his official title to the locals would always be “The Deranged and Foolish Son of Khosrow” -, Mansoor looked push himself to the limit if not to prove it to himself, then to prove it to others. By the age of twenty eight, he had successfully crossed the Lut Dessert from Kerrnan to Birjand eleven times with nothing but what he could carry by donkey; no one else has reported even doing it once.
By the time Mansoor was thirty, possessing only his limited schooling and brave dessert excursions, he began to worry about his future and reputation. He was single, had no job, and knew nothing of the world outside his home – aside from the dessert. “The scorpions in the dessert know more about you than even I do, let alone anyone outside Kerrnan,” teased his mother. Of course his name had spread through the local cities as “Mansoor: Conqueror of Lut,” but there was no face, no personality behind that name. No one would recognize him on the streets accept his old childhood classmates who were now preoccupied with marital and business matters. His name was a legend, but he was a fading memory.
One morning his mother woke him from his sullen sleep, handing him the local newspaper. This aggravated him because she knew very well he would not be able to read more than a few words. But before he could thwart his mother’s teasing and turn his head, Mansoor caught a word he knew in the headline: TERRORIST. He glanced up at his mother, and through his confusion, she completed the sentence: TERRORIST IN HIDING, REFUGE IN LUT. After his mother had his full attention, she explained to him what was afoot. Ahmadinejad had won the presidential election, and the runner up, Mir-Hossein Mousavi, was livid at the voting results, accusing Ahmadinejad of fraud. Despite proving the election was legitimate, Mousavi advocates called for a civil war, forcing Mousavi into hiding for his life. And as long as Mousavi lived, his supporters would rise up in rebellion. Mousavi was last seen entering the Lut Dessert. Mansoor, his eyes wide with anxiety, understood what his mother was telling him. He was the only one who knew the Lut Dessert. He was the only one who could find Mousavi.
Mansoor could barely clothe himself with his trembling hands. It was all starting to come together for him. Mousavi was the reason there was war and death in neighboring cities, and Mousavi was the reason his father, Khosrow, stayed up at night keeping watch over his family. Deep in his soul, Mansoor knew he must accept what fate presented him. He must go in search of Mousavi and end this rebellion. Fate prepared him, and Mansoor could never turn down a challenge.
The townspeople caught wind of what Mansoor had decided to do, and provided him with the best donkey they could offer. They also procured a cart with enough C4 explosives to blow up the whole city of Kerrnan. The sound of the blast would send a message to all that Mousavi has been killed. But when they affixed the cart to the donkey, the donkey could not produce enough leverage to balance the cart. And like a seesaw, the donkey was lifted into the air. This posed a small logistical problem for Mansoor, and he quickly called for the largest camel in the city to replace the now bewildered donkey. Within an hour, Mansoor was ready, and headed for the dessert.
Weeks passed with no sign of an explosion, and the town feared the oncoming onslaught of the rebels. They had nothing to defend themselves and knew Mansoor was their only hope. The sound of a horn was heard at the city gates, heralding the unwelcome rebels, and the entire city fell to their knees, with their final prayers on their lips. As the first rebel entered the city, their prayers were answered. An explosion was heard in the east. The rebel halted, paused, and fell to his knees. As he did so, the whole city rose up and looked to Khosrow for affirmation. And in a voice like that of a prophet, he exclaimed, “My son. My hero. Our savior!” The crowd broke into cheers, shedding tears of joy for Mansoor’s sacrifice and their own freedom.
Khosrow would later say of his son that there was a reason he named him Mansoor. For it means “Protected by God.”
Monday, March 1, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The ducks that looked like chickens
Michigan winters are brutal, but this was the coldest one on record in the last twenty years. Even though it was April, the ground was still freezing. But that didn’t mean the Ford children could stay inside. There were always chores that required doing on the family farm. Sally rolled over in bed and looked at the alarm clock. The red numbers glared back at her, blinking 4:45 a.m. She groaned and turned to look at the ceiling. This was the worst part of the day – when the bracing cold would soon be an inevitable reality. She could either stay in bed and savor the last few moments of warmth, only to spend the time dreading when the alarm would ring, or she could turn her alarm off now and get it over with. After pondering for a minute, she gathered all of her willpower and threw the warm quilt back, shivering instantly from the slap of the cold. Her small wiry frame required several layers to retain even an ounce of heat. She quickly pulled on a pair of wool socks over her long johns.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she saw a plain looking girl with flat blonde hair and a face full of freckles. She scrunched her nose at her reflection, but she didn’t have time to sit and ponder today whether or not she would ever be pretty. She went to go find her work clothes, crumpled in a corner of the room where she had taken them off yesterday. Trudging down the hallway to the bathroom, she was careful to avoid the floorboards that creaked. Although she could hear her father brewing coffee in the kitchen, and her brother Peter would be up shortly, her mother needed to sleep. Her cancer had cost the family their meager savings, and an able bodied worker. Sally had since taken over the chores originally done by her mother: milking the cows, churning the cream into butter, and collecting the eggs from the chickens.
The family had a small client base, those people who still held onto the value of family farms. Today was Thursday, which meant Mrs. Amsel would be by at about 7:00 for the eggs Sally would collect. Mrs. Amsel was her favorite customer, because instead of cash she paid the Fords in baked goods, a treat that had been missing ever since Mom came down with cancer. Mrs. Amsel swore the Ford’s eggs made all of her baked goods taste better, but Sally knew it was because Mrs. Amsel was an excellent baker. She didn’t think there was anything particularly special about their eggs, especially when she had to wrestle them from the chickens at 5:30 every morning.
Sally pulled on her boots and stepped out into the morning. The cold air caused her to gasp, but she stood for a moment in awe. The sun had not yet begun to rise, and the night was clear, revealing a smattering of stars. She stood there for a minute, only to be jolted back to reality by Peter slamming the door behind her.
“Race ya,” he yelled as he sprinted off towards the barn. Peter was older, but Sally was a natural runner, and she caught up to him as he reached the pig sty. Sally loved the pigs, causing her father to remove her from pig duty once she realized what became of them. She had refused to eat bacon for a year. Every spring when the piglets were born, she would go out and name all of them, begging and pleading on behalf of at least one pig from the litter. Her father did not recognize the desire of a pig as a pet, and tried to explain that the family could not afford to do without the income they brought in.
Sally hurried past the pigs and went over to the chicken coop. Anyone who thought pigs stank clearly had not spent time around chicken shit. Ducking down, she was welcomed by a flurry of feathers, and indignant squawks as she upset the hens from their nests. She gathered the eggs as quickly as possible, saying hello to each chicken by name as she did so. Sally had names for all of the animals on the farm. When she reached Henrietta, the chicken pecked her, defending the nest. Henrietta had been fussy lately, and rather than deal with the temperamental chicken, Sally usually just skipped her. But today she needed the eggs. Two of the other chickens had not laid any, and Mrs. Amsel liked to have two dozen. Henrietta was usually good for two eggs, so Sally gripped the chicken by the buttocks, wary of any pecks that might be sent in her direction. The chicken started to flap her wings ferociously, causing Sally to drop her on the ground. When she did so, she was startled not to find two eggs in the nest, but instead, she was greeted by two little tufts of yellow fur. So this was why Henrietta had been guarding her nest! As one stood up and playfully bit the other, Sally decided the two new members of the farm needed names. She decided upon George and Kevin, the names of each of the boys she thought were cute from school. Henrietta was throwing a fit back on the floor of the coop, so Sally picked her up and gingerly placed her back in nest. As the chicken readjusted herself, Sally could swear she glared up at her.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she saw a plain looking girl with flat blonde hair and a face full of freckles. She scrunched her nose at her reflection, but she didn’t have time to sit and ponder today whether or not she would ever be pretty. She went to go find her work clothes, crumpled in a corner of the room where she had taken them off yesterday. Trudging down the hallway to the bathroom, she was careful to avoid the floorboards that creaked. Although she could hear her father brewing coffee in the kitchen, and her brother Peter would be up shortly, her mother needed to sleep. Her cancer had cost the family their meager savings, and an able bodied worker. Sally had since taken over the chores originally done by her mother: milking the cows, churning the cream into butter, and collecting the eggs from the chickens.
The family had a small client base, those people who still held onto the value of family farms. Today was Thursday, which meant Mrs. Amsel would be by at about 7:00 for the eggs Sally would collect. Mrs. Amsel was her favorite customer, because instead of cash she paid the Fords in baked goods, a treat that had been missing ever since Mom came down with cancer. Mrs. Amsel swore the Ford’s eggs made all of her baked goods taste better, but Sally knew it was because Mrs. Amsel was an excellent baker. She didn’t think there was anything particularly special about their eggs, especially when she had to wrestle them from the chickens at 5:30 every morning.
Sally pulled on her boots and stepped out into the morning. The cold air caused her to gasp, but she stood for a moment in awe. The sun had not yet begun to rise, and the night was clear, revealing a smattering of stars. She stood there for a minute, only to be jolted back to reality by Peter slamming the door behind her.
“Race ya,” he yelled as he sprinted off towards the barn. Peter was older, but Sally was a natural runner, and she caught up to him as he reached the pig sty. Sally loved the pigs, causing her father to remove her from pig duty once she realized what became of them. She had refused to eat bacon for a year. Every spring when the piglets were born, she would go out and name all of them, begging and pleading on behalf of at least one pig from the litter. Her father did not recognize the desire of a pig as a pet, and tried to explain that the family could not afford to do without the income they brought in.
Sally hurried past the pigs and went over to the chicken coop. Anyone who thought pigs stank clearly had not spent time around chicken shit. Ducking down, she was welcomed by a flurry of feathers, and indignant squawks as she upset the hens from their nests. She gathered the eggs as quickly as possible, saying hello to each chicken by name as she did so. Sally had names for all of the animals on the farm. When she reached Henrietta, the chicken pecked her, defending the nest. Henrietta had been fussy lately, and rather than deal with the temperamental chicken, Sally usually just skipped her. But today she needed the eggs. Two of the other chickens had not laid any, and Mrs. Amsel liked to have two dozen. Henrietta was usually good for two eggs, so Sally gripped the chicken by the buttocks, wary of any pecks that might be sent in her direction. The chicken started to flap her wings ferociously, causing Sally to drop her on the ground. When she did so, she was startled not to find two eggs in the nest, but instead, she was greeted by two little tufts of yellow fur. So this was why Henrietta had been guarding her nest! As one stood up and playfully bit the other, Sally decided the two new members of the farm needed names. She decided upon George and Kevin, the names of each of the boys she thought were cute from school. Henrietta was throwing a fit back on the floor of the coop, so Sally picked her up and gingerly placed her back in nest. As the chicken readjusted herself, Sally could swear she glared up at her.
Monday, February 1, 2010
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