i got bit on the leg by a dog as i walked to work this morning. Ironically, the dog's name was happy.

Station No. 29

Charles listened intently. He was impressed with John's depth as a young man. He had obviously thought about the situation at great length.

No doubt, his visits with Rosa had helped John identify his deep concerns and put them to words. John spoke fearlessly about his father's abrasiveness which made approaching him so risky that nobody tried anymore. He told his father it was impossible to have a father-son relationship if John was always trying to find something intelligent enough to say in order to get his father's approval.

John's milk glass had long ago reached bottom, but he was beyond his usual nervousness and finally speaking with a sense of freedom. He did not stop to think how odd it was given the usual state of affairs when he tried to talk to his father.

Charles waited patiently for a chance to speak, which was yet another oddity. Normally, Charles would have been down John's throat countless times already in a conversation such as this. He didn't so much sit and listen to others, pondering their well-made points, as he sat and remained quiet just long enough to reload his weapons before unleashing them upon his opponent. Charles knew how to strike a pensive pose, appearing for all observers as the man who truly considered another person's viewpoint. In reality, however, he had little or no interest in anything others had to say. But this too was changing.

His conversations with Jason and Chin li's poetry had found their way inside the cracks in Charles' fortress walls, and he was unable to avoid the appropriate sting of certain comments. He could not refute John's criticisms, which were not delivered in a cutting manner.

John finally stopped talking, took a deep breath, and then — suddenly aware that he had actually just said the very things he had rehearsed for months in front of his bedroom mirror — felt a knot tighten in his stomach. To say that a pregnant pause followed would be a tremendous understatement. Such a pause would have been induced to labor by now. Again struck with nerves, John lunged for the milk.

"You're right," Charles said. "I have mistreated you and others; it was wrong and I am sorry."

John dropped the milk carton. History was being made in the early morning hours in the kitchen, and John was stunned. Charles stopped short of asking John for forgiveness, he wasn't sure what forgiveness was or if he believed in it. But Charles' willingness to admit fault was a first, and John knew right then that something was happening to his father.

Station No. 28

Charles sat in his kitchen, unable to sleep and a bit hungry. He was musing to himself, and out loud at that, about the hours spent with Rosa, talking and working on a crossword puzzle. It was hard for him to believe he had actually done it — before, he had been loathe to spend even five minutes in her presence.

Things were definitely changing. Charles had originally thought he would stop over to Rosa's and apologize for his rude behavior, then make a quick exit. Something had tugged at him while there, however, and he wound up staying and — perish the thought — enjoying himself.

"What is going on? he asked himself aloud.
"I don't know, Dad, what's going on? a voice replied.

Charles spun on his seat with astonishing alacrity given the late hour. It was John, standing in the kitchen doorway with a look that seemed simultaneously plaintive and annoyed.

"You scared me," Charles said, putting his hand to his heart; his eyes bigger than saucers.
"Sorry," John said with a tone more indifferent than apologetic — almost the way a young child sounds when forced to apologize. "You have been scaring me lately."

"What do you mean?" Charles shot back with defensiveness. The words still lingered in the air, and Charles grimmaced, realizing what he sounded like. "Sorry, I know that was harsh. I really do want to know what you mean."

John, who had not moved from the doorway, glided across the kitchen floor, opened the refrigerator and grabbed the milk carton. He always went to milk when he wanted a little comfort, or to calm his nerves. His friends teased him, saying it was strange, always trying to get him to unwind with beer. But John loved his milk, it was something Charles had always found endearing.

John wondered where to begin in trying to tell his father all the things he was thinking — fearing none of it would make any sense. He had always felt intimidated by his father. In years past, Charles had used his intellectualism to bully his kids in arguments, which resulted in painful alienation. Jess had given up hope of connecting emotionally with her father, but John had rekindled his desire through his conversations with Rosa. John sat down, took a gulp of milk and began, deciding that simply starting the conversation was better than trying to find the exactly right way to do it.

John told Charles he was feeling scared that his father's anger and pain were tearing him apart and he was unraveling. The car accident, the storming in and out of the house and his sharp tongue unleashed on seemingly everyone all gave John a feeling that more disaster awaited his family. He was concerned his father would do something drastic and hurt John, Jess and possibly others.

The Armadillo

The armadillo from Amarillo
Is known to have his pecadilloes.
He practices the oboe
While walking on his tip-toes.

The armadillo from Amarillo
Is also quite fond of his pillow.
While lying there
Without a care
He sometimes looks froze
In his repose.

when you're wanting to be something . . . you get good at pretend
till you're thinking you are someone . . . you have never really been

From Shellshocked on Locket Full of Moonlight by Bill Mallone.

Over the weekend i watched Dead Poets Society for the first time in years. i was pleasantly reminded of the following poem by Walt Whitman:

O Me! O Life!

O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me; 5
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse