Where I'm From

I am from an olive green electric skillet,
from Philly cheese steaks and Taylor’s Pork Roll.
I am from a concrete patio

(cracked, uneven, where puddles sit long after a rain).
I am from the yellow bells switch bush in the front yard
and the gigantic oak out back reaching up to the high voltage tower.
I am from youngest to oldest at Christmas, and practical jokes,
from Mary and Mike, Jeremiah, Joseph, and Roseanna.
I am from playing it by ear and giving away the last nickel in your pocket,
from go ask your mother and ain’t that a kick in the head,
from the pretty Sunday bonnet with a little lace upon it.
I am from ashes smudged on foreheads, ruler-wielding nuns,
and genuflecting at the Stations of the Cross.
I am from Philadelphia and the boardwalk at the Jersey shore,
from soft pretzels and salt water taffy.
From Kathleen behind the counter at Burger King, serving it your way;
Colleen roasting in the backyard, spreading mayonnaise on her arms;
and Maureen dressed like Wendy, pointing cars to the drive-through.
I am from the rattling murmur of my father’s last breaths,
and from the sea life mosaic in the pediatric ward where mother took hers.
I am from the overstuffed photo album –
cracked green and held together by a rubber band –
tucked away in the top of the linen closet.

-- Michael McIntyre
Dacula, 2008

from the Juniors department

Tonight I accompanied Beth and Gracie on a shopping expedition. Gracie is eleven and needs new clothes almost weekly -- not that she wants them: she'd be fine in the jeans she wore last year and and the tee-shirt from 4th grade with the hot chocolate stain. Sooooooooooo, off to Belk's we went.

Gracie is indeed in that "in-between....tween" age where almost everything from the "girls" section is toooooo little kid, but everything from the Juniors section is too teenager or, worse, too college-girl-looking-for-a-fraternity-boy. It was hard to watch her -- awkward and for the most part uncaring -- try on clothes that, once she had them on, made her look like a young woman instead of the little kid I should always like her to remain. Such is life.

On a side note -- tonight we let Sadie (seven and high-spirited) attend a four hour Kids Night lock-in at Dacula Family Sports, whereupon she, taking exception to the attitudes of some older kids, proceeded to flip them off with her middle finger. Such is life.

Some Thoughts on Running as a Form of Recreational Loco-motion

My ponderous legs

chug and churn

up the hill

as if laden

with cinder blocks,

or 25-pound sacks of flour

intended for that pizza place

over by the Kroger.

Any moment now….

I wait for the crack --

the gunshot-like snap of a hamstring

to echo through the neighborhood,

bouncing off of the tidily manicured Tudor

over to the stack stone façade

of the house with the man

who always cuts his grass too low.

In a minivan

the lady from the cul-de-sac

motors by,

chatting on her iPhone – snickering,

no doubt,

at the idiot who looks near cardiac arrest

as he lumbers by the mailbox

at 1252.

I lift an index finger

in recognition of her,

so as not to appear rude.

Thankfully,

I quit smoking 10 years ago,

or I’d be bent over on the sidewalk,

hacking up a lung

(or some suspicious viscera)

by the freshly painted fire hydrant

at the bottom of the hill.

Or perhaps I should’ve never quit.

And instead

lapsed into middle age,

Archie Bunker-like:

a comfy chair to cradle me,

and a tv tray

with a ham and swiss on rye

as my reward

for a day well done.

Michael McIntyre

Dacula, 2010