My deep, dark secret

My dog sucks my ear lobes. I don't willingly let her do it, but as I sit on the couch in a television induced stupor, I snap back to reality when a dog tongue reaches my ear drum, or I feel the greedy suckling of a hungry puppy at my ear lobe. I really hope my ear lobes don't look like dog teats. That might actually bring down my self esteem. There's no preparing for that one ahead of time. You just have to deal with whether or not your ears look like canine reproductive organs.

We got ATT U-Verse yesterday. The set up took quite a long time, but the DVR's geek factor made it worthwhile. I only have one concern about our new cable system: there is a bright blue light on the cable box that never turns off. It isn't noticeable at all while you're watching tv, but once the lights are off, and you're comfortably in bed, you can't help but feel like you're being video taped. Or maybe like you're looking into a movie projector. Or being abducted by aliens. Or maybe you CAN take too much NyQuil and all of this is just an unsettling episode.

But since there was no NyQuil involved last night, the blue light was in fact annoying as all hell. Not ALL hell, just the ring of fire where the devil tortures you with his handy dandy pen light. The only solution was to put a pair of socks over the light, to which Dana commented, just as I was drifting off, "I hope those don't catch on fire." Thanks babe. I'm desperately trying to avoid dreaming about being molested by the family dog and now I have to deny the fear that our house might burn down.

Reader, when you go into a slump, when life becomes mundane or frustrating, you have to look for the humor in your day. It's often in the details, or in the akward, slobbery affection of an amorous pooch.

In loving memory of the most interesting man in the world

It has too often been the case that I've found myself saying, "I wish I had taken more time to get to know him."

Henrique Wauters was a survivor in the greatest sense. Born to a Jewish family in Brazil in 1920, he returned to Europe where he was forced to flee from Nazi persecution. "Henry" evaded the Germans, but his family did not. The chase took him through Belgium, Holland and eventually France- where he fought as a part of the French resistance. He was eventually captured and imprisoned in a German camp until freed by the Allies.

Henry spoke English, French, Spanish and Portuguese. He lived throughout Europe, Brazil and the United States. He was married once before he married my tia Irma and had five children with his first wife. I state these things coarsely because these are the facts I remember learning as a child. I will not embellish my recollection, I would rather honor the truths that I recall.

I knew him as tio "Rick", and it wasn't until his eighty-ninth birthday party that I realized it was only my immediate family that called him by this name. My aunt Irma and other aunts and uncles called him "Henry". In retrospect, it is fitting that he answered to more than one name. His experiences were almost too many for one lifetime and it is appropriate that he be given the space of two names to tell his story.

As we entered the party last Saturday, I saw his six-foot-three frame sunken into the couch.

His head turned as his failing eyes searched for the sound of an opening door.

"Oh, Irma, someone's here", he said. I greeted him with a squeeze of his hand and wished him a happy birthday. The house no longer smelled like rich pipe tobacco, but I wished for the fragrance that as a child, I associated with him.

Tio Rick loved to talk. Of his many tales, jokes and observations, two sentences said before a farewell five years ago, saved my life. "Don't be a hero, you know? Do your job, look out for the guy next to you, and come home", he said in his deep and ambiguously French accent. Although I was rigid with anxiety about fighting in Iraq, my uncle's hands on my shoulders and the steadiness in his eyes granted me reprieve from the anticipation of war. It was more than a "chin up", from an uncle, it felt more like a wise grandfather imbuing me with familiar wisdom.

After greeting the other members of my family, I rushed to sit by him on the couch, and thanked him for his advice. His reply was as sincere and pragmatic as his words five years earlier.

"It was what we did in France, you know? I always wondered what good a medal of honor was if they gave it out posthumously. The people who love you would rather have you home than have your medals, you know?"

These comments carried Henry's mind off to his days in the resistance. As his voice grew excited with the tales of his youth, his sons left me to him, perhaps because they had heard the stories more times than I had- or maybe because like myself, they were saddened to think that there might only be a few more tellings of Rick's adventures.

We ate dinner, and gave tio Rick his presents. He thought my gift of cologne was fine and said, "Oh, Josh likes the nicer things, eh?" I was happy to see the old man smile and laugh that honest, booming laugh from the depths of his belly. "Thank God it's not another bottle of cognac", said my aunt Irma.

The afternoon passed and we began to leave for the hour-long trip south to Houston. I stopped and unsure of how to say good-bye, thanked him again for all the kind words, for filling my imagination with his valiant accounts of World War II Europe, and promised that we would visit more frequently. Unable to fare us well with his usual hearty handshake or his towering, encompassing hugs, he simply squeezed my hand, said he appreciated that we came and said a simple good-bye, as if we would see each other soon for another chat.

With tio Rick, conversations were always lively and long and good-byes were always short. Why waste time on the farewell when you can spend that energy on the good part? Yesterday, tio Rick passed away quietly, with his wife at his side. He asked that there be no service, and that things be kept as simple as possible.

To honor him, I've written what I know about him. I've written of his life and briefly mention his passing because that is what he wanted. A long life, and a short good-bye.

The world is filled with those that hope the world will build monuments in honor of their lives.

Henrique Wauters simply lived a monumental life, and asked for nothing else.

Invitation to the voyage

The first time I was ever published was in an anthology of young American poets. It wasn't a major publication and you would be hard pressed to find a copy today. I figured since we get enough hard line talk, we could maybe wash away the bitter after taste of reality with a little art.

Here is one of the first poems I ever read, and one that got me starting writing. Yes, it was to try to get a girl.

Invitation To The Voyage
- Charles Baudelaire

My child, my sister, dream
How sweet all things would seem
Were we in that kind land to live together,
And there love slow and long,
There love and die among
Those scenes that image you, that sumptuous weather

Drowned suns that glimmer there
Through cloud disheveled air
Move me with such mystery as appears
Within those other skies
Of your treacherous eyes
When I behold them shining through their tears

There, there is nothing but grace and measure,
Richness, quietness, and pleasure

Furniture that wears
The luster of the years
Softly would glow within our glowing chamber,
Flowers of rarest bloom
Proffering their perfume
Mixed with vague fragrances of amber;
Gold ceilings would there be,
Mirrors deep as the sea,
The walls all in an Eastern splendor hung--
Nothing but should address
The soul's loneliness,
Speaking her sweet and secret native tongue

There, there is nothing but grace and measure,
Richness, quietness, and pleasure

See, sheltered from the swells
There in the still canals
Those drowsy ships that dream of sailing forth;
It is to satisfy
Your least desire, they ply
Hither through all the waters of the earth

The sun at close of day
Clothes the fields of hay,
Then the canals, at last the town entire
In hyacinth and gold:
Slowly the land is rolled
Sleepward under a sea of gentle fire

There, there is nothing but grace and measure,
Richness, quietness, and pleasure