Orange Buick

Not keeping strict records makes the mice fat. My grandfather used to keep small notebooks in his shirt pocket and at the return of every car trip would write down the mileage of the vehicle and brief description of various destinations – grocer, p.o. (for post office), gas, Michael – I would watch him intently and wondered if I was a destination or a passenger. Late at night I snuck into the basement and found an old box filled with these small notebooks. The box was labeled Orange Buick 1982 -1992. I flipped through the small spiral notebooks tattooed heavily with blue ink pressed deliberately into the page. I found other names and noted that that must mean passenger.

My mother’s father was a colonel in the U.S. Army and a stickler for values – an agent of morals, a Gideon in retirement – a warrior – for god, country and family – Ronald Reagan and The Republican Party – all that which has been taught as holy – unquestioning the very fabric of the foundation – a pupil, a soldier, a cog in the machine… An intelligent and loving man who did not stray from his moral path… boring, spending the last three decades watching sports on television… good little boy… adopted by his grandfather, a strict disciplinarian in a home without electricity or plumbing. Imagine that, growing up in a building without electricity or plumbing… I suppose most of the world lives in those very conditions today – but you got to go back pretty far to find that the norm in the United States. Outhouse full of shit, candles conserved in the winter and dark nights with the unconscious…