• storm courage •

It’s funny how stoic we can become
when we are scared for someone.
I call it, ‘storm courage’,
which, I suppose, I learned
as a little one.
“Worrying won’t accomplish anything,”
I heard myself saying.
“We’ll just have to wait for news,
at this point; until then,
there’s nothing to be done.”
But you do, (worry) anyway,
but inwardly, and don’t let on.
Why do we do that?
Where does it come from?
Maybe we think if we give in to fears,
so readily, at the mere suggestion,
when disasters do come,
that we’ll lose our heads
while in the midst of one.
Or scare the kids with a suggestion,
of a negative outcome.
I’m not sure, it’s a strange phenomenon.
But it’s set in me, now,
like DNA, like a tribal rite,
like a religion,
and, so, as a matter of course,
I pass it along.
~ Tim Burchfield



• pod people •

Had a close family relative touting the argument for ‘moral equivalency’ between the ‘combatants’ of Charlottesville, who became irate when I scoffed at her statement that ‘both sides were equally culpable for the violence’, as if she were owed the respect due her position in the family, with a free pass to spout any Trumped up malarkey CliffsNoted direct from Limbaughland, Hannityville, and GlenBeckistan.
I’m sorry, but all opinions are not equal.
Last I checked, it wasn’t anti-racist counter-demonstrators who were to be found assembled in battle gear on the streets of Charlottesville, shouting racial epithets and wading into crowds of placard-carrying people wielding bats at bellies and clubs at heads. Last I heard, it wasn’t NeoNazis, or white supremacists being mowed down by vehicles in the streets, friend. You know who uses the argument of shifting blame to victims? Rapists. And those who defend rape. “She had it comin’.”
Huh, not in my house, pal.
There is no moral equivalency.
I can’t bring myself to hate the person, but I can damn’ well hate the speech.
You can believe any laughable nonsense you want, it’s your right to be wrong and to spew spurious invectives and blatant balderdash in front of me. I have a sense of humor like you wouldn’t believe, and a twisted sense of irony, so I’ll be okay. Of course, if you then see me looking at you like a ‘pod-person’ emerging from a cocoon of slimy repugnance, (Jim or Jane) well just know that I have ‘pegged’ you. Oh, snap, you did not just say that…something craven this way comes.
You can parade your naked ignorance all you like, sweetie, beat your drum, start a jingo-driven all brass band, it’s all one to me – but do me a favor, will you? Not in front of the dogs, okay?
~ Tim Burchfield


• a humdinger •

You might find it ironic
for me to describe Chronic,
a story about death and dying,
as ‘a slice of life’.
In fact, throughout,
the question of ‘why?’,
and ‘why me?’,
seems pervasive,
and unanswerable,
which it is, except, for me,
‘and why not?’,
‘and why not (me)?’,
keeps rolling through my head,
Is it just me, I wonder,
or do others see this life
as an equal opportunity
or journey,
or what have you,
and that moral judgements
as to good or bad outcomes,
or of success or happiness,
and whatnot, cannot
truly be assessed
until after the final curtain falls,
so you’ll never know it yourself,
truth be told, friend,
being dead and all?
So, it’s a question for family,
and society,
and friends,
and ‘former friends’,
and what have you,
to make the call.
And honestly, who cares
what other people think, anywhoo?
So, don’t complain;
choose to be happy,
or fulfilled, or engaged,
or grateful, or enthralled,
or stoic, or philosophical,
or selfless, or starry-eyed,
or evangelical, or ‘evolved’ –
just between we two,
it’s up to you –
whatever floats your boat.
It’s a one way ride,
and frequently fabulous.
Enjoy the view.
Oh, and on a final note,
the movie (with Tim Roth),
is a humdinger, too.
~ Tim Burchfield


• the joy of imperfection •

Don’t get too organized on me,
if you please, love;
I like a little disorder with my chaos:
the muzzy, uneven in-distinction,
of the lawn that looks as if
it’s never known an edger,
or, at least not since
the heady days of Johnson’s Wax,
that came in yellow cans, with the impossible lids that required
a nickel coin, to open,
when of a Sunday,
the family unit, entire,
would turn out,
with plastic buckets, and busted sponges, and grins,
and used-up burp cloths and kitchen towels,
and a water hose,
to wash the Ford Galaxy Five Hundred, to perfection,
then, to smear, in circular motions, nice and thick,
and creamy yellow,
the Johnson’s on,
then to rub away,
with the burp cloths,
and kitchen towels, (and, of course,
the requisite ‘elbow grease’,)
to shine, shine, shine,
that baby, mommadaddy,
and baby Jesus, hallelujah,
Praise The Lord!
(’till you could see yourself,
in the pristine finish!)
the white crusty residue.
And me,
I always liked to leave a bit
un-rubbed, someplace onboard, that you couldn’t see, ’till you stood way back to admire your handiwork, which we always did,
just to hear, once again,
of a Sunday, the clamorous Unitarian unity of the family unit,
as we came together,
as one voice, unto the Lord,
of a Sunday,
to the smell of fried chicken,
and of mashed potatoes,
and black-eyed gravy
wafting from within
Momma’s kitchen,
with they shouted,
which they invariably did,
“Brother, you missed a spot!”
That’s the joy of imperfection.
~ Tim Burchfield


• christ kvetched •

• christ kvetched •
“This is a surprise.”
All eyes were on me. All six of them. Those two eyes I had come to see were closed, but soon opened, and took me in, rheumily. He raised his hand to take mine. Tubes and a saline drip, with some sort of opiated solution mixed in, I guessed, dangled from his forearm. His grip was weak in my hand, more of a slight grasp than a shake, but what did I expect? Surgery is no walk in the park. And how was Ed supposed to look after a six hour back surgery?
Something of the “L4” and “L5”, about a “lamination”, or some such, of his spine, that reminded me of something I might do to a kitchen counter, in need of repair, something with minor water damage around a sink, maybe. Something about a “laminate”, or some such, anyway, to fix the thing.
And what was it he had, again? Something, if memory served, that sounded like “stenosis” or some such, they said, but I hadn’t really been listening, when they said it. Fairly typical of me, I’m afraid. Something. I couldn’t shake the notion, the mental picture of a ‘stenographer’, a severe looking woman in a high-collared outfit with horn-rimmed glasses, or a crisp court reporter with a ramrod spine, taking down every word of everything said in no uncertain terms: a dispassionate chronicle of chronic pain’s progress, each touch of her nimble fingers on the keys of her demonic device sending shock waves of searing pain through the poor man’s lower back, for how many years, now, three, maybe? I wasn’t sure about that either. I guess I wasn’t really invested, ’till now, not unusual for me. Distant, some said.
Disconnected, said others.
Completely self-serving.
To hear them tell it, that’s me.
And so I just show up, uninvited, unannounced, and not entirely unwelcome, but unlooked for, they might have said, and probably did.
Surprised. Yes, I guess they would be. I had more or less ‘taken a powder’ for the last five years, give or take a year. Frankly, I had just had enough of the ‘Fox News constituency’, the ‘Rush Limbaugh clan’, the ‘Glen Beck “Good American” club’, which now sat gathered around the curtained room we were now in, with the beeping monitors, and line feeds and drips, the adjustable bed.
Not really my thing, vying so, for so little good, what little good there was to be had in such a dearth of good company. I had taken to keeping my own, for the longest time, and quite satisfactorily, but this, now, was quite a different matter. What was called for was humanity, the best of what I had on offer, and not tomorrow, but now, and in good order. I felt compelled to check on my father in law, to offer support, to see for myself, that he was okay. Word of mouth just wouldn’t do, in this. And so I did, such as I had. Needless to say, it had been a while. It had been a while. I felt awkward, and out of practice. I held my hat and scarf in my hands, and cleared my throat.
Ed opened his eyes, which looked large and watery and far away through the capacious lenses of his over-sized glasses, the same ones he had always worn for the last twenty-five years. Very late eighties. Very Isaac Asimov, only without the genius, without the secular humanism. Without a hint of a glint in those eyes of his. Ed, once so imposing, so the alpha male, now looked small, like a wasted weather balloon, once soaring so high, now laid low.
His voice was as thin as a blade of sawgrass on a shore wind, dry, indistinct, as he said, “Hey, thanks for coming.”
“That’s alright,” I said. “How ‘you feeling?”
He just inclined his head a bit, a subliminal shrug. I nodded back, and squeezed the fingers of his papery hand. He released mine, and I his.
I looked around the room. Mom. Janet. Kris. Were there, sizing me up. The unwelcome wagon.
“He just came out of the anesthesia a little bit ago. What was it, about fifteen minutes ago?” Said mom, graciously, making an effort to be cordial. She looked around the room. The others nodded. She looked exhausted.
“Yeah, he just came around, about twenty minutes…” replied Janet.
“This is a surprise.” This from Kris, again, as she had said, when I first walked in. Oh, well.
I didn’t acknowledge that last.
What would be the point?
I was here to offer comfort, if I could. That’s all. Just that. ‘Nuff said.
I looked down at Ed. His arms were bruised. Yellow rings around the needles, where they were taped against his skin.
“Seems like a powerful lot of trouble just to lose fifteen pounds in a hurry,” I tendered, “Liposuction is more draining than it’s made out to be, and not to be taken lightly.”
“What?” Ed said.
“Liposuction, Dad!” Explained Janet, from the corner where she sat, partially obscured by the roll-away curtain.
“Lipo!!” She repeated, louder still. “He was making a joke, Dad!!”

‘Geez, he’s not deaf, is he,’ I wondered, silently, ‘what’s with all the raised voices?’
But then, he did look as if he really hadn’t heard me properly. I adjusted my volume, incrementally, for his benefit.
“Of course, the easiest way to take off fifteen ugly pounds fast, is to have your head lopped off. I hear it did wonders for Louie the Fourteenth. And not a word of complaint, afterward.”
I vamped. Heads were turning towards each other. Ed just nodded, and then relaxed.
“No, nothing like that,” he said.
“Vanity,” I added. “Is it really worth it? All this…attention seeking?”
“He’s just KIDDING, Dad!” Janet said.
“So, you feeling fit?” I resumed. “I could use a hand cleaning out the gutters on my roof, if you’re not doing anything, in the next day or two. Those gutters won’t clean themselves.”
“Maybe, a bit longer than that,” said Ed. “I hope to be back on my feet by Spring.”
“That’s good.” I cajoled. “We can’t get anything done around here. We could use a supervisor, at the very least. And you’re the very guy we need.”
Ed blinked away a mistiness that seemed to pass over him, with a watery lid, and looked at the sky, out through the window across from his bed.
In that moment, I hoped he could see himself healthy, and vital again, fit as a fiddle, and raring to go, but I could see, or imagined I could see that he was only seeing his own end, and beyond – somewhere out there in the limitless space of the ionosphere, in that great vast emptiness just past the thin veil of life that contains us. He swallowed, with what looked to be a painful maneuver. I fell for him. ‘I guess I really do like him,’ I thought. Damn.
“You want to hear a joke?” I broke out, from where, I dunno, it just came to me, and I blurted it out.
“I just made it up this morning, while I was driving my route.”
“Yes, okay.” Ed said. His eyes came back to me.
“Okay. It’s about Jesus on the cross, so don’t get mad.” I began.
“Never a great start.” Mom said.
I nodded in agreement, “Yeah, right?”
Still, permission granted, I proceeded, desperately, raising my arms at my sides, akimbo, as if secured by iron nails to “two morsels of lumber” (to borrow from Sedaris), trying to calm myself. I then made quite the show of being raised high up, as if I were Christ Himself, on the cross, and complaining mightily, much to the annoyance of the crowd below:
“Oy, am I toisty!!” I shouted.
“Shhhhhhhhh!!!” Said the ladies. “Not so loud!”
“Oh! Right. Sorry.” I said, correcting my volume, and then, intoned,
“Oy…oy…OOOOOY!!… Am I toisty!
…Oy! I am so toisty! I am so…so… soooooooooo….toisty!!”
I elaborated, setting the scene, below:
“So the officer in charge of the Roman Guards, the Head Centurion, says to his soldiers,
“Would SOMEBODY PLEASE GET THIS BLOODY BLIGHTER something to drink, before I go completely BONKERS!! I don’t care WHAT you give him, just give him ANYTHING! Anything at all, just so long as it will get him finally, once and for all, to SHUT HIS FILTHY GOB!! I have had just about enough of his continual caterwauling!! If it doesn’t stop, I shall surely go insane!!”
“You, and you!!” He ordered two of his men to carry out the detail, to fetch this champion kvetcher, this whiney nobody, this Jesus, something to wet his whistle.” I said.
“So, the two soldiers,” I went on. “They found a long pole, and, well, you know the story – they soaked a sponge… in some vinegar, which was really just some old rancid wine, well, well, WELL PAST it’s due date, and so, sticking on the tip of the pole, raised the soaking sponge to said Jesus’ lips.”
“Of course, this business with ‘changing water into wine’, and vice-versa, was kids’ stuff to Christ – he’d been doing that since that wedding way back when – a mere parlor trick to the likes of Him, you know, so, using a little transubstantiation, you know, He blithely turned the vinegar back into water, and drank deeply, and being sated – sighed, with a mighty sigh, and seeming at long last, satisfied, settled in with a satisfied grin, that stultified the soldiers that had offered him only vile vinegar.”
“So, the Head Centurion, seeing an end to his own suffering, exults, “Thank you, ZEUS, and all his minions!! Finally, to shut him up: for this, I would have paid good money, and not a minute too soon!”
“Then, from above, Jesus starts in again:
“Oy!…Oooyyyy!… Ooooooyyyy!!”
“The Head Centurion, hearing this and despairing, and rolling his eyes to the heavens, slapped himself in the forehead, with a mighty smack!

“Ooooooyyy!! VAS…I… TOISTY!!!” cries Jesus, and gives up the ghost.”

The punchline delivered, I lowered my arms, and looked around. Every jaw in the room was hanging open. Every mouth, one big “O”.

Success. I looked down at Ed. He was grinning, if only a little.
“He said. “Where’d you hear that, again?”
(Actually, it was derivative, about the tradition of ‘kvetching’, which is all about “squeezing”, purportedly the kind of deep-squeezing necessary to take a very satisfactory shit, but all I allowed was that I had cobbled it together from something I had picked up, here and there, and had just made Jesus the center of attention, allowing that I figured it fell into the rubric along the lines of “misery loving company”, and so, was more or less perfect for the occasion – but, by the time I had got all that out, Ed had nodded off, sleeping soundly.)

Jesus wept.
Ed slept.
My work here is done,’ I thought, and with nods to the ladies, took my leave.

“Tell him I’ll come again, tomorrow, if that’s okay, okay?”

“Will do.” Mom said, as she shook her head, and waved, weakly, with one hand. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problemo, Ma. See you soon.”

~ Tim Burchfield


• begin to see •

• begin to see •
“Husband thought we could get along with all, but the baby – he did not see how we could take that. But I felt that if I must take any, I wanted her, as a charm, to bind the rest to me.”
The Whitmans sent word back to the wagon train that they would take all seven (orphans, who’s parents had died on their way West).
A few days later, after six months, and two-thousand miles, Henry and Naomi Sager’s children finally reached their new home in Oregon.
Narcissa Whitman came out to meet them for the first time: “She was a large, well-formed woman, fair complexioned, with beautiful auburn hair – nose rather large, and large, grey eyes. She had on a dark, calico dress, and a gingham sun bonnet. We thought, as we shyly looked at her – that she was the prettiest woman we had ever seen.”
~ excerpt, Ken Burns: The West
(Thanks, to you, I think, primarily,
I begin to see the lives of “living people”, in the past,
here and there,
in “history”.
Given our mortality,
this has come to mean a lot to me.
Thanks again.
Just to keep the loneliness at bay –
and to inform, and to revive –
it has helped,
and continues,
so, to do,
day by day,
[For Sarah Vowell]
~ Tim Burchfield