The car needs tires, we need
a new wheelchair, the kid's allergies are giving them fits, need to pay the
dentist, the yard work has started,daily think of promoting that book, start
working on crafts for spring and summer shows, make lists, more lists.
Restore, repair, replace or throw a rock through the sliding glass door when
it won't budge for me or the children.
It is a joke, just a joke,
but not at the moment deserving of a good laugh. The council is fraught with
paranoia and even though I hardly even give them a moment's thought their
condition laps over into my space when they refuse to look at all the paper
work my daughter hands them verifying her birth so she can be “put onto that
God-like, all encompassing, “roll”.
One member said, “I don't
remember my cousin (me) giving birth to that girl.”
“How can you?” I'm thinking.
“You spent most of your life in a world of fuzzy, pink clouds.” For the lack
of common sense there is a bit of sorrow. My cousins escape from reality
seems to be touching into my life where I have been forced to look straight
into the eyes of uncommon situations. Somehow or another, my mind wants to
go back thirty years when a doctor said, “Abort her, you'll die on the table
having her.” What is this issue that keeps the people around me confronting
me with bizarre statements and for my whole lifetime, too? These issues and
more, even more sick, were thrust upon me. Was it because some were so
oppressed themselves they wanted to reach into a stash they thought was
there but wasn't?
Suddenly when a friend
suggested we attend an author's presentation, one Stan Silliman, I didn't
even care if he was a writer of comical sports stories. I'm not interested
in sports, never had been, but the promise of a pleasant drive and a brief
escape was irresistible When the man, Stan Silliman, stood up to speak he
made bold statements about dedication and love of sports making people
obsessive with their worship of the games. The way he illustrated this with
his cartoons and statements which struck me as being hilarious. So for a
short time he spoke about his writings. His comments were quick and easily
missed if a person didn't pay close attention. While we listened I could
picture the things he told in my mind and each story made me laugh. It was
fun the way he would let go of the manuscript in his hand and catch it
quickly as if it were a ball he was tossing up into the air.
The front of his book has an
illustration of a man and woman at a table in a café. The waiter is holding
a baseball bat that is hollowed out with a cork in the top of it. In the
background is a Mexican band, replete with Mexican hats, trumpet, guitar and
one player of bagpipes. For me, who had grown up in a world where a dinner
table could be surrounded with people who were descendants of Mexican,
Greek, Native American and Scot-Irish, this struck me as hilarious.
The first story is about
Oklahoma freshman, football place-kicker, recruit, Josh Robert's failure to
report to practice one morning in New York City. Seems he mistakenly showed
up at the Gershwin theater where they were recruiting kickers for the show,
“Oklahoma.” Stan, the author, read “Really high kickers.”
When Stan, the author, told
that this writing was a way to relieve the stress from his business this was
all the more reason to admire his wit and writing talent. Football,
basketball, courageous players of the games had nothing on Stan Silliman. To
rise above the tedious chores around living is one thing but to present work
for others to emulate, now that is fine. We won't even mention the fun we
had hearing Stan's witty remarks about the untouchables of the sport's
world.He even wondered about the size tennis shoe a Yeti might need and how
many razors would have to be brought in to shave him before a game. Great
presentation of your books, Stan. I loved it.
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