Pretty Things

“Billy stayed in the wagon when it reached the slaughterhouse, sunning himself.  The others went looking for souvenirs.  Later on in life, the Tralfamadorians would advise Billy to concentrate on the happy moments of his life, and to ignore the unhappy ones —to stare only at pretty things as eternity failed to go by.  If this sort of selectivity had been possible for Billy, he might have chosen as his happiest moment his sun-drenched snooze in the back of the wagon.”     

Slaughterhouse-Five

____

Reading this paragraph in Vonnegut’s novel triggered thoughts of what such a moment might be for me in my past.  The image that came to mind was a brief moment in my undergraduate days at Indiana Wesleyan in either 1989 or 1990 before I’d dropped out to join the Army.

I was walking on a sidewalk heading East towards our campus dining facility on an exceedingly pleasant and sunny day.  I passed under the shade of a large tree that is not there anymore and when I reemerged into the sun it triggered an intense feeling that Vonnegut would famously describe as “Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt” in an epitaph.

It was startling, really.  I had had so many misadventures and misfirings up to that point post-high school, feeling  listless and directionless, until that very moment when everything seemed right with the universe.  I became emotional and felt tears starting to well up in my eyes.

It was pure delusion of course.  Most likely a dopamine dump  that had flooded my synapses, but a moment nonetheless that gives one hope to keep going and see what’s around the next bend.  Maybe it’s an unforeseen blessing or maybe it’s more misery.  The important thing is that there are possibilities (forget probabilities) and opportunities that float there in the not-yet.

***

Left on Peach Fork Road

We’d spent a week on the beach: me, my wife, my daughter, and my son.  Incidentally, we’d moved to a new house the week prior to that and left it full of boxes which were mostly full.  It was a two week snapshot of extremes of stress or relaxation, but always active.

It was the drive home to Ohio where it occurred.  We were at about the eleventh hour of driving, somewhere south of Athens, and far from civilization.  I was trying to follow the signs to catch Hwy 33, but the “next right” promised by the sign proved to be premature.  

Instead of 33 we found ourselves on a country road and “in the sticks” as we would have described it growing up in southern Indiana.  My wife had been taking requests to play music on her phone and we’d just drove our way through “Carry On Wayward Son” by Kansas.

I suddenly piped up with “Look up Dueling Banjos!” as we passed a shack-of-a-house being swallowed by weeds and a pickup truck in the gravel driveway.  I was the only one who’d seen the movie or appreciated the reference, but then the banjo began to heat up.

Everyone was punchy at this point in the trip and got caught up in the manic melody.  There was  kind of buzzing sensation in the air.  As we passed a tiny house that looked like it was tiled with multicolored squares I heaved up a boisterous and piercing “YEE-HAW!” 

My 8 year old daughter burst into infectious laughter and all our recent life stressors seemed to melt away in the general hilarity that ensued.  My wife could barely breathe and I glimpsed my 14 year old son in the rearview mirror allowing himself to temporarily drop his inhibitions.

These glorious few minutes continued to build when my father-in-law texted to ask “where are you in your journey?” which was perfect, if inadvertent, comedic timing.  The Garmin indicated ‘left on Peach Fork Road’ so I half-yelled, “Tell him we’re turning left on Peach Fork Road!” 

***

Listless on Europa

Feeling listless on Europa,

Jupiter looming large in the sky.

A Ransomed traveler 

asking the what? and why?

But there is only the sound of

alien waves lapping on a lifeless shore.

A lonely moon sistering 

the Silent Planet of Lewisian lore.

***

Rolling the Rug

He was 4 when we rolled out the new rug,

the moving boxes cut and connected into a 

huge cardboard fort with many windows,

Greta looking on.

He is 14 as we roll it back up to move else-

where after a decade of growth, snickering at 

childish things found in the back of his closet,

Greta long gone.

He is ageless in my heart, whether small with

bright orange hair, or nearly adult-sized with 

his own ideas, direction, dreams, and desires.

***