I am From

Originally composed
Sept. 9, 2005

I am From
(Based on George Ella Lyon’s I am From)

I am from a warm kitchen
On a cold Saturday.
From a wood-burning stove on Christmas.
I am from oatmeal in the mornings,
And Atari with my brother in the afternoon.

I am from the Old Barn
And rusty rim.
From the trees and the locusts that
Accompanied them.
George and Gary, trips on the tire swing,
Ray and the long field he mowed.

I am from Corn Creek and chicken fences,
From Aunt Esther and Uncle Jerry.
I am from Jack, Jason, Jared and the laughter
That always followed us around.

I am from Grandma’s noodles
And lasagna on Birthdays.
My dad’s pep talks.
My memories,
All kept in a cardboard box in my garage
And in my heart.

Foul Smells

I was fast asleep in the comfort of my bed when I was awakened by a sound. It seemed to me to be a part of my dream. This sound can best be described as a "yelp." A sound that a dog in distress might make. I am watching a young dog which many know as Brownie. Can Brownie be hurt I think, is she alerting me to some impending doom that awaits me outside of my doorstep? Alas, I shall come to her aide. I open the door to the bedroom to descend down into the living quarters of 1310 Lindsey St. What I found was more than unpleasant. It seemed that in my naivety of dogsitting I committed one of the classic blunders. The first of which is to never engage in a classic bout of tug-of-war with a bulldog for money, and the second but widely more known is to never assume that a dog has the same hygiene as that of a human. Did Brownie care that the whole ground floor smelled like grainy processed poopy beef? Well no. Did she care that not only did she start on the stairs and make her way all the way to the hallway with her "business," that she also failed to wash her paws after? Well certainly not! With all due respect Brownie is a well-trained dog, but I did her a disservice by not giving her amble time the previous evening to just simply be a dog. You know, chase a squirrel, puke and then eat it, poop, eat grass, roll in a dead bird, typical dog stuff. So I learned my lesson right?

I come home from work this morning, open the door and am greeted by that old familiar, cover my nose with my t-shirt and hold my breath as long as I can while I get the paper towels, grainy processed poopy beef smell.

So what to do with all those things. I wasn't going to throw those stinking poopy towels in the trash, the toilet bowl is the appropriate place. It started with 3, then 6, and eventually maybe 10 or so. I threw them in and as I toss the last one in my own bowels rumble and realized nature had called for me. So naturally, I sit and take care of my own business. I clean up and flush. It wasn't good. 10 paper towels plus Brownie's waste, plus my waste, plus my toilet paper=a clogged toilet. Where's the plunger, where's a toilet brush, a comb, anything? It's rising. Oh no. I don't want to. I don't want to. Ohhh alriiigggght. What better climax to this horrible event then to have to stick my hand in the toilet and unclog all of the feces. I mean I love when my hand smells like poop, I really do.