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THE FIST
Stabbing dramatically into the unknown, the dark, strong, hand of the Brown-Bomber symbolizes the awesome power of American ambition. It thrusts neither up nor down… but forward, as should be our purpose. Given to Detroit as a gift by Sports illustrated in1986, “The Fist” by Artist Robert Graham, is controversial and evokes primal reactions of either love or hate from us. But Joe Louis helped shatter the Nazi myth of racial superiority. It IS a symbol of tenacity, energy, direction and determination. It’s an attitude that says “Were not done yet!” His determination made Joe Louis one of the world’s champion boxers and his fist shows what it takes. Our fists, knuckled down to business and determined to do our honest best will put Detroit back as the world’s arsenal and the forefront of human endeavor, but only if we all do it… individually.
© 2009 Saraboo Productions
THE CHANGE
No one paid any attention to the rain when it started… until the children began disappearing in the puddles. They didn’t look that deep, indeed, they weren’t. Adults that saw children disappear thought they were seeing things. They would rub their eyes and look into the puddles. Some put their feet into them, and found only and inch or two of standing water. They were incredulous and looked everywhere calling the kids’ names. Getting angry, they’d threaten the air around them. You come our right now! They’d scream believing the kids were just hiding. When they didn’t appear the panic would set in. Where’s Danny… where’s Julia, where’s Pammy…
DANNY! JULIA! PAMMY! The screams were blood-curdling. Police were called, then others disappeared and no one could explain it. The puddles were not deep, the water was just water and not every child that jumped into the puddles disappeared and that made the mystery even harder to comprehend.
Worse, the police found it a little hard to believe; that kids were simply disappearing in shallow puddles of water. The stories were just that the children jumped into the puddles like all kids do, but instead of splashing water all over the place they simply slipped in over their heads and were gone. They found nothing but shallow puddles, no child and no evidence of anything. They questioned everyone and anyone about what had happened and the stories were all the same. Astonishing, yes, unbelievable, yes, but it wasn’t for a few hours after the disappearances that it really took a mysterious turn. The reports were a common occurrences all over the world in places where it had rained that day.
This left the police in quite quandary. Disappearing children was serious business but there was nothing to show that the kids were there in the first place and certainly no evidence of any crime, but, children were missing or so the parents said. There were witnesses, there were hysterical parents and there was a complete lack of evidence. The stories were told over and over and always substantially the same way, The puddles were checked and double checked, the water never more than three inches deep. No holes were found, nothing unusual about the water and so the investigations went. Hazmet teams or their equivalent even sampled the water in the puddles. It was water, dirty water, somewhat sucrose in nature but still just water. Once the puddles started to evaporate the real panic began. It was the first sign that those kids weren’t coming back. Holes were dug where some of the children disappeared, but nothing was ever found to indicate there were children in the ground where the puddles had been.
Once the sun finally came out and the rain and puddles seriously dried up the panic turned to grief. A lot of kids disappeared and the stories and hysteria continued for days, weeks afterward. No one had an answer and people couldn’t believe it had actually happened, except those who were now without a daughter or son. All over the world task forces of police organizations were put together to study, investigate and find answers to this event.
The media went into overdrive, of course, and the stories were heart wrenching. Danny and Pammy and Julia, and all the rest were, it seemed, the sweetest children that lived in the history of man. Danny, though only eight years old, loved to spend time at the local children’s hospital, playing with children who had various forms of Cancer. Pammy was a protégé. She could play the piano with a charm and ability not seen in a thousand years. Her talent brought tears of joy and elation to anyone who heard her play. Julia was a lover, her mother said in an interview with a TV news man. She would cuddle for hours with mom or dad or sister or brother and showed a love and easy acceptance for anyone she met. That seemed to be the common thread of all the kids that disappeared that day. They all seemed to have a knack for making people feel good and making the world around them a little better place.
There were 2,537children in all that disappeared that day from all over the country; all races, all colors, all creeds, all ethnicities and all sweet, sweet children who were loved and cherished by their parents, relatives and everyone who knew them.
One 10-year-old child had raised over a hundred thousand dollars as a tri-athlete, swimming, biking and running for cancer research just because she wanted too. She had developed a whole network of people and other children who followed her and helped raise money for her cause.
Another young boy was said to have a charisma that drew people to him like bees to honey. He was the center of a movement to ban nuclear weapons, and he is said to have made believers out of a number of prominent politicians. Still, despite these commonalities, nothing explained the reasons for their disappearances. They were gone and the world was the worse for it.
The places where the disappearances occurred became shrines where flowers and toys and prayers and other remembrances were strewn. A steady stream of people came to these places to see where the children had disappeared, some out of curiosity, others for the mystery and still more for the mourning of their loss. Yet no one found a thing that could explain what had happened or where the children had gone.
Excavation of some of the sites went deep and still found nothing. Back hoes, giant shovels; a couple of places were even dynamited without result. Parents camped out near the sights waiting for their children to return. Prayer vigils went round the clock. News shows reported daily on the news that never changed. Hundreds children had disappeared in puddles of water that were left by a normal, everyday summer rain.
The FBI, federal agencies, state police, city police… they were all involved in ongoing investigations that tuned up essentially nothing. The longer the mystery continued the more frustrated the authorities became and the more politicians leaned on them to find something. The public clamored for answers and pressured the politcians to find them and they in turn pressured the police agencies even more. That’s when they turned their suspicions toward the parents. It was easy to believe this was all some kind of ruse.
That’s also when the alien stories really started in earnest. People became convinced the only answer could be that some form of intelligent alien had taken the children for experimentation purposes. The stories were brutal and always assumed the worst until some of the parents begged the media to stop publicizing this kind of insanity. Still with no evidence and only imagination to guide their thinking people continued coming up with terrible scenarios from aliens to lying parents. Children just don’t disappear, no one just disappears. And that’s when things really started to get ugly.
Grieving parents were taken in for questioning. Mothers and fathers were separated and grilled like common criminals. When the interrogations turned up nothing, interrogators turned up the heat. Homes were searched, relatives detained and still no answers were discovered. More and more frustration grew, in the parents, in the police, in the public and all over the world. Demonstration developed with people demanding answers from their governments. People were afraid, if it happened once, it could happen again and maybe to more than just the children. Why did it happen? How did it happen? Who was responsible? Panic started to envelope the world.
Then Churches began filling on a daily basis. The most prominent Christian figures declared that the rapture had begun and the children were the first to “go to God.” Others of lesser faith simply said the parents were to blame and that civil authorities should keep them locked up until they told what they did with their children. Still others formed groups that defended the parents and demonstrated daily in front of any agency involved in questioning the parents. Confrontations ensued of pro and anti parents factions.
Eventually, with no evidence to prove anything, the parents were let go but kept under close scrutiny. A sort of paranoia began to permeate the country. Wild theories about the disappearances blamed everyone; from the parents to the authorities, to aliens, to God, to the kids themselves
People wouldn’t let their children out of their sight and despite the fact that only a few of months had gone by since the disappearances it seemed like years had passed. At the same time, a change came over the entire world that was uncanny. Children became cherished commodities. Child abusers became pariah and their children were summarily taken from them. No excuses were accepted; the smallest transgression against a child was not tolerated. Still others began treating their children like princes and princesses. Discipline was done with love and logic. Schools found themselves with an abundance of parents wanting to help. Delinquency fell dramatically and “bad” children were quickly turned into examples of change wrought from love and attention.
Soon, a new priority had engulfed the entire world, a priority that made children the focus of attention, the recipients of love and tender devotion. They became our first priority with all else secondary. Parents spent more time with their kids, teachers became more dedicated, laws protecting children were enforced far more stringently, and countries where children were exploited were blockaded until they relented. Child molesters and the child sex trade were eradicated, sometimes violently, sometimes in violation of legal rights but never without good moral cause. And for the first time in history the children became man’s most important legacy.
No one paid any attention to the rain when it started that warm October morning after what seemed like a very long drought. What’s more is no one noticed, until later, that it rained in the same places as it had almost six months earlier. It wasn’t until later in the day when the soaking wet children were found that anyone realized they were very same children who had disappeared those six, long and eventful months ago. They were dazed and confused but essentially unharmed. When asked where they had been, they didn’t know they had been gone at all. Many were shocked to not find their parents where they were a minute ago.” When the parents were summoned they were ecstatic but a little afraid to touch their own children. The kids couldn’t understand the fuss and just wanted to go home. In the end, love and tears and affection and relief ruled the reunions. To this day no has been able to determine where they were or how they returned. They all, to the individual, had no idea that they had been gone for over six months. So it was left unsaid mostly. We only know for sure that their disappearances, whether the new they had been gone or not, changed the world.
© 2010 Saraboo Productions
SISTERS
Sisters are an interesting phenomenon. As a child I grew up with 5. The oldest was 12 years my senior and the youngest just 2 years older. In between there was a brother in there too, but being seven years older and surrounded women diminish ed his influence and the “boys will be boys” cliché.
Being the youngest also forced me into several pigeonholes that may or may not have been very fair: the baby, the spoiled one, the cry baby, mom’s favorite, and worst of all; always being somebody’s sibling… never just me.
We all went to the same elementary school. The words…”Why can’t you be more like your sisters?” became a familiar, if not exasperating, question for me. They were all good students who excelled at schoolwork, were always polite, did what they were told and never wrinkled the sheets. That ideal behavior came from an exaggerated fear of our father. Something that I think has been lost, unfortunately, in the last few generations. Nevertheless, it was also something that I shared and shunned concurrently.
Fortunately, I was neither stupid nor rebellious so along the way I learn ed a lot from each of them. Sister number one taught me discipline. As you’d expect, she always did the right thing. It was expected. The oldest had a responsibility to the rest. And she lived up to expectations; she taught us all responsibility, with a passion. Tolerating anything less was just not tolerated. The result was the strongest person I’ve ever known, not always right, but always strong, an attribute sorely lacking in too many people today but served her well in the brutal and turbulent years of her life.
The second taught me tolerance. I suspect this came as a defense mechanism. Intolerance in the face of unrelenting responsibility can be crushing. So patience and understanding became her strongest suits and in turn a part of each of our personalities as time slid by. Tolerance can be carried too far, and the result can be indifference or at least the lack of passion, fortunately, never her weaknesses. She was tempered by the influence of her other siblings and learned charity as well. The result was a deep wisdom that served to draw people to her.
Which brings us to sister number three. She was responsible to a fault and unreasonably tolerant, in short, the perfect child, sibling, friend, lover, wife, mother, teacher and target. She died young. A greater loss is unimaginable. She was the personification of “the good die young” or maybe it’s just the way she’s remembered. Still, I can’t remember her ever being angry or mean. Instead she was even and calm, seemingly unworried by the world around her, or just oblivious. She taught me love.
Sister number four was the “brains of the outfit”. And typical of intelligence she was painfully insecure and an unrelenting perfectionist. She was easily the smartest of us all but never realized it. Fretting seemed her most constant companion. Nevertheless, she couldn’t hide her smarts or standards from the people around her and so everyone else seemed to know what she didn’t. So we went to her for help with schoolwork and she always gave it. Mom naturally expected her to help and this became her unsolicited mission. I learned excellence from her.
Sister number five had far too much to live up to after the first four so she wisely didn’t try. She was responsible like her oldest sister but with a streak of recklessness. Tolerant like sister number two with a splash of obstinacy. Level like sister number three but wantonly skewed, just for fun. Smart like sister number four but unaffected by it. In short, she became easiest going of us all, somehow intuitively less stressed, and more relaxed, generally more satisfi ed with a quick wit and ability to laugh. I learned humor from her.
Discipline, tolerance, love, excellence and humor… these are the legacies created by my beloved sisters. I wish I could say that I am the sum total of these fine, strong and beautiful women. I don’t think I can. But I have been given the ability to recognize their value, learn from their example, and to emulate them.
There was a time when I hated being from such a large family. Now I realize the value of our relationships. I feel sorry for those who grew up as only children. I thank God for the richness of my life and the complexity of my experience. This is truly the stuff of life and the real meaning of our existence. Beyond money, beyond possessions, beyond fame, beyond beauty… there is family, these are my sisters with which everyone should be so blest.
(C) 2004 Saraboo Productions
Lust Lingers
Night approaches relentlessly and without regret
on the back of a provocative, delirious evening
and diminishing excitement from an electrifi ed afternoon.
And left are only the memories of passion
that fill ed those seemingly endless, bygone intimacies.
How can these pass in such a phantom’s wink?
Where does the heat disperse when the sun settles?
And why must this veil pass before us with such aloof?
Inconsistent, meandering consequences leave us helpless
and without alternative but to watch the worm turn.
Some struggle against this unrelenting demon; reaching out,
even clutching at the rose as it blooms its last.
Calling, beseeching, pouring forth the sweetness of their souls
in vain and feudal attempt to stave off the coming cold.
It is a cruel and disappointing midnight that approaches.
It is a sorrowful yet unapologetic road that compels the wanderer.
The passing times energize the lasting desire of confound ed memory.
And sadly only the ghost is left of the once easy ecstasy of youth.
It is a drowning; a suffocation; a trag edy of life’s erratic fate
that the heat and vibrancy of blood should diminish to a shadow.
Empty tenderness remains but a vestige of the hallow ed sensations,
leaving neither a chill nor a shiver of the once heaving emoceans
min ed deep inside the precious loins of our fêt ed emancipation.
Lust lingers as night approaches relentlessly and without regret.
(c) 2010 saraboo productions
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