I Dreamt of Woodrow Wilson’s Ear
By Donald Holmes Lewis
Copyright 2009
I dreamt of Woodrow Wilson’s ear last night and I blew warm air into it like an intimate friend would do. I hoped to comfort him. The League of Nations was dead, and he was still sick. Our world of hope was dissolving like seltzer in water. “It’s not your fault,” I whispered. “It’s not your fault.” He blamed himself despite the evidence. A conscience, he said, is not easily compromised, guilt even more stubborn. He dresssed for dinner in formal wear though he never left his room. When his staff of devoted servants called him for beef and gravy, he was asleep in his clothes, breathing heavily in his bed. We left him alone, and for that I felt rotten and lost my appetite while eating with the others in the White House kitchen.
When I woke from the dream, I drank warm milk and tried to stay awake. I could not.
The President said he wanted eggs and toast, and I rang the bell. He walked from the marbled bathroom to his grand wooden desk, and I opened the roll top for him. His shiny silk bathrobe held him in a delicate embrace though his body was barely visible, He asked about the vote. I told him it was uncertain, and he knew me a liar instantly. I drew a pillow from the couch and helped him into his chair for the writing of morning letters.
The first, he said, was to the President of the Senate. As he placed his glasses on the tip of his nose and pressed ink into the stationery, I saw he was using the same words as the day before. “I am counting on you. I cannot be there. I am counting on you.”
“Mr. President,” I said with my hand on his shoulder. “He received this message yesterday. And the day before.”
“I know, my son. I will write it anyway.”
A Photo from Mullett
Last night, for a precious minute, a rainbow shot through an opening in the clouds after an evening rain on Mullett Lake.
American Survivor
By Donald Holmes Lewis
The other day I read an article about surviving the new realities of the American economy. Spend less. Save more. Love your job if you have one. Renegotiate your mortgage through the government’s new Make Home Affordable plan. Pay down your credit cards. Etc. Etc.
The article compelled me to put a little questionaire together for myself. Here goes:
Do you own a home with some equity in it?
Have a job or income that provides enough cash for your family’s basic needs?
Do you have health care coverage?
Do you own a car?
Are you free to speak your mind?
Are you secure from the threat of bodily harm each day?
I was able to answer yes to them all, even though I’m scrambling like a crazy rancher these days trying to mend fences and feed the animals with far fewer resources than ever. Despite getting a 100% on my own test, I’ve had a tendency since the world financial crisis to feel sorry for myself.
But I did a little research about where my 100% score ranks me percentile-wise within the entire population of Planet Earth. It turns out that by answering yes to the above questions I am a member of a rather exclusive club.
Think about this one. According to data available from all kinds of places, sources such as the World Health Organization, automaker groups, international real estate surveys, and democracy watch dog organizations, less than one half of one percent of all humans can score 100%.
Of course, a great score doesn’t make you happy. A lot of other things come into play there. Love. Friendship. Productivity. Good Health. Good Food. Humor. Elbow Room. Opportunity. Overcoming Challenges. That list goes on and on and doesn’t include winning the Super Lotto.
But my good score does remind me that with this luck and privilege comes an awesome and daunting obligation to do something about the dire situaition of others when I can. And it helps me to be thankful, not frightened. Sometimes when you ask yourself a few quesitons and give yourself a good talking to, you listen. Heck, I’m an American Survivor.
Carpenter Men
By Donald Holmes Lewis
I put an ad in the Cheboygan paper the other day. Maybe I shouldn’t have. It read, “looking for a good carpenter for small projects at our cottage.” The next day over fifteen pickup trucks arrived before I even looked at the coffee pot. In logical order of their arrival, the carpenter men, usually an assistant or relative in tow, walked slowly with me around my property in the cold rainy spring morning and assessed the work at hand. They all proclaimed that every year they had their work booked for the summer by this time, but no one had so far.
As I stood in the gravel turnaround making notes on a pad, another pair approached me. One of them was a tall, good looking dark haired guy with muscles of hardwood under his long sleeved t-shirt. He introduced me to is father-in-law and, like the others, said they really needed some work. He also told me his wife was killed in a car accident on the highway not far from our place the previous winter. He said it happened in a white out blizzard. A fuel truck didn’t see her little Camry. He said they hit head on, square over the middle yellow line covered with snow. His father-in-law in suspenders listened and nodded his head.
When the old man started walking towards the other trucks parked in a line down the gravel road, I asked him what he was doing. He turned to face me looking sure of himself.
“I’m going to tell the guys in the other trucks that they can go home. You’re picking Todd and me.”
“I guess I am.”