tedwords

I decided to make Martin Luther King Day a day of cleaning out some dust from the attic.

That meant going through some of my old boxes from years past. Throwing away some of the needless crap, like old homework assignments from my sophomore year of high school. Or mementos from the past that must have seemed really important at the time but I no longer have any memory of, like empty Hot Tamali boxes and meaningless ticket stubs.

In doing so, I came across a polaroid photo of a beautiful Maine coon cat named Mongo. Mongo was owned by my best friend in high school, Joyce.

Of course, I had to take a photo of the photo using my phone, to send off to Joycey.

I remember Mongo well, because my parents never let us have cats when I was growing up. My Nana, who lived with us, was scared to death of them. Seriously, if any stray cat wandered into our yard, she would lock herself in her apartment until it was gone. She was almost as scared of Toms as she was of Jerrys. But I think she'd probably have to admit that mice were a little bit more frightening.

As a result, Mongo was the first cat I ever spent any time around, which sounds pretty pathetic, I know. Nowadays, having two cats, they're just a part of the scenery. Back then, they seemed strangely exotic, for some reason.

I remember Joyce asking me if I wanted to pick Mongo up, one of the first times I went to visit her. I found the experience incredibly nerve-wracking. "Just make sure you provide some support, with your arm," Joyce advised me. I tried, but I'm not sure how supportive I was. After about a minute, Mongo could endure no more and scampered away.

Alongside the photo of Mongo, I discovered some of the silly plays I used to write, mostly for Joyce's amusement. They were usually satires of various people in band we used to know. The jokes fall rather flat, nowadays, although there were a few items that still make me laugh.

Take, for example, a parody I put together of the National Enquirer, which I called the "Nuptual Enquirer." It was filled with stupid, nonsensical articles like: "Bennie Benson: Why I Love to Ski with Freddie Frechette." Aside from the headline, the entire article read as follows: "'Yes, I do,' answered Bennie, when asked this question."

Or this fine work of journalistic integrity:
Class President Wins Pledge Contest
Senior class president Lori XXX recently demonstrated her flair for saying the Pledge of Allegiance, classily called "the P" by those fabbo student council folks. According to one eye witness, "Lori was in top form that day. Many of the others said 'we' instead of 'I,' at the start of the P, but not Lori! She got up the 'pledge' before fucking it all up."

I had an advice column called "Dear Monkey." It was absolutely absurd, with completely ridiculous questions and useless information.

Dear Monkey,
Help! My wife is being strangled!
Peter P.

Dear Peter,
That's very sad.

My feature article was called "THE SONG I WAS SCARED OF!" It was an "untold story" of a music teacher I had in junior high that I called "Moe" Valente.

"Terrified," music teacher Moe Valente sobs. "My fingers tremble every time I see it!"

One look at Moe and you can tell that he's the kind of guy you just know will make a jackass out of himself. He considers himself prompt, strict, and prone to never make a mistake. And this is true, admits good old Moe. In his words, "Yes, that's true."

But in all of the dangerous, cuthroat world of music, there is actually one song that even Moe is afraid of. It's called 'The Book Report," and it's said to visciously attack him if he even so much as glances at it.

Impossible. Stupid, even? No.

Moe tells of the first time that he realized that 'The Book Report' had a thing against him.

"I heard from a friend that it would be a good song that my kids would like to play," said Moe. "So, I decided to buy it."

However, in an hour, Moe knew something was different about this tune.

"It started to call me rude names, like 'Babycakes' or 'Pleasure Prince.' Also, a lot of the musical notes on the page disappeared and lipstick marks appeared, instead."

At the time of printing, 'The Book Report' could not be reached for comment.

###

At the bottom of the box was a note from Joyce, a response to one of my plays. She had written it as a psychiatric evaluation by the noted therapist Melvin A. Padoodle. Included in the evaluation was the following notation: "Ted, your writing shows many facets of your personality. Several characters were likeable, but a lot of their actions were outrageously silly. Your file says that so far we haven't had any reason to resort to shock treatment, pills or enemas and the like for your therapy, as we have with other patients of your class. Keep up the good work."

After all these years, I am happy to report that some cats never change.

My sister Laurie posted this photo onto her Facebook, and it made me smile.

It's a photo of the two of us, and I'm appalled by the fact that it looks like I'm losing my hair in the photo, even though I'm only five years old. I had lots of hair, really I did. Long, flowing locks of hair. Of course, it was all armpit hair, which was really embarrassing for a kid that age. Imagine having long flowing armpit hair at five years old. Oy, the cruel jokes that I had to endure!

Okay, I'm just kidding about the armpit hair. Honestly, I think we had just gone swimming before the photo was taken.

We both think that the photo was taken at what we used to call the "Old McDonald house." This was a beach house located in Cape Cod that my parents rented for the summer every year, when we were growing up. It was located in the very entrance to Cape Cod proper, Falmouth.

My dad, being a teacher at the time, had the summers off, so we'd rent the place for long stretches. I want to say we stayed there for a month at a time, but for a child, time moves so slowly. It could actually have been only a week, for all I know.

The owner of the beach house was a man named Mr. McDonald. He was in his early sixties, thin, kind of gruff. We didn't see much of him. I believe that his beach house was split in two: he lived in one half, rented out the other side. Kept his side of the house locked off from us, and we rarely ever saw him.

I was always fascinated by that locked door. I wondered why it was locked and what was on the other side. I used to pretend that it contained a monster, and that lock was put on the door to protect us.

I have fond memories of the place. The feel of the warm sun-baked sand in my toes. Making sand castles. Jumping off the dock, into the sea. Wicker furniture and terry cloth towels. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that always managed to contain the grit of beach sand.

One time, when I was eight or so, I thought it would be funny to pretend to drown. I swam out to a boat, and started kicking and screaming. Submerged my head, underneath the boat, to see if could attract attention.

My mother was less than amused.

At the start of the trip, we'd all pack into Dad's car...whatever it was at the time. I remember, there was a Dodge Duster that dad was incredibly proud of. The first day he bought it was for one of our summer trips. He showed it off that day, and the four kids thought it was just terrific. It had a great new car smell.

Trouble was, in those days, the smallest kids always sat in the passengers side front, and not in baby carriers. So Tommy, who was one at the time, sat on my mom's lap on the ride, all the way from North Eldredge to the beach house. He was teething at the time. Mom didn't notice much as he spent the entire trip, chewing on Dad's console, like a dog with a chew toy. Those little bite marks didn't come out of dad's brand new car, either.

My dad was less than amused.

We probably rented the beach house, at most, four or five times, after which, my father ended up buying his own summer place in Falmouth. Still, the McDonald house has a special place in my heart, simply because it calls up memories of endless summer days and swimming in the ocean, free of any worries.

In the midst of a cold New England winter, it'd sure be nice to be relaxing in a summer place like that. It'd even be better to go back to a time when I was shorter, to curl my toes in that warm summer sand, and jump off that dock. I'm curling my toes, just thinking about it, and ready to jump in that ocean...right about...now.