The playing card stuck in the spokes of your first two-wheeler
Tibetan prayer wheels
Angelo DiSalvo was connected to the Mangino family. All the businesses around Mulberry Street paid Angelo “insurance premiums.” They also installed Angelo’s vending machines on their property; only Angelo’s. He drove a brand new long black Cadillac and dressed in five hundred dollar suits. On any given night he would spend hundreds of dollars at the finest night clubs. Angelo was a big wheel around Mulberry Street.
If it were just Mayberry then Andy and Barnei would have to keep a close eye on him. Enjoyed the wrlite.
Perhaps Angel(o) is the same imp you were having a conversation with a few days ago. Villains are more fun than heroes, and so?
I always gravitate to the darker side. Bad childhood I guess. Bad childhoods are in vogue this year.
The Clock is a Wheel of Time
The numbers on the clock dial are not in order. I swallowed my cough drop suddenly, and it felt like a plum pit in there. What was I doing here, sitting on the sofa in the middle of the night pretending to work. That’s when I noticed that the numbers were off.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I happen to like things to be off, well slightly off. It’s so seldom that life throws you an unexplainable curve like that. It’s fun, if you can suspend disbelief for a bit. It’s a lot more fun than the unreality of suddenly being in a car accident or hearing that you have cancer. No, it’s the little things being crookedly off that I do love. Like that fly who crawled up my pant leg and sat there for five minutes until I noticed him and then, just when I was looking around for a paper to roll up and smash him, he spoke. “Go to bed,” he said. Which was good advice, but not what I had in mind. “Buzz off,” I responded, chuckling to myself because I thought I was rather clever in my comeback. He did.
But tonight, it’s the dial of my clock that’s not quite right. Twelve numbers, but not in the right order. 1, 7, 3, 10, 2, 12, 11, and oddly 84. Eighty-four o’clock. That would be a lot of chiming—or cuckoos, if I were into clocks. So perhaps this would be a way to suspend time. I’ve been looking for a way ever since I realized I couldn’t find the Pause or Rewind button on my life.
It seems lousy that we have no such option but unfolding linear time in our lives. I find it odd to think that we are stuck with one present–moving at varying rates, I admit–but only one present moving in one direction. I prefer to believe in infinity, the multiverse, where flies can talk and the wheel of the clock face has an 84 on it. So I choose to climb out my window and stand on my rooftop looking up at the stars, waiting for infinity to arrive.
first with 84 cuckoos i think i may kill the bird. but i like your looking for a pause button or rewind. what would we do if we could rewind or pause. just think of the things we could change but would we????
Infinity and beyond can be found in the written word. But i like on the roof better looking at the stars waiting for it too. just grab the gutter on the way down. (Sorry i had to say that.)
Thank you for this timely piece. You make a good argument for the invalidity of time
I LOVE this piece. Absolutely.
So many levels and directions that speak to me.
The Spoke Card by Marion L Ritcey
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The sun coming in my window woke me . I raced down the stairs before anyone else. There under the tree was my gift from Santa. A brand new two wheeler, bright red. The best color in the world. I would be the talk of the street with this new bike. I said a silent thank you to Santa never thinking I would get the bike I wanted. My parents were telling me we had to cut back on things, it was getting harder to make ends meet this year. But Santa knew how much I wanted this bike.I got a few more gifts but the bike was the best one of all. So the scarceness of gifts didn’t bother me one bit.
The rest of the family came down to open their gifts. We all loved the things we got. My parents were please with the few things I had made in wood shop for them. Mom cried when she opened her gift , finding a small jewel box I had carved her name on . She kissed me and told me it was the best. Dad told me he knew right where to put the tool holder I had worked on forever to get just right . Grandma was excited to use the picture frame I carved with her beloved Irish Cross .
When we got to our stocking we all found the usual fruit, nuts, a few coins and our calendar for next year.
I found one more thing; a baseball card with a note on it. The note read every new bike needs a baseball card for it’s front spokes. It’s makes the coolest sound when you speed down hill. You’ll be the envy of all the kids on the street. Santa thought of everything.
Thirty years later I remember that card and cry to think I used a Ted Williams rookie card as my spoke card. Just the hear the sound
But know what it was worth it.
Great piece Marion. I think I remember attaching the baseball card to the frame with a clothes pin, but it was too long ago. I cringe to think I may have wasted a Mickey Mantle or a Yogi Berra myself.
It was a great sound, wasn’t it? How great that we all provided our own sound effects back then. Nice Christmas memory too. Make sure you keep all this writing you’re doing, Marion!
This wheel is a plague on humanity. We all know this wheel. We all dread and loathe this wheel…it is the abomination of the malfunctioning grocery cart wheel. What heinous calamity occurs to render the “One Wheel” inoperable but spares its three companions? Moreover, how is it possible that I choose the Crippled Cart four out of five times? Is it a mere twist of fate or is it something more maniacal like bad karma?
I watch with envy as a mother of three glides her superior cart past me with ease. Her two-year old is perched happily on top of a 25 pound of dog food, a 12 pack of Ball Canning Jars, a gallon each of distilled water, orange juice and milk and various other foodstuffs. She moves smoothly from isle to isle while I struggle to navigate my cart, containing one celery stalk, the 20 feet necessary to reach the Dairy Department.
I have nicknamed the one-bad-wheel-cart; The Teddy Roosevelt, because it is a rough riding son of a bitch that refuses to give up. At very least, grocers of America should place a warning sign on these steel perpetrators.
Warning: This cart should not be used by any person with temper issues, high blood pressure or low self-esteem.
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by Ann Linquist
Available in paperback or on Kindle