Petit Gris

By M.L. VanBlaricum

© April 2011

I rose earlier than usual this morning. I walk to the driveway in my bare feet to get the LA Times; the dew from the overnight coastal fog is still on the grass. I spot a brown, garden snail (Cornu Asperum) scurrying back to the bushes after spending the night eating my amaryllis. Perhaps not scurrying by people standards, but I bet in its mind (if snails have minds) it is absolutely doing a sprint.

The snails in Santa Barbara are originally from the Mediterranean – someone brought them over by accident in all of the plants that were transplanted here from there. But, the story goes that a hungry Frenchman wanted a fresh supply of escargot so he imported his own and they got out of the corral. If you listen closely some mornings you can hear French and Italian coming from the flower garden.

I watch it (I’ll call it Tove) slither, gyre, and gimble towards the boxwood. When I was younger, I used to stomp them or throw them into the street to take their chances dodging cars. I now carefully pick up the slimey Tove and gently carry the critter to my backyard and place it in front of my Eastern box turtle, Duchess who is currently enjoying the wabe. Duchess loves’ Petit Gris Escargot but she is not an elegant eater.



A Left-Handed Poem

by M.L. VanBlaricum

An old trombone injury has acted up,
my arm is in a sling.
After sixty years of being right-handed
I am left-handed,
for six weeks.

Typing is not an issue,
I’ve always hunted and pecked.
Now, I am half as slow.
Ctrl/Alt/Delete is an issue.

Buckling my belt is an issue.
So is buttoning my pants.
I sprained my left index finger
pulling the button hole to the button.

Using the remote control is not an issue.
Wasting time watching what it controls is.

Opening a Coke bottle is an issue.
Beer with twist off caps is the brew de jour.

I have learned to type on my BBerry
with my left thumb.
Now I’m ambithumbdrous.

I can hold a book open left-handed.                               

Turning the pages is a problem.
Time to switch to an e-book?
I think not,
But, that can be rethunk.

Growing a beard
keeps me from bleeding to death.
Trimming the beard is dicey.
Oh for a pair of left-handed scissors.

I can't take the garbage out,
That's a positive.
I am gallant however,
And hold the door open for my wife.

I can put my socks on,
if they're old and stretched at the top.

I can't tie my shoes.
Having my wife do it is demeaning -
to both of us.
I now wear sandals.
Sandals, a beard, lookout Sixties here I come!

Brushing my teeth left-handed
the toothbrush went up my nose.

I'm sloppy using a spoon.
A fork becomes a weapon.
Cutting my meat is difficult.
I shy away from restaurants.

My daughter says that it is good
for old people to learn a new skill –
it sharpens the brain.
All things considered,
I would rather be learning
to juggle.

And what does she mean,
 “old people”?

©April 2011