Welcoming a New Daze

Of Clock Radios and Guinea Pigs

The snooze button is exactly
one step and a stretch from the bed.
Just as I got the covers cinched back up under my chin
the battery back-up alarm
let out it’s Psycho song next to my head.

I laid there– clock clenched to my chest
in anticipation of it’s annoying reminder–
and tried to remember the details of the dream
from which I was abruptly awoken–
so I could jot them down in clever prose.

I found myself distracted by the clock radio
perched on the dresser five feet away.
I then started to think about all the clock radios
in my life that either obnoxiously welcomed a new day
or mocked me on those insomniac nights.

It seems to me they were all made by Lloyd.
I knew a Lloyd once. A distant relation through marriage.
A gaunt figure with enormous ears in plaid flannel.
He raised guinea pigs.
Their cages and mess kept in the kitchen.
Shredded newspapered pellets everywhere.

I think they had the run of the house.

I then remembered my first Lloyd clock radio.
Amber lit white numbered black flags–
that if the refrigerator happened to not be running
you could actually hear the minutes
flip away–
or was it
flap?

Now that I think about it
I’m rather sure it was
flap.

That was many clock radios ago.

Now Lloyd mocks me in a display
of red glowing LED.

The minutes pass stealthily–
as if I’m not paying attention.
I rather miss the
flap–
some actual proof of a minute gone by–
that is– other than the increasing number of white hairs on my chin.
Jipped again!

I wonder what ever happened to those guinea pigs–

and, of course, to Lloyd.


-nc

A Little Kitchen in Brooklyn Vol.1

I’ve been doing more and more cooking with my daughters lately and it’s got me thinking of being in my grandmother’s little kitchen in Brooklyn when I was their age. I spent nearly every weekend at her house, and I remember waking every Sunday morning, no matter how early, to the smell of meat browning in olive oil and onions for the “gravy” we would have with our two o’clock dinner. After an indulgent breakfast of waffles and ice cream (a practice for which I’d consider admonishing my in-laws today), we’d go into the kitchen where she’d put me to work. Under her direction I’d grind meat for sausage and meatballs, roll little balls of pasta off fork tines to make gnocchi, or help poach the meatballs in a separate pot of “gravy” and taste them to see if we’d added enough cheese. I remember helping to lay pasta out to dry on a freshly laundered sheet on her bed, under the unfailing supervision of Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and Saint Anthony (her patron saint), along with a photo of my grandfather, as they stood forever perched on her dresser. (to read more click on post title)