What's in a name

In French it’s agnelet—its Latin root is where you get the name Agnes from. It was one of the first livestock animals to be domesticated, and it has been integral to civilization ever since. The origins are thought to be the mouflon from Europe and Asia. Though its husbandry has been present the world over, today it is most closely associated with Australia, New Zealand, the British Isles, and South America. In Spanish they say “el cordero.” The ruminant not only provides meat, but fleece as well. The significance of fleece, of course, goes back to ancient times, as in “Jason and the Golden Fleece.” In Greek, the word is arni. Additionally, the arni, or probabato as the adult is called, has been used to forward science, most notably as a cloned specimen. The scientific name is Ovis Aries.

In the United States the raising of this livestock isn’t terribly common, and its existence is largely detached from secular society. In the church, the animal has special significance, since the son of God is given the title of Agnus Dei. This goes back to the Hebrew tradition of sacrificing the young animal to atone for sins. In Hebrew it’s called Rachel.

Hero of Agape

We had to write a love sonnet back in high school. I chose to write about a certain saint. Happy all saints!

Few times has our world beheld a hero,
when how crimson man’s heart can be is known.
Our blessing, a sister of Loreto,
graced the earth with a heart to melt cold stone.

A good hero does not, will not, rescue,
with the idea of rich future gain.
Our hero helped the ragged no one knew,
she helped heal the soul and calmed hunger’s bane.

But is her red heart enough, to follow
a will, that in this world offers nothing;
can her soul take the lives deeply hollow
and show that a smile means something?

What did she have, this sister, now mother,
which she gave full when she helped another?

Painting of the Silver Fox

“Wooweee, aren’t you a tall one?” my grandpa surely must have said when the 6’7” Indian walked through the door. He showed up at the Silver Fox to play some pool with his Yakama friends.
My grandpa owned the place. Most of his customers came from the bowling alley next door. When the alley closed up shop, so did my grandpa, and he moved on to other things. But this is still during the good years, somewhere in the seventies.
The Silver Fox had the works: bar, taps, pool tables, stools. Neon lights welcomed visitors and frequenters alike. The place wasn’t big, it wasn’t fancy. It’s just the stop the working man would make before getting home to his Lazy Boy. Not like there was anything else to do in Yakima, nor would anyone in Yakima want to do anything else.
The Indian picked up a pool cue, to which my grandpa must have said, “Don’t you go breaking that. I have a wife and two kids to feed.”
The Indian laughed. Everybody laughed at my grandpa’s jokes, his teasing, and his jolliness. When we went out in public with him –no joke –he knew everyone. And if he didn’t, he soon would.
So it really doesn’t come as any surprise that not only did he get to know this particular Indian, but that the Indian came to like him and his place enough to decorate it.
“You know what, Ernie,” the Indian must have said. “Taverns like this…they could use a touch of art, don’t you think?” Maybe he went on to share what significance the fox had in Native American mythology. He surely told my grandpa how he was an artist. It was how he made ends meet.
“Well, if you’re offering, I sure won’t say ‘no’.” My grandpa probably eyed the wall opposite the bar. “Yeah, right there. We could use a silver fox right there.”
The Indian would have followed his gaze. “Hmm, a big space, but I’ll fill it.”
“What? No, you don’t have to fill that whole thing. Just sketch me something out and I’ll frame it.”
The Indian would have set down his glass, his palm flat on the bar. “Not a sketch. A full, big painting. A gift for you, my friend. Next time I’m in town, I’ll bring it by.”
“I’ll finally be able to set my stools back up! Where’re you headin’ off to?”
The Indian took a drink, savoring it. “There was a casting call for a big, ugly Indian. Needless to say, I got the part.”
Then he must have slapped the table and started toward the door. “I don’t remember the exact title…something about a cuckoo’s nest. See you, Ernie.”

You need me. You hate the sound of my voice, but deep down, you want me all the same. There’s no one else you can imagine by your side, night after night. You count on me to be more accurate with my numerals than you are with your checkbook. Heed me, and your day will go as planned. Ignore me, fight me, throw me against the wall, and your hedonism will enact its own punishment.

I see it in your heavy lidded eyes how much you wish to destroy me, but you should know, that if but one of my brethren failed to perform, then it could mean lives. As for you, my failure could mean your livelihood. It could mean a black cloud above your head for days or weeks. But as for me, success could mean a dented wall and a broken LED display, and then, where would you be?

Sympathy for an alarm clock.

Most beautiful word

I think serenity is the most beautiful word in the English language. Maybe I’m cheating because it’s actually Latinate in origin, but really, if I chose a word that went so far back on the timeline that it’s definably Germanic, then I’d be stuck between cow and swine, and come on, those aren’t beautiful even you were in love with beef patties slapped between two slices of pig butt. But, you know, I may be partial because I know serenity means peace and just hearing it gives me peace of mind. I’d love to share this piece of my mind and spread the supreme song that is serenity to other solemn souls because to say it you practically have to sing. Yes, practically. It’s a practical word so not only is it beautiful but it serves a purpose. I like purpose.

Magic Spiral Part Two

Pendleton hands out worksheets for us to detail Simba’s “heroic journey” as we watch The Lion King. As quick as I can, I fill in the blanks so that I can zone out once the movie starts. A quick survey of the class reveals I’m not the only one with the idea. Pendleton probably should have chosen a movie that most kids our age didn’t already know by heart. I lean my chin on my left fist while my right plays with the spine of my spiral.
         

Magic Spiral Part One

Note: In case you frequent my blog, this is a later incarnation of "Magic Notebook."

“Kim, we gotta go!" someone says right before they hook my backpack in the direction of History.
            "Thanks," I reply sarcastically before I turn to my friend, wiping my mouth.  I had been trying to get a drink from the fountain, and now it was all down my shirt and notebook. I see that it's Becca: dirty blonde, curly hair, and a sundress so bright you easily overlook her gray eyes.
            She speaks as if continuing a conversation, "-and why is it so far away? Why is it on the other freakin’ side of this frickin' building?" I smile, knowing that by “freaking” she means “stupid” and by “frigging” she means yet another F word. "I have to have the skills of a NASCAR pit crew to relieve myself and be on time."