Latest Article|September 3, 2020|Free::
Making Grown Men Cry Since 1992
Through unexpected circumstances we find we are able to stay an extra day at a beach resort. In the tiled front courtyard someone points out a huge slug on the garden wall. It is as big as a small dog and is looking right at us with its rheumy eye. My dad, who is now young, steps into the irises, grabs the thing by the tail and slams it twice, hard on the low rock wall. Slime sprays all over us. Planted in the center of the garden is a skinny tree whose trunk forks into two even narrower trunks at eye level. The trunk has been painted with bright colors and intricate patterns, and the two diverging trunks support a small birdhouse between them. Back through the lobby and out onto the beach, along some concrete steps that lead up to the second floor rooms, some of my small ink drawings are hung. Two of the drawings are of a young woman (although one has been crossed out). A lovely young blonde hotel employee compliments me on them. I thank her and ask her if she would please return them to my sketchbook as I hand it to her. She pages through my watercolors of tropical scenes: aerial canyon views, blue cars on a hilly roads heading into misty, palm-strewn sunsets, waterfalls in the rain, etc. Three of us head out of the compound and climb up a steep and narrow cobblestone street to get a better view of the island town. We stop at the base of a lush, palmed mountain. I take off my shirt and urge everyone to climb higher with me. I help them up the sandy slope.