The Trichinosis Affair

Dad always vehemently made certain that any ham or pork-derived meal be fully cooked to its proper temperature. He did not want to die from trichinosis. Whatever in the world was trichinosis. Even being the grandson of a doctor, I had no clue about this mysterious ailment; I suspected, from shared confused eye-rolling expressions, neither did my siblings. Mom simply would tell him to stop being overly dramatic – to his continued protests about not wanting his demise coming from contracting the apparently vile disease. Nonetheless, breakfast – especially those on family-day Sunday, whether at home or a fancy pants brunch locale – invariably involved bacon. It was not a consideration, but the centerpiece. Eggs or, on special occasion, French toast was the underlying accessory to the meal, not vice versa.

When I was involved in a major car accident, I initially had to stay in the hospital for a few weeks. Stable enough to eat solid food after a few days, my first breakfast was missing something. Yep, the bacon. I knew this was the case because tell-tale crumbs (i.e. “bacon bits”) and an emptied space were left on the incomplete plate consisting only of eggs and toast. Immediately, I complained to the dietitian, medical staff and anyone else who simply ignored my distress at this egregious and nonsensical slight. Their reasoning for the removal? My blood pressure was elevated. Well, no duh! I had just been in an accident...and then you took delicious bacon from me! My soul was crushed, and my spirits demoralized. [Read further about this and much more in my personal narrative, Echoes From An Unexamined Life - www.amazon.com/Echoes-Unexamined-Life-Steve-Sagarra/dp/1500577618]

Years later, I would be introduced to a different accompaniment: peanut butter. Upon first reflection, I was both intrigued and chagrined. How had this marvel of a concept never crossed my mind? I loved bacon, I loved peanut butter. Why, in all things holy and the time spent on this planet, had I never thought to put the two together? Now, it seemed my entire life had been a waste of cursory ignorance. As happens, though, it is never too late to experience anew the unknown. Thus, I set about making it so at the earliest convenience...which was lunch the next day. Okay, technically it was breakfast, but more like that mid-period between breakfast and lunch that is not yet brunch. Blunch? Breach? Either way, the taste of this newly discovered concoction - placed between two slices of toast - was nothing short of euphoria as they mingled on my taste buds. My brain cleared and filled with enlightened awareness, my body tingled in excited acclamation and my mouth uncontrollably blustered for more.

To say the least, I instantly was hooked on this wondrous medley.

A handful of my alleged “friends” think bacon is gross. To dissuade their wrong opinion, I unfriended them; unfortunately, this did not have the desired effect, but such negativity has no place in my world. My dad would agree...just so long as the bacon is properly cooked! Because, obviously, no one needs trichinosis either. (First observed by famed English pathologist, James Paget, as a “sandy diaphragm,” my later inquiry would detail that it is in fact a very serious but treatable parasitic disease that infects the muscles caused from undercooked meat. Sorry for the years of disbelief and mockery, dad!) Thus, I, as we all should, shall forever eat delicious, healthy bacon at a proper, healthy temperature.

Because where there is bacon, there is life. 

©2016 Steve Sagarra

To the Tree and Back

To the tree. That was as far as dad, the frequently over-protective insurance executive, allowed my siblings and I to ride. No less, only on the sidewalk. A fine scenario for Big Wheels and traditional tricycles, but once graduating to two-wheeled bicycles, with multiple gears, it became ridiculous. Despite a decent sized sidewalk and front yard, a few strides and we were at our destination; then, we had to stop, turn around at the tree and head back toward the driveway leading to the backyard. All on the sidewalk, and, upon occasion, to the mockery of other neighborhood kids. Any deviation from the path, like, perhaps, in the street, would be met with a grave warning - which I experienced more than once transgressing the rule whenever possible. It was not that he thought we could not recognize an oncoming car in order to avoid it. In his professional capacity, he just had seen too many kids who had not - and, even more, drivers not paying attention. This simply carried over to his duty as a dad.
　　Decidedly, this ludicrous restriction would be eased and eventually abandoned as gradual disregard triumphantly won out in the battle of wills.
　　When my 16th birthday approached, my buddy Kevin and I finally were able to take my birthday present - my 1970 Mustang convertible, powered by a modified Boss 351 Cleveland engine - out for a short spin. An extended short one. Not too extended, but still more than around the neighborhood. I only had my learner’s permit at the time, but Kevin, a few months older than me, already was licensed. Thus, I could drive with him in the car. Besides, we were just driving to the grocery store...and to the popular strip mall across town for a lap around it. There was a grocery store adjacent to it as well, but that wasn’t the one to which we were headed.
　　Semantics.
　　After visiting the grocery store, we backtracked in the opposite direction. A movie theater anchored the strip mall, with a few fast food joints and a gas station. Many high school students hung out there on weekends, just cruising and loitering. The latter, of course, according to the police. As we reached midpoint into our cruise around the main strip, Kevin noted a car beelining toward us as it crossed the large parking lot.
　　“Hey, that car looks like your older sister’s Firebird,” he casually stated.
　　Turning to my left to look, I noticed the license plate. Exasperated, I shook my head.
　　“That’s because it is my sister’s Firebird. And we’re in trouble.”
　　She wasn’t the one driving though.
　　He pulled behind us, honking and flashing the headlights. I immediately pulled into the movie theater’s parking lot, which was surprisingly empty. Kevin and I sat still, as my dad leapt from the car and slammed the door behind him. He was more frustrated than angry, but it seethed. At least he had taken the time to tuck his red nightshirt - yes, dear reader, a nightshirt! - into his pair of fading jeans, along with throwing on his low-cut blue Converse sneakers. His graying brown wavy hair, however, was disheveled – probably further turning gray as he approached. Thankfully, there was no one around, i.e. high school girls, to see this epic display of fashion.
　　“What the hell are you two doing?” he questioned, leaning into my open driver-side window.
　　Incredulously looking up at him, I held my nervous laughter. “W-We went to the store, like I said we were, and now we’re heading back home. Did you follow us, dad?” I tersely asked.
　　“Funny, it looks to me like you’re cruising around,” he retorted, wagging a stern finger at us. “And, yes I did. Now, get your butts home immediately.”
　　He stormed back to the Firebird.
　　I calmly drove away without protest and out of the parking lot onto the road toward the waiting intersection. Kevin and I stared ahead in silence as we waited for the red light to change, the music emanating from the vintage radio barely audible over the grumbling engine. Dad was directly behind us.
　　Kevin broke the veiled sullenness. “Was he wearing a stocking cap?”
　　I laughed, breaking my frustrated glare. “No, that was his hair sticking up. Apparently, he just got out of bed to come look for us.”
　　Kevin nodded his head, laughing as well. “Looked like a stocking cap.”
　　That blithe peculiarity amused both of us. When the light turned green, we proceeded on without further comment. Privately, as we traversed the road back home, I pondered the events. I had tested the boundaries of my understandably cautious, albeit seemingly inane, subjection, yet again breaching the imposed barrier of the watchman tree. Surreptitiously, I brashly grinned at the thought...also remembering that he was just adhering to his duty as a dad, looking out for his many sons - blood-related or not.
　　Today, he would have turned 77 years old.
　　See ya at the tree, dad! Wear your stocking cap!
  
[Read similar stories and much more in my personal narrative, Echoes From An Unexamined Life - www.amazon.com/Echoes-Unexamined-Life-Steve-Sagarra/dp/1500577618]

©2016 Steve Sagarra

Sometimes A Great Notion of My So-Called Life

“Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster,

and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

-Friedrich Nietzsche

Abyss: Who are you?
Voice: An idea evolving, re-invented, numerous times.
Abyss: When were you born?
Voice: Yesterday, maybe tomorrow, it eludes me.
Abyss: Who do you want to be?
Voice: Not this, or that, or anything else.
Abyss: Where do you want to be?
Voice: Not here, or there, or anywhere else.
Abyss: Are you who or where you want to be?
Voice: I am, and I am not.
Abyss: How would you describe this duality?
Voice: Like a penitent hermit, living in vagabond exile.
Abyss: From what are you hiding?
Voice: An imperceptible, undefined yet constant weight.
Abyss: How does this make you feel?
Voice: Like supernova starlight blistering my soul, waking to disquiet shadows bring.
Abyss: When are you joyful?
Voice: When I am me, and when I am another.
Abyss: When are you somber?
Voice: When I am not me, and when I am not another.
Abyss: Who is another?
Voice: Me, and us.
Abyss: Who is us?
Voice: I don’t know, without me.
Abyss: When did you realize this?
Voice: When I was alone, contemplating ambiguous allusions.
Abyss: When there was no us?
Voice: When there was no me.
Abyss: Who is me?
Voice: Them, without us.
Abyss: Who is them?
Voice: Without us, no me or you.
Abyss: What is them?
Voice: They are not us, you and me.
Abyss: How do you feel?
Voice: Discouraged and fatigued, awakened and renewed, with all the same hopes, fears, dreams and perceptions as them and us.
Abyss: Would you live or die for us?
Voice: For them.
Abyss: You would live or die for them?
Voice: For us.
Abyss: Is it us or them?
Voice: It is us, and them.
Abyss: Why do we exist?
Voice: To embrace, to understand, to share - before it’s too late, before the moment is beyond reach.

©2016 Steve Sagarra