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Spice, special ingredient or just dinner. Actually, it’s all of these things and more.
I first remember experiencing chorizo as a child growing up on Orchard Road in Linthicum. In the back of our basement on green pastel-colored shelves were a few large tin cans labeled Esskay Meats that showed up occasionally during the year, most often near holidays. Inside these large tins was cured chorizo, packed in lard and shipped from New York City. This expensive and rare sausage was served with our Christmas Eve paella and our New Year’s Day soup cocido. Both annual traditions and a treat to all when served. On rare occasions it was fried for breakfast with eggs, its ruddy red-orange essence running freely along a black iron pan. The taste was unique and delightful. No supermarket pepperoni or salami could hold a candle to its flavor; it had the old world taste about it.
The first time I saw sausage made at home I was about twelve. My father and uncle purchased half a pig. They used a hand grinder probably borrowed from their mother to grind the meat. About fifteen or twenty pounds was seasoned with garlic, salt, some herbs I don’t remember and celery seed. I remember the celery seed vividly as my mother used it often to make the best pork or chicken BBQ I have ever had. They made it into breakfast sausage patties, froze them on a cookie sheet and stored them in bags in the freezer. It was incredible, nothing like the fat laden rolled store sausage most folks are used to eating.
In my early twenties my brother Rafael wrote a newspaper article about a man in New York who made fresh chorizo and hung it on a clothesline to dry. Fortunately, and with great generosity he included the entire recipe. I knew I had to make it. My Spanish grandfather had told me stories through the years regarding his memories of how chorizo was made and cured in the old country, a favorite topic of mine. However, he left Spain at seventeen and his memories were not clear enough. The only thing he was sure of is that the chorizo was smoked in the barn with laurel leaves.
The recipe called for enormous quantities of smoked paprika, fifteen tablespoons per twelve-pound batch. Garlic, kosher salt, crushed red pepper, black pepper, red wine, coriander. Finally, decades before you could do a Google search, I had an authentic recipe for chorizo. Rafael helped me find pork casings at a local Baltimore butcher. Course ground pork shoulders or Boston butts were supplied by the butcher as well. We bought the best spices we could afford and with my grandmother’s hand grinder, a stuffing tube and a bit of luck the first links were born. We quickly fried some in olive oil in a cast iron skillet and reveled at the ability to make this on our own. Something we were lucky to eat three or four times a year before.
Soon the word got out at the Sunpapers where Rafael was a reporter. A clamoring began for the sausage and after many pounds were given away, we felt the only way to limit the free stuff was to sell it in brown paper lunch bags, wrapped in plastic wrap for four dollars a pound.
Like excited drug dealers we were able to sell some and buy more ingredients with the profits and the chorizo legend was born.
On my 30th birthday my father bought me an Oster grinder with stuffing attachments. He never paid for chorizo again. Throughout the years I have experimented with different ingredients leaving the base ingredients alone. I have made well over a thousand pounds and also make Italian and Polish sausages, but my heart lies in Espana. My round Polish face and chubby frame relates mostly to that country, its traditions and the incredible flavor this unique sausage lends to everything with which it is paired. Throw a few links in with a chicken sometime. You’ll understand.
Daniel Alvarez
3/29/2023
Danalvarez77@gmail.com
Spanish Chorizo
Chicken OR Pork
Note: I added the olive oil because I wanted to raise the fat content to at least 20% (for chicken)
Recipe: I normally use McCormick spices when available.
I have found good prices on Amazon
NOTE: You can use Pork, if you do reduce the olive oil to 1 Cup for Shoulders, 1/2 Cup for Pork Butt Mix.
Final mix is with cold water.
Refrigerate 24 hours and mix again before stuffing or making into patties. Patties may be frozen on cookie sheets and put in ziplock.
NOTE: If you are unfamiliar with stuffing sausage into a natural casing I suggest you look at the many YouTube videos with complete directions. I source my pork casings on Amazon, they are packed in salt and come unrefrigerated. You may also cut this recipe in half for a smaller batch
Danalvarez77@gmail.com
Chicken OR Pork
Note: I added the olive oil because I wanted to raise the fat content to at least 20% (for chicken)
Recipe: I normally use McCormick spices when available.
I have found good prices on Amazon
NOTE: You can use Pork, if you do reduce the olive oil to 1 Cup for Shoulders, 1/2 Cup for Pork Butt Mix.
- 15 Pounds coarsely ground boneless, skinless Chicken Thighs or Pork
- 12 TBSP Spanish Smoked Paprika
- 2 TBSP Taco Seasoning
- 3 1/2 TBSP Crushed Red Pepper
- 4 TBSP Granulated Garlic
- 1 TBSP Ground Cumin
- 1 TBSP Ground Coriander
- 1 1/2 TBSP Coarse Ground Black Pepper
- 3 TBSP Dry Oregano
- 4 TBSP Coarse Sea Salt
- 1 cup Apple Cider Vinegar
- 2 TBSP Brown Sugar
- 1 1/2 Cups Extra Virgin Olive Oil (FOR OIL)
- 1 Cup Red Table Wine
- 1 Cup Cold Filtered Water
Final mix is with cold water.
Refrigerate 24 hours and mix again before stuffing or making into patties. Patties may be frozen on cookie sheets and put in ziplock.
NOTE: If you are unfamiliar with stuffing sausage into a natural casing I suggest you look at the many YouTube videos with complete directions. I source my pork casings on Amazon, they are packed in salt and come unrefrigerated. You may also cut this recipe in half for a smaller batch
Danalvarez77@gmail.com
LITTLE GENTLE EMPTY HEAD 12/2011
A bobbing globe rests carefully above the newborn neck
Soon strength of morning fades into darkness
Dreams are filling an empty head, drifting into afternoon
I wonder of his dreams, brand new and in the beginning
Does milk flow from an endless breast ?
Do chimes toil below a sun filled skylight ?
Where does the soul wander ?
What generates thoughts from the seen and unseen ?
The mostly unknown
Brand new and undetermined he lays like an unsolved puzzle
I can choose the placement and direction of assorted pieces
I may decide the future and his fate
He is not mine, a daughter's child, I ponder the difference
Subtle and sublime the differences mount yet the challenge remains the same
I fight to understand it all, obligation and desire, dedication and fear
Still no emotion grapples with his sleep
Peace and contentment reign, oblivious to all
Keep this time, revel in simplicity
Tomorrows bring pain, love, suffering, joy, needs and desire
The clock begins the race
The clock is not a fair measure of time
Wishing makes my dreams his own, I touch the future
Struggling mightily against the fish tugged line
The young boy laughs on grandfather's boat
Motion brings their hands together, a sudden smile and a heart filled laugh
The old man moves back in time, another hour thought forgotten
Alive the memory serves, tradition falls along the path of family
He walks the trail in a snow filled park, branches bow to the weight
Looking up the old mans face distorts, reveling in another story
Stories he won't hear at home, he smiles knowing the difference
Winter winds will not disturb the warmth they have together
Another brick into the pyramid of life
A young man sits at a worn wooden table, some marks are his own
Blood red sausages fry in a black iron pan, smells waft into the morning air
Great Great Grandmother and the mountains of Spain, she is here as well
Stuffing seasoned meat into it's own essence, long ago the mixture made
The old man brings them to the table, telling the story, adding company to the eggs
A sound, his eyes open, he sees the infant stirring
Give away what you were given, share a heart that finds what's true
Find a piece of life to live in, give the boy a part of you
Take his hand into the future; build a soul that conquers fate
Leave a legacy that's past him, hurry up it's not too late.
Lifting him I shout with purpose, Dawson Dawson, child awake!
Soon strength of morning fades into darkness
Dreams are filling an empty head, drifting into afternoon
I wonder of his dreams, brand new and in the beginning
Does milk flow from an endless breast ?
Do chimes toil below a sun filled skylight ?
Where does the soul wander ?
What generates thoughts from the seen and unseen ?
The mostly unknown
Brand new and undetermined he lays like an unsolved puzzle
I can choose the placement and direction of assorted pieces
I may decide the future and his fate
He is not mine, a daughter's child, I ponder the difference
Subtle and sublime the differences mount yet the challenge remains the same
I fight to understand it all, obligation and desire, dedication and fear
Still no emotion grapples with his sleep
Peace and contentment reign, oblivious to all
Keep this time, revel in simplicity
Tomorrows bring pain, love, suffering, joy, needs and desire
The clock begins the race
The clock is not a fair measure of time
Wishing makes my dreams his own, I touch the future
Struggling mightily against the fish tugged line
The young boy laughs on grandfather's boat
Motion brings their hands together, a sudden smile and a heart filled laugh
The old man moves back in time, another hour thought forgotten
Alive the memory serves, tradition falls along the path of family
He walks the trail in a snow filled park, branches bow to the weight
Looking up the old mans face distorts, reveling in another story
Stories he won't hear at home, he smiles knowing the difference
Winter winds will not disturb the warmth they have together
Another brick into the pyramid of life
A young man sits at a worn wooden table, some marks are his own
Blood red sausages fry in a black iron pan, smells waft into the morning air
Great Great Grandmother and the mountains of Spain, she is here as well
Stuffing seasoned meat into it's own essence, long ago the mixture made
The old man brings them to the table, telling the story, adding company to the eggs
A sound, his eyes open, he sees the infant stirring
Give away what you were given, share a heart that finds what's true
Find a piece of life to live in, give the boy a part of you
Take his hand into the future; build a soul that conquers fate
Leave a legacy that's past him, hurry up it's not too late.
Lifting him I shout with purpose, Dawson Dawson, child awake!
Henry was sleeping. The glass of half filled “Dago Red” on the bedside table held many fingerprints and smudges telling the story of one too many refills. He moved restlessly in the king sized bed, inhabiting much more space than his 200 pound body required. Light from a sun blocking set of curtains peeked around ruffled edges threatening news of morning.
Henry was having a nightmare; his mind was playing disjointed pieces of video in nonsensical sequence. Somewhere in the ocean a whirlpool was racing nowhere. Bits of garbage and plastic danced within a circle. Henry was floating at the center of this madness, arms flailing against the surge, legs flapping and kicking pieces of submerged debris.
His bedroom held memories and mementoes of a life Henry hated. Items superfluous to his needs, no accomplice to his desires. Christmas shoes, empty plastic boxes, broken holiday lights, a dog’s bowl and collar, 14 pieces from an old chess set and a glass Avon bottle formed as the presidential bust of Abraham Lincoln. Boxes lay stuffed under the raised platform of the Oriental bed. Their contents were a mystery as they hadn’t been moved in a decade. On the walls were dozens of pictures intermixed with plastic recreations of classic ornaments spray painted with gold, layered with dust.
His eyes opened as the nightmare retreated back into his unconscious brain. Looking down at his left leg and arm there was a tingling sensation. He sat up slowly and rubbed his left arm. He was very thirsty, “I forgot the water again” he thought. “Can’t drink so much wine without water.”
Rising slowly he edged off the bed. Grabbing fake vinyl moccasins and a Velour robe that made his skin itch he headed downstairs. Through the bedroom was an A framed hall, along that path were more items strewn left and right.
Children’s books, socks, pens, VHS tapes showing Jane Fonda’s ass in tights, a broken etch a sketch and plastic deer antlers. They lay in a haphazard fashion with no apparent design or purpose. He stopped a moment in their midst. “We don’t need any of this shit he thought, none of it.” It’s the monster in my closet he was thinking, under my bed, organized in the cabinets, wrapped in a blanket behind the couch. It’s on shelves in the medicine box, stuffed into the barn, behind chairs and on the floor by the vanity.
On the first floor was a huge kitchen Henry designed and had built years before when the house came into their possession through an estate sale. Mr. Dimler, the 92 year old man that had died here was a hero in Henry’s mind, he took care of everything. Nothing disturbed, even the stove and fridge were decades old but shone like new when they bought the house.
He kept a picture of Mr. Dimler on the bookshelf in the same room. It was tiny. His children had given it to him when he demanded a picture of the previous owner at settlement. Henry thought he looked dignified and purposeful, a man of his times.
The old part of the house was built in the 1950’s. He loved the plaster walls, arched entranceways, hardwood floors and crown molding. Exposed bricks from the renovations still had dark lines running through them from 50 years of rain. Henry refused to clean it off, made it look natural he thought. He paused a moment to run his hand along the brick and real pine trim he had created where the back window once stood.
Henry added filtered water to the coffee machine and waited impatiently for the first cup to run through. He was considering the argument coming in the next few minutes in the basement. His wife Susan, recently arrived home from a night shift at the local hospital. He could hear the buzz and alternating volumes of some crime drama running below.
The coffee was cheap and dark, just the way he liked it. Adding a generous splash of milk he picked a dirty fork out of the basin and stirred the coffee with the clean end. Taking a gulp he added more water to the machine. No one but Henry knew he cheated the other coffee drinkers out of a strong first cup like he had.
Morning was breaking through the large windows on the back porch built to the east. He could see the sun through a sliding glass door separating the kitchen from the porch. Yellow and red streaks were forming along the horizon, there was a breeze.
Topping off his cup and another splash of milk he headed down into the basement.
She was on the couch eating an Everything Bagel with butter and cream cheese. Her neck and face were smooth as velvet. Belying 50 years of heartbeats, kid’s softball games and a troubling 2 week search for a lost dog.
How does she do that he thought? Must be the Asian DNA, just doesn’t age the same. Black folks get that deal too.
Her feet were up and head askew peering at one of the 20 cop shows living inside the DVR. He sat across from her and drank the coffee in silence looking at nothing in particular.
“What is it?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. An old argument in Henry’s wakening mind was searching for an opening. Some definition or assault that would break the barrier growing 30 years between them, allow him to explain the concept while they both existed in the same place.
He sat quietly and looked at her thinking. “Poor thing, all night on her feet transporting and managing sick people for another radiation zap and test.”
He still loved her, and knew it. A good hard working woman that just didn’t understand him, couldn’t make the journey, wouldn’t spend a weekend on his 23 foot boat. Not enough shit on a 23 foot boat for her. Had to be lean to cruise the Chesapeake.
She looked away from the TV and stared at him, knowing that anything, absolutely anything could fall out of his mouth in the next few moments.
“What is it?” she exclaimed in a slightly heightened tone.
Pausing he looked directly in her eyes, taking another sip of coffee he summoned some courage and threw the dart knowing it could miss the target.
“All we need in this house is food and tampons!” he blurted out with some violence, a second line fell more carefully, “and maybe a dump truck.”
Susan did not looked shocked, “what do you mean Hen, please don’t lecture me again, I’m really tired.”
“This shit Sue, all over the house. I don’t want it and we don’t need it. $2000 dollars a month on our credit cards for what? How much of that is food and gas? The rest is shit.”
She opened her mouth to respond and Henry stood interrupting, a sharp pain travelled from the top of his left shoulder down his side and burst like a box of needles in his calf. Ignoring it he shifted weight to his right leg and spoke with some purpose.
“100 years ago we made things in this country, important things, wonderful things. A decent item in your house could cost a week’s wages, perhaps months. These things had value. They were treasured, passed on to children and grandchildren. We didn’t have 12 of them in different colors, wouldn’t have thought of it. When they broke we fixed them.”
“100 years… we…what?” she chortled.
He spoke again interrupting her.
“Today, we graze like farm animals in shopping malls while endless music plays in the background.”
“You take our girls there with those 30% off coupons, good till Wednesday if they use your credit card. But every week the same God Damn coupons are in the paper. You don’t see what they’re doing Sue. Filling our house with things I don’t want and they don’t need. And where does it go Sue, where the hell does it go when you finally get rid of this crap?”
With some difficulty Susan put down the pop up leg rest, folded her arms and responded. “I like these things Henry. This is my house, these are my kids. I work hard and I’ll buy them what I want. You cheap old bastard, you order those science fiction books that come in the mail all the time, the tools, the junk for your boat.”
Whenever there was an argument she often brought up the boat. Henry’s one luxury and the only link to his dead father and the times they had fishing and crabbing when he was a child. It was below the belt, but she was tired and it was a convenient weapon. There was a hint of shame on her face but she said nothing further.
Henry looked down at the floor and thought about his girls.
It’s the end of the world and they don’t know it. They are texting and face paging each other into oblivion. If you gave them a book they would burn it on a cold winter night. Bamboozled out of tradition, hoodwinked out of family time and frozen dinnered out of humanity.
He stood up and walked past her, pausing at the steps he remembered last night’s night mare. Henry realized he had started crying, turning towards her he began speaking very quietly.
“What isn’t piling up in our homes floods into our pastures, sickens our rivers and is swimming in a million ton whirlpool in the South Pacific where great tides from the oceans meet. It’s going to spin forever there with trash and plastic jugs that will outlive us 10,000 years. This is what you’re buying for our girls. This is what we’re doing in our home.”
Going upstairs he felt a heavy tightness in his chest, there was sweat beading up on his forehead and his left hand was numb. Walking slowly onto the back porch the dog lifted her graying head from the corner to greet him. Age is taking her he thought, it won’t be long. She stood carefully and followed him to the couch, lying by his feet.
Feeling odd and very tired he sat down and gazed out the back window as winds shifted yellow and green leaves from the trees left clinging as the last vestige of an early winter. His head fell slowly to the couch cushion, as his eyes closed his heart skipped every other beat.
Before it stopped completely Henry whispered a quiet prayer.
“Please God, let me live a simple life.”
Up in the mountains a log cabin sits next to a running brook. Windows tarnished by decades filter light into a large single room. On the floor are animal skins, the door has leather hinges. A simple oak mantle sets above a stone fireplace. In its hearth a fire dances beneath a cast iron cauldron. The wall by the mantle holds a few iron pans, a fishing rod and fading pictures of a wedding scene along a hillside. Across the room is a loft with a homemade ladder. The ladder leads to a soft cotton bed where love is made in darkness. Above the ceiling holds a simple skylight where the sun, moon and stars live exposing the heavens. Beneath the loft is a crib fashioned with pine twigs. Soft white fur separates a year old girl from her moistening bottom. In her heart she holds the dreams of her father.
The door is opening. A middle aged woman with windswept beauty is smiling and holding two rabbits and a basket of fresh blueberries. Behind her is Shadow, Henry’s Dog. He runs to greet them.
Henry was having a nightmare; his mind was playing disjointed pieces of video in nonsensical sequence. Somewhere in the ocean a whirlpool was racing nowhere. Bits of garbage and plastic danced within a circle. Henry was floating at the center of this madness, arms flailing against the surge, legs flapping and kicking pieces of submerged debris.
His bedroom held memories and mementoes of a life Henry hated. Items superfluous to his needs, no accomplice to his desires. Christmas shoes, empty plastic boxes, broken holiday lights, a dog’s bowl and collar, 14 pieces from an old chess set and a glass Avon bottle formed as the presidential bust of Abraham Lincoln. Boxes lay stuffed under the raised platform of the Oriental bed. Their contents were a mystery as they hadn’t been moved in a decade. On the walls were dozens of pictures intermixed with plastic recreations of classic ornaments spray painted with gold, layered with dust.
His eyes opened as the nightmare retreated back into his unconscious brain. Looking down at his left leg and arm there was a tingling sensation. He sat up slowly and rubbed his left arm. He was very thirsty, “I forgot the water again” he thought. “Can’t drink so much wine without water.”
Rising slowly he edged off the bed. Grabbing fake vinyl moccasins and a Velour robe that made his skin itch he headed downstairs. Through the bedroom was an A framed hall, along that path were more items strewn left and right.
Children’s books, socks, pens, VHS tapes showing Jane Fonda’s ass in tights, a broken etch a sketch and plastic deer antlers. They lay in a haphazard fashion with no apparent design or purpose. He stopped a moment in their midst. “We don’t need any of this shit he thought, none of it.” It’s the monster in my closet he was thinking, under my bed, organized in the cabinets, wrapped in a blanket behind the couch. It’s on shelves in the medicine box, stuffed into the barn, behind chairs and on the floor by the vanity.
On the first floor was a huge kitchen Henry designed and had built years before when the house came into their possession through an estate sale. Mr. Dimler, the 92 year old man that had died here was a hero in Henry’s mind, he took care of everything. Nothing disturbed, even the stove and fridge were decades old but shone like new when they bought the house.
He kept a picture of Mr. Dimler on the bookshelf in the same room. It was tiny. His children had given it to him when he demanded a picture of the previous owner at settlement. Henry thought he looked dignified and purposeful, a man of his times.
The old part of the house was built in the 1950’s. He loved the plaster walls, arched entranceways, hardwood floors and crown molding. Exposed bricks from the renovations still had dark lines running through them from 50 years of rain. Henry refused to clean it off, made it look natural he thought. He paused a moment to run his hand along the brick and real pine trim he had created where the back window once stood.
Henry added filtered water to the coffee machine and waited impatiently for the first cup to run through. He was considering the argument coming in the next few minutes in the basement. His wife Susan, recently arrived home from a night shift at the local hospital. He could hear the buzz and alternating volumes of some crime drama running below.
The coffee was cheap and dark, just the way he liked it. Adding a generous splash of milk he picked a dirty fork out of the basin and stirred the coffee with the clean end. Taking a gulp he added more water to the machine. No one but Henry knew he cheated the other coffee drinkers out of a strong first cup like he had.
Morning was breaking through the large windows on the back porch built to the east. He could see the sun through a sliding glass door separating the kitchen from the porch. Yellow and red streaks were forming along the horizon, there was a breeze.
Topping off his cup and another splash of milk he headed down into the basement.
She was on the couch eating an Everything Bagel with butter and cream cheese. Her neck and face were smooth as velvet. Belying 50 years of heartbeats, kid’s softball games and a troubling 2 week search for a lost dog.
How does she do that he thought? Must be the Asian DNA, just doesn’t age the same. Black folks get that deal too.
Her feet were up and head askew peering at one of the 20 cop shows living inside the DVR. He sat across from her and drank the coffee in silence looking at nothing in particular.
“What is it?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. An old argument in Henry’s wakening mind was searching for an opening. Some definition or assault that would break the barrier growing 30 years between them, allow him to explain the concept while they both existed in the same place.
He sat quietly and looked at her thinking. “Poor thing, all night on her feet transporting and managing sick people for another radiation zap and test.”
He still loved her, and knew it. A good hard working woman that just didn’t understand him, couldn’t make the journey, wouldn’t spend a weekend on his 23 foot boat. Not enough shit on a 23 foot boat for her. Had to be lean to cruise the Chesapeake.
She looked away from the TV and stared at him, knowing that anything, absolutely anything could fall out of his mouth in the next few moments.
“What is it?” she exclaimed in a slightly heightened tone.
Pausing he looked directly in her eyes, taking another sip of coffee he summoned some courage and threw the dart knowing it could miss the target.
“All we need in this house is food and tampons!” he blurted out with some violence, a second line fell more carefully, “and maybe a dump truck.”
Susan did not looked shocked, “what do you mean Hen, please don’t lecture me again, I’m really tired.”
“This shit Sue, all over the house. I don’t want it and we don’t need it. $2000 dollars a month on our credit cards for what? How much of that is food and gas? The rest is shit.”
She opened her mouth to respond and Henry stood interrupting, a sharp pain travelled from the top of his left shoulder down his side and burst like a box of needles in his calf. Ignoring it he shifted weight to his right leg and spoke with some purpose.
“100 years ago we made things in this country, important things, wonderful things. A decent item in your house could cost a week’s wages, perhaps months. These things had value. They were treasured, passed on to children and grandchildren. We didn’t have 12 of them in different colors, wouldn’t have thought of it. When they broke we fixed them.”
“100 years… we…what?” she chortled.
He spoke again interrupting her.
“Today, we graze like farm animals in shopping malls while endless music plays in the background.”
“You take our girls there with those 30% off coupons, good till Wednesday if they use your credit card. But every week the same God Damn coupons are in the paper. You don’t see what they’re doing Sue. Filling our house with things I don’t want and they don’t need. And where does it go Sue, where the hell does it go when you finally get rid of this crap?”
With some difficulty Susan put down the pop up leg rest, folded her arms and responded. “I like these things Henry. This is my house, these are my kids. I work hard and I’ll buy them what I want. You cheap old bastard, you order those science fiction books that come in the mail all the time, the tools, the junk for your boat.”
Whenever there was an argument she often brought up the boat. Henry’s one luxury and the only link to his dead father and the times they had fishing and crabbing when he was a child. It was below the belt, but she was tired and it was a convenient weapon. There was a hint of shame on her face but she said nothing further.
Henry looked down at the floor and thought about his girls.
It’s the end of the world and they don’t know it. They are texting and face paging each other into oblivion. If you gave them a book they would burn it on a cold winter night. Bamboozled out of tradition, hoodwinked out of family time and frozen dinnered out of humanity.
He stood up and walked past her, pausing at the steps he remembered last night’s night mare. Henry realized he had started crying, turning towards her he began speaking very quietly.
“What isn’t piling up in our homes floods into our pastures, sickens our rivers and is swimming in a million ton whirlpool in the South Pacific where great tides from the oceans meet. It’s going to spin forever there with trash and plastic jugs that will outlive us 10,000 years. This is what you’re buying for our girls. This is what we’re doing in our home.”
Going upstairs he felt a heavy tightness in his chest, there was sweat beading up on his forehead and his left hand was numb. Walking slowly onto the back porch the dog lifted her graying head from the corner to greet him. Age is taking her he thought, it won’t be long. She stood carefully and followed him to the couch, lying by his feet.
Feeling odd and very tired he sat down and gazed out the back window as winds shifted yellow and green leaves from the trees left clinging as the last vestige of an early winter. His head fell slowly to the couch cushion, as his eyes closed his heart skipped every other beat.
Before it stopped completely Henry whispered a quiet prayer.
“Please God, let me live a simple life.”
Up in the mountains a log cabin sits next to a running brook. Windows tarnished by decades filter light into a large single room. On the floor are animal skins, the door has leather hinges. A simple oak mantle sets above a stone fireplace. In its hearth a fire dances beneath a cast iron cauldron. The wall by the mantle holds a few iron pans, a fishing rod and fading pictures of a wedding scene along a hillside. Across the room is a loft with a homemade ladder. The ladder leads to a soft cotton bed where love is made in darkness. Above the ceiling holds a simple skylight where the sun, moon and stars live exposing the heavens. Beneath the loft is a crib fashioned with pine twigs. Soft white fur separates a year old girl from her moistening bottom. In her heart she holds the dreams of her father.
The door is opening. A middle aged woman with windswept beauty is smiling and holding two rabbits and a basket of fresh blueberries. Behind her is Shadow, Henry’s Dog. He runs to greet them.
I knew it was going to be bad. His long illness and the many hours I spent by his bedside were a daily reminder of what was coming. The surprising thing for me is that once he passed away there was an initial relief that his suffering was over, a short period where I felt nothing, a few months of real sadness at his loss and a place I now reside which just seems confusing.
I’m trying to make sense of it all. I’m beginning to believe that my place in my father’s life is like being a passenger in a big, slow moving train. I boarded the train when my earliest memories were charted. Fleeting pictures of the wine barrels on Daisy Avenue, early trips to Ocean City where I played on the sand and dug for sand crabs, being a spectator at the endless parties and barbecues on Mr. Bill Millers Shore home. Cigarettes, penny ante poker playing, coins falling beneath the picnic tables seen as minor treasures that they laughed away and let me keep.
The biggest early blip and significant change was our move to Orchard Road. I learned at six that you don’t move in until you paint and clean. I have a vivid memory of an old, stiff, bristled horsehair paint brush he used to “cut in” the closet walls with paint. It may still be hanging above his work bench.
From the earliest days I just wanted to be the little helper, to be like him, to grow up and be able to tune up the car or fix the air conditioning. I was astounded that adults could get in a car and drive dozens of miles with many turns and always know how to get where they are going.
The train took me away from him at times, working two jobs, school, traveling the world on ships. But he was always there. I suppose in a way he was the conductor, the man partly responsible for where the train was going and sometimes, in a gentle and loving way, loading the coal into the furnace to get me up those steep hills, the ones where I did not know what would be on the other side.
I look for answers everywhere, the loving eyes of my pup during walks in the park. The serene beauty of the riverfront home I have finally achieved, but without him. The mystery of meaning and if it even exists in a life so brief, a candle in the hurricane.
I thought it was over, I thought I’d figured this out and I could go on without him. That I could let it stop and walk away from the train, but looking behind me is another car, my kids and grandson are on it, my wife is slowly turning to look towards my car. My Father is gone physically but his spirit is with me and I’ll need to be the conductor and engineer now. It’s time to shovel coal into that furnace, to help us all climb the next big hill and see what’s on the other side.