“Don’t worry, babygirl, I promise to be an even better leader after January. I’ll do all I can . . . Michelle and I will do everything in our power to make sure you don’t lose hope in your future.”
She holds on to him as if searching for security; he can feel a slight tremble in her wiry arms and a palpable, peculiarly rapid thump in her heartbeat.
“I love you, Mr. President,” her soft words somehow find air.
Reluctantly he releases her, the very reason he chose to run, from his father-like embrace.
Misty become both a man’s and a little girl’s eyes.
On Pamper-Her-Friday.
____________
***
God, pamper the vulnerable . . . and help us all. -Rg2
When’s the last time you wrote a love letter to a man you found yourself curious about? Well, I doubt the letter will write itself.
Allow me.
I realize the self-driving vehicle has debuted. And the self-lacing shoe is just over the horizon. Artificial Intelligence is fast evolving, sure enough, but no one, no software, no machine knows better the affairs of your heart than its owner.
This mystery I present to you in the form of an invisible man in existence somewhere in the Americas—why would it be any other way? You weren’t looking for a romance writer. Far from. And I’m certainly not looking for a romantic pen pal. Far from.
So then, why is it that we’ve discovered the other’s existence? In autumn no less? I’m willing to wager you’ve a bounty of eager suitors, each offering his uniquely personal, well-intentioned woo.
I’m not going there.
You don’t need another feather in your cap of embarrassing riches.
Besides, I’m saving my woos for a rainy day. Preferably a rainy autumn day. Why? Well, my grandfather once told me a woman requites a received love letter most enthusiastically in the fall season.
In her favored coffee house she may sit alone, a pen and pad not far away, and the words just tingle and tickle the nerve endings of her ideas-brimming brain. Or by a wood-burning fire in the privacy of her dwelling, a cup of joe at arm’s length, she may find herself mind-scribbling thoughts of him.
I’m not saying you’ll go there. I’m not asking you to go there, Christine.
No, do not write a love letter to an invisible man. I suggest you not compose a thoughtful note to a stranger.
Suffice it that we’ve somehow, for some enigmatic reason, touched the other’s creative orbit.
I mean, it’s not as if Laura wrote to Almanzo. Then again, do we really know she didn’t?
And Gilda didn’t “write” to Gene that arrestingly beautiful line: “. . . kiss me like a stranger.” Wilder was never the same after hearing it on her lips and gazing it in her eyes. Poor guy.
Or fortunate man, that Gene.
Besides, women don’t write love letters anymore. So why don’t I let this one go. I won’t send it. Why don’t you be you . . . and I’ll be me. I’ll just be me. The mystery. The curiosity that’s probably best that you not explore.
Because were I to see you, within hand’s reach, were you to enter the confines of my breathing space, I swear I’m just liable to, I’d fight the impulse with everything within me, I’d try with all my romantic might not to . . .
. . . kiss you like an autumn stranger.
I’ll write it instead.
Tenderly,
Rg2
_______________
***
Pamper the woman . . . and forever live in her Autumn. –Rg2
A city once revered for its commercial citrus heritage and a former home to multiple aerospace industry stalwarts such as General Dynamics, Pomona since the late 1980s has seen its share of tax-base abandonment, political decline, and demographic evolution.
Once an Inland Valley jewel among such well-run sister cities as Claremont, Upland, La Verne and San Dimas, Pomona’s economic demise over the course of two decades had left it a less than desirable residential and corporate destination.
Void of integral, visionary leadership, the city, many outsiders concluded, had seen its best days. As a native son of the city and the community, I can bear witness to the hard times. But I’ve never neglected to see Pomona’s promise despite the doubters and critics.
I believe I represent the best of what this city, this rich, vibrant community offers–and what it can be in the days and years ahead. Pomona is primed for rebirth and resurgence, and firm, thoughtful, smart leadership is crucial to its future. A future I believe I embody more fully and genuinely than my fellow candidates.
I’m Tim Sandoval and I’m running for mayor of the great city of Pomona. If you believe as I do that we deserve a strong, safe, family-devoted, economically viable city, I ask for your vote . . . .
***
Ideas win the future . . . and the woman. -Rg2
(Roy Greer, a behind-the-scenes political operative/strategist, is recognized as one of the shrewdest, most effective political/funding writers in the Western Hemisphere. Greer is a registered Independent. His strategic communication services are bipartisan: If you want to win, regardless of party affiliation, and your aims are people-first for a better quality of life for voters, Greer delivers results. “Voters want to be pampered, truth be told.” -Rg2)
Candace Parker, WNBA 2016 World Champion, Finals MVP, Los Angeles Sparks
Dear Candace,
Victory, they say, doesn’t belong to the victor, but to the unsung who made it possible.
People like mom and dad. Grandma. A daughter who idolizes her devoted mother. Brothers Anthony and Marcus. People like Pat and Tennessee teammates of yore. Childhood and Final Four opponents. Professional adversaries and sorors alike. Nneka and Kristi and Alana et al. Coach Agler. Local and global fans.
The unheralded among Candace Nicole Parker had something—quite a lot—to do with the illustrious sparkle that shines from the rare diamond that is the WNBA’s 2016 Finals Most Valuable Player.
But ultimately, in the heat of battle, in the cauldron of war, they can’t play the game for you. You must prove your mettle and deliver when it’s needed most.
Done.
Wow, did you do it.
When Magic reminded you and your teammates before the deciding game that he and his Laker soldiers in fact had to go into a hostile Boston Garden and win a game-7, apparently the story had impact.
“Thank you for believing in us,” you cried into his arms.
“This is for Pat,” you exclaimed tearfully into the mic.
Humility. Will. You’re a bonafide winner at every level.
I love you, Candace.
Congratulations and the sweetest Pamper-Her-Friday wishes for you and your world champion teammates.
Forgive me the delay in the arrival of this love letter. As you delve into the soul of this write, perhaps you won’t hold its tardiness against me.
I attended a mayoral debate Friday evening for a city sorely in need of dynamic, people-first, innovative leadership. It wasn’t a particularly spirited debate, likely because of the strict one- to two-minute response times and, noticeably, neither candidate imparted a dynamism that revs a voting public.
The incumbent can tout visibly new development, such as homes and service-based businesses. The knock apparently is he hasn’t galvanized the cross-section of residents with genuine inclusiveness. The challenger, more than a decade younger, appeared to win the room, based on the volume of handclaps punctuating his responses and his vow to “bring people together.”
Though I surmise his intentions are true, and the message is attractive for the times, I sensed a hollowness lurking deeper, a substance rather lacking. He may have his finger on the city’s zeitgeist nonetheless.
Truth is, the city is reflective of the country as a whole—a microcosm of what is unarguably a broken-hearted nation at war with itself. With open wounds on all sides, no one’s satisfied, let alone happy. No wonder Elon Musk is trying to colonize Mars. He knows Earth has seen her best days.
But that’s another subject.
On my way home I approached one of many intersections en route. Idled at the red light, the sole occupant in my vehicle, I noticed a silhouette approach my right corner, readying for the crosswalk. A young, visibly attractive woman . . . garbed in upper thigh-high shorts and heels. It had to be in the low 60s that evening. The street lamp near the intersection apparently was inoperable because I couldn’t countenance her face precisely, though the outline was soft, unweathered even, her hair flowing featherly.
She walked alone.
The red light lingered long enough for her to eye-communicate to this driver. Teasing, playful—yet sinister. I’ve never engaged that strain of communication. And never will.
I think women are angels, God’s gift to a violent, unforgiving planet in need of them. Pamper-Her-Friday is my evidence. I’m sure there’s a naivete to my view. But I have a wondrously beautiful mother, two sisters of her angelic ilk, and a precious niece. With no offspring, I sometimes ponder what a daughter(s) would look and be like of my genes. Gosh, what a thought.
The light flashed green and I fed the gas pedal, but not before glancing a final time at the courtesan at the boulevard’s corner.
My heart sunk.
‘Whose daughter is she?’ my mind talked.
‘Did a family member fail her? An educator? A revealingly cruel boyfriend? Who doused the fire of her self-value?’
Crazy as it sounds, I wanted to ask her if she has or ever had a dream that circumstance heartlessly deferred. I wanted to tell her the jeweled crown she was born with was only temporarily lost, that the dark, dank, musty, lonely streets are so far removed from her rightful place in a purposeful existence. God, I wanted to save her.
But with what?
The world? Religion? Huh, my own faith is fragile. I’m hanging on to morality with everything I’ve got. I refuse to let go. It’s all I have.
And that won’t save her. Let’s face it, we’re beholden to capitalism, unmerciful capitalism. HP just announced a new round of thousands of job cuts. Wells Fargo, the last untainted bank, just fessed up to opening thousands of phantom accounts to pad its balance sheet and appease relentlessly hungry shareholders.
Automation and robotics are the new workers in an ever-shrinking economy. The planet’s steady cry of “Save me, please” still falls on too many deaf ears. Even Warren Buffet recently admitted that there will come a time when money “loses its utility”; imagine the Oracle of Omaha, who bleeds currency, saying that.
And Elon Musk is intent on colonizing Mars.
What could I say to her?
I drove past the intersection, crossing several more at a lawful speed, with Sting and Stevie channeling their compassion through my vehicle’s speakers, silently hoping as I approached the next intersection and its dimly lit, if at all, crosswalk that I wouldn’t see another haunting silhouette in the cold, descending-fog night.
I entered my still-warm place and locked the door. I filled the kettle with spring water and turned on a blue oval flame beneath it for a slow, soothing piping-hot green tea.
I could easily have written that evening. Actually I mentally wrote with each sip of the bone-warming tea.
And then I said a silent prayer for the fallen angel.
On Pamper-Her-Friday.
May God help us all,
Rg2
_________________
***
Pamper the woman . . . for she may be fragile. -Rg2
Your last stand in my entryway, wasn’t it Autumn?
A light year ago but only yesterday it feels,
Was the kiss premeditated or just a parting shot
Perhaps we both were backed on our emotional heels
Taken aback, woman, I was admittedly gobsmacked
Did we somehow conjure something unforeseen?
Your eyes, they revealed a long-buried story
Why in the world did we revisit such a pivotal scene?
Is that why you left without so much as a whisper
You abandoned a fragrance that haunts me still,
All I remember is the ruby glow of your taillights
As fog fell, I contemplated a sleeping pill
Well aware that rest would be no night option
It followed your vehicle as if in pursuit,
Straight, no chaser, I settled on a bourbon
A problem remained and, woman, you were its root
There you left me, why would you leave me there
Alienated like a stranger inside my own home,
Alone with the memories and that rekindled image
Our emotional landscape I began to roam
‘Don’t go there, don’t go . . .’ my mind would stammer
Exacerbated by the low roar of that autumn fire,
Each sip of the spirit another moment we shared
Missing you with a pain two degrees from dire
I know unintentional and I can discern a mistake
Is that what it was to have invited you there?
Surely we agree our motives were innocent
Is it truly a wonder to have uncovered we care?
A former life is better left to a buried past
My immature inability to offer a farewell . . .
. . . blame-worthy am I, my demons remain
But there’s a goodness within, Terri, in me you dwell
We haven’t spoken since that mid-autumn night
As well it should be . . . we’ve likely said enough,
You kissed me, and I you, then left me with silence
Life now finds me straddling this emotional rough
I’m not suggesting you reconsider your response to the touch
You’ve gone on, as have I; you appear fulfilled,
Your son and daughter guided by our Savior’s hand
My last confession is written but the envelope’s sealed
I’ve reconciled my mistakes from that time ago
and the integrity with which I treated you throughout,
The expression from your eyes that mid-autumn night
Affirmation of your love for this caring man devout
Still he am I, cultivated by hurt
The once-lingering pain now superseded by joy,
You’ve found your rhythm and safeness of heart
A family you’ve formed, such a beautiful employ
I thank you, so tenderly I thank you, Terri
For that night, it was Autumn, and what you didn’t say,
Spoke volumes of my place still nestled in your heart
I honor our memories on this Pamper-Her-Friday
____________
***
Pamper the woman . . . and forever live in her Autumn. -Rg2
Legend has it, I out-strategized you on that storied evening at Lincoln Elementary School.
It was Autumn.
I outlasted you and the cadre of other doe-eyed, leery, anxious competitors on that varnished-wood stage for what was my first and only spelling bee.
Funny, each day of the three-and-a-half decades since that seminal event I could recite the winning word letter for joy-filled letter—I could have sung it to you yesterday even, I remembered it so vividly. Today, I swear, it eludes me.
I out-strategized you, Rachel. Not unlike how Barack hoodwinked Hillary for an improbable win in ’08. Dueled you did I, word for word, breath for breath, after the others faltered and fell away one by one with each noun, verb and adjective verbally tossed from the moderator’s precise tongue.
By some stroke of fortune or act of a merciful angel, you and I had weathered each tension-mounting round of miracle marathon mile of a grammar contest neither of us had an idea we’d carry. But the intellectual cream had risen, the sweet goodness of whirling dervish that the discriminate taster craves. That’s the legend.
I was determined not to runner-up it. I’ve never liked coming in second place. Why? Let me tell you:
The second-placer is the first to lose. The initial loser.
I may as well have been the first misspeller. It swallows easier. Feel?
Hillary is determined not to runner-up again. Would you agree? I like her chances.
But that’s the legend. Sure, that sequence of events occurred on that cool, crisp, autumn evening on that creaky, grand stage on the campus of Abraham Lincoln Elementary School. But the truth, as then, remains: Of the last two contestants standing before the sea of families at the final bell, you were the smarter.
There’s a second truth.
My mother needed a win. My exquisitely beautiful, generous, compassionate, selfless, life-burdened mother deserved a serendipitous lift in that moment to take as a source of rare pride.
We were a lost tribe, my family. The four of us were a bewildered Canadian tribe lost in the hinterlandic wilderness of the far West. Anchorless, sundial-less, rudderless in the unforgiving social and economic storm currents of western North America.
Having missed countless meals so that her cubs would not, my mother, having lost her own parents at 15, fought courageously to caretake, protect, educate and love her own with a soldier’s valor, a lioness’s heart, a constant fear of the unknown—and silent prayer.
Never an asker of anything, my mother’s a giver. She deserved a win on that night. Just a sign, unasked of course, that her mothering wasn’t in vain.
You provided that, Rachel. Yes, I stood last. I was awarded the plaque. But it wasn’t about me. A victory doesn’t belong to the victor; rather, to the unheralded people who made it even possible.
Hands down, you’re the smarter of the two of us. I gladly concede.
If I recall—can you believe it?—it was on a Friday, the bee. We actually pampered my mother on a Friday.
And it is on this day that I honor you, Rachel Nyback. I haven’t forgotten.
Happy Pamper-Her-Friday, my friend.
You are forever a winner.
Tendermost thoughts,
Rg2
__________________
***
Pamper the woman . . . and forever live in her Autumn. -Rg2
I figured you had other importances going on in your life that demanded your full consideration. I’ve never been one to exert my presence upon anyone. The one true joy in human relations is being in the company of someone you genuinely enjoy.
Space is sometimes the greatest elixir for life’s challenges. That I gave you, graciously.
I think of you fondly still.
Do you see what’s going on around the country? It’s as if we’re decaying from within.
Who’s caring about you, I mean, truly caring about you?
Autumn is a revealer. It won’t lie to you . . . unlike so many others.
There’s honesty in autumn.
You’re even more lovely than before.
Autumn wears well on you, Ashley.
Tender is the memory.
Blessings to you,
Rg2
______________
***
Pamper the woman . . . and forever live in her Autumn. -Rg2
It lacked any semblance of harshness or bitterness, her leaving. For that I’m grateful. Because should it be that we never see one another again, remorse won’t find its way into my heart—for my world was made better by her having graced it, Father.
Still, Khrista’s gone.
I don’t know with any surety whether I lost a lover. Likewise, I haven’t a clue if I’ve lost a dear friend.
What I am certain of, Father, is we, both she and I, lost autumn. I’ve lost Khrista at the introduction of the falling of autumn leaves.
Nevermind the shared dinner on a plush throw by a refuse-to-die autumn fire—that wasn’t. And won’t be.
A man can’t miss what he hasn’t experienced.
Nevermind that I won’t revel in the chance to coil the handstitched scarf around her neck just a bit more snugly to safeguard her from the elements. Or that I won’t have the opportunity to present to her shoulders the distinctive shawl I saw in the change-of-season window on my walk to the bakery.
Perhaps neither of those small but emotional events would have meant much to her, for it was my instinct that concluded the woman has both accepted and turned away a number of overtures from mesmerized men along her romance journey.
My putting my hand out to her may well have been simply another among the rigmarole of courting prospects.
But I know, I just feel, Father, to the marrow of my bones that she felt something for me unlike the others.
It’s still there methinks. It won’t dissipate methinks. I just wonder what it truly is she thinks.
That walk, hand in hand, down the antiquated, widely paved, postcard-worthy tree-lined street on the outskirts of town . . . is what I most looked forward to.
And then to escort her to the Apple store for a new iPhone 7 plus—my treat. Not because she couldn’t purchase her own. She probably could buy several. But to then present the certificate of Apple shares that are far more meaningful than the device.
Buffet finally bought in. And he told me to as well—both for myself and the girl I care about most.
But Khrista’s gone, Father.
I lost her. We lost autumn.
Keep her, Father. My world was made better. I still look forward to the new season. I look forward to the fallen leaves.
I believe in autumn.
With grace,
Rg2
______________
***
Pamper the woman . . . and forever live in her soul. -Rg2
Say we haven’t arrived at the season’s passage. One of us has to summon the courage to say goodbye.
The burden’s on you.
Somehow a stubborn refusal has overtaken my internals. And it offers no rationale for intercepting what we both know must be—a mature farewell.
When summer arrived, I barely knew your name. Why did your soul speak with such resonant volume? Yesterday I hardly memorized your name, woman.
Today you inhabit the beginnings and the ends of my natural mind.
A man is foolish to allow himself the intoxication of a woman. There is no sanity in falling in love, especially for a man who prides himself in the control of his sensibilities both without and within.
A man has no business allowing himself to fall for a woman. Only a fool indulges such a vulnerability, no? His wisdom, his logic, humph, his impenetrable player’s swag, his a-man-CAN-be-an-island unspoken mantra disallows him to even entertain the notion of caring about a woman.
I got that memo. As have countless others of my by-the-code brethren.
But of all the rules, all the articles of self-preservation, all the cautionary clauses codified in the document, none mentioned a woman like you.
Did I get the wrong addendum? Was it a misprint as a cruel joke?
Alas, the joke’s on me—summer. I’m laughing at myself as I write this. Insincerely I laugh.
A child of God will, must, one day reckon with the spiritual realm of his existence. Regardless of what “man” has written in self-help books, how-to-navigate-love guides, and dating-rules pamphlets, a woman is or will become part of that realm at some point.
You entered mine this summer.
But the season has reached passage. Our summer’s romance was its gift of a magic carpet ride like none I’ve experienced. Ever.
But, let’s face it, one of us has to summon the courage to say goodbye.
The burden’s absolutely yours.
I tore up and burned to ashes that memo. My courage compelled me to.
In case the burden for you is simply too much, just in case courage has evaded you as summer ends . . .
. . . Autumn is an even more beautiful season. It happens to be my favorite.
If you’re amenable, I’m yours.
Endless love,
Rg2
_____________
***
Pamper the woman . . . and forever live in her soul. -Rg2
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Pamper-Her-Friday by Rg2® 