Dandelion

Dandelion: (n) a weedy plant, having golden-yellow flowers

It’s a very simple test—you can do it with anybody.

If you’re curious about the bent of someone’s character or the passion that drives them, just simply bring up dandelions.

You don’t have to offer your opinion—matter of fact, it’s better if you withhold.

You can say something like:

“Well, look over there. I think we’re entering dandelion season.”

Then let them go.

I’ve yet to meet a person who doesn’t have a strong opinion on dandelions.

I’m sure you are aware of the diversity of ideas that might “crop up” with this little crop.

Some folks were taught that dandelions were nature’s little flowers. As children, they picked them or brought them to Mother, or decorated their room or pressed them into books.

For other folks, the dandelion is a weed which takes away from the beauty of the green grass they have fastidiously planted, making sure their lawn looks like a glorious carpet.

Every once in a while, you run across somebody who lands in the middle. These are the people who don’t prefer dandelions, but sure think they’re lovely.

I did run across one fellow who was very philosophical. He explained that the dandelion is on Earth as a foretelling of the human experience: It arrives, sprouts its best bloom, it is treasured by some and condemned by others. But in the end, it dies, loses all its beauty and is blown away by the wind.

As you can see, you can tell an awful lot about folks by what they think about dandelions.

Me? I think they make a great essay.

 

Dancer

Dancer: (n) a person who dances professionally

In the world of fruits and vegetables, it would be pretty well assumed that string beans would make good dancers, but cantaloupes and pumpkins–not so much.

Matter of fact, when you see a rotund human dancing, it normally is on a YouTube, which has many views by people who find it hilarious to spy such a sight.

I don’t know whether it’s the mixture of the bouncing jowls in the face, the pinking of the cheeks or the extra blubber shifting like the tide.

But it’s pretty well accepted that those who dance on Broadway live on lettuce and smells.

So when I—more in the melon family of appearance—put on a play many years ago which demanded some dancing and found myself unable to cast one of the major parts, I was encouraged by the other cast members to take on the challenge, break down some barriers and hoof my way through the performance.

I’ve always been pretty athletic. (Candidly, when you’re fat, athletic can be walking through a china shop without knocking over some bullshit.)

So I learned the dancing, practiced it, and got to the point that I could do the numbers without completely gasping for breath.

But as I stood backstage on opening night, getting ready to make my entrance, hearing the mumbling of the audience, I was completely terrified.

All the stereotypical reactions about “prancing fat boys” raced to my brain and did their own little tap dance all over the state of my confidence.

And sure enough, when I entered the stage in my costume and began the shuffling of my feet that would lend itself to dancing, I heard giggles from the gallery.

I was humiliated.

I was frightened.

But I also realized that doing it halfway would only make it look worse.

So I sold out.

And—as often happens when one sells out—half of the audience admired the hell out of me, and the other half was pissed because I made them feel a little naughty about their judgment.

I am not a dancer.

At best I am an agile beach ball, bouncing on the sand—scurried by the wind.

 

Dance

Dance: (v) to move one’s feet or body, or both, rhythmically in a pattern of steps, especially to the accompaniment of music.

There are just some things that demand more than sitting and watching.

I don’t like to sit and watch people eat. Matter of fact, I find it to be notorious.

I don’t like to sit and watch a sports event for too long. After a while, my imagination and my waistline grow together.

I never liked to sit and watch two people making love. I don’t get it. Making love may be the supreme example of the term, “user friendly.”

I don’t like to sit and watch church. If you really are in a mood to worship and you think there are matters that are praise-worthy, why would your choice be solemnity?

I don’t enjoy sitting and watching the sunrise. It was never meant to be a visual show, but rather, an invitation to get off one’s ass and start the day.

And I don’t like to sit and watch music. I used to hate to go with friends who wanted to watch someone play a piano or guitar or sit and listen to a singer.

Music was created to be moving

  • Move the heart with emotion.
  • Move the soul with inspiration.
  • Move the mind with ideas.
  • And move the body with beat.

Thus the dance.

The Bible is full of examples where people became overcome with emotion, music, spirit and thanksgiving—and started to dance.

And that is Middle Eastern style of dance, which is a lot of whirling and twirling. Yes, Temple, at one time, was an aerobic workout.

Dancing is when we confirm to those around us that we can still be moved by a melody, a beat and the possibility of excitement generated through a song.

 

Damp

Damp: (adj) slightly wet; moist:

To avoid landing in uncomfortable situations, one must be willing to listen to counsel and follow it without trying it out for oneself.

Yet all of us—and I mean all of us—have some sort of ingrained streak that requires we touch the hot stove before we’re convinced it burns.

Otherwise, you arrive at age thirty-one, standing in front of your small child, saying, “Don’t touch the hot stove”—to which the child questions, “Why??”

And for a moment, you find yourself stalled, having no personal experience—just anecdotal evidence.

But mostly, though, we are just bratty and defiant.

When I was a younger fellow, just about ten years old, we went swimming at the lake. From the lake, we were going to go swimming at the local pool. I don’t know why both events were chosen for the same day, because I wasn’t in charge. After the pool swimming, we planned on going to Dairy Queen to have a good old-fashioned American dinner of grease, fat, sugar and unknown preservatives.

After the last swim, all the children were told by the counselors to go into the bathroom and change out of their swimming suits into their street clothes before we had our supper.

I decided not to.

I chose to wear my damp swimsuit during the entire encounter at Dairy Queen.

Here’s what I learned:

Although a swimming suit may not be uncomfortable as you sit on a bench, having just left the pool, after an hour or so of having it cling to your skin, you discover some shocking realities.

It stinks.

All during our little dining experience, people kept saying, “Can you still smell the pool? I can. That’s weird.”

I just kept praying no one would notice I was still in trunks.

The odor was a mixture of an elementary school’s nurse closet, blended with the budding body odor of a ten-year-old fat boy.

It wasn’t overwhelming—but there were moments it threatened to sting the eyes.

On top of that, the two blocks we had to walk to get to our car and the block-and-a-half we strolled from our car to Dairy Queen made me chafe due to the damp swimsuit.

It was kind of itchy, kind of sore and very unpleasant.

And finally—and most importantly—having something damp down near your pee-pee hole makes you think you should be pee-peeing all the time.

So I spent a lot of time wiggling, or excusing myself to go to the bathroom, only to discover that it was a false alarm induced by my damn damp suit.

I share this with you today because there are reasons that traditions have come to be—like not touching the stove and changing out of your wet swimwear.

There may be others.

It’s always a good idea to consider that some rules may actually be there to protect us against ourselves instead of punishing us for being free thinkers.

Damoiselle

Damoiselle: (n) a young woman or girl; a maiden

The joke is that employees at Federal Express read on a package, “Fragile, handle with care,” and toss that one even higher.

I’m sure that’s not true.

It is the instinct of the human race to rebel against the things we’re told to do.

This is especially true when we feel like someone is being picky or prissy.

So over the years, as women have been trying to establish their equality, the females have also accepted special consideration for being dainty when it suited the circumstances.

Because of this, religion, politics and business have been able to mask bigotry behind a sense of appreciation for ladies, deeming them damoiselles—because this title can place them in distress—and as we often saw in the cartoons, they were tied up and laid on railroad tracks, waiting for the hero (a man) to come and save them.

Many years ago, because I wanted equality with my “sisters in life,” I stopped phony recognition.

I hold doors open for women because I also hold them open for men, and even once, if I remember correctly, a dog or two.

I do not frantically run toward a woman carrying packages and take them from her, lest she break a sweat.

It is how women end up being handled rather than regarded.

It is why a word like “demoiselle,” though just a French translation for “woman,” brings with it the tentacles of oppression.

It’s a sinister way to make sure that women never gain the even footing their stance demands.

If I am working with a woman, I talk to her just as directly as I would her male counterpart. Amazingly enough, from time to time, some women regard this fair play as chauvinism.

Because privately, they want to plead for fairness but also want to maintain the perks of being carried along gently by men—men who are convinced they are innately weaker.

So I say to my dear friends who happen to be the “she-dom of this world,” you must make up your mind.

If you want to stand toe-to-toe, you probably should carry in your own boxes.

And if you want to be considered the same, then demand the same.

 

Damned if I Do, Damned if I Don’t

Damned if I do, damned if I don’t: (n) a situation which one can’t win.

I have become convinced that self-pity is the greatest deterrent to human progress.

If you spend five minutes with any person, he or she will explain both what he or she wanted to accomplish and also why it became impossible.

I suppose this comes about because we think life is a puzzle put together by some Eternal Being and presented to us—and then we patiently but joyfully are to discover how all the portions are meant to fit together.

How could we have free will if we already have a puzzle made for us?

Is the premise that only certain free-will creatures even try to put the puzzle together? Or is it that the puzzle is so difficult that few have the time to pursue it or complete it?

I, on the other hand, happen to believe that life is a shoe box full of rocks, handed to each and every one of us.

The losers in life spend most of their breath-time either lamenting the meaninglessness of the rocks or attempting to put them together in some bizarre configuration.

They are the ones who begin to believe that you’re “damned if you do and damned if you don’t.”

In other words, “Since everything is stacked against me, and my box of rocks doesn’t make any sense, what’s the point in wearing myself out—chasing rainbows with my saddled unicorn?”

Here’s a tip:

The box of rocks is a diversion. It creates equality.

It makes us all the same—none preferred—and offers a common paradox.

For once you look at your box of rocks and surmise that there’s nothing to be done with it, then dump your rocks—but keep your box. Then go out and start gathering what you’re going to need to construct what you really envision.

You might think it’s cruel for the Creator to ask us to use our brains to surmise that the rocks are meaningless. But by no means do we want every fool to figure out the puzzle, lest figuring it out becomes droll.

Damn

Damn: (v) to declare something to be bad, unfit, invalid

 “…and he that believeth not shall be damned.”

I think I was eight years old when I read that for the first time.

I wondered why.

Why does God need to damn anyone?

I wasn’t sure what I believed about God. It is an evolution. Matter of fact, to this day our love affair is a private matter.

But I was pretty sure, from my understanding, that He was “man enough” to survive an unbeliever.

After all, I do. There are many people who don’t believe in me. Some of them have gone so far as to declare their unbelief and pronounce damnation on my soul. But I never had the inclination to toss my own rendition of ultimate rejection back their way.

It’s not because I’m noble. It just seems very childish to be really mad at someone because they don’t believe in you.

The instinct may be there.

Perhaps hurt feelings.

A bit of confusion.

But fury? Rage? I don’t think so.

And why would God, who has so many devotees, focus in on the few who decide to be reluctant, or even rebellious?

Why would God damn anyone?

Hell, if He started damning people, I don’t know where He would stop.

So yes—I’m pretty sure if damnation is part of the nature of God, we all are lost and abandoned.

No, I just have to believe that somebody wrote that. Maybe they were trying to scare their congregation into being faithful. Maybe they wanted their race to seem better than others who did not believe.

I don’t know.

I just don’t reckon God is so insecure that He has to retaliate apathy with judgment.

Wouldn’t it be funny if each one of us received an eternity that matched our own choices? Those who believe heaven is “streets of gold and mansions” would discover that they are surrounded with great wealth—but nothing really to do.

And those who believe we come back again through reincarnation to be other creatures would find themselves on that merry-go-round.

And of course, those who believe there is no God, and the grave is the end of the journey, would be allowed to decay in peace.

Dammed

Dammed: (adj) restricted

 The directions were simple, clear and accurate.

A friend of mine invited me to join him for lunch at the cafeteria of the prison where he was employed as a chaplain.

This particular penal institution had a back gate where the employees entered, with an electric fence which was turned on during the day and also at night, after the employees had already arrived or departed.

I was coming at a time when the fence was normally turned on, so my friend told me he would make sure it was disengaged for my entrance at 11:15 A. M.

The explanation seemed simple enough, the plan sound.

But when I parked my car and headed toward the gate, it occurred to me that if my buddy happened to forget to turn off the fence—maybe because he got involved in a conversation or was just absent-minded—I might be walking up to a barrier that could hurt me.

Yes, the obstacle before me could leave me dammed. By that I mean, blocking my way to where I wanted to go.

Still, I had an instinct to just trust Reverend Ted. Yet that optimism quickly dissipated when all the rest of the inclinations from my body screamed out in disapproval.

What if honest Reverend Ted, on this day, was somehow or another transformed into Dopey Ted?

So for nearly five minutes I just stood and stared at the fence, trying to discern if it was “lit up.”

There was no obvious answer.

Thinking it might be wise to touch it with something other than my hand, I reached down in a clump of grass nearby, pulled up a stick and nervously threw it toward the fence. It hit and bounced off without any buzzes, whistles or sparks.

Temporarily reassured, I stepped forward to enter, when memories of my chemistry class reminded me that wood, as you find in a tree limb, is not a good conductor of electricity.

Matter of fact, “wood” would be classified as wouldn’t.

So I looked around for something else to use to bolster my confidence that my friend had actually turned off the fence.

I came up with nothing—except my car keys.

Now once again, my chemistry training kicked in and reminded me that car keys are metal and would certainly let me know if there was an electrical current running through the obstacle that dammed me.

Unfortunately, unless I planned on standing back five feet and throwing them at the fence, I would be in danger if I was holding them when I did my test.

Of course, throwing them was ridiculous.

But not so ridiculous that I didn’t end up trying it.

So standing about seven feet away, I threw my metal keys and metal key ring at the fence. Unfortunately, they were small enough that they passed through the hole of the chain links and fell on the other side.

Just then, my friend walked hurriedly toward the scene, staring down at my keys, now at his feet.

“What in the hell are you doing?” he asked.

I paused.

Should I tell him the truth?

Should I share my apprehension, if not complete doubt, over his memory?

But before I even knew what I was saying, and certainly never consulting my better senses, I responded, “Sorry, man. I tripped and my keys fell out of my hand into the air.”

He frowned and stared at me like I was a crazy man he had once had as a friend.

He picked up my keys, walked over to the gate and opened it. I quickly scooted forward and scurried through the opening.

“You’re so weird,” he said.

I had no reason to disagree with him.

It seemed a very appropriate, metered assessment of what he had just experienced.

Damfool

Damfool: (n) a person who is exceptionally stupid or foolish

I’m not so sure any of us can call another a fool without being in danger of some hellfire.

We aren’t qualified to declare them stupid when we, ourselves, are so apt to slide into that pool of “ick.”

Yet it doesn’t change the fact that people can be stupid.

And foolishness certainly abounds.

I have one little test I like to use which determines whether someone is just human and errant, or if they’re a damfool.

Here it is:

When presented with the obvious error of his or her ways, does he or she repent? Or argue?

And when I say argue, I’m talking about making excuses or insisting there was no other way to accomplish the deed.

For it is accounted in those who wear human skin to be vulnerable.

If we are not going to be willing to admit our flaws and laugh off our feeble attempts, then we are needfully deemed a damfool.

Now if you take that definition and apply it into our present society, you will see those who slip up and own up—and those who have slipped up and blamed others.

Dame

Dame: (n) a term used to reference a woman

They build corrals so horses won’t escape.

In doing so, they are admitting that the horses don’t really want to be there. Apparently, the beasts aren’t impressed with a barn and three meals of hay a day.

They want outta there.

To a horse, a stable is a prison. (Or what you might consider unstable.)

Corralling seems to be one of the favored activities of our current world. I don’t think there’s a sentence I could write that someone could not ardently peruse to discover offensive material within.

Why? Because we’re not interested in cleverness and inspiration. We’re only determined to establish our entity by critiquing the thoughts of others.

I can’t keep it straight.

I thought calling a woman a “chick” was extraordinarily out of whack, until some teenagers explained to me that it was “cool, cute and even kind of sexy.”

I guess it’s still incorrect to refer to a lady as a “broad,” unless you’re doing it as a bold compliment, like: “That Senator from California is one tough broad.”

Of course, there are words that are offensive.

The use of the “c word” for a woman is incomprehensible.

I don’t like “bitch”—but women will turn around and call themselves bitches. (I suppose that’s the same thing as when a black person wants to call himself the “n word.”)

I just don’t know.

I’m lost in the desert here without a canteen.

So the word “dame” is not only nasty, but it’s also so old-time that it makes you look like you fell off the turnip truck on your way to market—not only prohibited, but Grandpa-like.

Now, normally we extol things that are traditional as having lasting merit, but in this case, “dame” sounds like the language of the Bowery Boys (and of course, nobody knows who the Bowery Boys are anymore.)

Don’t get me wrong. This is not a lamentation.

I find it intriguing to keep up with words that have flow, character and veracity.

But every once in a while, I’m like that stallion that finds out where the corral begins and has a hankerin’ to take a leap over it.