Jen Schneider


Scrappy Come Scrappy Go

we used to call him “scrappy come scrappy go” because he was the one who’d scour the fields for the scraps of paper (ticket stubs, receipts, player stats) spectators would leave behind at the end of every game. he was on nobody’s clock, only his own. he’d come (all seasons) then go like a warm summer rain or an early fall wind (depending on the season). he’d linger just long enough to stake claims and gain some potential trades, then leave. he’d stuff his findings in an oversized cotton tote / he being undersized, no more than five feet. some days the tote would be full. other days, nearly empty. cleanup crews always on an irregular schedule. scrappy come scrappy go was as irregularly regular as the lot of us. each of us with our own reasons (& bleacher seat preferences). one day, scrappy didn’t show. i took my own tote and adopted his approach. up twelve steps, eyes scanned right, then left. i gathered scraps in groups — a mix of stubs and stats. found myself a rare trading card and a division-winning promo flyer. figured i’d offer my stash to scrappy after his next round at bat. never realized scrappy might simply go. i waited seven days, a full fall-ball cycle, for scrappy to return. i gushed then groaned as i saw him hobble come day eight. “good to see you scrappy,” i hollered. he smiled, then said, “hope to never retire — not my clock or my lock / might need some help with these steps”. he had fallen. slipped on some random scraps. a slick spot. i assisted with a smile. in time his habits became mine. adopted both his stance and stakes. all that time and i never expected (though welcomed) to be called a second scrappy come scrappy go at the plate.

—    signed:                         
scrappy one plus one

Push

They sit, shoulder to shoulder, and talk about pushing. Both heads bent. Their fingers fully engaged. Laptop keyboards serve as a platform for language and creation. Updates emerge on a regular schedule. Their necks are near mirror images of one another. Tiny hairs stand upright. All limbs and locks are in full focus. It wasn’t always this way. Size and stature sometimes still, even during development. Mostly silent, then suddenly spiraling. Ankles peak from frayed cuffs. Buttons pull. Nine years between their birth. One. Two. Three. Push. The nurses differed. The hospital voices remained the same. Now, from the back, I almost can’t tell the two of them, and the near decade in between their births, apart. Time a blend of moments turned minutes turned memories. Most muddy. Their births still clear. Each time, I craved Java. A necessary ingredient for programming mind, body, and soul. No liquids allowed, hollered nurses. Uniformed and nearly uniform. Robust strings of syllables. One. Two. Three. Push. One son arrived at a time when AOL was on the rise and dial-up the only way to connect. The other is (and remains) a digital native. Born and bred on bytes and bandwidth. All widths expanding. Now, they whisper. Binary bites of syllables carefully strung. Digits dance across a field of square keys with rounded edges. Troubleshooting as common as contractions. I recall my rounded belly as I consume tiny snips of phrases and small puffs of breath. Elastic bands and increasingly wider widths. Each birth a cloud — pure and full of all that is fresh — that lingers in layers. Their lips contract to form terms like bug, api, plug in, java, update, push. Their mouths a perfect o. One. Two. Three. Push. They inhale, exhale, then connect (sometimes contract, often correct) lines of code. Binary input with infinite output. All I can think of is when they were born. One in the middle of the night. The other just after dawn. Almost nine years between them. One. Two. Three. Push. Nurses hollered. Dressed in scrubs — uniformed though not uniform. All breaths irregular. All beats monitored. Inhale. Exhale. Push. Tiny fingers foiled. Small feet fumbled. Strings of code — both DNA and binary — scripted. Perfectly imperfect. I wonder, then marvel, at what it means to create. To contract. To push.



Seven Ways to Imagine a Garden Party:
On Warped Wires and Burnt Tires / Gun and Roses on all Corners

Wait. I sit in rush hour traffic while NPR streams on the radio. Stats both dire and daunting. Mostly unrestrained. Another shooting. More guns. All latitudes and longitudes fair game. No zip code unclaimed. The cars idle (all engines ready) and drivers tire (all routes bloody). Curb-side hobbies partly to blame. I watch a pair of birds perched on an oversized wire. Power lines march to their own conception of time.

Watch. I’m no aviary expert. No more a citizen scientist than a commuter thrown for a loop. I suspect the two are representatives of North America’s smallest falcons. American Kestrels both fiery and fierce. Also, not for the color-averse or faint of heart. A Guns N’ Roses tee shirt dangles to their right. A red Converse high-top sways to their left. Bloodshed in plain sight.

Wonder. An oversized daisy etched in thick black ink (the rubber soles shielded from the elements I think) smiles on the cars below. Carnivores (both friend and foe) curiously conspicuous. The shoe’s thick sole suggestive of a warm embrace. A desire to pause the relentless race. All souls tired. I settle into my faux leather seat and keep my gaze on the wire. Bird watching a suitable hobby. The upper elements prime for an imaginary garden party. A habit both adaptable and aerial. No smokes required. No tempers inspired.

Woo. While honks brew and whiplash simmers, I focus on the aviary crew. Patience clearly more their virtue. The tee shirt sways gently. The shoe dances the twist. Both birds appear oblivious to the city stink. All webbed feet fully engaged. The world their party. Also, pantry. Our trash their bait.

Wade. The one on the left now touts a rose in its beak. I blink. Magic or mercy, I wonder then think. The raptors flex their feet and flap their wings to a beat both oblivious and anonymous. Bird anatomies both curious and conspired. Darwin and the fittest both a mechanism to survive and thrive. Now not the time to attempt to mind read. A new speaker convenes. I dial in. All horns heavy. NPR pivots to a piece on birds. Did you know, the voice ponders, that most have four toes — helpful when getting one’s ducks (all feathers plucked) in a row.

Wink. I am ruffled by the coincidence. As the speaker sparks inquiries, I believe the birds wink. To the upper right a star twinkles. To the upper left, a firefly ignites a near-night sky. Delays on demand. Remand not an option. And I think, what next might sprout. My eyes hooked on the upper atmosphere clout. The pair flaps their brightly colored wings. May I join you, I long to sing. Garden parties on all clouds and of all corners. Sweet scents of sprouting seeds. It might be nice to sleep (even if for one night) on the wire with the birds and their webbed feet. Amidst power grids and garden lights. Guarded. Across party lines.

Wa(i)ve. I’d gladly continue to steam (and stream) delicious thoughts both lemonade and tangerine. The clouds all shapes of something sweet. Bunches of Concord grapes. Lilacs and lilies. Dandelion treats. But the trash truck behind me honks. Me and the birds both duck – but do not crack. Their webbed feet hug the sagging wire. In the distance the evergreens are on fire. All hands raise. All fingers wave. The pair of Kestrels blissfully unaware. Previously waived rights to buffet boundaries. Adaptation always on the evolutionary and precautionary menu.

Wait. Watch. Wonder. Woo. Wade. Wink. Wa(i)ve. Garden parties in plain sight.

On Home-Grown Bouquets: Hand-Picked and City Plucked

the drive through the city revealed 
not a single flower (rose) / with 
concrete gardens and bus-waiting 
parties on all corners / no opening 
for new plots of soil / even 
the McDonald’s 
play garden was closed

the walk through the library revealed 
not a single flower (tulip) / with 
laminated poster gardens, read-a-loud 
board books, and paperbacks 
on all stacks

the jog around the track revealed 
not a single flower (lily) / with 
artificial gardens and tailgating 
parties on all lanes

i wondered why 
until i recalled 
what i’d been taught

make lemonade
out of lemons

if not us 
if not you
then who

i swear 
i heard 
an owl hoot

truth not
a booth
but a birth

/ a quest
of worth

i spied empty 
pots / counted 
possible spots
/ devised 
a realistic plot

i laced my keds 
and tied loose knots
then grabbed 
a nylon sack

i picked (city weeds)
and plucked (dandelion seeds)
no longer down 
on my luck

i made a garden 
party out of grass
newspaper bases
and plastic vases

filled a discarded 
plastic pail
with a dash 
of red (babybel 
foil squares)
and a twist 
of yellow (egg
mcmuffin snaps)

then sat 
and inhaled
the city’s off-color airs

i imagined 
wrought iron fences
draped in morning glories
and sweet cherry tomato vines. 

i bartered — a handful 
for a dime

and savored the garden-variety,
rainbow-scented party in my lap

a kaleidoscope bouquet 
on grand display / in the heart (and soul) 
of a city chap

Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She is a Best of the Net nominee, with stories, poems, and essays published in a wide variety of literary and scholarly journals. She is the author of A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility and On Crossroads and Fill in the Blank Puzzles (Moonstone Press), and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.

 
 

previous page     contents     next page