PRISONER EXPRESS

The term or phrase sounds so simple and you'd think it would be a breeze to write a page or two about "Simple Pleasures", without even typing too hard. Not so. I'm going to write a little about various "simple pleasures" but when I write I tend to wonder about seemingly unrelated subjects (which is probably true) but eventually I'll get there, I just like to chase rabbits sometimes. A rabbit will pop up and I'll run off chasing it for a while, so just bear with me. Once in the mid-80s while stationed in Hawaii a girlfriend of mine was so exasperated with me that she declared to her mother, "I don't know how we stay together, he's so damn simple, it's like comparing apples to diamonds". So I guess I'm pretty simple. She wanted me in designer clothes, the latest fashions. She had me loaded down with a necklace, bracelet, watch, and 2 rings and was working on an earring. No to mention the $20.00 haircuts. I was in the army for crying out loud! I barely had any hair. I was happy in a T-shirt, (or no shirt), jeans or shorts and flip-flops. I favor blue jeans, especially after they're comfortably worn and mildly holey and frayed. Shoes, as long as they aren't holey or mud splattered, they're cool with me. My girl Mal had my closet looking like Imelda Marco's closet. I had 3 pairs of boots, 1 pair of running shoes and my flip-flops and one pair of Army dress shoes and one pair of desert boots for casual wear. Then one had another 2 pair of tennis shoes, 2 cowboy boots (in Hawaii?) 2 pairs of very formal going out shoes and 4 pairs of various casual wear shoes, loafers, Dockers etc. So you can imagine the pain we put each other through. He was a doomed affair but fun while it lasted. We parted friends even though she took back all the jewelry. Anyway, that was then and this is now. Now I'm a jailbird and all I dream about is "simple pleasures", past and in the future. Being in prison holds very, very few simple pleasures for us, although there are a few. I can't think of any right now, but there are a few. Mostly I dream and think back upon my wife and kids and all of the simple pleasures they brought into my life. My life was enriched the day I met my wife and seven kids. Her kids from the first marriage. Luckily, the kids liked me and adopted me. I've heard of lots of horror stories concerning being adopted and stuff but I loved it. And after I became "Daddy", I was a goner. The kids liked to eat and I liked to cook so it was an arrangement made somewhere special. Luckily they weren't finicky because I like lots of "weird foods" according to my kids. But after a few years with me, I converted them; now all of us eat weird foods. Kimchee, cuttlefish, (dried), turkey necks, cow tongues, crawfish, oysters and squid, just to name a few. Anyway I used to wake up at the crack of dawn (or so it seemed) on a Saturday morning, to hear the kids whispering "shut up, Mommy and Daddy are sleeping!" and peeking into our bedroom, occasionally throwing the cat up onto the bed with my wife and I. After a half an hour or so of them waiting for me to get up and wishing they'd just give up and eat cereal, I'd wake up mom, (if I had to get up, so did she) and we'd stumble out and grumble at the kids about grounding them for not letting us sleep. (Ever notice that kids who have a hell of a time getting up and ready for school naturally pop up full of energy on the weekend?) Mealtime at our place was a family affair and I usually had some type of production line going. One kid, (a tall one or I'd have midgets walking over the counters.) would get the dishes and glasses etc out of the upper cabinet. Another one would get the juice, kool-aid, coffee or milk. Another one would butter the toast and put the toast in the "toaster". Somebody else would get the jelly, peanut butter, syrup and whatever else we needed! Ketchup and jalapenos or hot sauce too. Sausages or bacon or some of both. And then a couple dozen eggs. Nobody ever ate what they ordered, somebody else's food looked too good and they had to have some, so we usually fixed up a huge batch of scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage and passed out the sunny side up eggs as they were ready. Same with the toast or tortillas. Cats favor sunny side eggs. Towards the end of breakfast we'd have our everyday (meal) debate on whose turn it was to do the dishes. You could tell by who tried to slink away, whose turn it was. Usually the midgets volunteered even though they couldn't reach the sink or the faucet. So after much hemming and hawing, coercion, trading of favors and just plain threatening, the dishes would get done. The kids would spend more time trying not to do the dishes than it took to wash the dishes. We'd cover up the leftovers, give the big one (kid), who hadn't gone back to bed a key to the front door and kick all the energetic outdoor types out and rush back to our room and into bed. And soon my favorite little brat Selena would come in and crawl into bed, in between Mom and I. She'd lean in close, smelling like breakfast and ask "Daddy? Daddy, are you sleeping?" I want to watch cartoons and them kids are too noisy!" Soon she'd be joined by one or two more midgets, (the cat included) and then there'd be little elbows and toes poking and kicking us under the covers until my wife, Rosie, or I gave up and got into the shower, giving the brats "official" permission to hook up the PlayStation and do whatever else they were already doing. Soon my wife would stomp into the restroom where I was showering and growl, "Oooh, those kids! Go do something with our kids!" and then she'd punch me and join me in the shower. Until the oldest would knock on the door, "Mommy, Angel peed on himself and Selena needs to go potty." "Go use your restroom!" We'd both holler out at her. "Can't, Dolores, locked herself in and is on the phone with you-know-who." I'd be dressed by then and run out letting Selena in with my wife who got stuck showering the little breakfast smelling girl. Seven kids, a wife and a cat. And myself. Ten distinct characters and personalities. Each day was an adventure and presented its own unique challenges. There was Veronica, Dolores, Frankie, Stephanie, Vanessa, Angel and last but not least, little Selena. Precocious personified. And her arch nemesis, Buddy the cat. Our big fat snipped Siamese cat. I think he was bipolar too. Selena and Buddy the cat had an ongoing feud. One was always sneaking up on the other, be it Buddy who'd do a perfect flying shoe string tackle on Selena as she ran across the room or Selena who's pop up and "Boo" Buddy into falling off the window sill. So she would chase him with the water gun. Then there were times when they'd be sharing a bowl or cereal or tuna fish sandwich or curled up on the floor, sleeping side by side. We stocked up cases of various "ramen" noodle soups, with seven kids, you've got to. Anyway, Selena and Buddy usually made a mess of that too. Times spent with my wife and kids were simple pleasures. I love the kids as if they were my own and as far as I'm concerned; they are mine! Love them and miss them and since I can't be with them, however vicariously, through my writings about them, is good enough. I'm a simple man and can enjoy simple pleasures whenever I want. No one, or nothing can take them away from me. I've got years and years of breakfast, lunches, and dinners to remember. And those only took up a fraction of the day. I won't be here forever and I've got tears and years left here and then I'll be able to enjoy all kinds of new adventures and simple pleasures with these special 8. I hope.