It was a hard year, 1973. There was a terrible drought, Watergate was wreaking havok on public trust in the government, we lost Noel Coward, and got “Wheel of Fortune.” But mostly, it was the year the frogs stood up and started picking.

We didn’t think much about it at first. Truth be told, it was kind of pretty. But it freaked the hell out of the dogs. Every time they went to drink from the pond, some damned amphibian started riffing bluegrass, maybe something more modern, like Thelonius Monk. Sometimes they could sing AND play, and then, well, you’d find the dogs shivering under the covers, ‘fraid to move, just two black eyes and maybe a paw sticking out. And outside, you’d here that infernal banjo. And maybe a “croak” now and again, or else a couple of verses of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” That, my friends, was too much. We drained the ponds, had ourselves a nice cook-up of frogleg etouffee, which was kind of nice, with a side of squash and okra, a couple Colorado Bulldogs, and the dying strains of “Foggy Mountain Breakdown.” And if that’s what it took to get the dogs out from under the covers, well, then. But they never did go near the pond again.

Savers on South Lamar, Austin

Weight of the world got you down? Think you have problems? Think you’re job’s not worth two thin dimes? Cat crawl into your car’s exhaust pipe, now it backfires hairballs and the mice are getting into the salad? Wife left you for some guy in advertising? Some girl in advertising? Doctor look at your x-ray and say, “huh,” and then reach for an actuary? Friend, whenever I have one of those days–and I have a lot of those days, friend–I’m glad I have my duck.

Because when you’ve had one of those “they’ve cut a pancake-sized hole in my head to use me for a candle-holder and now my eye’s full of wax” days, you’ve got to have a duck. Friend, you don’t want to face that kind of day without a cinnamon teal, a black-bellied whistler, or at least a mallard.

And I don’t rightly know what kind of duck I’m facing this particular day with–fact of the matter is, after the procedure, a lot of things don’t make much sense, my guess is it’s some sort of merganser, but it might be a sock with some orange beanbags stitched to it–I know that, gaping cranial hole or no, I’ll face the day with my chin high, the wind blowing through my parietal granular foveolae, and I’ll proudly, proudly show my duck. And in some small way, the day’ll be a better one for it.

Hold your duck high, my friend.

Salvation Army near 620 and 183, Austin

First dwarf:
Round about the tree stump go,
Ingredients within it stow!
Statuette of angel toss,
Without a hand, for it was lost,
A picture that was made of corks,
and rubber-banded, unmatched forks.

Second dwarf:
A picture of a former love,
in the tree stump try to shove–
with skin a most unnatural hue,
and eyes a jarring, neon blue,
A plaintive stare out of a scene
conceived by artist Margaret Keane
Add a rabbit, made of shell–
throw it in, then cook it well.

Third dwarf:
Thicken this unwholesome brine
With a harlequin, or mime.
ill-wrought plaster in the shape
of a clown without a jape–
White face, red nose, painted cheek,
there must be thirty-six this week.
Large of shoe and wide of ruff,
Grab a few, we’ve got enough.

Fourth dwarf:
Add a cat without a tail,
add a broken, useless scale,
jagged stem of broken glass,
art projects from a third-grade class,
lid without dish, purse without strap
(Why did they donate this crap?)

First Dwarf:
Flavored oil now, just a drop,
from a long-abandoned shop.
A clever blend of fruits and weeds,
maybe insects, maybe seeds,
carrots, fennel, apples, dill,
an ancient, long-expired swill.
lemon slices, bits of wood,
clearly labelled “not for food”
Made in China, and in haste,
chosen for color, not for taste.
for a flavor powerful queer,
add some, then stand o’er here.

Goodwill on 183 and Metric. Maybe this time it’ll return my call.

“Commissioner…we’ve run out of options. The Joker AND Two-Face have joined forces with the Shredder and Lucy from ‘Peanuts.’ It’s a perfect storm of villainy.”

“What about our inside agent?”

“…We have an inside agent?”

“Of course we do. Why else do you think the League of Supreme Evil keeps renewing the Riddler’s contract.”

“That makes sense. And that would explain why we recieved a letter saying ‘We’ve got your man, you blockheads.’”

“Sure it’s legit?”

“Comic sans, sir.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yessir. Should we call…him?”

“We haven’t heard from him in months. Not since July–every millionaire playboy out there’s packed up shop, called it a day. Damn you, Financial Reform Bill. Those liberals never consider the consequences. Besides, I don’t think even Batman’s going to be out on a night like this–Van Pelt would eat his utility belt for breakfast.”

“What are we going to do, Mr. Gordon?”

“We’ve got to use the only option we have left. It’s time to call the Lipkins.”

“The who?”

“Just bring me the red phone from my office. Don’t ask questions. You don’t want the answers. I just hope it isn’t already too late.”

Goodwill on Stassney and Manchacha, Austin

Or not so little, but definitely different. Both of these little guys were on the brick-a-brack shelf (or, “crapstack”) at Thrift Land on Stassney near I35. Both…well, I’m not sure but the authorial intent, we’ll just leave it at that.

“On a winter night, when the moon rises over a gloomy sea and it’s so cold that the shrimp come pre-frozen, the catch of the day is cocktail ice, and you’ve put the sail up because it might just shatter, the thing I most like to do is put on my best yellow rain slicker, my matching yellow hat–don’t you know, yellow’s the only color we have on the sea, anything else brings bad luck, that’s why we paint ourselves with a rich black walnut stain all the time, and it does so highlight the crags, but I do digress and thank you for humoring an old sailor–I dress in my best yellows, and I hide under the captain’s ashtray.

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s perfectly normal. I don’t even think he’s noticed. And I can’t tell you how much it warms me up, body and soul. Nothing makes a man think that all’s right with the world until his superior officer knocks a couple of pipes out on his headgear. It’s a bit of a balancing act, and you don’t want to tip over when the ship rocks, which most ashtrays might and why I’m actually performing a kind of a service. I’m a thoughtful ashtray.

“And could be worse, could be worse. On the really, REALLY cold nights, when it’s so devilishly cold that the St. Elmo’s Fire freezes up and falls off the mast and you can use it to light up steering, I’ll take my little ashtray and my best mackintosh, and go down to the crew’s quarters for a spell, it’s more a pleasure than a duty. And at the end of the day, maybe my neck’s a bit sore, maybe it takes a few hours to get the smoke out of my hair and maybe my beard’s been a bit on fire, but I look at the night and say to myself, ‘Job well done, sir, job well done.’

“And then I say to myself, ‘Well, sir, at least you’re not Jeffey, the cook’s boy. He thinks he’s a spittoon.’”

Thought, such as it is, continued Wednesday.

“Mommy said you were going to work, Daddy.”

“Um…yeah. Yes, Jake, Daddy’s getting ready to go out the door. Oh…I see you got all dressed up. That’s…nice.”

“You said I could come with you some day. I could come with you and see your desk and where you work all day, and we could have lunch in the cafeteria together. Can I come with you, daddy? Please?

“Oh. Um…today’s pretty bad…meetings all day.”

“But I got a tie! I bet I look just like you, daddy.”

“Yeah. You look…really good, tiger.”

“Just like your daddy. Like a stockbroker, or a big lawyer.”

“Are you crying, daddy?”

“Just got something in my eye. Um.”

“Do you want a hug?”

“Ohgodno–Ah–yeah, sure, tiger.”

“When I’m big like you I’m going to go to a big office downtown and tell lots of people what they do, and we can do lots of things together! Just like before.”

“Before…”

“Don’t be sad, daddy! Mommy says that when you’re sad is why you don’t come home sometimes.”

“I’ve just got a lot of stuff at the office…lots of…meetings. I’ll be home early tonight. We’ll get pizza, maybe see the new Disney movie.”

“Is it pretty, Daddy?”

“It sure is, tiger.”

Salvation Army on 1325 near Round Rock

“Morning, Clem.”
“Morning, Dale.”
“Gotta say, Clem, the pond’s looking a touch strange this morning.”
“How’d you mean, strange, Dale?”
“I’d say its looking a little hellish, actually.”
“Hellish, you say, Dale?”
“I do say, Clem, I do say. A bit like the fires of hell come bubbling up, Clem. It’s giving the pigeons quite a fright.”

“They could do with a little bit of scaring, Dale. They’ve become complacent.”
“Oh, aye, that they have, but I’m a little bit frightened myself, Clem.”
“You needn’t have nothing to fear, Dale. As long as the concrete wall holds. And the barricade made of shells.”
“Shells, Clem?”
“Aye. Big shells, Dale. Very big. Some wooden pilons, too, but mostly shells, yes.”
“Maybe you had something a little more durable around the yard? Bricks, perhaps?”
“You’ve got to really believe in the shells, Dale. It helps. Belief is stronger than caulk.”

“I suppose, Clem, I suppose. I can’t say I like the way the pond water glows, though, and the dancing flame over it, well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad in the winter, I dare say the cows might like the heat. But just at the moment, I can’t help wondering if it’s natural.”
“It’s no earthly pond, Dale. It’s bubbled up from the bowels of the earth, to spill forth in a torrent and destroy the works of man.”
“Oh…aye?”
“Yes, Dale. I’ve put in a birdbath. For the pigeons.”

“Of course, you’d think it foolish to put in a birdbath right next to a lake of fire, you’d think the birds would fly away. And you’d be right. So I had them glued down.”
“That’s very foresighted of you, Clem.”
“Yes, Dale. Yes, it is.”

Savers on South Lamar near 290, Austin

“Captain, the crew’s talking among themselves, they say that no good’ll come from this voyage. They’re saying the ship’s a’cursed.”

“Belay that kind of prattle. The HMS Conchiolin is the prettiest ship on these eastern seas. T’ain’t no ship as charming as she. Why the day she first set sailed, they said, ‘That’s a right lovely boat there.’”

“Nossir, they said, ‘Damn it all, get the ropes and a team of horses, she’s sunk straight to the bottom of the harbor.’ Then, begging your pardon, they said some unkind things about your mother, may she rest in peace.”

“May she rest in peace.”

“Yessir. Mostly, they said there were reasons that no god-fearing man would build a ship out of shells, sir. Even really big ones.”

“So I’ve heard. From the mob, from the broadsheets, even from the flower girls. Hells, the parrot’s saying it now. But there’s more to sailing than a stout hull, good sails, a functional rudder, and a deck.”

“No there aren’t, sir.”

“I say there are. Is, rather. There’s the look of the thing. The spirit of the thing.”

“If the spirit’s made of clams, I’d say we’re golden!”

“Stout fellow. We set sail at noon. Once we’ve finished dredging out the crew’s cabin.”

“Nossir. Ain’t got one of them, neither.”

“Splendid! Then we sail at 10:30, after breakfast.”

“Sounds good. I’ll warn the men.”

Next to New Shop, near 2222 and Burnet, Austin

This photo was taken just moments before the carnage began. It was a happy community. When we were first baked, we really came together. Yeah, your roller skates got kind of tangled up in the cheese, and maybe there were…mushrooms…on the north side of the neighborhood, but it was an affordable place to live, and if that meant sharing the wedge with some mushrooms, maybe that’s okay.

Don’t look at me like that. We’re a tolerant slice. I mean, when Onion shacked up with Pepperoni, we were there for them. The rest of the world would judge, but if you can’t count on your neighbors, well, pizza’s not worth living. I don’t exactly know what she saw in him–he was a meat product, after all–maybe she just fell for a young musician. It happens. And he played a good balalaika.

I’d say we were probably too tolerant, if anything. But hindsight’s always 20-20, isn’t it? Bell Pepper seemed like a nice enough guy. He was…kind of special, in a Saturday Weekend Special way. If you gave him $5, he’d water your lawn, pick out all those damned olives that kept sprouting up during the summer, maybe he’d even edge your crust a bit if you were nice to him and if he remembered.

Nobody knows where he got the slicer.

St. Vincent De Paul’s Thrift Shop near 620 and I35, Austin/Round Rock

They do not know who I am because for so many years, I stand by the man with the grass skirt. He smiles, he invites the ladies over for parties, to drape flowers around their necks. He tells them about his rippled sixpack, about the grass under his feet, about how difficult it is to keep the grass skirt smooth, and how much he would appreciate their help in this matter.

Me, I’m the one that carries the basket of fruit to the party, that sets the tables, that blushes furiously when he squeezes my orange and asks me if a tender fruit is ripest. I’m the one that wore two petticoats, an overskirt, a head-scarf and a heavy linen apron to a luau, because that’s the way I roll.

Everything is stitched together. My worried frown, shining with second-hand embarrassment that he somehow reflects from his bronzed skin. My mouth is a thin line of gathered stiches, lest I tear my face open and howl at the moon for pain, for the aching joy of finally making a noise, of breaking out of this endless moment of service to finally, joyfully, bite into an apple of my own, dare to eat a peach, shame the world by tearing his skirt off and wearing it myself, proud flowers against shockingly white skin, breaking my stitches in shameless, selfish happiness, and he can grin like a fool all he wants, because that skirt’s not going to hide either of us anymore. Today. Today. TODAY, by God. Just as soon as I find a platter for these grapes.

Savers, South Lamar and 290