Happy Feet

He is one of us.

Different.

Somehow, through some unexplainable act of nature, he was just built differently. And his very existence is so un-penguin.

A threat to the tribal elders. The cause of scorn and derision. His father experiencing a guilt trip. His mother accepting like only a mother can. The Dobsonite penguins throwing a hissy-fit over what to do to about reparative therapy to heal him. Frustrated rejection by a girl friend who finally concedes his song is not a penguin song. His acceptance and companionship by a bevy of penguin outliers and non-conformists.

And yet, the very essence of difference is what makes him so special. So precious. So valuable. In his difference, he is one gifted penguin. And the gift is ridiculed and rejected by his society. At first. Most of the time. By nearly every one of the seemingly countless monoclonal in-descript, passionately conforming, Emperor penguins.

But it is the gift that Mumble received that brought the healing. Fostered the tolerance. Allowed the recognition. Promoted the acceptance. Conceded to the affirmation.

And a seemingly misunderstood malicious curse of nature, imposed on one little penguin, became a transforming force to the seemingly countless monoclonal in-descript, passionately conforming, Emperor penguins.

And a little penguin boy, accepting his gift of difference, transformed a seemingly countless monoclonal in-descript, passionately conforming world of Emperor penguins into delightful celebrants of “Happy Feet.”

The Refectory Manager

The Essence of a Toothless Grin

It wasn’t exactly like “through the tunnel and flyover the woods to Grandmother’s house we go” . . . but the intent was the same. Only this time it was Grandpa heading to the house of the grandkids. Today was a beautiful fall day near the historic battlefields of Gettysburg. I was traveling on a two-lane road with numerous produce markets skirting the sidelines. And I got to thinking that I haven’t had a dose of good road-side apple cider in a long, long time.

The next produce stand was unlike the rest. But out of the corner of my eye, I did see a little display of a few jugs of Johnny Appleseed’s jack. So I braked hard and made a quick right turn into a little side road which then lead me into the yard of the run-down, ramble-shack produce stand with a little display of cider and a table with apples and squashes.

I got out of the van and headed for the cider. Then I heard a squeak and this “thing” emerged through a dilapidated door of the stand. Very short, bundled in a way-too-big, filthy quilted parka, with an equally greasy Mackinaw cap pulled tightly down over his ears and fraying his eyebrows.

“Which is the hard stuff?” Attempting at a joke of small talk as I was pointing.

“Huh?” was the guttural reply.

“The hard stuff? Which might it be?” I grinned at him as I said it, hoping he would realize I was joking.

I guess he thought I must have been a revener agent or something, because his reply had no humor. “Its fresh.” Period. No more discussion on that!

So I told him I would take a jug.

He leaned way over from the backside of the stand and I had no clue as to what he was trying to do.

“How much?” He asked me. Oh, he was trying to find the price.

The sign was in a little different location. “Two fifty a half-gallon” I read to him.

“OK, then.”

It is so sad that Mother Nature felt it necessary to bite the butt of the multi-national agricultural conglomerates for their pornographic debasement of agriculture by releasing a nasty variant of the e. coli bacteria into our susceptible food chain. Now, all road-side apple cider has to be pasteurized . . . a technology that certainly changes the essence of road-side apple cider. And these jugs were duly labeled with Food and Drug Commission legal labels indicating that this product was in fact, duly pasteurized as now required by law.

And so the likelihood of letting this become Johnny Appleseed’s jack is now somewhat remote.

But the jug . . . I did pick up anyway. Hey, you got to get what you can get.

Then I looked over at the table where the bags of apples were positioned in a single row. I wandered over there with “The Thing” in close pursuit. I picked up an apple from a bag and asked him what kind it was.

“It says on the handle.” Was the gruff reply.

And sure enough, written with a marker was the variety of apple along with the price. Five dollars for a bag. The apple that I had selected was labeled as a “Western Staymen.” Now Staymens I am familiar with, but not a “Western Staymen.” So I looked for my favorite. The nostalgic apple of my boyhood home. An honest-to-goodness McIntosh. And viola!! There there be a bag. So I grabbed it.

“How much do I owe ya’? I called out, trying to be friendly.

“Two fifty.” Then counting his fingers, arrived at “Seven fifty.”

I pulled my wallet out of my hip pocket and fumbled for bills. I extracted a five and two one’s. “Here’s the first installment, the rest in thirty days,” as I handed him the bills.

But my other hand was foraging in my pants front pocket for some coins that I knew were there.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Just take’m,” he sort of grumbled.

But I had no intention of just “taken’m” and I wanted to make sure this guy got his fair share of revenue. But when I extracted the coins, there was only thirty-two cents. So that went back into the pants pocket, and out came the wallet again. I fished out another dollar bill and handed it to him over his protests.

“When I come back next year, I’ll get my fifty cents then.” I tried to joke again.

And to avoid prolonging the argument over the half of one dollar, I just picked up my stuff and headed back to the car.

“Hey! You!” I heard him shout.

I turned to see “The Thing” hobbling over to me, waving the dollar in his hand. I didn’t see what was in the other.

“Here, take these.” And he thrust the contents of his other hand toward me. It was another bag of apples.

“No, I can’t take these,” I protested.

“But you must, you are my first customer today.” And it was already afternoon.

“No, I can’t take these, you need them for your other customers.”

“No, you must take them.”

Again, I did not want to prolong an argument over a bag of apples.

“Well, that is very nice. You see, I’m on my way to see my grandkids for Thanksgiving and they will certainly eat them up.”

“I like that,” he mumbled. And for the first time, looked up at me.

And the essence of his toothless grin was radiant with love.

The Refectory Manager