The Writers' Circle

Yesterday after church, my wife and I visited our grandson, Ron, in downtown Toronto, at the corner of Queen's Quay and Spadina.  Outside temperature was a nice balmy +3 in the Celsius scale and raining.

     For those who live in a freezer, a plus three would be a welcomed relief in late January.

     Inside the condo, it was even better . . . hovering around +24; Ron was comfortable. He was munching on his nth bottle of Enfamil after emptying both mommy's milk squeezeboxes.

     He looked at me, as if to say, 'what'.  Well, perhaps, he didn't like my staring at his big face and repeatedly saying 'you're just an eating machine, ain't ya, huh!'  Ron was getting huge and fat, busting loose out of his 3-month-rated one-piece-jumper like a mini WWF wrestler.

     I took Ron from his mom, Kim, a quarter French, quarter Haitian, half-Dutch, and very relieved to pass him off to me. Ron was getting too heavy and he must've grown another two inches since the last we saw him.  That was last Thursday.  Ron's dad, my son Bernard, is a quarter Filipino, quarter Spanish, quarter Chinese and a quarter Indian (no, not the Chief Sitting Bull kind).  My wife's mother was Chinese and her dad's ancestors hailed from Goa, in India.  Ron might qualify for a 'Heinz 57' mixture category.

     Ron's inquisitive eyes stared but I doubt if he could see me properly, being only 51 days old.  He was born Dec 4, last year. It felt like it had been that long when I said, 'last year'. In addition, that was when I made an announcement in the writers circle entitled 'His name is Ron', although my story went too far ahead; Ron was already full-grown in the story.  Well, it was one of those 'wishful thinking' things that on occasion would cross a Grampa's illations . . .  what would I wish him to be like when he's full-grown.  Ah, of course, a Grampa's fantastic flight of fancy, I suppose. 

     But not perhaps for some unknown wannabe writer.

     "Hey, Ron has no neck," I told anyone but nobody paid any attention.  
     Ron pursed his lips. He didn't like it too. Well, everyone was busy chatting, so, the conversation was limited to my grandson and me.

     "Hey, they're so broke they couldn't even pay attention, right Ron?" I said, in a goo-goo manner he might understand.
     He smiled.
     "Look at you, you have more chins than a Chinese phonebook, huh!"
     He frowned.

     "Listen Ron, I must've pissed off a wannabe writer on the writers' circle."
     Ron frowned some more and his mouth formed an "Oooo" as if asking 'who?'.
     "I really don't know, Ron, because he or she, well, I would refer to that moron as an 'it' . . . genderless, I suppose because 'it' signed 'its' comment under a coward's signature known as 'anonymous'.  'It' didn't even have the guts to say what 'it' wanted to say under 'its' real name or pen name." 
     Ron's jaw dropped.
     "I know, spineless and yellow-bellied . . . what can I say, huh! And 'it' even gave your birth announcement a 'not so good' on the kudo scale . . . bastard!"
     Ron's mouth twitched, opened wider and eyebrows almost reached his hairline.
     "Sorry kid, Grumpy didn't mean to swear."
     His thumb and index finger kissed to form an "ok".

     "Oh, okay . . . well, but not really, 'cause it's rather rude to put a meaningless comment or feedback after an article without any explanation or reference as to why 'it' got too sleepy and 'it' didn't even give an honest feedback . . . it just  'yawn'ed.  Heck, all I wanted was to tell and announce to everyone on the circle that you were born . . . 'cause I was so proud of you guys and that's why I had all of you, my grandchildren, as covert operatives in my first spy-thriller novel . . . and you Ron is the main man . . . the top spook . . . yeah!"  
     He frowned and then smiled.

     "Well, I don't know what triggered 'its' ire . . . it could be that 'it' was pissed off at 'its' dad for telling 'it' to milk the cow and clean the shit in the barn."
     Ron smiled, formed an 'ok' with thumb and index finger, and then he started to move his arms and legs briskly, as if he was running a race.

     "A racist? No, I don't think so, a cowardly moron, perhaps, but, well, who knows, eh kid?"
     He shrugged his shoulders.

     "Well, what do you think about 'its' critique?"
     "Faaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrt."

     "Whoohoo, Ron that stinks . . . oooh baby, ooooh . . . oh, I get it, it stinks to high heaven. Well, what would you want me to tell the space cadet."
     "Craaaaaaaaaap."

     "Ooooh Ron, that was loud.    Hey guys, " directing my voice over to Grammy chatting with Kimmy and Bernie, "I think Ron just pooped."
     No answer.

     "Oh crap, I think it's just you and I Ron."
     He lifted an eyebrow and made a face.

     "Anyway, any more messages for the one whose elevator doesn't reach the top?"
     A middle finger rose slowly.

     "Oh, come on, don't do that, Ron.  You know that's not polite."
     A fist clenched. His rotund face turned beet red.

     "No, that's not good either . . . violence begets more violence, Ron."
     A brow lifted.

     "Oh sorry, I know big words; that moron might not be able to understand too.  Begets means to father, produce, to cause or create."
     His mouth opened like 'ah'.

     "Well, Ron, I have to pass you off to Grammy.  She's the expert on sanitation and cleaning." 
     A thumb went up.

     "Good!  The next time I hear from the idiot, I'll let 'it' know what you feel and raise 'it' not one but two middle fingers slowly, okay? So 'its' slow brain might be able to get it."
     A triple chin folded and both eyebrows met in the middle.

     "Awright, I was just kidding, just one would be enough."
     The other brow lifted.
     "Okay, okay . . . no middle fingers for the moron, I'll just ignore 'it'."
     Ron's index and thumb flashed an "ok".

     "Okay, before I hand you over to the cleaning team, you think the moron's stories and poems are worth reading?  Or are they what? . . . "

     "Craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap."
     "Oh geeez . . . Graaaaaamaaaaaaa! . . . "