Vulture Clan Poem by G. Buddy Bercu

I have a recurring dream involving
a highly competitive boyhood acquaintance
Sammy Skar who's telling me
my money is no good.
His money, on the other hand,
is the genuine article.
This is the first kid whose
outwardly successful father
gave us a 20 dollar bill
so we kids could have fun at
the family country
club.
clearly a bribe

exchanging spending quality time with us for cash

He was a big shot,
and we were small fry, crumb crunchers
of little consequence... We couldn't bargain or argue
We were far from being in a position
to negotiate a better deal.
This was a common thread for me as a child.
I just wasn't interesting to adult power brokers.
I wasn't the candy they were looking for.
At least not the adult men, or most of them.
In a business sense, children are an abberation.,
I could sharpen a pencil. Elders had gold pens..
i had no key to my city. Nor would I know where to find one
Land phones, pens and snail mail letters
are common now as hockey players doing needlepoint.
Our teachers gave lined paper to write on with pencils.
Rendering us obsolete.
.
Still, for me, even now,
writing a personal letter
is more intimate than,
than an
electronic e-mail correspondence.
By the time I fell into trying my
hand at becoming a man of letters,
sending hand written letters is rare, almost extinct in practice
We learned the dewey decimal system at the library and their were file cabinets pagers, along with card catalogs too.

Necessity gave me basic computer skills
Though, aware I'm staggeringly
technologically illiterate.
When I need computer support,
I go to the library and pester the librarians.
I ask them lots of questions.
Cut and Paste, what's that?


Everyone talks about apps.
How I need to get this app, that app.
It used to mean filling out an application
for life insurance, or for a job or auto loan.
Everyone has a cover letter
and puffed up resumes to get a job
All I did growing up was show up to get a job..
That was long ago and those were different times.

The younger folks won't help me.
They think I should
move along and evaporate. Or better yet die.
They do what they can to make me feel insecure, uneasy
about not being able to communicate in today's world.
Their world seems light years away from my own.
most generations X or Y, and Z
are computer experts
To my credit, I do drive a car,
I have a valid drivers license and car insurance.
But, I get penalized on the road
for giving the right of way to everyone
in front of me. I get honked at, and
get the bird flipped at me quite often.
Driving also stresses me.
Everyone on the road's texting,
squacking on their phones, talking to themselves,
and speed racing. It's a wild bunch
of new spawn, birthed from rage aholic drunk,
and violent lunatics. Which makes me weird because

I am quite ok with driving at the minimum speed limit.
I am not playing demolition derby or
running the Indy 500.
Point A To point B intact is my goal.
So far, I've been lucky.
But, driving is a numbers game and soon age
or statistics are going to take me off the road
Until then, I'll be in the slow lane, trucking down the highway.
So, speed bowl racers, deal with it.
I favor paying lowered car insurance rates, over
driving like a bat out of hades.
I periodically take a safe driving course.
They taught me to be aware of my surroundings, don't tail gate
and leave plenty of distance between my vehicle and
the one ahead of me. But, you've heard all this before.
I also check my mirrors before changing lanes. Basic
stuff for safer driving. Don't speed on slick surfaces.
Don't drive in the blind spot of a semi-truck, or anyone's
blind spot for that matter.
That out of the way, allow me to
tell you about my clan.
I call them the vulture clan.
They include my father's side of the family
Let's begin with the matriarch, my grandmother.
She rocked my father's cradle,
but for some odd reason she could never remember
my first name.
The name given to me, my slave name,
assigned to me at birth
was in honor of Gary Cooper
by strangers who didn't know me
Grams found one particular story amusing
. She would chuckle everytime she'd
relate the story about my younger sister who
called me Gaia because she couldn't quite pronounce 'Gary'
Grams would retell this story
over and over again, like it was brand new.
Then she'd proceed to call me every name in her entire
family clan before getting to mine.
What weird, and wild cradle she must have rocked.

A Popular and good looking man,
Gary Cooper, an actor
was a leading man on film who seduced
then broke women's hearts.
This quality was somehow
endearing to my mother.
The only problem I had
with Mr. Cooper, was his first name
was Gary.
Gary Indiana. Gary Gnew,
Gary The Fairy.
Or just Gaarrrryyyyy. The sound of it
caught me like
a squrrel stuck in a rat trap.
When I thought about how foreign
my name sounded to my ear,
I realized I had to shake that name.
It just didn't fit me.
and wasn't descriptive of my true self
My true identity had to be something
greater, more noble than a scary name like Gary.
it rhymes with so any other cookie cutter names
lie Mary, Harry, Jerry, Barry, Larry, Sherry
Hell, every time you look around someone
is almost calling your name. You develop
a startle response and an ache in your neck
from turning around so much.


Although, Mr Cooper is
probably a fine actor, I have
yet to watch any of Gary Cooper's films
nor do I have any desire to see one.
I'd love to boast to everyone
about my warm loving family
But, in my family,
true, deep, love was thought to be
reckless, a character flaw,
and signified weakness.
True love was to be
overcome like some
illusion or trick to be
figured out, dealt with
and then disposed of properly.
like some pesky bio hazard.
Certainly love wasn't to be taken
into consideration in a merger, or what
some people call, marriage.
Marriage consisted of two
carefully matched people
to form a financial arrangement
a joining together of pedigree,
economic equals in
their families status.
You didn't marry up too far or down too far.
The pecking order was decided
not as much from
compatibility but, more from the two
family's merging resources
forget love boat, the
magical mystery tour, kismet, or fate.
That was nonsensical.
There was little mystery involved.
The only mystery was
how could two, pedigreed,
bonafide religiously matched people
resembling brother and sister
keep their marriage bond together.
In matters of the heart.
Que sera, sera was for the French
Not so much for the birds in my flock.
I did go fishing on the lake,
in a rented boat,
with my type 'A' personality father.
There were birthday parties and
and a few short vacations,
some sadly, cut short,
and I tagged along
as a plus 1 at a few events, and gatherings.
I don't recall their being beer,
volleyball, or noodle salad
Not long after I hit puberty,
I began being treated differently
by my clan,
like an enemy combatant
This rights of passage situation
was unexpected and very uncomfortable.
I felt there was already enough to deal with
all the changes in my body,
the pressure to fit in. To get good grades.
Acquire friends, maybe a girlfriend.
I didn't need further stress
from my own people.
But, there it was, and.
my predicament turned from confusion
to anger and rage.
I had to keep performing, acting the part,
of a winner, in the know,
even though I was petrified I didn't know a damn thing.
Still, winning, scoring,
securing some big deal to build something great
drove me on. Some call this behavior being
a dreamer.I didn't know if I could or would get to
the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
And, if I got it, if it would satisfy me.
I mean what is true value?
I mean, writing is cool. I can sit on my throne
and ask you what is it all about?
Or just create my own reality on paper.
Doesn't that have some value?

In my twenties, I worked
all kind of jobs. got some useful life
experience, went tocollege.
prison, read alot of books in both institutions.
School was like a cocoon, a
place to develop into a butterfly.
Or a wasp.
Not everyone has their head on
straight when they are 18-25
and we make decisions with our
other head. True at any age for so many.
We have other work to do,
other than to simply rise up the ladder.

When I got high,
I could act casual about how nobody cares
I had a bad attitude, and had no body to confide in.
Trying so hard to
get what was mine.
I began smoking cigarettes
and then marijuana
my aunt' husband
was a master baker.
Generally, when we'd get together for a feast,
no matter at grandma's house
or at my uncle's,
it was a vultures feast.
not a celebratory event.
Every bird for themselves.
Food, was love in my family.
My cousin used to jet to Colorado
to bring back Coors Beer.
One way to make him go into a frothing
spitting rage
was to drink one of his beloved Coors Beers.
His sister's
boyfriend, didn't care and drank his beers.
We all thought it was funny
but my male jet setting, cousin was not amused
I would rather pull out a fingernail
than drink one of his flown in beers.

Another memory I have about beer was
after waking up from a nap in
New York's Central park, years later,
a cold Rolling Rock Beer
was left unopened next to my head.
I had no permanent address and
living day to day as a street urchin
got my rest when and where I could.


Another curious family mystery was
I don't recall ever witnessing
my grandmother pick up food,
and eat an actual meal.
a meal she'd actually sit down for.
however, Grams was always chewing
or sucking on 'something'.
Like a candy, a fig. or a chicken bone.
I never saw her put it in her mouth though.
She might have been able to dissolve an
avocado pit.
She'd be working on dissolving
a candy, while diligently, boiling, baking,
broasting,
or poaching chicken to feed her family.
mostly in shifts.
The first family of vultures would come over and
then the subordinate flock would swoop in.
We engaged the other vulture clan in
competition for resources.
They were the first tier vulture's.
in competition for grandma's love, time, and approval.
Eating her food and taking some home.
This affirmed for her, you loved grandma.
I was part of the second tier vulture clan.
I often didn't know what delicacy
I had missed out on.
Maybe a good thing.
since my eldest male cousin
one of the higher status vultures
from the first vulture clan
swooped in first snagging much or all of the good stuff
before I had much of a chance to sample it.
My dad had a soft spot for my eldest male cousin
being the first born grandchild

as my father's favorite older nephew,
I felt pangs of jealousy how dad indulged him
taking my cousin out to restaurants
footing his entire bill.
My cousin would take great and full advantage
by ordering a New York Strip Steak,
Crab and Lobster tail.
All with a wink and a nod, my dad, would pick
up the bill, silently assenting
his approval of my cousin, his nephew.
I wasn't allowed to
take part in such privalege.
It was unthinkable to me to even try.

It had to do with rights of passage.
intertwined with an inside joke of some kind.
An acceptable hazing of my dad
all in fun for them both.
My cousin was the rare person my dad enjoyed
being around. To me, it appeared he favored him
over the rest of us.
My eldest male cousin would even crack wise with him.
Taking bold liberties I certainly
wouldn'dream of getting away with.
My cousin was fifteen years my senior
He was a pharmacist who owned a pharmacy
next to a huge medical clinic in town.
It was rumored he prescribed Darvon
for dad's insomnia
Delaudid for pain, really hooking my old man
making him even sicker and more unpredictable.
My cousin was greatly respected, loved, revered
and validated
by everyone on both sides of the clan..
He enjoyed top tier status.
He and dad were both good hustlers
both able to turn a respectable dollar
Dad would give our resources freely to him.
It seemed they had unspoken arrangements
I wasn't privy to.
It became customary for my cousin
to o main courses
off pop at one sitting.
while we got half orders
of fried rice, egg drop
soup and half an order of egg roll.
There were rules in my family,
rules which were kept
and other rules to be broken.
Grandma had her favorites too
The most chosen being fed first and most lavishly.
The lesser creatures like me got hard candy

and if we were lucky
something brought down
from the ice box
with freezer burn
Whatever may have been left behind
by the older vultures was for us.
My dad was always going to get
top billing because he was grandma's only son.
the rest of us rabble didn't stack up so high
on the family pecking order.
Until you'd win the power ball lottery, married a
tycoon, or became a captain of industry
You were sure to be passed over like a song
hardly ever played on the 'b' side
of a 78 record.
Don't get me wrong, we didn't starve.
My mother made boiled chicken four times a week
sometimes fully cooked through.
She could burn a mean pot roast.
Fortunately, I became addicted
to her apology regarding the foods
she abused.
I expected the food to be cooked too long
or not cooked long enough.
if I had worked up a proper appetite,
It tasted good enough.
In fact, I didn't find out until I was in my 30's
you could actually stuff
boiled soft dough filled pastry
with anything other than ricotta cheese
Basically Ricotta filled Gyoza
always dipped in sour cream.
It was revelatory to me
how you could fill them with meat
veggies, chicken, Shrimp,
dip them in pasta sauce, peanut sauce,
soy sauce, duck sauce, blue cheese, ranch. Really?
There was damage done
to my father by his parents
So, some of the damage was passed on to us.
The hand that rocked dads cradle ruled our world.
There was collateral damage left in grand momma's wake.
The family mythology was grandma was a saint.
You talk to many in my family and she walked on water.
but clearly, she did harm and could even be described
as a whip me, beat me, scar me parent to my father.
This abuse, often subtle,
was a slow moving avalanche, with a blood trail
still fresh in the snow.
I am the progeny of roving bands of passionate
though, misguided
old world, pack animals. Yet, here I am
many years later,
miraculously fairly intact
and able to write on the life and times of
in an American family in a bull rush to assimilate
Trading in their rich history for the promise of
social and monetary advancement in this brave new world.
Rules were meant for others to follow.
Work hard enough and you get your pass to break
the rules.
The new world they found themselves in
involved getting a musical chair,
what did it matter who got hurt in the dance,
they were going to get theirs
the message was crystal clear
garner enough money
and everyone will bend to your will
trembling in your wake, looking
the other way
while you re-write the rule book
or break any rules in force.
Making your own rules was their play book.
Signifying was innovation rather than disrespect.
This power dynamic was their
a game drawing my family in.
more often, in reality this
created a perfect storm,
a cyclonic recipe for ruin.
Money was held up to be greater than God or country.
I would bet when my father
showed his father the first dollar he ever made
My grandfather said to my dad, I'm proud of you, but
when you make more of it, keep putting
your money away in the bank.

I think my dad was putting money
away since he was old enough to stand
a proficient hustler, and master salesman
He ran deliveries, sold widgets,
mowed grass, was an errand boy
He had his fingers in different little pies
From a very early age.
My father loved his comic books.
That was his biggest indulgence.

He had what turned out to be
a really prized collection
of 30's and 40's comics
which he protected
in plastic storage sleeves.
Tucked away for safe keeping.
He traded comics with other neighborhood kids
Dad may have relieved
his peers of their most prized comic books
by playing marbles with them
He was a champion marble player

He was
A rosy cheeked 'Spanky' and our gang looking kid
in fact that was pops nickname growing up, 'Spanky'
I feel my grandmother told him
American women will only spin him around dizzy
then break his heart.
The only woman who actually broke his heart
may have been his dear old mom.
She pulled off her coup when he came home
after two years at war in Korea
on active duty in the army infantry.
When he came home she had already
given away all his comic books.
She casually placed them on the curb,
letting anyone passing by to have at them.
When my father confessed to me this family secret
it didn't endear me any closer to my grandmother.
That is what people did, according to her
they made sacrifices giving birth to him.
along withsacrifices leaving her family and
homeland to come to America
perhaps, she felt it was her gift to him.
The lesson of loss. Losing something dear to him.
an essential grown up's lesson for him to learn.
What could he do, his mother considered him a grown man now,
his more innocent comic book years were behind him
Still, it seemed to me a betrayal of trust
a huge crossing of boundaries.
He wouldn't actually admit this directly
But, I suspect this breech of trust hurt him deeply and
along with hurt's handmaiden, betrayal
flows downhill.
Were comic books really a child's endeavor
or was she simply weary of competing
with colorful cartoon super hero's
for her son's attention

It may have turned out to be
a multi-million dollar lesson
because all the comic books he collected from the thirties
were most rare, and in the pristine condition he kept them in
in today's market, their monetary value hovers around 'priceless'
After leaving the military he was wild and
often tested his American girl theory how they would
spin him around and then break his heart.
By dating American girls after Korea.
He was a well built, handsome young man with brown eyes
thick soft, brown wavy hair.
He didn't have great respect for women.
How could he, they were mostly spoiled hussies
his mother had warned him about.
Plus what a risk to expose his whole family to a marriage
After all you marry, it's a union with entire family
A much bigger wagon to get hitched to.
There could be danger in proximity with most
any American girl, especially if
a special, though spurious gal,
came sniffing around.
That one in a million heart breaker
who'd make his heart sing.
He wound up marrying my mom,
a transplant from Canada.
They were both on the rebound.
Her cross to bear was her new
husband, my dad, having
been overseas, could never trust with his
heart to a modern day
westernized woman.
They did manage to make me.
Was my mother just a brood mare?
Did she have the first clue
what she was getting into?
Yes or no, mom was an interesting study as well.
Her father had worshiped the ground she walked on.
The feeling was mutual.
That was the prevailing family mythology.
The Sun rose and set on his daughter
His furniture business went belly up
when John F. Kennedy was assassinated
and despite
optimism to the contrary
he wasn't able to recover financially after that.
She was trusting, rosy cheeked,
didn't smoke, didn't swear, nor ran around.
She was from Winnipeg, Canada.
When her elder sister went into crisis,
Mom fled to The States.
She landed a job at the University Campus
ROTC in Minneapolis
the base probably felt about my mother
as dad had felt.
Mom was as good as it was going to get
as far as a security risk goes.
She wasn't a US Citizen.
Canadians were often looked upon
as friendly, non-combatants,
peace loving,
international citizen, diplomats.
And mother didn't disappoint,
the description which fit her more open, easy style.
The FBI, CIA,
along with all the State and Federal agencies had
no prior history of her, no criminal record of any kind.
Mom was sexually inexperienced,
and up until meeting my father had only
casual puppy love, relationships
She was young, single, pleasant
and naive.

with only out of town family ties
alone and vulnerable in the big city.
She had an odd optimism about life.
It is notable that my mother was the only 20 something
girl of her two dozen or so Canadian peers
who stuck it out in the states.
The others, flew, drove, crawled or hiked
back to Canada. My mom was a lot of things
A quitter wasn't one of them.
She was easy going and my dad was intense, and harder.
She was trusting and he was suspicious.
she was, as I recall, determined to make him a better man.
She stuck by him.
He had picked her and taken her to meet his
delightful extended Adams Family
hungry for family closeness as she was
and pregnant with me
she made up her mind to make it work.
regardless of his quirks,
piccadillo's or weaknesses.
Because of his almost legendary self involvement,
arrogance, ill treatment of others
hot headed, vengeance,
vanity, greed, or his uncanny ability to hold
a permanent grudge.
I dearly wanted to protect my mom
This could be a problem
I needed to appease my father so he'd
remain calm and not start venting
his crusty's on mom, my sister
and me.
In general, he could be sullen, quiet,
disengaged, depressed and
withdrawn. Or he could be gregarious,
flamboyant, generous.
You just never knew. He was flawed.
But, he was my dad and I loved him
Everyone had their crosses to bear.
I did the best I could
with the raw material available.
I think he could have been suffering
from war related PTSD.
My dad sold for a living
and would embellish the truth
if it meant to make a sale and stay on top.
That's all there was to it.
Who was I to question his methodology.
He steadily put money in the bank.
Money was his armament
money only he would ever see.
My grandmother once was
peeking through the shower curtain at
me at one of my visits
when I had been traveling, during my search
and wander years. Looking back I guess,
I can't blame her. She was still a woman
an 80 year old widow
grabbing a naughty thrill.
but, I had to think maybe as a younger woman
she may have taken
similar liberties of some kind with other family members.
Maybe that's why dad enlisted in the Army instead of being
drafted not as much to protect our Nation
as to protect himself.
My grandmother it should be noted
married her paternal first cousin
Which means, from her birth
to her death she never had to change her maiden name.
I think it goes a long way
to explain why, when my mother and father divorced,
Dad and his mother bought adjoining condo's
right next to one another.
On the positive side, I could kill two
vultures with one stone by visiting my grandmother
then visiting my father next door.
What a bonanza
She would call him and tell him I was over.
I didn't usually want to visit him
since his new girlfriend took up residence there.
Until the shower incident
I still came by, but on some level
I realized I didn't really like or respect
my grandma so much anymore
I feel she worked on my dad pretty hard
until she messed him up.
She didn't have accountability for any of it.
She taught him bad habits
while claiming to do what was best for him
Again do as I say and not as I do.
She had thrown out his comic books
because the pages and the characters
he was so enthralled with had star power.
They were
formidable competition for her son's affections.
I think she had no qualms about
declaring boldly her son as her property,
and now she had her sights
on me as just more
expendable, usable sexual property.
I could see the whole ugly underbelly
the aoens of cult worship flourishing.
A delusional, desperate last ditch
grab for lust and power. Grasping
for all she lost when her husband died.
Sexual relevancy she once enjoyed.
Now, irrelavant from which the primordial ooze
of which she came in her
own family circus
Maybe dad didn't have true friends, only frenemies because he
was betrothed to darker spirits.
An ancient, rule bending, outlaw spirit.
Spreading dis-ease and disorder outward from it's nucleus.
With Right and wrong being malleable variables.
dependant on what side of the perch
you happened to be on.

An anti-hero dysfunctional role model doomed to seek, seduce
conquer, destroy, then burn the evidence of the wreakage to the ground. A Scorced earth policy., rinse and repeat.
If, for instance, you needed to borrow some money,
and you were young, or vulnerable
even relatives,
the policy was
if you want me to listen to your proposition,
you must dance in The Royal Lap.
Understand I didn't get to pick my family
From the Sears Catalog, or any catalog that I know of
for that matter.
I found myself in a conundrum.
I wanted to love my mother,
but again, she had to have been at the very least
lost to have married my dad.
And, much of what he did and said
secured this notion because he
disregarded her views and
didn't respect her value in the slightest.

I felt conflicted because my mother
loved me non-conditionally.
She hadn't sexualized me
she was loyal and loved me whole heartedly
She encouraged my further artistic/social development.
I still, however, sought out what I couldn't have...
Validation from my father.
His validation was a hit and miss affair.
I didn't know whether he'd applaud me
for getting in a fight with someone,
hitting them in the mouth
while I made sure dad was watching,
or he'd scold me and force me to
apologize to the family and demand I make friends
with this boy
because dad was doing business with this boys father.
It was that shifting moral compass thing that keeps
popping up like a pesky vein of fools gold deep in a silver mine.
My dad didn't try
to conceal his inconsistencies. He never had to
For that I look to his mother again.

He would parrot to me 'do as I say, not as I do'
often covering his social bets by the seat of his pants.
What really made pops pulse quicken
was admiring his bank books.
He could be as gullible as a child:
I was also a child and as a child,
my father's distant love was all I knew.
Tirelessly, I tried to emulate him.
I tried my best to love him
It didn't matter who he was or how he did things
he was in the right
because he was my dad
and my father couldn't be wrong about anything.
His prevailing mythology was
what do you know.
If you knew anything kid
you'd have as much money socked away
in the bank as I had.
If you were so smart,
why aren't you rich?
That said, it could be a mad circus growing up
unsuccessfuly trying to get his approval as a child
without a big bank account
I pitched and coached baseball
lettered in sports
I got in fights, and experimented with drugs
ran paper routes, worked retail sales,
dabbled in fast foods
I M.C'd dancers at a strip club.
I eventually dropped out of college
to join him as an associate at his workplace.
I told him I wanted to be like him and follow him
into his business. He said to me
' why don't you try something easier.'
Instead of discouraging me, it strengthened my resolve
challenging me even more to prove I was worthy of respect in his world.
Still, approval from him was spotty
Lack of validation may have been the norm,
for many children growing up.
I was told by my father,
my sister loved me.
She didn't tell me that herself.
I was told by my sister
my dad loved me.
This triangulation was the rule.
I believed this type
of pattern was normal communication between family members.
Granted,
I wasn't kidnapped, raped or beaten on a regular basis.
I have no blood curdling, horr stories some kids have
of being terrorized.
We lived in a fairly well manicured
quiet, cul de sac off a private golf club
Where members sped up our street like race car drivers
I grew up in the same community as the
famous film makers Joel and Ethan Coen.

I was surrounded by solid tax paying citizens
bustling with creativity,
busy building and doing great things.
So, what was my problem.
Why did I feel so uneasy
My dad grew up in an immigrant community
in North Minneapolis.

After spending two years in the U.S. infantry in Korea,
he was wounded in battle, and finally got to go home. After the
military my dad made up his mind, survival in
this world meant every man for himself.
Both of my father's parents immigrated
from up in the Romanian High country.
His family had lived there for over 1000 years,
making them indigenous Romanian
Dad, being the child of a shotgun marriage between first cousins,
meant either ostracization or exile.
So, the two ran away to America.
My grandfather didn't expect much
from his only son. Just that he
put money away in the bank.
Money meant everything and was the key to
happiness and acceptance in America
Whether or not, my grandfather
felt my dad was the cream of his genetic crop
or not was up for debate.
There was certainly an undercurrent of tension between them.
My grandfather felt my dad could be a callous, hard headed fool, and very often,
he was right.
But, pop regularly put money away in the bank, so he
passed basic muster in that department
with his papa.
My dad believed people were a lot like ants,
of course, human beings travel in herds more like horses.
But, he believed the ant story because some bling wearing used
car salesman in a brown leisure suit,
smoking a cheap cigar,
who my dad split shifts with
told him so.
My dad worked with half morons like cigar boy because
dad walked away from the company
he was vested with for almost 30 years
As far back as I could remember growing up
this company treated him and us with great respect
they treated him and us like royalty.
So, of course, what did my father do
for all their great loyalty and respect.
For their years of generosity and kindness
He quits his post at this sterling company
cannibalizes all his business with the company
which meant he replaced all his and their client base, from them to some new company. He worked for these new people for just under a year.
Just long enough to convert most everyone of his former
clients over
to the new company's plan at point of renewal.
Of course, his new employers were overjoyed to
accept all my dad gave them.
But, how could they trust him
since he could turn around
and do the same thing to them.
They probably concluded my dad
was a dangerous x-factor
and from their perspective, they'd be right
So, they fired him before he could get vested with them
A clever, though devious maneuver.
Did my dad have it coming?
It's up for debate.
Certainly pop was disloyal
which bred further disloyalty.
My dad tended to take advice
from all the wrong people.
He couldn't seem to navigate around the rocks
which always loomed dead ahead.
Sounding the alarm was futile. Nothing could be done.
His ship was going to smash up against the shore
and we all had to swim for it.

My dad often told me
Buddy Boy, that mouth of yours
will get you in trouble one day

He, again was in error.
My mouth has and continues to make me
money most every time I sing.
And I've found out people aren't ants
Sure there are workers.
But, people move in herds
more like horses than worker ants or drones.
Sure there are queens but society doesn't yet reproduce it's young with only royal jelly, or do they?
My dad was 'his own man. He did things his way.
His swan song.
His way could be very dimly lit.
Leading with his chin may have kept him alive,
or it could have killed him off quick
he would claim to be a disciple of simple.
He'd say 'keep it simple, stupid.'
That's ok, unless you act stupid and dad had
a patent on stupid.
He was the grand master of the misled,
the messiah of wingnuts.
and senior spokesperson for the doomed.
How I came to be was a no small miracle.
It's true, breeding kids
doesn't require an I.Q test.
Just a willing egg and a sperm cell.
To be fair my mom, who I love dearly,
and would jump on a grenade for us kids.
But, she wasn't the brightest bulb out of the box.
otherwise she wouldn't have hooked up with my dad.
But even my starry eyed, easy going, optimistic,
Canadian born
rosy cheeked,
Betty Crocker,
mother warned him
not to fall for every flim flam
tricksters story, every grifter
with a get rich scheme.
What did my dad do in return

for her wise council and devotion
He divorced her.
He took up with somebody who
slowly and methodically dismantled what was
left of my father's spirit
relieving him of his money
with the help of her attorney brother
who coerced him to change his will while he was dying.
Of course, actually proving undue influence is very difficult in a
court of law.
Con artists, and junk bondsmen, could see him coming from a mile away.
My dad needed to listen more and talk less.
He taught me to be very cautious and wary.
I loved my father, but he hung out with ants and cultivated relationships with the smallest of them.
Of course, horses, and most other creatures
couldn't relate to his choice of tiny companions.
In fact, when given the option horses would step
on ants, and certainly wouldn't invite ants to crawl all over them.
If anyone gets one more shot at living, I feel
my dad deserved a do over, since,
he scored far from a bullseye this time around.
If he does come back for a do over
and has another shot at life
may he instead choose to live his next life
as a thoroughbred race horse,
in full gallop
I hope he finds his wild herd next time
instead of sniffing out ant hills
patrolling tiny mounds of dirt


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Buddy Bee Anthony