Schmang

 

Schmang is a word one of my friends invented. Mr. Copenhagen  described how friends had left his apartment after a weekend use, “And they left the place a mess. Even the sheets they used were left on the bed all schmanged up.”

Schmang may be used to describe anything gooey, sticky, mucky, permeable in appearance, and immobile without leaving skid marks.   Skid marks in themselves are composed of Schmang.  “Don’t touch that schmang! It could leave skid marks!”

Snot on a rag is nothing less than schmang out of your nose holes.  Mashed potatoes and gravy on the floor mixed with whatever is down there, schmang.  The stuff dirty diapers are made of, serious schmang.  Smears on the refrigerator door, schmang.   Clear fluid somewhat dry, somewhat gelatinous no matter where or on what, schmang of questionable nature.

Phrases you won’t hear often:

 Honey, could you pick me up a six pack of schmang?

Don’t forget your schmang bag!

Any of you dudes know where I could score some schmang?

(At a street corner and written on a piece of cardboard) Down on my luck, could use spare schmang, God Bless.

 

Places to find schmang:

On dead fish

In Tourist Towns

Institutional meals

 

Unlikely places to find schmang:

The Moon

 

How to identify schmang

Come across a substance you cannot identify as being schmang?  The following descriptions should be of help:

Uninviting, clinging, gross, organic, squishy, spongy, stringy, mushy, messy and always questionable.

 

Schmang Season

The positive thing about schmang is it is a year-round season.  You don’t need a license or a fishing tag to go hunting schmang.  As an extra bonus, you don’t ever need to hunt for it.  Schmang just shows up like an unexpected bill.

 

(more schmang continued)

Schmang Apparel

Wait, how did that get in here?  Schmang wears clothes?  No, silly.  Schmang goes ala natural at all times and ready for the hot tub.  Think of it…

 

All inclusive

Schmang does not discriminate.  Schmang happens to all of us. Schmang doesn’t say unkind things about us.  Although getting some schmang on yourself may put you in a position of ridicule, schmang happens.  Schmang shouldn’t get you killed nor thrown in prison.  No one has been deprived schmang.  There is plenty of schmang to go around.  Isn’t it good we can all get along?

Conversations with Angels

Angels made it possible to recognize the presence of God at times I really needed to listen.  Angels have moved the air around me.  They have shown up and disappeared just as quickly as they appeared.  Money has tumble weeded past me in the most unlikely of places at the most urgent of times.  I was grateful then, I still am.

The angels I have met have a great sense of humor.  After they delivered their message they all laughed and vanished.  I wasn’t under the influence of anything other than the moment. Moments took up a good deal of  my personal timeline,  short sweet unforgettable moments kept close to navigate this life.

“You needs to pray more,” the rotund African American said from the corner of his mouth.  He pulled a cigar out of the other corner, brushed ashes off his stogie using the edge of a banyan tree root he sat on. “Yes, definitely you needs to pray.  Ha ha ha ha ha,”.

“How would you know me?”

“Oh, sistah, where I come from we all know you. Ha ha ha ha ha,”.  Poof he was gone.

My dad wasn’t around much when I was growing up at home.  There were no brothers, only bossy maternal figures.  I didn’t understand men in early adulthood, the time in which biological urges ruled over intellect.    I’d been disappointed; wrapping my head around possible reasons wasn’t working.  A man sat down next to me at a bar one evening, good looking in a Jeff Bridges kind of way.  We enjoyed a very lively conversation a rapport I’d never experienced with a man. Naturally I was hopeful for friendship.  I made the suggestion he keep in touch, sliding my phone number over to him.  “I won’t need that.  I know where to find you.  Ha ha ha ha ha “.   Less than one New York second and  he was off the bar stool, disappeared through a set of glass doors into the snowy night, no footprints in the snow to chase after.

Angels made it possible to have conversations about angels with my mother at the end of her life.  Mom and I had a mutual belief in angels discovered when a book  of that subject fell out of my bag, onto her bed.  She lived the last four years of her life at home in a hospital bed.   Parkinson’s disease held her captive, unable to move on her own.   Mom shared her spiritual experiences with me, knowing I would be receptive.  She’d had multiple visits by angelic figures since losing her ability to move.   “And don’t tell me I was dreaming,” she emphasized.  “You know better.”  Many times they coaxed her to the light, figures silhouetted before a bright light, nothing ever before seen without shades.  A few times she stepped out of her body and sat in the chair next to her bed.  An Angelic figure would stand beside her to encourage moving on, assuring her everything will be fine if she left for the next phase. She refused the invitation, “I’m not ready yet, I told them.  Just as quick as a flash its over, I’m back to  lying here. Just lying here. I hope this happens when I’m ready to go,” she said hopefully. I hoped with her.  Sometimes angels would fly around her bed emanating love and beauty a vibration of heavenly tones.   Her bedroom ceiling opened up, there would be Jesus, reaching out a hand to her.  One night she awoke to find her late ex husband, wings, halo the whole bit, sitting at the foot of her bed.  He expressed thanks to her for raising their daughter without telling her of his abuses.  He’d come close to blowing Mom’s head off with a shotgun, locked her and my infant sister in a closet for a few days.  Sis had pneumonia and wouldn’t stop crying.   If he could make it to heaven, I assure you, there is hope for all of us.

Angels got a lot of credit for the messages I received over the years.  One message that went on for a full day and into an evening changed the way I viewed the source.  On a hot muggy July day, I was preparing to go to an evening meeting clear across to the other side of Lee county Florida.

All day I heard, “Take Dwight’s car”.

Dwight is a friend of mine, a boyfriend, and the first significant romance in my life.  We lived together on his Schooner, Quest.  I drove a little 1982 Ford Escort.  Dwight, ever the manly man, owned a 1976 Cadillac Coupe deVille, one he bought for comfort and safety vis-a-vis  its size. Dwight’s motto of navigation on sea or on land: Yield to the larger vessel.   Surprising he would be at all concerned with safety as amongst his favorite toys were a self-made cannon, a collection of firearms,  and when he brought the car home for the first time the trunk was filled with a serious arsenal of fireworks.

“His car has air conditioning.  Your car has windows,” a rational voice explained why I should take Dwight’s car.

“I can take a little evening air.  I’m driving across the orange groves.  If I sweat I’ll smell like Florida orange juice,” I responded.

“Take Dwight’s car.  He won’t mind.”

“I’ll be fine”.

“Take Dwight’s car. “

“Who is this?  Am I talking to myself?”

“Take Dwight’s car.”

Dwight came home from work to eat lunch that day.  While he was slamming down a couple of hot dogs and Gatorade, I asked him if I could borrow his car to drive to my meeting.  “That’s fine.  I don’t mind.”

The time came for me to load my meeting supplies into the Caddy, a transfer from my car to his.  Once I had everything loaded into Dwight’s car I thought,  “This is ridiculous, the caddy is a gas guzzler.  I’m taking my car.”  The Escort was a compact car, a four-speed standard, good on fuel mileage for 1984.  The trunk was accessed through the hatch back.  I had just about reloaded everything into my car when the hatch came down on my head.

“I SAID, TAKE DWIGHT’S CAR.” Loud and emphatic the message couldn’t have been any clearer.

I drove the Caddy to my meeting.  It was a beautiful drive.  The sun set behind me on the Gulf of Mexico and colored the eastern sky pink.  A clear evening; stars appeared over the open farmland canopy of citrus. I remember the sensation of floating over the road, a pure scent of orange blossoms gracefully wafting in the windows throughout the trip. The windows were rolled down, the air conditioning unused.

My company stuck around.  They glowed from the hood ornament, ‘jacuzzied’  in the back seat.   My sidekick was quiet as I behaved myself on what seemed a mission.

  During the return trip less than one mile from home I saw two cars approaching from the opposite direction on the narrow two-lane road.  Just as I passed the lead car, the other car shot into my lane, head-on into the Caddy.  I yelled, “NO!”  A pair of arms flew up off the steering wheel in the other car as if in submission.” The hood of the Cadillac crumpled up like a used paper napkin. I found myself lying across the long front bench seat of the car.

From the back seat, “Aren’t you glad you took Dwight’s car?”.