Image provided by: Clackamas Community College; Oregon City, OR
About The Clackamas print. (Oregon City, Oregon) 1989-2019 | View Entire Issue (March 8, 1995)
odd McCoy is 37. but the only part of him that shows it is T his eyes. Under his big shirts and baggy jeans, he is thin. If someone hugged him, they would feel shoulder blades and maybe a rib or two. But not many people hug Todd. Summer or winter, Todd wears two pairs of socks and long- sleeved shirts. The socks keep him warm. The long sleeves hide the tracks on his arms and the bony el bows that seem too big for his pale, wiry arms. He still has good teeth, even after all the drugs. Once in a while, his smile flashes white under his dark mustache, but not too often. His blue-black hair is just starting to thin, but it is still soft and shiny. Dark shadow covers his jawline, even when he shaves every day. Not many people work harder than Todd does lately. When his muscles ache and sweat runs into his eyes, his .demons leave him alone, at least for a while. He likes feeding the chickens on the farm where he stays now. After he gathers the big, brown eggs, he carefully counts them and washes each one before he puts them in the cooler. Todd stays away from the shop out behind the house. He doesn’t like to work on the cars out there. The smells of gas and oil, paint and fiber glass, give him a headache. The fumes remind him of the city and all the trouble he had there. He would rather dig in the garden, or cut the damp smelling grass. The small farm he stays at now is starting to feel like home.' It’s been a long time since Todd had a home. The jails, cheap hotel rooms, and sometimes even the streets he’s occupied for the last 12 years don’t count. Neither does the room in the base ment, with the concrete floors and wall, that his father let him stay in. Todd’s last real home had been with his mother in Springfield, a his torical home filled with the scent of gingerbread and fresh lemons. But that «stopped feeling like home the day she let the truant officers drag him back to school when he was 12. He came home because he felt bad and wanted his mom. The officers chased him down, and the fat, sweaty one tackled him. Then the fat one and the one with the rat face each grabbed one of Todd’s arms and let him away like he was a criminal, their hard fingers biting into his flesh. His mother just watched from the porch. The big, mint-greén house with the wraparound porch stopped really being his home the day he sold his mother’s silver. She had never forgiven him for letting them melt down all the tiny, silver baby spoons she treasured. Thay’d been passed down for many generations; now they were gone forever./ He was 16 when he took them. He never had said “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure if he was or not. Now, at the farm, every one tells him he’s part of the family, even thè children. He eats at their table with them; they watch TV together. Todd even has his own bed room with blue carpet and flowered curtains. It is on the same floor as all thè other bedrooms. Todd has arranged his few possessions proudly. The room came with a bed and dresser. On the dresser are his two favorite boxes. One is small, black-lac- quered, with mother-of-pearl flowers on the top and sides. Inside, he keeps his little ad dress book, filled with the name of everyone he’s ever known - mostly dealers, or “boosters,” from whom he bought whatever he needed while he was on the streets. Next to the little black box is a larger one, made of aro matic cedar, a decopage hunt scene on its lid. He keeps his best sunglasses and his lighter in this one. The wonderful ‘ scent seems to get stronger as years pass. Next to his bed are two apple crates he uses for shelves. On one are various cigar boxes of cardboard and wood, bearing names like Partagas and Joya de Nicara gua. Below these are smaller, metal cigarette tins, Chester field and Old Gold. The sec ond crate holds his baseball hats and a pretty, brass, an tique lamp. At the foot of his bed is his box of tools, a nice set he bought from a “booster” for only 10 dollars. Maybe here at the farm he’ll have a use for them. On the walls of his room, Todd has hung bright ban danas. These have strips of leather embossed with names like Jalisco, Colina, and Nayarit, and flags of Mexico in colors of red, white, and green. The bandanas all have silky green fringe on their lower edges. Todd likes to stroke the fringe, sometimes letting it strike his cheek, to soothe him. He. lays on. his bed and dreams of Mexico, of sun, laughter, dark-haired women. All his life that warm country has called to him. But lately he’s started to feel happy and peaceful. The farm has laughter and sometimes sun, and right now Todd has found he wants a home even more than he wants a dark-haired women. Susan Davenport "JL a I slc no£e. This is few. Dig all. Stop not. Push on. Listen well. Spread good. Do sooner. Skip none. Use caution. Take care. Enjoy now. Think. I RHAPSODY Many thanx go out to oodles of folks, too numerous to mention. Thanx for being a part of my universe. I would be nowhere without you. Thanks especially if you are reading this. Thanx to Shea, the Greek-God, SFSCA, various familial figures, and my cats. May the bluebird of happiness aid you in your journey. May the Bird of Paradise fly up your nose. Now, reread the above lines until you memo rize them. Please Thanx. By the way, Chad was the principle creative force behind this edition, so I, Cori the Uselessfsay Danke.Check ya later.Oh yeah, drop E-mail to CCCPrint@dackamas.cc.or.us -Chad Patteson & Cori Kargel Co-Rhapsodors JUST FOR THE FUN OF IT !! Ten simple words in a line to start this cause. Why? There’s no reason but to just do it, And make nothing of value fit a design. So far, so good, don’t you think? . B ut I can ’ t forget to have ' Five in the middle line, And then make sure The last line. Ends with One! By Van A. 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