Narrative Poem: The many uses of Styrofoam.

 

My Dear Children;

How well I remember going with my family to the Scrumbles as a small boy!

A group of islands off the coast of Idaho, those delightful dots of rock and pine were the perfect place for a young boy to gambol and caper. Of course, there were “NO CAPERING!” and “NO GAMBOLING!” signs everywhere – but that didn’t stop me from cutting didoes galore!

The reason my parents liked the Scrumbles so much was because it featured styrofoam cabins at reasonable rates; when you were done with your cabin, you simply placed it in the water so it could drift off into the sunset.

Back in those halcyon days everything was made of styrofoam.

Buildings were mostly styrofoam, with a smattering of brick and wood. The streets were paved with styrofoam. Cars and trucks were styrofoam. Our astronauts rode to the Moon in a styrofoam rocket. It was a simpler time. Easier on the pocketbook. And on the environment. Because styrofoam eventually decays into Silly Putty. Which is useful for all manner of things; caulking boats, curing neuralgia, keeping cockchafers at bay, and bouncing off the heads of Republicans.

Well, as I was saying – back then things were simpler and easier to explain away.  If you had a wooden leg, a knapsack full of marshmallows, and a singletree, you could look anyone in the eye and say you were an honest and independent man. My father worked in the salt and pepper mines most of his life, and he died a happy and befuddled man. My mother stayed at home, tending children and making rhubarb mustard plasters for the sick and afflicted. A saintly woman, she often used iron railroad spikes for macrame and gave the finished, knotted, products to distraught men and women who roamed up and down Hennepin Avenue during the cold winter months. 

As I look back, I think the best times were those when the pemmican dancers arrived from North Dakota. They were a jolly yet stoic crew. We often stole their odd-looking shoes to use as bagpipes. 

But I digress.

I always regretted that I couldn’t take you kids on the kind of vacations my parents took me on. But the times were different, and my temperment left me unsuited for work in the mines like my father. So I tried my hand at professional jam tasting. Unfortunately, my hand was not good at it. And neither was the rest of me. Next came a career at casting aspersions. But my pitching arm wasn’t strong enough. 

Eventually I settled on latex wrangler. The hours were long and the work was grueling. But I developed a taste for gruel at last. And from then on we managed to live in modest comfort. Although I never could afford to give any of you kids a second head, like most of your playmates had. What with one thing and another, I was barely able to keep a fire hose on the table most of the time.

Still, we had some good times – didn’t we? Remember the hammock races? And those long nights before the wheat grinder telling ghost stories? I hope you realize how much those moments meant to me and your mother. We always dreamed you kids would grow up to become scholars and acrobats. And now that you have gone out and made your way in the world as Gumby collectors and chinglers, I just want you to know your mother and I are mighty proud of you. Mighty proud.

And by the way – could you lend your old dad twenty bucks until rain falls up?

Thanks!

Heinie Manush.