Felonious Disposition
We were running late last Sunday morning because we drank a bit too much
wine and stayed up way too late the night before, probably trying to forget
that today we would commit our long planned crime.

*HE* would have done the same thing because He was a man of large appetites
and big plans.

Without washing my face, I put on my sunglasses, dirty jeans, and a blue
sweatshirt.  We grab the brown paper bag, the two dozen yellow tulips, and
head for the scene of our crime. My co-conspirator/driver "accidentally"
leaves all identification behind, but remembers a cup of french roast coffee.

*HE* would have approved because he liked His coffee black and He never had a
problem with His identity.

The sun was as yellow as the tulips, and I was worrying that we would be too
late, the crime scene too crowded with people for us to implement "the plan."
My partner is adjusting the radio dial, and, only getting Sunday morning
religious dogma, turns it off. We prefer our own silent thoughts and only
the sound of the highway is audible.

*HE* would have been listening to the news, driving too fast, concerned only
with sports and politics.

Arriving at the scene of our misdeed, we are indeed conscious of the two
maintenance men cleaning the outhouse a stone's throw away.  The tulips are
too yellow -- a neon sign that flashes "Lawbreakers." I stuff them further
down in the brown paper bag and we win the Oscar for Best Performance in
"Over-the-Hill California Beach Hippies."

*HE* would have confronted the cleaning guys, complained about the bathrooms
always being dirty and never having any toilet paper.  By the time His
conversation had ended He would have known both their first names, and that
of their firstborn childs'.

The sky is now bluer than my eyes, and the sand is cool between my toes, but
my heart starts to pound with anxiety --I spy a fisherman in thigh-high
waders very close to the scene of our intended lawlessness.  My cohort is
walking ahead of me, eager to complete our misdeed. An idle saunter has
become a march.

*HE* would have been annoyed and impatient, instead of paranoid.

We climb to the top of an ocean-scarred rock that overlooks a small cove, but
the fisherman is moving in our direction, preventing our transgression.
Oblivious to us, this "Old man and the Sea" character, like Hemingway's,
keeps casting out and reeling in, the white cigarette dangling from his lips
as he inches slowly up the beach. At one point, the lure on his line almost
hits me in the head.  I duck, and yell "Watch out!". I am ignored.

*HE* never cared what other people thought and He always smoked cigarettes.

After what seems an interminable length of time, the fisherman moves down
the beach, around a jutting cliff and out of our sight. We continue. My
comrade-in-crime becomes, lovingly, like Hemingway's devoted boy, Manolin,
and is removing a small plastic bag from the larger paper one. Nervous
glances side to side are followed by a few solemn, muttered words and the
plastic bag's contents are commended to the surf. Most of the contents are
at once swept away, but a slight breeze is blowing some of them back towards
my cohort's face. We re-live the end of the movie, "The Big Lebowski," and
Manolin is now "The Dude."

*HE* would find this very funny because He always believed that you had to
"laugh at the jackass you see in the mirror every morning."  Besides, He
always read the comics first.

I feel a shared, tangible relief with my cohort that we have committed our
perfect crime and were not caught. Unveiling the neon yellow tulips, we are
secure with the knowledge that nobody has ever been convicted of throwing
flowers in the ocean.  Expecting the tulips to languish beautifully in the
water, I am surprised that within seconds of tossing them in, the ocean
swallows them whole. I believe they are gone forever to Moby Dick's and
Jonah's home, or maybe the "UnderToad's" lair. Just call me Ishmael.

*HE* would appreciate the silent strength of the ocean as He never could
stand idle chatter or bullshit wimps.

Exchanging surprised looks, we agree that it is a "fait accompli," and we
both feel relaxed for the first time today. Now is our time to walk the
beach and breathe in this beautiful morning at the Pacific Ocean. My buddy
suddenly lets go of my hand and points to a tiny yellow speck located further
down the beach. The ocean is returning one of its tulip offerings to us, as
if it knows we were robbed of their beauty too soon. A feeling of wonder and
awe swells inside me, and peacefulness surrounds us. The sound the ocean
completes this hypnotic state and we, partners in crime, walk in silent
communication.

*HIS* favorite color was yellow, and we were robbed of His presence too soon.

We find five yellow tulips as we stroll in silence, I pick up two of these
sand-spattered blossoms and offer them to my computer scanner at home. I
want to remember this moment, and I want to remember Him always.  Happy
Father's Day Paw.

Birth and death,
Joy and sorrow,
Meet as one.