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Shaving Cream by Ken Shiovitz Silken foamy flow of soft smooth whiteness whooshes Free from compact confines of cylindrical armory, Pouring forth wave after wave of bubbly defense, To save my skin, to save my face. Later it will seem strange that I even had that can of
shaving cream, Bearded full for thirty consecutive summers, Trimming irregularly by scissors or electric clipper, Bare-faced but for four more years. Dad had instructed me early in the timeless mantra of
manhood: “The wetter the shave, the better the shave.” He was referring to use of the blade, for electric razors
desire dry skin, But blades glide briskly in bubbles of soap or shaving
cream. Wetter is better also in the baking heat of summer at Camp
Tamarack, Where relief is measured by time spent floating upon the
dark green lake, As far as possible from the continuous shrieking of
campers, And moments of independent solitude are treasured, but
always noticed. Like typical human societies, hierarchical in status and
possessions, Access to camp watercraft had followed strict traditions. No mere rowboat, or even swift canoe, I had trembled
visibly as was passed to me, From last year’s Assistant Dorm Head, use of the only camp
sailboat. This slab of white styrofoam came complete with centerboard
and sail, The mast embedded in a cavity of concrete block, tied
aboard with rope. Working the tiller by trial and error, I soon learned to
cut the lapping waves, Gliding across wet expanses, leasing freedom at a price. Those eyes I felt, the force to encounter, the order to
peck, Came not from the society I knew, of campers and counselors
and dorm heads, But from the other society at hand, of mowers and
maintenance and locals, The hired townies, the Hartland Boys. A year earlier, in 1964, at the Hartland General Store and
Gas Station, With a car-full of camp staff, we had waited for 15 minutes
by the pump, The gas attendant in a porch chair, sitting, rocking,
smirking, just watching us. “It is because of me,” said a counselor, whom I had
forgotten was black. I did not fear the Hartland Boys, even though one was huge, And all could operate motorized farm implements. |
