Carrie muses on ...

bits of this and that leading to adornment

2010-07-22T13:27:00.002-07:00

I am busily turning out necklaces and bracelets, inserting at least one of my "Magic Meditation" beads in most. People are always amazed and a bit shocked when they first see one, never imagining something like THAT. It takes several steps and a good many days to create, but so worth it. I am in love with them.

I find myself thinking over each piece, consulting my Spirit Guide Andra, to get the perfect piece for someone. Most of these will eventually reach people I don't know, so it's helpful to have a spirit guide who knows just everyone...in the spirit world, at least...

Being disabled and with limited energy, those around me have been talking about how to get them marketed. I don't care about making a profit on them, and my feeling is that someone who can't pay for the materials (I can't help using the best, because how can they be helpful otherwise?) should be able to pay what they can and no worries...

After all, the spirits know of my physical needs and if they care enough to watch so carefully how I make these pieces (including sometimes just ripping apart and starting over), they also want to keep me going, right?

BTW, did you know that photo of me was taken many years ago when my kids were little? I am now a gray-haired, wobbling sort of shaman. I can still give readings, and act as medium when needed, but the energy required limits me to maybe three times a week. I hear my kids discussing prices, but I'm of the old school, where I believe that it's fine to accept a gift, but that has to come from the heart, and obviously, must fit the seeker's ability.

I don't think I've written of this: I most like readings "Under the Blanket" which means simply sitting together with a shared blankey over our laps, and it becomes the altar. This implies a friendship sort of reading, or like a member of the tribe coming to snuggle next to a grandmother to get a bit of wisdom and a peek into the Otherworld, which for me is so much larger than any specific belief system. I see no reason not to borrow from here and there to find whatever fits.

Rather like the jewelry.

Somebody twisted my ankle...

2009-10-01T12:20:00.002-07:00

I suppose I could delete that bogus posting, but it's a cautionary tale re. updating passwords, and so forth. It's interesting to think about an author who wishes more to be published somewhere than to have name recognition. (Speaking of name recognition, most of my published stuff is under the name Carrie Martin, meaning I wished more to carry my new husband's name than to keep my old name. Weird. Love can hit hard, even when you're a feminist.)

Depression

2008-07-31T12:56:00.000-07:00

Always a bad sign when you can't remember your password...

I'd hoped the bouts of depression the last month had to do with being ill, but no...it's just time to adjust the meds again. Each time it happens, I realize I've forgotten just how nasty it can get. And my heart aches when I realize how life must be for my oldest son. He suffers too (like most of his siblings) but we've never found a med that works for him.

When I was younger, I thought my depression was directly tied to the horrors of my childhood, but it's pretty clear we've got a genetic component here. At least, that's what the doctors tell us. My kid's dad suffers from depression as well, so they get the hit from both sides.

It was so scary watching my daughter with postpartum depression...fortunately, we already had her on meds and the docs were watching her because of my history (I'll never forget the day I sat crying, certain that the only way I could save my two little darlings was to kill them--thankfully, I was already on meds and had a good doctor watching me. I sometimes wonder just how bad it can get, and then you see in the news something about some poor new mother going off the deep end).

So anyway, I pretty much shut down, unable to even talk to anyone for a few days. It's still a struggle (always takes a while for the new med to kick in) but I can see little improvements day by day. At least the paranoia is gone now...

It's too overwhelming to think about tracking nutrition just yet, but I'm trying to watch the clock and eat something nutritious every few hours. That's so much more difficult than it sounds. I'm also getting into the pool...luckily, I've had it all to myself the past few days, which helps.

I know there are so many others out there, suffering with this disease that saps the life right out of you. My heart goes out to them all...

...and the next day...

2008-05-17T06:57:00.002-07:00

flip side of getting to add the 10 minute strong swim...I hurt all over!! Didn't manage any sleep last night, but it wasn't unexpected, and it underlines the need to go slowly, and to give the body enough rest and nutrition to keep repairing.
I've been a little low on protein lately, which is a no-no, but it's summer and the veggies are so wonderful!! I just can't seem to help stuffing myself with them. My husband is so grand at cooking them for me: last night was the xmas dish, he said: baby spinach and broccoli for the green and red pepper and strawberries for the red. It's great to have a personal chef!!

Milestones

2008-05-16T16:29:00.001-07:00

Whoo hoo!! At the end of PT today, they put me in the deep tank to see if I was ready to swim...my strokes are all good and I now have permission to add swimming with my Zoomers!

Also, I was tested and my left grip has come up (from zero when I started) to 10 pounds! Sounds puny, but I think back a couple months and am very happy about the improvement.

To top it off, today's my anniversary!!

here I am...

2008-05-14T19:08:00.001-07:00

8 hospitalizations, 2 near death episodes, and I think the basic problem is fixed (they finally sent me to Mayo--talk about great care!!)

Struggling back; in physical therapy now...

freaked out me...

2007-10-20T10:39:00.000-07:00

man, I nearly bought it this time: just got out of the hospital, two weeks for this fifth venture since the end of July. Serious blood infection and dozens of abcesses in my liver. Still on heavy duty antibiotics which leave me dizzy and drowsy...

Chicken

2007-09-20T13:27:00.001-07:00

We always took something home after visiting the farm. It might be a bushel basket of greens: swiss chard, green onions, and the long leafy greens going purple before they hit the sweet rounds of beets on the ends. Sometimes it might be a basket of eggs, still warm and with bits of straw stuck to them. Grandma’s eggs tasted better than store-bought, although they often had spots of blood. Because they’d been fertilized, said Maybe, and I wondered if chicken shit would turn anything bloody. It could be frozen chunks wrapped in yellow paper, pieces of the bull calves Uncle Roy butchered. In winter it was often a box or two of bottles rattling gently against the cardboard placed between them: quarts of peaches, pears with a slice or two of orange, cherries (my favorite), tomatoes; pints of green beans, corn, beets. Smaller jars for the vegetables, said Grandma, and longer cooking to get the botulism out, which could kill you flat dead.

One night, it was a live chicken tossed into a burlap bag. Kody and I were quiet on the drive home, our ears stuck flat to the back seat, listening for the thumps and bumps, the quiet clucks that occasionally lifted into loud squawks. We had a real live chicken. “Can we name it?” whispered Kody. Maybe’s sharp ears caught that. She turned in the front seat to whisper back: “Its name is Dinner.”

When we got home, Daddy transferred the chicken, bag and all, from the trunk to the back porch. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Off to bed now, you two.”

The next day our back yard was filled with kids: our friends, and some we’d never seen before. There were even some grownups hanging around to watch the execution. Daddy brought the bag out, Maybe grabbed the chicken’s legs through the burlap, and Daddy untied the knot. There was a lot of squawking and flapping of white wings as the bird tried to get loose, but Maybe had done this before and she kept her grip tight. She swung the chicken onto the stump Daddy used to chop kindling, and Daddy’s axe came whomp! right down on its neck.

We thought that would be the end of it, but Maybe let go and the headless chicken went flapping and running, tripping and spraying blood. Maybe laughed at our astonished faces. “I’ve even seen one fly up into a tree without its head.”

When the chicken finally quieted down, Maybe scooped it up and headed for the house. My best friend Lily’s brother Jess, who was almost ten and the smartest kid we knew, shook his head in wonder. “When I grow up,” he said softly, “I’m going to write a book about this.” That could only mean this was a bona fide amazement, and I pledged to remember it forever.

I ran after Maybe, who was on the back porch, chopping off its feet. She skinned and gutted it, tossing feathers and offal into a bucket. “It doesn’t look like a chicken,” I said. She laughed. “The ones you get in the stores still have their skins on, but I can’t see bothering with plucking.” She hauled what was left of the carcass into the kitchen and plopped it into the sink. “You’ll see, Baby. It will taste just fine. Oh, look!” I ran to the sink and stood on my tiptoes to see. She pointed to a round white something inside and leaned to whisper in my ear. “It’s an egg, Baby. If we’d waited another day, she’d have laid it for us.”

I found it strangely disturbing, that unlaid egg, and I fought back tears as I watched Maybe chop the chicken into pieces and drop them into a pan. She was right, though. The chicken tasted just fine, even better than store-bought. While the most of it was cooking, she dropped a pat of butter into a pan and fried up the giblets. Kody burst into the kitchen about then, knocking over a chair in his haste to tell us everything everyone in the backyard had said and done. He stopped short as Maybe lifted the liver from the pan and put it on a small plate. “Ick. You’re gonna eat that gizzard, ain’t you.”

“Don’t say ain’t,” said Maybe.

Kody threw out his arms and helicoptered around the room. “Gizzard, lizard, buzzard guts; Maybe eats them ‘cause she’s nuts.”

Maybe adroitly waved the plate under his nose as he turned. “Like some liver, Kody? Daddy won’t mind sharing.”

Kody screamed and ran.

Maybe winked at me. “Liver is good for so many things. Would you like the heart, Baby?”

I nodded, my concern about the unlaid egg disappearing. She skewered the small cone with a fork and handed it to me. “Hot, Baby.”

I blew on it, thinking about the time I’d asked Daddy how big my heart was. “Hold up your fist,” he’d said, and then tapped my curled fingers. “Your heart is as big as your fist.” Here I was with the chicken’s heart on a fork, and the chicken hadn’t even had a fist. When it was cool enough, I pulled it off with my teeth, rolled it on my tongue, crunched it so the meaty juices flowed out. The only thing better was the oysters on the back of the bird, but I couldn’t count on getting one of those.

Daddy always ate the neck, not at the table, but sitting afterward in the big rocking chair as we watched TV. He’d pull it apart, sucking carefully on each small vertebra, until there was nothing but a pile of tiny clean bones.

Kody and I usually got the drumsticks or thighs, and Daddy watched carefully to see that we ate every last bit of meat. One night I asked for a wing. He squinted at me. “Sure you’re ready for a wing, Baby?” I nodded, kicking my heels against the rung of the chair. He didn’t even yell at me for that, but just dropped a wing on my plate. “Let’s see, shall we?”

Kody tried to get me off my chair as soon as he was finished, but I ignored him, knowing that the wing was my ticket to better things. It took forever, but I stayed put, sucking every morsel off those little bones. Daddy stayed at the table too, resting his chin on his hand and watching me. He only smiled when I finally pushed my plate of cleaned bones toward him, but my heart skipped a beat.

The next week I asked for the underside of the breast, and Daddy passed me one immediately, complete with its row of tiny rib bones. It was harder than the wing, but I stayed put again, carefully pulling the bones apart and sucking. Now and then I choked a little, having swallowed a bit of bone as well as meat. Again, Daddy only smiled.

The following week I didn’t even have to ask. Daddy simply dropped a piece of meat on my plate. Kody was instantly on the floor, kicking and screaming about how everything was unfair. I couldn’t take my eyes off the prize that was suddenly mine: the wishbone, jutting out of the white breast like a little sail.

I’d pulled one before, of course, getting a turn now and then just like everyone else. This one was mine, and I’d get to choose which side to pull, and who to pull it with. Why, I could even take it outside and pull it with Lily, which meant one of us was sure to get our wish.

After dinner, Maybe hung my wishbone on the cupboard door handle to dry. Later that night she caught Kody climbing up to steal it. After shooing him off, she winked at me and hid it in a cup on the top shelf.

The glory of it all hung about me, better than Kody’s Superman cape he’d let me wear once. Kody pestered me night and day, naturally, alternately threatening and offering me anything he could think of. After a couple of days, I knew I’d have to choose him instead of Lily, whether he came through on his promises or not. Still, it was nice having the power, and I dangled the wish before him for another whole day.

Maybe fetched it down when I asked. I studied the bone carefully to see if some tiny flaw favored the head to go one way or another. When at last I sighed, chose my side, and held out the bone to Kody, he grinned, snatched his side and pulled. Alas, the bone was too dry and the head popped toward the ceiling, free of us both. Maybe laughed. “Looks like the cat got the wish,” she said, and leaned to whisper in my ear. “You should have pulled it yesterday, Baby.”

If only I hadn’t waited that extra day, either Kody or I would have had the wish, instead of it going spoiled. On the other hand, if we’d only waited one extra day, we’d have had a nice egg from that chicken. When I asked Daddy about it, he shrugged and turned the page of his newspaper. “Two general principles, Baby. ‘Look before you leap,’ and ‘He who hesitates is lost.’ You just have to decide which one you want on any given day.”

So that was that. I had a funny idea that those principle things were going to keep tripping me up no matter what I did.

A favorite oldie...

2007-09-18T12:15:00.000-07:00

“I get wonderful ideas, but I can’t spell ‘em.” Brooklyn cop, playwright wannabe.

1941: war is brewing; in fact, it’s positively bellowing overseas. Ma Bell has just come up with a nifty hand piece that combines the ear and speaking unit; how to get the public to ante up? Ah, a new Joseph Kesselring play erupts upon Broadway, headlining Boris Karloff, wherein our hero spends a good deal of time on the phone. (Operator, can you hear my voice? Are you sure? [groans] Then I must be here.) Why not fund a motion picture of same?

Of course, the numerous Boris Karloff jokes may not work without Boris himself…but wait! Raymond Massey can do an impression that will float the boat. Peter Lorre is available to play Dr. Einstein, the Epstein Brothers can adapt the play, and Frank Capra will direct…it’ll be a smash!

The Brewster home, next to the church and cemetery, houses two old ladies whose days are given to charitable pursuits. Sure, the neighbors complain about nephew Teddy’s bugle whenever he charges up San Juan Hill (the staircase), but the one time the aunts forbade Teddy to be Roosevelt, he hid under the bed for two days, refusing to be anyone at all.

A second nephew, Mortimer, is currently swallowing the four million words he’s written against marriage, slain by the sweet, trusting eyes of Elaine, the minister’s daughter. With a taxi waiting outside to take him and his new bride to Niagara Falls, Mortimer stumbles across one of his aunts’ favorite charities, wherein they bring peace to lonely old men via their elderberry wine, made with arsenic, strychnine and just a pinch of cyanide. The men, an even dozen now, are laid to rest, with hymnal singing, in the Panama locks Teddy digs in the basement.

Struggling to hide their secret, persuade them to give up this one little charity, and mollify the neighbors by getting Teddy into the Happy Dale Sanitarium (oh, I’m sorry, but we already have too many Teddy Roosevelt’s…but we’re a bit shy of Napoleans…?), Mortimer is already up to his ears when his long-lost brother Jonathan reappears, having escaped the Asylum for the Criminally Insane, dragging along with him a drunken Dr. Einstein and a dead Mr. Spinouzo.

The story spins frantically, but merrily, along, with the aunts protesting loudly when Jonathan wants to bury his corpse alongside theirs (it’s not right for a Methodist to be buried with a foreigner!), Jonathan determined to get rid of pesky Mortimer once and for all, and the beat cop determined to get stage critic Mortimer to listen to his play.

Cary Grant has a grand time as Mortimer, getting paid for the looks and sighs he first learned as a teacher faced with inattentive and dimwitted students, and running wonderfully hot and cold with his new wife. “Insanity runs in my family,” he tells Elaine. “In fact, it practically gallops!”

All ends well, naturally, with Mortimer discovering he’s not a Brewster after all, but the son of a sea-cook. Unfortunately for Ma Bell, whose contract forbade release of the film until the stage version folded (who knew it would run for 1,444 days?), “Arsenic and Old Lace,” while indeed a smash both in the US and in England, by its release in 1944 was not much of an advertisement.

absence makes the heart grow fonder?

2007-09-15T11:40:00.000-07:00

here I sit after four recent hospitalizations, wondering when I'll get back to being myself again... don't worry... Baby will continue ...eventually

everyone: be well!!

Boiling Frogs

2007-06-21T10:42:00.000-07:00

Day before yesterday I got my adult DPT (pertussis vaccine is now recommended for all child caretakers). Today I've got a red bump at the site and it hurts. Seems I'm having a little local reaction... Now they tell me if I'd gone home and done a few wall pushups, there's less chance of any reaction. This so reminds me of the M*A*S*H* episode where they're trying to diffuse a bomb and they're getting instructions over the radio or something... "...now cut the red wire..." read the instructions, "...but first...." This is called poor writing technique.

Anyway, I'm sitting here with an ice bag on my arm, tilted a good bit to defy gravity as I type, and the visions of the boiling frog enter my head. Get him to jump in while the water's cool, and he doesn't figure it out before he's in hot water to the tenth power. I picture him struggling weakly as someone murmurs, "btw, the burner's on..."

On the other hand, my beautiful granddaughter Jhaleah will be here in 30 minutes and I picture her rockin' on sans the multitude of diseases that plagued my own and my parents' generations. A little reaction is a small price to pay. Kids don't need to worry about the complications of all those illnesses we once considered part of growing up. I hear people argue against vaccinations, saying, "hey, I had measles (chicken pox, mumps, etc., etc.) and I was just fine..." Except not every kid turns out fine... I got such a kick everytime they dripped a dot of pink anti-polio on my kids' tongues; I survived polio and there's no doubt that struggling against the effects has strengthened my will, but oh, I'm glad, glad, glad my kids don't have to go through it. There's enough garbage in the world to strengthen their wills without that.

mid June update

2007-06-20T15:44:00.000-07:00

Here in Tempe we're getting extreme heat advisories all the time now...we haven't made it to 120 yet but we're solidly in the teens. The pool is beginning to feel like broth. They say if you dump a frog into the pot when it's cold and then slowly heat, you can cook him without alarming him a bit. Hmmm...

Started physical therapy today--ouch (but a good ouch, I'm sure). They've got a nice setup over there; I'll be doing mostly hydrotherapy in one or more of their three pools. The idea is to fix up the muscles that have been compensating for the damage they worked on with the surgery. That, and to lower my shoulders... (what, me tense?)

My granddaughter Jhaleah turns 7 mo. today...She's cruising around the furniture like mad and will no doubt let go one day soon and we'll be chasing her everywhere. She's liking the pool more and more, despite the fact that her mom and dad are now dunking her regularly.

My husband Dennis and my oldest son Brandon are getting hyped up about their trip to Vegas at the end of the month. I hope we'll be able to pay the rent afterward ... I was going to go but decided to stay home and be comfortable. So I also don't need to worry about my cat Cheops, my daughter Amy doesn't need to find someone else for Jhaleah, and I can continue physical therapy without interuption--although I'll be making that long trip in the Chrysler (instead of the Honda, which they're taking to Lost Wages), which I'm not completely happy about. The doctor just bumped up the anti-depressants though, so hopefully we'll avoid any major boohooing.

What else am I into? I've just discovered ruby port...hic (don't worry; just 2 oz. a day and I've forsworn all other alcoholic beverages). The "eating a whole bunch more" diet seems to be working: after that first upsurge in pounds, they seem to be dropping off now. Too early to let myself get all excited yet, but I feel better and my doctors are pleased.

Someday I'll have the dragon box finished that I'm working on, but I may need a long vacation from it (and those tiny 15/0 hex beads) first. This last week I've been sorting beads that I got for a steal; I'm trying to see it as good brain exercise: very close colors with identical colors of matte and various shines all mixed together. If I were less stubborn I'd give it up as a bad cause.

Okay, I'm watching this contortionist on Ellen DeGeneres right now...wouldn't it be fun if physical therapy could get me into that kind of shape?

where I've been...

2007-06-16T19:47:00.001-07:00

back surgery, mostly, plus some other tedious health stuff. Baby will continue, never fear...

if you'd like to check out what I've been doing while recuperating, search kilgore at TradeCrossing.com (once I'd given all my family and friends a box, my daughter insisted on throwing them into the world). Big smiles to all... :)))) (oops, that's my triple-chin grin)

Baby's Birthday...part one...

2007-04-09T21:42:00.000-07:00

A week before my third birthday, Daddy came home. Forever, he said, because the Navy didn’t need him anymore. We thought it would be fun, but a full-time daddy is, like Grandpa Boone said, a whole ‘nother thing. Grandma Boone made a picnic to welcome him home, and we hardly started eating when Daddy started scooping everything up and running to the fridge. Sam and Ella would get us, he said. Grandma Boone rolled her eyes and Grandpa Boone said just wait ‘til he got to be a for-real doctor. We’d have our donkeys in a sling.

Next morning we had to wait and wait and wait for breakfast because Daddy was busy washing all the dishes. He said we had to eat like civilized ham and beans instead of throwing a gob of food on a paper plate and calling it dinner. Kody had a royal fit because it was breakfast we wanted, not dinner, but Daddy only got all squinty and his lips disappeared. Then we started kicking the chair and table legs, going, “Wah, wah, wah. Sis boom bah. We want eggs without their legs and we will beg until we’re dead.” When we started beating our fists on the table, Daddy stamped his foot and told us to stop it. Then Kody changed it to, “…we will beg until YOU’RE dead.” I was too scared to say that, but I giggled. Kody was the bravest person I ever knew. He’d spit in the devil’s eye, said Grandpa Boone. Grandma Boone finally came in and gave us soda crackers, and if Daddy didn’t like it, she’d call the police, she said.

When we went out to play Tiger and Bear, Daddy said the yard was a disgrace and how many years was it since anybody mowed. Then he found the lawnmower, which was all rusty, and he hollered about that for a while until Grandpa Boone found some oil in the shed. Grandma Boone gave us peanut butter and baloney sandwiches on the back porch, just like always, and Daddy was too busy with the lawnmower to pay any attention. Later that afternoon he yelled at us to get out of the jungle ‘cause Tarzan was on the way. He gave a big run with the pushmower and flipped right on over when he hit the grass. He kept charging for a while and got red in the face. Then he kicked the mower for a while, yanked it out of the grass the blades were tangled in, heaved it up over his head and spun around and around with it, saying all kinds of Navy words, and then he let go and the mower flew up and up, and came down in the middle of the jungle, where it was swallowed and would never be seen again. At least that’s what Grandpa Boone said, but Kody found it the next day and showed me. He said it was a sacred burial ground and we should watch out for elephants.

Then we had a laundry day and when that didn’t work so well, Daddy gave us a general clean up all around day. It was awfully noisy and it wore Daddy out. He said we were definitely not shipshape. Grandma Boone said we weren’t on a boat and she could already hear the police sirens coming to answer his retort. Kody got his holster and his six-guns, and actually let me hold his Junior Ranger rifle. Police had guns, he said, and we better get ready because Daddy wasn’t going to settle down.

The next day Daddy got all spruced up and Grandma Boone said it was a miracle or worse because now he was going off to church to get some religion. Kody and I didn’t know what that meant but she hushed us and told Kody to get the Pooh book and read to me. Kody could read anything, and he tried to show me how, but I just didn’t get it. Meanwhile Grandma stood looking out the window and when she started to cry. Grandpa Boone put his arms around her and they stood looking out the window together. We crept up to take a peek but there wasn’t anything different outside than anytime before.

That afternoon Daddy brought a pretty lady home with him and said she was going to be our new mom. “For my birthday?” I said. Everybody laughed and Daddy said it was the best present he could think up. Kody gave her a sideways look and said, “Maybe.” I thought it might be he was jealous because it was the best birthday present ever and it wasn’t his. Also, I guess he remembered our first mom. I tried hard to remember but I just couldn’t.

That night the Maybe Mom fixed us dinner. Kody sat down when Daddy told him to, which was kind of surprising, but he banged his fork and spoon on the table, demanding beans, and that wasn’t a surprise at all. “Beans, beans: the musical fruit,” he sang, “The more you eat, the more you toot, If you don’t toot, you’ll fade away So eat your beans and toot today!” Daddy frowned and Maybe got a funny look on her face. Then she scooped macaroni and cheese on our plates, along with a spoonful of peas. Kody shrieked and flipped out of his chair, sending it crashing, and threw just about the best fit I ever saw. “He doesn’t like peas,” I said. Maybe looked puzzled for a minute and then she scooped the peas back off his plate. It didn’t help. The peas had touched, said Kody, so it was still poison

More Baby...

2007-04-07T15:38:00.001-07:00

Everybody loved me, which is why I received a Grand Tour of the family over the next year. I had lots of uncles and aunts and cousins. I liked my Aunt Clara the best, but I never told anybody that because when you’re the favorite, everyone wants to be your favorite, too. Daddy’s mother was the only one who’d take Kody, due to his being a handful. I should explain that Dad’s parents had divorced and then both remarried, so Grandma Watt was my step-grandma, and Grandma Boone was the DNA donation grandma. Anyway, Grandpa and Grandma Watt started talking about adopting me. Daddy didn’t waste time hauling me out of there and handing me over to Grandma Boone. This was a good thing if only because Grandma Watt was big on feeding babies. The photo taken out on her front steps shows her beaming, holding onto my chubby fists as I stood before her. In that snapshot, I am a small square child. Also, they wanted to change my name to Belva or Melba or something like that. Ugh.

Daddy was still in the Navy all this time, so we only saw him on leaves. I didn’t care: I had my Kody back. The family kept pestering, insisting that Grandma Boone couldn’t possibly take care of another toddler when she had to deal with Kody, but the truth was, he was much better with me than without me. I adored him. Some of my first real memories are playing Tiger and Bear in the long grass of the backyard. We hid, we stalked, we pounced, we wrestled, we roared. It was lovely, and I wouldn’t have traded it for a dozen hundred-acre woods.

One day Grandma politely asked me to use the potty instead of diapers. That was okay by me—diapers were stinky. I liked the pretty panties she got me instead. I never wore anything twice because Grandma wasn’t into doing laundry. Every day: brand new panties, new socks, new dress. I was a princess, and Kody was a little prince. We were also adorable. People said I looked like Shirley Temple. Kody was…well, he was real cute too. I didn’t think there was anyone in the world half as beautiful as Kody.

Daddy started thinking about becoming a doctor. This made him health-conscious, especially at bedtime. He’d turn off the light and I’d do Itsy Bitsy Spider in the dark. He’d scream that I was ruining my eyes and Grandma Boone would have to soothe him down. After I had enough of that, I just climbed out of my crib and got my stuffed tiger. I could whisper very softly in his ear, so nobody else could hear. He liked having a story or two until we fell asleep. Then my stuffed donkey got jealous (he was wonderful, with a zipper down his back that you could open and then hide something inside), so I had to bring him too. After that, my elephant and teddy bear and Raggedy Ann and all the others started crying about being lonely, so I had to bring them all. Daddy got completely crazed when he discovered this. “She’ll suffocate in her sleep!” he’d yell, and Grandma would say I was old enough not to smother myself with a few toys. He said fifty or sixty toys was not a few, and if I didn’t smother myself, I’d get a crook in my back from sleeping on them. He kept yelling until she punched his arm and said she’d call the cops if he didn’t pipe down. He reminded me of Kody, except he never fell on the floor and kicked while he screamed. Some people just have too much energy, said Grandma.

Baby...

2007-03-28T16:05:00.000-07:00

My grandmother Manuelita, whom I never met, strolled north to the Rio Grande one day, and managed to get her beautiful, part Yaqui Indian self over the border. She ended up married to a serviceman, and had at least two daughters. I know that because I’ve heard the story about how she and the Shawns argued over which girl they were going to adopt. They both wanted the older girl, and in the end the Shawns had to accept Dawn, the booby prize.

Outwardly, the Shawns were a fine upstanding Christian couple who eventually ended up in Texas. I went to a genealogical library with a friend one day, and while she did her thing, I wandered around, looking at the bookshelves. The name Shawn jumped out at me. Impossible, I thought, but I took the book down and actually found myself listed. Turns out my grandfather was way into the genealogy thing and had printed a book of his own about the family. I gave them a call. Apparently my mother had remarried some guy named Johnny, had four more kids, and then disappeared. Grandma Shawn urged me to come for a visit, then told me gently that I shouldn’t bring my husband, he being of the black persuasion. You know how people are, she said. I never spoke to her again, not even after the divorce.

I have two photos of my mother: one a head shot, and the other showing her lolling on the grass, baby Kody in her lap. She was so beautiful it was almost unreal, and I suddenly understood why nobody ever threatened to toss wetback grandma back to Mexico. Everyone said I looked just like her.

Daddy said I was the baby people dreamed about having. Never fussed, always ready to laugh, and frankly adorable. When I was six months old, he made a pinhole camera. I don’t understand exactly how it worked, but it demanded a long exposure. He took a photo of me, sitting up and smiling radiantly. Whenever I turn the photo over and read the exposure time he jotted on the back, I’m always stunned. How do you get a baby to sit still for two and a half minutes?

The photo was taken just after she left. My aunt Willy said she couldn’t understand it. She took such good care of us, our mother did, and seemed so attached. It couldn’t have been because of Daddy. She called now and again, wanting to get back together. Just adopt the kids out, she’d say, and he’d say no way.

When mom told dad she was pregnant, he says he fell smack in love with her. Not that he didn’t like her before, of course. When he told Grandpa Shawn he wanted to marry her, the man said okay, but he ought to know she was no good and a terrible liar and he’d have to watch her like a hawk. Just beat her up good every week or so to keep her in line, he said. Daddy ran out and tossed his cookies into the nearest bush.

My mom went to a psychiatrist on the base. He said she’d married too young and didn’t know what she wanted. He advised her to start dating. Daddy tried to be supportive, staying with me and Kody while she was off getting to know several other men. One night, a couple of hours after she’d left, he saw a car pull up out front, close enough to the streetlight that he could kinda see them. Twenty minutes later, he twitches the curtain again. Oh yeah, they were glued to each other. He cleans the kitchen, washes and dries the dishes, then takes another peek. Damn. He’s pacing now, picking things up and putting them down again. Okay, the doc said she needed to date, and he wasn’t happy about what that might have entailed. But he’d been supportive, understanding that her childhood had been anything but happy. Still, did she have to put on a show right in front of the house? He paced some more, picked up a toy and shredded it, When he just couldn’t stand it anymore, he stormed out to the car, screaming, “Don’t you think it’s about time you gave that a rest?!” as he yanked the car door open. The guy turns and the woman’s face swims into the light. It wasn’t mom. Oops.

So what I wonder is this: did she leave because a new baby and a two-year-old had become too much to handle? Or was she afraid she’d end up treating us as she’d been treated? Why did she leave those other four kids? Where did she go? Whatever happened to her?

I’ve looked at my own darlings when they’ve been six months old, when they’ve turned two, and try to imagine… My chest tightens, my throat closes. Anything but that…anything, anything. I don’t know how she managed it, and I’m so, so glad that I don’t understand. What was it like for her? I wish I could find her. I’d put my arms around her, cuddling and soothing. It’s okay, Mom. Everything’s all right.

Baby

2007-03-26T15:48:00.001-07:00

The tale of a little girl’s life: some of the names and facts have been changed to protect the innocent.

I was born on the hottest day of 1952 in the Naval Hospital in Oakland. My college roommate Kim was born there the year before, and she told me the Navy required patients to change their own sheets. I was a great sheet-changer by the time I was five, and I realized at that moment that my uncanny ability to make perfect hospital corners and bounce quarters on the bed came not only from my father, but also from my mother. I jotted this down in my secret mommy book, where I kept all information about her. Then I made my bed with hospital corners on all sides, and took to sleeping on the top with an untidy quilt around me, definitely NOT tucked in. I might have to remake the bed sometime, but I damn well wasn’t going to do it THIS month… My roommates thought I was crazy (and I privately agreed, since I couldn’t figure out what made me do it), but it wasn’t as nutty as Kim’s sleepwalking, which frequently ended with her collecting all our pillows and dumping them in the shower while chanting mathematical formulae.

Mom’s name was Dawn, and the only name changes she endured focused on the end, so when she was adopted, she became Dawn Shawn (isn’t that too perfect?) and when she married Daddy, she became Dawn Watt, which people often pronounced, “Done what?” Not very inventive.

My dad’s family, on the other hand, took nicknaming seriously. Grandma named dad and his twin brother Lawrence and Benjamin. These names either connected in a way she never told anyone, or perhaps she was too tired to come up with anything better. The twins were numbers four and five, and she was only twenty-three. Her three toddlers called them Lair and Bear (pronounced weawh and beawh, due to a family trait of having difficulties with L’s and R’s). The minute they bounced outside, however, the neighbor kids re-dubbed them. Grandma would poke her head outside, calling, “LawRENCE…BENjamin.” Naturally, they became Rent and Bent outside, and Went and Bent inside. Think about it: Went Watt, which eventually became Rent Rot when his schoolmates went overboard… This is a load to bear.

Everyone at home called my brother Kody during his toddling years, even though his name was Lawrence Jr. They began with Lawrence Jr., which became LJ, which turned into Jay, then Blue Jay, then Blue. A neighbor kid called him Blue Poo-poo one day. Grandma, thinking quick, told him they were referring to Winnie the Pooh, and spent the afternoon reading him stories about the Hundred Acre Wood. Now, he had a long love of bears, just as I adored tigers, and we’d been playing Bear and Tiger in the long grass of the backyard for as long as we remembered. He didn’t think much of a teddy bear, however, and that night had a serious chat with Daddy about bears. When Daddy got to grizzlies, my brother almost became Grizz, but then Daddy told him about Kodiaks. Wow. The neighbor kids still called him Blue Poo, but only if they were on the other side of the fence and had a running start. By the time he started school, the addition of his last name made him Blewatt, then Bluto, which stuck. Not that he physically resembled Popeye’s nemesis: no, he was a skinny lad. Back to this later, but if I tell you he spent recess of his first day in kindergarten in the boys’ restroom, clogging all the toilets and sinks with toilet paper and towels, and then flushing like crazy until the flood burst down the hallway, you’ll get an idea of the little sociopath emerging.

My mother named me, simply gathering up her very best friends and honoring them: Cassandrealizziebev-Alicingrideniskate (Cassie, Andrea, Lizzie, Bev, Alice, Ingrid, Denise, Kate). My brother took one look at me and said, “Baby.” Thereafter, if anyone called me anything else, he screamed, kicked, threw whatever was handy and wouldn’t quit until they said, “Baby.” With him to underline it, Baby stuck for good, and I consider it the finest gift poor Bluto ever gave me.

Investigatory procedures...

2007-02-25T10:47:00.000-07:00

Holy cow! I'm being flogged for failure to appear as a real person here in my blog! Am I nothing more than superfluous spam? (At first I thought they said spasm and was about to write them a thanks for noticing note.)

They may have a point: in the last couple of months I've added two new docs to my stable and they've dumped two meds and added three. The med juggling has me fighting depression and paranoia (why are you all out to get me?).

Speaking of investigatory procedures, just this past week, I had one investigatory procedure that has left the most impressive bruises, and another investigatory procedure that has demonstrated how far back surgery has come since I was a kid. As soon as the depression lifts I plan to be hopeful (assuming the challenge to my realityhood is resolved).

Am I still here? I think so. Consider the title an invitation to write something creative...

Update on Carrie

2006-07-29T02:21:00.000-07:00

Some health issues are challenging Carrie; with luck she'll be back with you in a month or so. Meantime, be assured she has excellent doctors and plenty of TLC at home. We appreciate your good thoughts in her behalf.

Re: Carrie

2006-07-01T19:10:00.000-07:00

Hi folks--
This is Dennis, Carrie's husband. Carrie can't come to the computer today because she has been a bad girl. She'll be back when she recovers. In the meantime, go ahead and be naughty. She won't be able to hurt you!
D

QOD: What will you say to God if you find Him/Her/??

2006-06-29T09:00:00.000-07:00

I met God just before Thanksgiving almost ten years ago. Naturally, I’d chatted with Him before that, asked Him questions, and so forth. His answers only made me more eager to meet Him. A bit nervous on the arranged day, I changed my clothes a couple of times and spent so long in the bathroom fussing with my makeup that my teenagers were both banging on the door to get me out of there.

I opened the front door on the first knock. (It’s hard to play aloof with God.) I froze for a moment as new emotions and hungers surged. He smiled; I melted. Then we were off, walking down the street together, stopping in for Chinese at the little restaurant on the corner. He told me to feel free to ask Him anything.

Endlessly amusing, He often mentioned His colleagues (especially the One who said, “Oh ye of little faith.”) and chuckled at the frailty and foibles of “you humans.” Somehow, I don’t think He was laughing AT us, though you couldn’t say He was laughing WITH us. Perhaps He was simply laughing NEAR us.

After a couple of years of seeing God regularly, I knew I wanted Him in my life forever and ever. I finally confessed my desire and was delighted when He said I was His favorite human, so why not just get married? We made an appointment with a judge who scurried through the particulars (he had tickets to a Blazers game). Two secretaries we tagged as witnesses said they’d never seen such a happy couple before. Not that I explained it to them, but you’d have to figure marrying a God would put you in a good mood. Once you were used to Him, I mean.

It’s fun living with God. When I worry about money, He just says we’ll get some more. When something’s up with one of my kids, He just says, “Kids first. It’s a rule.” He’s a jealous God, He says, but insists that’s His problem, not mine. He knows what I’m thinking before I think it, which can be irritating at times, but makes Him dynamite in bed. I could go on and on, but I think you get the picture.

I love my God. I’m keeping Him.

QOD: Say nothing at all for one full day.

2006-06-26T14:41:00.000-07:00

:)

:O

:(

:D

:P

:)

QOD: Write to a dictator to stop torture.

2006-06-23T11:14:00.001-07:00

Your Excellent Majesty, High Ruler of All You Survey,

Come on, now. Don’t you think it’s time to stop all the nastiness? Political prisoners are people, too. They deserve to have lawyers, for instance, and to have clear and TRUE charges in place BEFORE arrest. Plus, it’s just not cool to keep them in dank cells for months and months without notice to their families, and thus, without visitation from the same. This whole business of torture has to go as well. After all, you should be an example to the world, don’t you think?

Let’s face it, even if you ARE from Texas, it’s time to halt this particular naughtiness.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Citizen (name withheld to prevent my ending up in one of those cells)

QOD: Be on the alert for the paranormal.

2006-06-23T11:14:00.000-07:00

No need for ME to be on the alert; we have a Cheops for that. He’s very good, too. Sometimes, even while napping, a ghost (or something) will wander too close and he jumps up at once, zigging and zagging after the invisible maniac. Now and then he captures one, and pinning it to the chair, the couch, or the oriental rug, will scratch furiously, flaying it to pieces. I must admit that one occasionally catches him off-guard, sending him into a horrified flight, but he is soon on the attack again, growling and spitting. If YOU are troubled by paranormal pests, skip on down to your local shelter and get yourself a cat. (As a bonus, cats are also pretty good at keeping the fly and spider population down.)

QOD: Hedgehog, aeroplane, and midget. Think very hard about these today & see if they enter your dreams.

2006-06-22T10:11:00.000-07:00

I didn’t dream of a hedgehog, but I dreamt of a bazillion kittens in the bathroom, all with naughty razor-sharp claws. I didn’t dream of an aeroplane, but I dreamt of a dozen boys readying for a camping trip, showing off their glittering blades. I didn’t dream of a midget, but I dreamt of grinning babies smaller than your thumb. Perhaps I thought too hard…

QOD: Dial a # at random & preach a sermon in a deep Southern accent.

2006-06-20T13:41:00.000-07:00

(Dialing)
--Smith residence; Betty speaking.
Hey there, Miz Smith. Can I take the liberty of calling you Betty?
--Um…I guess so.
Could you hold on one itty bitty minute, Betty?
--Ah…sure.
(Dialing)
*Hello.
Good morning, sir. Could I ask your name?
*Aaron.
--What’s going on?
*What?
For the Lord saith that where two or three be gathered in His sweet soul-saving name, there shall He also be.
*I’m Jewish.
--Really? Orthodox?
Now folks, listen here. We love our Jewish brethren something fierce, but they all’s gotta get down to accepting the Lord Jesus as their Savior.
*I guess I’m sort of a limping Orthodox.
--Oh, that’s okay. My mother keeps a kosher household, but she married a Catholic. I don’t judge.
*You sound nice. What’s your name?
--Betty.
*Short for Elizabeth?
There be but one name for all folks to be saved by.
--(laughing) Short for Bethany, if you can believe it. Kids at school used to tease me by calling me Bethany Home Road.
*Holy cow! You live in the Phoenix area?
Woe unto those who never get around to calling on the name of Jesus.
--Mesa.
*Ha! I live in Chandler.
Woe, and double woe to them all what don’t call on His blessed name.
--Hey, you know where Bookman’s is?
*The one by that 99 cent grocery store?
For the devil cometh by tempting and trying ever last darn one of the children of men, and the great and powerful Lord be the only One saving us.
--Yep, that’s the one. I was planning on running over there this afternoon.
*Great! I’ll be the guy in the red T-shirt.
Long be the way and troubled of them what don’t confess His name.
--Okay! Two o’clock or thereabouts?
It’s an evil and adulterous generation—
*Fine. See you there.
--Bye. (click)
* (click)
Hellfire and damnation! (Dialing)
^^^Goddammit! I’m a day sleeper, you idiot!
Could you hold on just one itty bitty minute?

Sorry for the lag...

2006-06-20T13:40:00.000-07:00

...but isn't it fun to throw a party that exacts a three-day recovery?

QOD: Choose your final meal on Death Row.

2006-06-16T22:54:00.000-07:00

What give a body any right to go whackin’ me? I din’ do nuthin’ man. This be one helluva dis’pointmint on me, so I be givin’ the gov’mint some dis’pointmint of they own. Gimme a nice peanut butter samwich, mebbe some crab jam, plus a dose a penticeilin.’ I be keelin’ over and dyin’ ‘fore they kin say boo. Serve ‘em right, that. My kid’ll sue they ass on wrongful death in custidy. Git hisself a billion bucks. All I gotta do now is git rid a all them epi-pens. Done writ up one a them do not rescustipate papers, but I ain’t trustin’ ‘em. Ain’t nobody in here worth one bit a trust er half a damn. Y’all kin trust me on that. ‘Sides, I ain’t did nothin,’ like I said afore. Leastwise, warn’t my fault.

QOD: The Blue Fairy says your nose will grow an inch every time you say "Yes" or "No" today. How's your proboscis?

2006-06-15T13:33:00.000-07:00

Domestic shit is the worst. We get this call from way out west, Idaho or Utah or one of those places where everything is bassackwards—you know what I mean. Anyway, some guy’s wife has run off with the kids and he’s insisting her pal here in NY helped her run and is harboring her. So we get the address and head out to chat with this woman. She’s got half a dozen kids herself and is living in public housing, so we’re wondering already how she’s got the means to run out west and then stretch her food stamps far enough to feed eight more mouths.

Kid answers the door, with mom right behind. She comes out on the stoop. “Hi. What’s up?” she says, like it’s no big deal. Okay, public housing can do that. She sees cops every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

“We’d like to speak to Leigh Smith,” I say.

Her brows go up. “Sure. I can get you her number.” She turns like she’s going back inside.

“You telling us she isn’t here/”

Her turn back is slower and her eyes go to me, then to my partner, and back to me again. “What are you talking about?”

“She took off with her kids,” I say. “Her husband says she’s here with you.”

“Oh my.” She rakes a hand through her hair and one side of her mouth goes up. “I wondered if she’d actually do something like that.” She shakes her head as though to clear it. “I guess the last time I talked to her on the phone was, oh, maybe Wednesday or Thursday. She sounded pretty freaked. Said she was scared Todd was going to kill her, and then this cop…”

“What about the cop?”

“Oh. Well, he said he’d deny it if anyone asked him, but he told her to get out if she got a chance. Said the situation was heading for some hostage thing where the guy ends up killing his family and then himself.”

“Okay. Well, that’s something for someone to look into, but it’s not us. We just want to find her.” I nod toward her door. “Is she in there?”

“Oh god! This is the last place she’d come if she had a grain of sense. It’s the first place Todd would look.” She laughs under her breath. “Which is why you’re here, right?”

“So you wouldn’t mind us taking a look inside.”

She waves a hand, nonchalant. “Be my guest. Ignore the mess—I never get a chance to clean until the weekend.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “Where is she?”

One eye squints, like she’s thinking. “She has a sister who lives an hour south of her. Little town I can’t remember the name of. Starts with a P, I think.”

“I think he already checked with the relatives.”

“Mmm. Well, I don’t know any of her friends out there.” She brightens. “Have they got any women’s shelters nearby?”

“I don’t know. We’re working on an assurance that she’s either with you, or that you know where she is.”

She shrugs. “Like I said, if she’s into hiding, most people would agree that it would be a mistake for her to come here or tell me about it. Todd would be on me first thing.” She smiles. “Which is why you’re here, right? Leigh’s scared, but she’s not an idiot.”

“Do you know where she is?”

She frowns. “Your guess is probably as good as mine. Like I said, I haven’t talked to her on the phone since last week. She kept saying she couldn’t leave because of this or that, which means she was thinking about it, I guess.”

I stare hard at her. “You wouldn’t lie to us, would you, Ms. Dwight?”

“I never lie.” She grins. “Too hard remembering what story you told.”

“So everything you’ve said to us is the truth.”

“Absolutely. It would be a mistake to lie to the police, even if I hadn’t already decided never to lie.”

I study the ground. I hated to admit it, but I believed her. Everything she’d said was the literal truth. But she also knew where her friend was. I was pretty sure about that. So we stood around for another half hour, trying to get a straight “yes” or “no” out of her. She fucking wouldn’t do it. Answered my questions with questions, told me seventeen times about that last chat on the phone, told me it’d be crazy hiding in the first place Todd would look. Crazy like a fox, maybe. I kept grilling and she kept being earnest and helpful without telling us a thing.

Right about then, one of her kids bursts out of the house, with another right on his tail. They’re both sputtering out their sides of the argument and she stills them both with a look. After a pregnant pause, she says softly, “Can you see that I’m talking with these police officers?” They both release heavy sighs, turn, and walk back into the house without so much as exchanging dirty looks.

As she turned back to me, I saw the reality beneath her pleasant mien. This was a woman who had her tongue and her emotions firmly in hand. I wasn’t going to rattle her, she wouldn’t get careless and let something slip, she would never allow herself to get caught in a straight out lie. Somehow she’d gotten her friend out of a dangerous situation and she’d put her someplace safe. She’d never endanger her by telling us.

I glanced at my partner, who shot me a look from under her lashes. “Okay,” I said. “How about giving us a call if you find out where she is?”

“Would that be the right thing to do?” she asked.

I left without answering the question.

My laxity

2006-06-14T18:27:00.000-07:00

Okay, you might have noticed that I've skipped a day here and there. Despite my OCD, I've been lax, and while I'd like to blame it on the fact that I'm still recovering from surgery, the truth is that swimming and belly dancing have latched onto the OCD. Especially the belly dancing because I must have dozens of costumes and clanky jewelry and so forth (for myself as well as the buddy who talked me into taking lessons), which means my arthritic hands have been too busy sewing to be able to type. Also, remember that my baby is having a baby, which takes up huge amounts of time shopping for maternity clothes and baby baubles. Just think what fun I'm having!

Oh yes, we're having our traditional Summer Solstice Party this Saturday. If you're in the neighborhood (Phoenix AZ), drop me a line and I'll give you directions. (No, we don't do the nudity bit--but we can give you directions to Eugene OR, where they do the full ancient rite in the woods.)

QOD: What would you prefer to be reincarnated as?

2006-06-14T18:26:00.000-07:00

While I don’t believe in reincarnation, if it turns out I’m wrong, I think I’d like to come back as my own descendant, hoping that my style of childrearing had continued through the generations. Let’s face it, I’d love to be my own kid…

If my next incarnation must be an animal? To explore this, I took an Animal Personality Test* and discovered I would make a good zebra, or a good lion, or a good tiger. Overall, I think the zebra has the most appeal. This might only be age talking, as my sign is Leo and I’ve always felt comfortable as a big cat, although I’ve certainly enjoyed being a good bitch as well. Tigers are beautiful, and so lovely that I was once tempted to join a cage of them at the zoo. I scrambled over the chain link fence and was nearly through the bars when my father wondered why the big Bengal suddenly got an interested gleam in his eye and got up to pad toward something. Daddy caught me a second before the tiger did. Sure, I was only three, and Dad meant well, but nobody can PROVE that the tiger meant me any harm at all. Sure, a lion mauled a kid a month earlier, but this was a TIGER. Anyway, tigers are disappearing because men want to build apartments and shopping malls, so it might be an iffy proposition coming back as one.

My husband disagreed with some of my answers on the Animal Personality Test, and his view of me put me into the category of penguin, gorilla, or vulture. Thanks a lot, bubba. I’ll take the penguin, with the guarantee of a zoo in a pleasant clime. I’m going to rethink my marital relationship as well. Vulture? Gorilla? Just because I like to spend his money and have my own way all the time is no reason to toss me into THAT pot.

To continue on the zebra idea, think how cool it would be to look superficially like everybody else, but to be truly unique. Did you know that zebras are the only herbivores who use their teeth if someone is nasty? A well-placed kick can also shatter a lion’s jaw. Leave me alone and I’m quite peaceable. Annoy me and regret it. Plus, just think of those wide open spaces coupled with the ability to storm along in a flurry of hooves. All that, without a rider on your back (which explains why I don’t want to be a horse). Zebras also graze in mixed herds, so if I got tired of chatting with the other zebras, I could also converse with sheep, deer, horses, giraffes, whatever. An educational and entertaining life. I like the advice the Test gives to zebras as well: “The road to success is always under construction.”

*”The Animal in You” by Roy Feinson

QOD: Barter Day: How did you do?

2006-06-12T19:42:00.000-07:00

Skipped breakfast.
Gave my morning egg to Louisa for a cup of sugar.
Gave the sugar to Tim for half a loaf of his homemade raisin nut bread.
The bread went to Hinky Sullivan for his plastic Superman tea set.
The tea set was enough to get volume four of Christian’s 1966 World Book encyclopedia.
Evan, who’s needed volume four for years, gave me two donuts and his old bike.
The bike went to Jane for her scratched coffee table.
Eloise gave me a tuna fish sandwich and her hand-stitched Log Cabin quilt for the table.
The quilt went to Dan, in return for his riding lawnmower.
The lawnmower netted six month’s supply of dog food from Jim.
Hinky Michaels gave me the pick of his newest pedigreed litter for the dog food.
Mabel went crazy over the pup and gave me her all-expenses-paid trip to Paris.
Tomorrow I’ll be working on my vacation wardrobe…

QOD: You’ve won free plastic surgery for a year. What will you have done?

2006-06-10T17:20:00.000-07:00

Let’s glance in the mirror:

Nose: a shade too long, perhaps, with a familial bump
Eyes: fine lines, a bit of puffiness
Chin: Doubled
Mouth: Smile lines
Breasts: Alas, not as perky as they once were
Abdomen: Well, where did you think that extra thirty pounds went?
Buttocks: Yup, there’s the other twenty pounds.

What will I change? Not a thing. I LOVE that pudgy gal in the glass!
I hereby donate my prize to children born with birth defects.

QOD: Find a stranger and agree to meet each other in ten years.

2006-06-09T12:33:00.000-07:00

We met at the bus stop near the library. I knew all the regulars on my route home, but I’d never seen him before. He sat across the aisle, winked at me, and started doing card tricks. Before long, most of the passengers were crowding around, keeping half an inch of butt on a seat to placate the bus driver. He kept us laughing for the entire twenty-seven minute ride to my stop. “Will I ever see you again?” I asked as I pulled the cord.

“Exactly ten years from today, same time, same place,” he said with a grin.

I think of him constantly, his engaging smile, those dark eyes, the black hair that kept falling over one eyebrow. Those hands, shuffling, fanning those cards. Legerdemain with a flourish. Was he teasing? Or does he shuffle and fan his days as easily as he does his cards, knowing where each one is at any given moment, able to slide it forth at will?

The library has always been a regular thing for me, once a week, rain or shine. Only now I go on Thursdays, that being the day upon which the exact ten years ends.

QOD: Feel patriotic about a country other than your own.

2006-06-08T11:21:00.000-07:00

I wave the red, white and blue for the Czech Republic. Once Czechoslovakia, when the Slovakians said, “Hey, we’d like our own country,” they said, “Okay!” and divvied up the geography. No bloodshed. Their motto: Pravda vitezi (Truth prevails)

QOD: Write one line of exquisite iambic pentameter, to be included in a collection.

2006-06-08T11:13:00.000-07:00

Insanity swings through my fam’ly tree

QOD: Your government needs you as a secret agent; don't look now, they're watching.

2006-06-06T10:49:00.000-07:00

Dear Public,

I never wanted to be a secret agent; in fact, I was always against the general idea of spying. The government insisted, although I showed them in the Constitution itself that it wasn’t in the spirit of Americanism. Now all I can do is alert others that they are, indeed, watching.

Hoping for a better day,
Your Local Librarian

QOD: Stamp out the sad life of some inferior species--indulge your dark urges before they overwhelm you.

2006-06-04T10:40:00.000-07:00

I had to. She was after the kid. Cute kid, too: heart-shaped face, snaggle-fence of new teeth, sprinkle of angel kisses across her nose. If anything, you should blame the manufacturer of the kickboard. Why would they deliberately throw bright red and yellow into the design of the thing? Plenty of flowers all around the pool, but I can see how any bee would be tricked into thinking she’d found the mother lode just glimpsing that kickboard. So she’s zooming around the kid’s head and the kid’s screaming, swallowing water, choking… I had to kill that poor worker bee. You understand how it is—kids come first. Always.

QOD: Eat nothing but asparagus all day long to ascertain just how noxious your pee can get.

2006-06-03T12:27:00.000-07:00

That Jamuel was a looker all right, and a talker to boot. Had hisself maybe twenty gals running after him. Had to keep him this little notebook to keep straight which one he was off to see when. Could be he was after some spooning now and again, but them who was older and wiser seen his first aim was getting hisself fed. Oh yeah, he had him breakfast dates, lunch dates, dinner dates, and midnight snack dates. Not him paying for nothing either. He liked home cooking, and them silly gals was lining up to give it to him. Weekends was even worse, with him shoving in six or seven meals a day ‘stead of his usual four.

Could be his comeuppance was pure accident, it being the time wild asparagus was growed up nice, but they’s some think that passel of gals just got theirselves fed up and decided on a little conspiracy. Anyhow, Jamuel popped outa bed one Saturday and hoofed on over to Meg’s house, where she give him some fancy French thing called a omulet, which ain’t nothing more than a mess a eggs wrapped ‘round whatever else you got handy. Meg had her a bunch of chopped asparagus handy. Right tasty, it seems, ‘cause he gobbled it right up and held out his plate for seconds.

It being the weekend, he kissed Meg goodbye after a bit and went off to fly a kite with Annabel, who got her a certain fame for making these little tart type things using a muffin tin, which were just fine for hauling along as a midmorning snack. Wouldn’t you know it, them tarts was plumb full of asparagus bits. Old Jamuel smiled and tucked ‘em down.

Lunch was over to Sally’s, where he got him another batch of asparagus. Had him two afternoon dates, back to back, and durn if he didn’t get hisself fed one asparagus snack after t’other. Dinner weren’t no better; in fact, that gal’s uncle went and brewed up some asparagus wine to go with his niece’s asparagus stew. Jamuel’s burping a bit by the time he gets to his evening walk-on-the-green date with Christine, and the smile on his face is a bit strained when he bites into her asparagus cookie. It don’t go down all that well with her asparagus tea, neither.

Now it weren’t no strange thing to see a feller slip off and go behind a tree, but I’m betting Jamuel’s still wishing his bladder wasn’t so keen on nudging him that particular evening. First thing happened was Christine gasping, grabbing her nose and backing off. Then heads start turning toward that tree, and the faces attached to them heads was grimacing something fierce. Next thing was dogs coming from every direction to check out the most malodorous event in the history of the Holler. They got him good and surrounded by the time them HAZMAT trucks roll up from Bascomb to see to what they figured was some chemical spill.

That were a time, all right. Jamuel weren’t fit for company for a week, and you can bet the other fellers in the Holler made good use of the time to give all them gals a different taste of courtship.

QOD: What’s your favorite way to discreetly give the finger to people?

2006-06-01T19:19:00.000-07:00

True story: One morning in NY, after an ice storm, I slipped and broke the middle finger of my left hand. My daughter took me to the ER, and the doc put a metal splint on it, one that went up and over the finger, straightening and lengthening the digit, and then he wrapped it with a vengeance, adding an amazing girth. Thus, I was giving the finger to EVERYONE until I could get to the specialist the next day. Coupled with pain pills, it was a blast!

QOD: Be gay for a day! (Or straight, if that's your other side) How did it go?

2006-05-31T18:18:00.000-07:00

“Let’s be gay,” said April.

I rolled my eyes. “That’s the best you can suggest for a Friday night?”

She shoved the personals column at me, the Women Seeking Women section. “I figure we do our nails, shave our legs and stuff, and then we’ll check this out.” She opened the fridge. “They’re having a get together tonight.”

I read the ad. “This says lesbian and bi-sexual only. It doesn’t say anything about tonight.”

April retrieved a container of cinnamon-apple yogurt and got herself a spoon. “I read this article someplace that all women are bi-sexual, more or less.”

“How come you’ve always read an article about whatever you think?” I flapped the paper at her. “What’s this about tonight?”

“Oh, I called and talked to somebody named Maggie.” She sat, kicked out another kitchen chair and put her feet up. “I said we’d come. We have to pick up some chips and dip on the way.”

I hollered at the ceiling and headed for the bathroom. I’m not a wuss; you just don’t know April.

Maggie lived way out in the boonies, so we were later getting there than I figured. A tiny buxom blonde bounced out of the house as soon as we pulled into the huge gravel drive, waved us along to a place to park amidst a dozen vehicles, and wrapped each of us in a soft squishy hug as soon as we emerged from the car. “C’mon in and get a drink, hons,” she said with a slightly southern accent. We followed her into a spacious kitchen and were swept up into friendly greetings. Teri, Alanna, Mary, Judy, something that sounded like Tippy, and a string of names that slipped in and out of my ears before I’d downed my first drink.

Before long we were settling into an assortment of chairs, sofas and cushions in the living room for formal introductions around the circle, with a few details on each woman. A nurse, an author, a hospital administrator, an exotic dancer, the treasurer of a commune (who knew they still had those?), a pediatrician… On we went, me without a prayer of tagging names to occupations.

Maggie showed off her new nipple rings that her husband had gotten her for her birthday, as well as the beautiful shawl their girlfriend (Lynn?) had made her. Soon we’d launched into a laughing discussion of difficulties concerning alternate sexual lifestyles and the truly obtuse things people say.

My eyes kept wandering to Teri, the exotic dancer. I’d never even experimented in college, probably because she hadn’t been there. Next thing I knew, she was whispering in Maggie’s ear, after which she left the room. Maggie got up and searched through her CD collection. “Got a treat coming, ladies,” she trilled.

The music started, and Teri slinked in wearing a full-length, shimmering dark green, ultra tight evening gown. I popped my eyes back in and joined the applause. After a few moments of sauntering and swaying around the circle, she was suddenly almost in my lap, her silky dark hair brushing my face. One shoulder strap slipped down as she leaned to whisper, “No touching allowed when I’m working.” Then her perfect buttocks pushed against my shoulder as she wriggled arms and breasts from the dress, and turned to smile and trace her hands from my forehead, down my neck, and ever so lightly against my breasts. She swayed away to cries of “Me! Me!” but her eyes returned again and again to me.

By the time the dance ended and Teri slipped out, dragging her dress behind her, Maggie and one of the others were dragging out massage tables. Dazed, I didn’t get up until Teri returned, clad in her original T and shorts, to pull me by the hand. “You should have been quicker,” she pouted, and I realized April had managed to situate her now naked body on one of the tables. I eased Teri toward the other, not sure I wanted to be part of my roommate’s show.

I don’t know (yet) what it’s like being massaged by twelve hands at once, but it was delightful being part of a team so utterly focused on the task at hand. Most of us had our tops off before long, and by the time we’d overheated the room to our conclusion, we were all ready to slip out of our dungarees and run squealing out in the autumn night air to jump into the hot tub.

Teri sat by me and bumped me along the seat into a jet of bubbles. “We should have us a nice long chat,” she whispered in my ear.

Oh, yeah. Sometimes those stupid articles April reads are right on.

QOD: Does flattery get you anywhere?

2006-05-30T20:31:00.000-07:00

You're so beautiful, sweetheart. Such a great smile...ooh, yes! Let me see those glorious teeth. Such a smart sweetie, so brave. That's it, that's it... C'mon, puddin'cake, mashed peas are GOOD for you. Okay, how about an airplane? Zoom, zoom--open the hanger, baby!

QOD: Write a letter to a mass murderer.

2006-05-28T13:06:00.000-07:00

Dear Ronnie,

Your mom told me about your new employment, and I simply had to write to beg you to reconsider what you’re doing with your life. Please don’t cast my advice aside because I’m a practicing Buddhist. Life is sacred—it truly is, no matter what your religious stance.

Think of the many lives you’ve already taken, perhaps without a thought of their suffering (I hope you haven’t taken satisfaction in viewing their writhing last gasps). Life is so brief, perhaps you imagine it doesn’t matter, but every moment of experience is invaluable for each and every one of us.

I think often of the sweet child you once were; ah, if only you could recapture the loving innocence of that darling boy.

Perhaps your choice is based entirely upon the money you’re paid. Palaces of silver, dear heart, can never atone for stamping out so much life. Plus, your mother told me you almost exclusively use poison, which historically is a woman’s weapon, and thus doubly base for you, not to mention the danger to your own sweet self simply handling so much deadliness.

Wouldn’t you prefer to be a librarian? Or if that isn’t adventurous enough for you, why not be a fireman? Anything, anything, my darling, would be better than exterminating your lowly brethren. I know you don’t believe in reincarnation, but consider how you’d feel if you were born to an unlucky situation—a rat in a high rise, a cockroach in a kitchen—and someone else was determined to end you!

Karmically yours,
Aunt Sylvia

QOD: Set your alarm for 5am. Tell us what you did when it rang.

2006-05-28T00:21:00.000-07:00

Alarm rang at 5am. I jumped up, looked around, and failed to see my shadow. Back to my nest for another six hours.

QOD: Your body is your temple. Cut out addictive substances for the day and see how much purer you feel.

2006-05-26T18:24:00.000-07:00

My body is my temple, huh? Okay, for one day, no addictive substances.

I heard exercise is addictive. No worries, mate. Okay, okay—you’re talking about chemical addictions. (Which means I get to gamble? No?)

Nicotine: No longer a problem, dude. Never was a huffer, so you can cross that off.

Heroin, cocaine, etc.: No biggie. Haven’t used illegal substances for years. Well, not for the last couple weeks anyway, and Jude won’t have his new selection until Sunday.

Caffeine: Ouch! Coffee, tea, No-Doze… So I’m sluggish. I’ll take the day off and avoid the potluck. Betsy always brings that damn chocolate cake of hers anyway, and I guess that’s addictive, too.

Alcoholic beverages: Shit. Now, does a day mean while the sun is shining? You didn’t mean that 24 hours thing, right?

Food: Can’t argue with the chemical components chasing around the supermarket. Getting tougher here, but okay. You can live for, what? Two weeks sans food?

Water: Definitely not going outside or exercising and I get control of the TV remote.

Oxygen: Got me there, pal. I’m just not that much into purity.

QOD: Two blondes. Doing it. Together. Now write the woman's fantasy.

2006-05-25T14:46:00.000-07:00

Palms wave in gentle breeze. Full moon lights silver surf, glimmers a thousand thousand tiny broken shells eroding to join white sand. She stands, irresolute, heart a wild flutter, airplane ticket in her hand. The water beckons; she walks slowly down the dune, her toes digging into still-warm sand. The ticket swears this is her last night, insists that she wing her way home in the morning. Home to stale work in a bickering office, home to Buffy and Smith, who wind around her ankles as they hiss at each other. Home to girls’ night out as the lame highlight of the week.

A gust of wind catches her skirt, swirls the bright colors up past her head. Giggling, she presses them down, glances around to see if anyone saw. No one. She releases a heavy sigh. Just this afternoon, shopping for the souvenirs everyone at home would expect, she saw him, a glorious smooth-skinned god with hair that shifted red and gold in the sun. She stared, oblivious to the crowd pressing around her until a running child bumped her, dumping her packages to the ground. He helped her gather them, grinned at her, his ice blue eyes catching hers. She stood, mouth agape, tongue-tied. His hand brushed her forearm as he settled the last of her spilled keepsakes; a cold shiver ran up past her shoulder to flame her cheeks. She didn’t even thank him.

So, did she fly back home to the everyday humdrum? Did she remain the sensible girl everyone said she was? Tears welled in her eyes. A whole week in paradise and she never once shed her inhibitions. No, she counted her drinks, measured her sleep, timed herself in the sun. If only…

She could stay. The ticket lost in the wide ocean; perhaps unforeseen difficulties in getting it replaced. Would her boss swallow it? It wasn’t like she didn’t have more vacation time accrued. Would the office really fall apart without her? What if she stayed? She could look for him, could invite him for a drink, ask him to dance, throw a lei around his neck. Other women did things like that.

She walks on wet sand, allowing the foamy ripples to crawl toward her toes, to nibble at them. Someone told her she didn’t need to worry about riptides here, but if one caught her, all she had to do was to swim parallel to the beach until she passed it. Was that what had happened? Was he nothing more than a riptide? Why not swim parallel to her life for a while? She lacks the courage. She knows it; everyone knows it.

A slight noise behind startles her; the ticket slips from her fingers. She screams as a muscled arm comes around her waist. “Do you want me to chase it?” His voice slides along a laugh, his breath warm on her neck. He turns her, looks into her eyes. She can’t even see what color his are anymore, but he feels as warm as his burnished gold skin promised. “You shy?” he asks.

“N-no.” Her knees give way. For half a breath she believes he’s caught her, but instead he follows her to the sand. She feels it on her back, gritty-soft, as his mouth covers hers, warm and tender at first, deepening to ferocity. A laugh shakes the back of her throat. The riptide has her; she lets it carry her off. Parallel to what? She feels the caution slip, feels it slide after her forlorn ticket, and they both disappear beneath rolling waves.

QOD: Write the opening sentence of your bestselling debut novel.

2006-05-24T21:24:00.000-07:00

I broke two toes this morning, tripping over the dead guy in the chair next to my bed.

(Okay, that's pretty lame, but I broke two toes this morning, tripping over the chair next to my bed and I'm having difficulty thinking about anything else.)

QOD: You must throw away something you like. What will it be?

2006-05-23T15:46:00.000-07:00

I like best the love in my heart;
I’ll throw it all away.
Because it renews constantly,
This casting will demand my remaining years.
Stand in my vicinity;
It will fall upon you.

QOD: Insult an insect.

2006-05-22T16:45:00.000-07:00

Put your zillion eyes back in your head, you parasitic worm or I’ll step so hard on you that your larvae will hatch dizzy. I’d drop a rock on you, but I hear that’s your favorite hangout. Go on now, pick up those extraneous legs, you carapaceless wonder, before I break the rest off, and wriggle back to your airborne-virus mommy; I’m sure the rest of the protozoa will welcome you back to your old home-slimy-home in the lower intestine of that diseased tortoise.

QOD: Why is it a mistake to triple-tie your shoelaces?

2006-05-21T14:12:00.000-07:00

I thought he was nuts when he tossed the package of shoelaces on my chest. Wrong size. Way wrong. I sat up, holding the nasty thing by one corner. “What’s the idea?”

“I think it’s time to think about triple-tying your shoes.” His face remained bland, as if this was an everyday kind of thing.

“Triple-tie. One, two, three. That’s your idea?”

One eyebrow lifted. “For one day. You can do that, can’t you?”

“This is a mistake.” Fuck. I knew what would follow. Dares, double dares… “One day, huh?”

“Twenty-four hours. Start right now and go with it until we meet tomorrow.”

I groaned. “You know what you’re starting, don’t you? If I have to triple-tie my shoelaces—“

“Yes, yes. But just for one day. One, two, three; one, two, three.”

After staring at his placid mug for a full minute, I started untying my shoes. He held out his hand for my old, perfect-length black laces. “They’re just going in my desk drawer,” he said. A corner of his mouth rose and tightened, prelude to sarcasm if the past presaged the present.

I handed them over and opened his package, squinting. “These aren’t actually black.”

“Just this side of it. Scared?”

“What do you think?” I carefully laced them through the holes. Then the tying: one knot, double knot, triple knot. I rose, dizzy. “You’re a bastard.”

He smiled. “So are you. Have fun.” He stood and held out his hand. Nervous, I took it and pumped one, two, three. Weird.

He opened the door and I stepped through, nodding once, twice, thrice at Molly. “Same time tomorrow?” she chirped.

“Same time,” I murmured. “Same time, same time.”

She winked at me. “Looking good.”

I turned and walked away without another word. I stopped at the outer door. Crap. Was it going to work? I tapped my heels together three times, turned the knob back and forth three times, and cautiously opened the door. Okay so far. I stepped over the threshold, stepped back, stepped forward, stepped back, stepped forward. I stood there a moment, letting the door swing shut. Maybe I’d just stay put for the twenty-four hours. How bad could it be?

No good. Some lady wanted to enter the building and I had to step aside. Shit. Might as well go through with it. I’d probably end up in the morgue.

It was a hell of a day. Three pushes on the walk button to cross the street, three hops up and down both curbs. You get the idea. I glanced at the clock when I finally got home. Damn. It was the wrong time, the wrong time entirely. What was I supposed to do with myself?

I almost threw up washing my hands three times, and choosing three foods to eat for lunch was hell. God, how do you decide?

Three, three, three. All day. I couldn’t believe it when I finally got to bed. I wound three alarm clocks slowly, slowly. They all showed the wrong time. This was disastrous.

I showed up at the wrong time the next day as well. Molly gave me a grin. “Have a seat. He’ll be with you in a bit.”

I glanced at the chairs. Other people sat in those. I cast her a sidelong look. “He put you up to that?”

She giggled.

When I finally got in to see him, I was pleased to see him spreading a clean sheet on the chaise longue. Good.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“I lived.”

“I see that.” Arms akimbo, he stared into my eyes. “I told you three was a lucky number.”

“Not as lucky as seven,” I muttered as I stretched out. “What the hell am I going to do with all this free time?”

QOD: Which is your best foot?

2006-05-19T20:48:00.000-07:00

Born to a left-footed dad and a right-footed mom, I began life on a stable footing. My earliest years, therefore, with dad footing the bills, were footloose and fancy free, with an occasional need to foot it to the store for mom. Admittedly, I often relied upon a footstool, but knew it was a temporary maneuver, what with the pater being a six-footer. DNA gives certain assurances.

On the other hand, DNA can give you pause: my sister is web-footed. This was hidden from me for a number of years, due to her expeditious use of proper footwear. Thankfully, my worry about developing the need to spend 24 hours a day in camouflaging footgear was soon put to rest (sort of a foot-rest, if you will) by discovering the trait expressed pre-birth. Talk about starting out on the wrong foot.

I lettered in football in high school, although faulty footwork banned me from boxing, and my numerous footfaults kept me off the tennis courts. Scholastically? I didn’t know a footmark from a footnote, and if a teacher asked me to read from the foot of the page, I was looking for an outline of a footprint. Tried to fake it, but always got my foot in my mouth. Oddly enough, I was terrific with a sewing machine—nobody knew how to handle a presser foot better.

Concerned about my future prospects, my dad sent me off to help my uncle during the summer. At first, a ranch seemed like a great idea, but after a month of dealing with foot rot and foot-and-mouth disease, I thumbed a ride home. Only place I want to see a cow is on my plate, medium-rare.

When the day came that I had to stand on my own feet, I was spooked enough to join the infantry. A foot soldier’s life is not all it’s cracked up to be. No problem keeping my footlocker in order, and I could beat any of my buddies in a footrace, but mortar fire in the foothills was a definite bummer. No sense putting one foot in the grave at my tender age.

After my psychiatric discharge, I tried selling vacuum cleaners. Yes, yes—you hear it coming: couldn’t get my foot in the door. The stress brought out my lead foot, which garnered several speeding tickets and one (small) clip of news footage. My dad said he would have stopped making payments on my car if he hadn’t been so worried I’d become a footpad and hit jail before I was twenty.

At my third—or was it fourth?—job, I was extolling the virtues of a footbrake on a mountain bike when the customer asked me if I’d ever done community theater. After some footdragging, I showed up for tryouts. Got the part of a footman, who, on his half-day off, meets some lovely on a footbridge. Usual ending. Of the play, that is. An agent saw me and has since managed to get me a foothold in Hollywood. Turns out I don’t have feet of clay under the footlights. Proud mom and pop, and with a little luck, the starlet I’m playing footsie with has some kind of webfoot-discouraging kind of DNA.

How do you like that footle?

QOD: What do you do if you meet your doppleganger at a social function?

2006-05-18T20:10:00.000-07:00

First time I’d been stranded in a quarter of a century. Not that it was the pickup’s fault. No, I’d been the idiot who’d zipped into a too small track on the edge of a cliff. With one wheel hanging off into the wild blue, I figured I’d better stop the idiocy and hike back.

Started to rain before I got to the road. Hey, this is what happens when you let your baby down. I was glad I’d chained her to the nearest conifer. Unless the whole mountainside slipped—not unheard of in our green northwest—she’d still be there when I returned with some help.

I’m not much of a guy for hitchhiking. Nothing against it, but it once took me three days and 28 rides (plus sleeping on some lady’s porch and waking up with a herd of ducklings on my chest) to get from L.A. to home. My friend Mikey left a day later, got one slick ride up the coast, and had burned up half my stash before I joined the party. Kath says it has to do with attitude. There’s not much of an answer to that.

Stuck out the digit without a lot of hope, but once I was good and soaked, I saw headlights blinking through the precipitation. Damn if he didn’t slow. I smiled when he got close enough to see he favored the same ride I did: ’47 Chevy.

Jumped in quick due to the rain, and was still slapping it off when I realized we weren’t going anywhere. I looked up and returned the guy’s stare. Crap, I was gazing into some kind of Outer Limits mirror. He shook his head and stepped on the accelerator. “Tell me your name’s not Kevin,” he said.

“Shit! You kidding?”

“Fuck me. I think I need something to take the edge off this. I’ve got a pipe in the glove box, if you’d be so kind. Sorry, no papers.” He gave me a ghastly grin. “Scared to share?”

“No, but I’ve got my own pipe,” I said, fumbling with the catch.

“Well, of course you do,” he said.

I started cracking up when I found his pipe behind the baggie. He glanced at me and I produced mine from my back pocket. “And to think they told me this was an original.”

“How long you had that?”

“Longer than I’ve had my orange ’47 Chevy pickup with the ding in the left front fender.” He choked out a laugh and tapped a fervent shave and a haircut on the horn. I slouched in my seat, concentrating on getting the bud into the bowls.

Turns out we were born on the same fucking day, our moms had the same name, we’d both been loons enough to major in history, and we dug the same bands. Oh man, we were still discovering things when he got me where I needed to be.

Keep in touch? Hell, no. A bit too weird for both of us. But god fuck me and stash me in a manger, that was one ride I’ll never forget. Damn good bud, too. He let me off with a full pipe.

QOD: How is rain right?

2006-05-17T21:02:00.000-07:00

Glance from a window,
Sigh,
Call to hand a portable roof.
Sky spits
Upon persuasive watertight,
Morse Coding destiny.

Weather girl’s
Breasts,
Twin suns (or are they moons?)
Rise from low cloth horizon.
Her voice smiles;
Did she speak?
Scudding spate
Assaults upraised news:
Futures in buckets.

Gutters mold
Stampeding filth,
Brown-nosing doomsayers,
Cassandras and Chicken Littles
Thunderclapping
Premonition.

Naifs,
Babes in woods,
Cancan and moonwalk,
Heedless,
Lifting limbs to
Sprinklings of fate,
Tintinnabulation for
Cotillion and jitterbug,
As they belly dance toward
Unknown.

Sleet’s
Anesthetizing squall
Hovers over
Profligate and parsimonious,
Free reigning tides
In thoughtless wax and wane,
As we do or do not
Yield rain its right of way.

I'm back...sorta

2006-05-17T12:46:00.000-07:00

Hi guys!

Guess I'm not a spring chicken anymore--healing is taking its time, right along with the doctor's prognostication rather than my wishful expedited version.

I've been given an allowance (woefully small) of time per day to be at the computer. I'll probably end up being obedient; I'm already uncomfortable. Another month, doc says, and I should be right as rain (how right is rain, anyway? hey! sounds like a good question for the day).

Thanks so much for the notes and calls, you sweeties. It's really helped keep my spirits up.

Hugs and kisses to all, Carrie

To My Readers:

2006-04-30T22:43:00.000-07:00

Hi all! I'm having surgery tomorrow so will be on hiatus for a few days. I'll be back soon, I promise...

QOD: What colors of streamers are on your Maypole?

2006-04-30T22:40:00.000-07:00

After that paper mowshay woman come to the Holler, Miz Tyler gits herself a notion to keep on with that Maypole business. Got us a pole now, ain’t we? Folks been using that pole to tack up this and that, but nobody mind giving the pole over to streamers and such for one day. ‘Course, I’m thinking myself how that tacking up stuff give her the idea in the first place. Started with that preaching feller come through that summer. One of them screaming banshee types what gits folks rolling on the ground being saved and all. Put him up a big old tent in Dooley’s meadow, which is right handy for dunking folks in that good swimming spot. Anyhow, this preaching feller tacks up some yeller signs bidding one and all to come along for the fun, and one of them gits pinned to the pole. Stayed up there long after that feller’s come and gone. Then folks just naturally follow suit, pinning up invites to quilting bees and potluck suppers and please keep a lookout for Dooley’s bull, what got out again.

So Miz Tyler goes on down to Bascomb and finds out streamers ain’t coming cheap. She special orders her a bunch of colored toilet paper, figuring that’ll do all right and maybe she could just double it over for extra strength or somewhat. Then she gits her this book from that big library down there what tells how to do dances and such, and has this bit about Maypole dancing. We all’s thinking that’s a right good idea, seeing as how the kids made such a mess of it the first time.

Turn out it ain’t such a hard dance, ‘cause it don’t matter none what kinda steps you’re using, so long as them kids gits into the right place and moves about the same speed as everybody else. It’s pretty much them standing in a circle ‘round the pole boy, gal, boy, gal, with all them gals going clockwise and all them boys going counter-clockwise. Easy to remember, right? Gals mostly do go clockwise, and boys will be boys, after all. Only time gals gits going counter is when boys start up getting affectionate. Keeps up like that, too, only if you don’t go on chasing and pleading and bargaining, they gits right huffy.

Now the next thing is, you gotta remember to go to the right of the first person you’s facing, and then to the left of the next one, and on like that. Just sorta weaving in and out, and the kids gits that down inside a month of practicing. Miz Tyler’s getting plumb excited, and we all’s figuring we maybe gonna see us a genuine Maypoling after all.

So that toilet paper come, and it’s half pink and half sky blue. Boys commences saying it’s a sissy color, that blue, but they quieten some when Miz Tyler says the only other thing she coulda got was flowers and bees and such. Dooley points out that they’ll have to wait ‘til the sun’s up good to get tacking that pink and blue to the top of the pole, elsewise the dew’s gonna make a mess of it. So’s we just figure that’ll be part of the show, watching Dooley and his boy climb them ladders and tack up that folded over pink and blue toilet paper.

Looks real pretty, too, once they gits it up, and Dooley’s boy only give us a scare once, threatening to come down that ladder the quick way. Barked his shin and bit his tongue right through, but he been doing that since he commenced toddling.

On come them kids then, and stand around the pole in Sunday best, them boys fidgeting whilst we sing a bit. They picks up a piece, each one, and gits dancing, and it ain’t but half a minute ‘til them boys is hitting the rowdy button. Well, Miz Tyler don’t have young’uns of her own, and she ain’t a schoolmarm, neither, so she skipped the upfront bit where you tell them boys what kinda grease you’re aiming to boil their butts in if’n they don’t behave proper.

As you might guess, toilet paper ain’t built for rowdying, no matter what color it is or how much it cost to special order it. Miz Tyler’s bawling like a heifer meeting the bull first time, and all the ma’s is slapping at all the pa’s saying as how it ain’t funny so stop laughing and give their boy what he got coming. The harder they slap and fume, the harder them men gits to laughing. Boys grow to be men, like the saying goes, but they don’t leave the boy behind.

After a bit, everybody settles down somewhat, and the male persuasion gits to noticing they got a damn big bit of persuading if’n they’s gonna be any affection hitting the Holler for a good long spell. So we all fetches more toilet paper, and whilst Dooley and his boy tacks it up, we all cuffs them boys’ ears and gits to threatening like nobody’s business. We knowed we hit the persuading point when them women stops fuming and gits telling us no need to get medieval over it. Just boys being boys, after all.

So this time, them boys is good as gold and we gits us a proper wove Maypole, and I do say it looked right pretty even being all in white. Miz Tyler’s drying up them tears and smiling what with all the praise, and last I hear, she’s making plans for that Maypole eight years to come.

QOD: Now that you’re the king of the world, it’s time to look after your legacy: what will they call you after you’re dead?

2006-04-30T07:16:00.000-07:00

Carrie, King of the World Version One:
She was our friend, our buddy, our pal.
She looked real sweet on that throne. (No, not THAT throne.)
Gimme a C…

QOD: Where’s my other sock?

2006-04-28T19:43:00.000-07:00

Someone stole my sock.

No, I didn’t lose it. It wasn’t the sort of sock to get lost. I even left it in the park one day and it found its way home. Anyway, the sock knows my telephone number and always carries loose change in the toe. If he was able to, he would have called.

No, he didn’t run away. First of all, he NEVER would have left his mate, at least not voluntarily. They’ve been together forever, and I’ve never heard them quarreling even once. Secondly, I give my socks a damn good life, and I’ve always invited them to let me know if they needed or wanted anything else. He asked me to change detergents once and I did, even though I’d just bought a huge box. I gave it to my Aunt Edna.

No, I don’t think someone took it by mistake. There’s only four or five apartments that even use those machines. None of them are sock thieves, although they’ve got a nice collection of bad habits between them. Anyway, my sock would have had no trouble at all coming home if he was only carried over to the neighbor’s.

Did I see what? Any strangers? Hmm. Not that I remember outright. Of course, I did notice that Mrs. Edelbaum got a new bra. It’s blue. I guess that’s pretty strange when you think about it. What? Yes, Edelbaum, with an ‘e.’

Where did I get the socks? Oh, golly, it’s been years and years… I think I got them for the winter solstice…no, for my birthday. That’s it. Aunt Edna always said I was a darn good chaperone for underwear.

Lila George. No, I swear: that’s my name. Middle name? Ellen. Well don’t have a spaz attack. Come on, now. The FBI? ‘E’s, huh. Right. You know, maybe I’ll just run home and have a quick check around the apartment again.

Well, no. He never was one for hide and seek. My pink panties love that, but she always pops up when I do that “Olly olly oxen free-oh.” What the hell does that mean, anyway? Okay, okay. You don’t have to get nasty about it.

Oh, let’s see. I guess he spent most of his time sitting in the window, especially at night. Called it communing with the stars. Daytime…well, he loved going into the office with me. Sure, sometimes I took him off and let him warm up next to the computer. His mate liked to play with the wires under the desk. That’s fairly normal, isn’t it?

Boxer shorts? You have an APB out on some boxer shorts? Heck no, what kind of a girl do you think I am? There has absolutely never been a pair of boxers in my apartment. I’d never date someone who wore them. I prefer briefs. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I say.

Hmm. No one’s said anything about dating someone new. Of course, Mrs. Edelbaum has that blue bra. Now that I think about it, she was having a hell of a time with it in the laundry room. Static cling, she said, but I thought it was pretty severe just to be static cling. Still, I don’t see…

Of course I lock my door. Windows? Mmm. Probably not the one overlooking the garden. My sock liked a bit of fresh air most nights.

Oh please. You’re saying a pair of boxers could navigate that rose garden without getting snagged? My sock would have pitched a fit, anyway. He wasn’t one to go off tamely with a strange pair of shorts. We’d have heard him. His mate would have, at least. Not a thing, no. She’s been weepy all morning, poor thing.

Telepathy? I absolutely will not believe any pair of shorts has the slightest telepathic ability. Hats do, of course, which is why I refuse to wear one. Those things can muddle your thoughts until you don’t know which way is up. What? Oh, you think some hat is in league with the shorts. Huh. I’ve never heard of any hat consorting with underwear. It’s like they’re unmentionables or something.

All right, all right. I’ll go home and wait. But if I don’t hear from you by this evening, I’ll be back, and I won’t be as demure as I’ve been today, believe me. My socks count on me and I’m not going to let them down. What? Of course not. If he’s hurt or he’s lost his memory or something, we’ll nurse him back to health. As a matter of fact, if you find any other damaged underwear nobody wants, you can send them along to us as well. I can’t stand the way some people toss them out just because they’re a bit worn or getting old. Damn straight. A lot of people don’t even listen to their underwear. It’s pathetic.

Oh gosh, I don’t know. I’d have to think about that. I’ve never had to rehabilitate underwear that’s gone bad. I’m not really, uh, into boxers, either. Like I said, I never even had a pair in my apartment before. Maybe, though. As long as you know the hat’s clearly the ringleader. Oh sure, I heard that boxers are a bit scatter-brained. I guess they’d be a prime target for a clever hat. So, as long as my sock hasn’t been so traumatized that he can’t stand the sight of that particular pair of boxer shorts, I’d be glad to take them in. A couple of my bras have been complaining lately about being bored. It’ll be a nice change for them.

Okay. I’m expecting to hear from you. I WILL be back if I don’t.

QOD: Where do you keep your bunny ears?

2006-04-28T14:42:00.000-07:00

The kid was born without ears. Oh, he could hear all right; the inner ear was intact and functioned normally. Some genetic glitch, or perhaps some quirk of development had denied him outer ears. Mom and Dad were sick about it. Even as a baby, the kid collected too many stares, too many gasps. What would it be like when he understood? What about when he started school? Let’s face it, kids could be nasty.

The doctors said work was being done on getting tissue to grow in the lab; eventually they might be able to grow him some ears. When, though? It was possible to transplant ears, although the chance of success was much higher if there was a live donor. That and finding someone who matched his rare blood type.

It was a bad time for the family. They called parents, siblings, cousins…pray with us. Less than a week later, those prayers were answered. A live donor, a perfect match, was willing to donate two healthy ears as long as anonymity was guaranteed. The family accepted, and the kid got his ears. A bit too big for him, but he’d grow into them all right.

It was tough, though, not being able to thank the donor. Hard even to imagine what kind of person would be willing to give up ears. The family got together and eventually decided the only thing they could do to thank the donor was to pass the good will along in whatever way they could. Maybe someday the ripple effect would result in a good turn for their anonymous benefactor.

It would be difficult to quantify the good that family did over the next decades, as that kid grew up, enjoying a normal life because of someone’s extraordinary gift. They just kept passing the good along, and no one ever noticed that Aunt Bunny always wore her hair down after the kid’s birth.

QOD: You woke up on the ceiling. What happened?

2006-04-27T21:14:00.000-07:00

Them Dawsons was what folk kindly call big-boned. Husky. Healthy appetites, right fond of the dinner table, and polite enough to welcome sixths as well as seconds. Now I hear city folk got bad enough manners to poke fun at them with double chins, but here in the Holler, folk feel young’uns following in the footsteps of they own elders is fit and proper. So little Mindy Dawson, or might be I should say young ‘stead of little, anyhow, this Mindy might of looked like a big bubble coming down the street when she got on her pink dress, but she had her a right pretty face, and her hair was a thick sheaf of gold hanging down to what mighta been a waist in a lesser gal. Weren’t no lack of fellers standing around with they tongues hanging out over that gal, and not just them what loves a roly-poly, neither.

Problem was, Mindy goes and sets her heart on Elijah Doone, who been pining over Becky Mead since they was toddling. A right silly mooning, as ever last jack one of us could see, but there ain’t no argufying with them Cupid type arrows what get pitched in the wrong direction. Nothing to do but wait it out, ‘til that flying mischief-maker zips in again and shoots a bit straighter. ‘Course, while we’s waiting, that Mindy lassos herself a peculiar thought, being that Elijah got his eye on Becky ‘cause she growed outa her chubby years into this gangling, slip right through the straw if she ain’t careful kinda gal. They’s plenty of folk try to get Mindy in a reasoning mood, but she ain’t having none of that. You seen it afore, I’s betting, ‘cause it ain’t a new tale by any means.

Mindy heads on down to that patch of wood t’other side of Taylors, where this Princess person live. If you ain’t heard of her, she ain’t nothing royal, but her folks give her that name. Now, some say that Princess ain’t nothing but a honest and genuine witch. We got old folk ‘round about ready to swear she been down in that cabin of hers since afore they come into the world theirselves, which be a uncommon good trick for a woman don’t look one day over five and twenty. I ain’t saying I got any opinion on that whatsoever. I’s only telling what happened to Mindy, who come prancing outa them woods looking like a cream-soaked cat. Asked Princess to make her lighter, is what, and durn if she don’t feel lighter already.

Hard to say if whatever spell Princess done cast was working, ‘cause Mindy still look like the full moon in her Sunday white, but she goes on smiling and we ain’t seen that for a heap of days. Anyhow, whilst that Princess done a queer thing or two, if’n you go listening to some of them old folk, she ain’t never done outright mean, so we all’s thinking Mindy ain’t got nothing to worry over. She goes on looking as round as ever, but over that next week she gets to dancing along where she was trudging afore. Oh, she were something to see, all right. Wearing green, she were a giant pea bouncing along on ballerina toes. Got so happy she commenced singing, and she weren’t half bad at that, neither.

One morning, to hear her momma tell it, Mindy wakes up hollering. Her momma skedaddles down the hall to see what’s ailing her daughter, and finds Mindy ain’t in her bed. Nope, somehow that gal is up on the ceiling.

Now her momma don’t do nothing but drop down her jaw and stare. Mindy’s papa come along just then, shove his wife aside to get a look, and drop his jaw just the same, only he got something to say as well. “Come on down from there, you silly gal. You cain’t be thinking that’s proper.”

Mindy give it a good try, pushing and kicking against the ceiling so as to launch herself down to the floor. She come down a foot or two, but then she go bobbing right back up. It don’t take much imagination to see they got theirselves a problem. Mindy rolls on over so’s her face is up, and she gets crawling over to the door. Bit of a climb over the wall above the door, but she get over okay, and then she’s in the hall. Ain’t ‘til she make it to the privy that she thinks on how to get down to use the facilities, so to speak, and they’s plumb out of ideas on that. In the end, her momma fetches a bucket. Had one little problem there, ‘cause it seems Mindy’s so light that everything coming from Mindy is light as well. She finally get it right, and her momma carry that pail upside down through the house whilst Mindy scrubs the stain on the ceiling with a rag her momma sent up to her on the end of a broom. Then it’s another puzzle for Miz Dawson what to do when she gets that bucket outside. In the end, Mister Dawson tells her to set it upright, and they stand by watching whilst Mindy’s water goes floating up and up ‘til it’s plumb out of sight. That sobers ‘em some. One thing for sure, Mindy ain’t gonna be leaving the house.

Mindy’s papa goes on down to have him a talk with that Princess. Ain’t never done that afore, ‘cause he don’t believe in superstitious nonsense, but he got him a daughter on the ceiling and cain’t get her down. Princess won’t say nothing but for being sure Mindy will come down when she got a mind to. When he thinks on getting rough with her, she give him a look struck his blood cold, and he drag on home, none the wiser.

So Mindy miss three, maybe four days of school, and she gits crying over that, ‘cause it means she cain’t see Elijah, the love of her life, and she certain sure don’t want him coming to visit whilst she’s up there on the ceiling. Plumb embarrassing, that is. She goes crawling ‘round the house all day, bawling like a sick calf and leaving tearstains all over the ceiling. Come Sunday, her momma gets demanding her papa think up something, ‘cause it ain’t right missing church when they got them such trouble. One of Mindy’s brothers come up with the idea to strap something heavy on her, and then they’s gonna tie some lines on her and haul that gal to church. Oh, that were a sight, seeing Mindy floating on down the road like a big old balloon, with old Fred Black’s anvil swinging below, and all Mindy’s family hanging on for dear life to them ropes binding her so’s she don’t go flying up to heaven premature like.

They gits there all right, but you can bet ain’t nobody listening to the parson that day. Folks try to be polite and all, but they just cain’t help twisting they heads up to get a look at Mindy bouncing toward the rafters. She ain’t crying none by now, but her face is all red and swoll due to the bawling she done all week. Parson gives up after a bit, bidding us all to remember the Dawsons in our prayers, and we gets on out to the picnic lunch. Folks is right nice about spelling the Dawsons on the ropes so’s they can get a bite to eat. Mindy’s looking right sick ‘til her rival Becky Mead goes on over with a plate of all Mindy’s favorites, and stands there smiling, ready to feed her like she was a bitty baby. Mindy give her a ugly stare for a bit, but Becky keeps on smiling, and in the end, she feeds that whole plate of food to Mindy.

Dawsons have to haul her back home the same way they come, but Mindy wakes up in her own bed the next morning. “’Bout time you come down to earth,” said her papa. She give him a smile and say it were right interesting getting a different look at things, but she’s figuring on keeping her own two feet on the ground henceforward.

QOD: What did you say to the alien?

2006-04-26T21:11:00.000-07:00

That Burser boy was always one for hauling odd things home. Joe, his name were. He’d find him a frog with an extra leg, maybe, or a fish with two heads. Sorta got to be a joke ‘round these parts. If they was something strange hanging about, Joe’d be finding it. Kept on even when he was growed, and you never could tell who or what he’d be bringing into town next. Might be a 39-pound midget lady, or one of them, whatchacallit, albinos. Maybe some feller talking a language nobody could understand, or a guy with his beard down to his knees what could do handstands. Anything or anybody off kilter just seemed to get drawn to Joe.

Anyhow, there was this one time he come into the diner with his newest find. Looked like a lady, sort of, with hair coming down past her shoulders. Tinged blue, that hair, which ain’t a big deal in a city, but it was a standout here. Her skin was smooth as cream, almost too smooth, and once I seen her hair flip back and I’s right certain I seen a ear what were no more than some kind of flower bud. Sorta squeaked when she walked.

Now, I ain’t got nothing against folks as got handed short on this or that. Lord knows, I got me a twitchy elbow of my own, gets popping, and chewing pain down my arm ever so often. Still, this Dwah, as Joe named her in his introduction, were something beyond queer. For one thing, I never did see that woman, or whatever she were, take one single bite of food. Didn’t talk none, neither. Had her a slit under her nose, but I’m thinking it weren’t no mouth at all. Never did see it open, and that seemed right queer.

Joe took her all around, and them big violet eyes of hers went roving here and there, like she was looking for something. One morning I seen her over to Edwards’ place, without Joe, and she were chopping away at this big old rock sitting at the bottom of his pasture. Some says it were one of them meteorites, a sort of stone come falling from the sky. Don’t know about that none, but I walks right up to that Dwah and asks what she’s doing. She give me a glance but don’t say nothing, then goes back to chipping away at that rock.

“Look here,” I says. “Folks got them a right to do with their own property, which means you ain’t go no right to do with somebody else’s rock. Maybe look just like a old rock to you, but it ain’t yourn. You hear me?”

She don’t say a word back to me, and she goes on chipping, slipping the bits into some sort of pocket on this green jumper she got on.

“Look here, Dwah,” I says. “We seen one queer thing after another, what with that Joe’s propensity for finding oddlings. But I’m thinking it ain’t so much that you’s an oddling, as that you just don’t fit in here at all. Whatcha got to say about that?”

She turns them violet eyes on me then, and that little slit below her nose gets a bit of a curve. Who knows, maybe she’s laughing at me. I gets my arms akimbo and narrows my eyes. “I’m thinking it might be best if you was to make yourself scarce. You hear?”

She gives me the tiniest nod then, and goes back to chipping away on that stone what some say fell from heaven, though I don’t pretend to know as to the truth of that. Folks get stories going sometimes that ain’t got one speck of truth.

Couple days later I see Joe, and he ain’t trailing his new friend along.

“What happened to that Dwah of yourn, Joe?”

He shrugged them big shoulders of his. “Oh, she did some kinda repair to that ship of hers, and then she gives me a wave, climbs in, and off she goes.”

“Off she goes where?”

He waves a hand at the sky. “Up is all I know.”

So that were that, and all I got to say is I slept right good that night.

QOD: How long is a piece of string?

2006-04-25T23:36:00.000-07:00

We’re Indians, my cousin Mike and I. We creep around the back of the milk barn, past the silos, peer out around the corner. We can do this together because I’ve agreed to get down on my knees. We watch until the white men come, yawning and ragging each other, their breathing soft puffs in the cold early morning air. We can see them because they walk under the light high up on the pole over by the washhouse. The feeble light can’t reach the corner of the barn.

Dew seeps through my jeans where my knees meet the scraggle of weeds. The white men bang through the barn door, turn on the lights, flip on the radio. Classical music, they call it. It relaxes the cows. Tom toms and war whoops would dry them up in a minute, I bet.

Now that we’ve accounted for the whereabouts of all the white men, Mike and I backtrack, running lightly on our toes to the silo. We crack open the door, reach into the almost empty silo for a handful of grain each, and stuff it in a pocket. Back past the milk barn, and then the first hay barn. We stop here for a moment, listening, watching. Cows are still making their way up from the river bottoms. One white man stands on the fence by the corral gate, hollering encouragement. “Come on, come on. Don’t make us wait all day.” The last cows increase their pace, a couple of them breaking into a heavy trot, round white udders flapping back and forth as they run. When they’re all in, the white man jumps down to close the gate. The cows shuffle around, lowing. One in the middle of the yard puts up her head and bellows.

When the white man goes back into the milk barn, we slip under the fence and into the manger that runs the length of the hay barn. Cows are crowding in, straining to get their heads through the bars to snatch a bite of hay before the cows behind them manage to shove them out of the way. We creep forward. Two cows hastily back out, getting their heads away from us. The next few complain, but do no more than shake their heads as we pass. One butts Mike and he growls, slapping her between the eyes.

We stumble into the big square post sooner than we expect; it’s hard to judge distances in the dark. Then we’re climbing up, up the ladder on the other side. I sneeze. The hay in this barn is getting old. Cut last summer, it pokes and scratches. Luckily, we only need to climb a short way before we can step out on the bales. This barn’s only about a third full now. We make our way slowly, brushing our hands over bales in the darkness. “Found one,” whispers Mike. Frowning, I bump into a higher row of bales, fall forward. I feel the hay poking through my sweater and t-shirt. Rats. That’s gonna itch all day. As I scramble up, something softer brushes my cheek. I feel with my hands and my chest shakes in silent laughter. It’s a whole pile, maybe half a dozen. “Got a bunch,” I whisper. “Let’s go.”

We make our way back to the ladder, overshooting it twice, tripping over each other, in deadly danger of collapsing into a giggling fit. Then it’s back down, my found loops of twine thrown around my neck. The one thing we can’t do is drop a piece of twine in the manger. The last thing in the world you want to do is drop twine where a cow might eat it. That causes enough trouble that the white man they call Uncle Roy will skin you alive. After that, you’d probably get switched.

We make it out of the manger safely, slip through the fence, and grab each other and hop around in the sacred Indian Twine Dance. We stop to count. I grabbed five. I give two to Mike. Even Steven. There are many more white men than Indians, so we have to help each other.

We unknot the twine as we walk between the two huge hay barns, now empty. The sky has begun to lighten. We walk past the bull corral. Mike tiptoes closer as I hiss at him, and when the bull suddenly appears, shoving his nose through the fence, Mike whacks him with his twine and dances away as the animal snorts.

By the time we reach the horse corral, we’ve got the twine all untied. We squat outside the fence and retie it into something new. It’s possible to make an attack with one piece of twine, slipping a noose around a nose and pulling it tight, using the end as a rein. With two pieces of twine, you can keep the nose noose in place with a piece going up over the ears. With three pieces, the ultimate luxury, you can have two reins.

When we’re ready, we arrange the twine just so in a back pocket, slip through the fence, and retrieve the handful of grain. Mike and I never have a problem arguing over which horses to stalk. The big buckskin is still half-wild, the bay is old and sluggish, and the colt is…still a colt. Mike heads for the long-legged gray. I want the small white, enough Appaloosa in her to sprinkle her with freckles all over.

They eye us warily, nicker, take a few steps away. We talk in soothing tones, holding out the grain. “Come on, come on now.” They study us. We’re not carrying bridles, certainly. Those smell of leather and the metal clinks, no matter how carefully you walk. Nope, we’ve just got a handful of grain.

I smile as Whitey lets me walk right up to her. I hold out the grain; she snuffles at my hand, her lips fluttering to catch the tiny kernals. My other hand, meanwhile, is fetching the twine from my back pocket. I have it over her neck a moment later, then I’m fastening it all together properly as she searches for the last bits of grain on the ground. I lead her toward the far gate, the one just a hop from the meadow. Mike meets me there, opens the gate, and then closes it again when I’ve led our horses through. I hold his horse while he tries his new jump. It takes him three tries but he manages to hold onto the mane and swing himself up, one leg going over his horse’s back. I don’t need anyone to hold Whitey as I jump up, get my elbows over her withers, and kick myself up to where I can get my leg over.

The sun is sending hot streaks into the sky by the time we reach the meadow. The horses toss their heads and we dig in our heels. Then we’re running, running through green grass, heading toward the river. We’ll catch a couple of trout, build a fire and cook them on a stick. Then we’ll splash through the river to the other side, making our way to a secret path that leads up into Dutch Canyon. No white men will ever catch us.

QOD: An alien implanted a suggestion in your brain: what was it?

2006-04-24T22:06:00.000-07:00

Eat, drink, and be merry...

QOD: You have a red jar of cedar chips. Why do moths miss the forest?

2006-04-23T00:59:00.000-07:00

Kids like a bit of magic, same as everyone, only they ain’t ‘shamed to say so. ‘Fore you get set on arguing that, pause one minute and think about some little thing would break your heart to lose. Necklace, maybe, or an old scratched photo, a coin you never spend. Me, I got a sweet little gold bracelet with a heart and my name ‘graved on it. My youngest give me that, not long ‘fore she hopped on out of the nest. Couldn’t get my eyes off it for the longest time. I still like seeing them marks that little chain leave on the inside of my wrist.

Lorella Bitton was no different. She were born, oh, long ways from here—cain’t rightly remember where. When Lorella was still too little to sit up proper, her momma brung her home on the Greyhound one day. Took a couple weeks for that poor woman’s bruises to heal and a couple of years ‘fore she’d say much, but her Uncle Morris was right good to her and one fine day she gets to smiling again.

Lorella’s going on four when Morris’ old heart attacks him some. Not too bad, Doc says, but he needs being careful. Lorella’s momma working on up to the post office by then, so me and a few others volunteers to help out. Whole thing’s kind of upsetting for that tiddly bite of a gal, so we gets up a story on how she’s helping us old biddies by coming to keep up company while her momma off working. Then that sweet child cain’t be talked out of it when Morris is up good and proper on his feet again. No matter to us old biddies, ‘cause she’s the sweetest little piece of pumpkin pie a body could hope for.

Lorella’s seven years old, and so proud of her reading and writing, when she come by my place one Thursday. Has this little red jar she say Miz Harold give her. Now Miz Harold is Lorella’s Friday, so I hear a story coming. That cute little popover don’t have more than two bites of her cookie down her ‘fore she’s screwing off the lid and spilling her treasures.

“What’s all this, precious?” I ask her.

“Magic,” she whispers. “I told Miz Harold I wanted a magic something. Like that Aladdin boy?”

“Oh, I heard of him, yes indeed. I’m recollecting he had him one mean uncle, though. Hope you don’t need that for magic.”

Lorella’s eyes go wide. “Miz Harold say this here’s magic and no fooling.”

“Well then, I guess it’s magic all right. Now what you got else?”

Seemed she had her one magic penny, one magic spotted pebble, and one magic piece of blue glass with corners polished so she couldn’t cut herself. While she chatters on about her collection, I’m thinking what to add. Sure ain’t gonna be the only one not contributing. In the end, I think to open one of them moth-begone sachets my next to oldest give me for my birthday the year before, and I fetch out a couple cedar chips for Lorella to put in her jar. Not much, but she like them bits of wood just fine, rubbing her fingers down the grain and exclaiming how nice they smell.

It’s one sad little duckling comes to see me the next week. “Why that long face, Lorella?”

She don’t say word one for quite a bit, and she don’t give the cookie and milk I got laid out more than a look and a sigh. “Ain’t magic,” she says finally.

“What ain’t magic, darling?”

“Ain’t none of anything magic,” says Lorella, and the tears come rolling down silent, which is always a bigger concern than noisy wailing, as you likely know.

“Your magic jar and things didn’t work like you wanted?”

She shook her head. “Worse than that.”

I patted my knee, which I hadn’t done for a good long bit, but it seemed right. “Come on up here, child.” She climb up without more urging, and snuggle like a chick tucking under a broodie’s wing. We rocked for a bit. I figure she’s gonna let it spill when it wanted to come.

“Thought to find my own magic,” she says at last.

“Did you, love?”

“Found me the prettiest butterfly, I mean, moth. Uncle Morris says it were a moth.”

“They can be right beauties,” I say, but my heart is already sinking.

“He was this pearly gray with white and brown spots, and so feathery and soft. I thought he was the perfect magic.”

“As would anybody, I dare say.”

“So I put him in my magic jar.” She burrowed a bit deeper under my breast. “He weren’t moving when I looked this morning. Uncle Morris says the poor thing’s heart attacked him proper and now he’s dead.”

I rubbed her back, still rocking. “Guess that happens, sweetling.”

“Uncle Morris give me a matchbox to bury him in but I don’t want to. Ain’t gonna be no proper Christian burying, so why should I?”

“Your Uncle Morris only want to give you some bit of comfort, baby doll. Some like to think the good Lord don’t go squabbling about should He let moths and such into heaven.”

“Don’t care.” Her foot started kicking out with every rock back, a nice recuperating sign, I was thinking. “Ain’t nothing magic and that’s that.”

My eyes fell on my gold bracelet. “Oh, I wouldn’t go saying that, Lorella. Maybe you wasn’t thinking on magic rightly, is all. That red jar and them treasures inside is all somebody saying how they loves one special gal name of Lorella. Even that little old moth, being such a piece of beauty in this big old beautiful world.”

“But he’s dead.” She stopped kicking and turned her face to mine.

“Live things need a bit of room.” I tapped a finger on her nose. “How would it be if I was to love you so much I went and locked you in the closet so as to keep you?”

She leaned her head to one side. “I want him to be alive. That would be magic.”

“How about you keep him in that matchbox your Uncle Morris give you? Keep it in your dresser drawer and now and again just take him out to have a little look. Might be one day you’ll get thinking how he’s magic after all.”

She give me a queer look at that, but she hopped down and went straight to her cookie and milk. After her momma come for her, I sat me down for another rock, fingering the little heart, turning the tiny chain, and tracing the letters of my name. Put me in mind of so many things, including the last time I seen my youngest, her belly a grapefruit working toward a watermelon, her husband looking so proud and protective.

Maybe it’s only coming in or going out we gets our eyes open proper. Magic’s right there in front of a body’s nose. Guess I’m getting too old to be ‘shamed of saying so.

QOD: Now that you’ve got your big Hollywood contract, what weapon will you carry?

2006-04-21T21:03:00.000-07:00

The difficulty with any weapon is the chance that someone will wrest it from your grasp and use it against you. I took a big chunk of change and went to visit the Princess Nofilda, who lives about a mile from my grandmother’s summer home. Gran swears by her, and while I’m not the least bit superstitious, I definitely felt in need of advice. Hollywood is a scary place.

From Gran’s stories about the old woman living all by herself in the middle of the woods, I had always supposed the Princess bit was, shall we say, a stretch. Though I said nothing about it, even to Gran, I stopped short of the little cabin to take a look at a piece of paper held down by a rock on the wood chopping stump. It was a birth certificate. Last name, Nofilda. First name, Princess. Chewing my lip, I folded the paper and took the last few steps to her front door.

As I raised my hand to tap on the door, it opened to reveal a rather pretty woman of perhaps thirty years. She accepted the birth certificate, waved me in, and ushered me to a chair. “You needn’t speak,” she said with a wry smile. “I’ve been thinking about your problem for several days.”

“Impossible,” I said. “I haven’t mentioned my problem to anyone.”

She rolled her eyes. “Some of you people are so slow.” She took a seat opposite, crossed a pair of lovely bare legs, and picked up two blue stones from the small table holding the reading lamp. She rolled them in one hand, her eyes on me. “I know what your problem is, but you can waste my time stuttering it out if you like.”

Annoyed, I straightened my back and leaned forward. “I’m not telling you anything. I came to see Princess Nofilda.”

“So who do you think I am?”

“Look, my grandmother said she’d known the Princess since she was a girl. Where is the old lady?”

She laughed, stood, and banged the stones on either side of my head. “There you go, you silly thing.”

I rubbed the stinging spots above either ear. “What the hell?”

She shrugged as she about-faced and returned the stones to the table. “You’ll know when someone means you true harm.”

“What?”

She opened the door, lifting her eyebrows expectantly. “I have things to do, puppy. You’ll know, and you’ll be able to deliver a squeeze commensurate to the harm intended.”

I stood, my reluctant feet obeying her indication to get the hell out of there. “I don’t get it.”

She gave me a little shove. “Try to keep your mind open. You’ll know, and you can think a little squeeze to the gray matter, just enough to get rid of any thoughts directly harmful to yourself.”

I didn’t believe her, naturally, but walking back to the bus station the next day, I suddenly realized a man loitering up ahead meant me no good. I thought a little squeeze, he looked dazed, and then walked off. I’ve discovered that the squeeze generally doesn’t hurt much. Probably because most the harm directed at me is simple jealousy.

You, on the other hand, despite your smiles and flattery, are simply filled with malice. I’m not sure you’ll remember your own name afterward, but that’s okay. I don’t think you mean well toward anyone. Go ahead, smile. You don’t believe in this kind of nonsense. You know, neither do I. Bye.

QOD: How is an ankle unlike a consequence?

2006-04-20T22:42:00.000-07:00

The consequence of an ankle, that joint formed by the articulation of the lower leg bones with the talus, is something of a mystery. Shakespeare once said, “Ungarter’d, and down-gyved to his ankle.” I gyved up trying to figure that out, and turned to Wordsworth instead:

“For still, the more he works, the more
Do his weak ankles swell.”

Unfortunately, there seems to be a consequence in there, even though he didn’t use the word. This obviously tells us nothing beyond the need to get an ergonomic chair and footstool, as well as proper footwear. Tennyson, who was a Lord, and therefore something of an authority in somebody’s eyes, had this to say:

“One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair and lovesome mein.”

I don’t know about you, but my opinion is that a bunch of guys praising a woman like that have got definite hopes or even outright intentions concerning certain results, which leans a bit into consequence. What she DOES about all this probably has consequences as well.

As to consequence itself, Dickens says, “It’s of no consequence,” while Kipling talks about “Almost inevitable consequences.” Rather confusing, so I tend to rely more upon the Reverend Barham’s advice: “If it’s business of consequence, do it yourself!”

Still not sure how ankles wind around consequences, or vice versa. Sam Johnson said, “It is incident to physicians, I am afraid, beyond all other men, to mistake subsequence for consequence.” I’m no MD, but I’m willing to accept the notion that I’ve made similar mistakes. He also said that “The applause of a single human being is of great consequence,” which certainly comforts me during those lonely hours of stringing words together. Perhaps I’ll never achieve fame, but in truth, the world changes in increments, and if I only nudge a little here and there, I still convey those things most dear to me.

William James spoke of “The attitude of looking away from first things, principles, “categories,” supposed necessities, and of looking toward last things, fruits, consequences, facts.” I believe that we as writers perform a service in telling the truth, regardless of the form we choose; that is, we must be truer to those last things than we are to our first premises. What is the difference between propaganda and the sort of writing that liberates?

While we’re here in this artistic vein, let’s give a listen to another James (Henry): “I still, in presence of life…have reactions—as many as possible… It’s, I suppose, because I am that queer monster, the artist, an obstinate finality, an inexhaustible sensibility. Hence the reactions—appearances, memories, many things, go on playing upon it with consequences that I note and “enjoy” (grim word!) noting. It all takes doing—and I do, I believe I shall do yet again—it is still an act of life.” Think about that: writers are seers. In the process of following acts, relationships, policies, etc., to the multitude of possible conclusions, we cry a warning or offer good tidings. No matter the audience, the service is effective. “Logical consequences are the scarecrows of fools and the beacons of wise men,” according to Thomas Henry Huxley.

Guy named Bob (Ingersoll) decided that “In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments--there are consequences.” My only difficulty with that is the sense of an underlying attitude that humankind is not a part of nature but something separate (and elevated, if you believe any of the patriarchal religions). Of course, that attitude would leave out the “hu” and agree with the Earl of Chesterfield, who felt that “Women, then, are only children of a larger growth: they have an entertaining tattle, and sometimes wit; but for solid, reasoning good-sense, I never knew in my life one that had it, or who reasoned or acted consequentially for four and twenty hours together.” I, for one, must leave such antiquated notions behind, determining myself to be an important actor upon the stage, no matter the number of lines assigned me.

In large part, Western religion, which claims to preach and teach moral values, actually offers an escape route, as the Duc de la Rochefoucauld pointed out when he said that “Our repentance is not so much regret for the ill we have done as fear of the ill that may happen to us in consequence.” This idea of a second life awaiting a repentant or an unrepentant soul is reflected as well in Shakespeare’s writing:

“If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well
It were done quickly; if the assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease success; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end-all here.
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We’d jump the life to come.”

Give me a stronger morality, one that allows me the insight to see beyond my own comfort, to view the totality, to act not simply for my own present, but for the future that is when I am gone.

A quick word from two Lords:

“Because right is right, to follow right
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.” (Tennyson)

“If we believe a thing to be bad, and if we have a right to prevent it, it is our duty to try to prevent it and to damn the consequences.” (Milner)

Scorn and damnation upon the immediate reaction; we must see beyond to the far place upon the road we travel. Shakespeare’s warning seems especially appropriate to me now:

“And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths,
Win us with honest trifles, to betray ‘s
In deepest consequence.”

Why should we care? The notion that our freedom is guaranteed by words written on an ancient piece of paper is nonsense. “The condition upon which God hath given liberty to man is eternal vigilance; which condition if he break, servitude is at once the consequence of his crime and the punishment of his guilt.” (John Philpot Curran) God aside, the principle is true: what liberty we gain must be guarded, or it begins to slip through our fingers. Take a look. How many euphemisms have crept into your writing? Are you politically correct? Does it bother you that the list of books you borrow from the library is no longer private? How about your phone calls? Is someone listening in? Judging? Considering whether or not to decide you’re unpatriotic?

“If men are to be precluded from offering their sentiments on a matter which may involve the most serious and alarming consequences that can invite the consideration of mankind, reason is of no use to us; the freedom of speech may be taken away, and dumb and silent we may be led, like sheep to the slaughter.” (George Washington, the man who might have been king)

Do you feel discouraged? “It is not a field of a few acres of ground, but a cause, that we are defending, and whether we defeat the enemy in one battle, or by degrees, the consequences will be the same.” (Thomas Paine)

How’s an ankle unlike a consequence? Silly question. But for those who betray the public trust, how about this for a consequence? We warm up those ankles and give the bastards the boot.

QOD: You get to ride the big roller coaster 3 times in a row. What will keep your dad from taking a bite out of your candy apple?

2006-04-20T10:00:00.000-07:00

I’ll put his dentures in my pocket.

QOD: Come up with some possible band names for your group that features a washboard and a styrofoam tuba.

2006-04-18T20:49:00.000-07:00

Come to see the show, didja? Gotta say, we all’s plumb proud o’ what Miz Hoote done with them Holler kids. Lotta talent in that there family, them Hootes. ‘Course Miz Hoote were Mabel Downs afore she got hitched. Yup, that selfsame Mabel Downs what won all them singin’ trophies way back when. Bascomb gal she were. Not much to look at even then, way I heared it. Ha! Too much to look at, guess you might say. All them Downs is like that. So fond o’ meals they shove a few more into ever day than plain folk do. Got them meals whittled down to three or four myself, with a extry snack to git me through the sabbath.

Harry Hoote, now, been fiddlin’ since knee high, just like his daddy done afore him, and his granddaddy as well, if’n you ain’t feared to take the word o’ the ol’ folk hereabout. Kinda shy, which were why it taked a heap o’ encouragin’ to git that boy to enter that contest what they hold down to Bascomb ever year. He were finally pushin’ twenty when his daddy up ‘n’ fetched him into the truck ‘n’ hauled him on down, cuz waitin’ another year woulda put him over the age limit.

Wouldn’t look a soul in the eye, that boy, but he go on ‘n’ play like his daddy told him. He’s winnin’ one round after t’other without breakin’ a sweat. Win hisself best fiddle, then best string, ‘n’ finally gits hisself into the finals by winnin’ best intrument. ‘Bout this time he go off to see them singin’ semi-finals ‘n’ that’s when he gits hisself a look at ol’ Mabel. Now I cain’t say what that boy thinked to hisself catchin’ a eyeful o’ that roly-poly gal, but once she gits that voice floatin’ out over them triple chins, ol’ Harry’s a goner, plain ‘n’ simple.

Now way it works is finals is for best playin,’ best singin’ ‘n’ best composin,’ them three gittin’ a chance to outdo each one the other. Mabel, o’ course, gits in for singin’ just like everbody knowed goin’ in. Cain’t remember the composin’ feller’s name—don’t much matter anyhow. Harry gits his heels dug in good ‘n’ proper. Ain’t no way he’s gonna compete ‘gainst that songbird, ‘n’ it ain’t fear promptin’ him. His daddy gits mighty loud arguin’ with him over it, ‘n’ Mabel, on her way to git her some more o’ them foot-longs with chili, stops to take her a listen.

Some say Harry ain’t all that much to look at hisself, but it don’t seem Mabel heared o’ that impression. Falls dandy hard for that boy on the spot. Now she ain’t gonna compete ‘gainst him neither, ‘n’ her folks is joinin’ the melee when Mabel’s cousin visitin’ from up north somewheres gives ‘em all an idea. Thus it come that it were a duet won that year, ‘n’ the duetin’ just keeps a’goin’ ‘til Harry’s daddy give him a nudge ‘n’ he goes ‘n’ pops the question.

Mabel come on over to the Holler to live, o’ course, bein’ Harry’s wife ‘n’ all. Right nice for all o’ us, too, cuz she gits takin’ over the musical edication o’ all them kids in the Holler. Had theyselves a dandy little set o’ twins to boot, which were a surprise all right, with ol’ Mabel thinkin’ she were just havin’ a right bad spell o’ indigestion that year.

You just know them twins was gonna be chirpin’ out notes purty durn quick, ‘n’ that’s just what they do, but they’s both so durn good it were a puzzle figurin’ how to keep on entertainin’ ‘em. They’s both playin’ any durn thing they can lay hands on. Then the boy gits him a invite for somethin’ or t’other down to Bascomb ‘n’ he see him a picture show ‘bout some big ol’ marchin’ band. Got to have him a tooba after that, which be some big ol’ horn goes wrappin’ ‘round a body.

Bein’ the imaginative type, he go on ‘n’ try to build hisself one, ‘n’ his sister, o’ course, be helpin’ him all this while. Oh, they build them a tooba outer pine cones, ‘n’ one outer rabbit pellets ‘n’ one outer bits ‘n’ pieces o’ who knows what. This yeller haired gal come up to teach the young’uns how to do them paypeeay mowshay critters what was filled with candy ‘n’ such, ‘n’ the Hoote twins even try buildin’ them a tooba outer that. Ain’t none of ‘em what that boy’s lookin’ for. It ain’t ‘til Miz Tyler gits her one o’ them new fangled frigerators what makes extry ice for mint juleps that them twins settle on somethin’ to build that tooba outer. Whatchacallit, that there styreefoam packed ‘round that fridge to keep it from gittin’ all banged up on the way to the holler.

It were a real hit. Don’t know what a actual tooba sound like, but this’n got a mighty fine tone what go awful nice with some bangin’ on a washboard. Kinda odd things to play, maybe, but they’s a real draw, ‘n’ it gits t’other kids thinkin’ up things as well. Mabel’s right fond o’ quotin’ the good book afore them shows the Holler’s kids give ever three months or so. “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord,” she say. All I gotta say is, once them Hootes ‘n’ Hollers gits goin’ the noise is somethin’ a body ain’t gonna forgit right soon, ‘n’ them kids is right joyful makin’ it.

QOD: Aren't papier mache cuts the worst?

2006-04-17T22:49:00.000-07:00

Tell you one thing, summers hereabouts ain’t lackin’ for somethin’ to tickle a funnybone. Gits us folks visitin’ all through the good weather. Gotta watch some, o’ course, ‘cause they got theyselves a notion to go robbin’ folks blind. Travellers be what they call theirselves. ‘Course, we ain’t had us none o’ them, oh, since that Great Depression went blowin’ off them grasslands. Folks took off ever which way back then, just like ol’ Tom down to Crickside can tell you. Mostly got food stole then, ‘n’ since? Well, robbin’ people blind ‘round here ain’t gonna make nobody rich quick, if’n you see what I mean.

Lotsa time some feller come trottin’ in to do us good. Don’t mind if them kind come in ‘n’ mend a roof or two, maybe build a porch, long as they’s got sense to keep they tongue ‘twixt they teeth for a good spell whilst doin’ all that good. Some though, oh, they talk your ear right off your head with singin’ Jesus praises ‘n’ offerin’ to set on down ‘n’ read the good news to y’all. What they thinkin’ we got us a preacher for?

Then we gits us somebody or ‘nother doin’ a census, or a study o’ this or that. Never can tell with them kinda folks if’n they be chatty or keep to theirselves. Gits us a student or two now ‘n’ agin, too. Doin’ some kinda internship, is what they calls ‘em. Now them are the challengin’ ones, ‘cause they ain’t fixin’ on doin’ nothin’ but improvin’ folk. Oh, lordy, git so you hear a body talkin’ ‘bout potential, you git your heels clickin’ right smart ‘n’ carry your body straight outer there. Them kind can do some mighty fine child tendin’ though, so’s you cain’t offer to give ‘em a lift to the county line nor nothin’ like that. Kids’ll fall for just ‘bout anythin’ at all; you ever notice that? Don’t matter what manner o’ fool durn silly, neither, long as it gits them chores shoved off another little bit.

So this slip of a gal come right early one year, end o’ April when the roads was still nothin’ but muck from the snowmelt. Had to hitch her a ride with one o’ them Flynts over to Post Hole, comin’ the long way on that ol’ Pit Road. Then o’ course, they brang her over Yon Hill with all her gear strapped to the back of a mule. She were a right muddy mess with that yeller hair o’ hers takin’ flight a hunnerd diff’rent ways. Miz Ruddy done volunteered to put her up, so’s she got a bath waitin’ soon’s she hears that mule brayin’ ‘bout the nasty footin’ ‘n’ what the hey is these folks gonna be doin’ to him next?

First thing once that gal gits clean, she’s wantin’ a big ol’ pole planted, which means we git diggin’ in that fool mud out back there. Wants her a ladder next, ‘n’ she hammers these long streamer things right to the top. May Pole, she calls it, ‘n’ we gits a nice lecturin’ on how we got ancestors done this dance ‘n’ the kids go windin’ up them streamers ‘round the pole. Cain’t quite picture how that’s gonna work but them kids is all for it, ‘n’ the rest figure it cain’t hurt to have a little sit-down entertainment.

All’s I can say is that after a whole lot o’ laughin’ ‘n’ squealin’ ‘n’ whatnot, them kids has got Percy Wilton weaved right smack to that pole ‘n’ ain’t no gittin’ him out without cuttin’ them purty colored streamers. That yeller haired gal taked it well enough, keepin’ her chin up ‘n’ her smile painted on. Still, we all felt a bit bad for her with her plans comin’ out awry. So’s everbody lets they kids purty much off chores that week so’s that gal’s next little gig maybe go a bit smoother.

We gits a bit more lecturin’ ‘bout artistic whatnot ‘n’ learnin’ ‘bout other cultures ‘sides our own. ‘Course, we’s thinkin’ we got plenty o’ both with that fancy pole o’ hers. Still, we all go lendin’ her buckets ‘n’ flour ‘n’ all the ol’ papers ‘n’ magazines we can find. Gonna learn us ‘bout somethin’ called paypeeay mowshay. Took a bit learnin’ how to say them words. French, she called it, but it were Mexico we was aimin’ toward. Makin’ piney yatas, which were Spanish, she says. We all’s confused good ‘n’ proper by now, but she gots her another for us. Sincoh dee mayo. Sorta like Fourth o’ July only not.

Anyways, she gits the kids blowin’ up these big ol’ balloons ‘n’ wouldn’t you just know it—that Percy goes ‘n’ puffs hisself dry wantin’ to be first after that pole fiasco. Passes out just like that, ‘n’ his balloon go flyin’ ‘n’ hissin’ this way ‘n’ that. Kids commences laughin’ ‘n’ sets they own free to go on a hissin’ fly. Takes a bit gittin’ ‘em to settle down, but that yeller haired gal’s got a right mess o’ shine in her eyes ‘n’ we all’s fearin’ ain’t long but she gonna spring her a leak ‘n’ drown us all.

‘Ventually we gits all them balloons blowed up ‘n’ tied. That gal commences showin’ how to git makin’ them piney yatas. Now, you ain’t gonna believe this next bit but I swear honest to god it’s truth straight through from one side to t’other. She rips off a strip o’ paper, dunks it in this mess of flour ‘n’ water she gots in a bucket, ‘n’ then plunks it down on the balloon. Kids is lookin’ right blank but she keeps a’smilin’ as she dip some more paper ‘n’ plunk it down. Gotta git it all covered like, ‘n’ then she gonna show ‘em how to git some real special goin.’

For the next few days, we all’s got us some durn messy kids to clean ever night. But they’s full o’ good cheer ‘n’ whisperin’ secrets just like it were Santa ‘n’ the Easter bunny they was a’buildin’ back there. Toward the end, we was washin’ paint off o’ them kids ‘stead o’ that sticky flour, which were somethin’ of a change, I guess. Right purty colors.

Come May fifth, them kids all disappear right after breakin’ they fast, ‘n’ after a bit come runnin’ home to grab they mommas ‘n’ papas ‘n’ the babies ‘n’ the ol’ folks too. We gits on out there to the Pitney’s orchard, with all them trees bloomin’ in pinks ‘n’ whites. Hangin’ from them trees is quite a sight. Kids is tellin’ us what all they is, which were a good thing, ‘cause most often you got to squint ‘n’ imagine some to see it. Fat ol’ dogs ‘n’ pigs ‘n’ monkeys ‘n’ such. They’s swayin’ in the breeze, these paypeeay mowshay critters ‘n’ we all gits to clappin’ if only to give ‘em credit for stickin’ so long to it.

It ain’t over. Nope, next thing is they gits this stick, ‘n’ the yeller haired gal blindfolds somebody, whirls ‘em ‘round a time or three, ‘n’ hands ‘em the stick. Point is, to smack one o’ them critters ‘n’ break it. Seems a right fool thing to do after takin’ all that time makin’ ‘em, but them kids is laughin’ they fool heads off so we all go ‘long with it. ‘Course, it were a bit o’ danger handin’ that stick to some o’ them kids, ‘n’ all of ‘em’s smackin’ air ‘n’ ground ‘n’ treetrunks a good deal more’n they’s hittin’ them critters hangin’ from the branches. Took a good long time o’ takin’ turns whackin’ them things afore one gits broke good ‘n’ proper.

We seen the point then. Bits o’ candy ‘n’ whistles ‘n’ toys ‘n’ all come pourin’ out o’ that critter’s middle. After that, we all just set back ‘n’ enjoy seein’ them kids bangin’ away at the others, plumb destroyin’ they own work ‘n’ havin’ fun doin’ it. The yeller haired gal’s lookin’ so pleased she fit to bust, ‘n’ when we all gives her a whoop shout ‘n’ a round o’ applause, them tears finally come spillin’ over. That were fine, though, ‘cause that smile come shinin’ through.

QOD: Which is easier to make a model airplane out of and why: a banana peel or a wet sock?

2006-04-16T21:36:00.000-07:00

I see you eyein’ that little eagle, ma’am. Cute, ain’t he? What’s more, you can open cans with that beak o’ his. Yup, that be a Boone original, is what. We gits folks from all over hankerin’ after Boone originals. That boy been makin’ all kinda things since he was knee high. His daddy had him a thing ‘bout makin’ use o’ whatever was layin’ around. Boy lose a sock, he go on ‘n’ use the leftover for a cleanin’ mitt, maybe. Slip it on his hand, like, dip it in the soapsuds, git washin’ this ‘n’ that. ‘Course, Boone’s daddy had him a mind was purely mundane, if’n you see what I mean. No ‘magination, nary one iota.

Guess it were that time we get us this gol durn load o’ bananas was ten times what we axed for. Some ol’ fool writ down a extra zero or somewhat. Anyhow, they all wasn’t takin’ ‘em back for love nor money. Shelf life sorta problem. So we all’s eatin’ bananas like they done gone outa style. Slicin’ ‘em up for cereal, whippin’ ‘em up in drinks, makin’ cream pies ‘n’ whatall. Lettin’ them kids go eatin’ ‘em like little monkeys ‘til they was proper sick o’ seein’ yeller.

‘Course, you know how bananas do. Nice ‘n’ yeller with maybe a tinge o’ green to start out, but couple days later they’s getting’ them little brown spots, ‘n’ it ain’t long afore they’s feelin’ a bit squishy like. We’s droppin’ the price pretty fast, thinkin’ to git rid o’ the lot, but it ain’t long afore the onliest ones even thinkin’ o’ usin’ them bananas is ladies what mean to make enough banana bread to last them a year or two.

So when we all just give right up ‘n’ go fixin’ to toss them nasty brown things, maybe even bury ‘em to discourage them little fruit flies what’s been flyin’ up our noses. That’s when Boone’s daddy show up ‘n’ say he gonna take ‘em off our hands ‘n’ haul ‘em away for a nominal charge. Yup, that just how he framed it: nominal charge. So we gives him a couple bucks ‘n’ he loads ‘em up in that donkey cart what he built him outa who knows what, ‘n’ off he go.

Next we heared, he got poor Boone shuckin’ all them bananas. Nanners, is what Boone called ‘em. Shuckin’ nanners, shuckin’ nanners. Boone’s daddy gits mixin’ them soggy middles into mash for his donkey ‘n’ this piglet what he got cheap off’n Rufus what lives over to Yon Hill. Right down cheap cuz it were the runt o’ the litter. Then he give Boone the task o’ thinkin’ up what to do with all them skins.

Now here’s where Boone gits to showin’ his artistic side. Seems he thunk it up afore he even started shuckin’ them nanners. Got him this three way peel goin’ ‘n’ sets ‘em out to dry so’s they harden in this kinda T shape. Don’t know what all else he done nor how he got figurin’ it out, but he goes addin’ a bit o’ twig here ‘n’ there.

Boone brung a bunch o’ them nanner skins down in a ol’ box one day, says will I sell his plans in the store. We all’s laughin’ a bit but tryin’ to hide it so’s not to hurt his feelin’s none, but I’s purty sure he knew. Then he takes one o’ them things outa the box ‘n’ give it a throw. Well, that little brown T goes sailin’ ‘cross the way, grabbin’ the breeze ‘n’ glidin’ a piece beyond what any o’ us ever seen a balsa plane do.

Oh, them nanner planes gits sellin’ like hotcakes. Ever kid in the holler gots to have one o’ them gen-u-ine Boone nanners. Purty soon we got folks up from Bascomb wantin’ ‘em, not just one or two for the kids, mind, but we got merchants what want to sell ‘em down there. By then, we all just about could name our own price. Git enough offa them nanner planes that Boone’s daddy done fixed up a special place for Boone to git on makin’ what he liked.

Oh, that boy gits makin’ this ‘n’ that, cute little things what gits made outa this ‘n’ that, plus they’s always a little somethin’ special to boot. Nothin’ quite so good as them nanner planes, though. Those as still got one or two can name they price, ‘n’ it ain’t peanuts, I can tell you true. Heared they even got one kept safe in a glass case in that museum down in Bascomb. Think ‘o that. A Boone Nanner Plane for the ages to come.

QOD: The squish of mud between your toes; how would you live your life as a frog?

2006-04-15T23:41:00.000-07:00

Was a cousin o’ Meryl Dolan’s what started poor Fay off. Had him a fairy tale book what belonged to his momma or sister or somewhat. Oh, it had right purty pictures, not to mention these wild tales o’ dragons ‘n’ knights in shinin’ armor. All them kids in the holler come scramblin’ ‘round like newborn pups aimin’ for a teat, just tryin’ to get they eyes on that book. Took to playin’ at it, too, dressin’ up in ol’ pieces o’ cardboard box for armor ‘n’ whackin’ each other with piddly ol’ bits o’ branches for swords. Had ‘em a big rock to tie a fair maiden to ‘n’ all. ‘Course that were just play, ‘n’ other than havin’ fits tryin’ to get them kids to do they’all’s chores, weren’t no harm done.

‘Cept for Fay, who took to heart this ol’ tale ‘bout a gal kissin’ a frog to make a prince outa him. Now I better tell y’all ‘bout Fay, who warn’t much a one for patience. ‘Stead o’ settin’ on down ‘n’ hearin’ the whole tale start to finish, she just gits a’goin’ on findin’ that frog. Started comin’ home ever night squish full o’ mud ‘n’ slime from tryin’ to find him, her little ol’ face screwed up from the nasty o’ kissin’ a couple dozen frogs without gettin’ a good result.

After a bit, she figures she missed some kinda hint in the book, so she goes beggin’ that cousin to read it to her agin. ‘Course, he ain’t never read the whole thing to her afore, ‘n’ she’s off like a shot this time when she gits a new clue, so’s she don’t hear it all this time neither. Seems like it were a princess with a crown what kissed that frog, so Fay finds her some old wire ‘n’ aluminum foil, ‘long with some colored beads her momma give to stop her beggin,’ ‘n’ she commences makin’ herself a crown. Says no ol’ frog’s gonna know for sure, ‘n’ it just might be she’s a for sure ‘n’ true princess anyhow. Nobody can tell whichaways magic’s gonna work, ‘n’ maybe some queen done dumped her baby in the holler ‘n’ made everbody forgit about her doin’ it.

So some time goes by ‘n’ all that happen was that crown gits as dirty as the rest o’ her. Oh, she give it a shine ever night after her momma gits through scrubbin’ her skin half off, but it’s lookin’ a wreck. So off she goes to that cousin agin, ‘n’ this time she see how she got to have a ball to lose for the froggy prince to find for her. Now y’all can see this comin’: nary a week goin’ by ‘n’ ever durn ball in the holler goin’ missin.’ Fay gits more’n one lecture ‘bout the sin o’ stealin,’ but she got this fixation in her head that she’s a gol durn princess in disguise ‘n’ everbody’s her subject so she got herself a right. Easy enough to find them balls, all right, ‘cause she aimed ‘em all down to the swampy grounds where you go expectin’ to find frogs. Gits right tiresome ‘til somebody think to read that sorry story to her agin.

Comes out she see her mistake purty quick. That princess in the book didn’t go kissin’ the frog ‘cause he axed her to, no sir-ee. She up ‘n’ near puked thinkin’ o’ that, so’s that ol’ frog says she gots to take him home to live with her. Princess ain’t havin’ none o’ that neither, but later the king say she gotta ‘cause it’s only fair. She don’t like it much, but that frog gotta sleep on her pillow right by her own little head.

So Fay commences bringin’ home one frog after t’other, smackin’ ‘em down on her pillow ‘n’ expectin’ to have her a prince by mornin.’ Y’all can figure how that one went. Fay’s momma goin’ nuts by this time, what with the house smellin’ o’ frog ‘n’ swamp ‘n’ her havin’ to wash the beddin’ ever day along with her squirrel head daughter. They’s folks hintin’ ‘bout takin’ that gal out to the woodshed, but her daddy say he learnt long time ago that once Fay gits a idea in her head, ain’t nothin’ gonna stop her ‘til somethin’ else come along to shove it out.

Fay goes on up to that cousin agin, but the man’s ‘bout had his fill. He say he ain’t gonna read it but one more time, ‘n’ if she don’t sit still ‘n’ hear the whole durn thing, he gonna toss that book in the fire. That settles her down some ‘n’ she sets on down to listen. Turns out that frog in the story ain’t after nothin’ but frettin’ that princess. Wants to eat outer her spoon, drink outer her cup, git carried ‘round in her pocket ‘n’ have her read stories to him. ‘Course she can git outa all this if’n she was to just go on ‘n’ kiss him, but she just ain’t gonna do it. Then one day she gits right fed up ‘n’ she throws that ol’ frog right hard ‘gainst the wall. Big ol’ splat ‘n’ presto chango, he stops bein’ a frog ‘n’ commences bein’ a handsome prince. So then he’s proclaimin’ his undyin’ love, ‘n’ y’all might think that’s a pitiful thing to go doin’ after she flang him ‘gainst a wall, but it seems he’d had him a right hard time findin’ a princess what’d go ‘n’ lose her temper, which was the only thing could break that gol durn magic spell. Most princesses, it seem, got ever so lovely manners ‘n’ they smile sweet ‘n’ kiss any ol’ frog what finds ‘em a ball. Ain’t ‘xacly the kinda tale I’s thinkin’ anybody ought to go tellin’ a young gal, but I shore seen the pictures in that book. One page she’s flyin’ him ‘cross the room ‘n’ the next he’s a smoochin’ her.

Fay sets a spell after the story’s done told, lookin’ kinda blank. ‘Course, we all’s hopin’ that silly endin’ done put her off it permanent like. Nope. Next day she got her a whole bucket o’ frogs ‘n’ she’s peltin’ ‘em ‘gainst the side o’ her daddy’s barn. Oh, it were one nasty mess o’ squashed frog. She gits this mule stubborn look on her face when the pail’s empty, ‘n’ her momma know right then ‘n’ there this frog thing done took ahold o’ her good ‘n’ proper.

Last I heared, Fay was still at it, fetchin’ frogs in a bucket ‘n’ flingin’ ‘em ‘gainst the barn. ‘Course, now they’s got a big ol’ sign out the front ‘n’ folks is comin’ from as far as Bascomb ‘n’ sometimes a piece farther to have theirselves a picnic lunch or a nice dinner. Fay’s momma’s got a gift for cookery, ‘n’ them frogs ain’t half bad with a few secret spices, ‘specially the legs.

QOD: You've been invited to a fancy ball but the only thing you have to wear is an orange wooly jumper. What shoes do you wear?

2006-04-14T21:40:00.000-07:00

My ruby slippers. (That way if things get boring I can tap three times and go home.)

QOD: Compose the lyrics to a new national anthem that features an animal sound at least once:

2006-04-13T21:20:00.000-07:00

Think y’all heared enough o’ them ballads, folks. Gonna sing one now what was framed in this here holler, oh, some time ago. Seems they was this young’un name o’ Andy what lost his momma early on. If that warn’t enough, his daddy up ‘n’ sicken on him afore he even got peach fuzz on his chin. Done told that boy afore he died not to worry none—if’n he was ever in a pinch, his ol’ daddy’d wake up all them ol’ soljers out there to the cemetery, ‘n’ they’d come ridin’ to the rescue.

Andy gits most o’ his grievin’ done ‘n’ starts takin’ downright pride in this little flock o’ sheep his daddy done left him. ‘Bout this time, feller name o’ Grady show up in this ol’ white Caddy with a rickety van trailin’ behind. Some kinda cousin or somewhat, just passin’ through, he says, ‘n’ promised his ma he’d stop on by ‘n’ see how they all was a doin.’ Andy don’t remember no Grady in his daddy’s recollectin’ tales, but he give the man some supper ‘n’ offer him a bed.

Now this Grady has him a ratty lookin’ ol’ hound what looks like maybe it got spawned by a bear or somewhat. Nasty critter, barin’ his teeth ‘n’ slaverin’ away. Grady don’t offer to take him inside, but just tie him up next to the water pipe, give him a kick ‘n’ tell him lay down, which the dog do. ‘Course, when the lights goes out, that hound commences howlin’ like they ain’t no tomorrow. Grady give Andy this little metal whistle ‘n’ tell him to blow. Andy do, ‘n’ don’t hear nothing. No sound from the whistle ‘n’ the dog shuts hisself right up. Grady tells him put it in his pocket, ‘case he needs to blow it agin, ‘cause he hisself done learnt to sleep through hell blowin’ up on second street.

Middle o’ the night, Andy heared some kinda ruckus goin’ on, with that durn ol’ dog barkin’ ‘n’ growlin’ ‘n’ whatnot. Reaches for that magic whistle ‘n’ durn if it ain’t gone ‘n’ fell through a hole in his pocket. ‘Bout then he’s wakin’ up real good ‘n’ he see ol’ Grady ain’t in t’other bed. So he runs on out ‘n’ sees a sight plumb froze his blood good ‘n’ solid. That nasty ol’ dog is roundin’ up his sheep ‘n’ Grady’s got that van open ‘n’ he’s fixin’ to load ‘em up.

Andy’s in some kinda pickle there, ‘cause Grady’s a whole lot bigger’n him, ‘n’ he got that fearsome dog on top o’ that. Ain’t nobody livin’ closer’n a couple miles, so if’n he goes off for help, Grady’ll be long gone by the time they gits back. Now, ain’t nobody but Andy ‘n’ Grady to say what happen next, but both they stories got what you might call a sim-u-larity. Sound like thunder come first, some ways away. Gits closer ‘n’ they can make out hoofbeats. Purty soon they’s all around only they cain’t see nary a thing. Oh, that were somethin’ to scare a boy outa growth, if’n his daddy hadn’t give him the idea early on. ‘Course, Grady don’t know what it is, no more’n that nasty dog. You can bet they leave them sheep unloaded ‘n’ head off lickety split.

Sheriff ketched up with ol’ Grady next day. Seems he went off to hide in some ol’ cave he knew, but didn’t go figurin’ rightly on how much room that Caddy plus the van might need. Sorta skitter’d in sideways ‘n’ got hisself stuck good ‘n’ proper.

Andy, o’ course, were still gittin’ his schoolin’ over to Miz Bing’s, just like his daddy wanted. No more’n half a dozen or so young ‘uns then, but they’s wantin’ to commemorate Andy’s rescue. Miz Bing pulls out her ol’ Victerola ‘n’ finds a couple discs warn’t too bad warped. One o’ them’s got a Nati-somethin’ anthem on it what sound somehow familiar to Miz Bing, but she been missin’ a thing or three since that lightnin’ storm what singed her hair. Had to change the story just a bit to fit but Miz Bing say that ain’t naught but poetical license. Anyhow, give a listen, ‘cause here’s how it go:

Oh-ho say can your sheep dodge the dawg’s pearly bite
What so loudly done howled in the twilight last eve’nin’
Jumpin’ o’er the white car chewed the rope tied so tight
All the rams ‘n’ sheep ketched in his dastardly thievin’
Andy’s pocket done teared, the lambs baa-baa’d in fear
Grave hoofs through the night, Grady left his van there
Oh say does that ol’ car dangle halfway out the cave?
Grady ain’t no more free, Andy’s home ‘n’ sheep saved.

QOD: This is a colon : and this is a semi-colon ; - what's a semi-truck?

2006-04-12T21:18:00.000-07:00

Why, hey! M’liss. Ain’t seen that purty face a yourn for donkey’s years. Heared you was gittin’ yourself edicated way up north. Done finished, eh? Well, ain’t that nice—could use us some good doctorin’ hereabouts. Lindy? Oh no, hon—she up ‘n’ move to Truck Stop. Ha! Guess you don’t know ‘bout that. Set a spell ‘n’ I be right glad to tell it.

All started with that Flynt boy, cain’t remember his given, but one a them from Post Hole. Got hisself a shine for our Lindy—first seed her at that Pumpkin Dance down in Bascomb they do ever year. Oh, you never did see the like. Got so he were climbin’ over Yon Hill most ever day, bringin’ her posies, singin’ songs ‘n’ gazin’ at her with them big brown eyes a his. His daddy didn’t like it one bit, no sir-ee bob! Ol’ Flynt runs the gen’ral store over to Post Hole, if’n you remember. Come on over here one day ‘n’ sits hisself down to have a chat with Lindy, see if’n she got a serious yen for his fool boy. Seems she did, ‘n’ she could see the sense a gittin’ him settled down somewhat, ‘cause ain’t nobody can live on air nor pure love.

Upshot was the boy git hisself betrothed ‘n’ now he got to be a man ‘n’ pull his weight ‘n’ then some. His daddy set him to drivin’ the truck, seein’ it as a way to put off temptation to go sprintin’ over Yon Hill afore work bein’ done. So that boy’s drivin’ the Pit Road ever day, near ‘nough, gittin’ supplies ‘n’ such, haulin’ ‘em back. ‘Course, he’s takin’ milk down to Bascomb, oh, three times a week, too, collectin’ in trade from them dairy folks over Ridgeway. Takin’ other stuff too, a ‘course, but it’s that milk gits him riled.

His daddy was the one to think a that, if’n you remember, or maybe you don’t, makes no diff’rence. Easy to be sendin’ down cheese, a ‘course, but it cain’t fetch the price fresh milk do. So he gits them boys up to Half Creek to trade him ice ‘stead a tryin’ to find coin or doin’ without, ‘n’ he gits him some sawdust from the lumber mill. Packs cans a milk in layers a sawdust ‘n’ ice, y’see, ‘n’ keeps it cold all the way to Bascomb.

Flynt boy purty much hates that ol’ truck, ‘cause it needs a bit a babyin’ ‘n’ he gots to wheedle some just to git it started. Final straw’s when he’s settin’ to leave Bascomb one aftanoon ‘n’ the durn thing won’t git into nary a gear but one. Coulda found hisself a room ‘n’ git somebody to give it a look next day, but he ain’t gonna skip seein’ Lindy. That poor boy come all that ways back drivin’ in reverse. Got hisself a good head a steam goin’ after that, as you can guess.

Ol’ Flynt done fixed that truck up, just like always, but his boy’s rantin’ night ‘n’ day ‘bout how it ain’t reli’ble. What’s more, he’s a’sayin’ that if’n they was to buy them a bigger truck, they could cut down on trips, ‘n’ if’n they had ‘fridgeration they’d be savin’ on ice. His daddy ain’t too sure ‘bout any a that, but figures maybe it’s high time ‘n’ enough to give his boy some a the decidin,’ sorta make him a man. So he give that boy a big chunk a his savin’s ‘n’ off goes that boy to Bascomb to trade in that ol’ truck.

Oh, Lordy. Somebody shore done seen him a’comin’ ‘n’ got out them fleecin’ shears. This man what sells trucks gits to talkin’ to that Flynt boy ‘bout his gen’ral store what’s bound to come down to him once his daddy done kicks back ‘n’ takes a rest—though how’s he figure that when he got hisself four brothers is anybody’s guess. Guess he don’t mention that part to the truck man. Anyhow, he’s chattin’ in that boy’s ear ‘bout gittin’ him a big ol’ truck can haul enough to only be makin’ one trip a month maybe. That, ‘n’ he’ll throw in a little ‘fridgerator box thingy for downright free. Boy most like wet hisself just lookin’ at that big ol’ thing, but he knowed he ain’t got near enough cash to buy the tires off it, let alone what goes on top. Truck man says no problem, he can set him up on time, ‘n’ he scribbles all these figures down on a sheet a paper ‘n’ shows him how he gonna pay off that truck ‘n’ make a right handsome profit ‘n’ have loads a time to spare.

Now you know, hearin’ just that much a the tale, that he ain’t gonna say no to that. So he scribbles his name where the truck man say to, ‘n’ off he goes in his big ol’ truck. Figures he’s gonna show his daddy just what kinda boon a truck like that gonna be, so he’s off to all the reg’lar places to load up. Thing is, now he know all ‘bout that magic thing called credit, ‘n’ he goes on signin’ his name all over the place. That truck’s got enough to supply twenty towns ‘n’ then some for half a year.

So here he’s a’comin’ down that Pit Road, only it’s full-dark ‘cause he been so long loadin’ everythin’ up. Truck’s so durn big it got a dozen sticks comin’ outa the floor, ‘n’ maybe fifty gears to go choosin’ from. Well might you put your hand over your mouth at that, M’liss, ‘n’ you know it afore I’m sayin’ it. You know he don’t make it ‘round Hairpin. Nope, he just goes rollin’ down that hill, breakin’ off trees ‘n’ gettin’ battered to smithereens. Hardly gits bruised hisself, which were a blessing that ol’ truck man was tellin’ truth ‘bout how hardy that cab was.

Anyhow, after enjoyin’ a cursin’ spell what almost carried him off right then ‘n’ there, ol’ Flynt gits figurin’ they might as well open another gen’ral store. His boy is all for that, gettin’ to manage it all, which is better’n gettin’ his head blowed off or somewhat, or havin’ to haul everthin’ up, both. Lindy’s got herself a head on her shoulders ‘n’ she proves her worth right off gittin’ everthin’ settled. Lotsa folks over that side is right happy havin’ goods closer to home. ‘Course, they was some breakage, ‘n’ they had to buy a new truck, but least that truck man made the boy sign up for insurance.

Ol’ Flynt had a big ol’ party to open up his Hairpin Branch. Folks took them free drinks ‘n’ party favors all right, but they already done dubbed it Truck Stop ‘n’ that’s what it is.

QOD: Sponges and tongues are frequently misspelled. Is it because both are thirsty?

2006-04-11T22:02:00.000-07:00

They do say all kinds a things run in fam’lies. Ain’t just bein’ things like big ol’ ears or scruffy red beards or ankles big as tree trunks, neither. Them things is good for conversin’ when a body ain’t got nothin’ much to say--just tryin’ to fill in the air, so to speak, but my Bobbi Rae say none but a idjit cain’t stand a spell a silence.

Bits a magic floatin’ through them generations, now. That be worth givin’ a hear, in my book. ‘Course my Bobbi Rae done told me ‘bout this in strict confidence, so ain’t nothin’ to be repeatin’ to ears what ain’t got the sense God give a mule. I know yourself ain’t the sort a body to go givin’ conniptions for joy, so that’ll do for a pledge.

Anyhow, my Bobbi Rae heared this from that Louise up there lookin’ after ol’ Missy. One who been makin’ that dandelion wine long as ‘bout forever? Yup. Now, Louise ain’t straight off ol’ Missy’s line, but from Missy’s half-sister. Missy’s momma, now, was sore deceived by some ol’ silver-tongued rascal what up ‘n’ left her ‘bout three seconds after Missy weren’t no more’n a gleam in that devilish blue eye a his, if’n you catch my drift. Cain’t blame that poor woman bein’ cross with any feller in pants, like my own momma liked sayin,’ ‘n’ double cross with feller’s outer they pants. But that young Missy was proper gifted with spyin’ out lies. Once her momma got trustin’ that good ‘n’ proper, she got herself hitched to a mighty fine feller from up Yon Hill way.

Missy’s oh, ten maybe, when her momma goes ‘n’ gives her a bitty little half-sister name a Doodle. Warn’t her real name, a ‘course, but that were some mouthful a somethin’ like Esmereladinia-Dorinamabelelda or somewhat, so not’s even her own progeny can think what it was half the time. Everbody just called her Doodle ‘n’ that’s good ‘nough for me, I’s thinkin.’ Anyhow, Missy done doted on that chil’ like nobody’s bizness, so it be natural like for Doodle to go lovin’ Missy right on back. Didn’t never mind sharin’ her papa ‘n’ warn’t one speck a jealous in her, but it preyed on that young mind how Missy couldn’t help a thirstin’ after a pa all her own, one that warn’t a devil with a angel throat.

So Doodle’s comin’ nigh on fifteen ‘n’ lookin’ as fine as you could want a young woman lookin’ ‘n’ maybe a bit more, even. She got her a way, though, what make any feller think twice on maybe givin’ her a bad time over nothin.’ No magic like her sister Missy, leastwise not that anybody notice, but not one to go foolin’ with.

Now all this time Doodle been growin’ up, her daddy been haulin’ dandelion wine over Yon Hill to Post Hole for sellin’ once a month. Nice bizness they got goin’ ‘n’ a ‘course he run on down to Bascomb, too, ‘n’ over Crazy Woman way. Mostly them red injins out thataway. Braves what give up corn liquor—‘n’ don’t you think them squaws had a say in that one. Anyhow, he up and break a leg or somewhat. Maybe just a spraing or whatall, but point is, he cain’t go deliverin’ Missy’s wine. Missy cain’t go ‘cause she fixin’ on droppin’ a young’un any second, and they momma won’t leave her poor wounded man.

So Doodle loads up ‘n’ heads over Yon Hill, with maybe a hunnerd cautions ringin’ in her ears. Gits to Post Hole ‘bout seven of a evening. Mr. Flynt at the gen’ral store over there say ain’t no way that purty gal gonna hole up at Miz Ellie’s ‘cause they’s riff-raff come by there ‘n’ everbody knows it. Takes her home ‘n’ Miz Flynt take such a shine to that Doodle she sets in beggin’ her to stay a couple days for a visit. Doodle sends home a note with one a them Flynt boys next day, so’s her momma don’t worrit none.

Now that’s how Doodle come to spend Sabbath over to Post Hole. Miz Flynt done borry her a dress what hangs a bit loose but Doddle was one to look fine in a gunny sack. Doddle got herself a funny feelin’ when the preacher gets up to spout. Somethin’ she cain’t quite place ‘n’ it keeps on a botherin’ ‘n’ a botherin’ her right through all kinds a hellfire ‘n’ damnation ‘n’ salvation, though shore ain’t much a that last, but that’s them Post Hole folks for ya.

When they breaks for picnic lunch, Doodle goes sidlin’ over to that preacher man ‘n’ strikes up a conversation. Oh, he be one silver-tongued devil, all right, ‘n’ don’t take a blind man t’see he’s takin’ a shine to Doodle. When the eatin’s done, she come walkin’ back to the Flynts ‘n’ Miz Flynt ask if she feelin’ all right, ‘cause Doodle’s got her a funny look under that smile.

So the afternoon preachin’ commences ‘n’ that preacher gits goin’ right fierce from the get go, thinkin’ maybe to shine afore that purty new gal. Hardly gits through to his first hellfire when he dries up somethin’ awful. He gulps a glass a water, chokes a bit, pours ‘nother glass from the pitcher up there by the pulpit ‘n’ then chugalugs that pitcher dry. Everbody’s stirrin’ in them pews, ‘n’ the deacons is runnin’ for more water. Doodle just sits there with that same funny look behind her smile.

To keep a long story short, Doodle goes on back home ‘n’ Post Hole has to git them a new preacher, ‘cause that silver-tongued one they set such store by has got him a tongue made a pure sponge. He took hisself out to live by the stream, needin’ to drink day ‘n’ night, night ‘n’ day. Some say he drunk so much he fin’ly up ‘n’ bust. Some say he live there still, feared to go two steps away from a good supply a water.

Doodle, meanwhiles, gets her a reputation for being a gal not to cross. Seems that ol’ silver-tongued preacher man was Missy’s long lost papa what had the bad luck to leave his purty blue eyes twinklin’ in Missy’s face. Seems Doodle just figured he oughter git some understandin’ ‘bout thirst.

QOD: Your superpower is that you smell like dandelions whenever someone lies. How will you maintain your secret identity?

2006-04-10T21:24:00.000-07:00

See y’all got yourself some a Missy Lang’s dandelion wine. Have yourself a nice time over to her house? No, no, Missy ain’t that purty young thing putterin’ ‘round the garden—that’s Missy’s granddaughter or maybe some sorta great-niece or whatnot. Cain’t remember ‘xactly, but they’s kin, anyhow. Louise, I’m thinkin’ her name is.

That’s right, Missy’s old as them hills out her back door. Caught sight a her, didja? She been makin’ that wine, they say, since she was a bitty thing. Heared a tale ‘bout it, oh, a great while back, but ain’t certain sure they’s a bit a truth to it. Well, sure, if y’all got the time. Don’t mind repeatin’ what I heared, but I ain’t puttin’ a hand on my heart to swear.

Seems Missy’s momma had a right fierce hatin’ a any dee-viation from god’s own truth. Had her a fella, see, what had him a silver tongue. I see y’all noddin’ ‘cause y’all heared two thousand forty nine versions a this sad story. So poor gal takes ta sittin’ on her stoop sighin’ whilst that belly a hers rounds up. Folks gits to thinkin’ there ain’t no way they’s gonna git her pried off them steps, but one day she commences walkin’ ‘round the holler, pickin’ all them dandelions what’s gone to seed. Yup, she plucks ‘em up, gives ‘em a twirl, ‘n’ blows them lacy pixie umbeerellas all over. Oh, y’all can bet they was a bumper crop a them dandelions next year. Not that they couldn’t see it comin’ but nary a body in this here holler was wantin’ ta stop her seedin’ ‘em like she done. Least she warn’t just sittin’ there sighin’ her poor heart out.

Missy come into the world with snow piled up ‘round the chimneys. She were a right sober chil’ that Missy. Her ma couldn’t bear no teasin’ nor tellin’ tales ‘round her young’un. Now, whether she were keen on keepin’ that gal from tellin’ fibs like her long lost pa, or whether she only meant to give her an ear for the truth, I cain’t say.

When Missy was comin’ up on three years, just getting’ so she talked ‘nough to make some sense, her momma’s uncle come visitin’ from far off. Might be they’s another whole tale right there, but this ain’t the time ‘n’ I’d be havin’ to chat with ol’ Ebeneezer first to be gettin’ it straight. Anyhow, this ol’ uncle gits in talkin’ to Missy ‘bout Santa, askin’ if she done wrote out her list. Now y’all are thinkin’ her momma come down hard on that uncle, ‘n’ y’all would be sniffin’ down the right track on that, but that weren’t the thing to git put in a tale. Seems like as that ol’ uncle gits on with his storytellin’ that bitty gal commences smellin’ a fresh dandelions.

Y’all knows how folks gits on strange happenin’s; ain’t long afore the holler gots ‘bout seventy-three versions a what ‘n’ how, not to mention why for. Then they’s folks gotta go test the damn thing out. Ain’t long afore it comes clear: that poor chil’ gits smellin’ a dandelions if’n anybody goes ‘n’ tells a fib anywheres near her.

Just think on that for a spell. Kids is skeered a playin’ with Missy, knowin’ she’ll git to smellin’ out the lies, so to speak. Grown folk ain’t any better. Don’t say it ain’t amiss to go tellin’ lies, but just the same it ain’t such a pleasant thing tellin’ the gosh durn truth all the time, neither. Even the reverend’s wife got a right to do a bit a stretchin’ now ‘n’ again.

Missy commenced wearin’ dandelions in her hair, making posies to stuff in her pockets, ‘n’ even lined her little socks with ‘em. Kids took that okay ‘cause now who could tell the difference? Missy smelled like dandelions all the time. So while them purty little flowers was bloomin’ life warn’t bad for that little gal. ‘Course, ain’t no flower bloom all year. Winters was long ‘n’ hard ‘n’ lonely.

Don’t know when Missy took to capturing that smell by makin’ dandelion wine. Might be her momma seen what her own fear done to her young’un ‘n’ thought it up herself. Anyhow, it brung a right good income ‘n’ them two did theyselves proud sellin’ pints ‘n’ quarts a the stuff.

Years later, some feller took to sittin’ on the stoop with Missy, who was all growed up by then. Maybe he starts out tellin’ what’s true, but sippin’ that wine he gits right inventive. Could be he just couldn’t never git enough a that dandelion smell. As for Missy, seems she commenced laughin’ at him one night. Never did stop, neither, ‘til they laid him in his grave sixty-four years after.

QOD: The love potion you made tastes terrible. How will you drink it?

2006-04-09T22:32:00.000-07:00

Said he loved me but I knowed even while I’m smilin’ into them clear gray eyes he’d go on and do me wrong. I’m thinkin’ give it six months, maybe seven. Ain’t never had no love affair last longer than that, though it sure ain’t hard to catch an eye and get a man pantin’ like a dog on a hot day.

Get me a call from Gran ‘bout five months into that one. I’m givin’ her this reason and that why I ain’t got time to leave Bascomb right now. She get on about how she’s old and getting’ palpitations and all but didn’t like to say and get me worryin’ ‘bout some old lady who was nothin’ but trouble nowadays anyhow. So I says fine ‘cause I know once she get herself into this vein, it ain’t gonna get better.

Crazy old woman look fine to me when I get there. Bouncin’ around fixin’ me this and that and sayin’ be careful not to spill nothin’ on the quilt stretched out on her boards. It’s a special one the ladies is sewin’ for the reverend’s second daughter’s boy’s third baby. Mite big for a baby, I says and she smacks my arm and tells me don’t be silly. Babies grow.

Gotta sit and hear all the news first, how Miz Tyler and Ben Reed gots this feud startin’ over Joy Holly’s south field, how young Cat what carved them pretty soap animals up and died, how that old miser moneybags Pendergrass got him a color teevee and everbody’s makin’ fools of theirselves over it. I nod, makin’ noises in the back of my throat, thinkin’ she gots screws knockin’ loose and bouncin’ ‘round in her head. That feud over Joy Holly’s field, for instance, been goin’ on long as I remember.

Tells me finally she got this big secret to hand me ‘fore she dies. I got cousins and such so why me? I say, and her eyes goes all spooky and she says the magic done choosed me so there’s nothin’ a body can do about that. Next day she gets out her mortar and pestle what somebody in the family been cartin’ ‘round since the Civil War, and bottles of vinegar and what not. We goes out walkin’ for a bit and she’s pullin’ up this and that green bit, tellin’ me to pay attention, which you know I ain’t doin’ but I’m smilin’ and noddin’ so as not to hurt her old feelings.

Get back to the house and she got me choppin’ and grindin’ and mixin’ this and that. Only thing I recognize on my own is the orange. First I gets scrapin’ the skin, peelin’ off little flaky bits, and then punch a hole and squeeze the juice into a little glass. Gran puts this and that together, stirrin’ like a madwoman, and finally gives it a sniff. Open, she says. Rollin’ my eyes, I drop my jaw, ‘cause I know this old biddy and she got no problem smackin’ a descendent with a wooden spoon. Just a drop on my tongue and for half a second I taste the orange and then my mouth’s afire. I get to chokin’ and grabbin’ for water and when I can see again, that old woman’s pouring the stuff into a vial. She give me that and a card she got the recipe writ out on.

So what I got here? I say, and she lays a finger aside her nose, winkin’ at me. The no-fail love potion, she says, and I wait a whole minute, but she ain’t laughin’ nor even crackin’ a grin. Don’t believe in that, I say. She shrugs them old shoulders and says magic don’t give a hoot if I believe or not. Want somebody to fall in love true and forever, she says, you pop a hair of someone desirin’ love into the vial, wait at least a day but no more than a week, then you got to get the intended to swallow ‘bout a teaspoon of it.

Okay, you gotta be seein’ this comin’ a mile off. Don’t believe in it but a month later I just gotta try it. Elsewise my Jim’s gonna go harin’ off ‘cause that’s what men do. Got some enchiladas from that stand down on Spruce and I drip some of Gran’s goo real careful. Jim’s always sayin’ he don’t mind hot stuff, but he’s got him a time getting’ that particular hot down his gullet. Gets finished coughin’ and wipin’ tears off his face, he gives me a smile and heads straight for the milk of magnesia.

I’m feelin’ a tad guilty at the weddin’ but I’m thinkin’ if I tell him, he’s only gonna laugh at me. Ain’t ‘til we go on up to show Gran our second young’un that I catch this look zippin’ ‘tween Jim and Gran. I’m lookin’ back and forth between ‘em and the thought I been took wriggles into them pink and gray convolutions called my brain. For one second I’m mad as some chicken poked upside down in the pickle barrel. ‘Course I been right happy all this time and truth is, I ain’t got no serious problem keepin’ on with that. Gettin’ took now and again ain’t all that big a deal. I pick up Gran’s wooden spoon and give ‘em both a friendly little smack.

QOD: What's the earliest you've gotten up to watch cartoons and what did you see?

2006-04-08T23:58:00.000-07:00

Should a knowed they was gonna be trouble, soon’s them all from Bascomb come put that steel contraption on Len’s hill. Ain’t costin’ y’all a penny, they says. Free, free, free. Huh! Never seed free a any durn thing afore, ‘n’ I knowed ‘tweren’t no differin’ now. Free got itself a cost sewed right in, same’s everthin’ else.

Everybody’s chatterin’ up ‘n’ down, in ‘n’ out, over ‘n’ under. All ya needs is one a them teevee sets, ‘n’ movin’ pictures come right in ta the house ‘n’ all. Don’t have ta git gas ‘nough to ride on down to Bascomb, ‘n’ don’t got ta give nary a body no quarter for it neither.

Mr. Hensen carries hisself ‘n’ Mr. Todd down to Bascomb t’see ‘bout them sets, ‘n’ they comes back grinnin’ like they’s foxes plumb full a chickens ‘n’ no buckshot in they behinds neither. Them all be gittin’ a right good deal, a deal like nobody ever knowed ta think on afore. ‘N’ they all hauls these boxes inside they houses. Mr. Hensen give me a nod over his shoulder. C’mon then, he say, ‘n’ I go just like that, even knowin’ curiosity done knocked a cat down in the well nine times, ‘n’ one extry to make sure.

I ain’t the only one crowdin’ in, a course, but I git me a fine spot ta see the doin’s. Mr. Hensen he cuts througn that box lickety split, which don’t mean nothing ‘cause it were one a them paper boxes—whatchacallit?—cardboard. ‘N’ why they call it that’s anybody’s guess, ‘cause it sure ain’t a board nor anythin’ like, ‘n’ nobody in they fool of a mind would think ta cut it up ‘n’ play Solitary nor Family Houses nor Catch ‘Em with that.

Inside the box is ‘nother box, this’n with some kinda gray color ‘n’ a glassy side. Mr. Hensen he puts his little ol’ box on the kitchen table ‘n’ unwinds a ‘lectric cord, plugs it in ta the ‘lectric box on the wall. Some a them Jonas kids be jumpin’ ‘n’ touchin’ ‘n’ Mr. Hensen he pushin’ ‘em away gentle-like ‘n’ they don’t care fig one ‘til he up ‘n’ raps the big one in the head. Everbody get all quiet at that, ‘n’ Mr. Hensen goes a pullin’ on these skinny metal whatzits. Rabbit ears, he say with a grin ‘n’ givin’ me a extry little wink. Don’t look like no rabbit ears what I ever seen afore. He commences fiddlin’ with the knobs ‘longside the glassy bit ‘n’ purty soon somethin’s skitterin’ cross that glass ‘n’ a godawful noise is comin’ out a it.

Just a sec now, Mr. Henson say, ‘n’ he keeps on a fiddlin’ with the knobs ‘n’ his metal rabbity ears. Then everbody’s hollarin’ ‘cause they can make out somethin’ on the glassy bit, the screen as Mr. Hensen say. He fiddle one mite more’n they’s a skunk jumpin’ ‘round, talkin’ right funny. Everbody’s eyes is glued on that thing ‘n’ Mr. Hensen sidles on over ta me ‘n’ goes whisperin’ in my ear ‘bout hows I can come when any ol’ ever I wants. Cain’t help smilin’ ‘cause his breath be a strange kind a tickle ‘n’ I feel my ownself leanin’ in his direction.

Purty soon, them teevee sets is goin’ ‘round the clock, yakkity yakkity, ‘n’ folks is comin’ from all over the mountain, bringin’ food ‘n’ whatnot to Mr. Bensen and Mr. Todd ‘n’ settlin’ in best they can for a good long look at them little gray figures singin’ ‘n’ dancin’ ‘n’ doin’ ever fool thing a body could think up. One guy hittin’ ‘nother with a hammer, or droppin’ a brick on his fool head, ‘n’ the guy what oughter be on the floor with his brain leakin’ out his ear don’t do nary a thing but try ta poke t’other guy in the eye. They’s men dancin’ ‘round in women’s dresses, wearin’ silly hats, ‘n’ stuffed birds askin’ riddles, ‘n’ folks headin’ off ta deepest Africa like they’s goin’ on a picnic. I’s tellin’ y’all, whatever goll durn fool thing a body can think up, they’s a’doin’ it, them little bitty gray people.

‘Course, ain’t no never mind a mine if everbody stay all day ‘n’ all night too, lookin’ at them boxes. Git woke up one night ‘n’ my clock sayin’ two in the a.m. Takes me a little walk ‘n’ I see a bunch a folks in Mr. Hensen’s house, watchin’ bears or somewhat on that teevee set. Cain’t see Mr. Hensen ‘n’ I’m wonderin’ how he ever git any shuteye these days. Picture him in my head sleepin’ off in a ditch somewheres, ‘n’ my heart goes right out to him. I goes on back to bed, shakin’ my head. Here’s what free teevee done brang a body to: chased right out’n his own house, ‘n’ riskin’ his health, no doubt.

Nary a body be takin’ much notice when ol’ Mr. Pendergrass carry hisself off to Bascomb. Ain’t nobody much like that ol’ skinflint, ‘n’ he got hisself a nasty manner to boot. So here he come back that selfsame night, ‘n’ he gots hisself a cardboard box, only it be a damn sight bigger’n Mr. Hensen’s ‘n’ Mr. Todd’s boxes both put together. That ain’t all. Mr. Pendergrass got hisself a COLOR teevee set.

Y’all ain’t never seed nothin’ like it. All them folks just runnin’ on up to Mr. Pendergrass ‘n’ turnin’ on the charm, smilin’ ‘n’ curtsyin’ ‘n’ whatall. He done let ‘em all in, ever plumb last one a them grinnin’ idjits. Mr. Pendergrass gits him a look in his eye that’s meanin’ he know just what he got for twistin’ arms to make things go his way.

I’s walkin’ on home when Mr. Henson step on his front porch ‘n’ give me a wave. Feel like takin’ a look? he say, ‘n’ his mouth goes kinda funny ‘n’ all. Shore thing, I says, ‘n’ then I’m walkin’ in, ‘n’ it’s awful warm. Maybe all them folks done heated his house up prime. I grab me a peek at Mr. Hensen ‘n’ I can see him a’sweatin’ so’s I knowed I warn’t the only soul feelin’ the heat.

I give him a little smile ‘n’ say thanks ever so kindly when he offer me a chair ‘n’ ask do I want a piece a Miz Polly Roberts’ famous pecan pie ‘n’ a glass a fresh milk ta wash it down. Cain’t hardly stop grinnin’ by then, ‘n’ I gits sudden butterflies stompin’ ‘round my insides. I ain’t so fond a that teevee a his’n as I got me a yen to see if’n I can git Mr. Hensen’s mouth to do that funny bit agin.

QOD: Please come up with a more appropriate name for the ringtoe:

2006-04-07T23:52:00.000-07:00

He give you what? Ain’t you one silly gal, though. Now don’ you go granmawin’ me. Aye, ‘tis a purty ring, ‘n’ a right purty toe sportin’ it. Ain’t you never heared a that gilded cage? That were purty too.

C’mon, then ‘n’ sit you down. Got a tale that’ll git you scowlin’ in a diff’rent direction. Long time ago, oh long, long time ago, folks was what you might call not so civil. ‘Course, they din’t see it theyselves, but had a mind all what they done was right ‘n’ proper.

Supposin’ a man got hisself a yen for a wife? Plumb tired a doin’ his own fetchin’ ‘n’ carryin’ ‘n’ got hisself a itch in his knickers to boot. So he gits his friends ‘n’ off they go with they spears ‘n’ such, goin’ courtin’ is what. ‘N’ the groom goes a marchin’ right in ta ‘nother feller’s house ‘n’ grabs hisself a gal. So she be screechin’ ‘n’ what all whilst this feller is carryin’ her off, ‘n’ the groom’s friends be knockin’ in the heads a her pa ‘n’ her brothers ‘n’ all, ‘n’ maybe killin’ the poor dog ta stop his barkin’ ‘n’ stealin’ a sheep or a cow for good measure. Yep, feller what leads them friends a the groom’s in ta commitin’ mayhem’s what’s called best man now, so you just think on that’n for a spell.

Poor gal, meanwhiles, is slappin’ at her groom ‘n’ bitin’ ‘n’ kickin’ ‘n’ once he gits her to home, he goes right on ‘n’ flings her on the floor ‘n’ do his biznes’ without so much as a by yer leave nor nothin.’ He be ridin’ her, ya see, ‘n’ ya say that a time or three, you’ll be seein’ where the word bride be comin’ from. Might be worth a think or two on what a groom be doin’ for a livin’ as well.

Now this gal’s gonna be runnin’ back to her folks quick as she can, so the groom goes on ‘n’ shackles her right ta the wall; big ol’ leg iron ‘n’ a chain just long enough to allow for her doin’ chores.

Don’t you shake that head at me, gal, I’s tellin’ the pure gospel truth. ‘N’ if’n she were from a rich family, might be they’d grab a maid for the bride, what be the bridesmaid, y’see, ‘n’ I give ya three guesses on what them mayhemers do to that’n, ‘n’ the first two don’t count.

Time goes on by, like it do, ‘n’ folks git a bit more civil, like, ‘n’ grooms git to buyin’ theyselves a bride, maybe trade a goat or a mule for the gal, ‘n’ a leg iron do just fine to remind her to keep put, ‘cause ain’t no way her pa gonna give back that goat if’n she run back home. Ain’t no need for the chain, see, but don’t make her less a piece a goods, just like a mule or a barrel a beans.

Gits so that leg iron don’t seem quite so civil, so they gits to puttin’ a ring on that fourth toe there, just like you got on you. ‘N’ when they gits to wearin’ shoes, why that ring jumps up on a finger so’s everbody kin see it. Man just markin’ his property, is all.

Oh, it still be one trial ‘n’ a half gittin’ a man t’see you ain’t got no mind to be owned, thanks all the same, ‘n’ when yer ol’ granpa come courtin’ me I told him fine ‘n’ dandy but I ain’t wearin’ no ring cuz I warn’t nobody’s property ‘n’ if’n he was wantin’ to keep his teeth he better not be forgettin’ it.

All I kin see, gal, is you done stepped back a bit in ta hist’ry ‘n’ the good Lord knows we oughter be goin’ forward ‘stead a back. Had a ounce a sense in that curly top head a yourn, you’d go on back t’that halfwit boy ‘n’ tell him ta put the damn ring on his own damn toe.

QOD: If you were a wrestler, what would be your finishing move?

2006-04-06T21:05:00.000-07:00

Smoking a cigarette.

QOD: Which do you prefer and why: whittling with soap or whistling with wood?

2006-04-05T22:11:00.000-07:00

Done called her Cat, her pa ‘n’ that so-called uncle a hern. Warn’t what her ma plunked on her fer a name, but that skinny gal with them big doe eyes warn’t meant long for this world, no sir, ‘n’ any ol’ body with a grain a sense knowed she warn’t cut out for livin’ in no cabin off in them woods. Din’t bury her in sacred groun’ neither, but dug ‘em a hole right out back, keepin’ her bones close. Askin’ for trouble, that.

So them men done called that bitty chil’ Cat for her baby mewling, poor motherless. They kep’ her fed, I s’pose, but knowed squat none ‘bout tendin’ a young’un. Miz Tyler down Bascomb way give ‘em to know she’d take that poor chil’ in, but her pa warn’t havin’ none a that. Seems his doe-eyed skinny gal done swore she’d come a’hauntin’ from the grave was he to shinny out from under the task a doin’ for his own.

Anyhow, that poor chil’ crawled ‘round that cabin day after weary day, playin’ with dust ‘n’ grime, bits a this ‘n’ that what I’s right skeered thinkin’ ‘bout. Possum claws ‘n’ rat tails, most like. Got her big ‘nough to git her own self outside, the good Lord only knows what her playthings was then. Miz Tyler shamed them men ‘n’ give ‘em a doll for little Cat, but that girl din’t seem to like it overmuch. ‘Bout that time that so-called uncle a hern taked her out in the reeds one day ‘n’ showed her how to pick a likely one, how to cut it fore ‘n’ aft a them nodes, then showed her how to awl some holes. So there was her first whistle. Miz Tyler squawked right royal when she heared a that. What blazin’ lame’d go givin’ a little chil’ a knife ‘n’ awl? But Cat never give herself so much as a scratch, ‘n’ purty soon it warn’t just them men getting’ used to Cat’s whistlin’ day ‘n’ night. Oh, it were right amiable music, that. ‘Nough to stop a body right in the middle a anythin.’ Some got to callin’ it magic, but that were just a turn a phrase.

Miz Tyler gits after them men for cleanliness next, sayin’ it were fine for their sorry souls gittin’ carried off to hell, but it were a darn shame visitin’ such vile endin’ on a poor chil’ like Cat. So Cat’s pa carried four bars a Miz Tyler’s oatmeal ‘n’ lavender soap on back to little Cat. Figured she take it on down to the stream ‘n’ come back gleamin’ or what not. Cat liked that soap jus’ fine, sniffin’ ‘n’ smiling,’ ‘n’ that so-called uncle a hern declarin’ she give ‘em a little “ta.” It’s up to y’all if’n that’s a lie or God’s own truth. Certain sure there ain’t nobody else never heared word one come out’n Cat.

Cat’s pa come home one night t’find soap chips ever’where. Seems Cat done taked a bar a Miz Tyler’s soap ‘n’ carved herself a little songbird. Right perfect, it was, ‘n’ her pa that proud. Kep’ it up, young Cat, ‘n’ by week’s end had herself a bitty little squirrel, a water turtle, ‘n’ a fish carved so fine it looked to be wrigglin.’ Warn’t what Miz Tyler’d meant, but them little soap critters caught her heart same as ever’body else, ‘n’ she took to makin’ extry batches jus’ to keep Cat in soap. Not that Cat spent ever’ minute soap carvin,’ ‘cause we heared her music comin’ out’n them woods same as always.

Then one day Miz Tyler done a batch a oatmeal soap with rose ‘stead a lavender. Come out so fine she warn’t about to wait on Cat’s pa to come git it, but trots out her own self into them woods, thinkin’ to surprise Cat. Turns out the surprise was on Miz Tyler that day. She heared Cat’s whistlin’ ‘n’ smiles ‘cause she cain’t help it, ‘n’ picks up her pace. She stops cold when she gits to the cabin. Cat’s sittin’ out on the stoop, with her little soap critters all ‘round, ‘n’ them pieces a soap are dancin.’ They’s flappin’ wings ‘n’ bobbin’ heads ‘n’ stompin’ this way ‘n’ that. Miz Tyler goes runnin’ back home, screamin’ the devil hisself be livin’ in them woods.

‘Course, ain’t body one be believin’ tales like that without checkin’ it out for their own selves. So one by one we all goes tippy-toein’ out in them woods to see soap critters dancin’ to Cat’s music. ‘N one by one we all gits convinced that’s ‘xacly what’s goin’ on. Some few talked Miz Tyler’s view, sayin’ it were devil work, but it were durn hard to believe any such thing when you was seein’ that purty little gal lookin’ jus’ like her ma with them big doe eyes. Warn’t naught but innocent magic. Well, what harm? Jus’ bits a soap jiggin’ ‘round.

The argufyin’ goes on ‘n’ on ‘bout what to do with Cat, ‘n’ most thinkin’ ain’t no reason to do aught but leave her be. Meanwhile, word gits out, ‘n’ purty soon they’s people comin’ from far as Bascomb to git them a peek at our gal ‘n’ her dancin’ soap. Got harder seein’ it, though. Cat took to goin’ away from the cabin, ‘n’ whether she carried them critters with her or jus’ had ‘em dancin’ ‘long behind, don’t nobody know.

Some git to talkin’ ‘bout makin’ money on the gal, ‘n’ Cat’s pa gits riled at that, knowin’ it shore ain’t what her ma would be wantin.’ Some say it’d give Cat a chance to see the world, ‘n’ she’d be famous ‘n’ could have what she liked. So that argufying goes on ‘n’ on, ‘til Cat stops it all by up ‘n’ dyin.’

Cat’s pa laid her ‘side her ma, ‘n’ put her soap critters ‘round to guard her. All ‘cept the little bird what she first carved. That’n he put in her palm ‘n’ closed her little fingers ‘round it. Never did see Cat’s pa after that. Man seemed to jus’ melt away, same as the little soap critters on Cat’s grave when the rains come.

Some say Cat were like her ma, not long for the world, ‘n’ God’s will ‘n’ so forth. I’m thinkin’ a body’s got to be careful ‘round magic, ‘specially the young ‘n’ tender kind.

QOD: Unlike a dog, how can a turtle ever be naked?

2006-04-04T21:39:00.000-07:00

A touch football game,
a laughing clutch,
a sprinkler head.
Heavy plaster encases him from hip to throat.
Nothing to do but wait, and hope.

Friends come,
quiet,
then noisy,
and the party moves on without him.

She works night shift,
keeps her face in shadow
as her fingers touch,
smooth,
bathe.
She bends a hanger,
snakes it under the cast to find an insane itch.

He sees at last her burned face.
Embarrassed,
she speaks of a dance thrown by cruel boys.
The ribbon she won hangs
in her tiny apartment,
a reminder of what her patients face,
a reminder of what the world can do to
the broken,
the maimed,
the diminished.

He’s a lucky man.
He escapes his shell,
faces therapy
instead of a chair.
Luckier still,
her naked face has become dear, and beautiful.

QOD: Whoops! Your tongue is now a magnet. Whatever will you use for silverware?

2006-04-03T23:19:00.000-07:00

Your tongue, my love,
Is a magnet for mine.
Let me share sweet sherbet
With a golden spoon,
Then we shall explore
Mutual magnetism.

QOD: Why do you think honeydew is the money melon?

2006-04-02T22:08:00.000-07:00

Bunny Blue owned a honeydew,
A honeyed brew, and a watermelon.

A sunny Sioux with his funny crew
Offered Bunny Blue a trade of melons:
Their runny stew for the honeydew,
Promised money, too, and a ripe muskmelon.

But Bunny Blue loved his honeydew,
Though he’d trade the brew and the watermelon.
Their refusal cued, they bid fond adieu.
Next dawn, bedewed, found Blue lacking melons.

Sonny Crewe said the honeydew
Was bought and sold on the old Magellan
Poor Bunny Blue wept a tear or two
Having lost his due to a band of felons.

Now Bunny Blue sits and drinks his brew
Rues his honeydew as lost money melon.

Now listen, you, here’s the residue:
You get a honeydew, go on quick to sellin.’

QotD: If you could peer far enough into the night sky, you'd see a star in any direction you looked. When would you sleep?

2006-04-02T02:12:00.000-07:00

Rail against if.
Instead, demand, and
Peer through cracks
In time and space.
See every star
In this universe,
In all possible versions,
Tenses,
Modes.
Empower sleep to
Expand sight,
Sound,
Touch.
Stars, universes, drops of water…
God me, senses;
Crown me, imagination;
Immortalize me; possibility.
Neither sleep nor wakefulness
Casts shadows;
Holiness alone
Divides light from light,
Brings forth,
Sets free…
I am:
That is enough

QotD: If mud is dirt plus water, what is clay?

2006-04-01T00:11:00.000-07:00

Clay is at the fine particle end of the dirt continuum. Sand is not. Once clay is saturated, it will block more water from passing through. Wet clay will support you better than wet sand, which may become quick. If you tramp through clay, helping a friend near Stratford-on-Avon plant a tree in a depression caused by a bomb falling during the war, it will cling to your boots, more and more until you are stopped in your tracks. You will need a knife to cut it off. You can wash sand off with a hose. Clay, deconstructed, has more potential words than mud. If you form clay into a pot shape, and cook it in a kiln, it will lose its water-blocking properties. To restore them, you must use a glaze. Ham is very good with a glaze. Clay incorporates the word lay, which is sexier than spelling mud backwards. The best dirt plus water can do is something like tri pus raw, which is disgusting and slightly misspelled. Clay castles last longer than sand castles. Mud pies are seldom eaten. You’re much better off with the ham, although fish is better for your brain. Brain may be jumbled to form in bar, which is where I’m writing this. Hurray for clay rhymes beautifully and is meaningful. Mud is dud also rhymes, but is stupid. The End

QotD: Your hand has been replaced by a rubber stamp. What does it say?

2006-03-30T23:22:00.000-07:00

Property of Carrie Kilgore
If found, please return

QotD: What's the most amount of sand you've ever had in your swimming trunks?

2006-03-29T22:15:00.000-07:00

This is a true story: now listen. We were shipwrecked on a desert island, me and a bunch of others, only it wasn’t all full of palm trees and what-not. Nothing but sand, sand, and more sand. Okay, there was a rock or two. But nothing green, nothing growing, not even sand fleas, which at least was a blessing there.

We had plenty to eat: there were so many fish you could just walk out a ways and grab a couple. Nothing to burn, so it was sushi time pretty much all the time. One of the women found some seaweed she said was okay to eat, and pretty soon we were all chowing that down as well. Plain sushi morning, noon and night can get pretty tired.

It was an entertaining group, at least. No horrid old bores going on about some war last century and how all the boys were good ‘uns. We basically spent all our time telling stories and playing games, getting brown and browner, and quarreling over who got the red fish and who got the blue fish. Made no difference, really, but it was something to do.

Thing is, clothes aren’t made of iron plate, and they began to degrade. The guys weren’t too worried about this, but the women had some idea about clothes keeping us civilized. We basically offered to give the women all our clothes, but they weren’t too keen on that, either. A couple of them set to work trying to find an alternate fabric.

Fishskin is basically shit as far as clothes are concerned. It stinks, falls apart pretty quick, and we didn’t have anything to sew it together anyway. The seaweed wasn’t much of a success either. Then they started experimenting with the sand. No kidding. No sweat with us. The stories were getting old and we’d played charades so much we were signing in our sleep. We could use a new laugh or two.

The first thing to work at all was this cement type stuff they made of sand and the insides of some fish that tended to turn gluey after a while. Maybe a little too gluey, if you know what I mean. They tried a shirt first. Stood some poor schmuck up and started slapping big handfuls of gluey sand on him, kinda smoothing it out once they had enough. Covered him okay, and it actually stayed in place. Little problematic when it came time to sleep. It had hardened into something akin to rock. Took us three and a half days to get it off him. No way were we gonna go for pants made out of that crap.

So they went back to the drawing board, so to speak. Eventually came up with this sort of flexible mixture of sand, seaweed and fish guts. You still had to kind of slap it on and smooth it over, but when it dried, you could pull it off, and later you could pull it on again. Kinda like speedos but grainier.

The women came up with some pretty nice coverings for themselves, drawing little designs and shit on their creations before they dried. The guys were pitiful, me included. The girls said we were on our own in one department, and guys just have this thing about helping some other guy smooth his shorts, if you get my drift. So we didn’t win any fashion parades, but our sand shorts appeased the women and we got to stay pretty much civilized until we got rescued.

QotD: How will you toast your Marshmallows...?

2006-03-28T22:58:00.000-07:00

Daddy could toast the perfect marshmallow. Patience was the key, he said. Holding it high enough, so the rising heat of the fire could cook it slowly, slowly. His marshmallows were a perfect even tan, a golden brown with a flowing gooey center. He’d straighten a wire coat hanger, bend it double and put three marshmallows on each end. Six at a time, perfect treats. He’d straighten hangers for my brothers, instruct them carefully. There were mishaps, of course, marshmallows that caught fire, blackened. Hangers held not perfectly straight, so that when the center turned to goo, the marshmallow would slide, often into the fire. It didn’t matter. He’d give them another handful of marshmallows along with tips on how to perfect the process, even as he slipped one of his golden beauties into a laughing mouth.

I was a girl, inept, stupid. A twig was good enough for me. My marshmallows were carefully counted out: four ought to be enough; I’d only ruin them anyway. I did, too, crouching near the base of the fire, careful to stay out of the way. Mostly mine would catch fire. Sometimes I’d get one end golden, only to find the center hadn’t melted. I’d look up, smoke stinging my eyes. Look up at Daddy’s perfect golden marshmallows, wishing for just one to come my way. Just one to sit sizzling on my tongue, waiting to burst in soft wild sweetness.

It never did.

(published in Insolent Rudder, Spring 2006)

QotD: You've successfully slain the Dragon...

2006-03-28T16:25:00.000-07:00

The egg was stone,
big as my fist
sitting hard in my chest.
Was it the wink?
The murmured good morning?
The twitch of lips as colleagues droned?
A tiny crack
slowly splintered in a dozen directions
like a windshield hit
just so by a rock
skittering up from spinning tires.

The hatchling
made me laugh:
inquisitive nose poking everywhere,
onion paper wings testing mild summer air,
baby claws scritching, scratching,
wounds so slight they were adorable.

The yearling
frightened me at times
as flamed hiccups started small conflagrations,
but leathery wings could open now,
could soar:
they needed room
beyond four small walls,
needed parks and city streets,
needed voyages, and explorations
of the world.

When did it become a dragon?
Was it the day our apartment burst into flame?
The day the office turned maelstrom?
That lightning quick fracas in the park?
It had to be done:
I donned my steel,
protection against fiery blows.
My blade slashed sure;
spurting blood answered.
We sparred on and on--
I’d let him grow too big.
My arms trembled with fatigue,
my legs turned jelly.
Strike and strike and strike
until one day it fell,
light fading from jeweled eyes.

Sound returns,
and light.
I gaze across aeons,
lift a cup to Saint George,
having now myself
lived beyond my own meaning.

QotD: What reason do you have to believe the earth is flat?

2006-03-27T21:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday,
hills sprang in echoing surprise,
monster mountain hanging not so much behind
as over them, a blue and purple shawl.
Dots upon a narrow thread appeared,
winding far, then close and closer, growing larger
until with rush of wind and horns Dopplering
blue and red, they passed, taking joys and sorrows
along a ribbon leading over and beyond.

Round as an orange, bumply burnished, tangy sweet,
my world, with jangled notes of birds and hinges,
chimes and bees, running feet on sod:
waves of sound rising, falling, following
fragrant lilac blooms, baking bread,
sweat, and oatmeal soap
in ethereal dance.

It seems but yesterday;
perhaps it was a week ago, or years,
when a world of bumpy round
burst shatter sharp.

Absence silenced
that hard groaning,
plates beneath the sea
slipping, grinding.
Silent now,
flat.

QotD: The children are waiting! Please tell them the story about the bald frog with the wig:

2006-03-26T22:24:00.000-07:00

Listen, children. Frogs were not always the bald greenish or brownish things they are now. Once, long ago, they had silvery skin, from a dark lustrous gray all the way to a bright silver-white. They also had hair, and the hair grew not just from their heads, oh no! It grew in long waves from head and back, and from their legs as well. There was never hair so beautiful and fine, and the color—my! All the colors of the rainbow. When they hopped, their hair bounced in joyous curls behind them. When they swam, their hair would fan out about them, shimmering in the water.

One day a young princess, wandering alone in the royal gardens, spied a frog with the most beautiful long, satiny hair—golden as the coins her father had minted with his likeness upon them. She crept close, smiled, and whispered. “Dear froggy, would you like a kiss?”

The frog, whose name was Hrmm, stared at the princess. Why would she want to kiss him? The princess moved a step closer. “My nurse says if a princess kisses a frog, he’ll turn into a handsome prince.” Her nurse had said no such thing, of course, but she didn’t care. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You could have anything you wanted, and everyone would have to do your bidding.”

An older frog, naturally, would have hopped away from someone spouting such nonsense. Hrmm was just young enough to wonder if she might be telling the truth. That moment’s hesitation proved his downfall. With a sudden swoop, the princess had him by his long golden hair, and despite his urgent croaking, she ran from the garden into the castle, up some stairs, swinging him ferociously, so that he began to feel quite ill.

The worst was yet to come. When the princess got to her room, she grabbed a pair of scissors, and snippety-snip! Hrmm’s golden tresses fell to the floor. The princess locked him in an old birdcage. “I’m sure you’ll grow some more hair for me, won’t you, dear froggy. What do you want to live in an old pond for, anyway?”

The princess made Hrmm’s hair into a wonderful wig, and she wore it at the next ball. Everyone was stunned by her amazing curls, shining like 24 carat spun gold. She danced every dance, and the princes quarreled over who got to dance with her next. One even punched another in the nose.

It wasn’t long before no frog was safe. The ponds and streams were soon nothing but nets and traps and nooses. Everyone wanted froghair wigs, even the men, because they wore their hair long in those days. Of course, they preferred the less curly froghair. It was a terrible time for frogs. Sometimes they were simply shaved and released to lead a bare and embarrassing life. But sometimes they ended up in cages, like Hrmm, and sometimes they got their legs broken.

The frogs held a council and decided to visit the local witch. It cost a pretty penny, which is to say they had to scamper far and wide finding all the plants and spiderweb and magic rocks the witch had on her list. At last she cast her great spell.

Everything near the streams and ponds suddenly turned a silvery color, with streaks of red and blue, purple and green, very similar to waves of froghair. Camouflage, said the witch. Let them try and catch you now.

It was a bit harder finding frogs when all the plants and rocks and dirt and grass and even the water looked just like them. But soon people simply came stomping and smashing with oversized boots, checking underneath now and then to see if they’d squashed a frog. Camouflage was basically a disaster.

Luckily for the frogs, a wizard wandered through one day, took one look at the situation, frowned, and raised his wand. In one wild moment when the earth and sky seemed to change places, and then whirl crazily back to what everyone was accustomed to, the camouflage disappeared completely. So did the froghair, every bit of it. To top it off, the wizard changed the bald little frogs’ skin to rather dull colors, hoping no one would think to skin them. He knew, you see, that frogs were very important to the ecology of the entire planet.

The frogs were embarrassed for a while, but soon relaxed into the safety the wizard had provided by making them bald and green. Now and again some young idiot frog hears that nonsense about a princess kissing a frog and goes hopping off into trouble, but other than that, the only frogs who continued to have trouble were the ones in France. Somebody there had tasted their legs.

QotD: Your people make a statue in your honor. What is it made out of & what victory does it commemorate?

2006-03-26T00:52:00.000-07:00

A maze guards the gate of the City with No Name. Strangers come from many lands just to see it, to test their courage and their curiosity. Tales are told of those entering and never returning, and some who’ve been within and then out again declare those missing were never seen inside. Others say that the maze changes, that the correct path for one will only delay or swallow another.

The walls of the maze certainly change: anyone on the outside can see that plainly if they wait long enough. One morning it might be nothing but leafy green hedges bearing sharp thorns and flowers in riotous colors. By evening, it could be obsidian, polished to a glow that captures the moon, or even the stars. Some say they’ve seen it wood, with curious detailing, or with large figures carved bold and deep, so they almost seem alive: knights, dragons, ladies in long trailing gowns. Then it will change, so slowly, or perhaps magically, that you cannot see how. The knight becomes a mage, the dragon a moonstone, the lady an owl, and they are no longer wood carvings, but etchings upon glistening silver.

Most curious of all are the tales told by those who have conquered the maze and spent time within the city. Anyone can see the spires rising high above the city walls, the walls themselves two hundred feet high. Some claim the city was nothing but spires and towers, with citizens so light, so airy that you could sometimes see through them. Others say the spires are an illusion, that there is no city at all, but only a pleasant farm or two. Still others have reported a city buried deep underground, all twisted caves and echoing caverns. I myself have never been inside, fearing my own nightmares, I suppose, for the city defies reason, working instead on the imaginations of those who enter.

They called her Weidela, the Storyteller, and there are those still living in these old hills who remember when she walked among them, or at least they claim so. My own great-grandfather speaks of her sometimes, and his old face brightens, his blind eyes seem to sparkle, and he laughs as if he were still a child.

Weidela walked down from the hills one day, the old ones say, and chose a spot out upon the broad plain. There was nothing there but broken dirt and blood, the scene of countless battles, quarrels no one remembers anymore. She said it was enough, and stuck her walking stick in the ground. At first, everyone was certain she’d be killed, run down by one army or another. The armies did come, but somehow the battle skirted her small camp set in the very center of the melee. When it was seen she came to no harm, a few others joined her, wanting to hear the tales again, they said.

It was nothing but ramshackle huts and tents for a time, and this king and that prince would ride down to hurl themselves at the foe. Some of the wounded landed close enough to her camp that they’d be drawn inside. Healed, a few came forth again, speaking of a wondrous spring that quenched their thirst, of tame monsters that bowed to Weidela’s will, of beautiful women wearing every color imaginable and singing like angels. Some said that was nothing but delirium from their infected wounds.

One day the great wall began to grow. At first it was only stones set in a ring that encompassed the breadth of the plain. Armies came, and stopped in bewilderment, unable to step across. They watched the enemy on the other side for days or weeks or months, depending whose tale you believe, and then quietly melted away.

The maze came later, long after the city walls had grown to their present height, long after the silvery towers rose in elegant splendor. Weidela had died, said some, and the maze was her people’s tribute. Others said she could not die, that it was her stories that held the city secure.

I am a coward; I confess it. I tell myself each morning that I will brave the maze, that I will conquer it and find the city. I tell myself it will be the city of my dreams, and I will live my life out in the best that my imagination can bear. I come and look, ache with longing, and go home again, afraid of the worst my mind might create. I know in my heart I’ll never go. I’m my father’s child and have too much of the steady world cementing me to reason. Still, I long for the fantastic, and I nudge my great-grandfather as he sits in his corner, begging the tales he remembers, committing them to memory. Someday I will have a child of my own, and she will need to hear them.

QotD: When you hesitate before hitting snooze on your alarm clock, are you being lazy?

2006-03-24T23:16:00.000-07:00

Lazy Larry wouldn’t get up,
Said he couldn’t get up,
Thought he shouldn’t get up.
Lazy Larry wouldn’t get up,
No, he couldn’t get up in the morning.

Sister Suzy bought him a clock,
Set the alarm
For seven o’clock
It went off sharp at seven o’clock
He hit the snooze button all morning.

Brother Benjamin bought him another
A bigger alarm,
Which he hid from his brother.
An alarm which Larry found and smothered
And went back to bed still a’snoring.

Soon clocks were hid in all his drawers
Some under the bed,
In the closet, and more wheres,
Twenty-eight clocks, and horror of horrors
He’d find them with eyes shut, still snoring.

Lazy Larry couldn’t wake up
Wouldn’t wake up
Refused to wake up
But all those alarms keep him well shaped up
With good exercise every morning

QotD: When you open your eyes underwater, do you ever worry that you'll drown?

2006-03-24T00:18:00.000-07:00

I am flesh beneath His sea,
Pale mortal
Where I don’t belong.
His eye persuades the ripples,
Calls forth deep currents
To warm my numbing cold.
Whale song thrums,
Drums its way from head
To new-webbed feet
With dolphin descants.
I wave through brittle coral,
Safe, endangered, safe.
He peppers me with jellies;
Stung, I find new pleasure,
And He rolls me, buffets me.
I buffet back to hear Him laugh:
He is Master of storms.

One moment’s forgetfulness:
One open eye…

Neptune is gone

QotD: Well, maybe they don't need them, but don't you think that some fish might like a bicycle?

2006-03-22T22:02:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, in a lovely little cottage at the eddy of the stream, there lived a Papa Fish, a Mama Fish, and a Baby Fish. Because she was their only child, they spoiled her, and the nearby backwater was littered with toys she’d outgrown. Baby Fish didn’t know exactly why she was without siblings, but sometimes she heard Mama Fish crying while Papa Fish tried to comfort her. Mama Fish said things like it was just too hard to forgive friends who’d do such a thing. He’d pat her and murmur that Nature sometimes overcame even good fish. Though she hinted and then begged, they refused to explain to Baby Fish, so it remained a mystery.

One day a handsome young fish rode by the eddy on a silver bicycle that had a little bell on the handlebars. Baby Fish swam out for a closer look, and the handsome young fish braked for a closer look at her. “Hi there,” he said, and Baby Fish’s insides went all funny. “Do you want to ride it?”

Of course she did, and soon she was balanced on the seat, her fins firm upon the handlebars. Half a second later, she’d fallen off. So much harder than it looked. He encouraged her to try again, and she promptly fell off again. By dinnertime, Baby Fish was close to tears. She was a terrible bicyclist, and the handsome young fish must think she was a real loser. She hardly ate any dinner, and she cried herself to sleep that night.

To her surprise, the handsome young fish came by the next morning, on a different sort of bicycle. “It’s a bicycle built for two,” he said. “This is what we needed all along. Hop on, Baby Fish.” She did, and wonder of wonders, she never came close to falling off. The handsome young fish did all the steering, and together they balanced just fine.

They rode up and down the stream every day, and one time he even took her far enough to see the great river. Just looking at the thundering water made her shiver, but he turned around to comfort her, and ended up kissing her right on the mouth. “Oh!” she said, and kissed him right back.

It wasn’t long before he took her to see his home, a comfortable two-story town house tucked behind a great rock. Things got fishy, naturally, and pretty soon they were doing more than kissing. In the end, Baby Fish surprised herself by laying four rows of eggs in his den. “It’ll be the nursery,” he whispered tenderly, and sprayed a lovely film all over the eggs.

The wedding was a tremendous affair, with fish coming from as far as twelve miles away to celebrate with the happy couple. They received so many presents that Baby Fish didn’t think they’d ever be able to open them all. She spied several fish hugging Mama Fish, tearfully hoping for eventual forgiveness, but she never overheard what exactly the fish had done.

It wasn’t long before the eggs in the nursery began to hatch. Baby Fish fell in love with every one of her little fishlings, and the handsome young fish was so proud he began to sing, which is very difficult for a fish. He whirled Baby Fish around in a happy dance and said they must throw a party, the biggest party ever so they could show off their tiny offspring.

A terrible suspicion suddenly entered Baby Fish’s head. She watched her tiny babies swimming merrily about the nursery, poking their tiny noses into everything, and the suspicion grew. “Nope,” she said firmly. She looked into the handsome young fish’s disappointed face and realized he couldn’t kiss or cuddle her out of this particular decision. “No party, no announcement, no nothing. Not until they’re a whole lot bigger. I mean it!” The handsome young fish saw how serious she was, and agreed.

That was the day Baby Fish changed her name. From now on, she was Mommy Fish, and the handsome young fish, if he wanted to stick around, would have to be Daddy Fish. She wriggled her tail just so as she delivered this ultimatum. He grinned and swam close for a delicious kiss. “Anything you say, Mommy.”

QotD: You're wearing a sweater that stretches down to your feet. What color belt do you put on?

2006-03-21T22:20:00.000-07:00

They said knitting might help. I sighed and signed the chit. Maybe music would help, maybe being rolled through the park grounds would help, maybe a visit to the painting class might help, maybe, maybe, maybe. The truth was that he was locked inside and nothing was ever going to help. I agreed to every new therapy, signing to pay for it with the same emotion I experienced signing to pay for groceries, for housing, for health insurance.

The first day a skein of impossible fuchsia yarn appeared in his lap. The next day a perky blonde 14 year old volunteer arrived to sit beside him. “Okay,” she chirped. “Here’s how we cast on.” I was surprised with her tenacity. Day after day after day, and she was never anything but wildly cheerful. I later learned she had an autistic brother; perhaps patience had become an ingrained trait.

One day the knitting needles remained in his limp hands for the entire session. She patted him on the back and assured him he was making great progress. I didn’t have the heart to tell her she’d simply balanced them well. A month later the lesson ended with three inches of single knit fuchsia on one of his needles. The girl assured me he’d done it himself. I looked at his slack, blank face and sighed.

She’d told the truth. Over the next weeks the three-inch wide strip lengthened, and his hands would often continue the slow, simple movements she’d taught him. Eventually, he ran out of fuchsia yarn, and I put the yards and yards of his work on the bedroom dresser.

His next project involved a beautiful sky blue yarn his adolescent teacher insisted he’d selected himself. Perhaps she could read smaller signs than I. His face and posture never changed. Just fingers moving, needles clicking. Several months later, his lap was filled with soft rolls of knit blue. A surprise, said the girl. I couldn’t wait to see what dozens of skeins of yarn had gone into.

“He’s finished,” she said one day. “It’s for you. He loves you, you know.” I fled with an armful of knit, my nose and eyes stinging. So he knitted. Was I supposed to be happy?

An hour later I took a closer look. It was a pullover sweater, my size. It was longer than most, stretching clear down to my feet. My eye caught sight of his first project, still lying in a pile on the dresser. Laughing, I grabbed one end and began to twirl, allowing it to wrap ‘round and around my middle.

She lifted his head when I reappeared to model the sweater. I’m certain, certain the dimple in his left cheek deepened.

QotD: How do you pronounce the 'g' in bologna?

2006-03-20T21:51:00.000-07:00

Many people fear to visit the so-called “bachelor pad,” most often due to worries about starvation should they become trapped. Here is a simple way to create an edible, somewhat nutritious meal using items commonly found in and around the “pad.” Just remember the letters: BOLOGNA

BREAD: You will find this in balled up plastic wrappers. Most will be heels, but don’t be frightened; these are normally edible. Don’t use any that has turned blue. Try microwaving or toasting the pieces, which will disguise the stale taste. Find a table or a counter, push everything off onto the floor, and lay out the pieces of bread.

ONION: You will find this either in the bathroom window frame, or behind the TV. Cut off the black part and discard. You will find plastic utensils piled in some corner of the living room, probably behind the sofa. Using one or more knives, carefully slice what’s left of the onion and put it on the bread.

LINGUINI: You can find this in the fridge, behind the Chinese food cartons, underneath the frozen dinner minus the entrée. Check linguini for white or blue spots. Toss those bits. Spread the rest over the onions.

OLIVES: This will be the easiest to find: they’re in a bottle on the door of the fridge. Actually, you will probably have several jars to choose from. Slice or crush these, and nestle the pieces in the linguini. After this, you may slap two pieces of bread together to form the traditional sandwich, or you may prefer to leave them open-faced if that doesn’t bother you too much.

GOD: Allow this silent letter to remind you to send a silent, heartfelt prayer skyward or downward or sideways, according to the deity of your choice.

NAPKIN: This may be difficult but keep in mind that you may use any scrap of cloth or paper; for example, a T-shirt, a piece of newspaper, or even the top of a pizza box. Some prefer to find something concave, which will catch not only crumbs and drips, but may be helpful for sudden bouts of vomiting.

APPETITE: This may be the most difficult to find, but keep in mind that it’s not strictly necessary. Sometimes we must eat simply to remain alive until a rescue party shows up.

QotD: When you've got water stuck in your ear, how do you get it out?

2006-03-19T22:04:00.000-07:00

The Event Anticipation Radio (EAR) represents a giant stride forward in human guidance systems. Based on Einstein’s work concerning the space-time continuum, the EAR is capable of processing the user’s recent past, collecting information of other humans and objects in the near vicinity, and interpolating the likely events which will occur in the near future. Not only is the EAR’s prediction ability shown to be 98 percent correct, it also comes with a Nudging Optional Serial Events (NOSE) attachment, which can offer from two to eight alternate actions plans for users who find the near future displeasing.

We cannot stress strongly enough that the EAR will only operate correctly if it is kept clean and dry. The unit comes with a combination cleaning/repowering case, which should be used for a minimum of 30 minutes every 48 hours. In addition, please bring the unit into a service center for thorough cleaning every six months.

While allowing the EAR to get wet may negate your warranty, it is often possible to regain full function by releasing the moisture. Try the following:

First, locate the large single opening on the side of the unit (caution: do not mistake this single opening with the double opening on the front of the unit). Turning the unit so the opening points DOWN, gently tap the other side (now facing UP).

If this does not resolve the problem, turn the unit over so the single opening points UP, then add two drops of hydrogen peroxide. After two minutes, turn the unit over and repeat the gentle tapping described above.

If the unit is still malfunctioning, you may attempt one additional measure. Form a seal over the single opening with your lips, making certain the double opening on the front of the unit is NOT covered. Very, very gently, create suction. Please, do not use any vacuuming instrument. The powerful suction a machine creates will damage the delicate wires inside.

As you can see, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. The company takes no responsibility for untoward events if water is introduced into the unit.

Thank you for your interest in EAR, with the new NOSE component. Have a nice day.

QotD: Which is more important to you and why: flexibility or expandability?

2006-03-18T22:13:00.001-07:00

Following is an excerpt from “So You’d Like to Travel” by Dr. O. Ware Onerth, number one choice of professional educators throughout North America, Europe and Patagonia.

Chapter Seven: Flexibility vs. Expandability

So students, having come thus far in our study of inter-universe tunneling, we are about to take our abilities to locate and stabilize a tunnel to the next level. (You did READ the material, didn’t you? No? ‘Your girlfriend did’ is not an acceptable answer: go back and read it yourself!)

A scholarly debate now rages over whether the answer to multiverse travel lies in flexibility or expandability. Basically, this is a question of how to use the tunnel to convey a human body through into a parallel universe, with a satisfactory result on the other side.

Proponents of Flexibility (POF) are currently working on what is jovially called the Black Hole Solution (BHS). You no doubt remember from your grade school science classes that a body, as it approaches a black hole, begins to be stretched. This is due to an increase of gravity combined with a slowing of time. The process does actually stretch any body out like a string of spaghetti. If one becomes sufficiently thin, it may be quite easy to slip through a stabilized tunnel. One set of POF scientists is currently working on a ship that spins so rapidly that the created gravitation will act much as a black hole. Another POF group is currently exploring drug and diet regimes that will bring the human body more in line with the needed thin flexibility. Yet another is experimenting with DNA codes to hybridize humans and spider webs.

Proponents of Expandability (POE) contend that the answer lies in persuading the stabilized end of a naturally occurring tunnel to widen to appropriate size to allow a body through. The College of Women Tunnelologists (CWT) laughingly remarks that with what they know about expanding a simple cervix to allow the passage of an eight-pound child, they have little expectation of success with a method requiring an even smaller entrance to expand to a size to allow so much as a trained demon monkey through. While one POE group has shown significant success in expanding the mouths of various tunnels, they have been stymied by the side effect of new universes popping into existence (which effectively shuts that particular tunnel).

Thought questions:

1.Which theory, POF or POE, do you imagine will win this race? Why?

2.Tell us what you think of BHS and why.

3.What effect will spaghettification have upon human digestion?

4.What problems with the FDA will successful drug regimes have?

5.How do groups such as Hybridization is a No-No (HNN) and Mothers to Save Spider Spinnings (MSSS) impact POF scientists?

6.What impact will tunnel travel have upon high fashion models?

7.Many consider the demon monkey expendable, arguing that they are freaks of nature. Do you favor or oppose this argument?

8.Do you think demon monkeys can actually be trained?

9.Some think CWT is too frivolous to be taken seriously. How can you defend this position without incurring the wrath of women everywhere?

10.How do groups such as Only God Should Make A Universe (OGSMU) and Are You Bloody Well Out of Your Mind (AYBWOYM) impact POE scientists?

Bonus Question: In an essay of 500 words, explain why you would rather be eating double chocolate brownies. (No, you may not type ‘because’ 500 times.)