Discovering Wishes

A Frothy Fable

Once upon a time a charming young lady rode in her gaily decorated carriage to the nearby village to visit the liquid confectionary shop to indulge her desire for a chocolate potion of such deliciousness that it made the harrowing ride quite forgotten.

She arrived at the shop rosy-cheeked and quite eager for the sweet liquidy goodness she was about to enjoy. As always, she ran in the door as the jangly bell announced her presence. She looked for Genevieve, Nana Viv as she liked to call her, to concoct her signature potion in her own special way.

But Nana Viv wasn’t beaming over the counter. In her place was a pleasant looking lad with a cherry-chocolaty smudge on his chin and a misplaced spatula tucked into the pocket of his over-sized apron.

“Good afternoon, young lady.” He was all polite and proper and not Nana Viv. “What’s your pleasure this fine afternoon?”

“Where – What – Why isn’t Genevieve here?” She was quite flustered. This afternoon was not what she was expecting at all.

“Miss Genevieve was called to City for conferral with the Mayor’s council on sweetness. But she left me with all her recipes, if you would be so kind as to tell me which one you want.” He stood with the Giant Red Recipe Book at the ready.

The charming young lady sighed impatiently in a quite uncharming manner. “It’s. Not. In. Your. Book.” She stabbed at his tome superciliously.

“Fine,” he was unperturbed. “Just describe it to me, and I’ll make it just like she did.” His smile remained unaltered.

So she impatiently rattled off the list of ingredients, involving copious amounts of chocolate in every form, spices local and exotic, milk fresh from Nana Viv’s dairy cow, several fresh fruits, and one I dare not mention. This she followed with a staccato recital of the steps involved in the preparation of her concoction.

Pleasant lad bustled about the counter and cabinets, gathering and assembling and mixing and stirring and blending with remarkable efficiency. Shortly he paused, surveyed his work area carefully, and took a deep breath. Taking the gleaming pitcher in hand, he poured with utmost care into the tall, graceful china mug, spooned fresh whipped cream from his bowl, and finally executed his coup-de-maitre, hand-shaving dark chocolate curls on top.

With a big smile, he lifted the mug to present to the young lady, only to see a frown on her face.
“You did use the candied ginger from Nana Viv’s kitchen, yes?”

He gestured to the row of glass jars on the shelf behind him. “I used Genevieve’s own blend of dried ginger. It’s the best in town, I assure you.”

She rolled her eyes at his obvious ignorance of her wishes. “But Nana Viv always uses her personal store of candied ginger in my concoction.” She pouted her well-worn pout. “I guess this will have to do.”

“No.” His smile was pleasant, but his tone was unyielding. “This will not do. Miss Genevieve is quite insistent. I will make exactly what you want, even if you don’t tell me what you want. It’s my pleasure to discover your wishes.”

The well-worn pout melted from her face, and she watched quite entranced at the zeal with which he returned to work. Without another word, pleasant lad repeated all his steps with the same enthusiasm (except for a quick trip into Nana Viv’s kitchen to retrieve her candied ginger) as he recreated the wonderfulness charming young lady was expecting.

This time when he lifted the steaming mug, she was waiting with an eager smile. She took the mug from his hands, lifted it to her lips, and first inhaled deeply.

“Ahhhh, the aroma is enticing.” And then she sipped. Her eyes closed in bliss as the warmth slid down her throat and warmed her from the inside. She sighed, deeply, and sipped again. Pleasant young man watched with quite the bemused expression on his face.

Finally, charming young lady opened her eyes, and lowered the mug briefly. She smiled the biggest, happiest smile he had seen all month. “It…is…sensational. It’s…just…perfect.”

So charming young lady never strayed from her faithfulness to Nana Viv’s confection. And pleasant lad finally understood what Miss Genevieve meant when she said, “It’s my pleasure to discover your wishes.”
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Don't Be Herd

If you want people to listen, don’t be ‘herd’.

When you look and sound like all the other animals, nobody pays attention. But become the ugly duckling, or the tenor sax in the string quartet, now people sit up and take notice.

If you’re part of the herd, you won’t be seen. When you look like everyone else, you become the wallpaper, not the icon.

In many fields, there’s an accepted way of communicating with your clientele. A fast-food restaurant doesn’t talk like an insurance company. That’s great, since you don’t want to hear about your homeowner’s insurance in terms of 99 cent specials.

But what do you do when you (and thirteen other guys in town) are selling furniture, and everybody talks about quality and service and free delivery? You’re in the herd. And you’re not being heard.

Now’s the time to find your own voice, to uncover the qualities that make you ‘you-nique’. Not a cookie cutter sound from Marketing 101. Not ‘louder is better’. What makes you different?

If you've not yet discovered what’s unique about your enterprise, get busy. If there’s nothing distinctive about you and your business, if you have no personality, get busier. Or settle for being part of the herd.

Cuz you ain’t bein’ heard.
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Camels in the Streets

Wisemen and camels plodding through the streets -- in Bethlehem they searched for a King. In Village Square it means a parade.

Main Street in Village Square is a festive blizzard of lights, music and shoppers. Crowds line the street in anticipation of the event. But this is not a 'holiday' parade, not in this village. With shepherds and their sheep, singing angels, and Mary, Joseph and the babe in the manger, this is very clearly, Christmas.

This really is smalltown, so it's a really short parade. But it's unabashed in tone. The music, the parade entrants, all center around the Bible story of a God who became a baby. It's quieter than most parades, and many of the several thousand spectators follow to the manger scene, for community caroling and candlelighting. This is a celebration in honor of the birth of the Divine Son to a human family.

In a community known for living a peacable lifestyle, this hardcore Christmas parade may seem a quiet act of rebellion against the sanitized and secularized holiday season. But it's really just a people celebrating what they believe: A King is born. He brings peace to the soul.

For wise men and women plodding through the streets of Bethlehem, Times Square, or Village Square, that's worth celebrating.
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Facebook Thanksgiving

Today was my first ever Facebook Thanksgiving. Is that a good thing? Is that a bad thing?

"It's a family Thanksgiving dinner. I'm not taking my laptop." That was my bold declaration at 11ish as we left the house with our collection of foodstuffs for the two get-togethers we had planned.

Heh.

At the stuffing ceremony that afternoon, we discovered my new camera takes videos too. (who knew?) So we recorded a holiday greeting for an absent nephew (stateside) and an absent niece (an ocean away.) Of course, this had to be posted on Facebook immediately.

And the floodgates opened. It seems laptops run in gangs. Or they like to gather on Thanksgiving like other families. Within an hour I was staring at maybe half a dozen Dell, HP, and Asus logos perched smugly on their owners' laps. A little crowd hovered around the first person to pull up the just-posted video of the dinner we had just engorged, I mean enjoyed.

Not that it ruined our family time. Half an hour later the dining room table was crowded with a card-playing group. The guitars came out later for some home-cooked music. And before the day is over, family from hours or days away gets a glimpse into our day.

No, it wasn't a Facebook Thanksgiving. It was a family day with a new wrinkle in our rhythm, a wrinkle that served to expand the borders of our family along with our waistlines.
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Pay Here

Pay Here, said the simple hand-lettered sign at the entrance to the tent-covered petting zoo.

Alas, I wish life was like that. 'Pay here, pay this much for this experience'. But it's quite the opposite.

In the exhibition called life, you see the picture of a little girl on the back of the giraffe and you wander inside to see it. Turns out there's no giraffe, and if there was you couldn't ride it. The pygmy goats are there, and the ducks. A garter snake but not the ananconda. It is a petting zoo, but you can't touch the sheep. Just the puppies, which are on sale today for only seven hundred and ninety five dollars.

But it is kinda fun and you're smiling and you wander out to the exit only to be stopped by a smiling, but resolute gentleman.

"That will be $49 for your tour of the petting zoo, please."

"Forty nine dollars?" you protest. "I would never have gone in if I knew it was $49 and there was no giraffe."

That's life. It doesn't tell you ahead of time what an experience will cost.
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Soul Rhythm

It's not just the music; it's what the music did to the people listening that sticks in my mind.

Rock the Block was a Friday night party in downtown Winston-Salem. Playing on the blues stage was The Ladies Auxiliary, two white chicks and two black dudes rockin' the park. Not the headliners, but they could belt the blues.

But the crowd...the crowd was the show. The rains had just passed, mud prevailed in small grassy space directly at stage front. The sidewalk in front of our seats was mostly underwater, so the first row of seats became the ad hoc walkway. The teens danced in the muddy grass, the grown-ups stayed on the sidewalks.

One couple in particular was entertaining. The wiry, sharp-dressed gentleman, from crisp white shirt to polished shoes, was smooth as butter. Not big and flashy moves, but small, elegant. And the lady, though not so small, showed a love of the rhythm in her smiling eyes, the swing of her hips and the grand gestures of her bejeweled hands. We were enjoying the show...until...

...until the wiry gentleman beckoned insistently to a friend of ours, who promptly joined him on the rain drenched sidewalk. And then the big lady with big rhythm beckoned me and didn't seem to care if I could dance or not; she only cared that I had a smile on my face and rhythm in my soul.

Luvly joined me shortly and we rediscovered what everyone who taps their toes to the music instinctively knows; Listening to music is a pleasure; experiencing the music with your body gets it down in your soul.
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Milkshake Chaser

Straight? With a spoonful of sugar? Or with a chocolate milkshake chaser?
Sometimes it's not just knowing what to say, it's knowing how to serve it up.

Ok, all the married ladies are going, "no duh." They know a simple "Yes, we are having leftovers again" might work fine. A big hug and kiss may be good before explaining the $50 designer jacket for Phydeaux the mini wonder dog. But the big nasty scratch on the side of his beloved ski boat will take a better story to put it in perspective. Preferably something involving a noble deed like, "I was rushing to the Mothers of Charity grocery store for more Doritos and Mountain Dew before the game tonight."

Guys on the other hand tend to use the same approach to "Honey, I'll be ten minutes late for supper" as they do for "Oops, the lawnmower ran over your Grandma's prize-winning wisteria."

A good salesman will tell you the same thing. If you're buying a doormat, the clerk can tell you, "ThatwillbetendollarspleasethankyouforshoppingatMallWart. But if you're spending thousands of dollars on a Persian rug, you want to hear the stories about the sheep that provided the wool, and the hunched over artisan who spent a big chunk of his life hand knotting one thread at a time.

In business communications sometimes we forget that. The visitor to my website probably doesn't want to hear about how my love for my pet Chihuahua when I was ten lead me to re-selling glittery $2 leashes from China for $10 online. She wants to know what colors are available, how much it costs and when FedEx will drop it off.

But if you have a disgruntled client who thinks paying you $3000 for six coaching sessions should have him dating the girl of his dreams, a more nuanced, personal approach is needed. Seems the more money is involved, the more it matters what you say and how you say it.

And the closer you get to the things a person really, really values, the more crucial it is to make every word count. The right word, at the right time, in the right manner can make or break a friendship, a sale, or a business relationship.
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Blank Slate

"What is it that you write?" Cynic eyed The Lad at his slate.

"Perhaps I am not writing. Perhaps I am drawing." The Lad's chalk cut an extravagant flourish through the morning mist.

With a patient sigh, "So. What is it that you draw?"

"I did not say I'm drawing. I said perhaps." The Lad studied the road curving out of sight.

A derisive snort. "You seem not to know. Perhaps you merely waste a morning."

The Lad now looked in astonishment at the Cynic. "First I contemplate. Then I create. You deem that wasteful?"

Cynic lounged in his seat. "But you know not what you create."

"You asked amiss. I know what I create." The Lad placed his chalk in the center of his slate.

"So what do you create?"

"Today." The Lad's chalk moved deliberately across the slate. "Today I create today."
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[GOD] : ROFL

I picture God ROFL at our antics on some days. To One who sees what's around the next curve - what's coming tomorrow or next week or next year, our frantic paddling or pompous planning must look hilarious.

Like this: I meet my friend Joe every week, when we swap stories and he shares wisdom. Two weeks ago I talked to him about dissatisfaction with my career track leaving me unfulfilled and poorly rewarded. That means I didn't like my job and I wasn't making money. He gave me wise advice and sent me on my way.

The next week, I met Joe with a smile and a hug and the news that my career frustration was over. I now had a brand new opportunity. That meant I was laid off from my job and was allowed to look for something different. And Joe, he resisted the temptation to laugh aloud at the turn of events.

But God? I think he chuckled. Laughed. Rolled on the floor in mirthful glee. Because He knows whats around the next curve.

Unlabored Day

On this Unlabored Day, listening to the rain on the screen porch seems completely divine. And having just watched "Julie and Julia," drinking wine just seems like the natural thing to do.

This has the magic of stolen time, an unexpected gift of unscheduled hours when plans go awry. See, today was going to be a biking day, until a cloudy and rain-tinged morning greeted us. So the backup plan of brunch and a movie fell into place.

I suppose Julia Child could be annoying if you weren't in the right mood. But I found her relentless enthusiasm and reckless enjoyment of life and all it contained to be contagious. So we watched a movie about French cooking, after which we must stop for a glass of wine. But the little downtown cafe isn't open today, nor is the winery in the country. Well, the kitchen at home is still open. We'll go home and start the process on our new venture, a batch of home-made brandy.

Not so fast. The yeast we have is not the right kind. The brandy must wait till tomorrow night. Thus, I'm sitting on the back porch listening to the rain and sipping the best wine I've had in weeks, with Luvly's homemade rosemary sourdough bread. How absolutely divine.

Is it? Is it a stroke of the Divine, when our plans keep falling in on themselves, and we keep finding alternatives, better things to do with our time. Choices that lead us to a slower, more relaxed, quieter time than we had planned. Time to soak up the day, like an all-day drizzle. An Unlabored Day.

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unsaid

the wind it was from out the south
that took the words from out my head
and put their bite into my mouth
the wind it was that woke the dead

the dark was not to be unsealed
not ready for the light to show
in long hid places still concealed
the dark was not a thing to know

the words were thoughts and only that
not ready for the light of day
unformed unshapen and quite flat
the words were not the words you say

the echo came from off the ear
that heard the words were left unsaid
and spoke from out beneath the fear
the echo came and woke the dead

the echo heard the words unsaid
the wind it was that woke the dead

***

don't ask me what this means, tell me
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Alone / Together

It was raining, that warm April night on Tucker Street, the gentle kind of rain that rinses the day’s dust off the shop awnings, and leaves the sidewalks glistening in anticipation of stiletto heels and Keds. I stood alone outside the window, the Guinness sign behind me reflecting in the gleaming black 69 Grand Prix at the curb.

I lit a cigarillo, took a long drag and exhaled. I watched the smoke mosey along, as mellow as the wisps of Bedtime Story from Boney’s horn drifting through the door, and I felt my soul down-shift a notch. But as I headed for the bar, I heard the slamming door across the street.

I turned just in time to see a girlish figure gesturing at a second floor window, now open with a face in the shadows inside. “You keep your stupid truffles,” she yelled. “And I can get better coffee at Dunkin Donuts.” She hurled a mug at the window. It missed, shattering noisily on the brick wall, and sending her running into the street to avoid the shards.

She stopped in the middle of the deserted street to put her heels back on, and compose herself. Now standing five inches taller, she tousled her hair and looked up to see me watching. Her annoyed frown melted slowly into a cool smile. “Enjoy the show, did you?”

I nodded, and tipped my trilby. “He didn't share his truffles?”

She strutted across the street, leaning against the Grand Prix and smoothing her sleek skirt. “Chocolate addicts, they're nuts. And he made this French-press coffee he swore was the best thing since Starbucks. He knows I like vanilla lattes.”

“So let me guess, you like Cosmos too?” I offered the pack. “Smoke?”

“Ewww, those things are disgusting. The drinks and the cigarettes.”

I grinned at her wrinkled nose. “Well why don't you come on into the bar and show me what a mug-throwing, coffee-hating, truffle-jealous chick drinks?” Her eyes narrowed at my blunt assessment.

She pursed her lips, pulled herself up to her full five-foot-six (with heels), and sashayed to the door.

Jack the bartender greeted us as we pulled up stools. She looked at me in the bottle-cluttered mirror. “I'll give you three guesses what I drink on a rainy night after a fight with a guy. Loser buys.”

I turned to study this intrigue, her nails tapping and head bobbing to the compelling rhythm of Max Roach. There was a spark in her eye, like an inner rebel peeking out. She was enjoying this. But then, so was I.

“After a fight? Grey Goose.” I knew her type, so I thought.

She smirked. “That's for the end of a sixty hour week. I just left a guy over truffles.”

“Okay, Scotch and soda? Hold the soda?”

She chuckled. “I'm not your grandfather.”

Hmm. She knew what she liked, even the vanilla latte. That's it. “What you want, is a White Russian.”

She shook her head with a grin. “That would be girls' night out. For the other girls.”

She turned to the bartender who was enjoying the show. “He's buying,” she elbowed me, “and I'll have Henny.”

I nodded at Jack, held up two fingers, and pulled out my cash. We watched silently as he poured the smooth dark amber into our glasses. Together we picked up our glasses, swirled, sniffed, and sipped. Together we leaned back, sighed and looked at each other.

“Kinda clears the stress right out of your day, doesn't it?” For the first time her lips softened into a real smile.

I nodded. “Like a gentle rain on a warm summer night.” I extended my hand. “By the way, my name is-”

“Shh,” she put a finger to my lips. “You'll always be Mr. Hennessy to me. But I'll give you a ride in the Grand Prix. You were paying more attention to the car than to me, weren't you?”

“The two of you go together well, I have to say. But yeah, it's a great car. And much as I love the rain, sixteen blocks is a long walk.”

We walked outside, and she dangled the keys. “You wanna?”

I snatched them from her before warning, “You really don't know me that well, lady. I could be a pervert.”

She winked. “So could I,” and hopped in the car. We hit the street and cruised along as Dexter Gordon played to the rhythm of the windshield wipers. The drink had relaxed us both and we chatted like old drinking buddies about life, love, chocolate and cognac.

It took about twenty minutes of random cruising before she gave me a sideways glance and said, “You know this is a lot farther than sixteen blocks in the rain.”

I turned the corner onto Tucker Street. “Or a lot closer than sixteen blocks in the rain.” I pointed down the block where the neon Guinness sign reflected in the rainy street.

She reached over and smacked my arm. “You live on this block?”

We got out of the car across the street from the bar. “Oh look, somebody smashed a coffee cup here.” I grinned at her. “I'd better sweep that up, I know my neighbor won't.”

“You're the neighbor? You’re the one on the balcony playing clarinet. We listened to you earlier.”

“Yeah, I went out for a smoke when the truffles became an argument. He screwed up my recipe, by the way. But wait till you taste my espresso cognac truffle. You’ll have to try one. Or six. Then I'll show you how French-press coffee is done right. But only if you help me clean up.”

She reached out her hand. “It's a deal. By the way, my name is-”

“Shh,” I put my finger to her lips. “You'll always be Truffles to me.”

It was raining, that April night on Tucker Street. The sidewalks glistened under a pair of stilettos and a pair of Keds. The Guinness sign put a glow on the street, the Hennessy mellowed our minds, and Guiffre's clarinet wrapped up our souls. But it was the simple wonder of two people connecting in the magic of the night that warmed our hearts. We were alone. We were together. Together is better.
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One

Inspired by a writing exercise with a friend... (see end note)



"Sit."

I sat on the hard steel chair. He glared his cold glare from cold eyes. I tried to shrink in my seat.

"Why? Why won't you do this? It's a job, for pete's sake." He wiped his brow.

"I...I can't, I guess." I was at a loss for words.

"I need a drink." He poured. "You need a drink." He poured and served.

We sat and sipped. It burned, all the way down.

He sighed a deep sigh. "Do you care?"

I shrugged, but my head shook no. "Would it help?"

"No. Not now. You had your shot." I watched his big hands fret. "You blew it."

I took a swig. "Yeah right. You think that was my shot?"

He stared at me. "Of course. What did you think it was, show and tell?"

I laughed. "Don’t tell me you think that lame brain, lard ass, big mouth, half wit, two buck, red face, snot nose, desk dork is my shot." I stood, and jabbed his chest with each word. "I. Don't. Think. So."

"But he runs the place. He prints your words on his page. You get paid. What the hell more do you want?" He poured once more.

Wow. Might be he cares. But now I knew the truth, why I did what I did.

"Look. I write. If he likes it, I get paid. If he hates it, I don't. Fine. There's lots of ways to get your stuff out there. More fish in the sea, I think you said. But I will not write crap just to please his blue-nose stick-up-her-butt wife."

"She went to Yale, you know." He grinned.

"Of course I know. It's on her plates. Yale Grl. Like a girl scout badge. Sad, if that's all she's got." I took a swig.

"Well she does have a man who owns and runs this rag. And a fine pair of --"

"Oh grow up. She has a fine pair of hands that have not worked a day in her charmed life. That's what she has." I drained my drink. "One more?"

"Last call." He poured the last drop. "Well she had a name too, a name for the piece she wants you to write. You have yet to tell me what it is. Must have been bad though, the way you looked." He smirked.

"She thought it was cute, way cute I think she said." I shook my head.

"But when you turned her down, she talked to him?"

"And in two shakes of a dead lamb's tail, I was out the door."

"What now?"

"I'll write. That's what I do. They read it, or they don't. But I write."

"So what was this high-brow name she thought you had to use?"

"The name for my way cute piece was to be..."

"…The Monosyllabic Sesquipedalian"

He grinned. "Good call, dude. Don’t write that."

I put on my cap and went for the door. I turned with a nod. "Thanks, man. For the good word. And thanks for the tea."


...a writer friend who bragged about the wonders of one-syllable words when we wrote a very short story using very short words. She inspired me to try this. Go ahead, count the two syllable words.
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Alone

Alone in the bar he looks out in the rain
At the cold black asphalt and tries to explain
Why the dark eerie shadows and unsettling wind
Put a twitch in his soul like a cold mortal sin

The air has a bite like a freezing rain drop
That lands on your neck and just doesn't stop
Sends a twinge down your spine clear through to your toes
And it tells of a danger your primal brain knows

He pulls himself in, tries to shut out the world
Not wanting to face the darkness unfurled
He huddles alone with his glass and his fear
And pretends he can’t feel the evil that’s near

The night has a chill, like a bad movie scare
When the ogre you feel that’s lurking out there
Slimes his way slowly in from the shadows to seize
Your heart by the throat as you fall to your knees

But it isn’t the rain and it isn’t the cold
Not the dark moonless night the real story hold
It’s the chill in his soul and the cold in his heart
That are twisting the last of his comfort apart

For the fear and the dread that weigh in his chest
Are not from the night or the weather’s unrest
But the gloom and the doom and the dark of the street
Are an echo unheard of a dark soul's retreat

No, it's not about me.
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48 Minutes

What you see in 48 minutes on the bike trail - If that trail leads you through Ohio swamp country. You didn't know there's Buckeye swamps? Well, it may not be up to Cajun standards, but it's wet, muddy, and full of exotic(?) creatures.


So on Sunday afternoon I saw:

• One stripe-backed ADHD rodent (chipmunk)


• Three low-country feral canines (pet dogs)


• One slither-thither split-tongued viper (blacksnake)


• Two mud-crusted warthogs (groundhogs)


• One tank-shell minisaurus (turtle)


• Two gallant steeds (riding horses)


• Two benign deliquents (boys)


• Too many to count, and most exotic and varied of all, homo sapiens (people)

This in a bit over 10 miles.

Yes Scout, over 10 miles. Last time was only 6 or 7.
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To Don't List

What I've been doing instead of blogging:

4/15 Filing taxes – Did you ever try to explain blogging expenses as a business deduction?

4/16 Bestest daughter's birthday – Buying flowers, baking cakes, driving her limo. Usual birthday stuff

4/17 Yooper sister's reception – I was emcee, and it always an adventure to have Mom at a party.

4/18 Bestest son's prom – He looked amazing. Sweetest girlfriend even better.

4/19 Yooper family dinner – I unintentionally dissed a new brother-in-law/Pistons fan.

4/20 Repair lawn mower – It runs. Woo-hoo.

4/21 Repair string trimmer – Oh, I mean try to repair it.

4/22 Administrative Professional's Day – Since I don’t have one, and I’m not one, it was a

difficult day.

4/23 Wash truck – It. Was. Dirty.

4/24 Bestest daughter knee surgery – Girl needs coddling. Even Vicodin doesn’t work.

4/25 Bestest son's senior class play – The Boyfriend Project. He played a hippie. Heh.

4/26 Mowing lawn – With a break to help little neighbor boy find mommy.

4/27 Marathon bike ride - Well maybe 10 miles. No hills.

4/28 Writing a list of excuses – You try to come up with 14 in a row.

There are elements of exaggeration in three of them. Take your pick.

Mister

So the title I picked off the menu board at writers group this month was Mister. Enjoy.

Mister

Predictable? Try a hardware store on a Tuesday afternoon.

How many times can you help an old biddy pick out beige paint for her living room? Or explain to a wannabe do it yourselfer the difference between a galvanized nail and a coated one? Mostly you try to let them figure it out on their own.

They all fit into one of a few categories: Redecorating, gardening, home repair, remodeling, and – dating service??

“I need a mister.” The rather frazzled young lady startled me in the middle of sorting paint samples for the umpteenth time.

“Excuse me?” I looked around for hidden cameras. Was she serious? I've heard of meeting people in grocery stores, but this was different.

“I was told this would be a good place to find a mister.” She brushed dirty blond hair back from her face. No, I really mean dirty blond hair.

“Um, well, it is a hardware store. And it’s pretty busy today. I guess this is about as good a place as any to find one.” She musta been reading one of those chick magazines.

"So where do I look?" She seemed really quite anxious.

“Well, they tend to be in almost every department. I think maybe the best thing would be if you were to browse through the store and look for one you like.”

“Oh...but...surely there's a good place to start?” Her big brown eyes looked at me helplessly.

“You could start in the plumbing section." I took her arm and pointed her in the right direction. "There's usually a few of them there.”

“Wonderful! I’ll look there first.” She bounced off, leaving grass clippings in her wake. I shook my head in amazement. Well, Grandma used to say, “There’s more than one way to feather a rooster.”

I got all the paint samples in order, and was just starting to straighten the shovels and rakes when she came breezing around the corner. "I couldn't find any, but I did get these cool knobs for my bathroom faucet. So where should I look next?"

I found this quite amusing by now. Plus she was kinda cute, so I wanted to help her. You know how guys are. "Well, why don't you check over in the hand tools. Maybe you'll have better luck there."

"Oh thank you!" She patted my shoulder and zipped away.

Maybe I should just help her. No, that would be awkward. Besides, I didn't really know what kind she was looking for. And then her bright smile appeared around the corner again. "Any luck?" I was starting to care.

"Nope. Just hammers and wrenches and stuff. Maybe this isn't the right place." Her smile was fading.

"Oh don't give up too easy. Do you know what kind you're looking for?" I turned my full attention to her.

"Just one that works, I guess. Doesn't have to be anything fancy or special."

"Okay, come with me. Let's check out the lawn and garden section."

"Oh you're going to help me. Cool!" Her smile was bigger than ever.

I led her through the white plastic arbor that was the entrance to our lawn and garden area. We walked past the bird baths and garden globes and just as we were by the water hoses and sprinklers she stopped and grabbed my arm. "Here they are. You found them for me. Thank you, thank you!"

"I did? Oh...you wanted a…misting sprinkler for your...flower beds?" I tried to stay cool.

"Yes, a mister. So how does this thing work?" She scrunched her forehead cutely as she studied the pictures on the box.

"Well it can be a bit tricky to get it positioned just right. Look at these instructions." We huddled over the little box trying to decipher the fine print.

"Oh dear, I don't know." She turned those big brown eyes on me again. And I was lost.

"I could come over and help you set this up after work if you want."

She squealed – yes, squealed in delight. "That would be so awesome." She gave me a quick grass-clipping dirty-hair hug. "Give me your phone and I’ll put in my number.”

I waited awkwardly as she punched in the number, and then looked up. “Oh, my name is Missy, by the way. And you are…?”

“Well, um...my real name is Sylvester, but my friends just call me…Mister.”

“Okay then, Mister, thanks for helping me find a…” She stopped and stared open mouthed. Her eyes got even bigger, and her smile split into gales of laughter. Her sound of her glee tumbled through the garden section till every customer there was smiling too.

She was still giggling as she skipped out the door. She got her mister. And her Mister.

.

Men Don't Ask

True story, unedited:

6:12, last Friday night. My phone rings as I'm getting my supper at the coffee shop. It's my brother. What could he possibly want? Concerns about Mom? Questions about my sister's upcoming reception?

No. Not quite.

"Hey Mark, I have an unusual request for you."

"Sure, go ahead." This could be interesting.

"Well JT (his wife) and her friends are in Next City Over and they can't find WalMart."

I'm thinking, I can look up the address, or the phone number, or I can tell him where it's at.

No. Not quite.

"So I was wondering if you could call her and explain to her how to get there."

Huh?

He continued. "She tried to explain to me where they are, but it's been awhile since I've been there. She thought if you would just call her..."

I chuckled. Gleefully, I'm afraid. Men don't stop and ask for directions?

What to do, what to do? Oh I know, of course I called her.

She explained which street they were cruising up and down. I told her which street to look for, which way to turn, how far to go past the McDonalds before turning onto WalMart's street.

They found it. She called me later to thank me, and do the sister-in-law chat.

No, the man doesn't stop and ask for directions. But apparently neither does the woman. She just calls her husband to have him ask his brother to call her, take her hand and lead her to her destination.

Way better.

JT, I love you. Thanks for letting me help.

.

Scotch

“Scotch.” He sagged onto the barstool like a bag of feed sags onto the floor. I watched his face as I poured him a double. The bottle stayed.

“Got your day in?” A tiny twitch around his eyes told me it was too soon for that question. His beefy fist thumped the bar in exhausted disgust, and he proceeded to answer.

Now as much as I like to tell a story straightforward, the ensuing stream of profanity, vulgarity and obscenity would not better you in any way, and so will be mentioned, but not repeated here. I poured again.

Yes, his day was in. All twenty-eight hours of it. And more to come tomorrow. The tyrannical boss was the subject of his next tirade. I learned three more word combinations. I poured once more.

“How’s the rest of the crew taking it?” A shot in the dark, but I guessed he wasn’t in this alone. I was half right.

To spare your ears, the “women and children” version involved incompetence, irresponsibility, inexperience and idiocy. He had run out of obscenities, and was now recycling. Another pour.

"Sounds like the place would fall apart without you." The weathered face eased just a bit.

A humorless chuckle, followed by good-natured profanity rewarded my effort. He lifted his glass and groused, "Here's to all the #%$&*es and all the *&%^#es. They make us look like geniuses and saints."

"Hear, hear. So what'll you do after this job is done?"

Every line in his face relaxed. There was no smile on his lips, but his eyes gave him away. "Flower beds. My wife and I work in the flower beds. Greatest thing in the world, your hands in the dirt."

He drained his glass, and got up with a crooked half grin. "Time to sleep." He tossed a bill on the bar. A C-note. He waved off my thanks. "You're a good man. You listen."

Do bartenders listen because they care, or to wangle tips? Yes.

.

Fun With Consultants

Corporate consultants are fun. No really, it can be very entertaining, to watch a man try to weasel his way into your brain and ferret out bits of information you wouldn't tell your boss, trusted coworkers or even your dog. Heh, three animal references in one sentence.

But he was creative, he really tried. The gentleman who invaded our company for a few days spent maybe fifteen minutes with me. He schmoozed, calling me brave for shaving my head, and told me I don't talk like someone who hasn't finished high school. Then a personal anecdote to establish rapport; "My father quit school in the 4th grade. I was the only one of my family to go to college."

And then he saw the jumping off point to cut to the chase. "What do you think can be done to improve your company?"

Huh?

Sure, I walk around hiding company restructuring plans in my back pocket, waiting for the right outsider to hear my wisdom. I guess I was expecting a more user-friendly approach. How about these questions:

• Which of your co-workers would you like to tar and feather?


• How many Dilbert comics have you thought were about your company?


• Which of your customers could we cast in the sequel to Clueless?


• How could we better extract more money for less product?


• Did you know the glow at the end of the tunnel is really red ink?


• Are you an old fart or will you agree mindlessly to everything I suggest?

Okay, I guess maybe his approach was more productive. But mine would have been way more fun.

And I'm pretty sure there's no latent belligerence in my fictional questions. Pretty sure.

.

You missed the party?

Friday was my birthday, in case you missed it. Which one? You'll have to go back and ask Roman.

Birthday candles that brightened the day:

**A hit and run hug from a cute blond.

**Lunch with Bestest Daughter at a fascinating little bistro.

**An impromptu rendition of Happy Birthday from the lady at the next table.

**All day long, congratulatory texts messages, including one from an unknown number.

**A mini party with Mom at The Place on the Hill. Luvly brought chocolate cupcakes.

**Mom getting either bored or antsy and rolling off to her room. Did Mom dis my party?

**A Saturday night celebration at my favorite restaurant with a number for a name. Us four and two more (Bestest Daughter and Bestest Son each brought a friend.) Bread was devoured, food was consumed, but wine alas, was only sipped.

**Birthday package from Yooper Sis including dark chocolate and sufficient endowment for a good brandy. With instructions to use it for such. I do believe I have corrupted her.

**Oh yes, and new lights for outside the garage, which Luvly suggested I might want to install for my birthday. Indeed.

Was it worth turning xx? What, you still haven't figured it out?

.

Roman sez...

"Here lies in the eternity of the past, from whence there is no resurrection for the days—whatever there may be for the dust—the forty-ninth year of a well-spent life, which, after a lingering disease of many months sank into lethargy, and expired, March 27, 2009, A.D. leaving a successor inconsolable for the very loss which occasioned its existence." Adapted from Lord Byron

Roman sez…

Random Kid: You look older.
Cantankerous Old Goat: It must be something I VIII.
RK: So what are you looking IV?
COG: The last V decades.
RK: Will you find where they went II?
COG: The odds are M to I.
RK: So where are you going II?
COG: I’m going to L.

If you know 'where' Cantankerous Old Goat went, leave appropriate comments. Chocolate cake with double fudge frosting to the clever.

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The Rhythm's Gone

You remember the villanelle, don't you? Ok, me neither. But what I wanted to write last night didn't fit anything else, so I shoe-horned it into this form.

And yes Mikki, I cheated on the rhymes. Is that an F?


The Rhythm's Gone

The singer left the stage and took his song
His last note disappeared into the night
The drums were put away, the rhythm's gone

They dragged off all the gear and moved along
Their moment came and went beneath the light
The singer left the stage and took his song.

The one who heard the music settles down
And turns his ear to its own silent plight
The drums were put away, the rhythm's gone

But rhythm that's unheard is really gone
To where a song can soar in unseen flight
The singer left the stage and took his song.

The soul who felt the music as its own
Still hears the rhythm deep inside despite
The drums are put away, the rhythm's gone

The singer leaves, but doesn't take his song
And yet to those who don't see unseen light
The singer left the stage and took his song
The drums are put away, the rhythm's gone

This post was inspired by my mood after an evening of listening to two endlessly creative musicians, who play and sing waaaay better than I write poetry.

Sunday Sun Day

"Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life." Pablo Picasso

Sunday was one of those rare March days on the North Coast, where it stopped rainsnowsleetslushing long enough for Luvly to declare that she will certainly be depressed if it snows again this spring. Yeah, sometimes the winter grime gets in your soul, too.

Sixty, I tell you, sixty degrees was topped on the little dial outside my window that oddly enough seems to tell me how happy to be with the weather. And...And! The sun showed its face like an embarassed truant, sneaking in and out, hoping to seem like it had been there all along.

So with the sun clearing the cobwebs out of my brain, I did what any spring-loopy guy would do on a Sunday afternoon. No, not golf. I washed my truck.

Bucket, hose, sponge, chamois, paper towels, one neighbor waving jealously(?) pityingly(?) and the truck looked much better. Nothing like a hand wash to get rid of the grime.

A few hours later as I'm writing, in the background I hear Jim Cullum's Jazz Band, heavy on the clarinet and sax tonight. The music filters through my brain and my soul, taking along the tension, the edginess, the unrest, and leaving me at ease with the world. At least for tonight.

Yeah, the grime does get in your soul, but oh my, how music can wash it away.

.

Inspector Bleunohs Visits

Inspector Bleunohs: (doffs his fedora) Excuse me my good fellow, but we haven’t seen Mr. Sezmark for a week. You were identified as a former associate. Do you have any clues as to his whereabouts?

Mr. Sezmonkey: (scratches) Harumph! Former associate. And nobody says whereabouts anymore.

Inspector Bleunohs: (sniffs in annoyance) Well we certainly don't say harumph anymore either. We found bits of chewed up paper next to your cage. Why is that?

Mr. Sezmonkey: (scratches) He fired me, so I ate him. Kinda chewy. Did not taste like chicken.

Inspector Bleunohs: (knits brow sternly) You bloody well can’t eat someone for firing you.

Mr. Sezmonkey: (scratches) He dissed me for eating bananas. Plus he fired me.

Inspector Bleunohs: (slumps resignedly) Oh dear. I do suppose I must tranquilize you now. Bend over.

Mr. Sezmonkey: (scratches) That’s not a syringe. That’s a baseball bat.

Inspector Bleunohs: (smirks) But I do believe it will tranquilize you. And quite dissuade you from dining on dissenters.

Mr. Sezmonkey: (scratches) Awright awright, don’t get your knickers in a knot. I didn’t eat him. Geez, you think I’m an animal or something? I just ate all his ideas. He went to look for new ones.

Inspector Bleunohs: (jaw drops) New ideas? What a jolly good notion. I quite hope he finds a lorry load.

Mr. Sezmonkey: (scratches) Don't get your hopes up.

.

I Failed at Mediocre

The assigned title was "Mediocrity and How I Achieved It." I failed at mediocre. I did terrible really badly.


Medocirity and how me acheives it.

My Daddy was all the time tells me like this, "Son, if a somethings what your gonna to do, if’n its not worth doing at all, then I’m for certin it ain’t worth doing right in the first place." Always he wood tells me stuff like that. Sooner than youda thunk, just it soaked in, and I beleeved it to.

So me, I sets about to make a reel something of me, cuz I thinking he prolly is right. I done did my darnedest to not ever to do nothing what might not be worth not doing at all, at least not right. So you no, I got just purty good at it, this not doing nothing ain’t worth not doing right.

All of it, it worked out awright, pretty much so, till I goes and got a job from this guy. He was be a farmer who owns a farm and always he goes and tell me to do stuff. So but when I looked at things, you know, what he want me doing. I thinks always of that my daddy sed to me. I think then, this is not worht not doin rite, so’s Im thinkin not to do it in the start.

But this guy, this farmer who owned a farm, hes not like my dady when it’s come to thinking about how to do and not to do work what it mite not just be worth not doing.

He says I’m the most medeocirest person he nose. So he fired me.

I thinks Dady wuld be prowd.
.
.

Monkey sez...

Monkey sez...

I'M FIRED?!?! You're getting rid of me? I can't believe you'd do that. Without a word too. One day I'm happily greeting all your visitors, the next day I'm gone. Fired. Axed. Downsized. Dumped. Unassigned. Disappropriated.

Mark sez...

I'm sorry. Times are tough in the blogging business. I had to cut costs. I really couldn't afford you anymore. You know how much it costs every day just to have the ASPCA monitor this site? Then there's your health insurance. And bananas.

Monkey sez...

I. Eat. Bananas. And you can't afford me. It's not the bananas. What is it really?

Mark sez...

~sigh~ No it's not. It's just that people thought you were writing the blog. I can't have that. It's embarrassing.

Monkey sez...

So you found some scrap metal and spray paint in your garage, and painted me out of the picture. That's cold.

Mark sez...

You're a monkey, get a job at the zoo. Or Congress. Or as a spokes-monkey, like that spokes-gecko.

Monkey sez...

Hey my cousin runs one of those money-sucking banks. I could be the Money Monkey.

Mark sez...

But not a comedian. Oh, I found a buyer for your crib.

Monkey sez...

You're selling my cage? You know what, you're fired as my blog host. Maybe I'll start my own.

Any monkeys displaced in the re-organization of this blog have been offered other suitable positions. No money-sucking banks have responded to this post.

A Chic & Immodest Proposal

Things to bring to the party:
Gaily wrapped box filled with presumptions of propriety
Sense of humor
Grain of salt

Things to leave at the door:
Said gaily wrapped box
Mental ossification
Lavish gifts for the doorman

Food For Thought: An Immodest Proposal

It is a heart-rending sight indeed, the emaciated frame of the average super-model. (Is that an oxymoron?) Surely our civilized society in this 21st century can no longer ignore this tragedy. We can handle the pictures of third world orphans with bloated bellies. Those kids are a world away, and besides, their families probably aren’t making the best use of their resources. And globally there are far too many of these starving waifs for the few of us to make a significant difference in their lives.

But super-models, that’s another story. These girls we admire, if not for their contribution to mankind, at least for the beauty and glamour they add to the runways, catwalks, TV commercials and magazine ads. But these girls need help, and it’s a small enough group that we really can make a difference in their lives. And if we can, I believe we must. We can no longer allow them to go through life looking so undernourished, so ridiculously cool, so much more beautiful than we are. They must be helped, even if they are unwilling to eat.

And just in time, help is at hand. A new report by STASH (Start Thinking And Stop Hunger) suggests a solution that may seem to be too good to be true. Dr. Nathaniel Franks has developed a method to metamorphose the energy from brain activity into bodily nutrition. Deceptively simple, it is however something that was impossible before the latest advances in computer technology. This cutting-edge innovation allows complex programming to be put on a chip the size of an ink dot. Dr. Franks explains, "This program is loaded in the tip of a needle and inserted acupuncture-style into the scalp of the patient. The programming then trains the body to recognize energy waves from the brain as food, and to obtain nutrition directly from brain activity."

The benefits of this process should be immediate and obvious. With a worldwide shortage of food, and increased concerns about the safety even of organic food, we now have a viable alternative. The initial cost of this procedure of course is significant, and probably only available to a few elite such as our target group, the super-models. But as the process is refined, experts expect the cost to come down to a level where the ordinary Jane Doe can afford it. What is unclear is whether it will ever be cost-effective to use with the millions of poor starving orphans around the world.

So far only one dissenting opinion has been raised. It is the voice of English hunger activist, Lord D. Evan Grizzles. He advances a valid concern, that being the lack of brain activity in certain groups of people, and whether those people will receive proper nourishment. "Would it be a case of smart people being well fed, and stupid people remaining undernourished?" he asks. "Or might we have cases of people whose daily life just doesn’t require any thinking unwittingly starving themselves? These are serious issues and cannot be ignored in a rush to embrace potentially flawed technology."

So that brings us full circle, to the deeply troubling issue at hand; will this or will it not help the plight of the emaciated, possibly oxymoronic, average super-model? Yes, it would have the potential for nutrition without the annoying caloric side effects. But if one were to listen to the concerns of Lord Grizzles, you would really have to worry about the survival of this elite group, given the low level of brain activity in their average workday.

The third view is this: The potential negative raised by our esteemed English colleague may in fact be a blessing in disguise. What we have here is a solution with a compounding effectiveness, first in easing world hunger, and then serving to decrease the pervasive lack of thought that many people seem to give to their daily activities. As a facet of natural selection, this lack of nourishment to people with low levels of brain activity will effectively minimize their numbers. This will have the extended effect of leaving more traditional nourishment (food) for the rest of us. If this is taken to a global level, it is very possible to believe that the demand for natural food will decrease to the point that we will have enough excess to consider exporting to starving orphans and other needy groups.

And the super-models? Well, I guess the surviving ones would no longer be average, moronic, or oxymoronic.

Props to Natalie G, a tip of the hat to Jonathan Swift, and a what-up to Charles Darwin.

Rob's Workshed

I have dusty memories of watching Grandpa work in his little shop. I remember the big wooden workbench with the hand cranked vise on the one end. He had the hand driven auger, one of the old wooden block planes, and a wood handled hammer and chisels. What I don't remember is this:

This is Rob VanNatta's interpretation of a workshed. It looks nothing like I remember my Grandpa's. And yet it looks exactly as I remember it. The light streaming through the window, the dust in the air. The old bench cluttered with tools.

And that I think is the artist's genius. He evokes things you can't see. He puts it there without putting it there. And it's what I aim for as a writer. I want the reader to see things I leave out, to read between the lines, I guess.

It's one of my mantras as a writer; A picture is worth a thousand words. A word creates a thousand pictures.

Rob's painting for example. I could write a thousand words trying to describe the style and composition, the colors and lighting, the mood and other stuff you can't even put into words in a painting like that.

But every person that reads the word 'Grandpa' sees a score of mental images that represent Grandpa to them. A different set of pictures for every reader. If writing makes those pictures come to life, it works. If a painting stirs up all the words you can't quite say, it works.

I borrowed this from Rob because I like his work, it makes me think. And because he's just cool. I think you would probably like it too. Check it out at his site.

Tired Mish-Mash

A Tired Mish-mash is what you get when you spend half an hour in a tire store with nothing but a pen and legal pad.

I got tired at Mylittleburg Tire Emporium. Well to be precise, my son’s Jeep Cherokee got tired there. All four of them. And I have the credit card bill to prove it. Ouch. Until I realize, I got four rubber tires that I expect to make millions of revolutions over anything and everything that happens to be on the road. Rain, snow, ice, dead animals, car parts, canyons and occasionally, dry pavement. Hmm…maybe not such a bad deal.

Eight tire shop firsts:

• Mario Andretti’s autograph on the wall. In Sharpie. What’ll they do when they need to repaint?
  
• Cappuccino machine. Okay, fake powdery concoction, but hey, it’s sweet.
  
• Brightly colored, shiny clean waiting area. Comfortable chairs.
  
• Big screen plasma TV. With Headline News. No sports, no fishing.
  
• Popcorn machine. The cool carnival kind.
  
• Electric fireplace. On a chilly morning, anything that looks warm is inviting.
  
• Toy table for kids. Guess climbing on the stacks of tires was not an option.
  
• House Beautiful magazine. Or something like that. A whole magazine stand just for the chicks. Sorry, I mean for the lady customers.

Random Santa story from a previous visit:

I’m buying tires the week before Christmas, and the salesman has a genuine Santa beard and Santa smile, wearing a Santa hat. So I have to ask, "Wouldn’t Santa be giving away tires?"

"Oh yes," he assured me. "On Christmas Day he would. Course we’re closed on Christmas." Dang.

Oh well, you know what they say - What goes around will eventually go bald or flat. Isn’t that what they say?

Told you it’s a mish-mash.

God Had a Bad Day

Two things struck me as I studied the face before me. First, God has bad days. He certainly did when he made this mug. The one eyebrow sagged. The left ear was lower, its lobe looking like it was melting and almost dripping. The nose was askew, and the high cheekbones served only to emphasize the pock marked skin. The towering forehead looked like a rough mountainside, with enough ledges for a beginner mountain climber to scale. The jutting chin pointed, but not straight ahead. There were no lips. No, God was not having a good day when He made that face.

The second thing that struck me was actually two separate things. A: when I go to the bathroom at 3:45 in the morning, I should not turn on the four 100 watt bulbs above the mirror, and B: one should never arrange a bathroom so that you're looking in the mirror while...um...sitting on the commode. Those two things combine to depress a man, especially one with an already shaky self-image.

I wandered back to bed, huddled under the covers, and watched reruns in my head. Okay, the thing at WalMart was not my fault. I'm pretty sure the cashier did not have to see my ID to sell me beer. I’m not that far into my thirties, but the face I just studied in the mirror is engraved with a few extra, shall we say, lifestyle years. I look old enough.

And the 'manager', all zit-faced 135 pounds of him, should not have taken that tone with me. All I did was fake a move at him and he stumbled back and dropped the six pack I was trying to buy. It really was funny when the bottles and all the Red Stripe did a shock and awe move on the shiny tile floor at register 17. Yes, I laughed at him, but calling the security guard really was over-reaction on his part. I had never been thrown out of a WalMart before.

Too annoyed to sleep now, I rolled over, sat up in bed and picked up the bottle next to the TV remote. Studying the soggy label, I remembered the gentleman’s first words to me a few hours earlier.

“It was Red Stripe, wasn’t it?” I was still sitting on the sidewalk where I had landed when I heard his voice. I suppose I was too dazed to answer, because he just sat down next to me and put the six-pack between us. “I don’t think an over-zealous manager should get between a grown man and a good beer, do you?”

Now, that voice sounded familiar, and I turned to look at him. I'm sure my jaw dropped. His big smile was just as bright here with a faded Browns shirt and an old camo hat as when he wore his $1000 suits and $100 ties. Yes indeed, he looked even nicer in person than on TV. I looked around to see if anybody was watching. He was still smiling. “I’d open a couple for us, but I suppose that would be illegal here in public. So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take one home, and leave you with a five-pack. Tonight we’ll share a drink, just not together. Deal?”

"Um, yeah, sure. Thanks man. I mean, thank you, sir." I took one from the pack and we clinked our bottles to seal the deal. He slapped me on the shoulder and walked off, bottle raised in salute.

Now four and a half hours later, I sat on the edge of my bed, finishing off the last bottle. And two things struck me. One, it's good to know there's a God, even if He did have an off day. And two, if the pastor of the city’s largest snooty church sits on the sidewalk and shares your beer, maybe he has something worthwhile to say.

Despite my best efforts, tiny bits of fact invaded this work of fiction. And no beer was consumed in the writing of this story.

Dark and Stormy Night

It was a dark and stormy night. No really, it was. Small farm animals were blowing across the highway as I raced madly from the Village Square coffee bar to the Hip Old Folks Chillin' Out Home. I had a blueberry smoothie for Mom. It was melting more with each passing mile. As I came flying around a curve I saw the most unexpected sight. Well, besides flying farm animals, that is.

Tail lights. Miles and miles of taillights as far as the eye could see. I pulled out my night vision binoculars, climbed up on the roof of the truck, and peered into the distance. Alas. As best I could determine, a sheep had apparently been bouncing along on gusts of wind, when it collided with a buggy, knocking the horse right out of the harness and taking its place. It looked like the horse had done a reverse 1-1/2 somersault tuck and landed on the roof of a passing RV. I believe the RV driver then panicked, hit the brakes, and skidded sideways in the highway. This caused a chain reaction collision of six silver minivans neatly crunched together, DVD monitors still glowing blue with the same Sponge Bob video. At least that's what it looked like. But the sheep had calmly trotted off, buggy in tow.

Since this was obviously taking awhile to clean up, traffic was looking for alternative routes. Some took the country road left. Others took the country road right. Me, I followed the muddy sedan in front of me down the shoulder of the highway to the country road. Or so I thought. We turned into a muddy gravel lane, only to find it leading to the little harness shop next to the country road. Too late I realized my mistake. I stopped, tried to back out, and saw another two cars directly behind me, everybody following muddy sedan guy down the wrong lane. So like a game of Lemming Madness, we wound down the rutted lane, into the gravel parking lot, circled around and went back out. A quick right, and another quick right, and we finally found ourselves actually on the country road. Yeehaw!

Many scenic miles later, (except it was dark so I saw no scenery but fences, ditches and mailboxes,) I reclaimed the highway, and found my way to Hip Old Folks Chillin' Out Home. Melted remnants of smoothie in hand, I found my Mom, we shared the smoothie and a rich but lukewarm cup of coffee. She was so grateful she gave me a piece of chocolate.

As I exited the parking lot, I was pretty sure I saw, disappearing down the hill, a round wooly form leading a buggy with a snoring old man drooling in his beard. But I may have been wrong. It was, after all, dark and stormy.

This story contains 100% facts, 5% of which are all-natural, unprocessed facts. The other 95% of the facts contain up to 99% additives, preservatives, fillers, and falsehoods.

No sheep were harmed in the writing of this story. The horse's ego however, was severely bruised. Complete recovery is expected.

The Legendary Halfwit

"Let's all write a story using the same title!" That sounded like a good idea in writers group. Heh. Then I tried to write. Lacking a story, and fresh off an exploration of blank verse, I felt adventurous enough to risk making a fool of myself. Here ya go:

The legendary halfwit was a man
who didn't seem to be quite all that smart.
And yet he had the world in hand at times
when it would not have seemed to be so wise
to tell the truth about the things you see
to those who want to close their eyes instead.

A world of make believe is fine, but not
if you forget just where the story ends
and life, real life begins. Do you? Do I?
Or are we of the crowd who turns a blind
eye to the portions of our life where we
would rather not be made to face the truth?

The halfwit was so called at times when all
the world seemed to say yes and he alone
stood tall and quiet. No. He would not do
what he could see was not in line with truth.
He stood alone - but not alone - for truth
remained with him - the halfwit they all knew.


But legend takes a time to grow, its not
a thing of season, nor a thing of time.
So years of staying true and true built slow
a man who knew he knew, and did not need
another man to tell him how to think,
or how to be, or how indeed to live.

And then the tide of time washed out the sands
from underneath the castles built by those
who loved the fairy tale, and did not see
the line between the story and true life.
The make believe that they believed would be
forever-after crumpled at their feet.

So now the legend taller stood, alone
among the fallen ruins of the ones
who loved a lie and ever shunned the truth.
His story didn't change at all, but seemed
the more to grow with every passing storm.
The halfwit long forgot, a legend still.

Sorta True Barista Tale

A couple of sixty-somethings, a husband and wife, amble into the Village Square coffee bar. The gleam in their eye speaks of adventure.

"Good afternoon, folks. What can I get for you?" The teenage barista greets them politely. They're old folk. What fun could this be?

"Oh look dear," she grabs hubby's hand. "They have ice cream." The lady's laugh lines crinkle, in a pattern started decades ago.

"Would you like an ice cream, darling?" It's a romantic weekend, and he's a gentleman. If she wants ice cream, she gets ice cream.

"That would be lovely. Let's look at the flavors." They stand arm in arm studying the eight flavors in the ice cream case. For a minute you can see the two teens in a soda shop from another life.

After three minutes of careful consideration the charming couple is ready to order. The gentleman takes the lead. "We'll have a medium butter pecan ice cream, please," he smiles at the young man who is patiently waiting to scoop.

But the bored young man has one more question. "Did you want that in a bowl, or in a cone, sir?"

The gentleman pauses, looks at his wife, and repeats, "Do I want it in a bowl, or do I want it in a cone?"

She smiles, and replies sweetly. "Well that depends, dear. Do you want me to spoon it, or do you want me to lick it?"

"I want you to lick it." He turns to the suddenly smiling young man. "We'll take it in a cone, please."

Snicker firmly in check, the young man scoops. Into a cone.

The gentleman and his lady stroll off, with ice cream and smiles on their lips, and laughter in their wake.

What Not To Do With "1"

Eight things the number "1" should be:

• The U.S. Route I'm cruising from Jacksonville south to Key West.



• Superbowl chant preceded by "We're number..."



• What two shall become at the altar.



• The 'table for' you need when dining alone.



• Keychain dangly-thingy for your significant other, e.g. #1 Luvly.



• The likely reason for a visit to the little boys' room.



• The penultimate prelude to Auld Lang Syne.



• A Grand Prix racing Formula designation.

The one thing the number "1" should not be:

• The temperature on a sunny Saturday morning. Give me 2. Or even 1 below. But not 1. It just seems wrong.

Wander Winterland

Yes, it snows in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. But that's not all you see. Well, not quite. Along this scenic route...

...you'll see dozens of places to buy pasties.

This is a pasty. Pass-tee, not pay-stee. In case you wondered. Best with gravy.

If you do make it to Houghton, you'll find within walking distance of MTU, my sister's house.

They found a novel use for their backyard deck. Snow storage.

Looking out from their bay window are three distinctly different views.

Snowy front street...

Snowy neighbor house next door...

And snowy back alley. It's there, you just can't see it.

If you venture out to downtown (watch for strolling college students)...

...you'll find Cyberia Cafe. Heh. Cyberia in Siberia.

Then head down this major highway a few miles (watch for snowmobiles)....

...and follow this country road another mile (watch for snowblowers-really!)...

...you'll find the newlyweds home. Well, you'll see it, you just can't get there.

If you're quick on the draw (he likes cameras), you may shoot a Bear.

And if you decide to skip town at 4 AM, you may spot a local lurking around the corner.

See, I told you it's not all snow. And yes, it was other-worldly beautiful.

To Love and To Giggle

The wedding started at three o’clock. At 3:04, "Mimsy" stood outside the sanctuary doors giggling. That’s fine for a teenager arriving late with her friends.

But.

Mimsy is not the teenager arriving late. She's my middle sister. And in this particular wedding, she is the bride. And you have not seen her when she gets a case of the giggles.

See, usually Middle Sister is quiet, reserved and well mannered. But on occasion, with family or close friends, something strikes her funny bone just right, and she starts to giggle. And then laugh. And shake all over, with tears running down her cheeks as the giggles just bubble out uncontrollably and go tumbling all over the room. Yes, it’s fun and it’s funny and it’s contagious.

It’s also an unconventional way to walk down the aisle to greet your ‘for better or worse.' Oh, she did look resplendent in her gown and veil, and I was ready to take her arm and walk her to her betrothed. But she was giggling. And when she saw me watching, it just got worse. I was afraid we would have a giggle delay in the wedding. Oh dear.

Not to worry, the giggles were short lived, and I escorted a smiling bundle of nerves down the aisle. I think she actually glowed as she pledged eternal devotion to her prince. He in turn had the look of a man who knew at that moment that there really is a God, and He brings people together.

Mimsy is on the better side of 39, and has found the love of her life. This is a union of two people who were busy making their own path through life, and along the way, found each other. She found her Prince Charming in a Winter Wonderland, probably riding his snowmobile.

This was a wonderfully happy event. This was two families celebrating and relishing this union. This was two becoming one, to love and to giggle, till death do them part.

To “Mimsy” and her Prince, our congratulations. May love and giggles fill your home.