Rukie is Free!!!!!.....(for now)

We are very happy to report that Rukie Paputchi has been freed from prison and reunited with her family in Sciota, PA. There are many legal challenges ahead but with the assistance of determined friends, family, public opinion, some clever and pugnacious lawyering, local, regional, and national attention she has received and with the political guidance of U.S. Sen. Bob Casey, D-Pa, Rukie was released from PIke County prison.

For more about this please read today's Pocono Record article.

We wish Zack, Rukie, and their two children all the blessings of love in their reunion. The fight to bring U.S. citizenship to these two wonderful Americans will continue!

The End of Wanting Things

I think it started with the cell phone. Maybe not the practice of not wanting things, but the realization that it as time to stop wanting. My cell phone broke and Waterbunny brought me a new one. My old one was a black, stubby Nokia phone that flipped open. It was a sturdy, useful phone- mostly because I learned how to make it useful.

The new phone was a sleek Samsumg red phone with lots of bells and whistles. But the buttons worked different and I had little patience for learning a new phone. An added irritation was a volume button on the side that I was constantly bumping during phone calls. The phone wasn't working for me.

Then I remembered that Sweetie Angel had a Nokia just like mine. I proposed a simm card switch and she ended up with the Samsung and I ended up with the same old Nokia phone. I am still using it today. The realization had hit. I didn't want more bells or whistles or cell phone internet or blackberries or tunes or television or movies. I just wanted a telephone that worked.

It spread to other things. A wall-mounted wide screen TV would be nice, But I can see the picture just fine on the 27 inch television I bought a few years ago. I know I needed a new truck that could do everything my work required. If that wasn't the case, I would buy an old, cheap truck and drive it into the ground. Again and again I would do this. I don't need things anymore.

I love to play guitar. I met a musician awhile back who was a guitar collector of sorts. He knew every guitar ever made and each guitar's worth. His collection of guitars was impressive and worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. He would play at the bar with a Taylor guitar or a Martin D-38, and we would all salivate. He was an OK guitarist too, but nothing special.

Meanwhile, a good friend, recognized as one of the best progressive metal guitarists in the industry, sits in his recording studio, cradling a mid-priced guitar and making musical journeys that most only dream about. He doesn't need things, he needs music.

Even the computer I own is getting old and stubborn and could use replacement. I downloaded some virtual reality program earlier this week and was eager to play the game. When I tried to load it, an error screen popped up- insufficient video driver for the program. Ten years ago, I would have ran to the nearest computer store, pulled out a charge card, and upgraded my machine to match the game. This time I just smiled and closed the program. I don't need new things.

It all sounds so foolish on so many levels. We have been conditioned, through the pervasive and persuasive presence of television to want things. Just prior to the Academy Award show this year, there was a BMW commercial. There are many, so many of us who have never been able to afford that luxury. BMW is a status symbol we think we need. But we don't need new things.

Is the American dream to one day become successful enough buy the luxury car, live in the luxury home, and live the luxury life? That dream is the wrong dream. There has to be an end to wanting things. There should be a different American dream to believe in.

To build a better world for our children, to promote peace and harmony between cultures, to be a living example to those around us- that is the American dream I want to believe in. To live our lives with grace, honor, and dignity and to share our vision of freedom with others- that is the American dream I want to believe in. The words aren't empty if you believe in their meaning. We must end our wanting of things and begin the wanting of something more from within ourselves.

Can we fulfill such a dream? Will it require the restructuring of our capitalistic society? How do we get to the end of wanting things and keep our democracy strong? I wish I knew. Let's just see where the dream takes us. I'm ready.

Welcome the Wind~~~~~

It's blowin' up a gale outside tonight. A strong gust blew our recyclable container across the deck, scattering empty cans of Coke zero and bottles (also empty) of Corona Extra. I thought the cat knocked something over-shooed her down the hallway. Sorry kitty.

I ran outside in my tee shirt and jeans and into a driving wind and a temperature of 10 degrees. I was outside less than 2 minutes but had to be rubbed warm by the girls. I bet Barak Obama doesn't have these problems.

Water Bunny hates the wind. I remember when she lived in Texas. One day, a tornado approached her town. We watched it together on the doppler radar-she in her tiny apartment in Fort worth and me in my safe (or so I thought) Pennsylvania house. I felt helpless to protect her. She felt the same way. I suppose that's how everyone feels when the warning sirens go off and the Devil arrives. Whenever tornadoes are predicted, I say a prayer for those who are in its path. Afterwards, I say another prayer for those who were in its path.

Mother Nature has some powerful weapons: wind, water, quakes, rain, snow, floods, heat, sun, cold, ice. Every day someone, somewhere is a victim to her natural whims. No wonder whole nations prayed to Gods of Earth and Sky. Now we watch the weather channel before going to church. And the wind drives our prayers up to heaven and our Coke bottles down the street.

Oh, it's blowin' hard tonight, the house shakes and the roof groans, and the world outside seems larger than it should- so violent, so unforgiving. Yet we trust enough, we believe just enough and settle in for the long night's sleep. Where just outside our warm, wooden walls, Hell is chasing profanities to the top of a wild sky.

The Media Spin Cycle and Cows

Written by A. Holstein

The media pounds away at the message, leaving us convinced that the slice of the apple they show us is a whole apple, delightfully waiting for us to eat right it from the tree. Even if we can't reach the upper branches, we still want that media-created apple. Even if thr apple isn't full and ripe, and almost touching the ground- the media wants us to drool over the little green thing.

This guy doesn't have a chance, they say. Even though this guy won more states than that other guy. This guy's religion is his albatross, the press inform us. Then they run over to us and ask us our opinion of their slanted stories-and we, the cows in the field, are sure to answer.

"How is the field today?", they ask.
"Quite good, thank you", we reply.
"Do you like the sun today?", they ask.
"We like the sun very much", we reply.

"Welcome to Hardsell. I'm your host, Chris Ratchews. Latest polls show the sun is well ahead of the clouds. We have our team of experts right here to discuss this latest development...Frank Fullofit, what does this mean?"

"The clouds should drop out now and let the sun in."

"Tina Noknows, do you agree? You've had your head in the clouds for some time now."

"Well, Chris, the clouds did well in the Northwest, but they need to get those Southern cows in line and they have been trying to do just that, but those cows are very, very conservative and just won't follow the clouds, not as long as the sky stays in the race."

"Frank Fullofit, what about West Virginia? On the first ballot, the majority of cows chose the clouds, so the sun tells its delegates to throw their votes to the sky and then the sky opens up on the clouds and they cant get high enough to reach the sky. Isn't this the type of politics we are all tired of seeing?" Isn't this a backroom deal to let the clouds cover the sun, and then later the sun is going to burn the clouds off the field and out of the race? Then what happens to the cows?

"No Chris, that is the beauty of caucuses. The cows have to have a clear majority and this is how it gets done. The clouds may have more delegates than the sky, but simply can not compete against both the sky and the sun. And the word coming from our sources close to the clouds is that they are going to have make some tough decisions in the coming days - it may be time for them to let the sun shine in."

And on another channel, the popular program Cowline picks up the spin.

"Good evening, I am Randy Field and this is Cowline. Despite winning 6 states in last night's elections, it appears the end is in sight for the clouds. They have spent millions of their own money, but now it is nearing the end. The numbers are against them, they are running a distant third, despite being second overall in the delegate count nationwide. Our polls show they cannot win against the sun and the sky."

And the following day on every news channel,

"After a night of deep disappointment, the clouds have announced they are suspending their campaign."

It would be a better election if the idiot press would leave us cows alone and just report the news. Because, as Iowa and New Hampshire clearly showed, polls only tell you what the cows are feeling on the sunny day. They may feel different on the cloudy day. The sky is always nice to look at too. Sometimes clouds makes pretty shapes, like that one over there- look! It's a woman Senator from New York!

The national press have become great manipulators in the race for President, pushing their own agenda and ultimately limiting our choices. And we, a nation of cows, are left out in our field-getting ourselves milked the entire time.

Racing on the Changing Course of Time

It's a fracturous race, this life we live. We are motocross riders, hitting jumps and flying, landing in the mudholes and powering through to the next bump in the dirt road. We lurch towards the finish line, clutching all our prized belongings, then we die and possesions fall to the ground like useless, wasted leaves.

I remember moving into our rental house, full of panic and fear, tears streaming down my face, damaged son and compassionate daughter safely in tow, but for how long? -and we weren't putting up walls-we wear tearing them down. Our home would be the house of love and serenity. And we made it so, Number one.

The work was hard, the margin slim, the credit debt impossible to resolve, counting pennies for milk and bread, eating tuna helper night after night. We discovered that adding Boca vegetarian ground soy to the hamburger helper meant less grease and same taste. The veggie son needed to be fed too. We didn't mind it at all.

Time heals all wounds, but it also deadens our resolve. We are growing and changing with time. A new person, Water Bunny, enters the serenity house with dynamic changes. My son, with the constant help of his sister, heals some wounds, as much as time and his deep-seated feelings of betrayal will allow. More money trickles in and the finances improve enough to breathe slightly easier.

My son (TD013) moves out and a new team takes over, and we race now as R3 (R-cubed)- the two girls and I have names that start with an R. We race and change positions while the weather improves, our lives improve, but weather can change and the course can get muddy as hell. I still can't see the finish line, perhaps I don't want to, but I can feel it.

TD013 falls in love. She is a lot like him, twin racers- damaged, healing, scrappy tag-teamers. They'll need to stick together on this race, overcome their singular dysfunctions, rely less on others to stay on the course. Which way? he asks, then goes his own way. We're lost, she says and we say turn right, avoid the hole, take the ramp and fly. then dejectively watch as they turn the opposite way. Own the course we say, or it will own you. Own the course...

I don't know where I am going with this. I feel like somehow I am missing something, something real and tangible. I thought I was there, but now I am here and it could be just before the bump and I will soon be flying or it is just after the flight and I am landing in the mudhole.

The race goes on, the work piles up and the pressure increases. The rental house has been tarnished, we learn that walls are needed to keep out the crazies, the demented dropouts who don't respect our house, who have abandoned a race they can not win. They try to knock us off our bikes- if only for a second, if only to make a point. Life is fractuous, and the race never changes, even though our time here does. Own the course...

Tonight, all I want to do is daydream about buying a portable music recorder and driving from one open mike to another, playing and recording my old-fashioned music and then, releasing an Open Mic -live CD. Tonight, I want to ride the bike slower, on pavement straight and smooth.

I must be going crazy, all covered in bruises and mud yet still wanting to ride- no longer caring about winning, just wanting to finish the race.

The First Honors Mountain

We approach the mountain. My eyes narrow, squinting into the morning sun. There is snow all around. I adjust my gear and my aging body: unbuff, bloated, aching shoulder, chronic cough, overweight, tender toe

Sweetie Angel stands at my side, young and ready, determined to conquer. She adjusts her gear and her youthful figure: unbroken, slender yet fierce, chronic achiever, jazzed, huge smile

The deal - she makes first honors, she receives one free ski day in the Catskills, one day per each semester of first honors. She has responded with 8 straight semesters of first honors and I am past due with payment. I owe her 7 days.

This is going to hurt.

Restaurant Nicknames

Sweetie Angel started it. She had a terrible meal at Cracker Barrel. As we were leaving, she said, "This isn't Cracker Barrel, it's Crapper Barrel." The name stuck. Now every time we drive down the Interstate and she sees a sign for Cracker Barrel, she says, "Look Dad, there is a Crapper Barrel 15 miles ahead." Makes you want to stop and use the facilities.

Then we had one of the poorest quality dinners ever and it included the worst service ever (what a gift, huh?) at T.G.I.F. With an indignant look on her face, Sweetie Angel declared, "You know what TGIF stands for? Totally Gross Inedible Food!"

One afternoon, we were discussing how Friendlys used to have great sundaes, but now all you get are these mini-scoops of ice cream. I mentioned that the Chocolate scoops looked more like little balls of poop- and Friendlys soon became Pooplies.

And more chain restaurants earned new restaurant names so we decided that we should post our list for all to enjoy. Here it goes:

Ruby Tuesdays - Ruby Ewwwwwsdays

Burger King - Burger Thing

Texas Roadhouse - Texas Roadkill

Perkins - Pukins

Applebees - Crapplebees

Chilis - Smellies

Don Pablos - Don Pukos

Jack Creek Steakhouse - Jackchit Pukehouse

Wendys - Lil Red's Squaremeat

McDonalds - McRonalds's Fat Farm

IHOP - I-SNOT

Waffle House - Waffle Arse

Pizza Hut - Pizza Slut

Outback - Spoutcrack

T.G.I.F. - Totally Gross Inedible Food

Cracker Barrel - Crapper Barrel

Bob Evans - Hog's Heaven

Friendlys - Pooplies

Arbys - Slarbies (we also like to call it Barfies)

KFC - Krunchy Fried Cats

Dairy Queen - Hairy Queen

Subway - Scumway

In'nOut Burgers - In'nOut urge

Dominos - Vomitnose

Quizznos - Quizzblows

Hardees - Hardlys

Pappa John's - You shouldn't poke fun at your father. Yeah, I'm talkin' to you.

Of course, we haven't restricted ourselves to food chains. A few years ago, the W blew out on the Walmart sign. We've been calling it Almart ever since.

There is a Chinese restaurant near us with the name Wah Shing. We don't think the food is very good. The place is a little rundown. Some folks in our neighborhood refer to it as Wah Shing Your Arse. The name has a certain appeal to it even if the restaurant doesn't.

We had a dog once who would eat the kitty litter-covered excrement out of the litter box. We called it Kittified Crunchies. Or Kitty Krunchies. Or our favorite nickname, Krunchy Kitten Krap. We couldn't keep that dog's face our of the box. Probably what killed him too. Just like we love all that delicious fast food we eat month after month, year after year. Probably kill us too.

There you have it. Any moment we expect the legions of attorneys who defend the fast food conglomerates to contact us and demand we remove this post. And we will, right after we enjoy a few Rooburgers from the Fat Farm and some Slarby fries.

We know other people make up names too. What about you? Have you got a few restaurant nicknames to share?

Where is Our Atonement?

On Saturday, we did the double feature. First we enjoyed the action comedy romp National Treasure, then we followed it with Atonement. We were stunned. Atonement was not just a great movie, it is THE great movie. This type of experience comes along once every 10 years and reminds us of our own humanity, the frailty of our existence, the blessings we have and how quickly and easily they can be taken away from us. Usually at the end of a good movie, some folks applaud, but at the end of this thoughtful masterpiece, there was only silence. Quiet crowd silence.

Atonement has stayed with me since then. The images, camera angles, acting, pacing, story, rumbling through my head, and challenging my heart. My mind turns to Iraq and our soldiers there and Atonement whispers to me. They are doing a job, fulfilling a mission that no one would ever want. They are there because we can be an awfully stupid country. They are there because we believe what our leaders tell us to believe. We wouldn't want to appear unpatriotic, especially in the shadows of 9/11. We all know the war in Iraq is wrong but we've screwed that country and hurt those people so badly that we need to stay and try to atone for our terrible mistake.

I watch the MSNBC report on Britney Spears' non-attempt to attend her custody Hearing, and Atonement rings like a bell in the old tower. Those 300 reporters, photographers, and paparazzi need to be somewhere else. She will never be able to seek treatment while followed by a large pack of flash-popping bulbs attached to hungry, money-grubbing wolves. We need to turn our collective backs on her everyday life- for her kids sake, we need to do this. There will be atonement for our poor, media -driven assumptions about her mental state. I feel the same sadness, like atonement, like watching a train wreck in awfully slow motion.

We need to move ourselves to a better place than this. We need to leave this girl and her family alone. Justin Timberlake placed it in proper perspective when, after leaving a restaurant, he said to the horde of paparazzi surrounding him, "Hey, I just want to get to my car."

I watch the Presidential race turn into a clash of minorities, gender versus color. Since when did it matter? Why should it matter? We are a better people than this. If our leading candidates are willing to speak to the lowest common denominator, then we need to vote for someone else.
If race/gender has a bearing on this election, it will be because the candidates and the publicly divisive media machine has placed it there. This is their deck of cards and the ones they are choosing to play is to our detriment. One day, there will be atonement for this. Our candidates must elevate the debate to the issues alone, and leave our color and gender out of the election.

In our own hometown, our local pizza parlor has been operated for many years by a husband and wife from Bulgaria. When they emigrated, in the early 1990's. Bulgaria was a repressive state. They both applied for political asylum. They filled out the paperwork, waited and waited, for years upon years, for our government to make a decision. In the meantime, they built a popular business, served good food, treated everyone with equal respect, got driver's licenses, and began raising a family. They bought a home. They settled into a good life in a great country- they embraced freedom and the culture of America.

Last week, the INS agents arrested his wife, and she now sits in a jail waiting deportation. It seems that Bulgaria has settled down in the past sixteen years and my friend's reason for seeking political asylum is no longer valid. Go home, says the United States to these fine citizens of our community. Go back to your own country. Never mind that the administration of our immigration law is beyond incompetent- after all, behind every government desk is a citizen of the United States, so that should amount for something, right? Bullshit. We screwed up and we should make it right. This is government at its worst- repressive and abusive to the extreme-ruthless bureaucrats - arresting people on assumptions and tossing them out or even worse, tossing them into jails in foreign lands, torturing them, and placing a label on their heads that classifies us as well - we are enemy combatants of justice and the rule of law. We are at odds with ourselves, with the values that made this country great.

We are in a fine mess, our assumptions about others, our inability to leave people alone, and our incompetence leads to the abuse of decent people trying to live a decent life. We don't need change, we need vision to inspire us to change ourselves and our perception of the world around us. We need to stand up and take responsibility for our actions. We need atonement for what we have done to ourselves, our neighbors, our government, and our world.

Here is Rose at the London Bridge

Waterbunny and I were sitting at a restaurant last week. During our dinner, I asked her to point out any couple she wanted and I would write a fictional story about their lives. Waterbunny pointed to a cute, elderly couple who were sitting nearby. They ate in perfect complimentary silence, a testament to their long and loving relationship, or so it appeared to us.

And so began the story of George and Rose....

A good friend and loyal reader from Diffle County (shown above) pointed out that she remembered these type of writing exercises from High School. She suggested a similar writing exercise. Go to a cemetery and choose two names from different headstones and write a fictional story that intertwines the lives of both names. Sounds like fun. In my high school days, our teachers had us write like Hawthorne and Thoreau. It was impossible to be more creative than the classic masters, and so our writings would pale by comparison- pale isn't even a good descriptive term for differences that were galaxies apart. Imagine pimply faced kids trying to mimic Emerson and Yates. Heck, even Mark Twain kicked us in our breeches. You try to write a short story that employs all the descriptive elements of Melville. Good luck and God speed to ya.

Back to sweet George and Rose- I think I may have to spice up their lives or I may become bored with them. Germans are hard to make fun and flamboyant- they are so mach schnellish.

I may have to throw a few gunshots and crocodiles into the mix.

Speaking of crocodiles, Waterbunny and I made a double-or-nothing bet. I already owe her 2 million dollars. I was discussing the history of the old London bridge to Sweetie Angel when Waterbunny poked her bunny nose in and mentioned that the London bridge was now in Arizona. Well, the old London bridge was destroyed after a new London bridge was built 100 yards upstream. The new London bridge was replaced later by a newer London bridge. I bet her the old London bridge was not in Arizona. Except I didn't say "old" London bridge and I did mention the Brooklyn bridge which muddied the water under our bridge bet.

After proving the new London bridge is definately in Arizona, Waterbunny demanded I pay her 4 million dollars, which I currently do not have in my possession. I say the bet is a technical tie. She says I lost. She says I am sly fox. I remind her I am Rooster, not fox. She leaves the room muttering something about the quality of my character. Naturally, I am offended.

And so already we are having a Happy New Year! Hope you are too.

Postscript: I am constantly amazed at the diversity of photographs one can find on the internet. They couldn't find a live model? If the model is fake, is the bridge also fake? It makes sense, doesn't it? Note to CM - ha ha, that really isn't you shown above.

George and Rose in the 21st Century

I

George Helmstetter looked up at his wife. She was, as always, enjoying her Penne Vodka with a meticulous solemnity usually reserved for monks at chapel. George smiled inside, but outwardly showed no emotion and returned to his own dinner plate. They ate together in comfortable silence. After many years of marriage, their daily routine now bore all the precision of a Swiss time piece, perfectly crafted in form and function, and priceless.

After her fourth bite and swallow, Rose spoke of the weather, and George replied in kind. The second hand ticked effortlessly. She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the linen napkin. The waiter, an unobserved ghost, refilled their water glasses then drifted off to other tables.

George remembered the first time he and Rose had sat down in this small Manhattan Trattoria. It had a different name then, maybe eight or nine owners ago. The war was over. The world was weary and peace sounded like permanence. He looked at Rose again, then back down at his dinner. Maybe next time he would order the Risotto and clams.

George was handsome in his youth. The young girls of Heidelberg would attest to that with easy smiles and secret kisses behind their father's shops, back in the days when Hitler was just another ambitious politician. Germany still lay wounded then, its pride fractured from the first world war. His father, assigned to the German Sixth Army, had died in the trenches at Vimy Ridge. George was only one month old. His mother never fully recovered from her loss. "Mutti", he would say, "You must let Oppa go and move on with your life." She would only shake her head. "Hurry along Georgius, or you will be late for your lessons." She will never love another man, he thought to himself as he grabbed his violin case. What a waste of life not to have love in it. Mutti watched with soft eyes as Georgius ran out of his father's house, late for his lessons again.

When he was thirteen, his mother told him a fabulous story. "Your Aunt Hildegarde is a Princess and your great, great, great Uncle Maximilian Joseph, was once King of all Bavaria. We don't talk much of this in these times. Many blame our family for the great war, but we had little to do with its beginning or its end. Your father, God rest his soul, would never allow the word Prince or Princess to be spoken in our house. Nicht während Ich bin lebendig, he would say. I should not even tell you this, Georgius. Someday, we will sit with Aunt Hildegarde and you will properly learn your heritage." George smiled inside as he remembered again his mother's words. Rose mentioned the Frosts would be arriving for cocktails at seven, as usual. He nodded, as usual.

George thought back to the last time he saw his mother alive. George had just turned twenty-one and was looking forward to completing his studies at Heidelberg University. One evening, George returned home to find a strange man in the house with his mother.

"Georgius, this is Herr Ferdinand, your cousin from England. You remember playing with him at Modena when we travelled there? You were very young. He is here to take you to England for a vacation. I have packed a bag for you." George saw both fire and fear in his mother's eyes.

"Mutti, I have my studies to complete. I can not vacation now."

"Your studies are at an end. Hitler will take us to war soon. All young men will drafted into service. I lost your father to war, I will not lose you. Now you must go and go at once." Mutti suddenly looked formidable, not to be denied.

George pleaded, "Mother, please do not do this. I must stay with you. Germany is my home and I must defend my home if war should come."

"You would disobey your mother and die in some filthy trench in France? War comes because Hitler brings war upon us. We have learned nothing from the great war, fachkundig nichts. Now go, Georgius, and promise me you will write. Finish your studies in London. You can stay with Ferdinand there, is that not so, Cousin Ferdinand?" Mutti managed a weak smile.

"George, there is plenty of room in our home. Come join us. I have a friend at Oxford. We will speak to him about your studies." Herr Ferdinand smiled warmly as he patted George on the shoulder.

It was clear all had been decided well in advance. George hugged his mother tightly for a long time, then he softly kissed her on top of her head. He hadn't realized how much taller he had grown these past few years.

"I shall do this out of love for you, Mutti. But you must promise me you will stay safe until I return." They stood there, holding each other as his father's clock ticked loudly in the next room, George's heart racing twice as fast, and Ferdinand standing by the door, watching the road. As soon as darkness fell and was deep in all the shadows, George and Ferdinand left Heidelberg, by train bound for Switzerland

"How is your Penne this evening?" George said to Rose, his voice barely a whisper.

"Al dente, but I don't mind. We should mention to the waiter, however." Rose briefly looked up, her dark hair in colored denial of her own advancing age. George gingerly poked a fork at his food as the silence settled in around them, like snow.

(to be continued)

Your Friendly Neighborhood Lawn Gestapo

We live in a strange neighborhood, one of perfectly manicured lawns and repeated routines. Our dead end street is full of retirees. I've known a retired couple for many years and they travel from one golf course to another, sport excellent tans, get their skin cancers removed with tidy regularity, and throw wonderful pool parties. They define the word "retired" for me. If you have enough cash to quit your job, travel to Africa, Egypt, and China for excellent rounds of golf- you have earned your retirement stripes. When someone comments about how lovely your yard looks, you can usually reply, "Oh, we have people for that."

My retired neighbors have a different approach. Their golf clubs are neatly stored away in the attic. They don't have foreign nationals clipping their hedges. They don't have Manny mowing their lawn. My retired neighbors are doing it themselves. Each front yard requires a full-time effort. My neighbors have replaced their old jobs with a new one - maintaining a perfect lawn and neighborhood.

I noticed something unusual not long after we moved here in February of 2005. It was Monday night and Tuesday was trash day. I put a few plastic bags of garbage out by the street. The next morning, there were remnants of my trash all over my yard. Raccoons, I thought.

The following week, the same result, except the trashmen, who collect on our street in loud, crashing fanfare at 5 a.m., were late. I left the house at 7 a.m. to drive Sweetie Angel to school. The trip takes about 15 minutes. When we left, the plastic garbage bags were intact. When I arrived home, the bags had been ripped open and trash spread across my lawn. I was shocked. Rabid raccoons, I wondered? The neighbor's Collie sat in their front yard - cute, innocent dog. Couldn't have been the Collie- no way.

The following week, my bags were trashed again. There sat the Collie. Across the street, Herr Stripedlawn smiled and waved to me. Another retiree. He walked over and introduced himself:

Herr Stripe: You may want to put your plastic bags in a container.
New Renter: I was planning on buying some this week. I'm really getting tired of cleaning up after the raccoons.
Herr Stripe: It isn't raccoons. It is that Collie over there. The neighbor lets
him out in the morning.
New Renter: That's weird. I only see that Collie on trash days.
Herr Stripe: Isn't that something? *grin*

The neighbor was sending his dog out to feed on my trash bags? Let's take this to an even more disturbing place. The man letting the dog out doesn't live there. It's his mother's Collie. Imagine waking up every Tuesday at 5 a.m., getting dressed, walking over to your mother's house before the garbage people get there, then letting her dog out to feast on your neighbor's trash. Are you in need of serious counseling? Sure you are.

When I told Waterbunny about this, she didn't believe me. "You're the most paranoid man I have ever met." she exclaimed, all Doctor Phil-like.

The following week, I looked for that dog every morning. No Collie anywhere. The next Tuesday morning, there was my trash scattered across my driveway, and there was Collie sitting in her front yard. I got the point. I drank the kool aid. I bought sturdy trash containers - with hinged locking lids and little wheels on the bottom. My containers are the nicest in the neighborhood.

After a few weeks, I began to notice something else. My neighbors had their trash at the curb by 9 p.m. Monday night. OK, that is fine, they are retired, maybe they go to bed early. But the next morning, after the 5 a.m. departure of our sanitation engineers, many trash cans had been quickly retrieved and spirited away. By 7 a.m., half the cans in the neighborhood were pulled back. By 9 a.m., my containers were the only ones still at the curb. I mentioned this to Waterbunny one evening while talking to her on the phone. She lived in Fort Worth, Texas at the time.

Rooster (me): Babe, there is some sort of competition in the neighborhood.
Waterbunny: Oh really? What?
Rooster (me): See who can get their trash cans back from the curb fastest. Or maybe the goal is to see who will be the last slovenly deadbeat to leave his empty cans out there - or maybe it is a retirees beat the renters game. Either way, it is freaking weird. People are running out of their houses at 5:30 a.m. to get their empty cans off the street.
Dr. Phil (wb): You are the most neurotic man I have ever known.

Waterbunny came to visit. On trash morning, we went out to breakfast. The engineers were just arriving for their collection. We returned an hour later. Half the block had rescued their empties from the curb. Within the hour, my containers were the only ones left. Waterbunny began to believe.

Waterbunny: I think you are right about your neighbors. They are obsessed with getting their trash cans back from the curb. It looks like a competition. No one wants to be the last can standing.
Proud me: See, I'm not neurotic.
Dr. Phil (wb): I wouldn't go that far.

But the most amazing act of repetition is the caring for the lawns. Across the street, Herr Stripedlawn mows in a single direction to the street. Then he turns off the mower, empties the mower bag into trash can. He drags the mower back up the hill and begins the next strip, same as before. He has to make perfect straight lawn lines. His 1/8th acre front yard takes all afternoon to mow. Every week, from early April till late November, we observe the same pattern of behavior. His lawn definitely has a pattern too.

The retiree to my left has a riding mulcher. He cuts and mulches his grass several times a week. He drives the mower more than his own car. On the property to my right, Mr. Collie, has a vacuum on his riding mower. He vacuums his lawn like a carpet.

I told my friend (and landlord) I would mow our front yard if he would mow the back acreage. I bought a used push mower for 40 dollars. It takes 45 minutes to mow my lawn when I fly at it. I always fly at it. Dust and smoke and grass take to the sky like a demolition derby in a drought. I've gotten 3 years out of that lawn mower for a cost of 13.33 dollars per year- not including gas.
When I pull my mower out of the garage, all my neighbors disappear inside their homes until the dust clears. Oh yeah, I'm the Marquis De Sade of lawn care.

Other than their lawn obsession, their trash can obsession, and their snow removal obsession, they are nice people to talk to, to trade carrot cakes with, and to smile and wave at.

This Autumn, my work kept me away from the yard. Besides, I like to wait until all the leaves have fallen off the trees before I rake. Autumn was late this year. I barely noticed that my retired neighbors were on the prowl, vacuuming, raking, and mulching their leaves with intense determination. I barely noticed at all.

Last year, Mr. Mulcher told me not to bother to rake. He drove his favorite mulching vehicle all over our yard. That took care of the problem. Our leaves were mulched up within minutes. This year, I was hoping for a repeat performance. The leaves piled up in my yard as I waited. They blew over into his yard. They blew over onto the striped lawn. There were a lot of windy days.

Day after day the retirees tried to control the ever-increasing leaf pollution. Rakes, vacuums, and mulching mowers were overhwelmed. My leaves had become a danger to the neighborhood. The community was on the brink of destruction. Something had to be done. Finally, Herr Stripedlawn stopped me in my driveway.

Herr Stripe: I hope you don't mind me asking. Who is responsible for raking the leaves in your yard?
Non-Raker: I don't really know. I guess my landlord is. One of us usually gets around to it.
Herr Stripe: They are blowing all over the neighborhood.
Non-Raker: Last year, the guy next door mulched them for me. I thought..
Herr Stripe: He didn't tell you but last year he broke his mower on your leaves. It was out of commission for 12 days. He was very upset that he had to pay to get it fixed.
Non-Raker: He never said a word to me about it.
Herr Stripe: I know. You really need to rake them. The last tenant was a real creep, but at least she raked her leaves.
Shamed me: I will try to get to them this weekend.
Herr Stripe: Thanks. I don't mean to complain.

If they didn't mean to complain, they wouldn't complain.

On Saturday morning, before I left for work, I spent an hour raking leaves. Made nice piles. Got about half the front yard finished. After work, we drove to a birthday party on Long Island. Gold Coast. Great Neck. Folks there have oodles of cash. Women at the party were wearing 5-carat Tiffany diamond rings. Swanky neighborhood all around. And darned leaves were everywhere. Leaves in the yards, in the street, in the gutters and no one was doing a damned thing about it! There wasn't a vacuum truck in sight. Incorrigible rich people. "There must be no retirees living here!", I exclaimed.

This raises an interesting point. Who decided that perfectly cared-for lawns meant anything at all? It made me wonder about my own retirement one day. I think I will volunteer my time at the hospital or a homeless shelter. I think I want my yard to look like the yards in Great Neck- full of unraked leaves, homes that look lived in and not on display. I want to live where yard chores are "something to get around to", not something to obsess over and to insult my neighbors about. I want to live in a land without the lawn gestapo. Not that I'm complaining, not at all.

Now, if I lived in one of those big mansions in Newport, Rhode Island, and 1000 people a day were touring my property, I'd have those neat stripes in my lawn. All my leaves would be cleaned up. We'd have people for that.

Thank goodness it snowed yesterday. All my leaves have disappeared. Problem solved.