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.

James Harold Stranger and the Maniac Prophet

Most of the week my computer is infected with the blank Google posting screen. It isn't writer's block. I want to write. I love to write. I just am not sure what it is I want to write about. So I leave the blank screen up there, a temptress, a whore sitting in the window waiting for me to walk by, stop a moment, admire her sensuous curves, fantasize for a few seconds, then open the door and walk in. Make love to me, she whispers. I oblige. I know I will pay for this sin. Her hand is outstretched, naked beast. Pay me, she demands.

Yesterday, I started writing a book on her lovely face. The first paragraph hung there for hours, like a skinned possum over a fire, slowly burning up. We will not eat what was burned tonight, my temptress tells me. As I gaze into the fire, an ember flies up on the wind the fire has created. It rises high above my head, shimmering like a star. A new character is born.

All day today, I considered his fate. Not his hair color or the crooked smile on his face, but his fate. Will he live or die? Will he be a flawed hero or not a hero at all? Other embers danced around him- more characters. They took shape, burned hot, lit fires on the hillside and burned the ground all around me.

Soon I was dancing around the fire, shaman writer conjuring up people, places, scenes, dialogue, stories of life and death. I had become a witchdoctor of the tale-mad medicine and even stranger- his name suddenly chiseled in fire upon the rock of time- James Harold Stranger. Most folks call him Jimmy.

The first paragraph was now burnt and lifeless. The story would not begin this way. The story with no ending, no outline, and the whore waiting for me to place it upon her moist lap. James Stranger is alive and finding his way in the world. His story will soon begin- after the first paragraph has been viciously edited.

Away from Google and further into the day Waterbunny and I made an offer to buy a house. We met our Stephen/Jason in court this past week. He remains in jail. One day he will be released. I studied him in that small courtroom. He will burn this house to the ground. It is there in his eyes- dead eyes of a dead soul.

Stephen's dark ravings outside our home have become ironically prophetic.

It is time for us to leave.

My Father and the Crickets

Yesterday was "take your father to work" day. Mom said he needed to get out more. He has been driving to the town dump 4 times a week, making small deliveries of discarded household items. Nothing stays on the floor very long in my father's house.

Dad is a 79 year-old retired Junior High Phys-Ed teacher, and an avid Philadelphia Phillies and Eagles fan. Mom is younger, not retired, and was recently appointed Dean of a local college. She works and, more often than not, he is home alone. When your father decides the town dump is the best place to keep returning to, it is time to give him some serious attention.

Men of my father's generation don't talk much. They say what needs saying and not much more. But I was excited about helping dad. We were going to bond, he was going to see his son at work, it was going to be something special. I picked him up at his house at precisely 830 a.m. and our day of conversation began...

Son: "Are you guys going to come to our house for Thanksgiving?"
Dad: "Don't know. Your mother hasn't told me what we are doing yet."

*crickets*

Son: " I'm reading Flags of our Fathers. Did you see the movie or read the book?"
Dad: " No"
Son: " You were stationed in the Pacific during the war. You might enjoy it"
Dad: "Been there, done that."

*Yessir, I hear crickets*

Son: "Everything OK with you at home? You feeling OK?"
Dad: "I'm fine"

*Many fine crickets indeed, Sir*

Son: "I'm going to stop for coffee. Do you want anything?"
Dad: "No"

*More crickets than I ever thought possible*

Son: "That guy up ahead keeps breaking on every curve."
Dad: "Know what is wrong with people? They're afraid to die."
Son: "I'm afraid to die. I have issues with that."

*Crickets, lots of them, just about everywhere*

Son: "I can't believe how much the price of gas is now. It's getting ridiculous"
Dad: "That Bush is an idiot."

*Millions of crickets chirping in a lovely chorus*

Son: "I'm stopping for lunch. Would you like a hamburger?"
Dad: "I usually eat half a peanut butter sandwich"
Son: "Do you cut it in half or fold it?
Dad: "I fold it."
Son: "How about a Chicken Salad sandwich?"
Dad: "I don't eat chicken. I'll have a hamburger."

*Deafening cricket infestation*

Dad: "Don't turn here."
Son: "But it's faster."
Dad: "No it's not."

*Can't you hear the crickets now too?*

Son: "There is Twin Willows where you like to go for dinner!"
Dad: "I eat there every Monday night....alone."
Son: " Why?"
Dad: "Your mother goes to Weight Watchers and doesn't get home until 8. So I go to Twin Willows every Monday night...alone. It's OK tho, I talk to the bartender. He's a Mets fan. He's also a Giants fan."

*chirp chirp chirp chirp........*

Dad: "Thanks for the hamburger."
Son: "Thanks for helping me."
Dad: "I didn't really help you."

And with that he gets out of the truck, grabs his mail from the mailbox, and waves without ever looking back as he walks up the driveway to his home. And I'm driving through a sea of silence, lost in my thoughts, the crickets chirping quietly from somewhere deep inside me, in the field of my youth, long ago.

Autumn in Vermont (Part 3)

We drove South on 95 and then north on 91 - straight on for Brattleboro, Vermont. As we made our way North. the weather improved. Rain gave way to cloudy skies and then peaks of sun. The cold front had stalled along the coast, but further inland, cool winds were blowing down from Canada.

Within a few hours we had reached the Vermont border and the Interstate 91 Welcome Center. In Delaware Water Gap, Pennsylvania the state recently re-built their welcome center in the floodplain of a tributary to the Delaware River. They graded all around it to give the landscape a nice, bowl affect. Then it rained. Several months later, after it dried out, transplanted NYC gangs "tagged" it with graffiti.

The Vermont Welcome Center was everything the Pennsylvania center was not. The architecture was similar to a barn, with post and beam construction. There were plenty of exhibits inside and outside, even a sign that instructed pets to "Walk Your Owner Here'. Under a separate pavilion, there was a volunteer organization offering hot cider, coffee, brownies, Vermont apples, and other treats for a donation. Sweetie Angel tried the hot cider. "It was the best hot cider I've ever had." Waterbunny walked up with a huge, red apple- half eaten. "I haven't had an apple this good since Washington State." Welcome to Vermont, the state that never disappoints.

I hadn't been to Vermont in over 30 years, yet was hoping the best cure for a terrible road trip would be one day in Vermont. Yes, I was hoping for a miracle. After Brattleboro, we drove West towards Bennington on Scenic Route 9, and the true beauty of Autumn in Vermont began to reveal itself. The view from Hogback Mountain was tremendous. We also wanted to stop in Wilmington, the town looked eclectic and fun, but this was a one-day tour and the Skipper had a plan- West to Bennington, North to Burlington, then West again across Lake Champlain on the ferry. After that, the New York Thruway on a beeline for home.

We reached Bennington late morning and began our journey North on Route 7. Beautiful mountains and quaint villages passed by as we stayed on course until our hunger pangs outgrew our desire to keep moving and we found the Silas Griffith Inn in Danby, Vermont and they were serving lunch! What an excellent family-run place, with sisters and brothers and parents and kids all putting their resources together to purchase and operate the Inn. We found the restaurant nearly by accident (it is always OK to drive around the bend in the road). The food and service was excellent and our spirits brightened considerably. One sister knits colorful scarves and sells them for a good price too. Rhode Island? Where was that, anyway?

North of Rutland, we found the Pick-Your-Own Pumpkin patch. Sweetie Angel went happy-crazy, running through field looking at hundreds of pumpkins, and wanting to bring home all of them. We settled for two large ones, a few tiny ones, and a pint of fresh cold apple cider. Sweetie giggled when she read the manufacture date- Sunday, October 7th-the same day we were buying it. You can't buy fresher apple cider than that.

All through the trip North on Route 7, the green mountains of Vermont loomed to our East and the Adirondacks of New York beckoned to our West. As we neared Burlington, we would catch small glimpses of Lake Champlain. Once in the town, we were surprised to see hundreds upon hundreds of young people, students from The University of Vermont and Champlain College. We drove around and looked at the campuses, which were lovely. We drove downtown and realized this was a true college town- with a view of the lake and mountains that was simply stunning.

Burlington, Vermont is tucked onto the side of a hill facing Lake Champlain. The colleges are at the top of the hill with center of town down the hill, and closer to the lake. The lake shimmers and shines in the sunlight, with the distant Adirondack mountains rising up from its Western shores. The mountain air is crisp with a hint of moisture from the lake, the air temperature is cool off the lake, with a steady breeze blowing from the North. This was the coldest air we had felt on our faces since April. It was a delicious, a gourmet meal for the senses.

Sweetie Angel saw the possibilities - a college near skiing, close enough to home to drive to, yet far enough away to have freedom and personal space. A town that was dominated by kids her own age, with cafes and bookstores, skateboards and bikes, boys and more boys. She smiled as she looked around. Perhaps, just perhaps this crummy trip to Rhode Island had a greater purpose? Is it possible we suffered and sacrificed in order to discover a new direction that far exceeded a single weekend trip?

Life is like that. You take a trip and are forever changed in ways you could never expect or realize before you began your journey. You expand your horizons and new possibilities are laid before you- like pumpkins in a field.

We drove to Burlington because Angel had pointed out, way back in Newport, that she had never been on a large boat longer than the Jamestown ferry River in Virginia- a quick ten minute trip. She wanted to sail on a schooner, and there were plenty of those available for hire in Newport. It wasn't meant to be, but the next morning, while driving North on 91, I provided an alternative. The ferry across Lake Champlain takes an hour. It is no schooner, but it will be a lovely boat ride. Sweetie angel agreed and so we ended our day in Burlington, Vermont, a college town, with our mood completely reversed. We were falling in love with Vermont.

It was 6:00 p.m. when the ferry pulled out from the dock. After watching an incredible sunset over the mountains, we braved the cold wind at the bow of the boat and talked and laughed and bonded. We may not have had the best trip, but we bring our home of serenity along with us and all it takes is a moment of discovery or natural beauty, and we are snuggled tight again within our love. Parents who choose not to share these moments with their children only live half a life- a mere existence- for there is no greater joy on Earth, friends.

We arrived at Port Kent, New York at 7 pm and began the torturous 6-1/2 hour drive home. It was dark and we were tired. By the time we arrived in New Jersey, we caught up to the stalled front along the coast. It was cloudy with a light drizzle, and the air was warm and muggy, just like we left it in the morning. Just like Connecticut and Rhode Island. Was Vermont a dream?

In retrospect, we have laughed over the lowlights, and talked in awe over the highlights. We sure do cram a lot into a two-day trip, sort of like putting 10 pounds of manure into a 5 pound pail. It always seems to be worth it. A review of Champlain College's degree programs is encouraging-plenty of majors in the area Sweetie Angel wants to study. Earlier this week, she was wearing her University of Vermont tee shirt (bought on the ferry). She looks awful good in Vermont green.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Rhode Island, 15 foot waves are battering an old clam shack as the remnants of Hurricane Noel slam ashore. The paint peels off from the spray of sand and salt, the sand erodes underneath. The local folks huddle by the fire, waiting out the storm, and the one coming after that.

Rhode Island in Real Life (Addendum to Part 2)

We, the three mutant mousketeers, went off to the movies this weekend. After much discussion and a reading from rotten tomatoes, we decided on Dan in Real Life.

When Dan packs up his three daughters and heads North on the Interstate, the sign looked familar. When the car was driving along the shoreline, also familiar. Next camera shot was an aerial view of that bridge, the really scary one we had just crossed ourselves a few weeks ago, and we knew - Dan's parents lived in Rhode Island.

Yes, North of Newport, along the harbor. We watched and laughed. It was completely unexpected.

When the Dan gets pulled over by the local police, he mutters under his breath "Welcome to Rhode Island." Our thoughts exactly.

In one scene, Dan (Steve Carrell) drives to the beach. You see him standing by a run-down clam shack that has been closed for the season. Looked like Misquamicut- probably just South of where we stayed, across the Westerly boundary line. There was the bowling alley and the water slide, circa 1975- we saw signs for the waterpark near our motel. Scary, very scary.

In their defense (just briefly), it is easy to understand why Rhode Islandites have a major chip on their shoulder. When the California wildfires were raging last week, CNN reported the area burnt was "half the size of Rhode Island." Think about that for a moment- our national newscasters were trying describe how incredibly large the fires were by comparing them to the smallest state in the Union divided by two.

Recently, an alternate lifestyle devotee from England got himself killed while engaged in extreme sexual play in Lynn, Massachusetts. His Dominant partner (who has since committed suicide) wrapped him head to toe in cellophane, stuck a straw in his mouth and locked him in a closet. He suffocated. His play partner panicked and, with a friend's help, dumped his body in, you guessed it, Rhode Island! Could they have picked a smaller, more obvious place?

My last thought on Rhode Island is a sentimental one. It really wasn't a bad place, it just wasn't our kind of place. There are some beautuiful vistas, amazing mansions, lovely shops, kind and generous people- including the owners of the Seashell Motel who have tried very hard to improve their property- and they deserve special mention.

If you are filthy rich (or bought a sailboat with the profits you made from pumping out Pocono Foods septic tanks every day for three years), the sailing looks very fine in the harbor. Just watch out for the fog- it comes in quick on little boogie-board feet.