Krambles' Convertible

Ed Krambles drives a convertible, a permanent convertible, rain or shine, even through Chicago winters. His 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass is a local legend, and a sighting of the pale green drop-top is enough to generate an inner thumbs-up, especially on an overcast winter day. Most people know him by his car, and refer to him as “Convertible Guy.” But his friends know him as simply “Krambles.”  Krambles is immersed in an era of his own making, a time when men built things by hand with actual hand tools. Whizzing by at the wheel of his convertible, with his long black hair blowing in the wind, he could be mistaken for a disheveled Elvis.

Krambles’ convertible didn’t start out as a convertible. It began life as a shiny green station wagon with lifelike wood paneling on the doors.... until the night he rolled it doing doughnuts along the canal. The Cutlass landed upright on all four tires, but the roof was badly crumpled, and a majority of the glass was busted out. But Krambles managed to drive it back to his garage where the transformation slowly took shape. Using only a hacksaw, crowbar, and some assorted tools, Krambles cut the entire top off the Cutlass Station Wagon, leaving only the windshield. And so, in the middle of a garage strewn with piles of spare parts from one project or another, a permanent convertible was born....along with a lifestyle few would venture to emulate.

Keeping the Cutlass in shape is a never-ending task, and Krambles doesn’t allow anyone to tinker with the wagon. He does all the work himself and wears the grease under his fingernails like tiny quarter-moon badges of honor. “Chicks dig a guy who can fix things,” he likes to say, along with, “And the luxurious naugahyde bench seat seals the deal.” Apparently it’s true because very often there’s a woman cuddled up close to him, her hair swirling around in the wind. A summer wind. But come winter, the novelty wears off. The fickle ones succumb to romantic Darwinism and find warmer shoulders to lean on, leaving Krambles to roam the boulevards alone.

Though the fierce winter winds sweep Kramble’s relationships clean, this year he found himself a shotgun-riding companion. Anna. She’s from Norway, and the two of them have been seen all over town whisking their way through blizzard after blizzard, her red hair spinning like a miniature tornado. Their courtship remains unfazed while the rear portion of the wagon fills up with snow. A rolling glacier. Taking her car is not an option. Taking anyone’s car is not an option. Krambles doesn’t ride, he drives, seated in what he calls “the wheel-house.”

 Anna was raised in the Nordic cold and has little-to-no truck with people who complain about it. She enjoys Chicago’s cold, quiet winter nights, saying, “The night air is best left to the spirited skjaldmærs” (I looked it up and it means anything but maker-of-soup). She shakes her fist at houses with blue light coming from the windows. “The fragile ones whose delicate bottoms need powdering are home watching TV.”  Her eyes flash with ancient fire when she says these things, and I think she might be an honest-to-goodness Viking. Maybe a shield-maiden. But, she’s devoted to, and endures, the companionship of Krambles.

Krambles and I have a good friend who’s getting married. The wedding is thirty miles away in Aurora, Illinois, and I planned on driving alone. Until Anna-the-Frozen called. “Hey, Ed and I were thinking about the three of us going to the wedding together.”
Hoping to avoid a re-enactment of  “Ice Station Zebra,” I quickly replied, “Great, idea. I’ll drive.”
“Don’t bother. The ride’s on us. We’ve got a new set of snow tires, and Ed’ll be in the wheel-house. Ed is a snow-warrior.”
She calls him Ed. And all of a sudden  uses “wheel-house” like its been in her lexicon all along. There’s no doubt Krambles is handy, but a snow-warrior?  It seems the Vikings have landed and have conquered the land of Krambles. I pointed to an imaginary Arctic cold front she couldn’t see. “You know it’s supposed to be fifteen degrees on Saturday.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem unless you’re..”
I interrupted her before she had the chance to reference my delicate bottom. “I’ll be ready at five.”

I’m wondering if the fabled Norwegian explorer, Roald Amundsen, had a red-haired woman goading him into taking his fatal Antarctic venture, when all he really wanted to do was stay home, slip on some comfortable shoes, and pickle some herring. Perhaps the Vikings pillaged not with swords, but with a subtle form of humiliation and are not yet finished with their quest. Maybe it’s true what they say about a lid for every pot, and Krambles has found his lid. But I’d like to stay home with a comfortable pair of shoes. And it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that my bottom might, indeed, need some powdering.   

The Beak

                                                   

Orly has tattoos...lots of them. We’ve been friends since we were teenagers. When we were sixteen, he inscribed his first tattoo on the back of his left hand. It was one of those homemade India ink scrawlings, a girlfriend’s name, Cathy, the love of his life...until he met Darcy. Once assured that Darcy was truly the love of his life, he converted Cathy’s name into a sort of floral pattern. And inscribed Darcy’s name above it. It went on like that until his arm took on the appearance of a Rorschach ink-blot test.

Over the years, Orly let the professionals take over. He gradually became festooned with tattoos of all sorts. The collage runs up his right arm, to his chest, and down to who-knows-where.  In Orly’s mind, the entire fricassee tells a story.  Frankly, the thought of  turning myself into a facsimile of a graffiti-splattered New York subway train gives me pause. A tattoo is a commitment I’ve never been willing to make, especially with my secret spirit name, “Buyer’s Remorse,” bestowed upon me by the returns department at Menards.

Spending a couple of days with Orly can be intoxicating. He gets free bowling shoe rental at the Bowl ‘n Roll and extra sauce at Chad’s Taco Shack...just for being Orly. There’s a row of piercings in Orly’s left ear, possibly picking up stray radio signals, the origin of the voices he often answers.

The other day, Orly called and asked if I’d like to go watch him get another tattoo. I halfheartedly accepted the invitation, as any excursion with Orly is often fraught with a precipitous outcome. He’s the kind of friend who should come with a warning label. We rode in Orly’s pick-up truck to The Wicked Lady Tattoo Emporium. Turns out, there is no lady, wicked or otherwise, unless we caught the unshaven, cigar-chomping Frank in an especially unglamourous moment. After consulting with Frank for a minute, Orly sat down in a kind of barber chair, and the procedure began. Two bolts of bright yellow lightning on his neck, outlined in black ink, removing the burden of cluttering up Orly’s future plans with a career in shirt-modeling.

Frank’s eyes then turned to me, “OK, bud, what’ll it be?”
“No, no, I’m just here with Orly.”
Orly made his pitch, “Tell your story, man. You’re a story-teller. Tell it with ink.”
The colorful patrons milling around the shop began a tribal chant, “Tell your story! Tell your story!"
Orly, knowing he stirred up a bee’s nest, chimed in, “Come on man, it’s not like it’s going to look bad when you’re old...you’re already old.  Besides, Frank, here, is an artist. He has a certificate, framed and everything.”

A certificate and a smattering of tribal applause fermented the idea. I hesitantly took my place in the chair. After all, I am a story-teller. “Maybe a crow on my forearm. Crows are  members of the Corvidae family, same as the mawkish blue jay. They’re often maligned but very intelligent. A crow can recognize a human face.” No sooner had I begun my expository discourse on the common crow, than Frank commenced inscribing my arm. He began with the beak. Deep black ink. It appeared life-like, just as it appears in Sibley’s bird identification manual, the bible of the avian community. For a brief moment, the artistry was hypnotizing...until the enormity of the scale dawned on me. “Wait a minute,” I yelled, “That beak! The bird attached to it will be the size of a deluxe crunchy taco!"
Frank was very casual, “Man, a tattoo makes a statement, it’s not like the little tag on a tea bag.”
I leaped out of the chair, “Thanks, Frank, I think that’s all I need.”
“OK, bud, let me know when you decide to finish the project.”
“What do I owe you?”
“Pay me when we finish up. You’ll be back,” said with the same certainty as my ex-girlfriend, the pastry-throwing anarchist, who, by the way, never returned my Connie Stevens records.

Orly slapped me on the back, “Hey first-timer, look at you, you got yourself a beak.”
He laughed himself silly all the way home. Did I mention Orly laughs like a chain-smoking donkey? He does. At nearly every stop light, he pounded on the steering wheel and howled, “A beak, a freakin’ goddamn beak.” Despite my reminder that a one-inch beak, properly scaled, would’ve resulted in a seven to eight inch bird, the mocking continued, “Why don’t we stop and get a magnifying glass so people can have a look at your little birdy beak.”

The episode required some turning around, a confabulation that would transform the regrettable escapade into something illustrious. Orly was right, it was just a little beak, the kind of thing my Aunt Helen would’ve tried to rub off  with a saliva-dampened hanky. So I conjured up a plan. This tattoo, no matter how small, would become purposeful, not the result of an embarrassing flabbergastation. Like an old western bandit dragging a tree branch behind his horse, my tracks would be covered at the next meeting of the Kildare Bird Club. I’ll make the proclamation that the much-beloved crow’s beak shall become our club’s new symbol. At which time, I’ll display my commitment to the idea. I’m already envisioning the awe in the eyes of my fellow ornithologists. And I’m composing a nice thank you note to Frank, along with a gift certificate to Bed Bath and Beyond because, honestly, I won’t be going back. As I mentioned to Frank, the beak is all I really need.

The Kidnapping of Joan Crawford

Marla Baggs kidnapped Joan Crawford. That’s a fact, even though she wouldn’t admit to it, even if a couple of hard-nosed detectives gave her the bare-light-bulb treatment. Joan Crawford is a cat who showed up at my back door, meowing and hungry. Once inside, after being fed, she proceeded to strut from room to room until finding a proper place on the couch to curl up and fall asleep. My soft spot for all things orphaned sparked a protective kinship. However, Joan Crawford was born to wander. She begged to go outside where she could sit beneath the shade of the trees in the yard, keep an eye on passing beetles, and catch the occasional unlucky mouse. The great outdoors was her promised land.

Joan Crawford was solid grey....not a patch of any discernible markings, sort of like an approaching storm-cloud mixed with a dust bunny. Soon after becoming comfortable around the house, her true colors emerged...giving rise to her name. A bit of a troublesome truck, she developed the habit of using the couch as a scratching post, pulling out stuffing as if a valuable prize was hidden deep inside. And she quickly established a grudge against the living room drapes, taking a run at them, leaping halfway to the top, then hanging for a brief moment before clawing her way down to the floor. After one month, the drapes were a series of tattered streamers, and who knows when that would become a decorating trend, if ever.

Like it or not, Joan Crawford’s indelible signature found its way to our home. We’d given up on ever having a piece of furniture that didn’t look like it’d been hit by a hand grenade, or drapes that didn’t appear like the battle flag of a losing side. We contemplated the life-span of the average cat, fourteen years, maybe twenty. So we unsubscribed to all those decorating magazines and made it a point to drive past the Furniture Corral and the Drapery Depot without even glancing in the direction of the stores. Joan Crawford was our new decorator.

One evening, Joan Crawford failed to return home. The next day, I went out looking for her, ringing doorbells and stapling posters to utility poles. A week went by without the slightest hint of a response. Then, one afternoon, while walking by Marla’s house on the next block, there in the window was Joan Crawford, looking longingly at the outdoors, her Shangri-La. I gave a trepidatious knock on Marla’s door. Marla’s reputation for being a tough-cookie, prompted me to address the escapade with my hazard lights blinking. She works the counter at Greasy Gary’s Auto Parts and is the catcher on their softball team. And as she likes to say, “No one gets by me at home plate, and if they do, they’ll not soon forget it." They call her “The Fireplug,” unmovable in every way. She answered the door, dressed in her faded-red Greasy Gary jersey. Her number is 1.

–Marla: What’s up?
–Me: That cat in the window, I think it’s mine.
–Marla: It’s my cat. I opened the door one night, and it walked right in.
–Me: Her name is Joan Crawford. I had her spayed and everything.
–Marla: That’s no kind of name for a cat. Her name is Gasket, and she’s here to stay.
–Me: She’s my cat.
–Marla: Prove it.
–Me: She’s grey, enjoys spaghetti and watching beetles crawl across the sidewalk.
–Marla: There’s a million grey cats; this one is not yours. Go find another one.
–Me: She’s good at redesigning furniture. Her specialty is draperies.
–Marla: Whatever.
–Me: I’ll be a nuisance.
–Marla: I’m sure you will.

And the door slammed with a whoosh of certainty. Normally, I’d hatch a plan to bust Joan Crawford out of Marla’s house, but when mulling over the entire kettle of fish, the pieces began to unfold into an almost ordained, serendipitous stew-pot. For starters, despite Marla’s surly disposition, she likes animals, and perhaps she and Joan Crawford are suited for one another, two peas in a pod, as they say. The second thing: redecorating our home with furniture that doesn’t look like the aftermath of a Three Stooges’ pillow fight is no longer a distant dream. Surely, the universe cooked-up this outcome on its own, and who am I to mess with the universe’s cooking.

These days, I stroll leisurely past Marla’s house, imagining I’ve been awarded visitation privileges by the Court of the Milky Way. I give a hearty to wave to Joan Crawford and Marla as they take their positions in the picture window. Marla watches. There’s a slow simmer in her stare and she doesn’t return my wave. While I make plans to visit the Drapery Depot.

Reindeer vs Snowman

Christmas passed as usual on Kildare Avenue. Several homes were festooned with holiday lights and figurines, some elegant and some appearing like last-minute shopping sprees at Walmart. Either way, the entire neighborhood basked in a celebratory glow for the month of December. Then along came the dark and blustery month of January. On days when the cold North winds let up, the decorations were gradually taken down and placed in storage for next year’s regalia.  Except for Reindeer and Snowman. Reindeer and Snowman are seven-foot-tall figures, each wrapped in a tangle of lights, facing each other on opposite sides of the street. And neither one is budging, not for wind, rain, snow, or sleet. They are stubborn in their defiance of the forces of nature and neglect. The residents of Kildare Avenue began casting secret ballots as to which of the two holiday decorations will endure the longest. The Reindeer has somewhat of an advantage because it’s supported on four, painted-white, steel legs. However, the Snowman, though possessing a large round bottom, features a metal frame along with four guy wires staked on its sides. Each remains a feat of engineering in the face of abandonment.

In order to determine which figure endures the longest, I’ve been relegated to the position of “Decoration Monitor,” an appointment not to be taken lightly. And, like any good social anthropologist, I do not interrupt the natural order of things. My mission is to observe, take notes, and report the findings. The log of endurance is written mostly at night, when the glimmer of lights reflects the true spectacle of the perpetrator’s intentions. These are, after all, celebrated luminaries.

The Log of Endurance:

January 15th: All decorations and lighted displays have been removed from the homes on Kildare Avenue...except for Reindeer and Snowman. They remain defiant in their stand against convention.

January 25th: A terrible storm dumped twenty-two inches of snow on the neighborhood, covering the extension cords and the bases of Reindeer and Snowman. They stand unfazed by mother nature, and the remaining five feet or so of both figures rise statuesque above the snow.

January 27th: Snowman’s top hat is beginning to tilt with the weight of accumulated snow on the brim. The antlers on Reindeer remain unaffected. Their lights continue to shine against the stark winter landscape, proclaiming their courage and dogged determination against the elements.

February 2nd: A brief warm spell melted most of the snow off Reindeer and Snowman. The bright orange extension cords, like tethers to a space station, continue to offer life-support from the homes of the accidental visionaries.

February 10th: Strong northerly winds pushed hard against both figures all night long, tilting Snowman about ten degrees to the South. He looks worried. Reindeer remains undaunted with a somewhat superior gleam in his piercing red eyes.

February 20th: Hard rain and a power outage render a blackout on both Reindeer and Snowman. For the first time since early December, the lights no longer twinkle on either figure. Both are left to dwell on their predicament in the cold darkness of winter.

February 22nd: Power is restored and the lights once again glimmer on both Reindeer and Snowman. A collective sigh of relief, like a small tremblor, is felt throughout the neighborhood.

March 2nd: Random electrical sparking is seen on the mid-section of Snowman. One half of Snowman’s lights cease to function at 2:00am. Reindeer’s lights twinkle with extra exuberance, mocking Snowman, giving credence to the “used to laugh and call him names” behavior attributed to those who pulled Santa’s sleigh.

March 10th: An unexpected ice storm leaves Reindeer and Snowman coated in a sheet of ice. Reindeer’s antlers are covered with long icicles and are tilting Reindeer to the South about twelve degrees. Snowman doesn’t respond, but we all know what he’s thinking.

March 18th: Near tornadic winds topple both icons onto their respective lawns. Snowman lies on his side, anchored from blowing away by a single guy wire. Reindeer’s antlers gouge a divot in the ground, twisting his head ever so slightly. Snowman’s top hat and scarf and Reindeer’s red bow are nowhere to be found.

March 20th: Reindeer and Snowman, like dying soldiers, lay motionless on the ground. An occasional light flickers from each statue, a reminder that, in war, no one wins, no matter how valiant the players.

March 23rd: Spring has arrived, and near dawn, the first robins of the season perch on the fallen skeletons of Reindeer and Snowman. They are like buzzards on picked-over carcasses and use the vantage points as lookouts for hapless insects and worms.

March 27th: A brief ceremony is held on the street separating the two fallen icons. I hold a book of poems written by the bleary-eyed poet, Side-Street Mary, and read “Aw, Quit Your Blubbering,” a moving piece about a somewhat likeable dead guy. Though I’m alone, I sense the neighbors are watching from their windows, too overcome with grief to emerge and share their feelings. I close the book, walk home, and begin the wait for next season’s resurrection of Reindeer and Snowman.

The Folk Music Lynch Mob

There’s this folk music club, they call themselves “The Serious Folk,” and they meet every other Sunday afternoon in the conference room at Murray’s A-1 Driving School. Membership is by invitation only, followed by an audition. My invitation was proffered by the chairperson, after a chance meeting at Wang’s Health Food Emporium. Apparently, lingering in the exotic mustard aisle qualified me as a potential candidate for the club. 

Sharon Smoot is the chairperson’s name, though she prefers to be called “Joni” with an “i,” after the celebrated folksinger, Joni Mitchell. In fact, every member of "The Serious Folk" refers to themselves by the name of a famous singer of folk songs. The introductions took place with the members sitting on metal folding chairs arranged in a circle. One by one, the entire quixotic personas revealed themselves: Judy Collins, Arlo Guthrie, Donovan, Joan Baez, Shawn Colvin, all three members of The Kingston Trio (one of whom reminded me he knows his way around the banjo), James Taylor, Woody Guthrie, and Gordon Lightfoot (who said to call him “Gord” for short).

Joni (Sharon) called the meeting to order by tapping her hand on her acoustic guitar in the manner of a judge’s gavel. Then, taking turns, each member played a song attributed to their imagined persona.  Prior to Joni’s performance, she gave a long-winded spiel about how she’s worked in the folk music business for many years, and had a front-row seat at one of Joni’s shows, where, she’s certain, Joni sang three songs especially to her. So she sent a macrame plant-holder to Joni herself with a note signed, “The woman in the knitted vest in the front row at the Chicago show.”

As the performances commenced, it was clear everyone knew the chords to their chosen songs. But the vocals...oh boy. If voices were cars on a blacktop, they hastily veered onto the shoulder, and at times, left the road altogether, never quite finding their way back to the highway. During Joni’s rendition of “Woodstock,” I found myself wishing those “bomber jet planes riding shotgun in the sky” would zero in on Murray’s A-1 Driving School and put us all out of our misery. A group of hobbyhorsical impersonators if there ever was one.

When it came to my audition, I removed my accordion from its case, plugged in the special effects machine and stood in the middle of the chair circle. Years of childhood lessons from the bow-tied Mr. Totten prepared me for this moment. Joni asked which folk singer I was representing, and I assured her he’s very recognizable and well-liked. I switched the bubble machine on max and began a lively rendition of “Getting to Know You.” Iridescent bubbles filled the room, some landing gracefully on members of "The Serious Folk" who began restrained efforts at swatting them like flies at a picnic. Towards the middle of the song, Joni began yelling and flailing her arms at the bubbles, whooshing them ever higher into the room.

–Joni:  Outside accoutrements  are not allowed! Turn off that bubble-thing, and who are you supposed to be, anyway?”
–Me:  Lawrence Welk. Call me Larry for short. (I winked at Gord).
–Joni:  Lawrence Welk is not a folksinger! (Surely, the real Joni’s eyes didn’t bug out when irked) You’re not the same as us!
–Me:  Is there a separate drinking fountain for accordionists?
–Joni:  We have parameters. And I’ve sold T-shirts at the Newport Folk Festival!
–Me:  How about another selection, perhaps the catchy “Lady of Spain?”
–Joni:  We’ve heard enough! (A shriek that put neighborhood squirrels on high alert).
–Me: There’s a little dance number at the end.
–Joni:  This is a club for serious folk music. Play by the rules or you’re out.
–Me:  Love it or leave it. Where have I heard that before. (The Kingston Trio appeared agitated).

Finding courage in numbers, “The Serious Folk” began rising from their chairs, chanting, “No Lawrence Welk! No Lawrence Welk!” With their wrath piercing through the ever-growing cloud of bubbles, it had the makings of an old fashioned lynch mob. Quick as a flash, I placed the accordion in the case and made a bee-line for the door, dodging venomous threats like, “Get a banjo,” and the one that really hurt, “Keep away from the snacks.”  Just before finding my way outside, Donovan threw an Earth Shoe at me. It grazed the accordion case, and I turned to see the entire group in a bubble-filled frenzy, wind-milling the air. Joan Baez hollered, “Turn off that goddamn bubble machine. It’s going to poison the herbal tea.”

The door slammed behind me, a welcomed bulkhead from the firestorm. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s never confront the fury of a feverish mob, especially a serious one made jittery by an accordion and a swarm of bubbles. I chalked up the bubble machine to collateral damage and made a vow to, never again, linger in Wang’s exotic mustard aisle.
     

The Plum Burglar

There were seventy-three plums missing from my plum tree. It’s a dignified tree with purple leaves that casually stakes its claim to the far corner of my backyard. I’ve pruned, fertilized, and watered this tree for over fifteen years and, for at least twelve of those years, the tree has been named Mrs. Spiegel. The lovely, grey-haired Mrs. Spiegel admired the tree from its inception and requests a small bag of plums every season, “Just enough to make a nice pie.”  I’m no plum hoarder and willingly give Mrs. Spiegel a generous share at harvest time. And when people come to my door asking for donations for various causes, they always leave with a handful of fresh plums. Nope, you couldn’t call me an uncharitable plum miser.

But when someone (Sandra Prickett) sneaks into my yard and picks a couple bucketfuls of plums....that’s overstepping the plum-hospitality boundary. So, I began leaving notes on a clipboard attached to the tree. Included was a pen affixed to the tree with a small string...like they do in banks.
The notes commenced on a daily basis:

–Me: Dear Sandra Prickett, There are 73 plums missing from my tree.
–Sandra: Are you accusing me?
–Me: Your cigarette butts, lipstick-covered Camel Menthols, litter the crime scene. There’s now an ashtray next to the tree for your convenience.
–Sandra:  Who counts their plums, anyway?
–Me: Me.
–Sandra: I just needed some plums to make a pie.
–Me: 73 is enough to make ten pies.
–Sandra: Do you want them back? I’m not especially fond of  purple plums anyway. I prefer the red ones.
–Me: No, your cooties are all over them.
–Sandra: Are the plums organic?
–Me: They are radioactive.
–Sandra: Not funny, and what's with the mousetraps hanging from the branches?
–Me: They’re merely decorative reminders to the occasional kleptomaniac.
–Sandra: Pretty goddamn stingy, aren’t you! Some things are meant to be shared!
–Me: Good Point. My porch light burned out so I walked over to your house and took your bulb. I’m not especially fond of those swirly CFLs. I prefer the warm glow of tungsten.
–Sandra: Your nuts!
–Me: Now you’re getting it. But they’re plums, not nuts.   

The notes have ceased, but the ashtray in the plummery is bent over, cattywampus-like. Two additional plums have gone missing, but I’m giving Sandra the benefit of the doubt and chalking it up to a larcenous squirrel. Just the same, her continual lurking around Mrs. Spiegel gives me the heebie-jeebies.

A Bird in the Van

It’s nesting season and Lem Skibbler can’t drive his van, a rusted-out 1992 Ford Aerostar, formally blue, now faded to the color of an overcast sky, and spiced up with a bumper sticker proclaiming “Free Mustache Rides, See Driver for Details.” Every spring, and into the summer, a bird or two makes a nest in one of the sizeable rust holes on the side of the van. Among members of the Kildare Bird Club, the van has been dubbed “The Roost.” The Roost rests in Lem’s driveway, and once a bird has established a home, the van doesn’t get moved. This occurs from May through July. The members of the bird club are grateful for Lem’s charitable consideration of our feathered friends. There is, however, one hitch. As they say, everything has a price, and the price of this good deed is Lem must be driven around town to a variety of destinations during the three months while an assortment of birds have moved into his van.

This year, a family of robins has already taken up residence in a melon-sized rust-hole located just under the passenger side window. Lem didn’t notice the nest until he took a short drive to the Jiffy-Stop. The mother bird followed him, squawking and throwing a general bird-fit throughout the entire trip. So now, the van sits parked, the mother robin has settled down, and Lem needs a ride to....everywhere.

In an effort to support anything bird related, the Kildare Bird Club has undertaken the burden of offering Lem a ride to a hodgepodge of destinations during nesting season. Lem is assigned a different driver every week. A colorful chart, titled “Thank Goodness for Us,” divides the task among all five club members.

Though we appreciate Lem’s bird-loving spirit, it’s been necessary to limit the amount of rides to the strictly necessary. No more going back to the store because of a not-completely-thought-out comb purchase or the wrong kind of beer-nuts. And no more exchanging shampoos just because of a disappointing scent. The lemon-scented shampoo works just the same as the agave, and that’s science, and if anything, the Kildare Bird Club is all about science. Also, no more driving over to Chad’s Taco Shack to see if the beguiling Lalou is working the drive-up window. Just the necessary, like food and medical appointments. And dropping in at the medical center to browse their selection of magazines does not count as an appointment.

I was the first driver on the Thank Goodness chart this year, and with the guidelines in place, the task appeared less tedious than the whimsical journeys of years gone by. A once-a-week trip to the store and maybe a small errand was all I expected. Until Lem called one night at about ten o’clock.

–Lem: Yeah, I’m going to need a ride to Club Olé.
–Me: It’s kind of late, isn’t it?
–Lem: I meet my girlfriend every Wednesday at eleven o’clock.
–Me: Can’t she come to your house?
–Lem: No, she’s working. At the club.
–Me: Can’t she drop by after work?
–Lem: Well, no. She doesn’t know where I live.
–Me: She’s your girlfriend, and she doesn’t know where you live?
–Lem: Our relationship is kind of a secret. They’re very strict at Club Olé. They don’t allow their employees to date the customers.
–Me: That sounds like a violation of something.
–Lem: She’s a performer, and you know how show biz works.
–Me: Oh.
–Lem: She depends on me to be there every Wednesday. So how ‘bout it?
–Me: What’s your girlfriend’s name?
–Lem: Sin.
–Me: Cindy’s a nice name, down-to-earth.
–Lem: No, Sinful, as in forbidden stuff.
–Me: What’s her full name?
–Lem: Miss Sinful, but I call her by her nickname, Sin.
–Me: Miss Sinful, that’s what it says on her driver’s license?
–Lem: That’s her stage name. You’ve got a lot to learn about show biz.
–Me: What’s her real name?
–Lem: She can’t tell that to anyone. It’s show biz rules, man.
–Me: So, she’s your girlfriend and you don’t know her name.
–Lem: Let me clue you in on a secret: no one in show biz uses their real name.
–Me: Do you give her money?
–Lem: Of course I do. I support the arts, like those PBS dudes, The John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation.
–Me: Do you write her a check?
–Lem: No man, dollar bills...a whole bunch of ‘em.
–Me: So she’s a dancer.
–Lem: She prefers to be called a visual artist. She uses the human form as a canvas.
–Me: Perhaps she’s using your wallet as a canvas.
–Lem: Look, bird boy, if you don’t want to go, I might have to take The Roost.
–Me: OK, but I’m just dropping you off. No more waiting in the parking lot like last year when you spent three hours dancing the hokey pokey at Susan Gup's wedding.
–Lem: Maybe you and that bird posse should think about getting hip to the arts...you know, become an enthusiast like me.

Patience is often the hallmark of a successful birder.