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.

                                    

Find the Black Guy

Allan Blick has some great ideas, and this time I think he's knocked it out of the park. Allan has been a film maker for most of his adult life. Some people call him a hopeless amateur, but there's plenty of hidden meanings in Allan's films. Sure, his last one, the highly-charged political sci-fi, "The Cabbage that Threatened to March in Skokie" didn't fare well at the box office (the box office being Allan's den). But that was apparently due to the ill-advised usage of the phrase "Threatened to March" in the title. He said he learned his lesson and will re-release it during the summer blockbuster season with a new title, "The Cabbage that made Skokie Uncomfortable."

This time, though, he's onto something. His latest project, "Find the Black Guy," is a contemporary offering along the lines of the ever-popular children's book, "Where's Waldo." Allan's inspiration is driven by the lack of nominations for Black actors in several Oscar award categories. In sympathy with the plight of actors of color, Allan has already hired a Black guy for the key role. Granted, it's a non-speaking part, and he only appears on screen for three seconds, but it's the focus of the film. Allan has his fingers crossed that an award lingers in the young actor's future.

The rest of the cast is a bunch of White people, and as Allan likes to say, he keeps his already-strained-budget in the thrifty arena by not hiring the likes of Meryl Streep and the rest of her over-priced ilk. A whole host of regular, unemployed, White people have already signed on for the project. And, as usual, Allan pays his cast in gift cards that cannot be redeemed for alcohol. He prefers a sober cast and makes a definitive proclamation at the beginning of every project not to call him "Al."

The story is more like a puzzle-quest for the viewer. The object is to find the Black Guy in the movie. I don't want to spoil it for anyone, but I will say, having read the script, he appears somewhere towards the end and, be forewarned, it's a fleeting glimpse. Some film buffs will find it necessary to see it twice to verify the sighting. Sort of like when Alfred Hitchcock used to appear for a passing moment in his films.

The setting is Highland Park, Illinois, an insular and leafy White suburb of Chicago where people claim to reside in order to send their children to the best schools. Allan says this is a self-entitled code for "no Black folks allowed." But he says it makes it easy to shoot street scenes without Black people accidentally creeping into the shot and ruining the premise of the movie.

Even as the shooting is set to begin, Allan is working on a follow-up script, a low-budget western, tentatively titled, "Find the Indian." This one proves to be even more puzzling for the audience. It is up to them to determine what kind of Indian they are looking for: an Indian from the continent of India or a Native American Indian. Allan believes this will be an action-filled nail-biter, and, frankly, challenging, depending on the perspective of the audience.

I've already invested in "Find the Black Guy" by purchasing six family-sized bags of chips and a case of beverages for the cast; soft drinks, as per Allan's request. This assures me of a highly sought-after prize, a front row seat in the over-stuffed cushy chair in Allan's screening den. Allan says there's still room for more investors, but keep in mind, the cushy chair has been reserved.

Fjord the Witness

Wade Thorton ambushed me in the salsa section of Ernies Fine Liquors. You know the type, the spokesperson for All Things Wade. We hadn't seen each other since the time his trophy-wife referred to me as "an off-balanced misfit, lacking any kind of entrepreneurial focus," an intended insult which, really, was kind of accurate, but it was a line in the sand that allowed me to tip-toe away from our relationship. He greeted me with a handshake reminiscent of a political candidate and held onto my hand for a little bit too long, physically pulling me alongside his fervid soapbox. What follows are the highlights without the dramatic undertones, colorful details, and feigned confidence-taking. One thing about potentates: while they're pontificating, there's plenty of time to spend alone with one's thoughts, especially if the listener, like me, has the attention span of a distracted field mouse.

--Wade: I'm the CEO of a company that does 700 million dollars a year in business. My expertise is consulting with financial issues. The shareholders have indicated their confidence in me is unwavering, and...
--My wandering mind: ((I wonder if you could help me sort out last month's cable bill.))

--Wade: I have my own private plane, a Beechcraft Bonanza, the finest single-prop airplane money can buy, the Cadillac of the sky. I fly it all over the Midwest to business meetings. Just yesterday I was at 7,000 feet and....
--My wandering mind: ((The thing is, they say I'm getting the premium package, but for the life of me, I can't find the Beverly Hillbillies channel.))

--Wade: I climbed K2 last year. You can have Everest. For my money, K2 is the better climb. I go glacier-hopping and have sampled the ice chips of every major glacier in the world. What's next you're wondering, well...
--My wandering mind: ((I'm beginning to think unicyclists are the show-offs of the bicycle world. I mean, you never see them carrying a sack of groceries...or carrying anything, for that matter.))

--Wade: The wife and I have been to all seven continents. I've discovered that vacations are the true measure of a person. The vacation makes the man. Nothing, and I mean nothing, stands in the way of my vacation. I've got pictures...
--My wandering mind: ((I'm making a list of real snappy handles....in case CB radios make a comeback.))

--Wade: Not since her shoe-modeling days at L.L Bean, has my wife had to work. She's ranked eleventh in polo, her beloved pastime. She travels with at least seven pieces of luggage.
--My wandering mind: ((The shoe size of Cinderella with the carbon footprint of Sasquatch.))

--Wade: The wife's hobby is looking at Castles, so we go to Scotland, England, and France every year in search of a new castle experience. Our favorites are in Scotland, though the cuisine can't compare to...
--My wandering mind: ((Oh Auntie Em, I'm here at Ernies! I'm trapped in Wade's virtual castle, and I can't get away, Auntie Em!))

There was lots more, and with each accomplishment I ooh’d and ahh’d as if watching a trapeze act. When Wade's blustering subsided, he obligingly asked what I'd been up to. I stammered for a moment, partly because I'd been imagining Wade being carried off by flying monkeys, and partly because I doubted he'd be interested in my casual, but year-long quest to find a copy of Connie Stevens' 1960 hit, "Sixteen Reasons."

There was nothing I could say that measured up to Wade's narrative, but as the Wicked Witch of the West once said while wringing her boney hands together, "Why, my little party's just beginning." I got real close to him and kind of whispered, "Don't let this go any further. I'm in the Witness Protection Program." He looked genuinely stunned. "Wife, son, the whole family. Changed our names and everything. We are now the Sweedlers. I'm Fjord, like the inlet. The 'J' is silent. Fjord Sweedler is my new name. Do me a big favor and forget you even saw me."
Wade leaned into to me and lowered his voice,  "What was it, some sort of mob thing?"
"Can't talk about it Wade. It's big....big as K2, maybe bigger. Lives are at risk. I gotta go."
"Sure, nice seeing you, Da.."
I discreetly reminded him, "Fjord...with a silent 'J'."

Cracker Jack

We didn't know his real name, so Mahmood and I referred to him as Cracker Jack. A box of Cracker Jack and an Orange Crush: that’s what he got every day for lunch at Jiffy Nifty. Between noon and 1:00 pm, Cracker Jack sauntered into Jiffy Nifty and, with barely a word, put his money on the counter (exact change) and headed off on foot. I spoke to him several times and, once, offered some culinary advice regarding the mixing of Cracker Jack and Hot Nuts, a celebrated recipe popular with Spanish merchant seamen. But, as he did to Mahmood, the clerk and proprietor of Jiffy Nifty, he merely nodded a polite recognition and walked out the door, never speaking a word.

Mahmood and I discussed Cracker Jack in great length and were vexed as to the mystery surrounding his presence. He wore the same outfit every day: a white sailors cap and a dark blue P-coat buttoned up to the top, a timeless wrap that spoke to the under-appreciated sailors who've kept ships traversing the seas for hundreds of years. And given his advanced years and scraggly greyish beard, he could have been an aged-advanced image of the young sailor on the box of Cracker Jack.

While sharing some of Jiffy Nifty's best turkey-jerky, Mahmood and I mulled over the possibility that Cracker Jack might not be a real sailor, seeing as how the nearest naval base was 30 miles from the gas station.  Among the things we considered: he never used the word "ahoy" or any other nautical terms as in, "Ahoy, mates, I'll be droppin' anchor at Jiffy Nifty."

It was a mystery, and though some might say it was none of our business, Mahmood and I consider ourselves to be curious types, inquisitive minds who seek answers, not only to the authenticity of Cracker Jack, the person, but to other cultural mysteries, like, for instance, why aren't nut-flavored drinks more popular with the risk-taking, pierced and tattooed crowd. So we hatched a plan to engage Cracker Jack in an extended conversation, and like most plans fueled by gas station snack food, it had all the moxie of Lewis and Clark prior to embarking on their quest for the Northwest Passage.

The setup unfolded with the precision of a Swiss watch as Cracker Jack was paying for his signature lunch. Mahmood told him it was taken care of by me, the guy standing to his starboard, a concept that caused a considerable amount of discussion and practice and, honestly, confused the both of us, especially when stage-starboard and stage-port were thrown into the mix. When Cracker Jack began speaking, phase two of the plan, which involved a complimentary giant pretzel, fumbled its way towards implementation. "Thanks for the lunch. I suppose that makes us even."
"Even?" I replied, hoping to steer the nautical junket away from a sandbar.
"Yes, even. In the third grade, I was the new kid and the first day, you sat with me at lunch and I gave you my box of Cracker Jack." As he reached for the door, he said matter-of-factually, "Now we're square," and the door closed behind him.

I reflected on his lunchtime manifesto while watching him depart across the parking lot, not looking back, a ship embarking on schedule with a curious wake. Mahmood shrugged his shoulders, "What was that about? Could it be, my friend, that once upon a time the two of you crossed paths?"

Like a long dormant volcano with decades full of lava rising to the surface, the third grade connection nudged my otherwise peeve-laden memory and in a flash, flew out in an uncontrolled screech, "It's Futterman!" In my ebullience, I turned to Mahmood, "It's Dukie Futterman from the third grade. We were in Mrs. Stansfield's class together. He used to eat Cracker Jack every day for lunch. His collection of Cracker Jack prizes was the talk of the school; they were lined up on shelves in his parent's rumpus room!" I paused to catch my breath, "Mahmood, this case is closed. He's not Cracker Jack, not a landlocked sailor lost among landlubbers; he's the grownup Dukie." 

Mahmood, always the one to see the larger picture, pondered the air above his cash register, "Imagine, after all these years, the size of his Cracker Jack prize collection. One prize per day for so many years." He closed his eyes for a moment while conjuring up an image. "Think of it, if displayed properly, with tastefully placed accent lighting, the collection could eclipse the grandeur of the PEZ museum. It might be a modern-day marvel, the likes of which we have never seen." Mahmood waved his hands back and forth, punctuating his proclamation. "No, my friend, this case is not closed, not by any means." And he offered some courtesy turkey-jerky while we began hashing through a concoction of schemes to somehow gather a peek at Dukie Futterman's rumpus room.

Garbanzo's Misfortune

As crashes go, it wasn’t all that big, not like on one of those TV interviews where they say it sounded like a freight train. This was more like being hit from behind by an out-of-balance washing machine. The driver was, as I was to quickly discover, my new best friend, Humberto, from El Salvador.  When he piled into the back of my car, he confessed to having too much cerveza and was distracted with worry for Garbanzo, the pet goat he reluctantly left back home in Central America. In the late night darkness of Chicago's Clark Street, Humberto made a promise to pay for any damage: “I give you my word, señor, and a word is all a poor El Salvadorian has to give. On my honor, this misfortune will be set straight, and I apologize for the trouble my Garbanzo has caused this evening.”                               
At the shake of a hand, a deal was made. Humberto was to drop off a payment every Sunday afternoon at my house. The total amount of the damage was a little over a thousand dollars, to which Humberto, on his first visit, exclaimed, while handing me a ten dollar bill, “It will take some time, my friend, but we will travel this road together, and we will have a drink about it at the end.”  He liked to remind me that he, as owner of Garbanzo, is responsible for any damage caused by the troublesome goat (even if the goat resides two thousand miles away in a place cloaked by a blanket of humidity). Humberto always looked to the horizon while saying these things. He had an earnest practicality along with a vision of the future.

During each of Humberto’s visits, he gladly accepted an offer of an ice cold cerveza. “Three’s my limit,” he cautiously reminded himself after downing the third one. Every payment was placed in a cigar box, labeled, “Garbanzo’s Misfortune,” and after three months of Sundays, the total cash payments amounted to $97.87. But that was not all. In addition to the money, Humberto unloaded what he called “valuable mementos to help us reach our destination.” He began by stacking the items in a pile that started in a corner of my garage and gradually spread toward the center, much like an ominous town-eating lava flow. He said it is his dream that one day we will have the king of all garage sales; people will come from miles around, and once they realize the value of the collection, money will flow from their wallets, and Garbanzo’s debt will be paid.

Some highlights of  Humberto’s mementos:
--Tony Orlando and Dawn’s greatest hits album.
--Electric rooster clock.
--Game of Twister
--Three buckets of plastic geraniums.
--Swizzle sticks from El Toro Tap.
--Four red vinyl chairs.
--One stuffed armadillo.
--Eric Estrada poster.
--Toreador lamp.
--Spice Girls candelabra.
--Banana-shaped comb.
--Antless ant farm.

As if fueled by movements of unstoppable, underground tectonic plates, the pile burgeons and includes many yard ornaments: the ample-bottomed wooden lady bending over, two small windmills, and numerous yard signs, one of which says, "Shit's Creek Survivor." Once, I questioned Humberto as to the origin of the items, as some seemed very well-used. Again, he looked toward the horizon while replying, “They come to me while I’m driving, praying to the Virgin Guadalupe and hoping for an end to my hardship. Wait and see, my friend. Destiny has brought us together on this journey, and every day I dream of the time when my collection of mementos brings an end to this burden, the burden brought upon me by the curse of the reckless Garbanzo.”

As the lava pile expands, threatening my prized collection of North American pine cones, Humberto and I share the same dream.

Hawaiian Time

In the 1960's, Paulene Helsper lived in Hawaii for three years. She camped on the beach with her boyfriend, Lyndle, and only returned to the Midwest because they thought he developed a severe coconut allergy. As it turned out, Lyndle was allergic to the straw in the Panama hat he sported, but it wasn't discovered until they migrated back to Chicago and established new lives. As Paulene tells it, "That  goddamned hat ruined my life."

Stranded in the Midwest, Paulene began converting her attached garage into her "Hawaiian room," complete with tiki lights (electric, since the tiki-fire incident), a six-inch-deep layer of sand on the floor, and a wicker lazy boy where she sits most days, sipping a piña colada while imagining Hawaii. There's a mural of Mt. Kilauea on one wall and the surf crashing on a Maui beach on another, along with two large kentia palms that require a daily spritzing. She keeps an apparel trunk full of Hawaiian shirts and island attire for visitors; no one is allowed in the Hawaiian room without a dose of island garb. Even the meter-reader dons one of her emergency leis while reading her gas meter.

Paulene gives ukelele lessons and lives on Hawaiian time. Every one of her clocks are set to Hawaii-Aleutian Standard Time. If it's midnight in Chicago, it's usually seven o'clock in the evening in Paulene's world. I say "usually" because Hawaii doesn't bother with daylight savings time, so sometimes Paulene is only four hours behind. She's late to everything; she celebrates New Years Eve at 4am Chicago time. And if you make a date with her, it gets all jumbly due to the time zone calculations.

Paulene greets everyone with "aloha." She knows lots of Hawaiian phrases and rarely misses an opportunity to slip one into a conversation. It's nearly impossible to get her to leave the Hawaiian room unless it's to attend the Tradewind Buffet at Club Waikiki. When I asked her to accompany me to the Bowl 'n Roll for a sandwich, her reply was, "Is it Hawaii outside?"
"No," I said, "It's Chicago outside."
"Well then, forget it."

I've been taking ukelele lessons from Paulene. She’s a ukelele virtuoso and gets steamed when the instrument is pronounced incorrectly. As she's reminded me a thousand times in her raspy voice, “It's 'OOK-a-lay-lee,' not 'YOUKE-a-lay-lee.'" She can play any Beatle song on the uke, and her rendition of The McCoys' "Hang on Sloopy" is as enchanting as an ocean breeze.

Sometimes the piña coladas reveal Paulene's indelicate undercurrent. During my last lesson, she stopped in the middle of our duet, a spirited version of Sonny and Cher’s "I Got You, Babe."

–Paulene:  Hold it one minute.
–Me:  What's wrong?
–Paulene:  You play like a goddamn freight train. Wikiwiki..... too fast.
–Me:  I was imagining I was Sonny.
–Paulene:  Find a gentle rhythm, like the waves lapping up on Waimea beach.
–Me:  I was wondering, did Cher break up with Sonny or was it the other way round.
–Paulene:  Grab yourself one of those grass skirts from the apparel trunk.
–Me: Keep in mind, I’m Sonny, not Cher.
–Paulene:  Strip down, put on the skirt, and sway your hips. The motion of the grass against your skin’ll dictate the rhythm.
–Me:  But what if Mr. Happy peeks out from the grass.
–Paulene:  Me and Lyndle used to spend every day, naked on the beach.
–Me:  Instead, how about I play air uke and sort of follow you.
–Paulene: Nobody plays air uke.
–Me: I’ve been practicing to a Yanni video.
–Paulene: Are you going to slip into the skirt?
–Me: Not without a matching coconut bra.
–Paulene: Lots of men wear grass skirts.
–Me: Not around here.
–Paulene: We’re not around here; we’re in Hawaii.
–Me: What if there’s a fire and I have to dash out in the street.
–Paulene: Suit up, buster, and follow the flow of the grass.
–Me: When did I become your Ken Doll?
–Paulene:  If Sonny was as much trouble as you, Cher made the break.
–Me: Thought so.
–Paulene: Oh hell, put on the goddamn skirt.
–Me: Oh...look at the time. It’s past 4am; I have to run.
–Paulene: Okole.
–Me: I’m going to look that up.
–Paulene: When you do, put a “big” in front of it.

It’s a time-worn trick, but sometimes a quick glance at a clock can turn a thing around and, despite some offshore name-calling, offer a graceful exit, especially when the clock is set to Hawaiian Standard Time.

The Summer of Laskie

The summer of Laskie was a season unlike all those that came before and after it. Laskie was a collie, a dead ringer for Lassie, the star of the much beloved TV series. There was a time when Lassie was perhaps the most recognizable character on television. She was courageous, encouraging, loyal, could warn a person if gramps fell down the well, and knew a hundred tricks. Lassie maintained all the characteristics of what a person hoped their best friend possessed. Of course, we were always let down by our friends in one way or another, but not by Lassie; she would always be there, barking her encouragement.

Laskie was Duane Noddin's dog. Duane worked with Laskie til she knew a hundred and one tricks, one more, he claimed, than Lassie. He liked to tell people that Laskie was the dog who showed Lassie everything. After making a few successful appearances with Laskie at local Chicago schools and shopping centers, Duane decided to capitalize on the heels of the Lassie craze and take Laskie on the road. I, of course, the owner of a faded-red Dodge van nicknamed "The Eraser," was chosen as driver, assistant, and general dog walker. The profits from the venture were to be split fifty-fifty; he had the dog, I had the van, an unmitigated, symbiotic relationship if there ever was one.

Laskie loved to travel. Her favorite spot was the passenger seat where she could stick her head out the window and sniff the subtleties of the road. Whenever we started the van, she'd bark as if calling "shotgun!" and hop into her seat. We drove back and forth across America, stopping in cities and small towns everywhere. Laskie performed her many tricks for gatherings of appreciative crowds at store openings, car dealerships, roadside diners; anywhere that would have us. Sometimes the establishment paid us to attract business and other times we passed the hat. We sold eight-by-ten glossy photos of Laskie with a stamped, paw-print autograph. It quickly became apparent that people heard and saw what they wanted; most people ignored the "k" in Laskie's name and walked away thinking they actually witnessed the TV Lassie. Invariably, upon leaving, children and adults alike would wave goodbye while shouting, "Goodbye Lassie!"

During Laskie's performance, it was my job to work the crowd, telling people all sorts of fantastic stories of Laskie's exploits and rescues. And the more outlandish the story, the more entranced the crowd became. Throughout the summer, Laskie chalked up a remarkable resume: rescuing people from burning barns, wrecked cars, swimming out to stranded boaters, and pushing teenagers out of the way of oncoming trains.

They say that behind every great celebrity, there's a prevaricator of humongous proportions. And that was me, the Titanic of liars. It seemed my duty to make up more and more stuff heralding our sweet wonder dog. While driving between towns I spent most of my time thinking of different scenarios that would further Laskie's status as the heroine she'd become. It was an adventure not to be forgotten.

The other night I was at a dinner party where all twelve guests were discussing their travels to Venice. They conversed in a restrained, but emphatic, manner about the Venetian experience. Apparently, Venice brings out the transcendental National Geographic in people. A few even presented pictures of their trips, and one couple had a photo book made of themselves posing in front of every significant landmark in Venice. The one-upping of Venice was a never-ending crescendo of expository fawning. I sat silent for an hour or more, listening patiently to the testimonials. I'd never been to Venice as its never been ballyhooed as a van-friendly city.

Towards the end of the evening, after running out of saucy gondolier anecdotes, someone asked if I'd ever been to Venice. "No," I said, "But long ago I spent a summer with a certain celebrity collie, Laskie, traveling the country as her handler."
A rare silence bloomed over the Venetians. "Oh, I loved that show as a child," agreed a few. Clearly, they heard "Lassie," as had those who'd gone before them.
"Yes," I went on, the lies pouring out of me as they had so many years ago, "I saw that remarkable dog pull someone out of the water in the rapids above Niagara Falls, and once, on the Golden Gate bridge, she stopped a woman from jumping to her death. She understood five hundred words of English and could place an order at any Mexican restaurant by planting her paw on the menu near the word "burrito." And she had her own barking language that only a few people knew about. There was no dog like her."

"And," I added, "I asked her once if she wanted to see Venice, and she barked twice, very loudly, which meant a definite 'no!' So that was that and the subject was never brought up again, unless you count the time she chewed up the venetian blinds in a motel room in Biloxi, adding a distinct punctuation to the question."

Switching gears during the puzzled silence, I complimented the hostess, "The custard pie is terrific. If you don't mind, I think I'll have another piece in honor of Laskie. She couldn't make pies, of course, but custard was her favorite." It's difficult to put on the brakes when the room is finally yours, even if only for a moment. Laskie knew all too well about the ephemeral spotlight, her season of notoriety, or as I like to call it, "The Summer of Laskie."

The Elm Street Busybody

I ride a bicycle everywhere, from Happy Foods to The Nut Barn and, occasionally, for that special gift, to Kitty's Kandle Nook. Almost all my errands are done by bike, inching my carbon footprint into the tiptoe territory. Should the need arise to appear as an extra in a remake of "Bonnie and Clyde, the Overlooked Bicycle Years,” I could be there, in costume, in minutes.

My daytime bicycle trips to the store are met with smiles and polite "hellos" from everyone, including Ted Wang of Wang's Health Foods, who always calls out, "Ten percent discount for bike rider!"  It's all very lighthearted and uplifting except for the Elm Street Busybody. Blessed with scowl marks, etched in her face from a lifetime of self-righteous indignation, she appears out of nowhere. Every time our paths cross, she screams the same thing, "Helmet!" It doesn't matter where she is, from her car window or standing on her front lawn, it's always, "Helmet!" shouted like a drill sergeant at a bunch of new recruits.

I'll admit, I'm the kind of bad seed that mothers warn their children not to emulate; an outlaw living on the fringe who once toted eleven items into the ten-items-or-less checkout lane at the grocery store, a crime that's had me looking over my shoulder for twenty years. When it comes to the helmet issue, I'm pro-choice, and, as I've said at many a Thanksgiving toast, "That turkey looks delicious. I'll darned well do with my head what I want."  I'm pretty sure Davy Crockett, if he were alive today, would scoff at the helmet, despite the fact that he fancied the furry head-gear. I suppose I live by the Katherine Hepburn quote, "If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun."

When I see a guy with a helmet, I think the poor bastard must've been the guy who actually wore those rubber boots his mother sent him to school with instead of tossing them in the weeds like any other self-respecting kid. But I would never dream of yelling, "Hey pal, ditch the helmet, your mom will never know!" It's his choice and not mine in which to meddle.

If this was two hundred years ago, I'm almost certain the Elm Street Busybody and her brethren would be leading a potpourri of lynch mobs, burning witches and ridding society of the colorful miscreants who challenge their moral superiority. If the Elm Street Busybody had her way, incorrigible renegades like me would do serious jail time for not wearing a helmet. I can imagine the conversation between my cellmate and me:

--Me:  What are you in for?
--Cellmate:  Killed two cops in a bank holdup; left two more wounded and trashed three squad cars in a high-speed chase. How 'bout you, what'd they get you for?
--Me:  No helmet while riding my bicycle.
--Cellmate: You're one of those, huh. Well, back off, man; I don't want no trouble.

As fate would have it, the other day, my doorbell rang, and who was standing on my porch, none other than the Elm Street Busybody with an armful of envelopes, pamphlets, and a clipboard. "Hello," she said, "I'm collecting for the American Heart Association. Heart disease is the nation's number one killer."
I interrupted her,"You live on Elm Street and carp at me like a banshee when I'm on my bicycle."
"Well," she said, "You should wear a helmet. It's for your own good."
"If you feel it necessary to be so sanctimonious, why don't you hike over to Carl's Fireside Fondue and holler "cheese!" at all the cheese-eaters? You just told me heart disease is the nation's number one killer."

Then I fetched my checkbook and wrote a check for one hundred dollars to the American Heart Association. I showed it to her and said I would deliver it to her personally if, for the next three times I pass her on my bike, she politely waves and doesn't scream anything about a helmet. I waved the check in the air. "Three times," I said, "That's all I ask. Three times."
She continued from her imaginary soapbox, "Don't think you're so god-damned special. I yell at bigger people than you. Big-shots, I give 'em the full whammy."
As she began her descent down the middle of my front porch stairs, I mustered up my inner Stanley Kowalski and bellowed, as he would've at Stella, the one word to punctuate our feud, "Railing!"
I'm guessing this is not over.....not by a long-shot.
A reservation has been made in my future for the full whammy.       

Making Life a Breeze

"What the hell is this crap," is not the way most book reviews begin. But it's the response doled out in no uncertain terms by the person for whom my latest book was written. It's really more of a booklet, an easy read, inspired by those helpful household handbooks with their wellspring of tips, shortcuts, and prudent advice. Aside from the occasional resourceful Aborigine, it’s a rare person who manages to get along without them. The most frequently used books on my bookshelf are helpful manuals, authored with the intent to make life easy as pie. There’s even my old "Boy Scout Handbook," with its Morse code, smoke signals, fire starting, and snake bite treatments, standing by, ready to be mobilized in case of an emergency. Should society suffer a breakdown in electronic communications, I'll be ready, johnny-on-the-spot, handbook in hand, on call, as director of smoke signals, deciphering and dispatching important messages for the betterment of mankind.

In the spirit of those authors of handbooks who have gone before me, I embarked on an enthusiastic manual for living comfortably and getting along together under the roof that covers our house. I call it "Tips for Making Life a Breeze Around Here." Meredith Baxter-Birney may never star in a movie-of-the-week derived from the work, but it’s an ambitious, though small book, with plenty of easy-to-follow directions. Its intent is to offer guidelines that bring harmony to an otherwise discordant living arrangement. According to Dollar-Store-Dave, the unheralded literary critic who's opinions flow freely for the price of an uplifting beverage, some of the most intriguing chapter headings are:

--Stop doing that.
--What’s the deal with that funny-smellin’ soap.
--Where’s the scissors.
--Cutting lemons: slice or wedge.
--Where's the tape.
--The protocol of the last cookie.
--Does "I got dibs" really count for anything.
--Why do I get all the jobs that involve crawling under stuff.
--Why is the phrase "way to go" always directed towards me.
--Are you still mad.
--There's no need to strip-search the meter-reader.
--Your pillow smells like pigeons.
--Why is that in the garbage.
--This is a perfectly good shirt.
--Pants are sometimes an option.

The chapters speak for themselves; it's a recipe for living in veritable connubial bliss, but when presented to the woman who signed up for this carnival ride, it was met with the type of disdain normally reserved for finding a centipede in a seldom-used corner of the broom closet (which, incidentally, is the heading of another chapter on tidiness).

"What the hell is this crap," were the exact words spoken before tossing the book in the trashcan (completely overlooking the chapter, "Why is That in the Garbage," which clearly emphasizes the concept of thinking twice before discarding unique or otherwise valuable items). She says the title of her book will be "Who Died and Left You in Charge of Crap." Again, with the word "crap," (making me think she barely skimmed the chapter on annoying, repetitive descriptors).

Rummaging through the trash to retrieve the only copy of  "Tips for Making Life a Breeze Around Here," it dawned on me how Aldous Huxley and George Orwell must have felt when their books were banned, burned, discounted, and discarded. It's an elite group whose ranks I've inauspiciously joined, and following their exalted paths, offers hope that history will vindicate me, and "Tips for Making Life a Breeze Around Here" will rise from its desecration. It's almost intoxicating to anticipate the hoopla when Banned Books Week rolls around, and the cautionary reminders at libraries across the country feature a display of Maya Angelou's "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings," J.D. Salinger's "The Catcher in the Rye," Mark Twain's "Huckleberry Finn," along with the newest addition to the list, "Tips for Making Life a Breeze Around Here."
But, to quote an old ants-in-the-pants adage, "The waiting is the hardest part."

The Shrinking Man....

"It's a matter of routine," says my doctor while she measures my height. Then she says, "Five-feet, ten inches."
"Hold your horses; stop the music," I protest. "I was five-feet-eleven and some change when I graduated from high school." I remember quite clearly because, on the rare occasion when the situation called for a young man's boasting, I used to throw my shoulders back, stand up real tall, and round-up to six feet.
She says, matter-of-factly, "These things happen; we shrink as we get older."

I ask when her measuring gizmo was last calibrated, and question whether her medical school provided the latest height-measuring techniques, or was that one of those seminars she skipped during the summer she followed the Grateful Dead. At my request, after some unnecessary, but noticeable, eye-rolling, she double checks her measurement and comes up with five-feet-nine and seven eighths. So I ask if we couldn't round-up to her original figure, five-feet-ten. "Let's go with that," I say, "It's even, and fractions are for complaining nit-pickers."

Then she hands me a cup, points to Mr. happy, and says, "Fill it halfway, big guy," putting emphasis on "big guy." Just for the not-so-subtle mocking placation, which contained implications beyond medical propriety, I fill it almost to the brim, the same amount of pee I estimate would flow from a healthy six-footer. I throw my shoulders back, walk real tall, and very carefully, with a slight swagger and a renewed sense of pride, return the bountiful cup.

I'm not certain what, exactly, she writes in her notes, but I think of calling my insurance company and ask if they wouldn't mind springing for a second opinion regarding this medically significant matter. Perhaps they could recommend a non-flippant height specialist who enjoyed the less-distractible sounds of England Dan and John Ford Coley during medical school. A nose to the grindstone seems to be an increasingly rare attribute these days.

On the way home, all I can think of is that if this shrinking thing continues, how long will it be before I'm living, lost and unnoticed, in a corner of the basement, battling a spider for some tiny crumbs of cake. Maybe I should buy a set of tiny doll furniture, complete with quilts, a tiny sink, and tiny toilet, and place the whole shebang in a strategic place in the house where no one walks. I'll rope off the area and give it a name like "Poco Valle," and before it's too late, get everyone accustomed to walking a wide circle around it. One thing I'm doing for sure is stopping at the hardware store and buying a handful of signs that offer the cautionary future reminder, "Watch Your Step."

The Coupon

LaVoo Wilson claims she can read auras. "There's colors emitting from everyone, like a tattle-tale cloud hovering over their head. The color tells me all I need to know about a person." (LaVoo Wilson of Kankakee, Illinois).

Cindy Peltz, the folk singer with the barely-noticeable cough, had a two-for-one coupon for Miss LaVoo's Aura Readings and asked if I'd go along in case the whole deal turned creepy-sour. My reading was to be free, compliments of her neatly-clipped coupon.

Miss LaVoo operates out of what she calls her "emporium," which, to the casual observer, is more of a paint-peeled duplex with a couple of wind chimes and out-of-season Christmas lights hanging over the front porch. If not for the Aunt Jemima red bandanna, two gem-encrusted rings on every finger, and an otherworldly gaze, Miss LaVoo could breeze through any emissions test facility without so much as a sideways glance from the attendant.

There were exaggerated, swooping arm gestures, akin to an auto show spokes-model's, guiding the way to the aura room. Cindy's reading was quick and flattering. After staring at Cindy in the "aura chair" for a couple of minutes, accompanied by some slippery, hocus-pocus, circular hand movements, Miss LaVoo declared her aura to be magenta, indicating an artistic personality with great creative potential, enough potential, in fact, to be taken to the next, more detailed, level of aura reading for an additional twenty dollars. Sensing a bit of snake-oil-salesmanship, I casually handed Miss LaVoo our coupon.

--LaVoo: OK, have a seat, Mr. Coupon.
--Me: What do you see?
--LaVoo: Mr. Coupon needs to be quiet for a moment.
--Me: If I'm beige, let me down easy.
--LaVoo: Miss LaVoo sees a cloud, a muddy-grey cloud.
--Me: Is that because of the coupon?
--LaVoo: There's bits of lightning in your cloud.
--Me: That's terrible, isn't it?
--LaVoo: Tell me, do dogs bark at you?
--Me: Dogs bark at everyone.
--LaVoo: They bark louder at you.
--Me: Why's that?
--LaVoo: Animals see your aura. It's odious.
--Me: There's a squirrel that likes me.
--LaVoo: Squirrels don't count; they like everybody.
--Me: Come to think of it, my neighbor's parrot calls me names.
--LaVoo: Parrots speak for all animals.
--Me: And my cat shuns me.
--LaVoo: Cats see the astral realm.
--Me: What can I do about my cloud?
--LaVoo: Aura therapy. Ten sessions will put some color in your aura.
--Me: And snare some money from my wallet.
--LaVoo: You have a gift for the unvarnished.
--Me: Maybe this grey cloud is a good thing.
--LaVoo: How's that?
--Me: It keeps angry dogs and indifferent cats at bay.
--LaVoo: People avoid you as well.
--Me: I've noticed that.
--LaVoo: Aura therapy will change the color of your cloud.
--Me: I've grown accustomed to my cloud.
--LaVoo: You're destined for many dark days.
--Me: Perhaps the little bits of lightning will brighten them up.
--LaVoo: Your cloud brings unhappiness.
--Me: I'm quite happy with my unhappiness.
--LaVoo: Go now, Mr. Coupon. Take your hapless grey cloud and go.
--Me: How about if I carried an umbrella?
--LaVoo: On the way out, don't let the dream-catcher hit you in the ass.

It was a long and mostly silent drive home until Cindy broke the ice.

--Cindy: You upset Miss LaVoo. Next time, I'm going alone.
--Me: Why would you go back; you already know your aura is the oh-so-lovely and creative magenta.
--Cindy: You grey-clouds can't begin to understand us magentas.
--Me: You have a lot in common with my cat.
--Cindy: Well, Miss LaVoo nailed you.
--Me: Oh, so sorry, Miss Magenta. May your color be free of my odious cloud.
--Cindy: That's right, Mr. Coupon.
--Me: So now I'm Mr. Coupon.
--Cindy: You heard Miss Lavoo, you're Mr. Coupon.
--Me: But it was your coupon.
--Cindy: Doesn't matter, LaVoo said you're Mr. Coupon.
--Me: Can I drop you at the "I Know You Are But What Am I" store?
--Cindy: Just take me home, Mr. Coupon-Grey Cloud.
--Me: Coupon-Grey Cloud.... has the ring of a thrifty Indian.
--Cindy: More like a cheap mental patient.

This is what I get for being helpful; it always backfires, and I wind up looking like the not-so-helpful guy. My aura is now a coupon, and who knows what problems may arise later in life from that. I'd like to say I'm done with helping people, but pretty soon someone else will ask for a favor and I'll do it with the usual skip to my step and then, sure-as-shootin', something will go haywire. You'd think I'd be used to this by now, after all, I've spent a lifetime dodging those pesky, ass-slapping dream catchers.

The Gift of Art

I like art as much as the next guy, but, for me, it has to look like something. It’s why my art appreciation is limited to people like Edward Hopper and Trula Peoples. Most people are familiar with Edward Hopper. His classic, “Nighthawks,” is my favorite. But few are familiar with the work of my friend, Trula Peoples. Trula paints pictures of cows, and, for my money, paints them with an unequaled flair for the bovine experience. Some of her recent works are:

–Cows with Hula-Hoops
–Cows Watching TV
–Puzzled Cows
–Swimming Cows
–Cows Eating Tacos
–Banjo-Playing Cows
–Cows Grazing at Bed Bath and Beyond

Trula’s paintings are straight-forward. They are what they appear to be, cows doing stuff. I had the good fortune to acquire one of her paintings I’d admired for quite some time. It’s called “Migrating Cows,” and it depicts cows flying in an orderly formation, like a flock of geese. It cost me eighty-eight dollars and a Jerry and the Pacemakers Greatest Hits CD, a pretty good deal, I think, considering I’d already listened to “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying” about a thousand times.

“Migrating Cows” is a big canvas and hangs over our couch; I like to stare at it and wonder where the cow's flight will take them and imagine they won’t be so easily harvested and turned into hamburgers. The one dent in this hubcap is that every so often, “Migrating Cows” must be replaced with “Urban Mindscape,” a painting by Reena Pinkwater. Reena is also a friend, and she bestowed “Urban Mindscape” on me with great fanfare at a gallery opening where some pretty good cake was served. Not that I don’t like an intriguing gift now and then, but I can’t begin to make heads or tails out of Reena’s painting. It’s one of those abstract things with splotches and squiggles going every which way. Honestly, if it fell off the wall, I wouldn’t know which way to rehang it.

When fancy art people, who personally know Reena, come over to our house, I make sure her painting is hanging over the couch. They make exaggerated swooping gestures while discussing its significance and all the stuff they see in it, that I, for the life of me, don't see. Some of this modern art is like looking at constellations in the night sky. Really, the only constellation that looks like what it’s supposed to be is the Big Dipper. As for the rest, those ancient shepherds must’ve been gooped-up on some bad frankincense during the identification process. There is, however, one other constellation, “The Pointed, Provocative, Breasts of Venus” that my childhood friend, Herby Lawrence, pointed out on a summer night in the eighth grade. And he astutely observed that when a wispy cloud passed in front of the constellation, it was a dead ringer for the image of Kim Novak wearing an angora sweater. I’m still not certain it’s a genuine constellation as my replicating description was circled in red ink on a high school astronomy exam. When the science teacher asked for an explanation of my answer, all I could say was that every shepherd has his own dreams. I got half a point.

Once, Reena came over to my house unannounced, and before answering the door, I had to make a mad dash for the living room in order to hide “Migrating Cows” behind the couch (where Reena’s painting usually resides) and quickly hang “Urban Mindscape” in its place, a switch I’ve become adept at making. I've visited Reena’s studio several times, and, one time, she yelled at me for traipsing on a canvas. It was lying flat on the floor and had paint splattered all over it, and I mistakenly thought it was a drop-cloth. I apologized left and right and wanted desperately to make it up to her. Embarrassed, I pretended to study the creation in great detail and walked around it several times, taking in every angle. I grasped at anything in order to pay her a compliment that would cover my uncultured tracks. The first thing that came to mind was, “I think I see 'The Pointed, Provocative, Breasts of Venus' in this piece.”
She looked at me, stunned for a moment, before replying, “That’s exactly what I intended.”
And I wondered how I might one day thank my old friend, the stargazing visionary, Herby Lawrence.

Gourd Jamboree

Scandal rocked the Midwest Gourd Society's Harvest Jamboree. The Fall event is normally a joyful time when gourders (that's what we call ourselves) get together to share their wares and show off year-long efforts at beetle-plucking, pollinating, and general tilling of the soil. This is not a group afraid to get their hands dirty or forgo gratification if it means harvesting a champion gourd or two. Weldon Neebles makes the extreme sacrifice and eschews dating during the pollinating season. He says it's like when prizefighters aren't allowed to have sex before a match. And who can argue with his techniques when year after year he takes home the Blue Ribbon in the Musical Gourd Competition, and as a bonus, serenades the club with his dipper-gourd flute. This year's tune, "It Ain't Me Babe," was especially rousing, causing several gourders to get jiggy and spill their beverages.

Like any industrious gourder, I spend many a summer night in my garden, meticulously distributing pollen to a closely-guarded crop of Lagenaria gourds. The flowers of this particular species open at night, and being a conscientious gardener, I do everything possible to ensure the completion of the pollination process. I've endured many taunts from neighborhood busy-bodies like Pat Humpel who stays up late, peeking out her curtains to watch me going from flower to flower with a flashlight and a Q-tip, transferring pollen from the male flowers to the female flowers. Sometimes, after a successful pollination, I turn towards her house and shout, "Another champion's on it's way!" and her curtains snap shut, but not before she calls out, "Fruitcake!"

Certified judges, who have completed the Gourd Appreciation Seminar in Griggsville, Illinois, have the responsibility of handing out awards in the following categories:

--Best birdhouse gourd.
--Swimsuit competition.
--The gourd that most resembles Ed Asner.
--Most musical gourd.
--Best gourd hat.
--Celebrity look-a-like gourd.
--Most utilitarian gourd.

The troublesome scandal brewed in the Celebrity Look-Alike competition when Lucille Erks snapped up a Blue Ribbon for her William Shatner gourd. Later in the day, Lucille was stripped of her ribbon when close scrutiny by another contestant (the finger-pointing was unnecessary; I don't make the rules) revealed the same gourd won in a previous year in the Ed Asner division. Lucille initially threw a fit but broke into a fake crying jag when article 3 section 17 of The Midwest Gourd Society By Laws was read out loud to her. It states that "No gourd, however re-decorated, may be used twice for the purpose of competition. A gourd, once submitted for competition, must be retired from said contest and used for display purposes only." Nobody was fooled by her spectacle of phony tears, especially me.

My entry in the celebrity gourd competition was a tribute to the Ronnettes, a trio of pear-shaped gourds decorated like each Ronnette: Ronnie, Estelle, and Nedra, only Estelle kept leaning over. Lucille Erks, a sore looser if there ever was one, pointed at them and said, "Those are too chubby to be the Ronnettes, they're like the Ronnettes with big asses, and that one there, she can't stand up straight; she's drunk. You should have called them The Three Big-Ass Stooges." Because of Lucille's weaselry, my second place ribbon was moved to first, and upon transferring the ribbon, Lucille gritted her teeth and vowed to sully my character in the next issue of the Gourd Newsletter.

As Seed Acquisition Manager, it's incumbent on me to obtain samples of seed from every winning contestant. The seeds are labeled and filed in the Gourd Society's seed bank (a corner of my basement, behind the snow globe collection). A great many of the seeds are from Susan Topping's Peruvian gourds. She wins every year in the Utilitarian Gourd Competition. Normally, the gourds in this category are helpful gourds that perform a useful function like a pencil holder or bowl. But Susan's gourds, cylindrical and rather plain, about ten inches long and undecorated, receive high accolades from the women attending the Jamboree. There's always a buzz around her table, and her stock is in great demand, and her seeds command a pretty good price. Her creations are called "A Girl's Best Friend," and honestly, I don't understand the attraction but am required to collect the seeds every year and draw an accompanying illustration for identification purposes.

The nice thing about gourders is their willingness to share their growing tips. Susan says part of her secret is to grow her "Girl's Best Friends" on a trellis, insuring a smooth, unblemished appearance. "A Girl's Best Friend never touches the ground" is her motto. Though I remain puzzled by the attraction of such an unremarkable gourd, next year I'm going to give the trellis strategy a try. I'm shooting for growing The Dave Clark Five, and it'd be nice if they stood erect without falling over. After all, who doesn't like a little buzz around their table.