Ten-year-old Joey Marshall is at his grandma's house, watching the Cubs in a Memorial Day match with the Pirates. Normally Joey would be for the Pirates, because his last birthday party had a pirate theme, but his grandma is a Cubs fan, so he's cheering along with her.
His Grandma tells him at the end of each inning, "Never be a Cubs fan, Joey. It's nothing but heartbreak. Better to be a Yankees fan..." But her voice trails off into a choking sound as she says it, so he knows there is a truth somewhere beyond what he yet knows at his tender age.
He is not too young to learn the game, though. To his surprise, he just figured out what a "fielder's choice" is. If he can understand that, a whole new world can open. Perhaps he will become the choice fielder, and play for the Cubs, and win a World Series, and make his grandma happy...
You laugh the laugh of the knowing as you hear his dream. Everyone in Periwinkle County does. But if your dream cannot soar beyond your grasp, what's a Wrigley Field for...
Monday, May 31, 2010
Judge Widder & Army Intelligence
Judge Champ Widder has spent a lot of time recently thinking about the future. He could retire, but he's not sure he wants to. What would he do with that blank future?
Today, though, he is thinking about the past, as he always does on Memorial Day.
Judge Widder is a Vietnam vet. He was drafted after his sophomore year at Cratchit State U. He spent 2 years in Vietnam as a lieutenant. When his two years were up, he returned to college. He was a local boy, having grown up in the small city of Hope's Promise, where CSU is located. His father owned the local Buick dealership. He was a business major. He was a basketball star. He was elected student body president the first month he was back. He was also the chief speaker at protests against the war.
"I was in army intelligence," he recounted. "My job was to crawl out into the brush by myself and locate the enemy. Then I called down air strikes on my own map coordinates. That's army, but it's not intelligence."
That always got a good laugh.
"But I got close enough before I called for the air strikes really to see those people called enemy. They were just kids, younger than I was, chatting with each other, fixing a little meal, playing games. I knew there was something wrong with that picture, the big guy from thousands of miles away, lurking in the bushes, getting ready to destroy these kids in their own land..."
He was a hero to some and a traitor to others.
It was only later that it was revealed most American casualties and "enemy" casualties both occurred after American generals and politicians had decided the war was unnecessary and unwinnable but kept it going just because they didn't know how to stop.
"That's the true oxymoron of army intelligence," he thought this morning, as he looked at the deer slipping in and out of the woods on the back of his place east of town, "wasting young lives because you don't know how to stop it. That's army, but it's not intelligece."
So he thinks this morning of Milt Olive, and Randy Thompson, and Justin Daye, and all the Vitenamese boys whose names he never knew but whose lives he took, and he shakes his head and says, "What a waste..."
Today, though, he is thinking about the past, as he always does on Memorial Day.
Judge Widder is a Vietnam vet. He was drafted after his sophomore year at Cratchit State U. He spent 2 years in Vietnam as a lieutenant. When his two years were up, he returned to college. He was a local boy, having grown up in the small city of Hope's Promise, where CSU is located. His father owned the local Buick dealership. He was a business major. He was a basketball star. He was elected student body president the first month he was back. He was also the chief speaker at protests against the war.
"I was in army intelligence," he recounted. "My job was to crawl out into the brush by myself and locate the enemy. Then I called down air strikes on my own map coordinates. That's army, but it's not intelligence."
That always got a good laugh.
"But I got close enough before I called for the air strikes really to see those people called enemy. They were just kids, younger than I was, chatting with each other, fixing a little meal, playing games. I knew there was something wrong with that picture, the big guy from thousands of miles away, lurking in the bushes, getting ready to destroy these kids in their own land..."
He was a hero to some and a traitor to others.
It was only later that it was revealed most American casualties and "enemy" casualties both occurred after American generals and politicians had decided the war was unnecessary and unwinnable but kept it going just because they didn't know how to stop.
"That's the true oxymoron of army intelligence," he thought this morning, as he looked at the deer slipping in and out of the woods on the back of his place east of town, "wasting young lives because you don't know how to stop it. That's army, but it's not intelligece."
So he thinks this morning of Milt Olive, and Randy Thompson, and Justin Daye, and all the Vitenamese boys whose names he never knew but whose lives he took, and he shakes his head and says, "What a waste..."
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Parents Try Harder
Famed sports writer Rob Hummel gave his daughter, Jennie, that talk that must be given. Jennie and her mother, Julene, have had considerable disagreement about the nature of Jennie's 8th grade graduation party.
"She makes me so mad," Jennie groused.
"Now Jennie," Rob said, "only you get to decide whether you're mad or not. No one else can make you mad."
He just got a call on his personal cell phone, in the press box at Cheatham Bank Park, where he's covering the game between the Johnsons and the Borbons for The Old Wierd Herald. "I know you said nobody else can make me mad, Daddy," said his daughter, "but Mom is really trying hard."
"She makes me so mad," Jennie groused.
"Now Jennie," Rob said, "only you get to decide whether you're mad or not. No one else can make you mad."
He just got a call on his personal cell phone, in the press box at Cheatham Bank Park, where he's covering the game between the Johnsons and the Borbons for The Old Wierd Herald. "I know you said nobody else can make me mad, Daddy," said his daughter, "but Mom is really trying hard."
Save the Good Ones
James Boswell was noted philosopher Samuel Johnson's 18th century biographer. He noted that since all politicians in his time became corrupt after reaching office, it would be better to elect those who were already corrupt and save good people from corruption. Randall Nathan is thinking that the voters of the USA have taken James Boswell seriously and perfected his political insight.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Commencement Time at Wood Memorial
David Pool's commencement party is tonight. He graduated from Wood Memorial High School on Friday.
The school isn't named for any person named Wood, just for wood in general, because wood used to be what fueled the economy of western Periwinkle County. WMHS is located in the arid western Aire Plane of PC. The Aire Plane used to be The Aire Forest. That was before Linus "Tiny" Borden appeared.
When he applied for a job as a lumberjack at The Chopsticks Lumber Company, "White Bart" Wong, the foreman, just laughed at him. "I've got lots of experience," said Tiny. "Where did a little guy like you get experience as a lumberjack?" whooped White Bart. "In the Sahara Forest," said Tiny. "The Sahara is a desert," chuckled White Bart. "It is now," said Tiny Borden.
After Tiny finished, The Aire Forest was the Aire Plane.
The art room at Wood Memorial is named for Grant Wood. The stage is named for Natalie Wood. The football field is named for Lou Holtz, since "wood" in German is holtz. The concession stand is named for Calijah, the wooden Indian, even though they don't sell cigars. The golf course is named for Tiger Woods. The journalism dept. is named for Bob Woodward. The basketball court is The John Woodenhead court, because Helena Carr, the Home Ec Teacher and Chair of The Committee on Naming Rights at the time Wood Memorial was built, always heard the TV announcement of the UCLA basketball coach as John Woodenhead, Coach, instead of John Wooden, Head Coach.
David Pool was very proud when his name was called at graduation to receive "The Wooden Nickel" award as Most Likely to Succeed. He hasn't decided yet, though, just how he's going to succeed. This summer he's working as a farmhand on FarmVille, taking care of the crops and animals for FaceBook farmers who have gotten in over their heads and now don't have the time to do their own farming. Maybe by autumn he will have stolen enough identities to finance college.
The school isn't named for any person named Wood, just for wood in general, because wood used to be what fueled the economy of western Periwinkle County. WMHS is located in the arid western Aire Plane of PC. The Aire Plane used to be The Aire Forest. That was before Linus "Tiny" Borden appeared.
When he applied for a job as a lumberjack at The Chopsticks Lumber Company, "White Bart" Wong, the foreman, just laughed at him. "I've got lots of experience," said Tiny. "Where did a little guy like you get experience as a lumberjack?" whooped White Bart. "In the Sahara Forest," said Tiny. "The Sahara is a desert," chuckled White Bart. "It is now," said Tiny Borden.
After Tiny finished, The Aire Forest was the Aire Plane.
The art room at Wood Memorial is named for Grant Wood. The stage is named for Natalie Wood. The football field is named for Lou Holtz, since "wood" in German is holtz. The concession stand is named for Calijah, the wooden Indian, even though they don't sell cigars. The golf course is named for Tiger Woods. The journalism dept. is named for Bob Woodward. The basketball court is The John Woodenhead court, because Helena Carr, the Home Ec Teacher and Chair of The Committee on Naming Rights at the time Wood Memorial was built, always heard the TV announcement of the UCLA basketball coach as John Woodenhead, Coach, instead of John Wooden, Head Coach.
David Pool was very proud when his name was called at graduation to receive "The Wooden Nickel" award as Most Likely to Succeed. He hasn't decided yet, though, just how he's going to succeed. This summer he's working as a farmhand on FarmVille, taking care of the crops and animals for FaceBook farmers who have gotten in over their heads and now don't have the time to do their own farming. Maybe by autumn he will have stolen enough identities to finance college.
Stomping on Dandelions
Cowboy poet Bobby Tex Frost, who prefers to be known as Slim, is the Cowboy Lariat of Periwinkle County. He posted a poem on the door of the Lutheran Church last night, in time for the meeting this morning of the RCMP, Rachel Carson Memorial Plantology Society.
I walked today in Smitty Park,
my usual intentionally erratic
zig-zag pattern, that lets me step
on any dandelion in sight.
The little yellow heads are sly
trying to make us think
that they are joyful mimics
of the sun that bids them forth
from out the ground, still shivering
under frost, when first they plotted
out their grand design.
Deer know better, though,
and rabbits, too, mostly.
Sometimes you see a rabbit munching
on a dandelion stem, too little,
too late, to do any good
after the bright yellow head
has turned to gray
so that the unsuspecting wind
can blow its sins
to kingdom gone.
That rabbit, drunk on dandelion wine,
is soon eaten by a fox.
I stomp on anything
that is arrogant enough
to think it knows
better than I do
how to fill up my life.
Slim sat all morning in the Ogden Nash booth at the Mills of the Gods Coffee House and Persimmon Pudding Parlor, thinking one of the ladies of The RCMP might come by. He hadn't signed his name to the poem, but he was sure they would recognize his font. No one came, though. He assmed they were out stomping on dandelions.
I walked today in Smitty Park,
my usual intentionally erratic
zig-zag pattern, that lets me step
on any dandelion in sight.
The little yellow heads are sly
trying to make us think
that they are joyful mimics
of the sun that bids them forth
from out the ground, still shivering
under frost, when first they plotted
out their grand design.
Deer know better, though,
and rabbits, too, mostly.
Sometimes you see a rabbit munching
on a dandelion stem, too little,
too late, to do any good
after the bright yellow head
has turned to gray
so that the unsuspecting wind
can blow its sins
to kingdom gone.
That rabbit, drunk on dandelion wine,
is soon eaten by a fox.
I stomp on anything
that is arrogant enough
to think it knows
better than I do
how to fill up my life.
Slim sat all morning in the Ogden Nash booth at the Mills of the Gods Coffee House and Persimmon Pudding Parlor, thinking one of the ladies of The RCMP might come by. He hadn't signed his name to the poem, but he was sure they would recognize his font. No one came, though. He assmed they were out stomping on dandelions.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Blue Ribbon Days
Randall and Claire Nathan went to The Elemental Track and Field Day. All the grade schools in Periwinkle County were represented. Their grandson, Johnny, was running the baffles and tossing the cookie.
Running the baffles is sort of like running hurdles, but more interesting to fourth graders. Large cushions suddenly pop up unexpectedly from one side or another and you either have to run through them or around them. The runner must decide which method will slow himher down least. Mrs. Adler, the school psychologist, thought this up, and she observes these races carefully.
Tossing the cookie is a bit like tossing the caber. It is essentially a round, giant-sized cookie sheet. You use a combination javeline throw-shot put motion to propel it over a row of giant foam peanuts. Johnny won first place and received a blue ribbon.
His parents and grand-parents were very proud. They stood and cheered as Johnny accepted his ribbon, on the highest point of the prize podium. They were still cheering as he ran right past them and went to sit down with LamaLou, a girl in his class, to show her the ribbon and recount his historic throw. Johnny knows there's nothing like tossing cookies to impress a girl.
His grandson's blue ribbon reminded Randall of The Blue Ribbon ice cream store. When he was about Johnny's age, his family lived in a hillbilly ghetto in Capitol City. On Sunday evenings, his mother would give Johnny enough money for a quart of ice cream at The Blue Ribbon, 8 blocks away. He would hurry through the streets on the way there, to avoid the bullies, and run even faster on his way home, so that the ice cream would not melt before his mother could cut the block quart into a slice for each member of the family. His speed won him a blue ribbon that he got to eat at the end of the race--not a bad prize for the end of a race. He's thinking he'll suggest to Mrs. Adler that next year, the cookie toss should be a real cookie.
Running the baffles is sort of like running hurdles, but more interesting to fourth graders. Large cushions suddenly pop up unexpectedly from one side or another and you either have to run through them or around them. The runner must decide which method will slow himher down least. Mrs. Adler, the school psychologist, thought this up, and she observes these races carefully.
Tossing the cookie is a bit like tossing the caber. It is essentially a round, giant-sized cookie sheet. You use a combination javeline throw-shot put motion to propel it over a row of giant foam peanuts. Johnny won first place and received a blue ribbon.
His parents and grand-parents were very proud. They stood and cheered as Johnny accepted his ribbon, on the highest point of the prize podium. They were still cheering as he ran right past them and went to sit down with LamaLou, a girl in his class, to show her the ribbon and recount his historic throw. Johnny knows there's nothing like tossing cookies to impress a girl.
His grandson's blue ribbon reminded Randall of The Blue Ribbon ice cream store. When he was about Johnny's age, his family lived in a hillbilly ghetto in Capitol City. On Sunday evenings, his mother would give Johnny enough money for a quart of ice cream at The Blue Ribbon, 8 blocks away. He would hurry through the streets on the way there, to avoid the bullies, and run even faster on his way home, so that the ice cream would not melt before his mother could cut the block quart into a slice for each member of the family. His speed won him a blue ribbon that he got to eat at the end of the race--not a bad prize for the end of a race. He's thinking he'll suggest to Mrs. Adler that next year, the cookie toss should be a real cookie.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Periwinkle, Our Periwinkle
The fourth grade class at Tramp Memorial Elementary School is putting on the "Periwinkle, Our Perwinkle" play today. It is an annual 4th grade production. It helps them to learn about the history and culture of Periwinkle County. Randall Nathan is there, with Claire, to see their grandson, Johnny, enact the story of the tramp for which the school was named. This is especially wrenching for Randall, because he performed the funeral service for Tramp, back when he was a young campus minister at Cratchit State University, 30 miles west of Memphjus, the seat of PC.
Jake Newland had not yet taken over the funeral home in Memphjus, and Gus Prince was still the undertaker. Gus was disgusted that Tramp had died in an alley behind The Thurber Memorial Library, reading a book he had not checked out, so he refused to ask any of the PC ministers to do Tramp's funeral. Nobody knew him. No one had even seen him before. Apparently he came to town just to use the library. He had no identification on him. His fingerprints weren't in any database, and DNA hadn't been discovered yet, although some people had claimed to see some while exploring the ion mines in west PC. Gus Prince figured Tramp didn't deserve a real minister to do his funeral, and so he called on the campus minister from CSU, in Crimson County, the one who was the pastor of last resort for any lost or dubious cause.
Randall Nathan had showed up at the Aligheri Memorial Cemetery at the appointed time. Gus Prince and the sheriff and the grave digger were standing by the hearse, smoking cigarettes and telling jokes. Gus pointed at an open grave site, about fifty yards away, down in the marshy corner of the cemetery. A plain wooden casket sat on the ground beside the hole. Randall walked down to the grave. Nobody was there. Nobody followed him from the hearse. He opened up his Book of Worship and read through the entire service. He looked back at the hearse. Gus Prince beckoned to him to hurry up. So he turned back to the grave and read the entire service again.
The Jonathan Edwards Grade School, where Randall Nathan had himself gone to school, was being replaced with a new building. The school board thought a new name was appropriate. They decided they would let the children decide on the new name. They gave them an approved list of politicians and scientists, but after Randall Nathan told them about the tramp, they all wrote in Tramp Memorial for the name of their school.
Now Randall Nathan is watching carefully as his grandson, Johnny Kendy, steps forward toward a pretend grave to re-enact the story of how their school got its name....
Jake Newland had not yet taken over the funeral home in Memphjus, and Gus Prince was still the undertaker. Gus was disgusted that Tramp had died in an alley behind The Thurber Memorial Library, reading a book he had not checked out, so he refused to ask any of the PC ministers to do Tramp's funeral. Nobody knew him. No one had even seen him before. Apparently he came to town just to use the library. He had no identification on him. His fingerprints weren't in any database, and DNA hadn't been discovered yet, although some people had claimed to see some while exploring the ion mines in west PC. Gus Prince figured Tramp didn't deserve a real minister to do his funeral, and so he called on the campus minister from CSU, in Crimson County, the one who was the pastor of last resort for any lost or dubious cause.
Randall Nathan had showed up at the Aligheri Memorial Cemetery at the appointed time. Gus Prince and the sheriff and the grave digger were standing by the hearse, smoking cigarettes and telling jokes. Gus pointed at an open grave site, about fifty yards away, down in the marshy corner of the cemetery. A plain wooden casket sat on the ground beside the hole. Randall walked down to the grave. Nobody was there. Nobody followed him from the hearse. He opened up his Book of Worship and read through the entire service. He looked back at the hearse. Gus Prince beckoned to him to hurry up. So he turned back to the grave and read the entire service again.
The Jonathan Edwards Grade School, where Randall Nathan had himself gone to school, was being replaced with a new building. The school board thought a new name was appropriate. They decided they would let the children decide on the new name. They gave them an approved list of politicians and scientists, but after Randall Nathan told them about the tramp, they all wrote in Tramp Memorial for the name of their school.
Now Randall Nathan is watching carefully as his grandson, Johnny Kendy, steps forward toward a pretend grave to re-enact the story of how their school got its name....
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Purloining Pentecost
The Rev. Randall Nathan [Retard] has to preach tomorrow, because Pastor Patty is off in Nebraska, taking care of her ailing mother. He thought the congregation should hear some really good preaching while she is gone, so he decided to preach a great Pentecost sermon, from a book by Harry Emerson Fosdick. Now he remembers that he gave that book away about 40 years ago, so he's going to have to think up a sermon on his own. Since he can't preach from Fosdick, he's going to preach from Acts. He hopes that no one will notice.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Pac-Man Turns 30
The news that Pac-Man turned 30 reminded Randall Nathan that he once read a brilliant exegesis of Pac-Man as based on Christian faith. He looked it up and found that it is still available, on line, at
http://www.religion-online.org/showarticle.asp?title=1341
He read it again and realized it was even more brilliant and perceptive than he remembered.
http://www.religion-online.org/showarticle.asp?title=1341
He read it again and realized it was even more brilliant and perceptive than he remembered.
Jokes and Furniture
Claire Nathan told Randall that she thinks she should get to buy a new piece of furniture whenever he uses one of her jokes. He figures that she owes him about ten jokes.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Prayer Cookies, Some Not Quite Legitimate
There is a bake sale at The Methodist today. Their building is on the corner of Apple Ave. and First in War, First in Peace, and First in the Hearts of His Countrymen Blvd.
The signs say A and First Sts, but people got bored with those, so the "letter" streets are popularly known by fruits. It doesn't matter which fruit, as long as it begins with the correct letter, and mail is delivered accordingly. Numbered streets are delivered according to the first word of Constitutional constituents, Roberts Rules of Order, or movie titles. Thus, First Amendment Ave, Second the Motion St., Third Man on the Mountain Drive, etc. All appear on the return address labels the Save the Leisure Suit Society sends in hopes of getting a donation.
So being at the corner of Avocodo Ave. and First We Kill All the Lawyers Street, there is a lot of foot traffic in front of The Methodist, and also people leave their cars in the street, with the doors open, while they run up to grab a baggie of bars.
The bake sale is for the expenses of Tiffany Tremont. Tiffany is 31 and has 3 children. Her husband was killed by a drunk driver. The company she worked for moved to Myanmar. She has no insurance. She also has endrometrial cancer.
Christians understand that cookies are a form of prayer, especially if they raise money for the people you're praying for. It's all the better if you can get some of your heathen neighbors to say a prayer by buying a cookie.
Dawdlers sit on the benches at Apricot Ave. and First Blood and watch to see just which cookies are purchased by which people, because Periwinklians know you can detect sexual situations by cookie preference.
Lesbians buy oatmeal cookies, gays buy thin mints, straights buy brownies, homophobes buy peanut butter bars, virgins buy coconut macaroons, loose women buy ginger snaps, loose men buy pecan tassies. Happily married people buy gourmet kumquat cookies. Persimmon pudding chunks can mean anything. [To people outside Periwinkle County, these connections may seem illogical, even counter-intuitive, but PCers know themselves and their neighbors rather well.]
Then there are those who were born illegitimate. They buy the Rice Krispy treats that have been out in the sun a little too long. Snap, crackle, but no pop.
The signs say A and First Sts, but people got bored with those, so the "letter" streets are popularly known by fruits. It doesn't matter which fruit, as long as it begins with the correct letter, and mail is delivered accordingly. Numbered streets are delivered according to the first word of Constitutional constituents, Roberts Rules of Order, or movie titles. Thus, First Amendment Ave, Second the Motion St., Third Man on the Mountain Drive, etc. All appear on the return address labels the Save the Leisure Suit Society sends in hopes of getting a donation.
So being at the corner of Avocodo Ave. and First We Kill All the Lawyers Street, there is a lot of foot traffic in front of The Methodist, and also people leave their cars in the street, with the doors open, while they run up to grab a baggie of bars.
The bake sale is for the expenses of Tiffany Tremont. Tiffany is 31 and has 3 children. Her husband was killed by a drunk driver. The company she worked for moved to Myanmar. She has no insurance. She also has endrometrial cancer.
Christians understand that cookies are a form of prayer, especially if they raise money for the people you're praying for. It's all the better if you can get some of your heathen neighbors to say a prayer by buying a cookie.
Dawdlers sit on the benches at Apricot Ave. and First Blood and watch to see just which cookies are purchased by which people, because Periwinklians know you can detect sexual situations by cookie preference.
Lesbians buy oatmeal cookies, gays buy thin mints, straights buy brownies, homophobes buy peanut butter bars, virgins buy coconut macaroons, loose women buy ginger snaps, loose men buy pecan tassies. Happily married people buy gourmet kumquat cookies. Persimmon pudding chunks can mean anything. [To people outside Periwinkle County, these connections may seem illogical, even counter-intuitive, but PCers know themselves and their neighbors rather well.]
Then there are those who were born illegitimate. They buy the Rice Krispy treats that have been out in the sun a little too long. Snap, crackle, but no pop.
The Boring Month of May
Fifteen-year-old Goethe Garcia is bored. Not only did her parents give her that wretched name, but school is almost over. Goethe is a Goth. She sits in the back of the classroom and acts bored, regardless of who the teacher is or what the subject it. At lunch she hangs out in "Smoke Alley" with her Goth friends, and with the Emos, too, even though she and the other Goths secretly think the Emos are weird, and refer to them as Emus when they aren't round. But Goethe secretly loves school. She loves every subject and every teacher. She loves the nerds who get the good grades. She doesn't know why she is trapped in Goth black. Once you get into it, it's just hard to get out. She dreads the long boring summer without the school she secretly loves so much.
Sixty-year-old math teacher Prosper "Slim" Pickens is bored. The difference is, he loves boredom. He looks forward to the long boring summer. The state school board just raised the retirement age again. He has to work another six years. He's not at all sure he can last that long. He wants boredom so much that he has started the summer early. He hasn't told the principal or the students, but he's already practicing for summer by being in school in body only.
Seventy-three-year-old Nate Cooper is bored. The folk dance season is over. All year, he has gone to every folk dance and danced every dance. He's lonely. Evelyn died a year ago. At the folk dances, he gets to hold hands with women, watch them move, see their smiles. But now the season is over, and he sits by himself, and wonders...
Thirty-four-year-old Kim Radatz is bored. She so much wants May to be special. It's her last month before the kids are home for the summer. But a simple month, even full of lilacs and redbuds, can't be exciting enough for a desperate mother. She knows it is her own fault, for getting her hopes too high, but she is bored with May and its false promises.
Twenty-eight-year-old Josie Williams is bored. Ski season is over. All winter long she flew down the Tetons Bleu in the east part of Periwinkle County, and traveled all over the world to race. Now she has to put her Iowa State turf management degree to work, grooming the greens at the Pine Slopes Golf Course. Golf slopes just don't have the excitement of ski slopes.
Fifty-nine-year-old Alexandra DeVault is bored. She finally got to be in charge of the chancel at St. Mortimer's Epispocal. It was an exciting year. Now, though, once Pentecost is over, it's Ordinary Time. No special decorations, no color changes, no opportunity for her altar ego to flourish.
Eighty-nine-year-old Richard Lybarger is bored. He made it through the winter. He doesn't want to face the summer, too, so he's going to die before May is over. Undertakers and pastors know that May and October are the big dying months for folks like Richard. Once you've started the winter, it's interesting to see if you can make it through to spring. The same with once you've started the summer--might as well wait until October. But once you've made it through, the prospect of another summer or another winter is just too boring.
Sixty-year-old math teacher Prosper "Slim" Pickens is bored. The difference is, he loves boredom. He looks forward to the long boring summer. The state school board just raised the retirement age again. He has to work another six years. He's not at all sure he can last that long. He wants boredom so much that he has started the summer early. He hasn't told the principal or the students, but he's already practicing for summer by being in school in body only.
Seventy-three-year-old Nate Cooper is bored. The folk dance season is over. All year, he has gone to every folk dance and danced every dance. He's lonely. Evelyn died a year ago. At the folk dances, he gets to hold hands with women, watch them move, see their smiles. But now the season is over, and he sits by himself, and wonders...
Thirty-four-year-old Kim Radatz is bored. She so much wants May to be special. It's her last month before the kids are home for the summer. But a simple month, even full of lilacs and redbuds, can't be exciting enough for a desperate mother. She knows it is her own fault, for getting her hopes too high, but she is bored with May and its false promises.
Twenty-eight-year-old Josie Williams is bored. Ski season is over. All winter long she flew down the Tetons Bleu in the east part of Periwinkle County, and traveled all over the world to race. Now she has to put her Iowa State turf management degree to work, grooming the greens at the Pine Slopes Golf Course. Golf slopes just don't have the excitement of ski slopes.
Fifty-nine-year-old Alexandra DeVault is bored. She finally got to be in charge of the chancel at St. Mortimer's Epispocal. It was an exciting year. Now, though, once Pentecost is over, it's Ordinary Time. No special decorations, no color changes, no opportunity for her altar ego to flourish.
Eighty-nine-year-old Richard Lybarger is bored. He made it through the winter. He doesn't want to face the summer, too, so he's going to die before May is over. Undertakers and pastors know that May and October are the big dying months for folks like Richard. Once you've started the winter, it's interesting to see if you can make it through to spring. The same with once you've started the summer--might as well wait until October. But once you've made it through, the prospect of another summer or another winter is just too boring.
Monday, May 17, 2010
What Not to Say
Three-year-old Clara Wembley heard Jenny Newland talking about Jake's new TV, so she reported to her nana, Kate Bates, that Jake had a new "big-ass TV" so that he could watch "What Not to Wear" because "the old fool's hot for Stacy." Kate hardly knew where to begin.
She started by explaining to Clara that she should call it "a big-bottom TV," since Jake felt he needed a 60 inch TV because he had watched the opening of the baseball season with Clara's grandpa, "Big Daddy," [to distinguish him from her regular daddy], and Kate's husband, Ben "Seymour" Bottoms, and was impressed that the picture was so clear that he could see the hairs in Waste 'Em Wally Wagler's nose, so Jenny just meant to call is "a big-Bottoms" TV, since the idea had come from the Bottoms house.
Then Clara asked why anyone would want to see nose hairs and got Kate sidetracked.
Clara went over to the Newland's house to watch Animal Planet with Jake and Franklin and Eleanor, the Newland's potbellied pigs. F&E especially enjoy "Animal Heroes of World War II." It's actually "Puppy Bowl," but Jake tells F&E it's about World War II to get them to watch.
When "Puppy Bowl" was over, Jake said, "Clara, go see where Jenny is." Clara reported back that Jenny was in the back yard.
"Good," said Jake. "I'll teach you to use the clicker. The key is speed. Just before the other person who's watching can figure out what the show is, you have to click to the next channel..."
So went the tutorial, until they came across a rerun of "What Not to Wear."
"Now we watch," said Jake. "Because you're hot for Stacy?" asked Clara. "You've got it," said Jake. "I could really have used her when I was an undertaker. Men don't have any sense when it comes to dressing a dead woman, and doing her makeup and hair. Stacy understands about volumizing. Stacy could have been a great undertaker, but she settled for doing a TV show. It's so sad."
Now Kate is trying to understand why Clara is dressing Shingles, the dog, whom she still has not forgiven for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve, and saying "This is the way Stacy would volumize you for..."
She started by explaining to Clara that she should call it "a big-bottom TV," since Jake felt he needed a 60 inch TV because he had watched the opening of the baseball season with Clara's grandpa, "Big Daddy," [to distinguish him from her regular daddy], and Kate's husband, Ben "Seymour" Bottoms, and was impressed that the picture was so clear that he could see the hairs in Waste 'Em Wally Wagler's nose, so Jenny just meant to call is "a big-Bottoms" TV, since the idea had come from the Bottoms house.
Then Clara asked why anyone would want to see nose hairs and got Kate sidetracked.
Clara went over to the Newland's house to watch Animal Planet with Jake and Franklin and Eleanor, the Newland's potbellied pigs. F&E especially enjoy "Animal Heroes of World War II." It's actually "Puppy Bowl," but Jake tells F&E it's about World War II to get them to watch.
When "Puppy Bowl" was over, Jake said, "Clara, go see where Jenny is." Clara reported back that Jenny was in the back yard.
"Good," said Jake. "I'll teach you to use the clicker. The key is speed. Just before the other person who's watching can figure out what the show is, you have to click to the next channel..."
So went the tutorial, until they came across a rerun of "What Not to Wear."
"Now we watch," said Jake. "Because you're hot for Stacy?" asked Clara. "You've got it," said Jake. "I could really have used her when I was an undertaker. Men don't have any sense when it comes to dressing a dead woman, and doing her makeup and hair. Stacy understands about volumizing. Stacy could have been a great undertaker, but she settled for doing a TV show. It's so sad."
Now Kate is trying to understand why Clara is dressing Shingles, the dog, whom she still has not forgiven for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve, and saying "This is the way Stacy would volumize you for..."
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Lying Street Walkers
It's a beautiful day in Memphjus, the seat of Periwinkle County. 80 degrees, high sun, light breeze. A perfect day for a walk to Smitty Park, so Randall Nathan did it.
He has to walk city streets for a few blocks before he hits the squirrel trains of the park. Many other people were out walking, but he was the only on the sidewalks. The others walked or jogged in the street. The sidewalk was smoother and cleaner and a whole lot safer, especially when ninety-three-year-old Bessie Bandervilt and sixteen-year-old Jeremy Sisson drove by. Bessie had a bee in her bonnet that needed release, and Jeremy had a friend in New Jersey who needed texting. But there the lyers were, walking and running in the street.
Yes, lyers, Randall groused. They were lying about who they are. They were claiming to be athletes, people who have to walk in the street because the sidewalks can't hold them, but none of these were athletes. The sidewalk would hardly have known that they were there. But they were lying to themselves, mostly, and to anyone else who might see them, saying, "See, I'm an athlete, because I have to be in the street. It's worth taking the chance of getting killed to be able to say I'm better than I really am."
Half of our lies, Randall thought, are to keep us out of trouble, but the other half are to get us into trouble, by making us look better than we are, creating expectations that we can't live up to.
He explained all this to Claire when he got home. She made him drink an IBC rootbeer and lie down.
He has to walk city streets for a few blocks before he hits the squirrel trains of the park. Many other people were out walking, but he was the only on the sidewalks. The others walked or jogged in the street. The sidewalk was smoother and cleaner and a whole lot safer, especially when ninety-three-year-old Bessie Bandervilt and sixteen-year-old Jeremy Sisson drove by. Bessie had a bee in her bonnet that needed release, and Jeremy had a friend in New Jersey who needed texting. But there the lyers were, walking and running in the street.
Yes, lyers, Randall groused. They were lying about who they are. They were claiming to be athletes, people who have to walk in the street because the sidewalks can't hold them, but none of these were athletes. The sidewalk would hardly have known that they were there. But they were lying to themselves, mostly, and to anyone else who might see them, saying, "See, I'm an athlete, because I have to be in the street. It's worth taking the chance of getting killed to be able to say I'm better than I really am."
Half of our lies, Randall thought, are to keep us out of trouble, but the other half are to get us into trouble, by making us look better than we are, creating expectations that we can't live up to.
He explained all this to Claire when he got home. She made him drink an IBC rootbeer and lie down.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
NO MORE WHITE SHIRTS
There is a small band of Hasidic Coptics in Periwinkle County. They believe that Jesus is the Messiah but that it is Carl, the angel of taste, who will come again to restore order to the world.
They migrated from the mountains of Phrygydydstan to Periwinkle County because it reminded them of nothing in their homeland, and also because they thought Carl would approve of the taste of persimmons.
In order to entice Carl to come and restore order to the world, they always dress tastefully. The men wear white shirts and ties at all times, even to bed. Except for Tankovich Karsky. He always wears a tasteful tie, usually with an M.C. Escher pattern, but his shirt is always tan or yellow or green or blue.
"Why, Mr. Karsky," asked Sociology Professor Ben "Seymour" Bottoms, "do you never wear a white shirt?"
"Ah," said Tankovich Karsky, "the last time I wore a white shirt, I got married."
They migrated from the mountains of Phrygydydstan to Periwinkle County because it reminded them of nothing in their homeland, and also because they thought Carl would approve of the taste of persimmons.
In order to entice Carl to come and restore order to the world, they always dress tastefully. The men wear white shirts and ties at all times, even to bed. Except for Tankovich Karsky. He always wears a tasteful tie, usually with an M.C. Escher pattern, but his shirt is always tan or yellow or green or blue.
"Why, Mr. Karsky," asked Sociology Professor Ben "Seymour" Bottoms, "do you never wear a white shirt?"
"Ah," said Tankovich Karsky, "the last time I wore a white shirt, I got married."
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Glass Elephant
When Randall Nathan was a little boy, growing up in the glums of Capitol City, he fell in love with a little elephant. Two of them. The first was in a book. The second was in a store window.
[If a glum drops down one more step, it's a slum.]
Randall loved books, and the branch library where he read them. The books were an escape from his chaotic home and the bullies who chased him up and down the sidewalks and alleys. The library was an oasis in the glum and in the terror.
He can't remember the name of the book about the little elephant. He just remembers that the little elephant was brave, so brave that he saved his whole herd from some now forgotten diaster. Randall wanted to be brave like that little elephant, brave enough to stand up to the bullies instead of fleeing from them, brave enough to save his herd, his family, from its chaos.
Then he saw that elephant in a store window on Federal Street. It was just a little glass statue, but it represented all that bravery that he wanted so much. So he longed to possess that statue. If he could just have that little elephant as his companion, he could be brave.
He saved his money. His family was poor, though, and each time he got close to enough, his money was needed for something else, something practical, certainly not a little glass elephant.
His family moved from the city when he was ten, the age now of his grandson, Johnny, to a hard scrabble farm in Arkansas. Instead of running from bullies, he began to run from pecking chickens and curly-horned cows and grunting pigs and wild-eyed horses. He forgot about the little elephant.
He told that story last fall to his grandchildren. Their life is much different from what his was like, but he thinks it's important for them to know that if they are chased by bullies or pigs or expectations, he understands. He understands that it is important to be brave, that they want to be brave, and that it is hard to be brave.
On his birthday, 8th grader Betsy gave him a little glass elephant. She had saved her money and searched the internet. She found just the right one. It has its trunk up in a rampant show of courage. He sits each morning on his couch and looks at that little glass elephant. It gets him ready to face the day. He can face the day bravely, because he knows that the grandaughter who hears his stories understands.
[If a glum drops down one more step, it's a slum.]
Randall loved books, and the branch library where he read them. The books were an escape from his chaotic home and the bullies who chased him up and down the sidewalks and alleys. The library was an oasis in the glum and in the terror.
He can't remember the name of the book about the little elephant. He just remembers that the little elephant was brave, so brave that he saved his whole herd from some now forgotten diaster. Randall wanted to be brave like that little elephant, brave enough to stand up to the bullies instead of fleeing from them, brave enough to save his herd, his family, from its chaos.
Then he saw that elephant in a store window on Federal Street. It was just a little glass statue, but it represented all that bravery that he wanted so much. So he longed to possess that statue. If he could just have that little elephant as his companion, he could be brave.
He saved his money. His family was poor, though, and each time he got close to enough, his money was needed for something else, something practical, certainly not a little glass elephant.
His family moved from the city when he was ten, the age now of his grandson, Johnny, to a hard scrabble farm in Arkansas. Instead of running from bullies, he began to run from pecking chickens and curly-horned cows and grunting pigs and wild-eyed horses. He forgot about the little elephant.
He told that story last fall to his grandchildren. Their life is much different from what his was like, but he thinks it's important for them to know that if they are chased by bullies or pigs or expectations, he understands. He understands that it is important to be brave, that they want to be brave, and that it is hard to be brave.
On his birthday, 8th grader Betsy gave him a little glass elephant. She had saved her money and searched the internet. She found just the right one. It has its trunk up in a rampant show of courage. He sits each morning on his couch and looks at that little glass elephant. It gets him ready to face the day. He can face the day bravely, because he knows that the grandaughter who hears his stories understands.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Periwinkle Cures
Vincent and Christine Vamp are retiring. For years they have been harvesting wild periwinkle in the eastern uplands of the county.
The cancer drug, vincristine, is made from periwinkle. Unfortunately, it takes a lot of periwinkle to make just a little vincristine. They are too old now, though, to control the wild boars they use to do the harvesting, so they are turning their business over to Jed Bozos, who hopes to find even more ways that periwinkle can be beneficial in curing illness. This has increased Jed's social life expoentially, as chicks really dig "dudes who run with the boars." The problem: will he have enough time left after romance to research?
Claire Nathan is looking at the pot of periwinkle in her window and wondering how she might increase the vincristine potential of periwinkle so that it takes less of it to produce the drug. Or maybe even other drugs. She's going to check out FarmVille to see if there are any fertilizer hints there. She's considing using "spring eggs" on the periwinkle.
The bottom line: periwinkle might cure what ails you.
The cancer drug, vincristine, is made from periwinkle. Unfortunately, it takes a lot of periwinkle to make just a little vincristine. They are too old now, though, to control the wild boars they use to do the harvesting, so they are turning their business over to Jed Bozos, who hopes to find even more ways that periwinkle can be beneficial in curing illness. This has increased Jed's social life expoentially, as chicks really dig "dudes who run with the boars." The problem: will he have enough time left after romance to research?
Claire Nathan is looking at the pot of periwinkle in her window and wondering how she might increase the vincristine potential of periwinkle so that it takes less of it to produce the drug. Or maybe even other drugs. She's going to check out FarmVille to see if there are any fertilizer hints there. She's considing using "spring eggs" on the periwinkle.
The bottom line: periwinkle might cure what ails you.
Today I'm Going to Get It Right
Ninety-five-year-old Ralph Stone is looking out the window of his room in The Wise Acres Home For Old Wise Guys. He is working up a "pity me" routine to use on his daughter so she'll let him break out and get his own apartment again. Today, he thinks, I'm going to get it right.
Sixty-three-year-old Carol Flanagan is imagining that she is in the rose garden of The American Sisters Hotel in Assisi. It's better than being in a bed in the hospice. She is much too young to die; she has too much still to do, and too many people depend upon her. She's going to die, anyway. That's not in her control. Nothing is in her control, not even her bladder. But, yes, there's one thing still in her control. Her attitude. She's going to give her children and grandchihldren the gifts of hope and memory today. She might not even have a whole day, but today she is going to get it right.
Forty-seven-year-old Roxanne Behrman is not going to let her mother-in-law push her buttons today. She is going to take her to the appointment with the eye doctor and then anyplace else she wants to go. She's losing a day of work and nobody is going to appreciate what she has to go through with that old... no, she's not going to let her get to her today. Today she's going to get it right.
Thirty-six-year-old Garret Straza is not even going to think it about it today. He hasn't placed a bet since last Saturday, or maybe Sunday, but all week he's been thinking about it more and more. He knows the bet starts in the brain. If he can keep those thoughts out of his brain, he's got a chance. Just like a drug addict "can't use successfully," he can't gamble without it getting out of hand. It starts getting away from him the moment he allows the thought into his brain. Today, he's going to think other thoughts. Today he's going to get it right.
Twenty-eight-year-old James Rudzinski is going to finish his dissertation today. He just needs the final chapter. That final chapter has been waiting for three years, and every day he intends to write it, but... today he's going to get it right.
Sixteen-year-old Chase Hallowell is going to ask Ashleigh Logsdon to go to the Monster Festival at the Beau Jangles Art Theatre with him. He's scared to death. He's never asked any girl for a date before, and certainly not a member of The Student Council. Oh, God, how can I... but he slings his backpack on and squares his shoulders and marches out the door. Today he is going to get it right.
Three-year-old Clara Wembley is going to become a lawyer. She has heard of Harvard Law School, when the TV is on, and she thought she might go there, but she doesn't like beets. So she's decided on The Charlie Brown Pre-School, where her brother, Marp, went. They have a picture on the wall of Linus holding onto his blankie, the way a boy should. Since she can't get justice any other way for the theft of her blankie by Shingles, the dog, on Christmas Eve, she will sue his tail off. She is going to wrest justice, and her blankie, from the jaws of mangy injustice. Today she is going to get it right.
Pastor Patty is writing a sermon. She has to preach to an unrealistic old man and a dying woman and a desperate daughter-in-law and an addict and a procrastinator and a love-sick teen and a calculating toddler and... How in the... but today, she is going to get it right.
Sixty-three-year-old Carol Flanagan is imagining that she is in the rose garden of The American Sisters Hotel in Assisi. It's better than being in a bed in the hospice. She is much too young to die; she has too much still to do, and too many people depend upon her. She's going to die, anyway. That's not in her control. Nothing is in her control, not even her bladder. But, yes, there's one thing still in her control. Her attitude. She's going to give her children and grandchihldren the gifts of hope and memory today. She might not even have a whole day, but today she is going to get it right.
Forty-seven-year-old Roxanne Behrman is not going to let her mother-in-law push her buttons today. She is going to take her to the appointment with the eye doctor and then anyplace else she wants to go. She's losing a day of work and nobody is going to appreciate what she has to go through with that old... no, she's not going to let her get to her today. Today she's going to get it right.
Thirty-six-year-old Garret Straza is not even going to think it about it today. He hasn't placed a bet since last Saturday, or maybe Sunday, but all week he's been thinking about it more and more. He knows the bet starts in the brain. If he can keep those thoughts out of his brain, he's got a chance. Just like a drug addict "can't use successfully," he can't gamble without it getting out of hand. It starts getting away from him the moment he allows the thought into his brain. Today, he's going to think other thoughts. Today he's going to get it right.
Twenty-eight-year-old James Rudzinski is going to finish his dissertation today. He just needs the final chapter. That final chapter has been waiting for three years, and every day he intends to write it, but... today he's going to get it right.
Sixteen-year-old Chase Hallowell is going to ask Ashleigh Logsdon to go to the Monster Festival at the Beau Jangles Art Theatre with him. He's scared to death. He's never asked any girl for a date before, and certainly not a member of The Student Council. Oh, God, how can I... but he slings his backpack on and squares his shoulders and marches out the door. Today he is going to get it right.
Three-year-old Clara Wembley is going to become a lawyer. She has heard of Harvard Law School, when the TV is on, and she thought she might go there, but she doesn't like beets. So she's decided on The Charlie Brown Pre-School, where her brother, Marp, went. They have a picture on the wall of Linus holding onto his blankie, the way a boy should. Since she can't get justice any other way for the theft of her blankie by Shingles, the dog, on Christmas Eve, she will sue his tail off. She is going to wrest justice, and her blankie, from the jaws of mangy injustice. Today she is going to get it right.
Pastor Patty is writing a sermon. She has to preach to an unrealistic old man and a dying woman and a desperate daughter-in-law and an addict and a procrastinator and a love-sick teen and a calculating toddler and... How in the... but today, she is going to get it right.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The Incident of The Rapid Squirrel
After church on Mother's Day, Claire and Randall Nathan's son-in-law, Hubert, whose mother named him for the Presbyterian pastor's dog, took the whole family to dinner at The Human Lodge's wild game buffet. The women of The Royal Order of Gazelles took over the old Chinese restaurant when they outgrew their old lodge building. The sign-painter had misspelled Hunan and Mr. Wing Hot, a frugal man, left it as it was, clear up until he retired and moved to Roswell in the hopes the aliens would abduct Mrs. Wing Hot. The Gazelles have been too busy shooting wild game to change the sign yet, so folks have taken to calling them The Human Lodge.
The wild game buffet was a fund-raiser for BP, because of all the money lost because of the spill. Bert Pratt, known as BP, took a spill on the ice while shoveling Old Lady Moffit's walk and hasn't been able to work since. The insurance company won't pay for an operation because it was a pre-existing condition: the ice was already on the ground when he slipped on it.
The wild game buffet featured venison, of course, and also chipmunk, bear, possum, raccoon, porcupine, woodchuck, fox, coyote, groundhog, something that people suspected was Dr. Hyland's dog that used to bark all night until it disappeared, and Thelma Sobriquet's famous "Squirll melts." [sick]
So there was Randall Nathan, who is opposed to eating strange stuff, munching on squirrel melts [He refused to refer to them as squirll], which, when you got past the name, weren't all bad, so he had a second helping, topped off by persimmon pudding.
Then Johnny Kendy's friend, Zeke, wanted Johnny to ride bikes with him to Smitty Park, named for Theduzq Drjpzkkl, the local blacksmith. It is clear why the park's name is not eponymous. Since Randall Nathan usually walks in Smitty Park each afternoon anyway, and since he really needed to walk off those squirrel melts, and since he does not trust fourth graders to have good sense while riding bikes, he decided he would walk in the park while his grandson and Zeke were riding there.
He had been all over the park and his aging legs were moving quite slowly when he finally came across them on one of the dirt trails. They were off their bikes and walking gingerly toward a tree. A small gray squirrel was eyeing them from the tree as it slowly worked its way down the trunk. It was muttering something that Randall Nathan, an amateur linguist, thought sounded like Hebrew. Slowly it advanced on the boys, who, true to Randall's estimation of their good sense, picked up sticks and poked at it.
"Don't get that thing riled up," he said. "It's not acting right."
At the sound of his voice, the squirrel turned its evil glare upon the old man. It sniffed. A light of recognition came on in its beedy little eyes. "OMG," thought Randall, "it can smell squirrel melt on me." The squirrel charged and leaped. With a twirl he had not used since playing third base for The Fossil Remains in The Old Time Baseball League, a game he gave up when he turned 70, twirling in a "Veronica" that would make any matador jealous, he narrowly avoided the squirrel's bared and vicious snap.
"Jump on your bikes and ride for your lives," he yelled at Johnny and Zeke. "It's rabid."
He is now the most famous grandfather in the fourth grade, where all the students and even the teacher have been taught to imitate his remarkable pirouette as he avoided what Johnny and Zeke explained to their classmates was a vengeful rapid squirrel.
The wild game buffet was a fund-raiser for BP, because of all the money lost because of the spill. Bert Pratt, known as BP, took a spill on the ice while shoveling Old Lady Moffit's walk and hasn't been able to work since. The insurance company won't pay for an operation because it was a pre-existing condition: the ice was already on the ground when he slipped on it.
The wild game buffet featured venison, of course, and also chipmunk, bear, possum, raccoon, porcupine, woodchuck, fox, coyote, groundhog, something that people suspected was Dr. Hyland's dog that used to bark all night until it disappeared, and Thelma Sobriquet's famous "Squirll melts." [sick]
So there was Randall Nathan, who is opposed to eating strange stuff, munching on squirrel melts [He refused to refer to them as squirll], which, when you got past the name, weren't all bad, so he had a second helping, topped off by persimmon pudding.
Then Johnny Kendy's friend, Zeke, wanted Johnny to ride bikes with him to Smitty Park, named for Theduzq Drjpzkkl, the local blacksmith. It is clear why the park's name is not eponymous. Since Randall Nathan usually walks in Smitty Park each afternoon anyway, and since he really needed to walk off those squirrel melts, and since he does not trust fourth graders to have good sense while riding bikes, he decided he would walk in the park while his grandson and Zeke were riding there.
He had been all over the park and his aging legs were moving quite slowly when he finally came across them on one of the dirt trails. They were off their bikes and walking gingerly toward a tree. A small gray squirrel was eyeing them from the tree as it slowly worked its way down the trunk. It was muttering something that Randall Nathan, an amateur linguist, thought sounded like Hebrew. Slowly it advanced on the boys, who, true to Randall's estimation of their good sense, picked up sticks and poked at it.
"Don't get that thing riled up," he said. "It's not acting right."
At the sound of his voice, the squirrel turned its evil glare upon the old man. It sniffed. A light of recognition came on in its beedy little eyes. "OMG," thought Randall, "it can smell squirrel melt on me." The squirrel charged and leaped. With a twirl he had not used since playing third base for The Fossil Remains in The Old Time Baseball League, a game he gave up when he turned 70, twirling in a "Veronica" that would make any matador jealous, he narrowly avoided the squirrel's bared and vicious snap.
"Jump on your bikes and ride for your lives," he yelled at Johnny and Zeke. "It's rabid."
He is now the most famous grandfather in the fourth grade, where all the students and even the teacher have been taught to imitate his remarkable pirouette as he avoided what Johnny and Zeke explained to their classmates was a vengeful rapid squirrel.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
The Parade
Yesterday was the official start of tourist season in Periwinkle County, what is called The P3 Trail, The Pursuit of the Perfect Persimmon. It's not on the calendar. They just wait until the first good Saturday, and when they see the P3 tourists showing up, they get together and have a parade. It sort of snuck up, since everyone had just gotten back from the county vacation, and no one expected tourists so early.
It's not hard to put a parade together in PC, though, especially in an election year. You only have to get five signatures on your petition to run for office, so there were 19 candidates for sheriff in the parade, each handing out hard candies molded into the image of the candidate. Sheriff is a very lucrative position, because you are paid per deim meal money for each inmate, and it's okay to arrest family members on a per deim basis. Not only were there Democrats and Republicans running for sheriff, but also candidates from the Whig, Tory, Likud, Labour, Hamas, Tea, Coffee, Kill a Commie for Christ, and Bull Moose parties.
Also in the parade were the ladder trucks and tanker trucks and ambulances and chief cars of the VFDs of the 11 townships of PC, including Fruitvail, which is always surprising, because it's easy to forget that anyone actually lives in Fruitvail.
The bands of both high schools, The Volvo River "Marching Swedish Automobiles" and The North East Central South West "Marching In All Directions" Class 16 state champions.
Every organization in the county had marchers, including the Leak Creek Bug Lovers. No one is sure what they do, but the name gave impetus to many suggestions by the parade watchers.
The Hott Street Hussies, a Gospel singing group, also marched, in feather boas and high heels, and invited the good looking men along the route to follow them. Randall Nathan was trying to struggle up out of the deep bottom of his portable parade-watching chair to do it until Claire said, "They mean on their blog, idiot." "I'll blog 'em," said Jake Newland, just before Jenny accidentally dropped his walker on his head again.
It was an especially noisy parade, what with the cop cars and fire trucks and Hussies and candidates and bands. The bands always try to outdo each other in volume since their directors were once married to each other.
The parade was so loud that at first everyone thought that the fire alarm was just Ben "Seymour" Bottoms' cell phone. He uses "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight" as his ring tone, which is also what the automatic fire alert system plays from the belfry of St. John the Catholic Baptist Church to call the volunteer fire fighters to action. Kate Bates, Seymour's wife, knew however that it could not be, because he never remembers to take his phone or his glasses with him, so it was actually Kate who spread the alarm, by shouting "Limbaugh! Limbaugh" When those around her heard her calling out The Universal Distress Signal, they took up the cry, until it had spread up and down the parade route.
All went quiet as every ear tilted toward the St. John the Catholic belfry to hear the location of the conflagration. Tourists, of course, did not understand that PC residents know in which township the fire is located by the key in which the automatic system plays "Hot Time." But the key was Middle C, which stood for... No one could remember, until three-year-old Clara Wembley blurted out "Hot damn!" Clara is not allowed to say such words, of course, but it was so quiet, she thought it would be a good time to say what she had heard her grandpa gasping last night when they were having supper at "Juanita's Cantina and Curry Palace."
Hearing "damn," every PC resident immediately remembered GD, the Government District, the little trapezoidal shaped point of land just south of town where government does or does not take place. It is not a part of any township, and so does not have any fire protection of its own. And so the race was on. Most of the VFDs haven't fought a fire in years, and each was eager to distinguish itself by extinguishing the fire and thus qualifying for more grants to buy more equipment for driving in parades. The sheriff candidates went with them, each one trying to take charge, and so did the bands, to outdo each other in providing musical inspiration to the fire fighters, and so did the Hussies, because they perform a lot in the GD and were afraid they might lose gigs if there were a real disaster.
That, of course, left a complete void for the tourists and residents along the parade route. Until Mr. Kowalski showed up with his Lemonade Party car and his untrained dogs. No one knows his real name, but he looks remarkably like Kowalski of "The Penguins of Madagascar" cartoon show. He lives out beyond the electron mines and ion caves, with his dogs, and hardly ever comes to Memphjus, the county seat. But there he was, driving his rusted-out old Packard, with his pack of scrufty dogs jumping out of the windows, bottles of lemonade in their mouths, which they delivered to one or another parade watcher, and then dashed back to get another bottle for another watcher. Well, Phydeaux and Bluster did not dash. Phydeaux trotted very primly back and forth, and Bluster meandered quite lugubriously, but they got the job done, as a voice that sounded remarkably like Lady Gaga on Prozac lilted out of the loud speakers on top of the Packard: "Relax in the shade. Vote Lemonade. Cool it."
Last night Periwinklians and tourists alike wondered about many things. Why did the fire alarm sound for the GD when there was really no fire? Is there really a Lemonade Party? Does playing louder than the other bands mean your band is better? What happened to Clara when she got home? Will Phydeaux and Bluster get married?
Claire Nathan thought to herslf: There are questions which will never have good answers. Life is full of mysteries. It's best to walk into the mysteries and enjoy being there.
It's not hard to put a parade together in PC, though, especially in an election year. You only have to get five signatures on your petition to run for office, so there were 19 candidates for sheriff in the parade, each handing out hard candies molded into the image of the candidate. Sheriff is a very lucrative position, because you are paid per deim meal money for each inmate, and it's okay to arrest family members on a per deim basis. Not only were there Democrats and Republicans running for sheriff, but also candidates from the Whig, Tory, Likud, Labour, Hamas, Tea, Coffee, Kill a Commie for Christ, and Bull Moose parties.
Also in the parade were the ladder trucks and tanker trucks and ambulances and chief cars of the VFDs of the 11 townships of PC, including Fruitvail, which is always surprising, because it's easy to forget that anyone actually lives in Fruitvail.
The bands of both high schools, The Volvo River "Marching Swedish Automobiles" and The North East Central South West "Marching In All Directions" Class 16 state champions.
Every organization in the county had marchers, including the Leak Creek Bug Lovers. No one is sure what they do, but the name gave impetus to many suggestions by the parade watchers.
The Hott Street Hussies, a Gospel singing group, also marched, in feather boas and high heels, and invited the good looking men along the route to follow them. Randall Nathan was trying to struggle up out of the deep bottom of his portable parade-watching chair to do it until Claire said, "They mean on their blog, idiot." "I'll blog 'em," said Jake Newland, just before Jenny accidentally dropped his walker on his head again.
It was an especially noisy parade, what with the cop cars and fire trucks and Hussies and candidates and bands. The bands always try to outdo each other in volume since their directors were once married to each other.
The parade was so loud that at first everyone thought that the fire alarm was just Ben "Seymour" Bottoms' cell phone. He uses "There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight" as his ring tone, which is also what the automatic fire alert system plays from the belfry of St. John the Catholic Baptist Church to call the volunteer fire fighters to action. Kate Bates, Seymour's wife, knew however that it could not be, because he never remembers to take his phone or his glasses with him, so it was actually Kate who spread the alarm, by shouting "Limbaugh! Limbaugh" When those around her heard her calling out The Universal Distress Signal, they took up the cry, until it had spread up and down the parade route.
All went quiet as every ear tilted toward the St. John the Catholic belfry to hear the location of the conflagration. Tourists, of course, did not understand that PC residents know in which township the fire is located by the key in which the automatic system plays "Hot Time." But the key was Middle C, which stood for... No one could remember, until three-year-old Clara Wembley blurted out "Hot damn!" Clara is not allowed to say such words, of course, but it was so quiet, she thought it would be a good time to say what she had heard her grandpa gasping last night when they were having supper at "Juanita's Cantina and Curry Palace."
Hearing "damn," every PC resident immediately remembered GD, the Government District, the little trapezoidal shaped point of land just south of town where government does or does not take place. It is not a part of any township, and so does not have any fire protection of its own. And so the race was on. Most of the VFDs haven't fought a fire in years, and each was eager to distinguish itself by extinguishing the fire and thus qualifying for more grants to buy more equipment for driving in parades. The sheriff candidates went with them, each one trying to take charge, and so did the bands, to outdo each other in providing musical inspiration to the fire fighters, and so did the Hussies, because they perform a lot in the GD and were afraid they might lose gigs if there were a real disaster.
That, of course, left a complete void for the tourists and residents along the parade route. Until Mr. Kowalski showed up with his Lemonade Party car and his untrained dogs. No one knows his real name, but he looks remarkably like Kowalski of "The Penguins of Madagascar" cartoon show. He lives out beyond the electron mines and ion caves, with his dogs, and hardly ever comes to Memphjus, the county seat. But there he was, driving his rusted-out old Packard, with his pack of scrufty dogs jumping out of the windows, bottles of lemonade in their mouths, which they delivered to one or another parade watcher, and then dashed back to get another bottle for another watcher. Well, Phydeaux and Bluster did not dash. Phydeaux trotted very primly back and forth, and Bluster meandered quite lugubriously, but they got the job done, as a voice that sounded remarkably like Lady Gaga on Prozac lilted out of the loud speakers on top of the Packard: "Relax in the shade. Vote Lemonade. Cool it."
Last night Periwinklians and tourists alike wondered about many things. Why did the fire alarm sound for the GD when there was really no fire? Is there really a Lemonade Party? Does playing louder than the other bands mean your band is better? What happened to Clara when she got home? Will Phydeaux and Bluster get married?
Claire Nathan thought to herslf: There are questions which will never have good answers. Life is full of mysteries. It's best to walk into the mysteries and enjoy being there.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Neckties & The Internet
Randall Nathan is convinced that the reason men no longer wear neckties is because of the internet. The death of neckties coincided entirely with the advent of said internet. It was necessary to save time, in order to watch funny animal videos on YouTube, so people stopped tying neckties.
Hairy Potters & Geriatric Nurses
The Periwinklians are trickling back in from their group vacation.
Gary Potter, who believes that name is destiny, and who is called "Hairy" by his friends, both because he is a wizard with clay in his hands, and for his luxuriant gray ponytail [which he bought at the "For Bare Heads" store], used his vacation time to visit old friends and to take photos of them and to collect buckets of soils from their yards.
His plan is to mix their soils with his potting clay to create individual glazes for them and then throw mugs or bowls for them to use. It is working well so far. He has created a mottled tan/brown glaze from the yard soil of Randall Nathan and formed it into a replica of Albrecht Durer's "Praying Hands," holding a coffee mug. He compared it to the photo of Randall and was pleased that the brown spots are in exactly the same places as those on his friend's hands.
Now he is working on a bowl in the shape of Spencer Fulyard's head. Spencer's wife, Bea, is a geriatric nurse. Spencer says that the great thing about being married to a geratric nurse is that the older he gets, the more interested in him she becomes.
Gary Potter, who believes that name is destiny, and who is called "Hairy" by his friends, both because he is a wizard with clay in his hands, and for his luxuriant gray ponytail [which he bought at the "For Bare Heads" store], used his vacation time to visit old friends and to take photos of them and to collect buckets of soils from their yards.
His plan is to mix their soils with his potting clay to create individual glazes for them and then throw mugs or bowls for them to use. It is working well so far. He has created a mottled tan/brown glaze from the yard soil of Randall Nathan and formed it into a replica of Albrecht Durer's "Praying Hands," holding a coffee mug. He compared it to the photo of Randall and was pleased that the brown spots are in exactly the same places as those on his friend's hands.
Now he is working on a bowl in the shape of Spencer Fulyard's head. Spencer's wife, Bea, is a geriatric nurse. Spencer says that the great thing about being married to a geratric nurse is that the older he gets, the more interested in him she becomes.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Gender Specific Situations
State Trooper Les Kirk is filling in while the Periwinkle County law forces are on vacation. He saw a car on Intra-County Highway 33 & 1/2 going way over the speed limit. It was not flying an "Eat Persimmons or Die Poorly" flag, so he knew it was illegal immigrants. He was just going to check on car seats, since there was a boy in the backseat. His instinct was right;the boy was not in a car seat.
"M'am, how old is the boy?" he asked the driver.
She flew into a rage.
"He's nine, and he's big enough he doesn't have to be in a car seat. Tyrone, you get out of that seat and show the man how big you are."
"It doesn't matter..." Les started. He was going to explain that since state law says only that any child 8 or under must be in a car seat, the boy's size was irrelevant, since he was above the age limit. He didn't get to finish. The woman was out of the car, screaming, yelling, demanding that Tyrone get out of the car to show Les how big he was, saying unkind things about Les and his ancestors, pulling poor Tyrone out, making him walk around, pointing at him, waving at other cars to stop to witness how big Tyrone was.
Les leaned over to the man in the passenger seat. "I don't want to give you a ticket," he said. "The boy doesn't have to be in a car seat. But... do you have ANY control of that woman?"
The man stared straight ahead and said: "Sir, this is a gender-specific situation. Getting a citation is the least of my worries."
"M'am, how old is the boy?" he asked the driver.
She flew into a rage.
"He's nine, and he's big enough he doesn't have to be in a car seat. Tyrone, you get out of that seat and show the man how big you are."
"It doesn't matter..." Les started. He was going to explain that since state law says only that any child 8 or under must be in a car seat, the boy's size was irrelevant, since he was above the age limit. He didn't get to finish. The woman was out of the car, screaming, yelling, demanding that Tyrone get out of the car to show Les how big he was, saying unkind things about Les and his ancestors, pulling poor Tyrone out, making him walk around, pointing at him, waving at other cars to stop to witness how big Tyrone was.
Les leaned over to the man in the passenger seat. "I don't want to give you a ticket," he said. "The boy doesn't have to be in a car seat. But... do you have ANY control of that woman?"
The man stared straight ahead and said: "Sir, this is a gender-specific situation. Getting a citation is the least of my worries."
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