At six this morning the doorbell rang, and since I guess I’ve halfway accepted that the Christmas season is closing in upon us, I sprang from my bed, to see what was the matter.

The landlord! was what went through my mind as I made my way down the hall.  It’s a sneak attack!  He thinks he’ll catch me with the dog again, giving him even greater gloating power.  Maybe even this second he’s just waiting to hand me my eviction notice.  Standing there under the glare of the porch light, thinking he can get the best of me by an early morning attack.  Boy would he be surprised.  Obviously he was unaware of Newton’s Third Law of Rental Agreement Negotiations.

We’d spent all of last night preparing for his arrival, stripping bookshelves and closets and boxing everything.  Imaginary Keith’s son and I, it turns out, are boys of action.  We turned off the television and packed like our lives depended on it, stuffing one box after another and piling them in front of the large, front picture window.  Who would take who by surprise now?  When I threw open the curtain in the morning, officially announcing my willingness to fight, the landlord and his troops would go slack-jawed by the impressive sight of our impenetrable wall of cardboard.  Let them burn off a few shots.  Their slugs would never make it through all those books.

The doorbell rang again as I entered the living room, crouch-walking my way over to the curtain cord.  The boxes didn’t go quite all the way to the ceiling, and it be just my luck to take a stray shot from some nervous rookie.  I grabbed the cord just as a fist pounded on the door.

“Open up!”

“Open up my ass,” I yelled back, and pulled on the cord, the curtains sliding open.  I dropped to the floor, listening for the bullets to start pounding away at the boxes.  I’d put cookbooks, gardening books, and old yearbooks up front.  They’d be taking the worst of the assault.

The doorbell rang again.  “I know you’re in there.  Now open up.  I lost my key.” What kind of idiot landlord loses his keys?

The assault on our front door has been going on for two hours now.  I keep thinking I should take a peek, but I don’t want to risk being seen, or worse yet, shot.  And it’s always the same thing.  He just keeps yelling, ‘Open up, open up!’, and I’m starting to wonder why he never brings up anything else.  And the funny thing is, it’s starting to sound like Imaginary Keith doing all of the yelling.  But then, that could just be a landlord trick, I’m thinking.  Disguising his voice to sound like my imaginary friend.  I’m not falling for it.

But something will have to give within the hour.  At 9:00 we make a break for the car, so I can take Imaginary Keith’s son to school.  I wish I knew the upstairs girl’s phone number.  I bet she’d throw down a little cover fire for us around nine.  She seems friendly enough.

Hmmm.  Friendly fire.  Until just now I’d never really understood what it meant.

Wish us luck.

At nine sharp I threw open the door and we rushed the car.  “Keep low,” I yelled.  I swear, kids these days just don’t understand the basics of guerilla warfare.  The video game industry, for all it’s hype, is turning out a bunch of easy targets.  As I rounded the back corner of the car, I tripped over someone leaning against the tire, eating an apple.  It was Imaginary Keith!

“Thank god you’re here!  Cover us!” I’m not sure where he’d come from, but the timing couldn’t have been better.  We needed all the help we could get.

“Well it’s about time.  I’ve been pounding on the door all morning,” Imaginary Keith said.  I ducked behind the car, looking through the windows for any sign of the landlord.  I couldn’t believe they hadn’t gotten off a single shot.

“Get in the car!  Quick!” There really was no time to waste.  The landlord and his troops were obviously scouting the perimeter.  “Roll down the window,” I told Imaginary Keith.  “I need to yell something.” We scrambled into our seats and I jabbed the car in gear.

“Who’s the tactician now!” I yelled out the open window as we sped away.

“Keith?”

“Yes.”

“What’s with all the boxes in the window?” Imaginary Keith asked.

“We’re at war with the landlord, so we built a fort out of our things.  We’ll be pulling up stakes soon.  You made it back just in time.”

“Oh.” He took another bite out of the apple.

“And as soon as we drop off your son at school, we’re going on the offensive.  We’re going to take the fight right to the rental office.  He won’t be expecting that.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, can I go?” Imaginary Keith’s son asked.  “I want to go.”

“No, you’re going to school.  Besides, until you learn to keep down, you’re not ready for any real action.”

“But I didn’t see anyone.”

“That’s because you weren’t low enough.  Believe me, they were there.” Kids.  I swear.  The car weaved in and out of the Mission Street traffic.  There’d be no time for coffee this morning.  The landlord was going to pay for that.  Starting a battle before either side had time for a decent cup of coffee.  What is this world coming to?

“Do you think that cute girl will be behind the desk?” Imaginary Keith asked.  “I haven’t seen her in awhile.”

“Excuse me?  But have you been listening?  We’re at war.  There’ll be no fraternizing.”

“I was just thinking that a little negotiating might help ease the tension.  I could go in as a diplomat.  You know, see if there might be room for bargaining.  Discuss some terms or something.”

“I don’t know.  Maybe you’re right.” Imaginary Keith posing as a diplomat might give me just the advantage I needed.  Buy me some time while I snuck around to the back.  It’d be kind of like telemarketers posing as a trustworthy, midwestern state.  “Sure.  We’ll give it a try.”

Imaginary Keith’s son looked at me funny as we dropped him off in front of the school.  I think he may have suspected my plan, but didn’t say a word.  Maybe he’d make a good soldier after all.  He was a good quick packer.  I had to give him that much.

“Should I wave or salute goodbye?” he asked, standing outside the car window, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

“We better stick to waving.  There’s no need to alarm the rest of the kids.”

“Good idea.” He waved, his index finger slightly touching his right temple.  It was more discreet then I would have imagined from a nine year old.  I “waved” back.

“Next stop, the rental office,” I announced, looking over at Imaginary Keith.

“Is there any apple stuck in my teeth?”

“No, you look great.” Diplomats are so naive.

I live in a void of my own making, and read the newspaper once a year to stay in touch.  My critics say that it will never work, but I somehow continue to manage to prove them wrong.  My very existence, I tell them, should be proof enough.  Current events do not make the man.

But anyway.  Today was the day.  I read the paper and am totally back in touch. 

President Bush is in Canada easing tensions with the Canadians.  Or he may just be scoping out the place.  I didn’t actually read the entire article.  Mostly just the headline.  I am wondering though.  If the United States takes over Canada (larger draft base), what will happen to those people who dodged the draft back whenever?  And what about that Canadian silver dollar proof coin I bought back in sixth grade?  What’s going to happen to that?  I better get reimbursed dammit.

And some of the major sports companies are complaining because Adidas won’t follow the rules about logo size when it comes to the U.S. Olympians’ uniforms.  The Adidas logo is too big.  It’s giving them an unfair market advantage, and on and on and on.

Do you think that the I Love Lucy show has enough of a loyal following that I could press to have the national anthem changed to that sound that Lucy makes whenever things go wrong.  Waaaaaaaaaaaaa.  Everyone could sing it, I’m almost sure.  Simple words.  Historically significant.  And very apropos.  Airborne Rangers could even scream it as they dove into battle.

But enough about marketing and fair play.  What about human interest?  What’s going on in the world of people?

Well, it looks like it’s mostly about being scared or murdered.  Some man has somehow shot and killed a whole covey of hunters somewhere in Wisconsin.  The story varies, depending on which side of the hunting stand you’re standing on.  Apparently the group dispensed with the singing of my newly proposed national anthem and went right into the first event - gun play.  Who shot first is the great mystery, which will be left up to a jury to decide.  Let’s hope one of those jurors was in a nearby tree stand and saw the whole thing, or else there’s going to be no getting at the truth.  Sweet Jesus!  Fishermen can’t even be counted on to accurately describe fish that have gotten away.  How do we expect a group of hunters to have remained calm, observant, and collected with bullets flying every which way?

I went deer hunting once and shot a doe out of season.  It was no glorious moment, and nothing to brag about, but at least I didn’t end up dead.  My only salvation lies in the fact that it happened during my family’s lean, backwoods days.  We needed the meat.  We were broke and hungry.  Supposedly I was a hero, although I can say that I haven’t shot a deer since.

On the sports front, the local sports editor was complaining about how money has ruined college sports programs all across the country.  He’s a good man and probably right, but it sounded a bit national anthemish to me.  Of course money is ruining college sports.  That’s not breaking news.  But I read the article anyway, mostly because we’d installed the landscape around his home several years ago.  There’s just something about tending to someone else’s drainage problem that links you for the rest of your natural life.  Taking care of another person’s problems creates a bond, whether you like it or not.  So I read Jim’s article.  Right on, Jim!  That Notre Dame guy should never have been fired!  Sweet Mother of Mary!  Where is the justice?

I read a lot more, but since I also drank a large beer with my lunch, I’m having trouble remembering any of it.

I remember that cougars are moving in, getting closer and closer.  They had to shoot one right out of a tree at an apartment complex.  Almost sounds like a problem that a homeowner would expect their landscaper to take care of for them.  But as for cougars moving in, I think we all know that’s not quite the case.  People are moving out, further and further.  We’re a damn nuisance, that’s what we are.

Oh, and there was one last thing.  There was a great photograph of a woman kicking off the holiday shopping season by shopping at her local Wal-Mart.  Maybe the same picture was in your local paper.  I hope so.  You can’t miss her.  She looks scared and her arms are piled high with four boxes - two fondue pots and two . . . oh damn . . . I’ve gone and forgotten.  But whatever they were, they were smaller then fondue pot boxes.  The woman might have looked scared, but she was an efficient stacker.

I should point out, however, that I am in no way making fun of the woman.  I know she’s helping the economy by spending her hard-earned dollars.  Besides, whenever I go into Wal-Mart, I look exactly the same way.

Whatever I’ve said about my son in the past, I take it all back.  I don’t mind all the talking.  Really I don’t.  I’ve even learned that it can come in handy.

Say, for instance, that I’ve gone to the storage place for some pricing information and decide to pick up some boxes.  I’m moving.  I’ll be needing some boxes.

But with a talkative son along, you can’t just buy boxes.  No, with him along, you need to explore boxes.  You investigate the boxes and you inspect the boxes.  Boxes must be compared and studied.  And, of course, questions must be asked.  Lots of questions.

By the time you are ready to leave, a talkative son will have wowed the woman behind the desk with his whirlwind of box related questions so much that she won’t be able to stop smiling, eventually becoming so enthralled by the boy’s enthusiasm for boxes that she throws in a free roll of tape.  She pities you.  The tape is her gift to you, although she gives it to the boy.

Your ears are sore from the questions, but hey, it’s a $3.99 value.  Moving or no moving, things are looking up.

I pulled up a block short of the rental office.  We would use the fog and the element of surprise to take the building.  Imaginary Keith would enter from the front, posing as a diplomat, while I snuck around back to jimmy the service entrance door.  They would never know what hit them.

“Okay, so you know what to do, right?” I wanted to make sure Imaginary Keith would not screw up his unknowing part in the plan.  Everything had to go exactly as I’d imagined.

“Sure.  We go in.  I chit chat with the girl for a minute, then we talk to the landlord and smooth this whole mess out.  What’s to know?”

“No, that’s not quite right.  First off, there is no chit chat with the girl, and second, you talk to the landlord.  I’ll follow you in after a minute or two.  I need to check on something.”

“What do you need to check on?”

“Something.  Besides, don’t you think it’d be better if he didn’t see me right away.  It’ll give you a chance to work that diplomatic magic.  I’m no good at diplomacy, you know that.”

There was no sign of activity inside the front window, which meant that they were probably in the back, fattening up on donuts or something.  This was going to be even better then I’d imagined.  Imaginary Keith couldn’t mess it up if he was just left standing there at the front desk with no one to talk to.  It would all depend on how fast I could get that back door open.

“No, you’re no diplomat.  I’ll agree to that.  But I’m not going in alone.  You’re coming with me.”

“What?  Just give me a minute.  I’ll be right behind you.” The guy was home no more then thirty minutes and already he was trying to call the shots.

“No.  It’s your problem and you’re going in with me, and that’s all there is to it.”

I knew that arguing with Imaginary Keith was useless.  I’d have a better chance picking a fight with the fog.

“Alright.  I’ll go in.  But if no one’s there, I’m leaving.  I don’t like standing around.” If no one was there at the front desk, I could leave and there’d still be time to get around back.  The plan would still work.

“Good enough,” Imaginary Keith said, and pulled open the front door.  “Come on.”

I looked around the side of Imaginary Keith, peering into the reception area.  There was still no sign of anyone.  No cute girl, no grumpy receipt lady in the back corner desk, and no landlord.  The computers were on and the thought crossed my mind that there might even be time for a little espionage. 

“Are you coming or not?” Imaginary Keith was holding open the door, waiting for me to enter.  As I walked in, it suddenly occurred to me that we could be walking into a trap.  All of the desks went clear to the floor, and each had a clear shot at anyone coming through the door.  The office was highly defendable.

“Maybe we should call first,” I said, edging back towards the door.  What if the door was electronic and locked us in?  I hadn’t thought of that.

“We’re here now,” Imaginary Keith said, grabbing my arm.  “Let’s just get this over.” The whole thing seemed to be unraveling.

“Hello!” Imaginary Keith yelled into the back room.  His voice seemed too loud, and I could imagine the staff’s heads either popping out of the donut box in the back, or just about to pop out from behind their desks, one eye squinting down a shotgun barrel.  I could hardly look.

“Be right with you,” came a girl’s voice from the back.

“Cute girl,” Imaginary Keith whispered.  He was obviously excited.  I thought about telling him about the apple skin stuck between his teeth, but didn’t.  Serve him right.  Dragging me in there like that and ruining a perfectly good plan.  I’d tell him as soon as we’d left.  Maybe next time he’d listen to me.

A few things occurred to me today:

• Spam robots have more identities then any murderous psychopath ever thought of having.
• The only real problem with invisibility is that it’s just not that sexy.
• Each box I help her move equals 8 minutes of “what if” questions and 12.5 minutes of crying.
• When my possessions are all boxed, I might be able to build myself a small, ugly brown igloo.
• I should retire from the hot wing eating business.
• Before the lightbulb was invented, I have no idea what cartoonists drew above a person’s head to represent a good idea.
• I am ever so slowly beginning to not look like myself.

• Imaginary Keith and his sidekick boy encounter a worthy adversary in The Hardy Boys and the Mystery of the Immature Stylings of the Interrobang
• A report on my upcoming cross country train adventure
• More on my riveting, blow by blow account of the upcoming move, and more importantly, what it means to you
• The Mid-Willamette Valley fog report
• And some startling images of a shadowy figure caught sneaking around the boxes

“Be right with you.” The voice was cheerful and informative.  It was the cute girl.  I didn’t have much time.

“Oh oh.  I forgot some papers in the car.  I’ll be right back.” I tried to pull away from the grip Imaginary Keith had on my arm, but couldn’t.  And it wouldn’t look good to be found struggling uselessly.  I had to think of something.

“You’re staying right here with me.  Look, here she comes now.”

Cute girl crossed the few steps from the back door, dumping her armload of manilla folders on her desk.  I was running out of time.

“Good morning.  Can I help you?”

“We need to speak with the landlord,” Imaginary Keith said.  This was happening too fast.  Where was the idle chit chat he’d promised.  The coward.  He was skipping flirting and going straight to business.

“He was right behind me and should . . . yes, here he is now.”

There was no escaping now.  I jerked my arm away from Imaginary Keith’s grip and tried to look tall.  The landlord crossed the room in three large steps, his eyes darting back and forth between me and Imaginary Keith.  I couldn’t believe it.  The arrogant son of a bitch was smiling!  Imaginary Keith should do something, I thought.  He’s the diplomat.  I turned to tell him just in time to see his jaw go slack and drop open.

”Ruckert?!" Imaginary Keith yelled.  I looked back at the landlord.

”Ruckert?" What was going on here?  This was Ruckert?  My landlord was Ruckert?

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Ruckert said.  “My name is Imaginary Keith.  I have my identification right here, if you’d like to see it.” He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open, and dropped it on the desk.  Imaginary Keith’s driver’s license stared back at us from behind a plastic insert.  So this was Ruckert.  He’d stolen Imaginary Keith’s license when he’d left Minnesota.  But how’d he manage to become my landlord?

“What the hell?!” It was all Imaginary Keith could manage to get out.  So much for diplomacy.

“I could have you evicted in 72 hours,” Ruckert said.  “But you’ve been good tenants, at least up until this unfortunate dog incident, so I’ll give you thirty days.”

“Thirty days?  Ruckert, what in the . . “

“You really must have me confused with someone else.” Ruckert said.  “Here, let me walk you to the door.” He came out from behind the desk and draped an arm over Imaginary Keith.  Thirty days wasn’t bad, I was thinking.  Certainly better then three.  Maybe there was something to this diplomacy thing after all.  Imaginary Keith looked confused, obviously still trying to understand what was happening.  Things were moving kind of fast.

“Ruckert, I don’t . . . “

Ruckert held open the door, and then whispered into Imaginary Keith’s ear, “What’d you do with the mosquito data?”

“I burned it, like you said.”

“All of it?” Ruckert whispered, then looked back at the receptionist to make sure she couldn’t hear.  “Did you burn everything?”

“Yes.” Imaginary Keith said.

“Good.  Perfect.” Ruckert looked back again at the receptionist and smiled.

“Ruckert, what’s going on?” Imaginary Keith asked.  “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“I told you they needed a kick in the ass, and that’s just what I’m doing.”

”They? I thought you meant the scientific community, not us.  You can’t kick us out of the apartment.”

“Looks like I just did,” Ruckert whispered, then added loudly, so that the receptionist could hear, “Have a good day.” The door swung shut, leaving me and Imaginary Keith standing outside in the fog.  Ruckert was already leaning against the desk, chit chatting with the cute girl.

“So that’s Ruckert,” I said to Imaginary Keith.  “He’s younger then I thought he’d be.”

“I can’t believe he evicted us.  Not after all those mosquito bite experiments.  I should have known he was up to something.”

“You definitely have some odd friends, I’ll give you that.  But things could be worse.  We do have thirty days.”

“Yea, but then what?” Imaginary Keith kept looking back over his shoulder.  I think he half-expected Ruckert to follow us back to the car.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to move.  And if I were you, I’d be thinking of ways to get my license back.”

“You’re right.  Okay.  I need to think.  Let’s go back to the apartment.  How many boxes are there?”

“Lots.”

“Enough for a fort?”

“I think so.”

“Good.  I think better in a fort, don’t you?”

“Well sure.  Doesn’t everybody?”

Today his talking is driving me crazy.  Endless chatter.

“How do you spell Pekinese?  If we wanted some Pekinese we could get as many as we wanted.  Daniel’s mom hatches them every chance she gets.  We could get a ton of Pekinese.  Do you think we should get some Pekinese?  Do you like Pekinese?”

He switches thoughts.

“Hey!  How come that girl didn’t call us about the puggies?  She said she’d call about the pugs.  In November!”

Switch

“Hey!  Where’s my dog book?  Is it packed?  Did you pack it?  I’m going to have to go through all . . . here it is!  Will you come here for a second?  Will you come over here and see if you can see a Welsh Corgi Pembroke?  Do you like Welsh Corgi Pembroke’s?  Did you ever have a Welsh Corgi Pembroke?  Are they fast?  How short are they?  Do they have loud barks?  What’s their temperment?  Okay, what would you like better?  A Welsch Corgi Pembroke, a pug, or a pekinese?  Are you sure?  You better think about it, dad.  Okay, answer again.”

How much more dog talk can I withstand?  It’s like living with an AM radio talk show host.

I am tired of thinking and tired of the drama.

Who invented relationships?  Will someone please tell me so I can have a fictional character kick the fictional crap out of their fictional idea.  How can I even explain how tired I am?  If I sat in a chair and no one talked to me or called me, how long could I sit in that chair, taking in the silence?  Two, three days?  A week?  A month?  How long until I decided to move?  How long until I felt the need to leave?

I might write a will and leave all my words to the members of this blog.  Wouldn’t that be something.  What in the world would you do with them?  Divide them up?  Argue over who got what.  I would add a clause that made it illegal to hire legal representation.  If you want my words you will have to fight over them.  You will have to end up as tired getting them as I did in writing them.  By the time you get them home, you will hate them.  You will be so tired from fighting over my words that you will put them in a box and try to forget all about them. 

Before one of my grandmothers had died, she’d written my mom’s name on the back of a framed picture, intending that my mom would get the picture.  Then when she died, one of her sons took the picture, ignoring the name on the back, because he wanted the frame.  The picture disappeared, which was what my mom really wanted all along, and the frame now hangs in my uncle’s house, my mom’s name still penciled on the back.  The funny thing is, it’s the same bastard who now tires me out with all of his forwarded pro-Bush email.  He wants something from me.  There is no end, it seems, to some people’s selfishness.

I wonder if I would steal the frame from his house if given the chance.  Would I tuck it into my suitcase and smile at him as I walked out the door?  Would I thank him for his hospitality?  Would I enter his house and pound him with my politics?  Would I try to wear him down?  Would I try to convince him of anything?

My problem right now is that everyone has become the honorary inventor of relationships.  I’m tired and grumpy.  If you’re in my line of sight, I will hate you like there is no tomorrow.

Man I need some sleep.

Last Friday, I’d volunteered to help in the classroom.  A clay project.  The kids were making picture frames and they’d be excited if I could join them.  The last time I’d helped with one of my son’s schoolroom projects was back in kindergarten, where I’d been assigned to a table of ten kids at a time, rotating constantly.  My job that time had been to supervise the scooping of pumpkin seeds from fresh pumpkins, have the kids separate the seeds from the pulp, wash them perfectly clean, and then dry them so they could be placed in an envelope for planting in the spring.

It was immediately clear to me that this particular kindergarten teacher had no sense of reality, and I spent the next two hours keeping boys from whipping pumpkin slime in each others hair and convincing squeamish girls to stick their hands into the pumpkin.  Any progress that I did think we were making was immediately rebuked by the teacher.  “Those seeds aren’t clean enough.  They need to be cleaner.” I smiled and returned to my job.  Seeds shot across the room by the handful.

The idea, I guess, was for the children to see the source of the seeds, clean them, store them, and then return to them in the spring, so that they could plant them into egg cartons.  It was a grand idea.  An agricultural marvel.  I sloshed through the pumpkin with the kids, doing what I could to contain the natural disaster, all the time thinking that the pumpkin was probably a hybrid.  The seeds, most likely, would not produce pumpkins like the parent.  But I had a job and kept my mouth shut.

Friday went better.  Third graders are much better at projects then kindergartners.  I marveled at the teacher’s ability to go over the instructions.  I audibly gasped at her proficiency in silencing errant talkers by simply looking up.  The kids giggled at my foolishness, and as I looked around, I recognized several faces from the failed seed project three years earlier.  My eyes twitched, but I told myself that clay beats pumpkin seeds any day of the week.  I couldn’t let them see my weakness.  Everything would be okay.

I think that third grade boys pay more attention to women then I did when I was that age, although I wouldn’t necessarily say that it’s a good thing.  They smirk and joke, but I’m not convinced they know what they’re talking about.  And I don’t remember any girls wearing makeup when I was in third grade, although I suppose they could have and I just didn’t notice.  I did wonder if any of the girl’s classmates could have told you that she had makeup on, or whether that was something that still was outside of their focus.  The other little girls surely knew, but what about the boys?  I kind of doubt it.

Today I return to the classroom for yet another project.  I forget what it is, but I remember it sounded easier then clay.  Something with paper.  I don’t even know why they needed my help.

And tomorrow is the great train caper.  An entire pod of my son’s school, which amounts to about 150 students, will be taking the Amtrak train on a short ride north, then return by bus.  And yes, I will be there.  Part observer, part first-time train passenger, part time chaperone.  I will help herd the children.  I will keep them organized and in line.  Mostly, I will just hope that the train is not running behind schedule.  I mean, what do you do with 150 kids in the cold and rain on a train platform?

Update:

I have, of course, been duped.  Dropping the boy off at school, I find out that this afternoon’s paper project is really another clay project.  Another afternoon spent repeating the clay volunteers mantra: “Okay, careful.  Now remember, you don’t want to cut all the way thro . . . ooooohhhh.  I think we can fix that.”

You should have seen me, rounding up thirty third graders like a pro.  I’ve decided that there’s really not that much to teaching elementary kids after all.  It’s just a matter of getting through that first day.

It’s all the same kids, so I feel like I know them already.  Makeup girl, it turns out, really isn’t so bad, and builds a nice clay, gingerbread house.  Even the shy, cross-eyed girl who sits next to my son, who didn’t say a single word to me on Friday, opened right up and almost cracked a smile in my direction.  And I became an almost instant hit with a small group of girls when they discovered my much-coveted talent for attaching clay chimneys!  And even Austin, the boy who reminds me of a 100 pound caterpillar, needs my help, although I’m convinced he would have done just fine if he hadn’t spent so much time singing Mr. Roboto.

Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto

Like most of us, it seemed to be the only line he knew.  I picked up his rolling pin and gently tapped him on the back of the head.

Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto
Mata ah-oo hima de
Domo arigat, Mr. Robot
Himitsu wo shiri tai

Much better.  I was reaching my teaching stride.  Really getting into it.

I moved back to shy girl’s side.  I could see her tiny biceps, smaller then the rolling pin itself, shaking as she pushed with all her might into the unmoving clay.  “Need any help?” Blink, blink.  I took it as a yes, although I guess it could just have easily meant ‘don’t bonk me’.  Together we whipped a roof into place.  “Do you want a chimney?” Blink, blink.  “Which side?” She couldn’t blink her way out of this one, I thought.  I’d get her to talk yet.  A tiny finger, no bigger around then a new pink crayon, pointed to where we’d work.  “Good choice!” I no doubt remind her of a giant.

And then in no time at all it was all over.  The room was put back into shape, the new centerpiece a table filled with crooked and drooping clay gingerbread houses.  Success!  The bell rang and everyone raced out the door, no doubt searching for the nearest bag of sugar.

Tomorrow: The Grand Train Adventure!  The kids will be a cinch.  I’m just wondering if the conductor yells All Aboard!

Lunches packed.  Faces scrubbed.  Where’s my train hat?  No time for that now.  We’re off.

I thought I was dreaming of train whistles last night but was instead woken up by the squeaking springs of the neighbor’s bed upstairs.  3:00?  Who has sex at three in the morning?  Especially the night before your neighbors are about to catch the train.

Squeak, squeak, squeak.  Luckily her train came in on time and it grew quiet.  I yelled up at the ceiling, “Next stop, Oregon City!  All aboard!”, then fell back asleep.

I think trains must get everyone a little excited.

I was in the shower a short while ago, washing my hair I do believe, when I heard the train blowing its horn in the distance.  Never again will I hear that sound without fond memories of children bolting towards the tracks of an oncoming freight locomotive.

What in the hell is wrong with children?  Do they all want to be run over by trains?  If I was their teacher, I would immediately change tomorrow’s lesson plan to include a report on just that subject.  Tomorrow morning I would take out my chalk and write in big, giant block letters:  What The Hell Is Wrong With Children?  Okay, begin, I would say.  Everyone writes until recess time.

The thing about taking 150 kids on a train is that the train really doesn’t stop that long for loading and unloading.  It wasn’t something that I’d really considered.  Seriously, there is no time for thinking when you get on a train.  The kids either make it or they don’t.  The conductor does, in fact, yell All Aboard, but I think it’s more for show then any sort of helpful suggestion.  While loading, one of our sugarcoated rebels darted through the wrong door and disappeared somewhere into the train.  “I’ll get him,” I yelled, and darted in after him.

Now, up until this point, I’d never been on a train, except to hop on a few freight trains as a kid, but that doesn’t really count.  So I chase in after this kid and it’s really just like the movies.  The train cars are already filled with kids from other classes and by God, I suddenly realize that all kids look exactly alike.  I’m not kidding.  I don’t know how we adults tell them all apart, and I’m even starting to think that maybe we don’t even get the same kids sent home to us each night, but just the correct number.  Anyway, I’d figure that out later.  Right then, I needed to find that kid.

”Did a kid just pass through here?” It’s a stupid thing to ask forty second graders who themselves have never been on a train.  They all looked up at me with blank looks on their faces, which, come to think of it, might mean that we adults all look exactly the same to kids.  I’m thinking these kids might be staring at me because they’re just trying to figure out if I’m a teacher, a parent, or someone who works for the railroad.  It’s an interesting concept, but like I said, I didn’t have the time.  Where was that little shit?  Now in the movies everyone always heads up to the roof to chase each other around, so I naturally start looking around for a ladder.

And then something really scary happened.  The doors all closed and the train just started slipping away and the teacher came up behind me and asked me if I knew where the boy was and I said that I didn’t and that I’d go this way and she should go that way and did anyone know where this little monster had gone and then the teacher and I looked at each other and then we looked out the window thinking that we’d see him just standing there like he’d pulled some little tricky Home Alone prank on us and then someone said,

“Here he is.”

So far, other then standing in the freezing rain for twenty minutes and keeping the kids from running out onto the tracks in front of the other trains and feeling like we’d lost a kid, it’d been a pretty fun trip.  I looked out the window just as the station slid out of sight.

I think I may have blacked out at that point, I’m not sure.  I do know that I woke up just in time for our picnic in the rain, and then again to break up a nice little punching fight that had something to do with some little girl’s diary.  And I did learn that third grade girls spend a lot of time filling out these little name games that determine who will marry who, and how many children they’ll have, and what kind of car they’ll drive, and what job they’ll have.  I even got invited to play once, and now know that I’ll marry Brianna, we’ll have 23 children, I’ll drive a monster truck, and be a bus driver.  When the results of the test were read, I feigned embarrassment for Brianna’s sake.  Poor girl.  A whole bus full of healthy, energetic boys, and she gets the old bald man.

Rain or no rain, I had no problem tossing Imaginary Keith out the front door this morning.  Someone has to pay for this debacle.

“But I’m discussing beards on women with the boy,” he said.  “I’m thinking I should maybe skip work today.”

One of the nice things about the boy is that, at nine, he now finds himself entering the great knowledge period of his life.  He learns things simply by waking up, and has an informed, fully-developed opinion on every subject.

“Women can’t have beards,” I hear the boy tell Imaginary Keith.  “Men have beards.  Women don’t.”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” I’m not quite sure it’s the approach Imaginary Keith should take with his son, but I keep my opinions to myself.  Besides, when I think about it, just which approach should a father take with his son when discussing beards on women?  Does the father attempt to teach his son the importance of accepting all people for who they are, and not what they look like, including women with beards?  Or does he talk from the gut, letting his uneasiness with women’s beards show in his every word?  It’s times like these that I’m glad I’m not the boy’s father.

“Dad, are you sure?  I’ve never seen a woman with a beard.”

“Well, you’ll have to trust me on this one, son.  They’re out there.”

It’s the vague approach to truth.  I watch Imaginary Keith wave his arm around, apparently pointing out the general direction of all the bearded women.  The boy follows the movements of his father’s arm, the seed of his father’s paranoia planted in his young mind.

“Yea, there out there, just like you,” I tell him, and shove him out the door.  “Don’t come back until you’ve earned a few bucks.”

“But Ruckert still has my license.” Like his argument about the existence of bearded women, it’s a weak case.  I wave my arm around in the general direction of work and close the door.

School by nine and print the three-week late invoices.  Help move some boxes to her house and listen to some crying.  Fight exhaustion and return old phone calls.  Convince the boy to read more, that it’s not about perfection.  Words get mispronounced.  Live with it.  Move on.  It’s nothing, really.  Nothing at all.  Nothing is about perfection. 

Is the woman completely out of her mind?  And what’s the difference between “love coming and going”, and “love comes and goes”?  For her it seems it is coming and going.  For me - comes and goes.  Comes and then goes.  We are out of synch and always will be.  She keeps asking me what she can do, and all I can think to say is, move. 

Everyone asks questions already knowing the answers that they want to hear.

I’m sick of it.  I thought questions were about learning something, not getting your way.  It’s a pathetic way to try and manipulate people. 

Maybe that’s the difference between us.

In the future, bloggers will be assigned an area of expertise.  More importantly, all bloggers will be assigned levels of consciousness, which will function somewhat like a governmental hierarchy, somewhat like a cluster of interrelated souls.

For instance:

I may find myself assigned as an expert on, say, wet sidewalks.  I would then be expected to write prolifically about all aspects of wet sidewalks, which would, of course, relieve all other bloggers of having to do so.

Secondly, I would be assigned a position in the hierarchy.  Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that I have been assigned a position as a subconscious commenter on, say, Jo Spanglemonkey’s blog. 

What this would mean is that all of my writing would take place at the sub-level of Spanglemonkey, and would, no, I take that back . . must be worded in such a way as to not only reflect on Spanglemonkey’s assigned area of expertise, but also be worded in such a way as to reflect my own area of expertise, which in this example happens to be wet sidewalks.

Can you feel the efficiency in my vision?  Does it leave you suddenly feeling like you were born in the wrong century?

I’ve experimented briefly with my vision, and it holds some promise.

Pulled from a recent Spanglemonkey, and supplemented with my own, experimental responses.

Spanglemonkey:

Keep in mind that he worked for NIXON. For NIXON. Nixon! Do I have to repeat that? Nixon, the cynical bastard who resigned from office. RESIGNED. The man who disgraced the office of the presidency, whose cronies were evil evil evil. This man, who actually seemed rather a decent sort, worked for Nixon, and he is far more disgusted with the current administration.

Expert Response:

Nixon’s cronies may have been evil, but what could be more evil then a wet sidewalk, I ask?  Have you ever tried to get wet leaves up from a wet sidewalk?  Now that will drive a man to resign faster then any disgrace in public office.

Spanglemonkey:

Today! Is the day I make a Master List. I will get my shit together and it will be magnificent.

Expert Response:

As magnificent as a wet sidewalk!

I, for one, am looking forward to the future.  If only half of what I see becomes true, I will be a lucky man.

Please note:

Those interested in having their own blog subjected to our harsh, futuristic testing procedures, should leave a comment here.  Interested parties should note that experiments have shown that not all blogs hold up well to the streamlined rigors of blogging that we envision in the future.  Results will vary.  Settling will occur.  After all, not everything can be compared to a wet sidewalk.

The upstairs girl introduced me to another one of her brothers, and I told her I would be moving.  The brother and I shook hands, and all I could think about was Tuesday morning’s squeaking bed springs as I stared at the big, black hickey on his neck.  An unfortunate coincidence, I tell myself.  Nothing more.  Surely it’s nothing more.

“I could see a chain of problems as in a book, all spread out before me, starting from a fact which I did believe and leading me step by step mathematically to a given conclusion which I did not hitherto believe.  I then discovered I had powers within me that I knew not of.  I was reasoning as I never before reasoned.”

Elder Frederick Evans
Shaker

It’s 2:30 in the afternoon and it’s already getting dark.  The problem with Oregon in the winter is that it tries dressing up as some half-light place like Alaska, but ends up fooling no one.  I once heard that Oregon had the highest suicide rate in the U.S. because of all the rain and the darkness, but never followed up on it.  It may be true or it may not.

When I move I wonder if I’ll miss watching the little hoodlums passing by apartment on their way to the park?  The good thing about living on a farm is that there’s no one sneaking around in the dark, spray painting the sides of your car.  I’ve never actually caught someone in the act of tagging anything.  I wonder what I’d do.

I have stared out my window at the side of the homeless guy’s RV for a year now, and I think that’s just about enough of that.  He bought himself a Honda Civic the other day that he opens with a pull cord that dangles from the driver’s window.  The cord has a wood handle on the end and reminds me of mowing grass at my Grandma and Grandpa’s place on the lake.  You’d wrap this old rope cord around the top of the engine and give a pull, and it never started on the first wrap.  The homeless guy is good for that memory, but other then that, I’m sick of watching him talk to himself all day long as he paces around his broken down automobile collection.  I spoke to him once, about eight months ago, but backed off when I thought he was going to tear into me when I said, “Hey, how’s it going?” Maybe I interrupted.  Maybe I came off as a strange voice.  Maybe a million things.  Who knows what’s going on in his head.  I never will.

How American of me to think that it was all about me.  Everything is apparently out of sych.  Words lose their meaning just as nature loses its instinct.

Onepotmeal knows.

Myself.  I just paid a parking ticket I don’t remember receiving.  Apparently in Oregon, lapse of memory comes with a mandatory fine of ten additional bucks.

They’ll probably hit me up again next week, after my brain has a chance to cool down and re-forget.

It’s not unusual for December to leave people feeling that they should be outlined in chalk on a wet sidewalk just outside their house.  (If you’ve read my previous post, you can clearly see that I am practicing for the future.) I am no different.  My Smiling Fernando, the best employee in the world, takes his leave of absence in a few days, disappearing from my daily routine for at least two months.  You’d think I would get used to it, after so many years of working together, but I never do, and will spend the winter with this fluttery, panicked feeling in the pit of my stomach, worried that he will not return.

This year is worse because of the looming shadow of moving hovering nearby.  The move is nearly upon me.  The new house deal hasn’t quite closed, but the owners are completely moving out this weekend.  They’re a nice, agreeable, young couple, and have allowed things to be slowly stored in the garage until the deal finally closes, which I hope is soon.  I’ve moved quite a few boxes over there already, although from the looks of the farm house, you’d think that nothing had been packed.  The woman has some stuff, there’s no doubt about that.  There seems no end to it.

I was hoping that I’d be moved and settled before Christmas, but I’m not so sure at this point.  Moved maybe, but hardly settled.  The sheer quantity of stuff to be packed and moved just makes me feel that it can’t all happen before then.  We’ll see.  I know there’s a sentimental side to me, but right now I just want that house cleaned and gutted like a fish.  I want it emptied of every trinket.  I want the illusion of a fresh start.

I think one of the things that has been so tiring these last two years has been the responsibility of maintaining the farm while living ten miles away in an apartment.  Not just the financial responsibility of maintaining two separate households, but the actual physical responsibility of getting things done.  Too many things get left undone.  Jobs go unfinished.  Stuff piles up.  I could easily sit down and list hundreds of unfinished things that have rattled around in my head all this time.  It’s exhausting, knowing that it is my responsibility to get it done, and yet not being there to see that it is.  Very tiring. 

Let’s hope that moving back will close not only the distance between me and my concerns, but put an end to the countless hours of worrying.  There are other things I’d like to do, projects I’d like to start.  I think of serious writing projects I’d like to jump into, but have held back, knowing that I didn’t have the energy to follow through.

I hope the move helps.  I’m almost sure it’s a start.

I may be financed to the gills and tired of the mess that I’ve wandered into this time around, but I’ve also been reminded by a reader to not forget my good fortune.  Thank you ‘Mouse for the simple reminder.

“A fresh start in an old house.  Messy, yes.  But few are ever so lucky.”

True enough, and I’m glad it was pointed out to me.  It’s easy to know things, just like I know that I’m a lucky person.  But it is sometimes hard to remember these sorts of things, and even harder still to live each day with the thought of this luck in the front of your mind.

Funny that this close to moving back into the house, I would start having dreams of my grandparent’s old house on the lake in Minnesota.  And not just dreams taking place at the house, but dreams about buying the house and living there.  Dreams that seem to take place not in any imagined past, but in the here and now, or at least as here and now as dreams can ever seem to get.

It’s four in the morning, and now I’m sitting here in Oregon, wide awake, when only minutes ago I was resting under the shade of the pines, looking across the slope at the house, wondering out loud with some people on whether or not I could actually live there.  Telling the people the history of the house, about the time I spent there as a child, about my family, and all of my aunts and uncles and cousins who would congregate there, and about my grandparents themselves, who lived there year around, holding it all together so that the rest of us could enjoy it, and eventually remember it, as a home away from home.  From where I sat, I could see the entire profile of the house, the sweep of its sidewalks as they came around the hill, each step down edged by a row of identically sized, round stones. 

To my left was the hill, and although I couldn’t see it, the gravel drive, softened by so many years of falling pine needles that cars seemed to move almost silently through the woods, as the drive curled its way between rocks and trees and eventually slipped between two, six-foot tall pillars of stone, set in place more then seventy years ago by grandfather’s hands.  The pillars marked the edge of the property and welcomed you in, and it was from there that the driveway curved down and around to bring you to the house, tucked comfortably into the side of the hill.

And to my right was the lake itself, the sheen from the water glimpsed from between every tree, as far left and as far right as the eye could see.  Houses, dotting the far shore, are barely visible, and I blot them out, one by one, just by holding up my thumb in front of my face and moving it slowly along the horizon.  The house, sitting there amongst the trees on that hillside, never ceased to amaze me through all the years, and when you were there, held tightly somewhere within the strength of it, looking out upon the lake with it, the house made you feel like you were part of the lake, and part of the house, all at once.  It was as if the logs in its walls hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be trees, but now somehow needed you to be their roots.  They reached out to you in a way that most houses can’t, pumping all of it’s energy and will to live directly into you, so that when you stepped outside, and walked across that sandy hillside, or skipped stones along the lake, listening to the water lapping up against the shore, you were just as much a part of the house as you were a person.  And when you breathed, the house breathed, and when you took in everything around you, the house took in everything around you.  And between the silence of the lake, broken only by the lonely call of a loon or the whispery quiet of reeds rubbing against each other in the breeze, and the feel of the pines reaching all around you, there would be only so much you could take in all at once, and it was then that the house called you back in, to help ease you of the burden of so much life.  Back inside, you could release everything, and the house would absorb it all.

I am glad to be reminded that dreams are sometimes nothing more then the past becoming all tangled with the present.  And that sometimes dreams are just like taking in life along Bay Lake - there is no way you can do it all.  There’s just too much there for one breath, or one dream, so you do your best to take it in, and then do your best to let it out.  Dreaming, after all, is a lot like breathing, and a lot like living, just a whole series of small, insignificant ins and outs that all add up somehow to something much bigger.  You can’t get caught up, thinking about one dream, just like you can’t get caught up thinking about one breath.  It takes them all to make any sense.  It takes them all to make a life.  You draw everything in, then release.  Draw in, release.  Over and over and over.  And if you’re lucky, you’ll recognize the house, or person, or thought, or god, or even just the simple hope, that is big enough to absorb all of that life that is too much for you to hold inside.  And if you’re lucky, you’ll let it all out, so that you can step outside again and again, each time with the strength to draw in just a little bit more.

I like when Imaginary Keith dreams about those days on the lake.  He pulls on that mower rope and walks around in the thin grass, the sandy, rocky soil visible between every blade.  He sits on that swing and walks up and down the stone staircases, circling the house time and again.  Fishing poles are stacked on the lower back porch, the dock always needs painting, the boat house hasn’t been used in years and rots into the lake.  The furnace, tucked into a dark corner of the basement, roars like a dragon as you drop pennies through the large, iron grate above, listening as they bounce off of it’s metal head.  He never hears her coming, and grandma chases him away laughing.  Only a grandmother could protect a dragon from a little boy with nothing but a smile.

But it’s only a dream, after all, and we have work to do.  It’s a big day, so I shake him awake.

“Get up.  You need to make coffee.”

“Why’d you wake me up,” Imaginary Keith complains.  “I was dreaming about . . . “

“I know you were.  I was watching.  Now get up.  I need some coffee.”

“I was looking at the house, talking to some people about . . . “

“I know.  And that house was thinner and taller then it should have been, wasn’t it?  And the front steps weren’t there, were they?  You just walked right in.  I told you I was watching.”

“That’s kind of creepy, you know.  Sitting around, watching someone else dream.  Don’t you have your own dreams?”

“Sure I do.  I dream of you getting out of bed and making me some coffee.  It’s a big day, you know.  Historically significant, one might say.” Imaginary Keith was climbing out of bed.  One thing I can say about him for sure - he’s a good sport.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you been paying attention to nothing?  She begins her official move into the other house today.  We move her.  We help her pack, we load things up, and we help her move.  But first, we drink coffee.  Now come on, hurry up, we’re running out of time.  Historical days aren’t any longer then ordinary old days, you know.  To really appreciate them, you have to get an early start.”

“But it’s 4 a.m.”

“My thought exactly.  The day’s slipping away from us already.”

I suppose some might say that historic days are nothing more then dreams that someone took the time to write down, because in the end, they all look pretty much the same.  Given enough time, today will feel like nothing more then another of Imaginary Keith’s dreams.

“Were you dropping pennies down the grate?” I ask.

“I thought you were watching?”

“I was.  I just wanted to hear you tell it.  It’s better hearing it then watching it.”

“Oh, you should have been there.  The grate was so hot we could barely lay there.  The heat was drying out our eyes and then grandma . . . “

“I saw her coming.”

“You should have warned me.”

“No.  It’s better watching her chase you off.  If I warned you, neither one of you would run through the house laughing.”

“Keith?"

“Yes.”

“Do you think they were happy? I mean, we only really knew them when we were just kids.”

“I know.”

“So do you think they were really happy?  I mean, happy when no one else was around.  Just the two of them, there together.  Do you think they were happy then?”

“I don’t know, Imaginary Keith.  I thought about that this summer, as I stared at the graves.  I suppose life was just as hard for them as it is for the rest of us.  Harder, most likely.  But I like to think they were happy.  I like to think that it all meant something.”

“Yea, me too.”

“Maybe they just sat around all day thinking about when we’d show up.”

“Now you’re just making stuff up.”

“I always do, my friend.  I always do.”

Yesterday never happened.  I don’t know what you think happened, but it didn’t.  I climbed out of bed early, just like I was told, and climbed to the top of the tower, just like I was told, and blew on that horn as loud as I could, just like I was told, but nothing happened.  A stray dog ran down the dark street, but I don’t think that’s what anyone had in mind.

Let’s get moving people!

But today!  Now today is the day!  No rain.  Extra guys.  Empty house.  Children-free from nine to three.  Yes, today is the day.  Couches and refrigerators and washers and dryers and anything heavy that you can imagine will be lifted and moved across town.  Dozens of boxes.  No, hundreds!  Two houses worth in one day, although I will admit, one house is a bit leaner then the other.  But no matter.  In just minutes I will blow that horn once again, and this time around nothing better go wrong.  There better be no stray dog running through the dark because this time, or I swear, I’ll rummage around in the boxes until I find the shotgun.  If the blast of a horn won’t get this thing moving, then I bet the working end of a double-barrel 12 gauge will.

We have one day to get this thing done!

I’m getting excited.

I was at the house last night, moving a few things back into the barn, when I stopped and looked up.  I hadn’t seen the stars like that for two years now.  I’d forgotten how I used to walk out at night all the time, just so I could look up.  Just me in the dark with the stars all around me.  Magnificient.  Someday I’ll tell you about the boy I met whose parents had sent him to a shrink because he spent so much time looking up.  Not me, someone else.  But that will have to wait.  Right now I’m busy.

Come on, everybody!  Let’s move!

Puff, puff, puff, puff.

Moving reminds me how out of shape I am.  Trying to describe myself ends up sounding like someone blowing up balloons.

My God, it’s full of stars crap and dust.

Day Two Rules of Engagement

1. Move fast and efficiently
2. Little stuff is expendable after the first day
3. Anything that slows you down is your enemy
4. Bubble wrap slows you down
5. Eating slows you down
6. Paying attention to dust and/or exposed carpet stains slows you down
7. A sore back slows you down, however . . .
8. A mop handle, with mop head removed, makes an excellent cane
9. Sore backs can mend when the war is over

So what if we all eventually find out that dying is just another form of moving.  We arrive in Heaven, packed in our coffins, only to discover that the big secret of the funeral home business has nothing to do with embalming, but rather that coffins are filled with packing peanuts when nobody is looking.

Someday I will die and someone will unpack me, and as I look around, I’ll realize that I see no fundamentalists.

“Hey, where are all the fundamentalists?” I ask.

“Oh, they’re not that important, so no one really takes the time to unpack them.”

“Yea, but all that time and energy, packing and moving. Seems like such a waste. I mean, look at all those boxes.  There must be millions of them. Why move them in the first place?”

“It’s God. He’s the obsessive compulsive. Can’t throw away anything.”

“You’re kidding me, right?  What about Hell?”

“Just a myth. Hell’s a storage shed out back. Politicians, school administrators, that sort of thing.”

“Lawyers?”

“I said it was a shed, not a warehouse.”

And from the early morning fog, there appeared a stranger, dressed only in bubble wrap and wearing a small cardboard box as a hat.  It was the Moving Fairy.

You are getting closer, Keith.  You must not give up now.

But I’m so tired, and there is yet so much to do.

You have worked hard, Keith, to reach this point.

But if only I could have a short break.

Then a break you shall have!

And with one quick motion, the Bubble Fairy reached up and popped one of the small, plastic, bubble wrap bubbles that completely covered her.

Today you will have your break, Keith.  Go to your son’s school at 11:30.  You will eat lunch with him and his class, then accompany them to the theater, where you will watch The Polar Express.  Enjoy yourself.

Thank you, Moving Fairy!  Is there anything else I need to know?

Yes.  Avoid the cafeteria’s lasagna.

I will, Moving Fairy!

Until we meet again . . .

And then she was gone.  So a lunch date and a movie with a busload of third graders.  The Moving Fairy sure works in strange and wonderful ways.

I had a dream about an attractive, petite woman who climbed onto my lap and let her bathrobe fall open.  My eyes looked her over, up and down, and she smiled seductively, leaning in to kiss me.  Just before our lips met, her nose brushed lightly against the side of my cheek.

What?

I couldn’t believe what I’d just felt!

The tip of her nose had a whisker stubble more bristly then my own face.  The girl shaved the tip of her nose!  I broke off the kiss and she proceeded to show me a tattoo on the side of her thigh.  A caricature of some man, with so many words tattooed above his head, that I found myself wondering how many years it would take for this girl to grow into her tattoo. 

Then my thoughts drifted back to her nose whiskers, and I woke up.

The beauty of moving is the rediscovery of so many lost and misplaced toys.  It’s the little ones that have fallen into every crack and crevasse, rolled under every conceivable piece of furniture, and buried themselves deeply into shelves, boxes, and dresser drawers.  Who are all these toys, and where do they come from?  Are they our friends?  I offer a few of the many possible explanations for their existence.

1. Toys hide from minimalists to escape certain death.
2. The world is held mainly together by this complicated array of “lost” toys.  Clean up or remove too many of them from their hiding places, and things begin to fall apart.
3. Most small toys are like the seeds of plants, lying dormant, waiting patiently for a bare, adult foot to present itself for poking.
4. Small toys will one day take over the world, flying about the universe in huge, toy box shaped spacecraft.  Their invasion has already begun, disguised mostly in the form of Happy Meal prizes.
5. The right combination of small toys, if properly aligned, can be interconnected to form both a basic hoop and straight stick, capable of keeping any turn-of-the-century kid happy for many hours on end.

I have turned up enough toys that I could roll a small pyramid around town on their backs.  If I had the time, that is, and actually owned a small pyramid.

I now live in two separate houses, both looking like places that have gone out of business.  I am in limbo, and let me tell you, limbo needs a lot of cleaning, some spackle, and a few gallons of paint.  And not everything is as I thought it would be.  Take the animals, for instance.

I’d been led to believe that the new pup would go to live with her when I moved back to the farm.  Not so.  But this is okay, since I like the way the pup bounces nonstop off of the old dogs left shoulder, gnawing on her ear.

I’d also been led to believe that the cat would be leaving with her.  Promised it’d be leaving, if I’m not mistaken.  Oh well.  This will give me a chance to question her as to why she scratched the hell out of my favorite chair while I was away.

The gerbil stays, which I’d figured, but that’s of little concern.  Gerbils are not long for this world.

I’m told that the birds will be sold.  Lovebirds.  What need do I have for lovebirds?  “I’ll sell them soon,” she says, and until that day comes, decides that she will leave them with me.  It’s the same reasoning her brother has regarding old, broken down cars.  It’s a farm, with plenty of space!  Fill it up!

Four chickens who aren’t laying, I’m told.  Like the cat, they’ll need a good talking to as well.

Four obese cows.  I wonder if they know about the empty freezer?  I’ll be having a straightforward chat with them as well.  Let them draw straws or something.

And the horses.  Sixty horses running around and eating me out of . . . . no, thank god.  There aren’t any horses.  The neighbor has horses.  I can look across the field and see them any time I want.  I don’t have to feed them, brush them, clip their hooves, or look at their teeth.  It’s a perfect relationship.

Did I forget anyone?  Oh yes, Barncat.  Barncat has been around almost as long as I have.  With regards to the house, that is.  I don’t own a 43 year old cat, don’t get me wrong.  That would be creepy.  Barncat and I are good friends.  We have an understanding.  I go to the barn.  He wakes up and growls, comes down from the hay, purrs, and gets petted.  When he’s finished with me he scratches me until I bleed.  It’s a corporate relationship.  Barncat, I think, has clawed his way to the top.  A barn to himself and all the mice he can eat.  And fools like me with soft skin and slow reactions.

I married a girl just like Barncat once, but that’s a different story.

Between moving trips, I like to stop by the office occasionally and take a break, which in this case, means get some more work done.

The phone rings.

Hello, is this Keith?

Yes it is, how can I help you?

I’m just calling today to verify the information we have on file for your company.  Is the company’s name still (insert your favorite small, struggling landscape company name here)?

What is this information for?

I’m calling today to make sure that your company’s most recent information appears in the upcoming internet yellow page directory.  Up-to-date information will assure that your customers can effectively reach you, and that the billings, being sent out at the end . . .

Excuse me.  You said billings.

Yes sir.

Is this something that I will have to pay for?

Yes it is, sir.  This particular advertisement has been listed in the internet yellow page phone directory for the last two years.  Now if . . .

No thank you.  I’m not paying for internet advertising.

You’ve had this ad for two years now, and I think . .

Excuse me, perhaps you didn’t hear me in your rush to trick me into buying something.  I’m not interested in paying for internet advertising.  Now if you’ll excuse . .

We’re not a charity, we’re an advertising company.  Of course you have to pay for the service.

Listen.  I have never paid anyone for internet advertising.  That I know for a fact.

But I show you’ve had this ad with our company for two years, and . . .

And since I haven’t paid you, I guess that makes you a charity.

We don’t give away . . .

Good bye.

When I have a spare moment sometime, I’m going to see what it feels like to be a human spambot.  I will go to someone’s blog and post one comment after another all day long until my fingers ache.  I will have no apparent purpose.  My comments will have no real meaning.

This entry, for example, would make a perfect comment in my human spambot experiment.

Selfishness hides in many forms.  Can you hang these blinds?” is selfishness, when the flip side of the coin has me cleaning up ten years worth of dust and dead skin cells.

I have decided tonight in favor of drinking.  I’m three beers into the night, and an hour and a half away from meeting up with my brother and his wife.  It’s a birthday party, I guess, at some karaoke bar, where someone is supposed to be serenaded.  I’m warming up right now with a few classic Nazareth hits.  For some reason, I’ve been nothing but classic rock all week long.

I took some pictures of the farm house this afternoon, but everything ends up looking like war photos without the dead bodies.  I’ll post them later.  Have you ever actually seen what it looks like when you move a television off of the one spot it’s sat for ten years without moving, and the carpet around it is supposed to be some shade of white?  It’s like a Hiroshima shadow, that’s what it is.  It’s like a constant reminder of the television that is no more.  The television that nearly snapped my back moving across town.

But not all is lost.  My metal garden crow.  He’s still there.  And I have new couches.  Well, my old couches back.  Hurrah!  Old furniture!  No wonder I’m drinking tonight.

Did I tell you that the cops were hot on my trail?  No?  Well, they are.  I think.  A letter informed me yesterday all about Oregon’s Careful Driver laws, letting me know that I’ve crossed the line.  Two seat belt violations and a speeding ticket within eighteen months has put me on the hot list.  One more infraction within the next six months and I think the letter said I lose my license.  Can you believe it?  This whole world is so bent out of perspective that nothing makes any sense any more.

I did watch the news while sitting at the bar drinking a couple of beers.  I know, three isn’t a couple, but I’m practicing, just in case I’m pulled over later tonight.  So . . . I watched the news while having my “couple” of beers.  I like the way people hover around the president whenever he does something.  Have you ever really noticed that?  Can you imagine what that’d be like?  If people hovered around me like that I’d pretend to love God and start a war too.  It’d drive me that crazy.  I need my space, and would, of course, never make a good president.

There were a lot of interesting stories to help me through my beers.  A California symphony conductor had a standoff with the police and committed suicide.  Someone stole a fetus right out of a woman’s stomach.  (Hey, the news prompter said “stomach”, not me.) And God, it seems, is mentioned more on television these days, recent studies show, but also in a more negative context.  The country of Bhutan has outlawed the sale of cigarettes, making it the first country in the world to do so, and a 90 year old woman gave chase to a purse snatcher.  Not in Bhutan (I don’t think).  Oh, finally, I saw that John Updike has gone and sold his book collection to a small bookstore.  Isn’t that nice?  Probably needed the money.

So much for my update.  I’m off to the farm to settle the animals into their bunks for the night.  I suppose I’ll have time for one quick story before scurrying off to the bar.  Barncat better not scratch me.  I look so unattractive when I’m bleeding.

This morning the task of cleaning the entire house by myself seems daunting.  Maybe it’s just because there are still small piles of things in every room.  Maybe once those are boxed and gone, the actual cleaning won’t seem like such a job.  I’m considering hiring a troop of cleaning ladies to march through and whip it into shape for me, although the budget screams no.

And there is the issue of painting.  Ten years ago, when we moved in the first time, there were rooms and hallways that needed painting but weren’t for some reason.  And since the house will probably not be this empty again for some time, I suppose I should add that to my Christmas list of things for me to do.

1. Finish moving her stuff out - 1 day
2. Clean - 2 days
3. Paint - 2 days
4. Clean carpets - 1 day
5. Move my stuff in - 1 day
6. Clean the apartment - half day
7. Find the croaking frog that’s hiding in the garage - ? days

I stopped for breakfast this morning at a tiny diner that’s near the farm, making it just in time to see a man give the young waitress a $100 tip.  I was sitting at the counter, and she’d just finished telling me about how hard it was to make a living.  She asked me if it was time to start thinking about taxes, since it was the first time that she’d ever have to file a tax return.  She talked about tips and rent and how the two never seemed to meet in the middle, and I listened attentively, thinking about how she had such a long, long way yet to go.  And then, just as she finished her sad but common story, up walked the man, hands her a hundred dollar bill, and leaves the diner.

I believe that life is slowly improving, thanks to my friend, the rusty garden crow who watches over me night and day.

Bleach is my friend.

Old vacuums will always do their best under pressure.

I ran out of gas today, but coasted into the station.

I wasn’t so lucky with the washing machine.  It overflowed.  It’s a septic problem, which means, it’s my problem.

I think I may have packed and moved most of the spiders to her house.

I knew the woman was a poor housekeeper, but come on . . . .

One room at a time.

Four hours cleaning in the kitchen alone.  It’s almost done.

At random I picked a housekeeper number from the phonebook.  She appears friendly and wears her hair back in a housekeeper-friendly ponytail.  The bathrooms are all hers.

I miss my internet connection.

I loved waking up, opening the curtains, and seeing cows staring back at me.  Not right outside my window, mind you.  But over in the field, where they belong.

Yes.  Everything where it belongs.  That’s the key.

And treasures everywhere I look.  Like this fish I caught, while trolling the waters of the second grade, using only a small boy as bait.

With no telephone service in the house, the Tivo is hopelessly out of whack.  It’s a different cable service, here along the fringes of civilization, and the channels are all scrambled around.  Not like there’s time for television anyway.  Cleaning is still top dog around here.  Although I did sneak in a ten minute break yesterday, sitting down in front of Discovery channel just long enough to watch the mating habits of the porcupine.  I never knew that it all began with an aggressive urine shower.  Urine, it ends up, plays an important part in the porcupine’s reproductive life.  Who would have known?

You’d think that I could take that little fact and run with it, but truth is, I’m pooped.  It’s the cleaning thing that’s doing it.  You see, the porcupine is all about scent, and apparently doesn’t mind pooping and sleeping in the same place.  As I sat there watching, I couldn’t help but compare some of the habits of the porcupine with my ex-wife.  Not so much the urinating (as far as I know), but rather that whole fascination with living with so much shit all around her.  For her it’s not actual human feces, but rather the kind of trinket feces you pick up after years and years of unrelenting shopping.  Dust traps that apparently worked exceedingly well.

But I’m here in the house now, and it’s not about her anymore, it’s about me.  Me.  Me and my den.  You see, I like my den neat and tidy.  S