All morning long a singing Russian woman has whipped about the house, cleaning up all of my messes.  Her accent is thick, her singing quiet and hard to hear.  Hidden safely away back in my office, I strain my ears, trying to make out the words.  Is it a trap?  Does she try to lure me out?

And what about a picture?  Do I dare risk it?  What if she’s retired KGB?  Can my sternum survive a heavy, well placed blow from the blunt end of her mop handle?  She’s large, but I sense more then see the quickness in her step.  One wrong move and I fear she will bag me right along with the rest of the trash.  And because she carries all her own cleaning supplies, she would leave behind no trace that I was ever even here in the house.

The vacuum is running!  I will sneak up in the noise!

It’s important that I be brief.

Svetlana’s car is broken down in my driveway.  Arrangements have been made for her husband and another man to return tonight to make repairs.

Highly suspicious.

The ex shows up as I try unsuccessfully to jumpstart Svetlana’s car.  The two drive off together.

Sure, call me paranoid.

We have an outhouse in the back for the workers.  The man pulls up to clean it as all this is happening.

Yet another Russian man.

Yes.  I think you see what I’m getting at.

I can’t help but think that Svetlana is somewhat pretty.  I admire her hat.  While distracted, the jumper cables, still held in my hand but connected to the running car, short themselves on my finger.  Sparks fly and my fingers feel what it is like to be welded.

Svetlana feigns concern, but I swear I see her smile.

And worse yet, it’s beginning to get dark outside, and the property border is nearly indefensible.

As promised, two Russian men show up just before dark to repair Svetlana’s broken car.  They appear jovial - a slim one and a round one - dancing around just outside the gate pretending to be afraid of the dogs.  I see through the guise immediately and invite them in.

“We here for my wife’s car,” Round says.  He introduces himself, but I let the name slip from my mind.  I have already been drawn far enough into this little espionage game they play; falling in any deeper is just out of the question.

“Yes.  Come in.  I tried jump starting it myself, but got nothing.  There’s a strange clicking sound near the battery when you turn the key, but I don’t know much about cars, so I don’t know.”

Damn!  It is perhaps my second mistake since allowing Svetlana through my front door with her vacuum and bucket of sponges.  Giving away my weaknesses like that!  What am I thinking?

The men, bent low over the engine, exchange some words in Russian, leaving me and the boy staring at each other in wonder.  Everything ever said in Russian between two men sounds like fighting words.  I raise up on the balls of my feet, ready for whatever is next.  My arms bounce at my sides.  I tense my back . . . .

And that is when it hits me.  The pain, I mean, not the Russian men.  In my excitement, I have pulled a back muscle!  I can’t believe this is happening.

I am getting too old for all this excitement.  I shuffle slowly back into the house, bent over like a primate.  I hear the Russian men, still talking, very likely discussing their next move.

Let’s face it, most of life plays out as one big morality play that we run over and over in our minds, simply recasting the various roles and throwing up new sets in an effort to make things interesting.  Good versus bad, right versus wrong, life versus death, the strong versus the weak - no matter what you might think, it’s all ends up being the same story on repeat.

Life, it seems, is an 8-track tape.  Looping and looping until it just wears thin and snaps.  Modern medicine is the scotch tape trying to put it back together when it breaks, while religion is the idea that there is a place where the 8-track is still king.  Ahhh, the afterlife!  That place that defies all 8-track logic.  Nothing rubbing us the wrong way for an eternity!  That place where all the good tapes go and the tracks all sound great!  The one place where ---

I was startled out of my thoughts by a knock on the backdoor, and look up to see a man in a white jumpsuit standing close to the glass, peering through the window.  It is the lead investigator of the team searching for Mr. Cooper’s bones.  Him again!  When was he going to give up?  I’d almost forgotten all about him and the investigators out in the field as I sat there on the couch, nursing my sore back, thinking about life in general, and wondering what the Russians had up their sleeves.

“Hold on.  I’m coming.” As I hobbled over, I could see him step back from the glass and jot something down on his clipboard.  No doubt he found something suspicious in my new, doubled-over posture.  I opened the door.

“So, find what it is you’re looking for out there?” From this close, I have to twist my head around in order to look him in the eye.  I’m nearly clipboard height, but Old Jumpsuit, which I’ve started calling him behind his back, is no rookie, and discretely pulls the clipboard to his chest.  What I need are some hidden cameras, I think.  Something around the door recording everything.

“You know I’m not allowed to comment on the investigation, sir.  But I do have a couple of questions for you, if you don’t mind.”

Yes, cameras would be perfect.  Maybe one right over the table, hidden in the light fixture.  Then I could invite Old Jumpsuit in for some coffee and while I was out of the room, he’d lay that clipboard down on the table and the cameras would . . .

“Svet! -”

I cut the name off short, trying to keep it from leaving my lips, but it is too late.  Old Jumpsuit’s suspicions are aroused.  Cutting myself off has only made things worse.  Of course Svetlana has planted hidden cameras while pretending to clean!  It makes perfect sense.

“What’s that, sir?  You were saying?” Even twisted around nearly upside down, I can tell that Old Jumpsuit thinks he is onto something.  My half-blurted name is just the lead he is looking for.  I see it in the narrowing of his eyes and the growing flush of his cheeks.  I see it in the changing angle of the clipboard as he gets ready to write.  There’s a promotion waiting at the end of my cutoff words.  He just knows it.  He’s thinking that if he plays me right, I am his ticket out of this cow field business.  No more clipboard.  No more searching for lost bones.  No more dealing with these country rubes and all their buried secrets.  Even with my sore back I could see all that on the man’s face.

”So what am I thinking? That’s what I was going to say.  Of course you can’t comment on your investigation.  I know that.”

The clipboard slowly goes back up his chest and the flush leaves his cheeks, replaced by the blank, governmental no-nonsense look I am familiar with.  It is a close call, and I look down, avoiding eye contact, which is when I notice that my little government friend has stepped in some cow shit.  I imagine the two Russian men out in the driveway, huddled over some tiny surveillance monitor, watching our every move, chuckling at the foolish American government man and his cow shit shoe.  I imagine that stepping in cow shit is funny even in the espionage game, but I may be wrong.  I look away from the shoes, trying not to laugh.

“Do you have time for my questions now, sir, or should I come back?” I think this might be his way of noticing my twisted back, the result of his mandatory two hour Empathy Training Seminar he and his fellow investigators no doubt attend each fall just before the start of the holiday season.  What he is basically telling me is this: Yes, I recognize your predicament, sir.  Will you be cooperating now, or will you be cooperating later? Cooperation with the government is, after all, the real heart and soul of any strong democracy.  Cooperation is essential, no matter how it comes about.  It is the wind beneath freedom’s wings, if you will, while empathy, seemingly an important thing, is actually just one small detail among many on Democracy’s flight plan.

Why is it so hard to focus?  Why?  That’s what I want to say to Old Jumpsuit.  I want to ask him what’s really on my mind and stop all this posturing that’s been going on between us, but instead I only say, “I’m not sure what I can say that will help.  I’ve told you everything I know.”

I am, of course, not quite telling the truth here.  I say one thing but mean another.  I am all about half-truth and half-lie, which is itself the crux of another of life’s great moral dilemmas - to tell or not to tell.  Bigger really, then Shakespeare’s old to be or not to be.  Sure we sit around and ponder our existence from time to time, but as a species as a whole, we spend a hell of a lot more time pondering whether we should tell people our secrets.  One day a week is devoted to the spilling of our souls.  The other six are all about spilling our guts.  Correct me if I’m wrong, please.

So, do I tell Old Jumpsuit about the stash of bones out in the barn, some of which are quite possibly Mr. Cooper’s?  Or do I keep it to myself?  Can I really trust a man who won’t show his hand, and it has been quite clear that the investigators are not tipping their hand, not about old Mr. Cooper, whoever he was.  Jumpsuit plays his cards close, just like he plays his clipboard.  How can I possibly trust him?  Whose side is this man on?  That’s the question I need answered.

“Sir?”

“Yes?” My attention has apparently drifted.  If I am not careful, I will hang myself.  I need to focus.

“You leave that up to me, sir.  That’s my job.”

“Leave what up to you?” Does he already know about the bones in the barn?  Is that even possible?

“You just answer the questions, and I will decide what is important and what is not.  Okay.” It is not a question, but a statement that he is through speaking.  If there was a form to fill out that would requisition the brain right out of my head and onto his clipboard in organized, note form, this man in front of me would have filled it out the moment he felt something warm and slippery beneath his shoe.  If there is one thing I know about government workers, it is that they like to feel the ground beneath their feet.  They like knowing where they stand.  They demand it, actually.  I think the words Never Having To Step In Cow Shit may even be written right into the benefits package. 

I decide to play out the hand.  I will sit across the table from this investigator and try my best to read his face.  I will bluff and pull every trick in the book.  I will hold my own cards close, keeping the hidden bones tucked away.  The bones are my trump card.  I will draw this game out as long as I can, or at least until I find out who Mr. Cooper was.  Besides, I need to buy time until I can figure out just what the Russians are up to, and why they would show up the same time as the investigators.

And there is always the ghost in the pickle jar, waiting to be questioned.  I can’t forget about that.  The ghost may very well be the key to this whole thing.

“I’ve kept the dogs locked inside while your crew works,” I tell the investigator as I close the door.  “I hope it’s making things easier for you.”

“You really don’t have to,” he says.  “Feel free to let them out anytime you want.”

Right.  And have them lead you straight to the bones?  I don’t think so.

Little chunks of time float around my head.  I see them there, off to the side, waiting for me to figure a way to gather them up.  They long for each other the way that I long for them, but the physics are all wrong.  I reach and they move away.  They scoot closer and I am pushed to the ground.  When two of the chunks even get close to each other, I lose consciousness. 

But I want to make a movie and I need that time.  Without it, there will be no movie.  I know that, so I spend a lot of time lying around, thinking of ways to wrap my arms around it all and gather it into one big block.

My only problem, other then not getting the movie made, is that I waste time, thinking of time.  It’s a real dilemma.  I see it break off and float away before I can do a thing about it.  Grabbing at it does no good.

I sometimes wonder if all this time I see floating around is really extra time at all, or if it’s just the pieces of me that floated off when I was too busy thinking or simply doing nothing.

Maybe that’s what my movie should be about.  A short film about a man trying to reach out and gather himself back up before he is completely out of time. 

Here’s the funny part.  I think about this film all the time, but imagine that it would end up looking like nothing more then a man randomly clutching at air.

And no one needs any more of that.  Certainly not on film.

We take turns holding the pickle jar, passing it back and forth in the dark so that we can hold it close to our mouths and ask our questions through the nail holes in the lid.  Neither one of us is sure what we will find out, or even if we’ll find out anything, for that matter.  But it seems important that we ask the questions anyway.  You don’t capture a ghost and not ask it any questions.  I can’t imagine anyone being that foolish.

“Are you Mr. Cooper?” Imaginary Keith whispers through the lid, then lowers his ear to hear the answer.  He’s such a fool sometimes.

”No,” the ghost answers.

“You fool!  Of course he’s not Mr. Cooper!” I’m trying to keep my patience with Imaginary Keith, but judging by his questions, he doesn’t know anything about ghosts.  “Maybe he’s the ghost of Mr. Cooper, but he can’t be Mr. Cooper.  Anyone knows that.  Watch, listen, and learn.”

I take the jar and whisper in my own question.

“Are you the ghost of Mr. Cooper?” Ghosts are tricky business.  You need to be specific if you want to learn anything.  I lower my ear to the jar for the answer.

”No.”

“Ha!” Imaginary Keith is beside himself that I am wrong.  As far as I’m concerned, this whole ghost questioning business is not really going as planned.

“My turn,” he says, taking the pickle jar from my hands.

“Ask him something about the Russians,” I tell him.  “We should try to find out what they’re up to.”

“You ask him about the Russians.  I’m not wasting any of my questions.”

It’s a good point.  Even though the ghost has given no indication that we might have a limited number of questions, we have no way of knowing for sure.

“What are you going to ask it?”

“You’ll see.” Imaginary Keith lowers his lips to the jar’s lid and whispers so quietly that I can barely hear his question.

“Are you Mr. Cooper?” I can’t believe it!

“What?!  Are you crazy?  You just asked that.  Quit wasting questions.”

“I’m not wasting questions.”

“Then what you think you’re doing?”

“I’m trying to catch him in a lie.  We have to know what kind of ghost we’re dealing with here.  There are two kinds of ghosts - honest ghosts and lying ghosts.  We need to know which kind we’ve caught.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake.”

Imaginary Keith puts his ear to the lid and listens, waving at me to be quiet.  “Shhhh.  I can’t hear.”

The answer seems to take a long time coming, and for some reason I start thinking of a girl I saw ahead of me in line at the coffee shop with an infinity sign tattooed to the back of her neck.  What was that supposed to mean on the back of someone’s neck?  Her neck hadn’t looked that long to me.  Who knows.  And what was taking the ghost so long?  I felt the urge to draw an infinity sign on the pickle jar.  See what the ghost had to say about that.

“Maybe it ---” I start to say.

“Shhhh!”

Imaginary Keith keeps his ear to the jar, waiting for the answer.  Sometimes his patience for the ludicrous truly amazes me.  But finally, after what seems like an eternity to me, the ghost begins to swirl around in the jar like it does before every answer.

“Shhhh, here it comes!” Imaginary Keith pushes his ear against the lid even tighter.  The swirling stops and I know the answer is coming.

”No.” Imaginary Keith looks up, satisfied.

“Honest ghost,” Imaginary Keith says, handing me the jar.  “You can tell by the way it thought about the answer.”

“You don’t know that.” Sitting there in the closet with an imaginary friend and a ghost in a pickle jar, the path to truth suddenly felt very long.  “You can’t possibly know that about ghosts.”

“Sure I do.  Honest ghosts think about their answer.  A lying ghost will just blurt out whatever comes to mind.”

“Kind of like you do, you mean.”

“Well, yeah.  But I’m not a ghost.  That’s the difference.”

The public schools have apparently abandoned the idea of teaching kids on Fridays.  We’re so progressive here in Oregon.  Free the kids!  Set them loose upon the world!  Batten the hatches, here they come.

So here comes the boy and another small friend.  They laugh and tell secret jokes.  They are nine year old boys.  The dog pooping sets them off on a laughing spree that lasts until they are out of breath.  But they are young, their lungs fill right back up, and off they go!  The dogs can hardly keep up.

It’s a sleepover!  I will supervise shenanigans and make sure nothing escalates into the danger zone.

The boys both think they are so big and grown up, yet the friend arrives with a small stuffed animal strapped to his backpack.  My own son is not so different.  Big talkers with innocent minds.

And later on:

On Having Their Seats Changed At School, Moving Them Apart:

I don’t know why The Miserator moved us.  (Mrs. Rader, the guest teacher’s nickname)
Me neither.
It’s gross, sitting by Bethany.
Not as gross as sitting by Laura.
Ewwwwww.  You’re right.
(laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh)

On Watching Inspector Gadget:

Can he really drive that fast?
Sure.  He’s a robot.
Cool.
Cool.

I would LOVE to have all those gadgets in my fingers.
Does he have roller blades on?
(Simultaneously) Nope!

I like the evil Go Go Gadget better.
Who’s walking?  The evil one?
Yes.
Look how white his teeth are.
(laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh)

On Using Every Cushion And Pillow In The House As A Wrestling Pit:

(laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh)
(sweat sweat sweat)
Ahhhhhhhhhh
Dad, do we have any band-aids?

On Putting On My T-Shirts And Cramming Couch Pillows Underneath:

We look like sumos!
We look like my dad!
(smashing together)
(laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh)

On Turning Off All The Lights And Firing Up The Disco Light:

Dad!  Dance with us!
Yea!  Come on!  Dance with us!
You two can ju ---
Wooooo!
Yeaaaaaaa!
(laugh laugh laugh laugh laugh)

The party is almost over and I will be off to work.  The office calls, the mail piled here and there, the desk looking like a range of small white mountains.

Did you read The White Mountains as a kid?  Aliens in giant tripods attack the earth and put metal caps on all the children, controlling them and turning them into slaves.  Or something like that.  A young hero escapes to the White Mountains.  Together with a band of other brave kids, they decide to fight back!  Action packed!  A trilogy even, so lots of good reading.

Too bad the aliens lose (oops.  spoiler.  well, maybe not, it’s been a long time.) I would have liked to get my hands on the secret behind that metal cap business.

Fernando, my true right hand man, returns from that land to the south that we do not speak of.  Well, we speak of it, but just don’t understand the language, being proud Americans who refuse to learn anything.  It is our right!  That’s what it is.  Greatest nation on earth and all that crap.  I hear people all the time mumbling under their breath, after they’ve heard someone speaking another language, “If you’re going to be here, learn the language.” These people seem like aliens to me.  Learn the language?  What language?  Three-fourths the people I bump into speak in a dialect that I can only refer to as Sound Bite.  Short choppy thoughts punctuated by their short choppy sentences.  Prone to biting when they hear a sound they don’t understand.  Keep a minimum of one arm’s length away when talking with anyone with the Sound Bite dialect.

I’ve lost my thought.  Oh yes.  Fernando!  If I was a Mexican woman and wanted to stay in Mexico while my husband was away for ten months of the year, and I didn’t mind raising the kids by myself, and living with my mother-in-law, I would marry that man myself.  But I’m not, so I have to settle for second best - employing him.

A squirt gun fight has broken out in the house!  The boys must be loaded and shipped away.  Pronto.

Pronto is one of those words that can or cannot be used around a person who speaks Sound Bite, depending on the situation.  Avoid using it in crowded bars, within eight miles of any ongoing rodeo, or outside of a Baptist church on a Sunday afternoon.  Never use the word pronto if you are incarcerated, no matter what the offense or how friendly your cellmate may appear.  Your own guilt or innocence has no bearing on the matter.

Nothing changes.  Just as I mention a book I read thirty years ago about aliens hunting humans, I see that I’ve recorded a movie called Alien Siege.  Aliens are harvesting humans for their blood to save their own superior race.  Eight million must be given to the aliens by the world.  America must fork over 800,000.

Yep, that’s right.  We’re that important.  Aliens give up everything and cross the universe to boil us into a sweet, life saving syrup.

But the hero prevails, boards the mother ship, saves the daughter, blows everything up, fights with the alien leader, drives an alien craft, and returns to Earth and kisses his new woman.  My favorite line:

“Do you want to know what happened?  A group of idealistic soldiers teamed up with a father who wouldn’t let go of his daughter, and we blew the hell out of your device.  Did I forget anything?”

The moral of Alien Siege:  Americans will rise up after roughly 500,000 of them have been uselessly sacrificed.

Oh, by the way, what’s the Iraqi count up to these days?  Really, help me out here.  I don’t catch much news.  I just need an idea of how much longer until we reach the snapping point?

Reader beware!  Word Shadows could screech to a halt at any second!  There is delinquency afoot!

If I’ve been pecking at this keyboard for a year last December, and I distinctly remember paying for one year of hosting in advance, this brings up the question - who’s been feeding the bear the last two months?  I’m sure he’s hungry.

Longtime reader, Kimbal S. of Revero, SD, writes to us and asks:

Was there an FFA team where Imaginary Keith went to high school, and if so, was he ever a member of the team and did he participate in FFA competitions?  I would especially like to know if he could name all the cuts of beef.

Well, Kimball, as a longtime reader, you are already probably aware that Imaginary Keith went to many different high schools as his family continuously moved from state to state.  And while there were FFA programs in some of the schools he attended, Imaginary Keith did not participate, and consequently, never owned one of the prized blue jackets.  However, he did take one agriculture class during his senior year that did, oddly enough, include one week of study regarding the cuts of meat in cattle.  As I recall, he was not particularly interested in this area of study, and to this day, has a difficult time picking out a tender cut of meat at the grocery store.

You might be interested to know that Imaginary Keith became his high school’s fastest typist that same year, and was invited to participate twice in statewide typing competitions.  Unfortunately, he missed the bus on both occasions, once because he was late, and once because he simply forgot to get on the bus. 

His typing instructor, the old spinster Miss Smith, who had dedicated her entire life to the instruction of young people in the ways of typewriters and tenkey adding machines, had always dreamed of recapturing the state typing title, and was crushed by Imaginary Keith’s absence from the competitions.  Miss Smith would not regain the typing title, and Imaginary Keith would be forced to endure the disappointed frown of his instructor for the remainder of the year.

But Imaginary Keith persevered, and continues to type to this day.  He believes Miss Smith would be proud of him.  He knows the cut of every keyboard, spotting a tender key from clear across the room.  He still misses a bus on occasion, but feels that since Miss Smith is most likely long since dead, no one is being hurt by his actions.

Sometimes, when he types particularly fast, he can feel her rail-thin presence over his right shoulder, dreaming of championships.

550E Story Telling

Story telling at its best is a fine art.  Few of us, of course, become artists in this field; but everyone should learn to tell stories at least reasonably well.  In addition to the suggestions offered under 550B, there are others which good story tellers follow, such as these:

1. Plunge immediately into the story.
2. Give the events in their logical order.
3. Vary your sentence structure, and put life into your expression.
4. Suit your mood to that of the story, but remember that tactful humor is seldom inappropriate.
5. Make your conclusion strong - imagination will help you to an impressive close.

-- J. Martyn Walsh, Plain English Handbook, A Complete Guide to Correctness, copyright 1939

Where’s Fernando?

The last word from him was a phone call more then a week ago.  “Me come on Monday,” he said, meaning that he would begin driving on that day.

But it’s a long way between here and there.  Much can happen on the road, especially when more then half of the trip is on roads you don’t dare break down on or even pull over to rest for fear of being robbed.  I have listened to Fernando’s life on the Mexican highway stories.  It is no romantic Route 66 tale.

548A Letters of friendship

The letter of friendship may be either light or dignified, for it may range in subject matter from the ridiculous to the sublime, to suit the mood of the writer.  It should, however, always reflect enthusiasm and good cheer.  There is no good reason for writing an indifferent or cheerless letter of friendship.

(Informal note of friendship including reminder of an invitation)

Dear Ruth,

Why don’t you write?  Of course, you’re busy, with the close of school so near; but do take time to assure me that you will be here for my birthday.  You have a standing invitation to attend all my birthday celebrations, and this is to warn you not to fail to attend this one.  Mother says that you must stay at least two weeks---and Mother must be obeyed.

Don’t forget your tennis racket.  The court is better this spring than ever.  Don and Ted pronounce it “better than perfect” because they have done the perfecting.  And by way of warning, Ted slings a mean racket this year---so you’d better be in practice.  He plays rings around me.

As I write, Skippy is cutting capers all around the room.  I have just told him that I am writing to you and that you are coming soon.  He’s laughing now as he recalls running away with your tennis shoe that day.  He was just a puppy then.  he’s almost grown up now, but he still has a weakness for tennis shoes.

Send a note immediately (or earlier) to tell me when to park the family bus at the station.  I must run now, or be late to English class.

Your chum,
Betts

P.S. There go Mary Lu and that “Robert Taylor” I told you of in my last letter.  I do believe they’re holding hands!  No; it’s my mistake!  There’s still a chance for you---if you hurry.

-- J. Martyn Walsh, Plain English Handbook, A Complete Guide to Correctness, copyright 1939

The boy and I break out the picnic table and venture out into the sun to work.  We’ve bought a new sander to help with his woodworking project.  He’s building a coffee table and has picked some odd green color to paint it when it’s finished.

“I want it to look like nothing else in the house,” he says.  “That’s the point.”

And here I was thinking that he just wanted to take up coffee drinking.

I do all the cutting, since I am the old man who wouldn’t be too put out if a finger or two is lost to the blade.  I have no future plans to take up the flute, and I can’t remember the last time I used my thumb to hitchhike.  Besides, old men almost always end up with twisted or missing fingers.  Or is that just in my family?

But the saw work goes without mishap.  Growing evidence that I may be the mailman’s kid after all.  The scrap lumber, all clear cedar left over from past jobs, is cut into lengths, ready for the eager boy and his cordless screw gun.  I stand back and assume a supervisory position at the picnic table.  I crack open a beer and pet the dog.  From the field, a cow watches the project’s progress from one large, unblinking brown eye.  I think about running sprinklers in the nursery, but really need to save some work for tomorrow.  I’d hate to run out.

In my spare minutes over the weekend, I pick up the Plain English Handbook that I bought for two bucks at a garage sale on Saturday.  Published in 1939, the book contains, at least in theory, the rules that supposedly guided my grandparents, and consequently, my own parents.  Hundreds of rules on grammar, as well as sound advice on many topics, ranging from letter writing, public speaking, and reporting the news.

This time around it’s the ground rules for a 1939 style conversation.

550A Conversation

Conversational language is usually less formal than that which is written even in letters, but the conversationalist meets with dangers not encountered by the writer.  Her are some suggestions for those who would be good conversationalists.

1. Be a Good Listener. Perhaps there is no more effective way of gaining the reputation of a good conversationalist than by listening attentively.  So, be alert, and never interrupt.
2. Get the Other’s Viewpoint. Do your best to see things as the other person sees them.  This is not easy, but it is important.
3. Learn the Other Person’s Interests. Be interested in the other’s interests, not just your own.
4. Respect the Opinions of Others. Though you may not agree with another in his opinions, respect them just the same.
5. Never Argue. There is nothing to gain by argumentation in ordinary conversation, but there is much to lose.
6. Make No Reference to the Other Person’s Weakness. Let him feel that you think him strong.
7. Acknowledge Superiority in Others. Even “ignorant” people have traits of superiority.  Let your attitude acknowledge this.
8. Stimulate the Other’s Feeling of Importance. Honestly and sincerely encourage the other’s feeling of importance.
9. Sound the Other Person’s Name. But be sure to use the name naturally, and not as if for effect, and be doubly sure to pronounce it correctly.  No one ever quite forgives anyone who mispronounces or misspells his name.
10. Do Not Be a Know-all. Perhaps the most unpopular of all conversationalists is the know-all, the chap who tops every tale, no matter how tall---the fellow who has been everywhere and seen everything at its best and worst.
11. Do Not Be a Mourner. Do not dwell on mournful or depressing incidents.  Seem cheerful and hopeful.
12. Do Not Be a Disparager. Refrain from expressing the views of a disparager---a doubter---a pessimist.
13. Never Be Catty. Those who make catty remarks cannot hope to have friends.
14. Do Not Be Over-correct. Use good wholesome speech, but do not overdo it by becoming finicky about unimportant usages.
15. Be Genuinely Courteous. Be tactful and courteous always.  In a group, make all feel at ease.  Include all in your conversation, and do not talk over the heads of any present.  Encourage those who are reticent to talk.  They are often the most interesting talkers.
16. Be Able to Make Correct Introductions. Everyone should be able to introduce himself and to introduce others properly and tactfully.  Any good book on etiquette will serve to refresh one’s memory on special points in introductions, but ordinarily one can easily remember that the boy is presented to the girl, the man to the woman, the younger person to the older.  John Jones may introduce himself to another by saying, “I am John Jones.” he may introduce two others, a boy and a girl, say, by saying, “Mildred Gray, Bob Jones.” If Bob is seated, he rises at the introduction and says, “How do you do?” Mary may or may not offer to shake hands; she need not rise if seated.  Usually boys, on being introduced, shake hands; but a boy does not offer his hand to a girl.  The forms of introduction are more or less fixed, but not to the exclusion of pleasing originality.

-- J. Martyn Walsh, Plain English Handbook, A Complete Guide to Correctness, McCormick-Mathers Publishing, 1939

It is no secret that our technology advances much quicker then our way of thinking.  It would seem like the two could go hand in hand, but they don’t, and I don’t think they ever will.  Humans, and perhaps all animal brains, are sluggish when it comes to change.

The boy bought a shower radio a while back, but only recently agreed to actually put it in the shower, fearing that it would be ruined by the water.  In my thinking, my son is odd in that way.  He’ll buy a shirt, for example, that he really likes, but then never want to wear it because it might get stained.  And even though the shower radio has finally been granted permission to perform the task it was designed to do, it is not without a constant state of fear on his part.  He barges into the bathroom after each of my showers.

“Did you dry off the radio?” he wants to know.  “Are you sure it won’t be ruined?  What if it gets ruined?  What then?”

As I listen to an NPR report on the shower radio about the disrepair that the Martin Luther King, Jr. estate has fallen into, I can help but think that my own son could easily do a good job overseeing the care of the place.  He is a perfectionist when it comes to preservation.  He would never have allowed the reflecting pool, for instance, to become filled with floating garbage and debris, which is apparently what the sons of King have done, in spite of their seven figure salaries.  The National Parks Service, which itself manages part of the estate, but not the part in disrepair, estimates the cost of repairs at slightly over eleven million.

This is news, of course, because this year marks the fortieth anniversary of the 1965 Voting Rights Act.  Animal thinking is sluggish, like I said, but for some odd reason, we pay slightly closer attention to things when the numbers are even and easy to remember.

Historically, forty years just isn’t that long, and if I can keep this in mind when I think about the way people treat other people, I find that I’m a little more forgiving.  Change takes time.

I have a book on my shelf that my great-grandmother gave to my dad back in 1952.  It’s called Sam at Dusky Hollow by Henrietta Van Laar, and was published in that same year by The Moody Bible Institute of Chicago.  It’s the story of a few white, Christian kids, and their introduction to the minority children, both black and Mexican, who live on the “other side” of town.  Was this story the world trying to take an awkward step forward?

At the supper table the next day Sam suddenly asked, “Aunt Jane, where is Dusky Hollow?”

Aunt Jane looked up from her plate.  “Dusky Hollow?  That’s the Negro section near the tracks, about six blocks from here.  It’s rather a dirty, smelly place, believe me.  I’ve heard that the Mexicans have their trailer camp near there.”

“Oh, that explains it.”

“Explains what?” asked Aunt Jane, buttering a roll and laying the knife carefully on the blue and white dish.

“Why the Mexicans are in our cherry-picking group and are friends of the Negroes.  Why are those people always dirty, Aunt Jane?”

Aunt Jane thought for a moment.  “They’re not all dirty, but a great many are.  I think it’s largely because they are so poor.  They become discouraged and don’t care.  The fight to live clean and decent lives is gone.”

“But why should they be poor?  Why can’t they make enough money to live the way we do?”

“There are many reasons.  Some spend it for drink; others may be plain lazy and indifferent; but the real trouble lies with us.  We keep them down.  We won’t give them jobs that pay good wages.  We give them the work of servants.  And it’s not right, Sam.”

Sam drank his milk slowly.  When the meal was over, Aunt Jane rose to get the Bible.

In some ways, I often think we’ve come such a long way, and then in other ways, that we haven’t moved an inch.  But I wasn’t trying to make a speech here this morning.  I was only trying to say something about technology.  That’s what I was trying to say.

The technology all around me has moved right along.  On Sunday, while urinating at the local Home Depot while shopping for paint for the boy’s new coffee table, my cellphone rang.  I answer my phone doing all sorts of things, I thought, so why not now.  I had a free hand. 

“Hello,” I said, hoping whoever was on the other end wouldn’t hear the sound of toilets flushing.  The men at the other urinals stared straight ahead, but then men have been doing that since the beginning of time.  Or at least long before cellphones were invented.

“Me in Texas,” the familiar voice of Fernando says.  His car has broken down and he is making repairs.  “Me working on Thursday.”

So Fernando is safe and I am thankful that my technology can bring me the good news.  I worry every year as he drives south into Mexico to visit his family, knowing that not enough time has passed.  I’m thinking that we are still too close to this idea of Dusky Hollow.  There are still too many people alive who didn’t believe there should be a Voting Rights Act, just as there are still too many people walking around who hate the idea of anything ever changing.

The day already feels like it has slipped past.  I have too much to do.  Well, Imaginary Keith has too much to do, but it’s busy work just bossing him around.  It eats up almost all of my time.

“Did you get the water running in the nursery?  Things looked dry.”

He assures me that half of the repairs have been made and the groundcovers are being watered, even as we speak.

“Susano is spraying, and the fuel tanks are ready to be filled.”

“You need a haircut,” I tell him.  “Go get a haircut and pick up another cellphone while you’re out.  Fernando will need one when he gets back.”

Imaginary Keith trudges off.  I don’t dare let him see the list of things he must complete before he goes to bed tonight.  He probably has some fancy notion that he’ll work until five or six and then sit back and read for an hour or two.

He’s so naive.  I’ve pulled the same trick on him for fifteen years straight and he still falls for it, everytime.

Recently, on the Imaginary Keith Talk Radio Show, a young man called in wanting to know if Imaginary Keith has ever written any books.  It is perhaps the shows most popular question.

Imaginary Keith’s most recent book was published only last year.  Somewhat of an experimental book, it was marketed as a cross between a coffee table book and travel guide for lonely, hungry, and thirsty men.  The book featured the stories of some of the city’s friendly and pretty women, and included maps to various restaurants, taverns, and coffee shops around town.  The book was available in both an alcoholic edition and a caffeine addict edition, with both of these coming in either a smoking or nonsmoking edition.

Some say it was the complications involved with selling so many different editions that caused the book to never sell, irritating the book store owners and confusing the shoppers.  Others said it was simply because all editions of the book excluded strip club girls and the establishments they worked at.

But Imaginary Keith always stuck to his guns.  He believed in this book.

“People like choices,” he’d say.  “All books should be available in a smoking and nonsmoking edition.  And as far as strip clubs go, our marketing survey team found that 97.8% of men in the city already knew the way to the strip club, making our stories and maps completely unnecessary.”

His newest book, hopefully released sometime later this year, is another coffee table book, this time focusing on fences.

“People love fences.  We like keeping things in and we like keeping things out, so a fence book just makes sense.  There may even be a release of a children’s pop-up version of the fence book.  The centerfold will be a giant pop-up Great Wall of China.  It’s a fun book as well as educational.  It may even come with an instructional DVD on how to build your own fence.  I tell you, you’re going to start seeing this book every time you turn around.  Just like fences!”

Can a person become dizzy just from not making any money, because you know, I’m beginning to feel a little dizzy. 

Ends must meet, we all know that.  It’s one of life’s basic building blocks.  We’ve heard it a million times - make ends meet.

Well, my ends are not meeting.  I need my ends to meet.  It’s imperative that my ends meet.  From what I understand about making ends meet, if you do it right, it all should meet in the middle.  Right about where the wallet is kept, I believe.

I think that’s why God invented wallets, to hide the place where the ends meet.

As for women, well I suppose God invented purses for them because, well, even God could see that women were just all over the place.  A silly little leather wallet would just never have cut it. 

But what do I know?  I could have it all wrong.  I’m certainly no supreme being.  That and my ends don’t meet.

There is a small village near the back of my property whose name I can never remember.  Sometimes when I am thinking really hard, I can hear the villagers becoming uncomfortable with my thoughts.  On bad days, or good ones, depending on how you look at it, they will take up their pitchforks and burning sticks and march across the field and demand that I stop thinking.

“Get to work!  Stop thinking!  Get to work!  Stop thinking!” they’ll chant, threatening to burn down my house.

I used to do a lot of thinking at night, when most of the villagers were asleep, but even that didn’t stop them from stomping around outside the house.

The funny thing is, I think I’m finally beginning to understand how they feel.  I sometimes even become uncomfortable with my thoughts, that’s how bad it sometimes gets.

And I hardly ever think at night anymore.  Now that I’m older, the sight of all those torches coming across the field in the dark kind of scares me.  More then it did when I was a young, reckless thinker anyway.

But I don’t tell the villagers that.  No sir.  That would only encourage them.

When I woke up this morning, the constable from my village was waiting for me by the back door.

“I thought you’d like to know that we scared off those people digging in your field,” he said.

“What?”

“Yea, we scared ‘em off last night.  One of them got to thinking about them bones so much that no one could get any sleep.  So we just scared ‘em all off.  Just thought I’d let you know.”

Without another word, the constable turned and headed back towards the village.  I’ll have to admit, he did look tired.

“You can’t just scare off the government,” I yelled across the yard.  He was only as far as the chicken coop.  I knew he could hear me.  “They’ll be back.”

The constable paused, head half-turned, as if he was about to reply, but then resumed his slow walk home.  As he passed the coop, the chickens scattered, bodies running low, their long necks stretched out tight. 

I closed the door, suddenly wishing I hadn’t gone to bed quite so early.  I imagined the white jump suits racing through the fields and jumping in vans, trying their best to escape the pitchforks.  I would like to have seen that.

I’ve just received an email alert telling me I could fly to Washington, D.C., roundtrip, for only $111.  More then halfway across the country and back for just over a hundred bucks.  Such a deal.  And Chicago for only $143!  Maybe I should go to Chicago and walk around the city, seeing if I recognize anyone.

I’d go to D.C. and do the same thing, but everyone there I might recognize would only turn my stomach.  I can do that at home in front of my television for free any day of the week.

But Chicago . . .

Is it windy there right now?  Snow?  What’s happening in Chicago that I should know about?  Are there still Cubs in Chicago?  Maybe I’ll try out for the team.  Does anyone know when walk-on tryouts begin.

You want to sit around all day with nothing to do and no financial worries so you can write, but without anything to do and the endless financial worries, you will have nothing to write about. 

Jennifer’s position: Without the experiences, good or bad, the writing well would surely go dry at some point.

Who really knows?  I’m not so sure.

At what point might a person have enough life in them to carry them through for the rest of their days?  Imagine a couple of old people you most likely know, sitting around content with that outdated couch they bought back in 1972.  It’s all they need.  From their perspective, there’s still plenty of good sitting left in that couch.  They don’t need the struggle of a new couch.  The old couch is more then enough for whatever time it is they have left.

I’m not saying that I have enough life in me to carry me through, but there are days that it feels like I am close.  It feels like I could make it without running out of things to say or write about.  Imagination may very well be the one well that never runs dry.

How much imagination do I need to store up in one lifetime?  All I ask for is a break; some time to sit down and let it pour out.

I am no General, and I fight no war of words.  I have nothing to gain.

“Let us understand each other.  I have come to you from the West, where we have always seen the backs of our enemies; from an army whose business it has been to seek the adversary, and to beat him when found; whose policy has been attack and not defense . . . . I desire you to dismiss from your minds certain phrases, which I am sorry to find so much in vogue amongst you.  I hear constantly of ‘taking strong positions and holding them,’ of ‘lines of retreat’ and of ‘bases of supplies.’ Let us discard such ideas . . . . Let us study the probable lines of retreat of our opponents, and leave our own to take care of themselves . . . .”

--- Major-General John Pope, addressing the Army of Virginia, July 14, 1862

Just as I am no spirited idea, carried through the words of another.  My dreams and thoughts I lay freely at your feet.  I have nothing to lose.

You can find out what the soul is now, therefore.  It is not something waiting for you at death, nor is it something you must save or redeem, and it is also something that you cannot lose.  The term, “to lose or save your soul,” has been grossly misinterpreted and distorted, for it is the part of you that is indeed indestructible.

--- Jane Roberts, Seth Speaks

An accounting monster has appeared on my doorstep and I am going to wrestle it.

It may take a day, or maybe three days, or even a week.  I don’t know.  I’ve never wrestled an accounting monster quite this large before, so I don’t know what to expect.

I’m warning you, I guess, that you may not hear much from me as I wrestle.  I’m already tired, going into this fight, and I just don’t know if I have the strength for both wrestling and writing.  The two sure sound good together, but I’m not so sure they actually go good together.

In the landscaping business in Oregon, work comes flooding in each spring like February was a dam that has finally burst.  In no time at all we will be overwhelmed, and I am trying to wrap my mind around this idea.  I need to be ready this year.  Because of the problems in my personal life, I have mentally sat out the last two years of work, coasting along, hoping that my business would survive.  But all businesses can coast for only so long.  It’s time to pedal, and I find myself wondering if I am up to the task.  My mindset has changed over the last couple of years, there’s no doubt about that.  The question is - is there still a landscaper willing to live inside my head?  Do I have the energy to design?  Can I make the rounds and play salesman? 

I think something stirred inside of me as I turned on the sprinklers in the nursery and watched the water spray out over the pots.  And I think something stirred in me as I imagined working up the garden.  I didn’t immediately envision it, fully grown and lush, as I once did, but something was there, I could feel it.

This entire spring promises to be quite a monster for me.  I think that’s what I’m trying to say.  More then just the accounting.  More then just wondering if I can do the job that I’ve done for the last fifteen years.  My whole life somehow feels like it needs to be sorted out this spring.  I have to decide what to hang onto and what to let go.  I am not all that different then the lost accounting.  I must be completely reentered, one keystroke at a time until I am whole again.

So, I’ll write again when I can.

I’ll come out and play when my chores are done.

You know, sometimes it -

“Hey!  None of that!  Get to work over there!”

Crap.

Since I’m up to my eyeballs in accounting trouble, I might as well go ahead and tell you about the other thing that’s going on around here.  I’d just gotten back from the accountant’s office when the phone rang, and thinking that it might be the accountant with some good news, I picked up the phone.

That was my first mistake.  Well, actually, deciding that in would be fun to have a village in my back field was probably my first mistake, but let’s just call answering the phone my first mistake and leave it at that.  Who would ever have thought that a few simple villagers could cause so much trouble for one man, that’s what I want to know.

Anyway, it ends up there are a whole bunch of people unhappy about being chased off the property the other night.  Apparently I’ve had this whole idea of democracy all wrong in my head (which could also explain my problem with accounting.) I’ve always had this novel idea that democracy was all centered around the idea of “majority rules,” and that whoever has the most votes wins, which is sort of what I imagine went on the other night out in the field.  The villagers called for a vote regarding use of the field, and when the white jumpsuit investigators came up short, they were thrown from office.  I tried to explain this to the man on the phone, but he apparently went by a different definition of democracy then I went by.  I was also informed that I was “on the verge of being detained.”

“There was no vote, sir,” the man on the phone said.  “My understanding is that you had my personnel forcibly removed from the property.  The report reads, and I quote, ”. . . advanced upon from the north by what appeared to be a mob of angry farmers, armed with pitchforks and lighted torches.  Fearing for our safety, we retreated to the vans, but not before Extraction Specialist Owens was injured by a burning stick.  We left the property and drove west into town to seek medical treatment. Sir, would you agree with the report?”

“You’re telling me that burned someone?” I couldn’t imagine the constable allowing it to get out of hand like that.

“My understanding is that the Extraction Specialist was treated for minor burns and released.”

“That sounds like just a singe to me.  Yea, I bet they only singed him.  They do that to me all the time.  It’s really no big deal.”

“Sir, I assure you that this is a big deal.  Your actions have interfered with a government investigation, and you are, at this very moment, on the verge of being detained.”

“I was sleeping when it happened.  You can’t detain me.”

“Sir, we can and we will, if need be.  My investigators will be returning to the site tomorrow, and I have assured them that there will be no more trouble from you.  Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

It was clear.  I was going to have to walk over to the village and talk with the constable.  And while this might not seem like such a big deal, I should tell you one little detail about my village that I’ve failed to mention so far - I’ve never actually ever been there.

That’s right.  Even though it’s only a stones throw from here, and even though I can see the edge of some of the village’s buildings if I look around the side of the barn, I’ve never actually gone over there.  I don’t know why, so don’t even ask.  I can see the smoke rising from the chimneys, and during the day I can hear the ring of the blacksmith as he pounds away on god knows what, but for some reason, I just never walked over there.

I’d always thought that having a small village in the back field would somehow make life simpler.  Like somehow I could just wander over there once in awhile when things got rough around the house or became too stressful.  Maybe I thought that I could just go over whenever I wanted and some of the village’s simpleness would sink in, and that I wouldn’t feel so, I don’t know, complicated I guess.

But it never happened.  In the eleven years I’ve lived here, not counting the last two I spent in town in the apartment, not once did I ever make it over there.  And now this.  Now I had to go over there, and I just knew it wasn’t going to be the same.  Certainly not like I’d ever imagined, that’s for sure.  Yes, the man on the phone had made it perfectly clear - I would have to go face the villagers.

“Yes, everything will be fine,” I said into the phone, wishing that when I hung up I could just call the constable and straighten this whole thing out.  But of course, there are no phones in my village.  I said they made things simple over there.  I didn’t say they made things easy.

I am considering a second blog.  A place to store the tortures and peculiarities of attempting to make a living in the exciting world of landscaping. 

I could pass on the bits and pieces of conversation I am faced with on a daily basis.  I could describe what it feels like to buy $1000 push mowers and watch $30,000 trucks return to the shop all dented up.  Maybe I would tell intimate stories about customers, relating things to you like the time we had to move a shrub over two inches, or about the beautiful old woman who thought her bumpy, weed infested yard was a valley.  I could tell you about Matty, the five year old boy who engaged in a fierce battle of wits and strength each and every Friday with an eighty year old lady while I stood by and enjoyed the show.  I could even talk about plants, if I still felt like it after twelve hour days, which is doubtful.

Or I could just make up names for my imagined second blog and leave it at that.  That would be much easier, come to think of it.  How about The Lost Art of Slave Labor?  Or maybe something plain and simple, like Digging Holes - A Gardener’s Story, helping to draw no attention to the fact that I am a classic underachiever.  How about Winging It And Getting Paid For It, or does that sound too inspirational?  We wouldn’t want that.  I know - Mowing Over Toes.

Actually, the second blog idea is a terrible one.  It would no doubt turn into a repository for my endless number of sore back stories.  The stories would fall into one of two categories - upper back or lower back.

Something in the dark pecks at the glass of the back door!

The boy and I both jump.  We stare at the glass, but see nothing.  Is it watching us?  What is it?  Should we move?

Again!  tap tap tap

It is pitch black.  What could it be?  And then a small, quiet voice, saying only one word - “Fernando.”

It is Fernando! 

Long story short:  Two days broken down on the Texas/Mexico border with a broken off bolt and a worn out water pump, and then another three days and nights scrounging through L.A. junk yards, searching for a hard-to-find wheel bearing or something.  Total length of journey from Puebla, Puebla to Salem, Oregon: 13 days. 

We shake hands.  He apologizes profusely for being late and hands me handmade treats from his hometown.  Sweet little bread looking things with a pecan on top that taste like bread, cookies, and dried frosting all at the same time.  Delicious!

There is no ceremony or exchange of words.  It is the same as last year and the same as the year before that.  It is the same as it has been for as long back as he can remember.  Business as usual.  Another day, another dollar.  An endless race against the sun.

Imaginary Keith, with his eyes focused clearly on the day ahead, sets down his coffee cup and strides out the door, the hinge in his back freshly oiled.

I have waited nearly two years for the wireless connection between my laptop and printer to “take hold.” That’s how I imagine it, anyway.  Two electrical pulses reaching out for each other, searching for closure.  One emanating from my command at the laptop, the more pronounced of the pulses, and the other reaching back from the printer, searching for it’s exact opposite to make it whole.  I think of it as a kind of lightning strike, only instead of boiling trees into splinters or knocking the toes out of some unlucky man’s shoes, it produces a crisp, clean whirring sound and spits out a well-written letter or overdue invoice.

I’m telling you, my fortunes are turning.  After all this time the printer has whirred to life!  Even as I sit here, writing this, it spits out the guidelines for a better tomorrow.  And here come this month’s invoices!  And look!  Last year’s sad, sad journal!  It’s as if the printer has finally had enough of my crap and is vomiting all over the place.  Do my fingers really peck out such toxic waste?

Hey Michael.

Tell me the underwear in the woods story.

Oh yea.  This is God, speaking directly through Keith.  I’d stick around and say more, but he’s already starting to get scared and sweat. 

Gross.

Face to face with what seems will be an endless supply of reality television ideas, I took it upon myself to form a new advertising agency last weekend.  The way I see it, the old commercials just aren’t working anymore, and I’m proof positive.  I don’t think I’ve gone out and bought anything in days, maybe even weeks.  Imagine if commercials just stop working, and we all stop buying things.  What would happen then?  What would become of us?  Just the idea of it was enough to frighten me into a whole new line of business.

So let me present to you Reality Advertising.  An agency with it’s eye on the future and it’s finger on the pulse of current day America.  We hear what you want, we feel what makes you tick, and we’re here to tell you that we will deliver.

Reality Advertising kicked things off late last Saturday night with a small brainstorming session.  To get things headed in the right direction, I’ve hired a small army of reality experts who just happen to also be excellent beer drinkers, and we sat around pounding them down as we came up with our first big campaign.  I’m telling you, you’re going to want to keep your eyes on these people.  They’re the next big hitters in the world of advertising.  I’m not saying they’re going to change the way you live, but I can promise you they’ll change the way you think.  Give us a year, and you’re going to be wondering how you ever went out shopping without our help.

As our name suggests, we’re all about reality, and with so much reality television coming your way, it’s only natural that you’re begging for some reality advertising to go along with it.  So we asked ourselves, as we sat around drinking beer - just what is the heart and soul of reality television?  What is it that people really want?  What drives them?  What makes them tick?

Well, it seems that at the core of every person is something petty and small, and dangling a little money or fame or food or sex in front of this thing, and having your cameras and scripts ready to go, result in what we call reality television.  Hours and hours of pure enjoyment, watching people maneuver around each other, trying their best to feed the hunger of the small, petty thing inside of them, while at the same time trying to poke each other in the eyes.

But I don’t care about that.  What I’m interested in is the advertising.  Reality advertising.

Our first client just happens to be a condom company, which suits us just fine.  Condoms, after all, are a hard sell (yes, yes, I know, after so many beers, we sat around and laughed about that one too).  What other product out there is designed for something that you can’t even show on television?  The way we look at it, condoms are begging for a little touch of reality.

Anyway, this condom company contacted us right away when they heard what we were all about.  You see, this is a new type of condom, yet unnamed, that will soon be released to the general public.  You’ll know the one I’m talking about right away when you see it.  It’s the new condom designed for the ever hopeful, yet unsuccessful man.  Yes, that’s right.  A new condom designed for the common man.  The man who never sees any action.  And believe me, it’s a large market. (yes, I know, more laughing around the brainstorming table.)

The secret behind the new condom is it’s longevity. (I know, I know) Made from a nearly indestructible, flexible polymer, the new condom will last nearly forever.  (We recommended to the manufacturer that they include a disclaimer stating that this referred to the unwrapped condom, and did not imply any type of improved sexual prowess.)

Our commercial so far is coming together nicely.  We’ve decided to go with what is known in the industry as The Tampon Approach, which basically means two people having an unbelievable conversation in an equally unbelievable situation.  You know, like two women oohing and ahhing over the incredible absorbency of just about anything.  (ooohhh . . . ahhhhh . . . that’s awesome . . . more comfortable? . . . . What?  With wings? . . . . Count me in!!! . . . blah, blah, blah)

Anyway, we’re pitching this new condom using The Tampon Approach.  Imagine these two guys standing around discussing condoms.  Let’s call them Bob and Dick, just for kicks.

Bob:  Hey Dick, what are you doing with all these old condoms in your underwear drawer?

Dick: Nothing.  Why do you ask?

Bob:  Are you crazy?  Look here! (pointing at the sides of a long string of condoms) These condoms are expired!

Dick:  You’re kidding me?  I just bought those!

Bob:  Yeah, in 1982.

(the two share a good laugh)

Bob:  What you need is a big box of Everlast Condoms.

Dick:  Everlast Condoms?  I’ve never heard of them.

Bob:  They’re new and improved, and designed for the common guy.  Like you and me Dick.

Dick:  That sounds good.

Bob:  And better yet, laboratory tests have shown that the new and improved Everlast Condom will last nearly 80% longer sitting around unused in a man’s underwear drawer.  It just makes sense.

Dick:  Count me in!  Now let’s go meet some ladies!  (Pulls out an early 80’s disco shirt from the closet.  More shared laughter.  Camera zooms in to dresser drawer and box of Everlast Condoms, nestled in between the underwear.

Voiceover:  For the man who might get lucky.  Someday.  Everlast.

The flip side of the one-man show is that something is forever getting lost in that crack that never quite goes away.  You can burn the candle on both ends, but during the run of any one-man show there is never enough light.  A darkness grabs at your edges, in spite of the holy day planner clutched in your shaking hand.  Time slips past in chunks and clocks are worthless decorations, their hands jerking around the face like some epileptic dog trying to lie down for a nap. 

The one-man show is about forgetting as much as it is about remembering.  You pencil things in, trying to remember not to forget, and then spend the rest of the night trying to forget what you you’ve remembered too late.  The clock jerks, the dog spins, the earth whips around the sun faster then you can lift your eyes, and then it is tomorrow. 

Or is it the next day, or the day after that?  In the one-man show, it’s so hard to tell.  Without others around to bump up against, there is no perspective.  You lose all sense of proportion and reality.  You find yourself talking to shadows of people that aren’t even there.  In the night, you might hear the sound of a mouse, chewing somewhere inside the walls, and get out of bed to answer the door.  You swear you heard knocking, but with no one there to confess your mistake to, it races back down the hall and climbs into bed ahead of you, keeping the sheets warm, smiling to itself as it slowly becomes the reality in your head.

When I turned 44, I realized that my house was very messy, so I decided to spent some time cleaning up.  There was no telling what was in store for me, now that I was 44, and it would be good, I thought, to meet this unknown head on, and do so from the comfort of a clean house.

As I cleaned, I discovered that Molly, the cat who came with my house, had eaten something disagreeable, and left it for me neatly piled near the couch.  I was forced to clean it up when I was 44, knowing full well that it had happened when I was only 43. 

At first I thought this would be an important fact simply for historical reference.  But later, when I’d had time to reflect upon my morning, I realized the importance of this discovery.  In spite of our best efforts, shit just has a mysterious way of following us from year to year.

Other things happened when I turned 44, but I can’t remember them all.  And some things, believe it or not, are about to happen.  I think a cake is arriving and the boy will sing Happy Birthday, complete with cha-cha-cha’s and everything.  I may even get a present.  And my brother sent me a text message that said only: Geezer!

My secret birthday wish is that someday I can spend as long as I want being completely silent.  Actually, it’s not so much a birthday wish as it is a daily wish, that’s how much I want it to come true.  Maybe that sounds like a strange wish to you, to want to be silent, but to me it sounds great.  I get so tired of talking and listening, that each time I find myself blowing out some birthday candles, I end up closing my eyes and wishing for silence.

It’s an odd wish to make when you’re surrounded by the people who love you, all clapping and singing and carrying on.  There’s really no good way to make people understand that you love them, but that you wish they’d just shut up and leave you alone for awhile.  But for most people, these two things just don’t go together.

But I sometimes wish they did.

If you can’t have silence, then the next best thing is a big, roaring fire.  Something you can stare into and lose yourself while everyone else talks the day away.  Fire has a way of drawing part of you in while leaving the rest of you out.  You can carry on a conversation when you’re staring into a fire without really even being there in your body, and no one suspects a thing.  If you do seem withdrawn, they mistake it for concern, thinking that you’re worried about the fire.

But the fire yesterday was beyond worry.  The pile of brush was as big as a small house and had been drying there for two years, just waiting for me and my match.  If there was a heaven, this one was going to warm the floor boards all right.  Angels would be hopping; believers would drop to their knees and praise the miracle of God’s radiant heat.

One match was all it took, and the pile of dead limbs leaped to life.

* * * * *

“Imaginary Keith, what do you think a tree likes best?  Being a tree or a flame?”

“I’m not really sure.  You’d have to ask it.”

“I’ve never really heard a tree talk.  I wouldn’t know what to listen for.”

“Oh, you’ve heard them talk alright.  You probably just didn’t know what you were hearing.”

“Are they talking now?”

“You tell me.”

* * * * *

Solid wood or ash?  Life breathing or a pile of dirt?  Cold, gnarled bark or red hot coals giving birth to flame?

But is it really just one or the other?  Or is that just me, thinking that life is that simple?  Applying the rules that I’ve somehow been led to believe are true?  Does it really come down to just those two choices?  Is there no place between the two?  No place all around them?

* * * * *

“It’s raining this morning.  I’m afraid the fire will go out.”

“Maybe.”

“Should we do something?”

“You’d have to ask the tree that question.”

“But all I see is smoke.”

“Well, I guess you have your answer then.  More coffee?”

“How can you sit there and drink coffee as the fire goes out?”

“The same way you can sit there and worry about the rain.  The same way the tree goes from wood to flame, flame to ash, and then ash to soil and smoke.  If you’re going to sit here worrying so much, I might as well go out and have coffee with the tree.”

There are many reasons to throw away the cat.  Perhaps as many reasons as there are cats.

The fact that it’s meow sounds just like the boy repeating, “Daaaaad” a million times a day is just one of the reasons.

“It’s the boy’s fault,” it pleads, dangling by her scruff.  “Throw him away.”

“I can’t,” I tell the cat.

“Why?  Because it’s illegal?”

“Yes,” I say, which isn’t exactly a lie, but isn’t exactly the truth either.  How do you explain to a cat that a boy has no scruff?  Besides, who has the energy?

Is fear directly proportional to the size of an animal’s head?  Insects, for instance, seem to have very little fear, while I, on the other hand, might be startled by a shirt hanging over the edge of a door. 

The boy and I have decided to conduct an experiment.  We will measure fear.

We’ve attached 100 helium-filled balloons to a small cage, complete with food, water, and a small nesting box for egg laying, and plan on putting a chicken in this cage first thing in the morning and floating her off.  A video camera, strapped to the top of the cage, will record the chicken’s movements, which we will analyze later back at the house, hoping to discover something about fear in chickens.  This, we think, will shed some light on the condition of fear in general, which we will be more then happy to share with the rest of the world.

The balloons are bright red, which we should easily be able to spot from the ground, allowing us to follow our chicken from the car below.  We have a good pair of binoculars, as well as a BB gun to shoot the balloons, so that we can bring our hen safely back down again.  It’s important to note that we intend to violate no animal cruelty laws, and that of our four hens, this particular hen was the only one who volunteered for the experiment.  This fact alone suggests that chickens, or at least 25% of them, are quite fearless.

Tomorrow morning’s wind report shows a light breeze from the south, blowing 5-7 mph.  If my calculations are correct, the chicken should have no problem clearing the row of cedar just to the north of the launch site.  The boy and I are very exciting for tomorrow, and if I’m not mistaken, it looks like even the chickens are heading to bed early this evening.

Tomorrow we measure fear.

I’ve been attacked by a desperate raccoon!  In the dark!

The only bullets I could find in the house contained no gunpowder!  Serious.  Bullets with no gunpowder.  Useless!

I backpedaled and tripped.  The raccoon closed in.  The dogs circled and snapped.  They boy yelled from somewhere off in the dark.  “Do something, Dad!  Do something!”

I should tell the dramatic, exciting version of the raccoon attack story.  The one where I barely escape alive and the boy is in the background, fearing for his father’s safety.  The story where the raccoon pounces on me like a angry wolverine and the two of us tumble down a long hill, my arms bleeding and ripped, my jacket torn to shreds as we plunge into the freezing waters of the Little Pudding River.  I should tell that story, but I won’t. 

Instead, let’s try a true story for once.  How’s that for excitement and drama?  Yes, let’s pull some truth out of the closet and see how that fits for a change.  About as well as an old high school prom suit jacket, I imagine, but I’ll give it a shot.  There’s room for a small dose of truth around here once in awhile.  A little truth will be good.  I can’t, after all, continue to fill everyone’s head with nothing but nonsense and not expect decay in return.  We need truth like teeth need brushing.  Like a house occasionally needs roofing.  Maybe that’s how we need truth.  Yes, this morning I feel like we could all use a little truth.  Like my gun needed bullets last night, that’s how we need truth this morning.  But let’s get back to that one.  As far as truth is concerned, we’re not even close to needing the gun just yet.  The gun may very well be in the past, but as far as truth is concerned, and as far as this story is concerned, that gun is still out there in the shed, just waiting for us to catch up.  The gun is way ahead of us.  We’re not even close yet.

But it’s a busy Monday, and I’m afraid I’ll have to dish out my truth in small bits and pieces.  Which is just as well, come to think of it, because I don’t think I know how to speak truth any other way.

The boy has gone to visit his grandparents.  Three days and two nights without interruption, leaving me at the moment with that feeling you get when you’ve just lost your balance from the top of a tall ladder.

Weightless with consequences.  A desperate need to know what to do next.  Arms waving, wild eyes, and a queasy stomach.

The first day is like losing your grip.  The second like the fall.  The third the inevitability of the hard landing.

When I stepped outside this morning, I was met by a small delegation of chickens, claiming to represent the collective interest of all of the farm’s animals.  If I understand them correctly, and I believe I do, they are petitioning for better living conditions and more representation within the farm’s governing bodies.  They went on to say that they were prepared to take action against me, should I prove unwilling to entertain their ideas.

The delegation took me completely by surprise.  First of all, I was under the impression that my small farm was more of an anarchy, with everyone off doing their own thing.  I couldn’t even begin to imagine what conditions the chickens were referring to, but it was clear they had me pegged as some sort of dictator.  It was disturbing, to say the least.

“Our first demand is that you tear down the chicken coop fence,” one hen said.  “We want to walk with the cows.”

The other delegates all piped in.  “Yes!  Walk with the cows!  Free range!  Free range!”

It was easy to see that this would get out of hand much too easily.  These chickens were clearly agitated.

“Now hold on a second,” I said.  “The fence is for your own protection.  Have you forgotten about the dogs?”

“You let us worry about the dogs,” the lead hen said.  “We can handle them.”

“Well, let’s say you do.  What then?  The cows are inside their own fence.”

The four hens leaned in close and clucked something low that I couldn’t hear, which doesn’t matter anyway.  I don’t speak chicken.  After a few seconds, they looked back up.

“The cows didn’t mention this other fence.” They were fishing for information.  I had them on the defensive now.

“Sure there’s another fence.  Go ask them yourselves.”

“We will.” I thought they were about to leave when the leader tilted her head to one side and glared at me out of one of those cold glassy eyes.  I had to look away.

“We’ve heard you’re writing a book.  Is this true?”

I couldn’t see any harm in telling the hens the truth.  Not about the book anyway.

“Yes.  I might.”

“Well, let me say this.  Don’t fuck with us.  Not at this conjuncture.” With that, all the hens turned and walked away, their fat feathery butts moving back across the yard towards the coop.

I’ll tell you, that hen has always been trouble.  But conjuncture?  Where’d she pick up language like that?  Not around this farm, that’s for sure.  I’d have to keep an eye on her.  A real close eye.

Wind gusts will prevent floating the chicken today, not to mention the demands of the delegation.

Will there ever be any peace?  A time when no one demands anything of me?  Is this what drives science forward?  Is this the only thing driving us all?  The pressing demands of others for more?

I’ve appeased the chickens momentarily by telling them that the experiment is off, which made me think of something I thought was even more interesting.  As much as I get sick of the sound of voices sometimes, I still can’t help but love diplomacy.

The chickens are happy because they think they have won a demand, and I am happy because they are leaving me alone.  Happiness, it sometimes seems, has more to do with good diplomacy then it does truth.  It’s not what we say or even what it means, but what the other person (or in this case, chicken) believes it to mean.

For instance - deciding not to float the chicken has nothing to do with the chicken’s recent demands, in spite of what they might think.  But they believe what they believe, and it makes them happy.

What then, is happiness?  Can there even be such a thing as true happiness, if everything hinges upon the words of others?  Words that we have no way of knowing the truth of?

Truth be told, the floating chicken experiment on fear is off because the balloons seem to have lost all their punch.  I found them last night, barely floating above the cage, aged and wrinkled.  Embarrassingly, they reminded me slightly of a woman’s breasts, after all the years of nursing and just hanging there, fighting gravity.  They reminded me of all the breasts I’d seen the last few years, which admittedly, haven’t been many, so don’t take what I say as the gospel truth or even good science.  Make no mistake, I am no expert when it comes to women’s breasts.  I don’t claim to understand them.  I could tell you that they draw attention like honey draws flies, but then, you already know that.  I guess what I’m trying to say is that when it comes to women’s breasts, I don’t think there’s anything new that can be said.  Certainly not from me.

But what I can tell you is that when I reached out for those shriveled balloons, they slipped away from my fingers as easily as any breast I’ve ever laid my eyes on.