A Spot For Me

It’s very hard not to think spring when temperatures here in Tennessee are averaging ten degrees higher than normal. This is what my Grandmother would call a False Spring. No doubt before the end of March we’ll get whomped with chilly temps and at least one more snow.

Although, I look forward to it, the last few springs have been difficult. This time last year, I never would have imagined that I’d be ensconced in the house of my teen years in Mountain City, Tennessee. In fact, if had asked I’d have told you this would be the last place I’d be. Looks like the last place turns out to have been at the head of the line the whole time.

I’m trying very hard to concentrate on the possibilities this year and not the fear of slipping further behind in life. At this point there’s not a lot further back that I can slip so why not look ahead, find several points of possibilities to focus on and start working those muscles.

My Grandmother hated the fall. She said it reminded her of death, but I always found the fall season stimulating, with winter being the time of relaxing reward. Spring to me is preparation for summer, a time of enthusiasm and work.

So as winter winds down and spring begins to bloom, I plan. Foremost in my head is the focal point most easily attainable. I find myself in the mountains amidst what’s left of the Melungeon farmers, so I plant. Or rather plan to plant.

We no longer have a garden. Growing up, we always had a huge garden, using the fruits of that labor to feed ourselves. This used to be tobacco country, so this time of year we’d begin that laborious grind to pretty much little gain.

I always hated gardening. Much of it I think now stemming from the fruitless acreage of burley. It seemed to me a waste of time and energy. As a project in school one year, I recorded every man hour we spent growing the tobacco and used the crop financial yield to discover we made less than one penny an hour.

Of course, the government pays you not to grow tobacco now, and the years of growing that crop changed the rich hardy soil into mere mediocre dirt. Crops here in Johnson County aren't as hardy and plentiful as they once were and as a family, seemingly world wide, most of our gardens are now the local grocery store.

Dad still grows tomatoes and peppers, the back porch covered with plants. I’ve already taken him to Boone to get his staples. Near the French doors in the dining room he has little seedlings stretching toward the Sun, avoiding the terror of frost until they can be transplanted around the back porch, away from Jackson’s paws and urine.

As for me, I avoided gardening like the plague just as I did Nicholas Cage movies and shoving firecrackers into my eyes. I kept my yards neat, trimmed and green. Unless someone gave me something potted there were no plants. Even the pots would find a spot on the porch until they died from lack of intentional inattention.

It was February of the early ‘90s when I moved into to my wonderful little apartment in Rising Sun, Maryland. It was the bottom half of a two level building literally in downtown. I was across the street from the pharmacy and from my front porch I could see the main red light of old downtown.

The yard was tiny. It actually took me longer to clean up from mowing than mowing. It remained for the first two years plant less, with the exception of a rosebush in the corner Uncle Horace’s son had planted and a few stray tulips my cousin Linda hand planted when she lived there. Those tulips I happily mowed down rather than bother mowing around.

My upstairs neighbor was a wonderful old lady we called Miss Grace. I think she was the first and only tenant in the upstairs apartment since Horace converted what at one time was the family home. I adored her; a character that one day will turn up in something I write that no one will read.

After two years there Miss Grace’s health began to fail her. It became difficult, then impossible for her to maneuver the stairs. At one point I offered to change apartments with her, but she refused. I visited her every day, usually shortly after I got off work.

Sometimes she’d give me a call and ask me to come up and just sit with her. We’d watch TV while she chain smoked and we’d drink hot tea. She got to the point where even maneuvering around the apartment became difficult. She’d managed to sit at her kitchen table and look out the window into our tiny yard and enjoy her days watching the world use the sidewalk.

I asked her that fall if there was anything she wanted or needed that I could do for her. She took a drag off her cigarette and gazed out that window with this hopeful smile and said, “Yes.” She motioned to share her view and pointed. “Could you plant me some flowers out there on our side of the sidewalk? Something pretty with lots of colors that I can enjoy from here.”

How could I say no to that? So I borrowed a few flower cataloges from my cousin Debbie and let Miss Grace choose what she wanted, grumbling the entire time I planted a couple of dozen bulbs. I also gave her a brochure I got in the mail with an offer of six rose bushes, of which I allowed her to choose and grumbled planting the things knowing my back was to her but she could see me put them in the ground.

It made her so happy. In the spring and summer she would have “God’s color”, as she called our tiny row of tulips, roses and Canna, to look at from her little space in the window. I just smiled, knowing the work was done, and figuring a 3’ by 6” space of weeds wouldn’t kill me.

Miss Grace never got to look at her flowers. She passed away that winter. To be honest I’d forgotten all about her “God’s Colors” until they sprouted that spring. After I bawled like a baby for a few hours when the first tulip burst up, I decided to take special care of that little bed in her honor, knowing full well she’d being seeing those colors sitting at the window of heaven with God himself.

From there my garden was born. It kept expanding and expanding, until I could practically mow the yard with a pair of scissors. The roses, tulips and Canna became home to a bounty of unique and beautiful lisianthus, dianthus, edelweiss and a host of perennials that were gifts from friends or cuttings literally from friends all over the country, thanks to My Space.

It was my refuge. I was always looking for something new and a new spot to put it in. When I was stressed from work, yanking the weeds and pruning calmed me down. When I was depressed watering and just breathing in the scent lifted me. When I was happy, finding a way to nurse a poorly bloom into health made me joyous. I loved my garden so.

Then things changed. I moved and my garden of Grace and God’s color was quickly yanked up and mowed down. One plant was transplanted into my Aunt Irene’s yard, a cutting from my Aunt Mag’s “snowball bush” which was planted by my great great grandmother. It’s still there, finally blooming again last year for the first time since the transplant.

Now I’m here. My parents have their own flower habitat, which other than watering I have no privy to. I contented myself last year by weed eating and keeping the creek banks trimmed and neat, but there was one bed by the garage that my Mother never could get anything to grow in.

Mom is a Zinnia and Petunia sort of gal, as opposed to my being a Chinese Magnolia and Lantana guy. We both agreed this little bed was an eyesore, but it’s in front of where we park the cars so she was content to let it look bedraggled with a lone scrawny not quite a weed something growing there.

Then I found some dianthus on the cheap and tossed them in there without permission, just to keep from having to look at the dirt. To Mom’s shock, not mine, before long we had this incredible burst of color consuming that ugly space. We kept looking for more unique colors and by fall we had this breathtaking mound where ugly used to be.

Because of its placement in the house we actually had that lovely color up through the second, I repeat the second snow. Those little dianthus just refused to admit that it was winter. Even now, the blooms are all gone, but I’ll be darned if those babies aren’t still a beautiful green and so perky even Jackson can’t smash them down.

To my pleasure, Mom and Dad have consented to letting me have my own little space for Grace and God’s colors. I’m thrilled that after a long dry spell, I’ll have a little “piece of Earth” to quote the musical “The Secret Garden”. I’m even more thrilled at the spot that has been chosen for me.

In the back portion of the yard there are two trees, several hundred years old where the branch splits making a little island at the foot of the trees. Knowing many may not understand the term, a “branch” is what we Southerners refer to when talking about a steady trickle of water that empties into the creek.

This land, our part a little under an acre of what used to be my Grandparents 86 acre farm, is full of natural mountain springs, most beneath the ground. They tend to bubble up and run off creating what we call branches making natural divides in the land. This little spot, an oval shape of maybe fifteen square foot, is made by a hill causing the “branch” of the runoff to split before meeting again two hundred feet before it empties into the creek.

The split begins just before the two old trees, travels on both sides around them and then meets again creating this little mound that hasn’t really been taken care of since I was little. Oh the times my cousins and I had on that little mound. We climbed the trees, fought imaginary Indians, caught lightning bugs and at least one of us broke an arm climbing the trees. To warm my heart even further, it’s a little mound my mother and her seven siblings did the same thing on.

When we built the house on this little tract in 1972, on the exact spot Mom’s Grandparents house stood, my Aunt Faye gave her four Wisteria vines from her garden as a house warming gift. Mom planted them between the two trees. Time past.

Mom and Dad sold the house and moved in with Granddad when my Grandmother died. That didn’t work so well and they ended up at a wonderful spot on top of a mountain. We all loved it, but as they aged they were unable to care for five and a half acres of grass that needed to be mowed and a small orchard. Then the house we built on a little piece of family land came back on the market and we all have returned.

So much had changed. Granddad, too, passed away. The “family home” on top of the hill now belongs to a wonderful “hippie” couple with a three legged boxer and a potbelly pig. The chickens and cattle are gone, but the barn I actually helped build still stands.

Soon, very soon, those wisteria vines my mother planted between the trees forty years ago will bloom, always the first blossoms of the year. They are one of the few things untouched in all this time. They have grown and twisted and become part of every branch of those two century old trees. Before they bud out and give us our first taste of leaves, they will first explode in purple blue blossoms engulfing the majesty of those two maples.

And this year, at their feet I will have my own little spot. Oh there will be a number of things, but I will be placing my own little mark there. Some things that can just be left there for as long as some one can sit at the window and enjoy them. It will be my own little spin on Grace and God’s colors in a spot that will catch the corner of your eye as you drive the highway until it curves around the mountain and out of sight.

With strength, purpose and happy tears, I have been sent home to be given control over the tiny little spot where my imagination was born, my mother played and somewhere along the way a legacy of spectacular visual candy is born annually.

I hope, no, I know that not only my ancestors will be pleased, but Miss Grace will be looking out her window with God at my shoulders as I work the soil, and tend the blooms with a smile of contentment on her face. As will I.

The Road That Used To Be

Sometimes in darkness it only takes a small ray of light to fill up the room. I awoke before the family and sat on the front porch, watching the squirrels play in the snow, and the birds torture the squirrels playing in the snow. The world was still and serene, beautiful in its plainness.

It struck me like a Mac Davis song. Remember him? He had this art of taking the average and painting it, as it is, magically ordinary. The songs weren’t hard for the simple Joe to sing, any one could and the listener couldn’t help but hum along. They were all memorably spectacular, but complexly simple.

Maybe I’m just finally getting the reins on things, but like listening to “I Believe In Music”, “Forever Lovers” or “A Little Less Conversation” I find myself sighing in contentment, dazzled with the ordinary routine of life. I’m finding basic comfort in basic comfort, sometimes to the point of getting annoyed when the slightest hair is out of place.

Hopefully the scope of my vision is widening. I don’t find myself dwelling in the anger and pain of the past. I’m not quite focused yet, but I don’t seem to be spinning my wheels as much in the snow banks. It’s melting away in the middling 48 degree sunshine.

I took a brief drive this morning, as I oft do on a Saturday, veering off my usual path down a portion of a road I used to be forced to travel. There was a time when Old Forge Creek Road was the only one leading to town. It was treacherously curvy and dangerously narrow, following babble by babble the creek that leads to somewhere I’ve never really known.

There’s not a lot left of that old road that used to be. Now only two small sections exist, the smaller one I live on, used only by the five families that live on either end, and the bigger section still heavily traveled and still following every pebble of the creek. That old portion hasn’t changed much but now leads to nowhere.

I recall the bike wrecks, the spills in the creek and the dogs chasing the old Ford Granddad used to drive, nipping stupidly at the tires. I used to think it was so beautiful, but that beauty is now gone. The older folks and the poor folk that still live there haven’t taken care of it. It’s weedy, neglected and stereotypical Appalachian.

Many years ago, I remember trying to cross the creek in a spot other than the bridge, as children will typically find a way to do. I remember slipping off one of the jagged stones and landing painfully on several others.

In tears, cut, bloody and wet, I remember bawling, literally bawling, to my Aunt Mag who was dabbing my scrapes and asking “Why God puts such odd rocks across the river”, as I thought it was.

In wonderful Southern drawl my Aunt Mag smiled as she rubbed Rosebud Salve into my little wounds. “Danny, God has to put odd rocks in the river.” When I cried more and told her it wasn’t fair to make people slip and fall, she of course had the perfect answer.

“There’s odd rocks across the river so the next time you step you know you’re footing is sure.” That answer has rung through my head the rest of my life.

As I find myself at a resting spot, please God let it be just a resting spot, I am learning the joys of the magically ordinary. I work when they allow me. I clean house and make dinner for Mom and Dad. I get a kick out of Dad getting a kick out of me being able to walk in the room look at the TV and immediately know what movie he’s watching.

I’ve found quiet joy in the one day this week Mom slept late, not getting out of her robe and nightgown, just sitting by the fireplace and working on a crossword puzzle well into the night. I find peace in the hyperkinetics of my dog, Jackson, as he sniffs out and digs to China looking for a mole. I get a belly laugh spying the neighbors feeding their pet pig the junk mail, Roscoe snacking away dressed in a bright green sweater she made for him.

There’s also this odd peaceful addiction to Twitter. I truly enjoy reading the Tweets, and unlike most, I read them all. I follow over a hundred people. Like most of America I have this creepy fetish of wondering what ‘celebrities’ are up to. I prefer to follow the ones who Tweet realism, rather than networking.

Kurt Warner tweets about his kids. Yesterday stating where each one was, the seven year old being “in Tupperware”. That cracked me up, having visions of a tot in time out in a big plastic microwave safe container. I realize he didn’t mean in that way, but I went there. But that’s the sort of thing I enjoy reading, the normality of those whose choice of paths have made them anything but.

I like knowing that Kristin Chenoweth is a chronic insomniac, one more thing we have in common…hint hint. I like the fact that Allison Sweeney’s young son last week “was hungrier than a two tummied giant”. I like it that Russell Tovey makes fun of his own ears and James Cameron thinks Kim Kardasian is already in “3D”.

And I’ve been writing. Sometimes its good, sometimes its bad, but I’ve gotten myself back in the routine of writing a minimum of an hour a day, that doesn’t include blogging, another story totally. I’m still not convinced that anything will ever come of my writing. It’s just something I just do, like breathing.

To be honest, I really wouldn’t know how to go about doing something with my writing. That’s why I blog, tri-blog actually. Just to put it out there past my own nose. It’s a long shot, but I know that once a bolt of lightning hit Ben Franklin’s key.

Over hearing a bit of silly conversation a few weeks ago during the snow storm at work lead me to writing a piece I ended up titling “The Hapka of Our Lives” concerning the brouhaha surrounding the departure of an actor from “Days of Our Lives”. It was a good piece; funny, tight and structured to perfectly fit the framework I set up for that blog.

On a silly lark, I tweeted a link to it to the actor himself. Untypically he apparently actually read it and retweeted it to a couple of other actors from the show, saying, “I almost died laughing”. I was very shocked and pleasantly surprised. That led to my little blog going bonkers for a few days.

It was a nice little kick to the ego. I didn’t get any new ‘followers’ from it and numbers dropped down to normal for the next two episodes I posted, which is fine. Sometimes you have to use your increments of “Fifteen Minutes” in small chunks to really be able to savor it. I have to admit, I don’t think the two posts after the “big” blog were very good.

In hindsight, I think I tried to imitate the “Hapka” blog getting silly and not really carrying the story along. That’s important in my writing, as a matter of fact, in my life. It’s fine to veer off in several directions as long as when they pull together they stay focused on the task at hand.

But all of this has led my to be more comfortable with my “average-ness”. Sometimes, I think we get so caught up in being better, in being excellent, in not settling for anything as long as its more than everyone else, we forget that in order to be the best there have to be a lot of people that are not.

That’s okay. A squirrel never wants to be anything more than a squirrel. Dreaming of something other than what we are is the one trait that makes us human. Our biggest problem only rears it’s ugliness when we only dream of something more and not set about any form of action to achieve it.

This is where I have spun my wheels lately. There’s not a whole lot left on my bucket list. I have been so, so lucky ticking them off one by one. Had a play produced. Check. Performed to a standing ovation. Check. Met a childhood hero. Check (Uhm…I recommend not doing that one, better to let them remain a hero than become human.) Been to Africa. Check. Check. Check.

Now I’ve never had that one great love, but I’ve loved and been loved. I’ve never had wealth, but I’ve taken care of myself and given back as much as I could when I could. I’ve never been blessed and cursed with children, but God knows what he’s doing. And I don’t feel I’ve fulfilled my purpose, but I’ve had a blast spending 52 two years fingering all around it knowing someday I’ll hit the right spot.

I’d still like to be on a game show. I’d still like to write for a soap opera (better hurry on that one, unfortunately the dinosaurs seem to be smoking their last cigarettes.) and I’d like to be published. I don’t really know how to go about achieving those, but I’ll figure it out.

And even at my age, I hold out hope for that one great love. An early mentor of mine, Owen Phillips, a man whom I also came to know as a dear friend, didn’t find that one great love until he was well past retirement age. He and his sweet wife married for the first time in their late sixties, spending their last years being able to do nothing but be in love.

That’s my image of true love. Thank you Owen for being the example of that possibility, and bless both you and your wife’s souls. The image of you both holding hands, walking down the sidewalks at dusk is an image that always brings a sigh to my heart. I miss you both every day.

As for the now, I walk a little more confident, a little less battered and a little more hopeful. Not that I still don’t get smacked constantly by the Blue Wham, but every moment I realize it’s okay to be content with normal, as long as I don’t stop focusing on just a little more, it doesn’t seem to be able to take hold.

I just can’t get bogged down on the old road that used to be. It’s fine to drive down it and remember occasionally, as tomorrow is guided by today’s worth of yesterday. I just can’t idle there, fretting over the odd rock in the river and never getting to the other side.

I understand I am an average, ordinary guy with a bucket still full of dreams. There’s nothing wrong with that at all. Maybe I’m just your average dreamer and just maybe I’m taking a few scoots toward remembering who am I and finding out who I want to be.

Reunion Recap

The 2010 Family Reunion has come and gone. It looked like rain, but held off until well after everyone left. The most eventful thing about the reunion was the fact that it was relatively non-eventful.

There was plenty of food. I won’t have to eat again until next reunion, and if I do it will definitely not be chicken. Lisa’s steak fingers went quickly, including the ones I hoarded. Diane bought a sinful amount of candy at the annual Mast General Store trek. There is still enough in candy bowls and containers all over the house to make us puke all over each other this Christmas.

Why is it when people leave a reunion they always leave food behind? Next year I’m going to request they leave stocks and cash behind. That way I could at least afford the dental work and maybe some liposuction.

All the families were well represented. My grandparents had eight children; seven of the eight still living were present. All but two procreated in ways to make the Amish blush. The baby, Mike didn’t marry until he was in his late forties and my Mom just had me. I have multiple personalities so I was probably enough. I used to like to tell people that I had a twin, but I’m the one who learned how to swim.

In fact of the second generation all but two were there. I was the youngest of the Maryland gang of grandchildren, and the oldest of the TN/NC gang. I spent most of the day being regaled with stories of the tortures my older cousins put me through.

You know, normal childhood stuff: being tied to things (trees, railroad tracks, anything stationary they could get a rope around) and forgotten for the rest of the day; being locked in the grading shed while the other cousins pawed on the door and played a recording of bears from episodes of “Daniel Boone”, constantly being thrown in the creek whenever anyone saw a snake, etc. etc.

Then the younger cousins whined about tortures I put them through. ?????????? I was too busy getting over psychological trauma to torture my younger cousins. Besides, they were the mean ones. I wasn’t messing with them.

Well, okay, Jeff and I used to turn the grading shed into a haunted house and lock his little sister in it. In our defense she was a screamer and a chicken. If we didn’t lock her in she wouldn’t have been able to enjoy our hard work and we’d have just wasted an entire Saturday. If she didn’t want to go through our haunted house, Mary Sue and Cleve should have had more children.

In years past, reunions have always brought about some memorable moment. Once my Uncle Mike rode a pig, then fell off and broke his arm. That was fun. Oh, and my cousin Bobby fell out of a tree one year and broke his arm. I’ve broken lots of bones, but never at a reunion, sharpening a pencil once, but never at a family event.

The third generation was also in full force. Although loud, they are a rather tame little bunch. They played Frisbee, ate candy they were told they’d had enough of and petted the neighbor’s potbelly pig. I think the problem is they stick too close to the house and have way too much parental supervision. None of them fell in the creek, got bitten by anything (not even another cousins) or broke anything. Today’s kids are just dull.

Usually the matriarchs are a pretty good source of entertainment, but this year they were all just kind of old. Neither Aunt Dessie or Aunt Ida were able to make it. They’re my late grandfather's sisters, both in their mid to late nineties. Dessie’s the one who’ll shoot through the screen if you ring her doorbell after dark and Ida’s the mean one. Maybe next year.

Last year there was kind of a pall over the whole event. We had just lost Aunt Irene, so there was an excuse for nothing really happening. I think maybe the family is in a rut. Eathen, now 4, is still the youngest family member. For a big group of procreator’s, don’t you think four years is a long time to not be popping out a kid?

Five members of the third generation are now married. I think it’s time they got off the pill and on the stick. They’re married now; let’s see some rug rats. Not that not being married ever stopped anyone from having kids before.

Note to Ryan in Oklahoma: you’re the musician stud in the family, how about knocking up some groupies, dude? I’m tired of being the black sheep in the family. I’m officially handing the mantle over to you. Let's see some descusting, shameful behavior young man!

And while I’m pointing fingers…Denmark? Excuse me? Where were you? You got a formal invitation. We had chocolate and my cousin Jeff’s daughter had pigtails. I have to say I’m a teensy bit disappointed.

Next year there had better be a little more Danish representation, other than the one’s from Hostess we ate for breakfast on Sunday, or a big group of rednecks hopped up on fried chicken and chocolate will be coming over there and dragging your sorry butts to Tennessee. It won’t be pretty!

Overall, it was a really nice time. The annual bike ride in Damascus went well. Personally, I always skip that. I grew up in Tennessee. Riding a bicycle down the side of a mountain with no brakes has lost its thrill.

Unfortunately I wasn’t able to skip the annual “Let’s take group pictures until you want to kill your self” portion of the event. I hate having my picture taken. Kristin Chenoweth naked covered in chocolate and holding a freshly fried Taylor’s Pork Roll couldn’t entice me to enjoy having my picture taken.

Somehow my cousin Randy’s wife and two kids managed to get out of the picture thing. Next year, I’m gonna discreetly tell a few people I’m taking a walk and conveniently not show back up until I know all camera lenses have melted, all batteries in the county have been exhausted and I see children running into each other in the front yard blinded by multiple flashes.

The only thing we really needed at the reunion this year were potatoes. There weren’t any potatoes, just potato salad and I’m allergic to mayonnaise. Next year we need French Fries or a Potato casserole of some kind and more cheesecake. All the cheesecakes this year had pecans and caramel, which in my opinion is just a waste of a good cheesecake. (Are you taking notes, Denmark?)

Regardless, despite it being ordinary with loud but well behaved children it was a good reunion. I hope next year is pretty much the same. Just in case someone from the family is reading this (like people in my family can read) next year somebody needs to break a bone or have a baby or at least have a kid bite another kid to make it a little more memorable. And SOMEBODY from Denmark needs to show up!

Hello, Denmark!

I have discovered, to my delight, via a little tab, that there are a surprising number of people reading both of my blogs from Denmark. I cannot put into words how this both warms and tickles my heart. The thought of people I don’t know, especially from outside the States, reading my haggard little words makes feel a lot less haggard.

Now I admit, I am a poorly educated Melungeon from East Tennessee. This means I do sometimes confuse Denmark with the Netherlands. You aren’t the people with little boys who stick their fingers in things; you are the people of Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”. I apologize for my metaphors. Please keep in mind I have to take my shoes off to count to eleven.

I realize that you all, or ya’ll where I come from, probably think by clicking on the URL you will be watching that strange polka dance we here in America do at ball games or when we are drunk, usually both. Instead you get a melancholy “Dan” who took his moniker from the Werner Herzog film “Stroszek”. This must confuse you terribly and I apologize again.

Perhaps you are like me and wake in the morning with the feeling you are supposed to be somewhere else and are searching the computer for life in a different chain of mountains. Personally I have always believed that I was switched with another baby at birth. While I pine for champagne and caviar for breakfast, I know in my heart there’s some guy in Manhattan who feels the need to milk cows and dip snuff at sunrise.

Regardless, whoever you are out there—thank you. I wish I had more to offer you than the words I battle with my old laptop to make sense. I hope sometimes you are touched, sometimes you are moved and I truly hope that sometimes I make you laugh out loud. That’s my point, like the little chicken in the aforementioned film whom at first you think is dancing but by the end you realize is just trying to keep his balance while the world spins out from beneath him. You are very welcome to my heart.

In fact, hop a plane and come on over this weekend. We are having a family reunion, and being the single guy I never have any “family” of my own to bring. You can be, heck, YOU ARE my family. It can’t be more than a ten, twelve hour flight from Denmark.

You can be here in time for dinner. Don’t worry about bringing anything or a place to sleep. There’s plenty a room and, oh God, way too much food. Mom and her sisters have been cooking and baking all week. There’ll be fried chicken, ham, Lisa made steak fingers, deviled eggs, cole slaw and enough Southern dessert concoctions to send the entire population of Denmark into diabetic coma until the next Olympics.

Don’t worry about a place to sleep. It’ll be just like Christmas when I was little around here this weekend. At night, the house will look like the battle scene from “Gone With the Wind”; everyone parked and plopped everywhere snoozing away. You are more than welcome to worm yourself a comfortable space anywhere.

I will warn you though do not; I repeat DO NOT, sleep on the floor by the couch if my cousin Robin is sleeping there. One Christmas, while sleeping on the couch, she threw up on her little brother Bobby, who was sleeping on the floor with his mouth open. This caused a chain reaction of vomit amongst all the cousins sleeping in the living room waiting for Santa than none of us care to repeat.

Oh, and if you see something you think may be a bear, it’s probably just a shadow. Believe me, when you see a bear, there will be no doubt it’s a bear. And don’t be silly and run to get your camera and run back out. If it’s a bear, just run in the house and stay there until he’s gone. ‘Kay?

Now you more than likely will see a huge snake I have named Hoser. (Read my previous blog “Critters” for more details.) My cousin Billy’s wife and several others have seen him. There is a debate going on as to whether he is a copperhead or a water moccasin. Personally, I don’t care. He’s huge, python huge and I’m pretty sure he ate a chipmunk for breakfast this morning which is just rude.

He pretty much lives by a big rock in the creek and I wish the family would stop trying to look at him. He may come to expect the attention and never go away. It’s not that I am unfriendly. It’s just that he’s a snake, a big effing snake and like Martha Stewart having an orgasm I know it’s possible, but I prefer not to be reminded.

Don’t worry about fitting in, you’re family. Here in the South, when you are family, it doesn’t matter. Most of us Southerners don’t even like our family, but we figure we’re stuck with each other and only have to see each other at Christmas, reunions, funerals and occasional birthday parties for matriarchs.

I think the best definition of a Southern family I ever heard came from my Aunt Mag. We had a surprise birthday party for her on her 80th birthday. I think that a surprise party for any one over seventy is kind of mean, but no one ever listens to me.

Anyway, there were easily over 200 people who showed up for Aunt Mag’s birthday. My cousin Bobby and I were sitting near her and he asked her if all the people were her relatives. Wise and wonderful Aunt Meg, smiled and pointed at a small group and said, “Well, them right there is my blood (Appalachian for relatives) everyone else is just family.”

Now if you decide to come, you can’t miss us. Just drive up the mountain to the Bloody Third. We’ll be the house by the creek with all the rednecks and cars in the front yards. You’ll be able to tell it’s us because none of the cars will be up on cinder blocks. You can see us from the road, probably with a small cluster of people at a big rock by the creek looking for a stupid snake.

I will remind you we are all natives of Tennessee, North Carolina and Maryland, and one Chickasaw from Oklahoma, but she’s harmless. We’ll probably be confused ask you a lot about Heidi and the Alps, neither of which you have. Just smile and nod, we won’t take offense. We are quite comfortable in our stupidity.

You can ask us about Elvis and Dolly Pardon. The former is dead and from Memphis, which to us mountain folk is another country. This other is a ninety-minute drive southwest and a completely different set of mountains.

Some may ask you about Hamlet and Shakespeare. Don’t panic. Just make something up. I’m the only one in the family that probably knows anything about Shakespeare and they are probably just trying to make me feel like less of the black sheep. When approached with a subject you don’t know about just ask about tomatoes, who made the chocolate pie or anything having to do with NASCAR. You’ll fit right in.

I would try to avoid anything about health. Some of the older members will try to out “sick” you. If you have a headache, they’ll have a migraine. If you have trouble with your knees, they’ve had their legs bitten off by bears. It’s a lose/lose subject. Avoid it.

Regardless, you’ll be welcome and have a great time. Afterward, we’ll be able to brag about the really cool family we have descended from Heidi who flew in from the Alps, and you can go home and say you spent the weekend with folks who eat fried chicken and throw up on each other for holidays.

Now, I do not mean to exclude to people reading from other countries. You guys from Portugal, UK, China, Spain, Greece and Australia are more than welcome to. Even you, the one dude from Germany that read “Let’s Talk About Your Underwear”, please come too. (Bring Baklava).

I don’t have to extend an invite to the people from the US. You should just know you’re welcome, unless of course, you are a Democrat. You can still come, but stay away from Bobby and the people from Maryland. Bobby likes to shoot stuff and well the people from Maryland are from Maryland—‘nuff said. (Bring ice.)

Even if you can’t come to the reunion, thank you for being a part of the family. Even though I don’t know you and probably never will, you have a special place in whatever may be left of my life. I hope some in some way; I can earn a place in yours.

Come to my blogs anytime. Leave a comment and say “Hi” if nothing else. You can always plan on coming to the reunion next year. It’s always the last Saturday in September. Mom says bring napkins.

Critters

Among the many things I find myself having to get used to again is the sudden arrival of creatures. Now matter what task I undertake, no matter how simple, it seems there has to be some kind of consideration or interruption of a critter.

This morning while my father and I sat on the front porch, he pointed out a large bear sauntering down the rock bank to the creek at the bend in the road. I keep forgetting that I am now deep in the mountains and not deep in the Amish country.

Somehow I prefer horses and buggies to mammals three times my size and, well, buggies. I have been back in Johnson County since the first week in May and have encountered more furry things than my entire 15 years on the Chesapeake Bay. I have seen more snakes, deer, bobcats, rodents and even something that looked like Bigfoot and Martha Stewart had a baby. Of course, the latter was in the check out line at Food Country, so I can only assume that it was a high school football player or the homecoming queen.

Granted I enjoy the hummingbirds, and the chipmunks and the squirrels, but I am not particularly fond of looking out my bedroom window at 3 A.M. in the morning to find a buck staring back at me. It makes me scream like a girl. My parents are in their seventies, they really don’t need that when they are trying to sleep.

The road we live on used to be called Forge Creek Road, because the road followed a creek, duh. They put a new road in 1970 that cut a straighter swath to Mountain City, but bits and pieces of the old road still exist, and we live on one of them.

It is quite beautiful, and visitors love the fact that they can hear the creek in the background of everything. It’s one of those things some of us take for granted and some of us ignore or go postal. They seem to forget that everything beautiful has an ugly side.

In living with a creek close enough to pee in from your front porch, the ugly side is snakes—in the creek, on the banks, in the road, in the yard, curled up on the riding mower seat… There are people who think differently, but I for one am not putting a red ribbon around a copperhead’s neck, naming it Seymour and kissing it on the head every night before I go to sleep.

They are slimy, temperamental and territorial creatures. They don’t like being disturbed or disrupted and if you’ve ever seen one eating they are in dire need of some table manners. And those suckers get BIG!

There is a water moccasin that lives near a big rock from my Dad’s “fishing bench” that would give our garden hose penis envy! He must be dining large on the trout and horny heads because he is grossly overweight. Then again, most creatures in this neck of he woods are.

Obviously Walt Disney never lived in the Appalachian Mountains. If he had Bambi’s mother would have been wearing a tube top barely covering 75 pounds of extra cellulite causing the audience to stand up and scream, “Shoot her again! Shoot her again!” I digress

And the bugs, Lord the bugs! I saw a “Jeopardy” question/answer that the population of the Earth was equal to the population of insects per square mile. I think that has to be per square yard here on Forge Creek. Everyday I sweep down spider webs, beetle carcass and dead insect of some kind. You’d think that since all the snakes are squatting the least they could do is eat more of the squirmy flying things in the yard.

At least the snakes and bugs don’t poop in the yard, unlike the rabbits, deer and the neighbor’s potbelly pig. Mom and Dad haven’t had a dog or a cat in years, but we still have to check our feet before we come in the house. You cannot imagine how difficult mountain critter feces is to get off your hardwood floors!

Oddly, we don’t have ticks. I think if you go way up in the ridges you’ll find some, but it’s not like in Maryland where you have to do a tick check after walking to the mailbox. (See my blog “A Good Old Fashioned Roll In the Hay” for more on tick checking.) This does mean that most in this area do not have the Lyme’s Disease excuse for everything. People here tend to blame everything on the Democrats, liberals, and Obama.

I don’t see many skunks or foxes either. We can blame that on the bears. Either that or the skunks and foxes being smart enough to move to the burbs. Now I do see more of those as you head down the other side of the mountain towards Boone. Perhaps this has something to do with ol’ Dan’l who wore a coonskin cap. Since it was made of raccoon, perhaps the foxes and skunks all migrated toward his settlement thinking it was a safer place to raise their young.

Boone also has ticks. Perhaps since Boone has become a university town, the tick is more intellectual. It makes sense. I can just imagine a couple of ticks discussing cyclical and linear configurations while chowing down on some college student/hiker thigh. Foxes and skunks are pretty smart, too. Hey, they’re smart enough to not be here.

In fact, personally I think skunks get a bad rap. If it weren’t for the whole stink bomb thing, I think they are pretty cool. I once had a litter of skunks born in a little fenced off portion of my yard when I lived in downtown Rising Sun. Of course, I thought they were kittens for a few days, but that was my mistake not theirs.

The babies were very sweet and extremely social. As long as I didn’t try to pick the babies up, the mother seemed to be cool. Of course, she liked the tuna fish I fed her every day, so that may explain her toleration. After about three weeks they all disappeared. I wonder if maybe I should look for them on my next visit to Boone?

As for the bear, they tend to be harmless, of course I’ve never gotten close to one either. I doubt they are cuddly and cute like, say Gentle Ben or that guy who answered the phones on “ER”. Bears always leave a rank smell behind as well. Obviously they have some hygiene issues. They don’t often come down from the mountains, but my assumption is our creek is like a Chinese restaurant to them. “Hmmm, I’m in the mood for some sushi tonight, how bout if I meander down to Forge and see if I can rustle up some?”

My mother thought she just saw that bear laying in the road. She came dashing in for her camera. Obviously the bear and I have something in common. If the poor bear is just laying down in the road, he is suicidal. Living here has just gotten to him. I dashed out with Mama hoping to do an intervention as Mom took pictures. Alas, it was just a shadow.

There tend to be more bear up at the cabin, which is on a very small bald knob on the mountaintop. My uncle has planted Christmas trees all around it and apparently bears love evergreens. Everytime we go up there is evidence of bears, rubbing on the trees, branches broken off and yes, bear poop; which is no picnic to get off hardwood floors either.

I actually saw less animal invasion in Africa than here in the Appalachians. I only saw monkeys, a very scrawny cat and lots and lots of lizards. That was disappointing. I remember being glued to “Daktari” as a child and imagined West Africa to have lots of lions, elephants and rhinos. Nope, just lizards and missionaries.

Well, it’s time to do some weed eating. Invariably I will run across a snake. The loud sound usually sends most of them slithering off, but being in inbred territory at some point during my chore one will decide to hold his ground and tangle with my weed eater. They never learn, snakes can’t win against a weed eater. Many have fallen and none survive.

My Walt Disney dreams of whistling a happy tune while all the woodland creatures join me in harmony are long gone. I have met most of the woodland creatures here and prefer they not join my glee club. I have no problem sharing space. I’m just tired of having to clean up after them.

The Invariable Cliche

I ran across a blog yesterday evening, one I normally wouldn't read. There was this vague connection that made me stop and read...and read... I found myself starting at the beginning and reading everything, about five year's worth of blogs.

I can't say that it is expertly written, heck I can't say mine are expertly written. I can't say that the blogs even explored a subject I knew anything about or identified with. The writer and I have little, if anything, in common.

The twenty something guy writing the blog is working his way upwards in the world of professional sports and struggling with hiding his sexuality. I'm old enough to be the guy's father and I liked the Orioles as a kid but that's pretty much about as "jockish" as I get. As far as the gay thing goes, I have lots of gay friends whom I adore and I have a man crush on John Barrowman, but that's about it.

So why did this blog strike me so? I think it was a resonance that sort of opened my eyes. This kid has made some tough choices in his life, struggling with them daily but has kept his focus on achieving his dream, all the time in desperate fear that it could end with the beginning of one good rumor. It was this "kid's" fierce determination and focus that pulled me in.

I enjoyed, via the young man's blog, watching his self confidence and courage grow. I wondered at the sense of excitement as he took risky steps in his personal life, and found myself rooting for him as he battled injury, both emotional and physical, to come back, maintain his focus and, although invariably cliched, keep reaching "for the prize". Thanks, Slugger, you opened my eyes. I owe you one.

I've made no secret that I have been struggling. Ironically, it started about the time the dude I've been talking about started blogging. In July, when I got fired, no other way to put that one, I hit an impasse. I have just not been unable to function normally, only forcing myself to little by little maintain any kind of life.

My phone has been off since July. I turn it on occasionally to see if anyone has called about job interviews and quickly deleted the many, many phone calls from friends. I've posted a couple of things on Facebook, but have responded to nothing. I just wasn't able.

Basically, I found myself wounded beyond hurt in a physical and mental place that I couldn't stand. I actually left this area of the country almost fifteen years ago because I just couldn't stand waking up every morning angered at the quaint disregard of personal respect known as "Southern Hospitality". I seriously do not mean to offend, but that is how I feel.

So I find myself jobless in East Tennessee and living with no end in sight with my seventy year old parents. Cable sucks, Internet is even worse, my good computer struck down by lightning three days after arriving, opportunities almost nil because of the caste system here that no one is bright enough to see exists. My future looked to be nothing more than sitting around this house with Mom and Dad waiting to see which one of us kicked the bucket first.

I know something is wrong, but I have been unable to even seek help. The few places I turned to turned me away or were "just unable to find the time". I live off of Tylenol PM and Sominex. Most of my fillings have fallen out, and I no longer have insurance even if I could afford the co-pay, so eating is painful. What I do manage to eat rips my stomach up as my ulcers are now back in high gear.

Going out in public is a nightmare. I use to get comfort and refuge by going out to very public places by myself. Now, I sweat profusely and if someone even says "Would you like fried with that" I can't answer the question. I've been forcing myself, but it doesn't take long before I end up back in my car sobbing uncontrollably and physically shaking until my chest hurts.

I have been afraid, literally paralyzed physically and mentally by fear. Somewhere along the way I stopped doing something that was the foundation of my very being. I didn't realize it but I made a choice to stop in order to stop the pain, and my life has been painful for quite some time. Life gets that way, and I would do anything to get it to stop.

So I started "settling for". Oh God, how many times did I consciously convince myself that "this is fine"? It's not what I want, but I accept it. I even stopped making my own decisions, allowing everyone...anyone to decide what I needed to do next. I have suddenly realized that the point that am I in life is what all that got me.

You see, I stopped dreaming. I stopped allowing myself to obsess about something that may or may not have been possible. I was always the poor kid, the only child, the odd dude and the one that people either made fun of or didn't stand out enough to warrant remembering. I also came in at the tail end of things that seemed to crumble shortly after I arrived. I reached the point where I thought if I got involved my mere presence was the destructive force that brought it to an end or that it wouldn't turn out the way it did in my head i.e. let's bring on more pain.

Granted, I probably only have time left for one last cheap thrill or two. I'm not a senior citizen by any means, but definitely closer to the middle of middle aged, so I'm not delusional enough to think I can play "Romeo" or even "Hamlet", but I've got to stop, I WILL stop, dismissing my every thought as impossible with a painful result. I have taken away my own "hope" and compartmentalized it as an impossible dream that has passed me by forever.

I won't promise myself a painless, easy rest of breathing but I am promising myself that I will try anything and everything that I decide I want to do. I will no longer chastise and punish myself for creatively wasting my time. It's my time, and right now I have no choice but to waste a lot of it creatively or I will lose what's left of my effing mind.

I admit to an obsession with Twitter. I'm no good at it, but I have been enjoying trying to decipher what the heck people are saying, and getting a little stalkerish thrill out of kind of knowing what a lot of perfect strangers are doing and thinking. Maybe sometime, I'll even be good at it.

And I enjoy these two blogs I've kind of toyed with. They first started as an attempt to make me feel human. I used to blog A LOT on MySpace. Then all this stuff started happening and I just couldn't do it. So this one I will keep in the vein of the MySpace blogs; thoughts, feelings...whatever pops into my head. It will be a good way to track my own progress and focus. If someone reads it cool. If someone wants to leave a comment or get in contact, once again, cool.

The other, "Odd Rocks Across the River", also here on blogspot, was meant to be a place for me to post a continuing homage to the dying daytime drama with a slightly mean poke at the Southern lifestyle. The intent was to post "episodes" linked together by reoccurring characters with no real end. I will still do so, labeling each of those with the word "episode" and a sequential number, but I will also use it to post any works of fiction that I spin. (I like to compartmentalize so there--fiction/insanity track)

I will also in the next twenty four hours on this blog post the first chapter of my other obsession, a novel I have been working on for, well I'm not so sure but, I haven't bought underwear in three years and I know I've been working on this novel longer than that. The first chapter is the only thing I'm happy with, so I'll let it out there. I know I'll never be happy with it, but I also know that I'm at the point where I probably just need a good editor. Not that posting Chapter One will help, but at least it's more pro-active than creative masturbation.

I'm not sure what to focus on yet, but I've just got to get the flood gates to the mind open up, listen closely to my heart, then toss the good parts up to my brain and run screaming forward with all the strength I have.

The progression being instead of taking one step at a step to dream one breath at a time.

Proudly, if a little wobbly...the chicken dances on.

P.S. Thank God for Sluggers, dreams and spellcheck

Ode to Norton

Several years ago I had rotator cuff surgery. For those of you that have had it are contemplating having it or are about to have it, yes—OUCH! Having heard horror stories of the recoup time and the physical therapy, I was not looking forward to it, but alas the time came when it had to be done.

Being single, living alone and having no one in my life, my parents volunteered, or rather insisted on coming down to help me out. Regardless of the fact that I had already made plans to be driven in and taken home, it was appreciated. I am astutely independent, but knew I would need some help getting around and figuring out how to do things one handed for the first few days.

The horror stories told me though, turned out to be untrue. Stephen King could NEVER have imagined anything like this. Venus popping out of one’s forehead would have been a relief. I was told later that the pain in the first 48 hours after surgery is the closest thing to childbirth pain a man could experience.

Screw that! Being a chicken I chose the option of neck dislocation, as my surgeon told me this was the safest and with the least painful recovery time. This not being for sissies, I whole-heartedly recommend it, fearing what pain might have come doing the alternative.

My surgery had been scheduled for the day before Thanksgiving, and being the independent little cuss I am, after the initial pain subsided, and the wonders of Percodan kicked in, and other than the fact that I couldn’t work buttons and zippers or sleep lying down, I was back to normal.

I had started my own holiday tradition of cutting down my own Christmas tree the weekend after Thanksgiving. So my parents and I went to Pusey’s Tree Farm, as I always do, picked out a little six-foot blue spruce, my father cut it down and we brought it home.

Mom and Dad, although both allergic to pines (or that’s their meager excuse for one of those nasty fake Christmas trees) struggled to get it in the stand, and another Holiday tradition was taken care of. Once in the stand, it was left on my front porch, which is roofed, until my parents decided to leave and thereby not bothering their Scrooge-like sinuses.

My parents live in East Tennessee, and I, at the time, in North Eastern Maryland, so the drive back for them is routinely 8 hours. They, and most of my family members here, always choose to leave rather early to avoid heavy traffic through Baltimore and Roanoke, which are located as to hit rush hour traffic in both cities should you choose to drive in one straight shot.

The night before they left, my Christmas tree was brought in the house. Mom and Dad clipped on the lights and the star that goes perched on top. The rest, I so determined I could by myself, and it was left in the traditional place in my living room. We then watched something on TV before turning in early.

At 4 AM that next morning, my parents awoke me from a groggy Percodan sleep and made sure that I had everything needed. I had been smart enough to purchase or already own lots of sweat suits; sneakers with Velcro, etc. and in a few short days had mastered the art of pulling a tee shirt over my head without moving my arm. With intrepidation my parents went on their way back to Tennessee, and I returned to sleep.

Now at this point, and for the next 8 weeks, sleeping meant being on the living room couch, sitting up leaned back against a couch husband—one of those big stiff pillows with arms. This is actually more comfortable than it sounds, as I could actually lean my left side against the couch with my back and neck against the pillow without putting undue strain on my right shoulder; which was not only uncomfortable, but painful.

Parents gone, and in the loving comfort of Percodan, I slept…for a while. Before the sun came up I was awakened by a strange sound in the house. I could have sworn the Christmas tree was shimmying. Naturally, I assumed the Percodan was especially good that morning and informed the tree I would finish dressing it after I had some more sleep.

No more than 15 minutes later, I swear the tree danced again. I painfully reached up and turned on the lamp and stared at the tree. It was still in place. It had not moved. I chuckled and thought maybe I was just subconsciously “missing my Mommy and Daddy”, turned off the lamp and settled back down.

Then I distinctly heard it again. I would say I sat up, but I was in fact already doing that, so I guess my body tensed. I was certain that I was being burglarized. So I panicked and feigned sleep as visions of sugar plum burglars panicked through my head.

How I was going to get to the phone? How the heck did the burglars get in, as I have only one door directly behind me, and what the heck could they possibly think I might have worth stealing? I sat/lay there; eyes closed, pondering my next move. I remember the time I was being burglarized before, and decided on reusing that tactic.

When I first moved to Nashville, I was homeless and broke and too proud to let friends know, so on the occasions that someone didn’t invite me over I slept in my car and showered at the theatre I was rehearsing in. At the time I drove at 1968 Maverick, and it contained all my worldly possessions packed neatly in the floorboard of the back seat. Across the backseat was a travel bar, on which I had hung all my clothes.

When the nights came that I had nowhere to sleep, I would simply pull into a large parking lot of an all-night business, avoiding bars or noisy spots. I would then go into the business and purchase something, so I was after all a customer, then slip into the back seat of my car, and sleep undetectable underneath the travel bar of clothes.

One night while doing so, I heard strange sounds and realized someone was trying to break into my car. I stuck my head out from under the rack, stared at the man trying to jimmy my door and screamed, “We’re Closed”. The poor man, obviously not very good in his chosen profession or perhaps just new, screamed like a little girl and ran. Other than the urine stain in the parking lot and the jimmy still stuck in my car door, everything was again safe and untouched.

I decided this was the best approach for this situation, hoping that my burglars assumed I was a heavy sleeper, very stupid or dead. I would wait until they were close enough, flip on the lamp and shout something witty and thoughtful. I eased my hand slowly up to the lamp switch and pondered a short but cutesy greeting…and then that damned tree shimmied again.

Short but cutesy, went flying into my shorts, and it was my turn to scream like a little girl. On came the light, but the tree stopped its evil possessed dance. My first inclination was to ask, “Jacob Marley, is that you?” but I remembered I didn’t know Mr. Marley and his Christmas Spirit was obviously at the wrong address. Even restless apparitions must get confused from time to time. I informed the tree, as calmly as I could, of the mistake and gave him the name and address of my current boss.

I then was hit with a wave of curiosity, forgetting what that did to the cat. The tree had definitely been shaking. I first contemplated a post Thanksgiving earthquake and checked the walls and ceiling for cracks. No damage. Surely that’s what had to have happened, so I looked at the window in the door realizing it was now daylight and thought a quick walk outside might inform me of what disaster had caused my Holiday Spirit to be so, well, spirited.

My inspection out of doors lead to nothing. The Pharmacy across the street was intact. The house next door, fine. I even walked to the end of my driveway and peered to both corners of the street, even the stoplight was still working. Hmmm, obviously, it was the Percodan.

Suddenly realizing that I was standing on the sidewalk in broad daylight wearing nothing but CK briefs, a sling and a slightly slept in bloody bandage on my shoulder, I thought it best to retreat inside, especially since there was no earthquake and before there was panic and/or screaming in the streets. I nonchalantly strolled back inside, in case someone had noticed just to give the assumption that this was usual post dawn stroll attire for downtown Rising Sun.

Back inside, I switched off the lamp and began the rather slow process of re-positioning myself comfortably on the couch. Soon the drugs began to work their oh so wonderful magic and I was drifting off to sleep. That’s when I heard something just a little different…crunching.

I listened intently for a moment. Yes, that was definitely crunching. It kept going. I was just about to flip on the lamp again, when in the kitchen I heard something scoot. I wasn’t my imagination this time; something was definitely crunching and scooting across the counter top in my kitchen. I bounded up, screw the pain, and bolted to my kitchen and flipped on the overhead lights.

At that very moment, I saw with my own eyes, drugged or not, a bag of Herr’s Barbeque Potato Chips walking across my counter top! Now I worked at Barter Theatre and lived at the Barter Inn in Abingdon, Virginia both of which have documented sightings of whatever. I admit I am witness to several hard to explain phenomena, but never in all my 29 years (yes 29—dammit!) have I seen a bag of potato chips take a stroll by itself across a Formica top. So once again I did the manly thing and screamed like a little girl.

The tactic seemed to work. The chip bag stopped in its tracks. I grabbed the bottle of Percodan, on the other end of the counter top thank you, and begin to see if side effects were listed. Just when I assured myself that it was just a side effect and I was no longer in THAT much pain, the bright red bag began to convulse.

Oh my God! Linda Blair had died and come back as a family size bag of Herrs! I began shouting things at the demon cholesterol that I thought an exorcist might say. Once again the bag calmed down. I thanked Jesus that Mark Meade made me see “The Exorcist” three times in high school. I was feeling very pleased with myself. It wasn’t every day that one had the opportunity to vanquish Satan from deep fried fatty foods.

The former demon bag was obviously happy, too. It moved no more, but the little trooper had used all it’s strength and fell over and off the counter. I squatted down to soothe exhausted bag but once again it began to convulse. Realizing that I didn’t smell that bad, I again shouted scripture and wondered if Acme was open at dawn and sold Holy water.

Once again my exorcism worked, hopefully for real this time. The bag flipped over in the opposite direction, opening toward me and stilled. Only this time, it gave birth. Out of the mouth of my possessed Herrs squirreled none other than a baby squirrel, no more than 3 inches big. We both froze, but only momentarily.

The little squirrel was the first to break ranks. He looked me directly in the eyes, stood up on his haunches and, I swear, gave me the finger. He then reached inside the bag, grabbed a chip, darted across the kitchen and up my Christmas tree. For most of the rest of the day, this little squirrel and I had on ongoing battle for domination of the Christmas tree.

He was a perseverant little bugger and just refused for give up space, although he would accept an occasional potato chip. I shook the tree myself, and he’d hurl little squirrel curses at me and hold on. I opened the front door, pointed at it and just insisted he leave. I swear he again gave me the finger. (The lack of respect these street squirrels have is just appalling).

Desperate to be smarter than the squirrel I decided, this being the stuff situation comedies were made of, I deigned a sitcom solution. I opted to ignore the squirrel as a squirrel and treat him like a member of my family, well a member of a non-dysfunctional family. I chose the latter approach as threats, screaming and throwing things had already failed.

I first ignored him, and then started having conversations with him.

“So, Norton”, I said, feeling myself like Ralph Kramden, “what would you like for lunch? I could order a pizza.” And on and on the day went. From time to time he would peek out of the branches, or drop stealthily to the floor, raising my hopes of his heading toward the open door only to chirp and hop back in his protective blue sprucey cover.

I tried every thing. Singing, demanding he clean his room, re-enacting George Bush, Sr.’s inaugural address, everything I could think of that would send me screaming from the house. I even forced him to watch daytime television, only to find that we shared tears during a rather touching episode of “Days of Our Lives”. I finally just resigned myself to having a little furry roommate for the next 31 days, and wondered if I should by a litter box.

It was during a late afternoon snack, that the solution, so simple and so insipid came to light. I dropped a potato chip on the carpet. Little Norton swooped out of his perch from the tree, grabbed it and scampered right back. The proverbial little light flashed above my head. Relying on my acting skills, I improved a rather sloppy stroll from my living room to the yard, leaving a light trail of chip chunks across the carpet and out to the porch.

Sure enough, the little fur ball of disrespect scampered greedily to each chip and wolfed it down. Fortunately, his greed and/or hunger overcame his awareness of space and obvious intelligence. Instead of grabbing a chip and dashing back up the tree, Norton scampered to each chip, gobbling it up, luring him completely out of the house and to the front porch.

Hah! He assumed I was off wandering the yard. But no! My artful acting skills (See Marc Dawadziak you were wrong!) I only made him THINK I was strolling, when in fact I was standing on a chair by the front door! As soon as he was close to the edge of the porch, it was I who jumped out of my perch and between this rude little rodent and my front door. Despite the Percodan and the pain, I quickly popped inside the house and slammed the front door shut.

I had won! My home and my tree were mine again! To the victor the spoils! I contemplated my victory dance when I caught a glimpse of the loser standing at the edge of my porch, looking back at me through the window. At first, I thought him to be frozen in anger and shock, but upon a closer look it was something else.

The little booger was looking back at me, blinking in sadness. He had been betrayed. He had made a new friend and that new friend had fed him transfatty acids and salt and tricked him unmercifully. I swear the little booger started rubbing his eyes.

I just felt awful. Just like when the waitress said a lady gave her twenty bucks to wait until she got in her car to give me a napkin from my blind date with the scrawled words “I changed my mind”, my heart began to break. This time, instead of thinking, “Well you weren’t no prize either”, I began to think it is getting cold outside and Norton is just a baby. Where are Mommy and Daddy squirrel? Have they abandoned him?

It was then I remembered Christmas and opened the door to allow Norton into my home and life, a pet, a friend, a partner at last. I opened the door wide and lovingly shouted, “Okay, Norton, fooled ya! Come on in, you are letting the heat out!”

With that Norton stopped rubbing his eyes and looked at me with a little smile on his furry gray face. He made a happy hop toward me, and I imagined a low motion romp toward each other and a happy embrace. Instead, after Norton’s initial hop and smile, he stopped, gave me the finger again and darted through the latticework on my porch and disappeared.

Damned squirrel!

However, from that day on through the next year, Norton became a regular part of my life. He would scamper up to the porch when I was seated there and chirp at me until I gave him food. He would always lovingly thank me by tossing food remnants at my feet and giving me the finger before scampering off. On weekends we would even share a frosted cinnamon Pop Tart, Norton, being a rodent of refined taste, refused all other flavors.

My Uncle Delmar even built a squirrel feeder that I kept full of peanuts and corn kernels and potato chips for him. When I would go to work in the morning he would scamper across the wood shed roof and hop on the feeder I had on the fence next to my car. It became a little game between us. Could I get out of the driveway before he pelted my windshield with hulls and wet things he found in the feeder in time? Oh the good times we had!

Now every Christmas I pay tribute to my long lost friend. I have purchased or have been given several ornaments shaped like squirrels that hang on my tree. At the garden shop in Kitchen Kettle Village I also found a “pot hanger” that looked amazingly like my little buddy Norton and I hang him in my Christmas tree near the top in order to always share my tree with him.

I miss him terribly sometimes, and often see the little creatures running up and down the trees in the yard next to mine. I call out his name hoping to hear that familiar squirrel raspberry and see him shooting me the bird. Alas, no, none of them are him. Forever there will be a whole in my heart that can only be filled by that effing little fur ball with attitude.

Let's Talk About Your Underwear

I realize that this is a difficult subject for some of us adults to discuss, but I think it's just time that we joined those who are below the age of 29, and just put 'em right out there on the table for all to see.

Let's face it, everyone under the age of thirty, and many many who shouldn't over the age of 30, have been well...to put it bluntly...wearing their underwear on their sleeves. Actually that's probably the only place they haven't been wearing it and if I have started a new fashion trend I will have to kill myself.

It just seems that anywhere I go; I cannot escape people's underwear. Even in winter weather, I am bombarded with inescapable shots of people's shorts. Hiked up where their pants should be and pants that are loose and shoved down so far it is obviously uncomfortable. Otherwise, why would they be continually yanking them back up?

In the store the other day, I even saw jeans on the rack with the underwear sewn in. That's right, your choice of boxers or boxer briefs in all their peek-a-boo glory. Now half reading this are appalled and the other half will be asking what store.

Well to each his own. In my day, we had our fashion trends that the older adults just hated. Those that were actually fashionable and made people look good and/or sexy remained. Those that didn't; bellbottoms, the mullet and polyester leisure suits, to name a few of the fohpahs, are now, hopefully, only available for view in high school yearbooks, “Swinger” pictures that haven’t spontaneously combusted...maybe the back of some of our closets. You know, just for Halloween and retro parties.

Let me address this fashion fad, applying a few tips that I learned straight off the farm and going into theatre. Fortunately, like the guy did for Andy in "The Devil Wears Prada", I had several people mentor me in a few things fashion and a few things social, so I didn't stick out like "a straw tick in silk sheets", as Grandma used to say.

First and foremost, this is not attractive. Granted, if you have a half way decent body, it is socially acceptable should it be accidental or unrealized. However, none of this seems to be by accident. If it is, we have failed as a society to teach our children proper clothes sizes and how to simply put their pants on.

This trend means, of course, that you have spent hours trying to decide how much should show and struggled with how to keep the jeans themselves from falling off. While this does show an admirable perseverance, it also shows that you have too much time on your hands and you're not very bright.

Maybe it's just my version of long hair, but every time I see this I just want to go ahead and yank the pants the rest of the way down. Unless that is you have that arrogant "Look at what a stud I am" air about you.

In this case, I just want to walk up and challenge you to just strip it off and go ahead and give us a look. Isn't that what you're mode of dress is all about anyway? So why not just dispense with the uncomfortable "style" (please note the sarcasm in the quotation marks) and go publicly commando?

And ladies, you are not immune to this either. Many of you have adopted the same "look". This is not in the least sexy. The only time a woman in a pair of men's boxer shorts is sexy is when they are mine and you are running around in my house...or yard...or driveway.

Although, there was that time when a woman I had been dating came up to me at a very elegant party and whispered in my ear, "I'm wearing your underwear". Now that was VERY sexy. The images of her in that beautiful designer black evening dress, and knowing that a missing pair of my white CK boxer briefs was....oh sorry.

Ladies, while I am chastising; let's talk about bras as well, specifically the strap. Let me assure you that a bra strap is only sexy to a man when we accidentally see it or we are slipping it off your shoulders ourselves. Those little sexy tops with spaghetti straps are NOT enticing when there is an extra set of visible straps.

While we are at it, the bare midriff is great, especially with a tight toned tummy and a cute little belly button. All of that is ruined by the sight of a thong top an inch or two above your skirt or jeans. Yes, we men are visual, but show us too much without our having to "fight" for it and the chase is ruined and we are off trying to conquer someone a little less conquerable.

Now let's talk about the underwear itself. Guys, we aren't very smart when it comes to underwear. Here are some tips that we must know. Now following these tips do not make you gay or metro sexual. Basically, it just keeps you from being embarrassed when you are in a car wreck, and on the occasions when someone actually WANTS to see your underwear.

First, if you cannot read the writing on the tag, throw it away. I know, I know, that's just about the time it starts getting comfortable. Do what I do. Remember when your mama used to say "go put on some play clothes"? Well, I have two sets of underwear, one being my play underwear. These are the ones I wear when there is no possible way that anyone is going to see or want to see my underwear. Needless to say, these days I have LOTS of play underwear.

If the underwear has bleach holes, rips or the threading has come loose from the waistband, keep them in a pile that you only use to wash the car or windows. Do not misunderstand, while you can wear them during these chores, I am recommending that you use them to actually wash the car or windows. That way, if a hot woman comes by and sees you using your shorts as a cleaning rag, she'll know that you only wear good underwear and you may be giving her images of what you might look like in them. If you catch her doing this, you may offer to model them for her sometime later.

Now underwear should fit! No more one size fits all boxers! Underwear, even boxers, need to be snug at the hip and butt, otherwise it isn't doing its job. That's right; there is a health reason for why we wear underwear. It's not just to keep in inside of our pants from getting dirty. The waistband should land from just above the public line to no more than 1 1/2 inch below the naval. Although the further away from the naval, the tighter the underwear should be. If you are not sure of this measurement, get your wife or girlfriend or you’re whatever to measure for you. Imagine how much fun that could be?

And guys, when you dress up, pull your drawers on accordingly. I actually overheard a conversation at a table of hot looking women in a restaurant discussing the whoas of today's male. Hint guys: at restaurants, when blessed with being seated near a table of sexy women, don't just try to get their attention, do some eavesdropping and you'll learn a whole lot. And by virtually ignoring them, you'll seem aloof and draw their attention. (See God only made me LOOK stupid!)

This discussion revolved around a date one of the ladies had with "the sexiest man I have ever seen", whom she had informed her coven...uhh...entourage that she was no longer seeing. It seems that she had asked him to escort her to the opening of a play. He arrived looking "so edible" in a fitted tux, a perfect shave and smelling "so hot and all man".

Apparently he played the right cards and after the opening she invited him to her apartment for drinks. One thing lead to another, and she decided that she would no longer see him and warned her coven...uh...girlfriends that he was no longer on the "hot" list, to which they ALL agreed.

Why you ask? It wasn't because he was lousy in the sack. It was because when the pants came off, and showed off "the sexiest little black briefs", they were ripped and the label was loose and sticking out the back. Hence, when dressing, think in advance and let the shorts match the style. I'm not saying that they have to be coordinated. Just make sure you are not wearing baggy holey boxers under your tux.

Let's quickly recap. Underwear that fits, underwear that you can read the writing on the label. And we don't show our underwear unless someone asks to see it.

Follow these rules guys and gals, and we may rid the world of yet another embarrassing fashion don't, and be well on our way of challenging the tool belt butt crack from sight as well.